#the hands were flapping for real

[snail--man]

danny photo dump because i love him so much omg

[lesbianlenas]

bruh is this not over…..i had it playing still directly in my ears but i was so focused on figuring out the correct places to put the different things in my dishwasher that i did not hear a single thing other than the moderator saying “do you have a plan” and trump responding “i have a concept of a plan” that was the only thing that broke through to me……anyway my dishwasher is supposedly running.

[foldingfittedsheets]

In proof that any competency can be hot here’s a story from when my beloved and I first started dating.

See, they were living in a house and had chickens in the backyard. The original chickens were called Salad, Parm, and Caesar which we can all agree is very funny. They were later joined by Tesla, Spirit, and Cecil who didn’t fit the theme but we’ll forgive them.

The owners didn’t clip the wings so the chickens were really just pets that flew the fence sometimes but largely respected their backyard borders. One of the chickens however was notorious for breaking containment. The jury is out on whether it was Tesla or Spirit but we’ll say Tesla as that was my recollection.

So one morning after I had slept over I was dressed in my nice work clothes, button up, vest, etc. ready to leave for work.

I kissed my beloved goodbye and walked to my car when I spotted the chicken in the front yard. I went back and tapped on the door. My beloved opened it back up and I reported, “One of the chickens is out.”

My beloved was getting ready for their day too and their face fell. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Oh? Well that’s fine, come here real quick.”

I scoped out the yard and pointed where I’d like them to stand then stalked toward the chicken. The hen turned her head warily and started to move away from me but then saw my beloved in her escape path. She decided to make a last ditch effort for freedom and bolted, trying to make a break under my legs.

I casually scooped a hand under her, slinging her upside down and holding her by her feet so she was forced to go passive in my grip. Holding birds upside down is like a cheat code to put them in a trance. I’ve learned since this can be risky as the blood rush can harm them in rare cases but holding chickens by their feet was like my entire childhood so apologies to all those past birds but we didn’t have any resulting injuries.

I looked back at my beloved, dressed in my business casual work clothes with a chicken dangling incongruously from my hand and said, “Not too bad, she just goes in the backyard, yeah?”

My beloved nodded. I casually tossed the hen over the fence and she flapped down to land amidst the rest of the flock with a disgruntled cackling sound.

I turned back for one last kiss and found my beloved starry eyed. “That was so hot.”

“It was!?”

“Yeah! You knew exactly what you were doing and you were so smooth! You made that look so easy and it would have taken me forever.”

I puffed up with pride and took my leave, mentally adding chicken wrangling to my list of sexy assets.

[kekewrites]

Tw. Bimbo reader, dark content, noncon, dubcon, corruption kink, coercion, creampie, size kink, magic sex toy/onahole/fleshlight, loss of virginity, not proof read

***

Thinking about being a childhood friend of a yandere duo.

You were just so friendly and cute, approaching them with candies in your tiny hands and offering it to them. So kind as you always play with them, and sometimes they would argue who'd be your husband when playing house. They often fought whenever they wanted to play with you but in the end, it always results to sharing you.

Middle school was a little different than Kindergarten. They get more protective when boys try to get close to you, painting them as insufferable brats that only want clout. Being neighbors with the wealthy kids, got you too much attention much to their liking, often getting bullied whenever you finally have some alone time, but this didn't get unnoticed as you wonder why that kid who pushed you on your locker, suddenly have bandage wrapped around his head and his reputation down.

Highschool is where the shift started. You wanted to explore more, finding new friends, and hanging out with other people, and they did not like that. You were just too dumb, they said. Too dumb to realize people manipulating you so that they can get close to them. Do you even realize that the girl from your class only talks to you about them? Dumb girl.

Safe to say, you never had a genuine friend in high school, not like you even had chance to form a deep level of friendship (by people who genuinely wanna be friends with you) by the way they hog all your attention and time.

College is where it gets difficult for them to spend time with you. Different schedules, classes, course. They even insisted you go to the same university as them. It's frustrating how little time you spend together, always with your stupid excuse of "working on an assignment".

Without you around, they definitely have a hard time relieving some tension. They couldn't just walt into your room and steal some panties scoot free without getting into trouble, even though they were star students and had plenty influence over the school. No, no, they won't put their reputation to ruin, they're your perfect best friends.

Despite them being a duo, they were quite different in terms of personality. One is patient and mature, thinking logical and more on the rational side. While the other is playful, outgoing and rash. Both have their charms that got everyone around their fingers. However, they wouldn't sleep with just anyone, no. It's hard to get their dick hard, always imagining your cute face whenever they try to fuck a desperate bitch to finally release some tension.

But your impatient friend had enough of some random girl, high pitch moans that's not yours annoying his ears. It's miserable to even hump his own hand, so hard and cold, different to what he imagine your tight warm cunt to be. This just won't cut it. He needs more, to finally feel your wet insides without you knowing.

So what's a good way to relieve tension?

Some good ol' fleshlight.

The moment it arrived at his doorstep, he straight up bolted to his door. Slamming the door close as he finally gets his hands on the toy after days of waiting. Fuck, he can't wait to use this thing.

It's like the half body sex toy he used to watch in porns. He was quite impressed by the details it had, he gotta give props for that, but that's not what he's after for. After reading the instructions, more like skimming and skipping most of the words. He use lubricant, using plenty of it and spreading it around the artificial pussy lips. Rubbing and feeling the flaps, like how he usually does. It's kinda weird that he's doing this for a toy, but he could just imagine it being your cunt, practicing his moves. After a few moments did he slide his thick finger inside the walls of the toy... How weird, the texture was oddly real, like it was alive. Well, that's probably some mechanic shit that the factory put there or something. This is his first time using a fleshlight and it cost a fortune through some sketchy website so it better be worth it.

***

You jolted in your sit in class, listening to your professor's discussion about physics until you suddenly feel something brushing on your thighs. Your head panning around the room before looking ahead, brushing it off. It was probably the wind.

You yelp when something began rubbing your cunt, earning a few concern looks for you and your professor glancing at you before going back to his discussion. You shrink in your sit, head hanging low as you pressed your lips together. Confused and scared by the phantom touch assaulting your nether region. Clutching your skirt, you try to maintain confused whimpers as the touches didn't stop.

You're scared.

The moment something pushed inside you, you stand up and excuse yourself, running to the nearest restroom. Your feet quick as you open a random stall and sit on the toilet. Your breathing heavy as you shakily lifts your skirt, looking at the wet patch on your panty.

What's happening? Why are you wet? How can something touching you there? You're not imagining this, right?

Your mind raced as you become more terrified. Is a ghost haunting you? Tears pool on your eyes, sniffling as the assault become more aggressive.

***

Fuck, this fleshlight was the best thing he ever bought. How was this even made? Whatever. He continues to pump his thick finger, inserting another one and he jump a bit as he felt the walls suck on his fingers. Damn, it can even do that? Just how realistic can this toy be? He's not complaining though.

He decided to touch the clit earning another tight squeeze. What a sensitive toy. He continues to play, eventually adding another finger. It was weird how the warm walls didn't run out of lube, if this were any normal toy it'd need to be lubricated after few minutes but this toy seems to produce it on its on.

He pulls out his fingers as he inspects the inside, it's undeniable that it's fake but the way it pulsates around nothing makes it a bit questionable on how it works.

Would your cunt also look like that? He could imagine your wrecked heaving face after fingering you. Poor little you never had something inside, let alone this thick fingers. He couldn't wait for the moment he'll ruin you.

***

You're straight up crying as an additional thick sensation pumped your insides. Squeezing your thighs shut, like it's gonna do something to stop the phantom. Everything inside you screams to remove the intrusion but you didn't know how. Opening your legs slightly, your shaky fingers removing your panty to see what's happening inside your cunt... but nothing was there. Only a gape.

Your fingers shifts towards the gape, gasping as the invincible touch was able to touch you yet you couldn't even see or feel it. Squirming uncomfortably, as you open your legs more to try and get "it" out with your fingers. Uselessly grabbing air, whimpering and sobbing as you fail to interrupt with its continuous pumping. Your stomach twisting and an unfamiliar coil was starting to unravel, your breath hitching and legs shaking.

But it's abruptly stop as the phantom pulled away.

Finally, relief and a little bit of disappointment fills your chest. Slumping on the toilet, panting like you run a marathon. You shift a bit as you sit upright, freezing as something thick pokes your entrance.

No way...

Your brain panics, your gaze staring at the way your hole widens and your legs subconsciously spreading more to prepare yourself for the inevitable. You clutch the wall of the stall, each hand gripping the surface. Tears streaming down your face and your cheeks getting hot.

This can't be happening.

You felt the thick thing stretch you open.

***

Something about fucking a fleshlight should embarrass him. But nah, with you in his mind there's nothing to be ashamed. This is just practice to him after all, he'll do this things eventually.

With his heavy cock around his fingers, he taps the opening of the fleshlight. His other hand grips the hip. Rubbing along the slit, he collects lube running on the head of his cock, catching the clit in the process. He lets out a breath, as he finally starts pushing his cock inside.

He's quite big, so he's a bit worried if he'll fit in some shady toy but he's sure he'll fit in you just right, even if he had to force himself in your tiny cunt.

But there's no need for consideration when it comes to a toy.

He sheath inside in one thrust.

Hissing at the way the walls clings to him, tightly wrapping around his cock and pulsating as if rejecting a foreign object. Shit, why does it feel like a virgin?

Warm, wet, and tight. The perfect toy pussy for him, this could even rival a real pussy if he were being honest. No time for adjusting as he starts to thrust. Pounding the onahole, roughly gripping the hips and fucking hard. Shit shit shit why does this feel so good? This stupid toy feels a whole lot better compare to a random slut.

His hips going hard and the way he feels the inside pulsating, sucking all his worth making him groan. Such a tight fake cunt.

He wonder if he can break the toy.

***

With a silent scream, your head jerk up as the big stretch was too sudden for your body to take. Legs wide open as you try to create space for the large object. You sob as quiet as possible, as the phantom starts pounding hard at your sensitive cunt. You want to scream but held back, tears blurring your vision as you pray for it to end.

Whimpering and sobbing was the only thing you can do. Waiting for the thrusting to stop, you teeth bite your lip to stop noise from escaping. It doesn't sound like you at all, it's weird, you're scared and confused.

Your mind tries to think of a distraction, to think of anything but the mysterious assault. How is this even happening? What did you do to deserve this? Why you?

Your breath hitched as you feel the tight coil in your stomach again. Moaning a little as you feel pleasure rising though you. Your hands clasp over your mouth, muffling your noise. You shake your head as the coil gets tighter and tighter, your legs shaking as you stutter words of apology to whoever's doing this.

And it snaps.

Your vision going white, body stiffening and eyes going into the back of your head.

Ah. You never felt this... good before.

It takes you a few minutes to recover. Your limbs feel like jelly, your chest rising up and down in a slow manner, and you greedily gulp air.

You were tired and exhausted but you were glad the assault has stop after that. You groggily starts to lift you panty's up however you felt something dripping down your hole.

... you wonder what it was.

***

After that day, the mysterious phantom would touch you at random times, when you're showering, classes, or even in bed late at night. It was torturous, you were becoming paranoid and it didn't go unnoticed by one of your best friend.

He's helping you study in the library as you'd ask him for his guidance in physics. You would've asked your other friend, but you can just imagine him play with your hair or something along of not really helping you study.

You're breathe hitch as you feel the phantom ghost rubbing your cunt. Shrinking on your sit, uncomfortably rubbing your legs.

"Something bothering you?" He ask, looking a bit concern of your shiftiness.

"O-oh, it's nothing. Just a little tired lately," You reassured, smiling as you pretend to be fine.

His sharp gaze examined your face before dropping the subject, deciding to just help you study.

"If you need something to talk to. I'm right here, ok?"

You smiled forcefully, "I-I will... Thank you."

***

You could never bring yourself to tell someone about it. No one would ever believe you.

You're laying in bed waiting for the phantom, already memorizing the way it'll touch you. You brace for the touch as you can't help but feel helpless. Are you going to live like this your entire life? You don't want to...

But would someone be willing to listen to you? To believe you? You don't wanna bother your best friend, you knew how busy he's gotten the recent days and you're doubtful that he'll even listen to your story when he's the rational one. That means...

Your thoughts were interrupted by the intrusion as you clutch your pillow and close your eyes. You're panting as the phantom starts its routine.

You're scared... You're scared that it's starting to feel good.

No. You don't want to be alone anymore on this.

You need help. Badly.

You shakily gets up from bed, putting some jacket on as you heads towards someone who can help you... At least you believe who will do.

***

"Oh? What's my little darling doing here at this late of night?" He grins as he opened the door with the sight of you.

You fidget with your jacket as you feel small under his gaze, "P-Please help me."

He raised his eyebrow, his grin replacing with a thin line. Yeah, he's playful but he'll never joke around when you're having a problem, "Come inside, we'll talk there, sweetie."

Sitting on his couch, you took a deep breath as you prepare to tell someone about this problem of yours. He won't make fun of you right? He won't be weirded out, right? He's a reliable person and your best friend.

He sits beside you, a serious and concerned expression on his face. It was rare to see him like this, which encourage you to finally tell him.

By the end, you were crying and hiccuping in your hands about the experiences you encounter with that phantom. Feeling his hand rub your back, cooing at you in comfort. He pulls your head to rest on his chest, telling you that everything's going to be fine.

You sob out a thank you, finding relief to finally get it out of your chest.

Unbeknownst to you, the man was smiling.

***

He didn't know if God was on his side. But, he didn't expect this would happen.

Who would've thought that the toy he was playing with was connected with cute lil you?

He didn't believe it at first but the way you described the timing was too much of a coincidence. Sweet little thing, don't worry you won't experience any scary thing from now on.

"Sweetie, do you want me to chase that scary invisible phantom away?" He cups your cheeks in his hands, locking gaze with you.

You sniffle before nodding, "Y-Yes, please..."

He gave you a toothy smile before gently pushing you down on his couch. His fingers swiping away your tears, "Listen to me, ok? I need you to trust me on this." His nose touching with yours as he leans close.

"O-ok... I trust you."

Dumb little girl.

You shouldn't have said that.

Now you've sealed your fate.

***

He wonders what was going on with you back when he helped you study in the library. Something was very off about you, and you were clearly uncomfortable to brought it up.

He thinks of you very often even when he's busy and swarmed with school works. Sometimes, getting frustrated to even continue and wants to just go to your place. He massages his aching temple, resting on his chair before a box caught his attention.

Oh yeah, that stupid guy gave him that a few weeks ago.

He recalls their conversation about it, saying that it'll help him release some stress. Well, he's plenty stressed now so why don't he test it out now?

He saunters to the box, sitting on the floor to unravel it. Only to be surprised by the object inside it.

An onahole...

If he was his usual self he would've flung this across the room and throw it to the garbage bin. But sometimes he needs to be relieve as well, plus he's a man too,

He's not that picky too.

This'll do for him.

A temporary replacement while thinking of your cunt.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 16: April 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Me trying to write therapy sessions.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

His sister’s house in Belgium smelled like sunshine and something sweet baking in the oven. Easter sunlight spilled through the windows, warming the hardwood floors, and in the backyard, Luka and Lio were already running around, squealing with sugar-fueled glee.

Max stood in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He hadn’t said anything in a while—just watched.

Belle was sitting cross-legged in the grass, a plastic Easter egg clutched in one hand, her other arm steadying Lio as he toddled toward her, half-unzipped bunny onesie flapping with every wobbly step. She was laughing—bright, breathless, and so gentle it made something ache in Max’s chest.

She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wasn’t trying to perform.

She was just… her.

Soft and real and warm, with her sleeves pushed up and her hair falling out of its braid. There was a smear of flour across the side of her skirt from earlier, when she’d helped Victoria knead dough in the kitchen, and her fingers still had flecks of pastel from painting eggs with Luka.

She glanced up and caught Max watching her.

Her smile shifted—smaller now, but still warm. Still for him.

Max swallowed hard.

God, he loved her.

Yesterday, she’d spent the entire day helping Victoria put together the nursery for the baby girl due in a few months. Folding tiny clothes and picking the perfect wallpaper, soft florals and honey-toned neutrals. Max had walked in to find her barefoot, cheeks flushed from effort and pride, smoothing a wrinkle out of a freshly hung panel with his dad—his dad, of all people—standing beside her, offering her the level with a quiet kind of respect Max rarely saw from him.

She had blended into his family like she’d always been there.

She belonged there.

He thought about the way she’d crouched down to Luka’s level earlier, letting him stick glittery stickers all over her hands. The way she’d gently wiped chocolate off Lio’s cheek with the corner of her sleeve and kissed his forehead after. The the way she held Luka close when he tripped, the way she helped Sophie clear the table without being asked and took the time to talk to Victoria about pregnancy vitamins like she actually wanted to know.

It wasn’t that she was trying to be anything.

It was just who she was.

Max could picture it so clearly it almost knocked the breath out of him.

Belle—curled on the couch with a baby in her arms.

Belle—yawning in the kitchen at dawn, holding a sleepy toddler on one hip.

Belle— with streaks of glitter or flour or god knows what else, just smiling at a kid that had her eyes and his stubborn mouth.

And it didn’t scare him.

It didn’t scare him.

It felt like a promise.

Belle waved Lio’s little stuffed bunny in the air, coaxing another giggle from him. Luka barreled over with a plastic egg in each hand, shouting something about chocolate, and she caught him without missing a beat, hugging both boys against her sides like she was made for it.

Max’s mother stepped up beside him quietly. She held a tray of little tea cups and didn’t speak right away.

“She’s good with them,” Sophie said softly, watching Belle too. “With all of us.”

Max nodded, his throat thick. “Yeah,” he said. “She is.”

Sophie turned to look at him. “You don’t have to rush anything,” she said gently. “But when the time comes… she’ll be wonderful.”

Max didn’t look away from Belle.

“I know,” he said.

And he did.

He really did.

Because this wasn’t just the woman he loved.

This was the woman he wanted a life with.

The kind you built from scratch.

The kind that lasted.

***

Stream Transcript: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Max Fewtrell: Oi Lando, are your shelves… like, actually bolted to the wall?

Lando Norris: (suspicious) Yes? I think? Why? (There’s a loud creak off-camera. Something clatters violently. Lando jumps.)

Lando: OH MY GOD.

Max F: WHAT DID I JUST SAY.

Lando: (ducking) One of the helmets nearly took me out!! It just slid right off the shelf! I could’ve died!!

Chat:

 HELMET DOWN PROTECT THE MERCH WALL Lando vs Gravity: round 394 Helmet shelves tried to assassinate the talent 😭 Max Fewtrell manifested that

Max F: That’s it. That’s a sign. You need a proper streaming room. Like Max Verstappen’s setup.

Lando: (still checking behind him) You just want to live vicariously through me.

Max F: Yeah, so what? But also I don’t want to watch you get bludgeoned mid-game by your own merch. Have you seen Verstappen’s streaming room? It looks like an F1 spaceship.

Lando: Yeah, Belle Leclerc designed it.

Max F: I KNOW. I told you I was going to DM her my IKEA shopping list as a joke? She actually answered. Sent links. Furniture recs. Paint swatches.

Lando: (grinning) Yeah, that tracks. She helped Oscar with his apartment too. Said his lack of a sofa made her “deeply concerned about his lumbar support.”

Chat: ISABELLE LECLERC THE DESIGN ICON She’s redecorating the grid one boy at a time Max gets a spaceship sim rig, Oscar gets posture correction 

Belle? LANDO CALLS HER BELLE?!?! Lando pls let her fix your shelves before they finish the job 

Max F: I saw Verstappen’s room on the last Redline stream. He’s got mood lighting. Hidden cable management. Soundproof panels. I would sell my firstborn to have a room like that...So you should ask her to do yours. So I can in fact live vicariously through you. 

Lando: (dryly) Thanks. But I’d rather not get murdered by her brother.

Max F: Charles???

Lando: Yes. Last months, I got cornered by him because I was talking to her about ice cream toppings.

Max F: I’m sorry—what?

Lando: We were talking about which sprinkles are better: rainbow or chocolate. That’s it.

Max F: (cackling) You flirted with his sister over sprinkles???

Lando: I WASN’T FLIRTING. We were eating ice cream. I said I liked her choice. He looked at me like I’d proposed on the spot.

Chat:

 SPRINKLEGATE 2024 Lando complimented toppings and Charles prepped a eulogy Imagine dying because of rainbow sprinkles 😭 Charles Leclerc: ICE CREAM ENFORCER

Lando: Belle’s amazing. Sweet, kind, terrifyingly competent. But also? Not for me. I value my life. I’ve seen the look Charles gets. I’m good.

Max F: Honestly valid. She gives off “could fix your taxes and ruin your self-esteem in the same sentence” energy.

Lando: Exactly. She’d help me fix my walls and then psychoanalyze me over gelato.

Chat: Belle Leclerc: therapist, designer, cat whisperer Charles: ready to fight over sprinkles Lando: emotionally in danger Helmet shelf: still plotting Lando in danger and it’s SELF-INFLICTED this stream is 90% chaos, 10% home improvement we demand Belle on the next one

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1streamtrash: Lando almost got murdered by his own helmet wall LIVE and the takeaway is that Isabelle Leclerc might be the only thing holding the grid’s interior design together

@/GridGossip: Max Fewtrell casually admitting he slid into Belle Leclerc’s DMs with an IKEA list and SHE ANSWERED 👀😂

@/LanDownUnder: “Charles cornered me because I said I liked her sprinkles” is now my Roman Empire.

@/TheBackmarkerBlonde: Isabelle Leclerc didn’t say a SINGLE word and still managed to: • Fix Oscar’s spine • Redesign Max’s sim room • Scare Lando into celibacy • Spark a domestic incident over ice cream toppings

@/F1catdad: Max: “Isabelle got me plants and installed acoustic panels.” Oscar: “Isabelle saved my spine.” Lando: “Isabelle almost got me killed with sprinkles.” This woman is single-handedly shaping the lives of the paddock and I need a Vogue profile on her IMMEDIATELY.

@/TeamCharlesSlander: Charles hearing Lando talk to Isabelle about chocolate sprinkles: 🔪 Meanwhile Belle just wanted to enjoy her cone in peace Let her LIVE, Charles

@/PadDockWivesClub: SPRINKLEGATE 2024. Lando: casually agrees with Belle’s ice cream order Charles: READY TO THROW HANDS Somebody protect this man from Leclerc family mood swings

@/BelleAndTheGrid: Lando: Belle’s sweet, kind, terrifyingly competent Me, whispering: …and maybe just a little bit magic???

@/gridandgranprix:  Max Fewtrell casually starting a home improvement cult with Isabelle Leclerc as the unofficial architect and Lando as the first martyr 😭

@/paddocktea:  the way lando said “i wasn’t flirting” with genuine fear in his voice. sir… you complimented her sprinkles. charles heard wedding bells. #f1drama #sprinklegate #justiceforlando

@/f1wagsupremacy: Isabelle Leclerc being the reason Max’s streaming room looks like a spaceship, Oscar’s apartment has actual lumbar support, and Lando is still alive (barely) is honestly the most powerful grid influence since Angela Cullen.

@/helmetwitness: helmet shelf: attacks lando: ducks max f: “you need a proper room like verstappen’s.” lando: “i don’t want to die via brother-in-law.” this stream is my roman empire

@/feralgirlpitlane:  Charles being mad about Lando talking to Isabelle about SPRINKLES is the funniest sibling lore ever. Meanwhile Isabelle out here designing soundproof sim caves and spine-safe lounges like it’s nothing. @/bellesdesignco petition for Isabelle leclerc to start a grid interior design company tagline: "saving lives, lumbar, and lighting schemes"

***

It was Simone’s idea.

They were near the end of a Thursday session, sunlight spilling gently through the windows of the quiet little room Belle had come to think of as one of her safest place in the world.

Simone sat across from her with that usual calm presence, hands folded gently in her lap, head tilted slightly like she was carefully sorting through every word Belle had spoken so far.

"You’ve been doing so much work, Isabelle," Simone said softly. "But healing doesn’t happen in a vacuum. And it sounds like Max is part of what’s helping you feel grounded. Maybe he could be part of the work too."

Belle blinked, startled. "You mean… like, bring him here?"

Simone nodded. "If you’re open to it. Letting someone you love into this part of your world — into the parts you’re still healing — that’s a step too. And it can be a powerful one."

Belle looked down at her hands, twisting the edge of her sleeve between her fingers.

 She didn’t ask Max until the next night.

They were on the couch, two of the cats asleep in Max’s lap, Lilly into the crook of Belle’s hip. Something soft was playing on the TV, long forgotten in the background.

Belle sat with her legs pulled up, oversized hoodie swallowing her, the edge of a blanket tucked under her chin like armor.

"Can I ask you something?" she said quietly.

Max turned to her immediately, remote dropping to the coffee table. "Always."

She hesitated. "It’s kind of… vulnerable."

Max’s expression softened. He reached over, brushing his fingers lightly over the back of her hand.

"I’m listening, Schatje."

Belle took a breath, let it out slowly. "I was talking to Simone  and she… she suggested you come with me. Just once. Not because anything’s wrong, but just… so you’d understand what the inside of my head looks like sometimes. And so I could let you in more."

Max didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

Instead, he squeezed her hand.

"Okay," he said.

Belle blinked. "Really?"

Max leaned closer, touching his forehead to hers.

"I’ll sit through one session, ten, a hundred — hell, years of couple’s therapy if I have to — before I ever give up on us. I want all of it, Belle. Not just the easy parts. Especially not just the easy parts."

Belle’s eyes went glassy. "You’re not scared of seeing how messy I am?"

Max kissed her nose.

 "Schatje, I already see you. I just want to understand you better. And help carry it, if you’ll let me."

She let out a shaky laugh, heart so full it almost ached. "Okay," she whispered.  "Then come with me."

And Max nodded once — like it was the easiest decision in the world.

***

The room was warm and still, sunlight slanting in through the high windows, catching on the edges of the soft rug. Max sat stiffly in the second chair, next to Belle’s — close enough to touch her if he needed to, but not pressing. Not crowding her.

He could tell she was nervous. Her hands were curled tight in the sleeves of his hoodie — his hoodie, stolen again this morning like she always did when she was feeling small — and her knees were drawn up a little, defensive, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

Max hated that. Hated that she even thought she had to make herself smaller for anyone.

He kept his hands loose, open, steady — letting her know he was there, but letting her come to him if she needed it.

The therapist — Simone — was calm, her voice low and even. She made it easy for Belle to breathe. Max appreciated that more than he could say.

They talked about surface things first — the accident, how Belle was recovering, how Max had been helping. He answered in short, steady sentences, always glancing at Belle, making sure he wasn’t overstepping.

And then Simone shifted slightly in her seat, her voice softer:

“Last session we talked about Blanche.”

Max watched Belle freeze, just slightly. Her shoulders went tight under the hoodie. Her fingers twisted harder into the fabric.

Max hadn’t missed the way Belle flinched at the name.

She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and Max could see the struggle flash across her face — whether to say it at all.

But then Belle spoke, her voice small, raw.

"I was thirteen when they sold her," she whispered. "My parents sold her so they could pay for Charles’ karting. They said they didn’t have a choice. That they had to prioritize his future."

Max felt his hands curl into fists without thinking.

Not because of Charles. Not even because of her parents.

Because Belle — his Belle — had been a child, and they'd made her sacrifice something she loved like it was nothing.

Simone didn’t interrupt. She just let the silence settle, gave Belle space to keep going.

Belle wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, her breath shaking.

"I didn’t understand," she said, voice breaking a little. "I mean, I understood in the way a teenager does — when you’re told it’s for the greater good. But I didn’t understand why I had to lose something I loved for someone else’s future. It felt like..." she trailed off, laughing bitterly under her breath, "like I wasn’t even worth fighting for."

Max's chest twisted painfully.

Belle lifted her gaze, meeting Simone’s eyes with something fierce and fragile at once.

"It didn’t even hit me until much later," Belle said, voice steadier now. "But I’ve always felt like I was the one who had to give. Everything for them. Everything for Charles. And nothing for me. They didn’t even ask. They just... expected me to be okay with it. Expected me to just... let go."

Max pressed his palms flat against his thighs, grounding himself.

You shouldn’t have had to let go of anything, he thought fiercely. Not alone. Not like that.

Simone’s voice was soft but sure when she said:

"It sounds like you didn’t get a say. Like it was decided for you, without you having a voice in it."

Belle nodded, the movement small and heavy.

"Exactly," she whispered. "It wasn’t about me. It was about him. It always was."

Max wanted — violently, helplessly — to reach across the space and pull her into his arms. To shield her from a world that had asked too much, too soon, and given her too little in return.

Her hands curled tighter in her lap.

"I loved her," Belle said, her voice breaking again. "I loved Blanche. And when she was gone, I didn’t know how to explain the hole she left. I couldn’t even explain why it hurt so much."

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice calm, guiding.

"It sounds like it wasn’t just about losing a horse, Isabelle. It was about losing a piece of yourself. Something you were allowed to love, just for you. Without anyone else’s permission or need."

Belle let out a shuddering breath, her chest visibly tight.

Max could feel it — the weight of everything she’d never been allowed to say.

"Yeah," Belle said, almost inaudible. "It was about losing me. Losing the thing that made me feel like I mattered. And no one even asked. No one even thought about it."

Tears slipped down her cheeks silently.

Max’s heart broke open cleanly in his chest.

He wanted to stand. He wanted to rage at the world for her. He wanted to hold her until she believed — really believed — that she was enough.

Simone’s voice was steady, full of a compassion that Max could feel humming in the air.

"It’s okay to be angry, Isabelle. It’s okay to feel the hurt, to feel that loss. That’s yours to have, and it always will be."

Belle closed her eyes tightly, letting the words wash over her.

Max watched her hands unclench just slightly — watched her take a breath, shaky but real.

Belle opened her eyes again, blinking down at her lap, and whispered:

"How do I stop it from hurting?" Her voice cracked. "How do I stop feeling like I’m just... the one who always has to give?"

Simone smiled — a small, fierce thing. "You don’t stop the hurt," she said. "You learn how to hold it without it holding you back. You learn how to make space for your own pain, without letting it control you. And you let yourself be allowed to have something, Isabelle. Something that’s just yours. Something you love. Something that doesn’t come with a price tag."

Belle nodded slowly, the movement tentative, almost childlike.

Max exhaled a slow, steady breath. If Belle asked for it — anything, everything — he would give it to her. Not because she needed fixing. Because she deserved to have something that was hers, wholly and without apology.

And if he could be even a small part of that? If he could be the safe place she had never been given before?

He would spend the rest of his life making sure she never had to wonder if she was loved again.

****

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Hey. Need to ask you something. About Belle’s old horse. Blanche.

Emilie: 👀 Go on.

Max: Do you know what happened to her? I want to buy her back. For Belle.

Emilie: Oh, Max. I wish you could. I tried already. Right after Belle and I finished university in 2021.

Max: You did?

Emilie: Yeah. I tracked down the stable. I would’ve cleaned out my entire trust fund if it meant bringing Blanche back to her.

Emilie: But... Blanche passed away in 2019. Old age. Peacefully.

Max: Shit.

Emilie: Yeah. I told Belle. I’ve never seen her cry like that before. Or since. She just... shut down completely.

Max: She still talks about Blanche like she’s alive somewhere.

Emilie: That’s Belle. She doesn’t know how to let go of the people — or horses — she loves. Not really.

Max: Yeah. I know that too well.

Max: Did Blanche ever have any foals?

Emilie: 👀👀👀 Hang on. Let me check my old emails.

(A minute passes.)

Emilie: YES. She had a filly in 2017. Grey, like Blanche. Registered name "Blanchefleur" — but they just called her Fleur at the stable.

Max: Is she still alive?

