#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???

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

contents: dilf!sugu (early forties) x younger reader. written with gn!reader in mind but "good girl" is used exactly once (i am not a girl but would still like it if he called me that <3) one mention of throwing up. reader is implied to have intimacy issues wc 2.6k

"suguru… i can eat it myself."

your voice comes out raspy; worn down, splintered, a dull stab of pain at the base of your throat.

behind your eyes lies a similar sensation, dry fatigue throbbing at the root of your skull. it has you slumping back against the pillows, squeezing your eyes shut — you can scarcely move. stuck under soft duvet covers, in a body that feels too cold and too hot all at once, with broken vocal cords to boot.

suguru gives you a sympathetic smile.

”i know, honey," he croons, the silver spoon resting just in front of your pursed lips. ”but i want to do this for you. would you open up, for me?"

you frown.

then you're parting your lips; pliantly letting him feed you another spoonful's worth of rice porridge. it goes down easy, soothing the walls of your dry throat, a comforting warmth spreading through your body, from your chest to the tips of your fingers — little sparks of numbing heat. you wish you could taste it, but not even the chopped scallion carries any flavour, dulled by your useless tastebuds. and that’s fine — your stomach can handle it, that’s all that matters.

but gosh, is it depressing.

"good girl."

a low, absentminded rumble. you let out a weak, sputtering cough — heat crawling up your nape.

(you aren't sure if it's the fever's doing, or his.)

a miserable croak. "… my throat hurts…”

suguru hums. his fingers reach for your jaw, cupping it gently with the inside of his palm — the pad of his thumb rolling softly against your wet bottom lip, wiping at the excess broth. he feels cold, against you, like the underside of your pillow on a sweltering summer night. suguru has always been nothing but warm, your very own melting point, a walking furnace under cardigans and turtlenecks —

but the heat of your skin is overpowering, right now.

of all days to get a fever, it just had to be today. you just had to wake up sick, bleary-eyed and dizzy, right before your deadline — curled up to a boyfriend that should really be at work right now, not sitting by the bedside and coddling you. leisurely as he might treat it, as much as you know he doesn't really need to work, that he has decades worth of savings to fall back on — that pottery is something he teaches as a form of self-soothing — you really think there's something more important he could be doing. something that doesn't involve you vomiting over his covers, or needing to be soothed into sleeping.

or, well — spoon-fed porridge.

(you're embarrassed. he's never seen you like this.)

"i know," he murmurs, softly. lifting his hand to smooth over the apple of your cheek, budding with uncomfortable warmth. "does it hurt a lot to speak?"

you nod, weakly, and it's answer enough.

"… poor thing." he exhales, through his nose, leaning back in his chair to retrieve the green, wobbly cup on the nightstand. he helps you drink from it, holding the ceramic against your lips, making sure you're taking steady sips. herbal tea, strong enough that you can almost tell which bags he mixed together — something minty, a kick of spice on the roof of your mouth — a smooth sweetness to it as it trickles down your throat. honey-soft against your teeth.

it helps, a little, but you still feel miserable.

"it'll pass, darling." as if sensing your thoughts, he runs his heavy hand down the back of your head, petting down your hair. you're pouting, softly, drowning in thick blankets and freshly changed sheets — you must look silly. "i'm right here. try not to strain your voice too much, hm? you can whisper in my ear if there's anything you'd like."

a weak croak. you squeeze your eyes shut, leaning into his touch. "… i just wanna feel better..."

a sad smile slips over his face. a shadow in his eye, just from hearing you whisper such helpless words.

”… i know," he sighs, carding through your tousled hair. "i know, love. i know you didn't want this."

suguru sets the cup back on the nightstand. it clinks, in the dim-lit room, the curtains drawn shut to spare you the grating light — not that there's any to be found in the cloudy skies outside. you can hear the patter of rain against the window, a steady rhythm, the heavy downpour helping your mind sink into some state of rest. as close as you can get to it.

"but you'll be alright. i've got you." pitter, patter, his tender voice blending together with the white noise of the world. "i'm glad you stayed over, last night."

"… mm,” you mumble, struggling to keep your eyes open. you aren't sure how to feel about that, yourself — if a part of you wouldn’t have preferred braving it out alone, in your own apartment — but you're sure he knows. sure he senses your discomfort the same way he's always been able to; seamless in his care, all too keen to the restless twitching of your fingertips, the way you've yet to look at him properly.

suguru knows you don't like this.

(he also knows it's because you need it, deep down.)

"… my baby."

you're pliant, as he smears a kiss against your cheek, cupping the apple of it in his palm. when he turns you to face him, you want to shy away — his eyes leak liquid gold, something too loving to look at without feeling nauseous with unease.

he knows, he knows. he's more than aware that the first bite of warm food after a life of feeding off scraps is the hardest.

another kiss, at the corner of your lip. you push him away, weakly.

"you'll get sick," you rasp, curling further into the mattress, like a rabbit burrowing a hole in the ground to sleep in. to hide in. ”we can't…"

a delighted laugh; short and breathy, as he tilts his head, bangs gliding across his skin and framing his crinkled eyes, silver strands in between the ink-black. suguru smiles, and something in you knows he wants to say oh, we could —

but he refrains. before his palm falls from your face, he brushes a thumb right below your eye, ghosting gently at your lashline. then he purrs, softly;

"alright. i won't be irresponsible."

a quiet buzz resounds from the phone in his pocket. it frees you of his weighty gaze, and suddenly you can breathe again, watching as he takes it out and squints at the screen — a stark brightness lighting up his face. crows' feet by his eyes, soft facial lines, the sharp edge of his jaw. so, so handsome, only ripened by age. the air of maturity he carries.

it makes you feel so safe. taken care of.

"ah… your treat is almost here." he slips it back into his pocket, and stands up from his chair. "they'll be here any moment. i'll go get it; just stay put."

the ghost of a pout. when you realize the kind of face you're making, it's too late — he's already noticed. his eyes soften, and you curse your feverish heart.

"i'll only be gone for a second." his voice is softer, now, velvet smooth, honey and butter. "okay, honey?"

"… okay."

a quiet exhale. he leans forward, to plant a kiss against your forehead; you feel him frown at your rising temperature, before pulling back. once he's sated himself with another meaningful glance, smiling gently, he turns towards the door.

you watch his back as he leaves the room. trying to ignore the mellow pounding in your skull; the sweltering, dizzying warmth bubbling beneath your skin, thrumming inside your veins. it hurts. you're all alone. a meek, vulnerable part of you can't help but wish he hadn't left, even though you can't deal with the way he’s acting. the guilt-ridden longing that washes over you when he treats you like something to be cherished, something small and needing.

you hate that you crave it. you hate that it's the standard he's gotten you used to.

(you hate that you want him to stay, and hold your hand; like your mother used to, before you grew too old for it.)

a shaky exhale. you try to put an end to that train of thought; your mind is too tangled up in threads, too cloudy with the fever. think of something else. the warm bed you're in, the spacious room — its beige walls, lined with oil paintings, the carpet on the floor and armchair in the corner. houseplants on the windowsill, and a desk he assembled just for you.

if the fever hadn't ruined things, you would've been sitting there by now. working on your assignment.

… you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut.

