#think i might try and turn this into a fic

[ducksido]

Idk if you accept requests but I just read your "accidentally proposing" fic with Octavinelle, Savanaclaw and Diasomnia and had an idea!! (I have Savanaclaw in mind specifically but it might work with others?)

So what if to beast/mer/etc men, biting/marking your lover is basically like a wedding ring. A symbol to others that you're claimed (and that both parties felt safe enough to be marked that way). So imagine if the boys are already kinda crushing on Yuu/reader only for them to take their jacket off or something and reveal like a big ole bite mark on their shoulder (or wherever) and they get all mopey thinking their already claimed but in reality they just got bit by something back from their world and the scar stuck

(Inspired partially by my dad, who has a big bite mark on his arm that everyone thinks is a tattoo. it's not. Just an old dog bite)

(damn your dad sounds cool)

Savanaclaw

Setting: The Savanaclaw boys have been pining for you, and today, you're just casually stripping your jacket off after PE class, revealing a decent-sized bite scar on your shoulder.

They freeze.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s eyes lock onto the mark and he goes deathly quiet. His tail flicks. His ears flatten just a bit. Internally?

"Of course. Figures. I finally meet someone who doesn’t annoy me and they’re already spoken for."

He sulks hard. You notice him going distant, brushing you off when you try to chat later. It’s not until days later—when he mutters, "Your mate let you walk around unguarded like that?"—that you blink and go,

"Mate? Oh, no, a dog bit me when I was ten. Real jerk. Still got the scar."

Leona’s head snaps up. His ears twitch.

"Wait… that’s not a claiming mark?"

Cue one (1) very smug Leona by the next morning, mysteriously returning to sitting too close again.

Jack Howl

Jack actually drops the water bottle he was holding when he sees the scar. His eyes widen and then avert—immediately. He turns pink at the tips of his ears.

"Oh. I—I didn’t know you were already marked. Sorry."

He becomes very formal, very stiff. Starts calling you “prefect” again instead of your name. You finally confront him, a bit heartbroken at the sudden coldness.

"You’ve been weird since PE, what gives?"

"...I just didn’t want to overstep. That kind of scar usually means you belong to someone."

When you tell him it’s an old wound from a totally mundane dog bite, he short circuits. Like, tail-wagging-involuntarily level of flustered.

"I—I see! That makes sense! You—you should be more careful, it looked real... um, real meaningful."

Now he can't stop glancing at your shoulder and getting flustered.

Ruggie Bucchi

“Tch. Lucky bastard, whoever bagged ya.”

He’s a mix of bitter and resigned—still flirty, but with a new sad little edge. Keeps joking like,

“Too bad you’re taken. Coulda had fun.”

When you finally ask what the hell he means, he gestures at the scar like, duh.

“That’s a mark. You don’t just give or get one of those unless you’re real serious.”

You: “That was a chihuahua. It bit me because I stole its hotdog.”

He stares.

“...A chihuahua did that?” “Yeah.” “And here I was mourning a relationship that never even existed. You owe me emotional compensation, y’know!”

Back to flirting. With vengeance.

OCTAVIANS:

Setting: You’re helping out in the Lounge. The uniform jacket’s getting hot, so you slip it off behind the bar… and your shirt collar slips just enough for a very visible, very real-looking bite scar to be seen by two (2) nosy eels and one (1) devastated octomer.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul freezes mid-shaker pour. You don’t notice—it’s just a quick glimpse—but Azul does. And his brain short circuits.

"A mark that deep... that shape... it’s deliberate. Ritualistic. They’re already bound?"

He’s devastated—but covers it up with grace. Or tries to. He gets very formal, colder. You catch him staring at your shoulder more than once with that complicated emotion you can’t name.

He’s too polite to ask directly—until the heartbreak gets to him.

“You’re in a binding, aren’t you?”

You: “Huh?”

“The bite mark on your shoulder. Among merfolk, that symbolizes an eternal commitment.”

You: “Oh! Nah. That’s just from a dog that chomped me when I was a kid. I kicked him in the face.”

Azul.exe has stopped working.

“...You what—?”

Goes beet red and storms into his office to scream into a pillow. You later find your drink on the house, labeled ‘thanks for the heart attack’.

Jade Leech

Jade smiles when he sees the scar. But his eyes go half-lidded, calculating. He suddenly speaks softer. Steps farther back. Less teasing, more… respectful distance.

“My, I wasn’t aware you were already bound. Forgive me if my prior behavior overstepped.”

You: “Bound to what now??”

He gestures subtly to your shoulder, like it’s obvious.

“A bite mark like that, well… among certain species, it’s not given lightly. It would be considered rude to compete for the affection of one already ‘marked.’”

Cue your laugh.

“Oh that? I was eleven. Some mutt thought my lunch was his.”

Jade pauses… then grins, slow and sharp.

“Is that so? How very fortunate. In that case… I wonder how your skin scars. Hypothetically, of course.”

You're not sure if that’s a flirt or a threat. Probably both.

Floyd Leech

“...Huh?”

He just blinks at the mark when he sees it. Then squints real hard. Then stops talking to you.

Like, full Floyd shutdown mode. No nicknames. No glomps. Just grumpy silence. You ask him what’s wrong, and he shrugs you off like:

“Nothin’. Don’t talk to taken people. It’s boring.”

You practically have to wrestle the truth out of him. When he finally gestures at the mark, you laugh so hard you snort.

“That? Nah, that’s from a dog bite. We were playing tug-of-war and he missed the toy and got my shoulder instead. It’s just a scar.”

“Whaaat?? That’s it??”

Floyd immediately perks up. Grabs your shoulders and spins you around like:

“So you’re not somebody’s shrimp? Heh. Good. I hate leftovers.”

Later bites you (playfully) and says he wants to "make it official."

DIASOMNIA

Malleus Draconia

Malleus was just enjoying your presence—he always is. You pull off your hoodie to reveal a bite mark on your upper arm and— He stares.

The air around him tightens. He doesn’t speak at first. Just… quietly steps back. His green eyes dim.

“...You are claimed.”

He says it like a funeral eulogy.

You blink. “Claimed?? What are you talking about?”

“That mark. You accepted a fae bond.”

You laugh. “Wait, this?” You twist your arm to show him properly. “That’s from a feral raccoon. He got me through a screen door.”

...

Malleus goes silent. Then he laughs—one of those rare, rich, real ones.

“You truly are fascinating, Child of Man. A sacred mark... from a trash beast.”

And now he won’t stop teasing you about it.

“Shall I give you a proper one, to replace the raccoon’s?”

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia recognizes the bite mark instantly—and what it would mean if it were real. His smile drops for a moment. A beat of quiet heartbreak.

“Oh… you’ve already given yourself to another?”

He masks it fast—reverts to his cheerful, mischievous self. But the sharpness in his tone dulls.

“You should’ve told us! We’d have sent you a proper gift, you know. A token for the bound.”

You: “Lilia, I got this bite scar from a goose. I was five. It hated my jacket.”

“...A goose?” “An evil goose.”

A beat. Then he laughs so hard he nearly levitates.

“You poor thing! Bitten by a beast of chaos!” “You mean the goose?” “No. The jacket.”

He’s overjoyed, suddenly affectionate again, now plotting how to actually mark you with fae tradition. You may have unleashed something.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek screams internally the moment he sees it. He immediately turns away, face twisted.

“I see. You have already pledged loyalty elsewhere.”

Goes full formal mode. Loud. Respectful. Heartbroken.

“I WAS A FOOL TO BELIEVE—TO HOPE—THAT YOU WERE UNBOUND!”

You’re like: “Dude. What?”

He dramatically points at the scar.

“That! You wear it openly!”

You: “Oh, you mean my shoulder scar? A horse bit me.”

Sebek.exe blue screens.

“A… horse?” “He didn’t like carrots. I was five.”

...

He gets so red. Immediately bows in apology. Starts yelling at the horse retroactively. Gives you his coat. Declares he’ll train to bite harder than any equine.

Silver

Silver notices the scar. He gets very quiet. Thoughtful.

Later that day, he gently asks:

“Did it hurt when you were claimed?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“The mark. It’s permanent. You must’ve trusted them deeply.”

You laugh. “No, no—Silver, I got that from a neighbor’s dog. He panicked during fireworks.”

Silver: “Oh.”

...Then he stares at the sky like it personally betrayed him.

“I thought I missed the moment you gave your heart away...”

You pat his shoulder, and he very gently, very subtly leans into it—maybe hoping he could be the one to earn that mark someday.

[heliza24]

A Devil's Minion disability rec list

There are so many reasons I love Daniel/Armand, but the most important is the way that thinking about these characters asks us to explore themes of illness, neurodivergence, disability, and dysfunctional bodies. From Armand being sick when he was turned, to Daniel's Parkinson's, to Armand being extremely autistic coded, to the way the past DM/book DM timeline is inextricable from the AIDs crisis-- you simply cannot escape crip themes when you contemplate Daniel and Armand's love. The other reason I love Devil's Minion so much is that the corner of the fandom that has sprung up around them does not try to escape these themes. Instead I have engaged in deep conversations about disability, met other disabled fans, and read so much incredibly thoughtful and beautifully written fics that explore aspects of disability that I would never have thought of myself. There is a lot of painful eugenics rhetoric happening in the US right now, and I have found myself being drawn back to these thoughtful fics when I need some comfort. So I compiled my list for you in case you would like to read them too:

The Good Nurse by @welcomingdisaster, 63,876 words, Explicit

This is a slight AU, where the second interview never happens and instead Armand is hired as Daniel’s live-in caregiver as his Parkinson’s progresses. The lyrical prose, along with the side plot of Daniel investigating a piece about conspiracy theories around autism that illuminate some interesting things about Armand, make this one really special.

Question: Can an Immortal Meet Mortality? by @hummingbee-o0o, 7,920 words, Mature

This is one of my all time favorites and I think about it all the time. I love when a fic weaves together the different pieces of Armand’s life around a single theme. This one centers around all of the epidemics that Armand has lived through, from the plague to AIDs to Covid. The recurring image of Daniel’s TB vaccination scar and the way Armand thanks it for keeping Daniel safe is so beautiful.

Run, Arun! by @nightcolorz, 3,274 words, Mature

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how Armand chose to violate the great laws when he turned Daniel, but hadn’t considered that Armand’s autism might make him feel like a violation himself. I also love how this is written in the second person, which is hard to pull off but this writer does really well.

hold very still by @mycenaae, 2,796 words, Mature

A fic that truly captures the chronically ill fantasy of having a vampire boyfriend: Armand uses his mind gift to take away Daniel’s Parkinson’s pain for a short while.

Backroads to Sonoma by burntcrimson 20,251, Mature

I am generally extremely picky with AUs but this is one of my all time favorites. In the middle of the AIDs crisis, Daniel is driving cross country, interviewing truckers and sex workers. He picks up a Armand as a hitchhiker, who he realizes he knows from childhood. Armand is sick and set on revenge, but his time with Daniel still leads to unexpected love.

I think this works so well as an AU because this version of Armand retains some of his otherworldliness and dangerousness; how that intersects with his diagnosis is really interesting. It’s also got the prose of like, the next great American novel, so that doesn’t hurt either.

Saffron by @maester-of-spreadsheets , 4,509 words, Teen

Set during season 1, Armand helps Daniel fall asleep despite his insomnia and pain while temporarily dropping the Rashid guise. It's very tender and really captures the feeling of what it is like to live with fatigue. Also shoutout to a fellow DM Writer server member!

i'll ask for more time (but mother forgive me) by @ignorethepineapples, 3,512 words, Mature

Another all time fave by a fellow member of the DM author’s discord! This is another one that weaves together different scenes from Armand’s and Daniel’s life through theme— this time it’s around illness, and around both of their turnings. The fic imagines Armand’s fatal illness as syphilis, which can have Parkinson’s like symptoms (this is so good that if the show doesn’t do this, I’m rioting). The fic connects this to Daniel’s fear during the AIDs epidemic and his eventual turning that saves him after a fall from Parkinson’s nearly kills him. Daniel’s turning is imbued with such tenderness, it makes me cry.

Chipped Fang, by anonymous, 12,013 words, Explicit

After being turned, Daniel is in agonizing pain. It turns out that one of Armand's fangs fell out and became embedded in his neck during the turning, and Armand has been suffering without his missing tooth as well. This is not the same as giving Daniel chronic pain after turning because of Parkinson's but I really love anything that points to the idea of vampire's bodies being fallible and still capable of problems, and I think this is such a clever idea and execution.

Portraiture by @sylvies-chen, 4,436 words, Mature

Armand has the idea that he and Daniel should participate in the couple’s trend of painting portraits of each other as a way to sneakily help him rehab his trembling hands (I always love when fics casually maintain some symptoms of Parkinson’s after Daniel becoming a vampire). And well, it’s been over 400 years since Armand was painted and really seen by a lover, so this is very sweet.

and so you did. by evaniigouki, 7,890 words, Explicit

There are a lot of great fics that mention that Daniel has retained some of his Parkinson's symptoms after being turned into a vampire without centering their plot around it. This is just one, which I like because I think it really captures the verbal sparing that Daniel and Armand get up to in the show. This is set in the penthouse immediately following season 2. I really like how this fic captures a whole mix of emotions: Daniel is angry that Armand has erased his memories, Armand is desperate to be wanted by someone after Louis has left, and they're both attracted to each other in an incredibly complicated way.

Til the Act is Done series by @apoptoses, 13,944 words across 2 fics, Explicit

The one book canon fic on this list! These fics aren’t literally about disability, but I’m recommending them because the restrictions of vampirism can sometimes be read as a metaphor for disability, which I think works especially well here. These fics are about Daniel trying to understand how Armand experiences sex, as a full body experience that’s focused on blood and biting instead of genitals. It is very sweet and very hot and resonated with me as someone who experiences sexual dysfunction as part of my medical condition.

you like control, well I do too by @gaysie, 9,975 words, Explicit

Another beautiful piece that tracks moments of Armand and Daniel’s lives around a theme; this time it’s food and eating disorders. (A big trigger warning for this of course; only read if it is safe for you to do so). This fic tracks how Armand’s need for control morphed into an eating disorder as Marius and the other men he was loaned out to commented on his weight, and how Daniel’s binges extended from drugs and alcohol to food. And how they both find acceptance and healing in each other.

A Love that Never Was by @mitchiesawyer, 13,303 words (so far), Mature

The only in progress fic on this list but I think the chapters that are up still merit inclusion! This fic takes the concept that Armand has Dissociative Identity Disorder seriously, and has Amadeo (with an occasional appearance by Arun) front when he turns and falls back in love with Daniel after the events of season 2. When Armand returns he has no memory of turning Daniel, which has me holding my breath and hoping that Armand can admit he loves Daniel just as much as Arun and Amadeo do.

Daddy by @verimuru and @graygiantess, 1,128 words, or in comic form, Mature

Another one that perfectly captures the chronically ill fantasy of having a vampire boyfriend- in this one it's Armand taking Daniel out dancing, and using his vampire skills and accumulated capital to protect him from Covid. Graygiantess's (another DM writers server member!) always witty dialogue is in good form here, and I love Verimuru's illustration style in the comic.

Defect (5 +1) by @aberrantangelsmind, 6,290 words, Explicit

What if Marius told Armand that his eye shaking was wrong, akin to a vampire disfigurement? How would Armand try to hide the shame of that flaw with the Children of Darkness or with Louis? And how would he feel when Daniel’s vampires eye also behave in an unusual way? This fic posits the idea that these unique eyes are remnants of being turned when Armand and Daniel were sick as mortals, which means they’re badges of resilience. That’s so beautiful! I love this interpretation of that trait.

The Devil, his own self series by @sburator, 37, 422 words across 2 fics, Explicit

This is such a nice slow burn, with Armand acting as Daniel’s caregiver after the events of season 2 and slowly convincing Daniel to accept the dark gift. Past DM happened in this fic, but some elements are reimagined in the current timeline with older Daniel, like the blood locket, which I liked. I also really like how much agency this fic (and Armand) gives Daniel, to be angry, to be annoyed, and to make his own decision regarding immortality. When he does accept it, it is very beautiful.

the old man and the vampire series by Zeebruh, 35,757 words across 2 fics, explicit

This one was written before season 2, and I haven't really revisited it since, but I had to include it because it was the fic that turned me from Devil's Minion curious to Devil's Minion obsessed. I love the accessible sex that happens in part 1, and I love the push-pull toxic past devil's minion timeline described in part 2.

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, nor clean the blood by me, 47,329 words, Explicit

And last but not least, a little self promo to round it all off. This is my long fic, that spans from post season 2 to Daniel’s turning. I tried to incorporate all my disability thoughts here- from Armand’s thoughts about breaking the rules for Daniel to Daniel’s reconciliation with Armand being shaped by his experiences with chronic pain to Daniel’s Parkinson’s lingering post turning. There is also a lot of kinky disabled sex which is both hot and tender (if I do say so myself). I’d love if you checked it out.

That's it for now! If you have other favorite DM fics that explore themes of disability, illness or neurodivergence, please feel free to reblog and add them or send them to me separately. I would love to have enough new favorites to write a second list soon.

[fireinmoonshot]

drawing the line | bucky barnes x fem!reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: Bucky Barnes has messed up big time ... he just doesn't know it until he sees you and realises he really should've checked his texts. Warnings: There are very subtle mentions to reader having some issues mentally but nothing specific is mentioned other than her being very guarded and angry. This is inspired by and takes place during a scene from the Thunderbolts movie! It has direct spoilers for the film! If you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled, don't read this one yet. Word Count: 1.9k. A/N: It has been three whole years since I wrote for Bucky Barnes. Thanks to Thunderbolts, I am so back 🥰. I had this idea for the movie when I saw it again yesterday and I plotted most of it out at work today. I'm really happy with how it turned out so I hope that you will all enjoy it. More Bucky fics coming soon – as well as more Bob and Joaquín too! 💗 Requests are always open.

Bucky realises he’s made a mistake pretty quickly.

In his defence, he isn’t very good at checking his phone – especially now that he’s a congressman and he has even less time on his hands than usual. But he’d been worried about Mel, the assistant of Valentina, and had figured that by tracking her phone like she’d asked, he might have a better chance at finally taking Valentina down.

If he had read his texts, though, he would’ve seen one from you. Valentina says I have one last mission and my contract is up. I’m on my way. Have a bad feeling about this one though. Can you track me? 

Yeah, he’s messed up.

He’s even more certain of that when he’s pulling the unconscious bodies of Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, John Walker and Alexei Shostakov out of the limo he’d blown up and he finds you with them. Thankfully, you’re not injured. 

When you come to, the first thing you see is Bucky, sitting opposite you with his eyebrows knotted in worry. For a moment, everything is fuzzy and you’re not sure how you got here – and then everything comes back to you.

You’d been trying to outrun Valentina’s men who’d been coming after you after your escape when Bucky had shown up. Everyone in the car had been more than excited and you’d felt relieved – he’d seen your text and he’d come to save you – until he’d practically blown the limo up with you inside of it.

“What the hell, Bucky?” You blink, squeezing your eyes shut briefly as you adjust to the light in the room. You look around, seeing the others all sat nearby – tied up, some of them even restrained with pieces of metal that Bucky had wrapped around them. 

