#my perfect bedtime routine ^-^

[artsy-book]

had a nice warm shower ^-^

now I'm gonna draw while watching a video and then go to bed ^-^

gnight peeps <3

[uwooyoungs]

//

[cuntyji]

the first video nanami ever posted was filmed on a shaky phone propped up against a bag of flour.

he was making bread—simple, easy, the kind of thing he found comfort in after long days at work. his hands moved methodically, kneading the dough with a quiet precision, and though he spoke very little, the video was oddly calming.

he hadn't expected much from it. maybe a few views, maybe a couple of people who’d appreciate the lack of unnecessary chatter. but the comments were overwhelmingly positive, people asking about his technique, his recipe, his voice—deep, smooth, effortlessly steady. so he made another video. then another.

it was the late-night upload of him singing "baby one more time" by the marías that changed everything.

filmed on an old macbook with a grainy webcam, the lighting barely enough to make out his face, the video had been an impulse decision—one he almost deleted. it was just him, sitting on his couch, his voice low and hushed, the way he usually sang to lull yuuji to sleep. but the internet clung to it like ivy, twisting and reaching until the video had over a million views by the end of the week.

"who is he." "why is this the most intimate thing i've ever heard in my life." "he looks exhausted and sounds like a dream, i'm in love."

he thought it would pass. but it didn't.

his subscribers doubled overnight. the demand for more was loud, insistent. nanami, being nanami, didn’t rush to meet it. instead, he structured it into his routine: one video a week, a mix of baking and singing—because baking was reliable, and singing had never been something he shared outside of yuuji’s bedtime.

his channel evolved. the baking videos became polished, edited with subtle precision. he switched to voiceovers, explaining each step in that same low, deliberate tone that made people feel like he was speaking just to them. and when he sang, it was always songs that carried a quiet sort of nostalgia.

"he only sings songs he sings to his kid to sleep i’m crying." "his lullabies are better than half the music industry." "i don’t know his name, his age, or his face properly, but i know his banana bread recipe by heart."

nanami never explicitly talked about being a single dad, but it was impossible to miss. yuuji’s voice sometimes made cameos in the background, muffled questions about homework, laughter when nanami burnt the edges of a cake. he didn’t hide it, didn’t play it up. it was just a part of his life, and his audience adored him for it.

his faq video—one of the few times he ever directly addressed personal questions—answered almost nothing.

"are you married?" "no." "how old are you?" "old enough." "what's your name?" "nanami."

the mystery only made people more obsessed.

"i know nothing about him but i’d die for him." "his hands. his voice. his existence." "the fact that he bakes and sings for his kid and still won’t tell us his age is crazy."

he now posted twice a week. one video was always baking, the other was whatever he wanted—sometimes music, sometimes a quiet q&a, sometimes just a video of him making tea while rain hit the windows.

people knew everything and nothing about him at the same time. they knew the exact ratio of brown sugar he preferred in cookies but not what city he lived in. they knew he tucked yuuji in every night with a song but had never seen his full face in a single frame. they knew the precise cadence of his voice when he said “and that’s how you make the perfect loaf” but had never heard him say “i love you”—and yet, somehow, they felt like they had.

the internet had fallen in love with him. and nanami, quietly, without even trying, had changed his life with nothing but flour-dusted hands and the sound of his own voice.

[cyberlillies]

routine body inspections with caleb gege!

cw: incest, body inspection, manipulation, nipple play, hole inspection, squirting, scummy gentle caleb refers to himself as gege all the time.

wc: ~2.8k

your elder brother caleb took over the role of your guardian ever since you could recall. he did everything a caretaker is supposed to. he fed you, made sure you went to school, helped you in your studies, protected you from bullies, did your laundry and sometimes even helped you wash. it was a given for caleb to know everything about you — he had no other choice, had to take care of you after all — and that included knowing your body in its entirety.

caleb was overprotective and obsessive, you were his dear meimei, and he was devoted to you. you were his goddess, the most perfect specimen presented only to him. wanting to observe your body, the way it changed over time, the way it bloomed beautifully in front of his eyes, he carefully convinced you into his scheme.

gege is just looking for 'abnormalities' on your body, you don't want to fall sick right? hospitals are scary with big bad doctors threatening to put big big needles into you. don't worry, gege will make sure you never need to go there. just stay still and let gege examine your body!

if it's gege, then he must be right! so you let him inspect your body under the guise of a purely innocent examination. caleb was ecstatic, he'd already seen your body from the times he cleaned you up on days you felt lazy, had left lingering touches all over but never had the chance to touch you with such intention, with your doe eyes following his every move, your skin anticipating his every touch.

"pipsqueak, come on. it's time for the examination." caleb gently nudges you, trying to hide his excitement. you were sprawled on your bed, busy reading a book before bedtime. you had completely forgotten about the examination until caleb reminded you.

"oh..." you put down the book reluctantly, your actions a little hesitant. caleb sensed it. sitting beside you, he placed a hand on your exposed thigh. "what's the matter? you know this is important, right?"

you nodded slowly, eyes refusing to meet his. "you feel scared?" caleb asked you, you simply nodded again. sighing, he inched closer to you. "this won't hurt, if that's what you're worried about. you know i will never."

"i know, gege." you replied. you weren't scared of that, you were just shy of being exposed infront of your very attractive big brother. you know you weren't supposed to feel this way but he made your heart flutter too easily sometimes. like now, sitting a bit too close, leaning a bit more closer, his breath teasing the edges of your ear as he pulled you to him, trying to relax your nerves by pulling you into a hug.

"undress for me, pretty girl." caleb whispered into your ear. "let gege see your body."

moving slowly but surely, you stripped the layers off of yourself. caleb drank in every single exposure, pupils almost shaking as he saw the smooth expanse of your skin, the smallness of your body in comparison to his never failing to take his breath away. he might be a sinner, but if you were the temptation, he had no regrets.

reaching out to caress your shoulders, caleb ran his hands along your neck till your arms, feeling for anything unusual. your arms were crossed over your chest, thighs clenched together, trying to cover up. he held your hands up to his face, prying the crossed arms open, exposing your breasts to the room.

he kissed your fingertips. "such pretty hands." you flushed at the compliment, watching him bring your hand to his mouth. caleb bit your palm lightly, causing you to gasp. "pain receptors in the hands are fine." he kissed over the bite, licking the spot lightly while looking you in the eye.

"don't hide yourself from me." caleb maintains eye contact with you. "let me do my job easily, yeah? after this we can do something you like."

"...like watch a movie?" you asked.

"yeah, anything." he kissed the top of your head.

"okay." you replied, a bit more upbeat now. you relaxed your body, letting your limbs loose as he easily picked you up and situated you on his lap, your whole body on display for him.

"hmm." caleb hummed as he ran his hands along your sides, feeling the softness of your skin. you were so pure, unblemished, untouched, every part of you sculpted by the gods. his warm hands made you shiver as they reached your abdomen. you were a little ticklish there, so you jumped with a squeal when he splayed his hand on your tummy.

"tickles?" he looks to you for your reaction. you reply back with another yelp as he poked your waist. caleb almost smirks. "good. normal response here." hands travelling upwards, he enclosed your breasts in his large palms. soft, he sighs to himself. fingers sensing for any atypical growths, he pressed and kneaded the pudge of your bosom, skillfully checking the sides, the under, and closing in on your areola.

your breath gets heavier, skin prickling under his touch. his fingers grazed your nipples lightly and you jerked with the shock sent all over your body, pleasure shooting straight to your core. you grab his wrists, stopping any further movement on his part. "gege... feels weird!" you complain.

"weird?" caleb raised an eyebrow. "good, or bad?"

"i-i can't tell..." you bit your lip.

"that means i have to do it again." he pressed both his thumbs onto the flat of your nipples, rubbing the hardening buds till you're gasping and shaking. "it's important you feel good here. does it feel good?"

"wait— ah!" you can't help but arch your back away from his touch. "ah, ah! gege!"

"use your words. good or bad?" caleb asks again.

how could you, when you couldn't even understand the sensation. it made you want to cry and scream, yet it also made you want to laugh and dance at the same time. it didn't feel bad, no, gege's touch never felt bad.

"g-good!" you cry out.

"good." caleb echoes with a smile as his hands leave your breasts.

your hands reach up to your chest, replacing his touch with your own. you feel your nipples, intrigued by their stiffness. "gege, why are these so hard? is this normal?" you sound panicked. caleb can't believe how oblivious you were, his baby sister, knowing nothing about her own body and looking up to her big brother to teach her everything. big brother will definitely teach you everything!

"yes, pipsqueak. this is very normal." he pats your hair. "your breasts are here to help you make milk. your nipples, they get hard so it's easier for babies to drink milk from them."

"milk? babies? i'm gonna make babies?" your confusion only increases.

"no, not yet, pipsqueak. all in due time." caleb traced stray circles onto your tummy travelling upwards, his gaze fixated on your chest. "we've gotta make sure every function of your body is proper."

"this might feel funny, but it's important i check myself." caleb dips his head to latch onto your hardened nipple. you let out a squeal, the foreign sensation of his wet and soft tongue flicking the bud shot sparks of pleasure down your front. he took his sweet time sucking on the nip, biting and tugging with his teeth, using suction force to pull on them enough to have half your flesh in his mouth. his hands focused on massaging the outer areas, starting at your sides then pressing inwards, almost as if milking you.

"mmpf— so soft..." caleb groaned into your skin, mouth full with your breast. you felt the vibration of his voice on your nipple, now emerging as squeals of your own.

caleb hungrily sucked your tits, alternating between the two. your nips were quite swollen, to the point that they weren't hard anymore, and wouldn't become hard no matter how much he abused them with his teeth and tongue. you were a shaking mess in his embrace.

every little touch, bite, scrape on your tits made you feel headier than before. your tummy felt weird, no, not your tummy, something more... below. your hands braced themselves on his shoulders as you unknowingly grinded on his lap while letting out pathetic noises. you were scared, you couldn't stop your movements, it was as if you were being possessed!

"gege! wait!!" you pushed on his shoulders. caleb stopped, immediately looking at your face for signs of distress. "what happened? did it hurt, pips?" he cupped your cheek lovingly. you shake your head.

"no.. it didn't hurt, but it felt weird!" you grab his free hand and bring it to your lower belly. "it feels all tingly here... why!? gege, i'm scared! is there something wrong with me?" you start to tear up, all kinds of thoughts turning the unknown sensations into fearful monsters in your head.

"calm down, pipsqueak. it's all normal. you trust gege, right?" he waited for your response, satisfied with a simple nod from you. "good girl, everything is fine. buuut, gege will check just to make sure. okay?"

"...okay." you hesitated for a bit. "can you hug me first?"

caleb complied with your request, a large grin replacing the tense in his jaw. he pulled you to his sturdy chest, his warmth enveloping you as you exhaled in the comfort he granted you. looking down at your small frame, he couldn't help but feel giddy. you had no idea how happy you made him. every time he worried that he may hurt you or offend you, you keep proving him wrong. you were so good to him, beyond what he deserved.

your heart pounded loudly against your lungs, so loud you could feel it all over your body. with how closely you were slotted together with caleb, he could feel it too — in his chest that pressed against yours, in his hands that held you close to him. every moment had you redder in the face, realising that caleb could in fact feel you, and was holding in his laugh.

you smack him in the arm. "ow!" caleb faked hurt but he couldn't stop his boyish snicker. you glare at him, lifting your hand to hit him once again. "ah, wait! i'm sorry! were you embarrassed?"

"i couldn't help it, pips. you're just so cute." he ruffles your hair as you pout, a smile breaking through your lips with his praise.

"ready to continue?" he asks you. you nod and he gently lays you on the bed, his huge frame sliding down to settle between your legs. his hands hold either of your ankles, trailing along your legs to rest at the top of your thighs. his palms sink into the plush of your thighs as you gasped, his actions not helping with the tingles.

leaning down till his breath teased the skin on your stomach, he brought his fingers to the waistband of your panties, a light colored simple cotton one with tiny apples all over it — that he had personally picked for you.

"so, tell me. where did you say it felt weird? here?" his touch ghosts over your tummy.

you slowly shake your head. "no? should i go further down?" you nod, maybe a bit too eagerly. caleb's fingers trailed down, a feather touch over the clothed skin, skillfully navigating right onto your clit. you almost jump when he applies pressure, that was exactly the source of your tingles, how did he know?!

"this must be it." caleb patted his thumb over the bundle of nerves, causing you to happily yelp. "yuuup, isn't that right, pipsqueak?"

caleb circled your clit with his thumb, using his fingers to push the fabric of your panties into your folds, watching a wet patch form on them. "baby... you're wet down here."

"w-what..? gege, i swear i didn't pee myself!"

"i'll only know if i check myself. lift your hips."

caleb pulls your panties off your legs, pocketing them before you could notice. he spreads your legs against your weak resistance for whatever modesty you were trying to protect.

caleb's face is dangerously near your clit, mouth slightly agape as he practically salivates over having the little nub between his lips. his thumb rubs up and down your folds, dipping itself in your arousal. "it's so wet, princess. be honest, are you usually leaking?" you squirm as every word hits your clit before your ears.

"n-no! it's because of the tingles you gave me!" you cry out.

"oh? i gave you the tingles? then i must fix it." a finger breaches your hole, wiggling around inside you. caleb groaned at how tight you were, and why would you not be, you had remained untouched under his careful watch, all for his taking.

you let out little high-pitched moans as caleb swirled his finger inside you, feeling and stretching your walls. you feel something oncoming, a wave of pleasure threatening to drown you and you didn't know what to do. you tightly clench your thighs around his hand.

caleb gives you a disapproving look. "pipsqueak. be obedient. don't make gege force you." he warns, his other hand prying open your thighs once more. "tsk, silly girl. this is for your own good. now hold this position as gege checks your precious parts, okay?"

you have no choice but to obey. you didn't want to make caleb mad, he's always been nice to you and this is also a part of it... right?

caleb uses his arms to spread you wider, settling between your legs, his eyes directly on your pretty little cunt, observing how your tender opening fluttered around his girthy finger. you struggling to take even a finger was a sight he wanted to burn in his memories forever.

prodding carefully, he checked for your hymen, making sure it was intact. there would definitely be a day he'd gladly breach through that barrier to claim you completely, but not today, not till he had you prepared, till he had your pretty little mind fully under his control.

entranced by your juicy clit, his mouth watered for a taste. he hadn't planned it but his lips had a mind of their own as they latched onto the little bud, suckling on it, rolling it with his tongue. you twisted in his hold as his finger still worked on your hole, curving upwards to stroke your clit from the inside.

"ah, ah— gege, gege, gege!" you cried for him in midst of your haze, senses overstimulated by his assault on your pussy. he barely hummed a response on your skin, too engrossed in your taste, in the way your tiny body humped against his tongue desperately.

only when you started sobbing his name did he stop to take a look at you. "gege... gege.. please.." your eyes were squinted shut, possibly out of fear. "something's coming.. i-i'm about to pee!" you sobbed with urgency.

caleb's eyes flickered with thrill, his free hand finds itself on your lower tummy, pressing down right on your bladder. "ah!" you scream, hands instantly trying to fight his heavy one. "no! please, i'll pee!" you screamed, worried.

"shhh, it's alright, princess. just let it go, okay?" caleb encourages with a soothing tone, the finger stroking your insides speeding up, the pressure on your tummy becoming unbearable, your urge to release growing with every second.

caleb feels the rush of your release around his finger, your hole tightens and then all of a sudden, you're squirting all over his hand and face. he removed his finger to watch your muscles spasm as you squirt release after release, your hole now struggling with the sudden emptiness, a gaping void left as a reminder of his presence.

"that's it... that's my good girl." he praises you, eyes filled with infinite adoration. you're breathless, chest heaving to fill the lack of oxygen in your brain, feeling lightheaded being brought to your first orgasm with such intensity. you watch your release drip down his face, watch as he wipes himself off with his already wet hand, licking some of it off his palm, savouring your taste.

"gege... was that okay?" you were so innocent, his heart swelled at your words.

"yes, baby. that was perfect." caleb hummed in delight. "let me clean you up and then we're done, okay?" he was finished playing with your body, despite the glaring problem in his own. he could take care of it by himself for now, it was too early to trouble you for this.

his lips return to your quivering pussy, stealing a taste right from the source. his tongue licks you eagerly, lapping up your folds and replacing your arousal with his saliva. he doesn't tease your sensitive parts anymore, your clit was already pretty swollen, all you needed now was rest and lots of cuddles.

finished with his work, he picks you up and heads for the bath. you grab onto his neck as he princess carries you. "so, gege, is everything okay?" you ask concerned, you really didn't want to see the doctors at all. caleb laughs at your furrowed brows, soothing them down with his thumb.

"no need to worry, pipsqueak. you're as healthy as ever!"

a/n: this needs a second part who knows when T_T

[meadowfics]

postpartum

husband!babyfather!kang dae-ho x f!wife!mom!reader

in a world where you did get to have your family, unlike what happened here

warnings: mentions of normal post-pregnancy stuff like breastmilk pumping. postpartum depression. dae-ho being ALIVE in this one and being the best husband to you and father to your babies <3

heavily requested in my inbox after what I posted yesterday LMAO

the weight of it all is suffocating.

you sit on the couch, your body sinking into the cushions as exhaustion drapes over you like a heavy, unshakable blanket. 

in your arms, tiny and delicate, byeol drinks from her bottle, her little fingers curling and uncurling against your chest, her slow, steady suckling the only sound anchoring you in the moment.

the babies tiny body is warm against you, her breaths soft, her features too much like dae-ho’s that it makes your heart ache.

normally, you would be lost in adoration, in awe of this little life you brought into the world. you would trace her perfect cheeks with your fingers, marvel at the way her lashes flutter as she drinks, kiss the soft long hair she inherited from her father. 

today, you are simply trying to hold yourself together.

your body is sore, aching from the endless cycle of feeding, pumping, and barely sleeping. your mind feels foggy, tangled with thoughts you don’t want to have, emotions you don’t want to feel. 

you love your daughters, you love dae-ho, you love your family. you would never trade this for anything. 

however, the love isn’t enough to make the heaviness go away.

across the room, seo-ah plays on the floor, a bright burst of energy that fills every corner of the house. she chatters to her stuffed animals, her high-pitched giggles filling the space, making everything feel alive in a way that you cannot.

“appa! look! teddy is dancing!” 

she exclaims, lifting her stuffed bear into the air, twirling it in circles.

dae-ho, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, gasps in exaggerated excitement. 