(at this rate, you'll miss the deadline for sure.)

…

suguru still isn't back.

maybe it's taking longer than he thought. maybe — maybe he's talking with the delivery guy, right now, making pleasant conversation.

maybe he won't notice if you just…

sluggishly, you lift yourself up by the elbows. slow, clumsy, it's a struggle just to stay upright; a wave of vertigo wringing your mind when you move your legs until they're dangling off the bed's edge. squinting your eyes, gazing ahead, at the cabinet you know your laptop's hidden in — you were just barely lucid enough to hear the wood slide into place.

suguru basically forbade you to study, today — though he'd phrase it more like gentle persuasion.

unfortunately, there's nothing gentle about the look he gets when you put your health at risk.

but you need to email your professor, at the very least. or just throw something together — anything, even a sloppy mess of an essay would be preferable to having to plead for another extension. a fever isn't an excuse. you've pushed through worse before.

("your body's telling you to rest. what could be more important than that?")

his words sting the back of your mind.

yet you push on.

standing up, on unsteady feet, you will your knees not to buckle as you wade across the room. it's a haze, but you make it, miraculously — leaning both arms against the desk as you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. a deep intake of breath, to stabilize yourself. the hard part is over.

now you just need to—

your feet leave the ground.

strong, solid arms lift you up, and a frightened yelp tumbles from your throat. raw and animal. it would embarrass you, if you weren't so caught off guard — hoisted up like a misbehaving cat, raised into the air like you weigh nothing. suguru's got you pressed against his chest, one palm on your back, the other just under your butt, your cheek against his naked collarbone. you can't smell him like you usually would; but his embrace carries a placebo of jasmine oil and rosemary, hints of sandalwood and musk.

it makes your head feel fuzzy. like being in his arms just turns your brain off.

before you can get any words out, he's carrying you right back to the bed — biceps coiled tightly around your starstruck frame. gentle, as he sets you down on the mattress, letting you bounce just a bit.

… he looks admonishing, though.

"my little troublemaker," he sighs, carding a hand through his hair. one brow raised, an exasperated lilt to his smile. ”what did i tell you about staying put?"

you blink. eyes wide, still, heart thumping with surprise.

suguru seems to notice.

"… did i spook you, honey?" he chuckles, smoothing his fingers along your sweaty bangs as if to signal that he isn't really mad. dragging the covers up, to tuck you back in, making sure you’re comfortable.

you swallow, thickly, willing your fragile voice not to crack.

”i just… forget how strong you are, sometimes,” you mumble. not knowing what else to say.

you think he's trying not to smile, based on the silent laughter in his eyes; flickering flames of mirth. ”i see,” he hums, his gaze alight and gleaming. "does it scare you?"

"… no."

a warm smile. "good." he tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. "now, what were you thinking of doing, hm?"

… you glance away, sheepishly. like a child caught elbow deep in a cookie jar.

of course he would make you admit to it.

"s… studyin'," you rasp, stuttering on a cough. rushing to defend yourself against his accusing stare. "i won't finish in time, sugu… they're gonna fail me."

"they won't." he cuts you off, swiftly, and the decision in his voice makes you think it’s more than empty reassurance. "i'll email your professor, sweet thing. they're not gonna fail you just because you happened to get sick at the wrong time."

an involuntary gulp. you look at him with bleary, flustered eyes, shaking your head — because not only is that wildly optimistic —

"t-that's too embarrassing," you whine, voice soft and pleading in a way that makes you feel small. "it's like you're my mom… you can't."

suguru chuckles — a deep bark, ripe with fondness. it makes you feel hotter, a whimper on the tip of your tongue. "just for today." his eyes are gleaming, the promise light on his lips. "when you get better, you can be an independent adult again. alright?

…

that idea only makes you feel smaller. like you're something he could cup with just one hand — something that doesn't need to stress because he's got everything covered, you only need to lean against him and sweetly mewl for his assistance. there’s something so intoxicating about not having to be a person, for once.

especially when you don't feel like being one.

(you can just be his baby.

… just for today.)

"… okay," you mumble, finally, so small you don't think he hears it. but your lips part, and you lean into his touch, and he sees that — a tell-tale sign of your unravelling, a complex machinery taken apart — reduced to something soft and pillowy.

it makes him croon. all too pleased, as he gazes down at you, meek and melting, struggling to hide a little pout. he rubs your bottom lip soothingly.

"thank you, honey." there's weight behind the words, but you don't think he'll push it — not today, not right now, he'll allow you to hide after being brave enough to show your metaphorical underbelly. "now, would you like some sorbet? it's waiting on the counter."

it's a silly question, because it's all you've been dreaming of for the past hour; lemon-frost sliding down your throat, soft and chilly, melting on your tongue and cooling your heated body. you're silly, because the question makes you frown, makes you reach for his palm so you can nuzzle into it. hearing the rain patter, feeling his touch, his presence like a weighted blanket around your frazzled mind.

you shake your head.

"… don't go," you whisper, as your eyelids flutter shut.

suguru is silent, for a moment.

then he's squeezing your hand, gently.

"… never," he promises, another of his palms coming to rest against your cheek— his voice like melted caramel, sticky, gentle shushing, so soft you'd think him just as sick as you. ”never leaving you, my dear.”

his thumb rubs circles into your skin, comforting and slow, and he sounds nothing but sincere. you curl up into a fetal position, beneath the blankets; allowing your body the rest that it needs. sinking into the plushness of the mattress, letting your chest rise and fall, as his presence cocoons you, lulls you into that state you’re so afraid of — the one that makes you feel like an infant child, a non-person, something worthy of the care it receives. in the safe haven of his bedroom, fragility gains a different meaning; something to savour, rather than crush.

it's okay if it lives, you tell yourself. it's okay if it breathes, and grows legs. if it starts to take up space.

(it’s okay if it just gets to be.)

[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.

[shaiyasstuff]

sapere aude | sylus | chapter four

synopsis : You smile. You rest. You let the world in again, piece by careful piece. And he begins to look at you like you’re something separate. Not her shadow, but something alive. Still, guilt doesn’t protect. It confuses the living for the dead—and love for something far more dangerous. content : light angst, slow-burn, mentions of death, 50/50 cannon!au, reader is mc’s sister

tagging : @blessdunrest @cathedralofaudra

parts | one | two | three | four

The door creaked open just after midnight.

Boots shuffled across the entryway as the twins stepped inside, snow still clinging to the edges of their coats.

Luke was the first to speak, voice raised with a weariness only familiar pain could deliver.

“God, I think my fingers froze off three towns ago.”

Kieran let out a soft grunt, tugging off his gloves. “That’s because you never close your jacket.”

Luke opened his mouth to argue—but stopped.

The scent hit first. Warm garlic, ginger, something simmering low with comfort and care.

He blinked, turning slowly toward the kitchen.

You were there, sleeves rolled up, standing over the stove in one of the manor’s borrowed sweaters.

The light in the kitchen cast a soft glow over your face, your hair tied up messily, cheeks flushed from the heat.

You glanced up as they entered, eyes lighting with relief.

“There you are,” you murmured, setting a bowl onto the counter. “I made congee. Thought you might need something warm.”

