#without flattening poor Will's curls out

[aroaceleovaldez]

If I see art of Will Solace where he doesn't have at LEAST 3C curls then that's automatically not Will Solace to me. Idk who it is but it's not him. We should not be getting him confused with Walker Scobell

[syofrelief]

parasite

johnny is a bit overattached

When you started doing....whatever this was, you would slip out in the morning before he woke, sometimes with a note or a cup of coffee as a greeting. Left on his bedside table for him to see, groggy and drooling.

Well, that didn't work for him. Johnny would curl on top of you at night, and no matter how many pushups you did could train you for moving that. He acted like it was an accident, but you noticed how his eyes would clear when he saw you, his heart would slow, and he'd smile.

You'd kiss him on the cheek and only then would he let you pull on your trousers and sneak out.

Throughout the day, he needed check ins. Waves, brushes on the shoulder, quick pecks or a soft squeeze when he had a second. He'd nudge his way through your office door, shyly asking to sit by you while you did paperwork.

A parasite, you compared him affectionately. His nose scrunched, but the resemblance was there.

You decided to tease him one day. A Tuesday, a rare one with nothing big. A 'smear' is what Soap and the gang called them, for some reason. His favorite. A day where he could sleep in, which meant you slept in. Lounging around, you tucked to his chest as the TV blabbed.

Eyes cracking open, you slowly wriggled your way from under his warm weight. Slowly. He twitched at every move, whining slightly when you finally broke free. Ceding a bit, you smoothed his brow with a few kisses, stroking over his sleeping back. Soap settled again, snoring loudly. You stifled a grin, tugging on a coat and disappearing down the hall. Not even a note.

Johnny was distraught when he woke. The one day he had in months and your side of the bed was cold. He curled into your pillow, sulking at the empty hook where your tags should have been. You must have had an early meeting. He huffed, tossing and turning before grumpily shoving on his running clothes.

You dodged him at every opportunity. Gaz had agreed to team up, sending you a discreet text when your little parasite was on the move.

Track. Hour tops.

You smirked, deciding to stroll down to the armory. The magazines probably needed organizing.

Johnny texted you the minute he finished.

wya, birdie? need tae say good mornin :)

You almost cracked, hearing his pleading through the screen. It was a little cruel, running in circles around him when he just wanted a little kiss. You giggled.

busy, be out all day sorry baby!!!!

Humming, you resumed your collection of menial tasks. It was nice, actually. The quiet.

Johnny was having a wildly different time. He felt like he was going insane. He'd never spent this much time not being by your side, let alone not seeing you. He hadn't seen you since you tucked into bed with him the night prior. It felt like a critical part of his body had been surgically removed without his consent.

He moped around the gym, noticeably bereft of his typical roughousing. In his sulking, he missed the eyebrow waggle Gaz sent over his head, to which Ghost rolled his eyes.

Smelling a whiff of your perfume was the end of it. He was like a bloodhound, trailing through the halls with a bloodthirsty glint in his eye. Recruits flattened themselves against the walls, terrified of the hardness of his jaw. Soap? Pissed? Like that? Jesus, got his knickers in a twist.

You made until noon before he snagged you. Clotheslined you, right across the tummy coming out of the kitchen. Squealing, you fumbled for steady footing as he manhandled you into a hug, growling kisses onto your face.

"Firs' you sneak out in the mornin,'" he huffed, nosing under your jaw. His hand came up to tug at your shirt. "Then ye done disappear for the whole day, like ah'm s'posed to jes' let ye weasel out of- quit, lassie, need it," he broke off in a plead, petting the softness of your hips. You stopped fighting him, accepting your fate as his chew toy.

"Awh, poor Johnny," you teased, playfully biting his cheek. Soap flicked your ear.

"You're takin' the piss, dove."

"A wee bit, maybe."

At your giggle he gasped, stepping away. "Ah'v about lost me mind lookin fer ye and yer teasin'? Kick a man while he's down, aye-"

You tackled him in a hug, nuzzling into his bear arms. Soap paused his lamenting, cooing over your content sigh. You were starting to go a little crazy too, admittedly.

Later, as he snored gently in your lap, you reconsidered your previous classification. A parasite implied there was no benefit to having him latch onto you. But the warm peace floating over you said otherwise.

A pest, you settled for. A very persistent, adorable pest.

[revelboo]

Hello, I just want to say thank you for feeding my obsession with your stories. If it's not a bother, may I request a new part/s for the series "mass displacement mayhem".

Sure!

Mass Displacement Mayhem Pt 4- MTMTE edition

Rodimus

• Venting, he kind of gets it now. Legs dangling as you struggle with his weight, carrying him with your arms wrapped around his middle. Yeah. This is undignified. “I could have walked to the bridge,” he mutters, trying to not sound like a sullen sparkling. Because as much as he’s enjoying the warmth of you and being fussed over, he’s the co-captain. He’s not supposed to be tiny and helpless.

• “I know,” you say, grinning. And he’s deceptively heavy still even toddler sized, but when else are you going to get the opportunity to carry him like this? To turn the tables on him. “Do you think this is permanent?” Laughing at the noise he makes, feeling his plating warm under your fingers, you keep walking. Know he’s not going to lose it and burn you, trust him not to. Even if he’s upset with the idea of being tiny forever.

Drift and Ratchet

• Well. At least one of them is happy. Glaring at where you’re sitting with Drift in your lap, your arms around him fussing over how “widdle and cute” he is, Ratchet vents. Because Drift’s optics are shuttered, apparently enjoying the attention. Servos flexing, he sits on the edge of his datapad and works to try and figure out whatever this latest idiocy is, because he’s pretty sure he can blame this on Brainstorm.

• “Ratchy-watchy,” you call and the tiny medic turns to shoot you a filthy look when you hold out your arms in invitation and Drift chuckles. Apparently Ratchet isn’t about to come cuddle though as he curls a lip and growls under his breath to not call him that. Poor little guy stressed out about being little and probably realizing how you feel around them all the time.

Minimus Ambus

• “Please stop.” Mentally exhausted as you just keep cackling, he tries to turn away and you grab him from behind. And he transforms without thinking to try and escape to the Magnus armor even though he’s too small now to operate it. Feels you drop him with a gasp. Flattening against the berth, ears back when you scream. Denta bared in warning as you seize him again .

• “Minnie! I didn’t know you became a puppy. Look at your widdle pawsies. Do you have beans? You do have beans!” And he’s just hanging limply in your arms as you fuss over him, but you hear him groan as you cuddle him, his back legs kicking fitfully. “Can I boop?”

Swerve

• This is fine. More than fine. Relaxed as soft hands cup his face, spin a wheel of his alt mode and you just excitedly babble over him, he soaks up the attention. It’s not like he’s not used to being small anyway. And you’re apparently delighted about it. Leaning into your warmth, he hooks an arm around you. He could definitely get used to this, someone taking care of him. Worrying about him.

Previous

Next

[ervotica]

treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen

warnings: SMUT (18+ only), p in v, overstim, cunnilingus, aftercare ofc, bradley is the hottest man ever xx

kinktober masterlist

You love it when it storms; the distant crackle of thunder on the horizon, the way the wind sweeps everything sideways until all you can hear is the pounding of droplets against the window panes.

You especially love that, oftentimes, it means Bradley gets to come home early.

He’s slipped straight into the bathroom on his journey into the house, past the living room and the kitchen and you. You hear the shower turn on and the whine of the old pipes that most definitely need replacing. You hear exactly when his bare skin hits the hot spray of water, almost picturing the steam rising and clouding up and around him.

You tiptoe to the en-suite as quietly as you can, each item of clothing slowly discarded the closer you get to what you want.

The bedroom comes into view and you see steam curling around the base of the bathroom door; it's ajar.

You can feel his eyes on you as it creaks open, his smirk as he takes in every inch of your naked skin - the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the pudge of your tummy.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs; his thick fingers grasp and squeeze at the fat of your hips before you've even fully stepped into the shower, and he tugs you close, pressing your chest to his.

“I missed you,” you purr, forehead nestled into the juncture of his neck “Glad you’re back early.”

He palms the globes of your ass, rocking the semi he’s already sporting against your naked pussy.

“I missed you more.”

You relax forwards into him and you can feel his smile imprinted into your shoulder, the thick mustache on his top lip scraping against your soft complexion.

You tuck your arms underneath his and hum, the rake of his fingernails up and down on your back enough to have your eyes fluttering closed.

His hands are slow on their descent, pausing and halting to toy with every part of your body he loves; his thumbs slide across the tiger-like stretch marks on your thighs before moving inwards. You shudder, brows knitting and tight where you still lazily rest on his shoulder.

Two fingers slip between your folds, the broadness paired with the rough callouses enough to have you leaning forward into his hold more than you already are. He’s happy enough to take your weight, hooking a forearm beneath your knee and caging you in against the glass wall of the shower.

“There she is,” he coos, teases really, a thick thumb coming up to draw tight circles on your little nub. He delights in the way a soft moan pushes past your lips despite your efforts to keep them concealed – you don’t want to inflate his ego too much, let him know this is all it takes to have you keen beneath him. It’s no use really; his confidence is enough to carry him without any sort of technique, it’s just luck that he has that too.

You tremble as his movements get hard and fast against your poor little cunt and he sinks to his knees. The tip of his nose nudges at your clit, and god, you swear nothing ever prepares you for how good he makes you feel every single time.

“You just relax, angel. Gonna take care of this pretty little pussy for you, okay?” His voice is husky and deep but smooth and sticky like honey. You could listen to him forever.

His tongue is on you before you even have time to breathe; first fast, flicking against your bud like slaps, quick in succession, and then slower as he flattens his tongue out and slurps, makes the most obscene noises as his mustache tickles against your clit. Your thighs shake against the sides of his head, your fingers raked through the wet hair stuck flat to his head, all the while he’s focused, soaking himself with the juices from your drooling hole.

You’re close by this point, chest ragging breaths, feet sliding against the wet shower floor as Bradley pins you up by your hips and doubles down.

That’s all it takes, really, though you’d never admit it. You gasp and that coil that’s been building snaps with such a force you see white.

You let out this long, keening whine, trembling in his forceful grip as your cunt tenses and spasms under his mouth.

“Baby, I’m done,” you gasp, “Please, fuck, that’s enough.”

He only grins from his place between your legs and slips two fingers into your still quivering hole.

“You’re gonna give me another one, sweet girl.”

You can feel yourself sweating despite the onslaught of water pounding on top of the pair of you.

You’re already drawing to your peak again, a heat growing in your cunt where Bradley is skilfully crooking his fingers against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Attagirl, give it to me,” he coos, before going back to slurping at your cunt like a man deranged.

You have no choice but to oblige him, and with a shriek, you cum on his tongue and fingers once more.

He releases you slowly, straightening and wrapping your thighs tight around him as the head of his cock nudges at your entrance. He pulls you down and around him with a groan, his head going straight to the juncture of your neck as he punches his cock up into you.

A scream falls from your kiss bitten lips and your nails tighten and dig into his shoulders; you’re so sensitive, you can feel every brush of his cock on your insides, every vein and ridge, every little movement.

“Two more,” he grunts, teeth scraping at your jaw. “Two more and you’re done, baby.”

He’s relentless in his pursuit of your next orgasm, pace fast as he thrusts up into you time and time again.

It’s not long before you’re on the precipice again, and Bradley feels the telltale sign of your pussy strangling him, pulling him further in, just as you squeak and cum around him. You soak him with it, your legs squeezing his torso tight as you burrow into his skin to try and escape this intense pleasure he’s pushing down onto you. You’re alight with it, every nerve ending on fire as you shake and moan.

He doesn’t stop; you’re far past your threshold and still he continues on, the squelching of your pussy enough to have him hardening even more, more than he ever thought possible.

He knows he’s not going to last much longer so he’s quick to press a thumb to your trembling clit, pushing in tight, fast circles as he pushes you from one orgasm and almost instantly into the next.

“Last one, baby. Give it t’me, okay? You can do it.”

Your clit kisses his pubic bone as he pushes all the way in and grinds against you, fervour lacing his every movement as he desperately forces you towards the edge again.

You’re dead weight at this point, head rolling against his shoulder as he hikes you up and around his waist and sets a furious pace.

“Jesus, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum, fuck!” He grits out, biting at the slope of your shoulder until you can’t hold on any longer and cum with a cry; your whole body tenses and snaps like a bowstring, and you’re clinging to Bradley to hold you up, sagging as he finally chokes out a gasp and fills you. You flood with warmth and he lowers the pair of you to the floor under the hot spray of water. You’re in his lap, eyes closed as you already begin to doze off with the skin on skin contact.

“C’mon, honey. Gotta get out before the water gets cold.”

He towel dries you and carries you, limp, to the bedroom; finds the baggiest t-shirt for you to snuggle up in and a pair of panties for your sore pussy. His sharp grin tells you everything you need to know before the words leave his mouth.

“I’ll come home early every day if I get to fuck you like that.”

[gothushi]

kinktober day 8; shower/bath sex, astarion

———————♡

A moment later, Astarion walks into the bathroom, leaning in the doorway with a smile on his face as he watches you.

“You look utterly decadent, darling,” he says, slowly making his way towards you in the tub. “Care if I join you?”

You offer a smile back, reaching a hand out to interlace your fingers as he steps up to the tub. “Mm. Suppose you could, would you rub my back if I let you?”

“That sounds delightful.” Astarion says as he sheds his clothes, laying the garments over a chair nearby. He slides into the tub behind you, hot water warming his skin. You find yourself resting back on his chest, arms coming around you for a hug.

The chill of his skin eases due to the water, allowing you to melt right into him with a happy sigh. Your day was long, tiring, has your body aching with fatigue as you close your eyes to just relax for a moment.

“Mm… missed you.”

His slender fingers run along your arms, your chest, massaging into your skin with firm motions. “And I missed you, my darling.” He leans in, pressing his lips to your temple, a light kiss. “You know.. I could do so much more for you than just rubbing your back.”

The words have you giggling, ever the cheeky one he is. “Mhmm?” You turn your head, letting your nose bumps into his jaw. “You don’t say..”

His fingers wander, rubbing your arms, ghosting down to rub along your sides. His fangs rake across your ear as he speaks in a soft, playful tone. “I could help soothe those aching muscles of yours, sweetheart. I promise I’ll be gentle, unless you don’t want me to be.”

You crane your neck, a silent request for more affection as you hum. “Mmmph.. that does sound nice.. gentle. I hurt quite badly…”

Astarion’s lips find purchase on that delectable neck of yours. His arms tighten around you, holding you steady to his chest, one hand flattening on your stomach, fingertips ghosting the muscle there. “Poor darling,” he coos, “I’ll make sure to fix that for you. You just have to lay back and make all those delightful noises for me.”

You giggle quietly at his words, eyes fluttered closed as you melt right into his chest. Your head lolls to the side, offering your neck to him since you love those kisses so much. His tongue licks at your neck, lips suckling soft kisses into the flesh. The hand on your stomach slowly wanders its way lower, then lower.

“Darling,” he mutters, voice low and sultry, “are you as sore on the inside as you are out? Because I can help soothe that ache, too.”

You squeal a laugh at his words, covering your mouth with a wet hand for a moment. Turning your head, tied up hair brushing his shoulder before you nose at his jaw, giggling. “Mm.. maybe.. could use some attention anyway.”

Astarion presses his cheek against yours, nuzzling you affectionately with a smile. His hand now slips between your thighs, rubbing a finger over your clit. “Such a needy thing. Can hardly go more than a day without me taking care of you, hm?”

“Your fault. Don’t act like you aren’t the same way.” You accuse softly, voice amused. His touch makes your body tense for a moment, thighs parting automatically in the water with a happy sigh.