“wahhh! so cool, teddy is so talented!”

seo-ah beams at the praise, her eyes crinkling as she twirls again, her joy infectious, her laughter like sunshine.

normally, that sound would lift you. 

normally, watching dae-ho be the incredible father that he is would warm your heart, remind you that you are not alone in this, that you have him.

today, it only makes the exhaustion worse.

dae-ho’s gaze flickers toward you, sharp and observant, even as he stays engaged with seo-ah’s game. 

he doesn’t miss the tension in your shoulders, the blankness in your eyes, the way your responses are slower, quieter than usual.

he gets up, making his way to you, crouching in front of the couch so that he’s level with you. 

“baby,” he murmurs, his voice soft, careful. 

“are you okay?”

you manage a small smile. 

“yeah, just tired.”

the marine’s warm, calloused hands settle on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, comforting circles. 

“do you want me to take byeol for a bit? you’ve been holding her all day.”

you shake your head, your arms instinctively tightening around byeol’s small frame. 

“no, i got it.”

dae-ho doesn’t push. he never does. 

he simply nods, but the concern lingers in his eyes.

after twenty minutes, when byeol finishes her bottle, you sigh, shifting in your seat. 

“love, can you do their bedtime routine tonight? i feel… gross. i just wanna shower.”

dae-ho’s expression softens instantly, and without hesitation, he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your temple before carefully lifting mini byeol from your arms. 

“of course, baby. take your time, okay?”

he doesn’t say it to make you feel better. he means it. 

every time, every single time, he is happy to take care of his girls. 

he never complains, never hesitates. 

he loves them, loves you.

as he walks away, bouncing byeol gently in his arms, calling for seo-ah in that affectionate tone he always uses, you make your way to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you.

unfortunately, the moment you step into the shower, the relief you so desperately crave does not come.

the warm water cascades down your skin, but it does nothing to ease the exhaustion weighing down on you. 

the pressure is strong, firm against your sore muscles, but you still feel tense, wound so tightly that no amount of heat can unravel you.

you let your head drop forward, resting your forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall. your arms hang limply at your sides, the steam rising around you in thick waves. 

for a moment, you try to breathe…slow, deep, steady. but it doesn’t help. nothing does.

your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

your breasts ache, swollen and sore from pumping, tender in a way that makes you wince when the water hits them. your stomach, still soft and a little stretched from carrying byeol, stirs something sharp and cruel inside you, something that whispers that you’ll never look or feel the same again. 

honestly, you cannot recall if you felt like this after having seo-ah.

you press your palm against yourself, fingers tracing over the faint marks left behind from your pregnancy, and you don’t know whether you love them or hate them.

a lump forms in your throat as your gaze flickers downward. 

your thighs, your waist, the curve of your hips—none of it looks the way it used to. 

you know, logically, that your body is healing, that you just brought a life into this world. 

sometimes logic doesn’t quiet the thoughts that get at you, that tell you you are different now in a way that you can’t come back from.

you reach for your vanilla body wash, desperate for something familiar, something comforting.

the moment your fingers curl around the bottle, you realize it’s empty.

your breath catches.

it’s stupid. 

it’s just body wash. you can use dae-ho’s. 

it doesn’t matter.

it does.

your hand trembles slightly as you pick up his bottle instead, the scent of cedarwood and musk filling the space. it smells like him, like the warmth of his embrace, like the shirts you steal from his side of the closet. 

you squeeze the soap into your net sponge, rubbing it over your arms, your shoulders, your chest. the wrongness lingers, settling into the hollow of your ribs like an ache that won’t fade.

when will this get easier?

the thought slams into you like a wave, sudden and suffocating.

your chest tightens, and before you can stop it, tears spill over your cheeks, mixing with the water streaming down your face.

you bite down on your lip, trying to keep the sobs at bay, but it’s useless. the emotions hit all at once, hard and overwhelming, crushing under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.

your shoulders shake as the sobs build, as the exhaustion and frustration and sadness pour out of you in waves you can’t control. 

you press a trembling hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds, trying not to let it get too loud and scare seo-ah from her bedroom.

no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you tell yourself to just get over it, to just be strong…you can’t stop.

the walls feel too close. the steam is suffocating. the sound of the water is deafening.

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto the tile as you try to catch your breath, try to pull yourself together, try to remind yourself that you are okay.

you don’t feel okay.

you don’t know when you will again.

your body still aches. your breasts are sore from pumping, tender in a way that makes you wince when the water hits them. 

the final straw.

and then—

the door creaks open.

you don’t hear footsteps, don’t hear anything other than your own quiet cries. 

then the shower door slides open, and suddenly, there he is.

dae-ho.

your husband.

your breath catches as he takes you in….your trembling frame, the water streaming down your face, the way you try so desperately to wipe away the evidence of your breakdown.

he’s not having any of it.

without a word, he steps forward, his black shirt and joggers instantly soaked as he pulls you into his arms.

“baby,” he breathes against your wet hair, his voice thick with emotion. 

“don’t do that. don’t hide from me.”

you break.

your hands clutch at his shirt, your sobs shaking your whole body as he holds you. his large hands cradle the back of your head, his fingers slipping through your soaked hair as he rocks you gently.

“i know it’s hard,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“but i’m right here. i’ll always be right here.”

and you believe him.

he stays with you until the tears slow, until your breathing steadies. 

then, gently, he helps you out of the shower, wrapping a towel around you before drying you off with so much tenderness it nearly makes you cry all over again.

you don’t lift a finger.

he stands behind you, brushing through your damp hair before braiding it, his fingers moving with practiced ease thanks to his older sisters. 

he massages your vanilla body butter into your skin, his touch warm, comforting. when he helps you into your nightgown, his fingers linger at your waist, his gaze full of something so raw, so real, that it makes your breath hitch.

in bed, he helps you pump, his hands resting on your thighs, his presence a grounding force.

finally, when you’re settled against him, you whisper, 

“did they go to sleep easily?”

dae-ho hums. 

“byeol was easy, but seo-ah went on a five-minute rant about oreo ice cream before tiring herself out.”

you giggle softly, your heart swelling. 

“she really loves that ice cream.”

you don’t speak again until the question that has been weighing on you slips past your lips.

“dae…will i feel beautiful again?”

dae-ho’s response is immediate.

he pulls you close, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.

“you are beautiful now,” he murmurs against your skin. 

“you’ve always been beautiful. you gave us the most perfect babies. and i promise, baby, you’ll feel normal again. until then, i’ll be here. every step of the way.”

and in his arms, in his warmth, you believe him.

you will be okay, even if postpartum depression keeps trying to consume you.

masterlist

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Oops

Bang Chan x AFAB! Reader Synopsis: Your sweet son, Hwan, is at the wrong place at the wrong time. Warnings: A little smut, oral (f. receiving) and a lot of fluff A/N: Thank you for the request! I sincerely hope you like it! I'm going to write more stories about these 3 because I'm lowkey in love with Dad! Chan now. Requests are OPEN!

You and Chris finally moved in together, Hwan was quickly adjusting to having his father around more and more, he wanted Chris to take him everywhere on the days he was off, play toy cars and dinosaurs and all the things.

The day came to an end at work and when you opened the door to your now shared apartment, the sight filled your heart with so much love.

Chan was on the floor on his hands and knees and Hwan was on his back playing ‘horsey’. Neither of them heard you come in and you shut the door quietly, listening at Christopher neighed and raised up, causing Hwan to squeal in excitement. Your smile only got wider as you could see how much more enriched your lives had all become. You really were a little family.

Chris turns around with Hwan balancing himself on his back and see’s you, his eyes grow wide before a cheeky smile plays on his face.

“Say buddy, you think Eomma wants a turn?” you blush at his innuendo and giggle.

“I’m good, you keep playing while I make dinner.”

“I want chicken nuggets!”

“You always want chicken nuggets,” you playfully tease your son as you run up to him picking him up and kissing his cheek. He bursts out into laughter and Chris raises up to his feet, rubbing his back.

“Oh don’t tell me you’re all ready old, Channie,” you tease. You offer him a wink and he smirks.

“I’ll show you who’s old later tonight,” he murmurs in your ear and you giggle swatting his chest. He kisses your lips, soft and deep. You sigh against him, a little lost in the moment before you hear Hwan get one of his robot toys and turn it on, breaking the sweet moment. You smile at each other as you look at him.

“I’ll make dinner,” he whispers as he takes your bag off your shoulder gently and sets it down in the kitchen. You step out of your heels and sigh as you sit down on the couch.

As Hwan requested, he got his chicken nuggets for dinner that night. The meal time is sweet, filled with conversations that your little one couldn’t help but be apart of.

“And then, appa took me to the park, we saw ducks!” he says excitedly.

“Oh my goodness! I wanna see ducks.” You say feigning jealousy.

“You have to go to the park,” your son informs you as if you didn’t know.

“I can’t see them anywhere else?”

“No,” he takes a bite and chews it absentmindedly. You two giggle at Hwan and finish the meal together.

-

The bedtime routine goes as usual. He wants both of you to tuck him in, but Chris to tell him a story.

“So the prince was a popular star, he ruled the kingdom but also the stage.” Hwan’s eyes sparkle at his father’s words.

“And he met his princess, his future Queen,” he glances at you before turning back to your son, “And she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But a dragon came and kidnapped the princess, taking her away from the prince."

“No!” he says dramatically as he puts his hands on his little cheeks in shock.

“But the prince saved her by slaying the dragon, and kissing the princess telling her how much he loved her and he swore he’d never leave her again. That she would always be safe with him around.”

“Yay!” Hwan claps his little hands and you smile nostalgically at him. Both of you kiss his forehead and Hwan lays down, Chan tucking him in. He shuts the door and you’re about to walk into the living room, before Chris pulls you into the direction of your bedroom.

“Chris!” You giggle as he shuts the door behind you. He pulls you by your waist to him and his lips mold to yours. The way the two of you fit together is as perfect and as natural as breathing.

“I was thinking,” you say in between kisses, “I have the day off tomorrow, why don’t I bring Hwan up the studio and let the guys meet him?"

“Sounds perfect,” he smiles before his hands playfully squeeze your ass. He moves his lips down to your neck, sucking, biting and licking over your pulse point.

“Ah, don’t leave a visible mark,” you warn him gently. He groans against your neck.

“I don’t want Hwan asking questions yet. I’m not sure he understands everything yet.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder for a brief moment before his lips ghost your ear.

“Fine, then get on the bed and I’ll leave them in places Hwan won’t see,” you can hear the smirk in his voice as your stomach feels the nervous excited heat flood in.

You walk over, swaying your hips a little dramatically and Chan is on your heels. Clothes are strown around the room, before the two of you get under the blankets and Chan holds himself over you. He kisses down your body, moans of pleasure quietly fill the silent room.

He licks a slow stripe up your core, your eyes fluttering closed as his tongue laps at your clit. Your hands find his hair, pushing his face deeper and he moans, the sensation and thought of making you feel good the only idea in his head. His finger works into your hole, hitting that perfect spongey spot just inside your entrance and your back arches off the bed.

-

Hwan stirs awake in his dimly lit room, thanks to his wolf chanmnight light, and rubs his eyes. He grabs his wolf Chan plush, because of course Chan said he had to have everything that was wolf chan theme, and drags himself out of bed. He hears weird noises coming from your bedroom, muffled but loud enough for him to be concerned about you.

“Eomma?” Chan freezes under the blanket and your eyes snap open. You look at the innocent little four year old who’s still rubbing sleep out of his eye. His cheeks slightly red from the tears he'd cried when during his nightmare.

“Hwan! Are you ok?” Your voice is frantic as you pull the covers up over you.

“Bad dream,” he sniffles and a few tears streak down his cheeks.

“Oh, baby,” your heart hurts for him, but you can’t exactly scoop him up at the moment.

“Where’s Appa,” he begins to whine and Chris slowly moves out from under the blanket.

“I’m here buddy.” He begins to full on cry now, and you look at Chan apologetically. Chris looks over at you and he knows the night between the two of you is over.

He runs over to pick up Hwan and takes him out of the bedroom so you can throw on a robe. When you walk out to check on your boys you notice them sitting at the kitchen table.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought ice cream might help,” Chris says sheepishly.

“You know he isn’t supposed to have sugar this late,” you light scold.

“He was crying, I mean look at him. He’s so happy. I really think it’s working!” Chan’s face is a picture of happiness, even if his night isn’t going as planned.

After the ice cream Chan scoops Hwan and wolf Chan both up and takes him to your shared room.

“What were you guys doing?” he asks once him and his plushie are settled between you.

“Uh,” you look to Chan for help.

“Eomma thought she lost something in the bed so I was helping her look for it.”

“Why were you making noises?”

“Because your Appa was being very helpful,” you kiss your son’s forehead.

“Come on, it’s time to go to sleep,” you try to encourage as you and Chan exchange knowing looks.

Tags: @breakmeoff

*Please do not copy or upload my work anywhere else*

Comment if you'd like to be added to my taglist!💕

Comments, love notes and requests are all appreciated😊

[sturniolohouse]

Junie Laughs - M.S

summary: four month old June laughs for the first time. dad!matt x reader - blurb

"Is daddy just so silly, Junie?" I beam at her belly laughs, each one more contagious than the last.

She has never laughed this hard before, it was a real one.

My heart swells as I record the moment, capturing the joy lighting up her face. Matt looks over at me with wide eyes and I cackle in disbelief of how genuine her laugh is.

At just 4 months old, she's giving us her first real laugh, not the little ones we'd try and poke out of her.

"Do you hear her?" He asks in pure shock, his whole face lit up in awe.

I nod quickly and look back to June, who's sticking her fingers in her mouth and looking up at Matt expectantly.

He leans in close again, using his animated, high-pitched voice, "Who's the cutest, most perfect, most amazing little girl…Junie is! You just love smiling big for daddy, my happy girl."

His excitement mirrors hers, and her squeals grow louder as she kicks her tiny feet, her laughter bubbling over once again.

He tickles her belly and smushes multiple kisses into her cheek, completely unbothered by the slobber coating her face. Her eyes squeeze shut in pure delight and when he pulls back, they pop open immediately, searching for him, eager for more.

She coos at him, dribbling a bit but Matt wipes it away with a his sleeve mindlessly. I get a quick glance at her droopy eyes and I know she's fighting sleep. It's getting close to her bedtime, which we had been doing pretty well with establishing a routine.

Right after her bath, before settling her in the crib, we always lay together in our bed. It’s become our little ritual, just the three of us cuddled close until she gets sleepy enough to drift off.

"Matt, you're getting her all worked up and she has to go to bed," I try to reason with him, but I can't help the smile on my face when she looks in my direction with her sparkling blue eyes. I shift to lie on my stomach next to her, propping my head up on my hand while Matt stays in front of her.

He continues to tickle her, pretending to bite her cheek and smothering her with kisses. Her squeals are so intense, I can hear the little gasps she takes in between, and it makes me a little nervous.

“Matt,” I warn softly, but he’s already backing off, laughing as he does.

He gives her a moment to catch her breath, his hands resting lightly on her belly as she hiccups through the last of her giggles, still smiling up at him. But I can tell her energy is fading fast, her little fists clench and unclench while her eyelids flutter, fighting to stay open.

"But she's so happy," Matt says through a smile, tracing his finger lightly over the curve of her cheek. "Tell mommy you want to stay up and hang with us," he teases, talking to her as she rubs her eyes, her full lips forming a slight pout.

She yawns this time, her tiny hands reaching up for Matt’s face, but her movements are slower now, her head lolling to the side for a moment.

I sigh, knowing it's only a matter of minutes before she's fussy and no longer our happy girl.

"Okay, okay, it’s bedtime, kid," Matt relents, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

He lifts her gently off the bed, cradling her close before laying her on his chest and leaning back against the pillows. I join them, resting against the headboard, feeling the calm settle over the room.

June was such a good baby. All the research I did on colic and sleep regressions felt unnecessary in the end. She was the textbook definition of an easy baby.

We got extremely lucky, especially as first-time parents.

The first couple of months of her life, she really just slept most of the time. But now her little personality is starting to set in and every day she's seems to learn something new.

She's been starting to babble more and making tons of sounds now. Her favorite at the moment is "bah-bah," which usually turns into a string of "babababababa" when she's particularly happy. Matt thinks it means she's closer to saying "dada," but I'm pretty sure it's "mama."

Time will tell.

She loves her stuffed black cat that Nick got her when we brought her home. It's sometimes the only thing that will calm her down during a rare meltdown. And Chris? He's her absolute favorite playmate and snuggle buddy. They've formed a sweet routine over these past few weeks. Every morning after her first feeding, they lay together the couch while he slowly wakes up.

It's a little tight with all of us in the house, especially with all of the baby furniture and toys everywhere. But we make it work. It's so much easier than if Matt and I were on our own.

Chris and Nick help us out so much, especially in the mornings so we can catch a break. They usually take over so Matt and I can get showered or run errands.

It truly takes a village to raise a child and we're all learning together.

Junie being so little definitely makes living in such close quarters easier. But we already notice how fast she's growing, and it’s made Matt and I seriously consider getting our own house so everyone can have the space they need. It’s a topic that’s been looming over our heads ever since we brought her home.

As much as we love Nick and Chris around, living under one roof is not realistic long term.

I shake those thoughts away and instead focus back on Junie who's still fighting sleep against Matt's chest, her tiny fingers clenching his shirt.

"Every day I wake up and I can't believe she's real," I say, my voice soft, filled with awe. "I don't even remember life before her,"

Matt smiles warmly, his eyes never leaving June as she starts to drift off. "I know. It's like she's always been part of us."

Her cheek is smushed into his shirt, and her tiny ear rests right over his heart, the steady rhythm lulling her further into sleep.

June always falls asleep easily with any of us, but listening to mine or Matt's heartbeat was a guaranteed way to knock her out.

She melts into him, going limp in his hold as she stares at me through her heavy eyelids. I turn on my side and reach my hand over to trace her soft face. She stops fighting sleep then, succumbing to her tiredness.

Matt gently strokes June's back, his fingers tracing delicate patterns against her tiny frame. Once her grip on Matt's shirt loosens completely, I know she's asleep.

"Aaand, she's out cold," I whisper in victory and Matt peeks down at her, a proud smile spreading across his face.

He leans down, placing a long kiss on the top of her head and pausing to inhale deeply.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand how she smells like actual heaven,” he says softly against her hair.

"I know, right? I don't understand it either. I could sniff her head all day," I agree, inching a little closer.

I keep staring at him, and he catches on, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

His expression shifts, a knowing smile creeping onto his face as he realizes I’m watching him closely.

He raises an eyebrow, playful suspicion in his voice. "What?"

"Nothing," I draw out a bit, my eyes fluttering slowly.

"You were staring pretty hard there," he quips back, his gaze flickering to my lips briefly before meeting my eyes again, a mischievous glint in his own.

