#strength without fatigue

[ancientroyalblood]

Grease the Groove Method: How to Incorporate High-Frequency Training for Strength Improvement

The Grease the Groove (GTG) method, popularized by strength coach Pavel Tsatsouline, is a training philosophy focused on building strength and proficiency in specific movements through frequent, submaximal practice. Unlike traditional workout routines that prioritize volume and fatigue, GTG emphasizes repetition and technique, allowing athletes to improve their neuromuscular coordination and gain…

[beatcroc]

pest control TWO!!!!! heres the first one

adn heres the obligatory bonus bc i can't help myself :')

[northgazaupdates]

6-year-old Joan Al-Habil is has been repeatedly hospitalized due to severe gastrointestinal problems and overwhelming fatigue. This poor girl has been to multiple facilities and seen multiple doctors, undergone extensive testing (as extensive as is possible in Gaza's collapsed medical system), even having to endure an unsedated endoscopy.

She has now been diagnosed with severe gastritis due to starvation and hazardous living conditions. Remember, she and her family are living on the streets, which are cold and wet due to winter rain. Homelessness, stress, exposure to the elements, her previous injury when the lOF firebombed her tent, and malnutrition all conspire to sap little Joan of her strength.

Her condition is so serious that she even had to undergo surgery. Gastritis very rarely requires surgery to treat, so this is an indication of how dire her condition is. The surgery was successful to a degree, but she is going to need ongoing treatment to manage her symptoms.

The treatments are administered weekly and cost $500 USD (just under €500 EUR). Her family has no income and cannot afford this. If Joan goes more than a few days without treatment, her symptoms worsen rapidly, and she sometimes has to be hospitalized. It is vital that we help her family procure her treatments so that her condition does not worsen!

You can help Joan get her surgery and treatment by

reblogging this post

copy-pasting this link (https:// gofund.me/85a1b400) in your own Tumblr posts and all across your social media accounts to share her family’s story

boosting posts from her parents @mahafamily1 and @ahmed-family-1

donating to her family’s GFM campaign below

Current: €22,271 EUR

New temporary goal: €22,771 EUR

Need to raise: about €500 EUR ($500 USD)

[compassionmattersmost]

7: Exploring the Lat Pulldown Machine: Gentle Strength Training for Post-Viral ME/CFS

As we continue our mindful approach to exercise with Post-Viral ME/CFS, we’re moving on to one of the most versatile and accessible machines in the gym—the Lat Pulldown Machine. This machine allows for controlled upper body movement and provides a gentle way to engage your back, shoulder, and arm muscles without placing excessive strain on your system. In this post, we’ll walk through how to use…

[gaza-giving-tree]

Imagine walking for miles beneath a merciless sun, each step a battle against exhaustion. The empty water containers in your hands feel heavier with every faltering step, but you press on through rubble-strewn streets, driven by the desperate need to find clean water for your family.

Your vision blurs, dark spots dancing at the edges, and your heart pounds with the effort to stay upright. The heat is suffocating, your limbs tremble with fatigue, but you force yourself forward, refusing to give in. Then, without warning, your strength gives out. Your legs buckle, and you collapse onto the burning earth, dust rising around you as darkness claims your senses.

Images: Ahmed Aldani, a chronically ill teenager from Gaza, is trying to raise money to evacuate and receive medical treatment abroad.

@ahmedaldanigg

@ahmedaldani333

Story written by @rumiandroses

For most in Gaza, each day is a battle for survival—but for fifteen year old Ahmed Aldani, who is chronically ill, the struggle is far more severe. His body is being pushed to its limits by the relentless strain of hunger, pain, and exhaustion. He needs urgent medical care and a chance to escape the nightmare that has become his everyday life.

Image: Ahmed recently reached out to us with an update on his condition.

Every task, no matter how small, has become a struggle for survival. Just a few weeks ago, Ahmed collapsed while walking 3 kilometers (almost 2 miles) to fill water—his body having difficulty sustaining the effort, in desperate need of medical care that, without financial help, is out of reach for Ahmed and his family.

Born amidst conflict, Ahmed has spent all fifteen years of his life enduring the effects of war. The development of his teeth and hair were negatively impacted by toxic gas his mother inhaled during a phosphorus attack while pregnant with him in 2008. The recommended treatment—dental implants—is far beyond his family’s means, with each tooth costing around $1,000. But without treatment, the pain and exhaustion will only worsen.

Images: The development of Ahmed's hair and teeth were impacted by white phosphorus that his mother accidentally inhaled after an occupation attack near the family home in 2008.

Ahmed’s family has been displaced more than seven times in the past ten months, their savings drained just to stay alive. They now live in the southern part of Gaza, jobless and with no access to proper medical care.

This GoFundMe is a lifeline, both for Ahmed’s survival and for his family’s chance to escape Gaza and access the medical treatment he so desperately needs. The goal is to raise $50,000 to cover travel expenses, medical care, and a chance for Ahmed to finally rest, heal, and grow up without pain overshadowing every moment.

Ahmed needs your help—now more than ever. Even the smallest donation can help bring him closer to the care he needs to reclaim his health and his future.

You can donate to Ahmed's GoFundMe campaign [HERE].

Ahmed's campaign has been vetted by @gazavetters, and is (#198) on their list of verified campaigns.

[op1umeyes]

imagine ur bd being out of the picture and your little girl running up to si ☹️🤍

   “Daddy!”

   Simon looked down, eyes wide at the little girl wrapped around his right leg. Johnny eyed him carefully. He was thankful none of the other café patrons paid any mind. “I’m not your daddy, love,” Simon said. He tugged his leg away gently but the strength of a child is hard to match.

     “Annalise, get off that man,” a woman cried. In the blink of an eye, she knelt near Simon’s leg and tugged the child away.

     “Dada!” She shrieked. Annalise’s chubby hands reached out for Simon’s. “Is dada, mama!”

     You shook your head. “I- I’m so sorry, sir. Her dad was in the military. Anna thinks everyone in fatigues is dada… Do you want me to get either of you a coffee to pay you back? I’m truly sorry.”

     Soap discreetly elbowed Simon harshly in the side. “‘M quite alrigh’ lass. Simon, here, would take a coffee if your serious. If you’ll excuse me, I got to go. Bye, little lassie,” the Scot rushed, face lightinf up at the way Annalise giggled as his parting.

     Annalise was still cooing and reaching for Simon. You just shifted her on your hip and rubbed her back. “Simon, yeah?”

     “That’s me, ma’am,” Simon nodded, feeling suddenly extremely exposed without the balaclava he had decided not to wear for one single occasion. “You don’t have to pay me back-“

     “Nonsense. I would feel like a bad person if I just let my kid latch herself onto your left and call you dad and then just swoop her up and leave,” you said, reaching for your wallet before walking over to the ordering counter. “What can I get you?”

     Simon ordered a small of his usual, watching you pull the money from your wallet without glancing at how much it costed. He observed you in that split second- a beautiful baby girl on your hip who thought any man in camo was her dad. So he had been in the service… Simon watched you smile kindly at the teen behind the counter who fumbled for your change. You murmured a quiet, “It’s quite alright, take your time.” A well-mannered, well put-together individual who was also very attractive. Simon knew what Johnny was doing when he left and Simon would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought you were a catch.

     “I seriously appreciate the coffee, ma’am, but it was unnecessary,” Simon said as you tucked your change back and waited for the drink. “As long as the kid’s alrigh’, I don’t need anything in return.”

     You smiled. You smiled at Simon and he swore his cold heart jumped in his chest. Clearly your bright smile disarmed Annalise as much as Simon because she let out a bubbly laugh and put her hands on your cheek. “What if I said I wanted to?” You asked coyly.

     Simon watched Annalise play with a baby hair near your face. “Then I’d say it’d be a cruel thing to tell a gorgeous woman no.”

[cowsabungus]

Art Hacks for Physical Disabilities!!

I know art can be inaccessible to physically disabled people for a lot of reasons, and I think art should be accessible to everyone, so here’s a couple of the things I found to help for a few different issues you may face that stop you participating!

I have a link to all these items (UK) in my link tree!!

IMAGE DESCRIPTION

Slide one: illustration of a white woman with pink hair, wearing a pink outfit, sitting in a power wheelchair, looking at the viewer with thumbs up. Text Reese “hacks to make art more accessible”

Slide two: illustration of three different kinds, using three different types of pencil grips. One hand uses a circular grip. 100 is a large, rectangular grip. Another uses a grip that is ergonomic and fit into the hand. Main text reads “Paul, grip, strength and dexterity”. Subtext reads “there are loads of different types of pencil, grips or design for different disabilities and conditions. Increasing the width of the pencil can give more texture for a better grip using a pencil with a thicker with also reduces the amounts of pressure needed to hold a pencil you can make your own using items like pool noodles. KT tape an air dry clay. You can also put these groups on things like paint brushes.“

Slide three: illustration of a hand using a tool that looks like a wrist support with a paintbrush connected to it text next to it reads “this talk next a paintbrush to your hand in a way that means you don’t need to hold the paintbrush with your fingers and you will need to move your arm around“ on the bottom right hand corner is in photograph of a guided hand device. Text read “regarded hand as a tool designed to reduce the need for moving your hands and fingers and relies on the movement of your shoulder and upper arms and can be used with different materials like paintbrushes, pencils, pens and styluses.

Slide four: main header reads “when in bed“. Illustration of an iPad pillow with a iPad in it is next to text that reads “iPad pillows, put your tablet at an easier to access level when sitting or lying down“. In the bottom left hand corner is an illustration of a girl sitting in bed in her pyjamas with a pillow behind her and a bed table as she is drawing. On the left hand side is a photograph of a bed table with the text reading “bed tables are used to give you a flat tire up surface while in bed, and are often height adjustable”. In the bottom right hand side is a bedsit, a pillow with the text underneath, reading “ bedsitters of specially shaped pillows that you put behind you in bed to help you set up and give you a soft surface to lean back on”.

Slide five: maisie had a read out “at a desk left”. On the left hand side is a photograph of the document holder with the text “document holders put your paper at an angle to help prevent crane in your neck down”. On the right hand, middle side is an illustration of someone using a armrest and on the bottom left hand side is a photograph of the armrest. Text next to them reads “economic arm rests clip onto your table or desk and give you a surface you lean you’re forearms or elbows on. This can be used to steady your arm and reduce pain and fatigue while sitting at a desk”.

Slide six: maisie reads “foot and mouth painters” . on the right hand side is an photograph of swapping Augustine, an Indian woman with no arms, wearing a sari painting with her left foot. In the bottom left hand corner is an illustration of a woman with green hair painting using her mouth. Text reads “foot and mouth painting is a technique used by artists who do not have, or cannot use their arms so hold the paintbrush in their mouth or using their foot. Swapna Augustine is a foot painter who has painted with her feet and participated in multiple exhibitions of foot and mouth painters. Her art is stunning and I would definitely recommend checking some of help work out.“

Slide seven: main text reeds “art without brushes and pens”. On the left-hand side is a photograph of a spin art device. Text next to read it reads “spin out involves using bottles of ink and squirting them onto a spinning piece of paper to create spiral art. On the middle right hand side is a illustration of a laptop with coding art written on the screen. Text me next to it reads “coding art involves making programs that design and create art pieces digitally. This could be used in conjunction with an eye tracking software.“ On the bottom left hand side is a photograph of a child in a power wheelchair with paint on their wheels painting onto a large piece of paper. Next to this is text reading “wheelchair painting involves putting paint on your wheelchair wheels and moving around and large piece of paper. Sometimes you can connect a roller to create more marks.“

Slide eight: text reads “what do you do to make art accessible for you?”

End of ID.

[cressidagrey]

Mr Oblivious

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri is absolutely oblivious to the fact that people try to flirt with him. It drives Lando nuts. Felicity finds it very amusing though. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando Norris had a very simple opinion about Oscar Piastri:

The man was smart, fast, loyal to a fault — And completely, hopelessly, oblivious.

Especially about certain things.

Like, say, the fact that every now and then, some thirsty influencer or overly-friendly interviewer decided they wanted to test their luck around one of McLaren’s golden boys.

Case in point: today.

It was supposed to be a simple media day.

Smile, wave, answer a few questions without accidentally swearing — easy stuff.

And then she showed up.

Some influencer.

Lando didn’t catch her name.

Didn’t want to.

Her outfit was orange enough to suggest she'd Googled "McLaren colors" five minutes before showing up.

 Her laugh was the kind that made Lando want to put himself in an ice bath.

But what really got him was the way she locked eyes on Oscar from the moment she walked into the room.

Like a hawk spotting a particularly delicious rabbit.

And Oscar — sweet, pure, unsuspecting Oscar — stood there politely, posture perfect, nodding like he was about to explain suspension geometry to a cactus.

She sidled up to him with all the grace of a Bond girl in heels, flashing teeth and dimples and Lando could see it coming.

Could see the slow-motion train wreck unfolding with the inevitability of a Ferrari strategy call.

She sidled closer.

Tilted her head. Big fake lashes, even faker laugh.

"So, Oscar," she purred, "looking very fit this season. What's your secret?"

Lando, standing just off to the side, already felt his skin crawl.

Oscar, meanwhile, nodded thoughtfully like she’d asked him about chassis balance.

"Consistency," he said, serious as anything. "And good hydration habits. Also core strength. That’s really important for maintaining control in high G-force corners. I’ve been working with a new strength and conditioning coach. Core engagement and flexibility training. Lots of functional range mobility exercises. Very important for endurance."

Lando nearly dropped the can of Monster Energy he was carrying.

He physically turned away, took a moment to compose himself, and turned back — and she was still going.

She giggled — the kind of giggle Lando associated with botched lip filler and red flags — and twirled her hair like they were in a teen movie from 2004.

"Flexibility, huh?" she said, her voice doing That Thing™. Then winked.

WINKED.

Oscar, God bless him, nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. Critical for cockpit comfort. Limited hip mobility can lead to premature fatigue during longer races."

Lando just stared.

The influencer stared.

Oscar stared earnestly back. Oscar blinked at her with the open innocence of a Labrador Retriever about to explain knee cartilage.

It was like watching someone flirt with a toaster.

And then — then — she tried it.

She went for the kill.

"Well," she said, laughing in a way that definitely wasn't natural, "maybe you could show me some... flexibility exercises later?"

Lando choked on air.

Oscar, bless him, just looked mildly puzzled.

Lando’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oscar thought she wanted workout advice.

Meanwhile, this woman was basically trying to climb him like a tree.

"I mean," Oscar said, frowning thoughtfully, "I guess? If you’re interested in physiotherapy protocols? There's a lot of hip flexor and thoracic mobility involved."

He paused.

"Although," Oscar added very seriously, completely unaware he was standing in a verbal minefield, “you should always get a doctor’s clearance before starting any high-intensity exercise program.”

The influencer blinked.

Lando stared at the heavens.

Why.

Why had the universe given this man a marriage, a child, and a heart of gold, but no flirting radar whatsoever.

Lando was so angry on Oscar’s behalf he actually saw red.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting.

It was the disrespect.

Oscar — who had a wife who fixed racing models better than half the paddock. Oscar — who had a four-year-old daughter who beat engineers at Sudoku. Oscar — who literally carried his entire family in his heart wherever he went.

He wasn’t available.

He wasn’t interested.

And he damn well deserved to have people respect that without needing to tattoo MARRIED. TAKEN. HAS A BUMBLEBEE-OBSESSED DAUGHTER across his forehead.

And then — because clearly the universe wanted to personally test Lando’s self-control — the influencer winked.

Like, full-on, slow-motion, cartoon-style winked at Oscar.

Oscar blinked back, confused.

Then said, very seriously:

"You should also stretch regularly to avoid cramping."

Lando actually made a noise — somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.

The influencer tried to recover, laughing awkwardly, but Oscar had already turned — calm, unfazed — and was politely thanking the PR rep for organizing the media day.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with protective rage.

"Mate," he hissed when Oscar finally wandered off-stage, "you realize she was hitting on you, right?"

Oscar frowned. "Was she?"

"YES," Lando hissed, arms flailing. "She was basically ready to throw herself at you!”

Oscar looked genuinely perplexed.

"But... I’m married."

"YES," Lando repeated, louder, like he was explaining quantum physics to a pigeon. "You are married. You have a kid. You are the dictionary definition of off-limits."

Oscar scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe she didn’t know?"

"She definitely knew," Lando muttered darkly. "You are actually wearing your wedding ring for once and Bee’s little bead bracelet. You might as well walk around holding a sign that says 'I love my wife and daughter more than oxygen.'"

Oscar shrugged, entirely unfazed.

"I mean... it’s true."

Lando stared at him.

Somewhere between admiration and absolute rage.

When they reached the McLaren motorhome, Felicity was there — perched on the couch, Bee asleep with her head on Felicity’s lap, Button the Frog tucked under her tiny arm.

Oscar’s whole face lit up like a sunrise.

He crossed the room without hesitation, dropped a kiss onto Felicity’s hair, and gently stroked Bee’s back.

Felicity smiled up at him, all soft and warm and easy, like they had a language no one else could hear.

Lando stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

Watching how Oscar's whole world just locked into place around them, without hesitation, without second thought.

Yeah.

Let them flirt. Let them try.

Oscar Piastri had everything he needed right here. And he was smart enough — good enough — to never even glance anywhere else.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpill: BREAKING: Influencer tries to flirt with Oscar Piastri.

Oscar responds with “core strength” and “doctor’s clearance.”

Meanwhile, Lando Norris nearly combusts in the background.

[attached: video clip]

@/pitlanechaos: Not Oscar offering that woman a PHYSIOTHERAPY REFERRAL I’m losing it. He thought she wanted professional advice. He’s too pure for this world.

@/felicityfanclub (pinned tweet):

‼️OSCAR PIASTRI IS MARRIED

‼️HE LOVES HIS WIFE

‼️HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER

‼️HE IS OBLIVIOUSLY LOYAL

‼️AND WE ARE HERE TO DEFEND HIS GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY

@/formulawoah: This man said “consult your doctor” instead of realizing she was flirting. He’s not oblivious. He’s loyal at a molecular level.

@/landohmygod: Lando Norris being 1 second away from lunging across the paddock like an angry chihuahua deserves its own Emmy. He was FIGHTING for Oscar’s honor.

@/suspension_nerd: If I was that influencer and Oscar hit me with “thoracic mobility is important” when I was trying to flirt, I would simply evaporate on the spot.

@/gridgossip: This man has a wife who fixes telemetry errors in her sleep, and makes him bento boxes everyday. AND A DAUGHTER WHO BEATS ENGINEERS AT SUDOKU. What did you THINK was going to happen??

@/F1psychology: Watching Oscar Piastri react to flirting like it's a sports injury safety video is the most fascinating psychological case study I’ve ever seen. Also, Lando's visible rage is priceless.

***

Oscar waited until Bee was down for the night.

She’d fallen asleep curled up around Button the Frog, one arm flung dramatically across her pillow like she was staging a nap-themed protest. He’d kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin, switching the night light to its soft pink glow before slipping out of her room on quiet feet.

He figured... if Felicity was going to hate him, she probably shouldn’t have to do it in front of their daughter.

Which was stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

He was sweating, suddenly aware of how clingy the collar of his t-shirt felt. His hands wouldn’t sit still — twitching, tapping, twisting his wedding ring around and around until the skin beneath it burned.

He felt fifteen again. Awkward and uncertain and too full of words he didn’t know how to say.

And then Felicity padded into the living room, hair twisted into a lazy bun, bare feet soft against the floorboards, wearing one of his old McLaren hoodies that hung off her like it still didn’t understand how it ended up lucky enough to be wrapped around her.

She looked soft. Tired. Safe.

She smiled when she saw him, sweet and a little sleepy, like she was expecting him to ask about what tea she wanted or whether he’d remembered to order oat milk.

Oscar nearly chickened out.

Instead, he sat up straighter — awkward and abrupt — and blurted:

"Someone tried to flirt with me today."

Felicity blinked.

Tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised — curious, not alarmed.

