#Learn How To Draw Step By Step Easily

[fading4ngel]

ngl youll definitely know when im studying anatomy more because its literally all going to be johnny silverhand drawings.

i fear its the only way ill survive trying to improve my art.

[encredubitume]

IRON FIST ✸ LN04

Your daughter has an iron fist, and Lando is about to learn it the hard way.

PAIRING! ✸ Lando Norris x Single Mother!FemReader

WORDS! ✸ 1.5K

TAGS! ✸ Fluff. Not proof-read.

“She’ll probably seem closed off. Don’t take it personally. Ever since Isabella was born, it’s been hard for her to open up to strangers.”

Oscar’s voice is even, almost dull, but Lando picks up on the flicker of unease behind each carefully chosen word. Together, they move through the chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix; yet nothing is more frantic than Oscar’s pace.

In two years, Lando has learned to read his teammate's body language and its unsaid words. The tension in his shoulders and the tight fist at his side betray the calm he usually wears so well. He radiates apprehension⏤something so unlike him it disturbs Lando greatly.

It’s the first time his former neighbor from Hertford has accepted one of his invitations, and clearly, Oscar wants everything to be perfect.

“It took me a year to convince her to come, so please, don’t mess this up,” Oscar adds, confirming his theory.

“Wow. Who do you take me for? I do know how to behave, you know.”

Oscar stops in the middle of the paddock. He glances around, realizes people are filming them and pulls Lando aside by the arm⏤ignoring his protests⏤until they’re both hidden behind a broadcasting truck.

“What the hell, mate?”

Oscar gives him a wary look.

“I know you, Lando. And I know how this will go.”

Irritation flashes across the Brit’s face.

“Thanks, mate.”

“What I mean is…” Oscar shuts his eyes and draws in a deep breath, defeat written across his face. “She’s your type. Y/N, I mean. And she has a daughter. And you’ve been having this weird baby fever for weeks now. It's a disaster waiting to happen. I don't want you to scare her away.”

“I'm not an animal, Oscar.”

The latter runs a hand through his hair and sighs. Something in Lando softens at the obvious worry in his teammate’s eyes. He claps a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder, who jolts.

“Don’t worry. I’ll just say hello. Nothing more.”

The second he steps into the McLaren motorhome, Lando regrets his promise.

The woman speaking with Lily is stunning, and the little girl in her arms, so adorable it takes everything in him not to coo aloud.

Maybe Oscar’s right. Maybe he does know Lando better than Lando knows himself, because this beautiful sight stirs something raw inside him, something he can barely suppress.

He clenches his jaw and looks away.

“Oscar!” a lovely voice calls.

You skips towards your former neighbor with a radiant smile, but your steps falter when you notice Lando standing beside him.

Before his eyes, you shift. The change is subtle, but the driver sees it—your arms tightening protectively around the child, your gaze darkening.

You're suddenly the Mother reincarnated, and to Lando, it turns you into something ethereal, a vision his eyes are thankful for.

“How’s my little princess doing?” Oscar coos next to him, his voice light and playful. Gone is the doubt from earlier.

The little girl babbles excitedly, arms outstretched to the Australian. Without hesitation, you hand her over. An irrational pang of jealousy twists in Lando’s chest as he watches the baby in Oscar’s arms and how easily the two interact.

He shoves it down and looks at you.

Your eyes stay on the duo, a fond smile tugging at your lips. Lando seizes the moment. He clears his throat and offers his hand.

“I’m Lando. Oscar’s told me a lot about you.”

You whisper more than you say your name, hesitant and guarded. Your hand is soft and disappears in his own. You are smaller than him, he notes. He could kiss the crown of your head without effort.

Lando blinks the thought away.

You promised to behave.

Reluctantly, he releases your hand and turns to Oscar, who’s now dodging the curious fingers of the little girl.

“And who’s this?”

“Isabella,” you say, cautious. “My daughter.”

At the sound of her name, the child turns—first to you, then to Lando, the only unfamiliar adult in the room. Her wide eyes study his face before locking somewhere onto the top of his head.

Then she beams, and something inside Lando cracks open.

He looks at you, whose expression is unreadable.

“May I...?” He gestures to Isabella, hands outstretched.

The baby, clearly recognizing the promise of a cuddle when she sees one, squeals and thrashes toward him. She kicks her little foot in Oscar’s chest, who grunts in pain.

You swiftly retrieves your daughter.

“I don’t want you to hold her.”

The words snap through the air like a whip. A few engineers turn around. Lando blinks. You exhale, adjusting Isabella on your hip.

“I just don’t like strangers touching her,” you explain more gently. “But you can say hello, if you’d like.”

Lando nods and flashes you a dazzling smile. Something flickers across your face, gone as soon as it appeared.

He crouches to Isabella’s level.

“Hey, love.”

“No!”

“You shouldn’t—”

Two voices cry out, but it's too late. In a blink, Isabella grabs a curl on Lando’s forehead and yanks.

The cry he lets out is far from dignified. He knows you heard it, and something in him dies a little at the thought.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Isabella, let go!”

But the toddler just giggles and tugs harder. Lando hisses.

“She does this all the time,” You try to explain while attempting to pull your daughter back. “It’s her favorite game. I should’ve warned you. God, I'm sorry. Isabella, let go of Lando!”

“It’s fine,” he mutters through clenched teeth, bent awkwardly.

How can something so small be so strong?

You grimace and step closer. A second, gentler hand dives into his curls to try and free him. The soft touch makes Lando’s heart thunder, or perhaps it is your newly-found proximity. His nose brushes your collarbone. If he concentrates hard enough, he can count the freckles on your skin and trace the seams of your bra beneath your white shirt.

Lando gulps, suddenly flushed.

“Oscar, some help maybe?”

He closes his eyes and inhales the sweet, floral perfume that overwhelms his senses—then yelps as Isabella finds another curl.

“Oh f— Fudge!”

One of his hands lands on your waist for balance; the other joins the tangle of hands in his hair. His fingers brush against yours—or maybe Oscar’s—and finally clasp around the tiny fist.

Isabella makes a curious sound.

“Maybe he should hold her,” Oscar suggests. “Might be the only way to get her to let go.”

Lando doesn’t need to see you to feel your hesitation—your body has stiffened under his hand.

“I suppose…”

Groaning, Lando stands, his back aching.

Reluctantly, you hand him Isabella, whose gaze stays fixed on his curls. Once nestled in his arms, she tilts her head and smacks her lips, once, twice, lost in serious contemplation.

“Alright, that’s enough,” you say, patience already running out, and step forward with outstretched arms. “We'll find something el—”

But you freeze.

Because Isabella releases his curls and wraps her tiny fingers around his index.

Lando's heart skips a beat. And his face breaks into a radiant smile.

He can’t help it. He brings their joined hands down and plants noisy kisses on the baby’s hand. Isabella bursts into delighted giggles.

“Hey you. Has anyone ever told you you’ve got quite the iron fist?”

Isabella drools in response. Lando chooses to take it as a yes.

When he finally looks up, he’s surprised to see you blushing.

“Sorry,” he winces, realizing how forward he’s been.

But, to his delight, you just shrug with a shy smile on your lips.

“'I'm sorry she took you hostage. It’s the first time she’s this... lively around someone new.”

“I’m honoured.”

They share a shy smile. Oscar clears his throat loudly, making you both jump. You blush deeper, shaking your head as you reach out again.

“Alright now, Isabella. Uncle Oscar and Lando have a race.”

Isabella whines as she’s pulled from Lando’s embrace. The sound slices something deep in him. Right then and there, he decides he hates seeing her sad.

“You’ll see them later,” you sooth, gently rocking your daughter.

As you both sway, your eyes flick shyly to Lando’s. He nearly chokes at the sight.

“If they want to, of course,” you add.

“I do,” he replies instantly, breathless. “I'll see you right after I win.”

Somewhere behind him, Oscar snorts.

But Lando means it. It’s a promise.

One he’s determined to keep.

When he crosses the finish line—There you go, P1 in Monaco, says his engineer—his mind isn’t on the crowd, or the glory. No. It’s elsewhere. On something softer.

The day after his victory, while videos of the drivers in nightclubs flood social media and scandals brew in their wake, fans wonder where Lando Norris has gone.

They should’ve looked further, past Monte Carlo’s frenzy, down a quiet alleyway in Monaco City.

Maybe then they’d have found the Grand Prix winner at a candle-lit table, sharing dinner with a beautiful woman and a little girl seated on his lap, tugging on his curls with an iron fist.

[druidfolk]

shadowzel AU — medusa and her blind lover

'What was it that stayed my hand then?

With dagger held unsheathed, blade pointing in its side'

Upon learning of Lae'zel, the terrible local Gorgon that occupied crumbled ancient ruins somewhere out in the country, Shadowheart had been set on killing her and turning in her head for the reward. She was blind, after all, and likely would be unaffected by the monster's terrible curse.

But when Shadowheart becomes prey herself, hunted by a band of brigands crueler and greedier than her and after the same prize, she is fated to a brutal mauling. Unknowingly she flees straight into the Gorgon's den, and when Lae'zel locks eyes with the criminals they seize, turning to stone within seconds, allowing Shadowheart the chance to slip away and hide. With Lae'zel distracted, she has the perfect opportunity to ambush the monster; what she does not expect is the sound of the tall, rippling form of Lae'zel slithering around the corner of a ruined column to confront her.

Shadowheart can hear its raspy breathing, can feel the coolness from the way its shadow blocks the sun as it towers above, only feet from her; she grips the pitiful knife in her sweaty palm and prepares to strike as close to the neck as she can get. All she needs to do is cut off its head, and then she was rich.

Her grip on the dagger tightens and her blood runs icy when the creature cornering her utters a single phrase in its gritty, underused voice.

"Are you injured?" it croaks coldly.

Shadowheart hesitates. Turns out her theory was correct; though she can feel the Gorgon's molten gold eyes bearing into her own, her body remains soft, alive. She tests her lungs, and fresh air flows in through her nose. She is alive.

'I'd been set upon by a predator

It was just looking for a meal, I saw ribs and fearful eyes'

Lae'zel is not stupid; she's been hunted day and night for years now, but nobody has ever gotten close enough to harm her.

Until Shadowheart.

She cannot immediately deduce Shadowheart's original intentions, for all she appeared to be was a helpless blind girl pursued by rapists and murderers. However, her disability proved itself a threat to Lae'zel; she can get close, too close. Close enough to land a deadly blow if Lae'zel is caught unawares.

So she decides to kill her. Eliminate such a threat once and for all, and Lae'zel can go back to her cold, isolated life in the ruins.

It had not been long since Lae'zel sent her away, letting her leave freely if she promised not to try anything stupid. That was her first mistake: showing her mercy. Shadowheart took this opportunity and fled, battered and exhausted. She'd be slow, easy prey.

She finds the girl in the evening, struggling through a waist-high grassy field. She must have lost the path at some point and failed to find it again. The tall foliage made the perfect cover for a creature like Lae'zel, who could easily weave her way through the blades and take her prey by surprise. As she draws nearer, the scent of copper fills the air. Peeking over the grass she can see that Shadowheart is struggling for a multitude of reasons; the thick grasses slow her down, yes, but she is more slowed by the deep gash in her side, blood bubbling out between her fingers as she attempts and fails to staunch the flow.

Lae'zel may be a monster, but she is more honorable than kicking a creature while it's down. She watched the ailing girl for a few moments longer, gauging how far she might make it. She only gets a few dozen more steps in before she crashes to the ground, uttering a pained groan before going still and quiet. Lae'zel quickly scans the area for any other life. Satisfied by the silence, Lae'zel darts forward and peers down at Shadowheart tangled in the grass, covered in smears of dirt and dried blood. She seems much less threatening in this state, and the Gorgon cannot help but give in to her piqued curiosity; she scoops the white-haired woman up and roughly tosses her over her shoulder, sliding effortlessly through the field once she finds a useable path that leads toward her temple.

Shadowheart is all but dumped on the dusty floor to wait there until she regains consciousness. Then, she will be Lae'zel's to do with whatever she pleases.

'What is it that stays my hand now?

With so much misery that I could mercifully put ends to

For that animal I let slink off into the undergrowth, unscathed

Do I not fear death, but just pretend to?'

Shadowheart is not a prisoner, Lae'zel insists. She is a merely a guest who is not allowed to leave until she recovers. This leaves her with plenty of time to plot and scheme, to plan the slaughter of this demon and be done with it. But night after night, she lies awake sleepless, unable to bring herself to action. She cannot bring herself to kill the creature who likely saved her life, who continues to let her stay in its home and asks nothing in return.

Maybe she plans to wait until Shadowheart is healthy again to kill and eat her. She doesn't know. Instead of worrying over it, she talks.

She mostly talks to herself for the first few days. When Lae'zel is around—usually only to check that Shadowheart had not tried escaping for the third time—she says little to nothing; her vocabulary seems to consist primarily of grunts and sighs and hissing. A lot of hissing, especially when Shadowheart accidentally shifts too close.

She comments on the Gorgon's collection of swords one night as she is slithering away into the darkness. It's a desperate grab at any kind of communication, and Shadowheart knows she's struck gold when she hears Lae'zel halt, then turn a fraction in the dirt.

"You wish to know of my swords?" she whispers, her tone suspicious with the barest hint of surprise.

Shadowheart nods all too eagerly, and she spends the rest of the night listening to Lae'zel tell the stories of nearly each and every one. Some she left out; whether they were too painful a memory or an insignificant one, Shadowheart did not know. But she listened.

And then the person behind the monster began to show through. Shadowheart would garner little bits and pieces of her history throughout the stories. She pointed to the jagged scar running down her right shoulder blade and told the tale of a clever thief who used mirrors to try and outsmart her. He'd managed to sneak up behind her and land a brutal slash down her back, but it wasn't enough to kill her. She puffed with pride as she regaled how she twisted and snapped him up by the throat with her injured arm, and grinned wickedly as his face froze in terror, the expression forever carved into stone.

She also tells stories of recent onslaughts of attacks, some by targeted monster hunters and others who happened to wander into her domain and wanted what she had for themselves, and what she had admittedly wasn't much. Shadowheart learns, through glimpses into Lae'zel's past, what a tortured life she's lived. She almost wonders if killing her would be a mercy, but shakes the thought away as Lae'zel dives into another tale centered around a bejeweled dagger. Then another, this time a hunter's bow.

By the time she is telling the story of the ogre and his crystalline club, Shadowheart is drifting into sleep.

'For it was starving, it was hungry

But had eyes too close to let me'

For a very long time, Lae'zel killed anyone that walked into her temple, whether she meant to or not. Innocent, curious children and poor lost elders were not even spared, and over time her heart grew cold and hardened from it. She learned to accept that she would be alone until her final day, and made surprisingly easy peace with that fact.

But then Shadowheart came into the picture; an equally as lonely annoying little farm girl with an overambitious sense of adventure, given her particular limitations. She intrigued and infuriated Lae'zel to no end. Why did she keep her up into the late hours of the night, when her time could be better spent curled into some cold corner, fighting for any scrap of rest? Why did she return day after day, sometimes staying away for as long as a week at a time, yet always comes back? It distressed Lae'zel greatly how empty and chilled the temple felt without Shadowheart's presence when only a month ago it would not have bothered her. She may have even preferred it. But now the wind whistles too loudly as it tears through the columns, the echoes of crumbling structures startle her when she is too deep in her head. It is driving her mad.

She watches the sun during the day and the moon during her sleepless nights, both in an endless rotation but never touching. How she longs for them to touch. The thought disgusts her, but she dimly wonders when Shadowheart will come back anyway.

'If you were easy to kill, I would have done it already'

Some days, when thoughts of Shadowheart torment Lae'zel to no end, she once more considers killing the girl. Out of sight, out of mind. But the image of Shadowheart bleeding, choking, dying by her hand tortures her far worse than even the tenderest of desires.

'Plagued by phantom noises

That that skeletal beast was haunting all my steps'

During the first few nights of Shadowheart's recovery, when she was delirious with pain and sweating with fever, she thought she could hear the heavy drag of a serpentine body around every wall and column. Her heart would race with panic while her body remained sluggish and weak, trapping her in place. If she were to be Lae'zel's prey, there was nothing she could have done to stop it.

Even after some flimsy semblance of trust had been established, both women slept with daggers under their bedding for some time.

'Questioning all my choices

With that dagger held unsheathed, I felt sick at my contempt'

Even after her body recovered, Shadowheart suffered. She struggled with the guilt of her choices; she could have killed Lae'zel as she intended to and save hundreds of travelers from a stony demise. But as she comes to learn, it is not Lae'zel who is the monster. It is instead those who seek to harm her.

For as long as Lae'zel has existed in her current form, she's been hunted. A target was planted firmly on her back the moment this terrible curse was inflicted upon her. She refuses to share her origin story, how she came to be this way, and Shadowheart does not press. Instead, a thick, sickening lump of empathy, remorse and fury lodges itself in her throat and sticks fast.

Every time she sees Lae'zel, with every new bit of information she learns, the lump grows and it chokes her further.

'For you were lonely, you were like me

Like some outside force had sent me

If I was easy to kill, you would have done it already'

Lae'zel's loneliness is not as apparent as Shadowheart's. She hides hers well, whereas Shadowheart's desperation for connection shows more plainly, and that scared Lae'zel. She kept her distance, only checking on the girl once a day at first, but over time Shadowheart's tendency to chatter away in that clipped, sarcastic tone of hers wore down Lae'zel's walls. The way she asked questions drew her in. Unbeknownst to Shadowheart, the monster's heart ached in very much the same way as her human one did.

Shadowheart gave up on killing Lae'zel a long while ago. She kept their visits a tightly bound secret; it wasn't as if anyone would notice she was missing anyway. Even without her eyesight, by now her feet carried her to the temple through memory alone.

'You are at my feet, we're by the fire

You're a gentle beast and I'm alive

You are at my feet, we're by the fire

You're a gentle, purring beast and I'm alive

You are at my feet, we're by the fire

You're a healthy, gentle, purring beast and I'm alive'

As Shadowheart slowly peels back Lae'zel's layers, she finds something she doesn't expect: a highly intelligent, fiercely loyal and passionate companion. She became somewhat protective over Shadowheart in the weeks they grew closer, threatening to hunt down and slay anyone who even mildly inconvenienced her. Underneath Lae'zel's pointed scales, sharp teeth and head full of writhing snakes is a women starved of loved yet too prideful to admit it.