"You just look really hot with a baby on you," I tease, a smirk tugging on my lips as I watch his face for a reaction.

Matt raises an eyebrow, trying to suppress a grin. "Easy there."

"M'just saying." I shrug innocently, enjoying seeing him squirm a bit.

His gaze drops to June, then back to me, his grin finally winning. "So, what, are you trying to say I should just walk around with a baby on me all the time now?"

"Wouldn't be the worst thing..." I reply with a smirk, leaning a little closer. Matt shakes his head, the smile never leaving his face as he rubs his eyes.

His chest rises and falls with a quiet chuckle, but June remains blissfully asleep against his chest. "You’re ridiculous, kid."

"Dare I say... DILF?" I tease further, raising an eyebrow.

Matt smirks. "Well, if I'm a DILF, then you're definitely a MILF."

"I would sure fucking hope so. I only carried your child for nine months, went through 20 hours of labor and then birthed her. Seems like the least I could get out of it," I say mainly lightheartedly.

Matt chuckles softly, "Don't worry, sweetheart, you've always been a MILF in my eyes," he says with warmth and affection, his hand finding mine and gently bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

I snort with a slight chuckle, "Good save."

He winks at me, then looks back down at June, her tiny fingers curled into his shirt. "Seriously though, we made a perfect little human, didn’t we?"

I nod, "Yeah, we really did."

We hear a few gentle knocks at Matt's door, and I softly tell them to come in. The door creaks open slowly, and Chris pops his head in, his usual mischievous grin already on his face. I put a finger over my lips, motioning to June sleeping.

"Aw, is she already out?" he whispers in a sing-song voice, walking over quietly to take a peek at her.

"Yep, just went down." I answer quietly.

He places his hands on his hips and pouts at her, "Sleepy Junie," Chris coos, his expression softening as he watches her sleep.

"Chris, you missed it," I whisper excitedly. "She was losing it before, laughing at Matt. I thought she was going to pass out... I got it all on video."

Chris's eyes widen. "No way! I can't believe I missed it, you gotta send me that shit," he says.

"It was so fucking cute, dude. She'd never laughed like that before," Matt chimes in, shaking his head.

Chris turns his attention back to Matt, rocking back and forth on his feet. I can already tell he’s gearing up to ask for something.

"Dude, you down to play fort for a few? I can't play with Nick again, he's fucking trash." He huffs, taking his hat off to adjust his hair before placing it back on.

Matt glances at me, stifling a laugh before carefully shifting June so she’s cradled more securely against him.

He shakes his head at Chris. "Really, dude? She just fell asleep."

Chris is relentless though, "Bro, come on, just a few rounds," he pleads, eyes darting between Matt and me.

I sigh, turning to Matt and giving him a small smile.

"You can put her in the crib now, she should be okay. Go play for a bit if you want." I nod toward the door, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Chris fist-pumping in silent victory.

Matt is grown and doesn't need my permission for anything, especially playing video games with his brother. But I know he would never go without me giving the green light.

"You sure?" Matt asks, glancing between me and June.

"Yeah, go ahead. I’m going to read for a bit" I reassure him with a smile.

He hesitates for a moment, clearly torn, before he finally relents, nodding. "Alright, I’ll be back in a bit."

As he carefully stands up, cradling June in his arms, I watch Chris bouncing on his heels, clearly excited.

I hear Junie's soft grunts as Matt places her in the crib in the corner of the room. We ended up having to move his desk up to the loft where the old podcast room was.

Matt shushes her gently, pausing for a second and watching her, making sure she's fully settled. He stands up and lets out a breath of relief when she doesn't wake up, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

He turns to me with a small, tired smile, like we've just dodged a tiny grenade.

"That was close," he whispers, shaking his head as he steps back from the crib. "Let me know if you need anything, okay? I'll be back in a couple hours," Matt tells me as Chris waits for him by the door.

I nod. "Oh, Chris?"

"Yeah?" He answers, rubbing his hands together.

"If you wake up June with your screaming, you're the one putting her back to bed." I say with a sweet smile, and I see Matt cover his mouth as he laughs softly.

Chris freezes. his eyes wide before sheepishly nodding. "Noted."

[gf2bellamy]

hii ^^ could you write a little blurb of spencer x curly haired reader? i would love for him to run his fingers through my hair like all these fics but he would not be able to 😭

i don't have curly hair, so if i got anything wrong, please let me know !! <33

the first time he absentmindedly tries to run his fingers through your curls, you gently grab his wrist like, “spence, no.”

he looks so startled. “wait… I can’t?”

and you’re like, “unless you wanna pay for detangling products and spend an hour sectioning, no.”

his eyes go wide. he’s taking mental notes already.

he gets so curious about your hair routine. one night you’re putting in leave-in conditioner and he’s like:“so… wait. that’s different from regular conditioner? and it stays in? but why don’t you rinse it out-"

you end up giving him a whole crash course and he’s literally fascinated. he even pulls up studies about curly hair at bedtime.

spencer becomes super precious about your hair.

he doesn’t touch it without asking, and when he does, it’s always careful. “can I touch it?” he’ll murmur, fingers hovering over a curl near your ear, eyes soft.

he’s obsessed with how your curls feel when you lean into him. if you rest your head on his shoulder or cuddle against his chest, he just melts. he’ll tuck a loose curl behind your ear and whisper how pretty you are.

you also give him the honor of helping you detangle once.

he takes it so seriously. you hand him the comb and he’s like, “okay, you have to guide me through this.”

he’s carefully sectioning your hair, mumbling to himself:“small sections… start at the ends… work your way up…”

you’re trying not to laugh at how intense he looks.

there’s also one coil that sits right near your temple that always pops into a perfect spiral. he always boops it gently and smiles to himself.

he also buys you fancy hair products. Like he’ll quietly remember the brand you said was “too expensive” and one day it just shows up on your bathroom shelf.

he helps when you’re frustrated. if your wash day goes sideways or a curl gets frizzy and won’t cooperate, he gently kisses your forehead and starts helping you.

[little-jana]

"Bath-Time Truce"

Pairing: dad!Spencer Reid x mom!reader

Genre: pure fluff

Warnings: reader is a stay-at-home-mom

Words: 950

Summary: Spencer and his wife navigate an unexpected standoff with their determined toddler, Ellie.

Request: @lucreziaq2001

The soft hum of the baby monitor is the only sound in the house as I stir the pot of soup on the stove. It’s been one of those days where the hours blurred together, filled with tiny toddler hands grasping for attention and constant reminders of why I always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I glance at the clock and smile to myself. Spencer will be home any minute now, and I can’t wait to see the way Ellie’s face lights up when she hears his key in the door.

Almost on cue, the front door creaks open, and I hear the familiar sound of Spencer’s bag hitting the floor.

“Daddy’s home!” I call out cheerfully.

From her spot on the living room rug, Ellie’s head pops up. She’s surrounded by a colorful mess of toys, but her big hazel eyes zero in on the doorway.

“Da-da!” she babbles excitedly, wobbling to her feet with the determination of someone on a very important mission.

Spencer barely has time to step inside before Ellie launches herself at him, arms outstretched. He scoops her up effortlessly, his face breaking into the boyish grin I fell in love with years ago.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “Were you good for Mommy today?”

Ellie responds with an enthusiastic string of babbles that neither of us can make sense of, but it doesn’t matter. The way she clings to him, her tiny hands tugging at his tie, says it all.

After dinner, the evening routine begins. Spencer and I work as a team—he gathers Ellie’s bath supplies while I clean up the highchair and chase down the remnants of her dinner from the floor. By the time I step into the bathroom, he’s already trying to coax Ellie out of her clothes.

“Okay, Ellie, bath time!” he says in his most cheerful voice.

Ellie, however, is not having it. She crosses her little arms over her chest, her face scrunched in the most dramatic expression of defiance I’ve ever seen.

“Uh-uh!” she declares, shaking her head so hard that her curls bounce.

I suppress a laugh as I kneel down next to them. “Ellie, sweetie, you love your baths. Don’t you want to splash in the water?”

She glares at me with an intensity that can only come from a toddler who believes she’s in charge. Her tiny foot stomps the tile floor, and she babbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “No way!”

Spencer exchanges a look with me, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tries not to smile. “You’re really putting your foot down, huh?” he asks her.

Ellie responds with a triumphant grin, as if she knows she’s winning this battle. She plops herself on the floor, crossing her legs and letting out a determined, “Uh-uh!” again.

“You’re not even two, and you’re already outsmarting us,” I mutter under my breath, earning a chuckle from Spencer.

We try every trick in the book—offering her favorite bath toys, pretending to splash water in the tub, even bribing her with a bedtime story—but Ellie is steadfast in her refusal. Eventually, Spencer sits back on his heels, sighing dramatically.

“Well, I think she’s officially won,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.

Ellie claps her hands, giggling triumphantly as if she understands exactly what just happened.

I glance at Spencer, who’s watching her with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. “What do we do now?” I ask, half-joking.

He shrugs, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “We let her think she’s won… for now.”

With that, he scoops her up, and she squeals with delight, clearly proud of herself. I follow them out of the bathroom, shaking my head and smiling.

As we settle into the living room for a few quiet moments before bedtime, Ellie snuggled against Spencer’s chest, I can’t help but marvel at how chaotic and perfect our life is.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper to him, “we’re winning the bath-time battle.”

“Sure we are,” he whispers back, pressing a kiss to my temple. But as I glance down at Ellie, her wide eyes fluttering closed as she drifts to sleep, I know the truth.

She’s always going to win. And honestly, I don’t mind one bit.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSLEEPWALKER IN LOVE * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Chris returns home after recording another car video with his brothers and finds his girlfriend sleepwalking in their living room.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x sleepwalker!reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

"Oh my God, I almost had a heart attack right now." Nick gasped, his right hand flying to his chest, above his heart.

Chris frowned, climbing the last few steps and looking over the oldest shoulder. He raised his eyebrows and opened an amused smile at the sight; Y/N was standing static, with her back to them and facing the living room windows.

Her body was protected from the cold by the warm pajamas set that the boy quickly recognized as his own. Her hair was slightly messy, and her feet were bare, making it obvious to the boys that she had been asleep in bed, probably just a few minutes before.

Chris knew that she had been in a deep sleep for hours now, as he was the one who put her to sleep before leaving with his brothers to record the car video that would be posted the next day, having repeated their daily routine of singing to her at bedtime, calming her mind and reducing any adrenaline that was still coursing through her veins from the busy day.

The triplets knew that Y/N was a sleepwalker; Matt having woken up many times to drink water just to find the girl in the kitchen, sitting on the table and staring into space or even trying to drink something from the fridge without having a glass in her hand. Or Nick, having woken up to sounds in his bathroom, finding Y/N messing with his skincare products as if she was in a Vogue Beauty Secrets video.

And, of course, Chris, who would wake up several times to his girlfriend getting out of bed - he usually followed her to see what she would do and to move dangerous objects out of her way -, or to sounds in their shared closet - she would pick up random clothes and act like she was in a GRWM -, or even with her standing in the middle of their room while talking to the air.

So, despite it being scary, it wasn't surprising to see Y/N standing there, staring into space, in the middle of the living room.

Chris shook his head as he let out a nasal laugh, passing Matt, who was next to him, and taking quick and silent steps towards his girlfriend.

"Hey baby. Let's go back to bed." He whispered, his voice barely noticeable. His hands lightly held Y/N's waist, ready to guide her down the stairs and back to their shared bedroom.

"Chris? This sounds like Chris." The girl responded with a tone equally low, her gaze blank but with a frown decorating it, her eyes still fixed on the windows.

"Yeah, it's Chris, baby." The boy murmured back, starting to take slow steps towards the stairs that went to their room, lightly pulling his girlfriend with him.

"Oh my God, do you know Chris? If he finds out another person is touching me, he'll be furious. He'll end you, you know?" Y/N whispered, frowning and trying to get out of Chris's weak grip, seeming to ignore the boy's previous response.

"Hey, no. He asked me to take you back to your room." Chris quickly intervened in her movements, quickly making up the excuse, feeling like an idiot for portraying himself in third person.

A laugh sounded in the background and Chris's eyes quickly traveled in the direction of the sound, finding Nick and Matt eating leftover food from the fridge, leaning on the table and looking at their interaction with amused looks. The boy rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore them.

"Oh, he did? Chris is so thoughtful, right? He's perfect, so sweet and kind to me." Y/N told it like it was a secret, finally following Chris's slow steps down the stairs.

"Oh yeah? Tell me more about him." The boy asked, a smirk appearing on his face as his cheeks turned slightly red. His hands firmly held Y/N's waist, preventing her from tripping or hitting the railing.

"He's so handsome. Oh, and he sings to me every day. He takes great care of me and gives me flowers every week! He combs my hair in the morning and makes my coffee just the way I like it." She was talking like a child who had been given a teddy bear, a smile adorning her face as she let herself descend the last few steps at the same speed as Chris.

Despite her enthusiasm and devotion to her words, her eyes remained unfocused and fixed on nothing.

The two finally arrived in front of the door to their shared room and Chris mentally thanked Y/N for letting it open when she left, not having to go through the trouble of reopening it for them.

"He seems really incredible." Chris's voice was wobbly with emotions, his previous smirk having been replaced by a big and truthful smile, as he felt his heart racing and his skin heat up. A sense of pride and love filling his body.

"He's the best, I really love Chris." She nodded, a proud smile on her face.

Chris kept her standing on his right side when they reached the bed, his arm around her waist keeping her still. He opened the duvet with his left hand, guiding her to lie down under it carefully, adjusting her head on the fluffy pillow and brushing her hair out of her face and neck, cradling her body like a burrito.

His hands quickly grabbed the teddy bears that were on the nightstand on her side of the bed - the ones he had gifted Y/N since the beginning of their relationship -, placing them around her body so that she wouldn't get up again or fall with any sudden movement.

The boy bent slightly over his girlfriend upper body, bringing his face closer to hers and exhaling the natural scent of her shampoo, sealing his lips on her forehead for a few seconds before moving away slightly.

"I'm sure he loves you even more." He whispered against Y/N's soft skin, watching as her eyes finally closed, and she completely succumbed to her dream world.

© vanteguccir

[otakudragones]

Kento Nanami

As a Boyfriend

• Nanami doesn’t fall in love easily, but once he does, he is serious, straightforward, and completely honest.

• His way of caring for you is practical: making sure you eat well, rest properly, and don’t overwork. Not because he’s boring, but because he knows what exhaustion feels like and he doesn’t want that for you.

• He prefers small, consistent gestures. A hot cup of coffee in the morning, a silent hand reaching for yours, a “Did you get home safe?” every night.

• He gets nervous with physical affection at first, but once he’s used to it, he becomes your anchor: long hugs, slow caresses, his head resting on your lap as he listens to you speak.

• He’s very observant. He notices when something’s bothering you, even if you don’t say it. And he stays with you until you’re okay, even if he doesn’t know exactly how to help.

Imagine:

You come home after a bad day. He doesn’t ask anything. He just takes off his tie, sits you on the couch, and puts a blanket over your shoulders. Then he sits beside you, saying nothing, and holds your hand. It’s all you need.

As a Husband

• He’s methodical, but affectionate. He has schedules, routines, and a very specific way of doing things… but he always makes space for you in all of it.

• He makes breakfast every morning. Not because he has to, but because he loves seeing you smile at the first bite.

• Fights are rare, because he prefers to talk things through calmly. Still, he never underestimates your feelings. He always listens.

• He calls you “my love” naturally. Sometimes it sounds so formal, so him, that it gives you butterflies like the very first time.

• He firmly believes in respect, commitment, and true companionship. He doesn’t want a perfect story—just a life with you.

Imagine:

You’re lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He walks in, lies down beside you, and asks, “Would you like to take a vacation?”

He doesn’t say it because he’s tired… he says it because he’s noticed you are. And he wants to gift you a break.

As a Father

• Nanami is the kind of dad who reads parenting articles and keeps a personal mini-library of illustrated books.

• He fears the world—not for himself, but for his child. That’s why he teaches them early that being strong isn’t the same as being cold.

• He loves reading bedtime stories, especially if he can do different voices (even if it’s hard for him).

• He has a photo album organized by months. He also keeps every drawing, letter, and memory.

• If his child stumbles or falls, he doesn’t rush to pick them up… but he does kneel beside them, asks if they’re okay, and says, “I’m here. Try again.”

In general, a relationship with Nanami is...

• Like a warm cup of tea on a cloudy day. Calm, safe, sincere.

• He looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing in his life. Not as an unreachable ideal, but as someone real, human, whom he loves even on their hardest days.

• With him, you learn that love doesn’t have to be a storm. It can be a refuge. A routine made of tenderness.

• He never takes you for granted. He’s always grateful to have you. He always chooses to stay.

Mini One-Shot: “Shared Time”

Nanami comes home later than usual. Work, as always, has taken more from him than it should.

But there you are. In the kitchen, with soft music in the background, making something simple.

He sets down his briefcase, takes off his shoes, and walks over. He leans his forehead on your shoulder, quietly.

—“Sorry I’m late,” he murmurs.

—“You don’t need to apologize,” you reply, taking his hand.

He smiles, tired but thankful.

—“Do you mind if I just… stay here for a moment?”

You nod, and he hugs you.

In that moment, the world stops. There’s only the two of you. The shared warmth. The silence full of love.

Traducción

Como novio

• Nanami no se enamora fácilmente, pero una vez lo hace, es serio, directo y completamente sincero.

• Su forma de cuidarte es práctica: asegurarse de que comas bien, que descanses, que no trabajes de más. No porque sea aburrido, sino porque sabe lo que significa estar agotado y no quiere eso para ti.

• Prefiere los gestos pequeños pero constantes. Un café caliente por la mañana, una mano que se extiende hacia la tuya en silencio, un “¿llegaste bien?” cada noche.

• Se pone nervioso con el contacto físico al principio, pero una vez se acostumbra, se convierte en tu ancla: abrazos largos, caricias lentas, la cabeza apoyada en tu regazo mientras te escucha hablar.

• Es muy observador. Nota cuando algo te preocupa incluso si no lo dices. Y se queda contigo hasta que estés bien, aunque no sepa exactamente cómo ayudarte.

Imagina:

Llegas a casa después de un mal día. Él no pregunta nada. Solo se quita la corbata, te sienta en el sofá, y te pone una manta sobre los hombros. Luego se sienta a tu lado, sin decir una palabra, y te toma la mano. Es todo lo que necesitas.

Como esposo

• Es metódico, pero cariñoso. Tiene horarios, rutinas y una manera muy particular de hacer las cosas… pero siempre deja espacio para ti en todo.

