#i will eat the shadow content with a spoon

[mia-martian]

Year of Shadow has singlehandedly made me fall in love with that mf. I didn't give a single shit about the Sonic franchise until i saw Snapcube's playthrough of TMOSTH and thought "wow these guys are neat"- and then i fell down a rabbit hole as more Shadow content was made by fans and SEGA alike for Sonic x Shadow Generations- i never fell so hard so quick- that MCR mascot lookin motherfucker gives me cute aggression something fierce and i need one of those cheap floppy plushies of him with the big ass hands and sneakers and skinny ass noodle arms to abuse and vent these emotions onto. I need to put him in a blender. I need to throw him against the wall like im playing darts with tennis balls. Seeing him with a gun and a motorcycle just feels like they put a black cat .png next to stock photos of military grade equipment. Like when artists draw a pokemon smoking a blunt. Like those t-shirts of spongebob with gold chains around his neck. Except Shadow can make it all look aesthetically appealing somehow !! How have you made a design that looks SO COOL and yet SO RIDICULOUS at the SAME TIME??? HOW???

[thef1diary]

hi!! first of all wanted to say that i LOVE your work! I'd like to request a smut <3

so i was thinking about carlos w a somno kink, praise kink and some dacryphilia. i'd also like an innocence kink so maybe like inexperienced!reader. oh, and aftercare too! thanks ^_^

Deep Dark Desire | C. Sainz

warnings: 18+ content, dark!carlos, non-con, possessive!carlos, hint of stalker behaviour, manipulation, carlos sneaking sleeping pills in food, somnophilia, oral, fingering, innocent!virgin!reader, praise kink, unprotected sex, dacryphilia, mentions of pregnancy, aftercare.

wc: 6.5k

— this is a dark fic! please read the warnings and do not read this fic if any of the topics make you uncomfortable. Don’t like, don’t read!

The aroma of something sweet and savoury greeted you the moment you stepped through the door. You let the weight of the day melt off your shoulders as you kicked off your shoes, too tired to process anything beyond the simple comfort of being home. Carlos was already in the kitchen, his dark hair slightly tousled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows as he stirred a pot on the stove.

He turned at the sound of your soft footsteps, his face lighting up with a smile that was all warmth and devotion. “There you are, princesa,” he said, setting the spoon down to cross the room to stand in front of you. His hands found your shoulders immediately, his thumbs pressing gently into the tense muscles there. “Long day?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch with a sigh. Carlos had a way of making you feel cared for in ways you hadn’t known you needed. He always seemed to know what you wanted before you did—what to say, how to look at you, how to touch you just enough to make your heart flutter but not so much that you’d question the boundaries of your relationship.

“I made dinner,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he guided you to the kitchen table. “Sit. Eat. Let me take care of you.”

You sank into the chair, too weary to protest. Carlos placed a steaming plate in front of you, the dish carefully prepared, every detail perfect. You couldn’t help but smile at the effort he’d gone to, even after such a long day himself.

“You’re too good to me,” you said softly, meeting his eyes.

His smile deepened, but there was something in his gaze—something you couldn’t quite name. It was too intense, too knowing, as though he were looking at more than just your face. It made your stomach twist, though you quickly dismissed it as exhaustion.

Carlos sat across from you, his elbows resting on the table as he watched you eat. His presence was comforting, grounding. And yet, there was an edge to his attention that you never noticed, a shadow lurking beneath the surface of his affection.

Because while you saw only his patience—his endless sweetness, his gentle guidance—there was so much more to Carlos that you didn’t see. That he didn’t let you see…yet.

You didn’t see the way his hands tightened into fists every time someone else’s name—especially a man’s name—slipped into your stories from work. You didn’t hear the quiet, possessive promises whispered into the stillness of the apartment when you were sound asleep. You didn’t know how carefully he kept track of your every habit, your every move, until he knew you better than you knew yourself. It was how he managed to charm you into a relationship with him in the first place. 

From the moment he saw you, he was smitten. Carlos loved you. But as time went on, the more he found the extent of your innocence—the very one that made you pliable and trusting. He loved that you let him lead in all aspects, oblivious to the dark currents beneath his tenderness. It was those very thoughts about you he held close that turned his love for you into a crazed obsession.

You had no idea that the man who seemed so devoted, so perfect, would do anything to keep you his—even if it meant crossing lines you didn’t yet know existed.

“Eat, nena,” he said softly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. His fingers brushed your wrist, lingering just a moment too long. “You need to keep your strength up.”

And as you took another bite, smiling faintly at his concern, you missed the way his gaze darkened, the way his lips curved into a smile that wasn’t sweet at all.

Carlos rested his chin on his hand, his dark eyes fixed on you as you took careful bites of the meal he had prepared. Your free hand held his other hand, his thumb tracing slow, soothing patterns. Every so often, you’d glance up at him, smiling softly, touched by the care he had put into it. The flavours were rich and comforting, the kind of food that made you feel safe. You wondered, briefly, how you’d gotten so lucky to have someone like him in your life.

But as you ate, a question tugged at the back of your mind. You set your fork down gently and tilted your head. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Carlos’ lips twitched into a faint smile, and he shook his head. “Not yet. This one’s special. Just for you.”

There was a sincerity in his voice that made your cheeks flush slightly. You didn’t even consider questioning him further. Of course, he would do something like this—go out of his way to make you feel cared for without expecting anything in return. That’s just how Carlos is.

Still, there was something about the way he said ‘special’ that lingered in your mind, a weight to the word you couldn’t quite place. But the thought slipped away as a wave of exhaustion rolled over you, your body suddenly heavy and your eyelids drooping.

You blinked rapidly, shaking your head as if to clear it. “I don’t know why I’m so tired,” you murmured, dropping his hand and rubbing at your temple. “I wasn’t this bad earlier.”

Carlos’ expression shifted instantly, his brows furrowing with concern as he leaned closer to you. His hand found yours again—not able to handle the sudden loss of warmth—his thumb brushing soothing circles over your skin.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked, his voice low and gentle. His other hand reached out, fingertips brushing your forehead as if to check for a fever. “You’ve had a long day, mi vida. You need to rest.”

You wanted to smile at his worry, to reassure him that it was nothing serious. But your head felt so heavy, the corners of your vision blurring as your body sagged further into the chair. You fought against the haze, focusing on the soft lines of Carlos’ face, his worried eyes, the way his lips pressed together in a tight line.

If only you’d known the truth behind that worry. If only you’d seen the darkness that twisted through the depths of his concern.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching for the glass of water on the table. He pressed it into your hand, guiding it to your lips. “Drink this, cariño. And then go lie down. I’ll clean up.”

You shook your head weakly, your grip on the glass faltering as you set it down. “No, I’ll finish my food first. You put so much effort into this for me…”

Carlos’ hand hovered near yours, as though ready to steady you if you faltered again. His smile was small, patient, but there was a flicker of something sharper in his gaze—something you didn’t notice in your foggy state.

“You’re too kind,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Always thinking of others. But I just want you to rest.”

You managed a faint smile, brushing off his suggestion as you picked up your fork again. “Just a little more,” you mumbled.

Carlos didn’t protest, leaning back in his chair as he watched you with an intensity that should have made you shiver. But you were too distracted by the growing weight in your limbs, the way your head felt as if it were floating. Bite by bite, your exhaustion deepened, and you didn’t realize that the cause wasn’t your long day at all—it was the food, his careful planning, and his quiet, calculated patience.

He rested his chin on his palm once more, his smile widening ever so slightly as you struggled to keep your eyes open. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured, his voice almost tender. “You’re doing so well.”

And you, sweet and trusting as always, didn’t think to question the strange satisfaction in his voice.

The room seemed to spin slightly as you set your fork down, the last few bites of your meal left untouched. You blinked, trying to focus on Carlos’ face, but even that felt like too much effort. Your head lolled to the side as a sleepy giggle escaped your lips, the kind of unguarded sound that came when exhaustion stripped you of your usual composure.

“Carlos, baby, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you murmured, your words slurring slightly. “I’m so… tired.”

He was already by your side, his hands steady as they slipped beneath your arms to lift you from the chair. “Shh, nena,” he cooed, his voice soft and soothing. “Let me take care of you. You’ve done enough today.”

Before you could protest, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as though you weighed nothing. Your arms looped lazily around his neck, and you let out another sleepy giggle, your breath warm against his skin.

“I can walk, you know,” you mumbled, though the comfort of his hold was undeniable.

Carlos chuckled, the sound deep and warm, “you’re barely awake, mi vida. Let me spoil you a little.”

He carried you to the bedroom, his movements careful and deliberate as though he were handling something fragile. The dim light of the room seemed to blur at the edges as he set you down on the bed, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment too long.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He helped you out of your clothes, his fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that made your heart flutter even in your haze. You didn’t question it, didn’t register the way his touch lingered, how his gaze darkened as you were left in nothing but your undergarments and put into one of his long shirts.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It felt like a dream, the world around you fading as you slipped deeper into the heavy pull of sleep.

“Goodnight, princesa,” he whispered against your lips, his voice velvet-soft.

But as your eyes fluttered closed and your breathing evened out, Carlos lingered. He didn’t even manage to pull the blanket over you before he noticed how still you’d become, how utterly weightless you were in the depths of sleep. He called your name softly at first, his hand brushing your cheek, but there was no response.

His lips curved into a slow, dark smile, the shadows in his expression deepening as he realized you were completely at his mercy.

“So perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. He traced a finger along your jawline, down the slope of your neck. “You don’t even know, do you? How much I crave you.” 

His hand paused, hovering over your collarbone as his breath hitched slightly. “So innocent,” he whispered, his tone laced with something heavier, something darker. “And mine.”

Carlos let the words hang in the air, savouring the weight of them as he gazed down at you—his perfect little captive in a dark world you’d never even imagined existed.

There was a fragile innocence to the way you looked now, the soft lines of your face unburdened by the day’s worries, the slight parting of your lips as you breathed peacefully. He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek, his touch featherlight as if you might shatter beneath anything stronger.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are, mi vida,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “How much I—” his words faltered, caught between his throat and his heart. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to exhale slowly. “How much I adore you.”

His fingers traced a path down your arm, stopping just above your wrist, where he lingered. You were so trusting, so unguarded with him. It filled him with an overwhelming ache, a desire to protect you, to shield you from the world. Yet that same trust was a double-edged sword, cutting deep into the darker corners of his mind where thoughts twisted into obsessions he could never confess.

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger there. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “Too kind. Too pure.” Each word carried the weight of unspoken truths, emotions he’d buried due to fear of frightening you. You deserved someone gentler, someone who wouldn’t feel this burning need to keep you so close, to ensure you never left his side.

But you were his. You just didn’t know how much just yet. 

A pang of need coursed through him—deep, consuming, and utterly unrelenting. A lazy smirk graced his lips, his hands wandering over your body more than he’s ever done before. He didn’t stop, after all this was all part of his plan—his carefully crafted plan that would allow him to do whatever he pleased with you.

“You have no idea how much I want you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, almost as if confessing to himself. His hand moved instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch so tender it could’ve been mistaken for reverence. “How much I need you, completely.” 

His mind wandered to your words from a few months ago, when you first began dating. You had sweetly confessed in a meek tone that you wanted to wait until marriage for any intimacy. At the time, he had nodded, reassured you that he understood and respected your decision. And he had, for a while. But with each passing day, every innocent touch from you, every fleeting moment of closeness, the restraint he prided himself on was unraveling. 

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, the words heavier this time, steeped in a quiet obsession. “You’ll always be mine.”

Carlos leaned down, his lips hovering just above your temple. He kissed you there softly, lingering as he inhaled the faint scent of your skin. The thought of you saving yourself for some abstract moment in the future felt intolerable now. A ring? A ceremony? Those things were meaningless to him. You were already his in every way that mattered. Every way but one, which he had planned on changing tonight. 

“It doesn’t matter, right princesa?” he whispered as if conversing with your unconscious body. “A piece of paper won’t change what we are. What we’ll always be.” 

You were an angel in his eyes—pure, untouchable—and yet he couldn’t stop acting on the darker thoughts that had crept in his mind. “You’ll let me take you now, right?” he asked, a wicked smile tugging at his lips when you didn’t respond. 

“You’ll understand one day. You’d forgive me because you love me,” he spoke, relieved, finding a justification for what he was about to do. Love. 

His fingers trailed down your body, finding the hem of your shirt. He inhaled deeply before pulling it up, revealing your bare skin underneath. The glow of the moonlight streaming through the curtains bathed you in a silver hue, making you seem almost otherworldly in his eyes.

He leaned forward, his knees sinking into the mattress as he settled between your legs, his body close but not touching yours just yet. Carlos lowered his head, his lips brushing against the curve of your stomach in the gentlest kiss. The warmth of your skin beneath his mouth sent a shiver coursing through him, and he allowed himself a quiet sigh, his breath fanning over you.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, his voice filled with reverence and something deeper, darker. His hand rested lightly on your hip, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin. The rise and fall of your breathing was steady, unbroken, and he couldn’t help but marvel at how serene you looked, so trusting, so utterly unaware of the storm of emotions raging within him.

Carlos trailed another kiss just above your navel, the soft press of his lips lingering as though he could imprint the moment into his memory. His free hand slid up along your side, fingertips tracing the delicate lines of your ribs as he murmured softly, “I’ll make you feel so good.” 

Carlos continued his trail of kisses, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach before stopping just above the edge of your panties. He nearly hesitated, letting the intimacy of the moment build, before pressing his lips firmly against the soft cotton. The barrier of fabric only spurred his imagination further, and he closed his eyes as if savouring the moment.

His teeth grazed the edge of the fabric, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Carefully, he bit down, trapping the waistband between his teeth. He tilted his head, pulling the material taut as it lifted slightly away from your skin. 

Carlos released the fabric, letting it snap back against your skin with a quick sound that sent a shiver of satisfaction through him. His hand, which had been resting on your side, slid down to your hip, his grip firm but not overbearing.

“You don’t even know how perfect you are,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. His lips hovered just above your skin as he let out a soft exhale, his breath warm against your bare stomach. “Every inch of you, so soft, so untouched. You drive me insane, mi vida.”

His fingers ghosted along the inside of your leg, his touch featherlight yet deliberate, igniting a trail of warmth beneath his fingertips. He traced the edge of your panties, his thumb brushing over the thin fabric that covered the most intimate part of you. The part he was never allowed to touch. 

The heat radiating from your body made his breath catch in his throat. His hand dipped lower, his fingers pressing lightly against your cunt, feeling the warmth and softness beneath the barrier of fabric. A low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he pressed a single finger against your covered clit, moving in slow, deliberate circles.

Carlos lowered his head, his lips so close now that his breath fanned over you, hot and unsteady. He paused, savouring the moment, before pressing a kiss right where his fingers had been, the contact soft yet deliberate. The fabric between you only added to his desire, a fleeting barrier that made the moment feel even more tantalizing.

Filled with dark intent, he glanced at you, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest to confirm you were still asleep. His hands moved with purpose now, his fingers hooking onto your panties. Carefully, he pulled the fabric to the side, his movements unhurried as if he had all the time in the world with your pliant body. His eyes darkened, breath hitching as he finally saw you all in your glory. He dragged his fingers over your now bare pussy, teasing the slit, separating your delicate folds. 

The sight of your glistening pussy was too tempting to resist. He swiped his tongue across his lips, aching to taste your sweet cunt. “See, I knew you’d like this,” he whispered, watching your wetness grow with each slide of his fingers, coating them completely. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you just let me have you, nena.” 

He collected your slickness on his fingers before bringing them up to his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut as he slipped them between his lips, his tongue swirling around them greedily. The taste of you consumed him, rich and intoxicating, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the quiet room. 

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured against his fingers, as though tasting you had confirmed something he’d always known. His gaze flickered back to you, his expression filled with a mix of awe and hunger. 

His hand returned to your thighs, holding you gently yet firmly in place as though you might stir and pull away. But you didn’t move, your body relaxed and unaware under his touch. He let his lips press against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving a trail of slow, deliberate kisses as his other hand returned to your pussy. His fingers traced over you again, teasingly light, as though memorizing every moment. 

“Dios mío,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe. “You’re even more perfect than I imagined.”

Finally, he pressed a lingering kiss to your bare pussy, his lips soft and warm against your folds. He started slowly, careful not to jolt you awake, his tongue tracing a gentle path along your slit. A low groan escaped him, the sound vibrating against you as he savoured every second. 

“You’re so sweet,” he murmured against you, his voice muffled by his proximity. His tongue flicked over your clit with teasing precision before returning to lap at you more fully, his movements unhurried and methodical. Each stroke of his tongue was a worshipful caress, his hands holding your thighs steady as he worked. 

Carlos alternated between firm, deliberate licks and soft, teasing circles over your clit, his mouth devouring you with a hunger he could no longer restrain. His fingers dug into your thighs, hard enough to leave bruises behind. 

“Absolutely perfect,’ he said between kisses, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. He tilted his head slightly, his tongue delving deeper as his lips sealed over you, sucking gently before pulling away with a soft, wet sound. 

A low groan bubbled from your throat, making him pause. He glanced up at you from between your legs but you were still sucked into the depths of sleep. He chuckled, almost in awe at your subconscious reaction. “Mm, there we go, I know you like this.”

While he continued flicking his tongue over your clit mercilessly, his fingers teased your hole. He couldn’t believe it’s been untouched all your life—even you hadn’t dared to learn how to please yourself, leaving it up to your future husband. He found it rather cute, so innocent. He wished you allowed him to fuck you while you were conscious just so he could see your eyes rolling back, your lips parting as a soft sweet moan would’ve escaped when he slid his finger inside. 

Instead, he had to settle for a groan that came from him when you shifted just an inch. Your pussy swallowed his finger greedily, clenching around him as it struggled to decide if it was a welcomed intrusion or not.  

Carlos retreated his finger, briefly glancing at the wetness that coated it before pushing back in. He set a steady pace, allowing your body to become accustomed to the unusual intrusion before adding another finger. He curled them inside, and if you were conscious, perhaps you would arch your back as pleas left your lips. 

His hardened cock ached to be released from the confines of his boxers, precum staining them yet he focused on your pleasure first. He might’ve chosen to take you in a vulnerable moment, one in which you had no say, but he wasn’t cruel. He settled on moving his hips against the mattress, allowing temporary relief while he prepped you to take him. 

He was now three fingers deep in your cunt, scissoring and curling them inside to prepare you for the inevitable stretch his cock will provide. Leaning closer, he wrapped his lips around your clit again, sucking sharply in time with his quickening thrusts. Wetness gushed around him, coating his lips and fingers, even dripping down to stain the sheets beneath you. Pressing one last kiss to your cunt, he retreated his fingers completely, watching your pussy gape before clenching around air, searching for the lost pleasure. 

“Patience, nena, I know what your pretty little pussy needs,” he murmured breathlessly. 

He leaned back, kneeling on the bed as he hooked his fingers in his sweatpants and boxers in one go before sliding them down together and tossing the clothes aside. His hard, leaking cock ached to be inside you, enveloped by the warmth that only your virgin pussy would provide. His fingers dipped inside your cunt, collecting your wetness before wrapping his hand around himself. He smeared your slickness all over his cock, mixing with his precum that dripped from the tip. 

Carlos dropped his head back, moaning shamelessly as he worked his hand over himself. Whispered curses left his lips mixed with murmurs of your name as he neared the edge rather too quickly. He shut his eyes tightly when he forced himself to slow down his pace, not wanting his fantasy to be over before it even properly started. 

When he opened his eyes, he looked at you—still unaware, softly snoring away. He smiled as he trailed his gaze over your body, but when he reached the beautiful sight between your legs, he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, preventing another moan from being unleashed. 

He couldn’t wait any longer, almost overcome with another wave of dark intent swirling in his mind. Holding his cock in one hand, he lowered his body, settling between your thighs again. The first swipe of his tip along your cunt had him shuddering with pleasure. 