“Mm, perhaps I am a little too needy for my love.” He responds with a soft chuckle. “But who could blame, when I have such a beautiful darling at my disposal?” Astarion’s long, dexterous fingers move over your clit in wider circles, dipping down to collect the growing slick at your entrance. He nuzzles into your neck, humming. “Though I am fairly certain that you are much needier than I.”

You whimper quietly as arousal floods your senses, body heating up. One hand curls on his forearm, the other finds a home outside of the water, grasping over the edge of the tub as you whine.

“Shut up..”

He responds by running his tongue along the rim of your ear, gently nipping before saying, “Why should I? I do so love the sounds you make for me, my love.”

His fingers double down, one becoming two as he circles your clit in just the right way, his other one flattening on your stomach. “Does that feel nice, darling? If you ask very nicely, I’m sure I could do even more for you.”

You jolt, whimpering, flushing with heat at his teasing words. A moan tears from you as he slips a finger into your cunt, curling it immediately, your head tossing back on his shoulder.

“I-.. Star.. please, don’t tease.”

“But you react so wonderfully to my teasing.” He purrs into your ear, slowly increasing the pace of his finger fucking into you, adding another. “I love it when you beg. It’s so rare you ask so nicely. So polite. How could I deny you such a pretty request, my love?”

“Hey,” you pout, tilting your head against his neck. Your thighs part further, canting your hips up to his touch. “‘m always nice.”

He chuckles against your neck, nipping at your skin as that free hand finds your hip. “Mmm, not always. Sometimes, you’ve quite the attitude, dearest.” His tone is playful, almost mocking as he crooks his fingers in your cunt.

“Mmn-” You arch, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to formulate words. Whining out, your thighs try to close as you respond. “Do not.. I ask- ask nicely, all the time.”

“You try to be nice, darling.” He responds between kisses on your neck. “You attempt to ask nicely, but often, you are anything but sweet. Isn’t that right, my love? Isn’t that why you get yourself in trouble so often?”

He suddenly slow his pace, palm rubbing over your clit purposely, bringing you to a light simmer instead of the boil he had so suddenly pushed you to.

You whine aloud at that, trying to work your hips down onto his fingers. “Star..”

He responds to your whine with an amused chuckle.

“Yes, darling? What do you need? You just have to ask me nicely. I did say I was going to help ease your aches, after all.”

You smooth both of your hands down overtop his between your thighs, trying to urge his fingers to move in your pussy. “Mmm.. well- it hurts really bad..” You moan, exaggerating on purpose. “Y’r the only one who can make it better.. please?”

Astarion is clearly happy with your sweet begging, curling his fingers up to massage over your g-spot. “I see. I see. And where does it hurt most, my darling?”

“Right there-!” You whimper, tightening your hold over his hand, grasping on his wrist as you toss your head back with a gasp.

“Here?” He croons, craning his fingers in deeper, rubbing the pads of his fingertips right over that spot. His teeth find your neck again, leaving more kisses along the skin.

“Is that what you needed, my dearest? Should I keep going?”

“Please-” You gasp, squirming in the bubbly water, struggling to stay still at this point as that coil twists tighter and tighter in your gut. “Don’t stop- Star, please.” Your pleas come out soft, breathless, as you reach a hand up to grab the back of his neck.

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping, not when you beg so nicely, darling.” He coos, voice low and sweet. He brings his other hand up from your hip, wrapping it over one of your tits, thumbing over your nipple as he noses along your neck. “You can cum, my love. I have you.”

“Oh- nnh! Star- Astarion-” You gasp again, writhing in the bubbly water, body tensing up before you let out a cry, eyes squeezed shut as you tremble. You grab at his arm for support, panting desperately with little whiny sounds, breathy moans.

He keeps a firm hold on you, finger fucking you through your orgasm. “There you go, my darling.” He soothes, “You did so well. You’re such a sweet thing, making all those beautiful sounds for me. I love you so much.”

You offer a tired moan, tilting your head to blindly kiss him. You mouth at his jaw before he leans his head down, connecting your lips in a slow, panting kiss. Your limbs feel like jelly, quivering in the hot water. His hand leaves between your thighs to come up and cradle the back of your head, slender fingers entangling with your hair.

When you separate, he peppers soft, quick kisses along your cheek and jaw. “Did I do what I promised, darling? Is that ache all soothed?”

“Mmmf..” You sigh out, head tilting back as you allow him to shower you in affection. Your own hands skirt along his arms, slightly shaken. “I dunno.. think it still hurts a little.” You murmur, tilting up to connect your lips with his once again.

———————♡

[musaslullaby]

Showing my fears

Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, George Russell and Carlos Sainz x fem reader

Summary: The drivers face your fears

Warning: nothing only fluff.

Masterlist

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Charles Leclerc

I loved winter; it was probably my favorite season. I adored the frost forming on the windows, staying at home under a wool blanket, watching a TV series with a hot chocolate in my hands, snuggled in Charles' sweet embrace.

But I also love race days, where you’re surrounded by fans who care about you and all your friends. It's a different kind of warmth from what Charles gives me, but I couldn’t give up either.

It seemed like a pretty calm day. As always on race days, my boyfriend accompanied Leo and me to the paddock. There was a light breeze, but no sign of rain or, worse, storms. Or at least, so I thought.

I was nervously biting my nails: Charles was fighting with Piastri for second place. I noticed Leo, curled up in my arms, starting to fidget.

“What’s wrong, darling?” I whispered, petting the little dog to calm him. A loud thunderclap tore through the sky, and the hand stroking his soft fur froze immediately.

My hands began to tremble, and my eyes widened. Adrenaline rushed through me, and soon the shaking spread through my entire body, making Leo even more alert as he began barking insistently.

Arthur quickly turned toward us, and in a swift movement, I felt his warm hand on my shoulder and his body heat surrounding me.

“Y/N, it's okay, I'll take you to the drivers' room,” he whispered softly, trying to calm me down.

I weakly nodded. Walking was difficult; my legs felt heavy, and my heart was pounding. I saw all the journalists' cameras pointed at me, and my vision blurred from panic.

Arthur sat me down on the couch. “I’ll bring you some water; in the meantime, put on the headphones, okay?” he asked, looking me directly in the eyes. With a slight movement, I reached for the headphones and turned on the classical music. By chance, the soft sound of a piano played, one I instantly recognized: I knew those notes by heart. I had heard them so many times at home, they were Charles’ songs.

Leo stretched out beside me on the couch, and I ran my hand through his fur, feeling his warmth reassure me. I closed my eyes and completely lost myself in the music, which drowned out the thunder.

I was immensely grateful for Arthur’s quick thinking; without him, I don’t know what I would have done.

After what felt like an eternity, I felt someone pulling me close, and my cheek pressed against something. When I looked up, I saw Charles gazing at me with his green eyes full of love.

“How are you, mon amour?” he asked, placing a sweet kiss on my forehead.

“B-better,” I whispered faintly, as I buried my face in the crook of his neck.

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Lando Norris

“Hi guys,” Lando greeted with a smile, as the chat filled with comments and hellos. “Today we’ve got this little monster with us,” he joked, poking my poor cheek with his index finger.

Suppressing a sincere laugh, I turned to him and lightly smacked his head with my lemon tea bottle.

“Hey, watch it, don’t flatten my hair!” he whined, running his hands through his curls several times to give them back their volume.

“You’re lucky you still have them, the way you treat them every day!” I said, pretending to be annoyed, turning my full attention to the chat. “Yes, Carlos Sainz is a bad influence on him,” I whispered, answering a comment.

“You’re just jealous of my perfect curls,” the boy laughed, raising an eyebrow. His expression was so funny that I burst into laughter.

Suddenly, Lando went pale, and his face turned incredibly serious. My laughter slowly faded as I asked, “You’re not offended, right? Because if I hurt your feelings, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I couldn’t finish the sentence because Lando pointed behind me. Slowly, I turned, and on the white wall of the room, among his precious helmets, was a giant spider.

A strangled squeak escaped me as I jumped into the boy’s arms.

“You’re going to take it out, right?” I asked anxiously, wrapping my arms around his neck in what was probably a death grip.

“Not a chance,” he whispered, clutching my sides, also visibly terrified of that abnormally large, many-legged spider, black as coal, with those tiny eyes that looked ready to jump on you at any moment.

“Please, do something!” I said, continuing to stare at the creature, which was calmly walking among the helmet collection.

Reluctantly, we stood up from the chair and grabbed pieces of paper and a transparent glass.

“Lando, on my count of three, you trap it, and then we take it to the balcony,” I whispered from behind him, so that if the spider bit or moved, it would be Lando who was at risk. I know, I’m a fantastic girlfriend.

“One.” The boy took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

“Two.” Lando got into position, holding the glass and the piece of paper just right.

“Three.” In one quick motion, Lando trapped the spider and ran towards the balcony, shuddering as if he had a thousand little legs crawling all over him. He quickly opened the sliding door and released the spider outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Gross,” he spat with a disgusted face, squirming like he was doing an especially wild dance, still feeling the sensation of tiny legs crawling over him.

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Oscar Piastri

It was a day like any other. Oscar had asked me to meet him in the drivers’ room because he needed some advice. It was probably something related to the race, or maybe he just needed some reassurance.

When I arrived at the door, I knocked, feeling the cold under my knuckles, but there was no answer.

“Oscar, it’s me, can I come in?” I asked, pressing my ear against the surface to catch any sound coming from the other side, but nothing—everything was silent.

Worry started creeping in with a thousand doubts: maybe he wasn’t feeling well, or worse, something had happened.

“Oscar, I’m coming in,” I said, trying to sound firm and decisive, but the only thing that came out was a hesitant whisper.

When I turned the metal handle, the room was partially dark, but I didn’t notice at first. Maybe Oscar hadn’t arrived yet, or perhaps he wanted to surprise me. As soon as I took a few steps into the room, the door clicked shut behind me, eliminating the last source of light.

My breath caught in my throat: I had been afraid of the dark since I was little, and Oscar knew that. Quickly, I walked toward the door and grabbed the handle, pushing and pulling violently, but nothing happened.

I started knocking incessantly on the cold, anonymous surface. “Please, let me out,” I said with a desperate voice, fearing that something or someone might emerge from the darkness surrounding me.

Luckily, after a short while, I heard two male voices talking outside the door, followed by a loud click: the door finally opened again. In front of me were the two McLaren drivers. Without thinking, I threw myself into Oscar’s arms, and he held me tightly.

“I told you it was a terrible idea,” Oscar whispered to his friend while tracing comforting circles on my back.

“You’re both jerks,” I said with a pout, mostly directed at Lando, but without pulling away from the calming, safe warmth of my boyfriend. I could stay in that position forever.

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪

Carlos Sainz

Today, of all days, was the one that every child dreads: going to the dentist. Only I wasn’t a child anymore; I’m now considered a grown, healthy adult.

I’d love to say this fear is innate, but that would be a lie. It all started when I was seven years old and had to have a baby tooth removed. I had never been to the dentist before, and you could say I was quite curious, like any child. While my parents talked with the doctor, I wandered around the room and found some instruments attached to a strange machine. Naturally, I reached out to touch them, and of course, I cut myself on the metal. The dentist was mortified, and my parents told me to be more careful.

I know what happened was just a pure accident, but that event, combined with the scary stories the other kids told—probably exaggerated—developed into a fear that refuses to go away.

Carlos held my hand tightly as I nervously bit my nails, my leg trembling slightly, unable to stay still from the tension.

“Miss Y/N Y/L/N, please follow me,” said the dentist.

Through clenched teeth, in a whisper, I said, “I don’t want to go.”

Carlos looked at me with a reassuring smile and eyes full of understanding. “I know, mi amor, but it’s just a checkup, nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Will you come with me?” I asked, pulling him up from the couch with me, and hand in hand, we headed to the “torture chamber.”

Throughout the visit, I couldn’t stop thinking about how the dentist could make a mistake and leave me without teeth, but every time I looked at my boyfriend, my fears eased. Just losing myself in his brown eyes was enough to understand that everything would be fine.

“All done,” the dentist said seriously. I’m always amazed at how this man never smiles.

As soon as I got off the chair, I immediately reached for Carlos’ hand, feeling his warmth.

“So, how did it go?” he asked with a sincere smile as we walked out of the clinic.

“He didn’t smile once,” I said, still a little stunned by the experience.

Carlos laughed at my statement and squeezed my hand even tighter.

[prncssie]

You’re tired of hobie always taking the lead during sex and you decide to try and be the dominant one for a change. (You handcuff him to the bed-). Hobie goes with it knowing you can’t fully satisfy yourself without he’s help. It’s not your fault you don’t know where your sweet spots are 🥺. That’s ok Hobie is there to take care of you…that if you let him go of course and he’ll have you under him cumming in seconds where you belong. 👀👀😀

heyyyy . . . little short blurb for you and your request :D thanks nonnie. love youuu ; mdni black fem reader 896 words

“what’s wrong, petal?”

hobie’s voice is nothing but mocking beneath you. even with your eyes squeezed shut, you can hear the smirk in his voice and imagine the teasing eyes he’s probably giving you behind the darkness of your closed eyelids.

hobie was supposed to be the one struggling, tonight. he agreed to be at your mercy, allowing you to take control for the night. he didn’t even complain when you pulled out the handcuffs, rattling excitedly in your hands earlier that night.

instead, things went the other direction. at first, you started off a little shaky, struggling to get past the first initial push. you had expected that after swallowing the length of his shaft in your sopping cunt, the night would progress and you’d both be spiralling into pleasurable oblivion.

what ended up happening is you trying, pleading with your body to feel anything good but it just isn’t happening. you’ve bounced, you’ve rode, you’ve tilted your hips in so many directions but nothing. you haven’t even come within an inch of an orgasm and you’re beginning to get frustrated and worst of all, hobie can tell.

“are you having problems?” he chuckles, cuffs jingling in the little hook in the wall — which was installed recently and inspired your idea to restrict him.

you shake your pretty little head and slam your hips down again. a small pant falls out your plump lips. it feels good, of course it feels good, just not good enough. “n – no. i’m fine, ‘bie.”

you have your hands planted firmly on his chest, rocking back and forth with your hair falling around your shoulders. your hair, twisted within the past few days, has begun to get frizzy and shrink even further than it already had. the tiny baby hairs stick to your skin, sheen with a thin layer of sweat.

you’ve been at this for a while.

“ya’ sure? because if you can’t do it, it’s okay.”

you lift your head with a disgruntled sigh and stare down at him the best with can. “shut up. you’re distracting.” you’re seated now, unmoving and chest rising with each breath. you lick your lips and brush the stray strands ticking your face off your skin.

he shrugs with an arrogant grin and curls his lips in, displaying his agreement to be silent. he still watches you struggle, holding back his coes of endearment at your attempts.

your poor cunt must be used and sensitive now, being put through so much but seeing no end. what a needy, suffering princess you are. you need his help and all you have to do is ask for it.

you’re too stubborn, though. it take a few seconds of rest for you to begin again, this time leaning back and flattening your hands against the bed. your hips rise and fall with such passion, edging your nerves with satisfaction that only fuels the insatiable lust farther. just like before, you stop with an annoyed grunt, balling up the sheets in your fists.

“y’know, if you let me out, i could fix all of this, darlin’.” he offers again, arms otherwise laying lax above him in the metal restraints clicked loosely around his wrists.

his voice is starting to get annoying in your head. his suggestions, paired with the nonstop throbbing of your pussy that you can do nothing about, is ruining your mood and you’re just about ready to get off and call it a night. “hobart.”