It’s when you see them tied up that you realise you’re not. 

“Doll,” Bucky starts, his voice soft. “Listen, I–”

“Do not ‘doll’ me,” you shake your head. “So, blowing up our car and almost killing me is okay, but you draw the line at tying me up?” You motion to the others and then to yourself.

Bucky sighs. He knew you’d be mad, but this is another level of mad. He understands – of course he does, you’d nearly died. But regardless, he’d hoped you’d be a little more lenient. “I didn’t even know you were in the car.”

You raise your eyebrows and scoff. “I text you and say hey, this mission feels wrong and you don’t think twice? Am I talking to Bucky Barnes right now? What happened to the guy that ran seven red lights two months ago when I got into a minor car accident just to make sure I was okay?” 

He stands up and runs a hand through his hair, walking a few steps away from you. Behind him, you stand up as well, crossing your arms over your chest and staring him down – like you do very well. Bucky knows that you can be stubborn when you want to, but this is the next level to that. He loves your stubborn side. He loves this side of you as well… but he hates that it’s him that the anger is directed at.

This is not the you that he’d been tangled in the sheets with only a few nights ago. This is not the you that had kissed him goodbye before he’d headed off to work last week. This is the you that he’d seen the first time he ever met you. Strong, guarded as hell and pissed off at the world.

“You texted me?” He mutters, and then regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth. He resists the urge to pull his phone out of his pocket and check his unread messages. 

For a second, you just stare at him, and then you start laughing. “I texted you? Are you serious right now?” You exclaim, turning away from him and shaking your head. “No, why on earth would I text my boyfriend when I was going into a potentially life threatening situation set up by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine? I’ll remember that for next time and keep it to myself, since you’re apparently too busy to check.”

“Well, would you have even read my message if I had replied? Considering you were on a mission? Yeah, I don’t think so,” Bucky can’t help but bite back a little.

“No, probably not,” you admit. “Because I don’t have a phone anymore – it fell out of my pocket when I was running for my life back at the vault and then it got incinerated, like I would have if it had been even one second later!”

Your voice is raised even louder now, basically yelling at Bucky, though you hate to do it. You and Bucky never fight like this, not really. But this whole situation has gotten under your skin and you can’t help but be mad at yourself for thinking Bucky had come to save you, when in reality he was just there to kidnap the others for some unknown reason.

Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing that Bucky can say to that. He stares at you, eyes wide as the full gravity of the situation settles on his shoulders. You’d almost been incinerated. And then Bucky had almost killed you himself. Was there any coming back from this?

In the silence, you hear a cough and both of you turn to look over at the others, all of whom are now awake and sitting upright, watching the two of you. How much of your argument had they heard? You wince internally and start to walk towards them.

“You either untie them, or you tie me up with them,” you say, sitting down beside Walker.

Walker looks over at you, a confused look on his face. He obviously had no idea that you’re with Bucky, even though the two of them know each other. You try to ignore the feeling in your stomach, the one that says that maybe Bucky means more to you than you do to him, especially since Walker doesn’t even know about you two.

Bucky thinks it over for a moment before shaking his head and walking over to you again. He crouches down beside you and decides he’s going to try again – even though the eyes of every other person in the room are focused on him. He reaches up to try and tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear but you bat his hand away. 

“I’m not tied up so I can still tuck my own hair behind my ear, Barnes.” 

You turn away from him, looking over at Ava and Alexei. 

“This is your boyfriend?” Ava asks, looking between the two of you. “Girl.”

The one word says everything. You almost laugh at her.

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to make his decision. He stands up again and then beckons for you to stand up as well. “Stand up and let me tie you up, then,” he says, hoping that he sounds as nonchalant as he is intending to be. Even though not one part of him is actually intending on tying you up. It’s true – he draws the line at that.

You stand up and one second later, Bucky has picked you up and thrown you over his shoulder. You yelp, hitting his back as he walks out of the room, leaving the other four alone. “Bucky, what the hell are you doing!?” You exclaim.

He pushes the front door of the garage open with a foot and then kicks it closed behind him. Once he sets you down on the ground outside, you move to push him, but he’s quick to grab your wrists and place them gently on his chest instead. You’re mad, but he’s not going to let you hurt him, or accidentally hurt you more than he already has.

“I’m not continuing this argument inside in front of all of the others,” he says, nodding his head towards the garage and trying to focus on the feeling of your hands on his hands and the pressure of them on his chest. You’re here. You’re alive. He didn’t kill you. Nor did Valentina.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you shake your head and try to pull your hands away, but his grip is too strong. “I’ve said everything that I needed to say in there, Bucky. I asked for your help, you almost killed me yourself. It’s clear enough.”

“You said what you said, but you barely let me get a word in, doll.”

You shrug your shoulders and look away from him, focusing on the mountains in the distance and wonder how long it’ll take the others to get free so you can all get the hell out of here. Even though a small part of you, the part of you that isn’t clouded by your anger right now, wants nothing more than to wrap your arms around Bucky’s body, bury your head in his chest and feel his arms around you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see your message,” he begins, hoping you’ll let him talk. “I’ve been so bad with anything that’s not work these days and trying to bring down Valentina that I’ve put everything else to the side. I shouldn’t have put you there too.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, still unable to look at him.

“I didn’t know you were in that limo when I blew it up. I just knew that there were people in there that could help me bring down Valentina once and for all and I was going to stop that limo at all costs,” he explains. “You don’t know how terrified I was when I saw you were inside of it. I swear, I spent five minutes just checking to make sure you weren’t injured before I brought you all here. I couldn’t bring myself to tie you up after all that, doll.”

“Likely story,” you huff under your breath, as if the thought of him checking you over to make sure you were okay doesn’t make your heart beat faster and your fingers, still pressed to his chest, itch to pull him closer to you.

Bucky removes one of his hands from yours and carefully reaches down to cup your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. You try and restrain yourself for a few moments before eventually meeting his eyes. Just looking in them tells you that he’s speaking the truth. 

“I would never do anything knowingly to hurt you, doll,” he says. 

“I know,” you reply, voice soft as you try not to lean too much into his hand. 

“Then do you forgive me?”

“No,” you shake your head, but in the progress, you can’t help but relax into his grip a little. You let out a sigh, your eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his hand on your face. “I don’t forgive you yet, Bucky. I need time.”

Bucky nods and lets out a small breath of relief. “I’ll take it.”

You remove one of your hands from Bucky’s chest and place it over the hand that’s still on your jaw. “We need to talk,” you start. “Not you and me, all of us. There are things that happened down there in that vault that you need to know about before we go after Valentina, if we can even get the others to join us.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees. “Just one more thing.” He leans down and presses his lips to your forehead before dropping his hand from your jaw and stepping back away from you, clearly wanting to give you space even though you hadn’t asked for it. The thoughtfulness makes your heart swell in your chest. “C’mon doll, let’s go.”

[littleprinces]

Truth or Dare

(Meovv Anna x Male Reader)

(Incest)

Thank you for 3k followers❤️ This my special fic for you

The story begins at my home, where I've lived for the past two decades. My wife had passed away a few years back, and I was now raising my teenage daughter, Anna, on my own. Anna was a beautiful girl, with long black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a petite, curvy body. She had just turned 19, and the hormones were raging within her.

One day, while I was cleaning the bathroom, Anna came in and asked if she could use the shower. I nodded and left the room, closing the door behind me. As I walked away, I couldn't help but think about how much she had grown up. The thought of her naked and wet in the shower made my cock twitch in my pants.

A few days later, Anna and I were sitting in the living room, watching TV. She was wearing a tight tank top and a pair of yoga pants that hugged her curves perfectly. I found myself staring at her ass as she shifted on the couch.

"Dad, is there something wrong?" she asked, catching me staring.

"No, sweetie. Just enjoying the show," I replied, trying to cover my tracks.

"Well, I was feeling a little bored. Do you want to play a game or something?" Anna suggested, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"What kind of game?" I asked, my heart racing.

"Truth or dare," she said, her voice low and seductive.

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, let's play."

We began with a few harmless questions and dares, but things quickly escalated. Anna dared me to take a shot of whiskey, then took a dare to make out with me. As our lips met, I felt a surge of electricity course through my body. Anna's lips were soft and warm, and her tongue danced with mine.

When we finally pulled away, Anna looked at me with desire in her eyes. "That was nice, Dad. Why don't we take this to the bedroom?"

I was shocked, but I couldn't resist her. I followed her to my bedroom and watched as she began to undress. Her perky tits and tight pussy were on full display, and I couldn't help but reach out and touch her.

"Dad, you can't touch me like that. I'm still a virgin, and I want to save myself for someone special," Anna said, pushing my hand away.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I got carried away," I apologized, feeling embarrassed.

"It's okay. I understand. But I still want to play a game with you," she said, a wicked smile on her face.

Anna pulled out a small bag of anal beads from her pocket. "Want to try this with me?"

I hesitated for a moment, but the thought of her tight ass made me nod. Anna bent over the bed, her perky tits hanging down as I inserted the first bead. She let out a soft moan, and I could feel her pussy getting wetter.

"Deeper, Dad. Deeper," Anna moaned, pushing her ass back onto the beads.

I worked the beads in and out of her ass, alternating between slow and fast strokes. Anna's moans grew louder and more desperate with each passing moment.

"Dad, I want you to fuck me now. Please," Anna begged, her voice filled with desire.

I pulled out the beads and positioned myself behind her. I slid my cock into her tight pussy, feeling her walls clench around me. Anna let out a loud moan as I thrust into her, our bodies slapping together in a rhythmic dance.

"Harder, Dad. Fuck me harder," Anna demanded, her voice filled with lust.

I grabbed her hips and began to pound her pussy, my balls slapping against her clit with each thrust. Anna's moans grew louder, and I knew she was close to cumming.

"That's it, baby. Cum for me," I growled, slamming into her with all my might.

Anna let out a loud scream as she came, her pussy tightening around my cock like a vice. I couldn't hold back any longer and unloaded my cum deep inside her, filling her pussy with my seed.

"Fuck, Dad. That was amazing," Anna gasped, collapsing onto the bed.

I pulled out of her and watched as my cum dripped out of her pussy. Anna turned around and looked at me with lust in her eyes.

"I want you to cum on my face now, Dad," she said, licking her lips.

I nodded and positioned myself above her. Anna opened her mouth wide, and I began to stroke my cock, watching as my cum shot out and landed on her face. She licked her lips and swallowed my load, savoring every last drop.

"That was so hot, Dad. I can't wait to do it again," Anna said, giggling.

"Neither can I, sweetie. Neither can I, until you pregnant my baby" I replied, pulling her into my arms.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── MOTHER'S DAY 🍰

❀ pairing: dad!spencer x mom!reader

❀ summary: your mother's day traditions throughout the years.

❀ warnings / tags: fluff, smut, oral (fem receiving) MDNI!! WC: 1.4k

❀ author's note: need 500 of his babies lowkey. spencer and reader have a 5-year-old named penny in this fic!

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST

mother's day might be spencer's favorite holiday after halloween. you were pregnant during your first mother's day after you two had gotten married, and he spent the entire day pampering you; breakfast in bed, a goofy 'world's #1 mom' mug, all your favorite movies while you laid in his arms, ordering from your favorite place, a massage, a bubble bath accompanied by two apple juices he'd poured into champagne glasses to make you feel fancy, finishing the day off by your loving husband whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he made love to you.

although your firstborn couldn't quite yet grasp the concept of 'mother's day', spencer still wanted to include her even when she was less than a year old. he placed penny's tiny hand on the card he had made, and drew its outline, no matter how much the baby fussed in his arms. and just like the year before, he treated you like royalty the entire day.

the same routine went on for the next five years; outlines of your daughter's hand on each mother's day card, drawn by spencer until she was old enough to do it herself, spencer's chicken-scratch handwriting replaced by your daughter's, even though you could barely tell the difference.

you woke up to the sound of "mama, mama, mama!" as well as the creak on your bedsprings, your eyes slowly fluttering open to see your daughter jumping up and down at the end of your bed with a gleeful expression, "happy mother's day!" she said gleefully, holding out the card; the front of it a tiny handprint drawn with a pink crayon with the text 'happy moter's day!' "do you like it?"

"i love it. did you make it yourself?" you asked, pulling the girl into your side as you watched spencer make his way into the bedroom, carrying the same tray he'd used for every past mother's day. "i did!" penny said, puffing out her chest proudly, "thank you, penny pie. i love it so much." you pressed a kiss on top of her head while spencer placed the tray down on your lap, the same breakfast on it as every other mothers' day: coffee, cut-up fruit, a pile of pancakes with a smiley-face drawn on with whipped cream; but this year there was a new addition to the pancakes. chocolate chips. "what's with the chocolate chips?" you asked, your daughter grinning at you, "i put them." she said with slight mischief.

"penny might be a better cook than i am." spencer shrugged, sitting up behind you and wrapping his arms around your middle, placing his head on your shoulder, "what do you think?"

"well, i think i'm gonna have to taste them." you grinned, turning to look at spencer, "happy mother's day." he mumbled, pressing a soft, quick kiss on your lips.

after breakfast, you got your gifts; a new watch from your husband and a crocheted heart-shaped coaster that penny said auntie penelope 'helped her make'. you'd bet fifty bucks on auntie penelope doing most of the work.

after that, the three of you went to penny's favorite park, the spot much emptier than usual, most people preferring to spend mother's day at home. your head was on your husband's shoulder, and you were listening to him talk about a recent case while you watched your daughter play, a giddy smile on her small face as she swung on the swing, trying to get higher and higher.

then came dinner, then came the cake that penelope had baked because spencer was hopeless when it came to that, and penny had decorated it (it was a messy, uneven picture of a cat she had made with strawberries. it was so beautiful it almost made you cry.) then came tangled, then penny's bath time, then her bedtime story, and in the end, you and spencer were left on the couch, the man's head laying on your chest while you ran your hand through his curls, 10 things i hate about you playing on the tv without you really paying attention to it. you turned to spencer, his eyes glued to the tv.

"spence?" "mm?" he hummed, without looking up from the tv, "you ever think about having more kids?"

your words finally got spencer's attention, and he looked up at you, pondering his words for a moment before replying, "sometimes. do you?" "i do." you purse your lips, "i mean, penny's already getting pretty big, and i don't want our kids to have a huge age gap so-"

your husband cut you off by bringing his lips to yours, spencer's hand behind your neck, until he finally pulled away, looking at you with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes, "all you had to say was that you wanted another baby." his chilly hands lifting up your nightgown, "and i would've put one in you immediately." your husband hummed, pressing his lips on your chest, starting to trail down lower and lower, "i remember when you were pregnant with penny..." spencer mumbled, his fingers tracing the stretchmarks left by your daughter on your stomach.

"yeah? you chuckled softly as spencer's hands slowly started tugging down your pajama pants, "what'd you think?"

"i think..." you lifted your hips so he could get your pajama pants off, a patch of wetness already visible on your panties, "you were at your most beautiful when you were pregnant…" spencer rubbed a finger over the wet patch, making you shiver.

"yeah? even though i had the worst case of pregnancy nose ever?" you snorted as spencer dipped his fingers under the waistband of your panties. "i couldn't get enough of you." spencer chuckled against the skin of your lower stomach as you lifted your hips once again to allow him to slide down your panties, "whenever i went away on a case i couldn't sleep unless i was looking at your picture."

you looked down, and by the earnest look on spencer's face, you could tell that he was being honest, but before you could say anything, your husband had spread your legs and licked a stripe up your slit, making you shudder. spencer’s tongue flicked your clit while his long fingers teased your entrance, circling it. you held your breath, only listening to the noise spencer let out as his tongue flicked your clit again, until his greedy lips attached themselves onto your throbbing bud, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

you finally felt one of his fingers plunge into you, a whine leaving your lips because it just wasn't enough!!! your husband chuckled, and you could feel it all the way up your spine, the man adding in a second finger.

spencer thrust his fingers in and out of you, your gummy walls clenching around his long digits, until you whimpered, "there, there!" when you felt him hit that sweet, spongy spot inside of you, the pleasure making your toes curl and squeeze your eyes shut in pure bliss.

spencer continued to rock his fingers in and out of you, attaching his lips around your clit and then circling the sensitive bud with his tongue in a way that made you arch into his mouth, searching, begging, for more.

"please, please..." you whine, your hand in his hair, tugging on his long curls, pulling him closer to your clit. spencer let out mumbled noises against your core, magnifying the pleasure even further.

"'m close, 'm close, honey..." you whine, and spencer keeps doing what he has been, except now, he's paying extra attention to your clit, flicking the sensitive bud more often, building and building and building that feeling in your abdomen...

until it all comes down in a moan of your husband's name, your pussy clenching around his fingers, forcing them to stay inside of you, forcing them to keep filling you, the movements of spencer's tongue getting slower as he helped you ride out your orgasm, until your grip on his hair finally started to loosen, and he could pull his lips away from your clit, his lips soaked as he looked up at you with a dazed grin. when spencer pulled his fingers out of you, you whined from the sudden loss of contact.

spencer brought his fingers to your lips, coated in your arousal, smudging it on them before pulling his hand away, pressing his lips on yours before you had time to lick your lips.

"you always taste so good..." spencer mumbled, his tongue darting out to lick your wet lips, before pulling away to look at you with nothing but sincerity in his eyes, "i love you. and i want another baby with you."

[ollyissleepy]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

pairings: platonic yandere!batfam x uninterested!male!reader summary: After being caught red handed stealing, (name) finds himself in the Wayne Manor, surrounded by his new family. (Name)'s disinterested in bonding is met with equally not caring siblings and father. As he spends his days alone, (name) realises his new family might care much more than he originally thought the did. cw: stealing, swearing, underage smoking, reader commits a crime, kidnapping (kind of) a/n: someone asked if I would consider to post it on ao3 and I've decided against it due to (not so) recent events regarding fics on ao3 being fed to ai. also this one is shorther, because I decided (kind of on a whim) that I want to highlight other scenes more (yes, they will be with Bruce) based on this idea I had

m.list • part: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

(Name) steps into the kitchen early in the morning. Hoping, begging that the persistent child would finally give up on eating breakfasts with him.

The past few days, Damian seemed insistent on waking up much earlier than usual. All of that just to eat breakfast with (name). The sudden disruption of his and Alfred's morning routine started to be annoying for the teenager. He has been here for a while now; why did that brat start to invade his space now?

And don't get him started on the other weird behaviours from Damian. Every time (name) turns around, the boy is always somewhere not too far from him. He sees him the most each time he interacts with Duke.

(Name) sighs, seeing that the butler is already in the kitchen. Much earlier than his usual time, already working on what the teenager recognises as a small snack for Damian. The teenager's jaw tenses as Alfred gives him a tired smile.

The teenager quickly fixed himself his own breakfast, not wanting the butler to suggest making something for him like he did the previous day. He no longer looks up when the butler greets Damian; (name) eats his breakfast in silence, thinking of a right moment to knock some sense into the boy next to him.

The right opportunity comes much later in the day when Duke is busy with his own things. (Name) makes sure that the boy is following him around before disappearing into one of the many rooms in the manor. Damian took the bait without a second thought, walking right behind the teenager.

