#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???

[slowfuckintheafternoon]

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Ghost who’s basically a rehomed cat.

You barely saw him at first. He’d come out of his room to do laundry, and you’d occasionally spot the back of him as he’s leaving for work, but otherwise it was like living with a ghost. A large, moody ghost who seemed to think eye contact was an unforgivable breach of privacy.

So you did the obvious thing, and coaxed him out with food. You’re lonely, he seems nice enough, and he’s also just conveniently there. It’s no big deal to make something that smells really wonderful when he’s home, and hope he’ll take the bait.

It takes three whole entire dinners. Two delicious meals without so much as a stir from his room, and you’re just about to give up on the whole scheme, when you’re finally rewarded with a tousled head poking out of his room on the third attempt.

“Want some?” you immediately pipe up, giving him an encouraging smile while you scoop noodles into your bowl. Realizing your mistake, you quickly relocate your gaze back to the food, so as not to scare him off.

Cmon, take the bait. Come on out, kitty. You know you want it.

Silent as ever, your massive roommate indeed emerges to fill his belly.

A soft, “Thanks,” is all you get for your efforts, but it thrills you. You sit there practically vibrating with glee, trying to play as cool as possible while you both eat and purposefully don’t speak to each other. There’s just chewing and silence, and the quiet clatter of spoons and forks, and you love it.

The next day, the contents of your personal grocery list have magically appeared in your refrigerator. The meat you needed, vegetables, your special milk for your cereal. Bemused, you step over to your pantry and verify that, yes, he got the dry stuff too. You weren’t planning to cook anything fancy two days in a row, but hell, if he’s around again tonight, you might as well.

But he’s not around. You don’t see him again for several weeks, never even got a text that he was leaving. You were just starting to make progress, and now it’ll all be erased when he returns. You lost your one window of opportunity for building trust, and it’ll be back to silence, back to emptiness, back to being strangers.

But to your surprise, when he does finally come home, he meows at you.

Not officially. Not in, like, actual cat language, but he drops his bag by the door and responds to your quiet greeting with a heavy sigh, and, "It’s good to be back.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, so you quickly hide it by staring at the TV.

He joins you for dinner the next time you cook. And the next. Groceries pop up like spring flowers, anything you write down, even if it’s snacks he never touches.

He starts hanging out with you while you cook. On the other side of the counter at first, looming like a dark shadow, just listening to your music and offering answers to your small talk.

You keep it light. Keep it friendly and easy, and entice him over occasionally to taste what you’re making. He starts lingering closer, letting the kitchen light touch him, leaning against your side of the counter. The scary side.

And then one day he tells you a joke. Just completely out of the blue, “What do you call an angry carrot?”

“Uhh…” you pause peeling carrots for a second, trying to wrap your head around some scenario where this is a legitimate question, because surely he's not about to tell you an actual joke. “I dunno?”

“A steamed vegetable.”

You return to your carrots with a delighted laugh. He's being friendly, he's making jokes! Best not comment on the progress he's made, because you don’t want to scare him off.

Good luck with that.

He starts following you around like an actual stray cat. You can’t bear to close the door on him, so he’s just always there, hanging out in the doorway, telling you little bits about his day while you brush your teeth for bed. He doesn’t talk a whole lot, prefers to listen to you yap, but he’s shut in his room less and less.

Except for the bad times. Simon goes through phases where he recluses himself again. Sometimes it’s only a few hours, other times it’s days, but he occasionally needs time to himself, and you don’t mind. You still get a thrill every time he appears again, metaphorically meowing at you and rubbing up against your leg.

God, you wish he would. You could use some good leg rubbing, actually.

Is he the rubbing type? He’s never made a pass at you, never touched you at all, and even the times when you’ve hung out together in your room, he always stood politely in the doorway. Always turned his head to the side when you’ve had to open your underwear drawer or spilled sauce on your shirt and had to strip it off. He’s just like that, always aware of your personal space and his, uncomfortable about the two bubbles touching without warning.

When it finally happens, it's you who's surprised.

You've just halted mid-step in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the corner of the cabinets because you swear you just saw something move.

When all of a sudden, and actual mouse scampers across the floor, doing erratic zig zags like it's too scared to decide where to go, and all you can do is scream because it's coming right for you--

A thick arm clamps around your stomach, and your feet abruptly lose contact with the floor. You've completely lost track of the mouse, you're just frozen in shock from the fact that your whole back is glued to Simon's side, and he doesn't even bother to hold you up with both arms as he swivels around searching for where the mouse went.

"Thanks," you squeak, patting his forearm as a signal to put you down. "You're really strong, holy shit."

He grunts like he doesn't agree. "Doesn't take much to lift somebody."

Your feet touch back down to the linoleum, and you just hope your hot face isn't too evident. "Right, uh huh. Cause I could definitely lift you."

"Probably could."

You eye him skeptically, all the way from his socks, to the always-mussed hair at the top of the mountain. "I don't feel like throwing out my back, but thanks for the offer."

"I wasn't offering."

It's just small talk. Regular jokes, with his usual deadpan delivery, but you swear there was something he meant to say in those words. You try to discern them, gazing up into those brown eyes that don't mind meeting yours anymore.

It's hanging in the air, the thing he meant to say. You don't want to try and guess. It's too risky, and you might hurt yourself if you get it wrong.

"What is it, Simon? What's wrong?"

His eyes stutter for just a second, like he's ripping himself out of a train of thought. "I think you should hide in your room while I find that mouse."

Stupid, cockblocking mouse.

You don't sleep well that night. You keep thinking about your quiet roommate, end up having to jerk off at two in the morning just to get a little bit of relief, and your sleep is fretful even after that.

You ask about the mouse the next day, and he swears he not only caught it, but released it in the woods a mile away. There's absolutely no telling if he's pulling your leg or not, so you just drop it, too absorbed in the questions that were haunting you all night.

"I'm not good at... fucking."

Your head snaps up, staring wide eyed at Simon's troubled expression across the table. "What?"

"I've never been with a woman before. At least, not... like this. Wager I'll make a fool of myself, so I might as well get it out in the open."

"Oh. Um." Your heart is pounding, your mind whirling to comprehend how you got here so suddenly. He looks so scared, holding himself rigidly into place without so much as blinking, and you're taking far too long to answer at this point.

"I'm good at it," you finally tell him, hoping it sounds more comforting and less like a brag. "We can figure it out together, if it's something you want to do."

"Okay."

It takes a little while to get there. Some time to find a natural moment to take his hand in yours, for him to return the gesture by wrapping his arm around your waist and bringing your body over to his. But then his hand finds the back of your neck, and he's definitely not a beginner at kissing.

