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sh1-n0bu · 3 days ago

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so,,,, despite being a monsterfucker for a while, i never really got the love for yautjas. until i was forced to watch killer of killers due to the rampage going on my feed and uhhhhh im pretty sure there are at least a handful of monsterfuckers out there who wants to top/dom a yautja like myself. also this isnt much of a fic. its just a sudden little thought i had after going thru the rule 34s tag of yautjas. no yautja in particular, take it as you will, imagine whoever you like. i dont know anything about yautjas or how this all works. im just horny and freeballing it. feel free to correct me

so… yautjas huh? what an alien species and mind you, this is my first impression of these guys. despite the majority of the killer or killers tags thirsting over the warlord — as we all should — i found myself liking the viking predator a lot. the goons are cute too. the three predators of the movie parts even have names too. jotun, oni and baron in the order they appear. of course, the guy in the pic above, the last one everyone is thirsting over, is warlord predator, also called ‘Grendel King’ by one of the characters

anyways, enough geeking over the yautjas of the movie, time to move on to my actual brainworms

yautjas are alien species and just as they are humanoid, some parts of them are indeed humanoid. and some parts, not so much. i have seen a decent amount of yautja smuts on the yautja tag — haven’t read them yet bc i prefer to be the one to fuck rather than get fucked — but one headcanon answer had me thinking multiple things

yautjas — male, female doesn’t matter — have two dicks and a vagina as well as an asshole. bigenital, if you will. every yautja can therefore sire their young, but the female yautjas tend to sire them and grow them in their bellies due to their stomach having more padded muscles, serving as a protective meat shield for the babies. the male yautjas carry them as well, but it’s more common to see the females carry them

i can’t find the author but one author here on tumblr had given their thought that yautjas never knew about blowjobs and lemme add to that — fingering as well. look at their mouths and hands, full of claws, fangs, mandibles and shit. truly a creature meant for hunting and killing rather than feeling fleshly pleasure. yautjas don’t really care about it either, they’re more of an animal mating ritual type of pleasure seekers. find a yautja who shakes your fancy, court them, knot them full and have a few strong, next generation of young’ins. simple and straight to the point like an animal mating ritual. no need for foreplay, fighting and wrestling to see who will knot who is a foreplay enough for their species

blowjobs? never, unless one is trying to bite off the dick of the other one. their mandibles stretch and open, sure. but they will never stretch big enough to take the other’s dick into their mouths. even if they do manage to painfully keep their mandibles open at all times, their fangs and canine sharp teeth will lead to bleeding and injuries soon enough. so even if their two dicks are weeping at the tip, untouched, and their pussy is glistening wet, the easiest way to just get it done with is to fuck their cocks into the other’s folds. it’ll be full of yowls, cracks, chirps and even growls because i personally like to think that the yautjas have a ribbed dick with a spliced tip. not that their tips could open up like their mandibles, but it definitely gives odd sensations. add the constant bumping and ribbing feeling of the scales and folds of their cock and the mating session between yautjas are usually always loud

so what happens when a ‘ooman is thrown into the mix? a great fighter, a blooded one who has been marked by one of their kin (like lex in avp), a recurring champion from the gladiatorial combat? yautjas are impressed, respectful and some are even vying after your attention on the few occasions you’re allowed awake from the cryo sleep and wandering around the strange, deserted, hot world of theirs. their kin usually has a bias against ’oomans due to their race being resourceful and cunning. they’re just as smart as the yautjas, if not, even more. able to use whatever is around them for survival and able to keep going even after multiple injuries (bc adrenaline). they’re an annoying species and yautjas tend to stay away. a little bit less with you, though. they want to be in the presence of the undefeated champion of the gladiatorial combat, size you up and see if you are truly worth the heavy title you bear upon your meager ‘ooman shoulders

maybe one thing would lead to another or one had gotten interested in your strengths in the bedroom as well and that leads to a yautja receiving their first head and fingering. the moment you drop them to the ground and settle between their legs, the yautja is tempted to wrestle. it is a foreplay between their kin after all. but no, he was dealing with a ‘ooman right now and as excited he was about getting to the fucking, he was also curious. how do ‘oomans show affection? how do they mate? how do they carry their young? so many questions, so little time

they would stay down and obedient, an occasional curious thrills and crackles leaving their throat as their mandibles click and clack softly. mutually curious as well, you finally manage to take off their intricate and annoying loincloth like thing, dropping it to the ground. and the hum that escapes you is equally returned by the yautja as they watch, the soft clicking of their ever moving mandibles filling the silent room. a slit like opening. two of them, even, with what you assume is an asshole underneath them. rubbing the back of your finger’s knuckle over the one on top, you hear the slight rumble from their chest like a purr, taking it as a good sign

the slit on top is bigger than the one underneath. they’re much more harder and covered with protective shells and scales as well, rather then the second one underneath that seems more softer and gummy like a vagina. messing with the scaled one, you watch with an ever growing interest as the slit opens more and more before a cockhead is pushed out, followed by a second cockhead which was a little bit smaller. so, the yautjas have both anatomies huh? like certain animals and how their two cocks are kept inside a protective slit like some reptiles and lizards’

it’s bumpy, it’s ribbed, it even has little round shaped ribs on its sides too. such curious beings, how alike they could be to your kin but also so different. of course, there was much needed poking, prodding and an eager snooping around. two large uniquely shaped cocks and a vaginal opening as well as an asshole. interesting

hearing the impatient hisses of the yautja, you merely grumble under your breath, hissing back at him with annoyance upon being cut short of your little experiment. what do yautjas even do for pleasure anyways? do they fuck like humans do? must be it, right? at least they had the anatomy for it

the moment you get down on them, head between their strong, tight thighs and restless shifting body, a sound like a warning growl was heard before it was swiftly replaced by some soft noises like the purring of a cat. yautjas don’t know what blowjobs and fingering meant after all, their bodies prevented from such types of pleasure. so when your soft, small ‘ooman mouth took in the head of the bigger cock, the warmth around it felt like the yautja was melting in the fiery chasms of the many volcanoes of the yautja prime. it was soft, it was hot and it felt good. way too good to the point the creature was growling, groaning and even letting out odd hitched noises that you guessed was the closest to a moan

and when you put their entire dick into your mouth — with much anticipated gagging, choking and the constant wild bucks into your open mouth — deep throating the bigger cock while gently stroking their smaller cock using the slimy substance the tip oozed, the yautja has basically experienced heaven. the urge to just let go of ‘honor’ and ‘instincts’ and knot inside your warm, tight throat was strong. a deep, gurgly sound escaping them as their mandibles shook all over, unknowing of what to do when your free hand slipped further down and pushing your finger into their softer slit

if you thought the yautja was loud before, they were even louder now. constant, short little noises leaving them, rattling their huge body and even causing you to shake alongside as well. strong legs kicking and clawed hands tearing off the poor floor into shreds. it was a good feeling, the very best, even more than having a clan leader recognize them or hunting down the most honorable prey. ‘oomans’ hands and mouth felt good, they were amazing at fleshly pleasures and had the yautja acted on their interest in you a little bit earlier, they would have. they honestly should have because whatever you were doing to his poor life time long neglected dicks and gushing pussy were making the yautja feel odd. so so very odd. a tight coiling in their stomach, and they for a moment, thought you infected them with something

and then, the tight coils of his stomach is gone within a moment. a loud roar leaving the beast as their body went rigid like a spring, dreadlocks slipping into the floor in a heap as their legs even gave a little tremble. the tip lodged inside your throat twitched and shook, a thick substance filling up your mouth before you could pull it off, causing you to hack and cough out the strange liquid. it didn’t take long until their smaller dick was following along, spilling a smaller load into your jaws and chest, second slit tightening around your fingers as a soft, more thinner liquid like the one from his bigger cock coat your palm. all because your little ‘ooman fingers delved inside their cunt a bit further and seemed to have found a soft spot, loud roars and short breathy growls being switched to little cat like yowls. so, they were just as sensitive as humans, huh?

safe to say, the rumor of ‘oomans being extremely amazing at fleshly pleasures spread across yautja prime swiftly and before you know it, more and more yautjas are interested in a little endurance test with their longest reigning champion

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torncwpid · 2 days ago

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Top Donator

Summary: Johnny is tuned in like always, until the guest moans and he realizes he knows exactly whose cock you’re drooling over

Cw: smut (mdni), voyeurism, sex work (camgirl), masturbation (male), age gap, unprotected sex, fixation/obsession tone, brief ideation of MMF threesome

Word count: 985

Younger!camgirl!reader having a special guest in her live stream, one of the streams where she invites the top donator of the previous month, where the guest is never fully visible to the camera, their face is always just perfectly cut out of the frame even though everything else is kept on full display for the thousands of viewers while they are either being used like a dildo while you fuck yourself dumb or they are fucking into your needy holes like a fuck machine.

This time the special guest was the latter. So incredibly rough yet so obviously caring towards you, something you never experienced before with the other guests — they only ever wanted to use you and that was it, no care or feelings involved. But this guest had no trouble manhandling you into whatever position he wanted you in right before grunting out a “This okay, luvie?”

That wasn't the only difference the viewers could spot between this guest and the previous ones, though — this guest is so much older than you. It was obvious even without seeing his face. His body was enough to give it all away — all solid weight and deliberate movement instead of the frantic show-off energy of the other guests. His hands were larger and rougher, and moved in a way that spoke of age and experience. Above all, the audience could feel it in the way he handled you. Every touch was controlled and full of the kind of authority only a man could have. He held your hips up when your legs gave out from how cock drunk you got, he kissed your spine between thrusts when he took you from the back, he held your jaw and forced you to stare at him when he could tell your focus was going somewhere else. Even through the screen, they all knew this was someone who would ruin you and still make sure you drank water when he was done.

Of course older!Johnny is tuned in for this stream just like he was for all your previous ones. He has never missed a single one since he found you only a month into your camgirl career. It's almost pathetic how he has unknowingly Pavloved himself into being half hard before you even go live. Now he's fisting his cock with the same mix of lust and jealousy he always falls into when he watches you moaning for another man. But this time it's different, it’s not some cocky little shit between your legs, it’s a man, one who’s clearly around Johnny’s age, maybe even a little older. Watching you being fucked by a man like that twists something low in his gut.

He hates it. Hates how much it turns him on, how good you look taking it from this guest. But worse than that, he hates how much he gets off on it. On how hot it is that you're making such pretty noises — that aren't fake like with the others — for someone who looks almost similar to him. It makes him want even more to be the one stretching you open, whispering praises into your hair while thousands of viewers beg for more. All he can do is watch, stroke himself raw to the sound of your needy little noises, and hope that someday if he just donates enough, tips the right way, waits patiently like a good fucking boy, you’ll finally let him be the special guest.

It takes less than five minutes for Johnny to get completely lost in pleasure as he watches this man bounce you on his lap with a tight grip on your waist, changing positions easily just to fuck you from the back while forcing your face down into the frilly pillows (never hard enough to keep the viewers from hearing your blissed out moans and gasps, though).

But it takes Johnny almost the entirety of the stream and two back-to-back orgasms to get out of his haze enough to realize it. He feels his breath catch in his throat and his hands come to a stop as his eyes are suddenly stuck on the arms that hold your body up. His eyes go wide when he stares and confirms that he does know the exact tattoos that cover this guest's arms and chest.

Now he hears the guest moan instead of the vague muffled groans from the start of the stream. And of fucking course the second that voice spills out clearer, cooing something soft and filthy down at you in that familiar brute British drawl, Johnny freezes. Every muscle goes tense, his grip going still at the base of his cock as recognition slams into him like a punch to the stomach.

He can tell the discovery should have pulled him out of the lustful haze he’s been drowning in since the stream started, but he can feel his cock twitch at the sight of his Lt. forcing his favourite — only — camgirl to take his cock down her throat. The camera captures just right the way Simon has your jaw stretched wide, your eyes glassy, your throat bulging with the thick shape of his cock as he slides it deeper.

Johnny should look away, he knows that. But instead, his hips buck up into his fist like they have a mind of their own and his eyes are locked to the screen.

He can’t stop watching and imagining what it must feel like to fuck his cum into your dripping cunt while Simon’s hand fists your hair, with his calm, ruined voice pouring praise and filth into your brain, his cock shoved down your throat like it belongs there. But fuck if he isn’t still stroking himself anyway, cock twitching with every wet choke and every smug little groan his lieutenant lets slip.

Oh, he'll have fun with this information.

Reminder that my asks are always open!

@141ce @g1v3meabreak @scoobywrites690

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petalbcrnes · 15 hours ago

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؛ ଓ _ _ 𓏴𓏴 THE FRIENDS TO LOVERS TROPE WITH _ _ j. todd .ᐟ ‿◞ˇ

.... 🌷 ... . ! just my thoughts on why the friends to lovers trope would be best for jason todd, i mentioned this in my “as a boyfriend” post for jason, wanted to touch up on it even more here. do not mind the moodboards — they do not dictate the physical description of the reader in my works.

𐔌 ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙.꩜‹　𝓹airing𓈒　j. todd　friend ! reader𓈒 　　†

؛ ଓ ✶ friends to lovers trope with jay　 𝜗 ། 　fluff﹐1.4k wc　 𝜗 ། 　𝓵inks𓈒　　mlist　　rules𓈒

Jason is a man that loves quietly. Love— as a feeling— slowly creeps up to him. He doesn’t even notice it at first. All of it it began such a long time ago and he gets so used to the warm feeling that he doesn’t even want to let go. He’ll never let go of it. Why would he want to lose you? His only friend. His only confidant and now— his only love.

Meeting him would be so strangely normal. He’s used to always being paranoid of his surroundings. The anxiety in his blood has become almost mundane in his every-day-to-day life. He doesn’t even question it. He walks into every building�� cafe, bookstore, library, market— as if they’re ticking bombs and he needs to have an exit strategy as if his life depends on it.

It all changes at the register of the shop just near his apartment.

Jason is on high alert, just like always. His fingers dig into the leather of his wallet as he pays up, just like always. His eyes dart around the building searching for something, just like always. It’s a familiar dance.

Suddenly, he realizes he’s short on change. That breaks through the so called dance— a routine he’s built up.

“Shit, sorry. Give me a second.” He curses, muttering apologies to the cashier.

The person behind the register couldn’t care less. They’re eyes just drift off somewhere else. It’s probably nothing. They’re giving him time, but Jason somehow overthinks the entire situation.

I’m taking too long. Why does every minor inconvenience happen to me? Where is my god damn change?

He’s digging through his pockets when he hears a voice behind him. Not too soft, but not too loud to alert him either.

“Here.”

You’re there, moving around him— keeping a healthy distance to, as if not to touch him— giving the cashier the change.

He stares blankly at you— a deer caught in headlights. His sea-green eyes have a confused glint in them. He shuffles away from the register as you approach it, setting your groceries on the surface.

“Thanks.” He mumbles only that simple word, even though he’d like to say more.

Jason is trying to be more sociable. Alfred says it’s a step. A step in the right direction. Unfortunately Jason’s compass is all over the place, so he can’t really tell what the right direction truly is.

“You’re welcome.” You smile at him. Though it isn’t strained, nor forced. You just smiled at him, as if he did something good. “I like that brand.”

He hears you again. His eyes dart from your face to the bag of chips he’s bought. It’s a decent brand. He likes it. Turns out you do as well.

“It’s not too artificial.” He says, his voice somewhat higher than he’s used to. “The taste is—”

“Normal? Not ‘too much’ because for some reason other brands add so many condiments you wanna barf every time you take a bite? Yea, I know.”

“Yea. Normal.”

“Tell me about it.” You chuckle while putting all of your groceries in your bag.

Jason helps you out with it. You smile at him again.

“I just moved to this part of town. I don’t have many friends. Especially not ones I can talk shit with about even shittier chip brands.”

He thinks he looks ridiculous. He understands you’re trying to be-friend him— the man in the grocery store that seems to big and confused about where he fits in. His hand instinctively scratches at his neck. For the first time, he smiles back. Hell— he even laughs. It isn’t forced. It’s real. Just like the easy smile you’re giving him.

Giving you his name came easy after that. It felt like a reward hearing your name in return. You two would run into each other around Crime Alley’s most famous spots— even more groceries stores, in which you two would pick out products together; the run-down book store, in which you two might have had a small argument about Tolstoy’s and Dostoevsky’s books.

It felt good. Normal even. He made a friend. Now your number is in his contracts. Your number in his phone— he can’t believe it. Other than his family and Roy, there aren’t many in his list of numbers he keeps. Now he has someone to call when he wants to hang out, when he just needs a moment to feel normal again.

The feelings bloom from there— like a bouquet that was being formed with every time you two decided to spend together.

Jason slowly opened up to you, and you— to him. Suddenly, visiting each other became the norm. Lazy week-days spent in each other’s apartment was almost instinct to the two of you.

Movie nights when you’d tease him for liking the 2004 adaptation of “Pride and Prejudice” - “Bride and Prejudice” instead of the 2005 adaptation with Keira Knightley suddenly was something familiar— something that made him feel good.

“Seriously? You like the adaptation with the songs and dancing instead of the one with brooding feelings?”

You’re perched on the couch right next to him. Almost touching. He tries to ignore the proximity and how it’s making his heartbeat speed up and voice higher.

“It’s a good movie, what can I say? I like how lively it is, plus—” He raises a brow while the corners of his lips curl up. He likes explaining it all— his thought process to you.

You listen.

He turns your way, eyes leaving the screen playing the movie. He notices you’ve been looking at him— not the movie.

“What is it?” He asks, voice now quiet and soft.

Your eyes widen a bit, realizing you’ve been caught staring. He sees how your hands grip the arm of the couch— knuckles a bit white. There’s a slight pink hue on your cheeks.

Why does he feel like there’s the same type of tinge on his cheeks too? Is he truly something to like looking at? And more importantly, do you like looking at him?

“Just—” You smile too. Jason has come to like your smile even more after these few months of friendship. “—keep talking about why you like it. You might convert me to your ideals, who knows?”

“I’ll have you know the songs are actually amazing in that movie.”

“Sure, Jay.”

“Are you doubting me?”

“I’d never!”

“That’s it, get up! You’re dancing to one of the songs right now.”

“Only if you dance with me, Todd.”

Jason falls first but denies it aggressively— he’ll argue with Dick about how “it’s not like that” while texting you at 2am.

He immediately goes into denial mode, starts pulling away and being extra harsh during patrol like he can punch the feelings out of himself.

Dick notices Jason’s weird behavior and makes some throwaway comment about you, and Jason’s defensive reaction is so over-the-top that even Tim raises an eyebrow.

