#bleeding and still beating on a plate

[ghostedbunnie]

nightmare in the daylight

knight!ghost x fem!reader

based on my prompt that you can find here.

warnings: non-con/dub-con, size kink, spanking, oral (f.receiving), fingering (f.receiving), thigh riding, biting, creampie, breeding kink

a/n: i feel so rusty so please be gentle i rewrote this way too many times, it was a lot longer and had more plot but i might just end up writing pt.2 if there is interest, I added a tag list for those who wanted to see this! 🫶

Ghost hadn't anticipated encountering a robbery on the forest trail while en route to collect his king's future wife. It was unexpected but not unwelcome; he was yearning for a skirmish, for blood and broken bones. The recent tranquility had left him restless. These bandits wouldn't pose much of a challenge, but they would at least satisfy his craving.

The skies began to pour as soon as he dismounted from his horse, startling the highwaymen. They were engaged in a one-sided fight with a few knights who had undoubtedly been sent to protect the carriage on its way to his kingdom. Before any of them could react to his arrival, heads started rolling. Chaos erupted once more, with screams of terror cutting through the forest and startling the remaining fauna.

After the final enemy fell to a sword through his abdomen, Ghost approached the carriage with slow, deliberate steps. As he opened the door, he was taken by surprise as a curtain was thrown into his face and a shard of glass was aimed for his neck by a scrawny, wild-looking maid. Despite your trembling, there was a fierce determination in your eyes, a vow that you would not give up without a struggle. Beneath his face plate, the corner of his mouth curled up, and with a wry snort, he deflected the shard from your bleeding hand. Seizing you by the back of your neck like a feisty kitten showing its claws, he pulled you out of the carriage and dropped you onto the chilly, muddy ground. As he turned back to the carriage to retrieve the princess, he realized she was no warrior; she had fainted at the sight of his imposing figure silhouetted against the moonlight.

As he carries your mistress to his horse, you launch at his back, kicking and screaming, trying to make him let her go. He unceremoniously deposits her on the horse like a sack of potatoes. Finally, he turns back to catch your hands, which have been beating at his back, with one of his much bigger hands. Your eyes go wide with terror as the reality of your position with this beast sinks in. He can't help but relish in the look of you now, wet hair sticking to your face, wild eyes, and scratches on your cheek from the broken glass. You look like a tasty meal for his beastly appetite and he's been starving for far too long. You are unaware of it but attracting his attention will be the worst mistake of your life. As he draws you closer with your bound wrists, he whispers into your ear so that you can hear him over the pouring rain, “Yer brave but stupid, girl.” After that, he hits the back of your neck and everything goes black.

The next thing you know, you are standing in front of the king who explains the entire situation. However, somehow that doesn't help the sinking feeling in your stomach, especially when the king mentions a reward for the behemoth of a man towering over you. He is still covered in blood, and daylight doesn't make him any less terrifying. He stalks around like a nightmare in black leathers that hug his form tight and emphasize his width. As if sensing your thoughts, he takes a step closer, taking up more of your space, and before you can move away, you catch the last words uttered by the king: “You brought me, my bride, Ghost, it's only fair you get a reward. Take your pick - anything you wish for will be yours.”

A weighty, gloved paw settles on the nape of your neck, causing you to startle. "I'll take 'er." Your mistress immediately starts to protest but despite her objections, the king simply nods and smiles, disregarding you entirely. You have no option but to allow the beast, that he called Ghost, to guide you away with a firm hand on your nape.

After navigating through several twists and turns, you find yourself in an unremarkable room. It contains only the absolute necessities—a bed and very little else. The one thing that draws your attention in the room is the sizeable tub that is still emitting steam, indicating it was just filled a few minutes ago.

Silently, Ghost pushes you towards the tub, and you promptly begin to retreat away from it. You refuse to bathe in his presence. Even though you are just a servant, you are still a virtuous lady.

“Either you go voluntarily or I'll throw you in kickin' and screamin'.” He growls and then says, "I'll relish it either way." You can sense the predatory undertone in his voice. You're fighting a losing battle, as going willingly gives him complete control, yet resisting might provoke an even more... primal response.

You break free from his hold, realizing that he let you go willingly. 

"Can you... turn around?" he scoffs, moving to a chair that creaks under his weight. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he gestures for you to proceed. Though you want to scream or lash out, you hold back, sensing that he's waiting for you to lose control. Instead, you turn around and slowly peel off your muddied and torn dress. As you reach the chemise underneath, you sneak a peek and notice he has removed his helmet and face plate, revealing short dirty blond hair, black coal marks around his eyes, and prominent scars cutting through his lips and brow. Despite his broken nose, he remains strangely alluring, which frightens you. Hastily, you turn back, slide the chemise down, and attempt to hide under the steaming water.

"Good girl," he growls, satisfied with your obedience. Just as the relief that maybe this is all he wanted starts to sink into your bones, it's replaced with dread when you notice he starts shedding his clothes too. He loosens up his dark, blood-stained leathers with ease and deftness you wouldn't expect from a man his size.

"What are you doing?" Panic is evident in your question, but it doesn't seem to bother him at all.

"Can't bathe with my clothes on," he answers matter-of-factly. Once again, a wave of indignation courses through you, but it's quickly overshadowed by a pang of heat that forces you to rub your thighs together underwater. Your eyes can't help but stay glued to him, just as he did to you when you were taking your dress off. He is now down to his breeches, and when he pulls them down his thick thighs, you audibly gasp when you notice he is not wearing anything underneath. This earns you an amused chuckle, especially when he catches you looking again through your fingers.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him, but before your thoughts can drift to what lies between his powerful thighs, he steps into the tub with you. Water spills over the edges, though he doesn't seem to mind. He pulls you close, turning you so your back presses against him, your body nestled between his legs, leaning on his firm chest. The light tickle of his hair brushes against your skin, and his strong arm rests across your stomach, fingers splayed making you feel even smaller. The contact makes you squirm, but as you try to pull away, you only stir the hardening length behind you, making you flush with heat.

“Relax,” he grunts into your ear, more command than a suggestion.

“How can I possibly –ah.” Your reply gets cut off by a moan as his other hand falls from the edge of the tub and wanders between your legs. Your attempts at closing your legs seem futile even with one hand he is strong enough to force his way in and drag his fingers through your folds nearing the opening. Your spine arches instinctively and he answers with a nip to your neck and jaw, while forcing a finger up to the first knuckle in. 

“Gotta loosen you up a bit, pet.” You have no choice but to surrender to his touch as he sinks his finger in and curls it, drawing a moan out of you before you clap a hand over your mouth to keep the sounds in. But all that decorum is forgotten when he adds a second one and scissors them before slowly prodding you with the third making you see stars. The tension building in your body suddenly snaps, sending you reeling, legs going numb and your fingers digging into his arm still wrapped around your stomach. 

With your mind hazy from your first-ever orgasm, you don't even register that he pulls you out of the bath, drying you, and carrying you to the bed in the center of the spacious room. Your body already half asleep.

His gravelly voice pulls you out of your post-orgasmic haze. “Naive, little thing.” Suddenly he is trailing hungry, open-mouthed, and nippy kisses down the length of your body. Marking your neck and collarbones with angry red marks, biting down harder than necessary on the underside of your breast leaving behind imprints of his teeth, and making you hiss when the pain mixes with the pleasure, he licks a trail down your stomach and in a moment of clear-headedness you try to fist his hair and tug him up and away from your center but his hair is cut too short for any leverage. When you lock eyes with him, between your legs forcing them open with hunger and lust written all over his face you try to get away just for him to deliver a loud smack to your outer thigh before dragging you closer and licking a stripe through your folds with a loud guttural groan that you feel more than you hear it.

His thumb circles your clit while he alternates kissing, sucking, and fucking you with his tongue. When your squirming in an attempt to get away turns into grinding your hips against his face, his other hand rests on your stomach adding slight pressure and making you cry out which only spurs him on. The sounds that reverberated through his chest were nothing short of animalistic and when your second orgasm shot through your core, you fell limp against the sheets with a moan that would make you blush if at least half of your brain was still functioning properly. A new wave of panic sets in when you realize that he isn't stopping. On the contrary, he probes you with his fingers in addition to his tongue. You can feel the coil in your lower belly tightening again, heating up with his ministrations.

You plead with him, saying you can't take anymore just for him to disregard it with a growl, “You've got plenty more in ya.” 

You've lost count of how many times you came when he manhandled you around onto your hands and knees propping your hips up with a pillow. You turn to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him standing behind you with his massive hand tugging at his thick, angry-looking, and leaking cock with his eyes glued to your core, still pulsing and wet from all your previous orgasms. Without warning he grabs your hips, aligns the blunt head of his cock with your entrance, and pushes in. Your fingers dig into the sheets from the sheer stretch as you mewl and whimper when he drags himself all the way to slam back in. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time, with every thrust his fingers dig into your hips and you are sure there will be fingerprints left with how hard he is gripping you and the idea makes you wetter. Prompted by the delicious drag of his cock your walls keep tightening around him, as he pushes you closer and closer to your release. One of his muscular arms circles your waist, his chest flush to your back, as his other arm comes to rest next to your head with one of his legs still firmly planted on the floor and the other resting next to you on the bed for better purchase. This new angle combined with the gravelly grunts so close to your ear become your undoing and you hurtle full-force into another mind-numbing orgasm with Ghost following close behind.

“Come f'r me, pet.” Again, not a suggestion but a command and who are you to refuse him? So you do as he says, pussy fluttering from the aftershocks as he fucks you through it, thumb circling your clit before he fills you up, not allowing you to move an inch, keeping your hips propped up and when he pulls out which drags another set of whimpers from you he meticulously pushes his spend back with thick, calloused fingers. “Gotta make sure it takes.” 

If your consciousness weren't slipping away, you'd likely be alarmed, but instead, your eyes begin to close again, and this time, sleep claims you.

You wake to a heavy weight pressing down on your back, and it takes a moment for your mind to catch up with the events of yesterday. When it does, your entire body flushes and you attempt to move out of bed, only to find it futile. You're pinned beneath strong arms marked with scars—some from arrows, large and small, and others older, circular, and still appearing raw.

Your thoughts are abruptly interrupted as a thick, muscular thigh presses deeper between your legs, forcing them apart. Without much thought, you begin to grind against it, a primal urge stirring within you. Despite the lingering soreness from yesterday, a fresh wave of need starts to build, and any trace of resistance fades in the face of overwhelming pleasure. It feels shameful, but you can't stop the tentative movements, slowly finding a rhythm—until the sudden flex of his thigh makes you gasp, your eyes rolling back.

“So needy,” he growls close to your ear but there's no trace of anger in his voice, if anything he sounds pleased. “Come on, ride it harder.” He punctuates the sentence with yet another flex of his thigh and a nip to your neck, making you shudder but follow through with his command. As you grind back against his thigh you take a note of his cock stirring, resting heavy and hard between your bare ass. You push against it absentmindedly and find yourself pinned under him, your legs still held apart with his thigh that's now embarrassingly slick with your arousal. The visual of it makes you turn your head away, eyes closed and whimpering. Ghost doesn't like that. His massive paw of a hand grabs at your cheeks, your lips puckering involuntarily while he grunts at you to keep those eyes open for him. As he licks into your mouth, it suddenly dawns on you—this is your first kiss. You had already let this beast inside you before even sharing a kiss, and everything felt so out of order, that it made you want to scream and cry. Instead, you settle on throwing your hands around him and clawing at his back as he aligns himself with your needy, sore pussy and thrusts to the hilt without so much as a warning.

Even after yesterday, the burn of the stretch to accommodate his length makes fresh tears spring up into your eyes and roll down the apples of your cheeks. You swear you see his scarred lips twitch up into a savage smile at the sight of them before he licks them clean off your cheeks with a satisfied groan. In retaliation you dig your nails deeper into his sturdy back, hoping to break the skin and leave a mark that only ends up urging him to fuck you harder, faster. The sounds reverberating in the room drive you crazy; over them, you don't even notice a soft knock at the door but whoever it was scurries away registering the sound of the moans he wrings out of you with one particularly hard thrust that pushes so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Effortlessly he manhandles your legs on his shoulders to hit a different angle. As you struggle with the overwhelming feeling of fullness he leaves a deceptively soft kiss on your ankle before he folds you in half again and wrestles another mind-shattering orgasm out of you and succumbing to one himself, painting your insides with his spent. Pulling out, he doesn't bother moving, he simply rests his head on your chest between your breasts, squeezing the air out of your lungs with the sheer size of him. “Rest now, pet. Plenty of time for more o' that later.”

At that moment, you know there is no turning back; you've been taken, branded from the inside out. You wonder if this is truly so horrible, perhaps this nightmare of a man will drive away all the other nightmares plaguing your mind.

Or perhaps he is even more dreadful than your imagination could have ever conjured.

taglist: @a66-1 , @ghostlythots , @rttxcmt , @september-22-1998 , @fluffysmiko , @gyusbrownie , @bumblebeesfromvenus , @magicalforestcat , @nommingonfood , @tami-doodles , @fateisnotafactor , @m-a-l-a-c-z-a-r-n-a , @nicolebarnes , @msdevil333 , @lilpothoscuttings , @tealeaftallulah , @not-reptilian , @moonfloweronmars , @aliceinwonderland-5678 , @marshmelloe , @i-love-you-just-the-same, @lazyperfectioniste , @tragedyinwaves , @thisisforthebest97 , @talkingcorn , @hxnneydew , @resplendantrosewood , @telvannitea , @the-casual-act , @hello-lemons, @kiwicopia , @just-a-sewer-goblin

[miiyas]

ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM …

so what if satoru gojo is attached to you by the hip ? he’s your husband ! what do you expect ?

wc: 639, fluff, fem reader, hi shoko cameo, not proof read

“so,” shoko sits across from you in the booth seats of the cafe, stirring her drink with a spoon as the tinking of the glass meeting metal fills the dense atmosphere. she removes the spoon from the drink and taps it on the rim of the glass, getting rid of the droplets before pointing the curve to you. “are we gonna address the elephant in the room ?” she raises a brow and stabs her elbows on the sticky table but she’s not looking at you, shes looking at the individual beside you.

there, satoru gojo sat, stabbing at his fifth slice of cake, bread crumbs hanging from the corners of his lips, standing out like a sore thumb.

the air goes silent and you’re still sitting without much of an expression, posture straight as your eyes shift over to see your husband stack the demolished plate with the other four, letting out a content sigh and leaning back on the booth seat.

“he insisted on coming with,” you say hesitantly, giving shoko a weary smile as satoru throws an arm around your shoulders, pointing a finger at shoko with furrowed brows. despite his masked eyes, she could tell that they were glowing with tease and pride.

today was supposed to be a girls day. just you and shoko, getting some lunch and coffee and maybe shop around if time was kind. though, gojo just had to come along, whining at you during the entirety of the time you were getting ready.

“c’mon, shoko. i gotta make sure that my girl is safe !” he leans in close to your cheek, puckering his lips as you lean away with an annoyed raise of a brow. you slap a hand over your husbands mouth, muscles straining as you try to push him away from your proximity.

“or just eat like a glutton,” she mutters under her breath.

“sorry, shoko. he’s attached to the hip today.”

“yeah, i can tell.” the brunette rolls her eyes and leans back, picking up her mug of coffee and pressing them to her lips, eyeing the two of you with suspicion. “gojo, don’t you have a mission to be at in what,” she glances at her watch, flicking her eyes at the time before darting them back at the man. “twenty minutes ?”

“twenty, fifteen, don’t remember.” gojo waves his hands in dismissal, scoffing at the thought. “i can be there in thirty. maybe an hour.”

“maybe before the higher ups scold you again,” you mutter, bringing a hand to his ears and tugging it, leaving the man to yelp in pain.

“okay, okay !! i’ll go !!” satoru waves his hands in surrender before you let go, massaging the his red ear for a moment before sighing. he fixes his mask, pouting and digging his elbows on the table, resting his head on his hands.

“after one more cake.”

“what did you just say ..?” you creak your head to the side to see your husband already waving at the waitress to come by the table again, practically on the edge of the seat and gaining the attention of other residing customers.

“waiter, waiter !! one more strawberry shortcake. no, make that two ! one for me and my wife !” a childish smile grows on his lips as he practically glows and orders another slice of cake, leaving you to grimace and hang your head and shoko to groan and place her coffee down, muttering about how ‘she ‘needs a smoke’.

despite your husbands refusal to leave your side, it makes your cheeks burn red and a silly smile creep on your lips, your heart beating as it did when you were sixteen and the day he gave you the diamond ring— aching and heavy with love and yet still bleeding for more.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, yandere, toxic relationship, friends with benefits, guns, threats of harm and death, name-calling

gn reader

When you open your heart to your fuck-friend, he sighs with rust.

