#the one with ONLY seeds and stems

[thewallshaveeyes]

Walter White rolls "worst blunt ever", asked to leave the blunt rotation (Canon)

[azzo0]

By now, every single person you've known has come to a conclusion: You hate fruit. They know not to bring any fruit when they visit you because it will sit in the fridge till it's rotting. In the end, you always feel bad when you throw it away.

But they're all wrong. You love fruit. What you don't like are the seeds and the weird texture your fingers feel when you're slicing the fruit. If a fruit is bruised in some place, you refuse to eat it unless you cut the bruised part. Because of these reasons, you avoid fruit altogether. It's too much work.

All that was a problem until Katsuki came along. While everyone went around singing you didn't like fruit, he was quick to notice that you had no problem eating it if the seeds were removed and they were already sliced. He brings home a different fruit every day now. Don't you dare question him because he'll whip out a lecture on how important fruit is to keep you healthy and hydrated in the cruel summer heat.

If it's a watermelon, he'll cut it into slices and flick out each and every seed. For cherries, he removes the stems and pits them before forcing a bowl full of the sweet red fruit into your hands. He knows you love peaches but won't eat them if they're bruised, so he only buys the finest ones for you. His princess deserves the best of the best.

He's fancy with the presentation, too. He'll add a bit of whipped cream in the center of a plate, put a cherry on it, slice strawberries, peaches and a few other fruits. He'll carefully arrange them around the cream and poke a cutesy little fork onto one of the slices before handing you the plate.

He makes sure to roll his eyes skyward as you coo at how cute the platter looks whilst taking pictures, but he secretly loves your reaction because it makes him satisfied knowing you like it.

"Thank you so much, Katsuki," You smile at him with twinkling eyes.

He wipes the bit of cream on the corner of your mouth, unable to fight his grin, "Yeah, yeah, just make sure ya finish it all."

[rafesangelita]

♡ NSFW ALPHABET : COWBOY!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER EDITION

warnings: fluff, soft aftercare, tit play, secrecy, descriptions of unprotected sex, cum play, breeding kink, a little bit of traditionalism, illusions to virginity loss, praise, dirty talk, oral (f. receiving), male masturbation, brat taming, mentions of having children

a/n: this took me forever, i hope y’all love it! who else should i do an nsfw alphabet for?

wc: 3.6k

₊˚⊹♡ A : AFTERCARE (what are they like after sex?)

when they don’t have to worry about being caught, or they know they have enough time to bask in each other’s post-orgasm bliss, they could spend hours just talking and whispering to each other in the their own little love bubble. farmer’s!daughter!reader loves when cowboy!rafe traces shapes into her skin, his rough fingers being a stark contrast to her soft flesh. she’s pressing delicate kisses from the apples of his cheeks down to his pecs, leaving behind remnants of her cherry lipgloss. rafe is usually the one who falls asleep last, and he takes full advantage of the matter by watching you sleep peacefully, your eyelashes fluttering closed as you drift off into a deep slumber.

₊˚⊹♡ B : BODY PART (their favorite body part on each other)

cowboy!rafe is a tits man all the wayyy. if he’s not staring at your exposed cleavage every chance he could get, he’s doing a million other things to them in his free time. squeezing and groping them whenever you two manage to sneak in a little mid-day makeout session, sucking and biting on them when he has you pinned down, crying out for mercy while he fucks you into oblivion, or his personal favorite; when you let him tit fuck you and he gets to watch his cock disappear in and out of the perfect swells. if you were producing milk, you swore rafe would be down to try it since he’s made it abundantly clear that he’s obsessed with your, what he likes to call, ‘cowboy pillows’.

farmer’s!daughter!reader can’t choose just one, so of course she’s going to go with rafe’s shoulders and his back. those were the first things that caught her attention when her father first introduced them to each other and he was wearing that tight, white t-shirt of his. she couldn’t help her mind from running straight to the gutter, her dreams soon becoming a reality when she found herself with her legs on either side of rafe’s head, her calves sitting prettily on the cowboy’s shoulders while he plowed into her like there was no tomorrow. her love for his back stemmed from watching him work shirtless all day, the sight of his muscles sending butterflies to flutter in her tummy.

₊˚⊹♡ C : CUM (anything to do with cum)

with the massive breeding kink rafe has, he prefers to fill you up to the hilt with his seed. he’ll fuck whatever cum managed to drip out of your glossy folds back into your cunt until he can’t see a single drop, the idea of you becoming pregnant further riling him up for round two. however, when rafe cums anywhere else other than your pussy, he loves to get messy. if you’re ever the one on your knees for him (which is surprisingly rare) and he finishes on your tongue, he likes to tap you with his cock as you bat your eyes up at him. he’ll even take some of the sticky succulence and spread it around your lips before watching you lick yourself clean.

₊˚⊹♡ D : DIRTY (a dirty secret of theirs)

further expanding on cowboy!rafe’s breeding kink; there’s nothing that turns him on more than the prospect of keeping you here on the farm and turning you into a mama. considering you’ve never expressed any kind of desire to ‘escape’ your town, rafe figures he might as well lock you down here with him and your babies. it’s all he thinks about when he’s inside of you. he imagines you waking him up with his favorite breakfast, a baby on your hip and another one crawling by your feet as you cook on the old stovetop. rafe would work the absolute hardest to make sure that you never have to, the only worry in that pretty head of yours being what dress you should wear for the day.

farmer’s!daughter!reader’s dirty little secret is that she actually likes the fact that you and rafe have to sneak around in order to be together. she loves the thrill. growing up, her father worked tirelessly to keep her interactions with boys very limited, so now that she had a handsome cowboy right in her backyward, she was elated once she got a little taste of something rugged and tough. every time rafe had to cover your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud, you clenched around him tighter, your whines and moans being muffled by his rough palm. “mmph, shit— you gotta be quiet, ‘sweetheart, you don’t want us getting caught now, do you?”

₊˚⊹♡ E : EXPERIENCE (how experienced are they?)

“wait— how many girls have you been with before me? be honest..” you stopped rafe from lifting your dress up, both of you breathless from your earlier exchanges of heated kisses. “i don’t think you wanna know that, ‘darlin.” you whimpered, now feeling full of self doubt as rafe deemed himself a pro and you were just utterly clueless. “i can’t do this with you, rafe, i don’t know what i’m doing—” rafe was quick to reassure you, his fingers hooking underneath your chin as he prompted you to look up at him. “i’m gonna teach you, don’t worry about it, baby,” he kissed you, “i’m gonna make you my own personal breeding whore, ‘you like the sound of that?”

₊˚⊹♡ F : FAVORITE POSITION (click here for !reader’s fav)

cowboy!rafe absolutely loves ‘cancer’ the most. he loves seeing the way your face twists in pleasure as he delivers slow and calculated thrusts that meet your cervix with each stroke. intertwining one of his hands with your own, he used the other to fist your hair at the roots, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him even when you felt your head threatening to droop. “takin’ my cock so fuckin’ good, angel, just look at that pretty face.” he praised you, making you whimper at the sweetness and sincerity in his tone. “you were made to get fucked like this,” rafe could feel his tough resolve slowly crumbling down as you brought him closer to the edge of pure euphoria, “all mine.”

₊˚⊹♡ G : GOOFY (are they serious or humorous?)

this can vary. sometimes they’ll start off humorous, and rafe being rafe, he’ll say a few jokes here and there to help you relax. however, don’t be fooled because it could turn serious real fast once he has you out of your panties. rafe loves to watch all of your reactions to his movements so he can remember what gets you riled up. in doing this, he makes sure to watch you intently, his serious gaze always making your cheeks heat as he says the filthiest things you’ve ever heard. rafe is constantly teasing you for never being able to hold eye contact with him, the intensity in his stare never failing to make you feel small. “you’re just so serious sometimes, i can’t handle it!”

₊˚⊹♡ H : HAIR (how well groomed is he?)

cowboy!rafe doesn’t shave his lower regions.. but, he does keep himself trimmed. to be quite frank, you never really cared about that aspect when it came to intimacy. you knew rafe had more important stuff to worry about other than his hair, and honestly you liked it that way. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think he looked better with a happy trail. shaving his face, however, was a different story. you had to practically beg him to keep the pornstache but once the summer heat got to him, he knew he couldn’t keep it up any longer. the stubble along rafe’s jaw always tickled you, a yelp and a half giggle leaving your lips as he buried his head in between your thighs.

₊˚⊹♡ I : INTIMACY (how are they during the moment?)

both of them are so engaging with each other, especially when cowboy!rafe talks farmer’s!daughter!reader through his thrusts, always praising her for taking him so good. even though they’re the closest two people could possibly be with one another, they’re clinging onto each other like it’s not enough; like the only way they could be close is if they merge into one. foreheads touching, fingers intertwined, lips ghosting over the others, it couldn’t get more romantic than this. they share a moment where nothing else exists, when the sounds of rafe’s groans and your whimpers are the only things that you two could make out as the world comes to a stand still in each other’s arms.

₊˚⊹♡ J : JACK OFF (how often does he do it?)

now that you two are getting in round after round nearly everyday, rafe doesn’t feel the need to do it anymore. if anything, he finds himself having to slow down a little bit, which is almost impossible, considering he has a sex symbol for a girlfriend. before you two had even kissed each other though, he had to force himself not to look at you so he could stay focused on the work he was doing. rafe made the grave mistake of watching you ride your horse one day, and had to tell your dad some elaborate lie as to why he needed to go inside for a ‘quick second’ when really he had to rub one out for the sake of his own sanity. what turned into a ‘one time thing’, soon became routine until you two finally got in bed together.

₊˚⊹♡ K : KINK (one of his kinks, read more here)

cowboy!rafe is 100% into brat taming. whenever both of your combative behaviors clash, he finds himself having to pin you down and talk you straight until you’re giving in to his every request. he loves seeing the surrender in your eyes once he’s made it abundantly clear that you’re not getting your way, and he’s the one controlling the reigns. farmer’s!daughter!reader also gets to indulge in this kink, considering it turns her on when he’s assertive and a tad bit demanding. seeing cowboy!rafe be serious and cold as steel wasn’t something new to her, but to have his stoic demeanor directed towards her was something that she found thrilling, especially because it just gave her the opportunity to rebel against him for funsies.

₊˚⊹♡ L : LOCATION (favorite place to do the deed)

contrary to popular belief; it is not the barn. sure, cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader have had a lot of quickies in there, but nothing beats the soft plush mattress of her bed. rafe is already so used to his body being sore from a hard day’s work, that once he actually puts ‘work’ into something else, he’d rather both of you be in a comfortable setting. sure, you two had grown used to the hay and the dirt from inside the barn, along with the small space of the tool shed out back, but when you finally snuck him in and you two made love on your soft, clean sheets, there was no going back. it also didn’t help that your bed was the most comfortable thing he had slept on in decades..

₊˚⊹♡ M : MOTIVATION (what turns them on?)

not even exaggerating, everything about cowboy!rafe turns farmer’s!daughter!reader on. watching him work around the ranch, lifting hay bells, roping in cattle, hell, even chugging water down was attractive. he was all man, and you were just so smitten by it. you loved the fact that he was so strong and he didn’t have to talk a lot to prove a point; his actions were always louder than his words. even the little things turned you on. before you two had gotten romantically involved with one another, your heart would beat in your ears anytime his face scrunched up in pain whenever he’d hurt himself, especially when he’d moan or groan— that’s when you’d let your imagination run wild.

cowboy!rafe on the other hand was turned on by your sassy attitude. you weren’t scared to hurt his feelings, and for a man who was used to women catering to him at the drop of a hat, he enjoyed the change whenever you played hard to get (it made him want to fuck you back into your place even more). he liked it when you insulted him since he had a list of things to throw back at you when you were underneath him crying out his name for mercy. “i don’t wanna see those tears now, ‘darlin, just earlier you told me i was good for nothing except kissing your daddy’s ass, now you’re begging me to let you cum. ain’t that some shit?” he’d laugh mockingly in you ear while you whine helplessly.

₊˚⊹♡ N : NO (what they wouldn’t do/turn offs)

cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader have never had a conversation about their “don’ts” but anything having to do with water sports or fecal matter is a gigantic no on both of their ends (they spend way too much time with the animals on the farmland, and even though they’re very much desensitized to it already, they rather not). another big no for them is bondage. despite rafe throwing a lasso over farmer’s!daughter!reader multiple times in a playful manner, neither of them want to be restrained or tied up while they’re intimate with each other. they already have to hold themselves back for most of, if not all, the whole day, so when it comes time for some much needed love and affection, they’re not going to double down.

₊˚⊹♡ O : ORAL (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc..)

cowboy!rafe is a giver at heart. his head is between your thighs at least twice a day. he can’t go without a taste or he’ll be incredibly cranky. he doesn’t care about maintaining a cleanliness when he eats you like a man starved, he prefers to be as messy as possible. the best part is that he could do it anywhere, even when it’s the most inconvenient like under the kitchen table while your father rants about the city folk and their need to expand their developments. to say rafe was skilled with his tongue would be an understatement. he knows exactly what it takes to get you going, your thighs locking around his head every time you feel that coil in your tummy burst, your cries of pleasure being music to his ears.

₊˚⊹♡ P : PACE (fast and rough or slow and sensual?)

this can vary depending on whether or not they’re sneaking around. while rafe prefers to take his time and fuck you both ways, he prefers slow and sensual so you two are much more intimate. when cowboy!rafe is slow and sensual, he’s moving his hips against yours at an angle that makes you see stars, your bottom lip trembling as he kisses your cervix with each thrust. he’s interlocking your fingers, pressing kisses to your knuckles while he watches you take him with ease. he keeps his eyes trained on your face, his chest blooming with pride every time you lose yourself and he feels your walls flutter around him, sucking him in like a vice.

₊˚⊹♡ Q : QUICKIE (their opinion and how often they do it)

sometimes quickies are all that they can spare, especially on the days where there’s a heavy workload around the ranch. all rafe has to do is give farmer’s!daughter!reader his ‘look’ and she’ll be waiting for him in their designated shed in no time. despite having to be quick, rafe never fails to have your legs trembling around his waist while he fucks you standing up, his worn out blue jeans pooling around his ankles as your back digs uncomfortably into the metal wall. your cherry red nails are raking down his back, his chin resting in the curve of your neck as he presses wet kisses to your chest. “f-fuck, you make these quickies feel like an eternity..”

₊˚⊹♡ R : RISK (do they take risks, etc..)

cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader’s entire relationship is a risk, but it’s one that they’re willing to take. with your dad being rafe’s employer, you two have had to keep your relationship a secret and keep it hidden from just about everyone on the ranch. weary of the consequences that may come out of being with cowboy!rafe, the last thing farmer’s!daughter!reader wants is for rafe to get fired and have to leave. even though your father already trusts rafe and has told him that he’s family, rafe thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes down to a man finding out his daughter is sneaking around with his hired help. in due time though, they’ll come clean about all of it.

₊˚⊹♡ S : STAMINA (how long can cowboy!rafe last?)

this cowboy won’t stop until you’re begging him to. rafe doesn’t care if he already came and he’s shaking so much with overstimulation it hurts, he won’t rest until you’re fucked out and can’t take another round. unlike your quickies, you and rafe can go for hours and have marathon sex (which is something they usually do whenever your father leaves out of town for whatever reason). you know rafe’s body like the back of his hand, and you know that as soon as he can’t hold himself up anymore it’s your turn to take the reins. it’s needless to say that rafe gets off on the fact that he’s the one that makes you lose yourself, your face when you’re cumming is by far one of his favorite sights of all time.

₊˚⊹♡ T : TOYS (do they own or use any sex toys?)

landline telephones are the only form of tech they have on the ranch, so there’s no way in hell anyone has sex toys lying around. there’s only one sex shop in town and no one would be caught dead walking out of there, considering small town gossip spread around like wildfire. farmer’s!daughter!reader is definitely more curious about sex toys than cowboy!rafe is for sure. “you don’t even need any of those things.. i’m literally right here.” rafe would act offended when you first brought up your interest in something you heard a friend of yours talking about. “i know that, obviously, i just— i don’t know.. my best friend said it was a game changer.” you shrugged. “well, your best friend is a liar.”

₊˚⊹♡ U : UNFAIR (how much they like to tease)

farmer’s!daughter!reader is notorious for this. she knows rafe is a true gentleman and that fact alone makes her do everything she could to push him past his limits and drive him insane. even after they were in an established relationship, she would do things to get a reaction out of him. this included wearing revealing outfits, riding her horse in rafe’s clear line of vision, talking and flirting with the other cowboys in order to rile him up.. but all of that was used against her once they were alone. it was rafe’s turn to tease her when the head of his cock would be prodding her entrance, her chest rising and falling as rafe muffled her whines. “shouldn’t have been trying to piss me off today.”

₊˚⊹♡ V : VOLUME (how loud are they?)

although cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader have gotten used to having to keep their volume low, it doesn’t stop the occasional squeal or scream from falling from your lips and forcing rafe to cover your mouth while he pounds you in. even though you tend to be the louder one, rafe has still had to bite down on his lip and bury his face in your neck to keep from revealing what was going down in the room next to your father’s. having to be quiet all the time gave rafe the skills to successfully whisper his praises in your ear, the gruffness of his voice only making you squeeze around him tighter. “make a sound,” he’d tease, “go ahead and get us in trouble.”

₊˚⊹♡ W : WILDCARD (random headcanon)

how cowboy!rafe reacted when you told him you wanted him to cum inside you for the first time: you were on top of him, his hands resting in the curves of your hips as he littered your bare chest with kisses. “i-i’m gonna cum—” rafe heaved, attempting to roll over so he could pull out. you only held onto him tighter, your eyes finding his as you shook your head. “i don’t want you to finish anywhere else,” you whispered, “cum inside me please.” rafe groaned at your words, something primal taking over him as he put you in a mean mating press. “yeah? ‘want me to fill you up?” he’d taunt, his fingers digging into the flesh of your calves as he emptied himself inside your needy cunt.

₊˚⊹♡ X : X-RAY (what’s going on in cowboy!rafe’s pants?)

lord have mercy. you remembered seeing rafe’s cock for the first time like it was yesterday. you two were making out in his old truck when you felt it, his jeans growing tighter by the second. you couldn’t believe he was packing that much when you saw the large bulge straining painfully against the denim material. rafe was hesitant when he felt you palm him, a shaky breath falling from your lips as you took him out of the confines of his underwear. you audibly gasped, both you and rafe sharing a look once his length sprung up. he was huge. you felt your mouth water when your eyes landed on the vein that ran down the underside of his cock, your insides fluttering with anticipation at the prospect of having him inside of you.

₊˚⊹♡ Y : YEARNING (how high is their sex drive)

cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader drive each other absolutely crazy.. these two are on each other as soon as they get the chance. they’re stealing glances at each other whenever they can, holding hands when no one is looking, playing footsies underneath the dinner table, they can never get enough. farmer’s!daughter!reader always manages to slip in a few kisses here and there, followed by a hushed whisper of a promise to give rafe something ‘more’ when they get each other to themselves. there’s no stopping them once their clothes are off and they’re tangled up in each other, neither of them willing to pull away for even a split second.