Jason starts overthinking every interaction— was that smile different? Why did you let your hand linger when passing him coffee? He’s a detective but suddenly can’t read you at all.

He lies awake analyzing conversations from three weeks ago, wondering if you were flirting or just being friendly when you said his hoodie looked good on him.

Your realization is more gradual— it starts when you notice you’ve been unconsciously planning your day around when Jason might text or show up.

The moment that breaks you is probably when you see him being unexpectedly gentle— reading to kids at the library for community service, or carefully moving a stray cat out of harm’s way.

You catch yourself staring at his hands while he’s just going about his day, thinking about how those same fingers are always so careful when they touch you.

You start having dreams about him that you can’t shake, and suddenly every romance novel feels like it’s written about this stupid, complicated man who eats your leftovers and leaves poetry books on your nightstand.

Like I said, the love between the two of you blooms slowly. But it is all-consuming— being wrapped in a blanket of the warmest feeling ever. You both can’t get enough. Falling for each other was truly easy.

You can’t think of anyone else who makes you feel this way. And he can’t imagine a life without you.

... ! .. 🌱 .. a/n: trying go get back into writing bigger works. this just came to me a few hours ago and i wrote it at 3am. i’m a sucker for this trope— especially with our best boy jay. he deserves some quiet and the process of having a crush in his life +++ all the fluffy feelings that come alongside it. i love the 2004 adaptation of pride and prejudice btw. it’s so good. the songs r even better. i can imagine reader and jason dancing to those songs !!! ++ this was only proof read once so ☹️☹️

﹒ ♪ ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

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nightingale-prompts · 1 day ago

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Mountain Troll- DCxDP prompt

It was summer and this meant the most obnoxious thrill seekers were climbing Mt.Everest again. Except during the winter something had set itself up there.

No one was able to find a usable pass up the mountain and anyone who tried would find themselves turned around and back at the base.

The mysterious force ended up being a cause to investigate and no one could make it up there on two legs. Instead, it was Superman who took the short flight up there.

The air was thin on top of the mountain. An inhospitable place for all life. People came here to say that they were on top of the world. A notion that was lost on Clark, but he probably had no right to say that with abilities like his.

At the peak of the Everest he saw a creature—a boy—something at least.

He had pale blue-green skin and frost white hair. He was focused on his task of breathing puffs of frost around him, covering the landscape with snow.

When Clark landed in the fresh piles of snow the creature's bright green eyes snapped in his direction.

"Hey, stop that! I just cleaned that area!" He snapped "And get off my mountain!"

"Uh, sorry?" Clark said reflexively as he floated instead of touching the snow. "This is your mountain?"

The creature huffed and went back to to freezing everything in sight.

"Well, no one was living here and it's not like humans can live here."

"That's true but people like to use it?"

The creature shrugged.

"For what? To die on? This place is filthy. Covered in trash, corpses, and human waste. Just look at the empty oxygen tanks. And look at what they've done to the peak. The messy footprints are an eyesore."

Those were all fair points. It would cut done on casualties if people couldn't climb the mountain.

"But there are those who come here for research. They need access to the mountain." Clark reported.

The creature's sharp ears wiggled or maybe flicked in annoyance at the comment.

"They have the base of the mountain for that. But there is nothing up here they need." He said.

Clark surmised that this was the best he was going to get out of the being. He had already formed his assumption on the situation. This was a nature spirit or a yeti. I mean stranger things exist and if there was anything with a vested interest in keep people off their territory that would be it.

"Why are you up here?" He asked.

"I dunno, it felt comfortable up here. It was also a mess so I started cleaning it up. Look if you are up here help out and move these bodies. You can't bury them up here so you need to take them to the base. I need to rebuild the peak." The yeti ordered.

Clark obeyed the bossy kid without much thought. He was sure he was some sort of force of nature. Other than himself few people could survive in the harsh conditions as maybe the kid was an alien.

****

Danny needed a new haunt. One that really fit him.

Naturally, he wanted somewhere where he could see the stars. The one place that felt right was the highest point on earth, where he was closest to space. It was nice and cold—perfect for his frost core. The only problem with his new haunt was the people. He hated tourists. They only come to the peak to take a goddam selfie and leave their litter everywhere. Not to mention the dead bodies piled up. No, Danny didn't need that. The ghosts on the mountain were another thing.

Regardless Danny kept them away while he repaired the damage on the mountain and destroying the travel routes.

He really didn't care about Spandex other there as long as he didn't bother him.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton

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lyrablack1883 · 3 days ago

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Children of The River - frames and thoughts

This one has a really messy thought process.

Jiang Cheng’s mourning clothes were intentional. The siege happened only three months after Yanli’s death—not even a hundred days had passed. He was still in mourning. No guan, no Zidian. Just Sandu and his clarity bell.

I wanted, later on to portray that one moment in battle where Jiang Cheng’s figure would mirror Yanli’s. Just for a second. Despite all their differences. The song was picked entirely for the line ‘I’m the river’s daughter’. It ties back to their childhood—the three of them children of Yunmeng Jiang. ‘Jiang’ means river, so it felt fitting. Too fitting, honestly.

⸻

When I drew their expressions, there was one emotion I wanted to show most. Most depictions of the siege go straight into revenge, fury, rage. But for these two? I didn’t want anger to be the main thing. I wanted to show grief.

That kind of hollowing, simmering grief that sits in your chest and never leaves. Especially with Wei Wuxian—it’s complicated. You can feel how hard he’s trying to keep it together. To stay calm. To control it. And then you see it—red bleeding into his eyes. For Jiang cheng, There’s that one line where Wei wuxian describes Jiang Cheng’s face as full of hostility… but also incredibly gloomy. I just went on with it.

⸻

The blindfolded panel was very much on purpose—a way to show how both of them were just pieces in someone else’s game. A center piece of this animatic, you could say. One small detail is I made Jiang Cheng’s sword point toward his own neck. Just a hint. A quiet suggestion. That start with one truth —Jiang Cheng could never have won against Wei Wuxian. And at the same time, Wei Wuxian could never let Jiang Cheng die.

To be blunt, Yunmeng Jiang was weak at that point. They were barely standing. The sect had been rebuilt, yes, but it hadn’t even been five years. They’d lost so much. You can see it in how little they received after the Wen war—basically scraps. Their strength was gone. What kind of people were crazy enough to follow Yunmeng Jiang back then— to stand behind a leader who held a single flag alone in the middle of a war?

Probably the kind who had nothing left.

The kind who’d already lost the same.

Calling them a major force was more of a political statement than reality. they were made into a shield. Something to take the hit. Something to use.

⸻

Why make Yunmeng Jiang the main force in the first place?

A sect barely standing, rebuilt on ashes, carrying grief like second skin.

They didn’t have the numbers. They didn’t have the strength.

But they had Jiang Cheng.

And that was enough.

Not because he could win—but because he was the one Wei Wuxian couldn’t kill.

That was the play. That was the advantage.

They made him a commander, not out of honor—but because he was the only sword that could get close without being struck down.

The only one who could hold that line while the rest moved in for the kill.

They handed him the siege—

because they knew he’d walk straight into the fire, and Wei Wuxian would flinch.

⸻

The cultivation world had witness something. They saw what happened in Nightless City. They saw the two of them face each other—and how Wei Wuxian let Jiang Cheng live. And they made their bet.

Not just on strength or strategy. They bet on history. On loyalty. On love—if you want to call it that. Not romantic, but something deeper. Something messy. The love that comes from being raised together, losing the same people, breaking and still somehow holding on.

That’s why Jiang Cheng made the perfect shield. Maybe even the perfect knife.

They weren’t just betting on power.

They were betting on love.

And they bet right.

#jiang cheng #wei wuxian #jiang yanli #jin ling #mo dao zu shi #mdzs

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spikedfearn · 3 days ago

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vent post 🗣️

been trying to keep it cute and ignore the indirects but i just saw one that had enough context clues to basically have my @ in it without saying it. wild how someone can drag a fic without naming it, but still leave just enough breadcrumbs that anyone who's read As If It's Heaven's Gate would know it's about my Remmick fic.

it’s one thing to not vibe with a fic. that’s fine. not everything is for everyone. but to post some holier-than-thou rant about how “tumblr is nothing but smutty fanfiction” and how that fic was “Remmick in name only,” and “this is why I don’t read fanfic on tumblr”—like okay??? then don’t?? close the tab?? go touch grass?? it’s giving deeply online yet allergic to minding your own goddamn business!!

and then to discourage other people from reading Tumblr fic? how about you write your own instead of bitching about mine. tumblr has so many amazing writers—many of whom put their whole heart into what they make—and the fact that you saw one fic you didn’t like and decided to generalize everyone else’s work with it says more about you than it does about fanfic culture.

this is a hobby. i do it in my free time. for fun. and for the people who do enjoy it. no one’s forcing you to read my stuff. if it wasn’t for you, move on. but posting an indirect that’s so obviously about me while acting like you’re being subtle? nah. say it with your whole chest. be a big brave bitch and @ me next time instead of being a gutless pussy behind a screen.

also: if my smutty little fanfic about a fictional vampire man hurt your feelings that bad…get a grip you fucking loser 😭

#I'M SO FED UP #I'm just trying to have fun 😭#i usually try to stay nice even when I'm venting but i won't anymore!!#atp I'm gonna start clocking bitches #i hope they see this <333

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perdidosbucky-yyo · 3 days ago

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I'm obsessed

She didn’t see it. Because she wasn’t used to being hunted.

This is me I love the way you put it bc it's literally the wild west so it adds danger to the situation!!

His jaw ticked. He’d known a lot of things in his life. Violence. Scarcity. The cold bite of loneliness. But nothing made him feel the kind of wrong he felt imagining Rumlow’s hands on her.

But wolves don’t knock.

They wait. Circle. Smile with their teeth hidden behind words that sound an awful lot like help.

Oh our man's ready to fight!!!

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, his shoulders pulling a little straighter. “I prefer if you sit down,” he said, deadpan. “And I find it insultin’ you think my back’s so fragile it’d give out from a few steps accommodatin’ you.”

My fat ass is swooning 😭❤️

He muttered something low, unintelligible, and flipped a page with more force than necessary. “Woman, I know what you’re doin’. If you want a beverage, I can offer you a decent tea. Just keep your-” he stopped himself short, jaw twitching, “-yourself sittin’ there.”

This is awkwardly cute 🤭

“It’s alright…” she tried to shrug it off. “ain’t as naïve as you think I am, Sheriff. We ain’t nothin’. I know you’re a man. And as a man, you got certain-”

“I don’t want Lucy,” he cut her, quiet but clear. “Ain’t wanted her. Ain’t thought of her. Not once since the day I fucked her after reachin’ town.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t go touchin’ a woman after walkin’ beside you.”

I literally gasped lmao I'm such an old lady watching her telenovela

The sound of his boots moved behind her, fast and quiet. Not a hand on her, not a word. But suddenly he was there, close. Too close. One palm pressed to the wood beside her head, the other, closing slowly around the knob, stopping her short. His chest hovered just behind her back, radiating heat.

And she felt him.

The scent of his body. Then his breath brushing a loose strand of hair near her cheek.

SOMEBODY CALL 911 I NEED HELP🙈😍 the tension is exquisite.

A Star Without a Sky (#5)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: 8.4k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The plan went smoothly into motion.

She began making the trips to town more frequently, as they agreed, three times a week, sometimes more. Always with a new errand in hand, never anything urgent. A thimble. A skein of thread. A tin of baking soda. The kind of things that didn’t look like much, but made it clear she couldn’t stay away.

And he was always somewhere at just the right time to offer his arm, to tip his hat low, to carry her things.

Sam had started calling them the town's slowest-moving scandal.

The first week passed without any noticeable events. She wore a new working dress with small flowers stitched at the hem and a ribbon she’d dyed to match. And her hair was no longer pinned in a bun but looped into a neat french braid.

He saw her like that for the first time, not at the office, but inside the bakery. She was already there when he stepped in for pie, her back to him, talking to Mrs. Marshall. He paused in the doorway a second too long, then stepped inside, boots scuffing against the boards.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said, voice tighter than it needed to be.

She turned with that practiced little smile, and her eyes twinkling. “Why, Sheriff. What a nice surprise.” She blinked up at him through her lashes, just as he’d coached her.

His ears turned pink. Before he could scrape together a response, the baker asked what he’d be having, saving him from his own damn silence.

After that, things shifted.

Every shared glance, every feigned brush of the hand, every time her fingers accidentally tugged a wrinkle from his coat, it all began to press against the rim of what they were pretending.

She played her part well. Maybe too well. And if there was guilt in how she leaned into it, looping her arm tightly through his on the street, letting herself walk pressed close to his side, she didn't let it show.

Because it felt good.

Because, when else would she get to touch a man like that without shame?

She told herself it was harmless. That it was part of the game. But when his arm flexed under her hand as they stepped off the boardwalk… when he looked down at her like he was memorizing her lips… it didn’t feel fake. Not even a little.

He, on the other hand, was losing his mind.

He damn well knew it was his idea. Told her how to flirt, coached her through every step like a fool digging his own grave. He hadn’t expected to get buried in it.

What started as a passing interest, something small, born in the comfort of her home while she’d fed and stitched and sat with him, was no longer manageable. It had grown. Rooted itself somewhere deep.

Now she was always there. Sitting too close. Laughing too softly. Touching his sleeve in front of others like she had every right. She wasn’t his, but she touched him like she could be.

And he basked in it.

Because it felt good. Because it was all he was going to get.

But God help him, he needed to stop picturing her hands on him. Stop imagining how it would feel to kiss her just once. No game. No justification. Just… her mouth under his.

She had no idea.

And maybe that was for the best.

Sam noticed, of course. Teased him once -offhand, something about lawmen playing house in the office- and Bucky had nearly decked him for it.

The nights in the barn didn’t help.

Not sleeping much. Not with the wind rattling the door and her house glowing warm just a few feet away. Not with the memory of her voice in his head, of what they shared behind those walls.

He told himself it was part of the job.

Just like he told himself, he didn’t miss her every time she left.

----

She arrived just as he’d expected. Cart wheels crunching frostbitten dirt, mare snorting softly with the final pull. Bucky was already standing casually at the office’s door, arms crossed, leaning slightly on one boot without a care in the world. The truth was, he’d been watching the bend in the road like a man waiting for spring.

She didn’t see the way his shoulders relaxed when her cart came into view.

He straightened and stepped forward, slow, casual, calculated. By the time she pulled the reins, he was nearly to the wheel, ready to offer his hand.

Only she didn’t wait.

She gathered her skirt and moved to dismount, graceful as ever, except her boot caught in a patch of frozen mud. It slipped sideways, and she lost her balance before her hands could catch on anything. Her leg struck the side of the cart with a hollow thump, then she half-fell, half-slid to the ground with a stifled yelp.

Bucky reached her a beat too late, cursing under his breath. “Dammit! hey, hold on-”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, more mortified than anything else. “I’m fine-”

But he was already there, crouched beside her in the mud, his hands warm and firm on her arms as he checked her balance and her limbs. “You’re shakin’.”

“No, I’m just mortified,” she muttered, brushing at her coat and trying to rise.

Her face was contorted, and not from pain. From having fallen like some helpless town belle in the middle of the street, right at his damn feet.

He scooped her up without asking.

She yelped softly, “Bucky!”

“Hush,” he muttered. “Let me get you inside.”

He carried her like she weighed less than a sack of flour. The front door creaked as he pushed it open with his shoulder, warmth spilling out around them from the stove still glowing near the far wall. Sam wasn’t around. For once, thank God.

He set her down on the bench nearest the stove and knelt in front of her without thinking, scanning her face, her posture, like he was still not convinced she hadn’t broken something.

She waved a hand, breathing fast. “Told you, just hurt my pride.”

It was her leg that caught his eye. Fabric torn jaggedly at the side seam, a few inches of skin streaked with crimson. Mid-thigh.

The color drained from his face, just a little, and he hissed a low curse through his teeth. “You’re bleedin’.”

She followed his gaze and flinched. “It’s nothing. A scrape.”

“You don’t know that,” he said flatly. “Could be deeper than you think.”

“Bucky, I-”

“I need to look,” He was already standing, striding to the door. She twisted in place as he threw the lock, then yanked the heavy curtains shut. Shadows fell across the office.

“What are you-?”

“I ain’t gonna have someone come in here, see your skirts up and me on my knees, and jump to conclusions.” He turned back to her, hands already tugging his gloves off finger by finger.

Her breath caught in her chest.

He walked back to her calmly, then knelt again, his broad and warm hands gentle against her calf as he looked up.

“May I?”

Her throat bobbed once. She nodded.

With slow, deliberate fingers, he lifted the torn edge of her dress and pantalettes just enough to see the scratch. The skin beneath was reddened and streaked with a line of blood from where the wheel had scraped her. Not deep. But angry-looking.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

His hands didn’t shake. Not once. But the muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared.

“You’ll need it cleaned. Wrapped too.”

“I can do that at home.” She tried to dismiss.

He didn’t answer. Just let the skirt fall back into place and stood up, moving to grab the little wooden kit they kept in the back for injuries.

She watched him the whole time, her skin prickling with heat.

He braced her leg above her knee with one hand, steadying her as he reached into the kit with the other. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, softer than anything he had a right to touch. She shifted, just slightly, maybe from discomfort, but it was enough. That little movement, her thigh pressing deeper into his grip, went straight to his bloodstream like whiskey.

Christ.

He wasn’t thinking about her thighs, not at first. Not until he had one in his fucking hand.

He cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes as he uncorked the tincture. Doused a clean cloth and set to work, dabbing carefully, methodically, focusing on the scrap, not on the heat of her skin under his fingers. Not on the soft hitch in her breath when it stung her.

One of her hands gripped the bench edge tightly, knuckles white. The skirt was hiked indecently high, same as her underwear, bunched at her hips, her leg bare from knee to upper thigh. She had never sat like that in front of a man who wasn’t her husband. And even then, not like this. Not feeling exposed, not trembling slightly, not aching in places that had nothing to do with the wound.

“I told you I could’ve done this at home,” she said, but her voice wasn’t nearly as firm as before.

He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

“You were shakin’,” he muttered, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out with one sharp twist. “Didn’t trust you not to faint.”

“I don’t faint.”

“Still.” His jaw flexed. “Better safe than sorry.”

She didn’t reply.

The cloth dragged slowly down her thigh, the backs of his fingers brushing along her skin, as his palm held her firmly on the outer edge of her leg. She bit the inside of her cheek and looked anywhere but at him. The stove, the grain in the floorboards, the hem of her own dress.