Separating your delicate folds with his cock, he nudged your clit a few times. Your pussy twitched around him, and feeling that sensation through his cock only reaffirmed his reasons as to why he chose to do this. He was already obsessed, but that one taste of your cunt turned him feral, unable to restrain himself any further. He was too far gone, and he wouldn’t stop until he was buried deep inside you. 

He slid his cock lower, guiding it towards your hole. Inch by inch, he pressed inside. Your tight cunt almost naturally pushed him out, your sleeping state squirming at the thick intrusion. He didn’t relent, he was going to have you one way or another. Bringing his free hand closer, his fingers circled your clit slowly, allowing you to open up to him. 

“C’mon, princesa, I know you can take all of me,” he gritted through his teeth, your tightness almost overwhelming for him. 

He pulled out until only his tip remained inside before pushing back in, forcing you to take him an inch deeper this time. His pace on your clit remained merciless and as he repeated his movements a few times, he was soon completely buried inside your pussy. 

A low exhale left his lips as he savoured the tight walls of your cunt holding him inside, the heat welcoming him graciously. He held himself above you by his hands on each side of your head, his face hovering close to yours. “Thank you, mi vida, I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he whispered almost reverently to your sleeping state. 

Inhaling deeply, he began moving slowly, barely pulling out before burying himself to the hilt again. Burrowing his face into the crook of your neck, he set a steady pace of his hips moving back and forth. He placed lingering kisses below your ear, murmuring low praises in between his moans. 

Your pussy greedily sucked him back in every time, earning a dark chuckle from him. “Oh, my sweet girl, if only you hadn’t made me wait so long.” 

He slammed his hips into yours sharply, angling deep inside you to earn a twitch of your body. “I tried, you know, I really did,” he confessed, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear. “But every time you wore those—mierda—skimpy clothes around me,” he panted softly, “it was too hard.”

He continued whispering all his deepest, darkest confessions in your ear, knowing you weren’t awake to listen. “Had to jerk off so many times in the shower, thinkin’ ‘bout your sweet voice, to the way you say my name.” 

As his words turned filthier, mingling with scattered praises, he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming borderline brutal. Your body squirmed beneath him, jolting with the movements of the mattress shaking due to his weight. The headboard slammed against the wall with each thrust, but he was lost in the pleasure of your tight cunt to notice. 

“I love you so much, mi princesa, and I promise I’ll give you a ring,” he reasoned, his thoughts melting into one jumbled mess. “Jus’ couldn’t wait.” 

Suddenly, a loud broken cry left your lips as your body jolted beneath him. His movements faltered, watching you with wide eyes as you forced yourself to wake. When your gaze met his, a shroud of horror overtook your emotions. “Carlos—” you gasped, your mouth dropping open as you slowly realized the vulnerable position you were in. 

He should’ve stopped, should’ve slipped out of your cunt the moment he realized you were awake—too early, he noted—but he didn’t. Sliding out almost completely, he slammed his hips into yours, his cock forcing itself into your cunt. 

You screamed, horrified, yet it was tinged with a hint of pleasure—the only reaction he focused on. “Mi vida,” he tried, only to be met with a sudden force of your arms trying to push him away. 

He merely chuckled, watching as you grew impatient with each shove yet you were still too weak, slowly coming to from the effects of the sleeping pill he had slipped into your meal. Tears filled your eyes when you realized he wasn’t relenting, your lip wobbling as fear filled your body. 

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, bringing his fingers to your face, lightly brushing your cheek. “No, don’t cry, nena, I only want you to feel good,” he cooed.

His words clashed with his actions, his voice still dripping with sweetness but his cock continued to bully to your pussy. “Why?” you croaked, eyes nearly rolling back as an unwanted wave of pleasure coursed through you. 

“Because I love you,” he simply replied, but it wasn’t the words you were hoping to hear. How could he love you and still force his way into your cunt, without your permission? 

This wasn’t the Carlos you fell in love with, no, he was kind and caring. But now, trapped beneath him, you only saw desire in his eyes, those very eyes that once looked at you fondly were now replaced with the reflection of every dark thought that lodged its way into his mind. 

His fingers returned to your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, earning a broken moan from you. A wicked smile graced his lips as he finally heard the sweet sound of your pleasure. “You like this,” he said calmly but you didn’t agree. 

You began shaking your head violently, trying to contain the moans leaving your lips but it was too hard. This was the first time you were bestowed with such pleasure, enveloping you completely. You never expected it to happen this way, your virginity taken not by your husband on your wedding night but stolen from your boyfriend with cruel intentions. 

“No, no, no, please stop,” you pleaded, but your actions weren’t cooperating with your words. Your legs tightened around his waist as you inched closer to the edge of your very first orgasm.

“Make up your mind, nena, you say you don’t want me, and yet…” he trailed off, angling his hips differently to thrust deeper inside, earning another moan you couldn’t contain. “...you’re clinging to me so desperately.”

“Please,” you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks. 

“Please what? Let me make you feel good, like you deserve,” he punctuated his words with deliberate thrusts. Pleasure coursed through your veins like a spark, clouding your better judgement as you fell closer and closer to giving in. 

When you didn’t respond, he doubled down, slipping his cock out of you for a brief moment, earning a cry of loss from your lips. He grinned, knowing he nearly had you exactly where he wanted you—begging, pleading to let you cum. “You’re mine, we both know that, why wait?” 

He didn’t give you time to process his words, his strength overpowering yours as he flipped you over effortlessly, pressing you face down into the mattress. His hands gripped your shoulders with firm control, guiding you back onto his cock with a deliberate and unyielding force that left you breathless. 

Each thrust of his hips drew muffled moans from your lips, the sounds swallowed by the soft embrace of the bedding as you buried your face to stifle your cries. Any semblance of dignity you had clung to slipped away completely, shattered the moment his hands claimed you with ill intentions—so dominating, so consuming that resistance felt futile. 

His chest pressed flush against your back, the heat of his skin searing into yours as he slowed his pace, trading relentless urgency for deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust felt more intense, his cock filling you completely, dragging out every sensation as he ground himself deeper with agonizing precision. 

A shiver ran down your spine as his lips brushed against the back of your neck, soft and teasing as first, until he began trailing kisses lower. His lips moved with purpose, leaving a blazing path over the curve of your shoulder blades, before his teeth grazed your skin. 

You gasped in surprise when he sucked harder, his mouth marking you with a bruise that promised to linger long after this moment. The sharp sting melded with the overwhelming pleasure, leaving you caught in a haze of sensation you couldn’t escape—ones he wouldn’t let you escape. 

Each kiss, each bite, each slow, grinding thrust made it harder to think, harder to hold on to anything but the raw desire pooling in your core. 

Your body trembled beneath him, every thrust breaking down the last of your defences, leaving you raw and exposed. The slow grind of his hips was torture, pushing you to the brink only to pull back, keeping you on the edge until the need became unbearable. You clawed at the sheets, your whimpers turning into desperate pleas as the fire in your core burned hotter, threatening to consume you. 

“Please,” you gasped, your voice muffled against the mattress. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. Just—just take me. I’ll do anything.”

Carlos chuckled darkly, his lips grazing the back of your neck as he drove into you harder, his pace quickening, his control slipping. “Anything, huh?” his voice was rough, dripping with amusement and something darker, something that made your entire body shiver. “You’re finally giving in, princesa? Finally ready to stop pretending you don’t want this?” 

“Yes,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you surrendered completely. “I’m yours. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t stop, please don’t stop.” 

“Good girl,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening as he thrust harder, deeper, making you cry out. “That’s what I wanted to hear. You, begging for me. Pleading for me to fuck you.” 

Your pussy clenched around him, the coil of pleasure winding impossibly tight as his words sent sparks of heat racing through you. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus on anything but him—his touch, his voice, the way he owned you completely. 

“Gonna fill you with my cum, nena,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust. “Gonna get you pregnant with my babies before I even put a ring on your finger. How’s that for waiting ‘til marriage?”

The filthy promise made your head spin, the image too vivid, too overwhelming. The heat in your core shattered, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm washed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping beneath him. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, his pace growing erratic as your cunt milked him, dragging him to the edge. “You’re so perfect—so fucking perfect.” 

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his release spilling into you in hot pulsing waves. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged as he let out a low, guttural groan. 

“You feel that?” he murmured against your ear, his voice still rough, still full of that possessive edge that made you weak. “That’s me, claiming you. Making you mine.” 

You couldn’t utter a word, your thoughts racing through your mind before you could comprehend them. Your body was still trembling as he stayed there, buried deep inside you, his hands never letting go. Finally, he eased out, earning a low, almost silent whimper from you. He carefully turned you around, able to see your tinged cheeks stained with tears. 

He gripped your chin tightly, forcing you to meet his gaze. His cock twitched at the sight of your teary eyes, and the dark intensity in his gaze made your heart race, even as a sly, satisfied smirk spread across his lips. 

“See, I know exactly what you want, what you need,” he said, his tone teasing but firm. “Don’t ever try to deny me again, nena, because this? This is just the beginning.”

His grip loosened, fingers brushing over your jaw as his smirk softened into something almost tender. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and all-consuming, his tongue coaxing yours into submission. It wasn’t rough like before—it was possessive in a different way, claiming you in the quiet aftermath of his dominance. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as the intensity in his gaze began to soften.

“You took me so well,” he murmured, his voice low and warm now, threading a hand through your hair. “Better than I could’ve imagined. You’re perfect, nena, just like this.”

He eased you back against the mattress, his body still covering yours but lighter now, more protective than overwhelming. His thumb stroked over your cheek, wiping away a stray tear as his lips brushed against your temple. 

He cupped your face, tilting it up toward him again, his expression softer, though the possessiveness still lingered in his eyes. “Stay here,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your lips before slipping away.

You heard the sound of water running, the rustle of fabric as he moved around, and when he returned, he had a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He settled beside you, his touch impossibly gentle as he cleaned you up, murmuring soothing words each time you winced from the sensitivity.

“You did so good for me, princesa,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your hip as he worked. “Took everything I gave you like you were made for it.”

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in his warmth. His chest was solid against your cheek, his heartbeat steady and grounding as he stroked your back in slow, comforting circles.

“Gotta make sure my girl’s okay,” he said softly, the edge of dominance in his voice replaced with something deeper, almost protective. “You’re mine, nena. Mine to protect, mine to love, mine to ruin in all the ways you crave. And I’ll never let anything or anyone take you away from me.”

[theosbaby]

I need a Fifty Shades reference smut of Draco.. maybe when they were eating ice cream or whatever because HSJAIDJKANDDK 😏😏 anyways, love you

is it weird that i'm going feral over something i wrote? 'cause right now i am... i had fun writing this, thank you for your request @drcelly ! ♡

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ casually thinking about...

licking ice cream out of bf!draco

NSFW content ahead, +18

vanilla ice cream has never tasted fucking better than it tastes when you lick it out of your boyfriend's chest, slowly sucking your way down his hard abs as you kneel in front of his naked form, doe eyes looking up at him the whole time. and he's looking right back down at you with a heated gaze, pearly white teeth sinking into his pink lower lip to try and hold back every soft gasp that threatens to escape.

he's sprawled on his bed, in his prefect dorm, the moonlight coming in through the window casting shadows in his ripped body. he just looks so good your mouth's watering.

you see him shiver as you pour more ice cream on him, the cold spoon tracing his hot flesh ever so slightly. your free hand is sliding up his pale thigh, soft finger pads tracing patterns on his milky skin as they get closer and closer to his hard cock. and so does your mouth. you lick all the way down his happy trail, the sweet flavour of the ice cream flooding your taste buds as you finally reach his pubic bone.

he's already a whimpering mess as you suck a mark on his flesh, so close to his dick, his hand reaching out to grab a fistful of your soft hair. he tugs at your hair strands impatiently, guiding your face to his cock to encourage you to take it in your mouth.

you obey his command avidly, plump lips parting and tongue sticking out to lick at his fat, sensitive tip. the action would draw such a pretty moan out of him, making your pussy throb in response.

having you suck him off just gets him so fucking weak.

of course, you'd tease the shit outta him —licking, kissing, maybe sucking on his reddened cockhead, but not putting it in yet. you take your time, indulging in the soft noises he makes and the way he squirms beneath you. but at some point, he gets fed up of your teasing, and then he's just shoving his dick forcefully down your little throat, making you take it all.

he's too long to fit comfortably in your mouth, so you're gagging around his dick as he thrusts in and out, spit drooling down your chin and eyes swelling up with tears. the sight of you so prettily messed up makes him more turned on if possible.

"so beautiful with your mouth stuffed full of my dick, princess," he praises you. he loves praising you. his precious girl, always so good for him.

you'd hollow your cheeks around his shaft, sucking on it eagerly. you're so turned on too, hips desperately bucking to rub your soaked pussy against the hard floor like a dirty little slut. but that's what you are, draco's dirty little whore. a feral grin spreads across his face as soon as he notices what you're doing to get off.

"such a fucking needy girl, huh?" he grunts, pulling at your hair to force you away from his dick, a string of your saliva dripping down his length. then, his free hand would slap your cheek —not too rough but enough to sting a little. honestly, you can't help but moan in response. "can't wait to have my dick inside that greedy pussy?"

"please," you whimper, batting your long eyelashes as you look up at him with teary eyes and swollen, wet lips.

and he can't say no to his favourite girl.

"don't worry, princess, gonna give you exactly what you want."

after that, he's forcing you up onto your feet and bending you over the bed to fuck you silly, face buried in the sheets and plush ass up in the air.

more.

[whatudowhennooneseesyou]

...Well I for one like the Seonghwa mommy agenda

𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙩𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧 2024: 𝙉𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚

Pairing: Dom!Seonghwa x sub!fem reader

Content Includes: Mommy!hwa (it's been so long right?), comfort sex, food play, oral (fem receiving), sex on a table, slight mention of eating issues, 18+, kissing, possessiveness, protected sex (trying to make condom use sound appealing), clit play, aftercare

Word Count: 2.7K

You've been burnt out and struggling to eat the food Seonghwa has been making you lately and Seonghwa can't have that, he has to get creative.

'You eat your meal and Mommy will eat mine'

The soft glow of the evening filled the room, shadows dancing on the walls as you sat beside the bowl of soup Seonghwa had prepared. His long, dark hair fell softly over his forehead, framing his face as he flashed you a warm smile that made your heart flutter. The smell of the meal filled the air, and you could feel his energy wrapping around you—gentle yet firm, just like him.

He noticed the hesitation in your eyes, the way you glanced at the food, uncertainty flickering in your expression. Seonghwa carefully pulled the chair away so he could kneel in front of you, passing you the bowl of soup with a reassuring glint in his eye 'It’s okay, my precious, little star,' he whispered, kneeling closer, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. 'You can do this, and I’m right here with you.'

This happened a lot when you were exhausted from life, your appetite would wane and food became a struggle for you- to the point where everything would taste like cardboard or your joyful nature towards food evaporated completely.

It had been weeks since you and Seonghwa had made love as well, from you being too tired and Seonghwa feeling too guilty to express his need for you. His repressed desires edging to the surface as he saw you lick the spoon with your tongue, his cock already hardening and twitching in his pants.

He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to your mouth, his breath warm against your lips. 'How about we make this a little easier?' His voice took on a playful edge, but his eyes were full of sincerity. He reached for the spoon, gently guiding a small bite towards your lips. 'For each bite, I’ll make sure you feel good, too. It’s just you and me, okay?'

You nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude for how understanding he was. He always seemed to know what you needed, even when you didn’t have the words to express it. You took the second bite, and as soon as you did, Seonghwa’s hand slipped down to caress your thigh, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns. He leaned down, lightly pushing your oversized t-shirt up and around your hips, placing a gentle kiss against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making your breath catch.

'Good girl,' he murmured, the pride in his voice making you blush. 'You eat all your meal' He spoke as he dragged your hips to the end of the chair, gently but a little impatiently spreading your thighs open so your panties and heat were exposed to him.

'And Mommy will eat mine'

The bowl was small, only about the size of your palm but your motivation to eat the entire thing now had blossomed times infinity, your body was overly sensitive and touch-deprived from the lack of contact and with Seonghwa calling himself 'Mommy', you could feel yourself becoming more wet and aroused from the anticipation of what Seonghwa had planned for you.

As you took another spoonful, Seonghwa’s kisses moved further up your thigh, closer to where you craved his touch the most. His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His fingers hastily removed your panties and you felt his lips ghost over your most sensitive spot, making you gasp.

'That’s it, keep going for Mommy,' he encouraged, his voice barely a whisper against you. You tried to focus on the food, but the feeling of his mouth so close made it almost impossible. Seonghwa’s lips pressed a soft kiss to your clit, his tongue darting out to tease you, slow and deliberate.

You took another shaky spoonful, and he rewarded you with a firmer lick, swirling his tongue around your clit in a way that made your back arch off the chair. The pleasure made your breath hitch, your body trembling as you struggled to focus on the task he’d given you. Your shaky laps of the soup, combined with the redness of your cheeks and your nipples peaking through your shirt- it was driving him up the wall with how turned on this moment was making him.

'So sweet for Mommy' Seonghwa whispered, his voice low and warm. He kept his mouth on you, each flick of his tongue a gentle encouragement as he watched you bring another piece of food to your lips. He didn’t rush, taking his time, wanting you to feel every little bit of pleasure as you finished eating.

Your body was so sensitive and your clit was throbbing, your hands beginning to shake as you held the bowl and your thighs trembling, his licks and circles using the tip of his tongue was enough to make your body needy for more- but not enough to give you the orgasm you were desperate to experience.

Your hand gripped the edge of the chair, trying to keep yourself steady as he continued, the sensations building and making your head spin. You could hear the soft, wet sounds of his tongue against you, the way he moaned softly whenever you squirmed in response to his touch.

'Almost there' You moaned out, referring to both the soup and how close you were to finishing on Seonghwa's tongue, looking down at Seonghwa with pleading eyes as Seonghwa's voice against your clit sent shivers down your spine.

'Finish your meal for me precious, and then Mommy will finish you'

He pressed the tip of his tongue against the underside of your clit, staring up at you with a teasing glance as you scraped your almost-last spoon of soup from the bowl, not even blinking once as he watched you shakily bring it to your lips, moaning as he suctioned his plush lips around your clit, accelerating you to the finish line.

When you finally managed the last bite, Seonghwa looked up at you, his dark eyes filled with pride. He kissed the inside of your thigh again, rubbing the outside of your thighs with tender swipes of his hands as he blew hot breath against your cunt, his hair fringing his lashes, framing his eyes that were blown out and hungry for more.

'You did so well, love,' he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “Now, let Mommy take care of you.”

You hastily placed the bowl down as you watched Seonghwa lick his middle finger, spreading your thighs wider as you could feel the relief flow through your body from Seonghwa's next movements.

His middle finger tentatively prodded at your entrance, his free hand reaching to pull the clitoral hood back, exposing the aching bud in all it's glory as he suctioned his mouth over it, revelling in the way you tasted as his finger slid in to curve upward to your g-spot.

The sensation was overwhelming in the most heavenly of ways, feeling the coil of pleasure build up rapidly as your back arched against the chair once more, reaching down to coil your fingers through Seonghwa's hair as his moans further emphasised the experience.

'Mommy!'

You cried out in elation as you finished on Seonghwa's tongue, your cunt spasming and your moans of his name were enough to trigger him into a state of desperation, his hand reaching down to palm his aching cock over his sweatpants.

With a soft chuckle and gleeful smirk Seonghwa pulled away, the teasing glimmer in his eyes replaced by something deeper. The moment hung between you, charged with a gentle but needy anticipation. He stood, taking your hand and guiding you to your feet, the warmth of his touch igniting every nerve in your body.

'Come here,' he murmured, leading you to the dining table. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow, making the room feel intimate, cocooned in the soft scent of the meal and lingering sweetness of your shared moment.

He quickly places the empty food bowl and non-essential items down on the adjacent empty chair, leaving the table bare as he turns you to face him, his hands resting on your waist as he lifts you on the table. His breath mingled with yours, warm and inviting. 'Mommy wants to fuck you right here if you'll let me” he whispered, his voice a sultry promise.

