#But this is the Nine Houses so never fear

[zepskies]

Omg yay!! I'm so happy you're diving back in!! Thanks, Jolly! 🥰💕💕 Catastrophic Blues is particularly fun I think (of course in an angsty way 🤣)

Digging into your lovely amazing comments below!! ⤵️

"heels you could almost walk in" LOLL Yeah, I feel you girl. And I somehow fear that she'll eventually trip up or stumble or something thanks to that detail 😂

lmao I try to keep things relatable, and this is very much a "Chekhov's gun" situation 😂

Whoa wait- there are pictures?? Noooo 😭 I bet there's something up with those but still. Now I really want to know what exactly happened that night when he stumbled into the wrong hotel room and ended up in Rachel's arms! (I'm totally not sour that they never picked that up again in the show... can you tell I just watched the last episode of Countdown and I'm just staring at the wall now like "what"? 😂)

YEP there is indeed very incriminating evidence, but as you saw later on, it wasn't what you might expect. 😅

(Omg yeah, I was dying to know more about the Melinda/Rachel situation the entire season and the fact that they never dove into it, not even in flashbacks, is a writing fail imo)

Called it. 😂 This had me snort - poor woman - of course she had to stumble in front of everyone, including her ex

Did you get secondhand embarrassment for her? 😂😂 Poor baby lol

"with all the grace of a toddler" 😂😂 This entire scene had me giggling even though I felt sooo bad for her, moments like these are THE WORST and I wish them upon no one (except my enemies maybe). 😂

And it only gets worse for her as it goes along, right? lmaoo I live for those tragic scenes that are also funny, like in a lot of rom-coms, so I tried to do that here 😂😂

Protective Mark !!! Thankfully he was there to save her from that creep!! Ah, there's that loyal and protective Rotti again... 😜

God YES, exactly!!! lol He is like a protective Rotti 😝 you already know what would've happened if the other guy pushed his luck 🤭

Oooooh so he stayed overnight?? And he got her sweets from her favorite bakery? That man clearly still cares and loves her like from day one.

That he did!! He knows he's still in the dog house (lol), but he also wants to make sure she's ok 😉 (but also he's taking advantage of an opportunity to be around her again)

I love their dynamic so much. Even though nine months have passed - and as she said "it should' have've meant something" - it is obvious how well they know each other, how he still cares deeply and how she's trying her best to keep him away.

Awww I'm so happy to hear that! 🥹 I hoped that aspect would come across — that even though this time has passed, it doesn't change what they were together and how they fall into that familiar pull of each other. Whether she admits it or not, her anger and hurt doesn't take away the fact that she still loves him too. (and he obviously still cares about her)

I'm on Mark with this one. And the imagery of her stubborn attempt to proof something was hilarious 😂

LOL reader just can't catch a break around this man, can she? 😂 She knows Mark is right too, but again she just can't admit it lmao

He's such a yapper I love it 😂 Again, their dynamic despite everything is just so good <3 I was enjoying their back and forth but then you came around the corner with this one?? And I just-

He really is, isn't he? It could be a bit of a coping mechanism for distracting her and himself from his deeper feelings, but it's a fun grumpy x sunshine bit 😂😂

But omg yeah, that "Turns out... I'm sick, baby" -> kills even ME every time. 😭😭😭

This has me sniffle - please - those soft words of him. 😭😭😭 I liked how you gave Rachel some backstory and hidden agenda / motivation and how Mark somehow ended up accepting the big lie because he thought it was for the better - it gave the entire 'canon event' more depth and makes it more believable. (Too bad the show missed the chance to solve it as amazingly as you did. But good thing we've got fics for that lolol) ... ps: I still don't like her sister though. She can trip and take the entire table down with her 😒

Aw it is soft, but somehow hits so hard in my mind. 💙 You'll learn even more about Rachel and her shitty motivations in the next part, Sister, Sister. But I felt like for Mark it had to be something like this in canon because he doesn't strike me as a guy that would cheat, where he let Melinda think what she wanted because it was easier to let her go that way. I'm so glad you thought it was more believable too! (As always, we gotta fill in our own blanks with fanfic 🤣🤣)

Oh her sister is hot garbage -- immature and vindictive 🤮

What a beautiful end to this chapter! It's bitter but also sweet with them finally being together and on the same page again. I can't wait to see where you're taking their relationship and how you'll weave it into the canon plot. Amazing job, my friend!! Can't wait to get my heart broken over and over with the angst! 🧡

Aww thank you!! All that angst had to get cathartic somehow, and for me it was all to get to that last moment where she holds him close and they both take that breath together (on the same page). 💜

I didn't plan for this, but I basically ended up writing this series alongside season 1 as it was airing, so you'll see a lot more canon weaving as we go along! (With a lot of hearbreaking angst, but also a lot of fun and smutty and fluffy moments in between 💕💕)

Thank you again so much for reading!!

CATASTROPHIC BLUES

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

AN: Okay, so this was only supposed to be a 1K drabble sequel to DOWNGRADE for my lovely friend, @waynes-multiverse, but of course it snowballed on me lol. (And there’s a little more to come!) This is set during early season 1, let’s say between 1x02 and 1x03.

Song Inspo: “Hits Different” by Taylor Swift (YT)

Word Count: 6.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, drunkenness, skeevy men, Mark doing his best with an angry, hungover reader (bit of grumpy x sunshine), talk of cheating, what really happened, and other truths revealed…

Series Masterlist

Nine months. It should’ve meant something.

You should be able to go out with your friends to the club. You should be able to feel confident in one of your favorite dresses and the tallest pair of heels you could almost walk in.

You should be able to let loose on the dance floor, letting the closest attractive guy grind on your ass.

He later offered to get you a drink, his hot breath in your ear. An uncomfortable chill ran down your spine. But you know what? Fuck it.

You went back with him to the bar, taking the chance to rest your achy feet. He tried to make small talk with you, despite you being stiff and awkward now that you couldn’t distract yourself with the vibes of the music running through your body. Now the thump thump thump of the bass was too much, too distracting for a normal conversation.

Blake was an oxymoron—he dressed like a wealthy hipster and talked like a frat bro. He had the skinny jeans and a silky patterned shirt, a thin gold chain around his neck, an obnoxious gold pinky ring, and a trendy cropped haircut. You regretted letting him buy you a drink, but then again, you never wasted good vodka.

You also started to get suspicious when one of your friends “casually” came up on his other side.

“Ask her about her job,” Sarah whispered. You just barely caught it.

“Oh, yeah. So, uh, what do you do?” Blake asked you. You were pretty sure he was more interested in your cleavage than your job.

“I’m an assistant to the Head District Attorney of California,” you said blandly.

The guy blinked. “…Oh. Cool.”

“And what do you do, Blake?”

“Well, my dad owns an advertisement company, so I do some stuff for him every now and then. But mostly I’m a competitive gamer. Like, uh, League of Legends, Counter Strike, Mortal Kombat. What about you? You a gamer?”

Blinking slow, then sighing, you leaned over and locked eyes with Sarah, one of your best friends and a well-known esthetician in L.A.

“Where’d you find the trust fund baby?” you asked. “He one of your clients? Let me guess. He likes his asshole bleached the same shade as his hair.”

Sarah bit her lip in embarrassment. Blake coughed and spluttered into his scotch. You didn’t stick around for the predictable denial and slid off the bar stool. You gave him $15 for your drink, downed the rest of it in one long gulp, and savored the rush of it tingling through your head on your way out of the club.

“Wait!” Sarah called after you. Your other two friends just rolled their eyes and stayed behind to keep drinking and dancing. They were used to your antics by now, just like you were used to theirs. They'd been trying to set you up on dates for a couple of months now. This one was the sneakiest by far.

Sarah, for her part, never let you walk out alone.

“Next time you try to set me up with someone, can you please just tell me,” you said tiredly, “instead of pretending you want to hang out with me?”

Sarah deflated. “Look, we’re just trying to help.”

“I know,” you said, holding yourself against the chill in the air. “I know, okay? I know you guys want me to move on, because I’m a fucking bummer. I know I’m…I’m not handling all this as well as I should be. And I know they still talk to Rachel.”

Tears stung in your eyes, but you sucked in a subtle breath. Sarah’s blue eyes were sad and glassy with guilt, even if it was just by association.

“Go back inside,” you said eventually. “I’ll just take an Uber home.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ended up at a bar down the street. You barely ever went clubbing anymore, but you hadn’t stepped foot into a real bar in nine months.

“Come on, sweetheart. You really want to do this here?”

“You’re one to fucking talk! But you know what? Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to say. I just…I don’t know how you could do this to me.”

“Please,” he said. The green of his eyes were desperate. It was the first time you ever heard him beg. “Just let me explain.”

You wouldn’t let him touch you, let alone try to hold you. The thought alone made you sick.

“I saw you, Mark. I saw the goddamn pictures. And my sister told me all about how your last night of ‘freedom’ went. But you know what? You’re fucking free.”

You put the ring in the palm of his hand. He stared down at it, jaw clenched. Meanwhile, hot tears streamed down your face.

You walked away first—out of the seaside bar in beautiful Venice, California, with every piece of your heart bleeding out into the street.

Another vodka cranberry at the end of the bar turned into shots you couldn’t name or count. You rebuffed men who tried to talk to you. You ignored the voice in your head that sounded a lot like your dad.

Sweet girl, what the hell’re you doin’?

You stopped trying to answer that question a long time ago. Just like your friends had stopped trying to get you out of the house after work. No more wine tastings or Sunday brunches. No more weekends at the beach. The coarse grains of sun-bleached sand would only remind you of Santa Cruz—a sweltering summer, a perfect day, now fractured and wrong in your mind’s eye.

A fucking lie.

Another empty glass hitting the bar counter drowned out the salty crash of ocean waves, but you finally had to stop when your stomach churned with alcoholic slosh. Your brain reeled when you tried to blink. Your eyes felt dry, irritated, and glassy at the same time.

You got up from your seat and used the wall like an anchor on your way to the bathroom. You checked yourself in the mirror there. Your black dress, your hair, and your makeup were still intact, so you supposed you still looked good, if absent in the eyes. Again, you blinked too hard. Fuck.

On your way back out, new noise was filling the bar. A whole group of four or five people came in and grabbed seats at the bar, laughing, ordering drinks, giving each other shit. They sounded like cops. You knew, because you’d grown up around them your entire life.

“All right, Oliveras. What’re you drinking?”

You stopped short at the voice, deep and rich like aged whiskey. In fact, you needed the back of an empty chair to hold you steady.

“What, you're buying?” she shot back.

Amber. You recognized her profile and the litheness of her frame. You two were old friends, since you roomed together back in college. You hadn’t heard from her in months though. She had called to give her condolences when your almost-marriage fell apart.

And now, your ex-fiancé had an arm draped casually behind her chair. His smile was effortless, charming, the crows’ feet around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Well, within reason,” he replied, inclining his head. “I think I’m in the mood for some good fuckin’ whiskey—”

You stumbled in your stupid heels. You nearly took a whole table with you, but two chairs broke your fall. Almost all the cops in the group looked your way, their heads swiveling with a trained response to sudden sounds. Your name fell from Amber’s lips, a small, shocked breath.

Mark’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening when you looked up at him on reflex. You were forced to take him in, his green eyes, the new haircut, the well-trimmed beard, the jeans and dark blue jacket. He had no fucking business looking that good.

But you were like two shocked deers not expecting to meet in a forest—neither one willing to move or speak, or even blink…

Until you stumbled again. Your weight on the unstable chair began to give way.

“Shit.”

He and Amber both jolted to help you. Mark’s hand reached for you first, but you firmly ignored it and somehow straightened onto your shaky feet. You smoothed down the dress and fixed the little straps the best you could, even though one was hanging down your shoulder.

Your arm got tangled in the thin chain of your purse, but you slung that over your other shoulder with all the grace of a toddler. Then you affected a “polite” smile that just came off looking like a grimace.

“Uh, hey. Of all the gin joints in the world and stuff, right?” You made sure to enunciate, hoping your hand wave was casual and not insane. “I’ve gotta go.”

You pointed toward the door before you made it your mission to actually get there. Your heart pounded loud in your ears. The rush of cool and quieter air was a balm to your frayed mind, but it wasn’t enough.

The way he looked at her…

The turning of your stomach became a violent roil. You closed your eyes against the movie reel torturing you in your mind. You imagined how their night would go, drinking, laughing, touching, stumbling back into his house at 2:00 a.m. Maybe he’d end up actually loving her, someone more like him. More than he claimed to have loved you.

The liquid contents of your stomach rebelled, and you threw up right on the edge of the street. You clung to a utility pole as you coughed and cried involuntary tears. You heaved and gasped for breath when you couldn’t stop.

“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

Alarm trilled in the back of your mind. You had enough awareness to look behind you. Finally, you noticed the guy. He’d approached you in the bar earlier, but you’d turned down his advances. You couldn’t remember what you said to him. He clearly remembered you, though. 

You waved him off, not even able to speak as you tried to stay upright against the utility pole.

He didn’t take the hint. He drew closer, wrapping the pretense of a helping hand around your arm. He fingered the edge of your leather jacket.

“You need a ride? I’ll get you an Uber or something,” he said, with the facsimile of concern. “Where do you live?”

“Hey,” a voice cut in, deep and with authority.

You tilted your head, and Mark’s stern face came into view along with the rest of him. Him and those damn bowed legs.

“Take a walk, pal. I’ve got her,” Mark said. He flashed his LAPD badge for good measure.

That made it even easier to knock away the foreign hands off your body and angle himself in between. His arm came around your shoulders, supportive and safe.

Half of you was grateful, the other half resentful, but all you could do was glare at him. He shot you a quirking smile.

The other man backed off, trying to hide his annoyance. He continued down the street with his hands in his pockets. Mark itched to do more than just scare him off. A familiar protective anger had burned in his blood, raising his hackles, but he had to focus on you.

He led you back to the front of the bar. He went slow enough for you in those red stilettos (ridiculous, he thought, no matter how sexy they were).

“Late night, huh?” he said.

“What d'you think you’re doing?” you said. Your tone would be more snippy, if you had any energy left. Your inner world was reeling, unfocused and barely conscious. You had no choice but to lean on him as you gripped his jacket, the dark blue denim rough between your fingers.

“Well, I’m thinking I could call one of your friends, have ‘em take you home. You came out alone?” he asked. He was trying to be civil, retaining his sense of humor, but there was no masking the concern in his eyes. Not completely.

“No,” you admitted, “but ‘m alone now. Obviously.” You snorted.

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He heaved a small sigh. “All right. Well, who do you want me to call? Sarah? Yesenia? Lauren?” 

After a moment, you shook your head, even though that just made it swim. Fuck.

“I can’t…don’t want them to see me like this,” you said. The confession provoked a sniffle, a tremble of your lips. This time, you couldn’t stop the sting of tears from flooding over. You covered your face, as if that could stop your embarrassment, your overwhelming emotions from clogging in your throat in a painful lump.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Mark said. His tone pitched deep and gentle. It was an easy reflex for him to give into as he soothed a hand over your hair to try and calm you down.

You didn’t know it, but there was a gaping ache in his chest that had never really faded away. Seeing you again, let alone like this, made it sharp and splintering.

He led you to his car, and he took you home.

For a moment, you saw it so clearly.

Tracing his brows, the line of his nose, and the cut of his chin while he slept. What his hair felt like between your fingers, loose and soft, or gripped tight with need.

The sound of his voice reaching deep into your bones. The way his arms allowed you to reclaim safety whenever he came back to you…

Worrying for your dad on his twenty-five-year beat in Homicide had transitioned into worrying for Mark. He was always quick to reassure you though, to downplay with his ridiculous sense of humor and good sex. The best, actually.

But it was the in between moments you missed the most.

The distant sound of a lock turning in the door had you waking, slowly, a silent struggle in your bed. Your eyes cracked open.

Were you okay now? Was that him? Was he home? Had the past year just been a cruel invention of your mind to torture you?

…No. Your throat momentarily closed up as you realized. This really was just your shitty reality.

You groaned as you picked your head off the pillow, pushing your body up until you were sitting on the edge of your bed. Your bare legs hung off the side. You still wore your wrinkled black dress from last night, but your heels were strewn forgotten on the floor. You didn’t remember taking them off. You didn’t remember getting back to your apartment, let alone to your bed.

However, it all started coming back to you when the door shut again. Fresh coffee wafted in from the living room, along with something sweeter.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was. Mark fucking Meachum.

He held a tray with two hot coffees and a greasy brown bag from your favorite bakery. Your gaze crept up to meet his, though yours was decidedly grumpy.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a smile. “It’s already almost noon, but I figured we can’t start the day without coffee.”

“Did you stay here all night?” you croaked in disbelief.

“Yeah, just, uh, took the couch out there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “Could use a couple of extra throw pillows though. Think I got another notch in my spine…”

At your persisting glare, his expression sobered.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all,” he said.

“Well, mission accomplished,” you snarked. “You can go now.”

Mark watched you try and fail to stand. You sunk back down to a seat on the edge of the bed, closing your eyes for a second while you attempted to stop your head from swimming.

He sighed and set down the coffee and pastries on your desk nearby.

“Have you been making this a habit?” he asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but last night was the first bar I’ve been to in exactly nine months and...fifteen days,” you replied. You swept your fingers over your cheeks, grimacing when you found remains of your mascara. You probably looked like a gremlin. This wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to look when you next saw your ex.

Except you’d never planned to see this man again.

“All right,” Mark said. He grabbed your purse off your desk, where he’d set it last night. He popped it open, your private goddamn property.

“Excuse me,” you protested angrily.

He retrieved a whole pack of cigarettes. “How about these?”

He tossed you the pack, and you barely caught it. Your irritation grew and grew, along with the sting of shame. The worst part was, he knew he didn’t have to say anything.

The unfiltered nicotine in your hand was the reason your father died. He’d been the Captain of Mark’s precinct for ten years—the exact number of years since your dad had quit smoking. It hadn’t mattered much in the end.

Still, you resented that raised brow of judgment on Mark’s face.

You leaned over and grabbed a lighter from your nightstand. You fished out a cigarette from the pack, and you took your time lighting it up. You were being an asshole, you realized, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You made a show of holding the cancer stick between two fingers. You looked up at Mark, right in his eyes, and tried to channel Audrey Hepburn when you brought it to your lips for a long drag.

And you immediately coughed it up. Fuck.

Smoke polluted the air above your head while Mark nodded in vindication.

“Yeah. How’d that feel, Smokey?” he asked (all too high-and-mighty, in your opinion). He crossed the distance and took the cigarette from your hand while you kept coughing. He went into the bathroom to get rid of it.

Meanwhile, you held a hand to your chest and groaned. Damn him, he was right. Your stomach roiled at just the taste of that shit in your mouth, let alone first thing in the morning.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” he suggested, sweeping a hand toward your adjoining bathroom when he came back out. “A little coffee and sustenance will be waiting when you’re done.”

“Seriously, you can go. You don’t need to wait up for me,” you rasped, but the man still helped you to your feet with a supportive hand on your arm and your lower back.

“Yeah, and what if you lose your balance and crack your head on the bathroom tile? Nope, not on my watch.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered.

“He ain’t gonna help if you take his name in vain like that,” Mark couldn’t help but tease, fully expecting your glare. That was something your mom used to say.

You groaned, annoyed and still nauseous.

“Would you just shut up?”

“Nope, pretty sure I’m physically incapable.”

You snorted. “Clearly.”

He made sure you were steady on your feet before he left you in the bathroom. You avoided his gaze when he closed the door. His heart gave a painful pulse.

What the fuck am I doing? he thought.

Brushing your teeth and taking a hot shower had its innumerable benefits—making you feel alive and close to normal again, for example. But the one thing it didn’t do was get Mark out of your apartment.

You sat together on your couch while the TV played at a low volume. You saw the remnants of Mark’s night in your favorite throw blanket tossed over one of the armrests. The pillow he'd used for his head was caved in and smelling like his cologne, a rich, woody scent of sandalwood, spice, and musk.

You tried to ignore it while you finished eating a blueberry muffin. He polished off his third donut and washed it down with some more coffee.

“So,” you said. “Amber Oliveras.”

Mark blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Last night. You two were out together, seemed to be having a good time. Sorry I crashed your date,” you said, trying not to seem as bitter you sounded in your head.

Mark’s brows furrowed. “We’re, uh, not together. Not like that. We’re just working a case.”

“A case?” you said dubiously. “She’s DEA. You’re Homicide. What kind of case would you be working on together?”

He hesitated, brushing some pastry crumbs from his mouth. “Sorry, I can’t get into the specifics. You know the drill.”

Yes, you knew his cases were supposed to be confidential, but that hadn’t stopped him from telling you details before, especially because you were D.A. Valwell’s Executive Assistant. You had a higher clearance than the average civilian anyway.

But you let it go. It truly wasn’t your business, after all.

It was Mark’s turn to look your way. Morbid curiosity was eating him alive. Or maybe that was just the pull of being with you again, seeing your face, hearing your voice…even if you hated him.

He did think you were torturing him a bit too. You smelled nice, like floral soap and minty freshness. You were wearing an oversized shirt from your college days that was already threadbare from how many times you ran it through the wash. It slipped off one shoulder and barely went halfway down your thighs, brushing the edge of some little shorts. He had to stop his eyes from following the path of your bare legs.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” he asked.

You paused. You even set down your muffin and chuckled, giving him a long look.

“How does it look like I’ve been?”

A grim silence fell between you two, thick and tense.

“All right," he said. "How long’ve you been smoking?”

You shook your head, lips pursing at his audacity. “You really don’t have any right to judge me. You know that, right?”

Mark rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, an anxious, frustrated tick you knew well. “Look, what happened back then—”

You rose a hand to stop him. “Please, for the love of God. We don’t have to go through this shit again.”

You got up from the couch, intending to throw away the coffee cups and garbage if it meant gaining some space from this man.

But he followed you, stopped you with an imploring grip on your arm.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. He met your gaze, firm, earnest. “It didn’t go down the way she said.”

Your instinct was to jerk your arm out of his grasp, but he just held you in place, gently, but insistent. 

“Are you gonna let me explain this time? If you do, then just let me get it out. And afterward I’ll screw. I’ll walk the fuck outta here, and I promise you, you’ll never have to see me again.”

You stared up at him, close to seething, but there was something in his eyes that stilled you, gripped you more than his hands. A sliver of doubt began to creep in.

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

You had realized, all too late, that you couldn’t put anything past her. Mark could be stubborn, but he wouldn’t dig his heels in on this without a reason.

So you relented, with a small nod.

Breathing a subtle exhale of relief, Mark guided you back down to the couch. You turned off the TV and sat facing him with your arms crossed. You gave him an expectant look.

Mark steeled himself. Where to fucking start?

A beat to think, and then he knew.

He had to give you everything.

Nine Months Ago...

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers Mark stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him. Your father reminded him beyond the grave, with words Mark never forgot.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” she said, guiding him further into her hotel room. With slurring words, Mark asked her to go find you. He needed to talk to you.

“Shit, think I left my phone downstairs too. Needa get it,” he muttered.

“You’re a mess. I think you need to lay down first,” she said, huffing as she supported his weight over to her bed. She helped him lay down. A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she began to open up his jacket. He resisted at first, giving her a look of confusion.

“You should get comfortable. I doubt we’re gonna be able to move you from here.” She giggled.

He guessed he could see the sense in that. He let her help him shrug the black leather jacket off. You helped him pick it out a couple of weeks ago while you were planning for this trip.

Rachel tossed his jacket to the foot of the bed, and she sat close to him on the edge of it. Her bare thigh brushed against his arm as the skirt of her dress rode up. It looked like she’d been about to take a shower after a night out with you and your friends. He instinctively moved his arm, crossing it with the other over his chest.

“You know, I never got a chance to thank you,” she said.

Mark’s brows furrowed. It was taking all of his concentration just to keep her face in focus.

“For what?”

“You were really there for me when Dad passed. You were like our rock, coming by with food, checking in on me when you visited. It really meant a lot to me,” she said. Her words said one thing, but her eyes were beginning to lead him somewhere.

“Your dad was a good man,” he said tiredly. “You guys went through a lot. You, your mom, your sister. It uh, hit her pretty hard.”

Rachel’s lips pressed together. “Yeah… She was his favorite, you know.”

Mark blinked. “What, he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” she said, glancing away. She began to drum her fingers against his arm. He noticed it, but he was also trying to concentrate on what she was saying. “He always talked to her more, trusted her more, even when he was harping on her. She got that government job, probably thanks to him. But he was proud of her.”

“’M sure he was proud of you too,” Mark said.

“No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know why,” she said, sniffling as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mark frowned in sympathy. “Aw, hey.”

He didn’t know how to make her feel better, but he didn’t like to see her cry either. He sat up the best he could in the bed. She met him halfway, burying her face in his chest and sliding her arms around his middle for a hug. He gave her that comfort, patting her on the back.

Only, she didn’t stop there. She shimmied a bit higher and buried her face in his neck, where she pressed a little kiss. An alarm bell rang in Mark’s mind, but his body was too slow to respond. She turned her head and laid another kiss on his cheek, and then his lips.

He finally jerked back, holding her at arm’s length.

“Hey. What the hell’re you doing?” he demanded. His tone was sharp without a filter.

Rachel’s tearful eyes met his as she bit her lip. Her hand tentatively drew down his chest, warm over his shirt.

“I just…I finally had to tell you how much you mean to me,” she said. “And I think she takes you for granted.”

His brows furrowing, Mark grabbed her wrist.

“Rach, I love you. I really do, but you’re like a lil' sister to me. I love your sister. I wanna marry her.”

The thought alone struck a sharp jolt of pain through his skull, and through his chest. He did want a life with you. But is that fucking fair?

Could he really shackle you to a dying man?

Sure, he didn’t know how long he had, but that could be a cruel waiting game, one you'd just gone through with your father for three months. Mark didn’t want to put you through that all over again.

“Look, just...go tell her 'm here. Please,” he said. The fight was draining out of him. His energy was waning, his eyes blinking slow.

Rachel nodded, wiping at her tears. She left him in a huff, but she went to lock herself up in the bathroom first. The sink faucet turned on.

Mark sighed. Fine, let her clean up and pull herself together, but she’d better go get you. He doubted he could make it, even if he crawled. But if he had to, he would…

Slowly, the ticking seconds turned longer. His eyes grew heavier, until he was unable to pry them open again. He fell asleep.

He woke to a streaming sun in his eyes, and a pounding ache between them.

Shit. He groaned, covering his eyes. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t good for an already fucked head after all.

“Hmm, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Mark frowned. He looked over and found Rachel leaning on his arm. She was lying naked under the thinnest sheet. He knew, not only because of her bare shoulders, but her nipples poking through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted, immediately turning over to climb out of the bed. He was very fucking relieved to see he still had his jeans and underwear on, but his shirt was missing. He found it strewn on the floor.

“You actually did that yourself,” Rachel remarked. “Think you got a bit hot last night.”

There was a playful note in her voice. Mark grit his teeth. He was fucking pissed.

“You’re over the fucking line, you hear me?” he snapped.

“What, are you really gonna tell her?” she taunted. “It’s not like we did anything. I just prefer to sleep naked.”

He snorted. Sure. And what happened to the part where she was supposed to go find you and tell you where he was? No, the girl saw an opportunity, and she took it.

Mark hesitated though, because she raised a good point. Goddamn it, what was he going to tell you?

His jaw clenched, and he angrily finished getting dressed. He got up and stormed out of the hotel room, but not before Rachel got of out bed and let the sheet fall away from her slender form. She walked in confidence and feminine sway over to the bathroom, smiling in amusement when he quickly turned away before he saw anything.

The door slammed shut.

Her smile slowly fell. Tears of embarrassment stung in her eyes. Not really because he was mad at her, but because he’d rejected her too.

She knew it was wrong. Yeah, she was pretty sure it was the worst thing she’d ever done. Part of her even hated herself for it. You were her older sister, after all. You, who always looked out for her when you two were kids—better than Mom did. You, who got the most attention from Dad, and the quiet reliance of Mom.

Yeah, Rachel did love you...but she also kind of hated you too.

After she got dressed, she went back to find her phone. She cycled through the pictures she took, every angle that made it seem like your fiancé had spent the night in her arms after the hot and steamy bits.

It was a joke. A cruel prank. But maybe after this, you wouldn’t open your mouth to criticize her ever again. Maybe you’d think twice next time, because in the back of your mind, you’d remember that she could’ve had your man.

Now...

Mark finished telling you the story from his perspective. He gave you as many details as he could remember: what she said and did, and what he said and did.

Understandably, you were getting more upset by the moment. That pendulum swung between shock, and anger, and upset again. It all culminated in hot tears as you crossed your arms, holding a hand over your mouth.

“How do I know that’s true?” you asked, wiping vainly at your cheeks.

The problem was, you wanted to believe him. Of course, you also wanted to believe your sister wasn’t quite as screwed up and hateful as you thought she was, but even this was insane. You'd only ever tried to look out for her. Maybe along the way you had been a little critical, a little too judgmental. But had you really deserved this?

Could you even let yourself hope it was all a lie?

Mark met your gaze head on. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

You sighed in frustration. “Mark, you’re a professional fucking liar. I’m not a human polygraph.”

“But you know me.”

“I thought I did,” you said, rubbing at your eyes with shaking hands. Eventually, you were able to look at him again. “If what you said is true, why the hell didn’t you just tell me that?”