It wasn’t even the touch that undid her, it was the tenderness. He moved with care. And it ruined her.

She hated the way her throat closed.

Hated that the only thought in her mind was if I reached out now, just to touch his hair, would he lean into it or flinch?

He finished, finally, and let the skirt fall back into place with more gentleness than necessary. Still didn’t look up. Just sat back on his heels, breathing like he’d run a mile uphill.

“Won’t scar,” he said, lowly.

“I’ve got others,” she murmured.

His eyes snapped up. Damn if he didn’t want to trace every mark she carried with his mouth. Map them. Know where she’d hurt and where she’d healed.

She noticed his stare. Could feel her pulse behind her ears, feel the warmth of where his hand had been like an imprint burned into her thigh.

And in that moment, she realized she didn’t want to be looked at that way just in passing.

She wanted to be seen like that again.

And again.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Just sat there. His hands on his knees now, hers curled in the folds of her skirt, both of them pretending they hadn’t felt what they felt. That her body hadn’t leaned into his. That he hadn’t held her like something precious.

“You should- uh,” he broke the spell, voice hoarse. “Wait a while. Warm up. You took a hit.”

She nodded, smoothing her skirt with a hand that trembled faintly. “Alright.”

She tugged at the torn hem of her dress, inspecting the gash that ran all the way through to her pantalettes. The fabric was frayed where the wheel axle had caught it, split like a mouth, and still damp with the mud of the street. She grimaced, more at the thought of walking around town like that than at the ache in her leg.

“I’ll need to stitch it,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Bucky was still standing by the stove, his arms stiff at his sides, and his hands flexed once, then again.

She reached for her satchel and pulled out the little tin that held her sewing kit. “You have someplace private?” she asked. “To mend it, I mean. I need to take it off.”

His jaw shifted. He didn’t look at her.

There was the back room -the one where the armory and ledgers were kept- but it was cold, all wood and iron and dust. It didn’t feel right. And if Sam came back, needing a rifle or looking for a report, well...

So he cleared his throat. Rubbed a hand along the nape of his neck. “You can use my room.”

She looked up. “You sure?”

He nodded once, curt. “Ain’t much, but it’s clean. Has a lock.”

That last part came out softer. Like maybe he meant safe, but couldn’t quite say it out loud.

She offered a small smile. “That’s plenty.”

He stepped toward the hallway that led to the quarters, his boots heavy across the worn boards. At the door, he turned the knob and pushed it open, gesturing with one hand without stepping inside.

She followed.

The room was simple. Spartan, really. A narrow bed tucked against the far wall with a gray wool blanket folded back neatly. A side table with a dented oil lamp, a drawer with a cracked basin, a shaving cup, a comb, and a folded hand towel. Nothing decorative. No framed pictures. No clutter.

But it smelled like soap and pine. Clean. Private.

“I’ll wait out front,” he said, still not meeting her eyes.

She stepped past him and gave a polite nod. “Thank you.”

----

She closed the door softly behind her and let the latch click into place.

The room was still, dim with the curtains drawn, and the air had the faint scent of soap, old wood, and something that was just him. She set her satchel on the hanger at the door and stood for a moment, taking it in.

It was so plain it made her chest ache. No pictures or paintings. No keepsakes. No color. Just the bare minimum, arranged with the kind of precision you only learn when you’ve lived long without the basics.

With the sheriff’s pay, he could’ve rented a modest place in town. A little cabin or a loft above one of the shops. But this room, tucked behind the office like an afterthought, was clearly enough for him.

And that, somehow, made her sadder than it should.

She undressed quickly, folding the torn dress over her knees as she sat on the edge of his bed. The wool blanket scratched a little against her bare thighs.

That realization made her pause.

She wasn’t a girl. She’d been married. She wasn’t supposed to get fluttery sitting in a man’s bed, especially not a man who’d never offered more than a few stilted compliments and a handful of careful touches for the sake of a charade.

But still, here she was.

Her cheeks warmed. She opened her sewing kit, forcing her hands into the rhythm she knew by heart. Needle through fabric. Pull. Knot. Tie off. Her fingers were quick, but calm, but her thoughts wouldn’t quiet.

She was sitting where he slept. She could picture him here, the long sprawl of his body across the narrow mattress, maybe one arm thrown over his eyes, boots kicked off, shirtless.

She wondered what he dreamed about.

She pushed the needle through the torn edge again and pursed her lips.

It was silly. She knew that. Foolish to let herself get carried away just because she could smell him on the pillow or see the careful way he folded his towel. But it was the first glimpse she’d had of his private life, and it hit her harder than expected.

The room screamed of a man who didn’t expect to stay. A man who’d never really unpacked.

----

His palm still remembered the shape of her leg.

Her warmth lingered on him like a brand. The curve of her thigh, the way her breath hitched -not from pain, but from surprise- as his fingers steadied her so he could clean the wound. He hadn’t meant for it to feel intimate. Wasn’t thinking like that. But the moment her body gave under his hand, pliant and warm and trusting, something lit low in his stomach and burned all the way down.

Now, she was in his room.

Naked.

Fixing a tear on her dress, needle and thread working in some quiet rhythm while he sat frozen behind his desk, pretending to focus on the reports in front of him. His eyes weren’t reading. Not really. The ink blurred, smudged. His thoughts were halfway across the damn building, behind that shut door.

She was naked. In his room. On his bed. Fixing what had torn when she slipped in front of him like some poor fool in a dime novel.

He ran a hand down his face.

And he’d carried her instinctively. Like she belonged in his arms.

His hand clenched slowly on the table’s edge.

Rumlow hadn’t made a move yet.

Not directly.

Hadn’t cornered her on the street. Hadn’t stopped by her house. Hell, hadn’t even looked her way when they passed by the feed store last week, but that meant nothing. That snake was patient. And smart. The kind of smart who smiled at you while holding a knife behind his back. He had eyes in this town, ears tucked into corners of the saloon and the smokehouse and the damn church pews, probably.

And every single one of them had surely seen the sheriff helping the widow down from her cart, brushing dust off her skirt, carrying her parcels like he had a claim.

His stomach soured.

Maybe it wasn’t boldness holding Rumlow back, but calculation. Waiting for the right moment. For proof, the woman he thought of as his had slipped out of reach. Bucky’s teeth ground.

She didn’t see it. That was the damn thing. She didn’t see him. Not the way a man like that looked at a woman alone for too long. She thought Rumlow was just… unpleasant. A little strange. Too forward in his apologies, maybe. But she hadn’t seen the way his eyes dragged over her. Like he was picking a cut of meat. Like he already owned it.

She didn’t see it. Because she wasn’t used to being hunted.

His jaw ticked. He’d known a lot of things in his life. Violence. Scarcity. The cold bite of loneliness. But nothing made him feel the kind of wrong he felt imagining Rumlow’s hands on her.

He leaned back in the chair and dragged a slow breath through his nose.

She was smart. Kind. Capable as hell. But too used to assuming that what didn’t feel like danger wasn’t. That because she’d survived worse -death, grief, loneliness- she could handle whatever came next.

But wolves don’t knock.

They wait. Circle. Smile with their teeth hidden behind words that sound an awful lot like help.

And right now, that wolf was watching.

----

The door to Bucky’s room creaked open softly, and she stepped out with her dress freshly mended, brushing one palm down the front like she could smooth the whole morning away. He looked up only once, just enough to make sure she was upright, not limping.

“Thank you for lettin’ me use your room,” she said, casually as she moved past him toward the stove. Like she wasn’t acutely aware she’d just stepped out of the place he slept, wearing nothing but her own skin, not ten minutes before.

He didn’t turn. Just shrugged one shoulder, eyes back on the papers he hadn’t read since she fell. “You let me use yours for much more than the time you needed to mend those clothes,” he muttered. “Reckon there’s nothin’ to thank me for.”

His gaze flicked toward her legs, then darted quickly back to the report in his hands.

“You shouldn’t be wanderin’ around if you hurt yourself. Why don’t you sit a while near the stove?”

She arched a brow, already reaching for the kettle. “I’ve been sittin’ on your bed for nearly half an hour. What if I want to make you some decent coffee? As a thank you. For carrying me. You shouldn’t’ve done that, could’ve hurt your back.”

He didn’t lift his head. But his ears itched red.

She tilted her head, leaning her hip against the edge of the stove. “Ok. What if I want a decent coffee?”

She smiled behind her hand. “Decent tea? I could accept that.”

He didn’t answer.

Because his hand was already reaching for the little tin near the cupboard, rough fingers curling around the handle like maybe it was easier to serve her tea than admit he’d just pictured her ass in his bed for the second time that morning.

He poured for himself, too. It wasn’t every day he drank tea, but there were mornings it hit the spot, and this one had turned into something strange enough to warrant it. The tin rattled a little when he opened it. Baker Marshall had given it to him not long after he took the badge, after he caught some shit-stained teenager trying to make off with one of her trifles. She’d thrust the tin at him all stern-voiced gratitude, and it’d stayed in his drawer since, barely touched.

She took a careful sip from the enamel mug he’d handed her, then tucked her legs a little closer to the stove’s warmth. “So,” she said after a moment, casual but tight, “it doesn’t seem like Rumlow’s really interested in what’s going on between us.”

Bucky looked up, gaze unreadable.

“In all these days I came to town,” she went on, “I haven’t seen him once. And before, every time I passed by, he was always in my way.”

He set his mug down gently, curling his fingers loosely around the handle.

“And that don’t tell you anythin’?” he asked, in a low voice.

“The fact that people start seein’ somethin’ between us and he suddenly vanishes? That ain’t nothin’. That’s everything. It’s affectin’ him,” Bucky continued. “Man like that doesn’t just stop lurkin’. He’s either waitin’, or he’s recalculatin’. Tryin’ to figure how to handle a change he didn’t see comin’.”

She held her mug tighter.

“I can’t picture yet if he’s gonna take it out on me,” he added, “or if he’ll slip and try to take it out on you. Try to finish the job, scare you back toward his arms.”

The room went quiet after that. The stove hissed softly. Outside, boots crunched somewhere on the street, a dog barked once.

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. “I don’t think he’d-” she started.

“Don’t think,” Bucky cut gently. “Know. That man’s been playin’ a long game, and now that it ain’t playin’ in his favor, he’ll change tactics.”

Her voice was smaller when she asked, “And what do we do?”

He reached for the kettle again, refilled her cup before she could stop him.

“We keep goin’,” he said. “Let him stew. Make him think he’s losin’ ground.”

She wrapped her hands tighter around the cup, heat blooming in her palms.

“And in the meantime?” she asked.

He paused. Met her eyes.

“In the meantime,” Bucky murmured, “you stick close. And don’t go wanderin’ that prairie alone.”

----

The dress felt strange against her skin. Not ill-fitting, but unfamiliar. Ghost-heavy.

She hadn’t touched it in nearly two years. It was soft, cornflower blue, its buttons delicate as raindrops. Cole had picked it out at the fair before the fever took him. Said she’d look like spring itself in it. She had used it once, then folded it away, and let it sit in the box like it might lose its charge over time.

It didn’t.

She’d bought that other dress -the one that tore- just to avoid ever wearing this one. But now... maybe the tear had been the sign. Maybe things only waited so long to be chosen before choosing for themselves.

And now here she was, tugging it over her hips like it hadn’t sat folded beneath two years of dust and grief.

She rested the braid over her shoulder, settled her hat low on her head, and stepped onto the cart. If she looked in the mirror too long, she’d change her mind.

----

She wore a different dress that morning. Blue with little white flowers stitched along the bodice, and a line of faint embroidery just beneath the collarbone. Her hair was braided differently, too, somehow more... delicate. It looked like something chosen on purpose.

Bucky noticed all of it. Which was part of the problem.

They hadn’t said much when she pulled up with the cart. He’d stepped out of the sheriff’s office like he hadn’t been waiting by the window the last fifteen minutes, muttering to himself about keeping things professional. But when she hopped down and suggested lunch at the hotel restaurant -casual as anything- and he had to tie the reins with more force than needed just to keep his hands steady.

“You sure?” he’d asked.

She’d nodded. “Yeah. Thought we could change the scenery a little.”

But as they started walking, the silence between them stretched too thin. Not quite uncomfortable, but close enough to feel like it.

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Not with that dress on, or that braid. Not when his thoughts were busy drowning him in a glass of water. What if he embarrassed himself at the restaurant? What if his manners betrayed just how far he’d lived from polite company?

Beside him, she glanced his way. Noticed the distance between their steps. The way his hands stayed stuffed deep in his coat, like he didn’t want them near her.

“Shouldn’t you offer me your arm to walk?” she asked lightly, though her eyes were sharp.

That pulled him up short. “What?”

She tilted her head, mouth drawing into something wry. “Sheriff, I’m a little at a loss here. This whole pretense, it was your idea, wasn’t it? But the way you’re carryin’ on since I got off the cart, feels like I’m pesterin’ you instead of being courted.”

It landed. Hard.

Bucky wanted to slap the heel of his hand to his forehead, but instead, he swallowed and shook his head, ashamed.

“Uh no,” he said quickly. “Just... got other things on my mind. Distracted. ‘M sorry.”

He moved then, awkwardly, and lifted his arm toward her.

She took it without hesitation, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

“There,” she murmured, her fingers warm through the leather. “Now it looks like we mean it.”

He didn’t trust his mouth to respond. Just gave a short nod and kept walking, even as every brush of her skirt against his thigh felt like temptation wrapped in calico.

----

They were shown to a small table near the window. The dining room was quiet at that hour, just the low murmur of plates and cutlery, a cough from the kitchen, the warm scent of meat stew and baked butter crust swirling in the air.

Bucky pulled her chair out before she could reach for it herself. Said nothing as she sat. Just adjusted his coat as he lowered himself into the chair across from her, resting his hat on his thigh.

A waiter drifted near. Bucky asked for two menus, not just one, like some men would’ve done. Like Brock had done, ordering for her without asking.

“Pick what you want,” he said, settling back against the creaking wood with a slow exhale. “God knows I’m starving, and since this... performance of ours was my idea, I’ll cover it.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, Bucky, I was the one who suggested we come today, but it wasn’t my intention to-”

“And I accepted,” he cut in, casual but firmly. “So it’s on me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head, tugging his lips into something dry and nearly amused. “‘Sides,” he added, with a small shrug, “not like I do much with my income. I can afford a damn plate at this excuse of a hotel.”

That pulled a huff of breath from her, halfway to a laugh. She tucked her hands beneath the napkin on her lap.

“W-well,” she murmured, glancing down at the menu but not reading a word of it, “thank you, then.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her fingers fuss with the corner of the page like they didn’t quite know what to do with the gesture. She wasn’t pretending. Not with that tone. Not with that half-stammer and the biting on her lower lip. She wasn’t used to being taken out, that much was clear.

And something about that made a stupid warmth spread in his chest. Like pride. “Least I can do,” he muttered, busying himself with the menu. “‘Specially for my darling.”

Her head snapped up slightly. His eyes didn’t lift from the page.

“Your darling?” she asked, playing along but not unaffected.

“For appearances,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Isn’t that what folks are supposed to think?”

She smiled, a slow, sideways thing. But it reached her eyes.

“Then I’ll have the roast,” she said, looking straight at him now. “Might as well order properly if it’s your money we’re spending.”

He grinned into his water glass and didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The flush crawling up the back of his neck said plenty.

----

The food arrived with a soft clatter of plates. Across the table, Bucky had already picked up his fork, but his grip on it shifted once, then twice, like it didn’t feel quite right in his hand. His movements were slow and deliberate, every bite taken with too much care. He didn’t look up and barely spoke. He was always quiet, but today was on another level.

She watched him for a few more moments, then set her fork down gently.

“Are you feeling unwell?” she asked warmly, with concern.

His brow furrowed faintly. He paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Not at all. Why?”

She hesitated. “You seem… tense. While eating, I mean.”

His eyes dropped to the plate again. He swallowed. “Do I?”

She nodded slightly. “Kind of.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t the comfortable kind they’d shared before. She was already wondering if she’d overstepped when he finally exhaled through his nose.

“You know about my upbringing,” he said quietly, eyes still not lifting from the edge of his plate. “The… places I was in.”

She gave the smallest nod, her chest already clenching.

“They didn’t teach us much about table manners. I mean, they taught us how to stand in line. How to keep quiet. How to sit straight with a plate in front of you and eat fast before it gets taken. Like they already knew what we’d be used for. Not how to… act like we belonged in places like this.” He waved faintly at the table.

His voice dropped lower, almost a rasp. “Later on, workin’ ranches or bounty ridin’... you ate what you caught or what didn’t spoil. It didn’t exactly… polish anything.”

Her heart twisted a little in her chest. A sharp ache for the boy he’d been.

Bucky glanced away, tapping his fingers on the table’s edge before stilling. “I guess I taught myself some civil behavior over the years, but…” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes, in places like this, or even back at your house, those first few days… I get caught up in my head. Feel like I’m bein’ watched, like it’ll show. That I don’t know what I’m doin’. That I don’t belong.”

He looked up at her then, his river-glass eyes were unreadable but so damn open she could’ve wept for it.

“I know it’s stupid,” he muttered.

She slowly reached across the table and laid her hand over his.

Not for show. Not for Rumlow. Not for whatever roles they were pretending to play.

Just for him.

“It’s not stupid,” she said gently. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing just fine.”

His breath hitched, subtle but real. His eyes widened a fraction, startled not by her touch but by how much it disarmed him. And before he could talk himself out of it, he turned his hand under hers, palm up, curling his fingers gently around hers, sweeping his thumb once over the ridges of her knuckles.

He didn’t speak. Just held on for a breath longer than he should’ve.

Then he cleared his throat softly and released her hand, reaching for his fork with a firmer grip this time.

----

They’d finished the meal in the kind of quiet neither of them seemed eager to break. Bucky wiped the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, then folded it carefully, like buying time for a sentence he didn’t want to say.

“I should get back to the office,” he muttered, not quite looking at her. His fingers tapped once on the table before reaching for his hat. “As much as I’d rather be sittin’ right here, if folks catch me foolin’ around too long they’ll think I’ve forgotten the badge is real.”

He flagged the waiter and settled the bill without fanfare. Like it was just another part of his job, another duty to tend to.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t thank him, not right away. Not in front of the waiter.

He stood, took a step toward her chair, and offered his hand.

She hesitated, then slid her fingers into his palm. His grip was warm. He helped her up like he’d always do it, if given the chance.