One night, as Shadowheart reclined by the fire with Lae'zel curled next to her, she studied the beastly woman she harbored a thinly-veiled affection for. The serpents sprouting from the Gorgon's scalp formed a languid pile of warm bodies in Shadowheart's lap while her head rested atop a pillowy thigh. She found it interesting and endearing how the snakes mirrored Lae'zel's condition. When she slept, they slept. When she was ill or injured, so were they. They showed excitement and thrill in their own way when Lae'zel discussed a topic she was passionate about. They even seemed to like Shadowheart.

Past her broad shoulders, the wiry expanse of her body was cradled comfortably by her serpent half, and Shadowheart wondered with some shame whether she could fit in there next to her. She stroked a finger along the length of a dozing snake's head and smiled to herself when its strange reptilian eyelids fluttered. Lae'zel twitched and muttered in her sleep, and Shadowheart's heart clenched painfully at the implications of this kind of trust. She couldn't hope for something more than this.

She brushed her fingers along Lae'zel's long bony ones where they rested palm down against her thigh, and froze when she shifted. Groaning softly, Lae'zel's clawed fingers unconsciously wrapped themselves around Shadowheart's smaller, chubbier ones, gentle with her even in sleep.

Shadowheart's breath staggered and caught in her chest, and considered letting herself hope after all.

[cherrypikkins]

@dimiclaudeblaigan asked for a tutorial on how to begin drawing. Good news! If you can draw a funky looking stick man, you have already started!

I think that stick people are a great starting point for artists because of the things you can learn from them that will be important later on.

If you are able to draw a circle and a couple of lines, you can easily put together a stick person.

Congratulations! You have started to draw. :)

A stick person is a very minimal artistic representation of a real life person. It is simple yet recognizable, and is widely used in art, media, and signage.

But what can a stick person teach us about drawing people that look more like… well, people? Lets have a look!

By simply adding a few more lines, we can add a pair of eyes and a mouth. Maybe even a little triangle nose! Or half circles for ears. We can now draw a face, which provides a basis for all sorts of expressions.

These simple additions can allow us to explore the wide range of human emotion and individuality.

This may seem like the basics of the basics. But that is what we want! In order to get to the point where we are able to draw complex, elaborate representations of humans and objects, we will need to start with simple shapes like lines and circles and build our understanding from there.

For instance, lets give our stick person some cool new features, such as hands and feet. I chose little squiggly circles to represent hands, and triangles to represent feet.

We can go a step further and modify the body of the stick person to include shoulders, hips, elbows and knees. These parts of the human body are quite complex in real life But here, all we need to do is add a few simple lines and dots to our stick person.

The lines provide some additional structural elements to our stick person's body, which are the shoulders and the hips. The dots indicate the points of articulation - elbows and knees, the places where the arms and legs bend!

Now we can use our stick person to show us an even wider range of human movement, action, and expression.

Our little drawing of a human being is evolving! All it took was adding a few more lines and shapes here and there.

By elongating some of the existing lines and making the head an oval instead of a circle, we can give our stick person proportions that resemble that of a real life human.

By this point, we have managed to add more complexity to our stick person simply by using our ability to draw lines, circles, and other basic shapes!

These basic ideas are the building blocks that will enable us to create more complex shapes.

The next part may be a considerable step up if you are absolutely new to drawing, but I have decided to include it in order to show you how complex objects like the human body can be built from shapes that are a bit more complex than circles and lines.

For example. Two ovals and a rectangle can be combined to create a cylinder.

Six squares can be combined to create a cube, or a box. Here, each square is distorted slightly depending on which way the cube is facing.

Note that the back faces of the cube and the bottom of the cylinder are hidden. These shapes allow us to visualize that which should not normally visible.

A sphere from all perspectives can be represented by a circle. But we can make it more like a sphere by adding lighting and shadow if we so desire.

Cubes, cylinders, and spheres are examples of 'solid shapes' because they consist of 3 dimensions.

Lets see how these solid shapes can be used to compose the human body.

By stacking three cylindrical objects, we can create a torso. Two spheres have been added to form shoulders, while a smaller cylinder forms the neck.

An arm is an alternating sequence of spheres and cylinders connected together. Note that the hand has been simplified for this example.

We can apply these solid shapes to the rest of the body to give us a more recognizable representation of the human form. It doesn't even have to be perfect. And just like that, our stick figure now has a silhouette that is unmistakably a person!

In the above examples, notice that we kept the stick person at the beginning while building up the shapes and solids around it. This is because the stick person serves as a guide for positioning the body and its various parts -> also known as posing.

You can do the same thing to everyday objects! Here, I drew a wine glass by stacking these three dimensional solid shapes.

The cup and its contents are two ovoid shapes that were cut in half. The stem is a very thin cylinder shape. The base is a cylinder with a slightly wider bottom.

Solid shapes help inform us how objects and parts of the human body may appear from different perspectives.

For example, a sphere can be used to demonstrate how the human head appears when looking up or down, turned to the side, or tilted at an angle.

With these examples, I hope I have managed to convinced you that if you can draw a circle and a couple of lines, you can draw a person! You just have to train your eye to recognize the simple shapes within complex objects. Try it with everyday objects as well! Or even your favourite media! A drawing subject can be as simple or as complex as you envision it to be.

Once you have mastered that, there are many aspects of drawing you can explore from here that may require you to seek additional resources or a fellow artist's advice.

Last of all, remember that drawing is an iterative process. Even if you draw something correct the first time, you will need to draw it again and again to get it right all times! And by making small changes like the ones we explored in this tutorial, your drawings will gradually transform!

I hope what I've demonstrated here are enough to provide the basics of how to get started with drawing objects and people, and also to help refresh more experienced artists. :) Hopefully I didn't go too off topic with what was requested, and let me know if there are any more questions I can answer.

Cheers :3

[noredemptionhere]

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂 ✶⋆.˚ 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙺𝙰 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

no warnings—just fluff.

𑄝⌇sevika is surprisingly sweet with kids.. calmer, softer, careful. but for some reason, kids never like her. they avoid to be in the same place as her and shrink away the moment she steps near. it makes your piss boil. one time, a particular four-year-old piece of shit had the audacity to burst into tears just because sevika glanced in his direction. without hesitation, you ‘accidentally’ nudged your foot forward, just enough to make him trip over. sevika nearly choked on her own spit trying to hold in her laugh as she watched your proud little smug smile.

𑄝⌇whenever you and sevika go out for dinner or a little get together, you always end up playing a game—cards, never have i ever, uno.. any silly game you two can think of. for some reason, every single time, you two end up getting so excited about it that you attract glances from everyone around. “draw four, pretty girl.” she smirks. “girl—fuck you.”

𑄝⌇sevika has an insane amount of pain tolerance—but she will always have the biggest fear of colds, fevers, or anything that causes headaches in general. you always stay by her side and make her a hot drink. she’s always wrapped in a blanket like a little worm as she watches you make her flavored tea, too.

𑄝⌇sevika loves nose kisses—loves giving them as well as receiving them.

𑄝⌇sevika never feels the need to brag about you in public. she doesn’t need to tell people how perfect, cute, or adorable you are—she already knows. to her, that’s something personal, something just for the two of you.

𑄝⌇sevika has an impeccable sense of fashion, and because of that, you’re always up her ass, whining for her to pick out your outfit from head to toe. “those jeans are ass,” she scrunches her nose in mild disgust. “you’re only saying that because i bought them without asking for your opinion,” you retort, but she glares back at you like you just murdered her parents.

𑄝⌇sevika’s taste in music is insane—she knows all the right tracks, from old-school rock to the newest underground hits. but one day, you played one of your ridiculously loud country songs, and somehow, it got stuck in her head. days later, you caught her humming the tune under her breath as she worked. she froze halfway through, eyes tightening, and muttered bitterly, “i’m so disappointed in myself.”

𑄝⌇sevika genuinely believes she’s terrible at comforting people—always unsure of what to say, what to do. but every time you’re in her arms, soft and trembling with tears, she can’t help but notice how easily you melt into her. the way you relax, your breaths slowing as you burrow closer… it doesn’t exactly convince either of you that she’s bad at it. “breathe for me, sugar. i’ve got you..”

𑄝⌇when she’s bored, sevika will bother you in the most subtle ways—like moving your stuff just slightly to the left so you’ll notice but not enough to be sure if it’s her. she thinks it’s hilarious, and you’re just left wondering if you’ve lost your mind.

𑄝⌇sevika always sleeps on top of you. she’s like a heavy, warm blanket that refuses to be moved. no matter how much space the bed has, she insists on curling up right on top of you, effectively trapping you in a cozy but slightly suffocating cuddle. she’ll nuzzle into your neck, mumble something about needing “closeness,” and fall asleep faster than you can protest. you’ve learned to embrace it, though, because there’s something oddly comforting about having her weight on top of you. the real challenge will always be trying to get up without waking her, because if you try, she’ll groggily mumble “stay,” and drag you right back to bed.

𑄝⌇sevika loves gossiping—will never admit it though.

𑄝⌇she always remembers how you take your tea. even when you change it up, even when you forget yourself—she doesn’t. she hands you a cup before you even ask, grinning when you blink at her like she just read your mind.

𑄝⌇she never sleeps facing the door. she sleeps facing you. always.

𑄝⌇sevika and you share food like it’s a sacred ritual. you both order different dishes, but somehow, every meal ends with your plates being mixed together.. whether you like it or not. she’ll stare at your food like it’s the last meal on earth and then slide a forkful onto her plate without asking. you’ll give her a side eye, but she just shrugs and says, “you never finish it anyway.” It’s become a game, where you try to sneak a bite from her dish, and she’ll respond by swiping something off your plate in return. it’s a silent, competitive love language that only the two of you understand.

[angelic--kitty]

𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖊𝖇

𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖉𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗!𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖔

warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, fem!reader x transfem!drider arlecchino, dark content, stalking, breeding, oviposition, fingering, you're her human pet ♡, collars, arachnophobia, size kink, tummy bulge, nipple play, arle uses her webs to tie you up

a/n: kinksgiving yippee lmao

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖋𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗

she watches you curiously, tied up so prettily in her webs while you squirm around in a futile fashion. your eyes are so wide, desperate, frightened as you struggle, oblivious to the creature watching you.

she creeps forward through the shadows, easily maneuvering through her own webs as she steps just hard enough for you to feel the vibrations and freeze up.

she'd been watching you for quite some time in that little cottage you lived in at the edge of her woods. she planned this perfectly, setting out bait of berries and herbs she knew would draw you in, only to trap you in her sticky web.

it was almost adorable how easily you fell for it. clearly you needed her to keep you safe. little more than a sweet pet, too curious for your own good.

as she revealed herself to you, your eyes almost brightened, and she wondered if you knew she was watching you. perhaps you actually had been hoping she would snatch you up. from how your breath turned shaky, your struggling ceased, she realized you were intrigued.

how... sweet. yet so foolish.

she helped you out of the silky strands, instead cradling your smaller frame to her body, carrying you back to her den. you were so pliant, she already knew you'd make a wonderful mate, and, perhaps, an excellent mother.

you had such a pretty body, such a sweet little look in your eyes when you'd kneel for her, dressed in nothing more than a collar she made for you.

clothes? you didn't need those anymore, right? she kept you warm, ensuring you stuck close to her side, enjoying her body heat while she enjoyed your soft form pressed against her.

and, oh, you were just as soft on the inside as you were on the outside. even better were the sounds you produced when her fingers slid into your sweet little cunt. she learned your anatomy rather quickly, easing the prettiest sounds from your lips as she crooked her fingers into your sweet spot.

"there, there," she hummed, pulling yet another orgasm from you as you shook against her body, feeling her limbs wrapping around you.

"c-can't-" you whine for her, despite your hips still humping against her hand. "too much-"

"hush, human." she merely mumbles, holding you tighter, rubbing her palm into your clit as you squirm. "i must have you ready for me."

your head was fuzzy, but you had enough sense to listen. "ready for...what?"

she pushed her body up against you, letting you feel the hardness pressed up against your back.

oh.

the squeak she received had her twitching, fingers pumping in and out faster. "it's my mating season, pet. we've talked about this previously, yes?"

you dumbly nod, remembering how she'd given you a long lecture on taking and laying her eggs. though, at the time, you zoned out, merely picturing her inside of you.

"good." she praises you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as she slowly pulls her fingers out, savoring the slick you leaked onto them. she picks you up easily, moving you to face her, your pussy hovering over her cock.

it was pretty, but thick, making you whimper when the tip brushed your hole. you squeezed around nothing and she sighs, rubbing herself across your slick entrance. "you must relax, human."

"you're... too big." you admit softly, your voice both nervous and needy. and it has its intended effect, softening the seldom sweet woman as she leans in, pressing her chin atop your head.

"you can take it, i can assure you of that." she pushes the tip into you, hearing you softly moan, grabbing onto her biceps the further she slides in.

she's thick, stretching you out but filling you with a pleasant warmth that makes you feel even fuzzier as you pant, head falling forward and onto her shoulder. "ah-" you squeak, back arched as she pauses, letting you grow accustomed to half her length. "full..."

she nearly purrs, breasts brushing your own as she feels your perked nipples. "there is still more to take." she tells you, but she pauses at your soft noise of confusion. "i...suppose that can wait if you're not ready. there is always next time, hm?"

you nod eagerly, hips shifting on the half of her fitted inside you, already feeling a little bulge in your lower tummy. one of her limbs slides to tease your clit and press on the bulge, earning a cute little yelp from you.

she eases you up and down her cock, little more than a toy for her as she eases just a bit more of her length into you with every thrust. she grunts, feeling you squeezing around her, your slick dripping down her cock and giving the dark flesh the prettiest creamy ring.

just looking at it has her twitching in you, needing to cum inside of you to watch it drip out all the same.

she begins to give you the same lecture on her eggs, though from the way your eyes have gone glassy and the way you begin to beg for her cum, she figures it's lost on you.

her thumb slides to your clit, rubbing little circles until you cum around her like the good pet you are, giving her the perfect opportunity to fuck you deeper, pushing her eggs into you as your face scrunched up, hands gripping onto her while your nails leave indents into her skin.

she groans, clearly pent up from how thick her cum is inside of you, already dripping out of you as your back arches up, nipples at the perfect height for her tongue to flick out and tease them until they're swollen.

she keeps you on her cock, plugging you up and admiring the image of her eggs in your stomach. her hand brushes over them, picturing the perfect family you'll both have so soon... and how she can't wait to do it over and over again just to see you completely fucked out.

her beautiful little pet.

she kisses your forehead, climbing back into her web, keeping you snuggled against her body, plugged up nicely while you fall asleep, pleased and comfortable together.

[angrythingstarlight]

bee loving espresso for the lyric “my honeybee come and get this pollen”

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee.

CW: Fluff. Mafia!Bucky being a menace.

A/N: Written on my phone. Unedited.

She doing that little dance that all toddlers seem to know as she slides past the open door to Bucky's office. A paintbrush acting as her microphone.

"My honeybee come and get—"

"This pollen. Too bad your ex don't do it for ya'." He hears your voice chime in and a grin breaks across his face. You're right behind her, socked feet gliding across the hardwood floors as you follow your rambunctious baby.

The sounds of you two singing at the top of your lungs, carefree and happy, draws him out of his office like a siren serenading a pirate to the ocean's depths. He couldn't stop himself if he tried.

Bucky watches as his two favorite people dance their way to the living room.

"Say you can't sleep, baby, I know. That's that me espresso—" You startle at the sight of your husband, your legs bumping into Bee who continues dancing, unbothered by the growing audience. "Heeey Bucky."

He leans against the doorframe, tattooed hands in his suit pockets. His brow lifts and his lips curve into a smile. "Don't stop on my account. I'd pay good money to watch you dance for me, Malyshka."

You'd do it for free.

The thought is sudden, innate. You almost say it aloud. You pull your lips in to keep the words from spilling out because he does not need that ego boost.

It doesn’t matter because you swear he can read your mind, see the vivid, vivid images of you dancing for him forming there. His brow notches up even higher, smugness wiping away his amused expression. Heat rushes across your face and he lets out a soft, knowing chuckle.

It's not your fault that you'd do just about anything he wanted as long as he keeps looking at you with such devotion in his deep blue eyes, like his entire world revolves around you.

Unable to stand his intense gaze, you drop your eyes to Bee. She's still singing, repeating her favorite part of the song. Again.

"Bee, I think your Papa wants to learn how to dance. Why don't you teach him."

He knows this is your way of distracting him, buying yourself some time. He doesn't mind.

She spins to an unsteady stop, her arms wobbling to keep her balance. "Yes! I teach you Papa," she offers, bouncing over to show him her moves. "You gotta do dis."

She wiggles, her dress twirling around her. "And dis."

You step behind him, leaning into his muscular back and go on your tiptoes. Your lips brush over his ear, a smirk lacing through your tone. "Looks like you're going to be dancing for me, Mr. Barnes."

He grins, reaching behind him, his hand closing around your wrist and he pulls you even closer. His words for your ears only, his voice low and deep and filled with unspoken promises. "Don't think you're getting out of it that easily Malyshka. We'll finish this discussion tonight."

And then his hold on you, the physical one anyway, is gone and you watch your mobster pick up Bee and spin her around in the air. Her wild, happy giggles floating across the room as they dance to every song she sings.

It's a good way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

[thistle-wrote]

Tattoo Artist

CW: oral sex, small descriptors used for reader when I felt it necessary i.e. the tattoo artist having tattoos. reader is referred to by a nickname.  Authors note: And before you ask, no I do not condone the tattoos price has on the homecoming skin, as an American traditional tattoo GIRLY those are simply an insult to tattoos.

The song I was listing to whilst writing this

Despite what most think, John has tattoos. Mostly hidden in places you can’t easily see. Truthfully, he probably would have had far fewer had it not been for Little Petal.

It’s just when John’s dad died he wanted a tattoo to commemorate his life, you know how middle age men get when their fathers pass. So he booked a session with a local artist, the shop had great reviews; it was clean and busy, and he figured now was as good a time as any.

Never in the entirety of John’s life has he been so instantly captivated by a woman. Covered in tattoos and piercings, she was gorgeous and immediately incredibly friendly. He learned she owned the shop and had gone to art school. For what it was worth she absolutely knew what she was doing.

All in all, it took her barely an hour to draw his tattoo, make his stencil, and have it permanently etched into his muscular thigh. I mean how long could two dates possibly take anyway? And that’s really how it started. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was booking another appointment a few months out, with the promise of allowing her to actually draw him something this time. He could have taken her right there, just seeing the way her face lit up at the prospect of mild creative freedom.

When he returned for his next appointment, this time with a brand new scar and an embarrassing amount of excitement for a grown man, he settled in her chair. She flipped through drawings she’d made for him, drawings she thought would “fit your vibe” all traditional style but not the kind that bored; a street lamp with moths circling it was the one he ultimately decided on. 