₊˚⊹♡ Z : Zzz (how fast do they fall asleep afterwards)

farmer’s!daughter!reader is usually the one falling asleep first, her body feeling spent as her eyelids grow heavy with each stroke of rafe’s fingertips on her back, and understandably so. rafe will clean her up while she dozes off, drifting in and out of sleep as he kisses her softly. on days where rafe might overwork himself, he’ll end up falling into a deep slumber in your arms, his cheek pressing against your tits as he snores softly, the compromising position making you chuckle. “you know you’re gonna have to go to the backhouse soon..” you’d whisper, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. rafe would answer with a groan, his arms wrapping around you even tighter. “i’ll leave in a little..”

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ The little gifts they give you

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

tw: none, pure fluff

✧ Pierro – Love letters hidden in the house

When you awaken in the hush of dawn, your beloved is nowhere to be seen in the house. He often rises before the world stirs, summoned by his obligations as the Fatui Director during the first rays of dawn. However, even if he has to depart as you sleep soundlessly, it’s never without leaving a small note by his pillow.

A small, beautiful card, meticulously folded and inked in his elegant cursive. A masterful piece full of words that he yearns to speak when he is away at work. You only opened your eyes, yet a smile already graces your lips when you spot the letter on his side of the bed. It reads:

“You sleep like a tender beauty, your thoughts are my constant companion. Even when you rise, the pillows and covers grieve for the absence of your warmth, like the departure of summer, leaving but the coldness of winter. So does my heart miss you when I am away. May you rise like a blooming Leucojum, starting off your morning well, while I think of you every waking second.”

He often did that, leaving you small sonnets around the house while he was away at work. His fancy for poetry and writing had endured since his noble youth in ancient Khaenri’ah, a love untouched by time. This way, even when he’s away, he still manages to bring a smile to your face first thing in the mornings.

You’d find other letters elsewhere. One day, he’d leave it in your study room:

“The pen and paper you write in get graced by your wisdom. The tomes that line your shelves store knowledge for your interest, each page covets your attention. Share your discoveries with me when I am back, my divine.” 

Another, he’d hide it by the dresser:

“When you don your attire for the day, the stars and moons would gasp in awe. Yet it is I alone who bear witness to your truest splendor. I count the second until I may once again gather you in my arms, to undo every silken layer-” 

Oops, never mind. Best not to read that one aloud. Too intimate for wandering eyes. Either way, throughout the months, you’d collect these little love letters, always keeping them safe as a memo, giddy whenever you reread them, or stashing them happily for safekeeping. For such excellent penmanship, the Jester truly deserves some extra adoration from you. 

✧ Il Capitano – Exotic flowers and seeds from all over Teyvat

‘Is a bouquet of flowers too cliche a gift for someone you miss?’ – the Harbinger pondered to himself. He stood by the outskirts of Kannazuka, not far from Yashiori Island, where the solemn sea breeze swept by crimson Dendrobium petals. He heard from locals that these flowers were thought to be instinct, yet returned to where blood was once spilled on Inazuman soil.

You’d appreciate the austere symbolism of such flora, and the Captain knelt before carefully picking it by the stem. He paid respect to each bloom, as any warrior who understands the grievances of a quiet battlefield would. Thus, by the time his mission drew to its quiet end, the 1st of the Fatui Harbinger appeared with a bouquet presented to your arms.

“Hm? You plucked these, Capi?” – You looked at him curiously, the bouquet massive in your arms. “But that means they will wilt soon.”

The Captain’s helmet dipped slightly, his unreadable face betraying a flicker of hesitance. Perhaps this was a bad idea?

“...I apologize, do you dislike them?”

You smiled at him, with meticulous swiftness, you moved with the bouquet, searching for an appropriate vase, and to fill it with water. The Dendrobiums were indeed exquisite, yet what you desired was their preservation, especially if such blossoms bore no seeds to sow. Thus, your beloved watched in fascinated silence as you showed him how to remove extraneous leaves and guard petals. It will help the flowers last longer. Now, the Captain had more ideas.

During his other expeditions, he no longer sought out just any flowers; he would seek intel on horticulture or where to purchase high-quality seeds. If he’d purchased flowers, he’d barter for seeds rather than stems and purchase plants nestled in earthen pots. If only you had witnessed the face of the poor Mondstadtian girl who overlooked the Floral Whisper shop - Flora. She went silent as to why a Harbinger was questioning how to properly maintain Windwheel Aster during transport. In truth, he was so excited to bring his beloved one more exotic plant, he could only think of your expression when you see the petals spin in the breeze. 

Thus, you found yourself with a makeshift garden, brought to you proudly by Capitano. Each flower is a fragment of his journeys, a testament of his quiet devotion. He even helped construct a modest greenhouse, sturdy and sun-warmed, to shelter those blooms that craved warmer climates. Now, every time the Harbinger is away and spots a single flower blooming in the wild, his mind wanders back to you; what else might my beloved like? 

✧ Il Dottore – Small inventions to make your life easier

To love someone doesn’t equal to lavishing that person with materialistic luxuries. Dottore knows you have little taste for frivolity, acquiring only what necessity demands. Instead, he attends to subtler needs: when you scribble in your notebooks for hours, your fingers get tired from clutching a pen, the side of your palms are smeared with either ink or graphite. Hence, one evening, he returns with a set of gloves.

“Here, give me your hand,” – he said busily, already cradling your palms as he carefully put on two-finger writing gloves, securing your skin in comfort against the soft material. “I ensured the design is versatile when you’re writing something, without tiring or smudging your hand. Tell me if it feels better.”

You never even noticed or complained about the ache. At times, the Doctor saw you plop down on the sofa, tired and whining from cleaning around. You were always meticulous with your personal space, but none is immune from the hassle of vacuuming, dusting, or cleaning the floors. Especially if it gave you a night of painful back pain. Hiring attendants would have been the simplest solution, he thought. But he preferred an idea far more personal.

“Take this,” – he casually handed you a circular device. You blinked in confusion but accepted the new state-of-the-art machinery. “An automatic vacuum cleaner. It will map out the layout of the house so it can sweep the floors whenever you’re away. Spare yourself the drudgery.”

And another time, when you were delighted by your purchase of a sweet bubble tea beverage, you wistfully lamented how difficult it was to replicate such indulgences at home. Oh well, you shrugged, but Dottore was sitting nearby, already scheming a blueprint.

A week later, your kitchen bore a marvel: a gleaming coffee and tea machine, capable of brewing, frothing, even carbonating any beverage you wished. You just have to throw in the ingredients of your choice. Be it coffees, matchas, smoothies, or bubble teas, not even Fontainian cafes had such appliances.

“Dottore, when did you have the time to wipe out such a machine? That’s massive work!” – you inquired curiously one day, but The Harbinger waved his hand dismissively, stating:

“Hm? Oh, why, this is hardly a strain. I don’t like seeing you toil over menial tasks or seek out solutions that will just burn through your Mora. If you are in want of anything, you can always ask me. You know that, correct?”

Even in matters where you never uttered a single complaint, Dottore’s ever observant nature remained unfaltering. He would silently bask in the sight of you, committing every small nuance of your life and habits to memory. He’d sit with his chin resting on his palm, silently smiling as you enjoyed his inventions or the little knick-knacks around his lab that brought your sincere smile.  

✧ Scaramouche – Learning to cook your favourite dishes

The Ballader never grasped humanity’s fascination with food. Concerning sustenance, survival required little. Animals hunted their prey without fanfare, yet humankind alone had transformed eating into a cult. Fawning over flavors? Creating restaurants? Scaramouche never got it, even when he first lived as an innocent puppet in the rural village of Tataratsuna.

So why was he here, eyebrows furrowed as he looked over the sizzling meat on the stove? Somehow, against all reason, the Harbinger cooked an entire meal exclusively for you! 

“Ah, you’re back at last. Come here,” – he beckoned you diligently to sit down, presenting you with a bowl of Gyudon, a beef and rice bowl topped with egg yolk on top. You obeyed, baffled yet in pure awe, while Scaramouche sat opposite you with arms crossed. “Well? Don’t just glare at it. Taste it!” 

So you did. “Um, Scara… did you cook this?”

He nodded silently.

“Did you… Add any soy sauce anywhere? Maybe salt or mirin?”

Oh no.

Turns out, cooking is no simple art form. There are careful blends of spices and garnishes that make even the simplest dishes outstanding. And unfortunately for the Ballader, he missed all the steps, underestimating the power of spices that one must add to the beef. He watched you gulp down with a nervous, hesitant smile. You radiated so much encouragement that it ached. Scaramouche said nothing, only sat broodingly still. Nonetheless, he had to remind himself that he was no longer in Tataratsune. The simple folks there often kept rice as a garnish, and many imports of spices never reached the rural islands of Inazuma. He does not have to run barefoot to scavenge for Lavender Melons from wind-worn hills.

He didn’t let that deter him. Little by little, he paid more attention to the spices he had to put in. Never too much, never too little. Noticing your love for rich flavors and blends of textures, The Harbinger challenges the kitchen like an enemy, learning new dishes and methods. When you simply asked him why the sudden hobby, he replied:

“I thought humans liked homecooking. So I hoped one day you’d come… knowing there would be some. Isn’t that where a home is?”

“Oh, Scara,” - your hand found the curve of his back, to which he never leaned away. “I think you’re a quick learner, because you made leaps of progress. And your last dish, the Unagi Chazuke? It was perfect.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, you know?” – he mused whistfully.

“No, I mean it. I think Chazukes are your best. But don’t get discouraged. Inazuman cuisine focuses on subtle blends of saltiness and sweetness, relying on ingredients like rice vinegar, sesame oil, or soy sauce. But Sumeru? Oh, I heard they have all kinds of spices out there!”

You went on and on with unbridled enthusiasm, weaving tales of harra fruits ground into rare, fragrant spices, prized all over Teyvat. Scaramouche listened silently, more in delight at your simple excitement. Perhaps he started to understand why humans focused so much on food. Not out of survival, but as a cultural effort to spend time together, a silent way to stay a little longer. Because whenever he sat down with you over a meal, it felt more than just an indulgence.

Maybe if he ever gets the chance, he should visit Sumeru…? 

✧ Pantalone – His coats or clothing after each date

It started by sheer coincidence. One time, the two of you were enjoying a splendid afternoon, when suddenly the wind stirred without warning, bearing the chill of an impending October rain. Caught unprepared without an umbrella, and before the two of you could bid farewell for the day, Pantalone stopped you.

“Wait, honey,” – he deftly unbuttoned his coat, wrapping it around your form from behind and adjusting the fur-lined collar to shield you from the cold. “Here, wear this along the road. If it starts raining, the hood of this coat will keep you spotless.”

You wanted to protest, but when The Harbinger saw you half-swallowed by the voluminous fabric, only your gaze barely peeking through, it demanded every ounce of restraint to maintain his gentlemanly expression. ‘My… my sweetheart! They look utterly precious! Like a bundled burrito!’

Your words of worry slipped past him from one ear to the other – “Ahem. Nonsense, my love. You can keep it for now.” 

On another occasion, when he had invited you for a pleasant dinner date at his estate, the atmosphere bloomed with warmth and quiet comfort. The candlelit table was set, as you aided him in arranging the plates and dishes in the dining room. Pantalone, ever at ease in your presence, casually shrugged off his sweater, remaining in a crisp button-up now that the fireplace’s warmth embraced the indoors. However, it wasn’t until you wore his sweater after dinner that he realized he had left it on the sofa, and it piqued your curiosity.

“Ah, if I had a camera on me right now, I would’ve taken a hundred photo shots of you!”

“Sorry, sorry, I can give your sweater back.”

“Not a chance now. Keep it!”

Thus, a habit was formed. Whether by intent or by innocent accident, Pantalone would gladly share with you his wardrobe – be it coats, scarves, his pieces of jewelry, or bigger lounging shirts. You assumed he let you borrow them, like the loving boyfriend that he is. Yet he never asked for them back, even when you suggested taking them off, stating proudly:

“Honey, I have plenty more in my closet. If I were in dire need of taking them back, I could simply purchase tailor-made once more. But I’d rather see you wear them. You look splendid in my clothes.”

It stirred a quiet pride within the Regrator, to be accompanied by his sweetheart in public, and the people recognizing his iconic coat draped over your shoulder. A clear message of who has his heart cupped in their palms, and who he adores beyond reverent adoration.

Yet what truly stole the crown is when you’re together in the comfort of your home, and decide to forgo any garments and simply slip into one of his button-up shirts. He’d find you, re-emerged from the bathroom, looking all cleaned and refreshed, your figure clad in his shirt.

All the blood leaves his head. There is not a single thought in his brain - just the image of you. In bed, his button-up shirt the sole remaining piece covering your figure.

“You know, Pantalone, I must admit - I love the feeling of your clothes. They’re soft and comfortable, yet they carry a whiff of your scent. Thank you for not mind me wearing them. I can give it back if y-... Dear?”

Yep, he’s about to pass out. His beloved is too beautiful. 

✧ Tartaglia – Plushies as souvenirs from different regions

The young Harbinger took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and stretched his neck. A recent mission in Liyue lay completed behind him, but did that mean he could rest and take a break? No, alas, the battle has only started. And today’s battle is shopping in the busy markets of Liyue in search of gifts and souvenirs. 

He often makes a mental list of what presents to bring home to Snezhnaya. New fishing gear for his father, fine garments for his dear sister Tonia, rare tomes for Anthon, and vibrant Liyue kites for little Teucer. His arms often returned so laden with offerings that his family affectionately dubbed him Ded Moroz, or as Teucer would shout in delight upon his arrival: “Father Christmas is back home!” 

Nonetheless, despite the massive ordeal of finding appropriate gifts, the task Childe found most effortless is finding you all sorts of figurines and plushies from each region. 

Maybe this Rex Lapis dragon plushie? No, you already have a five-foot-tall one at home; no need for another. Perhaps this rotund bird plush, fashioned after some grumpy Liyue adeptus? Oh, but there are also beautiful plushies from Fontaine, resembling Blubberbeasts and otters. Even though the sight of otter plushies gave him a dreadful sense of déjà vu. Truly, there were far too many to choose from.

And knowing Tartaglia, his heart would cave in and purchase all of them for you either way. He would return home triumphant, adding to your ever-growing collection, until your bed became a veritable kingdom of pillowy plush creatures, half of them functioning as pillows all over the house. No matter what your cherished brought, you’d smile in delight at his safe return, but laugh when he proudly presented the chunky blubberbeast plush with a boyish grin.

“Oh, by the way, look! I also bought this,” – he suddenly stated and handed you a masterfully crocheted keychain of a little Sumeru creature. Its stitched smile looking silly.

“Ajax, what is that?” - you chuckled, more amused by the Harbinger’s goofy smile.

“The shopkeeper called it an Aranara. There is a legend in Sumeru that these little wood critters roam the jungles, but are only visible to children who retain their innocent childhood imagination.”

You turned the keychain over in your hands, pondering where best to fasten it. It was charming, like every other token Childe so thoughtfully brought you. Yet truth be told, everyone knows your favourite plushy to cuddle was not the entourage of souvenirs, but the Harbinger who bought them. And in Childe’s mind, that alone was the sweetest victory he could claim.

(Some lovelies kindly asked me if I can add the Harbinger missing in my fanfics. I try to keep those specific characters in my stories, but if you ever see me not include Scara or let's say Childe - it's not because I forgot or dislike them, but because sometime in the process of writing I do not want to repeat the same tropes for all the characters depending on the headcanons :< thank you for reading so far)

[celestiamour]

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ getting fucked by him against the wall┊0.6k words

contains: smut!! dom logan & sub reader┊nasty filth, size difference, creampie & breeding kink

➤ author's note: i can't stop thinking about this

your bodies were impossibly close to each other, covered in a slight sheen of sweat with strands of hair and what little clothing was still on sticking to your skin. a hot mess of hasty desire stemming from longing looks across the room, logan burning holes into you with his intense gaze just begging to fuck you in that cute little outfit you were wearing. he couldn’t even wait until you both got your shoes off when you finally got home before reaching under your skirt and peeling down your panties in the middle of the hallways, smothing you in sloppy, open-mouth kisses and complaining about how much of a vixen you secretly are by teasing him so unintentionally. 

or was it actually intentional? you might not be even half as innocent as you lead on to be, especially when you certainly seemed to be enjoying the way his eyes followed you prancing around like a deer in front of a starved wolf.

one of your legs was tossed over his built shoulder and the other was uselessly dangling, barely even touching the floor because of how damn tall he is. you were completely in his shadow, eyes screwed shut and your hands finding purchase by scrunching up the shirt you bothered to iron the night before. an ache in your thighs developed from being held up between his towering frame and the wall, being propped up by little else than his hand on the curve of your ass and his ruthless thrusts. although, it hardly registered in your hazed mind when you were being stretched out so deliciously by his cock, reshaping your insides to take him even deeper, his tip kissing your cervix and making you see stars as his thumb lazily circled your clit.

“fuckkkk, princess, you’re taking me so well…” he whispered huskily in your ear, half-lidded eyes looking at where you two were connected and the hypnotizing way he disappeared inside of you like you were made for him. “such a greedy pussy, i’ve been thinking about this all day.” you could only whine uselessly at his dirty words, digging your nails into his skin, making him chuckle in response at how his precious girl’s brains were already turned to mush at the first of many more planned rounds. “don’t worry, baby, i got you…”

when you finally succumb to your climax, he follows shortly afterward, unable to resist how your walls spasm around his cock and groaning as he emptied himself into you. you gasped at the flood of heat, breathing like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air and clutching onto him like he was the last person on earth while slumping against the surface of the wall in exhaustion. you both stood there for a moment before he finally pulled out of you, watching his cum dripping out of your hole onto your thighs and ruining the fabric of your clothing was an even hotter sight than the moments of passion shared just now. 

it was so hot, in fact, that he felt his cock hardening again at the sight of it, wanting to fill you with his seed until your belly was swollen with evidence of him and you were thoroughly knocked up. with one swift motion, he lifted you into the air to carry you into the bedroom, reminding you that the night was far from over and that he’ll allow you to be fucked in the comfort of a bed instead of continuing to lean against the wall like he could have once again because he’s just that much of a gentleman. 