You nod, heart racing as he lifts the shirt over your body, cradling your head as he lays you down on the surface of the table, the coolness contrasting with the heat radiating from your bodies. He stepped between your legs, his long, dark hair falling over his shoulders, brushing against your skin as he leaned down for a kiss. The moment his lips met yours, you felt fireworks behind your closed eyes, a connection that pulsed between you like a living thing.

Seonghwa's hands explored your body, tracing the curves he loved so much, each touch igniting a fire within you. He kissed you deeply, slowly, savouring the taste of you like he had with the food earlier. As his lips moved down to your neck, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone, you could feel the world around you fading away, leaving just the two of you in this beautiful bubble.

'Tell Mommy what you need, precious. Tell Mommy what he wants to hear his precious, little star say' he murmured against your breast, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

You could barely find your voice, but you managed to respond, your breath jolting as his lips latch around your nipple 'I want you ahh! Mommy...I want you to fuck me here...want Mommy's love'

He lifted his head, locking his dark eyes onto yours, a mix of desire and tenderness shining through. 'Then let me give you Mommy's love'.

You shifted your hips downward and spread your legs wider as Seonghwa leaned back up, reaching into his pants pocket to pull out the well-placed condom as he opened the foil with his teeth.

It was in your plan to entice him as he pulls the clear lambskin over his shaft, cupping your breast with one hand and reaching down to draw circles on your clit with the other, gasps leaving you at the sensation.

The dim lighting of the room made Seonghwa look impossibly dreamy with his flushed cheeks, essence-stained lips, blown-out pupils and his skin covered with a sheen of exertion that made him glow under the room aesthetic, the black tank top he was wearing only emphasising his toned arms and delicate collarbones.

'You're going to be so tight around Mommy, I just know it, wanna feel you clench for me'

He groaned out, his voice coarse and deep as he wrapped your legs around his hips, grabbing the edge of the table for support and hovering over you as he placed the tip of his cock at your entrance, kissing you messily, smearing wetness from his tongue around your lips as he did so.

A wave of pleasure washed over you both as he entered you, filling the room with soft gasps and whispers of each other’s names. Seonghwa moved slowly at first, allowing you both to savor the connection, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Every thrust was deliberate, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, whispering sweet affirmations that made you feel cherished, adored.

“Just like that, my precious, little star,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned back up, staring over you with the most lovesick of gazes, 'You're Mommy's perfect star' He praised in-between kisses 'You're perfect for me'.

You could feel the warmth pooling in your core, the rhythm of your bodies syncing as you moved together. The table creaked softly under you, the world around you disappearing until there was nothing left but the two of you and the shared warmth of your love.

As the pleasure built to a crescendo, you felt yourself tightening around him, a delicious wave of ecstasy crashing over you. Seonghwa didn't want to be called 'Mommy' every time you made love but each time it happened, both of you always finished more quickly.

Maybe it was the elemental surprise of it, it was Seonghwa's decision whether to use it or not, whenever you heard it from his lips- it would entice you to enter into a particular level of obedience and desire for his touch.

Maybe it was the taboo nature of it, the slight unconventionality behind it. Who'd have thought a man so dominant and aggressive would enjoy being called such a feminine and loving term under the sheets? (or on the table in this case).

Maybe it was the idea of your boyfriend, who usually fucked you hard and rough who became so soft and gentle when he's 'Mommy', who always showed his love through his meals, his care, his presence but showed it more so with his hands, tongue and cock when he's in this loving state that made your body burn with pleasure.

'I..Mommy..close..I need' You whined out, your voice cutting off as a particularly deep thrust, your grip tightening around his back and your muscles aching from the exertion.

'I know precious' Seonghwa teasingly trailed his fingers down your side, his voice having a slight mocking tone to it as he pressed his fingers against your clit with a firm pressure.

'Mommy knows you need me to touch your puffy, little clit so you can cum right?'

A trapped groan left his chest as he felt you clench around him, it felt like he had only been inside of you for minutes before he was ready to bust, his thrusts faltering as he tried to achieve his goal.

'I'll always take care of what belongs to Mommy' His voice cracking as he spoke, his voice husky, coarse and deep as his suave persona began to shatter, his raw, untapped feelings shining through.

'Because you belong to me in ways you don't even realise, you're Mommy's precious, little star and no matter what, your heart and soul and this tight cunt of yours will always be mine'.

Seonghwa didn't want you calling him 'Mommy' often because it made him feel vulnerable, made him reveal hidden feelings towards you he didn't even know were inside of him.

Maybe it was how caring the term made him feel, how being called 'Mommy' made him want to protect you from the world, to pull you into his skin and hold you tight in his heart.

Maybe it was how obedient and vulnerable you looked when you called him that, how big and glassy your eyes would become, how you gave yourself to him freely and how trusting you were of him- that it made his soul ache with passion and cock harden with need every time he was on top of you.

'Mommy..I'm cum-' Your voice broke into a whimper as you released all over his cock and fingers, your hands clutching at his arms as you shuddered underneath him.

Seonghwa followed suit shortly after, praising and whispering how proud he was of you, his body shuddering against yours and he released with a whine of your name, both of you surrendering to the moment- enjoying the blissfulness of it.

Afterward, he collapsed over you, breathless and glowing with a contentment that made your heart swell. He pulled you into his arms, nuzzling his against your chest, the two of you tangled together on the table.

'Are you okay, precious?' he asked softly, kissing your skin softly.

You smiled, your heart full. 'More than okay. I’m perfect.'

Seonghwa pressed a gentle kiss to your mouth a soft smile gracing his lips. 'Good. Because I love you, even when times are hard, you need to know I'll always be here'

As you lay there in the fading candlelight, wrapped in each other's warmth, you knew this moment was only the beginning of your journey together, filled with love, understanding, and an unwavering bond that would always guide you to the love of your life, to your home.

To your Mommy and to Mommy's precious, little star.

Taglist: @youre-alittle-taste-of-hell @sugarnspice630 @mykryptonitelight @scuzmunkie @umbralhelwolf @lino-jagiyaa @mrcarrots @craxy-person @staytinyinmybpack @wisejudgedragonhairdo @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @necessiteez @hexheathen @michel-angelhoe @ja3hwa @justaaveragereader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

compos mentis 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, chronic health issues, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a long court case, your mother stays attached to her lawyer, bringing even more contention into your life.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: ookay here we go with this guy.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The restaurant is buzzing with voices. It adds the disorienting ripple in your head. It feels like there’s something crawling over your scalp as you try to blink away the haziness. It’s just fatigue. That never goes away, only ebbs and flows. 

You sit on the leather cushion of the curled bench. The booth is lit by a small chandelier hanging above and the plucking of strings strums under the drone of patrons. The sconces against the wall are blurry and bright and the people all around are merely shadows. 

The server appears and doles out the food. You got the butternut squash soup with a French bread roll. With the weather turning chill, it sounded delicious. Besides, you don’t have the stomach for anything heavy. 

You glance over at Andy’s thick sirloin and your mother’s glazed chicken. Your hunger roars in your stomach. You shakily unwrap the cutlery from the cloth napkin and thank the server as your mother taps her glass. The man, in his pressed white shirt, smiles and pours her some more. Andy clicks his tongue but says nothing. 

“Anyone else?” The server offers. 

“We’re good,” Andy answers for both of you. 

You could laugh, if you had the energy. Anyone would look at you and know you shouldn’t be indulging. No, you have your lemon water and that’s good enough. 

“This looks delicious,” your mother chirps and takes a gulp of chardonnay, a hum at the flavour. “Oh, that is divine too.” 

“I hope you enjoy. Both of you,” Andy says. “I know you had a busy day.” 

His elbow touches yours, almost as if it’s intentionally. You look at his shoulder but no higher. You steady the spoon over the bowl and dip it into the soup. You lean forward to taste as your mouth jabs into one of the slices of grilled chicken. 

“Mm, the maple is nice but a bit much,” she complains after a sampling. 

Andy exhales slowly, measuring his breath as if to conceal his sigh. It’s strange. He seems annoyed by your mother more often than not and yet he takes her out for dinner and got her that fancy ring. You don’t understand relationships. Not past the shallow ones written onto the screen. You probably won’t ever know the real thing. 

You rest your spoon on the wide brim and take a piece of the bread. It’s still warm and it smells wonderful. You pinch off a morsel and dip it into the creamy broth. You nibble on it, resisting the urge to shovel it down. 

“You sure the soup’s enough?” Andy asks. Again. He questioned you when you ordered an appetizer over and entree. He even offered to get an appetizer for the table instead. 

“Oh, sweetie,” your mother swallows around her words. “You know she doesn’t eat very much. Her stomach is so sensitive. And look, that’s such a lot of soup. She probably won’t even finish the bread.” 

You nod. You could gobble it all down but you know better. You’ve been sick before from letting your appetite deceive your mind. She’s right. You’ll be full soon enough. Your stomach always starts to ache after a few bites. 

“Ah, sorry. I don’t mean to pester. I just want to make sure you have everything you like. If you wanted a piece of my steak, I think there’s a lot more than I need here,” he chuckles and cuts into the sirloin. 

“Oh, she can’t have red meat. Too heavy for her,” your mother tuts. “Really, Andrew, you are so sweet to offer though.” 

“Yes, thanks,” you murmur as you squish bread between your fingers. You’re suddenly very conscious of every bite you take. 

“So, any more doctor’s appointments?” He asks. “I could come along next time? Since we’re gonna be one big family. I’d like to help out if I can. All this work shouldn’t be on you, Danica.” 

“Oh, my,” your mother slurps more wine. “You really are a dream,” she touches his sleeve. “That would be wonderful. Nothing this week though. Just next month but she does need her script filled. If you don’t mind getting that, it would be a great help.” 

You want to shrink into a speck of dust. You hate it. You’re rarely ever included in conversation. Not for real. You’re only ever the topic of discussion, like you’re not even there. 

“Mom, I told you,” you insist and wipe soup from your oxygen tube. “I can go get it. It isn’t very far.” 

“No, no, no. I told you before. You cannot take the bus. It’s absolutely out of the question. You could get caught on something or worse, you could fall.” 

“Hm, that’s... she’s an adult, Danica, if she wanted to--” 

“Andrew, you don’t know the risks. I do.” 

He opens his mouth then shuts it. His lips thin as he holds back his retort. He saws into the steak. 

“Well,” he looks at you, “if you’d like to come along, I can always drive you.” 

“I can just do it myself,” your mom insists sharply. 

“Relax,” he warns. “She wants to do it herself, she can. She’s not entirely helpless, is she?” 

You chew your lip. Your mother has that look. The dangerous one. Andy’s never seen what it can truly lead to. 

“Whatever is less trouble,” you utter and focus on your soup. “Sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” Andy challenges, “you did nothing.” 

You nod and take another spoonful. It’s really good but you can’t truly enjoy it. You just want to go home. Away from these strangers. Home where you can be alone. Where you can put some walls between you and your mom. You know you’ve already ruined her night just by being there. 

🩷

Your mother almost finishes the bottle. That’s not unusual but since she met Andy, it’s less frequent. As you leave the restaurant, she’s leaning heavily on him, her heels click unevenly as one shoe keeps slipping loose. You follow, clutching tight the handle of your tank. 

You stop by the SUV as your mother purrs and wraps her arm around Andy. She squeezes his butt and you look away, slowing as you try not to intrude. He flinches and pushes her away, clearing his throat. 

“Danica,” he girds quietly, “please, not here. You’re drunk.” 

“I’m not, I feel good,” she slurs. 

Embarrassment scalds across your chest and down your spine. You never wanted anyone else to see her like this. You know it’s not her fault. It’s yours. She’s stressed from taking care of you and gets a little carried away trying to unwind. 

“You’re all over,” Andy gets her to the passenger door as she staggers clumsily, “come on.” 

He angles her around with one arm around her back and opens the door. He gets her into the seat as she giggles and her hand flutters down his shirt. He pulls away as he catches her hand before she can get any lower. You linger by the back of the car and act like you’re not watching. 

He mutters but you can’t make out his words. He clicks the seat belt around your mom and slams the door. You wince and the wheel of your tank squeaks. He sighs and his shadow turns to you. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he opens the backdoor, “come on. I’ll get you two home.” 

You nod and come forward, head and shoulders down. “Thanks,” you drag your tank with you, “sorry.” 

“Sorry, for?” He wonders. 

You sniff and shake your head. You don’t know how to answer. How do you explain the truth to him?

“Here,” he reaches for your tank as you say nothing. “Let me help.” 

You have to keep from crying out and reach to shove him away. You’re overly protective. You have to be. That’s what keeps you going and you’re just not used to other people touching it. He lifts it as he nudges you gently. 

You grab the side of the door and haul yourself up. You heave as you fall into the seat, light-head and he fits the tank in in front of you. He reluctantly lets it go and tickles your knee. 

“You okay?” He asks. 

You watch his hand. You nod and grab the seat belt, “fine.” 

“Hmm, I should probably look into some more accessible, huh?” 

“No, no,” you protest weakly. “I manage.” 

“Well, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have to just manage. You should be comfortable. That’s why I took your case.” He brings his hand up and surprises you as he brushes your cheek. You twitch. “You like dinner?” 

“Yes, sir,” you answer and flatten yourself to the seat. “Thank you.” 

He hums and tickles your skin before he recoils. He draws back and grabs the door. He gently shuts it as his eyes cling to you. Your heart is racing. You’re breathless yet that isn’t so unusual. 

He gets in the front seat and your mother babbles and reaches for him again. He swats her back and starts the car. She mutters and slumps into the door. 

“Danica,” he says. She doesn’t respond. He repeats it louder. She snorts. He curses under his breath. You’re happy she passed out, it’s worse when she doesn’t. 

You sit in silence as Andy backs out of the space. He looms rigidly as you shrink as small as you can. Usually, he’s nice. He has this way about him that you assume comes from being a lawyer. He makes himself approachable. But not right now. He’s agitated. You can feel it fuming off of him. 

“I’m sorry,” you eke out as the tension strangles you. 

“You don’t need to apologise for her,” he insists with another sigh. 

“But... she drinks because of me. I know.” You say. “Because I’m sick.” 

He clucks and squeezes the wheel tighter. “No, that’s a bad excuse. She’s an adult.” 

You don’t argue. There’s no reason too. For once, someone isn’t blaming you. Besides, how far did it ever get you. 

He drives on and you turn to watch the dark buildings pass outside the window. The moon is a sliver above and the stars a speckle around the wisps of clouds. You stare up into the expanse, admiring the streaks of dark blue, black, and grey. 

As the car slows, you tear your eyes from the sky. You blink in confusion. You’re not at your house, but Andy’s. You’ve been there once before.  

He shuts the engine off then sits back and spreads his hand across his forehead, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I just realised I’m at the wrong house.” 

You stay silent. You thought your mom was asleep. He turns to look at you as he flicks on the compartment light. You squint at the sudden brightness. He means you. 

“Do you need anything at your house?” He asks. “Medicine or...” 

“It’s... in my pack,” you touch the belt bag across your stomach. “Tank’s mostly full.” 

He nods and looks you over, “I’m sorry. It’s been a long night. You don’t mind the guest room?” 

You shake your head. You don’t want to make his life any harder. And he should apologise to you. No one does that. They don’t owe you that. 

“Alright, again, I know it’s not easy for you. Probably a lot cozier at home,” he turns straight and shuts off the light. “Let me get your mom inside.” 

He unbuckles his seat belt and his keys jingle as he opens his door. You click the button on your belt and pull the handle. You push outward and the door is pulled from the other side. Andy appears in front of you. He helps get your tank to the ground and offers his hand. 

You don’t want to be rude so you let him help you down. You wheel around your tank as he shuts the door, the opens the passenger side. He ducks into the car and drags your mom out. He stands straight and shuts the door with his elbow. 

“Sorry to ask but could you unlock the door? Code is...” he gives you the numbers and you blink as you try to keep track of them. 

“Okay,” you nod and shuffle past him as he waits. You go up the walk and lift your tank up the low stone steps. You’re overly aware of him behind you. 

You get to the door and stare at the keypad. As you enter the numbers, you realise they’re familiar. It must be a coincidence. In a certain format, they would denote your birthday. The pad flashes green and the door clicks. 

You push down the lever and step back out of the way. 

“Go on,” he nods. 

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Mom needs to lay down.” 

He looks down at the woman in his arms then at you. Even in the dark, you see his disappointment. Again, you can’t help but wonder why he puts up with her. You have no choice, as she has no choice in taking care of you, but he does. 

“You’re a good daughter,” he says as he slowly steps past you. 

You trail after him, your tank bouncing through the door, and you shut it behind you. You stand on the mat and roll your wheels back and forth, trying to get the excess dirty from them. Then you sit to take off your shoes. 

“You can turn on a light,” Andy chuckles as his shadow looms over you.  

You stare up at his silhouette. He’s close. He must not realise it in the dark. You turn and flip the switch.  

He smiles as he keeps a hold of your mom, “I’ll put her on the couch for now,” he says, “then I’ll get you settled.” 

You nod and bend to move your shoes onto the rack. You don’t look up again. You’re hot. Very hot, even though cool air flows from the vent just across from you. It’s just because you’re used to being at home. That’s it. 

[danacaptus]

YANDERE!READER x VICTIM!KAISER

dark content request, tasing, kidnapping, yandere!reader :o

You had been watching Michael for a very long time. At first, it was innocent: attending all his matches, cheering him on from the stands. But that wasn't enough. Soon, you found yourself sneaking into the lockers, stealing little keepsakes—a towel, a water bottle, anything that had touched his hands. Even that didn’t satisfy the gnawing hunger in your chest. Watching from afar wasn’t enough anymore. You needed him. The real thing.

Tonight was your chance. The practice field was eerily quiet, the floodlights casting long shadows as Michael trained alone. He always stayed late, pushing himself harder than anyone else, and you admired that about him. It was why he was the best, after all! Quietly, you managed slip into the lockers and poured a small vial of clear liquid into his water bottle. Your hands trembled with excitement, your heart pounding so loud you thought he might hear it. Once the deed was done, you hid in the shadows, waiting.

he finished at some point, his footsteps echoed through the empty room as he approached his locker. Michael felt relief at the view of the empty lockers, his teammates could get annoying. He grabbed his bottle, chugging the water with the thirst of someone who had given their all. The drink tasted odd—just a little off—but he shrugged it off and took another sip.

Then, the dizziness hit.

He staggered, blinking rapidly as his vision blurred. “Wha…?” he slurred before his legs gave out beneath him. His body slumped onto the bench, motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Obviosly, you didn't lose any time! Imediately tip-toeing to him to make sure he was completely asleep. He looked handsome even in such a state, sweaty, tired and drugged; your couldn't help but feel giddy while dragging him out the lockers and making your way to your car. What a handsome man! You giggled. It took effort to drag his unconscious body to your car, but adrenaline was on your side as you laid him carefully in the back seat.

𓂃 ᡣ𐭩

The room was spinning when his eyes fluttered open, his head heavy and his vision blurry. It took Michael a while to notice that he wasn't in the lockers room, confusion turning into alarm when he noticed he was handcuffed. Before he could even say or think something clearly, you entered in the room─ your cheerful look worried him even more. Who was this weirdo? He was obviously being kidnapped and well─ it was scary, yeah. But he was more angry than anything, what could someone so weak looking do to him? You probably just wanted money. He noticed you had a plate in your hands, it had the delicious food you prepared carefully for him! You tried to give him a spoonful, but he quickly moved his head away.

“Who the hell are you?” he barked, his voice hoarse but filled with anger. “Let me go!”

“Oh, Michael,” you sighed, shaking your head as you approached him. “Don’t be like that. I’ve made this for you.” You held up a spoonful of the carefully prepared meal again, “You need your strength after all that training.”

“Get away from me!” he snapped, twisting in his restraints. His voice grew louder, angrier. “I don’t know what you want, but if it’s money, just—” He was so insistent, he had to eat something after training but he couldn't stop acting stubborn! You just wanted to feed him goodly like he need.

"Stop it, love! Let me just take care of you, i dont want your money" the smile in your face faltered, did you seem the kind of person that would kidnap him for money? He wouldn’t stop yelling, thrashing against the cuffs and calling you every name he could think of. Each insult felt like a dagger, twisting in your chest. Your patience was wearing thin.