“i’m just saying, treacle. maybe this position doesn’t feel good for you and there’s nothing wrong with that. why don’t you just let me do it and we can try again tomorrow.” he can’t do much else but talk beneath you and hope you listen to his advice. “i promise. you know i will but i want to help you out.”

hobie knows you’re considering it when you look him in his hazel eyes, reflecting the yellow light from the bedside lamp. he’s delighted to see your arm reach across his vision and to the nightstand.

he doesn’t turn his head to watch you pick up the little silver key in fear that he’s seen too excited and you’d change your mind.

you take the key and insert it into the little slot, hesitantly turning it until the cuffs click in a certain freedom. a part of you is upset that you’ve given in after some hardships but you don’t focus on it too long, desire taking reigns of your mind.

hobie’s hands find your waist faster than you can comprehend. they send burning need along your skin and plague you in a new wave of lust. your cunt pulsates even more than it already is upon his direct contact with your skin.

he sits up, massaging your waist under the pads of his fingers. they slowly brush across your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “silly girl, did all that just to set me free because you can’t make yourself cum without me.”

“maybe your dick is just broken,” you challenge back, looping your hands around his neck.

you eat your words when hobie lift your body, drawing his cock back and dropping you back down, wordlessly. it’s humiliating the way you gasp as soon as hobie does it, nudging his tip deep within your walls.

“mm, definitely not broken. you just need me. that’s so cute.”

[mikkomacko]

wolf nico accidentally eating a bee and his face puffing up

You’re sipping your morning tea on the back porch when Nico finds you, his large wolf barreling past his mother and Nina to get to you. His speed makes you jolt, tea slipping over the rim of your cup and onto your fingers.

You quickly place it on the patio table, wiping your fingers on your shirt and you’re about to scold Nico for scaring you like that when you finally come face to face with him.

“Oh Nico,” you coo, pouting at his flattened ears and scared eyes. He makes a low whining noise, nudging your hand with his swollen snout but it must hurt because he lets out a yelp.

“What did you do?” You laugh, cupping his face all gentle and making him look up at you. His wolf shifts on his paws, anxious and uncomfortable and you scratch at his neck to try and soothe him.

Nina leans over to get a peek at him, cackling loudly. “He swallowed a bee,” she tells you, still giggling when Nico attempts to barre his teeth at her. “He always insists on running through the patch of wildflowers even though he gets stung almost every time.”

Nico’s eyes twitch, looking at you expectantly and it all hits. He’s always said your scent reminds him of flowers, the red ones that grow everywhere here. His favorite ones. And he loves to run through them in his wolf form because that’s when his nose is strongest.

“Awww my poor alpha,” you murmur, gently touching at his ballooned face. “Come on I’ll get you some Benadryl.”

You get up from the porch, Nico following closely at your heels as you head into the house and upstairs to the bathroom attached to his room. He sits in the doorway while you dig around in the cabinets for the little pills, making these sad little whimpering noises that have your wolf shifting uncomfortably under your skin. You know she wants to come out, wants to shift in her wolf form and get to Nico but without opposable thumbs she’s of no help to him right now.

“Here alpha,” you crouch in front of Nico, opening the little packet and he growls in annoyance when you nudge the pills into his cheek. Teeth clacking and kicking uncomfortably, he swallows them down with an unimpressed look in his eye. “You gonna shift back or are you waiting for the swelling to go down?”

He flicks his ears in agreement, too embarrassed to shift into a human with his cheeks all fat. You pet at the top of his head, pressing a sweet kiss between his eyes and he nuzzles his wet nose into your neck.

“You’re gonna get sleepy,” you warn him, “nap here or outside?”

Nico slinks back from you, tail wagging as he hops onto the unmade bed and curls up in a ball. Resting his head on his paws, he blinks at you.

“Let me go get my tea and I’ll come lay with you.” You agree and he yelps in excitement. Before heading downstairs though, you fish your phone out of the blankets and open the camera, snatching a few photos of him pouting on the bed with his face all swollen.

“Still handsome.” You promise him and he flicks his tail in agreement.

[homicidal-mother]

[Mess]

-

Dog Hybrid!Luke Cooper x F!Reader

-

Warnings: MDNI, Smut, Oral (F!Receiving), Crying, Spanking, Handjob, Degradation, Mommy Kink, Sub!Luke, Dom!Reader, Reader is in a Skirt

-

Summary: Luke is a needy mutt.

-

Fingers tangled in those soft curls you give a light tug, the whine he lets out beyond pathetic, eyes all big and watery. It's not your fault - it's so hard to not be mean to him when he's kneeled between your legs like this, pupils blown so wide that his already dark eyes look pitch black, glancing at your skirt occasionally - wanting nothing more than to stick his head up under it and taste you.

“What's the matter, hm?”

You scratch behind those fluffy ears of his - watching his eyes flutter and head lean eagerly into your touch, though he continues to keep sniffing - pressing his nose to your inner thigh.

“Wanna taste you… Please. Smells so good.”

You would keep teasing him but you lack self control yourself, instead spreading your legs and inviting him in, unable to even attempt to get your panties off before he's diving in - wet tongue slobbering all over the dampened fabric of your panties, soaking them as he laps at you like a starved animal, nose rubbing against your clit through the material. It's downright filthy - fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to possibly leave bruises.

“Easy! Easy!”

You snap at him and his ears flatten down, easing his grip on your thighs and letting you snatch his head back, pathetic whines falling from his lips.

“Sorry, mommy… M’sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't cut it, mutt.”

You let go of his hair and stand up - motioning for him to get up and lean over the end of the couch. He knows immediately what this means, his tail wagging a little bit but he tries to hold back on his excitement. You two play this game often - pretend it's punishment but you know the little masochist likes it. He bends over and you yank his pants down, already his tail lifts up and his hips keep wiggling.

“Be still.”

“Sorry.”

“You will be.”

Your hand leaves a red mark across his soft rear end, a yelp escaping him in the process… You go at this for a while, till he's just whining and his cock is all flushed begging for attention. Taking mercy on your poor pup, you tap his back lightly.

“Stand up, baby.”

And he does without complaint - allowing you to reach around him and begin stroking and jerking off his needy dick, his hips jolting and trying to fuck into your hand as you do so, whimpering with a bit of drool coming down his chin.

“You're my dumb mutt, aren't you?”

“Mhm…”

It's not long before he comes - busting a load all over your hand, floor and end of the couch. It's alright though… You never minded cleaning up your boy’s messes.

[fisherrprince]

A silly! The Exarch plays claw machine

G’raha is expecting the summoning of the Warrior of Light to be… a far more reverent and atmospheric moment than it is. He had researched for years in the Crystal Tower, finally able to piece together an enchantment he knows is capable of summoning one across time, across the barriers between shards. It is a complex and perfectly charted cast upon which rides the hopes and survival of both the Source and the First, and all within it. 

So sue him, when a fully naked unconscious hyur falls out of the spell and practically launches a nutkin (he was unaware it was possible to bring a plus one) directly into his face, he may have yelped a little and dropped his staff onto his foot. 

Never before is he more glad he forbids the people of the Crystarium have unmonitored access to the Tower. When he finishes jumping around holding his paw like a child, he is still left with (the nutkin is gone, and he never finds it again) a very unclothed man on his floor who is not supposed to be here. This is not the Warrior of Light — last he checked, the Warrior was a Miqo’te, like he, with a constant dastardly smile and near-black fur that rusts in the sunlight and ever-so-slightly mismatched blue-green eyes that glow in the twilight. Last he checked, academically, anyways. 

The Hyur groans, shifting imperceptibly. The Crystal Exarch does not panic, though his ears do flatten under his hood. Instead, he very quickly removes a small layer of his cloak and covers the poor man, and prepares to explain what in the name of the Twelve is going on. 

-

G’raha tries again about a year later, ever aware of the rapid time dilation but utterly committed to getting it right this time and, unfortunately, completely spent from the first attempt’s burden on his aether. Thancred, luckily, does not hate him, but he does also have his own business nowadays, and so he is not available when the time to try again comes. Hopefully, he can get word out soon, and the Warrior can have him as a traveling companion. 

Would that the Exarch could fill that role. And, would that he did not need to come up with it. With renewed determination and twice the aether poured into the spell, G’raha attempts to harry the gates of time and pull to his side a legend. 

He misses again. And for his efforts, he gets two of the Warrior of Light’s companions, both, again, without clothes. 

He is. Going to have to figure out how to fix that. Perhaps it has to do with aetherological travel and the acknowledgement of one’s possessions as a part of them? How is he to pull over the whole of the person without any pictures of what they happen to be wearing that day…?

The Miqo’te woman wakes first, and immediately hisses when he speaks up, her fur ridges bristling. This bodes well. 

-

So we don’t need to — he fails again. And at this point it is getting a little frustrating, but at least this time he has a blanket ready.

The Elezen boy, sitting on the floor with the blanket meticulously and with no small amount of self-consciousness positioned so it covers him in a little tent, listens quietly to what G’raha has to say, his tail curled around his knees. 

For a mercy, he listens and considers the Exarch’s tale very carefully. Apparently, isolated as he was from information back in Eorzea, he had no idea the dizzy spells weren’t just from… lack of aether permeating sections of Garlemald. But, at least, the voice of the Call lends credence to his claims. And so he seems to accept it, and introduces himself as Alphinaud Leveilleur, heir of House Leveilleur and Scion of the Seventh Dawn. 

G’raha’s tail puffs a bit under his robes. Such historic titles! And such peaceful parley. He goes to offer his hand, but— um. Alphinaud doesn’t move from the floor to shake it, turtling in the blanket tent. 

Right! Right. The Exarch startles and runs off to get a pair of trousers. 

-

Undeterred, G’raha swears he will try again, and soon, it will not be another year before he finds Ch’ari Tia, he swears it!

…Well. At least the other Elezen girl arrives with her smalls. This does not deter her from cracking her fist against his crystalline ribs, which he’s sure hurts him more than it does her. His ears are ringing from her tirade — not a good time to summon her, she said. The Exarch feels old. 

-

The forest. 

The forest! Of Lakeland! WITH his clothes, thank the gods, but so far out of range! What if he were assaulted by a sin eater while unconscious?! Or harried by some — some, who knows what! A carnivorous plant?!

The Exarch sprints out the gates of the Crystarium, his old man bones protesting at activity he hasn’t done in literal moons. He gains a few looks from the residents as he passes — most amused, at which he can’t decide if he’s amused back or embarrassed — and finally slows to a halt when he realizes Lyna has stopped the Warrior at the gate, and done away with a stray sin eater (!!) like a sensible guard. Bless Lyna. May Lyna have the bounty of the heavens rain upon her. Wonderful grandchild. 

He is out of breath as he approaches, and attempts to gain it back — an effort which he quickly realizes is entirely in vain, as the Warrior of Light finally turns to regard him, suspicious and curious and his eyes flicking to and fro across the Exarch’s form as if he could find some secret solution or an answer hidden within. His clothing is loose and wrinkled — if Alisaie’s scolding was any indication, they must not have had the time to care for it. But, regardless, his fur shines with recent care, and he stands with the height of someone who means to ask questions, not someone out of their depth. One fang pokes through his lips as he examines his abductor. 

The Exarch is great at controlling his face. Fantastic at it. Even so, he smiles a touch without truly meaning to, full of relief and suddenly swamped with strong anticipatory jitters at the journey ahead, promising the Warrior that he will answer his questions back in the Ocular. 

Ch’ari tilts his head like a puppy, eyes boring into the space where G’raha’s remain concealed. He follows, though — tail swaying, steps quiet, gazing at the purple foliage with silent wonder. 

…

Damn his spellcasting making such an exception as this one. 

[darthbloodorange]

A Fluffy, Fuzzy Christmas

Rating: Teens Universe: Earth's Mightiest Heroes Pairings: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Warnings: None Major Tags: Fluff, Soooooooooo much fluff, Humor, Established Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Christmas, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Full Shift Werewolves, Werewolf Steve Rogers, Steve is a big fluffy baby in need of cuddles and attention, POV Tony Stark Word Count: 500 - Quintuple Drabble

Summery: Steve's cursed with lycanthropy over the Christmas period. Tony, as ever, is there to (try to) support Steve.

For the: ✦ CapIM Holiday Exchange 2024 Community Gift Prompt: "Capwolf trying and failing to sit on Tony's lap like a lapdog." + "Capwolf Fluff"

Read below or on AO3 >HERE<

Tony looks up from his phone at the sound of claws clattering against the hardwood floor. He's already smiling before he turns, ready to greet his poor becursed-to-be-fluffy sweetheart.

Having a werewolf in your house wasn't so scary, it turns out, when it was Steve Rogers.

His grin grows when he sees Steve and what he's wearing.

"Steve..." he says, trying not to laugh.

Steve's golden ears flatten against his fluffy head as he lets out a huffy growl winningly.

"I'm guessing Janet is responsible?"

Steve gives a low woof.

The poor man-turned-wolf and all his voluminous, fluffy fur were stuffed into a tastefully gaudy red, white, and blue Christmas jumper that looked tailor-made to his proportions. And around his neck and ankles were little light-up snowflake lights that were nearly lost in all his golden fur.

Tony laughs. He can't help it.

He hears Steve whine, stomping his feet a little.

"Sorry. Sorry," Tony says, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. "You look so cute."

Steve huffs and looks away.

"Sorry," Tony says again, reaching out and tapping Steve's nose.

Then, with a low rumble, Steve is up on the couch with him and trying to sit himself in Tony's lap. His big fluffy tail flopping into Tony's face, getting hair in his mouth.

Steve is careful not to step on Tony but on the couch. Seemingly able to grasp his massive werewolf weight but not just how big he is.

'Oh, this isn't going to work...' he thinks.

Steve twists in circles, trying to find the right angle to get into Tony's lap, squishing Tony against the couch cushions.

He tries to sit, and Tony is hoping he's finally settled so he can breathe again without inhaling what is surely an unhealthy amount of hair. But the position isn't right. So up Steve goes. Circling again to find his spot.

Tony sighs and gets a wet nose to his eye for his trouble.

Steve's foot slips off the edge of the couch, and he has to do some quick leg work to keep himself from going down.

Tony is acutely aware of how close Cap's front right paw came to crushing his privates.

'Thank goodness for Steve retaining his serum-enhanced reflexes in his fuzzy form,' Tony thinks to himself.

But as soon as the thought leaves his mind, Steve is slipping... and falling!

Tony tries to catch him but is taken with him down to the floor.

A miffed growl from Steve. Then Tony is covered almost head to toe in a great big, warm ball of fur as Steve curls up on him.

Sitting in Tony's lap is easier, it appears, if Tony is lying down.

'If only he'd known that two minutes ago,' he thinks, gazing at the couch mournfully.

There would be no moving Steve. Not without those wounded puppy eyes he's already perfected and that Tony was particularly susceptible to.

He accepts his fate and runs his fingers through Steve's thick fur.

THE END

[mjonthetrack]

vice: book II

Chapter 12: “Game Recognize Game”

The field lights were still humming overhead, casting a soft electric glow across the grass as the crowd slowly trickled out. Screams and cheers still echoed from the bleachers where the Fatu clan had gone absolutely feral for the last hour. Every single play Marsai had pulled—from her bone-snapping tackles to the straight-up disrespectful spin moves—had the aunties yelling like it was a boxing match and the uncles on their feet with bets flying left and right.

Now? The chaos had settled into post-game buzz.

And Marsai Monet?

She was walking the sidelines in nothing but her cleats, knee-high socks, and compression shorts that stuck like paint to muscle. Her jersey had been stripped off—tied around her waist in a lazy knot. Her long brown skin glistened with sweat, glowing in the warm light like a goddess fresh off the battlefield.

Messiah sat on her shoulders, one hand casually holding her hair while the other gripped the Gatorade bottle she’d stolen from a cooler. The little boy was gassed up, grinning wide, jersey halfway falling off his tiny frame.

“I told y’all my mama the strongest,” he shouted to no one in particular.

