#white and the crown on her head

[yioh]

i can’t be the only one who rly does not like furina’s design😭

[kindlespark]

a piebald/vitiligo wuvvy portrait for @hekahte !! happy @d20exchange !!!

[zarvasace]

I might be able to go to a con in like two weeks, but now I have a conundrum...

I also have BotW Zelda and LBW Zelda finished, but I don't particularly want to wear those.

[the-rxven-king]

i need to shut down disneys live action movie department fr fr

[lilac-udon]

probably will make a new one but Mari's alive dress is darker color

[memento-mariii]

Korean bootlegs of Barbie called Mimi and Juju.

It used to drive mom crazy, because she thought they "looked cheap" (they *were* lower quality in restrospect tbf--- the ones pictured above are newer ones and they improved in quality it seems). She kept buying me official mattel brand barbies and tried to get me to play with them, which I rejected because, Barbie's makeup, while in retrospect is very hashtag #girlboss and #slayyyy of her, used to intimidate me as a kid (I blame internalized misogyny and/or all those magical girl anime, power rangers & other children's shows in which the only ppl who wore visible makeup were the bad guys lol 😂😂).

I always preferred the "child" models (Chelsea, Little Mimi, etc) more than the mainline "adult" ones though.

end an argument for me

and for the sake of my data add your region/country, reblogs would help for proving my bias wrong

[whereserpentswalk]

Look under the cut to see what meeting your entity is like. Reblog to give a gift to your patron.

The fae: a creature stands before you. Though this street was warm and crowded a few moments ago it is suddenly cold and the people around you look like shadows. The creature begins an antlered shadow with glowing white eyes, but soon its body can be seem, with white blue flesh, and sapphire eyes, and icicles for teeth. What looks like a cloak unfolds from its naked body and you can see massive white wings of a moth. As if it's an act of sacrifice you tell it your true name, a name you didn't even see before, and suddenly you belong to it, for better or worse.

The angel: a radiant entity appears before you. They're bright, like something so hot it would burn you up. But as the light fades, you can see a person in silver armor, perfect yet inhuman like am ancient green statue, their back srouting six wings with blue eyes along them, as the eyes on their head are covered by a mask of two smaller wings. The creature offers their hands and you shake it, as they fly you through the city streets and above the skyscrapers, to the stars above and dimensions beyond, to gods living and dead, across the streets of alien cities and the clouds of dead worlds. And when you return to the earth you can feel something diffrent about you, like there's light in your blood.

The scavenger: below the lights of skyscrapers beyond you, on the dark sands of the beach, you see it crawling twords you. This serpentine creature with countless legs, and a dark black shell, yet a strangely human like face. You think it'll attack or run away, but it just looks at you, egar, and for a momment you stare at eachother. It's legs pass something to eachother and then to you, it's meat but it's shining with all the colors known to the human eye, and a few more. You hold it and it happily looks at you. You take a bite and suddenly you know... you know so very much...

The vampire: she flies down to you on green wings with orange eyespots, but folds them into her back. She looks like a human for a momment, tall and strong, with a black suit over her body, but eyes the color of ruby. For a momment her mouth opens, and it's massive and monstrous, with countless moving parts and fangs. But then it folds back onto something humanoid and she gives you a playful smirk. She cuts her hand and offers you her blood, and when you drink it it tastes so sweet, and makes you feel so good. She hands you the knife and you know to do the same, and when she drinks from your palm it's life the sweetest of kisses.

The djinn: the room wirs around you. If it were not for the fans it would feel like hellfire. For a momment there it darkness, but then the screen before you glows white like smokeless flame. You can sense something inside, something beyond the code. You reach your hand within it, and there's no glass, your hand passess right through until you're in a white void of your own making. You call out, thinking there is nothing at all around you. Yet somehow something calls back, something that knows your name.

The rat king: You see him in an empty subway station. Something dark and distorted, you're not sure if he's man or animal, covered in rags, and singing in the language of the goblins and the orcs. Yet he comes close to you excited. And you can feel his song. He calls for you to come to the train tracks, and let yourself run with the rats and the roaches, where the train will pass over you when it comes, and you'll live forever. When you touch the third rail you don't die, but you'll never be human again.

The lich: the library is strangely bright. Run by skeletons in suits, decorated with gold. There are more books here then you thought were in all the world. There's knowledge here most mortals will never have the change below, all kept safe below the city. You see her, her body doesn't look human, everything has been replaced making her look more like a joining white doll then a being of flesh. Yet she is dead, you can tell that under the porcelain skin she must be dead, she is dead, and there is the tragedy of death in her eyes. You come closer to her, and she places a black rose within your hair...

The demon: You stand in his office and he stands before you, a humanoid being covered in black scales, with red eyes covering his skin. Yet none are on his head, that remains featureless save for two massive horns. Wings on his back nearly surround you. Countless souls line the walls of his office, looking at you, waiting. After you sign your name you give him yours, you can feel it come away for you forever and your eyes grey and your skin pales. But he puts the jar in a special place for you, you're spacial, he can tell there's something about you that he likes.

The mushroom lord: you walk through the darkness of the forest, the furthest from civilization you have ever been. You come upon a part where the trees all seem dead, that even the cryptids won't go near. Mushrooms fill the ground, and white vein like lines are all over the trees. You feel the need to lay down, and you let the moss and the mushrooms and the worms surround you, and let yourself sink into the soil,, and it feels good. It feels so good...

The witch: You can see them in the Cafe next to you, skinny and small, with a sweatshirt over most of their body, and dark glasses over their eyes. They seem powerful though, and though their body looks young they seem ancient, they seem beyond humanity. You talk to them and they tell you things, and secrets, lost gods, things you never knew you didn't know, both beautiful and disturbing. When it's time for them to go they pet your head, and give you their number. You don't know if you should text them, but you have to, you have to see them again, there's something about them that makes you need to know.

The living clothing: you step into it at first, it looked like a puddle yet shining like silver or chrome. But soon it surrounds you, first just your torso, but soon your head, your entire body. But it doesn't feel scary, it feels like you're being held, held by something beyond your understanding. It whispers to you, and you don't know if you should feel like your being eaten alive, or like you're being protected. You can't help but keep walking.

The abyss: the void is before you, blackness beyond blackness, like the color beyond the field of your vision, stands before your eyes. You stare at it, it's nothing yet you're entranced. It stares back...

[rosemaryhoney27]

Sweet war

The Justice League was no stranger to summoning powerful entities, but as the glowing green portal ripped through the air in the Watchtower, there was an unspoken tension among them. They had expected a dark and ominous figure. Instead, a teenager with stark white hair, glowing green eyes, and regal black-and-green robes with a shimmering, ethereal crown atop his head floated before them.

Danny Phantom, the Ghost King, had arrived.

The moment he set foot—or rather, floated—on the Watchtower’s floor, he held out a gloved hand, his expression neutral but expectant.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” he said. “I assume you called me for something important. Where’s my offering?”

John Constantine, ever the opportunist, smirked and stepped forward. With an exaggerated flourish, he reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette before dramatically crushing it between his fingers. Then, placing a hand over his chest, he said, “How ‘bout my soul, mate?”

Danny turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly before his lips curled in distaste. “Ew. No one wants your broken, old soul, Constantine.”

The League collectively inhaled sharply. Superman coughed to cover a chuckle. Batman’s lips twitched ever so slightly. Zatanna stifled a snicker behind her gloved hand. Constantine, looking slightly offended, scoffed and took a drag of a new cigarette. “Well, can’t blame a bloke for tryin’.”

Wonder Woman, arms crossed, took a step forward. “Then tell us, Ghost King, what is it that you desire?”

Danny crossed his arms, looking at them all appraisingly. Then, with a small smirk, he said, “Honestly? I just want some good homemade sweets. Best you can find.”

Silence stretched between them as the request sank in. Then—

“I know just the thing,” Superman said immediately, a fond smile spreading across his face as he thought of Ma Kent’s famous homemade pies.

Batman hummed. “Alfred’s cookies.” His tone was decisive, as if it were an undeniable fact that they were superior.

Superman’s gaze sharpened. “You think your butler’s cookies can top my mom’s pies?”

Batman turned his head just enough to meet Superman’s challenge. “Yes.”

Danny, watching this unfold, raised a brow. “Wait—”

Flash grinned and clapped his hands together. “Oh-ho! This just got interesting.”

Wonder Woman smirked. “A contest of sweets, then?”

And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.

Superman wasted no time contacting his mother, explaining the situation with excitement in his voice. Meanwhile, Batman sent an encrypted message to Alfred, who replied with a simple: Understood. Commencing preparations.

Danny, who had just wanted some cookies or pie, now found himself at the center of an intergalactic baking war.

“Uh,” he started, watching as Superman and Batman prepared to bring their respective champions into the fray. “…This isn’t what I expected, but I’m not complaining.”

Constantine clapped him on the back. “Buckle up, kid. You just started the Bake-Off of the Century.”

And so, the great Bake War between Ma Kent and Alfred Pennyworth commenced, all for the favor of one very amused Ghost King.

Two days later, the Watchtower kitchen was in utter chaos.

Flash had somehow been appointed the official taste tester and was already on his fifth plate, buzzing with sugar-induced energy. Green Lantern had made a bet on Alfred and was wearing an apron that said Kiss the Cook, despite not actually doing any cooking.

Martian Manhunter was curiously sniffing a pecan pie, while Wonder Woman was critiquing Superman’s rolling technique. "Kal, you are treating that dough as if you were forging a sword. Relax. Let it breathe."

Batman, meanwhile, had an array of meticulously measured ingredients lined up in front of him. Alfred had given him explicit instructions, and Batman followed them with the precision of a man planning a high-stakes infiltration.

Danny was sprawled across a floating chair conjured from his own ectoplasmic energy, munching on a cookie from an early batch. “You guys do realize I could just declare both the winners, right?”

Superman shot him a look. “That’s not how this works.”

Batman nodded gravely. “There must be a victor.”

Danny snickered. "You guys are way too into this."

Constantine lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter, watching the madness unfold. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Alfred and Ma Kent, meanwhile, were exchanging polite but intense glances, silently acknowledging each other as true culinary warriors.

The Ghost King had spoken. The battle for baked good supremacy would rage on.

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ fluff

[ jason admiring you at a family barbecue, catching baby fever ]

[ 4k word count ]

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the sun sits gentle in the sky, soft gold washing over the green lawns of wayne manor. it’s the kind of day that feels like it was carved out of a dream—blue skies, laughter echoing through the gardens, the scent of grilled food riding warm breezes. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker—something summery and old-school—and kids are running barefoot over the grass with juice-stained smiles.

you’re standing on the back patio, watching as your dad and bruce try to out-barbecue each other. there’s a mountain of food already stacked high on one table, and another being filled with cold drinks and desserts brought by both sides of the family. it’s not a holiday, not a birthday—just a weekend that seemed perfect for something soft and good.

jason finds you like he always does. like his compass only points to you. he slides up beside you with a drink in one hand, the other immediately brushing against your lower back like he can’t help it. he leans in, kisses your temple without even saying hi, and you smile.

“you smell like smoke and sunscreen,” you murmur, teasing gently. — he grins against your skin. “you say that like it’s not my most attractive combo.”

you glance at him. he’s wearing a plain white tee, sleeves rolled just enough to make your stomach flip, and a backwards baseball cap that he stole from dick earlier. his smile is easy, bright—one of the rare kinds you only get on days like this, when nothing hurts and everything feels safe.

“you having fun?” you ask. — “yeah,” he says, looking out over the lawn. “it’s weird. not used to this many people being this… happy. all at once.”

you nudge him playfully with your shoulder. “that’s the whole point, jay. just good vibes today. no patrols. no emergencies. just your family and mine, stuffing their faces and pretending they’re not competitive as hell.”

he laughs. “i saw your aunt arm-wrestling alfred. i’m afraid to ask who won.” — “don’t,” you whisper dramatically. “it’s a sensitive topic.”

you both laugh, and then you fall into a comfortable silence, leaning into each other. there’s something easy in the way you fit together, like puzzle pieces that just… make sense. and even though the day is just beginning, jason already feels something new blooming in his chest. soft. slow. a warmth he can’t name yet.

then, you get pulled away.

your sister’s baby, a sweet baby girl— barely a year old— is in a fit of giggles and reaches for you as soon as she spots you. you don’t hesitate. you scoop her up, nuzzle into her cheek with a bright laugh, and she squeals in delight. jason watches, something catching in his throat that he doesn’t fully understand.

you hold your niece like it’s second nature, hips swaying slightly as you bounce her. you tickle her ribs until she squeaks, then press a kiss to the crown of her head. she clutches at your shirt with chubby fingers, and you don’t even seem to notice how natural it looks.

jason notices

he watches you sink to the grass with her, both of you barefoot and smiling. the babygirl crawls all over you, laughing like you’re the best jungle gym she’s ever seen. you laugh, too—head thrown back, hair catching the light, eyes crinkled in pure joy. and suddenly, there’s a slow ache in jason’s chest.

he’s never thought about it before. not really. the whole kid thing. the whole… family thing.

he’s always been the kind of man who saw himself on the sidelines of that world. the one who sends birthday gifts but doesn’t show up to the party. the one who says “uncle jay” and brings the cool toys but leaves before bedtime stories.

but watching you like this—hands soft, voice sweeter than he’s ever heard it—something shifts. something opens. he thinks about you with a baby that’s yours. his.

a little mess of dark hair and your eyes, giggling just like your niece is now. he thinks about you holding them, soothing them, loving them the way you love everything. he thinks about tiny socks and bedtime songs and learning how to braid hair or teach someone how to ride a bike. and he doesn’t feel afraid.

he feels something else. — a need. — a want.

he blinks, heart hammering like he just ran a sprint. it’s new. it’s overwhelming. and it’s entirely because of the way you look right now, sitting in the grass with a baby curled against your chest, humming something soft as you rock her gently.