Emilie: Last I checked, yeah. She was sold in early 2020 to a private owner. Somewhere in the south of France.

Max: Send me everything you have. Breeder, stable name, old records. Everything.

Emilie: Max... Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?

Max: If I can't bring Blanche back, I’ll bring her daughter home.

Max: How do I buy her?

Emilie: 😳 You don't just walk into a stable and order a horse like a pizza, Max.

Max: Why not?

Emilie: Because there's vet checks, paperwork, contracts, transport, insurance, negotiations—oh my god you’re serious.

Max: Completely serious.

Emilie: Alright. Give me five minutes. I’m texting every horse girl I know.

(A minute passes.)

Emilie: UPDATE.

Max: That was fast.

Emilie: You underestimate the terrifying power of horse girls when emotionally motivated.

Max: ...Should I be concerned?

Emilie: Always. ANYWAY. I found her.

Max: Where?

Emilie: Italy.

Max: ITALY???

Emilie: Yeah. Turns out Fleur was sold to a very fancy equestrian center just outside Florence last year.

Max: How does a horse just move countries??

Emilie: The same way you end up in a different country every weekend. Planes. Trucks. Madness.

Max: Inconvenient.

Emilie: For you. Imagine Fleur’s opinion.

Max: Fair enough. Can we buy her?

Emilie: Working on it. The stable might be willing to sell — depends on the price.

Emilie: Small snag, though.

Max: What now.

Emilie: Fleur is currently in foal.

Max: ...She’s pregnant?

Emilie: Yep. Due later this summer.

Max: Alright.

Emilie: ??? That’s it?? You’re not freaking out??

Max: No. If she's carrying a foal, then Belle's just getting two horses instead of one.

Emilie: 😂 You’re insane. I love it.

Max: Perfect. One horse from her past, and one for her future.

Emilie: You’re gonna make me cry at my desk.

Max: Just get me a number. I'll handle the rest.

Emilie: On it. And Max?

Max: Yeah?

Emilie: You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her. Just so you know.

Max: Nah. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: You speak Italian, right?

GP: …Yes? Why?

Max: I need you to translate something for me.

GP: Okay? What are we translating?

Max: I’m buying a horse. Well, two horses.

GP: I’m sorry, WHAT??

Max: A horse. In Italy. I need to negotiate

GP: WHY are you buying a horse in Italy?

Max: Because that’s where it is.

GP: That is NOT an explanation.

Max: It’s for Isabelle. I found a mare that’s the foal of her childhood horse. It’s a whole thing.

GP: …Okay, actually, that’s kind of sweet. But WHY do you need ME?

Max: Because the stable owners only speak Italian, and I do not.

GP: So your plan was just to message me and hope I’d be available to broker a literal horse deal for you?

Max: Yes.

GP: Max.

Max: Just help me. Please.

GP: Sigh. Send me the details.

Max: Also, do you know anything about horse negotiations?

GP: DO I LOOK LIKE I KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT BUYING A HORSE?

Max: I don’t know, you might have a secret past as a horse guy.

GP: Max.

Max: Okay, okay, just translate for me.

GP: This is so far beyond my job description.

Max: And yet, here you are.

GP: I hate you.

Max: No, you don’t. Now, how do I say, “I would like to buy your very expensive horse” in Italian?

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/MonacoMurmurs: OKAY. So I was just minding my business, having coffee in Monaco, and I swear to god, I heard Max Verstappen on the phone saying: "No, I don’t care how expensive this is. I want that one. No other one will do. Whatever price they want, I’ll pay it." UM?????

@/F1TeaSpiller: EXCUSE ME. WHAT IS HE BUYING???

@/CheckeredHeart: The way this man just casually drops “whatever price they want, I’ll pay it” like it’s nothing???

@/SoftForMax: The phrase “No other one will do” is haunting me. WHO IS HE SHOPPING FOR.

@/OversteerAndTears: The way he said “No other one will do” like sir??? That is some ROMANTIC ENERGY.

@/SoftForMax:I just know he had that determined little frown while saying this.

@/PitLaneSecrets: Wait wait wait. Did he say anything else???

@/MonacoMurmurs: I swear I heard him say something like: “I’d prefer not to pay through my nose, but I don’t care.” LIKE??? Max Verstappen is out here just throwing money at something because it HAS to be that one.

@/FastCarsAndDrama:WHAT IS HE BUYING THAT HAS TO BE THAT ONE AND NO OTHER????

@/RedBullTactics: This is giving “I saw this and immediately knew it was perfect for her” vibes and I can’t breathe.

@/CheckeredHeart: If Max Verstappen is out here buying something perfect for someone and money is literally no object, I am going to need THERAPY.

@/MonacoMurmurs: I regret not following him to see where he went next 😭

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: I got the horse.

Emilie: YOU WHAT.

Max: The horse. It’s mine now. Well, Isabelle’s.

Emilie: HOW DID YOU DO THAT SO FAST??

Max: Negotiation skills.

Emilie: …

Max: GP translated. I wired the money. Done.

Emilie: YOU BOUGHT A WHOLE HORSE LIKE YOU WERE ORDERING A PIZZA.

Max: She was in Italy. The comparison is valid.

Emilie: MAX.

Max: What.

Emilie: Do you even know how to ship a horse across countries??

Max: I’ll figure it out. How hard can it be?

Emilie: Oh my god.

Max: Relax. I have contacts. People move racehorses all the time.

Emilie: THIS IS NOT A RACEHORSE, MAX.

Max: No, it’s better. It’s Isabelle’s horse.

Emilie: …You’re actually insane.

Max: And yet, you’re still helping me.

Emilie: I can’t even be mad. She’s going to cry.

Max: That’s the goal. Happy tears.

Emilie: You are raising the bar way too high.

Max: Her brothers should take notes.

Emilie: They won’t.

Max: Then I’ll just keep winning.

Emilie: Okay, but logistics, Max. What’s the plan?

Max: She’s being transported next week. I have a stable lined up near Monaco.

Emilie: You really thought of everything, huh?

Max: Of course. I wasn’t going to just buy a horse and go, “Good luck, figure it out.”

Emilie: That’s literally what her family would do.

Max: Yeah, well. I actually care.

Emilie: …You’re setting an impossible standard.

Max: Not my fault they suck.

Emilie: True.

Max: Anyway, what’s the best way to tell her? Do I just show up and go, “Hey, I got you a horse”?

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Max: What, you want me to wrap it in a bow?

Emilie: …Wait.

Max: No.

Emilie: PLEASE. Just a little ribbon. Maybe a cute note attached.

Max: I am not putting a bow on the horse, Emilie.

Emilie: You’re no fun.

Max: I just bought two whole horses for my girlfriend. I am very fun.

Emilie: Yeah, yeah. But okay, serious answer—you should take her to see the horse without telling her first.

Max: Just casually drive her to the stable and be like, “Surprise”?

Emilie: Yes! Can you imagine her face when she realizes?

Max: …Okay, yeah. That’s actually perfect.

Emilie: Of course it is. I’m a genius.

Max: Debatable.

Emilie: MAX.

Max: Fine, fine. You’re slightly above average.

Emilie: You’re lucky I like you.

Max: No, I’m lucky Belle loves me.

Emilie: …You really are.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Arthur: well. My girlfriend dumped me.

Charles: What???

Lorenzo: Wait, seriously?

Arthur: Yeah. She said I’m "emotionally unavailable" and "self-centered."

Charles: Bit harsh, no? You’re just busy.

Lorenzo: Exactly. You have your own life. Can’t drop everything for someone 24/7.

Arthur: That’s what I said. She didn’t get it.

Isabelle: ... Arthur, what happened?

Arthur: I don’t know. She was upset because I missed some fancy dinner with her friends. And some family event she wanted me at. And a couple calls.

Isabelle: How many calls?

Arthur: 😒 A few.

Isabelle: Arthur.

Arthur: It’s not like I did it on purpose. I was busy.

Isabelle: You always say you’re busy. You make people feel like they’re last on your list. She didn’t dump you because you were busy. She dumped you because you made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Arthur: Oh come on.

Charles: It’s not that deep.

Lorenzo: Yeah, you can’t prioritize everything. You have to focus on yourself too.

Isabelle: It’s not about choosing yourself. It’s about neglect. She wasn’t asking you to quit racing. She was asking you to show up sometimes.

Arthur: You don’t know anything about it, Isabelle. Stay out of it.

Isabelle: I’m trying to help you understand. So you don’t keep hurting people you actually care about.

Arthur: Maybe if you knew what it was like to be in a real relationship you’d get it.

Isabelle:  Good luck next time.

Arthur: Whatever.

Lorenzo: Can we all just cool down?

***

Belle sighed as she pushed another hanger aside, her eyes half-focused, her mind still somewhere in the Leclerc sibling group chat.

Emilie glanced over from across the boutique, one eyebrow already raised. “Okay,” she said, “that’s the third sigh in under two minutes. Who are we mad at today?”

Belle didn’t even hesitate. “Arthur.”

Emilie snorted. “That tracks.”

“He got dumped,” Belle said flatly, holding up a hanger, immediately making a face and putting it back.

“Oh no,” Emilie said, mock-gasping. “Did he forget she was a person with feelings?”

Belle let out a short, sharp laugh. “How did you guess?”

“He’s a Leclerc brother. It’s always a safe bet.”

They both paused, clearly considering that.

Belle leaned against a rack of sundresses, crossing her arms. “Charles and Lorenzo immediately jumped in to defend him. Said he was just busy. That he can’t be expected to prioritize everything.”

“Classic,” Emilie muttered.

Belle pressed her lips together. “I just… I tried to explain why she was upset. I told him he made her feel like she didn’t matter. Like she was at the bottom of his list.”

“And how did that go?”

Belle gave her a pointed look. “He told me to stay out of it. Said I wouldn’t understand because I’ve never been in a real relationship.”

Emilie blinked. “Oh.”

Belle’s smile was tight. “Yeah.”

“Does Max know he said that?” Emilie asked casually, flipping through a rack of skirts like she wasn’t already ready to throw hands.

“No,” Belle said quickly. “And please don’t say anything. I’m not dragging Max into this.”

Emilie gave her a knowing look. “He wouldn’t just be dragged. He’d sprint into it with a flamethrower.”

Belle smiled faintly. “Which is why I’m not telling him.”

There was a beat of quiet between them — one of those moments where it was clear they were thinking the exact same thing but neither wanted to say it.

Finally, Belle sighed again and rubbed at her temple. “God, why is this lighting so weird? I’ve been dizzy all morning.”

“Have you eaten today?” Emilie asked, immediately switching gears.

“Croissant and coffee,” Belle said. “Which was three hours ago. Maybe I need something salty. Or sweet. Or both.”

“You always want sweet when you’re tired,” Emilie said, looping a silky hanger off the rack. “Or hormonal.”

Belle didn’t react, too distracted by the way the room seemed to sway slightly when she turned her head.

“You okay?” Emilie asked.

“Yeah, I just—” Belle waved a hand vaguely. “Probably just low blood sugar or something.”

“Okay. Well, I’m getting you a granola bar before we go anywhere else,” Emilie said, and then held up a hanger with a little grin. “And you’re trying this on.”

Belle narrowed her eyes at the dress. “White? Really?”

“It’s a beautiful dress,” Emilie said. “Max is going to pass out when he sees you in it.”

Belle rolled her eyes — but took the hanger anyway.

Ten minutes later, she stood in front of the mirror in the changing room, smoothing her hands down over the fabric. The dress was soft, floaty and a little too pretty.

And it fit perfectly.

She stepped out, blinking into the hallway light.

Emilie looked up — and grinned. “There she is.”

Belle tilted her head. “You really think it’s not too much?”

“I think Max is going to malfunction,” Emilie said simply. “And that’s reason enough to buy it.”

Belle flushed, but she didn’t argue.

She looked back at the mirror, the soft silk falling over her hips, the way the white made her skin glow just a little. She felt oddly… peaceful.

Even with her brothers being impossible.

Even with everything.

She didn’t say anything else — she just turned back into the changing room and hung the dress on the “buy” hook.

One quiet victory. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: I have the ring.

GP:  …The ring?

Max: The ring.

Max: It’s a very nice ring. She’s going to cry.

GP: Tears of joy or terror?

Max: GP.

GP: Okay, okay. Do you know how you want to do it?

Max: No.

GP: Excellent start.

Max: I want it to be private. Not like… public public. Max: But still special. Max: Not over the top. But meaningful. Max: Lowkey. But not boring.

GP: So basically you want the emotional equivalent of pole position without the media circus.

Max: Exactly. GP: When it happens, just make it about her. Not the moment. Not the pressure. Her. The life you want with her. Keep it simple. Keep it real.

Max: What if I mess it up?

GP: You won’t. 

GP: Propose when it’s quiet. When she’s happy. When you’re already laughing. GP:  You don’t need fireworks. Just give her the one thing she’s never had.

Max: What’s that?

GP: Someone who chooses her first. Without question. Every time.

Max: She already has that.

GP: Just don’t do it mid-race weekend. I don’t need you distracted and proposing during a pit stop.

GP: Why are you even asking me?

Max: Because you’re married.

GP: That doesn’t make me a proposal expert, it just means I survived it.

Max: So how did you do it?

GP: I kept it simple. Just us, no big scene, no stress. And it worked.

Max: Yeah. I like that.

GP: And Max?

Max: Yeah?

GP: She’s going to say yes.  Probably before you finish the sentence.

***

Pascale’s Dining Room always looked nicer in the evening, when the light softened and made the crystal on the table sparkle. Alexandra had helped Charlotte with the flowers this time — something understated, nothing over the top — and they’d both arrived early to actually help set the table. For once.

Not to watch Isabelle do it all herself.

Isabelle had already laid out the linen napkins and finished folding them with practiced, almost mechanical ease by the time they arrived, but Charlotte slid in next to her without a word and took over the cutlery. Alexandra poured the wine. Between the three of them, the atmosphere felt lighter than usual — like something unspoken had been reset.

There wasn’t a lot of chatter at first. Pascale was in the kitchen, issuing gentle orders; Charles and Lorenzo were in the living room arguing softly about tires and someone’s new dog; Arthur arrived late and looked like he’d slept in his hoodie.

Isabelle, to her credit, looked… calm.

Different.

Still soft-spoken, still gracious — she greeted them all with kisses on the cheek and asked about everyone’s week — but there was something else now. A steel edge underneath all that quiet.

Alexandra didn’t know what had changed, exactly. 

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it at first. The table was full, the food was good, the siblings were loud in the way siblings always were. Pascale hovered, fussed, smiled. Lorenzo made some dry remark that no one laughed at. Arthur was in a mood—understandable, post-breakup—but even his sulking had a familiar rhythm to it.

The difference wasn’t around Isabelle.

It was Isabelle herself.

Alexandra noticed it in the kitchen, when Isabelle didn’t rush to take over. Usually, she was the one checking on the roast, plating the salad, folding napkins without being asked. This time, she’d helped, yes—but only what she chose to help with.

Charlotte, bless her, had already stepped in to cover what Isabelle left untouched.

"I’ve got the starters," Charlotte said cheerfully, sliding past Pascale with a tray. "You sit, Isabelle. Seriously."

And Isabelle had. No protest. No automatic rise. No quiet martyrdom.

Alexandra handed her a glass of wine on the way by and got a grateful smile in return.

Progress, Alexandra thought. Real, tangible progress.

Later, at the table, Arthur was complaining about how no one "warned him" that relationships required emotional availability. Charles laughed a little too hard. Lorenzo made a noise of agreement.

Isabelle didn’t even look up from her plate.

"Maybe next time, try listening instead of defending," she said calmly.

Arthur blinked at her. "What?"

"You keep saying your ex didn’t get it," Isabelle said, her tone cool, even. "But maybe she just got it sooner than you did. That she wasn’t going to wait around forever."

It was the kind of sentence that, even six months ago, she would’ve swallowed. Bitten her tongue. Let it pass to keep the peace.

Now?

Now she met Arthur’s stunned silence with an arched brow and took another sip of her water.

Alexandra exchanged a glance with Charlotte.

Interesting.

Over dinner, the change became even more obvious. Isabelle, who usually sat back and filled glasses and smoothed over awkward silences, didn’t hover this time. She served herself first. Didn’t get up to clear plates halfway through. When Charles grumbled something about the seasoning being off, she didn’t apologize or jump to fix it.

She just raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should cook next time.”

Alexandra nearly choked on her wine. Charlotte, across the table, tried very hard not to smile.

Later, when Isabelle reached for the bread, the sleeve of her blouse slipped slightly and something glittered on her wrist.

Alexandra blinked.

It was a delicate emerald tennis bracelet. Stunning. And definitely not costume jewelry.

And when Isabelle leaned over to pull her phone from her bag — a small, quilted black Chanel purse with the gold chain strap looped twice — Alexandra’s brain paused.

Because Isabelle had always dressed nicely. Classic. Understated. But not… that.

Not luxury.

Not the kind of luxury that didn’t scream but whispered.

Charlotte leaned over at the same time to grab the wine, and Alexandra caught the way her eyes lingered just a moment too long on the bracelet.

So it wasn’t just her who noticed.

They didn’t say anything. Not right away. But Charlotte gave Alexandra a slight nudge under the table, her brows lifting ever so slightly.

Do you see it too?

Oh, she did.

Something had changed. And not just the jewelry.

Isabelle was still sweet. Still generous.

But Isabelle Leclerc had finally put up a door between herself and the rest of her family.

And she was the one holding the key.

Isabelle didn’t let her brothers talk over her this time. When Lorenzo interrupted her story — not even rudely, just casually — she didn’t fall silent or shrink back. She finished her sentence calmly, firmly. Charles frowned a few times when she deflected a passive-aggressive comment from Pascale, but didn’t say anything.

And Arthur — Arthur, still bitter from his breakup — made a snide comment halfway through dessert about people thinking they know better than they do.

Isabelle didn’t flinch.

“I’d rather be the girl who tries too hard than the boy who gives up the moment something gets hard,” she said lightly, reaching for the espresso spoon.

The table went silent.

Charlotte coughed quietly.

Alexandra sipped her wine and tried very hard not to grin.

When the dishes were done and the conversation finally wound down, Isabelle hugged them all goodbye — even Arthur, who stiffly muttered something like an apology.

She left with her shoulders straight, that little bag swinging against her hip, and a quiet sort of confidence that Alexandra hadn’t seen before.

As they watched her disappear into the Monaco night, Charlotte leaned in, her voice low.

“Is it just me,” she asked softly, “or is she finally choosing herself?”

Alexandra smiled. “About damn time.”

Charlotte hesitated. “The bracelet?”

“And the bag,” Alexandra added.

“Think she bought them herself?”

Alexandra just hummed thoughtfully, eyes still on the door.

If she had to guess?

No.

***

The second Belle opened the front door, she smelled home.

Warm spice and something sweet from the candle he always lit when she was gone. The low hum of the dishwasher in the background. The quiet shuffle of paws on hardwood as one of the cats wandered toward her with a questioning meow.

And then she saw him.

Max was on the couch in sweatpants and a shirt, barefoot, hair still damp from a shower. He had a bowl of popcorn in his lap and was halfway through some racing docuseries, one hand absentmindedly scratching behind Lilly’s ears.

Belle didn’t speak.

Didn’t drop her bag.

Didn’t bother with hello.

She crossed the room in five fast steps, dropped straight into his lap, and kissed him like she meant to erase the entire Leclerc family from her memory.

Max made a startled sound against her mouth but caught her instinctively, one hand flying to her waist, the other slipping beneath the hem of her blouse as she pressed closer.

“Okay,” he managed when she let him breathe for a second, his voice already hoarse, “so I’m guessing dinner went well?”

Belle didn’t answer. She just kissed him again—hot, hungry, all teeth and frustration and fire. Her fingers tugged at the collar of his shirt, nails scraping lightly along his neck as she pressed herself more firmly into him.

Max groaned, tightening his grip. “Not that I’m complaining, schatje, but are you okay?”

“I am now,” Belle said, her voice low and breathless, and then kissed him again like she couldn’t get close enough.

Max let himself fall back against the couch, pulling her with him. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” she said, her mouth trailing along his jaw. “Want to pretend it didn’t happen. Want to be here. Want you.”

Max didn’t need to be told twice.

He shifted them easily, her legs sliding to either side of his lap, his hands moving over her hips like he was grounding himself. Like she was something holy and he needed to memorize every part of her.

“You’re tense,” he murmured against her neck. “Your brothers being assholes again?”

Belle pulled back just long enough to look him in the eye. “They always are.”

He studied her face—her flushed cheeks, her messy hair, the faint crease in her brow she hadn’t even realized she was still wearing.

And then he kissed her—slower now, deeper. One hand cupped her jaw, the other settled over her heart.

“You’re home,” he whispered.

She nodded, eyes softening. “I know.”

“And here,” Max said, voice thick with something almost reverent, “you don’t have to carry anything.”

Belle exhaled shakily, her fingers curling into his hoodie.

“I don’t want to carry anything else tonight,” she said.

“Good,” Max murmured, kissing her again. “Then let me.”

She didn’t respond—not with words.

But her mouth found his again, and that was all the answer he needed.

Because whatever the world had thrown at her—judgment, silence, pressure—here, in his arms, she didn’t have to hold any of it alone.

Not ever again.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: hey

Victoria: Oh no. What did you break?

Max: Why does everyone assume I broke something?

Victoria: Because you're you. And also: “hey” is how you text when you’re about to be weird.

Max: not weird… serious actually

Victoria: Now I’m worried.

Max: I need advice

Victoria: What kind of advice? Relationship? Life? Skin care?

Max: engagement

Victoria: OH MY GOD

Max: stop yelling

Victoria: I AM NOT YELLING I AM CELEBRATING IS THIS REAL???

Max: I have the ring

Victoria: The ring??? You picked it already??? How did you not ask for my input?? I’m hurt.

Max: It's perfect. I promise. You’ll cry.

Victoria: Okay I forgive you. Now. What do you need help with?

Max: How do I actually do it?

Victoria: Max. You drive a car at 300km/h every weekend. And you’re scared of proposing?

Max: Yes, because Belle is not a race. She’s everything. 

Victoria: 😩🥹❤️ Victoria:  Okay. First of all: AWW.Victoria:  Second of all: good. You should be a little scared. It means you care.

Max: I want it to be quiet Not dramatic. But not like… just while brushing our teeth

Victoria: Well thank GOD you’re not proposing in the bathroom. Victoria:  Let’s set the bar higher than toothpaste and LED mirrors, yeah?

Max: I’m serious

Victoria: Okay, okay. What feels like her?

Max: Home. Cats. Candles. Soft things. Making fun of me while stealing fries off my plate.

Victoria: That’s the energy you need. Do it when she’s already glowing. When she feels safe. Maybe after dinner. Or one of your cozy nights in. You don’t need fireworks. You just need to mean it.

Max: I mean it so much it makes my chest hurt

Victoria: You sap 😭 I’m so proud of you.

Max: You think she’ll say yes?

Victoria: She’s been saying yes to you for a long time, Max. Victoria:  This is just the easy part.

Max: I want her to know it’s forever. Like really know it.

Victoria: Then tell her that. And if you cry, that’s okay too. Just not while holding the ring box. You’ll drop it.

Max: Should I tell mom?

Victoria: ABSOLUTELY NOT Victoria:  She’ll book a chapel and ten florists before you finish the sentence Victoria:  Tell her after. Or I’ll tell her for you.

Max: noted

Victoria: And Max?

Max: yeah?

Victoria: She’s already part of our family. Victoria:  But I can’t wait to call her my sister for real. Victoria:  Now go make it official, Romeo.

Max: thanks, Vic. love you

Victoria: Love you more. Victoria:  Now go be soft and romantic and terrifyingly in love, or whatever it is you’re doing. Victoria:  And text me the second she says yes. Or I’ll assume you passed out.

***

Nico Hulkenberg didn’t expect to run into Max Verstappen at a café.

He especially didn’t expect to run into that version of Max Verstappen.

It was a quiet weekday afternoon in Monaco, the kind of day where the sun was warm but not blistering, and the harbor breeze made everything feel like it was lifted straight out of a postcard.

Nico was sitting with his wife and daughter at a shaded café terrace—iced coffees, orange juice, tiny pastries. A good mood. A good day.

And then he heard a voice behind him.

Familiar. Low. Laughing.

Max?

He turned his head.

And there—across the terrace, half-tucked into a corner table beneath a bright umbrella—was Max Verstappen.

Wearing sunglasses. One arm slung lazily over the back of the chair next to him.

A chair that was currently occupied by a woman.

A very pretty, very familiar-looking woman.

Dark hair pulled back in a soft braid. Linen blouse, minimal makeup, sun-warmed skin. Laughing softly as she leaned in to steal a bite of Max’s croissant.

Max let her. Smiled at her, even.

Not a quick twitch of the mouth. A real smile. Soft. Stupid. The kind of smile Nico hadn’t seen on Max’s face since... ever?

And then it clicked.

Isabelle Leclerc.

Ferrari’s golden boy’s sister.

Nico blinked hard.

Max and Isabelle were sitting side by side, ridiculously cozy. She had one hand casually resting on his knee, and when the waiter brought a second iced tea, Max slid it toward her without even glancing down.

It was domestic. Intimate. The kind of casual comfort that didn’t happen overnight.

And Nico—who had known Max for years, had seen him at his most guarded and most cutting—felt like his brain short-circuited for a moment.

WHAT.

Max noticed him then.

Lifted his sunglasses just enough to meet Nico’s wide-eyed stare. And smirked.

Because of course he did.

Max nodded in acknowledgment, gave a little wave.

Nico stood, made some vague excuse to his wife, and walked over, trying not to look like he was entering a psychological thriller.

“Max,” he said slowly. “Hey.”

Max looked up, entirely unbothered. “Hey, mate.”

Isabelle turned, polite smile already in place. “Hi, Nico. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Nico said automatically, shaking her hand. “It’s been a while.”

“Monaco’s small,” she said with a shrug. “We figured it’d happen eventually.”

We.

WE.

Nico blinked at Max again. “So this is... a thing?”

Max just shrugged, arm still resting comfortably behind her. “Yeah.”

“Like a real thing?” Nico asked, unable to help himself.

Max raised an eyebrow. “What would you call brunch with your girlfriend?”

Nico turned to Isabelle. “Are you okay? Is he... being nice?”

Isabelle laughed. “He made me breakfast this morning. And fed the cats.”

Nico blinked. “You have cats?”

Max took a sip of his coffee. “Three.”

Three??

Nico stared. “How long has this been happening?”

Max tilted his head thoughtfully. “A while.”

Isabelle gave him a look and gently nudged his knee with hers.

Max sighed, as if put upon. “A year and a bit.”

“You have been dating Isabelle Leclerc for a year!?”

Max grinned. “You say that like it’s a scandal.”

“It kind of is! Does Charles know?!” Nico hissed. 

Max, meanwhile, was completely serene. “No. But there’s a group chat.”

Nico frowned. “What group chat?”

Max’s smirk deepened. “The one other drivers made when they found out. You know. The one they think I don’t know about.”

Isabelle elbowed him gently. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing. I’m offended I wasn’t invited,” Max said with mock gravity. “Oscar’s in it. Lando. Lewis. I’m told Daniel runs it like some form of reality tv series.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Nico muttered.

Max raised a brow. “You sound like Lando when he found out.”

“I am Lando right now,” Nico said, staring at Isabelle. “And you’re just...okay with this?”

Isabelle smiled sweetly. “He’s not that scary once you get to know him.”

Max leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m charming.”

Nico blinked at them. Then sighed. “You’re telling me they all knew—before me?”

Isabelle looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry. It wasn’t personal. We were just… keeping it quiet.”

“Quiet?” Nico echoed. “You just kissed her in a cafe in Monaco!”

Max just shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. “Yeah.”

Nico stared at them both for a long moment, then finally let out a breath and sat back in his chair. “Jesus. Charles is going to have an aneurysm.”

“We’re working on that,” Isabelle said dryly.

Nico blinked again, then started to laugh. He shook his head and raised his espresso in mock salute. “Good luck. To both of you.”

“Thanks,” Max said, and leaned over to press a quick, fond kiss to Isabelle’s temple. “But I don’t need luck.” Max glanced down at her, the smirk softening into something fond.

Nico blinked again.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “I need to sit down.”

Max just gave him a lazy thumbs-up. “Enjoy your pastries.”

***

Text Messages: Nico Hulkenberg & Daniel Ricciardo

Nico: DANIEL. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Daniel: 👀 hello to you too, sunshine

Nico: I just saw Max. With a woman. At a café. IT WAS ISABELLE. ISABELLE LECLERC.

Daniel: OH MY GOD WE GOT ANOTHER ONE

Daniel: Nico. Nico buddy. I’m one of the founding members of the support group.

Nico: WHAT SUPPORT GROUP

Daniel: say less you’re coming with me

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon and Nico Hulkenberg)

Daniel added Nico Hulkenberg to the group.

Lando: ANOTHER ONE HAS SEEN THE LIGHT

Alex: rip nico

Carlos: bienvenido al infierno

Lewis: welcome. please proceed to the panic corner

Nico H: You are all insane. How long has this been going on??

Lando: March 2023-ish?? It’s fuzzy. Like trauma memory.

George: We were so innocent once.

Daniel: So. How’d you find out?

Nico H: Café in Monaco. Saw them sharing a croissant. He called her his girlfriend. They have cats. He kissed her on the cheek like it was nothing.

Carlos: a casual public kiss?? he’s escalating

Nico H: They looked… happy. Like really happy. Max was smiling. LIKE. PROPERLY.

Oscar: it's disarming, right?

Nico: And he said you guys have a group chat that he “knows about”

Lewis: ...well shit

Daniel: he wasn’t supposed to know

Alex: he always knows

Carlos: i bet belle told him

Lando: Did you tell Charles?

Nico H: NO. Do I look suicidal?

Daniel: good answer

Carlos: we don’t tell Charles. that’s a rule.

Lewis: He finds out when the rest of Monaco does.

Nico: I need a drink.

Daniel: don’t worry you’ll get used to it Max + Belle = our collective emotional crisis but also the healthiest relationship in the paddock

Oscar: and she sends cookies sometimes

Lando: and fixes your interior lighting plan if you ask nicely

Nico: You’re all too comfortable with this

Daniel: you will be too in time

Nico: Okay, hold on. Just so I know how far down the rabbit hole I’ve fallen— Who else actually knows?

Carlos: good question

Lando: like… besides us?

Oscar: uh. I may have told Mark Webber at one point

Lando: YOU TOLD MARK WEBBER??

Oscar: HE ALREADY KNEW! I JUST ACCIDENTALLY CONFIRMED IT. 

Oscar: Apparently he and Coulthard had a bet? 

Lando: WHY DOES DC KNOW?!

Lewis: I told Seb.

Daniel: YOU WHAT

Lewis: I needed a sanity check!!

Carlos: that’s fair

Daniel: Okay. Great. Good. We’ve gone from “don’t tell Charles” to “this is a United Nations subcommittee.”

Alex: Max told me Nico Rosberg knows.

Lando: do we have a list???

Lewis: we NEED a list

George: Okay hold on. Running tally. People who know:

Lando

Oscar

Daniel

Carlos

Lewis

Alex

George

Nico Hulkenberg

Mark Webber

David Coulthard

Sebastian Vettel

Nico Rosberg

Daniel: …There is no way Checo doesn’t know. He’s literally Max’s teammate. 

Carlos: We should just invite them all in here at this point.

Daniel: Seb knows. Coulthard knows. Webber knows. We're three ex-Red Bulls away from summoning Christian Horner.

Oscar: Do we… invite them all?

Daniel: YES.