"Okay," she said, in the same tone she might use if he told her they were out of clean towels.

Oscar frowned.

"No, like — really tried. At a media thing. In front of cameras."

She just blinked again. Still calm. Still patient.

Still not mad.

Just... waiting.

Oscar swallowed.

"And I didn’t realize it was flirting until Lando nearly had an aneurysm."

That earned him a real laugh — soft, sudden, surprised. The kind of laugh she gave him when Bee said something absurd or when Oscar accidentally fixed something in the kitchen by whacking it with a shoe.

It went straight to his chest.

God, he loved her.

"And I was worried—" he continued, words stumbling out now like they’d been dammed up too long, "I was worried you’d think I was — I don’t know — encouraging it or — or being stupid, or not noticing because I wanted to miss it—"

Felicity crossed the room in three quick steps, not breaking eye contact once.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, slid her legs over his lap like she did every night, and tucked herself against his side like she’d always belonged there.

"You thought I’d be mad," she said, amused, "because some random influencer tried to flirt with you?"

Oscar nodded miserably, guilt still clinging to the back of his throat.

Felicity pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Eyes shining. Smile small and full of something dangerously close to laughter.

"Oscar," she said slowly, "I saw the whole video. You tried to offer her hydration advice."

He groaned, already regretting every decision he’d made since opening his mouth.

"Please don’t remind me."

"You told her to stretch her hip flexors," Felicity said, delighted. "Oscar, you sounded like a yoga instructor trying to scare off a client."

"Bee probably would’ve handled it better," he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Felicity laughed — a real one this time, head back, eyes crinkled, full-body kind of joy.

Oscar melted a little.

She curled closer, arms winding around his waist like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

"I’m not mad, love," she said gently, brushing her nose against his shoulder. "She never stood a chance."

Oscar blinked down at her, stunned. A little breathless.

Felicity grinned up at him.

"You are so... mine, it’s not even funny."

She said it like a joke. She said it like a truth carved in stone.

Both were true.

Oscar let out a long, shaky breath, tension finally bleeding out of his chest.

"I just didn’t want you to think—"

She kissed his cheek, quieting him with the ease of someone who knew every version of him — the champion, the kid from karting, the dad who braided Bee’s hair with frog clips.

"I married you," Felicity whispered. "I know exactly who you are. I trust you with my life. And frankly, if anyone tries to flirt with you again, I might just send them a condolence card."

Oscar laughed, startled and in love and still trying to figure out how he’d ever ended up this lucky.

"And also," Felicity added, smirking like a fox who had absolutely won, "it’s way too funny to be jealous about."

He buried his face into her neck, overwhelmed by the warmth of her, by the sharp edges of her wit and the soft edges of her love.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled, muffled by her skin.

"And you," she said, threading her fingers through his hair like he was something precious, "are very bad at realizing when people want you." A beat. "And your brain is permanently stuck on ‘wife good, daughter best, car fast.���"

Oscar smiled, eyes closed, letting her steady him with nothing more than her heartbeat and her presence.

"You really aren’t mad?" he asked, still half-disbelieving.

Felicity leaned back, just far enough to look at him fully — bright-eyed and ferociously sure.

"Oscar," she said solemnly, "you are the most obliviously loyal man I’ve ever met. If I had to design a loyalty test, it would look like you."

Oscar kissed the curve of her throat, slow and reverent.

"Good thing I only ever wanted you," he murmured.

Felicity’s arms tightened around him, like she could will him into her bones.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Exactly.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Puppy Love.

Pairing: Yandere!Yuuji x Reader x Yandere!Yuuta

Word Count: 2.6k.

TW: Hybrid AU, Puppy!Yuuta, Puppy!Yuuji, Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Somnophilia, Biting, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, and Obsessive Behavior.

You heard Yuuji, first.

 He’d always been the louder of the pair, not that it was a very steep competition. You hadn’t had him for very long, but—well, it was less that he came out of his shell quickly and more that he’d never had a shell at all. It only taken a day or so for him to get used to the idea of living with you and Yuuta full-time, a week for him to start acting like he’d always been a part of your little family, and another month before he started pawing at your bedroom door at night and whining when you reminded him that you preferred to sleep alone (meaning: without multiple two-hundred pound hybrids draped across you). He was energetic, overly friendly, even if you wouldn’t go so far as to call him disobedient or difficult. You figured having a more, for lack of better phrasing, dog-like hybrid in the house would be good for Yuuta, bring out his more instinctive side. In reality, the added stress of an overly hyper roommate had only worked to make him just a little more anxious than he already was, but you still thought it was good for him. If nothing else, Yuuji gave Yuuta something to focus on that wasn’t you, and Yuuta could use more distractions.

But Yuuji, though—He was what you should’ve been focusing on, at the moment. Through the haze of exhaustion, you could hear the door creaking open, the muffled sound of padded feet on carpeting and the tiny, almost inaudible vocalizations Yuuji never seemed to realize anyone else could hear. Soon enough, you felt the foot of the mattress dip as he clambered onto your bed. Any other night, you would’ve forced yourself to sit up and tell him to leave, would’ve called on the dozens of books and hundreds of blogposts you’d read about hybrid obedience training and found the strength to ‘reinforce boundaries despite personal feelings’, but you were tired beyond the point of discipline, and Yuuji didn’t mean any harm. One night of letting him curl up next to you wouldn’t hurt, even if you did make a mental note to show Yuuta some extra affection in the morning – just to keep the scales balanced. For all their many differences, they were both prone to crying favoritism.

You never stirred, but you settled deeper into place, curling into yourself as Yuuji remained at your feet. You might’ve fallen asleep entirely, if Yuuji hadn’t spoken.

His voice was quiet, low, audibly trepidatious. It reminded you of Yuuta’s nervous, stuttering inclination, although not quite as unsteady. “Are you sure it’s alright to…?”

“I am.” You weren’t sure who you expected to answer, but the sound of Yuuta’s voice almost startled you awake. It was normal for Yuuji to bend the rules. Yuuta was supposed to know better. “She’s asleep, right? Just don’t wake her up.”

Yuuji didn’t respond, but you felt the sheets draped over your shift, a warm hand curl around your calf. For as little reassurance as Yuuta had provided, it seemed to be enough for Yuuji.

It was half curiosity and half fatigue that kept you quiet as Yuuji moved around you. Whatever they might’ve been up to, nothing could’ve seemed worse than having to wake up and sacrifice much-needed sleep for the sake of scolding your (usually angelic) pets. At worst, you’d wait until you could catch them in the act or, better yet, grit your teeth and bare it until they left. Anything not to have to deal with this for another eight hours.

You rolled onto your side, twisting your leg out of Yuuji’s hand and letting out a soft groan as you curled into yourself. It wasn’t a subtle position, let alone an inviting one, but Yuuji only whimpered, only edged closer to you. This time, when he touched you, it was to take up your shoulder – his hold gentle and breathing heavy as he nudged you onto your back. Whatever he was doing, he seemed determined to see it through. It might’ve been more admirable, if you hadn’t been so confused.

You felt your sheets pull away from you next, then another hand on your ankle, Yuuji’s rough claws pressing lightly into your skin as his loose grip flexed. You felt him draw your legs apart, and with the corner of your mouth already quirking downward, you started to open your eyes, to sit up and—

Suddenly, you felt something wet and warm press into your cunt, and you stopped moving entirely.

Whatever lingering exhaustion you might’ve felt was swiftly replaced with cold, pointed terror. This time, you forced yourself to hold still, it wasn’t out of confusion or curiosity, but an abrupt and paralyzing fear.

It wasn’t a feeling Yuuji seemed to share. His tongue was already moving across the length of your slit, his drool already soaking into the silk of your panties. He was making those noises, again; deep and throaty, closer to the sounds a prowling animal would make than anything remotely similar to human speech. Both of his hands found their way to your ass, claws biting into the plush flesh as he buried his face in your pussy. He was just as rough with his mouth – his pointed canines ghosting over the inside of your thighs and catching on the material of your panties, his broad togue laving over your covered entrance as if he could taste you through the fabric. It was only when he bowed his head, when the bridge of his flat nose ground against your clit that you started to wonder if he actually could, but forced yourself not to linger on the idea for very long. Thinking about what he was doing, assigning a motive to his actions – that would only make this worse. Thinking at all would only make this worse.

You bit down on the side of your tongue with as much force as you could afford to use, willing yourself to hold still, to not react – a wounded animal, playing dead as to not attract the attention of a predator. You felt Yuuji’s hands shift, calloused fingertips pressing into your thighs, then—

“Stop.”

Yuuta. Wonderful, miraculous, well-behaved Yuuta. You would’ve sighed, if you weren’t holding yourself so stiff. You could hear him moving closer, too – his footsteps feather-light compared to Yuuji’s. You braced yourself to break up a fight (there’d been a few when Yuuji first came home with you, when you first realized that Yuuta had never learned to share), but rather than barking, growling, any of the sounds that came with two animals trying to tear each other apart, there was only rustling fabric, another shift in gravity as Yuuta positioned himself by your side. “Y-you’re doing it wrong,” he stammered, and something deep inside of you seemed to curl up and die. “You have to take her clothes off first. Otherwise, she won’t feel anything.”

It was almost strange, hearing him take charge. In any other context, you might’ve been proud.

Yuuji whined, but obliged. His nails scraped against your hips as he balled his fist around the fabric and tore, making no effort to spare the delicate fabric. The remaining scraps were discarded with just as little care, and before you could fully wrap your mind around what was happening, he was back to lapping at your cunt. With the only barrier between you gone, it felt less like he was trying to eat you out and more like he was trying to eat you alive – his tongue too thick and too long, his hands too big and too prone to groping at whatever was underneath him, the boundless energy you were so used to finding either infinitely adorable or impossibly exasperating sudden not quite as harmless than you’d always considered it to be.

The next time he found your clit, you couldn’t stifle your reactions – little, half-choked whimpers and moans escaping despite your pursed lips. Your hips twitched, and for the first time, you felt Yuuji draw back willingly. He was such a sweet dog. Even with your eyes clenched shut, you could picture him tilting his head to the side, his ears flopping in the same direction and his big, dark eyes going full puppy-dog. Usually, you’d melt at the sight, give him whatever he was asking for and comfort him the best you could, but you didn’t have much comfort to spare, and Yuuta was already answering on your behalf.

“That means she likes it,” he explained, his voice a little quieter, a little more airy than it’d been before. “Keep going, she’ll make more.”

There was a short lapse, passed in silence. For a second, you let yourself believe he’d come to his senses, that he might stop, but it was only for a second. His response was enough to dash any remaining hope you might’ve had. “…will she get louder?”

“Mhm.” And then, with the slightest note of pride, “She does for me, at least.”

And just like that, Yuuji’s head dipped, his mouth latching onto your pussy with a renewed concentration. You willed yourself not to move, not to think, not to do anything that would mean having to open your eyes and acknowledge what was happening, but it was impossible not to feel the heat of his mouth against your cunt, not to let the sounds of saliva and arousal against tongues and skin seep into the back of your mind and tint the pleasure slowly starting to pool at the pit of your stomach with a vicious, sickeningly sweet, nectar-like quality. It wasn’t long before your own pitiful noises were just as difficult to suppress, before your hips were jutting upward involuntarily to meet Yuuji’s mouth, before you could feel a mix of drool and slick and every other ungodly thing pooling on your sheets beneath you. Yuuta shifted beside you, edging close enough for his thigh to press against your arm. “You’re—You’re making a mess, she’ll be mad if—”

His voice cut out abruptly, drowned out by a sudden, bubbling moan from Yuuji. Yuuta tried to catch his attention again to the same result until, finally, there was a low growl. Yuuji yelped has his face was shoved further into the space between your thighs – Yuuta pushing down on the back of his head, as little as you wanted to picture your sweet Yuuta doing something like that – but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his lapping only seemed to get faster, more reckless, more wild. You didn’t want to, no part of you wanted to cum because of your pet’s mouth, but you could feel the pressure mounting, the heat building, the walls of your pussy convulsing around his tongue as you reached your climax.

There was nothing you could do to stop yourself from crying out as you came, any hope you might’ve had of making it through this without letting either Yuuji or Yuuta know how much of it you’d been conscious for immediately abandoned. You tried to make good use of your adrenaline, to shove Yuuji away and run, but he’d always been strong, even for a hybrid, and he didn’t even have to pull away to pin your hips to the mattress and nurse you through your orgasm, his tongue now fucking into you unabashedly. He only stopped when the last of your aftershocks had died out, when it was all you could do to lie limp and mutter all the little ‘no’, ‘stop’, ‘please’s that you’d pictured yourself screaming only seconds ago. Even then, the separation wasn’t made by choice – no, it was Yuuta who finally, finally dragged him off of you. Even through the darkness of your bedroom, you could see his fingers knotted in Yuuji’s untamable hair, his knuckles white and his grip steadfast. By the time he let go, Yuuji’s back was straight and he’d gone surprisingly quiet – his dark eyes glassy and fixed on yours. By the time you could force yourself to look to Yuuta, he wasn’t much better. He was focused on you, too, but he didn’t look quite as dazed, quite as mindless. His lips were parted, but his eyes were narrowed, and he was wearing the expression he’d worn when you first brought Yuuji home, all displaced resentment and palpable betrayal. If you hadn’t known him so well, you might’ve called it anger.

Yuuji broke the silence. He whined sharply, slumping forward and kneading down where his hands were still planted on your hips. You opened your mouth, ready to tell him to get down, to get out, but Yuuta cut in before you had the chance to spit anything out. “Turn her over. It’ll be easier if she’s on her stomach.”

Yuuji didn’t hesitate. You felt his hands on your midriff, and then, you were on your chest, Yuuji’s form hunched over you as he ground something stiff and hot and leaking against your ass. You tried to push yourself up, to get away, but you were barely able to get your knees underneath you before Yuuji’s arms were around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck and his pointed teeth bared against the side of your throat. He didn’t growl, didn’t bite, but you went still regardless. You didn’t think Yuuji would hurt you, but you never would've thought he would do this, either.

Whatever aggression he might’ve felt faded quickly – as soon as he started rutting against your ass. You could feel him panting against your throat, his breath humid and stifling, and his chest pressing into your back. He was too close. He was too much. When he spoke, it was almost deafening, even if you knew it couldn’t be much more than a mumble. “Hurts so bad,” he muttered, as his cock ground uselessly against your ass, your thighs. “Been hurtin’ so bad since you took me home. I was so happy when Yuuta told me you could help, and—and, that you wouldn’t mind, and—”

His voice cut out abruptly as the blunt head of his cock caught on your entrance and, with a cracked whine, thrust into you. There was no time to adjust, to block out – just a sudden heat inside of you and the immediate, overwhelming fullness of his cock battering the walls of your pussy. “Off,” you half cried, half screamed – your voice a jagged, shaking mess. “Get down, stop, get—”

But Yuuji wasn’t listening. His tongue lapped clumsily at your neck as he fucked into in slow, languid thrusts – his hips slamming into your ass with enough force to bruise. You went limp, sobbing openly into your sheets, but Yuuji was strong enough to hold you up on his own, to not have to care what state you were in underneath him. So caught up in your own misery, you didn’t notice Yuuta moving until he was in front of you, until his hand had worked its way underneath your chin and tilted your head back far enough for your tear-clouded gaze to find his. His expression was that same mix of resentment and pity and bitter, bitter anger. Still, when your eyes met his, the corner of his lips quirked up, some of the harsher lines around his eyes fading into nothing.

“I wouldn’t be this rough with you.” His tone was flat, softened. He ran his thumb over your cheek, leaning down just far enough for his lips to brush against the top of your head. “I would be a good mate. You don’t need anyone else.”

Again, he leaned in, slotting his lips against yours with a feather-light sort of gentleness. At the same time, you heard Yuuji moan, felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, and started to wish you couldn’t feel anything at all.

[cyberclouddream]

Inheritances from Mother

This can also be hidden or suppressed aspects of your mother or key maternal figure.

Aries/Mars in the 12th House

sharp intense gaze with bright eyes; high energy levels or quick metabolism; strong or angular facial features, like prominent cheekbones

impulsiveness or eagerness to take action; competitive streak, or a natural drive to "win" or come first; very direct communication style, often blunt or straightforward

prone to headaches or stress-related tension; strong cardiovascular system; quick recovery from minor injuries or illness

Talents: strong athletic ability; natural leadership skills; starting projects enthusiastically; rallying people together

Mars: hidden injuries or tendencies to ignore signs or stress or fatigue; tend to have sudden bursts of energy followed by exhaustion, benefiting from alone time, repressed anger or competitive spirit

Taurus/Venus in the 12th House

sturdy or well-defined build with natural strength; smooth, often attractive skin; love for physical comforts, like blankets, plush toys, or scented candles

stubbornness and persistence in achieving goals; appreciation for luxury, beauty or sensory pleasure; tendency to take your time, like preferring a steady, relaxed pace

struggles with weight management; sensitive throat or neck, making you prone to colds or allergies; good stamina

Talents: eye for beauty and aesthetics, whether in art or design; culinary skills, particularly at making delicious meals; strong gardening or nurturing abilities

Venus: tendencies towards indulgence or escapism, particularly through food and comfort, which can lead to weight fluctuations or emotional eating

Gemini/Mercury in the 12th House

quick movements and expressive hands; youthful appearance, often look younger than their age; clear, communicative voice, often melodic/musical or chatty

curiosity or thirst for knowledge; "gift of gab", with a tendency to talk a lot, like carrying a conversation for ages without breaking a sweat; restless mind, always jumping from what idea to the next

energetic but may experience anxiety or insomnia; respiratory issues, like allergies or asthma; fast metabolism, tend to keep their weight in check without much effort

Talents: excellent communication skills, both written and verbal; quick adaptability to new situations or environments; talent for storytelling or entertaining others through humor

Mercury: mental restlessness and difficulty expressing feelings; anxiety and overthinking, benefiting from outlets for their thoughts like journaling or talking to friends

Cancer/Moon in the 12th House

round, gentle features or a soft face; sensitive stomach or digestive system; drawn to nostalgic objects, like family heirlooms or photos

deep emotional intuition and empathy; protective instincts, especially toward family or loved ones; moodiness, emotions shift easily

sensitive digestive system, affected by stress or emotions; tendency to hold onto water weight, making hydration important; strong immune system but may feel physically off when emotionally drained

Talents: great at understanding emotions; good intuitive abilities; nurturing skills, whether in caregiving or teaching; strong artistic talents, especially in visual arts or music

Moon: strong connection to your subconscious; strong emotional sensitivity; fluctuating moods or struggles with boundaries

Leo/Sun in the 12th House

thick, voluminous hair that draws attention; strong, upright posture with natural confidence; eye-catching personal style, with a tendency towards bold colors or statement pieces

need for recognition or acknowledgement; big-hearted and generous nature, often giving freely to those they care about; natural leadership qualities, with a tendency to step into authority or inspire others

tend to recover quickly from ailments; prone to heart-related issues, if they don’t manage stress well; high energy levels, benefiting from activities like dancing or sports

Talents: charismatic or performance skills, whether in acting or music; creative talents, particularly in theater or visual arts; strong leadership abilities that motivate and uplift others

Sun: struggles with self-identity and recognition, leading to feelings of insecurity; may experience burnout from needing constant validation, which impacts their mental health and energy levels

Virgo/Mercury in the 12th House

clear, glowing skin due to focus on health and cleanliness; precise, meticulous hand movements or gestures (type to fold a fitted sheet perfectly); good physical health, with a focus on taking care of themselves

always noticing small things or obsessed with details in some way (may ask questions often); analytical thinkers, love to solve problems and make sense of things; super organized, their space tends to be tidy and efficient

health conscious, often focusing on nutrition and wellness; prone to digestive issues due to stress levels or perfectionism; good overall health but may struggle with anxiety or overthinking

Talents: exceptional organizational skills and attention to detail; analytical abilities, particularly in problem-solving or research; talents in health and wellness, whether through fitness or nutrition