John was a very tough man. Hell, the man gets shot at for a living, but he didn’t expect the little petal to be able to inflict so much pain. Of course, he was tough about it, barely flinching.

“Does it hurt, then?” She asked him amidst her stabbing color into his side. 

“Not bad.” He remembered murmuring to her as her needles dragged across his skin.

“Doesn’t hurt me one bit.” He chuckled at her cheesy joke, but the little smile on her face was enough to make his thoughts go awry. 

It wasn’t long before he wasn’t just tattooed, but was one of her regulars. After a few years, his entire left leg was mostly covered. Apparently, when you become good enough friends with your tattoo artist, she starts to tell you things like, “I’m not doing that, John, that’s ugly.” And “No, that fits better over here.” 

At some point, he also started receiving unexpected and sporadic text messages from her. Texts like, “I saw this cute cigar shop in London, made me think of you.” Or “I drew you this, thought it would fit perfectly on your knee.” 

John has had his fair share of women in his life, he wasn’t exactly sure just why he was so into her. Maybe it’s the sweet, soft way she spoke. Maybe it was how she was so passionate about her work. Maybe the way she joked and teased him, or possibly it was just simply how incredibly herself she was. 

John made his way into her shop one Saturday afternoon, the door chiming as he stepped through the threshold. The scent of patchouli filled his nose. She was an eccentric little woman, from the black walls to the leopard print furniture. 

He stepped up to the front desk, eyeing the little trinkets she had sat atop it, listening for the soft patter of her platforms against the hardwood. When she poked her head from the back room, she offered a sweet smile. 

“Hi, hon.” 

“Hi, petal.”

They’d done this dance time and time again, proper etiquette and professionalism were long gone. He watched as she turned back into the room, a wordless request for him to follow. He did, his boots clattering on the floor as he made his way through the shop. He immediately sat in the corner chair, watching the bird flit through her stack of drawings.

“Okay listen,” She began, holding out a hand to silence him as if he’d been about to interrupt, which he hadn’t. 

“You don’t have to get it if you hate it but, I drew this pinup.” She pulled out a white sheet of paper and held it out to him. John reached for the sheet, looking it over. He wondered for a brief moment if she’d done it on purpose, if she’d even realized exactly how much the cartoon woman on the page looked like her. 

“It’s great, love,” He hums, still looking it over but letting his eyes meet hers for a moment. No, there was no way she’d done it intentionally, she wasn’t the egotistical type to brand someone with a picture of herself.

“Cool,” she mused, already planning. “thinking on your inner thigh. We can do it high enough that people won’t see her when you’re in shorts.” That girl was always thinking ahead. She has a real knack for this, not just the drawing or design process but the placement too. 

“Yeah, okay, pretty,” John said simply, leaning back further into the chair. He let her run around the shop, scanning her drawing, then printing and cutting out the stencil. When she returned, stencil in hand, she looked at him with that cute little frown she sometimes got.

“Take your pants off, John.” 

God, she didn’t have to tell him twice. 

“Right to the point, huh?” He chuckled. She'd always taken his jokes well, so he felt no need to apologize for the comment.

She gave him an eye roll, one more of amusement than anything. He unbuckled his belt, pulled off his boots followed by his jeans, setting them on the chair. He plopped himself onto the table, and she, completely comfortable by this point, started pulling him into the position she wanted, moving his leg to her desired spot. 

John liked his tattoos, he really did. But in that moment, he was instantly reminded why he kept coming back. It was the way she pushed the leg of his underwear farther up his thigh, making marks on his skin to correctly line up his stencil, or her casually commenting “You’re so hairy,” as she ran the pink disposable razor over his inner thigh. 

“I’m a grown man, petal,” he responded, with a small chuckle.

This tattoo, the one she seemingly didn’t realize she’d drawn of herself, the one he was allowing her to permanently mark on his skin. This might be the worst decision of his life, he suddenly realized, not because it looked like her, or because he’d regret it; he’d learned over his almost forty years of life that regrets were worthless. 

No, it might be the worst decision simply because he hadn’t thought about how high up it was, how close her hands and her face would be to his crotch, and how he was absolutely going to get hard whether he meant to or not.

After she’d shaved his thigh, applied the stencil, and properly sanitized his skin,  she began to tattoo. She chattered away as she always did, John nodded along, trying to listen. But the man might as well have been fighting demons, not because it hurt, either.

John just hoped she wouldn’t mention the bulge in his underwear, or better yet, maybe she was too busy to notice. After she’d finished the outline, she stopped her machine, moving to change needles and pour her caps of color when she spoke.

“Got a pain kink, John?”

He was momentarily stunned by the way her eyes gestured to his cock. He would never have expected a joke like that from her; sure she teased him but this was a first. He laughed. 

John had half a mind to tell her to go screw herself, or sarcastically agree. But he figured if she could say something that should be considered inappropriate for a professional, he could say something incredibly inappropriate for a client.

“No, bird, got a pretty girl's face inches from my dick kink.” 

She smiled. No way she thought that was genuinely flattering. She had to trust him more than he’d realized not to immediately get upset. So, like the civilized adult man he wasn’t, he kept going.

“Got a thing for their mouths round it too.” 

At that, she didn’t squirm, flinch. Or even make a grossed out face. She laughed, the kind of laugh a girl gives when she knows she’s about to get some.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

John thinks he must have, at some point, been some kind of saint in a past life, because that is the only way he could possibly imagine something so great happening to him: his tattoo artist stopping mid tattoo to wrap her lips around his cock.

The entire afternoon was a haze. When his tattoo was done, her breath now smelling faintly like cum, he let out a satisfied sigh, admiring his fresh ink in the mirror.

“Looks like you, ya know.” He mused, meeting her gaze. She looked momentarily shocked, as if she seriously had not intended that. 

“Good,” she replied with a smirk finding its way to her lips. “Marking my territory.” Oh, she had no idea how right she was. 

My irl CoD Trad tat

CoD Masterlist

[meowdei]

for you, i’d do it all again — ft. alhaitham

the story of how you replace the acting grand sage as the permanent one. alternatively: three times alhaitham wanted to say i love you and one time he finally does

before you read: 6.2k word count ; fem reader ; friends to lovers ; former bimarstan nurse to grand sage reader (girlboss hours) ; reader is ambiguous but from the desert ; themes of prejudice against desert folks ; lovesick alhaitham ; nahida appearance (she’s very sweet) ; mentions of blood and injuries ; reader sits on his lap ; fingering ; semi public sex/office sex (the door is locked) ; slight hand jobs ; unprotected vaginal sex ; pulling out ; soft linguist alhaitham :(

His head is pounding. Hard.

Alhaitham fights mercenaries often—far too many of them are easy to run into deep into the desert. They tend to get territorial over ruins, too, not too keen on rainforest folk. Their teeth always grit, and their eyes always glare at him like he’s more than just an intruder.

He supposes he is.

For far too long, the desert population of Sumeru has been an afterthought. For far too long, they’ve fought tooth and nail for an opportunity—any opportunity. The desert ruins and their secrets are the few things that they have, the few things that they can cling to. The ruins are one of the rare things that are theirs to control.

Alhaitham doesn’t blame them for being hostile when he approaches. They scoff bitterly when he offers up his Akademiya-approved stamp on a paper to be there.

Get out, they grit, in their mother tongue.

It’s a language Alhaitham recognizes. Something entirely different from anything people speak in the rainforest. People in the city. But he knows what they say—he learned this particular tongue some years ago from a book in his father’s collection. This version is vaguely different, though, something of a dialect, he assumes.

I don’t mean harm, he says quietly, hand held up in surrender.

They pause. One of them, the leader, he deduces, steps up and chuckles.

“Fancy fer a little ‘ol scholar, ain’t ya?” He asks gruffly, “so ya know ta speak a few other languages. So what?”

His grammar is slightly off, Alhaitham notes. He must have picked up what he knows from traveling to and from Caravan Rivat. It’s impressive, Alhaitham thinks.

Only a sharp mind could pick up a language so easily just from hearing bits and pieces in a bustling place like the trading hub between the two borders. He imagines with proper education, this man could put even him to shame with how easily he picks up new tongues.

“I mean no harm,” he repeats. “I’m just here to explore these ruins for research.”

The words seem to do little to ease their minds. Instead, they draw their swords, and just like that, he prepares himself for another grueling fight.

As usual, Alhaitham wins in the end. Not without a good few hits landed on him, though—this particular bunch was a rough fight even for him. The blunt head of a sword handle hitting his head is particularly rough, hence why he lays in the bimarstan, eyes closed as he holds an ice pack to his temple.

“You don’t have to fight every person who picks one with your first,” you chastise, rolling bandages around his bicep where a small gash is littered on his skin.

He grunts, fighting through every pounding thump in his skull as he says hoarsely, “I don’t particularly have a choice. It’s either fight back or be killed.”

“You could always seduce them,” you tease, giggling when he opens a weary eye and gives you an unimpressed stare.

“I have my doubts about that plan,” he says dryly.

“They don’t mean any harm,” you hum quietly, tossing away the dirtied rags you’d used to clean his blood. “The desert folks aren’t exactly the happiest with Akademiya ones, you know.”

“I’d appreciate it if such grievances didn’t have to end with knife fights,” he says tiredly.

Alhaitham, no matter how bloodied or bruised he could show up to you in the hospital, finds that you always have a soft spot for those of the desert. It makes sense, he supposes, seeing as you come from there yourself—still, he’d really appreciate it if you could acknowledge that he’s been a victim of unwarranted violence.

It’s not that he particularly blames them for their actions. Researchers are quite pushy—too pushy, in fact. They take up room in villages they’re unwelcome in often times. They build institutions they’re not permitted to build. They claim ownership of ruins that aren’t theirs to claim.

Researchers like Alhaitham, who intend to observe and do nothing else, aren’t trusted, regardless of their intentions. The mercenaries have taken to force if that’s what it requires to keep the desert rightfully theirs.

“Akademiya-approved exploration permits mean little to them,” you shrug, “the only person I’m sure they’d make an exception for is Cyno—only because he’s one of them. But a lot of people have much to say about him too for leaving nowadays, anyway.”

“How would you know?”

“My mother writes to me,” you say, wrapping up the bandage around his bicep before pulling away. He misses the heat of your fingertips almost instantly, fighting back the urge to grab at your retreating hands.

“Lord Kusanali sent me,” he says quietly. “She…she was looking for something.”

You don’t press for more, thankfully. His vagueness is enough to tell you he probably can’t share much of what he was sent for, and you don’t seem offended even the slightest.

Alhaitham appreciates that. Not many of his friends (if he can call most of them that, anyway) are ever too pleased by his curt, dry answers. Perhaps Cyno is the exception, but the General Mahamatra is equally as curt as the scribe on most days. Kaveh is too nosey for his own good, Dehya is just as pushy for details, and the traveler wouldn’t be so bad if not for that irritating little pixie friend that floats by her head, always demanding for more information.

You never ask for more, though. He likes that about you.

He likes a lot about you. Alhaitham, as emotionally stunted as most people assume him to be, is aware of most of his feelings. Perhaps expressing them is a different story, but recognizing them for what they are is an easy enough step.

He knows early on that he’s deeply enamored by you. Later, he’s not too shocked to come to the realization he’s in love with you, either.

He comes close to saying it sometimes. It’s a dangerous, slippery slope to tread—sometimes whispering I love you feels as natural as saying thank you when you patch him up.

Probably because he says it so many times in his head.

I love you, he says in his mind when you laugh.

I love you, he thinks, when you worry over him.

I love you, he realizes, when you attach yourself to his side and accompany him to Puspa Cafe.

“Speaking of the Archon,” you perk up, excitedly putting away the medical equipment in a rush as you turn to him and add, “did you hear? Sumeru is finally expanding the Akademiya’s education to the desert!”

Alhaitham wants to tell you he’s one of the first to know. He was part of the operation that resolved conflicts and led to this evolvement, after all, but he doesn’t tell you that.

Instead, he nods and smiles softly at you. “I did, yes.”

“It’s wonderful,” you beam excitedly, “I’ve always felt guilty for leaving the desert. Not too many get the opportunities I had—it’ll be wonderful if the children there are granted the same ones, don’t you think?”

I love you, he wants to say when you’re so happy and thrilled by changes he had a hand in.

Pride swells itself into his chest at the look on your face. Alhaitham doesn’t help people for this sense of pride or self-fulfillment—it’s simply the right thing to do, and the course of action that leads to less catastrophe.

The lesser the catastrophe, the easier his life will be.

But for once, he’s proud to have done something for the greater good if it means painting a smile on your face like that.

“It’s great news, yes,” he confirms.

“You’ll have to tell me how you and the others pulled off such a grand scheme sometime,” you say casually, fighting off a knowing smile when he shoots his head up to look at you.

He groans at the sharp pain in his head at the action, rubbing his temple as you laugh.

“How—how did you—”

“I may be out of the loop, but I’m not clueless,” you snort.

You hand him a pill and a glass of water, making him stare up at you before he mumbles, “they’ve asked me to be acting grand sage. Just for the time being.”

“Will you accept?”

He swallows the pill down with a long sip of water before handing you the half-empty glass. With a slow nod, he sighs, “I don’t have too many options on this matter.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re more than capable, Haitham.”

I love you, he thinks, when you make it so apparent that you believe him like you breathe. So easy, so natural. So involuntary.

—————

Alhaitham is tired of being the acting grand sage. He doesn’t mind stepping up and doing something for the sake of his nation—especially when he’s one of the only seemingly capable individuals, too.

Lesser Lord Kusanali requests him to temporarily take the role until she finds someone suitable to take his place. Alhaitham is not one to put his faith blindly into divinity—he doesn’t care much for the divine as it is.

But Sumeru’s archon is one who loves her people. He can admire that much.

So, with a slightly mournful goodbye to his free time, he accepts.

“I’m tired of paperwork,” he grumbles. You giggle, earning a more sour look from him. “Glad you’re amused.”

“Sorry,” you clasp a hand over your mouth as you apologize through your fit of laughter, “it’s just funny to hear from the scribe of all people that paperwork is the main trouble of grand sage duty.”

“It’s an entirely separate realm of paperwork,” he scoffs. “It’s quite tiring.”

Alhaitham, on a normal day, would not accept an offer to stargaze in place of going home, taking a hot shower, and going to bed. Not before reading a few chapters of his book, of course, but that’s beside the point.

It’s a little different when the offer comes from you, though. If it’s you, he has a hard time declining. You don’t seem to notice that yet, which is a good sign, but it leaves him a bit painfully aware of just how much control you hold over his mind.

“I’d love to be grand sage one day,” you sigh, looking up at the stars as you admire them.

They’re not as nice here as they are in the desert, you’d told him one night. In the city, the lights make the stars hard to see. In the rainforest, the thick layer of leaves from the trees makes them nearly disappear. In the desert, however, where there’s nothing to block out the darkness and the fluorescence of the stars, you can see them clearly.

He grunts, hand itching to run a finger over your cheek as he stares at the shadow of your lashes against the swell of them.

“You would?” He raises a brow.

“Yeah,” you nod, humming as you let out a soft exhale. “It’s about time we get a grand sage that doesn’t just care about the rainforest, don’t you think?”

“It’s not easy work,” he responds flatly, “being a sage.”

“So?” You turn to him with furrowed brows, “I don’t mind.”

“Having the power isn’t as great as you might think.”

“I don’t want to be grand sage for the power,” you say through a clipped tone, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes, “I want to be sage for the opportunity to make a decision. Not a lot of desert folks have that chance, you know.”

Alhaitham is silent.

Not many people can say they’ve left him with no retort or smart comment to throw back. It’s easy, he thinks, for someone like him to think of Akademiya work as a chore. So many rules and regulations to remember, so many demands people make that he has to keep up with. Request after request. Proposal after proposal. Decision after decision. This type of work seems like too much trouble than he can be bothered with.

Not for you, though. Someone like you has never had a chance to find a chore out of a job you’ve never been granted. Someone like you would never complain over an opportunity you’ve always dreamed of.

He’s quiet for a while longer before he finally murmurs, “you’d make an excellent grand sage. Better than me.”

“You think so?” You beam instantly—he’d chuckle at how easily a little praise brightens your earlier mood, but he’s too busy eyeing the dimple at the corner of your mouth. He aches to trace it with his thumb.

“Yes,” he says simply, “the Akademiya is extending opportunities and developments into the desert. You’d make an appropriate individual to oversee that.”

“Maybe one day,” you whisper, “for now, as long as we get some books for the kids out there, I’ll be happy.”

He loves you, he thinks. He loves you and your kindness, and your ambitions, and your dreams. They’re crystal clear, always so tangible, even if they used to be so far out of reach. He doesn’t think he’s ever had that.

When was the last time he dared to let himself dream? He’s never had any long-term goals that really mattered.

Graduate.

Get a stable job.

Live a peaceful life.

His goals have always been so dull compared to yours. Important things to achieve, nonetheless, but nothing worth remembering.

I love you, he wants to say.

Instead, he mumbles, “there are six libraries approved for construction as of now across a few villages.”

“Did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Approve of them. As grand sage.”

He doesn’t look over to meet your eyes; just nods before swallowing thickly as you grin. You reach over and give his hand a tight squeeze.

The words bubble up his throat once more before dying down from another heavy swallow.

—————

Lesser Lord Kusanali thinks it to be a great idea to allow people to apply to be grand sage instead of appointing someone. Something about getting to see the enthusiasm of the Akademiya and its scholars! as she says.

Alhaitham thinks it’s silly. Naturally, many people apply just for the ambitions of a high paying and largely powerful position. He couldn’t be bothered to glance through most of the applications. He declines half of them as they come—he recognizes enough names to know that none of these individuals have a place in the mechanics of running a nation.

Still, Lesser Lord Kusanali is hopeful. She’s certain there will be a promising applicant who can be relied on to carry the responsibility of leading a nation and its government on deft shoulders.

The only good thing about this system, however, is that Alhaitham gets to make his own suggestion for someone to take his place from the pool of applicants, seeing as he is, of course, the current grand sage. This means he can suggest you through your application—unsurprisingly, you do apply.

The Dendro Archon offers him this as a means of a truce.

He sifts through applications, and she considers his suggestion. It’s a fair trade, he thinks—especially because he can reject everyone who’s not you.

The only trouble is that he has to formally submit his proposal to the sages, too. Should all six approve of his recommendation, Lord Kusanali will accept his decision without any further action.

Should even one decline, you are to meet with the Archon herself alongside Alhaitham so he can defend his position.