You've wanted it for so long, imagined it so often, that the press of his body against yours almost feels familiar. The seeking movements of his lips, the soft breaths coasting over your cheek. It's quiet and slow, in the corner of your shared kitchen.

He tucks your body into his, lets you saturate yourself in each second of this moment while you both learn the way the other likes to kiss. You end up in your bed soon after, just for the sake of comfort and lining up your mouths a little more conveniently.

It's easy to lose yourself in the safety of him. Your body feels at home in the muscled softness of his, in the thoughtful, patient movements of his hands exploring under your clothes. It feels like he's belonged to you far sooner than today.

His first time isn't perfect, but he makes up for his inexperience by taking his time. Laughs at your breathless, "a hole is a hole" statement, and insists on exploring with his mouth and fingers first.

Simon makes the prettiest noises when he finds your wetness waiting for him. He seems to enjoy the feeling of it on his fingers, sliding them in and out so carefully, studying the textures inside you. He tastes his own fingers, less like a scientist and more like a little kid who's discovering new flavors in the sandbox.

He makes a sound then, a warm, rumbly one, and then pulls his fingers out of his mouth to lean down and find your clit with his lips.

A hole is a hole, but there's something special about whispering little cues at him in the dark, and the way he efficiently adjusts himself, ever the dedicated soldier. A hole is a hole, but you cum like that, with your roommate's strong hand gripping your hip, and his mouth accomplishing exactly the motion you need to draw a slow, brain-melting orgasm out of you.

"Yeah, just like that," you pant a few moments later, shoving his face away from your oversensitive pussy.

Just like that.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Obsidian [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds (The Void) x reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob loves you, but he’s trapped by his own fears and silence. Void, the shadow of his pain, confronts you with the burden he carries—leaving you scared and unsure of what comes next.

warnings: complex emotional themes, mental health struggles, ambiguous supernatural presence, mentions of intense psychological tension, choking (not in the good way, lol) mild language, no explicit violence or sexual content.

masterlist part 1 part 3

Wait for a part three (and final) titled "cobalt" soon with the resolution of this focusing on Bob!

Several days had passed since that night with Sentry, but the memory of it had not faded.

Sometimes it returned in the form of a fleeting image: the liquid gold of his eyes, the contained weight of his gaze, the impossible calm he'd brought with him. Other times, it returned as an awkward silence between Bob and you. One neither of you could name, but one that felt more present than any conversation.

You hadn't mentioned anything to him and had tried, as best you could, to maintain a normal demeanor around Bob. The conversation with his alter ego wasn't something he was aware of, so bringing up the fact that he was in love with you would have felt strange and invasive. Of course, as the days went by, you began to notice tiny actions that hid in the everyday and revealed the feeling.

Sentry wasn't lying when he told you Bob was watching you all the time. Not in a stalker way, of course, but the truth is you'd caught him staring at you more than once when he thought you were distracted.

At times, it even seemed like he avoided you. You thought maybe he didn't know how to handle his affection, which was why he preferred to stay quiet and distant. But little by little, you gained ground. After discovering that he seemed more shy in groups, the times you approached him were often alone, usually to talk about trivial matters.

Some days, you were kind enough to leave a treat in the cupboard for when he had a sweet tooth. You made his tea, shared your meal, or helped him with chores.

However, his signals were too confusing. One day he was laughing with you, chatting like never before, his eyes shining with joy. The next, he barely said hello to you in the morning, spending all day in his room, and his glances seemed to carry reproach rather than tenderness. You couldn't tell what was going on in his head, or why his ambivalent behavior toward you, but you were trying your best. To be patient. To wait for him to be ready, as the golden boy had said.

On one of those afternoons, you didn't expect anything to be different. You were sitting on the floor, one leg tucked under you and the other stretched out, while you idly flipped through a report you'd found on the table.

Bucky was on the couch, lying sideways, one leg dangling over the edge. He held a steaming mug and spoke leisurely, with the raspy voice of someone who'd spent the day giving orders.

“…and when we opened the door, the guy was eating cereal. With a half-assembled rocket launcher on the table. As if that were the most normal thing in the world.”

“Cereal?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Cereal. With banana. And without milk.”

“That’s his real crime.”

“The real crime was him pointing the spoon at me like it was a gun.”

Your laugh was instant, clean, so natural that John—who had just walked in with a bottle of water and a towel over his shoulders—stopped for a second to listen.

“What are you two laughing about?”

“Bucky tells me about a weird guy with a rocket launcher and…”

“Cereal,” John finished, tossing the towel over a chair.

“You were with him, weren’t you?”

The soldier nodded.

“Bucky froze when he saw it. I thought the guy had brained him out.”

“I was just processing the scene,” Bucky defended himself, smiling. “Sometimes it’s harder when there’s no blood. It confuses me.”

“And what did you do?” you asked John.

“I took the spoon away. I offered him oatmeal. And I handcuffed him.”

You laughed again, louder now. You leaned your forehead against your bent knee, still laughing, and when you looked up, Bucky was already staring at you. Not in a stuffy, awkward way. Just… attentive. As if watching your laughter was something worth memorizing.

“You should let me go with you sometime,” you said. “Sounds like fun.”

“You wouldn’t survive,” John murmured, with a half smile.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because you'd befriend the cereal guy before we could arrest him.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Bucky added. ���She has that look that says, ‘I’m listening to you, but I’m really analyzing your weaknesses.’”

“What I have is a good memory,” you replied in a mocking tone, “And a high threshold for human stupidity.”

John laughed and plopped down on the couch next to you. He offered you the bottle, which you accepted without hesitation. Bucky gave you a knowing look.

“You see? That’s why we want you around. You have a tactical spirit.”

“And because you're small. Everyone makes the mistake of dismissing you as a threat,” John added.

“That’s true,” you said, raising the bottle in a toast. “My real secret weapon.”

Bucky chuckled softly, more to himself. Then, in a quieter tone, not intending to be overheard by everyone, he said:

“It’s weird talking to you. I don’t usually laugh like this with anyone.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, smiling softly.

“You should do it more often. Even if it’s not with me.”

He looked down for a second, almost blushing.

And across the room, Bob turned the page. Again. Without having read the previous one.

He didn't look directly at you or participate in the conversation, but he felt everything. The natural flow of your laughter with them. The ease with which Bucky made you let your guard down. The way John touched your arm to emphasize a joke.