You still have his cum inside your hole as he tears you a new one—telling you he doesn’t have the fucking time or the fucking energy to deal with lovey-dovey confessions right now—he has enough bullshit on his goddamn plate already without having to consider you and your fucking feelings as well.

If you’re not going to shut up and fuck him, you might as well shut up and fuck off.

So you do. The latter, that is.

Part of you knew it was going to end up this way. You with your heart broken and him with the blood on his hands. But part of you had hoped as well—hoped he felt the same way—hoped your words would soften his edges and wash away all the muck in his head enough to let you in.

You’d read a little too much into those gentle touches he sometimes bestowed upon you in his weaker moments—that soft way he cried when holding onto you during the night, wordless and clingy and begging you not to go.

But the more you think about it, the less you understand why your heart aches. It doesn’t really make much sense after all…

In truth, he’s an asshole. Always been. And you deserve better.

He’s always so angry. Always on something mudding up his blood. Never with anything nice to say. It doesn’t really matter how you’d held him in his nightmares or patched him up when he’d stumbled through your door drunk and bloody. 

Scarred boys in need of fixing aren’t good for your health—especially when all they have to offer you in return are callous words of rejection.

He’d always been secretive. He wasn’t a very good lover—but you're not entirely sure if he was ever even a good man. The wounds he’d dreg to your apartment in the middle of the night always left blood on your sheets. He never agreed to go to the hospital—always insisted your first-aid kit was enough, even when he'd come to you with bullets you’d have to dig out with a pair of tweezers.

You realize he’d been using you. You were convenient and stopped being convenient the minute you wanted more—and upon the realization, you move on.

And then he comes crawling back…

Shivering in the rain like a beaten street mutt—looking starved and sick like one, too. There’s blood on his shirt and a grim darkness in his eyes. He tells you to let him in, and you only barely have the guts to tell him to go away. 

He has this tortured look on his face—as though something’s your fault, as though you’ve wronged him in some way, as though you’re the reason he’s out in the cold with nowhere to go.

Barging in and slamming the door behind him—he locks it and pockets the key—ignoring your questions as you ask him what the fuck’s gotten into him. He looks deranged—water dripping from his matted bangs, eyes reddened, and cheeks streaked. You only now notice it isn't because of the rain.

“You said you wanted me, didn’t you?” he huffs. “Here I am.”

You’re tense. You hadn’t felt like that with him before, it takes you a minute to realize it’s because you’re scared. After all, you’d wanted him all those other times—rough or otherwise. And now you didn’t want him at all. 

“You should leave. You’ve been drinking.”

“What? You changed your mind already?” he accused, then scoffed with a not-so-unamused laugh. “I’m not surprised. People like you, who like danger and bad men, are always so fickle-hearted.” He approaches you too fast for you to back away, his scarred hands curling into your sweater—split skin from recent beatings bleed onto the fabric. “Flighty little slut, you’ve probably already found the next guy who gives you a rush. Isn’t that right?” He’s seething as he pulls you forward, looking like a hostile hound.

You lay your hands on his chest to keep him at a distance—feeling his entire body shake like static beneath your touch. You wonder if he’s taken drugs tonight, but looking into his eyes, you don’t think so. They aren’t fidgety but deadset. Actually, upon closer look, you don’t even think he’s drunk.

But anyway, it doesn’t really matter. You still don’t want him here. “I’m serious. Get out, or I’m calling the police.”

“Oh? Are we slinging threats now?” he jeers, showing no signs of letting go or leaving—he only pulls you in closer, so close you could kiss. “What? Don’t tell me you’re scared now.” He breathes out another short excuse for a laugh as you veer away, putting his lips to your ear instead. “You should have been from the start—but no—grinding up on me at the club as though you’d die without my attention. Crying pretty tears when you saw me all beaten and bruised—acting as though you want to save me. Tch—”

He throws you down on the carpeted floor. You wince from the impact, and when you look up again, you see he has a gun pointed at you.

You stop breathing. A dark sinkhole in your gut seems to want to swallow you from the inside, and you think you might just want it to if it means escaping the threat before you.

“I shouldn't have come here…” he mutters—finger resting on the trigger all too calmy. “But I just couldn’t get your face out of my head. Looking up at me with those doe-eyes, wearing my shirt even though it’s got blood on it after I fuck you silly, saying such sweet little nothings as if I’d paid you to.”

He sighs—heavily—as though he’s expelling spirits. His hand remains holding the gun poised and pointed straight down at you even as the other drags down his face, pulling his maw before sliding through his wet locks, raking them away from his face.

“I gotta kill you, you know?” he says, shoulders slumping with the statement. He sniffs—it's almost soft enough to be a sniffle. “That’s the only way to solve this. That’s the only way to get you out of my fucking head.”

He cocks the safety with a click that makes your life flash before your eyes. Faces of your family and friends, people you haven't seen in years, childhood pets long dead, a job interview, the holiday you felt true happiness, the night you went out dancing and met him.

The tears stream silently down your face, and you still don’t breathe. Every part of you, every nerve and muscle, has gone completely still. Unmoving, unblinking as you stare up through the barrel of the gun and wait for the bullet to come through.

His finger curls tighter around the trigger, and you close your eyes with a furl between your brows. And then…

Nothing. There’s a large exhale.

“I can’t do it…” 

You open your eyes to see the gun lowered. The sight brings a fresh rush of air back to your lungs, making you all but wheeze as it fills you, breathing in far too much and much too quickly. You regain some semblance worth of motoric, too—able to scramble backward until there’s no more room to be gained, sitting with your back against the wall. Eyes peeled at him where he’s taken to crouch, holding his head with his free hand and the one still with the gun in it.

He fists his hair and tugs on it frustratedly, muttering to himself. “Dozens of lives on my hands, and I can't kill this one single-” he stopped short.

This time, when he looks at you, there’s something else in his eyes. No malice or scorn, but something sad—pity almost.

“Well… seems like you got what you wanted...”

The pity’s for you.

“This is what having my heart feels like.”

♡ BNHA ��� Bakugou, Shoto, Dabi ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Toji ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[hearts4hughes]

dbf!rafe who’s low key flirting with you while you guys clean up after a summer backyard party 🫣🫣

(also, love your writing!!)

your dad’s already gone inside with a bourbon in one hand and half a cigar forgotten in the other, leaving just you and rafe in the backyard to deal with the mess. summer’s bleeding into the edges of the sky, gold and navy, and the fire pit’s just embers now. a few string lights flicker tired above your heads. the party’s over, but rafe’s still here.

you don’t know much about rafe. to be fair, you spent most of your life with your mom in the city. backyard barbecues weren’t exactly in the rotation. especially not with the beach less than a mile away. it wasn’t until last fall, when you graduated college and decided to live with your dad, that you even remembered rafe existed.

he used to be a name in old stories. rafe cameron, your dad’s wild friend from college. the one with a million dollar grin and a reputation for knowing how to talk his way out of anything. the one who inherited a billion dollar company and still shows up to cookouts with dirt under his fingernails and a six-pack in tow.

you figured he’d be some middle aged finance guy with a comb over and a golf addiction. you weren’t expecting him. you weren’t expecting the way his jaw ticks when he’s thinking, or how he holds eye contact a beat too long. you weren’t expecting the way he looks at you sometimes. like you’re something new, like you make him nervous.

and now here you are. summer night tickling your bare legs, plastic cups sticky with dried lemonade, and rafe calling you sweetheart like it’s a challenge.

he nudges an empty beer bottle with the toe of his flip flops, glances at you. “you always clean up after everyone else, sweetheart? or is that just for me?”

you blink and straighten up from where you’re crouched by the cooler. “you think i’m cleaning for you?” you shake your head with a grin. your dad’s older friend flirting with you was a foreign situation for you.

he shrugs, slow, all smug posture and damp hair from when he dramatically ripped off his shirt and jumped in the pool. the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled just below his elbows, revealing tan forearms and a frayed woven bracelet that looks older than you. “wouldn’t blame you if you were.” he smirks and your eyes can’t help but fall to the scrape of his stubble.

your stomach flips. it’s stupid. you hate how he talks like that, like it doesn’t mean anything. like his voice isn’t doing that low, scratchy thing that curls around your spine.

you shove a stack of used paper plates into the trash bag between you. “and what would you be doing if i wasn’t here, huh? letting raccoons do the clean up?”

he chuckles, low. “maybe. though i doubt the raccoons would be as pretty.” his white shirt clings to his back, contouring his muscular back. his smirk deepens as he follows your gaze.

your eyes snap to him. he’s watching you shamelessly. all calm, relaxed confidence. as if he’s not your dad’s best friend. like you’re not half his age with your life ahead of you. “you’re gonna get yourself in trouble talking like that,” you say, voice a little quieter now. your eyes burn holes into the grass. you avoid his gaze like wildfire.

he leans on the deck railing, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “you think i’m scared of a little trouble?”

you don’t answer right away. you chew on the inside of your cheek and focus too hard on picking up a fork from the grass. and then, because you don’t like the way he makes you feel small but warm all at once, you throw it right back. “no. i think you like it.”

his lips curl upwards in a warm grin. he smilies with his mouth, but you felt it through his stare. your knees began to buckle under the weight of it. “there she is,” he says, voice low and a little amused. “knew there was some bite in you.”

you look at him for real this time. your voice still soft, still unsure, but your chin’s lifted. “you don’t know anything about me.”

“mm,” he hums. takes a swig of his beer. “no. but i’d like to.” he holds your gaze just a second too long. then, he moves, walks past you with the lazy ease of someone who knows he’s being watched. he grabs the last two red solo cups and chucks them into the trash.

“grab the bag, will you?” he says, halfway up the porch. “it’s gettin’ late.” you swallow. hoist the bag onto your shoulder and follow, heart tripping over itself. just before he disappears into the house, he glances over his shoulder and adds, “don’t worry, sweetheart. i won’t tell your dad how you’re blushing right now.”

a wink, a grin, and then he’s gone. you’re left standing there, cherry cheeked and fuming. because a part of you is buzzing. because you liked it.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy

[lynbels]

step brother virgin hoon who’s horny 24/7 and jerks off to you without knowing thin walls. Yn shows him what it’s like to have his dick shoved inside a pussy I’m just so down bad

CUM N’ CONFESS ⌗ psh

stepbrother!Sunghoon x reader

⋮ ⌗ ┆ You’ve spent nights listening to your shy, nerdy stepbrother moan through the walls while jerking off to porn—but when you catch him in the act, dripping and curious, you make him drop the screen and fuck you instead ✉️ wc. 2497 - tw. stepcest, virgin!sunghoon, masturbation, oral (f receiving), first time, unprotected sex, teasing, sub!sunghoon, dom!yn, moaning, creampie, slight corruption kink, porn mention, size kink, praise, begging

📝: I want this to happen to me

When Sunghoon first moved in, it was hard not to stare.

He was tall—awkwardly so, like he hadn’t quite grown into it yet—and he always walked around like he was trying to take up less space. Pale skin, like porcelain, not a blemish in sight. He barely spoke during the first family dinner, eyes focused on his plate, nodding shyly when your mom asked if he liked the food. His voice was quiet, almost too soft for how deep it was, like he didn’t trust himself to speak around strangers.

You watched him from across the table. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

Not once.

He wore oversized hoodies even in summer and fidgeted with the sleeves whenever anyone looked at him too long. And when your parents introduced you two—“This is Y/N. Same age, you’ll get along fine”—he only gave a tiny smile and a stiff little wave, mumbling something that sounded like “Hi” before ducking into his room and shutting the door.

You assumed he was just shy. Maybe a little weird.

But then you noticed how he always paused when you entered a room. How his eyes lingered on your bare legs when you wore shorts around the house. How he remembered things—little things. The exact way you liked your coffee. The kind of music you blasted through your headphones. The fact that you hated the sound of chewing, so he started eating softer foods when you were around.

He never said much, but he noticed everything.

And that quiet, nervous act? It didn’t quite hold up when the lights were off and the walls were thin. Because after your parents left for their honeymoon, you started hearing things. Late at night. Low, choked sounds from the other side of the wall. The creak of bedsprings. A muffled voice—his voice—groaning under his breath.

You tried to ignore it.

The first night. The second.

By the third, you couldn’t sleep.

Because now every time you heard him, it wasn’t just embarrassing.

It made your thighs press together.

It made you think about that tall, quiet boy with the flushed cheeks and the wandering eyes.

And how maybe he wasn’t that innocent after all.

The first few nights, you pretended not to hear it.

You shoved your face into your pillow, turned your music up, even tried falling asleep on the couch once. But no matter what you did, the noises still found you. Quiet, desperate sounds bleeding through the thin wall you shared with your new stepbrother.

You weren’t supposed to notice. You weren’t supposed to listen.

But you did.

You lay in bed, body still, heart beating faster every time the bedsprings in his room gave that familiar little squeak. And then came his breathing—ragged and broken. Whispered curses. The occasional whimper of your name—not loud, not direct, but enough to make your stomach flip.

At first, you told yourself it wasn’t about you.

You were imagining it.

But then came the fourth night.

And you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You lay there, your legs pressed tight together, thighs clenching at nothing. Your breath hitched when you heard it—the sound of his hand, fast and wet, the softest groan punching out of his throat as he muttered something into the mattress.

It made your skin flush.

It made your nipples ache under your thin tank top.

And before you even realized what you were doing, your hand had slipped under the blanket—under your waistband—fingers pressing against the heat between your thighs.

You were soaked.

From him.

It made no sense. It was wrong. He was your stepbrother—quiet, awkward, nerdy Sunghoon who barely said more than two words to you.

But your fingers slid against your folds anyway. You imagined the look on his face behind that wall. Imagined his jaw clenched, eyes shut tight, hips bucking into his fist. And when he moaned again, soft and broken and real, your fingers moved faster.

You bit your lip to keep from making a sound.

But your body was already chasing that high, rocking slowly against your own hand, soaking wet, needing more.

And all because of him.

You stared at the wall for too long. Heard every breath, every slick sound, every soft curse.

Your fingers were still damp when you slipped them out of your shorts, heartbeat pounding in your throat.

This had to stop.

You couldn’t take another night of pretending.

So you got up—quiet as you could—crossed the hallway in the dark, and stood outside his door for a second too long, heart stuttering as you heard the sound of a woman’s moans, high and fake through his laptop speakers.

Then came the breathier sounds—his sounds.

A low grunt. The creak of his bed.

You knocked once. Light. Hesitant.

The sounds stopped instantly.

“Give me a sec,” his voice called, strained and startled.

But you didn’t wait.

You opened the door slowly, the light from the screen spilling across the bed—and there he was.

Sunghoon froze like he’d been shot.

Blanket yanked over his lap, chest heaving, hoodie pushed halfway up his stomach, cheeks bright red.

His eyes were wide behind those thin silver glasses.

“What—what are you doing?” he asked, voice cracking mid-sentence.

You stared at the glow from his laptop, your eyes adjusting.

“Is that porn?”

He didn’t answer.

You stepped further into the room, ignoring the rush of heat between your legs. “What kind?”

Sunghoon looked like he wanted to die. “Y/N, seriously—get out.”

But your eyes were already on the screen, your voice calm. “No. I want to see.”

You walked closer.

He reached out like he was going to shut the laptop, but you got there first.

And your breath caught in your throat when you saw it.

The girl on the screen looked a little like you.

Same hair color. Same body type. Same whiny little moans.

You turned to him slowly. “Really?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck. This is not what it looks like—”

You tilted your head. “I think it’s exactly what it looks like.”

Your eyes dropped to the lump under the blanket, his cock still hard and twitching.

You licked your lips.

He watched that movement like a man starved.

You moved closer, slowly, until you were standing at the edge of the bed. “You’ve been jerking off to me, haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t deny it.

Sunghoon’s eyes dropped, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He didn’t say a word.

“I mean,” you continued, stepping just a little closer, “you’ve been pretty obvious about it. You know the walls are thin, right?”

He winced.

“And the way you say my name sometimes… do you even realize you’re doing it?”

“Stop,” he muttered, voice low and tight, like he couldn’t decide whether he was more embarrassed or turned on.

You smiled. “Why? I’m just asking questions.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, and the look in his eyes was different now—desperate, glassy, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You leaned down slightly, voice dropping into a whisper. “Did you imagine me watching you?”