And he wasn’t lying. Marsai was built like she could toss a boulder and then deadlift your feelings.

Jimmy watched from a distance—behind the fence now—lowkey lurking but trying to play it cool. His hoodie was pulled over his head, but he wasn’t slick. His eyes were locked on her like a sniper. From the moment she’d jumped over that poor defender’s head in the second half to the way she’d dropped her shoulder and flattened a woman twice in her weight class, Jimmy had been stunned silent.

She wasn’t just fine—she was fierce.

And now? She looked peaceful.

Messiah leaned forward on her shoulders, whispering something. Marsai nodded, gave him a squeeze on the calf, and turned toward the gate. That’s when she spotted Jimmy.

And she grinned.

“Fatu! You survived!” she called out, voice still loud and warm despite the game’s end.

Jimmy smirked, stepping forward as the gate unlatched. “Barely. You didn’t tell me you was gonna straight-up commit crimes on the field.”

“Gotta keep the fans entertained,” she said, adjusting Messiah on her shoulders. “Little man got a whole routine—cheers and all.”

“I peeped. That ‘go mommy go’ chant had choreography.”

Marsai laughed. It was all teeth and charm and a shake of her curls as she stepped closer, her size and energy commanding space.

Jimmy lifted his brow, half-teasing. “You always carry him like that?”

“Like luggage,” she said proudly. “He likes the view from the top. Don’t you, Siah?”

Messiah nodded, then leaned forward again. “You back again?”

Jimmy tilted his head. “If your mama don’t mind.”

Marsai squinted at him. “He asking you or me?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Whoever’s in charge.”

Messiah tapped Marsai’s head. “Still me.”

Marsai snorted, shaking him lightly. “See? CEO energy. You been warned.”

Jimmy smiled, slower this time. “I don’t mind working my way up.”

That made her pause. Just a little. The corner of her mouth twitched. There was something about the way he said it—low, confident, not cocky. And he was still looking at her like she was the prize, not the challenge.

“Come walk us to the car, then,” she finally said, jerking her chin toward the parking lot.

Jimmy opened the gate without hesitation.

Her truck was there.

Still loud. Still red. Still lifted high like a monster truck with attitude.

Jimmy held the door as Marsai helped Messiah down and buckled him into the booster in the back. The little boy was already nodding off, worn from yelling and his post-game sugar crash.

“Nap time,” Marsai murmured, brushing his curls back from his forehead.

Jimmy leaned against the side of the truck, arms crossed. “You’re a good mom.”

She looked over her shoulder, one brow raised. “You surprised?”

“Not even,” he said honestly. “But it hits different seeing you go from body slams to bedtime.”

Marsai chuckled, stepping back and closing the door gently. She looked up at him—really looked this time—and her expression softened. “You keep showing up, huh?”

“Can’t help it,” Jimmy admitted. “Got this feeling I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

A long beat passed.

Then, she handed him a water bottle from the front seat. “Next game’s in two weeks.”

“That an invite?”

“Don’t play,” she warned with a smirk. “You know it is.”

Jimmy opened the bottle and clinked it gently against hers before she hopped into the driver’s seat. Engine rumbling, bass from a Biggie remix bumping through the speakers, Marsai glanced out the window, shades on now.

“Tell Nadia I’m bringing ribs next time.”

Jimmy nodded, smiling like a man who just found his new favorite problem.

“You already know,” he said.

Chapter 13: “Who Let Y’all Climb?”

The sun had dipped just enough to give the beach a golden glow, casting the perfect light for a cookout. The Fatu compound spilled across the sand like a kingdom—umbrellas posted, coolers cracked, smoke drifting from the grills, music bouncing from boom boxes and speakers alike. Old heads argued over dominoes. Aunties sang over Luther Vandross. Kids ran like banshees.

And Marsai?

Marsai was holding court by the grill, looking like a walking thirst trap in a Dior monogram cover-up tied loosely over a barely-there bikini. Her legs? Endless. Her skin? Glossed and glowing. Her locs? Piled high on her head like a crown.

She flipped ribs with one hand, held a red Solo cup in the other, and cracked up laughing when Uncle Fa’alogo bet he could out-bench her.

“Don’t start none,” she warned, glancing over her shoulder. “Unless you wanna be carried back inside.”

It was the usual: vibes high, plates full, Jimmy watching Marsai with a look that screamed trouble wanted. She caught him staring once or twice, tossed him a wink, but didn't say a word.

Until—

A scream rang out. Sharp. Panicked.

“ISAIAH?!”

Nadia’s voice split through the party, and it was followed by frantic yelling and pointing. Everyone's heads whipped toward the street near the edge of the sand, past the volleyball nets and lawn chairs.

And there—clear as day—one of the triplets was halfway up a damn streetlight pole.

Isaiah. Little curly-headed daredevil in a Paw Patrol shirt, gripping the metal like it was a jungle gym.

“BOY GET DOWN!” Jimmy barked, already stumbling to his feet. “DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!”

“WHO TAUGHT YOU—”

“I told y’all not to let them watch Spider-Man!” one of the aunties yelled.

Marsai’s red cup hit the sand with a soft thud.

Nadia’s hands were shaking. “Oh my God—Jey, do something—he’s gonna fall—ISAIAH!”

Before anyone could even move, Marsai was already tying her hair up.

“Na, breathe. I got it.”

Nadia looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “That pole is—girl, that pole is like ten feet high—”

Marsai didn’t answer. She just bent her knees.

And took off running.

Fast.

Stupid fast.

Her feet slammed the sand and pavement in a burst, then with a clean running start, she hit the pole and climbed it like she’d done it a thousand times.

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “What the—”

“Is she scaling the damn pole?”

The aunties screamed. The uncles cheered.

Kids stopped mid-bite of hot dogs. Someone dropped a rib.

She moved like a cheetah—like muscle and instinct and grace all wrapped up in a six-foot-two Amazon in a bikini. No hesitation. No fear.

She reached Isaiah like he weighed nothing, wrapping one strong arm around him.

“It’s alright, baby,” she said gently. “I got you.”

“Sorry,” he sniffled. “I wanted to see real high.”

“I know. We can talk about that after you back on the ground. Hang tight.”

And then—she jumped.

Clean. Controlled. Dropped from eight feet in the air like she was in a damn Marvel movie, her thighs flexing when she landed, Isaiah still snug in her arms.

The whole crowd froze.

“...She just—” an uncle gasped.

“—just jumped like that?” someone else whispered.

Marsai stood upright, adjusted the boy in her arms, and casually started walking back across the sand like she didn’t just perform a stunt that’d make a stuntman cry.

She reached Nadia and handed Isaiah over.

“Here. Your wild child.”

Nadia was too stunned to speak. She just blinked, looking from Isaiah to her friend like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming.

Marsai brushed sand off her legs. “Now. Somebody hand me another drink. I just earned a refill.”

Jimmy’s voice broke through the silence, low and awed.

“...I love her.”

Marsai turned at that, lips curving in a slow grin.

“You say somethin’, Fatu?”

He blinked. “Huh? Nah. Just sayin’—that boy need supervision.”

She winked.

“Damn right he do. I got plenty to spare.”

And with that, she went back to her grill like she hadn’t just caught a falling child from the heavens.

Chapter 14: “Soft Shit & Splash Wars”

The sun had dipped lower now—casting everything in a honey-gold haze as music drifted, soft and nostalgic, from Marsai’s surround sound. Frankie Beverly. Sade. A touch of DMX for good measure. The grill was still warm, though most plates were scraped clean, and laughter echoed off the beachfront like waves of joy.

The Fatu clan lingered in their spots, basking in food comas and ocean breeze. Some aunties rocked babies to sleep, uncles grumbled about who cheated in dominoes, and JJ was halfway buried in the sand, giggling as one of the triplets tossed seaweed on his head.

Meanwhile, Marsai—still in her black snakeskin thong bikini, long legs stretched out, abs glistening—was feeding herself a rib like a goddess fresh from war.

Jey and Nadia stood nearby, flanked by their brood of little chaos demons, watching her with a mix of awe and guilt still lingering from earlier.

“I mean it,” Jey said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You saved my son. That’s not some small—”

“And you caught him like a superhero,” Nadia added, softer. “That boy was at least ten feet in the air—”

Marsai didn’t even blink. She pointed her half-eaten rib at both of them, sauce glistening under her sharp grin.

“Don’t start that soft shit on me, you two. I box real clean.”

Jey blinked. “Damn. Can’t even say thank you?”

“You can,” she said with a shrug. “But I ain’t gon’ cry with you.”

She sucked the rib clean and tossed the bone into the compost bin like it owed her money. Nadia burst out laughing, leaning into her husband.

“You’re so stupid.”

“I know. That’s why you love me.”

But the moment of peace didn’t last. Suddenly, the sound of splashing and little voices yelling pulled all their attention to the water.

“Marsaaaaaaiiii!!” came the chorus of gremlin children.

“You promised to swim with us!” Jasmine squealed, standing up to her knees in the surf.

“You said after food!” Isaiah shouted, tugging on Jeremiah’s floaties.

“She gon’ beat all y’all in a race!” JJ taunted, already running for the water.

Marsai stood up and stretched, tall as the sky, her curves and muscles bathed in sun. “Aight, aight, lil gremlins—I’m comin’!”

She kissed her teeth and started sauntering toward the waves, glancing at Jey and Nadia on her way past. “Y’all better get in too, before they form a coup and throw you in.”

Then—just as she reached the sand—

“MAA!!”

Everyone turned.

Messiah was standing on the patio like a mini Marsai—arms folded, curls wild from running, and a full huff brewing on his chubby little face. His chest puffed like he was the boss of everyone.

He pointed directly at Jimmy, who was lounging with a cold drink and absolutely no intention of moving.

“Stop bein’ lazy! Help me swim!”

Jimmy blinked like he’d just been slapped by fate. “...I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard him.” Marsai grinned wide, hands on her hips.

Messiah marched over and stood between his mama and Jimmy, glaring up at the tall man like he wasn’t scared of nothin’.

The whole family went silent.

Messiah, puffed-up and deadly serious, pointed to the water. “You big! Help me splash!”

Jimmy snorted. “You not gon’ ask me nicely?”

“No.”

Marsai laughed so hard she nearly dropped her drink.

Nadia was crying into her shirt. “Siah—oh my God—”

Jimmy stood slowly, towering like a shadow over the little man.

“Aight, lil boss. You gon’ swim? Let’s go.”

Messiah grinned finally and grabbed his hand like he hadn’t just threatened him with toddler rage.

As they walked toward the water, Marsai called after them, “And don’t let him drown, Fatu, or I’m beatin’ you next!”

The adults burst into laughter again as Jey slid an arm around his wife’s waist, shaking his head.

“That woman wild.”

Nadia leaned into him, heart full, eyes warm.

“She fits right in.”

Chapter 15: “Splash With Me, Big Man”

The water was warm, shallow in the beginning, and glinting with gold and sapphire as the sun dipped lower. The beach had erupted into laughter, music, and splashes, but Jimmy Fatu stood at the edge of it all—shirt off, tattoos gleaming, staring down at the little brown boy with the most aggressive side-eye he’d ever seen on a toddler.

Messiah stood with his tiny arms still folded over his chest, curls damp from the humidity, face locked in a glare like Jimmy had personally offended his bloodline.

“Okay, little man,” Jimmy muttered, stepping closer. “You got beef or you got floaties?”

Messiah didn’t answer. He just held out one hand like a boss expecting tribute.

Jimmy glanced down at it, blinked, then chuckled. “Oh, you serious?”

The boy nodded once. Sharp. Like a damn general.

With a sigh, Jimmy gave in. Something about that mug on Messiah… that pure, undiluted attitude… reminded him of somebody. Someone short and wild and way too mouthy. He glanced across the beach where Marsai was holding a drink and cracking up with Nadia, and then it hit him.

This was her twin.

He grumbled as he let the little boy climb up into his arms like it was owed, and he waded slowly into the water, the kid's weight surprisingly light against his solid frame.

“You better not try to drown me, shorty.”

“I can’t swim yet,” Messiah replied flatly. “So you gotta hold me up.”

Jimmy blinked. “That’s… fair.”

They moved deeper into the waves, water rising to Jimmy’s waist. Other kids splashed around—JJ was making tidal waves with a boogie board, the triplets were dunking each other like baby sea monsters, and Jasmine was screaming at a seagull like it owed her money.

Messiah held on tightly.

“You scared?” Jimmy asked, smirking.

“...No,” the boy said, but his fingers clutched at his broad shoulders a little tighter. “But if I drown, my mama gon’ throw you off a mountain.”

Jimmy cracked up.

“I believe it.”

They stood like that for a moment, Jimmy slowly lowering Messiah into the water so he could float on his back, his hands steady under the kid’s body. The little boy’s eyes fluttered shut and he breathed deep. For a second—just a second—Jimmy felt something shift.

“Damn,” Jimmy muttered, watching the boy relax. “You got a lot goin’ on in that little head.”

Messiah opened one eye.

“You got a big head.”

Jimmy barked a laugh and almost dropped him.

“Alright, you done.”

“Nuh uh!” Messiah squealed, laughing now, cheeks stretched wide with joy. “You gotta help me SPLASH!”

He suddenly started kicking like a wild thing, spraying water up into the air, soaking Jimmy’s face.

“HEY—”

More laughter bubbled from the boy as Jimmy grabbed him and lifted him high over his head, spinning him gently before dunking him straight into a shallow wave. Messiah screeched with joy.

“DO IT AGAIN!”

“Now you askin’ me nice?” Jimmy smirked.

“PLEASE!”

That little 'please' broke him. Something quiet and solid slipped into Jimmy’s chest as he tossed Messiah again, catching him like a football and laughing when he squealed, trusting completely. It was weird. He’d been around kids his whole life—Jey and Nadia’s squad alone was a daycare—but this little boy? This loud-mouthed, strong-willed, deadpan toddler who mugged him on sight?

He was something else.

Jimmy caught him one more time and held him closer this time, just resting for a second in the water, the weight of a kid who wasn’t his but didn’t feel like a stranger anymore.

“You got a nickname?” he asked.

Messiah rested his head on Jimmy’s shoulder like he’d always belonged there.

“My mama call me Siah.”

Jimmy nodded slowly. “Aight, Siah. You cool.”

Messiah’s little fingers tapped Jimmy’s chain. “You cool too, Big Man.”

Back on the shore, Marsai watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable as Jimmy waded slowly back with her son clinging to his neck, both of them soaked and smiling.

She didn’t say a word.

Not when Jimmy set the boy down carefully on a towel, made sure he was dry and wrapped in one of the soft ones with sharks on it.

Not when he ruffled the kid’s curls and said, “Go tell your mama I ain’t drown you.”

And especially not when Messiah turned to her, wrapped up like a burrito, and said, “I like him, Mama. He splash good.”

Marsai just smirked.

“Yeah, baby,” she murmured. “He just might.”

Chapter 16: “You’re Cool, Fatu”

The sun had dipped low enough that the sky was streaked with deep purples and burnished gold, the tide curling soft and slow along the sand. Most of the kids were starting to crash—JJ draped across Jey’s back snoring, the triplets half-buried in sand like little landmines, and Messiah, still wrapped in his shark towel, had managed to wedge himself like a stubborn cat into the curve of Marsai’s lap.

Jimmy wiped his hands on a towel, glancing back over the group, low laughter rumbling around the Fatu clan as music played in the background. His eyes drifted—again—to the lounger, to her.

Marsai was sunk into the cushions like a goddess off-duty.

Her thick thighs stretched long, glistening in the fading light, her baby hairs curled against her forehead from the surf. That purple bikini had no damn business being legal, and Messiah? That boy was spoiled, tucked into her lap with his eyes fluttering half-closed, like there was nowhere in the universe more peaceful than his mama’s arms.