He wanted to get closer, but the more he thought about the idea, the more absurd it seemed. It wasn't that any of the three of you were doing anything wrong, it was just... you being yourselves. You could speak calmly, fluently, as if you didn't even have to think about what you were saying. Bucky was a more than experienced super soldier. Walker was another super soldier, although younger, a little more charismatic than his partner. And you seemed happy listening to them. Admiring them.

After a while, you noticed Bob get up from his seat, put his book on the table, and walk toward the hallway. You thought it was strange.

You would have liked to follow him, even without knowing the reasons for his departure, but you thought maybe he wanted to be alone. You never suspected anything had bothered him. There was no reason to think so.

When night fell, things got complicated.

Lying in your bed, you felt restless. At first, it was mild, as if the air in your room had thickened. You'd tried to distract yourself by reading, scrolling through something on your phone, or simply wasting time between empty notifications, but you couldn't focus. You felt a subtle buzzing, like static electricity seeping into the edges of your thoughts. The room was silent, and yet, something vibrated in the air as if you weren't alone.

You convinced yourself it was exhaustion. You tried to sleep, but when you couldn't, you resorted to some insomnia pills that had been forgotten in a drawer on your counter. It took you almost an hour to fall asleep.

It was in the middle of the night that you felt an abrupt change in the atmosphere. You woke up without warning, your chest tight with a surge of fear. Then you saw it.

It wasn't an apparition, nor a clear voice. It was a presence. Cold, like a shadow creeping under a door. Like an absence so absolute it ended up being more tangible than any body. You didn't know if you had closed your eyes for a moment or if the room had darkened on its own, but something in you recognized the energy before your mind could name it.

The room had no open doors, but it didn't matter. Because Void didn't just walk in. He flooded in. Sneaking into your room the same way he did into your mind: stealthily, without asking any kind of permission.

“Who’s there?” you stammered.

The question was awkward. You already knew the answer.

“You still pretend not to know.”

The voice sounded deep, not guttural or monstrous… but soft, too soft. Like torn silk.

“You’re not here,” you whispered. “I must be dreaming. You… can’t.”

“But here I am.” A pause. Then, more slowly: “Like all the thoughts he tries to bury.”

You felt it then. The oppression. The way the air seemed to lean in one direction, as if something invisible was breathing with you. Your skin prickled.

"What do you want?"

“Nothing. Why do you always think I come here for something?” A shadow darker than darkness itself moved across the wall, as if testing the limits of space. “I just came to see you. To understand what’s so special about the thing that keeps me contained.”

“Bob…”

“No. I’m not Bob. He has nothing to do with this.”

For a moment, the shadow moved closer to the edge of the bed, as if it could materialize, but still refused to take shape. You breathed heavily.

"He's sick with you."

"Don't say that."

“Why not? Because it makes it sound… twisted? Like loving you hurts him.” He laughed. It was a hollow sound. “Well, yes. It does.”

You stood there silently, unsure whether to move, whether to speak. Void continued.

“He looks at you as if you were an unattainable promise. As if simply getting close to you is a betrayal of what he believes you deserve. And yet… he can't help it.”

“I’ve never asked him for anything,” you replied. “I don’t… I’m not doing it to hurt him.”

“I know. That’s why it hurts more.”

You felt the mattress give way. Not because of the weight of anything corporeal, but because of the way the darkness seemed to thicken. As if a faceless presence were sitting next to you.

“I saw you laugh today. With them.”

He didn't say their names. He didn't have to. That's when Bob's withdrawal made sense in your head.

“So easy, so comfortable. Dazzled. As if you were part of their world. As if they understood you.”

“They are my friends.”

"Of course."

The sarcasm was palpable.

A shudder ran through you as you felt him closer. Not physically, but… emotionally. Breaking through an invisible barrier you didn't even know you had.

“He loves you, you know?”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“And why not? Because I'm not him, right? Because you're uncomfortable with the truth coming from a monster.”

A silence.

“Do you think he’s the only victim in all of this? No. He represses. He holds back. He keeps quiet. But all of it… everything he can’t tell you, everything he won’t allow himself to feel, he throws at me. Every thought that shames him, every desire that makes him hate himself, every image of you in his head that he can’t shake off—I carry it.”

Suddenly, you heard his low voice, even closer. That calmness in his speech hurt more than a scream.

"And you know what the worst part is? He does it without guilt. As if I don't feel anything. As if I'm just a pit to dump everything that breaks him. All the shit he can't deal with."

You swore you felt his gaze. But not like Bob's. Never like Bob's.

“I hear everything. I feel everything. He just looks down. But inside, he's screaming. And those screams, he leaves them for me. While he smiles at you, he vomits his guilt at me.”

There's a pause, as if measuring how much more he can let go without breaking.

“Every time he tells himself he doesn't have the right to touch you. Every time he imagines what it would be like to touch you, to kiss you, to have you... and then hates himself for wanting it. Every time he punishes himself for feeling what he feels. He throws it at me. He forces it on me.”

A shadow slid up your arm. You didn't feel a hand, but you did feel a slight chill, as if something were barely gliding over your skin. It wasn't lascivious. It was… analytical.

“And having you here, in front of me, I see you so soft… so alive.”

A shiver ran through your entire body.

“You can’t touch me”

“What if I don’t want to touch you?” his raspy voice spoke. “What if I just want to understand why he thinks he can’t have you?”

You turned toward the void. There was no face. But you felt it as close as if it were breathing on you.

“Why are you angry?”

“Because I exist for him. Because he breaks himself in two so he doesn't love you too much… and yet he loves you more than he can bear.”

A long, uncomfortable silence.

“And you don’t do anything. You just smile. You speak softly to him. As if it doesn’t hurt. As if he could stand it.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

You were sincere. First, Sentry came to tell you to love him back, and now Void came, scolding you that any attempt to do so was only hurting Bob.

“Maybe nothing. But what if I told you that every time you talk to him, you make me stronger?”

His words slid like blades wrapped in velvet.

“Because you can’t love a man who hates himself.”

And then you felt it. The shadows rose. Like invisible fingers, like branches of smoke that lightly tangled around your arms, your waist, your hips. He was touching you—if you could even call it that—in the way only a lover is allowed to. You couldn't pull away; you didn't know if it was out of fear or because, in some sick way, his caresses were enjoyable.

An inexplicable force compelled you to lie back on the mattress so he could continue exploring you. You felt those fingers—cold and sharp—ride over the soft flesh of your breasts, covered by your pajama top. It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a strong, hard… possessive one.

You held back a moan, one that would have revealed both pleasure and fear, as you felt his presence near your warm core; he spread your legs wildly, gripping your thighs just enough to tease, but not satisfy.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this? Not the pleasure. The stillness. The silence of your body breathing next to his. And knowing it won’t be real is what shapes me.”