“You wouldn’t let me! You made up your mind before I could get a word in edgewise.”

“I was angry!"

God, what an understatement. You'd been so furious and hurt, you'd seriously debated taking one of your dad's old golf clubs and knocking out every window, headlight, and tail light in Mark's precious car.

"So you're saying you didn’t even fight for me. You just let me think the worst of you all this time? For what?!” You sunk your hands into your hair and pulled hard on the strands. You shook your head. “And you know what, why did you get so drunk in the first place? Your friends told me you went back to the hotel early, by yourself. It had to be for a reason.”

Mark nodded slowly.

That was when he knew, he really did have to give you everything.

“You, uh…remember those headaches I’d been getting?” he said. “Started about a month after your dad passed.”

Your brows wrinkled with a hint of confusion, but you nodded as the memory resurfaced.

“Yeah, you were going through entire bottles of Advil. But what does that—”

“I went to the doctor.” Mark rubbed a clammy palm over his jeans. He could stare down murderers, drug lords, and terrorists with steel in his veins, but coming clean with you was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He knew it in his bones, just like he knew why he needed to do it.

“Turns out… I’m sick, baby.”

Your expression changed, almost instantly. Traces of anger and doubt fell away, but so did some of the color in your face.

Mark took the chance to get a little closer on the couch. He laid a hand over yours on your thigh, but your whole body was locked up, sitting very still.

“W-What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean,” he sighed, “I’ve got a mass in my brain the size of Nevada. I don't know how much time I got exactly, but..."

Your eyes widened. Your hands clenched into the fabric of your shirt, until your nails bit into your palms. As you processed those words and began to understand the weight of them, it sunk inky claws into your mind, into every shady corner.

You shook your head in denial, lips trembling. Mark just held your gaze, a silent confirmation that he said nothing but the truth.

"I found out a few days before the trip to Venice. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, but obviously I didn’t handle that part very well," he said.

Anger, stubbornness, suspicion, pretending you didn't care what he had to say—all of that faded. It drained out of your muscles, out of your pores. You began to fall apart.

You turned your hand under his and squeezed, hard. It was a while before you could speak, but Mark was patient. He held your hand and stroked his thumb back and forth across your skin while you tried and failed to hold onto your tears. Then your soul-wracking sobs.

Finally, he couldn’t help himself. He brought you closer, soothing a hand over your hair and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, a coarse whisper. “God, Mark. Why the fuck would you let me think you cheated on me, with my sister?”

He gave a wry huff. “I guess I thought I was being noble. I thought I’d rather have you hate me, than try to stay with me. Watch me break down, bit by bit, for God knows how fucking long. Now I know I’m just selfish. I don’t want you to see me like that… Hell, I don’t wanna see me like that.”

You pulled back on him. Devastation filled your bleary eyes, but you caressed his cheek with a shaking hand.

“Have you gotten treatment?” you asked.

“Doc says it’s not worth it.”

The divot between your brows deepened. “What about a second opinion?”

He hesitated.

“Have you seen another oncologist?” you pressed.

“No. Guess I didn’t see the point. I saw the scans myself. I don’t know how you’d confuse a big fucking tumor for anything else.”

“Mark.” You shook your head and wordlessly guided him closer. You framed his face with both hands, while his own found purchase on the soft curve of your waist.

It was nice to feel your touch again…but at what cost? All that stubborn fire in your eyes, all that pain, it was everything he’d been trying to avoid. 

Still, you were gentle, sliding your fingers up into his hair. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

After all this time, you were still his peaceful spot. If you only knew the amount of death he’d seen in just the past couple of weeks on Blythe’s taskforce, the chaos, the stress of near-misses, being on the sweet razor edge of getting killed, saving his own body the trouble. That thrill took its toll.

Before that, those nine months undercover had been a divorce from his reality, pretending that he hadn’t left you broken along with whatever heart there was left in him.

He never imagined that he’d be here with you again. He never thought you’d forgive him, let alone touch him like you still loved him.

When he opened his eyes, you were still there. Tears clung wet to your lashes. You led him closer, where you tenderly rested your forehead against his.

He let you do it too. You were the only one he’d soften up for like this.

He smiled. “Hmmm. What now, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, but you slowly pulled back and opened your eyes. You didn’t go far though.

You guided him into an even more familiar path to your lips. It was more bittersweet than he remembered, but worth it all the same.

He was home.

AN: So, you guys forgive me? 😘💙 I know it's not the happiest ending ever, but it felt like a good place to pause for these two. Rachel was more complex than she seemed, and so was Mark's side of the story!

I have at least one more actual drabble in mind for these two, coming soon! 😂 Please let me know what you thought of this one 💜

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Sister, Sister

Summary: You and Mark have an emotional reconnection after he finally comes clean. But that also means you have some unfinished business to take care of with your sister, Rachel.

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It seems like a lot of people on the Dean tag list like Mark! lol So if you prefer not to be on this list, just let me know. I'll take you off no problem (you won't hurt my feelings lol 💜).

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[strangesuki]

brownie points

pairing : bf!euijoo x reader; established relationship

genre : pure fluff, are we even surprised

word count : 691

a/n : this got posted a little earlier than i intended tumblr why are you like this but anyway happy birthday to the loml byun euijoo!! it's officially been one whole year since i posted my first &T fic on here. i’m so grateful &T got me back into writing ♡ one whole year of falling more and more in love with these nine beautiful boys and writing for them ik i’ve been mostly writing for nichojoo but i love them all ok! i wish them all the success and happiness they deserve, hbd once again leader-nim ^^

saturday mornings are quiet ones. after a whole week of having to go out every day and be social at work, you both cherish the comfort that comes with saturdays when you can just stay at home together. some days you decide you need to deep clean the house while music plays in the background, sometimes you binge-watch a mini-series together, and other times you just decide to do your own thing separately but in each other’s company.

today is one of those days - you’re painting (you would by no means call yourself an artist; you just do it for the love of it and that's good enough for you) and euijoo is watching a movie on his laptop.

euijoo shuts his laptop after a while, the movie not interesting enough to keep him occupied. as he stares off trying to think about what other movie he should watch, his eyes drift over to you, like they always do. he’s lounging on the bed, and you’re sitting at your desk a few feet away. he watches you paint in silence for a while, his gaze alternating between the deft movement of your fingers to the beautiful curves of your side profile.

and then, “y/n?”

“hmm?”

“what colour do i remind you of?”

“brown.” your response is immediate.

“brown? ah, ‘cause i wear a lot of brown?” he chuckles, looking over at his closet, “gosh, i should really get some other colours, huh?”

“no, it’s not because of that . . . or well, not just because of that,” you smirk.

“then?”

you look up from your painting, and as you try to think of how best to put it into words, your eyes land on the framed photo of him on your desk, making you smile. it’s your favourite picture of him - wide eyes (he was caught unawares by you), fond smile, brown hoodie. you have no idea how it manages to put a smile on your face every time you see it no matter how many times you’ve seen it already. “you’re just so . . . comfort coded,” you begin. “so full of warmth yourself, and spreading that warmth to whomever you’re with. you’re like the calm in a chaos of colours. people say love is red, but red is too bright for me. too loud. and you’re not loud; your quiet presence anchors me like nothing else does. your love is quiet, too, but it reverberates in every part of my being. you’re never someone i have to be anxious around or fear upsetting; you’re so predictably kind to my heart. your smile softens everything in me. even on turbulent days you carry yourself with a grace i can only hope to emulate someday. you’re like the comfort of a cool breeze caressing my face on a scorching summer’s day, like cozy blankets and hot chocolate in winter. you’re the best part of all seasons . . .” you trail off, pausing as you realise you’ve been going on for way too long.

“so yes, brown,” you try to laugh it off as your face flushes red, feeling like you exposed yourself a little too much.

euijoo is silent. you sneak a glance at him, curious, and he immediately averts his gaze. “i, um, that’s . . . god, y/n. i was expecting something silly like ‘oh orange because you look like ponyo’, not . . . a goddamn verbal love letter that makes me want to cry,”

you chuckle, getting up and making your way over. “wait, are you actually tearing up?” you coo, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“no, i just got some dust in both of my eyes. i think it's time for one of our deep cleaning sessions again,” he mumbles as he dabs the edge of his sleeve against his eyes.

“yeah, you’re not really fooling anyone babe,” you cup his face. “so, do i get any brownie points for this little ‘love letter’ of mine? pun intended,” you wink, and that earns a smile from him, and you have to resist the urge to kiss him - because if you kissed him every time he smiled, you’d not be able to get much else done.

“you’re not very funny, you know,”

“but i made you smile,”

“no that’s just because i love you,” he teases, leaning in for a kiss.

divider credits : @uzmacchiato

a/n : y'all probably think brown is my favourite colour bc of my profile theme and the way a considerable number of my fics' colours also happen to be shades of brown lol. but tbh i don't particularly like brown and nor do i hate it, i think all colours are beautiful in context and cannot actually choose a favourite colour for the life of me and i've just been into brown a lot bc euijoo is so brown coded (and ofc, also bc i see him wearing brown a lot xD)

[katakaluptastrophy]

What do Captain Deuteros, the Princesses of Ida, the Baron of Tisis, the Lady of Koniortos Court, the Duchess of Rhodes, the Master Templar, and the Reverend Daughter all have in common? They almost certainly own slaves.

Ok, not "slaves". As I'm sure Housers would be the first to tell you, they do not have slaves. Gideon herself explicitly establishes this in chapter one:

I’m indentured, not a slave.

But functionally, what does that mean?

We don't get a definition of what Gideon means by a slave, or how this word is used in House (do the Houses also have slaves? Are slaves something other, uncivilised people have in the benighted darkness beyond the light of Dominicus and the empire?). Gideon is an unfree person who is subject to violence and exploited for the financial gain of her masters, but it means something to her that she is not, in some economic or legal sense, a slave. So what is an indentured servant?

Gideon's status is referred to using several other terms over the course of GTN, primarily by Silas Octakiseron. While Silas is not an unbiased commentator, it's interesting that his objection to Gideon is not just because she's Ninth, but because she has usurped her social position:

“Thrall,” said Silas. “Serf. Servant... Villein,” continued the necromancer of the house of the Eighth, warming to his thesaurus. Colum was staring at Gideon, almost cross-eyed with disbelief. “Foundling. I am not insulting you, I am naming you for what you are. The replacement for Ortus Nigenad, himself a poor representative of a foetid House of betrayers and mystics.”

We don't know the exact connotations of these words in House. But a "serf" historically was a sort of feudal peasant tied to the land of a manor. Unlike a slave, a serf usually couldn't be bought or sold as an individual, but could be transferred wholesale with the land. Generically speaking, serfdom involves a tie to the land, an obligation to generate income/goods for the feudal lord of the land through labour and/or rents, and a lack of freedom of movement. It could be from birth or a voluntary indenture.

The contextual information that we get about Gideon's status backs up this very feudal image:

Gideon is, as Crux repeatedly reminds her, in some way the property of the Ninth. She wears a security cuff, and her attempt to run away is described as theft and misuse of House goods. In a typically House way, it is not just that she owes them her labour - she owes them her body once she dies. (What's interesting is that this part isn't specifically tied to her status as an indentured servant, but it fundamentally colours how it is understood in world.)

"You talk so loudly for chattle, Nav... You chatter so much for a debt. I hate you, and yet you are my wares and inventory."

Crux is Harrow's seneschal. And it would seem that at least on the Ninth, this role is very much the same as its medieval feudal equivalent: the official in charge of the management of the estate's goods and labourers.

Gideon is a legitimate subject of violence in House law: Harrow talks about how it would be "master's sin" if she "employed unwarranted violence" against her. Which means that some degree of violent punishment of indentured servants is legally permissable.

She is meant to be a financially useful asset: regulations exist governing indentured people joining the military, where they can generate revenue for their House. However, Harrow warns Gideon that "the Cohort won’t enlist an unreleased serf" - because the movement of a serf is at the discretion of her Lady, not something over which she has free choice.

The description of how Gideon came to be of the Ninth is particularly interesting in shedding some light on the institution of indenture in the Houses:

The Ninth had historically filled its halls with penitents from other houses, mystics and pilgrims who found the call of this dreary order more attractive than their own birthrights. In the antiquated rules of those supplicants who moved between the eight great households, she was taken as a very small bondswoman, not of the Ninth but beholden to it: What greater debt could be accrued than that of being brought up?

Medieval serfs too had no freedom of movement; they required a license from their lord to spend extended time away from the manor.

It's easy to forget, when the Houses themselves likely range in scale from the size of Los Angeles to Aotearoa New Zealand, that legally they seem to understand themselves to constitute feudal households. Those born in each House are part of - or in some cases it would seem, property of - the House. We see discussion in the Sermon on Necromancers and Cavaliers of the heirs of cavalier lines being traded between Houses for political capital. Necromancers, meanwhile, are apparently such a political or reproductive asset that they are usually not allowed to marry outside their House. Obviously, these are examples of people at the top of House society, whose movement brings with it political power, or financial assets, or reproductive capacity. Where does that leave a more ordinary person who lacks those desirable assets? It would seem that they can be their own asset, granted access to another House on a debtor's bond - it's not clear in the House context whether this is typically an exchange of people already debt bonded to their House, free people entering into such bondage to secure a right of passage to another House, a combination, or something else entirely.

But it speaks to a much more ancient understanding of how people are tied to lands and lords, alongside the Houses' very different attitude to the value of human lives:

“You’re no slave, but you’ll serve the House of the Ninth until the day you die and then thereafter"

One could infer, since we've encountered nobles and serfs, that the Houses have something akin to a three-tier system like many historical European feudal systems, with nobles, freedmen, and serfs.

The medieval European feudal system was primarily a function of the management of land - serfs and freedmen's statuses were a result of their relationship to obligations to the land - requirements of work, or rents to their lord, who ultimately controlled and profited from that land. This is where the tricky difference between serfdom and slavery tends to arise.

But the Houses are not a European medieval feudal kingdom. They are not, presumably, a primarily agrarian economy. So what use might such bondspeople be? What does that society look like, outside of its highest nobles investigating each others' murders and its strangely incestuous demigods?

There must be some agriculture and industry. Given the trying conditions of living in inhospitable space environments, that there might be some class of labourers fundamentally tied to their Houses, perhaps initially stemming from the order or situation of their ancestors' resurrection, isn't impossible to imagine (after all, ruling families and cavalier lines also trace their status from the Resurrection). From the information about the rules governing movement between Houses, perhaps there are also people living in dire conditions on remote moons willing to sell their freedom for a chance at slightly better conditions, or a new start in a different House. Most Houses do not have the necromantic capacity to create skeleton constructs on a scale to manage most of their labour - in The Mysterious Study of Dr Sex, it's clear that the Sixth has a finite supply of skeleton constructs that they would require Ninth input to overhaul. We have to assume most labour on most Houses in human, and some portion of it at least in some way unfree.

But the Houses are a spacefaring society with a large, centralised military and an economically complex empire. It does not function entirely like a medieval kingdom, however much it may sometimes look like one. Much of its imperial structure seems to be on a much more 19th or 20th century model.

And the Cohort is one area where we can see some non-medieval, but awful implications to the Houses' practice of serfdom. Consider the commission that Harrow offers Gideon:

It purchased Gideon Nav’s commission to second lieutenant, not privy to resale, but relinquishing capital if she honourably retired. It would grant her full officer training. The usual huge percentage of prizes and territory would be tithed to her House if they were won, but her inflated Ninth serfdom would be paid for in five years on good conditions, rather than thirty.

Gideon is not being promised as canon fodder - this is a promise of officer training. And yet, Gideon is a serf - and that officer training would be an investment in financial returns from her involvement in the bloody machinery of empire.

How many people in the Cohort are not free? Are serfs released from their usual obligations in the House to which they are debt bonded to instead generate income for their House on the battlefield or die trying? What proportion of the Cohort are functionality enslaved children, sold a dream of glory by smutty comics and released by their Houses because their eventual deaths will be more profitable to their Houses than their labouring lives?

And fundamentally, if the Houses are in some way substantially reproducing aspects of medieval feudalism, there's only one person who can be responsible for that...

[nightplvmes]

his baby

sylus one shot (love and deepspace) ⋆｡° | pairing : sylus x fem!reader ⋆｡° | dad sylus - when you woke up that morning and didn't see your baby in the crib, the first thing you did was panic… until you remembered where she could be. ⋆｡° | word count : 0.9k (968) ⋆｡° | autor note : this is one of my fave one shots ever, that's all, that's the note likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

when you opened your eyes, it was like something jumped in your chest. fear filled you, and it took you a few seconds to remember you were in your room. in your house, completely safe.

you rubbed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying to think of anything else that would help distract you. it was at that moment that you looked at the small clock on the nightstand to confirm the time. it was almost 7 a.m., which meant Emma would wake up any moment. you didn't usually wake her up earlier; you preferred to wait for her to wake up on her own and decide she was hungry.

you yawned and looked at the empty spot on the bed next to you. you couldn't deny that something settled in your chest at the thought of Sylus not being there, but you forced yourself to remember that he'd probably just gone to his office downstairs and wasn't actually putting his life in danger in some seedy place in the area. trying to think of something else, you walked to the crib next to the bed, hoping to see your precious baby girl asleep… but it was empty.

the first thing you felt was panic and the urge to scream, thinking someone had broken in and taken Emma, but you forced yourself to think calmly, just as Sylus had taught you. it was impossible; there was security all over the place. Sylus had increased security since you were pregnant, and it got worse when Emma was born, so where… of course, Sylus.

you let out a frustrated huff and turned to leave the room, combing your hair to make yourself look even slightly presentable. your heavy footsteps echoed through the hallways until you reached the floor below, where Sylus' office was. Mephisto was resting on one of the decorations in the hallway and made a sound that caught your attention. you could swear he was making fun of you, or maybe you'd just gone too crazy these past few weeks.

"don't you dare," you warned, raising one of your fingers at Mephisto as a signal for him to stop. he just blinked, and you finally turned to walk the rest of the distance to Sylus' office.

you didn't knock or bother to let him know you were about to enter; you simply pushed the door open in front of you without warning. Sylus didn't even flinch when you entered. he had some papers in one of his hands and… yes, that small lump on his chest.

"what the hell is wrong with you?!" you asked in that tone that made your annoyance evident, but without raising your voice too much, otherwise that small lump in his chest would start crying. "I told you to stop stealing my baby!"

Sylus finally put the papers on the table and looked at you with a strange expression you couldn't decipher. you thought he was going to say something to you in an annoyed tone… even though Sylus had never used an annoyed tone with you before. his eyes traveled all over your body, and for a second, you had the urge to say something, aware of your terrible appearance. you had a three-month-old baby, and even though Sylus helped you a lot, it seemed almost impossible to sleep normally because of your nerves. "you look beautiful today."

you rolled your eyes as you walked toward him. "I'm going to hit you," you muttered, but quickly regretted it when Sylus' smile widened. "you stole my baby."

"she's my baby too," he defended himself.

"you need to stop doing that." you rubbed your face, trying to calm down. Sylus was right. you needed more sleep and you could sleep when he took care of Emma at night, but when you heard her crying, it was practically impossible to close your eyes again.

"she likes to sleep in my arms. besides, you've had her for nine months. she wants to spend time with her father."

"Sylus, she was in my belly. we weren't just living together and drinking tea." you crossed your arms as he settled Emma onto his chest so you could see her. the baby opened her small red eyes, which met yours. she was too identical to Sylus. you were sure your genes didn't even bother fighting for your daughter to have any of you.

"you should sleep. I'll take care of her."

"she needs to eat."

"I already fed her." he pointed to an empty bottle on his desk. your eyes strayed toward it, confirming that Emma had already been fed.

"she needs a diaper change."

"I already did that when she woke up."

you sighed, giving up. maybe you were worrying too much, and a little nap and a shower wouldn't hurt anyone at all. you nodded, leaning down to kiss Emma's little head. "your father doesn't know that as soon as you fall asleep, we're going to have a very serious talk." you spoke in that tone you only used with Emma, and the baby did something that might have been a grimace, but in your eyes, it looked like a small smile.

you looked at Sylus one last time; you couldn't stay mad at him, not when he was such an excellent father and was looking for ways to get you to sleep and have some time for yourself. so with that in mind, you leaned in to place a small peck on his lips.

you finally turned to leave the office, and seconds later, the sound of the door closing echoed in the room.

Sylus sighed, leaning back in his chair again. "I love her," he murmured, as if having a conversation with Emma, who just looked at him with her wide, curious eyes.

[retiredteabag]

winter weight (nanami ver)

Synopsis: nanami has gained some weight this winter, it seems you don't mind.

based on this fanfic I wrote for Toji which was based on this fanart! thank you @lil-sis for requesting more nanami :,)

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

You had known Nanami Kento for years before you were romantically involved. He had never made an inappropriate comment, always treated you with the utmost respect, and was all-around, the truest form of a gentleman.

For a time, you locked away your feelings for the kind man, sure he could never see you in that way, but little did you know, the man in question hid from your gaze, not because he did not want to see you, but in fear that you would see him. See him for what he was: a man, obsessed.

You had been with Ken for nine months now and he was everything you could want and more. He was communicative, thoughtful, and romantic. He looked at you in a way nobody had before. Likewise, for you, those nine months passed with comfortable ease.

This was your first winter together, and with the changing of the seasons you learned day by day that the man you knew was your life partner. The both of you were homebodies in a sense, however, with the chilly air and light snowfall this week, you were even more keen on a night in together.

You raced around the house, lighting candles, simmering mulling spices on the stove, and laying out blankets for the two of you. The house felt even cozier knowing that Ken was coming to join you.

He had spent the afternoon with his parents and was coming over after having dinner, he told you to eat without him and you had just finished cleaning your plate when you received a text,

"I am on my way now, sweetheart, is there anything you would like from the store?"

Ken was like this, domestic in the way that made you want to bounce around the room. You thought for a moment before deciding you would probably need more eggs. Earlier this week the two of you had planned a movie night, the next morning you were both hoping to bake cookies together while playing board games or taking turns reading to one another.

You informed him of the need for eggs and he told you he would be just a few more minutes. During that time you scrolled through the choices of movies, picking a few for the two of you to choose from.

Despite being together longer than the gestational period for a baby human, you still received butterflies in your stomach at the thought of his arrival. Knowing he was nearly home, you bounded to the kitchen and faced the door, the room smelled delicious, the only thing missing was his presence, and perhaps another layer of clothing.

Even so, you could hear his footsteps approach and knew that the two of you would share a blanket and body heat in no time.

When the man finally opened the door he was smiling shyly, a red dusting across his face from the cold. He wore a long winter coat, and in his arms were a bouquet of flowers and a wrapped gift.

You rushed to greet him, taking the day bag from his arm,

"Oh! Ken, they're beautiful!" You stood on tiptoe as he bent his knee and you kissed his cold cheek. "Goodness, you're freezing! Come in please!"

"Hello, my love." He smiled more broadly now, wrapping his free arm around you, "This if from my parents, but they told me not to let you open it until the holidays."

A warmth ran through you, the Nanami's were all too kind. Kento set the flowers on the counter and stepped toward the coat rack by the door to retire his shoes and jacket.

In the motion it took for him to pull the sleeves off his broad shoulders, you took him in. Leaning on the kitchen counter you allowed yourself to stare at him. His dress shirt was tight on his arms, and his suit pants clung to his thighs. You took a step toward him again.

"I almost don't want you to change, you look so handsome in your work clothes."

"Well, I've certainly put on some weight. These pants hardly fit now." he looks increasingly uncomfortable, not to be in your presence but to show that he was dressed in such a tailored fashion.

"Ken, my dear, you look incredible." You contain the desire to squeeze his thigh by walking to the bedroom and bringing out a pair of sweats and a cotton shirt.

"Although you are a delight to see this way, I'll let you get comfortable." You smile and pinch his bicep.

"Thank you, dear, I don't believe I've ever been so heavy. It's all the good restaurants you introduce me to, perhaps I should get back into the gym." He had grabbed the soft clothes you picked for him and walked into the bedroom to change.

"You're the one bringing me to all those good restaurants so you can't just blame me." You smile from outside the door.

"I'm just grateful you're with me" He laughs, pulling the shirt over his head.

"Ugh!" You exclaim, "Of course, Ken, don't say something so ridiculous." He laughs but you are still caught on what he said earlier. "And don't start going to the gym, you look great, very chewable."

He pops out from behind the door and looks down at you, amused. "I'm not sure how to feel about that descriptor, but if you still like me with extra weight, then I suppose I can remain comfortable."

"Still like you?" You gasp offended, "Ken, I grow more attracted to you every day, I don't care how tight your clothes are, in fact, it's a good look."

He gives you a mischievous face, "Go sit on the couch, pick a movie, stop trying to seduce me."

You laugh, incredulous, "I'm not trying anything, I'm only speaking the truth." You shrug, bounding to the couch and crawling beneath the blanket. Ken brings two mugs of cider before joining you.

That night you lay on his chest, watching a cheesy romance, the both of you laughing at the silly main character. You tilt your head up, to watch his face, your eyes catching the beginning of a few grey hairs dispersed in his blonde hair. You gently run your hand through his undercut.

In that moment, in his arms, as comfortable as you've ever been, you are sure, he is the man you will grow old with.

[lnfours]

love looks pretty on you | ln4

summary: my pretty baby or 5 silent moments of love between the two of you.

warnings: i fear this is LONG. a shit ton of fluff, reader and lando needing some reassurance here and there, fem!reader, reader is a friend of max fewtrell’s who lando’s always had an eye on, language, pregnancy, and some suggestive content.

radio check: this idea is inspired by the talented @norrissm’s post called ‘behind the visor’ because i couldn’t get the thought of writing about little moments like these out of my brain. please make sure to go read ‘behind the visor’ if you haven’t already! sasha is so talented and all her works are so beautiful.

masterlist | listen

— one.

he was shaky, hands sweaty and he had a nervous pit in his stomach. he was almost 100% sure hadn’t felt nerves like this before. not even when he was behind the wheel of his race car, waiting for the lights to go out.

he had finally managed to work up the courage to ask you on a date after months and months of yearning. he had asked max about you a million times. if you were seeing anyone, if you were interested in him, the whole nine yards. and max, being the best friend and wingman that he is, managed to get you to come with him to singapore.

you had always thought lando was cute, and you’d be lying if you said you never thought about what could happen between you two. back then, you used to think he was max’s annoying, rich and prissy friend when you were younger. but the closer you got to him, the more you saw what max saw.

the guy who’d give you the shirt off his back and would always show up for his friends. the sweet, charismatic guy who would always stop for a fan even when he was having the worst day imaginable.

he made it easy to fall for him.

you pulled him into a hug after the race, not caring that he was sweaty, and smelled like a mix of fuel and rubber. the papaya orange of his race car glowing in the lights of singapore. a race he led every lap of ahead of verstappen. you couldn’t be prouder of the man in front of you.

“stupid question,” he started.

please, let this be it.

“do you wanna get dinner sometime?”

you immediately nodded, the moment you had been waiting what felt like a lifetime for finally unfolding in front of your eyes. of course, you were eager to say yes.

“sure,” you smiled, doing your best to play it cool, “i’d love to.”

he smiled, the boyish grin that made your knees go weak and your heart beat a little faster. he was sure that right there in that moment, there was nothing you could do that wouldn’t make him fall in love with you.

your eyes sparkled as you looked up at him, the prettiest color he’d ever seen.

his new favorite color.

the two of you had made plans to go out once you were home in london and he was back in woking at the mtc. and now, that day had finally come.

in preparation for his big day, he had gone through all the steps to make sure this date was perfect. he pulled all the stops, managed to squeeze in a reservation at the fancy italian restaurant in the city, and he even asked max what your favorite flowers were so he could pick them up on the way to your house.

he tried his best to shake off his nerves as he raised his fist to knock on your front door. he heard rustling behind the wood before the it opened and there you stood. your hair styled just the way you liked it, sporting a gorgeous dress you had bought just for this special occasion, and a pretty shade of lipstick he just wanted to kiss right off of you.

you were the definition of show stopping.

“hey,” you smiled, grabbing your purse from the back of the sofa in arms length.

“hey,” he smiled, trying his best not to fumble as he handed you the flowers. you accepted them with the prettiest smile he’s ever seen, one almost as bright as the sun.

soon you were climbing into the extravagant mclaren, heading towards the restaurant. you watched the city you loved pass you by, and he watched as you looked out the window. you never looked prettier than you did right now. beautiful, but unaware.

he pulled up and let the valet take his keys. he offered you his arm as you walked into the dimly lit room, him saying a soft ‘be right back’ as he walked up the front desk.

he talked to the host, to which the host looked down at his book in front of him. you watched as the older man shook his head, lando immediately beginning to panic.

you laughed softly when he retuned to you with a sheepish grin, a hand scratching at the back of his neck, “so, apparently they ran out of room for this time. the girl on the phone wasn’t paying attention and overbooked. they offered a table but i didn’t want to take anyone’s reservation-“

you smiled, shaking your head as your heart tightened in your chest at his thoughtfulness towards complete strangers, “‘s okay,”

“did you wanna come back later? or we could go somewhere else! i know this good sushi place a few blocks away-“

“you don’t eat sushi.” you laughed.

“yeah, but if you want it, i can suffer,” he shrugged and you couldn’t help the grin on your face. you shook your head, grabbing his hand and leading him out of the restaurant.