• Hace el desayuno cada mañana. No porque tenga que hacerlo, sino porque le gusta verte sonreír con el primer bocado.

• Las peleas son raras, porque prefiere resolver las cosas conversando con calma. Aun así, nunca subestima tus emociones. Siempre te escucha.

• Te llama “mi amor” de forma natural. A veces suena tan formal, tan suyo, que te da mariposas como la primera vez.

• Cree firmemente en el respeto, el compromiso, y la compañía real. No quiere una historia perfecta, solo una vida contigo.

Imagina:

Estás acostado en la cama, mirando el techo. Él entra, se recuesta a tu lado, y te pregunta: “¿Te gustaría que nos tomáramos unas vacaciones?”

No lo dice porque esté cansado… lo dice porque ha notado que tú lo estás. Y quiere regalarte un respiro.

Como padre

• Nanami es el tipo de padre que lee artículos sobre crianza y guarda libros ilustrados en una pequeña biblioteca personal.

• Le teme al mundo, pero no por sí mismo: por su hijo. Por eso le enseña desde pequeño que ser fuerte no es lo mismo que ser frío.

• Le encanta leer cuentos antes de dormir, especialmente si puede hacer voces diferentes (aunque le cuesta).

• Tiene un álbum de fotos organizado por meses. También guarda cada dibujo, cada carta, cada recuerdo.

• Si su hijo tropieza o se cae, no corre a levantarlo… pero sí se arrodilla a su lado, le pregunta si está bien, y le dice: “Estoy aquí. Inténtalo otra vez.”

En general, una relación con Nanami es…

• Como una taza de té caliente en un día nublado. Tranquila, segura, sincera.

• Te mira como si fueras lo más valioso de su vida. No como un ideal inalcanzable, sino como alguien real, humano, a quien ama incluso en sus días más difíciles.

• A su lado, aprendes que el amor no tiene que ser una tormenta. Puede ser un refugio. Puede ser una rutina hecha de ternura.

• Nunca te da por sentado. Siempre agradece tenerte. Siempre elige quedarse.

Mini One-Shot: “Tiempo compartido”

Nanami llega a casa más tarde de lo habitual. El trabajo, como siempre, le ha exigido más de lo que debería.

Pero ahí estás tú. En la cocina, con música suave de fondo, preparando algo sencillo.

Él deja el maletín, se quita los zapatos, y se acerca por detrás. Apoya la frente en tu hombro, en silencio.

—Perdón por llegar tarde —murmura.

—No tienes que disculparte —respondes, mientras le tomas la mano.

Él sonríe, cansado pero agradecido.

—¿Te importa si solo... me quedo aquí un momento.

Tú asientes, y él te abraza.

En ese instante, el mundo se detiene. Solo quedan ustedes dos. El calor compartido. El silencio lleno de amor.

[glowettee]

Hi Mindy! I’m a college student and I’m struggling to go to bed at a decent hour (think 3 am bedtimes every day) because of the amount of homework I have. Do you have any tips for time management so I can figure out how to get my homework done all during the day so I’m not losing sleep? (Any app recommendations or suggestions on how to schedule my day would be greatly appreciated). Thank you so much! I love your blog and I love seeing your posts🩷

how to get your life together & actually sleep: time management tips for college✨

hi love! 💌 first off, thank you so much for your sweet words. they genuinely made me smile. i’m so proud of you for wanting to improve your time management and prioritize your sleep (honestly, sleep is like the ultimate self-care, and you deserve it). i know college can feel like a whirlwind of assignments, deadlines, and just… life. staying up until 3 am is no joke, and it’s amazing that you’re ready to make a change. let’s make your routine feel a little more manageable and a lot more magical.

☁️ romanticize your productivity: first thing’s first: mindset. instead of viewing homework as this scary, endless task that eats up your nights, try to romanticize it. create a cozy study ritual. light a candle, make a cute study playlist (ex: lo-fi mixed with soft acoustics), and set up your space in a way that makes you actually want to sit down and work. i know it sounds silly, but giving your study sessions a soft, aesthetic vibe can make them feel less like a chore and more like a peaceful little routine. i have a lot of posts talking about this

🌙 break down your workload: sometimes it’s not about how much work you have but how it’s organized. take a few minutes in the morning or the night before to make a list of what you actually need to accomplish. break it down into small, bite-sized tasks. for example, instead of “study for chem exam,” write down “review chapter 4 notes,” “do practice problems,” and “make flashcards for key concepts.” checking off small tasks feels way more rewarding than staring at a big, vague to-do.

💡 create a time-blocking ritual: i’m obsessed with time-blocking because it feels like giving each task its own little home. instead of doing everything all at once (which is just chaos), dedicate specific chunks of time to each task. for instance:

🌼 9-10 am: review lecture notes

✨ 10-11:30 am: work on that essay (no distractions)

🍓 11:30-12: take a break, stretch, grab a snack

💻 12-1: group project research set timers to keep yourself accountable. i use the “focus keeper” app for 25-minute work sessions with 5-minute breaks. it’s surprisingly motivating!

📅 the magic of reverse scheduling: if you know you want to be in bed by, say, 11 pm, plan your day backwards from there. schedule your evening wind-down routine (like skincare, a little journaling, and tea) and work your way back through the hours, assigning tasks in reverse. this way, you’re prioritizing sleep as non-negotiable and shaping your day to respect that.

✨ my fave apps for dreamy productivity:

notion: perfect for creating aesthetic, organized to-do lists, study schedules, and even journaling about your progress.

flora: turns studying into a game by planting a virtual tree while you focus. if you leave the app, the tree dies (no pressure, right?).

toggl: tracks your time so you can see how long tasks actually take. it’s eye-opening to realize you might be spending way more time scrolling than studying.

clockify: like a little personal assistant that tracks your study sessions and breaks. it’s simple and kind of addicting to see how productive you’ve been.

habitica: makes productivity feel like an RPG game. complete with character upgrades when you check things off. honestly, it’s too cute to resist.

💖 mindy’s personal tips:

📝 batch similar tasks: do all your note-taking at once, then all your problem-solving. your brain doesn’t have to keep switching gears.

🎯 use the “two-minute rule”: if something takes less than two minutes, do it right away (like replying to emails or organizing your notes).

🕰️ the 1-3-5 rule: pick one big task, three medium tasks, and five small ones to accomplish each day. it keeps your to-do list from being overwhelming.

✨ romanticize rest too: treat your sleep as sacred. create a pre-bed routine that you actually look forward to, like reading a few pages of a lighthearted book or doing a little night yoga.

🌸 don't forget how important 'no' is: sometimes, we overcommit because we’re too nice to say no. it’s okay to protect your time! practice polite ways to decline extra responsibilities when you know they’ll eat into your sleep. like, “i’d love to help, but i have to focus on my assignments tonight. let’s plan something for the weekend!”

🌙 gentle evening wind-down: your body needs time to transition from productivity mode to sleep mode. about an hour before bed, turn off your screens, dim the lights, and switch to calming activities. i like using the “calm” app for guided meditations that feel like little bedtime stories.

🌱 become a morning person (yes, it’s possible)

one trick that really works is having something to look forward to. think of a tiny, indulgent ritual that you save just for mornings. maybe it’s a frothy matcha latte with vanilla syrup, journaling in a pretty notebook, or listening to your favorite podcast while you stretch. the key is to make mornings feel like a gift to yourself rather than just the start of a grind.

set your alarm to a song that makes you feel good!! something soft and happy. bonus points if it’s different from your usual playlist because it’ll feel special. place your phone across the room so you have to physically get up to turn it off. i also love using the “alarmy” app because it makes you solve a simple puzzle before it stops ringing (annoying, but effective).

once you’re up, avoid falling back into bed by making your bed immediately. it’s like telling your brain, “we’re up now. no going back.” then, try a quick, gentle morning stretch to wake your body up without feeling rushed. mornings can actually feel soft and peaceful if you give yourself permission to take it slow.

as for getting enough sleep the night before. make it non-negotiable. treat your bedtime like an important meeting you can’t cancel. remind yourself that a well-rested mind works way better than a sleep-deprived one. it’s all about romanticizing rest as part of your productivity rather than seeing it as wasted time.

give it a week, and see how you feel. even a small shift, like waking up 30 minutes earlier, can make your day feel more spacious and less chaotic. being a morning person is just about creating tiny habits that make mornings feel like a calm beginning rather than a rushed scramble.

🌸 micro productivity okay, let’s be real... sometimes the idea of sitting down for a three-hour study session feels completely overwhelming. that’s where micro productivity comes in. instead of blocking out huge chunks of time, break your tasks into mini-sprints that fit into the small gaps of your day.

for example, while waiting for your coffee to brew, you could make a quick list of your priorities for the day. during your commute or while you’re eating lunch, review your flashcards or skim your notes. those little moments add up, and suddenly your workload doesn’t feel as intense because you’ve been chipping away at it throughout the day.

one of my favorite apps for this is “quizlet.” you can make digital flashcards and quickly review them whenever you have a spare moment. or use “ankidroid” for spaced repetition. it’s great for subjects that require lots of memorization.

another trick? the “two-minute rule.” if a task takes less than two minutes, do it immediately rather than adding it to your to-do list. this helps clear out small, annoying tasks that tend to pile up (like replying to emails or organizing your desktop).

i also love the idea of micro journaling. sometimes, when you’re overwhelmed, writing down just one thought or feeling can give your brain the clarity it craves. it doesn’t have to be a full journal entry, just a few words that capture your mood or intention.

don’t underestimate the function of small wins. every tiny task you complete builds momentum and makes the bigger assignments feel more doable. it’s like telling yourself, “i’m already being productive today. let’s keep that energy going.”

the goal is to make productivity feel more like a series of little achievements rather than one massive to-do list. micro productivity helps you stay on top of things without burning out, and it feels way more manageable when your schedule is packed.

💫 stay motivated when your energy is low we’ve all been there. those days when your brain feels like it’s wrapped in a fog, and the idea of tackling your to-do list feels impossible. it’s okay to have low-energy days, but let’s find a way to work with them instead of against them.

first, check in with yourself. is your low energy from lack of sleep, stress, or just general burnout? sometimes just identifying the reason helps you figure out what kind of self-care you need. if you’re physically tired, maybe your focus should be on rest or low-effort tasks. if it’s more mental fatigue, try switching up your study space or doing something creative to break the monotony.

use the idea of “productive rest.” sometimes, resting doesn’t mean doing nothing. it can be as simple as switching tasks to something lighter, like organizing your notes or doing some gentle stretching while listening to a podcast related to your coursework. this way, you’re still moving forward, just at a gentler pace.

set up a reward system to motivate yourself. for example, after 20 minutes of studying, give yourself a 5-minute break to scroll through pinterest or listen to a song you love. use apps like “forest” to stay focused during your work session and then celebrate with a cute coffee break when your tree grows.

also, be kind to yourself. it’s okay if you’re not operating at 100% all the time. instead of pushing yourself to be overly productive, prioritize what actually needs to get done. sometimes, just getting one important task out of the way is enough for the day, and that’s completely valid.

remember, your energy levels fluctuate, and that’s perfectly normal. don’t pressure yourself to be endlessly productive. balance is key. the goal is sustainable productivity, not burning out from trying to do everything at once. listen to your body, adjust your pace, and know that it’s okay to take breaks when you need them.

💫 final thoughts: it’s all about balance, being productive during the day is great, but you’re human. you can’t be on 24/7. give yourself grace when things don’t go perfectly. the goal isn’t perfection; it’s progress. prioritize rest as much as you prioritize getting things done, and your mind (and grades) will thank you.

xoxo mindy

[cultven]

can i get a Deadpool x reader x wolverine where reader is making them watch asmr with them at bedtime :3

🍒

ASMR Cuddles

Deadpool X Reader X Wolverine

Content: Some cursing, Wade being a yapper as always, Grumpy Logan, Fluff, Cuddles, Slime!!, Small Blind Al content

Word Count: 827

Warnings: None

a/n: This request was just too funny not to write, just thinking about these two men and their different reactions. Wrote this super fast on a whim so hopefully it's ok! Short and sweet :)

“Hurry!” You whined, getting all cozy. This has become a daily routine with the three of you, you get comfy in bed while the other two men stall sleeping. Little did other people know, Wade and Logan were huge insomniacs. Perhaps it came with the profession of being a superhero, you didn’t know, but you were determined to help soothe their minds into sleep. The first tactic that came to your mind? Asmr. 

You had the perfect setup. Bunches of pillows to support your heads and backs into a half-sitting position, mountains of blankets to keep you all warm and comfortable, and finally your laptop at full charge ready to go. Now all you needed was your eccentric and grumpy boys. “Wade hurry up!” You groaned as Logan stepped into the room, finally in his sleeping clothes. 

“Hold on baby girl, I’m doing my skincare routine!” Wade yelled from the other side of the apartment. 

“Why? It’s obviously not doing anything for you.” Logan retorted with a smile as you playfully hit his arm. He just grinned wider at your scolding as you heard one more knock on the walls. 

“Keep it down, fuckers! Some people in this place like to sleep!” Blind Al shouted from her room, which was only a few thin walls away. 

“Sorry, Al!” You apologized, sending Logan a look to shut it. He only rolled his eyes as he crawled into bed next to you, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders. As he got himself comfortable, Wade burst through the door with a smile, two shirts in hand. 

“Ok, be honest. Which shirt is more ASMR-y? Pink with rainbows,” He held up a hot pink t-shirt to his chest. “Or, yellow with the X-men logo?” Wade’s arm lifted the other shirt, which was just some old X-men merch he stole from Colossus not too long ago. 

“Asshole it doesn’t matter, let's go.” Logan groaned, blankly looking at the two options. 

“I like the pink Wade.” You said with a smile, watching him put the shirt on and patting the seat next to you. Finally, the three of you get comfortable, Wade on your left and Logan on the right. With the way you three were situated, it almost felt like a puzzle. 

“So, what do you want us to watch exactly?” Logan questions, eyeing the videos you’re scrolling past. 

“It’s videos that make funny noises! They’re supposed to relax you and help you sleep. It even makes some people tingle.” You respond, smiling a bit at the man before resuming your search for the perfect video. 

“What kind of tingles exactly?” Wade smirked at your side. Before he could wait for an answer he hastily pointed at a video on your laptop. “Oh! Let’s do that one! Slime.” Sure enough, that was the video you put on. Within the first two minutes, Wade was completely enthralled, commenting on every little thing. 

“What kind of slime is that?”

“Fluffy, dear.”

“How does it sound so delicious?”

“Beads!”

“Where can I find the things to buy this?”

While Wade was now distracted on Amazon buying the various ingredients for slime, Logan was not so impressed. You could tell the only reason he was currently staying in bed was for the free cuddles. The slime clearly was not of his taste. 

“Logan, do you want to try a different video?” You offered, determined to make the man sleepy through ASMR at any cost. Slime probably wasn’t the best fit for sleep time, not only because of Logan’s disinterest but it only seemed to rile up Wade more as he was currently talking your ear off about all the things he bought for his upcoming slime creations. 

“Eh, no offense bub, but I don’t think any of these videos are gonna do it for me.” You felt bad, you needed to find something that would soothe Logan, and you knew just the genre. 

“How about some general tapping ASMR?” You hastily typed the words into YouTube, much to Wade’s dismay. You found the perfect video, turning up the volume ever so slightly and allowing the ASMR to do its thing. Five minutes into the video you felt sleepy yourself, before realizing that the last few minutes have been in complete silence, which was strange when you lived with Wade Wilson. Turning to both your sides you see Wade completely asleep and Logan fighting for his consciousness. 

“This one good, bub’?” You whisper to Logan, teasing him slightly. 

With your words knocking him out of his trance, all Logan could think to say was, “Shut up.” Before returning to the video, his arm still wrapped around you. Within ten minutes the three of you were out cold, a mess of limbs all sewn together with soft tapping in the background. For the first time in years, Wade and Logan were able to get a good night's sleep and all it required was some cuddles and ASMR. 

[andy-15-07]

Love in the Chaos

pairing: Aaron Taylor Johnson x female!reader

word count: 1155 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist

"Y/n, have you seen my blue shirt?" Aaron called from the bedroom, his voice slightly muffled.

"I think it's in the laundry basket, love," you replied from the kitchen, where you were meticulously arranging a charcuterie board. Tonight was date night, a rare and precious occasion for you and Aaron. After months of juggling work, school runs, and the whirlwind of raising two young children, you were finally escaping for a few hours. Your parents had graciously offered to babysit, and you were determined to make the most of it.

"Ah, you're right," Aaron reappeared, the blue shirt now in hand. He grinned at you, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "You know, sometimes I think you have a secret organization system for all our belongings."

You chuckled, "If only! It’s more like controlled chaos." You glanced at the clock. "Kids are finally down, right?"

"Sleeping like little angels," Aaron confirmed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a gentle hug. "They were surprisingly easy tonight. Maybe they sensed our desperation for freedom."

"Let's hope it stays that way," you said, leaning into his embrace. "I’d hate for Grandma and Grandpa to have a wrestling match at bedtime."

"Speaking of which," Aaron said, releasing you and grabbing his wallet from the dresser, "I should probably run to the store and grab that bottle of wine we talked about. Red, right?"

"Perfect," you replied, gesturing to the charcuterie board. "And maybe some fancy cheese. The kids won't appreciate it, so we can indulge."

"Consider it done," Aaron said, giving you a quick kiss before heading out the door.

You surveyed the kitchen, a smile playing on your lips. The babysitter was coming in an hour, giving you just enough time to get ready without rushing. You finished arranging the charcuterie board, adding a few sprigs of rosemary for a touch of elegance. Then, you headed upstairs to get ready.

As you were changing, your phone buzzed. It was a text from Aaron: "Found the perfect wine. And I may have also picked up some dark chocolate. Just sayin'..."

You smiled, replying with a string of heart emojis. He knew you so well. A quiet evening with good food, good wine, and even better company was your idea of heaven.

A little while later, Aaron returned, a bottle of wine and a bag of groceries in hand. "I also grabbed some flowers," he announced, presenting a small bouquet of vibrant lilies.

"They're beautiful," you said, taking the flowers and inhaling their sweet fragrance. "Thank you."

"You deserve them," Aaron said softly, his eyes filled with affection. "You deserve a night off."

The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of the babysitter. Your parents came in, beaming and ready for their mission. After a quick briefing about bedtime routines and emergency contacts, you and Aaron were finally out the door, hand in hand.

"Where are we going?" you asked as Aaron led you to his car.

"It's a surprise," he said with a wink. "But I promise you'll love it."