Sunghoon let out the faintest, broken noise.

You bit back a grin. “Did you think about me walking in, catching you? Getting curious?”

You dragged your gaze over him slowly—his messy hair, the sweat at his temples, the way his chest rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe right.

Then you straightened up and turned toward the door.

His eyes widened. “Where are you going?”

You glanced over your shoulder, letting your hand trail up the edge of your tank top lazily. “Nowhere. Just figured I’d give you some privacy. Since you’re so shy.”

Sunghoon looked like he was going to say something—maybe beg, maybe tell you to stay, maybe just fall apart right there—but he stayed quiet.

You paused in the doorway, letting your fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, just barely tugging them down a notch.

Then you looked back and smiled.

“Try not to be too loud this time.”

And with that, you disappeared into the hallway.

Your parents had barely pulled out of the driveway when the silence settled. No more awkward dinners. No more chattering voices in the hallway. Just you and Sunghoon, alone in the house for the weekend.

He hadn’t said much all day—just kept to his room, playing his games, pretending like nothing had happened the night before when you caught him red-handed.

But you could feel it.

The tension.

The way his eyes kept flicking toward you at breakfast. How he mumbled responses when you asked him innocent questions, flinching when you leaned just a little too close. He was unraveling slowly, and you hadn’t even touched him yet.

You decided to push it further.

So that night, once the house was quiet, you made your move.

You waited until it was late—until you knew he’d be in his room with his headphones off, probably pretending to read or sleep.

Then you let yourself moan.

Loud.

One hand between your legs, the other gripping your pillow, and you didn’t bother hiding it this time.

You wanted him to hear.

Your breath hitched in your throat as your fingers slipped lower, already wet, already aching. You thought about the way he looked with that laptop in his lap, the panic in his voice when you caught him, how hard he was under that blanket. And the sounds you made echoed through the thin walls, every whimper exaggerated, every breathy moan a tease.

You cried his name once—just loud enough.

Just once.

Then silence.

A beat passed.

Then you heard it—the quiet creak of his bed, the faint shuffle of footsteps.

Your heart pounded as you lay back, still dripping, still pulsing.

And then came the soft knock.

Three taps.

Controlled. Hesitant.

You smiled, biting your lip.

You’d gotten to him.

You let the knock hang in the air for a second.

Then two.

Then three.

You wanted him squirming.

Finally, you opened the door—just a crack at first. Just enough to meet his eyes. His face was flushed, his lips parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe. Hoodie sleeves tugged over his knuckles. That same nervous energy humming under his skin, but now it was laced with something darker.

Need.

He didn’t say a word.

You tilted your head. “Did you need something, Sunghoon?”

He blinked, throat bobbing, hands clenched at his sides. “I… I heard you.”

You smiled, stepping back slowly to let him in. “I know.”

He hesitated, like crossing that threshold meant crossing a line he couldn’t come back from. But you didn’t fill the silence. You just waited—patient, composed, legs still bare in your tiny shorts, one strap of your tank top slipping off your shoulder.

When he finally stepped inside, you closed the door behind him.

His eyes dropped to the bed, still messy from where you’d touched yourself just minutes before. You walked past him, brushing against his chest lightly, and sat down right in the center of it—legs crossed, gaze heavy.

“Take your hoodie off,” you said softly.

He obeyed instantly, pulling it over his head with shaky fingers. His shirt came up slightly with it, exposing pale skin and a twitch of lean muscle.

You patted the bed beside you. “Sit.”

He moved like he was in a daze.

Once he was down, his knee bounced anxiously, eyes flicking from your face to your bare thighs and back again.

“Relax,” you said, voice low. “You’re the one who came to me, remember?”

His breath caught.

You leaned in, just close enough for your voice to brush his ear.

“Show me how you touch yourself.”

He stiffened. “What?”

You smiled. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

He blinked at you, stunned, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. His hands hovered in his lap, trembling slightly.

“I—I can’t, you’re—watching—”

“Exactly,” you said, slow and sweet. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted me to see. So show me.”

He swallowed hard, hand moving to the waistband of his sweatpants. But he didn’t move fast enough.

You clicked your tongue. “Say it first.”

He looked up at you, dazed. “Say what?”

You leaned back against the headboard, spreading your legs lazily. “Beg.”

His breath hitched.

“Tell me how bad you need it. How long you’ve been thinking about me. How many times you’ve gotten off to the sound of my voice. My body. My moans.”

He whimpered under his breath, eyes dropping to your thighs.

“Please,” he said finally, voice rough. “I—I need it. I can’t stop thinking about you, Y/N. I’ve… I’ve been so hard all day, I thought about you in the shower, in bed—fuck, even when you hugged me earlier. Please let me show you. I’ll be good, I promise—”

You reached over, stroking your fingers down his cheek, soft and taunting.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

“Now show me.”

He looked like he could barely breathe.

His hand trembled as he slipped it beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, eyes flickering to your face like he needed your permission one last time. You didn’t blink. You just sat there, watching, legs parted, fingertips brushing lazily over your own thigh as you gave a small nod.

He exhaled shakily and pulled himself out—his cock already flushed, hard, twitching against his stomach. He covered it with one hand like he was ashamed, but you caught the way his hips shifted forward instinctively, already chasing friction.

“Let me see,” you said, voice low, sharp.

Slowly, he moved his hand, revealing everything.

You dragged your eyes over it with zero shame. He was thick. A little curved. Pink at the tip and already leaking. You tilted your head and smiled.

“Cute.”

Sunghoon flushed deeper, his knuckles tightening as he wrapped his fingers around himself. His breath hitched as he gave the first stroke—slow, unsure, eyes on you like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Faster,” you said.

He obeyed instantly, his hand moving slicker now, a soft sound escaping the back of his throat. You reached between your own legs, not even pretending to be subtle anymore, letting him see the way your fingers slipped under your waistband.

“Does it feel good?” you asked.

He nodded, breathless. “Yeah—fuck, so good…”

“Do you always imagine me when you do this?”

“Yes—every time. Every single time,” he groaned, head tipping back.

You slid two fingers against your folds and moaned softly—just to torture him.

His hips jerked.

“Keep going,” you whispered. “I want to watch you come for me, Sunghoon. Just like you’ve been doing every night.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—as his hand sped up, his body tensing, sweat starting to bead at his temple.

“Look at me when you finish.”

He dragged his gaze back to yours, pupils blown, mouth parted, and it only took a few more strokes before he came with a desperate cry, thick ropes spilling over his knuckles, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

You smiled, still touching yourself, letting him sit there trembling and red-faced and ruined.

“You’re such a mess,” you said softly. “But you came so pretty for me.”

He looked up at you, breathless and dazed.

And your fingers didn’t stop moving.

He was still catching his breath when you slid closer, your fingers still slick and glistening with your own arousal. His wide eyes followed every move, lips parted like he didn’t even realize he was still breathing heavy.

You leaned in until your mouth was right at his ear.

“You made a mess,” you whispered. “Now clean mine.”

He blinked slowly, like your words took a second to register. But then he looked down—between your legs, where your shorts were clinging to your soaked core—and his throat visibly tightened.

“Y-You want me to…”

“Eat me out,” you said, clear and unapologetic. “Now.”

His breath caught, but he was already moving—shifting to the floor on his knees, eyes never leaving your center as you leaned back and tugged your shorts down. Your panties followed, slow and sticky, and the second you were bare, his lips parted with a soft gasp.

“You’ve been thinking about this every night, haven’t you?” you murmured, spreading your legs wider. “Listening to me moan, touching yourself to the idea of your stepsister dripping for you.”

Sunghoon whimpered—actually whimpered—before lowering his head.

He started slow, like he was afraid to do it wrong. His tongue flicked tentatively against your folds, gentle and shy at first, but when you let out a sharp breath and tugged his hair, he groaned like he couldn’t help it.

“There,” you whispered. “Right there—don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. His hands clutched your thighs, his mouth getting messier with each stroke of his tongue, each flick against your clit, each wet gasp that spilled from your lips. You felt him sink deeper into it, like he was addicted to your taste, like he couldn’t get enough. His shy little whimpers vibrated against your core, making you grind down harder on his face.

“Fuck, Sunghoon…”

Your voice cracked as the knot in your stomach tightened. His tongue moved faster, sloppier, desperate to make you come, and when your fingers threaded tighter into his hair and you cried out, he groaned like he was the one coming.

You pulsed hard against his mouth, hips jerking as your orgasm tore through you—and he didn’t stop until you were pulling him away, trembling and twitching from the overstimulation.

He sat back, his lips and chin glistening, cheeks flushed red, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

You looked down at him, still breathless.

“…Good boy.”

wanna read my longer ffs? Check out @shy9-29

[littlelovelunette]

Ambessa x reader but Ambessa turned cold and distant overtime and because reader is still very caring and insecure she just doesn't do anything so that she doesn't upset Ambessa but then r gets gravely injured like an almost near death experience and Ambessa realizes she needs to get her shit together when reader tells her its fine and she doesnt have to bother because she's probably really busy.. it's to the point reader flinches at her touch because it's been so long(ambessa please just hug your wife she's sad and lonely) and just heavy angst/comfort:,)

Distance

Contains angst, mentions for violence

It's been months Ambessa had been cold to you. Cold and distant and every little bit of it hurt.

Whenever she was gone on long campaigns, you stayed up, waiting for her eagerly.

But you never spare a peep about your own distress, why must it bother Ambessa? She clearly had too much on her plate as it was.

Or so you thought.

Ambessa hadn't even realised she'd been mistreating her wife, completely throwing herself at whatever work would come by.

Her mind was in shambles. But so was your heart.

After a significantly bad battle, you were left bleeding. Your heart was slow and barely beating.

Ambessa had threatened every medic in town, she'd slaughter them or better yet make their life unliveable if they didn't make sure you were all perfect and good to go.

Your consciousness was coming and going and you had no clue for how long you were out but you wished was that Ambessa would start caring for you like she once used to.

Your eyes were fluttering open when Ambessa rushed to your side, shoving the medic to the side.

"Oh… you’re here," your voice came out in a weak rasp and your throat hurt to even speak. Your eyes were squinting due to the sudden light that hit them when you woke.

Ambessa moved closer to you, bending down. You seemed so small next to her.

"Of course I’m here," Ambessa said tenderly.

"You didn’t have to," you averted your gaze from hers, "I know you’re busy," your fingers played with the hem of the blanket you were covered with. Your injuries hurt, they hurt a damn lot. You could taste the metallic tang of your blood from your busted bottom lip.

Ambessa's golden eyes looked as strong as ever despite the inner turmoil threatening to break her.

"Busy?" Ambessa took a sharp breath, almost a scoff, "You nearly died. And you think I would just—" Ambessa cut herself off, she looked like she had nothing else to say. Rendered utterly speechless.

"No. Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t matter," Ambessa said getting up and pacing the room atleast four times before looking at you again.

"I know I matter," you said but the way your voice was teetering on the edge of a badly compressed sob gave your true feelings away, "I just… didn’t want to be a bother."

"A bother?" Ambessa scoffed, eyes softening when she looked at you with newfound affection, more than before. Different than before. She took a step closer to you, "Is that what you think? That you’re… a bother to me?"

"...I don’t know," your tone was more questioning than an answer, you tried to get up but decided against it. Your ribs felt like they'd crack under pressure anytime soon.

Silence. Then, the faintest brush of her fingers against hot feverish skin.

"I only—" Ambessa started but she cut herself off once again. This time not due to her own lack of words or her indecisiveness of what to say.

This time because you flinched as if you were afraid she was going to hurt you. Something Ambessa dearly hoped never to happen.

"…You flinched."

"I didn’t mean to," you said that like it was your fault that you flinched, as if it wasn't you waiting up all this time for Ambessa to come home from all those long campaigns.

Another silence, heavier this time. Then, Ambessa moved, and she embraced you in front of all the medics who had pure astonishment written across their faces. They'd never seen the fearsome warlord of Noxus so vulnerable before.

And now there Ambessa was holding you close as if you meant absolutely the world to her and for the first time in a long while, you felt alive again.

"Come here."

"Ambessa, you don’t have t—"

"Come here."

"I’m so sorry," Ambessa's apology was a whisper against your ear, soft and so unlike her, "I let you believe I didn’t care. I let you flinch away from me."

"It’s fine, you—" you began but you knew you were only making up excuses for the things Ambessa had done.

"No," Ambessa wouldn't allow you to try to make her look better to even her ownself, she knew her faults and she'd accept them. You were her wife. You deserved at least that bit from her, "That won’t happen again."

"Please don’t let go."

"Never."

[darkmatilda]

𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which one spencer gets beaten up by an unsub, but as a result, his unfailingly attractive, sharp-tongued flatmate steps in as his personal nurse so in the end, it could always be worse.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, medical care, lecture on safety and risk-taking, no detailed descriptions or blood, reader on her period, spencer not putting a ring on that reader's finger (but he fucking should)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.3k

𝐚/𝐧: request

Spencer slowly dragged himself up the stairs, wincing in pain with every step he managed to take. A slight sense of relief wrapped around him only at the very top, when he allowed himself to freeze in place for a while and take a deep, cautious breath.

What had happened to him was fairly self-explanatory — a minor scuffle with an unsub he accidentally got involved in, a pretty solid beating, and afterward telling everyone around that he was completely fine.

Because at that moment, yes, he was fine. Or at least he felt like he was. The remnants of adrenaline still lingering in his body had a numbing, dulling effect on most of the pain. So he allowed himself to tend only to what was visible and bleeding — a split brow and went home as if nothing had happened.

His actual condition only started to register somewhere halfway back.

First and foremost, a steady pain in his ribs that became unbearable only when climbing stairs or making sudden movements. His knuckles also made themselves known with a burning sensation. There were a few scrapes there, but if he were to assess himself entirely objectively, nothing life-threatening. He’d grab some ice from the fridge, shove it under his shirt, spend the next few days wincing when bending over, and that would be it.

Spencer forced himself to stand up straight and entered the apartment. With slow movements, he unwound the scarf from his neck and took off his coat, squinting when a sharp pain hit his side as he pulled one arm free. Ice. He definitely needed ice.

As soon as he washed his hands, he headed straight to the kitchen to grab some. However, he didn’t even make it close to the fridge when he suddenly and with surprise came to a halt at the sight of a woman sitting on a chair by the kitchen island.

His temporary flatmate glanced at him briefly, registering his arrival, but remained completely unfazed. In front of her was an open laptop, next to it a plate with half-eaten food and a mug, a blanket covered her legs, and she seemed focused on what she was doing. 

She glanced at him again, this time raising an eyebrow questioningly. Spencer parted his lips but said nothing, realizing he had frozen for a moment, staring at her. It was no longer just about the surprise of her presence, but more about the dilemma of what he should do next.

Should he just walk to the fridge and take out some ice without saying anything? Sure, it was his apartment, but what would he say if she asked a question? Should he tell her how he gave a great demonstration of strength, caution, and professionalism by letting himself get beaten like some limp boxing dummy?

 Did she even care enough about his condition to ask?

He shook himself out of his thoughts and closed his mouth before a fly could fly in. He cleared his throat, leaning one hand against the kitchen island and trying to look casual, as if his ribs weren’t throbbing in pain. Almost immediately, however, he realized his knuckles were all scratched up, so he quickly pulled his hand back. Still, he preferred to think the whole situation through. He cleared his throat again.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said. “I mean, this early.”

They usually finished work around the same time, unless his team was working on a case. Then their entire schedule would become irregular or even completely crazy.

She shrugged.

“Took some work home,” she explained, slowly shifting her gaze back to the laptop. Spencer was inwardly relieved she hadn’t noticed anything strange in his behavior. “Didn’t feel too well.”

He nodded as he listened to her. “You okay?”

There was a certain suspicion in her look—because even though they were currently living together, this kind of mutual concern was still something new. And even when it did happen, it was never expressed directly, only hidden somewhere between the lines.

But that day, he was too worn out to play around with it.

“Yeah,” she replied after a moment—not dismissively, but in a straightforward, genuine way. “Just my period.”

“I think I have a hot water bottle somewhere in the bathroom. At least I think so. Just in case you need it.”

“Already found it,” she said, patting the blanket that covered her up to the waist. Her gaze returned to him for a moment, and just as he was trying to figure out how to smoothly and inconspicuously grab a bag of ice from the fridge, her eyes suddenly narrowed in alarm, focusing on a very specific spot. “Wait, are you okay?”

