#it's just that. i need to put this somewhere. somewhere. carrying it all on my own hurts and drains yk

[goblinontour]

Down On All Fours

part 7 | series masterlist

release

warnings: implied age gap, daddy kink, mentions of death, suicidal thoughts, crying, rough fucking of all the holes, therefore piv and anal, heavy dubcon (and i really mean it, it’s a lot and please don’t read if that’s something you’re not comfortable with), mentions of bodily fluids (pretty much everything you can think of…well, not everything), choking, strangulation, i hope that’s all. anyone under 18, it’s time to respect my wishes at least this one time, do not read it, do not interact.

word count: 13.8k

Intrigue.

To arouse one’s curiosity or interest — or to put it simply…  

Fascinate.  

That’s what he was to you. What he meant to you. And you to him, to a certain extent. Though you were sure his reasoning for that was much different from yours. You’d never asked, and he’d never offered. There were things that lived in the silence between you, words neither of you dared to shape because speaking them out loud might make them real. And maybe that’s what kept it alive — this fragile, flickering thing that neither of you wanted to name.  

Come to think of it, you didn’t even know what it was that intrigued you about him. Not really. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could hold in your hands, examine under the light, give shape to with words. It was slippery, like something submerged just beneath the surface, catching the light only when you weren’t looking directly at it. A shadow always half a step ahead, just out of reach. But you felt it in the marrow of your bones, like a splinter that never quite healed.  

Like you, he wasn’t special. Just a man. Troubled, somewhat deeply, by what? You hadn’t found out yet. And maybe you didn’t want to. Perhaps knowing would ruin it, pull back the curtain and reveal nothing but an ordinary man with ordinary demons. But there was something in the way he carried them, like fragile things he cradled close to his chest, never letting them slip from his grasp. A hollow space carved somewhere inside of him, filled with shadows he didn’t try to chase away. He wasn’t trying to be free of them. No, he wore them like a second skin, stitched into the fabric of who he was. You knew, though, that he liked that feeling. Because, like you, he didn’t try to get rid of it. He didn’t want to let it go. It sat inside him like an old friend, familiar and corrosive, and he nurtured it in quiet ways — a glance too long at nothing, a sharpness in his voice when it wasn’t needed, the distant look that lingered even when you were right there.  

He was handsome, yes, in your eyes at least. That might’ve had something to do with it. The kind of face that made you pause — not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t. His beauty wasn’t the kind that begged for attention. It crept up on you, like a bruise darkening just under the skin. There was something fractured about it, sharp angles softened by exhaustion. The kind of face that looked carved, not crafted. And those eyes…dark, rimmed with sleepless nights and thoughts too heavy to carry. His eyes drew you in. Beyond the dark circles and sadness, there was something else. An embedded hope inside of them. A fragile, flickering thing tucked away like he was ashamed to have it, and have it show, and to have it be seen. That made him beautiful, more than anything else.  

But you didn’t think beauty alone would make you let him get away with so much, if it weren’t for something else. 

It had to be something else.  

Maybe the way his hands felt on you before he’d even touched you. A ghost of contact, imagined but tangible enough to leave a mark. You knew they’d be rough in their grip, but the skin in the middle of his palms was softened — worn down by years of holding things too tightly, of letting go too late. You could picture them, resting idle but never relaxed, like they were always ready to take or break or hold…or maybe even be held. The kind of hands that knew how to destroy and sometimes forgot how to be gentle, except with you. Hands that smelled faintly of metal, of old leather, of something colder than the room itself.  

Maybe it was the way he looked at you sometimes — like he was trying to memorise you, not because he thought you’d leave, but because part of him already believed you were gone. Like you were a ghost he could only see when the light hit you just right. Or maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you at all, the way his absence filled the room louder than his presence ever could.  

Maybe it was how he felt like a place you could crawl inside of and hide, even when he was the thing you needed hiding from. A contradiction wrapped in skin.  

Maybe it was just him.  

The sum of all his contradictions, stitched together with frayed threads of grief and anger and something softer he didn’t know how to name. The way his silence filled the spaces between your words, like punctuation marks carved from bone. The way his presence pressed against your chest even when he wasn’t near, pulling at something invisible beneath your ribs.  

It was in the small things. The way he lit his cigarette but never smoked it past the halfway mark, as if finishing it would mean admitting to something he wasn’t ready to confront. The way he’d stare out the window, not looking at anything, but seeing something only he could. The way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was watching, but knew you were. You were always watching. 

You couldn’t help it.  

You studied him like he was something fragile and volatile all at once — a cracked glass filled with gasoline. A single touch could shatter or ignite him, and you never knew which it would be until it was too late. And maybe that was part of it, too. The not knowing. The anticipation of something sharp beneath the surface, hidden under the quiet.  

But there were moments — brief, fleeting — when the darkness receded just enough to glimpse something else beneath it. The way his hand would linger on the small of your back a second too long. The way his breath would hitch when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he called you his, like it was the only thing in the world he wasn’t trying to forget.  

And maybe that was why you stayed.  

Not because you wanted to fix him — you weren’t naive enough to think you could. Not because you were waiting for him to change — he never would.  

But because in the spaces where he didn’t know how to be anything other than broken, he made room for you. In the sharp edges he didn’t bother to smooth, you found something to hold onto. In the dark, tangled parts of him, you saw your own reflection.  

And maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t about intrigue or fascination or even love.  

Maybe it was recognition.  

A mirror held up to the parts of yourself you didn’t want to look at, wrapped in the shape of a man whose hands felt like both a promise and a threat.  

Maybe that was it.  

Maybe it was everything.  

Or maybe it was nothing.  

And maybe that should have been enough of a reason to stay away.

But it wasn’t.  

Because even knowing all of this, even recognising the sharp edges of him, the jagged teeth of whatever it was that gnawed at his insides, you didn’t move away. You only watched, only lingered, only let yourself be pulled deeper into the orbit of whatever force he carried inside of him.  

It wasn’t just intrigue. It was something worse. Something more like…inevitability.  

You could have turned back, could have left before his hands ever found you, before his words ever sank their claws into the soft parts of your brain and made a home there. 

But you didn’t.  

Because the truth was, you wanted to see what was inside him.  

You wanted to crack him open, spread him out under the light and sift through the wreckage. Wanted to understand what made him flinch at kindness, what kept him up at night, what filled his lungs when he went quiet for too long. Wanted to see if there was anything left of him that was soft, or if he’d let it all rot away a long time ago.  

And maybe that was cruel. Maybe that made you just as bad.  

But he didn’t turn you away.  

He let you press closer. Let you watch him, let you follow, let you sink into his space like you belonged there. And maybe you did. Maybe you always had.  

Maybe that’s why he never stopped you.  

Because maybe he wanted to be seen. Even if he wouldn’t admit it. Even if it hurt.

His presence was overwhelming. 

You could always feel it before you even saw him — felt the heat radiating from his body, the way the air seemed to thicken, to become something heavy in the space between you. It was like being trapped inside an electric storm where the tension crackled in the silence and you were both just waiting for the inevitable spark that would break the stillness.

His hands slid around your body, a promise in the way his fingertips barely brushed your skin. They found your ankles first, pressing into the soft flesh stretched taut over bone as he guided you, pulled you closer, making you feel every inch of his strength as he moved over you. You could feel the heat of him now, close enough to touch, too close to escape. The sheets under you were cold, the fabric brushing against the bare skin of your legs, the sensation almost jarring against the warmth of his hands.

You could feel him looking at you before you lifted your gaze. His eyes were already fixed on you, like he could see right through the parts of you that you wanted to hide. There was something terrifyingly possessive in the way he looked at you — a way that made you feel both seen and exposed, as if there was nothing left to hide, nothing left to protect yourself with.

He towered above you, his figure framed by the dim light in the room, a shadow over you, yet somehow he seemed to glow. You couldn’t help but notice the way his body was tensed up with restraint, the muscles in his arms, his chest, his shoulders. Every movement he made was deliberate, like he was trying to control every aspect of you — every sensation that flickered through your body, every breath you took.

And still, you didn’t fight it. You didn’t resist. You never did. The reality of the moment was both familiar and foreign at once. You had lived it before, and yet it always felt new, always felt like the first time. Your mind was caught in a whirlwind of memories — his touch, his words, the way he made you feel — but now, here, in this moment, all of that faded away. It was just you and him, and the weight of what he needed from you, what he expected, pressing down on you.

His fingers brushed your lips as he leaned down closer, and you could feel the roughness of his touch against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of the sheets beneath you. His eyes never left yours as he hovered above you, his breath hot against your face, his presence so consuming that you couldn’t breathe without feeling him. 

Then his voice cut through the haze of thoughts that swirled in your mind, low and rough. “You want a big girl kiss?”

His fingers parted your lips, his rough pads pressing against the soft, tender skin. The movement was sharp, purposeful. You felt your body respond to him without thinking, your mouth parting for him even though you hadn’t made the decision. He wasn’t asking for permission, and you didn’t offer resistance. It wasn’t meant as gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was demanding, possessive, molding you into what he needed you to be. A toy. An object. Something to bend to his will. 

And you let him. Because deep down, in the place where the edges of desire blurred with need, you knew you wanted it too.

“My girl wants Daddy to kiss her?” 

Your body went numb. Not in the way most would think — numb from fear or from discomfort. No. You were numb in the sense that you simply stopped feeling the way you normally would. You stopped fighting the chaos within you. You let yourself be moulded, let yourself be reshaped by the heat of his touch, the weight of his presence. You weren’t sure you could feel anything at all in this moment. But then again, you didn’t need to feel. 

You just let things be felt.

The quiet hum of tension between you two filled the space. It was almost comfortable in its own unsettling way. And he needed this. Needed someone, needed some…thing — anything. He wanted to break something. Or perhaps he just wanted the release of control.

“Stick your tongue out.” he demanded, his voice turning deeper. 

It was a struggle. He had your lips held too tightly, pressed together in a way that kept anything from escaping your mouth. Barely words could slip through the cracks, let alone anything solid. But the order didn’t leave room for hesitation. You forced yourself to obey, stretching your tongue outward, the motion clumsy, unsure, but obedient.

There was a moment of stillness then, a lingering silence between the two of you as he observed you. His eyes were heavy, weighted, watching every little detail of your movements with a hunger that seemed to burn deeper with every passing second. 

“Am I too heavy?” His voice broke through, soft in contrast to the way his body pressed down on yours. 

He straddled your thighs now, his body holding you down, pinning you to the bed with a force that was more than just physical. It wasn’t his pair of legs and arms, his torso, and his head, and every other part that added up to him — it was his presence that was the heaviest thing in that room, bearing down on you with an intensity that made every breath feel too thick, every moment stretched longer than it should have been.

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to answer. You could barely think, the pressure of him making everything in you feel like it was sinking, drowning in the tension. You shook your head, your cheek pressing into the cool pillow beneath you, the small motion your only response, the only thing you had left to offer.

“No.” you whispered. 

And then, his lips curled into something dangerous. 

“I’ll give you the best big girl kiss.” 

Like smoke, lingering, staining, his words weren’t meant to be comforting. They weren’t meant to soothe. They were the kind that promised no mercy, no release, only the need for you to bend further, to surrender yourself fully to him, stretched between cruelty and tenderness, between something real and something imagined. His fingers lingered against your lips, pressing just hard enough to remind you he was there, to remind you once again that you belonged to him in this moment — whether you wanted to or not.  

When they loosened slightly, enough to let your mouth part, your breath trembled out as though it belonged to someone else. His thumb brushed over the raw imprint left on your bottom lip, soft skin compared to his, calloused from work, from time, from whatever had carved its history into him. But beneath that was warmth, subtle and hidden, refusing to die. His thumb dragged along the corner of your mouth, smearing the wetness of breath and submission, tracing the shape of your compliance.  

His breath was against your lips then, hot and near, a promise of what was to come. But he didn’t move yet. He let the tension build, letting every second between you stretch and tighten until it felt like the very air was vibrating with the weight of what was about to happen.

He didn’t kiss you.  

He didn’t kiss you, yet. He hovered there, his mouth a ghost just above yours, close enough that you could taste the phantom of him — something faintly bitter like regret — and he stared. Right into you, past the fragile mask of your face. His pupils were dark pools with no bottom, swallowing everything you gave without the courtesy of reflection, pinning you down not with strength, but with something worse: understanding.  

“Look at me.” he whispered, voice raw, as if the words themselves were knives he’d swallowed.  

And you did. Of course you did. Because how could you not? There was gravity in him, in the way his jaw clenched, in the faint tremor beneath his skin like a storm he was getting too tired to outrun. 

His breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t used to being seen.  

Your eyes met his, and it felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, swallowing everything — your face, your thoughts, your fragile attempts to be more than just a shape beneath him.  

Then, finally, he kissed you.  

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rough, either. It was something else — something hungry, not for flesh, but for proof. Proof that you were still there, that he was still here, that something in this hollow world could still be tangible if he pressed hard enough. His lips bruised yours with meaning rather than malice. It wasn’t the kind of kiss people wrote about in soft, safe stories. It wasn’t tender or sweet. It was simply necessary, like tearing open a wound or peeling back a scab just to feel the sting and see the blood. His mouth claimed yours with a desperation that felt too old to still be so new. 

He’d been starving for years and only just realised it. 

Your hands moved without thought or permission, clutching at him, pulling — not to bring him closer, but to keep yourself from drifting. He was the anchor, and you were the thing trying desperately not to float away in the eye of the storm. You, too, were tired of standing on the edge.  

When he pulled back his forehead rested against yours and both of you breathed like it hurt to do so.  

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me.” he whispered, almost to himself.  

You wanted to say, me neither. But the words lodged in your throat. Instead, your fingers found his wrist, tracing the faint pulse beneath skin — fragile, steady, proof. Proof that he was real. Proof that you were, too.  

His eyes fluttered shut, his expression softening just enough to show the cracks beneath. “I don’t think I know myself anymore.”  

The words fell between you, sharp and raw, bleeding into the quiet. You didn’t try to fix them. You just stayed, your touch gentle, your breath syncing with his until it felt like you were holding pieces of him together — not with strength, but with presence.  

I can feel the weight of your presence even when you're not near me, he thought. Like a shadow that looms over everything, even in daylight. And when you’re close? When you’re here, your touch is more than just a presence. It’s something that consumes. 

It was suffocating, but he didn’t know if he could fight it anymore.

His fingers pressed against your skin, rough, methodical, as though he was trying to learn you like the contours of some strange, unfamiliar object. He couldn’t stop tracing, couldn’t stop touching. 

You didn’t flinch. 

You wondered, though, somewhere in the depth of your mind, if he ever wondered why he kept coming back. Was it really about needing something to bend, something to break? Was that why you were here? Was it why you, too, stayed? Because beneath everything, beneath the touches, the silence, the tension, there was an unspoken understanding that you were both just trying to hold on to something…anything. 

You could feel him everywhere, and you hated how it made you ache for him, for something more. But you didn’t dare ask. He wasn’t ready for that. Maybe he never would be…unless…

“You always make me feel like I’m drowning.” you whispered, barely audible, the words slipping from your lips as easily as the tears that gathered in your eyes. 

“That’s good.” he murmured. “You should…feel it.” 

And there was something in the way he said it…

He wasn’t just talking about the act anymore. He wasn’t just talking about the desire that had built and built until it had nowhere else to go but here. He was talking about that darker something that lurked beneath the surface, that neither of you could face the finality of.

And still, you didn’t fight. 

This urge.

It was getting stronger. He could feel it, growing inside him, clawing at the edges of his mind like something feral and desperate. It was hunger, aching, gnawing at him with the kind of intensity that drowned everything else, made him lose himself in the fire of it. His head was throbbing, sharper now, a beat that didn’t sync with his pulse, didn’t match the rhythm of his body. He wanted to shut it out, to push it away, but it was impossible. It was too much. 

The pressure was unbearable. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can last.”

His voice cracked, rough and fractured like he was holding back something violent — something that wanted to break free. Exactly that. His chest tightened, desperate for release, for something to stop the ache, but there was no escape. Not from this. Not from him.

“What do you mean, Al?”

Your voice cut through the thick silence like a blade, soft, innocent. But he knew you weren’t that. Not anymore, anyway. 

He flinched at the sound of his own name, the rawness of it still unfamiliar, still sharp in ways he didn’t want to admit. But he didn’t fight it anymore either. He couldn’t. It was too late for that. 

“I want to be inside your darkest everything, sweets.”

The words spilled from him like poison, but there was something almost tender in the way he said them. A yearning. An offering. And it sent a tremor through your body, one that you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried. 

You held his face then, the warmth of your hands pressing into the coolness of his skin. Your fingers traced the sharpness of his jaw, and for a moment, everything stilled. Your eyes locked — no words, just the weight of everything that’s been unsaid, everything that had been waiting. 

And then you spoke. 

“I think I mostly just want to hold you.”

You could see the shift in him. The way his breath caught, the way his gaze softened, just for a second, before the hunger came rushing back, like an unstoppable tide. 

He didn’t answer and he didn’t speak. Instead, he moved closer, his lips brushing against yours, soft and searching at first, as if to test the waters, to gauge how much of this — of him — you could truly bear. 

It was written in the way he looked at you, in the way his fingers gripped you tighter, as if you might slip through his hands, as if you might disappear into the dark.

He didn’t need to say it. The words were there. 

You could feel it too.

Save for the rhythmic sound of your breath and his, tangled and heavy, the quiet was the loudest thing, pressing in from every angle, demanding attention. A silence that, in its own way, spoke volumes. 

He shifted, his body now hovering just above yours, the weight of him pressing against you, the darkness of him filling the space between you. He moved closer, inches, then closer still, until there was nothing left but the space you shared. Nothing but the inevitable. 

And you let it drown you. You let him, because you had no other choice. Because you both were caught in the same endless spiral of need and destruction. You were just as broken, just as lost, as he was.

So you didn’t speak. You let him keep you here, keep you in the silence, in the darkness. 

Silence, too, can be its own kind of truth.

But he was ready for confession. 

“I had someone. I had…I had everything.” he murmured, his voice so soft it barely broke the air between you, yet it felt as loud as thunder. 

It felt…divine to hear him like that, raw and exposed, even though it was more sacrilegious than it could ever be considered something holy. His words were broken, fragmented pieces of a past that had never truly let him go, all spilling out in a quiet rush. 

He lay on his back, his body still but his mind racing, staring up at the ceiling as though the cracked plaster held the weight of all his secrets. Once he started, there was no stopping him.

“Everything…I had everything. And I couldn’t save them. It was a special day, that day when I…when I hurt you.” His words faltered, his chest tightening as he paused, grappling with the memory. “I could see them, and then I couldn’t. And it was like losing them all over again. And it felt so painful…it still…it still feels like pain, like the inside of my body is on fire, and it’s burning, and it’s angry, and bright, and…and it’s great, but…sometimes I just want someone to spread me open and pull my ribs out.”