That’s a problem—Alhaitham knows you won’t be too pleased to know your position was achieved through his influence, and even more, he doesn’t exactly want to explain all the reasons he admires you in front of not just you but the Archon herself.

He’d rather let a couple of mercenaries in the desert draw their blades on him again than go through that humiliating exchange.

For their own sakes, Alhaitham hopes the sages have accepted his proposition.

And then he sees it—your name on the paper. He stills, carefully plucking out the page and glazing his eyes over the words over and over again before he quickly stands and leaves his office.

“Grand sage Alhaitham, there’s a formal request submitted here for—”

“Not now,” he walks through the doors of the Akademiya in long strides, leaving the poor man to follow after him as best as he can.

“B-but it’s rather important—”

“Leave it on my desk for my return. I’ll look then.”

“It’s rather urgent, you see. We must—”

“I said not now.” He halts to a stop, eyeing the man with deadly, narrowed eyes as his voice comes out in something just short of a growl.

Alhaitham is known across the Akademiya for being dry. Blunt. Painfully stripped of any and all emotion. This sudden show of not just emotion, but pure rage has the man stunned to stiffness as he nods tensely and quickly walks away. He lets out a fuming sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Three out of six sages have declined.

Three. Out of six.

Alhaitham knows that at least two of them have made their decisions simply based on the fact that you come from the desert. He’s never been more certain of something in his life—the sages have yet to all be replaced themselves, and there are two that still remain from the original appointees from Azar himself.

There is no denying Azar’s distaste for those of the desert, and Alhaitham is certain the sages he once appointed years ago would be no different. How else would he hold onto such power all these years if they did not share similar views?

There’s a burning, unsettling rage simmering in his ribcage, pounding into his heart and pumping adrenaline into his veins.

With the power granted to him by the Dendro Archon herself, he’ll take matters into his own hands. (And no, this doesn’t mean his power as the grand sage. This means the much more powerful authority he holds as a vision wielder. A power that none of the sages seem to have acquired yet).

—————

“Lord Kusanali,” Alhaitham greets, bowing slightly as he walks up, noting as you fidget when he joins you to stand in front of the Archon herself. “You’ve summoned me?”

“Grand sage Alhaitham—”

“Acting grand sage—ow,” he hisses, glancing at you as you elbow him.

“Don’t correct the Archon,” you scold quietly. “Apologies, Lady Kusanali. Alhaitham tends to be…stubborn.”

The Archon smiles—it’s hard to think that someone as small and innocent-looking is meant to be the embodiment of wisdom. Divinity that is all-knowing.

Does she know that Alhaitham has made his decision solely based on his heart alone and nothing else? Sure, he thinks you’re very capable for the job—more capable than himself, in fact. And as much as he dislikes this position, Alhaitham will not deny that he does it quite well.

But this decision is based on his feelings. Not his logic. Something he doesn’t do often—if ever at all.

“The scribe and all of the sages have confirmed you to be a suitable candidate for the grand sage of Sumeru,” Lesser Lord Kusanali begins, “as such, I’ve summoned you both here to discuss this possibility.”

“I…oh,” you breathe, voice practically an inaudible gasp. “Me?”

You turn to Alhaitham, as if the idea of him accepting your application seems as something unlikely. He itches to poke your forehead and reprimand you for doubting yourself.

As thought she knows, like she can read his mind, Lord Kusanali eyes him with what almost seems like an amused stare.

“You’re very capable,” he nods, ignoring the Archon’s gaze, “your answers in the application, as well as your ideas, have merit to them. It would be wise for the benefit of all of Sumeru to put them into action.”

“All six of the sages? Approved of me?”

Something bitter bubbles in his chest at the sound of pure shock in your voice.

“Well,” the Dendro Archon hums, “interestingly enough, three of the six sages have decided to resign—it seems we have our work cut out for us to replace them, too. As it stands, we only have three sages—all three have approved of your application.”

“Looks like I’ll be demoting you of your job,” you glance over at Alhaitham. He smiles slightly, humming as he pulls out a book and opens it to his marked spot.

“My pay will remain the same, so I have no complaints. I much prefer the simplicity of the scribe’s role.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on making the scribe’s job too easy once I’m in office,” you tease.

I love you, he thinks, as you sit in awed shock, still processing your achievement.

Alhaitham is almost certain the Archon’s mouth twitches into a slightly wider grin as soon as the words materialize in his head, aching to exist between his lips as well.

———————

Sumeru, the nation of wisdom, is a land where the people are proud of who they are. It’s a nation rich in culture and heritage. There are so many traditions, that Alhaitham himself could never hope to learn of them all from his many, many books on history.

Still, in its surplus of years of being a proud, standing nation, it has never thrived like this before.

You are the answer to this recent development. Many older scholars in the Akademiya are unhappy with your presence at first. Slowly, one by one, they are relieved of their duties by the Dendro Archon herself.

Not many people give you trouble after that.

The first order of business you handle is allowing the Akademiya to grant new students. A good number of desert children and adults have been offered places to study here—more in the last few weeks than there have been in the last few decades. The children are bright, too. You’ve taken to scouting the most brilliant of minds. 

A number of them have even disproven the theses and dissertations of seasoned scholars regarding studies of desert ruins. (Alhaitham finds this slightly amusing, as do you. The irony is not lost on most that the same people who have been treated as lesser for decades have contributed more in just a few short weeks than some at the Akademiya have in years. The two of you have shared a good few laughs over the shame that one too many scholars must be facing right now).

Alhaitham has happily returned to being the scribe (with an added pay raise, of course). He’s back to his much smaller, much quieter office that is less akin to the door being knocked on (or being burst open) and intruding on his peace.

Except today. 

Today, the door is burst open in the middle of him examining files, making him look up unimpressed with an unsavory insult ready on his tongue. He quickly bites it back when he realizes it’s you. 

“Scribe,” you say simply.

“Grand sage,” he responds, raising a brow.

“A word, please,” you shuffle in, closing the door behind you before clicking it locked. If his eyebrow could raise any higher, it would—you’ve never needed to lock him in his own office to have a word with him before, no matter how private the matter. 

“Yes?” He asks smoothly, leaning back in his chair. 

“I’ve been looking to appoint new sages for the three we are missing,” you begin carefully. He stiffens slightly at the topics—he’s sure it doesn’t go unnoticed by you. It seems to be the confirmation you need. “I’ve heard a funny rumor.”

“And what would that be?” He shuffles his papers to seem uncaring, not meeting your eyes. “I don’t typically partake in Akademiya gossip. It’s a waste of my time.”

“Well this particular rumor is interesting—it might interest even you. There’s word that someone of a dendro vision user from the Akademiya has threatened the former sages to leave their positions. There is worry such events could repeat amongst potential candidates.”

“Interesting,” he says plainly as he nods. 

“There aren’t many dendro vision users I know of here,” you sigh. “Haitham, I’m not dense. I earned this position by having the approval of the only three remaining sages. After the other three quit. It wouldn’t take a particularly genius individual to assume what took place here.”

He swallows, taking a slow breath before he quietly murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

You furrow your brows. “What are you apologizing for?”

“You’re upset, are you not?” Alhaitham blinks at you in confusion. It’s one of the rare times you get to see him unsure, so unlike the usual know-it-all self he always is. “That I interfered with your application?”

“I’m upset,” you confirm, stepping closer as you inspect him. He feels oddly seen under your gaze. “But not because you interfered. Because that was risky—you shouldn’t go that far for me, Haitham. Why in the gods’ names would you attempt such a ridiculous thing?”

It’s easy, he thinks. Because he loves you. Enough that it’s easy to risk his career and credibility at this institution if it means he can help your dreams become something more than just dreams. He’s come so close to saying it so many times—this time, it falls from his lips before he can stop himself.

He’s not so sure he wants to stop himself anymore. You should know—even if you don’t feel the same, even if you do, you should know.

“Because I love you,” he murmurs. “I’d go even further for you. I can’t help it.”

Your eyes soften. They don't widen in shock or recoil in distaste. Instead, they well with glossy, wet tears that alarm him slightly as he sits up straighter. You let out a light, watery laugh before he can apologize for unintentionally upsetting you with his confession.

“Oh, you fool,” you shake your head, “only you would sooner risk your entire livelihood before you simply admit your feelings.”

“I—”

He’s silenced by the touch of your palm on his cheek. Any words he’d like to say get cut off from his tongue. (He has none, really—as embarrassing as that is to admit for someone of linguist such as himself.) 

“Haitham,” you say gently.

“Yeah?” He croaks.

“Don’t risk your reputation for me again.”

“I don’t know if I can promise that,” he mumbles, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer. You follow his tug, carefully seating yourself on his lap before you frown, opening your mouth to protest—but he cuts you off before you can. “But, lucky for me, the grand sage has a soft spot for the scribe. I think that’ll be helpful for any predicaments I might find myself in.”

“Are you saying you want to have the grand sage use her power for corrupted reasons?” You gasp, making him grin as he chuckles. “And after all the trouble you went through to overthrow a corrupt government, too.”

“Is it really corrupt if it’s the only two logical individuals of the nation? I’d say it’s simply an executive decision.”

“That’s not how that works,” you giggle fondly. And then you’re kissing him—Alhaitham has wondered how your lips would feel many times before, but he’s never been fully prepared to truly know. They’re softer, warmer, gentler than he imagined. “I love you too, by the way,” you murmur as you pull away for a moment.

That confession makes him desperately close the gap again, tugging you closer on his lap as he kisses you harder. Deeper. Alhaitham has always admired your goals, your dreams and ambitions. He realizes that maybe he has never given himself enough credit until now. 

His goals, his dreams and ambitions, have always been you. There has never been a more beautiful dream, he thinks—nothing is worthy of comparing to you. He thinks, by default, that makes his ambitions admirable, too. 

“Those sages could not know wisdom, talent, nor brilliance even if the Archon herself presented it before them. Otherwise,” he kisses down your neck, “otherwise they’d have understood it was you. They would have approved of your application. I did this nation yet another favor by ridding the Akademiya of them.”

“I suppose all of Sumeru owes you twice, then,” you hum, breathlessly gasping as he sucks lightly on your skin, right over your pulse point. 

Your hands travel to untuck his shirt from his pants, letting them wander under the fabric to feel over the hard planes of his abs. They’re as defined as they look through the skin-tight shirt he always wears. He groans into your neck as your touch sears into him, just as you gasp when his fingers slip past your waistband and tug down slightly. 

He stops before he can expose anything, however, pausing through a labored breath as he murmurs, “can I?”

“Yes,” you plead, lifting your hips slightly so he can pull the fabric down your thighs, your panties following before he pulls you back down to be seated on his lap. Your fingers tug at his hair when his fingers prod at your entrance. An exchange of sorts—a touch for a touch. 

You whine when his thumb circles your clit as his middle and ring fingers pump into your tight cunt, burying past your folds and finding a sensitive, spongy spot in your walls that makes you bite your lips and stifle a sob. 

“Well,” he says amusedly, “I suppose neither of us are very good models for grand sages if this is the sort of activity we partake in while in office.”

“It’s your fault,” you pant, rocking your hips to meet his fingers as they thrust into you, searching for more, for a deeper, harder pace. 

“Oh?” He laughs, a low chuckle that he sears into your skin with a kiss, working his way up your jaw, “I wasn’t the one who locked the door when I came in. I wonder if you had motives of your own when you came in.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Haitham,” you huff, “I just didn’t want someone to walk in when I yelled at you. I was doing your ego a favor.”

“Do my ego one more favor and cum for me,” he murmurs, pulling you into a kiss as you whine into his mouth and shiver. Your belly erupts with a warmth of pleasure, snapping the coil that sends shockwaves through your whole body. An ache that was building in your core seems to have reached the tipping point, making you quiver on his lap as you shatter from his touch.

He groans, just from the squeeze of your walls around his fingers alone—only Archons know how much he’s itching to feel you on his cock. (He hopes Lesser Lord Kusanali’s seemingly all-knowing wisdom doesn’t extend to this. Sometimes, it feels like she can read his mind—he sincerely hopes she doesn’t have the ability to read just what goes on in his head when he thinks of you.)

He’s hard—it almost hurts from just how much so. You’re kind enough to reach over and slowly work him free from the confinements, letting his erection breathe from the strain of his pants. He tries not to let out a shaky breath when you slowly trace a vein along the underside and study his cock. 

“It’s pretty,” you murmur, “you’re so pretty, Haitham.”

“Stop,” he pleads hoarsely, blush dusting over his cheeks, “don’t stare.”

“Shy?” You giggle, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “C’mon, baby. It’s just me.”

And oh—he could cum from just that affectionate drawl of that pet name and that lingering sweet touch. He twitches in your delicate hold, making you hum in approval before you slowly stroke him, fist gliding up and down the thick girth of him. 

“F-fuck,” he hisses, bumping his forehead against yours gently. 

Finally, when your eyes meet, and you both seem to understand just what the other wants without an exchange of words, you lift your hips slightly, guiding him to your entrance. His hands settle on your waist, slowly helping you sink down on his length as you both gasp at the way he intrudes into your sweet, dripping cunt. 

You’re as tight as he is deep—it makes for a good connection. You squeeze around him the same way he rubs against you. Everything about both of your bodies joining feels like it’s meant to be this way. Him in you and you around him. 

“Fuck me, Haitham,” you whisper, cradling his face in your hands by his jaw. You feel it clench under your palms as he stifles a groan at your words.

“As you wish,” he murmurs. 

The first thrust of his hips upwards makes you collapse against his chest. The second makes you whimper as you cling to his muscled body. By the third and fourth, you’ve adjusted enough that you can slowly roll your own hips to match his rhythm and meet his pace. It makes him sink in even deeper, hit the right spots, and drag along every ridge. 

“S-so big,” you marvel, moaning as the fat tip of his cock brushes against that sweet, sensitive spot in your walls. “You fit me so well, Haitham.”

“And you take me so well,” he groans back, “so tight and wet. What if they’re looking for you right now? I wouldn’t be surprised if they were—imagine how surprised they’d be if they knew the grand sage was falling apart on the scribe’s cock. What would they say?”

“They’d think the scribe has some nerve distracting such an important figure for the nation,” you huff, biting your lip and whining his name when he sends a particularly sharp thrust into your walls. 

He chuckles, panting as he kisses your forehead. “Then I suppose it will be our secret. For the sake of peace.”

“Good idea,” you giggle breathlessly, pulling him into a passionate kiss. 

His hips drill into you, bullying his thick length into your tight cunt—splitting you open on him like you’re his to spread. You are. And he’s yours to have, too, as you pull on his hair and bring him closer, hands wandering over his body as you feel every tight, defined muscle. 

You breathe his name. He breathes yours. Somewhere in the mix, your thumb brushes over his nipples from under his shirt, and his finds your clit to rub teasing circles over. 

“I-I’ll cum,” you admit first, “again, Haitham.”

“Go ahead,” he groans, letting out a soft whine when you squeeze around him at the sound of his low, pleasure-hazed voice. “Cum for me, again. Cum around me so I can feel you this time.”

So you do, giving him what he wants. How could you not when he’s gone to such lengths to make sure you’ve gotten everything you want? You spasm around his throbbing length, squeezing around him and making it harder and harder to roll his hips and fuck into you. 

“Haitham,” you whine, a quiet, high-pitched sound that makes his eyes flutter shut, and his mouth hang open as he lets out a low moan. The sounds you make could be enough to send him over the edge. The soft “I love you,” that you whisper is what ends up really doing it, though.

He quickly grabs your hips, roughly lifting you up before he wraps his fist around his cock and strokes himself, pumping his aching length as thick, hot ropes of cum leak from his tip and drip onto your thighs. He groans, strangled and low, as he makes an effort not to be too loud. 

Your lips map along his jaw and cheeks, kissing soothingly as your fingers stroke through his sweaty hair, helping him work himself through his orgasm as he fucks his own fist. “F-fuck—I…I love you, too. I love you. I’ve always loved you.” 

He can’t stop saying it now that he finally can. So many times, the words have almost escaped from the safety of his mouth. So many times, he’s risked them out in the open air. Now that he knows it’s safe, he wants the words to permanently reside between your bodies, in the atmosphere between you and him, in the middle ground where your skin is separated from his. 

If there is space between the two of you, he only wants it to exist to house all the words he never had the nerve to say to you. All the words he’ll admit to you now. 

“I love you, too,” you whisper, “so much. So, so much, Haitham.”

He pants as he calms down, uncaring of the mess for now. With his good hand, he grabs your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before he pulls them both up. His lips press a delicate kiss to the back of your hand. You melt over him. 

“There is no brilliance like you, neither in the rainforest nor desert. I have searched everywhere.” 

Your eyes tear up, a breathy, watery laugh dancing from your wobbly lips as you whisper, “you’re incredibly cheesy for a Haravatat scholar, you know.”

He laughs brightly into your shoulder as he buries into the crook of your neck. 

I love you. He’s always wanted to say it. It feels good to finally be able to. Alhaitham will never take for granted the chance he now gets to say it as often as he wants. 

I would like my man who’s not really my man to defend my honor by threatening violence using power granted to him by divinity on a random Tuesday. That would be nice.

[oc3anlvsu]

Daryl Dixon x reader

Summery

You had always Had a small crush on Daryl ever since you’d met him in the Atlanta camp but you were a good 10 years younger than him. He obviously wasn’t into you or were you just oblivious and second-guessing? 

Setting -the prison

Warnings

Age gap

1,25k words

You didn’t notice how often Daryl Dixon was around until Carol pointed it out. But once she did, it was impossible not to see it.

He was always nearby.

Not close enough to draw attention, not close enough to make you suspicious—just… hovering. Present. Quietly reliable.

You were ten years younger than him, and it wasn’t like that kind of thing could work out anymore—not in this world. People aged fast now. There was no space for flirtation, no time for heart-eyes. But even so, your stomach still fluttered every time he looked at you too long. You hated how obvious it felt, how young.

But he never gave any sign that he felt the same.

Not really.

It started small.

One evening, you were gathering water just outside the prison gates. You’d stayed out too long, not realizing how fast the light had faded. The woods beyond the fencing rustled and snapped, and you turned sharply, heart leaping.

Then you saw him—Daryl—emerging from the trees like some kind of shadow. He walked straight to you, eyes scanning the perimeter before they locked onto your face.

“You shouldn’t be out here this late,” he said, not harsh but firm.

“I lost track of time,” you murmured.

He didn’t say anything else. Just took the water jug from your hands, holding it easily in one hand as he turned toward the cell block.

He walked you all the way back without another word. But his presence next to you said enough. Said everything.