There was silence. Then you felt as if he were breathing against your lips.

“He likes you,” the raspy, thick voice made you shiver. “But I need you.”

You were unable to say anything. His hands, still planted firmly on your body, began tracing the curves of your sides up your chest. They ended at your neck. They didn't hurt at first. But they chilled you. And then... they began to squeeze.

"What are you doing?"

Your question went unanswered. A second later, you began to breathe heavily. His presence surrounded you. The invisible hands weren't physical, but they choked you just the same. Not out of force. Out of guilt.

Desperate, you raised both hands to try to free yourself from his grasp, but it was useless. It wasn't something you could touch; it was beyond the tangible. The pressure seemed to come from within, as if your throat were closing on its own.

"Stop…"

“Are you scared now?” his voice softened, as if he truly regretted something. The lack of air made you close your eyes. “It’s not you I want to suffocate. It’s hunger. It’s myself.”

He confessed in your ear. You wanted to ask him to stop, but there wasn't enough air left to form a sentence.

“But you are so close…”

The whisper dissolved into the air like smoke, and then the silence became absolute. Not the silence of a still room, but the silence of an abyss containing all the unspoken things.

The shadows did not retreat.

The cold wasn't just on the surface anymore: it was inside you, spreading through your ribs like a dark tide that was slowly draining you. It wasn't painful. It was worse. It was the sensation of being sucked in.

There was no face. There was no breath. But you could feel his desperation enveloping everything.

The pressure on your throat fluctuated. It wasn't constant, as if he were hesitating. As if every attempt to pull away from you only dragged him deeper into his need to have you near.

Your numb fingers tried to find something to hold on to. A corner of the mattress, the seam of the sheet, anything. But there was no anchor possible when emptiness was what sustained you.

Soon the suffocation, though not complete, became constant. Air came in drips and drips. Your body began to give in to fatigue. And you couldn't even process the situation enough to feel afraid of dying.

It was right there, at that edge, that you felt him stop. The shadows flickered. As if on that last line, where only surrender or destruction remained, he didn't know which to choose.

Then he let you go.

Your breathing returned suddenly, raspy, clumsy, wet with tears you didn't remember shedding. Your hands trembled. And he was still there. Not moving.

The shadow seemed hunched. Surrendered. You might even say resigned.

“He’ll wake up again without knowing I was here,” you suddenly heard. It had become just the echo of a voice in the room again. “But you… you won’t forget.”

He stood there for a few more seconds, wavering, suspended between shadow and reality. Then he began to fade away little by little, like smoke carried by an invisible breeze. The cold in the room gradually dissipated, but the emptiness it left behind continued to throb in your chest, deeper than any visible wound.

You were left alone, trembling, tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks. Fear tangled with worry, and although silence returned, his presence continued to pierce your mind.

You didn't know what would happen to Bob, or what part of him had been trapped in that darkness that now seemed to have visited you. But you did know that, for the first time, you felt more lost than ever.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan @wtfhasmy-lifecometo @calzone-d @jessyimpala @p34ch-tr33 @meiluu

[lulu103]

Jason Todd x Reader

Jason didn’t understand how someone like you had ended up with someone like him.

You were sitting on the couch in his apartment, a cup of tea in your hands and a blanket draped over your legs. The place wasn’t luxurious, but ever since you started visiting frequently, it had that warmth of a home he had never truly known.

“Did you eat today?” you asked with that sweetness that was so uniquely yours—no judgment, just concern.

Jason looked away, uncomfortable. He had been so caught up in a mission that he had completely forgotten.

“No… but I’m fine. It’s not a big deal,” he grunted.

You smiled, unfazed. You simply stood up, walked to the kitchen, and began preparing something simple.

“You don’t have to…” he started.

“But I want to,” you answered softly. “I like taking care of you, Jay.

”Those words—so simple—disarmed him more than any fight ever could.

Jason, the man who came back from the dead, who had seen the worst the world had to offer, felt human again with you. And though he didn’t say it often, he loved you. He loved you more than he ever thought he could.

---

Jason watched you from the kitchen doorway. Your movements were calm, almost automatic, as if making something for him had become part of your routine. As if you were part of his life. As if you'd always been there.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Why do you do all this for me?”

You didn’t turn around. You just kept stirring the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon.

“Because I love you, Jay.”

The words hung in the air, sweet and soft, clashing almost violently with the quiet of the night. It wasn’t the first time you’d said them, but every time you did, Jason felt like you were peeling away his armor.

He didn’t answer right away. He never knew how to.

You brought over a warm plate and set it on the small table. Then you sat across from him, resting your head on your hand with a calm smile.

“Come on. Eat something. Don’t make me bring out my strict nurse voice,” you teased.

Jason let out a low laugh—quiet, disbelieving. He sat down, and for a few minutes, he ate in silence while you watched him with that same tenderness that always made him feel like less of a weapon.

“I don’t know how to get used to this,” he said suddenly, not meeting your eyes. “To… being cared for. To not having to defend myself all the time.”

You reached across the table and laced your fingers with his.

“You don’t have to get used to it all at once. Just stay. Just… let me be here with you.”

Jason looked up, and for the first time in a long time, there weren’t shadows clouding his eyes. There was something new. Something warm.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he whispered.

“I never would,” you answered softly.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, and for a few quiet seconds, the world stopped hurting.

Because in the middle of Gotham’s chaos, between all the scars and ghosts, you were his safe place.

His home.

[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

[circeyoru]

Shadow and Void _ Part 12: Death to He who Loved and was Loved

[Yandere!Sung Jinwoo x Enemy Monarch!Reader]

Arc 1: Part 1 ― Part 2 ― Part 3 Arc 2: Part 4 ― Part 5 Arc 3: Part 6 ― Part 7 Arc 4: Part 8 ― Part 9 ― Part 10 ― Part 11 ― Special Arc 5: Part 12 (here) ― Part 13 ― Part 14 ― Part 15

Back in the city, Hunter gathered and crowded the streets after the citizens had been evacuated to the safer regions. Some of the fighter-based Hunters remained on the streets with the Healers in the back surrounded by Tankers and Mages to be protected and continuously provide buffs whenever necessary, while the Rangers and Assassins were stationed within or atop buildings for a perfect ambush or strike if and when an enemy shows up.

A towering and giant figure walked through the crowd of humans, pushing aside any that were in his way. His eyes glowed as his fingers twitched from the excitement of what was to come. All that was needed was a trigger to start the party.