His voice trailed off, each word more fragile than the last, as though he were admitting something that had been festering for years because, well, he was. The darkness in him was so raw, so deep, that you could almost feel it seep into the room.

You didn’t respond right away. You let his words hang in the silence between you, heavy and broken. There was a part of you that wanted to pull him back, to shield him from whatever it was that made him hurt this way, but you knew you couldn’t. Not this time. He needed to say it. He needed to feel heard, to feel understood.

“Like a thick black cloud covering everything.” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, almost like you were echoing his pain. Your hand moved slowly, tentatively, over his chest, settling over the center, right above his heart. You could feel the pulse beneath your palm, slow and steady. Despite everything he’d just shared, it was calm, almost as if it were trying to ground him, to bring him back to something solid in the midst of the chaos.

He let out a quiet, almost inaudible chuckle, the sound so out of place, so delicate in the depths of the rawness. “That sounds super depressing.” His laugh was light, a soft giggle that seemed to float in the air like a sigh of relief, just like everything he’d confessed had, for a fleeting moment, lost its grasp on him.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sound, the way it cut through the tension between you, as though you were both reaching for something to hold onto in the aftermath. And maybe, just maybe, that lightness was the beginning of something else that wasn’t wrapped in pain. Something that might still have the power to heal.

But the silence crept back in, heavier than before. It was a quiet kind of comfort, one that existed between two people who had shared something broken, something ugly, but still, in some way, still needed each other.

He was still staring at the ceiling. 

And when he broke it, there was something that wasn’t quite anger in there, but something close to it.

“I just want to tell them…” he murmured, the words slipping out like he hadn’t intended. “Like…it’s weird that you died. Because I can still see you. I can still feel you. I could hold onto you, but it’s like...you’re still here, but not here. Like you’re stuck in my head. I can’t forget you…and I don’t know how to make sense of that.” 

You watched him. He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was lost in the faded cracks, praying that he might find the answers in the chipped paint right above him. He often did that. And you wondered if he ever found peace in it. Or if he even wanted to.

“Nostalgia is just proof you’re living a life you can be proud of, Alexander.” you said, your voice steady despite the heaviness that settled in your chest. You had no reason to believe the words, but they felt right coming from you in this moment. “I think it’s a privilege to yearn for your own memories.”

You could see the way his jaw tightened, how his lips pressed together, like he was trying to resist the urge to let something else spill from him. He finally turned his head towards you, his eyes searching yours, a kind of vulnerability flickering behind them.

“Do you?” he asked, his voice quieter now. He needed you to tell him that it wasn’t all as messed up as it felt in his head.

You almost laughed. A hollow sound that didn’t quite fit. “No.” you replied, your words dripping with bitterness. “I want to forget them. I’m a sad, bitter, weak human being.”

The truth was spilling out too easily. You, too, were now letting go of something you had held onto for too long.

You were weak. 

You were just like him. 

And that hit you harder than you wanted to admit.

“You’re so fucking clever, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” you muttered back. “I don’t know. Maybe I just tell myself that so I don’t have to admit what I really am.”

He was back on top of you then, shifting his weight once more as his body pressed against yours, the change in his mood palpable. The smile that had once lingered on his lips, playful and light, now twisted into the hunger, giving in. 

“I love you so much.” he whispered. That almost made you flinch, made you ache some more. He wasn’t supposed to say it. Not like this. Not in the middle of all of this. “That’s fucking insane for me to say that out loud, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t help it. The laugh that bubbled up from your chest felt strange, almost hollow, but it was all you could manage. “Yeah.” you giggled, brittle, fragile. “It’s pretty insane.”

His lips found yours again, but it wasn’t the kiss you had expected. It was different — even rougher, even more desperate, trying to erase all the pain that had just spilled from his words, trying to fill the emptiness between you with something else. His hands were everywhere, gripping, pulling, demanding. His fingers dug into your skin like he was trying to claim you, to pull you back from whatever darkness was threatening to swallow him whole.

You squirmed beneath him, your breath hitching as his lips traced the curve of your neck, his tongue leaving a burning trail in its wake. “Stop it.” you whispered, your voice strained, though you knew it wouldn’t stop him. You never wanted it to. “Stop it.” you said again, a desperate plea wrapped in the guise of resistance. 

His laugh was low, almost mocking, and you felt him adjust again, his body heavier, pinning you to the bed. “Will you run away if I don’t tie you up?” he asked, slipping from his lips with a strange sense of certainty, since he very well already knew the answer.

You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling unevenly beneath him. “I don’t know.” you said. “You’d better tie me up.”

There was a pause — one that lingered. You could almost feel what he was about to do. The moment felt like it was stretching out longer than it should have, both of you suspended in it, trapped between the here and the there, between the desperate need for release and the terror of what it might mean.

The way he adjusted, the way he moved…you knew then that he wasn’t going to wait for you to change your mind. He was going to hold you. Whether you liked it or not.

A shadow on your skin, suffocating in a way that wasn’t painful, but still felt like you were drowning. His hands — rough yet so intent — kept pulling you into this thing you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t resist. There was something about him that kept you tethered, even when everything inside you screamed for air, for space.

“Don’t…don’t try to fight it.” he murmured against your ear, his voice low, laced with that certain undertone. His breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine, but you stayed still. Still enough that your body felt like it was being molded to fit around him — just the way he wanted.

You were just a soft curve in his hands, something pliable and easy to manipulate. You were, in his eyes, a beautiful piece of clay waiting to be shaped. But it wasn’t about shaping anymore, was it? It had shifted. To taking what was his, what he had a right to, and leaving marks on your soul that were harder to erase.

“Are you wet?” he asked, just as his fingers skimmed the insides of your bare thighs — featherlight, like he wasn’t really touching you at all, just a ghost of contact, enough to make you ache for more.  

“I-…yes.” you whispered, breath catching in your throat.  

“Yeah?” he nagged, his tone sharp with that cruel, playful edge, the corners of his mouth twitching, holding back his grin. “We need to make sure though…don’t we, baby?”  

“Mhm.” It was all you could manage, your body tensing under the weight of his gaze, your skin prickling with anticipation.  

And so he touched.  

Beyond the edges of decency and towards the end of no return. His fingers slid inward, slow, unhurried, slipping between your folds with a precision that felt both casual and calculated. He didn’t press inside — not yet. There was no intrusion, just exploration, his fingertips gliding through the slickness he found there. The wet sound of it was obscene in the quiet, and somehow that only made it worse. Or better.  

He lifted his hand slightly, holding his fingers up between you, glistening in the dim light. His eyes darkened as he stared, fascinated — not just by what he saw, but by the power of it. The power of you. The way you couldn’t stop him, the way you didn’t want to.  

“So slippery.” he observed in a whisper, voice husky, more to himself than to you.  

His fingers found their way back, dragging your wetness lazily over the sensitive skin, spreading it like it belonged to him. His other hand came up, sliding under your chin, tilting your head back just enough so he could see the whites of your eyes — the vulnerability there, so bare, so raw. You felt it everywhere, like you were exposed down to your bones.  

“I could break you.” he whispered, not cruelly, but with an intensity that made your heart stumble in your chest. His fingers pressed just a little harder, a reminder of how easy it would be. “And you’d let me. Wouldn’t you?”  

You didn’t answer right away. 

Your mind was a battlefield warring with the deep-seated fear clawing at one side and the strange, undeniable pull you felt toward him at the other. He was like a puzzle, jagged pieces that didn’t quite fit together but somehow made perfect sense when they did. You were drawn to him because of that — because you couldn’t figure him out, and it terrified you. Because he terrified you in ways that felt all too familiar.  

And yet, all you could do was nod.  

Your throat was too tight to speak. Words felt useless anyway.  

“Good girl.” he muttered, pleased with the unspoken consent that hung heavy between you both.

His presence was becoming more pressing, not just physically but in every other way. His chest rose and fell in time with yours, like you were sharing the same breath, the same space, the same inevitable end. 

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, savouring the control, the power, the fragile thread of you stretched tight beneath his hands.  

And even though it scared you, part of you wanted him to keep going. To push until there was nothing left of the person you were before or the one you might have had the chance to become.  

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was softer now, a quiet challenge, but it wasn’t really a question. It was an invitation to back out — a door cracked open just enough for you to slip through if you wanted, though you both knew that wasn’t the choice you were going to make. You both knew you weren’t going anywhere.  

It wasn’t about wanting.  

It was about needing.  

“No.” you breathed, the word barely there, but it was enough. It was everything.  

In that moment, it was clear. You weren’t asking for mercy anymore.  

You were asking for him to finish what he’d started.

His voice was thick with something dark, something satisfied, as he spread the wetness between his fingers, dragging it up and down, slow, deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you to feel every second of it, to be painfully aware of the way he was learning your body, memorising it with his touch. 

“You always get like this for me.” he murmured, watching the way you twitched beneath him. His fingers barely moved, just ghosting over where you needed him most, teasing, playing. His breath was warm against your skin, his mouth hovering near your ear. “It’s fucking perfect. You’re fucking perfect.” 

His other hand pressed against your lower stomach, pinning you down, reminding you, time and time again, that you weren’t in control here. He was. You had given him that control, surrendered it the moment you let him touch you like this the first time. And he knew it. He could feel it in the way you trembled, in the way your breath hitched every time he shifted, in the way you clung to the sheets…drowning. 

“You like this.” he mused, dragging his fingers up just enough to make your back arch before slipping them away again, leaving you wanting and waiting. He didn’t give in. He liked to take his time. He liked to see you suffer in the best way possible. “I can tell.” 

You whimpered, and he chuckled. 

“You can’t even speak now?” he teased, pressing his fingers against your clit hard enough to make you gasp. “What happened to all those clever words, babygirl? Hm?” 

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was unravelling you too fast, pulling you apart with nothing but his voice, his hands, his presence. 

He smirked, slow and lazy, as if he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to keep you here, pinned beneath him, on the edge of something devastatingly sweet, forever. 

“Guess I’ll just have to keep playing until you remember how to use that pretty mouth again.” His voice was thick, almost strained, laced with the pleasure of anticipation. “You ready for me, baby? You’ve got me so hard.”  

And he made sure you felt it, not just in the low, wrecked rasp of his words but in the deliberate push of his hips against your thigh. Heavy, hot, undeniable. A silent demand.  

Instinct took over before thought could. Your legs parted in a slow, dragging slide against the sheets, a sound almost as loud as your own breathing. The movement was automatic, a quiet surrender, your knees kept low to let him move between them without resistance. Like you were offering yourself up, like your body had always known how to yield to him.  

He shifted, propped himself up just enough, and you felt the absence of his touch for only a second before you heard it — that sound. The slick, obscene slide of his fist moving over himself, coated in you, working himself with a slow, steady rhythm. The room was too dark to see much, but you could hear everything. The wet, deliberate strokes. The subtle catches in his breath. The low, guttural sounds he made just for himself, the ones he didn’t mean to let slip out. 

It was intoxicating.  

Your breath caught when you felt the blunt heat of him nudge against you, teasing at the place where you were already slick and swollen, already open for him. He let himself linger there for a moment, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, smearing it across you in slow, teasing strokes, like he was savouring the feeling, like he was working himself up to the moment just as much as you were.  

“You ready?”

You barely had time to nod.

“Biiiiig stretch…” he murmured, voice edged with something close to amusement, something dangerously close to reverence. Then, finally, he pushed in.  

It was slow. Deep. He pressed forward, just enough for you to feel the intrusion before he stilled, basking in the tightness, the heat. Your body clenched around him instinctively, and he groaned, the sound reverberating through his chest as he sank fully inside you. He let out a low breath, shaky with restraint, and held himself there for a moment, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, every twitch.  

“Fuck.” he breathed, voice unravelling, head dropping forward. His fingers gripped your hips, possessive, grounding himself in the reality of being inside you again. “So fucking tight. Taking me so good.”

His hands tightened, his breath hot against your skin, and you…you were lost now. 

Completely. 

You were lost in his shadow, swallowed whole by the weight of him, the presence that loomed over you, consumed you. There was no escaping this. No leaving here. 

And then he started moving.  

The stretch was already unbearable, but the drag of him, thick and deep, made your breath catch, made your body tense around him like it was trying to keep him there. But that only seemed to spur him on. The feeling of you — so tight, so warm — made it impossible for him not to want to shred you apart. He groaned as he pulled back just to slam back in, pushing past every inch of resistance until all you could do was take it.  

He could hear you — your whimpers, your gasps, the broken sounds that slipped from your lips as you squirmed beneath him. Could feel your hands grabbing at him, nails pressing into his skin, unsure whether you were trying to push him away or pull him closer.  

“Fuck, baby.” he rasped. “Look at you. Taking it so fucking well.”

He covered your body in praise, words slipping between ragged breaths, between deep, punishing thrusts. One hand wrapped around your throat, firm but not cruel, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burned into you, dark and consuming, and you realised you weren’t looking at him. You were looking into him.  

“See yourself the way I see you.” he whispered, leaning in so close his lips brushed yours, not kissing you, just breathing you in. “Look how fucking precious you are.”

And you had to look. Had to see what he saw. You weren’t sure what was written all over your face, but it was reflected right back in his. His love, his need, his ruin. And the way he was ruining you.  

He went hard. Hard enough to blur everything except him. Hard enough to make your moans break into cries, to make your body twist beneath him, trying to run, trying to escape the intensity of it.  

“Where do you think you’re going?” he taunted, voice still dripping with sweetness even as he pinned you back down, holding you there, forcing you to take every brutal thrust.  

The noise filled the room — your cries, his grunts, the sound of skin against skin, yours on his and his on yours, wet and obscene. You could barely breathe, barely think. The pain blurred into pleasure, tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And then — something gave in.  

All the strength left your body. Your muscles stopped resisting. You stopped resisting. Your mind was still screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something —but your body? Your body wanted.  

And he knew. And he felt it. He felt the way you went limp beneath him, the way you stopped fighting and just…let him have you. It only made him worse. His hard but slow, deep thrusts turned to harsh and uncontrollable. He didn’t hold back anymore. He took you like you were meant to be taken.  

Your hands scrambled for purchase, found his shoulders, his back, and you held on. You dug your nails in, scratching, marking him up with crescent-shaped wounds. But he didn’t seem to mind. No — he loved it. His own marks were littered across your body, teeth sinking into your neck, your collarbone, sucking bruises onto your skin in one last attempt at trying to make you his.  

“Mine.” he growled against your throat, punctuating the word with a sharp, deep thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. “Say it.”

His hand squeezed around your throat, just enough to make you dizzy, to make you choke out the only word that mattered.  

“Yours.”

His pace didn’t falter, not even for a second. He kept driving into you, deep, relentless, his body pressing you further into the mattress with each thrust. You could feel everything — every inch of him, every twitch, every ounce of need he poured into you. And yet, when he spoke, his voice was strained, desperate for something more.  

“Do you like it?” he asked, breath ragged, chest heaving.  

He needed your words. Needed the reassurance that you were still here, that you were still his, still taking him the way he needed you to. But you couldn’t answer. Maybe it was the way he was splitting you apart, his cock hitting so deep it felt like he was breaking something inside of you, or the hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing hard to steal your breath, to keep you hovering on the edge of dizziness, pleasure, and something dangerously close to surrender. Or maybe…maybe it was just the sheer feeling of release.  

“Talk to me.” he murmured, voice thick with hunger, desperate. His other hand found your jaw, thumb brushing over your parted lips, smearing saliva and sweat and possession across your skin. “Talk to me, baby. What do you say, huh?”

You tried. You really did. But all that came out was a broken, breathless whimper.  

“Mhm…”  

Not enough. Not nearly enough. His fingers tightened, his thrusts turning sharp, demanding.  

“What do you say?” His voice was lower now, rougher. A command wrapped in a plea. “Say thank you, Daddy.”

Your vision blurred. The words barely formed in your head before they were slipping from your lips, raw, shaky, utterly wrecked.  

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“Again.”

“Thank you.”

“Again.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Your voices blended, tangled together in that breathless, desperate plea for release. The moment cracked open between you, raw and devastating, and there was no escaping it. Your body trembled beneath him, wracked with exhaustion, pleasure, pain — everything at once. He could see it, how overwhelmed you were, how far gone. Your pretty little face was flushed, streaked with tears, lips trembling, wet with your own drool and his. You were holding back another sob, your breath hitching with every rough thrust, every deep, unrelenting stroke that left you gasping for air.  

And fuck — this view alone.  

It made something dark coil in his chest, something possessive and cruel. It made him ache to ruin you even more. The way you looked, so helpless, so fucking innocent — it was like you were begging for it without even saying a word. Begging to be wrecked. To be used.  

So he did just that.  

He watched you, savouring every tiny shift in your expression, every little twitch of your brows, every sharp inhale, every desperate moan that spilled from your lips. 

And then — before you could even feel it in your bones — he flipped you over.  

It was dizzying. One second you were staring up at him, lost in his shadow, and the next, you were on your stomach, face pressed into the sheets, his weight pressing down on you. You barely had time to process it before he was pinning you down, before he was spreading your legs again, before he was back inside.  

Deeper now. Worse.  

A ragged gasp tore from your throat, muffled against the pillows. His hands gripped your wrists, pushing them above your head, locking you in place. His body covered yours completely, his heat sinking into your skin, his breath hot against your ear.  

“You feel that?” His voice was rough, shaking the with restraint he didn’t really possess anymore. He thrust forward, slow, grinding himself deep, making sure you felt every inch. “So fucking tight like this, baby. Fuck- Made for me.”

You sobbed. A real, broken sob. But you didn’t tell him to stop.  

“Fuck…” he groaned again, dropping his forehead against the back of your neck. “You love this, don’t you? Love being pinned down, love getting fucked deep like this. So deep…”

He didn’t wait for you to answer. He knew. He felt it in the way your body clenched around him, in the way you arched your back despite the weight of him pressing you down.  

“Good girl.” he murmured, dragging his lips over your shoulder. “Let me fuck you up.”

And then he started to move…again.

But when he pressed in and then out of your willing hole, it was as if the world shifted, the space between you collapsing in an instant. His cock was too slick, too wet with the remnants of your body, and it slipped, sliding against you with brutal precision, a brutal force, a relentless pounding that left no room for hesitation. A breathless cry tore from your throat as the shock of it hit you. There was no warning, no preparation. Just force, just him, pressing, pushing, his wetness slick against your skin, forcing its way in.  

The pain was sharp, searing, as he pressed against the tight muscle, relentless, until it gave. And then, slowly, so deeply, he sank himself into you.  

A sharp gasp left your lips, a cry so raw it felt like it tore the air between you. The sudden burn of him pushing with no gentleness and just the harsh reality of his need…you weren’t ready for it, but his body didn’t care. 

It was pain and pleasure, a twisted thing that mixed in the heat of the moment.  

“Fuck…” His voice was strained, a whisper of satisfaction even as he buried himself deeper, as though he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t claim you enough.  