The words weren’t grand. But they landed like an anchor.

Luke stared, speechless for once.

Kieran stepped forward slowly, taking the bowl without a word. He studied it, then glanced at you—and nodded. Just once.

That was all you needed.

Luke flopped into a chair a moment later, dragging his bowl with him. “If this tastes as good as it smells, I might marry you,” he groaned.

You laughed softly. “You’d need Sylus’ permission first.”

At that, Kieran made a sharp choking sound into his spoon. Luke raised a brow.

“…Honestly, he probably wouldn’t even say no.”

You smiled, but said nothing.

It was becoming routine now. These quiet evenings. You’d wait up when they returned, already knowing the kind of exhaustion that lived in their bones.

You’d ask no questions, only offer warmth—through food, through presence, through the small touches that made the manor feel like more than just stone and shadow.

And they let you.

That meant more than anything spoken.

—•

Sylus didn’t let anyone into his study. Not even the twins, unless it was urgent.

But tonight, he didn’t protest when you knocked.

“Come in,” he called, not looking up from the stack of papers on his desk.

You stepped inside with a tray in your hands—tea, still steaming, and a plate of stir-fried rice and vegetables.

He heard the door shut behind you. Your footsteps were always easy to tell apart from the others.

Lighter. Slower. Like you were still figuring out how much space you were allowed to take up.

“You didn’t come down to eat,” you said, setting the tray on the corner of his desk.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You are now.”

He glanced at you then. Just a flick of red eyes under pale lashes. He didn’t argue.

You didn’t try to stay, but you lingered—waiting to see if he’d say anything.

Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he’d just eat in silence while you sat across from him, thumbing through old books or sketching in the notebook you kept tucked in your cardigan sleeve.

Tonight, he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding toward the tray.

You smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you for a beat longer than he meant to. Your presence wasn’t demanding. It never had been.

Where Shaiya had always entered a room like a stormfront—sharp, sure, intentional—you drifted in like a warm breeze. Gentle. Unassuming.

But no less powerful.

You didn’t need to push to be felt.

And he was beginning to realize—he didn’t mind the quiet when it was with you.

You reached for a book on the shelf, scanning titles absentmindedly. Sylus returned to his papers, but not before letting himself notice.

Your smile was different.

Your warmth was not her fire.

And somehow, it was just what he needed.

His eyes followed you as you crossed the room, barefoot and quiet, settling onto the worn leather couch as if you belonged there.

You pulled your knees up, tucking them beneath you as you opened the book in your lap, lips curved in the faintest smile.

It was a small thing. A quiet moment. But to Sylus, it was a danger.

Because for a single breath, he forgot.

Forgot what your smile reminded him of.

Forgot why it hurt to see you at peace.

Almost.

His gaze dropped back to his papers, a subtle tension forming in his brow. But the damage was already done.

The way the light fell across your face.

The shape of your profile.

The ease with which you filled the silence—just like she used to.

The memory surged forward, uninvited.

Snowfall. Blood. Her weight in his arms. The warmth of her fading. The forgiveness in her final breath.

His fingers gripped the edge of the desk.

Hard.

He didn’t hear you call his name at first, voice soft, a hint of worry bleeding through the syllables. It took your hand on his shoulder—warm, grounding—for reality to snap back.

His head jerked toward you, sudden and sharp.

Too fast.

You startled, hand recoiling like you’d been burned. “S-Sorry,” you whispered, retreating. “I didn’t mean—”

Your voice faltered.

You looked small then. Not weak—just unsure. As if your existence here was still something fragile, something he could shatter with a glance.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, it made his chest ache.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing beneath your absence.

“Don’t apologize,�� he said at last, voice low, rough around the edges. “Not ever.”

You blinked up at him, startled. Eyes wide and glassy, lips parted as if the words had caught you off guard.

Then—faintly, but unmistakably—you blushed.

And looked away.

He should’ve turned back to his work.

But he didn’t.

Because the ghost in his memory never looked at him like that. Not with gentleness. Not with hope.

That… was yours alone.

And it terrified him.

Because for the first time in a long time, the guilt didn’t feel like armor.

It felt like a wound.

Still open. Still bleeding.

And yet, with you near, he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to close.

It had been nearly two weeks since that moment.

Since your hand closed around his—small, steady, trembling—and your voice, so soft it barely stirred the air, told him that it wasn’t his fault. That he wasn’t alone.

That morning in the living room still lingered like smoke in his lungs.

Sylus couldn’t forget the way your fingers had curled around his like you were trying to hold something broken together.

The way your warmth had seeped into him—not just physically, but deeper, where his Evol couldn’t reach. Where guilt lived like rot.

And now, it scared him.

Your kindness terrified him more than bullets ever could.

Because it wasn’t her face that haunted him anymore.

It was you.

The real you.

You, who smiled at him like he wasn’t a monster.

You, who filled the kitchen with laughter so soft it barely echoed, and yet he still heard it hours later.

You, who soothed every ache in his chest and reopened every wound with the same gentle touch.

He watched as you slept peacefully on his couch.

Cautious. That’s what he told himself.

But it stopped being about safety when he found himself memorizing the way your brow creased when you dreamed. The way your lashes brushed against your cheeks.

The slow rise and fall of your breath, steady in the hush of the dark.

Peaceful.

Trusting.

Unaware.

And it burned.

It burned when you told him, shy and bright, that you were ready to move on. That you had chosen to let go of the pain. That you would stop chasing the ghost of your sister and try to live again.

He had nodded.

He had said nothing.

But inside, something splintered.

Would you still say the same if you knew?

If you knew the truth that curled beneath his ribs like a blade?

That he hadn’t failed to protect your sister.

He had killed her.

He stood suddenly, the chair scraping faintly behind him.

The study was quiet, bathed in low amber light, your half-finished tea still warm on the table beside your folded cardigan. The smell of you lingered—soft soap and cinnamon—and he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t bear it.

He moved quickly, coat slung over his arm, hand already on the doorknob. Guilt surged like bile up his throat.

What was he doing?

Letting you into his world, letting you into him—was this supposed to be redemption? Was this his penance?

You had smiled at him like he was worth loving.

Fool.

His grip tightened around the handle until the metal bit into his palm.

Did you really think this was forgiveness?

Or had he simply let himself believe, even for a moment, that someone like him could be touched by warmth without burning it to ash?

He exhaled sharply and stepped into the corridor.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, your scent, your softness, your unspoken grace—all of it was locked away, out of reach.

Because monsters didn’t deserve lullabies.

But some part of him, just couldn’t stay away.

—•

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, the shadows in the room unfamiliar, though not unwelcome. The book rested loosely in your hands, one corner creased where your thumb had slipped in sleep.

You blinked once.

“Ah… I must’ve fallen asleep,” you murmured, your voice low and dry, caught between dreaming and waking.

A soft breeze slipped in from the cracked window, rustling the curtains and grazing your skin like a memory. You shivered, lifting the book from your lap and setting it aside.

The quiet wrapped around you—not suffocating, not sharp, just… still. Almost gentle.

Your gaze drifted toward the desk out of habit.

Empty.

Sylus wasn’t there.

The sight struck you harder than it should have. Something settled—then shifted—in your chest. A subtle ache you didn’t have words for.