Mercury: perfectionism or overcritical thoughts, potentially resulting in anxiety or health issues; difficulty in recognizing own needs

Libra/Venus in the 12th House

symmetrical facial features or well-balanced appearance; graceful movements, often with a sense of poise; knack for fashion, good at stylish or coordinated outfits

diplomatic nature, tends to see all sides; people-pleasing tendencies; love for aesthetics, beauty, and creating balance

prone to stress-related issues, especially when dealing with conflict; strong skin and overall health but may need to watch their weight; social activities often promote your overall wellbeing

Talents: diplomatic skills and ability to meditate conflicts; aesthetic talents, particularly in design or fashion; creative writing skills, especially in poetry or romantic themes

Venus: people-pleasing behaviors that mask your own needs; tendencies to be stressed or anxious in relationships (romantic, platonic, domestic)

Scorpio/Mars/Pluto in the 12th House

intense, piercing eyes that seem to “see through” people; strong physical endurance or resilience; drawn to dark or mysterious objects, like amulets or crystals

super passionate, going all in on what they love; inquisitive nature, having a knack for uncovering hidden truths; natural air of mystery, keeping people guessing

strong stamina and resilience; prone to emotional stress, which can manifest as physical symptoms; strong immune system, tends to recover well from illness

Talents: ability to understand complex emotional dynamics; talents in investigation, whether in research or detective work; creative expression through deep, impactful storytelling or art

Pluto: struggles with deep-seated fears or hidden emotions, which can manifest as intense psychological experiences

Sagittarius/Jupiter in the 12th House

long legs or a tendency towards an athletic build; strong, healthy liver and digestive system; fondness for travel gear or souvenirs from different places

adventurous spirit, always seeking new experiences; optimistic outlook, with a natural sense of humor; restlessness, always seeking freedom or something new

often need regular physical activity to feel their best; prone to accidents or injuries from their adventurous spirit; good digestion but needs to monitor caffeine intake

Talents: natural teaching abilities, especially in philosophical or cultural subjects; gifted storytelling or public speaking skills that inspire others; athletic talents, particularly in outdoor sports or activities

Jupiter: tendency to seek escapism through travel or adventure; struggles with excessive optimism, leading to disappointment when reality doesn’t match their expectations

Capricorn/Saturn in the 12th House

strong bone structure, often with prominent features; natural resilient, especially to illness; inclination towards classic or timeless objects, like leather wallets or old watches

strong sense of responsibility and duty; practicality and grounded approach to life; discipline and perseverance, often willing to work hard

strong bones; prone to stress-related issues, especially from work; tend to have good long-term health habits, benefiting from routine and discipline

Talents: strong work ethic and determination to achieve goals; natural leadership skills, especially in structured environments; talents in business or finance; particularly in strategic planning

Saturn: feelings of isolation or self-doubt, often related to stress-related health issues; challenges with letting go of control

Aquarius/Saturn/Uranus in the 12th House

unique facial features or unconventional beauty; slim or wiry build, with a tendency towards quick movements; love for tech or quirky objects that showcase their individuality

independent spirit, needing their freedom and space to be themselves; unconventional thinking, often challenging norms; friendly yet somewhat detached in social situations, hard to read sometimes

generally good health, but may experience sudden illnesses due to their busy lifestyle; prone to circulatory issues or cold extremities due to their “unique” physiology

Talents: innovative think and problem-solving abilities; talents in technology, science, or humanitarian efforts; creative expression through unique art forms or performances

Uranus: unconventional thought patterns and a sense of detachment; struggles with feeling misunderstood, which can affect emotional health and relationships

Pisces/Jupiter/Neptune in the 12th House

dreamy, often soft or gentle eyes; sensitive feet or appreciation for comfortable shoes (like therapeutic socks or shoes); drawn to water-related objects or environments, like the beach, rivers, or fountains

highly intuitive and in tune with emotions; imaginative, with a natural artistic or creative flair; empathetic and compassionate, often feeling others’ emotions deeply

sensitive immune system, often catch colds or infections more easily; prone to stress-related issues, especially if they don’t take care of their mental health; tend to escape through food or habits that aren’t always the healthiest

Talents: creative abilities in music, art, or writing that resonates with others; strong intuition and empathetic skills; tend to be good listeners; talents in healing or counseling, particularly in spiritual or holistic practices

Neptune: deep connection to collective unconscious, leading to heightened sensitivity and empathy; struggles with escapism; need to be mindful of their emotional boundaries

[coffeeanddonutscafe]

Astarion’s Hidden Strength — Headcanons part 2

The Switch is Sudden — And Terrifying

One moment, he’s lounging against a tree, half-laughing at Gale’s latest ramble. The next — a twig snaps nearby. His spine straightens. His head tilts unnaturally sharp. And his eyes? Red. Alert. Starving. No transition. Just predator.

The Shift Is Physical. Violent.

His elvish grace no longer looks delicate. It looks lethal. Tav once described it as, “Watching a silk ribbon tighten around someone’s throat.”

His Teeth Click When He’s Agitated

Like a predator baring warning. A little click, jaw twitching. You’ll hear it in the quiet moments before a fight. Tav once heard it and simply muttered, “Oh, he’s gone feral again.”

He Smells Fear

Literally. His nostrils flare. His mouth parts slightly. He can scent it like perfume. Tav once saw him smile — wide, teeth too long — just as a cultist backed away trembling. “Oh yes… you’re ripe.”

Then he steps forward, slow and graceful, and whispers:

“Run.”

After all, the chase is half the pleasure.

He Growls Without Meaning To

Not just in battle. When someone touches Tav without permission. When someone speaks of Cazador. It slips out low in his chest, a growl deep and ancient, not meant for words. Everyone hears it. No one comments.

His Hands Are Always Cold

Not icy. Not corpse-cold. Just… unsettling. Like marble left in shadow. When he touches your wrist, it’s like the blood in your veins pauses for just a second. He likes the contrast — your warmth against his chill.

He Stalks Even in Combat

While others charge, Astarion prowls. Circling. Waiting for the moment a neck is exposed or an enemy is distracted. And then—he pounces. Not a fighter, but a hunter. It’s never messy. It’s swift. He doesn’t brawl — he strikes, like a serpent through lace.

He Watches Like a Beast Studies Prey

He doesn’t just look at you — he studies you. The jugular. The pulse under your jaw. The way your chest rises when you panic. Gale once caught that look and quietly moved behind Lae’zel.

His Smile Is Not Always Human

Sometimes it stretches too wide. Sometimes he smiles with too many teeth.

And when he tilts his head — when he’s deciding whether to toy with you or tear you open — it’s pure predator, wearing lace and lies.

Eyes Like Knives in the Dark

They gleam when he’s fighting. When his blood is up.

When the world slips into slow-motion for him, those red eyes cut through fog and illusion — tracking prey with the patience of something who’s stalked forests longer than you’ve been alive.

They don’t blink. Not when he’s hunting.

When He’s Hungry, His Voice Drops

That usual flirty sarcasm? Gone. Instead, there’s this deep, low thing to his voice — velvet, but tight like it’s being forced through clenched teeth. Astarion doesn’t snap when hungry — he becomes still. Watching. Breathing slow. Every sense on edge. It unsettles even the bravest of the party.

He’s Stronger When He’s Angry

Not many people get to see it, but when he’s truly furious — not playacting, not sarcastic — something ancient floods up from his blood. His voice drops. His muscles tense. He doesn’t roar — he hisses, low and guttural, and the very air feels like it wants to step back.

He Doesn’t Break a Sweat — He Breaks Necks

Literally. No drama, no battle cry. Just movement: quick, quiet, final. There’s a predatory efficiency to it when he stops pretending to be “the pretty one” and shows what vampiric instincts can do.

He Has No Fatigue Like Mortals Do

It takes hours, days even, before he slows. While others sleep or rest, he stays unnaturally still — and when it’s time to move, he’s instantly alert.

It unnerves the others sometimes, especially Karlach, who once joked, “I swear you just power-nap with your eyes open like some kind of murder statue.”

Sometimes He Forgets to Breathe

Hours can pass. Astarion will sit motionless, unreadable, utterly still — not even blinking.

Only when someone speaks too close does he return to himself — with a blink and a hiss, like a cat waking mid-hunt.

……………………………………..

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.

Alright, so here are my Astarion headcanons, everyone! I know he’s technically a spawn, but I love leaning into his full vampiric self.

What really gets me is the contrast between his angelic elven beauty and that feral, beastly vampire side.

It’s like—rawr—my adorable little murder baby has claws and everything. 💖

Here’s a part 1 btw.

Masterlist with my Astarion fics

[bishovapls]

Our Little One - Oh, Malyshka…

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: After an intense night with Wanda and Natasha, you wake feeling off, unsteady, hollow, and unsure why. You push through the day, pretending you're fine, until your roommate sees through it. Recognising the signs, she calls your Dommes in the hopes that they'll fix you before you break entirely.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy kink, Daddy kink, age difference, older WandaNat/younger reader, BDSM, Dom/sub dynamics, Sub Drop, Angst, Smut, Thigh grinding/riding, Cunnilingus, Aftercare.

A/N: This one leans a bit more into the angst, though there’s still plenty of fluff and a couple of smuttier moments too. It picks up right after the last fic, so I’d recommend reading that one first for everything to make sense. Hope you enjoy it, even if it is a bit angsty.

Word Count: 14,549

NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

You’d drifted to sleep nestled between Natasha and Wanda, their bodies pressed close on either side, wrapping around you. Their arms held you firmly, possessively, but there was safety in their strength; warmth bled into your skin with every slow, steady breath against your neck. Last night had been intense, but in all the right ways. 

For the first time, it felt like Natasha had truly let herself be there with you, not just physically, but emotionally. There had been no hesitation in her touch, no flicker of guardedness behind her eyes. Whatever barriers she’d once held between you had crumbled, and in their place was something raw and real, so achingly genuine it made your chest tighten and your pulse stumble. 

The shrill chime of the alarm cut harshly through the quiet, a jarring, mechanical intrusion that snapped the thread of stillness. You flinched at the sound, a small, startled whimper slipping past your lips before you could swallow it. 

Pale light had only just begun to filter through the curtains, casting a faint silver line across the ceiling, and the noise felt like too much, too soon, like the world had rushed in before you were ready. 

Your head was heavy, wrapped in a thick, cottony haze that clung stubbornly to your thoughts. Something felt…off. Not obviously wrong, not in any concrete way, but subtly misaligned, like standing on uneven ground without realising it until your balance tipped. 

There was an ache thrumming low in your body, not the sweet, satisfying soreness you’d expected, but something heavier, almost bruised, as if your muscles had soaked up the night and were now weighed down with its remnants. It lingered just beneath the surface, as if your body was holding something it hadn’t quite processed. 

Natasha stirred beside you almost instantly, silencing the alarm with the effortless swipe of her thumb. Her hand found your shoulder a moment later, fingers brushing over your skin.

Her voice came next, low and coaxing.“Come on, Little One,” she murmured, her lips brushing your temple with featherlight affection.

You let out a soft, muffled groan, curling deeper into the bed as you pressed your face against Wanda’s bare shoulder. “Don’t wanna go…” You whispered, the words blurred by sleep and something softer, something vulnerable. Your limbs felt leaden, your body slack with fatigue. 

Natasha chuckled, warm and indulgent, her breath brushing over your ear. “You don’t get to skip college just because you decided to be a brat,” she teased, in that playfully stern tone, the one that usually made your stomach flip. 

The word brat echoed, too loud inside your skull, like it hit the wrong place and reverberated. You whimpered, more a breath than a sound, and curled tighter against Wanda, the protest slipping from your lips without thought. “But my butt hurts…” You mumbled, eyes still shut, hoping that if you stayed still enough, they might let you stay a little longer. 

Natasha laughed again, smugness threaded through her tone. “Good,” she replied lightly. “Then you’ll spend the day remembering exactly what you did wrong.” 

It was meant to be playful. It was meant to tease. But the words caught unexpectedly in your chest, snagging on something tender you hadn’t realised was raw. 

Wanda shifted beside you, still wrapped in sleep, and reached out blindly. Her fingers found your hip and rubbed soft, rhythmic circles into your skin, a touch so gentle it made your throat tighten.

“Baby… you need to go to class,” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep but soft with concern. “Just one more day, and then it’s the weekend. You can come right back here tonight, okay?” She said it like she knew, somehow, that the idea of leaving was hitting harder than it should. 

You clung to her like a lifeline, your voice a hushed plea against her skin. “Please, Wands… please just let me stay…” The words came out too bare, too real, stripped of any playful veneer. 

She shook her head slowly. “No, baby… college is important,” she said gently. Her hand pressed lightly to your side, then, easing you back a little, not forceful, not unkind, but firm. And it landed wrong. You needed closeness, not space. You needed to be held tighter, not nudged away. 

Why doesn’t she want me? The thought broke across your mind sharp and fast, instinctive. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t true. But it stuck. 

Without thinking, you moved, climbing on top of her in a single motion, guided more by instinct than clarity. Your lips found hers with a desperation that surprised even you, a hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with that strange feeling flowing through you. 

Wanda responded instantly, kissing you back with a soft sound that vibrated against your lips. You heard Natasha slipping out of bed and her footsteps as she left the room, but it barely registered, not when Wanda was kissing you like this, warm and open and drowsy. 

You deepened the kiss, searching for something, anything that might anchor you. Your body still felt too sore, too sluggish, your limbs aching in a way that made movement feel effortful. 

But you didn’t care, not when Wanda’s leg shifted beneath you, slotting between yours. Instead, you ground down against her without thinking, chasing friction you hoped might quiet the unsettled feeling buzzing beneath your skin. 

Small, breathy moans escaped from your throat, Wanda groaning softly in return… but it felt off. Just slightly. Just enough to make the moment feel untethered. Still, you kept moving, chasing something you couldn’t define.

Wanda’s arms wrapped around you, slow and easy, her fingertips dragging down your spine before she kissed you again. “Mmm… needy girl,” she whispered against your mouth, affection humming beneath the words. 

You didn’t answer, just pressed closer, burying your face in the hollow of her neck as your hips moved with a growing urgency, not driven by desire, but by a deeper, restless need to feel something real, something that told you she still wanted you.

Her hands settled on your waist, neither urging nor holding back, just steady and warm against your skin. “You’re worked up this morning, aren’t you?” she whispered, nuzzling your cheek with a tenderness that almost made your heart catch. 

You nodded quickly, eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let her see what might flicker there if you opened them. You weren’t, not really, not like that. But you weren’t about to let it show. You didn’t want questions. You just wanted to melt into her touch, to close the growing distance your mind was creating and twisting into something far larger than it had any right to be.

You kept moving, chasing a release that refused to come. Your body trembled, not from pleasure, but from effort. Each motion made your muscles burn, your thighs twitching from the strain. Your breath hitched again, chest drawing tight around something you didn’t understand, the edge of panic disguised as need. 

As if she sensed it, maybe in the sharp hitch of your breath, or the desperate edge threaded through every movement, Wanda shifted, her hands rising to cradle your face with careful tenderness, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. 

She kissed you again, slower this time, almost searching, and then drew back just enough to truly see you, her eyes scanning your face with quiet intent. Her gaze was soft, but steady. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, the words a whisper wrapped in care, “what’s going on?” 

You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “N…nothing,” you mumbled, the words tripping clumsily off your tongue. “Just… wanted you.” And it was true. You did. You just didn’t know why it felt so desperate, like you needed to crawl beneath her skin just to feel close enough.

She studied you, her brow creased with concern. “You remember the rule, Little One?” she asked gently, the warmth in her voice never fading, even as her tone edged into something firmer. “You tell us when something’s bothering you.” 

“I know,” you said quickly, gaze dropping to the sheets. “I’m fine, though.” Before she could say anything else, you moved, slipping off of her with effort, your body slow to respond. “Just sore, I guess. From last night.” 

You tried to smile, something easy and dismissive, something that might make her believe you. But it felt wrong on your face, like a mask slipping.

Wanda watched you quietly, her eyes unreadable, and you could feel the silence stretch as she weighed whether or not to press. Whether to call your bluff.

You moved towards the door, but it swung open just as you reached for it, revealing Natasha fresh from the shower, a towel casually draped around her neck. Her eyes locked onto you, and the tight set of her jaw made your heart sink instantly.

“I see Wanda finally grew a backbone and told you to stop being a bad girl?” Her voice was sharp this time, no trace of teasing, only something colder. 

You flinched, lowering your gaze as the weight of her words settled heavily over you. Bad girl.  Regret twisted in your chest, you knew you deserved the reprimand, but it didn’t soften the sting.

Natasha’s brow creased deeper at your silence; she clearly expected some sort of response, but Wanda stepped in quietly, her tone steady and calm, not defensive but filled with certainty. “She stopped of her own accord,” she said softly. “She just needed me for a moment, didn’t you, baby?” 

You nodded, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m sorry. I’ll get ready quickly, we won’t be late.” Your words felt flat, strained to sound firm rather than pleading, even though every fibre of your body wanted to beg for mercy. 

Natasha huffed, then nodded briskly. “Good. Off you go.”

You padded into the bathroom, feet pressing against the cold tile that usually felt crisp and clean but now felt oddly stark beneath your soles. Your reflection blinked back at you from the mirror, eyes a little dull, lips pressed into something caught between a pout and a frown. 

Everything you needed was here. Though you usually avoided staying over the night before early lectures, on the days when your timetable allowed a later start, you’d begun staying more often. 

Of course, they’d gone out of their way to make sure you had everything you might need, and it was all top quality. They hadn’t skimped on the shampoo, body wash, or even the huge bottle of your favourite perfume.

As you looked around the bathroom, a soft smile tugged at your lips, as it always did when you were reminded of their care. Your toothbrush and skincare were lined up on your designated shelf; your hairbrush was tucked neatly in the drawer just where your fingers instinctively reached for it. The special fluffy towels, reserved only for you, were folded and waiting patiently.

After a quick freshen up, you made your way back to the bedroom to find clothes. The wardrobe in the corner was no longer just theirs; Wanda had slowly filled it with pieces just for you, clothes she’d washed, ironed, and hung with such careful attention that it made your chest ache.

It wasn’t just the space she’d carved out for you; it was the thought woven into every detail. The way your jumpers were folded exactly how you liked, the careful colour order she’d followed without ever needing to ask, the quiet understanding of your routine threaded through every inch of this small, shared world. 

You loved it. You felt wanted, cherished even, as though you were truly part of their home, even if you didn’t live there. But beneath it all, that strange, unnameable ache crept back in, stubborn and elusive. 

Your hand reached for the dark blue jumper, oversized, worn-in, familiar. You tugged it over your head and pulled the sleeves down past your wrists, hiding your hands in the fabric as if the softness might muffle the strange discomfort curling quietly inside you.

The leggings in the drawer were folded just the way you liked, another quiet gesture of care that under normal circumstances might have comforted you. But instead, the ache in your chest only tightened, as if something restless was clawing its way up from beneath your ribs. 

You couldn’t make sense of it. There was no obvious trigger, no sharp spike of anger or deep well of sadness to explain the heaviness pressing against your skin. It was as if your very shape had shifted overnight, leaving you feeling oddly out of place in your own body.

You told yourself over and over again, I’m just tired. Last night was a lot. I’m fine. But the more you tried to steady yourself, the more it slipped through your fingers. That raw, splintering weight in your chest refused to be soothed; it dug in deeper, persistent and unyielding, though you couldn’t name it or understand what it was. It clung to you with a quiet ache, an unseen weight you carried alone.

Still, you forced yourself to keep moving. Once you were ready, Natasha drove you to college, well, as close as she could without attracting too much attention. Her goodbye was quick but familiar, a soft kiss pressed to your cheek, her lips brushing your skin as she murmured with a teasing wink, “You better behave today.” 

You nodded, offering a quiet promise to see her later before slipping out of the car into the cool morning air. You walked quickly, hugging your coat a little tighter around yourself, relieved to have a few minutes alone. 