Daniel Ricciardo  has added Sebastian Vettel to the chat

Daniel Ricciardo  has added Mark Webber to the chat

Daniel Ricciardo  has added David Coulthard to the chat

Daniel Ricciardo  has added Nico Rosberg to the chat

Daniel Ricciardo  has added Sergio Perez to the chat

Sebastian Vettel: Hello everyone. Lewis told me. I love them. I’m emotionally invested. Carry on.

Lando: THE GOAT HAS SPOKEN

Daniel: Thanks for coming, Seb. We’re just trying to track how many people know about Max and Belle.

Sebastian: Oh. I told Kimi.

George: YOU WHAT

Alex: Oh my God.

Oscar: You told Kimi Räikkönen?

Sebastian: Yes. He said “Tell Max if he breaks her heart I’ll run him over with a snowmobile.” It was very moving.

Carlos: I believe this

Lewis: I… yeah that sounds about right

Sergio Pérez: WHY AM I HERE.

Daniel: Hey Checo! 😊

Checo: No. No, don’t smile at me like that. What the hell is this group.

Oscar: Support circle for drivers emotionally impacted by the Belle + Max reveal.

Alex: Also informal Charles Leclerc Early Warning System™

Checo: Absolutely not. I already know Max and secrets is a bad combination. I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE.

Lewis: Too late. Welcome. Take a seat. Don’t stand near Lando, he attracts chaos.

Mark: Fernando knows too. 

Daniel: Oh my god. He does, doesn’t he?

David: …yes.

Sebastian: This is better than any paddock meeting I’ve ever been in.

Nico H: This is a deeply cursed chat. I’m afraid to check my notifications.

Nico R: I told no one. I’m being so responsible.

Lewis: Shut up.

Nico R: You shut up. 

David: Can we add Kimi? For science?

Daniel Ricciardo  has added Fernando Alonso to the chat

Daniel Ricciardo  has added Kimi Raikkonen to the chat

Fernando: Hello. I have been expecting this.

Oscar: What do you MEAN you’ve been expecting this??

Fernando: They were inevitable. I saw it in her posture. And in his eyes.

Alex: WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN.

George: Is this… prophecy? Does he have prophecy powers?

Fernando: I am simply observant. You are all very slow.

Daniel: FERNANDO YOU HAVE BEEN SILENT THIS WHOLE TIME

Fernando: Some truths must reveal themselves on their own.

Carlos: Why are you the way you are

Lando: Please someone put that on a t-shirt

Daniel: He saw it “in her posture.” I’m losing it.

Kimi: Stop tagging me

Sebastian: Hi Kimi! 😊

Kimi: I already said what I had to say. If he hurts her I will deal with it.

Nico H: This is getting terrifying

Checo: This is already terrifying

Daniel: Okay okay okay, Let’s take stock

George: We’ve gone from “this is a small secret” to “seemingly every major F1 figure of the last decade is now here”

Oscar: And all of us are more stressed about Charles than Max himself

Mark: Charles is going to spontaneously combust

David: Honestly I’m surprised he hasn’t already

Alex: He’s probably still too busy thinking Lando is flirting with Belle over sprinkles

Lando: IT WAS A NORMAL CONVERSATION ABOUT ICE CREAM

Daniel: ...do we tell Christian?

Lando: NO.

Sebastian: Absolutely not.

Mark: God no.

Fernando: Let the chaos unfold naturally.

David: It’s already unfolding unnaturally

Oscar: Next person to find out gets added automatically?

Mark: Yes. It’s law now.

Carlos: So what happens when Charles finds out?

Lewis: The group chat will spontaneously combust.

Alex: Or evolve into a new form. Like a Pokémon.

George: HELP ME: FINAL BOSS EDITION

[theliving-radio]

I for real want a continuation of dragon baby sibling accident 😭😭 it’s so cute 💖💖💖 like how would Lilia react to seeing a baby dragon again and seeing Malleus just gush 100x more over the baby dragon prefect!! It’s just all so cute 🥹

A continuation from this: Baby Sibling turning into a Baby Dragon

“Lilia, hand me back my Baby Sibling!”

“No! Look how cute they are! And they are so docile too! You were a menace, even while still in your egg!”

Lilia was currently hanging upside down on the ceiling in the Diasomnia Dorm. Thankfully he was holding your baby dragon form up right.

“Father, I think it’s best to hand Malleus the Prefect.” Silver mentioned as he stared up at his adopted father, who was happily swaying you side to side while walking on the ceiling.

“Oh he’ll get them back in just a bit- Oh my Sevens! One of their scales are off colored on the back of their hind leg! Just like yours when you were a hatchling!”

“HAND THEM OVER!”

Other Diasomnia students who were in the lounge were able to watch their Dorm Leader huffing and puffing as he demanded to see the transformed Prefect.

At this point of time, they were all used to Malleus’s behavior towards his Baby Sibling. One of the strongest mages in Twisted Wonderland being a total loser for their adopted Baby Sibling?

Yeah, that’s their dorm leader.

You look at Lilia upside down face, he smiles at you when slowly blink at him and let out a happy chirp.

The bat fae lets out a high pitch squeal.

You’re so freaking cute!

“LILIA! I DEMAND TO HOLD MY BABY SIBLING!!”

“Watch your tone boy! I’m not giving them to you if you keep acting like a brat!”

Malleus huffs and begins to pout as he watches Lilia coo and play with you. You let out a small squeak and that’s when Malleus finally decided he had enough. Using magic, he lifted himself off the ground and floated up to the ceiling,

Lilia glances over at the younger fae and squints his eyes. “Really now, you’ve come to take them from me? Can’t this old fae just appreciate the newborn peacefully.”

“You’ve had their full attention for far too long-,”

“It’s been 15 minutes!”

“I will be taking my Baby Sibling back.”

Malleus reaches out to take you from Lilia, but before doing so, you squirm in the bat fae’s hand…

And jump out from his grasp, away from Malleus.

The whole dorm screams and scrambles to catch you before you’re able to hit the floor.

Your chubby, dragon body feels itself falling, and a small voice in your brain was screaming “WEEEEEEEE”.

Just then you began to start flapping your wings, decreasing the speed of your fall and go into more of a glide.

Students were running and shoving one another to try and reach you in hopes to catch you so you wouldn’t hit the dorms cold, stone floor. But you had a destination in mind:

The silver haired knight.

Silver wasn’t running around or shoving others to catch you, instead he stood perfectly still and raised his arms out, perfectly catching you.

You let out happy chirps and squeaks. “Again! Again!”

“No! Not again!” Malleus was able to understand you and floats back down to where Silver was cradling you in his arms.

Both students stare at each other, waiting for one to make the first move. Silver looked down at your tiny figure, and he couldn’t help but boop your nose. You try snapping your teeth at him which only caused him to chuckle.

“Silver…” Malleus was beginning to become impatient.

“Yeah I know. I’m not like my father.” Silver lifts you with both hands and passes you over to Malleus.

The Dragon Fae went back to smiling as he cradled you against his chest. “Hello my Baby Sibling.”

You stare up at the fae prince and let out a squeak.

Malleus had the urge to bang his head against the wall, you were so cute!

A small sneeze left your tiny mouth, the sound so small not many would hear it. The whole Diasomnia dorm was in awe on how adorable you were.

Lilia descends from the ceiling and looks around. “By the way, where is Sebek?”

“I sent him to stall Professor Crewel from making an antidote to turn the prefect back to normal.”

There was a long pause after that, and Lilia lets out a wheeze before bending over to laugh. Silver only shook his head in disapproval.

The poor half-fae was surely going to get in trouble with his professors…

[cherrychilli]

18+ Eddie Munson x f! reader, neighbor! reader, friends to lovers, use of sex toy, chastity belt, mentions of virginity, sexual scenarios, implied PIV, implied loss of virginity WC:2.5K

Summary: What happens when you head over next door to seek your neighbor's help with a very intimate and unusual problem? a whole lot of repressed feelings are finally shared. And there's sex stuff too, duh.

Extended ending

It's the kind of decision that you didn't arrive at easily. Quite frankly, you feel you'd much rather down a cup of iron nails and let them shred your body from the inside on the way down, but that wouldn't fix your problem.

No, you were utterly fucked and you desperately needed help.

So, with one shaky step after the other, you approach your neighbor's trailer, stepping up to the door and realizing this is the closest you've been to it in a long time.

The temperature's perfectly balmy outside. Most folks have their laundry hung out, gently flapping in the wind but everything inside you is frigid cold. It takes you a couple of minutes to thaw your frozen limbs on his doorstep, raising your hand and rolling your fingers into a loose fist before tapping your knuckles against the door thrice.

Seconds pass and before you can attempt to knock again you hear some kind of commotion deeper inside the trailer, a bunch of dull thuds sounding out before you pick up on the sound of footsteps approaching.

You take a quick step back, pulling your ear away from the door and you weave your fingers together, holding them tightly down the front of your skirt.

No going back now.

When Eddie Munson pulls open the door in his sweats and a wrinkled band tee he's obviously pulled on in a hurry, everything starts to feel way too real for your liking.

You figure he must have been lounging in his underwear again. You know this because his curtains don't close all the way, leading to you catching glimpses of his bare chest and stomach from your own bedroom. Not that you ever meant to look. No, not at all.

"Uh hi, Eddie", you manage to string a few words together, your tongue feeling like you've barely got any control over it at all with the way it feels so limp and cotton dry in your mouth.

He doesn't answer, looking at you curiously and you worry if it's because he doesn't recall you despite the both of you having grown up in the trailer park and attending the same school. You ran in different circles sure, but you always made sure to say hi and wave politely at your neighbor whenever you saw him, even after you began to see less of him when you made it into College and he is yet to be awarded the high school diploma that keeps evading him.

"Oh I'm-"

"I know", he cuts you off. Abrupt but not rude.

"Right, so I came by because...well, I need your help."

He squints his eyes at you this time, almost like he's trying to solve a puzzle in his head.

"Didn't take you for the reefer type", his lips slant into a half smile, the dimple on his right cheek drawing your attention.

"What? Oh no, that's not why I came over" you quickly correct him though you can't blame him for thinking so. Everyone knows the grass is greenest at the Munson trailer, so to speak, and with the two of you not exactly being the closest of friends, you can't fault him for making the assumption.

"So, how can I help you then?"

"Actually it's kind of a delicate topic. Can I come in? I promise I can explain."

Come in?

And for reasons other than to score some drugs?

Eddie would never admit it out loud but no other girl has ever asked this of him before and he hopes it doesn't show because he's absolutely stumped, not really knowing how to react.

It's when he can't help but crumble under the weight of your doe eyes that he pulls the door open enough for you to squeeze by him with the sweetest smile on your lips. Turning you away, not that he'd want to, but the thought of turning you away felt much too akin to kicking a baby bunny.

You see the couch and you step over to it, your eyes wandering all over the trailer on your way. It's a little chaotic sure but you spy some order here and there, intrigued by the row of hats and mugs displayed neatly on the wall, wondering how long it must have taken them to amass the whole collection.

"So, you were saying that you need my help?"

You turn around, nearly colliding with the little Garfield mug he holds out to you. "Oh, thank you", you take it, looking inside to see a fizzy circle of grape soda inside bubbling back at you.

"Seen you having it at school a few times", he let's you know before you have a chance to ask him how he knew about your favorite drink.

Guess you weren't the only one occasionally sneaking a peek from a distance.

"Wow, that's so thoughtful", you smile at him again, noticing the way his cheeks pink up when he averts his eyes with a grunt to clear his throat.

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

You have a few sips as you sit down on the couch, sinking into the cushion. Now that you're inside, that sickening feeling slithers inside your body again and you start to go cold like before, placing the mug down on the table carefully, looking Eddie in the eye while he stands opposite you.

You gulp hard. "The reason I came over is because I did something...I did something really stupid and I need someone to help me who'll also be discreet about it. Please, Eddie. You have to promise me you won't tell."

Seeing you practically begging, seeing the way you look up at him like he's the only one who can help, like he's the only one you want to help you hits him right in the chest. And a little below the waistband of his sweats too but he files that thought away for later.

As much as he wants to say yes he needs to know more.

"Listen if you're in some kind of trouble or if you're-"

"No no it's nothing like that!"

"Okay, but I need to know what it is that I'm saying yes to."

That's reasonable. Entirely reasonable but your face falls into your open palms. You wish you could scream into them than have to bear the embarrassment you're about to cause yourself.

"Okay okay", you spring up onto your feet before you lose your nerve, standing right in front of him with your forehead nearly brushing his chin. "I need your help getting this off."

Quickly, you pull up your skirt to let him see what's underneath, his wide, terrified eyes flicking to and away from between your legs, not sure if he should actually be looking there despite you voluntarily baring yourself to him.

It's not everyday that a pretty girl comes by to flash him in the comfort of his own home.

When Eddie does manage to settle down somewhat he looks closer, taking in the thick black leather straps wrapped around you, studded with silver accents and your white cotton panties underneath which show through a cut out in the shape of a heart right above your mound.

"Please. I lost the key and I can't get the damn thing off. I've seen you working on your van with your tools. There must be something in there that you can use, right?"

Eddie's head is spinning, unable to stop focusing on your crotch and what he recognizes as a chastity belt from one of those BDSM magazines hidden under his bed wrapped around you.

"Why did you-"

You sigh. "I was checking to see if it fit because I wanted to wear it for someone I was dating", you admit with some disdain.

Eddie knows exactly who, sharing in your disdain.

"Danny Vaugh", Eddie says with a clear note of contempt, his tongue turning sour at the mention of his name. Skeezy little fucker who liked to test his luck by getting behind the wheel after a couple of beers and making out with a different girl at every party whether he had a girlfriend of his own waiting for him or not.

Eddie doesn't know what you ever saw in him, if at all.

"Right", you sigh, the regret clouding your whole face and with it, whatever feelings of embarrassment or shame are forced out, no longer afraid to just tell Eddie the truth.

"Yeah, well he dumped me. I wasn't ready to have sex and he was sick of dating a virgin." Watching the hurt register on your face made Eddie want nothing more than to introduce Danny to his ring clad fist. Repeatedly.

"So I saw this thing online and I don't know... a part of me thought he'd be into it? give him the key and let him finally have me or whatever. But a little while ago I heard that he's already moved on. With some girl in the same class as me too...that's so like him. And I've been locked in this fucking thing for the last three and a half hours. Please, I really need it off."

"That's... wow", he blinks, stunned. Not usually one to be at a loss for words but this was wild even for him.

"Yeah, so can you help me or not?"

--

You never would have thought you'd be in this position. Your skirt off while you sit down on the edge of Eddie Munson's bed, your legs spread for him as he kneels between them, trying his best to figure out which angle to tackle this problem from.

He's got a tool box to his left, all manner and sorts stored inside. Some of them you recognize and most of them you don't.

"Alright, so I think the best way would be to get this padlock off", he taps the heart shaped cut out and you feel it right on your mound. It's worse for him because this close it's hard for Eddie to remain professional when he can see your pussy clenching underneath the thin cotton barrier of your panties.

"So, what are you gonna use?" you ask him, throat scratchy and nervous when you eye a hammer and the sharp teeth of a saw laying among the tools.

"Don't worry. Got just the thing."

His hand dips into the tool box, sorting through it for nearly a minute.

"Got it", he smiles, pulling out something you hadn't anticipated.

"A safety pin?", you ask, confused.

Eddie chuckles at your reaction, his hands already on the padlock on your hip.

"Gonna pick it. Don't worry, I've done this a thousand times", he assures you. He bends the pin out of it's usual shape, twisting and pulling until he seems satisfied with the end result. Carefully, he inserts the sharp end of the pin inside the keyhole on the lock, fiddling with it this way and that.

"Pretty cool you know how to do this stuff", you tell him sincerely, relieved he didn't opt to cut or hammer you out of the belt.

The praise goes straight to his blushing cheeks. He's so used to people passing judgement on him for knowing these kinds of things, thinking of him as some kind of irredeemable good for nothing with the skillset of a petty thief. Just like his father.

You don't think that of him though. He knows it by the way you treat him but with how nice you're being it's almost hard for Eddie to keep focus.

This whole situation reminds him of the kinds of things that only happened in the pages of his graphic novels. Blood drenched Knights slaying vicious dragons to save beautiful princesses who've been locked away. Princesses who liked to show their appreciation in a certain kind of way. Princesses who've never lain with anyone before, though that was about to change now that they've found someone honorable and worthy, eagerly offering themselves to their knights.

And here's one just perched on his bed, looking so captivated by the way he's trying to save you. Not that you were offering yourself to him, he reminded himself bleakly.

But the fantasy still lingered in his mind because that's all he ever had.

A little more of turning the pin this way and that and there's a click that gets the lock to pop open at last, earning a deep sigh of relief out of you.

Setting the pin aside, Eddie helps to take the chastity belt off of you, pulling the leather down and off over your feet, taking in the marks left behind on your skin in the shape of the dark leather.

He goes to return your skirt too but you take it from him and place it aside, in no hurry to dress yourself.

"I've spent an hour with you and you've already treated me better than Danny ever did."

A 'told you so' sits on the tip of his tongue but he doesn't let it go past his teeth. So he doesn't quite know what to say to that instead, blinking back at you with a little smile.

"You know, I regret not getting to know you better", you tell him and he can hear the sadness gripping your throat like phantom fingers bearing down on your windpipe.

"You didn't miss anything", he chuckles just to be nice. Anything to keep you from looking sad again.

You shake your head. "I mean it. If I knew you better I would have never bothered with people like Danny...'only let him take me out because I was lonely. Thought I couldn't do better than him and I settled", you admit it out loud for the very first time.

It feels wonderfully cathartic to let these thoughts spill out like you're purging all the poison that filled your belly. Every little lie you swallowed down, all the times you tried to convince yourself that you were happy with Danny now being forced out of your system, no longer clogging your mind and veins.

The admission makes Eddie gawk at you in pure disbelief. "I'm sorry, you thought you weren't good enough? please tell me you're joking."

It's your turn to chuckle this time.

"I don't know, I just never hit it off with any one before."

'Until now', you wanted to add as you bite your lip.

"Yeah well it's their loss", he mutters, closing up his tool box and shoving it aside.

"Hey, Eddie?"

He looks up at you again. "Yeah?"

Slowly, you spread your legs wider, drawing him closer until your knees frame his shoulders.

"You missed one", you lower your hand down to your underwear, pinching the waistband between your fingers and letting it snap back in place against your skin.

He nearly keels over when he notices the soft cushion of your bush peaking through.

"You want me to take it off?", he croaks like a helpless toad, fingers all twitchy with excitement.

"Could you?", you tip your head to the side and ask sweetly, a picture of innocence though you both know that's not entirely the case.

"Yeah, I can do that."

You lift your lower body off the bed to help him, watching carefully as he drags your panties down your thighs, over the curve of your calves and off your feet so he can pocket them for later.

"Fucking Christ you're beautiful", he lets out in awe.

"Bet you say that to all the girls", you giggle back.

"Nope. Not like this."

He's quite serious. You can feel it in the way he looks at you. Unlike the devil worshipper that they all claim he is, he kneels between your feet like he might at an altar.

Praying to you. Praying for you.

"Go on. Touch me", you grant him permission.

Eddie gladly but carefully pulls your pussy folds apart, one thumb pressing against your quivering hole which he watches clenching open and closed open and closed. It's so small, the opening. How was he going to fit anything inside you let alone his cock? He supposed he'd have to take his time and work you open, the thought making his skin buzz excitedly like static.

And his other thumb gently pulls up the hood to reveal your clit, this glossy little bead that makes his mouth water at the thought of sucking on it till he makes you gush all over his tongue. He can't help but get the impression that the poor thing's been neglected until now. That clown Danny definitely hadn't found it. And he never would have, not even with both hands and a map.

"Want you to show me how good it feels", you tell him, working your right foot between his legs to gently rub it along the ridge of his clothed erection.

An hour ago you were neighbors reacquainting with each other. Now, he's helped you through one of your worst moments, and you stayed, not only wanting to reward him for it but also because despite how spontaneous this all was, you finally feel ready.

Eddie notices the shift in you too, a sly smile pulling at his lips but his eyes remain gentle, "Oh, I'll show you so much more than that, I promise."

Extended ending

[truerhearts]

ASTARION is acting different.

he's quieter around camp now. less of those sharp-tongued quips that usually flow so easily. he catches himself staring at her when she's not looking, then quickly glances away like he's been caught doing something wrong.

his feeding has become reverent instead of ravenous. he hesitates now, asks if she’s sure, presses a soft kiss to the pulse before he bites.

he seeks her approval in ways that have nothing to do with seduction. when he makes decisions, his eyes find hers first. her good opinion has become as essential as blood.

and now during fights, he’s reckless with his own safety now, throwing himself between her and harm without thinking. “i can handle myself, you know,” she’d say, crossing her arms.

“i know darling…” he trails off, staring at his hands. he doesn't understand why he did it either. the thought of that blade finding her skin had sent him into a panic he couldn't name.

she doesn't know why, of course. he barely knows himself. but he has a hunch, and it terrifies him.

he doesn't know when it started—somewhere between her asking "did you rest well?" and the way she bandages his wounds tenderly—but now when she looks at him, really looks at him, his dead heart does this stupid fluttering thing.

when she brushes against him, her warmth doesn't just touch his skin. it goes deeper. settles in places he'd forgotten existed, places that ache with want that has nothing to do with feeding or fucking or getting what he needs to survive.

maybe it's because she cares. actually cares, not the fake concern people use when they want something. she shows it in the small things: "you seem tired today." "i saved you some of the good wine." "the stars are beautiful tonight, aren't they?"

to someone who hasn't experienced genuine affection in two hundred years, these little moments feel like everything.

the nights when her tent flap opens for him now, everything is different. he moves differently. less performance, less of that practiced charm he's perfected over decades. he's gentler with her, almost hesitant. his hands linger on her face before he kisses her, and she looks at him like he's something precious instead of dangerous.

he takes his time now. when he peels away her clothes, he does it slow, reverent. each kiss tastes like honey and guilt because he knows—fuck, he knows—that he started this as a lie.

the pleasure is overwhelming now. more intense than anything he's felt in centuries because it's real. when she arches beneath him, when she whispers his name like a prayer, it threatens to break him completely. he's louder now, lets himself feel everything instead of just doing what was necessary to play the part.

but with every touch, every breath, the guilt eats at him. this isn't the calculated seduction he'd planned. this isn't using her for protection. this is something else entirely, something that feels too much like love and too much like betrayal.

she trusts him. opens herself to him completely, and he built this on a lie.

after, when they're tangled together, he holds her tighter than he should. she fits against him perfectly, her head on his chest where his heart should be beating if he were still alive. if he were still worthy of this.

"what's wrong?" she asks, voice soft. her fingers trace patterns on his skin, and there's concern in her voice. she’s noticing.

"nothing," he lies. his fingers find her hair, thread through it like the motion might calm the storm in his chest.

"you're different tonight. quieter."

different. if she only knew. if she only knew the man she's falling for was built on deception. that every tender moment between them started as manipulation.

"i'm just thinking," he says.

she doesn't push, she never does. just settles deeper against him, breathing slowing as sleep pulls her under.

he stays awake long after she's asleep, studying her face in the candlelight. the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. her lips, slightly parted. the complete vulnerability written in every line of her body.

she trusts him enough to sleep in his arms, and the weight of it is crushing. how naïve. she doesn't know he'd originally planned to use her. doesn't know every sweet word in those early days had been calculated, how it was all for his benefit.

but somewhere along the way, the performance became real.

two centuries of survival instincts stand off with something newer, invasive almost. something that makes his chest ache. something that whispers maybe he could be worthy of the love he sees in her eyes.

the realization hits him like dawn breaking as he lay with her, now noticing he stayed all night. feeling the rhythm of her breathing as she slept in his arms, how warm she was against his cool skin. how she trusts him.

he loves her.

the thought should terrify him. instead, it settles into his bones like coming home. he loves her. not just her body, not just what she can do for him, but her. her kindness. her strength that never comes at the cost of gentleness. her trust that she gives freely, even to broken things like him.

he loves her, and he's completely fucked.

[requiemforthepoets]

you say good morning when its midnight ⟢ OP81 (part 5)

main masterlist | fic playlist | series masterlist

PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: use of y/n, (a little) slow burn, humor, fluff, inaccurate information, no consistent face claims, all photos are from pinterest, weird, awkward, unhinge, reader is a little bit ball of a mess, long distance relationships, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 555

AUTHOR'S NOTE: part 5! sorry if the update took a little long, i was away for a vacation. but i'm now back, and i'll try to update this series as much as i can. also, this series will be my primary focus for the meantime. i would like to apologize if this is a bit rushed, indecided not to some parts since i wanna focus on the plot, but i hope you'll enjoy this one!

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

It was four days later when the front desk called up to your apartment at Kent Ridge Hill Residences, letting you know that there’s an express package that had arrived for you. Couriers weren't allowed to go up to the units, so you had to head down to the lobby to collect the package yourself.

You linked in confusion, slipping on your slippers as you mumbled a soft, “I didn't order anything.”

You certainly haven't ordered anything. Not even a midnight retail therapy binge your forgot about. Still, you took the lift down and approached the reception desk, signing of the delivery. The box was not heavy, but it was neat, its brown cardboard edges sealed perfectly with a transparent tape that has the “fragile” word printed on the tape, and your name printed clearly on the shipping label. It wasn't large, nust enough to cradle in both arms comfortably.

You carried the box back to up to your apartment, the elevator ride feeling longer than usual. Once you reach your apartment, you quickly went in and locked the door. You sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of your living room, scissors in hand. You stared at the package for a good minute like it might explain itself if you waited long enough, and then you began carefully slicing through the tape until the flaps peeled back.

As always, your curiosity won out.

You opened the box with care, like it might contain something so fragile. Inside, nestled in a bed of brown paper, were four things: a fridge magnet in the shape of Mt. Fuji that has the word "JAPAN” lettering under it, a tiny sakura petals swaying in a snow globe dome, a frog mug that is oddly shaped like a tiny pitcher, curved and handmade-looking—like it was plucked off the shelf of a sleepy Kyoto ceramics shop, and finally, a delicate matcha tea set—complete with a bamboo whisk, ceramic bowl, and a tin of fragrant powder so green that it could’ve only have come from somewhere special.

You felt your hear skipped a little in your chest. You definitely knew who it was from before you can even see the the note that was tucked neatly beneath the matcha set. But still, your fingers trembled slightly as you opened the small card, written in careful handwriting:

< I didn't buy you a postcard. I figured that’s somethinf you should do yourself, someday, when you’re finally there. I didn't want to take that moment away from you, but I thought I’d help you get started on the fridge magnet collection. Oh, the frog thing was just a spur of the moment thing, it reminded me of you and it looked like it should belong with you. - podium boi >

You read the note not only once, not twice, but three times. You couldn't help it and bit you lip, cheeks burning. The smile that grew on your face didn't stop for a long while. You tucked the note safely on your journaling notebook, then grabbed the fridge magnet and stood in front of your fridge, and with a soft click on the surface, you pressed the magnet into place. There was a quiet warmth blooming in your chest that you didn't quite know what to name just yet.

Postcard-less, for now. But not empty, not anymore.

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

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𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

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[daemonbrain]

3.4k, cw: smut, size kink, p in v, overstimulation if you squint, fairy!reader, hes a monster hunter

Simon Riley, the monster hunter guild's most valuable asset. Whenever a high bounty was set out for one creature or another Simon was there. Werewolves taking all your sheep? He’s all stocked up on silver. Vampire terrorizing the town? Get him some matches and a stake, it’ll be gone come morning.

Those with real connections to the guild know that if you want a job done, you ask for ‘Ghost’. Contrary to the scars which littered his body, it wasn't all fighting the big bad wolf and risking his life. Occasionally he would get lucky with a low-risk high-reward job. Paired with his brute strength, he also had extensive knowledge on the supernatural and their habits. 

He had taken up a job for an anonymous businessman to nab a fairy. Fucks sakes he almost burst out laughing when he got the request, only to be met with a very serious expression.

Fairies, notoriously hard to trap and contain. It’s said that any who can lock one down will be granted prosperity for the rest of their days. Their laughs attract wealth, their dust makes little specks of gold, their tears harden into diamonds. 

Now of course, greed of humans and all, fairies had gone into some pretty deep fuckin’ hiding. Forests with heaps of danger weeding out any fools who tried to find one on a whim. If you got far enough the things were smaller than your finger and moved faster than you could blink, the only thing assuring you that they were there was the mocking little giggles that would sound out before they flew back into hiding.

It’s even rumored that they can turn themselves into the size of a fully grown woman at will. They're supposed to be prettier than any tavern wench you’d see on a regular night, or the fairest of maids if the songs were to be believed. Simon had never seen one though, so that was to be taken with a grain of salt.

You were a difficult catch. Pissed Simon off plenty of times with your dodging, your mocking titters. You just thought he was a passing traveller trying his luck. Sorely mistaken you were. It was when he began burning a mystery plant and your eyes grew hazy that you realized your misconception. Dropping from the sky as you struggled to hold up your own weight.

How humiliating! To fall for a mere man's tricks! He tricked you into believing he was foolish and you took the bait just like he intended. Even through the thick glass of the jar you could see your squirrel friends who looked on in worry from the trees. To be outfoxed by one of them, it infuriated you.

Which made it all the more terrible as he sat with his back pressed to the trunk of a tree, face illuminated by the fire looking at you angrily raising your tiny fist to the glass yammering who knows what in gibberish. He shook the jar in his hands gently, watching as your wings flapped rapidly to steady yourself. One had been injured on the drop and he could tell it was a struggle for you to stay upright. You’d occasionally dip a bit too low and by the look of shock on your face, he knew it wasn’t intentional.

One could almost mistake you for a pint sized human. An annoying one (though most people bothered the hunter, miniature or not). You certainly had the anatomy of one, none of the modesty though, with only leaves to cover your more intimate parts. He watched as you crossed your arms and began to point at the lid he fashioned to have minuscule air holes. Yelling in your grating foreign tongue once more, which really only sounded like little squeaks to Simon, the fight clearly returned back full force after you regained consciousness from the jimsonweed. 

He really took a gamble with that one. He was quite proud of himself to be honest. He’d never actually caught a fairy for himself, only hearing chatter from other members of the guild that your kind were sensitive to hallucinogens.  

You’d fetch a good price and to top it off Simon wasn’t walking around with a new batch of bruises. A win-win. Except for you that is. Bringing his attention back to you, he notices you’ve taken to pounding the cork lid with your hands as if that would make any difference.

However, upon seeing Simon’s dark eyes on you, you scowl yet reluctantly stop and float to the bottom of the jar. “Thas wha’ I thought” He said while rolling his eyes. He placed the jar in his travelling satchel and closed his eyes more than ready for a rest before having to hit the road again. 

...

Simon had woken up with the burning and familiar feeling in his loins. Groaning, his eyes open wearily only to be met with nothing but the trees and grass around him. What the hell?

He groggily wiped at his eyes. Trying to take focus on whatever it was that was rousing him from sleep. The only thing noticeable being the significant drop in temperature as the night went on.

What was wrong with him? Has not visiting someone's bed in so long made him that desperate?    He had places to be tomorrow, there was no time to be wasting jerking it in the middle of nowhere. Huffing, he closes his eyes and abstinently ignores the need which he feels building inside his belly unprompted.

He had sensed something was wrong when his cock once again slapped against the confines of his breeches. He knew something was wrong when a small but pitchy squeal followed.

“Fuckin’ hell”

His eyes widen in disbelief as he watches his trousers ripple with movement not his own. He lifts the waistband only to be met with two eyes narrowed right back at him, as if you were the one being inconvenienced. He was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that both your arms and legs enveloped half the circumference of his cock, bobbing with every movement. 

What. The. Fuck.