Did he want this all along? Was this always his plan? Was he always going to take you like this? There was no time to wonder — no time to question the urgency that burned between you. But deep down, the thought lingered — he planned this.  

He loved it, didn’t he? 

The way your body tensed around him, the way you cried out, the way he held you down and made you take it. He wanted this. Wanted you.   

He just loved the way your tight little hole gripped him, so tight, so willing despite the ache. How you gasped beneath him, how you arched into him, begging with your body for him to move, to fill you in the way only he could. It wasn’t enough for him to just be inside you — he wanted to see you fall apart. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart…I’m sorry…” His apology was soft, though his actions were anything but. He murmured it against your ear as he thrust again, harder this time, his rhythm pushing you further into the sheets, again and again. “I’m sorry…”

But God, it felt so good to him. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.  

The apology was just a lie. You both knew it. A soft, quiet whisper that barely had time to settle before he thrust into you again. Harder.  

There was no stopping him. The rhythm had taken over, and with each push, he sank deeper, until the room was filled with nothing but the sound of skin, the wetness between you, and the desperate, breathless gasps that escaped from your throat.  

“It was an accident…I didn’t mean…” His words faltered into a murmur as he tried to form the apology again, but it was swallowed by the tension in the air, by the way your body responded to him, to the rhythm of his thrusts. There was no room for words anymore — only the need. Only the heat.  

God, you felt so good. 

Every inch of you wrapped around him, tight and slick, a perfect fit. He could hardly hold on — could hardly keep it together.  

You were so good at this. So good at taking him.   

“Shh, baby…” he soothed needily. “Just take it, sweetie…I know it hurts, but you’re doing so good. So fucking good…so proud of you…”  

Fuck, he thought. He was close. So close. His body shook with the effort to pull back, to hold off for just a moment longer. But he couldn’t. You were too perfect beneath him, too responsive. You made him lose control. 

He fucked you harder, the sound of your sobs mixing with the harsh rhythm of his body against yours. He could barely hear your cries, too consumed with the way you clenched around him, the way your body shook with each thrust, each push that sent a wave of fire through him.  

“Are you crying?” he groaned, a curse escaping his lips, unable to suppress the dark thrill in his voice as he felt you tighten around him. “Fuck…keep crying. Keep doing that…you’re gonna make me come…”  

It felt like the world was on the edge, hanging between the pull of pleasure and the ache of pain, the blur of the two so thick. 

Suddenly, your body arched beneath him, so sharply, so completely, that for a moment, it felt as though time itself had stopped. He swore he could feel it — the way your breath hitched, the way your body trembled, as though the world was closing in, and you were being consumed by the very force of him. And he swore he could see your eyes rolling back in your head even though your face was turned away from him, caught in the throes of something so pure, so intense. Your mouth hung open, desperate, gasping for air, as your hips started to shake uncontrollably against him. Every part of you was trembling, desperately seeking more, deeper, harder.

The way you moved drove him wild. His breath caught in his throat as he watched you fall apart. He could feel your chest heaving beneath him, and he could hear the shallow, ragged gasps that escaped you, as if you were fighting to take in more of him, trying to catch your breath but unable to. And your hands — God, your hands — clenched hard into tight, desperate fists, curling with so much force that your knuckles were white, struggling to hold on as your body wracked with pleasure, shaking from the inside out. 

“Alexander-” you whimpered, breathless, your very soul spilling out with each sound that escaped your lips. 

“That’s it…that’s it, baby.” he groaned. “Let it all out. Let it all go.”  

His own breath came harder, quicker, as your body tightened, convulsing around him. It almost felt like the very force of your release would shatter the walls that separated you. He couldn’t stop himself now, not when you were this far gone, when you were his. His pulse pounded in his ears, the rhythmic thrusts matching the frantic beat of his heart.  

“You’re my fucking girl.” he murmured. “All fucking mine.”  

You cried out as you gushed over him, and he swore he could feel your soul leaving your body for just a moment. But even in that fragile state, you didn’t pull away. You welcomed it. You accepted it. And that was all he needed — your surrender, your absolute devotion in the midst of all that chaos.

“Let it all out…” 

This was more than he could bear. He pumped harder, his rhythm deepening, feeling your wetness flood around him as you came undone, gasping for air, your body betraying you to the pleasure, to the connection, to every desperate, broken sound you made as your release washed over you.

He didn’t stop, even when your body shook from the aftershocks, even when your cries began to fade into soft moans. His pace only quickened, desperate to take in the way you had completely surrendered to him. And you did. You let him fill you completely.

“Alexander…” you whimpered again, your voice softer now, but it was enough for him. Enough for him to feel that overwhelming rush, that intoxicating power.

“Shh, baby.” he whispered, his voice almost too low, too hushed as he slowed his rhythm just for a moment, pulling you closer. “Just breathe. You’re doing so good…so good.”

He could feel you, deep inside and all around him, your warmth, your breath, your trembling hands beneath him. And even as you cried out, he held you, in a way that words could never fully capture. The world outside of you, of him, seemed to fade away. 

It was just you, just him, and the devastating, beautiful rawness of this connection.  

And then, with a deep groan, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He felt it — his release — a violent surge of pleasure that filled him so completely, so utterly, that he thought he might just drown in it for good. Everything went white-hot. All he could do was collapse against you, his breath harsh, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.

You both lay there, tangled in each other, bodies entwined, as the room slowly returned to silence. The only sound left was the soft rhythm of your breathing and the lingering ache of something still hanging in the air. 

He could hear your breathing slow, your body still, and he couldn’t help but lean into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. His voice was a low rasp, still drunk on the intensity of the moment.  

“You’re everything to me…” 

His hands, still shaking, slid across your skin, leaving trails of warmth in their wake as he lowered his lips to your neck again. Without another word, they trailed down the curve of your neck, over the slope of your shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses that were tender, but they burned, burned hotter than the bruises already forming beneath them, the bruised skin where his grip had held you too tightly, where his body had pressed you too hard, where he had left his mark, undeniable and deep.

Each kiss felt like a brand, searing into you, a silent claim etched in the soft spaces where no one else could see.  

You gasped, still reeling, your body trembling beneath him, your eyes fluttering as you tried to focus. You had been taken to places you hadn’t expected, hadn’t known were possible, and now, all you could do was exist in the aftermath. The sound of his breathing, ragged and desperate, filled your ears as his lips moved lower, brushing the top of your spine before finally pulling away, his gaze wandering over you, over what he had left behind.

He wasn’t ready to let go — not fully. And when he did, he pulled back just enough to see — to witness what he’d done. There was something dark, something possessive in his gaze as his eyes travelled over the marks left behind, the raw evidence of his presence etched into your skin like a secret carved in flesh. 

He paused for a moment, leaning back slightly to take you in and watched the way your body still quivered from the inside, the way you couldn’t quite control the tremors, the way your muscles twitched involuntarily in the wake of everything that had just happened. 

His eyes flicked to the marks of your union.

There, in the dim light, he could see it all — how your body was filled with him, how his release had mixed with your own, the traces of him oozing out in streaks of white mingled with faint hints of red — proof of just how far he’d gone, how deeply he had carved himself into you. It was dripping out of you slowly, staining the sheets beneath.

The sight was almost too much…even for him.

His fingers moved without thought, sliding down your body, slowly, slowly reaching down as he dipped them between your legs, gathering remnants of that connection, scooping some of himself from you in the fragile boundary between tenderness and something darker. 

With a deep breath, he pulled you. You were still shaking beneath him, but you didn’t resist. Then he turned you, gently but firmly, flipping you over, your body moving at his command, until you were face-up again. His eyes flicked back to your face. He could see the faint tremors in your eyes, the struggle to keep them open, glazed with exhaustion, but your body was so pliable, so willing to follow his lead, as though you had no choice but to obey his every movement, caught somewhere between pleasure and vulnerability. 

His gaze held yours as he pressed his fingers to your lips, slick with the remnants of both of you. 

His fingers, stained with the aftermath of you both, hovered at your lips for just a heartbeat before he pressed them past the soft curve, slipping into the warmth. Your breath caught, your eyelids fluttering closed for a moment as you took him in, but you didn’t hesitate — your mouth opened, parting instinctively to let him enter, tongue flicking out to meet his fingers with a softness that sent a shiver down his spine. Your lips closed around them and you started swirling lazily, tasting the remnants of him — of you — like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

And when your eyes opened, struggling to stay that way, there was no fear there — only surrender. Willing, fragile surrender. A prayer whispered against the dark.  

You hummed against his touch, tasting him on your tongue like it was a drug, something you craved. Something you needed. He couldn’t help but let out a low groan as he watched you, the way you sucked on his fingers so willingly, so eagerly. He watched, fascinated.

“Such a good girl.” he whispered, the words falling from his lips like a blessing, like an affirmation, trembling with the weight of his own disbelief at the depth of what he felt. His free hand traced the curve of your jaw, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, a fragile contrast to the bruises blooming beneath his touch. “I told you it was nothing to be afraid of, didn’t I? You’re finally all mine now. Mine…” he murmured, leaning down close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Only mine.”

Vows wrapping around your soul.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling, hot and heavy in the space between. His words came softer now. “You’re finally mine…all mine. ”  

You whimpered softly, your breath catching as his fingers remained in your mouth, the pressure building as you sucked on them with increasing desperation, the taste of him filling your senses. And all the while, his hand slid down to your body, feeling the tremors in your skin, the way you shuddered under his touch, as if you were still reeling from the storm he had unleashed within you. 

He leaned down closer, his lips brushing against your ear once more. “You’re mine, you understand that, don’t you? Completely. No one else will ever have you like this.”

The tremors wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop. They were there, deep in the marrow of your bones, the aftermath of something that left you hollow yet full all at once. 

“You’re mine. No one else can have you. Not now. Not ever. You’re mine, body and soul.” 

The words wrapped around you, sinking in deeper. You were tethered to him, bound by more than just the physical. It wasn’t just possession — it was something more, something raw and irrevocable and rotten that had taken root in both of you 

His touch was rougher again, more desperate. He feared that the moment might slip away. His fingers pulled from your mouth slowly.

“I’m never letting you go. Got that? I’m never going to let anyone else touch you the way I do. Not again.”

And there it was — not just a claim, but a truth, undeniable, carved into the silence that followed, where possession felt like devotion, and surrender felt like belonging.  

You knew, now, this time for sure, that there was no going back. You had crossed some invisible line. You were his, completely. You felt the weight of that truth settle deep inside you, sinking into your bones in ways you couldn’t possibly understand.

The room was suffocatingly quiet, the only sound the ragged pull of your breath mingling with his. It felt more and more like a tight thread about to snap. His hands, large and warm, wrapped around you, pulling you against him as if he could fold you into his skin, make you disappear inside the hollow space carved just for you.

When his fingers slid upward, circling the delicate column of your throat, it was with the precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing — not hesitant, not questioning, no need for words. It was instinct, the way his palms fit there, like they had been carved by memory, like your neck was shaped for his touch. It felt like their rightful place, ever since…the incident. You didn’t need to ask for his touch, he gave it, and it was just…right. His thumbs traced the fragile pulse beneath your skin, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat — proof of life. 

It was all there, under his touch.

That pulse beat, and beat, and beat against his fingertips, frantic and alive, each flutter a silent confession. He felt your life, fragile and wild beneath his hands, a secret only he could crush or cradle. His grip tightened slightly. The pressure was gentle at first, just enough to remind you that he was there — that he could take more if he wanted to. That he wanted to.

Piece by piece, with nothing more than his hands and his will.

“You feel that?” His voice was low, frayed around the edges. “How easy it is for me to hold you like this? For me to- to…to have all of you?”

The words tangled in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of his touch. 

But your body answered for you.

That answer was written in every shallow breath you managed to take.

He leaned in closer. “You don’t have to ask for my touch. You never did. It’s always been yours.” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your temple, a breath, a shadow. “I already know.”

He was watching you closely, eyes dark and glassy, reflecting something sharp and raw. His gaze wasn’t just on you but inside you, peeling back layers you didn’t know existed. There was no place to hide. Not from him. Not from this.

There was something terrifying and beautiful in that truth.

He was enthralled by the view. He just couldn’t help but go over it in his head. Again and again and again…

This is where you belong, his grip seemed to say. Right here. Under me. Within reach.

His hands tightened.

I want to…

He choked you until you tried speaking. Until you tapped his arm, like you’d practiced, and then until you started flailing and punching when he wouldn’t let go. He wanted to keep squeezing, until you turned purple, until you did everything you could, still fighting him to get loose, against your own wishes, but on simple human instinct. 

…I want her to feel weak. That I can do this to her. When she realises that, then I’ll let her breathe.

His forehead rested against yours. You could feel the tremble in his body, the restraint threading through his muscles, taut and coiled, a fragile leash barely holding him back. His touch softened then. His grip eased, fingers tracing the tender skin his hands had claimed moments before, almost apologetic, as if trying to soothe the very ache he’d created. But the ache wasn’t just physical — it was deeper, buried beneath layers of skin and bone, stitched into the fabric of who you were when you were with him, when you truly allowed yourself to feel it.

“I could take everything…” he whispered, as though the idea itself was sacred. “But I don’t need to. You’ve already given it to me.”

And you had.

Without words, without promises, you had offered him all of you — your fears, your darkness, your very breath — and he had taken it, cradled it in his hands every time like something precious and fragile, even when his grip was anything but gentle.

His hands fell away, leaving the ghost of his touch behind, a phantom feeling where his fingers had been. But even without them, you felt his claim, etched deeper than bruises, deeper than breath.

You didn’t just belong to him.

You wanted to.

The absence of his touch left you feeling hollow. The warmth that had wrapped around you, consumed you, was gone in an instant, and it felt unbearable. Like being abandoned in the cold after knowing only fire. You gasped for it, reaching blindly as though you could pull him back with sheer desperation alone…to fill the void.

“No…” The word left you as a whisper, fragile and breaking.  

Alexander stilled, watching you like he’d been waiting for that very syllable. His dark eyes glowed with something unreadable, something deep and knowing. His head tilted slightly, a predatory curiosity flickering behind his eyes, humming with tension, with expectation. He wanted you to beg. He needed to hear it.  

“What is it, sweetie?” 

Your lips trembled. Your throat felt tight. But the words clawed their way out anyway. “N- no…why’d you stop? P-please…I need it. I need it so…so bad.”  

The desperation in your voice seemed to ignite something in him. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, into the faintest shadow of a smile — not kind, not soft, but sharp like broken glass. He moved closer.

“Oh yeah?” His fingers brushed over your jaw, tracing the curve of it. His touch felt deceptively gentle. “And what exactly do you need, little love? You know I can’t give you exactly what you want unless you tell me. Use that pretty mouth of yours.” His eyes bore into you, dark and endless. 

But words weren’t enough for this. Words couldn’t capture the way your body ached, the way your mind was unravelling without him. Instead, you just looked at him. Your eyes spoke the language you’d both learned in the spaces between speech — wide and pleading, lips parted, breath shallow. A silent, desperate surrender.  

And he understood.  

Of course he did.  

Because you weren’t two separate people. You weren’t two people trying to find connection. You had been made for each other, pulled from the same darkness, shaped by the same hunger. He was made for this — for you. Just as you were made for him. You weren’t lovers in the ordinary sense, but rather reflections. Fragments of the same whole, scattered pieces finally pulled back together, slotting into place with every breath, every glance, every whispered plea. A single entity split apart, clawing its way back together.  

You didn’t just complete each other. 

You consumed each other.

“You figured it out before me, didn’t you?” His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. “You knew…knew we were never meant to be apart. That there is no you and me. Just…us.”  

His hand slid down to your throat.  

That was where it belonged.  

He wrapped his fingers around your neck, splaying over your pulse. The pressure was light at first, but it grew, steadily, until it was all you could feel. His grip tightened, not out of cruelty, but because he knew. Knew how much you needed to feel small beneath his hands, how much you craved the razor-thin edge where surrender met survival.

And he stared. Just stared at you.  

The image of you like this — breathless, vulnerable, utterly his — burned itself into his mind. He memorised every detail. The way your chest rose and fell too fast, the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips trembled.  

I want to see her fight.  

The thought was sudden, electric.  

Not because he wanted you to escape…but he wanted you to try. To push against him, to resist, to claw for breath with some primal, human instinct — only to realise you couldn’t. That you were weak.  

That he was the only thing keeping you here.  

The idea curled in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins.  

“I could keep going, you know.” His grip tightened, just a fraction. “Tighter. Until you really start to struggle…until you start clawing at me. Wouldn’t that be something?” he mused, watching the way your pupils blew wide, the way your hands twitched. “Watching you panic. Watching you really get it inside your tiny head that you’re weak. That I can do this to you. That no matter how much you fight, you can’t stop me.”  

His grip tightened again.  

Your breathing hitched.  

“Or…” His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his breath warm, coaxing. “Maybe I just don’t stop. Maybe I let you struggle, let you break beneath me. Maybe I let you realise this is finally the end for you. Is that what you need?”  

He felt your pulse spike.  

A deep, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest.  

“There’s nothing worthy of your troubles, little one.” he whispered. His grip grew firmer, pressing against the delicate structure of your throat, cutting off just enough air to make your head swim. “And the earth…it isn’t worth even a single sigh of yours, love.”  

Your vision blurred around the edges. Your body twitched. The primal instinct to breathe kicked in, but you made no move to stop him.  

“Pain and torment are our life.” he continued, his voice a low hum in your fading consciousness. “The world? Meaningless…it’s- it’s nothing. But you?” His thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the frantic drum of your heartbeat. He tilted his head, considering. Then… 

“Everything.”  

His fingers curled tighter.  

The pressure increased. 

Your body reacted automatically — fingers clawing weakly at his wrist, legs twitching, mind screaming for air. But beneath the panic, beneath the wild thrum of survival, there was a deeper truth: you didn’t want him to stop.

Because in this space, this darkness, you felt more alive than anywhere else.

Air became a distant thing, unreachable, and your hands grew weaker. But you held on. To anchor yourself in the feeling of him. 

He groaned. “Oh, sweetheart. Look at you…” His free hand dragged down your body, over every other mark he had left behind. “You’re so pretty like this.”  

Your vision was tunneling now, a slow descent into something dark. Your limbs felt heavy, your chest tight. Your body convulsed, trembling against his hold, not out of fear, but from the overwhelming flood of sensation, the blurred line between pain and pleasure…

…And you felt yourself slipping.

“Now…” he murmured, his face close enough that his breath was the only thing filling your starving lungs, “you just…”

Harder.

“…Calm down.”

And then…

Then he let go.  

The rush of air into your limp lungs was violent. He watched as your whole body folded in on itself, choking on the sudden flood of oxygen that had nowhere to go anymore. But before you could collapse, he caught you. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest as your shaking limbs gave out. 

He cradled you there, his fingers stroking the side of your face, tracing over your skin, memorising you all over again, for one last time.  