Like a reward to the strong, a prideful Hunter was bumped into by the giant and demanded for an apology. Humans and their feeble pride turned to be their undoing. So started the bloodbath that led to chaos and screams from squeamish humans. Cattle scattered like ants just waiting to be squashed under by the mighty’s feet. These humans were nothing but moving flesh to him.

How you, the Monarch of Void and their greatest tool, managed to live among maggots for so long, he had no idea. Frankly, it irritated how you were spending so much time in the human realm, he understood the need for a catered vessel due to your powers and standards, but the time after its completion should mean you returning to them, among your kind.

“Listen to me, you human bastards! From now on, I will start to hunt you down! My nails will tear your weak skin and rip fresh apart! I am the King of Animals, the Monarch of the Beasts! Try and stop me!”

In a more forestry region of Korea, Jinwoo pulled out your chair before you could sit and pushed it in when you did, then he took his seat opposite to you. The two of you barely needed any time to decide what to eat because the hotel’s restaurant staff had already arranged breakfast platters for the both of you as thanks for catching some unlucky robbers before you two could ask for a hotel suite last night. It was late when the two of you were done with the flight activity and Jinwoo didn’t want the date to end, you didn’t care since sleep wasn’t something you had to mind even in a human body.

Your eyes sparkled at the table full of food and there were more coming by the carts that were being pushed in your table’s direction. Well, Jinwoo, as a famous S-Rank Hunter, sure had its benefits, and you were loving it. There were pancakes, scrambled eggs, noodles, rice, sushi, sashimi, yogurt, cereal, and so much more that only two people could finish! 

BUT you were a Monarch. You are the Monarch of Void, the supreme ruler of space itself! Surely you can apply that power to your stomach and eat to your heart’s content! It’s not an abuse of power when you could enjoy all the wonderful delicacies humans have created over the years.

Not waiting for Jinwoo to start you off, your hands picked up the fork and spoon to get whatever you wanted into your drooling mouth. Jinwoo watched wide-eyed as you finished at least two plates of food―without even leaving him any crumbs―within the minute he was scanning through the options.

“You didn’t waste any time.” Jinwoo laughed.

All he had in return was your eyes glowing dangerously at him while the nearby knife pointed at him in a threatening way. Your mouth was still stuffed and he had a bit of issue making out what you said, “This is all mine.”

“Yes, yes.” Jinwoo merely smiled and plopped his chin in his hand, watching you stuff yourself with food. The image of a hamster came to mind, but he wasn’t about to say that to your face when everything had been so peaceful. Though that serenity was cut short with his phone ringing, he picked it up while still staring at you, “Yes, I’m Sung Jinwoo. Did something happen?”

Originally, you would have been concentrated with your wonderful meal, but your gut feeling had told you to listen in on the conversation. Not that you needed to be sneaky about it since the other end of the line, the person―Woo Jinchul―was practically shouting everything into the phone.

“An S-Class monster appeared in the middle of Seoul!”

An ear-piercing ring rang in your ears as you watched Jinwoo’s eyes glow. When it was confirmed to be one enemy, your suspicion was correct―the Monarchs have started to move. Poor timing, you haven’t been able to help Jinwoo familiarize the Monarch’s attacks and strengthen his current army, you couldn’t even force open the Gate for the true army to join the fight as much as you wanted. And he didn’t have the luxury of time on his side.

You could tell by instinct that Jinwoo didn’t believe what was reported to him, even when it was from Jinchul. His Shadows reported nothing back and there will continue to be nothing reported back so long as the Monarchs are there and actively isolating the city. Similar to that incident with former Chairman Go Gunhee, the tactic would be to isolate and strike, like a predator with their prey, only this time…it’s not a hunt but a massacre.

“Don’t waste your energy.” You told him with a serious tone. You stood from your seat and wiped your lips with the back of your hand, “After all, more and more will die by their hands.”

“Their?” Jinwoo’s confusion was valid because only one was reported to be on a rampage and Thomas Andre was facing him head-on right this moment.

“...” Your eyes narrowed with your lips pressed to a thin line, “Monarchs have made their move and they will not patiently wait for yours.” You moved to his side, staring down at him, “Monarchs will bring about destruction, more so the later you delay your confrontation. However…” You placed a hand on his shoulder before he could say anything. “You cannot imagine a victory against them at this stage. Certain death will be yours.” Your eyes glowed as mist clouded and distorted your form, “Sacrifice those humans for your survivability. Grow stronger before doing battle with them.”

“You can’t leave! I forbid it! If you leave… You’ll regret it! It’s all over!”

Jinwoo was reminded of your conversation with Ashborn before his demise. It was a sign that you care, a sign that you prefer his life over the others as you viewed his life more precious than whoever else was living. Truly, he was grateful and he was honoured. This was something that he had been aiming for, but there was that voice in his mind that questioned whether you were doing this for him or Ashborn.

“I’ll do it.”

Your eyes briefly widened and the mist thickened.

“Only if you call me by name.”

“...” Jinwoo didn’t see your expression; he doubted you made any at this point. The answer to his question was heard loud and clear though. “I’ll take you back to Seoul.”

So in the end, he was still seen as Ashborn’s vessel, no, successor. Even after everything he did for you and everything you did for him. Even after the sublime day you two had yesterday… It all meant nothing to you. What was he to do to have your attention solely on him?

“Prepare your mind and soul for a battle unlike any other you have faced before.” You warned as the mist rose to cover the two of you. “I can’t say how much of help I’ll be.”

The scenery of the restaurant changed and soon the wreckage of a city formed around him, while you appeared nowhere in sight. First things first, he blocked off an attack aimed at the disoriented Lennart Niermann and had him take Thomas out of harm’s way.

Rakan, in his giant beastly form, bared his fangs at Jinwoo with a thirst to maul him apart limb from limb. “How is it that you, a mere human, managed to carry the power of a superior being so far?”

Sillad formed from the chilling wind, “The Architect, against the odds, found a way. It’s been a long time since he and the Shadow Monarch have made a deal…”

Behind Jinwoo, the shadows of multilegged insects crawled and crowded to the new figure, Querehsha cooed with a twisted grin, “That means there’s no problem if I eat the human vessel, right? I’m curious to know what a Monarch will taste like.”

The System provided its aid in identifying the two new figures, in addition to the familiar Monarch, with windows for identifying clear enemies.

[THE KING OF THE SONS OF ICE, THE MONARCH OF ICE, HAS RECOGNIZED YOU AS HIS ADVERSARY.]

[THE KING OF THE ANIMALS, THE MONARCH OF THE BEASTS, HAS RECOGNIZED YOU AS HIS ADVERSARY.]