When you reached your dorm, the silence inside was a small mercy. Kate was nowhere to be seen, and you were grateful; you didn’t have the energy to explain anything, not even the good parts of last night. You just needed your bag, your routine, something simple and familiar to hold onto.

—

The morning sunlight spilled through the lecture hall windows in gentle streaks, golden and indifferent, casting lazy shadows that slid across the scuffed floor as time ambled forward. Somewhere to your left, the professor’s voice began its rhythm, rising and dipping in slow, meaningless waves. 

You reached for your pen to take notes, but your fingers fumbled with it, clumsy and slow, like your hands had forgotten how to follow through. Your movements felt dulled, as if someone had turned down the sharpness of your reflexes, muffling everything. 

The words on the page blurred slightly when you blinked, your lashes heavy, reluctant to lift again. I'm just tired, you told yourself again. You probably needed some caffeine, or maybe just time, time to settle, to find the rhythm of the day.

As time passed, the room began to sharpen around the edges, not in focus, but in pressure. Your jumper felt too heavy, the collar stiff against your neck, the sleeves too close against your skin. Heat prickled at the base of your spine, rose into your cheeks without cause or warning. 

You shifted, searching for ease, but none came. The scrape of chairs, the rustle of papers, the low whine of the fluorescent lights overhead, all of it crowded in, a thousand small things that stacked and scraped and pressed until the noise became sensation. 

You tried not to flinch when someone near you coughed. Tried not to curl further in on yourself when a chair dragged across the floor too fast.

The unease sank further into you, curling tight and unfamiliar, a pressure blooming in your chest, not quite panic, but brushing dangerously close. At some point, the air had turned thinner, harder to pull in, and your body had gone stiff without you realising, like it was bracing for something. 

Everything felt off-kilter; your skin didn’t feel like yours, your clothes hung wrong, and the world itself seemed just slightly out of alignment.

You didn't move when the lecture ended. The room emptied around you, footsteps echoing strangely in your ears, and still you sat there, staring at nothing, wondering why you couldn’t remember what the last hour had been about. 

When your body finally kicked into action, you stood too quickly, and the world wavered, edges pulsing, colours bending into something briefly unnatural. The floor seemed to tilt beneath you, a slow, sickening sway, and you barely managed to catch the edge of the desk, fingers tightening around it to keep from losing your balance. 

Your heart hammered wildly, thudding against your ribs in a rhythm that didn’t feel quite your own. Okay… so maybe not just tired. Maybe it’s a cold, you told yourself, grasping for logic, for something simple. Maybe I'm just getting sick, that would make sense. That would explain this.

Somewhere deep inside, instinct stirred, the quiet, aching urge to call Natasha. Not to follow protocol, not to report an issue like the rules said you should, but for something far softer, far more vulnerable. 

You didn’t want to inform her; you just wanted her. You wanted to hear her voice, to feel the warmth of it steadying you. She was nearby, right here on campus. You could reach her if you really needed to, and god, you did. 

You needed her to comfort you, to tell you everything was alright. You wanted her to call Wanda without you having to say a word, wanted them both to take you home. You wanted soft arms around you, a warm blanket cocooning your body, and Wanda’s quiet humming in your ear while you fell asleep safe in her arms.

But that, more than anything, unsettled you. You weren’t someone who asked for comfort, not when sick. Illness was something you handled silently, something you survived without complaint. That had always been the rule back home: don’t exaggerate, don’t draw attention. Comfort was for people who deserved it, and you never had.

So you buried the thought, forced it into the same corner as all the other things you weren’t supposed to need, and told yourself it was nothing. You adjusted your bag, pulled yourself into something that resembled upright, and stepped outside like the sun wasn’t too sharp, like the air didn’t scrape at your lungs with every inhale.

The walk between buildings felt longer than it should’ve. The path was the same, but your legs dragged as if the ground had turned to wet cement beneath your shoes. You thought the breeze might revive you, shake loose the strange weight pressing down on your spine, but it only made you more aware of how brittle everything had become. 

By the time you reached your next class, you were functioning only by momentum. You dropped into your seat, the motion more collapse than choice, and gave up any pretext of pretending. Your clothes clung wrong, your muscles ached with a fatigue that felt cellular. The background noise of the room blurred into something dull and faraway. It didn’t matter what was being said. You no longer had the room in your head to hold it.

You sat still, anchored only by the pressure of your hands against the desk. The fog in your mind was no longer something creeping; it had taken root, tangled around your thoughts until even the simplest idea felt unreachable. 

You couldn’t remember what it was to feel alert, to feel solid. You just clung to the idea of staying upright, of not giving in to the trembling that had begun to hum quietly under your skin.

And then it was over. Or maybe it wasn’t. You couldn’t tell. You stood at some point. Left, somehow. The world passed in a series of fragmented impressions, faces without meaning, voices without direction. 

Even though you already knew your timetable by heart, you checked your phone again, hoping, begging that something had been cancelled. But no. Everything was still on. Three more classes. The weight of it made your stomach twist sharply, nausea rising as panic slid in behind it. What is wrong with me? The question echoed, sharp and useless. 

Still, your feet kept moving on autopilot, and somehow, without ever really deciding to, you ended up back at your dorm. You’d meant to go to class, you were sure of that, but the moment you pushed open the door and stepped inside, you knew there was no way you were going back out. 

The dorm was quiet when you stepped inside. Kate must still have been in class, and the relief that hit was swift and biting. You hadn’t even noticed how much you’d been dreading the thought of her seeing you like this: fragile, frayed at the edges, barely holding yourself together.

Logic whispered that Kate wouldn’t judge, that she’d probably fuss over you, maybe fuss too much, but care nonetheless. Yet the weight in your chest laughed in the face of reason, already convincing you that you’d look pathetic, like a burden crumbling over nothing at all.

With a sudden, decisive tug, you yanked the curtains shut, cutting the room off from the world in one swift motion before collapsing onto the bed. The covers came up over you like armour, a barrier between you and everything that waited outside those four fragile walls.

Sleep came quickly, if it was truly sleep at all, or perhaps you just slipped into darkness, shut down for a while, but the stillness didn’t bring the usual balm. When you stirred, blinking into the dim, hushed room, the tightness in your chest had deepened, a slow constriction like ice wrapping itself tighter with every breath.

You hated this feeling; you longed for nothing more than to drift back beneath the covers and disappear from the sickness clawing at you. But beneath that desire, something colder had seeped in, darker and more relentless. Your mind was now turning against you, too.

Your thoughts spiralled back to last night, dragging you under again, the deliberate breaking of rules, the provocations, the bratty behaviour until Natasha’s anger had spilled over in the dark park. Wanda’s tired, worried face flickered in your mind, disappointment heavy in her eyes.

And then the cruellest truth wormed inside, twisting tighter than any lash: you hadn’t simply broken a rule. You’d manipulated her, pushed her too far, until Natasha had no choice but to act. You’d dragged both of them from their sleep, selfish enough to demand proof you were wanted, unwilling to wait for dawn, playing the awful part you’d always feared you were.

You folded in tighter, pressing your hands to your stomach as if you could still the relentless churn inside you. Nausea roiled like a storm, and the dull ache beneath your skin flared sharper, the memory of Natasha’s lashes now a vivid burn, her voice echoing: “Good. Then you’ll spend the day remembering what you did wrong.” Because you had done wrong, you had forced her into a moment she wasn’t ready for, something she hadn’t wanted. 

Lying beneath the covers, the weight of those words pressed heavier than any bruise or welt. Your body trembled, not just from exhaustion or pain, but from something deeper, something unravelling your very core. The tightness in your chest tightened further, constricting your breath until only shallow gasps escaped. 

Tears welled suddenly, blurring your vision, warm and unbidden as they traced slow paths down your cheeks. You tried to blink them away, to steady yourself, but the sobs slipped out anyway, soft, broken, shaking the stillness around you. Each breath caught in your throat was a silent plea for forgiveness, for relief, for anything that might quiet the gnawing ache inside.

Your muscles pulsed with aching tightness, a dull throb beneath your skin spreading in waves, relentless and insistent. The nausea returned with fresh force, twisting deep within your belly until your stomach clenched hard. You curled tighter, clutching the sheets, desperate to hold onto something solid, anything that might stop you from slipping entirely into the void.

—

Time slipped away from you like sand through trembling fingers, the hours unravelling into an indistinct blur as you lay motionless, eyes closed, breath shallow and uneven, tears silently soaking into the pillow beneath your cheek. 

The dorm room felt dim and oppressively still, every sound from the outside world muffled as if filtered through a thick fog that dulled your senses, making everything beyond your small bed seem distant and unreal. 

You barely registered the soft click of the door unlocking, only truly noticing when the harsh overhead light flicked on suddenly, stabbing through your closed eyelids like a sharp blade of cold. 

A pained groan escaped your lips as you flinched, jerking the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to shut out the brightness and the weight of the world pressing down on you.

“Uh… what are you doing here?” Kate’s voice was light but edged with surprise, her footsteps careful as they crossed the room. 

You said nothing, only letting out another low, ragged sound, curling inward on yourself, hoping she might take the hint and leave it be.

The mattress shifted beneath her as she sat beside you, and a moment later, you felt the blanket being gently tugged down, exposing your face to the dim glow of the lamp. When you didn’t resist, she chuckled softly, amusement still lacing her voice. “Are you sick?” she teased lightly, her tone affectionate, likely thinking you were just being melodramatic.

But the playful smile faded instantly when her eyes locked on your face. Her brow furrowed deeply, lips parting just slightly, voice dropping into a softer, uncertain tone. “Wait… have you been crying?”

You blinked slowly, lashes heavy and wet, your throat too tight and raw to form words, too exhausted to lie. Silence hung heavy between you, and your quietness spoke volumes.

Kate leaned in a little closer, her expression morphing from confusion to genuine concern. “What happened?” she asked gently.

You turned your head away, burying your face deeper into the pillow as if you could hide the truth in its fabric. She waited patiently, but when you remained silent, her voice grew sharper, quieter, but with an unmistakable edge. “Did things go badly last night? Did they… hurt you?” Her words were deliberate and careful. “I mean really hurt you, not in the good way.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, the sound broken and brittle. “No,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “It was good. I got what I wanted.”

Kate’s brow creased further, puzzled now. “Then… what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m just coming down with something,” you mumbled, the words barely convincing even to yourself. All you really knew was that you felt awful, heavy and off, with no clear reason why. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

She studied you carefully, concern deepening in her eyes. “What kind of sick? I can get you medicine or something.”

You let out a tired sigh, the words dragging from your throat with effort. “The usual stuff. Achy, wiped out, nauseous… just really, really tired.” You hated how weak and pitiful it sounded, even to your own ears. “But it’s nothing serious. I’m not trying to complain.”

She took a measured breath, her voice soft but edged with pointed concern. “Okay… but then why are you here? You’re supposed to be with them today, aren’t you? They should be taking care of you.”

Panic bloomed in your chest, sharp and sudden. Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering as the realisation hit you hard. “Shit,” you breathed, pushing yourself up just a little, weak but urgent. “I forgot. I just… I needed to sleep.”

Kate blinked, alarm clear in her gaze. “Wait, you didn’t tell them you weren’t going?” 

You barely managed a shake of your head, the weight of guilt settling thick and suffocating in your belly, as if it had been poured in like liquid metal, slow, scorching, and impossible to shift.

She leaned forward, brows furrowing in frustration and worry. “You need to call them. They’re probably worried sick.”

Even thinking about it twisted your stomach in knots.. “Don’t wanna,” you muttered, the words barely a whisper, raw with unspoken tears.

Kate’s eyes widened at the brittle crack in your voice; the reality of your fragility hit her like a slap. Without a word, she reached over and picked up your phone from the bedside table. Her fingers moved with quiet confidence; of course, she knew your passcode. 

But her expression shifted the moment the screen lit up. Her brow creased in concern as she scrolled through the flood: unread texts, missed calls, alerts stacking one after another. She stared at it for a second, then glanced over at you, the screen still glowing in her hand. “Shit. They’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon.”

You groaned, shoving your face deeper into the pillow as shame surged hot and biting. You’d silenced your phone during class and never turned it back on. Tossed it aside like it meant nothing, let yourself drift into this thick, numb fog, too tired, too overwhelmed, and now it was just another weight on your chest. First selfish. Now ignorant. Of course you’d messed it up again.

The tears came suddenly, without ceremony, hot and clumsy as they slid down your cheeks. You curled in tighter, voice cracking open like a wound. “I’m such a fucking asshole,” you choked, barely managing the words through the sobs. “I don’t deserve them. I don’t deserve any of it. I—”

“Hey. No. Stop that.” Kate’s voice sliced cleanly through the spiral, firmer now, anchored and calm. Not harsh, but grounded enough to pull you back a step from the edge. She placed your phone back on the table with a soft clunk and leaned back, her eyes steady on you, assessing without judgment. 

For a long moment, she stayed silent, just studying you, her eyes narrowing slightly as the pieces clicked into place. She had far more experience in this world than you did, and the signs were all too familiar. 

Eventually, she let out a quiet, knowing breath and murmured, “Okay… I think I’ve figured out what’s going on.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept breathing like each inhale cost you something.

“I think you’re crashing,” she said gently. “Emotionally. Physically. It’s called a sub drop.”

You blinked. “A what?”

“A sub drop,” she repeated, keeping her voice soft but sure. “During scenes, your brain gets flooded with all these chemicals, and then sometimes, once it settles, your system just… drops. You feel cold, sick, exhausted, guilty, and overwhelmed. Sound familiar?”

You stared at her like she was speaking another language. “No. That’s not what this is. I’m just… tired. And sick. And I hate myself because I should.”

Kate didn’t look away. “No. Your system’s just trying to recalibrate. But while it’s doing that, it can twist things. Make you believe things that barely even make sense rationally.”

You trembled, a fresh tear sliding free before you could stop it. “It’s not in my head,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I messed up. I pushed her into something she didn’t want.”

Kate tilted her head slightly, frowning like you’d said something backwards. “She made a choice,” she said, quiet but firm. “You didn’t make her do anything. She knows her own limits; if she did something, it's because she wanted to.”

You shook your head, lips trembling. “Still doesn’t feel right. I feel like I took advantage.”

“I get that,” she murmured. “And yeah, maybe there’s stuff you’ll want to reflect on with her. But that voice in your head right now? That’s not the truth. That’s the drop talking.”

You didn’t speak. Just buried your face deeper in the pillow, trying to disappear under the weight of it all.

Kate shifted closer again, her hand rubbing slow, grounding circles between your shoulder blades. “This is a classic drop,” she said quietly. “The exhaustion. The shame spiral. The physical crash. You’re not the first to go through it, and you definitely won’t be the last.”

You let out a low, miserable sound. “So, how do I fix it? I feel disgusting. I hate this.”

“You don’t fix it on your own,” she said, warm but honest. “I can remind you that you’re not a bad person, that you are wanted, but I’m not them. They’re the ones in this dynamic with you. You need to let them in.”

Your voice came out like smoke. “I don’t know how to face them. They deserve someone better. A better sub. Someone who doesn’t ruin everything.”

Kate sighed softly, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your forehead. “They’ve been calling all day. That’s not what people do when they want someone else. That’s what people do when they care.”

You sniffled, barely audible. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, just need to sleep. The idea of hearing their voices right now? No thanks.”

Kate let out a dry, sympathetic huff. “Yeah? You think sleeping this off is gonna magically clear the fog? Babe… no.” She stood, scooping your phone up with that same quiet resolve. “I’m calling them.”

You jolted upright, eyes wide. “Kate—”

“Nope,” she interrupted, brisk but kind, eyes meeting yours without flinching. “You need them. That’s part of this dynamic, part of their role. You have to let them help.”

You dropped back into the bed with a helpless groan, but you didn’t stop her. You were too tired. And maybe… just maybe… some part of you wanted to believe she was right. That this didn’t mean the end. That somehow, this could still be okay.

—

As Kate scrolled through your phone, her thumb hovered over the screen, lingering on each message just long enough to read the tone beneath the words. It didn’t take her long to decide who to call. One of them had sent sharp, curt messages: clipped texts that started soft but had begun edging into tight, irritable lines, like she was trying not to show her frustration but couldn’t quite hold it back. 

The other person had an entirely different attitude. There were more messages, for one, far more frequent check-ins and gentle nudges, but it was the tone that did it. Every word radiated warmth, concern. Have you eaten, sweetheart? Where are you? Please just let us know you’re safe. Please, baby. Speak to me? I miss you…

She already knew who you were closer to. But this… this confirmed it. And to be honest, Kate needed that softness, too. She was scared herself. Her thumb hovered above the call button for a second longer than it should have. 

She swallowed. Her chest felt tight. She didn’t know this woman, either of them, but she was stepping into something intimate now, something private and deeply personal. And she wasn’t sure if it was okay, if she was crossing some invisible line.

But then she looked at you again, tucked in on yourself like your own bones were a cage, breathing shallow, eyes glassy and far away, and she knew it didn’t matter. Her discomfort wasn’t the point.

She hit call, and the dial tone barely had time to pulse twice before the line connected, and then a voice burst through, sharp with panic and almost tearful with relief. “Malyshka! (Little One!) Where have you been? You missed your classes, you didn’t come home, we’ve been trying to reach you all day!”

Kate went still. Her stomach flipped. The voice, there was something about it. Not just the accent, though the Eastern European cadence was distinct. It was the rich, almost melodic warmth under the fear. She knew that voice. She was sure of it. But she shoved the thought aside.

“Uh… hi,” she managed, clearing her throat and sitting up straighter as if that might help her sound older, steadier. “I’m her roommate. Kate.”

A pause, brief but heavy. Then the voice returned, quieter now, more cautious. “Kate,” the woman repeated. “She’s told us about you… Where is she? Is she okay?”

“She’s not okay,” Kate said gently. “She’s in a sub drop, it’s bad. I thought someone should know.”

There was a muttered curse in the background, sharp and low, clearly another voice. Someone calmer, more controlled. Then the first woman again, voice muffled now, like she’d turned her head to speak away from the phone. “I knew it. I knew she wasn’t right this morning.”

The calmer voice responded, firm and grounded. “Okay. Follow the plan. We’re going to get her.”

Then the phone was passed, and the new voice took over, measured, level, all business. “Hello. We’re coming to pick her up. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Kate’s entire body locked up. Now that voice wasn't just familiar; she knew it. Her jaw dropped slightly, and for a long beat, she just sat there, stunned, her mind racing to keep up with the impossible realisation.

No. No fucking way.

But there was no mistaking it. Kate’s mouth opened, but the questions caught in her throat before they could form, burning there, unspoken. Because if she was right, then that meant… well, that meant she was going to have to talk to Yelena. And soon.

Still, her voice stayed steady. “Okay.” Then the call ended.

She held the phone in her lap, staring down at the darkened screen like it might blink back with answers. The silence rang in her ears. Her heart was hammering now, not just from nerves but from the sheer implication of what had just happened. She didn’t move until the weight of the room pulled her attention back to the present, and to you.

The moment she’d said they were coming, something in you had gone taut. Locked. Like your whole body had braced for a storm.

Kate turned back to the bed and approached slowly, her steps careful, her movements gentle. She sank onto the mattress beside you again, her hand found your back, and resumed its slow, soothing motion, circling steadily like she was drawing you back from wherever your mind had gone.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, voice a low murmur, “You’re safe. They just want to help you. You’re not in trouble, I promise. You’re just hurting, and they’re coming to take care of you.”

You shook your head hard, eyes squeezed shut, lips trembling. The sob hit your throat like a physical thing, and your voice cracked open around it. “This is just going to make everything worse,” you choked out. “You’re going to see who they are, and that’s another rule I’ve broken. They’re going to hate me, Kate. They’re going to leave me.”

Kate froze. Her hand stilled on your back. She looked at you then, truly looked, her expression open and stricken and utterly unsure. “Hey…” she said quietly. “I mean… I don’t think they’d react that way. But if it helps, I can leave before they get here? I won’t lie, I don’t want to. But if that makes it easier, I’ll go. I don’t want to be the reason this is harder.”