“i saw a burger place down at this corner,” you said, making the left out of the doors and heading towards the spot you saw on the drive here.

he furrowed his eyebrows at you, “burgers?”

you nodded, heels clicking against the concrete of the sidewalk, “yeah, is that okay with you?”

he looked over at you, nodding softly, “yeah, whatever you want.”

you led the way, and on the short walk there lando thought to himself. thought about how you didn’t really care that you couldn’t get into the fanciest italian place in the city. couldn’t have cared less, actually.

His mind shifted from ‘oh no, this date is going to be one of the worst ones ever’ to ‘actually, this might be one of the best ones’.

you ordered your food and found one of the tables, lando insisting on pulling the chair out for you. you laughed and thanked him, sitting across from him as he took his suit jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair.

“‘m sorry,”

he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. but he felt the need to.

“don’t be,” you shook your head, “this is still pretty great.”

“you sure?” he asked. his eyes full of worry and genuine concern. he felt like he had let you down. felt like he couldn’t uphold his promise to the perfect date.

“as much as fancy dinners are fun and all, i don’t mind a little burger joint once in a while either.”

he smiled. it was gonna be okay.

the older gentleman behind the counter called your number, lando getting up and grabbing the tray of food as the two of you talked. the food was incredible and the conversation the two of you had was even better.

when he stood to throw away your trash, you walked towards the counter to the elderly man. lando watched from the corner of his eye as you sparked up a conversation.

“the food was wonderful,” you smiled, “are you guys new?”

the older man shook his head, “been here a long time, about 20 years or so. people stopped coming in once that new fancy-schmancy restaurant down the street opened. you two are the only customers i’ve had all week.”

your heart hurt for the man, clear that he had poured all he owned into his business. you looked over to lando who joined the two of you now.

“well, i’m sure we’ll be back,” you smiled, “right, lan?”

“definitely,” lando nodded, “thanks for saving our date.”

the older man laughed, “you kids are welcome any time. thanks for giving me a chance.”

you said your goodbyes after learning the man’s name was frank. you opened the door, ready to walk out when you saw lando leave the man a tip. by the look on the older man’s face, you knew it was a decent amount. you smiled, your heart clenching in your chest as lando insisted that he kept it.

“no, i insist! you saved the date i landed with the girl of my dreams.”

you were sure now that he was the only man you’d ever be in love with.

“ready?”

his voice cut you off from your thoughts, nodding as you took his arm. waving goodbye to frank again as you walked down the sidewalk and back to the car.

— two.

winter break was finally in full swing. and this year, he had insisted on taking you on a vacation, a little get away since he had missed your two year anniversary due to the new race calendar.

so you did just that as soon as winter break started. a two week vacation in the maldives where it was just you, him, the sun and the sea.

you had spent the day in the bed, the both of you wrapped under the cool sheets. he had splurged and booked one of the fancy bungalows on the water, the beautiful clear blue water and the gorgeous scenery adding to the beauty of the whole trip.

after dinner, you were quick to grab one of your bikinis from the attached deck. he smiled as you walked back inside, the tiny two piece in your hands.

“sunset swim?”

you nodded, stepping inside the bathroom to change and to quickly pull your hair up. he changed as you did also, the two of you jumping off the wooden deck and into the water. your eyes traveled over to where he was pushing the wet curls from his forehead.

the water droplets clung to his sun kissed chest, the redness already slowly starting to fade and you knew it’d turn into a tan by the morning. he looked so pretty in this moment, the sunset behind him looking like a painting.

you swam towards him, letting him pull you closer by your hips. you wrapped your legs around his torso, his hands falling to the backs of your thighs.

“hey, pretty girl,”

you smiled back, the same gorgeous smile you’ve always had that he swore he’d never get sick of, “hey, handsome,”

he leaned down, dipping his head to kiss your lips. you hummed contently into the kiss, smiling against his lips. he pulled away after a few seconds, enjoying the feeling of your fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck.

“are you having a good time?”

his voice was laced with a hint of wonder, wonder if he had done a good job at making up for the fact that he was in vegas during your anniversary. he hated the fact that he had missed such an important milestone, but you had understood. you understood that his job would pull him place to place for weeks on end.

he had struck the lottery with you, the most understanding and comforting person. he knew you didn’t hold a grudge with him. and in reality, a date at frank’s would’ve made up for the missed time, but he really wanted to do something special.

you nodded, “having a great time, baby. thank you. for everything.”

“don’t have to thank me,” he said, “it was the least i could do.”

you chuckled, “i fear you’ve set my standards so unbelievably high.”

he laughed with you, “you’re saying i’ve ruined you?”

you hummed back, laughing when his head dipped to your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, “in more ways than one i hope.”

you laughed, your head falling back slightly. he smiled at the sight in front of him, how pretty your laugh was as it fell from your lips. how pretty you looked in the watercolored sunset, and how your eyes had that little sparkle. the same one they had that night you hugged him after the singapore race. the night he had finally grown the courage to ask you out.

he was so hopelessly in love with you. you had ruined him the same way he ruined you. but that was okay with him. he was certain that there was no one else in the world his soul would mesh with like yours.

“let’s get married.”

his blurted words caught the both of you off guard. you looked at him, wide eyed but a smile softly forming on your lips as you let out a chuckle, “what?”

“what?”

“lan, what did you say?”

he gulped now, scared that if he repeated it he’d be shot down. he knew you were the one he was going to marry, he’s known that forever. but, what if you weren’t on the same page yet. what if you weren’t ready for the marriage, the house, the dog, the kids.

dear god… please don’t let it be true.

“let’s get married,” he said again, this time a slight shake to his voice, “i mean, if that’s what you want- if you… if you want to.”

your face lit up in a smile as you cupped his face, “of course i want to. don’t question it for even a second.”

he smiled now, “you’re sure?”

you nodded, “you’re the only one i want. the one i wanna spend the rest of my life with, go grey with. the one i want to wake up next to and go to bed at the end of the night with. you’re it for me. you always have been,”

he smiled, pulling you closer if it was even possible, “so yeah. let’s get married.”

he kissed you sweetly, you flush against his chest. you kissed him back with just as much love and passion and longing, a sense of forever hanging in the air around you.

“c’mon,” he mumbled softly against your lips, “let’s go find your perfect ring.”

you followed him as he climbed out of the water, grabbing a towel from the lounge chairs. you climbed out with him, the two of you sitting out in the setting sun as you scrolled through his phone designing the perfect ring.

once you had settled on what you wanted, you smiled up at him as he made note to head to the jewelers in monaco as soon as he got back.

the two of you were about to head inside when you felt arms wrap around your body. you squealed and giggled when he threw you over his shoulder, taking you inside the bungalow with a playful slap on your butt before placing you on the bed, laughing when he climbed up your body, leaving a trail of kisses along your stomach and chest until he reached your lips once again.

and your bikini top might’ve found its way to the hardwood floor shortly after.

— three.

the cameras cut back to you as you watched the screens in front of you. you had been able to make it to the dutch grand prix, excitement in the air in the mclaren garage as it finally came down to the last five laps. lando held the lead from his pole position, right ahead of the other papaya car that belonged to oscar. the two mclarens leading the pack with verstappen in third.

you and lily were holding hands, the camera man zooming into the sparkling diamond on that finger. the one that everyone had seen all over their timelines, the one that cause so many articles to be written about how much it could be worth. it was the talk of the paddock.

‘little lando norris’ was engaged!

you had even seen charles and max talking earlier, charles defeatedly handing max a twenty dollar bill. you laughed at the idea that your friends had placed a bet on your fiancé. a little harsh, but fitting, and most of all, funny as fuck.

the end of the race came closer and closer until both mclarens crossed the line, checkered flag waving as it showed on screen as a mclaren one-two. you and lily cheered happily, you pulling her into a hug. you both joined in the sea of papaya as they raced to the parc fermé.

the mechanics and engineers made sure to let you and lily come to the front of the crowd. the two of you still holding hands as you cheered for the men in papaya. you dropped her hand as oscar came over to her, pulling her into a hug across the metal barricade. you smiled at the young couple before you saw a certain someone enter your peripheral.

lando made his way to you, opening his arms as you reached across the barrier to hug him. you smiled, taking in the familiar smell of fuel and rubber.

“i’m so proud of you,” the happy tears glossing over your eyes filled his chest with a certain sense of pride. one that he would always crave, “you were amazing.”

“and you’re my trophy,” he smiled, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips, “my favorite one.”

“don’t lie, you love that miami one.”

“none of them could ever compare to you, love.”

you smiled, acknowledging the fact that he had to be whisked away. you were quick to give oscar a hug, lily doing the same for lando as you watched both men dressed in papaya walk off, lando patting his younger teammate on the back.

you all stayed, waiting for them to take their spots on the podium. you smiled when he took the top step, the british national anthem playing loud and proud. you could see that he was searching for you in the large crowd, and when he found you he smiled to himself before putting his hand to his heart and pointing at you. a silent way of saying ‘i love you’.

you mouthed the words back to him, unsure if he could see you say them. but you know that he knows you did.

it was a couple hours later when he returned to his drivers room. you had positioned yourself on the sofa comfortably, scrolling through your phone and liking all the things the fans had to say about your engagement, the ring and most of all the race.

“ready, fiancée?”

you nodded, taking his extended hand. the two of you walking through the mclaren hospitality as you all bid a ‘good night’ to one another.

your phone buzzed with an incoming call. the call you had been anxious about reciving.

you looked over at lando, softly dropping his hand which made him look over to you curiously, “everything okay?”

you nodded, “i gotta take this call. i’ll be right back.”

he nodded, letting you walk away. luckily, a couple of the drivers seemed to be heading in your direction, giving someone for lando to talk to while you took the call.

“hello?” you raised the phone to your ear.

“hi! is this y/n?”

“it is,”

“great! it’s doctor jenkins, how’re you, honey?”

“i’m good, how’re you?”

“good!” you could hear her smile on the other end of the phone, “i just wanted to give you a call because we got your test results back. is this information you’re okay with me giving to you over the phone?”

“yeah,” you said, “totally okay.”

“perfect,” she smiled, “in that case, i just wanted to say that you are clear from the stomach bug and any other gastrointestinal issues. however, your hcg levels came back extremely high, which means-“

“i’m pregnant?”

your heart dropped, your eyes fixing to lando who was laughing with lewis, charles, yuki and oscar. you immediately felt the bile burn its way up your throat. you swallowed it down, remembering that you had the doctor on the phone.

“exactly,” she said happily, “you’re about four weeks now. congratulations!”

“i- i don’t know what to say.” you stood, shocked that your entire world just changed with one simple phone call.

“i understand, and i know this is all new and quite scary, but just know you have an amazing support system- not just with me and my office, but with your fiancé and your friends as well.”

you smiled at the older woman’s sweet words, “thank you, doctor jenkins.”

“no need to thank me,” she said, “while i have you, i just wanted to set up your first appointment for when you get back, just a little check on the baby and make sure they’re healthy and well.”

you agreed on a day and time after you get back to london from the netherlands. you hung up the phone, the worry and shock still running through your system but a hint of slight relief from the woman’s sweet words.

you walked back over to lando, who looked at you with slight concern. you said hello to your friends, thanking them all for their congratulations before you looked to lando. the others engaging in their own conversations.

“you okay?” he asked lowly.

“can we go back to the hotel? i’m not feeling good,”

he nodded, “of course,” he took your hand in his as he turned to his fellow drivers, “we’re gonna head back. see you guys next week!”

“see you, mate!”

“night!”

you walked with lando in a comfortable silence back to the car. the two of you climbing into the back before the driver made his way to your hotel.

you made it to your shared room, anxiety still radiating off you and he could feel it.

he kicked his shoes off as he joined you on the edge of the bed, “hey, you okay, baby?”

you chewed on your bottom lip, tears burning in your eyes as you shook your head, “uhm, i don’t know,”

he frowned, “hey, hey,” he gently brought a hand up to wipe away your tears, “what’s the matter? what’s got you so upset?”

“lan, that call,” you said, “it was from my doctor.”

the instant worry that flashed through his eyes was unnoticed, and you couldn’t help the tears from streaming down your face.

“is everything okay?”

“yeah,” you nodded, “i mean- maybe? i think so? i don’t know,”

“what’d she say, baby?” he asked, his voice gentle. you appreciated how gentle he was with you. always.

“i don’t have the stomach bug,” you said, “im.. i’m pregnant, lan.”

his eyes went wide, his heart dropping for a millisecond, “you’re pregnant?”

you nodded, biting down on your lip to try to hold back your tears. however, the disgust and repulsiveness and disappointment you were expecting never came. instead, you watched as his face broke out into a smile.

“i’m gonna be a dad?”

you nodded, “and i’m gonna be a mom.”

“baby, this is great!” he smiled, now happy tears starting to form in his eyes as he wiped yours away, “we get to be parents! and baby, we’re gonna be the coolest fucking parents ever.”

his excitement reeled you back in, “you’re not.. upset? not even a little?”

“why would i be upset?” he asked, “i mean, was this planned? not really, but we weren’t necessarily not planning for this either. but it’s okay, our little best friend is in there!”

your heart was so full it felt like it could burst. you loved him with every fiber in your being. til the ends of the earth. everything was gonna be okay.

you smiled, “we’re having a baby,”

he nodded, kissing the top of your head as he pulled you closer into his chest as he repeated it back to you, “we’re having a baby.”

you sat like that for a while, letting him press kisses to your hair and your temples, every doubt in your mind slowly fading away. all because of him.

— four.

the machines beeping slowly faded into the background as the two of you looked down at your beautiful baby girl. the pink blanket wrapped around her small frame, her finger holding onto lando’s. it was a sight that would make any heartless man cry.

you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder as you sat together on the hospital bed, your voice low, “we made the cutest little girl.”

“she’s got your eyes,” he mumbled softly, admiring the beauty of his daughter. all of each of your best traits compiled into one tiny little human. a human that was already loved by so many and who had so many people excited to meet her.

two of those many people knocking on the door gently. you and lando smiled, you laughing at the ridiculously large teddy bear that was almost as tall as the man carrying it.

“he saw it in the gift shop window and insisted,” p laughed, “he said he would be ‘the worst uncle ever’ if he didn’t get it, even though i said she’d never know.”

you and lando laughed as max put the giant bear next to all the other gifts. the little girl was only 5 hours old and has already met all her grandparents and aunties and uncles. everyone had either shown up with balloons, flowers or a little baby outfit. oscar had shown up with a custom made mclaren shirt, one that of course had the australian and the british flag on it.

but max was taking the cake with the giant teddy bear.

“she would hate me, i know it,” max said, smiling softly at his friend who was holding the little girl so delicately, “would you look at that. already a daddy’s girl.”

“i fear she was like that since she was in the womb,” you said, “she’d kick me every time she heard him talk.”

“she was just excited to hear her papa,” lando joked and you all laughed softly as you looked over to the couple in front of you, “you guys wanna hold her?”

pietra nodded excitedly, taking the sleeping baby from lando’s arms gently before sitting in the reclining chair next to the bed. max stood next to her, half sitting on the arm rest as he smiled down at the little girl.

“what name did you come up with?” max asked, raising his head to look at the two of you.

you told them her name and the two of them smiled, “very fitting.”

“isn’t it?!” you smiled, “lando didn’t like it at first.”

“shocker,” max joked and lando raised his hands in mock surrender.

“i like it now,” he said, “that’s all that matters.”

“she’s perfect,” pietra said, “oh my goodness, look! she’s got a lando mole!”

“i know!” you cooed, “that was the first thing i said!”

lando and max shook their heads and laughed at their partners. you laid your head on his shoulder again, the two of you smiling as you watched max look at her with love in his eyes. he was ready to do anything for this baby girl like his life depended on it.

“wanna hold her, max?”

max was hesitant, but agreed when p urged him. he sat in the chair and let her put the baby girl into his arms. just as he got situated, she woke up from her nap. happy gurgles and a giggle escaping from her lips when she opened her eyes and saw max.

“oh my goodness, look at you,” he smiled, “hello little one! i’m your uncle max.”

you smiled as she made happy baby noises, ineligible but still cute. and most importantly, happy.

“so, we were thinking and we wanted to ask you, with your guys’ approval of course,” lando started, “we want you guys to be her godparents.”

the two of them looked at you with slightly wide eyes, “you’re serious?”

you both nodded, “we don’t see why not.”

“immediately yes, of course!” p smiled, leaning over to hug the both of you. you laughed, hugging her back as max looked to his best friend with happy tears in his eyes.

“thank you, buddy.”

lando nodded, smiling as he wiped his own tears from his eyes, “you guys mean the world to us, so. it’s the least we can do, really.”

“yknow, the name maxine has a really nice ring to it,” max joked and all of you laughed.

“i don’t think so, bud.”

“worth a shot.”

you smiled up at lando who turned his neck to smile back at you. you giggled softly when he placed a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

you both laid there in complete contentment as you watched your best friends giggle and play with the little girl in max’s arms. almost all the people you loved in the same room, your whole heart together.

you were sure that this is what life was all about. moments like these.

— five.

“guys! everyone’s gonna be here soon!” you yelled up the stairs, mainly talking to your now husband, but instead, your freshly turned three year old daughter popped up at the top of the stairs.

“momma! come look!”

you giggled softly, making your way up the stairs and following your daughter into her bedroom.

“what’re you guys up to?”

“look!” she beamed, bringing you a piece of paper, “we drew daddy’s race car!”

you smiled down at you husband who smiled back at you, “don’t forget, we drew uncle oscar’s too, baby.”

the little girl bounced up and down, “look, mommy! uncle oscar!”

you laughed, crouching down next to lando who had found himself in one of the tiny chairs. you looked at the pictures they drew, “are you gonna give it to uncle oscar and aunt lily when they get here?”

“yeah!” she smiled, “but i want daddy to keep his.”

“i’m gonna hang it on the highest spot on the fridge,” lando smiled, “so everyone can see just how talented my little girl is.”

you smiled at the two as he picked her up, standing up with her on his hip. you were impressed he managed to get out of the tiny wooden chair with no help.

you stood with them, smiling as you tried to fix your daughters unruly curls, “we gotta get you changed, little miss. everyone’s gonna be here soon.”

“everyone for my birthday party?”

you nodded, “yep! everyone’s coming to celebrate the birthday girl!”

she laughed and smiled as lando tickled her sides playfully. you laughed with them, your whole heart in one tiny little room.

the doorbell rang and you smiled, calling back to the two as you moved to get the door, “hurry up! everyone’s coming!”

you laughed when you heard her and lando talking about princess dresses and tutus, jogging down the stairs to open the door. you smiled when you were met with cisca and adam, bringing them into a hug before they came inside.

“hi honey!” cisca smiled.

“hi guys!” you smiled, “how’re you? how was the drive?”

“good!” adam said, “drive wasn’t too bad.”

“not at all!” cisca smiled, “i just can’t believe she’s three already.”

you nodded, “me either.”

and speaking of the devil, she came barreling down the stairs. bright pink princess dress on topped with the matching tiara to sit on top of her messy brown curls. ones that resembled lando’s.

“grandma! grandpa!”

“hey, little one!”

“there’s the birthday girl!”

you spent a few minutes catching up with his parents before others started to show up. and before you knew it, you had a full house of people who came up to celebrate your daughters birthday. a house full of love.

you smiled as she played with the other kids invited, lando’s arm wrapping around you. you smiled, leaning into his side as you watched your daughter laugh and smile.

“i know we’ve talked about it a bit before, but would you want another?” he asked, looking over at you. you met his eyes, smiling softly before nodding.

“yeah, i do,” you smiled, looking back into the yard, “i feel like she would like a sibling, too.”

he nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “me too.”

“there you two are!” you heard max before the sound of the back door closing caught your attention, max and p waking towards you two with smiles, “we’ve been looking for you.”

“what’s up?” you asked.

p handed you an envelope with a smile, her diamond ring sparkling brightly in the sunshine, “we’ve been wanting to tell you in person, and maybe your daughters birthday isn’t the best time to tell you, but, we wanted to tell you before everyone else.”

you both looked at them confused before lando opened the envelope, the sonogram picture making both of your eyes go wide. they smiled as you squealed happily, pulling p into a hug.

“you’re kidding!? this is great!!” you smiled, lando pulling his best friend into a hug as well. the four of you laughing and smiling.

“congrats, mate!” lando smiled.

“yknow what this means, right?” you asked and p nodded happily.

“baby clothes shopping!”

“oh my god,” max groaned playfully, looking to his friend as the two girls talked about baby clothes, “does it end?”

lando smiled, shaking his head as he watched you laugh and smile with p, “no, but that’s the best part.”

it was true. the best parts of his life always contained you. the other half of his beating heart.

you smiled at lando as p showed you all the different ideas she had for the nursery already. he smiled back, love written all over his face.

he solidified it by mouthing those 3 words, ‘i love you’.

‘i love you, too’.

[tagged-by-trauma]

Back in the womb

He wanted to go back into the womb so badly, that you as his wife, provided him one. Pairing: Pedro Pascal x wife!reader Warnings: established relationship, explicit sexual content (18+), dirty talk, language, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), p in v sex, breeding kink, creampie, tender aftercare, mentions of wanting a family, no proofreading Word count: 2.4k

You were tucked inside of the warmth of the hotel bed, eyes wide as the video played in front of you in its full glory. Pedro’s voice rang softly from the speaker, and you couldn’t glance away from the device, replaying that one phrase at least six times in a row, and another four after you’ve processed the words he was saying.

I’m always trying to get back into the womb.

And again.

You thought your own ears were betraying you when the camera was zooming in on him, but after those several times playing it, you had to believe it.

Of course, him being your husband for three years now you’ve discussed your future together. Moving into a bigger house was one of the many things on your list, but having kids with him someday just tipped it over. You wanted to give him kids, of course you did, but you weren’t sure you were ready.

And Pedro being the loving and understanding husband he is, he just accepted it. He knew you had a bigger part in this decision. You would bear his child for nine months. You would be the one who would have insane nausea every morning, hell, even during the day. You would be the one with backpain that would feel like they are kicking your back. You would be the one who would have to deliver it, going to hell and back until you hear your child’s first cry.

And his part in all of this?

Lasting for eight minutes until he gives you his little swimmers, and after that he would be just standing on the side helping you with everything you needed, bringing you everything, surviving your weird cravings.

But.

He never stopped nagging you about coming inside of you. Saying it every time before he laid you on your back, climbing over you. Between passionate kisses, whispering against your lips. Between his rhythmic thrust of his hips, groaning it into your ear. Hell, he even said it during the most random moments during the day.

But after this interview you weren’t sure anymore if you really didn’t want to have kids with him yet.

Instead of continuing to watch the video you went out to the balcony, leaving your phone on the bedside table. You needed some fresh air after this.

The city was buzzing beneath you. The sound of the cars rolling down the street, the occasional yell of people and the birds flying high above. It was a peaceful scenery, but you couldn’t really focus on it, his words repeating themselves in your head.

Pedro had a busy schedule, so he wasn’t there beside you, otherwise you would have already jumped on him. In the morning, he was doing presses with all his might, giving interviews, playing games, but right now he just went out to get himself his usual coffee because he didn’t have time to get it that morning.

The thoughts were running in your head on full speed when you heard the door of the suite open, and you turned your head back, looking at the man that completely occupied your mind for the last thirty minutes of your life.

“Hey, I’m back,” he called out to you, not aware that you were completely ogling him from the balcony door. He turned his back on you, pulling of his grey cardigan which you had a habit of stealing it from him.

“Yeah, I see,” you closed the sliding door behind you as you stepped inside. Pedro jumped in surprise, cursing under his breath in Spanish and turned around so fast that you feared he hurt his back. His hand was on his chest, and he looked at you like you were a ghost that appeared from nowhere.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he stepped closer to you, his hands fell on your waist pulling you closer. “Don’t scare me like that again, please.”

You nodded and smiled softly at him before your arms came up to his shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss. But the moment your lips came in contact with his there was no going back.

The kiss started off just like any welcome kiss you gave him. But it soon turned into a lot more heated one when his hands slid lower on your body and stopped on your hips. His tongue asked for access, and you gave it happily, the taste of him completely intoxicating. Your fingers traced back down on his chest, and you rested it at the bottom of his Pink Floyd t-shirt.

He groaned into your mouth when your skin made contact with his as you pulled the shirt over his head. His face was completely flushed, his hair ruined by the work of your fingers, and his eyes were full of lust and want. His now bare chest was rising and falling with every heavy breath, and the next thing you knew that he was on you again.

He pulled off the tank top from your body, and you were only standing in front of him in sleep shorts now. You didn’t really plan on leaving that day, so you didn’t think that bra was necessary.

Pedro’s eyes roamed over your form before he started kissing down your jaw and the side of your neck, but before he could go even lower, you turned the both of you around and walked him to the bed until his knees hit the edge and he had to sit down. He was looking you up and down and gave you a cheeky smile.

“Did I ever say that you are absolutely beautiful?”

Without thinking you straddled his lap, your legs resting on either side of his body, and his hands fell on your ass.

“A few times, yeah,” you murmured and leaned down to continue kissing him.

Your hips moved on their own accords, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rumbling in his chest under your palm. You could feel his cock hardening under you in the confines of his sweatpants and boxers, and you smirked into the kiss before you pulled back.

“So,” you were caressing his jaw, the light stubble tickling your thumb. “You always try to get back into the womb, huh?”

You could see the surprise in his eyes at your question, like he didn’t expect you to watch that interview at all. But just after a few seconds his expression changed, and the look in his eyes turned hopeful again, like every time before.

“You’ve seen it?” his voice was low, and you just nodded in response. “I swear I didn’t want it to come out like this,” while he was talking his hands moved down to your thighs, his thumbs drawing circles onto the skin that wasn’t covered by the shorts. For a moment you were thinking about your next words, but you said them anyway.

“And if I say I want to?”

Pedro’s head turned up to your face, and then he shook his head in disbelief and in misunderstanding of the situation. But when you saw the information dawn on him, his eyes grew wide, and a wide grin appeared on his face.

“Do you mean…?” his question was just a whisper in the quiet room, and you bit you lower lip as you agreed without any word. “Jesus Christ,” he was cursing under his breath, and you could feel his already hard length twitching beneath your weight. You felt his hands tighten on you, and his eyes shut for a second.

You yelped out his name when he suddenly turned you around and climbed on top of you. His hands made quick work on pulling off your shorts along with your underwear, and he threw them away somewhere in the room. Pedro leaned down and started kissing down your body, spending specifically much time on your breasts.

He kissed down the valley between them before his mouth moved on one of your nipples. His lips closed around the hardened bud, and your back arched off the back at the sudden change in the temperature. You felt the heat between your legs build with each of his movements, and your fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. His hand came up to your other breast to massage it, and he quickly moved on to that one while his hands switched.

Minutes passed like this. His lips wrapped around your nipple, you a whimpering mess under him begging for more.

Pedro released you and started moving down your body, but you quickly got hold of his hair again and pulled him back so he could face you. The confusion was clear on his face, but you just shook your head.

“I’m ready, Pedro. Just fuck me already,” you moaned out, and he had to hide a low growl from coming out of his mouth.

At this point, his cock was straining painfully against the soft fabrics, but the only thing he needed was exactly these words from you. His hands made quick work with pushing off his sweatpants and the boxer underneath. His cock sprang free hitting his lower stomach. The head was almost purple from the lack of release, and the slit on the tip was already leaking with an insane amount of precum.

He tried to climb back and reach into the bedside table, but you pulled him back once again. You thought you were clear just a few minutes ago that you want it too, but it clearly didn’t settle for him yet.

“Baby,” his voice was full of confusion again, but you didn’t let him finish his sentence. You tugged him on top of you and leaned up to whisper in his ear.

“I want to be that womb. Right now.”

His eyes darkened even more and now they almost seemed like complete black orbs. Pedro’s lips crashed down yours with full force, and his hand reached down between your bodies, getting a hold of himself. You broke away to look down to watch as he stroked his cock one, two, three times before he lined himself up. He lowered himself on his forearm, his palm resting against your cheek. He was looking deep into your eyes when you felt the tip of his length nudging your entrance, and you let out a breathy moan of his name as he pushed in to the hilt followed by a string of curses.

Your arms came up to his shoulder to hold onto him for a moment as he waited for you to adjust. When he saw and felt your body relax in his hold, he pulled out slowly so only the head of his cock remained inside you, and then he pushed in again in one single movement. He picked up his rhythm, his cock driving in and out of you quickly.

His right hand came up to rest on the curve of your throat. He wasn’t squeezing it, he was only holding onto you carefully, like he was trying to anchor himself in this moment. His shallow breaths were hitting across your face as he leaned his forehead against yours and looked deep into your eyes.

“Jesus, darling. You want my babies, is that it? You want me to put a baby in you?” his voice was gravelly, the muscles in his back flexing with every hard thrust. You whimpered and nodded your head eratically, not trusting your voice.

His hand travelled down between your bodies, and his thumb fell over your clit, drawing tight circles around it. You arched your back off the bed, and your moans came out more frequently as you felt the familiar feeling of your orgasm approaching. He picked up his pace, and his thumb moved to the same rhythm.

“Fuck, hermosa,” he groaned as he felt your walls tightening around him. “You’re gonna be so beautiful full of my babies,” he murmured, and that was the only thing you needed before you felt that tight string of heat snap inside you. You gripped his shoulders, throwing your head back as he thrust into you two more times before his movements faltered and he buried himself to the hilt.