“Michael,” you said through gritted teeth, your cheerful mask slipping. “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

“Do your worst, do you think i want someone like you to be my maid? you crazy bit—” His defiance was cut short by the sharp crackle of a taser. The jolt of electricity sent his body convulsing, a strangled scream ripping from his throat. The sound of the taser crackling filled the room, blending with his raw, involuntary screams.

He thought he was too clever, huh? Well, disobedience is not tolerated here! Michael had almost forgot how this kind of pain felt, it made him feel as vulnerable as he felt back then, though more angry. He yelled you to stop, but you couldn't stop; he needed a lesson─ even if it made you kind of sad seeing your love like this!

"No, michael. If you dont obey, i'll have to discipline you!"

You just stopped when he was half-conscious, picking up his limp body from the floor. Gently, you cradled his head in your lap

"I will never let you go. I'll give you the most important things you need, micha!" You caressed the burn mark in his neck 'soothingly' while whispering those sweet nothing at him.

"P-please... Let me go" he managed to plead hoarsely. Wasn't he cute? It made you chuckle, but you also covered his mouth─ he shouldn't beg you to let him go, fate brought you together even though he doesn't understand it. "Hush, darling. You’ll thank me one day."

"I love you... forever" you whispered lovingly. He had to get used to it at some point!

This is my first yandere!reader and i made it for my first requestt so i hope its okay, i was chuckling while writting bc it was like punishing kaiser for hurting poor ness 😔 isagi count your days too :) /jk

[inkedinfusions]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 5

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . 🗝 .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist

⊰– prev   next–⊱

𝟎𝟓 | 𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

chapter word count: 3.1 k

content warnings: mild dissociation, blanket warnings

a/n: So! Chapters may be more spaced out from now on. I've got six halfway written and seven and eight outlined, but I'm swamped in schoolwork rn, so the updates will have to take a backseat. I swear I wont abandon this though, I already got way too attached to it. Anyway, I offer you this plot-continuing chapter. I hope it answers some of your questions and leaves you with some more.

Thanks for reading!

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 next day with a bitter taste on your tongue. You lay unmoving, in a similar way to your first morning. The only difference is, there is nothing in your mind. No anxieties, no thoughts, no nothing. The you two weeks ago would be embarrassed, but now you just feel numb. 

You vaguely remember snapshots of yesterday, although you still can't recall specific sounds or sensations. Everything —the past, present, and future— is stuck in a haze. Even nature seems to be aware of this, as you can’t hear the soft coos of birds outside your window, or the rustling of leaves as wind passes through them. 

Time ticks by, and the shadows in your room morph as the sun traces its revolution in the sky. They get longer, fuzzier, and they move around the space as if chasing some unobtainable treasure. 

You can relate, you think.

Your fingers reach out to them, before your hand falls limply to the floor. You graze the wooden floor with the tips of your fingers, the coldness to the touch diverging with the warm blankets. When they collide with something solid below your bed, you sigh, closing your eyes. 

You stand up and kneel before it, gently taking the small box you had stashed under there. The latch clicks when you open it, and your old clothes, the ones from home, greet you. You run your hands across the cushy fabric, softened after many trips to the washing machine. 

A chuckle spills from your lips at the sight. If you’d known you'd be whisked away when dressing up that morning, you would have chosen something comfier, maybe more nondescript. It turns into a sob when you bring it towards your face and you discover that it barely smells of home anymore. 

Unlike yesterday, no tears begin to fall from your puffy eyes. You are too tired to spiral again, your tear ducts too dry to spill over. You simply stay on your knees, caressing the fabrics over and over again. 

Your door creaks open, and Zeke’s head pops in, zeroing on you. 

“Hey, kid,” he says after a beat. “How are you feeling?”

You pay him no mind, not even turning to look at him. His boots fall heavily to the floor as he walks towards you, and it is only when he kneels next to you that you shift your gaze to him. You swallow, nothing coming out of your mouth as you open it to answer.

“...Hungry,” you finally croak.

He nods, helping you up. 

“I’d say breakfast is ready, but it's way past time for lunch,” he jokes, his smile slowly disappearing when you don't respond. 

Zeke looks down at the box in your arms, noting its presence. He hesitates for a moment, and delicately takes it from you to place it on your desk. You let him, watching as he closes the box, but leaves the latch open.

He guides you downstairs, where a steaming bowl of something is waiting for you in the kitchen. 

You robotically take the cutlery and begin eating, scooping up spoonfuls of thick soup. The warmth returns the color to your skin, and your complexion begins to look less gray. Your thoughts start to flow once more, and you eat with newfound energy.

“Didn’t you have a meeting today?” you ask softly, putting down your empty bowl. 

“I got off early.”

He shrugs, like it's no big deal that the War Chief got off early on a meeting about a developing war. You look at him, skeptical, and you're tempted to once again start over analyzing his actions. Your attempt falls flat with his explanation, though. 

“You were sick, kid,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “I couldn’t leave you alone all day.”

You want to cry again, You turn his statement, tone, words, everything, over and over, trying to find a second, secret motive for it. The sincerity with which he delivers his answer comes up against everything, and you, for the first time, believe him wholeheartedly. 

You look down, furiously blinking away a new wave of tears. You're not quite sure why they threaten to fall; it could be the residue emotions from yesterday, your conflicted feelings about your world, or Zeke’s genuine confession. Maybe you don't want to know. 

Silence settles over the room again, only this time it’s reassuring, not constricting. Zeke doesn’t ask about the stray tears that you fail to contain, instead choosing to return to his lunch. You’re grateful you don't have to offer an explanation, knowing still that he would listen to you if you wanted to give him one. 

Zeke takes your plate after he finishes his, making a beeline towards the sink. You let the sound of flowing water fill the atmosphere, while you contemplate the day before you. As you glance out the window, you notice that the sun is already past halfway through the sky, streaking it with stripes of gold and orange. 

Your cheek rests on your palm, and you trace over the lines of the wooden table with your other hand. Maybe you could work on your written vocabulary. 

You hum, as you think about the book you are one third through decoding. You don’t like the prospect of being alone in your room, but there are limited options as to what you can do now. 

A thud interrupts your musings, and you tilt your head up to see what Zeke had dropped at the table. Your breath hitches when a white baseball rolls over to you. 

“Want to play?” Zeke asks. 

You tentatively grasp the object in your hands, bringing it from one palm to the other. To anyone else, this offer would be seen as what it plainly was; an invitation to play catch. To you, however, it reads like an olive branch. Zeke was offering you the one part of his past he looked back fondly to. 

“...Yeah.”

Only three people had interacted both with the ball and with Zeke in the original series. Ksaver, his mentor; Colt, his successor; and Eren, his brother. A new category opened up in the list– you, his ward. 

The white baseball flies through the breeze, parting the air around it with a whizz. You catch it in the leather glove in your hand, before grabbing it and lightly throwing it back to Zeke. He stands across a small patch of grass behind the house, the space being deemed as the current ballpark.

You had been at it for some time, and both pink and purple joined the array of colors above. Baseball was never a thing that popped into your head as a pastime, school work and other hobbies taking the priority of your free time. 

It is, however, great to keep your mind occupied. The mindless duality of throwing and catching –as well as the repetitive nature of it– gives you something easy to do, with no risk of overthinking the action. 

On the other hand, you needed to be sharp to catch the ball and then measure how much energy you would push into it. This helped you concentrate on it, instead of letting it blend in with your environment. 

The cool wind blows across your neck’s nape, bringing some relief in the afternoon sun. Your mind is too occupied with the game to linger on your breakdown yesterday, and you let your emotions flow through you, catching them and releasing them just like the ball. 

Emotions are a fickle thing. They are the reason for the titans, for the connections between people, for the conflicts that ruled the world. They are the very thing that drove the story, and the very thing that ended it. Feelings are as impulsive as they are irrational. And so, on an impulse, you take a very, very, rash decision. 

“I want to go to Paradis,” you say, throwing the ball back at him. 

Zeke freezes as the weight of your statement settles in. The ball lays still in his baseball glove and he makes no move to toss it in your direction. After a beat, Zeke speaks up. 

“You want to go to Paradis…?”

You nod, swallowing 

He throws the ball back, and it lands in your glove with a thump. 

“Is there a reason you’ve decided to tell me this?”

“I know the timeline of your plan.” Your heartbeat quickens and you look down. “This isn't where I’m meant to be, and I- '' you hesitate for a moment, hoping the vulnerability of your request aids you in its acceptance. “I want to go home. As soon as I can.”

The ball flies again towards Zeke. You throw it with more force than normal, and your downturned gaze means you don't see exactly where you toss it, going off purely of muscle reflex. 

And still, you hear the telling thump that indicates that Zeke has caught it. 

“And what exactly do you plan to do?” he asks. “The timeline can’t move up, no matter how much we wish it to.”

In a sense, Zeke is right. The original plan went like it went simply because of the time it took to bring Paradis’ technology somewhat close to that of the rest of the world. And that is without mentioning the allies that would be introduced later on. The Azumabitos and the Tyburs all had their role to play, if things continue on as they were fated to. 

And if things continued like they were fated to, and you still found yourself with no way home, then at least you'd be spared of the rumbling. You don't want to take your chances with the rest of the Eldians and Marleyans at Fort Salta. 

“I can help you,” you offer. It is a Hail Mary, one you aren’t sure Zeke believes a hundred percent. “Besides, the other Volunteers will be there too, won't they? Yelena can keep an eye on me for all I care.”

You catch the ball as it is flung to you, tossing it once, twice up in the air before pitching it to Zeke. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me on this. But all I want is to go home.” 

Zeke examines the sphere in his glove, and you know he is considering your offer. You suppose the proposal is tempting; you are a wildcard that could, at the very least, be a thorn on the road to achieve his goal. And yet, you could also make it easier.

“If I did decide to send you,” he starts slowly, “–and it’s not definite, just a hypothetical– I need to know that we are on the same page. About everything.”

You nod. The imaginary page in question had been scribbled all over with the details discussing the small-scale version of the Rumbling as well as the (not so) fun bonus of the sterilization plan. Half truths with a dose of lies; that’s how you and Zeke operated with each other. Now, he was asking for honesty. 

“I want out the moment you enter the paths.”

“And you're well within your right to demand so,” Zeke concedes. “After all, there's nothing more tragic than being dragged into a fight that is not one’s own.”

Fight. 

You could very well be fighting not only other people, but fate itself. Has this already been decided? You want to argue that no, that your presence here was a new variable, that you could argue with Eren that this was proof that the future could change. 

And if you failed… then maybe at least you could have the small comfort that you tried. And you would be in Paradis, unaffected by the Rumbling.  

“Okay,” you breathe out, catching once more the ball Zeke throws at you. 

A small lifetime ago Tom Ksaver and Zeke Jaeger stood in the very same positions you both stand in now, the mentee becoming the mentor, the new apprentice once again having more answers than the teacher. The euthanasia plan comes to light anew, along with the name of Zeke’s old mentor. 

“So. Ksaver’s plan?”

Thump

“Just how far does that story cover?”

Thump

You shrug, drawing back your arm with the glove. “It's just snapshots. I couldn’t tell you his favorite color, for example.”

Thump

“Fascinating,” Zeke responds. “Do you know how it came to be?”

Thump

“Something about not being born equals no misery?”

The ball flies off to Zeke, who keeps it. He turns it in his palm, throwing it up in the air and catching it again. His eyes trace the path the ball takes above his outstretched hand, and you see how his gaze turns reminiscent, his words heavy and his sentences anchoring to the reality Ksaver presented to him a little over a decade ago.

“All of our grief, all our suffering, it has no place in this world. It exists in us, perpetuated by the fear we instill in the people. And so, if we had never existed in the first place, neither would our torment nor the fright titans cause.”

You nod, your gaze a tad distant, as the ball soars towards you. 

Tom Ksaver had been enthralled when Zeke had proposed the eradication of all Eldians, via the elimination of their ability to reproduce. Both men were governed by their trauma, its invisible hands molding the clay of their stories. 

Ksaver’s dead wife and son pushed him to seek a grandiose way to end his life. He looked for the son who never got the chance to grow up in Zeke, and was comforted when their views intersected. He died with Zeke as his successor in titan, research, and objectives.

Zeke’s trauma had defined his goals. Always going against what Grisha had traced in his future, and yet still being so cosmically intertwined with the man. He had gained solace when he believed he had found someone similar in his younger brother. 

Through the same circular glasses, their point of view was equally clouded by their experiences. 

“I am… very sorry it had to come to this.”

Zeke shrugs. “It's not your responsibility to apologize, kid. You weren’t even born into this world–how could you possibly bear its burden?”

You suppose he is right. Zeke’s point of view hung on the divine burden the sins of their forefathers had placed at their backs, and you, without a drop of Eldian blood in your veins to damn you, were guiltless before the slaughter. 

You double up on the commendation for his cause, hoping to secure a ticket to Paradis Island among the Volunteers.

“Still. I find it honorable how you chose to shoulder this responsibility.”

The statement deals in half truths. 

You truly are in awe of Zeke’s determination and conviction in his own plan, regardless of the abhorrent nature of it. But he doesn’t need to know of your disagreement, just of your admiration. 

You swear you see his eyes get misty before he turns his head to the side, effectively blocking you from confirming it. Soft coos in the trees rise in nature’s harmony, and you watch as Zeke adjusts his glasses, discreetly wiping away stray teardrops before they become apparent. 

You and Zeke talk well into dusk, only retiring inside when the sun dips beneath the horizon, giving way to the first stars in the sky. No agreement is reached, and Zeke skitters around the subject for the remainder of the conversation. 

The fire crackles beneath the stove as Zeke whips together a small dinner, and the smell of toasted bread fills the kitchen’s air.

“ –and I’m just saying,” you continue with your side of the argument, “who do you think your brother would have an easier time trusting? A bunch of adults who he views as enemies? Or someone his age, who can pose as a victim from Marley?” 

“That’s true,” Zeke acknowledges, most likely remembering the single time they met, along with Reiner’s account. “He is rather… brash.”

You don’t tell him that it was Eren who originally sought out Yelena, to then pretrend to be on board with Zeke’s plan. Trust was a minor detail in the equation, and Eren simply relied on his future memories and carefully built facade to get him through. In the end, he didn’t need to trust them, just manipulate them enough so they could be useful.

“So I can go? Please?”

“Eat your dinner.”

“But-”

“You were sick yesterday, eat your dinner.”

Like a moody teenager, you huff at Zeke’s reply, shoveling a slice of bread into your mouth. The jam in it was delicious, but you weren't about to compliment the cooking of the chef when the chef in question was being a jerk and avoiding the topic. 

“Whatever,” you mumble between bites. 

One would think you were arguing about some party you didn't have permission to go to, or some unjust punishment caused by failing grades. Certainly not a world-altering conspiracy and a trip to the dubbed Devil’s Island. 

Zeke stands up with a sigh, and you look at him questioningly as he walks out the kitchen. Damn, you think. Had your pleading finally annoyed him into an early bedtime?

You don't wait alone for long, though, and Zeke once again enters the kitchen after the sound of rummaging in the adjacent room ceases. His hands hold a sheet of paper and a pencil, you notice, as he walks towards you.

The chair Zeke pulls screeches against the floor, and he sits down next to you. A pencil and paper are placed in front of you, the writing utensil rolling towards your hand. You take it before it falls, and your eyes dart between the paper and Zeke. 

There, in scribbled writing, lies another twenty six symbol alphabet, different from the Marleyan one you’ve been learning. The unfamiliar runes stare back at you, and you tilt your head with furrowed brows, trying to decipher the meaning of Zeke’s offering. 

“What is this?” you ask, pointing at the sheet with the pencil in your hand. 

“The Eldian alphabet,” Zeke answers. 

Your eyes widen, and your gaze flits between them both. 

“Wait. So I'm…?”

“Yes.” Zeke nods as he takes a seat again. “I’ll have to talk to Yelena, rework some points of the plan. But you are going to Paradis.”

Your sudden hug catches Zeke by surprise, and you squeeze him tightly, wanting to transmit the depths of your gratitude. Finally, finally some of your anxieties about your fate in this world will be quelled.

“Thank you,” you mumble against his shoulder. 

“Of course.” He pats your back comfortingly. “And you better not slack off on Marleyan either, Gabi told me you still struggle with fluent reading.”

The sentimental atmosphere shatters. That snitch. 

“Give me a break, old man, I started learning it only a few weeks ago.”

“Sure.”

You pull away from the hug, rolling your eyes at his comments. Zeke chuckles, and his gray eyes find yours again.

“I’ll get you home, kid. I promise.”

taglist: @dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13

ask or comment to be added!

[noyzinerd]

Derek: Hello? *noticing the faint blue glow under the bed*

Derek: *crouching down to look under the bed* Hey, so it's been almost 3 days. I wanted to check in to see how you were doing. Oh, and the pack wanted to know if you found anything on the-

The cryptid curled around a laptop under the bed, in a pile of blankets, eating coffee grounds with a spoon: *HISSES*

Derek: Ok, ok! Take your time! I brought you a grilled cheese in case you got hungry. I'm just going to leave it out here by the bed-JESUS! *narrowly misses the shadow darting out to pull the plate into the darkness*

Creature: *ravenous devouring*

Derek: Alright, I'm gonna go get you something to wash that down with real quick. Let me know if you need anything else.

Creature: *content pug grumbles and happy raccoon chitters*

Derek: Love you too, Stiles.

[fairyboygenius]

everywhere, everything

simon “ghost” riley x original female character

prev | next

a/n: hi guys! i’m so excited to start this fic. allie is so??? one of my favorite ocs i’ve ever made, to be honest. she’s just perfect to me i fear. her and simon are gonna be so hhhhh anyways enjoy the fic!

no warnings for this chapter except for simon acknowledging he’s a little weirdo and implications to the fact that graves fucking sucks

fic under the cut love u mwah

Time isn’t real anymore, Allie’s decided. How could it be? After a transatlantic flight, plus a train ride through the English countryside, the world seemed fuzzier, cool breeze almost soothing her to sleep.

“Look alive, Bishop,” Kate Laswell gently chided, bumping Allie’s elbow with her own. “We’re almost there.”

Allie bit her lip, the words “are we there yet?” on the tip of her tongue. It’s nowhere near professional to whine to your soon-to-be boss about the journey she took for you. No matter if you’ve known that boss for seven years and been through absolute hell together. After a certain point, professionalism dissipates.

“You said that after the plane. And after we got lost in the Underground. And after King’s Cross. ‘Almost’ implies a degree of soonness.” Allie knew she was being unnecessarily literal. Jet lag wore away any pretense and spoons to mask.

Kate shook her head, a smile creeping at her features. “Eat your dinner.”

“Yes, mom.” Allie sipped her water, putting her headphones back on to try to enjoy the train food. Kate huffed, a fond-yet-annoyed expression on her face.

“Lola doesn’t seem to mind the long ride.” Kate laughed as the black lab nudged her hand, tail thumping restlessly against Allie’s leg. “You’re being a good girl, aren’t you?”

Allie ran an absentminded hand over Lola’s head, giving her a quick scratch between the ears. “You sure they’ll be okay having her on base?”

“She’s your service dog. Not like they can say no.”

“They can, actually. I looked it up. Even though I’m in a non-combat role, she can be removed-“

“-If there’s reasonable threat to your or her life,” Kate finished, giving her a comforting smile. “No one’s gonna take her away from you when you’re doing your medic duties. You need Lo to do your job and do your job well. Everyone’s getting briefed about it right now. If anyone gives you hell about it, you come to me.”

Allie nodded. “You know I’m not good with confrontation.”

“But I am.” Kate smiled. “Those boys shouldn’t give you hell- half of ‘em would probably meet the criteria for a diagnosis themselves. If you need space, unless you are actively doing surgery or in a literal war zone, you have permission to go to your room and take a breather. Anyone fights you on this, you can come to me. Got it?”