Damian looks around the room confused, as the space appears empty. He doesn't think of turning around until (name) forcefully shuts the door. The boy jumps slightly, not expecting a loud noise behind him. (Name) doesn't wait for the boy to figure out what's going on, walking right up to Damian, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.

"Stop insisting on eating in the kitchen!" (Name) shouted right into the boy's face. "Alfred started waking up sooner to make you something. You're going to run the old man thin!"

As Damian's initial shock wears off, the boy regains control over his own body. He breaks free from (name)'s hold, scoffing. He was slightly caught off guard by the teenager, but that doesn't stop him from putting his head high, trying to assert dominance. Walking out, Damian makes sure to shove (name) out of his way.

The next morning, walking into the kitchen, (name) is met with an interesting sight. Damian, standing in front of a kitchen island with random ingredients scattered on top of it. The boy is looking at them so helplessly; (name) almost pities him. Almost.

(Name) doesn't say anything, doesn't even greet the boy. Moving around the room, gathering what he needs for his own breakfast. He feels Damian's eyes following all of his moves. (Name) glances over to the boy, sighing loudly. The boy still didn't know what to do with the stuff he took out.

"I'll make you something; just... put all of that where you found it." (name) gives in, offering to help the boy. For Alfred, he told himself.

Damian doesn't respond. He does, however, follow (name)'s instructions. The boy puts every ingredient back in their previous spots. Damian smirks to himself; his plan to still eat breakfast with his older brother without bothering the butler worked better than he expected it to.

Alfred walks into the kitchen just in time to see Damian receiving a bowl of food from his older brother. The butler bites his tongue from making a comment on the interaction, knowing it might stop the boys from interacting with each other again. Instead, he starts making breakfast for the rest of the family with a soft smile on his face. 

Duke finds (name) not long after breakfast, skipping towards his brother happily and talking about how Alfred agreed to take them to an arcade. The boys walk up to their rooms to get ready, failing to notice Damian listening in to their conversation. (Name) turns around after hearing someone run behind them but doesn't dwell on it much as Duke is calling for him to hurry up.

(Name) almost turns back toward his room when he sees Damian standing next to the butler, only to stop short when he feels Duke standing right behind him.

"Oh, Damian, are you coming with us?" Duke asks casually.

"Yeah. Thought it'd be nice for the three of us to spend some time together," Damian replies.

(Name) scoffs. Duke nudges him, giving a small shake of his head — a silent warning for the teenager to keep his thoughts to himself.

The ride to the arcade is uncomfortably quiet. In the beginning, Duke made attempts at a conversation, but all of them died out quickly, leaving the air in the car tense.

After what feels like hours, the car finally comes to a stop in front of an arcade. All three boys step out, with Duke leaning back into the car to speak to Alfred.

"Don’t worry about lunch, Alfred," Duke says. "We’ll grab something to eat in town."

Alfred lingers in the parking spot, reluctant to drive off. He watches as Duke gently drags (Name) into the arcade, with Damian trailing just behind them. Only when the boys disappear from view does Alfred finally turn the car around and head back to the manor.

Inside, the arcade buzzed with sound and colour — 8-bit music, clanging tokens, and bursts of digital victory music filling the air. Duke had been right: (name) was good at the games, surprisingly so. He won round after round, stacking up a small mountain of tickets that trailed behind him as he walked. Damian stayed quiet, hovering at a distance, watching more than he played. He’d only come to spend time with his brother, even if that feeling wasn’t exactly mutual. (Name) didn’t look at him, didn’t speak to him; most of the time he pretended the boy wasn't even here. If it wasn't for Duke's occasional comments towards the boy, Damian might've been invisible the entire time the boy was there.

After winning enough tickets to buy almost half of the shop inside the arcade, they decide to call it quits. Duke suggests grabbing a quick bite at a nearby BatBurger before thinking about what to do next.

Inside, they picked out a booth tucked deeper into the shop, looking for a little more privacy. Before (name) could protest, Damian slipped in beside him, boxing his older brother against the window.

They ate in silence, the arcade noise fading into the background. Both Duke and (name) seemed a little worn out from all the running around.

"So... what are we doing next?" Duke asked, stretching his arms a little. "I was thinking—"

He didn’t get to finish. One of their phones started ringing. Both Damian and Duke checked their screens, while (name) didn’t bother — he knew it wasn’t his. The only person who ever called him was sitting across the table. Damian stared at the caller ID for a moment, wondering if he should pick up. 

"It’s Dick. I’ll be back," he sighed, already sliding out of the booth.

They watched him take the call, his voice low and mostly inaudible, only an apology carried just enough to reach them. (Name) watched Damian’s posture, trying to read what the conversation was about from a distance: his stance, his expression, anything that might give it away.

"So, is there anything else you want to do?" Duke asked, pulling (name)'s attention back to the table.

"Honestly? I think I’ve had enough," (name) admitted.

"You and your social battery," Duke said, grinning. "You should get it replaced; it dies out way too fast."

(Name) threw a fry at Duke, hitting him square in the shoulder. Duke gasped in mock betrayal, then burst out laughing, (name) quickly following with a laugh of his own. They didn’t notice Damian had returned until he cleared his throat.

"We were thinking of heading back to the manor," Duke said, glancing over. "Are you cool with that?"

"Yup," Damian replied simply, sliding back into his seat.

"Alright, I’ll call Alfred then. Be right back," Duke said, getting up and stepping away from the booth.

The two teenagers left in the booth sat in uncomfortable silence, waiting. (Name) kept his eyes on the window, watching people pass by outside, anything to avoid unnecessary contact with Damian.

When Duke returned, he slid back into the booth with a bit of ease that neither of them shared. He picked the conversation back up without missing a beat, filling the silence with something lighter.

"Alfred should be here soon," he said, checking his watch. "Won’t be long."

All three of them had barely stepped through the front door of the manor when they were greeted by the man (name) had bumped into during one of his first days there.

"Oh, so that’s who you went out with!" Dick said, grinning as he looked between them.

"Like I said when we spoke on the phone, I went with my blood brother and Thomas," Damian replied coolly.

"Sooo... how’d it go? Did you guys have fun?" Dick asked, clearly trying to stay upbeat.

(Name) didn’t respond. He turned and walked away before he could be dragged any deeper into the conversation. Duke trailed behind him without a word. As they moved down the hallway, (name) could still catch fragments of the conversation behind them.

"It was horrible. I do not wish to talk about it," Damian said flatly.

"I'm sorry, buddy..." Dick replied, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

Reaching the right floor, both of the boys separate, Duke understanding (name)'s need to wind down by himself.

(Name) comes down to the library, knowing that no one should bother him in there. He picks up the book he started reading recently, ready to finish it. The teenager chooses a seat further into the library, somewhere where he couldn't be seen from the doorway, throwing a blanket over his lap. 

The teenager’s peace doesn’t last long. He barely makes it to the end of a chapter when he hears a voice, one he’s pretty sure belongs to Dick, calling his name. (Name) sighs, sinking deeper into his seat, hoping that if he stays quiet long enough, the man will just give up and leave. No such luck.

Before he knows it, Dick is standing right in front of him.

"There you are," Dick says lightly.

(Name) doesn’t respond.

"I know we didn’t start off on the best foot," Dick continues, voice still friendly but tinged with something more sincere. "But it’s not like you gave me much time to get to know you. You don’t even eat dinner with us."

"Yeah, haven’t done that once since I got to the manor," (name) replies flatly.

An uncomfortable silence settles between them. Dick clears his throat.

"Anyway... do you want to have a movie night with us?"

“Us?” (Name) echoes, raising a brow.

"Yeah! Me, Damian, and Barbara said she might join too," Dick says, trying to keep the tone upbeat.

"No, thank you," (name) says without hesitation, already standing.

The teenager leaves the library without another word. Dick decides on a different approach, hoping that Duke might be able to convince the teenager to join them. 

Some time later, as (name) lounged on a couch in one of the lesser-used studies, Duke finds him with an idea on how to spend the rest of the day. He proposes a movie night with a few other family members. (Name) didn’t even look up, sighing.

"Let me guess, it’s with Dick, Damian, and Barbara?" he muttered. "Yeah, I’m not going."

"C’mon, just this once," Duke coaxed. "If you end up not enjoying it, I won’t ask you again. Promise."

(Name) sighed, glancing over. Seeing the look in Duke's eyes, he knew there was no way of getting out of this.

"Fine," he said. "But if you ask again, I will commit a crime just to get away."

"Noted. I’ll make sure it’s a good one, then." Duke laughed.

And that's how (name) found himself late into the night, sitting between Duke and Damian, watching a comedy Dick chose. 'A classic,' he said. Well, it was one shitty class in (name)'s opinion, but he promised Duke to make it till the end, so he doesn't voice his opinion. In truth, the teenager doesn't say much during the duration of the movie night, mostly one-word answers or a quiet laugh at something Duke had said. (name) ignores all of the scoffing and sneering coming from Damian as well as the glances he receives from both Barbara and Dick.

(Name) becomes aware that the rest of the siblings might be plotting something the next day as he is sitting in the library trying to read the same book he was previously interrupted from.

He doesn't notice his presence at first, too interested in the action happening in the book. (Name) finally sees him as he moves to switch into a more comfortable position. The teenager freezes at the sight of the man he met the first time he snuck away to smoke.

"I really liked that book," the man says casually. "Do you?"

(Name) doesn’t answer, eyes dropping back to the page, though he’s no longer reading.

"I’m Jason, by the way," the man continues. "Didn’t really get the chance to introduce myself before."

(Name) keeps ignoring him, trying to focus, hoping silence will do the work.

"You’re (Name), right?" Jason asks, undeterred. "Listen, if it’s—"

"Fuck, can’t you just take a hint?" (Name) snaps, finally looking up. "I’m not interested. Leave me alone."

He slams the book shut and storms past him, muttering under his breath.

"What the fuck is wrong with these people..." 

Jason, as (name) found out hours later still on the same day, was not easily discouraged. The teenager almost turns around and runs off when he spots him under the tree (name) he often smokes under. He stops when Jason shows him a pack of cigarettes, offering them to the teenager.

(Name) steps under the tree, accepting the pack. The two of them smoke in complete silence, staring off in the distance.

What neither of them are aware of are the people watching the scene from the surveillance cameras, deep underneath the manor. The two people were trying to understand what they just witnessed.

The teenager quietly sneaks back to the manor after his smoke break when he is ambushed by someone and dragged into one of the rooms. He tries to scream, but another person present forced something into his mouth to stop him.

(Name) looks around the room he was dragged into, trying to figure out what had happened. The space is filled with technology, most of which he wasn't sure could be used for. In front of him stood two people. He recognised one of them— Tim. He’d seen him around the manor, always behind a screen or typing something faster than seemed possible. Tim stood with his usual calm, hands lightly resting against a desk cluttered with gear, like he’d just stepped away from something important.

The other... he didn’t know. A girl, older maybe, or just more intense. She stood perfectly still, her gaze locked on him. There was something unreadable in her eyes — not cold, just sharp. She hadn’t said a word, and somehow that made her more unnerving than if she had.

(Name) looks between the two, unsure of what he should be waiting for. He watches the two of them exchange looks before sandwiching him between the two of them. It wasn’t threatening, but it was definitely strange.

"I thought we could play something," Tim said, grabbing a controller from a nearby shelf. "Oh—and that’s Cass, by the way."

(Name) glanced over at her. Cass didn’t speak, but her hands moved fluidly through the air in a series of quick, practiced motions — sign language, he realised. She was saying something to Tim.

"Ah, yeah, we should take it out," he said, reaching toward (name). With a tug, he pulled a piece of cloth from (name)’s mouth. The teenager scowled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Let’s play then," Tim added, handing him a controller like nothing had happened.

(Name) is suddenly thankful for Duke convincing him to play on his console some time ago. Because of this, his chances of embarrassing himself dropped rapidly.

He didn't really care for what they were playing. He focused on putting on enough effort so neither of the teenagers on his sides would notice his disinterest. (Name) was hoping that thanks to that, they would get bored of him sooner and let him leave. He had tried giving the controller to Cass, mumbling something about being tired, but the girl just shook her head, pushing it back into his hands.  

After that incident, (name) started avoiding the family altogether. He spent his time either in his or Duke's room, even going as far as eating all of his meals in the confinement of his room.

He was caught once, when he was bringing the dishes back to the kitchen after lunch. Barbara's voice called out for him as he was trying to return to his room. He kept his head down, hoping to slip past unnoticed and make it back to his room.

“(Name)!” Barbara called out again.

The boy stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly to see Barbara, seated in her wheelchair a few feet away, angled just enough to block his path without making it obvious. Her tone was calm, almost friendly, and (name) couldn't figure out what she could possibly want from him.

(Name) closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Barbara gestures towards one of the couches, the smile never leaving her face. The teenager's eyes move towards the couch, noticing Cassandra sitting on it.

The teenager reluctantly moves towards the couch, sitting on it with just enough space from either of the women.

Neither of them says anything, (name) simply staring at his hands and trying to ignore Barbara and Cass. Which wasn't the easiest task, as both of them were burning holes into him with their stares. He felt trapped between them, every little movement he made under their watchful eyes feeling like it was being measured.

"Barbara! Cass! Hi! I was looking for you two!" A new voice rang out, light and cheerful. "Why are you just sitting here with him?"

He didn’t recognise it. A blonde girl bounced into view, her energy practically disrupting the tension in the room. She looked at him, then at the two women.

"Stephanie, hi," Barbara replied smoothly, turning her wheelchair slightly to face the girl. "We’re just trying to get to know our new brother."

"That’s nice," Stephanie said, though it sounded more like an automatic response than genuine interest.

(Name) didn’t wait. The second their attention shifted away from him, he moved—quick, quiet, and gone before any of them could stop him.

The teenager moves quickly, going straight to one place he knows no one would bother him in: the room Alfred is currently cleaning in. The butler gives him an odd look but doesn't say anything. Instead, he decides to comment on the current place the boy gained within the family. 

"You seem to be getting along with your sibling quite well, (Name)," Alfred remarked, his voice steady but observant.

(Name) didn’t immediately respond, a forced smile tugging at his lips. It was so fake it almost stung. He didn’t have the heart to tell Alfred the truth. Not yet. Instead, he simply gave a small nod, like he was pretending everything was fine.

"Maybe you could try eating dinner with everyone?" Alfred suggested, his voice almost too casual, like he was offering something small, something harmless. "I’ll be sure there’s room for you this time."

m.list • part: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

taglist: @amber-content @bellethesleepypotato @leeiasure @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter @tenthmilo @eyeless-kun @holyfishbailiffpeanut @cuntiesweet @jsprien213 @marsmabe @cssammyyarts @ilovecoffe0 @phoenixgurl030 @esposadomd @alittlelostmoonchild @stargirl404 @xnutz0 @s4raahi @reeyy0-2@ironsaladwitch

[revelboo]

Inhaled through your fics like I'm doing a line, you write like a god 🙌🙌

Fave has got to be the angst portion of your LL/ MTMTE series where the humans got transported back, it's just so interesting seeing all their stories connect all at once

And I know it follows a different flow but how do you think the TFP cons would react if the same thing happened to their humans? At the very least, I just know TFP Megs will go berserk mode considering he's all sparked up too

Oh, yeah. They’d not be okay at all. Except for Breakdown if he’s not actually attached to the human yet. He’d think it’s funny up until realizing that Knockout is legitimately upset

Maybe try the stuff under Lost Light- the humans get yeeted to wherever Cybertronians are by accident. The Vehicon story is pretty much reader being adopted and fawned over by the TFP Vehicons. You might like ES Bumblebee, too. Blaster, the human accidentally kidnaps him in his boombox mode. Waspinator pretty much adopts his human, too and just won’t leave.

Gone

TFP Decepticon Scenario

• Primus, there’s another one. Frozen Smokescreen grimaces as the alarm klaxons scream, because you’re staring up at him, tensing and standing on Soundwave’s berth, little fingers fisted in a blanket. Obviously terrified and probably traumatized. How many is this? Feeling absolutely awful as he approaches and like all of the rest of them, you try to bolt even though there’s no where to go. And you scream when he catches you. “I’m so sorry, but you’re safe now,” he says, subspacing you with the rest. Poor things, doesn’t even want to imagine what the Decepticons have been doing with so many humans.

• Snarling in outrage as he charges through the Nemesis, Megatron’s spark constricts. Alarms going off everywhere, but no one can seem to even find the Autobot intruder. And Starscream almost runs into him, the Seeker frantic, yelping when Megatron grabs him by a wing, intending to take his frustration out on someone. “Lord Megatron,” Starscream gasps in pain, twisting. “The humans are gone.” And he feels it. Feels the loss of his bond, cutting into his spark. Venting raggedly, he shoves the Seeker away from himself, not running. But striding for his habsuite, servos flexing as fear seizes him by the throat. Shoving the door open hard when it doesn’t open fast enough and staring at where you should be.

• Roaring out his fury, Predaking smacks a Vehicon out of his way with his tail, mandibles flaring as he chases the scent of the intruder. And Knockout swears as he barrels past him, not caring who gets in his way. Needs to find you and punish whoever has you, because if you’re hurt? Death would be far too kind. You’re so small and he’d left you unprotected, assumed you were safe here.

• Staring at the chaos over a handful of little organics, Breakdown clears his vents. Because, honestly? Good riddance. Humans have no place among Cybertronians. But turning toward Knockout, it’s a shock how blank his friend’s expression is. He looks lost almost. Knew Knockout was soft on you, but didn’t expect him to care this much and swearing, Breakdown joins the search for the intruder. Because if Knockout needs you, then he’s going to have you.

• “Little one?” Servos trembling, Dreadwing flattens a palm against a wall. Trying to get his worry under control. You’re just so small, fragile. Still so weak from your ordeal and someone snuck into his habsuite. Took you from him. You were supposed to be safe there, trusted him to care for you. Venting raggedly, he keeps looking for any trace of who took you from him.

• Can’t move, standing at the door of his habsuite, your blanket in his servos. Aware of the klaxons, the yelling about an intruder, an Autobot taking the humans. Servos crushing your blanket, Shockwave’s antenna flick, cannon smacking against the wall as he staggers slightly, processor in chaos. Frantic with the need to find you, hold you. Needs to move, to help in the search and he can’t move. Coming apart without you there to keep him together.

• Tendrils lashing as he pulls up feed after feed, trembling, Soundwave watches the Autobot sneaking through the Nemesis. To his habsuite. Slipping inside. Taking you. Stealing what’s his. His family. His little mate. Where did the Autobot go? What did he do to you? Where are you? The intruder leaves his habsuite with empty hands, but you’re gone. Can’t even sense you and he can’t stop trembling. Teetering between fear and rage, unable to get himself under control. Where are you? Are you hurt? Crying out for him?

[hedwig221b]

Hi love, I was wondering if you have any fict recommendation on Issac being Derek and Stiles baby in a non-sexual way? Extra points if Isaac is de-aged. I'm a sucker for them taking care of puppy Isaac. It also works if it's just a Sterek fict where Derek (and therefore Stiles) are a parental figure for the pups aka Isaac, Erica and Boyd.