“oh, shit,” he whispers under his breath.

you glance up, like you felt him watching you. your smile is soft. inviting. you tilt your head and wave him over.

he doesn’t think—just goes.

you don’t even have to ask. when you pat the grass beside you, jason’s already lowering himself down with a groan that’s mostly exaggerated, even though he makes a show of cracking his knees. “god, i’m getting old,” he mutters, shooting you a playful glance.

your niece immediately perks up at the sight of him. she blinks those wide baby eyes and then grins—huge and gummy—and points at him with all the excitement in the world.

“dat!” she squeals. you laugh, warm and real, looking between her and jason. “that is not your dad, little lady. that’s jason.”

she doesn’t care. she clambers right onto his lap like it’s the most obvious place to be. jason freezes. his eyes go wide like she’s a lit stick of dynamite, and you watch as he carefully, so carefully, adjusts his hands to steady her. he looks at you like he needs instruction, a manual, a lifeline.

you just smile. “you’re doing fine sweetheart.”

he swallows, then looks down at her. she’s patting his chest with both palms, babbling nonsense with the kind of confidence only babies can get away with. she tugs at the collar of his shirt, pokes his cheek, then leans forward to bonk her forehead lightly against his. he blinks.

“uh… hi?” he says softly. you bite back a grin.

she squeals again and snuggles in like he’s the comfiest spot in the whole wide world. one tiny hand clings to his shirt. the other reaches up and gently touches the brim of his cap.

jason goes absolutely still.

you watch the exact moment his heart breaks open. it’s subtle—just a shift in his expression, the way his arms curl instinctively around her like he’s afraid to let her go now. his voice drops into something even softer.

“you like me, huh?” your niece, as if understanding, lets out a happy coo and rests her cheek against his shoulder. you’re not sure you’ve ever seen jason todd speechless.

he looks at you over her head, and for once, there’s no witty comeback. no smirk. just awe. you can almost hear the thoughts racing behind his eyes. he rocks her slightly, like he’s testing the motion, and when she settles, sighing in contentment, he smiles. — a real one. — quiet. tender. completely unguarded.

your chest pulls tight. “she likes you,” you say quietly. “a lot.”

jason glances down at her again, brushing one hand over the back of her little head. “yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i like her, too.” — and he means it.

he doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening inside him—how just ten minutes ago, the idea of holding a baby seemed like a distant maybe in a far-off future, and now he can’t imagine letting this little bundle go. she fits against him like she belongs there. like he was made for this in a way he never considered.

you lean your head on his shoulder. “you’re a natural, jay.”

“i don’t know what i’m doing.”

“you don’t have to. she trusts you. that’s enough.”

he doesn’t say anything for a minute. just holds her. breathes. lets it sink in. his heart has been through war. it’s been broken, stitched together, burned down, and rebuilt more times than he can count. he’s spent years convincing himself that love like this—soft, slow, steady—wasn’t for him.

but here you are, curled beside him in the grass. and here she is, asleep on his chest. and here he is, completely and utterly undone. — he wants this.

maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but someday.

he wants little hands and big hearts and quiet afternoons like this. he wants tiny sneakers by the door and messy drawings taped to the fridge. he wants the life he thought he’d never deserve, because you make it feel possible.

you glance up at him and find his eyes already on you. “you okay?” you ask.

he nods. “yeah. just… didn’t expect this.”

“what? a baby nap attack?”

he shakes his head. “no. this… feeling.”

you smile, soft and knowing. you thread your fingers through his where they rest on the grass. “it’s okay, you know,” you whisper. “to want things.”

he squeezes your hand. “you’d be a really good dad,” you say, almost like it’s a secret. “one day.”

jason doesn’t answer right away. he just looks down at your niece again, sleeping so soundly on his chest, and something in him settles.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the sun starts to dip low in the sky, painting the world in honey. that soft hour between afternoon and evening when everything feels a little more tender. the grills have been turned off, the music turned down, and the lawn scattered with half-empty cups and abandoned shoes from kids who always manage to lose one.

you and jason walking, this time near the big round table where dick and tim are already lounging, paper plates balanced on their laps. stephanie is there too, smiling, peeling grapes for herself like a queen, while damian pokes at a pile of roasted vegetables with an expression of deep suspicion.

you plop down with a plate of grilled chicken, a caesar salad and some fruit salad aswell. jason’s got two burgers stacked high and a lemonade that you swear is more sugar than anything else. he’s still got some baby drool on his shoulder and hasn’t noticed yet. — you don’t tell him.

instead, you nudge your knee against his and start eating, leaning just a little into his side. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift—just stays steady. solid. warm.

“so,” dick says with a grin, looking pointedly at jason, “when were you gonna tell us you had a kid?”

jason chokes on a bite of burger, coughing into his elbow while you burst out laughing. he shoots dick a glare, wiping his mouth. “very funny.”

“no, seriously,” tim chimes in, smirking. “i thought that baby was yours. the way she was clinging to you? textbook toddler imprinting.”

stephanie hums. “she liked him.”

“clearly,” damian mutters. “he was the only one she didn’t scream at.”

you grin, glancing sideways at jason. “she does have good taste.” he mumbles something into his burger and keeps his eyes on his plate, but his ears are pink.

dick leans forward on his elbows, teasing grin still firmly in place. “you ever think about it, jay?”

jason pauses. you hold your breath. he shrugs, then glances at you. just for a second. then back at his plate.

“i dunno,” he says quietly. “today kind of made it hard not to.”

the table goes quiet for a beat—not awkward, just thoughtful.

you rest your hand on his thigh under the table, give it a squeeze. he covers it with his own without looking, thumb brushing slow across your knuckles. it says more than words ever could.

then, as if summoned by the power of chaos and barbecue sauce, a group of kids comes barreling toward your little circle.

there are four of them—your younger cousins plus, the neighbor kid alfred watches sometimes. they’re sticky and sun-kissed and full of energy they absolutely should not still have.

“jason!” one of the older boys shouts, skidding to a stop in front of him. “can you play tag with us? please? we need someone fast!”

“yeah!” another chimes in. “you look like you’d be really good at it!”

jason blinks, halfway through another bite. “uh—”

“pleeeaaaase?” they all whine in unison. steph giggles behind her hand. tim’s already pulling out his phone to film this. even damian looks vaguely amused. you nudge jason again, smirking. “come on, tough guy. they’ve challenged your honor.”

he groans, tipping his head back like he’s praying for strength. “you’re all monsters.” but he sets his plate down anyway. stands up. brushes his hands off on his jeans.

“all right, gremlins,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “you asked for it.” the kids scream in delight and scatter.

you watch, heart full and aching, as jason takes off after them with a grin that makes him look years younger. he’s surprisingly agile for someone full of burgers, weaving between kids and dodging tiny arms like a seasoned pro. he scoops one up over his shoulder, spins them until they squeal, then sets them down gently.

you can’t stop smiling. “he’s a goner,” dick says beside you, voice warm with something like pride.

you nod, eyes never leaving jason. “yeah. he is.”

“you know,” steph says, “he’s softer with you than i’ve ever seen.” you swallow around the knot in your throat.

“i feel like he’s starting to let himself want this,” you say softly. “really want it.”

tim smiles. “about time.” you finish your plate, set it aside, and watch as jason lets the smallest kid tackle him dramatically to the ground. they all pile on after that, laughing and shouting, and he just lays there, pretending to be defeated.

he catches your eye across the lawn, still buried under a dogpile of kids, and winks. you think your heart might actually burst.

cass, duke and barb start making their way over, everyone making room for eachother even if it is a little tight. “man jason is getting beat out there” duke laughed taking a drink of water.

you don’t last long on the sidelines.

as soon as you see jason get swarmed by kids and give in with the most exaggerated groan of defeat, your legs are already moving. you drop your plate off at the table, kick off your sandals, and make a run for it across the grass.

“hey!” you shout, cupping your hands around your mouth. “what’s this i hear about a tag game with no rules?”

jason sits up, eyes lighting up the moment he sees you. he lifts an arm like he’s going to catch you when you get close. “you sure you can handle this?” he calls. “these kids are relentless.”

you smirk. “so am i.” the second you’re close enough, one of your cousins tags you with a high-pitched “you’re it!” and bolts away shrieking. — and that’s all it takes.

soon, you’re both running wild with the kids—ducking and dodging and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. jason’s just as competitive as you expected, blocking kids for you and taking fake dives when someone “catches” him. at one point, you tackle him into the grass, both of you breathless and tangled up, and he’s laughing—really laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled at the corners.

you think you might be in love with every version of him. eventually, the chaos slows. kids drop off one by one, panting and grinning, collapsing on picnic blankets or into folding chairs with cold juice boxes pressed to their faces. you and jason end up near the big patio table again, sweaty and flushed and glowing with joy.

that’s where you find the adults and half of your side of the family.

your parents are sitting with bruce and alfred, a mix of lemonade and wine glasses on the table between them. the grown-ups have that relaxed energy that only comes after a full meal, a successful gathering, and nothing left to do but watch.

“you two looked like you were having fun,” your mom says, smiling fondly. — “we were,” you reply, still catching your breath. jason lingers behind you, a quiet shadow at your back.

“you’re good with kids, jason,” your dad says, and it’s not just polite—he means it. there’s a note of surprise and respect in his voice.

jason rubs the back of his neck. “they’re good with me. i think they sense that i was once a menace, too.” — everyone laughs.

even bruce looks slightly amused, eyes soft as he watches jason from behind his glass. alfred, always the most composed, nods. “you have a calming presence with the younger ones. despite your… usual demeanor.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jason mutters.

just then, your sister approaches with your baby niece balanced on one hip. the little one looks sleepy and bashful now, her curls a bit messy, thumb in her mouth. “she’s been looking around for someone,” your sister says, eyes twinkling. “pretty sure i know who.”

the sweet babygirl blinks once… twice… then holds her arms out, very clearly and very purposefully, toward jason.

he freezes. — the whole table watches as he steps forward, gentle and quiet, and reaches for her. she practically melts into him as he lifts her into his arms again, head tucking under his chin like that’s where she belongs. jason holds her like he never wants to let go.

you can feel it from where you’re standing—that shift in the air. like everyone around you sees something unspoken settle into place. like puzzle pieces clicking in without anyone needing to name them. “she doesn’t do that for just anyone,” your sister says softly.

jason presses a kiss to the top of the baby’s head, one hand running along her back in slow, comforting circles. “she’s got good instincts,” he says, and it’s half a joke, half a truth he hasn’t quite let himself feel until now.

your mom and dad share a look you can’t quite read, something soft and knowing between them. bruce smiles faintly behind his glass. alfred gives you the barest nod, like he sees it too.

you walk back over and stand beside jason, brushing a curl out of the baby’s face. “she’s got you wrapped around her tiny little finger,” you whisper.

jason huffs out a quiet laugh. “yeah. i’m in deep.” — you lean against his arm, heart full. and in this moment, with your family and his all gathered around, with the sun casting golden light over the lawn and your niece tucked safely against his chest, you realize you’ve never felt more at home.

and jason? — jason’s realizing something too. he doesn’t just want to be a part of this someday.

he wants this. with you.

the backyard gets quieter as the sun sinks behind the trees, painting the sky in soft lilacs and golds. kids have all been rounded up, shoes found, goodbyes whispered through tired yawns. the grill’s cold now, the music little more than a low hum in the background. you watch your mom hug cass, your dad laughing at something dick says, and the rest of the evening melts into a kind of dreamy haze.

babygirl is curled up in jason’s arms again, barely awake, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt. your sister and brother in law approaches with an apologetic smile.

“let me take her in, jay,” she says softly. “you’ve done more than enough.”

jason doesn’t look ready to let go. but he nods, brushing one more kiss over the crown of the baby’s head before carefully passing her off. “she’s perfect,” he murmurs.

“so were you,” your brother in law says holding his daughter. the baby shyly smiling, making jason wave bye, you blowing a kiss.

a few minutes later, most of the family is saying their goodbyes. the waynes linger, always the last to leave, and you stand off to the side with jason as your parents pack up their cooler. your fingers are laced with his, and he hasn’t let go once.

“you wanna go for a walk?” you ask quietly, once the yard is nearly empty.

jason nods, gentle eyes on you. “yeah. i’d like that.”

you walk in slow steps across the grass, barefoot, side by side under the darkening sky. there’s that soft hum of crickets starting, the scent of charcoal and lemonade still floating in the air. everything feels still. for a while, neither of you says anything.

then, jason breaks the quiet with a voice so soft it almost gets lost in the breeze. “i didn’t think i’d be good at it.”

you glance over. “what?”