[codnasties]

mafia!price x mafia!reader 🚬 (🌽 link)

a lot of times, mafias end up operating in the same areas, and that inevitably leads to fights over territory. that's what's going on between your and price's corresponding mafias. and it's been going on for quite a while without apparent solutions.

because the two of you are way too different to see eye to eye, to leave your egos behind for the sake of peace and maybe prosperity. it for sure stems from having different backgrounds. you had been born into it, your father was in this mob life, and so was your grandfather and even your great-grandfather. on the other hand, john had built it from scratch. a young kid with an obscure background that got taken in as a teen, quickly climbing up the other mob's ranks until he got named

that difference is precisely the reason why he sees you as a spoiled bitch with a severe lack of manners. and the thing is, you seemed to prove him right every single time. like tonight, both of you present at a charity gala - good public image is also business - and you didn't even have the decency to talk to him, not even acknowledge his presence.

it made him mad, it was not only about manners, it was the way you didn't openly recognise him as your biggest adversary. it made price's blood boil. it bothers him so much that he ends up snapping - which is extremely weird in him -. quicky pacing to you, the useless things you have as bodyguards not even stopping him, grabs you by the arm and starts pulling you out of the venue. dragging you all the way to his bedroom without being interrupted - because no one dares to -, people looking at him worriedly as you keep screaming at him to unhand you.

he won't hear you out, it's about time someone teaches you manners and respect. throwing you onto the bed and climbing on top of you. grabbing one of your hands and forcing you to wrap it around his throat in a desperate attempt for you to finally perceive him as an equal.

when you refuse to put some strength on your hand and at least try to choke him, he snaps. his own hand around your jewelry adorned neck, his thumb pressing down on the artery running along it, cutting down the blood flow to your head momentarily and also feeling how fast your heart is racing and pinning you onto the bed.

in that second that your mind takes to come down from the lightheaded state, he has already flipped you over and bunched up your dress and gotten himself a good bite of your juicy ass. his face sliding lower until his nose is bumping against the wet patch forming in your panties, taking a whiff of your sweet aroma.

this can only lead to one place: hot steamy hate sex.giving you a good spanking to teach you a lesson before he rips the black lacy thong off your body and kneels himself at your feet, his tongue now exploring the inside of your sweet cunt. his lips latching around your clit as you push his head even further into it.

he makes you believe you are in control, until he almost snaps the straps of your dress getting your tits out just so he can grope them, pinching your sensitive nipples. making you suck on his hard cock, your tongue swirling around his flushed tip. pushing him onto the bed so you can pleasure him better while giving him a good view of your cleavage.

because that's what all of this is about, making you believe you are the one in a position of power between the two of you. and he shows you how easily he takes it back. grabbing you by the waist, pushing you onto your back on the bed, and ripping that dress off your body, leaving you fully naked with the exception of your glinting necklace and earrings.

bullying his bulbous tip into your tight cunt, your walls squeezing trying to not only trap him in but also get more of his thick cock into you. and he fucks mercilessly, using your body however he likes. harsh deep thrusts making you cum as he starts spurting his thick seed in your pretty cunt.

maybe all that will finally teach you a lesson

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

for @skeren ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

"Mu-shidi?" Yue Qingyuan asked.

Mu Qingfang was sitting on a decorative rock in one of Qian Cao Peak's small meditation gardens with his head in his hands. Yue Qingyuan paused, hesitating at the edge of the garden as he watched Mu Qingfang's shoulders heave with a deep sigh.

"Zhangmen-shixiong. In your purview as sect leader, do you believe I have the power to medically relieve someone from their position of authority on the grounds of madness?" He asked.

"Ah, I should have known this was coming," Yue Qingyuan said. He approached and sat next to Mu Qingfang on the rock, folding his arms over his knees and offering a small smile. "Will Mu-shidi finally be requesting this one's resignation?"

Mu Qingfang snorted a laugh and uncurled, but not without rubbing once more at his brow. "Actually, I meant myself."

"You?"

Mu Qingfang turned to look at him. Yue Qingyuan's brows shot up, startled at the absolutely exhausted and frantic look on his face. The healer was pale, his eyes shadowed, and Yue Qingyuan realised for the first time that some of his hair was slipping out from his wooden guan.

"What happened?" Yue Qingyuan asked, reaching out to catch Mu Qingfang's wrist. Mu Qingfang allowed the contact, not protesting at the reversal of their usual position as Yue Qingyuan probed his meridians, which Yue Qingyuan thought was a sign something was truly wrong.

"It's Shang-shidi," Mu Qingfang said gravely, which was not what Yue Qingyuan was expecting.

"What do you mean? Did something happen to Shang Qinghua? Did he—do something?"

"Is Zhangmen-shixiong familiar with the Bleeding Heart-Tongue Berry?"

"The one that causes full-body hemorrhaging?"

"No, that's the Crimson Bleeding Heart Berry."

"Oh. Oh, the one that requires oral dual cultivation to cure the deadly fever?"

"No, that's—it doesn't matter! The Bleeding Heart-Tongue Berry's sap and flesh is a powerful truth serum. It compels anyone who consumes or comes into physical contact with it to say whatever is on their mind, with complete honesty."

Yue Qingyuan looked around nervously. "We don't have an outbreak, do we?"

Mu Qingfang sighed one more, pushing his hand under his glasses to press against his eyes. "Shang-shixiong came into contact with some when he was on his last mission off the mountain. I have no idea how, since he was assigned to go secure a trade deal to the North East and they only grow in the South West, but—"

"But he was afflicted, and is now compelled to speak the truth?" Yue Qingyuan asked.

Mu Qingfang slipped his hand from Yue Qingyuan's so he could grip his arms, leaning in intently.

"He is driving. Me. Insane."

—

Mu Qingfang led Yue Qingyuan to one of the nearby patient rooms. Inside, Shang Qinghua sat at a low tea table, sipping at a cup that smelled medicinal and poking at some nuts and seeds on offer. Nothing looked amiss—Shang Qinghua didn't look damaged or ill, and the room was neat and orderly.

When they entered, Shang Qinghua's head shot up.

"Mu-shidi! Zhangmen-shixiong! This one is—not super glad to see you! Not that you're not great. Mu-shidi, I really appreciate how you keep us all alive. Remember that time I accidentally drank ink as a disciple and you had to pump my stomach? Yeah, I so am glad you were there to do that and not let me die. And Zhangmen-shixiong, you're very hot, and I love that, and I find how sad you life is—well, troubling actually, although not enough to do anything about it. You kind of make me uncomfortable to be around. But the hotness helps! Not right now, though. Right now I would love if you would leave, because I really don't want to tell you about anything I am thinking about, because I just got done spending three days sucking demonic dick and I really don't want to answer any follow up questions about—"

Shang Qinghua's eyes went wide. He grabbed a handful of the snacks and shoved them into his mouth, presumably hoping to stem the flow of words. Instead he immediately choked on them and coughed up walnuts and melon seeds over the table.

Yue Qingyuan rubbed his forehead. "Ah. I think I see the problem."

[thebibliosphere]

Pennyworth: The Daring Young Man

Chapter Thirteen:

“You do a lot of things,” the boy told him seriously, taking another bite of toast. Alfred smiled and lifted his shoulders in the merest hint of a shrug. “I told you, that’s what we Pennyworths do. We take care of things.” Richard swallowed and set his half-eaten slice of toast back down on the plate. Without looking up, he asked, “What’s going to happen next?” “Well, I suppose we could go down to the coves if you’re still—” “No,” Richard cut him off with a shake of his head, and that was when Alfred became aware of his far too careful breathing and the tense way he was holding himself. “What happens next? To me…”

[Read more…]

- - -

I promise this one’s happier than the last chapter. Pinky swear 🤙

Also, for anyone who wants Alfred's strawberry jam recipe (aka the one I use to make easy jam):

Ingredients:

1 quart of strawberries

2 & 1/2 cups of sugar

1/4 cup of lemon juice

Method:

Wash a quart of strawberries (roughly 4 and 1/2 cups or 1.5 lbs) and cut off the stems. Mash them up in a bowl or a blender, depending on your desired consistency. If you want to remove the seeds, strain them through a cheesecloth or fine mesh sieve (this only works for smooth jam).

Mix in 2 and a 1/2 cups of sugar and let sit in the refrigerator for 2 hours.

At the end of two hours, pour your mixture into a large pot and bring to a boil over a slow, medium heat, stirring continuously to keep it from sticking. Once it's bubbling (about 15 minutes), turn the heat up to high and boil for a solid 5 minutes. Keep stirring. It should be climbing the pot at this point, so be careful.

Add your 1/4 cup of lemon juice and stir for another 5 minutes. This should help it reduce down to a jelly or thicker consistency.

Let cool and pour into your sterilized jars.

This makes roughly 2 pint jars of jam or 4 x 1/2 pint jars.

[adancingalien]

𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

Benjicot/Davos Blackwood x bracken!reader

summary: after learning of your impending betrothal to another, you and Benji make a plan to stop it

warning: smut 18+ no use of y/n this fic revolves around pregnancy and has some light breeding kinks towards the end. the reader in this is able to get pregnant and is described as a woman.

word count: 3.9k

note: its finally here! i've really enjoyed writing this fic, its been a while since written one and i've never written smut so if its not the best sorry lol. thank you for everyone's support! i hope you guys like it <3 next time I post it will be on this account @dancingaliensfics so if you like this follow that account. also a couple people asked me to tag them so here you go x @alifeinspiredd @gotranting

It's Early in the morning when your father gives you the news. The sun had risen only an hour prior, the days growing short as winter approached, and your mother sat across from you. 

Marriage.

You spend some time considering the thought whilst eating your porridge. In any other case, it would have been good news. The list your father had created so far was filled with well-suited men. You recognised some, two Bracken cousins you knew well, a Mallister boy you’d met at a tourney. They were all reasonable ages, only one was older than thirty and he seemed to be an afterthought. Your father assured you that he'd consider your opinion in his choice. 

Truthly you were lucky, if it was a year earlier you'd be excited. But the one name you wanted, the only man you would ever consider marrying, wasn't on the list and never would be.

Benjicot Blackwood.

Heir to Raventree Hall, the seat of your enemy house, the man who'd captured your heart 10 moons ago.

And so you sit in silence, eyes distant, as your father speaks to you of balls and meetings and gifts. Your mother watches you quietly, although what goes through her mind you cannot say. Eventually, the conversation fades to noise as you watch the last streaks of pink fade from the sky. 

You meet with Benjicot in the same spot you always do. A field of clover and wildflowers, sheltered from the gaze of Stone Hedge by a small patch of woodland. He brings you a bouquet of dandelions, dittander and hedge bindweed he picked himself along the path. Every time you meet he brings you one and each time he hands it to you with that grin before hiding his face in your neck. You love it, and after all this time you still feel your heart flutter at the sight, no matter how torn and pathetic the blooms themselves usually are. 

Gods, you love him. And you're certain you'll never love anyone else the same. Still, you hope he hasn't found the bindweed from near your gardens, it's beautiful but so quickly consumes all other plants.

He flops onto the grass and then beckons for you to do the same. Benji wraps his arms around your side and you lean your head on his chest as he begins to tell you about some skirmish at the hedge stones.

“Those Brackens think they can do whatever they please whenever they choose. You’d think they'd have learnt their lesson after the beating we gave them last time.”

As he speaks you pluck at blades of grass beside you, tearing the seeds from the stem. He often forgets your heritage, as you do his, and the reminder makes you anxious.

“Still,” you mutter, “I wish you wouldn't rush so quickly into battle.”

Benji turns his head to look down at you and you feel his breath on your face. He pauses for a few moments, watching you closely before responding.

“You needn't worry, dove, I can hold my own, especially against some Bracken bastards.” His words are harsh and said with a grin but you can feel the sentiment behind them. Still, his answer doesn't satisfy you.

“You're not the only person I stand to lose in a battle.”

The two of you tend to speak little of the different sides you sit on, choosing instead to focus on your shared qualities. But since your father's announcement that morning, you find your heritage is all you can think of.

His hands tighten on your side and he begins to shift in the way he often does when unsettled. “Tell your bracken brethren to stay on their side of the lines then.”

“Yes because it is such a simple thing, to announce our ties to my whole family!” You turn from him with a huff pulling hard on the piece of grass in your grasp. You regret your words immediately but find yourself unwilling to apologise.

Benji pulls his brows tight, running his fingers over the hem of your skirt. He looks like a scolded dog, his face sullen and eyes moving quickly.

“I’m sorry.” He looks at you softly for a moment. “Will you tell me what's bothering you love? You've been down all day.”

You pause for a while, having pulled away all the grass in your little patch, leaving your fingernails stained green.

“My father gave me news.” You lift your head to look at Benji, his eyes watching you closely. “He's finding me a husband.”

“No.” The response comes quickly and with strong conviction.

Baffled by his response, your brows furrow. “What do you mean no?”

“I simply won't let it happen. You're mine and I'm yours and we were destined to be together, I know it. You will not be with anyone else.”

You pull a pained face, turning away from him. How can he say that with such certainty? That he simply won't let your father marry you off as though it's such a simple thing. It's both endearing and irritating.

“It's not so simple you know.” You look out at the setting sun as you speak, “I've been trying to think of ways to avoid it but truthfully, I have nothing to complain about. What can I say to stop it? I've spent so long thinking of options but nothing seems right.”

Benji takes hold of your hands, gazing at you with such intensity it catches you off guard.

“We'll run away together, you and me, right now.”

Your eyes widen and you stumble on your thoughts. What an idea. It's a pleasant thought really and part of you is compelled to accept, to leap up and run away with Benji in that moment. But it is not this part of you that speaks.

“What- Benji- I cannot, we cannot! Where would we even go.”

“Essos, the free cities, the North, gods I'd go to the Iron Islands if it meant I could marry you. Anywhere in the world where the names bracken and blackwood mean nothing.” your heart skips at the thought, that Benjicot Blackwood would abandon his title and land and family to be with you. Travel to an unknown land and begin again. It's a feeling that quickly spreads through your body leaving you warm and filled with a joy so strong it again compels you to accept and leave in that moment.

You run your fingers over his knuckles, feeling the healed cuts and scrapes that cover them. You consider your own family, of your mother, sat at her window, waiting for you to return home. Your father, sending out his men to fruitlessly search across all of Westeros for his beloved daughter. 

“I can't Benji.”

“Then we'll go in a few days instead, you can pack your things, and I'll think of a plan of where to go-”

“No Benji.” you look into his eyes. You see in them a future and a path you cannot take at this moment. “I couldn't do that to my family, couldn't leave them forever and you couldn't either. It would break your mother's heart.”

Your words sour his mood and he visibly shrinks. You take his hands fully in your own and reach over to kiss him softly on the cheek. You can feel slight stubble and realise he must have rushed out after receiving your letter. How you love this man. 

It isn’t long before you see a new thought arrive in his mind and it's clear he does no further thinking before sharing it.

“I'll just take you then!”

Truthly, your expectations were not high but you still find yourself floored by the stupidity of his ‘plan’.

“What.” You can simply find no other words.

Benji turns to face you fully, squeezing your hands tightly. He has a crazed look on his face and you wonder if this is what your Bracken brethren see on the battlefield. 

“Listen, I’ll simply take you with me to Raventree Hall and we will wed there.” He must notice your unimpressed look as he quickly continues. “That way you don't have to go too far and your family will know you're safe. Sure it'll take some time for those Bracken curs to accept it but eventually they'll have to and then you can see them when you please.”

“Safe? Benji, you've come up with some terrible ideas but this is a new level. It would be war! You really believe that my father, that any bracken would simply accept a blackwood taking their daughter in the night?”

“Then war it would be. I'd kill a thousand men to keep you.”

“A thousand of my men, my blood! Yes, what a beautiful honeymoon it would be, setting the funeral piers of my family.”

He falls silent at this and looks down at his hands. You can see him thinking but he has the sense to keep his thoughts to himself. After a few minutes, you sigh and take his hands back in yours, having dropped them at some point during your rant. Leaning over, you capture his lips in your own for just a moment and when you pull away he follows after you.

“Just… leave it to me. I shall think of a plan for us. We can keep yours as a last resort, yes?”

He brightens at this, happy to trust in your judgement. He agrees quickly before closing the small space between you.

It's a week later when you send a raven summoning Benji. As a child, you had discovered passages within Stone Hedge which had long been forgotten and often used them to pass in and out of the castle. Now you and Benji used them to visit each other in secret. It's a few days before he is able to make his way to Stone Hedge, having been corralled by his father into some dull political nonsense you couldn't care less about. By the time he makes it to you, slipping into your chambers using the passage hidden behind large tapestries, you feel truly desperate for him.

It's overwhelming really, how much you love him. Your entire body aches for him, your mind thinks of him at all times. The thought of marrying another leaves you ill and to imagine laying with a man that isn't Benji is truly mad. He knows you in ways no other has, and, if you get your way, never will. So really it's not a surprise that upon seeing you waste no time in pressing yourself to him. As your lips meet you can feel all the stress of the past days leave your mind and you quickly forget what it was you summoned him for. It seems Benji has found himself in a similar position to you as his hands begin to explore your body through your evening gown. His soft touch turns rough as you run your fingers through the coarse strands of his hair. 

You pull away, moving toward to settee. He trails after, lounging next to you with his around your shoulders, fingers toying with your hair.

“I’ve had much time to think,” you say hands resting on your lap. “And I believe I've thought of a solution. It’s mad truly, but it is the best chance we have. I am certain I want it but if you do not you must say and that will be final. It is not a decision to take lightly.”

At your serious tone, Benji straightens and looks at you fully. You are nervous, such a proposal is hardly made easily and yet you feel certain in your bones that he will accept. You know he loves you, there is no doubt about it. You only wonder if he is truly ready for a life together.

“I would do anything to be with you, dove. Tell me and it'll be done.”

You sigh at his words, both from frustration and adoration. 

“Do not say such things before you hear the proposal.”

“Then tell me it so that I may say them with informed certainty.”

You look him in the eyes then, struggling to find a way to say what you mean.

“I would have your child.”

Benji pauses at this, and you can see confusion in his eyes before he speaks.

“Yes. when we wed we shall have many children, as many as you wish.”

“No Benji,” you squeeze his hands tightly and push yourself to speak. “My father will never choose you as my husband so we must give him no choice. If I was with child, with your child, he would have to accept a marriage or risk shame upon myself and our house. I know my father well and I am sure he would choose my happiness over tradition.”

At this, Benjicot stops and his face falls blank. It's as if his mind is —- and you wait patiently for his response.

“It is…” he stops and then restarts “I would love nothing more than to have a child with you. It is something I have dreamt of and I truly believe myself ready for such responsibility. I do not doubt the longevity of my love for you. So please do not think it is commitment with gives me pause. It is just…” he begins to play with your fingers, nervous energy flowing through him. He stands quickly, releasing your hands though you are used to his restlessness and simply wait for him to return. He paces in a small circle, running his hand through his hair and then returns to his seat. 

“I would not do that to you,” he says finally. You look at him in surprise, his answer seeming nonsensical to you.

“You have done it to me many times.”

“No not that,” he says quickly, covering his face in his hands as he thinks again how to phrase what he means.

“I wouldn't put you through such treatment! As an unwed woman to father a child by you. No, I couldn't dishonour you like that.”

“Dishonour me? Benji, you have dishonoured me more times than I could count. By simply being here in this room you dishonour me. We have laid together, many times. If this was a concern of yours, you should have voiced it long ago.” your words are tinged with amusement.

Benjicot stands again, moving his arms wildly. 

“And what of how you would be treated? Not just by your parents but every member of the court, the servants, anyone who knew of it. You would be shamed and shunned by others.”

“You think I care what others say of me?”

“I think you will care when it happens.”

“Do not make assumptions on my behalf. I am my own woman, I can make my own choices. And I do not need you, Benjicot Blackwood, to decide such things for me.” 

You pause, breathing deeply in an attempt to remove the heat from your voice. It isn’t your intention to force Benji to do this with you and you fear if you continue to argue your meaning will be lost.

“If your reasons to not go forth are your own, because you do not feel ready or because you do not want to, then that is fine and I will accept it.”

Your attempt to calm the situation backfires miserably and your words light a fire inside of Benji.

“Of course not, didn’t say I would marry you in that field? That I would give up everything to be with you. Do not doubt my love.”