Once they were outside, sun catching on the dusty street, she turned and looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to cover my part?”

His eyes flicked to hers then, sharp and bright, his mouth twitched just slightly. “Told you already,” he said. “It’s the least I can do… for my darlin’.”

He said it like it wasn’t staged. Like the words had come out without permission.

Her heart kicked once in her chest. She didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh or tease. Just slid her hand through the crook of his arm when he offered it.

The sun lit the edges of his face as he glanced away, casting his eyes to something across the street. His profile caught in the light -riverglass blue and sharp edges- and she thought: damn it, I’m doomed.

“All right then,” she said, masking her. “But I’m not headin’ to the cart yet. Gotta stop by the fabric store. Finally settin’ my mind to makin’ new curtains.”

He nodded and slightly shifted his stance to guide her toward the corner. His arm tightened just a bit beneath her hand.

“Drop you there,” he murmured, voice a touch rougher than before. “Then I’ll head back.”

They walked in silence, not too close, not too far. Her fingers rested lightly against the thick fabric of his coat, and he didn’t look down at them, but he felt it. Every brush. Every point of contact.

He stopped outside the shop when she did, stepping aside just enough to let her pass, and held the door without needing to be asked.

She looked up at him once before going inside. Her eyes lingered, warm and unreadable.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, already missing the way her hand felt on his arm.

He watched her disappear into the soft clatter of the store, then stood still a long moment. Then he turned, pulled low the brim of his hat, and walked back toward the badge like it weighed double today.

----

The bell above the shop door jingled as she stepped out, a neat bundle of fabric bolts balanced in her arms. She squinted at the late sun, as the wind teased a loose strand of hair from behind her ear.

She barely made two steps when a shadow fell over her path.

“Well now,” a voice drawled, smooth as molasses, slick as snake oil. “Didn’t think I’d catch you walkin’ around without your shadow today. Or any other day soon.”

Her chest thudded.

“Mr. Rumlow,” she greeted, polite as a preacher’s wife. “Didn’t know you kept such sharp eyes on my whereabouts.”

Brock tipped his hat with the slow smugness of a man too comfortable in his skin. “Just happened to be nearby,” he said, though she could smell the lie under the sweetness.

“I’m just buyin’ some cloth,” she said, shifting the bundles in her arms. “New curtains.”

“New curtains,” he repeated, like the phrase amused him. His gaze swept over her, from braid to hem. “You look nice today. The braid suits you. Thought about tellin’ you that last time you passed by, but…” He lifted his brows with that familiar insinuation, the kind that made her want to scrub herself clean.

“Thank you,” she said flatly, resisting the urge to look around. “Figured it was time for a change.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Sometimes change is good.”

Then he stepped forward.

Too close.

She didn’t move, not yet, but her grip on the parcels tightened.

Brock looked at her hands, made a show of tilting his head. “Well, look at me, standin’ here like a brute while a lady juggles half a store.” Before she could answer, he reached out and took the fabric from her arms without asking.

She stiffened.

“Let me help,” he said, all charm. “Ain’t no trouble.”

“T-thanks,” she muttered, glancing around the street again.

He stepped beside her, too casual, too sure.

They walked together a few feet, slowly, like nothing was wrong. But everything in her gut twisted.

“Used to be,” Brock murmured, voice dipping low, “you’d look folks in the eye. Smile easily. That was before the sheriff put you in his pocket.”

She stopped walking.

Turned to him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, tone even, hands still.

His smile sharpened. “No? Just seems like you used to be a lot friendlier. Now you’re walkin’ around like someone’s claimed you.”

She swallowed. “If that’s meant to be a question, you’ll have to speak plainer.”

He laughed once, low in his throat. “Don’t need to. Just sayin’, some of us have been lookin’ out for you a lot longer than he has.”

She blinked.

It wasn’t just the words, it was how easy they came to him. Like he believed them. Like it wasn’t slander, just a fact.

"Well," she said slowly, "I appreciate folks lookin' out for me without being asked. This town’s always been mighty generous like that." She tilted her head, the tone was pleasant but just sharp enough to carry a note of warning. “But maybe it’s time I let myself be looked after again. By a man I chose.”

A pause. Delicate as lace, taut as wire.

Brock’s smile never reached his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about him.”

“I appreciate-”

“He’s not good for you,” he cut in, voice low, hardening like cooled steel. “And you’re too naive to see it.”

Her spine stiffened.

“As I told you before,” he went on, softer now but colder somehow, “I always had the best intentions toward you. Always. I’m sayin’ this as a friend, someone who's watched you two foolin' around like children, for him to hit the saloon and fancy some whore the same day he helps you into a cart.”

The words struck like a slap.

Before she could answer, before she could gather breath or fury or anything in between, he went on.

“Ask about lil’ Lucy,” he said, quieter now, like he was offering a kindness instead of driving a blade under her ribs. “That petite blonde always smokin’ on the balcony. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

He leaned in, and she caught the faint scent of tobacco, the crisp edge of his cologne. “I’d hate seein’ you sufferin’ again,�� he murmured, almost sweet. “When you could just…”

A pause. A beat too close.

“…look in the right direction.”

And then, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just tried to slip poison under her skin, he dropped her parcels into the cart and touched the brim of his hat with a smile that didn’t reach anything near decent.

Then he was gone.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the reins. Didn’t even blink.

Lucy.

It could’ve meant nothing. But his voice, God, the way he’d said it. She stared at the fabric in the cart. All it gave her was the echo of his voice, smug and thin and dripping false concern.

A part of her wanted to turn around. March after him and throw the words back in his smug face.

Another part, the quieter, more dangerous part-

She hadn’t meant to walk straight from the fabric store to the sheriff’s office, but somehow her boots had carried her there anyway.

Not for comfort.

Just for… well, she didn’t know what for. To confront him? To ask about something she had no right to even think about?

It could’ve been just another one of Rumlow’s lies. The man had a tongue like a snake and eyes that gleamed when they saw hurt coming. Stirring trouble with a whisper was probably how he fed himself.

And if she and Bucky really were courting -if this weren’t some stupid charade they cooked up over jam and damaged trees- maybe she’d have the right to be mad. Jealous. Hurt.

But they weren’t. Not really.

So should she ask? Could she?

She’d seen how some women in town looked at him. And she wasn’t blind, he was a man like any other, one who’d walked harder paths than most and likely taken comfort where he found it. The idea of knowing details about it, though? That made her stomach clench. She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t.

But if he was getting sloppy -if he was letting the mask slip while they played this game- then maybe he needed a reminder. Not for her sake. For the plan’s.

Still, the thought of it -him, being with some woman after walking her to her cart, after touching her hand, her waist, speaking softly like it mattered- bruised her chest in a way she hadn’t expected.

So, after too much pacing and too many second-guessings, she squared her shoulders and crossed the street stiff-legged, like she was stomping down the doubt with every step.

The town moved around her, same as ever. Someone’s horse whinnied near the stables. A pair of women passed her with quiet chatter and narrowed eyes.

The wood of the door gave a tired creak under her hand, and the warm smell of old paper and stronger coffee hit her nose like something familiar, damn it.

Inside, Sam leaned back in his chair with his boots up on the edge of the desk, whining about something. Bucky stood at the cabinet, holding a half-eaten roll, with a crease deep between his brows.

“-I said I’d bring you somethin’,” Bucky muttered, exasperated. “Didn’t mean I was gonna carry half the bakery in my coat.”

Sam gestured lazily with one hand. “You said lunch, not a crusty leftover like I’m your stray mutt.”

“You are a stray mutt.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the stray’s emotionally repressed cousin, so-”

The door thunked shut behind her.

Two pairs of eyes turned toward her. Sam’s stance didn’t falter, but Bucky’s whole body changed, his shoulders lifted, and his fingers pressed harder around the roll.

She hadn’t planned how she was going to do this. She never did when it came to him.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, lips curved into something polite. Her gaze stayed on Bucky. “Can I talk to you?”

Bucky blinked once, then again. Swallowed.

Sam stood, all mock offense melting into something more curious as he snagged his coat off the hook. “And that’s my cue,” he said, moving toward the door. “If y’all need sugar, flour, or the Lord’s forgiveness, I’m headed to the store.”

“Sugar,” she said calmly. “I’m out.”

Sam grinned widely. “Knew it. Deputy’s work is never done.”

He tipped an imaginary hat and slipped out, the door shutting with a final little thunk.

And then it was quiet.

She took a slow breath. Then looked right at Bucky.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she said, voice even. “But figured, if we’re meant to be convincin’, I can’t just storm off after lunch without a word.”

He didn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw gave him away.

“There’s a man in town sayin’ he’s seen you,” she continued, stepping forward. “After we... spend time.”

That got him. His head jerked up, brows pulled together.

“Said you visit the saloon. Regular-like.”

He blinked. His mouth opened, then shut again.

She held his gaze, even if it nearly burned to do it. “I ain’t your keeper, Bucky. Lord knows I ain’t got the right to dictate how you spend your evenings, and I don’t want details,” she said quickly. “Don’t want names or stories or nothin’. It ain’t really my business. But if folks are watchin’, and you’re makin’ rounds that don’t match the story we’re tellin’, maybe you should be more careful when takin’ a stroll.”

Still, nothing.

She crossed her arms. “Just thought you should know. And, the one-”

He licked his bottom lip. Voice low. “Who said it?”

“I was going to get there when you asked. The one who said it was Rumlow.”

And that was it.

His whole body language changed. His eyes narrowed, his free hand closed into a fist.

“Said I should ask you ‘bout ‘little Lucy” she cast her eyes down. Damn. She wasn’t planning on telling him that part.

His body stilled like a trap had just been sprung. The muscles in his jaw ticked once, twice, silent, tight fury winded through his frame.

“Did he, now,” Bucky said, voice flat as a dead road.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her arms stayed crossed over her chest, like she was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet but sure as hell would.

He stared at nothing, his jaw working slowly like he was biting on a nail. “Lucy ain’t a name I’ve heard in months,” he said finally, rubbing his thumb hard along the desk’s edge. Like he meant to sand something down that wouldn’t smooth. “She was never-” he stopped. Shook his head once, sharply. “She ain’t important.”

“It’s alright…” she tried to shrug it off. “ain’t as naïve as you think I am, Sheriff. We ain’t nothin’. I know you’re a man. And as a man, you got certain-”

She swallowed, and her arms dropped slowly to her sides.

“Yes, we are pretendin’,” he said. “But I’ll be damned if I ever let you think I’d treat you like that. Be that kind of man.”

He almost spilled all out. That she’d taken up space in his mind longer than he’d ever admit, twining through his hollowed spaces of like ivy creeping over ruin. That ever since the day she pressed a damp cloth to his fevered skin, she’d been undoing something in him he didn’t know how to hold together. That he wanted her, not politely, not like a neighbor tipping his hat.

But it wasn’t the time to exploit her vulnerability, with all that’s been happening to her, and he was sure as hell she deserved better than him.

So he bit down on it. Let it rot on his tongue.

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things.

“Alright,” she murmured at last. “Um- I just wanted… to tell you what he said, that’s all.”

She tried to sound casual, but the relief was stupid and obvious. Like some foolish part of her had needed to hear he hadn’t been out bedding a whore.

He cleared his throat. “Well. Seems our little game’s workin’, then,” he muttered. “If that snake’s feelin’ bold enough to show his teeth.”

The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago.

“Yeah… seems so.” She managed to say. The silence stretched. Her hands smoothed down the front of her skirt like she needed something to do. “I should go,” she said, glancing toward the door. “Before the sun drops too low.”

He gave a small nod, and she turned around, boots soft on the boards, reaching for the handle, but she didn’t make it that far.

And she felt him.

The scent of his body. Then his breath brushing a loose strand of hair near her cheek.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The world shrank to the space between them.

His jaw ticked once beside her ear. She heard it. Felt it.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

Seconds passed, slow and charged, until he exhaled hard through his nose, cursed softly under his breath, and let go of the handle.

He reached around her, opened the door, and stared somewhere past her shoulder as the wind cut in.

“Safe travel,” he muttered.

“Thank you.” She stepped out, heartbeat loud in her ears.

He watched her go. Stood in the doorway until she reached the cart. Only then did he shut the door. Then, he leaned his forehead against the wood and didn’t move for a long, long time.

Next Chapter

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yelenasburnbook · 2 days ago

Text

Lifeline

———————————————————

Pairing(s): Bob Reynolds x Fem! Reader - Platonic! Yelena & Reader Dynamic - Platonic!Bucky & Reader Dynamic 💞

Summary: After a mission goes wrong, you’re forced to confront just how much your best friend means to you, and how far you’ll go to keep her alive.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Gore, Injury, Blood, Medical Settings, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Distress, Explosions, & Probably too much Dialogue

A/N: Between summer classes, my sisters graduation party, and my job, this took me a lot longer than I thought it would. That being said, I’m very proud of it! I changed up the writing style to 2nd Person POV, because that’s how I used to do it, and I like it better. Enjoy this hurt/comfort that I promised 🩷

Translation: Дорогая - Sweetheart

———————————————————

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well.

Bob and Bucky had already cleared the north wing, taking out the remaining guards and disabling the perimeter defense grid without much resistance. Ava had slipped through the lower floors like a… well a ghost, disabling the compound’s internal sensors and wiping all surveillance data before the enemy even realized she was there. John was waiting on the jet, prepared to take off incase of an emergency extraction.

Alexei was not allowed on stealth missions.

It had all gone a little too smoothly. No alarms, no last minute reinforcements. Just a quick, surgical takedown.

Which made the final step feel almost too easy.

“Intel should be in the west records room,” Ava reported over comms, her voice calm and efficient, “It’s not on the servers, so someone’s keeping hard copies. Probably a hard drive. You might have to search for it though.”

“I sent you the hallway blueprints,” Bucky added, “No booby traps, no guards posted. Should be clean.”

“Should be,” Yelena muttered, side eyeing you as the two of you advanced through the smoky hallway, “Which means it absolutely won’t be.”

You snorted, “Oh come on. Maybe for once a mission could actually go right.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, “You just jinxed us, you know.”

“Please. That’s not real.”

She smacks your shoulder lightly, “That’s exactly what someone would say right before they get blown through a wall.”

You and Yelena moved through the smoke choked hallway side by side, weapons drawn, boots crunching over shattered glass. You were supposed to clear the west wing of the compound; secure the hard drive with intel, take out any remaining stragglers, and rendezvous at the extraction point.

“Bet you five bucks I find the drive first,” You murmured, flicking your eyes across the scorched corridor ahead.

Yelena scoffed, “That’s it? What will I do with that? Buy half of a New York coffee?

You grinned, “Fine, ten bucks says I get to it before you.”

“Make it twenty, and loser has to scrub the showers,” She challenges.

“You’re on.”

The complex rumbled slightly, and Yelena’s arm stuck out in front of you. The two of you halted your movements, listening for potential threats. After a few beats of silence, you both quietly carried on.

She continued the conversation, murmuring, “You’re going to regret it when you’re elbow deep in Alexei’s hair clogs.”

You gagged audibly, “No no no, that’s foul. I take it back. No showers.”

“You can’t take it back you coward!” She hissed softly, her finger jabbing into your shoulder as she stepped over the body of a downed Hydra soldier.

“Fine!” You roll your eyes, “If I lose I’ll clean the showers, but if I win,” You paused for a second, thinking, “You’re doing my laundry and folding my socks into little burritos like you do yours.”

Yelena scowled, “I don’t fold my socks into burritos.”

“You do. I’ve seen it. You treat your socks better than your teammates.”

Before Yelena could fire back, Bucky’s voice came back over comms, low, amused, maybe slightly annoyed, “Is this really happening? Are we wagering chores in the middle of a hostile zone?”

Yelena taps her comms with a smirk, “It’s called multitasking old man.”

A low, familiar hum vibrated through your ears, “Sounded more like flirting to me.” Bob added, teasingly.

You grinned, tapping your own earpiece, “You jealous?”

His dry tone didn’t miss a beat, “Of the world’s weirdest foreplay? Not even a little.”

You shrugged, “Sounded a tiny bit jealous.”

Bob’s chuckle came soft and low over the line, “Eyes up, sweetheart.”

The two of you continued on, stealthy, and silent.

You and Yelena had always moved like this; side by side, shoulder to shoulder, like you were born knowing each other’s rhythm. It hadn’t started that way. She didn’t let people in easily, and you’d spent the first few weeks trading dry sarcasm and fake glares across briefing tables. But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the shared past. The haunted edges. The quiet understanding between two people who knew what it meant to be used, and to fight your way back to yourself. Maybe it was that she never treated you like you were fragile, and you never treated her like she had to be unbreakable.

Whatever it was, it stuck. And before long, she was your best friend.

Not the kind you just trained with. She was the one who’d knock on your door at midnight because she found a movie she knew you’d hate and wanted to make you watch it anyway. The one who made fun of your combat stance while bandaging your hand. The one who stood between you and your demons without a second thought.

Sister. Best friend. Lifeline.

And now she was smiling like none of this was dangerous.

“You coming or what?” Yelena teased, already stepping into the next corridor.

You smirked, “I’m just making sure you don’t walk into another tripwire.”

“Please. I am the tripwire.” You made a face at her that practically screamed, that doesn’t make any sense.

Over comms, Bucky sighed, “And I’m the one with a migraine now.”

You both laughed quietly.

The two of you turned the corner into what looked like an old generator room. The walls were charred, exposed wires were hanging; still sparking, and… a sound. Just a hum at first, quietly buzzing through the walls. Then rising.

A trap.

Your expression dropped, “Yelena-”

A flash of light. A sharp beep. Neither of you even had time to turn around.

The explosion hit like a thunderclap, blinding white and deafening. You slammed into the ground with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. Your back hit something hard, maybe debris, maybe a wall, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that your ears were ringing painfully, the air was thick with dust, and something was burning. Your whole body hurt, head pounding with every beat of your heart.

And Yelena-

Yelena was nowhere in sight.

You blinked rapidly, trying to orient yourself. Blood dripped down your temple, warm and sticky. Your vision swam, and the comms were a static mess in your ear, with nothing but garbled voices and white noise.

You tried to push yourself up, your arms trembling beneath you, and legs unsteady. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to stop, and your powers sparked faintly at your fingertips; weak and unfocused.

Then you saw her.

A pile of rubble. Blonde hair. An arm too still.

“No,” You breathed hard, stumbling forward on instinct, “No, no, no- Yelena!”

The sound of your own voice made your head throb and your vision blur. The vibrations in your skull sent a white hot pain down your neck and you groaned, pushing yourself forward.