“What’re you bloody doing? How did you get free?!” He huffed while reaching for you, staunchly ignoring the way his blood began to run hot at your unintentional ministrations. As that monstrous looking hand approached, you stiffly moved, your body still too frigid from the cold, to nestle into the juncture where all of… him… connected to his balls.

When the hunter had fallen asleep, you had screamed and pleaded for any of your forest friends to hear. After a lot of begging, and a promise to help collect acorns for the winter which seemed to approach faster and faster this year, you had managed to convince one of the squirrels to gnaw through the lid of your prison. Too far from the safety of your home, you needed a place to seek shelter from the near freezing temperatures. 

Unfortunately, still weakened from your initial fall and the wind harshly prickling at your skin, you realized you were ground-bound. Trying as you might, you failed to scale the tall tree and make it into the squirrel's nest for refuge. With no other option, you were faced with the reality that the safest place for the night would be close to the human. After a few minutes pacing along the expanse of his body, you navigate your way to the warmest spot.

It smelt heavily of his musk, not the sweetest thing you had ever smelt, but not unpleasant by any means. You had tried to fall asleep, twisting and turning. You had rubbed the skin until it felt warm to the touch and pressed your cheek against it, all in an effort to make yourself more comfortable. Every minute you stayed on it the twitching got worse! So much so that you felt your body rising up, up, and up until you were harshly hit against the scratchy fabric of his breeches.

Bringing you to your current predicament as he whisper-yelled in his gruff accent. Truth be told, you could understand every word he said, you just didn’t like speaking old english. Your mother tongue was much prettier.

“C’mere.” he huffed as he nearly caught you by the leg. You may not be able to fly, but you sure could climb away as you made your way further to the tip of him. You had almost made it before a slow approaching bead of viscous liquid rolled in your path.  You were quick to move out of its way, unfortunately not quick enough to avoid Simon’s fingers as he dragged you from the safety of your shelter out into the abrasive open. 

Your abdomen was pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he looked at you expressionless. Somewhere in the struggle, your leafy garb had shifted, rendering one of your breasts exposed. You quaked violently, but your mind insisted it was the cold. A deeper part of you knew the giant staring down at you may have had a small part in it.

“Now you listen ‘ere, I don’t know what you know abou’ people but ‘m not the type of man to enjoy someone poking round my bits while ‘m sleeping. How did you even get out of the jar?”

Willing yourself to calm down, you muster the defiance and bravery to resist. Crossing your arms, you glowered back at the giant.

“It’s cold.” You finally spoke up.

With a laugh that sounded like a breathy cough, the man roved his eyes over your near-naked form.

“So you do speak english. Could’a started off with that. And I'd bet you were cold, people don’t normally have their teats out in this kinda weather.” Simon mocked. You scowled at his words. If this had been a normal day, you’d already be wrapped up warmly in your little nook. It was entirely his fault you were out here like this and yet you were the one being lectured.

“I’m not a person! And I wouldn’t be cold or outside if you hadn’t taken me. How do you live with yourself? You greedy things. You’re all the same you take and take and- mmph” You’re suddenly interrupted by a light squeeze to your midsection. 

“You wanna warm up so bad? Fine. ‘Ve got a way.” lust creeping into his tone.

Suddenly, your legs were being knocked apart. With a gentleness you wouldn’t think possible for a person his size, you feel the soft trace of his pinkie inching towards what rests between your thighs. Instinctually, your body tried to jolt away but with the tight hold he had on you there was nowhere to go. The little fight you had in you quickly faded as the pad of his finger covered the entirety of your cunt.

Fairies weren’t conceived in the way humans were, your own conception a mystery. You did not have parents, nor a family. You simply were. You had been for what could be measured in over a hundred years according to civilizations calendars. You had pleasured yourself many times before, your only company being your own fingers when the mysterious urge would come over you. It was never a feeling you dwelled on, always finding other ways to occupy your time.

But the feeling of his cool finger prodding at the juncture between your legs set a fire in the pit of your belly you couldn't understand. Your sensitivity was palpable as he began to shift the finger around, presumably trying to emulate what he would do to a regular woman. 

You shuddered and your eyes began to flutter close at the feeling. Suddenly, his hand pulled away much to your initial disappointment only to be replaced by the heat of his tongue.

Now this was new.

“H-hey, wait-”

A squeal left you at the feeling of the warm, wet muscle butting its way in. Even just the tip of his tongue was too large to catch on to your entrance. It was overwhelming as you felt the lower half of your body drenched, the size causing a lack of precision that made you want to weep. So close, yet so far from what you needed.

You had to do something. You just had to.

As Simon began to maneuver you to lay back on to his palm you shook your and held your hands up to arrest his movement.

“Had enough already?” He questioned, tilting his head while his brown eyes sparked with a hint of debauchery. 

Shaking your head, you closed your eyes and channeled your energy to the very core of yourself. You may regret this later.

Slowly but surely, your body began to stretch and warp itself as your size increased. Soon enough Simon’s hands adjusted to hold your growing figure as you assumed a more useful human form. 

His eyes widened as he let out a breathy chuckle, exploring your much more touchable form. Whatever had scantily covered you before had been shed as you sat bare before him. Although you were the size of an average woman, the man in front of you still towered above, even when seated.

Maybe he really was a giant. 

Taking a breath you steadied yourself by gripping his firm bicep, yet another large part of him. Grabbing your jaw with a single hand he softly moves your head upwards to face him. Without another word his lips were on you again, kissing at the delicate and untouched skin of your neck.

The sensation was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.You had been much alone for decades, though the critters of your forest kept good company through these times, there were many things they could not provide.

Large hands groped every bit of skin they could touch, as Simon reached your clavicle, you sharply inhaled as he began to bite at the skin. You felt lost, the only familiar feeling being wetness pooling between your legs as the unfamiliar bulge beneath you continued to press into your cunt.

You felt helplessly susceptible to his relentless attack, eyes going glassy from the strange pressure building in you. Your head began to lull, forehead pressing to Simon’s shoulder.

Grabbing the back of your head he raises you once again, snaking his free hand between your legs. “None of that, it’s alright, yeah? ‘M gonna take good care of ‘ya.” He reassured you as his thick fingers began to rub at your pearl. 

It was when his mouth met yours that you truly gave up. No shame as a wanton moan came from you. He swallowed the sound and began to push his tongue through your lips much to your confusion, though as he pushed a little harder at your clit, you trusted that he knew what he was doing. Allowing him in, all you could feel was him.

Nothing else mattered.

He parted from you and urgently began guiding you to the ground. No longer did the chill in the air bother you as he began to take off his breeches. Pushing your thighs as far as they could part, he positions himself between them, tugging at his cock while looking at your pretty face.

So the songs were right.

His body shielded you from everything which surrounded the two of you. The cold, the outside world, the only thing keeping you grounded was the twigs that peskily poked at your back. 

“I want you. I need you.” You begged. You didn’t know what this was, all you knew was that your insides roared for closeness.

“Do you even know what you’re askin’ for?”

He meanly slapped himself to your cunt. For the first time, you looked down to see where he had made the connection. You didn’t know how big a cock was supposed to be, but looking at the sheer difference between it’s hulking size and yourself you feared that he wasn’t the average man.

“I’ll fuck you if you let me. With this-” He waved the thing like a damn blade “You know what fucking means right? It’s gonna go inside of you.”

Absolutely not! It would ruin you. It would scramble your insides until they were so misplaced your poor body wouldn’t know what to do.

Your mouth fell slack as he gave your head a soft pat. Putting your hands to his shoulders, you shake your head in shock.

“Wait! wait  that- no it won’t, that won’t fit!” You stammered as Simon compared his length to your belly.

“It’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.”

Repositioning himself, he drags the bulbous tip up and down while knocking into your clit a few times. You squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation, digging your fingers into his arms. The head of his cock slowly pushed in.

Simon gritted his teeth while restraining himself from slamming all the way to the base and gosh it was difficult. It had been so long since he felt the touch of a woman- fuck, a fairy, whatever the hell you were right now. Your little cunny squeezed him unbelievably tight and it was so warm. 

He felt you try to push his chest closer to yours in a silent plea for closeness and he almost went dizzy. Obliging you, he puts a forearm to the right of you and then slips his left hand under your head to push you closer.

You whined as he cradled you, the action so soft as his hips continued to push through whatever resistance your muscles still held. Remembering the way he nipped at your flesh earlier, you found yourself with the urge to bite at the meat of his bicep. Indulging that urge, you heard a groan leave his lips and it's as if something snapped in the hunter.

Forgoing the snail-like pace, his cock slid in inch by inch until you were filled to the brim. The two of you take a moment to catch your breath. You felt so full. Is this what your body had been craving all along? This fucking. Had it been waiting for Simon to make his way to you?

You couldn’t be sure the logic behind all of this, but you did know that you needed him now. Peering up, you gaze upon his features and realize that perhaps humans do have a certain beauty to them.

“Please.” You asked.

And he answered. Slowly at first he began to thrust in, as your noises continued to grow louder the faster he got. Soon enough he began to hammer his hips to yours as you all screamed in ecstasy.

He fucked you and he continued to fuck you and it all felt so very good. You felt so drunk of the pleasure, as if one more thrust would kill you, yet if he stopped you would surely die.

“Please hunter, please!” Placing his forehead on yours, his breaths came heavy

“My name is Simon. Call me Simon.” Another thrust. “Do it. Say my name.”

HIs voice only spurred you closer and closer to some edge as your nails dragged against his skin.

“Say it love, say it.” He finally met your eyes as your body rocked with his every movement.

“Simon!” You called out as an overwhelming peak washed over you. Your cunt spasmed around him, trapping him there in your warm leaky mess as he chased his own high. You felt yourself go limp as he bit into the juncture between your shoulder and neck with a velvet moan.

And at the final slam of his hips, he pushed his entire body into yours. Your head pushed uncomfortably against the tree behind you with the weight. His cock fully sheathed into you as he unloaded every drop of cum he had to offer you, coating your insides with the gooey fluid. 

There was silence until you let out an exhausted giggle. Simon looked down at you through long lashes and shook his head in amazement. In awe of you who so casually laughed while still speared on his cock and full of his cum.

Reaching for your hair he untangles a twig which had gotten caught in it. Stroking your loose strands, he broke the silence.

“Fuck the buyer, ’m keeping you little fairy.”

As he said that, a shooting star passed overhead. Fairies really were lucky.

[lotus-n-l0ve]

KISSED IN POISON

— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader

She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished—fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he’s not here for revenge. He’s here to take back what’s his.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad!Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, 10.9k words

*⁠.⁠✧ NOTE FROM LOTUS : Sylus the man he is 🫶. First time writing a fic this long. The most I have done so far is my Sukuna long fic. So pretty excited.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST

➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES

➥ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3

➥ Heart Divider's by @/cafekitsune

DO NOT PRESS [READ MORE] IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.

[ 9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

The coffee cup was warm in your hand, adding a soft contrast to the frost clinging to the window beside you. It was almost Christmas—and the world outside refused to sleep.

Streetlights flickered over slushy pavement. Laughter echoed as couples passed arm-in-arm, scarves flapping in the wind, paper bags stuffed with last-minute gifts. You could almost pretend this was normal. Almost.

You’d never unwrapped a present that wasn’t handed by staff or followed by a veiled threat. There were no fairy lights in your house—only chandeliers, bright and cold. No songs but the whispers of alliances. No joy but the kind bought with blood. Maybe this year, your father would tie a red bow on another crime family’s son and call it your engagement gift.

The thought made the cocoa turn bitter on your tongue.

You pulled your coat tighter around your body and meandered through the snow-laced path, your boots sinking softly into the freshly fallen hush. There was no real destination, only the comfort of moving without purpose—something so few daughters of crime lords were allowed to do.

Though the borrowed time in your hand was melting away like the snowflakes on your lashes, you wanted to savor it—to stretch every second into something sacred. And in the quiet hush of winter’s breath, you could only hope Sara—your precious, loyal Sara—remained undisturbed beneath your fluffy duvet, her body curled into the shape of your absence, her breath steady enough to fool anyone who dared to check.

Because if anyone did…You didn’t even let the thought finish.

Instead, you let your steps slow, your breath fog, and your eyes trail upward to the falling snow—each flake a whispered promise that tonight, just for a moment, you were free.

Your next stop was the beautiful bookshop that had become a permanent destination in your late-night shenanigan. Tucked between a florist and an old vinyl store, it stood like a secret only you knew—its windows glowing amber against the cold, a small sanctuary carved from ink and forgotten stories. The bell above the door chimed softly as you entered, the scent of parchment and cinnamon wrapping around you like a familiar hug.

No one asked questions here. No one looked too long.

The owner, a half-blind woman with a shawl always wrapped tight around her shoulders, simply nodded from behind the counter—more ghost than shopkeeper.

You drifted past the shelves, fingers gliding over cracked spines and gilded titles, your breath quiet, your heart lighter. In this place, you weren’t your father’s heir. You weren’t a pawn or a prize. You were just a girl who loved stories. And tonight, for a little while longer, that would be enough.

Your gloved finger glided over the spines, brushing gently across embossed titles worn down by time and affection. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting the scent of old parchment and winter-damp wood soothe the noise in your chest. This place had always calmed you. Tucked away from the rest of the world, it felt like a sanctuary built just for you—one untouched by your father’s empire or the sins it fed on.

Then your hand stilled. A black book. Heavy and sharp-edged. Its cover was matte, with gilded threads curling across it like veins of light stitched through shadow. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t beg for attention. But there was something about it that felt... familiar. Dangerous. Beautiful.

Your fingers began to curl around the spine but they weren’t alone. Another hand reached for the same book—timed perfectly, like the ghost of a shared thought. Gloved in dark leather, his fingers didn’t tremble. They didn’t hesitate. They simply rested against the same spine, pressing softly over yours, a cruel mockery of tenderness. The breath hitched in your throat before your mind had time to catch up.

Did they find you?

Your eyes drifted to the hand that had so casually landed atop yours—gloved in smooth, dark leather, the touch barely there but somehow unmistakable. For a second, you thought it might be someone clumsy, someone reaching without looking. But as you followed the line of the sleeve upward, something in your chest pulled taut, like a string pulled to the point of snapping.

Then he stepped fully into view and the world forgot how to breathe.

He wasn’t just attractive—he was ethereal in a way that bordered on unreal. Like someone born from poetry and blood, stitched together by sin and snow. His coat was tailored to fit a body made of sharp edges and effortless grace, the fabric falling heavy and rich around his tall frame. His dark hair was tousled, strands curled in loose defiance, and small flecks of snow clung to him like decoration—though none dared melt. His skin, pale in contrast to the storm-black of his coat, made him look carved from winter itself. But it was his eyes that truly held you hostage.

Cold. Ancient. Discerning.

They didn’t look at you like a stranger. They looked at you like a puzzle long awaited. As if your presence wasn’t just noticed—it was anticipated.

You didn’t know him. You were sure of that. You’d remember a man like this. You’d remember the chill that came with his presence, the electric hush that had settled over the space between you. And yet, there was something about him that made your instincts falter—an unspoken familiarity buried somewhere in the way he carried himself, in the way the air bent around him.

Neither of you spoke at first. The book—now forgotten—remained trapped between your gloved fingers and his, the shared contact pressing against the fragile boundary between stranger and something else entirely. You should’ve let go. Should’ve apologized and stepped away. But you didn’t. Your body remained still, your pulse slow but hard in your throat, and something deep inside you whispered that this moment—this man—was not to be dismissed.

Then he smiled. Just barely. Just enough to sharpen his already unholy beauty.

“Interesting choice.” He said, voice deep and smooth, carrying the warmth of aged whiskey and the chill of distant storms, “That book isn’t meant for light hands."

The comment was casual, but it pressed too close. Too knowing. Like he wasn’t referring to the book at all. You swallowed, unsure of why your throat had gone dry. Something about him unsettled you. Not in fear. But in a way that made you feel seen too deeply, too quickly. You straightened your spine, forcing your voice steady.

“It’s just a book,” You said, trying to sound indifferent, unbothered.

His eyes didn’t waver. They studied you like you were anything but, “That depends on who’s reading it.”

And suddenly, you hated how soft the lighting was, how close the shelves were, how the bookshop felt too small with him in it. Not because you were afraid. No. But because this man, this stranger, was filling every space in your mind, every thought, with the weight of something you couldn’t name.

You wanted to leave. You wanted to stay. But most of all, you wanted to know why it felt like fate had finally knocked—and why it looked like him. He breathed of sin, and you were too weak to resist the allure. So, you stayed. To this day you couldn't decide whether that one decision was your biggest mistake or greatest bliss.

[ PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY ]

Damn Linkon’s traffic and damn the uneducated drivers who somehow believed honking was a solution to everything while having no sense of road etiquette.

You gritted your teeth as a car swerved way too close to yours, forcing you to slam the brakes with a jolt that nearly made your heart leap into your throat. The wheels skidded slightly on the icy road, and what little remained of your now-cold hot chocolate splashed out of the cup and into the holder, dark liquid trailing like a petty reminder of your already shitty mood.

Beside it, nestled securely in the passenger-side console, was another cup—this one covered in pastel unicorns, with a glittery lid that looked like it had been summoned straight from a six-year-old's dream. One glance at the thing and you could practically feel the sugar coursing through your bloodstream. It was, by all nutritional standards, a crime. A rainbow-colored, whipped-cream-drowned, syrup-drenched crime.

And yet… you bought it anyway. Of course you did. Was it unhealthy? Yes. Did you still get it for your precious little baby as bribe cuz you were late again? Yes.

Because you can already picture your daughter with that look—those watery eyes, that small pout, the one that wordlessly said, “You promised, Mommy.”

Honestly, it wasn’t even your fault. Your boss—also known as Director Vale, aka the Federation’s most decorated sadist—had somehow decided that you, and only you, should handle the full dissection of a Level 3 Wanderer incident report, encrypted cross-border Evol tracking data, and a civilian memory wipe review. All in one day. Alone. Without backup. As if being a single mother and the lead tactical analyst for the Intelligence Division of the Deepspace Hunter Bureau wasn’t enough. The man practically inhaled sadism with his morning coffee.

You exhaled sharply, tightening your grip on the wheel as another car blared its horn, like that would magically part traffic on a road crammed tighter than your schedule. You could still hear your boss’s voice ringing in your ears, his tone grating, clipped, dismissive.

“Figure it out, Agent. Or don’t come back tomorrow.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Not because it hurt. But because it stopped you from fantasizing about shoving a stapler down his throat. Not long after your car pulled up in front of the daycare center.

Not long after, your car finally rolled to a stop in front of the daycare center, headlights casting long shadows across the frost-laced sidewalk. The place was half-dark already—its front sign blinking tiredly like even it was done with today. You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Way past pickup time.

Damn it.

You shut off the engine and stepped out, boots crunching against a thin layer of ice. The cold bit instantly at your cheeks, but you barely noticed. Your legs moved on muscle memory, fueled by guilt and that ever-present ache of knowing you were late again. Inside, the building was quiet except for the low hum of a heater and the soft giggles of a child echoing from the far end of the hallway.

Your breath caught the second you saw her.

There she was—your daughter, seated cross-legged on a plush mat, completely engrossed in a picture book she was holding upside down. Her coat had slipped off one shoulder, and her little glittery backpack lay abandoned beside her like a forgotten treasure chest. Her soft brown curls bounced as she laughed at something only she understood, cheeks flushed pink from indoor warmth and patience that no child should’ve had to master this early in life.

A pang of guilt curled in your chest.

She looked up then, as if sensing you. And the moment her eyes met yours, everything—traffic, bosses, deadlines, exhaustion—melted into the background.

“Mommy!” She squealed, scrambling to her feet.

She ran—boots squeaking against the floor—and you barely had time to crouch down before she threw herself into your arms with the kind of reckless love only children know how to give. You held her tight, breathing her in—syrup and crayons and fabric softener. She smelled like safety. Like the only thing in this cold, chaotic world that still made sense.

“You’re late again,” She said, pulling back just enough to frown, arms still looped around your neck.

You sighed, “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. But I brought you something.”

That earned a suspicious squint, “Better not be another apple.”

You reached into your bag with a half-smile and pulled out the unicorn cup. The gasp she let out could’ve been heard across Linkon. The drive back home was livelier than before, the silence of the night replaced by Elea's endless chatter as she recounted her day in vibrant detail, something about Penguins not being able to fly and a verbal fight with a boy who disagreed.

Your eyes flicking toward the rearview mirror ever so frequently to catch her reflection—rosy cheeks, animated expressions, eyes like firelight. She looked so much like her father it hurt.

“Sounds like a very eventful day,” You said, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, the other adjusting the heater knob as snow began to coat the windshield.

“It was! And guess what, Mama? I drew you a picture. You have a cape and a sword and you’re fighting a bad guy.”

You raised a brow, “I thought I worked in a office?”

“You do. But you’re also a superhero.”

You felt your throat tighten, something warm and unspoken blooming in your chest. You swallowed around it, choosing instead to focus on the road, the way the streetlights passed like fireflies in the dark, the hush of snow against your tires. In that moment, it was so easy to pretend everything was fine. That you were just a tired mom and her eccentric daughter, driving home from daycare like any other family.

But there was always a line, thin as frost, sharp as regret. And it always reminded you that peace—this fragile slice of it—was borrowed time. Still, for tonight, you let her ramble. You let her fill the silence. You let the road stretch out like a lullaby, and prayed the ghosts of the past stayed buried beneath the snow.

Your house was nestled near the quieter edge of Linkon City, where the lights dimmed earlier than the rest of the district and the snow stuck longer to the rooftops. It wasn’t large, not by Federation standards—but it was theirs. A modest two-storey townhouse, tucked between steel-and-glass neighbors that looked far too sterile to hold memories.

You had insisted on warm-toned bricks when you'd signed the lease under a different name. Inside, the scent of vanilla-sandal diffuser mixed with traces of cocoa and faint lemon cleaner—clean, soft, and lived-in. The living room was bathed in amber light from an old floor lamp, with children’s drawings taped to the fridge and a fortress of plush pillows on the couch, where Elea liked to claim her “princess throne” after school.

Security, of course, was woven through every inch of it. Hidden retinal scanners on the back door. A reinforced panic room behind the pantry wall. Every communication node hard-coded to bounce through triple-encrypted shadows. To Elea, it was just home. To you, it was a fortress built on borrowed peace.

Something was wrong, you could feel it in your bones the second the door clicked shut behind you, the silence felt like a breath held too long. The years of living like a mouse under your father's gaze, looking out for mouse traps and the constant looking over your shoulders, scared the past will catch on and drag you down to the darkest pit of hell filled with vengeance for what you did to him has polished your danger detecting skills.

The heater is on but it's not supposed to be. It's a sensory heater, only turns when it detects a human and adjusts the temperature on its own. The photo frame on the coffee table is slightly moved to the left.

The soft hum of the heater alone made your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t supposed to be on. The heater is always kept it on sensory mode—a top-grade, adaptive unit that only activated when it detected a registered biosignature inside the house. Either yours… or Elea’s. And you’d both been out. You tried not to react. Not in front of her.

Elea had already darted into the living room, slipping off her coat and making a beeline for her coloring book stack. You followed slower, eyes sharp, and the gun strapped under the blazer, ready to take out any threat to your baby. And then you saw it.

The photo frame on the coffee table. The one with the two of you— you and Elea in the center, taken on the first day of her elementary school right outside of the school. You always placed that frame to face the wall slightly. A tiny habit. No one ever noticed. Now, it was turned. Just enough to be centered. Just enough to tell you someone had been here.

The heater’s quiet purr felt suddenly too loud. Why has the alarm system not gone off yet?

“Sweetie, I almost forgot..." You said, forcing a lightness into your voice as you shrugged off your coat, “Miss Claire said she has something for you. Why don’t you go see what it is first?”

Elea paused mid-spin, her unicorn cup still clutched in her hand.

“Really?” Her eyes lit up, bright and gleaming like a snowy sunrise.

You nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Go on. But don’t forget your gloves this time.”

Claire’s house stood right across the narrow lane—muted blue siding, a weather-worn porch swing, and thermal shields so well-disguised even your own clearance once had trouble tracing them. She was in her mid-fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a gait that belied the countless medals locked away in her attic. An S-level retired Deepspace hunter, and more importantly, the one person you trusted to keep Elea safe.

“Okay!” Elea chirped, already tugging her boots back on, “I hope it’s cookies!”

You let out a soft hum, brushing a hand over her white hair before opening the door for her, “If it is, bring me one too."

She darted out, giggling down the icy path like the danger wasn’t even real—because you made sure she didn’t know it was. You waited till Claire opened the door and ushered Elea inside her safe sanctuary.

You shut the door with a click, and with it, the smile dropped from your face. Time to deal with whoever—or whatever—had the audacity to break into your home. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching beneath your coat and unstrapping the compact firearm from its holster. Cool metal, reassuring weight. You gripped it tighter, your boots already abandoned at the doorway.

The floor was cold under your socks, but you welcomed the sting. Heightened your senses. Grounded you. Every movement was deliberate now—silent steps across the hardwood, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the hallway bend.

The living room light was still on, washing the space in a soft amber hue. Too soft. It made shadows blur at the corners. You scanned the room, eyes flicking over details. The heater was still humming low. The photo frame still shifted. But nothing else—no overturned objects, no broken glass, no signs of forced entry. Which meant only one thing—they had codes and clearance. They had you.

You crept toward the hallway, gun raised. A flick of your thumb activated the silent alarm toggle under the stair rail—an emergency beacon, encrypted, bouncing off three satellites before it reached Director Vale’s desk. Just in case. Your bedroom door was slightly ajar. You never left it like that.

Whoever was here never wanted to be hidden. They wanted you to know that they were here, creeping into the silence, waiting for you.

You peeked through the slight gap, inside the bedroom—empty, dimmed, eerie. The atmosphere felt off—thicker somehow. Like the air had held its breath for too long. Your eyes swept the room. The edge of the blanket had been smoothed down. The corner of your pillow was slightly indented—too fresh to be yours. And on your night stand, right where you kept your locket, was something new. You picked it up.

A single obsidian cufflink. You knew it instantly. Knew it like your own reflection. Custom made. Onyx core. Blood-red detailing in the center. He had found you.

Sylu—“Surprised, kitten?”

The voice hit you like a bullet cloaked in silk. Smooth, confident—like whiskey over ice, bitter and warm all at once. It slithered through the air, laced with something dark. Possessive. Familiar. Terrifyingly missed. Your breath caught in your throat. Every nerve stood alert, screaming—but your body stayed frozen. Only your heart moved, pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.

“That look.” He murmured, a dark chuckle curling around his words, “Looks adorable on you.”

Two arms slid in, caging you in against the nightstand. Neither rough nor violent but unyielding. One on either side, boxing you in with casual dominance only he could carry. His frame loomed behind you, tall and vast—a ghost reborn in flesh, cloaked in your memories, wearing time like it meant nothing. You were entirely engulfed in his shadow, the scent of ash, cedar, and something him wrapping around you like a noose and a blanket.

You didn’t dare turn around. Because if you did—if you saw those red eyes—you weren’t sure you’d shoot. You weren’t sure you could.

“Tsk… you know how much I hate it when you turn your back to me. Face me, darling… or I’ll find something—” His breath grazed your neck, “Or someone—precious enough to make you listen.”

Your blood turned cold. He knew—he knew about Elea. He knew about your past and now he is here to take revenge. Revenge on his enemy's daughter. Revenge on his mother's murder's offspring. Revenge on the woman who deceived him. Revenge for what you stole from him—his daughter.

So you hardened your heart—ruthlessly, violently. Pushed every flicker of memory, every trace of warmth that dared to rise at the sound of his voice, back into the deepest corners of your mind where they belonged. This wasn’t the boy you once loved. This was the leader of Onychinus. This was a man who’d crawled back into your life through shadows and secrets, uninvited and unforgivable.

Your hand didn’t shake when you moved. Not this time.

With a sharp twist of your body, you spun around and shoved the cold barrel of your gun right beneath his chin, forcing his head up just slightly—enough to remind him who had the trigger. The look in your eyes could’ve frozen hell itself, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

“How?” You demanded, voice low and cracked like thunder rolling over a frozen lake.

How did he find you?

How long had he been watching?

How much did he know?

Your heart quivered with the sheer terror of realizing the life you built—the one you bled for—was no longer safe. And it was about Elea. Always Elea. Because if he found you, he could’ve found her. And if he could find her... he could take her or worse—punish her for what you did.

The fear coiled around your spine like a vice, but you didn’t back down. Not even when he smiled. That dangerous, slow, deliberate smile that tasted like power and venom and memories you hadn’t dared to touch in six years.

He leaned in just slightly, his breath ghosting over your cheek, warm and unwelcome.

“Still clawing like a wildcat.” He murmured, voice low, indulgent—like he was savoring the moment, “I used to love that about you.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something feral.

“Did you really think distance, years, and silence would erase what you are to me?” Then—quieter, sharper, like a blade pressed to the softest part of you— “And our daughter… did you think you could hide her from me forever?”

Your breath caught. The floor tilted under your feet, and for a split second, your pulse faltered.

But the fear didn’t show—not in your voice, not in your eyes.

“Who said she’s your daughter?” You spat, voice laced with venom and trembling fury.

Your hand trembled, just slightly, where it still held the gun, but your words pierced through. Your voice was sharp, like you are trying to wound him before he can see through your panic

“You think I’d carry the child of a cold-blooded murderer?” You took a step closer, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Much less the spawn of my father’s enemy?”

The room felt too quiet after that, like the world itself was holding its breath for what he’d say next.

Sylus didn’t flinch. He only smiled—slow, cruel, and aching at the edges. But his eyes… his eyes looked like something dying behind glass.

“Then why...” He said softly, “...Does she look exactly like me?”

His voice broke on the last word, barely, but it shattered something unspoken.

“You can lie to yourself, kitten. To everyone else. You’ve had six long years to build a world without me. But every time you looked into her eyes, every time she smiled like I used to—you remembered.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek—not tender, not threatening, just... haunted, “You carved me out of your life… but you couldn’t carve me out of her.”

No point in lying. Of course, Sylus did his homework, he always did. His each and every move was calculated and well thought through. From the words he utters to the glances he takes. He probably had known about you for months, watched over you, over Elea. The thought itself was sickening.

You didn’t move. You didn’t blink. But something inside you twisted — old wounds cracking open beneath the surface. Still, your voice came out steady, too steady, and cold in a way you hadn’t spoken in years.

“Of course she looks like you” You whispered, eyes locked onto his, “So I’ll never forget the biggest mistake of my life.”

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

“She’s the reminder I never asked for. The shadow of the past I wish I could erase.” You stepped back, your words deliberate, precise, “But unlike you… I love her enough to keep her far away from the monster that helped make her.”

And there it was. His eyes darkened—no warning, no softness left.

In one swift movement, his hand shot up, gripping your wrist tight, forcing the barrel away from his throat. The gun clattered against the bed behind you with a dull thud.

Before you could react, he turned you around—rough, breathless—and dragged you flush against his chest. His arms locked around you like iron, caging you in as he slowly walked you toward the full-length mirror.

“Look.” He hissed, his breath fanning hot across your ear, his chin grazing your neck like a promise laced in poison, “Look at us.”

You tried to twist away, but he only held you tighter—one arm wrapped firm around your waist, the other bracing your hand against the mirror, forcing you to see the reflection you refused to face.

“What makes you think I’d ever hurt my own blood? Do not confuse me with the man who raised you in fear.” His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with restrained wrath, like a storm pacing behind the bars of his teeth.

“I am many things, kitten.” He whispered, tone dropping like silk dragged across broken glass, “Cruel. Obsessive. Unforgiving. Murderer. But I will never be him.”

The silence that followed was thick. Only your breaths—shallow and quick—fogged the mirror. But you didn’t stay silent.