He drove for about twenty minutes, taking you to a charming little Italian restaurant tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. The restaurant was dimly lit, with cozy tables and the soft murmur of conversation filling the air. It was the perfect setting for a romantic date night.

"This place looks amazing," you said as you were shown to your table.

"I knew you'd like it," Aaron replied, pulling out your chair.

You settled into your seats, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. It was so nice to be out, just the two of you, without the constant demands of parenthood.

"So," Aaron said, after you'd ordered drinks, "what have you been up to lately? Besides being a supermom, of course."

You laughed, "Well, work has been crazy busy. But I finally finished that big project I was telling you about."

"That's fantastic!" Aaron exclaimed, raising his glass. "To your success!"

You clinked glasses and took a sip of your wine. The conversation flowed easily, as it always did between you and Aaron. You talked about work, your kids, your dreams for the future. You laughed, you reminisced, and you simply enjoyed each other's company.

As the evening progressed, the conversation turned more personal.

"You know," Aaron said, his voice softening, "I don't tell you this enough, but I'm so grateful for you. You're an incredible mother, an amazing partner, and my best friend."

Your heart swelled with warmth. "Thank you, Aaron," you replied, your voice thick with emotion. "I feel the same way about you. You're my rock, my support system, and the love of my life."

He reached across the table and took your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I love you, Y/n," he said, his eyes locking with yours.

"I love you too, Aaron," you whispered back.

For a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, connected by an invisible thread of love and understanding.

After dinner, Aaron surprised you with a walk along the riverbank. The moon was full, casting a silvery glow on the water. You strolled hand in hand, enjoying the peacefulness of the night.

"This is perfect," you said, leaning your head on Aaron's shoulder.

"It is," he agreed. "Just like you."

You smiled, feeling completely content. This was exactly what you needed – a night to reconnect, to recharge, to remember why you fell in love in the first place.

As you walked back to the car, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt about leaving the kids. But then you remembered something Aaron had said earlier: "Happy parents, happy kids." You knew that taking time for yourselves was essential for the health and well-being of your family.

When you arrived home, your parents were waiting for you, both kids fast asleep.

"They were perfect angels," your mom said with a smile.

"Thank you so much for watching them," you said, feeling a wave of gratitude.

"Anytime," your dad replied. "You two deserve a night out."

After your parents left, you and Aaron went upstairs, careful not to wake the kids. You changed into your pajamas and snuggled into bed, feeling tired but happy.

"Tonight was amazing," you said, turning to face Aaron.

"It was," he agreed, kissing you softly on the lips. "We should do it more often."

"Definitely," you said, closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep, feeling loved and cherished.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of your kids giggling downstairs. You and Aaron exchanged a look, a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. The date night was over, and it was back to reality. But you both knew that the memories of the evening would stay with you, a reminder of the love and connection that bound you together. And that, you realized, was more valuable than anything.

[lrithill]

PASSENGER SEAT PRINCESS

Greetings to all the clowns of the second circle!

It is both my honor and my pleasure to offer you this new installment. This might just be the fanfic I've had the most fun writing, the one that made me the wettest, and the one that broke me the hardest… and the best part? It’s a REQUEST!!!

Wow… I truly have the best readers, because this idea never crossed my mind—AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY. So, huge thanks to @partycityshowgirlfreak for trusting me and handing me this story like a loaded gun.

This is also a warning—a warning that any request you send me might be transformed into a full-blown work of art, because I don’t let go of a story until I’ve squeezed every last drop out of it… every last drop of blood and cum HAHAHA.

Also, a special thanks to @artstomfoolery, my primary gif dealer😂 . I could spend hours searching through Tumblr for that one specific gif—and it’s just NOT THERE, impossible to find. But then she swoops in and BAM, like magic—as fast as Art grabs the salt and bleach—, she sends me exactly what I need. Seriously, if you haven’t already, go check out her blog and follow her. She makes insane edits and videos, and her talent is the kind I can only dream of (we need to make a fic trailer one day 🤫 HAHAHA).

Now that the thank-yous are done… let’s get to the good stuff.

🖤Synopsis:

You and Art, after a night of unhinged slaughter, need an escape route before daylight hits. You need a car—but cars come with drivers, don’t they?

🚨 Warnings:

Unintentional voyeurism, humiliation, violence, and my general hatred for warnings because I feel like they’re spoilers… So let’s just say: A lot of sex, a lot cruelty, a lot of fun and a lot of blood, and all of it Art-style, which means a guaranteed thrill . Woohoo!

📊 Word count:

10,000 words (there were simply too many things for Art to play with)

You needed a car.

Urgently.

The sun was barely grazing the horizon, the night still reeked of gunpowder and scorched flesh, you were dragging a decent body count behind you—and it wouldn’t take long for the cops to start sniffing around.

In the distance—shining like a promise—stood the best place to find a ride: A gas station.

Bingo.

It wasn’t even 7 a.m.—the place was deserted, wrapped in that artificial silence and half-dead lighting. Still, odds were some idiot working the night shift was fueling up before heading back to their miserable little life.

Jackpot.

Next to one of the pumps, a big family car stretched lazily under the flickering yellow lights. A “Baby on Board” sticker decorated the trunk, along with some doodles that screamed “big happy family.”

The kind of car that smells like routine, bedtime prayers, and Thursday dinners with the in-laws.

You glance at Art—he’s already locked onto the target. Judgment has been passed.

You’re both soaked in blood. His clown suit isn’t black and white anymore—it’s black and red. A crimson trail stains the pavement behind you as you approach like wolves—soundless and certain.

You need the keys.

And there he is—your ticket. The driver, still inside the car, gently bobbing his shoulders to some soft blues tune—something mellow and catchy, the perfect soundtrack for a crime at dawn—utterly unaware of the evil creeping up on him.

Art looks at you, eyes gleaming—he gives you a light shove, lips curled in that twisted grin of his.

“Put on that pretty sad face of yours,” his mischievous look says—cruel.

You smile… you already know what to do.

CRACK.

You collapse right in front of the driver’s window, like a horror movie final girl—dried blood on your legs, torn clothes, perfectly timed gasps...

“Help… please…” you whimper. “I had an accident… I think my leg’s broken…”

The driver sees you—and freezes. His blood runs cold, his heart skips a beat—his face shifts, tightens, switches into action mode.

“Jesus! Hang in there!” he shouts, flinging the door open to help you.

You laugh on the inside. These idiots see a damsel in distress and immediately think they’re the hero of the story—they have no idea what kind of menace they’re dealing with...

You writhe on the ground—groaning, panting—, clutching your leg like it’s about to fall off in pieces.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” he says, pulling out his phone with trembling fingers.

He fumbles through his apps. Can’t find the dial pad—his pulse is betraying him.

And you already see Art approaching from the side—a shadow with teeth. But then, an idea slithers into your mind—a wicked one—so you shoot Art a look that says: ‘Not yet.’

“Wait,” you murmur.

He pauses, confused.

“I can’t see anything… can you turn on your flashlight for a second? I want to see the face of my hero before I pass out…” you whisper, sweet and soft like honey.

The guy blinks, visibly shaken, might even be smiling a little—and obeys. So well-mannered.

The flashlight clicks on—a white beam cuts across his face. He looks up, searching for your angelic face… but what he finds is something else entirely.

Nothing he could’ve prepared for: First, eyes—unblinking, wide, inhuman. Then the smile—two rows of jagged teeth, bloodstained and hungry. And then, hands like claws, snapping around his throat with the precision of a bear trap.

“Shame… I’ve always preferred villains,” you purr, lips pouting as you watch him choke.

You sit up slowly, unbothered, watching as Art strangles the man—his hands working with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. The poor bastard kicks a little, but he doesn’t stand a chance—Art knocks him out in seconds.

Silence.

Only the soft murmur of blues music hums from the speakers—a cheerful little tune playing as the man slips out of consciousness.

Art fishes the keys from his pocket—there’s a keychain that reads “Cool Dad”—then grabs his phone, still buzzing with incoming messages.

“Perfect, darling. Let’s leave him here, we’ve got our ride home,” you say, letting out a satisfied sigh.

But Art doesn’t move. He’s somewhere else—lost in thought.

He leans into his bag and… is that duct tape?

You raise an eyebrow.

“Oh… I get it”

You wanted a getaway.

Art… wants a guest.

“Looks like he won’t be walking out of this… don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him” you giggle, and Art’s eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning.

—

RAAAHH.

Duct tape.

Hands bound behind the back.

Mouth sealed shut.

Knees tight together.

Ankles locked.

Torso disabled.

The only things left working: Eyes and ears—and you want them wide open.

Art—ever the gentleman—opens the passenger door for you with a theatrical bow. He slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting his blood-soaked suit like he owns the car. Grinning from ear to ear—so smug, so sure of himself—he checks his reflection in the mirror—the most illegal thing he’s done today? Being this fucking hot.

In the back seat, your new companion is starting to wake up. He stirs clumsily—bangs his head against the window—, trying to make noise, desperate to catch someone’s eye, to call out to a world that hasn’t woken up yet.

Art laughs—a sharp slap lands on his own thigh—, delighted by the uselessness of his struggle. He even has the courtesy to turn the music up—that dirty, sultry blues swallows the thuds and grunts, turning them into part of the rhythm.

The man stares—that stare: panic, defenseless, confusion. He has no idea how this happened, or why, or what’s about to happen to him. But he’s starting to understand that he’s trapped in a play he never auditioned for—and the two maniacs in front are the directors.

Art feels those eyes on the back of his head; and without turning around, he calmly adjusts the rearview mirror—until his gaze locks with the hostage’s.

And he winks—his tongue sliding over his teeth, his grin curling like a promise… a filthy one.

“You’re so bad,” you murmur, watching him do it—fully aware of the things that turn your psycho boyfriend on.

Art tilts his head toward you—amused. He bites his lower lip, eyebrows bouncing twice—a swirl of vicious thoughts brewing behind those eyes.

“I’m just getting started,” his look says.

And you know exactly what that means.

You start poking around the car.

A pine-scented air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror—the unmistakable stench of middle class.

You open the glove compartment. A photo: a smiling family at a water park. The dad—your passenger—and his wife hugging two little kids with duck floaties.

There’s also a canvas bag hanging off the passenger seat.

A crumpled grocery list.

Whole wheat bread, baby wipes, organic yogurt.

A forgotten parking ticket.

Art takes mental notes of the important things, of course—the night is young.

His eyes roam the dashboard, with restrained hunger gleaming in them—the car hasn’t shown him everything it’s capable of yet. He’s curious about the motor, he wants to hear it roar—he wants it to purr for him.

He slides the key in with intention—precise and firm.

BRRRUMMMMM.

That metallic growl pulls a smile from him. The car jerks and vibrates under his touch—obedient, like a beast under its handler.

And you… you feel it.

The hum of the engine crawls up your legs, coils in your pelvis. The vibrations buzz at your core—and your clit throbs, swelling from the involuntary friction. Your lip catches between your teeth, and your hips shifts in the seat before you realize it—just slightly… just enough.

He knows—of course he knows.

He wanted this—to warm up the engine, under the hood… and between your legs.

It’s getting to him too—not just you. He’s already picturing it: you trembling on top of him, the car growling beneath his cock, vibrating inside you with every thrust—like his body’s synced to the same pulse, throbbing with it.

He can feel it building—an undeniable erection is beginning to press against his pants—, shifting and swelling under the fabric as it takes shape.

“What’s the plan, baby?” you ask, biting your lips—your voice thick with smoke and want.

Art doesn’t answer with words—he simply raises a hand—elegant, dismissive… brushing your question aside like it’s nothing.

He’s telling you there’s no rush—just relax…

There’s so much to do… and he wants to savor every fucking second.

Art locks eyes with the rearview mirror again. The hostage is panting, his forehead pressed against the glass like he’s still trying to convince himself this is all just a nightmare—he looks like a rabbit cornered in a burrow with no way out.

Art stares at him—speaking volumes without a single word.

He can already taste it: the fear, the eroticism, the humiliation, the sex, the cruelty, the climax…

A full-course meal.

Then he looks at you: torn clothes, skin smeared with blood and sin—you look beautiful.

He wants you naked. Now.

But he won’t push—he’s not a brute.

He wants you to undress for him—wants the guy in the back to witness what it’s like to be craved like this—to see what it does to a woman, needing him like this.

So he lifts a hand—easy, unbothered, lazy—and presses a button.

Click.

The heater kicks in with a low hum… warm air starts filling the car, wrapping around you like an invisible tongue. The engine’s purr still buzzes beneath your thighs—deep inside you.

He smiles—a satisfied smile—like a magician pulling off a perfect trick. Without laying one finger on you, he already has you blushing, squirming, breathless, aching for him.

You know it.

He knows it.

And the hostage is starting to catch on too…

Your body grows sticky beneath the damp fabric. Every thread against your skin is torture—you need to get it off, you need to move, you need—

Art doesn’t even look at you. He’s still staring into the mirror—still wearing that smile.

Waiting.

And he does it—he reclines his seat slightly, spreads his legs, and folds his arms behind his head—clearly putting himself on disply… just so you’ll notice the erection straining against his pants—begging for your attention, impossible to ignore…

He’s sending you a message—saying everything without a single word… and you’re practically drooling at the thought.

“Strip for me—do it slow, do it sexy. Do it while he watches—I want him to see you… but only that. Fuck me.”

You nod, breath quickening. Your fingers glide across your torso—trembling from anticipation—over the dried blood, the torn fabric, as you begin to undo what’s left of your clothes.

Not for comfort.

Not because of the heat.

For him.

Because you want to show him just how obedient you are—and how feral when he lets you.

To both of them.

Art’s pupils twitch in their sockets—tracking your every move—, hunger burning behind his eyes as you begin to undress—you unbutton your shirt, slipping it off your shoulders to reveal a black-and-white lace bra (his favourite), your fingers reach for the zipper of your skirt...

But he stops you there. He doesn’t want you completely naked—not yet.

Your gaze flicks down to his hand on your zipper… then climbs back up to his eyes—so close, and still out of reach.

You see him bite down on his tongue, and he swallows hard—his Adam’s apple bobbing, the tension thick in his throat.

Touching you is the point of no return.

His hands move to your thighs—slow and deliberate—drawn to the fire he’s been stoking. His breath grows heavy—warm fog curling in the air between you. He feels how hard he’s getting, his arousal straining tight against his pants—an obscene bulge; twitching and dripping like a caged animal.

His hand moves upward, sliding along your thigh—he knows you’re melting beneath his touch—his fingers trace the edge of your skirt… and then slip beneath it, slowly—like a serpent.

You let out a soft sigh when you feel his cold fingers against your bare skin.

His fingers barely brush against your panties—right where you're burning, where you need him the most—and he feels the slick warmth of your arousal soaking through the fabric.

That jagged grin spreads across his lips like a wound.

Look what I do to you. thoughts swirl in his head as he brushes the moisture.

You let out a soft moan at that first touch, legs parting involuntarily—your body pleading for him to keep going—to explore you, enjoy you, lose himself in you…

Anything… but stopping.

His cold fingers move slowly over your clit, teasing it—making you tremble with that cruel kind of pressure—punishing you for wanting.

You can feel yourself dripping, your pussy opening for him like a sick flower.

Your head falls back, eyes fluttering closed, lost in the heat and the ache. You keep your legs spread perfectly wide for him—there’s no use pretending you have any dignity left.

You’re his.

“Art…” you whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to say his name.

But Art isn't looking at you—he’s watching the hostage through the rearview mirror. The victim stares back—wide-eyed, mouth sealed, face twisted in confusion, fear… and maybe something else?

And you feel it: the heat, the trembling, the need… Just his hand—just that—and you’re already soaked.

You need more.

Art slips his fingers under the band of your lingerie—finally breaching that thin, delicate barrier—and this time he goes for your wet entrance.

Two fingers ease into you, meeting no resistance.… and he starts fucking you with them—deep, firm—, those long, thick fingers that reach places you can never reach on your own.

How can hands so violent bring this much pleasure?

“Yes… yes…” you breathe, eyes shut, unraveling in his palm.

He finds your G-spot and presses—makes that motion, the one that drives you wild. He massages it in sweet circles, stroking it, pressing rhythmically,… the way he knows you crave.

“God… God… God…” you moan, each word a gasp timed with his thrusts.

Without thinking—driven purely by instinct—your hand slides to Art’s abdomen. You caress him, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles through the soaked fabric of his suit.

Art lets out his first sigh—needy for your touch, but still patient.

Your hands trail down his body—calm and deliberate. The heat from the car is making the dried blood liquefy again, coating your fingers like a sticky kind of lubricant.

Art tries to hold back… but he can’t.

In a sudden movement, he grabs your hand and drags it down—pressing it against his cock, still trapped behind fabric. His much larger hand wraps around yours, forcing your fingers to tighten around his aching manhood—right where he wants them.

He guides your hand up and down—dictating the rhythm—then releases you, letting you take control and stroke him on your own—just the way he likes it, feeling the weight of his need in your palm.

You work your hand along his cock, adding pressure with each pass—you love watching him unravel… live for the way he trembles under your touch.

With your thumb, you trace slow circles over the head—his most sensitive spot. You see his mouth fall open in a silent moan, his stomach tightens—abs rippling with tension—, his thighs tense without warning… His whole body betraying how much he feels it.

He wants to close his eyes… and yet, he doesn’t.  

He wants to watch the hostage. No—he wants the hostage to watch him. To see him enjoying it, to see him moaning under the touch of a woman he’ll never have—no one will.

The car windows are starting to fog up from the heat radiating off your bodies—a humid, heavy cave of lust. It’s thick, stifling… 

Inebriating.

Everything smells like sex, blood, and restrained desire.

Your breathing grows heavier by the second—the vibrations of the engine, the heat, the slick movements, the scent of sweat and iron, the hostage in the backseat...

And then—your eyes meet.

"Let’s show him how it’s done." You both think it, in perfect sync.

You straighten in your seats—and reach for each other.

You kiss.

Tongues tangled, mouths devouring one another in a filthy, hungry kiss—while the hostage watches every movement, eyes wide with disbelief. 

As you both keep working each other: you, stroking his cock with devoted hands, desperate to feel him inside; and him, pumping his fingers into you in wet, rhythmic thrusts—opening you up, stretching you, preparing you to take him.

Art pulls back, eyes locking with yours in raw desperation—and in a sudden, urgent motion; he pulls his fingers out of your pussy, snaps the driver’s seat back into place and slips into the backseat—like a man who’s reached his limit, on the edge of breaking.

He leaves the keys in the ignition, but takes the small remote with him—he’s not letting go of control over his new toy.

He settles beside the hostage—just one seat of space between them.