Spencer’s mouth fell slightly open for a moment, unsure what had given him away—until it hit him that he literally had a butterfly bandage on his eyebrow. Instinctively, he reached up to touch it—with the same hand that had scraped knuckles, which she immediately clocked. Until now, her arms had been resting casually on the counter, but she crossed them over her chest, eyebrows lifting in a silent demand for explanation.

“I just kinda got hit,” he said quickly, hoping to downplay the whole thing before it turned into a bigger deal than it already was. And to avoid getting into the full scope of his physical state—something he preferred to take care of on his own. Her expression didn’t change at all, didn’t accept his answer, which forced him to sigh and add, “it’s…it’s normal, sometimes. I mean, unsub fights back and—”

He gestured vaguely with his hand, trying to finish the thought without saying too much. Her eyes followed the motion of his injured hand as he did, and he had to fight the urge to tuck it behind his back—opting instead to fold it in, just enough to be less visible, though it hurt a little.

“Right, but that’s why you have a gun. And why there’s more than one of you on scene—to keep that from happening. Or at least not often.”

Her voice had a sharp edge, and her expression was tense—until she fell silent for a beat, taking a calmer breath. It was clear she wasn’t trying to scold him or speak out of turn about something she hadn’t seen firsthand. After all, she worked in the same field and knew exactly how things sometimes went.

For a moment, she looked at him in silence, as if assessing the quality and precision of the bandage on his brow. She didn’t seem to find anything to complain about—which didn’t mean she was satisfied. A sigh.

“At least tell me you washed your hands? There’s…”

“Antiseptic ointment in the fridge,” he finished for her. “I know. I bought it myself.”

“Fantastic. Now go ahead and use it.”

Spencer wanted to roll his eyes at her nagging tone, but he was quickly bombarded by her even more piercing gaze, so he hopped over to the fridge. She was watching his back, he could feel it. He wanted to bend down and get the ice from the freezer too, but he was afraid it would hurt too much. He’d do it when he went to bed.

He turned back toward the kitchen island and set the ointment box down after squeezing the right amount onto his index finger. But instead of spreading it on the back of his hand like he should, he paused, meeting her fixed gaze.

“You can go back to work. You don’t have to supervise me,” he said.

“I think I do. If I didn’t tell you, you probably wouldn’t even use that ointment.”

‘I totally would’ve. Actually, I was going to.’

She didn’t look like she believed him for even a second. And that was completely okay, because he didn’t quite believe himself either. The layer of ointment on his scratched knuckles caused a burning sensation. He bit his inner cheek, trying not to wince.

He kept that unreadable expression until she looked back at her laptop screen, though he still felt like she was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

Suddenly, their black cat jumped onto the counter and immediately padded over to him with a purr. Spencer turned his hand so the ointment wouldn’t get on the cat’s fur, stroking it with his palm. “Come to say hi, little acrobat?” he asked gently. The woman glanced at him, again, and he was aware of it.

Marie loved compliments and scratching behind her ear, so she started circling around the kitchen island, trying to get more. He closed his eyes as her tail brushed against his face.

A tickle in his nose. He felt an impending sneeze with dread but couldn’t hold it back. With the sneeze, he bent slightly, and then a sharp pain spread across his ribs.

And it was no longer a gentle bend; Spencer really doubled over, unable to hold back a loud hiss, his hand pressed tightly against his side, which did not help at all. Through his heavy breathing, a certain sound reached him — the sound of a laptop snapping shut.

“You cheeky liar,” the woman said to him, rising from her seat. In two steps, she was by his side but did not touch him until the wave of pain had passed and he was relatively upright. Only then did she practically push him onto the stool, forcing him to sit. “Sit here and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Spencer, following the order, didn’t move. Mostly because he wasn’t sure if he could even get up on his own. If the pain brought any good at all, it was that it at least overshadowed the feeling of embarrassment that filled him when the woman returned to the kitchen with a first aid kit, which she loudly set down on the counter.  

In the way she set it down and the sound that echoed, he sensed an unmistakable, openly displayed anger. He had to admit, he hadn’t expected such a reaction at all. He watched it all like some unknown water he couldn’t swim in, deciding not to speak first to avoid sinking.

“Tell me, how long did you plan to keep babbling with me before admitting that you’re not okay?”

He couldn’t stop himself from replying, “I am okay,” to which she only scoffed loudly. He felt as if the legs of his stool had suddenly lowered by several inches—dragging him down with them.

“People who are okay don’t usually double over in pain from a sneeze,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest and giving him a piercing stare. “People with rib or chest injuries do.”

Spencer clenched his jaw slightly and exhaled shallowly.

“You’d probably laugh,” he muttered. He didn’t think too hard about the words before letting them slip out, but he truly believed them. The woman pulled her head back, eyes wide in disbelief. Spencer broke eye contact and fixed his gaze on his bruised knuckles, running the fingers of one hand across the other. “It wasn’t some phenomenal fight, and anyone would tell you that. I just got beaten up.”

“Well, I see something different,” she said.

Spencer didn’t quite understand what she meant until he shifted his gaze to her face and noticed she was looking directly at his knuckles. Even so, he awkwardly shook his head from side to side.

“You weren’t there.”

She tilted her head slightly, silent, looking as though she had a dozen things to say but wasn’t sure which to pick. In the end, she spread one hand to the side with a shrug.

“Does it even matter?” she asked. “You still have wounds that need tending. Take it off.”

Seeing that Spencer wasn’t exactly eager to cooperate and didn’t even move, she snorted.

“Or I’ll just…”

She stepped closer and started unbuttoning his shirt herself, beginning with the ones near the collar. Spencer wasn’t cooperative, but he didn’t protest either. A kind of resignation settled over him, and maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

“Either way, I’m going to ask the team what really happened,” she stated. Her fingers kept working on the buttons. What he noticed was that her movements were the complete opposite of her tone and manner of speech—slow and gentle. “If I find out you went up against some giant all by yourself, I’ll be furious. None of you have any sense of self-preservation, and that’s not just about you—it’s all of you. Sometimes it’s better to wait for backup…”

“Sometimes there’s no time,” he cut in.

For a moment, she shifted her gaze from the button she was working on to his face.

“You’re one of a kind. There’ll be plenty more unsubs to catch.”

“So the victims.” 

Only then did her hands really slow down, just at the last button. She sighed.

“Okay, that’s not something I can really argue with,” she admitted. Spencer didn’t feel like the winner in this discussion, though. Once his shirt was fully unbuttoned, she carefully helped him slip both arms out of it, and he realized he didn’t even feel embarrassed about his half-nakedness. He didn’t have time to dwell on that realization, as he focused on her reaction and the concentrated look in her eyes as she stared at his ribs.

He looked down on himself. Bruising from rib injuries usually appeared only after some time because of how well-protected they were by muscles and fat tissue, but since he was rather slim, a faint bruise had already started to show. Her hand landed on one of them and even though she barely brushed it, Spencer held his breath from the sharp pain. She didn’t pull her hand away, however, examining the spot with attention.

“It’s warm and starting to swell. You really weren’t going to mention it at all? Spencer, they might be broken.”

He made eye contact with her, holding back from squeezing his eyes shut when her hand moved further up, to a spot that hurt even more.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. He couldn’t hide it — his voice shook completely and nearly broke into a whimper. He also drew a sharp breath into his lungs, which only worsened the pain.

Only then did she pull away. Spencer avoided looking directly at her face just above his, but he accidentally did when his head tilted slightly back from the conflicting sensation in his side. Her expression was rather unreadable, but definitely no longer angry. More concerned. The way anyone would look if their flatmate was writhing in pain right in front of them.

“Sorry, but I don’t trust any of your opinions when it comes to your health or well-being. You’re painfully biased and you overlook literally everything,” she muttered with a scoff.

Even though it was a criticism of him, Spencer nearly burst out laughing. He had to hold it back, though.

Meanwhile, the woman bit her lower lip thoughtfully.

“Let me be the judge of whether they’re broken. Try to sit up straighter, okay?”

She stepped back and motioned for him to breathe. She observed the rise and fall of his bare chest for a moment, and the weight of her gaze — along with the silence between them — felt almost suffocating. Even though he knew it was just an examination, he wanted to throw his shirt back on the second she finished.

“How do you even know what you’re doing?” he asked.

“Don’t talk.”

“No, genuinely, I’m wondering.”

She sighed impatiently.

“Let’s say it’s not the first time I’ve done something like this,” she said enigmatically. “For some reason, everyone sees me as a perfect, private nurse.”

Spencer frowned, unconvinced. She noticed, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Ask Morgan if you don’t believe me.”

She seemed to have finished watching his breathing. She was by his side again, leaning in slightly. Her hands slowly pressed against his ribs, meanwhile focusing on the places without bruises and that didn’t cause as much pain.

“So,” he started quietly, carefully controlling himself so as not to make any embarrassing noise, “is this kind of a typical Thursday for you?”

She locked eyes with him, not letting go or stepping back.

“No, actually this one is quite special,” she murmured. Spencer hesitantly parted his lips, not quite sure what she meant, but curious. Even impatient for her to finish the thought. She, as if on purpose, didn’t hurry.

He watched as her body straightened, her hands slid off him and crossed, one of her hips shifted to the side, and it was clear she was about to announce the final diagnosis. He preferred that she finish her previous thought first.

“I’ve never met anyone who blushed because I glanced at their bruised ribs,” she finally said, and it was obvious she was barely holding back amusement at the sudden change in his expression. “That’s why it’s so special.”

Spencer tried to keep a straight face through it all, though he could feel real heat rising on his neck and face. It always happened whenever someone pointed out his blushing — as if it were something he could control. Sometimes it just happened, even without a good reason. He gave a slight nod.

“So you’re saying it’s just bruised?” he asked. She smiled wickedly at the smooth topic change, but he pretended not to notice. “So I was right?”

She rolled her eyes, though there was something gentle in the gesture.

“Yes, you were right. But don’t get too excited—you still have bruised ribs.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then, for what must’ve been the umpteenth time, moved closer to him again. This time, however, her hand didn’t go to his ribs but to his face. She brushed a few strands of hair away so she could quietly inspect the butterfly bandage over the cut on his brow.

He thought she was going to say something about it, but she didn’t. She just looked at him, his hair caught between her fingers.

“You’ll be fine if you lie down on the couch for a bit,” she said softly. She let go of his hair, which, true to form, fell right back into a different shape than it had before she touched it. Unbothered, she lightly combed through it again with her nails, as if restoring order had become her goal. “I mean, not lie down completely. It’d be best if you were half-sitting, half-lying. I’ll bring you some ice in a minute. Something for the pain wouldn’t hurt either.”

Spencer frowned slightly, studying the expression on her face. Surprisingly soft—and only then did a certain question arise in him, one about her behavior that day and the care she had shown, which he decided to hold onto for just a little longer.

Instead, he chose to clarify something.

“You’re bringing me ice? While I’m just lying there?”

“Sweet of me, right? You should be grateful,” she replied smoothly.

“I am,” he admitted immediately, almost instinctively, with a slight nod of his head. “But why are you doing all this, really?”

Her hand finally finished its renovation of his hair and handed him his shirt, which he caught, though he didn’t put it on yet.

“Because,” she began slowly, “you could be bleeding internally and still pretend you’re totally fine. And if you died…” She reached out toward the cat sitting on the kitchen island, gently scratching her under the chin. “Marie would be fatherless. And I’d have to find someone else to bully.”

He parted his lips slightly, raising his eyebrows.

 “So that’s really my only purpose..?”

 She tilted her head, flashing him an overly sweet, innocent yet commanding smile.

 “Go lie down, sweetheart.”

[purinbunnii]

“Good morning, Mrs. Gojo.”

⸻

The first morning as husband and wife began with a thud.

“Who the hell puts a laundry basket there?” Gojo’s groggy voice echoed through the hallway.

You groaned, not bothering to open your eyes. “You did, yesterday, when you said—and I quote—‘this is strategic placement, babe, trust me.’”

There was a pause. Then: “Okay, but past-me was clearly a moron. Newlywed immunity?”

You chuckled into your pillow, finally rolling onto your back to squint at the sunlight bleeding through the blinds. The bed still smelled like your body lotion and a faint whiff of Gojo’s cologne—woodsy and fresh, clinging to the sheets and your skin. You were already too soft for him.

He padded in barefoot, hair sticking out in five directions, one sock on. He looked like a sleep-deprived anime character—ironic, given the sheer perfection he usually walked around with.

Gojo squinted at you, then dramatically flopped onto the bed, burying his face in your stomach. “You smell too good. It’s offensive.”

You carded your fingers through his snow-white hair. “I showered last night. You should try it.”

“I was going to, but then someone seduced me with marriage vows and fuzzy pajamas.”

“Those pajamas have cats on them.”

“Exactly. Irresistible.” He lifted his head to grin at you. “Morning, Mrs. Gojo.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that—Mrs. Gojo. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded like magic.

You grinned back. “Morning, Mr. Gojo. What’s for breakfast?”

He gasped. “What, I have to cook? Isn’t there a honeymoon clause where you feed me grapes in bed for the first month?”

You sat up, poking his cheek. “If you want grapes, go to the store. Also, there’s no clause. I read the fine print.”

“Ugh. The betrayal. The treachery. The hunger!” He rolled over and reached blindly for his phone. “Fine. Pancakes it is. But only because I love you.”

“You can’t cook pancakes.”

“I’ll prove you wrong.”

“You almost set the toaster on fire last week.”

He stood dramatically, shirtless and undeterred. “That was a toaster’s fault. Today, we fight fate.”

You watched his retreating back, all lean muscle and chaos, and called after him, “Please don’t fight fate with the stove!”

He waved you off and yelled from the kitchen, “This is the sound of a domestic king rising!”

And twenty minutes later, there were slightly-burned pancakes on a plate, topped with strawberries he cut himself and arranged like a smiley face.

You sat cross-legged on the kitchen stool while he stood behind you, chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist.

“They’re ugly, but they taste okay,” he mumbled.

You giggled, mouth full of sweet syrup and warm batter. “Just like you.”

He groaned. “Ouch. I let you take my last name for this?”

“I earned it. I endured your wedding vows. You quoted Beyoncé.”

“That was romantic!”

“It was a karaoke version of ‘Crazy in Love.’”

“Exactly! A love anthem for the ages.”

You turned to face him, nose brushing his. His eyes softened, no teasing now—just quiet affection, filling the space between you like sunlight.

“You’re a disaster,” you whispered.

“And you married me.” He kissed you, syrup-sweet and lingering. “Guess you’re stuck now, huh?”

You melted into him, fingers curling into his shirt. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The house was quiet. Not in a lonely way, but in a “we live here now” kind of way.

Soft jazz played from your phone speaker, mixing with the sound of simmering pasta sauce and the occasional clink of cutlery. You stood at the stove, lazily stirring the pot, wearing one of Gojo’s t-shirts that hung off your shoulder and barely covered your thighs. He hadn’t stopped staring since you walked out of the bedroom in it.

“Hey.” His voice broke through the kitchen’s cozy hush. “You know how people say domestic life is boring?”

You glanced over your shoulder. Gojo was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smirking in that effortlessly cocky way that made you want to kiss him and flick his forehead at the same time.

“Yeah?” you said.

“They’re wrong. You cooking in my clothes is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen me shirtless in mirrors a lot.”

You rolled your eyes and threw a wooden spoon at him. He caught it with one hand and kissed the handle. “Satoru,” you warned.

“What? I’m appreciating my wife.”

“My very tired wife. Who worked all day and is still cooking dinner because you tried to make garlic bread in the microwave.”

“I thought it would be faster!”

You laughed—soft and easy, the kind of laugh that only came out with him. He crossed the space between you, arms sliding around your waist from behind.

His lips brushed your temple. “Let’s just order takeout next time.”

You hummed, leaning back into him. “Only if you pick something that isn’t sushi again. You always forget the wasabi.”

He gasped. “The slander in this home!” Then he added, quietly, against your neck: “But I’ll remember next time.”

Dinner turned out edible. You ate on the couch, legs tangled, your plate resting on Gojo’s thigh while his head was tilted back, mouth open dramatically.

“Tell me this isn’t peak romance,” he said between bites.

You grinned. “You’ve got sauce on your chin.”

He turned to you, lips puckered. “Clean it for me?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and sweet. “There. Better?”

He looked dazed. “I forgot what we were talking about.”

Later, dishes done (by him, as penance), the two of you lay curled up in bed. The windows were cracked open, letting in the sound of cicadas and the smell of summer. His hand rested on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles.