You dragged yourself across the broken ground, pushing aside scorched metal and fractured concrete to reach her. Your hands shook, blood smearing your palms, and you weren’t sure if it was yours or hers.

When you finally uncovered Yelena, she was still breathing, but barely. Her body was limp, unconscious, and stained with ash and blood.

Your heart plummeted.

Protocol in this situation was to fall back, to regroup. But you couldn’t move, you couldn’t leave her. Your arms found themselves hooked under Yelena’s, as you fought your own fatigue, and dragged her out of the rubble. Your body was trembling, tired, and nearly collapsing under the weight. But your eyes were wide and frantic, and your heart was thumping faster than you thought it could.

She had to be okay, she just had to be.

“Y/N! Fall back, now!” Bucky’s voice barked through the comms.

But you didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You knelt beside Yelena’s body, your own chest heaving, tears mixing with the soot on your face. For the first time in a long, long time, you didn’t know what to do.

——————

The jet was moving fast, cutting through clouds and sky, but time still felt too slow.

Yelena was laid out across the med-table, strapped in, Bucky and Ava working furiously to stabilize her. Blood was still seeping from the gash in her side, and her breaths remained uneven. The sight of her made your stomach twist. You hovered nearby, trying your best to help. But your vision was still blurry, and the pounding in your head made you nauseous and dizzy.

Bob watched you warily, not straying too far.

“I can help. Just-” You stepped forward, reaching for a roll of gauze someone tossed near the med table. But your hands were shaking too badly to grip it.

“Y/N,” Bucky said quietly.

“I can do it, just let me-” You stammered, your voice ragged as you reached back for the gauze near the edge of the tray. Your fingers barely curled around it before it slipped from your grasp again, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Your breath hitched, short and frantic, “Shit- I can-”

Bucky gently stepped between you and the table, bending slightly to your level. His voice was softer than usual, “You’re not okay. You have to step back.”

“No, no no no, she’s not okay! She needs help! I need- I need to help her, I can’t-” Your voice cracked, raw with panic, “She’s not waking up, she’s not-”

Bucky glanced to Bob, who didn’t hesitate.

He reached out and gently pulled you away from the chaos, wrapping his arms around you even as you resisted, “Hey, hey- sweetheart, look at me.”

“No! Let me go, Bob- she needs-”

“She needs them right now. You need me.”

You shook your head, body trembling in his grasp, eyes still locked on the blood still soaking through Yelena’s suit. You tugged at his arms once more.

“Stop,” he whispered, “Breathe, honey. Just breathe.”

You could only whimper in response, finally feeling the affects of your sudden movements, the throbbing pain fading back into your skull.

Bob held you tighter, “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding, and you’ve probably got a concussion. Let me help you.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, trembling hard, “I can’t-I can’t think. Oh god what if she-” Bob shut that down quickly.

“She’s alive. You saved her.” He soothed, hand stroking your back softly, but you shook your head, crying now, silent tears streaking your soot covered cheeks.

“She wasn’t moving-” you were cut off,

“Baby breathe. Come on, in through your nose.”

You were gently guided to sit against the wall of the jet, his body pressed to yours, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you took slow breaths, “Good girl. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

As your breathing began to steady, he carefully examined the wound on your temple. The blood still hadn’t clotted. He reached for the medical kit, using its contents to gently dab at the wound. He grabbed the small penlight, testing it before meeting your eyes.

“Follow the light, but keep your head still.” He ordered softly, heightened concern etched into his features.

You flinched, but obeyed.

Your left eye lagged slightly, and the dilation of your pupils was severely delayed. Bob’s expression turned grim, as he turned to the others, “Concussion confirmed,” he relayed, and Bucky grunted in response. He turned back to you, “You’re gonna sit still for the rest of the flight.”

You grimaced, “But-”

“No buts. Head down pretty girl. Let me wrap this.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder as he gently patched you up, arms still trembling. Your eyes flicked back to Yelena every few seconds, never staying away for long.

Your breathing was slow again, but still ragged, trembling hands clinging to his sleeve as he cleaned the wound, pressing gauze gently to the side of your head.

“I thought she was dead,” You whispered.

“She’s not,” Bob replied, firm but gentle, “You saved her.

——————

Back at the Tower, the med team was waiting on the landing pad. Yelena was whisked away on a stretcher. You immediately tried to follow, stumbling forward with glassy eyes.

Bob’s hand closed around your waist the second you tried to push forward.

“Y/N,” he said gently, voice edged with urgency, “Slow down.”

But you didn’t. You twisted in his grip, eyes locked on the medbay doors just ahead. Your boots skidded on the tile as you tried to wrench free.

“I have to be with her-”

Bucky stepped in from the left, cutting off your path completely, “You’re next,” he said, voice low but unmoving, “You don’t look good, Y/N.”

“I don’t care,” you protested, throat tightening.

“You need to let the doctors take a look at you,” Bob murmured behind her, voice low and soft, “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine!” You snapped, louder than you meant to.

Then your knees dipped.

Bob stepped in closer, bracing you as gently as he could, “Okay, hey- hey. I’ve got you. Just breathe for a second.”

“You’re not fine ,” Bucky said quietly, “You’re disoriented, bleeding, and barely staying on your feet.”

You closed your eyes tight, forehead pressing into Bob’s shoulder as the hall tilted sideways. Your legs felt too far away, and your heart wouldn’t slow down.

“I don’t want to leave her,” you whispered.

Bob pressed a kiss to your uninjured temple, “You’re not leaving her, honey. You’re letting someone help you, so you don’t end up needing that hospital bed too.”

You hesitated, then looked up at Bucky, eyes brimming with tears.

“Promise me,” you whispered, “You’ll stay with her.”

“Swear it,” Bucky said, firm and sure.

Bob gently brushed the hair off your cheek, “And I’m not leaving you either.”

Your shoulders sagged, finally giving out.

“Okay,” you breathed, “Okay. Just please, hurry.”

“We will,” Bob murmured, adjusting his hold as he started guiding you back, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you patched up.”

——————

The moment the med team cleared you (mild concussion, bruised ribs, no internal bleeding) you were already half out of the chair.

You didn’t wait for the nurse to finish her sentence. You slid off the exam table and made it three steps toward the door, heart pounding and legs ready to sprint.

But Bob was faster.

He stepped in front of you just as you reached the hallway, one hand gently pressing to your shoulder, the other hovering at your waist in case you stumbled.

“Easy,” he said softly, but firmly, “You still look like you might tip over.”

“I have to see her,” you said, voice hoarse, “I’ve waited long enough.”

“I know,” Bob murmured, gaze searching yours, “And you’re going to. But not if you faceplant in the hallway trying to run there.”

You faltered, chest tight, the instinct to bolt still coiled beneath your ribs like a spring.

Bob softened, “Walk with me. Please.”

Your shoulders dropped, groaning in annoyance as you agree, “This whole concussion thing sucks ass.”

That elicited a chuckle from him as he guided you down the hall to Yelena’s room, “I could always grab one of the wheel chairs. Strap you in, blanket over your lap, maybe even a juice box. Really complete the whole ‘I’m severely concussed’ look.”

That earned him a light slap to the shoulder and a correction of being “mildly” concussed, the air feeling lighter for the first time in a few hours. That was, until you reached the recovery room.

Yelena was still out cold, pale and bandaged, but breathing steadily.

Bucky stood up from the bedside chair, gesturing for you to take his place. You took him up on that, and dropped into the seat beside her. You were curled in on yourself, one arm hugging your middle, and the other resting lightly on the edge of the bed. Bucky stood in the doorway, watching quietly.

“She’s okay,” Bob whispered again, laying a hand on your shoulder.

You nodded, chewing on your your bottom lip nervously. You believed him, but that didn’t mean you were going anywhere.

——————

Four more hours passed, and you didn’t move.

Not when the nurse came in to check vitals. Not when Bob quietly tried to coax you into eating something. Not when Bucky mumbled that you should at least stretch your legs or, “your spine’s gonna fuse to that chair.”

You barely blinked, eyes fixed on Yelena’s still face. Her head was wrapped in bandages now, and you imagined the gash in her side was the same way under the gown. An IV line fed fluids back into her, and the color just was just barely returning to her cheeks. But she hadn’t moved.

So you stayed.

Bob stayed too, right beside you in the other chair, one knee bouncing anxiously. Bucky leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed, chewing silently on the inside of his cheek, watching you more than her.

The other’s were coming and going, not wanting to crowd the room, but still wanting to make sure Yelena was alright.

Alexei didn’t stay long. Couldn’t stay long. Even though he knew she would be alright, he couldn’t bare to see his daughter like that. He left quickly, mumbling something about, “-preparing her favorite soup for when she wakes.”

Now the room was quiet and still, and you were trying your hardest to keep your eyes open.

Then, without warning, Yelena stirred.

It was subtle; a twitch of her fingers, the barest shift in her brow, but it might as well have been an earthquake.

You straightened so fast you startled Bob, and your breath caught in your throat, hand reaching for hers instinctively.

She groaned softly, her face scrunching. Her lips parted, dry and chapped, and her eyelids cracked open just the tiniest bit.

Her voice came out rough and low, “I told you so.”

You blinked, “What?”

“You jinxed it”

Bucky snorted from across the room, “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, watery laugh and covered your mouth with your hand. The sound surprised even you, half-sob, half-relief.

Bob chuckled under his breath, “She’s awake five seconds and already picking a fight.”

Yelena’s mouth twitched into the faintest, sleepy smirk, “Felt wrong to leave you unsupervised.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, smiling through the sting in your eyes, “I should’ve left you under that pile of rubble.”

Yelena opened her eyes a little more, focusing on you slowly, “You didn’t?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, voice tight with affection.

She didn’t comment further, but her lips twitched upward for just a moment. She looked around the room with exaggerated slowness, “Ugh. Medbay. Lame.”

“You almost died,” you said pointedly.

“Keyword there is almost,” she croaked, “I am not so easy to kill Дорогая.”

A fond smile reached your lips, glad for her to finally be back, “You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“Yeah, well… I needed the nap.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, “You almost gave her a panic attack.”

“She did panic,” Bucky said, now walking over with a smirk, “Went full ‘deer in headlights.’ Even tried to assist with field surgery in the jet while she could barely stand.”

Your mouth dropped open, “Okay well-”

Bob leaned in slightly from his spot beside the bed, his voice low but laced with just enough dry humor to soften the reprimand, “You also almost collapsed. Twice. And then proceeded to argue with me, Bucky, and the doctor, about how you were ‘fine’ while bleeding from the head.”

You winced a little at the reminder.

“I didn’t argue…”

Bob raised his brows, unimpressed, and Yelena blinked at you slowly, like her brain was still buffering.

“You’re hurt?” she asked, her tone shifting just slightly; still scratchy, still dry, but gentler now. Concern lingered behind her tired eyes.

You hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod, “Concussion. Couple bruised ribs.”

She stared for a second longer, processing.

Then, “You absolute dumbass.”

You laughed, relieved at the familiar edge in her voice, “Oh come on.”

“You dragged my unconscious body through a half-collapsed hallway while you were concussed and barely standing?”

“…Yes?” You deadpanned, with an attitude that said, and I would do it again.

Bucky gave you a pointed look, “She also refused help, wouldn’t sit down, forgot how breathing worked…”

“Okay,” you mumbled, holding up a hand, “Everyone here is being a little dramatic.”

Yelena’s voice was a raspy mutter, “You’re like a baby duck with a death wish,” she gave a tiny shrug, or tried to, but winced halfway through, “All wobbly and confused, just waddling into danger.”

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing your palm to your face, “That is… the most insulting and adorable thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Bob, still hovering nearby, smirked, “Honestly? She’s not wrong.”

You turned to him, offended, “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am,” he said, already grinning, “That’s why I helped stop the baby duck from passing out on the jet.”

You didn’t even try to fight the grin that crept its way to your face.

She rolled her eyes, but the concern was still there in the tight way she held your hand, “I missed being conscious, not being able to mock you was really boring.”

“Shut up!”

Bob smirked at that, but gently laid a hand on your shoulder, “Mock her later. She’s got about fifteen minutes of energy left before I physically carry her to bed.”

Bucky cleared his throat, “Speaking of that, I’m getting some sleep.

You looked up, “You alright?”

He gave a small nod, eyes steady on the two of you, “You’re both still breathing. That’s enough for me tonight.”

His tone was quiet, but the weight behind it said everything he didn’t. Relief, worry, care. All packed into that single sentence. Yelena tilted her head slightly, “Wow. That was almost… sweet.”

You smiled, “A little poetic, even.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at both of you, deadpan, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, we won’t,” Yelena replied, grinning through the soreness, “Wouldn’t want you pulling a hip trying to express feelings.”

You bit back a laugh, and he sighed dramatically, shaking his head as he walked to the door, “Every time I try to be nice…”

“Night Bucky,” the three of you said in unison, still smiling.

He glanced back one last time, “Proud of you. Both of you.”

Then he was gone, leaving the room a little quieter but warmer. The moment he disappeared through the medbay doors, Bob turned back to you with that knowing look; part patient, part amused, all gentle concern.

“Alright, duckling,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over your temple where the bandages still sat, “Time to sleep before you collapse in this chair and I have to explain to the nurses why you’re drooling on the floor.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to come up with anything clever, “You are obsessed with dragging me places.”

He grinned, “Only when you’re too stubborn to go on your own.”

With a little help, you stood. Your legs felt unsteady, and you leaned into him without thinking, letting his arm wrap around your waist, solid and steady. You glanced down at Yelena, your smile fading a bit.

She was still propped up a little, eyes half-lidded, but awake enough to catch the shift in your demeanor, “I’m fine,” she said. “Go.”

You hesitated, gaze flicking to the chair beside her bed, “Do you want someone to stay with you?”

Yelena snorted softly, “What, you think I’m scared of the dark now?”

You gave her a sheepish smile.

“I’m okay,” she assured, her voice softer this time,“I’m sure the nurses will be in and out tonight. Go let Bob hover over you for a while. He lives for it.”

“I do,” Bob said, not even pretending to deny it.

Yelena looked over at him, “If she doesn’t sleep at least six straight hours, lock her in her room.”

He gave a short nod, “Already planning on it.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, leaning down to gently squeeze her hand one last time, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

“No promises,” Yelena muttered, smirking, but then her features softened, “Thank you. For saving me. For staying.”

You smiled again, but it felt a little heavier this time, more vulnerable, “Always.”

Yelena’s voice was quiet now, sleepy, “Goodnight, little duck.”

“Goodnight, Lena.”

Bob gave her a two-finger salute, then gently turned you toward the door, his hand warm and steady on your back.

And as you let him lead you down the dim corridor back to the living space part of the tower, you felt that weight in your chest finally start to ease; not gone, but softer. Safer.

Because she was okay.

And so were you.

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stottlemorgan · 2 days ago

Note

hiya! i just wanted to say that you are my FAV rdr2 writer ever!!! you characterize Arthur SO well it regularly has me doing laps around my room haha

that being said, may i request a bit of sub Arthur? poor guy deserves to be taken care of, and his harsh self talk makes me so sad!! like, you are objectively pretty sir, what do you mean?!

thank you!! 🥰

Oh, hello, my dear! Thank you so much for your kindness, that means the utter world to me omg!! <333 I'm very glad you enjoy my work. This was actually a pretty new dynamic for me (Like, Arthur being a sub but Reader being just as tender back) and I have fallen in love with it!! Here is your sweet little sub Arthur, our boy needs the love (I'm an awkward girly so I hope the talk from Reader is good enough!) <3 MDNI <3

Sweet Man / Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Tags: Sex (unprotected), lots and lots of compliments for Arthur, Arthur is a sweet little sub and Reader is just as sweet and loving.

"I said quit grabbin', Arthur," you gentle, your voice wavering as you take his large hands in yours and move them from your rear to your waist. "Jus' relax, keep your mind on this." Your underthighs slap against the tops of his own with a quiet wetness and Arthur whines at the tender pull of your cunt around his slickened cock. The cot beneath you squeaks with each land of your rear into Arthur's lap and he gasps loudly when you run your thumb over his nipple, a ruddy hue flooding his slackened face,

"Darlin'- Oh, please-"

"S'that good, baby?" You coo, pushing your knees into the cot, earning more leverage and upping your pace. Arthur groans, barely mustering a nod, his fingers twitching against the soft skin of your waist. The arcing of his back against the cot pulls his hips back somewhat before the shudder that snakes up his spine causes him to give an upward thrust. The blunt head of his cock kisses your sweet spot with an eager throb.

It forces your mouth open, your brow pinching upward as you whimper, "My handsome man- Shit- My- God, Arthur, you're so good."

"Don't- don't stop, my girl, please-" He rasps, his nails faintly nipping at your skin, tugging at your nerves and sparking tickles through your body. It only spurs on the heavy pressure pooling within your cunt.

"Ain't plannin' on it, cowbo- Oh-" You slouch forward, your bare and dewy body pressing atop that of his own, your teeth tacking against the skin of his cheek as you huff with each long roll of your hips, "Look'achu, my sweet man-" You pant, feeling the muscle of his lower abdomen fluttering beneath the silken kisses of your clit as you start to grind.

Arthur's chest heaves, his eyes glazed over with a wanton desperation as he lets his head sink further into the pillow, his focus fading and his heels thumping into the fabric beneath.

"You an' your sweet face, those rosy cheeks and," you swallow, gasping, "that damn smirk'a yours, God-"

Arthur's thighs start to tremble and his hands clumsily paw their way to the small of your back, pressing you further down onto him as he whimpers, "Don't stop-"

"Makes me wanna ride you red, Arthur."

"Oh- Please-" He responds, weak and whining, teeth bared.

"An' those angel eyes o'yours, so pretty an'-" Your purring tone is lost under the strangled moan that surges up through the flushed and fuzzy landscape of Arthur's chest. A fervent pulse from his thick cock brings forth a whine from you and your voice leaves you strained, "Tha's it, feel me, baby."

You squeeze your satiny walls around Arthur's ruddy girth and he cries out, bucking his hips with a firm smack of his hands into your ass, gripping. The sting causes you to clench around him again and you both groan when the overside of his cock rubs at your soft, ridged insides.

"Darlin', I'm-"

"Let go for me, Arthur."

Arthur wraps his arms around you, holding you close with a broken moan as he gives a series of quivering upward thrusts, spilling warmly and fully within you.