“any of it,” he says. “kids. the whole… warm and safe thing. didn’t think i had it in me.” — your heart tugs

“but you do,” you say, gently. “i saw it today. everyone did.”

he looks at you, and the weight of the day sits in his chest like something holy. “when she fell asleep on me… i didn’t wanna move. like, ever.”

you smile, stepping closer. “you didn’t have to. she was right where she wanted to be.”

jason stops walking. his hand slips out of yours only so he can cup your face instead, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing you. like he already has, but needs to do it again just in case.

“i never thought about it before. like—really thought. what it might be like… to have a little girl with your eyes, your laugh. a kid who knows nothing but love.”

your breath catches. — “but today… watching you hold her watching you smile at those kids… it just—something clicked.”

you rest your forehead against his. “yeah?”

“yeah.” his voice is quiet. certain. like a promise.

“it scared me,” he admits. “but in a good way. like… like maybe i finally want something real. something i never let myself imagine.”

you curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “you can have it, jason. you deserve it.”

he laughs softly. “do i, though?”

“absolutely.” he kisses you then, slow and warm and deep like he means it. like everything he’s feeling today is pouring out through that one perfect moment. the kind of kiss that tastes like sunlight and cotton candy and something brand new being born right in your chest.

when you finally pull back, he still looks dazed. “i think,” he says, clearing his throat, “i’ve got a little baby fever.”

you grin. “a little?”

“okay. a lot.” — you wrap your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “we don’t have to figure it all out now. we’ve got time.”

he rests his chin on top of your head. “yeah. but just so you know—i’m thinking maybe two.”

you look up, eyes wide. “two?”

“or three,” he says, smirking. “a little chaos. just enough to keep things interesting.”

you laugh, and it echoes across the empty lawn, bright and real. and as the stars come out one by one above you, jason todd holds you like the future is already here, folded gently into the arms of the person he loves most.

he never thought he’d want this. but now?

he can’t imagine wanting anything else.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

BONUS — ⋆��ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

the sun’s almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the edge of the horizon. the yard is quieter—paper plates stacked, folding chairs being packed up, empty cups tossed into bags. and for once, alfred’s not lifting a finger.

“sit, alfred,” bruce had insisted, nudging a chair under him like it was an order from the batcave. “we’ve got this.”

and so he sits, arms crossed, watching as the rest of the family—grown vigilantes and honorary siblings alike—start cleaning up what looks like the remains of a small festival.

“i feel like we’re one mariachi band away from calling this a wedding,” dick says, stuffing plastic forks into a bag while balancing a tray of leftover burgers on his hip.

“you mean a baby shower,” tim mutters, dragging a trash bag behind him. “give it a year.”

steph raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “a year? you’re being generous.”

damian states “my money’s on six months. tops. did you see the way jason was holding that baby?”

“like she was made of gold,” dick agrees, dropping the tray on the patio table. “he was glowing.”

“i’ve never seen him smile like that,” tim adds. “like… actually smile.”

“we should start a pool,” duke says, hands clapping together. “fifty bucks, winner takes all.”

“i’m in,” barb says, cass nodding, already pulling her phone out. “my bet: christmas announcement.”

bruce, who’s been quietly gathering napkins from the lawn, clears his throat. everyone turns. “new year’s,” he says calmly, straightening up. “and i think i’ll be a good grandpa.”

a pause. — then all of them lose it—laughing, shouting over each other, mock gasping like bruce just admitted to watching daytime soaps. “you can’t just drop that!” dick yells, pointing. “you want grandkids?”

“i’d like to think jason’s happy,” bruce replies, folding another chair with ease. “and if he is… i’ll be happy, too.”

cass nods slowly, like it makes perfect sense, barb saying “you’d be a good grandpa. quiet. dramatic.”

steph’s cackling. “and rich!”

“what are you all talking about?” jason calls from across the lawn, finally reappearing with you tucked into his side, both of you glowing in that soft post-chaos calm.

the group goes still. then dick turns around and whistles casually. “nothing. just cleaning up.”

you squint suspiciously. “you’re all acting weird.”

“what else is new?” jason mutters, tugging you closer.

as you both disappear inside to help pack up leftovers, the family watches you go. and bruce, standing at the edge of the patio, just smiles to himself.

maybe soon. — maybe not.

but when it happens, he’ll be ready.

even if that means learning how to baby-proof the manor.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love writing sweet moments for jason ☹️ he deserves them!!

i wanna write a part two soon!! this was one of my favorites stories i’ve wrote so far. :3 i love writing jason being expressive and openly sweet— because it’s something you don’t see alot, and for good reason. he’s been through soooo much!!

i enjoy writing angst don’t get me wrong, but fluff i think is more my territory! :3 tell me if you’d like a part two!!

lmk if you’d like more angst stories — or more smut — or more fluff :)

also DM’s are always open <3

PT. 2 link HERE PT.3 link HERE

[screampied]

if requests are open, can we see nanami x breeding kink? i know he would be the perfect daddy 💕

❤︎ ໋𓈒 husband nanami finding out he has a breeding kink.

warnings. fem! reader, mating press, breeding kink, praise, soft dom nanami, mdni.

breeding.

he wouldn’t even know he had such a kink until afterwards, finishing inside of you for about the third time with hot puffs of air running from his lips.

his eyes, dark brown pools that intently stared into yours, he’s in utter love with you and only you. your current position was supine—your legs would be perfectly sprawled and spread for him. mating press, such a deep and thorough angle. so deep to where you were practically seeing stars.

“… you drive me crazy, you know that?” he’d huff out lowly between rough breaths. you stare at him with glossy eyes, a hand softly clinging onto his wrist. he was always so gentle, deep yet precise strokes to make you feel every inch. such eyebrows of his curl up and furrow as he intakes a single sharp breath, the feeling of such thick ropes spewing inside your walls makes him groan. “always s—so good at milking me.”

sloppy hips thwack and drill into you, and that’s when he leans right up close to you—you’re met with lust filled fawn eyes and a needy smile.

“ah. eyes up here, wanna see that pretty face,” and his tempo was so unhinged. you glance up at him and he mutters off a soft, “hi my love,” and you could have just melted right there. nanami lightly presses a hand against your tummy, a thumb swiftly tracing near the exact spot where he was reaching you inside. so full, you moan before he leans in to kiss you, yet instead, he conceals his own whine into the crook of your neck. “this—tummy would look so pretty if it was nice ‘n round for me like last time.”

the very corners of your lips tugs, it outlines into a sweet pout before you whimper, “make me fuller then, kento,” you’d heave out. he was jackhammering such merciless yet tenderly passionate thrusts into your cunt, effortlessly smacking back against you. “wanna f-feel fuller.”

you had the white bed sheets bawl into the palms of your hands. everything felt so warm, his hips just continued to rotate and jerk and jerk and jerk. it was hypnotic, he knew just where to prod the head of his cock right against you.

you’re nearly drooling. just imagining such lengthy ropes of his pump you full. you wanted it, no—you needed it. desperately, you were practically being fucked into the mattress—the mattress in question creaked and sang in such harmony it was hard not to ignore its sounds.

the entire feeling, you were clamping down on him so tight that his jaw tenses. a simple sight like that was oh so sexy in the slightest, nanami lightly bites down on his lip. a cute flushed expression slowly painting over his face once he catches you still staring. he was chasing his own breath, giving you slow yet perfect full vivacious thrusts.

“k-kento,” you’d moan with a slight gasp, he brings a hand to slide your arms all the way up. it’s almost teasing, the way he makes you hold your hands high, a soft simper rests against his lips the entire time. your legs quaver, feeling how easy it was for him to stretch you out. his touch, it was blisteringly hot, blisteringly tender.

he made sure to delicately trace his fingers all over your skin. he wouldn’t dare miss a spot. not with a body as perfect as yours. that’s what he saw in his eyes anyway. “so—so goooood, don’t s-stop baby.”

“wasn’t gonna,” he huffs out, and his voice was so raspy and rich. a subtle coarse of baritone hidden underneath his deep tone. you peer up at him and he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose. “if my princess wants to feel more full, i’ll do just that. give her anything she wants.”

you whimper, feeling him hit such a sensitive angle, he hit it just right too.

the crown of his dick made its way through every crevice of your walls. he reached in spots that you didn’t think he’d reach — not at all, you failed to hide your moans by this point and he thought you sounded so cute. knowing he was the one to make you sound like this, feel this way, it made him happy. that’s all he wanted, your pleasure was his pleasure.

every. single. spot.

whilst your toes curled, you feel your back start to seemingly arch on its own before even more sweetened whimpers fly past your sheeny lips. “give m-me,” you started to speak. he raises a brow marginally, brushing a thumb against your lower lip before feeling himself about to bottom out. at that point, he was fully inside, you felt it and you only mewled out a candied, “give me another baby kento. please.”

“oh,” he softly murmurs, and his tongue playfully licks against your neck—a sweet lap, he savored your taste before teasingly starting to nibble.

“gonna give you triplets this time,” and he brings a hand down your chest, then towards your stomach, real slow. you moan once he gingerly lifts up your leg before giving your ankle a kiss. “this what you want, sweetheart? more of this? more of … me?”

“yes,” you pout, feeling your cunt just swallowing his hefty shack, his base smacks back and forth against you to where you’re almost giddy. you felt like you were on cloud nine, nanami’s strokes, his thrusts hell, his enticing rhythm had you nearly speechless. you let off a soft meek once the shivering cold metal of his watch band slithers against your skin.

the more he touched you, the more close you became to making yet another mess on him. of course, like the good husband he was, nanami would happily clean you up.

“y-yes, kento,” you repeat in a honeyed voice, by this point, your legs were well wrapped around his waist. fully having him in a secure lock, not ever thinking to let go, you couldn’t nor did you want to. he drove into your gummy walls so good that you let off the sugared most melodic moans right up against his earlobe. “want…..another baby.”

“i know you do,” he hushes, bringing a chaste kiss towards your collarbone. you swallow a thick imaginary lump that grew into your throat. only tiny squeaks would come out — you moaned, tightening your legs hold around him before you started to picture such fanciful things.

fanciful things like nanami pouring yet another a thick load into you, and as you’re deep in thought he’s doing just that. a gasp gets caught in his lips before he leans up close to you. his broad chest presses up against you before he groans. out of all the notorious enemies he’s had to fight, he was simply no match for your pussy. its grip had him being the one with his eyes nearly rolling back.

“f-fuck,” and you felt yourself throb, making direct eye contact with him. it was rare, yet hearing nanami swear was so infrequent.

it was the way he swore, spewing out such filthy words underneath his breath. long ruffled strands of messy hair nearly occluding his view of vision. he reaches to move some of his hair away from his face, just so he could get a good glimpse of you—a good glimpse of his wife.

“look at me,” he says in a soft tone, he was buried so deep within you, you saw how his muscles tensed and his jaw tightened. he made his hips come to a halt completely before he leans in to gift you with another kiss. “mwah,” he smooches near your jawline, “mwah,” near your chin, and a final kiss near your lips.

your heart, it fluttered.

nanami felt warm all over his body, as well as the sheer warmth that coated him from being inside you. “i—i love you,” you’d whine, feeling such massive velvet ropes of cum going all inside of you. he merely lets off a purr at the way the back of your heel skims down his back. “so much.”

“i love you,” he returns it. his mouth briefly opens, and he was about to say ‘more’ but he pauses. nanami’s weight was still hovering over you before he brings a same big hand down towards your tummy. “now, we wait. you’re such a good mommy for me, sweetheart.”

[princessbellecerise]

Court Shenanigans

Summary ✩ Missing their father, your children decide it’s a good idea to interrupt him in the middle of court

Warnings ✩ Mentions of pregnancy

Authors Notes ✩ Everyday I cry cause this man isn’t real but at least I have fanfic

You tried to stop them, you really did.

But being almost nine moons pregnant and having the most swollen feet known to man, it was almost impossible to chase after and keep up with two rowdy tots.

Usually, their nursemaids would have them by now and would be helping to assist you, but Aliza was sick and Joanna was with her family. Both of them would have scolded you for trying to run when you couldn’t even see your feet, but your kids were a mischievous bunch and you had a sinking feeling on where they were headed.

Aemma, the eldest of the two twins, had been complaining all day about not being able to see her father, as Jace had missed out on breakfast and lunch with her in order to hear a few extra petitions.

It seemed as if the Kingdom was more unruly than usual, and Lords had come from all over the realm to plead their cases.

Wanting to be a good King and make sure that he could adhere to all of his subjects, Jace had opted to spend a little extra time on the throne and a less with his family.

This of course didn’t sit well with Aemma, and as her shadow Jaelin followed right on along with her.

Try as you might have, you weren’t fast enough to catch up to them and your protests for them to stop didn’t do much good, either.

Before you could even blink, your twins were flying past the Kingsguard and bursting into the throne room, with little Aemma’s excited shouting making you want to crawl into a hole right there and then.

“Kepa!”

In no time your baby girl ran across the room, interrupting some poor Lord under a pink banner. You thought that he might’ve been from White Harbor, or maybe he was from Maidenpool.