Love you

Hi! Yes, I adore kid fics

Werewolf Daycare by dinolaur

Sure, Stiles thought someday he'd be all right with being responsible for some kids. But not when he's seventeen. And not when those kids are actually five werewolves and a hunter who are all inexplicably toddlers again. Freaking witches, man.

We Got Claws by Onlymystory

Peter, Isaac, and Scott get de-aged. Stiles and Derek take care of them.

kids these days don't respect their elders by HalfFizzbin

Isaac is a temporary toddler, and Derek needs a babysitter.

Loving Isaac by QueenOfAngst21

A regular patrol around their land takes a turn for the worse when Derek and Isaac run into a unwanted visitor. Just when Derek thinks they are in the clear, he wakes to find not his beta beside him but a crying blonde haired baby right where he left Isaac. The pack stumbles over themselves as their alpha and emissary navigate this new dynamic and find each other along the way. AKA Isaac is de-aged, Derek and Stiles try to reverse the change but they find something better along the way

Of Puppy Piles and Sugar Dreams by StarShineForMe

In which Isaac and Scott get de-aged, the pack must learn to bond and protect their own, and Derek ("Dewek!") and Stiles ("Sti-ewes!") are mates…even if it takes them forever and two toddlers to realize it. “Oh, God.” Stiles buries his face in his hands, water dripping down his wrists. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Derek whips out a towel, wrapping it around Stiles’ forearms, pulling them away from Stiles’ body so he can look them over. “I’m fine,” Stiles says, a little blankly. Erica and Boyd have set Issac and Scott back onto the floor, tickling them both into fits of giggles. He huffs out a noise that’s not quite a whimper, not quite a laugh. “Just wondering when the hell I ended up in my very own episode of ‘Teen Mom’.”

A Pup's Found Family Pt 1 by StarShineForMe

"Don’t wan’ break my plate.” Adult Isaac, several inches taller than Stiles yet somehow seeming just as small as his recent two-year-old self, has had yet to look up from his feet. “Might get in trouble,” he whispers. **Later, Stiles relays their dinner plate saga, picturing perfectly in his mind the furrowed look of concentration he knows Derek has on at the moment. “He’s still our pup, Stiles.” There’s a pause, then Derek continues. “He wants to be little.” Stiles nods, even though Derek can’t see him, overflowing with emotion that he and Derek always seem to be on the same page now. “And I think he knows it,” Stiles agrees. “At least, his subconscious does. And so do we. But how can-“ “We’ll figure it out,” Derek assures him.

5 Times Isaac Age Regressed In Front Of Someone + 1 Time He Didn’t Have To by Warlock_Nerd

Isaac age regresses to help deal with the trauma he had faced as a child. At first, he tried to hide that side of himself but slowly he lets people see. He sees Derek and Stiles as his new found loving parents. Mama!Stiles Daddy!Derek

Scars to Your Beautiful by kat_fanfic

When Stiles and Scott return to Beacon Hills to investigate a mysterious disappearance, the last thing Stiles expects is to fall for their prime suspect. Add to that a very unusual pack and the discovery that there is more to his strange ability to hear pack-speak than he thought, and Stiles is in for more than one surprise.

Story Time by bella8876

Derek honestly couldn’t tell you what the stories was even about. He’d been too busy watching Stiles to pay attention to the story. But the kids had been riveted, on the edge of their seats even, they gasped and laughed and cheered but Derek didn’t hear any of it.

Unprofessional, Ms. Blake. But ARMS. by lalalathisisme

Ms. Blake, Erica's first grade teacher, may have a tiny crush on Mr. Hale, Erica's dad. He's tall, dark, and handsome and she has to remind herself to be professional and try not to climb Mr. Hale like a tree when he comes to pick Erica up after school. It doesn't help that he is completely adorable with his daughter – laughing and smiling and thoroughly impressed by every piece of macaroni-and-glue art that Erica makes. And every day he greets her with a hug, asking her how her day went. And he even says hello to Ms. Blake (“Jennifer” she insists, and yet he still calls her Ms. Blake) when he picks Erica up, looking like he actually cares to hear the random things that happened in class. She doesn't pry. She doesn't even know how to do it without seeming highly suspect. But as it happens, sometimes information is offered up relating to a class project, and she files them away in her brain in the folder titled 'This Is Unprofessional But Jesus, Have You SEEN His Arms?'

Ten Days by hatethesilence312

Derek Hale does not like babies. So when his pack gets turned into babies, it’s pretty much the worst thing that could happen to him.

[masterlist link]

[stevenose]

night moves (18+)

inspired by that slutty slutty shoot joe did for coup de main (that pic of him in the chair… you know the one)

contains: steve x reader; reader with a vagina and breasts; reader is referred to as ‘good girl’ etc several times through this fic; teasing!!!; oral (m receiving); cock worship; some scent kink; silly but also stern steve trying to teach u a little lesson about patience. also robin gets laid 🤍

steve looks good. this isn’t an unusual occurrence - he always looks good - but tonight’s outfit has you reeling.

he never wears black levis, but he’s shown up with a pair on tonight. tight enough to see his goddamn cock through, the curve of his ass emphasized. you’re dizzy over them, but the terracotta button-down that he’s wearing makes your thighs clench together. it’s unbuttoned enough to truly be considered slutty, and the sleeves are rolled up, pretty veins and hands on display. and he’s wearing a goddamn leather jacket, too. you didn’t even know he owned one of those.

“what’s this all about?” you ask, tugging at the soft leather.

“family heirloom,” he explains hesitantly. “why? is it weird?”

“no,” you say quickly. “you look incredible tonight.”

steve leans in a little, his sunglasses sliding down the straight slope of his nose. you can see his eyes, going from milk chocolate to dark chocolate. “you really think so?”

“know so,” you breathe, taking a step back, because you might kiss him stupid - or faint - if you don’t.

and it must be obvious that you’re reeling. steve’s arm cradles your waist tightly, keeping you close to him all night. this whole thing is new - being in public with him for the first time as a couple. you’re sweating, face perpetually hot, the scent of his fig cologne sticking to your skin.

and every time he faces you, you feel more and more ridiculous. his cock is practically shouting at you. all you want is to be out of this stupid bar, on your knees for him, his thick length stuffed into the back of your throat.

you take a deep breath to steady yourself and sip on your cocktail, to give the impression that you’re a normal person and not ridiculously horny.

“something wrong?” he asks, lips tickling your ear. you can hear the smug smile in his voice.

“you drive me crazy,” you say softly, voice just above a whisper.

you’re sure he can’t hear you over the loud music of the bar, but he must be a lip reader, because he smiles wide.

“you look good tonight too, y’know,” he says, his hand moving from your lower back to the back of your neck. he slides a finger under your sleeve, and fiddles with your bra strap. his breath in your ear makes you shiver. “can’t wait to get you alone.”

you turn to look at his pretty face now, his hair all tousled, his cheeks pink.

“we’ve been here long enough, don’t you think?” you murmur.

steve tuts. “eddie’s gonna think you’re rude if we miss his set.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “there’s a bathroom.”

he shakes his head, beaming, finishing the last of his drink. “uh-uh. you’re a good girl. you can be patient for me, can’t you?”

you want to punch him. he does it to tease you, because he knows how much you like it when he talks to you like that. a little condescending, a little mean. you glare instead, now biting your tongue, irritated.

“i love it when you look at me like that,” he says, taking your empty glass and heading to the counter to get you another.

you can finally breathe, though you’re still suffocating. eddie’s band hasn’t even set up yet. and you don’t get why steve wants to stay to listen to music he doesn’t like for a guy he only quasi gets along with. robin’s here somewhere - and with jealousy, you realize she’s probably finger-banging her girlfriend in the restroom right now.

steve’s back at your side, still grinning, handing you another drink.

“got you the sweet kind,” he says, then leans in. “not sure if you should be drinking, though. afraid you’re gonna try to fuck me right here if you get drunk enough.”

his jawline is incredibly defined as his head leans back, another jack and coke at his lips. if you were stronger, you’d drag him outside, or at least into the men’s bathroom.

“keep it up and you won’t get fucked.”

steve scoffs, wraps his free hand around your waist and pulls you into his chest. “then what’ll you do, huh?” he asks quietly, his nose almost touching yours. “gonna touch yourself in my bathroom all alone?”

“maybe i won’t spend the night,” you say, voice wavering. you’re very unconvincing. “maybe i’ll go home and use a toy.”

he grins again. “you gonna suck your dildo before you ride it?”

your eyes widen at the debauchery. steve’s got a mouth on him, but he doesn’t typically use it outside of the bedroom.

“yeah,” he says, shit eating grin widening. “you’re droolin’, baby. wanna taste my cock so bad, yeah? wore these just for you. know how much you like seeing it.”

he grinds himself into your hip bone. you almost drop your goddamn glass.

“you think i don’t want to take you to my car and make your brain melt?” he continues. “i do, baby, but i’m patient. you gotta learn.”

your mouth is dry.

at your lack of response, steve’s shoulders drop. “too much?”

you shake your head quickly. “no,” you insist, “i like this version of you.”

he relaxes a bit more, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “good girls get rewards,” he murmurs.

there’s a sudden bang! behind you. you whip around to see the drummer beginning to set up on the stage.

“we gotta stay after, too, y’know,” steve says, lips ghosting over your neck. “say congrats and all. maybe get some food.”

your head whips back around so you can glare harshly at him. “we are not going to dinner after this.”

he can’t stop grinning, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “don’t be selfish, honey, we don’t all have something to eat later.”

you sort of wonder what he would do if you fought back. would he chase you if you said you were leaving? would he give in?

you don’t have time to contemplate, as robin finally emerges, chugging a water with a red face. her girlfriend’s all blissed out, leaning on robin for support.

“gross,” steve says, stepping away from you. his body parting from yours makes you feel cold.

robin grins widely, cocking her head at him. “oh, so you hate gay people?”

they argue - steve can’t take a joke sometimes - but you block them out. you sip absentmindedly on your drink, watching as eddie finally emerges on stage to set up the amps and pedals.

“third stall in the girl’s bathroom,” robin’s partner says, nodding and giving you a thumbs up. “pretty cushy in there, if you guys need a space.”

“thanks,” you say weakly.

you’re tense when eddie’s band starts to play, finally, and the drinks aren’t helping. you’d like to relax like steve is now, a third drink in his hand.

what’s really infuriating is that steve has the audacity to nod his big head along to the music and act like he really cares about it, when you know his vibe is the eagles and queen, not this.

he finally looks at you, still smug. “not polite to stare.”

“not polite to tease.”

he scoffs again, throwing a hand out to gesture towards the stage. “what are you talkin’ about? i’m havin’ a great time.”

your eyes follow his strong biceps and you want to sink your teeth into the flesh and muscle desperately.

he opens his mouth to make a comment about it, but you reach into his glass to fish out the cherry that came with it. you stare him down as you bring it to your lips, your teeth sinking into the cherry instead of him.

he watches you, eyes darkening, hooded, his fingers flexing around the glass. tart juice spills down your chin and you make no attempts to clean it up.

“want the stem?” you ask, holding it up.

steve leans forward to wipe the sweetness with his thumb, then sucks it into his mouth.

you’re blown away. outperformed.

“you’re gonna get it,” he says lowly.

you force a smile, heart beating fast. “what i want?”

he laughs and leans back, eyes moving to the stage again. “you’ll see.”

there’s another half an hour after the performance where everyone shoots the shit in the ally behind the bar. you’re squirming the entire time while steve’s arm stays wrapped around your waist, holding you into him, trying to make you stop.

and when eddie asks if anyone is coming to the diner with the band, you brace yourself for steve to say yes.

instead, he yawns loudly and shakes his head. “we’re too tired, sorry.”

“you just hate me,” eddie says, waving him off.

“how’d you know?” steve says, then guides you to turn around, moving towards his car. “we’ll see you soon — vickie, drive safe, please.”

she gives him another big thumbs up and you try to remember her name for the next time you see her. you have bigger priorities right now, though, as steve walks silently beside you. your clit pulses between your thighs, the short walk nearly excruciating.

he gets the door for you - a gentleman, of course - and for a brief moment, as you sit, you’re at eye level with his dick.

steve doesn’t linger, though. he shuts the door and moves to his side. you stare at him, a little nervous to be alone after all that was said earlier.

“you,” he says, pointing a finger at you after turning the key, his eyes equally playful and serious, “have a lot to make up for tonight.”

steve spreads his legs wide, still clothed (with that jacket), hair tousled. he’s spread out in a chair at his place, the room lit dimly by a lamp in the corner. it makes you sleepy but you’re convinced his bulge has hypnotized you.

he looks at you like he’s disappointed. it’s all a rouse, of course. he’s doing all of this because he saw how hot it made you earlier, and he had told you as much before sitting down.

“strip,” he finally says.

you don’t hesitate, of course. you’ve been waiting to get your damn clothes off all night. like a palette cleanser, one of these nights plays softly in the background, spinning on the record player.

“underwear too?” you ask.

he hums. “keep ‘em on.”

you do as you’re told.

steve stares at you for what feels like forever, sort of squinting. “give me a spin, baby,” he says, spinning his finger.

you do, nice and slow, letting him look. look at what he’s missed out on all night, what he could have had in the bathroom or the ally or his car all night. when you’re back to facing him, he beckons you over.

“come here.”

you like him like this. you like him when he’s goofy and soft, too, but this is new and exciting.

you stand between his thighs and he moves his hands to your ass, gently cupping it. he’s gorgeous below you. his hands roam, hands squeezing almost a little too roughly, but never making you wince. you’re giddy about it, his eagerness showing through with every handful he takes of you.

“on your knees.”

you drop down so quickly it hurts, your knees throbbing, but you don’t complain.

steve leans forward to cup your cheek. “gotta teach you a thing or two about patience, don’t i?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face and landing on your lips.

“mhm,” you agree.

“i’d tell you not to act like that again, but i really liked it,” he admits, smiling softly at you. “like knowing how much you need me.”

“i really do,” you breathe.

“i know.” he kisses your forehand gently. “so here’s the deal. i’ll let you have what you want, but there are two stipulations: you can’t touch yourself, and i’m going to draw this out as long as possible. how’s that sound?”

you try to be cute. “am i going to cum tonight, stevie?”

he hums. “no way, baby. this is all about patience, remember?”

you know how much he’s obsessed with pussy, so you don’t take his threat very seriously.

“no cheating,” he instructs. “no clenching your thighs or anything.”

you bite your lip. you’re still trying to be cutesy. “and what if i do?”

he grins and leans down to touch the tip of his nose against yours. “if you want my cock so bad, baby, you’d better play by the rules.”

he finally kisses you, soft and slow. it’s not heated like it usually is when you’re with him. it clicks that he’s taking his time, and you really wish he wouldn’t. not just because of your eagerness - it’s also two in the morning and your head hurts from all the heavy metal.

he pulls away from you slowly and leans back in his chair. “go ahead,” he says, a finger tapping his belt buckle. “slow.”

it takes three minutes to get his tight jeans down his thick thighs at a pace that he likes. you leave the briefs on. you‘ve already mapped out what you’re going to do.

there’s a sizeable stain of precum where the tip of his cock rests. you’d like to make a comment about it but you abstain, knowing he’d drag this out for longer.

“wait,” he says.

so you do.

one of his hands sneaks down to palm at his erection. his head falls back and he lets out a breathy moan as he touches himself. you don’t know where to look - his big hand on his cock, or his pretty face twisting softly with pleasure.

“maybe i should just jerk myself off, huh?” he rambles. “make you wait even more.”

you almost whimper.

“‘s okay,” he assures, “i’m not that mean.”

but he does keep touching himself while you stare at the stain of precum grow. you spread your legs far apart but you’re definitely still cheating, your cunt clenching and unclenching.

you’re just about ready to beg when he finally stops, moving his hand back to the armrests.

“slow,” he repeats, like you’re a dog, and you really don’t mind.

your hand replaces his. he’s hot to the touch, even through the cotton. your thumb swipes against his head and he groans softly above you. his pre transfers to your thumb and, just as he had done with the cherry juice, you suck it into your mouth.

“copy cat,” he breathes, pupils blown.

you smile up at him, then lean forward. you maintain eye contact with him until your lips reach his cock, and you mouth at him through his briefs.

“jesus,” he groans, hands gripping the chair.

you take your time with it like he told you to. kissing him through the fabric, getting a taste of him — really him. his musk is intoxicating, and you make him gasp like a prude when you inhale deeply.

“wanna worship it?” he breathes, hips bucking, his cock grinding into your cheek. “this what you wanted all night?”

you nod, mouthing at him more.

steve shakes his head, perhaps in disbelief. you haven’t been quite so needy before.

your spit mixes with his precum, the fabric sticking to his cock. he finally relents, gently ordering you to pull his underwear down.

his cock springs up, almost hitting his stomach. you pause, feeling hypnotized again, before pulling them down to meet with his jeans at his ankles.

his cock’s so pretty. pink at the tip, a pronounced vein running down the underside, and big enough to make your jaw ache.

you’re not thinking as you lean forward. steve’s hand stops you, his palm pressing against your forehead.

“thought you were learning.”

“i am,” you whisper.

he holds his palm out. “spit.”

he makes you watch as he jerks himself off, your spit helping his hand slide up and down the shaft. your thighs twitch towards each other as you stare at him, brows furrowed.

you want him so badly. want to climb up into his lap and kiss his pretty face stupid. he bites his lip, moans breathily sneaking out as he keeps stroking himself slowly. he concentrates on you, a strand of hair falling into his dark, hooded eyes.

you bite your tongue so hard it almost bleeds. your pussy works like it has a mind of its own, helplessly clenching, your clit aching horribly. you’re certain you’ll scream, one queuing up in your throat. he has about ten seconds before you throw a tantrum like a baby. he’s so beautiful that it makes you forget yourself.

“go on,” he says eventually, leaning back again.

you’re relieved, almost to the point of tears. you move a little closer and press soft kisses to the inside of his sensitive thighs. his cock kicks near your forehead as you move nearer and nearer. you let your tongue flick out against his skin, smiling when he sighs.

if you weren’t so impatient, you’d make him wait for it.

you move up, up, up, but not to where steve’s expecting you. instead, your lips place a gentle kiss to his sack.

he sort of sits up, brows furrowing hard. so you continue, your tongue laving over his balls gently.

“oh my god?”

it isn’t a protest, so you continue. you mouth at them, too, licking and sucking gently. one of his hands tangles itself in your hair and he moans loudly above you. it goes straight to your clit, of course, and at this point you’re once again near tears at the ache.

you lick your way up his balls and to the base of his shaft. you place a chaste kiss there before continuing upwards, licking a long stripe up to the head. you make sure to run your tongue along the aforementioned vein and he shivers.

his voice cuts the silence. “worship, baby.”

you kiss the head of his cock, the salt of his precum laying heavy on your tongue. you make out with it, using your tongue, doubling down every time steve groans. his hand stays in your hair and he gently moves you down to kiss the rest of him.

steve’s free hand grips the base of his cock and he pumps gently as your tongue flicks against him. after a long moment, he pulls you back, crowding your space again.

“can i say something?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

you watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “i want to use your mouth.”

you gasp breathlessly, happily. “please, steve.”

so he stands, kicking off his jeans, keeping his grip tight in your hair. he pumps himself still, keeps you at eye level - again - with his leaking tip.