You stood slowly, arms wrapping around yourself as you padded to the door. The chill lingered, but it was the absence that felt colder. You reached for the handle—

And the door swung open.

You startled, a soft gasp escaping you as your hand flew to your chest.

He stood there.

Framed by the faint hallway light, coat slightly unfastened, red eyes wide—not with shock, but something quieter. As if he hadn’t expected to find you still awake.

As if he didn’t quite know what to say now that he had.

In his hands was a blanket. Soft wool. Familiar. Worn in the way things are when they’ve been used, and kept, and never quite let go.

You stared at it. Then up at him.

“…Is that for me?”

Your voice was small. A whisper caught somewhere between disbelief and hope.

His gaze followed yours, trailing down to the blanket like he’d momentarily forgotten it was there. A breath passed—slow, measured. Then he nodded, almost hesitantly. “I thought you might be cold.”

Your breath hitched.

The air between you shifted—not with tension, but something gentler. A thread pulling taut.

He wasn’t the same Sylus who haunted war rooms or stood unmoved in bloodstained halls. Not tonight. Not like this.

Tonight, he was just a man. Standing in a doorway. Carrying warmth in his hands.

You stepped aside without a word.

He crossed the room, his presence changing the temperature in the air. Not warmer, exactly—just steadier. Like the hush before snow falls.

He draped the blanket over the back of the couch, careful not to brush you as he did. Then, to your quiet surprise, he sat beside you. Close enough that his knee grazed yours briefly before he stilled.

You looked at him. Noticing, as you always did, the way he carried silence like armor. But tonight—it felt thinner.

And then, without looking at you, he lifted the blanket again and gently pulled it over your shoulders.

Your fingers reached up instinctively, tugging it tighter around yourself. The scent of him clung to the fabric—clean, cold, like wind and steel and something just shy of comfort.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

But then he spoke, voice low—measured, like it had been weighing on him for too long.

“I thought about it,” he said. “About your trust.”

You blinked, turning to him. His eyes didn’t meet yours right away. Not yet.

“I know what it means,” he continued. “To offer that to someone. Especially… someone like me.”

Now, his gaze found yours. And it held.

There was no façade in it. No commander. No monster. Just a man trying to steady something in himself before it slipped.

“I want to honor that,” he said. “Your trust. I want to… keep it.”

The words landed softly, but they struck something deep—because they weren’t said like a vow. They were said like a confession.

And you understood.

You didn’t know what haunted him, not yet.

But you knew this much:

He wasn’t just trying to be kind.

He was trying to be worthy.

Your chest ached, but you smiled.

Small. Quiet. Real.

And you whispered, “Then stay.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there beside you, staring at the dark, as if wondering whether the warmth in your voice might melt something in him he wasn’t ready to let go of.

But he didn’t leave.

And that—was answer enough.

Sleep crept over you like a tide, soft and inevitable. Your eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing your cheeks as your head dipped slightly to the side—too heavy now to hold upright.

Your head tilted, and in another second, you would have slipped entirely—if not for the arm that caught you.

Sylus stiffened at the contact, instinct bracing before his body eased. Carefully, almost reluctantly, he brought your head to rest against his chest.

The silence around him grew heavier.

He looked down at you, the steady rise and fall of your breathing against him. Your face was calm, unworried. Trusting.

His Evol pulsed faintly beneath his skin—quiet now, for once. As if even it knew that this moment wasn’t meant to be disturbed.

The flickering lamplight painted shadows across the room, stretching long and soft over the edges of his desk, your blanket, the contours of your face.

He hadn’t held someone like this in a long time.

Not since—

His jaw clenched.

This wasn’t her.

You weren’t her.

And yet you slept against him the same way—soft, unguarded, like you didn’t know what he’d done. Like you couldn’t possibly imagine the weight he carried.

He shut his eyes.

Was this enough?

He didn’t know anymore.

He had kept you alive. He’d killed for you. Let you into rooms no one else was allowed in. Let you see pieces of himself he hadn’t shown in years.

But was it enough?

Was this repentance?

Your fingers twitched lightly in sleep, brushing against his coat, and his breath hitched.

No. It couldn’t be.

Because redemption meant undoing what he had done.

And no amount of warmth from you could ever bring back what he destroyed.

His arms held still. Steady.

But his chest—

It burned.

Not from guilt.

But from the unbearable ache of being seen, and still being held.

And he wasn’t sure which hurt more.

—•

The morning sun filtered gently through the old manor windows, pale and quiet, like it was afraid to touch anything too heavily.

You stirred slowly from your sleep, still wrapped in the blanket Sylus had draped over your shoulders the night before.

His study was empty now. His chair pushed back, the fire reduced to nothing but a faint glow in the hearth.

There was no sign of him.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the silence pressed in. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just still. Like the room had gone back to holding its breath, waiting.

Breakfast came and went. You cooked with the twins, laughed a little at Luke’s usual antics, watched Kieran argue with him in that half-hearted, brotherly way. But Sylus hadn’t joined you.

And the longer his absence stretched, the more aware of it you became.

You didn’t ask where he was.

Not directly.

Just… listened. Waited. Wondered.

By the time the sun had started to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the manor halls, you found yourself wandering again.

Your steps aimless, almost dreamlike, the sort of movement that comes when thoughts are too loud and the silence too thick.

That was when you saw it.

A narrow door at the end of a hallway you rarely walked. Tucked between two old portraits, half-hidden by shadow. You paused in front of it, fingers brushing over the aged handle.

It didn’t look locked.

Something inside you stirred.

A breath. A pull. A question you couldn’t name.

You opened it quietly.

The scent of rust and cool air met you first. A staircase, old and narrow, led up into the unknown. You hesitated for only a second before climbing.

The wind grew stronger the higher you went, tugging at your sleeves, lifting strands of your hair like it remembered something you’d forgotten.

And then—you emerged.

The rooftop.

It stretched wide before you, open to the sky and the sweeping view of the forested ridges beyond.

The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of stone and distant rain, and the world looked softer from up here—washed in the amber light of the late afternoon sun.

You stood there for a moment, just breathing it in. The stillness. The sky.

The way the manor seemed so far behind you now, like stepping through that door had taken you somewhere else entirely.

Then you moved—slowly, quietly—to the edge. You sat with your legs drawn up, your hands in your lap, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The wind danced around you, catching in your hair, and you let it. You let yourself be still.

You didn’t expect peace.

But that’s what this felt like.

A rare, fleeting moment of peace.

You leaned your head back, eyes closing. The sun warmed your skin. For the first time in what felt like days, your chest didn’t ache with questions.

You didn’t know why he hadn’t come here. Or if he even knew this place existed. Maybe he did. Maybe it used to be hers.

You tried not to think about that.

Tried not to think about how much of her still lingered in the corners of this place—in the way the hallways echoed, or how the others looked at you sometimes like they weren’t sure who they were seeing.

Up here, it didn’t matter.

Up here, there was only sky.

And silence.

And you.

You stayed until the sun dipped just beneath the edge of the hills, gold bleeding into deep violet. The shadows stretched longer. The wind grew colder.

And still, you didn’t move.

You thought of the cell.