After that, it kept happening.

On supply runs, Daryl would always make sure you were in his line of sight. Even when you were paired with someone else, you’d find him watching you in mirrors, over shelves, through cracked doorways.

One time, you scraped your palm on a rusted piece of fencing. You didn’t even think he was nearby—but not ten seconds later, he was at your side with that scowl of his, inspecting your hand before you could even protest.

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, but he already had a bandage in hand, rough fingers surprisingly gentle as he wrapped your palm.

He didn’t speak, but he did look at you—and that look said I saw. I cared. I’m here.

But you kept second-guessing.

You were younger, less experienced, not nearly as strong. You weren’t a warrior like Michonne, or practical like Maggie. Daryl was a fighter, a survivor, someone who had lived a whole life before the world went to hell. You? You were still learning to stand on your own two feet.

That’s why, when Carol sat beside you at lunch one day, you were already trying not to stare across the room at where Daryl was quietly skinning a squirrel.

She didn’t say anything for a while. Just took a bite of beans and let the silence sit.

Then she said, “He watches you.”

You froze.

Carol didn’t look at you. She just kept eating.

“What?” you asked, trying to play it off.

“Daryl. He watches you. All the time.”

Heat rose to your face. “He’s just… being protective. He does that for everyone.”

Carol finally looked at you. “Not like that. Not that often. Not that closely.”

You blinked.

She gave a soft, knowing smile. “He’s not gonna say anything. Not the way you’re probably hoping. But the things he does? That is him saying it. He cares about you.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you could.

⸻

That evening, you caught Daryl alone in the yard, sharpening arrows by the dying light of the sun. You lingered near the edge of the grass before walking toward him.

He looked up briefly, then went back to his work.

“You always do that?” you asked gently.

He shrugged. “Do what?”

“Sharpen arrows by the garden?”

His hands paused. “Quiet out here.”

You stepped closer. “Carol said something today.”

That got his attention. He looked up, eyes guarded.

“She said… you watch me. That you care. Just not the way most people show it.”

Daryl dropped his gaze to the arrowhead in his hand, jaw tightening.

You swallowed hard. “Is it true?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then he set the arrow down beside him and stood up slowly, brushing his hands off on his pants.

He looked at you—really looked—and for a moment, the weight of his silence was deafening.

“I ain’t good at talkin’,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “Ain’t never been. But I see you. Always see you. It’s impossible not to.”

Your breath caught.

“I know I’m older. I know I’m not… the kinda guy you probably deserve.” He shook his head, eyes darting away for a moment. “But you think I’d risk my ass for just anybody? Nah.”

He stepped a little closer. Just a few inches. But your chest was pounding.

“You feel somethin’?” he asked gruffly, like the words were hard to say.

You nodded, slow and sure. “Yeah. I do.”

Something in him softened. His shoulders relaxed, just a little. Then, hesitantly, he reached out—his calloused fingers brushing yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even a hug.

But the way his fingers curled around yours?

It said everything.

And despite all your doubt and second-guessing standing in the dead of night with him felt right like you belonged with him and you knew he felt the same way.

[dreamlanderin]

Dean's baby (Dean x reader)

Summary: After a long day of research, you go bother Dean in the garage.

words: 2.7k

Warnings: none

The bunker’s garage. Dean is under the hood of the Impala, a socket wrench in one hand, grease smudged on his forearm. His muscles flex subtly beneath his t-shirt with every movement, the faint sheen of sweat catching the dim light filtering through the room. The scent of motor oil hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of tools and old leather. The rhythmic clinking of metal echoes softly, grounding the space in familiar sounds of work and grit.

You wander in, your footsteps light but still noticeable against the concrete, the echo bouncing lazily through the garage. Boredom clings to you after hours spent in the bunker.

 The day had started off normal: wake up, polish some ancient weapons down in the bunker, make breakfast, and check the news for any strange sightings. One report caught your attention, a possible wendigo sighting. You never liked those. They always made your skin crawl.

That’s where you’ve been for most of the afternoon: doing research with Sam. Well, mostly he’s been doing the actual research while your mind drifts elsewhere.

Honestly, you’re a little annoyed with him. The younger Winchester and his big, stupid puppy-dog eyes. And that hair, god, that hair. Always falling into his face until he sweeps it back with that effortless little motion, usually when he’s frustrated or deep in thought.

You’d caught yourself staring, a lot.

Anyway.

You spot Dean, engrossed in his work in the garage, and smirk to yourself.

"Hey, grease monkey," you call, leaning against the workbench with a lazy grin.

Dean doesn’t flinch. His arm tenses as he tightens something under the Impala’s hood, the movement drawing attention to the way his shirt strains slightly across his shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his forearms, catching the light just enough to highlight the grease smudges marking his skin. The garage hums with the familiar scent of motor oil, metal, and leather, a warm, grounding smell that feels like him.

"If you’re here to help, there’s a rag over there. If you’re here to annoy me, the exit’s where you left it," Dean mutters, not bothering to look up.

You smirk but don’t move. "Why not both?"

Finally, Dean ducks out from under the hood, giving you that half-annoyed, half-amused look he’s perfected over the years. His eyes meet yours, sharp and clear, but your mind has already started drifting, back to where you spent most of the afternoon.

Research with Sam.

You were more focused on how easily he navigated the endless pages of lore and obscure texts, piecing things together faster than you could even process. It’s annoying, how effortlessly smart he is, how his mind seems to work ten steps ahead while you’re still trying to catch up.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you, but sometimes it does. Not because he makes you feel small, Sam would never do that, but because you wish you could keep pace. And honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how often you find yourself nodding along, hoping he doesn’t notice when you’re completely lost.

Dean's voice pulls you out of it. "Aren’t you supposed to be helping Sammy with the case? Or did you solve it already while staring at his hair?"

Your cheeks heat, but you roll your eyes, playing it off "Sam’s doing his super-sleuth thing," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "I was starting to lose brain cells watching him cross-reference, so I figured I’d come see some manual labour”

Dean smirks, turning back to the engine. "Well, you came to the right place. Watch and learn, kid. This baby’s a masterpiece."

"Masterpiece? It’s stuck together with duct tape and prayer."

Dean freezes, socket wrench in hand, and slowly turns his head to glare at you. There’s that dangerous glint in his eyethe one that usually means you’re about to get roped into cleaning weapons or organizing the storage room. But beneath the mock offense, there’s humor simmering just under the surface.

"Careful," he says, voice low with faux seriousness. "You’re walking a fine line."

You hold his gaze, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of your mouth twitch. Dean’s like that, a mix of sharp edges and warmth that sneaks up on you. He acts tough, all bravado and snark, but you’ve seen him stay up all night patching Sam up after a hunt, or quietly fixing the broken lock on your door without ever mentioning it.

"Relax," you tease, nudging the Impala’s fender with the toe of your boot. "I know she’s your baby. I wouldn’t actually insult her… to your face."

Dean’s glare narrows further, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. "Good. Because this ‘baby’ has more heart than most people I know. You’d be lucky to be half as reliable."

You snort, shaking your head. "She’s lucky to still be running at all."

Without missing a beat, Dean grabs the dirty rag from the workbench and flicks it at you, the grease-streaked fabric catching you square in the shoulder.   

"Hey!" you yelp, recoiling with a laugh as you swat it away. "Gross!"

Dean grins, clearly pleased with himself. "That’s what you get for disrespecting the queen." He tosses the rag back onto the bench like nothing happened, already turning his attention back to the Impala.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, brushing off the faint smear left behind.

"And you’re still standing in my garage," Dean counters, leaning back under the hood. "Which means you’re fair game."

"Yeah, yeah." You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the grin tugging at your lips.

Moments like this, easy, light, and a little messy, are the rare ones you tuck away for later, because you know they don’t come around often.

It’s strange, really. How easily this life found you. Or maybe how easily they found you.

Meeting the Winchesters hadn’t exactly been planned. You stumbled into their world under circumstances that could generously be called chaotic, one wrong place, wrong time situation after another until suddenly, there you were. Tied up in the mess of hunts, ancient books, and things that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares.

But somehow, instead of leaving you to deal with it on your own, they’d taken you in.

Dean likes to act like you’re a pain in his ass, but he’s the one who never lets you drive anywhere alone. The one who shoves a gun into your hand and taught you how to shoot, even if he complained about it the entire time. And sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, his eyes soften, if only a little.

And Sam, Sam’s different. Gentler in his approach, but no less protective. He’s the one who stays up late researching the things you don’t understand, explaining it all in that calm, patient way that somehow makes you feel a little less out of your depth, even when you know you’ll never catch up to him.

They don’t call it family. Not out loud. But it’s in the way Dean knocks your boot off the workbench with a muttered "Get your feet off Baby," or the way Sam always checks to make sure you ate something after long nights.

It’s quiet, unspoken, but you feel it all the same.

You let out a breath, still leaning against the workbench, watching Dean work. "So, what’s wrong with her this time?"

Dean shrugs, wiping his hands on another rag, his muscles moving slightly with the movement. "Nothing serious. Just a tune-up. Gotta keep her running smooth." He glances over at you with that smug, gruff look, eyes gleaming. "Something you wouldn’t understand, what with you not knowing the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug."

You gasp, hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. "I know what a spark plug is! It’s the… sparky thing."

Dean freezes for half a second, staring at you like you’ve personally insulted his entire existence. And then he barks out a laugh, loud and unapologetic, shaking his head. "Sparky thing. Yeah, okay. You’re a regular gearhead."

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the other side of the Impala and leaning against the fender with a lazy stretch. "I’m just saying, for someone who spends hours messing with this thing, you could at least upgrade to something newer. You know, with Bluetooth. Or seat warmers."

Dean’s hand stops mid-wipe, and he lowers the rag slowly, fixing you with the kind of glare that suggests you’ve crossed into dangerous territory. "Seat warmers? Really?" His voice drips with disbelief, as if you’ve just suggested painting flames down the sides of the car.

"First of all, seat warmers are for wimps. Second, this car’s got more soul in her headlights than any of those plastic toys rolling off assembly lines. She’s not just a car. She’s family."

"Right…." you say, holding back a laugh. "The Impala is the real Winchester sibling."

"Damn straight," Dean replies, his tone serious.

He goes back to tightening a bolt, his forearms shifting with the motion, tense and controlled. There’s a natural ease to the way he moves, like he’s done this a thousand times, every motion instinctive. His t-shirt pulls just slightly across his back as he leans over the engine, the faint sheen of sweat from hours in the garage catching the low light.

You try not to notice, but it’s hard to ignore the quiet strength in the way he works, strong hands, calloused and capable, making even the smallest task look deliberate.

For a moment, the only sounds are the soft scrape of metal and the rhythmic click of his wrench, and you find yourself lingering longer than you meant to.

You tilt your head "You really love this car, huh?"

Dean glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah, I do. She’s been through a lot with us. Hell, she’s saved our asses more times than I can count."

He pauses, rolling the wrench absently in his hand, eyes flicking over the engine but not really seeing it. His voice drops, quieter now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. "When everything else goes to crap, at least I know she’s still here. Still running."

For a moment, the weight of his words lingers, heavier than the air thick with motor oil. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the kind that doesn’t need explanation. It’s not just the car. It’s everything she’s carried him through.

The unexpected honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t have a snarky comeback. You watch the way he absently runs a hand along the edge of the hood, fingers tracing the curve like it’s second nature. You can’t help but wonder how many nights he’s sat in the driver’s seat alone, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

"That’s... kinda nice," you say quietly, the words feeling too small for the moment but all you can come up with.

Dean straightens, shrugging it off almost immediately, like he didn’t just crack the door open to something more vulnerable. His eyes flick back to you, the faintest smirk returning to his face. "Yeah, well, don’t get too sentimental on me. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to drive her."

Your eyes light up, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Oh, can I?"

The shift is subtle, classic Dean, slipping behind the wall the second things start feeling too real. But there’s still something lingering in the way he watches you

"Not a chance in hell."

"Come on, Dean!" you whine, stepping closer. "Just once! I won’t even go out of first gear."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the P with exaggerated finality. "This car’s got standards."

You pout, leaning against the Impala dramatically. "You’re no fun."

Dean raises an eyebrow, and walk’s round the car towards you: leaning in a little closer, his teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m plenty of fun. You just don’t meet the qualifications for the VIP package."

His voice drops slightly at the end, smooth and full of that effortless confidence he carries around like armor. It’s the kind of line he throws out without a second thought, but it lingers longer than you expect, heating the space between you just enough to make your pulse pick up. You tell yourself it’s just the closeness, the warmth of the garage air, and not the way his eyes flick over you like he’s enjoying your reaction.

"Wow," you say, tilting your head with a mock-offended scoff. "Now you’re just being mean."

Dean chuckles under his breath, shifting back a fraction but still well within arm’s reach. There’s something easy about the way he leans, like he knows exactly how to walk the line between playful and challenging.

"Mean?" he echoes, standing upright and planting his hands on his hips, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to be noticeable beneath the grease-smudged fabric of his shirt. His gaze locks onto yours with that familiar intensity, the one that’s half teasing and half something else you can never quite place. "You just called my car a sparky, duct-taped death trap. You’re lucky I let you breathe near her."

You know he’s joking, mostly. But there’s something about the way he says it, the protective edge creeping into his voice like he’s daring you to insult the Impala again. You’ve seen him put himself between her and danger more times than you can count.

You laugh, holding your hands up. "Okay, fine. I’ll leave your precious car alone." You step back, your grin still in place. "But if you get stuck in a ditch again, don’t call me to push."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "Like you could push anything heavier than a shopping cart."

His voice carries that familiar roughness, laced with amusement, the kind that makes it impossible to take him seriously, even when he’s laying the sarcasm on thick. You roll your eyes, pushing off the Impala with an exaggerated sigh.

"I’ll remember that next time you need me to help save your sorry butt," you shoot back, already heading toward the door.

It’s the kind of banter that feels second nature by now, the words rolling off your tongue as easily as breathing. But just as your hand brushes against the doorframe, something tugs at you to glance back.

Dean’s still there, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed, watching you leave with a half-smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes follow you, not in a way that demands attention, but in that quiet, lingering way of someone who’s gotten used to having you around. Like maybe he notices more than he lets on.

Your grin softens almost involuntarily, the sharp edges of the teasing fading into something quieter. "Besides, you’d miss me too much”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but there’s no denying the way his eyes warm just a little. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a short, gruff nod like that’s answer enough.

And it is.

"Thanks, Dean”

Dean rolls his eyes, picking up his wrench again. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here”

You giggle lightly as you disappear down the hallway, your footsteps soft against the cold bunker floor, Dean’s eyes trail after you. He shakes his head with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Seat warmers," he mutters under his breath, glancing at the Impala like she might somehow agree with him.

The sound of Sam’s voice drifts faintly from the library, calling your name, probably to drag you back into research or help with whatever case he’s buried in.

Dean’s smile fades just slightly, not gone, but dimmed, like someone turned the dial down a notch.

His hand lingers on the Impala for another beat longer than necessary before he shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders as if to shake something off.

He ducks back under the hood, wrench in hand, and mutters under his breath, "All right, Winchester. Get a grip."

But even as he works, his thoughts are still trailing after you, following the soft echo of your laugh down the hall.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Please be nice it was my first one, any feedback would be appreciated ;)

[slvtteez]

☸ Dorm Series: Part-Two | 박성화

| series masterlist | previous | next |

✦ summary: building Legos with seonghwa takes a turn when he becomes enticed by a new “charm” of yours. ✦ pairings: idol! boyfriend seonghwa x fem! reader ✦ genre: smut!, idol boyfriend au ✦ word count: 1.5k ✦ warnings: smut!, switch! seonghwa, oral (m), rough! sex, unprotected sex (i do not condone use protection), praise kink, daddy kink, agrexophilia, pet names (good girl, baby, babe, daddy), hair pulling (slight), mouth fucking!, cum swallowing, seonghwa gets riled up at your moans, nipple play (slight)

this is a work of fiction and is not meant to be a realistic representation of any of the real people mentioned.

nsfw content below. 18+ - mdni

After hours (more like a few minutes) of begging you to spend the night with him in the dorms, you and Seonghwa were now sprawled out on his floor building the newest Lego set you’d picked out together earlier that day. “Put the instructions in the middle so we can both see it.” Seonghwa says while carefully placing corresponding pieces into groups. After everything was put in place how he liked you began working together, alternating between putting pieces and switching when you got stuck on certain steps. 

“You’re better at this than I thought, babe.” Seonghwa nods impressed at how easily you follow along with him despite this being your first time. “I learned from the best.” You respond winking, earning a chuckle from him. Seonghwa gave you the honor of putting the last few pieces on the set to complete it. Concentrating deeply on the important task you click the final piece in place. “All done!” You exclaim happily showing off the hard work you both put in. “You did so well baby girl.” Seonghwa responds,  his voice sounding more hoarse than usual. Peering over at him your breath catches in your throat seeing the provocative look in his eyes, as his eyes trail over your body finally meeting yours. 

“I never knew building Legos could be so sexy until now.” He grabs hold of your ankles pulling you on his lap.

 Letting out a loud squeal, giggling at his abrupt actions you loved when Seonghwa handled you roughly unlike his usual gentle style. “Hey! At least let me put this down first.” You playfully hit his chest putting the Lego set on the desk behind you. Returning your attention back to Seonghwa who immediately captured your lips on his. Stunned by the sudden action you struggled to keep up with his hasty lips. “Slow down ba-” Before you could finish your sentence Seonghwa’s tongue was already down your throat, silencing you immediately. Feeling turned on by his dominance, you run your hands through Seonghwa’s long hair pulling lightly at the roots prompting him to groan into the kiss. Breathlessly drawing away from each other a string of saliva keeping you connected.

“Get on your knees.” Seonghwa orders, standing up to pull his pants off. He sits down on his desk chair prompting you to kneel down in front of him with his fingers. “Now suck my cock like a good girl.” You obediently take hold of his cock, giving it a few strokes watching as pre cum oozes out of his red tip. Licking your lips at the irresistible sight, you lick a long strip up the base of his cock collecting the drops of precum that rolled down his member moaning at the taste.

Seonghwa watches you lick up his cock resisting the urge to moan loudly from the sensation. You looked up, intentionally locked eyes with him, taking his cock down your throat. Flattening your tongue underneath allowing your saliva to trickle down where your hands met the rest of his neglected shaft. “Oh Shit-” Seonghwa groans faintly, watching you bob your head slowly; gazing intently into his eyes with each stroke. You release his cock with a loud pop smiling at how messy you left him and yourself. “Spit on it some more.” Seonghwa orders smiling wickedly at the moan you release from his request. Standing up you lean over Seonghwa's cock, letting your saliva trickle out of your mouth onto his member. You stroke him swiftly, loving the lewd sounds that came with each movement. “You like that daddy?” you question innocently, circling your palm achingly slow over the tip of his member. Seonghwa twitches in your hand, tightly gripping on to the arms of the chair, his knuckles turning white in the process.