[THE QUEEN OF INSECTS, THE MONARCH OF PLAGUES, HAS RECOGNIZED YOU AS HER ADVERSARY.]

Mist formed around Jinwoo and concentrated on his side, a whip of a darkened mist-like tentacle slashed at Querehsha, but she made it so that her beloved children took the hit and disappeared. Your figure appeared shrouded in mist around your human vessel, “You will do no such thing.”

[THE KING OF THE FORGOTTEN, THE MONARCH OF VOID, HAS RECOGNIZED YOU AS ???.]

“Monarch of Void. Have you betrayed us to side with a mere human?” Querehsha questioned as she reformed in another spot.

“For me to betray you, I have to be your ally to begin with.” You glared at her as you stood your ground, “However, I never recall ever picking your side, vile pest. I belong to no side but my own.”

“You…” Querehsha’s grin turned to a scowl as she clenched her hands into fists. “How dare you…”

“Arise.” Jinwoo called his Shadows out. He made the first move not because it was advantageous to him, but because he couldn’t stand them treating you as if you were theirs. From the beginning, even after meeting you face to face, your iron will to stand for yourself and stay independent drawn him in, your fierce loyalty to those you care for was akin to his own.

His soldiers arose and moved to attack; however, within seconds, they were frozen solid by the Monarch of Frost’s ice. Sillad lamented sarcastically, “You really have a good number of soldiers… But they lack a good organization. Your soldiers will not be able to do anything in this prison of ice.”

You didn’t flinch, you didn’t even need Jinwoo to shield you because nothing was directed in your direction, as he should have realized and seen through. Energy must be calculated and used perfectly in battles that you can’t predict.

“And to think he wanted to use these soldiers to get in our way, how deluded of him…” The two Shadows encased before him were Igris and Iron, Sillad turned in Jinwoo and your direction as he preached, “It was an act of arrogance towards the other Monarchs. And on top of that, I didn’t think that human was capable of absorbing the full power of the Shadow Monarch. Perhaps there was some reasoning behind the Monarch of Void’s interest. Still, although the Shadow Monarch was the greatest, he should not underestimate the power of the other Monarchs.”

“Fall back while you still have the chance. A number of Humans have already fallen, what’s a little more?” You warned once more in a low voice behind Jinwoo, unmoving from your spot as the mist threatened to send him to your realm at the slightest hint of him surrendering. “Humans repopulate every other day. Talented Hunters awaken daily. Sacrifices must be made.”

Jinwoo twirled his dagger, his aura releasing as he pointed the blade’s edge at Sillad, “I will definitely defeat them, and I will at least take your head, Ice Monarch.”

Thus started the battle as Jinwoo lunged at the Monarchs while you stood on the sidelines without helping anyone or hindering anyone. Your mist dissolved all debris that came at you from their powerful attacks, from time to time, you’d glance over to Igris who was still encased in ice, then back at the struggling Jinwoo.

A bold statement.

A weak defense.

For the result was the same as your mind predicted. Because no sooner, the sight you met was one from your nightmares.

“Sung Jinwoo!” You screamed as you watched Rakan impale his long, sharp claws into Jinwoo’s back, you moved. You summoned your scythe and made a clean swipe at the insects around you to clear a path back to him, finally moving from your spot, “You back off, Sillad!”

“How you manage to win over the Herald of Favour, I think I’ll never find out.” Sillad smirked, “I will return your weapon to you.” Without missing a beat, he impaled Jinwoo’s dagger into his chest right in the center, “Alright. Now, can you heal like you did earlier?” While Jinwoo remained in shock, his blood froze over from the Monarch’s chill, “Probably not. No matter how strong you are, you are not a complete Monarch. Even when you have the Monarch of Void on your side. Is this as far as you go, human? If that’s the case, you will not be able to witness it. The moment our armies set foot in this world.”

You were suddenly blocked off when Querehsha appeared with her hideous insect pets, the smirk on her face irritating you to no end. You glared and raised your mist to cloud the area to make your move and obstruct the Monarch.

“When that happens, there will be a mountain of human corpses and their blood will form endless rivers. But this country, which you grew up in, will be different. I shall personally freeze every single human in this country myself, and make them suffer through an eternal agony. They will have to live through an eternity, not being able to die nor live.”

One by one, you struck down the creatures and devoured the bodies with your mist to prevent them from regenerating or healing with her powers. Even so, you were no closer to Jinwoo and it would be impossible to save him in this state alone. You closed your eyes and pleaded to whatever is out there to do something. You lost Ashborn. You can’t lose Jinwoo just as you have accepted him.

“Even your beloved ally, the Monarch of Void, will suffer the wrath of us Monarchs for siding with you.”

As much as Jinwoo glared at Sillad and wanted to fight back, he couldn’t. Sillad took great pleasure in Jinwoo’s struggles and pain. “So show me your endless contempt for me within your death. That will also be part of my joy.”

Still…

A little more…

Just a little more…!

Your eyes watered, Jinwoo’s eyes were bloody and blood were coughed up, no human could survive that. Including Ashborn’s successor. The one you vowed to protect and see that he rose to his place among the best. The prideful and strong-willed human you learned to 𝖑⃦̳̿𝖔⃦̳̿𝖛⃦̳̿𝖊⃦̳̿. “Sung Jinwoo!!”

[PLAYER’S HP HAS REACHED 0.]

[PLAYER HAS DIED.]

Manhwa Chapter: 156, 158, 160 (near end bit), 161 (beginning)

Note: The second-to-last arc is here! The scenes are a bit rushed and a lot is skipped over cause nothing much happens, you can follow the manhwa chapters I listed above to follow the story in this arc. The ones that are written are ones with details added with Reader's presence and/or influence. Hope you'll look forward to this arc. Happy reading!!

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST *(regarding requests, check the Masterlist to see if it’s opened or not and other info related before sending one. Thanks.)

Taglist: @rozuburedo @ariseverdark @skylar896 @o-qi-shisme @stoats-a-dork @daiyanomochi @snowy-violet @sleepyamaya @thetruepair @aixaingela @2021animeandwebtoons @mochinon-yah @rai-xxx @lilliana-14 @larettajudith @r3va-dwme @my-arietta @sikyulioness @sabrina-senpai @bubera974 @weaponxgames @m00n-estelle @beyond-the-stars-fairy @angelkazusstuff @soft-dots @dxprived4-starboys @shineinouzen15 @leviackerman2030 @dxprived4-starboys @darling-dearesttt @bubera974 @maria-trisha @stormnightingale @beyond-the-stars-fairy @notleclerc @fackeraccount

[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

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎ ⠀‌04 ⸻ dark is the night / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: vomit, mentions of pregnancy, past trauma.