“There you are.” he murmured, his voice softer now, lower. “It’s okay, little one. That’s it. Just…” His lips brushed against your temple, lingering. “...right where you belong.”  

Because you did belong.  

To him.  

And he was never going to let you forget it.  

“You’re alright…” His voice slipped into your ear like a soft caress, an unsettling warmth that contrasted with the ice building in your chest. His fingers wrapped around your face, gently yet firmly cradling your jaw. He tilted your head slightly, forcing your still eyes to meet his wild ones. 

His thumbs brushed the traces of tears from your cheeks. The coolness of your skin, damp with the aftershocks of what had just passed, sent a shiver through his body. 

So fragile…his tiny bird caught in the storm. 

And yet, despite it all, he was still drawn to you. He leaned closer, his lips grazing the line of your jaw, a soft, almost tender kiss just beneath your ear. His mouth lingered there, warm and seeking, but it was a far cry from the way he had consumed you before. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

A quiet, twisted truth between the two of you that neither could ignore in the end. The words felt hollow, emptied of their traditional meaning. But to him, they were all he had left to offer, the only thing that could fill the cavernous void inside.  

A sublime mockery, echoing in a space where love had been stripped down to its barest bones.

There was no softness in it, no light. Just a shadow wearing the shape of affection, dressed up in the language of tenderness while hiding the rot beneath.  

Love. 

A word people clung to, believing it could save them, define them. But for him, it was nothing more than a curse — a shackle disguised as a gift.  

And yet, here he was, saying it anyway.  

Why?

Because it sounded beautiful when spoken over the wreckage of something ruined.  

The words were nothing but a mask, a charade, a necessary illusion. It wasn’t love in the way others might have understood it. It was far more consuming and suffocating. A sick attachment that he couldn’t let go of, even if he tried. And you, caught in the hurricane of his need, understood it now too. 

So, at last, he held you. 

He held you because that, too, was part of it — the contradiction. To give and take, to hurt and to heal. To make you need him and to break you until there was nothing left but utmost devotion.  

His hands slid down your neck, your back, the tips of his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, feeling the way you tensed, the way your body still responded to him without question. He marvelled at it. The power he had over you. 

He leaned in again, brushing his lips against your ear, his voice low and almost inaudible, but laden with intent. “You know, you were never meant to be apart from me.” he said, the words no longer dangerous in their beauty. “You belong to me. There is no escape. There never was.”  

His breath quickened as he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against yours, his hands moving back to your face, forcing your eyes to meet his again.  

“Do you understand? You were made for me. For this. For us.”  

There was a fire behind his words, a desperate need that pushed past the facade of control he fought so hard to maintain.  

“Tell me, love…” he murmured. “Tell me you understand. Tell me you understand…”  

He held you tighter, his grip fierce now, even though you had nowhere left to go. His lips found the curve of your neck, kissing, biting, marking you with bruises that would remain…forever.

And as he did, his mind wandered again to that deep, unsettling thought. The one that hovered just beneath the surface, the one he couldn’t ignore.  

I will always search for you. Even in the dark corners of my mind, in the dreams I can’t remember. I will look for you. Always. 

Often, he’d seen them go down with irony etched into their faces — men and women alike, clutching their illusions all the way to the grave. In all he’d witnessed, all he’d dug from the dirt, all he’d buried beneath it, there was nothing sacred left. What was there in them to bury? Nothing but the weight they’d always carried like chains: pride, vanity, animality, fleeting pleasures — dross masquerading as meaning and what fell into oblivion, after having been long exposed to their contempt.

And when the earth swallowed them whole, it stripped everything away. Their names, their stories, their fragile, desperate clinging to things that never mattered.  

But one thing always lingered.  

A single mark. A stain that refused to fade. The monogram of their most intimate nature — not their faces and not their names, but something carved deeper. A work, a deed, a moment of truth that burned brighter than everything else, refusing to be buried. An exceptional inspiration. 

For Alexander, this was that mark.  

You were that mark.  

The fragile last tremble of your breath, the bruises blooming like dark flowers beneath his fingertips, the echo of his name caught between your lips — all of it etched into the marrow of his being. A monument to something both sacred and profane.  

And long after the warmth of your skin faded, long after the echoes of your voice dissolved into the silence, he would carry it with him.  

Because there are things that cannot be buried.  

Not with dirt.  

Not with time.  

Not even with death.  

When the world grew quiet and sleep finally dragged him under, he would search for you there — in the spaces between dreams, in the shadows where memory and longing collided.  

He will always search for you.  

Even when there’s nothing left to find.  

His lips found yours then, silencing any further thoughts, any further words. His kiss was hungry, desperate, consuming. He wasn’t sure if it was love or something else entirely. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you.

And you, forever bound to him, couldn’t turn away.  

For you were…

Released. 

a/n: The end…literally. I’m sorry if this was too much? I don’t really know how I feel about it either but it’s been in the works for a while, well, since the very beginning. Not that this was how I thought it would go but, you know, notes, and ideas, and stuff…it was mostly the smut scene that I had planned out. It’s inspired by many many things I don’t even remember anymore. Whenever I hear or see something I like I just write it down so yeah. Also whenever I explained the plot to someone they asked me if I was okay so I just wanna say that it’s not inspired by anything I’ve experienced but rather thoughts I have. And after this I am gonna stick to what I’ve said, so I’m not sure when I will post something else, but I wanted to see this one finished and it was on its way to being done anyway so…

[sysig]

You mentioned you mainly ship Glados/Chell when it comes to Portal? Could I please request something with them, however you personally imagine their dynamic? Sorry for the vague prompt, I'm just curious what your ideas are!

Day 25 - As if being dead wasn't bad enough

[stemacademics]

I really want to take Theory of Computation elective, along with

my Symmetry, ODE & Real Analysis in 1v (whose syllabus is exactly the same as Calculus in my last sem, um what's up with that?)

and Modern Physics, Stat thermo

will I be overloading myself with this course list? no idea.

[wizardnuke]

i love dnd..i love playing heavy utility/support/backfield and i love having three to six attacks in a turn and an insane ac. at heart im a support player ill get my hands on whatever we're missing in a group

[the-trans-dragon]

It *does* hurt that I got let go without any warning (even if I knew it was a possibility, especially since it's the slow season now and they're specifically replacing half of my department with other stuff) *because* I've been looking for other jobs with the plan to do a full two-weeks notice when I found one, and I've been secretly planning this entire time to eventually leave, making things as neat and easy as possible for whoever ends up overseeing my department. I didn't want any of the extra work to fall on my coworkers, the other department managers who have their own workloads. So it really sucks that higher-ups decided that I didn't deserve any warning, and neither did any of my teammates who will now have to pick up all the slack without any guidance from me.

[coiled-dragon]

Sometimes I wanna write poetry about how I feel about People but then im afraid it'll be recognized by the people it is about

[franeridan]

was watching a process video of an artist i really like trying a style he doesn't usually go for and he's usually got this very flowy, free style but for this one he was doing lineart and he was obviously struggling with it and said something like he really doesn't know how people can comfortably work with solid lineart and that genuinely shocked me into stopping the video and looking at nothing for a little while ngl

[mejomonster]

Telling myself not to google "how to find love" again

[sugurizz]

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬, 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐬 ✧ Feat. JJK MEN

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ── Jjk Men in their -real- Daddy era. (Am I secretly having a baby fever LMAOO)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 ── fluffy stuff, pure wholesomeness and affectionate dads.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

It's safe to say that sometimes you're raising two babies - only one of them is a big buff pouty one.

Daddy Toji sneaks to the kitchen in the middle of the night, leaving you both sleeping in your shared bedroom and then slowly closes the door. He promised himself he'd only take one *unnoticeable* spoon of your newborn's baby formula but ends up stuffing his face with the forbidden powder in the heat of the moment. He tries his best to hide his tracks by shoving the tin somewhere far in the cupboard.

He *oddly* always makes sure to be the one preparing his baby's bottle the next day - 'Oh darling, don'tcha move a muscle...I'll be right back with our baby's breakfast!'

You smile and raise a brow, already suspecting something. Daddy Toji is not much of a morning person. much less when it comes to baby chores...

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

Gojo is always there whenever you change your baby's diaper. He keeps laughing and giggling like a 6 year old, curiously learning from his baby momma how to take care of his little child. His sky blue eyes are staring at your skilled hands, handling your precious little one with infinte care. He keeps smiling in awe, chuckling every time your baby farts and making the funniest faces just to make them giggle.

He takes a million pictures of his baby every day; we're talking his whole camera roll is just his baby's face, cutesy hands, tiny feet, smiling, eating, sleeping on daddy's chest, drooling on his shoulder...the list never ends.

His baby looks so smol when he holds it in his huge hands. He has to bend all the way down just so he could pick them up cause obviously my dude is the tallest man ever.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢

He'd take full care of your newborn just to see you rest and relax. He told you to teach him everything he needs to know so that he'd be perfectly fit for his new -and best ever- occupation; your baby father. He's got however only one pet peeve; getting his little one to burp after feeding them.

The reason? He was doing it once, holding the baby while gently patting its back...until he suddenly felt a warm liquid slithering down his shirt - the expensive one you dearly gifted him on your wedding anniversary- and to his surprise it was none other than his little one's vomit dripping down his shoulder...

Now he makes sure you hold a napkin behind him whenever he does it.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨

He's by far the chillest Daddy EVER. Carries his little one whenever he goes. Gets super jealous when your baby starts calling for you, or wants you to hold them instead of him. He's determined to make them say 'daddy' first, but deep down knows it'd melt his heart when he sees the little version of him utter mommy's name for the first time.

Staying awake at night putting his baby to sleep just so you can get your full nightly rest is something he'd never miss out on. He hates seeing you tired or sleepy and puts both of your needs before anything else.

Daddy Geto is always calm and smiley, no matter how much mess his baby makes or how long it'd take for him to clean it up - sometimes makes you seriously wonder how he manages to be so damn chill all the time.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚

For a husband twice your size with four arms and eyes he sure should take most care of your little offspring - He does tbf - His baby is always laying somewhere on his body or at least near him; sleeping against his chest, nibbling on his thumb, drooling on the side of his shoulder or sitting on his huge lap.

He's got a 6th sense whenever it comes to his baby being hungry, thirsty, sleepy or needing anything at all. Instantly knows the reason why his little one is crying and most of the time is very quick to make them happy again.

Absolutely hates poopie smell and calls them a brat whenever he senses their diaper getting heavier. 'Aggh you little runt!' You can't help laughing at him getting overwhelmed with such a tiny thing and start teasing him over it.

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐘𝐮𝐮𝐭𝐚

There's nothing that Yuuta loves more than children. He has always wanted to have kids and couldn't wait to create his very first and own one with you. He's in LOVE with seeing you taking care of them; almost admiring every move and every word you say. He smiles like an idiot whenever he sees you holding your baby, breastfeeding them, playing with them or even laying next to them.

His favorite game is to hide somewhere in the house and let his little one look for him. He does it so suddenly and quickly, leaving them puzzled with big round eyes - comes out of his hideaway when they start sobbing and laughs at their little red nose and pouty cheeks.

'Aww why is my little cupcake cryiiing?...Daddy's right here!'

[gay-dorito-dust]

Would they or would they not catch you…

Dick: yes. 100% yes but he’s -no pun intended- a little bit of a teasing dick about it.

He will catch you but then act as though he’s going to drop you by loosening his grip, making you scream out of surprise and cling onto him tighter, all the while beaming that bright and beautiful smile of his as though he wasn’t about to willingly let you fall flat on your ass on multiple occasions.

‘I fucking hate you!’ You whined, smacking Dick on the bicep.

‘Oh do you now?’ Dick inquires as he slowly begins to losses his grip on you, smirking.

‘Did I say hate you? I meant love you, a lot! Please don’t drop me.’ You cried as you tightened your grip on his neck whilst struggling to keep your feet from touching the floor. ‘Awww I love you too gorgeous.’ Dick coos as he pressed kisses into your face as you could only glare at the cheeky bastard.

You hate him sometimes but you weren’t going to complain about the affection you were being given. So you guess you’ll suffer for now.

Side note: he might even try and see if you can catch him. 💀

Jason: He will catch you but makes it a big deal whenever he can. He loves holding you in his arms.

He could keep you in his arms forever if he could but knew that he can’t, so he settles for going about his day carrying you throughout the apartment instead.

‘You can put down any day now.’ You’d tell him but that only makes Jason tighten his grip on you as he moved in his makeshift library for a book to read.

‘No.’ He simply replied, scouring the many book titles in front of him in the hopes that one might speak to him. You pout. ‘What do you mean no?’ Jason then looks at you and says. ‘No means no. As in no I will not put you down because I do as I like and will not be told otherwise, so the cutie currently in my arms has to deal with it.’ He then smiles as he presses a kiss to your forehead before looking back towards the bookshelves.

You end up falling asleep in his arms and Jason couldn’t help but smile at how cute you were, even if you did look like the living dead.

Damian: says no but will in fact catch you without hesitation.

However if you do try to tease him about it, then he will drop you without a second thought. ‘You can catch yourself next time.’ He would say as he walks away, leaving you with a bruised ass. Titus -who saw the whole thing- would come up to you to make sure you weren’t genuinely hurt and encourage you to get up by nudging you with his head.

Don’t test him because he will do it and then act like the whole thing didn’t happen if you were to bring it up.

‘Dick.’ You’d say as you stood up.

‘I heard that.’ He’d call back, his voice echoing off the walls. ‘You were meant to.’ You reply. ‘And at least Titus came to check up on me to see if I wasn’t hurt.’ You’d add while scratching Titus behind the ear.

Needless to say you were more cautious when choosing Damian to catch you. However he does apologise for dropping you on your ass by gifting you something he himself drew by hand; He secretly doesn’t like it when you’re upset with him and will do anything to rectify it.

What a sweetheart.

Bruce: he’s too use to you pulling this type of shit that it’s basically muscle memory for him to catch you as you’re running towards him, all with a straight face mind you.

Be grateful because he risked a much needed bowl of Mulligatawny soup just to catch you in his arms, but then again the kisses you bombard his cheek is more than reward enough, a small almost missable smile appears on his lips as he then proceeds to carry you for the rest of the day as “punishment.”

( this only occurs when Bruce is feeling particularly affectionate or playful)

Much to your batkids -Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Duke, Cass and Steph- dismay. They’d want to use this as blackmail, but they know that it will backfire as you’ll probably hang the photo on a wall somewhere in the manor, reminding them of how disgustingly their parents can be when given the opportunity.

[chaoticwriting]

YOU ARE MARRIED??!!

-Wayne Manor, Gotham-

Cass is not having a good time. From the Arkham breakout last week all the way to losing a bet with his siblings on who is going to attend the gala with Bruce. And now this annoying lady kept asking her about her preference in men or something. And Bruce can't help her since he is being occupied by those rich assholes about investment or stuff.

Vicky: So, Miss Wayne. Is it true that you have a secret boyfriend?

Cass: No.

Vicky: Then how about that pict-

Cass: I'm already married.

Vicky blue screened as Cass finished her sentence. Cass takes the chance and slips away from her before she starts barraging her with questions. Revealing that she is married may not be the smartest thing she has done but she is very annoyed at people who keep asking her about her secret significant other. If they want to ask, at least use the proper term.

Just as Cass reaches the hallway, she is scooped up by two strong arms and is carried away to the Batcave. Cass looks to her side to see Dick and Jason both holding one of her arms each and looking very pissed. Well, Dick looks very pissed. Jason looks like he is having fun. Cass doesn't struggle and just lets her brothers carry her to the Batcave to have the talk.

They put Cass on the couch and proceed to guard the exit of the cave on the off chance that she decides to escape. Not that she would because she and her husband have been thinking of breaking the news to their respective family for awhile now.

She waited for a few hours while playing on her phone. Her main phone. Not the one she used to contact her husband since this family has a lot of competent hackers. She knows that being married is like a big deal. But she doesn't expect it to be such a big deal.

When she says everyone is here, she means everyone. From all his close family all the way to Selina (Bruce's fiancee), Roy (Jason's boyfriend), Kori (Dick's wife), Kon (Tim's boyfriend), Jon (Damian's bff) and even Harley and Ivy is here. She is also pretty sure that Clark is listening from somewhere but it's not like she is trying to keep it a secret anymore, so the more people there are the less she needs to explain.

Harper: So what are we here again? I would rather be home to polish my new gun than in this cave.

Dick: Since everyone is here, I would like to apologize for calling all of you in such short notice.

A murmur ranging from 'it's fine' all the way to 'I want to sleep' sounded in the room.

Dick: Anyway, let's get to the main topic shall we. For starters, I would like to say that none of us wishes to control who you dated nor who you choose to be your partner.

Some more murmurs sounded in the room.

Dick: HOWEVER! We would really appreciate it if you wish to marry someone, at least notify one of us since being married is a big deal.

More murmurs sounded as all of them have a rough idea on what the topic going to be.

Dick: So, the person in question, would you like to explain yourself?

A spotlight lights up on top of Cass, directing all the people's attention to her. She doesn't even know there is a spotlight installed in the cave.Cass stands up and looks at the crowd. She replies, "No."

Everyone is stunned by her reply. They expect many types of replies but no is certainly not one of them.

Tim: Fuck you mean no?

Alfred: I would prefer this conversation to remain civil and proper please master Timothy. I would also like to express my extreme displeasure at the fact that I am not notified by your marriage Mistress Cassandra.

Cass goes still at Alfred's sentence. Okay, shit is really serious. As much as she loves messing with them, she would rather not have her food burnt on the inside. (No one knows how Alfred manages to do that.)

Cass: Ehem, I'm just messing with you. It is a long story but to make it short, my husband and I met when we were in Hong Kong. We met after he got roped in one of the gangs that I was busting. After we met and a little misunderstanding, he helped me to dismantle the underground drug labs across Hong Kong.

Tim: So he is also a vigilante?

Cass: Ex-vigilante. He has a daughter now so he is taking care of her.

Dick: You get pregnant?!! How? When?

Cass: I did not get pregnant. But she is technically my daughter.

Jason: Like how Lian is with me?

Cass: No. Biological daughter.

Kon: Umm, guys. I think Bruce needs to rest a little. His heart has been beating a little too fast for even him.

Dick and and Tim are closest to Bruce realizing that Bruce's face has been impossibly pale for quite a while now. They take him to an empty couch and let him lay there and rest for a while. Everyone's reactions range from amused to straight up concerned that Bruce's career as Batman might get cut short today.

It takes a while but as soon as Bruce is fine, they continue another round of questions and answers.

Bruce: How long have you been married?

Cass: Next week is our 3rd anniversary.

Duke: Wait. Didn't you plan to go to Hong Kong for some time next week? You even ask me to cover your patrol because you say you need to go somewhere.

Cass: I don't lie. I missed last year's anniversary since there was an Arkham breakout at the time.

Duke: Dude, still not cool. You are going on a date with your husband while I need to spend hours running on top of buildings around Gotham. So not fair.

Jason: Was the present you asked me to send last year also was for your husband?