"Tha's it, Arthur, yes-"

The teasing strokes of his lower abdomen against your clit coupled with the faint ache of his cockhead nudging your sweet spot send you right over the edge with him, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you mewl against his bristly jaw. Your cunt draws him in, your cum buttery and hot as it coats his cock. Arthur's lip tremors on his next deep, desperate inhale, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Fuck-"

Your voice comes out whining and spent as your hips slow to a languorous rock, "There he is, my handsome man."

Arthur swallows loudly, his breathing harsh as he lets you cup the back of his head and pull him into a messy kiss. All he can do is open his mouth for you, whining when your tongue laps a ticklish rhythm against the roof his mouth. "So fucked out, ain't you?" You garble, and Arthur's eyes flutter open, crossing a little as he gazes up at you with a soft moan, thoughtless, only feeling. A smile tugs at your lips while you continue to kiss him, enjoying that familiar dazed yielding in his expression.

Arcing your hips back carefully, you slip his softened cock from your lush cunt, soon followed by a dribbling of his warm spend over his groin as you settle atop him. Arthur huffs into your mouth, the kiss still unbroken, making him losing his breath a tad. He shifts beneath you, his sweat acrid, sticking his back and thighs to the cot underneath. One of his hands comes up to push your mussed hair back, the fingertips of the other pressing tenderly into the sweaty dip of your lower back.

The kiss continues on until Arthur heaves a large breath, his head falling back, his mouth pinkish at the edges and glistening. Cradling you clumsily to him, he rasps against your temple,

"Thank you, darlin'."

You give a little laugh into the crook of his neck, "What for, fuckin' you?"

"Naw," he breathes, his eyes as dopey looking as the slur in his voice, "Lovin' me."

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @frillydolle @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries @mrsarthurmorgan7 - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3

#requests #my writing #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x you #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 smut #stottlemorgan

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pleasantlycrazyworld · 3 days ago

Note

I know you just did a Void one, but it can be anything with void or Sentry. I have no specific ideas, but i love your work!! Im sorry, im terrible at coming up with ideas.

A/N: I love writing for this man. Thank you for sending this :) I focused more on Void, but I don't mind trying to think of Sentry ideas too!

Thank you to everyone who's been commenting and sending request please continue to send me your ideas <3

Summary: The Void has always haunted Bob. You just never expected it to start haunting you. When the nightmares begin—dreams where Bob speaks in a voice that isn’t quite his—you begin to wonder if the darkness inside him is learning how to reach you.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

You wake up sweating. Not from the heat. Not from the blankets twisted around your legs. Not even from the headache that was slowly blooming behind your eyes like an afterthought. You wake up because he said your name again.

That voice that curls like smoke and silk into your dreams. A version of Bob, that was nothing but hollow. Colder. Something that sounds like him but had no warmth to him.

"He loves you," he says, standing in the middle of the apartment you and Bob just moved into like he belonged there. Bob's face...Bob's eyes... "But I understand you." That voice--that was the only thing that alerted you that what was in front of you was far from Bob.

You bolt upright in bed, breath ragged, and turn your head to focus on real man—Bob, asleep next to you, golden skin lit faintly by the moonlight coming through the blinds. His hair a little wild. His brow peaceful. Unaware. Untouched.

And for the third time this week, you can’t tell if that makes it better or worse. You don’t tell him right away. Honestly what were you supposed to say?

Hey, you know your dark little entity? The damn parasite of a fucked-up alter ego well it's been flirting with me in my dreams. Also, he somehow knows about my abandonment issues. You want jelly on your toast?

Yeah, that wouldn't go smoothly. Instead, you just kept moving through the routine the two of you were comfortable in, even if you felt like you were being suffocated in smoke.

Make coffee. Kiss Bob on the cheek. Push his hair away from his eyes. Let him wrap his arms around you from behind while you wash dishes. He hums against your neck like everything’s okay, and for a moment, you almost believe it. Until night came. Until the whisper comes again—closer now. Close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin.

"You keep him soft it's good for him, you're good for him." the Void says as it sits beside you in the dream, all the light drained from the room before your eyes. Bob's eyes went from the beautiful blue to the darkest black you've ever seen. No stars, no glow, just despair. "But I've seen you too. I've been watching. You want someone to take care of you. Someone that wouldn't hesitate to burn the world to ash for you." He turns completely to focus solely on you. "We both know I would do that for you my little dove."

You wake up gasping for air with your hands shaking and the sheets half pulled off the bed. Bob stirs beside you, murmuring something soft, something that could calm you if you were able to hear him over the ringing in your ears. He was completely unaware that you’re watching him with your heart trying to claw its way up your throat.

The next morning, you’re quiet. Bob notices. He always notices you. You’re slicing an apple for breakfast, and he leans on the counter, head tilted. “You haven’t made fun of my old-man cereal once this week. I’m getting concerned.” You force a smile. “I like Raisin Bran now. Personal growth.”

“Liar.” He studies you, frowning. “You look tired.” You freeze, knife hovering mid-air. Then, without looking at him: “…Bobby... Have you ever dreamed of the Void?” You could hear his breathing get stuck in his throat as he went stiff. The air shifts like as soon as you muttered his name he just appeared. Then with a voice low: “He doesn’t sleep.”

You tell him everything that night. You expect him to flinch. To apologize. To get angry. To vanish. Something. But he just listens. He sits on the couch, legs spread, slightly hunched over with his hands clasped between his knees as you stand across the room and tell him what it said. What it looked like. He stays silent, not interrupting you in any way.

"...It's you but it's not. It's...It's like it learned your face to try and convince me to trust him. And it doesn't feel evil, just honest, brutally so. And-and that is so much worse somehow."

His eyes are distant, pure concern flashes across his facial features. Then: “That’s how it talks to me, too.” You look over at him as Bob lifted his head, eyes sad and far too calm. “He tells me he's the real version of me. The strong one. The only one who sees what is actually real. That I’m the shadow pretending to be human.” You sit beside him slowly. “Is it?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Firm. But then his voice wavers. “But some days… it gets harder to not believe it.”

A long silence. And then—he slides his hand into yours. “I didn’t know it could find you.”

“I didn’t either,” you whisper. He shakes his head in disbelief, “I’m so sorry.” You shake your head in return. “Don’t apologize. It’s not you. He wants me to think it is. That’s the game.” Bob’s jaw clenched and his hand tightens their grip on you.

“Then we won’t play.” That night, he doesn’t let go of you. Not even in sleep. And for the first time in a week, you dream of nothing. Just his arms around you and the sound of rain tapping the windows. No voice. No void. Just warmth.

But in the corner of the room, behind the mirror…

A shadow watches, just like he promised. With the cruel, crooked smile.

"You will always play my game little dove..."

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3 I think everyone I tagged wanted to be added but if you don't want to be tagged in future Bob post just lmk!

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

@freakyflora

@nishinoyastoes

@jesterghuleh

@zzz000eee

@ginarely-blog

@nubecita040

@murnsondock

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fangirlmermaid · 1 day ago

Text

Making Memories of Us

Pairing: Husband!Luke Hughes x Wife!reader

Summary: Some Luke and Starfish bonding while you nap sessions

Warning: Pregnant, Country Music, Luke disturbing your nap time, lightly proofread, punctuation, and grammar mistakes.

Note: I keep thinking up ideas for this "storyline."

Also, if you actually like country music, just pretend you don't when you read this! Thanks!

Part one and part two

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luke came home after being forced to run baby shower errands with Mo. You offered to go with Mo instead, but Luke wanted you to stay home where he knows you’re safe. Plus, you being in Mo’s passenger seat always made his heart sink.

To this day, Luke wonders how the hell Mo got her license?

After Luke placed the decorations in Starfish’s bedroom(which was already filled with furniture boxes), he entered the living room and found you sleeping peacefully on the couch. Luke’s heart swelled; words couldn’t describe his love for you, especially now that you were carrying his child.

Luke softly brushed hair away from your face before gently kissing your forehead as if you were made of glass. Even though you were in a deep sleep, you still leaned into Luke’s touch, causing Luke’s smile to widen.

When he pulled away, he noticed your headphones were placed on your bump. He raised an eyebrow, “What the hell is she doing to you, Starfish?” Luke mumbled, kneeling in front of your six-month bump. Luke grabbed your phone off the floor and saw that you were playing the nursery rhyme playlist you put together.

You told him that he would have to wait until Starfish was older before Luke could introduce him to Country music, which Luke was fine with. But then he thought, well, what if his kid doesn’t like Country music? He knows it’s silly, but since you showed him the positive pregnancy test, Luke has always envisioned his kid sitting in their car seat, babbling along to the music, kicking their legs with glee.

So Luke might’ve disconnected the Bluetooth headphones from your phone and connected them to his phone. “Don’t worry, Starfish. Daddy is going to show you real music,” Luke promised, his thumb drawing lazy patterns on your bump. Starfish was stretching as if Luke just woke them up, “easy, baby. Easy,” Luke softly warned his kid when he noticed the look of discomfort on your sleeping face.

Luke played his playlist, as the first Starfish didn’t move, which he thought was his worst fear, was true. Then his racing heart slowed down back to its original pace when Starfish started to move, Luke smiled at your bump, “That’s right, Starfish. This is what Daddy listens to. Do you like it?” Luke’s smile widened. Finally, someone in this family with taste, Luke thought, you weren’t the biggest fan of country music.

Starfish started to kick, which made Luke happy but also worried because he didn’t want to wake you up. His finger lightly drew a heart on your bump, hoping it would calm Starfish down, but it didn’t.

“What are you doing?” Your voice rasped. Your eyes were still closed, but Luke could feel your glaring eyes. Luke quickly paused his music. “Nothing!” he blurted out. " Mmhm, liar,” you chuckled, shifting your position to be more comfortable.

Luke grabbed your wrist and pressed sweet kisses against the palm of your hand. His guilty eyes shifted towards his lap. “I was just playing music for Starfish,” Luke explained. You sighed, rubbing sleep out of your eyes. “Please don’t tell me you were torturing poor Starfish with country music,” sighed with a smile, Luke looked up at you as if you just betrayed him, “torturing?! Country music?!” Luke gasped, clutching his imaginary pearls.

He pressed the play button for his playlist, and your jaw dropped when you felt Starfish moving around. You looked down at your bump. “Starfish, no!” You groaned, your hands covering your face as you couldn’t look at what was happening. You could feel Luke's smug smile. You feel Luke rub your bump. “Starfish, wait until I introduce you to all of Daddy’s favorites. This is awesome!” Luke released a heartfelt laugh. You shook your head, “I can’t believe my kid, THE ONE I’M CARRYING! Is a fan of country!” you whined, yet did not attempt to rip the headphones off.

“I don’t think you hate it. I think you secretly like it.” Luke gave you a teasing smirk, you raised an eyebrow, “Oh really?” you tried to hide your smile. Luke nodded, “Then what if I?...” You trailed off, grabbing the headband part and slowly pulling it off your bump. Luke’s eyes widened. “NO!” Luke yelled, his calloused hands tugged your hand off the headphones, and tangled your hand into his curls. You tried to act mad, but a small smile crept its way onto your face.

Luke pursed his bottom lip and gave you his best puppy eyes. “Can they keep listening to it, Angel? I-I promise it’ll be PG,” Luke begged, rubbing your bump, hoping you would say yes. He would stop if you said no, he loves you, and respects his wife. You tapped your chin, pretending to think about it. “How can I say no to a face like that?” You smiled, rolling your eyes at your husband's adorable face. “That’s why I use it,” Luke grinned before pressing a sweet, heartfelt kiss onto your lips. You hummed into the kiss, feeling your heart skip a beat.

You really love your growing family.

#nhl hockey #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes #new jersey devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fic #luke hughes fanfiction #lh43 #lh43 x reader #lhughes #x pregnant reader #dad!luke

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danikamariewrites · 2 days ago

Note

How would modern Eris react to a reader who genuinely loves him but doesn’t want to get into a relationship with him because she doesn’t make as much as he does and is worried about not being able to contribute?

“You’d be better off with someone more well established.”

Not Enough

Eris x reader

Note: just a quick lil modern Eris fic and then I’m going back into hiding haha

“If you wanted to break up you could’ve just told me!” You shove the check into Eris’s chest with as much force as you can muster. “Next time, be a man and don’t send your daddy to do your bidding.” You spit, scowling as you turn to leave.

Eris looks down at the check. Disbelief and anxiety growing in his chest at seeing his fathers imposing signature scrawled on the paper for an obscene amount of money. All the memo line read was, moving costs.

Lucien swiped the check from Eris looking over it. His eyes went wide. “Go after her!” It takes Eris a long moment to figure out how to move.

Everything hits him at once. Like an anvil ripping through his body.

Eris books it out of his office. Running past confused employees and people trying to get his attention.

He slips in the elevator just as the doors are about to close, quickly jabbing the button for the next floor down to keep you from leaving.

Keeping your hands on your hips you have your face turned away from Eris. You don’t want him to see how red your cheeks are or the tears blurring your vision. Hearing the ding you pivot to walk out as fast as you can to escape him.

Eris grabs your bicep, pulling you to an empty room, slamming the door behind him. You feel like you could scream. How dare he corner you like this! Doesn’t he want to be away from you? You let out an angry laugh to keep from screaming at the entitled asshole blocking the door.

Facing Eris, the panicked look on his pale face takes you by surprise. He has his hands up in surrender. “Please, listen to me, I'm begging you my love.” Not able to hold back your tears anymore you let them stream down your cheeks, nodding at Eris to explain.

“First, I need you to tell me what happened. Why did my father give you money?” He asks softly.

“He came by my apartment to chat. Really it was just him telling me that I’m hindering your life and that I need to move on and find someone in my tax bracket. The line that really hurt was, ‘my son is too good for you and we both know that’.” You pause to swallow the lump in your throat. “That’s when he pulled out the check. He suggested I move far away and get a new phone number. The polite way of saying to never contact you again I suppose.”

Eris couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His face was slowly turning red with anger. How dare Beron meddle in his life like this! You’re perfect to and for Eris, how could he not see that?

“Maybe you should be with someone else,” you say it so quietly Eris almost doesn’t hear you. “What?” He asks in disbelief stalking toward you.

Looking up at him with defeat pulling at your face his heart breaks clean in two. “I’m not like you Eris. I’m not from your world of rich and sophisticated people, it would be better if you were with someone like that.” Unable to look into those amber eyes you’ve come to adore, you keep your face to the floor, moving to leave.

Eris gently grabs you by your shoulders pulling you into a warm embrace. The dam holding your sobs back breaks and you break down into his chest.

“It’s ok, it’s ok my love.” Eris whispers as he gives you a loving squeeze. The two of you stay like that until your tears dry up.

“Listen to me,” Eris says, tilting your chin up so you can’t shy away from him. “There is no one else for me, you are it. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you y/n. So don’t you dare, for a second, think that you are not enough for me.” Fresh tears flow down your cheeks. Happy ones this time that Eris gently brushes away with the pads of his thumbs. “You mean it?” You whisper.

“With my whole heart.”

You give him a bright watery smile. An unexpected giggle leaves your lips as you wipe at your face. “God I must look like a mess.” Eris kisses the top of your head to kindly avoid making a snippy comment you know he wants to.

“You are moving though.” You give Eris a confused look. “Into my place. That was actually the whole reason for our date tonight.” He pulls a small silver key attached to a souvenir keychain from your last vacation. You gape at Eris, speechless. “Er,” you take the key from his hand to cradle in your palm.

Without a second thought you pull your keys from your bag to attach the new keychain. Dangling them between the two of you, you give the cluster an approving nod. “Perfect.”

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #eris vanserra fic #acotar eris #eris vanserra x reader #eris fanfic #eris fic #eris vanserra x you #eris acotar #eris vanserra acotar x reader #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris x you #eris vanserra acotar #modern acotar #modern eris

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blixains · 21 hours ago

Text

Twin Dad FanFic for Sylus

Available on AO3 as part of dad fic series (all lads men edition)

There are no trigger warnings this time, just pure fluff!

You knew the house was too quiet the moment you stepped out of the kitchen.

The babies had finished their late afternoon milk not long ago, and you’d run off to grab the second set of blankets you forgot in the laundry room, but now?

Not a sound.

Not a gurgle, not a footstep, and not even the sound of Sylus pretending not to be overwhelmed by two infants in the prime of their crawling years.

You peeked into the den and almost melted.

There he was, stretched out on the massive, black velvet chaise lounge with his legs crossed at the ankle, shirt unbuttoned halfway down. His silver hair was a bit tousled, eyes closed, and fast asleep.

Both twins were on his chest.

One on each side.

You didn’t know whether to take a photo or a hundred.

Your daughter was curled on his left side, her cheek squished into the slope of his shoulder, tiny legs draped over his ribs. Your son had flopped himself over the right side like a warm loaf of bread, one arm dangling lazily across Sylus’s stomach.

And Sylus?

Still. Peaceful.

Unmoving like a statue of ancient royalty forced into domesticity by two soft, squirming babies who looked just like him.

You leaned on the doorframe, feeling your heart stupidly full.

Of course it didn’t last.

Your son’s head popped up first. A little wobbly, while his hair was fluffed from sleep. He blinked once, then let out a squeaky grunt before crawling forward, straight across Sylus’s chest with pure innocent determination.

Sylus didn’t move.

Not when your daughter woke up a second later and followed suit, plopping her entire weight across his stomach and grabbing onto his red brooch like it was a handhold.

Still, Sylus didn’t move.

But you saw it.

The twitch at the corner of his mouth. The near-smirk.

You quietly tiptoed closer, crouching beside the lounge.

“They’re awake,” you whispered, brushing a hand through your son’s hair as he sat proudly on Sylus’s ribs. “You going to open your eyes?”

Sylus let out a long, exaggerated sigh but kept his eyes closed.

“If I stay still, they think I’m furniture. It buys me fifteen extra minutes.”

“Mmhm. And what’s your excuse for the smirk?”

“No smirk.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m being crushed by small tyrants. I’m enduring this.”

Your daughter made a high-pitched squeal and tried to climb his shoulder. Your son flopped down and started chewing on the edge of Sylus’s blazer.

You watched him, this silver-haired, impossibly dangerous man sigh again as your daughter drooled down the side of his collarbone.

He still didn’t move.

He didn’t even complain.

He just let them crawl all over him like he was built for it. Like he didn’t mind being turned into a jungle gym, even if his eyes were still closed for trying to act tough for it.

“Do you want me to rescue you?” You asked, voice low and teasing.

Sylus finally cracked one eye open. Glowing red, sleepy as hell, and narrowed like you’d just suggested something illegal.

“If you take them, they’ll cry,” he said.