“That's enough.” He growls out pushing your hand away. His hands begin to roam your body, stopping at your ass to give it a tight squeeze. He hooks his fingers on the band of your panties pulling them off before pulling you onto his lap. Hovering over his cock you trail kisses on his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin directly under his ear waiting for his command. Seonghwa gives your ass another squeeze, moving his palms to your hips. “You know what you do baby girl.” On command you grab his cock, rubbing the tip up and down your slit, your spit and juices mixing together. You slowly sit on his member feeling the satisfying stretch as your pussy engulfs him inch by inch. When you’ve fully sat in Seonghwa lap and adjusted, he guides you up and down his cock at a steady rate basking in the way you squeeze around him. Taking over the pace you rhythmically bounce up and down moaning out Seonghwa’s name like a memorized mantra every time he hits your sweet spot. Putting his hand over your mouth, muffling your moans. 

“You must want the members to hear how much you love my cock baby girl.” Smugness laced in every word.

Shaking your head quickly, you snap your mouth shut quieting down. “Ahh I don’t know if I should be offended by that or not.” He removes his hand from your mouth, hugging your body closer to his, locking you in place against his chest. Seonghwa thrust up, roughly knocking the breath from your chest at the sudden action. Keeping you steady in place, his hips move relentlessly, hitting spots you never knew caused pleasure. In an attempt to stifle your moans you bite your lip but fail, unable to suppress the amount of pleasure Seonghwa was giving you. “That’s a good girl.” Seonghwa groans loudly basking in the thought of the members hearing you. You grip onto Seonghwa’s shoulders tightly, feeling your legs weaken with each wild thrust. You couldn’t help the yelp that escaped your mouth when his cock grazed your sweet spot.

 The feeling of Seonghwa pounding away at your sopping cunt left you in a daze. Moaning and uttering incoherent words as you feel your orgasm approach. Matching his rapid stroke you feel the familiar heat form in your stomach. “Daddy I-I wanna cum.” You moan out. “Not yet I wanna hear you cry some more.” He grunts. Pulling your tank top down, his mouth finds your breast taking one of your hardened buds into his mouth. Sucking and biting at it simultaneously your body shook wildly, feeling overwhelmed with pleasure.“I can't hold it.” You cry out. “I’m coming.” You scream,  feeling your release wash over your entire body. Spasaming and shaking uncontrollably Seonghwa continues to fuck into you helping you ride your orgasm out.

Picking you up and placing you on the floor, Seonghwa stands in front of you. “Swallow my cum like a good girl.” You take his cock into your mouth, your juices permeating your tastebuds. Sucking hungrily longing to taste his cum you fondle his balls with your free hand while stroking his remaining length with the other. “I’m close.” Seonghwa groans gripping your hair fucking into your mouth. You allow him to abuse your mouth, relaxing into the feeling. His familiar twitch signals his oncoming load prompting you to hollow your cheeks with each thrust. Releasing a near animalistic growl his warm seed spurts in the back of your throat and on your tongue the familiar taste you love spreading in your mouth. Pulling out Seonghwa watches as you swallow every drop leaving nothing behind. You opened your mouth proving that you’d swallowed every drop of his cum. “Good girl” he praises, bending down to give you a sweet kiss, patting your head gently.

-

“Let's take a shower.” He says sweetly returning back to his “normal” self. Covering you up in his shirt and putting on his own clothes he’d disposed of earlier; you both walk out towards the bathroom. Sitting in the living room was Wooyoung and Yunho watching a drama together. Wooyoung peeks up a mischievous smirk pulling at his lips as he wiggles his eyebrows up and down at you. Feeling embarrassed you hurriedly walk to the bathroom ahead of Seonghwa who was oblivious to the exchange. “Leave her alone.” Yunho scolds, smacking Wooyoung in the back of the head, earning a groan from the younger one as he rubs his head.

Unbothered Seonghwa starts the shower helping you to undress yet again, stepping in, you allow the warm water to run over your body. Turning to Seonghwa you catch him staring at you with a small smile gracing his lips. “You're so beautiful.” he says, caressing your cheek. You let out a small giggle nuzzling into his warm touch. Seonghwa picks you up, holding your body against the wall of the shower, kissing up your collar bone, to your neck before reaching your lips. You capture his lips in a kiss, gasping when you feel his cock poke at your inner thigh.

“Again babe?” You question looking at him in surprise. Seonghwa only nods in response, a shy smile taking over.

“I can’t help myself around you.” He says meekly.

—taglist: @spicxbnny @dawn-iscozy @levisforgottentea @nopension @ateezswonderland @jiminssluttyminx @sunnysidesins

be on the look out for part-three with yunho coming soon!

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed it like, reblog with tags, comment, and follow!

[duskdog]

I'm not sure if I can put this into words in the way I want, but here goes: As an asexual person myself, the way DC chooses to portray Connor Hawke's asexuality bothers me. It feels like it's always women just... throwing themselves at him, kissing him without his consent, etc. Not only does that feel like a really cheap and dismissive use of all these random female characters (because all women are vixens, amirite?), it also feels like it implies that Connor's issues with this behavior are because he's asexual, not... you know, because being kissed without your consent -- regardless of your sexuality -- is just gross, wrong, and upsetting! Like, he's perfectly justified in pushing these women away. But that shouldn't be used to show that he's ace! Anyone would be justified in pushing away someone who does that! But it's just a lazy, shorthand way of "demonstrating" his sexuality, instead of approaching it with thought and care. It makes it really obvious that writers just don't know how to do that. Additionally, the way they constantly compare Connor's asexuality to Ollie's womanizing feels like a weird value-judgment where one shouldn't exist. I get that Connor being compared -- and comparing himself to -- Ollie is a legitimate thing. It's natural, given they're father and son, and given Connor stepping into the Green Arrow role when he did. People are going to draw those comparisons, and they should, because it's part of both characters' (especially Connor's) perception of themselves. But when you set the comparison up as "oh Ollie sleeps around and Connor is asexual" it makes it seem as if you're saying that Connor is a better person because of his asexuality. Being asexual isn't some state of purity, and it's not the opposite of promiscuity. Sex isn't dirty, and Ollie isn't bad because he experiences sexual attraction. Ollie's problem is that he acts on that attraction recklessly at times, without regard for whom he might be hurting with his actions. Connor doesn't have to be ace in order to make the choice not to do that. He could have just as easily been some flavor of allosexual and just chosen to take more care with his relationships. Instead, though, it often feels as if the writers are framing it as if Connor isn't making a choice to be more thoughtful and deliberate than Ollie, but that he's naturally that way because he's asexual and doesn't experience sexual attraction the way that Ollie does. And while Connor's asexuality is no doubt part of why he is the way he is, it's not all he is. Implying that being asexual is the reason for Connor being Connor is taking away his agency and minimizing the choices he's made in his life. He chose to learn how to control his anger. He chooses to be vegetarian (or vegan -- comics are inconsistent about it). He chooses to continue to follow Buddhist principles. He chooses to follow a different path than Ollie, to approach life in a different way than his father -- not just in terms of how much sex he has or wants to have.

[aventurineswife]

Hello :D! Can I request how Aventurine, Sunday, and Ratio would handle accidentally taking a joke too far/saying something that hurt the reader?

A Joke Too Far

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Miscommunication, Emotional Hurt/Healing, Fluff and Angst, Apologies and Redemption, Vulnerable Moments.

Warnings: Emotional Hurt, Minor Self-Deprecation, Angst and Tension, Characters may exhibit self-blame, Fluff resolution (Happy Ending), Sensitive themes of guilt and emotional wounds.

The usually unflappable Aventurine had made a misstep. What had started as light teasing about your supposed inability to bluff during a game of cards had spiraled into a sharp comment about your naivety in real life. Though it had been meant as a jest, your sudden silence spoke volumes. The flicker of pain in your eyes wasn’t something Aventurine could easily brush off.

He leaned back in his chair, feigning his usual relaxed demeanor as the cards slipped through his fingers, but his mind raced. His charm and wit had saved him countless times, yet here, it felt inadequate.

Standing, he made his way to your side, dropping to a crouch so he could meet your eyes. The air of playfulness softened, replaced by genuine contrition. “Well,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “it seems even I can misread the stakes. I didn’t mean to draw blood.”

You glanced at him, unsure how to respond.

“Let me make it up to you,” he continued, his lips twitching into a softer smile. “How about I put my pride on the table? A gamble just for you—I’ll let you choose the terms.” He tilted his head, his eyes catching the light. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll pay my dues.”

His sincerity shone through the offer, and you couldn’t help but let the tension in your shoulders ease. Aventurine had a way of making you feel seen, even when he stumbled.

Sunday was known for his eloquence and composed nature, but even he could falter. His comment, a teasing remark about how you seemed too attached to fleeting, mundane pleasures, was meant to be harmless. Instead, it struck a nerve, and you turned away sharply.

The halo behind him dimmed slightly, as though reflecting his own self-reproach. Sunday didn’t immediately speak; he knew words hastily given were often meaningless. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence warm yet unintrusive, like sunlight filtering through clouds.

“I have erred,” he began gently, his eyes searching for yours. “I did not intend to undermine what brings you joy. If I have caused you pain, it is my failure, not yours.”

His voice, calm and steady, carried the weight of sincerity. Sunday placed a hand over his heart, bowing his head slightly—a gesture of respect, almost reverent. “Your happiness, fleeting or eternal, is yours to cherish. I would never wish to diminish it.”

You glanced at him, finding it hard to hold onto your frustration in the face of his humility. Sunday smiled softly, the light behind him glowing a little brighter. “Perhaps I could learn from you, rather than judge. Show me the beauty you see—I would be honored.”

Ratio had been in the middle of one of his characteristically blunt tirades, critiquing a decision you had made during a project. His comment—that it was “hardly a surprise given your level of experience”—was not meant to wound, but the sharp edge of his tone had cut deeper than he realized.

When he noticed your silence, the shift in your posture, he paused. It wasn’t often that Ratio miscalculated, but when he did, he took it seriously. For a moment, he considered doubling down, justifying his words with logic, but the pang of guilt in his chest stopped him.

He took a breath, stepping closer. “I was careless,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual. His eyes, so often piercing, held a rare vulnerability. “My intent was to challenge, not to insult. But it seems I failed to consider how my words might be received.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic apology.

Ratio removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a rare display of frustration. “The truth is, I respect your contributions more than I expressed. I let my standards obscure my appreciation.” He hesitated, then added, “I may not always convey it well, but your perspective is valuable to me.”

His straightforward approach made it clear he wasn’t just placating you, and slowly, the sting of his words began to fade. Ratio replaced his glasses and straightened, a small but genuine smile touching his lips. “Shall we try again? Together, this time.”

[s-lverwing]

I’LL CHEW YOU, I’LL GO THROUGH YOU

pairing. emperor caracalla x wife!reader.

summary. What is the meaning of yet another scar upon your body and mind? When your husband’s illness twists his mind, turning him against you, and he accuses you of betrayal.

word count. 2.6k / ao3 link

warnings. angst, toxic relationships. heavy pinning. violence. blood. english isn’t my first language.

a/n. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛 I USED CARACALLA’s BORN NAME LUCIUS AT SOME POINT DONT BE JUMPSCARED.

The room was quiet tonight -- perhaps it was because the day had been full of entertainment for Emperor Caracalla, leaving him content and sated, pleased. Even Dundus, his ever-watchful companion, seemed subdued as he chewed absentmindedly on a piece of grapefruit, the soft sound barely breaking the silence. You caught the faint noise and felt the corner of your lips twitch upward—an involuntary, yet fleeting smile—as your fingers curled tightly into the delicate fabric of your dress.

Still, the knot of nerves in your stomach refused to break. It was no secret that Caracalla’s tolerance for absence was rather thin. His emotions were volatile, and the palace staff whispered of the storms that brewed when his wife strayed too long from his sight. Not even you were immune to the fear of those rages—not because you thought he would harm you, but because you knew too well the weight of his anguish when it overtook him. It wasn’t the anger itself that frightened you; it was the aftermath.

The soft sound of your sandals against the polished white marble echoed faintly through the chamber as you entered, the sound drawing Dundus’s small, curious eyes to you. His chewing ceased, his tiny body shifting toward you as though to signal your arrival. Inevitably, Caracalla’s gaze followed.

You hesitated under it, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. His eyes, so often shadowed with something too complicated to name, rested on you now, and though his expression remained stoic, there was a flicker of something—curiosity, might have been if he was another person, but Caracalla’s eyes were ready to blame you for something. It was the expression he usually gave to his twin brother, Geta. Your nerves prickled under his scrutiny, the tension coiling tighter in your chest and stomach.

Would he speak? Demand to know where you had been, his voice sharp with suspicion and laced with the undercurrent of his illness, or would he remain silent, his displeasure a force pushing you away? Tonight, it seemed he had chosen silence. He turned away, his focus shifting deliberately to Dundus. For a moment, you felt an unexpected pang of relief—until the realization hit you that his indifference might be worse than his fury.

You knew how quickly the calm could shatter, how easily the weight of whispers in the palace could drive him to the edge. They spoke of his instability, of his twin’s steadier hand, of how Caracalla’s mind was clouded by the slow and insidious progression of his illness. You had seen the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking.

And yet, for all his wild unpredictability and impulsiveness, you had learned to weather his storms. Others feared his wrath—his soldiers, his council, even his brother at times—but you knew the truth of it. Even when he turns away from clarity and starts asking for your head to the Praetorians guards, still, you knew better.

There had been a time when his moments of vulnerability after the storm had frightened you, when you hadn’t known how to respond to the sight of an emperor—the ruler of Rome—curled in on himself, tears soaking your tunic as he clung to you like a drowning man. But now, you know him better. You know how to reach him when no one else could. It was a power that even his twin did not possess, and it had become both your burden and your solace.

You stepped further into the room, your heartbeat steadying as you drew closer. Caracalla did not turn, his posture rigid as if he were willing himself not to acknowledge you. The silence stretched taut between you, but you had grown accustomed to its weight.

“Love—”

You didn’t even make it past his name before his voice cut through the stillness of the chamber.

“—Where were you?”

His question was soft, measured, but there was something brewing behind the words, a quiet tremor that betrayed the storm building inside him. His voice wavered, a thin thread barely holding his emotions in check. It was the calm before the inevitable storm.

You stood frozen, as though the marble beneath your sandals had turned molten, holding you in place. The space between you both seemed enormous—far greater than the few strides it would take to reach him. Not just physically, but mentally.

Your eyes flicked to his hands, trembling faintly at his sides. You’d seen this before. It was the prelude to something larger, a wave of emotion that would crash over you before you could even think to steady yourself against it.

“I was with Lucilla,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You chose your words carefully, as though you were addressing a wounded animal instead of your very human husband. Your tone was gentle.

You reached for your hair to take one of the medicinal flowers she always carries around, as a proof.

But he wasn’t having any of it—he was far too lost within his mind to care about anything you had to say. Dundus was the first to sense the chaos, clutching tightly to Caracalla’s hair as though to anchor him to reality.

“You always lie!” he roared, his voice cracking with raw emotion as he stood abruptly from his opulent chair. The first glass shattered against the marble floor, fragments glittering like jagged stars under the candle light. “You’re just like Geta! You—you and him are against me! Like everyone! So don’t lie to me, don’t lie to me… I—I know you were with him. Yes, yes! Someone told me…”

His ringed finger jabbed toward you, trembling as his accusations poured forth, each word more unhinged than the last. His breath came in short, erratic bursts, his chest heaving as though he were fighting an invisible foe. His entire body shook as he tried, and failed, to hold onto the last frail threads of composure. And even as he accused you of treachery, of betrayal, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anger. There was no room for that—not when his anguish stood so naked before you, consuming him from within. Your love for him ran deeper than any wound his words could inflict, though you didn’t understand it.

You should leave. You knew it would be easier to walk away, to leave behind the chaos that seemed to follow him like a shadow. Far away from the Emperor, you could have peace, a life unmarred by this relentless storm. And yet, you will stay. You couldn’t turn your back on him. Not now, not ever.

You exhaled deeply, your breath trembling as you steadied yourself. You knew his instincts—he would try to mimic you, to find solace in your calmness. “Who is someone, Lucius?” you asked softly, your voice a whisper, barely audible over the sound of your fingers nervously fidgeting with the lavender flower you held.

His hands flew to his temples, pressing hard against them as though he could force clarity through will. “I can’t remember!” He shouted, his frustration bleeding through every word. “It’s all cloudy… But it’s true! I believe it’s true, and if I believe it, then it is true!”

“They are lying to you,” You said gently, a quiet plea against the chaos consuming him. “Not me. I’m your wife.”

His body shuddered as his breathing grew uneven. “I could have you hung!” He roared, his voice rising to a near scream. “Both of you! You and my brother, strung up outside the city for conspiring against me! My brother and my traitor wife hanged together for all of Rome to see…”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you held firm, taking a small step closer. “Would you like me hanged, then?” You inquiere, your tone unwavering despite the weight of the accusation.

“Don’t—don’t play games with me!” His voice cracked as his hands flew to his head again, fingers tangling in his ginger curls, tugging with a desperation that bordered on pain. “You’re messing with my mind!”

His breathing grew ragged as he paced, his voice rising in anguish. “Everything has to be shared! I have nothing that is truly mine—not even my own wife! Everyone loves Geta, they respect him… they trust him. And I’m so tired! Tired of giving, tired of sharing, tired of being left with nothing!”

“Why, then?” Your voice trembled but was steady enough to cut through his mind. “Why would you believe the words of a stranger over the words of your own wife?”

“Because you’re a liar!” He shouted, spinning toward you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his entire frame shaking as though he were holding himself together by sheer will. “I have given everything to you, and it’s never enough! It won’t be enough now that my brother has laid his filthy hands on you!” His voice broke, and his face twisted in a mix of rage and sorrow.

“You love him. Admit it—you love Geta!” He spat.

Your breath hitched, and used all your willpower not to flinch. “I don’t love Geta,” You said, with a quiet but firm tone. “I can barely stand him.”

“But you weren’t here!” His voice cracked with desperation.