“Hey.” His voice was barely a whisper now, breath warm against your ear. “I know we joke a lot, but…”

You turned toward him, curious. His expression had softened, his eyes shining even in the dark.

“This,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “You and me, like this. It’s everything I never thought I deserved.”

Your throat tightened, heart stuttering with the weight of his words.

You kissed him gently—once, twice—then buried your face in his chest. “Well. Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”

He smiled against your hair. “Good. I was planning on staying the night forever anyway.”

And in the hush of your shared room, limbs tangled under soft blankets, you both knew: this was home.

————

The morning sun streamed through sheer curtains, painting gold across the floorboards and your bare feet. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of wake-up that only happens on Sundays—no alarm, no rush, no makeup, just the weight of a warm blanket and the man snoring softly beside you.

You turned your head.

Satoru Gojo was half-sprawled on his stomach, mouth open, hair defying gravity even in sleep. One of his long legs had somehow kicked all the covers to your side. His cheek was squished against the pillow, and he was absolutely drooling.

You grinned. “So majestic,” you whispered.

He cracked one eye open. “Mmm. I heard that, wife.”

You leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose. “How unfortunate.”

Gojo groaned and pulled you down beside him, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. “Let’s never get out of bed. We live here now. Bed people.”

“Tempting, but someone promised me pancakes.”

He groaned louder. “Why do I open my mouth.”

“Because you like to flirt, exaggerate, and make promises you can’t keep,” you said sweetly. “Also, you said it twice. In writing.” You gestured to the napkin taped to your nightstand that read in his handwriting: “Sunday Pancakes, I swear on my six-pack. Love, Husband.”

Satoru looked betrayed. “That was a romantic gesture!”

“That was a contract,” you said, already slipping out from under the covers. “Come on, Chef Gojo. Let’s see what you got.”

—

Thirty minutes later, your kitchen smelled like heaven and chaos.

Gojo was wearing an apron with a cat on it that said ‘I knead you’. His hair was tied up in the worst man-bun you’d ever seen, and there was flour on his cheek.

You were seated on the counter, one leg swinging, sipping lukewarm coffee and watching him flip pancakes like his life depended on it.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, flipping another onto the stack. “You only married me for my mediocre cooking skills.”

You held up your hand and made a small gesture with your fingers. “Mmm. Fifty percent.”

“And the other fifty?”

You tilted your head. “The way you look in this apron. Obviously.”

He grinned and crossed the room, sliding between your legs and resting his hands on your thighs. “Well, I knead you too, kitten.”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

He leaned in, voice low and warm, “Because it makes you smile like that.”

You melted. It wasn’t fair—how easily he could unravel you with something soft and simple.

“I love you,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know.” His thumbs stroked lazy circles on your legs. “You married me, remember?”

The pancakes were a little overcooked. The coffee was a little cold. He forgot the syrup.

But you ate together anyway, toes touching under the table, his foot trailing up your ankle. He stole bites off your plate. You stole kisses between chews. The crossword lay unfinished beside your mugs, a few random guesses scribbled in Gojo’s handwriting.

And when he looked at you with that stupidly tender smile, all soft lashes and sleepy love, you realized:

This was the good part.

Not the wedding. Not the honeymoon.

This. Burnt pancakes, bed hair, newspaper smudges on your fingers, and him—your husband—dancing with you barefoot in the kitchen when your favorite song came on.

Just life. Sweet, stupid, perfect life.

[yandere-romanticaa]

A warm smile etched onto the pink haired foxian's face as he watched his beloved eat the meal he had prepared meticulously, his fingers still twitching lightly from the constant chopping and grinding of meat but his hard work had paid off in the end. Jiaoqiu was blessed to hear all the little noises that came out of your mouth, the satisfied hums and light little hiccups were like gospel to him, irreparable, satisfactory, necessary.

He reaches for his own utensils, still monitoring you carefully from the corner of his eye, never once letting the mask of a carefree gentleman slip off.

His beloved was the personification of every dark and sinful desire Jiaoqiu had ever had. The broken heart which he was still mending started to beat once more in the presence of his beloved, as if it finally found its long lost voice and sprung back to life.

The feeling, my, it was exhilarating. For ages now his one true desire was to cure anyone he ever could, to rid people of all of their pain and suffering, to hold their hand in their darkest hour of need and tell them in his sweet voice that all will be well and that he will heal them -

However, time was a cruel mistress. And Jiaoqiu, was all too familiar with its icy cruelty. It wasn't fair, just how much was he going to suffer? Even if he was not aware of it at times, Jiaoqiu was still just a person. One single person in this wast cosmos, a flickering flame of a soul which was threatening to give into the darkness like the weakling that he always was....

And then, he met someone. Someone who became precious to him, someone who allowed him to just... Breathe. To let loose, every once in a while. Someone who he just loved to be fussy about, a person so singlehandedly tailor made for him that it was practically too good to be true. He loved being by his beloved's side, watching over them, taking care of them. It felt good having someone all for yourself, someone who you didn't need to share with anyone -

Much like a house of cards, everything crashed down once he found out that he was getting ahead of himself. He had not made you his quite yet, even if in his mind there would be no other who could fill the empty black void in his heart.

A sharp thorn in Jiaoqiu's side was this absolute pest of a Cloud Knight, a person so singlehandedly determined to take you away from him, a knight so caught up in his own valor and glory that he had failed to notice all the subtle changes around him.

The devil was always in the details. No one ever paid attention to those little details. And Jiaoqiu, the cunning fox, could be a truly terrifying devil if he felt threatened.

Jiaoqiu watched you bite into the meat, the lightly pink centre catching his eye as his smile turned slightly wicked. His gaze lowered down towards the fresh juices which dripped from the meat and onto the pristine white plate, a happy smile on your face.

You inquired about the source of the divine meat for the entirety of the afternoon but Jiaoqiu would always give you non answers or simply dodge the question.

Jiaoqiu loved you. He loved you like no one before. He loved you so much that his heart would stop beating if you ever broke it. His love was deep, dark and wast like space itself.

And you had indeed formed a little crack on his bleeding heart. Not enough for him to do something truly drastic but... It was enough for him to be angry. Angry at the thought that you had allowed this knight into your personal space. You don't need that fool, you already have Jiaoqiu. There's absolutely no need for that frivolous little knight to even be breathing the same air as you, Jiaoqiu was more than capable of taking care of you all on his own.

He had made it his mission to steal back the air the knight had taken from you. At the back of his head, Jiaoqiu could still hear the sickeningly loud crunches of the endless pile of bones, the messy table which reeked of blood and putrid, his snow white hands tainted with the sticky crimson liquid as he hacked and chopped and cooked.

In the end, he was going to teach you a lesson, even if you were not aware of it. Please, be gentle with him. Do not break his heart anymore than it already is. Jiaoqiu is a sensitive and sweet man, he has no desire to be rough with the object of his affections. And yet, even he knows that a small dosage of tough love, as he likes to put it, was more than necessary from time to time.

[dwaekkicidal]

𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋: '𝖤𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖴𝗌' ༄࿔ S.C.

⤷ Daddy Kink | Exhibitionism | [Semi]Public Sex

♱ word count: 2.3k

♱ warnings: fem!reader, dom&sub dynamics, daddy kink, sex in a public place (basement car garage), p in v with no prep, overstimulation, exhibitionism (chan watches & sorta participates hehe), might be considered cnc, creampie, chan “fingers” reader at the end, slight mention of partner sharing? (mentions of binnie letting chan have a go)

♱ notes: thank u my silly googey for helping me with this :3 @bbokicidal <3 also these pics of him drive me fucking nuts.

Kinktober Schedule

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

The first sign was your leg bouncing. He thought you might just be stressed or tired and eager to go home, but he still made an effort to give you extra attention, even while feeling the weight of daggers aimed at him. He and Chan were busy working on a new beat, and he understood how much his hyung wanted his complete focus on it, but he was worried about you.

The next sign was the lip biting; the way you shamelessly eye-fucked his biceps while biting into your lip so hard that he swore you were going to bleed. It was at this point he was growing suspicious and occasionally narrowed his eyes at you, but he nonetheless charted it up to you being exhausted and simply wanting to go home.

The final sign was your thighs pushing together. The way you squirmed on the couch as you pushed your knees together was a telltale sign of what was going on in that pretty little head of yours. 

It normally would make him ecstatic, excited even, to watch you get so built up over nothing. He loved watching you grow so desperate that you would beg oh so prettily for him. What he didn’t like though, was how hot and bothered you were getting with his leader in the same room.

Even if Chan was the one who caused you to get so horny all of a sudden, Changbin knew at the end of the day, when you needed to be broken down just to get built back up, that you went to him. Not Chan. Despite this, he could still feel the jealousy dripping off his skin. He wanted- no. needed to remind you who you belonged to. 

“Love, can you get me some water?” He watched you blink a few times to screw your head back on before you nodded silently and scurried out of the studio. The second the door closed behind you, he turned back to Chan to put the rest of his plan in place.

By the time you returned with the water bottle, Changbin was already zipping his bag shut and rising to his feet. He gave his elder a pat on the back along with a message about not staying in too late before helping you gather your things.

The whole elevator ride was quiet aside from your sighs of happiness as you nuzzled into his arm. Changbin, however, kept his eyes straight forward and his jaw locked in place as he waited for that familiar ding that announced your arrival to the garage floor. He granted you a few hair pets as the elevator descended, but nothing more.

Once the doors opened, he hurried you out towards the car. Long, quick strides towards his dedicated parking space all while his hand was on your lower back, almost pushing you alongside him. The beep of the car unlocking was heard for a moment before he all but threw his bag inside the backseat.

You tried making your way around to the passenger door, but he didn’t let you get far. You got maybe 2 feet away before he reached out and grabbed a tight hold of your wrist. He led you to the back of the car and popped the trunk, pulling you towards him before shoving you to sit in the trunk and leaving your legs dangling helplessly over the license plate.

“Binnie!? What are you doing?” He simply scoffed and trailed his hand up your arm, lightly grazing any bare flesh he came across before settling his hand around your throat, squeezing it just enough to make you understand exactly what was going on.

“Do you think I’m stupid baby? You think I don’t see my pretty girl being a whore on the couch, right behind my best friend? Hm?” Your mouth is parted slightly and you’re at a loss for words. While you can’t deny that what he said is exactly what happened, you also weren’t expecting him to flip his mood so fast.

“I…”

“You… You what, Love? You want Channie-hyung that badly? Should I tell him to come down here and take my place?” The hand around your neck tightens and you can’t hide the whimper that comes out.

“No! I was only thinking about you the whole time, Binnie. I promise.” You pout and look up at him under your eyelashes, even going as far as to chew your lip in hopes that he would believe you. It was the truth after all, but Changbin tended to get very jealous and would get in this headspace that always ended in your lower half aching for a few days.

Which is exactly the mood he seems to be in tonight.

“That’s not my name, baby.” His other hand moves up to your chest where he grabs a handful of your tit and squeezes it. Your legs squeeze together and he sighs happily at the sight of your body already reacting to him, taking it as his sign to continue. He moves his hand down your body and only stops when he meets the button on your shorts.

He snaps it open and lets his fingers trace your panty line for a moment while he silently decides what he wants to do with you. The hand on your neck loosens its grip in favor of cupping your cheek, using his thumb to play with your bottom lip.

“So pretty... You know I love you, right baby?” His eyes are still sharp as he stares down at you and waits for your response.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He licks his lip and smirks, nodding his head in satisfaction and dipping his thumb into your mouth. “Good. My good girl.” He mumbles quietly as he watches your lips wrap around his thumb, his dick twitching in his sweatpants as you suck the digit. He moans lowly at the feeling and pulls his thumb out.

He pulls you out of the trunk and spins you around, shoving you headfirst into the trunk as he pulls your shorts to your knees. He groans at the sight of your underwear; his favorite set paired with an evident wet spot right where your- his cunt is.

A hand comes down on your ass, fast yet more playful than he would if it was a punishment. It causes you to jump and moan against the fabric of the trunk. He only laughs, his calloused hand massaging the area he just hit while he grinds his clothed dick against you.

“Such a pretty baby with a pretty ass… I can’t wait to see that pretty pussy again.”

“‘S all yours, Daddy-” He grins and smacks the other cheek. “Damn right it is, baby.”

He hooks a finger into each side of the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, letting them fall into your shorts as he lets them go to spread you open. He’s quiet as he stands there and stares. It’s not until he blows lightly that one of you makes a sound- you being the one to moan desperately at the cold air.

Your pussy clenches as well and he almost moans, already excited to take you despite the lack of privacy. But he doesn’t care. He has a goal and you are going to take it right here, right now.

He shoves his sweatpants down just far enough for him to slip his cock out. One hand rests on your tailbone while the other pumps himself a few times. It doesn’t take long for him to grow impatient though, and you find him sliding his tip through your folds only once before he slides in.

The stretch is noticeable, but it’s not unwelcome nor does it hurt. You let it be known by pushing back into him, making him groan as your tight cunt wraps around him even more. He curses under his breath as he bottoms out and you shake as he rests right beside your G-spot in this position.

“D-Daddy…” He shushes you and pushes your back down, arching it just how he likes it. His hands find home on your hips once he has you positioned perfectly and he wastes no more time, moving his hips backward before sliding back into your heat.

A low groan leaves his throat and his eyebrows furrow in disbelief at how warm and tight you feel. He’s more than familiar with your body, but it never ceases to drive him crazy. So much so that he finds a fast pace rather quickly, using it to desperately fuck into you for a few minutes.

The sound of the elevator dinging can’t be heard over the squelching of your pussy and the huffing from Changbin, so neither of you notice the audience. Nor does Changbin notice his best friend staring in his direction with wide eyes and his own dick growing hard in his pants.

He doesn’t notice it at all, but just so happens to pound into you even harder right as the older man starts watching. The hands on your hips maneuver to hold both of yours in one hand while the other slides underneath you, quickly rubbing his fingers back and forth over your clit.

“Daddy!! I’m cumming-” You can feel your orgasm starting to take over your body and you clench tightly as it snaps. It pulls a squeal from you as his hips keep up their pace, fucking into you fast and calculated as he fucks you through your orgasm.

The overstimulation kicks in fast and he has to tighten his grip on you when you start thrashing. Your body does everything it can to make him slow down but to no avail. The final attempt was when your legs squeezed together desperately, making your pussy tighten around him.

It only slows him momentarily, and he recuperates faster than you thought. With a growl, he returns to his pace and the now free hand comes down on your ass harshly before tangling itself in your hair.

He pulls your upper half out of the trunk with his newfound grip and uses the new angle to his advantage, thrusting more calculatedly and ramming into your G-spot. He leans forward, pushing his chest against your back and continuing to use you as his personal fleshlight.

Your tits bounce with each thrust and tears start forming at your eyes, causing your onlooker to sigh loudly as he holds back a moan. This is the sound that finally meets Changbin’s ears, and your boyfriend's hips stutter as he prepares to shield you with his body.

He’s completely bottomed out, his tip digging meanly into your G-spot, as he whips his neck to the side. You go to ask him what happens when a familiar voice meets your ears, causing you to clench around Changbin.

“Oh- don’t mind me bro! I’m just enjoying the show.” Chan smirks and looks into his member's eyes. He tilts his head playfully and licks his lips, almost ordering the younger man when he tells him to “Continue, Bin.” The man in question holds eye contact and experimentally grinds his hips into you as he gauges both your and Chan’s reactions.

“W-Wait! Daddy-” Changbin thrusts sharply, excited that you’re using his title so freely in front of somebody he’s looked up to for so long. Chan himself whistles at the name and leans his head against the concrete wall behind him, arms crossed and eyes now boring into where you and your boyfriend’s bodies meet.

“Damn, didn’t know you were into all of this, Bin. Always thought you were the least kinky out of everyone.” Chan tilts his head the other way now, trying to get a better look at your pussy sucking Changbin in.

Changbin whines at the newfound attention but he continues to move his body anyways. He even goes out of his way to angle his body so that Chan can get a better look at you.

You blink a few tears away and glance back at the older man. You moan when you’re met with his lidded eyes staring so intensely at your backside. He looks so interested in the way you’re literally dripping around your boyfriend and it causes you to clench again, your second orgasm building up faster than the first.

“D-Daddy, I’m gonna cum again…” You mumble it out of embarrassment, but the older man hears you anyway and teases you for it.

“You hear that, Daddy? Baby says she’s gonna cum again.” Both you and Changbin moan at the same time and he has to rest his forehead against your shoulder to ground himself.