You shook your head again, fresh panic rising. “I… I don’t want to be alone. Not yet. Just until they’re close, okay? But please, don’t be here when they arrive. I can’t…”

Kate blinked, and something in her softened even further. “That’s okay,” she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like, leaving her own room late at night wasn’t a big deal if it meant making you feel safer. “Anything you need, I’ve got you.”

So she stayed. For ten more minutes, she sat beside you and rubbed your back in slow, patient circles, murmuring soft comfort whenever your breathing stuttered. Her presence didn’t fix it, but it anchored you. Held you just enough to keep you from breaking apart entirely.

And when the time came, she left. She slipped out with the same care she’d shown all evening. But just before she did, she paused in the doorway, her hand on the frame, and looked back one last time. Her eyes lingered on you like she didn’t want to leave.

You didn’t look up, but you felt it. And even through the fog and the fear, you tucked it away. You held onto that warmth like a lifeline, a flicker of something kind and undeserved and real.

And you made yourself a quiet promise. You’d do something for her. Something kind. You didn’t know what yet. But you would make this up to her. Somehow.

—

They arrived five minutes after Kate had gone, the door left ajar just as she’d promised. A soft knock announced them, but they didn’t wait for a reply; they slipped inside silently, hoods up, scarves pulled high over their faces. 

They looked like they were about to rob a bank, not rescue their girlfriend, and the sight of them, so cautious, so deliberate, hit you like a punch to the chest.

That was when the guilt surged again, sharp and blinding. Natasha had no business being anywhere near this building, let alone stepping into a student dorm, and the weight of what it would mean if anyone saw her, if anyone recognised her, made your stomach twist. The fear wasn't just for yourself; it was for her career, her reputation.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice trembling, throat raw from crying. It was barely more than a whisper, but it shattered the quiet between you. 

Wanda was on you in an instant, arms wrapping around your crumpled form as if she could hold you together by sheer force of will. She lowered herself onto the bed, cradling you in her lap like something fragile, something she was terrified might break if she moved too fast.

“Oh, Malyshka (Little One)...” She breathed, her voice cracking around the words. She rocked you slowly, like you were a child, as your body curled inwards with a wounded whine.

Natasha hovered nearby, her movements more tentative. She didn’t reach for you immediately, didn’t force her presence into the tender space Wanda had carved out, but the turmoil on her face was impossible to miss. 

She looked like she was fighting something in herself; the desire to help, the uncertainty of her role here, the understanding that you might not want her just now, not after last night.

But she made her choice quietly, steadily. “Pass her to me, moya lyubov' (my love),” she said, her voice soft and gentle, as she held out her arms. 

Wanda didn’t hesitate. She shifted her hold on you, murmuring reassurances even as you let out a soft noise of protest at being moved again. But the second Natasha had you in her strong, steady arms, you felt something inside loosen. You curled against her instinctively, cheek pressed to her chest, drawing in the familiar scent of something that was uniquely her.

“We’re going to take you home, Printsessa (Princess),” she murmured against your hair, kissing your crown like a vow. “We’ll get you through this. I promise.”

While you clung to her, trembling and numb, Wanda moved with quiet efficiency around the room. She packed anything you might not have at their place, things that couldn’t be bought, but would be needed for a weekend of recovery, because that was her plan. 

You weren’t going anywhere until you were okay again, and she was already making sure you’d have everything you might reach for in a moment of panic, if one were to come.

When she finished, she turned to Natasha with a nod. “Let me check the corridor first.”

Natasha dipped her chin in approval and stayed still, holding you carefully, protectively, while Wanda crept to the door. She peeked out like a little scout, glancing left, then right, her body language more comical than covert. 

Any other day, the sight of her doing her best impression of a cartoon meerkat would’ve made you giggle. But you couldn’t even muster a smile.

“All clear,” Wanda said softly, beckoning you both with a quick flick of her fingers. The journey to the car felt like a covert operation. Wanda moved ahead at each hallway junction, checking for witnesses, signalling Natasha forward only when it was safe. 

Natasha carried you the entire way, her arms never faltering, her grip never loosening, not even when you twitched or whimpered or flinched from the pain in your body. Her heart thudded beneath your ear like a steady drumbeat, one of the only things still keeping you tethered to the moment.

By the time you reached the car, your head was spinning. Natasha gently eased you into the back seat, buckling your belt with slow, practised hands, then brushing her knuckles against your cheek. Wanda climbed in beside you, immediately pulling you close again, her hands smoothing over your hair, her lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.

Natasha settled into the driver’s seat, casting one last look at you through the rearview mirror. Her eyes met yours, and something passed between you, grief, guilt, something heavier than any words. Then she turned the key, and the car hummed to life.

They were taking you home. They were taking care of you. Even if you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

—

When you finally got into the house, you didn’t even notice being set down; one moment there were arms around you, and the next, you were standing in the centre of the room like you were frozen in place, like even gravity wasn’t quite sure what to do with you.

Wanda approached first, her footsteps were feather-light across the floor, her presence a warm echo rather than a demand. She reached out with one hand, her fingers grazing the crook of your elbow in the lightest touch, as if she were asking for permission through skin alone. 

“Sweetheart,” she murmured, and her voice was all breath and worry. “Is there something you need right now? Something we can do for you?”

You couldn’t answer, not at first. You just stared at her hand, at the way it rested so delicately against your arm. But all it did was highlight the ache swelling in your chest, sharp and shapeless all at once.

“I don’t know,” you whispered at last, your voice distant, thin, like it didn’t quite belong to you. “I don’t know what I want.”

Wanda only nodded, soft and slow, as she cast a glance toward Natasha, a brief flicker of silent communication between them that spoke volumes. It wasn’t harsh or calculated; it was soft, sure, as if they’d already talked about this moment, planned for it, agreed on how to support you through it. That should have comforted you. 

It should have made you feel safe, held, seen. But instead, it twisted in your chest like a knife.“I shouldn’t be here,” you said suddenly, the words forcing their way out like they had claws.

Natasha moved, her presence quiet and measured as she stopped a few feet in front of you, close enough to feel, not close enough to smother. “Where should you be, then?” she asked, her voice calm, questioning. 

You opened your mouth, trying to find the words, but all that came out was a broken exhale. Your gaze finally lifted to hers, and the moment your eyes met that soft green, something inside you recoiled like it had been caught.

“Not here,” you said again, more forcefully this time. Your voice cracked around the words. “Not with you. I don’t… I don’t deserve to be with you.”

Wanda stepped closer behind you, her hand resting lightly on your back, grounding you without pressure. “You’re exactly where you should be,” she said, her voice steady and gentle.

You shook your head, jaw tightening as you fought to contain the sting rising behind your eyes. “Can I just… can I go to bed, please?” you whispered.

There was a pause. Wanda’s silence wasn’t judgmental, only patient. Then, softly, “Have you eaten?”

You nodded automatically, a knee-jerk lie born of shame, but Wanda didn’t press. She didn’t accuse. She just raised one eyebrow, gentle but expectant, and you felt your chest cave.

Your shoulders curled in tighter. “No,” you admitted, your voice no louder than a breath. “I haven’t. I’m sorry. I know it’s just one more thing I’ve done wrong. One more rule I’ve broken. Another reason to…”

You hesitated, swallowing hard, then forced the rest out like it was something dirty. “Another reason to punish me. That’s fine. You can. Just… not right now, please. I’m sore.”

You said it so softly, almost ashamed of the boundary itself. Like you were half-expecting her to reject it, to remind you that you didn’t get kindness anymore.

Natasha was the one who responded; her voice came faster than expected, sharper with concern than anything else. “You’re sore?” she asked, her brows pulling together as she moved in slowly, like she was trying not to startle you. “Do you want lotion?”

You shook your head. Eyes fixed on the floor. “No. It’s okay. I should be sore. It’s supposed to remind me what I did.” Your throat tightened. “I broke every fucking rule you gave me today. And I—” Your voice cracked again, breath shaking. “I pushed you. I knew I wasn’t enough, and instead of waiting or talking about it, I… I forced you into something you didn't want.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the guilt boiling over now that the dam had burst. “I manipulated you,” you whispered. “And now I’m the one who’s a wreck about it, like I’m the victim. I don’t deserve your care, or your comfort, or any of this.”

Natasha’s face twisted, like she was devastated by your words. She didn’t step back this time. Instead, she reached for you, arms slow and open, as though offering the embrace before assuming she was allowed to give it. “Oh, milaya devochka (sweet girl),” she breathed, and her voice was full of something that made your whole chest ache.

You didn’t resist when she pulled you into her arms. You just stood there, stiff and hollow, until her warmth reached you like sunlight filtering through cold glass. Then your body sagged, breath trembling as you melted into her, against every part of you that still thought you shouldn’t.

“Your head is being so cruel to you right now,” she murmured into your hair, her voice low, heartbreakingly steady. “Telling you stories that just aren’t true. You didn’t force me into anything.”

You shook your head against her shoulder, still clinging to the guilt, but her arms only tightened.

“We could’ve talked more. That’s true,” she said, her tone measured, not avoiding the truth but not wielding it like a weapon either. “You reached for me, and I let you. I was right there with you. I wanted it. I wanted you. And you were perfect. You gave us so much. Last night wasn’t a mistake. It was beautiful. You were so good for us.”

Her hand moved slowly over your spine, soothing and repetitive, like she was trying to remind your body what safety felt like. You were trembling still, barely holding yourself upright beneath the storm in your chest.

“I hurt you,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I made you angry... I was so bad. I don’t understand why you’re being kind to me now.” Your mind was screaming that this was some kind of trap, a slow game before the inevitable fallout.

Natasha drew in a slow, steady breath before gently pulling back just enough to lift your chin with two fingers, guiding your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze held nothing but softness, quiet, patient understanding that settled deep in your chest. “I’m being kind because you deserve it. You took your punishment, didn’t you?” she murmured, voice low and steady.

You nodded, your voice barely more than a whisper, “But—” 

“No buts,” she interrupted firmly, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet strength. “You took your punishment, and you are forgiven. That’s the whole point.” She paused, letting the words settle, before continuing, “I’m holding nothing against you.”

Her thumbs glided gently over your cheeks, tenderly wiping away the tears that left quiet trails down your skin. The warmth of her touch settled deep inside you, soothing the ache in your heart. 

“It’s time to stop holding this against yourself, okay?” Her voice softened, rich with gentle compassion. “Please, let us take care of you. I know you feel like you don’t deserve it, but we want to. We choose to.” She leaned in closer, her eyes steady and unwavering. “No matter what your mind tries to tell you, you are still ours. Our good girl. Our malyshka.”

And that was what undid you. The words didn’t just break through your walls; they slipped into the cracks already there, blooming in the hollow space where shame had lived. 

The tears came harder, falling in helpless waves as your body melted against hers, your arms clinging around her middle like the only thing keeping you upright was the feel of her heartbeat against your cheek.

Wanda’s presence slipped in behind you, seamless and warm, her arms circling your waist as she pressed her body flush to your back. Her head tucked against your shoulder, and suddenly you were cradled between them, wrapped in soft voices and steady arms, held like something fragile and precious, like they’d never let you fall again.

They held you like they’d been waiting to do it all day. Held you like they needed it too. Like losing you, even to your own shame, was not an option they’d ever allow.

You’d lost track of time in their arms, the world outside narrowing to the steady rise and fall of their breathing and the quiet warmth of their hands on your skin. Nothing was asked of you, not even words. 

They just held you, swaying gently between silence and soft, grounding murmurs, and somewhere in the stillness, your breathing began to match theirs. The fog didn’t vanish, not completely, but it shifted, softened; no longer a weight dragging you down, just a haze you could float in without fear of drowning.

By the time you spoke, the words came instinctively, tucked beneath the safety they’d built around you, as natural as breathing. You didn’t even register the title until after it was out. “Daddy… can I have some lotion, please?”

Natasha’s breath caught just slightly, and she smiled. Not teasing, not smug, just soft and full of something that looked a lot like love. “Of course you can, Little One,” she said gently, already pulling back enough to get moving.

Wanda pressed a kiss to your cheek before letting go. “I’m going to make something for you to eat, okay? Nothing too heavy, I promise.” You nodded, unable to speak, but the look you gave her was enough, and she kissed your forehead one more time before disappearing into the kitchen.

Natasha guided you with her hand at the small of your back, not possessive, just there, anchoring you. Once upstairs, she helped you undress without a word. When she laid you out on the bed, her touch was reverent, as if handling something sacred.

The lotion was warm when it touched your skin, warmed by her hands first, her fingers spreading it carefully over each mark, over each welt and bruise with a tenderness that made your chest ache more than the pain ever had. 

She took her time, tracing the outline of every lash, checking for broken skin, for anything needing more care. She didn’t speak of what had happened between you. Instead, her voice flowed around you like a current, telling you bits of her day.

There was something about a girl in her seminar who kept interrupting, a passing thought about a book she’d started rereading, an annoyed comment about a faculty meeting that definitely could’ve been an email. 

You barely tracked the words, but that wasn’t the point. She wasn’t speaking to distract you or draw you out. She was simply there, weaving her voice softly into the space around you, like a blanket draped over something raw. 

She filled the quiet not to chase it away, but to keep it safe, to make it gentle. Her presence, her tone, every quiet murmur was a steady refusal to let you slip back into shame for needing her care.

And it worked. The guilt didn’t vanish, not completely, but it quieted, pushed further away by the rhythm of her hands, the warmth of her voice, and the way she kept looking at you like none of this had changed a thing. Like she still wanted you. Like you were still hers.

Eventually, Wanda returned, carrying a plate with some sandwiches and a little spread of fruit, nothing overwhelming. Natasha had just helped you into one of her baggy shirts, soft cotton, worn-in, oversized enough to make you feel hidden.

When Wanda placed the plate carefully on the bed and climbed up beside you, she opened her arms with a soft, “Come on. Daddy got her time with you; let me hold you now, hm?” But her voice was light and coaxing, but not commanding, giving you the option to choose.

You didn’t hesitate. Between Natasha’s care and her words, the haze was settling in again, but not the panicked kind; this one was warm, familiar, the kind you could sink into without fear. The kind that quieted your thoughts and left only them behind. 

You crawled forward on your knees, settling between her legs with your back against her chest, her arms wrapping around you. She tucked her chin into your shoulder, and you felt her sigh into your skin like being close to you eased something in her, too.

But Natasha didn’t drift away. She sat beside you both and picked up a sandwich, breaking off small pieces with deft fingers, holding each bite up to your lips like it was the most natural thing in the world.

This should have been embarrassing. You think it would have been, on any other day. But right now, it was everything. You needed this, needed the gentle dominance, the quiet authority wrapped in care. 

You needed them to show you, not just say, that you were still theirs. Still wanted. Still worth caring for. Of course their Little One needed feeding after a long, hard day. And of course, Daddy would tend to her, bite by bite, while Mommy wrapped her arms around you from behind, holding you steady through the storm.

You took each bite slowly, letting the flavour settle on your tongue. And every time you chewed, every time you swallowed, Wanda murmured soft praise in your ear, kissing your cheek, your temple, her hands stroking lightly up and down your arms as if her touch could soothe every raw edge inside you.

You drifted deeper, but you weren’t breaking anymore; you were floating. Held in warmth and softness, your head felt light, your limbs loose and languid, your breathing slow and steady. 

The haze curled around you like a blanket, quiet and gentle, and you let yourself surrender to it without fear. One of your hands slipped out, reaching blindly for Natasha, asking, wordlessly, for her too.

She didn’t hesitate. The empty plate was set quietly on the bedside table, and then she was there, curling up beside Wanda and pressing close, her fingers lacing with yours while her other hand began stroking slow, soothing lines along your leg. 

You sighed, utterly content, your body melting between them, a soft smile playing on your lips that you didn’t even realise was there until Wanda brushed her nose against your cheek.

“That’s it, sweetheart… good girl,” she whispered, her voice low and full of pride. “Just let us take care of you.”

Their warmth surrounded you completely, and somewhere beneath the safety of it all, Natasha and Wanda began to talk. Their voices were low, not secretive, just quiet so they wouldn’t disturb you, and for a while, you let the words wash over you, barely registering the conversation, until something shifted, and you tuned in.

“See, Nat,” Wanda said, her tone laced with something knowing and just a little smug. “Told you you could do this.”

Natasha let out a small, disbelieving chuckle. “It’s somehow easy with her. I don’t know why…”

That made your brow crease faintly, your head turning just enough to look up at her. “What is?” you asked softly, the haze slowing your words, making them gentle and curious.

Natasha reached over without missing a beat, tracing her thumb over the small furrow in your brow to smooth it away. “I didn’t think I’d be able to support you through this,” she admitted quietly. “That I wouldn’t be soft enough… or kind enough. I was talking to Wanda in the car, even suggested not coming up to the dorm. Letting her be the one to take care of you.”

Your heart gave a soft, startled jolt. “What… what made you change your mind?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, touched with the same vulnerability she’d just shown you.

“Wanda,” Natasha said, glancing over at her with something raw in her eyes. “She talked sense into me. She told me you were already dropping, and that if I wasn’t there, you’d see it as rejection.” She paused. “And I couldn’t… I couldn’t have that. Not when you needed me.”

You gave her a sleepy smile, the kind that came from your chest more than your lips. “I did. I needed you, too, Daddy.”

Her hand squeezed yours, and you felt it, the breath she caught in her throat, the emotion tightening her grip, the way her thumb stopped stroking your knuckles for just a second, like she was holding back something fragile.

Wanda’s voice returned, quiet but firm, like she was grounding the both of you. “You need to trust yourself, Nat. You are soft. You are kind and compassionate. If you weren’t…” She paused deliberately, her eyes catching Natasha’s with that familiar, pointed look, “we wouldn’t be married.”

Natasha let out a rough little laugh, clearly deflecting. “And here I thought it was because I give you great orgasms.”

“That too,” Wanda replied, a grin slipping into her tone, light and affectionate as your breath caught at the thought. 

Then, with a wicked glint in her eye, she turned her attention back to you and wiggled her fingers against your ribs. 

You let out a breathy, startled giggle, the sound slipping out before you could catch it, your body squirming instinctively against Wanda’s hold, but you didn’t pull away, not even a little. You stayed nestled in her arms, entirely hers, even as she grinned down at you with a teasing lilt.

“Little One agrees too,” she murmured, smirking as her fingers paused just shy of tickling again.

A soft whimper left your lips, muffled as you buried your face into the curve of her neck, not in protest, but in shy surrender, your cheeks warming, not just from her teasing, but from the rush of thoughts their words had stirred loose. 

Your mind drifted, too easily, to the two of them together. The way they touched you, the way they pulled you apart with such confidence and care, their voices in your ears, their hands on your skin… and then the thought twisted, deepened, what did they look like when they touched each other?

Your breath caught, lashes fluttering closed, and the image bloomed behind your eyelids. Wanda, beneath Natasha, her confidence melted into gasping pleas, her fingers clutching at the sheets or maybe at Natasha herself. You knew they'd shared that dynamic before, and now, the idea of seeing her so undone, so submissive, sent your pulse skittering.

But then came Natasha. The one who held herself together so tightly, always so measured, so quietly intense. What would she look like, coming undone? Her jaw slack, head tipped back, breath hitching, that perfectly controlled exterior fracturing as pleasure overtook her. 

You hadn’t seen that, not yet. Wanda had came for you, beautifully, her thighs trembling, your name a breathless mantra on her lips as she guided you with her hands in your hair. But Natasha… God.

The thought of it, of witnessing her fall apart, whether by Wanda’s touch or even your own, hit like a tidal wave, thick and consuming. The image unfurled inside you, slow and heavy, heat pooling low in your belly, molten and aching, like you could drown in the sheer want of it.

You whimpered again from the ache that had begun to settle deep in your core, and Wanda heard it. Her lips brushed against your temple, her arms tightening just slightly, possessive and tender all at once.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Wanda murmured, her voice a soft purr against your skin, one hand stroking idly over your stomach now, her fingers tracing slow, soothing shapes that somehow made everything worse, in the best way. 