“I do not doubt it, Benji. But if you are willing to give up your titles and home, go through battle and fight hundreds to have me, why can't you trust that I would endure the shame of a pregnancy outside of wedlock for you?”

At last, Benji returns to his spot next to you. He looks into the fire but his gaze is distant.

“I can protect you from danger, from enemies. I can kill any man that threatens you. I can stand with you in fire and pain. But I can’t save you from cruel words and shame. This is… it's something you’ll have to bear alone. And I hate the thought of it.”

At last, you understand his meaning. Benjicot Blackwood is not a man who often loses control. He is fierce and strong and can slay any man who comes in his path. 

“I am strong. And I can protect myself, just this once. And you will be stood with, at my side, to give me strength when I fail.”

“I know, I just fear you aren’t ready.”

“I am ready.”

A coy smile spreads across your face.

“Let me convince you.” 

At that you kiss him, one hand placed on his cheek and the other on his chest. He quickly reciprocates and you move closer until you can throw one leg over his lap. His hands find your hair, attempting to undo your intricate braids before pulling away in frustration and glaring at the strands. You laugh lightly, moving to remove your pins as he reaches for your neck, leaving a firm bite before his tongue lathes over the area. His ministrations pull a soft moan from your mouth and as he lifts your skirts to run his hand up the soft skin of your thigh, your hair is released.

His other hand quickly finds its way into your hair, fingers weaving into the strands before your head is pulled back allowing better access to your neck. As Benji continues trailing kisses across your neck and chest, you begin to move yourself on his lap, grinding against him as you feel his cock harden beneath his breeches. How you long to feel him inside you, and the thought of him staying even as he reached his peak, seed spilling inside you, has you moving with increased vigour. Benji begins to let out his quiet groans and pants to match your soft moaning and it's not long before he has your behind held firmly in his grip. 

His mouth reaches the neckline of your dresses and begins to suck marks onto your skin while you fumble with the fastening of your gown. Once the bodice is undone and the stays are loosened, he pulls them down, taking your breasts into his hands. His mouth quickly latches onto one of your peaks and his tongue swirls around them. He shows you no mercy in his actions, hands pressing so tight they are sure to leave bruises. Benji moves his hand to your core, fingers covering themselves in your wetness before pressing against your clit. They move quickly, circling your bud for some time before travelling towards your hole. His thumb moves to take its place, pressing firmly against you as it rubs. His fingers prod gently at your hole, before one slips inside. He stays like this, easing his finger inside of you until you're ready to take another. His fingers move inside of you for a few minutes, your walls clenching around them as they stroke, before they increase in speed, beginning to curl deep inside of you. Benji continues to assault your chest, relishing in the moans and whines he pulls from your lips. 

It isn't long, however, before he pulls away from your chest to speak.

“I need you, my love.” he lifts your chin so that your eyes meet. You lean forward and kiss him, giving your answer through your actions. He removes his fingers from you, wiping them on your dress much to your disgust before standing, holding you with his hands beneath your ass and your legs around his waist.

 He moves quickly towards the bed and, though he's strong, you can see him focusing on not dropping you. You take the chance to join your lips to his neck, leaving your marks there. Although you know him to be faithful to you, you can’t stand the thought of any Blackwood whore making a pass at him and the hickeys serve to claim him as yours. Gods, you think, you must stop thinking in such ways, you’ll be a Blackwood yourself soon. The thought leaves you giddy and you grin at his neck. Benji drops you rather unceremoniously onto the bed before staring at you with a bemused look on his face.

“What you grinning about him?”

“Just the thought that I will soon be your wife.”

His grin widens at that and he leans down to capture your lips once again. 

“Yes, my wife and I'll be your husband.”

You kiss him again, biting his lip and tugging on it slightly.

“All mine.” your words pull a deep moan from him.

It isn’t long before both of you have stripped completely and you find yourself lying back on the sheets, Benji between your legs. He moves quickly above you, rubbing his cock against your folds, the head catching perfectly on your clit with every stroke. You moan wantonly, fingers reaching up to pull Benji towards your lips by the hair. Your firm grip causes him to groan deeply into your mouth and his movements increase in speed. It isn't long though before you pull away.

“Benji, darling, I need you inside of me please.”

You're expecting him to tease you, and make a joke about your begging and neediness but instead, he lets out a long breath, before reaching down and taking himself in hand. He runs the tip of his cock along your wetness once more before pressing inside of you. Your body accepts him eagerly and it isn't long before he fills you. How could you ever marry another when even your body is moulded perfectly to him? The sounds of your pleasure harmonise as Benji begins to move inside of you. His thrusts are fast and deep as always, his hips snapping against yours with every thrust. You feel your mind slipping as your sounds increase in volume. Your hands roam his whole body. Filthy words spill from your lips.

“Benji please my love- ah- I must have you. Please”

“You have me sweet one, you have me.”

You pull roughly on his hair at his words.

“No I must have all of you, please I need your seed. I want you to cum inside me.”

His hips stutter before his thrusts continue with increased fervour.

“Fill me please Benji, it will feel so good.”

Benji lays his head in the crook of your neck moaning without restraint. You feel yourself reaching your peak quickly and want him to cum with you. You lift your legs and wrap them tightly around his waist, moaning, turning to shrieks.

“I love you so much Benji,” you cry out, fingernails leaving scratches down his back. “I love you and I want your baby, please cum inside me.”

At your words, Benji lets out a choked sound, hips pressing firm against you, and feels the warmth of his release spill inside of you, pulling you to your peak alongside him. Your eyes squeeze shut, but if they hadn’t you would have seen the most delightful look on Benji’s face and he finished inside of you. It takes some time for his cock to stop twitching and even longer for the both of you to come back to the world of the living. Benji begins to lift himself off of you, but you tighten your legs.

“Stay.”

A simple command that he follows without question.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Taking Root 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Bucky and Leaf.

Summary: a neighbourly connection might be more than chance.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Bucky cracks his neck as he approaches the large windows. He rubs his eyes as he snarls at the sunlight peering back at him. Steve always leaves the curtains open. Always gone before Bucky drags himself out of bed.

He tugs them shut but stays close. It's not noon yet. She'll be out shortly.

He's not much for television. He tried a few TV series, some movies recommended on that chat, but he just can't keep his mind from running. It's why he wakes up late. Most nights, he doesn't even sleep. This is what keeps him enthralled. There's not much plot, but the main character is fascinating.

He swigs from his mug as the city street chugs from down the alleyway between their apartments. Her balcony is slightly lower. The perfect vantage.

Pathetic. That's what he'd call himself if he wasn't him. All those guys on that discord Steve found are that very flavour. But he's not them. They're all weirdo virgins. He's had plenty of women. More than enough. She's just different. Like him.

As if beckoned by his awakening, she appears. Her railing is curtained with ivy, enough that she doesn't think of modesty. He doesn't mind. She comes out wearing a loose sweater that reads SWEET in large caps and a pair of her frilly panties. He likes those ones, they ride up when she bends over to pick up the watering can.

She goes about her usual routine. She checks the leaves, waters the soil, untangles the overgrown stems, and treats the plants with rot or infestations. The cluster of plants takes up most of the space. She's like a little chipmunk among them.

She finishes and takes the can inside. The sliding door gives a generous view of her place. Inside, she lingers at the window ledge and checks the row of cactuses. He admires her devotion to those plants. She'll haven't the big square planters soon. A few of the tomatoes growing up the posts look close to ripe.

He rubs the cleft of his chin and his stubble makes a bristly noise. He backs away at the unnerving idea. It's too much. Too soon.

Fuck that. He's not that weirdo Jensen. He's been tailing his married boss for three years. Now that's fucking desperate. Besides, they all made a pact, as lame as it was. They're going to make their moves. Either do something or get over it.

Right. Finish the coffee and get your ass together, Barnes. He rinses the mug then goes to make himself human again. Show, brush the teeth, untangle your hair, tie it back, no one will know the different, clothes. Alright. It won't be so bad to get out and it'll get Steve off his back about Vitamin D. Funny, the sunlight only makes him feel worse.

He heads off with a cap pulled down low and his hands in his pockets. There's a shop down the way, they have tables outside full of seeds and little pots. And a coffee shop right next door. He could use a second cup. Maybe a third.

He stops by the display of plants on the corner. There's a big red sign marked 'End of Season Clearance.' Better late than never.

The old woman who runs the shop offers him a shallow box to put his purchases in. Some pansies and violets. He doesn't know. The colours are nice, he guesses. She tells him to get a nice long bed for them and he should be able to have a nice bunch before the frost.

He gets his coffee, agitated as he balances his starters in one arm, then heads home. He gets back to the apartment and leaves the box on the table. He doesn't touch them as he paces around. He goes to the window. She reading in her chair, reclined, one leg bent, sweater rumpling to expose a bit of tummy. He narrows his eyes. He reaches for the binoculars nearby. Oh yeah. He shouldn't be so into it but he can see a little bit of hair sticking out the edge of her panties. It makes him chafe in his jeans.

He backs up as his stomach growls. Fine. He eats grilled cheese and canned tomato soup. He's still groggy. He goes to the window again. He stays there until she's gone. The censor will let him know if she comes back out.

Steve gets home. He's in a rush. His bag clatters off the bench as soon as he lets go of it. He huffs and picks it up, scurrying around. Bucky doesn't ask. He's on his way to that volunteer gig. They both know why he's in such a hurry.

"Have fun," Bucky calls out from the sofa.

"Oh, flowers?" Steve pauses as his soles scuff.

"What's it to ya, punk?"

"Nothing. You know I got allergies, right?" He sneezes as if to make the point.

"Sure I do. They're going on the balcony... tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Steve asks. "Why not-- achooo!"

"Cool off," Bucky warns. "I'll cover them up."

"Ugh, I don't got time," Steve mutters. "See ya. Oh, and you probably don't want the cat chewing on those n-n-neith-- achoo!"

"She's off terrorising the mice," Bucky snorts. "Get out of here, Rogers."

The night rolls by slowly. Hours spent with his eyes open. On the couch until his roommate gets back. Then his bed. Back to the living room. Steve gets up to get ready for work at the museum. Bucky puts Alpine on his chest and scratches her chin. Her box needs changing.

The sunlight softens between the curtains as he's left alone. He lets the cat out with him as he angles the box of flowers through the door. He got the big trays too and soil. He'll replant it like she did hers. Or try to. Steve keeps saying the place needs a bit of home to it. Goddamn it, Steve, shut up.

He puts the flowers on the iron table and sighs. He doesn't know where to start. The squeak of a hinge makes him tense. It's hers. He knows it without looking. She yawns and he trembles, fighting not to look down at her. He can hear her sipping from her porcelain mug. Is it the one with the lillies or the roses?

"Are those Blueberry Swirl Pansies? Those are so pretty."

He doesn't move at first. She's talking to him. He knows it. His chest feels like it's full. He pushes away from the rail and checks the little tag then faces her. He gives a small wave.

"That's what it says, yeah."

He leans against the railing and looks up at him, "I love flowers, if you can't tell." She giggles and it's music in his ears. The kind that sticks in his brain and he'll keep hearing over and over.

"No, I can't," he chuckles. "Wouldn't mind a few pointers. Kinda new at this."

"Well, I'd start by keeping the cat out of them," she points and he turns to find Alpine digging in a pot.

"Right," he mutters. "Thanks."

[ilium-ilia]

a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (1/3): marco's girl

a/n: this is an alternate universe to my story, In Limbo. you do not need to read In Limbo to understand this au, but if you are reading In Limbo, i recommend not reading this story until you've read chapter 14 due to some spoilers. please take care to read the warnings on each chapter, this is a very heavy fic.

tw: rape/non-con, pedophilia, human/sex trafficking, forced prostitution, abduction, suicide, self harm, whump, hurt/comfort, reader has long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc)

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is. 

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches—especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told. 

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that. 

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You can pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. It’s the only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe. 

“Not tryna hide, are you?” 

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body—and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself—of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in—enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it. 

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too. 

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest. 

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it. 

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission—not even your appearance. 

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.” 

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display—used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold. 

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one. 

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door. 

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home. 

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands. 

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you. 

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.” 

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain. 

Nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will. 

When it’s all said and done—when you’re thoroughly used—Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire, advertising you to anyone else with fingers itching in greed. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes. 

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night. 

You wish you had that luxury. 

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.” 

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet—he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed. 

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur. 

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid—that gentle expanding of your chest—but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself. 

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes—you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again. 

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates. 

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away in a nicotine haze, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission. 

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting. 

When you arrive home—to the apartment paid for with your own body—you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. It lingers like an old scar that refuses to fade. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you. 

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight to be gawked at and abused. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone. 

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet that he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way—

—dancing. 

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt. 

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all. 

“Babe!” 

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band. 

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases. 

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided—anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with. 

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.” 

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.” 

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you. 

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have. 

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay. 

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head. 

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you. 

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself. 

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?” 

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod. 

“Good.” 

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump. 

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters. 

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting. 

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes. 

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen. 

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.” 

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment. 

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you—something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned, and you’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again—you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit. 

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does. 

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw. 

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes. 

A man with impressive tepidity sits across from you at an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard—he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you. 

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums. 

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so. 

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt. 

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?” 

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term—that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot. 

Stiff, you nod. 

“John Price,” he introduces. 

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin. 

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes. 

“No,” you answer truthfully. 

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.” 

You blink. “...Benefactor?” 

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.” 

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man—John Price—gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top: 

Marco Anatolijus Kanas

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl. 

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently. 

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So miniscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are—how Marco owns you and always will. 

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?” 

You swallow. What a polite way to put it—the things Marco does to you. 

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.” 

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say. 

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time. 

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply. 

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?” 

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be. 

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-” 

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him—the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose. 

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are—what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free. 

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy. 

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…” 

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.” 

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.” 

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.” 

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy. 

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before—so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders. 

It is decided that—for your safety—you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach. 

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no. 

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself. 

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask. 

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in. 

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet. 

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile. 

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear. 

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry. 

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold—you were dragged beyond it—and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands? 

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension? 

What becomes of his favorite toy—Marco’s girl—then? 

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so. 

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you—something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove—then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.” 

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place—with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now? 

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals. 

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim—too full to consume something other than the ache. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.” 

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards. 

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe. 

You know better than that. 

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now. 

“Riley, can… can I ask something?” 

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.” 

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free—leave your body behind to rot while it escapes. 

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask. 

“The pill?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?” 

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin—rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word. 

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better. 

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity. 

You nod. 

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later. 

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?” 

Once again, you nod. “Okay.” 

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat—to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later. 

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter. 

God, he could use a smoke. 

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world—from Marco. 

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t. 

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet. 

“Everythin’ alright?” 

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear. 

You’re terrified. 

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand. 

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more. 

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt. 

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave. 

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. ��You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.” 

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.” 

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him? 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck!” 

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile. 

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet. 

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years. 

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.” 

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt. 

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood. 

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick—heavy enough to make your stomach sink. 

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter. 

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.” 

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore—you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs—

—the wound is on Riley. 

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him. 

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp. 

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure. 

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.” 

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings. 

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself—shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water. 

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it. 

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” 

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to? 

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room. 

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.” 

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?” 

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…” 

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone—that pain that always leaks into your voice—but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day. 

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-” 

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.” 

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to. 

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?” 

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was—he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t. 

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?” 

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?” 

So calm. So patient. 

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke. 

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind. 

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

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[bogleech]

Out of all the little critters you've made, who's your favorite freak?

Scrabies from Mortasheen:

Thematically a giant nonspecific "germ," my favorite genre of character design.

Anatomically based on a barnacle, maybe my favorite group of animals since learning as a child that they're upside-down ingrown crustaceans.

Aesthetically themed around ticks, another favorite animal group and the only animals I was ever afraid of (so they're personally special), with warts resembling embedded ticks, claws resembling tick legs and the body color of a bloated wood tick.

Biologically, Scrabies like all the "Fectoids" in Mortasheen is an amalgamation of fungal tissues, bacterial cells and protists/algae, all things I love and combining them together is a similar principle to lichens, which I think are some of my favorite non-animals besides possibly slime molds.

I also think of it like a sticky seed pod, which is a miscellaneous fixation I always had with plants, love annoying little sticky seed pods.

Attacks by controlling swarms of insects and arachnids, my favorite kind of "superpower," and specifically controls any that feed on blood.

There ARE goose barnacles with orange stems, but for Scrabies's "arm" or "tail" I specifically color picked from a photo of a giant orange leech, and gave it a slicker shinier annelid-like surface to match.

Face is just eyes in darkness, a feature I can't get enough of (and have to try and resist overusing) plus I most love monsters with silly-looking eyes.

Eyes are also inside what I consider its mouth, which is my favorite place for a monster's eyes or face to be (though the "teeth" on the "lips" are just more little ticks)

All in all, I designed this monster as if it was kind of a symbolic mascot of ectoparasitism and "bug bites."

This is probably the maximum number of favorite concepts and visuals I can blend into one thing and still feel it has one simple, coherent design to it, so if we all had just one personal monster summon or monster transformation I guess mine would be this thing or very similar to it.

It's being included in the first mortasheen rpg book which also gives every monster an accompanying gameboy style pixel sprite

I posed the sprite upside down to show that it can run around on either set of limbs, and to kind of evoke a skittering facehugger. Probably not the only monster design with that many motifs I could pick out though

[cybsoo2]

the flowers of evil

╰┈➤ synopsis — The garden is growing, a red romance is in full bloom. The seven boys each pick a bloody blossom to show you their love. Lovesick lilacs, weeping roses, and black dahlias. Which one will you choose?

╰┈➤ pairing — yandere!bts x reader

╰┈➤ word count — 3.7k

╰┈➤ content warning — yandere behavior, stalker behavior, manipulative behavior, murder, graphic depictions of violence, breaking & entering, implied/referenced abuse, religious undertones (namjoons section)

—Kim Seokjin

flower type — Wilted Roses

Your room is full of wilted roses

The petals falling to the floor 

What was once a pale pink is now a weeping red 

The flowers die and decay, turning darker as each hour passes

He hates the smell, so bittersweet

Floral from another man mixed with your salty tears

Jin hates him for what he did

How could he hurt his darling divine? 