Allie nodded again, leaning her head against the train window. Lola rested her head on her human’s thigh, and Allie stroked her head absentmindedly. Letting the feeling of Lola’s fur between her fingers ground her.

Kate sighed, taking her other hand. “I know things didn’t go well for you with the Shadow Company, and everything with Philip…”

“Can we not bring him up?” Allie winced, sipping more water. “He’s dead. It’s in the past for me now. And I don’t really want to talk anymore, if that’s alright.”

Kate nodded, content as Allie put her headphones on and closed her eyes. The twinge of maternal concern on her face disappeared soon after, and she turned back to her book as they inched closer and closer to base.

“Captain, a fifth member o’ the team? We’re not enough of a headache for ye?”

Price shook his head, rolling his eyes fondly. The three of them sat in front of him, on the overstuffed common room couch. Johnny was twirling a pen between his fingers, Kyle couldn’t really keep his eyes off his phone, and Simon… well, Simon was just staring into space.

It had been an okay day for him, so far. A good workout, above average meals. Paperwork seemed less burdensome, or maybe his brain was finally embracing the distraction it provided. The scars from his recent mission in Russia were healing well.

Then Price had called them in.

“Lads… calm down.” Price was massaging his temples. Clearly, Johnny had forgotten to take his meds that morning. “She’s gonna be our resident medic- and yes, it’s a bird, the fraternization rules still apply.” He took a drag from his cigar. “Laswell sent over a whole presentation on ‘er. They’ve known each other for a while, apparently.”

“We’ve got a whole medbay, can’t we pluck one of them to be a 141 specialist?” Kyle leaned back on his elbows. “No offense to her.”

“Laswell would like to introduce a new person. The hope is for you to bond with her because she’ll be living on the 141 floor, participating in workouts and team bonding and she’ll be going on missions with us. We’ve noticed that you lot tend to put off medic visits or not go to the medbay when you need to, so having an on-team medic will hopefully reduce the amount of bigger health problems that spiral from you lot ignoring smaller ones.”

“You’re just as bad as the rest of us about that,” Simon scoffed.

Price grumbled. “Guess this is for me too, then.”

“So tell us about ‘er.” Soap leaned forward slightly, looking up at the screen. “What’s her name?”

Price clicked to the next slide. A picture popped up- a redhead, body luxurious and full, a black labrador puppy on her lap. Her smile was a bit shy, brown eyes shining as the puppy licks the side of her face. Simon’s eyes traced over her features, across her broad shoulders and collarbone, down over her breasts- the black tank top she’s wearing in the picture has a low neckline- and to where the photo ends, her bare thighs crossed as she sits. He swallowed. Shit.

“This is Lieutenant Allison Bishop- she goes by Allie,” Price said. “Laswell’s known her since she was 19, when she graduated basic. She is autistic and struggles with loud noises, so she likely will have some form of hearing protection on when we’re in the field. The puppy is Lola, who’s now Allie’s service dog- she’ll travel with us, and has her own hearing protection. Allie’s getting her own room, obviously, and bathroom, but she’ll share schedules and meal times. When we’re in mission-specific training, she’ll be working in the medbay and helping out where they need it. We can’t hog her forever.”

Like hell we can’t, Simon thought.

“Can we pet the dog?” Gaz looked so excited, Simon could almost sense the mood shift. Price sighed.

“Afraid that’s a negative,” their captain said. “Lola is working when she’s with Allie, and unless Allie gives you explicit permission to, you can’t pet her.”

“Pet Allie or Lola?” Simon can’t resist asking.

Price groaned. “Neither without the explicit permission of Allie.”

“So when’s she gettin’ here?”

“She’s on the train from London to Hereford with Laswell as we speak. She’ll be probably be all moved in and ready to work by tomorrow morning.” Price sighed. “From what Laswell said, she’s not exactly the most outgoing person around new people, so she may get overwhelmed and be kind of closed off at first. It may take her a bit to really warm up to us besides just simple kind professionalism.”

“Oi, Cap’n, dinnae worry about tha’.” Soap grinned. “We can be whatever she needs.” He winked, and Gaz faked a gag. Simon just groaned, reaching up to rub his own temples.

“Oh, real mature,” he grumbled. “We dismissed?”

Price nods. “Behave, lads. I’ll see you muppets at breakfast.”

They walked out of the common room together, headed towards the hallway that stored all their rooms. It would be an early night- a luxury, Simon was well aware, not often afforded on the field. He was fully ready to settle in with a book and a glass of bourbon when he saw the sign on the door next to his.

Welcome, Lieutenant Bishop!

Fuck. He was gonna stay away from her, give her some space to accommodate to the new environment first before making his move. It’d be the nice thing to do, after all- let ‘er settle in, get into a routine, hopefully not scare her off with his whole… thing. (He’s nothing if not self aware.)

But if she was right there… they’d be running into each other in the hallways. He could probably walk her back and forth from their rooms, seeing as she wouldn’t know her way around the base. Maybe even invite her in for a cuppa, or a drink if they clicked… not that Simon was any more competent at social interactions. Especially not with beautiful women.

Beautiful women who he couldn’t be with, no matter how much he wanted to be.

He flopped back onto his bed, letting out a long huff. Fine, he’d be civil. Not necessarily nice, but civil. He’d just have to hope that she’d be charmed by his unsettling gazes and grunts… somehow.

Fuck.

[beatcroc]

shadow t. hedgehog

shadow was like THE favorite character for teen me, to the point where he was part of my online username and...representation, but these days i enjoy him just a regular amount and i'd only really slip him in at the very bottom of my top 10 sonic characters. that being said,

oh boy.

i think shadow is going to be an extremely loaded character no matter which angle you're approaching him from. theres just 🤌 so much nuance.

"canon" in this case is referring to the infamous sega mandates restricting anyone from doing anything good with him. pretty much everyone in the position to DO anything with his characterization [writers, voice actors, etc] has very strong and really great ideas about where his character should be headed, and it has all continually clashed with the company's heads' ideas about him . literally everyone who's made any sort of official sonic media the past several years has made comments like 'yeah sega is super fucking protective of him he's hard to do anything with'. that being said, it seems like the fight has paid off and the worst of the limitations on his portrayals are dissolving. dark beginnings was fantastic, i've heard good things about shadow gens, and the sonic 3 movie does very well with him as well; i'm willing to cautiously trust things now, but boy he sure does have a fucking history. there's also the matter of his wildly inconsistent characterization in earlier days but i didnt play most of those games so i dont really care about any of that lol. anyway tldr: writer canon kicks ass, sega canon eat my dick.

now......... with regard to "everyone else", fanon does have tons of fun stuff for shadow wrt to the majority of the cast --ESPECIALLY maria oh my god, and of course team dark content never gets old; i do really genuinely love this stuff-- but....... vast swaths of people just don't quite seem to get that he just straight up doesn't like sonic. he respects sonic and his abilities sure, but they're not gonna be, like, friends [MUCH LESS LOVERS??????????] because shadow just thinks hes really abrasive. i feel like this shouldn't be hard. some people just have clashing ideals and arent going to get along or want to be around eachother save for some other circumstance that may force them to cooperate.

nuance on "if anything happens to him" ties back into the first point in that.... well... idk, he's a character who's interesting to see when facing adversity; i wouldn't cry about it like "my baby getting hurt" the same way i would for, like, the scrapniks, but in the same token the dude has suffered Enough can we Please do something else with him im Tired of suffering being all he has. let him move on. [again, what i've heard of shadow gens bodes well for this but you can never trust this fucking franchise]

as for the other stuff, shadow isn't really "silly" for his own purposes, but he is just kind of an inherently absurd character when you take in the full breadth of it. he's an edgy loner immortal antihero but then the voice actor saying he does like a bunch of charity work and volunteers at soup kitchens and shit. and he is correct for this like that would literally be an awesome path for shadow's character. it's silly. one of my friends thinks he should be lurking at tim horton's [because dunkin donuts is too social] with a laptop writing some overcomplex YA novel and i could not be more in favor of that. he's The Ultimate Lifeform:tm: and also just some fucking guy and a grumpy old man and its SILLY. shadow is a man of contrasts and thats what makes him awesome. he's effortlessly cool and badass and has an unfuckwithable vibe/aesthetic that demands respect but also he eats coffee beans with a spoon. and you let him do it because its Shadow The Fucking Hedgehog.

[yoursweetheartsrevenge]

Thick As Thieves - Chapter Two: Black Sheep

Summary: Tom strikes up a friendship with the mysterious voice in the prison cell next to him. Trouble is, he doesn’t know who she is and he can’t get her out of his head after he’s released.

Read on Ao3

Read Ch 1

Warnings: mentions of parental death, mentions of theft, implied kleptomania, MINORS DNI, 18+

Word Count: 2.2K+

Author’s Note: This fic is doing better than I expected. I truly love this flirty duo and getting into scenes from the show. Hope you enjoy lots more flirting 😉

Chapter Two: Black Sheep

“It’s fuckin’ cold!”

Same shrill voice, crying out in the cell next to him, woke Tom Bennett up that morning. He bore his palm into his eye, rubbing away sleep and the discomfort of the shit of a mattress he was slept on. The sun peaked over the edge of his bed casting a little shadow indicating it was far later in the morning then he usually got up. 

Did having another person in the cell next to him actually let him get a decent night sleep? 

He looked up at that same old ceiling wondering if she had stared at hers all night waiting for sleep to take her like he had the first night. Tom creaked the bed slowly sitting up to see a tray had been placed within the walls of his cell. 

Fuckin’ porridge. 

Tom hated the gunk and slop that consisted of porridge. 

When his mum was alive even she agreed porridge was not going to be around as a staple for her babies. 

He pulled at his sweater collar. 

“Don’t think they give two shits, love!” He called out to his neighbor. 

He sunk down on the floor feeling his stomach rumble. There was a paper cup of water with an extremely grey lumpy bowl of porridge. Tom dipped his spoon in lifting the contents up then letting them splash back down in an ugly unappetizing drip. His nose wrinkled as he shoveled some in his mouth. 

Absolutely zero flavor to be had. 

“Good morning to you sleepyhead.” Her spoon clattered on her metal tray. “Was trying to get your attention, but you were snoring like the dead.” 

“Must have been someone else.” He slushed his spoon around the bowl before willing himself to eat more. “I don’t snore.” 

“Like a log.” The woman snort laughed. 

Fuck. 

He hadn’t dreamed that bit. 

It was still cute. 

“Expecting a full English breakfast, were you?” Tom laughed, scraping the spoon against his teeth. At least the taste of metal was some sort of flavor. 

“Oh please.” He could hear her eyes roll, if that were possible. “I just expected it to be warm, not icy cold.” 

“Oh come on,” Now it was Tom’s turn to roll his eyes. “It ain’t that bad.” 

No. 

She was right. 

It was that bad AND it was cold. 

“I still ate half of it, mind you.” He could hear her attack the bottom of the bowl with her spoon in a sort of stabbing motion. 

“Well, lunch is probably gonna be just as appetizing to your palate, madame.” He teased in a mocking posh accent. 

“As long as it is the right temperature I’ll be fine.” She loudly slurped at her water before he heard the cup crush. “You having good dreams then? You were mumbling in your sleep.” 

His spoon clattered a bit. The soundness of his sleep must have triggered some sleep talking. Lois would always kick him when his sleepy nonsense got too loud and sometimes too lewd. He had hoped it hadn’t been lewd. 

“Really? Say anything interesting?” He wondered his eyebrows nearly shooting up at the thought. 

He wouldn’t have minded saying something scandalous to her. 

“Didn’t make out too much. I think you might have said ‘sorry’ a few times. Maybe a ‘sorry da’.” 

Fuck. 

That wasn’t sexy. 

That was just sad. 

“Yeah, apologies for that. Hope it didn’t disturb you. Share a room with my sister and she usually kicks the bed when I get too bothersome. Though I suppose you can’t do that from your current position.” He took a long sip of water, smiling a bit. 

“Nah, my legs are too stubby and thick to fit through the bars.” Well there was something. She was a short, fat bottomed lass. Or at least he could picture it from her description. “Your sister . . . she older or younger?” 

He paused looking into his empty cup. God what he wouldn’t give for a cuppa.

“She’s younger. But acts like she’s older sometimes. I’m the family fuck up.” He cheered her in the next room downing the rest of the water. 

“I’ve got one of those too, ‘cept she’s actually older. Don’t know who is more of the black sheep, me or her.” He could hear her shuffle to stand, starting to pace the cell in her heels. 

“Well, she ever been to prison?” Tom wondered with a laugh. 

“Yeah, loads more than me.” She said it so seriously he immediately thought he fucked up. 

“Well,” He decided to try to bounce back. “She currently in?”

“No.” He could hear the grin as she paused her pacing. 

“Seems like you win the award for most fucked up member of the family. Welcome to the club, mate!” He cheered her with his empty cup. 

Tom shuffled back on the bed settling in. 

“What is it you do all day in here? Wait around?” The woman thought aloud before beginning to pace again. 

He put his hands behind his head thinking it over. Nothing he wanted to tell her. He had maintained his sanity by doing push ups. Trying to keep himself fit. But mostly he was lonely without anyone to talk to. Sometimes he’d talk to himself. 

Suddenly he heard the jailer doors open. The familiar clack of boots sounded across the floor in a drag while the unfamiliar snap of heels followed behind. Tom peered around the footboard of his cot to see who the figure was. The pleated mauve skirt swished by in a fashion that told the young man that not only did this woman mean business, but she was required to look good doing it. Her heels trailed forward following the police officer to the cell beside him. He barely caught a glimpse of the rest of her figure as he sat up from his bed. 

She was fuckin’ fit though. 

That he could tell. 

“Bail’s been posted.” The copper noted. The jail doors slid open dramatically. 

There was a knowing silence Tom was sure that could only come from two members of the same family. This could be the sister she was just speaking of. 

“Come on then,” The unfamiliar gruff sounding female voice said exsasperated. “Not waiting around for you all day.” 

He heard his new neighbor's, former neighbor, heels clattered against the floor in a slight fumble. As if she was suddenly nervous or unsteady. If he immediately pinned himself against the cell bars maybe he could get a look. He was already edging a bit closer to the footboard in curiosity. Slowly he let his feet touch the ground, but still debated taking a peak. 

After all, wasn't the mystery of her a whole ‘nother level of attraction? 

He could hear them walking off, two sets of heels packing a punch in the empty jail. Most trouble makers had been drafted or were dodging the draft leaving prison cells empty.

“What you looking for?” The older woman asked with a slight pause. 

He edged himself closer to the bars. 

Tom felt his heart beating faster, mouth a gap with interest to see her. There was a great debate in his head as to whether to leer or not. Maybe she wanted him to, a bit. That’s why her sister was asking. 

What you looking for?

He could ask himself the same thing. She didn’t need Tom Bennett looking her up and down. Didn’t need anymore flirtation between cold iron bars. The lady had been through enough these last couple of days. Didn’t need his sorry ass staring down her beautiful bottom. 

“Let’s go.” The heels dragged as if she was protesting. 

He gave himself a little smirk knowing full well she was just as curious as him. 

He let himself a little peek at her. 

She was the smaller in height of the two women. Her hips swayed in a pretty little checkered red dress with strappy black heels and stockings. Her thick black belt defined her waist, and yeah, her ass was nice. 

Fuckin perfect even. 

Then there was her hair. Beautiful blonde ringlets laid in a mixture of flat and perfectly hairsprayed cascading down her back like a golden waterfall. He couldn’t see her face, but fuck, yeah, she was gorgeous. 

Gorgeous. 

Dangerous. 

Exactly his type. 

Needless to say, Tom Bennett fell a little bit in love.

He was in prison another week and a half before they convinced him to join up. 

It was actually Tom who convinced the coppers he’d join up. 

He wasn’t actually joining up though. 

Tom Bennett as of a half hour ago was a conscientious objector. 

He was smirking about picking through leaflets trying to focus on his current “change of heart”. He couldn’t. His mind kept going to her. That shrill little voice with all her demands was gnawing at his mind. 

He might have been flirting. 

She might have been flirting too. 

Tom read the sentence for the eighth time trying hard to let the words sink in. Hell, even without her wiggling in that pretty little dress in his brain over and over again he’d still be at a loss on these pamphlets his dad had lying about. The paper was thick and his eyes were heavy. 

He needed a smoke.

He was flicking his lighter, feet up on the table in their little kitchen when his sister, Lois sulked in. 

“Is that your pacifist face?” The smile in her voice was flickering. “Might have to try a bit harder?” Her voice was soft and delicate. He could tell something was the matter, but still let his mouth run. 

“You too if that’s your happy face.” He looked her over. Sad smile blistered her discomfort as she let out a sigh. He moved on to reading more hoping not to deal with the fallout of his comment. “I got a shirt that needs ironing if you need to take your mind off Harry and that.” 

Lois might be in too deep with her troubles of the heart. 

It’d be best off if he took his mind off the woman in the cell too. 

He heard her angry steps fall into place up the stairs. 

Stomp. 

Stomp. 

Stomp. 

Fuck. 

“Oh come on Lois I was joking.” How many times had he said that today?

Tom huffed, squeezing the lighter in his hand. His shoes slammed down on the ground as he threw the pamphlet onto the table. He wasn’t reading it much anyway. He watched the flickering of the orange flash sparking on the lighter. He thought of the car on fire, the car she stole, her ex’s car. Bloke probably deserved it. 

Who cheats on a girl like her? 

Da doesn’t like him smoking inside so Tom pushes himself onto the street stumbling a bit as his foot catches on something. 

“The fuck is this?” He scooped up the paper. It was a propaganda flyer for the Royal British Navy. At least it ain’t the fuckin army he thinks.

He picked it up, crumbled it, tossed it down the empty street. Tom pulled smokes from his back pocket having a light. He noticed the bedroom light to his and Lois’ room on. He rubbed his forehead thinking he’d have to get in a word with his sister. Set her straight on Harry. Set her straight on herself really. 

Tom Bennett loved his family. 

He loved his sister and his dad. 

Even though she was gone he loved his mum. He really, really fuckin loved his mom. He remembered holding her hand as she scooped an orange from the market into her purse. They left with groceries, but did not pay for the fruit. 

“Don’t tell your Da, Tommy.” She had put her finger to her lips as she swung his little hand back and forth down the road. He remembered marveling at the stolen fruit. It was bright and his. A gift from his mum. “It’ll be our little secret.” 

He smiled at the memory letting the smoke blow from his mouth. 

She had been the black sheep of her family too. 

He knew now that his mum had a compulsion she couldn’t keep in check at times. Well, not true, when she was with Lois or Da she kept up appearances, but with her Tommy, she could be herself. She was self assured, confident, and liked to test boundaries. It was why her family had all but abandoned her when she had married his Da. 

Difficult. 

Like him. 

Da always said he was her spitting image. 

Her little twin. 

What he wouldn’t give to have her here telling him what to do. 

He’d trade anything. 

Everything. 

But she was dead and he was twisting a cigarette in his hand trying to remember what that first orange felt like. Tasted like. His first taste of rebellion. His first realization that his parent, his mum, wasn’t perfect. He remembered how the skin of the orange peel had gotten under his fingernails, how it felt slimy and sticky. How it had looked. She had grinned and watched him tear into it like a little lion. 

“You are a little fruit beast!” He had felt so happy under her praise. 

He felt like a king in her eyes. 

Now he was just a sad bloke pining over a girl with pretty curls and a little mean streak wishing he had his mum to talk to about her, how he wanted to find her. 

“You’d like her, mum.” He said to the air blowing out curly grey smoke. “You’d like her a lot.” 

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

A Court of Ice and Shadows: Chapter 2

OC Character x Azriel

Summary: Set after "A Court of Silver Flames" (ACOSF), this story follows original character Lene, an elite warrior of the Hesker Clan from the Winter Court. Tasked with diplomatic duty in the Night Court, Lene's mission is to help retrain the Valkyries and help squash potential uprising in the Illyrian camps. As she navigates centuries-old animosities and discovers herself beyond the icy confines of her homeland, Lene must confront her past and decide who she wants to become.

Click here for other parts:

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Characters: Featuring original characters alongside core characters from the ACOTAR series.