“She’s my blood too.” Your voice cracked, brittle and brave, “Didn’t you say you loathe the L/Ns? That you want to wipe out every last one of us?”

His grip tensed. You felt his breath falter for a second.

“I do.” He said finally, each word like a stone cast into your ribs, “I do loathe the L/Ns. Every. Last. One.”

He leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing your ear, his breath uneven now—heavy with words that hurt him more than they were meant to hurt you.

“Except the one who ruined my vengeance… by giving it a heartbeat.” A pause. A grip. A confession dressed as damnation, “She’s the only reason I haven’t turned this world to ash.”

Your throat closed. His words sliced through the last of your defences, but you didn’t let yourself crumble. Not yet.

“Don’t twist it into some poetic tragedy” You whispered, your voice low, fraying at the edges, “What we had? It wasn’t love. It was violence pretending to be passion. Don't you dare pretend what we had wasn’t drowning in blood.”

You turned your head, just enough for him to see it—your eyes glassy, but no tears falling.

“If you have even a shred of love for her, don't drag her into your chaos."

Silence. Thicker than the fog outside. The world held its breath. And then—

“No.” He murmured, his lips at your jaw, voice dark and velvet-smooth, “You see, kitten… I’m a very selfish man.”

He released your hand and instead turned your chin gently, angling your face to meet your own eyes in the mirror. Your back pressed into him. His hold— unshakable.

“You thought I’d forget the way you ran?” He said softly, “That I’d let you hide her from me? That I’d let you—of all people—decide if I’m worthy of my own blood?”

His jaw brushed against your temple. You could feel the war inside him. The ache. The storm.

“You call me cruel? Then know this—I’ll burn the world to keep her safe. And I’ll drag you back into hell if that’s what it takes… to make sure she never forgets who her father is.”

“I don’t care how you spin it.” He said, his grip—still iron on your waist, “Lie if you have to. Twist the truth. Bury the past. Perform miracles or magic if that’s what it takes.”

He leaned in, his words threading through the air like silk and steel.

“But by the end of this week, I will be in my daughter’s life.” A beat passed. His breath ghosted along your skin, chilling and warm all at once, “And you are going to make sure of that.”

With a burning kiss pressed to the curve of your neck, he was gone. Silent as smoke. Vanished like a phantom—like he’d never been there to begin with.

You sank to the floor, your knees hitting the haWith a burning kiss pressed to the curve of your neck, he was gone. Silent as smoke. Vanished like a phantom—like he’d never been there to begin with.

You sank to the floor, your knees hitting the hardwood as your breath trembled out of you in jagged shards. The air felt colder. Emptier.

Your world—your carefully built, fragile world—shattered around you, a mirror dropped from too high. Every piece was sharp, reflecting a life you could never go back to. The delusion that you could outrun him… the illusion that you could gift your daughter a normal life, untouched by the blood in her veins… gone.

Ashes, all of it.

Your legs nearly gave out by the time you reached Claire’s porch, the cold nipping at your skin, but it wasn’t the weather that left you breathless—it was everything else. The world that had just come undone.

Claire opened the door before you could even knock. One look at your face and she knew. Of course she did. But she didn’t ask. That was just Claire—quiet as winter snow, steady as stone. She never pried, never pushed, but she was always there. A silent pillar when the world refused to hold you up.

Before the silence could drown you, Elea came bounding out from behind her, cookie crumbs dusted across her cheeks like freckles. Her eyes lit up the moment they saw you—untouched by the chaos you carried, untouched by blood and secrets. She was smiling. Radiant. Like the brightest flower blooming in the heart of a dying garden.

You forced a smile—maybe for her, maybe for yourself.

“Looks like someone had a lot of fun.” You said softly, brushing a crumb from her cheek, “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go home.”

“Let’s go, Mommy! Bye, Granny Claire!” Elea chirped, her tiny hand slipping into yours, sticky with sugar and warmth.

Claire gave a small nod, her gaze steady but knowing. She didn’t ask questions—she never did—but her hand brushed your shoulder as you turned. A quiet gesture. I’m here if you need me.

You managed another smile, brittle at the edges, “Thanks, Claire.”

Then you turned away, letting Elea’s excited rambling guide you back through the cold—towards home, towards the storm.

The week passed faster than you would have liked. The deadline was nearing like a bullet train, and before you could even blink, it was already Sunday. You had to break the news to Elea before Sylus got too impatient and did something neither of you would like.

The clock was ticking. And your daughter — your sweet, soft-hearted Elea — was blissfully unaware. So you planned a Sunday outing. One last perfect day. Or maybe you were just being selfish. Maybe you needed the illusion of control before the storm came crashing in.

"Where are we going, mommy?" She chirped, kicking her legs as she sat at the breakfast table, syrup smudged on her cheek.

"Somewhere fun." You smiled tightly, "Your favourite place."

"Are you going to the Elysian Bloom?" Her excitement was so loud, Claire could probably hear it from her bedroom.

You nodded, "Exactly that. Just you and me. No distractions."

Elysian Bloom Conservatory was like heaven on earth — a botanical garden nestled in the heart of Linkon. Elea’s favourite place. It had become a tradition: on her birthday, the two of you would do a picnic at the garden. Well — most of the time, Elea was chasing butterflies or scribbling down flower names in her adorable little notebook.

Now, you wanted to take her there before…Before life changed. Before god knows which direction it would all turn.

The sun was gentle, painting golden streaks across the sky. The scent of blooming jasmine mixed with the earthy perfume of damp grass, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace. Almost.

Elea darted ahead, her laughter echoing through the winding cobblestone path as she chased a bright yellow butterfly. Her curls bounced with every skip of her feet, her notebook swinging from its strap.

You stayed seated on the pastel red picnic blanket which was decorated with Elea's favourite fruit, strawberries, beneath the same white-barked tree the two of you always claimed during your visits — the one by the lotus pond, where dragonflies flitted lazily across the water’s surface.

Your gaze trailed after her, watching her hop over puddles and call out the names of flowers like she was announcing royalty.

“That’s a tiger lily! And that’s… mommy, look! That’s a blue passionflower!” She said, once pointing to the right and then to the left.

“Careful, sweetheart.” You called back, your voice gentle but distant.

Your phone buzzed inside your bag. You didn’t want to look. You already knew. Still, your fingers moved on their own, retrieving the device. A new message lit up the screen — unknown number. But the words were unmistakable.

Tick-tock, little bird. You have till midnight. — S

You stared at it for a moment. No shock. No gasp. Just a quiet, tired ache blooming in your chest. Of course somehow he managed to get your number without your knowledge. He's been sending you at least five reminders each day all week. You weren’t even surprised anymore. You locked the screen without replying — just like all the others.

Elea shrieked with glee in the distance, “He landed on me, Mommy! He landed right on my finger!”

You raised your head, forcing a smile as she ran back to show you. The butterfly had flown away, but the excitement on her face stayed. You brushed her curls behind her ear and kissed her temple.

“That’s because you’re full of sunshine, baby.”

But even sunshine had its shadows. And you could feel yours growing longer with every passing second. You had until midnight. And somehow, you still didn’t know how to tell your daughter that the man sending those messages — the man you ran from — was her father and he was coming.

The rest of the day went surprisingly well. For a few precious hours, the anxiety coiled in your chest loosened its grip. You let yourself laugh when Elea tried to name a flower after herself, let her smear grass stains across her knees without scolding, let her believe the world was as kind as it looked.

On the way home, she tugged your sleeve's hem and pointed to the little corner bakery nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop.

“Can we go in, Mommy? Just for a minute? Please?”

You couldn’t say no to her today. Not today. You parked the car outside. Inside, the smell of warm sugar and fresh cream wrapped around you like a blanket. The display case glittered with pastel frostings and delicate pastries. Elea pressed her nose to the glass.

“They do have it!” She gasped.

“Have what?”

“The strawberry shortcake cupcake! The one with the tiny heart on top! Becky brought some for lunch the other day. It was so yummy.”

Elea had her entire face pressed against the glass, staring down at the cupcakes like they were some kind of treasure. You chuckled, ordering two of the cupcakes, a hot chocolate and a coffee for you. Your stomach still wasn’t sure if it could keep anything sweet down.

As you sat by the window, she picked one cupcake up carefully, like she was examining a diamond—a small, swirled cupcake topped with whipped cream, a single glazed strawberry, and a pink sugar heart. As Elea happily swinging her legs and humming between bites, you tried not to stare too long. Not to memorize her face too hard.

That night, the city outside your window had quieted into a soft hum. Moonlight spilled across the floor in silver ribbons as you and Elea lay in bed, her tiny fingers tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

You had just finished reading The Butterfly Princess for the tenth time — her current favorite. Her eyelids fluttered sleepily, but she was still smiling, her cheeks flushed from all the excitement of the day.

You stroked her hair, your fingers brushing through the soft curls as your chest tightened with everything you still hadn’t said.

“I love you so much.” You whispered.

“I love you more, Mommy.” She giggled, her nose scrunching up in that way it always did.

Your heart ached. You knew if you didn’t say something tonight, you’d never find the strength again.

“Have you ever…” You paused, steadying your breath, “Have you ever wondered about your dad?”

There was a brief silence — not heavy, just thoughtful.

“I have.” She said quietly, “Becky always talks about her daddy… the silly jokes he makes, the games they play.”

Then, with a soft smile, she turned toward you.

“But I have you. The best Mommy in the whole world.”

You swallowed hard, a lump rising in your throat, “I just—sometimes I worry… that you’re missing out.”

“I don't think so. I mean—it will be awesome to have a daddy.” She said with certainty, as if it were the simplest truth,“But you always made me feel like I have everything.”

You blinked up at the ceiling, tears quietly pooling in your eyes. You blinked up at the ceiling, tears quietly pooling in your eyes. You feared the lengths you were willing to go to keep her happy. To keep her protected.

You didn’t say anything more that night. You just kissed her forehead, held her close, and whispered goodnight—All while the clock on the wall ticked quietly toward midnight. Your phone buzzed with another notification—

Your time's up, little bird. Daddy wants to meet his daughter. — S

The whole night you tossed and turned in your bed, sleep did not even graze your eyes. The clock showed 2:38 a.m. when you abruptly sat up on the bed. You frantically searched for your phone till you found it on the night stand. The light from the phone screen lit up your face as you finally found what you were looking for—the unknown number.

The same one that had been sending messages. The one you kept pretending to ignore. Your finger hovered over the call button. Just a tap. One second. That’s all it would take. But once that call connected — there would be no turning back.

You swallow the painful lump collecting in your throat and press on the calling button. Your heart hammered against your ribcage as if it was trying to run away. The phone was cold against your warm ear. It rang and rang and rang. You were seconds away from hanging up when—Click.

Silence. Your mouth opened but no word came out. You didn't think through exactly what you would say to him.

"Sweetheart?" He called—like a question—like a statement. But you couldn't respond. Words were stuck in your throat.

“I’m assuming you’re calling to give me the good news” He said next, voice smooth, calm, calculated, “You told her about me?”

Silence stretched between you like wire — thin, sharp, waiting to snap. You looked at the bedroom door. She was still sleeping.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

No, I haven’t— you uttered in your head but dared not to say out loud. Another pause. This one heavier.

“Tsk.” A soft sound. Not disappointment. Something colder, “Say something. Or do you want me to come over there in the middle of the night?”

A slight shift in tone — playful, with a bite, “I won't mind.”

Your stomach turned. You could almost see the half-smile on his lips, the glint in his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. You knew that. If you didn’t set the rules, he’d rewrite them himself. You gritted your teeth, jaw tight.

“Be here tomorrow morning.” You said finally, “At 7:30 sharp.”

A beat. No reply. You didn’t wait for one. You had already hung up. The click echoed in your ears like a slammed door. You stared at your reflection in the black screen, heart still thundering, lips parted.

He was coming. He was going to invade your peaceful aviary and you could do nothing but let him—for Elea.

Monday mornings were usually hard but this one was worse. Your stomach was turning and twisting like a damn tornado. The house smelled of pancakes and honey. The pancakes were a little rougher than usual and a little over done. You hadn't meant to leave it on the pan that long, but your hands were shaking too much to work properly.

The clock ticked toward 7:30 a.m. like a countdown to detonation.

You gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, your fingers numb from how tightly you were holding on. Your reflection in the microwave door looked ghost-like — tired eyes, pale skin, expression locked in a look of silent dread.

What did he want? Was this about you? Or her? Did he want revenge? To twist the knife and take the one thing you had built without him? Or worse — did he actually want to be her father? Your mind couldn’t decide which terrified you more.

Sylus Qin doesn’t ask for things. He takes them.

You wanted to throw up. Across the room, Elea sat on the dining table, mindfully chewing away on the pancakes and twirling the new pink bow on her head while she hummed to herself, oblivious to the storm outside the window — and the one inside you.

“Mommy, does this bow look okay?” She asked sweetly.

You turned, forcing a tight smile, “You look perfect, baby.”

She beamed, resuming to absolutely devour the pancakes as if it was like any other day. You'd hate to break that sweet illusion. You moved through the motions — packing her lunch, checking her bag one last time— all while keeping one ear trained toward the front door.

Every creak in the floor. Every car that passed outside. Every second dragged like it wanted to kill you slowly. You hadn’t told her. You couldn’t, not yet. And he— God, he.

You didn’t know what version of Sylus was walking through your door today.

The charming man who once kissed you like you were made of stardust? Or the cold, sharp-mouthed mafia heir who could strip someone of their dignity with a single look?

Your stomach twisted. Would he even look at you the same? Would he blame you? Hate you? Or would he touch Elea’s face, his exact replica, and fall apart?

You didn’t know. You didn’t know anything anymore. But the clock didn’t care.

7:22 a.m.

7:26 a.m.

You couldn’t breathe.

7:29 a.m.

The hallway stretched like a tunnel, your footsteps echoing too loud. And then—Ding. The doorbell rang, right on time—just like he always was.

You stood frozen in the hallway, your hand tightening around the water bottle. Your heart beat so hard it hurt — as if your body recognized the shadow on the other side before your mind could catch up. Elea turned her head towards the door, peeking to see the invited uninvited guest.

One breath. Two. Three. Then you opened the door. And there he was. Sylus Qin.

He looked exactly as you remembered, and somehow, impossibly, even more dangerous than before. Dressed in all black, long coat brushing his thighs, gloves tucked into one pocket, his hair swept back in a way that exposed the sharpness of his cheekbones and the unreadable steel in his eyes.

But what caught you off guard wasn’t the darkness — it was the color.

He was holding two bouquets. In his left hand was a bouquet of red carnations, wrapped in soft parchment, tied with a dark red ribbon. Your favorite. The same kind he used to bring you every Sunday night, just to see the way your eyes lit up.

And in his right hand was a small bundle of soft pink tulips, stems short and ribboned with white lace.

He probably saw the look on your face—surprise, baffled and maybe a little bit of appreciation—because his next words were—

"I hope the few years of separation has not lowered your standards. Though wouldn't be surprised at all. Men these days are quite disappointing aren't they?” He said softly, his gaze raking over you — not in hunger, not in anger. Just… seeing you.

You couldn’t speak. But you did throw him a squinting glance, narrowing your eyes with a look that was somewhere between unimpressed and mildly amused. He grinned — just a flicker at the corner of his lips.

“What?” He asked, cocking his head slightly, voice still velvet-smooth, “Was that look supposed to hurt me?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because gods, the confidence of him. It used to infuriate you. It still did but it also pulled you in like gravity. Even now. He always stood like he owned the world. And more importantly, like he owned you — the softest version of you, the version he saw when no one else was looking.

He stepped forward, just enough to offer you the carnations. Not pushy. Not aggressive. Just quiet insistence.

“Still your favorite I hope.” He said.

You hesitated then took them, nodding your head like a fool. The smell hit you instantly — warm, nostalgic, a little too intimate. You hated how much it hurt. And how much you missed it.

“This one’s a little late,” He added, “Seven years, give or take.”

You hated the way he talked. Like nothing had happened, like the past seven didn't matter to him at all while you broke from inside. He acted as if he was a working man who finally came back to his family. You truly hated it.

And then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he held up the smaller bouquet of pink tulips.

“This one’s for the little girl I'm yet to meet.”

Your heart stopped. You swallowed thickly, glancing over your shoulder — and there she was. Now instead of the dining table, she was peeking over the couch head in the living room.

Her curls bounced a little as she shifted, curious but cautious — like a deer sensing something strange in the air. Elea’s big eyes blinked up at you, and then at the man standing at your doorstep. Sylus followed your line of sight and saw her fully for the first time. Everything in him went still.

His smirk didn’t fall — it just… faded. Like something fragile had taken its place beneath the armor. For the first time since you opened the door, he looked truly breathless.

“She’s…” He cleared his throat, but the word caught somewhere deeper — in his chest, in his ribs, in the place where hope had been dying a slow, silent death for years. Then softer, almost reverent, “She's my daughter? My little one?”

For the first time you heard uncertainty in his voice—almost like a normal human being. Your eyes burned and you looked away. Not out of shame — but out of fear that if you stared at him for too long, you might break. Might forgive.

“Yes.” You whispered.

You hold the door wider for him to come inside. Sylus steps inside, wanting to end the distance between him and his daughter. But he could not be fast. No. After all, Elea, he was still just a stranger. He feels your guarded stare boring on the back of his head as he stepped closer to Elea, gently bending down to her eye level.

"These tulips are for this beautiful lady." He held out the tiny bouquet which now looked weirdly big compared to her.

Elea stared at the tulips in silence, her small fingers curled tightly around her bunny’s worn ear. The bouquet trembled a little in Sylus’s gloved hand, suspended in the space between them — a peace offering from a stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all.

She looked up at you, her brows furrowed slightly, as if asking Is this okay?

You gave her a gentle nod. That was all she needed.

With a tiny step forward, she accepted the tulips, her fingertips brushing his as she took them. Sylus froze — not out of fear, but reverence. Like she’d just touched a thread he didn’t realize was holding him together.

“These are really pretty, thank you Mister.” Elea said softly, examining the petals, “Did you pick them?”

Sylus let out that dramatic long sigh that he always did whenever you asked him to choose between two books only to end up buying both along with three new ones.

"I wish I could but you see....a certain someone was giving me a hard time all week so I only had the time to buy them. But I promise, next time I'll personally hand pick them for you, only the biggest and the prettiest."

"You would?" Elea’s voice was loud but hopeful, like a spark held between cupped palms.

Sylus smiled — a real one this time. Not smirking, not mocking. Just soft.

“Of course I would.” He said, his tone steady, like a vow, “Only the best for you, little lady. I’ll even bring you a basket next time so you can pick your own.”

Her eyes lit up, the kind of joy that was so pure it physically hurt to watch. You felt it stab at something deep in your chest.

She glanced at the tulips again and then asked, earnestly, “Do you give flowers to all the kids you meet?”

Sylus tilted his head thoughtfully, one brow raising, “Nope. Just the important ones.”

You didn’t say anything. Elea was too busy smelling the bouquet to notice the way your fingers curled around the edge of the table, white-knuckled and silent.

“Mommy says flowers can talk sometimes.” Elea said, plopping onto a chair and setting her bunny beside her, “Do these say something too?”

Sylus took a slow step back, folding his arms.

“They say…” He paused, then looked at her seriously, “They say ‘I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.’”

You nearly crushed the red flowers in your arms. Elea, thankfully unaware of the emotional weight his words carried, just beamed and said,

“That’s a nice message. Mommy, can we put these in my room?”

"Sure, sweetie. Why don't you keep them there—" You pointed to her room down the hall, "I’ll put them in a vase later."

Elea nodded and hopped off the chair, her bunny tucked under one arm, the bouquet in her hands like it was a royal treasure. She disappeared behind the door and the mood shifted. Sylus followed you to the kitchen, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

You placed the bouquet down on the counter, fingers lingering just a little too long. He hadn't spoken yet. Just watched. The way he always did when he was calculating a move.

“You didn’t tell her.” He said finally, “Did you?”

You turned, crossing your arms over your chest like a shield, “No. Not yet.”

“Why?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

“Because I don’t know what you want.” You replied, eyes narrowing, “I don’t know if you’re here to be her father, or if you’re just here to punish me.”

His jaw twitched. Just slightly.

“Is that what you think?” He asked, voice lower now, “That I’d use a child to get back at you?”

“Could you blame me for thinking so? Tell me Sylus—do I have any reason to think that you would not simply end her just because she has my blood?” You snapped before you could stop yourself.

A beat of silence followed.

“So you decided to run away without even a notice?” He said dryly, pushing off the doorframe, "You think Elea would have been safe that way? What would you do if your father got his hands on her?"

You could see it — the shift behind his eyes. The way his breathing changed. His fists clenched at his sides as if he were gripping the edges of his own rage just to keep from shattering something. You didn't like shouting Sylus—or angry Sylus. An angry Sylus was worse than being stuck in a cage with a hungry Shark.

"I don't care what has happened but no one—absolutely no one will get between me and my daughter. Not. Even. You."

You don't know why but those words pierced in places you couldn't tell. Maybe things would have been different if you had talked to Sylus instead of running away but then you remember that night—that conversation that broke the final straw and without any doubt the decision you took was the best for Elea.

You look at him—truly look at him, with determination, "If you want to be in Elea's life then you have to meet some conditions. Can you?"

The distance between you two seemed to get shorter and shorter, he was almost towering over you.

“I’ll give my heart for her.” He said quietly. His voice was stripped bare — no sarcasm, no seduction, just truth, “Whatever conditions you set… they’re nothing compared to that.”

He meant it. Not like a promise. He didn’t ask you to believe him. He didn’t demand forgiveness. He simply laid that truth down between you, like a blade turned into an offering.

You look straight into his eyes, "You won't drag Elea in your world. She should not get even a hint of your or my past. Tell her you are an office worker if you need to."

"Was not planning to either way.” He replied smoothly, a flicker of dry amusement curling at his mouth, "I’m not an idiot, sweetheart."

The nickname still slid off his tongue like silk, but it didn’t sting the way it used to. Not right now. It wasn’t flirtation — it was muscle memory. You stared at him for a long moment, the kind that pressed against your chest until you couldn’t tell if the pressure came from him or your own heartbeat.

“Good.” You said finally, “Because if you ruin this for her… I swear, Sylus—”

“You’ll burn everything to the ground,” He finished, voice low. He tilted his head just slightly. “I know you.”

You hated that he did. You hated even more that part of you still trusted him to mean it. He took one small step back — not in retreat, but in deference. A rare gesture from a man who never stepped back for anyone.

“You have my word.” He said, "Whatever mask I have to wear - I will wear it. For him."

Then, more softly— “And for you, if you’ll let me.”

“My second condition…” Your voice cracked — not enough to be obvious, but enough to sting, “Remember we’re doing this for Elea. Not for us. We’re just… history. And it’s better if it’s forgotten.”

The silence that followed was thick.

The words tasted bitter in your mouth, like rust and old heartbreak — but it couldn’t possibly be worse than that snowy night, the night your entire world shattered beneath your feet. The night you ran. The night you chose survival over sentiment.

Keeping your heart guarded was the only thing left that made sense. For you and for her.

Sylus didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, staring at you — not with anger, not even pain. Just… understanding. And something quieter. Sadder.

“Right.” He murmured, gaze drifting slightly to the floor before rising again to meet yours, “Just history.”

But his voice didn’t sound convinced. Not entirely. He never did take well to pretending. Still, he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. He just looked at you the way he always did when something mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“Then let’s make a new story.” He added, softer, “For her. Just her.”

You gave him a nod. Small. Controlled, “Good.”

Then you moved past him and walked towards the returning figure of Elea. Without a word Sylus followed you to the living room, taking the armchair while you sat with Elea on his right.

You had pondered over it all week, all night yet you were still at loss of the word, "Sweetie, remember I asked you about your dad last night? If you wonder about him?"

"Is Mr. Tulip my dad?"

Her words made you choke on air. So much confidence just like her damned father. Even Sylus had an amused look on his face with raised eyebrows. If a passerby heard—they'd assume she's talking about icecream flavours.

You composed yourself—or at least tried to, "How-how did you know, sweetie?"

To your question your daughter gave the most deadpan face a six year old could muster. She leaned up, whispering—or at least trying to—into your ears, "You have his picture in your drawer with mini hearts on it."

Your jaw dropped. You felt your ears heat instantly, mortification pooling under your skin like boiling water. You darted a quick, horrified glance at Sylus — and, of course, he was watching you like a cat who’d found the cream.

“Picture in your drawer, hm?” He drawled, one eyebrow lifted, “Mini hearts and everything?”

You shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve flayed him alive if he wasn’t already grinning like a devil in a tailored coat.

“It’s an old picture, Lea.” You said quickly, brushing your thumb over her hairline, trying to keep your voice calm, “Mommy just kept it so you’d know what your daddy looked like someday.”

“But you never showed it to me.” She pouted.

Sylus leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his dark eyes softening at her tiny frown.

“That’s fair.” He said gently, “But you know what? I think your mom was just waiting for the right moment. Grown-ups do that a lot — wait too long for things that matter.”

He looked up at you when he said that — not mocking. Just seeing you. And for a fleeting moment, you hated how easy it still was for him to find the softest part of you and press on it like an old bruise.

Elea turned back to Sylus, curiosity brimming in her wide eyes.

“Are you gonna stay this time?” She asked, so plainly it knocked the air out of both of you, “Or are you gonna disappear again?”

Your heart cracked so hard you almost reached for her hand. Sylus heaved that tired—almost disappointed in himself—sigh. He just leaned closer, his voice low, steady — that deadly honesty only he could wield like a vow.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He said, “Not ever again. Not from you.”

Elea seemed to weigh that. Then, in her small, matter-of-fact voice, she nodded — like a tiny queen granting permission.

“Okay. But you have to like bunnies. And no raisins. Ever.”

A laugh — real, quiet, and a little choked — slipped from you before you could stop it. Sylus turned his eyes back to you, and for the briefest second, there it was: the man you’d fallen for, all those years ago, staring at you like history might not be enough to bury this after all.

“No raisins.” He echoed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, “Deal.”

A breath passed between them — so soft you almost didn’t hear it. Then Sylus cleared his throat. The smallest tell that this, of all things, was the one battlefield that could make him hesitate.

“Can I...?" He said, voice pitched low, careful, eyes darting to you for the briefest moment before they softened on her again, “Can I have a hug, little one?”

For a heartbeat, you worried she’d shy away. That she’d hesitate the way you had. But Elea’s eyes lit up like someone had handed her a sparkler in the dark. She gasped, an excited little sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest.

“You want a hug?” She squeaked, clutching her bunny tighter, “From me?”

Sylus’s lips twitched, his composure fraying at the edges in the best way. He let out a quiet breath — like he’d been holding it for years.

“Yeah.” He murmured, smiling just a little now, “From you. If that’s alright.”

Elea didn’t even answer with words. She bounced forward on her socked feet, bunny nearly slipping from her arm as she threw both arms around his neck in a small, clumsy tackle. Sylus caught her instantly, his coat rustling, one hand splaying wide across her tiny back as if to make sure she wouldn’t vanish if he blinked.

For a second, he just stayed there — standing in the middle of the living room, this dangerous man letting his guard down for a child who smelled like syrup and strawberry shampoo. His eyes slid shut, his forehead dropping to rest against her curls, breathing her in like she was the only clean air left in the world.

“Hi, little one ” He whispered, the words caught between a promise and a prayer, “Hi.”

Elea giggled, completely unaware of the way your eyes burned or the way Sylus’s jaw trembled against her hair.

“You smell like Mommy’s flowers.” She said into his shoulder, her voice muffled and warm, “I like you.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from sobbing right there. Sylus pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumb brushing her cheek — impossibly gentle for hands that had seen so much blood.

“I like you too.” He said softly. Then he cleared his throat and added, with that wry grin curling back at the edges, “And Bunny, of course.”

Elea pulled away, beaming, bunny squished between them, “Bunny says hi, Daddy.”

Elea turned her head just enough to beam at you over her shoulder. Her tiny hands patted his chest like she was preparing some grand announcement.

“Mommy!” She chirped, “You have to come too! Family hug!”

Before you could protest, those marshmallow—like fingers grabbed your wrist and tugged you forward — right into them. You caught your breath as you felt Sylus’s other arm snake around your waist to steady you, palm splayed wide and warm at the small of your back.

You almost pulled away. Almost.

But then Elea’s giggles bubbled between you, her bunny wedged awkwardly as she tried to wrap her arms around both your necks at once.

So you stayed.

And that’s when you felt it: the slow, deliberate way Sylus’s thumb traced a half-circle against your hipbone. The press of his chest so close you could feel his heartbeat — that steady, dangerous thing that had once been yours to calm. And then, before you could stop it, the softest drag of his nose through your hair — a brush of breath at your temple like he was memorizing the scent of you, grounding himself with it.

“Still smells like me.” He murmured, voice so low you felt it rather than heard it. His lips didn’t quite touch your skin, but you swore you could feel the heat of them, “Always did.”

Your fingers dug into the back of his coat, not pulling him closer — not quite pushing him away either. It would’ve been too much — too real — if not for Elea giggling again, smushing her bunny’s ear against your cheek.

“Mommy, you’re squishing Bunny!”

You huffed out a breath that was half-laugh, half-shaky exhale, and loosened your grip just as Sylus did too — but his hand didn’t leave your waist right away. It lingered, thumb sweeping over the fabric of your shirt like he was marking it.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes met yours — and you hated how they looked: warm and dark and filled with a thousand unsaid things.

You stepped away first. Because you had to. But for a heartbeat, you swore you still felt him. All of him.

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© 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐔𝐒-𝐍-𝐋𝟎𝐕𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 — all content rights belongs to LOTUS-N-L0VE. do not plagiarise any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[ink-and-dagger]

What if Astrid find a pic of young Silco by accident hehhehehehhehehehehhe

Snapshot

A Drink With Me ficlet

870 words || Established relationship || Silco x Astrid (but can be read as gen f!reader) || SFW but suggestive || MDNI

“Oh my Gods.”

“What?”

“Oh. My Gods.”

Time has stripped the photograph between your fingers of its glossy sheen and has left the edges blunt and frayed, but you would recognise those features anywhere; no less sharp nor striking through the faded sepia.

“This is you.”

It had slipped from between two ledgers as you’d perused Silco’s bookshelves – an activity more to entertain your idle hands than a genuine search for reading material. The image itself is simple and candid: A young man, seemingly oblivious to the fact his portrait is being taken, sat at a familiar bar, with eyes downcast toward a spread of papers.

That same man looks up at you now from a very similar spread of papers. “What is?”

“This.” You drift over to his desk and perch on its edge, all the while unable to tear your gaze from the photo in your hands. The pitch dark hair swept back into a low bun. The familiar strays – the same ones that even now will always be the first to escape any styling under the combing of agitated fingers – falling forward into his face, only far longer and thicker than you’re used to. His skin, unblemished and smooth, save for the chronic furrow between his brows – etched there long before time and tragedy ravaged the rest.

Silco hums absently; an indication that he acknowledges your discovery but finds little interest in it. You can imagine the man in the photograph making the exact same noise, were someone to distract him from his paperwork for a reason he deemed benign. You flip the photo over. No date.

“How old are you here?”

Silco exhales through his nose, places his pen down with a pointed clack, and extends his hand wordlessly toward you.

“Hah! Do you think I’m wet behind the ears?” you hold the photograph out of his reach, “You can tell just fine from over there thank you very much.”

He cuts you a scathing glance, before leaning forward in his chair with a foreboding creak to peer more closely at the image. His scarred lips purse slightly in thought.

“Mid–late twenties. I can’t say for certain.”

“You were hot.”

“Were?”

“Were and are,” you coo, reclining backwards over the desk into his space, one elbow pitched on his paperwork to hold your weight whilst you flap the photograph in front of his face, “Can I keep this?”