Cass: Yes.

Jason: I've been your middle man all this time and I don't even know.

Barbara: I found it! This is the registration for marriage between Cassie Cain and Daniel Fenton. You used a fake name?

Cass: Yes. You will know otherwise.

Bruce: Why do you hide it?

Cass: I'm not sure all of you are gonna like him and vice versa.

Dick: Is he a bad person? I will kill him if he treats you badly.

Cass: No. He doesn't trust all of you at first.

Steph: And why is that?

Cass: He thinks the Justice League is working with the government. So by extension, all of you are associates of government to him.

Steph: Why is he running away from the government? Is he a criminal?

Barbara: No. He doesn't have any criminal records in his name. Except for the fact that he is practically nonexistent before he is 18, there is nothing wrong with him.

Tim: Is it a forged identity then?

Cass: No. The government wiped away his records.

Dick: What? Why?

Cass: I don't know.

Damian: I expect you to at least do a background check on someone before marrying them, Cain.

Dick: Did you get married with someone you barely know? Do you understand how dangerous that is? What if he just dipped you after you got married?

Cass: *Rolls her eyes* He isn't a bad person. I make sure of that at least. I know he is some sort of meta tho-

A green portal suddenly appears out of thin air making everyone be on guard except Cass. She expects Danny to come out of the portal to greet her but what comes out baffled her.

A young girl that looks a little like Cass riding on a big wolf comes out of the portal swiftly towards Cass. Everyone is just about to shoot their weapons when the girl's word shock them.

???:Mama!

Everyone: Mama?!!

Part 2

[catchastarorten]

—100 loaves of bread.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x bakeryowner!fem!reader

Summary: it started with a few visits from him buying 100 loaves of bread each time from your little bakery, but overtime the two of you started to get familiar, little did you know about his ‘work’ and how he should’ve given the card to you but didn't...

Content: fluff, aggressive stomping on bread, him having a soft spot for you, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care about you (it doesn’t work lol), a bit of reader's backstory, self-conflict and a bit of change of heart from him, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 2.1k

You were wiping down the counter when the familiar chime of the bell above the door jingled. It was late in the afternoon, and the bakery was quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint scent of freshly baked bread and sugar lingering in the air. You glanced up, already knowing who it was. He was here again—the man with the sharp suit and the briefcase who bought bread in quantities that always left you baffled.

“Afternoon,” you said, watching as he walked in with the same calm, measured way as always. He almost looked too friendly for someone who carried himself so formally.

“Afternoon,” he replied, stepping up to the counter and resting his briefcase at his feet. “I’ll need the usual. A hundred loaves.”

A hundred loaves of bread. It was such a ridiculous request, and yet, he never failed to make it.

You’d asked him once, early on, what on earth he did with all that bread. Selling it somewhere else for a profit? Feeding a small army? Storing up for an apocalypse? He had only smiled at you then, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and said, “Something like that.”

It had been weeks since his first visit, and by now, the routine was familiar. You’d load loaf after loaf into paper bags while he stood patiently, sometimes asking about your day, sometimes quietly observing the modest little bakery. Today, though, you felt compelled to ask again.

“Are you sure you want all of it?” you asked, sliding the first bag across the counter. “That’s… a lot of bread.”

He smiled faintly, reaching for the bag and setting it beside him. “You ask me that every time.”

“Well, it’s not everyday someone comes in and buys out half my stock,” you said, tilting your head. “It makes me curious.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed like he might answer—really answer. But then he only shrugged slightly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Let’s just say it goes to good use.”

You frowned, unsatisfied but unwilling to press further. He always paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with precision. You noticed, as you often did, that he never left without dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register. He offered you a warm look as he slipped a few bills into the tip jar again.

“Keep up the good work,” he said. “Your bread’s the best in the city.”

You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or suspicious. He seemed genuine, but there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Still, it wasn’t your place to pry. You handed him the last of the bags, and he left with the same polite nod as always.

The next time he came in, it wasn’t for a hundred loaves of bread.

You were behind the counter again, rearranging a tray of pastries, when you heard the door chime. Glancing up, you saw him standing there, his briefcase nowhere in sight.

“Not the usual today?” you asked, half-teasing.

He smiled slightly, stepping up to the counter. “Not today. I was thinking I’d try something different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He scanned the display case, his eyes lingering on a slice of strawberry shortcake near the center. “That,” he said, pointing.

You wrapped up the slice for him, and when you handed it over, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he took a seat at one of the small tables by the window—a seat no one ever seemed to take—and unwrapped the cake with a kind of deliberate care. You watched, unable to help yourself, as he took a bite.

“It’s good,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Really good.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face as you watched him eat. He wasn’t as neat as you’d expected—a bit of whipped cream ended up on the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away absentmindedly, his gaze drifting to the shelves of decorative knick-knacks you’d lined the walls with.

“I never really noticed these before,” he said, gesturing toward a small ceramic cat perched on one of the shelves. “Did you make them?”

You shook your head. “No, those were my parents’. They used to run this place before me. They had a thing for collecting stuff like that.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s nice. Feels… homey.”

You didn’t know why, but his words left you oddly self-conscious. The bakery had always been your parents’ dream, not yours, and while you’d taken it over out of necessity, you’d never thought much about how it felt to anyone else. But hearing him say it was homey made you feel a faint sense of pride.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He stayed longer than usual that day, finishing his cake and ordering a coffee to go with it.

You found yourself talking to him more than you normally would with a customer. He asked about the bakery, about your favorite thing to bake, about whether you’d ever considered expanding. You didn’t ask about him—not directly—but you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man he was.

By the time he left, it was dark outside, and the bakery was empty except for you. As you locked up for the night, you found yourself thinking about his smile, the way it lingered even after he was gone.

One day, as he was paying for a loaf of sourdough, he looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Do you ever think about getting out of here?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… this place is great, but don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you hadn’t thought about it—leaving, starting fresh somewhere new—but the bakery was all you’d ever known. It was safe, familiar. And after your parents passed, it felt like the only thing that tethered you to them.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I don’t know. This place… it’s home.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, there was a silence between you. Then he smiled again, that warm, almost disarming smile, and slid an extra bill across the counter. “For the tip jar,” he said.

You watched as he walked out the door, his briefcase in hand, and wondered—for the hundredth time—what kind of life he led.

...

The bell above the bakery door chimed familiarly.

He stepped inside, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket, his polished demeanor there as always. But inside, his stomach churned. He had made a decision today—a decision that, for once, made him feel something like guilt.

He scanned the shop. You were at the counter, hands dusted with flour as you arranged freshly baked rolls on a tray. The soft glow of the afternoon light spilling through the window caught on your hair, and the faintest smile tugged at your lips when you saw him. That smile… It was a problem.

“Afternoon,” you said, just as you always did. Your voice was warm, even though he could see the slight tiredness beneath it. That smile didn’t reach your eyes as much these days, but you still tried, didn’t you?

He nodded, keeping his face neutral. “Afternoon.”

You weren’t supposed to matter to him. That was the rule. He had a job to do, a system to uphold, and people like you—drowning in debt—were just part of the equation. It shouldn't have mattered how good-hearted you were, how hardworking you were.

You weren’t special... at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He first started coming to your bakery for convenience, but as time passed, the lines started to blur. The bread looked good, better than most places in this part of the city, and you didn’t ask too many questions.

The loaves weren’t for eating, of course. They were for a little ‘social experiment’.

“Bread or lottery?” That’s what he’d ask them—the desperate, homeless souls he scouted in the park. It was always the same. He’d hold out a loaf in one hand, a lottery scratcher in the other. The bread could fill their stomachs. But the lottery ticket? That promised a chance. A gamble. A way out.

They always chose the ticket. Every time.

He knew what came next. The moment they realized it wasn’t a winning ticket after all. They’d just stared at him, some cursed out loud, some were just disappointed, their hopes bleeding out onto the pavement.

And the bread? He destroyed it. Stomped it into the ground until it was unrecognizable, crumbs scattering across the concrete.

It was dramatic, yes, but it served its purpose. It showed them the choice that they had made, the food that they had thrown away and destroyed, not him. It was necessary. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But the bread came from you.

That detail had started to bother him more and more. You put your heart into every loaf, every pastry, every crumb that came out of your oven. He saw it in the way you worked, the way you carefully packed the loaves into paper bags for him, the way you smiled when he left a tip. He had started tipping more, as if that would excuse him of the guilt of what he was doing with your work—it didn’t.

He had been keeping tabs on you. He knew about your debts, the ones you and your brother had racked up trying to keep the bakery afloat after your parents passed. He knew how hard you worked to stay above water, how you barely made enough to cover the bills some months.

You were exactly the kind of person he was supposed to recruit.

He told himself that’s why he started coming more often. He needed to assess you, to figure out the right moment to offer you the card. But the truth was, he liked being in the bakery. He liked the smell of fresh bread and sugar, the hum of the old refrigerator, the quiet way you moved behind the counter. He liked your voice when you asked him how his day was going, even though he never answered honestly.

And he hated himself for liking any of it.

The card was in his pocket today. He had been carrying it around for a while now, waiting for the right moment.

Today, he had decided, would be the day. After all, you deserved it, right? The games were brutal, yes, but they were also fair. A chance for people like you to escape the crushing weight of debt.

That’s what he told himself as he walked into the bakery. But when you looked up at him, your flour-dusted hands resting on the counter, and said, “So, what are you getting today?”—he froze.

He could feel the card in his pocket, its edges pressing against his fingers. All he had to do was pull it out, slide it across the counter, and say the words. But he couldn’t do it. Not to you.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take another slice of that cake,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

You looked over to the display. “The strawberry one?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his finger gently tapping the display glass that caged all the pastries. “It’s… good.”

You smiled faintly, wrapping up the slice and handing it to him. “Anything else?”

He hesitated, the card burning a hole in his pocket. But then your eyes met his, and something in them—something warm, something real—made his resolve crumble.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s all.”

As he ate the cake at the small table by the window again, he told himself that letting you go was the right thing to do. You didn’t belong in the games. You didn’t belong in his world. And yet, he felt something close to longing as he watched you work behind the counter, your movements quick and precise, your expression focused.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt human.

When he left the bakery that day, he slipped a few extra bills into the tip jar. He told himself it was just another gesture, another way to balance the scales. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he did—what he was.

And yet, he didn’t offer you the card. He didn’t bring it the next time he visited, or the time after that. He told himself he’d do it eventually, that it was inevitable. But the truth was, he didn’t have the heart to drag you into the darkness he inhabited every day.

You weren’t like him. And he wanted—no, needed—to keep it that way.

[valalice]

Hello there!! I really love your work! Could I request some older! gf caitlyn with some subtle and soft dominance? Doesnt need to be nsfw [but won’t complain if it is ;))]

It could just be about how she acts with the reader when in public, at home, etc. [i.e: cooking for reader when they’re busy for exams, putting her hand on reader’s thighs when sitting in public, or big spooning reader when they head to bed.]

That’s all. Please remember to stay hydrated and take frequent breaks! Keep being you and don’t overwork yourself :)).

— 🐢

ꪆৎ HEAVEN, HEAVEN. ft. 𝓬𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓵𝔂𝓷 𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓷.

ʚɞ summary. subtle ways your older girlfriend caitlyn shows dominance towards you.

warnings. fem!reader. reader is in college. age gap (10 years or more). no use of y/n. modern au! where cait is an office worker. fluff. in one headcanon there's a mention of curly hair (it's all for inclusivity and bias tbh—coming from a girl with curly hair). pet names ie: darling, love, baby, ect. smut nsfw. bottom!reader. dom!cait. hair pulling. mommy kink (reader calling cait mommy & cait calling herself mommy). squirting. cait had a bush. reader is a brat kinda. slight exhibition. fingering (r!receiving). orgasm denial. oral (c! receiving). strap (r!receiving). the strap is referred to as cait's cock. not proofread. wc. roughly 2k to 3k

an. thank you for the request, lovie! and i'm happy that you're enjoying my work ☺️ i decided to take this request and turn it into a headcanon format so i hope that's okay! you are too cute with your kind words and i hope you are taking care of yourself, drinking lots of water and eating yummy meals <3 i also decided to add some nsfw headcanons 🙈 so i hope you guys enjoy them. and for any of these headcanons i am willing to expand on them if you guys are interest :) remember to support your writers by reblogging & commenting !

m.list. | arcane m.list.

࣪ ˖ SAFE FOR WORK.

‣ straight away with caitlyn you notice her dominance. even before the two of you started dating and she was courting you, as she'd say when reminiscing with you or her friends on the early stages of you two, she exuded an air around her that's nothing less than confidence, pride, and dominance. she's already tall at 6 foot, but her posture is always upright, her appearance sleek, and she reveled in maintaining eye contact. and before her you usually didn't find people who were overtly dominant attractive, but when it comes to caitlyn it's completely different, natural. it's the way she carry's herself and it rubs off on you.

‣ the first subtle way of cait's dominance you noticed was her ability to make decisions. she's knows what she wants and how she wants it, and that's something you're relieved about, being too indecisive at times. so being able to let caitlyn reign free on decision making was something that gave you peace of mind. and it wasn't that she was a control freak (she kind of is, but that isn't the point), she helps level out the playing field when you're iffy.

"what would you like to eat for lunch, darling? my treat." she ask, clicking on her keys to unlock her car, taking the bag from off you shoulders to hold it in her hand.

"hm," breaking away from cait to walk around her car to the passenger seat, just before your slide in. "i don't really know." you cringe, you couldn't even count on your fingers how many times you've said this phrase in your relationship so far.

you hear caitlyn hum and the sound of her swinging open the back seat door and the shuffle of her setting your bag in the backseat before you enter your seat. she joins you in the driver's seat, clicking in her seat belt, her gaze settling upon you scrolling away on your phone. "would you like to eat out somewhere or pick up fast food and we can take it back to my place?"

your head darts up to look at your girlfriend, lips twisting up, thinking about your options. "i want something good."

that's earns a chuckle from cait, "i know that silly," her hand coming up to boop you on your noise, which caused you to scrunch it and giggle, swatting her hand away. "but what is exactly good?" she presses.

"well what do you think is good?"

"that wasn't the question."

you grumble, "you're so difficult."

"says you." she teases.

"'m always the one who picks. what would you like." you ask turning in your seat towards her as best as you can.

"i'm fine with whatever you'd like. you know that."

biting your lip you think about the choices she gave you earlier. "i think we should go back to your place."

"that's a start. do you have a taste for anything."

"i already answered that."

"darling." she sing songs in a tone similar to a warning.

she starts the engine, finally, and you immediately connect to the bluetooth.

"y'know we haven't had chinese in awhile." she proses, eyeing your expression from the corner of her eye.

"oh, that sounds really good actually."

cait perks up in the drivers seat, "you're usual?"

"yep!"

"alright," she stretches forward to twist the volume nob lower. "i'm going to call it in and we'll pick it up on the way home."

‣ cait also does the general dominate things; like opening up doors of any kind for you when she can, interlocking your fingers when the two of you walk together, walking slightly in front of you at all times as well as guiding you. you secretly love it though when instead of guiding you through a crowd by being in front of you, you love it when she does it by standing behind you, a hand or both hands securely on your hips as she leads you forward from behind. she's also a firm believer of switching places when walking, on the street and you're near the road? she's switching with you. in the parking lot and your facing the intersections? she's using her hand on your lower back to guide you to be the closest near the parked cars.

‣ she will also never let her girl look out of place, so she fixes anything that is "off" with your appearance. like fixing a certain stand of hair, taking that fallen eyelash off of your cheek and raising her finger with the piece of your fine hair on it in front of your lips so you could wish and blow it away, fixing your jacket so it's straight or the neckline of your shirt or dress, the straps of your bra will never be showing when you're wearing thin strapped items as long as caitlyn's around. holding your little compact mirror while you fix up your makeup or reapply your lipgloss. your necklaces will always be facing the correct way. picking off lint or stray hairs from your clothing. and she somehow always notices when your sneakers are starting to untie before your, pulling you aside so she can get on a knee and pat her propped up knee so you can place your foot there and allow her to tie your shoe, when she's done she pats your foot to let you know and she dust herself off before leaning down to give you a kiss.

‣ when out in public she'll usually always keep one hand on you at all times. in a comforting way for the both of you, especially if the two of you will be around her friends or people her age. she knows you get antsy around them and there's anxiety about being the youngest in a room full of older people. so, there will always be a comforting arm wrapped around your waist or a hand in or lap or on your thigh.

you look around the room, there's people you've met before. caitlyn's friends and a few colleagues, but for the most part a majority of them are new faces. and you can't help but feel like everyone is looking at you.

you've never been insecure about being with caitlyn. yes she's older than you, but it's never stopped you from feeling head over heels for her and that feeling overpowers any doubt or insecurity you could ever have. it's the fact that it seems like you're the youngest in the room, there's nothing inherently bad about that. but everyone here is successful, and you're well. . . a college student working a job that has nothing to do with what you're going to school for.

a warm hand snaps you out of your thoughts. lifting your head, caitlyn's already looking at you with a soft expression. "you're shaking your leg, love."

"oh," looking down at the leg with cait's hand on it, still shaking. you stop it on command, focusing your gaze back on your girlfriend.

"are you okay?" she tilts her head, her eyebrows furrowing and the ponytail her blue hair is in swishes behind her, cute.

you give her a tight smile, nodding your head. "hm." you hope you're convincing enough.

caitlyn takes in a breath, breaking her gaze from you to look around the room. "y'know that woman over there went for the same major as you." she points out.

"really?" observing the woman who's talking with a few of their colleagues before turning your wide gaze back to your girlfriend.

"hm. she doesn't do work with it," she pauses, turning her head back to you with soft eyes. "but, what she does now is something she loves."

her hand smoothing up and your thigh, comforting you. "what i'm trying to say is that don't worry about your path right now being different from others around you." she reassures. reaching out to take a hand from your lap to take it in hers, bringing your hand to her lips and pressing a kiss.

flushing at her gesture, "thank you, cait." your voice small enough for only her to hear in the chatter of the room. your hand stays up near her lips and she presses a few more kisses, causing you to giggle.

"there she is." she muses.

you bring her hand holding yours down down into your lap to clasp her hand in between yours. leaning forward, a few inches from her face.

"kiss?"

caitlyn leans forward to meet your lips, not connecting them just yet. "any thing for my darling." she whispers against your lips.

‣ it was also established pretty early that caitlyn is the big spoon in the relationship. she enjoys and you love it. caitlyn also finds it pretty cute whenever the two of you are laying anywhere whether it's the sofa or in bed that you turn your back to her and keep shifting until she notices your moving form, coming up to wrap herself around your backside. not really big spooning but caitlyn enjoys the feeling and pressure of your laying on top of her, always telling you how it grounds her whenever she pulls you along to the bed and flops you on top of her. but you never complain because you find it comforting too, the side of your head press against her soft chest, focusing on the steady rise and fall of it and the buh dumbs of her heartbeat, you usually fall asleep quickly like this.