You remained silent for a moment, knowing the truth was both a weapon and a fragile thing. “That’s true, I was with Lucilla…” You started softly, your voice trembling as you spoke the name. “She gave me this—”

“You alway lie!” His words cut through the air like daggers, and this time Dundus, perched nervously on his shoulder, became restless, chittering as his small claws scrambled across Caracalla’s back. The anxiety in the room was suffocating.

Without warning, Caracalla’s hands shot out, trembling violently as he grabbed one of the small vases sitting on the nearby table. His eyes, wild and frantic, never left yours as he impulsively hurled it toward you. But then, in a split second, he stopped himself. His breath caught, his hand frozen mid-throw as he saw that sudden flicker of fear in your eyes. That was when it hit him—the raw realization that the fear he thrived on, the fear he wanted and desired, was not something he ever wanted to see in you. Not in the person he loved the most.

With a strangled sound, he let go of the vase, watching it shatter violently against the marble floor, the pieces scattering besides the broken glass. The room fell silent for a moment, save for the soft, erratic sounds of his breath, and Dundus chittering.

Caracalla’s body trembled, not from anger, no, from something far more vulnerable. Something he couldn’t understand. His shoulders shook as soft sobs wracked his frame. His eyes were glossy, flickering with the first signs of tears, but he tried to hold them back, clenching his fists as if to stifle the emotion he feared would consume him.

“How—how can I fight against something I don’t remember?” His voice quivered, heavy with frustration, as his trembling hands pressed into his temples. His disheveled hair framed a face that was both tortured and childlike, caught in the haze of confusion. “I don’t—everything is cloudy,” He admitted, his words were fragile and raw.

Your heart ached at the sight of him unraveling. Slowly, you moved toward him, each step measured, as if approaching a wounded animal. You sank gracefully to your knees before him, the cold marble biting into your naked knees, avoiding the shards of glass. Your hands reached out hesitantly, settling gently atop his covered legs.

“I’m on your side, love,” You whispered, your voice soft as silk.

He stilled at your touch, his hands faltering in their frantic pressure against his temples. His wide, glassy eyes met yours, searching for something— whether it was truth, solace, or perhaps the faintest trace of reassurance you couldn’t decipher. He felt caught between the fragility of trust and the weight of doubt that lingered like a shadow over his mind.

In a second, Caracalla was subtly startled by Dundus’ quietly chewing, and before you could even catch your breath, your balance faltered. Your hand shot out instinctively, looking for anything to steady you, but the cold marble floor offered no comfort as your palm met it with a sharp glass, and a cry made home in your throat. You recoiled instantly, but not before you let the jagged shard of glass buried itself deep into your skin.

You gasped, a shudder running through your body as you stared at the blood that began to pool in your hand. The glass had left its mark, but it wasn’t the cut that stung the most. It would scar — in a similar fashion as the Emperor had made himself a place inside your heart, through blood and pain.

You drew in a shaky breath, steadying yourself as your fingers from the other hand, trembling with the sting of the wound, gently extracted the shard. The glass scraped against your skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to flinch any further. Instead, you handled it with a tenderness that even surprised you. As if your body, despite the pain, knew the way to treat the wound, knew that softness was the only thing you could offer now. Not for him, not for anyone else — but for the wound itself. It mirrored the wounds marring your heart.

All that time Caracalla’s eyes were never off you. His gaze was turbulent and wild, following your every move. He was watching you with a hunger in his eyes — but his hunger seemed torn between fascination and frustration. His element was blood; he enjoyed conflict and violence and the mark it left on the knife when it met the flesh. He thrived in those who were in pain. He loved to see the wound open and bleeding. But not on you — never on you. So he wondered, as much as his cloudy mind let him, if what he was feeling was anguish, guilt or pleasure.

As you turned your gaze back to him, his entire demeanor seemed to shift. His disheveled hair, his paller face, the pink scars beneath his makeup make him seem so fragile. In a fleeting moment, he appeared even smaller, but more human. His hands were shaking when he reached for yours, but the touch wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, uncertain, as if he couldn’t quite decide what to do with you

And still, you held his gaze, despite the blood staining your hand, despite the way his trembling fingers gripped yours—not with tenderness, but with need, a need that seemed to tear him apart even as it pulled him closer to you.

And without hesitation, as impulsive as he is — he kissed your bloodied hand.

The kiss was rough, hurried, as if he feared everything would slip away before he had the chance to claim it. His lips brushed over the wound with a strange tenderness that conflicted with the violence of the moment and his grip on your wrist. He didn’t pull back when he felt the blood smear across his pale skin. Instead, his eyes closed for just a heartbeat, as if he was drowning in your blood, in the sight of it. The red streaked across his lips, staining him as much as it stained you. It was the mark of your suffering, the scar of your devotion. And yet, you decided there was no cruelty in his touch now.

When he finally pulled away, he lowered your hand with an unsteady movement. Then, in a way that felt almost fragile, as if the very act of smiling could destroy him, he fought to offer you the semblance of a smile. His lips, stained with blood, parted in a tremulous grin—teeth bared while the gold in his mouth shone, chin red. The whole act as if to say this is me. This is us.

And you couldn’t look away.

a/n: this might be a prequel to a period sex fic ive been wanting to make… thank you for reading.

[shiugart]

Bloody Bites II | Twisted Wonderland

Vampire!Malleus Draconia x Female!Reader | Priest!Rollo Flamme x Female!Reader | VampireHunter!Leona Kingscholar x Female!Reader | Vampire AU | TW: Blood, descriptions of violence, manipulation, abuse, dead dove: do not eat.

ACT I

A C T I I

Leona Kingscholar was used to that look.

Yes, that look. As if being a member of the beastmen clan and his physiological traits weren’t enough to draw attention wherever he went, he also carried the emblem of a monster hunter. And not just any emblem—the emblem that only a handful of hunters had survived long enough to bear.

An S-Class Hunter Emblem.

His body, covered in rigid muscles and rough scars, was the greatest evidence of the countless times death had whispered at his nape. Every step, every movement, was meticulously planned. Long ago, he had stopped seeing himself as a person and simply viewed himself as a weapon. So many battles against demons throughout his short life had sharpened his instincts, allowing him to perceive things even beyond what his well-trained lion ears could detect—to analyze beyond the facade that people showed at first glance.

He had learned that bloodsucking demons and abominations weren’t the only monsters inhabiting this world…

"The creature appeared about a decade ago. I was just an apprentice back then..." Father Rollo stated, averting his gaze from Leona to contemplate the distorted landscape through the stained glass of the cathedral. His face twisted in anger, the memory of his first encounter with that vampire as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. "But I will never forget its grotesque appearance… Kill it. I don’t care how, just do it."

Leona eyed the pouch of gold coins spilling onto the table before him.

"Go into the forest, climb the mountain, and you'll find an old, decrepit cabin. You'll find something there."

Leona took his payment and stood in silence, a man of few words. He was about to leave the church when he decided to trust his instincts and ask:

"How are you so sure?"

A chilling smile spread across Rollo’s lips.

"I just know..."

It was a fact.

Perhaps there was more than one monster in this village…

Now, with the payment in hand and an idea of what the priest’s words might mean, he left the building and decided to analyze his surroundings. The population was small—only a handful of young men, while the rest of the inhabitants were elderly, women, and children. It wasn’t unusual; most young men left their hometowns to seek opportunities in the capital. But there was something strange about the people in this village—their faces... They looked empty, almost lifeless. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, but the hairs standing on the back of his neck were a sign that something dangerous was lurking.

There were no signs of an epidemic, and the priest, as far as he could tell, seemed to be managing resources adequately.

But something was definitely off…

He walked to what he recognized as the only butcher shop in town, intending to buy food for what he assumed would be a long journey. The door creaked loudly as he entered.

"I already told you, Carmen, your husband hasn't returned..." a boy spoke with irritation. Leona almost mistook him for a young maiden, if not for his muscular arms and masculine voice. "Ah, a foreigner. Welcome. We're short on supplies—the hunters haven't returned since yesterday, so all we have is dried meat and chicken entrails."

He cast a glance—one that could easily be considered inappropriate—at the lion ears peeking from Leona's wild mane of curly hair, which he had tied back.

"Though I suppose that won’t be a problem for you..."

"Give me the dried meat."

"As you wish."

The butcher wasn’t much of a talker, something Leona appreciated. Well-versed in the art of slaughter, it didn’t take him long to cut several strips of tough, flavorless meat and wrap them in a piece of cloth. As Leona paid, he cast a glance at the collection of sharp knives scattered across the counter. However, he lost interest immediately.

None of them were silver.

"Come back soon," the butcher dismissed him without much enthusiasm. Leona nodded in response. He was about to leave when a small, trembling figure bumped into him. He couldn’t see her face—it was covered by a hood—but he could tell from her petite frame and the faint, whispered "I'm sorry" that it was a young woman.

A butcher shop in a village as small as this naturally carried a strong scent of blood and death, but somehow, the stench seemed to intensify the moment she stepped inside.

"Yuu?! What are you doing here?!"

"A-Adel... I..."

"You're freezing! Come here before you catch a cold." Without giving her a chance to protest, the butcher dragged the young woman into a room behind the counter. Leona shot a final, intense glance at the place where the two had disappeared before leaving.

Adel took her to his living quarters, using tongs to pick up a stone from the fireplace and wrapping it in an old cloth so Yuu could warm herself. As he placed the warm bundle in her hands, he immediately noticed the deplorable state of her clothing and the abundant stains of dried blood on it.

"What the hell happened to you?! Are you hurt?!" He moved to yank off her cloak to check for any injuries.

"No!" she screamed, and the walls of the butcher shop seemed to tremble. Silence.

Adel stepped back, realizing she was shaking and that forcing her wouldn’t get him any answers. She swallowed hard before speaking again.

"P-Promise me... Promise you won't be scared or scream..."

"What kind of nonsense—?"

"Just promise!"

"Fine, fine! I promise!"

Yuu said nothing, taking her time to slowly, very slowly, lower the hood covering her face. At first glance, nothing seemed wrong with her appearance. But for someone as observant as Adel, it wasn’t hard to notice something was off.

Her skin was pale—an unnatural grayish hue, resembling that of a corpse.

She didn’t stop there. With trembling fingers, she untied the ribbon of her cloak, revealing the walking disaster she had become. Her dress wasn’t just torn, muddy, and bloodstained—it looked as if she had sustained a mortal wound. Yet, her abdomen was unscathed.

However, what made Adel’s eyes widen in unpleasant surprise were the two small puncture marks on his friend’s neck.

His face drained of color, but true to his promise, he neither screamed nor made his fear obvious.

"Yuu… you…"

She began to cry, speaking in a broken voice.

"I... I saw a young man bleeding in the snow! I saved him, and… and..."

As if the deep bite marks weren’t enough, her sobs revealed something even more damning—a pair of newly sprouted, sharp fangs.

Terrified—more than Adel—she gripped her hair violently and curled up on the floor.

"I... I..."

"Don’t do that, you'll hurt yourself…" He tried to reach out to comfort her, but she pushed him away instantly.

With a mere shove… he was thrown across the room.

"No! Stay away from me!" she screamed, the scratches her nails had left on her face vanishing before his eyes.

"You don’t understand... I... I can’t control myself..."

The first thing she felt upon waking after that incident was peace. No pain, no cold, no exhaustion… Being dead somehow made her feel alive.

Then, she realized.

The corpses surrounding her. The unbearable burning sensation in her throat, as if she had swallowed a handful of sand.

She almost lost her mind then and there.

And with that, she understood.

She wasn’t alive, but she wasn’t dead either.

Something in her neck pulsed at the thought. It hurt—it was the only area that truly hurt. All her other scars had vanished, but those two small, deep punctures remained fresh, as if they had a life of their own.

"I’m a neophyte..." she murmured, shocked by the knowledge that had simply appeared in her mind. She holds her hands over her mouth, making her voice sound like a strangled croak. "A vampire bit me. If I don’t drink human blood within the next seven days... I’ll turn back into a human."

"And… what happens if you drink before the seven days...?" Adel asks cautiously, starting to understand the situation a little better.

More tears fall from Yuu’s face.

"I’ll become a monster..."

«Crash!»

One of the house’s walls explodes, creating an opening that allows the afternoon sun to pour in. Almost immediately, Yuu screams, covering her face as her skin erupts in a gruesome swell of blisters.

"Y-Yuu!" Adel tries to run to her aid, but Leona jumps through the hole and pushes him away.

"Stay back, butcher," He growls, not looking directly at him. Adel recognizes the sound of a weapon being cocked, and the smell of gunpowder and silver bullets when they’re that close, so he doesn’t hesitate to throw himself at Leona to hinder her actions.

"Run, Yuu! Don’t let him catch you!" he shouts, tossing her the cloak. She wraps herself in the material and flees the butcher shop, the skin of her arms charred by the sun and her eyes weeping over the dark and gruesome turn everything had taken.

"Idiot!" With little effort, Leona throws him off. A blow from his elbow is enough to send him to the ground and break his nose. "Do you have any idea what you just did?! That monster will kill everyone!"

"She’s not a monster!" he gets back up, wiping the blood running down his face with his arm. From his grimy and worn butcher's apron, he pulls out a knife—one Leona had his eye on earlier. "And if you’re going to hurt her... you’ll have to go through me first."

"As you wish..." He growls, more beast than human. But that doesn’t intimidate Adel.

• • •

What would normally take half a day of travel, Yuu managed to do in just a couple of hours thanks to her newfound abilities. She was doomed. She was ignorant, but even an illiterate fool could recognize the emblem of a monster hunter when they saw it.

She didn’t even know what she hoped to gain by coming to the village in the first place. Her skin erupted in painful blisters upon direct contact with the sun, and her mouth watered just from watching the villagers walk a few steps away from her. She knew it was stupid and reckless, but at the very least, she wanted to see her friend one last time…

She stumbled into her cabin, nearly ripping the door off in the process. All her windows had already been covered with rags and wooden planks, making it a safe place. The arrival of spring had brought the first rays of sunlight after a winter of dark clouds and short days. Maybe that was why the vampire had never shown any signs of being one… everything just felt so damn convenient.

Yuu collapsed onto the floor, unsure of what to do. At some point during her escape, her normally tied-up hair had come loose, messy strands falling over her face. At least it could help cover the mark… but the fangs were another story. If only they weren’t there…

An idea took shape in her mind. She crawled toward the fireplace, frantically searching for a stone hard enough for what she planned to do. Miraculously, she found one. It was the size of her fist, jagged in texture, deformed by all the times it had endured the heat of the flames.

Yuu opened her mouth, tracing her fang with her free hand, unintentionally nicking her finger in the process. She couldn’t resist the bestial urge that drove her to bring that tiny drop of her own blood to her lips. She sucked eagerly until the small wound closed. Almost instantly, she felt disgusted—and thus, even more determined.

She screamed, cried, and thrashed, but she didn’t stop until the rock in her fist shattered and her fangs were reduced to something less conspicuous than two long, sharp peaks. She ended up tearing apart the inside of her mouth, but it was a price she was willing to pay to feel even a little more human.

"Stay still, or I'll blow your head off."

Yuu trembles violently but obeys the warning.

“Turn around slowly and put your hands where I can see them,” the hunter spits. She shakes and cries in silence as she follows his orders.

How?

How did he find her? How had he gotten here so fast? How had she not noticed his presence… until he was quite literally behind her?

What had happened to Adel?

“W-What did you do to Adel?!” Almost as soon as that surge of bravery hit her, an explosion grazed the side of her face, rupturing her eardrum. She screamed, clutching her face as she writhed on the ground.

“I didn’t give you permission to speak.” His voice is the coldest, harshest thing she has ever heard. This man is different from anyone she has encountered before. She is sure that if she isn’t careful, he will kill her without even blinking.

“Now—” He grabs her roughly by the neck and slams her against the wall, making her scream. “—you’re going to tell me how many villagers you killed and where your partner is. Otherwise, I’ll cut off your fingers, your toes, your nose, ears, arms, legs… and I’ll let you die in the sun. So talk. Now.”

He loosens his grip just a little—not enough to make it any less lethal, but at least now she can speak. Overwhelmed by terror, more tears stream down Yuu’s face, but Leona doesn’t even flinch.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about…! I haven’t killed anyone…!” she squeaks, but her words die on her tongue when Leona’s grip tightens.

“That’s not an answer.” He pulls a knife from his coat, squeezing her throat even more. Yuu is sure she hears something crack, but the sheer terror of losing a limb is stronger.

“W-Wait, please! Don’t kill me!” she shrieks, writhing in his grip, struggling to get her feet back on the ground. But the man holding her ignores her cries, his arms as unyielding as iron.

“I haven’t done anything! Please, listen to me!”

Her throat tears as she screams when she feels the sharp blade press against her skin. It burns—it burns just like fire would. Her desperation escalates.

“I’m a neophyte! H-He turned me! I haven’t killed anyone, so please…!”

She clamps her mouth shut when the knife embeds itself just inches from her face.

“A neophyte…” Leona tastes the word with disdain. “That explains why your eyes aren’t red and why you don’t smell like blood… not someone else’s blood, anyway. He must have turned you when you were dying.”

Yuu stares at him, shaken. He knew. Of course, he knew! And yet he still threatened her and nearly—nearly…

“Where is he?”

“W-What…?”

“Where is the vampire who turned you and killed the hunters?” he demands, his voice low, his face dangerously close to the knife stuck in the wall.

“I-I don’t know, he just bit me and disappeared…!”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

She said nothing—she just cried harder. It was slipping out of her hands; she was desperate. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want this… How had her peaceful life twisted into this nightmare?

Leona let go of her. She whimpered as her legs gave out, making her stumble to the floor. She watched him pace around her not-so-spacious cabin, trembling like a wounded animal, terrified that at any moment he might corner her again and threaten to rip off one of her limbs. She had been so consumed by fear in such a short time that she almost forgot the suffocating thirst burning in her throat. She tried to suppress the wild instinct by covering her mouth and pressing a fist against her neck.

“That butcher… Is he your lover or something?” Leona asked after what felt like an eternity. His sharp gaze settled on the unmade bed where the vampire had been lying just days ago. “He’s not in any danger. I just roughed him up a little so he wouldn’t follow me.”

That seemed to calm her.

“He’s my friend…”

“So, can you explain why a young, single woman lives so far from her village?” he continued, sitting comfortably on the bed, the shotgun that had almost blown her brains out still aimed in her direction.

Yuu bit her lip, reluctant to discuss this with someone like him.

“Father Rollo asked me to… It’s my way of atoning for my sins.”

At her words, Leona’s face twisted into an expression that was almost a laugh.

“So that’s what this is about…”

She didn’t quite understand what he was getting at, but for her own safety, she decided not to ask.