“For what reason?”

“Dirty ones.”

“Hardly necessary,” Silco says, the very corner of his mouth creasing upwards as he catches your wrist to halt your photo-flapping, “You have access to the real thing.”

“True, true, and you can be sure I’ll continue taking advantage of that.” You grin, shoving your captured, photo-wielding arm a little closer to him in emphasis, “But right now I’m talking about some alone time with this guy.”

Silco scoffs under his breath and releases your wrist. You twist onto your front, weight propped on both elbows as you admire the photograph in your grip. You trace a finger down the slender throat of the man in the photo, over the generous wedge of chest exposed by his open crimson collar.

“D’you think he’d notice me? If I came into that bar?”

“Oh I’m certain he would.”

“Yeah?” You lift your gaze from the man in the photo to the one before you – as equally breathtaking. More so. You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “What line would he use?”

Silco hums, low and thoughtful, leaning forward in his chair, closing in on your space. He picks up his abandoned pen, briefly twirling the implement until it’s poised between his elegant fingers like a cigarette. Nib safely facing his own palm.

“After downing the dregs of his drink for courage... he would have approached you.”

With sensual tenderness, he brushes the barrel of his pen along your cheek, warmed metal against warmer skin. Catching at the curve of your jawline, and tracing over your pulse in a way that makes it fumble a beat.

“Cast his gaze over each of your pretty, pretty features. One by one,” he murmurs, slowly drawing the end of the pen down your jugular, down the slope of your collar bone, to leisurely trail through the cut of your cleavage. The corner of your mouth hooks up. The warmth low in your belly coils a little tighter.

“He would have leaned in close,” Silco whispers, demonstrating just so, “Close enough that you’d almost taste the whiskey on his breath.”

Blunt metal drags a purposeful line up your throat, and your lips part softly as he tilts your face toward his with the barrel of his pen flat and firm beneath your chin.

“And asked you – very nicely – to stop leaning on his paperwork.”

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek while Silco’s dual eyes sizzle with smug mirth. It’d be unthinkable, really – to forfeit either one for the sake of a matching pair.

You straighten and push off his desk, hips swaying as you saunter over to the bedroom with the photograph in hand.

“Well,” you say, pausing in the threshold and turning to him with a smirk, “If you need us, you know where we’ll be.”

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Break

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: Trapped within the walls of the Heelshire Manor, you thought that the rules kept you safe. But secrets don't stay buried, and Brahms has found yours. Now there are no more lies, no escape, and no pretending– only a reality where desire is control, and submission is the only way to survive. TW: DARK content, dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, rough sex, foul language, choking, spanking, pussy slapping, overstimulation, orgasm denial, abuse, nudity, violence, creampies, manipulation, degradation, paranoia, unprotected sex, and more. Word Count: 8,157 MDNI- NSFW- read at your own risk. A/N: The long awaited Part 2 of The Rules We Keep is finally here! Inspired by this ask. Enjoy ;) [part one]

-----

The Heelshire manor was quiet. 

In the late hours, there was no familiar shift in the floorboards, no hum throughout the ancient pipes, no groan in the weathered shutters that flapped in the wind– just silence. If it had been a few weeks ago you would have welcomed the lack of sound, relishing in the privacy of the spacious house. 

But there is no privacy in the Heelshire manor– you know that now. Not when he’s there, watching your every move, waiting for you to slip. Always two steps ahead before you even realize you’ve fallen into another twisted game of his. The idea alone of your own personal boogeyman would have made you laugh at the stupidity of it all, but Brahms Heelshire was very much real. 

That godforsaken night in the bowels beneath the manor proved it. Forged in sweat and blood and dirt, a piece of you was forever bound to him– a fact that you knew he relished in. The power held over your head, the fact that your survival entirely depended on a childish whim was a trophy most men would hold dearly. But Brahms was no man– he was something far worse. 

The shrill scream of the kettle jolts you from your thoughts, heart almost leaping from your chest at the sudden noise. Fear was a common occurrence these days. It was if the house itself enjoyed basking in your fear, all too similar to its owner. Trying to slow your racing pulse, you push away from the kitchen counter to attend to yet another chore on the seemingly endless list. 

Wrapping a towel around the handle, you balance a porcelain teacup in your palm– trying to steel the tremble in your hands as you pour the boiling water. Small raised welts dotted the flesh of your knuckles, sending needles of pain shooting through your fingers as you moved. Another token of Brahms’ love, a teaching moment that showed just how particular he was about his evening beverage.

Loose tea, never bagged. Silver spoon, polished to perfection so it gleamed against the dim lighting. A singular sugar cube placed on the tea saucer– just how he liked it. 

The whole ordeal made you want to scream.

Yet, you swallow the anger threatening to tear through your throat, setting the kettle back on the stove top. Some battles are best fought silently– you knew that, learned that from him. The toast pops up from the toaster, one of the only modern appliances left in the kitchen, golden brown and ready to be buttered. Rummaging through the silverware drawer, you imagine raking the blunt knife across his skin rather than the toast, digging it into his flesh so hard it would draw blood. 

Of course, there were no knives sharp enough for you to cause him harm– he made sure of that after your first encounter. You had to beg to be trusted with butter knives, the savor of the win almost shifting you away from the reason you were banned from them in the first place. 

Evening tea ready, you brush your hands on the scratchy material of the apron, your first gift you had received due to good behavior. Placing the saucer and plate on a tray, you straighten– fear wedging in your throat momentarily as you gather the courage to turn. 

The doll sits at the table, like always. Lifeless eyes stare absentmindedly forward, hanging an eerie sense of dread through the air. His assigned chair is pulled back just a bit further than usual, and the doll teeters slightly from the gap. 

Someone’s impatient. 

“Brahms… your tea is ready.”

A pause. The wall opposite of the kitchen countertop rattles oh so slightly as something– no, someone shifts within the passageways. Your jaw clenches, yet you push onwards. “Brahms. It won’t stay hot forever.” The floorboards creak as a section of the wall pushes outwards, revealing a void of black that sends memories flooding back through your mind. 

The tunnels. The fallen beams. Your desperate attempt at escape. Him.

A hand shoots out of the darkness, and your teeth sink into the flesh of your cheek. Planting himself against the wall, your own personal hell emerges from the shadows. Hulking form towering over you with brute strength you knew better than to fight against, Brahms Heelshire crept into the light. 

The porcelain mask almost glowed under the haze of the overhead chandelier, and a knot of nausea settles like a pit in your stomach. That mask– the very object of your nightmares in a way that sends a chill down your spine, no matter how many times you see it. It was too smooth, too perfect to be attached to the monster that hid beneath it. 

Calloused fingers twitch at his sides, and you swallow the lump that had formed in your throat. “Tea,” You murmur, voice practiced– poised. Just like he taught you. Brahms took a weighted step forward, then two. You fought the urge to flinch as he approached. 

He didn’t speak, preferring to drink in your every move– ever the observer. Your knuckles whiten as you grip the tray like a lifeline, offering it to him. You expected a barked order, a tilted head, some sort of reaction as he stalked towards you, yet he simply plucked the tray from your hands with eerie precision. 

Hands folding at your front, you bow your head ever so slightly as a show of feigned reverence. He liked you best that way– small, submissive, perfectly playing the part as a piece to his game. Pretty little housewife, you knew the whole ordeal turned him on like nothing else. 

Brahms sighed, mask lifting as he silently sipped the tea. Chiseled jawline, dark curly scruff adorning his cheeks under smooth, silky skin– if you had known any better, you would have thought he was attractive. Brahms shifted under your gaze, turning to look in your direction, haphazardly chewing a piece of toast. 

There it was– the monster hidden beneath the mask. 

Deformed, uneven puckers of flesh blossomed across the hidden side of his face. Shriveled wrinkles warped the entirety of his cheek, the hollow of his cheekbones almost protruding against the mass of pink and white. The burn scars that reached the edge of his jaw left his beard in shambles, tufts of unruly hair patching across where the scars had partially healed. Your fingers twitch at your sides. 

You knew about the story, whispered between your brief grocery drop offs from Malcolm– the fire that almost engulfed the manor. The fire that was supposed to kill him. Yet, there he stood, a monster born from the flames that only left behind scar tissue and violence. A piece of you wondered what Brahms would have become without that fateful day– the man he was meant to be. 

Deft fingers set the tray back down on the table.

The same ones that wedged their way between your thighs. 

Your mouth went dry at the sight. You feel the weight of his gaze, stripping you of all defences like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Something you couldn't quite place swirled in those chocolate orbs, and it was almost shameful that the sudden flush in your cheeks gave you away. The rapid pounding of your heartbeat was thunder in your ears, and all you could muster was a wobbled, “Bedtime, Brahms.”

It was pathetic, really, to be plagued day and night by the very soul who ruined you. Yet, here you were– a collection of the broken pieces he created molded into his perfect little maid.

If Brahms spotted your little slip, he didn’t show it. Simply tilting his head in your direction before reaching out his hand, mask secured back in place. Tea abandoned on the kitchen countertop, your toes curl in defiance within your boots before relenting. Forcing your feet to drag across the hardwood floor, you slip your hand into his grasp– trying to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine. Immediately, his fingers wrapped around yours, trapping you in his grip. 

Fighting the urge to pull away, you lead him upstairs, each step feeling like a guilty verdict hanging over your head. Though his skin felt warm to the touch, Brahms radiated the cold, an icy sense of anticipation crackling in the air. His presence haunts the manor like a ghost– lurking, watching, entirely inevitable. You feel the telltale chill settle in your bones and wrap around your heart in a vice-like grip.

No matter how much you dreaded it, despised it, you knew what was expected of you. Worst of all, he knew it too. 

The double doors glared at you like the jowls of a hungry beast, daring you to venture closer in order to swallow you whole. The attic laid untouched since your unexpected arrival– a time capsule of your demise, another trophy of your loss of freedom. Brahms didn’t seem to mind abandoning his self-made home, however, more content to have you wait on him hand and foot in the comfort of his late parents’ abode rather than within the walls. 

Opening the doors like a servant would royalty, you drop your hand from Brahms’ hold. The air here was different, tainted with the sins of the Heelshires– a price you were now forced to pay in full. The floral wallpaper had faded over the decades, the mahogany four-poster bed dwarfing the other lavish furnishings in comparison, the desks coated in a fine layer of dust. You weren’t allowed to clean here, the disarray of the bedroom providing Brahms with an unknown comfort you couldn’t quite place. 

The bed was a different story, however. Perfectly made with washed sheets, fluffed pillows, and creased comforters made of the finest goose down– just the way he liked it. 

You go through the motions, anxiety washing away as you take part in the nightly routine that feels much more like a ritual. Pulling back the covers, dimming the lights, filling the carafe with cool water, folding the morning robe with utmost care. Through it all, Brahms sat on the edge of the bed, gaze searing your every move– watching. 

Ushering the much larger male into bed, you fluff the pillows, tucking the blankets around him with almost motherlike devotion. As if tucking a child into bed, your fingers brush Brahm’s shoulder, his skin burning beneath your touch. You fought the urge to recoil.

“Goodnight, Brahms”, you whisper, the words sounding so doting it made your head spin. It sounded so genuine you could have believed there was devotion in them. You knew the final rule, the very one he altered on that fateful night in a way that twisted even your final moments to revolve only around him. Swallowing any semblance of pride you had remaining, you duck down, forehead brushing against the cool porcelain of his mask. 

Waiting, expectant– just like he taught you. 

Brahms pushed upwards, the icy touch of the glass brushing against your lips. Bile rose in your throat– it was sickening. This routine, the role you had learned to play so well. Spine stiffening, you straightened, hands fumbling with the sheets as you smoothed them over his torso. 

Brahms turned towards you, head tilted– the light catching his eyes as he met your gaze. You freeze, hands hovering over the blankets as your blood turns to ice. You knew that look, the one filled with warning in a way that only meant one thing. 

Something was coming. Something horrible, just not tonight. 

Breaking his gaze, Brahms settled into the blankets– your queue to leave. Sharply turning on your heel, you flee the room, relieved of your duties for the day. In your haste to leave, you almost trip over the doorway, stumbling as you slowly close the doors.

You were safe, for now. 

Scurrying down the hallway draped in ornate rugs and antique paintings, you pause at the threshold of the guest room– no, your room. Sighing, you duck past the door, sliding the door into place before locking it with a satisfying click. Only then could you relax. 

Spine pressed against the wood, you took what felt like the first breath in hours. Fingers rubbing your temples, you try to shake the lump forming in your throat. You couldn’t cry– that had stopped weeks ago, resulting in nothing but more lessons. Now all that was left was the breathless terror when awaiting punishment.

Trembling fingers undo the ties of your apron, the article of clothing falling to the floor as you creep towards the only safe space you know– the wardrobe. The mahogany structure towers over you as you slowly open the door, shoving pairs of shoes and papers out of the way in order to reach your deepest, darkest secret. 

Hidden beneath the rubbish, the false bottom creaks as you remove the heavy pane of wood, revealing your journal. The paper crinkles under your fingertips as you hold it to your chest like the most precious jewels in the world– the only saving grace of your sanity. The smell of dust and ink invades your senses as you flip through the pages, filled with the secrets you didn’t dare to speak out loud. 

It was the only place you told the truth, yet somehow as you write under the cover of moonlight, the walls had never felt so thin. 

Like it had already betrayed you. 

__

The morning is eerily quiet. 

The raps on the master bedroom door go unanswered, bed haphazardly made upon forced entry– sheets crumpled with almost laughable amateurity. At first, you welcom the help, any and all semblance of freeing up your busy schedule seeming like a kind gesture. As the morning went on, however, the chill of silence began to creep into your bones. 

The breakfast you tirelessly poured over for an hour sat untouched on the kitchen counter.  Brahm’s favorite morning tea lay forgotten on the porcelain saucer, sugar cube and all. The bathwater you had drawn per usual request had long gone cold. Even the ancient phonograph, recently dusted to perfection, lay silent without a choice of records to pass the time. Through it all, there was no sign of Brahms– no telltale rustle behind the walls, no groaning of the pipes, no suffocating gaze weighing down on your every move.

It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Yet, for some odd reason, you couldn’t place the pit forming in your stomach. 

As the morning turned into the afternoon, your calls towards him to respond, to eat, to do something became more urgent. The initial annoyance at the childish act of a cold shoulder quickly turning sour as the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock, a sense of worry washing over you. Throughout your chores, you catch yourself straining ever so slightly at every sound within the manor, trying to pinpoint whether Brahms had created the sound. 

As much as you hated to admit it, thoughts of dread immediately began to swirl in your mind– each imaginative scenario overanalyzing what could possibly be the root of the strange behavior. 

Did something happen? Had he fallen ill? Was he angry with you?

The silence should have brought you some sort of solace, the lack of constant attention and unyielding amount of chores finally bringing you a sense of freedom. But it didn’t, the daily routine completely shattered, leaving you to do nothing more than wander the very manor you were trapped in. 

Unless…

You pause in your pursuit of dusting off the banister, eyes flickering towards the grand entryway like a child yearning for a stolen sweet. The treacherous voice in your head screamed at you to move, to take the chance now that you were alone and leave this horrid place behind you. But as you gaze past the ornate stained glass windows into the surrounding fields, something roots you in place. 

Was it loyalty– something beaten to submission within you? Had you grown so accustomed to the life you have lived that you couldn’t go forward without it? Or, by some laughable act of fate, did you not want to leave?

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you look down, dusting so furiously that the dark wood gleams back at you. You had work to do whether Brahms was watching or not, there was no denying that there were more important things than planning escape– another rule you learned the hard way. 

Eyes shifting towards a hidden panel in the wall, the hair on the back of your neck prickles as the images of that fateful evening flash through your mind. Those godforsaken tunnels were the root of your very downfall, resulting in far worse consequences than a battered ego and failed escape attempt. 

Consequences you try not to think about when you lay in bed at night. 

Your fists wound themselves around your apron– another nervous bad habit that Brahms hadn't yet broken, knuckles turning white as the scene replayed in your head like a broken record player. It was wrong, so completely lewd to even think about it, yet the shame blossoming in your stomach as you peered into the tunnel was enough to shatter any hope of reasoning with yourself. 

You hadn’t been in the tunnels for weeks, fear seizing your heart as the walls would seemingly shrink around you– caging you in place. The idea alone of being back in them, with him, sends a shudder down your spine. 

If Brahms didn’t want to come out of the tunnels by his own free will, fine. It was less distracting this way. 

Rummaging through the cleaning bucket on the stairs, you produce a worn rag and a bottle of metal polish. Scrubbing the seemingly infinite amount of bronze plaques adorning the walls, you huff– irritation growing as the silence continued to weigh down on you like a wet blanket. 

Maybe Brahms was in one of his foul moods, often ignoring you when things weren’t perfectly set to his expectations. The silent treatment only worked for so long, until he ran out of patience. Your hand pauses in its ministrations, realization suddenly tearing through you like a gunshot. 

Patience– the deliberate, calculated kind he only savoured when he was planning the best way to punish you during another lesson. 

You stiffen instinctively, not from fear exactly– but a sense of adrenaline from the horrific possibility that you were right. The silence became suffocating, the walls of the manor closing in around you as you fought to keep your gaze on the rag in front of you.

You feel it in the air then– something is definitely wrong, and Brahms is waiting for you to realize what it is. Yet for the life of you, there isn’t any semblance of a clue why. 

He knows something. 

Hoping to shake the impending sense of doom, you move upstairs– trying to scrub away the anxiety like the tarnish on the brass and bronze. Legs filled with lead, the trek down the hallway seemed to become more daunting with each step. You had the sudden urge to flee to your room and hide away from it all until it boiled over, only to return and beg for forgiveness after the anger passed. 

The rag falls from your hand as you halt in place. 

Your room– you hadn’t checked on the wardrobe since late last night. Your journal. The one place you dare to let your true feelings show in order to keep sane in order to dream of a life beyond the manor. Thoughts you had written beneath the guise of safety, of privacy. 

But there is no privacy in Heelshire manor– you idiot.

Blind panic short circuits your nervous system, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you bolt to your room. It was a simple slip– just one, a small mistake easily outshadowed by the great feats you had accomplished on the daily to prove your undying devotion. Surely, your only secret was safe from prying eyes. Surely, he hadn’t found it. 

The bedroom door slams against the wall from the force of being ripped open, the sound rattling against your eardrums as you dive for the false compartment hidden within the wardrobe. Trembling hands fumble with the latch– papers, half folded clothes, and shoes scatter along the hardwood floor as you tear the wardrobe apart. 

Empty. 

No crumpled papers, no half-smudged ink drying along the leather-bound journal, no ballpoint pen waiting to be written with– just the mahogany floor of the dresser gaping back at you. A nauseating wave of horror washes over you, denial tightening around your throat like hot embers. Frantically, you dart around the room like a woman gone mad, caution thrown to the wind as you search for the missing journal. 

Sheets are ripped from the bed, duvet overturned. Desk drawers are rifled through with utmost precision. The chaise lounge scraps against the floor, lopsided with the hope of the book hidden between the cushions. But no matter how feverishly you searched, the journal was gone– seemingly vanished into thin air. 

But you knew better. You knew Brahms– the weight of the world crumbling around you as tears well in your eyes. That horrible, sinking feeling in your gut twists like a knife– finally revealing its godforsaken name. 

Retribution.

The sound of glass shattering echoes through the house with the force of a gunshot, sharp and violent. Then, another. Your bones rattle as the crashes clatter throughout the first floor. Something heavy topples, metal screeches, weighted footsteps stomp through the floorboards beneath you. Before you can think you jolt to your feet, legs pumping as panic rushes towards the chaos. 

In your haste, you almost trip over the cleaning bucket in the hallway– now discarded. Lurching down the stairs, blood pounds in your ears as you approach the destruction. That telltale saying engraved into your very being plays like a broken record in your mind. 

Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the–

As you round the corner into the foyer, the breath is ripped straight from your lungs. 

The floor is littered in torn pages, every surface coated in paper and ink. Your words, your secrets, once scrawled within the false comfort of your room were now displayed like war trophies across the room– each screaming one word: guilty. 

Sentences you never imagined to see the light of day were underlined in crimson, at least– what you prayed was red ink. Words torn from the deepest recesses of your mind stare back at you, a cruel act of vengeance on display. 

“I hate him. I wish he were dead.”

Below it, another. 

“He treats me like a slave. He’s a monster.”

The words taunt you, coated in a laughable cruel twist of fate. The scene made you sick. 

“The punishments are the closest thing he will ever get to love. It’s sadistic.”

“He looks at me like he owns me, yet for some reason I can’t shake that feeling from my mind.”“I dreamt of the tunnels again… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub the sins of that night from my skin.”

“I hope he rots in hell.”

“Why do I ache to be scolded? The silence is the worst of it all. What is wrong with me?”

And the final nail in your coffin, the passage you wrote just hours ago– your confession.

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”

You almost choke on your breath at the words. You had written that in the still moments of the early hours, when you were faced with nothing but the truth. Now, it was being used against you. 

The gutted leather of the journal meets your gaze, turning your blood to ice. There, in the center of the foyer’s fireplace, stabbed through by a rusted poker like a slaughtered animal. It was a crime scene, your fate held in the balance by the judge, jury, and executioner– Brahms Heelshire. 

Your knees wobble, legs threatening to give out beneath you as you gape forward. This wasn’t just an act of revenge, it was a message. A twisted celebration of your betrayal, now on full display. It wasn’t about the journal– it was about what you said. He had read every word, and now?

You had to pay the price.

Lips trembling, the silence of the manor feels stifling. The walls seem to close in around you, much more akin to chains– caging you in. Fists clenching, you turn on your heel, fully prepared to flee the scene and pray for forgiveness later. 

His voice cuts through the silence: cold, low– halting you mid stride.

“So that’s what you really think of me.” Brahms emerges from the hallway, light glistening across that haunting mask, fingers twiddling around something as he set the stage for your downfall. Your pen. Stalking into the room with calculated steps, you shrink against his gaze– dread weighing you to the floor like prison shackles. 

“You think I’m some kind of monster,” He seethes, ragged breaths so strong they shake his broad shoulders. “-some thing you hate.” Fingers flex, the subtle notion too terrifying to interpret as his fiery gaze sears your skin. He’s relishing in your fear, you realize. Basking in the blind panic like a predator stalking its prey. 

“You’re mine!” A fist crashes into the wall, punching into the drywall and rattling the foyer. You flinch, heart leaping into your throat at the weighted words. You want to cry, want to beg, want to fall to your knees and pray for forgiveness and swear you would never do it again– but you can’t. You know there’s nowhere to run, you’re trapped. 

Stepping forward, Brahms snatches the nearest page to him– jutting it towards you like a court verdict. “Do you remember writing these things?” His voice drops to a whisper, words strained. “Do you remember thinking them, practically saying them out loud?” You swallow thickly, response dying on your tongue as you fight back tears. 

“I know you meant it– every word.” Closing the gap between you, Brahms towers over your trembling form. The cool porcelain of the mask brushes against your forehead as he leans closer, breath fanning across your skin. “-Now, I’ll make you prove it.”

You don’t know if he means your hatred, your desire, or both. 

With that, Brahms crumples the paper between his hands, tossing it towards the fireplace. There were no flames, but you swear you could feel your soul burning before your very eyes. Turning towards you once more, calloused fingertips wind around your forearm, pulling you into his chest. You stumble, fumbling as you try to pry your eyes away from the chocolate orbs that burned with something you couldn’t quite place.

Something like anticipation. 

“No more games,” Voice dropping, the grip on your arm tightens with a bruising force, causing you to flinch. “-no more pretending.” Brahms moves at that, stalking out of the room and pulling you in tow. Ducking towards a false panel in the wall, your eyes widen– knees locking as the panel is opened and the darkness of the tunnels stare back at you. 

Oh god, the tunnels. 

The tears fall at the sight, dripping onto the hardwood floor as you thrash in his grip. Broken pleas fell from your lips as you squirm, begging to go anywhere else. You sob out apologies, praying for forgiveness you knew would never come. Brahms paid your outburst no mind, simply digging blunt nails into your skin so roughly you were sure he drew blood– like he was marking you. 

The dark swallows you whole as you are dragged into the tunnels. Your pleas fill the space as if it would save you, but they drown in the void. The tunnels seem narrower now, the smell of dust and sweat and mold raking through your lungs as the walls threaten to reach out and grab you. You try to shake the memories that hang on the tattered walls like a coat of wet paint.

The chase. Fallen beams crushing you in place. Your jeans caught around your ankles. Brahms ruining you for all others. 

Breaths coming out in shallow huffs, and you try to slow your racing heartbeat. The air was damp, sending a chill straight through your bones– any semblance of comfort abandoned within the bowels of the manor. Each step dragged behind Brahms, your legs struggling to keep up with his pace as he expertly navigated the tunnels. 

The very tunnels he fucked you in. 

Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to memorize the twists and turns through the narrow passageway. It wasn’t until the familiar creak of the narrow stairs that you realize where you are. No– not here. 

The attic. 

Brahms pauses at the threshold, the door swinging open as you lock into place. The blood drains from your face as your gaze is met with the gloom of his hidden sanctuary– the very place you first met on that fateful night. Dust coats every surface like ash, casting long shadows across the rotting wooden floor. Your stomach lurches as the bed comes into frame. 

“Remember this moment.” he mumbles, the words weighing heavy in the dim room. “This is the moment that you stopped lying to yourself. The moment you admitted how much you really hate me.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, shoving you towards the bed so quickly you crumple onto the mattress in a heap of twisted limbs. Squirming like an overturned bug, you try to push yourself upwards onto your elbows only to be forced back down. The warped bed frame groans under the weight, the mattress dipping as Brahms crawls on top of you– knees effectively locking you into place as he straddles you. 

“You write that I am a monster. That I hurt you– scare you.” He taunts, any and all reason stripped away as a finger ghosts your cheek. You try to fight the flinch rising in your spine, dread mixing with the chill of his words. “You don’t get to lie and keep secrets,” he continued, bitterness stabbing into you like a rusty knife. “-Now? I’m going to show you exactly what it really means to hate me.”

A hand wraps around your throat, and it’s shameful how your cheeks flush at the touch. Your silent betrayal only eggs him on, grip tightening– not so much to hurt, but as a reminder of who exactly you belong to. “Don’t lie now,” He hisses. “You wanted me angry, wanted this.”

You shake your head weakly, a final plea for mercy. It goes unanswered. 

“Tell me the things you wrote. Out loud… I’m sure you remember.” You blink at the order, guilt scrambling your stomach into knots. “Brahms, please–” “Tell me. You wanted to confess so badly, so now you will.”

Trying to ignore the hand shifting from your throat to the collar of your shirt, your lips tremble as you think of the gutted pages in the foyer– the ones that damned you.

“I… I hate him. I wish he were dead.” you whisper, fingers scraping against your clavicle as your buttons are hurriedly undone. 

“Louder.”

Voice cracking, you obey– reciting every horrible thought, every twisted confession. Every word exposing you in ways you wished you were never seen. Even as you fumble, you could practically feel Brahms’ smile through the mask as he absorbed your corrupted betrayal. 

“Say the one about the punishments… I liked that one.” You swallow thickly, hot tears trailing down your cheeks, throat burning with shame. Your tears are wiped away with such devotion it mocks you, shirt undone and exposing your trembling torso. 

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I… like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?” 

Porcelain rubs against the column of your neck and Brahms leans down, sending goosebumps down your spine. “What does that say about you, hm?” He murmurs, voice too soft– too calm, breath wafting along your skin, dripping with less than pure intentions. 

“It says you’re mine– and that you were always going to be punished.” You know you should protest, fight the ridiculous notion, but deep down you know he was right. “So now, little liar… I think your lesson is long overdue.”

A yelp tears itself from your throat as your wrists are forced upwards, something metallic winding around them– binding you to the bed frame. Insticintly, you tug, struggling against the thin wire securing them in place. 

You’re shaking now, blood simmering as your wrists go raw from the friction, the prospect of escape dwindling as the pads of Brahms’ thumbs draw slow, calculated circles into your lower rib cage. If you had known any better, you would have considered the action soothing– but as his gaze burned into you, it felt anything but. 

“Comfortable?” He’s mocking you, hidden smirk dripping in pride. His touch feels like ice, but you jolt as if you were burned. You shake your head, breath catching as you tug on the restraints— but he only laughs, the sound coated in bitter disappointment.

“Still lying, like you hadn’t dreamed about this before. But it’s alright– after tonight you’ll never be able to lie again.” A hand lazily palms at your clothed breast, the chill in his touch stiffening your nipples. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to slow your breathing as your bra is ripped away from your chest, straps digging into the flesh of your back before snapping from the force. 

Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you suck on the flesh for comfort, willing yourself to not squirm as the frigid touch brushes your nipples. Brahms sighs in contemptment, the sight of your undressed torso unexplored territory. 

After all, he would actually be able to see your reactions this time. The thought alone sends electricity sparking through the air, realization dawning on you as your nipples are roughly rolled beneath his fingertips. 

You jolt, trying to twist away from the borderline painful touch, but Brahms continues his methodical exploration of your breasts. Thumbs tracing the underside of the mounds of flesh, his hands seem to swallow you whole. A taunt whimper slips, and you want to sink into the mattress and disappear forever– embarrassment heating your cheeks. 

Brahms pauses, fingers frozen above your skin. You glance upwards, blood turning to ice as those chocolate orbs swirl with an idea. Brahms shuffles, producing a long strip of fabric. Your eyes widen as he leans forward, tying the fabric behind your head– effectively cutting off your sight. 

No.

The memories of the tunnel come flooding back. The dirt needling into your knees as you clawed at the floor, the ache in your ribs as they scraped against the fallen beams. The feeling of Brahms’ nails digging into your hips as he defiled you. 

Darkness coats your vision, and you strain against the fabric. “Brahms, please–”

Something rough scraps against your shoulder, curls tickling your jaw. Uneven, puckered skin brushes downwards towards your breasts, and you shudder at the sensation. Oh god, he wasn’t wearing his mask. Stubble needles into your skin, followed by something wet. 

Brahms breathes against your skin, burrowing his face between the valley of your breasts. You cringe at the feeling of his scars digging into you, lip trembling as his mouth latches onto one of your peaks. Teeth sink into your nipple, and you whimper– jaw clenching as his tongue flicks across the sensitive skin. 

“No more pretending to be good, you want to be punished. You wrote it countless times, so now I will.” He murmurs, barely audible as he peppers your breasts with heated kisses. It was so wrong, the mixture of the roughness of his deformity and the softness of his tongue sending heat flickering through your stomach. 

Exposed, humiliated, and completely at his mercy– just the way he taught you. 

Spit coats your chest as Brahms drools over you, hands tenderly gripping your breasts before giving them a harsh squeeze. Your spine straightens, and Brahms chuckles at the reaction. Eager in the pursuit to enjoy your skin unprohibited by the mask, fingers trace down your sternum, creeping towards the edge of your waistline. 

The fabric of your jeans catches on your hip bones as they are pulled down, gathering around your knees. You shudder as the cold air sinks into your naked skin, stomach clenching as you go gooseflesh in the chill. Dexterous fingers press onto your unclothed pussy, and you gasp. 

“Poor thing,” Brahms muses. “What happened to that pesky backbone of yours?”

Fingers slip into your folds ever so slightly, and you pull so hard against the wire the bed frame creaks. “You’re wet– disgusting little liar. Pretending you hate me while you drip on my fingers.” Course pads swirl against your clit, and you moan. “Say it. Say you want your punishment.”

You clamp your jaw shut, refusing to give him the benefit of your words. A sharp sting jolts through your pussy, causing a pained cry to rip from your chest– he slapped you. Tears threaten to fall as Brahms rubs the tender flesh. “Say it.”