Jimmy stepped up quietly, not trying to make a thing of it, just slow and easy. Marsai looked up—and smiled.

That smile wasn’t cocky like usual. Not teasing or cutting. It was soft.

Warm. Grateful.

She leaned up slightly, her palm brushing his chest as she kissed his cheek, lips warm from her wine cooler and sun.

“That was sweet of you,” she murmured, voice low enough just for him. “Entertaining Siah like that. I know he can be a lot sometimes—but that meant a lot, Jimmy. You’re cool, Fatu.”

And then, like it wasn’t the first time she’d kissed him—like it wouldn’t be the last—she just grinned, adjusted her towel, and went back to her baby. Messiah mumbled something in toddler-ese as she let him settle deeper against her, rubbing his back, her fingers gentle and rhythmic.

Jimmy stood there for a beat too long. Heart slower now.

He wasn't used to soft.

Not like that.

That woman was six-two, muscle, fire, and a rugby titan, but in that moment? Watching her rock her boy, his little feet twitching as he dreamed and his curls wet from the sea—she was everything tender. Everything steady.

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck, mouth twitching with a smile he couldn’t stop.

“Yeah, well… he’s a good kid.”

She looked up with her lashes low. “I know.”

“Gets it from you.”

Her smile tugged deeper at the corner. “You flirting with me, Fatu?”

Jimmy’s gold tooth flashed in a quick grin. “I’m just observant.”

Before she could answer, Jasmine screamed from the fire pit for more marshmallows, and the beach rumbled back into chaos. Jimmy turned, walking slow, the taste of salt and wine still on the air, and a single thought on loop in his head:

She kissed my cheek.

Chapter 17: “Walk You Home?”

The beach had calmed into that golden hush that only came after kids had burned off every ounce of sugar and adrenaline, leaving behind sleepy bodies and fire-glow memories. The flames from the bonfire had simmered low, casting long shadows across the sand. Most of the Fatu clan was packing up, kids carried like little duffels, bags slung over shoulders, tired laughs drifting toward the tide.

Jimmy found her again—always found her.

Marsai stood off to the side, near her monster of a truck, Messiah slumped over her shoulder, dead asleep. His curls were tangled in her collarbone, his mouth open with the complete trust only a toddler could have.

She was barefoot now, her sandals in her free hand, eyes scanning the quiet path that led back toward her beach house just down the stretch.

He cleared his throat.

“You walking?”

Her head turned slow, that heat still clinging to her cheeks from the bonfire. “Yeah. It’s not far. Don’t wanna wake him trying to get him in the truck for a five-minute drive.”

Jimmy glanced down at her—at the way her muscles flexed even now, strong and unbothered, carrying her son like it was nothing. Her short tank clung to her body, purple bikini still peeking out from underneath, and Lord… she smelled like cocoa butter and smoke and honey.

“I’ll walk you,” he said simply, already stepping beside her before she could say no.

She looked at him, one brow lifted, lips pulling into that slow Marsai smirk. “Ain’t scared of the dark, Fatu?”

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his shorts. “I seen scarier things than your backyard, girl.”

“Mmhm,” she chuckled, bouncing Messiah gently as they started walking. The sand cooled under their feet, their shadows long and twin on the shore.

It was quiet for a while—but the good kind.

The kind that felt like something was building.

“Thanks again,” she said softly. “For earlier. With Siah. You didn’t have to…”

He cut in. “Didn’t feel like something I had to do. Felt like something I wanted to.”

She slowed her steps just a little.

“You good with kids?”

He nodded, looking ahead. “We’re kinda surrounded by ‘em. All shapes and sizes. You learn patience. And dumb voices. And how to eat cold nuggets with no shame.”

She laughed at that, a real laugh—not the showy kind, but the one that cracked her ribs and made her lean into him slightly, her shoulder brushing his.

Jimmy smiled, proud.

Then, softer: “You’re good with him.”

She looked down at her sleeping son, her face going all mama. “He’s my heart. My miracle. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky.”

Jimmy looked over.

“I don’t.”

She paused mid-step, her brow twitching. “Don’t what?”

“I don’t wonder. You’re solid. Smart. Strong. You got this peace to you—even when you wildin’ on the field, there’s something real centered about you.”

He met her gaze when she looked over at him, and for once, she didn’t hide the softness that flickered in her eyes.

“You trying to get another kiss, Fatu?”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t complain.”

They reached the walkway leading to her house—a beautiful modern beach build, wide open and glowing low from the porch lights. The sea was behind them, the sky full of stars.

She stopped at the steps, shifting Messiah gently to unlock the door with one hand.

Jimmy reached out.

“Let me.”

She paused, letting him take Messiah from her arms. The boy snuggled into his shoulder instinctively, sighing like he was already dreaming again.

Jimmy’s arms adjusted smoothly, one hand to support the boy’s back, the other tucking under his knees.

Marsai stared a second too long.

“…You look good like that.”

He raised a brow. “With your son on my shoulder?”

“With my peace in your arms,” she said quietly.

He blinked. That one landed deep.

She opened the door, her voice casual again. “Don’t go gettin’ soft on me now. I got ribs to put up.”

He smiled, handing Messiah back gently once they stepped inside.

Before he turned to leave, she grabbed his wrist.

“Hey.”

He looked back.

Her voice was low again. “You’re dangerous, you know.”

“How’s that?”

“Got me thinkin’ about letting somebody in again.”

Jimmy just grinned, slow and sure. “Then I guess I’m doin’ my job.”

She kissed his cheek again, slower this time, and didn’t let go of his wrist right away.

The door closed softly behind him, but the warmth stayed with him all the way back down the beach.

Chapter 18: “Messiah’s Mom”

Game day buzz was real. The island’s local rugby pitch was alive—music loud, food tents stacked, and folding chairs staked deep into the grass by families who’d been tailgating since sunrise. The Fatus rolled in deep, as always—blankets, speakers, coolers, and all their chaos in tow. But Jimmy? Jimmy showed up early.

Alone.

No Jey cracking jokes. No JJ hanging off his neck. No triplets clinging to his shorts. Just Jimmy. Solo, serious, and sharp as hell in all black—black joggers, black fitted tee, and one proud-ass piece of gear slung over his shoulder.

A custom jersey.

White lettering on the back.

MESSIAH’S MOM. 33.

He wore it like a damn love letter.

He heard the announcer before he even got to the seats.

“AND NOW…NUMBER THIRTY-THREE…YOU KNOW HER, YOU FEAR HER… MARSAAAIIIIIII ‘MURDER MAMA’ NIKOA!”

The crowd lost it.

Jimmy got to the front just in time to see her jog out, shoulders gleaming under the sun, long brown skin glistening in that tight black and purple kit. She pointed to the crowd, grinned like the devil, and winked in the direction of her cheering section.

Jimmy didn’t even flinch. Just clapped like she paid his bills.

Marsai didn’t spot him at first—not in the blur of warm-up chaos. But the second she caught sight of that jersey with her name on it, slung over that man’s shoulder, a cocky-ass grin cracked wide across her face.

“Y’all see that?” one of the aunties whispered, smacking her daughter’s shoulder. “That boy in love.”

“He ain’t blinked once since she jogged out here,” another added.

Meanwhile, Marsai was on one.

If the last game was a show, this was the damn headliner.

She faked left, finessed right, mushed a girl in the face with a clean palm shove, then leapt clean over someone’s shoulders like she’d been born with springs in her thighs. Her team fed off it, scoring again and again while the crowd roared.

Jimmy was locked in, smirking every time she did something wild, arms folded tight across his chest like he was watching his woman rule the world. Because that’s what it felt like—watching a goddess eat her sport alive.

By the final whistle, her team was up thirty points and Marsai looked untouched—hair wild, cheeks flushed, shoulders still gleaming like a warrior queen.

She jogged over to the sideline first, tugging her mouthguard out, flashing those perfect white teeth.

“Well, well…” she drawled, hands on her hips. “Look who came early.”

Jimmy held up the jersey with both hands.

“Rep the best, don’t I?”

Marsai threw her head back and laughed. Loud. Unapologetic. Happy as hell.

Then she leaned in, her forehead pressed to his for just a second. Just a breath. Her voice low.

“You wear that in the wrong part of town, somebody might think we serious.”

Jimmy grinned.

“What if I want them to?”

That shut her up for a beat. Her smile twitched softer. Realer.

“…You’re dangerous,” she murmured again.

He tilted his head. “You already said that.”

She stepped back, waving him toward the tunnel. “Come walk with me, Fatu.”

He followed. Of course he did.

And behind them, the whole damn Fatu family started buzzing like bees in a pot of honey.

Chapter 19: “Gracias, Fatu”

The post-game haze was golden.

The crowd had thinned, the sun leaned low, and Marsai moved like she hadn’t just bulldozed half a rugby team and made it look poetic. Her thick curls were tied up high, sweat still glimmered along her collarbone, and she had Messiah perched on her hip like a weighted accessory she barely noticed.

Jimmy didn’t care where they were walking—just that she told him to follow.

No cameras. No crowd.

Just them under the big shade of a palm tree behind the locker building, a quiet patch of grass where the players usually caught their breath and cracked open cold drinks. She tossed her jersey over a bench and reached for a water bottle, sipping slow before shifting Messiah to the other hip.

He was still watching Jimmy. Real hard.

Big brown eyes narrowed. Mouth pinched. Arms crossed like a tiny bouncer.

Jimmy smirked, tilting his head. “He always look at people like that?”

Marsai laughed through her sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“No. Just men.”

Jimmy glanced down at the little boy, who immediately ducked behind his mama’s thigh like he hadn’t just been mean-mugging with Olympic-level intensity.

“That’s what I thought,” Jimmy muttered, but there was no venom—just amusement.

Marsai turned toward him, eyes a little softer now that the game adrenaline had worn off. The sharpness in her gaze melted just enough to show something else underneath. Something real.

She stepped closer. Real close.

One hand reached up, still cool from the water bottle, and gently cupped his cheek.

Then she kissed him.

Not rushed. Not heated. Just soft.

Warm. Purposeful.

Like she was acknowledging something. Thanking something.

When she pulled back, her thumb tapped once on the same cheek she kissed. She grinned.

“Thanks for coming, Fatu.”

He was quiet for a second. Processing. That wasn’t just a kiss. That was an invitation.

“Anytime,” he said, his voice lower now. Calmer.

“Oh—” she added, shifting Messiah on her hip again, “—me and lil’ man were gonna get some Mexican. Hit that little street spot down by the beach. If you wanna come.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow.

Messiah peeked back up at him again, suspicious as hell.

But this time?

That glare turned into a sudden giggle. Soft. Kid-like. Like Jimmy’s presence was starting to slide into his okay-zone, whether he wanted it to or not. The little boy hid again behind his mama’s leg, smiling into her shorts.

Jimmy looked back at Marsai.

“Y’all buying?”

She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. “You built like that and broke? Come on.”

He laughed. Hard. Then he followed, no hesitation.

As they walked off into the fading sunlight, Messiah still hiding shyly and Marsai casually tossing her empty bottle into a bin like she wasn’t the most lethal woman on the island, Jimmy muttered to himself with a grin:

“Damn. I’m in trouble.”

Chapter 20: “Queso and Quiet Confessions”

The little beachside Mexican joint was dim and buzzing, all string lights and cumbia echoing through the warm night air. Salsa jars clinked on each table, and the smoky sizzle of carne asada drifted in from the open kitchen.

Marsai had already ordered—fluent in Spanglish and flavor—and now she stood, brushing her hands on her shorts.

“I’ma go wash up real quick. You good here?” she asked, pausing as she looked down at the booth where Messiah was still working through his complimentary kids’ menu crayons.

Jimmy nodded, arms stretched casually over the back of the booth. “Yeah, we’re good.”

She gave a subtle look. That quiet, unspoken trust kind of look. Then she left.

And just like that, it was just Jimmy and Messiah. The sounds of the restaurant wrapped around them: the scrape of forks, bursts of laughter, a toddler crying two tables over.

Messiah, with his big mop of curls and determined focus, had already wriggled out of his high chair with toddler stealth. He didn’t even ask—just climbed up into the booth seat beside Jimmy, then wormed himself into the man’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He placed the coloring sheet across Jimmy’s thigh and resumed his masterpiece. Fat purple crayon in his tiny fist. Tongue poked out in focus.

Jimmy blinked. His massive tattooed arm was now pinned to the side by a child who was steadily using his leg as a desk.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he adjusted so the kid had a little more room.

A waitress passed by, flashing them a smile so bright it nearly stole his breath. She dropped off a basket of warm tortilla chips and a bowl of molten queso.

“Aww, your son is so cute! You two are precious,” she cooed, already walking off before Jimmy could open his mouth.

He didn’t even have time to correct her.

He looked down, amused.

“My son,” huh?

Before he could roll his eyes, a small voice interrupted his thoughts—quiet, but weighty.

“I wish I had a daddy.”

Jimmy froze.

The crayon didn’t stop moving. Messiah kept scribbling, totally unaware that he’d just body-slammed the breath right out of a grown man.

Jimmy’s throat tightened.

This wasn’t like before when the kid was mean-mugging him at the beach or swearing off any man who looked at his mama. This wasn’t fire and attitude. This was soft. Honest.

Jimmy looked down at him. The little boy didn’t even look up—like he’d just said something normal. Like it wasn’t earth-shattering.

“I mean… Mama says I’m her big man. But I want a daddy too,” Messiah mumbled, eyes still focused on his purple scribbles.

Jimmy couldn’t answer right away.

He didn’t know how.

He’d never wanted kids. Hell, he wasn’t sure he knew how to be good with them. But Messiah… Messiah made himself comfortable in his space like he belonged there. Like he chose him.

And that did something deep in Jimmy’s chest.

Something he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

“…That so?” he finally said, voice softer than he meant it to be.

Messiah nodded, now switching to a green crayon, then leaned slightly back into Jimmy’s chest like it was second nature.

Jimmy let him. Arms wrapping slightly, protective. Steady.

And just as Marsai came walking back toward them—smelling like lemon soap and something sweeter—she paused. Just for a second. Just to take in the sight of her son curled up on Jimmy Fatu’s lap, coloring like he’d always been there.

Her brows lifted slightly.

Jimmy looked up, caught her eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

She smiled, slow and knowing, before slipping into the other side of the booth.

“Y’all save me some chips or nah?”

Jimmy cleared his throat and slid the basket her way.

Messiah held his green crayon up to her proudly. “Look what I made, Mama!”

Marsai’s smile grew, her eyes drifting between the boy and the man beside him.

She didn’t say anything either.

But that look?

That look said everything.

Chapter 21: “A New Rhythm”

The drive back to Marsai’s place was smooth. The evening air had cooled down, and the streetlights flickered through the car windows, casting long shadows on the road. The hum of the engine was a quiet companion to the soft, rhythmic breathing of Messiah in the backseat, his little body wrapped in the warmth of sleep.

Marsai stole glances in the rearview mirror, watching Jimmy’s face as he drove, his hands steady on the wheel. She’d seen this side of him—gruff, quiet, and somewhat detached—but right now, there was something else there, something more. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

When they pulled up to her place—a modest beach house with the kind of vibe that said "home"—she cut the engine and turned to Jimmy, offering him a quiet smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He nodded back, just a simple acknowledgment that didn’t need words.

The moon was hanging low over the horizon, and the cool ocean breeze drifted in through the open door as Marsai stepped out of the car.

“C’mon, little man,” she said softly to Messiah, nudging him awake as they all walked toward the door.

Messiah, still groggy but ever the morning person, yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes. But it wasn’t sleep that had him sluggish—it was something else. The little boy walked right up to Jimmy, stood there for a second, then tilted his head slightly, the words tumbling out without any warning.