You felt the hot ropes of his cum painting your walls spurt after spurt, his cock twitching inside you with its release.

Pedro collapsed on your body, making sure that he didn’t crush you with his weight before he buried his head in the crook of your neck. Your fingers raked through his damp curls, his skin glinting with sweat all over it. His breath was hot against your neck, and you lifted your head to place a kiss into his hair.

“If I would have known that one sentence of mine turns you on so much then I would have said it sooner,” he murmured, and his mustache was brushing against your skin with every word.

“Well, now you know.”

You were just laying there for a few minutes, your breaths mingling in the air around you. Finally, he pushed himself off of you and pulled out with a soft hiss. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness inside you.

He stood up and went into the bathroom of the suite before he returned with a wet rag and knelt down at the edge of the bed between your legs. You could feel his cum dripping out of you, and when you pushed yourself back on your forearms you saw that he was looking down with an amused grin.

“This is so fucking hot, baby,” he murmured, and you felt his fingers slide over your folds. You writhed under him as he collected his release and pushed it back inside you, the wet rag sliding across the sweaty skin of your thighs. “I fucking love you.”

He pulled out his finger and he moved up your body again, stopping at your belly to place a soft kiss there. Without any thought he pulled you into his arms, your head hitting his chest as he pulled the covers over the both of you. His chest was moving slowly up and down beneath your cheek, and your palm rested against his ribs.

Neither of you cared that it was still early in the afternoon. The fact that Pedro didn’t have any interviews or premiere that evening made you both fell asleep.

Little did you know that the first time was the charm, and after a few weeks you would be quite surprised.

[lucidfairies]

LET'S PLAY

pairing: ghostface!Abby x reader x ghostface!Ellie

synopsis: you've always been afraid of scary movies, but when abby recreates one of her favorites with some help from her best friend... lets just say you face your fears.

warnings: fear kink (?), threesome, pussy eating, strap usage, gendered pet names, double penetration + anal [r! receiving], face riding [e! + r! receiving], scissoring [a + e], very brief gendered talk ("but my sweet girl can take it, can't she?"), unrealistic squirting

wc: 2k

a/n: hi guys! to be fully transparent with you guys, I've been extremely busy over the last couple of weeks and have no chance to write. on top of that I'm extremely under the weather right now, so this is the only Halloween shot I have written. 😭😭 I'm really sorry that it worked out this way, maybe I can finish and post the others later on!

it was halloween. finally halloween. and the conditions were perfect. the dark night sky was filled with grey clouds that stuck out from the moonlight, fog had been gathering all day, so that once trick or treating started for the little kids and partying started for the older kids, it was just right. you had different plans on your mind, though. tonight it would be just you and Abby, with movies, popcorn, and definitely some costumes.

in all honesty, halloween scared you in the slightest. the movies that Abby often wanted to watch were gruesome, and you wound up with your hands over your eyes, merely listening to the shrieks and stabbings. abby loved it, though, so you found it in your heart to get over it.

that fear, however, resurrected itself when the clock passed eleven, knowing she was supposed to be home at nine-thirty. you had texted her a number of times at this point, even called her, with no response. it was more than strange; in all the years you and abby had been together, she had never, ever missed a halloween.

at a certain point you sighed and got off the couch, accepting that she apparently just wasn't coming home. you went down to your room, changing and laying down to sleep. you tossed and turned, not used to a bed without her body in it. after a while, you laid on your back with a huff, grabbing your phone to text her again.

before you could press send, you heard an aggressive jingle of the lock on the front door. it didn't stop, and you were slammed with the feeling that someone was trying to to get in. someone was trying to to get in. a bat hid behind your door, and you ran over to grab it before leaving your bedroom. you looked over your shoulder, into every room, but you didn't see anything. the kitchen was dark once you walked into it, and as you went to flick the lights on, you felt a strong hand on your hip that pulled you back, covering your mouth with their other hand.

the bat was ripped from your hands by a second person, and you screamed, but the hand covering your mouth was gloved and masked the sound. you could feel the captors heart beating and their chest rise and fall.

“sorry I'm late,”

it was abby. abby who followed you through your house and abby whose hand was over your mouth. the lights flicked on and you were faced with a different person, dressed in a ghost face mask and it's matching rags. you pushed out of abby's grip and turned to face her, realizing that she also had a mask on.

“what the fuck abby?” you quietly shrieked. “what was that? you scared me.” the light caught the knife in her hand, and suddenly a pit developed in your stomach. it was fear, flat, undoubtable, fear. “why do you have a knife?” she walked towards you slowly until your back was against the wall.

“don't worry baby, we're just gonna play,” her large body encased you. “you remember ellie, don't you sweet girl?” you nodded slowly, tears welling up in your tear ducts. “my poor baby, don't cry, we're gonna be real nice to you.” when she said that, you finally came to the realization as to what was happening. this is why abby loves the scary movies. she likes the control; the fear. you relaxed. “do you trust me, pretty girl?” you looked at her through the mask and nodded slowly. “do you trust me to not hurt you?” you nodded again.

“let's play then, baby.”

that's how you ended up here, on your back, with ellie on your face and abby between your legs. ellie had a hand in your hair, forcing you to look up at her while you ate her out. she was grinding down on your tongue, chanting your name as she chest rose and fell quickly. she had definitely already come, but she was using you to get off.

abby, however, had a strap buried deep in your cunt. you two hadn't used a strap before, you didn't even know where she got it, all you knew and could think about was how much she was filling you. the mask was still covering her face, but you almost got off to it. she had your legs pushed up to your chest, drilling her hips into your ass over and over, going even after your orgasm had lit up your body.

finally she let up, but you knew you weren’t even close to done. ellie got off your face and they both looked at each other, as if they were coming to a conclusion by just looking at each other, then they both looked over at you. abby discarded her mask and tossed it into the pile of clothes, loosening the harness from her hips and throwing it along with everything else. “get up,” ellie said, replacing you as you stood up. “sit on my face, sweets. face abby like the pretty thing you are.” the position was weird, but somehow it worked. you were backwards on ellie’s face, but her skilled tongue still managed to find everything you needed just right.

abby lifted ellie’s leg up, shifting herself between her lifted leg and her dripping center, rolling her hips down until they were both moaning. with the hand that wasn’t keeping ellie’s leg steady, abby grabbed you by the throat and brought your lips to hers, moaning into your mouth as your tongues met. ellie was so good at eating pussy, you almost didn’t want to pick between her and abby. maybe tonight meant that you could have both of them whenever you wanted.

ellie fucked you with her tongue while her thumb found your clit, spreading your wetness and her saliva over it and rubbing in rhythmic, slow circles. you were all but pushing all your weight onto abby, who was still riding ellie’s pussy. now, though, her head was back, neck exposed. you regained your headspace slightly, just enough to run your lips along her neck and suck. your lips traveled to her tits, marking her in a way you hadn’t before.

you stopped as soon as you felt your orgasm building quickly, instead opting for your previous option of grabbing her for support. it seemed as if you both were in the same boat, because her face scrunched up in focus, like it did every time she came. your head was on her shoulder as you came, whimpering at just how good it felt. ellie didn’t let a drop miss her tongue.

abby stood up, and you zoned in on how both of their pussies were covered in each other’s cum. your pupils were wide, your mouth was basically hanging open with drool. abby looked at you and chuckled. “wanna clean me up, sweetheart?” you got up from the bed and kneeled in front of her, assuming that’s what she wanted you to do, and waited for her to spread her legs. she leaned against the wall and propped her leg up on your shoulder, letting you lap at her until everything was gone. it tasted so good, so much like abby with a hint of ellie. it was the perfect blend.

though you wanted to lick up ellie too, she had already cleaned off with a bed sheet. “I have one more thing to try, if you’re up for it, baby.” you nodded profusely, and both girls looked at each other with a smirk. “get on the edge of the bed in doggy.” you did as told, putting your knees on the edge of the bed and arching your back so that your face was in the comforter. “good girl,” abby cooed, reaching down to pick up her harness and clip it on again. ellie also pulled one out from the jumble of clothes, and you wondered where hers was going to go. in the bedside drawer, abby pulled out a small bottle of lube, which she must have snuck in at some point earlier in the day to prepare.

earlier, when all of this started, you didn’t need lube, so you couldn’t understand what that was for. until both girls walked behind you. you felt the tip of one of their straps rubbing against your ass and you leaped forward, ill prepared. “this is gonna be a big stretch, baby, but my sweet girl can take it, can’t she?” you hummed at abby’s words, sucking in a harsh breath as her strap entered a new place. it was certainly different, but it felt so good. it was just the stretch you wanted, and it got even better when you felt ellie running the tip of her strap up and down your folds.

when ellie pushed her strap into you along with abby’s, the earth froze. “fuck, babe, look at your slut,” from what you could see, they were both admiring the way your stretched for them. You weren’t going to deny that it hurt a little, but with the way they were looking at you and the way ellie kept hitting exactly where you needed to plus the stretch of both of them, it made up for the slight discomfort.

once they gained a rhythm, you had them railing you at the same time, strokes hard and fast, with ellie’s large, skinny hands wrapped around your waist to keep you up. your hands grasped the bedsheets tightly, listening to your body as you neared closer and closer to finishing. there was another feeling building, one you hadn’t felt before, but you made an effort to ignore it. The closer you got, the noisier you became, moaning and grunting with every thrust until you were twitching on the edge of release.

the weird feeling that you were ignoring came back hard and fast, sitting somewhere strange in your bladder. it was like the urge to pee, but with some form of pleasure to it. they pulled it out of you with their harshness, making you squirt hard as you finished. you rolled your hips back at how strong your orgasm was, tears running down your face and creating a pool on the comforter.

you felt strangely empty as they both pulled out, unclipping both of their harnesses yet again and tossing them. “you did such a good job angel. let’s get cleaned up.” you all showered together, then abby surprised you with matching pajamas. ellie was packing up her stuff and you frowned.

“stay,” you said, and she looked up at you and smiled. “we can watch a movie. you can leave in the morning. don’t drive home in the dark.” she sat her backpack down and climbed into bed with the both of you. abby rolled over to grab the remote and turned on scream, just for the irony.

taglist: @inukastan1 @elliecoochieeater @pepperflakess @hastasupern0va @jazzys19 @purring4elliewilliams @decaffeinatedclodbagelweasel @lonelyfooryouonly @heyimrye (if your not tagged it said your account did not exist, I apologize)

[lieslab]

A haunted house with a picket fence, to float around and ghost my friends

Pairing: Og8 X gn reader

Summary: When you start to feel invisible, you pull away from the people you love the most.

Genre: 9th member AU

Word Count: 4.2K

Trigger warning: Implied ghosting, hurtful friendships, jealousy, insecurity, and the fear of forever being alone.

A/N: Requestee, I truly hope you know what K-Pop Demon Hunters is. For the rest of you, I hope you also know what that is because it gets mentioned here towards the ends. Cheers to good friends, good music, and the people that make the inner demons disappear <3

You felt the pit in your stomach again. Filming a new Skz Code episode and watching everyone fit into teams. A drawing randomly picked two members for team captains. For today's video, Jeongin and Han. You watched as they ran through the members one-by-one.

It was Changbin and Seungmin. Minho and Chan. Hyunjin and Felix. Where did that leave space for you? The staff members hadn't considered the extra person, the one that'd be left over and make things uneven. Unfortunately, today that person was you.

You watched the guys screw around with one another. Changbin and Minho charged after Jeongin, cooing with admiration because he picked the two of them first. On the other team, Felix wrapped his arms around Han from behind and placed his chin on his shoulder. They all fit together like a perfect puzzle.

Nobody looked over and met your eyes. Nobody's gaze lingered on you because they were too involved in their own teams. Neglect ran through your veins. Your heart sank to the pit of your stomach. In the background, staff members' suggestions flew around like an overhead volleyball.

"Let's have them go on that team."

"No way! They already have more athletic members, we'll put them on the other team."

"It's difficult having nine members. I wish we had one more, it'd make things easier. Everything would split evenly and then we wouldn't run into problems like this."

Or maybe they should have only had eight members and not nine. Then I wouldn't be such a problem. The guys are already happier without me, just look at their faces.

Seungmin's grin and Chan's deep dimples. Hyunjin's never-ending laughter and the glittering in Jeongin's eyes. They were so happy together. You were the extra piece of the puzzle, the one that wasn't needed. Your eyes found the ground and you sucked in a deep breath through your nose.

You wanted to partake in today's mini game. After all, you were the one that helped plan it. The bickering didn't stop behind you, it increased. The guys were oblivious or maybe they noticed, but they didn't care about you and your feelings.

Unable to take it anymore, you jerked around to face the staff members. "I'll just sit out of the game. I'll join the next one because we don't have to have teams in the next round."

Two of the staff members shared a look. You swore you saw their shoulders sink with relief. The director nodded and gestured to an area in the distance. "That'd be great, thanks. You can sit over there and provide commentary."

You nodded and walked past the guys. You didn't know which hurt worse, the director's casual dismissal, the staff's relief, or the way none of the guys cast you a second glance as you walked by and sat in a plastic chair behind them.

~ ~ ~

Maybe you shouldn't have taken it to heart, but a few days later, the whole scenario kept coming back. If one of the other guys had been pushed aside like that, you would have taken notice instantly. Why wasn't it the same for you?

In your head, you were always the one to overlook. Nothing about you stuck out. No unique visuals, your voice wasn't special, you were okay at singing, rapping, and dancing, but that was it. In your own words, you'd dub yourself painfully average. The guys each had things that made them who they were, but you? What did you have?

You distanced yourselves from the guys after that shoot. It hurt your feelings and it stung. You chased after acceptance and belonging. Even when friendships cracked and shattered, you clutched onto the reflective shards with both hands. No matter how much it stung, the wine colored blood didn't matter, you'd grip it, and try to reform everything between the fractures.

It wasn't the first time you pulled away and it wouldn't be the last. If you brought up your feelings, you were certain the guys would think it was foolish. How could you possibly explain it to them? Friendships faded over time, but the hurt never dissolved.

In the past, you bounced on the balls of your feet. Diamonds in your eyes and a smile, you introduced a new friend to one of your usual friends. They hit it off instantly and when the pair realized each was more exciting than you, you were left in the dark. Plans popped up and none of them ever involved you.

You didn't know why it was like that. You fought for friendships and tried to be a good person. You thought the universe might be on your side when you were picked as a member of Stray Kids, but life always has a way of rocking the boat. You thought you had eight new friends, but when you took a bigger look at the larger picture, what were you left with? Yes, you were here, but were you really?

The guys regularly went out to eat with one another, you were never invited. When Minho worked out, sometimes he worked out with Jeongin or Changbin. The past week, he'd been going out with Han on early morning runs.

Felix and Seungmin gamed together. When Hyunjin wanted to try something new with someone or go to the movies, he'd ask anyone else or he'd go alone. What about you?

Standing in the center of the kitchen, you stood staring into the open fridge. The fridge light clicked on the moment you swung open the door. A repetitive clock ticked over on the far corner of the wall. The long hand crawled after the short hand. You didn't know how long you stood there with an empty gaze, letting the gears in your brain keep going and going and going.

A dark shadow illuminated on the side of the wall. The only thing accompanying you was the faint sound of your breathing. Your chest rose and fell with each breath, but you couldn't hear it. Not over the sound of the blood roaring in your ears.

Your anxiety spiked. Everyone was over at Changbin and Hyunjin's dorm. A new Marvel movie came out and the guys wanted to see it. They offered you a chance to join them, but you turned them down. You couldn't stand the idea of being there and being ignored. You'd only hurt your heart more. What was the point?

You didn't snap out of your thoughts until someone cleared their throat behind you. You jerked around and there stood a scowling Minho. Arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed at you. You slowly shut the fridge and turned around to face him.

"Can I help you?"

"Why are you here by yourself?"

"What?"

"Don't play dumb. You're lucky I showed up and not Seungmin. He'd never let you explain yourself. I'm here, so you better start speaking."

You raised an eyebrow. "What? What are you talking about?"

"You! You're acting weird! You think everyone hasn't noticed? Why are you here and sneaking around in the dark like a Victorian ghost?" He leaned over and flicked on the lights. "We have electricity. I should know, I paid the electric bill."

"Acting weird?" You repeated. Your head tipped and you blinked. "What do you mean by acting weird?"

He threw his head back and sighed. "Don't make me have to explain how you—"

He was cut off by the sound of your name being called. Felix's voice fluttered through the dorm. He glanced around, trying to navigate through the darkness. You lived in a dorm with Minho and Han.

"Hello? Minho? Where'd you go?"

You swallowed and glanced down to the floor. Great. Just what you needed. Not one, but two people here to press your buttons. You planned to stay in the dorm and mope around most of the night. The pint of ice cream in the freezer called your name. Your own movie night included Netflix from your personal laptop, your multitude of pillows, and fluffy blankets.

"Oh, there you two are!" He stepped into the kitchen and blinked a few times. "Geez, it's so bright out here compared to the living room."

Minho's hand gestured in your direction. "Yeah, you can thank this one for that. I found them walking around here like a ghost."

You threw him a brief glare, but it didn't sway him.

He grabbed the sleeve of Felix's yellow shirt and pulled him closer. "Here, you try and figure out what's wrong." He pushed Felix in your direction and patted his shoulder. "I've gotta get the snacks I promised everyone else."

His footsteps faded until you were left alone with Felix. He scanned you up and down, silently making sure you were okay before he spoke. "What's going on with you?"

"What does that even mean?" You questioned. "There's nothing wrong with me. What's wrong with the two of you?"

"We're worried about you."

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "Really? That's funny because last I knew, you enjoyed pretending that I don't exist."

Hurt flashed in his eyes, but you didn't stop talking. The hurt poured out and you couldn't stop it. "If you want to ignore me, that's fine. Just don't pretend that you like me. I know when I'm not wanted around and I'm clearly not wanted."

"Is that what you think?" Felix's voice softened. "Where did you get that from? We—"

"Save it, Lix. Just go with Minho, grab your snacks, and go away. Leave me alone and enjoy your movie night with the guys."

Unfortunately for you, Minho stood in the middle of the hallway, eavesdropping on the entire conversation. He spun around in a blur and stormed back in your direction. Hands clenched into fists at his side, he reappeared around the corner of the hall.

Felix looked over and the moment he saw Minho's face, he panicked. "Minho, hyung, we shouldn't—"

"Not now, Yongbok." He walked over to you and grabbed the back of your shirt.

"Hey! What are you doing?" You squirmed, trying to free yourself from the death grip he held on you. "Minho! Get off of me!"

"No. I'm taking you to the rest of the guys and we're going to figure this out together. Yongbok, the snacks are in a bag on my desk." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden key.

As it flew into the air, Felix caught it with ease. "I'll lock the place up after I get them."

You yelped as your feet left the floor. Minho squatted and tugged you over his left shoulder. He shifted and shimmed, getting comfortable with your added weight. A death grip curled around your waist.

"You can't kidnap me! This is my dorm, too!"

"Sucks to suck, brat. If you don't want to have a conversation with us willingly, it's going to happen by force."

You tried to move once more, but you were officially stuck. You grumbled and crossed your arms over your chest. Minho spun around and your body spun with him. The floor swung beneath you, making you feel disoriented. With a clenched jaw, you fell limp over his shoulder, but you still weren't happy about the situation.

~ ~ ~

"Woah, almost three hours?" Chan's eyes widened at the time stamp on the TV screen. "Are we sure we're going to watch it for that long?"

"Three hours for a Marvel movie?" Seungmin rolled his eyes and dropped back further against the couch. "I could find something better to do with my time."

"You don't understand! It's not just three hours, it's three hours of building onto the Marvel universe. It's a whole thing and if you guys watched more Marvel movies with me, you wouldn't be confused."

"With all due respect," Jeongin piped up, "nobody wants to spend all this time watching Marvel, Han."

Hyunjin's long limbs stretched across the floor. His socked toes curled and his arms reached above his head. "Three hours of a single movie or I could watch multiple animes in that time frame."

Han huffed and slumped against the arm of the couch. "Nobody here understands peak cinema."

"Noob," Seungmin mumbled beneath his breath.

Chan chuckled and clicked through the streaming platform with the TV remote. For the past fifteen minutes, the rest of the members had been waiting for Minho to return with snacks. His dorm wasn't that far away from everyone else's. When he didn't return right away, they sent Felix after him.

"Oh, they have romance movies!" Chan giggled and started clicking through the titles. "What are you all into? Love triangles? One-sided love stories? High school sweethearts gone wrong?"

"What do you even know about love?" Jeongin grumbled. "You only know how to be a man-whore for Stay."

"Um, says you!" Han reached over and shoved a finger against Jeongin's growing bicep. "Don't get me started on what you've been feeding them."

"Oh, yeah? Well, you have tattoos! They've been going crazy over that. Focus on your own Stay thirst content."

Chan tried not to laugh at their bickering. He continued scrolling through the titles and paused. "Wait a minute. Where's Changbin?"

"He's still in the kitchen trying to figure out how to pop the popcorn."

"Popping popcorn? It's not that hard. The directions are on the box and he—" Chan pushed himself upright, but he was stopped by Jeongin grabbing his shirt and tugging him back down.

"Let him figure this part out, hyung. He needs to learn how to prepare for stuff on his own. Preferably learning how to make things besides unseasoned grilled chicken breasts."

Hyunjin sucked in a deep breath and yelled Changbin's name. "What's taking you so long? Hurry up with that popcorn!"

"SHUT UP!" Changbin's distant voice roared. "A REAL CHEF KNOWS HOW TO TAKE HIS TIME TO CREATE GREATNESS! THE SPIRITS OF THE CORN DEMAND RESPECT AND I WILL NOT ANGER THEM WITH HASTE, YOU JERK!"

Hyunjin jerked himself upright. Messy hair and wide eyed. He blinked a few times before huffing and dropping back down onto the hardwood floor. "Well, I never. I've never been spoken to with such blatant disrespect in my entire life."

"Could have been worse," Seungmin shrugged. "I've called you a ferret fuck before."

His eyebrows furrowed. "What? When?"

"Just now."

Han snorted and slapped a hand over his mouth. Jeongin grinned and Chan bit down onto his bottom lip. Hyunjin's face fell and he threw up the middle finger in Seungmin's direction. "You are such an asshole."

"Whatever you say, tough guy."

Over in the kitchen, Changbin's eyes narrowed at the bag of buttered popcorn. Soaked in golden goodness and prepackaged for quickness, his eyes scanned the directions. A finger slowly moved across the fine print as he read the words to himself.

"Step one, set the popcorn time." He looked up and stared at the microwave buttons like they were ancient ruins. His eyes went back to the directions on the side of the box. "Depends on the microwave watts? Okay, that's um…"

He sighed, put down the bag, and headed back into the living room. "Does anyone know how long to put the popcorn in the microwave? The bag says a variety of different times and I don't want to burn it."

"Who decided it was a good idea to make you the official popcorn popper?" Seungmin glanced in his direction. "The watts level should be on the microwave somewhere."

"Try a little under two minutes. It might need to be popped longer, but that's a good starting time."

"At least someone believes in me. Thanks, Chan." He spun around and started walking away.

"You're welcome!"

The front door jerked open and the guys all perked up. Changbin reversed and glanced around the corner. "You're back with the— oh, that's not snacks."

"Put me down!" You squirmed again in Minho's grip. "I'm here! What more do you want?"

Minho walked over to the front of the couch and put you on your feet. You shot him another glare. Felix opened the screen door, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. He held the bag of protruding snacks.

Looks of confusion cast around the area. "What's this about?" Hyunjin asked. "I thought you weren't coming to movie night."

"I didn't want to, but Lord Dipshit here didn't give me much of a choice."

"The Court Jester thinks we hate them and is wallowing in self-pity."

"Woah, what?" Hyunjin shoved himself upright again. He shifted, scooting up to the coffee table to grab his drink. "Why would we hate you?"

"Why wouldn't you? You're the ones that ignored me most of the time during the filming for the Skz Code. You've all barely acknowledged me for the past few days."

The guys looked around each other without a word. Guilt-stricken faces and eyes full of pity. You hated it. You hated the way they looked at you, as if you were nothing, but a wounded deer that they were guilty of shooting. Screw them. You didn't need their pity. They were the ones that created the situation in the first place.

Felix was the first to step forward, softly calling your name again. You hated him the most right now. Screw him and the freckles along his face. The big innocent eyes and words that filled your heart with warm honey. If anyone could get through to you, it was Felix.

"We weren't ignoring you out of anger."

"Bullshit, Felix."

"Over the past few weeks, you've started distancing yourself from us. We've tried to get you to do things with us and you've brushed us off. We thought you might need some space."

Your head shook. "That's not true. You haven't asked me to do—"

"Last week, I asked if you wanted to go to an art gallery with me and you said you had to do laundry," Hyunjin uttered.

"I mentioned a group work out between me, Minho, Changbin, and Jeongin," Han added, "you said you already worked out."

"But I-I—"

"Could it be that maybe you're too in your head?" Minho asked from behind you. "Even tonight, we tried to get you to come with us, but you refused."

"When did you—"

"When I was driving home," Chan spoke from the opposite end of the couch. "Seungmin kept pestering you about it, but you told him you had plans."

The balloon of anger deflated. Your shoulders slumped and you didn't respond. Has it really been that way? You tried to remember, but the past few weeks had been a total haze. Jealousy twisted your thoughts and all you saw was gray.

You stood in the center of the high-rise living room feeling foolish. Your arms curled around your chest tighter. Shame brushed against the barrel of your stomach. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"Sometimes you guys seem so close to one another and I've never felt like I've belonged. I'm here, but I don't ever feel like I'm really here at times. I feel like I'm invisible and nobody sees me."

"We always see you," Jeongin glanced over at you. "All of you. We love you, you idiot. We've noticed you've been spending more and more time alone. Every time we tried to engage with you, you retreated, so we thought we were the problem."

Your nostrils flared and your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, trying to will the tears away, but your eyes had other plans. "I've had friends before and I've always felt like an outcast. The loser that gets pushed aside for better friends."

"Maybe instead of assuming you've been outcasted, you should have talked to us." Minho's voice came from behind you firmly. "You're part of our family. You were the one that started to pull away from us. How should we know what you're thinking if you don't talk to us?"

You pathetically shrugged. Chan shifted towards Jeongin and patted the empty side of the couch. "Are you going to watch the movie with us? We'd be really glad to have you."

"Yes!" Han jerked upright and rushed your way. "You don't get to say no. You have to watch it with us! Come on! How will you ever know more of the Marvel lore if you're not watching it?"

"Wait, we're watching a Marvel movie?" Minho's brows furrowed. "Wait a minute, you told me we were watching—"

"Change of plans!" Han cut him off. "Change of plans! Things changed! We all voted and decided that we were going to watch a Marvel movie instead!"

"What the hell are you talking about? Vote? We didn't vote for anything. We showed up and you said we were watching a Marvel movie."

"Put a muzzle on it, Seungmin!"

"Excuse me, chipmunk?"

Han spun around and shook a fist. "I'm not a chipmunk! A quokka is totally different than a—"

"Hamster head."

Changbin's head shook and he ventured back out to the kitchen. "I'm in a group full of children," he mumbled to himself.

He grabbed the bag of popcorn, opened the microwave, and tossed it inside. The door swung shut, he pressed three buttons, and he headed back to the bickering in the living room.

"We're not watching a Marvel movie! No way! I'm not sitting here for hours and watching some random superhero movie that I know nothing about!"

"We've literally filmed with Ryan Reynolds and the least you could do is pretend to be a fan!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't know Chan had a blabber mouth and was going to personally text him!"

Chan groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Can you guys stop fighting? We're here to enjoy a movie."

You walked over and plopped beside him. He gave your thigh a few pats and leaned closer to you. "If you ever want to talk about anything later, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Chan."

He flashed you a dimpled smile. Your attention circled back to Seungmin. "Can the two of you shut up? What the hell is your problem? Minho, what did Han tell you that we were going to watch?"

"I said I wasn't coming to movie night unless we were watching K-Pop Demon Hunters."

Hyunjin shrieked and jerked upright. "Yes! We have to watch that!"

Changbin's singing behind the couch filled the air. "We're goin' up, up, up, it's our moment! You know together we're glowin'!" He circled his hips to the non-existent melody.

"Oh, oh, oh! I heard this song on TikTok!" Felix squealed. "I wanna sing, too!"

"Take it away!" Changbin pushed an invisible mic in his direction.

"Gonna be, gonna be golden!" He pressed against his ear, preparing for the high notes. "Oh, up, up, up with our voices! Gonna be, gonna be golden! Oh, I'm done hidin' now I'm shinin' like I'm born to—" He sucked in a deep breath and pushed out a shrill final note. "Beeeeeeeeeeee!"

A loud zap filled the air from the kitchen. Something popped loud enough to send out a round of gasps and a shriek from Hyunjin. The living room's ceiling light cut out. Illumination from the TV ceased, leaving everyone in the darkness.

"Oh my god," Jeongin whispered. "I don't think the Saja Boys liked that final note. This is the exact opposite of sealing the Honmoon."

"What was that sound?" You asked.

Changbin cautiously headed towards the kitchen. Green neon lights along the stove blinked with zeros. The clock on the microwave flickered with the same numbers. He reached forward, grabbed the handle, and tugged it open.

The moment he did, a puff of smoke filtered out. "Channie, hyung!" He waved an arm rapidly. "I think I screwed up the popcorn!"