You blinked. “You want to keep holding them?”

“No,” he said flatly, closing his eye again. “I want silence. And right now, silence only exists when I act like a high-end mattress.”

You smiled, folding your arms over the edge of the lounge. “You’re so obvious, Sylus. You like this.”

Sylus didn’t reply.

But you saw his hand move just a bit, resting over your daughter’s back. Then the other, shifting slightly to support your son as he slumped forward and drooled directly onto Sylus’s sternum.

You watched it happen.

The babies babbled softly, settling back down, and then one by one, they dozed again on top of him, as if completely at peace.

Sylus lay still beneath them, chest rising and falling with two added weights curled on top, and the faintest, faintest smile on his lips.

You leaned in and whispered next to his ear: “Bet you didn’t think fatherhood would look like this.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but his voice was low, smug, and dangerously affectionate when he replied, “…They look like me. They’re perfect.”

Dinner at the mansion had always been an extravagant event with candlelight, gold cutlery, two or three imported wines on standby in case Sylus changed his mind.

Now, it was a battlefield of half-eaten purées and two very opinionated infants.

“I refuse to serve her another spoon of this,” Sylus snapped, standing at the head of the long dining table, glaring into a very elegant porcelain baby bowl. “She looked me dead in the eye and spit it out. Again.”

From your seat at the far end, you raised an eyebrow as you adjusted your hold on your son, who was contentedly finishing the last bit of his warmed organic sweet potato purée. You were feeding him one-handed, with his favorite music box playing in the background, and he looked like he was in heaven. Zero complaints and full cooperation.

“That’s what you get for always spoiling her,” you teased, watching your daughter swat Sylus’s next spoon attempt. The spoon hit the linen napkin with a tiny splat of blueberry oat mush.

“She liked this yesterday,” Sylus muttered.

“She’s refining her taste. She gets bored easily. I think that part’s definitely from you.”

Your daughter, seated in her custome-made high chair crossed her arms. Crossed them. Like a tiny, judgmental aristocrat. Her silver curls framed her scowling little face and her glowing red eyes as she leaned dramatically away from the spoon.

“She wants the squash and goat cheese one,” you called out. “The chef added thyme last time. Maybe she misses that.”

Sylus turned to the doorway, where the private chef stood awkwardly with a fresh tray of backup options.

“You. Did you change the seasoning?”

The poor chef straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Per your note. We reduced the sodium.”

“Bring back the thyme. And heat it to precisely thirty-nine degrees. No more, no less.”

“Yes, sir.”

You tried not to laugh as the man literally jogged out of the dining hall, already prepping your daughter’s fifth dish attempt of the evening.

“She’s a baby, not royalty.”

“She is royalty,” Sylus replied without hesitation. “Look at her. She has standards.”

Your daughter smacked her hand down on the tray. Sylus gave her a side-eye.

“You can’t throw a tantrum every time someone disrespects your tastebuds,” he muttered. “You’re not me.”

From your side of the table, your son let out a sleepy burp. You wiped his chin and whispered, “See that? No complaints. You’re my sweet little easy boy, huh?”

Your daughter, still glaring at Sylus, somehow knew you said that and narrowed her eyes further. The red in them practically glowed again. Sylus grunted under his breath.

“She’s taking it personally.”

“She takes everything personally. Like someone else I know.”

“I don’t take things personally,” Sylus replied, defensive.

“You glared at a rattle yesterday.”

“It squeaked at me.”

You snorted, then looked back just in time to see the chef return with a tiny tasting dish, steam gently rising. Sylus grabbed it, sniffed it like a wine critic, then loaded a new spoonful and offered it again to your daughter.

This time… she paused. Took a sniff too, like father like daughter. Then, slowly, cautiously opened her mouth.

Sylus leaned in, eyes narrowing very intensely.

She tasted it, chewed, and thought about it.

Then…

A small, satisfied hum.

Victory.

Sylus smirked like he just won a chess match against death itself. “Mm,” he said smugly, feeding her another bite. “Finally. We’re back in business.”

“She’s seven months old and you’re acting like you closed a billion-dollar deal,” you said.

“This is more important. She’s my reputation.”

You walked over with your son in your arms, gently resting him in the playpen nearby now that he was fed and half-asleep. Then you leaned on Sylus’s chair, watching him calmly spoon-feed your daughter now that she’d deigned to accept the dish.

“She’s got you wrapped around her tiny finger.”

Sylus didn’t deny it.

“She challenges me,” he murmured, gently brushing a stray curl from your daughter’s forehead as she reached for the spoon herself. “That’s good.”

You glanced at him.

“That’s a soft thing to say for a man who threatened to destroy a pacifier company last week.”

“They lied about the color being ‘true black.’ It was navy blue, a vibrant type of blue.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. Your daughter finished her last bite, sighing in satisfaction.

Sylus looked down at her.

“…She’s judging me.”

“She’s thinking about her dessert course.”

“…She can’t even say dessert.”

“Doesn’t have to. That stare says everything.”

Sylus sighed and looked at you with the expression of a man who had just cooked a five-course meal for a tiny empress who hadn’t even mastered walking yet.

And you knew him too well beneath the sarcasm, the orders to the kitchen, the dramatic spoon throwing and passive-aggressive glares at steamed peas, he loved it. Every picky little decision, every challenge she threw at him.

She was difficult.

Just like him.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

However, this little girl’s innocent arrogance is not only targeted towards her father.

There is this leisurely time where everything started with a toy.

Of course it did.

Not just any toy, your son’s favorite wooden crow toy, the one carved from dark obsidian-stained wood with red feather accents (designed by a very confused artisan in Prague after Sylus sent a 3:00 a.m. sketch and said, “Make it. Price is irrelevant.”)

Your son had been holding it all morning, flopping around the nursery like it was his prized weapon. He even tried to offer it to Mephisto earlier, which was either a kind approach or attempted bribery.

But then your daughter took it.

Didn’t even ask. She just crawled over, snatched it out of his chubby little hands with zero hesitation, and waved it in the air.

He wailed like it was the end of his tiny world.

And you came running, worried.

But not before Sylus was already on the scene, crouched dramatically in the center of the nursery between two, silver-haired infants on the verge of going full world war.

“Alright,” Sylus said calmly, holding up both hands like a hostage negotiator. “We’re going to talk this through.”

You blinked from the hallway. “They’re babies, Sylus.”

“They understand tone,” he said without looking at you. “Now hush. I’m mediating.”

Your daughter glared at him, one tiny fist curled protectively around the stolen toy. Your son had tears in his eyes, lip trembling like he was about to cry hard.

Sylus turned to your daughter first.

“You’re stronger and marter. I’ll say it, you’re cleverer. But you can’t just take things because you want them.”

She blinked once as if unbothered. The toy still in her hand, securely gripped tightly.

Sylus kept going.

“If someone stole your favorite premium plushy, wouldn’t you destroy them?”

She frowned, thought about it, and grunted. Her face turned sour slightly as if to express her valuable opinion.

“Exactly.”

Then he turned to your son, voice dropping into something impossibly soft, but still full of that smug patience only he could make sound elegant.

“You. You need to use your words. Not that weird scream you do when she wins.”

Your son hiccupped and wobbled. He reached dramatically toward Sylus like a heartbroken poet in the rain.

Sylus caught him in one arm. Then, without warning, scooped up your daughter in the other.

Now both twins were mashed against his chest like two grumpy, sweaty marshmallows with silver curls and unresolved beef.

“Listen,” he said, deadpan, to both of them. “There’s one crow toy. Two of you. Basic math.”

They stared at him.

“I will not be purchasing a second one. That defeats the point.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “The point of…?”

“Struggle and hierarchy. Also emotional development. Whatever parenting book you made me download last month.”

“You didn’t read it, did you?”

“No. But I skimmed a chapter on conflict resolution. This qualifies.”

Your daughter tried to squirm out of his hold to bite your son’s sleeve. Sylus gently redirected her with a flick of his wrist and a death glare that could stop grown men.

“No fighting in the house,” he muttered. “I already have enemies outside. I don’t need civil war under my own roof.”

Your son reached for the toy again.

This time, Sylus slowly offered it between them, still cradling them both.

“One of you holds it. The other gets kisses.”

Pause.

Neither looked thrilled by the trade.

“Kisses from me,” Sylus clarified. “Not your mother.”

There’s an immediate scuffle.

“Knew that would work,” he said with the ghost of a smirk.

In the end, they both dropped the toy and reached for him with tiny arms, sleepy eyes, zero clue what they were fighting about five minutes ago.

You stepped in, taking the precious crow toy, shaking it once.

“Who knew fatherhood would turn you into a peace negotiator?”

“I’m not negotiating. I’m manipulating. There’s a difference.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You love this.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. But as both babies settled on his chest, their noses pressed to his collarbone while their soft breathing syncing up, he didn’t hand them off. Didn’t shift and didn’t even fix the drool already soaking into his expensive shirt.

“They look like me,” he murmured, almost too soft for you to catch. “But they trust you.”

You tilted your head. “That bothers you?”

“No.” He looked down at them, fingers brushing the back of their necks. “It just means I have to work harder.”

You smiled and kissed the top of his head.

Your daughter kicked in her sleep and your son farted.

Sylus exhaled like a man exhausted by love.

It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon.

You were curled up on the velvet loveseat near the tall windows of the reading room, nursing a lukewarm tea, flipping through a book you had no intention of actually finishing. The twins were freshly changed and full, peacefully just playing, hovering nearby.

It’s too quiet.

Which meant Sylus was up to something. From the dramatic silence that could only be created by a six-foot-two man stalking you through his own mansion.

You glanced up from your book right as he leaned in, shadow draping across your shoulder, lips already ghosting your cheek.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice low and smug. “I’m about to ruin your peace with affection.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning into it despite the warning. “You’re so dramatic.”

“It’s not drama. It’s calculated assault. Prepare yourself—”

“AHHHHH!!”

A sudden, furious squeal echoed across the room like a battle cry. Then: padded slaps of unsteady crawling.

Your son burst into view like a silver-haired cannonball with drool shining on his chin, eyes wide with sheer offense. His hands and knees hit the marble floor with purpose and he screamed again.

Sylus blinked. “What the—?”

You choked on a laugh. “He’s charging.”

Sure enough, your son reached you seconds later, planted one chubby hand on you, and glared up at Sylus with all the righteous fury of a baby who had just watched his mom be kissed without consent by a suspicious six-foot-tall man in a black blazer.

Sylus stared back, genuinely stunned. “Are you trying to duel me?”

Your son slapped your knee once protectively, very dramatically.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, “he thinks I need saving.”

Sylus squatted to his level, one brow raised. “You can barely hold your own sippy cup, and now you think you’re a bodyguard?”

Another angry baby noise. He reached for Sylus’s tie and yanked it.

Sylus didn’t budge.

“Unhand me,” Sylus deadpanned. “You insolent gremlin.”

You burst out laughing, grabbing your son gently and pulling him into your lap, where he dramatically puffed up like a squirrel in defense mode, still glaring at Sylus. He smacked your arm once protectively.

Sylus straightened, now clearly offended in return.

Your son screeched again.

Your daughter, who’s still still lounging in her plush rocker nearby, looked up, made brief eye contact with Sylus… then promptly turned her attention back to her book. Which is a fabric book she couldnt even read yet, but she’d insisted she play with it and discarded all the expensive toys Sylus had offered before. She babbled once, bored, and clearly disinterested in the unfolding family drama.

“She doesn’t care if I kiss you,” Sylus muttered, vaguely betrayed.

“She doesn’t care about anything, Sylus.”

“She gets me.”

You patted your son’s back. “He gets me.”

“I provide for this family,” Sylus said. “And now I’m the villain for trying to kiss my wife? Fine. Fine. I see how it is.”

Your son wiggled back into your arms, holding on to you like he’d just saved you from a burning building.

“You know,” you added, smirking, “the more you look annoyed, the prouder he gets.”

Sylus’s eye twitched. “He’s too smug for someone who wears a diaper.”

Then suddenly, a kiss. Your son leaned forward and planted a wet, proud, unbalanced kiss on your cheek, right where Sylus had been aiming earlier.

Sylus stared.

“…He just stole my move.”

You wiped your cheek and tried not to laugh. “It was very heroic.”

“I’m going to put him on Mephisto’s training schedule with no mercy.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

Sylus sighed, hands in his pockets as he gazed down at you both.

“No,” he muttered. “I love the little traitor.”

Just then, your daughter finally looked up again. Stared at the three of you and blinked slowly.

Then, just to remind everyone of her existence, she stuck her hand in her mouth and drooled on herself like royalty.

“Still couldn’t care less,” Sylus said.

“She’s just here for vibes.”

Sylus leaned in once more, now gently brushing hair from your face.

“Fine,” he whispered to your son. “You win this round.”

And this time, when he kissed your temple, your son only glared silently while watching, ever vigilant.

And the moment you have been fearing, the moment your daughter’s arrogance is finally aimed and targetted towards you, her mother.

You realized there were only two things your daughter took seriously in life:

1. Possession of her brother’s things,

2. Fashion.

And today, she was not having it.

You stood in the middle of the enormous walk-in nursery closet, holding up a soft lavender romper with lace trim, something that cost more than your entire wardrobe in college. It was elegant and soft. Perfect for her afternoon stroll in the estate garden.

She looked at it like it, face sour.

“Don’t you dare,” you said, narrowing your eyes as she sat on the plush carpet, arms crossed, her silver curls slightly frizzed from her earlier nap. “This is a perfectly acceptable outfit.”

She made a tiny noise that could only be described as judgmental.

Behind you, lounging comfortably on the nursery daybed like a smug aristocrat with nowhere urgent to be, Sylus sipped his afternoon tea and watched the standoff unfold. Your son was curled in his lap like a puppy, chewing on a silver spoon (a real one), completely uninterested in anything except the shiny metal in his hand.

“I warned you,” Sylus murmured without looking up from his drink. “She didn’t inherit your taste. She inherited mine.”

You shot him a glare. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m observing.” He gestured lazily with his cup. “This is top-tier entertainment. Carry on.”

You turned back to your daughter, holding up the romper again. “This is the fourth outfit. The fourth. You’re seven months old. You’re not attending the Met Gala.”

She kicked at the air and dramatically flopped onto her back like her tiny life had just ended. Her arms flailed and it means it was either a tantrum or interpretive dance.

“She doesn’t like lace,” Sylus said.

“She wore lace yesterday.”

“She chose that one. You offered three.”

“She’s not even a year old!”

“She knows what she wants. Don’t crush her spirit.”

You let out a groan, grabbing another hanger. “Fine. What about the velvet one?”

She sat up and blinked. Gave it one appraising look.

Then swatted it out of your hands.

Sylus snorted into his cup.

“Do something!” You hissed at him.

He leaned back, stroking your son’s hair absently. “I am. I’m emotionally supporting the winning side.”

You squatted down in front of your daughter, now eye to eye.

“Listen to me, you tiny little heiress with designer taste and no sense of budget,” you said with mock seriousness, pointing at the rack. “Pick one. One. Or I’m dressing you in the duck onesie with the floppy hat.”

She paused, as if trying to show you how she looked… scandalized.

“Yeah. That one,” you whispered. “The one with the yellow ribbon and the embroidered wings. I’ll do it. I have no shame.”

Your son laughed from Sylus’s lap. He didn’t know what was happening, but it sounded like war, and he liked war sounds.

Your daughter stared long and hard at you.

Then… crawled over to the very back of the rack. She was visibly displeased, having to point it out herself, not you figuring out what she wants. You grabbed a silk romper in jet black with subtle red feather patterns and a high collar, something Sylus had custom-made as a joke, but you never expected her to actually want to wear it.

“…You want to look like your father?”

Sylus perked up. “I told you. She gets me.”

“I’m dressing a baby like she’s about to attend a secret Illuminati ball.”

“Good. The world should fear her.”

You sighed, helped her into the absurdly sophisticated outfit, and lifted her up in front of the mirror. She immediately clapped.

Sylus raised a brow. “She likes power. I respect it.”

Meanwhile, your son, now horizontal in his father’s lap and drooling onto his brooch reached up, grabbed Sylus’s nose, and giggled like a loon.

Sylus blinked, unimpressed, but didn’t stop him.

“I fear the girl,” you muttered as you adjusted her collar. “But the boy? He’s just here for milk and shiny things.”

“He’s the golden retriever of this family,” Sylus replied. “Zero ambition and easy to please. I envy him.”

You scooped her into your arms and walked over, planting a kiss on your son’s forehead before whispering to Sylus, “Wait until she gets old enough to walk into your closet.”

Sylus’s eye twitched.

“…I’ll have to install motion sensors by then, I fear.”

Then surely enough, teething phase came without us even realizing it. Well no until it started with drool, then the biting.

Thats when the tragedy started unfolding.

You first noticed the change when your son bit the corner of your expensive throw pillow, he doesn’t bite unless it’s Sylus’s crow brooch. You gently pried it from his mouth, and he gave you the look. Wide and teary eyes. His bottom lip wobbled, indicating he’s seconds away from a breakdown.

“Oh no,” you murmured.

Sylus looked up from the velvet lounge and watched as your son slowly, dramatically dropped his forehead onto your knee like the world had ended.

“What did you do to him?” Sylus asked flatly.

“His gums are sore.”

“Give him something to chew.”

You handed him a chilled silicone teether shaped like a crow, because of course that’s what you had lying around. He took it, gnawed on it for half a second… then sobbed.

You looked up at Sylus. “He’s not taking it well.”

Sylus stood, approached slowly, and crouched beside you both. “He is… being so dramatic.”

“I wonder where he got that from.”

Sylus ignored you. He gently lifted the baby into his arms, held him upright, and stared into his trembling face.

“You’re teething,” Sylus said seriously. “Not dying.”

Your son whimpered in response. Then, as if in protest, slammed his forehead into Sylus’s chest and let out a tiny wail. Sylus blinked, stunned. You swore you heard a tiny sniffle.

“I’m going to tell Mephisto you’re emotionally unstable,” Sylus muttered under his breath, gently rubbing the baby’s back. “You’re making it hard for me to raise a war machine.”

Meanwhile, your daughter sat on the nursery playmat, calmly stacking velvet blocks with one hand while chewing on a frozen carrot slice. Unbothered and unmoving. Probably uninterested in drama.

You gestured toward her with your chin. “How is she already a hardened veteran of teething?”

“She’s been here before,” Sylus murmured, still holding your sniffling son. “She’s seen things and done things.”