If you were his then you wouldn’t have any time for tears

He’d kiss you so sweet that your cries would be quiet

He’d leave lipstick stains all over your shirt

The people on the subway would stare, but then they’d know that you’re all his

Of course he’d let you do the same

To claim his skin with crimson kisses

 Leaving purple bruises that bite at him

The marks would leave a sting, a reminder of your love

And he’d press down on them with his fingers, feeling how deep your love can go

He’d never hide your love, not like your (soon to be ex) boyfriend did

Cheating on you from behind closed doors

Then sending rancid roses as an apology

They aren’t even the ones you like

No, Seokjin would take pride in your passion and show it off to the world

He's so certain he’d be the better boyfriend

He has all these thoughts of dates at dusk, your shy smile as he makes you laugh, shadows of your touch on his skin…

Jin has the perfect plan

He’ll step into your boyfriend’s shoes, throwing the man aside and slowly taking over his life

Seokjin will speak sweet lies, watching as they spread like wildfire

Lies that’ll turn you two lovers against each other

Driving a wedge between the both of you

All the while Jin watches from afar

Playing patient and slowly planting his seeds of deception

Days go on of you drifting apart

Arms once wrapped around one another slowly unwinding

Heartstrings finally snapping and the bond you two once had now broken

After the hard parts done, all Seokjin has to do is sweep in and steal you away

Letting you cry on his shoulder as he charms his way into your heart

The blueprint is drawn out in his mind and he’s ready to take action

But first, he’ll start by setting fire to these flowers

—Min Yoongi

flower type — Black Dahlia

The days are getting darker

Black dahlias in bloom

Their floral scent fills his room

The sweet smell reminds him of you

Yoongi paces back and forth, flattening down a trail in his cream coloured carpet

His mind is such a mess

Tossing around ideas of what to do, it feels like a tennis match going on in his head

All the words blur together until its hazy lines and he feels as if he’s hyperventilating

His head and his heart are splitting himself apart

Torn between two choices: Ask you out for Valentine’s day? Or stay away and suffer in silence

He knows the logical option– and he wouldn’t even be considering this if it wasn’t for how sad you looked…

Sitting on the curb, a chill brushing over your bare skin

September has set in and along with it is the autumn air 

It paints your cheeks pink, dusting them a rosy red colour

Your confession almost got lost in the wind, just a hushed whisper only he could hear

“I wish just this once… I could be someone’s first choice to love.”

Your words are all that ring through his ears and he’s right brought back to his dilemma

His nerves set him alight, his whole body on fire

He clenches and unclenches his fists, squeezing the stem of the flowers in his hands

The thorns tear through his skin, leaving scarlet to trickle down his arms

The pain doesn’t even register in his mind, all too focused on the heavy weight in his heart

Breathing is hard, each inhale stings his throat as short pants echo out into the room

It doesn’t help that he’s also mumbling his thoughts to himself, trying to clear up the mess in his head but leaving no room to breathe instead

Realistically, Yoongi knows how this should end

He knows what’s right and he knows that if he indulges himself just this once… There no telling how far he’ll go

Caught up in a selfish choice and spiralling further into obsession

All Yoongi has is his mind

His bodies betrayed him, he gets so sick when you’re not near

He can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t do anything without feeling like he’s in a constant state of free-fall without you

His heart is a traitor too

It longs for you, begs to bring you in close and keep you as his own

But he bites back the agony and locks it away in his ribcage

 Yoongi’s mind is the only sliver of sanity he has left

So he’ll keep you at arms length

Far enough away that he can’t hurt you, but close enough for comfort

Yoongi’s just about made up his mind when fate is taking the chance out of his hands 

You walk into the room, tears on your cheeks and words ready to leave your lips

But whatever you were about to say is suddenly silenced as your eyes land upon the flowers in his hands

A bit mangled and blood dripping down the sides, but the black dahlias are beautiful nonetheless

Your eyes stay glued to them, a thousand thoughts running through your head

One idea must’ve clicked because now your iris shines with something akin to adoration

You look at Yoongi and ask, “Are those for me?”

And when you look at him like that, all he can do is say yes

Taking the flowers from his hold, you’ve officially accepted your place in his life

Yet you couldn’t be more unaware of just exactly what you got yourself into

—Jung Hoseok

flower type — White Lily

White lilies, the fragile flower

So delicate, so desirable, they look just like you

Petals drifting downwards

They follow the wind, flowing freely just like your white wedding dress

It should be a day to enjoy

The sun rising over east

Birds twitter their spring song

The leaves turning over as they change colours along with the season

April is warm and everyone wears it with a smile

That winter chill has begun to defrost

Melting away and bringing forth short dresses and sun-kissed skin

To be honest, everyone is in their element (everyone except Hoseok of course)

Glowing skin and bright smiles

Hundreds of eyes look at you and when Hoseok turns to follow their gaze…

He would be lying if he didn’t say you were the happiest of them all

You look so gorgeous in your gown

You as Mother Nature and your dress the earth’s decoration

Your train flows like the river, ivory patterns of lily pads woven into the lace

Silver jewelry adorns your wrists, sparkling in the sunlight

It wraps around your arms like Hoseok wishes he could do

White sleeves are also sewn into your dress, intricate designs traced into the fabric

Thread twists into your arms like cravings on tree branches

Barely visible outlines of flowers stems tie into the silk

Nobody else would ever notice, but Hoseok does

It reminds him all too well of the words he wrote on his own tree when the lilies were in bloom

The floret filled the field, their petals brushing against his skin as he etched your names into the ebony wood

He was so unbelievably naive back then, but at least he was at his happiest

Blissfully unaware of the other man who stole your attention and captured your heart (as if it was ever his to begin with)

Hoseok lived in a glass castle in the sky

Watching the seasons change thinking you were still his 

All the while you shared drunken kisses in the dark with someone whose name he doesn’t even know

And as the years went by you found your happiness in someone else’s heart

The dam has broken and Hoseok’s delusion is beginning to disappear 

There’s cracks in the glass and it threatens to shatter, but he’ll hold it together just a little while longer

You gaze happily over at another man

Affection in your eyes and a smile that Hoseok hasn’t seen on you in years

Suddenly everything has become all too real, and Hoseok understands that you were never met to be

He could never treat like you deserved, never measure up to a real man, never make you truly happy (but he could’ve loved you like no other)

As you say your vows and the sun begins to set, your ceremony has reached its end

All while Hoseok keeps a porcelain like smile on his face

The wedding takes on it’s final dance and Hobi marches into his funeral

He walks away without a goodbye (His last ‘I love you’ is in the letter in your pocket, he couldn’t find the strength to spit the words out)

Hoseok passes by the lilies in the field, tramped under his feet

He heads back home where silver blades and shiny painkillers are waiting for him

And he knows that the happiest you’ll ever be, is the day he dies

—Kim Namjoon

flower type — Carmine Carnation

Snowdrops and scarlet petals fall upon the open casket

There lies your lover, surrounded with carnations and encased in an empty box

Really, his tragic fate was his own fault

He got too tied up in you

Acting as if he owned you, as if your skin was his to touch and his to harm

He forgot his place on the podium is all, and Namjoon knocked him back down to where he belongs

Buried down in the dirt and six-feet below you

He’s nothing compared to a goddess 

So far beneath you that he’ll soon become the bones you walk on

His skeleton nothing but the stairs that uplift you

Each rib a rung in the ladder you’ll climb 

Digging the back of your heels into each vertebrate, the spines of the fallen could stretch for miles

It’s not like he was the first anyways

Namjoon’s gotten his game down to a tee

Killing is ever so easy

It takes no more effort then to offer a simple– push

The coroner said it was an accident, tripped over his own two feet

Tumbled down the stairs, cracking his head open on each concrete step

Spilling his scarlet like sin down the whole spiral staircase

Namjoon’s been the silent executioner for years

Taking hold of the sinners like cattle only to send them to the slaughter

The light in their eyes wouldn’t hold a candle in comparison to the sun of your soul

And while hundreds of corpses lay behind your back (you none the wiser), something about this time is different

Namjoon hasn’t seen you this sad in years

The tears don’t stop, not even when he offers his hand to wipe them away

Your sadness has been steady ever since you found out

An ocean in your eyes, running down like a river to your lips (Namjoon has hallucinations of how it’d feel to kiss them. Soft while you stutter through a breath. Tasting like salt as your tears run down his tongue. But, he’s quick to shake these impurities away.)

You always cry so easily to tells himself

Your tears are not his fault, but rather apart of your very nature

Breaking down from the simplest of things, you truly care for every creature in this world

It always surprises Namjoon how you could have empathy for even the foulest of criminals

But isn’t that why he’s so drawn to you?

So caring and kind, you’re the light in his darkest of times

An angel who can do no wrong

It’d be impossible for you to ever harm a human soul, even if it has to be done

But that’s why you have Namjoon to do the dirty work for you

He’ll avenge his archangel from the rot that uproots the earth

Protecting your innocent eyes as he slaughters those sinners like pigs

Eternal warrior, he worships the ground you walk on

Commander of his mind and captor of his heart, he gives his all to you

—Park Jimin

flower type — A Blooming Bruise

February is the season of blooming bruises and careless cuts

They fall like flower petals down your arm

Each blossoming bruise is shaded with all the pretty pinks and purples you like, but Jimin thinks they’re the ugliest things he’s ever seen

Each purple petal is shaped like fingerprints

Indents on your skin, a constant reminder of what he did

 Jimin can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner

Too blinded by hate to see that his soulmate was suffering

The guilt is a hungry monster caged in his chest

It gnashes its teeth and claws at his heart

He’s so unbelievably sorry that he couldn’t see the truth sooner

But before he can fall into a spiral of self-hatred, Jimin’s rage is redirected to the asshole who broke your beauty

The man– no– boy who you call your lover

The one who smells like cigarettes, their scent drowning out your floral perfume

The boy who kisses you rough, leaving marks all up your neck

The bastard who tells you he loves you, only to turn a fist when you do something he doesn’t like

Jimin hates him so much it almost outweighs his love for you

Almost

He can’t stand to see you cry

It makes him sick to his stomach and he can’t stop his own tears from trailing down his face

Your happiness is his first priority

So, he’ll stay by your side until you’ve got no tears left to cry

Even after all your sadness has run dry, he refuses to let you go

Your head tucked into his shoulder, breathe tickling his throat and sending chills down his spine

Chapped lips that crack down the center, how he wishes he could kiss you without consequences

Jimin takes you into his arms, a hand placed under your thighs and one wrapped around your waist

Your curious as to where he’s taking you, moved from sitting on the firm floorboards and now wandering away to somewhere unknown

You pry your eyes away from the crook of his neck and try to peek over his shoulder

But his palm pushes your head back down and he tells you to get some rest

Jimin wraps you both in a blanket and brings you down to lay on his bed

Sinking down into a sea of blue sheets, sleep comes quick

You settle in with Jimin behind your back

A shield against any monsters that might sneak up on you at night

He buries his face in your hair, breathing in the floral scent that was once so smothered by smoke

Jimin places kisses upon your neck, sending you off to sleep the safest you’ve ever felt

And as you’re drifting off in a dream, Jimin thinks up all the ways to get rid of your lousy lover

—Kim Taehyung

flower type — Red Roses

Romantics can be so predictable 

Flipping through the acts of love like it’s a playbook

Placing red roses on your doorstep every day of the week

Putting chocolates in your mailbox that’ll end up melting from the May heat

Romantics are the writers, the poets, the purely in love

They write lyrics with every word they speak

Singing sonnets as if it’s as easy as the breathe they take

Little drawings of cupid scrawled into table-tops and love letters written on napkins

These are the trademarks of any hopeless romantic

And at first glance, all these acts would make your heart stop and cheeks flush

But when does it begin to border on the obsessive?

Taehyung isn’t driven by desire, he doesn’t have his head in the clouds or act like lovers do

But rather, it’s the armoured emotion that has him under its control

Stuck on the idea of love and a slave to obsession, he won’t stop at anything until he has it just right

Everything has to be perfect when it involves you

Always needing more and it’s never enough

At first it started off small

Flowers petals found their way to your front door– then past the entrance and scattered throughout your home

Chocolate covered strawberries sit wound up in a bow– placed inside your fridge so they won’t start to melt

He’ll put a teddy bear upon your bed– tucked in tight and smelling sweetly like his cologne

Taehyung hopes that it’ll chase away the bad dreams you’ve been having lately

He sees your pale skin and the purpling eyebags that drag you down

He can only dream that the bear, dressed handsomely in a suit so like his own, will ward off the monsters that scare you in your sleep (unaware that he’s the very monster hiding in the dark)

Taehyung also writes words to you, twisted in obsession

They fall from his tongue faster than his hand can catch them

Messy handwriting and clumsy sentences

But he tries to make it pretty just for you, dotting the ‘I’s with hearts and looping the ‘O’s to look like flowers

Poems of pure passion fall down from your mailbox, overflowing because every though he has of you is a confession of his heart

‘Days flow by like the flowers. A bud blooms in the early sky and I awake to your smile.’

Pieces of a passage are stuffed into the trash

You can’t stand to look at the words without tearing up in terror

 ‘Dawn breaks and the petals begin to fall. I gather them in my arms, taking in their memory and etching their beauty into my mind. I take them away like the kisses I steal without you knowing.’

Taehyung notices all his notes have found their way to the bottom of the bin

Maybe he wasn’t obvious enough? He’ll try again

Taehyung texts you the next line of his poem

‘Flowers so fragile I fear they’ll fall apart. Twilight takes over the sun and the flowers will wilt. Delicate and like a dance, I collect the crimson leaves. Holding them in my hands like I do you at night.’

You’ve changed your number

His blue words are sent into the abyss

So he turns to the phone placed upon your wall

Drilled into the drywall and built into the brick, you’ll have to tear the thing out if you want to get rid of his voice

Taehyung calls out into the empty apartment, his honey-tone ringing out into oblivion 

‘Darkness grows like roots in the earth. A disease taints your touch and the weak rose is dying. Burn like iron but broken like a ribcage. Hollow glass that lets my heart see through. Such brittle beauty needs nothing more than my protection. I’ll take you into my arms before you drift afar.’

His words don’t reach your ears

You haven’t let him into your heart just yet

But next time he’s for certain, because when he delivers the next lyric in his love song, he’ll make sure to do it in person

—Jeon Jungkook

flower type — Hemlock

Jungkook’s wrath will be the death of you

His anger raging on in his heart

It builds day by day, burning ash catches fire and soon his whole life is a flaming inferno

He tried so hard to hide it too

Only after you’ve fallen fast asleep would he sneak out into the shadows

Dressed in darkness and eyes of evil, the reaper has come to wreak havoc on the world

He sees his target and stalks them like prey

His footsteps match the unknown mans

Jungkook’s so close he can hear all the dirty thoughts slipping out of his head

Hurtful words and harmful thoughts you came crying to him about only a few days prior

And now his hands twitch to kill, the only weapon he brought with him

He’ll wrap his slender fingers around the man’s throat

Choking back his cries and staring at him with empty eyes

The man would lose his blue breath

Hands scratching at Jungkook’s arms, leaving long lacerations that’ll stick to his skin

Then, Jungkook would start to squeeze harder

Thumbs digging into his throat as he tries to scream

His trachea begins to crack, bone breaking under pressure

But before he loses consciousness, a slide of his hands has Jungkook snapping his neck

And that’s just what he does

The same as he’s done to the thousands of others who’ve hurt his angel

Tonight will be like any other, slipping out of your arms in the dead of darkness

Tucking you in tight as he kisses your forehead

He lingers for a second, staring at you in your peaceful sleep

But then the angers rises once again and next thing you know he’s grabbing his weapon of choice and walking out the door

This nights pick of poison is ironic

A fatal flower that Jungkook knows the florist will enjoy

Killed by the very thing she loved most

Poison hemlock that he sprinkled into her drink

So unassuming as the tainted water slides down her throat

Jungkooks watches in anticipation, waiting for the seeds to sprout

For the roots to dig through her skin and spread their poison to her stomach

He watches and waits, checking the clock over and over

Time ticks on and on as nothing seems to happen

And while Jungkook waits for the woman to meet her end, in another room, you take of sip from the same glass

Both sitting on the bedside table, but mixed up in Jungkook’s mess of emotions

You drink down the drug, its venom running through your veins

Flower petals fall past your lips

They flood your mind and fill up your heart

And all of a sudden, you finding yourself falling fast asleep

Your eyes shut slowly, tiredness taking over your bones

It’s only a minute before your soul starts to slip

A fast and fatal death before Jungkook even has the time to realize

© cybsoo2 2025, all rights reserved ‎

[flowerandblood]

The Lost Haven (8/16)

[ modern mafia • Aemond x niece • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, smut, the angst, broad description of suicide attempt (blood), forbidden relationship, half-manipulation, imprisonment, mention of murder, kind of toxic behaviour, violence, uncomfortable conversations, bad, bad things ]

[ description: The vacation from eight years ago still haunts his memories and doesn't let him forget what happened between him and his niece, the daughter of his sister and Harwin Strong. Their paths separate and he immerses himself in his father's mafia world until the day she calls him for the first time since those events. Sexual tension, dark, dangerous, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: As promised, this is another, this time official modern version of The Fall from the Heavens. In this version, Daemon is not related to the family, but is simply Rhaenyra's husband and the leader of the second gang, Alys and Larys are also not related to each other, but Larys is Harwin's brother. I will partly refer to the original series, hiding some easter eggs, and some will be a completely new, fresh plot. As in every universe, only Aemond calls her Rhaenys and this is not her real name (she is unnamed character and the others also do not know that he calls her that). There will be a lot more brutality and angst in this version, so watch out. You can read this as a standalone story.

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond & Rhaenys Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She knew that she was paying for her naivety and stupidity, for not listening to Daemon and her premonition. She wasn't even able to fully blame her uncle for what had happened, because even though he was the one who had imprisoned her, she had thrown herself into his arms herself.

She let him thrust into her body, she let him fill herself with his warm seed, thinking that perhaps there was a way for them, no matter how twisty and difficult.

Lying in his room on his bed, pretending she didn't see his pleading, desperate looks in her direction, she had plenty of time to think about herself and her life.

She realised that everything she was doing, her naivety, her desire to help him stemmed from the belief that if it was possible to fix him, to set him on the right path, to free him from this sullen, dark fate, there was also hope for her.

The hope that one day there would come a moment in her life when she would feel peace.

Meanwhile, instead of peace, something else filled her.

Emptiness.

She felt nothing when it turned out that he had taken her phone, when he locked his room door when he left, when he spoke to her or asked her something.

She pretended that all this wasn't happening, that she was actually on the beach, gazing out at the endless sea, listening to its sound.

She couldn't bear the sight of him, the smell of him, his touch, and everything she had dreamed of and held dear became, in her eyes, foreign and hated: hearing him, she felt as if a stranger, with whom she wanted nothing to do, was speaking to her.

She did not want his explanations.

His apology.

She felt nothing, experienced nothing, needed nothing.

She didn't even feel the need to go home: even if she were free again, it wouldn't change anything.

Her uncle had broken something in her and they both knew it.

Her heart trembled in sympathy and grief only at the sight of Helaena: his sister had been patient, warm and affectionate caretaker towards her. They did not, however, usually exchange even a word.

There was no need: she knew that Helaena was a hostage and prisoner of her family as much as she was, and that there was nothing she could do to help her.

"I'm worried about Aemond." She said one time, handing her a towel in the bathroom.

She could have covered herself with a curtain in the bath, but Helaena needed to be in the room with her.

They wanted to be sure she wouldn't hurt herself.

She looked at her and put on the T-shirt she got from her that served as her pyjamas.

She didn't answer.

She didn't know what.

Helaena looked at her fingers, playing with them in a nervous gesture exactly as her brothers had done, all probably inheriting it from their mother.

"I caught him browsing your Instagram account one evening, couple of months ago. He was sitting in the living room with a drink and thought he was alone. He was about to do something with our grandfather. He didn't hear me come downstairs and freaked out. He turned off his app as soon as he saw me."

She looked at her in disbelief, feeling a squeeze in her heart, discomfort, pain and heat ripple through her body at the thought that, contrary to what she thought, he hadn't forgotten her at all.