Chan hurried to his feet and rushed out to the kitchen. The guys headed in the same direction, trying to see what happened. You got up and followed. The scent of melted plastic and burnt popcorn reached your nose. A layer of smoky haze clouded your field of vision. You pinched your nose, trying not to gag.

"How the hell did you fuck up that badly?" Seungmin spoke up. He squirmed into a spot beside Hyunjin and Han. "What the hell?"

Changbin held up the edge of an exploded popcorn bag. The microwave was littered with half-blown kernels. The pressure from the rising bag burst against the sticky melted plastic. "So um… I don't think I should make popcorn again. Hyunjin, I think we're going to need a new microwave for our instant rice."

"Yeah, clearly."

Chan sighed and headed towards the kitchen window. "Okay, movie night is paused for the moment. Let's open the windows and clear the smoke out. We might have to flip the switch in the breaker box if we can't get the lights back on. You might have broke a fuse somehow."

"Aw, man." Minho's lips pressed into a pout. He kicked a shoe against the ground. "I was hoping that one really hot demon would show up. What a shame it's just Changbin."

"Hey! I'm hot! It's not my fault the microwave is dumb!"

"Dumbass, you're the one that didn't take off the plastic," Seungmin responded. "You're fortunate that the microwave didn't explode and kill us all."

You elbowed Minho in the side gently. "Why do you wish it was the hot demon?"

"Because he has that blue tiger and the blue tiger is just a big cat and you all know how I feel about cats."

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[theegoldenchild]

Chapter One: Mr. Moore & Mr. Moore

Warnings: 18+ | Arranged Marriage | Vampire!Smoke | Vampire!Stack | Smoke x OC | Stack x OC | Smoke x Stack x OC | Bratty Sub!OC | Dom!Smoke | Dom!Stack | Explicit Language | Bruh just read…

Every mother’s daughter is told that a wedding is a bright door. Silk and flowers and a father’s steady hand. Music that hums in the bones. A promise whispered and a future unfurled. Zora had believed that once, and she had believed it with the ferocity of a child who wanted to fly. She had clipped magazine ads, traced necklines, and practiced how to carry herself in satin so the church steps would look like a stage. She had trained her posture in every mirror she passed because ballet had taught her that poise could be beautiful armor. She had built a dream the way dancers build strength, one controlled breath after another, and she had carried it for years like a polished gem.

And then… twenty-four hours ago, her father, Charles Huntington told her she would be forced to marry a vampire.

Her father stood just inside the doorway of her suite with his hands tucked into the pockets of a tailored suit the color of asphalt after rain. He was a big man cut from brick and shadow, a face sharpened by hard bargains and longer nights, skin a deep tobacco brown that gleamed under the chandelier. Rings winked on his fingers. A pocket watch chained to his vest ticked with an even, infuriating patience. He had a presence that made men fold and doors open, and, even though he was a monster of the night he was the kind of man who would never raise a hand to his daughter… but he was the kind of man who would sell her future for a crown he could touch.

“You don’t have a damn choice in the matter, Zora,” he said, voice like a warning knuckle on a countertop. “The deal has been made and you will marry that Moore boy, today.”

“No I won’t!” she shot back, throat raw from hours of shouting. “I will not marry a fucking vampire!”

It was 7:55 p.m. The ceremony was set to begin at nine and the Moore twins were already on their way to collect what was owed. And Zora, five foot six and carved for the stage, beautiful enough that fashion houses had once pressed cards into her palm at parties, stood barefoot in a robe she tied in a furious knot. Her hair, abundant and wavy, hung in black ribbons down her shoulders because she had refused to sit for the stylist. Pins glittered on the carpet like thrown coins. Curling irons and hot combs cooled on the vanity beside a smashed perfume bottle that fogged the air with a sweet, bitter scent. The silk dress on the mannequin looked like a hostage.

“Zora,” Charles said, using the kind of gentleness that made everything worse, “you turned thirty last week. And I know you don’t wanna hear it, but it matters. Your blood changed. It reached its season. It’s heavy in the air now. Vampires can scent it from three thousand damn miles out. Women, men, all of ’em. It’s a beacon. You marry Smoke, or you spend the rest of your days fighting off creatures who will not ASK your permission.”

She flung the crystal hair brush she was holding. It struck the wall beside him and fell into the shag with a muffled chime. “So your answer is to gift me to the very beasts you say I should fear?! Brilliant.”

“I secured your protection,” he said. “And I bought us an empire.”

“You bought yourself an empire,” she said. “You bought me a fucking cage.”

The room looked like the aftermath of a storm. Feathers from a torn pillow drifted in the current of the ceiling fan. A hand mirror lay face down in a nest of stockings. A silver tray sat on the vanity, pearls slithering off its edge like a spill of moonlight. The stylist had retreated to the hall with her kit hugged to her chest, whispering apologies to no one. Zora’s robe swished around her thighs as she paced. Every step had the memory of a tendu, a held line, a discipline that only heightened the chaos. Ballet had taught her to make fury look like elegance, and right now her rage wore satin.

“Babygirl, listen,” Charles tried again, and the nickname landed like ash. “Smoke is the oldest. Tradition says he stands as husband because the Obsidian Court wants order. That man and his brother can keep you safer than I ever could. Their clan’s money older than any bank up here. They got laws, they got codes. And with your blood smelling like… like sun on copper, you ain’t got time to—”

“Stop telling me what I smell like!” she bit out. “You’re the one who’s putting me in danger. You did that. Don’t try to sugarcoat this.”

“Or I kept you from being hunted in the street,” he said, and there was that steel he carried into every back room where men signed papers that made others disappear. “I know what those things do when they want something… I been in those rooms… This is me keeping you alive.”

“By selling me,” she said.

He didn’t flinch. He stood there with his hands still in his pockets and his jaw working once, then stilling, and he wore his ruthlessness like another layer of wool. “I’ll admit, I sold a piece of my soul when I made that deal,” he said, voice even. “And I’ll do it again, and again, and again, if it means they have to go through the Moores and the Obsidian Court before they get to you.”

The grandfather clock in the hall struck the quarter hour. Zora’s spine thrummed with a dozen impulses at once. Run. Rip the gown. Throw the dress form over the balcony. Scream until the chandeliers trembled. But then the air shifted as if the house had drawn in a careful breath, and a new scent threaded the wrecked perfume… rain over clay… Bourbon breathed over cedar.

They finally arrived.

Footsteps padded over marble. Quiet, but not timid. The kind of footfalls that kept time with something older than clocks. Two silhouettes crossed the threshold, a pair of tall men in black, tailored like sins disguised as tuxedos. Smoke entered first. Elijah Moore, the oldest. He had the stillness of a judge and the face of a man carved to carry it. Broad shoulders. A mouth that seldom smiled and, when it did, counted as thunder. Skin the color of dark mahogany polished to a soft sheen. He wore his hair close, and he wore his authority closer.

Stack followed a step behind, a mirror remade, lighter around the eyes but no less dangerous, a glint of wicked humor tucked into the corner of his mouth like a spare knife. Where Smoke’s presence landed like a verdict, Stack’s slid in like a promise you would regret, but against better judgment ask for again. Both men spoke with heavy Southern drawls that warmed the room and warned it at once, as if Mississippi had put its hand on Harlem’s shoulder and squeezed.

Smoke’s gaze took the room in with a sweep that counted every broken thing. Feathers in the air. Glass on the rug. The dress untouched. The bride untamed. He didn’t look at Zora. He looked at her father.

“Mr. Huntington,” he said, accent thick as sorghum. “It eight. Why she ain’t ready?”

Zora felt heat climb her throat. He had the audacity to ignore her. To talk over her in her own room. To act like she was luggage. She reached for the nearest object, a silver perfume bottle with a glass stopper shaped like a teardrop, and her fingers closed around it.

“Don’t,” Smoke said, and he didn’t raise his voice. One syllable, low and clean, as if the word itself knew how to stand its ground.

She held his stare. The bottle felt weighty and perfect in her palm. “Watch me.”

She hurled it. The thing cut the air with a bright arc, and in that breath the world seemed to tilt. Smoke easily moved his head by a fraction. The bottle skimmed past his temple and shattered against the doorframe behind him, splashing his shoulder with a sheen of scent and diamonds of glass. He didn’t blink. He set his gaze fully on her and the attention hit like a hand on the small of her back. Not possessive. Just a notice served: I see you.

Stack lifted both brows, and he let out a soft, appreciative sound. “Well now,” he said, with a slanted smile that shouldn’t have pleased her. “She got an arm.”

“She got five minutes,” Smoke replied without looking away from Zora. “An she already used ’em.”

Zora squared her shoulders and frowned. “I am not going anywhere with you, Mr. Moore… or you Mr. Moore.”

Smoke’s eyes, a shade you couldn’t name until you stood too close, flicked once to the wrecked room and back to her face. “You think this ‘bout where you go,” he said, accent smoothing each word into something heavy. “It ain’t. This ‘bout whether you walk out that door or I carry you out. Either way, you leavin’.”

Charles cleared his throat as if he had been holding it this whole time. “Zora, put on the dress.”

She ignored him. “You talk like you own this house,” she told Smoke. “Vampire or not, you don’t scare me and you don’t own a damn thing here.”

Smoke tipped his chin a hair. “I don’t need to own a house to take what’s owed to my clan,” he said. “Your father inked papers. He spilled intention. The Obsidian Court heard it. We here to make good.”

“The Court can rot,” she said, and there was an unwise satisfaction in saying it out loud.

Stack’s playful smile thinned into something sharper. “Sweetheart, folks who say that tend to find out rot ain’t the worst of it,” he said, and the sugar in his tone didn’t sweeten a thing. “You ain’t safe with nobody but us. That scent of yours, it’s ringin’ like supper bells from here to Havana.”

Zora’s stomach turned, not with fear, and not exactly with shame, but with a brand of fury that had weight. She could feel it under her skin. One week ago… one birthday cake, one wish, one midnight later… something inside her had shifted. Healers in her mother’s line had whispered about ripeness as a season, not an age. She hadn’t believed them. Now the air itself seemed to lean toward her. Vampires would smell her from a continent away and walk until their shoes burned to find her. It wasn’t romance. It was a hunt.

Smoke took a step farther into the room, and the temperature changed by a degree you could count. He still didn’t touch anything. He didn’t need to. Authority tended to move the furniture for him. “I ain’t here to flatter you,” he said, and the drawl laid down over his words like velvet covering steel. “I’m here to keep you from bein’ dragged out your own bed by a clan that don’t respect courts or deals or daddies with money. You mad at him. I hear it. Keep it. But you comin’ with me.”

“Say please,” she said, and she lifted her chin because ballet teaches you how to make a crown with your spine.

Something like a smile threatened one corner of Smoke’s mouth and died there. “No.”

Charles exhaled through his nose. He looked older all of a sudden. Not weaker, just used. “Zora, I ain’t askin’,” he said. “I did what I did because I know monsters, and the Moores are the only monsters that answer to law. Put on the damn dress.”

She crossed to the mannequin and ripped the veil from its pins. The tulle hissed in her hands like a chorus of tiny voices. “I’ll wear this…” she said, and she flung the veil over the headboard so it slid down and hung like a ghost. “…I’ll wear it to mop the floor of the Court.”

Stack’s laughter was quiet and bright. “Lord, she a handful,” he said, and he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe with a familiarity that made the stylist gasp from the hall. “You sure you the husband, Eli? ’Cause I ain’t never seen a bride look a man in the eye like that an live to tell it.”

Smoke didn’t move. He kept his attention on Zora the way a storm keeps its attention on a field. “You finished?” he asked her, not unkindly. “Or you got one more thing you wanna throw?”

She reached for the porcelain jewelry dish. She held it up and contemplated throwing it before setting it down and meeting his eyes. “I have one more thing to say,” she answered. “I don’t belong to you.”

He nodded once. “Then I reckon we teach each other what belong means,” he said. “Do you want to walk out with dignity or do you want me to carry you out kickin’ an screamin’? Choose.”

Zora’s breath came steady because years at the barre had taught her how to breathe through fire. She could feel the edges of her choices and none of them looked like freedom. The dress glimmered in the corner like a stranger. The clock in the hall began to strike past eight, each tone landing in the room like a footstep.

“Your five minutes are long gone,” Smoke said, and the words sat on the carpet beside all the broken things. “An I’m all outta patience.”

Stack straightened, the charm dimming as he measured Charles with a glance that held knives. “Mr. Huntington,” he drawled, “if you got any men downstairs who may feel brave when a woman hollers. Tell ’em stand down. We gon’ take her through the front like she a queen, not a prize.”

Charles nodded once, pride and fear fighting a war along his cheekbones. “They’ll clear the steps,” he said.

Zora looked at the two vampires in the doorway. Old money in their cuffs. Older law in their stares. Men turned in a century that ate empires, men who had learned to eat back. She thought of the Daywalkers’ Vein… her mother’s whispered legacy, the curse dressed as a gift, the sun bottled for a price. She thought of Harlem glittering beyond the windows with a thousand bright sins. She thought of the Obsidian Court, obsessed with order, hungry for her blood’s alchemy, waiting to fold her into a ritual and call it mercy.

She lifted her chin. “I’m not a prize. I’m not a Queen. I’ll walk on my own,” she said, and her voice did not shake, and she hated that the words sounded like a confession and a challenge at once.

Smoke’s eyes didn’t soften. They acknowledged. He turned his head toward the hall and spoke without looking away from her. “Bring the car,” he said, and the command went downstairs like a scent.

Stack stepped aside and offered the doorway with a little flourish, that wicked humor back on his face. “After you, fireball,” he said, accent syrupy and lethal. “An we gon’ talk about that arm later.”

Zora passed them both, robe sashing around her legs, hair wild, bare feet silent on the runner. She did not look at her father. She did not look at the dress. She kept her gaze on the staircase and the grand foyer below, where men waited with caps in their hands and eyes studiously averted. Smoke fell in behind her like a shadow that had decided it belonged to her. Stack drifted to her other side with a half-smile that promised mischief and war.

At the landing, she paused because the chandelier threw a net of light across the marble and, for a heartbeat, she could see herself in the reflection, a woman walking into a future that did not ask her consent. She squared her shoulders and descended as if the stairs were a stage and the audience owed her their breath.

Behind her, Smoke said nothing. Beside her, Stack hummed a tune that sounded like thunder flirting with a train whistle. Ahead of her, the front doors opened onto night, and Harlem waited like a cat with gold eyes.

The night air outside the Huntington estate was heavy with jazz carried from the clubs down Lenox, a faint echo of horns and drums spilling into the dark like mischief itself. A row of polished black cars waited at the curb, engines idling low, a convoy that belonged less to mortals and more to ceremony. Men in pressed coats stood along the steps, their caps pulled low, eyes trained anywhere but on the woman their employer had just sold into eternity.

Zora stalked forward, each step a defiance against the marble beneath her feet. She told herself she would make it to the car on her own terms, that she would not be dragged like some caged thing. She would climb in barefoot and disheveled and let the entire Obsidian Court see her rage written plain across her body. If they wanted a bride, they would have to take her as she was.

But the instant her hand hovered toward the sleek door handle, a sharp snap cracked the air. Smoke hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even glanced at her. His long fingers flicked once, the sound cutting through the night like the crack of a whip. From the second vehicle behind, four men stepped out in unison, their movements too practiced to belong to simple drivers. They closed on her before she could twist away.

“Don’t you—!” Her words strangled into a cry as two caught her arms, another seized her waist, the last plucked the sash of her robe when she tried to claw free. She fought like a feral thing, legs kicking, hair thrashing about her shoulders. Her shriek ripped into the Harlem night, loud enough that strangers might have stopped in any other neighborhood. But here, under the Moores’ shadow, men on corners folded newspapers and turned their faces the other way.

“You think you can put hands on me?” she spat, nails digging into one servant’s sleeve. “Let me go, I’ll—”

“Ma’am,” one of them grunted through gritted teeth, “we are under orders.”

They dragged her across the gravel, robe slipping from one shoulder as she twisted like she might tear herself in half before conceding. The rear door of the second car yawned open, lamplight from the interior spilling onto the steps. Two women waited inside—seamstresses or attendants… she wasn’t sure… armed not with weapons but with needles, pins, and the pale shimmer of satin.

“No!” Zora cried, heels scraping stone. “Don’t you dare—” Her words dissolved into another scream as they forced her inside, the door shutting like the lid of a coffin. The car rocked once as her fight carried on behind glass. Silhouettes shifted, arms tugged, fabric lifted. Her voice rose in ragged protest until it thinned against the sound of the engine.

Smoke stood at the curb and adjusted the cuff of his jacket as if nothing unusual had taken place. His face was unreadable and only the faint crease between his brows betrayed the irritation pulsing under his stillness. Stack leaned against the open door of their own car with a sly whistle.

“Well, hell,” Stack drawled, a sharp gold tooth glinting when the streetlight hit his grin. “She bite like she already got fangs of her own.”

Smoke cut his brother a look, sharp as glass. “A woman who walk out her daddy’s house in a robe thinkin’ she gon’ stand before the Court lookin’ like that?” His jaw tightened, words heavy with disapproval. “That ain’t a bride. That’s a motherfuckin’ disgrace.”

Stack shrugged, unbothered. “Or that’s a woman who know she ain’t nobody’s property, Eli. Can’t say I don’t admire the gall.”

“Gall don’t mean nothin’ when the Court sittin’ there watchin’,” Smoke replied. He climbed into the waiting vehicle, the interior smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke, order pressed into every line. “Presentation is law. She walk in that hall half-naked, it don’t matter who her blood belong to. She’ll shame me, shame us, shame the clan. That woman playin’ with fire that’s hotter than the sun.”

Stack slid into the seat beside him, one arm tossed over the backrest with casual irreverence. “Mm,” he said, eyes on the window where Zora’s car rattled ahead, her shadow flaring against the curtains as attendants tried to tame her. “Or maybe she is the fire. You ever think of that?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His jaw was stone, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the windshield. The convoy pulled away from the Huntington estate, engines growling low as a beast’s throat, the night swallowing them whole.

Inside the second car, Zora’s screams tangled with the ripping sound of fabric, pins clinking into porcelain trays, and the low, urgent voices of women who had been paid to prepare her. Every tug of satin, every pull of a lace string was another theft of her will. And still she fought, her fury echoing against the velvet seats, until her voice carried forward to the Moores’ car.

Smoke closed his eyes for a moment, irritation knifing under his skin, order slipping like sand between his fingers. “This ceremony was meant to be seamless,” he muttered, voice weighted with authority. “Instead it already reeks of chaos.”

Stack chuckled, low and dangerous. “Maybe chaos exactly what we need, Eli’… We’ve been ‘round the world an been alive over 330 years. Court been too quiet...”

Smoke’s eyes opened again, dark as stormwater, and for the first time since stepping into the Huntington house, he allowed the truth to sit heavy in his chest. He had never despised disorder more. And he had never wanted a woman more for daring to create it…

The convoy slowed as the iron gates of the Obsidian Court opened like jaws parting. Gaslight lamps burned in precise intervals along the drive, their glow catching the sleek bodies of the black cars as they rolled up the long, tree-lined lane. At the end of it stood the Moores’ ancestral estate. Black stone, towering columns and a fortress that looked less like it was built and more like it was carved from the night itself. The windows burned faint gold against the velvet dark, every light a sentinel, every shadow a witness. This was where she would live now. This was where she would be bound.

The second car door opened first. A servant stepped aside, and Zora emerged. Satin and lace whispered over the cobblestones as if mocking her rebellion. They had pinned her hair in a crown of dark waves and tucked a veil behind jeweled combs. Pearls glimmered at her throat, her ballerina frame wrapped in silk that fit her like it was sculpted to perfection. Even when she had tried to sabotage her own appearance, she looked like a vision lifted straight from the Court’s ancient paintings. A bride of rare blood and rarer beauty.

Her eyes burned like amber coals above it all.

Smoke’s gaze swept her once. No softness, no admiration, only judgment weighing every detail. “Better,” he said.

Zora cocked her head to the side and her chest heaved. “Better? Is that all you have to say after your dogs dragged me into a car like livestock? Better?” Her voice climbed sharp as glass. “You cold-eyed, uptight bastard, struttin’ around like the world oughta bow to your shadow. You think I’m impressed by your suits and frightened by your abilities, Mr. Moore? My mama raised me to be fearless and you ain’t nothin’ but a bloodsuckin’ parasite with a stick shoved so far up your—”

Gasps fluttered through the row of servants flanking the Court steps. Eyebrows raised and a murmur rippled like wind through grass. That was the moment Smoke’s patience split.

In a blink, his hand wrapped around her throat, fingers firm and measured, lifting her chin without crushing it, but letting the threat of doing so linger in the air. His grip was iron and fire, a claim laid in flesh. His eyes bore down into hers, and his sharp fangs slid into view, white and gleaming against the dusk. He leaned close, his voice low enough to tangle the veins in her blood.

“You watch your tongue,” he said, each word a brand. “Me an my brother… we can be the very monsters you already call us. We can show you what it means when men like us stop following rules. You don’t want that, little girl. You best remember it. An when we step in front of them elders, you keep that venom sealed behind those pretty lips, or you gon’ learn real fast how cruel eternity can be.”

Zora’s eyes widened, fury trembling against a sudden, unwelcome shiver at the threat in his voice.

Stack, who had been leaning idly against the car, shifted forward. His easy grin was gone. His eyes were sharper now, colder, and when he spoke the charm had bled out of his tone, leaving something harder, hungrier. “She’s entertainin’ but talk like that again, Eli, I might not be so polite,” Stack said, his voice gone dark. He stepped closer, his height shadowing her from the left, and for a brief moment the mask slipped… his gaze went feral and his smile twisted into something not quite sane. “Ain’t no servant here gon’ get the idea they can talk slick because the bride can’t keep her mouth shut. I’ll cut that out quick. Don’t test me, little flame.”

The servants stood straighter, glances flicking down, fear and reverence mingling like smoke. The new bride’s temper might have been entertaining back at the mansion, but here in the Court, Zora’s mouth was a liability neither twin could allow… at least not right now.

Smoke loosened his grip just enough for Zora to breathe without breaking her gaze. Stack moved to her left, Smoke to her right. Their arms linked tightly with hers, not as escort but as bind. Two ancient predators walking her into the lion’s den. “Walk,” Smoke ordered, his tone final, the word carrying into her bones.

And together they climbed the long stone steps of the Obsidian Court, a perfect tableau of order: the bride in white, glowing with defiant fury, and the twin shadows on either side holding her fast.

The great doors of the Obsidian Court swung open with a creak that seemed older than Harlem itself, a sound that carried the weight of centuries. Inside, the hall stretched wide and cathedral-like, its vaulted ceiling lost in darkness except where iron chandeliers glowed with candlelight. The stone was black as onyx, veined with silver that caught each flame and sent it scattering across the room like shards of ice. The air was dense with incense and blood, the metallic tang undercutting the perfume of roses arranged in vases taller than men. Every pew was filled, every figure draped in finery cut from silks, velvets, and jewels collected across centuries. Eyes gleamed in the dim, some human, some something older, all of them fastening to the woman being led down the aisle.

Zora held her chin high because to bow it would feel like surrender. Her robe was gone, stripped from her body by women with quick fingers, replaced with one of the twenty gowns Smoke had commissioned weeks ago without her knowledge. Satin hugged her waist, lace traced her shoulders, pearls dotted her bodice like tears frozen mid-fall. She hated every stitch, but as she stepped forward with Smoke on her right and Stack on her left, she knew that hate made her radiant. Every eye followed her because she was not merely beautiful, she was rare, and rarity was worth more than diamonds in this room.

Inside her head she cursed them all. She cursed the women whose lips curled into jealous smirks. She cursed the men who let their stares linger on the soft line of her collarbone. She cursed the elders perched like vultures on the dais, their hands folded, their eyes like chips of obsidian weighing her as if she were a jewel to be bartered. Every step screamed with profanity in her mind. Parasites. Bastards. Lechers. Every last one of you can burn. Her mouth stayed shut, though, her father’s warning echoed through her memory along with Smoke’s grip around her throat, his fangs flashing, the low command that had frozen the blood in her veins. She knew better now than to give her fury sound.

The hall stretched before her like a gauntlet, pews packed with rival clans who had traveled from coasts, mountains and islands. She felt their hunger like heat against her skin. Some eyes glimmered with admiration, others with lust, others with envy, and a few with naked malice. They knew who she was and what her blood meant. They knew that if she belonged to the Moores, then her bloodline would be sealed away under their rule, its power locked from any other clan’s grasp. She was a prize and a weapon all at once.

She cut her eyes sideways, sharp as the slice of a dancer’s turn towards the center pew on the left. Her father sat like a king among his own men, twenty strong, each in dark suits with their hands resting near the hidden holsters at their hips. They were mortals among immortals, and yet they held their ground with the arrogance of loyalty paid in blood. Charles looked immovable, back straight, jaw proud, every inch the ruthless kingpin who had brokered this deal. But for the briefest second, when her gaze collided with his, she thought she saw a crack. A shadow in his eyes, something that whispered of regret. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with the steel of a man unwilling to bend under the weight of what he had done.

Her chest tightened. Was it guilt? Was it pity? Or was it simply her imagination clawing for mercy that did not exist? She looked away before her own expression betrayed the storm inside her.

Smoke’s arm pressed firm against hers, a reminder that escape was no more than a dream. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, his gaze locked forward as though this ceremony were nothing more than law carried out. His silence was a wall, and behind that wall was a man who despised disorder as much as he despised desire. Stack’s arm was looped through her left, his stride casual, but his eyes had completely lost their playfulness. They flicked across the room, cataloging faces and measuring threats. The smile was gone, replaced with the sharp edge of a man who knew when to laugh and when to bare teeth.

The trio moved as one down the aisle, the echo of their steps swallowed by the hushed murmurs of the clans. Servants trailed behind, carrying the long train of Zora’s gown so it floated like spilled milk. The chandeliers swayed faintly, casting fractured light over her face, and for a moment she thought she might suffocate under the sheer weight of expectation pressing down from every direction.

At the end of the aisle, the elders of the Court sat in a semicircle. Ancient men and women, their skin gleaming like dark marble, their eyes ageless and hungry. Some wore gowns that had graced royal courts centuries ago, others tailored suits that spoke of modern wealth. Together they were timeless, and together they were judge and jury. They leaned forward ever so slightly as she approached, their gazes pricking her skin.

Zora kept her head high. She would not stumble, she would not show fear, and she would not give them the satisfaction of tears. But in her mind she cursed them still, a litany of fury woven between every measured step: Rot in the ground. Choke on your riches. May the sun eat you alive when my blood runs dry.

The hall narrowed as she drew closer to the dais, the world funnelling into the sight of her father behind her, the twins beside her, and the elders ahead. She was trapped in a triangle of betrayal, possession, and power, and no amount of rage could unmake the truth… she was already theirs.

Smoke and Stack walked her forward, and the doors groaned shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the hall like the sound of fate closing its grip.

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Y’all: “Update your other series!”

Me enjoying the chaos while I start a new series:

Taglist:

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[chuluoyi]

only if you are up for a challenge. Naoya Zenin x f!reader in which he got her pregnant, then she left out of fear and he found her again and won't let her go :)))

when you loved me

- zen'in naoya x reader

you loved him... but you have had enough of the shit you've experienced—his arrogance, horrible family and another woman—and decided to leave him for the sake of yourself and your child

genre/warnings: angst to comfort, implied cheating, most likely ooc, honestly i almost made it a vs naoya fic with no consolation, happy ending aka naoya is decent

note: this ask... has been collecting dust in my askbox for about SIX MONTHS HAHAH, so sorry anon. i'll just leave it here and let it burn however just bc i don’t want to delete what i’ve written :’)

general masterlist

"How... how could you?"

Once, you thought, you were in love with Zen'in Naoya.

Well, you couldn't deny that he had personality flaws, but deep down, at one point in your life, you still believed that he too loved you.

You stared at him through tears brimming in your eyes, and he was just there, looking at the little being in your arms with a mix of shock and... something else you couldn't name. Dismay? Disappointment? Black rage?

"Go away, Naoya," you declared through your gritted teeth, pulling the baby in your arms even closer to you, as though fearing he might do something drastic. No way in hell would you let him after what he made you go through.

His eyes twitched as he tried to hold himself back from losing it. He took a few deep breathes in order to stay composed.

“Y/N, answer me,” he growled, still with the same condescending tone you remembered nine months ago, when you resolutely decided to leave him. “Is that baby mine?”

This was absolute madness. You had driven him insane. Naoya was certain he would go feral on you after you boldly left him without a trace, and when he found you, you were cradling this baby in your arms—which he was absolutely sure, enough to bet on his life, that the little thing was also his.

The woman he loves has given birth to his child.

You had imagined all sort of scenarios in which this very event would occur. This was one of them actually.

“No,” you firmly replied, gaze hardening. “Not yours. So kindly let yourself out of my house, Naoya.”

“Absolute bullshit!” he shouted and you flinched. His sudden rise of voice also woke the poor baby in your arms.

His heart hammered inside his chest. There were many things that made a mess of his head. You running away from him. The nights of madness he went through, wondering where you were and if you were alright. And now, the fact you had his baby without him ever knowing.

“Where were you? Why did you leave— you were having my—”

Fuck, he didn’t even know if he had a son or daughter.

You tried to console your child, now tears also streaming down your cheeks too. But it was more of frustration and anger rather than fear. “Can you blame me? Zen’in Naoya, you have made my life hell!”