You shook your head and stayed curled against her, your breath uneven, your body pliant in her arms, but your mind anything but calm. The images kept coming, and you whimpered once more, and Natasha’s hand on your leg stilled. 

“What’s that sound for?” she asked softly, a teasing lilt in her tone but none of the mockery you might have once expected, just affection, interest, that careful thread of dominance that pulled you closer even without touch. 

You shifted a little, turning your face enough to meet Natasha’s eyes briefly before you ducked your head again, cheeks hot, voice small. “Just… thinking about you two,” you whispered, the words nearly lost against her skin.

That made Wanda chuckle quietly, warm and pleased. “Hmm. Were you now?” she purred, her lips brushing your ear, breath making you shiver. “Thinking about what?”

You hesitated, hips twitching just a little without meaning to, and Natasha noticed. Her hand slid higher along your thigh, fingers still light but deliberate now. “Tell us, detka (babe),” she said, “What were you imagining in that pretty head of yours?”

You drew in a trembling breath, your voice so soft it barely formed words. “You… uhm…” You hesitated, swallowed, trying to find the courage to voice it. “You two…I’ve never seen it—” The confession slipped out, cut off, heat flooding your cheeks, blooming in your chest, your entire body flushed with the weight of the image you’d dared to let yourself imagine.

Wanda made a low, approving hum, slow and syrup-sweet, her tone thick with indulgent warmth. “Oh, honey,” she whispered, clearly savouring the crack in your composure, the way you squirmed under the weight of your own imagination. 

“You were picturing us? Me and Daddy…” Her lips brushed your ear, her voice a slow tease. “Was it me beneath her hands, whimpering the way you do when you’re desperate? Or maybe you were imagining Daddy on her back, trembling under my fingers, voice gone, all ragged as she cums for me?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out, just a tiny whine that said more than any sentence could have. Natasha exhaled slowly, her own breath a little uneven now as she whispered, “You really are our perfect little pervert, aren’t you?” 

You nodded slowly, shy but unable to lie, not when they held you like this, when they made the world feel so small and safe. “Yes, Daddy,” you whispered.

Wanda laughed softly, low and pleased, the sound curling around you like warm honey as she pressed another kiss to your cheek. “Good girl,” she purred against your skin, voice rich with affection and something a little darker. “So good. We love knowing what’s going on in that dirty little mind of yours. You want to tell us more?”

Your blush deepened, spreading down your neck. “No…I—” You squirmed, the words tumbling out on a breathy whine, “I wanna see…”

Wanda hummed, the sound almost sympathetic but still firm. “Not today, baby,” she said gently, her arms wrapping around you just a little tighter. “It might stir too much up again, especially if you feel left out.” Her voice was kind, soothing, but final.

“I won’t! I promise I won’t!” you protested with another whine, your thighs squeezing together at the mere thought of seeing them.

Natasha chuckled, her hand still tracing slow, maddening patterns along your thigh, deliberate and knowing. “If you’re a good girl, Printsessa (Princess), we’ll give you your show,” she drawled, her tone a promise. “But not right now.”

You let out a little huff, your bottom lip pushing into a pout. “Fine… but I demand to see you both cum when it happens. I’ve never seen Daddy, it’s only fair.”

That made them both laugh, genuine and warm, and Wanda shook her head. “Demand, hm?” she teased, arching a brow. “Is that what we’re doing now?”

You gave her your most innocent look, wide-eyed and sweet. “Okay… may I request it instead?” you offered, voice soft and sugary, your tone laced with false innocence that didn’t fool either of them.

Wanda’s smile turned indulgent.“You can request anything you like,” she said with a tilt of her head and a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “That’s much better.”

You matched her smirk with one of your own, though yours was softer, shy around the edges. “Then…Can I… request something else in the meantime?” you asked, voice delicate but laced with that familiar yearning.

Wanda arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but still cautious. “You can,” she allowed slowly. “Whether you get it or not… well, that’s another story.”

You hesitated only for a moment before you pushed the words out, breathy and small. “Can… one of you please touch me?”

Wanda paused, her gaze flickering over your face as her hand stilled again over your stomach, her fingers curling protectively. “I don’t know, baby,” she murmured, clearly torn. “You’ve already had a hard day… I don’t want to risk tipping you back into the drop, you seem much better now.”

But Natasha’s voice cut in, low and persuasive, a gentle challenge in her tone. “Oh, come on, Wands,” she said, shifting closer behind you. “She’s already subby, look at her. Might as well make her feel good while she’s there, hm?” Her hand found yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

You nodded quickly, hopeful and eager, eyes wide with trust and heat and that soft, pleading look you knew neither of them could resist.

Wanda sighed again, but it wasn’t frustration, it was the sound of yielding, of care wrapped in quiet worry, her breath catching just a little as her hand resumed its slow descent, gliding lightly over your belly with a softness that made your whole body ache.

“Alright,” she conceded. “But you have to promise… if anything feels wrong, even a little bit, you’ll tell us. Anything at all, baby, okay?”

You nodded quickly. “I will, I promise,” you agreed, your body melting beneath her touch, tension ebbing before she’d even reached your thighs.

“Can you remind me how you tell us to stop, sweetheart?” she asked gently, her palm now resting warm and steady against your thigh.

“Traffic lights,” you breathed, your voice trembling with the growing need, “Red and yellow…”

Wanda gave a little hum of approval. “Good girl. And if you lose your voice?”

“Squeezes… or taps,” you managed, barely getting the words out before a soft whimper followed. “Please…”

You knew it had built fast, but even as it surged, there was no fear laced through it, no warning bells or sharp edges. Just need. Just the ache of too much restless energy and nowhere to place it. And as Wanda’s hand moved slowly, tenderly, you didn’t flinch or freeze; you leaned in.

Instinctively, helplessly, like your body already knew she’d catch you. You knew that this wasn’t recklessness, wasn’t you pushing through something fragile or dangerous. This was surrender, pure and full and safe. 

You were grounded, you were held, and all that charged emotion finally had somewhere to land, soft hands, warm voices, the quiet, steady knowing that they would take it from you, ease it from your limbs, guide you gently back down.

Wanda’s fingers moved inward now, slipping just slightly between your thighs, and your breath hitched, more in anticipation than surprise. She paused, waiting for any flicker of discomfort, any pullback, but there was none. 

Still she couldn’t help but check, even now. “Still okay?” she asked softly, her voice a warm tether wrapped gently around your fraying edges, holding you in the moment, anchoring you to something solid and safe.

You nodded, already breathless, your body arching slightly into her touch as you thanked the gods that Natasha had only given you a t-shirt so that Wanda had easy access. “Yes, Mommy… please,” you whispered, the word barely audible but full of need, of trust, of that quiet ache only they could soothe.

Wanda’s fingers slid slowly through your folds, her touch unhurried. “So wet already…” she murmured, her voice thick with warmth and quiet wonder. “Is all this for Mommy and Daddy?”

You nodded without hesitation, head falling back to rest against her shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as the heat in your belly twisted tighter. There was no shame, no flicker of embarrassment, just the steady hum of safety, of knowing you were exactly where you needed to be.

Her arm wrapped securely around your waist, drawing you in close, and her fingers shifted with intention, finding your clit with that same slow, careful attention that always left you breathless. She circled it gently, reading every reaction, every twitch and shift in your hips.

A quiet gasp slipped from your lips as your body started to squirm, tension building quickly beneath her touch. The need for more, for it to be deeper, fuller, was rising fast, impossible to hide. Your hand reached down blindly, fingers brushing her wrist in silent plea, and Wanda only smiled against your skin.

“Shhh, it’s okay… we’ve got you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple before she used her free hand to tap your thigh. “Open your legs for us, baby?”

You obeyed instinctively, pliant and trusting, and Wanda gently guided your thighs apart, resting them over hers. The new position left you completely open, your legs splayed, your back still pressed tightly to her chest.

You were just catching your breath when you felt Natasha move. She slipped between your open thighs, her hands gliding over your skin. For a moment, you thought she might simply assist, maybe add her fingers to Wanda’s, but then her shoulders eased lower, and your eyes went wide.

“Wait, I…Daddy?” you breathed, shocked and breathless.

She looked up, her expression unguarded, raw in a way that stole the air from your lungs. “Shh… It’s alright, Kotenok (Kitten),” she murmured, brushing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Daddy just wants a taste, okay?”

You blinked, stunned, not because you didn’t want it, but because it was Natasha. Only yesterday she’d been fucking you like a whore, owning you, breaking you apart with ruthless control, and now, here she was, settling herself between your thighs. A tremor ran through you as her mouth touched your inner thigh, then again, closer this time.

“You’re doing so well,” Wanda murmured against your skin, her voice like warm honey, thick with pride. “So beautiful like this… letting us take care of you.”

You couldn’t find the words, only a soft, breathy whimper as Natasha’s warm breath traced over your wet folds, her fingers sliding slowly up your trembling thighs. “Shitttt,” you gasped, your body twitching under her touch, Wanda’s steady hands holding you firm and keeping you open.

Natasha’s tongue was slow, deliberate, savouring every pass, every whimper she drew from your lips. Like Wanda, she was taking her time, devouring you like something sacred, like you were meant to be worshipped.

Wanda’s voice was still in your ear, soft and steady, a constant anchor amidst the flood of sensation. “That’s it, baby… just let it happen. You’re safe… we’ve got you.”

Natasha moaned softly into you, and the sound made your whole body jolt, your fingers clutching at Wanda’s arm where it held you tight. Every stroke of her tongue, every press of her lips sent heat pulsing through your core, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your belly.

Your hips started to move without thinking, rocking gently into her mouth, and Wanda let out the softest laugh, laced with affection. “Is Daddy making you feel good?” she teased as one hand slid up under the borrowed t-shirt, fingers toying with your nipple, tugging and rolling just enough to have your back arching into her. 

The other kept you steady, cradled tight in her lap, her hold protective but unyielding, making it impossible to escape, not that you ever would. You didn’t want to be anywhere else.

You let out a shaky breath, toes curling, your head falling back against Wanda’s shoulder as the waves of sensation threatened to drown you. “Yes. Please… please don’t stop…”

Wanda’s voice came low and sure, brushing over your skin like velvet. “We won’t, baby… not until you cum for us.” Her words made you shiver, the promise sinking into your bones as her lips found the curve of your neck, kissing slowly and deliberately, the warmth of her breath sending another flush of heat coursing through you.

And then Natasha shifted, her shoulders pressing firmer between your thighs, and her tongue plunged deeper, curling just right, dragging a loud, desperate moan from your throat. Your hips jerked, overwhelmed, but Wanda’s arm was already there, holding you still.

Wanda’s hand, which had been playing with your nipple, slipped confidently between your legs. With Natasha’s mouth now focused on your entrance, Wanda took over your clit, circling it with maddening precision. 

Your lips parted in a shaky moan as your thighs tensed again. Wanda smiled against your cheek, and her fingers pressed just a little harder, coaxing a gasp from you, a high, broken sound that made Natasha hum with satisfaction against you.

“You feel her?” Wanda murmured, her voice slow and honey-warm, like it had been steeped in affection. Her lips brushed your temple as she spoke, every word grounding you even as your body trembled in her lap. “She’s shaking for us, Nat.”

A quiet, breathy laugh hummed against your core, and Natasha’s voice followed, lower, rougher. “I feel everything,” she replied, her lips ghosting over your folds like a prayer. “She’s soaked… So wet. Fuck, she’s so soft. So warm.” Her voice dropped further, heat curling through every syllable. “I can’t stop thinking about sinking my cock into her.”

Your whole body jolted, breath catching in your throat as the words rippled through you, not just the words themselves, but the feel of them, pressed against your most sensitive parts. You whimpered, high and broken, fingers digging into Wanda’s thigh like you’d fall apart without something to hold. 

Wanda’s grip on you tightened gently, the arm wrapped around your waist drawing you in just a little closer, almost protective. Her voice was quieter now, but there was no mistaking the authority laced through it. “Not today, Nat. Just us.”

There was a pause, then Natasha exhaled a sigh, half amusement, half surrender. “Mmm… fine. Mommy knows best,” she murmured against you, her tone teasing but without resistance.

Then, without warning, her mouth returned to you, tongue sinking inside again with slow, deliberate hunger that made your thighs twitch and your breath catch. Every stroke, every curl of her tongue deep within you, was a silent vow, an unspoken promise that she would worship you until you had nothing left to give. 

“Fuck, Daddy,” you moaned, caught off guard by one particularly deep, precise curl that struck just the right spot. She responded by returning to that spot again and again, as if learning you, and she truly was.

Wanda’s lips brushed your cheek, her hand sliding up to cradle your breast again, fingers stroking lazy circles around your nipple, her touch comforting and possessive all at once. “You’re doing so well,” she whispered, her voice nearly trembling with pride. “Taking us so perfectly. You’re ours, sweetheart… You don’t have to hold anything back.”

Wanda’s words threaded through you like silk, soothing and commanding, and it was all you could do to nod against her, even as your head lolled back against her shoulder and your thighs trembled, spread wide and gently pinned open by their bodies. 

Natasha explored every flicker of your reaction with patience and devotion, her tongue moving with slow, deliberate confidence, curling and retreating, dragging heat through you like a fuse being lit inch by inch. Every pause was punctuated by a soft kiss pressed to your inner thigh or a hum vibrating against your clit.

Wanda’s fingers traced tender circles over your nipples, occasionally squeezing and tugging, but always gently, just enough to stir the sensation you craved, while her other arm held you steady.

Your hand slid to Natasha’s hair, fingers threading through the silky strands. She groaned softly, the vibration echoing through your core, then pulled back just enough to murmur, her voice husky and reverent, nearly undone by her own need. 

“Fuck, just like that, baby, hold on as tight as you want today.” Her lips brushed the crease of your thigh before nuzzling back into your slick heat. “Take it, Kotenok (Kitten), our perfect girl.”

The praise ignited a deep heat low in your belly, and you let out another helpless sound, hips twitching uncontrollably as your body betrayed how close you already were. Your muscles tensed, every fibre drawn tight like a bowstring, your chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps. 

Natasha’s fingers began to dance around your clit, tracing circles with perfect rhythm as her tongue pressed deep between your folds, as Wanda’s lips found your neck while her own fingers continued their gentle worship of your nipples, it became everything, perfect, overwhelming, unbearably exquisite. They were giving you exactly what you needed, in exactly the way you needed it.

You were ready, so close, but still you held yourself back, trembling with the effort, your whole body aching for release. “Fuck… mmm… so good,” you moaned, voice ragged with need. “Wanna cum, please Daddy? Please, Mommy, please?”

Your nails dug into Wanda’s thigh, lips parting in a silent, desperate plea, but you stayed, holding back, because they hadn’t told you to let go, because they hadn’t given you permission.

Wanda’s voice softened, thick with aching affection. “Oh, Malyshka (Little One), you don’t need permission today. I told you, you don’t have to hold anything back.”

She cupped your jaw gently, her thumb brushing your cheek as her gaze locked onto yours. “Be a good girl and cum for us.”

You nodded, a loud, broken moan rippling from your throat at the permission you’d craved, even though you’d never truly needed it. Your eyes flicked down to Wanda’s lips, silently asking for a kiss.

Wanda saw it and gently tilted your head, capturing your mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. Even with the difficult angle, her tongue slid in immediately, swallowing every broken whine and breathless moan spilling from you. 

You kissed her messily, sloppy and desperate, both of you panting fiercely into each other’s mouths as Wanda and Natasha continued their tender ministrations without pause. The world narrowed to nothing but the heat and pressure building inside you, until finally, with a ragged scream caught deep in your throat, you tumbled over the edge. 

Your body convulsed, shuddering with overwhelming waves of release as your breath hitched and then spilled out in ragged gasps, utterly undone beneath their touch, yet neither Wanda nor Natasha retreated. 

Wanda’s fingers continued their gentle dance over your nipples, coaxing breathy gasps and tiny shivers that rippled through you like silk. Her other hand cupped your cheek with a soft authority, planting tender kisses that sent warmth blooming through your skin. 

Natasha’s mouth moved with reverent care, cleaning up, grounding you in the moment even as your mind floated free. It wasn’t until you began to shift, your grip on Natasha’s hair loosening, that they finally eased back. 

“Too much... so sensitive,” you whispered, surprised by how delicate you felt. Usually, you could take so much more than one release, but today your body had been alight all day, and you simply couldn’t handle it. 

Wanda’s low, amused chuckle drifted over you like a soothing balm. “That’s alright, my sweet girl. We’ll take care of you now, yeah?” she murmured softly, her warm breath brushing against your cheek.

Natasha rose, standing at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were filled with something fierce and proud as she looked down at you. “You were breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking. I can’t believe I waited so long to taste you like that,” she confessed, her voice heavy with affection and awe.

Your cheeks flamed with heat, and you barely managed a shy, “Thank you, Daddy,” your voice small but full of gratitude. 

Natasha’s warm smile lingered a moment longer before she slipped quietly away to the bathroom, leaving you cradled gently in Wanda’s arms. The steady rhythm of Wanda’s heartbeat against your back was a soothing anchor as exhaustion weighed heavily on your limbs and mind. 

When Natasha returned, she knelt beside you with a soft, damp cloth, her movements tender and deliberate. Knowing a proper shower was out of reach tonight, she took it upon herself to care for you the best way she could.

Your body tensed with a soft whimper as the fabric brushed against your overheated, tender skin, but Wanda’s low, calming voice wrapped around you like a warm blanket, easing every flicker of discomfort. 

With gentle, practised hands, they helped you out of the sweat-dampened t-shirt you’d been wearing, your skin still flushed and sensitive, and slid a fresh, oversized shirt of Wanda’s over you. It hung loose and comforting, the fabric soft against your weary body.

One by one, they changed themselves quietly, never once leaving you alone. Each time one slipped away, the other held you closer, whispering sweet reassurances about how perfectly you’d done, how proud they were, and that the other would return soon. Their voices were a soothing balm to your nerves, each word carefully chosen to calm any rising anxiety or lingering vulnerability.

Before long, Natasha brought out the familiar lotion, its cool touch gliding over the welts from yesterday, coaxing ease and relief where your skin still ached. 

Then Wanda handed you a small, nourishing snack and a glass of water, encouraging you gently to eat and drink, knowing how important it was to restore your strength.

Finally, they eased you down into the bed, carefully tucking you between them, just where you loved to be, safe, cherished, and utterly content. Wrapped in their arms, the world outside faded, leaving only warmth, whispered promises, and the quiet certainty that you still belonged.

—

A/N: I really hope you enjoyed this one. I know angst doesn’t always go down as well, but well… I’m an angsty girl at heart. I truly appreciate all your support and love for these fics; every like, reblog, and comment genuinely means the world to me. If there’s anything specific you’d like to see, don’t hesitate to send me an ask or request!

The next part will definitely see Kate and Yelena finally uncovering who the reader’s Dommes are, one way or another. Apologies for any confusion with the order of the parts; I posted the next two sections of this series first, but they take place chronologically after this one, which makes the timeline a bit tangled. So, the “next part” I’m referring to won’t be You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You’re Sorry, which will be in its place on the masterlist until the new part is ready to be slotted in. I’ll also add it here when that happens.

I once again forgot the taglist ahhhhh. @chansawrelier, @Angelicbrats, @Brooklyn-r-dawson, @lizzieolsie216, @godhatesgoodgirls, @libbyofc,

[raevalyntine]

"you're not fine" (sylus x reader hurt/comfort)

AU where you're his second-in-command, angst, yearning (so much yearning), raw confession

You know Sylus better than anyone. And lately… something was wrong.

He didn’t say a word about it, of course. He never did. Sylus had always been a man of silence when it came to his own struggles. His words, when they came, were nothing more than a polished shield, a mask that slipped over his pain. He wore that mask so well that even those closest to him never saw past it. To the rest of the team, he remained the same sharp, relentless commander — calm, cool, invincible. But not to you. Never to you. You knew him better than anyone else ever could.