A pause. “I… I want it.” You swallow thickly, surprised at the submissive tone in your shaky voice. 

“You need it.” 

“I–” You hiccup, snot running down your nose.. “I need it.”

Two fingers plunge into you so abruptly you whine, stretching you uncomfortably and scissoring. There was no tenderness, but something much worse– cruel indulgence. You clench around his fingers as they fuck into you. Sinking further into the mattress, you try to slow the merciless pace Brahms set for you. The hand that wasn’t making you soak his fingers digs into your waist, nails sinking into your flesh and leaving red crescents in their wake.

You shudder, hips twitching as the brutal pace massages your gummy walls. The cloth digs into your temples as you squirm– hot, heated breaths quickly filling the space as the telltale warmth grows in the pit of your stomach. 

“I own your body, your mind. Even your pathetic fantasies– there’s nothing left that’s yours.” Brahms growls, jaw scraping against your collarbone as he sinks his teeth into the column of your neck. A broken moan tears from your throat, saliva coating your skin as Brahms laps up the assaulted flesh. You clench around his fingers, stomach tightening as his fingers sinfully plunge knuckle deep. 

Lewd squelches, another betrayal of your body, ring in your ears. Your cheeks flush as the pads of his fingers drill against the spongy spot that makes your head spin, fingers twitching within the bonds of the wire. Your hands were going numb from the pressure, tingling spiking its way down your spine with every rough thrust of his fingers. Your knees burn, scraping against the scratchy material of your jeans due to your incessant squirming. 

The stoked embers within your stomach only grew, heightened by your shame. Every movement, every sound dilated under the darkness of the cloth covering your eyes. You strain your ears to hear something, anything that could distract you from the growing ache between your legs. It felt as if you were on fire, a sheen of sweat coating your skin and  dripping down the valley of your breasts. 

It was all too much, too hard– your pussy clenching around those godforsaken fingers in a vice-like grip. His fingers claim you in a way that your own could never fight against, pushing within you so desperately that your eyes flutter behind the makeshift blindfold. A third finger slips alongside the others, and you feel like you’re going to burst. 

“Brahms, hah–”

“That’s it.” He breathes, “-Make those sounds for the monster you hate.” As much as you want to burrow your face into the mattress and crawl within your skin, your body falls into the dizzying feeling of falling from grace. Brahms, ever eager to coax more noises from you, thrusts his fingers upwards abruptly, thumb drawing hard circles on your clit.

Oh god, you were going to squirt at this point. 

“Brahms, I’m sorry, please–” Toes clenching, your spine straightens, head knocking against the bed frame as your back arches, hips begging to chase the high that was threatening to spill over. You were so close it hurt, breath coming out in strained huffs– another low, needy moan escaping. 

Then it was gone. 

Brahms retreats his fingers right before the climax comes crashing down, any sense of relief spoiled as you clench around nothing. Your eyes widen beneath the blindfold, forearms aching as you wriggle against the wire, knuckles white as you bite back the sour taste of dissatisfaction. Trying but failing to stifle the groan of anger building in your chest, your jaw groans from the pressure of choking down your pride. 

“What was it you said?” His voice cuts through the air, “-that my punishments were… sadistic?” 

The blindfold feels cold and wet against your face, and you realize you were crying. The punishment was clear now, he was going to have you fall apart on his fingers only to take away the release you craved for– and there was nothing you could do about it. 

Just the way he likes it. 

The cycle began after that. He wouldn’t ask, or coax– just claim you with his fingers, dragging your body to the depth of hell so you were begging for him, for mercy. Bring you to the tipping point just to rip away your climax, only to start over again. Tears turned to screams, prayers to begs, yet the cycle would just repeat itself. 

Over, and over, and over. 

You couldn’t even count the amount of times he had tormented you at this point, certain you had blacked out after the first four cycles. Wrists hanging weakly from the wire were red and raw from your struggles. The blindfold was soaked through, a mixture of your tears and sweat clinging to your feverish skin as you blankly stared into the darkness. Throat hoarse from your pleas, you could only let out a strained croak as Brahms’ fingers slid out of your convulsing body once more. 

“Please, no more.” You sob, entire being full of  an ache you knew only he could fix– yet you knew better than to beg. “Please, I can’t–”

“Tell me you hate me.”

You freeze at that. Fingers dig into the fat of your ass so roughly you cry out in pain, but Brahms only sighs.

“Tell me you hate me.” He repeats, fingers moving dangerously close to your aching pussy. Terrified of another torturous cycle, all you could do was obey.

“I…” you swallow. “I hate you.”

It was true, you did hate him. You hate how through all of the pain and the hurt and the betrayal, you still crave nothing but him. It disgusts you. Worst of all– he knows it too. 

“You wrote that I ruin you– let me finish the job.” Hands grip your hips, effectively flipping you over with utmost ease. You groan, arms twisting uncomfortably in front of your head as your shaking knees meet the mattress. Trying to push yourself up on your crooked elbows, the crown of your head is shoved into the pillow, the taste of mildew and sweat filling your nostrils. You squirm uncomfortably, taking in greedy gulps of air against the damp pillow– trying to ignore the brush of Brahms’ hips meeting the fat of your ass. Without warning, Brahms drives forward, spearing you on his cock so quickly a pain-riddled gasp falls from your lips. 

Allowing you no time to adjust, Brahms steels forward, rocking his hips against you so vigorously the bed frame rattles against the wires– forcing you to bow against him. The ache in your pussy screams against the much bigger intrusion, and with every thrust short, quick gasps melt into the pillow beneath you. 

Toes curling at the force of the brutal pace, your jaw slacks– drool running down your neck as Brahms filled every inch of space you might’ve used to resist him, hate him. You flutter around his incessant thrusts, trying to alleviate the pressure that had been building within your stomach for the past few hours. 

“You know, sometimes I hate you too.” A rigged smack against your ass jostles you against the mattress, pain needling down your leg as Brahms rubs the inflamed area. Continuing to bully his way into your sore walls, Brahms groans at the sensation of you falling apart due to his ministrations– how ironic. 

“I hate the way you lie to me.” A strike.

“I hate when you smile at me like you aren’t scared of me.” Another one. 

“I hate that you look at the walls instead of me when you speak.” His breath is hot against your lower back, feeding the fire growing against your skin as another strike rings out through the attic. “-Like, mmh– you’re thinking of ways to escape.” 

You’re sobbing now, knees wobbling as blow after blow ripples against the fat of your ass, no doubt leaving it an angry red. “I hate that you wrote about running away– about leaving me like I wouldn’t find out.” A strike so heavy it almost topples you lands, and you scream. 

“I hate that even now, you’re pretending you don’t want this.” He presses deeper with every word, rutting against your cervix– making your eyes roll back into their sockets. “-That you don’t want me.”

Another strike.

Babbled apologies rattle your rib cage tainted with shame and guilt, prayers of gentleness left with no response. “But worst of all, I love the way you hate me.” He shudders, wrapping a fist around your hair and forcing you to arch against him. Teeth sink into the unmarked junction of your neck as he bottoms out inside of you. 

“It means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.”

You break then– a silent scream filled not with relief, but shame. Sparks fly across your vision as you orgasm, overstimulation racking through your limbs and shaking you to your core. Head reeling, your nails dig into the flesh of your palms, drawing blood. A scream echoes through the room, raw and heated and divine– and you realize it was coming from you.

Brahms devours it, the essence of your ruin sweeter than any other victory. Hips stuttering against you, his nails dig into your hips– holding you against him as he climaxes. Thick, hot ropes of cum coat your sore insides, and you clench at the feeling. Shallowly thrusting his orgasm into you, Brahms lets out a sigh of relief before stilling completely. 

You flinch at the sensation, overstimulated pussy screaming for solace– for mercy. Yet, Brahms Heelshire is not a merciful man, opting to reach over you and undue the wires holding your wrists taunt. Limbs free, you all but collapse onto the mattress, earning a chuckle from the male behind you. 

Mirroring your movements, Brahms pulls you into his arms– the very ones that tormented you for hours on end. Spooning you in bed, Brahms refuses to leave the warmth of your pussy, another testament to your punishment. Holding you with the reverence of a lover, the blindfold is stripped away from your gaze, revealing the dark gloom of the attic once more. 

A thumb wipes away a stray tear, drawing circles on your cheek as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The action makes your stomach lurch with dread. “You’ll learn to love me properly now, without the lies.” Brahms hums, tucking his scarred flesh into the crevice of your neck. 

A pause. 

“...the way I love you.” He finishes. If it was a threat, you didn’t care. You were too tired, too broken to think about anything other than the dull ache between your thighs. A hand intertwines with yours, held over your stomach where you could still feel the outline of him buried inside of you. If you knew any better, the action almost seemed holy– a vow, a promise to you. 

“From now on, no more pretending. You’re mine– forever.” You know he doesn’t mean romantically. He means you’ll never leave this godforsaken house, never have a single thought that doesn’t already belong to him, never leave him alone again. 

As you lay in the attic, the air still smelling of sex and sweat, darkness begins to overcome you. While Brahms nods off in the late hours of the night, the sweet release of sleep doesn’t come. 

Because when you sleep beside a monster in a house that holds no secrets, you learn not to dream.

[part 3]

[i2rizz]

Life sized plushie

Kaiser, Rin, Sae, Reo, Shidou

| masterlist

Michael Kaiser

The moment you dragged a massive box into the living room, Kaiser was already side-eyeing you. The smug smirk he always wore twitched slightly, intrigued but suspicious.

“Schatz, what the hell is that?” he asked, arms crossed as he watched you tear through the tape.

You grinned up at him. “A surprise.”

The moment the cardboard flaps opened, he saw it.

A life-sized plush of himself.

Kaiser blinked, staring at the overly perfect replication of his features, from the striking blue and gold eyes down to the signature cocky smirk stitched onto its fabric face.

Silence.

Then, laughter.

Not yours—his.

A full, deep, slightly unhinged laugh as he leaned on the wall for support. “You—you bought this?” he wheezed. “Oh my God, I knew you were obsessed, but this? This is insanity.”

You pouted. “If you think it’s so crazy, I can just return it—”

He lunged forward, snatching it out of the box and holding it at arm’s length. “Nope, this is staying. I need it to remind me of how deeply, hopelessly in love with me you are.”

You rolled your eyes. “If anything, I bought it to keep me company when you abandon me for practice.”

Kaiser scoffed, slinging an arm over your shoulder. “Guess I have to make up for it then, huh?” His lips brushed against your temple. “But, Schatz, if I ever catch you cuddling that thing instead of me, we’re going to have a problem.”

You smirked, arms crossing. “Define ‘problem.’”

Kaiser’s grin turned sharp. “Let’s just say you won’t be needing a plush for comfort.”

Itoshi Rin

Rin wasn’t expecting a package when he came home from practice, so when he saw the massive box sitting in your shared apartment, he was immediately on high alert.

“[Name], what’s this?”

You beamed. “A gift.”

Rin shot you a wary look before opening the box—and freezing.

A life-sized plush of himself sat inside, its expression somehow capturing his usual annoyed scowl.

Rin stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the plush.

“This is unnecessary,” he deadpanned.

You pouted. “I thought you’d like it.”

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do you even need this?”

You shrugged, wrapping your arms around the plush’s waist. “You’re at practice all the time, so I figured I’d get a stand-in.”

Something twitched in Rin’s jaw. “A stand-in?” His voice was dangerously calm.

You hummed. “Yup. It’s comfy too.”

Rin narrowed his eyes. Before you could react, he plucked the plush out of your grasp and tossed it onto the couch like it was trash.

“You want comfort?” He grabbed your wrist, pulling you flush against him. “Use me.”

Your breath hitched.

Rin smirked, eyes dark with something unreadable. “I’m real. And I’m right here.”

The plush, long forgotten, lay abandoned on the couch.

Itoshi Sae

Sae sighed when he saw the suspiciously large package waiting for him after practice.

“Don’t tell me,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Another one of your genius ideas?”

You grinned. “Actually, yes.”

Sae raised a brow and slowly opened the box. The moment his eyes landed on the plush—a life-sized version of him—he visibly froze.

Then, he sighed again.

“You’re ridiculous.”

You crossed your arms. “You don’t like it?”

He scoffed. “Oh no, I love having a stuffed version of myself staring at me in my own home.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the plush and held it against your chest. “Well, I think it’s cute.”

Sae’s eye twitched when he saw how easily you hugged it. “You’re not actually going to sleep with it, are you?”

You smirked. “Why? Jealous?”

Sae huffed. In one smooth motion, he snatched the plush from your hands and unceremoniously shoved it into the closet.

“If you want me,” he muttered, tilting your chin up with his fingers, “I’m right here.”

His lips ghosted over yours.

“Pick the real one.”

Reo Mikage

The second Reo saw the box, he was excited.

“What is it?” he asked, practically bouncing in place as you grinned up at him.

“Open it.”

The moment he saw himself in plush form, he gasped.

“No way.”

His violet eyes sparkled with amusement as he pulled it out, turning it in his hands. “This is so extra—” He turned to you, smirking. “I love it.”

You laughed. “Knew you would.”

Reo placed the plush down and turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Sooo… do you sleep with it?”

You huffed. “Maybe.”

Reo gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “I’m replaced?”

You playfully shoved him. “You’re impossible.”

He laughed, but when his arms wrapped around you, his voice softened.

“You don’t need a plush,” he murmured. “I’m here, always.”

You smiled.

“Good,” you whispered. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Shidou Ryusei

The moment Shidou saw the plush, he cackled.

“Babe, what the hell is this?”

You smirked. “Your replacement.”

Shidou snorted. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s cute.” He leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper. “But I know you’d miss me too much.”

You rolled your eyes. “Believe what you want.”

Shidou grabbed the plush and examined it. “Damn, they really got my jawline right.” Then he frowned. “But why does he look so tame?”

You sighed. “Because it’s a plush, Shidou.”

Shidou hummed, tossing it onto the bed. “Well, as long as you’re not cuddling it when I’m around, I’ll let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if I do?”

Shidou grinned, eyes darkening.

“Then I guess I’ll have to remind you who the real one is.”

His lips were on yours before you could react.

The plush? Forgotten.

Your sanity? Gone.

Lemme know if u want more characters added :>>

[snail-day]

Kiss The Fish

Based off of this little blurb I did a while back <3

Yandere Siren! Gojo x Blind! Reader

TW: Yandere, Monsterfucking (two of them? tentacle like?), Cream pie, dubcon/noncon, body horror, gore, open ending, drowning, power imbalance, Death, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you @eevwrites for staying up late and yapping about this with me (and for playing minecraft while we yap <33) I hope you get the best sleepies in the world.

The last thing you remember before being swallowed whole by the icy Pacific was a push.

Not a stumble. Not some tragic misstep. A sharp, deliberate shove between your shoulder blades that sent you lurching forward into nothing.

Air was torn from your lungs before you even hit the water.

Your scream—high, broken, instinctual—shattered against the wind as you flailed, hands slicing through space. There was nothing to cling to. No railing. No mercy. Just the flutter of your ridiculous dress, too many ruffles, far too many bows, the weight of the fabric blooming outward like a funeral wreath as gravity dragged you down.

Down, down, down.

The water. It didn’t embrace you. Instead, it devoured you. Freezing and fast, it surged into every crevice—your nose, ears, mouth, anywhere it could reach. Your body convulsed from the shock, muscles seizing as icy tendrils coiled around your limbs, yanking you deeper into the obsidian belly of the ocean. There was no up or down. No light to orient yourself by. Just a cold so sharp it felt like knives against your skin.

You couldn’t see. You never could. But here, in the deep, it was different.

It wasn’t just darkness—it was nothingness.

Blindness on land meant familiarity. The warmth of your room. The soft echo of your breath. The subtle brush of breeze through the window.

 But this?

This was a vast, voiceless void. A pressure-cooked silence. A sensory grave. You didn’t know which way was the surface. Which way meant life?

Or which was meant to be death. 

You kicked, desperate. Clawed through water too thick to move in. Bubbles streamed from your lips like tiny screams, and still you sank. Panic howled inside your skull, thundering louder than the boat’s fading engine. You tried to remember how drowning worked - wasn’t there a moment where you blacked out? Where the pain stopped?

The cold chewed through your nerves. Your chest ached, lungs locked in an unbearable vice, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. You thrashed, weightless and leaden all at once, your heartbeat a deafening war drum in your ears.

And then something touched you. 

Brushed against your ankle.

Too warm and sentient. It coiled around your leg like a serpent, slick and possessive.

Your mind screamed louder than your body ever could. Adrenaline surged in one final, useless wave: fight or flight. But you couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t flee. All you could do was feel.

Arms wrapped around you — solid, strong, inhuman.

Not cold. Not like the water. No, this was a heat that radiated into your bones, cradling you like a lover, lifting your limp body with agonizing gentleness. Hands - clawed, maybe - pressing you close to a chest that thrummed with something alien and melodic.

You were being carried.

Up. Or down. You couldn’t tell. You could never tell.

Were you still dying? Was this death? Were you hallucinating some mythical savior in your final moments? Something old and godlike from the sea?

You think you felt a tail. It curled and shimmered through the water like silk, bracing you tighter against something solid.

You suddenly felt something rough against your skin, sand, it scraped against your palms as you were laid down —  the shore, warm and coarse and real. You coughed violently, bile and salt and sea pouring from your lips in heaves. Your ribs burned. Your lungs clawed for air.

There were sounds now — real ones. Waves. Wind. The ragged sob of your breath. And something else.

Flapping.  Not wings. Fins? Something slick and heavy shifting just beside you.

You curled inward instinctively, salt-stiff dress sticking to your legs, the weight of it dragging at your limbs like seaweed. Your hands trembled as they tried to find purchase in the sand. Your mind reeled. Still blind and helpless. Still something’s prey.

But then — a touch.

Wet fingers grazed your cheek again. Long, reverent. A thumb ghosting under your eye, almost like it missed you. As if it had longed for you. A claw caught briefly on your skin — not enough to cut, but enough to remind you. It wasn’t human.

And neither, perhaps, were you anymore.

Warm breath fanned over your mouth. Close. So close. Your lips parted without thinking, tasting salt and something else. Something sweet and sea-born. Something his.

“...Thank you,” you rasped, voice nothing more than salt-burned air.

Silence followed.

And then finally, a hiss. Drawn out. Fragile. Starving. Not angry — at least, not yet. Just yearning.

And then it all shattered.

The thunder of boots on sand.  The crackle of dry seaweed under heavy feet. The roar of men cheering. A voice like rusted knives, thick with blood and fish oil and stale wine. Your father.

“The siren,” he breathed, awed. “You caught it.”

Caught?

Slender hands seized you next before you could think more on your father’s words. Delicate only in size, but not in touch. You knew her — one of the housemaids. She smelled like lavender soap and liniments used for scrubbing backs. Her fingers were cold, her grip clinical.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, dearie,” she murmured. Not unkind. But distant. Oblivious.

You were lifted roughly. Boneless in her arms, your soaked dress clinging like dead weight. Hair matted across your face. Lips split and slack. Your limbs swayed with every jarring step she took —  legs dangling, knees bumping against her hips.

And from the surf — he screamed.

A sound that did not belong on land. A noise that split open the air like lightning through rotted wood. Not pain or even fury. Something older. Hollow. Ancient.

And then came the metal. The rattle of chains. The dry hiss of nets. The guttural commands of armed men thick with salt and ego.  Shouts of strategy turned into panic.

“Harpoons — now!”

“Hold him down, he’s - he’s not —”

“Jesus Christ, what is that thing — ”

The air turned metallic. Heavy. The scent of copper and salt and him filled your nose like smoke before a firestorm.

Ripping.

You heard it. Felt it in your chest.  The wet, sickening tear of flesh split apart. The squelch of something soft and vital spilling onto the sand.

The maid’s hands clenched tighter. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. Her breath came faster. She started to run.

Those screams.

Not sharp anymore. But gargled. Choking. Drowning in their own blood.

And above it all, the low, keening hum of something monstrous. A sound no human throat could ever replicate. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your heart pounded like it might crack your ribs. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body knew before your mind could catch up —  something beautiful and horrific was behind you. Something not meant to be seen.

The maid hissed, as if realizing you were listening too hard.

“Be thankful you’re blind,” she whispered.

And for the first time in your life. 

You were.

Because you didn’t see the way he moved. Didn’t see the way his mouth unhinged. Didn’t see the bones he snapped like a twig or how the blood sprayed across the surf in thick, arterial arcs.

Didn’t see the smile.

But you sure felt it.

Every step the maid took trembled under the weight of it. You felt her flinch when something wet hit her back.  You heard a body collapse, still twitching, not far behind.

There, on the blood-soaked beach. He waited.  In the aftermath of the slaughter. In the salt-slick cradle of death.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A small part of you had sunk inward long before you sank into the bath.

Now, half-limp in the scalding porcelain tub, you sat in silence while a new maid—young, quiet, smelling faintly of chamomile and starch—worked her fingers gently through your hair. Her hands were steady, but you could feel the tension in them, like she didn’t quite want to touch you.

You didn’t blame her.

The water had long since cooled from soothing to lukewarm, but you hadn’t moved. You let it swallow your body, inch by inch, up to your chin. Your fingertips had gone pruned. Your spine ached. Your throat still burned from salt and screaming.

The scent of blood clung to you, despite the scrubbing.

Despite everything.

Your father had come back.

Not quietly, and surely not clean.

You heard him retching in the next room. Heard the thick splatter of bile against tile, the wheezing gasps of a man whose stomach had turned itself inside out from guilt, grief, or perhaps just the stench of what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t say much when he staggered past the door — just offered a few garbled apologies. Maybe to you. Maybe to some half-forgotten god. Maybe to himself.

But at the end of it all, he lived.

He lived.

When twenty others didn’t. When blood soaked the beach like high tide. When something divine and dreadful rose from the surf and punished every hand that tried to pull you away.

You turned your face slightly toward the door, your voice still too hoarse to speak aloud.

Why him?

Why was he spared?

Out of everyone on that crew—strong, cruel, and desperate men—he was the only one left gasping on the shoreline. Shaking. Pale. Alive.

And you had a feeling. A terrible feeling. It wasn’t mercy. It was scent.

Yours.  

His.

You shared blood. Skin. Smell. Something primal. Maybe that was enough to keep your father breathing. Or perhaps, the creature in the water hadn’t spared your father out of grace. Maybe mercy had nothing to do with it.

It took nearly a month for things to return to a version of normal. Not true normal — not the warm, salty kind that clung to your skin after sunbathing, or the familiar creak of dockwood beneath your shoes — but something brittle. Fragile. Like a painting of normalcy stretched too thin over something dark and wet and unspeakable.

The beach was off-limits for weeks. You’d ask quietly, and your requests would be met with stammered refusals, soft curses, and sharp silences.

No walks. No wandering.  No tapping your cane along the pier. And certainly not alone.

Your father wouldn’t speak to you as much. Dinners were now quiet. His voice, once booming and sure, had dulled into a rasp. You could hear it catch in his throat like a hook when he thought you were asleep — prayers muttered to gods he hadn’t believed in before, hands shaking with what he claimed was fatigue but smelled like guilt.

When he returned from that cursed night, it was with blood crusted under his nails and a stench that clung to his skin for days. He brought no crew with him. Only the memory of the beach turned battlefield.

The authorities said there wasn’t enough evidence. The accounts were too conflicting. Too surreal.

Only one thing saved him: the maid.

The girl who dragged you off the shore, half-conscious, while the sea behind you boiled with screams. She testified. She lied. Beautifully. It was said that the storm had come in fast. Said the men panicked. That they’d drowned. That your father had saved you.

No one questioned her too deeply. No one wanted to know the truth.

And when the rumors cooled — when curiosity waned and fear became background noise — you were allowed to return.

Daylight only.

Never alone.

But you found a window. A moment. A lull in supervision.

The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the familiar path, cane in hand. The gentle tap-tap of its tip brushing the boardwalk comforted you, even as the stillness pressed in from all sides. The sand was warm beneath your soles. The breeze carried the same scent it always had — brine, distant saltweed, the breath of something old and watchful out beyond the rocks.

But something was missing.

No fishermen calling to one another or the creak of nets drawn tight with the morning’s catch. Not even the hum of boats lapping against the dock, thick with engine oil and fish blood.

Just silence. Thick, expectant silence. They were all out at sea, the rumors said. Hunting. Hoping to capture what your father failed to, or avenge those who never came back.

You found your way to the edge of the dock, your cane dipping once against the final plank before you lowered yourself to sit. Carefully. Cautiously.

Your dress bunched awkwardly at your hips. The hem hung limp, brushing the wooden slats. You let your legs dangle over the edge, the water licking just beneath your shoes.

And there, with the sun high and the shore silent, you felt it.

Not quite a touch or a sound, but the feeling of a presence. A weight that pressed against your back like the heat of a stare. The kind of attention that tightens your breath. That makes your throat dry. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening — not exactly. Just… knowing.

You stiffened. You gripped your cane tighter.

It could’ve been anxiety or even the wind. Perhaps, the memory of blood-soaked sand and the screams you never saw.

But it felt specific. Personal.

And then, without warning, the water beneath your feet shifted. Not violently. Not enough to splash. But enough to ripple. Enough to feel. A current brushed up against the dock post. A shiver licked across your ankle. Barely a whisper. Like a fingertip. Or perhaps a breath. 

And in the stillness, in that space between heartbeat and breath. 

You knew you weren’t alone.

The creature—your savior, your curse—had never left. Waiting.

You heard it first. A splash. Small. Intentional. Too precise to be the tide. Water stirred beneath your dangling feet, rippling gently, reverently, like the sea itself was exhaling just for you.

A hand, wet and cool, brushed against your ankle. The sensation made your breath catch. You didn’t recoil. You should have. But the contact was cautious, almost hesitant. Curious.

You could feel the texture of it: The webbing between long fingers. The faint resistance of slick skin. The subtle drag of scaled flesh against your calf, the way it clung like velvet soaked in salt.

And then—his voice. A sound so low and sorrowful it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you.” A whine, cracked at the edges. Yearnful. Soft. Like a child left out in the cold. Like something that didn’t know how to be anything other than lonely. His voice draped itself over your shoulders like a blanket of warm fog, soothing, silken, just a little too perfect.

You shivered. Not from cold. From the way his voice pulled at you.

That’s what sirens do, don’t they? Lure. Lull. Captivate.

Or so you’ve read.

Your knowledge was limited to what little information your fingers could find pressed into Braille pages. Most academic papers weren’t keen on accessibility. Myths don’t translate easily. Neither do monsters.

And yet — he did. Every syllable of his voice seemed designed to bypass logic. He didn’t speak so much as sing. A song without melody. A hum beneath his words that resonated somewhere deep in your ribs, like a forgotten chord being struck in your soul.

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to scream or to respond. But no sound came.

Just the fragile press of breath against your lips. Just him, half in water, half in shadow.

You couldn’t see his face.

But you didn’t need to.

Not when you could feel the devotion in the way he touched you, like a man in prayer, reverent and trembling. His fingertips, half-wet, half-scaled, ghosted over your skin with the care of someone handling something sacred.

And you knew.

He hadn’t just missed you. He had ached.

“...You missed me?” you asked softly, breath catching in your throat.

There was a pause. Then the feeling of hair brushing against your calf, slick, heavy strands brushing against your leg as he leaned in, pressing the curve of his face against your calf like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. A sigh left him content and broken.

Then came the kisses.

A trail of them. Quick, warm, damp down your shin, over your ankle, to the very tips of your toes. Little presses of lips, too eager, too desperate, like he didn’t care how strange or humiliating the act was.

You flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, only to feel a sharp pinch, a claw digging into your skin, just enough to stop you. Not enough to pierce — yet.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Mmm?” he hummed, a low vibration in your bones, amusement curling like smoke through every syllable. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. A wet, sticky joy.

“You torment me,” he whispered. “Bewitched me. How cruel of you… to make something like me weak.”

The last word hit like a bruise. But you wouldn’t use the word weak to describe him.

Never him.

Not when the sea had screamed for him.

Not when twenty men had died on the beach.

Not when your father still woke in the night, gasping your name and whispering his.

He wasn’t weak; instead, he was just starved.

For you.

“You’re confused,” was all you managed, the words small, almost a laugh—bitter at the edges. A weak protest. A failing defense.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort…”

But he didn’t like that.

The claw at your leg sank deeper, just enough to warn. Enough to draw a sharp sting, a gasp. You winced, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—you wanted to plead. To yield. To give in to whatever he was, whatever spell he had woven in the deep.

But then he hummed. Low. Lulling. Almost sweet.

On the other hand, his free one came up to cradle your face, as gentle as the claw was cruel. Cold, wet skin pressed against your cheek, thumb brushing across your lip like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth by touch alone.

You felt the tremble in his fingers. The ache in his stillness.

And then he muttered, more to himself than to you: “How good would you taste…?”

The words were soft. Almost tender. Almost human. “If I dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, held you there until your lungs collapsed, until your breath stopped struggling in your chest, until my teeth sank into your skin…”

His thumb dipped into the corner of your mouth. Not forceful. Curious. Possessive. “…and tore your throat out.”

You froze. Your blood pulsed behind your eyes. Your lips parted, not in response but in terror. A pause. A sound caught in his throat—not a growl. A whine. Fragile. Desperate.

“I dream of that,” he whispered, voice cracking like driftwood splitting in the tide. “Every night. For you.”

Another breathless pause. The confession was too heavy for even him. “To die at my hands. For your flesh to stain my teeth. For you…”

The claw on your face jerked. You felt it. Sharp. Sudden. A slice blooming just beneath your cheekbone. Warm blood welled. Traced a slow line down your jaw.

And still, he held your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “For you to love me… as much as I love you.”

His voice shattered on the last word. Not rage. Not a command. Just heartbreak.

The kind of love that doesn’t know how to be gentle. The kind that drowns what it can’t bear to lose.

You slapped his hand away. A sharp, wet smack as your palm struck skin, slippery and cold and too real.

Perhaps it was a stupid mistake, but you didn’t regret it. Not even as silence stretched thin between you.

He didn’t growl or retaliate. Instead, he laughed.

A sound, soft, and breathless. Delighted, amused, like wind catching the edge of a bell. A beautiful sound. Inhuman in its lightness. The kind of laugh that said: You’ve misunderstood everything.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice is low, firm, trembling at the edges. “You murdered them.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just quiet, weary horror. You heard him shift in the water. Felt the slight pull at your ankle where his claw still curled. A gentle splash as he exhaled through his nose.

And then—a hum. Resonant. Thoughtful. Like he was rolling the word ‘murder’ over in his mouth, tasting it. Considering it like one might consider a foreign language or a flawed metaphor.

“Is it murder?” he mused, tone feather-soft. “They threw you in, did they not?”

You flinched.

The memory hit like cold water again. The push. The fall. The salt clawing at your lungs.

“You were to be my meal that night,” he continued, almost dreamily. “A gift. An offering. Dressed in white, ribboned like a feast. I would’ve eaten you whole.”

Another pause. A breath. His lips ghosted across your knee as he whispered: “I still might.”

He said it with such tenderness that it made your stomach twist. As though devouring you was the most romantic thing he could imagine. 

As though that was what love was—possession so complete it leaves nothing behind.

And yet, he let you go. You weren’t sure why.

Perhaps he heard the distant churn of engines—ships cutting across the sea, their steel hulls humming with human voices and guns. Perhaps the scent of strangers carried on the breeze. Perhaps he didn’t want to share you with witnesses.

But he didn’t speak another word.

All you heard was a soft chuckle, low and breathy, and then the strange sensation of his cheek resting against your calf—warm, tender, almost shy.

You flinched when you felt the skin damp—wet. Not from seawater. From blood. Yours. And still, he stayed like that. Nuzzled close. Like he didn’t want to move. Like letting you go took more from him than the killings ever did.