She had stayed longer than either of them expected, his room was hers now, and the kitchen no longer felt so barren with her cooking; simple soups, bread shared from the market. Rafe didn’t say it, but the house felt less like a ghost of his grandfather’s and more like a home, even if just for a moment. Still, there were things unspoken between them, shadows in her eyes that Rafe didn’t press, though he noticed her growing quieter, her hand often resting on her stomach when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Her tummy was starting to show; a slight curve under the oversized flannel shirts she borrowed from him.

Y/N hid it well, layering her father’s old jacket over her clothes, but Rafe wasn’t blind.

He hadn’t asked, though.

Questions felt like a line he wasn’t ready to cross, not when she flinched at sudden movements or watched him like she was waiting for the kindness to run out. He knew she’d run from something bad—her mother, she’d said—but the details stayed locked away, and he let them.

Tonight, they sat at the kitchen table, the air warm with the scent of pelmeni from Marina’s market stall. Y/N had brought more food home, her small earnings from helping Marina adding bits of color to their meals. Rafe’s tin box was heavier now, the three thousand rubles she’d given him tucked safely inside, but he still counted it nightly, as if the numbers might betray him.

They ate in comfortable silence, the clink of spoons against bowls the only sound...

Her appetite had been uneven lately, and tonight she picked at her food, her face pale under the dim bulb. Suddenly, she shoved her chair back, the legs scraping the linoleum. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she bolted for the bathroom, the door slamming behind her. Rafe froze, spoon halfway to his lips, as the sound of retching echoed through the thin walls. He dropped the spoon and followed, his boots heavy on the floor.

The bathroom door was ajar, and he found her hunched over the sink, her braid falling loose, her thin frame trembling.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gruff but laced with worry. He stood in the doorway, unsure if he should step closer.

She nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yes,” she said, her voice shaky, unconvincing.

She straightened, gripping the sink, but her eyes avoided his, fixed on the cracked tile. Rafe’s brow furrowed. He’d seen her faint, seen her weak, but this was different. Her pallor, the way she clutched her stomach... it wasn’t just hunger or exhaustion.

“You need to see a doctor,” he said, crossing his arms. “This isn’t normal.”

“No,” she snapped as she turned, her eyes flashing with something like fear. “I’m fine. I don’t need—”

“You’re not fine,” he cut in, stepping into the small bathroom.

The space felt too tight, the air heavy.

“You’re puking, you’re pale, you’re barely eating. You need a doctor.”

She froze, her hands twisting the hem of his flannel shirt. Her lips parted, then closed, and for a moment, he thought she’d bolt again, like that first night in the garden. But then she sighed, her shoulders slumping, and the words spilled out.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… normal. Morning sickness, they call it. Even if it’s not morning.”

Rafe stood there, his mind blank, the word pregnant ringing in his ears. His mouth opened, but no words came. He stared at her, at the slight curve of her belly, now obvious in the way she stood, vulnerable and exposed.

Pregnant.

It explained the fainting, the nausea, the way she guarded her stomach like a secret.

Y/N forced a weak laugh, her eyes flicking to his, nervous.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice light but brittle. “It’s not yours.”

The joke landed like a stone. Rafe didn’t laugh.

His face stayed serious, his blue eyes searching hers.

Pregnant. Alone. Running.

The pieces of her story clicked into place, and the weight of it settled in his chest.

“Why’d you run?” he asked, his voice low, steady, though his heart was racing. “It was because of this, wasn’t it?”

Her smile faded. She leaned against the sink, her fingers gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“My baby… it wouldn’t have been safe there,” she said, her voice cracking. “My mother—she’d have hurt me. Hurt us. And the father…” She shook her head, her braid swaying. “He wasn’t good. I couldn’t stay.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know the details, but he knew enough—knew the fear in her eyes, the same look he’d seen in dockworkers who’d crossed the wrong people, or in himself when the creditors’ letters piled too high. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“You still need a doctor,” he said finally. “You and the baby—you need to get checked. Make sure you’re both okay.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic crossing her face. “It’s not necessary—”

“It is,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He hesitated, then muttered, almost to himself, “I’ll handle it. Whatever it takes.”

She stared at him, her eyes searching for the catch, the moment he’d turn cold or angry, like everyone else in her life. But Rafe just stood there, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression steady. The bathroom was quiet except for the drip of the faucet, the air thick with unspoken things.

“Okay,” she whispered at last, her voice small but resolute. “I’ll go. For the baby.”

Rafe nodded, stepping back to give her space. “Good. Tomorrow, then.” He turned, heading back to the kitchen, but paused at the doorway. “And Y/N? Don’t… don’t hide stuff like this. Not from me.”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes followed him as he walked away.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[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

[lunatf-ao3]

SICK CARE ☀︎︎

[BAYVERSE] Bumblebee/Human!Reader

[⚠︎]: Respiratory infection

Is it favoritism to think that all Bayverse characters (except maybe Megatron a little) are ugly, except Optimus? (TLK Optimus doesn’t count. He’s ugly too.) I stand firmly with 2007 Optimus supremacy.

-

You cough again. Your throat burns, and even though you're covered with a blanket up to your chin, you still feel cold.

Bumblebee hasn't left your side since you arrived. As soon as you entered the garage, dragging your feet and with a hoarse voice, he turned on the scanners without saying a word.

Now he stands by your side, silent, watching you with the soft lights on his chest and soft music playing in the background, as if trying not to make you uncomfortable.

"Still not eating, huh?" A voice comes over the radio, playful but not mocking. You could say it's taken from a movie.

You don't answer. You just turn your head to one side, looking at the bowl of soup that is still full.

Bee emits a low beep, like a sigh. He moves, picking up the spoon with his servo. He speaks again, this time in a firmer voice:

"You're weak- you need this!" Are two voices.

It's not that you don't know. It's just that the smell of food turns your stomach, and your sore throat doesn't help.

"Just a little," it says now, with a snippet of a song you don't recognize. Then it lowers the visor over its optics, scanning the contents to make sure it's not too hot. It blows on it with a small fan protruding from its wrist.

He looks at you. Waits.

Finally, you open your mouth and accept the spoonful, coughing a little afterwards. Bee stays still, monitoring your reaction, and automatically turns down the volume on the radio.

"Sorry..." you whisper, almost out of breath.

He shakes his head. "Not your fault."

He takes another spoonful.

Little by little, between pauses, small sips, and gestures of patience on his part, he finishes feeding you. When you let your head fall back against the pillow, too tired to continue, he puts the spoon back in its side compartment.