“Shit… Channie-hyung, you’re so d-dirty.” In his stupor, Changbin loosens his grip on your hands and you fall forward, hands settling in the truck and causing you to put yourself on display in a new position.

Both men groan at the sight of your arms shaking and Chan has half the mind to come over there and hold you up himself. But he’s not trying to push any more boundaries than he already did just by being here, so he just watches in amusement as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“Y/N, you gonna cum, baby?” Chan using that nickname on you isn’t new. He uses it with all his members when he’s trying to tease them, and he often considers you an honorary member. But when you’re like this, getting split open and fucked within an inch of your life all the while he watches, the nickname only pushes you closer to finishing.

“B-Baby…” The man you’re more familiar with calling you the nickname gasps it out and whines loudly as he starts to cum, his cock spurting everything he has to give into your cunt. The feeling of getting filled up triggers your own orgasm and you milk your boyfriend dry, arms finally giving out and causing you to fall forward into the trunk.

Changbin groans when a few drops of his cum spill out as he pulls out, but he doesn’t push it back in. Instead he watches it drip and allows the older man to see his claim to you.

He can’t tell if he accomplished his goal of reclaiming you or not. Especially not when Chan walks over and fingers his seed back inside of you with his knobby fingers. But that doubt didn't stop his cock from twitching, so it sure as hell won’t stop him from saying what he's about to say.

“So… Channie-hyung’s turn. Right, baby?”

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[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter / playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man (but was in rome currently)

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, “don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.” 

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.   

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication. 

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

..

..

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.” 

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath. 

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly. 

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before 

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you’ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him. 

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.  

.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

..

..

..

“domina, we are here.” 

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised.  you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs.  the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were  and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice. 

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said. 

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs. 

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam  across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both. 

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

.

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs  or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself  as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing. 

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really. 

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here.  not by men like him  and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor. 

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle. 

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @zaynesdesimc, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

[hannie-bees]

Hello! Can I request an angst to fluff imagine with Seungcheol or Soonyoung? I picture this like fighting over something very silly and slowly escalate to a heated argument to the point “yn” starts to cry and he storms out of the house or apartment for some time. After that they make up but I’ll leave the process of it up to you if you decide to write this, dear reader 👀✌🏻 love youu

Seungcheol × reader

Angst to fluff

Fight focused

1k words

---

I decided on Cheol because I thought it just fits him better & I hope it met ur expectations. Love u lots ♡♡

The rain was already falling when you unlocked the door.

You didn’t think much of it—just a long day, a sore body, and the quiet hope that maybe Seungcheol was still awake so you could collapse into him for warmth. But the moment you stepped inside, you felt it.

Tension.

The lights were dim. The table was still set. Two plates of now-cold food sat untouched.

Seungcheol was sitting on the couch, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers to his lips like he’d been waiting with thoughts he hadn’t wanted to say out loud. His eyes flicked up at you. And then, calmly:

“You forgot to text.”

You blinked. Dropped your bag. “What?”

“I waited,” he said, still composed. “Made dinner. Thought maybe you were caught up at work or stuck somewhere, so I didn’t want to bother you. But… you didn’t text.”

You sighed, too tired to unpack it. “Cheol, I just lost track of time—”

“That’s the third time this week.”

Now you looked at him. His voice wasn’t angry, just tight. Controlled. And that was worse.

“Okay,” you said, shrugging off your coat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s not the point.”

You froze mid-motion. “Then what is the point?”

He stood slowly, jaw clenched. “The point is, I sit here every night wondering if you’ll show up or not. I make dinner, I light the candles, I try. And you forget. You don’t even think to say, ‘Hey, I’ll be late.’ That’s the point.”

You were already unraveling, exhaustion twisting sharp in your chest.

“I’ve had a long day,” you snapped. “And I’m sorry I didn’t send a text, but I���m not going to stand here and get guilt-tripped for forgetting one thing.”

“One thing,” he echoed, hurt bleeding into his voice. “Right.”

“That’s not what I—” You huffed. “God, why are you acting like I don’t care?”

He stepped closer. “Because lately, it feels like I’m the only one trying.”

Something in you broke.

“I’m doing my best, Cheol! I don’t have time to babysit your feelings every night.”

Silence.

His expression didn’t change, but everything behind his eyes shut down.

You hadn’t meant it like that. Not really. Not in the way it sounded—sharp, cold, cruel. You opened your mouth to fix it, but the damage was already done.

“I can’t talk to you right now,” he said quietly.

And before you could reach for him, he grabbed his keys and walked out.

---

The apartment was too quiet after that.

You didn’t move for a while—just stared at the door like maybe he’d come back any second. But the minutes dragged. The clock ticked too loudly. And somewhere between trying to reheat the food and sitting down on the floor next to the couch, the tears came.

You didn’t even know who you were crying for. Him? Yourself? The mess you’d made?

You’d snapped at the one person who always made space for your worst days.

---

It was nearly an hour later when the door opened again.

You looked up, eyes puffy, arms curled around your knees. He stood there in the doorway—damp from the rain, hair flat against his forehead, and face unreadable.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped forward. Sat down on the floor in front of you. Looked at you like he was seeing past all the anger.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I was tired, and I let it win. I was defensive when I should’ve listened. I wasn’t fair to you.”

You sniffled. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then his hand reached up, gently brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I wasn’t asking for perfect,” he murmured. “I just wanted to know I still matter to you.

“You do,” you whispered. “You do. I just... forgot how to show it.”

He nodded slowly, his forehead resting against yours, like the apology was already enough. Like coming back had never been a question.

Neither of you spoke after that.

He just pulled you into his arms, held you close on the floor, and let the rain keep talking for you.

🌸Masterlist🌸

[chsvok]

pairing. toji fushiguro x fem! reader

fluff, not so angsty but like a little i think??? not proofread it’s lit 4am and i just finished it…

You and Toji never made clear whether you were official or not. You never wanted to risk bothering him, he already had too much on his plate anyway. With trying to make ends meet for him and little Megumi while also trying to take care of you, it was tiring to say the least.

However, even though—yes, the both of you had slight communication issues, but you cared for him a lot. So seeing him come back home, all bloody and bruised—his body covered in gashes, you immediately rushed to his side.

“I can handle it just fine, y’know, sweet cheeks?” He grumbled while you helped him towards the bathroom. “I know, but what kind of person would I be if I didn’t help?”

He gave a slight chuckle before settling himself against the bathroom counter sink. “You have to be more careful out there, Toji.” Your eyes narrowed as you spoke while cleaning his wounds and carefully applying ointment onto them.

“Nah, ‘s fine. I’m a tough man.” He smirked and flexed his bicep playfully to which you rolled your eyes. ‘This man…’

“You’re imposible, I hope you know that.” You let out an exasperated sigh whilst finishing up with the bandages.

“Oh yeah? Well here you are, playin’ nurse for me.” He snorts a laugh and you shoot a playful glare his way. You click your tongue and before you could look away you notice the slight tenderness that swirls in his eyes while he looks at you.

You quickly packed away the first-aid kit, feeling his gaze on you lingering much longer than usual.

“Why do you always do this?” He questioned, a quiet murmur while crossing his arms across his chest.

You raise an eyebrow, “Do what Toji?”

His jaw ticked slightly, as if he was debating whether or not to say something. “Takin’ care of me. Worryin’. Actin’ like this is more than… whatever this is.”

His words made you stand still. There it was. The unspoken words you both danced around finally coming to light.

You forced a small chuckle, opting to use some light humor to brush it off. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t bleed out on the floor.”

Toji didn’t let it slide this time. “That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about.” His voice was low, but not unkind.

You swallowed, heart beating just a bit faster. “Then what are you talking about?”

There was a pause. His sharp green eyes studied you, searching for something. Then, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like this whole thing was more exhausting than any fight he’d been in.

“…Just tell me,” he said finally. “Do you want this to be somethin’ real? Or are we just gonna keep pretendin’ like we don’t care when we do? Cause fuck, [name], I care. I care a fuckin’ lot, okay?”

Your breath caught in your throat and your eyes searched his for any hint of a lie.

Toji Fushiguro. The man who you thought would be the type to shut down the idea of another relationship, was asking you if you wanted it to be real. Holy shit.

The air between you grew thick with something unspoken, something that had always been there but never acknowledged.

You had a choice. You could keep pretending, brushing it off like always, letting the moment slip right through your fingers. Or you could be honest—for once, let yourself have this, let yourself have him.

And deep down, you already knew your answer.

[edenspoem]

𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬)

summary: your suspicious encounter has given ellie her five minutes and her knife—but can she truly measure insincerity? reader discretion advised: seattle!ellie x fem!reader, angst (with comedic and romantic undertones), reader is a stranger, reader has a sibling, inevitably changes the trajectory of the canon storyline, inherent tensions, interrogation tactics; knife (obviously), drawing blood, smacking, punching, collectively getting beaten to a pulp. ellie has ran into someone who matches her energy, maybe even dominates it. whew. lots to interpret. memo: this came to me in a daydream!!! yay for getting beat up!!! footnotes: word count (4.3k), masterlist, palestine masterpost, read this, proofread by the lovely @caraphernellie!

It is an aching, scathing thing: this world.

In the mornings, the most godless sounds awaken. Salvation takes pitiless dances with self-righteous societies, and the meek have inherited the earth. 

If you have a bounty—an idea of revenge—you must be fain to bleed every happy accident dry of information, and bleed yourself.

“Where's Abby?”

You are a happy accident. Urging for an alibi, your appetite stared down the barrel of several guns. The soldiers of this hospital you sought out on eroding patience were not helpful. If anything, lethal. They seemed guilty of selling out; failing to fulfill their scrap of the bargain, dodging explanations and lily-whiting themselves with some careless, out-of-the-blue, bullshit argument for why the agreement changed, why they acted against the inertia. All these sour months, yet nothing to compensate for time. Just conflict.

You were owed fifteen guns from this deal. Fifteen!

The debate fired in a deep corridor, right above the bowels of the hospital. Some bitch—Nora, you think, plated the verdict first and coldly before making off someplace else. Almost like you weren't really there. Still bleeding for clarity, you had everyone else in the hospital browbeaten, interrogating one after another, interrupting their plans to clear out the place. You used the threats in your mouth and the appetence of your revolver to show them you meant blood and business, simultaneously. Some heads went rolling.

Then, the place got infiltrated, making you an emergent exfiltrator. Like fire in a timber house of innocents, death caught quickly. Gunshots cracked at a singularity. A couple fired, then there would be a pause, muffled commotion, a horrifying scream, and a shallow rain of bullets come again.

It became instantly understood that it was a single person; a party would bring more noise. Frightened seconds became bodies on the floor in minutes, the melody of throats choking on blood padding the halls, and like time in a nutshell, one note of that melody played right outside the room you lurked in.

You recall a muttered echo: “Fucker,” which taunted the loud gurgles of blood, and rang as a sign that it was too late.

Her narrow and thorough eyes had the emptiest and deepest rooms flipped upside without warrant. Not even the silent take-outs, blind-covered windows or the secrecy of your location evaded interest. She craved some of that action.

You interrogated one room of stubborn people, only to be interrogated by a trespassing 'nother. Fucking coincidence, right?

God, and this girl is just terrible at cross-examination! Don't let her in a courthouse, of any quarantine zone. If they exist.

Ever.

It has gone on for a minute now. She continuously asks these redundant questions and tries cheap intimidation tactics her daddy probably demonstrated on several unlucky incidents like yourself—or maybe it's improv. Sure fuckin' sounds like it. And, not to mention, an extravagant amount of profanity that even the devil himself would blush at.

Fingers snap in your face. “Hey,” she barks. The table beside you is one of her foresaid tactics. It gets slammed. “Where is she?” Her wrathful gesture makes you glance only by a virtue of instinct. Clearly, this hand gets all the action.

Simmering reds from all that yelling have curled up her cheeks, painting her in a flit of desperate, pathetic rage. She is a strange clash of auburns and browns. In eerie-black rivers, bleeding up the walls, she is a darling brunette. But in the closeness of light, it washes into a gutsy auburn. Blinding and fiery. Those eyes have you engrossed too, damn: a penetrating, cat's-eye green you could fuck up in the sightline of. Her mother give her those?

Whatever. Why she needed to find this girl, you have no clue. Where this girl in question is—you still have no clue! This is useless. In fact, to her pursuit, you are useless. Files would better serve her mission, which thousands upon thousands sit in this hospital waiting to enlighten the blood-hungry half of the population with information. Surely she knows how to fucking read, right?

Yet, your sun of escape had set indefinitely, predestining you to writhe and mope in this tangle of uncomfortable ropes for however long until she was satisfied—or suffocating you. Fight, fight, and fight all you want; there is no abdication in negotiation.

“Did you ever think to ask the guards before slicing their throats?” You cock your head, sassy, contemptuously, without a care. It's an easy antidote for you to suggest given your mental innocence to the horrors outside that door. The prelude to this tangle of ropes is an interpretation of screams and guzzles—your favorite! “Too late now, though. Oops.”

Annoyance rolls from the pit of her teeth “Oh, my fucking..” She sounds irritable, eager to snap, and she turns her back to you for the sake of her sanity.

There is a faint sound of her fingers, squeezing on the mechanics of her lovely handgun. Maybe, just maybe, she'll knuckle under now; abdicate in the sweetness of another murder? Shut your trap by boring a bullet through it?

“Do you ever quit it with the snark?” She swings back around, hunching arms-crossed.

Nevermind.

You chart your own thoughts for a possible half-genuine, mostly clever answer, eyes rolling up. “Hmm..” Checking if it lives on the ceiling, like a perfect spring apple, ripe and pendant for picking. “Not recently, no.”

That strikes a nerve. “Oh, great,” she bluffs, that empty ink of doubt rich in the short, artificial reply. Certain smilings you often earn from fed-up someones. “Guess I'll have to try harder to get it outta' you, huh?” Her face fades, broadcasting something a little more serious, though those hooded eyes are the least daunting thing.

“Oh, so hard—”

Bam! Nailed right in the cheek. No sign, no second-rounds needed. The faithfulness of four knuckles pulled through your jaw, your teeth. It aches, and your sense of vantage is knocked for a moment, flopping your head back from where she clocked it.

You swish your cheek against the throbbing, staring with provocation. She stares, too. Through the old, grimy light above, you see her conscience emptying out: upper lip snared up, brows pulling to meet a center, heavy breathing. You believe judgment exits through every exhale.

“I saw you in here, rummaging through files and shit. You know something.” Her chin becks to you, foregrounding you as the first pawn of evidence. “Where'd she go?”

“Up my ass, bitch.”

Her mouth flinches at your immature fulmination. Offended, or disgusted. Rigid cords accentuate in her neck. “You smart-mouthed cunt!” she seethes, and her angrily mumbling that leads too smoothly into another blow to the maw, getting all up in your twisted face. “Where?”

You sling back. “Clearly not right in front of you, damn it!” Spitting the blood stilling in the pockets of your gums, you damn her; aim for the tip of her converse. Panting, you bring your eyes up slowly to glare. “Who shit in your rations?”

“We don’t—hmph, I don’t do rations.” 

Throwing a joke put a cork in her incursion, slipping up her words. You have to laugh. Furrows pinch between her brows, then she scans you up and down, face contorting into slow inspiration. They widen, discern; something you said alludes.

What is she thinking?

”Are you FEDRA? Undercover soldier?”

Your smile fades. “What? No.”

She motions to the bodies entrailing the floor. “Then why'd you kill them?”

“Got in my way.”

Her lips press into a line, and she huffs. Appraisal demanded conjectures, and you weren’t giving her anything. Things that may nail the target right in the eye, or miss by a small mark. You came here for one thing and one thing only, and that's none of her business—but, she wants to make it her business. Clothing you in warfare made it psychologically easier to absolve herself.

Two can play at that game. “Are you an undercover soldier?” you spin the question, blood in your mouth stirring a grudge. This situation might fall more into place if tongues point to yes. “Which zone hired you for reparation? Or would that be the Seraph—”

“Not a soldier.” Her interruption is resolute. She holds something harsh in-between the teeth, a stiff rehash, unable glarings. “I'm not FEDRA, I'm not a Scar..” The floor seems to interest her eyes. “Actually, what I am is none of your goddamn business.” She only looks up at you at the end, eyes narrowed.

“Neither am I yours.”

For smart-mouthing, you expect a third kiss of violence to erupt your gums—nostrils, perhaps—and she relents. Silence perverts the room, leaving an uncomfortableness to stretch from her stare. Gulps, blinks, and breaths that invocate. She expects you to give her a thesis, glaring like a hawk. A glare that depicts, “You are my damn business.” without ever having to gorge a throat.