‣ older gf!caitlyn knows how draining it is to be in college. you get so focused on your education by sainting grades or completing assignments, not to mention the exams. so, she's always doing her best to help you out and make sure that you keep yourself in check rather that be mentally or physically. during hard times where you have midterms or finals or just back to back exams caitlyn will always tell you to not worry about picking up shifts at your job, she already knows you're overworking yourself by studying and doesn't want you to exhaust yourself further by working long hours. because she knows you and that if you could study then work a shift and study some more afterwards you would, but she knows that isn't healthy for you. so she always reassures you by saying that she'll support you financially for a little bit, transfer sums of money into you bank account for rent, bills, groceries, ect. it gives her peace of mind to know that she able to take a weight off your shoulders and provide for you. cait is also an insanely amazing cook and you always rave about her cooking, so she began taking a day out of her week every week to cook you some premade meals. she always comes stocked and ready on a weekend to your place with her tote full of meals to pile into your fridge. and during exam season it became pretty common for you to send time at hers for a few days. she does it to watch over you to make sure you're not running on fumes, but you like to think of her as a built in study buddy for reviews. during these days cait will come home from work to most likely find you at the dinning table studying, she'll kiss you on your forehead, and she'll head straight to the kitchen to cook dinner. as much as you dread exam season you don't dread spending this time with cait, there's just something so inherently domestic about cait providing for you. coming home and cooking dinner for the both of you, it makes your mind go numb. and it makes her feel successful when at night when she drags you to bed and for her to wake up to begin getting ready for work that you're still in bed soundly sleeping and that you didn't sneak off somewhere to study.

"dinner's ready." caitlyn chims, poking her head into the dinning room where you sit.

you lift your head up from your notes to eye her. sniffing the aroma around you. "chicken alfredo?"

"hm. you said something about craving it last week, so when i went shopping i picked up the ingredients."

"you're so sweet, cait." you hum, watching as she exits back into the kitchen. you prop your elbow up the table to rest your head in your hand, eyes flicking back down to your notes. you needed to understand—no—absorb this material into your brain for your exam coming up in a few days. listing off multiple curses within your head for taking this course and major and your professor for being a difficult teacher.

there's crinkling of sheets of paper around you. cait's suddenly bending across the table to organize the scattered papers in her hands. "c'mon, love. you can study a little more later."

fixing your gaze back up causing your eyebrows to raise, dumbfounded as you watched her. releasing your head from your hand to reach it out for the papers. "but—"

"but?" her tone is questioning and harsh. blue eyes narrowing at you.

"just a few more minutes, please, baby. i almost have this down."

you watching her graceful figure walk to the edge of the table where the rest of your materials lie and she places the stack down. she stands tall, placing a hand on her hips. "you can always study some more afterwards," she begins to walk over towards where you sit. "your notes aren't going to miraculously grow legs and run away, love. they'll be here." she assures. you blink and look back down at the notes in front of you, then back up at caitlyn. and for the first time you notice her attire, her hairs in a messy ponytail, still in her work attire but she's discarded her blouse and is only in her under tank top and slacks, she too has has had a long day.

"okay." you agree.

caitlyn smiles, showing off her toothy grin and her front gap you adore. she takes the material in front of you and places it with the rest.

"we're eating at the island. i have a sneaky feeling your cute bum has been sat on that chair all day." she teases.

you stand, bones cracking. your eyes shoot straight to look at cait, the both of you bursting into laughter. the noise proving her suspicions correct.

she sways back towards you, "come before the food gets cold." she muffles out, taming her laughter.

beelining to the kitchen island you sit back down, but now on a high top chair. lifting yourself up by your hands on the counter to eye the dish of chicken alfredo on the other side of the counter.

"looks s'yummy, cait."

"hope it is."

"always is" you correct.

watching as she stands on the other side, empty plate in hand with tongs in the other, dishing up some pasta and chicken.

"good?"

you eye the plate, "hm" you nod.

she heads behind her to the stove where steamed broccoli lies, piling some onto you plate. opening a drawer next to the stove, grabbing a fork and slamming it shut with her hip. she turns around and walks around the island. the clank of the plate landing on the counter, placing the fork down next to it.

"dig in, darling." pressing a kiss into your hair before going to fix her plate.

‣ she takes care of you in softer domestic ways. such as taking off your makeup for you after a long day or a night out with friends. bathing you and carefully washing over you in the shower. washing your hair, even going as far to learn the type of products you use and buying spares for her place so she's always stocked if you happen to spend days at her place and it's a wash day. she even learns how to care for you hair type if you have curly hair, hearing you complain endlessly about the process of washing and styling it, so she'd take it upon herself to observe you and learn so that way she can help and maybe even completely take over the process to give your poor arms a break. a certain domestic thing she does is call her place home. not just her home but your home too. whenever you're spending the night and the two of you out she'll always say "alright, let's head home, love." at the end of it. and it never fails to make your heart skip a beat that she views her space as your guys's collective space. she makes it knows that she's ready for you to move in whenever you feel most comfortable, and the day that you announce that you're ready to live together she is beaming.

࣪ ˖ NOT SAFE FOR WORK.

‣ a subtle way she asserts dominance is maintaining eye contact with you. she relishes in being able to make you flustered from simple eye contact, watching you get all fidgety and stumble over your words. but it's also her silent cue whenever you're acting out in public. a tilt of her head, dark gaze, heavy lids and a narrowed eyes will usually set you in place.

‣ caitlyn knew a lot about herself before she met you, she kept a list of all things she liked and didn't like, and those things rarely changed. but what she didn't know is that she'd find being called mommy so attractive. she knows she can be assertive and demanding at times, always the one with the plan. she was even deemed the "mom friend" when she was younger, but not once in any of her other relationships had anyone called her mommy. and maybe it's because she's never dated anyone, before you, with a large age gap. but the first time the word escaped between your sweet lips it was when cait had you face down, ass up, drooling into a pillow. fucking you at a particular angle with her cock that caused you to go dumb and roll your eyes to the back of your skull. realization didn't strike you when it muttered out, you were too far gone, but of course caitlyn heard it, she hears everything. her hips stilling. "what was that?" you barely heard her question, only worrying about the fact that she stopped fucking you, pressing your hips back to gain her attention to begin thrusting again. "please—mommy." oh. she liked that.

‣ older gf!caitlyn expects nothing but the best behavior of her sweet darling. she finds it intolerable and disrespectful when you decide to be a brat and act out, and when you take it further and push her past her warnings? she's seething. but two can play that game.

cait lets out a laugh along with her friends. the two of you were where at this restaurant for hours now. you didn't mind your girlfriend's friends, you loved and enjoyed their company. but you didn't expect to be here for this long and it's getting antagonizing having to sit and pretend like your understanding anything any of them are saying, especially when cait looks like that, blue hair flowing down her back, dainty silver jewelry decorating her body, in that black silk dress the one with the modest (you don't think do) slit. you begged her to cancel the moment you saw her, but she persisted, and now you're suffering.

she's even been uptight today, shutting down your sly advances, saying something about acting out and wanting to enjoy a night with her friends in a long time when the two of you took a bathroom break. the bathroom break had backfired too, you prosed the question about going to the bathroom hoping she'd shuffle you into a stall and finger you, but that was a bust.

when you peak down to look at the time on your phone you catch something interesting from the corner of your eye. caitlyn's exposed thigh from the slit, her dress is bunched up a little at her waist so the amount of skin showing is more.

your nimble fingers trace down her thigh, smirking at the feel of goosebumps rising on her skin. settling your hand on her thigh, not too far low and not too high, just yet.

cait turns her head to peer down at the hand on her thigh, your pinky rubbing back and forth on the soft skin. then to your face, you flash her a smile and she does the same, pressing a quick peck to your lips before she turns her attention back to her friends. you feel as though a grey gloomy cloud was cast over you in that moment.

in a burst of inspiration you begin to inch your hand high, little by little until a few of your finger tips are dipping past the slit of that dress towards her clothed cunt.

her head instantly snaps towards you, eyes narrowed.

"what do you think you're doing?"

"i want to play." you shrug.

"and i told you not here."

"but i really want it," your gaze on caitlyn growing dark. "mommy." purring out the name so only the two of your could hear it

caitlyn's eyebrows raise in shock before they settle back down, turning her head to see her friends are still deep in conversation. her hand pulling yours from between her thighs. there isn't a harsh grip around your hand but it is tight, and with that hand she pulls you forward.

"fix your attitude and behave. maybe i'll think about touching you when we get back home."

you sit up straighter a grin forming on your face. nodding your head "m'kay." caitlyn squints her eyes at your sudden sudden change, releasing your hand.

a few moments pass by and you're already thinking of defying cait again. this time your hand finds her shoulder. you're bored so you begin to trace shapes on it, but then that gets boring so you start toying with her dress strap.

"stop that." her voice startles you.

you roll you eyes, confidently, because caitlyn isn't even looking at you.

"'m not even doing anything."

"yet." the pronunciation of the word is precise and harsh.

she turns back to you, "you're thinking of doing something. so i suggest before you do, that you don't."

"cait." you whine.

"what's going on with you, hm?"

"i told you."

"you're never this bad in public." that's true, but you've never had to wait this long for your girlfriend to touch you.

"you don't get it."

she eyes you. "no, i think i do," leaning forward her lips ghost yours. "seems as though i've spoiled you rotten which is causing you to act like a little slut in front of all my friends."

her voice dropped to an octive, enacting a reaction of chills down your body, wetness pooling between your thighs.

"be quiet or you won't cum for a week." she commands, pressing a kiss to your lips and refocusing herself.

"wha—"

suddenly caitlyn's hand dismisses the fabric of your skirt to between your thighs. fingers getting to work by rubbing at your clothes clit. you look up to see that cait now has her drink in her other hand, bringing it up to her lips to take a sip. her peripheral vision catching you and flicking her eyes to you, corking an eyebrow up at you.

as she is finished with her drink and sets it down her fingers push past your panties, spreading your legs a little wider to welcome her large hand. slow lazy circles on you clit was all you got for awhile, but it was enough to simmer your ache.

without warning cait bullies a finger into your sopping heat, causing you to let out a loud gasp. the entire table turning to you.

"are you okay?" one of her friends asks.

"yeah. you feeling alright, love?" her voice is laced in false concern. slipping another finger into your greedy cunt, observing your reaction.

you shuffle, looking around the table, then down at your empty plate. you can see cait's hand flexing as she pumps fingers in and out of you.

"uh— none of us has ordered dessert yet! it's not a dinner without dessert," you prose. "hm, right?"

the table agrees, and someone beckons the waiter over.

while everyone is occupied, caitlyn leans forward to your ear. "quick thinking, little one." she praises, watching as the waiter takes everyone's dessert orders. "order up, love."

"and what would you like?" the waiter asks.

biting down on your lip, hard. "hm, what's good?" there was an infliction on your voice from cait pressing her thumb against your clit as she fingers you.

"the molten lava cake is our most popular—"

you cut them off. "i'll take that!" a muffled moan escaped through your mouth, "hmm, sounds very delicious." hoping that saved yourself.

the waiter writes it down on their pad, turning their attention to caitlyn. "and for you ma'am?"

"oh, her and i will share." she confirms.

as the waiter walks off your head turns to cait, glossy eyes boring into her cold blue eyes. "cait—"

"i know" she shushes, she already knows you're close by the way you're desperate sucking her fingers back in. you're not sure if it's all in your head, but you swear cait fingering you underneath the table is causing the obscene squelches from your messy cunt to reverb and echo through the restaurant. to combat the noise you squeeze your thighs around cait's hand, but she persists.

flinging a hand down to grip at the hand between your thighs, you're so close that you don't even care if her friends caught on. not when her slender fingers that spot so deep within that only cait can reach.

just as you legs begin to shake uncontrollably, caitlyn whips her fingers from you needy cunt and between your thighs. grabbing the cloth napkin to wipe off your juices from her fingers, an icy glare is sent your way as she sets it back down, one that tells you everything.

brats don't get to cum.

‣ going back to spooning with caitlyn, she also loves to place you in her lap while the two of you watch tv. your head in the crook of her shoulder and a hand of hers in your hair, playing with it. until suddenly when she was innocently twirling a piece of your hair you'll feel a tug at it, causing you to gasp unexpectedly. or she'll get straight to it, so a her hand will find its way on the nape of your neck, slim fingers threading themselves through the underside of your hair before she yanks, now this will cause you to moan out, head falling back so she's cradling it in her hand. wet lips finding their way to your exposed neck, kissing and nipping away at the sensitive skin. you'll whine out, only for cait to shh you, "let me have my fun, love."

‣ there's something intoxicating about you being naked while caitlyn is completely clothed. the contrast between your crumbling figure and her composure. she also loves seeing how your sensitive body reacts to the feeling of her clothes on your body. her favorite is to press her clothed chest to your bare one while the two of you are messily making out, your nipples immediately hardening. even the way she can feel your slick soaking through her slack covered thigh, tainting the material. it drives her insane when she makes you squirt, your juices all over her button up making the material darker.

‣ when you're particularly needy and need something to shut you up she'll shove a few fingers in your mouth, watching the way your eyelids drop and you focus on sucking on her fingers. on other occasions she'll order you on your knees, grabbing a cushion for them. and she'll strip slowly and teasingly for you.

you watch her hips sway, raking in her naked body. her blue bush in your face and you feel drool pool into your mouth, gulping. a hand comes to your chin, pushing your head up to look up at her.

"you've been needy," she begins. "but, you've also been good. so i was thinking of putting your neediness to use, i want your mouth."

nodding your head aggressively, eyes dropping back down.

"words."

a hand still on your chin tips your head, peering up with wide doe eyes, cait's expression is cold as she stands over you. "yes, use me mommy, please."

her face relaxes and she smiles down at you, "good girl." your chin is released and her hand smooths over the back of your head, pushing it forward.

taking her clit in your mouth, you moan into her. lapping her up, you free your hands from your lap, placing them on her hips to burry yourself further between her pretty thighs. eyes fluttering shut, savoring the taste of the woman standing above you.

"ah, that's it. s'good." cait's noises of pleasure sounds like music to your ears. opening your eyes to view up her body, she truly is a stallion. her eyes are shut, her shirt long discarded on the floor as she toys with one of her breast, her hand still on your head keeping you pressed up close to her, and her mouth is agape.

your wet muscle working away at her, gliding through her sticky folds. slurping up all her arousal, not wasting a drop.

"so—" she begins. but gasp when you take her clit and suck on it. "shit. so," she gasp again, "so eager to please."

nodding into her, not wanting to let up. releasing a moan into her, causing the grasp in your hair to tighten.

"c'mon, love. make me cum," doe eyes staring back into her drowsy eyes as she lazily talks. "make mommy cum."

caitlyn addressing herself as mommy made you clench your thighs, the ache between your thighs becoming very apparent.

your pushed so far into her that your nose is up against her bush, her scent only enhancing your eagerness.

cait begin to slightly rock back and forth in your mouth maneuvering your head so she's practical long dragging her cunt against your face. your finger nails grip into her hips, adding to her movements. her juices dripping down your chin to dip down your neck.

"fuck!" she yelps, her sweet release washing over her shuttering body and you quickly slurp it up.

the grip in your hair releases. when your satisfied you let up, but quickly you place a kiss upon cait's clit, letting up with a mwah. a shiny sheen covering the bottom half of your face, even the tip of your nose.

cait's hand finds it's way on your face once again, but it cradles you jaw this time, thumb swiping over your plump, slick cover lips.

"my baby always knows how to care of me, doesn't she?" she purs, droopy eyes sparkling down at you with a dazzling smile to match.

‣ whenever cait is strapping you she prefers to be gentle with you. it'll take a lot of begging and or pressing your luck to get her to be really rough with you (like the first time you ever called her mommy). she also just prefers it. she likes taking it slow with you whenever she fucks you with her cock, in missionary so she's able to see your twisted up face from pleasure. she's also just a plain sucker for intimacy, the two of you so close that you're not even sharing space the space you two take up is its own completely new thing. everything of the outside world just washes away, and she gets to focus on you and only you. she loves being able to look you in your eye and dip her head in the crook of your neck to litter kisses and love bites across it and down your collarbones to your tits. and she really loves when you cum, your back arching off the bed your chest pressing further into hers, your head falling back, mouth agape and releasing pretty moans and whines of your climax, even your toes curling and uncurling. she eats it up. she loves it. she loves you.

[wriokitty]

female reader ; non curse au ; established relationship ; reader lays on sukuna ; written bc i’m moving and can’t help but imagine sharing an apartment with him (i want someone to help me carry heavy boxes with flexing muscles as i take in the view)

“I can’t find the box with my bras,” you whine. It’s miserable, the look on your face. It fills Sukuna with unbridled joy as he cracks a thickly amused grin.

“Good,” he grunts in approval, “you don’t need them, anyway.”

“I do,” you glare. It takes all of three seconds before the reality dawns on you—and then he’s snickering as your glare becomes harsher. “You put it somewhere, didn’t you?” You accuse him through narrowed eyes.

“Me? I’d never.”

“I should’ve known moving in with you was a mistake,” you snap, “I’m moving back.”

“Too late. We paid for the moving truck.”

“Well, technically you paid for the moving truck,” you correct him, letting your lips stretch into a smug grin.

He scowls, rolling his eyes before slumping onto the bed with a groan. You follow him, curling up beside him as your head finds his chest and his arm tucks under your body to cocoon you closer. You inhale, he exhales, and even if your paces don’t match, your uneven breaths form a pretty solid rhythm.

“I’m gonna need my bras,” you insist.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “I’ll get the box from my trunk later. I’m tired, woman.”

“We still have to unpack—”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” he clicks his teeth in distaste. “I need rest—I did all the heavy lifting, since someone refused.”

“It’s what the man is for,” you hum cheekily.

“So then why didn’t you do it?” He raises a brow. You shoot him an unimpressed look at his smart comment, a tight lipped, sarcastic smile splaying on your lips as you let out a humorless chuckle.

“You’re right,” you nod seriously, “it’s my job to treat the lady right. Sorry you had to sprain your back with my boxes, princess,” you pat his cheek.

“The fuck are you on about?” The look of pure disgust on his face makes you break out into giggles, leaning up to kiss his jaw as he grumbles something incoherently under his breath. You hear bits and fragments of it. Something along the lines of such a handful and give me migraines that you don’t fully catch, but they manage to amuse you all the same.

“You’re pretty enough to play the part,” you hum, shifting your body to roll on top of his. You hover over him, and Sukuna lets out a dramatic grunt. You pretend—and it’s only out of the goodness of your heart—that his cheeks aren’t slightly rosy from the comment you made.

“You’re heavy,” he says (to which you gasp, offended) as he squeezes your ass (you gasp again and smack his chest this time) and shoots you a grin with no shame (you stare for just a strict second—and a strict second only—at his dimples).