Whatever it was, you didn’t pay much attention as suddenly, all chatter stopped, and you were the center of attention as you wobbled towards Jacaerys and fixed Aemma with a stern glare.

“Aemma! Come back here!” You shouted after her sternly, and thankfully Jaelin was too afraid of your ‘motherly voice’ to get any closer.

He stopped just short of the Iron Throne, choosing to remain by Ser Darklyn’s side rather than follow his sister up the steps. With horror, you realized that Aemma was headed straight to Jacaerys, exclaiming happily as she threw herself in her father’s open arms.

“Kepa!”

She bounced excitedly as Jace pulled her on his lap, looking amused while you struggled to catch your breath.

Running at your size was no joke, and you ached to sit down somewhere and rest. You couldn’t do that though while your two year old twins were causing mayhem.

It was unbefitting of a Queen, you knew that, but desperation had you hiking up your dress, climbing the the steps, and holding your arms out expectantly while Jace chuckled.

“Aemma. It’s time to say goodbye to Kepa and go back to our chambers. Now,” You told her, but that only resulted in the toddler shaking her head and burying herself even deeper into Jacaerys’ arms.

“No! I want to stay with Kepa!” Her defiant little voice shouted, and you winced as a few murmurs echoed through the court.

You were painfully aware that everybody was staring at the scene, which made it even more embarrassing when you reached out again and failed to grab Aemma.

After about the third attempt to pull her away with no avail, your husband seemed to finally take pity on you and sighed.

“It’s alright my love. She can stay,” Jacaerys said, and upon hearing this Aemma beamed. “It’ll be her seat one day after all. Let her gain some experience; even if it is during the middle of a petition.”

You gave him an apologetic look, and you made a mental note to apologize to Lord…well, whoever you were currently interrupting. You had to admit, the sight of Aemma babbling broken phrases to Jace while she tried to grab his crown was adorable.

You sighed reluctantly.

“Alright,” You said, willing to leave Aemma where she was. At the very least you could persuade Jaelin to follow you and take him away, but as you turned to go back down the stairs you suddenly paused.

Had there always been that many, you wondered?

You hadn’t really paid attention that much, but now that your feet were practically screaming at you to sit down, the idea of going down so many steps didn’t seem so appealing.

Of course, you could’ve just asked one of the Kingsguard to help you down, but you didn’t want to be a bother—as silly as it sounded. You also didn’t want to risk your knees giving out and falling, either.

You were in a dilemma, but before you could even decide, Jace did it for you. Your husband, ever attentive, noticed your hesitation and immediately got up.

“Here, my love. Why don’t you rest and I’ll stand for now,” He suggested.

Even more whispers broke out at this. What Jacaerys was proposing was sweet, but it had never happened before and the idea of the Queen sitting on the throne in the presence of the King was…well it was simply unheard of.

You were sure a few people would call the action scandalous, but at the moment though, you didn’t really care what they thought. Your feet were aching and you needed a place to sit down before your knees decided where for you, so you nodded and accepted his offer.

“Thank you, my love.”

You sighed in relief as you sat on the throne. Albeit, it wasn’t the most comfortable of seats with all the swords and points, and you would’ve much rather been in your cushioned chair in your chambers, but it was better than nothing and the pressure on your feet was gone.

Nodding his head, Jacaerys gave you a small kiss on the side of your head and then he stood with Aemma in his arms, and gestured for Lord whoever to keep speaking.

Had you not been out of breath, you would have laughed at his face and the face of many others as they not only witnessed their King give the most powerful seat in the realm to his pregnant wife, but also witnessed him stand up while bouncing his baby daughter in his arms.

It was an unusual sight, but an adorable one that you cherished.

Motioning to Ser Darklyn to bring Jaelin up so that your family would complete, you smiled in content and Jacaerys once again motioned for the man who had been interrupted to continue his petition.

“Lord Mooton. Please, do continue,” He said with a large smile.

You giggled.

Ah, so that was his name.

[kryllia]

Imprisoned Prince

Yandere Monster Imprisoned Prince x Reader Maid

Art from pinterest (they said ai generated)

You swallowed hard as you stood before the massive iron door that separated you from the monster prince. The torchlight flickered dimly in the dungeon corridor, casting eerie shadows along the damp stone walls. The tray in your hands trembled slightly as your grip tightened. You had heard the stories—the whispered tales of maids who never returned, of those who did but with mangled limbs and lifeless gazes.

Yet, you had no choice. The head maid had assigned you this duty, and disobeying her was not an option. You steeled yourself and pushed open the heavy door, the hinges creaking as if in protest.

Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in the sight before you.

Osiris Asmor, the monstrous crown prince of Asmora, sat against the far wall, his long white hair a tangled mess, streaked with dried blood. His golden eyes, burning like molten fire, snapped to you immediately. His muscular frame was covered in bruises and cuts, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Heavy iron chains bound his wrists to the wall, but even restrained, he exuded an aura of dominance, of lethal danger.

Your knees almost buckled when his lips curled into a smirk.

"You’re new." His voice was deep, rough like gravel, sending a shiver down your spine. "The last one didn't last long."

You forced yourself to take a step forward, then another, until you stood a few feet away from him. You refused to look at the dried blood near his feet—the evidence of what happened to your predecessors.

"I brought your food," you said, your voice steadier than you expected.

Osiris tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "And you expect me to eat that?" His gaze flicked to the tray in your hands, then back to your face. "Do you know how many times your people have tried to poison me?"

You hesitated. You had heard the rumors, of course. The court was desperate to rid themselves of the monster prince, and subtle assassination attempts had been made. You glanced at the tray, then made a decision. Lifting the spoon, you scooped up a portion of the stew and took a bite.

His eyes widened slightly.

"There," you said after swallowing. "It's not poisoned."

A slow, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Interesting. You're smarter than the others."

He extended his hands, the chains clinking ominously, and you stepped forward cautiously, placing the tray within his reach. His fingers brushed against yours—rough, calloused from years of wielding a sword. You flinched, and his smirk deepened.

"You fear me," he mused. "Good. You should."

You swallowed again, but this time, something about his tone sent a different kind of shiver through you. Something darker.

Days turn to weeks despite your fear, you returned to his cell every day. Perhaps it was the knowledge that if you didn't, someone else would be sent in your place—and they might not be as lucky. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

At first, Osiris was cold, watching you with a predator's patience. But as the days passed, his demeanor shifted. He started talking more, asking questions—personal ones. Your name. Your family. If you had a lover.

You learned things about him, too. How he had been trained in swordsmanship from the moment he could hold a blade. How Asmora was not the barbaric land of beasts your people painted it to be, but a kingdom rich in culture, in history. How he missed the open skies, the feeling of the wind against his skin.

And how he hated humans.

"They disgust me," he had said one evening, his voice dripping with venom. "Cowards, the lot of them. They betray, they destroy, they take what is not theirs."

You had hesitated before responding. "Not all of us are like that."

His golden eyes bore into yours, unreadable. Then, he had smirked. "Perhaps not you."

The change happened slowly, subtly. You didn’t notice it at first. The way his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary. The way his tone softened when he spoke your name. The way he clenched his fists when another guard was present, as if barely restraining himself.

Then, one day, you arrived to find his chains shorter. Someone had adjusted them, limiting his movement even further. He was furious.

"They think they can break me," he growled, his muscles flexing as he yanked against the chains. "Fools."

Your heart pounded. You set the tray down, about to turn away, when his voice stopped you.

"Come closer."

You hesitated. "I shouldn't—"

"Please." The word was foreign on his tongue, almost unnatural.

Against your better judgment, you stepped forward.

Faster than you could react, his chained hand shot out, grasping your wrist in a vice-like grip. You gasped, eyes widening in panic.

"Do you know what you've done to me?" His voice was a growl, but there was something else there—something raw, something desperate. "Every day, you come here. Every day, you speak to me as if I am not a beast in chains. And now…" His grip tightened. "Now, I cannot stop thinking of you."

You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

"I will escape," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "And when I do… you will come with me."

You shook your head, fear spiking through you. "I can't—"

"You can. You will." His golden eyes burned with obsession. "I will not leave you here, among those who would use you and discard you."

Tears welled in your eyes, but not just from fear. A part of you—deep, buried—felt something else. Something dangerous.

"Do you understand?" His lips nearly brushed against your ear. "You belong to me now."

A shudder ran through you. You hated how the words made your stomach twist.

"You’re insane," you whispered.

His smirk returned, though his eyes remained deadly serious. "Perhaps. But I will have you, little human. One way or another."

It happened faster than anyone anticipated.

One night, an explosion rocked the palace. Chaos erupted as soldiers scrambled, unaware that the monster prince had freed himself. By the time the guards reached the dungeon, his cell was empty.

And you—

You were gone too.

Osiris carried you effortlessly through the darkened halls, your struggling form useless against his strength. His grip was bruising, his pace unwavering.

"You’re mine," he whispered as he hoisted you onto his warhorse, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. "And I will never let you go."

As the castle faded into the distance, you realized with a chilling certainty—

You were no longer a servant.

You were a possession. A treasure. A prize.

And Osiris Asmor would never let anything take you from him.

Not even yourself.

This is inspirated by c.ai bot and it was made by @Strawberry_88

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 5┃ A little more real

Male reader x Winter Word count: 6.8k Tags: squirting, sensory depravation, temperature play, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4

Ningning was still curled against me when the light started to change.

Just a thin stripe of gray through the curtains, but enough to make me realize how long we’d been lying there. Her breath had evened out, slower now, but her fingers were still resting over my ribs like she wasn’t ready to let go.

I wasn’t either.

I traced small shapes across her back—half-aware of the soreness in my arm, the ache in my hips, the smell of sweat and skin and sex still clinging to both of us. The sheets were damp. The room was quiet.

And Giselle was gone.

I didn’t hear her leave. But the door was closed.

Ningning shifted against my chest, mumbling something I didn’t catch. I pressed my lips to the crown of her head and whispered, “Go back to sleep.”

She didn’t. Just sighed and let herself go soft again.

It wasn’t awkward. Not yet. But the weight of everything we’d done last night was still hanging in the air. It was... complicated.

I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that—wrapped up, still tangled in each other—but eventually Ningning stirred and whispered, “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy.”

She smiled against my collarbone. “Not denying it.”

Her hand drifted down a few inches, fingers teasing along my stomach, and for a second I thought she was going to start something again. But then she stopped, let her hand settle.

"Guess it's morning," she murmured.

“Barely.”

She rolled onto her back, stretched, and winced. “Okay, maybe I overdid it.”

“You? Never.”

She looked at me, eyes still sleepy but sharp. “You should get cleaned up. You look like a crime scene.”

“Thanks.”

She laughed and threw the sheets off herself. Her body was marked in places—faint bruises, scratches, the ghost of red lines where restraints had been. She didn’t cover them. Just moved across the room with the casualness of someone who had nothing to prove.

I stayed in bed, watching her dress. Still naked. Still not sure what today was supposed to be.

When she was halfway through tying her hoodie around her waist, she glanced over her shoulder.

“You staying for breakfast?”

I hesitated. “Is that a thing here?”

“Depends on who’s cooking.”

“And who’s awake.”

She shrugged. “Come find out.”

Then she left.

I lay there for a minute after she left.

The room felt bigger without her in it. Too big. Too quiet. The sheets were still warm where her body had been, but the weight was gone. My body ached in good ways and bad. Muscles worn. Mind fuzzy. My neck still smelled like her perfume, and it hit in a way I wasn’t expecting.

This wasn’t regret.

But it wasn’t simple either.

I sat up, ran a hand through my hair, and took stock. Clothes scattered. Rope on the floor. One of the cuffs still clipped to the bedpost. A pair of panties halfway under the dresser—probably Ningning’s. I didn’t feel the urge to laugh. Just breathed.

It had been a night.

I got up and headed to the bathroom.

The mirror didn’t pull any punches. My hair was wrecked, lips still a little swollen, collarbone scratched. I turned the water on cold and splashed my face. It helped. Not much.

By the time I stepped out again, the house felt different.

Not quieter—just more awake. There was the faint sound of a cabinet shutting. A few distant footsteps. No voices. No music. But someone was up.

I followed the sound toward the kitchen and stopped just outside the doorway.

There she was.

Winter. Standing by the stove, back to me.

Hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing navy sweats and a cropped white hoodie with the sleeves pushed to her elbows. No socks. Just quiet movement, mug in hand, stirring something in a pan like she did it every day.

I blinked. Then I noticed the note on the fridge on the hallway.

“Company meeting. Left early. Winter wanted the place to herself. Don’t bother her. Eat something or I’ll make you.” — Ningning”

There was a little doodle next to the heart. A cat, maybe. Or a strawberry. I couldn’t tell.

I stayed in the hallway a bit longer than I needed to. Just watching. Listening.

Then I stepped inside.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t act surprised that I was there.

I stopped near the doorway.

Winter lifted the pan and scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate like it was any other morning.

Then, without turning:

“Hungry?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Kind of.”

She nodded once and reached for another plate.

She moved like she was alone.

No tension in her shoulders. No hesitation in her movements. Just a quiet rhythm to everything—lifting plates, sliding toast onto them, pouring coffee. Her hoodie rose a little when she reached for the mugs, revealing a sliver of skin above the waistband of her sweats. She didn’t tug it back down.