“hands on my thighs,” he says softly. “pinch me if you need me to stop, alright?”

you nod, hands resting where he’s instructed.

“i’ll go slow,” he promises. “still need to finish our lesson, right?”

you nod again.

he gently kicks your thighs apart with his feet. you hadn’t noticed how close they’d gotten to pulling together.

“my pretty girl,” he coos, leaning down, pulling your head up. he kisses you much more fervently this time, but shorter. “i’ll give you just what you want.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, 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.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

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 ❤️

Bruce is nice enough. He does a typical checkup. Says he'll request the ultrasound from your doctor. You thank him and he chats with Steve before he goes.

"Says you're healthy," Steve declares at the door shuts. "Nothing of concern so far."

"Did you ever think...maybe, that whatever they put in you might kill me?" You scowl from the couch as you hug a pillow. "Pregnancy is already damgerous enough."

"Bruce doesn't seem concerned with that. He's a scientist. He's curious," Steve approaches. "You just need to take it easy."

"Take it easy?" You grumble. "Right. It's not very easy. There's a thing growing inside of me."

"Our baby," he sits beside you. "Look, I get it. It's not what you imagined but you gotta think about it. We met for a reason."

"No, we met because I was mad at my husband and my own stupid choices and what did I do? Made another one." You throw a hand up and sink into the cushy couch. "Shouldn't the great cap go out an find someone bubbly and pretty and perfect?"

"You're perfect," he insists.

You stare at him. You're so tired. He's relentless. No matter what you do, puke, gorge, snarl, he's not going to let up. For God's sake, he killed Barrett.

"It really was the greatest night of my life," he leans toward you.

You wince. "Steve..."

"I only want to take care of you." He says. "That night, the woman I met, she wanted that too. That's what you said. You said you were lonely and you just wanted to be wanted. I want you. I need you."

You look away as your eyes gloss with tears. He's not lying. That night you were bitter and dejected. Your husband wouldn't touch you and just that was enough to break you. You were drunk but you were still you.

You cover your face and turn away.

"It's alright," he touches your shoulder gently, rubbing your arm.

"It's not." You snivel.

"But it will be." He squeezes your shoulder. "Shh, sweetheart, relax."

He spreads his hand across your back and rubs. You shiver. He shifts closer. You can feel him. He slides his arm over your shoulders.

He pulls you to him. You don't resist as he turns you and puts your head on his chest. His other hand runs up and down your arm.

That's it. You have nothing left. You crumble. You bury your face in his shirt as another storm washes over you. You sob. You're not just grieving your husband, you're grieving for yourself.

He hushes you, rocking you slightly, and the waves ebb and flow until you're spent. He stays like that with you. You can hear his heart.

He relaxes against you. You let him hold you. Just like that night, you settle for any comfort you can find.

Time blurs and you drift in the haze. When you break through the ambivalence, you're still on the couch. You're on your side, hugging the pillow, numb and dozy. You're not sure you were sleeping, you're still exhausted.

Steve emerges and you watch him. He's in only a towel. His blond hair slightly curls from moisture. He looks at you and rubs his neck.

"How're you feeling?" He asks.

You groan.

"Hungry?"

Your stomach growls before you can answer. You've never felt hunger quite like it.

"I can make you something," he offers.

"No, no," you sit up. "I can manage. I'm not.... helpless."

"I know. I'm just trying to help."

You look at him and stand. You don't say anything. Funny, he keeps saying that word; help. Does he know what that means? It only seems to mean do what he wants.

You pass him to get to the kitchen. You try not to notice or think about his exposed physique. The hard muscle, his thick arms, that inhuman strength.

Remember what he did. You don't know that he wouldn't do the same to you. Sure, he wants the baby but he could find another woman, make another. You're not delusional. You don't think you're special like that.

You'll make a sandwich. Simple. It shouldn't make you sick. Just peanut butter.

Wrong. As you twist open the jar, the smell flips your stomach. You step back and cover your mouth. Steve's shadow moves into the doorway.

"You okay?"

You swallow the bile in your throat.

"As okay as I can be," you drop your hands.

"Like I said, anything I can do."

"Give me some space," you say abruptly. "I need a moment, okay? Like, don't you get it? I planned to be with my husband, not you."

You spin away and put the lid back on the jar.

"I get that," he says tersely.

"I never wanted a kid. Do you know that?"

He hums.

"But here we are so give me a chance to process this," you snap.

He tuts and steps into the kitchen. He crosses his arms.

"You think this is what I want? I never wanted to be in this century. I never wanted to wake up in a world where everyone I know is gone. Where all my hopes and dreams are quashed and this brave new world rejects everything I know."

His voice cracks and takes a deep breath.

You drop your shoulders. No, you didn't think about that. Yet, why would you even consider any of it when he can have anything he wants. Sure, his life isn't what he wanted but why does he get to do the same to you?

"I'm not the one who ruined your life," you mutter.

His brow twitches.

"No, you didn't. You're giving me a chance at that life," he sighs. "So, take your time, but we both know I'm going to get what I want."

[sh4nksslvt]

Hii, I was waiting for the requests to open.

You had an exam right? Hope it went well.

So I've been thinking about katakuri a lot lately and about shanks and Shamrock too lol.

Could you please write something about katakuri? Like the reader is engaged to katakuri or maybe married to him, but then sanji comes to the whole cake island, to marry pudding, and he ends up having a crush on the reader, or maybe just forms an innocent friendship with her. But katakuri doesn't like it and gets all jealous🤔

stawp, coz im thinking abt making a fic for the twins cozz 😩😩 anw, here ya go tis not much but hope u like it!

Sweet Possessiveness

When Sanji arrives on Whole Cake Island and charms you with his friendly nature, Katakuri finds himself struggling with a new, unfamiliar emotion—jealousy.

katakuri x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, ,sfw, slight possessiveness, wci arc, jealous katakuri, arrange marriage, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff cringe, and akward word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The sun over Whole Cake Island gleamed like melted caramel, casting golden rays through the thick candy-glass windows of Sweet City’s castle. You stood on the upper balcony of your private quarters, arms resting on the edge of the railing, enjoying the faint scent of cocoa fields wafting on the wind.

“Miss (Y/N),” a soft voice called from behind. It was Galette, holding a delicate tray of tea. “nii-san sent this.”

You smiled, eyes flicking to the steam rising from the porcelain. Katakuri always sent you tea after his training sessions, as if wordlessly reminding you to hydrate and rest—because he wouldn’t.

“Thank you,” you murmured, picking up the cup. “Is he still in the training hall?”

Galette nodded. “And still scaring the walls half to death.”

You chuckled. “That’s our Katakuri.”

Your engagement had been arranged at first—Big Mom’s doing, naturally. A political match. You were strong, from a smaller but reputable family within Totto Land, and the Charlotte Matriarch deemed you suitable for her most powerful son.

But over time, real affection grew. Katakuri wasn’t one for grand declarations or flamboyant gestures. But his actions—silent protection, warm glances, small offerings like this tea—spoke louder than any words.

You sipped quietly, closing your eyes. Until a voice, bright and golden and unmistakably not Katakuri’s, broke your peace.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” the voice said, accompanied by the crisp rustle of fabric and the scent of freshly baked bread. “But are you the goddess responsible for making this castle look even more beautiful than it already is?”

You blinked, turning. Standing at the archway of your balcony, one hand over his heart and one knee bent in a dramatic bow, was none other than Vinsmoke Sanji.

Your brows lifted in amusement. “Are you always this dramatic with strangers?”

He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “Only with beautiful women~”

You snorted and leaned back against the railing. “That line might work better if I weren’t engaged.”

He visibly startled. “Engaged? Oh no. What a cruel twist of fate!”

You laughed again. “Relax. I’m not offended. You’re charming, in a theatrical kind of way.”

Sanji sighed, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound me. But I’ll take what I can get. May I ask your name, mademoiselle?”

“(Y/N). And you’re Sanji from the strawhats, and the groom-to-be, right?”

He grimaced, but quickly masked it. “That’s me.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Don’t look so thrilled.”

Before he could answer, another voice—low, gravelly, and dangerous—cut through the warm air like a blade.

“(Y/N).”

You turned to see Katakuri standing at the end of the hallway. His arms crossed, scarf wrapped high as always, and his mismatched eyes locked directly on Sanji.

Sanji straightened. “Oh. You must be—”

“Katakuri,” you said, walking toward him with a calm smile. “Sanji was just being friendly.”

Katakuri’s jaw ticked as he stared down the Vinsmoke. “Friendly.”

Sanji held up his hands. “No disrespect meant. I didn’t know she was—”

“Engaged to me,” Katakuri finished for him. “Now you do.”

You placed a hand on Katakuri’s leg gently. “It’s fine. No harm done.”

Katakuri didn’t respond, but his stare lingered for a beat too long before he nodded once and walked with you back inside.

That evening, you found Katakuri sitting in the shadows of your shared garden, back leaning against a lollipop tree. His scarf was lowered just enough to reveal his lips—soft, tense.

You approached quietly, barefoot, and sat beside him. “You’ve been brooding.”

He didn’t answer, just looked away.

You tilted your head onto his shoulder. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you my love. You’re too pretty when you’re calm.”

He grunted. “He looked at you like—like he could. Like you weren’t mine.”

You blinked, surprised at the raw honesty. “Katakuri…”

“I know I don’t always say things right. But I meant it when I told Mama I agreed to this marriage. You’re not just part of a plan to me.”

Your chest warmed. You reached up, gently touching his jaw. “I know. I never doubted that.”

“He flirts like breathing,” he muttered, still glaring into the distance. “You smiled.”

You chuckled. “I smiled because it was funny. You really think I’d trade you for a guy in a suit who flings hearts with every wink?”

He huffed, but the corner of his lip twitched. “You could.”

“But I won’t.”

There was a long pause. The air was warm. His fingers brushed yours. You leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, just shy of where his scarf would normally rest.

“Hey,” you said softly, drawing his gaze. “I chose you. Out of everyone here, even if this started as politics, it turned into something real. Don’t let one flirty cook ruin your peace.”

His voice was quiet. “You’re mine.”

“I am,” you whispered, and kissed him again—deeper this time. His hand found your hip, pulling you closer with a sudden need that made your breath hitch.

It didn’t go further. Not yet. But it left you breathless and glowing, curled up in his arms under the sugar-pink sky.

The next day, Sanji found you in the castle’s kitchens, humming while tasting a fresh fruit tart.

“You again,” you said with a grin.

“Guilty,” Sanji replied, adjusting his rolled-up sleeves. “I was told you’re the one who perfected the berry-glaze layering on the top-tier wedding cake.”

“Guilty,” you echoed, licking a bit of jam from your thumb.

Sanji stared just a second too long. Then caught himself. “Incredible work. I’m honestly impressed.”

“Thanks,” you said. “I like baking. It’s relaxing. Even more so when a certain someone’s not glaring holes through the walls.”

Sanji winced. “Right. About that. He doesn’t like me much, huh?”

“Katakuri’s just… protective. And quiet. He’s not the type to compete. He’s the type to eliminate threats.”

Sanji paled. “Oh. Good to know.”

You handed him a spoonful of the tart’s custard. “Taste?”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“You’re a chef. I trust your opinion.”

He tasted it—and promptly moaned. Loudly. “This is divine. Like kissing a cloud of vanilla.”

“That’s the rosewater,” you said with a smile.

Of course, that was the exact moment Katakuri entered the kitchen.

He stopped short in the doorway.

You and Sanji froze—Sanji still holding the spoon near his lips like he was mid-proposal.

“...You’re dead,” Katakuri said flatly.

Sanji yelped and backed away, hands up. “I swear it’s just custard!”

You stepped in between, laughing. “Katakuri, stop. He’s not doing anything wrong.”

Katakuri didn’t look convinced.

Later that night, you found a tray in your room: a small custard tart, your favorite. In the center was a tiny sugar plaque that simply read:

“Only let me feed you sweets.” – K.

You flushed hot, grinning like a fool.

Things calmed after that. Sanji kept his distance (though he still greeted you warmly), and Katakuri eased up—slightly. Enough that he didn’t seem seconds away from smashing a wall every time your name and Sanji’s were in the same sentence.

One evening, a few days before the wedding, you and Katakuri found yourselves alone on the quiet balcony of his quarters. The sky bled crimson and honey, and the world was still.

“Your scarf’s down,” you noted, brushing your fingers over his cheek.

He didn’t reply—just leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as his large hand settled on the small of your back.

You melted into him, sighing into the kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t possessive. It was… secure. As if he was finally certain you were his.

When you pulled back, your cheeks flushed, he murmured, “Don’t smile like that at anyone else.”

You laughed softly. “What kind of smile?”

“The one you give me. The one that makes it hard to think.”

“Then stop thinking,” you whispered, kissing him again.

He did.

[sturniololuvz]

Could you do one where their little sister is getting too big for her clothes because she’s been struggling with a b.e.d and it’s the summer and Chris notices she’s wearing a hoodie even though it’s hot and they all get worried but she doesn’t wanna admit that she’s getting bigger - I’m struggling atm and your fics bring me so much comfort

aw i’m sorry , i struggle with this as well

“Too Hot for Hoodies”

The AC in the house was barely keeping up with the Boston summer heat. Matt was walking around shirtless, Nick had practically taken up residence in front of the fan, and even Chris had swapped out his usual hoodie for a tank top and shorts.

But their little sister?

Still in a hoodie. Black. Oversized. Hood up.

Chris noticed it first.

They were getting ready to go out — a casual lunch and errands — and while the guys were all sweating by the front door, she was standing there, pulling her sleeves down over her wrists like she was trying to disappear.

“Hey,” Chris said gently, coming up beside her. “Aren’t you hot in that?”

She didn’t look at him. Just shrugged. “It’s fine.”

He watched her tug the sleeves lower. He saw the way she kept shifting, like she couldn’t get comfortable in her own skin.

Matt was already halfway out the door when Chris grabbed his keys and whispered, “You guys go ahead. I’ll meet you there.”

Nick frowned but nodded.

Chris turned back to her as the door shut. “Talk to me.”

She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re wearing a hoodie in ninety-degree weather.”

“I said it’s fine, Chris.”

He softened his voice. “Is it about your clothes?”

Her silence answered for her.

Chris hesitated for a second, then sat on the stairs. “I’ve noticed the laundry’s been different lately. Shirts you used to love are at the bottom of the hamper. You haven’t worn shorts once this summer. And… I’ve seen the wrappers sometimes. Late at night.”

She flinched.

“I’m not mad,” he said immediately. “I’m worried. You don’t have to hide this from us.”

Her voice cracked when she finally whispered, “I think I’m getting too big.”

Chris’s heart shattered. “Too big for what?”

She finally sat down next to him, hoodie still clutched tight around her. “For the clothes I used to like. For the pictures I used to feel okay in. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just… eat, even when I’m not hungry, and then I feel awful after. I try to stop, but I can’t. And now none of my clothes fit right and I don’t want anyone to look at me.”

Chris didn’t say anything for a moment.

He just wrapped an arm around her and let her cry into his shoulder.

When her breathing finally slowed, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Binge eating disorder is real. And it doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re overwhelmed, and your brain is trying to cope in the only way it knows how. But we’re gonna help you find better ways. Healthier ones. Ones that don’t leave you hurting after.”

“I feel disgusting.”

“You’re not. Not even close.”

She sniffled. “What if people stare?”

“They might,” he said honestly. “But who cares? You’re still you. Still smart, hilarious, kind. Still my little sister. And Matt and Nick? They’ll back you up no matter what.”

Chris stood up and held out his hand. “C’mon. Let’s put on something comfy, ditch the hoodie, and go get lunch. Then tomorrow… we’ll look into finding someone for you to talk to. A real professional. Someone who gets it.”

Her hand trembled as she took his, but she nodded. “Okay.”

“And hey,” he added, grinning gently, “I’ll even buy you new shorts. Big ones. Cool ones. Maybe even pink.”

She laughed, wiping her eyes. “You’d wear pink.”

Chris smirked. “I own pink.”

Together, they stepped out into the heat — not fixed, but finally starting to face it.

And she wasn’t alone anymore.

⸻

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Question about Double Cursed

If the spirit didn't change the spell and if the spell did what it was meant to

How would the story have gone?

If Ford actually got turned human again and Stan was stuck forever as a cat

Hmm. Hard to say, as I haven't put a huge amount of thought into the alternative timeline.

Probably very similar to 30 year Nikola, except Stan's pretending to be a total stranger trapped in a cats body. Fords making all kinds of accommodations to his house for his new cat friend and figuring out how to allow easier communication and such, while Stan's low key having an angst attack that maybe Ford only likes him when he doesn't know it's Stan. He won't run become that's suspicious and life really is good for him like that (plus he missed his chance in the woods due to shock), but in the back of his mind he's yelling at himself for lying to Ford by omission. When the subject of Stan going missing comes up with his car, I don't think Ford would rant like he did in htcbaf, as he's now been a missing person, but he'd be some kind of mix of worry and anger. Would talk to Felix about his twin brother Stan and how he ruined his project and might be missing or just chose to disappear and now that it's almost happened to him he's worried.

So Stan's getting hit with Ford actually noticing his disappearance a few months too late to have done anything, making his guilt worse as he goes back and forth between agreeing with Ford that his brothers a jerk and defending himself and just getting moody about the whole thing.

I think it'd end with Ford trying to locate Stan and getting 'Fellix' instead, until Ford either is struck with realization or Stan admits to being himself. This would be one Stan that wouldn't run, as he's too wired and feeling aggressive about some of the things Ford had said. Knows that Fords so angry but was also genuinely worried about him.

So they'd fight about it, both would go sulk, before Ford gets hit with the teary realization about all the things 'Felix' said and how it applies to his own brother who's trapped as a cat forever. Theyd have a talk similar to the one in the fic, and ford would work on figuring out how to fix Stan's soul. So instead of a portal it's Ford trying to undo the cat curse for 30 years.

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐓𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞… || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ Joel and you find comfort while going back to Jackson and after killing Nora, Ellie overhears Jesse and Tommy telling Dina that you and Joel might be alive.

warnings_ age gap (late 20s/joel’s age in s2), pregnant!reader, angst, fluff, fallacy references, canon divergence, SHORT PART,no proofreading

Notes_ next week we’ll get so many joel crumbs omg

「 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫: 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 」

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 Pedro

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ———୨ৎ───୨ৎ

Wrong.

“What do you mean wrong? I’ve been trying for two fucking goddamn hours?” Ellie yells tiredly, throwing her hands out in disbelief.

“Because yer hand is still too rigid,” Joel answers her, taking the guitar off her hands.

“I’m not done for today!”

“Yeah, I think you are.” Ellie turns to see you standing in the door, baby Cerise snuggling in the crook of your neck.

Ellie smiled at the sight of you, fresh out of the shower, your hair wet and wearing a tank top and sweatpants.

“When did you get home?” The girl asked.

“Maybe half an hour ago,” you say, entering the room.

“Darlin’… stop being sneaky,” Joel says.

He stands up to greet you with a kiss and then grabs Cerise from your arms.

“You stop being paranoid,” Cerise babbles as she starts pulling Joel’s hair and making you laugh. “See, even your daughter is scolding you”

Ellie looked at the sight in awe, she was just past a year old, her look every day resembling Joel’s more and more.