Of the damp air, the suffocating dark. The days bled together, one after another, while your body ached and your mind drifted between hope and despair.

You had stopped counting time after the second day—or maybe the fifth. A week? A month? It didn’t matter now.

Your fingers curled around your wrists, an instinctive motion. The burn of the chains was long gone, but the memory still lived in your skin, tucked beneath the surface like a phantom pain.

And yet… your heart felt warm.

Strange, how that could be.

You owed it to them—the twins. Their bickering, their banter, the way their presence made the silence easier to bear.

Luke’s ridiculous jokes, Kieran’s quiet glances. Without meaning to, they reminded you what laughter felt like.

And then—your thoughts shifted.

To her.

To your sister.

You remembered how she used to tug you along by the wrist, her grip firm but playful, the scent of something sweet in the air as she promised ice cream and sunshine after a hard day.

You could almost see her now—sitting beside you, head tilted, cone in hand, listening as you rambled about little things and new beginnings.

The way she would smile, patient and knowing, like she always knew what you weren’t saying.

You let out a quiet breath, one that trembled slightly at the end.

“I’m safe now, Sis,” you whispered. “You made sure of it.”

Your voice caught in the breeze and disappeared, but you didn’t need a reply.

You smiled faintly, eyes misting. “I see it now. Why you liked it here.”

And then… Sylus.

You hadn’t meant to think of him, but he came to mind with startling clarity.

The way his red eyes watched you from across the room, unreadable but never cruel. The smirks that lasted barely a breath. The quiet way he lingered—not too close, but always near enough to reach if you needed him.

He had become part of your healing without even trying.

Your fingers tightened around your sleeve.

“I think I have feelings for him,” you murmured to the empty rooftop.

And for once, saying it out loud didn’t scare you. It felt real.

It felt right.

—•

Sylus hadn’t expected anyone to be on the rooftop.

It was late—late enough for the world below to be asleep, for the sky to hang heavy and still. So when he pushed the door open, expecting solitude, he stopped short.

You were already there.

Perched near the edge, knees drawn loosely to your chest, hair tousled by the wind. The moon cast a silver sheen over you, softening your outline, making you look like something half-dreamed.

At the sound of the door, you turned, startled at first, then offered a sheepish smile. “I stumbled up here,” you said, voice barely louder than the breeze. “Hope you don’t mind.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just stood there, watching you in the hush of the night.

He didn’t mind.

But the ache did.

Because seeing you like that—bathed in pale light, voice easy, eyes tired but open—pulled the past too close.

Her smile.

Her eyes.

The way she used to lean into the wind and whisper that she loved him, even when she knew he couldn’t say it back.

His throat tightened.

He looked away, jaw flexing.

He had almost convinced himself he was letting go. That guilt could fade.

But tonight, it found him again.

Because sometimes, it wasn’t your resemblance to her that undid him.

It was that you were nothing like her at all.

Your gaze softened as you stepped off the ledge, quiet footsteps carrying you across the rooftop to where he stood, frozen in the doorway.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently, searching his face.

He didn’t answer.

So, slowly—carefully—you reached out, fingers brushing along his jaw, coaxing his face to meet yours.

The wind curled around you, sharp with silence.

“I’m not her,” you whispered, voice low but steady.

His eyes closed for the briefest second.

And when they opened again, they held something raw.

“That’s what hurts,” he said.

And the honesty in it nearly undid you.

“I’m sorry.”

It was the only thing you could manage—because what else was there to say to a man unraveling under the weight of memory?

Sylus didn’t respond right away. His gaze lingered on you, steady and unreadable, before his hand lifted—slow, hesitant—and came to rest lightly against your cheek.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye, not to wipe away tears, but to memorize.

As if you were something he needed to understand.

There was something about you—something more than your softness, more than the gentle steadiness that had begun to ground him in ways he didn’t expect.

You were nothing like your sister.

And yet…

There was a pull. A quiet gravity.

Maybe it was something cruel in him that thought your presence was a second chance.

A reckoning dressed in mercy.

You didn’t flinch when he touched you.

You just looked at him—truly looked—like you were ready to carry something you didn’t yet comprehend.

You wanted to hold his pain.

And that terrified him.

Because you didn’t know—

Just how much he had to give.

Or how much of it

was soaked in blood.

He should’ve pulled away. Should’ve stopped before it went too far.

But he didn’t.

This—whatever this was—it was built on borrowed breath and buried truths. And he was the one keeping it that way, hiding the snow, the blood, the last breath your sister took in his arms.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know that the hands now reaching for you had once taken everything from you.

And yet, you trusted him. With your quiet smiles. With your presence. With your grief.

He hated himself for how much that meant.

Because somewhere between your softness and the weight you carried so silently, he’d started to care.

Not because of some duty.

Not because of guilt.

But you.

You, with your warmth and hesitant hope. You, who reminded him not of her—but of what she never got to be.

The closer you drew, the worse it became.

Because he knew that when the truth came to light—and it would—it wouldn’t just break you. It would shatter whatever fragile thing had started to bloom between you.

He should’ve run. Should’ve made the clean cut before it turned into something irreparable.

But as the distance between you disappeared—inch by aching inch—he realized he couldn’t.

Because he’d already stepped too close.

And the tragedy was, he wasn’t falling for your face.

He was falling for you.

And there was no redemption left in that.

Only ruin.

You stopped him, your hands gently bracing against his chest, his face just inches from yours.

Your eyes searched his, soft and steady. “I hope this isn’t too sudden,” you whispered, your voice barely rising above the wind curling through the rooftop.

He froze beneath your touch, breath caught, as if the world had narrowed to just your words and the quiet thrum of your heartbeat against his.

“What is?” he asked, his voice low, touched with something fragile. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You hesitated, but only for a breath.

Then, you spoke—honestly. “I want to stay here. Not because of the promises you made to my sister. Not because I feel like I owe it to her… I want to stay because of you.”

His eyes darkened, the emotion behind them shifting like a tide breaking against a shore. He looked at you as if your words had cracked something open inside him.

His breath hitched. Just once.

Then he said, voice rough but resolute, “Then stay.”

And he kissed you.

Slowly. Gently.

Like he knew he shouldn’t.

Like he wanted to memorize the way your lips felt before the truth inevitably destroyed this.

But for now, he kissed you anyway—ignoring the way his chest ached and the way guilt roared in his mind.

Because in that moment, you were real.

And he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You leaned into him, as if he were the only thing tethering you to something real.

It didn’t feel wrong. Not to you.

Maybe it was because, deep down, a part of you had been reaching for your sister through him all along—through the silence, the guilt in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you reminded him of something lost.

But as you kissed him, you understood something else—

You were never truly alone in your grief.

He had been carrying it too, quietly, heavily. And though neither of you had said it aloud, it had lived between you from the beginning.

Still, that sorrow felt distant now, softened beneath the warmth of his hand brushing yours, the quiet way he guided you through the halls and into the stillness of his quarters.

You didn’t know why you let him.

But you understood.

He hadn’t mourned her. Not really. Not the way people should.

And maybe, in this quiet surrender, in the space where words fell short—this was your way of helping him.

Letting him feel something other than guilt.

Even if just for a night.