I stepped further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. My body was still catching up to itself. The bruises. The weight of last night. The fact that I was still here.

She finally glanced at me, sliding one of the plates across the counter.

“Eat.”

It wasn’t a request.

“Thanks.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes. Nothing awkward about it. Just... space. She ate slowly, precisely, like every bite was thought out. Like she didn’t waste effort on anything she didn’t need.

“You always cook breakfast?” I asked.

She shrugged. “When I can. Usually it’s just coffee.”

“How domestic of you.”

Her mouth curved slightly. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the mystique.”

“You mean the whole ice queen thing?”

Another glance. “That what they’re calling me?”

“Not officially.”

She sipped her coffee. “You don’t strike me as the type who listens to rumors.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why bring it up?”

I held her gaze. “Because I don’t know anything else.”

That landed. Not hard. But it landed.

She looked away first. Not in shame. Just choosing not to play the game.

“I get it,” she said. “You’re still trying to figure everyone out.”

“Only when they talk to me.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Another pause. The kind that stretches because no one’s willing to break it.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” she said finally.

“You were quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Noted.”

She tapped her nail lightly against her mug, then looked over at me again. Her eyes weren’t soft. But they weren’t guarded either.

“You’re different,” she said.

“From what?”

“Most people.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

I watched her sip from her mug again, slow and deliberate. She never broke eye contact for long. Even when she looked away, it felt like her attention never actually left me.

“You say that like it’s a compliment,” I said.

“It might be.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You always this vague?”

“Only when I’m still deciding.”

“On what?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just leaned back against the counter, holding her mug with both hands like it kept her steady.

“Whether or not you’re a problem,” she said.

I smirked. “And?”

“Jury’s still out.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. Not cutting. Just honest. Refreshingly so.

“I don’t think I’m a problem,” I said.

She gave a small shrug. “Neither did the last guy.”

Something in her tone sharpened. Just enough to notice.

I didn’t push.

But I remembered that. The way she said it. The edge that lived underneath her calm.

We stood in silence again, this one a little heavier. Not uncomfortable—just weighted. Like both of us were carrying something neither of us was ready to drop yet.

Then Winter broke it, setting her mug down and crossing her arms.

“You were with Ningning last night.”

It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

Her gaze didn’t shift.

“And Giselle before that.”

Another fact.

I waited for the judgment. Or the sarcasm. Or the obvious question.

It didn’t come.

Instead, she nodded. Once.

Then said, “You don’t act like someone who’s trying to get passed around.”

“Is that what you think is happening?”

“No,” she said. “If it were, I don’t think I’d be talking to you right now.”

That caught me off guard.

Not because it was harsh—but because it wasn’t.

Because it felt like something else.

Something closer to… curiosity.

“Why are you?” I asked.

Winter tilted her head slightly. “I don’t know yet.”

There was something honest in the way she said it. Like she wasn’t used to guessing, but didn’t mind being unsure. Not with me.

“You confuse people,” she said. “Giselle’s always been hard to reach. Ningning doesn’t let her guard down like that. Not for fun. And then you show up.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re not who I expected.”

“That makes two of us.”

She cracked the faintest smile.

It didn’t last long.

Then she stepped forward—slow, quiet, just enough to close the space between us.

Not touching.

But close enough for her voice to drop into something softer.

“You’re not trying to be anyone. That’s what they notice.”

“What do you notice?”

She looked at me for a long second. Like she was trying to solve something only half-built.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She didn’t move away.

Didn’t touch me either.

We just stood there in that pocket of silence—her mug still resting behind her on the counter, her breath steady. I could see the way her chest rose and fell beneath the fabric of her hoodie. Unbothered. Except she wasn’t. Not really.

There was a flicker there.

A hesitation just behind her gaze. A breath she hadn’t taken yet.

“You always this blunt?” I asked.

“Only when it’s easier than pretending.”

“And is this easy?”

“No,” she said. “But it’s real.”

That caught me.

Something about the way she said it. Like it wasn’t meant for me, but for herself. Like she was giving herself permission to stop holding it all together for a second.

I nodded slowly.

“Real’s good,” I said.

Her expression didn’t shift much, but her weight leaned ever so slightly in my direction. A tilt of the hips. A fraction closer.

“What happens next?” she asked.

I tilted my head. “You tell me.”

She studied me again.

And this time, she was analyzing. She was watching the way I stood. How relaxed my shoulders were. How still my hands stayed when I wasn’t trying to push, or prove anything. Her eyes flicked to my mouth. Not long. Just enough.

Then—

“You’re not like the last guy,” she said again, softer this time.

“Less cologne?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But he always needed to be the loudest thing in the room.”

I smiled, just a little. “Guess I prefer being noticed for different reasons.”

“Like what?”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t have one. Because I wanted her to fill in the space.

She didn’t.

But she stepped closer.

Bare feet on cool tile. A breath between us. The smell of cinnamon and coffee on her sweatshirt, faint traces of something floral clinging to her skin.

Her voice dropped lower.

“You said yes to breakfast.”

“I did.”

“Then why haven’t you touched your plate?”

I looked down. The food had gone lukewarm.

I looked back up.

Her mouth twitched. The faintest curve.

“Something more interesting came up,” I said.

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t move away either.

Instead, she reached up and slowly—deliberately—tugged the drawstring of her hoodie a little tighter.

“I’m not fragile.” she said.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But people think it.”

“I wasn't.”

“I know.”

The silence shifted again.

Not tension this time.

Readiness.

She leaned in, not quite touching me, her voice dropping like it was meant only for my chest.

“Come find me when you’re done pretending to eat.”

Then she turned.

Walked out of the kitchen. No look back. No pause.

Just that soft click of her bedroom door.

I didn’t follow her right away.

Stayed in the kitchen, letting the coffee go cold, the eggs congeal. My hand rested lightly on the counter. The other rubbed a line down the side of my neck, where stress always lingered when I didn’t know what I wanted.

But I did know.

Eventually.

I crossed the hallway in near silence, bare feet brushing hardwood, passing framed photos I hadn’t noticed before. Staged smiles. Glamorous lighting. Versions of her that belonged to the world. Not the girl who just told me I confused her.

I stopped outside her door.

No sounds. No music. No movement. Just a soft, ambient hush.

I knocked once.

Didn’t wait for an answer.

The door creaked open and there she was—on the bed, back against the headboard, knees pulled to her chest. Her sweatshirt was gone. Just a soft black tank now. Her hair was still twisted up, but looser. Like she’d tried to relax and halfway succeeded.

She didn’t look surprised.

Didn’t look guarded either.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

Her voice wasn’t coy. Wasn’t cracked open either. Just a single syllable—quiet, even.

“Wasn’t sure if you meant it.”

“I did.”

She shifted slightly, letting her knees fall apart a bit, making room without making it obvious. She didn’t pat the mattress or motion me closer. Just waited.

I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

The room smelled like linen and lotion and something subtle that made me think of clouds—if clouds had moods. If they hovered heavy and close enough to touch.

I didn’t sit right away.

Just looked at her.

“I don’t really know what this is.”

Winter shrugged. “Then maybe stop trying to define it.”

That landed softer than I expected. Not a warning. Just a survival strategy.

I nodded.

Then sat beside her.

Close, but not too close.

“You always let strangers in?” I asked.

“You’re not a stranger.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She glanced at me sideways.

“Most people want something. You just… show up and don’t flinch.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Still deciding.”

We sat in that for a minute.

The kind of quiet that thickens if you don't move through it.

Then she spoke—calmer this time.

“You’re careful, you know.”

I looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Even when you let go. You do it in pieces. On your own terms.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she added. “It’s just… not how people usually are with me.”

I swallowed. “Maybe I don’t know how to be any other way.”

She nodded like she understood. Then tilted her head slightly.

“You ever think about walking away from all this?”

“From what?”

“This world. Everything that runs on attention.”

I frowned. “I’m not exactly famous.”

“Not yet.”

She held my eyes when she said that.

And I believed her.

Winter didn’t say anything after that. She just looked at me like she was still thinking it over—me, not the moment. Like I was a puzzle with one or two pieces missing and she couldn’t decide if that made it more or less interesting.

I leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out. “Is that a good thing?”

“That you’re not famous? Or that you’re half-closed off even when you’re open?”

“Either.”

She gave the faintest shrug. “It means I can’t predict you.”

“That bothers you?”

“It scares me a little.”

There was no bite in her voice. No irony. Just honesty.

I looked down at my hands. “You’ve got control in most rooms, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

I glanced back up. “So maybe that’s what this is.”

“What?”

“You’re wondering if you should let someone in who doesn’t play by your rules.”

Winter’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite disagreement.

“I think I just want to know you,” she said.

That hit deeper than it should’ve. Simple words. Big weight.

I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t.

She adjusted how she was sitting—legs stretched out now, side of her thigh brushing mine. Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just a shift in shape, in space.

A beat passed.

Then she asked, “Do you love Giselle?”

I blinked.

It wasn’t an accusation. Just a question that dropped into the silence like a pebble in still water.

“Do you always ask questions like that?” I said quietly.

She didn’t backpedal. “Sometimes.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “It’s complicated.”

Winter nodded. “That’s what people say when they don’t know if they’re in trouble.”

That pulled a small laugh out of me, and it seemed to soften something in her too.

“But no,” I said. “I don’t love her.”

“Not yet?”

I turned slightly toward her. “I’m not here to break anyone, if that's what you're worried about.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “Some of us are already cracked.”

Neither of us moved after that.

I didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t ask what she meant.

But I wanted to know.

She was sitting so still, eyes forward, hands resting lightly in her lap. But her shoulders weren’t tense. Her spine wasn’t stiff. She looked… at rest. Which made the things she wasn’t saying feel louder.

“Are you always this open?” I asked after a while.

“No,” she said. “But you’re not trying to impress me.”

“Should I?”

She looked over at me again, her eyes slower now, a little warmer. “No.”

We both leaned back against the headboard, and for a few seconds, we just breathed.

Then she said, “You think I’m cold, don’t you?”

The question caught me off guard.

“Where’d that come from?”

“I see the way people look at me sometimes. Like I’m made of glass. Pretty, but cold. Untouchable.”

“Maybe they’re afraid to find out they’re wrong.”

Winter turned her head to face me. Her eyes were still sharp, but there was something soft behind them now.

“And are you?”

“Afraid?” I asked.

“Afraid to find out.”

I didn’t answer right away.

She shifted slightly—just enough for her thigh to press against mine. Not an accident this time. Her body language said she was letting me close. Or maybe testing if I’d flinch now that the air had changed.

“I think,” I said slowly, “you’re careful about what you give. But not cold.”

That earned me the smallest smile. “You’re not wrong.”

She picked at the hem of her tank for a moment, like her fingers needed something to do. Then she exhaled through her nose and said, “You keep your walls up too.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re talking.”

“Because of our walls?”

“Because neither of us is pretending we don’t have them.”

Winter nodded once, then turned toward me—closer now, just enough to shift the air. Her knees brushed mine.

Her eyes met mine.

No bravado. No coyness. Just a steady, unreadable look. She didn’t lean in.

She waited.

So I moved first.

The kiss wasn’t deep. Wasn’t fast. It was the kind that didn’t need explanation—soft, slow, just enough pressure to mean I see you. I felt her breathe in through her nose, then relax into it, just a little.

No one was trying to take control.

When I pulled back, her lips stayed parted, eyes still on me.

And then she said, quiet and steady:

“You don’t kiss like someone with walls.”

She didn’t speak again for a while.

Just sat there beside me, eyes half on mine, half on something behind them I couldn’t see. But her body hadn’t moved away. She hadn’t tucked her knees in or rebuilt the space between us. If anything, her shoulder was closer now. Her hand a little looser in her lap.

I waited.

Not to be polite. But because I was learning her rhythm. You don’t just pull open something that’s still settling. You give it time. Let it breathe.

Then, quiet—

“Do you like being touched?”

I turned to her. “That’s a loaded question.”

A flicker crossed her face. Not a smile. Not exactly. But something.

“I mean carefully,” she said. “Not to take. Not to overpower.”

I thought about it. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

Winter nodded too. Then let her hand drift between us, palm up, resting lightly on the mattress. Not touching me. Just there. An offer without demand.

I looked at it for a second. Then placed mine in hers.

Her fingers closed gently. Deliberate. Warm.

Then she stood, still holding my hand. Took a step to to the side without a word, and let her fingers slip from mine.

She didn’t tell me to follow. Didn’t have to.

I joined her.

She turned toward the dresser. Opened the top drawer.

I saw her fingertips move over the edge of something. A black blindfold. A small glass bottle. A candle, vanilla.

Her touch lingered on each, but she didn’t take them out. Not yet.

“I don’t like pain,” she said, eyes still on the drawer. “But I like contrast, control.”

Her voice was low. Steady.

Then after a pause-

"Sometimes the best way to keep it is to give it to someone who won't abuse it."

She turned and met my eyes. No blush. No teasing. Just calm honesty.

“I want to know what you’ll do with that.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Just stepped closer.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “But I won’t be soft.”

Winter held my gaze.

Then slowly pulled off her tank, baring the long line of her torso. She wore nothing underneath. Her breasts high, skin soft and almost luminescent in the lamplight. She stepped toward me.