But he did.

And the next morning, you returned. You weren’t sure why. You told yourself it was curiosity. That it was unfinished questions. That it was part of healing. But each day, your feet found their way back to the edge of the dock. Each day, you dipped your toes in and waited. And each day, the sea answered.

Eventually, you gave up the dock entirely.

It was Satoru who had guided you to the rocks, flat and warm beneath your hands, bleached by sun and tide. He would circle you as you sat, humming low, half-submerged, his voice curling around your ankles like ribbons. You never felt him fully. Just fragments. The brush of a hand. The flick of a tail. The soft splash of him surfacing beside you to let his fingers trace your wrist like he was memorizing the weight of your pulse.

You learned his name.

Satoru.

He said it as if it were something unspoken, something soft, something only you were allowed to speak.

Sirens were meant to be lonely — your fingers had told you that much, searching across faded braille in myth-soaked pages. Loneliness made them dangerous. Starved. But some texts spoke of others. Of merfolk. Creatures not quite siren, not quite human. How they have mates.

One day, without thinking, you asked: “Do you have one? A mate?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

You were perched on the smooth spine of a seaside rock, sun warming your back, the sea misting your face. He floated beside you, so close you could hear the water sliding across his skin.

You don’t remember how that started, when you let him bring you here. When you stopped resisting the pull.

A foolish mistake. But not one you remembered making. Not clearly.

There was a pause. A shift in the water.  Then a hum, low, laced with amusement.

“I’ll tell you…” A cheeky laugh left his lips, “If you come in.” The words were playful. Lilting. Teasing like a lullaby. And as always, followed by touch—his fingers dragging along your calf, just enough pressure to remind you that you belonged to him, that he'd been patient, so patient.

Your throat tightened. “I can’t swim,” you said quietly.

You expected mockery. Dismissal. But instead, he laughed again.  Light, musical, pleased. A sound that would’ve been lovely if it weren’t brushing up against your fear like velvet against raw skin.

“Obviously,” he said, with a grin you could hear. “But I can guide you.”

One hand settled on your thigh. The weight of it was gentle, but beneath the surface, you felt his claws held back, barely restrained. His skin was slick and cool, damp from the tide, and his thumb rubbed small, slow circles against your leg like he was soothing a trembling animal.

You hesitated.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the rock, nails scraping over lichen-slick stone.

This was a bad idea.

Everything about this was a bad idea. Your mind was racing. 

This was a bad idea. One that could end horribly. An image appeared in your mind, one you would not like to reflect on. 

“Just fully submerged,” he coaxed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We won’t leave the rock.”

The promise hung in the air between you like a web. Sticky. Shimmering. False.

You could feel the water now, lapping just below your knees. You could feel him, shifting beneath the surface, his tail brushing against the rock like a current, coiling and uncurling like a waiting serpent.

And his voice—soothing, low, beautifully wrong—threaded through your thoughts, warm as blood in your ears.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You’re not sure if you trust him or if you’re even sure it even matters anymore. Still, gently, cautiously, you slip deeper into the water. Your breath stutters. Your pulse flutters.

You’re an idiot.

His hands are already there to catch you. Guiding you.  Fingers curling around your wrists, pressing them to the slick surface of the rock. Anchoring you. Positioning you. His tail wraps around your legs next, slow and deliberate. The cool, scaled muscle coils up your thighs, tighter than it needs to be. You can feel every shimmer, every shift in his body as it glides over your skin. And then, his chest. Bare. Cold. Pressed flush against your back. You shudder. His breath ghosts over your shoulder, over your throat, thick with salt and something sweeter.

This is a mistake. You know it. Like prey entering the predator’s den. Because you can feel teeth. Just barely. Grazing. Waiting.

And yet, he speaks. “I suppose I owe you an answer,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, too calm for how tightly he’s holding you.  “It’s… complicated. There’s Suguru…”

Your brows knit. His tone is strange, bitter, breathless, threaded with something almost childishly resentful. As he speaks, one hand slips to your front, tracing the laces of your corset with idle curiosity.

Rrrrip. The fabric tears like paper in his claws. Your breath hitches. You go rigid in his hold. “But Suguru…” he sighs, soft and wistful. Pouting. You hear it in his voice, like a child denied something precious. “Suguru is a male.”

A simple statement, but full of meaning. A declaration. A boundary. A grievance.

Then, his soft lips on your neck. Soft, scattered kisses trailing downward. feather-light, open-mouthed, suckling gently like he’s soothing the places he wants to bite.

“Can’t have babies with a male, you know…” The words make your blood run cold. Your breath stutters.

His hands move again, greedy, unhurried. One cups your breast, his palm cold and slick, thumb brushing over your nipple as though curious how you'd react. The other slides downward, slipping beneath the ruined hem of your dress, fingers trailing heat and water in their wake. You remember hearing a snap earlier, like claws being clipped. 

The memory drifted away at the sound of another rip. Your tights. Then your panties. A mutter under his breath, “Useless things.”

He keeps you turned, body flush to the rock, your front pressed to sun-warmed stone, the rest of you buried in his hold. His tail tightens, muscles rippling beneath scaled flesh as he coils more tightly around your legs, locking you in place with a possessive firmness that trembles with restraint. 

The water churns around your waist, lapping against your hips like it’s breathing in time with him. His hands move like he’s sculpting you - mapping, claiming, memorizing. You can feel him everywhere. On your throat, your breasts, your thighs. Inside you.

And all you can do is hold on. Tremble as he explores your body, his hands tremble slightly. You guess not in fear, but rather in excitement.

“At first,” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your shoulder, his voice a purr of reverent confusion, “when I saw you, I thought it was mating season. I was a bit worried...”

Your breath hitched, then cracked into a silent scream as his teeth sank into the column of your throat. Sharp. Blunt. Too deep to be teasing. Pain bloomed across your skin, blooming hot and fast before it dissolved into something murky and unbearable.

He groaned—shuddered—like your blood, your taste, was a relief. “I was so confused,” he went on, voice hitching, breaking, as his hand dipped lower.

Between your thighs. 

Over your folds.

Inside you.

A moan punched through him, sudden and guttural, and he all but arched against your back, tail jerking with the force of his need.

“Fuck...” his breath trembled, lips trailing up your neck, nibbles against the skin, “you’re so warm, so fucking warm...” His fingers curled inside your core, slow and possessive, drawing wet sounds from your body like music only he was meant to hear.

“Because,” he gasped against your ear, voice raw with bewildered joy, “I’d already gotten rid of my eggs for the season. Guess we have to wait until the next.”

As if that meant something. As if that justified anything. You could feel the way he trembled behind you, his chest heaving, his cock hard and pressed against the small of your back, restrained only by the last thread of reverence still clinging to him.

“And yet—you, this soft little thing in the middle of the ocean—you ruined everything.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, pressing soft, wet kisses to the skin just above where your blood still trickled.

“My instincts told me to ignore you. But my soul—” he moaned again, thrusting his fingers deeper, spreading you open wider—“told me you were mine.”

You couldn’t do anything but moan—soft, broken, trembling—while he lapped at the blood trickling from your throat. Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate. Lingering. Worshipful.

You felt dizzy. Hollowed out. Heat curling in your belly like a fever that couldn’t break.

Then his fingers—still slick and buried deep—curled inside you with intent, spreading, stretching, preparing.

And that’s when you felt it. Something hard pressed against your back—thick, ridged, hot even through the water.

Not one. Two.

Your blood ran cold.

“There’s… two.” You whimpered out in between a moan, a sharp bite on your shoulder, and left your hands gripping the sun-kissed rocks for salvation.  The realization made your breath stutter in your chest, panic beginning to flicker beneath the haze.

He felt it.  Of course he did. He always felt everything. Immediately, his touch changed. Softer. His hands, once possessive and firm, became coaxing, stroking your face as he guided your chin toward his. A whisper of pressure. A kiss before the fall.

“Shhh,” he breathed, brushing your lips with his own, “It’s alright. You’re doing so good.”

His fingers slipped out of you, and one of his lengths took their place, pressing inside with a force that made your lungs seize.

The thrust was smooth. Deep. Too deep.

Your scream never made it past your mouth—his tongue was already there, swallowing it, muffling your panic with something wet and hot and hungry. His kiss was messy, teeth dragging across your lips, fangs nicking you just enough to remind you what he was.

Your hands scrambled against the stone. Your body fought to stretch, to fit around something it was never meant to take. As his other cock bounced against your clit, making the sensation so much more unbearable. 

He groaned—more a laugh than a sound of pleasure—as he sank deeper, letting you feel every inch, every twitch of his body moving inside yours.

“Hah…” he panted, voice thick with delight, “I’m not usually this gentle, you know…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just enough to make your body jerk forward. 

“You can ask Suguru when you meet him.” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel in its fondness “He’s always scolding me for being so — fuck — rough.”

You winced as the tip of him pressed up against your cervix, an ache blooming sharp and unforgiving somewhere behind your hips. The pain had teeth, hot and blossoming like fire underwater. And still, he kissed you again, lips wet and unrelenting, fangs dragging across the plush of your bottom lip like he was tasting you from the inside out.

“But with you…” he murmured, voice thick with wonder and ruin, a shudder rolling down his spine, “you’re worth savoring.”

You felt yourself begin to unravel, limp in his arms, breath shallow, nerves frayed like salt-wet lace. The drag of his cock was too much, too deep and consuming. His teeth mapped your skin with feverish precision, each bite sharper than the last, each one punctuating a devotion that veered far past human. The water churned around you, thick with heat and the iron-slick scent of blood.

He trembled behind you, groaning low and guttural as his hips pressed flush to yours, his body locking into place. You felt the full weight of him, the heat, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of it. And then, hot, sticky, release. A surge deep within you.

His moan, if you could call it that, was a high, pitchy, cracked thing. Like something old and lonely, remembering how to pray. Claws skimmed your belly and thighs, possessive, trembling. Holding you close. Ensuring every last drop stayed inside. 

Your hands slipped from the rock.  You didn’t remember letting go. He caught them easily—captured them—and pressed them flat to his chest, where something beat too fast, too shallow. Like a bird trapped beneath his ribs.

“S–Satoru,” you choked, voice thin and laced with salt, terror curling at the edges.

He pulled out of you, slowly or maybe those things, the lengths of him, were curling back into the shadow of his tail. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Siren biology wasn’t recorded in braille. No one thought it was worth transcribing. Or maybe you’re the only one who survived to tell the tale. 

“Shhh…” he whispered, soft as a lullaby, “just taking you with me.”

He laughed, breathless, light, euphoric. Like you’d given him the greatest gift without ever meaning to. As if dying for him would be enough. His hands slid down your back, down your thighs, holding you tight like a bride. 

The rock’s warmth faded behind you. The warmth of the sun was lost to the cool ocean waves.  He nuzzled against your throat again, lapped away the drying blood with reverent little swipes of his tongue, then trailed up to kiss your jaw, your lips, soft and slow, as though you weren’t drowning.

Down. 

Down. 

 Down.

Into the dark. Surrounded by pressure. The water surged past your ears. You tried to breathe. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing every desperate sound, every last shudder of protest.

You felt your body go slack. Felt your lungs burn. Your thoughts began to scatter like bubbles rising too slow to reach the surface.

And just before the black took you. 

You thought, distantly,

If this is death…

…maybe it’s better to not be awake for it.

[msgexymunson]

Soft Touches

Description: you and your dealer Eddie get a little closer than anticipated.

Warnings: acquaintances to lovers, reader is AFAB, weed smoking (both parties so no real dub con), fem oral receiving, praise kink, p in v unprotected sex.

A/N: It's my birthday! And I'm high, and horny, so happy birthday! If you've read my work you KNOW I'm a sucker for the first time y/n fucks Eddie. When I'm a benevolent dictator it shall be a universal holiday ;)

4k words

Masterlist

“Eddie, what the hell was in that?” 

Floating in a cloud of your high, the entire room seemed to glow in pink and orange, senses tinged in a sunset glow. You were definitely stoned out of your tree if you were comparing Eddie's stuffy, cramped room to a breath-taking sunset. 

“It's a new strain I got from Rick. You feeling it?” 

“Oh, I'm feeling it alright. I can hear colours.” 

Eddie's rich laugh echoed off the walls of his trailer. He laid on the bed casually, one arm slung beneath his head making his tight t-shirt ride up slightly. Just a peek of his happy trail was on display, which you tried, and failed, not to stare at. 

It was proving difficult, especially since you sat criss-cross apple sauce on his floor. His body was eye level, handcuff belt shining softly in the low light. The glint of that drew your eyes even lower, concentrating on the bulge you could see in his jeans.

You thought you were being sneaky. You absolutely were not. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you gonna answer me or just stare at my dick?” 

“Huh?” 

Shaking your head as if to clear it, you finally met his gaze. 

“I said, you can come lay up here if you want.” 

Halfway between getting up and still in a weird little crouch his words finally filtered through your addled brain. 

“I wasn't staring at your dick!” 

“Whatever you say, baby girl.” 

Frozen, mind empty of comebacks, you clambered out of your goblin stance and stood up, when the blood decided to rush to your head. 

“Oh Holy shit.” 

Your knees buckled, and you would have ended up face first on Eddie's carpet if he hadn't caught you. 

“Easy there, I've got you.” 

Eddie's firm hands held your upper arms tightly as he manoeuvred you to sit on his bed. The room was spinning, everything was drifting out of focus. 

“I need to lie down.” 

Eddie pulled you towards his pillows and laid you down gently, picking your legs up and settling them on the bed with you. Staring up at his off white ceiling, things began to drift back in. Once the room finally stopped swooping around in your vision, you started to come to your senses. 

You are on Eddie Munson's bed. You knew him, sure, only in a ‘can I come round so you can smoke us out and listen to music’ kind of way. You'd hardly call him a friend. This though, feeling the heat of his body next to you, him leaning on his side staring at you worriedly seemed entirely outside of your current arrangement. 

Suddenly the air was stifling, Eddie's warmth only exacerbating the matter. 

“You alright?” 

“Yeah, just really warm. And fucking high.” 

Eddie laughed, relieved.

“Thank fuck, I was scared for a minute.” 

You fumbled at the hem of your oversized sweater, attempting to wriggle it up your body but all motor skills were beyond you right now. 

“Eddie.” You pouted at him, flapping the edge of your sweater with frustrated hands. 

“You want this off?” 

“Please.” 

He flashed you a mischievous grin and pulled up upright, beginning to draw the offensive sweater up and over your form. 

“Didn't think you'd be begging me to undress you sweetheart.” 

Rolling your eyes in response, you held your arms over your head like a petulant toddler. Sweater removed and tossed to the foot of the bed, you risked a glance at Eddie. He was entirely preoccupied, staring at your bare midriff that was now on display. 

“It's a crop top Eddie, get over it.” 

Flinging yourself back down on the pillow, Eddie coughed, looking a little flustered, and settled in next to you. 

“Sorry, I didn't expect it. You always wear baggy shit.” 

“Comfortable shit, thank you. I come here to smoke, it's not New York fashion week.”

Eddie ran a finger across you, just below your belly button. The barely there touch blazed across your skin. 

“I didn't know you had your belly button pierced.” 

Looking down, you watch as his fingers circle it, then flick the little jewel dangling off the end. Thighs clamping together out of sheer necessity, you attempt to ignore it. 

“Yeah, got it done when I was like 15, two towns over. Probably my least painful piercing. Apart from ears, of course.”

Apparently, Rick's new strain also makes you run your mouth, as well as being insanely warm and horny. It seemed you had captured Eddie's attention. He turned further towards you, one hand holding his head up. The other, much to your relief, stayed on your stomach. You're not sure he was even aware he was still stroking your skin. 

“Least painful? What other piercings do you have?” 

You seriously considered dodging the question, but it's difficult to be devious directly to those big wet eyes of his. It's like trying to lie to a baby cow. 

“Well, I got my nose done, but the piercing fell out and I didn't bother to get a new one. That one stung. But the worst had to be my… my nipples.” 

The whole bed lurched as Eddie jumped up and sat cross legged facing you. He practically flew into action, grabbing his cigarettes and a lighter as if you were about to tell him some epic tale. 

“Right, tell me everything.” 

Whilst laughing at his wide eyed expression, you realise he's being completely serious. 

“Well, they er, they like, sanitise the… area, draw a dot where they're going to pierce you and tell you to take a deep breath in and it's done. It's super quick actually. It's more the after part that hurts. Why are you interested?” 

Eddie pushes his hair behind one ear, the tip of it is glowing scarlet, you notice. 

“I was thinking about getting it done my last birthday but I didn't have the cash.” 

He's staring at you, nervously chewing on a hang nail. You can practically see the unasked question dancing on his tongue. You weren't going to offer, hell no. If he wants to see he has to ask. The thing is, the way your tummy is bubbling right now, you don't think you could say no to those eyes of his. 

The question remains unsaid. He merely offers you a drag on his cigarette which you take gratefully, before he's stubbing it out and laying back down next to you. 

“How you feeling now? Bit less baked?” 

“Oh I'm still fucked, but I can see straight and I don't feel sick.” 

His fingers begin their dance again, skating over your exposed flesh, stroking down your side to your hip, across your stomach, and back again. You want to mention it. He's never touched you like this before, but you also don't want him to stop. 

“Good. Not inviting you over again if you hurl on my bed.” 

Giggling, you turn and face him. You're both on your sides now, knees close to knocking. His shirts ridden up again and before you can even register what you're doing you've placed a delicate hand on his hip. His eyes widened briefly, but that's it. Both of you are touching the others bare flesh, whispers of touches. Little, tentative things, like the bursting of soap bubbles on skin. 

“I wouldn't hurl on your bed. I'm sure I'd at least make it to the bathroom. I'm not an animal.” 

Eddie just grins in response, and you look at each other, really look. His dopey smile is the same as yours, and it seems neither of you want to mention how this seems to be rolling into very unfamiliar territory. 

“Eddie?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Why are you touching me?” 

He pushes infinitesimally closer, his knee now slotting between yours. It's a small gesture, but suddenly the situation feels even more intimate than before. 

“Because. Because it feels good. You're soft, and warm. And you keep making little noises.” 

“I do?” 

He smooths his hand higher, thumb dragging along the underside of your breast, and you let out a tiny, quivering whimper.

“See? Like that.” 

Opening your legs slightly wider, Eddie's knee pushes naturally further forward, his thigh now wedged between yours. His breath is fanning your nose; cigarettes, weed, and sweet snacks. 

“So sweetheart, why are you touching me?” 

Your hand presses a little more firmly, snaking underneath the hem of his shirt. With no complaint forthcoming, you reach further up, stroking his side, up over his ribs, and back down again. He responds in kind. Every kiss of fingers is electrifying, filling the room with a soft, dense tension. 

“Because it feels good. Because I saw a bit of skin and I couldn't resist.” 

“Yeah?” He's smirking as he says it, but you're beyond playing games at this point. 

“Yeah.” 

“I didn't know I was irresistible.”

You pinch his skin a little and he stares at you like you just betrayed him. 

“I didn't say that, you're twisting my words.” 

“Pretty sure I heard-” 

Cutting him off with a tickle to the ribs, he grabs your hand to stop you. 

“OK, OK! You were right, I was wrong. Nice touches again please.” 

His hand swiftly makes its way back to your skin and you continue to stroke him. 

“Nice touches?” 

“Yeah, it feels really good.” 

Running your hand up, you graze his nipple, and then bring it back down, down, until you reach the top of his jeans. You graze a finger, just one, under them, sweeping across his tensing abs. Then, you move up to more innocent flesh. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

Eddie's chest is heaving, fingers pressing indents into your flesh. 

“Nice enough?” you're the one smirking this time, pleased at the effect you're having on him. 

“Yeah.” 

It's barely a word, more of a breath. You scoot closer toward him, just a couple of inches, but it's close enough to feel his thigh start to press against your heat. Gasping at the pressure, you rub subtly against his thigh to try and relieve your mounting feelings, no matter how slightly. 

Eddie's hand starts making a trembling journey up your form, fingers twisting underneath your top. Feeling the underside of your bare breast, you both gasp. Eddie undoubtedly because you weren't wearing a bra, you because, well, the obvious. The slightest graze had your nipple hardening instantly, hips rocking forward without your control. 

“Is this OK?” 

“Yeah. Please.” 

Fingers stretching further, Eddie finally brushes your nipple. The feeling is magnified by your piercing; they've felt more sensitive since you got them done.

The moan that escapes is louder than you meant but it couldn't be helped. This simple touch is igniting through your nerves and rushing to your high brain. 

“Shit, they are pierced.” 

It seems to be a thought that Eddie said out loud by accident as he rubs his fingers over your ruddy nipple, slowly circling the silver balls of the jewellery. 

Another moan breaks from you, even louder this time.

“Fuuuuck Eddie.” 

“Yeah?” 

His touches become firmer, rubbing your nipple between thumb and forefinger, mapping the way your face scrunches up with his eyes.

“Yeah, jeez. They're really sensitive.” 

Practically panting in each other's mouths, your noses rub together. 

“Can- can I kiss you?” 

His words are so hesitant that it makes you giggle. Pressing your lips in a swift kiss to his full bottom lip, you respond. 

“I'd be mad if you didn't.” 

Eddie wastes no more time, pressing a hot open mouthed kiss to you that you reciprocate in kind. You keep it slow, leisurely traversing new territory with soft, exploring tongues. Naturally your arms encircle him, pulling him closer, closer. His arm snakes around your back as your bodies press together, like puzzle pieces slotting together and finding their perfect match. Eventually you break away to take a gasping breath as Eddie presses kisses to your collarbone.

“I don't know why we waited so long to do that.” 

“We? I thought you just wanted me for free drugs!” 

You giggled loudly at that, so loud it came out as a snort, but it didn't matter. The moment was so honest that being cool had nothing to do with it. You were bare, in a way, and so was he. 

Eddie chuckled with you as he slowly but surely pushed you onto your back, slipping both of his legs between yours. Pushing your hips up, you feel his hardness graze your pubic bone. 

“Eddie?” 

He hums a response, lips and tongue busy loving on your neck. You tug at the hem of your top and pull upwards. Eddie gets the message, moving out of the way briefly so you can strip it off. 

There you are, bare chested in front of him. You'd be nervous, if you hadn't seen the longing in his eyes. He's kneeling, one arm leaning on the mattress whilst the other compulsively strokes your side. 

“Jesus Christ your tits are perfect.” 

The moment stretches just a little too long for comfort; you're a hair's breadth away from crossing your arms over your chest when Eddie leans down and runs his tongue around and around one nipple. Mewling pathetically, you lace your fingers in Eddie's soft waves and tug. In response his teeth graze you as he sucks softly; then he gives the other just as much attention. 

Shuddering and wriggling under him, you can't do anything but whine, your hips undulating upwards to chase some friction, some release, anything. 

“Eddie, please, I need you.” 

“Umph,” He responds, muffled by your chest, “I need you to say that again.” 

“Eddie I swear to God if you don't- ” 

He laughs, cutting off your sentence. 

“Alright baby girl, I got you.” 

Working his way down your front, he takes his time planting soft kisses, making you writhe at each touch of his lips, until he reaches your shorts. 

Flicking the button open, he slowly drags the zip down and finds the little sliver of red panties poking out. 

“Hearts? Cute.” 

Thick fingers plunge into your clothes and pull them away, flinging your shorts and panties across the room into the void that was Eddie's carpet. 

Insecurity finally gripped its claws into you. What if he didn't like what you looked like down there, smelled like, tasted like? 

A moment of unadulterated panic, and then Eddie licked his tongue, slowly yet firmly, between your lips and all the way up. Barging your thighs further apart with his shoulders, he rooted your clit out with his tongue, running dizzying circles and sucking at it desperately. 

Eddie's moans rivalled your own, such neediness etched in you swear his fingerprints will be left on the outside of your thighs like tattoos, simply from the force he held you with. Barely able to shake, you compensated by pulling his hair and guiding his tongue exactly where you needed it. 

He pushed a thick calloused finger into you slowly, looking up at you as he did so. You back arched off the bed. He felt around, staring at you with such intensity you that you were seconds away from telling him to quit staring when-

“Oh God, oh fuck!” 

Eddie smirked, sliding another finger in gently to join the first, and worked your clit between his lips. He incessantly stroked a spot inside that you'd never reach on your own, a firm, beckoning gesture as if he were willing your orgasm to come hither. 

It was working. Your insides tingle, a tightness pulling straight from your gut and shooting out to your fingers and toes. Beyond control by this point, your hand pulls his hair tightly. To your amazement, his other hand reaches out to you, seeking, and you lace your fingers in his own. 

As soon as your digits touched, you were gone. Your release plummets out of you, shaking through every bone you have, leaving you a twitching puddle of a woman. His fingers chase after it, dragging every inch of squelching pleasure out of your insides until you're tugging him away and begging for it to stop. 

As he moved back up your body, licking and sucking as he did so, you tried to think of an answer to the smug grin he was just about to flash at you. 

There was none. Brain unravelled, threads wound into your nerves instead of your thoughts, you laid there, ruminating on how he'd made you come faster than any other man.

Eddie hovered over you, nose nudging your own. He must have wiped his mouth at some point whilst you were in la la land. 

“Hey pretty girl.”

“Eddie, you're really fuckin’ good at that.”

“I know.”

You laugh, tapping his side.

“Cocky.”

“Confident.”

Before you can retort his mouth is back on you, peppering kisses to your jaw, as his solid member presses into your naked heat.

“Fuck Eddie, please, please please-”

“Please what baby girl?” He asks, then sucks a hickey on your neck. 

Pulling him towards you by his shirt collar, you bite down sharply on his earlobe, pulling a little groan from his chest.

“I want you to stuff me full Eddie. I'm- I'm on birth control. Fill me up.” 

You can practically feel Eddie's eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Fuck, you can't just say that, I nearly busted in my pants!” 

Pulling himself off you for the shortest time he could, he peels his t-shirt over his head and flops back on top of you. Desperate kisses and urgent gropes spill from you both; grinding, needy things that tore at clothes and grasped at flesh. 

After fiddling and failing with his belt, you huff and tug harshly at his waistband. He chuckles, biting at your bottom lip as he unlatches it with ease and then wriggles his pants and boxers down his legs with urgency. 

More desperate grasps, teeth and tongues clashing violently, your hand reaching down to clutch at his- 

“Holy hell!” 

His eyes widen, hands coming to a halt, waiting for the rest of your sentence. You're too busy trying to glance down his front as he hovers over you, your fist firmly stroking his hardened cock.

“You're huge Eddie!” 

He smirks and thrusts into your hand, the velvet smoothness of his dick massaged  by your palm. 

“Bet you say that to all the guys.”

“Er, no, Rick's made some truth serum or some shit because that's the biggest I've ever felt.” 

You guide him firmly towards your entrance, dragging the tip of his enlarged cock through your slickened folds. He quivers over you, arms thick with tension. 

“Baby girl just, just slip it inside, please-” 

“Now who's begging?” 

Grinning mischievously, you wait for him to start forming an answer with his mouth when you slip the head inside your sopping opening. His open mouth turns into a long drawn out moan. 

You would tease him if the feeling of him splitting you open wasn't all consuming. Which it fucking is. He just keeps pushing, and pushing, until his chest is flush with yours and he's mumbling platitudes in your ear. 

“Doing so good for me. Such a naughty, naughty girl. Getting filled up by her drug dealer? Baby girls a little dirty, isn't she?”

You're trying not to let him know how much his words affect you, but the fluttering of your satin like walls tells a different story. 

“You're not my dealer.” 

“Oh really? I'm not?” 

Pulling out nearly all the way and pushing back in, you bite your lip at the drag against your insides.

“Dealer implies I buy shit. You just give it to me, like a little simp.”

Eddie's mouth drops open in mock outrage.

“You want me to give it to you now? I'll fucking give it to you baby.” 

Hooking an arm under your thigh, Eddie thrusts into you hard and devastatingly deep. And again, and again, until you start moaning wantonly right in his face, all bravado forgotten.

“Yeah? Atta girl. That good baby? Wanna feel me right here?” 

His other hand pushes against your lower stomach, the pressure deepening the pleasure he's giving you tenfold. 

“Oh Eddie, oh fuckfuckfuck!!” 

Your release explodes out of your cunt with a gush, liquid spurting out of you so hard you nearly force his impressive length out. It waves drastically, like the sea against the shore, washing and washing over you until it's hard to breathe. 

“Baby, baby! Holy shit, I think you squirted.” 

“Ya think? My God, that was… mind blowing.” 

“Yeah?” 

Looking up at him, you expect that arrogant grin, but he just looks pleased and innocent. Like a kid at Christmas. 

“Yeah, fuck yeah.”

Rolling him over with all the power left in your thighs, you pin him down and move firmly into him, ferality taking over your actions. 

“Jesus Christ, you are a dirty girl, aren't you?” 

“Maybe just a little.” 

Smirking, you hump against him, your swollen clit bumping against his pubic bone on each delicious pass. 

“Holy shit, I'm not complaining- fuck, what the- what are you doing? Jesus Christ!” 

You bounce hard on him. Seeing him writhe under you is a special kind of power, one you aren't willing to let go of. Ever.

“Fuck, b-baby girl, you're gonna make me come!” 

His intense moans spur you on further. Unable to bounce so much on shaky knees you snuggle down close to him, arms clutching his shoulders, as you grind into him. It's massaging sensations into your clit, as well as teasing your g spot with his imposing length. 

“I can't, I’m-  baby girl-” 

“I'm gonna come, Eddie please, fill me up, I wanna feel it, I wanna feel your cum inside me, please, fuckin’ breed me Eddie. Oh fuck!” 

Quivering against him uncontrollably, your legs give out, collapsing on his body as he tenses and releases inside of you. It spurs your own orgasm, snaking up your spine and gripping on your system like a fly caught in honey. An open mouthed scream is all you give him, silent but chock full of feeling, as your back arches in its own tension. 

As it curls out of you, your back gives up, and you flop forward, bones turned to pudding. 

“Well.” is all that comes out, a puff of a word, just air escaping from a collapsing chest.

“Well.” Eddie responds, waiting for what you're about to say. 

You're sure he doesn't expect it. A laugh bubbles out; a weird, inside laugh, that you probably should never share with anyone. But it keeps coming. And coming. Laughing uncontrollably, you roll off of him and try to get your stomach muscles in check. 

You'd be worried about his reaction, if he wasn't laughing with you. It was this odd mixture of tension and relief that was bursting in the air, a barrier broken and left crumbling at your feet. 

“Eddie. Fuck, Eddie.” 

“Yeah?”

‘Yeah.”

His heated hand found yours, and squeezed your fingers hard. For some reason, it felt more intimate than all of this combined. 

Giggling again, you lean into his chest, fingers dipping up to weave into his hair. 

“Baby girl, you can't just-” 

“What? Pull your hair? Because you like it?” 

Tugging on his hair dramatically, Eddie tosses his head back and groans. 

“Knew it.”

“Yeah, yeah, certified genius. It's like you don't wanna be railed again.” 

Huffing, you pull yourself on top of him again, hardened nipples brushing softly against his flesh. 

“Oh, I think I'll be the one railing you. You wanna make a bet, for next time?” 

Smug grin forgotten, Eddie stares at you in disbelief.

“Next time?” 

“Well, I hope so. Got to be the best I've ever had.” 

Stupid Rick and his stupid strain. 

“Best you've ever had?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Only if you wanna.” 

The teasing stopped. At least for now. It was pretty clear, your need for each other was outranking any goading you'd been sharing. 

At least for now… 

Taglist (Some permanents, some likely candidates, if you want to be added, jus say the word sweetheart)

@eddiesprincess86 @zestychili @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @roanniom @usedtobecooler @josephquinnsfreckles @mrsjellymunson