“Don’t lie,” you huff, “that’s an insult to that gym regimen of yours.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” He asks smugly, mouth curving in that ridiculously annoying, yet stupidly handsome way as he adds, “bet you’re eye-fuckin’ me through that mirror as I life weights all the time.”

“I’m too busy worrying about those shaky arms giving out and leaving you to die under the weight.”

“Very funny,” he scowls, “you could pay our rent with stand up comedy alone.”

“Being my princess isn’t enough? Now you need to be my sugar-baby, too?”

“Enough,” he hisses, one hand coming to your face to keep you away as you break into a fit of laughs and try to give him a cheeky peck to the lips. “Stay away from me.”

“No, we’re roomies now.”

“We are not roommates,” he says, irritated by the idea. “That sounds like we’re fuckin’ strangers.”

“You’re right,” you nod thoughtfully, “I guess we can call it two mutually benefiting individuals that have decided to split costs to save money on a living space in an unforgivingly harsh economy—”

“You talk too much,” he mutters. And mainly just to shut you up (but maybe, perhaps, possibly for one of the mutual benefits, too), his hand grabs the back of your neck to pull you into a rough kiss. You cut yourself off by letting out a muffled gasp as his tongue presses against yours—messy, heated, and surprisingly gentle.

“Well, that was rather passionate. You know what they say about roommates,” you wiggle your brows as you pull away. He purses his lips in an agitated expression as he glares at your stubborn word choice.

“Stop callin’ me your fuckin’ roommate,” he demands.

You laugh. It’s soft—a light, airy noise. The sound bounces off the walls that are his and yours and echoes along the space between your pressed-up bodies. Along the boxes littered across the floor and the suitcases lined up in the corner. Along the clothes you insisted you needed that he hasn’t seen you wear in months as they lay in a heap on his closet floor. Along the kitchen table where you’ll have breakfast, and the living room where you’ll watch movies, and the bathroom sink where you’ll fight over space to brush your teeth.

He’ll never tell you directly (because he has dignity, of course) but he could really get used to living somewhere that houses a sound like that. A sound that makes him realize the difference between the space he lives in, and the place he calls home.

Home, he thinks to himself for a moment. Home is where your laugh echoes, ringing obnoxiously in his ear. Sukuna doesn’t think any living space will ever be the same again without it.

“Since we live together now—” you murmur, breaking him from his thoughts as you lean in to peck his lips. He hums in a rare, soft, content little sound that you don’t get to hear too often. “—I can finally decorate your plain ass apartment.”

His brows scrunch in horror as he registers your words. “Absolutely not—”

“Muah,” you cut him off with another peck to his mouth, “I’m thinking earthy tones, what about you?”

——————————

I carried like 20 something heavy ass boxes to and from my car nonstop today and every time I felt my poor arms get sore, I thought: wouldn’t it be so nice to have someone like sukuna and his four arms to do all the work while I sit and look gorgeous? He doesn’t have four arms in this fic, but that’s honestly his problem not mine. Just carry the damn boxes I’m just a girl

[surielstea]

Spelling it Out

Based on a request.

Pairing: Cassian x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is a bit oblivious to Cassian’s flirtations, so Cassian has to go the extra mile to prove he truly wants her.

Warnings: Cassian probably makes some suggestive jokes somewhere in here, but it’s all fluff! :)

4.6k words.

"I brought coffee," I announce as I step into the studio's warm embrace, the door swinging shut behind me to keep the morning chill at bay. I balance the two cups in one hand, the other cradling the new set of paints Feyre had asked me to pick up this morning.

"Back here!" Feyre's voice carries from the storage room, muffled slightly by the rustling of cardboard.

I follow the sound, stepping into the small back area where she's surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. She exhales in relief as she rushes up to me, taking her coffee with eager hands.

"You're a lifesaver," she groans, lifting the steaming cup to her lips. "Thank you."

I set the paints down, glancing at the boxes. "I thought the shipments were too heavy to unload?"

Feyre hums around her coffee, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I had help—"

Before she can finish, a figure stalks through the doorway, his presence effortlessly filling the space. A box—one that Feyre and I together had struggled to move—rests in his arms like it weighs nothing.

"This should be the last one," the male says, setting it down with casual ease.

His voice is deep, rough-edged in a way that demands attention. I take in the broad cut of his shoulders, the way his wings shift behind him, arching slightly as he straightens. And then I see his face—hazel eyes rich as molten gold, a scar cutting through his dark brow, and a mouth curled into an easy, knowing smile. He's ruggedly handsome, but not in that delicate, ethereal way most High Fae are. No, he's something else entirely—something solid, real.

"Help from Cassian," Feyre finishes, amusement lacing her tone.

The name stiles me immediately, and I was a fool for not immediately putting it together the second I saw him. Cassian. Lord of Bloodshed.

He turns his gaze to me, openly assessing, and I take the opportunity to do the same. There's something about the way he looks at me, like he's mapping every detail—filing it away for later.

"I didn't know we'd have company," I say, forcing my focus back to the present. "I would've brought another coffee."

Cassian huffs a soft laugh. "Oh, no need. I've been up for hours." His voice carries the same warmth as his grin, rough yet inviting. "But that's a kind gesture."

I nod, offering a small smile in return.

"I don't believe you two have officially met," Feyre chimes in, shifting her attention between us. "Cass, this is my very talented friend. She keeps this place running."

"She gives me too much credit," I say, shaking my head.

Cassian, however, tilts his head, his expression unreadable. "I doubt that." The certainty in his tone knocks something loose in my chest.

"This is Cassian," Feyre continues, grinning. "Rhys' brother and the best guy to call for lifting heavy things."

Cassian makes a sound of protest. "Don't forget hilarious, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—I mean, the list goes on."

I huff a quiet laugh as he extends his hand.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Cassian." I smile as I take his hand.

His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused, his grip firm but not overwhelming.

"Likewise, sweetheart." His smirk deepens, and before I can pull away, his thumb brushes ever so slightly over the back of my hand—a touch so fleeting, so deliberate, that I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he winks, a quick, knowing thing, before finally releasing me.

I swallow, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. I've heard the stories from Feyre, how when she originally arrived in the night court she may as well have ended up with Cassian with his relentless flirting. He's joking, I remind myself. That's just how he is.

Cassian dusts his hands off on his leathers before flashing me an easy grin. "You must be the one keeping Feyre sane around here."

I huff a quiet laugh, setting down the paints. "I do my best. But she keeps me busy."

"She does that," he muses, glancing at Feyre. "Though I didn't realize she had such a beautiful assistant."

I blink at him, caught off guard. "Oh—I'm not really her assistant. More like a glorified errand runner."

Feyre scoffs. "That is not true."

Cassian's gaze flicks back to me, assessing. "You're an artist too, then?"

I nod while shucking off my winter coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. "That's the idea."

His grin widens. "Now I'm definitely going to start hanging around more. I could use a few painting tips."

Feyre snorts. "You paint?"

"Not yet," he says, unbothered. "But I'm a fast learner. And I've always appreciated a good work of art."

Something about the way he says it, about the way his hazel eyes flick over me like he's taking his time, makes my stomach flutter.

But before I can respond, he flashes me a smirk, turning back to Feyre. "Anyway, mission accomplished. Boxes are in, and I fully expect my reward."

"Which is?" Feyre asks dryly.

Cassian smirks. "Your eternal gratitude. And maybe a good bottle of whiskey, if Rhys is feeling generous."

Feyre rolls her eyes, but I can't help my smile.

"How about next time we need your help, you'll be the first one we call?" I suggest, noticing Feyre's playful disinterest in rewarding him for being a good friend.

Cassian grins like I've just made his day. "Oh, sweetheart. You can call me anytime."

His voice drops just enough to send an odd warmth curling through my stomach. But before I can overthink it, he turns toward the door.

Cassian turns slightly, glancing at me and Feyre. "I'll be seeing you around, hopefully." He directs at me. "See you for dinner, Feyre."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving only the scent of wind and cracking embers in his wake.

I shake my head, amused, as I turn back to Feyre—only to find her already watching me over the rim of her coffee cup.

"What?"

She only smirks, taking a slow sip. "Nothing."

I frown but brush it off, reaching for the new paints.

Cassian was just being friendly. That's all.

Right?

—

From that moment on, Cassian made every excuse to come to the studio. Half the time, he didn't even bother with a valid reason—just threw out a casual "I was in town" when, in reality, he always was. Velaris wasn't nearly as big as he made it out to be.

The bell above the door rang, and I didn't need to look up to know whose footsteps were approaching behind me.

"Is that supposed to be a bird?" Cassian mused, leaning over my shoulder.

I scoffed, shoving his face away. "It's a dog, and you know it."

He chuckled, easily dodging my half-hearted push and settling right back beside me. "Mmm. If you say so." His wings rustled as he peered at my work again, this time with something softer in his expression. "It's amazing, sweetheart. You're so damn talented."

The sincerity in his voice made my stomach flutter. I tilted my head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the rare note of awe in his tone.

That awe melted into something else—something warm and teasing—as he placed both hands on my shoulders and started kneading gently.

I nearly groaned on the spot. "Gods, you're perfect at that." I exhaled, practically melting under his touch.

Cassian hummed, his thumbs working expertly over the knots in my shoulders.

I sighed blissfully, rolling my shoulders into his hands. "You should've been a healer."

He chuckled, his breath fanning against my ear. "I'd rather just take care of you, sweetheart."

I smiled, tilting my head further into his touch, completely missing the way his fingers stilled for a beat before continuing their slow, deliberate strokes.

"You really are tense," he murmured, pressing into the tight muscles just beneath my neck. "Is this what happens when you spend all day hunched over, painting little dogs that look like birds?"

I smacked his arm lightly. "If you're going to insult my work, at least pretend to be subtle about it."

"Who said anything about insulting?" His thumbs dug in a little deeper, his voice dropping just enough to make my skin heat. "I love watching you work. All focused, biting your lip, completely lost in it."

I wrinkled my nose. "That makes me sound like some kind of absent-minded hermit."

Cassian grinned. "A very cute absent-minded hermit."

I rolled my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Cassian."

"That's funny because I feel like it's getting me everywhere," he mused, his hands still kneading at my shoulders. "You're practically purring."

"I am not purring," I argued, though I made no move to stop him.

"Cassian, stop distracting my employees!" Feyre's voice rang from the back room, laced with exasperation.

Cassian smirked, straightening up from where he'd been massaging my shoulders. "Employee," he corrected with a lazy grin. "And I'm motivating her."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, a phantom pressure I refused to dwell on.

He chuckled, stepping back, stretching in that way that made every muscle in his absurdly broad body flex just enough to be noticed. His wings flared slightly, shifting behind him like an afterthought before he shot me another smirk. "I'll let you get back to it, sweetheart." Then, with a slow tilt of his head—"Unless you'd rather take a break and let me keep working these magic hands?"

My breath caught for half a second before I forced myself to scoff. "No," I said, ignoring the small blush creeping up my neck. "But... could I ask you a favor?"

Cassian perked up instantly, arms folding over his chest. "Anything, gorgeous."

I hesitated, suddenly second-guessing myself, but forged ahead. "I need to paint an anatomical feature I've been studying. I have a few reference images, but..." I swallowed, glancing at his wings. "I was hoping I could use you as a live model?"

His brows lifted, hazel eyes gleaming with intrigue. "My wings?"

I nodded. "Your wings are far more magnificent than the sketches in my book."

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded—how appreciative they were—and my face went hot.

Cassian, of course, took full advantage. His wings stretched slightly as if preening under the attention. "You just trying to get me shirtless, sweetheart?"

A very unhelpful image flashed in my head—of him, shirtless, all sculpted muscle and golden skin, wings fanned out behind him in the studio's soft light.

"No!" I blurted, before catching myself. "I mean—it's just for the wings."

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Only teasing, sweetheart. I'd love to."

I exhaled in relief. "Good. Are you free tomorrow?"

He tilted his head, grinning. "I'm here whenever you want me."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip.

I bit my lower lip slightly, nodding. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't thank me so fast," he mused, gaze flicking to me with unmistakable mischief. "You owe me after this."

I narrowed my eyes. "Owe you what?"

Cassian made a show of looking away, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. "Haven't decided yet," he hummed, lips twitching. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I'll think of something."

I huffed, waving him off. "Go bother someone else, Cassian."

He gave a dramatic bow, smirk firmly in place. "As you wish."

And with that, he sauntered off, wings twitching ever so slightly as he disappeared into the back of the studio—leaving Feyre standing there, watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes.

I turned back to my canvas, heat still prickling my skin.

—

I wasn't nervous.

There was no reason to be nervous.

It was just a painting. Just a model session. Nothing different from the dozens I'd done before.

Except, of course, this time the model was Cassian. And he was currently standing in the doorway of the studio, a lazy, devastatingly handsome grin on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Told you I'd be here whenever you wanted me."

I cleared my throat, turning away quickly to gather my supplies. "Yes, well, I'd rather not have students knocking over easels trying to get a look at you, so we're setting up in the back."

He let out a low chuckle as he followed me. "What, afraid they'll get distracted?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, but I know you will."

"Fair point."

Once we stepped into the back room—where there were no prying eyes or interruptions—I pointed to the stool in the center of the space. "Sit there, facing away from me."

Cassian obeyed, but not before flashing me a smirk. "Getting bossy already?"

I ignored him, busying myself with setting up my canvas. "You can take off your shirt now."

"Damn, sweetheart—at least buy me dinner first."

I froze mid-motion, whipping my head around. "That's not—I didn't—"

Cassian just laughed, reaching over his shoulder to grab the back of his collar. In one smooth motion, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a nearby table.

I regretted looking.

Because Mother above.

Cassian was made of solid muscle—thick, powerful shoulders, his back broad and sculpted as if the Cauldron had taken extra care in crafting every ridge, every dip, every inch of him. His wings, folded neatly against his back, only added to the sheer size of him.

I swallowed hard, thankful beyond belief that he was facing away.

"You good back there?" Cassian teased.

"I'm fine," I said, maybe a little too quickly.

I turned my attention to his wings. The pose needed to be just right—relaxed but natural, something that would emphasize their power without looking stiff or unnatural. I stepped forward, lifting my hands, then hesitated.

"Can I touch?" I asked softly, if there was one thing I learned from studying Illyrian anatomy it's that their wings were sensitive, sacred.

Cassian went still.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—so quiet I almost missed it—his breath hitched.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. "Yeah, sweetheart. Go ahead.

I exhaled slowly before pressing my fingertips to the strong, leathery membrane of his wing. Warmth radiated from him, the muscle beneath my touch twitching slightly as I carefully adjusted his positioning.

It was... exhilarating, in a way. To be granted access to something so personal.

I stepped back to assess the placement. "Are they too heavy to hold like that?"

Cassian laughed. "That's adorable."

I frowned. "What?"

"Sweetheart, these wings have carried me through battle, through storms, through the Illyrian mountains at full speed. I think I can manage to hold them still for a few hours."

I huffed. "Fine. But will you be able to sit still?"

That earned me another chuckle, this one softer. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

I shook my head and finally picked up my pencil, settling in front of my canvas.

"Alright," I murmured to myself, letting my nerves melt away as I focused on the work ahead. "Let's begin."

The soft scratch of pencil against canvas filled the room, steady, rhythmic—an anchor keeping me grounded as I worked.

I started with the shape of his wings, mapping out their vast expanse, the way they framed his body like an extension of his very presence. The leather stretched taut over powerful muscle, lined with delicate veins and faint, nearly imperceptible scars.

I shouldn't have been staring so intently.

I shouldn't have been so utterly captivated by every detail of him.

And yet, as I let my pencil glide over the page, shaping the curve of his shoulder blades, the slope of his spine, the corded muscles of his back... I couldn't stop.

He's just a model. Just another subject.

Then why did my fingers tremble slightly when I shaded the deep ridges of his scars? Why did my chest tighten at the thought of what he must have endured to earn them?

Cassian shifted slightly, flexing his shoulders, his wings twitching.

I snapped out of my daze, scowling. "Sit still."

He huffed a laugh. "I don't think I've ever sat this still in my entire life."

I hummed in response, refocusing. Carefully, I traced the lines of his back, the contours of muscle that spoke of centuries of battle, of training, of dedication. My gaze flicked up to his wings again, and a quiet sigh escaped me.

"What's that sound for?" he asked, the amusement clear in his voice.

I hesitated, then admitted, "They really are beautiful, you know."

Cassian stilled for a fraction of a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "Careful, sweetheart. Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you actually like having me here."

I rolled my eyes. "You act like I don't."

Silence.

A pause, just long enough to make my stomach flutter with uncertainty.

Then, "Good. I like being here."

I pressed my lips together, pretending that warmth hadn't bloomed in my chest at his words. Pretending that I wasn't getting lost in the strong, elegant lines of his body.

I dipped my brush into the paint, moving on from the sketch to the first careful strokes of color.

Cassian's voice broke through the quiet. "You know, if you wanted a full anatomy study, you could've just asked."

I blinked, pulling back slightly. "...What?"

He turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. "You're painting my back, too, aren't you?"

My cheeks heated. "Well—yes, but—"

"Seems unfair to only get half the view."

I huffed. "I don't need the full view, Cassian."

His smirk deepened. "That's a shame. I'd be a very cooperative model."

I nearly choked on air. "Just—shut up and sit still."

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, settling in my bones.

I shouldn't have been enjoying this so much.

I shouldn't have been admiring the golden-brown glow of his skin, the way the light cast soft shadows over the planes of his back. I shouldn't have let my eyes linger on the scars that marred him—proof of all he had endured, of everything he had survived.

And I certainly shouldn't have wished that all his teasing, all his flirtation, was anything more than just casual banter.

Cassian was like this with everyone.

Wasn't he?

I was not going to let Cassian distract me.

Even if he was currently sprawled in front of me, shirtless, his wings stretched just so, his body the most stunning thing I'd ever painted.

Even if his words curled around me like smoke, warm and teasing, making my thoughts race in ways they shouldn't.

I swallowed hard and turned my attention back to the canvas, forcing myself to focus.

I just had to finish the painting.

And ignore the way my heart had begun to beat just a little too fast.

The rhythmic strokes of my brush filled the quiet space, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of bristles against canvas and the steady sound of Cassian's breathing.

Nearly an hour has passed, and to his credit, he'd been holding still remarkably well. Mostly.

"You're awfully quiet back there, sweetheart," Cassian mused, his voice carrying just the hint of a smirk. "Not getting bored, are you?"

I huffed, dipping my brush into a deeper shade of pigment. "I'm working, Cassian."

"I am your work right now."

I rolled my eyes. "And you're a very high-maintenance subject."

Cassian chuckled. "I prefer engaging. You should be thanking me, really. Keeps things from getting dull."

I let out a soft laugh despite myself. "You're half-naked in front of me, Cassian. Things aren't exactly dull."

Silence.

A beat too long.

I froze as I realized what I'd just said.

Cassian's wings twitched. Then, "Well, well."

I groaned. "Forget I said that."