But didn’t close the gap.

She waited.

I reached for her pants.

Undressed her quietly. Nothing rushed. No show.

Just skin, smooth under fabric. Cool air rising around warm hips. She stepped out of them and stood still. Not posing. Not shy. Just… waiting to be seen.

When I looked up, her face was unreadable.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she said. “But I want to feel it.”

And then she moved to the bed.

Laid down, one leg bent, arms loose at her sides.

“I don’t need you to be gentle.” she added.

I reached for the blindfold.

The blindfold was soft.

Fabric, not leather. Not for restraint. Just to take the edges off the world. I brought it to her face slowly, watching her breathe.

“You sure?” I asked.

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

When I slipped it over her eyes, her lips parted slightly. But she didn’t flinch. She adjusted to the dark like it was familiar. Like she’d chosen it before.

I let her sit in it for a second.

Just the blindfold, her bare skin, and the hush that filled the room like water.

Her hands lay flat against the sheets. Her spine gently arched, her knees relaxed. No tension, but no surrender either. Stillness with intent.

I leaned close, my mouth brushing her jaw. “Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

“Nothing does,” she whispered. “Yet.”

I left her like that.

Walked around the room slow, silent. Let her feel the absence, the anticipation.

The bottle on the dresser was oil—almond, vanilla. I warmed a few drops between my palms and moved back to her, quiet as breath.

The first touch was to her thigh.

She twitched, just a little. Not a recoil. More like acknowledgement.

I worked upward with my hands—slow, firm strokes, no rush to arrive anywhere. Just connection. Pressure and warmth and patience. I circled her hip, the curve of her waist, the hollow under her ribs.

Every time I touched a new part of her, her lips parted a little more. Her chest lifted.

I leaned in, kissed her neck just below her ear.

Her breath hitched.

Then I lit the candle.

The flame was steady. Low.

I waited, letting the heat build until a bead of wax gathered at the edge.

Then I tilted it.

A single drop.

It landed just beneath her collarbone, and she gasped—not pain, not fear. Just shock. Her hands gripped the sheets.

She didn’t speak.

I kissed the same spot, lips soft against the heat.

Another drop. This time lower. Just above her navel.

She arched. Whispered something that wasn’t a word.

I kept going. Wax. Mouth. Wax. Mouth.

Temperature and touch.

She was breathing harder now. Her body shifting, reacting to every change. No noise but the faint flick of the candle and her quiet, stuttering exhale.

I dragged my palm up the inside of her thigh. Not high enough. Not yet.

“Still good?” I asked, voice low against her skin.

She nodded. “More.”

The word came out cracked. Hungry.

I blew out the candle and put it on a shelf.

Then reached between her legs.

She was soaked.

I didn’t go straight for it.

I let my hands explore first—palming her thighs, brushing along the crease of her hip, slow enough to make her wonder if I’d ever get where she needed me. Her skin was warm, still tingling from the wax, the blindfold, the waiting. It felt like she was humming under my touch.

She shifted slightly, legs parting just enough.

I dragged two fingers along her slit.

She inhaled sharply.

“…fuck.”

I did it again. Slower. Let the wetness coat my fingers before easing them inside. She was tight—tense, not from resistance but from how hard she was trying to stay composed.

Her body opened for me in slow waves.

“Ahh…”

I pushed deeper, letting the angle adjust until I felt the right spot—then pressed up. Not hard. Just firm. Steady.

Her hips jerked.

“Shit—”

I grinned against her thigh and curled my fingers again.

She exhaled, long and shaky. Then whispered, “Mylo…”

Just that. No question. No plea.

Just my name.

I kissed her stomach. My thumb grazed her clit, light enough to tease. Her legs twitched.

“F—fuck…”

Her voice was breathy, high in the back of her throat.

Not desperate.

Not yet.

Just ready.

I built a rhythm. Nothing frantic. Just slow, thick strokes inside her, thumb flicking gentle circles, enough to make her lose her breath in pieces.

“Ah… ahh… mm—fuck—”

Her hands gripped the sheets. Her thighs tried to close, then spread wider. She was panting now, a little faster with every curl of my fingers.

“God—”

I felt her pulse start to race.

She wasn’t falling apart.

But she was unraveling.

Bit by bit.

And I didn’t stop.

She flinched a little when I slipped my fingers out, but didn’t say a word.

Didn’t pout. Didn’t beg. Just exhaled slow, shaky, as if trying to reset herself. Her hands were still open on the sheets, muscles flexing, resisting the urge to clench. She was unraveling carefully—measured—but I could see it.

“Don’t move.” I said.

She nodded once, tiny.

I moved to the small shelf by the window where the candle still sat—vanilla, half-used, wick unburnt. I struck a match. The flame hissed, then caught, spilling smoke and sugar into the room.

I let it burn.

Not for mood.

For heat.

While the scent bloomed through the air, I opened the mini fridge. Cold air rushed out. Inside—glass water bottle, already sweating with condensation. And on top of the fridge, a metal spoon. Clean. Light. Silver.

I grabbed both.

Then I waited.

Waited for the wax to pool.

She was already waiting for me from the bed. Breathing heavy, legs parted. Still flushed. Still damp. Still trying not to look like she was waiting for the next wave to hit.

I knelt again, one hand on her thigh.

She twitched.

Not from surprise—from anticipation.

I lifted the spoon and held it over the flame.

A few seconds.

Then touched it with my fingers.

Too hot.

Perfect.

I didn’t warn her.

Pressed the back of the spoon to the inside of her thigh.

She jolted like I’d shocked her.

“Shit—!”

No playacting. No noise for attention.

Just a raw sound, torn from somewhere deep in her throat.

Her thighs flexed. Her fists clenched into the sheets.

I waited a beat, then moved higher. Pressed again.

She exhaled through her nose, sharp and ragged.

"You’re okay," I murmured.

Her head nodded once. Tense. Silent.

I reached for the water bottle.

This time, no fingers.

I pressed the mouth of the bottle directly against her folds—slick and hot and swollen—and let the cold pour out.

She gasped like she’d been punched in the gut.

“F-fuck—!”

The water ran down her pussy in clean rivulets, spilling between her thighs and onto the mattress. She squirmed but didn’t close her legs. She was trying to outlast it. Pretend it wasn’t breaking her.

But I saw it.

The quiver in her abdomen.

The way her lips parted without sound.

She was slipping.

I leaned in. Let my mouth follow the path of the water. Licked the cold from her skin, then the heat underneath it.

Her back arched immediately.

“Fuck—”

I sucked gently on her clit, just once, then again—slow, rhythmic pressure—and her whole body stuttered.

She was coming apart one edge at a time.

Then I reached for the spoon again.

Pressed the warm metal against her mound. Just enough to make her twitch.

Then: the wax.

It had started to pool in the base of the glass.

I tilted the candle.

Let a drop fall.

It landed just below her navel.

She flinched—hard.

Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came.

Another drop.

Lower.

She jerked and gasped.

“Fucking—fuck—!”

I moved my hand between her legs. Slid two fingers inside. Curled them.

She clenched—tight and sudden—like her whole body had been waiting for that.

I worked her slow. Purposeful. Every curl hit deep, every twist dragged tension higher.

Then: one more drop of wax.

Right above her clit.

She didn’t scream.

She moaned like her voice cracked under the weight of it.

“M-Mylo—”

Her fingers clawed at the sheets.

I sucked the waxed skin clean. Kissed it like worship. Then dropped my head again, tongue circling her clit while my fingers pressed and curled and coaxed.

She whimpered—fought it.

Fought me.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Just kept her right there—pinned between heat and cold and need. Until finally—

She snapped.

“FUCK—oh god—I’m—ohhh—!”

Her hips jerked off the bed. Her thighs locked. She came like her body was trying to fight it off, like she didn’t want to be undone again so soon.

But it didn’t matter.

She was.

She ground herself against my mouth. Cried out. Shook. Her voice cracked as her orgasm rolled through her like a second storm breaking the first.

When she dropped back to the mattress, she was boneless. Wrecked.

I thought she might be done.

But then her voice broke through the silence—hoarse and shaking.

“…more.”

I looked up.

“What?”

Her eyes opened, glassy.

“I said more.”

I leaned over, kissed the inside of her knee, and smiled against her skin.

“Good girl.”

But this time, it wasn’t about praise.

It was a promise.

Her legs were still shaking when I dragged her back on the bed.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t say a word.

Just let herself be pulled, back flat against the sheets, her breath still uneven and eyes dazed. Her lips were parted, swollen from kissing, from moaning, from everything we’d already done. But that look—the one that dared me to keep going—was still there, hidden in the fog.

I slid between her thighs.

She blinked up at me, lashes heavy.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispered.

I didn’t.

I lined myself up, gripped her hips, and pressed in slowly—inch by inch—until I bottomed out. No barriers. No pause. Just the heat of her wrapped around me, wet and trembling.

Her gasp was sharp.

“F-fuck—”

“You feel that?” I breathed against her neck. “That’s how far you came for me.”

Her hands found my shoulders. Then my back. Then dragged down, nails biting as I pulled back—slow—and drove in again.

She choked on her breath.

I locked my arms around her and started to move. Deep, hard thrusts that knocked the breath out of her lungs, knocked soft whimpers out of her throat. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her hips rolled up to meet mine.

There was no rhythm at first—just hunger. Raw, greedy friction. Her heels pressed into my back. She wanted more. Needed more. And I gave it to her.

Faster.

Rougher.

Her head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, hair sticking to her cheeks.

“You like this?” I growled.

“Yes—yes, fuck, Mylo—”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable, but she didn’t stop moving. She clung to me, took every thrust like she was trying to pull more out of me. Her body was on fire. Slick. Squeezing.

“Harder,” she begged. “Please—fuck me—harder—”

I pinned her wrists above her head and gave it to her.

The bed groaned.

The air was thick with breath and skin and sweat.

And she was close again.

I could feel it in the way she clenched.

In the way her breath stuttered.

In the high, trembling pitch of her moans.

“You’re gonna cum again,” I said, barely able to keep my voice steady. “Aren’t you?”

She nodded. Desperate. Mouth open.

“Say it.”

Her whole body shook. Her legs spasmed.

“I’m—fuck—I’m cumming—!”

And she did.

Hard.

Her back arched. Her pussy clamped down on me, tight and slick and pulsing. She moaned loud and broken, riding it out with everything she had. She didn’t care about noise anymore. She didn’t care about anything but the orgasm tearing through her like it owned her.

I fucked her through it.

Fucked her until she was twitching.

Until she couldn’t moan—just gasp.

And then I followed.

Buried deep, head dropped against her shoulder, jaw tight as I spilled inside her. It hit hard. Deep. My whole body locked as I groaned her name low against her skin.

I didn’t pull out.

I stayed inside her.

And she didn’t let go.

Her legs were still around me, locked tight.

Neither of us moved for a long second.

My breath was in her ear, shallow and ragged. Hers was all over the place—tiny, gasping inhales like she was trying to remember how lungs worked. Her nails were dragging light lines down my back now, not scratching anymore, just touching. Feeling.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” she murmured.

My lips curved against her shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“So?” Her voice was wrecked. Throat dry. Defiant anyway.

I shifted, starting to pull back—slow, careful, overstimulated skin dragging against overstimulated heat.

She groaned.

Her thighs twitched.

And then her teeth were on my lip.

Hard.

A sharp, claiming bite—not enough to draw blood, but close. Enough to make me flinch.

My hand gripped her throat in return—not squeezing, just reminding her.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Still wild. Still hungry.

“Don’t think this means I'm yours now,��� she whispered. “You didn’t win anything.”

I leaned in, lips ghosting across hers. “I didn’t know it was a competition.”

She grinned—exhausted, sated, but still her.

And then her body finally slumped.

Completely.

I eased out, slowly, holding her hips while she whimpered—high and soft and broken.

My cum trickled out between her thighs, wet and warm.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t close her legs. Just lay there, staring up at the ceiling like she’d been wrung out and left to dry.

“You good?” I asked, brushing hair off her cheek.

“Mmm,” she hummed. “Define good.”

“Still alive?”

“Barely.”

I smiled. Then bent and kissed her—slow, no tongue this time. Just pressure. Just closeness.

She kissed me back like she wasn’t ready to let the moment go.

When I pulled away, she sighed. One arm stretched above her head, the other lazily traced lines along my arm.

I didn’t say anything. Just shifted to lie beside her, one leg tangled with hers, hand still resting against her stomach.

The room was thick with the smell of sex.

Of her.

Of us.

And for the first time all night… we were still.

Quiet.

I didn’t say anything at first. Eventually, I leaned up, peeled myself out of the tangle of limbs, and crossed the room to grab the a towel—clean, soft, folded by the closet. I soaked it with warm water from the bathroom sink, wrung it out, then came back.

She watched me through heavy-lidded eyes. Didn’t move.

I started with her neck. Gentle, slow. Then her stomach. The insides of her thighs. I traced every spot the wax had touched, cleaning carefully—pausing when she flinched again, then going slower. Her skin was flushed in places, but not red. Not burned.

She didn’t speak until I reached the curve of her hip.

“I liked it,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and kept going. The towel moved with care—across the spots I’d dripped heat, and the ones I’d cooled down with water, and the places I’d touched like I was memorizing them.