“I assume that before you were left alone, you lived with your mother or something like that. Am I right?”

She nodded, staring at him in stunned silence.

Then, the questions stopped. Leona seemed deep in thought, which unsettled Yuu even more.

“…Are you going to kill me?”

“I want to,” he answered, his face turning as cold and stoic as when he had nearly sliced her face open. “Neophytes are more troublesome than regular vampires. Unpredictable, insatiable… There’s no record of a neophyte surviving more than seven days without killing someone. However, you’re my only lead to finding the veteran who turned you. Most likely, that priest kept you living alone, far from the village, to lure that vampire in. He just didn’t expect you to be turned instead. Maybe, in exchange for a young, virgin girl every so often, that monster spares the rest. Small communities like this tend to survive that way."

“What are you saying?! Father Rollo would never do something like that!”

“You found that vampire, didn’t you?” Leona ignored her outrage and continued with his speculations. “Long before he turned you. Tell me what happened—leave nothing out. Understood?”

She didn’t have many options, so she just told him everything. How she found him one day covered in blood and brought him home. How he stayed immobile for the whole season… and how things ended up the way they had.

“Are you stupid? How didn’t you realize that thing wasn’t human?” Cruel, harsh words spilled from his mouth as he stood up without warning, towering over her like a large, threatening shadow. Deep down, he had to admit he felt a shred of pity for Yuu. She was just a girl—deceived by everyone, her very existence not much more than bait. The kindest thing he could do for her was kill her before she fully turned.

“How was I supposed to know?! H-his eyes weren’t even red!”

Leona stopped, giving Yuu a moment to sob and lament under her breath.

“What did you say…?”

“H-he didn’t look like a vampire… he had horns and… and his eyes were green.”

Horns… green eyes… it couldn’t be.

“Are you sure about what you’re saying? If you’re lying to me, I’ll throw you into the sun, so choose your words very carefully.” He grabbed her arm, forcing her to stand.

“Y-yes, I’m completely sure…!” she nodded wildly.

Leona fell into absolute silence again, staring at her intensely—almost as if he could see right through her.

“I’ve decided… I’m not going to kill you. For now.” he said slowly.

“R-really?” Yuu looked up at him, eyes wide.

“For the next seven days, I’ll be staying here with you. So if you do anything suspicious, you can be sure I won’t hesitate to kill you.” He let go of her briefly, only to rummage through his things and toss a bag in her face.

“But there will be rules. You’re not allowed to leave this place. You won’t get up from that corner. You’ll stay as still as a statue. And you’ll wear this until the seven days are over. I think you know what’ll happen if you don’t follow my instructions…”

She nodded again, checking the contents of the small leather bag. The moment her fingers touched the metal, a painful burning sensation spread through her hand. The silver cuffs clattered loudly to the floor.

Leona's face remained just as expressionless when she looked up at him, nerves on edge.

“Well? Do we have a deal?”

It wasn’t like she had another choice.

“…Yes.”

•

•

•

The first night was the hardest—and the blurriest. She only remembers screaming, that insatiable thirst spreading through her entire body as she writhed on the floor.

The hunter wasted no time in restraining her, with the same rough efficiency that defined his profession. He pinned her down and stuffed a wad of fabric into her mouth to silence any attempt at biting.

After that, she passed out.

•

•

•

During the day, her condition was manageable. Vampires were inherently vulnerable to sunlight, so the primal instinct awakened by the mark on her neck had little control over Yuu. However, that didn’t stop the hunter from taking precautions—hiding anything she could use to shield herself from the sun and escape.

Neither of them spoke a word, and so the second night fell.

Their routine was no different from the first.

•

•

•

Leona knew he wasn’t being fair to her. In reality, it wasn’t her fault she had become a newborn. She was just another victim of the disgusting acts those selfish beasts engaged in.

But what more could he do? He was more accustomed to dealing with monsters than with people. And she... she was somewhere in between.

"At least... would you tell me your name?"

And there she was, after more than twelve hours of sobbing and moaning, managing to ignore the constant pain of the silver on her skin and using the last of her strength to speak to him. The beginning of the third dawn filtered through the largest cracks in the cabin, making it clear that her condition was now under control.

Leona didn’t even glance at her.

"No."

"Fine..."

She nodded with resignation, as if she had never had hope in the first place. By the time Leona decided to look at her, she was no longer looking at him. But even so, he could see her, even in the dim light of that dilapidated house.

He saw the face of someone used to rejection.

For the first time in a long while, something inside Leona twisted.

•

•

•

Even for a cold-blooded hunter like him, the routine of having to watch her struggle with herself every day was starting to wear him down. He hadn’t slept at all since this all started; he couldn’t afford that luxury when sharing a roof with an almost vampire.

"Why don’t you just give up?" He asked, more tired than annoyed, while fighting with his inhuman strength to keep her subdued on the cold wooden floor.

"Because... I want to live..."

He hadn’t expected an answer, not in the middle of the frenzy. At least it showed she still had some awareness. Yuu might be weak and whiny, but at least she fought back.

"I don’t want to kill anyone... but I don’t want to die... Maybe I became this, but I know what it means to be afraid, I know how terrifying death is, and how painful it is to die alone... I... I don’t want to cause anyone that suffering!"

And Yuu fainted, leaving Leona with a bitter feeling.

•

•

•

"In all the years I’ve been hunting monsters, this is the first time I’ve encountered a neophyte like you..." It was rare for Leona to start the conversation, so Yuu didn’t know how to respond. "Last night... you said you want to live... Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"I don’t want to sound like a jerk, though it’s pretty clear I am, but I have the feeling that your life before the bite wasn’t exactly beautiful."

He said, being much more biting than he’d intended. Yuu took a few seconds to respond.

"Yes, you’re right..."

She sighed, adjusting her position so she could look him in the face while speaking. Her gaze was unreadable, and the small smile that appeared on her lips was melancholic.

"But it’s mine, it’s my life. Nothing in this world belongs to me, but my life is mine. If I really get through this, I’ll leave this place. If everything you said is true, I don’t plan on staying here any longer. I’ll travel, see new places, and live the way I think is right. For the first time, I’ll allow myself to dream of something more... You know? Right now, dreaming is the only thing keeping me sane..."

She concluded, and at some point, that smile had turned into a genuine one.

It was fleeting, like many of the most charming things in this world.

Leona was lost in thought, finding himself at a moral crossroads.

"Mr. Hunter..."

He looked at her in response.

"Please, don’t let me hurt anyone."

•

•

•

How much time had passed?

How many hours? Or had it already been days?

She opened her eyes, confused. She found herself in the middle of the forest, with the moonlight nervously prickling her skin and her bare feet sinking into the snow.

How...?

The hunter... Where is the hunter?

She... was about to finish the seven days... and...

Why didn’t she feel that agonizing thirst piercing her insides anymore?

"It’s been a while, little human."

Yuu froze. Everything seemed to go silent, from the rustling of the distant branches to the sound of her own breathing. He was behind her, she didn’t even know when he had arrived, only that she could tell by how close his voice was. From her neck, long, cold fingers played with her hair and slid tentatively down to trace her jawline. She noticed the long, dark, pointed silhouette of his nails, the enormous shadow that loomed over her, and how his horns protruded from it.

"Why are you crying...?"

She didn’t even know when the tears had started to fall. She cried harder when he took her with an unfamiliar gentleness and forced her to look into his eyes. There was no trace of humanity in Malleus. His orbs were a deep green that seemed to devour everything around him. There was nothing reflected in them. He looked at her with confusion, not caring at all about how she trembled in his arms and tried to push his hands away.

"You don’t seem very happy to have received my blessing."

"You call this a blessing...? You turned me into a monster!"

"Don’t forget, it was you who begged for salvation. It was you who foolishly brought me into your home and kept me alive. It was you, and no one but you. In the end... Foolishness was your sin, little human."

Malleus said, silencing Yuu’s complaints instantly. A long while passed as they stared at each other, until she couldn’t stand it anymore and turned her face away.

He hummed, dispelling the cold and uncomfortable mist that had taken over the atmosphere just moments before.

"There, there, don’t cry. You’ll get through it. Killing isn’t a big deal once you get used to it."

Yuu felt nauseous.

"So be a good girl and wait for me." He whispered, very sweetly. "I’ll visit you soon."

And then she woke up.

With the hairs on her arms standing up, covered in cold sweat and gasping for breath, the thirst for blood hit her immediately, but it was bearable. Everything was more bearable after that heartbreaking experience.

How could he speak of killing as if the lives of others meant nothing...?

She shivered, and by instinct, she was about to rub the area near where the cuffs had burned her skin. But there was one detail she almost didn’t notice.

There was no more pain, or rather, it was barely perceptible. Her wrists were wrapped in rags, preventing direct contact. She lifted her eyes to the only person who had been with her throughout this painful process.

"Hunter...?"

It was strange. She had barely realized it because of her own suffering, but she was sure he hadn’t slept at all during this time.

He just watched her, silently, with a tense hand on his weapon. But now... She couldn’t even feel his eyes, and his posture was completely different from the last few days.

“I’ll visit you soon.”

Terror clouded her senses.

"Hunter!"

Without thinking, she rushed toward him, trying not to touch him. She abandoned the corner. She broke the rule, but that didn’t mean anything if he was already dead.

For the first time in days, she felt genuinely relieved.

He had just fallen asleep, which was quite surprising. She took a few more steps toward him, without closing the distance too much, just walking close enough to be able to look at him.

And, wow.

Given the circumstances, Yuu had never allowed herself to realize how incredibly handsome her hunter was. With his tall, muscular frame, bronzed skin, masculine face, and chiseled cheekbones, he exuded a male attractiveness she had never witnessed. She had always been forced to keep her distance from him, so she was surprised when she discovered the scar running through one of his eyelids, and thanks to that, she vaguely remembered the color of his eyes.

They were green.

Without thinking, she reached out her hand toward one of the curls escaping from his messy ponytail. She licked her lips, able to hear the steady rhythm of his pulse and the flow of his blood through his warm, living skin. Just thinking about how good it would feel to sink her lips into his neck, right next to where his Adam's apple rose and fell, made her teeth tingle, almost as if they had a life of their own. The sand in her throat grew thicker, and all her thoughts pointed to the fact that her suffering would end the moment she decided to bite him.

He's so close... I just need to lean in a little and...

Leona woke up.

Dazed, because it wasn’t usual for him to fall asleep. By instinct, he groped around until he found his shotgun, and automatically aimed it toward the corner where Yuu should have been. And there she was, curled up just like on the first day.

He stayed in that position for about ten minutes before allowing himself to feel something close to relief.

How the hell did I end up falling asleep...?

He sighed, running his hand over his face to push his bangs back. The exhaustion tormented him like a heavy burden on his limbs, but he couldn’t afford to rest.

Not when there was so little time left.

Due to the nature of his job, and having witnessed firsthand how cruel and bloodthirsty vampires could be, he would never admit it, but...

He hoped that Yuu could somehow become human again.

•

•

•

"Get up, the day is almost over."

Yuu blinked, feeling her limbs numb. Leona was watching her from above, her brow furrowed just like the first time. She was still half-asleep, so it was no surprise that she barely understood anything he said. Leona always spoke softly, in a tone that sounded more like a growl than a whisper.

"Is it night...?" She rubbed one of her eyes, feeling dizzy.

"Almost. Are you going to get up?"

"I can't..."

And it wasn't a lie. Like humans, for a vampire, not eating was lethal. She hadn’t eaten in days, so right now she was as weak and vulnerable as an ordinary human.

Leona cursed, pulling her body. But unlike their first encounter, his touch was much gentler.

"Can you stand up?"

"Y-yes... " She hesitated, not sure if the pleasant scent coming from his body was his own or the way her body only saw him as food. In any case, being this close was embarrassing. "Don't you think at this distance, I could lose control and bite you...?"

"I'd break your jaw before you even tried."

"You sound very confident for someone who hasn't slept or eaten much in the past week..." She wasn't sure if it was the optimism that she might become human again any minute, but she felt like joking a little.

He clicked his tongue in response.

"Hey..."

"What now?"

"Thanks for letting me live..." For a brief moment, Leona fell silent. "I know none of what you did was personal, you were just trying to protect Adel and the others, so I..."

"... Save the sappiness for when you’re human again."

They stared into each other's eyes; the eye contact lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to make something stir inside both of them. She smiled, with a shyness befitting of what she was: a human girl.

The creaky wooden walls shook when someone knocked violently on the door.

"Hunter?! I know you're in there, open the door!" Rollo Flamme demanded, not stopping the intense knocking. Yuu's stomach sank, and Leona shoved her onto the bed and covered her with the blankets.

The message was clear:

Don't make a sound.

Leona didn’t take long to open the door. As stoic and silent as ever, he observed the father and the crowd of villagers holding torches that accompanied him.

"Father, what a pleasant surprise."

"Don't mock me!" Rollo shouted, venom spilling from his mouth and eyes. "Do you think we don't know what you've done?!"

Behind him, the crowd of people shouted, just as agitated as the man leading the group. By instinct, she searched for the butcher among the crowd. Not finding him made several things click in her head.

"You let a vampire into the village, more than ten people have died since then! Where were you?! Playing house with the daughter of a prostitute in the middle of the woods?!"

Ten people...? As far as he knew, the group of hunters only consisted of five people.

Something was wrong.

The feeling he had when speaking to the father a week ago hit him harder now. Why had he waited so long to confront him if so many people had died? Why today, when Yuu was about to break the curse...?

"You... You know the vampire, don’t you? "Leona said, softly, very softly, so that in the middle of the shouting and chaos, his voice would only be heard by him and the father. "He told you to do this..."

Rollo’s fury froze, and his body visibly trembled. All that rage vanished; in an instant, he stopped being the authoritative and solemn father and became what he was: a small, insignificant human, nothing more than a puppet of a vampire.

"Kill him! Burn the house and kill them both!" He ordered, backing away from him, nearly stumbling to the ground as he screamed.

Leona had to close the door. Within seconds, the forest stopped being calm; rocks and torches slammed into the walls of the place, breaking everything.

The fire quickly spread, painting the surroundings with unbearable heat and an overwhelming red.

"What?! What's happening?!" Yuu barely managed to sit up, staring in disbelief as everything she loved and knew was reduced to ashes. She hardly cared that some of the rocks breaking through the wall hit her or that the sunlight filtering through the gaps irritated her skin.

Her home... the last memory of her and her mother, the place she hated and loved for years... It was disappearing, fading away.

"Don’t get up!" Leona demanded, pulling Yuu back to reality by wrapping her body in furs and blankets.

The rashes on her grayish skin stopped, but didn’t heal. All the vitality she had as a neophyte had drained because she had abused her regeneration. If things kept going like this, she would die before she could ever become human again.

"Damn it!"

It wasn’t a fight he could win. The vampire had set a trap for them, and any moment now, night would fall, and they would have free rein to kill them all. Leona kicked one of the back walls; the rotten, burned wood gave way to the force of her legs and created a hole large enough for someone to escape through.

He took Yuu’s small, weakened body in her arms and started running through the forest.

"-"That way, they’re escaping!"

From the explosion that accompanied that voice, he knew they were shooting at them.

Leona kept running, relying solely on the burning adrenaline that consumed her body and her beast-man abilities.

Hhe didn’t stop until the voices of their pursuers faded into the distance.

Then, he collapsed. His legs gave way, and they had the misfortune of falling into a small, sloped hill. They both went in different directions, dragged by gravity while rocks and branches wrapped in the thin layer of snow pierced their skin.

"H-hunter...?" Yuu’s voice trembled as she struggled to get up, trying her best to protect her sensitive body from the sun. She looked at him from a distance, lying in the snow, completely still.

"Hunter!"

She crawled toward him, ignoring the burning of her limbs or the pulsing touch of her skin against the still-intact silver cuffs. She got close enough to realize and stay motionless.

He was bleeding.

More than one bullet had hit him.

She bit her tongue, fiercely fighting the urge to lick the hole in his abdomen, and dragged him to where the sun couldn’t hurt her.

"What… Hey?! Hunter, respond!" She fought against herself, against the nature that demanded she stop the nonsense and drink while she still could. Tears began to fall as the sun slowly faded.

"Hey, Hunter! Please, please hold on! Don’t die… please…" She sobbed, clinging to the parts of her body that weren’t covered in that tempting and delicious red color.

She hated herself, she hated herself so much; the person who had risked their life for her was dying… and she couldn’t think of anything but drinking his blood.

At this rate, both of them were going to die.

"Leona…"

"W-what…?"

"My name…" He groaned, with his beautiful eyes barely open, pressing his hand against his open side. "My name is Leona… Leona Kingscholar."

"Leona… Leona, please, you have to hold on…"

"We both know that’s not going to happen." He gasped, looking at his face covered in cuts and eruptions with a grimace. It was the most human expression she had seen him make in all the time she had known him. "I’ve lost a lot of blood… and you’re cracking… Neither of us is getting out of here alive…"

"W-what… what are you saying?"

"Yuu."

He called her. Not “girl,” not “you,” not “monster,” not “thing”… Somehow, him referring to her by her name made her feel more human than she had ever been.

The cold hunter who refused to give his name or use hers dared to form bonds at a point of no return. He saw her. Not as a monster, not as the daughter of a prostitute… he saw her and recognized her for what she truly was.

"That bastard will be here any minute…"

Her lips trembled, she knew who he was talking about, but she couldn’t help but ask.

"W-Who…?"

"Malleus Draconia, the vampire with green eyes…"

He declares, spitting blood in the process. Yuu shakes, pressing her hands firmly against his wound to stop more blood from leaking out. Her eyes tremble when he looks at her.

He’s terribly pale, the moonlight that once made his brown skin shine like copper now showing a cold and almost lifeless tone.

Very quickly, Leona Kingscholar’s life was coming to an end.

This reality made Yuu sob harder.

"I’ve been searching for him for years, that’s why I didn’t kill you when I could… That monster has never turned anyone. I… I’m sorry. I used you."

"Stop talking…! Please… don’t keep going…"

Don’t waste the little life you have left saying nonsense.

"Yuu… bite me."

She raised her tear-streaked face toward him, unsure of what she had just heard.

"Survive. Kill that son of a bitch…"

She looked at him with wide eyes, feeling her own life beginning to fade.

"Do it. Didn’t you say you wanted to live?"

But no… not like this. She didn’t want to be a monster, she didn’t want to be the monster that ended his life.

"What are you waiting for…? If I’m going to die, I’ll do it in the arms of the person I choose."

He laughs, dragging his hand to his neck to expose a portion of his skin.

"I know… you won’t be a monster like all the others…"

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