“Hell?” It felt like an total insult to his pride. “How—!”

“You!” you screamed at his face. “I’ve had enough of your shit! And not to mention your father—that horrible drunkard who always looks down on me and treats me as if I were some gold digger! And also the whole of your goddamn, entitled clan—they always harass me right in front of my face!”

All of this stunned him on this place. Truth to be told, he knew a little to nothing at all about what his kin had done to you.

“I don’t need your family’s wealth! I can live on my own just fine even with your bastard!” Your tirade still hadn’t ended, but you had to put your baby on her cot first and dismiss her ever growing cries because you were tired of all of this. This life. This absolute nightmare that was caused by one fatal mistake of falling in love with Zen’in Naoya.

“But what the fuck? You’re asking why I left? How dare you ask me that after what you did!”

“What did I even do?!” His denial made a blood vessel about to burst inside your brain. “You never fucking told me what my father did! If only you did, I would have—”

“Look, you don’t even acknowledge it!” You were so tired of this. You wished you could die and just end all of this mental suffering. Why did this have to happen to you out of a billion people out there?

And yet, still, ultimately, you were happy with him. Those memories of the two of you together, just idyllically spending time together, or sometimes even playfully clashing opinions— to you, they were irreplaceable.

So, that's why...

Your heart shattered at the screeching cries of your baby. But you had to slam this in Naoya’s face.

“That was the last straw—seeing you with that fucking woman, you insufferable, demented, cheating bastard!”

That string of profanities you screamed at his face made Naoya finally lost it, as he gripped you tightly and his eyes flared with pure white-hot anger. “Say that again—say that again, you—!”

A toe-curling scream ripped out of your baby and you wrenched yourself out of his grasp through sheer will. Naoya was left reeling as he watched your horrified expression, as you plucked the baby into your arms again.

“Shh, shh,” you shushed your child amidst your own quivering lips. “Mama is here… Don’t cry…”

Right at that moment, it was as if something had pierced his chest and left a gaping hole. He really had a living baby. That baby was crying because of him.

The sting of the anger was still there, but now guilt started to overpower it as he regained his cool somewhat. “Is that a—” his breath hitched. He had to know. At the very, very least he had to know.

You didn’t immediately answer. You were still absolutely heartbroken by how it all turned out. But above all else, you could no longer deny him of his own child.

“A girl,” you sniffled.

A daughter. A daughter— in the one split second after knowing that, Naoya made the quickest decision of his life.

“Come back. Live with me,” he said, resolute. “You’re the mother of my child—I won’t let anyone lay their hand on you again. You have my word.”

Women are pain in the ass. That was what he used to think. Until you. Not when it's you. It astounded even himself how the sight of you like this was enough to drive knives into his chest.

“Look, that’s not it,” your tears were now falling free and fast, unable to hold it back longer. “How can you ask me that—when you went behind my back with another woman? Naoya, I love you—loved you. But isn’t this too cruel? How can you do this to me?”

“What woman are you talking about?” He tried to compose himself, but your accusation of him with someone whose existence he didn’t even know was getting in his nerves. “I have never been unfaithful to you! I know we don't always agree to things, but do you really think that low of me?”

“Evidently, I saw you with her. Your father made it a point that she’s your next plaything—or possibly even, fiancée!”

There was a memory that sprung into his head when you mentioned that. He recalled that vain, stupid woman, and he definitely remembered telling his father that he refused her. It wasn’t long before you disappeared.

Now everything clicked.

“Listen to me,” Naoya started, jaw clenching. “Whatever my father told you—those are all lies. I turned her down right there and then. I wouldn’t do that to you. You know that. You should have known that.”

Sobs wrecked your body and soul at this point. You knew where your place was. Zen’in Naoya was a man outside your league, his family made it so clear to you that you were nothing but dirt in their eyes. And perhaps that was why, back then, you chose to protect yourself and left him, believing he was capable of that too.

And now before you, you could see the man you loved once again.

“Come back to me.” His gaze burned you. “This time, for sure, I won’t let anyone touch you— I won’t let them even say a word about you! I will marry you, and we will raise our daughter together.”

“I… I don’t want to live there, Naoya…” you sobbed. You hated that place. Like hell would you have your pride stomped and deceived again.

“Alright, if that’s what you want. We won’t live there. You won’t have to see any of their faces again.”

Gazing into your face, marked by trails of tears, he finally, finally felt his heart break. And he thought, that in front of him now was the only woman who could upturn his whole trajectory.

“Just… come back. To me. I will take care of you. I swear it.”

[ollyissleepy]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫

pairings: platonic yandere!batfam x uninterested!male!reader summary: After being caught red handed stealing, (name) finds himself in the Wayne Manor, surrounded by his new family. (Name)'s disinterested in bonding is met with equally not caring siblings and father. As he spends his days alone, (name) realises his new family might care much more than he originally thought the did. cw: stealing, swearing, underage smoking, mentions of gambling and death a/n: idk why but Alfred makes me think of my grandad (which is ironic since I only know him from stories told by my family and I've never even met him) anyway let me know if you're interested in the first idea regarding the scene with (name) and Alfred that I scrapped worried it would be 'too graphic' based on this idea I had

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

When (name) wakes up, the sun hasn't even risen. He's not sure about the exact time, as there's no clock in the room he was made to stay in, his phone still at his house, hidden away in fear of situations like this. The boy turns onto his back, his eyes wide open, not daring to fall back asleep. He tries to think of his next course of action. (Name) was hoping to run off during his trip to grab his clothes, but with the butler accompanying him, that won't be possible. And not really due to the age of the man, but simply because the boy doesn't want Alfred to get in trouble. He decides to come up with a different idea another time, hopefully with one that wouldn't get, what seems to be, the only worker in the manor.

Once (name) notices the first rays of light coming into the room, he decides it's probably time to move out of bed. Only then does he notice the grumbling of his stomach. (Name) sighs, walking into the bathroom; he'll have to look for a kitchen later.

The teenager checks the corridor twice, making sure he won't bump into someone as he's trying to find the kitchen. (Name) steps out of the room, doing his best to not make any unnecessary noises. He walks down the same set of stairs that he did the previous day, walking from one room to another until he finds the one he was looking for. Once in the kitchen, he opens the fridge, grabbing a few things that could make a decent breakfast. The boy doesn't take anything that he deems as 'too fancy' for his tastes, opting for simple vegetables and other produce. Stuff he figures nobody will really notice the absence of. The teenager is so focused on filling his stomach that he doesn't notice another person entering the room.

"Mast—, (name), if you were hungry, you could've come to find me. I would be happy to make you something." Butler speaking up causes the boy to jump up. He turns around; the food he made for himself is in his hands.

"It's alright, Alfred," (name) reassures, looking away, like a child caught doing something they shouldn't. "I don't mind making my own food."

"I know you don't, but next time, please don't be afraid to ask me. That's what I'm here for." Alfred smiles, deciding against pressing on the matter.

Alfred begins to smoothly move around the kitchen, grabbing ingredients and other things he needs to cook a meal. (Name) watches the man working as he eats the food he prepared. He debated going into a dining room but decided against it, worried that since the butler starts making breakfast, the rest of the family will get down to eating there. The boy isn't interested in meeting any of them.

"I don't have any work until lunch," Alfred announces, making (name) tilt his head in confusion. "I was thinking we could grab your clothes. That way I could wash the ones you are wearing in the afternoon," he adds, pointing at the boy's outfit with a butter knife.

"Works for me, I guess." (Name) shrugs, finishing up his food. Alfred notices the boy hesitating on what to do with the dish, so he decides to speak up.

"Just leave them in the sink; I'll put them in the dishwasher later." He points toward the appliance.

(Name) carefully puts the dishes into the sink, looking back at the butler for approval. Once Alfred smiles at him, telling him he should go and get ready so they can leave after the rest of the family eats their breakfast. The teenager takes one last look at the butler before leaving the kitchen. He makes his way back, the journey much easier now that he had done that once. He finds the staircase, slowly making his way up. When (name) is almost at the top, he notices something on the wall, close to the ceiling. As he walks up higher, he recognises the object. It appeared to be a surveillance camera. (Name) doesn't stop to give it a closer look, not wanting anyone who watches through them to notice his interest in the object. The presence of the camera changes the boy's plans as he decides to spend the next few days checking where the rest of them are. He'll also need a plan on avoiding some of them to make himself harder to find. 

As he enters 'his' room, the first thing (name) does is grab his hoodie. The one he hid under the pillow the previous night, just in case. As he puts it on, he realises he should clean up a bit or at least fix the bed , not wanting anyone else to touch the place he's sleeping on. The boy makes sure to make it in a different way to make it easier for him to tell if somebody was messing with it. With some more time to spare, (name) looks out the window, looking at the garden. He also looks over the fence further into the property, wondering if it has any loose spots, making his escape easier.

(Name) doesn't move from his spot next to the window when somebody knocks on his door. He tells them to come in, his eyes moving to the door. Alfred comes inside the room, noticing that the boy seemed to have made the bed. He also notices that it was made differently from how the beds are usually done in the manor, but he decides not to dwell on it too much. The butler figures that it must be the only way the teenager was taught how to fix it.

Alfred let the boy know that he's ready to leave whenever the teenager is. (Name) puts his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, nodding that he's ready. Both of them returned downstairs, this time moving opposite to where the kitchen was. To the boy's disappointment, Alfred leads him outside and not to the garage, where he could judge 'his father's' taste in cars; the boy frowns at the missed opportunity.

There's a car parked in the driveway; it looks slightly different than the one he was brought in. Alfred opened the door, his hand gesturing for the boy to get inside. (Name) sits onto the backseat of the car, the butler closing the door behind him. The boy plays with the hem of his hoodie, waiting for Alfred to walk around the car to start driving.

The car ride is mostly silent, save for (name) giving out directions to the butler. The boy enjoys the lack of words leaving Alfred's mouth, making him think that the whole journey might not be such a pain after all. (Name) lets the man know that his apartment building is on the left, ending the ride. Alfred finds a spot to park the car, hoping nobody will damage or, worse, steal it. After he makes sure the car is securely locked, he turns towards the building the boy is already at the entrance of. He tries not to show it, but the state of the building fills him with worry. Is it really where the boy was living? The paint chipping off the outside walls, exposing the brick, and the cracks surrounding the windows. The building was most definitely not up to any code and probably shouldn't even be lived in.

Even though worries of the building collapsing filled Alfred's head, he still followed the boy inside. As they were making their way up the stairs, an older woman came out of the flat on the bottom floor, probably hearing their steps. 

"Ah, (name), good to finally see you. You're a few days late to rent," she informs, glancing at the boy, then looking at Alfred from head to toe, the man getting uncomfortable under her judgemental stare. "I tried knocking, hoping your mom would pay, but it seemed that nobody was home."

"Sorry, Mrs Smith. Mom is busy with work, you know how she gets," (name) explains, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I'll bring it to you in a bit," he promises with a shy smile.

The woman nods, taking another look at Alfred, before walking back inside her flat. He doesn't ask the boy about the lie he told Mrs Smith, knowing it's probably for the best that she wasn't aware that only the boy lives in the apartment. They resume their walk up the stairs until (name) stops at one of the floors, walking down the hallway. The butler watches him stop at one of the cracks in the wall and take out a key from it. The boy then stops in front of a door further down the hall, opening it with a key.

(Name) doesn't look back to see if Alfred is following behind him. He doesn't want to see the look of disgust the butler must have upon seeing the condition of the place the boy calls home. What the teenager isn't aware of is that Alfred doesn't look at it all with disgust but rather concern.

The flat is in much better shape than Alfred anticipated. It was mostly clean, other than the empty instant noodle packets and some other everyday litter. There was a blanket thrown over an old couch that looked like it had seen better days. As (name) disappears in what the butler believes to be a bedroom, Alfred is left to look around the main room of the apartment. He checks the kitchen, his worry deepening after noticing the state of it on top of the oven that looks like a fire hazard.

(Name) double-checks the stuff he throws inside the bag. He puts inside whatever he decides he might need, even if it would just be used as a fire starter. The boy doesn't own many clothes, so putting them all randomly inside the bag wasn't hard. It took him minutes to grab all of his belongings. There weren't many things that belonged to his mother that (name) kept. Most of them he was forced to sell a long time ago, so he won't go hungry or have to pay rent. A few things that the boy kept, he also stuffed inside the bag, even if that meant leaving behind a few shirts so he could close it. The boy takes an envelope from under the mattress, checking if there's enough inside to cover this month's rent. 

Walking back to the main area of the flat, (name) finds Alfred staring at something. As the boy walks closer to the man, he notices that Alfred is looking at the only picture the boy has of himself and his mother. (Name) doesn't know why the butler is staring at that picture so much, but he also doesn't care, snatching the picture away from Alfred's prying eyes. The man watches the boy put the photograph into a bag, carefully arranging it in between some shirts.

"I see that you packed your bag. Do you have everything?" Alfred asks, wanting to make sure neither of them would have to come back to this place.

"Not yet." (Name) puts his bag on the couch and walks towards the opposite side of the room, crouching next to a lamp.

Alfred sees the boy take out a flip phone, which doesn't surprise him after seeing the state of the flat. He figures it's the only phone he and his mother could afford. The butler uses the fact that (name) let go of his bag to grab it for the boy.

"Oh, it's fine. I can carry it myself," (name) says, putting the phone in his pocket. He steps closer to Alfred, trying to take the bag out of the butler's hands.

"Don't worry, (name), I'll make sure nothing happens to it." Alfred reassures the teenager, keeping a firm hold on the bag. "You just focus on locking up the place properly."

Both of them walk out of the flat. Alfred watches as the boy locks it and then puts the key into his pocket. (Name) wonders if he should give the key back to Mrs Smith, knowing that even if he could, it wouldn't be safe for him to return there. He walks down the stairs with Alfred following behind, stopping at Mrs Smith's apartment to give her the envelope. The boy returns the key as well, mentioning that he and his mother were moving out. The woman didn't ask any questions, figuring it's not her business. Both of them walk out of the apartment building, and Alfred lets out a sigh of relief. He didn't show it, but staying in a building that was in such a state was filling him with anxiety. The butler walks with (name) back to the car, putting the boy's bag into the trunk.

"Alfred, do you think we could visit her grave?" (Name) asked, his eyes focused on the ground before him. "I don't know when I'll be able to visit, and I'd hate to leave without saying goodbye."

"Of course, (name)." Alfred agrees with a soft smile. "I'd be happy to take you." The man closes the trunk, moving to open one of the back doors.

"Let's walk; it's not far," (name) suggests, not seeing a point in turning on a car to drive such a short distance.

"Lead the way." Alfred closes the door, still smiling.

(Name) was right about the cemetery not being far, as the journey takes less than ten minutes. From the moment they entered the cemetery, (name) was only looking at the ground as if afraid to look at any of the graves. Alfred, on the other hand, takes a moment to read some of the names written on the graves. He's so distracted that he almost misses (name) stopping in front of one of them. Alfred stands next to the boy, whose expression he couldn't read. The man then looks at the grave, reading the words on the gravestone. 

(Mother's name) (Last Name) beloved mother Born xx-xx-xxxx Died xx-xx-xxxx

"It's been…" Alfred begins to speak, but the words are caught in his throat.

"Seven years, yeah," (name) finishes, his eyes never leaving his mother's gravestone.

"You were only ten." Alfred's cracks, trying so hard not to imagine a little boy burying his mother all by himself. "How did nobody find out?"

"If you know where to go, they won't ask you questions." (Name) shrugs, finally looking up at Alfred. "Mrs Smith's late husband helped me bury her, only wanting some money so he could gamble behind his wife's back. Honestly, I'm kind of surprised he never mentioned my mother's death to her."

Neither of them moved for a while after that. Alfred is still trying to understand how this boy managed to survive on his own for so long. He pitied the boy, wishing Bruce had found out sooner about him. Maybe then, (name)'s life would be a little easier.

The drive back to the manor is quiet, with Alfred checking on the boy's wellbeing in the rearview mirror. The butler wants to say something, anything that could bring comfort to (name). No words seemed good enough; after all, what could you say to a teenager who lost his mother almost a decade ago?

Back in the manor, (name) uses the need to unpack his bag as an excuse to get away from the butler. The boy makes his way back to 'his' room, closing the door shut behind himself. He doesn't take out much from his bag, only a fresh set of clothes, some underwear and the picture of his mother. He changes into the clothes, wondering if he should throw the old ones to the humper or ask Alfred if he can wash them himself. The teenager ends up putting them in the hamper, knowing that the butler would find a reason for the boy to not wash them himself.

(Name) makes sure his bag is hidden under his bed before heading out of his room to look for more cameras. The boy roams the hallways of the manor, hoping that he looks like a clueless child exploring his new home. He tries to remember as many locations of the devices as possible. He hopes to ask Alfred for some paper and pens to write them down later, but in the meantime his memory has to be enough. (Name) turns around after hitting a dead end, deciding to look for the butler for his request, when he bumps into someone. The man had broad shoulders, partially hidden behind the grey hoodie, his hair messy, like he’d just run a hand through it — dark, tousled. Man's vibrant blue eyes, running over (name)'s younger frame.

"Hey, you're new here, right?" The man asks with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He only earns a shrug from (name), making the man let out an awkward cough. "Anyway, have you seen Tim? He's not in his room."

(Name) shakes his head, his brows furrowed slightly. The man already established that he's new here; how could he know where Tim is? The man with blue eyes leaves, understanding that he won't get the answer from the boy. The teenager finds that the more he learns about 'his' father's family, the less interested he becomes in interacting with any of them.

(Name) decides that it's enough of being outside of his room for the day, returning to the only space in the manor he feels somewhat safe in. The boy spends the next hour or so recalling the locations of the cameras he saw like a mantra. 

The boy is so wrapped up in remembering the cameras that he doesn't notice the sun beginning to set on the horizon. The knock on the door made (name) jump slightly, not expecting anyone to bother him in 'his' room. He lets the person behind the door know that they're welcome to come inside. The door opens, Alfred coming inside with a smile.

"(Name), I was wondering if you'd like to join the rest of the family for dinner tonight?" Alfred asks, the smile not leaving his face. The boy is about to decline when Alfred speaks up: "It would not only mean a lot to your father to see you getting along with the rest of the kids but to me as well."

Alfred watches the boy hesitate, possibly laying out the options, before agreeing. (Name) decides that meeting the rest of the family wouldn't hurt. Knowing who to avoid could be useful for him in the long run.

"Alfred? Do you think I could get some paper and a pen?" (name) asos, following behind the butler.

"Of course," Alfred smiles, his voice soft. "I'll make sure to put a notebook and some pens in your room after dinner."

You thank the man, taking a deep breath as you enter the dining room. You take a look around the table, not failing to notice all of the seats being taken. Alfred wonders why you don't sit down, so he also checks the table, noticing as well the lack of space for the boy.

"I invited Connor over," said the one in the hoodie, barely looking up from his plate. "Figured it wouldn’t hurt."

"It’s not like he ate with us yesterday," the youngest muttered, arms crossed and tone sharp, not missing a beat.

"Still, I believe you—" the butler began to speak, hoping to resolve the issue and still have (name) join the table.

"It's alright, Alfred." The boy interrupts the man's sentence, not seeing a point in staying in the room. "I would rather eat in my room anyway," (name) assures, hoping to just leave.

The butler sighs, fixing up a plate for the boy. (Name) hangs around the man, trying to ignore the stares at everyone sitting at the table. He grabs the plate from Alfred, thanking him. He can't help but overhear a conversation that started the moment they noticed him leaving.

"He's so weird," a voice that sounded like it belonged to the youngest spoke. "His mother should've raised him better." After hearing that (name) was close to returning to the room, giving the child a piece of his mind, but another voice stopped him from doing so.

"You shouldn't say that he's still your sibling." (Name) wasn't quite sure whose voice belonged to, but he was glad somebody was telling the child off.

"You don't know shit, Conner," the youngest spoke again. (Name) suddenly wishes he took a better look at the people at the table so he could know how the boy looked. 

Back in his room, (name) eats his dinner in peace, trying not to dwell on what the youngest Wayne said. Around the time the boy finishes his meal, Alfred comes around, as promised, carrying a notebook and a few pens. He puts them down on the desk with an apologetic smile. The boy uses the moment to ask the butler if he needs any help around the manor, mentioning that helping the man clean up would make it a great way to explore the place. The butler assures him that he's more than capable of taking care of the manor and that the teenager doesn't have to worry about others looking at him weirdly, most of them being used to kids roaming the place. It's almost a weekly occurrence that somebody walks the halls of the manor trying to learn its layout for the first time.

The next day (name) decides to take Alfred's words to heart and continue roaming the manor. The boy eats his breakfast in the butler's company, who still insists that he could make something for (name). The teenager moves to a different wing of the manor, hoping that, by expanding the knowledge about the layout, he could leave the place without ever being noticed.

As (name) walks deeper into the new wing of the manor, he finds himself growing anxious, the true size of the place finally hitting him like a truck. The boy feels trapped in the maze of the hallways. He doesn't pay proper attention to his surroundings anymore, no longer looking around for cameras, his mind fixated on returning to more familiar parts of the manor. (Name) rounded a corner too fast and collided straight into someone.

"Sorry," he blurted out, stumbling a step back. "I got kind of lost."

The guy he bumped into barely flinched. Tall, athletic build, warm brown skin, tight curls cropped close. Dressed casually but sharp: sneakers, dark jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt rolled at the elbows like he was always ready for something. (Name) recognises the boy from the family dinner fiasco.

"Nah, you’re good; don’t worry about it," the guy said with a relaxed grin. "You’re new here, right?"

"Oh, yeah," (name) nodded, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Wow, didn’t know Bruce adopted another one." He extended a hand. "I’m Duke. Nice to meet you."

"(Name)," the boy replied, accepting Duke's hand and shaking it.

"I could show you around if you want." Duke offers a wide smile on his face.

"I’d rather explore blind; it helps with feeling the vibes of the space." (name) shook his head. Duke laughed a little at that, and it wasn’t mocking, no, it sounded like he got it.

"Maybe I could join you?" Duke asks, eager to get to know the new addition to the family. It was his first time meeting 'new meat', after all.

"Sorry," (name) said, not unkindly, just honestly. "I’d rather do that by myself."

"That’s fine," Duke replied, a smile never leaving his face. "If you ever need company, my room’s around the corner, third door on the left. I’ll be happy to hang out with you."

And with that, the other boy is gone, leaving (name) alone with his thoughts. He's not sure what to think of the teenager that he just met. 

(Name) resumes his journey, this time much less anxious as his mind focuses on playing the meeting with Duke over and over again. With him being all in his head, it was only a matter of time before (name) bumped into somebody again. Luckily for the teenager, this time it was Alfred who offered to help him find his way back to his room.

The boy spends the rest of the day cooped up in his room, only leaving for lunch that's accompanied by the butler. The rest of the time, (name) focuses on writing down the plans of the manor. He excludes the part he explored today, labelling it as being too far and too complicated to navigate for him to use it as his escape route. After dinner, which is also eaten with the butler, (name) asks Alfred if he could check out the garden.

"Of course, (name)," the butler smiles, happy that the boy decides against spending the evening in his room. "Just put on a hoodie; it's getting colder."

(Name) nods as if he wasn't already planning on grabbing one. He retreats to his room, putting on a hoodie and hiding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. On his way out to the gardens, he doesn't meet anyone, the manor feeling colder than the outside.

The boy finds a secluded area in the back of the garden, next to an overgrown pond. He takes out a cigarette, lighting it. (Name) inhales the smoke, filling his lungs with it. His body relaxes in the places he wasn't aware he was tense in. As the teenager smokes down half of the cigarette, it's taken out of his hands.

"I don't think it's good for you, kid," a man said, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots, with just the slightest edge of concern buried beneath all that worn-out indifference.

He blinked, startled, watching as the man stepped back and crushed the cigarette under his boot without ceremony. Older—by a few years, maybe—leaning against the crooked base of a crumbling angel statue. Leather jacket, boots that had seen better fights, and eyes that looked like they didn’t sleep much unless knocked out cold. He didn’t smile. Didn’t really look at him, either. Just knew exactly what he was doing.

"Isn’t it, like, the whole point of them?" he said, irritation bleeding through.

"Don’t play smart with me," the guy shot back. "I don’t care if your mother died; you shouldn’t go around smoking. It’s bad for the image."

"You don’t look like someone who gives a fuck about the image of this family," (name) laughed, short and sharp.

"Because I don’t." A small, crooked smirk. "But I don't want to listen to everybody's whines." The guy kicked a stone into the pond.

"Who are you anyway?" The guy looked at (name) sideways, like deciding whether or not to answer.

"None of your business." And with that, the guy turns around, walking down the path to the manor, not looking back to see if (name) takes out another cigarette.

Later that night, after a shower, (name) takes out the notebook. He carefully crafts a plan, hoping to leave the manor forever by the end of the week. The boy makes sure to plan out every possible outcome in case somebody notices him as (name) leaves. The boy also plans out an idea if somebody from the family were to find him.

The next few days, (name) makes sure to act as unalarming as possible. He's hoping to not attract attention from any of the residents of Wayne Manor. The boy continued eating his meals with the butler, the man being the only person in the family he was interacting with. The nights were spent polishing up the plan.

The boy started to believe he was getting away with the plans until one of the lunches with Alfred, the one less than two days before leaving the manor. Both of them were eating their food in silence, as they usually did. The butler's brows were furrowed, him trying to think of a way to approach something that he worried might be a sensitive topic.

"(Name), I couldn't help but notice that you haven't unpacked your bag yet," the man begins, his voice calm in order not to scare the boy. "Any particular reason as to why?"

"It's just… hard." (name) only partially lies, knowing that even if he wasn't planning on escaping, he would probably be too scared to unpack. "Feels like I'm letting go of my life. Of my mother?" The butler nods, understanding where the boy is coming from.

Over the course of the next few days, (name) starts preparing to leave the manor. He collects snacks with long expiration dates in his room, forcing them between the clothes in his bag. Every night, before falling asleep, the boy goes over the plan, looking for any loopholes. 

The day of the escape comes faster than the boy expected. That night, (name) stays awake until late at night; the clock struck three in the morning. He stands up from the bed he was sitting on, pulling a hoodie over his head. The teenager grabs his bag before taking another look over his room to make sure he doesn't leave anything behind. The manor is quiet, almost as if he were the only one in there.

(Name) already knows where to go; the window he picked up was found with ease, no light needed. As he reaches it, he hopes he's not wrong about the wines next to the window being strong enough to hold his weight. (Name) swings his legs over the window, taking one last look down the corridor, making sure nobody is watching. He throws the bag onto the ground before grabbing the wines. The boy places his steps carefully, slowly making his way down. Once he feels like he's low enough, he lets go of the vines, landing on the ground. From there the journey is easy, a few metres to the fence. Getting over it wasn't a problem with (name) having experience in jumping fences from his nightly stealing escapades.

The second the boy is on the other side of the fence, he starts running down the street, not looking back at the manor. He felt like a little kid, worried to spot 'his' father, or worse, Alfred, right behind him. (Name) only slows down when he reaches further into the city.

The teenager finds an abandoned building as far away from the manor as possible. In there he spends a few days, living mostly off the snacks he sneaked out and some questioning-looking water he found. He doesn't leave the building, not wanting anyone to spot him and alarm 'his' father.

Even after the snacks run out, the boy waits a whole other day before leaving the safety of the building. A bag hanging from his shoulder as he finds the right shop to 'borrow' things from. (Name) hangs around, mostly hidden in the shadows, waiting for the shop to close for the night.

With the precision of a surgeon, the boy picked the lock on the backdoor, allowing him to enter. He places some food and a few water bottles inside his bag, getting ready to leave. He stops in front of the cash register, wondering if there's any money in there. The boy decides to take his chance, forcing the register open. Luckily for him, there were a few bills that he grabbed. Maybe thanks to them, his next trip to a shop would be without breaking in. On his way out, (name) makes sure to grab a few packs of cigarettes, figuring it wouldn't hurt.

After leaving, the boy makes sure to make the lock look like it wasn't picked. He felt a little bad stealing from the owner and didn't want someone else to use the opening in the shop's security to steal even more things. (Name) lets out a sigh of relief, knowing the hardest part of the night is over and the only thing left to do is find another spot to camp in.

"Pretty sure your father wouldn't be happy about this," a low voice spoke behind (name), making him jump, scared.

The boy turned around to see who spotted him. (Name) sees a man dressed in black, a cape moving with the wind. The teenager recognises the man, knowing there's only one person in Gotham that's dressed like that. It's Batman.

"I'm pretty sure he hasn't noticed my absence." (name) feels confident, knowing the worst Batman could do is put him in timeout or something. No kill rule and all. "He'll live."

(name) is ready to leave, then the man grabs him by the collar. Batman starts dragging the boy somewhere, ignoring the yells and thrashing around them from the teenager. (Name) is so focused on trying to get the man to let go that he doesn't notice the two of them entering a building.

"Don't worry, Batman, we'll take it from here." A voice that belonged to Commissioner Gordon snapped the teenager out of the daze he was in. His head shot towards the Commissioner.

Batman lets go of the boy, who's instantly grabbed by two police officers. Same ones who brought him in all those days ago. The officers lead him towards the back of the station, putting him in the same cell he was sitting in the first time they caught him. The workers leave, grabbing the boy's bag, ignoring his protests. (Name) isn't left alone in the cell for long, Commissioner Gordon joining him soon enough.