"I tried to help him and he took advantage of me. Forgive me, but I am no longer able to sympathise with him." She whispered, picking up her things from the floor. His sister swallowed hard, looking up at her.

"Since that night. Since our father died. Since he saw you. For a moment, something changed in him. He seemed content. Calmer than usual. He told me he was thinking of going to university part-time. I didn't know you were the one helping him with that." She muttered, stepping closer to her, looking somewhere to the side, as if distracted.

"You can't save someone who doesn't want it." She said in a trembling voice, wondering what she wanted from her, how could she think that after what he had done to her she would care about his decisions and what he chose to do.

He had mocked her, objectified her, humiliated her.

He left her with nothing, stripped her of all virtues and values.

"Our grandfather knows when to act like part of the family and when to act like a ruler. He does this to each of us. He knows our weaknesses. Our unfulfilled desires, our flaws, our complexes. He knows who among us is the most miserable, the most vulnerable. The most weak." She said, avoiding eye contact with her, looking around the room, tense.

She pressed her clothes to her chest, feeling the squeeze in her throat at her words, the sympathy and pain that showed she was no different from him.

They both were weak.

They always were, even then, during that summer.

They were sad, hopeless and small children, finding each other in the end, comforting one another with their presence.

"I can't help him anymore. He's made his decision and I'm here. I don't think there's anything more we can say to each other."

That night she couldn't sleep: he hadn't been back for a long time wherever he was, and the thought that perhaps someone had shot him or taken revenge on him didn't fill her with peace.

Despite everything she felt, she didn't want him to die.

She shuddered when she heard footsteps in the corridor and then the sound of a key turning in the lock. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep when he came inside, closing the door behind him.

She heard him pull off his jacket and shoes, trying not to make any noise, and then he came towards her, leaning over her with a quiet sigh. She swallowed hard when he gently covered her with the duvet, when his wide, warm hand combed through her hair as if she were a small child.

She was furious with herself that she felt tears under her eyelids as soon as he pulled away and lay down on the mattress, when she heard him say hello to Vhagar, who licked his fingers.

She was furious that some part of her still craved his closeness, that his touch made her feel safe, just as it had then, that summer.

The only joy in her days filled with shame and grief was Vhagar.

Her uncle's dog was gigantic and had big brown eyes. Vhagar was as distrustful as he was and did not approach her at first, but watched her closely as she lay on the floor, and when she held out her hand to her, she sniffed the air, wanting to smell her with her large, black, wet nose.

Like him, Vhagar required patience and understanding, respecting her barriers.

Eventually, however, she allowed herself to be touched, sealing her acceptance with a long, sticky lick from which her fingers were all moist. Being with her and touching her soft, warm fur was a form of therapy for her: she couldn't find comfort in his arms even though she craved it, and she knew he was dying to touch her.

However, if she broke down and let him, she would lose the remnants of her self-respect and her own dignity.

Although she tried to reject these thoughts and feelings that filled her, what she had repressed during the day came back to her in her dream: she saw her uncle lying in a pool of blood, his face cut, his eyes gouged out in revenge for what he had done to one of the men who had not paid him on time.

The scream she let out seemed inhuman to her and she didn't even know she had really let it out. She pulled herself up on the bed, terrified by the darkness and the fact that she did not recognise the room she was in when she heard something move on the floor.

"– Rhaenys? – Rhaenys, what happened? –" She heard his voice and looked at him with big eyes, whooping with her own tears, sobbing loudly as she felt relieved despite everything he had done to her.

He was alive.

"– did you have a bad dream? –" He asked, looking at her with a sincere worry from which she felt pain in her heart, thinking in disbelief that she wanted to throw herself into his arms and cuddle up to him.

"– hey – hey, baby – it's okay –" He whispered soothingly, rising slowly, approaching her uncertainly. She lifted her shoulders up, simultaneously wanting and not wanting this.

She felt a pleasant shiver as he sat down beside her, his hand gently touching her shoulder.

She swallowed hard when he dared to put his other hand on her head and sank his face into her neck – she felt like bursting into sobs feeling his familiar scent, his familiar warmth, her body relaxing involuntarily into his embrace against her will.

"– shhh – easy – easy, little one – no one will hurt you –" He assured her, only to sink his face into the top of her head a moment later, stroking her shuddering body soothingly with his hands.

You've already done it, she thought with pain.

The person before whom she was most vulnerable, whom she allowed to touch her naked body, whom she allowed to be deep inside her, as intimate as possible.

She thought, feeling her body convulsing as she tried to calm her breathing, that she had nothing left.

"– I'm not sure I want to live anymore –" She mumbled out, surprising herself with these words that came straight from her heart.

She heard him draw in the air loudly, terrified, rocking her in his embrace as if she were a small child.

"– no – don’t say that – it won’t take long – my grandfather is in contact with your mother – they will soon come to an agreement and you will return home –" He whispered as if he thought that was what she meant.

That she just wanted to go home.

"– you broke my heart –" She said, wanting him to understand that her going back anywhere wouldn't change anything, because what he had done to her no place could fix.

She didn't really care now where she was or what was happening to her.

She felt regret towards herself that when she heard him burst out crying she involuntarily felt sympathy for him.

"– forgive me – I regret this like nothing else in my life, I swear – I will spend my life trying to make it up to you –" He muttered, his warm, full lips starting to place wet, lingering, desperate kisses on her face, wanting to somehow soften her words and what she had said, but she felt worse and worse.

"– I love you – I love you in every sense of the word –"

Lie.

"– I don't believe you –"

She heard him wail quietly, hugging her as tightly as if he wanted to break her bones, melt into one with her so she could never escape him again.

"– I understand it – and I don't dare ask for it –" He whispered with difficulty, and she clenched her eyes shut, herself feeling the hot tears one by one begin to run down her face.

They were just empty words that couldn't change anything.

"– that feeling I had inside me was the only thing that allowed me to breathe – and you took it away from me –" She whined into his neck, finally saying what she had been feeling all this time, the regret, the disappointment, the terror and the emptiness she felt deep inside her flowed out of her mouth.

She was sure he was going to start denying it, saying he would make it up to her, but instead she heard his mournful cry, his kisses on her face, neck and shoulders loud, sticky, ravenous, his breath heavy and raspy, making her feel a pleasant tickle between her thighs in spite of herself.

"– I love you – I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so fucking much –" He mumbled out and she snuggled into him harder, wanting to hurt and comfort him at the same time, to reject and accept him deep inside her.

Some part of her wanted to believe him again.

She gasped, surprised to feel her nipples grow hard, to feel her warm cunt pulsate around nothing as his broad hand slid slowly under her t-shirt, trailing down her back while his swollen lips did not pull away from her bare skin.

"– I love you –" He assured her, the strokes of his hand, his wet, hot lips increasingly ambiguous and intimate, the tips of his fingers trailing down her spine, making a wonderful shiver run through her again and again, from which she finally moaned.

"– you hurt me –" She mumbled out regretfully through her tears, inhaling his scent, hating him for how good she felt with him, hating him for how much she wanted him, hating him for needing him so badly and him taking advantage of her.

"– no more – I swear – all I want is you –" He breathed out, pressing her tighter to him, her lips in some subconscious, involuntary reflex brushing against his neck, tasting his sweat and his perfume.

"– please – please, baby, please –" He exhaled, their fingers clenching tighter on their bodies, proving where this was going, how much they both needed comfort, reassurance, a moment of pleasure and warmth, what only they could give each other.

She shuddered and froze when she felt his hand slide down her back to her bare buttocks, digging his fingers into them, feeling the cold sweat on her neck.

She pushed him away, panting heavily, and quickly moved away, pressing her back against the cold wall. She looked at him with big eyes, feeling her whole body quiver with desire, her cunt pulsing greedily, dripping all over from her wetness.

"– no – no, no, no, you're doing this to me again –" She cried out, shaking her head, horrified at the effect he had on her, how easily he manipulated her.

She was a stupid idiot, exactly as Daemon had said.

Her uncle shook his head, moving closer to her, in some pathetic, helpless gesture grabbing her calves, kissing her knees as if he wanted to fall to her feet.

"– no, I swear – I want you so badly –"

"– your grandfather told you to do this? – to soften me up so that in case my mother didn't agree he would get shares in her companies through me? –" She asked with anger, thinking that surely that was the case, that this was just part of their plan.

She couldn't let them down, she couldn't make a fool of herself once again.

Her uncle looked at her with eyes red from tears, his face all swollen, his lips parted in a heavy, raspy breaths.

"– no – I was the one who demanded that I could be by your side – that no one but me could bother you – to make sure you were safe –" He muttered and she shook her head, thinking she couldn't believe him.

"– I want to go to sleep – I want to go to sleep –" She mumbled out, herself no longer knowing what she was feeling or thinking.

She turned her face to the wall and hugged its cold structure as if she wanted to melt into it, the space between her thighs hot and wet, throbbing from the tension that filled her entire lower abdomen.

She pursed her lips into a thin line when she felt him clamp his hand on her waist, his face pressed against her back.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – please, don't reject me – I promise I'll be good now – I'm studying, I'm going to take my exams, I'm going to go to university – please, be there for me – it doesn't matter without you – my life doesn't matter if I can't share it with you –" He whined pleadingly, falling into hysteria, bursting out in such a loud, pitiful, almost childish cry that she began to weep herself, not knowing what to do, where to go to escape the chaos of feelings and thoughts that were filling her head.

Although she wanted to, she couldn't push him away after those words and she let him fall asleep cuddled into her back.

The next day, lying down, staring at the wall, waiting for him to wake up, she looked between her and the bed and saw something shiny on the floor. She slipped her hand into the gap and when she caught it, she thought with a heavy beating heart that it was the blade to a small bookbinding knife.

She swallowed loudly as she grasped it in her fingers and slowly raised her hand, slipping it into her towel that lay on the chair just above her head.

He had told her that day that her mother would try to reach an agreement with them if she could see her.

She thought with disgust and shame that her mother and Daemon would have to sacrifice what was rightfully theirs because she had been stupid and naive, because she had disobeyed them, because she had shown thoughtlessness.

She decided that she would make it right.

That she would do something that would destroy Otto's entire plan and allow Daemon to keep what he wanted.

She thought that perhaps her step-father would understand that she had done this for him.

That this was her apology.

"I'd like to take a bath."

True to her assumption, her uncle was careful and removed the key from the bathroom lock, informing her that she had ten minutes, however, to her relief, he did not check her towel.

When he closed the door she quickly turned the water on, not wanting him to get suspicious, and slid the blade out of the cloth, turning it in her fingers.

This was her escape route.

Her final word.

She stepped into the tub, sinking into the pleasantly warm, crystal clear water and leaned her back against the backrest, breathing loudly, feeling fear, uncertainty and doubt.

She didn't want this, but there was no other choice.

Even if she went home, she would not escape the prison that was her heart.

She was unable to stop loving him.

This thought made her sink the blade into the skin of her wrist.

She hissed, feeling with tears in her eyes how unpleasant, rough and stinging this feeling was, uncomfortable, exactly as her feelings towards her uncle.

She smiled under her breath thinking that he would be the one to find her.

She wondered if she would break his heart in this way, just as he had broken hers.

When she did the same with her other wrist she dropped the blade on the tiles and leaned her head back, lying in peaceful silence, hearing only the hum of water around her.

She closed her eyes, imagining that she was by the sea again, with him, listening as he told her about how old and valuable the coin they had found was.

Tears ran down her cheeks at the thought that in a moment she would join that boy.

The man standing outside the door had killed him long ago.

And then she fell asleep, and though she heard someone's voice, felt someone touch her, felt someone calling her name, she could not open her eyes, feeling calm and light.

Free.

She hissed, feeling an unpleasant burning sensation in her wrists and twisted on the bed, opening her eyelids with difficulty. She felt the sun shining on her face, the familiar smell of disinfectants all around her, the quiet beeping of the machines controlling her heart rate just above her head.

She looked to the side and saw the figure of Daemon sitting in a chair, looking at her exactly as he had then, when her uncle had brought her home from Heavenly Beach.

She felt her body begin to quiver in shame and fear: even though she tried, she couldn't find the words to express what she was feeling, and although she had never called him that, at that moment something snapped inside her.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry, Dad – I believed him – I was only supposed to bring him the books, nothing more – I was trying to fix it –" She mumbled out, bursting into sobs, struggling to catch air between the successive sentences that left her mouth.

Something in her step-father's gaze changed – he swallowed hard and twisted in his seat, clenching his hands into fists.

It seemed to her that some part of him sympathised with her.

"– I know –"

Those words, though short and dispassionate, meant more to her than he could have imagined.

Although he was furious with her, and he had every right to be, he understood why she did what she did and that she believed it would help his cause.

"– you did it for me – didn't you? –" He asked, looking at her wrists.

She nodded, trying to catch her breath, feeling that her cheeks and eyelids were all swollen with tears of sadness, grief and pain.

He lowered his gaze and sighed heavily, turning his head to the side, looking towards the window.

"– don't ever do it again – your mother almost died of despair –" He said, and she nodded again, letting his large hand close over her fingers.

"– you are a naive, stupid child – but mine – you will be under my full control from now on – you will not go anywhere without me, your mother or my bodyguards – do you understand? –" He asked and she nodded, feeling shame.

He was right.

She was a naive, stupid child who someone had to watch over to make sure she didn't mess up again.

Despite her initial horror that everyone would hate her, she was welcomed home with relief and joy: she knew that to some extent this was influenced by what she had done, but at least it made everyone understand that she regretted what had happened.

"– that son of a bitch – I swear I'll kill him with my own hands –" Jace said to her, embracing her tenderly as if she were a teddy bear.

She felt pain and discomfort at the thought that some part of her wanted to ask him not to hurt her uncle.

She wondered how much of this was due to how he was manipulating her and how much was due to how she really felt about him.

She knew that Daemon, Jace and their men had declared war on Otto: every day someone died in a shootout, and she prayed she wouldn't hear his name overhearing the conversations of her father's bodyguards.

"That boy with one eye sold Larys Strong a bullet in the head. His grandfather's partner! They say he just walked into his office and shot him. He must have pissed him off pretty good." He said, and she swallowed hard, feeling her heart stand up in her throat with terror.

She reached into the pocket of her shorts, pulling out the note he'd left her at the hospital and read its contents for the hundredth time.

I will always watch over you.

A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought that his confession was literal.

That he had killed him for her.

Do you know who did this?

I can take care of it.

For your comfort.

Those were his words.

I can take care of it for your comfort.

She hid her face in her hands at the thought of him sinking even deeper into darkness for her, thinking that in this way he would atone for what he had done.

Daemon agreed to let her return to the University on the condition that one of his bodyguards would wait in the car the entire time she was in the building, just to make sure she didn't leave or run away.

She agreed to this out of desperation, feeling that she was descending into madness sitting at home, constantly dreaming about him.

About someone bringing them news that he was dead.

Along with the end of the semester, the entry exams for all those who wanted to get into university were also approaching.

She tried not to think about whether he was studying, whether he was going to come and try, recognising that it was just his momentary whim, an attempt to make her believe that he was capable of change.

And then she'd see his silhouette in her memory, bent over a thick tome, read through her textbooks.

She hated herself for sympathising with him.

She hated herself for wanting him to succeed.

Since then neither of them had written or spoken to each other.

Even so, the day she knew the exams were to take place had her walking around in a state of complete shock and panic all day.

"Are you alright? I'm worried about you. You look terrified." Robb said, snapping her out of her reverie.

They had been together for a few months during the past year, as they had become very close on a excavations where they had been the professor's assistants together.

His ironic sense of humour, the glint in his eye and his cheeky smile made her feel a pleasant warmth in her stomach, and when he kissed her one evening she thought there was hope for her.

That she could live a normal life.

She spent her first time with him because she trusted him and knew he was experienced. He was tender and patient with her, excited by her clearly lack of skill in this aspect, by the fact that he could lead her by the hand, show her what desire and fulfilment were.

She was grateful to him for making the loss of her virginity only a little painful for her, and beyond that she felt only pleasure.

Nevertheless, she despaired that the orgasms she experienced with him could not compare to what she felt when she herself sank her hand into her leaking womanhood, imagining that it was her uncle's fingers that was greedily invading her slit.

"– go on – after all, that's what you want – that's why you came to me, isn't it? – for your uncle to take care of you – am I wrong? –"

She had to snuggle her face into the pillow so that her siblings wouldn't hear her moan of delight and relief, while wonderful waves of warmth and pleasure shook her body, causing her to fall into a peaceful, pleasant sleep, still holding her hand between her thighs.

However, it was enough for her to wake up in the morning, and remorse, sadness and disappointment in herself made her unable to breathe or eat.

And then she saw pictures of Robb with the women he had embraced at the club, and while part of her felt pain, part of her also felt relief.

When she broke up with him, he tried to explain to her that nothing had happened, that he had forgotten himself under the influence of alcohol but that he had never, never cheated on her because he had not kissed or had sex with any of them.

She then thought sadly that she could tell him exactly the same thing, however she felt that they were both cheating on each other in some way, just not physically.

She decided that it would be better if they remained friends, and although it was hard for him to bear at first, he seemed to eventually get used to the thought.

Neither of them resented each other.

She lowered her gaze at the thought, embarrassed, not knowing what to answer him, not being able to confess the truth after all.

She was, however, tired of lying.

"My friend was supposed to take his entry exams today. But I don't know if he will. He hurt me and I'm afraid to go there." She said, looking across the corridor to the part in the building where the big auditorium was located.

"Do you want me to go with you?" He suggested, and for some unknown reason she felt grateful to him for the offer.

She nodded, and he smiled at her in a way that she remembered vividly from the moments when she thought they were happy.

When they got there, she saw that the door to the room was open, probably because of how stuffy it was in there.

"Can you see him?" Robb whispered as she leaned out, she could, however, only see the first three rows of pews and did not recognise him among any of the people.

"No. But I can't see much." She muttered.

"Well, tough. We'll wait." He sighed, leaning back against the windowsill with his arms folded.

"Is he your boyfriend?" He asked after a moment with hesitation in his voice.

"No." She mumbled, looking at her fingers in shame. Robb raised his eyebrows, stroking his chin as if something in her words comforted him.

"Oh. I see." He said, and she swallowed hard, looking away, feeling that even though she had told the truth she felt like she had lied.

The people who had finished writing the exam started to leave one by one, making her lose faith with each passing minute that he had done it at all, thinking in the back of her mind that he was sitting with his grandfather and brother right now for sure, discussing how to destroy her step-father.

He didn't have time to play University now, she thought sadly, and froze when she saw him in the doorway.

His healthy eye grew wide at the sight of her as if he had seen a ghost and he stopped in mid-motion, pale, glancing at her, then at Robb.

"Is that him?" He asked curiously, extending his hand to him. "Robb, it's a pleasure. I hope you become a student soon too."

She swallowed hard seeing that his uncle's face expressed tension and coldness, a sign that something bad was about to happen.

His gaze full of impatience fell on her again while Robb's hand continued to hang in the air, showing her that if she didn't intervene, he would speak up and she wouldn't like that.

"Thank you, Robb. Will you leave us alone?" She asked in a trembling voice, wanting him to get away from this place as quickly as possible.