"You did good," a warm male voice murmurs from the speaker.

Then, without warning, he adjusts the headlights until the area around you is bathed in a soft golden hue, and the rest of the room is in deeper shadows. The music changes to something slower, more enveloping. A background neutral enough not to bother you, but present enough not to leave you in complete silence.

You barely register it. You're too exhausted.

Bee extends a servo and adjusts your blanket with his large servos, tucking it under your body with precision.

When your breathing slows, he moves closer, sitting nearby. He touches your forehead without pressure, gauging your temperature by touch. Your cheeks are warm, your nose moist. You cough again, and he leans over to bring you a glass of water.

He stays there.

The golden light continues to beat softly on you, as if breathing with you. The garage remains warm, protected.

And Bee doesn't move, not for a second.

When you think you're dreaming, you hear him whisper softly:

"I will stay right here."

[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. 

[bitingdrivers]

hello! would love to see what you do with barefoot and/or buttons for the prompt game <3

hiii esi!!! i had fun with this one, so i hope you like it!! (prompt from here)

23. buttons

"I'm back!"

The front door closes after Daniel with a click, finally giving him a reprieve from the heat of Australian summer; the evening song of kookaburras is muffled now, barely audible from the craked windows.

Daniel goes to the kitchen to deposit the bag of groceries he got, following the sounds of chatter and the smell of his Mum's tomato sause.

"Uncle Daniel!" scream Izzy ans Isaac as soon as he steps into the kitchen. Daniel doesn't have time to open his mouth, the kids already attacking him with questions and trying to get inside the grocery bag. He holds it up above their heads, and the kids try to climb his legs like little koalas.

"Did you bring ice cream? Is it chocolate like I asked?" asks Izzy, as Isaac says, "Did you remember to buy garlic for Grandma?"

By the stove, Daniel's Mum chuckles, "Alright, kids. Let Uncle Daniel go, you little monkeys." She stirs the pot of boiling pasta, then puts the wooden spoon down to take the bag from Daniel's hand.

The kids untangle from Daniel's legs and he pats them both on the heads.

"Yes, yes and," he answers their questions, messing up their hair, "Yes. I bought everything from the list."

The kids scream, 'Yay!" and follow his Mum to the kitchen isle. She takes out a pack of garlic and two tubs of ice cream Daniel bought — one chocolate for the kids, and one vanilla for the rest of them.

"Where is Max, by the way? Did you lose him?"

They all were playing shop in the backyard when Daniel's Mum asked him to go get some garlic for her pasta. Daniel asked Max if he wanted to go with him, but he refused, content to stay and play with Izzy and Isaac.

It was their first time spending Christmas in Perth together, and despite having a whole month in Australia ahead of them, both Daniel and Max tried to use every opportunity to spend as much time with the family as possible.

"He's in the backyard," Isaac replies, trying to puppy eye Daniel's Mum into letting them eat ice cream before dinner. Grace, as weak to kids' pleading tactics as the rest of them — especially Max, — doesn't budge, promising that they only have to wait for twenty minutes.

Daniel shakes his head fondly and goes to the back door to find Max. But before he can go outside, Izzy calls him out.

"Uncle Daniel, wait! I have something for you!" she says, running after him on her little legs.

"What is it- Oof." Izzy barrels into him and grabs his hand.

When Daniel opens his palm, she gives him a small round button — play-pretend currency of choice in the Ricciardo household. They have been using them before while playing shop outside, but Daniel's not sure why he would need it now, since both the kids aren't playing anymore.

He chooses to let it go, no reason to question his niece's logic. "Thank you, Izzy," he says to her, putting the button in the pocket of his shorts.

She smiles at him and runs back to the kitchen, yelling, "Grandmaaa, I'm hungryy!"

With a chuckle, Daniel opens the door to the backyard and goes outside. The early summer heat covers him like a comfort blanket, the low evening sun bathing the small garden in warm golden light.

In the far corner of the yard, shadowed by the sprawling branches of a rusty fig, sits a wooden shop stand — Daniel's Dad had made it ages ago, when Daniel was barely five. It's old now, faded paint chipped at the corners, held together by rusty nails and childhood memories.

Max sits on the little bench behind the stand, only his upper body is visible, both elbows on the table while he scrolls on his phone.

Daniel must've made a noise, because Max looks up, and his face, already pink from the hot summer sun, lights up with Daniel's favorite smile.

"Daniel!" Danuyl. "You're back!"

Smiling, Daniel comes closer to the stand and notices that instead of a little banner that usually says "Shop", someone — presumably Max — put up a piece of paper with the words "Kissing booth" written on it.

"Aw, what is this? What happened to the shop?" Daniel grins, tapping the new sign.

"Daniel, I had to change it. Selling rocks and leaves is not sustainable anymore," Max replies, head shaking in mock exasperation.

Daniel laughs and squats down in front of the booth. "God, the economy is shambes, yeah?"

Max nods, then looks expectantly at him. Daniel's cheeks hurt from smiling,

"Well, I would like one kiss, then."

"You of course need to pay," Max replies, looking at Daniel through his lashes.

Daniel pauses, "But I don't have anyth- Oh shit!" he remembers the button Izzy gave him and reaches into his pocket.

"Will this be enough?" Daniel asks, giving the button to Max.

Max hums, turning the button appraisingly in his long fingers, then holding it up to the light. Satisfied, he says, "Yes, this will be enough for one kiss."

Daniel laughs again, then leans in. Max's lips are soft and plush under his own, and as Daniel cups his cheek, Max hums, lips parting to deepen the kiss.

Once they part, Daniel smiles and says, "That was good. This is probably the best kissing booth in Perth."

Max laughs, smiling too, "Only in Perth? Not even in Australia?"

"Well, it's hard to tell with only one kiss," Daniel flirts back.

Max nods, agreeing. "You're right. Maybe we should again." He slides his fingers through the short hair above his ear.

"But I only had one button," frowns Daniel, searching his pockets for more. He finds some loose change from the grocery store, but that's not the game they're playing right now.

"Hm," Max hums, looks Daniel up and down. Daniel feels himself blush.

"It is of course very sad that you don't have any buttons. But maybe…" Max says, reaching under the counter.

With a rattle, he pulls out a cookie tin, full to the brim with buttons: colorful, small and big, round, oval and square. The evening sun reflect from the plastic, making the buttons shine like real coins.

"Maybe we can use these?" Max asks, his own blush covering his cheeks.

"Let's find out," Daniel purrs and leans for another kiss.

[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.”