She was happy, her birthday was in a week, and so far, she felt at home.

Ellie had found her family. Her safe place and everything she never thought she could’ve had.

“Go and let Cerise play in the kitchen while we cook dinner,” Joel nods at your words as you smile at him.

Looks really speak; and you and Joel rarely said I love you out loud, but every look you two shared screamed how in love you were.

Ellie watches as Joel and Cerise leave towards the living room, downstairs.

“So… a week for your birthday, huh?” Ellie sighs with a smile, nodding at you. “I’m warning you, I’ll sing you ‘happy birthday’!”

“Fuck you, god no” both of you start cackling and she finally stands up.

Hands on her hips, just like Joel.

To your surprise, Ellie hugs you.

“I’m kidding. But you don’t have to do anything for me,” you hug her back, brushing her hair.

“Shut up or I’ll make Maria gather everyone to hear me sing for you.”

Soon, a lot of sound starts coming from downstairs, Cerise screaming and laughing while Joel curses.

“I NEED HELP DOWN HERE!” Ellie hears your husband yell, and both of you laugh again.

“Let’s go help your old man,” the girl says as you pat her back.

Ellie loved you very much. And she couldn’t help but feel like you felt the same way.

You were silently her mother, helpmate, and one of her best friends.

When she opened her eyes, she rubbed them and sighed, feeling the cold breeze of the morning.

It was just a dream; you and Joel were gone.

She was in Seattle.

…

You can’t move.

Moving feels heavy, breathing isn’t enough.

You lift your head, and there is the woman in a braid.

She is about to kill Joel…

A few years younger than you, possessing an undeniable rage, she hits Joel's skull with a golf club once, twice, and you lose the count. Your vision gets blurry thanks to the tears. His moans of extreme pain make you cry and scream to the woman to stop.

The blood stars are running down his temple. His eye was so swollen he couldn’t open it. You weep harder, doing everything you can to get free from the embrace of two strangers.

To kill that woman and let your husband live.

But it’s too much blood.

“WAKE UP, Y/N!” Joel yells.

Until there isn’t.

You open your eyes and understand it was a nightmare. Product of what you saw at the ski lodge.

“What?” you ask, still half asleep.

Joel is there, kneeling in the old, creaky bed, firmly gripping your shoulders and looking very worried.

“You started crying asleep,” he says. “And then, you started screaming.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Joel asks, ignoring your apologies.

“Yes… just- what happened at the ski lodge playing with my head” his heart pang in pain at your words.

“C'mere, darlin’…” and you do, you snuggle in the arms of your husband like a baby. “I’m not goin’ anywhere”

Joel holds you tightly, scared to let you go. Both of you are swimming in the same queen-sized bed, but pressed against each other. Joel understands that if they had switched the roles. If it were him seeing how you were beaten to death, Joel wouldn’t have survived.

Let alone now that you told him about the pregnancy.

He tries to tame his fears. It wasn’t the first time after all.

But still, you were his wife, the woman he couldn’t breathe without. Joel knew he would get obsessed with trying to protect you all the way from Arlington to Jackson.

It was safe to close his eyes, so he did, succumbing to sleep with you in his arms.

…

Joel wakes up to a cold on, left side of the bed. He sits up worried, then hears a shot, his sensitive leg is long forgotten as he runs outside the room, towards the entrance of the house. He looks around and finally sees you with his rifle and a hare in hand. Joel lets out a relieved sigh.

“Are you insane? You scared me to death,” he says as you step up to the old porch of the house.

After seeing him so worried and scared, you quickly wrap your arms around his neck, dropping the dead hare.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper in his ear.

As much as both of you tried to continue your lives, the trauma of the ski lodge and Denver remained haunting your memories.

“Let’s go inside, baby,” you nod at him, letting him guide you inside the house.

After making it to Arlington the day before, Joel and you found an abandoned neighborhood. It reminded me a lot of the descriptions he and Tess shared about Bill and Frank’s home. Until you visited the house of the late couple in 2023 and confirmed it by yourself.

The woods around it had grown so much that the abandoned place and there was no trace of infected or people living nearby. Joel suggested staying the night, so the horse you two had could also rest and eat something.

You fell asleep feeling hungry, making it harder to not go out to hunt something to eat.

The least you could do was to find some food for your husband and the baby.

The truth was slowly sinking in. You hadn’t been able to process the fact that you were pregnant again. Hours after getting the diagnosis, Masiel almost got you, and then the hospital was attacked.

But a new life was growing in your womb. And once again, you were out in the wild with Joel, just like the first time.

You place the hare on the dining table and turn to look at your husband. With the same clothes of the day before, disheveled hair, and eye bags showing how tired he was.

Joel looks up and down at you, he places his hands on his hips, and tries to formulate a decent sentence.

“So… we’re expecting again,” he says, and you simply nod. “How far are you?”

“Almost eight weeks,” god knows why, but suddenly the conversation feels awkward.

You cross your arms, leaning against the old dining table.

“You can’t be out here anymore,” Joel starts, already showing his uneasiness on the issue. “It’s not safe.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Joel,” you remind him as he sighs and rolls his eyes. “I knew the risk, but it’s not like you pulled out each night, and despite being at a hospital, condoms are not a trend anymore.”

“The sooner we get to Jackson, the sooner I’ll stop being a burden for you.” Turning around, you start to skin the hare.

“That’s not what I meant,” Joel explains.

“But that’s what it sounded like,” you say, venturing inside the kitchen without looking at him. Your eyes prick with tears, and you do your best to swallow the painful lump in your throat, threatening to come out with a loud sob.

Joel sighs once again, dropping his head back and taking a deep breath.

But you did understand, Joel. He was tired, dealing with ptsd. The least he wanted was more pressure. And you tell him his wife is pregnant? Yeah, he was stressed out.

But in the mind of a woman gestating, your emotions were a little out of control. And you were afraid of indeed feeling like a burden before going home. Where more issues would lurk since nobody knew Joel, and you were alive.

…

A family of four lived inside the house. Two teenagers, mom and dad. They had too many pictures together, framed on the dusty wall in the hallway that connected all the rooms on the second floor.

You enter the master bedroom, completely untouched. The living proof that the world was once fine. The shame of wandering through a stranger’s belongings was long gone. The woman of the house had been tall, frail, and had a shy face, but was very pretty. Still, her clothes fit you, and she had a lot of expired makeup.

Your hands fold three tops to put inside your backpack when the door creaks open, and it makes you alert and startled.

It was Joel, fresh out of the shower. You went first, and the water was flowing brown for the first three minutes.

“You scared me,” you say, returning to fold the clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Joel states, but you just shrug.

“It’s okay, this house is old as hell.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry about me being an asshole before” you look up at him.

“It’s not like the first time. I’m just… shocked,” he admits, taking a seat in the bed where you were folding the clothes. There’s a little expression of awe on your face as you listen to him.

“I get it, Joel,” from the bottom of your heart, you mean it.

“I just want to protect you and make sure we make it back home.”

“I think the worst is over. We were with the enemy for months, and we didn’t know,” Joel nods.

“So WLF?…” he asks, sighing.

“They can go and fuck themselves” you say with a bitter smile. “I don’t think they’ll go back to Wyoming. Their policies only apply in big cities where they can afford the risk of making a settlement.”

“Yeah, but what if?- “You grab Joel’s hand to stop him.

“What? They return to the ski lodge to see that our bodies are gone? Or Ellie goes after them for revenge?” Both of you chuckle. “We’ve already taken too long; we need to go back. I can’t keep going to sleep knowing they think we’re dead.”

“I know, darlin’. We are very close…”

Unbeknownst to you and Joel. Not many good things were happening back in Jackson. And certainly not in Seattle.

“So… you are making me a dad again? At the ripe age of 61?” You chuckle at his comment, letting him grasp your hair. “We’re insane, aren’t we?”

“We’re kinda jinxed,” you admit.

“We are. But I don’t mind as long as we’re together,” Joel says, making you unable to pretend his words didn’t touch your heart.

“Give me a kiss,” you say, stepping between his legs. He smiles amidst the kiss, feeling his chest relax and trying to be optimistic. Just for you, as always.

Drops of rain start tapping against the window, and both of you look at it.

“We’ll leave tomorrow in the morning,” Joel states firmly, you only nod, retuning to kiss him just a little more.

…

The breeze was humid, hot, and you knew you shouldn’t be wearing a dress when you’re out in the wild. But you don’t care, the isolated street in Arlington had proved to be safe enough.

“What are we exactly looking for?” Joel asks, kneeling beside you. Both of you ignore the loud crack of his bones. Mainly because you won’t want to worry.

“Anything that can give us energy or boost our immune system,” you answer with a little smirk.

Your hands dig into the bushes, spider webs gone thanks to the rain that had been pouring for the last two hours.

“I dunno, darlin’… seems like there’s no such thing” at your husband was killing your hope, you shushed him right after grasping something. “What?”

“Oh my god, Joel…”

Fresh raspberries. You were collecting raspberries. You had never tasted them before.

“I had never tasted raspberries in my life,” you say, pulling out your hand from the bushes, at least four raspberries rested in your palm.

Joel smiled at the sight. Seeing you so happy about something so meaningless as finding raspberries reminded him of what the world had reduced to.

And at the same time, he found himself also enjoying the moment. Because anything that made you happy also made him happy.

“Give some water, please.” he hands you a glass with water he had been drinking inside the house.

You rinse the berries, and soon you are handing him some. Joel smiles at you before taking a bite along with you.

The moment feels surreal. Like a deep breath that you had been holding since the day at the ski lodge. A sense of hope that in a couple of days you’ll be in Jackson and everything will be fine again.

Then… birds flying away, scared.

“What was that?” Joel stands up first.

When you do, you see a lot of birds flying away from a trail of dark smoke coming from the south in the woods. “Change of plans, we need to leave now.”

“But we have our-“

“No… y/n, we are leaving right now,” Joel says with a stern look.

You nod, following him with hurried steps inside the house.

You grab your rifle, the food was packed, and the clothes tucked inside the backpacks.

“Fucking hell” you say as you stand in the porch. Joel follows you and stands.

“What?”

“The horse, Joel… is gone,” you say, pointing at the door of the garage.

Your husband sighs tiredly.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll get a car once we enter the city again; we need to leave.”

You look back at the smoke, looking fainter than before, mixing with the orange sky of the sunset.

You start following Joel with quick steps., your hands holding the rifle as your fingers barely grasped the trigger. Then you see how the large street of old houses starts looking farther and farther, until it disappears from your sight and both of you enter the woods again. To the north…

…

Ellie stands in the darkness, her heart is beating fast, blood rushing with the adrenaline flowing all over.

Some of Nora’s blood was splattered on her face. But her shaky hands gripped the door frame as she watched Tommy bandage Dina’s leg, and Tommy started an improvised meal for her.

“She’s taking longer than expected,” Jesse says.

“She’s coming back, we know it,” Dina bolts to answer him. Ellie knew they were talking about her.

“This was a bad idea,” Tommy adds.

“Tommy. She doing this for”

“For Joel and y/n. I know…” the man glared at Dina.

A heavy silence fell upon the old room.

“She saw all of it. Joel screaming, y/n crying, and-“ as Dina was speaking, Ellie closed her eyes, forcing herself to avoid remembering.

“They might be alive,” Tommy reveals.

Dina seized talking, Ellie gasped, covering her mouth as tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“What?” Dina asks with a broken voice, face full of surprise.

Jesse eyed her with shame. Ellie realized he probably already knew.

Tommy moved away, sighing before standing up and preparing the right words.

“When the horde came, we were out of reach for weeks; we didn’t do patrols,” Dina nodded, urging him to keep talking. “After the reconstruction of Jackson, the snow fell heavier, and we couldn’t reach the ski lodge to collect the bodies. Until the spring arrived, Maria sent Jessie to look again with others.”

Tommy and Jesse eye each other, building tension.

“And?” Dina asked.

“There were no corpses… their backpacks were gone as well,” Jesse said.

Dina sighed, rubbing her eyes.

Ellie almost fainted. Her view turned blurry, and panic flooded her.

The rage she had been containing completely out. She hated even more Nora, her death being proof of her pain. All the trauma, all the suffering… because of that braided woman.

Ellie knew she had to kill Abby.

…

The sound of the river was loud enough to make you almost yell.

Ellie knew she was dreaming. This time, she was aware it was a memory.

She was still in Utah. Joel was leaning against the SUV, rifle in hand, as you were with the girl.

Both of you are still in hospital gowns, splashing water on your faces after hours of being sedated.

“There was no cure, right?” Ellie asks. You shrug, looking at the water flowing.

“Even if there was a cure. I think we would’ve died, Ellie.”

“You have Joel, you have someone waiting for you.” You turn to look at her with a frown. “I don’t. It would’ve been correct for me to make the sacrifice.”

“Ellie… you’re my family,” you firmly say. “You and Joel are my whole world.”

She only eyes you with awe, not knowing what to say. Maybe it was because of the reaction to the sedative.

“I would kill anyone who made me separate from you two,” you admit.

Evidently, the words sank further as time progressed.

__________________________

Short part bc I’m tired, but I’m done with finals so expect longer parts from now on <3

imma start sharing my tw acc bc I’ll gladly be friends with any babe who wants to be moots there, I mainly post about pedro, both in english and spanish so yeah… im @kissmemucho and I have the same pfp as here <3

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭_ @just-mj-or-not @mmkkzz @hiroikegawa @nosebeers @glitterspark @annulmaelae @heartpatch @doodlebob-mp3 @ennvsco @isabella-rose-trastamara @chewie-bars @bypurple @umadirectioner @mrsbilicablog @yvonne-dump @hannah9921 @maystyles @minifresas

[bellysoupset]

I'd love a panic attack mini fic, maybe Max/Vin or maybe a less obvious combo, something like a Jonah/Bella, Leo/Wendy or whatever you feel like? - 🫎

Panic attacks are tricky without a proper set up, so doing my best here! Brought to you by the fact I'm an emotional ass gurl <3

---------

Max wasn't quite ready to let Vince go. Not that he was going to say that out loud, it wouldn't only be humiliating but wreck the fragile position he had earned by not asking Vince to stay. So he was going to suck it up and be very normal about the fact he wouldn't see the other guy around anymore and that their friendship might just vanish into thin air overnight, and well, he'd lose his eye candy too, not just a friend.

Life was unfair.

So he was making the most of these last two weeks. Vince had already asked to borrow the truck for his moving day and Max had been happy to let him have it, because it meant Vin would need to come back to hand him the car and get his bike. It also meant he got to see Vin during his departure, which Max wasn't prepared for, but he was dealing with it by not thinking about it in the least.

"What are you doing sitting here all by yourself?" Max asked, kicking lightly Vin's foot and sitting next to him on the bench, in the middle of a park. Not a spot the blonde had expected to run into the other guy, but a happy surprise.

"Uhm..." Vince blinked quickly, gulping down, "my- My dad-" he pointed across the park, to the little one way street with buildings — a dental office, a little artsy store, a drapes store, a funeral home — "his clinic."

Oh yeah, Mr. Monacelli's dental office was the blue house. That explained it.

"Is it bring your kid to work day?" Max teased, poking Vin's bicep and then frowning when he didn't get a response immediately. Instead, Vince flinched out of his touch as if he had just tasered him.

Max's frown deepened, "sorry...? Is everything alright?"

Vince nodded, except his big brown eyes were huge in his face and his normally tan complexion was white as snow, contrasting even more against his dark features. He was looking around wildly, like a deer caught in the headlights, and he flinched back even more as Max slid on the bench to get closer.

"Hey, it's me, it's just me," Max pouted, raising his hands to show he was harmless, freezing on the spot. Vince was struggling to breathe, a wheezing sound coming from deep in his chest and he tugged at the crew neck of his t-shirt, as if it was suffocating him.

"I can't- I can't breathe..."

Shit.

"What do you mean you can't breathe!?" Max exclaimed, jumping up and trying to ignore the flash of hurt and worry than ran through him as Vince curled up even more at his movement, as if he was scared Max would hurt him. What the fuck, this was entirely out of character, "are you allergic, are you choking? Vince, say something!"

Instead of answering him, Vince's wheezing grew greater and turned into a gag. Nothing came up, but Max noticed how badly Vin's hands were shaking as he pressed it against his lips, eyes welling up with tears.

"Ah," suddenly all the panic fled him, as Max took in the situation, really. He was a high school teacher, this wasn't the first time he had witnessed a panic attack, "awn, Vin..." he softened up his voice, taking a very careful and purposeful step forward, "you're freaking out, okay?"

"I'm-I'm dying," Vince wheezed, curling on the bench as if he was a kid, "my heart- It's gonna ex-explode-"

"You're having a panic attack," Max very slowly crouched down in front of the other man, avoiding touching him, but just so they were the same eye level, since Vin was sitting down and Max had been standing, "look at me. Look at me, I want you to breathe with me, okay? Can you do that?"

A brief hesitance, then Vince shook his head, another gag causing him to scramble to the side, so he could spit on the grass, "I can't- I-I... Fuck, I'm-" suddenly tears were streaming down his cheek, no embarrassment behind it, just panic.

"Vin," Max planted a hand on Vin's knee, despite not wanting to touch him, "Look at me. Through your nose, c'mon, breathe in," he did a big, exaggerated show of breathing in and then held it there, raising a closed fist and slowly raising finger by finger as he counted 5 seconds, then let out the air through his mouth in a deliberate show.

Vince tried to mimic him, then spluttered and coughed, continuing to shake his head to show that he couldn't do that.

"Another one," Max instructed, patting Vin's knee, "through your nose, big guy."

Slowly, painfully slowly, the crying tapered off and Vince started taking measured breaths.

"There you go," Max smiled, "you want some water?" he had been taking a walk, so his water bottle was lukewarm, but Vin took it anyway, hands trembling so much that for a second Daniels wondered if he'd have to hold the bottle for him.

"Sorry," he rasped out, as soon as he put down the bottle, wiping at his tear streaked face, "I never- I'm sorry..."

"That's fine, it happens to everyone once," Max shrugged, for the first time in a long time feeling like he knew how to take care of Vince instead of having to be told what to do, "so you never had a panic attack before...?"

Vince shook his head, wringing his hands nervously in his lap.

Max peered curiously at his face. Vin's eyes were still downcast and he was sniffling, wiping at his face like a nervous tick.

"Are you gonna share with the class what brought this on...?" He poked the bear, knowing full on he wasn't supposed to prod, but dammit if he wasn't curious.

Vince's life was perfect. Or, at least, it seemed so. He was hot, smart, with a loving family, work colleagues who liked him, a girlfriend who clearly wanted to marry him, best friend who worshipped his ass.... What could possibly bring this on?

"Uhm," Vince sniffled one more time, loudly, and cleared his throat, gesturing ahead with his chin and Max followed his gaze.

Blue house — Mr. Monacelli's office. Orange building with a billion quirky stationaries. Beige, boring building with no windows but a glass door. Grey little building with a cross painted on the window, funeral house.

"The... The funeral house?" Max guessed, because he truly couldn't imagine anything else would've brought this on. Certainly not the artsy store, right?