The girl in question adjusted her posture and resumed chewing, gaze distant, like she was recalling a mission in her past life. You were pretty sure she hadn’t cried once.

“She didn’t even need teething gel,” you muttered.

“She demanded we not touch her mouth. Just handed her the carrot.”

Your son, meanwhile, was now trying to wedge his fist and the crow teether into his mouth at the same time and making pitiful baby grunts that would’ve been funny if they weren’t so sad.

“I feel bad,” you whispered, kissing the top of his head.

Sylus rocked him once, then gently reached for the drawer beside the playpen. From inside, he pulled out a sleek, red-and-black pacifier and offered it to him.

The baby took it, bit down. Stared up at Sylus with watery eyes… and then sighed with a purr.

“Unbelievable,” Sylus muttered. “One tooth. One.”

You smiled, resting your head on Sylus’s shoulder. “He’s just soft.”

“He has your emotional range,” Sylus said, pretending to sound annoyed. But his hand never stopped moving over the baby’s back, soothing and gentle.

“And she,” you said, nodding toward your daughter, “has your cold indifference.”

Your daughter calmly flipped the block pyramid while chewing on the carrot like she’d interrogated someone this morning and buried the body in the garden.

Sylus sighed again, still holding your boy in his arms like a fragile weapon.

“Eitherways, they are both terrifying,” he said, tone fond.

It hit around midnight.

You were barely conscious when you rolled over and noticed the warmth. Not your warmth, or even Sylus’s who was absent from the bed. Again. But the clammy, sticky heat of your baby boy pressed against your arm, cheeks flushed pink, and his breath slightly faster than usual.

You sat up fast and touched his forehead.

Burning.

“…Sylus,” you called, already slipping out of bed, cradling the baby to your chest. “Sylus, he’s warm. He’s—he’s burning up.”

From down the hallway, thunderous footsteps echoed like a war drum. Sylus appeared in the doorway within seconds, in black pajama pants and an unbuttoned silk robe, hair tousled like he’d stormed out of bed mid-nightmare. The red glint in his right eye lit up faintly out of instinct or pure panic, you weren’t sure.

“What?” His voice was sharp and alert. “Let me see him.”

You handed the baby over, and Sylus cradled him with unusual gentleness, his movements were careful despite the anxiety that practically radiated off him. Your son whimpered, burying his sweaty face in Sylus’s bare chest.

“…He’s too hot,” Sylus muttered. “This isn’t normal.”

“It’s probably from teething,” you said softly, placing a hand on Sylus’s arm. “I’ll call the pediatrician.”

“I already did.”

You blinked. “Wait, you already—?”

“She’s on the way.” He turned, heading straight out of the room with your son still in his arms. “I called her the second he started acting strange.”

“That was before midnight—”

“He refused the gold spoon. Something was off.”

You barely had time to grab your robe and follow him before he was already pacing the hallway, carrying your son like a high-security asset. The baby clung to him, fussing softly in his ear while Sylus walked back and forth with sharp turns like a general awaiting a siege.

“I’ve administered cold compresses, I removed his sleepwear, and I opened the windows,” Sylus muttered under his breath, red eye faintly glowing as he whispered to himself like he was strategizing a war battlefield. “I will not tolerate unknown variables. Why is he still warm?”

“He’s a baby, not an ancient weapon system.”

“That’s debatable. Have you seen his bite force?”

Just then, from one of the nearby bedrooms, your daughter toddled out, sleep-disheveled but perfectly calm. She looked between you and Sylus, then raised her arms.

Sylus stopped pacing for a split second. You held your breath, expecting him to hand off the feverish boy to you.

Well, he didn’t.

Instead, he scooped your daughter into his other arm and kept pacing.

“Sylus.”

“No.”

“You’re holding both.”

“They must be together. They have to witness this as a unit. He might not remember his first fever, but she will. She’ll document it mentally.”

You stared at him.

Your daughter, now perched casually in the crook of his arm like a judgmental gargoyle, she blinked once, rested her cheek against his shoulder and chewed on her thumb. She seemed largely unfazed by her brother’s slow descent into baby flu meltdown.

“I think she’s more worried about your blood pressure,” you said gently, brushing hair from her forehead.

“She’s seen worse,” Sylus muttered. “She was born prepared for this.”

“Sweetheart,” you tried, reaching for your son. “Let me take him for a while. You’ve been pacing for ten minutes straight.”

“I need to pace.”

“You’re sweating more than he is.”

“I’m ventilating.”

“I’m going to sedate you.”

He turned sharply. “Don’t joke about sedatives. I’ve been awake for two hours. I’ve googled things.“

You pressed your palm against your son’s forehead again. “He’s warm, but not burning. Still under 38.5°C.”

Sylus glanced down at the boy, who was now snuggled into his chest like a koala, clutching the collar of Sylus’s robe and breathing evenly despite the fever.

“…I hate this,” Sylus murmured, softer now. “I’d rather get stabbed.”

You kissed his arm gently. “He’s going to be okay.”

A long silence stretched between the three of you. Then, finally, your daughter sighed into Sylus’s shoulder, reached across his chest, and patted her brother’s head. Once, softly, then immediately resumed chewing her thumb like she hadn’t just performed an act of divine mercy.

Sylus watched her.

“…She’s consoling him,” he whispered.

“She has two expressions, but yes.”

He finally, finally stopped pacing and sighed hard. Then turned, walked the both of them back into the nursery, and sank into the large velvet chair in the corner like a man emotionally defeated by a seven-month-old.

“Fine,” he muttered. “He can survive this. I’ll just die in his place later.”

By morning, the fever had broken.

Not with fanfare or a dramatic gasp, but with your son gently snoring in Sylus’s arms, damp hair curled over his flushed cheeks, his temperature finally returned to normal and his breathing slowed.

The sunlight bled through the nursery’s blackout curtains, faint and harmless, as if it knew better than to provoke Sylus this early. Mephisto sat perched on the armoire, observing the room in eerie silence.

You stood in the doorway with your daughter balanced on your hip, both of you watching the scene like it was sacred.

Sylus hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He sat on the velvet rocker still in his rumpled sleepwear holding your son close to his chest like he was made of glass. Your boy was better now, clear-eyed… but Sylus looked like he’d just survived a bombing.

“He’s fine,” you said gently.

Sylus didn’t look up. “Not taking that chance again.”

You smiled, resting your cheek against your daughter’s head. “He just had a fever.”

“He almost overheated.”

“He almost got mildly cranky.”

“He was limp,” Sylus snapped quietly, but with the intensity of a man who’d gone to emotional war. “He looked at me like he was saying goodbye.”

Your daughter blinked up at him. You lowered her to the floor, and she toddled across the room, dragging her bunny plushy behind her. Instead of approaching her father, she parked herself at his feet and leaned against his leg like a tiny bodyguard.

Sylus slowly looked down.

“…Are you two conspiring against me now?”

You didn’t answer, but you did pad barefoot across the carpet and kneel beside the rocker, brushing your son’s hair gently.

He peeked at you and smiled. Then reached up with two chubby fingers and squished Sylus’s lips with a grunt.

“I’m still mad at you,” Sylus told him seriously. “Don’t smile at me like you didn’t nearly assassinate me emotionally.”

“He’s a baby.” You snorted.

The morning routine had gone to hell. The estate chef had come and gone, confused by Sylus’s refusal to leave the nursery. Instead, he’d barked a specific list of orders through the baby monitor like fruit purée, warm oats, one specific brand of vitamin drops, and a particular spoon your son liked because it had an engraved crow on the handle.

Now, with one arm still cradling your son, Sylus fed him using that exact spoon.

“Open,” he said. “Don’t make me call the pediatrician back.”

The baby opened and took the bite. He sucked in his cheeks dramatically, then offered a faint “mm” that nearly made Sylus melt.

You sat beside them now, your daughter in your lap.

Your daughter held out her hand, so Sylus offered her a small bite of mashed fruit on a silver baby fork, and she ate it daintily, blinking once, approval granted.

You, meanwhile, just leaned your head against Sylus’s shoulder and sighed. “So are you going to let me hold our son today?”

“No.”

“I birthed him.”

“I almost lost him.”

“You—”

“He was warm.”

You paused. Then leaned closer and kissed your son’s temple. He immediately giggled.

Sylus watched. Then finally exhaled, as if his whole system rebooted just from the sound of his baby laughing again.

You kissed Sylus next, just beneath his jaw.

“You did good,” you whispered.

His reply was quiet, but the smirk on his face was unmistakable. “I always do.”

Then just like any parent in the world, the moment your child or children recognizes you verbally, it’s over. It is a literal emotional torture and you have been compromised.

A few weeks after your baby boy had his first fever. When something started with their, “Ma-ma.”

You cried.

Sylus blinked.

The moment your stoic daughter, emotionally bulletproof, veteran of the teething war looked up from her polished wooden block tower and calmly uttered “ma-ma,” your brain stopped functioning. She said it so matter-of-factly too, like it was obvious, like she’d known it forever and simply hadn’t bothered telling you until now.

You dropped the spoon you were holding and your jaw opened like you’d witnessed divine prophecy.

Sylus, reading from across the room, didn’t even look up. “You’re not going to handle this well, are you?”

“She said… did you—?! She just said—!”

“I heard.”

“Say it again,” you whispered, crawling toward her. “Sweetheart, say it again. ‘Ma-ma,’ come on. One more time.”

Your daughter blinked at you, perfectly calm, and returned to stacking blocks.

“Ma-ma.”

You cried again.

Sylus finally glanced up over the file. “You really needed that validation, huh?”

Two days later, your son said “Da-da.”

And the mighty Sylus dropped his glass.

The look he gave the child was half pride and half suspicion. “…Did you plan that?” He muttered.

Your son clapped once. “Da-da!”

“…You’re saying it too easily. What else do you know?”

The baby only squealed and reached for his red brooch, which he now associated with his father so intensely that he’d once screamed when a maid tried to touch it.

Sylus looked mildly unwell, holding the baby like he’d just been entrusted with a sacred artifact.

“…Da-da,” your son said again, patting Sylus’s chest.

You laughed into your hands.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” You asked. “You win, Da-da.”

Sylus squinted at you. “He’s plotting something.”

A few days later came ‘the word’.

The weapon.

“No.”

It arrived like thunder in a quiet room, and your daughter was the one to say it first. Not gently and not sweetly.

She said it with the force when Sylus had tried to wipe her face after dinner.

“No.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

She swatted the silk napkin from his hand. “No.”

Sylus looked personally offended. “You listen here, I will not be disrespected by someone who chews with three teeth.”

Your daughter narrowed her eyes and slapped her mashed peas directly onto the table.

Sylus glared. “You will let me wipe your face.”

“NO.”

You tried not to laugh and failed spectacularly.

He turned to you. “Don’t encourage her.”

“She’s developing boundaries.”

“No. She’s developing audacity.”

A few days later, “No” turned into a team effort.

You’d walked in on Sylus trying to brush your son’s hair and your baby boy squirmed in protest while Sylus attempted to smooth out a rebellious puff of soft silver hair on top of his head. The child twisted dramatically, glaring up at him.

“No!” Your son shouted, clenching his tiny fist.

Sylus stilled. “Oh, hell no.”

“No!” The boy repeated, now reaching for the brush.

Sylus looked up at you like he’d been betrayed by his own genetics. “Did you teach him that?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” you said sweetly, holding your phone in one hand while clearly recording the chaos. “He’s just exercising free will.”

“Free will is an illusion,” Sylus growled, tossing the brush aside. “I’m the only one in this house who has it.”

As if summoned by blasphemy, your daughter waddled into the room, saw Sylus’s face, and pointed one chubby finger and said with chilling calm: “No.”

Sylus froze.

You lost it. You had to sit down from laughing too hard.

The twins stood side by side now. Both silver-haired, both expression eerily calm, and both pointing at him like little cult leaders.

“No.”

Sylus slowly backed away, hands raised like a hostage negotiator. “…Is this mutiny?”

You nodded between wheezes. “You’re officially outnumbered.”

Mephisto, perched high on the mantle, and cawed once as if to confirm the judgment had been passed.

Sylus exhaled through his nose. “Fine. But when they start calling you ‘no’ at two in the morning, I’m not stopping it.”

It was midafternoon when Luke and Kieran were summoned to the estate.

The sun had been mercifully overcast, thank God, so Sylus wasn’t actively hissing at the light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the playroom. You were curled up on the couch with a book, sipping lukewarm tea, and trying to tune out the sound of your daughter arguing with a rattle that squeaked too much.

Your son sat in front of Sylus, legs spread, as his arms dramatically flopped in his lap. Sylus was combing through the baby’s hair gently, muttering under his breath about one particular curl that “has a personal vendetta against me.”

That’s when the doors opened.

Two tall figures stepped in without knocking, both dressed in black, long coats swaying, faces masked, presence heavy.

“Boss,” they said in unison.

The twins froze.

Your daughter’s brows knit in a scowl, clearly offended that someone had entered her domain without permission. Your son blinked up from Sylus’s lap, completely confused. Then he stood wobbly but proud, and grabbed the hem of his father’s coat, and said sternly: “Da-da…”

Sylus didn’t even look up.

Luke stepped forward first, immediately dropping to a crouch. “Little Boss,” he greeted, voice sing-songy and bright, tipping an imaginary hat to your son. “Pleasure to meet you again. You probably don’t remember me. I held you once when you were still in smaller size.”

Your son, who now considered himself an authority on who was allowed to enter his father’s territory, simply narrowed his eyes.

“No,” he said.

Luke clutched his chest. “Already got the boss tone, too. My heart.”

Kieran, who had been standing quietly behind his brother, lowered himself to one knee beside your daughter. She stared at his mask, unblinking. Kieran raised a gloved hand and offered her a soft toy, a black, bird-shaped, with little button eyes.

She took it immediately.

“…Boss,” Kieran said, softer, and respectful.

She blinked then nodded once. Official approval granted.

You snorted. “They like the attention. But they’ll test your patience in ten minutes.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Luke said, already handing your son a rattle that suspiciously resembled a dagger. “Boss Junior here looks like he’s plotting tax fraud.”

“Boss Junior?” Sylus finally looked up. “Is that what we’re going with?”

“Well, we can’t exactly call them ‘Baby Bosses.’ That’s humiliating.”

“They are babies.” Sylus argued.

“But they’re also your offspring,” Luke argued. “Which, statistically speaking, makes them tiny tyrants. I, for one, am ready to serve.”

Kieran had taken to silently letting your daughter use him as a jungle gym. She had climbed into his lap, removed his glove, and was currently trying to insert his finger into her mouth.

Sylus raised a brow. “Kieran. You’re being eaten.”

Kieran didn’t flinch. “It’s an honor.”

Your son wandered over next, stopping in front of Luke. He stared long and hard at the masked face. Then pointed.

“No.”

“Correct,” Luke said like he understood what your son’s ‘no’ means. “But if I take this off, I’ll have to start paying your father’s security fines again, and I’d like to go one week without being tased by a crow.”

Mephisto, who had been observing from the ceiling beam, cawed once in confirmation.

“See?” Luke pointed upward. “The feathered goblin agrees.”

Your son giggled, then looked between Luke and Kieran. “No?”

Kieran blinked. “He noticed?”

“They all do,” you said, smiling. “They don’t usually tell anyone.”

“No,” your daughter echoed, pointing back and forth between the two men.

“Smart,” Sylus muttered, picking up his tea. “Too smart.”

“She’s probably memorizing their gait and posture right now,” you added. “Give it a month. She’ll tell them apart just by how they breathe.”

Luke dramatically fell back onto the floor, hands spread wide. “My cover is blown. Our reign of chaos is over.”

“You never reigned,” Kieran muttered, now brushing invisible lint from your daughter’s shirt like she was royalty.

“You never dreamed,” Luke countered.

Your daughter raised her hand.

Luke flinched. “What is she doing.”

“She wants your coat,” you said.

Sylus didn’t even look up. “Give it to her.”

“You’re joking.”

“Now.”

Luke sighed and dramatically draped his black coat over her tiny shoulders. She accepted it like she was being knighted, completely expressionless.

“…Boss,” Luke whispered.

Your daughter blinked. “No.”

Luke clutched his heart again. “She said it. I’m fired.”

“She just demoted you,” Sylus confirmed.

Your son walked over next, shoved a rattle in Luke’s face, and offered a single word:

“Noooo.”

Kieran nodded solemnly. “You’ve been drafted.”

Ten months later, the twins were faster, louder, and smarter.

They could run now… well, sort of. A chaotic half-waddle, half-launch sprint that struck fear into the maids and Mephisto alike. Your daughter had mastered the art of disapproving side-eyes, and your son now used full sentences to complain about socks. You had, unfortunately, entered the “Don’t-Kiss-Me-In-Front-Of-My-Soldiers” phase of parenting.

And Luke and Kieran?

They had somehow infiltrated the upper ranks of toddler loyalty.

It began subtly. Kieran had a gift for calm consistency, always there when your daughter lifted her arms with that silent princess command: ‘carry me’. Luke, on the other hand, understood the criminal value of snacks, and had a suspicious talent for appearing with sweets the very second your son muttered, “no…”

But this morning, it all came to a head.

Sylus was watching from the second floor landing, arms crossed, coat draped as usual, brooch gleaming under the crystal chandelier. And he was frowning.

Below, in the marble-floored atrium, the twins were squealing. Your son, which is also his son, mind you, was riding on Luke’s shoulders, fists in his hair like reins, laughing so loud it echoed through the halls. Your daughter was curled under Kieran’s long black coat like a nest, calmly allowing herself to be swaddled in pure adoration.

Sylus’s right eye twitched.

“They’re treating them like replacement bosses,” he muttered, loud enough for you to hear from the top of the stairs.

You tried not to laugh. “They’re just playing.”

“They are plotting,” he said flatly, gesturing like this was a full-scale betrayal. “That is my son. And that is my coat she’s wrapped in. Why is she smiling like that? She doesn’t smile like that with me. Do I need to wear two coats?”

You rested your chin on his shoulder. “Are you jealous?”

He stiffened. “I am offended. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, sure.”

Your son shrieked with delight as Luke dramatically spun in a circle, making spaceship noises with his mouth. Your daughter calmly took a cracker from Kieran’s gloved hand and (this was the real insult) fed it to him.

Sylus recoiled. “She shared.”

“She never shares.”

“Exactly. What next? They call them ‘Da-da’ too?”

If you want to continue, read the full version on AO3, as i have hit the maximum length (idk what the fuck that is but it won’t let me finish the fic here) limit.

#lads fanfic #lads x reader #lads #love and deepspace #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus #sylus qin

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