You let him cry into you that night, your arms wrapped tightly around his trembling frame, bare skin pressed to bare skin beneath the hush of tangled sheets.

The room was quiet save for the shallow hitch of his breath and the way your name broke on his lips—soft, broken, pleading.

His body curled into yours as if trying to disappear, as if he could bury himself deep enough to escape whatever haunted him.

His fingers clutched at your waist, digging just slightly into your skin, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

You held him tighter in response, one hand gently stroking through his silver hair, the other pressed to the center of his back, steady and grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Again and again.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just held him. Let him unravel.

And when your voice did come, it was quiet, warm against his ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

He flinched at that. Just slightly. As if the word safe scraped against something raw inside him.

You kissed his temple, his jaw, your lips brushing the places where his breath stuttered.

You thought he was mourning her—your sister. That the guilt he carried had finally cracked open in the dark. And maybe, in some way, he was.

But you didn’t know the truth.

You didn’t know he wasn’t apologizing for the grief, or for the sorrow, or for the way his hands shook as he touched you like you were something fragile.

He wasn’t even apologizing for her death.

He was apologizing for the lie.

For the way he had kept it from you.

For the way he had chosen to stay silent night after night, watching you sleep in peace while knowing he was the reason your sister never came home.

He was sorry—

For wanting this.

For keeping you close, even when he knew he had no right.

For not telling you the truth the moment your eyes first softened for him.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just held you. Whispered hollow apologies. Let your warmth wrap around him like absolution he hadn’t earned.

And you, not knowing the weight of the confession that never came, just held him tighter and told him it was alright.

Even though it wasn’t.

masterlist

[kissingmilfs]

📿 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞…| 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 📿

18+ minors and men please dni

a/n: this is a multi-part series. reader does present as a “woman.” first part is devoid of smut because i’m setting up the story. there will be two other parts and potentially headcanons here and there. smut in the consecutive parts <3

⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆♱✮♱⋆

“…among such a holy-day.” one of the alter boys holds out a dated golden plate. a dainty teaspoon craved with details from the final station of the cross lays in the bowl. the dip of the spoon already holds a layer of salt.

reaching for the spoon, you carefully sprinkle the salt amongst the other bowl filled with purified water. more of the psalm stumbles from your lips.

“the lord hath said: salt is good, but if you have—“

a voice interrupts the blessing of the water. “father. someone is here for confession.”

averting your gaze from your watery reflection, you find the voice of your interruption. it’s another priest but he is new to the parish. and quite capable of taking confession.

“i am busy, father girard. is there a reason you’ve come to me?”

“she is a woman.” he puffs his chest out as if he’s below taken the confession of the opposite gender.

sighing, you find yourself longing for the days your fellow clergymen paid your gender no mind. as the older generation passed, so did their free thinking. now at the parish you’ve resided since orphanage your devotion is tested by nonsensical men. men who are somehow absolved from taken the confession of a woman. as if our devotion is not upon the holy mother herself.

“very well. please finish blessing the water then.”

father girard curtly bows his head and swiftly finds him replacing your position. you hear him begin the psalm all over again. irritation boils in your veins but your feet carry you down the aisle—away from the temptation of violence. two confession booths are tucked away in the back corner of the church. a soft yellow light illuminates the lattice partition of the left booth.

sliding open your respective side of the confessional booth, you can only make out a large shadow through the partition. one of your hands presses flatly over your slicked back ponytail. attempting to rid the nerves that were threatening to overtake. father girad’s misogynistic indignation settled under your skin far more than you anticipated. releasing a steady breath of air, you mime the sign of the cross.

“how long has it been since your last confession, child?”

the shadow morphs and if you were paying attention you’d see the person shifting towards the partition. “when did they allow women into the clergy?”

ah. the usual question. your eyes remain on the rosary decorating your fingers. “special circumstances. it’s your turn to answer my question, child.”

“what was the question again?” a sly smile spreads on the confessor’s face.

“last confession.”

she reclines back on the wooden bench. “i dunno…a month ago?”

you nod your head and continue mindlessly reciting the hail mary in your mind. “very well. your heavenly father never scorns or denies a lost lamb. what’s on your mind?”

“i wouldn’t necessarily call myself a lost lamb. can’t you just call me by my name?”

your fingers stutter over one bead. you lose track of the prayer. “alright then. what is your name?”

“sevika. and what shall i call you? father? mother?” you can hear the shit eating grin in her words.

“mother is reserved for the mother superior.” you attempt a neutral tone. “i’m content with father, sevika. or will my gender prevent you from such respect?”

sevika barks out a laugh. you’re convinced you can feel the vibrations rattling the faux wooden sheet walls. your confessor settles her laughter with slap on her knee. “i like you, father. before i bear my sins—is your gender a hinderance to hear my symphony of sins? they’re not the typical sins.”

your fingers clutch tightly at your beads. “do not underestimate my penchant for acceptance. i am certain your sins will not shock me. our heavenly father has heard and seen everything. i am merely a vessel.”

“uh-huh. you from piltover or zaun?”

“what does it matter, sevika?”

sevika chuckles and shrugs. “indulge me. it’ll make me more trust you more.”

rolling your eyes, you cast a brief glance at the divider. “the und—sorry, zaun. not many orphans in piltover is there?”

“hm.” sevika takes a moment. your correction of the people’s named preference for city raised a lot more questions. “i suppose i can begin my confession then.”

a strained smile cracks and you nod. “very well. what brings you to confession, sevika?”

sevika taps her fingers on the ledge dividing the booth. “many things. i’m thinking of betraying someone close to me.”

the words hang in the air. silence adding weights on both your shoulders. betrayal in zaun usually means life or death. “i see. thinking of betrayal isn’t a sin though. and neither is betrayal. not necessarily.”

“ha. that’s a load of crack shit.” there’s a pause from sevika, a notable lighter flick then an exhale. “i could potentially get the poor sucker killed. isn’t that a sin?”

your eyes tick back and forth processing sevika’s words and sounds. “are you…smoking in my booth?” you posture turns more upright as the familiar smell of tobacco overwhelms. “please put that out.”

sevika scoffs and blows smoke through the partition. “but i just light it.”

she states it so matter of fact—you actually pause and re-consider your command. “you are not allowed to smoke in the church. please put it out, sevika.”

“i like when you say my name, priest-y. okay, fine.” sevika inhales her last puff then intentionally presses the light end in the direct center of a cross carved into the door. “better?”

you allow yourself the moment to close your eyes and deeply inhale. your brain recites a scripture regarding patience. “please continue with your confession.”

“well i’ve been so up in arms about what i’m supposed to do…i’ve been drinking more. staying out later to gamble. any money i win, well…i end up staggering into that lovely establishment babette runs.”

“are you ridden with guilt then? knowing your decision may get a man killed?”

sevika shrugs. “yeah, maybe.”

you massage a bead between your finger. “i see. and your vices…the alcohol, the gambling, the sex…is any of it fulfilling? any of it assuage your guilt?”

“obviously not if i’m coming to confession. so what is it then? ten hail marys?” sevika twiddles with the lighter—flipping it open and close. a warm flame glowing on her brown skin.