You watch her right fist fumble together, blanking out on the earth-stained nooks. “Just assumed someone so blood-hungry would be an undercover soldier that has it out for rebel militia groups trying to battle authority. Maybe you wanted to snuff out the Firefly legacy? Once and for all?”

The coarse skin of her tattoo looks storied. Covered in things you lack context for.

But are you not self-same?

“Ex-Fireflies are finicky fucking people,” you begin to rasp in the vowels, clearing your throat. “Fuckin' hate them.”

Nothing is said on her end. Nothing of solace, nothing of condemnation, not even a different opinion. She traces all the lines quietly; squints at your lowered face, weighs your scars, conjecturing what your reputation must be to wear wounds like these. They must be gorgeous enough to ignore, because she prowls closer and slips into her back pocket, pulling a switchblade. Mahogany, and storied indeed. Fresh blood, old blood.

You peek up when you hear it flick. “Last chance,” the rigid-lipped girl warns. And like she has experienced an earnest, diabolic and pardoned shift in mind, her eyes look prepared to see you choke. “What's it gonna take?” She would slice you if it meant bleeding the infinite resolve out of you.

Fingertips dance on the handle of it. Pitifully, agitatedly dancing under the shadows. “Reasons, maybe?”

“Yeah? Wanna be like that?” She braces an arm on the chair, caging you, leaning in. Warm, arrowlike words hit you. They smell of breath. “Someone was hunted, tortured and killed, right in his own fucking town. Planned attack, too.” The cold, keen edge of the blade is pressed against your pulse, provoking a swallow through you. Tight in freckled hands, bloodspill is ensured. “That enough for you?”

“Oh,” you chuckle unamusedly. “Revenge doesn't solve shit.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” The growing pressure of her hand leaves a thin, immaculate cut, no drippage. Your subtle stonewalling escalates the tension in her, and so, she slowly buckles under; teasing the knife with a little taste.

Muted pain hisses from you. “Not revenge,” you plume, showing her your eyes. “Wolves got somebody I know held hostage and is unfairly expending them for their work. They won't let 'em off as agreed.”

Eyes reveal lies.

“Bullshit.”

You disengage from the delicate stinging on your neck, confounded by her. “Okay, and what makes your excuse more plausible?” Either you wear an embittered smile, or it wears you. Her cynicism is almost predictable. “I was owed shit from these assholes.”

“Which assholes?”

Of course, every detail is of the essence. You get her, to a degree; she is enraged justice in the form of a girl, but is overwhelmingly that. Rage. She spreads her pawns inside out and envisages a judging of gospel in their exposed guts. Interpreting the files, the conditions, the realisms of things said. Was that soldier truly vulnerable? Did they die weaponless, fearful, and innocent? Is innocence even a condition, given the crimson in her eyelines?

She looks lost in all the blood.

The temporary break opens to your heavy sigh. “Think her name was Nora.” Lasting throbs from the punches minutes before worsen as you speak. You crinkle your face against them. “'Dunno, don't care. Just want my brother back.”

You cannot tell if your answer brings satisfying insight, hearing only her inhales go in, and out. Knife laying inert, you receive no pain for it, but no freedom from it, either. She opens her mouth a bit, and bloomed breaths fan over you, like a response is meant to come out. Then her bloodied, bottom lip folds in, rubbing against her top, brows set low, and you know the contents of her mind are crafting a narrative.

Measuring your high-stake sincerity.

“Is that enough for you?”

Her eyes are sharp when you ask.

The weight of inflection, the material of fluency. Both are determiners. You, for the past five minutes, have acted a soft and blunt manner in the face of one jury. Maybe facetious, too, but it changes little.

She picks herself up from her wander-faced brainwork, and concentrates outside of her mind. “'Kay,” she drones, cocking her head. “Where is Nora, then?”

You sigh. “Probably upstairs.” The fight for life continues. Behind the chair, your wrists contort quietly for a weak knot. “Or gone. Depends how long you take to untie me.” 

One corner of her lip crooks. “Huh, you really think it's that easy?” Her face compliments the eerie line perfectly. She slides the blade past your collarbone, without pressure, and pierces it into your sleeved arm. Slow torture of twisting. “Tell me where, exactly.”

Gouging torments worse than simple incisions. With cuts, you can leave ugly reminders. But with a debased conscience and an end goal, she hopes to wind the information out clean; create a perpetual torture that loosens your tongue. She does not flinch, does not glance with hesitation while the tip draws a sweet, ugly, crimson vortex above your inner-elbow. Those steady eyes bore other holes into yours. Lingering, reading your pain.

Your windpipes fill with a groan, and you clutch at the bundle of knots behind you. “Fuck!” The pain does torture you. She is exacting in the way that it does. Torturing your skin, your thoughts. It forces a puncture of annoyance in your gut for not having much else to say while she bleeds you for it. You try to fathom her situation at large.

“Fuckin' lucky I haven't slit your throat yet.”

Then, it clicks.

“Come on, where?” Her impatience hits home.

You know where the blind spots are in this situation. Context shines clearly. “It's not just some random guy you're getting revenge for, huh?” Struggling under knifepoint, your words slip out with the violence of a tear. Scratchy, compressed. 

But the gouging technique of her fingers stop, saving you a second.

“What?”

Her face and voice incarnate offense identically. There had to be some nasty reason backing your statement, another round of your clever inaction to distract a sure demise. Yet, it still chokes. She wants to finish this, but you are by far the most thought-provoking victim her switchblade has ever laid infliction to. You can make a girl hesitate pretty damn well; it frustrates her. Makes her culpable, a gilded conscience whispering in low tones to let it back in. Reverting her to one of the many things that Seattle made her find fucking sickening: empathy.

Thinking.

She slaps a band-aid on those exposed nerves, keeping her heart small, and begrudgingly narrows her eyes into confrontational lines. The knife softly listens.

You continue. “Obviously, this someone is special,” attesting brashly, not so formally as a court would mandate. Just loud enough to film over the sound of your binds loosening. “Who goes all this way for somebody they don't share blood with?”

Regardless of how bold, how unoriginal this shot in the dark is, the revenge-high girl drops her lip. She's trying to pin a conceivable falsehood to your words, but it conflicts with the perfection of them; you aren't entirely wrong.

An irritated sigh claws open the air.

Forget it—she isn't looking to be mutual. She didn't chase a rumor to carve sympathy. Histories shall keep to themselves. “So? Don't play fucking stupid with me,” she reproaches you, introducing the pressure of her knife down on your thigh. “If she's gone, you're gonna show me right where she's headed.”

You watch her empty hand reach back. “Then?”

The sounds of paper halt. She frowns at your strange cross-questioning. “Then—I'll let you go.” Her reply is reluctant, so full of an unsure breath. “But only on the condition that you aren't fucking bullshitting me.”

The hand once-empty arcs from her back pocket, unfolding an outdated map of Seattle before your eyes. Damn, does she need an exact time too?

“Where?”

Hence that, the knife eases silence with pain again. There are tense cords on the crest of her palm from pushing it in. You almost absently and sullenly admire the true beauty of the flesh wallowing in contemplation; chances are, you may know too much now, and could cause wounds in her plan if let go. Providing her the intel she thrives for won't save you—it will kill you.

So, while so much as a long wince takes up your throat, you think of something else.

“Come on,” she nags, twining the knife into your kneecap. You counter with a cry, the vulnerable, warm shine threatening to paint your undereyes. “Could be done with this already. Eyes up here.” It crept up so quick.

But before you succumb, the roughness around your wrists becomes a nothingness, and your fingers grasp for light. Reprieve, a pardon to injury; you take it into your own hands.

The scene shifts like rain. Shock jerks her eyes wide when the chair clatters, and you drive her backwards—heels scattering, hands thrashing in a flit of desperation—and her special switchblade is suddenly against her. You swipe it tracelessly, catching her off-guard and cursing. Threatened palms puncture you repeatedly in the shoulders, trying to shove you off as she is slammed into the wall, knocking out the incentive she held so dearly like a candle.

Her hand dives below where you can see, definitely headed for the leather gun holster that clasps her thigh. She struggles to unload it. Before she can even wrap a finger, your reflexes are a step ahead, ridding her of that precious, immediate solution. You bash the damn thing into her nose.

“Fucking cunt!” she shouts with her lip snared down, the raging shape of her teeth evinced. Her hips struggle against you, palms now reaching to eclipse your sockets, both in a desperate fight to recapture her authority. Careful, she might bite!

Everything transpired so quickly. You feel whiplash as you toss the gun, brace her arms and show her precisely what lies ahead—scratching the surface, knife on her pale pulse.

Struggle exists no longer; the weapon buys you surrender. She focuses her lingering energy on catching air, slack under your fingers. 

“Well, shit!” Your chest opens with a degrading laugh, one she abhors. Screw looking at you. “Guess it really was that fucking easy, huh?” You begin a soft dint in her neck with the pricked end, inciting her to swallow a lump.

It does not fall quietly. She cracks open her lips and blood from her nose weeps in. “Please, stop,” she pleads, loud and clear. Instead, she is entrusted meekness as a desperate measure. That flesh you loom could be wool, a startled wool, and she would be a lamb. An innocent condition. Either fits her, since either way, she is tense and looking at the inanimate space behind you. Guiltily, flinchingly.

Only one curiosity will complete you. “Name?”

“Ellie.” It rushes like another life is at stake. Since when is she soft with a heart that can break? Whatever it is, it got her in this pretty predicament. “Why?” she raises, tone wary.

“Harder to kill somebody with a name.” Cute name for a murderer.

Her teary eyes narrow with confliction.

Ellie all but understands you. Your enigmatic nature has brought her to enmity and pity thus far—and on the precipice of murder—but now you're offering complete mercy? That's a hard thing to want to accept. People these days almost prefer, by an all-embracing scale, the venom, the simplicity, and the diabolical origins of the ethos of this apocalypse. Sometimes, it comes easier up and down the throat. Belonging eroded, and this country is a skeletal memory of itself, nothing will endure. Ellie understands that; she was born into it, and so, it is her and that is eternal.

So why you choose to spare her, has her scrunching her nose and pinching those signature frown-brows. Though, in the lurid light of her being that somebody with a name, she appears more strangely relieved, even if death sits at her throat still. Getting her to end this was your why and wherefore. You don’t care, you don’t have the time. So, you let the sun set.

Her eyes quirk up, and meet an equilibrium between her and you. They look dimensional with intrigue, somewhat proportionate to almonds. Gentle, springtime in the middle. “You're not gonna kill me?” Eyes you won't harm.

“No,” you announce it like it is solace, hard-fought. Tucked eyes and no strings attached, you sure are serious about this. “You aren't an issue to my efforts or some soldier telling me to come back tomorrow or to fuck off, so.. yeah.” The switchblade flicks back into the shell. You hold it out to her, and that itself sells the deal. “Congratulations.” A simple resign.

She lets it slip into her palm. Hugs the weight, rolls the wood on the curls of her knuckles. “Hm,” she hums timidly. Feeling it now, eliminating you would have changed nothing. If anything, weighed on her conscience in the dells of nightfall.

But she still lacks information. She needs to get it somewhere, somehow.

Thoughts begin to trickle: if her fingers can do such fragile things as plucking a guitar, should they be considerate?

Should she start now?

After a silent break, and a wipe of her bloodied lip, she decides to try. “Is your brother with them?” Wearing some sympathetic face absent of a smile; you're too preoccupied to notice if she does. “Sounds tough what you're going through.” Yeah, she cares enough to try.

You recess from looting. “The Wolves?” Crouching low.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracks, involuntarily.

God, this girl is a paradox of hypocrisy. First, she doesn't want your sympathy, and now she is a fraying thread of it. Loosened seams all over. You grin at her, rooted tall to the floor several feet away, but you are too in favor of doubt to look grateful now. “Oh, so now it's not bullshit?”

“That was before,” she laughs tentatively, traipsing closer. You leave her fidgeting, the natural gravity of her hand not knowing what to do, where to fall to. Debris crunches under her converse as she stands stock still before you, her stillness an invitation.

Again, she says nothing. Nothing as you aimlessly stare and travel over her little chafings. Waiting on your reply, your movement, your hitches of breath. Hidden languages of the body. There, you would make this mutual, or tell her to fuck off.

Maybe she believes you can benefit her still. Benefit each other.

Yeah, right.

Nothing promising sprouts from what is uncomfortably introduced.

It makes you scoff. “If you’re proposing some sort of win-win deal, then..” You heave briefly from your chest lugging up your backpack as you stand. “I've had my fair share. No thanks.” Telling her to fuck off, cordial as possible.

“Yeah,” she rethinks. “Dumb idea.” 

Seeing her face shift is quite the telling. An easy withdraw. Whatever she wanted to do, it wouldn’t work in the long run.

The steel door is guttural when you push on it. Groaning in the hinges, it instills a tension over your shoulder; she is still back there, reloading her guns, probably watching you. It gets you thinking, your hand hesitating. You may have no clue where to go yourself, but it would snip your thorny curiosities if you knew her destination. You know a small something.

“Check the operations base.”

Her shotgun clocks open. “Operations base?”

“Near the stadium. Think Nora is heading there,” you disclose, to entice, glancing over your shoulder. She needed that. “Be careful though, you’re public enemy number one now.”

She collapses her gaze. “Yup.” Her hatred was safely disposed of, so she takes your concern gently.

After all, you remain strangers. 

“Hope you get where you’re going.” The shotgun locks back in place.

Now is when you say nothing. You leave, without a spontaneous prayer or hope for her future.

Better to forget this ever happened.

“She wasn’t in any of the polaroids.”

Day closes inside the theater. Abdication takes place in the far-back dressing room, where wounds are dressed, and afterthoughts are festering. Ellie thinks restlessly about it.

What were the chances?

Ellie takes the needle into her riven skin without a flinch. The back of her lungs fill into, with long breaths, the tender palm of Dina, who asks, “Did she have information, at least?” as the suture threads through.

“She could've killed me.” Her fingers creep up her neck, feeling at her collarbones. The thought makes her mind turn. “But..”

Dina finishes with a knot on the carnic reminder. “But you're okay,” she conveys her gratitude. To higher powers, to luck, to you—whoever. She collects the hand from her collarbone, shielding her own over and embracing it against Ellie's abdomen. “Scratched up, obviously, but here. Safe.”

The gesture is fragile. Ellie clutches softly at her own stomach, grooving trails of her fingers. She wants to say something, but her mind everlastingly obsesses over your intel. “She said Nora's stationed in their operations base.” Her arm kindly slips from Dina and ravels into her shirt, tossing it over her head. All this bloodshed has given her a one-track mind. “Somewhere west of here, near a stadium, uh—think that's site two on our map.” She stands and smooths the crinkles. “Thanks for the help, babe.”

Dina can only hope well. “Mhm.” But she loathes this metamorphosis. Day after day, it leaves her feeling secondary. “Just be careful tomorrow, okay?” She has to continue physical contact to keep herself above, rising after Ellie. “We're rootin' for you.” Pressing a smile into her warm neck.

It repurposes itself onto her lips. “Yeah, like my groupie?” Certain smiles Ellie tends to forget she can share, and kiss, even if fleetingly. Thought fades all.

Hard to forget what happened.

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[apolocheesy]

HII UMM CAN I PLEASE REQS SHED X READER :333 ZHDHHSHS

𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑺𝑲𝒀

|| 𝙬𝙤𝙖 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙝 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙡𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙮 𝙙𝙖𝙮 (𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡)

𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙞 𝙝𝙞𝙞𝙞 𝙞 𝘿𝙄𝘿 𝙡𝙞𝙚 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙠 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙞 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 (𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧) 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙢

𝙑𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙎𝙝𝙚𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

“Vampire teeth are like roses. Thorns bore for puncturing. Your bleeding hands open to calm those overwhelmed with passion. Delicately pruning until petals finally bloom for you.”

You sit at the dinner table, Shedletsky in front of you. Somehow, you, an orchardist, managed to get rather familiar with the vampire on your journey home to town. A candle flickers to your left, coincidentally growing feeble when caught by his hard gaze. Your laugh fades, absorbed by shadows lurking the corners.

“Ah, it’s afraid of you, Shedletsky.” You reach for a raspberry, biting warily despite his friendliness. Curtains leisurely ascended. The pitiful light wanes, sparking in a strife against nature’s breath drifting from the window.