"Don't worry; you'll get your bag back when your father comes and picks you up in the morning," the man assures, a tired look on his face.

The commissioner was hoping to never see the boy in such a space, remembering how much trouble he went through with finding the (name)'s biological father. As neither of them are in the mood to talk, Gordon doesn't stay long in the cell. He sees that the boy was away from the manor for at least a few days, judging by the dirt on the boy's clothes.

Gordon tells the boy to get some sleep, reminding him that his father will be notified in the morning about what he's done. With that, the commissioner leaves. (Name) looks around, a sense of déjà vu hitting him. It wasn't a long time since he left the cell.

(Name) lies down, wondering what he'll tell the person that would pick him up. He's not sure who he should hope for. ' His' father? Maybe it's not like he cares what the man thinks. Alfred? The boy knows that he's more likely to be picked up by the man, which scares him. (Name) isn't sure he'll be able to look into the butler's eyes after a stunt like that.

taglist: @amber-content @bellethesleepypotato @leeiasure @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter

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

[sunderwight]

scum villain fairytale AU where every night, the beautiful yet cruel peak lord Shen Qingqiu transforms from his regal self into modern nerd Shen Yuan (complete with physical and wardrobe changes).

to keep the secret of his transformations, Shen Qingqiu has taken to locking himself up at night. so every night for the past few weeks, Shen Yuan has awakened to find himself chained and kept prisoner in the bamboo house. since he can't ask anyone, he has no idea that he turns back into someone else come morning, he just thinks he's being drugged or something and that this is his entire transmigration experience -- a prisoner of someone he never sees or interacts with, presumably being fed and bathed while he's unconscious somehow since he hasn't died and doesn't stink, who also hasn't seen sunlight since all of this began.

anyway one day Shen Qingqiu gets distracted and doesn't do the chains up properly (qi deviation issues most likely), and Shen Yuan manages to escape just before dawn. he doesn't completely get away because Shen Qingqiu did set up a last ditch imprisonment array that teleports Shen Yuan back into the house before he can leave the property line, but he gets outside and he calls for help.

disciple Luo Binghe (out early because he got sent to do nine million chores all night and didn't sleep to begin with) sees this thin and obviously frightened young man (in chains!) break out of his master's house and plea for assistance, only to be swallowed up by what looks like some kind of sinister magical effect and vanish.

curiosity piqued, the next night, Luo Binghe masters some of his fear of his harsh shizun and sneaks over to the bamboo house. it takes a few nights more for him to actually work up the nerve to actually peek into one of the windows.

to his astonishment, he sees the young man obviously being held captive inside. what's going on? is it a demon? but then, why would Shen Qingqiu hold him captive instead of just killing him? Luo Binghe is still barely young enough to want to give his cruel master some benefit of the doubt, out of hope for his own prospects if nothing else, but this seems pretty fucked up. especially since the chained man is so pretty, and so scantily clad (shorts and t-shirt)...

anyway, Shen Yuan notices Binghe and starts calling out to him for help. but this frightens Luo Binghe off, because he doesn't know that Shen Qingqiu won't hear and come running. he feels badly though and eventually does go back, and after Shen Yuan assures him that no matter how he screams or begs for help he's sure no one will come (until Binghe, no one ever has), Luo Binghe cautiously stays put and starts talking to him. after a while the young disciple can only conclude that his master must be going down the mountain to spend his nights at the brothels. no one has seen him leave for such trips in months, but he must have discovered a way to do so more secretively.

Shen Yuan has figured out since long ago that he transmigrated, although he doesn't know the setting, so he knows he can't entirely explain his situation to this random teenager. he also knows that there's a chance -- though it seems remote -- that the boy has something to do with his captivity, and isn't just the innocent bystander he seems to be. but with little to loose he's more inclined to trust and hope that this might give him an opportunity to escape.

meanwhile Luo Binghe is still cautious that this strange man might be a demon of some kind, or a trap or test on Shen Qingqiu's part, so he doesn't give his real name or tell Shen Yuan anything about the sect. gradually he becomes convinced of Shen Yuan's sincerity, even though he still doesn't dare go against Shen Qingqiu or actually set foot inside the house.

time passes, and Luo Binghe's visits become more regular. despite the lack of rescue, even just having someone to talk to is such a massive improvement that Shen Yuan doesn't complain. before long he gets the impression that this boy's situation isn't even much better than his own, as he is constantly sporting some bruise or visible injury or another, and offhandedly describes a lot of treatment that sounds frankly horrific as if he thinks it's simply normal. he figures he's in a cultivation setting and some kind of sect, though, and after a while he begins imparting tips and tricks and whatever he can think of to fill the silence with his mystery visitor.

this is eventually how he figures out that he's trapped in the world of PIDW, even if he doesn't quite figure out where or who with yet. because Luo Binghe describes some aspects of cultivation that would only apply to that hack job the author made of cultivation systems. which is a good thing because it lets Shen Yuan offer more specific advice, and also begin to try and make plans.

if he's imprisoned by cultivators, then one day Luo Binghe will probably arrive as part of his eradication of the sects. maybe Shen Yuan can beg mercy from him?

this becomes such an important fantasy that Shen Yuan begins to describe it to his little visitor, playing it off that he sometimes gets "visions" (and trying to help the poor kid some more, given that both of them are in danger in a stallion novel where no man is liable to live long in the protagonist's orbit).

at first Luo Binghe thinks that Shen Yuan has somehow figured out who he is, when the man begins to tell him stories of some great person of destiny who has the same name as him. but by then he's hooked so even though it's risky, he still keeps going back to the bamboo house at night, and after a few weeks he concludes that Shen Yuan really doesn't seem to realize that the name of his imagined demon emperor has anything to do with his visitor. he even describes Luo Binghe's own background and troubles to him, but offhandedly, as if he is just picking up loose details about someone else from a story or dream. even when Shen Yuan observes that the Luo Binghe of his stories has some similarities to the Luo Binghe outside the window, his does this in such a way that it just seems to emphasize that he has no idea that these "visions" he's started having are connected to his visitor. or that the villain Shen Qingqiu he describes is in fact his captor.

Luo Binghe guesses that these visions might be the reason Shen Qingqiu has locked Shen Yuan away. perhaps he is some kind of magical creature, if not a demon, and cultivators can benefit from stealing energy or blood or... other unsavory things from him, although Luo Binghe doesn't think Shen Yuan's predictions sound very accurate. he's still trying to figure it out when, in fact, one of those predictions comes true.

Shen Qingqiu declares that he's going into seclusion, and disappears into the lingxi caves. with him he takes a large box (big enough to hold a man and with vents on the sides), that he moves and handles himself, even though secluded cultivation doesn't usually call for a lot of luggage. from the box, just faintly, Luo Binghe imagines he hears the clink of chains. (Shen Qingqiu plans to lock himself into it every night.)

that night, when Luo Binghe goes to the bamboo house, he finds it completely empty. it's empty again the next night, too, no matter which windows he approaches. as the nights drag on he even grows bold enough to break into the bamboo house, but there's nobody inside.

Shen Qingqiu must have taken his prisoner with him into the caves. Luo Binghe cannot think of a reason to do that which is not nefarious, and he struggles to sleep each night, imagining terrible things that his cruel master could be doing to Shen Yuan as part of his efforts to improve his own cultivation. he can only pray that none of it proves fatal.

being locked in a box at night is pretty bad, but luckily one of the corners was kind of shoddily made, so Shen Yuan manages to get out of it after the second night. he's still chained and he can't leave the circle of an array Shen Qingqiu set up, but the cave is at least a change of scenery. Shen Yuan even feels inspired to attempt some cultivating of his own, although he worries that he's been moved to this weird place because someone caught his little visitor coming to the window, and he hopes that if so, no one has punished the boy (he knows that's a slim hope, given the kind of micro infractions his visitor has apparently been beaten over).

of course, there's a rampaging Liu Qingge qi deviating in the caves, so Shen Yuan gets to deal with that. Liu Qingge thinks he's having some kind of lingering fever dream when he gets rescued by some weird pervert at night, only to come to his senses and find he's being berated by a wild-eyed Shen Qingqiu instead.

Shen Qingqiu is not happy that Liu Qingge's rampage put him in proximity with his incredibly pathetic werewolf curse, the only relief is that the idiot seemed to be too out-of-his head from a qi deviation to remember most of it. and also apparently his "other self" saved the man's life, which Shen Qingqiu is just going to attribute to dumb luck. Shen Qingqiu is 100% convinced that this curse he's under is designed to get him killed or disgraced.

meanwhile, despite his fears about Shen Yuan's state, Luo Binghe does remember that the man told him about a demon attack that followed Shen Qingqiu going into seclusion. he's not sure what to expect, but somehow he isn't as surprised as he should be when Sha Hualing and her goon squad turn up. he is grimly terrified when the fighting tournament starts, and he sees the demon who matches the description of the one he's meant to fight and he can't imagine that working out in his favor... but Shen Yuan was perfectly adamant that despite the difficulty, Luo Binghe would win.

if he wins, does that mean the rest of it comes true? that Luo Binghe is a half heavenly demon, that he will one day become the strongest person alive, emperor of the three realms and owner of the largest harem ever to exist? the one person Shen Yuan seems to think might rescue him from his prison?

the idea of it (well, some of it) gets Luo Binghe through his fight. and then of course Meng Mo shows up, and Shen Yuan is pulled into the subsequent dream and figures out who is "mysterious visitor" really is and is kind of like, oh shit I gave Luo Binghe spoilers about his own destiny. shit. well. done is done...?

Luo Binghe is alright with most of it though. the Abyss sounds deeply unpleasant and he doesn't actually want any wives (so many nights spying on Shen Yuan lounging around in barely nothing and some chains have definitely led to some epiphanies on his part), but if Shen Yuan says he can survive it, he believes him.

and then he will rescue Shen Yuan. after the Abyss he's also completely sold on ruining and killing Shen Qingqiu too. there are no downsides and this plan cannot possibly go awry!

[othernightslikethis]

HEARTBEAT

Male Reader x Wife Sana Minatozaki

Smut

Word count: 9k

Sana Minatozaki. The most beautiful woman to ever cross your path, the first face that made your heart race, the first in everything. Your first friend, your first crush, your first kiss, your first love—and, later, your first time. She took your heart in her delicate hands and locked it away with a key only she possessed, as if life itself had decreed she alone would guard it forever. You were happy together—so incredibly happy—for so many years. Love blossomed early, in the innocence of eight years old—a childish romance, one your parents dismissed as fleeting, a tender phase destined to fade with time.

But it didn’t fade.

Now, both twenty-eight, you celebrate two decades of an unbroken relationship, five of them under the sacrament of marriage. With her, you’ve had two children—living jewels who carry traces of you both. Your daughter, just six years old, mirrors your soul but is painted with her mother’s hues—gentle, sweet, kind, as if she inherited only the purest parts of you. Your son, younger, is Sana’s spitting image—energetic, untamed, a flickering flame dashing through the house, yet his tender gaze and soft voice are unmistakably hers, the woman for whom you once would have moved mountains.

With all this, anyone would assume your life was perfect… right?

But they couldn’t have been more wrong. Over the past six months, everything has been falling apart—slowly, almost imperceptibly, like a house being eaten by termites. You've been arriving home from work later and later, more exhausted, more withdrawn. The days became a succession of silences; routine swallowed tenderness. Time, once so generous, now seems scarce—scarce for children, scarce for her, scarce even for you. The kisses became rare, then stopped altogether. You no longer hold hands like you used to on spring afternoons. You no longer pull her close at night or reach for her in your sleep. And then come the arguments—at first subtle, then heated, and finally shamefully unavoidable— all witnessed by the frightened eyes of their children, who no longer understand why the laughter has disappeared from the house.

When did you become this?

At what exact moment did you decide that you no longer needed the woman who gave you everything?

When in the name of all that is holy did you decide you no longer loved her?

Perhaps there is no answer. Or perhaps it’s buried beneath the weariness of daily life, the frustrations you refused to share, the fears you never confessed. The truth, however, is simple: something precious has been lost. And while Sana still walks through the house with that same smile—though now a little wearier, a little sadder—you feel the key in your hands, cold and rusted, wondering if there’s still time to unlock what was once your greatest treasure.

The living room was bathed in dim light, illuminated only by the soft glow of the television, where cartoons played at a near-inaudible volume. Toys lay scattered across the polished wooden floor, and the children—your three-year-old son curled on the sofa with a cushion bigger than himself, and your six-year-old daughter sitting with a tablet on her lap—seemed oblivious yet tense, waiting in uneasy silence.

It was a Friday. The clock neared nine in the evening when the front door creaked open, announcing your late arrival. The cold night air followed you in, along with the exhaustion etched on your face. Sana stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, expression stern, her gaze burning behind the fringe that fell just so over her eyes.

— Late again — she said, her voice calm but sharp as thin ice.

— Had to stay late at work — you replied, not even looking at her, shrugging off your coat like someone repeating a worn-out routine.

— You always have to stay late, don’t you? Of course… Better than coming home.

The cupboard door slammed shut behind her—a crack that made both children flinch, as if the wood had screamed for them.

— Sana, please… not now.

— Now? When then, Y/N? When the kids are asleep? When I’m asleep? When our marriage is already dead and buried?

You turned on your heel, finally facing her. Your tired eyes now burned with restrained irritation.— It’s not always about you, Sana. I work. I kill myself out there!

— And I kill myself in here! Here, there, everywhere! — she shouted, stepping forward, her voice thick with anger. I take care of the kids, the house, the meals, the routine —everything! And still, you barely look at me! Barely touch me! What have I become to you, Y/N? A shadow? A piece of furniture?

— That’s not fair…

— Fair? — She laughed bitterly. — Do you think it’s fair not to kiss me for what, three months? Four? Six? Avoiding me like I’m invisible? Coming home like you’re doing me a favour?

— I’m tired, Sana! Tired of the fights, the demands, feeling like nothing I do is ever enough!

— Then tell me why we’re still together, Y/N! Because I don’t know anymore! All I see are two strangers under the same roof, trying to hold up a castle made of ashes!

— Mummy… are you going to split up?

Both of you turned sharply. Sana pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she’d forgotten the children were there—tiny witnesses to the collapse of what was once love. You looked away, eyes brimming, unsure how to answer. And the silence that followed was crueller than any words spoken.

The silence that settled after your daughter’s question was unbearable. Your son shrank further into the sofa, and your daughter lowered her gaze, clutching the tablet to her chest. Sana, tears welling, tried to steady herself, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her:

— Look what you’re doing to them…

— Me? — you exploded, voice rough with frustration. — You want to blame me for everything? Like you’re some saint? Like you don’t take your frustrations out on me, on the world? You play the victim so well you’ve started believing it!Sana’s eyes widened, her face flushed with anger and pain.

— I fight for us every single day, while you run away! You don’t have the courage to face reality, Y/N!

You stepped forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

— The reality is I can’t stand living with you anymore! With this bitter, suffocating woman who only complains, only demands, who’s lost herself in this martyr act! Want to know why I don’t touch you anymore? Because I barely recognise you! Because being with you has become a burden!

The words landed like shrapnel. Sana staggered back as if struck. Her breath hitched, and the tears finally spilled over.

— Get out… — she whispered, voice barely audible. — If that’s how you feel, then go. Just leave.

You snatched your keys with a sharp motion, ignoring the children’s stunned, tearful stares, and stormed out, slamming the door behind you like an escape from hell itself.

The sound echoed through the house like thunder. Your daughter ran to Sana, clinging to her legs with muffled sobs.

Sana stood motionless, eyes fixed on the door, body trembling. All that remained was the sound of your children’s crying… and the slow, cruel emptiness spreading through what was once your home.

That was a week ago. Now, for the seventh night in a row, you were in a pub. With mates. Drinking yourself into oblivion. Ranting and snarling about Sana as if she were a monster. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, smoke, and stale grease. Soft rock played in the background, drowned out by scattered chatter and laughter.

You were slumped in a worn leather chair, surrounded by two or three long-time friends, each with a drink in hand. Half-empty bottles littered the table, marking the time spent there. You raised your glass mechanically, the drink more anaesthetic than pleasure.

— You alright, bro? one asked, eyeing the hollow look in your eyes.You let out a short, bitter laugh.

— Course I’m not. I’m married to someone who looks at me like I’m a mistake she can’t erase.You took another long swig, then set the glass down hard.

— I come home, and it’s like walking into a courtroom. Everything I say gets judged, every silence is an accusation. And I’m tired… tired of trying to be the man she expects. Because I don’t even know who she is anymore, you get me?

— You two always seemed solid, man — another friend said carefully. Two kids, twenty years together…

— We were, you muttered, staring into your glass. But now… she just nags. Love turned into debt. And honestly? I’m exhausted. Home stopped being home. It’s a prison.The friend beside you signalled the bartender for another round, while another clapped you on the back.

— Don’t lose yourself too deep, brother. Arguments are one thing… but sometimes we say things that can’t be taken back.

You nodded silently. Your bloodshot eyes—from drink, exhaustion, or guilt—fixed on some distant point, where maybe a shred of what you and Sana once were still existed. But right now, all you wanted was to forget. And for that, the glass was still half-full.

The quietest one finally spoke up. He crossed his arms and looked at you.

— Whenever I row with my wife, I ask myself three questions. Who’s the first person I think of when I wake up? Who do I tell my secrets to? Who do I trust most in the world? If the answer’s the same for all three… then I still love her. The day it’s not… then it’s over. Why don’t you try that?

You fell silent for a long moment. The glass paused halfway to your lips, suspended as if time had faltered. Your eyes, once hazy and lost, slowly shifted to your friend.

The words had been simple—but they hit like a punch to the chest, harder than any lecture or reprimand.

You leaned back, shoulders sagging as if an invisible weight had suddenly become real. Your fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles whitening. Then, in a rough, low voice, you spoke, almost to yourself:

— When I wake up… I wonder if she’ll still be angry. If she’ll ignore me. If her eyes will cut through me like a knife or if she’ll pretend nothing happened.A brief silence.

— But I also remember how she sings the kids to sleep… how she smells on the pillow… how she used to laugh with me before all this. And maybe… maybe I still tell her my secrets… even when she doesn’t listen anymore.You looked away, blinking fast, as if the words had made your eyes heavier.

— Bloody hell… I love her. I just don’t know how to love her right anymore.You dropped your elbows to your knees, head in your hands. A deep sigh escaped through your fingers, carrying everything you couldn’t say aloud.

— I… I don’t think it’s over. But maybe I’m letting it end.The glass remained untouched from then on.

— Then go after her, brother, your friend said firmly.You stood like someone waking from a bad dream, pulled out your wallet, and tossed a wad of notes onto the table.

— This one’s on me. Cheers, lads.And you left, running home. Maybe to try and salvage what wasn’t yet completely lost.

----

The key turned slowly in the lock. The house, submerged in the thick silence of the early hours, felt colder, vaster—as if the emptiness within stretched beyond the walls, an echo of prolonged absence, a silent frame of solitude. You stepped inside without a sound, your footsteps restrained, almost furtive, as though wary of disturbing the ghosts of what once had been. You dropped the keys onto the kitchen counter, removed your shoes with slow, automatic movements, and made your way to the bedroom, your shoulders hunched under the oppressive weight of exhaustion and regret.

In the bathroom, the yellowish light flickered as it came on, gradually revealing the steam that soon fogged the mirror. The hot water ran over your skin, washing away the sweat, the acrid scent of alcohol, and the weight of the harsh words spoken hours before. You dragged your hands over your face slowly, as if wishing to tear something out from within yourself—to empty yourself of everything gnawing at your peace.

When you emerged, dressed in an old T-shirt and a pair of worn-out joggers, everything around you was bathed in gloom. The bedside lamp remained unlit. Sana lay on her side, her back turned, the covers pulled up to her shoulders, motionless as a fragile statue of silence.

You walked to the opposite side of the bed, sat down carefully on the mattress, and sighed before lying down. But then you heard it.A low, muffled sound—yet unmistakable.

Stifled sobs.

Small hiccups escaped like cracks in a once-solid wall, now fissured by time and pain. Sana was crying, her face buried in the pillow, trying to make herself inaudible.

And you remained still.

That sound was like a dagger plunged into the silence, wounding it irreversibly. You looked at her—at the fragile outline of her back, at the almost imperceptible tremor in her shoulders. Your throat tightened, a bitter knot forming in your chest—but you didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You turned onto your back, staring at the dark, motionless ceiling.

And in those few inches between your bodies, an insurmountable chasm opened.

----

The next morning, sunlight filtered timidly through the gaps in the curtains, casting golden stripes over the crumpled sheets. The distant chirping of birds mingled with the oppressive silence of the bedroom, broken only by the faint creaking of the old wooden floor, warmed by the sun.

Sana woke slowly, her eyes still heavy, her throat dry from a restless night. She blinked a few times before moving. As she turned, the gesture was almost instinctive—her hand reached for the warmth of the other side of the bed, the space that had so often been refuge, comfort, shelter.

But all she found was cold sheets.

Empty.

No scent, no trace of a recent presence.

The pillow slightly arranged. The mattress undisturbed.

She lay still for a moment, her eyes fixed on that absent space as if trying to decipher the mute language of abandonment. Then she sighed—long and silent—and turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling with eyes that had once brimmed with tears but were now dry from too much crying.

— He’s gone again… Why do I still hope he’ll change? — she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse, exhausted, devoid of strength

There was no surprise left. Only the familiar weight of abandonment, that old acquaintance who insisted on returning.

Another day had begun. And within her grew, irreversibly, the certainty that though he was sometimes there, he no longer truly remained.

A sudden noise disrupted the quiet of the bedroom—children’s laughter, hurried footsteps, the scrape of a chair being dragged across the kitchen floor. Sana frowned, confused, still wrapped in the haze of sleep and sorrow.

She sat up slowly, her feet touching the cold floor, and took a deep breath.

Then the scent reached her—unmistakable, warm, comforting. Toast, freshly brewed coffee, scrambled eggs… an aroma that hadn’t filled that house in mornings long past.

She rose, wrapped in her thin nightdress and the perplexed silence of doubt, and made her way down the hallway, the sounds growing clearer with each step: the laughter of her youngest, her daughter’s gentle voice correcting her brother, plates being set, cutlery clinking like tiny bells.And then she saw.

In the kitchen, you stood, awkward but determined. You wore the same crumpled shirt from the night before, the dark circles under your eyes betraying a sleepless night. Your back was turned as you scrambled eggs in the pan while the children set the table under your watchful gaze.

Your daughter, spotting her in the doorway, ran to Sana with a radiant smile:

— Mummy! Daddy’s making breakfast! He said today’s the day we take care of you.

You turned at that moment. Your eyes met hers. There was hesitation, guilt—but also something else. Something faint. A silent plea to stay.Sana stood frozen, her lips slightly parted, her heart suspended in her chest.

— Good morning… — you said softly, almost timidly. — The plan was to bring it to you in bed, but… I miscalculated when you’d wake up.

She didn’t answer immediately. She simply looked at the scene before her—so simple, so improbable—and felt something tremble inside her chest. Something she had thought dead. Something small.

But alive.

Sana remained there, motionless in the doorway, as if afraid that any movement might shatter the delicate tapestry of that moment. The silence between you, heavy with all that had been left unsaid, felt different this time—no longer a chasm, but perhaps a fragile bridge, stretching between two still-wounded hearts.

You averted your gaze for a moment, returning to the frying pan as if seeking refuge in the mundane. But soon you looked back, steadier this time.

— I know… — you began, your voice thick, — that I’ve been the worst of husbands.

The children lingered, wide-eyed, sensing something important was happening, even if they didn’t fully understand.

— I don’t want them growing up hating me… or seeing me the way I’ve treated you — you said, plating the eggs. — And you don’t deserve that.

Sana said nothing. A conflict raged within her—between the desire to believe and the fear of being hurt again.

— Let me try to fix this.

you whispered.

— Because I still love you… the way I did five years ago. The way I did ten. The way I did twenty.

She looked at the children, who smiled hopefully. Then at the table—clumsy but full of care. And finally at you—weary, broken, but there.She took a deep breath.

And walked, slowly, to the table.

— Scrambled eggs? — she asked softly, pulling out a chair.

You nodded, a small smile breaking through the tension.

— A bit too salty… but made with heart.

She sat, tucking her hair behind her ear, and looked at you—not as one who forgives, but as one offering another chance to what still pulses.

— Then let’s see if that heart knows how to cook.

The children clapped and giggled. And for a brief moment, the house seemed to breathe again.

----

The rest of the day passed with an unusual lightness, as if the air inside the house—once thick with unspoken grievances—had been swept away by a warm, fragile, yet real breeze.After breakfast, the four of you settled in the lounge. You suggested a film—a cartoon the children adored and which you pretended not to know, though you could recite every line. Sana, hesitant, relented. She lay on the sofa, the youngest nestled in her lap, your daughter in your arms. The glances between you were rare, but when they happened, they carried the discomfort of those who still don’t know where to step—but at least are trying not to retreat.

Later, you went to the park, without grand plans. The children ran across the damp grass, laughed on the swings, and occasionally called their parents over to show trivial discoveries—a pretty stone, an anthill, a heart-shaped leaf.

Sana watched in silence. Sometimes her gaze rested on you, who also looked back. But she didn’t press. She simply let time work, respecting the spaces and the silences.Upon returning, you prepared a light supper together. This time, she chopped the vegetables. You buttered the toast. No words were spoken of forgiveness or promises. Only gestures—human, small, real.That evening, the children went to their grandmother’s—your mother.

Because, away from innocent eyes, you would prepare what you had secretly planned with your friends during the day, while Sana hadn’t noticed.What would come, no one could yet foresee. But at last, there was a beginning.

---

The house was silent, except for the soft tick-tock of the clock on the wall and the muffled sound of instrumental music drifting from the living room. The dining table was set simply, yet with care—two pristine glasses, a wine left to breathe, plates warmed in the oven, and a lit candle at the centre, its flame flickering as if sensing that this moment carried something delicate, rare, and unrepeatable.

You paced back and forth, adjusting already-perfect details, just to contain the anxiety simmering beneath your skin. Damp palms, a dark dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to the forearms, hair meticulously styled, a subtle cologne—everything had been chosen with intent. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared you for what came next.

The sound of heels touching the first step made you look up at the staircase.

And then, she appeared.

Sana descended with the quiet grace of someone who, though hesitant, had decided to surrender to the attempt. Each step was firm, even if her heart might have faltered. She wore a long wine-red satin dress that cascaded like water over her body, hugging her curves with the delicacy of a whisper. The fabric shimmered under the soft light, shifting between shadow and gleam with every slight movement.

The neckline was modest yet suggestive. The thin straps revealed bare shoulders, her pale skin glowing with a natural, serene radiance. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, with a few loose strands softening her face. On her lips, a deep ruby-red lipstick; on her eyes, subtle but precise eyeliner that accentuated the intensity of her gaze. A pair of discreet earrings dangled lightly from her ears—small pearls, elegant, almost shy.

You stopped. Literally. And time seemed to stop with you.

It was like seeing her for the first time. But at the same time, it was seeing her as never before. As if all the pain, all the distance, all the waiting had shaped a new way of loving her—more mature, more conscious, more reverent.

—Wow...— escaped your lips in a hoarse whisper, almost unrecognisable.

Sana noticed your gaze and hesitated on the last step. Her hands clutched the hem of her dress as if fearing she was too much. Or not enough.

—I think I overdid it. — she said, with a shy, restrained smile, her voice quiet, unsure where to rest her eyes.

You walked towards her slowly, as if afraid the enchantment would dissolve if you rushed. Stopped just a few steps away. Your eyes flickered, torn between hers, her lips, or every meticulous detail of the dress.

—You look... unbelievable, — you said, with raw sincerity, stripped of embellishments. —As if you stepped out of a dream I didn’t even know I was still dreaming.

She blushed. Laughed, lowering her gaze for a moment. And in that laugh was something unseen for so long—a flash of the woman she’d been before the weariness, and also the woman she still was, despite it.

— I hope dinner lives up to this. — you said, offering your arm with an almost ceremonial gesture.

Sana accepted, linking her arm with yours, like someone still testing the ground beneath her feet but allowing herself to walk.

—I hope the wine is good, — she said, casting a sidelong glance, light and teasing.— Only if it’s you who toasts with me. — you replied.

They both sat. The candle flickered between them, casting a golden glow over the white tablecloth and the steaming plates. The aroma of mushroom and parmesan risotto rose in subtle spirals, mingling with the woody spice of the freshly poured wine. You pulled out her chair with a simple, almost automatic gesture—yet laden with meaning. Sana smiled in thanks, that restrained smile, as if still remembering the hurts but choosing to make room for tenderness.

— Did you actually cook? — she asked, arching a brow with mild irony.

— With my own hands. — you replied, feigning pride. — And perhaps a little help from YouTube.

She laughed, a brief, genuine sound, and raised the glass to her lips with the elegance of someone who knows she’s being watched. You looked at her as if time had finally slowed. For the first time in so long, there was no urgency. Only presence.

The conversation began timidly, as if it were a literal first date. They spoke of safe things: a new film, the traffic, how the neighbour’s cats still climbed onto the roof. But little by little, the topics gained layers. An old memory. A phrase she’d said months ago that you’d never forgotten. A gaze that lasted longer than it should have.

— I thought a lot about whether I should accept. — she said, looking down at her plate. The candlelight gilded her lashes as if they were moulded from gold.