You saw the cracks. They were small at first, so faint that maybe only someone who had lived and bled beside him for years would notice. His shoulders — once as firm as steel, holding the weight of the world with ease — began to sag, just a little, after every mission. The slight shift in his posture, the exhaustion that clung to him even when the mission had been a success.

The dark crescents beneath his eyes grew sharper with each passing day, a stark contrast to the strength he projected on the outside. You couldn’t ignore the way he was carrying himself. His body had always been the first to give him away, a language of fatigue his mask couldn’t hide. The way he avoided resting, pushing himself until he nearly collapsed, convinced that pushing harder would somehow silence whatever it was that haunted him. And it was obvious to you — even if he refused to acknowledge it — that it was something far worse than just a lack of sleep.

The silence, too. The space between his words was becoming a chasm. He barely spoke unless he absolutely had to. When he did, his voice cracked in ways that no one else seemed to hear, like it was straining against the burden of everything he kept buried deep inside. He sounded like someone choking on words that refused to surface. It was as though the very act of speaking was becoming an effort for him, and you hated it. You hated that he didn’t trust you enough to share the weight with you.

But it was the way he stopped looking at you that shattered something deep inside.

It wasn’t just that he avoided your gaze when you stood in front of him, though that in itself was an ache you couldn’t ignore. No, it was something deeper, more painful. He did look at you — but only when you weren’t looking back. You could feel his eyes on you, heavy, lingering. That stare that held a quiet desperation, like he was memorizing the shape of you, committing every detail to memory, just in case. Just in case what? You didn’t know. But you knew it wasn’t the same look he used to give you, the one full of fire, of mutual understanding, of trust that no words could ever fully describe.

You’d been his partner in everything for so long — his equal, his second in command, his anchor. You had seen him at his worst, and he had seen you at yours. And still, somehow, the two of you had always found a way to keep each other afloat. But now? Now, it felt like you were watching him drown, slowly, painfully, and he wasn’t letting you save him.

You tried to reach out, tried to bridge the distance that was growing between you. But each time, it was like he was shutting you out further, pulling into himself in ways that made your chest ache. You knew he was pushing you away, even if he didn’t want to admit it. But what hurt the most was that he wasn’t even trying to explain why. He was just… silently suffering, as if he was trying to shield you from whatever it was eating him alive. You wanted to tear that mask off, demand he tell you what was wrong, why he was hiding from you, why he was letting himself fall apart without saying a word.

You’d known Sylus long enough to read him better than anyone else ever could. You didn’t just know him — you breathed him. You were the only one who understood him best.

The kind of understanding that didn’t need words, didn’t need explanations. Yours was a bond forged not through grand declarations, but through the unspoken, the in-between moments — the kind born in the dark, where hope was scarce and survival was a daily gamble.

You met him in a place where people were discarded. Where hunger was more common than mercy, and warmth came only from pressed backs in alleyways or flickering fires from trash bins. You had nothing. He had less. But even then — even in that ruin — Sylus carried a kind of fire behind his eyes. Not for himself, but for the chance that maybe you both could make it out.

He broke his bread in half when his stomach hadn’t known fullness in days, and still, without hesitation, offered you the larger piece. You gave him your only jacket when winter bit through your skin, your fingers stiff and blue with cold, but you smiled anyway — because he was warm. You wiped the frost from each other’s lashes in silence, huddled beneath torn roofs and against frozen walls, knowing that if either of you faltered, the other would follow. You weren’t just two stray souls scraping by on the edge of the world.

You were twin embers in the ash — flickering, desperate, but refusing to go out as long as the other still burned. You were survival written in shared breaths and quiet sacrifices. Two halves of a dying flame, stubbornly feeding one another light in a world that never offered any.

You didn’t know what loyalty meant back then, not in the way the world defined it. But you knew what it meant to choose someone. To stay. To fight. To crawl through blood and ash and rot with them and still look at them like they were your only light.

Together, you fought tooth and nail to rise. To build something that no one could take from you again. Onychinus wasn’t just an organization. It was a fortress built from every broken piece of your childhood — yours and his — mortared together by trust and fury and pain.

So when people asked how you worked so well together, they never really understood. They didn’t see that your bond wasn’t tactical — it was existential.

The brush of shoulders in rooms heavy with tension. The shared glances across battlefields that spoke louder than any command. The quiet offered in place of comfort when both of you were too tired to cry.

There were no lies between you — not because you’d made a pact, but because you didn’t need to speak to know.

You could feel it when his breath hitched in the dark. When his hands trembled after a particularly bloody mission. You knew when to press your fingers into his shoulder, grounding him without a word. And he knew when to pull you back before you broke — always before you broke.

You were the only one he let see his weakness, because you were the only one who never saw it as weakness.

You knew him when he was nothing. And he knew you the same.

And that was what made this distance unbearable.

Because the man who once pulled you out of hell was now the one shutting you out of the world you built together.

Sylus had started leaving you out of everything. Missions came and went, and your name was never on the list. At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe even a fluke. But the pattern continued, and each time you questioned it, his excuses grew more polished, more rehearsed. “It’s too dangerous,” he would say, his eyes never meeting yours for more than a fraction of a second. “You need rest.” “We need someone here at base.” Each response wrapped in feigned logic, in those protective tones that only made your stomach twist into knots. They sounded like concern, but you heard the hollow echo beneath them — the way he distanced himself from you with every word, like a quiet wall that had started to rise between you.

And every time he gave one of those excuses, it made you feel smaller. Not because the reasons were bad — no, they were the kind of things a commander would say, the kind of thing he would say to someone he cared about. You hated that he was treating you like someone to protect instead of someone to fight beside. It wasn’t the first time he'd protected you—no, that had been a constant in your partnership, but this… this was different. It wasn’t protection. It was isolation. It was control.

You tried to hide how much it hurt, but you couldn’t. It gnawed at you like a slow ache deep in your chest that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard you buried it behind smiles and reassurances. But it did hurt. Every time Sylus told you to stay behind, it felt like he was taking a part of you with him. Every time he left without you, a jagged piece of your heart stayed behind, waiting for him to return, praying he would come back with nothing worse than a few scrapes.

Because Sylus knew you. He knew you better than anyone else. He knew how much you hated being stuck at base like some fragile doll on a shelf, waiting for orders. Waiting for something to do. He knew how it made you feel useless, how the silence of the empty halls would gnaw at your nerves, making every second drag by with the weight of a thousand missed opportunities. You were a fighter. You weren’t meant to be sidelined. You weren’t meant to wait. Your hands were meant to be bloodied next to his, your voice meant to shout commands beside his in the chaos of battle. But now, he kept you out of the war you built with him. The war you fought together, side by side. It felt like betrayal, even if he didn’t say it out loud. You couldn’t help but wonder: Was it because he didn’t trust you? Or was it something worse — something deeper?

You offered to take missions. Perfectly suited tasks that you could execute better than anyone. You knew you were the best at what you did, and yet, when you volunteered, when you pushed yourself forward, Sylus just brushed you off with that same dismissive tone that cut deeper each time.

“I’ve got it covered,” he said, like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. “Kieran can handle it.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your knuckles white with the effort to stay calm.

“Kieran?” you snapped once, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “I trained Kieran. I know what he’s capable of, but you know I’m better suited for this.”

Sylus didn’t respond. He just… turned away. That was the worst part. The way he just turned his back on you, as though you were a stranger, as though you meant nothing more than the air he breathed in and out without thinking.

The space between you two grew, slowly, like rot setting into the walls of a once-strong fortress. Silent, suffocating, and all-encompassing.

And when he returned from missions— when he was broken, battered beyond recognition, with bruises blooming like dark flowers across his skin, his body limping and bloodied, burned at the edges from the hell of combat — he didn’t come to you. No. He didn’t come to you for solace. He didn’t come to you for the comfort you had always given him, the quiet strength that had been a constant throughout all the chaos. Instead, he retreated into his room without a word, without a glance back at you.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Today, he came back from another mission, one you should’ve been part of. The moment the door swung open, you saw him limping through the entrance, his arm pressed tightly to his side, blood staining his sleeve. The others scattered quietly, glancing between the two of you like they knew something was about to break — something that had been fragile for far too long.

You didn’t wait. You couldn’t.

You were already in his room before he even had the chance to settle. Medical supplies were scattered beside you on the bed. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move — you were still, holding your breath like the world was waiting for something to happen. 

Sylus froze in the doorway, his eyes widening, though his expression quickly shifted into one of guarded indifference. “You shouldn’t be—”

“Sit,” you interrupted, your voice sharp, clipped.

You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t need to. You reached for him, your hand clasping around his wrist, pulling him down onto the bed with a force that left no room for argument. Every movement was precise, surgical — you weren’t sure if it was for him or for you, but it was all you could do to keep from shattering.

Sylus tried to mask the tension with a joke — his last weapon. “You know, kitten, if you wanted me shirtless, you could’ve just—”

“Shut up.”

Your voice left no room for negotiation. He blinked, startled, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he didn’t have anything to say. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy, thick with everything unsaid between you. It pressed down on your chest, your heart beating unevenly as you gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, exposing the bruises, the blood, the deep gash across his ribs.

You didn’t speak. Not a word. You just opened the antiseptic, your hands trembling slightly as you cleaned the wound, the small bottle slipping between your fingers like it didn’t belong in your grasp anymore. Every touch was careful, like he was made of glass, but in reality, it was you who was breaking a little more with each moment that passed.

Sylus flinched, but not from the pain. No, it was from you — from the way your hands were too soft, too cautious, like you were afraid of him. And maybe you were. You were terrified of the distance between you now, the void where the connection you once had used to be.

Your eyes were glassy. You kept your gaze down, refusing to meet his. When your fingers brushed against his skin, the air between you felt charged with a kind of grief you couldn’t name. He could feel it too — how careful you were, how broken you seemed.

“I told you,” he said quietly, his voice distant, like he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to you or to the ghosts that haunted him. “I’m fine.”

And that was it. That simple sentence shattered something inside you. It wasn’t the words — it was the fact that he believed it. That he thought he could lie to you, to himself. You wanted to scream, to tell him everything, but instead, you just stared down at him, feeling your chest tighten with the weight of everything unsaid.

“No, you’re not,” you said, your voice cracking like thunder rolling in from a storm. “Stop lying to me.” The words left your mouth like a plea, but it wasn’t just for him. It was for both of you. For the trust you’d shared, the partnership that had once been everything. Now, it was all slipping away, leaving nothing but echoes of what you’d once been.

Sylus stilled at your words, his eyes darkening as they dropped to the floor. You didn’t wait for him to speak. You couldn’t.

“You’re not fine, Sylus,” you said, your voice shaking as you rose to your feet, pacing like a storm trapped inside a glass cage. “You don’t sleep. You barely eat. You avoid me. You pretend I’m not standing right in front of you.”

He didn’t respond. He just looked away, and that tore you apart in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe.

“You’ve been shutting me out of everything,” you continued, your voice cracking, raw with emotion. “Missions. Planning. Your life. You treat me like I’m breakable. Like I’m not good enough to fight beside you anymore.”

Your words dropped, softer now, wounded and raw, like a cry you couldn’t stifle. “Why?”

Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared at his hands, like he was trying to find an answer that he didn’t have.

“Why won’t you let me in anymore?” you whispered, your heart splintering with every passing second, the quiet desperation in your voice ringing louder than anything you’d said before.

His mouth opened, then closed. No words. Just silence. And in that silence, you realized — this wasn’t just about the missions. It wasn’t about the blood or the bruises or the physical scars he carried. This was about something deeper. Something broken. You had given everything to this man — your heart, your trust, your soul. And now, he was shutting you out like you meant nothing.

You stood, the weight of the moment heavy in the silence between you. But as you turned to leave, as the final thread of tension between you and Sylus seemed to snap, his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His grip was firm, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea. And before you could say anything, before you could pull away, Sylus exhaled, the breath escaping him like a confession he couldn’t keep anymore.

“Because I’m scared.”

The words were soft. Softer than you’d ever heard him sound. And they hit you like a punch to the gut, so unexpectedly, so raw. Sylus, the commander, the leader who had never allowed himself to show weakness, was before you, unraveling in a way you never thought you’d see.

“Scared?” you whispered, your voice trembling, the weight of his admission pressing down on you, suffocating you with its intensity. “Of what?”

Sylus ran a hand through his hair, the action shaky, desperate. His facade, the unbreakable shield he’d carried for so long, was crumbling. “Of losing you,” he said, his voice almost too quiet to hear, like he was afraid the words would shatter everything.

Your heart tightened, a lump rising in your throat. You could feel it — the pain that he was carrying, the weight of it crushing him. 

He spoke again, his voice so soft it felt like it could shatter if it touched the air. “I have these dreams,” he said, his gaze unfocused, as if he were trapped in a place only he could see. “Every night.” He paused, the words slipping from him in a tortured whisper. “You’re with me, but something goes wrong. You’re hurt. You’re screaming, and I’m helpless. I can’t reach you. I can’t pull you back. And then… then you’re gone. You’re still. You don’t move. And when I wake up—” His voice cracked, like he was trying to hold something back, something too painful to say. “I’m terrified that one day… it won’t be a dream.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. You couldn’t find the strength to speak. You just stared at him, the man who had always been so strong, so unshakable — and now, here he was, trembling in front of you, his walls finally crumbling.

“Every day I send people into missions, knowing they might not come back,” he continued, his words coming faster now, his chest heaving like he was suffocating. “But you? You’re not allowed to die. Not you.” His eyes locked onto yours, full of something so heavy it made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. You were trapped in the storm of his vulnerability. “If something ever happened to you… I wouldn’t survive it. There’d be nothing left of me.”

You didn’t know what to say. You stepped closer to him, your heart pounding in your chest as you closed the distance. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands still holding your wrist, as if he were afraid you'd slip away if he let go. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, charged with everything that had been left unsaid between you two. Every moment of unspoken longing, every piece of frustration, every silent confession that had been buried so deep beneath the surface.

Your breath was uneven, your hands trembling as you reached for him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead in a gesture so gentle, it almost felt like a plea. You were about to say something — anything — to break the tension, to make sense of the mess swirling between you both. But the words got caught in your throat before they could leave your lips. And then, before you could even comprehend what was happening, he spoke.

He said it like a prayer. Like a promise. Like something he had been carrying inside of him for so long, it was finally breaking free, no matter how much it terrified him. His voice cracked, raw and desperate, barely above a whisper but impossible to ignore.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion so deep it bled through every syllable. It wasn't just the words—it was the way his entire being seemed to surrender, as though confessing this truth was all he had left. “I love you in a way I can’t explain. In a way that hurts, like my heart is being torn open every time I think about it.” His eyes searched yours, desperately trying to convey everything he couldn’t put into words. “I can’t breathe without you. I can’t think without you. You’ve become so much a part of me, I don’t even know who I am without you. And the thought of losing you...” He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping it together. 

A pained breath escaped him, his voice faltering as the words left him. “You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he murmured, his eyes locking with yours, a trace of admiration mixed with something darker, something raw. “You’re capable of anything. One of my favorite things about you is how you live fully—how you chase what you want, no matter what the world throws at you. It’s beautiful.”

His hand tightened on your wrist, as if afraid you might slip away with the next word. “But I can’t ignore the fear. The fear of losing you... because I don’t know how I’d survive that. I don’t know who I’d be without you.” He closed his eyes, letting the weight of the truth sink in. “I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. I just...” His voice trailed off, the words too heavy to speak any longer. He sighed, a shudder running through his body, and without warning, he dropped his forehead to your stomach, the pressure of his face against you a quiet plea for understanding. His breath was shaky, hot against your skin, and his hands loosened slightly, as if he were afraid of holding on too tightly. His body trembled with each shaky breath, as if the vulnerability he had exposed was more than he could bear.

He stayed there for a long moment, forehead resting against you as if your warmth could soothe the storm inside him. The silence between you was heavy, filled with things unsaid, but there was no need for words now. He had laid himself bare before you, as fragile as he had ever been.

And in that fragile moment, you understood the depth of his love—and the pain it caused him to try to protect you from himself.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Dropping to your knees before him, you reached for him with trembling hands, cupping his face so gently it was as if you were afraid he might break from anything harsher. Your thumbs brushed over the tears streaking down his cheeks, lingering like they had every right to fall there.

His eyes met yours.

God, his eyes.

So raw, so full of grief and love and fear all tangled into one storm of emotion. They searched your face like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t know if this would be the last time.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. Your breath trembled against his skin, your heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could feel it.

“I never needed you to protect me from the world, Sylus,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I just needed you with me.” His lashes fluttered, his brows drawn tight, like your words had struck something too deep to hide. “I know you’re scared,” you breathed. “You’ve always been scared to lose the people you love. But I’m not just someone to protect. I’m someone who wants to choose you, again and again, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

His breath hitched.

“I love you,” you said, and the words didn’t feel like enough—not for everything you carried, for all the sleepless nights and quiet yearning and aching silences.

So you kept going, voice rising with the force of everything you’d buried. “I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you in ways I didn’t know a heart could stretch for. I love you in the quiet, in the chaos, in the parts of you that are rough and sharp and scarred. I love the way you laugh like you don’t deserve to, and the way your eyes go soft when you look at me, even when you’re trying to be strong. I love you when you're brave, when you're breaking, when you're too damn stubborn to let anyone carry the weight with you. I love you, Sylus. Not the fighter. Not the protector. Just... you.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers sliding into his hair as your voice broke. “I love the way you let me be wild, and fearless, and free… and how even when you’re pulling away, I know it’s because you’re trying to protect me. But Sylus… It’s not just you protecting me. I protect you too. My love protects you. You’re not alone in this.”

His lips parted, breath shallow. You saw it—the moment the wall cracked, when everything inside him spilled through the storm in his gaze. He looked down, his shoulders trembling as the tears fell—heavy, unstoppable, and full of everything he'd been holding in.

You slipped your hands under his jaw, guiding him to look up at you. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, holding the kind of love that could wreck you in the most beautiful way.

“You won’t lose me,” you whispered, voice shaking but sure. “Not unless you let go of me. Not unless you keep believing you have to choose between loving me and keeping me safe.” Your hand trembled where it rested against his cheek. “I’m not afraid of what’s out there, Sylus. I’m only afraid of a life where you’re not in it.”

His breath caught. And when he looked at you—really looked at you—it was like something shattered behind his eyes. Like the weight he had been carrying alone for so long cracked under the truth of your words.

You leaned in—slowly, almost reverently—as if one wrong move might shatter the fragile thread holding the moment together. Your heart thundered in your chest, but your touch was tender, deliberate. And when your lips finally met his, it was like the universe held its breath.

His breath hitched sharply against your skin, and for a suspended heartbeat, the world ceased to exist. There was no past, no future—only the present, only him.

His hands shot up to hold you, desperate and trembling, as if anchoring himself to the only thing that made sense anymore. Like if he let go, he’d fall apart.

The kiss wasn’t perfect—but it was everything.

It was soft and aching, raw and real. It was a confession wrapped in silence, a promise sealed in warmth. It was every sleepless night, every lingering glance, every word left unsaid—finally spoken through the trembling press of lips.

It was desperation and devotion, fear and longing, all tangled up in the press of your mouths and the way he whispered your name against your lips like a vow. Fingers threading through hair, breaths stolen between kisses, every touch a promise, every shiver a prayer. He held you like he’d found salvation, and you clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And when he kissed you again—deeper, slower—it wasn’t just hunger. It was history. It was heartache. It was home.

You fell into him like you’d been waiting your whole life to do so, and he caught you like he never planned to let go.

The war inside you both went quiet. The weight you’d carried lifted. And as the world melted into nothing but skin and sighs and shared breath, you didn’t just fall—

You crashed. Into him. Into love. Into everything you’d both been too afraid to reach for.

And that night, it wasn’t the stars or the silence that held you. It was each other. Raw. Real. Unbreakable.

[melercies]

One Bed Trope [Sentinels]

Pairing(s): Two Time, Shedletsky, Chance & Guest 1337

Author's Note: This was particularly inspired by the Tumblr user: cannibal-alien. Please let me know if I mischaracterize anyone. All likes, reposts, and comments are appreciated. :]

For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You don’t know, and frankly, I don’t either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. You’re utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where you’re going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s better than sleeping outside in the cold. 