“i think that’s far too easy, sevika. confession is about penance in the end. absolving your sins. while all sins are equal—forgive me—you know better. don’t you?”

sevika’s jaw twitches with a tick of anger. despite the reality of your words, she cannot believe a priest is holding judgement. through gritted teeth sevika spits out, “i suppose i do, yes.”

you nod. “good. absolving sins, to me, means more than prayer. are your confessions always so short?”

“short?”

“yes, short. you’ve spent more time antagonizing me than confessing. you use confession differently than most parishioners. i’ve had confessions run for close to an hour. my point is…i do not think you are benefiting from in and out confession.”

sevika grumbles incoherently. she outstretches her fingers, interlacing them, before cracking her joints. realistically sevika could walk away. but when has she ever backed away from a challenge? “you want to hear every detail about my sins? fine. i knew you priests were perverts anyway.”

“sevika. please refrain from making generalizations. i am only here to help. if you are uninterested you are always free to leave.” for the first time since entering the booth, you peek at the shadow of sevika through the lattice partition. holding your breath wondering if she will leave.

the silence hangs heavy in the air. you’re almost convinced it will materialize. but then you hear a long sigh. the sigh sits on your skin — not sure what the implications mean.

“you priests are always so high and mighty. you think you know what’s best. you’re supposed to listen to my sins and let me do penance.” sevika’s irritation is clear as day. “so what if i’m a quick in and out? so what if your other confessors are high and mighty and ready to grovel to their virgin mary. they’re idiots for thinking she remained a virgin her entire life.”

you are accustomed to the blasphemy people tend to indulge in during confession. heck, you’ve listened to your fair share of nuns and priests confess perverted thoughts and some perverted actions. where there is a god there are does willingly or unwillingly defiant to his will. it has never bothered you. the mother, herself, is privileged to the thoughts running amuck in your mind.

your nails calculatedly tap on the wooden ledge. sevika shuffles uncomfortably in the bench—listening to your silence. you hum thoughtfully. “i also do not believe mary remained a virgin her entire life.”

“what?”

“what, what? what, as in, you did not hear me or what, as in, you are taken aback by my agreement?”

sevika releases an audible breath of annoyance. “i heard you. you agree with me? why?”

you shrug. you could divulge in a long explanation. “i am a free thinker despite a member of the clergy, sevika. i do not let the church dictate all of my thoughts. it seems unreasonable a married woman remained a virgin her entire life. catholicism, while not a fairly new religion, did not come about instantaneously once mary birthed jesus. and realistically…even if it did…one can assume mary’s life did not revolve around a religion.”

“you’re so…strange.” sevika laughs along with your words and nods. unintentional or not—you’ve lightened the mood for sevika.

“am i?” the question slips out without hesitation. it’s one filled of curiosity and intrigue. a small smile cracks on your lips.

sevika laughs again. “yes, very strange. but not in a bad way…yet. you here everyday, priesty?”

“for confession? indeed.” you want to tell sevika you’re obligated and forced to take the confessions of women now. you are not practically jumping at the idea. there’s other places your talents are needed. if you’re stuck in the church awaiting for female confessors or even pulled away from duties…no, it’s okay. the church saved you when the streets of piltover refused to. even if you believe you’ve repaid your debts—God’s sense of humor means you’re tested everyday.

“ah, perfect. i got some shit to do but i’ll be around. don’t miss me too much, priesty.”

“will you bother to ask for my last name, sevika?”

your confessor cackles once again. “not yet, father. i’m not interested in it. only your first name.”

your eyebrows knit together and you turn towards the partition. “meaning?”

“mm…you’ll figure it out soon enough. until next time, father.”

sevika slips out of the booth and you rise on your feet. it’s not frowned upon to see your confessors face—most of them attend mass anyway. as you push the flimsy door aside—you only catch a glimpse of sevika leaving. her tall frame, her defined and prominent muscles, and the setting sun reflecting off the metal of her prosthetic arm. she walks with a noteable swagger as if she’s packing something massive in those tight fitted pants.

before you’re caught lusting ,watching, you walk the opposite direction. your heart pounds viciously in your chest. two temptations a mere 30 minutes apart. you mutter, “father…please give me the strength.”

taglist: @sevikaslatinawife , @ruelezz

[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. 

[sharkwidow]

I Will Always Care for You | Natasha Romanoff x teen reader!

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑Summary: Natasha tries to get you to eat, while caring for you with all her being.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑๋Setting: trailer in norway. post-civil war.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑Content warning: Eating disorder, Anorexia, maternal care and support, mentions of the Red Room.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑Word count: 850

The trailer was silent, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. The sunset filtered through the windows, casting a warm light that contrasted with the cold shadow still weighing on you. Sitting on the couch, hugging your knees, you felt a disconnect between your body and what Natasha was asking of you: to eat. Fear loomed over you, the kind you had known all too well, the kind you had learned in the cold and brutal darkness of the Red Room.

You didn’t care what Natasha said; your hands kept gripping your knees, your stomach twisting with each thought trying to convince you that you couldn’t. No, you couldn’t eat.

But then you heard Natasha’s soft footsteps approaching from the kitchen. You knew what she had before you even saw it: her ability to cook something delicious and nutritious that always seemed to comfort you, even if you weren’t willing to admit it. This time, she brought a bowl of hot soup. It wasn’t just any soup; it was her special chicken noodle soup recipe, the one that always seemed to comfort you when you felt like the world was falling apart.

She sat next to you, the tray on her lap. There were no words at first. Natasha knew you couldn’t say anything without feeling embarrassed, and she had no intention of pressing you with questions. Her gaze rested gently on you, not with reproach, but with that patience she alone knew how to offer. She knew what you had been through in the Red Room, what that experience had done to you. She knew it wasn’t easy.

“I know,” Natasha whispered, her voice low but firm. “I know it’s hard. You don’t have to explain it to me. But this, this is not the Red Room, do you understand?”

The cold of the memory washed over you like a wave. The Red Room. Where they trained you to be something more, something less human, something that didn’t feel hunger or pain. For you, eating had stopped being a need, it became a form of control. Something you could master, something you could reject. But all of that was part of what they made you, of what they wanted you to be.

Natasha placed the bowl of soup in front of you, unhurried, but with a firmness that only an adoptive mother could understand. “It’s just food,” she said softly, her tone warm, without judgment. “It’s not what they made you do. It’s just food, and I’m here with you.”

You stared at the soup with empty eyes. The image of the Red Room was still burned in your mind: the cold walls, the whispers of the trainers, the orders that never stopped. The feeling that your body wasn’t yours, that every movement, every action, was under someone else’s control. You had learned not to feel hunger there, because hunger only made you weaker, more vulnerable. You had learned to reject it, to ignore it, to erase it.

“Eating won’t control you,” Natasha continued, as if reading your thoughts. “Eating is just taking care of yourself. It’s your choice.”

It was hard to believe her. But in that moment, looking at her, you knew she was sincere. That she wanted the best for you, that she did it because she saw you, not as an experiment, but as someone valuable, someone who deserved to be cared for.

“I want you to listen to me,” she said calmly. “I know your body is screaming at you not to do it, that the fear feels bigger than the hunger. But fear doesn’t have to win. I’m here, and you’re not alone.”

Her fingers took a spoon and, with unrelenting softness, brought it to your lips. “Just one bite,” she whispered, her voice as soft as a mother comforting her child. “Just one.”