"Oh, absolutely not." He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the smug curve of his lips. "You just admitted to being entertained by me. I'm savoring this moment."

"I said forget it."

"Nope. It's mine now."

I sighed, glaring at the canvas like it had personally wronged me.

Cassian chuckled again but thankfully let it drop, settling back into his position.

A few minutes passed in something almost resembling peace. I worked on layering in the first washes of color, the warm tones of his skin against the deeper hues of his wings.

Then—"So, do I get a say in how I'm portrayed?"

I lifted a brow. "Are you worried about artistic liberties?"

"A little."

I fought back a smile. "I could make you look very dramatic, if that's what you're asking. Add some storm clouds in the background. Maybe a tragic tear rolling down your face."

Cassian snorted. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather not be mistaken for some brooding, tortured soul."

I hummed. "That is Azriel's aesthetic."

"Exactly. We can't both have it."

"I don't know," I mused. "I think it could work. Maybe a single candle for dramatic lighting—"

"Absolutely not."

I grinned, but before I could make another remark, Cassian stretched, his wings flexing slightly before tucking back into place. The movement was so fluid, so casual—so utterly him.

I quickly went in with another light sketch, wanting to capture the way his muscles moved, the effortless strength in his frame.

"You still with me back there?" he teased, amusement lacing his voice.

"Yes, Cassian. Some of us are capable of focusing."

"Some of us just don't need to focus that hard to admire what's in front of us."

I frowned slightly, not quite catching his meaning. "What?"

He chuckled. "Nothing, sweetheart."

I shook my head, deciding not to press it.

"Alright," I finally said, leaning back to study my work. "I have the basics down. You can put your shirt back on now."

Cassian made a low, exaggerated noise of disappointment. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd need me to pose for a few more hours."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't sound too heartbroken. I will be making you sit for another session later."

His grin was wicked. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"Shut up and put your shirt on, Cassian."

He laughed, grabbing his discarded shirt—but the knowing look in his eyes told me that he'd be holding onto this moment for a long time.

And for some reason, I didn't mind one bit.

—

Cassian came in for many sessions after that.

I probably could've finished the painting on my own after the first few sittings, but he insisted I get all the colors right, all the details perfect. And, well... I wasn't exactly going to complain about having him shirtless in front of me for hours on end.

So, day after day, he showed up, sauntering into the studio with that insufferable smirk, stretching his wings like he owned the place. And I let him, indulged him—indulged myself—until the painting was finally finished, until there was no reason for him to sit for me anymore.

The thought left a strange hollowness in my chest, but I ignored it, focusing instead on adding the final highlights to his wings.

Cassian shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders.

I glanced up. "Getting restless?"

He grinned. "You gonna keep me trapped here all day, sweetheart?"

I smirked. "You're free to go anytime." I glanced at the painting. "But you'd be leaving unfinished art behind, and that would just be tragic."

Even though all I had left to add was a small, near-invisible highlight, I liked the idea of keeping him there just a little longer.

Cassian chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll sit still for you a little longer."

Something in the way he said it—for you—sent a ripple of warmth through me, but I shoved it aside. I exhaled, finally setting my brush down.

"Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're officially free."

Cassian groaned dramatically, standing and rolling his neck. "Finally." He grabbed his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he slung it over his shoulder, turning toward me with that insufferable smirk. "Is it done?"

I turned the easel slightly toward him.

It was hard to admire my own work. After staring at it for so long in every unfinished form, I wasn't sure if I loved it or if I just loved the image I had painted. But I could say I was proud of it. That was enough.

Cassian stepped closer, blinking at the still-wet canvas. His brows lifted, his mouth parted slightly. He didn't speak, didn't crack a joke, didn't smirk like he usually did.

I shifted under his gaze. "Well?"

He inhaled, slow. "Sweetheart..." He sounded almost reverent. "It's... it's beautiful."

A laugh bubbled from my lips. "You're only saying that because it's you I painted."

"No—I mean, I am beautiful, but this is... magnificent." His voice was softer than usual, quieter.

Something flickered in his eyes as he turned toward me, something warm and fond. It was enough to make my stomach flip.

I swallowed. "Thanks, Cass."

His grin returned. "Proud of yourself?"

I nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah. I am."

His wings twitched. "Good. You should be."

A comfortable silence settled between us for a moment, the weight of his words pressing into me in a way I wasn't sure how to handle.

Then Cassian cleared his throat, stretching his arms over his head. "Now that it's finished..."

Something about the way he said it sent a prickle of anticipation down my spine.

He grinned. "...About my favor?"

I groaned. "You actually kept track of that?"

Cassian scoffed. "Sweetheart, I'd never forget a promise like that." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyeing me like he was scheming. "And I know exactly what I want."

A slow, lazy smirk curled his lips.

And for some reason, my stomach flipped all over again.

I raised a brow, waiting.

Cassian took a step forward. Then another.

My stomach flipped. "Okay?"

"I want you to go out with me."

I blinked. "What?"

His smirk deepened. "That's my favor. You and me. A date."

I stared at him, sure I'd misheard. "You're joking."

"Nope."

My heart did something strange, something uneven, and I let out a short, breathy laugh. "Cassian, you flirt with everyone."

"Not like this." His voice was quieter now. Steady.

I swallowed. "But—you're just messing with me. You've been messing with me this whole time."

Cassian sighed, running a hand down his face. "Gods, you're impossible." Before I could react, he stepped closer, hands coming up to cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

My breath hitched.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, tilting my chin up slightly. "Listen to me. I have not spent weeks finding every excuse under the sun to come here, sitting shirtless for hours just so you'd look at me, calling in a whole-ass favor just to take you out—just to mess with you."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Cassian's thumbs brushed against my skin again, his hazel eyes locked on mine. "I like you. I want you. And I swear to the Gods, if I have to spell it out anymore, I'm going to start carving it into the damn walls."

I let out a breathless laugh, my face burning. "You're serious."

His lips curled. "Took you long enough."

I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. "I—"

"Just say yes, sweetheart," he murmured, voice teasing, but there was something else in his gaze—something warm, something steady. Something real.

I swallowed hard. Yes."

Cassian grinned. "Good choice."

His hands lingered on my face for just a second longer before he pulled back, grabbing his shirt off his shoulder and throwing it on. He shot me one last smirk as he backed toward the door.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow after your class."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing there—heart racing, mind spinning, trying to process the fact that Cassian had actually just asked me out.

That all this time, he hadn't been messing with me at all.

Feyre was going to laugh at me for not catching on sooner when I tell her.

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[foldingfittedsheets]

FFS’ Guide to Mattresses:

The following is a non-comprehensive list of questions I get asked a lot and is hopefully a good resource for anyone looking for a new mattress. I am not a scientist. I just sell beds. All bed knowledge is centered in the US, my apologies to international folks.

If this guide proves helpful you can consider popping a tip over on my Ko-fi to say thanks!

What’s the first step?

Well, first thing is gonna seem kind’ve obvious but a lot of people get mattresses secondhand and don’t think about it. Determine the feel you like! There’s no reason to sleep on a hard bed unless you like it, it’s not any better for your back. The three standard feels are firm, medium, and soft. Soft is called plush for stupid reasons. So find out which you like! It’ll narrow down what you look at, and save you time.

When trying out mattresses, use an A-B method. Do not compare every bed. Compare two at a time, otherwise you end up a confused mess. Pick one between the two that you like better, then put that one up against the next choice.

When you eliminate a bed it’s dead to you. Forget it. It was not as good as your new favorite and does not deserve to be remembered. If you cannot pick between two you will be tempted to try a third- this is the devil talking. A third will just make your life harder. If you truly can’t pick between beds that are comparable and they both feel nice after feeling your feelings then pick the cheaper one.

Lastly, mattresses are a huge example of “you get what you pay for”. Investing will pay off. Don’t get sticker shocked, budget what you can but know that mattresses can be freakin expensive. If you go into a store and see $5000 price tags, don’t worry, that’s not all they carry, but focus on the feel of the bed at first rather than price tag.

If you find one you love but it’s too much, the salesperson will know a comparable roll down or will usually try to help you get a deal. If you can admit, “I like this but it’s too much” they’ll work with you to find a solution.

What firmness is best?

This varies person to person but firm beds are not necessarily better for your body. Really. There’s two parts to a good mattress: support and comfort. Support goes underneath and is generally springs or incredibly dense foam. If a bed has good support, you can get away with lots of comfort.

The comfort layer exists to be gentle on your joints and pressure points. People who sleep on their side really need this comfort layer. Without this your shoulders and hips can’t circulate blood and you’ll end up tossing and turning every time your arm starts to fall asleep.

Back in the 1950’s when interconnected coils were the only thing on the market it made sense that you needed them to be firm, otherwise you’d get no back support. But nowadays coils are individually free standing, they do a much better job supporting bodies and bonus, they don’t have to be rock hard.

Most people should get somewhere around a medium bed rather than super firm or super soft but it depends on the persons preferences as all three can be good for you.

How can I tell if a bed has good support?

I’m so glad you asked. You lay on it. There’s a natural curve to the human spine. Lay first on your back. The arch in your lower back, that’s your lumbar. A good bed will push up and fill that area. If your muscles are trying to maintain that arch all night without help it will cause back pain and tossing. The more a bed fills your lumbar the better you can sleep.

Next, lay on your side. You’ll want to focus on your shoulders and hips. Good support on your back is great, but a mattress should have enough squish not to pinch off circulation. Lay for at least five minutes on your side unless you hate it right off the bat, I’m not saying every bed needs this in depth just the one you’re seriously considering. If you feel like you already need to roll over it’s too hard, go softer.

Should I get a topper?

A thousand times no. Toppers are used as a wide ranging bandaid from “there’s a hole in my bed” to “my back hurts”. Commercially available foams in toppers are significantly worse than the foams found in beds. They break down faster and sleep hotter than what they make mattresses with.

The only scenario in which you need a topper is if you’re stuck with a bed that’s too firm for you and you need it a little softer. That’s it. It can make your bed a little softer. It cannot fill holes or fix a bed with bad support. Generally aim to be over $200+ or the topper will break down ridiculously fast and be super hot to sleep on.

What do I do if there’s a divot in my bed?

First off, waterproof protectors can help avoid this problem, so take your bed divot as a life lesson and use a protector on all beds going forward. Our sweat and humidity breaks down foam like nobodies business, causing permanent damage.

So you have a divot, what now? Depends how entrenched it is. When beds get slept on every night for years the foam where a body lays compresses down, and the foam around it stays untouched. You’ll naturally start sinking. But you can get up and walk or crawl along all the foam that isn’t get slept on. If your divot is years deep it may be beyond saving but it’s worth a shot.

You can also rotate beds head to foot every six months and switch the side you and your partner sleep on or sleep all over the bed if you’re alone in it.

If the bed is over ten years old thank it for its service and get a new bed.

When should I get a new bed?

It’s worth checking your sleep quality at ten years into a mattress. The average life expectancy of a bed is 7-9 years. Not because the bed gave out necessarily but because human bodies change. We gain and lose weight, suffer injuries and age. A bed that worked for us eight years ago might not be what we need anymore. So just general age check is good. This is subject to the kind of mattress, bed in a boxes average 3-4 years of comfort so check in sooner.

But additionally: if your bed has a deep body trench where you’ve been sleeping, or if you’re waking up achey or in pain. There’s health problems that can reduce your sleep but a lot of people never suspect their mattress is sabotaging their rest, so keep it in mind.

How do I clean my bed?

Oh boy. You don’t. This goes back to water proof protectors. Your bed is not something you can pop in the wash. But it is something you will sweat and live in for upwards of ten years. Dust mites, dead skin cells, dust mite corpses, dust mite feces, allergens, skin oils. All those things will seep into the bed over time and spoiler alert it’s not great to breathe it in every night.

Sheets only catch a fraction of it, so a waterproof protector keeps the bed safe from your sweat breaking it down, but it keeps you safe from all the things that can build up in a mattress.

If you must clean a mattress I recommend a professional steaming service rather than trying to do it on your own but take this going forward: always protect your bed.

When should I get a new pillow?

Does your pillow have a waterproof protector on it? If no the answer is probably “right now”. Doctors recommend keeping a pillow no more than two years. This is because they’ll lose support and get yucky gross over those two years. If you get a memory foam pillow and get a protector on it they can last way longer. My oldest pillow was around seven years old.

Cheap polyfill pillows you buy at Target or Walmart are really only going to last three months before they wear out. If you are using more then one pillow at night you need a new pillow. Every time you have to wake up and adjust the multiple pillows you’re losing sleep.

Memory foam pillows can be more expensive but will last exponentially longer so save up and spend $50+ on a pillow you’ll actually get to use for a long time rather than $10 on one that will give you a few months of comfort.

What do I look for in a good pillow?

A good pillow is an extension of your spinal support. It should keep your neck aligned with your spine. Ideally, you are laying on a bed to try out a pillows height. It should match the width of your shoulder.

Most mattress stores can fit you for a pillow, but you can also bring a buddy to check your spinal alignment is straight. Side sleeping is most critical to get the height right. Back sleeping you just don’t want it too tall to force your chin down, and stomach you want it low enough not to push your neck up.

I replaced my pillow, now what?

Okay so now you might curse my name for a few days. Bodies are creatures of habit and hate change. Your neck might be in agony on the old pillow but it's familiar agony. So when you boot that sucker to the curb don't throw it out right away. As if I'd ever actually throw away a pillow when I could just hoard it forever.

Start each night on your new pillow. If you wake up in pain, switch back to the old one. Each night you should be able to stay on the new pillow longer and longer until your neck is finally happy. If the new pillow is consistently an issue after a week or more it may be too tall/low for you, unfortunately.

If I’m sleeping well do I really need to replace it (beds/pillows)?

Are you really sleeping well? Replacing beds or pillows is inherently stressful and a lot of peoples happy place is their bed. It’s hard to give up aspects of that cozy zone. If you’re really truly sleeping well no one is gonna make you change.

But generally if you find yourself asking this question you may be trying to convince yourself that things are good enough and ignoring that they could be much better.

Get a sleep tracker if some kind. Let it run for a week or two to see how much you’re tossing and waking up. If it’s a lot and your bed/pillow are old, it’s a good bed they’ve served their time.

If you ever wake up to readjust pillows (or at any point you’re using more than one pillow or mattress) then yes. You need a new one.

Good sleep is the result of the least disruptions. Anything you need to adjust in the middle of the night deserves a hard look and a boot to the curb.

Why shouldn’t I have my mattress flat on the floor?

Mold. Mold mold mold. Remember when I talked about how human bodies are humid? We put out a ridiculous amount of moisture as we sleep from exhalations to sweat. That builds up in the sponge under you and then your body heat maintains the ideal temperature to grow all sorts of nastiness.

You would not believe the amount of molded out beds I’ve seen. Even in the most arid areas, mold. It’s not worth it. Do not leave your bed on the floor. There’s like 2” frames if you like a low bed. If you must have your bed on the floor tip it up against a wall to ventilate every day. Mold will not wait for an invitation.

Japanese futons get brought up a lot here and first off- they get moved every night and washed regularly. Then left to ventilate. They understand that if they left it there it would mold.

Why do I sleep in X position?

Generally your body really wants your spine to curve in the right ways. Sleeping on your back would be ideal if the bed gave you everything you needed but most beds struggle to fill the lumbar. So when your muscles can’t hold your lumbar curve and want a break you roll onto your side.

Stomach sleepers are a case of back muscles fully declaring that nothing can support them and opting to invert rather than deal with poor support. It’s fully the worst sleeping position.

Before I sold beds I was almost 100% stomach sleeper due to scoliosis and back pain. Sometimes side. When I got my new bed I switched to only side and occasionally even back, which astonished me. As my bed has become less what I need I’ve reverted to occasional stomach bouts and less back sleeping.

Why don’t you like bed in a box?

Let me count the ways.

Box beds are the fast fashion of the bed world. They essentially corrupt the support part of the bed equation in order to get a product that can feasibly roll up and be compressed down. The foams are all lower density than they should be and give out quicker. The coils are significantly less steel.

The world cried out for an inexpensive bed and companies responded by giving you significantly less bed per dollar. They often use fiberglass as their flame retardant a requirement for all beds and there’s many testimonials about how poorly that’s gone for people.

But now the greatest sin of boxed beds is that they have the audacity to be marketed at the same price points of traditional beds that don’t roll up.

This robs the consumer of longevity. They’re a rip off. I sell them now at my store and I will do everything in my power to turn folks away onto beds that will actually do their damn job rather than bed mimics.

If you have a bed in a box, please understand that you’ll still get up to five years out of it, and you’re not foolish for buying one. They’ll still always be better than an old broken bed, just look to replace it sooner.

What is a good price point for a new bed?

This is really subjective, but you can get a queen size bed with independent coils for around $600. That’s the lowest good back support I’ve seen. You’ll get ten years out of it and it’ll be a bed.

Stepping into the $1000 mark gives better back support and pressure relief. Up from that they’re going to get more conforming.

Beyond $2000+ you’re generally paying for cooling. It’s the number one thing people want in a new bed but it costs more to give.

Rank Costco, IKEA, or bed in a boxes?

Bed in a box are my lowest tier, for reasons I’ve spoken of at length.

IKEA is next. They’re generally not boxed as of the last time I investigated ikea beds but they’re also just bare bones. Not a lot of either support or comfort, they tend to be around dorm quality.

Costco is a bit of a cheat here. See, they’re a wholesaler but mattresses aren’t something that overstocks- they’re made to order. Costco still wanted to offer a cheap option. So Costco gets beds made to order for really cheap. Now how can Costco offer it so much cheaper? By putting roughly 1/3 less stuff in it by category.

I had a spreadsheet laid out at one point to compare a sealy I carried against what looked like a comparable Costco bed. Every single component was shaved down. Each layer of foam, each coil, they all were about 1/3 less material than our better bed.

Now of course Costco sells boxed bed. So a non-boxed Costco bed is still better than an old broken bed and Costco will basically always take it back which is why they score higher than others but you’re still only going to get about three to five years out of it.

Do I really need a new boxspring? My old one is fine!

Is it really actually 100% fine? Is it just as old as the mattress? Are you willing to gamble the price of the new bed on the existing structural integrity? It’s been load bearing for the lifespan of a bed and the amount of boxes that are actually good to continue service are few and far between.

A few reasons to get new boxes: new beds are made much more floppy than old style to accommodate adjusting on adjustable bases. Old boxes may not offer adequate support for a new bed. Ideally what’s going under a new mattress is solid. No gaps. If you have slats it’s still ultimately better to put a bunkie board under the mattress rather than sitting it right on the slats. Also mattress manufacturers won’t warranty a bed that is on old boxes or improper support.

Adjustable bases are a wonderful replacement for box springs, bunkie boards should go over slats greater that 2” apart, and try to avoid frames that leave big open spaces under the bed.

If this guide was helpful you can consider popping a tip over on my Ko-fi to say thanks!