And you follow—immediately.

You climb onto him, straddling his lap like it’s a throne. Being on top of this beast—riding him, dominating him—it makes you feel powerful, sexy, dangerous.

Your tits—still wrapped in your black and white lace bra—, sway close to his face. Teasing him, taunting him—daring him to claim what’s his with kisses and bites.

Your lover—pupils blown wide—licks his lips at the vision before him: Your legs spread wide over his hips, your waist rolls slow over his aching cock—your bloodstained body… so obscene, so evil, perfectly soaked in sin—yet untouchable…

It’s exactly how he wants you.

You smile as you peel off your skirt, leaving only your lingerie—his favorite set: black and white,

the panties featuring a manual opening he knows all too well... Warm blood splattered across your exposed skin drips like a baptism in violence.

Then you feel it—Art shifting beneath you, rocking his hips with need—urging you to move in that way—his way—the way only you know drives him insane.

He’s searching for you—needing you.

His body is begging for the heat of your cunt, for your wetness, your tightness—that divine prison that squeezes him down to the soul.

He grabs your hips—firm, greedy—and grinds you down against him. He’s smiling up at you—he wants you to know what you’re doing to him, how much he wants you, how badly he’s dying to fuck you right here, right now, in this stolen car, with this bound man watching, beneath this cunt that exists for him alone.

You moan when you feel his clothed manhood—hard rock—press against your entrance—thick, throbbing, threatening…

Irresistible.

You move with the rhythm of the soft blues still floating through the air—slow, sensual, evocative. You match the rhythm of the engine, letting it buzz through your core as you ride his cock—teasing him—, without letting him in just yet, denying him entry—keeping him just where you want… dragging your slick heat along his length with your soaked folds.

He’s pinned beneath you—helpless—, while you grind on him like he paid for the best lap dance of his fucking life—and you’re overdelivering. The stage is yours and he’s so lucky to be under you.

And the bound spectator right next to you? Trapped in the front row of the filthiest show he’s ever witnessed.

Art’s eyes light up as his hands trace the full length of your body, gliding over your curves,

smearing blood across your soft skin. Your body shivers under his touch—so seductive, possessive, demanding, masculine… Art.

Every move draws him in, pulls him deeper—impossible to look away from. And when you meet his gaze, what you see there… can only be described as obsession.

Pure, raw, sheer obsession.

Your hands slide down his torso, beneath his magnificent clown ruffle, searching for the front zipper of his suit—you tug it down, slowly… revealing his body—pale as snow after a murder.

You pinch his nipples, gently, but with wicked intent—you can’t help yourself.

Art lets out a harsh breath, teeth clenched. He says nothing—just lets his hand do the talking, landing a stinging slap on your ass.

SMAK!

The sound cuts through the air—louder than anything the hostage could possibly muster.

You laugh—and moan.

You lean in, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. 

Deep. Slow. Damned. Making love to him with your mouth alone.

Your hips roll back and forth as you moan into his mouth, rubbing your swollen clit against the thick, dripping erection you've been teasing to madness.

Art’s hands tighten around your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh—right where they always do. He bites your lower lip with a hunger that leaves droplets of blood on your scarlet mouth, savoring you.

He growls as his tongue absorbs your essence—the one thing he aches for the most, and the one thing he can never truly claim.

You’re both floating in a toxic cloud of pleasure, wrapped around each other, losing yourselves,

burning together…

You are fire and gasoline—and this car is about to explode.

Then—a sound.

A dry, desperate sound.

The hostage is fumbling with the door using his elbows—trying to escape while you’re both too distracted—, a useless, clumsy, pathetic attempt.

Art chuckles, and presses a button on the remote.

Click.

Locked.

The last flicker of hope dies with a cheerful electronic beep.

The guy slams his head against the window in pure frustration. And Art—naturally—has to take it a step further.

He presses the button again… and starts to play.

The window goes down…

Then up…

Doooown.

Uuuuup.

Like he’s saying:

“You leave when I say so.” That grin of his stretches wide—every ounce of swagger in the world packed into one smug expression.

“Bet your wife’s never done anything even remotely like this to you, huh?” you taunt through a laugh, still grinding on Art, and you plant a hot kiss on his flushed cheek—which he accepts with a pleased smirk.

Art rolls his eyes and shakes his head, confirming your suspicions with mock exasperation.

Then he reaches out—arm casual, fluid—and pinches the hostage’s cheek. A playful, mocking squeeze—like a grandmother scolding her grandkid for being nosy and naughty.

“You’re probably so horny right now, huh?” you purr, voice thick with mockery. “You want this so bad, don’t you? But you know what? You’re not getting any of this. The only thing you can do is… watch.” You tell him, making sure he knows his place.

You slip one bra strap off your shoulder, tilting your head to reveal the imprint of a bite—deep teeth marks—already darkening like a brand.

“I belong to him. Only him,” you finish with a wicked, toothy smile.

Art sees it—and his mouth waters.

He leans in and licks it.

Not for you.

Not for pleasure.

He licks it for him—for the hostage.

So he sees it.

So he understands.

So it hurts.

“And now comes the best part,” you moan, eyes shutting—just as Art’s teeth sink into the imprint—driven by a mix of worship, lust and hunger.

His arms wrap around you like a perfect trap, his hands traveling with expert precision to your back.

Click.

The clasp of your bra pops open, the fabric slides down your arms, surrendering to him—like everything else. Your tits fall free—or into his captivity—as he lowers the straps with care, like unwrapping a present.

His hands trace over your bare back, and his mouth—God, his mouth—works its way over your neck, your collarbones, your shoulders. Kissing—devouring—every inch of skin he can reach.

You start pulling his suit down while he consumes you—as far as you can manage—letting him shrug his arms free, removing the hood from his head, kissing the pale skin beneath every piece of fabric you strip away.

And then—your world flips… upside down.

Art grabs your hair and yanks your head back, exposing your throat—that vulnerable stretch of skin, that one delicate spot where a single well-placed bite could bleed you out in minutes.

But no.

He won’t—he never would.

Instead, he licks you—slowly. Dragging his tongue up your throat, from the base of your neck to your chin—like a predator savoring his prey before the final bite… until he reaches your lips.

He kisses you—and smiles against your mouth.

And you melt into that smile—your spine arching for him, offering every inch of yourself.

You are his—and you want him to know it.

Then, without pulling away—still gripping your hair—he turns to look at the hostage. And he makes a gesture—a light tap under his eye with one finger.

Tap, tap.

"You don’t want to miss this."

Art releases you and turns back to meet your eyes.

You look at him.

No words needed—your gazes say everything

You lift yourself—just enough—and free him from the fabric yourself. It springs up, thick and heavy, smacking against his stomach—so hard it sure hurts. Promising you so many things…so much pleasure and pain.

You hold him in your hands like something precious—just like the rest of him—burning in your hands. It’s hot, pulsing, alive…

You spit into your hand and smear it across your chest, mixing your saliva with blood—his favourite lubricant.

You guide him to your soaked cunt, rubbing his head against it—preparing yourself to take him in. Your mouth parts with moans as you press his sensitive, dripping tip against your clit, and Art can’t help but close his eyes—he lives for this.

Precum, blood, and saliva mix, slicking your tight entrance—necessary.

You’re getting ready—you’re offering yourself.

You’re about to open for him like a beautiful wound.

Art takes the chance to cradle your face in both of his bloodstained hands—grateful—pulling you in for one last kiss before taking everything from you. Thanking you

And just like that, you sink down onto him—inch by inch—, your breath trembling against his mouth, moaning into the kiss as he fills you with his ruthless passion.

You break the kiss to breathe—your sighs and moans brushing against his shoulders like a fevered confession.

You whimper against his neck as you feel him push deeper—claiming more of you. His hands grip your hips like anchors, keeping you from pulling away. The only thing you can do is keep sinking… all the way down to hell.

The hostage can’t look away.

You close your eyes as he spreads you, splits you, fills you—destroys you with his love. Your insides part for him, bowing to his presence.

Your body yields to him completely—like always—, welcoming him once more.

“Fuck…” you mutter through gritted teeth.

It doesn’t matter how many times Art fucks you… it always hurts at first.

And you love it.

You’re full to the edge—can’t take anymore… but you know there’s still one last stretch to take.

Your body trembles, thighs tight like pulled cords, your back arches under the pressure, under the depth. You’re fully impaled—as deep as your body will allow.

You look at Art—and he’s smiling. 

That arrogant, knowing smile—and you know exactly what it means. He’s holding back—just a little. He still has more to give, of course—he’s not done. He feels that last part of him, just out of reach... waiting for your warmth too.

He tilts his head, giving you that look:

“Stuck there again? God, I love it.”

And he knows you know what’s coming.

He bites his tongue, barely fighting the urge—but his abs tighten, his nails dig into your flesh.

And then—

SLAM!

He slams in—fills you to the hilt. No space left, just wet flesh locked tight—your body, an extension of his own. Your spine arches like a broken bow, and your scream finally bursts free.

You collapse against him—undone by him, wrecked by him. Clinging to his neck like you might fall off the edge of the world. A tear slips from your eye—uninvited—, and Art feels it land against his neck. His pupils blow wide—it turns him on more than any moan, any scream, any word. A tear… drawn from pleasure, from excess

For him.

“Everything about you is deadly… you can't deny it”, you whisper in his ear—trembling

He holds you close, crushing you to him—your bodies pressed together perfectly, completely.

One hand caresses your back, sliding through the blood and sweat with an affection so gentle it borders on insulting. The other lifts to his lips, and—with a single finger—, he makes a gesture:

“Shhh.”

It’s not to comfort you—it’s because he likes the contrast. It turns him on to silence you while he destroys you.

He’s a bastard—a stylish fucking bastard.

And you couldn’t love him more.

You stay like that, bodies fused. Kissing—your tongues whispering everything your vocal cords could never express, everything your voices would never dare to say aloud.

Even Art needs a second.

Even though you’re the one bearing the more brutal trauma, he has to adjust too—has to carve his way inside you… and you don’t make it easy.

Your walls clench around him, strangling him with pressure—but at the same time, massaging him with that exquisite mix of pain and pleasure—, while his tip kisses your cervix in the deepest intimacy your body has to offer—rooted deep inside of you.

You feel yourself start to relax—the pain slowly, melting into pleasure.

There’s nothing in the world that makes you happier than having him inside you, wrapping him in your heat…

And you can’t wait to have him trembling beneath you—to ruin him.

So you start to move—drawn into that delicious, rocking motion your body craves... your hips swaying over his hard cock—wrapped tight around him—, dragging your wetness along his length—lost in the rhythm that only the two of you know.

In, then out…  In, then out…

Art exhales—a shuddering breath that trembles through his entire body—that vibrates beneath you as you begin.

His head falls back, eyes slide shut as he finally lets himself feel. His lips part—soundless moans escaping like breath—and his arms sprawl out wide and lazy along the car’s interior, offering himself to the moment, to you… 

One of them resting dangerously close to your guest.

Close? No—he wraps it around the hostage’s shoulders, like a whore waiting for her turn to ride him too. Though truthfully…he’s already very much involved in the act—doing his part as the good little sex toy he is.

“God, you look so fucking sexy right now,” you murmur, watching the way your movements unravel him.

Art smiles—eyes half-lidded.

The truth is: as much as he loves fucking you, there’s something next level about watching you ride him—seeing you worship him without being told, offering yourself like that, dripping devotion. It’s like having the power to force someone to obey… but without needing a gun—just by spreading his legs.

The hand resting on the hostage’s shoulder moves. Art runs it through the man’s hair, tender and soft—like stroking a beloved pet.

Which, of course… he is.

The hostage flinches—recoiling with a shiver—, trying to shrink away.

You act immediately.

“STILL.” Your voice cuts like a blade. “Or you’ll regret it…” you say, lifting his phone with an evil grin curling your lips. “You don’t want anyone to get hurt, do you?” you say, giving him puppy eyes.

You open his gallery—rows of family photos. His two kids and his wife. You pick one—a birthday shot.

“Happy 10th, Marvin… ooohhh,” you coo sweetly. “Might be the last.”, you finish—dry, flat, final.

You show it to him.

Not with rage—but with tenderness.

Like you’re showing him the ending of his own movie.

Both men lose their breath. Their eyes snap open—but for very different reasons.

One is paralyzed by sheer terror.

The other… nearly cums.

You are—without question—, his most powerful weapon.

The hostage instantly returns to his original position—silent, obedient—like a scolded dog. He’s finally understood who’s in charge.

“That’s how I like to see you…” you whisper—poisoned sweetness dripping from your voice as you stroke his chin, like you’re rewarding him.

Meanwhile, Art is still threading his fingers through the man’s hair, playing, mocking him.

Then he looks at you—stunned. You’re the sexiest thing he’s ever fucking seen—and also the cruelest.

You’re a perfect match.

“If he disobeys,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for the hostage to hear, “we’ll kill them, right;  sweetheart?” You ask it like a little girl asking for permission to cause mischief.

Art nods enthusiastically with a toothy smile. But it’s all theater—you both know exactly how this story ends.

BRRUUMMM BRUUUUUMMMM

Art presses the button on the remote again. The engine roars—like a beast awakening.

The vibrations intensify—the window glass rattles—shaking through your bones, ripping a moan from your throat that drowns out the soft background blues.

“ART—!”

Your hand flies to the window to brace yourself against the jolt. It leaves behind a perfect blood-red handprint smeared across the fogged-up glass—as beautiful as it is erotic.

A perfect signature on this masterpiece.

What Art’s really telling you is—he wants it louder.

He wants chaos.

He wants lust.

He wants blood.

He wants you completely unhinged.

“So you want me to hit the gas, huh?” you growl, eyes dark, voice hoarse with want, with power, with pure unfiltered lust. “You’re not ready for this ride… and I’ve already cut the brakes”, you finish by throwing him a defiant smile, trailing a finger lazily from his neck down to his chest.

Art mimics a bite in the air, baring every single tooth—all sharp and full of challenge. He’s dying for you, dying for your worst self.

You start to move—riding him with rhythm, your hips grinding in perfect sync with his. Your bodies separate and slam together again and again, filling the car with obscene sounds—wet, violent, animalistic.

Art holds you tight against him—your tits squashed against his heaving chest, your clit grinding against his vibrating pelvis with every relentless thrust.

Your eyes roll back, your mouth opens helplessly against his neck—obscene, slack, starving—your moans pouring into his ears and filling the car like a spell—like they’re trying to crawl under his skin.

You pull yourself free from his embrace for a moment—straightening up fully in front of him. Your perky tits bouncing up and down with your wild movements.

You look up at the ceiling like you’re praying… but all you do is curse.

“I’m your fucking whore,” you cry, drunk on him. “You ever seen a whore take your cock like this? This good? So obedient?! So fucking broken for you?!” you scream with your tongue out, drool spilling shamelessly down your chin.

Art closes the distance in a heartbeat, catching you in his claws again—as if you ever stood a chance. Pulling you back into his grasp like you never escaped in the first place.

And growls against your skin like an animal.

PLASH.

Another slap—sharp and loud—leaving five perfect red fingerprints. You deserved that—for being such a filthy little bitch.

His teeth sink into your neck—too hard. Skin splits, blood flows… God—there’s no name for how much this turns him on.

From your bleeding neck, jaw stained crimson, he looks up at you—devoted—, like you’re a fucking miracle.

He holds you like you’re his whole everything. Clutches you like the world would end if your flesh left his for even a second—like you’re part of him.

And by now—you are.

A red blur in the hostage’s vision—a distorted silhouette of blood and motion. A mess of flesh—writhing, breathing, groaning, laughing—reveling in its own depravity.

You kiss again—rough, messy, dripping with blood—as you keep riding him toward the end of the world. Which—coincidentally—, lies between his legs.

And then—one of your hands drifts toward the hostage.

He goes still. Paralyzed—he knows what happens if he misbehaves. You take him by the chin and force his gaze upward—to make him watch. 

“Don’t even think about closing your eyes... We’ll sew them open.” You warn him with a sweet, venom-laced smile.

Art blinks hard.

“How the fuck did I not think of that before?” he wonders—but mentally files it away for next time.

With one firm shove, you rip him off your body—force his back against the headboard, right where it was, right where he belongs—and start moving on your own again.

You change the rhythm—start riding him faster… faster and deeper. You lift yourself until just his tip kisses your entrance—and then slam down to the base, over and over. Fucking every inch of him—every rise a damnation, every fall a sentence.

Art’s eyes roll back into his skull, whites flashing in ecstasy—he’s in a trance. This is the rhythm that kills him: savage, deep, frantic, punishing.

“This is how you like it, huh?” you gasp between moans, never letting your pace break. “I love dragging this devil to heaven… and letting him split me right back to hell.” You moan, unhinged for him.

And for the hostage, to make sure he doesn’t forget where he is.

You dive for his neck—and Art stiffens instantly… it’s his weakness. You kiss that spot with tongue, with teeth, with hunger. Your mouth pays back every favor—latching onto the muscle, biting skin, licking his Adam’s apple, sucking his jugular, devouring him—owning him.

Art growls, mouth open in voiceless agony and bliss, eyes clenching shut—your rhythm is wrecking him, your mouth is shattering him. His cock is rock hard inside you, every twitch giving away how close he is… but you’re not letting him finish yet—and neither is he.

Suddenly, he yanks you off his neck and stops you—right before it’s too late. He looks at you—panting, ruined,—gasping for breath. Head bowed… so ashamed and submissive. 

Trying to hold himself together, like he's saying:

“Gurl… you can't do this to me—have some mercy ”, but he can’t even look you in the eye.

“Oh… is it too much for you?” you whisper like a lover, but it tastes like betrayal. “My poor baby can’t take it anymore? Feels too good?” you speak in silk, stitched with spite.

You turn to the hostage—offer him a smile as sweet as arsenic.

“You wouldn’t last either… But you won’t get the chance to find out.” you say, teasingly bringing a finger to your lips, amused.

And now, you lean in—toward Art’s ear.

Your warm breath caresses him, drowning out everything else—muting the world—, so that all that reaches him… is you.

Your tongue brushes the shell of his ear, lick the back of it, bite the lobe… And then—without warning—, you slide your tongue into his ear canal. Art melts, a shiver shoots down his spine, a guttural moan bursts from deep in his throat.

He drools—eyes fluttering, head slack, body limp. Your soft, wet moans reverberate inside his skull, a sensual echo that floods his brain—blending with the slow thrusts, the sweltering heat and your hands worshiping his body with criminal devotion.

He’s almost like a ragdoll—a puppet with its strings cut. All moans and drool and absolute surrender: eyes closed, eyebrows knitted in pleasure, a stupid smile on his parted lips... Utterly spellbound by your touch, barely clinging to consciousness.