“Afraid of me?” His fingertips playfully gripped the tablecloth. “What does the candle have to be afraid of? I should be afraid.” He narrowed at the flame, eyes aching. You swiftly seized the candle by its elaborate holder, even as fatigued as you were.

“You still chose to look. Do you not know any better?”

“You’re in my mansion.” Shedletsky scoffed. “And I let you have that light!” He gave a cocky grin, touching the rim of his wine glass. All while feasting on fried chicken—which you recently discovered is his craving.

You softened your disturbed face. His informality never clicked in the time spent. It’s… unnerving to say the least.

“Well I can’t have you going and getting yourself hurt. It would be a shame, really.” The two marks pierced on your neck throbbed. They were still fresh like the memory of his foreign embrace, grazing his teeth teasingly over your jugular vein. An eerie sensation ghosted your spine, skin paler than you came. You’d finish him off if he let your precious blood go to waste.

“You could always make me feel better.” Shedletsky’s eyes smiled, expectant. He swerved his drink around, enamored by the red film coating the cup. It seems he doesn’t have an appetite for the beloved food anymore. He slid your plate closer, picking pomegranates and greens onto it. “This meal is for you, so eat up. I have to make sure you’re healthy too.”

He stood for the door. Looking back at you with a much more mature, reassuring smile. You waved him off and lifted the candle back, flame now placid. The winds had ceased. You envisioned trees slowing their sway, stilling in the night. How you would clutch your basket of apples close at gangly branches; branches that caved until you shined your lantern. Life wounded quiet, dull, just how it was before. It left a bitter taste, regardless of how many citrus fruits you ate.

Rooms upon rooms stretched across the halls. Each ebony doorframe carved, some altered in show of importance. One caught your eye. Its white detailing drew an illumina on the head of the wood.

Beating wings rattled against your ear. A bat. It chirped, flying in circles where cobwebs stuck until your attention was undivided. Whatever came over you, it made you want to follow.

Every lamp on the way was either losing power, or off completely. You lost count of how many rooms you had passed. In an instant, its small body suddenly disappeared, and you found yourself at another door. This time, strangely fixed to your appeals.

In awe, you turned the knob, peeking your head inside. The room is fully furnished, a white bed before you. Above it, a canopy fit for royalty. And just like the rest of the manor, the lighting is sparse, glowing through stained glass windows. On the nightstand stood tall, lit candles, barely melted. In full view, you couldn’t ignore the elegant attire laid upon silky sheets. It simply called your name.

You study yourself in a large vanity. The luxurious apparel, opposite to your ranch uniform. It didn’t cling to your skin, no heavy boots weighing your feet. Instead, expertly weaved silk and cotton sewn to flow with graceful movements set you free.

Palming the final garment, gliding your thumb over its bedazzled rim, you slide it onto your face.

Three gentle knocks rang; clear, each following a rhythm.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” Said Shedletsky from outside.

“Just a moment.” You lingered a while longer, touching your cheek. It was merely skin, branded with labor not even the jeweled mask could conceal.

He straightened when you opened the door. Shedletsky too wore a mask, white-tipped raven feathers winding into the curves. His jabot collar blouse layered under a powder blue vest. Draping his shoulders lied a dark cloak. He clutched whatever was behind him tighter.

“So have you,” You tried to pry, but was met with a face full of rose petals. Shedletsky chuckled, doubling down into a fit of laughter.

“Was that- too rough?” He heaved between breaths. “Go on, take it. I’ve got something even better!”

Shedletsky locked arms with yours, leading you to his garden. Withered buds swept the pathways. Your gaze wandered back to his content self, furrowing your brows.

You approach two doors twice your size. Growing closer, fog that blurred the horizon mysteriously cleared. Alive flowers that weren’t yours blossomed in your sight. They grew in bristly bushes, lined around massive walls. You tilted your head up. Vines overtook, corrupting every inch its roots could possibly reach. A giant void, ragged, same to familiar forest branches. Not even the brightest star could reflect off the palace.

He asked something. In the blink of an eye, you were inside a ballroom so overwhelming you imagined dancers. An orchestra haunted, its echo channeling within your core. Wherever you turned, it was empty. Nothing but glazed floor. The chandelier wasn’t lit either, reminiscent of Shedletsky’s manor.

Shedletsky had already let go. He then bowed, offering his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

How formal. Too formal.

He gestured you to come closer.

“It won’t hurt to give me a chance, y’know.”

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition! Part Two! ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Forced intimacy, slow-burn terror, 18+

Tags: Horrorcore tbh LMAO, but also kinda tender - only make it creepy as hell

Word Count: 2,477

Synopsis: You fed the stranger bleeding in your yard. He kissed you like a claim, then left like a dream. You think it’s over – until you wake up to a figure at the foot of your bed.

a/n: this is so dark – but i had to y’allll the first part didn’t really capture how FUCKED this man is.

read part one ❀ꗥ～Here!～ꗥ❀ you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

You freeze.

Not because it’s romantic—not because your heart’s fluttering.

But because something primal deep in your bones tells you: This man is not kissing you out of love.

His mouth is on yours like it’s a claim, not a question. Like he's sealing something. Ownership. Territory. Hunger, still—but darker now. More certain.

When he pulls back, your breath comes shallow—not from want, but from instinct.

You do not flinch.

You do not make a sound.

You just blink up at him, slow and measured, and give a little breathless laugh like you’re surprised, not alarmed.

“Well,” you say, steadying your voice like you’re smoothing wrinkles out of a tablecloth. “That was forward.”

He stares at you. Watching. Waiting. His eyes still lit up like coals. He doesn’t seem confused. He’s not embarrassed. He’s assessing.

You smile—small. Soft. The kind you might give a bear sniffin’ at your front porch, hoping it wanders off before you need to reach for the rifle.

“I, uh... I reckon city boys don’t believe much in personal space, huh?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move.

So you tilt your head, gentle-like. Lower your voice.

“But let me just say, sugar... when someone feeds you and lets you in their home, that don’t mean they’re offerin’ themselves, now. That just means they were raised right.”

He blinks once.

Still not moving.

You take a careful step sideways—not backward. Just enough to break the tension without lookin’ like you’re scared. Hands loose. Smile easy.

“Why don’t we take a breath, huh? It’s been a long night. You look like you’re still half in fight-or-flight mode.”

He watches your every move.

Your next breath is slow. Even.

“Now, I ain’t mad,” you say lightly. “But I do think maybe you’re a little off-kilter, what with the blood, the heat, and the fact that you ain’t slept proper in Lord knows how long.”

Finally, his expression shifts.

Just a twitch. A crack in that stone-set jaw.

“...You’re not scared of me,” he says, quiet. Confused.

You give a little shrug, even though your heart’s jackhammering in your chest.

“I got plenty of sense. Which is why I should be.” You hold his gaze. “But I also know better than to make sudden moves when a wild thing’s cornered.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

He steps back.

Just an inch. But it’s enough. The pressure in the room starts to ease, like the air’s stopped vibrating with something ready to snap.

You don’t sag with relief. You don’t run.

You just give him that same warm drawl you gave him at the grill, steady as sweet tea in July.

“Why don’t I fix you some cobbler to go?” you offer, already moving toward the counter. “You look like someone who might need a little somethin’ sweet to settle down.”

His gaze stays locked on you. But it softens—fractionally.

And you, darling southern soul that you are, keep your hands busy and your voice light.

You do not let him see how hard your hands are shaking.

The peach cobbler’s still warm from the oven as you cut a square and slide it into the container—hands steady, movements smooth, like you’re packing up a plate for a neighbor and not a walking apocalypse in a black-and-yellow suit.

Behind you, Mark hasn’t moved. You can feel him watching. Heat curling across your spine like a brand.

You hum—just a little tune you half-remember from childhood. Something calm. Domestic.

“Cobbler’s good for late nights,” you say gently, grabbing a spoon. “Sugar calms the nerves. Least, that’s what my gran used to say.”

When you finally turn, container in hand, he’s not there.

Just... gone.

No door creak. No gust of wind. No warning.

Just absence.

You stand there for a second, staring at the spot where he was. The house is too quiet. Your ears are ringing from how fast the silence hit.

Your knees buckle.

You catch the edge of the counter just in time to keep from hitting the floor. The container slips from your hand and clatters to the hardwood. The lid pops off, cobbler splattering across the floor.

You don’t care.

You press your back to the cabinet, sliding down until you’re seated, hand clutched to your chest, trying to breathe.

Holy hell.

That man had murder in his eyes and kissed you like he owned you—and then just vanished like the boogeyman out of a child’s nightmare.

You sit there a long time.

Eventually, your heartbeat settles. The cobbler stays where it is, forgotten and sticky.

You leave the kitchen light on when you go to bed.

Later that night…

You’re dreaming of hickory smoke and flickering porch lights. Of trees splitting open like paper and red eyes watching you through the dark.

Your sleep is light. Uneasy. Heat clinging to your skin like sweat.

You twitch awake, opening your eyes to the quiet.

The fan buzzes softly in the window, rattling every few seconds in its loose frame. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the haze of moonlight slipping in through the curtains, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls. For a few long moments, it feels like any other night in Georgia—hot, heavy, and still.

You shift beneath the sheets, trying to shake the lingering weight of the dream, the way it made your skin crawl even in sleep. Your hand moves to adjust the blanket, to tuck it under your chin—

And then you freeze.

There’s a shape in the room that wasn’t there before.

Not the armoire. Not the chair. Something taller. Broader.

Someone.

It takes a second too long for your brain to catch up. To understand.

A man is standing at the foot of your bed.

He’s not moving. Not breathing. Just there—watching.

You open your mouth, instinct flaring like a spark to dry kindling, but the scream barely begins before he’s already on you.

You don’t hear him move. There’s no sound—not even the creak of a floorboard. Just a rush of air and then his weight pins you down, hand clamped tight over your mouth.

The panic is instant and white-hot, a lightning strike behind your ribs. You stare up at him, wild-eyed.

Mark.

He looks different now. No more blood. No torn seams. His suit is intact, his skin clean, as if he bathed in a river and walked barefoot through hell to get back here. Moonlight cuts across his face, catching on the burn of his eyes—still that unnatural, glowing red that feels more furnace than human.

He’s not smiling.

He’s calm.

Like this is natural. Like breaking into your bedroom in the dead of night and holding you down is just another part of the ritual. Like you invited him in.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, low and close. His voice curls in your ear, thick and warm like molasses. “It’s just me.”

You try to speak—can’t. Your body is all panic.

“You were dreaming,” he adds, like that explains something. Like that’s why he’s here. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, gentle in a way that makes it worse.  

He shifts his weight slightly, still straddling your legs, still in complete control. His hands settle on either side of you, caging you in. He studies your face like he’s reading a map he plans to memorize.

“I told you I’d come back,” he finally says, voice just a rough murmur.

You summon every ounce of your composure, every trick you’ve ever learned from dealing with cornered animals and temperamental men.

“I remember,” you say softly. “But you didn’t have to... sneak in. I left the porch light on.”

He huffs a small breath through his nose, something that could be a laugh. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Your fingers curl into the bedsheet.

“Well,” you murmur, offering him the same soft lilt you gave him over ribs and sweet tea, “I reckon the horse is already out the barn on that one, sugar.”

Mark leans down slowly, not quite touching you, but close enough that the fan’s weak breeze can’t reach between your bodies. His eyes flicker across your face—your mouth, your throat, your eyes again.

“You were dreaming about me.”

You stiffen.

“I—I don’t know what I was dreaming about,” you say carefully, trying to sound calm, not accusing. “It’s all a blur.”

“No.” His voice is firmer now, almost possessive. “You were scared. I could feel it.”

You want to ask how. Want to ask what the hell he means. But you’re too afraid the answer will be something you won’t survive.

Instead, you nod—just once.

“Maybe I was,” you admit. “But it was just a dream. Nothin’ more.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you for a long, drawn-out moment that scrapes across your nerves like a dull blade. When he finally does move, it’s slow—deliberate.

He sits back, still on the bed, but no longer pinning you down. One of his hands trails along the edge of the blanket, straightening it. Tucking it around your leg. Like he’s tucking you in.

The gesture is too tender. Too quiet.

Your skin prickles.

“I like it here,” he murmurs. “It’s peaceful.”

You nod again, trying not to let your breathing betray you.

“Well... that’s Georgia for you.” There’s a pause, and you find yourself scrambling to fill the silence—to ease the tension. A pause. “…You hungry again, sugar?”

That smile widens. This time, it is a little cruel.

“No.” There’s another pause, then his hand reaches down, fingers brushing against your wrist. Barely a touch. “I didn’t come for food.”

You swallow hard.

You think you might still be dreaming. You hope you are.

But he’s real. And he’s watching you like you’re his now. Like you never had a say.       

He leans down again.

You don’t flinch. You don’t move at all.

His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of your cheek. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thinks you’re something sacred—but only because he already owns you. His lips find yours a moment later.

And the kiss is slow.

God, it’s slow.

Not desperate. Not wild like before. Just deliberate. Controlled. His mouth molds to yours with surprising softness, coaxing your lips to part, drawing out a breath you didn’t mean to give. His hand slides along your neck, thumb ghosting over your pulse, feeling every panicked thump beneath your skin.

Your body tenses—and then betrays you.

Your breath stutters. Your spine arches just slightly, instinctive. And when his tongue brushes the edge of your lower lip, you feel heat bloom low in your belly like it’s been waiting for an excuse. You don’t lean in—but you don’t pull back, either.

You can’t.

Because you’re not sure what he’ll do if you do.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only by an inch. His breath fans over your lips, warm and steady. You can still feel the shape of his mouth on yours.

“You taste like sleep,” he says quietly. “Like warmth and sugar and something I want to keep.”

You laugh—barely—a tiny, forced breath of sound that trembles at the edges.

“Guess you’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, then.”

His grin widens.

This time, it’s wicked. Possessive.

A little inhuman.

He leans in slow again, savoring it—like this moment, this closeness, is a treat he's earned. His lips brush yours again, not demanding but deliberate. Controlled. It’s a kiss designed to unravel you—not with heat, but with certainty. Like he’s making a point.

His hand slides lower.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Just certain.

Fingers tracing the line of your hip, slipping beneath the blanket, then the thin cotton of your sleep shorts. You go still—every nerve screaming silently—but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

He finds the spot easily.

He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t need to.

Just a single touch—slow, perfect pressure to the soft bud of nerves that makes your breath hitch and your back stiffen. The sound slips out before you can trap it—a quiet, involuntary moan, half-formed and helpless.

And he lives for it.

You feel the satisfaction ripple through him, a deep breath in, almost a sigh. Like that sound—that one tiny, traitorous reaction—was what he came for.

He withdraws his hand slowly, carefully, like he’s closing the lid on something fragile.

Mark watches you a moment longer, then sighs through his nose—content, almost. Like a man finally home after a long journey. He shifts slowly, sliding off your hips, his weight leaving your body with a strange reluctance.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead, he slips beneath the sheet like he belongs there.

Like this is his bed now, too.

His arm winds around your waist without ceremony, anchoring you against the solid heat of his chest. His other hand finds your hip, fingers splaying out possessively, thumb dragging lazy little arcs along the thin cotton of your nightshirt.

You’re frozen, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming. But he just hums low in his throat, like you’ve soothed something ancient and snarling inside him.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs against your ear. His breath is warm on your skin, lips brushing the fine hairs at your temple. “You need your rest.”

You swallow hard, still staring at the wall, unmoving. Your heart pounds so loud it’s a wonder he can’t hear it echoing off your bones.

His grip tightens slightly—not painful, just reminding. Like a leash being drawn snug.

“We’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he adds, soft as prayer. “Don’t want you too tired.”

You don’t ask what he means.

You don’t want to know.

Your eyes are wide open now, fixed on the moonlight shifting across the wall. You nod, just once—enough to make him loosen his hold by a fraction, enough to sell the lie.

“Alright,” you whisper.

His lips press to the back of your neck, slow and deliberate.

“Good girl,” he breathes.

Then stillness.

Not silence—because you can hear everything. The steady thrum of the fan. The cicadas buzzing outside. The distant bark of a dog.

And his breathing. Slow. Calm. Measured. He’s at peace now, wrapped around you like a shroud.

You stay exactly where you are. You don’t blink. You don’t breathe too deep.

Because you can feel the truth of it in your bones—if he even senses you’re pretending, you won’t survive the night.

So you lie there. Perfect. Still.

Awake until the light comes.

And all the while, his breath stirs the hair at the nape of your neck, warm and steady, like a man sleeping beside the love of his life.

Like you aren’t a cage he’s decided to live inside.