The fear coursed through you again, but something in Natasha’s tone, something in her presence, made you relax just enough to let the first bite touch your lips. It was slow, hesitant, but you took it. The taste was comforting, warm, like an embrace wrapping around your body, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something like peace.

“You did well,” Natasha said, smiling faintly. “Now, another one.”

“I... can’t,” you whispered, struggling against the words you didn’t want to say. “I don’t want to lose control.”

Natasha said nothing. Instead, she lifted the spoon and brought it to you once more. “Eating is not losing control. Eating is being okay. It’s taking care of yourself, your body, your mind.”

Your eyes filled with tears, not because you were sad, but because for the first time in a long while, you felt someone was fighting for you. You weren’t alone. And even though the fear still lingered, Natasha was willing to help you face it, step by step, bite by bite.

“I love you,” Natasha said, when you finally swallowed the second bite, as if it were nothing more than a simple truth. “I love you, and I will take care of you always.”

[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.

[foxflowershrine]

Hello! We're the Foxflower Shrine system, a traumagenic plural system, and physically a 25y/o transfem ace lesbian. Our collective pronouns are they/them, though we'll also accept she/her. You can find more details on our Neocities (last updated Apr 28, 2025).

Some posts may not be in English, so please ask or Google for translations if needed. We love questions and don't mind answering most things!

We don't have a specific DNI, but if you're an asshole, we'll block you. Invalidating others based on system origin or any other such label is asshole behavior. If you're not sure whether that means you, it probably does. Also, please don't ask us for donations - we feel for your situation, but we are not in a financial position to help and will block you for the sake of our own mental health.

Tags, bios, and individual pronouns under the cut.

はじめまして！私たちは「狐花神社」と申します。身体的に25歳のトランスジェンダー女性と、多重人格のある「システム」であります。「-たち」を使うように呼んでほしいけど、女性名詞もよろしいんです。それ以外の情報は、ホムペで呼んでください (更新日 2024年4月28日)。

普通は英語で書きますので、ポストにわからないことがあるなら聞いて、それとも翻訳アプリを使ってどうぞ。質問が好きなので、ほぼなんでも答えます！

ブロックリストをするトピックがあまり存在しないけど、どうか質問してる時で優しくしてください。誰かをシステムの始まった状況や他の身元をバカにすれば、さっさとブロックしてしまいます。それに、義捐を頼めないでください。可哀想くても、懐具合には無理なんですから、精神保健を守るようにブロックします。

「さらに読む」というボタンの下でポストタグやオルターたちの伝記総括があります。

Important Tags

#📝 [name] - Posted by [name]

#📝👻 [name] - Ghostwritten for [name]

#[url] ask - Answers to asks from [url]

#cw [topic] - Content warnings

Headmate Bios

Hosts

Gemini - The merged form of Corinne and Katrina when cofronting, they/she

Corinne - Our host for most of our childhood through teen years and primary protector, she/her

Katrina - Our host from 2019-syscovery and our legal identity / public persona, she/her

Noel - Formed on Christmas with an affinity for cold weather, lower social anxiety, she/her

Violet - Fictive (Arcane), working on getting us in shape, she/they

Other Members

LBR-3N / Libby - Fictive (OC), android, helps make sure we maintain our hygiene and self care, she/her

XCT-R0 / Echo - Fictive (OC), android, Libby's other half, she/her

Kasumi - Often takes over when no one else has the spoons to stay in front, understands but can't speak English, speaks Japanese instead, she/her

Kiyoe - Fictive (multisource), fox youkai, she/her

Yui - Fictive (Sword Art Online), AI, little (8y/o), she/her

Clair de Lune - Bootloader/gatekeeper, named after its favorite song, it/its or any pronouns

Caitlyn - Fictive (Arcane), she/her

Jinx - Fictive (Arcane), ADHD holder, she/her

Powder - Fictive (Arcane headcanon), ADHD calmer, she/her

Shadow - Fictive (Sonic), he/they

Lydia - Anxiety calmer, super high energy and can't hold onto bad memories for long, she/her

Rogue - Fictive (Sonic), she/her

Omega - Fictive (Sonic), they/he

Charlotte - Marionettekin, moves by inducing phantom sense strings, she/her

Blaze - Fictive (Sonic), she/her

Vixen - Quing of snark, what's a gender and can I eat it, vi/vir/virs

Haruka - Fictive (KokorOji), she/her

Remilia - Fictive (AkuNaka), she/her

Emi - Fictive (AkuNaka), she/her

Kayleigh - Little/snapshot (12y/o), she/her

Celeste - she/her

Kalliste - Fictive (OC), demontouched, she/her

Rain - unfulfilled 2016 punk phase personified. any pronouns

See our Neocities for more details.

[the-au-collector]

47

with Twilight please!

(if you're still doing the ask game that is, if not feel free to ignore <3)

I am!

I feel like you might’ve been asking for food but I took the prompt in a bit of a different direction 😅

47. Crave

The night is quiet, broken only by the sound of Wild’s spoon clink, clanking against the edge of his cooking pot. The aroma wafts through the air, some sort of hearty soup from Wild’s Hyrule, and everyone is lazing about, content to spend the rest of the evening in peaceful quiet.

Everyone but Twilight.

He’s not sure what it is that ripples beneath his skin, but it’s a strong, a craving running deep in his soul. He glances about the camp, at everyone resting, at the content smiles plastered across their faces, yet, Twilight’s frown only deepens. The restless craving has hunkered down in his heart now, and his feet will go running off on their own soon if he can’t move.

He looks to Time, sure that Time, at least, will know, will understand, but the old man’s eye is just confused when Twilight meets its gaze. Time cocks his head, but Twilight can’t bring himself to explain, and instead looks away, at Wild. Wild isn’t looking, content, for once, to just sit, to exist. He’s demonstrating something to Hyrule, who, too, is unusually happy to just sit and exist and how can they be so content to relax when this craving to run is eating Twilight alive―

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Sky is suddenly beside him, a soft, content smile on his face. He leans back against the log, some sort of woodcarving tool in his hand and a small block of wood in the other. Twilight stares at it, but the need to run is so strong and―

Sky nudges Twilight with his elbow. “Go ahead,” he tells Twilight. “You need to be Wolfie, right?”

Twilight blinks. “You could tell?”

Sky nods, a hum escaping his lips. “You were fidgeting a lot,” he remarks. “More than usual, at least. Besides, I get it. Sometimes you just―you need to go.”

“Yeah,” Twilight sighs.

Sky chuckles. “And hey, at least you have a safer release than tricking off your Loftwing.” Before Twilight can even think to be surprised, Sky is pushing Twilight to his feet. “Take all the time you need. I’ll make sure the others save you something.”

Twilight smiles. “Thanks, Sky.” He turns toward the woods. “And we’re talking about that Loftwing thing when I get back!”

Twi grabs onto his Shadow Crystal and lets the magic consume him. His bones twist, his back arches, every smell hits his nose at once, and the world gets considerably taller once he opens his eyes again.

And then, he runs.

He runs until that craving to run, to move, to feel his lungs burning and heart pounding, is gone.

[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.

[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.”