Disclaimers: All characters and settings pertaining to the core ACOTAR series belong to Sarah J. Maas, with additional material created for the purpose of this fanfiction

Content Warnings: None.

Note: Some words used in this story are of Norwegian or Scandinavian origin. I do not speak either language, but adapted the researched words to fit the narrative. For notes regarding any of these words, see the end of the chapter.

Chapter Two

Lene awoke to the gentle, wet nuzzles of Lumi, her spirited pet white fox, on her nose. Blinking open her eyes, she found herself gazing into Lumi’s mischievous black eyes. With a groggy hand, she reached out to scratch behind Lumi’s ears, earning a chorus of soft, happy yips. Stretching languidly, Lene yawned deeply, arms reaching towards the morning light as Lumi, energized, bounded off the bed. Her small paws clicked against the wooden floor, disappearing under the bed in a playful scurry.

Sitting up, Lene observed the soft sunlight filtering through the curtains, gently brushing sleep from her eyes. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet touching the floor just in time for Lumi to playfully nip at her toes. "Lumi, sluta!" she commanded with a laugh. The little fox, undeterred but obedient, retreated under the bed, where the sound of her digging resonated softly against the wood.

After a thorough morning ritual of bathing and grooming, Lene braided her hair in an elegant crown around her head, allowing her remaining blonde locks to cascade freely down her back. She chose a red tunic edged with soft white fur and paired it with lined black trousers, slipping her boots on over them. With Lumi trailing behind her, yipping playfully, Lene made her way to the dining room for breakfast.

The dining room buzzed with the chatter of other fae women, each garbed in luxurious furs and fleeces that matched their pale winter complexions. As Lene walked in, she acknowledged the morning greetings with nods, making her way to the head of the room. The breakfast table was laden with an array of foods: stacks of fresh bread, rolls, and eggs prepared in every conceivable way, alongside bowls of various flavored yogurts and granola. With a stomach beginning to twist with nerves about her upcoming meeting with Kallias, Lene chose a simple bowl of plain yogurt.

Below the table, Lumi darted about, nearly tripping Lene in her excitement. With a smile, Lene tossed a hard-boiled egg to the floor for her fox. Lumi caught it midair and scampered off, instantly pursued by two 

Lene surveyed the bustling dining room, her gaze flitting past her grandmother, who was deeply engrossed in quiet conversation with two other venerable fae matrons. Her search for a seat continued until her eyes landed on Kindra, her forthright and somewhat boisterous friend. Kindra was animatedly waving her over, a slice of toast in hand, liberally sprinkling crumbs onto the unfortunate soul seated beside her. Lene made her way over and settled down on the ornately carved bench beside her.

No sooner had Lene taken her seat than Kindra wolfed down another mouthful of her breakfast and, without missing a beat, scooped a spoonful of yogurt from Lene’s bowl.

"Oh sure," Lene remarked dryly, "not like I was going to eat that or anything."

Kindra rolled her eyes. "There’s more up there."

"My point exactly," Lene retorted, idly stirring her yogurt.

"What’s got you in a mood?" Kindra inquired, stretching across the table to nab an apple slice from another diner, who promptly snatched her plate away.

"Nothing, just have a busy morning ahead," Lene muttered.

Kindra leaned back, eyeing the breakfast spread as she considered whether to reload her plate. "Busy with what?"

"I have a meeting with High Lord Kallias," Lene replied, taking a tentative bite of her yogurt and grimacing slightly as a wave of nausea hit her.

Meanwhile, Kindra was attempting to coax a young girl with flaming red hair and an arctic wolf at her side for another pastry. The girl merely shot her a glare and walked off, leaving Kindra to theatrically throw up her hands in mock indignation before turning back to Lene.

"What does he want?" Kindra finally asked.

"He didn’t specify, just said he wanted to meet," Lene murmured, swirling her spoon through her yogurt.

"So how long will you be gone?" Kindra asked, delving into her own bowl of orange slices.

"Meeting starts at 10, so I doubt I’ll be back for lunch."

"Will you be around for the hunt this afternoon?" Kindra mumbled, her mouth full.

Lene glanced over, her expression one of mild disgust as Kindra continued to devour her meal with gusto. "Gods, Kindra, slow down—your food isn’t going anywhere."

Kindra peeked up through her brows at Lene and began to eat comically slow. Lene shook her head, "I’m not sure when I’ll be done, so don’t wait up for me."

"Suit yourself," Kindra replied, her exaggerated slowness causing an orange slice to tumble from her spoon and land on the table with a slap.

Lene scoffed lightly, pushing back from the table and swiftly reclaiming her bowl of yogurt just as Kindra reached out for another taste. With a slight smile, Lene moved through the dining room to where her grandmother was engaged in conversation, gently placing her hand on the elder’s shoulder. Without pausing her discussion, her grandmother warmly clasped Lene’s hand, her thumb tracing soothing circles over her knuckles. As the conversation came to a close, her grandmother turned her sharp gaze upward to meet Lene’s.

“I’m leaving a bit early, just wanted to say goodbye,” Lene announced softly.

Her grandmother responded with a tender smile, reaching up to plant a warm kiss on Lene’s cheek. “Safe travels, dear. Give Kallias my best wishes,” she murmured.

With a final nod to her grandmother, Lene exited the bustling dining room. She collected her thick parka by the doorway, fastening it securely around her neck and buttoning up the sides against the biting cold. Just as she opened the front door, Lumi, in a burst of energy, darted from an adjoining room. The fox’s hurried paws caused the runner in the hallway to bunch up and fly into the air behind her, adding a comic flair to her dramatic exit as she dove off the front steps. 

Lene shielded her eyes against the bright reflection of the sun on the fresh snow. As her vision adjusted, she spotted Lumi joyfully burrowing her snout into the snow, scooting along the surface and carving a shallow trench in her wake. The path leading from the house had been cleared earlier that morning, prompting a chuckle from Lene as she made her way out the front gates toward the stables. Lumi yipped happily alongside her. 

Lene swung open the stable doors to reveal twenty majestic elk standing in their pens, bathed in the blend of fae light and the golden sunlight that seeped through the barn's creviced walls. She had always cherished her visits to the barn since her childhood, fascinated by the elaborate life of the elk raised by the Winter Court for both transportation and sport. She reveled in the memories of learning to ride them, guiding them through the thick snow, and utilizing their innate instincts to navigate mountainous trails. The summer months brought a different joy, watching the elk herders drive the herds through cascading waterfalls to shed their thick winter coats and refresh in the rushing rivers.

As Lene strolled down the stall hallway, Lumi busied herself amongst the hay bales, hunting for mice. The elk grumbled and shifted, their eagerness to roam palpable in the cool morning air. The stable hands had already fed them but had yet to release them to the day's freedom.

Lene retrieved a harness and saddle from the storage rack and proceeded towards the end of the hall to Brynjar’s pen. Brynjar, a formidable bull and her mother’s personal elk, now Lene’s, looked over his shoulder as she approached and set down the riding gear onto the straw-covered floor.

"Morning, gorgeous," Lene cooed affectionately, her gloved hand gliding over Brynjar's broad back. The bull responded with a grunt, shifting his hooves slightly on the stable floor.

Lene circled Brynjar, her eyes scanning meticulously for any signs of injury or discomfort. Her mother had instilled in her the wisdom to treat these noble creatures as warriors; they should appear ready and unencumbered for the day's tasks. If an elk showed any sign of unreadiness, it was best not to strain them. 

Satisfied with her inspection, Lene dragged a stool over from the corner of the stable under Brynjar's watchful, albeit indifferent gaze. Standing at an impressive 7 feet tall from hoof to ear tip, with antlers that added several more feet to his height, Brynjar towered over Lene. Even with her head just reaching his broad shoulder, saddling the stout elk was no minor feat.

She hoisted the saddle over his back, eliciting a low groan from the animal. "You big baby," she teased, securing the saddle strap around his midsection. "You're going to grumble now, but once you're out in the snow, you'll be the happiest there," she chided gently.

Indeed, Brynjar had shown a marked reluctance to leave the barn since her mother's passing. It had required months of patient coaxing and gentle reassurance before he would even consider stepping outside with Lene or anyone else. The stable hands had nearly given up, contemplating retirement for the old bull, but Lene couldn’t bear the thought of him fading into obscurity within the herd—not when her mother had so lovingly branded him with the family crest and devoted years to his training.

The day Brynjar finally ventured back outdoors marked a turning point. Lene, overwhelmed by frustration and sorrow, had sobbed, screamed, and wailed at him, pleading for him to accompany her into the woods on the trails her mother had cherished. When he remained unmoving, Lene had stormed out of the barn and collapsed in the snow, her grief pouring out. It was only then that Brynjar, perhaps moved by her despair, had ambled out to lay beside her, offering his warm, albeit malodorous, side for comfort. Since that poignant moment, Brynjar had complied with nearly anything Lene asked of him, whether it was wearing garlands in his antlers or sporting a wreath around his neck for the solstice parade.

Once Brynjar was fully saddled, Lene climbed onto his back, feeling the massive elk grumble under her weight. The stable hands had often advised her to remain on the ground while fitting the bit, but Lene had her own methods. She preferred to have Brynjar dip his long snout so she could more easily slide the bit into his mouth, using gravity to her advantage. Even the stable master could only shake her head, half-amused and half-baffled by the unique rapport Lene and Brynjar had forged, and Lene's insistence on her slightly unorthodox techniques.

With the bit securely fastened, Brynjar lifted his head back up, and Lene dismounted, guiding the massive bull out of his stall. A rustle from the neighboring pen caught her attention as the elk next door let out a discontented bark and a rough stomp. Glancing over, Lene called out, “Lumi, whatever you’re chasing in there isn’t worth getting stomped on.” True to form, Lumi, ever the little mischief-maker, wriggled her way out from under the pen door, her white fur now tinged with dirt.

Lumi darted ahead of Lene and Brynjar, bounding out of the stable into the snow-blanketed landscape, quickly disappearing among the white drifts. Brynjar, moving at a more sedate pace, followed Lene out of the barn. She secured the door behind them and then pulled gently on the bit, commanding, “Buga!”

With a resigned grumble, Brynjar lowered his front legs, kneeling into the snow to facilitate Lene’s ascent back onto the saddle without the need for a stool. At her next command, “Opp,” Brynjar obediently straightened, lifting Lene with him as he rose. Once securely seated, Lene guided him forward with a light tug, and the pair began their slow, deliberate trek through the snow towards the dense forest that bordered the manor grounds.

Notes: 

Sluta: “Stop” in Swedish

Buga: “Bow” in Swedish

Opp: “Up” in Swedish

[entomolog-t]

The Shadow We Cast - 2

My last G/t July Prompt that will actually be done in July; Melancholy!

- - - -

Previous Chapter: Chapter 1

Next Chapter: Chapter 3

Word count: 2460

CW: Adult language, mild gore (butchering food, mentions of blood), substances (beer)

My kitchen, thankfully, didn’t look as bad as I had expected in the aftermath of Sal’s butchering. Don’t get me wrong, it still looked like a scaled down horror scene, complete with the bowl filled with various innards and traces of little bloodied hand and foot prints smeared about, but Sal had done a remarkable job keeping the carnage to a minimum. The three or four beers I’d downed while waiting also seemed to have helped mitigate my queasiness. If you squint it's just chicken... just … don’t think too hard.

Instead, I turned my gaze down to the little man on my counter. He was absolutely beaming. With one hand perched on his hip and the other wielding the ridiculously oversized knife, he smiled up at me, clearly proud of his handiwork. He’d shed a layer or two of clothing in the process of butchering and I tried not to dwell on questioning if that was more, or less sanitary. What I did dwell on however, was him. Man, he was a burly little thing… while the sheer difference in size between us made it near impossible to pick up on the finer details of his features without being intimately close, I didn't have to be uncomfortably close to notice he, in spite of his stature, was a sizable man. Lean, and wildly muscular, boasting a broad chest and narrow waist… he could have told me he was an action figure brought to life and I wouldn't have hesitated to believe him.

“I cut, you cook?” The question sounds less like a true question and more akin to instruction. He shifted awkwardly under my gaze.

“Oh- uh, yeah man, sure thing.” While his proficiency in butchering more than surpassed my expectations, I was not about to trust a questionably feral miniature man with any sort of cooking appliances. I eyed the meat cautiously, two main thoughts becoming prominent in my mind; I was not about to cook hawk on any of my pans, and I was most certainly not about to eat it plain.

The weight of his eyes on me was somehow heavier than he himself. I felt him watch as I rummaged through the fridge, pulling out a mishmash of ingredients to make a half-assed gochujang sauce. With a quick wipe down of a section of the counter I took out a second cutting board, dishes be damned, and began to mince some garlic. He took a step back, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He eyed the garlic, among the other ingredients, warily. I smiled to myself. Oh sure, I’m the bad guy for questioning hawk, but garlic is gross? Though, to his credit, he kept his thoughts to himself.

He busied himself with inspecting the various ingredients I’d brought out, padding around each container curiously. He paid particularly close attention as I emptied a sizeable amount of maple syrup into the bowl, lingering just close enough to peer down into the mix.

“Do you want to try some?” I ask, holding up the spoon to him. His eyes bounce between me and the contents of the spoon before he gives in and dips a finger into the mix. The sight of his tiny hand gripping the edge of the spoon was jarring. Ignoring his surroundings he looked so… normal. So human… but seeing him directly contrasted against such a mundane object almost felt like an optical illusion. He examines the sauce for a moment, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. With a small shrug, his curiosity wins over, and he gives the sauce a taste. His face is immediately alight with shock, and he turns to look at me with an expression of awe.

“Uh… you like it?” Instead of a verbal response, he reaches his hand back onto the spoon, taking a near fistful of sauce. I turn my head to avoid him catching sight of the face I pull at the stomach churning image of a full grown man mowing down on sauce as if it's Michelin-Starred decadence. I ignore the soft yelp he makes in protest as I pull the spoon away, and quickly interject before he can voice his disgruntlement .

“So, I’m thinking we cook these up on the barbecue outside.” I say, averting my gaze from the little monstrosity and the plethora of grotesque slurping sounds coming from his general direction as he licks his fingers clean. Sal makes a sort of hum in agreement. Had he washed his hands after butchering the hawk? I suppress a gag. I needed another drink. Stuffing a few beers under one arm, I haphazardly gathered up the sauce, tongs and meat with my free hand. With my arms more than a little full, I cast my gaze down to Sal,

“Uh, I’ll just set this up outside and then come ba-”

He jumped.

Had my reaction time been any better I’m sure I would have flinched out of the way of the tiny man throwing himself off the counter towards me, but instead all I managed was a yelp in surprise. He caught two handfuls of my shirt fabric and climbed up my midsection with an uncanny speed that could put a seasoned rockclimber to shame. The feeling of such a small and fast moving being freely skittering up my body made my skin crawl. He situated himself near the crook of my arm, a little too suspiciously close to the sauce for my liking, and patted my arm as if I were a horse he was kicking into gear.

---

What a way to travel! I couldn’t help but stare in absolute wonder as the ground flew by, with Mark seemingly moving slow yet covering such boggling distances with each step. This was exhilarating! My heart raced in my chest, and as I leaned back against Mark, I noticed with a bit of a chuckle, so did his.

He made his way out to the porch towards some large metal contraption he had referred to as a bar-bah-kyou? I hopped off onto what seemed like a sort of counter top jutting out from the barbah-thingy’s side as he emptied his arms. As I approached the vaguely tank-like structure, Mark fiddled with something beneath the machine. Upon examination, the barbah-thingy had a handle on the front as well as an assortment of dials lining its base. As I made my way closer, Mark’s hand tentatively blocked my path. I shot him a glare as he pushed me back, and he returned an apologetic smile.

“Uh, just… stand back a little.” He pressed a button. An almost insectoid clicking sound emanated from the machine. There was a whoosh, followed by a sudden increase in heat as the machine was somehow brought to life. Grinning, Mark opened up the tank-thing to show off the flames roaring up inside.

Well, that was certainly easier than rubbing sticks together.

Before I could get a closer look, he closed the lid.

“It's gotta heat up a bit before we're good.” I snorted. It seemed plenty hot to me, but he was in charge of cooking, so I wasn’t about to be fussy. He offered his hand, and I swung myself on, only to immediately be set down on a table between two wooden chairs, with Marking dropping himself into the chair to my left. He stared down at me for a moment before reaching for another one of the metallic cans.

The can made an odd hissing sound as Mark pried open the lid. As he took a swig from the can, I inspected the collection of its unopened brethren beside me. The cans were cool to the touch, with little beads of moisture forming along their surface. The muggy summer air loomed around me, tempting me to lean against the chilled metal surface of the can, but I decided against the potential social faux pas. There were mountains decorating the can, along with bright red letters. It had been a while since I'd seen human writing, especially the squiggly kind, and I wracked my brain trying to place the sounds to the letters. C…ow… ers? C-oo..wers? I felt my brow furrow in frustration. A contented sigh from Mark interrupted my attempts to decode his drink.

“What’re you drinking?” Mark looked a little caught off guard. He chuckled.

“It’s beer.” Beer? Man I was way off on my human spelling. Yikes. “Do you, uh... want some?”

The thought of the cool condensation made that an easy and enthusiastic yes from me. He reached for his can and hesitated. A wide smile formed on his face as he stood. I suppressed the urge to take a step back at his sudden movement. Fuck was he ever big.

“Sick. Lemme go get you a glass.”

Mark returned with a glass that was somehow comically small pinched between his massive fingers, yet within my own hands seemed more like a hefty bucket. Although the bucket-glass would undoubtedly be a bit of a challenge to drink from, I wasn't about to complain about getting more than my fair share of a cool drink.

As he filled my glass he cast me a wary gaze,

“Um, Sal? Have you … had alcohol before?”

“I thought this was beer.” He snorted. I had no idea why his mistake was so funny.

“I guess that's a no?” I shrugged. How could I know if I’d had it if I didn’t know what it tasted like. He laughed again and I smiled, albeit a bit nervously. What was so funny to him?

“Um.. it makes you feel good. Um, almost tingly? But if you have a lot it makes you feel a bit slow and your thoughts feel a bit…um, weird. It lowers inhibitions and-” he prattled on about how this “special drink” would make you feel, but all I could think of was how cool the glass felt against the palms of my hand. The liquid was a warm amber colour filled with bubbles that collected into a soft layer of foam at the top. It hissed quietly as the bubbles rose to the surface. A cool drink that made you feel good? Fine by me. With a bit more effort than would be desirable I lifted the drink to my lips and took a long chug. The size of the glass paired with its awkward weight made trying to control the flow of the liquid a borderline impossible task. As I tilted the glass I got a cool shock as the beer splashed against the entirety of my face, and given the heat, I really had no complaints. The bubbles were strange and stung at my throat but the strangely crisp taste was invigorating. I gulped greedily, not bothered that beer was running down my neck. The change in temperature from the spill was a welcome one.

“Woah, dude” Mark chuckled, placing the tip of his finger on the edge of my glass to guide it away from my face, “Pace yourself.” I shot him a glare, but couldn’t help letting a smirk escape. I held up my glass, making a show of comparing it to his own,

“I think if I’m pacing myself with you I’m still a ways behind.” He shook his head, laughing, and took a long sip from his drink. I did the same. This was nice. The summer heat felt almost enjoyable with his company, especially with the beer included in the equation.

“So… Have you been here long?” I cocked my head, unsure of what he meant, “Um…you know, in the area.” He clarified as he gestured to the expanse of his yard. I stared ahead, feeling as though if I stared hard enough I’d be able to look back through the years I’d been here.

“Yeah, it's been a while.” I took another sip.

“Do you like it here?” That question, casual as it may be, caught me off-guard. Did I like it here? This area was familiar. I’d been in the same spot far longer than I could remember. From the perspective of the porch I felt I could look out at the yard and see the memories that littered what had become my "home range"… The tree I’d climbed when a particularly bad storm had flooded the yard… the spot right below where a squirrel had chased me from their cache… the lattice work right beneath the window where I used to climb to - I shook the memories away.