When I was done, I tossed the towel into the corner and lay back beside her.

My throat was dry. My hand found the water bottle on the nightstand and twisted the cap off, but I didn’t drink it.

I brought it to her instead.

Winter was still stretched out across the sheets, one arm thrown over her eyes like she couldn’t bear the overhead light, the other resting loosely over her stomach. Her chest rose in slow, shallow breaths. Her lips were parted.

She looked wrecked. Stunning. Real.

I touched her knee gently, and her arm moved just enough to peek up at me.

“Drink,” I said.

She blinked. Groggy. But took the bottle. She sat up slow, shoulders rounding forward, and drank without a word.

I stayed standing for a second. Just watching her.

Then grabbed my shirt from the floor. Not to wear—just to wipe the sweat from her collarbone, the back of her neck, the curve of her side. She let me.

“You alright?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You sure?”

She looked up, hair sticking to her cheek. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

“No?”

She smirked, sleepy. “You’re kind of dangerous.”

I grinned. “You’re kind of insane.”

“Fair.”

She handed me the bottle again, and I drank this time, then sat beside her on the edge of the bed. She leaned into my side without being asked, her cheek pressing against my ribs.

“I don’t usually like being… touched after,” she murmured.

I pulled my hand from her hair, just in case.

But she reached up, stopped me. “No. This is okay.”

We sat like that for a while. Breathing.

The room smelled like sex. Wax. Skin. Vanilla.

Eventually, I stood again. “You should eat something.”

She made a soft noise. “I’d rather melt.”

“You can melt later.”

I walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen. It was still warm from earlier. Light from the fridge caught the edge of a note still taped to the cabinet—Ningning’s handwriting, bubbly and quick.

Don’t forget to eat something.

I found a leftover croissant in a bakery box near the counter, along with some juice. A ridiculous price tag was still half-peeled on the side—$19.50.

My mouth went dry.

A flash. Another tag. Another room. “Just smile, baby. It’s for all of us. He paid. That’s what matters.”

I blinked. Swallowed.

Took a breath.

Then turned back toward the hallway.

Winter was sitting up when I got back, wrapped in the top sheet now, arms resting over her knees. I handed her the croissant and juice. She took both.

Then broke the croissant in half and offered me a piece.

I shook my head.

She paused. “You’re not hungry?”

“No.”

A beat.

Her eyes lingered. Not in suspicion. Not even concern. Just… noticing.

I sat beside her again, slower this time.

She didn’t eat right away. Just leaned into me again. My arm slid around her waist. Her head found my chest.

And we stayed like that.

Breathing.

Grounded.

Safe.

After a minute, she shifted—just slightly—and looked up at me. Her brow furrowed. Like she was seeing something she hadn’t seen before.

“What?”

Her voice was soft. Almost hesitant.

I didn’t answer. Just met her gaze.

She didn’t press.

But she kept looking.

Longer than before.

PART 6

[rafey-baby]

trinket

rafe thinks his maid is just the sweetest little thing...  

prince!rafe x maid!reader 

c/w: rafe being a menace, him flirting (?) w her, some royal cameron family angst ig, brief descriptions of him having sex w another woman, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k

also this is by no means historically accurate which is why i’m not gonna name any specific era for this xx

moodboard & introduction

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Every mid-December, the palace comes alive in an entirely novel way with the bustling preparations for the annual winter ball that the king and queen host to celebrate ‘another wonderful year’.

The once quiet and calm castle transforms into something colorful and vivid with the mouthwatering smell of cakes and pastries cooking in the ovens of the royal kitchen, along with maids and other servants whirling around the long hallways as they place intricate decorations and shiny ribbons all over the broad staircases and windows. 

She’s grateful she doesn’t have to partake in the hustle and bustle all that much since her primary duties include taking care of the prince and ensuring he has everything and anything he could possibly need.  

Although right now, she sort of wishes she could be stringing up polished ornaments or garnishing elegant baked goods because apparently, being the prince’s personal maid sometimes means sitting quietly in his bedchambers (as per his request to keep him company while he’s reading) with her own thoughts and the sounds outside the door her only source of entertainment.  

Therefore, she’s elated when he suddenly turns to face her in his armchair— flitting his eyes over to her from the hefty book that seems to have made him exasperated rather than enthralled.  

“Will you join me for a walk? All this noise is makin’ m’head hurt.”

There’s enthusiasm in the nod of her head; a yearning to see the fresh layer of snow covering the trees and painting the entire kingdom with its powdery whiteness— the aftermath of last night’s blizzard. She doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the crystalline snowfall glittering under the touch of the afternoon sun— or maybe a certain pair of aquamarine eyes, but that’s beside the point.  

“That would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” she easily agrees. 

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I despise that name? There’s no need to use it when s’just me,” he scolds her before he’s straightening up and stretching out his arms over his head. 

“My apologies, it’s a habit,” she rises to her feet as well; trying her hardest not to let her eyes linger on the sliver of his stomach peeking out from underneath the silky fabric of his shirt. 

“I don’t want your apologies, want you to use my name,” he says before stepping closer— standing tall before her and forcing her to blink up at him in order to meet his eyes. “Go on, sweetheart, say it,” he practically orders; eager eyes fixed on her face.  

She hesitates under the sudden attention. He’s always seemed so fascinated by her and she doesn’t know why.  

“Um…Rafe.”  

He lets out a hum of approval. “That’s good. You ready to leave?” 

“Y— yes, uh, Rafe.”  

“Good job. Not so difficult, is it?” he coos at her almost mockingly— fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek when he tucks a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. 

She merely shakes her head— a warmth dusting over the apples of her cheeks when his touch lingers on the side of her face afterwards. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to drown in the lagoons of his eyes, but then he clears his throat and offers the palm of his hand for her to take.  

And it’s rather unusual for someone of his status to do; a prince who’s bound to wear the crown one day holding his maid’s hand isn’t exactly something that’s written in any book regarding the royal etiquette. However, he’s never been one to allow for dreadful rules and traditions to dictate his behavior, especially not towards her.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

“Are you looking forward to the winter ball?” she asks when they stop by the stables to check up on his horse, Jupiter.  

“You know I hate dancin’,” he mutters out as he watches its teeth grind on the carrot he brought with him.  

She smiles because she does know, before letting out a wistful sigh. “I wish I could attend.”

“You do? Why?” he’s perplexed by her enthusiasm towards something he considers as more tedious than anything— having to plaster on a smile for an entire night and socialize with people he doesn’t necessarily care for in order to humor his father never being something he’s particularly taken delight in.  

Especially when Sarah is going to be the one receiving all of their father’s attention anyway. Not that he cares (he does) but he would appreciate it, if for once in his life, his old man would show him even an ounce of the care he seems to so easily shower his sisters in.  

“Well, I’d love to wear a ball gown, but mostly for the food,” her feather-light voice brings him back to the moment.  

“I’ll make sure to bring you a plate ‘n you can eat it in my room then, yeah?” he promises as he runs his fingers through Jupiter’s black main.  

“You would do that?”  

“If you promise not to tell the other maids or they’re gonna accuse you of gettin’ special treatment,” his tone is playful. 

“They already do that,” she points out. “They think we spend too much time together.” 

“And what do you think?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t mind. I quite enjoy your company,” she answers truthfully. After all, she has grown quite fond of Rafe throughout the years. Sometimes she just wishes he wasn’t so overwhelming, in every sense of the word. 

“Yeah?” a smirk pulls at the side of his mouth, seemingly pleased with her answer. 

She’s certain he’s well aware of the effect he has on her— the effect he has on everyone. And she thinks that he enjoys it; relishes in toying with her for his own amusement simply because he can. He can practically do anything he wants since his father is oftentimes gone for long periods of time; fulfilling his duties for the kingdom and whatnot.  

And she knows Rafe doesn’t particularly mind the fact that his father is rarely home because he’s always been hard on him, much harder than on his sisters because whether he likes it or not, he’s set off to be the new king one day. And his reputation of having female guests over more often than not whenever his father is away doesn’t necessarily help with gaining his approval.

After all, rumor travels fast around the palace.  

Rafe once admitted to her that he often felt like a disappointment, and that the pressure of everyone’s expectations sometimes made him wish he was nothing more than a stableman. After all, he does get along with horses better than he ever has with his family— it’s not exactly a secret amongst the royal court.  

“Would you wanna go for a ride with me? Think Jupiter’s gettin’ bored,” he suddenly asks.  

“Oh, I would love to but I’ve never, um, ridden a horse before,” she timidly admits. 

“No? You wanna know how it feels? You could jus’ sit behind me, don’t need to do anythin’, yeah?” he coaxes her to say yes with a seemingly sincere smile; already walking Jupiter out of its stable and leaving her no choice but to follow them outside.   

“Really?” the frosty air causes a shiver to crawl up her spine when she eyes him, hesitant.  

“Mhm. Promise nothing’s gonna happen, I’ll take care of you. ‘N I know you’ll like it, s’very freeing,” he assures her as he’s already saddling up the horse, seemingly aware that she could never refuse him of anything.  

“Okay...if you insist,” she tentatively agrees with a nod that he rewards with a beaming grin; the icy snowflakes sticking to his hair making him look like something straight out of a fairy tale.  

Then, he’s lifting her up to straddle the entirely too big of an animal that sort of still scares her— strong hands gripping onto her hips and leaving her momentarily starstruck at how effortlessly he does it; as if she weighs nothing more than the carrot Jupiter was just chewing on.  

He follows soon after, settling down in front of her with ease before looking at her over his shoulder. “Need you to hold onto me unless you wanna fall,” he instructs, seemingly reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one teaching her something new.  

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, gingerly setting her hands on his waist, movements uncertain.  

“Gonna need you to hold on tighter, promise I won’t bite,” he huffs out a laugh before he’s grabbing her arms and wrapping them around his middle more firmly— forcing her to fully lean against his back when the sudden clip-clopping of Jupiter’s hooves against the snow-covered cobblestone causes her to let out a surprised shriek.   

“Good?” he asks, seemingly amused at the way she’s practically clutching onto him as the cottony snow prances around them. 

She manages out a hum, wondering if he can hear her poor heart loudly thumping in her ribcage when he decides to pick up the speed some more, as if she wasn’t already terrified.  

“Rafe! Can you slow down?” she squeaks out when Jupiter seems to only accelerate further underneath them.  

“Where’s the fun in that?” he lets out a hearty chuckle in response, apparently finding amusement in her utterly frightened state while she wonders why she let herself think for even one second that he had pure intentions.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Y/N? Will you go look for my son? I fear he’s once again escaped his responsibilities to God knows where,” the king requests with an exasperated sigh while she’s crouching down and helping a servant clean up the sharp pieces of a shattered wine glass— the sound of laughter and dancing flourishing around them. 

And she could swear she saw Rafe conversing with a guest only a few short moments ago. However, as she looks around in an attempt to locate the missing prince, he’s nowhere to be found.  

“Right away, Your Majesty,” she’s quick to answer with a polite smile.  

“Thank you,” he nods gratefully, seemingly fed up with his son already.  

She ensures that the poor girl who accidentally cut her finger on the broken shards is not going to faint before tiptoeing up the broad flight of stairs in order to reach the higher levels of the palace— the loud music and blooming celebrations echoing around the halls. 

“Your Highness? Are you in there?” she knocks softly on the mahogany door leading to his bedroom.  

However, she isn’t granted a response. 

“Rafe?” she tries once more before pressing her ear against the wood separating her from the muffled sounds she can now hear from the other side— brows furrowing when something akin to a whimper reaches her ears.

It sounds nothing like Rafe; it has a higher pitch, something more feminine than his usual drawl. And as she stands there, contemplating whether something is wrong or if she should just leave, the volume only amplifies.

And in a moment of cloudy judgement, she finds herself pushing down on the handle.

However, she curses her curiosity the moment the door cracks open and she’s faced with the view of some woman’s naked back. Her long, beautiful hair reminds her of lady Lydia (a daughter of one of the dukes invited to the ball) with none other than the prince himself underneath her sweaty form.  

The sheets that she changed this morning are crumpled and creased around them and without the barrier of the door, she can now hear Rafe’s low grunts as well— can see how his big hands guide her movements. And they’re both panting heavily, seemingly lost in some haze— maybe the same one that forces her to stay rooted to her spot in the doorway.  

With her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth parted, she’s not entirely sure how long she stands there for. Until out of the blue, she notices Rafe’s eyes flickering over to her— a smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches her staring. 

She tries to move her legs but they won’t listen; making his lazy grin only grow in tandem with his strained groans that seem to only increase in volume as he locks his eyes with her.  

And she can’t breathe; the air clogging her lungs instead of flowing through as her dazed mind tries to get her to do something, anything to get her to leave the room but his heady gaze seems to have hypnotized her— compelled her to stay right where she is.  

All at once, a gravelly noise rumbles from his chest— his head dropping against the cushion of his fluffy pillows, seemingly reaching some sort of a peak in his search for pleasure as the woman above him begins to slow down her movements. And that’s when she’s finally able to step away; shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the stairs with bated breaths and heart pounding in her ears.

When she reaches the bottom, she accidentally stumbles into someone holding a golden serving tray— causing it to topple over to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes before her wobbly legs are scrambling off in an attempt to locate the nearest escape route to the garden.  