Robb blinked, bewildered, looking at her then at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Didn't you hear what she said?" Her uncle snarled in his direction in a way she knew was a warning.

He knew who he was, she realised suddenly with horror.

Then, when Helaena caught him looking at her Instagram account, it wasn't the first time he'd done it.

He followed her social media.

That's why he knew where he should come even though she hadn't given him her university address.

"I'm not talking to you, mate." Said Robb in a tone that betrayed that he had lost patience and she had to stand between them to keep her uncle from pushing against him, his jaw clenched in rage.

"That's enough." She said in a shaky voice.

"Aemond is having a hard time. Forgive him. Sometimes he doesn't know how to behave. He won't hurt me. Am I wrong?" She asked softly with a note of mockery in her voice, from which he swallowed loudly and looked away, embarrassed, trying to control himself.

Robb hesitated, but nodded finally and left them alone, glancing at them intently over his shoulder.

"It was a mistake." She said, shaking her head, herself wanting to leave, recognising that she didn't know why she was doing it, why she cared.

"– no – no, wait –" He muttered, grabbing her arm, careful, however, not to cause her pain. His hand wrapped around her waist in a way from which she swallowed hard, his forehead pressed against her temple.

"– are you two together again? –" He asked in a trembling voice, and she involuntarily burst out laughing, ignoring the stares of the other students who were just passing them by.

"– do you want to tell me how you know who I'm dating and when? –" She hissed, looking at him with fury, his gaze hot and pleading, full of feelings she didn't want to see.

"– do you love him? –"

She shook her head, trying to push him away, not wanting to hear it, having no intention of explaining herself to him.

"– I hope you'll pass – let me go – let me go, I said –" She growled, trying to pull away from him, but he closed his hands on her back, hugging his nose to her cheek like a small child seeking refuge, his eyes closed as he spoke his next words.

"– I killed him for you –" He whispered.

She swallowed hard, feeling a powerful, cold shiver run down her spine, her heart starting to pound like mad in her chest making her struggle to take another breath.

He had killed for her.

He had killed a man.

God, was it possible to wash away such a sin?

To carry such a burden.

She shook her head, her brow arching in pain at the thought that she didn't want to hear it.

"– I killed him because he threatened you – because he wanted to hurt you – I want you to be safe –" He gasped tenderly, enclosing her jaw in his hands, placing again and again warm, soft kisses on her cheek as if she were something he longed to cherish, that he adored, that he loved.

A part of her wanted to ask him if he planned to kill himself too, but those cruel words didn't leave her mouth.

When he hugged her she simply closed her eyes and allowed herself to calm down in the tender embrace of his arms, feeling his soft, full lips on her cheek, neck and shoulders, his hands combing through her hair tender, close, familiar, beloved.

"– I'm not pregnant –" She whispered and felt him freeze for a moment. He swallowed hard, placing a lingering, warm kiss on her temple.

"– I know – the doctor told me – we just have to try again –" He said softly, stroking her back comfortingly as if he were a husband who had just assured his wife that they would have a child in the future.

How absurd his words were simultaneously horrified, embarrassed and endeared her.

"– do you hear yourself? – after what you did to me? – after how –" She mumbled out, bursting into sobs, clasping her hands on his back, for some reason seeking help in his embrace.

He was the only person who understood what she was going through.

"– shhh – I'm here, baby –" He hushed her, stroking her hair and her back, his face sinking into her temple, his warm breath enveloping her neck.

She shuddered when she heard her phone ring – they moved away from each other, and when she pulled it out of her backpack it turned out to be Daemon's bodyguard.

"Your class is over, where are you? Is something wrong?"

"– n-no – no, I'm on my way, I was talking to the professor – I'm sorry –" She mumbled out, scared that the man would start looking for her.

"– it's okay – I'll wait where I always do –" He said and hung up while she breathed a sigh of relief.

"– wait a few minutes before I go so they don't see you –" She said indifferently, tucking the phone into her backpack. She felt him wanting to embrace her again, but she pushed him away, shaking her head and avoided him, unable to look at his face.

We just have to try again.

She burst out crying at the thought that some sick part of her wanted this.

"– you said he's not your boyfriend –" She heard Robb's voice behind her, standing at the entrance to the courtyard, looking at her with pain and disbelief.

She swallowed hard at the thought that he was watching them from a distance.

"– I –"

"– I thought we are friends, that we are honest with each other –" He said quickly, combing his hair with his hand in a gesture of impatience, his words making a cold, unpleasant shiver of shame shudder through her body.

He had caught her in the act, and she was like a small, weeping child who was afraid of the consequences.

"– he is not my boyfriend –"

"– are you serious? – you said he hurt you, and you almost let him fuck you in the middle of the corridor – where is your self-respect? –" He hissed and after a moment fell silent, seeing the look in her eyes, the expression on her face, hearing his own words, knowing that his last sentence was a step too far.

"– I'm sorry – I'm sorry I said that – I didn't –" He muttered, running his hand over his mouth.

He wanted to touch her shoulder, but she moved away from him, shaking her head, not caring that the others were looking at them from the side.

"– is there anything else you want to say? –" She asked, having the feeling that something inside her had broken once and for all, shattered into pieces like a glass vase.

Robb opened his mouth, his cheeks turning scarlet with horror and shame.

She turned tensely, heading for the exit, out of the corner of her eye noticing her uncle's face staring back at her, pale and shocked.

He heard it.

She shook her head letting him know not to follow her and ran towards the car park, thinking about how she wanted to sink to the ground and die.

As she closed the car door behind her, whooping with tears in panic, the man leaned over to look at her face, horrified.

"Are you all right?" He muttered.

"– I didn't pass the fucking exam – can we go now? –" She said with such anger and fury that the bodyguard merely nodded and started the engine, backing the car out onto the road.

She covered her face with her hands, choking and panting, trying to calm down, thinking she deserved it.

Why had she gone there?

Why did she have to see if he had come?

What did it matter?

We just had to try again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

They were both completely mad.

Maybe they had inherited it in their genes, she thought regretfully.

It wasn't until she was home at dinner, feeling Daemon's anxious gaze on her, that she thought uneasily that she had escaped the drowning ship, but had left her uncle and ex-boyfriend far too close. She felt her knee begin to pop up in a nervous reflex under the table at the thought that he might have done something to him.

Out of revenge, out of jealousy, out of whimsy.

I killed him for you.

She thought she would write to him to make sure he was okay.

But he didn't write back.

Unable to stand it, she put a second, new card in her phone, one of the hundreds her brother kept in his drawer to avoid bugging him, and called her uncle, demanding an explanation.

"What did you do to him?" She asked horrified, walking around her room as if in a trance.

"I see you have a new phone number and I have no idea what you're asking."

"Robb, Aemond. He's not writing me back."

She heard him hum on the other end, as if he was pleased with her words and the fact that whatever he had done had forced her to contact him.

"We only talked. His handsome face with brown eyes is unharmed." He said calmly, making her breathe a sigh of relief, still feeling the tension though.

"What were you two talking about?"

"It was our men's business."

"AEMOND."

"That I won't let anyone treat you like that. He doesn't know shit and meddles in matters that aren't his." He said coldly. "I gave him a warning."

For a moment there was a tension-filled silence between them, from which her heart pounded like mad.

She thought it was all some kind of pure madness, that it wasn't really happening.

"– did you threaten him? –"

She heard his loud sigh on the other side and a bark.

Vhagar.

"– I told him to treat you with respect and not to talk to other people about us if he didn't want unpleasantness – no violence, pure persuasion –"

"– manipulation – as in my case –"

"– that is not true –" He protested angrily.

"– LIAR –" She hissed and hung up, throwing her phone on the bed in a gesture full of rage.

She fell back on the bedding, sighing loudly and groaned when she saw that her display had lit up and he had sent her a new message.

She unlocked her phone reluctantly, thinking she had angered him with her words, but saw with surprise that he had sent her a picture of Vhagar.

She felt regret and a sting in her heart at the thought that involuntarily it made her smile.

What he was doing to her was so wrong, so very wrong.

So why did she feel warmth in her heart?

After a while, her phone vibrated again.

She didn't know why she laughed warmly only to burst out crying again a moment later, not understanding why he was the only one who could make her smile, the only one who could make her feel that wonderful warmth in her lower abdomen, the only one who could calm her down.

Why he was the only one she loved.

[romanoffsbish]

Seed of Romanoff

Dark!Natasha Romanoff x Innocent!FReader

Request | A redhead spotted you in a cafe, and nothing was gonna stand in her way of getting to you | WC: 3,376

Warnings: Non-Con (Trafficking — By parent) | Abusive Mom | Drugs | Toxic Natasha |

Smut: Non-Con | Daddy (N) | Little Dove (R) | Restraints | Unprotected Sex (P in V - Natasha has a penis) | Degrading | Forced Breeding | Belly-Bulge |

You were hesitant, hands sweating, and teeth grinding levels of nerves raced throughout your entire body as you finally entered your house with Wanda, your new classmate turned friend. The girl had made it clear that she liked you, and the truth was you thought you might like her too, but you needed others approval first.

Your mom was really easygoing, most would say neglectful, but you figured that would probably work in your favor. It was Natasha, her youthful wife's approval that you craved, and for some reason, you never got.

——

"Hey mom," you greeted her with a hopeful smile, "I have someone I want you to meet." This caught Natasha's attention immediately, she sprung up from the couch and met the lot of you in the kitchen. You were so engrossed in letting Wanda introduce herself to them to notice the way your mom winced at your step mothers touch, her grip vice-like on her hips.

"It's lovely to meet you Wendy," Natasha replied, a cordial hand extended her way. The brunette chuckled awkwardly, shaking her hand out of respect, but you could see the way her demeanor had changed. It made you sad to see Nat likely didn't approve, because you were honestly running out of options at this point.

"Wanda," you politely corrected your stepmom, then went on in the same breath, "and I will be going up to my room now. We have an exam to study for this Friday." The way you rushed off, with her hand in yours, in a fit of giggles made the redheads blood boil.

"It's time," was all she offered your mother, the spineless woman nodded then set off to her bedroom while Natasha watched you walk into your own with the live footage now pulled up on her phone.

You were just too cute for words honestly, the way you plopped onto your bed with a silly smile made her swoon. Then she felt her mood fall when Wanda sat next to you, the strawberry brunette's hand brazenly laid on your bare thigh, and the jealousy was back as if it'd never truly left. Because it didn't, anytime someone so much as looked at what was hers she fumed.

You didn't know, but you were hers, she ensured that ages ago when she met your mom in a nightclub and tricked her into believing she was interested in her.

Natasha was well off, and your mother poor. It was easy for her to convince your mom to give her you. Your father left her when you were just a tike, and she resented you for taking her youth. As if you'd asked to be born, but regardless of the circumstances you were dealt, you were just so good. The kindest creature Natasha had ever seen, an obvious innocence that stemmed from neglect radiated from you, it was what attracted the redhead to you in the first place. When she saw you smile for the first time she was hooked.

Natasha, who was much closer to your age than your mother's, caught sight of you on campus one day. You smiled warmly at the barista, and she felt a darkness envelope her heart since it wasn't directed at her. She took a photo of you, but remained out of your eye line as she ran your face through an algorithm. Confirming to her that you were a bit younger, and so damn cute, the naivety radiated off of your instagram account.

All she knew after you left the coffee shop with a hum was that she had to have you. It was her final year of her doctorate while it appeared to only be the third of your bachelors. She knew better than to just approach you alone, you were far too delicate for her gruff, relentless demeanor. So she set out to learn all about you, and the life that led you to where you were now.

Then one day, when your mom was desperate for a fix, Natasha struck a hell of a deal. It was illegal in every single sense, but your mom took it without even a second thought to your safety or happiness. An endless supply of drugs and a home in Miami in exchange for you, her only child. The concept was sinister, and sadly fit her well. It wasn't even her first time considering it.

Fortunately, you got Natasha instead of the sleaze that propositioned her months prior. In this case, you were at least going to experience love, even in a twisted way.

Everything was finally falling into place for Natasha, your mom didn't seem to want to call it off, not that she really cared if she had. Now she could only work out if she handled Wanda first. No way was she about to let that slut have her way with you, your virginity was the redheads. She quite literally paid for that and your child bearing abilities, your genetic predisposition to fertility a cherry on top of the perverse sundae.

Your mother had vacated her womb enough times to confirm to Natasha that was the case. Surprisingly though, the redhead would've been fine if you were only able to carry one. As much as she wanted to breed you endlessly, until your body forgot how to be barren, she also was fine with one heir and the trophy wife.

First though, before she could embark on her fantasy, came the removal of the obstacle. Wanda, the younger redhead, who shared characteristics with the elder that made her want to laugh. Even in your conquest for love elsewhere did you find someone who resembled her. Whether it be her green eyes or red hair, there hadn't been a time where you brought someone unlike her home. It was a perfect reminder of your looming fate.

"Hey! Open this door right now!" Natasha shouted as the side of her fist pummeled into your locked door, "No closed doors in my house!" The action shook the walls surrounding you and startled you out of the horny girls grasp. Wanda glared at the shaking door and you just sat there with a delicate frown. Natasha had never so much as shouted at you before, so the sound actually left you feeling like a wounded puppy.

Your precious Natty, the light in the darkness that was your previous life with your mom was someone you didn't recognize at all today. It hurt your heart, because she'd never had an issue with you closing the door when Peter was over before. Though deep down you knew Wanda was harmless, your body began to regard her as a threat since your stepmom, who you adored, had clearly despised her. The cycle continued on.

"You should probably go," you sadly spoke up, "I-I really do need to focus on my study guide."

Wanda frowned, but with one look into your eyes she realized your daunting predicament. It was clear you were the mouse that'd collect the cheese, and Natasha was setting her trap. If she thought she could help she would, but deep in your gaze she could see you contently fell prey. The woman reluctantly nodded, standing to collect her bag just as she heard an ominous sound of metal scraping just outside the door. You stood up, and opened the door first, walking out to meet the fuming woman. Your soft hand settled onto her arm, and she lowered the hopefully empty gun.

"Are you okay detka?" You kindly smiled up at her over the concern, appreciating it and failing to see the way that her lips were fighting to keep from amusedly lifting. "Did she take advantage of you my little dove?"

"No," you sighed, smile falling ever so slightly, "We were just talking, she is leaving though." Wanda put truth to your words as she passed by in a rush.

"I'm sorry," Natasha solemnly said after a moment of awkward silence (she wasn't), "I just need you to be more careful sweetheart." Her lips gently pressed to your temple, and you melted into her, no discomfort present even as her pistol pressed into your back. "You are too pure, you'll never know who has ill intentions."

Oh how right she was... You'd never know.

With your front flush to hers she felt her cock twitch with anticipation for the upcoming day that she finally got to claim you, in totality. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough. "I love you so much, my precious girl."

——

The following day you woke up to a knock, it was a simple two beats, so you lazily got up and once presentable headed downstairs to eat. However, instead of a table of delicious food you found your mom stood by the door with a suit case by her side.

"Mom?" The middle aged woman smiled, but it was weak as she opened her arms for a hug (a goodbye). It held an apology you didn't see; it was better that way.

"Hey kiddo, I'm headed off for a bit," she pinched your side and smiled, but her eyes looked sad as you met them. "Why? For how long?" She sighed, "A month."

"Natty too?" You cringed, you didn't mean for it to sound so obvious that you cared more about her, but it was always obvious. Charlotte never had the time of day for you, but Nat always did. Natasha found it hard not to laugh at your mom, whose face looked sad.

Natasha found the moment perfect, the way you were about to be all hers was beyond exhilarating. It was also a shameless way to check you out and disgust your vile mother. How dare she sell you... Like you were filthy trash... Fortunately you were left to Natasha, she'd never let you go, you were safest in her arms.

"Nope detka," Natasha sang from behind you, the sound of jingling keys followed her. "We're gonna take your mom to the airport, and then we'll get breakfast."

No one offered you more, not where your mom was going, nor the unsavory reasoning, and truthfully you didn't care to ask. Alone time with Nat was your favorite, every other time your mom left you alone with her you had the time of your life. This time would prove different though, you felt it when she kissed your lips as she entered the car after eating at the diner.

"Na-Natasha," you stuttered out her name, she found it amusing the way you were about to resist her advances even though your eyes had yet to flutter back open. "Don't worry detka, your mom is gone for good now, so we can finally be together. No more other people..."

"No, s-she said a month," you whimpered, both from the proposed betrayal and her hand on your thigh. "Your mother is a liar Y/N, you'll see that I'm not..."

The car ride home was quiet, except for the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears as her hand settled on your thigh, her grip possessive, and confusing. It was just as quiet when she guided you back inside the house, but it didn't remain as such. Natasha pushed you up against the door, with a gentle force to show you she meant what she said before, and you believed it when her lips and hands began to roughly roam.

"You're married," you tried to deter her, but she only shrugged and continued to kiss down your jawline. "That wasn't real, I only married her to have you."

"What?" Natasha pulled back, lips upturned as she saw the fear in your eyes and hot spurts of white coated the tip of her cock and spread all over her boxers. It was apparent to her that you were going to resist some, so she threw you over her shoulder and tossed you onto the bed that she shared with your mother. "Don't worry dove, we never slept together, daddy's all yours."

You cringed outwardly, but much to your shock, you felt as your heart fluttered at the twisted truth, and your virgin cunt dampened with her chosen title.

"I'm doing this for your own good," she informed you as she tied your hands to the posts of her bed. "It would be a shame if you tried to fight destiny."

"Natty," you whimpered, feelings disgusted as your core pulsed in need. “I-I.” For a brief moment she softened. "This is wrong, y-you're my step mom."

"I'm your daddy actually," she chuckled darkly, "I'm here to turn you into a mommy, so get comfortable."

No words left you as you tried to understand your fate. It wasn't until you felt the chilled tip of a blade on your bare skin that you realized you were now naked. "My mom won't be happy, you are not supposed to do this."

Natasha ran her blade down the side of your neck, a whimper left you as you felt the blood trickle down your skin and into the sheets. "Oh, you are just as naive as your mom is a filthy deviant; she gave you to me."

"N-no," you cried, you didn't want to believe her, but it wasn't like you didn't know your mom was a disaster.

"Your mother wasn't worth a sack of shit," she gritted against the skin of your neck as her hands roughly caressed your concealed womb. "But you, I just know that you'll be everything our kids will ever need."

"Kids?" You gulped, her words were clear moments ago, but yet you seemed confused until now, and the redhead chuckled, "Mhm, gonna fill you up until you are begging for more Y/N, my personal cum dump.”

Natasha smirked as your walls clenched around nothing in direct contradiction with your pleading words and persistent attempts to shove her away as your lower body pitifully tried to thrust her off. You were torn between the pleasure you'd craved for years, and the strangely alluring promise of becoming her pretty little housewife to push hard enough. "I'm not sure I want to be a mom Natty," you finally whimpered loud enough and she just laughed in your face as she pushed her cock inside of you without preparation.

The sight of your eyes crossing and mouth opening had her prematurely ejaculating, truly sealing your fate.

"Don't worry my little dove," she coo'd while stilling her hips, reluctantly allowing your untouched body a chance to get used to her twitching intrusion. "You'll be nothing like her, I promise, you'll be the perfect mom."