“It’s home.”

I felt a strange yet familiar feeling claw at the edges of my mind. An emptiness… A total lack of… something. I took another sip, hoping to drown the thoughts, and with any luck, maybe find what I was missing at the bottom of my glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark smile, though it didn’t quite reach the rest of his face. He heaved a weary sigh before speaking, a sound that conveyed far more to me than whatever words would follow.

“I hope it’ll start to feel like home for me soon.” He stood, making his way to the fire-tank-thing. The sun had come close to setting, leaving the sky ablaze with warm hues- a stunning display of pinks and golds igniting the horizon. Mark stood out against the backdrop, shrouded in shadow, more like a part of the treeline than a living being… he was fucking massive- no... It wasn’t him that was massive…something deep within the recesses of my brain resented seeing him like that… I took another deep sip from the glass, flushing the thought from my mind. I closed my eyes and leaned back, listening to the sounds of birds in the air, and breathing in the smell of meat roasting above a flame. Though the summer heat was waning, it was as if an ember was being stoked from within my core. A persistent warmth seemed to be rising up from within, as if the very essence of the season had somehow been ignited in my soul. I felt… good.

With my eyes closed I could picture what it would be like… just sitting in the chair to my right, cold can of beer in hand… looking out across a yard I could clear in a handful of strides… Mark sitting down in the chair to my left, not looking down, but instead looking at me. I didn’t care so much for the specifics of the imagery my brain has conjured up… but more so what it seemed to represent in my mind. The image felt close… comfortable, whereas I … when I opened my eyes I felt so far away.

I took another drink.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Professional Oversight

Masterlist

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, power imbalance, blackmail, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are noticed for all the wrong reasons. (plus sized reader)

Characters: Helmut Zemo, Brock Rumlow

A note on reader characters:

For clarity,  each reader will have a defined nickname when appearing in any installment not their own. This is Scribble.

Note: real life interrupted me

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Donkey love Waffles. Take care. 💖

You stare across the courtyard as you let the spoon stick out of your mouth. You hoped the spring would make the days seem less blurred, maybe bring some excitement to your dull life. You suck the last of the yogurt from the silver and scrape the side of the cup, scooping up the fruit bottom and cream. You savour the last bite, so overly sweet it makes your cheeks twitch. 

You tap the empty cup so it makes a hollow noise. You crush it in your hand and stand to toss it in the bin just across from the bench. You sit again and wipe the spoon before you tuck it away, folding it in the kleenex to sink to the bottom of your purse. You sigh and watch a long-necked goose honk at an oblivious pedestrian. 

You’re used to it. The sounds, the sights, the latent energy of the university green. You thought it would be better to eat there instead of the stuffy office break room but after a while, it’s just as boring and bleak as the old institutional walls. 

You zip up your purse and checked the slender watch on your wrist. Just a little longer before you have to drag yourself back to your shared desk to answer phones and redirect lost students. You don’t hate your job only that it’s all you have. Your life is as fruitless as the used yogurt cup you just tossed away. 

You wake up, eat, get ready for work, go to work, eat lunch by yourself amidst a sea of indifferent people, go back to your desk, then wait until it’s time for you to go home, and there, nothing. Just you and the evenings filled with lonely restlessness. You want to do something, anything, but you just can’t figure out what. 

You aren’t an interesting person. Plain, at best, with no discernible talent. Friends never flocked to you despite your effort, even as pathetic as those were. You’re always a fleeting thought to other people. You’re kept around so long as you are useful; a study buddy, a wing woman, and occasionally, a shoulder to cry on. But there was rarely any reciprocation in those roles and never anything meaningful enough to call friendship. 

You’re distracted from your existential daze by a shadow above you. You look up at the man as he smiles at you. It’s more akin to a leer. That’s odd. He’s odd. Men don’t smile at you, they barely even see you. And he surely doesn’t belong here. Too old to be a student and his jacket too casual to be a professor. 

“You mind if I sit?” he asks without greeting. His tone is brusque but unconcerned. 

You looked at the empty spot on the bench beside you. You hug your purse and sidle over. You shrug and mumble “sure,” but he's already sitting. 

He sits with his legs wide and pushes his shoulders back. He sighs as he stretches out his broad figure. He glances around nonchalantly and leans back with his elbows over the back of the bench. You look at your watch again. What’s a few minutes early? 

“You work here?” he asks before you can stand. 

You blink and furrow your brow at him then glance around at the green campus. You waver on the bench. You should just walk away but you hate to be rude.  

“Uh, yeah?” you answer awkwardly. 

“Not that you-- you don’t look young enough to be a student, you know? I had a hard time telling, which is why I asked,” he explains as he turned his palm up, “I wasn’t meaning-- heh, well, you look like a very nice lady, is all.” 

You poke your tongue out between your lips and quickly retract it. Your thoughts are racing. You should get back to work and away from this man. He gives you this creepy crawly feeling. 

“Brock,” he holds out his hand as your eyes graze the dark five o’clock shadow along his sharp jawline. 

You force out your own name and nervously shake his hand. You’re polite, perhaps overly so, but your customer service instinct can’t be repressed. His grip is firm and his hand big enough to cover yours entirely. He lets you go reluctantly and you hook your purse over your arm. 

“Sorry, I gotta get back to work--” you stand as the sirens in your head tell you to leave. His grips speckles in your hands, throbbing in the bones, tingling on your skin. 

“That’s too bad,” he says coolly, “maybe I’ll see you around.” 

You nod dumbly and step past him. You trod down the path, on your usual route, then stop as your suspicions tug at your mind. You turn back as he remains on the bench, his gaze stuck to you. 

“You work here too?” you call back. 

He shakes his head and smirks. He doesn’t say anything as you frown. He doesn’t move. He just watches. You turned back to your path and quickly stomp away. You’re unsettled by his presence alone but his assured calmness at being an intruder on campus is even more frightening. Not least of all, his interest in you; always an unexpected trait. 

🖊️

After work, you walk across campus without urgency. You fall into autopilot. Your departure trails over its usual route. There’s nothing special awaiting you at your destination; only your couch and a frozen pizza.  

Students still loiter and hop up the steps of the buildings on the way to evening classes. You envy them just as you had when you were in their shoes. You were never really one of them. You always felt like you were on the outside looking in. You didn’t find your niche, you just floated along untethered, still lost in the breeze. 

The lot you park in is mostly empty. You prefer that one even though it’s a ten minute walk from the building you work in. It’s far from the main row and so you didn’t get caught in a jam on your way out, not until you get to the roundabout near the east entrance. 

You stroll along behind the few other cars parked before yours and check your phone for the time. You don’t hear the footsteps as they approach and the dimming sky disguises his shadow. You don't notice any of it until you’re grappled from behind. You’re taken off your feet as a large hand covers your mouth. 

Your phone bounces against the tarmac and your bag is flung from your arm. You kick out and flail, whining into the calloused palm as your eyes prickle. You grasp at the thick arms as you’re spun around to face the open trunk. You kicked at the man’s feet as he bends you and shoves you headfirst into the trunk. You try to push yourself out but he’s too strong. 

The lid shuts and you roll over to beat on it as you holler. Your heart pounds in your ears and your lungs burned as your voice turns to horrible gasps. Panic drowns you as the engine turns over and the car backs out smoothly.

Oh no, no, no. This can’t be happening. 

The suddenness of it all has you dizzy. The man’s scent clings in your nose. You've smelled that before. Your eyes round in the darkness as the tires roll without stopping. No, no, no. That man! The same one on the bench. 

You didn’t forget him. You couldn’t. The abnormality, the absurdity of his introduction, was enough to stick in your head. It’s only that you didn’t let yourself believe it was anything but a strange encounter. You know who you are, you know you’re nothing special. Unlike him, you’re not interesting enough to remember. 

Or so you thought. 

You thump on the lid of the trunk, then the back, screaming. The car doesn’t stop. The man only muffles your voice with the radio. As you continue your assault on the walls of the trunk, he slams on the brakes so that you roll violently into the siding. He does the same several times until you’re quiet and stunned. 

Your adrenaline fades to fear as you can only lay in the dark and dread what comes next. The worst scenarios race through your mind but every now and then, your heartbeat spikes again. You have to get out.

Bang, bang, bang, ‘let me out!’ 

You’re shaken and exhausted but utterly and painfully awake. Whatever comes next, you can’t just put your head down and ignore it. Not like everything else in your life. This is the one thing you have to face, whether you like it or not. You can’t just brush it off, you can’t just forget. 

You wanted desperately for something to happen in your dull life but could never conjure a nightmare as real as this. 

🖊️

When the engine slows and the axle lurches to a stop, you’re not ready. How could you be ready for any of this? You don’t understand why this is happening to you. 

The car shuts off and your heart reaches its paramount. It’s beating so fast you can’t think. You can barely breathe. The car door slams shut and shakes the entire vehicle, making clear that you are overpowered. Footsteps tread over the ground towards the trunk and you steel yourself for the horror that awaits you. 

You know his face before you see it. Even as the shadows swallow up his features, you know him. He grabs you by the front of your blazer, hauling you out without a word. He handles you like a stray caught; rough and agitated. You claw helplessly at him and whine. 

“Please--” 

“Scream one more time,” he spins you and curls an arm around your neck, marching you forward with stunted steps, “and I’ll crush your throat.” 

You gurgle and clasp onto hit thick forearm. Your tears well over, though your face is already raw from the waves of terror that poured over in the black of the trunk. Lights wash over you and give some sense to the grounds around you. 

You expect an abandoned warehouse or some faraway cabin. Somewhere remote where you’ll never be found. Somewhere you’d be forgotten. Who is there to forget you? 

Instead, you make your way up a long walkway before a large mansion. At least compared to your box apartment, it seems as such. Your low heels clack shakingly as the man keeps you firmly hooked. He takes you up the front steps, between replicas of famous status, and lets himself in through the double doors, the brass knockers jiggling with his entrance. 

He doesn’t seem the type to live in a place like this. The thought is silly given your circumstance. Your sobs settle to hiccups as your mind wanders to the tedious and unimportant. Is that a genuine Rembrandt on the wall? 

“Can you walk on your own or do I keep the leash on?” He snarls. 

You gulp and try to nod against his burly muscle, “yes...” 

He lets go at the wisp of your agreement. You shudder and pull away from him, not far as you don’t want to instigate him. You cross your arms and look at him, pouting as tears roll to your chin. It is the man from the bench. You knew it but now you’re certain. 

“Up,” he points to the left branch of the double staircase. 

“Sir, please, why are you doing this--”  

“Sir?” He grimaces, “no questions. Just go.” 

You snivel and put your head down. You turn stiffly to the staircase and reach for the curled banister. You climb with dread heavy in your heels. Your shoe slips off and you stumble. He growls and lifts you under your shoulders, dragging you up the last few steps. 

“Left. Second door on your right,” he commands. 

You whimper and hug yourself again. You obey as peruse along the finely decorated walls. The details assure you that whoever’s home this is has a precise eye. There is some familiarity in the style; it reminds you of some of the offices nestled in the heart of the university. 

He reaches around you, crowding you against the door as he turns the handle. His breath scalds down your neck. Is he smelling you? 

He pushes the door open and snaps his fingers. You enter and look around for an answer. Why are you here? Who has brought you here?  

The leather chair behind the desk has its back to you. You can see a man’s dark hair above it. Like some sort of movie, he turns to face you slowly. You unwittingly step back against the other man as you’re struck by the reveal. 

“Ah, I was starting to think you got lost,” Helmut Zemo intones as his latent gaze meets your startled one. 

His soft brown hair with wisp of silver, the keen way his lips naturally curve, and his dark eyes. He's unmistakable. The vaunted dean of linguistics and language studies is the last face you expect to see.

“Dean?” You murmur dumbly and chuff out several shallow breaths. 

“Hello, darling,” he purrs as he sits forward, putting his elbows on his desk, “I trust you had a safe journey.” 

“I-- what?” You gasp. You turn to look at the man prowling behind you. “No, he--” you choke as he snarls at you.  

You face the dean again. It doesn’t make sense. Why are you here at the dean’s home? You only really know him by his likeness, pasted on every literary publication on campus and hung in the halls across his faculty. You’ve met him once at some lunch but it was that fleeting formal introduction you forget before you’ve even left the event. 

“Rumlow, I told you to be gentle with her,” he tuts and shakes his head, “allow me to apologise for my colleagues behaviour. He isn’t the type for sorries.” 

You mop your cheeks with your cuffs and sniffle. Your a shaking mess. The other man paces towards the other side of the room. He uncaps the decanter there and pours himself a glass of dark liquor. 

“Now, it is rude to serve oneself before a lady,” Zemo snips, “please, she would do well for it.” He turns to you after reproaching his associate; the man he calls Rumlow. “Sit, dear, let us speak civilly before things get... less civil.” 

You suck in a quaking breath, “I don’t understand--” 

“Sit and I shall explain,” he insists. 

You cross the large study and claim the seat across from him. The other man approaches and holds a glass of flat scotch under your nose. The roiling alcohol fumes and makes your eyes water anew. You accept it he loudly slurps his own. 

“Thank you, but I...” 

“Drink. I believe you will need it.” 

The dean’s words draw your attention back to him. You make yourself sip and scrunch up your nose at the taste. You don’t drink. It only gives you a headache. 

“Now, I’ve brought you hear because I would like to review your work,” he smirks and goosebumps raise on your skin. Rumlow looms close as Zemo’s tone puts you on edge. “I do enjoy when university staff are so eager to put their work out there.” 

You’re confused. What does he mean? You’re not a PhD, you’re no faculty spending hours writing papers on physics, you’re just a registrar’s assistant. 

“Ahem, let me just...” he pauses and unfolds a tablet on the desk. He props it up in the case and pulls his glasses down to his nose. He taps the screen and begins to read, “'You can hardly believe it’s real. That you’ve put yourself in this position. There’s no going back now. There is no escape from this man...'” he pauses and looks up at you, waiting for a reaction. Your spine tingles, “let me go on to my favourite passage,” he refocuses on the tablet, “’his rough hands grazed her soft skin, making her shiver, making her whine. He smothers her protests and her breath as he drowns her in a hungry kiss”.” 

Again he looks at you. You sink down in chair and turn your attention to the liquor. Oh no. You make yourself drink. You don’t stop until it’s empty. The other man laughs. 

“You have a way with prose,” Zemo praises. 

“Please,” you choke through the burn, “I... its just stories. They’re meant to be private. It’s...” you bite your lower lip. It still doesn’t make sense. “Why am I here?” 

Now both men laugh. You’re the joke. You look between then. Rumlow approaches and you shy away. He takes the empty glass and walks away with it. He clinks it down with his own on the oak bar. 

Zemo watches you intently. You rock in the chair. He could’ve fired you in the office, so what is all this? 

“I like your hypotheses,” he slithers, “I thought we might test them out. As is the academic way.” 

“What?” You pulses thumps in your temples, “what do you--” 

Rumlow startles you as he closes his hands around your neck from behind. He hushes you as he squeezes your yipe into a croak. He drags you up to your feet as you writhe and kick out. One of your shoes falls off in your struggle as he lurches you forward. 

“You know, fantasy can be such a good outlet for... self-discovery,” the dean stands as his chair rolls out behind him, “but it pales in comparison to the real thing.” 

“Please--” you crackle out of your throat as Rumlow squeezes your neck tighter. 

“And reality is a writer’s companion. Their work is always better when they have experience to draw on,” he comes around the desk as Rumlow brings you to face him. You can’t help but press yourself to the other man as the dean closes in. “And a creature like you, you’ve never felt desired. That much is clear. It drips from your words. These stories are a plea for more.” 

He runs his fingers up the lapel of your blazer and urges it down your shoulders and arms. You quiver as you’re trapped between the two men. You can only stare wide-eyed as you reach back weakly to claw at the bigger man’s jacket. He growls and you quickly retract. 

“Now, darling, the fear will only make it all the more... exciting,” he draws out the last word teasingly, “have you not written this one already?” 

You whimper as he unbuttons your blouse. You quake as he bares you plain white bra and you quivering stomach. The other man pushes his crotch to you, grinding with a snarl. 

“Ah, Rumlow, patience,” Zemo warns as he peels your blouse down your arms, “my colleague can be rather... impulsive.” 

Your head swells and spins. This can’t be real. You just can’t believe it. The humiliation of being found out is burned through by the fear coursing in your veins. 

“Please,” you eke out again. 

“Shhh,” he presses a finger to your lips and toys with the bottom one. “Mmm,” he turns his hand to frame your mouth, “how has no one ever noticed these pretty lips?” 

He leans in and kisses you. The other man moves a hand to the back of your neck, pinching so you squirm. Rumlow’s other hand hooks around to cover one side your chest, kneading through the unlined cup as you’re suffocated by Zemo’s mouth. 

Zemo purrs and draws back. He licks his lips and hums again. His fingertips crawl down your sides and across your stomach. You squeak and flinch as Rumlow squeezes your neck harder. 

“Darling, you can be good, can’t you? I fear you’ve been for too long,” Zemo taunts, “but can my associate let you go? Might we trust that you are to struck with lust that you cannot possibly flee?” 

You suck in air and babble. You only want the pain to stop. You nod, “yes...” 

“Yes, Dean,” he corrects and sends a look to Rumlow. 

The vice falls away from your neck, instead tugging at the hook of your bra. Zemo’s gaze falls to your tits and he purrs. He fondles you brazenly, running his thumbs over your nipples as the point through the thin fabric. 

“So plain one must appreciate the simple beauty,” he squeezes and leans in to kiss along your cleavage.  

You bra slackens and he lets go to let it slip down. Rumlow untangle it from your arm as Zemo gropes one side of your chest and seals his lips around your nipple. You moan and the air turns static at the vocal betrayal. 

Rumlow laughs and his hand spreads across the other side of your chest. He rolls your nipple harshly, tweaking as you whine. His hand falls down and he feels along your saft tummy. He growls as he slaps your ass with his other hand. You jolt and Zemo’s mouth pops off your tit. 

“Delectable,” he snarls and gives a nip to your flesh. 

Rumlow yanks down the elastic of your plain slacks. The cheap sort you order online. Your panties slip down halfway as he forces the fabric past your thighs. You reach to brace Zemo’s shoulder without thinking, feeling as if you might tip over. 

He touches your elbow as he bends to once more teethe and tease your tits. He bounces them then crushes his face between them. You stare down in shock, still paralysed in disbelief. 

Rumlow rolls your panties down your ass, your ankles bound up in the gathered wool and cotton. He shifts and lowers himself to his knees. He covers your ass with his large hands and you waver on your feet. He pulls your cheeks apart and snarls again. The man sounds like an animal. 

You yelp as he pushes his face into your ass and his tongue swipes along your tight hole. Oh god! Oh! Your muscles knot and coil and you hug Zemo’s head to keep from tipping between them. You reach one arm back as you arch your back and latch onto the other man’s shoulder. 

You drone out a startled but sultry moan. It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before. You haven’t felt this before. Another’s touch. Another’s hunger. You puff out shallow gasp as you’re caught in the storm of warring sensations. Your fear dissipates as you’re overcome by the slow build of please. 

You close your eyes as you try to pretend it’s just one of your stories. One of the many written fantasies you used to tamp down that need for desire. For this! Even alone, even your own touch, could not ease the longing that needles inside you. 

“Darling,” Zemo growls as he kneels in turn and grips your hips, doting on your stomach. He makes your imperfections feel perfect as he worships you with his mouth. 

Rumlow lets out another growl as he laps and his finger tickles up to meet his tongue. You squeal as he pokes his fingertip inside of you, the scalding intrusion tingling in your thighs. It hurts but in a way that you want more. Without a thought, you lean back, urging him deeper into your ass. 

Zemo traces along your pelvis and over the patch of curly hair. His fingers wander between your legs, nudge them apart and he toys with your clit. You quiver as he rolls over your bud, flicking and swirling as you slicken. You feel the blood swelling at his touch. 

He leans forward on the heel of one hand and tilts his head up, delving into your folds. He trails his hand down your thigh and sucks on your clit as he purrs. Rumlow pulls his finger in and out of your ass as you tighten around him, your walls pulse at their duality. 