You couldn’t care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isn’t destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.

Two Time:

The door creaks open slowly, revealing Two Time standing in half-shadow. A dim lantern flickers behind them, casting warped silhouettes across the cabin walls. Their eyes—unreadable, distant—rest on you for a long, heavy pause.

“...You,” they say, voice low and void of emotion. Their gaze flicks toward the smoldering ruin behind you. “I saw smoke. The Spawn warned of fire. It seems they were right again.”

You don’t have the energy to respond. You just blink slowly, face covered in fatigue. For a moment, Two Time doesn’t move—then they step aside wordlessly, allowing you in with a flick of their wrist.

Inside, the room is surprisingly clean, sparse, and symmetrical. Ritualistic symbols etched faintly into the walls and floorboards, most of them likely carved by hand. There’s one bed pushed to the corner, draped in worn blankets that look hand-woven. Nothing else in the room even resembles comfort.

You stare at the bed.

Two Time does too.

They speak softly, almost like prayer: “Two souls. One chamber. May neither wake alone.”

You raise an eyebrow. “There’s only one bed.”

“I know,” they say plainly, as if the arrangement was divine fate.

You expect them to sleep on the floor or make some kind of cultist arrangement on the rug, but instead…”You will take the left side. That is the passive quadrant. I will not cross it. The Spawn does not permit desecration of the boundary.”

Silence.

Until you climb into the bed, not caring anymore, and just wanting to sleep. They follow along and slip under the covers without hesitation and face away from you, posture rigid.

It’s been silent for a long time. Well, this is awkward.

And still, despite everything—the rigid body beside you, the cursed symbols, the heaviness of something long dead—you sleep easier than you expected. Almost protected.

Almost.

Shedletsky:

You knock with the last of your strength.

The door doesn’t so much open as it flies ajar with a creak and a gust of stale air. Shedletsky stands in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, hair unkempt as always. His eyes narrowed immediately.

“You smell like charcoal.”

You’re too tired to care at this point, blinking through the smoke and exhaustion. Shedletsky leans in the doorway, you’re unable to tell if he’s annoyed or impressed.

“Spectre torched your place, huh?”

You nod slowly. That’s all you’ve got in you.

He sighs like a man who’s seen too many disasters and steps aside. “Come on in. Just don’t ruin the rug— it's older than Builderman’s sense of optimism.” 

You step in and the heat hits you like a wall— the cabin’s warm, cluttered in the organized chaos kind of way. Tools. Paper stacks. Some swords. Weird half-assembled contraptions. Bloxy colas. Oh, and of course, a bucket of fried chicken. Classic Shedletsky.

And one bed.

A very small, and you guessed it, a very obvious one-person bed.

You glance at it. So does he.

There’s a pause.

“…Alright, I’ll bite — rock-paper-scissors for who gets it?” he asks with a grin.

You raise a brow. “Dead serious?”

“No, I’m never serious,” he says. “But you look like you’ll collapse over mid-round tomorrow if you sleep outside, so let’s figure something out.”

You groan inwardly, but follow anyway. At this point, dignity means less than not freezing to death. 

He shrugs. “Not my fault that the Spectre decided to cosplay as an arsonist. Spectre’s got beef.” Before he adds in reassurance, “Don’t worry. I won’t make it weird.”

You raise a brow. “You’re literally the reason weird exists.”

He laughs at that—genuine, warm. “Flattering. But seriously. You’re half-dead on your feet. You take the bed. I’ll crash in the corner or something. I’ve slept in worse places. Like under the old spawn tower. During a sword tournament. While it was raining.” 

But you stop him. “Just share. I’m not going to play hero over sleeping arrangements.”

Shedletsky pauses, blinks once, and then smirks. “Alright. But I’m warning you—if I roll over and accidentally kick you in my sleep, that’s on you.”

You climb in first. The bed is warm, the blankets are… surprisingly soft.. You feel the mattress dip as he joins, staying well on his side.

Silence settles. And then, as if he just can’t help himself:

“…You know, you’re lucky it was me. If you’d knocked on Dusekkar’s door, he’d have made you answer a riddle before even letting you breathe.”

You almost laugh.

Almost.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. Just hums something softly—some half-remembered melody from a forgotten Roblox game—as he falls asleep beside you.

For once, the cabin feels safe. No snark, no fire, no killers. Just two survivors resting before another round of hell.

And somehow, with him nearby, it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Sleep tight.”

Despite yourself, you do. Though you’re awoken at 3 a.m. by the sound of Shedletsky mumbling about “sword hitboxes” and his snores.

Chance: 

The knock you give this time is softer. You’re too tired to knock hard, and honestly? You’re half-hoping no one answers.

But the door swings open anyways, almost like it was waiting for you.

Chance stands in the doorway, framed dramatically by the flickering firelight inside. His light grey skin contrasts sharply against the dark of the night, and his back fedora casts a shadow over his headphones and tinted shades. Despite the chaos you’ve all endured, he’s still in his full suit and tie with a couple of wrinkles here and there. There’s curiosity in his eyes as he stares at your form.

“Well, well, well. What brings you here?”

You stare blankly, barely holding yourself upright. “Spectre burned my cabin.”

Chance squints before stepping aside dramatically, gesturing like a showman. “Come in, weary traveler. Lady Luck owes you that much.” 

You’re too tired to comment on how theatrical he is being. The inside of his cabin is…not that surprising. There’s dice, playing chips and cards scattered across a desk nearby while a small collection of fedora hats are sitting neatly nearby. There’s even a dartboard on the wall.

But you’re too tired to care.

Then your gaze lands on the bed.

One. Singular. Bed.

Of course.

Chance stares at the bed as well. “Oh noooo, one bed? What a gamble. Hope I don’t roll snake eyes in my sleep.”

“Chance.” You speak, “Don’t make this weird.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “No weirdness here. I’ll flip a coin to see who gets what side or maybe who sleeps on the floo—”

“Not in the mood for jokes, Chance.”

“Okay, okay. No jokes. We’re just playing the hand we’re dealt.”

He pulls out a golden coin, and flicks it into the air with a flair. It spins slowly before he catches it and slaps it to his wrist.

“Heads: you get the left side. Tails: I do.” He peeks. “Heads. Your lucky night.”

You’re about to protest when he kicks off his boots, loosens his tie, and flops dramatically to the right side of the bed, already muttering about the odds of this happening.

You collapse onto the other side, face-first, barely resisting the urge to scream into the pillow.

After a few minutes of silence, Chance pipes up from beside you, “Wouldn’t it be wild if we woke up and the bed wasn’t real?”

You groan. “Chance, please shut up.”

He chuckles and rolls onto his side. “Fair enough.”

You found yourself falling asleep, listening to the rhythmic flick of his coin flipping through his fingers. Somehow, that helps.

It feels like perhaps, luck is on your side tonight.

Guest 1337:

You barely register your footsteps as you stagger toward the cabin. The smoldering debris of your former shelter still lingers in the air behind you, thick with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The Spectre had done it—again. No real motive. Just destruction. Typical.

Your fist, heavy with exhaustion, knocks once against the door of the nearest survivor’s cabin. You’re half-aware of who it might be. Too tired to care.

The door opens swiftly.

Guest 1337 stands there, blue hair tousled slightly by the wind, his camouflage uniform creased from activity, not rest. His tan army vest bears scrapes from past rounds, a few dried streaks of grime across the fabric. His eyes—normally sharp with determination—narrow slightly in concern.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

He looks over your shoulder at the orange glow on the horizon—your ruined cabin still crackling—and then back to you.

“Inside. Now.”

His tone is firm, military, but not cold.

You enter, the cabin interior dim and sharply organized. A folded blanket on a wooden trunk. His gloves were taken off and placed onto a nearby table. The atmosphere of his cabin doesn’t feel like a home, yet somehow, in this moment, it feels safer than anything else.

You glance at the bed near the wall. Neat, but one bed.

Guest 1337 notices your hesitation immediately.

“I’ll take the floor.”

You frown. “Not a chance. You’ve had my back in every round since week three. I’m not making you sleep on solid ground.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze fixed and unyielding. “I’ve slept worse.”

Of course he has.

You pause. So does he.

Then, with the exhausted sigh of two people too stubborn to argue further, you nod once.

“…Fine. We share. I don’t snore. Much.”

Guest 1337 doesn’t smile—he rarely does—but the corners of his tired eyes crease ever so slightly as he steps back and motions you toward the bed.

You lie down on the narrow bed, scooting over to give him space. He sits first, removing his army vest and setting it silently beside the bed. You notice the way he moves—efficient, practiced, no wasted motion.

When he finally settles beside you, back half-raised against the wall, legs stretched out beside yours, there’s a stillness to him. He’s listening. Always.

After a while, your voice cuts through the quiet, barely a whisper.

“You ever get used to it?”

“The chaos?” he asks. “No. You just get better at standing in front of it.”

You let your head fall back into the makeshift pillow. The warmth of the bed—though thin—counters the cold outside. The war still rages out there, rounds still await tomorrow, but tonight?

Tonight, you’ll sleep beside the one person who’s never let a survivor fall behind.

And in this hellscape of broken cabins and endless threats, that’s enough.

[luunaz]

Stay in your arms LADS Boys [Sylus]

pairing: Sylus x reader

type: fluff 🌸

an: a few short stories about how guys don't want to let you out of their arms. But their thoughts are not always innocent

Masterlist | Xavier Zayne Rafayel

It was surprisingly quiet at home when you got home from work. You called out to Sylus, but there was no response. Deciding that you'd look for your boyfriend later, you took off your outerwear and headed to the bathroom. All your muscles ached from the strain. Every sudden movement caused pain. The only thing that could help you now was a hot shower and a good night's sleep. You sighed wearily as the hot drops of water touched your body. It was hard to even think about anything. A few minutes later, you heard the bathroom door open.

"Sylus, I'm in the shower," you said, thinking that the man just hadn't noticed that you'd already returned from work.

The door to the shower stall opened, and you felt Sylus's naked torso against your back. You grumbled in displeasure, but you had neither the strength nor the desire to push him away.

"I thought it was a suggestion," Sylus said with a grin. His arms gently wrapped around your waist, and his lips pressed against your neck. As always, he was very gentle and caring towards you. And he always knew what you needed.

The feeling of being close to him and the heat of his body relaxed you a little. Sylus pulled back a little and raised his palms to your shoulders.

"How was your day?" Sylus asked, massaging your shoulders. It wasn't a question that required a mandatory answer, but a man could guess the extent of your fatigue from it.

"It was hard. I had to fight a bunch of wanderers," you said, closing your eyes. Sylus' every move was aimed precisely at those points that were most tense. You've always been surprised at how accurate and attentive this man can be. A feeling of pleasant relaxation spread throughout your body.

Despite the fact that Sylus always passionately showed his feelings for you, your comfort was more important to him. No matter how much he wanted to bite into your lips with a kiss or leave bites on your neck right there in the shower, he restrained himself. He looked at you and couldn't get enough. But still, he couldn't resist the light kisses on your shoulders that tickled your skin pleasantly.

When you came out of the bathroom, you immediately fell on the bed, sighing noisily and closing your eyes. The massage helped you to stretch tense muscles and clear your mind after a hard day. It remains only to sink into sleep. Sylus's soft footsteps sounded nearby. He walked over to the table, where there was a vinyl record player, and next to it were several envelopes with records. Without thinking twice, the man took the one that you always liked and turned on the record player. A gentle, almost soporific melody filled the room.

You felt a light touch on your thigh, almost tickling. When you opened your eyes, you saw Sylus looming over you. His cunning eyes were slightly narrowed, and his lips were curved into a smirk. His hand stroked your thigh, rising higher and higher.

"Have you missed me so much?"

"Definitely, kitten. I don't want to let you out of my arms tonight," Sylus said, slowly lowering himself to your face.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around the man's neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Your hands gripped his back, preventing him from pulling away from you. He was always what you wanted the most. Even more sleep after a grueling day at work. At first, Sylus was gentle, careful, but after his kisses became more passionate, more greedy, more chaotic. He took off your pajamas, continuing to leave kisses on your neck, collarbone and chest. His hot breath scorched your skin. You tilted your head back to allow Sylus to leave a light bite on your neck.

"Let me help you relax," the man said, pulling away from you. He brought your hand to his lips. His eyes, needy and full of tenderness, fixed on you. And no matter what you tell him, he'll do anything.

[mortalislabs]

Trigonelline is a methylated form of niacin and is a recently isolated molecule that could be the secret ingredient in your stack. This form of the B vitamin is involved in the generation of NAD+, a cofactor for over 500 metabolic processes in cells. Trigonelline promotes cellular repair and energy, and as we’ll see, exerts quite a few benefits that are specifically useful for anyone training seriously.

Trigonelline is found in several plant-based foods, notably coffee beans and fenugreek seeds. Green coffee beans contain trigonelline concentrations ranging from 0.6% to 1.0% by weight. However, traditional dietary sources don’t provide sufficient amounts to elicit significant physiological effects. For instance, the average trigonelline content in a cup of coffee is approximately 53 mg, and about 50-80% of trigonelline decomposes during the roasting process, leaving virtually nothing for your body to make use of.

Recent research published on this naturally occurring alkaloid highlights its potential in enhancing muscle function and combating age-related decline. A 2024 study published in Nature Metabolism identified trigonelline as a novel precursor to nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide (NAD+), a molecule essential for energy metabolism and mitochondrial function. The study demonstrated that trigonelline supplementation improved muscle strength and reduced fatigue in aged mice, suggesting that it can head off the natural muscle decline seen in aging, even in those who are already training at capacity.

NAD+ gets discussed a lot in the longevity space because of its natural and steep decline over the years, tied to all the diseases of aging. It's a metabolic linchpin that determines how efficiently your cells convert fuel into usable energy. For athletes, that efficiency translates into faster recovery, better performance under load, and greater resilience under metabolic stress. Or, you know, complete lack of those things if you don’t have enough of it.

NAD+ is required for redox (oxidation–reduction) reactions in mitochondrial energy production and is a cofactor and substrate for longevity-promoting sirtuins and other enzymes involved in muscle repair and adaptation. During intense physical activity, NAD+ levels drop as demand for ATP surges. Replenishing intracellular NAD+ is critical not only for restoring mitochondrial output but also for initiating the cellular programs that rebuild and reinforce muscle tissue [1].

Trigonelline offers a direct path to NAD+—one that bypasses the liver and supports muscle tissue specifically. In a landmark 2024 study, researchers at EPFL and Nestlé Health Sciences (yes, that Nestlé, but there aren’t any conflicts of interest, we checked) demonstrated that trigonelline functions as a previously unidentified NAD+ precursor, rapidly taken up by skeletal muscle cells and converted into NAD+ via a salvage pathway independent of the traditional NR or NMN routes [2]. This muscle-specific uptake is particularly important for athletes, who require localized replenishment in the very tissues under stress.

Most NAD+ precursors—including nicotinamide riboside (NR) and nicotinamide mononucleotide (NMN)—undergo hepatic metabolism before entering systemic circulation. This creates a bottleneck at your liver for targeted muscle repair. Trigonelline appears to bypass that constraint by delivering precursors directly where they're needed most: the muscle fibers responsible for performance and endurance.

This shift in delivery has implications beyond simple NAD+ restoration. In the same Nature Metabolism study, aged mice supplemented with trigonelline showed significant improvements in grip strength and fatigue resistance—outcomes tightly linked to muscle NAD+ availability. Unlike systemic precursors that may elevate circulating NAD+ levels without improving localized bioenergetics, trigonelline drives changes in muscle mitochondrial density and function.

For athletes, this is the difference between feeling recovered and actually being rebuilt.

Mitochondria Make Muscles Move

Endurance Starts in the Electron Transport Chain

Every sprint, every lift, every set depends on one thing: mitochondrial output. The ability to generate ATP on demand—efficiently and cleanly—is the defining line between sustained power and early fatigue. Trigonelline’s value lies not just in elevating NAD+ levels, but in what that elevation enables at the level of mitochondrial performance.

NAD+ drives oxidative phosphorylation, the mitochondrial pathway responsible for converting nutrients into ATP. When NAD+ is depleted, electron transport slows, reactive oxygen species accumulate, and mitochondrial output tanks—resulting in performance collapse and prolonged recovery. Replenishing NAD+ restores mitochondrial throughput, enhances metabolic flexibility, and allows cells to switch between carbohydrate and fat oxidation with minimal friction [3].

Trigonelline’s role as a direct NAD+ precursor in muscle tissue makes it especially powerful in this context. By bypassing hepatic metabolism and restoring NAD+ where it's most needed, it kickstarts mitochondrial biogenesis—activating pathways like PGC-1α that drive the formation of new mitochondria and increase the efficiency of existing ones [4]. This isn’t theoretical: in the 2024 Nature Metabolism study, trigonelline supplementation significantly boosted mitochondrial content and activity in aged mice, restoring performance metrics typically lost with age and overtraining [2].

This cellular shift translates directly to the field, the track, and the gym. More mitochondria means more ATP per unit of oxygen consumed. This is the underpinning of higher VO₂ max, improved lactate clearance, and extended time-to-exhaustion. Trigonelline supports this adaptation at the source, which means athletes can train harder, go longer, and bounce back faster—without relying on stimulants or sketchy ergogenics.

More NAD+ in muscle equals better mitochondrial kinetics, which equals better athletic output. Period.

Strength and Muscle Health

Preserving Power, Not Just Mass

Strength isn’t only about size—it’s about contractile quality, neuromuscular precision, and the cellular capacity to resist breakdown under stress. Trigonelline’s impact on muscle tissue reaches beyond endurance. It supports structural integrity, performance output, and resilience across multiple pathways—especially in the context of aging or chronic training demand.

In the 2024 Nature Metabolism study, trigonelline supplementation restored muscle grip strength and improved fatigue resistance in aged mice, with outcomes exceeding those observed in control groups receiving traditional NAD+ precursors [2]. This effect was tied to increased NAD+ availability in skeletal muscle, which reactivated SIRT1- and PGC-1α-dependent pathways responsible for mitochondrial biogenesis, inflammation control, and protein maintenance—all critical for contractile performance and mass preservation [5].

NAD+ also plays a protective role against muscle wasting. It regulates the balance between anabolic and catabolic signaling, modulating FoxO transcription factors and suppressing atrophy-related genes like MuRF1 and atrogin-1 [6]. This anti-catabolic signaling becomes especially important during periods of calorie deficit, illness, or overreaching, when muscle degradation accelerates. Trigonelline, by supplying NAD+ directly to muscle cells, may help maintain lean mass even under systemic stress.

One overlooked aspect of muscle performance is neuromuscular junction (NMJ) stability, or, the connections between nerves and muscle fibers. These connections go both ways, with afferent signals carrying sensory feedback from muscle to brain, and efferent signals delivering motor commands from brain to muscle. Maintaining the integrity of this bidirectional communication is essential for coordination, strength, and rapid recovery from fatigue. NAD+ is required for the function of enzymes that protect NMJ architecture—particularly in aging or disease models where synaptic decline contributes to strength loss [7]. Trigonelline’s direct muscle delivery may therefore preserve the electrical signaling fidelity needed for explosive power and motor unit recruitment.

Muscle Fiber Type Preservation

Emerging evidence suggests that NAD+ availability influences muscle fiber type composition. High NAD+ levels favor the maintenance of fast-twitch (Type II) fibers—those responsible for strength, speed, and power—by enhancing mitochondrial support without triggering full transition to slow-twitch oxidative profiles [8]. This has implications for athletes seeking to maintain peak force output without compromising endurance. By elevating muscle NAD+ directly, trigonelline may help preserve this delicate fiber balance.

Trigonelline is formulated not to just support general energy—but to protect the architecture of athleticism at the cellular level.

For a reliable, pure form of trigonelline with zero additives, you can trust Mortalis Labs.