"I don't want to be," you cried, hands pulling at the restraints, but your words of protest were negated as you moaned like a filthy whore with a simple jolt of her hips. “Daddy isn’t in the business of caring detka.” You whimpered, heart shattering at the coldness you were not expecting from the woman you’d adored, but in the same breath you were incredibly turned on by it all.

This idea of being her filthy whore; just a hole to fuck and a womb to fill, was exciting you greatly. “That’s right detka, let daddy do all the thinking for you.” Her speed picked up in response. Your faux display of disinterest only spurring her on to show you just how much you wanted this too. It was a dual need.

With every thrust you could feel her tip twitch, and a spurt of her essence would follow. It alarmed you the more real it became that she was genuine about breeding you. Desire as you might to be hers, you were still in the process of your final year in undergrad, and had every intention to start your masters child free.

“Natasha please,” you cried, legs trying to squeeze shut, and your cunt was slick enough that it nearly pushed her back out but she thrusted against you. Her hips forced yours back onto the bed, and the way in which her tip slammed into your cervix made your mind go blank, and pussy flutter uncontrollably.

"Nice try slut!" Her fingers caressed the bump protruding from your abdomen in awe, the outline of the tip of her cock clear as day. "Your walls are working overtime to suck me dry, don't you feel it detka?" She grinned wickedly as her hand pressed firmly into your abdomen. "The urge to be full of me? My perfect little whore to breed. You'll never be hollow again."

You sobbed, it was gut wrenching, but not to Natasha. This was just par for the course, you needed a minute to see that this was always how life was meant to be. Natasha was your soulmate, you didn’t need anyone else, and she knew with time you’d be okay with that.

“Shh, stress isn’t good for baby making detka,” she scolded you as she pulled her cock out and kissed your lips with a tenderness, giving you emotional whiplash. Natasha slid a plug inside of you, it was efficient in keeping her cum inside, but purposefully short enough that you couldn’t derive pleasure by humping it. Your fate was indeed sealed; Natasha was a lot of (terrible) things, but she was never a liar. Her seed painted your fertile insides white, and every day since she's done the same. Sex with you had become a fast addiction, it took you only a minute to accept the reality. You sorta loved it, your stretched hole ached for her cock the entire time she would be away, you'd become insatiable too.

She wondered if it was the pre-natals she'd been slipping you every morning in your special smoothies that increased your need, but she liked to believe it was just your natural, insatiable attraction to her. Either way, she indulged the both of your carnal desires.

Before work she'd wake you up with her cock between your tits, you no longer wore clothes to bed because you never woke up in them anyways. After giving her head just like she wanted, with your once virgin mouth, she'd allow you to get her to the edge, but she'd always make sure to save her release for your womb.

Never one to waste an opportunity to fill you.

On the weekends she'd bend you over the coffee table, fucking you raw from the back while she caught up on her favorite shows. It was a mindless means to ensure you were carrying her kin, but at night she'd give it to you with more passion than before. There was a new toy at her disposal every single time, you wondered if the tellers at Kiss-N-Tell knew her by name now.

Natasha was a multi-millionaire, no cost was too much if it meant she could see you writhing with a pleasure only she could offer you. The redhead succeeded in ruining you for anyone else, and there was never much hope for another anyway. Not only were you stupidly in love with the woman, but you knew your only hope at freedom was her wife—your mom, who was gone.

That doomed hope of yours fizzled out fast. The month had come and gone, but in the end the only mother present within the four walls of your house was you as you held the test between your shaky hands. Two red lines, prominent in nature, flashed right up at you.

Natasha, the cause, was at work while you were crying in the bathroom. Then you heard the alarm on your phone. The oven was ready... You set two prepped buns on the pan, and zoned out as the sliders warmed. How hilarious and ironic as the two lines weren't the only pair at play here... Soon enough you'd understand.

Your heart soon cracked as Natasha held your son, Xavier, while your daughter, Inez, laid on your bare chest after a successful feeding. It was almost domestic, especially when Natasha kissed your lips with an unfamiliar tenderness.

"I can't wait for our family to keep growing," she grinned against your lips, feeling the way they shook as you gulped down your fear.

What a silly girl you were to hope for love...

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch 26]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3.6k

ao3 link

Depression is a funny little emotion.

It starts as a seed planted in your stomach by some inconsequential action that slowly grows throughout the day until it is strangling you. Tendrils sprout and creep up your sternum, creeping through your airway and constricting your lungs, making it just a little harder to breathe. Your chest feels tight and no amount of closing your eyes and counting slowly will make the feeling go away. The vines go for your heart next - weaving between the arteries and veins and squeezing until you are hyper aware of every beat it makes. 

You know you cannot let anyone know what germinates inside of you, so for hours and hours and hours do you pretend you can function properly. You ignore how heavy your heart feels or how much your throat stings. You turn off the urge to cry and scream and beg because you know there is no point to it. There is no relief. No amount of comfort will free you from the jungle forming inside of you. All you can do is wait.

Wait until you are finally alone, and the growth is finally allowed to bloom in your brain. Thorns pierce you, pumping their poison into your thoughts. Sap leaks from your eyes as stems force their way up your throat until leaves sprout from your mouth. You are consumed from the inside out until you are a hollow husk of a person.

And who would want to be around that?

Who would want you?

No one is the answer.

 It has always been no one. 

Your parents were the first to show you the truth. There was no care or comfort in your childhood - you were set aside and ignored.

You’ve never blamed them for this. As much as it hurt and as much as it messed with your self-worth, you’ve always understood they were not meant to be parents. You are sure they loved you in their own way, but the lack of affection left your soul to wilt.

College was no better. You made a few friends but quickly learned the meaning of superficial. They did not have time for your awkwardness and personal issues - this was their time to grow and blossom. So, you buried yourself in your studies and were always grateful when they were kind enough to invite you somewhere. 

When you started having romantic relationships they warped your mind even more. A few sweet words would lure you in, then you would become a caretaker and a warm body. Their needs were always top priority and yours were never to be acknowledged. You were strung along to a breaking point or told you were no longer needed, even when you were still heart eyed over them.

A few rounds of this showed you your niche in the world. 

You’re a background character. A friend of a friend’s girlfriend. A one-night stand. Minnie’s mom. 

You don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. You are meant to assist others - meant to raise your daughter to her full potential. 

You’ve long accepted this, which makes it all that much harder when Matt smiles at you like he does. 

You believe he cares for you - he is full of love - but you know there isn’t anything deeper in it. 

You are the mother of his child, a child he is head over heels for - it is natural for him to grow affectionate towards you. He finds you physically and sexually attractive and you yearn for that.

But you know you are nothing but a placeholder.

You have his attention now and you want to bask in it, but next week, next year, or maybe in two years, that attention will move onto someone who deserves it. Someone who is exciting as he is - someone who is smart and passionate. Someone who understands his life and what being Daredevil entails. Someone who cares about the injustices on the streets and does something about it.

Someone who isn’t broken. 

Someone who isn’t a shell going through the motions. 

Someone who isn’t you.

You want to cover your ears and pretend you don’t know the truth. You want to bury yourself in the three little words you thought you heard, but you know you can’t. 

You can’t do that to yourself again. You can’t handle another heartbreak. Another disappointment.

Another reminder you are Nothing. 

You can allow yourself to enjoy your time - enjoy the touches and kisses and moans - but your heart must remain locked away. 

Matt can have all of you but that. If you allow yourself to have hope it will hurt all the more when you have to let him go. 

And you’ll let him go easily when that time comes. You’ll step aside without a fight because his relationship with Minnie is more important than you will ever be, and you are not going to be the reason for a rift between them. You are not going to deny Matt time with his daughter because his destiny is with someone else. 

It will hurt, but it has never mattered if you hurt.

You just want them to be happy.

----

The progress bar on your screen is finally full and you now have the option to select ‘continue with install’. You click on the button, then warily eye your laptop as new windows pop up with technical information you do not care about. 

Work is pushing a bunch of new updates through their system, and because you are remote, you have to play IT to get your machine up to spec. They sent you an email with everything you need to do, which is to sit back and click a few prompts, but they failed to mention the process would take hours and that your laptop would be useless during that time. 

It is nearing two in the morning, and you are starting to run out of steam and patience. 

Between installs and reboots, you have cleaned pretty much everything in your apartment that you could without risking waking Minnie up. You did dishes and dusted. You cleaned out the pantry and washed the windows. You even swept the carpet to get out any lingering dog hair.

You’ve tried to sit and watch something, but it left you fidgety and you couldn’t pay attention to what was being said and you had no chance in hell of following a plot. You attempted to play around on your phone, but you became angry at yourself for not having the funds to buy things that were advertised to you. After Minnie’s birthday and your hospital bill, your bank account was getting dangerously low.

You want to turn off your brain and do your job. You don’t have to Think when combing through orders and producing invoices. 

You don’t want to Think anymore. You are so tired of Thinking. 

You slump into your chair and bury your face into your hands. You’ve got no way to calculate how much longer all this technical setup is going to take or how much longer you are going to have to stay up. The only relief you have is knowing you are being paid for this time, since the email specifically told you to be on the clock while running everything. 

You debate going over to the couch and trying to nap. You could set an alarm so you can periodically check on your computer, but you might disturb your sleeping toddler. The alert could be set to vibrate only, but would that wake you up if you really fell asleep?

Your only solution is to stay awake and try to find something to do to distract yourself. 

As you start to consider deep cleaning the linen closet, your phone lights up with a call from an unsaved number. It takes but a moment for you to recognize the sequence and your heart leaps into your throat as you answer.

“Hello?”

“You’re up late,” Matt teases as a greeting, his voice a few octaves lower than normal and sending a delightful sort of chill up your spine. “Working hard?”

“Hardly working,” you groan in response, but the mere fact he is calling has your lips turning up into a small smile. “My computer is doing updates and I’m waiting for it to finish. It’s been going for hours.”

Matt hums in sympathy and you wonder if he is just getting home. The fact he is a superhero is still very hard for your mind to wrap around. Sweet Matt, who lets his daughter put star stickers all over his face, is the same man who so routinely breaks people’s arms that local ER staff have a monthly betting pool about it - a little fact you learned from Karen. The man in videos dangling someone off a high rise or a bridge is the same man who becomes a clingy octopus when asleep. 

You understand his need to protect the city and you admire it, but fear and uncertainty gather in your belly when you think about Matt out on the rooftops. You are terrified of him getting hurt, despite the fact you trust him and his abilities. You know there is always a bigger threat out there as well as the possibility of an accident. Matt may be amazing, but he can’t fight a random act of God.

Three light knocks from behind you rip your thoughts and you turn in your chair to see Daredevil, in all his red suit glory, standing on your fire escape. He cheekily waves at you as he snaps his flip phone shut and stores it in a hidden pocket. You scramble up and over to the window, yanking it open. He waits patiently, though a bit smugly by the smirk on his lips, as you figure out how to remove the screen. He climbs through with ease and once he is inside, he starts removing his gloves and helmet.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as you close the window again. You aren’t opposed to him coming by, but this is the first time he’s done so, and you aren’t exactly sure of the protocol. Is it a social visit? Does he have some Daredevil news to share with you?

Before he replies, he shakes his head much like a wet dog would. His hair is damp with sweat and the skin that was previously covered is glistening. There is a slight tint of red to his usual paleness and you wonder if he is hot to the touch as well. You try not to squirm at the thought.

“I always check on you before ending patrol,” he finally says, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. He sets his helmet, gloves, and batons on the window-blocking table, then steps to you, reaching up to cup your cheeks when close enough. “I need to make sure my girls are okay.” 

The words come out of him so easily and you want to melt into them like you do with his touch, but your mind is quick to remind you that you’ve given him reason to have to check up on you. This isn’t him being sweet - it is him making sure you haven’t somehow managed to kill yourself. 

Before you can mentally chastise yourself and pull away, Matt is closing the distance. He brings you into a sweet and slow kiss and for a few wonderful moments, your mind goes quiet. His lips are so soft against yours and you can just barely taste the salt from the sweat that has dripped down his face. It ends far too soon, and you try to tell yourself you are not disappointed.

Your thoughts kick back into hyper drive, and as you notice how damp Matt’s hair really is you imagine he would appreciate some cold water. You gently pull away from him, turning as you do to head towards the kitchen. 

“Did anything interesting happen tonight?”

“Nothing out of the usual,” he answers as he moves to follow you. “There was a kid breaking into cars that stuck out, though. He should probably be on his school’s track team if he isn’t already - he made me work to be able to catch him. It was actually a little impressive.”

That would explain the sweat then. It is already warm out and racing through the streets in leather sounds exhausting. It makes you want to shower just hearing about it.

You find Matt’s designated cup and fill it using the pitcher in the fridge. As you pass it over to him, you question, “what did you do once you caught him?”

He doesn’t answer, instead taking the water and downing it all in just a few gulps. Since it is clear he is in need of it, you quickly refill the glass.

“I gave him a warning and let him go,” Matt says after taking another sip, “He seemed like a good kid just getting into the wrong things. I think being chased by the Devil will scare him off crime, at least for a while.”

That warms your heart a little - you like Matt’s sense of justice and how he does not have a hard stance on what is black and white. He truly wants to help the community and not rule it. 

You have to turn away as he drinks his second glass of water. You want those brief moments of mental silence back and watching his throat work only makes you want to kiss him again. You think he wouldn’t mind it if you threw yourself at him, but it isn’t the time or place, and honestly you are a bit scared of the idea that has that kind of effect on you. 

It is something to crave and ask for and get addicted to. If he can turn off your brain so easily, all you will want to do is touch him.

Ever on high alert, you see Matt roll his neck and shoulders as he goes to put his glass into the sink. The movements look a little stiff and anxiety takes hold as you hyper analyze every movement he makes, “Are you alright?”

He pauses at the question, clearly confused by it. He tilts his head back and forth in minute ways like he does when he’s searching for something before answering you. 

“Why do you ask?”

You feel yourself start to flush at the counter, feeling a little silly. If there was anything actually wrong with him, he has a competent nurse on call, but you can’t stop your worry. It courses through you like your blood and you know it will fester and nag if you have any doubt. But you are still hesitant as you vaguely motion to your own neck, “I don’t know, you were out all night. I just…I want to make sure you’re, okay?”

You know that Matt is analyzing you, listening for something you’ll never hear. His lips dip into a frown for a microsecond before lifting up into that soft, beautiful smile you are becoming so fond of. “I’m fine, darling. Just a little stiff is all. It’s hard to have good posture when crouching on a rooftop.”

You take in the words, and you can easily picture Matt on the edge of a building, sitting like a gargoyle. It does ease your own tension that he isn’t injured, but your head just keeps spinning. 

Matt came all the way into Chelsea to check on you, the least you could do is make it worth his while. Offering yourself up for sex doesn’t feel appropriate at the moment, but you have more up your sleeve than just that.

The words tumble out of you before the idea is fully formed, “Do you want a massage?”

The shock on Matt’s face is nearly priceless. His brows shoot up his forehead and his mouth parts just slightly and a small voice in the back of your head wonders if anyone has ever offered him one before. You know his upbringing was as barren as yours, but given he is a fighter, you would have guessed someone would have given him one. 

Finally, he nods, his smile starting to come back, “That sounds amazing. If it’s okay with you - I know it’s getting late.”

“I’ll be up anyways,” you tell him quickly, not wanting him to think it is any inconvenience to you. “And it sounds more enjoyable than more cleaning.”

“Okay.” His boyish grin gets even bigger, and your stomach does a funny twist. “Where do you want me?”

You direct him to sit in front of the couch, on the ground, and as he removes the top half of his armor, you go to fetch wet wipes and lotion. You do not want to be rubbing Matt’s sweat all over his back - you are going to be trying to help him relax and that is a little bit disgusting. 

As you come back to the living room, you have to remind yourself you aren’t supposed to throw yourself at him. It is not fair how good he looks shirtless - he’s well defined and muscular, but not so overly buff it is gross. It’s clear his muscles are for athletics and not to show off how cool he is. His scars only emphasize that. You have no idea how he got them all, but you very much want to lay him down and run your tongue over each and every one. 

Your view changes as Matt plops himself down in front of the couch, seemingly unaware of your various mental crises. You tell yourself to Behave before your feet start moving again. When you get to the couch, you maneuver yourself to be behind Matt and have to bat away all your thoughts again at the sight of his shoulders.  

You force yourself to focus on the task in front of you. As you grab the wet wipe to start cleaning off Matt’s back, you advise him, “Let me know if I go too hard or if anything starts to hurt, okay?”

Beneath your hands, he huffs, “Darling, I don’t think you’ll be able to hurt me. If anything, the harder, the better.”

Your face heats up a little at his words. You remember he said something similar when over you on the couch just a few nights ago. He likes things a little rough. 

Once his shoulders are mostly sweat free, you get to work. 

You start with smoothing your hands down his neck, then fanning out to the edge of his shoulders and back. You aren’t exactly an expert at this, but long ago in college, one ex liked to play video games while you rubbed his shoulders and you had done your fair share of research to make sure you were doing it right. You still remember most of the tips. 

You add some of Minnie’s scent free baby lotion to your hands, then dig your thumbs into Matt’s neck. The muscles are tight and as you begin to push and pull at them, a deep, pleased groan comes from the man under you.

“Mmm, that feels so good.”

You can’t help but smile at the praise and it only encourages you to make sure the entire experience is enjoyable. 

It is surprisingly easy for you to get completely lost in the massage. You focus in on one area and mentally picture different little arrows telling you to rub up this way or swirl your thumbs in a certain motion. Matt’s shoulders quickly become a grid for you to complete and not a laborious task of trying to bond. 

Under your unskilled fingers, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen melts. Whenever you find a knot - and there are many - he grunts and sighs and you can tell he is starting to relax. The tension in his shoulders fade and you actually get to see the moment his jaw unclenches. He opens his mouth and scrunches his nose, making the apples of his cheeks plump up. You peek at the television to catch his reflection and your heart warms at the pleased look on his face.

You wonder if it would be possible to get him to fall asleep like this and decide that is a challenge for another day. Right now, you want to pamper him. 

You slowly work your fingers back up towards his neck, then decide to take a chance based on what you know he likes. 

As you reach his hairline, you tilt your fingers forward so your nails are against his skin, then begin to slowly scritch at his scalp like he’s an overgrown cat. 

The results are instantaneous. Matt pushes his head into the touch, a low guttural moan coming up from his throat. 

It is Filthy. It goes right to your core, making you clench around nothing, and you can’t stop yourself from asking in a soft, teasing voice, “Feel good?”

He hums in an affirmative, tilting his head back far enough that he needs to lean against the couch for support. You keep your fingers where they are, as it's clear he is trying to direct you to where it feels the best - the top of his head. You scritch there, smiling as you fluff up his hair even more. 

Matt looks absolutely blissed out - his eyes are closed, his lips are parted, and you are pretty sure if you keep at this, he might just turn into Jello. 

Which is exactly what you want. 

He works so hard for everyone, running himself into the ground to bring justice to Hell’s Kitchen, and you think he needs some time to just relax. 

So, you begin to plan.

As you gently drag your nails through Matt’s hair, you let your mind begin to think up ideas for a nice family spa day while your laptop and dark thoughts sit on the dining room table, forgotten about.

---

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