Vince nodded, quickly, and the tears that had just about balanced on the end of his long dark lashes finished falling. He angrily wiped at his eye, "saw- Saw some girl, about our age- picking a casket... For-for her mom," his voice got all choked up and Max's heart broke for him.

"Vin... Dude, your parents are young-"

"I know," Vince interrupted him, forcing up a watery smile, corner of his lips trembling, "hell, I know, Liv is just eight- I know, it's just... I'm going away. And they're not that young and- I'll see them less and less and it feels- It's just not something I can stop, right? It will happen, one day... And I love them," his voice collapsed and he looked away, wiping at his face once more.

Max didn't really know what to say. A panic attack he could deal with, but not relate to this. Instead, he threw an arm around Vince's shoulders, pulling him closer and nearly falling flat on his back as the other man promptly leaned on the side hug.

"You can't grieve your parents while they're alive, Vince," Max said, after a long minute of silence, rubbing his hand up and down the other guy's arm. He licked his dry lips, thinking on what had brought this on. Not just a funeral home, but leaving. Vince, almost three weeks before, telling Max he'd move away, almost as if he needed permission. You're not mad?

"You'll lose some moments by being away, yes, I know," Max's voice caught in his throat, as he thought of the fact of everything Vin was leaving behind. The family that clearly adored him and Max himself... And he was sure he didn't love or knew Vin nearly as much as the other four, still it hurt like a punch, "but- but you have to live your life. The moments we do have with whom we love are more precious because of how fragile they are, not the other way around. You can't not live in order to hoard time, moments, people, it's not how it works."

A pained sob answered him and Max squeezed Vin closer, his fingers curling on the sleeve of his t-shirt.

"I know," Vince turned his face to look at him, letting out a breath, "you're right," his shoulders dropped and he slid down on the bench, so he could rest his cheek on Max's shoulder, "thank you," his voice came out muffled by Max's exposed skin, words pressed against him.

This too was just a fragile moment, more precious by how ephemeral it was in the grand scheme of things.

[froggiewrites]

hello froggie! i have not cooked this idea so it may not be fit for consumption and feel free to ignore— but. if I may. vampire mihawk smut with some biting and hypnotism and whatever else strikes your fancy? mostly i just wanna fuck that guy if you have any leads

thank you have a good day i love you

Hello @toadmakes my beloved I have written you an entirely normal length fic that didn't at all consume my life for four days. Really though I have no idea how this happened. I was intending this to be like 2-3k words and then I had a really good idea and it just. kept. going. I really hope you enjoy it, because I had an absolute blast writing it!

Lost Little Lamb

Pairing: Vampire!Mihawk x Reader

NSFW

Summary: You're stuck in a terrible storm and desperately need shelter. How lucky for you that this kind and handsome stranger is willing to welcome you into his home! Content: Fem!Reader, Medieval AU, Discussion of Plague/Illness, Dubcon, Mind Control/Hypnosis, Blood Drinking, Biting, Infantilization/Condescension, Fingering, Vaginal Sex Word Count: 8k

The rain is pouring, and the wind is icy cold. You feel soaked to the bone, your coat weighing you down and your shirt sticking to your skin. You can’t stop your teeth from chattering or your hands from shaking. You race across the bridge, boots pounding against cobblestone, praying to any god that will listen that whoever lives across it is kind enough to let you in.

The castle is grand, with beautiful stained glass windows and towers so tall they seem to cut into the sky itself. You never knew there was such a wonderful thing out here in the middle of nowhere, halfway between your tiny little village and the capital. You feel absolutely miniscule compared to it, a bug to be crushed beneath the feet of whatever awe-inspiring creature inhabits such a place. 

But there’s no creatures here, you tell yourself, just people. Hopefully kind people, ones who will let in a soaking wet strange woman into their home without hesitation. Perhaps the kind of people that would even feed that strange woman, you think as your stomach rumbles. You had been traveling for hours without rest, and your body was begging for it. Even as you frantically try to reach the gilded door knocker, your eyes are beginning to slip shut and your knees are begging you to let them buckle beneath you.

The thud that resonates when you slam the knocker into the wood sounds terribly ominous somehow, but you force yourself to remain still, even as some animal part of your brain insists you should turn around and brave the rain instead of whatever is on the other side of the door. Your growing fever is clearly making you delirious.

The door slowly creaks open, and you swear you see the reflection of the eyes of a predator in the darkness for a moment before the candlelight illuminates your savior. He is no beast, this man. He has a regal bearing about him, an elegance that can’t be denied. His clothes are clearly crafted by careful, well practiced hands, with beautiful embroidery and fine silks. His facial hair is perfectly kempt, not a single thing out of place. But the thing you can’t bring yourself to look away from are his eyes; they shine like gold, catching the light so beautifully that you can’t help but lean closer to get a better look. You feel as though you could really get lost in them, fall into those golden depths and never return.

“I wasn’t expecting company.” His voice is flat, devoid of anything that might imply emotion. He doesn’t seem annoyed with you, which is promising, but he isn’t pleased either. It’s a simple statement of fact.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, to bother you this evening, but I have nowhere else to go, and this storm–” As if on cue, a large crack of thunder echoes through the air, bouncing off of the stone walls over and over until you feel like you’re surrounded by it. You jump, making a pathetic little whimper of fear.

He looks over you for a moment, searching for something you don’t understand, before he opens the door wider, enough for a body to squeeze through. “Get inside. I don’t want any bodies on my doorstep.”

Once you can see him fully, he truly takes your breath away. He’s the palest person you’ve ever seen, enough so that you would normally think he’s ill. But instead of bringing to mind death and wasting, his skin makes you think of crushed pearls catching the light. Now that you aren’t distracted by the finery of it, you notice his shirt is cut far deeper than is decent. It makes you flush, but you tear your eyes away. You were raised better than to ogle a man in his nightclothes.

He hums quietly, and you feel his eyes slowly raking over you again. You feel naked under his gaze, despite the soaking wet overcoat ensuring he can’t see anything other than your face and hands. “I might have some clothes lying around that fit you. Give me a moment.”

He leaves you dripping wet in the entryway, slowly forming a puddle beneath you. You shift slightly, and you can feel your feet squelch in your damp woolen socks. Dressing warm really backfired, weighing you down with what feels like a hundred ton burden. You glance around, looking for anything that might tell you more about the inhabitants who live here. Surely one man can’t live here alone. Your eyes catch on a vibrant painting in a grand, hand-carved wooden frame. It’s of three individuals: a man who looks like the one who welcomed you in wearing a hint of a smile, a younger man with mossy green hair and thick muscles, and a pale young woman in an elaborate black mourning dress. The varnish is turning slightly yellow, the paint beginning to crack. You can see a couple attempts were made to save both it and the aging frame: a small corner of the varnish has been removed, but you can see the paint is slightly smeared from the unprofessional attempt. How sad.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” His voice is still low and flat, but you can hear just the slightest ember of warmth in it, of a fondness he’s trying and failing to hide.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, not taking your eyes off of it. “Who are those people?”

“My family.” He walks past you, reaching his hand out as though to brush his fingers against the canvas before he pauses, thinking better of it. Instead he simply stares, his back to you, shoulders tense. He sits in silence for a moment before the sound of water droplets hitting the puddle beneath you reminds him of your presence. He turns back to you, expression unreadable. “I have drawn a bath for you, and left a robe for you to sleep in. I can take your clothes to wash.”

You blink at him. “Oh, thank you, um…?” You trail off, realizing he hasn’t introduced himself, and neither have you.

“Mihawk.” A single name, no indication if it’s his first or his last. You respond with your own full name, and the way he hums in disinterest makes you wonder if he’s actually listening. You suppose it doesn’t matter, since you’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. He inclines his head to indicate you follow and leaves the entryway, not once looking back to see if you’ve obeyed him. He seems to think it is natural for you to do so, and you can’t bring yourself to disagree. He has a natural authority to him, a charisma that makes your shoulders relax and your feet move to follow him as though it’s instinct.

He leads you through the long winding hallways, up and down several sets of stairs, and if you didn’t know better you would think you passed the same stained glass window three times. You hope that tomorrow morning he’ll come to retrieve you himself, because there’s no way you’ll possibly remember the way back yourself.

“You have a wonderful home,” you gush, partially because it’s true and partially because you can’t stand the silence anymore.

“Thank you,” he says, not sounding at all grateful. “I work hard to maintain it. There’s a long history in these walls.”

“Oh, you maintain it yourself?” You had assumed he was a nobleman, with his elegant air and clothing, but perhaps not. Any respectable man of status would have servants to ensure his home is up to his standards, never deigning to do such work himself.

“Yes. I prefer to ensure things are done right, and I’ve found the best way to do so is to do it myself.” He says it without arrogance, as though it is simply fact that he can and will do things perfectly where others cannot. Considering you haven’t seen a single stray speck of dust in this entire labyrinth, it may be.

You open your mouth to say something else, but a sneeze wracks you before the words can leave your mouth, echoing through the empty halls. As you raise your head to apologize for your rudeness, you’re surprised to find golden eyes staring into yours, an expression you might confuse for concern on Mihawk’s face.

“Are you feeling unwell?” His hand brushes against your forehead, making you flinch. His touch is like ice, even moreso than the pouring rain outside. His frown grows, and you can’t tell if he’s displeased with the way you reacted or your temperature. He straightens up in an instant, his hand pressing insistently on your lower back to pull you along with him. “You must warm up right away,” he insists. Was that a waver on that last word? Surely not. Your exhaustion must be getting to you.

He leads you into the steaming bathroom, not allowing you to pause for even a moment to admire the beautiful clawfoot tub or the massive mirror that spans the length of the wall. You are ushered to a chair beside the tub, and before you know it, long and elegant fingers are unbuttoning your coat. Mihawk begins to undress you so naturally you almost don’t question it. He removes your overcoat quickly and easily, his eyes immediately shooting to your chest once it’s exposed. Your thin shirt is stuck to your skin, leaving very little to the imagination. It’s a miracle your underthings aren’t showing through the fabric.

The coat hits the floor with a loud splat, knocking your good sense back into you before his fingers manage to grip the bottom of your shirt. You shoot up from the chair with a squeak, almost falling over in the process, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively. “Sir Mihawk, thank you for your help, but I am more than capable of undressing myself!” You hope he can’t see how red your cheeks are. “It’s…improper.”

He pauses, his hands hung midair, frozen halfway through reaching for you. He slowly pulls them back, tucking them at your sides. “You’re…right. My apologies. I am unused to company and have overstepped my bounds.” The soles of his shoes clack against the tile as he begins to walk to the door. “I will wait outside for you, then I can escort you to your room. There are clothes for you to change into on the stool, and anything else you might need on the table. Do be careful, little lamb. If you feel faint, call for me.”

Lamb? Before you can question the nickname, or insist that you’ll be fine on your own, the door has closed behind him.

Peeling off your wet clothes is a deeply unpleasant experience, both from the wretched way they try to stick to your skin and the chill that seeps into you once you’re entirely exposed to the cold air. Most of you wants to toss yourself into the steaming tub immediately to escape the cold, but a part of you with more sense knows that shocking your system like that isn’t a great idea when you’re already so exhausted. Instead you start slowly, sitting on the edge of the tub and only submerging your feet. You sigh in contentment, the warmth easing the ache in your bones and distracting you from the cold air wrapping around the rest of your body. You do your best to suppress your shivers and ignore the way your nipples have hardened in the chill.

You also do your best to ignore the inescapable feeling you’re being watched.

You slip a bit deeper into the bath, up to your knees this time, facing your back to the door. You know you’re being paranoid, but just in case. You feel exposed, and it’s just struck you that you’re alone in a massive castle with a stranger. For all you know, there’s not a soul around for miles. Anything could happen to you, and no one would ever find out. You reassure yourself that Mihawk has done nothing to indicate any malicious intent, but that does little to calm your nerves. What have you gotten yourself into?

You finally slip the rest of your body into the water, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to submerge for just a moment. When you come back up for air, hair dripping and eyesight blurry, you swear for a moment the door was slightly cracked. You blink and it’s firmly closed without a sound. Your eyes must be playing tricks on you.

Once you start bathing in earnest, the feeling of being watched disappears, and you're able to enjoy the heat seeping back into your limbs. You hadn’t realized that you couldn’t feel your feet until the sensation came back, a dull ache from your long walk pulsing in your heels. You relish in washing the grime from your hair and the dirt from your skin, leaving this horrible day in the water behind you as you dry yourself with the fluffiest towel you’ve ever seen.

The clothes he left for you turn out to only be one singular item: a white nightgown that’s just slightly too small. It hugs at your curves, emphasizing your hips and chest far more than you’d like. The hem is at your mid thigh, just long enough to not risk exposing yourself, but the fear is still very much there. You hesitate at the door; thinking about so much of your body being on display in front of anyone, let alone a stranger, makes your hands sweat. But you can’t stomach the thought of pulling back on your soaked clothes, or trying to cover yourself with your damp towel. So you force yourself to walk through the threshold, eyes aimed firmly at the ground.

“Ah you’re–” He suddenly cuts off, clearing his throat, and you look up to see him shamelessly staring at you. It’s only once you make eye contact that he remembers his manners, eyes flicking away. “I see I misjudged. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll have something better for you tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t my clothes be dry by then?” Your bare feet pad against the cold floors as you follow him to wherever you’ll be sleeping.

He ignores your question “You must be exhausted, lamb,” he says, opening a door and gesturing for you to go through. “You shouldn’t worry about anything other than getting some rest.”

You can’t help but gasp at the sight of the bed. It’s massive, with a thick down comforter and a handful of feather pillows on top. It calls to you like a siren, your eyelids drooping and a yawn forcing its way out of you. Before you know it, you’ve crawled beneath the blankets, more comfortable than you’ve ever been in your life. Mihawk stands above you, closer than you expect but not quite touching you. “I’ll come tomorrow with food,” he says, “And some other clothes. You should sleep for now, you don’t want to get sick.”

As if on cue, another sneeze echoes through the room, and you see his forehead crinkle slightly. Before you know it, there’s another blanket on top of you, and his hands are tucking you in tightly. “Sleep now, lamb,” he murmurs.

You do.

You awaken feeling much better than the night before. You still have some mild aches from your long journey, but that persistent chill has finally left you. The evening sun is slowly setting outside your window, the room growing dimmer with every passing second. You must have been exhausted. Even now, you can hardly bring yourself to leave the covers, the cool air of the room a harsh contrast from the warmth under these blankets. It’s only once the sun has finally set and a knock echoes from the door that you finally slide out, placing your bare feet on the freezing ground. 

Mihawk is waiting on the other side of the door, holding a plain white shirt and breeches out like an offering. “These should fit better,” he says, “Though I couldn’t find another nightgown for you.” Not an apology, because he hasn’t done anything wrong, but certainly something that resembles it. Regret at not being a perfect host, perhaps.

“Thank you.” You take them, moving to shut the door to allow yourself to change, but his hand catches it. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering on areas they most certainly shouldn’t.

“You feel unwell, lamb.” Not a question, a statement. You think it’s strange, but you can’t disagree. A small throbbing starts in your head, the chills from yesterday beginning to return. You clearly weren’t as well as you thought you were. “Do you need help?”

“With getting dressed?” Your voice is hardly able to squeak out of your throat.

“Or anything else,” he murmurs, though the way he’s looking at you makes you think he truly was only thinking about the one thing.

“I–I think I should be okay, I’m not feeling quite that poorly.” As you say it, sweat starts to break out on your forehead, and the world begins to spin a bit. Being out in the storm really did a number on you. You hurry to close the door before you collapse, unwilling to prove yourself a liar so quickly. You lean for a moment, forehead pressing against the cold wood as you take deep breaths. The world returns to its axis long enough for you to shed your nightclothes and pull on what he’s brought you. Still no underwear, unfortunately. That makes sense, considering Mihawk seems to live alone. It would be a little concerning if he did just have women’s underwear in your size lying around. An old nightgown is one thing, but you can’t imagine anyone stocking panties for their guests.

The shirt and pants are a little large on you, the breeches threatening to drop at any moment and the neckline of the shirt desperately trying to plunge far beyond what is acceptable, but they fit well enough for now. When you open the door again, Mihawk is there, as though he hasn’t moved an inch since you closed it. He looks you up and down once again before letting out a soft hum. “Better than the pajamas?”

“Much,” you say with a smile. “Thank you again.” You move to take a step towards him, only for your legs to choose that exact moment to give out. You stumble towards him, and he catches you easily, immediately lifting you to his chest and cradling you close.

“You need rest,” he says with a frown, face full of concern. “Clearly a bath and a single night’s rest were not enough to fight off the chill of the storm.” He carries you through the halls, which once again appear as nothing more than a winding maze. You’re completely unable to identify the path you’ve taken. 

He doesn’t stop until you’ve reached the kitchen, far smaller than you’d expect for a building of this size. There’s already a pot of soup on the stove, the scent absolutely mouthwatering. He doesn’t even speak as he gathers a bowl and spoon, holding it in front of your mouth.

“You’re going to feed me?”

“You need to eat if you’re going to recover, dear.” The pet name sends heat to your cheeks, distracting you enough that you simply allow him to do what he wants. He feeds you the entire bowl, then another, then a glass of water and some crackers. You accept it all ravenously. Every time you start to feel well and reach to take the spoon yourself, he silently holds it out of reach, waiting for your hands to return to your sides. The message is clear, and eventually you give up. 

“Stay another day, lamb,” he says softly after you’ve finished. “Just to recover. I can’t in good conscience send you out in your current state.”

You should say no. You have people to meet, ones who are probably worried sick about you right now. And frankly, it is not a good idea to stay alone with a strange man you’ve just met. But he seems so concerned, and your head really does hurt, and those beautiful eyes are drawing you into their depths again. “One day couldn’t hurt,” you agree.

So you find yourself rushed back to bed, pressed firmly against the chest of this beautiful stranger before he tucks you in tightly, as though he’s frightened you’ll run away otherwise. When he quietly says, “Sleep now, lamb,” you do almost immediately.

You awaken the next day feeling refreshed and ready to go. The sun is setting, but you should be alright to travel at night, as long as you stick to the roads. There aren’t many bandits around these days, and animals tend to stay away from the places humans frequent. You go to gather your things, only to realize you don’t have them. Mihawk didn’t give you your clothes or your bag back yesterday, too caught up in caring for you. You’ll need to ask him for them.

You open the door, ready to find him, and have another unpleasant realization: you have no idea how to find him. You have no idea how to find anything, actually, other than the bathroom. You hesitate at the door, as though leaving the safety of your little corridor risks you being lost forever in these halls. Silly. You’re a grown woman, surely you can find your way. Right?

You hardly make it twenty steps before you hit the staircase you know leads to the kitchen. Strange. It felt much further yesterday.

You find the kitchen empty save for a small glass next to the sink with a small amount of red wine in the bottom. You know your things aren’t here, but maybe you can at least find a snack before you continue your search? You open the pantry, ready to find some bread, or perhaps some fruit, only to find it empty. Not even a loose bag of grain, or a dried bag of spices. Where are the ingredients for the soup from yesterday? You move to the icebox, ready to investigate further, when suddenly you feel a presence behind you.