You nodded slowly, setting your fork aside.

— I thought a lot about whether I should try. — you replied. — But... I had to. Not out of vanity. Or loneliness. But because... I hurt you. And that doesn’t leave me.

Sana lifted her eyes, silent. You took a deep breath.

— I was a coward. I shut down when you were trying hardest to open paths. I thought I was protecting myself, but... I was just running. And by the time I realised, it was too late. You were exhausted from trying alone.

She didn’t answer immediately. Ran her fingers lightly along the stem of her glass, thoughtful.

—Sometimes, I wondered if it was all in my head. If I was expecting too much. Asking for too much.

—You weren’t. — Your voice was low, firm. — You deserved presence. Attentive eyes. Hands that held yours. Not flimsy excuses and uncomfortable silences.

A pause followed. The sound of instrumental music filled the space between words.

—I just wanted to know if you still saw me, you know? — she said, with a fragile smile. —If I still mattered

—You always did.— You reached your hand across the table, hesitant but firm. — And if I can see that clearly now... it’s because you had the courage to walk away. I don’t blame you for anything. And... I’m sorry. For everything.

Sana looked at your hand, then into your eyes. Then, with a small gesture, rested her fingers over yours. The touch was light, but weighted.

— Thank you for saying that, — she murmured. —I don’t know what happens from here. But... hearing that changes a lot.

You finished dinner slowly, between comfortable silences and new smiles. Sometimes, your gazes met and lingered, as if you were relearning each other. At one point, you stood, picked up the wine, and invited her to the sofa. She accepted. You sat side by side, not touching. But there were no more barriers. Just a strange, sweet calm, like after a storm.

—I missed you.

— I missed you too. — she replied.

The silence stretched, and then Sana broke it with the same softness as blowing out a candle.

—Can I ask for something?

— Hm? Of course. What?

— Call me 'my love'.

You blinked, confused, slow, not understanding at first.

—My love?

She smiled and leaned closer.

— Again.

—My love.

She was nearer now, and you could smell the perfume that had always driven you mad. Twenty years ago, it was the same, and even now, it intoxicated you.

— Again...

And before you realised, you pulled her onto your lap, enveloping that small body with yours. Your hands intertwined; you noticed how small hers were compared to yours. How small she was... and how that still sent you into rapture. The mere fact that her body barely covered yours set you alight.

—My love... may I?

Your voice was almost a whisper, thick with restrained desire.

Sana nodded with a movement so subtle it seemed more like a sigh. You leaned in, and the world seemed to shrink until it fit between your faces.

The first touch was almost nothing—a hesitant brush of lips, as if neither of you could believe this was happening. But then she responded. With a slight tilt of her head, she deepened the kiss, and you felt your heart stutter. It was a kiss of reunion, but also of confession. There was sweetness, yes—the taste of wine still on her lips—but also urgency. Your fingers tangled in her hair, and her hand rested on your nape, pulling you with gentle firmness, as if to say, "don’t go." Breaths mingled. Eyes closed. And for an eternal moment, there were no hurts, no doubts, no past. There was only the certainty of that kiss—warm, deep, full of unspoken stories.

When your lips parted, your eyes opened slowly. And in her gaze was something new. A soft peace. A glimmer of hope.

—I missed this, — she murmured.

—I missed you. — you replied, not removing your hand from her face. And then, without needing permission, she leaned in again. And the kiss resumed. Firmer. More certain. As if, finally, you’d found your way back.

Gradually, you felt Sana grinding against your lap, the friction between your bodies increasing steadily amidst the heat and fire of your kisses. She let out a soft moan; if you hadn’t known her for years, you might’ve even thought the movement was innocent. But it wasn’t. Summoning all your strength to pull away, you bit your lip, your eyes clouded with lust.

She was about to open her mouth—probably to apologise or suggest you both slow down. But you didn’t want any of that. Finally, your body remembered it had been nearly a year since you’d last felt her tight little cunt wrapped around your cock, and it drove you mad. Leaning in, you gave her no time to think, marking her neck with a strong, possessive love bite.Sana swallowed her words and choked back a loud moan. She gripped your shoulders tightly, pressing herself even closer, her eyes shut, her body trembling with need.

— Baby, please… I need you so much. So much…

Sana didn’t like being degraded. She was a princess, a queen who wanted to be spoiled even during sex, and you still remembered that—how she writhed under your praise, how every sweet word made her more sensitive, more vulnerable.

— I’ve been so awful to you, love… So cruel… — you murmured, your voice rough, alternating between kisses and bites along her neck. — And you’ve been such a good girl, waiting for me… So perfect. My princess.

You felt her stiffen in your lap, her entire body trembling. The kisses, the praise, and the constant friction were driving her to the edge. It seemed she might come without you even needing to touch her—just from your words, the way your hands traced her body, how your mouth explored every inch of her skin.And then, you decided to go further. Sliding a hand between her legs, you found the damp heat waiting for you, your fingers gliding effortlessly through her desire.

— All this time without me... and you’re still this wet just from kisses? — you growled, fingers circling her clit with firm pressure. — You really are my obedient little girl, aren’t you?

Sana arched her back, a strangled moan escaping her lips as her thighs tightened around your hand, trying to control the sensations overwhelming her.

— Don’t hold back, princess... Let me watch you come.

And she gave in, her entire body convulsing in an intense orgasm, Sana’s fingers digging into your shoulders as she screamed your name.It was only the beginning.

— Please, love, I need... I need to feel you.

Sana’s voice was whiny, drawn-out, so sweet that if you hadn’t already been fully hard, those words alone would have done it. But now? You were so turned on it ached, the pent-up tension making every movement torture. You could barely speak, just nodded, and Sana immediately dropped to her knees before you, eyes gleaming with desire and submission.

She was shaking—maybe from the earlier orgasm, maybe from the anticipation of finally having you again. Her hands fumbled slightly as she undid your belt, fingers nimble but impatient, until she finally managed to open it. You didn’t wait any longer, pulling your trousers and pants down in one go, freeing your cock, which throbbed with need.

— Fuck, it’s the same smell... — She grinned, nostrils flared, inhaling deeply. — You still use the same soap?

Her eyes met yours, mischievous.

— You’ve wanted this since the start of dinner, haven’t you, baby? Naughty boy...

Her laugh was a mix of provocation and triumph before wrapping her hands around your length, fingers firm yet soft, rotating slowly as if savouring the mere sensation of touching you. She knew the power she held over you in this position, every movement calculated to drive you mad.

When she finally tired of just stroking, her tongue slipped out in a deliberately slow motion, dragging a long lick from base to tip as if you were a lollipop—and to her, you were. Her favourite lollipop, and hers alone. Woe betide anyone who tried to take it from her.

Sana made sure to maintain eye contact with every filthy movement, her dark eyes full of forbidden promises. One hand tugged at the strap of her dress, pulling it deliberately over her shoulder but not removing it entirely. She knew you loved fucking her while she was still dressed, that thin fabric sliding against her skin as you pinned her to the wall or pulled her closer.

— You’re so fucking beautiful... So good at sucking my cock like this, baby...

Your voice was rough, the words almost a growl as you tangled your fingers in her hair, guiding her down. She didn’t resist, opening her mouth to take you fully, her tongue massaging the underside as she descended until the head hit the back of her throat. A muffled moan escaped her, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t stop—she never stopped.

— Almost came from that mouth... How daft was I to stay away from you so long?

Your voice was hoarse, fingers gripping the sofa as pleasure clouded your mind. Six months. Six months without that hot mouth, that wicked tongue, those lust-darkened eyes staring up as she devoured you. You only snapped back when Sana gave two light taps on your thigh, her signal for air.

When she pulled away, she was perfect—hair dishevelled, drool dripping from her swollen lips, your cock still glistening with spit. She laughed, breathless, but her eyes burned with challenge.

— I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you don’t fuck my throat like it’s a cunt. — Her voice was hoarse but firm. — Fuck, I’ve waited so long, missed you so much, and all you do is squirm like a kitten in heat?

You knew that tone. It was the one she used when she wanted to provoke you, to piss you off, to make you lose control. And it would’ve worked—if you didn’t know exactly what she really wanted.

She wasn’t joking.

She wanted you to use her.

Without a second thought, you pushed yourself off the sofa, grabbing your own shirt and tearing it off in one rough motion. You didn’t want anything blocking your view or your movement. With a firm hand on the back of her neck, you guided the swollen, flushed tip of your cock back to those plush lips, which parted immediately, taking you in with a muffled moan.

And then you thrust.

Sana swallowed you down to the hilt, her eyes watering, but not pulling back. You tightened your grip on her hair, starting with slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, savouring every contraction of her throat, every scrape of her tongue. But patience quickly burned away, and you sped up, slamming into the back of her throat with force, the wet, filthy sound filling the room.When she needed air, you pulled out—but didn’t let her rest. As she coughed, gasping, her hand was already wrapped around your cock, stroking firmly while her mouth attended to your bollocks—sucking, licking, devouring as if they were the only sustenance she needed.

— Is this what you wanted, princess? — you growled, dragging her back onto your cock. — Wanted me to use you until you forgot how to fucking breathe?

She didn’t answer with words.Just swallowed you deeper.

— You gonna come, love?

Sana was on her knees before you, lips swollen from sucking, her smudged lipstick and lust-glazed eyes a mess. Your cock was dripping, throbbing with need, and she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

— Yeah, princess... you rasped, fingers tangled in her hair. — You’re doing so fucking good... Why stop now? You’re perfect.

She shuddered at her own touch, a whimper escaping her. Calling her perfect always got to her—like flipping a switch, bringing her to the edge with just a word. This time, though, she resisted, biting her lip as she pulled off, letting your cock slip from her mouth with a wet pop.

— If you’re gonna cum... make it inside me.

Your eyes met, and you didn’t hesitate. You immediately sat down on the sofa, watching as she rose with feline grace, her fingers hooking under the straps of her dress and letting the fabric slip down her body until it pooled on the floor.

Even though you adored fucking her while she was still clothed, seeing her completely naked was a spectacle all its own.

— Seriously, love? — you questioned, and Sana blinked, feigning surprise, before simply shrugging and climbing onto your lap, aligning herself perfectly over your cock. — You know you could still get pregnant, right?

— Yes, I know, — she replied. — It’s happened twice already, remember?

She laughed, low and teasing, before rubbing the tip of your length against her swollen lips, leaving it slick with her own desire.

— You’re the first man in the universe who argues about being allowed to come inside his own wife.

You were about to respond, but the words died in your throat when she finally gave in, sinking onto you all at once. Both of you moaned in unison, bodies trembling with pleasure.

— Fuck! Your cock is so good! — Sana arched her back, nails digging into your shoulders. — Christ, I’ve missed this monster splitting me wide open...

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you gave her arse a firm slap, making her shudder, before gripping her hips tightly and starting to move her in your lap, each thrust deeper than the last.

— All mine... — she whispered, lips pressed to your ear. — Only mine.

And you couldn’t disagree.

Sana began to ride you with a slow, calculated rhythm, each roll of her hips making your cock twitch inside her. She leaned back, bracing her hands on your thighs as her tits swayed temptingly with every movement. Her inner muscles clenched in perfect waves, as if trying to suck every inch of you deeper into her.

— That’s it... just like that, princess... — you growled, hands squeezing her waist.She smirked, mischief in her eyes, before picking up the pace, riding you harder. The wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, mingling with the muffled moans escaping her lips between gasps. Suddenly, she stopped, leaving only the tip of your cock inside her, then sank back down with agonising slowness, making your eyes roll back in pleasure.

— You want to watch me come, don’t you? — she whispered, voice thick with want. — Want to feel me squeezing tight around you...

Before you could respond, she quickened her pace again—short, rapid strokes now, hitting that spot that made her body tremble. You felt her grow hotter, tighter—a sure sign she was close.

—Don’t stop… don’t stop, please… she moaned, her fingers gripping you tightly.

And you had no intention of stopping. With a rough movement, you flipped her onto her hands and knees, taking her from behind with full force. Each thrust was deeper than the last, and Sana’s cries filled the room—unashamed, unrestrained.

—Yes! Just like that! Just like that! — she screamed, her entire body shuddering as the first wave of her climax hit.

Sana was completely lost in it, her back arching in pleasure as you dominated her from behind. Every snap of your hips was wilder than the one before, your thighs slapping against her arse with a lewd, wet sound. You could feel how hot she was, how her inner walls fluttered and clenched around your cock, trying to pull you even deeper.

—Don’t stop… don’t stop, love… feels so good…

She whimpered between ragged breaths, her voice thick with pleasure. Your fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave marks as you dragged her back onto you with every thrust. The heat in your belly coiled tighter—a delicious tension building with every movement. You knew you wouldn’t last much longer—she was too tight, too hot, too perfect.

—I’m gonna come, princess… — you warned, your voice rough with need.

Sana clenched around you even tighter, as if trying to milk every drop.

—Inside, please! I want to feel you spilling all inside me!

she begged, tossing her head back. That was enough to undo you. With one last deep thrust, you buried yourself to the hilt as pleasure erupted down your spine. Your cock pulsed violently inside her, each hot spurt met by her eager contractions. You nearly saw stars, the intensity of your orgasm leaving you dizzy as you kept spilling into her.

Sana moaned loudly as she felt your cum filling her, her own climax prolonged by the sensation.

—That’s it… just like that… fill your wife up… — she murmured breathlessly while you both trembled in the aftershocks.

You collapsed over her back, still buried deep inside, panting as you tried to catch your breath. Your entire body tingled, every muscle slack with deep satisfaction. Sana was utterly soaked—a mix of her pleasure and yours—and the scent of sex hung heavy in the air.

— Holy shit ...

You muttered, unable to form anything more elaborate as you gently sank your fingers into her hair. She just laughed—a satisfied, tired sound—before rolling onto her side and pulling you with her, still unwilling to let go.

— I love you, — Sana said suddenly. — So much. Don’t ever stay distant again.

— Never. I love you too.

[alive-gh0st]

❝Always You❞

Mark Grayson x Childhood Friend!Reader ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

-ˋˏ❀𖤣𖥧𖡼���✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀ˎˊ-

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❀ summary: you showed up uninvited, made his dad question all his life (and facial hair) choices, and never left. now you’re older, hotter, still annoying—and mark? very much in love. congrats.

❀ contains: sfw. childhood friends to lovers. slow-burn vibes. emotionally repressed!reader. soft!mark. reader has a difficult home life. light trauma but make it casual. fluff, banter and comedic tension. mark grayson being stupid-in-love.

❀ wc: 1958

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: first time posting just to feed y’all some mark grayson fluff.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t remember exactly how you ended up in the Graysons’ house that first day.

You’d only just moved in next door, and your mom was already yelling about boxes. The man she was with—this week’s guy—smelled like beer, sweat, and no patience.

So you left.

Well… not really, but something along those lines.

You wandered down the sidewalk barefoot, dragging your backpack behind you, until you spotted a house that looked safe. Lived-in. Rich. You rang the doorbell like it owed you something.

Debbie Grayson opened the door, took one look at your face, and smiled. “Hi there, sweetheart. You okay?”

You didn’t answer. Just walked right past her like you belonged there.

Mark was on the floor with a comic book. He looked up, mouth half-open. You pointed at his dad.

“Is that mustache glued on, or is it a punishment?”

Nolan nearly dropped his coffee. Debbie choked on a laugh. Mark blinked, unsure whether to be offended or in awe.

You were five.

By the end of the day, you were sitting cross-legged on their carpet, eating cookies like you’d always been there. You told Nolan he “sounded like a guy on TV,” which earned another chuckle from Debbie and a long sigh from the man.

By the end of the week, you were staying over so often Debbie started keeping a toothbrush for you. By the end of the month, you were helping Mark build Lego towers in his room—then immediately yelling at Nolan for knocking them over “on purpose.”

(He did. He 100% did. Nolan Grayson, Earth’s strongest man, had personal beef with a five-year-old and no shame about it.)

And before long, Mark couldn’t remember a life where you weren’t in it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Being around you was chaos wrapped in kindness.

You’d stick your tongue out at Mark and Nolan the second Debbie turned her back, then curl into her side during movie nights like you were her own kid.

You terrified Nolan with the things you said—adult questions in a child’s voice, bold and unfiltered. Like asking, “If you flew into space too fast, would your brain explode?”

Or, more memorably: “Do aliens poop?”

“Enough,” Nolan muttered one night after your fifth question. “You’re worse than a Pentagon interrogation.”

“But I’m cuter,” you argued, and Debbie nodded like that settled the matter.

.

.

.

You were nine when you figured out Omni-Man’s identity.

You’d been watching the news over cereal, Mark beside you, both in matching Grayson hand-me-downs. With squinted eyes at the screen, you groaned in disbelief. “Seriously? That’s your dad’s disguise? I can recognize that fugly mustache from space.”

Mark froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Wait, what?”

“Dude, it’s so obvious.”

You didn’t even flinch when Nolan walked in seconds later, fully suited up but holding his slippers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Morning,” you said sweetly. “Nice cape.”

Nolan grunted and turned on the coffee maker without a comment.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Debbie adored you. Nolan, surprisingly, respected you—maybe because you always challenged him without fear. And Mark? Mark had someone who understood him without even trying.

Your home life, though, was never something you talked about.

It wasn’t bad, not technically, but it didn’t feel like a home. The yelling never stopped. The guys came and went. You learned early not to ask questions, and that silence was safer.

So you stopped asking.

But one night—when you were eleven—you showed up at Mark’s window with bruises on your arms and dirt on your knees. You didn’t say anything. Just climbed inside and curled up next to him on the bed.

He didn’t say anything either.

He just pulled the blanket over you and let you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

After that, the Graysons stopped asking if you were coming over. It was just assumed.

That’s how it always was.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

By middle school, the two of you were inseparable. You walked to class together, bickered over who got to name the group projects, and ganged up on anyone who tried to mess with either of you.

One day, in the cafeteria, some eighth grader bumped into you hard enough to knock your tray.

“Watch it,” he sneered, clearly expecting you to back off.

You looked him dead in the eyes while tilting your head innocently. “Try that again and I’ll make sure you’re crapping Jell-O for a week.”

The kid blinked.

Mark stepped in beside you. “She means that in a… non-lethal way.”

“Do I?” you asked.

Mark turned to you, deadpan. “Can you not threaten to rearrange someone’s insides with pudding in front of the lunch monitors?”

You gave him a shrug. “No promises.”

People thought you’d grow apart in high school. That Mark would change. That you would change.

But you never gave him the chance to drift. You clung—stubbornly, fiercely—like you knew if you let go, something in you would unravel. And Mark never wanted to be anywhere else anyway.

High school didn’t change you much. If anything, you just got bolder.

Mark got taller. You got sharper. People asked if you were dating. You both said no. But neither of you looked too convinced when you did.

You still wore his hoodies. He still shared his fries with you without asking. You stole his blankets. Mark carried an extra charger in his bag just in case you forgot yours.

He never forgot your birthday. You never missed a single one of his baseball games.

It wasn’t just friendship. Not really.

Not with the way you rolled your eyes at affection from anyone else but melted instantly when Mark laid his head on your shoulder.

Not when you’d fight with him one minute and be curled up against him the next, hoodie sleeves too long, fingers grazing his under the blanket.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Mark watched you far more than he should’ve.

He noticed the way your laugh cracked just a little when you were too tired.

The way you hugged too hard, like you were making sure someone stayed.

The way you’d stand between him and anyone who dared to mouth off—like you were the one with superpowers.

He didn’t need to know the exact moment he fell in love with you. For him—it was always there, he just hadn’t been smart enough to understand.

Maybe it was that one day when you were watching cartoons on the floor, and Mark was pretending not to stare at you. You turned to him, grinning, and said something dumb like, “You’d probably get beat up in a real fight.”

But your eyes were soft.

He smiled back, and thought, God, it’s always been you.

But he never told you. Not really.

Because every time he almost did, you’d turn away. Or laugh. Or call him something close enough to a slur and throw popcorn at his face.

Maybe that was your armor. Or maybe it was his fear.

Either way, the words never made it out.

So he held onto them in silence. Carried them like bruises from a fight—but these ones never quite healed. Let them bleed out slowly over the years through lingering glances, soft touches, and unspoken understanding.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You were sixteen when he nearly told you.

It was late. You’d been watching horror movies with you curled up against him, almost half-asleep.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“You know I—I really—uh, care about you, right?”

You cracked one eye open. “Mark, if this is your weird way of trying to tell me you love me, just do it.”

His breath hitched.

You snorted. “Relax. You’re too chicken to actually say it.”

“Am not.”

”Then say it.”

He paused.

You reached over, poked his cheek, and mumbled, “Didn’t think so.”

And then you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, blissfully unaware of how badly his heart was racing.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Even now, sitting in his room, you’re stretched across his bed with a random comic forgotten beside you, legs tangled in his blanket like you own the place.

(Because you kind of do—not that he’d give you the satisfaction of knowing that.)

Mark watches you from his desk chair, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed like he’s trying to solve some kind of rubik’s cube—aka you. He gave up trying to focus on the latest ’Seance Dog’ comic in his hand, instead opting to memorize how—weirdly enough—you looked so much softer than the fuzzy blanket surrounding your body.

Not at all concerned how easily his peering was detectable.

.

.

.

“You’re staring again,” you mutter from his bed, cheek half-squished against his pillow, voice muffled and judgmental.

“I am not,” Mark lies—incredibly unconvincingly.

You glance over with one brow raised. “You always stare when you’re thinking something gross.”

“It’s not gross!”

“So it is something.”

“…Maybe.”

You sit up, stretching your arms overhead with a dramatic yawn. “If you’re about to tell me you’ve been in love with me since we were, like, eight, just say it. Don’t do the weird broody stare like you’re in some CW drama.”

Mark blinks. “I mean… okay, not since eight. But maybe since… twelve?”

You blink at him.

Then before he can overthink like always—you let out a long, theatrical sigh and flop back dramatically again. “Ugh. Finally.”

Mark startles. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.” You shoot him a lopsided grin. “Do you know how annoying it is being the only one aware of the mutual pining in this room? I’ve been carrying this ship on my BACK.”

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “Wait—you like me?”

“I’m literally lying in your bed, wearing your hoodie, and insulting you in front of your anime figurines. What do you think?”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

You pause. Then smirk. “So… now what?”

Mark thinks for a second, then shrugs. “I mean, I could kiss you, but I’m 99% sure you’d just roast me for it.”

You hum. “Depends. Are you going to do that thing where you hesitate awkwardly and make a weird-ass face?”

Mark throws a pillow at you.

You cackle, catching it midair. “I’m kidding, dumbass. Come here.”

And when he does—grinning like a total idiot, heart thudding like he’s about to leap off a building for the first time—you tug him forward by the collar of his hoodie and kiss him first.

It’s warm, a little clumsy, way too long overdue.

And when you pull back, breathless and smug, grinning against his mouth—whispering, “Took you long enough, Grayson.”

Mark can’t help but laugh, his cheeks tinted pink.

His fingers are still in your hair. And for the first time in years, his heart feels lighter than air.

Because he’s always been watching you.

But now, finally—you’re looking back at him the same way.

Later, as you both lay tangled in blankets and shared warmth, Mark breaks the silence.

“…Do you think my dad knew?”

The question lingers in the air, and your mind drifts back to the old days—the easier ones—before your eyes open.

You blink up at the ceiling. “That you’re in love with me? Yeah. He always knew.”

Mark groans. “Mum probably has a betting pool going.”

“She does,” you say without hesitation. “Amber’s in on it too. I think William’s the bookie.”

Mark gapes at you. “Are you serious?”

You grin, smug. “Dead serious. I’m pretty sure I just made someone twenty bucks.”

Mark buries his face in the pillow. “God.”

Patting his back, mock-comfortingly, you snort under your breath. “Don’t worry. You’re still the last one to find out.”

“…That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

And somewhere in the house, Debbie smiles to herself in the kitchen, sipping her wine like she didn’t just win her own bet.

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With Love, @alive-gh0st

[theogonize]

baby trapper wilson... oh i'm unwell, oh take me to the hospital

you're wilson's pretty young thing. you're the arm candy he carries around, the kind of girl that gets stared at wherever she goes. and he's him, he's the sweetest man ever, the most caring, gentle, kind man you've ever dated. you're young and naive and he's divorced thrice, that's not lost on him. or you. but you like it, you like that he's older. but for how much longer? how much longer will you let him subliminally make all your decisions? even when you think you want something, you scarcely realize that he's the one who put the idea there in the first place. you're so fucking naive, so fucking stupid, he thinks sometimes. and he loves it. you don't talk taxes or bills or medicine or divorces. he likes that. you talk about inconsequential things that you'll grow out of a month or two later. he's always afraid he's one of them. he's so afraid of you growing up or changing or anything because he knows deep down that he's alone at his big age and you've got the whole world wanting you, if only you stopped seeing him, if only you stepped outside to the world he's shielding you from.

it starts that way. it starts with that fear.

that's why he doesn't let you take birth control. he strictly advises against it, purely his medical opinion of course. he'll wear a condom, he doesn't want your hormones to be so imbalanced, that's dangerous. and god forbid your taste in men changes and suddenly you feel stupid for wanting this old man as much as you do. so you shouldn't take pills. and iuds are too scary. he pledges to always wear a rubber, for your sake and his. you don't doubt him once. why would you? james wilson, doctor james wilson, is the most responsible, sensible and well adjusted man you've met. you trust him, always, to be good to you and only want the best for you. so you agree, and he tells you that he loves you. because he does, the guilt is caught like rheum in the back of his throat.

you're all over him, giddy at his touch and so wet and pliable under him and he knows you're ovulating. even if he wasn't tracking your cycle, he saw you were in your best mood. so hungry for him, and he intended to give you exactly what you wanted. but to break the promise he made, the one he never intended to keep, he had to make you cum as many times as possible. till you became a weak puddle of desire and need. till you became incapable of responsibility. he devours you. his tongue and fingers work tirelessly to bring his plan into fruition. he's fucking you like he knows he'll be missing out on nine months of this. and you're begging him to be inside you, fill you up. it's till you're tugging at his hair and pleading inside, please james, inside... me till he thinks you're ready. or he is.

he kisses you, tasting of you, smelling like you. you taste like nothing, just yourself; clean, pure, just the way he likes you. his tip ghosts your entrance and you're quick to buck your hips to meet his. that is, until god knows who reminds you to be responsible. you gesture at the drawer next to the king sized bed. you don't trust yourself to be coherent. wilson sighs, it's the silent kind of sigh he does when he knows his patient is dying or house is going to do something stupid and reckless. for a moment there he really hoped it would've been that easy.

he began rubbing circles on your clit. you looked away teary eyes, overstimulated, overwhelmed. you pleaded, you begged. he shushed you, he shushed you like a crying child. he placed small, soft kisses on your body, almost as if he was afraid. he opened the drawer, took out a condom. he tore the wrapper and watched you exhale, relieved. you spread your legs instinctively at the sound.

wilson enters you, bare. and fast. so you don't dwell on the feeling of his tip for too long. his hands run along your sides to soothe you, as him. his head falls forward at the sensation of your tight, spasming cunt and he sees reason in doing this all over again. his forehead touches yours. it's all so tender, you think, all so sweet and beautiful like james himself. you open your eyes to look at him. his graying hair sticks to his forehead, glued by the sweat. there's a sheen around his mouth from where it once was. he has these fine wrinkles that seem more prominent in the low light. he has those rough, experienced hands that hold you in place, because you need to be held in place. you need to be pinned down where you belong because you're restless and young and hungry for more more more. you touched his hair, his cheeks, his face, his lips. all of it.

"i love you," you told him, your voice small.

and that fear dissipated into the steamy, sex-smelling air. it was his fucked up way of thinking you wanted this. his strokes were deep, hard and punctuated with grunts, just the way you liked. he took things slow, promising to make you feel every inch of him. you clenched around him in that painfully delicious way that made him cum in minutes. he muttered a string of profanities.

he looked down at your messy, glistening cunt and thought, this is what it will look like. this is the sight he'll see in a few seconds when he fills you up and lets it drip out of you. he lets his eyes rake over the rest of you, all changed and plump in due time. and then he'll have you, he'll have baby wilson and all the people in the hospital to brag to. he'll take you wherever he goes, conferences, talks, medical stuff you never had to attended before. he imagines being seen with you and your creation in the hotel lobbies. "doctor james wilson," he'll introduce "and my wife." he'll say with a loving, doting smile. it could all be so perfect and sappy and comforting.

his hand now pressed your thighs into a gruelling mating press. he had to go as deep as he could. he was close, he could feel it. his paced switched from slow caresses to hard smacks. your body pained in this new position for a while, but you liked it so very much. you arched your back, you moaned so loud the walls reverberated them back to you. god, he fucked so good when he wanted to. you wonder why he never pushed you this far before.

"i'm gonna cum. baby, i'm gonna cum." he left inside you unspoken.

you nodded, feeling yourself close for the hundredth time today. his cusses turned into i love you's. he threw his head back, his hot, white seed spurred inside you. comfortably. like that was where it belonged anyway. you came seconds later, on the verge of passing out. he stayed perfectly still inside you. he exhaled, almost like a sigh. he couldn't pull out of you, not until he's sure you're going to get pregnant.

your lips utter a silent thank you, almost like a prayer. wilson shakes his head, telling you there's no need. he kisses you on the cheek before finally pulling out. you fall asleep in seconds. so peaceful, so oblivious.