“Pretend daddy, can you play with me?”

Marsai froze.

Her heart skipped, and the smile she had on her face faltered for a fraction of a second. The door to her house creaked open, and she just stood there, unsure of what to do. The words hung in the air, unanswered.

“Messiah…” she started softly, but her voice trailed off as she glanced at Jimmy. He was looking down at her son, his expression unreadable, his posture a bit stiff. He wasn’t her husband—he wasn’t even technically anything. But in that moment, he looked like he could be.

She bent down, placing a hand gently on Messiah’s shoulder to let him down easy. He looked up at her, his little face painted with expectation. The fact that he wasn’t asking for anything big or out of the ordinary from Jimmy—that wasn’t the issue.

The issue was Marsai’s own heart.

She and Jimmy hadn’t even had the talk. Hell, the guy barely knew anything about her or her son. He wasn’t even asking for much. He was just... there. Just standing there, looking like he was waiting for something.

A moment passed. Silence.

Then she straightened, a sigh escaping her lips as she gave a small, almost sheepish laugh.

“Don’t mind him, Jimmy,” she said, half-joking but with a hint of sincerity. “He’s got a way of saying things without thinking about them first.”

Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. He didn’t have to. The unspoken words between them stretched longer than she thought.

Messiah’s small hand tugged at the sleeve of Jimmy’s shirt then, breaking the quiet. “Please? I wanna play with you. Mama always plays, but you can’t play like she can.”

Jimmy’s eyes flickered down at the little boy, who was now looking up at him like he could move mountains if he just tried hard enough. For a moment, Jimmy didn’t know how to react. But then something inside him shifted. Maybe it was the weight of the simple request or maybe it was just the image of Marsai standing there, unsure.

He finally exhaled, his voice steady but surprisingly soft.

“Alright, little man,” he said, his lips curling into a half-smile. “What do you want to play?”

Marsai’s breath caught. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or nervous. But she kept her gaze steady on Jimmy, waiting for something—anything—that would show her whether he was really in this or just humoring a kid he barely knew.

Messiah grinned, the happiest grin she’d seen in hours, and immediately grabbed Jimmy’s hand, pulling him toward the living room where his toys were scattered.

“You can race with me, ‘cause you’re real strong, right?” he asked, bouncing on his feet.

Jimmy followed, his tall frame dwarfing the room’s cozy space. He bent down a little, eyes meeting Messiah’s with the kind of focus that was almost intense.

“You want me to race with you, huh? Alright, let’s see if I can keep up with the big man.”

Marsai stood at the door, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Jimmy, the man who was never supposed to be a “dad” or anything like that, was now kneeling down to play with her son. And Messiah was grinning—his world now suddenly bigger because a stranger had just become someone he could rely on.

Marsai closed her eyes for a moment, a wave of emotions crashing over her.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t forever. But it was something.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

She wiped a tear that threatened to fall as she stepped inside, letting the two of them go on ahead. She knew it wasn’t just a game anymore. It was the start of something real. Something she couldn’t have predicted, but something she was ready for.

Chapter 22: What Saved Me

The night had fallen soft around them, the only light in Marsai’s cozy beachside living room flickering gently from a low lamp in the corner. The waves outside rolled in rhythm, a lullaby of sorts, backing the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and the even quieter sound of breathing.

Messiah was curled up on Jimmy’s chest now, one hand fisted in the soft fabric of his hoodie, his thumb still close to his mouth but long since fallen asleep. Jimmy had one big palm resting along the boy’s small back, steady and warm. The way he adjusted without waking him, holding him just so—like he’d been doing this a long time—would’ve startled Marsai if she wasn’t so tired.

She stood across the room, arms crossed, one hip leaning against the kitchen counter, watching.

“You’re good with him,” she said softly, more observation than compliment.

Jimmy glanced up at her but didn’t say anything right away. He looked down at the boy breathing against his chest and then back to her, like he was debating if he could ask the question that had been dancing at the edge of his mind all evening.

"Where’s his dad?" he asked quietly.

Marsai flinched.

She blinked once, like it had stung. Then she exhaled slowly and padded over, sitting on the edge of the couch, not too close, not too far. The fire in her eyes—the same one he’d seen in her gym, on the rugby field, behind the grill, dancing at the beach—it dimmed slightly.

She rubbed her arm absently. Her shoulders were broad, strong, but in this moment, she looked smaller than he’d ever seen her.

“Yeah, um…” Her voice cracked just a little. “He used to beat me. Real bad.”

Jimmy didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

“In front of Messiah,” she added, like that was the worst part. And it was.

She looked away, toward the floor, her curls shifting with the turn of her head. “It got really bad. I’d take the hits just to keep Siah safe. To try and be the wall, y’know? Block him from everything. I thought I could endure it. I thought I had to.”

Her voice dropped.

“But then one day... he hit Messiah too.”

That part landed heavy. Jimmy felt it in his chest, a pulse of quiet rage simmering under the surface, but he didn’t interrupt.

Marsai’s hand ran through her curls, her fingers trembling slightly. She didn’t bother wiping the tears as they fell, slow and hot.

“I grabbed what I could,” she whispered. “I fled. I didn’t even have shoes on. I wrapped Siah in a hoodie and I ran until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore.”

She paused, breathing ragged. Jimmy still said nothing—he knew this wasn’t a moment to speak. This was one to witness.

“My grandmother was Samoan—on my mom’s side. That’s how I ended up here. Her family’s from the islands, but she had this little beach house and always said it would be mine if I ever needed to disappear. So I came. I used the last of what I had to start fresh. Opened up my fitness center. Built a new life from scratch.”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him.

“My son, Jimmy…” Her voice was firm now, unshaking. “My Siah—he means everything to me. Everything.”

She looked down at the little boy, who shifted slightly in his sleep but didn’t stir.

“Everything I do… is for him. He kept me alive when I didn’t want to be anymore. When things got so dark, so heavy… I’d look at him and remember I still had light.”

Jimmy’s jaw clenched, his hand tightening slightly on the boy without meaning to.

He saw her now—not just the strong, tall, lethal woman with the grill tongs and the rugby cleats and the cut-up hoodies. He saw the mother. The survivor. The warrior.

Marsai sniffed, finally wiping her face.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to trauma-dump on you,” she chuckled hollowly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Jimmy shook his head, his voice low. “Nah. Don’t apologize. That’s real. You’re real.”

Their eyes met again. And for once, the air between them didn’t crackle with flirtation or playful tension. It was something deeper. Heavier.

Respect. Understanding. Maybe even a little awe.

Jimmy looked down at Messiah again, the little boy’s face peaceful against his chest. He didn’t know what this all meant yet. What he was walking into. But he knew one thing as sure as he knew his own name.

This kid wasn’t just a kid.

And this woman—this woman wasn’t just a flame he was dancing around.

He was in it now.

Whether he was ready or not.

Chapter 23: That’s When Shit Went Left

The late afternoon sun was soft, painting the neighborhood in golden light. Jimmy rolled up slow in the blacked-out Escalade, bumpin’ low Luther through the speakers. Messiah’s little surprise—a mini wrestling belt and a plush tiger—was tucked under one arm. Man had picked it himself that morning. Said "Siah gon' love this one."

The front porch to Marsai’s beach house was quiet at first glance. Peaceful. But the second he stepped out the truck, the whole energy shifted.

Marsai was standing on the porch barefoot, arms folded tight across her chest. Her jaw locked, curls wild like she hadn’t planned to be outside this long. Her voice was low but sharp, each word slicing out with venom. In front of her stood a man that made Jimmy’s stomach tighten—not in fear, but in recognition.

That’s him.

He was slim, average height, dressed like he thought he was tougher than he was—designer shirt too small for his ego, flashy chains, and loud bravado trying to cover a weak core. But Jimmy didn’t need a full intro. He could see it.

The way Messiah clung to Marsai’s leg, trembling. The way her arms flinched when the man got too close. The haunted flicker in her eyes when she looked back toward the door, calculating a run.

Jimmy stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Messiah saw him and immediately let go of his mama’s leg, running straight to Jimmy like instinct. Jimmy knelt, caught the boy in one arm, and held him close without a word.

The man on the porch cocked his head.

“What the fuck is this?”

Jimmy didn’t blink. Just rose to full height, holding Messiah with ease, towering in all his six-foot-three, thick-shouldered presence. Calm. Still.

“Take Siah inside, Marsai.”

His voice was deep. Quiet. Controlled.

But not calm.

Marsai hesitated. “Jimmy—”

“I said,” he repeated, not taking his eyes off the man, “Take your son inside.”

That pause, that moment of indecision in her eyes? That triggered something deep in Jimmy’s chest. A memory. A vow.

He watched her finally nod, scooping Messiah from his arm gently, backing into the house. She never took her eyes off the man—until the door clicked shut.

Then Jimmy turned his full attention to the punk on the porch.

“You know,” the man laughed, eyes wild with false confidence, “you actin’ real bold for somebody steppin’ in my shit.”

Jimmy didn’t smile.

Didn’t flex.

Didn’t move.

He just watched him.

“You her man now?” the dude taunted. “What—you think you just gon’ raise my son? You think that lil' bitch gon’ forget me?”

Jimmy’s eyebrow barely lifted. “You laid hands on a woman. In front of her child. That boy flinched when he saw you.”

“Yeah?” The man spat to the side, walking down one step like he might swing. “What you gon’ do about it, bitch-ass? You wanna get active or what?”

The silence that followed was chilling.

Jimmy Fatu smiled then. But it was the wrong kind of smile. It was empty. Cold. The kind that came right before blood hit concrete.

“You have no fuckin’ clue who I am.”

He stepped forward once.

“I’m one of the Fatu twins.”

Another step.

“You ain’t the first clown who thought yelling made him a man.”

Another step.

“But raise your hand again, and I promise you—your son will never see you again.”

The man looked ready to mouth off—but his eyes darted. Jimmy had gotten close. Too close. There was something behind his stare that didn’t make sense. A weight. A calm violence.

This wasn’t just a big dude.

This was a made man.

“You done now?” Jimmy asked, still low, still even. “Or you wanna keep diggin'?”

“Man, fuck you—” the man started, but Jimmy’s eyes snapped sharp.

That look alone made the man pause.

Jimmy reached into his pocket, not for a weapon—but for his phone.

“You got ten seconds to be off this property,” he said, voice dry. “After that? I ain’t callin’ cops. I’m callin’ blood.”

The man stared for a beat. Weighed his pride against his life.

Then he cursed under his breath, backed off the porch, and got in his rusted charger, tires squealing as he peeled out the street like a child throwing a tantrum.

Jimmy waited.

Made sure the coast was clear.

Then turned and stepped back inside.

Marsai was in the kitchen, hands shaking as she poured water. Messiah was quiet, coloring, but his eyes kept flicking toward the door.

Jimmy didn’t say anything at first.

Just walked over, bent down, and kissed Marsai’s forehead.

She exhaled into his chest as he hugged her, arms tight.

He didn’t have to say it.

But she knew now—

This man? He was here.

And the next time anyone came for her or her son?

They’d be coming through hell.

[warpedlegacywrites]

Happy Friday! For some Theresa/Cullen Battle Couple Fluff, "Night Out"? (Maybe how they wind down after getting jumped in hightown on a date night?)

Happy @dadrunkwriting! I had a fair bit of fun with this prompt. I would have liked to include more of the alley fight itself, but my brain can't wrap itself around combat writing tonight lol.

Theresa rests her hand on her hip and huffs at an errant curl that falls across her eyes, surveying the damage. “All things considered,” she says, “it actually turned out to be quite a nice night.”  Cullen stares at her, somewhat incredulous. Though he shouldn’t be surprised. After six years, he should really see things like this coming. Even so, he feels compelled to once again be the voice of reason, futile though it is.  “Our first night out without Ellie in months had to start late because Rosie forgot she was watching her, our favorite tavern is closed thanks to a petty feud with a rival barkeep, I’m pretty sure the meat we were served at the pub we did end up eating at was raw, and on top of that, we get mugged on our way home.” He gestures down at the several unconscious figures splayed across the alley before the two of them.  “Well, they certainly tried.” Theresa’s mouth tilts with a smug smirk, eyes alight with adrenaline in the moonlight. “And I’ve already told you – that meat wasn’t raw, it was medium-rare. It’s how it’s supposed to be cooked.” 

One of the figures stirs, and lets out a pained groan, probably deeply regretting his return to consciousness. A broken nose will make someone regret a lot of things. 

“I refuse to believe that we’re supposed to give ourselves food poisoning for the sake of flavor.” Cullen steps up to the would-be mugger, tilting his face up to him using the toe of his boot. He waits until the man’s eyes slowly blink open before he speaks down to him. “I take it you and your companions have learned your lesson?” 

The poor sod tries to nod, but his chin is trapped by Cullen’s boot. Cullen releases him and lets him gather his compatriots while he goes to stand next to Tess. 

“Must you always point out only the negative?” she asks with a musical tone, smirk still firmly in place. 

“Oh, please do point out what positive might be gleaned from tonight’s disaster?” 

Anyone else might assume her to be completely nonchalant about the bruised glares pointed her way. Cullen knows it for a mask – behind that careless air, there’s a glint of calculation in her eyes, and the glint of steel about her flashing teeth. She’s watching them all quite carefully. When they launch their secondary attack, foolishly presuming her guard down, they don’t even notice the rising scent of ozone in the alley, or the spark of electricity in her palm. 

Not that it would have done them much good if they had – there’s nowhere to dodge her chain lightning in this narrow space. Cullen manages to flatten his hands over his ears to block out the worst of the deafening strike, but it’s a near thing. The muggers, having finally learned their lesson, turn tail and run – those who can. The rest are dragged or carried out between them. 

“We got to work out our aggression,” she answers, making a show of blowing at the tendrils of smoke arising from her fingers. Cullen watches her mouth as she does, the soft petals of her lips perked into a rounded shape designed to tantalize him. “And we still got to have a night out, just the two of us.” 

She looks up, catching him watching her, blinking in surprise. Another mask – he doesn’t believe for a moment she wasn’t doing that deliberately and solely for his benefit. 

“In fact,” she continues, her voice dropping to a register that never fails to stir that primal response in his core. “The night doesn’t have to end here.” 

Cullen’s heart jumps within his breast at the thought of taking her right here, right now, in this filthy and now blood-stained alley. However, common decency maintains its hold on him, and he forms a much better plan. 

“I know a place not far from here that will rent us a room by the hour,” he says, holding up a finger at her arched eyebrow. “But you have to promise not to ask how I know.” 

“Well, now I want to ask even more.” 

He chuckles and rubs at his neck. He walked right into that one. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. “There’s an inn I used to frequent, but it’s because I would always play chess with the old barkeep when business was slow.” 

“That’s very sweet of you – though I’m not sure why you’d be embarrassed about it?” 

“Well… it’s not the sort of place you’d expect to see anyone young enough to still be working,” he admits reluctantly. “I didn’t exactly have many options for companionship among the other templars, and that old biddy was just about the only person who could beat me at the game as often as Mia… until you, that is.” 

Theresa’s eyes glisten with fondness as she cups his face. “I’d love to meet her.” 

“Let’s hope you don’t,” he laughs. “If she’s the one working the bar, we’ll never make it up to the room! She’ll insist on a match then and there.”

[kvira-greystone]

K’vira turned and looked at the sleeping form of her younger brother in the moonlight. Her night vision was piss-poor, but with the moonlight filtering in through the window, she could make out the small figure of K’rauf several fulms away from her.

The boy, barely 10 summers old now, was fast asleep while curled up on the cold floor. His back was towards her, and she had to resist the urge to reach out to make sure he was okay. The boy had gone to bed hungry, and she could still hear his gurgling stomach with her sensitive ears. 