And then—your voice.

A whisper—like a kiss… soaked in poison.

“Will you fuck me on top of him?” Just for him. So the hostage won’t hear—but to set Art ablaze again.

His eyes snap open—his pupils blown wide, his body tensing like a bow pulled tight.

“I want our faces—our climax—to be the last thing he sees. I want us to come while staring into his eyes.” you breathe sensually, tongue still working his ear like a wicked spell, your hands cradling his head.

The words pierce through him—a direct shot to the heart of his lust.

He rips you away from his ear and crushes your mouth with his teeth, letting you know just how badly he wants that—and more. He kisses you with madness, with sickness, with sadism.

And then his hips find rhythm again—furious, murderous, lethal—ready to strike again.

You cling to him with a grin—watching the world burn beneath you.

Your mouths part, leaving a viscous string of spit and lust hanging between your swollen lips, and there he is—your sex toy, your passenger princess—heart pounding, dignity in ruins.

Four predator eyes lock onto him.

Art licks his lips— so much slaughter, so much sex… 

It makes a man hungry.

You both stare at him in silence—cheeks pressed together, bodies still joined, frozen in time… and then you see it—a shy little bulge in his pants.

“Aww… poor thing, looks like he wants a taste too,” you sneer right in his face, irony dripping from your voice. “Bet he’s jealous,” you say, glancing at Art. “Bet he’s imagining himself in your place.” You know exactly which buttons to push—which wires to cut.

Art’s expression darkens.

Is this fucker imagining what he shouldn’t? Thinking about touching you? Kissing you? Fucking you?

No… absolutely not.

He’s not allowing that.

He leans forward, bends slightly—slips a hand into his shoe… and he pulls out a pair of scissors.

You feel his cock twitch hard inside you as he holds them—sadism bringing out the very best in him.

He opens and closes them right in the hostage’s face—that grin stretching ear to ear.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

He only has one free hand—so you help him.

(Yeah!)

You pull down the hostage’s pants with a bloodthirsty smile.

You grab his balls.

The almost-princess squirms in the seat, trying to retreat from the inevitable steel approaching—with mechanical precision, cold and certain.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

But every tug makes his balls ache, making it worse—only adding to the torment. The skin tethering his balls to his body pulls tighter with every desperate thrash.

You laugh as you squeeze and tug at his balls, stretching that fragile strip of skin that holds them to his body—that perfect little point of breakage.

Art’s eyes shine, his mouth hanging open in a huge smile—he looks thrilled, he’s having the time of his life.

You're still riding him—still fucking him—while he brings the scissors closer, while the cold blade grazes the hostage’s delicate skin.

He’s just a heartbeat away from mutilating his scrotum, from stripping him of his manhood, from turning him into something new, from castrating him forever.

Art’s eyes are wide, crazed. Your smiles are the most wicked they’ve ever been. Laughter—psychotic, unhinged, echoing in your skull—fills your ears in a rush of delirium, your hands working in sync—like a human chimera.

Nothing seems able to change what's meant to be.

And just then—

“Incoming call: Samantha Wife,” announces the car’s robotic voice.

And what follows is the most absurd ringtone imaginable: a xylophone—cheerful, obnoxiously cheerful.

You and Art freeze for a second—just one second. You stare at each other, eyes wide, blank with disbelief…

And then you burst out laughing.

You’re still full of him, and each laugh sends a tremor through you—your pussy clutching his cock in involuntary spasms.

Art slaps his thigh, cackling, gasping, moaning and laughing. Each contraction makes him grunt and huff beneath you—equally turned on and amused.

The hostage can’t breathe, he can’t move. He just cries in silence, pathetically—pants pulled down to his thighs, his balls still dangling between your fingers.

“Samantha... Wife,” you repeat like you're naming a ghost that just passed through the room.

Art doesn’t waste a second—the xylophone is still chiming. That call won’t last forever.

He grabs your face with his bloody hands, pulling you to him, forcing you to look at him—and in his pupils, you see something desperate.

His eyes are overflowing wells.

And then—he starts nodding, manically—like a child begging for an impossible toy.

His hands guide your head in sync with his—nodding together, your eyes just centimeters apart,

like two birds mid-mating ritual.

“YES, YES, YES”

Suddenly, he lets go, collapses into you, buries his face between your tits like salvation lives there. He clutches you—he’s one sob away from crying.

And the xylophone keeps playing—time’s running out.

The hostage is anxious—pants down, balls in your grip, scissors awaiting. 

His dignity hanging by a literal thread.

(Maybe… maybe this is his chance to call for help?)

“Accept call,” you say loud and clear, so the car’s AI picks it up like a loyal servant.

Silence.

Art still clings to you, face buried in your chest—he doesn’t want to look.

Then, a voice—feminine, tired, worried.

“Phil? Hello? Are you there? Why aren’t you answering?” She echoes through the cabin like a ghost.

You freeze. You have no idea what to say—your body stiffens, suspended.

And then the hostage—Phil, apparently—starts thrashing like a drowning rat. Grunting through the duct tape. Lunging forward, his torso slamming into the air, desperate to be heard, to create noise—to make that woman on the other end understand.

THUD!

Art’s fist slams into his gut—a clean backhand strike from the hand holding the scissors. Right to the solar plexus—precise, silencing.

Phil folds like a wet rag and falls silent—immediately. 

How dare he interrupt? How dare he try to upstage the star of the show?

“Phil?! Are you there? It’s almost 8 AM. You have to take the kids to school.” Her voice pushes through the speakers—tense, rising.

Art exhales against your chest, frustrated by your hesitation—your silence. Then he grabs your nipples—hard—twisting them without mercy, like he’s trying to tune your voice in. Like your body is a radio and he’s searching for your signal.

“Samantha…” It’s the first thing that comes out—choked by the pain.

Art softens at the sound. He leans in and licks your nipples—an apology. He strokes them gently, like he’s saying:

“That’s it… good girl. Keep playing.”

And you do.

“So you must be Samantha, huh?” you purr—already sketching the direction you want this to go, like tracing fresh skin with a hot knife.

A dry silence from the other side… Then, the question:

“Who is this?” Her voice lands sharp.

You smile. You feel it—confidence blooms. Art feels it too, through your hips—and his hands encourage you.

He starts to move beneath you—just a little. A slow push, a subtle rhythm, a gentle thrust of support.

He rocks you slowly, just enough to keep you warm, stimulated, aware—paired with the ever-present vibration of the engine beneath you both. Your bodies radiate heat—sex-charged warmth, thick and tangible.

You smile.

“Mmmmmm... You didn’t know?” you reply, tongue gliding over your lips, your voice a velvet blade—sensual, wicked.

Silence on the other end—but she doesn’t hang up.

You feel her frozen, listening—processing.

Art’s licks become kisses, kisses and caresses—he massages your breasts as you speak—rewarding you. Telling you without words that you’re doing perfect.

His hips grind into you—deep, slow—shaping every syllable with his body.

He wants to see you shine—he wants you sharp.

And just then—

Phil lunges—a reflex, a desperate, final attempt. His torso bent, wrists bound, duct tape soaked on his mouth.

His body—weak, restrained—but driven by pure, feral panic. He thrashes, he jerks, he writhes like a dying animal. Maybe he’s trying to scream, maybe trying to break something—anything that will make Samantha suspicious.

But all he manages to do is brush your leg with his shoulder.

A stain on the masterpiece.

Art reacts like someone just spat in his face during mass. 

First fantasizing about fucking you—and now actually touching you? Really?!

He smashes the glass of the side window with his elbow.

Grabs Phil by the hair—hard, brutal—and yanks him between you two, like a trussed-up piglet. 

Then, with the remote, he lowers the now-broken window, shoves Phil’s head out of the car in the cold—and starts rolling the glass back up. The blade-like edge of the shattered window rises—slow, relentless, sadistic. 

Phil’s throat gets trapped.

The pressure builds—and the razor-sharp glass starts tearing into the flesh of his neck, spilling blood down the window like a waterfall of pain. He fights to breathe, but the air leaks out through his torn trachea before it can completely fill his lungs—choking him from within. 

Each movement forces the sharp edges deeper into his bleeding flesh, making it worse to resist.

And Art has no intention of letting go. His finger stays on that button—until Phil bleeds out, suffocates, or freezes.

Art has him by the balls—literally—, and Phil coughs, gags, spasms under the glass’s murderous edge—but Samantha hears nothing…. because her husband is now outside the car.

You cling to Art’s shoulders, gasping, your body still flushed and pulsing from before—but now caught in that delicious edge between murder and desire.

That razor line where you both live.

And then—with the call still active, with Samantha likely crying on the other end, believing her husband is cheating on her—Art starts moving inside you again.

Rough.

Powerful.

Devastating.

All while gripping Phil, all while staring into your eyes—his face twisted in bliss and brutality.

Because the suffocating, bleeding body wedged between you is just part of the entertainment. Because the gagging, the twitching, the sobbing—It’s just background noise for your moans, music to your ears.

“Phil’s been having a blast this whole time. You should’ve seen us, hahaha!” you laugh out loud—bright, mean, unapologetic.

You keep riding Art—who still has Phil by the hair and the balls—without stopping. Your blood-splattered hips slam against Art’s vibrating pelvis with every deep thrust.

“We’ve done things…” you murmur through heavy breaths, biting your finger playfully, “things that would leave your jaw on the floor.” You’re not lying, not even a little.

“And the best part is…” you drop your voice to a sensual whisper, “we’re not done yet. The best is still coming.” You shoot Art a look. 

He’s losing it—laughing harder with every word out of your mouth. And the best part? He knows you’re absolutely right.

“Where is he… I want to talk to him, I need to…” comes the whisper from the speaker—a broken, trembling voice.

“Phil? Oh, he’s…” You glance at him—gasping through the window, barely conscious,

bleeding down the glass.

“He’s getting some air. It’s just… so hot in here. Poor thing’s outside, pants down, trying to catch his breath…” You shrug your shoulders, like it means nothing.

Click.

The call ends—abruptly. She’s heard enough—she can’t take any more.

And Art cheers.

You’ve been flawless. He’d be clapping if his hands weren’t full of hostage. You never broke character—not once. And all the while, you kept fucking him, both of you using Phil like he was just part of the set design.

Art starts bouncing you on his cock with the momentum of his hips—like you weigh nothing, making you jump, then slamming you back down onto his length.

He celebrates you.

Every thrust feels like he’s saying: “Hip hip hooray!”

You both brace yourselves on Phil’s limp body, kissing with feverish desperation as your hips keep moving—he’s stopped resisting. He’s not fighting anymore.

You use him—like a table, like furniture—as if his useless body was made just to support you.

Art lowers the window all the way to free Phil’s lacerated neck—he’s dizzy, disoriented, fading.

And you both look down at him with something almost like… tenderness, as he writhes weakly across your naked laps.

The important thing is… your princess is still alive.

Oops! Did I say princess?

That reminds me...

SNIP.

We left off right there, didn’t we?

The—now official—Passenger Princess is fully conscious again.

Art moves fast.

He rips the duct tape from his mouth in one swift, dry motion—and in the blink of an eye… shoves his own mutilated scrotum back inside it.

Without hesitation—like forcing medicine down a rebellious child’s mouth..

And then, reseals it—tape back in place.

Well, he won’t be making any more noise now, will he?

Art slams him down against the leather seats. And taking full advantage of the position Phil’s in—flat on his back, humiliated, turned into both mattress and rug at once—you waste no time.

You pounce on him.

You get on all fours—right on top of him as Art strips off the last of his bloody suit and positions himself behind you.

He lines up—presses his chest against your back—and sinks into you from behind. 

Doggy style.

You both moan from the pleasure of this new sensation, your bodies shuddering in response.

And from that angle—you both look down at your lovely victim. Your hands are planted on either side of his head, and Art’s face leans in over your shoulder, never taking his eyes off him.

You both smile down at him.

Your hair brushes across his face with every thrust, and Art bites his lip as he fucks you from behind—absorbed—, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist—over your stomach—pulling your bodies together as much as possible.

Your arms start to give out, buckling under the weight of Art pressing into your back—your strength is fading…

You let yourself fall without a second thought—you don’t care.

You both collapse onto him like a cross—settling atop him without missing a stroke.

You—body to body, chest to chest with the hostage. And Art—on top of you, inside you—pinning you both in place.

A human tower of sin: Three bodies, two lovers, one victim—one act.

A perfect threesome.

And beneath you, shifting like a ragdoll—his movements pulled by the rhythm of Art’s thrust… your princess.

Your soft, squirming mattress, creaking with every motion—your own private living bed.

Art doesn’t wrap his arms around you anymore—he takes the opportunity to wrap them around your hostage, just to make sure he doesn’t feel left out.

He hugs you through him—as if you were the steak, and the man-and-a-half were the bread in a meat sandwich.

And you gasp—between laughter and moans—feeling the weight of him crushing your back,

the burning heat of his skin, and his cock—unyielding—fucking the life out of you.

You smile—you close your eyes. Lost in the pleasure, lost in this madness you love—this chaos that is him.

Exactly this.

Exactly this is what you needed to come.

Your man giving you everything—on you, against you, inside you—filling you with himself like the end of the world depends on it.

You moan his name with a broken voice, drool slipping down your chin, eyes squeezed shut—your fists clutching the hostage’s shirt like it were a bedsheet.

That feeling—building deep inside you, rising higher and higher.

Art is holding you now—tight. So tight you can’t even move… All you can do is take it—take his cock until his grip finally breaks… until he cums.

Your bodies—naked, bloodied, overflowing, frantic—can’t take much more. 

So close.

So close.

Art bites your shoulders—his teeth ache like a teething baby needing something to gnaw on.

God—he’s hitting every single spot, every place you need. And your tight walls clutch him harder with each thrust, a velvet trap begging him not to stop.

And he won’t—not for a second.

Not the fucking.

Not the biting.

His tongue finds yours in a frenzy. And you kiss like oxygen doesn't matter—like your tongues have to melt together before the end comes.

Your mixed spit drips down onto Phil’s face, who’s right there—just inches away—unwilling witness to your sexual apocalypse.

Moans, growls, gasps, filthy sounds fill the car—a hellish symphony.

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEEEEP.

The seatbelt alert—triggered by Art’s brutal thrusting—like a child kept awake by the sounds of his parents fucking in the next room.

From the outside, the image is absurd: a car bouncing like a cartoon, that shrill warning screaming alone into the empty world.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—matters now.

You’re on fire.

He’s on fire.

The world is on fire.

And Art… Art doesn’t stop.

His arms locked around your body like he hates you for how much he loves you.

“Come for me, baby,” you soothe him. “Fill my body with your poison… spill into me… flood me.”

You whisper it with all the heat in your soul, but some part of you starts to wonder—is something wrong with him?

You look back at him for a second. And he’s wide-eyed, mouth hanging open, sweat dripping down his temples, saliva trailing from his lips—in shock. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, erratic.

And then—you get it.

You lunge for Phil’s throat. You want Art to see you—to see your mouth soaked in fresh blood—hungry, feral, sensual for him.

He loves the sight of you like this. This is his favorite you—your freak self.

And he can’t help but do the same.

The princess moans beneath the tape. No longer fighting—but still feeling… and that’s all that matters.

Art licks one side of his neck. 

You lick the other.

One on each side—like two hyenas toying with a trembling fawn.

You feast on his throat with teeth and lust—leaving red, wet, gleaming marks—, sucking his skin like it’s candy, moaning as you devour the meat of his neck.

And then, the taste of fresh blood hits his tongue—seeping from the tiny cuts made by shattered glass… and he savors it.

That taste… Hot blood from fresh cuts, still full of life—slipping out of its vessel.

Art finds the wounds—and fucks them with his tongue. He plunges into the gashes, tongue twisting and probing, teasing the torn flesh before driving deeper into the raw, bleeding meat.

And then you feel it—a shift. The tension in his jaw, a tremor rippling through his entire body…

Art growls.

“No…” you whisper, already knowing what’s coming. “You’re not going to be able to stop, are you?” you say, already bracing for what’s about to happen.

And he can’t—his ragged breath, his blown pupils, his endless thrusting—they tell you everything.

It hurts you to see him like this—to know you can’t satisfy every one of his needs… 

“This is exactly what you need to finish. I know… do it,” you whisper to him—calm, loving.

He nods, eyes locked on that pulsing throat—he can’t resist any longer.

CRUNCH.

Hot blood splashes your chest, your face, your hair, your neck.

Art’s teeth sink into the Princess’s neck like ripe fruit.

And he starts eating—tearing off chunks of flesh as large as his mouth will allow.

The Princess spasms beneath you, moaning like a dying animal—his body convulsing under your writhing, relentless fucking.

This is the end.

And you look at Art—mouth dripping red, eyes completely gone, face twisted in pure, carnal lust—fucking you harder, faster and deeper than ever. 

And right then—he cums.

Inside you—violently, completely.

He closes his eyes, furrows his brow, his head drops to the angle of your neck, pressing his forehead against your skin. His mouth opens in silence—he’s screaming on the inside, riding the wave of his orgasm like it’s tearing him apart.

His cock pulses inside you like a second heart.

And you feel everything—under pressure.

All his sickness.

All his love.

All his hatred.

And you cum with him—as if your body has no choice.

Not with this image.

Not with this feeling.

Not with those final breaths brushing your neck, escaping his lips as he devours human flesh and clings to you like you’re his torture and the only relief from it.

You cum together—on top of the still-warm corpse.

Art’s thrusts don’t stop as you both ride out the climax—filling you with thick white ribbons of the most intense pleasure a man’s body can take.

He trembles as he clings to you, and you offer yourself completely—you stretch his orgasm out as long as you can—wishing it could last forever for him.

And he does the same for you, in that way only he knows—only he can.

This is the most beautiful part of sex: That moment when you trap each other in a cage made of pleasure.  That moment when it feels like nothing exists outside the other.

The car finally stills.

The beeping fades.

All that remains is your breathing.

And the echo of madness.

Art slips out of you—just for a moment, just long enough to turn you over—and slides back inside with the little strength he has left… just enough to kiss you until he gives in to exhaustion. 

“I love you…” you whisper against his lips, stroking his sinful, naked body. “More than anything,”

you continue between soft kisses that taste like human meat. “I’d do anything for you.”

And he holds you—not quite understanding what you mean, but utterly captivated by your sweet insanity.

He still moves inside you—soft now, but present—in a slow, ghostly rhythm. You close your eyes, letting the fading climax travel through your still-entwined bodies.

Foreheads pressed together, as he finishes unloading inside you—as he empties himself deep inside. The last of him—slowly trickling out in drops, like tears.