Your stomach coils and your insides ripple. A tightness bounds you up as you puff out heavily and spasm through the sudden release of tension. You grip Zemo’s hair, forgetting the man has more than a physical hold over you, your other hand curling on Rumlow’s shoulder. You cum with a warbling yawl as you throw your head back. 

Neither man stops until you’re a shaking mess. Until your legs are so slack that you lean back on the man behind you and your whole body threatens to fold over. Rumlow slides his finger free and Zemo wipes his wet lips up your pelvis before he sits back on his heels. 

The move you as you pant loudly. You have no strength left to resist them. You’re strewn across the leather chaise that sits mirror to the desk at the other end of the room. The men circle you as your head lolls and you lay naked but for one heel still on your foot. 

They undress without a word between them. It’s clear this is planned. That they have every single second of the night calculated. You can only get through it. 

As Zemo reveals his furry chest, your cheeks raze with fire. You’re embarrassed more to see the dean like this than for him to see you. You turn your face away only as Rumlow stands even more bare.  

His chest is covered in coarse black hair that trails down to his pelvis. You gasp at the sight of his rigid length bobbing before him. His thighs are corded with thick muscle and his stomach tightens as he steps closer. 

Your turn your head again and nearly squeal at Zemo. Slighter than the other man he is no less eager to have you. As he nears, you curl into yourself. 

They don’t let you disappear or detach. Rumlow grabs you, lifting you off the leather, and takes your places across the chaise. 

Zemo guides you, something in his hand. You can’t keep up with any of it. He turns you to face the other man, nestling his chin into your shoulder as he holds himself flush with you. He sways you and he presses the shape between the top of your cheeks and squirts coolness down your ass. 

He tosses the bottle onto the chaise and it bounces to rest at the end. He rubs the lube around your hole and dips his fingers in, once, twice, three times. He nuzzles you and moves you closer to the leather bench. 

Rumlow reaches for you. Both men guide you over his prone body. You’re made to straddle him with your back to him. He grips his dick and taps the tip on your ass, sliding between your cheeks as he wets himself with the lube. Zemo grabs it and reaches around you. Another squirt adds to the wetness. 

Rumlow pushes his tip against your ring. You yelp and try to pull away. He grabs your shoulder and holds you in place, stretching you around him slowly. You shake at the deep and fervent agony that radiates up your back. 

Zemo coos at you as he strokes your cheek. He climbs up on the chaise as Rumlow drops his legs over the sides. He sits before you, coaxing you as the other man eases you onto his dick. You grit your teeth and cling to the dean’s wrists as he kisses your forehead. 

“It’s alright, darling, you’re doing good,” he praises and pets your head, “just a little more, mm?” You sink down another inch and whimper, “a little more,” he repeats. When at last you bottom out, tears spring fresh down your face. “Very good, darling.” 

“She’s tight,” Rumlow snarls and starts to rock you, “holy shit, she’s fucking--” 

“Language,” Zemo girds as he continues to stroke your face, “you hear that, darling? You are so good. Hm? He likes you.” 

“Weirdo,” Brock mutters but keeps you moving. 

Zemo runs a hand down your body. A tide rolls through you at the soft graze of flesh, and he once more finds your clit. You’re overly sensitive and so full already. He toys with you as you pout out shallow pants. He slowly lays you back as Rumlow takes you across his torso. 

Zemo dips his fingers into your cunt and out again, smearing around your slickness. As his eyes fixate on your cunt, you close your own, hiding beneath your lids. The other man continues to rock from beneath you, stretching you to your limit. 

As Zemo drags his hand from your cunt, the chaise shifts with his weight. He moves closer, draping your legs around him as he slides his tip along your entrance. He pushes along your folds, wetting himself as you quiver, then aligns himself again. He forces his tip inside, just the head, and lingers. 

He raises himself and bends over you as your muscles tug with tension. Rumlow grunts from below as Zemo bends over to kiss you and inches further inside. You nearly cough into his mouth as he gets deeper and deeper. Oh, god, you don’t know if you can take it. 

Rumlow brings his hands around to kneads your tits, his hips tilting as the other bottoms out in your cunt. They both groan as if they can fill your fullness. You throw your arms around Zemo and gnash your teeth, mewling and moaning as you sink your nails into his back. 

He kisses along your chin and cheeks as he starts to thrust. Long, languid, and calm. It has you on fire as the other man matches his tempo. A torturous teasing rhythm that has you writhing and whimpering. 

You’re crushed between them, bodies sweaty and sticking, the friction of hair and skin, of saliva and need. Your head lolls as Zemo nips and sucks as Zemo nips and sucks at your throat, a hand snaking under your ass, basking in the feel of you as nails graze tender flesh. 

A roughness from below as Rumlow bucks his hips harder, plunging deeper, breathing across your scalp as he grunts and growls. His pinches and gropes your chest as your spine curves wantingly. You succumb to your basest desires, to the fantasies you fall asleep to, the very same that you put to paper. It’s horrid but it’s oh so delightful, being used and bruised and tortured until you just can’t think. 

“That’s it, darling, you see how natural it is,” Zemo purrs as he quickens, “how you give yourself over to your purpose. You always knew you would...” he speaks between stolid groans, “those weren’t only stories...” he cradles your head and lifts it, looking deep into your eyes as he ruts into you, the man below you matching his time, “you were begging for this.” 

Your eyes roll back and you cum again. You feel something inside you snap, like a dam breaking with the pressure of a deluge, you gush out around the men, squeezing and twitching until you are hollow. Yet they don’t stop. They keep going. 

Rumlow sits up as Zemo moves with him, bringing you into his lap. The man behind grips your shoulder as his pelvis claps against your ass and the one before you sits back as you shake around him. He holds your head up as it threatens to wobble on your neck. 

You orgasm again. Your lashes flutter, your heart too. Every part of you is pulsing. Their gristling, grinding voices storm in your skull, almost maddening as their bodies sandwich yours. 

“Shittttt,” Rumlow drawls and bends his head forward, biting into your shoulder as he empties himself in you. He quakes as slows and sits back, twitching as he keeps you around him. 

Zemo sighs as you feel his own release. His hips rock subtly as he cums and holds you close, his eyes roving down to watch you tremble. When at last you’re still, the tremors do not fade. He grazes his knuckles down your stomach and you moan. 

“Shall we try that sweet mouth?” Zemo brushes long you lower lips. 

“Fuck yeah,” Rumlow growls, causing the other man’s eyes to glint.  

He might pretend to be proper but dean has proven himself just as sinister as any man; in reality or fiction alike. 

[checkoutmybookshelf]

It's Not A Fairy Tale Anymore

Ok, I will admit to two things: First, this book was leaps and bounds better than ACOTAR in terms of pacing. I was not bored and I wasn't begging the book to HAVE SOMETHING HAPPEN. Second, I think I hated the last six chapters. Like a lot. For some objective and some deeply subjective reasons. And bonus third admission: My reading buddy for this series and I officially have Stockholm syndrome from these books, so we're going on to ACOWAR. But that's getting a bit ahead of myself, so let's talk A Court of Mist and Fury.

Yeah, hi again. This is your SPOILER WARNING. I am going to SPOIL THE END of this book, as well as the beginning and the middle. Consider yourselves warned.

CONTENT WARNING: Some mention and brief discussion of sexual assault and consent.

Ok, so first and foremost: this book understood pacing and it understood plot and I thoroughly enjoyed like 98% of it. I also appreciated that we managed to expand the world a bit, because ACOTAR felt very, very small geographically and politically. Getting to see Velaris, the Summer Court, and getting a wider sense of the politics and intrigue went a long way toward making me feel like there were stakes and point to this book.

Another thing I absolutely adored was the Shadow Fam. I said that Rhys doesn't have found family, he has trauma pack bonds, and I stand by that assessment. That said, I really genuinely LIKED Az, Cass, Mor, and Amren. Yeah, they all have varying flavors of tragic backstory and trauma to facilitate the trauma pack bond, but after an entire book of just Feyre, Tamlin, and Rhys, I was desperate for more characters, and I will say that at the very least, I wasn't mixing up the Shadow Fam in my head. They had distinct personalities, and frankly I'd read the hell out of a novella that really digs into Mor's backstory in particular, mostly because SJM is developing a worrying habit of denoting bad characters by making them rapists (See: Amarantha, Ianthe, Mor's entire goddamn family, a worrying number of non-Shadow Fam Illyrians, etc.) and I want to see how complex this world's conception of consent is. Because Mor's entire situation was coerced, which means that the only non-fucky consent thing is her deciding NOT to sleep with Az. Because no matter what she told Cass, she was having sex with him in a situation where she very well might not have if she wasn't under the duress of a forced marriage. Literally she either didn't tell him anything and just went "Let's do the sex at each other" and he said "sure," or she went "hey, help me get out of this forced marriage by taking my virginity so other dude won't want me" (excuse me while I vomit at the pedestaling of virginity) and he said "sure." While knowing (I'm pretty sure) that Az has the world's biggest crush on Mor.

Literally nothing about this isn't messy AF, and I would a) like to see how we handle the consent stuff and b) eat this up with a SPOON.

But even in the here and now of the book, the whole Shadow Fam have individual relationships with Rhys and Feyre, and I thought that was decently well done. To be clear: its not Tolkien. It's nowhere near the same level. But for popular fun books, I have absolutely seen worse, and there was enough here for me to hang onto and enjoy. If they leaned a little into archetypes and stereotypes, well, it wasn't too egregious.

I think this is where I get to talk about Rhys a little bit too. So I have only read ACOTAR AND ACOMAF as of writing this, but I'm in a lot of book and fandom spaces, so I've heard everything from "Rhys is the embodiment of toxic masculinity and an anti-choice piece of shit" to "Rhys is the pinnacle of a male partner, can do no wrong, and I would let him rail me in a cabin on a mountain top." I'm not going to stand here and say that masculinity in these books is wholly unproblematic, but again: I have seen worse. My biggest problem with Rhys at this point, frankly, is that SJM keeps trying to have it both ways with him. But the "he's half mysterious, slightly evil Shadow daddy and half trauma puppy with a dreamers heart" was super not working for me, not even in a context where it maybe should have. Like, yeah, evil Shadow daddy as a role to protect Velaris makes sense, but then literally everything else we get is a cross between a traumatized dudebro with his buddies and trauma puppy making eyes at Feyre. The gap between the two sides of Rhysand just hit a point where my credulity stretched and broke. That's not to say I didn't enjoy both halves of Rhysand, but they didn't sit comfortably in one fae high lord lord me.

I just also want to briefly address the man pain, because after the Dresden Files, my patience for angsty man pain is THIN. I literally rolled my eyes and went "what the actual fuck" when Cassian provoked Rhys into beating on him for an hour after Feyre accepts the mate bond. Dumbass "if you can't fuck, fight" nonsense has never been my thing, and on principle I don't like it, but given that Feyre is alive and well and grabbing a snack with Mor, I can't argue too much. Battle Ground really set a new low bar for me, so I wasn't even grouchy about Rhys's POV man pain chapter right at the end of the book, because again, Feyre is alive and well and made a choice. I will allow it, but its getting some light side eye. Finally, the other major man pain scene is when Rhys is...I'm gonna call it groveling because I'm not feeling generous, but he's basically giving us a chapter-length recap of the previous book from his perspective. It's tearful, it's earnest, it's all kinds of angsty...And like...I was kinda not here for it. It was not the worst, your mileage may vary. I'm mostly just grateful it was one chapter and not an entire POV-swapped book.

I also want to just real quick tall about tokenism and some...potentially problematic things with the Illyrians. They have some savage warrior stereotypes attached to them that them being Fantasy Scots in the Fantasy UK makes sketchy, given the highland clearances and the generalized othering the England did to basically everyone. Then we get their cultural treatment of women, and the whole thing feels...deeply uncomfortable. I can't even make an oomaks joke about Illyrian wings (despite the fact that Illyrian wings have all the issue that Ferengi ears do multiplied by a factor of ten because THEY'RE WINGS) because I cannot banish the fact that they clip women's wings, which has some deeply uncomfortable resonance with female genital mutilation in the real world. Literally not even the Ferengi did that. And then we get Rhys, who is only half Illyrian, and the token "good" or "progressive" Illyrians, Az and Cass. They're trying to facilitate gender equality and banned wing clipping, but like...its made deeply clear that it's not working super well. So the general message is that of primitive, sexist Illyrians...except for the three good ones. And y'all...I kinda hate that. I'm not complaining that we have Rhys, Az, and Cass, but the Illyrians are deeply uncomfortable in a lot of ways that the version of me that did a PhD is screaming about.

And now we come to Rhys and Feyre. Rhys and Feyre, who spend 89% of this book flirting like dumbass teenagers before Feyre falls right back into the pattern she established with Tamlin where she decides she is going to give her literal all for a people, and I guess we just have to hope she has a partner who won't let her and then smother her to death. Because she is in the EXACT SAME POSITION, the only difference is Rhys. At this point, Feyre going all in is a feature, not a bug, which just makes her assertion that she belongs to herself first feel a wee bit hollow...

But I will say that Rhys and Feyre understanding that they can leverage their bond and Tamlin being just...the biggest dipshit in creation...to actually get an upper hand in this war, and I actually think that now that we've got the teen flirting out of the way, Feyre and Rhys might be a good team. I hope. Please God let them be a good team. I know we won't get Evey and Rick in The Mummy Returns, but I would take even a pale, bat-winged reflection of that relationship.

I guess we have finally arrived at Tamlin. I'm with Feyre that he's not good for her, but uh...the MASSIVE CHARACTER ASSASSINATION at the beginning of this book felt wildly gratuitous. Like, Feyre is wasting away. She's not emotionally ok. She isn't dealing with her trauma, and Tamlin isn't helping. WE GOT THAT. But that was only like, the first ten-odd chapters. So it was a speedrun character assassination, but I thought we were done at that point.

Holy shit, I was wrong.

So, there is a writing school of thought in which every villain needs to feel like they're the hero of their own story. I don't even think this is a bad tack to take. It can help motivate villains or make them sympathetic. And when Tamlin swaggers into the castle room in Hyburn after the king has captured Feyre and the Shadow Fam, you can bet your ass that he feels like he's the rescuing hero swooping in to save his true love from the shadowy douchecanoe who put a mind whammy on her to take her from him. (Which I actually think we might have Lucien to blame for that angle? Since he had to have reported back that Feyre fought him? But the timeline on that isn't clear, so IDK for sure.)

Unfortunately for Timtam, his ENTIRE PLAN makes him look too stupid to live. He KNEW what Amarantha was like. He KNEW that the King of Hyburn was a factor of ten worse than Amarantha. And he STILL made the deal to let Hyburn invade through his kingdom and somehow thought he would HAVE CONTROL OVER THE SITUATION???? And yes, I stand by this, because he keeps trying to tell the king to stop doing shit or do shit differently, and is ABSOLUTELY FLOORED when the king quite rightly laughs in his face. Talk about not thinking a plan through. Literally, I'm pretty sure Timtam was thinking, "I will win her back and be super heroic" and that thought eclipsed all other thoughts, his common sense, and his critical thinking. Which just take the character assassination of Tamlin and skyrockets it. I get that he's not the one, SJM. I got it six different dick moves ago.

Since we're talking about the last six chapters, I also want to just touch on the faeification of Elain and Nesta. Literally all I could think when they dunked our girls was one fantastic chapter title from the fantastic How to Read Literature Like a Professor: "If She Comes Up, It's Baptism." That metaphor doesn't really map perfectly over this situation, but it also isn't really a stretch. It also harkens back to the really old cauldron mythologies, which tracks for fae mythology. Mostly though, if Nesta doesn't murder the King of Hyburn after that foreshadowing (which had all the subtlety of a two-by-four to the skull), I will riot.

Hoo boy, this was a long one, but I think it's time to wrap it up. The TLDR is that this book was really fun as long as I wasn't thinking too hard about any of it. When I do think about it, I can shred it to little tiny peices, but honestly that stops being fun really fast, so I choose fun.

Also my reading buddy and I have Stockholm Syndrome with this series, so stay tuned for my eventual ACOWAR review!F

[toasterdrake]

Doric x gn!Reader - First Watch

Doric cuddling up to you because it's cold, with a dash of unrequited (?) pining

"I'll take first watch," you say, "Keep an eye on the horses."

Edgin nods and lets you go. He has dinner to craft and plans to brew.

The horses are tethered just outside the copse of trees the party has made your campsite. Hills sprawl out around the overgrown crown, a blanket of navy green under the sapphire of an evening sky. Wind brushes the trees and long grass; the horses nicker softly to each other.

Making the rounds, you loosen each saddle's girth to ensure their comfort for the night. Yelps punctuate flashes of light behind you; Simon is practicing a new spell from the scroll you had recently been compensated with. Doric is laughing at his misfortune; oh, how charming he is.

You settle for your watch on a patch of soft grass skirting a proud birch tree. Silver bark is cool against your back, and the Northern wind is icy. You shiver, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders. The sun's warmth has begun to seep from the earth, leaving the hillside cold.

Petrichor is in the air, haze of falling rain distant over the hills. It'll reach your campsite in the night. When your watch is over and a cold dinner in your belly, you'll warn the others. Not that much can be done in the face of nature.

The evening wanes, sky darkening into indigo. Firelight trickles through shadows of trees, quiet discussion whispers on the breeze.

"You know, usually when people volunteer for first watch it's because they want to be alone."

Gentle so as not the spill the contents of the bowl she's holding, Doric nudges you with her foot.

"Edgin said to bring you dinner before it goes cold."

"Oh. Alright. Thanks."

When you take the bowl from her -- it is warm in your hands; you cradle it as your only vestige of the far-off fire -- Doric settles next to you against the birch.

"Oh, are you going to stay?"

"Would you like me to go?"

You almost want her to leave, but more than anything you want her to stay. Moreover, she wants to stay, so who are you to deny her?

"No, I don't mind." A beat passes as you bring the spoon up to your mouth. "Can I ask why, though?"

Doric shuffles her feet, watching the toes of her boots shift grass. "It's just... Simon, he's... he's nice and all, but..."

"He's into you and that makes you uncomfortable?" You supply.

Relieved you've filled in the blanks, Doric nods. Finding her words is easier now. "He doesn't seem to get that... that he's fighting for a second chance when I've already told him no."

Listening to the world surround the two of you, Doric is silent for a while. She picks at grass, knotting blades together. You stay quiet as well, focused on eating, grateful to be trusted as a rare space to vent.

Eventually, "My reason last time was that he made me feel sad, but it wasn't really his fault. He made me sad because I was trapping myself, trying to feel something for him."

Doric begins tearing at the grass crown she'd built, before giving up and letting it scatter in the wind. "I never should've given him a first chance. How am I supposed to turn him down now?"

Setting your empty bowl on a mossy root of the tree, you give your full attention to the druid beside you. Though Doric's question is likely rhetorical, you need to answer it. For her sake.

"You don't have to give him an excuse. 'No' will always be enough. He'll understand that, even if it takes him some time."

The smile Doric gives you is tired, but undeniably grateful. You hate the way your heart seizes in your chest.

The birch's roots cradle the two of you too closely, and now your shoulders are pressed together with nowhere to go. Doric seems unfazed, perfectly comfortable against you. You bring your knees up just for the excuse of locking your arms around them, holding your own hand instead of hers.

The evening wanes further into night, yet Doric shows no indication of leaving, despite shivers chasing up her spine on occasion. Surely a seat by the fire would be warmer, so why is she here with you? Does she dread Simon that strongly?

Disillusioned by the bite of the wind, Doric leans further into you. She seems to take comfort in the warmth of your body, and you don't have the strength in your heart to push her away. Instead, you open up -- bringing your cloak around to encompass Doric as well.

Smiling against you, Doric sighs deeply, light and content. She tucks her head under yours, chin resting on your collarbone. Your throat bobs, your hand resting on her shoulder under the cloak. The impression of a horn presses against the underside of your jaw, and copper hair tickles your neck. Doric's tail curls around your leg in a comforting gesture.

Damn your heart.