Renting this apartment took all the gil they had managed to save after paying off guard after guard and purchasing ferries and coach rides as needed until they reached Ul’dah. The sibling pair didn’t even have enough for a loaf of bread on the morrow to break their fasts. K’vira would have to do something to provide for her little brother, she could go a day or two without food if needed, but K’rauf was still in the delicate stages where he’d need plenty of nourishment to grow. 

Her own stomach rumbled at the mere thought of food, and she tried to remember the last time she ate more than a few measly mouthfuls of food to appease her brother’s worries. She could feel the vibrations against her hand as she ran her fingers over her taut belly. 

The gnawing hunger then surged, her stomach growling louder as the hunger pains made her wince in discomfort. Curling in on herself, she waited for the sensation and sounds to pass. 

She didn’t know how long she laid there in the dark, curled up and shaking with hunger, but eventually birdsong started to reach her ears, making the fuzzy appendages flick towards the sounds. Exhaustion sat heavy in her bones as she slowly unfurled her body and stood on shaky legs in the pale morning light that came in through the windows and started warming the stone floors. 

She was bound to collapse soon if she didn’t eat and sleep right, but there was so much to do, and there didn’t seem to be enough bells in the day. K’rauf needed her to take care of him, and today she was supposed to help guide a small-time merchant to another settlement outside the gates of Ul’dah. She was to be gone for two suns, and she needed to find a way to make sure K’rauf had food for those days until she got back. 

K’vira grabbed her gear, and after checking to see if her brother was still asleep, she padded to the apartment area’s community bathhouse. She washed away the fatigue in tepid water, and by the time she was dressed and returned to their apartment, she felt like a little less of the world’s weight was on her shoulders. 

K’rauf was awake when she stepped into the small room (it was all they could afford, a single room apartment called a ‘studio’), and sitting on the floor rubbing away the sleep in his eyes. 

“Good morning, Rauf,” K’vira greeted her brother as she crossed the room to ruffle his hair. “If you wait a little bit, I’ll get something to break your fast.” 

“... You need to eat, too, Vira,” K’rauf said softly, voice still laden with sleep. “I heard your stomach last night. You’re not eating enough.” 

K’vira’s ears flattened at that, her teenage temper threatening to rise in her defense. K’rauf just stared at her with his big violet eyes, not backing down the same as her. The siblings stared at each other for the longest time, but K’vira was the first to break the stalemate.

“If there’s enough, we’ll share it,” she finally settled on as she grabbed her pack from beside the door. “I’m heading to the market. I might be able to run a few errands for someone and get some food for us.”   

The boy hummed in acceptance and suddenly scrambled to get up. “I’ll come with---” 

“Stay here,” K’vira interrupted. “I don’t know this place well enough yet and I don’t want you getting lost in the crowd. The market’s are small, but really busy, and anything could happen to you if I’m not keeping an eye on you.” 

“I can help though,” K’rauf said in a pathetic whine. His tail bottle-brushed and swished angrily behind him as he stomped his foot. Even though the boy had elezen ears, they were just as expressive as miqo’te ones, and turned down in his negative emotions. 

K’vira shook her head. “No. I’m supposed to look after you, and I won’t have something happen to you either. Now, stay here. I’ll be back soon.” 

K’rauf glowered at his sister, sitting on the floor with a harrumph and turning his back towards her. He was done speaking with her, and likely would be mad for a few bells, or until she returned with food.

The miqo’zen rolled her eyes at her little brother’s angry actions, but shut the door without another word. Her stomach rumbled again, and with determination in her heart, she made her way to the Sapphire Avenue Exchange to procure at least a loaf of bread for them. 

[disillusioned-phantasma]

Even the lady working at the adoption centre tried to change your mind as you handed in the official papers to take him home. “Are you sure you want to adopt this one?” The elderly woman asked in a hushed, conspiratorial tone (probably because she thought that he wouldn’t hear her), “He came in a few weeks ago after being rescued from an underground fighting ring. You know how those hybrids are… they can make difficult pets. It doesn’t help that this poor thing is a wolf hybrid as well, most people prefer to adopt dogs over wolves.” 

Despite that, you’d gave the lady a polite yet firm smile- one that brokered no room for argument, and shoved the papers into her arms. “No worries, he is the one I want to adopt.” 

Just like that, you brought him home.

It took you 3 months to break down the icy wall in his heart. Kageyama was stubborn, he’d learn from his past mistake of being too trusting. He snarls and growls when you come too close, flattens his ears against his head and peels back his lips to flash his deadly fangs when you try to pet him. Anything to make you afraid of him. 

Against all odds, you are much more stubborn than him. And Kageyama finds himself curled against you on your bed, nuzzling his nose into the palm of your hand when you make breakfast. He starts to imprint his scent on you when you come back from work, growling in displeasure when he catches a faint whiff of another male’s scent clinging to your clothes as you laugh and scratch the back of his ears to calm him down. 

In the sixth month, he takes the final leap of faith. Most hybrids don’t ever shift into their full human form. The transformation is slightly jarring when he shifts, and he peers curiously at his five fingers, flexing them carefully with an air of muted amazement. This was how humans were? Although he retained the keen senses of a wolf (including his tail and furry ears), Kageyma couldn’t help but feel vulnerable without his claws and fur. 

It takes him a few tries before he gets the hang of walking around on two legs instead of four, and another hour before he manages to run on them. 

When the door finally slides open, he’s bounding towards you before you even slip off your shoes. 

“What- who are you?” You shriek in surprise, pushing against his bare chest in an attempt to escape from his embrace. Kageyama huffs irritatedly, fixing you with a steely glare before his curious fingers begin to wander across the curves of your soft skin. Your body feels different from his, Kageyama marvels at how delicate you feel under the pads of his fingertips, how soft you are compared to his muscled figure. He’d never felt just how fragile you were. Like a little bunny in his grasps. 

“Kage-Kageyama?” You squeak when his hands wander to your thighs, squeezing them softly through the fabric of your skirt to avoid hurting you. The ears on his head twitch, an indication that he heard you but chose to ignore your command. 

Unable to help himself, he grazes his nose across your neck; letting his tongue dart out to taste your skin. Your body is oddly flushed, as if you were running at a higher temperature than normal. “Stop!” You try to push his stubborn head away from your neck and Kageyama growls in displeasure as the loud thump of his heavy tail against the floor fills the air. You usually never stop him from imprinting you when you come home, why are you being so insistent now?

Your hands brace against his broad shoulders and shove. If it were any other person, they would have found themselves with a missing hand, instead, Kageyama forces himself to draw away and actually focus on you instead. 

His ears twitch irritatedly when you try to put some distance between the two of you, stubbornly, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer. 

“Kageyama-”

“Tobio,” He huffs out, trying to nuzzle into your neck again until you push him away. 

“Wait-wait, Tobio,” you try again and channel a firm tone into your voice. “Stop.” 

It takes another few tries before Kageyama detaches himself from you reluctantly and you scurry off to your room and shove a pair of black sweat in direction. “Put this on,” you squeak, averting your eyes at how...naked he is. You just can’t help yourself from sneaking a peek as he shuffles the pants on. One glance is enough to have your cheeks heating up like a furnace, your Kageyama is undoubtedly well-endowed. 

After you’ve explained how he can’t just shift into a human without a warning because you nearly screamed for help at the sight of a naked man in your house, he doesn’t really seem to understand. His dark tail swishes restlessly against the floor as you speak, and his equally dark eyes remain fixated on your neck. 

Only when you are done berating when you let him drape his wandering hands over your body, slapping away his fingers from your chest and thighs. A discontent growl rumbles his throat when you try to leave his arms and you decide to let it slip, sighing as he noses his face into your neck and squeezes at your waist to hold you on his lap. 

You’d never really had the heart to deny him anyway. You can still see the ragged silver scars across his chest from his earlier days, learning about his haunted past in the adoption centre nearly broke your heart. Sure, he looked intimidating, always looming over you with a ferocious snarl tugging his lips upwards to reveal pink gums and silver fangs whenever you brought him out. Practically snapping through his muzzle if someone else even looks at you the wrong way. But his jagged edges are always soothed over whenever you run a comforting hand over his head to soften his rising growls. 

“Tobio,” you murmur into his hair, running your fingers across his ears as he grunts. “I’ve got to prepare dinner.” 

“Stay.” He growls in a husky timbre, the pitch of his low voice sending vibrations up your spine.

You laugh at the petulance scrawled all over his features, the grumpy scowl on his mouth is betrayed by his droopy ears. He looks so darned adorable that you resist the urge to pinch his cheeks playfully. It’s hard to believe that he was the same wolf that would snarl and nip at your fingers just a few months ago. 

“Come on,” you untangle yourself from under his heavy limbs. Kageyama sniffs your shirt one final time, satisfied that you're absolutely drenched in his scent before he shifts to the other side and watch you pad over to the kitchen. 

Being in his human form was new, there were...sensations that were totally foreign to him. It was easy to get lost in your softness, his large calloused hands scarred from years of fighting touched your body like he was handling glass. Like he was born to protect you, keep you tucked away by his side and shield you from the world. And he wants more. Kageyama watches as you put on your apron and hum a tuneless song, he wants to be more than just your guard dog or pet. 

But to be completely honest, he isn’t exactly sure what you want. 

-----

He starts to shift to his human form every time he’s with you.

Watching TV together on the extra large couch you bought to fit his large body, draping his arm over your chest when you sleep, nudging his head on your shoulder when you cook. Kageyama hates it with a burning passion when you push his hands off, hates it even more when you give him a stern glower

He just really can’t keep his hands to himself when you feel this good. 

A thought pops into his mind late at night, when your deep breaths are even and puffing into the side of your pillow. With his head on your chest, Kageyama’s keen hearing can pick up the steady pace of your heartbeat throbbing against your ribs. 

He shifts a little, and the brush of his swelling cock against his pants makes him stifle a loud whine. It’s your fault, you always make his cock react in such weird ways, and it hurts. Kageyama doesn’t understand why his cock gets so hard and leaky whenever your body is pressed against his. But it hurts, and the only thought running through his brain is to relieve himself. 

But being the good boy that he is, Kageyama doesn’t want to wake you up. He knows that you have to get up early tomorrow to get to work, knows that you're a deep sleeper and you rely on him to keep you safe. Yet, good boys definitely don’t hump themselves against their master’s leg. 

It’s so easy to turn his head and lap a tongue over your chest. Immediately, your nipples stiffen through your shirt and Kageyama wraps his mouth over one of them through the fabric as he grinds his crotch against your soft thighs. Despite the friction, it’s barely enough, he can still feel his pants getting wetter and pathetic whines begin to lace the deep growls rumbling his throat as he wraps your waist and pulls your ass against his cock to nudge his hardness against it. 

He wants to feel your skin against his, doesn’t want to feel this darned cotton that obstructs your soft body from his. 

You let out a breathy gasp, lashes fluttering when he humps your pliant body. He’s slobbering all over your breasts now, leaving large, wet stains across your thin camisole as his hips take on a more erratic rhythm in a desperate attempt to reach his climax. Kageyama half expects you to wake up and tell him off for his actions, but you remain in your deep slumber as sweat begins to matt his fringe and his heavy tail tangles with the blankets. 

He’s getting drunk, drowning in the pretty curves of your body until something hits him like a truck. 

Your scent, your arousal staining your panties each time his cock bumps against between your thighs. It pushes him from the border of sanity to ravenous. Kageyama has caught slight wafts of your scent before (when you leave your shirt outside the bathroom as you shower, your shampoo clinging on the pillows when you leave for work), but the full brunt of it, separated by only your tiny shorts and lace panties has his brain going blank and driving him mad, triggering his rut. 

This time, the heavy hand ripping away your shorts yanks you rudely out of your sleep. 

“To-Tobio,” your sleepy question morphs into a sharp whine when he nuzzles into your cunt, nipping along your inner thighs and licking a fat stripe over the seat of your panties. His heavy breaths catch in his throat when Kageyama's sharp gaze catches sight of the dark spot clinging to your panties. He might just break you in half if he doesn’t get a taste of your sweet fluids right now. 

Instinctively, you try to close your legs but his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs and his dark, wolfish gaze meets yours before he growls out a single word- a command. “Open.” 

You nearly scream when he pushes your panties aside and dwelves his tongue into your cunt, making up for his inexperience with sheer vigour as he eats you out. Your intoxicating taste floods his tongue, and Tobio feels his cock throb whenever your arousal stains his lips until he’s dying to bury his face deeper into your cunt to suck at your clit, utterly determined to make you fall apart on his tongue. He’s relentless, drawing your hips back with a pair of strong, muscled arms so that he can latch his mouth over your folds each time you try to wriggle out until your crying and wailing from how stupidly good his mouth feels on your needy cunt. 

“Tastes good,” he practically moans heatedly into your cunt, his own hips desperately grinding against the soft mattress each time he laps at the slick dripping down your folds. Two thick fingers work their way between your obscenely spread legs to hold you open as he gives you another long lick before tonguing your hole. It’s so lewd, the way your cute pet drools over the taste of your fluids whilst his tongue reaches the insides of your cunt. 

“Bad-bad boy!” Your reprimand doesn’t have it’s usual effect, instead, his throat rumbles in a displeased huff as Kageyama gives you one final lick before he smothers you under the weight of his large body and pulls you in for a sloppy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he parts your lips messily. “Mate,” he pants, barely holding himself back from claiming you right there and then. You’re human, he reminds himself through the haze of lust blurring his mind, your addicting scent still lingering on his lips, a sign that you’re more than ready for his aching cock. “Gonna mate you.” 

He keens, fumbling with his sweatpants and you squirm under his weight when his heavy cock presses wetly against your thigh. The tip is already reddened and leaking pre-cum, you wrestle back a rise of fear at how large it is. 

Impatiently, he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance. He’s so hard he can’t think straight anymore, can’t think at all. Kageyama is practically drooling when he misses your cunt, high pitched whines so unlike his usual stoic tone echoing through the room when your tiny cunt teases his cock head. “Hurts,” His fists clench around the sheets, Kageyama can barely form the right words around the drool and sharp canines in his mouth, “It hurts, wanna mate!” 

Something in your heart breaks at the way he yelps and your tiny hands reach down to wrap your trembling fingers around his cock where you guide his length to your entrance and his hands move to hold your squirming hips still. 

“Tobio-Tobio, Tobio, Tobio,” you pant, eyes screwing shut when he finally manages to ease the tip into your velvety walls. “Slow, slow down.”

His ears pull back at your plea and pins against his head, and a part of him knows he should slow down, shouldn’t push your thighs against your chest just so he can bury his cock deeper into your plush cunt. But you feel good, so so good, having your tight pussy wrapped around his cock that he decides to ignore your words and there's nothing in his mind except for the overwhelming desire to pump his cock in your cunt, to breed you full of his pups until the heat in his chest dissipates. 

Kageyama knows that no one else can drive him this insane, no other hybrid or human could make him this animalistic. You were his to protect the moment you picked him at the adoption centre, his to fuck, his to breed.

His restraint snaps like a fraying thread the moment he’s balls deep in your cunt, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he lifts your thighs and presses your knees against your chest, letting your ankles dangle over his broad shoulders in his eagerness to inch deeper. 

Your hands latch around his biceps at the first thrust, more of your arousal leaking out to drip down your ass and Kageyama is pleased at himself when a pretty whine falls out of your open mouth. He grunts, pulling back his hips and seeing a messy ring of white coating the base of his cock before slamming forward into your precious cunt, the one that he’d been lusting over for so long. This is better than humping your thighs, better than anything else in the world. He doesn’t remember feeling this good before, feeling like he could die a happy man as long as he has you. 