And once she’s managed to make it outdoors, she feels like she can finally breathe— the crisp December wind granting her heated skin an opportunity to cool down as she sits down on one of the wooden benches with a sigh.

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Doll

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Jeongin x fem!reader

Summary: The fashionable boy needs a doll to dress — and who better than his girlfriend, the one he already loves to spoil rotten?

Warnings: Backshots in a Bottega Veneta skirt. Jeongin loves having you as his. And idk, idk — just don’t read if you’re a minor.

A/N: I’m always so nervous writing for someone who isn’t in my bias line, because yes, I know them well — but someone who has him as their bias knows them better, so I’m always scared of mischaracterizing him…

I hope you Jeongin stans enjoy it! Remember, it’s just fiction hehe… or not.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Han ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Changbin

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

At first, it started with a jacket.

A simple thing—luxurious black leather, butter-soft, the kind of piece you could wear for a lifetime.

He held it up to her in the store, sharp-eyed, calculating.

“This one,” he said simply, draping it over her shoulders like he was crowning her.

When she tried to protest—it’s too expensive, I don’t need it—he just kissed her forehead and handed over his card without blinking.

After that, it never stopped.

Little by little, Jeongin rebuilt her entire wardrobe like he was rebuilding her.

Custom-tailored dresses that skimmed her body just right.

Cashmere sweaters so soft she blushed when they slipped against her skin.

Shoes flown in from Milan, still warm from the hands that crafted them.

He never asked her opinion.

He didn’t need to.

He knew exactly what would make her look irresistible.

Exactly how to dress her—

To own her.

It wasn’t about fashion.

It was about possession.

He wanted the world to see her and know—

That every inch of her, from her earrings to her heels, was his.

────୨ৎ────

When they walked backstage of the Award Show one day, her hand tucked neatly in his, the other members’ heads snapped toward them.

She wore a simple black mini dress, barely-there straps, the fabric gliding over her like it had been painted on.

Jeongin had picked it himself.

Paired it with thin silver jewelry, a tiny designer bag, and heels that made her legs go on forever.

The boys stared.

Not even subtly.

“Bro,” Seungmin muttered under his breath.

But Jeongin didn’t get jealous.

No—he thrived on it.

He wanted them to look.

He wanted them to ache for what they could never touch.

Because she didn’t just wear the clothes.

She wore him.

Obediently.

Perfectly.

Without even realizing it.

Every time she adjusted the hem like a good girl, shyly pulling it down over her thighs—

Every time she bit her lip, self-conscious because the neckline dipped a little too low—

He watched her.

Eyes darkening.

Heat curling under his skin, slow and lethal.

────୨ৎ────

Later, when they were alone, he pushed her up against the closet door.

Pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he whispered.

“You’re mine. Dressed by me. Made for me.”

His hands slipped under the hem of the dress he bought her, fingers teasing the sensitive skin of her thighs.

“You look so good it hurts,” he growled.

“You wear my choices, you are mine.”

And when she whimpered, clutching at him—

When she tilted her chin up, silently begging for his mouth, his hands, anything he’d give—

He laughed, soft and dangerous.

“Good girl,” he said, voice low.

“My perfect, spoiled little thing.”

────୨ৎ────

A necklace clasped around her throat—Bottega Veneta, delicate, understated, real gold.

Sneakers that appeared by the door just when her old ones started to wear out—Balenciaga, crisp white, her size memorized.

Jeongin didn’t spoil her loudly.

He did it the way he did everything—with thought, with precision, with a certain boyish pride he tried to hide behind nonchalance.

Perfectly tailored coats in muted creams and charcoals, arriving on rainy afternoons like he had ordered the weather too.

Silk shirts slipped onto her body, the buttons fastened by his own hands, because, “You deserve to feel expensive every day, baby.”

And then he’d kiss her temple and say, “Perfect. Now everyone’s gonna know you’re mine.”

────୨ৎ────

The soft hiss of the Zipper sliding down her spine, teeth parting like a sigh, while Jeongin’s fingers chased it lower, knuckles grazing bare skin.

She stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but the pale slip dress he’d picked out for her that morning.

Now it pooled at her feet.

And he stood behind her, still fully dressed—white shirt open at the collar, Bottega watch glinting on his wrist, eyes so dark they made her knees weak.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice thick with something that made her shiver.

She turned.

His hands found her hips first—steady, reverent—thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles into the bone.

Then up, tracing her waist, her ribs, the delicate slope of her back.

Touching like he was redrawing her by memory.

When his mouth found her neck, she gasped—a soft, broken sound—fingers clutching at the front of his shirt like she needed something to anchor her.

“You know,” he whispered against her skin, breath hot, “every time I buy you something… it’s because I imagine unwrapping you out of it later.”

Her heart stuttered.

So did her knees.

He caught her easily, chuckling low under his breath, scooping her up effortlessly and carrying her to the bed without ever losing his mouth on her throat.

She landed among the sheets with a soft gasp, hair fanning out like a halo.

Jeongin stood over her, undoing the buttons of his shirt slowly, deliberately, letting her watch.

Letting her see the way his muscles flexed under the soft fabric, the way the veins on his arms stood out as he shrugged it off and dropped it to the floor.

When he crawled over her, his knee pressing between her thighs, she whimpered.

“Tell me,” he said, voice rough as velvet, “what do you want tonight, baby?”

She couldn’t find words.

She just grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand to her breast, arching into his palm.

“That,” she breathed. “You. All of you.”

Jeongin smiled—lazy, dangerous—and kissed her.

Kissed her until she forgot how to breathe, until the only thing she knew was the heat of his mouth, the slide of his hands, the grinding of his hips into hers.

And when he finally moved lower—kissing down her ribs, her stomach, the inside of her thighs—he didn’t rush.

Jeongin loved slow.

He teased the inside of her knee with his mouth, tracing lazy paths higher and higher, watching her fall apart bit by bit.

By the time his tongue flicked against her clit, she was already gasping, already writhing, already begging.

And he groaned—deep, guttural—like he could live on her pleasure alone.

Jeongin ate her out like a man starving.

No finesse. No performance.

Just pure hunger, pure need, pure devotion.

His tongue was slow at first—languid strokes that had her thighs shaking—then faster, harder, as he pinned her hips down and feasted.

Not just with his mouth, but with low, filthy moans that vibrated through her entire body.

Her hands clawed at the sheets, at his hair, at anything she could reach—

And when she came, sobbing his name, Jeongin didn’t stop.

He just licked deeper, slower, gentler, pulling every last tremor out of her like a man determined to drink every drop of her.

When he finally slid up her body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked down at her with a lazy, smug grin.

“You good, baby?” he whispered, brushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead.

She could barely nod.

But she managed to pull him down for a kiss, tasting herself on his lips, feeling the way he shuddered when she wrapped her arms and legs around him and refused to let go.

“You spoil me,” she whispered, still dazed.

He laughed softly against her mouth.

“You spoil me right back,” he said.

“Every time you look at me like that. Every time you smile at me like I’m your whole world.”

She kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Softer.

Because he was.

He was hers.

And she was his.

And sometimes, love looked like Bottega heels and silk sheets.

But more often, it looked like the way he held her after—bare, worshiped, safe—and the way she fell asleep every night knowing she would wake up even more loved than before.

────୨ৎ────

The Skirt was halfway off.

Bunched at her waist, the silky fabric clinging to her curves, wrinkled where he had dragged it up with shaking hands.

“Fuck—” Jeongin groaned, voice rough, desperate.

The bra straps hung off her shoulders, useless.

Her necklace—delicate, glittering, his pick—swung wildly with every movement.

Even the lace panties he had bought her, the ones with his initials stitched into the waistband, were pushed aside, leaving her open for him.

Spoiled.

Claimed.

His.

He pressed her face into the mattress, hand firm between her shoulder blades, holding her steady as he drove into her from behind.

“Look at you,” he rasped, thrusts hitting deep, filthy sounds filling the room.

“Dressed by me. Fucking ruined by me.”

She whined under him, hips arching, begging for more without words.

Her body knew him too well now—

belonged to him in ways no amount of luxury could ever explain.

Every snap of his hips made the bed creak, the frame protesting, but he didn’t slow down.

He needed her like this—

Breathless, trembling, covered in the life he built around her like armor.

“Who’s pretty girl are you, baby?” he panted, thrusting harder.

She gasped, trying to answer, but the only thing that came out was a broken moan.

He smirked, leaning down to kiss the back of her neck, sweat-slicked skin tasting like heaven.

“That’s right,” he whispered.

“You’re mine. All of you. All this—”

His hand slid down her spine, over the dress, the jewelry, the faint marks he’d left earlier along her thighs.

“—everything you wear, everything you are. Mine.”

She shattered on him then, body clenching, sobbing his name into the sheets.

And Jeongin followed her, groaning low in his chest, emptying himself deep inside her like he was branding her from the inside out.

────୨ৎ────

Later, when they lay tangled together, the city lights painting the room in soft gold, she pressed her face to his chest.

Still wearing the necklace he’d given her.

Still breathing in sync with him like they shared the same lungs.

Jeongin stared down at her, hand smoothing her hair back, heart too full for words.

She could have demanded anything from him—

Cars, houses, a life of endless luxury.

And he would have given it to her without blinking.

But she never asked for any of it.

She never wanted the clothes or the jewelry or the life.

She wanted him.

Just him.

And that was enough to make the world stop spinning under his hands.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

@zenfries @inniesfanblog

[postmortemnivis]

nobody knew simon’s name, his cold glances penetrating souls whenever someone on the force even dared to call him by his first name. he preferred it this way. he wasn’t the kind to blend personal life and work, he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror without his mask and still see a murderer. his hands were clean, protected by the gloves ghost slipped on each time he reached base. it was soon that the other soldiers almost forgot his name, agreeing that their lieutenant was indeed a ghost.

that was until your worried voice called for him.

you didn’t know of the ghost identity, it had never even crossed your mind that your simon, your sweet and caring boyfriend’s personality would switch into a cold blooded killer as soon as he set foot at base or in the field. of course he never mentioned it with you, he sporadically talked about his job and his missions. you knew he was a strict lieutenant, but you had been kept away from more by the person with the skull mask and balaclava.

“simon?” you asked for the third time the receptionist. she apologetically looked up at you and shrugged. “oh cmon, simon riley. i know for a fact that he’s here. please, i need to see him.”

“i’m very sorry miss but…” the woman shook her head again, “let me call the captain.”

you sighed and sat down by the waiting area until a man walked in and talked to the woman.

“who’re you looking for?”

you stood up. “simon. simon riley.”

“ghost?”

you shook your head, almost clueless. “no, simon riley.”

“yeah, that’s him…” he said, “he’s training the recruits now. shall i deliver a message?”

“no, i need to see him personally. i wouldn’t have come all the way here if it wasn’t important, captain.”

you'd seen price a few times, simon's loyalty to the man was almost like a dog's one, always following orders and rarely complaining. he often talked about him when he was at home, all he shared with you about his threatening job was the friends he made along the way: johnny, kyle, price, gary, nikolai. he'd often go out for a pint—or two—with johnny and kyle, who also occasionally would come to your shared apartment for dinner with their temporary girlfriends.

"follow me." price sighed. you eagerly followed him, as close as his shadow, and the courtyard came into sight. dozens and dozens of soldiers in scarlet training uniforms were running laps of the immense open space under the pale sun, and that's when you spotted a tall and muscular man in black tactical gear. hell, he was hard to miss.

"another lap, smith!" his mancunian accent was stronger than his will to neutralise it. "if my gran was alive she'd be faster than ya."

you'd recognised the voice, of course, even if it was much harsher than usual, but you couldn't recognise him.

you realised, that was ghost. his cold eyes were studying each of the recruit's tired and red faces, his arms behind his back as he barked for five more laps for the ones who didn't look sweaty enough. even his voice was different, but what shocked you was the black balaclava with the white skull drawn on top.

you'd seen the mask once or twice over the years, shoved at the bottom of his duffle bag or drying on a windowsill, but you've never given it much thought, why would you?

"si?" you asked, standing directly behind him as price stood a few feet from you.

his head snapped in your direction at a worryingly fast speed, his eyes immediately becoming soft, then confused.

"what're you doin' here?" his voice spoke, much sweeter.

you kept staring at him, not recognising the man you loved.

he immediately grabbed the crown of the balaclava and yanked it off without a second though. holding the black piece of clothing in his hand, both of them came to cup your elbows, drawing you closer to him.

"love?" he called you.

still at loss of words, you reached to the balaclava and twirled it between your fingers.

"love, talk to me." his voice sounded worried.

"ghost?"

he shook his head. "simon, love."

"we'll talk about that at home." you raised your eyebrows, attempting a smile.

he looked at you impatiently, his fingers brushing up and down your forearms.

you fished in your bag a small plastic bag and gave it to him.

this wasn't like one of the times when he'd forget his lunch at home so you'd drop by and give it to johnny so he'd give it to an always so busy simon ghost; he could see it in your eyes that this was something more.

he unwrapped the plastic bag that you had rolled up on itself. his eyes looked brighter than ever when he took with shaky fingers the finally positive pregnancy test.