“You’re out of bed.” His tone is scolding, frown evident. You turn to see him right behind you, his hand reaching out for you already. How did he move so silently? Normally you can hear his footsteps against the stone from several rooms away.

“I’m feeling much better. I’m sorry to snoop, but I’m feeling a bit peckish, and I wanted a snack before I leave.”

His hand pauses midair. “Leave?”

“...Yes?”

His hesitation lasts only a moment, and his hand firmly grips your shoulder. You unconsciously lean in, lashes flutterning. “Surely you don’t intend to travel alone at night.”

Ah, he’s just concerned. How sweet. “I’ll be alright. I’ve done it before.”

“You should stay one more day, lamb. At least until morning. It’s dangerous to travel these roads at night, especially as a young woman on her own. I couldn’t in good conscience let you leave.” 

You should insist on going, surely your family is growing worried, but his eyes are so sad and his fingers are rubbing such soothing circles onto your skin–

“I suppose I can stay until morning. If it will make you feel better.”

The tension leaves his body. “It would.” His hand moves to the small of your back. “You said you were hungry? I can bring something to you, just give me a few minutes.”

“I can’t watch?”

“I prefer to do my work alone.” Mihawk’s tone leaves no room for argument. You’re beginning to learn it never really does.

So you’re once again escorted back to your room, and in just half an hour he brings you a veritable feast. You manage to talk him out of feeding you this time, but he still sits on a chair directly next to yours, your knees touching. When you finish, his thumb gently brushes crumbs from the corner of your lip. Before you even realize what you’re doing, your tongue is pressed to the pad of his thumb, licking the crumbs from his skin. You’re mortified, of course, but the twinkle in his eye tells you he’s pleased with this, somehow. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but you see the corner of his lip twitch.

Another day passes, and with it, another reason not to leave comes and goes. He misplaced your things, he admits, and he needs to find them. The day after that, another storm has rolled in, so of course you can’t leave until it passes nearly a week later. After that, the roads are too muddy to traverse safely. You just need to stay until they dry.

You don’t know when you stopped asking to leave. You just know you now have a routine: wake up to Mihawk at your door, ready to receive you, and take whatever breakfast he’s made for you. Then he’ll escort you to wherever he thinks you’ll best be entertained for the day; most are spent in the library, but some days he brings you out to the garden to help him care for his plants. He looks particularly beautiful in the moonlight, which you finally grow bold enough to tell him after a month or two. He appears unmoved, but you notice you spend far more nights outside after that.

On days you wake up before him, you take to wandering around and exploring. The layout is not nearly as complicated as it initially seemed, though the grounds are absolutely massive. It doesn’t take long before you begin to find evidence of people other than Mihawk once staying here. It’s always small things: books that he seems to have no interest in, clothes that aren’t his size, decorations that clearly aren’t to his taste.

The biggest piece of evidence you find after many months of wandering: a room tucked away in a far corner you never thought to explore, filled to the brim with bad memories.

The sun has set, meaning Mihawk will find you soon, but you can’t help but step in. Even as you hear his footsteps approaching behind you, quicker than they normally are, you continue forward. Something important is here.

“You weren’t in your room, dear.” His voice is the closest you’ve ever heard to distressed.

“Who…lived here?” Your eyes wander around the room, looking frozen in time. It’s perfectly maintained, not a single cobweb or speck of dirt to be found. Two twin beds with perfectly pressed and ironed sheets, one with a teddy bear tucked into it. Behind it there’s a desk with a stack of books on it. You don’t recognize the titles, but half seem to be fairytales and the other half appear to be centered around styles of swordsmanship and different forms of combat.

“I’ve lost many people in my life,” he whispers, his eyes distant. “Those two were the hardest.”

“Who were they?”

“Friends. Family. Something between the two. More importantly, they were mine. And the world took them.” His hands brush against the potpourri on one of the bedside tables, sending the scent of lavender into the air. He glances down to it a moment, face pained. “This covered the scent of sick. Perona demanded it, saying she needed fresh air to recover. Zoro hated it. But he allowed it to please her, even if he whined saying the smell was overpowering.”

He moves further into the room now, past the perfectly made beds to stand under three swords hung on the wall, expression unreadable. “I’ve been alone a long time. I had made my peace with it, despite knowing how much they would hate such a fate for me. They brought light to this place, and it killed them.”

“What…were they sick with?” There’s many illnesses that ravage your people during harsh winters, but they don’t usually take the young and healthy. This must have been particularly harsh, or they were particularly unlucky.

“The Great Pestilence,” he mutters. “A horrible thing to witness.”

The Great Pestilence? That…that can’t be right. You’ve heard of that plague, discussed in hushed tones by those much older than you. They spoke of it with an immense amount of fear, as though saying the words would summon the illness back to consume you all. No one in your village is old enough to have actually lived through it. To you it’s nothing more than distant history, a scary story your elders tell you to emphasize how horrible the world can be, and how wonderful it is to live now. It had to have happened at least a hundred years ago, probably more.

The moonlight pours through the window, bathing Mihawk in silver. He looks…wrong, all harsh angles and sharp teeth. Dangerous. Something in your screams to move, to run as fast as you can, soles pounding against the cobblestone to put as much distance between the two of you as you can. Before those instincts can fully take over, he turns around, his eyes just as warm as you remember.

“Calm down, lamb,” he murmurs, walking toward you. Your shoulders relax instantly, your feet bringing you towards him, your cheek pressing into his waiting hand. “I understand this is hard to hear, but there’s no need to be upset. It was a long time ago, now.”

He lifts your head, brushing his lips against your forehead in a move tender enough to make your chest tighten. He’s lost so much, entombed himself here with those he loved. You can’t imagine how deeply the grief must affect him, even now. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m not alone anymore.” He presses your foreheads together, eyes closing. You lean in, relishing in the familiar chill of his skin and his scent. The pad of his thumb rubs against your cheek, smearing the wetness of your single tear against your skin and causing you to let out a soft sigh of contentment.

“You won’t be again,” you promise. His eyes open then, boring into yours. You don’t know quite what he’s looking for. Sincerity? Reassurance? Whatever it is, he finds it, and you’re blessed with one of the most rare sights in the world: Mihawk’s gentle smile, teeth poking out slightly from between his lips. 

He captures your lips in his, the taste of iron spreading across your tongue. His canines brush against your lips, a soft scrape that shows two things: he could hurt you, if he so chose, and that he won’t. You whimper slightly at the feeling, lips parting just enough for his tongue to enter your mouth. His hands move to your legs, fingers grazing your inner thighs before he lifts you up to carry you out. You wrap your legs around his waist immediately, which he rewards with a soft growl of approval.

You try to press in deeper, to take as much as he’s willing to give you, but he pulls back immediately with a soft tsk. “Don’t take more than you’re given, little lamb.” He shifts, unwrapping your legs and shifting you to allow him to carry you bridal style. You tuck your face into his neck, nuzzling against the two little scars that rest right on his pulse point.

“Sorry,” you murmur instantly. A deep shame pulses through you at the scolding, at not following his lead.

He doesn’t respond immediately, carrying you through the halls and back toward your room. “I shouldn’t have pushed you as I did. You aren’t ready.” He says it so matter-of-fact that you almost accept it immediately, as you do most things he says. But something about it bothers you, triggers something deep in your brain you can’t quite name.

“What do you mean I’m not ready? Isn’t that my decision?”

His chest rumbles with a quiet chuckle, the first laugh you’ve ever heard from him. “Of course, dear. In most things I agree.” He doesn’t elaborate, his sentence stopping short in a way that tells you very clearly this conversation is over.

You settle against him, letting your eyes close as you press yourself further into his shoulder. At first you try to settle against his chest, but he shifts you higher, pressing you closer to his neck again. You accept this easily and without complaint, just happy to be close to him in whatever way you can be. The rhythm of his calm steps against the stone floor, as steady as a heartbeat, begins to lull you to sleep.

You’re hardly awake when you reach your bed, as he undresses you and places you in your nightgown. If his hands linger, you don’t notice, eyes slipping closed and head falling forward. He tucks you beneath the blankets with a soft kiss on the forehead, trying to slip away after. You don’t remember whimpering and reaching for him, but you do remember the feeling of his hand against yours, so large and strong.

“Stay here, lamb. Just rest now.” His voice is soft and kind, a warmth in it that threatens to melt you. You fall asleep with your fingers interlocked with his.

When you awaken, evening light streaming through the window, Mihawk has left your side.

Why are you here again?

You and he…your face flushes at the memory. You don’t know what got into you, acting so boldly. But then something else slowly makes its way through your mind, clawing through the haze to implant itself firmly in your thoughts. Yesterday Mihawk said he lost his friends to The Great Pestilence. Something impossible. Something he said too sincerely for it to have been a lie.

Something here is wrong.

How long have you been here? You’ve lost track of time, so caught up in getting to know your savior. Several months at least, if not half a year. You’ve been well enough to leave for at least half of that time. So why have you stayed? Why have you not returned to your life, your family? What were you even doing when you stumbled here, all those months ago?

You can’t remember. When you try to, all you can think of are those cold hands running over your body, those teeth on your neck, nipping so gently. The way you wished more than anything he would have bitten harder, hard enough to draw blood. The way you wished his hands had moved lower, fingers slipping under your dress and exploring without hesitation.

Where is he, your lover?

Your lover? Is that the right word? It must be.

You try to stand, only to find your knees buckling beneath you, slamming against the cold floor. You can’t keep from crying out, but Mihawk does not appear to fuss over you as you’ve become accustomed to. Instead you’re forced to pull yourself back into bed, tucking yourself back under the covers and closing your eyes. Clearly you need more rest, with your foggy mind and weak body.

The next time you awaken, he’s there, water in one hand and a steaming bowl of soup in the other. He places them down on the nightstand, and the moment they’re free his hands find yours, his lips pressing against your knuckles. “Are you feeling better, lover?”

You groan, and he lets out a small puff of air in amusement. His hands find your shoulders, gently lifting you into a sitting position. A spoon is pressed against your lips, and you gratefully accept the flavorful broth, warming you to your very bones. The two of you don’t speak as he feeds you, content to care and be taken care of. It isn’t long before the bowl is empty, and the glass of water isn’t long to follow. You feel much better after being fed and watered, the strange haze leaving as you press your cheek into Mihawk’s hand.

“Better now?”

“Yes,” you murmur. You always feel better when he’s around, looking after you and keeping you safe. You had something you wanted to ask him earlier, what was it? It felt important.

Ah, right.

“Mihawk?”

He hums in acknowledgement, still staring at you with a soft and yearning look. “Yes, lover?”

“How old are you?”

It’s such a simple question. You don’t understand why part of you is screaming to ask it, why it feels of the utmost urgency. You also don’t understand why his eyes turn cold when you say it, why his hand on your cheek suddenly feels like nothing more than cold stone.

“Why do you ask?” His tone is anything but casual, flat and cold like he was when you first met.

“I…” Why did you ask? Why does it matter? Has he ever asked how old you are? Of course he has, as he’s asked everything else about you. He probably knows more about you than you know about yourself. But you didn’t ask out of simple curiosity, you know. Why was this so important? “I don’t know.”

He sighs, clicking his tongue at you like he’s chiding a child. “Stop thinking about useless things, little lamb. The past can’t hurt us here. Come here, and I’ll show you something much more worth your time.” He opens his arms to you, and despite yourself, you can’t help but throw yourself into them. He wraps himself around you instantly, trapping you against his chiseled chest. “That’s better, dear.”

His lips press against your forehead first, a small act of tenderness and devotion before he slams them against your lips with a ferocity that makes you cry out. He’s all teeth and claws, his hands gripping your thighs and maneuvering you into position beneath him. There’s an unnatural chill in every touch, one that sends shivers up your spine. You’re so caught up in the feeling of his hands forcing apart your thighs that you almost don’t remember to ask your pressing question. “I–I thought you said I wasn’t ready?”

He pauses a moment, staring off into the distance, considering. As though he hadn’t realized his actions directly contradicted his words. “You were exhausted then,” he says, as though that was the reason the whole time and not something he came up with on the spot.

Something seems wrong about that, but his leg presses up against you and the delicious friction steals away any thoughts you may have had. His hands find the hem of your shirt, removing it in one swift motion and revealing your chest to him. He leans down, fingers rubbing lightly against your nipple. You let out a pathetic gasp, a moment of weakness that he instantly takes advantage of. He dives in, his mouth wrapping around your other breast and sucking. His teeth press against the skin, threatening to plunge through but never quite drawing blood. His tongue is well-practiced, swirling around the bud with precise movements. His fingers move in tandem with his mouth, unraveling you beneath him embarrassingly quickly.

At a particularly wanton moan, he removes his mouth with a pop, his voice ragged and wanting. “Even better than I imagined,” he groans, the most untethered you’ve ever heard him sound. When he looks up to you, eyes burning, you see no semblance of the usual icy control he carries himself with. His pupils are blown out, nearly covering the gold of his irises entirely. He looks nearly animalistic. “Do you know how hard it’s been, holding myself back like this? I’ve never struggled with my composure until you.”

You whimper softly, pawing at his shirt, begging for him to show himself to you before he unravels you beneath him. He doesn’t pause for a second as he rips it off, exposing his chest and stomach to you before he dives back in. For a moment you can see a patch of dark red scars on his hip, the way the edges seem to turn black. Before you can brush your fingers against them, he pins your arms above your head with one hand, fingers wrapping around your wrists easily.

He drags his tongue from your chest up to your neck, his icy breath coming out in desperate huffs. The fingers of his free hand trail down, sliding under your pants to grip your hip with bruising force. You let out a soft yelp of surprise, but he doesn’t seem to notice, lost in a fight far beyond you. He presses his nose deeply into your neck, inhaling your scent like a man starved. You feel something icy hit your skin, and for a moment you think he might be drooling. That can’t be right. Your lover is not some starved animal, you think.

Then he sinks his teeth into you.

The pain is unimaginable for a moment, as your body screams for you to run. Every one of your nerves is ablaze as every muscle locks up, your back arching in a futile attempt to escape. It lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like you’re trapped in the moment for eternity. You’re forced to realize a truth that refused to form in your hazy mind over the past few months: you’re prey, trapped in the grip of a predator. You’ve been entangled in his web for far too long to escape. It was too late for you the moment you knocked on his door.

Then his tongue brushes against the puncture marks, and something new sets in, a gentle euphoria that causes your eyes to flutter shut, your clenched fists to relax. A soft warmth spreads through you from every point of contact with Mihawk, gentler than the scorching heat of the initial bite. As your muscles relax, you realize you could move away, but why would you? You lean your head slightly, giving him better access to your neck, and you’re rewarded with your wrists and hip being released as his hands move to where you want him most. He uses one hand to remove your pants, the other gently kneading your inner thighs before finally giving you what you want. He inserts one of his beautiful, lithe fingers into you torturously slowly, savoring the drag of his skin against your inner walls.

With every swipe of his tongue, every suck against your skin, every swallow, he pumps another time. When you continue to obey, he grants you a second finger, then a third, stretching you so deliciously as he hits your sweet spot. You do nothing to hold back your moans, and every time you make another sweet noise you can feel him smile against you as he speeds up slightly. When you start trembling beneath him and your cries grow closer and closer together, he stops speeding up, keeping a steady pace as he finally removes himself from your neck. He’s panting hard, mouth smeared red, irises entirely overtaken by his pupils. He stares at you as he feels you clench around his fingers before he crashes your lips together, filling your mouth with the familiar taste of iron. His lips are warm this time, far warmer than any part of him has ever been. His tongue slips into your mouth easily, as you put up no resistance. 

With one final brush of his fingers against your sweet spot, you come undone, back arching as your chest pushes into his. Your eyes fall closed, but fly open again when you feel a harsh nip of teeth against your lips. Mihawk’s eyes are boring into yours, threatening to swallow you whole, but you dare not look away twice. You’re frozen beneath him, drowning in the waves of pleasure that are overtaking you. His fingers don’t slow until he’s sure he’s milked your orgasm for all it’s worth. Only then does he slowly slide them out of you, his mouth leaving yours so he can wrap his tongue around them. He still doesn’t blink, making sure you’re watching every single step, absorbing every reaction.

“Delicious, lover,” he groans, voice thick with want. “I’ve never had a meal quite this delightful.” He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less wanting. His hands brush your cheek, cradling you like something precious.

“Y–You–” Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, your thoughts a horrible jumble that you can’t grasp anything out of. You don’t know what you’re trying to say, though it feels important.

“Yes, lamb?” He presses his forehead to yours, those beautiful eyes closer than ever, and only one thought comes to the front of your mind.

“More, please,” you moan.

He smiles, all teeth. “Of course, dear,” he says as he stands to his full height, towering over you. He slides off his pants and underthings in one swift move, not taking a moment to tease. When you see how painfully hard he is, cock leaking, you understand why. His patience is hanging by a thread. He won’t be able to maintain his composure if he puts this off for even another second.

He pins you down with his entire bodyweight, ensuring he’s pressing against every single inch of your exposed skin that he can. He lines himself up easily, and when he finally ruts into you, it knocks the breath from your lungs. It isn’t rough, exactly, but when he enters it is in one single unforgiving stroke. He sets his pace immediately: steady, consistent. Not slow and sensual or frantic and rushing, just the perfect marching rhythm to bring you to the edge again. His mouth presses against yours again, his tongue cleaning up every bit of blood he smeared onto you earlier. His hands are occupied with exploring your body once more, one experimenting with your clit while the other teases against your thighs.

He isn’t demanding, but he takes what he wants without hesitation, as though you are simply his to have and anything else is unthinkable. He does what he wants to you without asking, but it’s never anything to hurt you. Not unkind, but not exactly tender either. He’s uncompromising, unyielding. He brings you and himself to the edge without a shred of mercy for either of you. He’s panting almost as much as you are, though he doesn’t actually seem to be struggling for breath at all, instead just lost in the sensations he’s creating with you.

His eyes still haven’t left yours. You don’t know if they ever will again. His voice is strained as he whispers one final command: “Cum with me, little lamb.”

And you do, nails scraping down his back and voice screaming his name. You expect to feel a spurt of warmth inside of you, but instead you clamp around him and find him spurting nothing. You can’t think about this for long as his teeth find your neck again, pressing against your jugular but not piercing it. He lets out a muffled moan as his body spasms, only releasing you once you’ve both fully experienced your release.

He rolls off of you, keeping an arm around your waist to cage you against him. You wouldn’t leave anyway, not now. Where would you go? What place in the world do you have but at his side?

You lay in silence for a moment, only the sound of your pants filling the room. His have stopped, and you can hardly feel the movement of his chest behind you at all. The thought leaves your mind when his nose nuzzles against your hair, and you can hear his soft voice in your ear. “What was your question earlier, lamb?”

You open your mouth to answer him, only to frown and furrow your brow. “I…don’t remember.” It felt so important. It’s on the tip of your tongue, really, if you just dug a little deeper surely you’d find it.

You hear him chuckle as he kisses the side of your head. “That’s alright, dear. Don’t trouble yourself. The past doesn’t matter here. It can’t hurt us now.”

You don’t think yours hurt. But you know his did, immensely, and you’re glad you can ease his pain.

“Tell me what I want to hear, lamb,” he whispers.

“I love you, Mihawk.”

He smiles, all teeth. “I love you too, little lamb.”

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