“Mate,” Kageyama huffs hotly into the side of your neck each time he sinks into your heat as your pussy quivers and flutters around every vein that drags against your walls. “Pretty mate,” he lays open-mouthed kisses across your cheek and neck, careful to keep his canines from scarring your pretty skin as each snap of his hips makes you delirious with ecstasy. He’s too big, but each stretch of his cock makes you mewl so embarrassingly loud, leaves you wanting for more. 

Your thighs tremble weakly in his grip and Kageyama’s jaw tightens when you clamp down around his cock, the smell of your arousal spurs him to piston his hips even quicker, practically pining your smaller body down with his entire body weight to keep you immobile as he feels his head go dizzy- delirious. Until the only comprehensible thing falling from his mouth are the words mate and breed. 

Tears cling to your lashes and your mouth opens in a silent ‘o’, stars seem to explode across your blurry vision when your back curves off the bed as you cum around his thick length. His cock bumps against your cervix, leaving you shaking like a leaf under his chest but the dull throb of pain makes you mewl for more, twisting your hips and lolling your tongue out as you pant dumbly. 

Kageyama drools at the sight of your blissed out features, your scent seemed to get heavier when you cum. Your addicting scent makes his mouth water, and he tries to swallow his saliva in an effort to hold himself back. Yet, the only thing Kageyama succeeds in doing is to slobber all over your chest as he pants into your mouth with sharp whines. 

Kageyama feels his own cock swell in response to your orgasm, the pride at making you feel good coaxing his own climax as he humps at your sensitive cunt erratically to chase his own orgasm. His eyes lock fervently on your glistening cunt, the way it’s spread so wide to accommodate his thick length when Kageyama empties his cum in your pussy, making sure to thrust a few extra times so that it reaches every part inside of you. Warmth floods the insides of your cunt in thick, heavy spurts, making your already muddled brain go woozy from the heat. 

It’s clear that you weren’t made to fully take him, because milky white spills out of where the two of you are connected and it makes the back of his throat rumble at the sight. He wants to seal his cum in you, make sure nothing is wasted or it meant that he wasn’t breeding you right. 

Your soft whimpers makes his ears snap to attention, “I can’t anymore, To-Tobio!” You gasp when his soft cock twitches to attention again, rubbing against your raw walls when he shifts backwards and gives you a short little thrust, the lewd squelch of your juices mixed with his echoes in the air each time his cock moves. 

He wants to stop, he really does, but each time his cock isn’t buried in you, he can feel it aching again. Sweat matts his dark curls against his forehead when he rubs his fingers over your clit experimentally, groaning when your body seizes up. This is what you like.

You can’t help but squeeze around his cock again when he presses down on your clit, making you cry out at the sudden pleasure shooting up your body. “More,” he gasps, swishing his tail and giving you another sloppy, messy kiss on the cheek before licking your lips, “Wan’ more.” 

You sniffle, curling your fingers around his wrist as he stares pleadingly into your dazed out gaze. “Good boy?” He asks you, still eager for your praise despite the way his greedy cock is throbbing impatiently in your pussy, just a few agonizing moments away from fucking into you until the ache goes away. 

“Good boy.” 

Your sweet voice is all he needs to continue.

Good Boy

Wolf Hybrid! Kageyama Tobio x Reader (Hybrid Au)

- my first time writing for Kageyama + hybrid au, he fits the wolf hybrid theme so well. final commission post for @nightmarelilyxd​ ! tysm for being patient <33

You were his to protect the moment you picked him at the adoption centre, his to fuck, his to breed.

Warnings: kageyama shifts between his human form/ wolf form, wolf ears + tail, smut, slight dub/non con, slight somnophilia, pet play(?), this is literal porn w/o plot, breeding kink

Kageyama never really understood why you picked him.

You strolled right past the other hybrids practically vying for your attention and pointed a single, pretty manicured nail at him with an equally pretty smile before you opened your mouth, “I want to adopt this one.”

Keep reading

[unknownjpegs]

unlocked

“The boy dies.”

“Yes.”

“And you get your coin.”

A gloved hand unfolds from inside a cloak. A hint of forearm is pale, save for the scattering of dark, inky swirls of tattoos. Bertram Dodge leans back from the table that separates them, as if that skin is an omen. He sweats, profusely, beads of it pouring down his face and soiling his nice linen shirt. His fat hand clutches a handkerchief, but he doesn’t move, because that pale flesh is still staring at him. The leather clad hand uncurls to fingers, spread carefully over the photo the merchant had brought with him.

An index finger taps against a freckly, boyish face.

“Wh-What’s his crime, then?”

Bertram had not expected small talk, and there hadn’t been any so far. In the dark, cellar bar, there’s been hardly any noise not from the low crooning band that serves as entertainment. Or cover for the dealings, the conversations in low murmur across the filthy den of snakes. Nothing from the phantom seated across from him. Betram looks at Maran Giarizzo-Cohn’s photo; the black and white portrait smiles up at them, handsome and youthful. Disgusting, hot envy bleeds inside the merchants stomach.

“Does it matter? He’s the son.”

The figure shifts. Eyes so blue they’re nearly bone bleach white, peer out from underneath a hood. The assassin’s face is covered by a thick swath of black fabric, but those eyes stare like fog lights in the night harbor. They make Bertram nauseas. When the man stands, the scrapping sound of his chair is just as loud as the music. Causes a poorly paid musician to falter on a note, heads to turn.

“Double it then.”

“What?” Bertram sputters, spit joining his sweat. He mops at his face—it isn’t warm in the cellar. The pour of it is relentless anyway.

“Or I’ll k-kill you. Just for fun, don’t even n-need a contract for it.”

“Double then. Triple—triple for the inconvenience, sir.”

The chair scrapes loudly again as the killer pushes it back into place, almost like someone pantomiming a gentleman. He picks the photo up from the table, giving it another glance. All the world must pity the boy then, to be under such a look, to be under such hideous, repulsive eyes, even in a photo.

All the world must pity him further, because he’ll soon meet Ben in person.

Bertram watches the killer leave, without another word.

***

The night air touches Xavier’s skin, something like a caress. A lovers touch—one he hasn’t known in years. It’s full of salt from the sea, wind curling around his outstretched arms (an embrace), ruffling through his dark red hair (a hand, there, pushing strands back to place a kiss to his forehead). It feels cleansing and peaceful, whispering home. He stands at the top of his clocktowner—his makeshift place of solace, or his self imposed prison—eyes closed. It’s deep toned tick tock tick tock is a constant reminder of time, pressing against his throat like a blade.

Xavier opens his eyes. Is thankful he still has them.

Then he takes a step off the ledge of the clocktower and plummets.

—

It isn’t home. Technically, it never was. Just a place he spent the blurred together days of his childhood; a sprawling estate where three boys ran their youth to the edges. But his heart knows the truth—it isn’t home. Never was. Feels like it. The ghost of memories still swirl up, threaten to overtake him, drag him down into the waters of a previous life that he gave up. The feverish once remembered feeling of hands touching his own, of the softness only a first kiss can be like.

The rain from the storm batters at him, wets his coat and chills him down to the bone. Xavier barely feels it, save the shivering, the way his teeth clatter together. Drops of water gather and drop from his chin, darken his hair, flatten it to his skull.

He sits perched on the edge of a crumbling brick wall, a poor excuse for land security that had been easy to scale. He watches the guard patrol, who never once look up and notice him. There’s a burn deep in his chest (worry, fear, anger, premonition), head tilted like a curious bird as one yawns into a gloved fist. Rain splatters the ground, makes everything muddy. A standard issue rifle rests on a cupped fist, against a shoulder, lazy. If Xavier drew his sword and dropped from above, he could skewer the guard straight through the heart. Silent and quick.

Instead, he runs south along the wall. He doesn’t slip, even though the bricks are slick and wet. Xavier never slips anymore. There isn’t enough human left inside him, for such easy mistakes. He finds the section of the manor he is well aware comes too close to the wall. The gap is easy for him to jump across, hands clasping around the edge of a windowsill. This one is always left open, even though it shouldn’t be.

Don’t, Xavier had said. Don’t leave places for me to get in.

It’s unlocked, he’d gotten in reply. The voice haunts him, in dreams. Stay’s unlocked for you.

Like a wraith, he slips through the opening.

—

The patrol in doors is no better than the one outside, which makes anxiety take hold of his insides. Xavier keeps to the shadows, tucked to the walls and not one servant in the household notices him. Not even the young maid he’d grown up alongside, who had tried to confess once to him—and he’d had to tell her there was already a hand firmly wrapped around his heart. Always would be. Xavier regrets being inside this home; the onslaught of memories makes him dizzy, makes him weak. Weak.

He is looking for one room in particular—but he is also, traitorously waiting for one person to find him. To cross the hallway and look to the side and—

“Xavier?”

For a brief moment, he is sixteen again. Laying on a dock, with his hand trailing the dark water, wondering what lurks underneath it; what scary creature might swallow him whole. He’s sixteen and a boy sits beside him with a sketchbook and when he looks up, the parchment is held out for him, to look at his own visage in scratchy, beautiful pencil lines. Sixteen, and in love, the sun haloing curly dark hair. He wishes, in that memory, that the sun hadn’t been there, because it had left Benji’s face in shadow and every time he thinks of that moment—the dock, the sketchbook, the swift press of their lips together for a first kiss—he wishes he could see himself reflected in Benji’s eyes.

“Hi, Benji,” he says, from the end of the dark hallway. The light is still pouring around his childhood friend, just like that day.

The heavy sound of foot steps makes him step forward with a hand raised. Benji stops with his own braced against the wall (like he needs it, to keep himself upright, he needs something and Xavier wishes he was that something). Underneath the barely there lighting of the hallway, Xavier is treated to the vision of him.

He doesn’t count the days anymore; and time blends for him strange. It doesn’t make sense, it’s upside down and in reverse and occasionally stopped altogether. But, the passing of time has never been as clear as it suddenly is, looking at Benji. Xavier swallows a painful stone inside his throat and lowers his hand, takes one tentative step forward just so he can look more. So he can fully see.

When he’d left, Benji didn’t have such full facial hair. He’d only started to really grow into it. He’d not been this broad, nor this muscled. He’d not looked so…Xavier tucks knuckles under his jaw, his eyes drawing away from the way his simple black outfit sits on him, the gun holstered at his side, the dagger on the other. They draw up, languid and slow to meet Benji’s eyes—and those were different too. They were tired, dark bruises beneath beautiful brown irises. There is gray starting at a temple and Xavier feels a deep wound forming in his heart. Or reopening; something that never healed. They’re the same age—no, Xavier is a year older.

But Benji isn’t old enough for gray.

There is a long beat of silence, where Xavier recognizes that he’s being looked at too. Something human pulses inside him, turns his cheeks a dark red color. He is suddenly self conscious of the much patched jacket he wears, the hair cut he’s been neglecting, the way it clings to his skin still from the rain outside. He brushes his hand back through dark red locks, finds himself shaking only a little and laughs.

“You left the window unlocked.”

“Course I did.” Benji’s eyes follow his hand, and then sweep lower, back to his face. He can almost feel the gaze, like fingers, touching parts of him. Xavier realizes then that Benji is looking at him—looking at him, looking at his scars. The maiming, the long, pale pink slashes crossing over his eye, his nose, parting the corner of his lips and down his chin.

He doesn’t think to be self conscious of them until it’s Benji that is looking at him. Xavier tucks his chin down, head tilting to the side, putting that angle of his face in shadow. He observes the window suddenly, his knuckles running up and down the pane, fat rain drops loud against the glass. It feels painful, to be in this hallway, to be together, for the first time in so long—and to be worried, selfishly, stupidly that Benji would find those scars—

“Where is Maran?” he asks, straightening. Xavier takes an unconscious step toward Benji. A mistake, because Benji steps toward him as well. It makes him retreat; makes Benji’s eyes dart to the window as well. Xavier’s cold, wet hands come together in front of him, fingers twisting. Stop, Xavier wants to tell him. Please, stop.

Benji doesn’t answer.

Instead, he turns and begins walking.

Xavier follows.

Of course he follows.

—

He sits on the edge of the opulent bed and feels, for the first time in a long time, like smiling. Maran sleeps so soundly. On his stomach, an arm tucked under a pillow. His cheek is squished, lips parted, eyes flickering under his lids in peaceful REM sleep. Hope the dreams are nice, Xavier thinks, slipping a hand under the blanket and lifting it higher. He tucks it over Maran’s shoulder, careful not to touch, not to disturb. He feels like smiling, but he doesn’t. He isn’t sure how to make that expression work any longer. His eyes skate off the bed sheets and up to Benji, who stands at the end with his arms crossed.

“It was always a pain,” Xavier comments. “Waking him up from a nap.”

Benji snorts, not a real laugh. Something tired—permeated with exhaustion, really. He shrugs up a shoulder and then his eyes sway toward Xavier.

“Remember how he used to jump on the bed to wake us up?”

“He always woke up first and got mad when we slept in.”

There is a hazy, yellowed memory inside his head; of the three of them sharing the bed too big for one lonely boy. He remembers Maran waking up first, jumping to get their attention, begging to get them going already, to the kitchen, for breakfast. Sweet rolls, with honey. Xavier remembers this one particularly, because he had woken up with Benji’s hand in his own. He’d woken up facing the other boy, a pillow shared between them. He’d woken up and stared at the dark lashes just barely blinking awake. Their knees had been touching too, by accident, he was sure.

“You seemed worried.” Benji swipes a hand through the watery image of nostalgia. It breaks and Xavier’s eyes drop back down to the horrendous print on the bed spread. Something only rich people could enjoy. He tucks his knuckles under his jaw once more.

“I heard a rumor,” he finally says, rising off the edge of the bed. Benji moves as he does. Stop that, Xavier almost says. Stop moving with me. Gravitational. “The killing of sons to hurt fathers—typical.” He has the vision of it—Maran, all that energy, all that constant motion, his knowing smile and pretty eyes. Dead. Gone, forever.

“Nothing’s getting to Maran,” Benji says. Not with confidence—finality. All he has left, something whispers to Xavier. Since you carved out a space and abandoned it. He feels cold, not because he’s soaked with rain water. He hasn’t felt warm in years; not since the dock. Xavier rubs a hand over his face, wicks away the rain water and steps forward again.

When he glances up, Benji is in front of him. Their height difference looms massive between them, and yet Xavier feels delicate. Like a firm push would send him slipping over the bricks. One of his hands raises, lifts on muscle memory alone, like it will grasp hold of Benji’s bicep, once more. Pull him in close. They stand there in front of each other.

“What are you doing?” Xavier asks, the quiet timbre of his voice huskier than he means it to be. He swallows, mouth dry. His eyes can’t stop straying to those few strands of gray at Benji’s temple. He wants to touch his lips there. When he’s alone, in the clocktower, when he’s laying on a thin plywood bed, arms tucked around himself…He remembers what Benji’s hair smells like—it kills him, every time he does and yet he never lets himself forget.

“Looking at you.”

Xavier closes his eyes. He can hear Benji move closer then, foot steps on plush carpet beneath them. Don’t, he thinks and doesn’t mean. Could never mean. What he does mean—what he wants to say—when he opens his eyes and finds Benji inches away from him—

I want to be yours again. I want you to have me again. I want you to take me, to hold me.

“I have to go,” Xavier mumbles, taking an ungraceful step backward. He nearly collides with the bed, shoulders jumping with surprise. He crosses to the other side of the room, footsteps undeniably loud. His hands come back up to his chest, cross and fold together, unfold again, tangle. He tries to make his breathing level and even, normal. He tries as he sits on the windowsill and unlocks it with shaking hands.

When he jerks the window open, Benji is standing next to Maran’s bed. He’s risen up on elbows, is staring like he’s seen a ghost.

“Lock this behind me,” Xavier says and then falls from the window.