And then—a vibration: Phil’s phone.

A new notification.

Marvin Son: Dad, where are you? Mom’s acting weird and we’re going to be late for school.

Art sees it—squints—, and with fingers still trembling from the effort, he types:

Dad: I got lost, I think I took a wrong turn somewhere, and the GPS isn’t working. No clue how to get back home from here… Send me your location and I’ll be there in a sec.

Marvin: Ok. (location attached).

You lie there, eyes unfocused on the ceiling, utterly spent.

“Truth is…we need a nice, relaxing shower.”

Thank you for reading all the way to the end!!!

I hope you enjoyed this story just as MUCH as I did.

Although… I have to admit I might’ve gone a little too far with the poor guy.

There were moments when I genuinely started to feel bad…

Maybe I should’ve stopped after making his wife believe her husband was a son of a bitch.

Maybe I should’ve stopped when Art started choking him with a broken-glass-powered automatic window.

Maybe I should’ve stopped when Art cut off his balls (and stuffed them in his mouth…).

Maybe I should’ve stopped when Art was literally eating him alive.

Maybe I should’ve stopped before dooming an entire happy family.

Oh well. Terrifier things, I guess 😅 HAHAHA.

If you liked the story, please leave a juicy like—it seriously motivates me to keep writing and keep feeding you all.

Comments are also very welcome. I love talking to people as insane as I am.

And don’t forget about requests—I'd be more than happy to make all your dreams cum true.💋🩸

Thanks again for everything, and I’ll see you in the next Artventure.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured VII

Alexia Putellas x Child!Reader

Jenni Hermoso x Child!Reader

Summary: Alexia tries to get her act together

For as long as she will ever live, Alexia will never forget her mother's face that day at Alba's door.

She will never forget the genuine horror on her mother's face even as she took control of the situation. She will never forget that night when Alba slammed her against the wall after the final of the Copa de la Reina. She will never forget the way you hid behind Jenni's legs after your ballet lesson.

It's all she thinks about even as she sits in the rocking chair with a sleeping Jaume in her arms.

"Ale?" Olga says sleepily," It's three in the morning. Come back to bed."

Alexia doesn't want to. She doesn't want to let Jaume go but she doesn't want to look at him either.

He was so perfect. His birth had been quick and easy unlike yours. Alexia had felt an instant connection to him, unlike when she suffered a bought of post-partum depression with you. He was so soft and so perfect and yet...

Alexia couldn't believe that she has pushed you away in favour of him.

She had a beautiful son and daughter. Two children, not one.

She thought having a sibling would be the best thing for you. She wanted to build a family with Olga. She never considered that she hadn't actually included you in that family.

"Alexia," Olga says, a bit more awake now," Come on. He's due for a feed soon. I'd like some sleep before that."

Mechanically, Alexia places her son back in his crib, wiping away some of the drool on his face as she allows Olga to lead her back to bed.

A sense of numbness follows her now and it's clear to everyone.

Word has spread amongst the team now about what has happened. They know the bare minimum, only that Alba took Bambi and that Jenni has dropped everything to fly across the world for you.

No one knows why, officially. It's clear that Mapi and Ingrid have informed a few team members. Paredes, in particular, cannot look Alexia in the eye anymore and some of the younger players are wary seeing that.

Her life is falling apart. She had no idea you were the linchpin holding it all together.

Olga lays next to her, head pillowed on Alexia's chest.

"You're so tense," She says," Relax. Everything's going to be fine."

Alexia scoffs. "Is it?"

Her question hangs in the air for several minutes. Neither of them speak. Neither of them move.

"Yes," Olga says eventually," You need to stay positive, Alexia. If not for yourself then for your daughter-"

"Your daughter?" Alexia echoes Olga's words perfectly," My daughter? Is she not ours?"

The silence is telling and Olga rolls over and away.

"Is she? Jaume is ours. y/n is yours."

Alexia sits up in bed, reaching over to flick a lamp on. This wasn't a conversation she could have in the dark.

"We have a son together. We're going to get married. In what world is Bambi just mine?!"

"In every world!" Olga sits up too. "She has always been yours, Alexia! I am just the woman her Mami is marrying! Nothing more, nothing less!"

"How can you say that?! We're making a family together! Bambi is included in that family!"

"Of course she is but when have I ever taken that role in her life?! You took her to football! You take her to ballet!"

"She stays home with you all day!" Alexia bites back, standing now until they're both yelling at each other over the bed. "You make her lunch! You keep her occupied!"

"And you do her baths and her bedtime routine! You do her morning routine too! God, Alexia, I am essentially her glorified babysitter! You have never once let me take over those things!"

"You didn't ask?! Olga, if you wanted to do that stuff just ask me!"

"And be rejected? No! You've never given any indication that I was even allowed to try!"

"Because I thought you didn't want to! Bambi has always been mine! Forgive me for not knowing how much to put on your plate. I was trying to make this transition easy!"

"An easy transition?! Alexia, I was pregnant! I was already thrown in the deep end! Adding a self-sufficient kid wouldn't have been much worse!"

They're both screaming at each other now and Jaume clearly hears the noise because he cries from down the hall.

Alexia takes a deep breath, eyes shutting briefly as she counts to ten to calm herself.

Olga goes to get Jaume, moving out the door.

"If we're going to get Bambi back," Alexia calls after her," Then we have to both want her!"

The forms about your ballet class lay on the kitchen table when Alexia gets up the next day. Things were frosty last night when Olga came back to bed with Jaume but they seemed to be looking up when Olga said that they would have a mature conversation about the Bambi situation when Alexia got home.

Alexia picks it up as she eats her breakfast, skimming through it. It's for an extra class on Thursday nights (five until seven) on top of your usual ones. Apparently, it's for those little kids that have real potential. As in, the potential to be great.

Alexia had been one of those kids but for football instead of ballet. She had excelled. She was one of the greatest in the world now all because her father saw the potential in her and signed her up for a team.

She had tried to do the same with you. She took you to the under-fives Barcelona team but it hadn't turned out how she want it to. The other children had left you in the dust. Alexia had hoped that it would be a one time thing, that the first session was a fluke.

You were already so different to her and even back then, she knew that when Jaume arrived things would be different.

She'd tried to get you into football so you would have something to bond over together, at least until Jaume was big enough to play with you.

But it wasn't meant to be and her Mama had insisted in signing you up for something else.

Originally, Alexia had planned on it being another team sport, desperate to have something at least similar to football that she could cling to.

Instead, her Mama had reminded her of last Christmas when the family went to go see the Nutcracker and how enamoured you had been.

Ale's Mama had pushed and pushed for ballet and Alexia was glad that she had.

The forms sat signed on the kitchen table as Alexia washed up her bowl and dialled a number on her phone.

"Hola, Mama," She says," It's about Bambi..."

It's after training that Alexia goes to see her Mama and sister. They meet up at Eli's house and all crowd around the kitchen table.

Jenni is there too and when Alexia asks who is looking after you, she's told that Mapi and Ingrid have taken you for ice cream.

"I don't like this," Alba mutters from where she's leaning against the wall. She's the only one not sat, arms crossed over her chest. "How do we know that she's not going to take Bambi home and neglect her again, huh?"

It's the hardest words Alexia has ever had to say but she pushes them out of her mouth. "I don't want you to give me Bambi back, not now at least."

"What do you mean, Alexia?" Her Mama asks.

"I...I have a lot of making up to do," Alexia admits," I broke her trust and that is not an easy thing to get back. If I want Bambi to come home then she has to want it to. I don't want her to be unhappy again."

"What are you saying?"

"Let me visit her, please. Let me earn back her trust, please."

Everyone knows Eli is in charge here. She is the head of the family and everyone defers to her on big decisions like this. This is a family matter. This is about her granddaughter's happiness and her daughter's peace of mind.

"Bambi is very fragile right now," Eli says quietly but the house is so silent everyone can hear her clearly," This is a serious matter, Alexia and if it was anyone else's daughter, child services will have already been called."

Alexia looks down at the table, the same table she would be scolded at when she was young.

"Your father would be ashamed of you." Eli's words are hard and biting and it's exactly what Alexia wants, even if it causes a sharp pain in her chest. "This is not how we raised you. That little girl is so beloved by everyone and what you have done...I love you, Ale, but it is unacceptable."

"I know, Mama. Please, let me make this right."

"Bambi coming home is her choice. It is not a when...it is an if. If I decide that you are doing more harm than good then there will be other actions we can take."

She looks at Jenni, who up until this point has been silent and Alexia's eyes dart to her too.

"Mama, what are you talking about?"

"Eli," Jenni says," She is trying. We don't need to-"

"Jenni still has adoption papers," Alba says from her corner of the room," All they're missing is your signature. Mama is saying that if this cannot be resolved and Bambi doesn't want to come home..."

She lets the idea hang in the air. She doesn't need to say it out loud. They all know what she means.

"It won't get that far," Jenni says, looking at Alexia for the first time since all of this became real," Bambi loves you."

Alexia pushes through the lump in her throat and the tears pricking in her eyes. "If I cannot make this better then she will have the best chance with you."

Jenni looks away first. "She has ballet on Saturday until one. We can do a visit then."

"Thank you."

Olga is sitting with Jaume when Alexia gets home. It's an almost perfect image. All it's missing is you at Olga's feet, playing with your trains.

She can imagine it, your trainsets spread all over the floor and your ballet bag left abandoned on a chair. You will smile when you see her and Alexia will litter your face with kisses before doing the same to Olga and Jaume.

It will be perfect, Alexia promises herself.

"Hey, little man," She coos to her son, hefting him up into her arms and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Jaume giggles at the affection, lips smacking together as his hand whips out to grab at Alexia's nose curiously. He's been a little fussy recently and extremely sensitive to changes in light but he seems a little happier now.

"That's my nose," Alexia says. She wiggles it. "Is it really funny? Huh? Is my nose funny?"

"Jaume seems to think so." Olga rises from the sofa and pecks Alexia's lips. "How was your mother?"

"Helpful."

"And Alba?"

"She was...Alba."

"And Jenni?"

"How did you-?"

"I am not blind or deaf, Ale. Your team gossips. Jenni has comes back to Spain for y/n."

"Amor-"

"I'm not threatened," Olga laughs," You broke up for a reason but even I know that a meeting of y/n would involve her. How was it? What did they say?"

Alexia manages a smile. "I can see her on Saturday, after ballet. There's a place where you can paint pottery nearby. I think I'll take her there."

"That's nice," Olga says.

"I..." Alexia's been floating in a happy bubble ever since she started to drive home. She doesn't want to ruin it but she has to know. "Did you have a think about what we talked about?"

Olga sighs. "I love Jaume," She says after several beats of quiet," Because he is mine, yes, but mostly because he is yours as well. And I love you so much."

Alexia doesn't like where this is going. "And Bambi?"

"I'm sorry, Ale, but I do not love y/n but...I think I could learn to because she is so much like you and I love you. I do not know y/n like I know you and Jaume. I want to though. I want her home with us so I can love her like I love Jaume. I am sorry if it is not what you want to hear but it is my truth and I hope that is enough."

Tears fall down Alexia's cheeks.

"It's enough. It's enough, amor."

Alexia spends all week waiting for Saturday. There are matches to prepare for and media commitments to do but you're all she can think about.

She wonders if she should bring you a new train to mark the occasion but the model train store has finally shut down and Alexia cannot get one for you in time.

Next time though, she promises herself that she'll got you a new train for your collection. Her palms are sweaty and she's nervous when she spots you and Jenni walking down the street hand-in-hand.

You're still in your ballet clothes but you've got one of Jennie's jackets on and it's dragging on the ground behind you because it's too big. Your hair is still done up in a bun and a few wisps fall down to frame your face.

"Bambi," Alexia says, suddenly breathless when you look up at her.

"Hola, Mami," You reply, ducking a little bit behind Jenni as you greet her.

"Your Mami and you are going to paint some pottery," Jenni says," And I'll be right here to pick you up when you're done."

"You won't be late?"

"Of course I won't be! You're my most favourite little girl in the whole wide world! I'd never be late to pick you up!"

You smile and giggle when Jenni peppers kisses all over your face before gently moving you towards Alexia.

"Hola, Mami," You say again.

Alexia smiles and takes your hand. "Hola, Bambi."

You look very nervous and your hand is unusually warm in Alexia's, though she puts that down to you coming straight from ballet.

There's a big wall where you can choose what to make. Alexia gets a mug and, unsurprisingly, you want the train. It's at the very top of the shelf and you can't reach and you don't want Mami to get upset at you for asking when you could easily get something that's closer to your height.

But Alexia notices.

She's making sure to pay a lot of attention to you now. To the way that your ballet pumps are wearing a bit at the soles and the way you play with the sleeves of Jenni's jacket.

"Do you want the train, Bambi?" She asks," Do you want me to pick you up so you can grab it? Can I touch you?"

You nervously nod and Alexia pretends to not notice the way that you don't breath until you're safely back on the ground.

The little shop is quaint and fairly quiet and Alexia lets you choose the table at the very back.

Very gently, she telegraphs her every move to you as she rolls up the sleeves of Jenni's jacket so you don't get paint on it.

You're both quiet as you paint.

Your little tongue is stuck out in concentration as you dip your paintbrush into the paint and move it to cover your train.

"You moved up in ballet," Alexia says eventually," How was that?"

"Was good," Is the response from your tiny voice," It is harder now but still fun." You blink a few times as the overhead light buzzes and you scratch at you neck. It's been a little itchy since you last saw Mami and you don't like.

You haven't told anyone because you're scared they're going to get angry at you. You're a big girl now. Big girl don't complain about something as silly as itchy skin.

"I'm very proud of you," Alexia says," And I'm glad that you're enjoying ballet so much."

Your watery little smile back makes Alexia nearly cry herself. "Really, Mami?"

"Of course. I am so proud of my Bambi. You make me proud everyday."

"Are you sure, Mami?"

"Yes. I am very proud of you."

You sniffle a little and duck your head back down to continue painting. It hurts to move your head though. It's all stiff and tight so you have to hold it at an odd angle so you don't cry - though you're not sure if it's because of the pain or the fact that Mami is acting like this is the Before.

The Mami from the Before never got angry when you asked silly questions. The Mama from the Now got angry at you once when you asked a silly questions when Jaume was crying.

You hope that this Mami won't be mad because you ask a silly question.

"Mami," You ask softly, the memory plaguing you ever since your Jenni returned to you," Jenni says she wanted me when I was little. Did you want me?"

Whatever bubble Alexia was in before pops and it's like icy cold water has been dumped on her.

"What do you mean, Bambi?"

"You and Miss Olga wanted Jaume," You say," And my Jenni says she wanted me. Did you want me too?"

"Bambi..." Alexia doesn't want to think about those first few months of having you. The post-partum depression had hit hard and Alexia could do little but deal with yours and hers basic needs.

She had loved you and resented you all at the same time and the guilt had weighed on her for months.

"I always want you."

You shake your head before wincing and returning your head back to its awkward resting position. "But did you want me then? When I was little like Baby Jaume and when I was in your belly?"

Alexia moves from her chair to kneel in front of you. Her hand comes up to cradle you. Either her hands are big or your face is tiny because they cover your entire cheek.

"I love you," Alexia says," You're my Bambi and I've always loved you."

"But did you want me?"

"Bambi..."

"Mami...Mami, I..."

Alexia doesn't want to lie but she also doesn't want to tell you either. There were moments, that first week she found out she was pregnant when she didn't want you. She hadn't been overjoyed at the prospective of you. She hadn't wanted her career to be derailed by something as silly as a child.

She doesn't want to tell you the truth because she knows that it will be damaging to you. You're not old enough to be told things like this. You're not mature enough to be told this kind of information and not have it linger and fester within you for years.

But Alexia's always valued honesty. She doesn't like lying but she had lied to you all your life. She doesn't want to lie again now even if it's about something like this. Adults cannot fault other adults for telling their truth but you are neither an adult nor can you understand what this means for you.

"I want you now," Alexia says instead," I want you when I go to bed every night. I want you when I wake up every morning. I want you when I score a goal and when I win trophies. I want you, Bambi."

You sniffle and scratch more insistently at your skin, your wrists this time.

"I miss you sometimes, Mami," You say," But coming back to your house is scary."

"Thank you for being honest, Bambi. You don't have to come home if you don't want to." Alexia forces down tears. "When I next see you, we should go and see Abuela and we'll explain things to you, okay?"

"Okay, Mami."

"Is your train done?"

Your train actually is done so Mami gives it and her mug to the lady who works there to finish off and you both walk outside.

"They should be done in a few days," Mami tells you," And then when I next see you, I'll give you your new train."

"Okay, Mami." Her hand is in yours and you think that is enough for today, pulling your hand away as Jenni turns the corner and lets you run to her.

"Hey," She laughs, swinging you up into her arms," How did it go? Was it fun?"

You don't answer, burying your face into Jenni's neck.

"I..." Alexia says," I think next time when should go to my Mama's...Conversations are...difficult sometimes."

Jenni nods. "I see," She says," Next week, maybe?"

The words are complete autopilot. Alexia hates what she's said the moment they're out of her mouth but they're completely out of habit and she doesn't even think before she speaks.

"We'll see," She says," I'll have to check my schedule." She clamps her mouth shut the moment she says them. "I mean- No, I meant-"

You look resigned, like you are so used to this that it barely effects you but Jenni looks furious. She hefts you up higher in her arms.

"Say goodbye to your Mami, Bambi."

"Bye, Mami."

"Hey...Wait, no, Jenni. I didn't mean-"

"Bambi needs to have a nap," Jenni says," She takes one right after ballet. We changed her schedule for painting today. I should get her home."

Alexia wilts, slouching her shoulders and curling in on herself. "Adios, Bambi. I love you!"

Jenni is already walking around and you don't offer your own I love you in return.

Jenni's steady steps feel nice as she walks you back to Tia Alba's. Your itchiness increases and you scratch more harshly at your neck.

"Ma-Jenni?"

"Yes, Bambi?"

"Can we have cuddles tonight?"

"Of course we can. I love cuddles with my favourite little girl. Are we having them on the sofa after bathtime or in bed together?"

Before Ma-Jenni came home, you slept with your Tia Alba. Now you sleep in the same bed as Ma-Jenni. She's big and strong and she holds you just right. She doesn't let you go the whole night. You go to sleep in her arms and you wake up in her arms.

"Bed cuddles please."

"I love bed cuddles."

You grin. "I love bed cuddles too!"

You scratch at your neck again and Jenni gently pulls your hand away. She frowns, swiping at your skin with her thumb a few times.

"You've got a bit of a rash there, Bambi," She says," We'll have to keep an eye on that."