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VALETUDINARIANISM

YANDERE!VIKTOR X IMMUNOCOMPROMISED!READER — CHAPTER THREE

‎‎‎‎PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⇠ ✩ ⇢ NEXT CHAPTER [THE END]

ABSTRACT: On arrival to the commune, you learn their blissful ways of life that could be yours: one without pain or suffering. However, that wouldn't last for long... CONTENT WARNINGS: major character death, yandere behavior, mass death, coercion, murder, self-hatred (Viktor), god complex (Viktor), swearing, mentions of apocalyptic outcomes, mentions of war TAGS: gender neutral reader, major season two spoilers, minor canon divergence, utilization of other canon characters in the plot, use of Google Translate for Czech, no descriptors for reader, no use of "y/n", slight JayVik if you squint, maybe ooc Mel and Jayce (not sure), lack of Viktor in this chapter but dw he will be more prominent in the next one, semi proof read (N)SFW?: SFW WORD COUNT: 3.2k+ VIKTOR'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: delusional, protective

Through the decrepit streets of the Undercity, The Machine Herald sauntered beside you, leading you back to the commune. The cerulean light from the midnight moon basked both your forms, its crescent body hanging among the twinkling stars that were meticulously dappled over the canvas of the midnight sky. With the bottle of pills clutched in your digits and his cane in his, you two walked in silence in the nightly solace. The cacophony of Zaunite nightlife and bar fights dissipated as the symphony of nature faded in as you two drawing closer to the commune.

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad, maybe you were just overreacting, maybe... just maybe, Viktor was right.

"Are you afraid of me, miláček¹?" Viktor muttered, his voice percolating his lips. His whisper garnered your attention, your gaze flickering up to the man beside you.

"Fear is... not exactly how I feel, Machine Herald. I'd say... uncertainty would be better." You carefully replied, your words well thought-out. This elicited an affirmative hum from the healer, the clicking of his cane following.

"Rozumím²," Viktor muttered, halting at the gate of the commune before you two. His kaleidoscopic eyes shifted to meet your gaze, a soft glimmer in them from the moon above. "You are uncertain of the future then, yes?" He added, his voice warm as the corners of his lips turned upward. You stood beside him as you gave him a small nod.

"You can understand my... reluctancy, right? I mean, this whole thing it just feels like it's—"

"Too good to be true, yes?" Viktor interjected, rotating his torso to face you. "I thought so too. I thought that things could never get better for me due to my weak, fragile, human form. I felt that I was going be six feet under before I could even turn 35, to be honest." He lamented, his gaze shifting to his cane. The healer stood in silence for a moment, his digits squeezing around the cane in his palm. His brows knitted together as his gaze hardened.

"I was bounded by the limits of my flesh and bones, the blood pumping through my veins, my viscera within, and in short, my humanity." Viktor muttered, somatophobia evident in his tone. "It was nothing but a hinderance to my true potential. Therefore, I sought to better it by any means necessary." Viktor declared, gazing out at the commune, fixing his posture as he gazed upon his creation. With a reluctant hand, you place it upon the healer's shoulder, garnering a soft gasp from him.

"Are you... glad you did?" You questioned, looking over at The Machine Herald.

"Glad is... not exactly how I feel, I believe that empowered would be better in that use." Viktor proclaimed, taking a step closer to the commune as your hand slipped from his shoulder. "Before, I felt powerless and febrile, but now, I feel as if I can do anything. I have healed so many people, so many ailments and disabilities." Viktor added triumphantly. With this, his colorful eyes gazed back towards you, a soft smile graced his pale lips.

"And I hope you become one of the people I have healed. I believe it will be... glorious" Viktor spoke softly, his voice laced with honey.

To this, you nodded, smiling softly back.

Two days had passed since you decided to give the commune a try. It had been a fresh breath of fresh air in your aching lungs, seeing people live so peacefully without fear or pain. The more and more you saw, the more you wished to join them. However, you gave yourself three days to make sure you were certain. This was a big life decision after all. It was an idyllic little commune, or so you thought.

You were helping some of the soup kitchens prepare food for the nightly supper when you felt an all-familiar burning in your lungs, causing a series of coughs to erupt from your throat. Others looked at you with concern and worry, one of the commune's chefs came up to you, assisting you into a chair as you dug in your pocket for your pills. Soon enough, your fingers wrapped around the pill bottle, fishing it out with ease as your throat burned with agony. Opening the bottle, you quickly pulled out one of the five, leaving the last four. You figured there was no need to refill them at this point as you most likely would never need them again in a days time.

Slipping the pill under your tongue, the chef rubbed your back with concern, others gazing at you with concern and whispering among themselves. Over the course of the next minute, the pain slowly seized as you took some deep breaths.

"Are you okay?" The chef questioned, his brows knitted together in concern. With a sniffle, you nodded your head, watching as the other members went back to their tasks, talking amongst themselves in hushed whispers. You could feel the judgement from the dissipating crowd as you rose to your feet, brushing it off.

"I-I'm okay, thank you." You spoke to the chef, adjusting your posture.

Besides the occasional judgmental individual, you felt like you could fare well in this commune. People were so nice and accepting, the land and food was plentiful, and you felt like you could genuinely get better if you accepted Viktor's blessings.

A flash bright light from outside followed by a loud bang filled your senses, causing your blood to run cold. Something was very wrong. Rushing out of the food tent, you gazed out at the center, concern brewing in your chest. A large eruption could be seen from the orb as if a large hole had been blasted through it. Remnants of the orb floated in the air amidst the eruption.

Looking around at the commune members who seemed to be just as confused, the fingerprint markings on their bodies from Viktor's healings began to glow a bright white. One by one, people began to collapse, dropping to the floor like flies with eyes wide and mouths agape. Your breathing quickens as you watch everyone collapse one by one, some still on their knees as soft beams of golden light emit upwards from their markings.

What the hell is going on?

You gaze back at the orb to see a man sneaking out of it while wielding what appeared to be some sort of large hammer. His golden eyes looked around frantically as his chapped lips let out soft gasps as he seemed to be running from the orb. Without thinking, you ran after the mysterious man, your legs sprinting to catch up as you chased him towards the edge of the commune, to get some sort of answer to this madness.

"Wait!" You cried out, alerting the man whose boots slid against the dirt road to a halt. His head snapped back to your direction, his deep brown hair laid in thick strands on his tan forehead.

"How are you not turned into—"

""Who are you? Everyone just collapsed! What was that loud boom? What the fuck is going on?" You proclaimed, your words frantic and panicked. As if just to add on to the calamity, a loud roar could be heard from the commune's center, garnering both of your attentions. To this, the mystery man's thick brows knitted together as his hand rested on your shoulder.

"Come on, we don't have much time!"

"You didn't answer my questions—"

"I'll explain everything after we get out of here, come on!" The man proclaimed, gesturing you to follow him.

Feeling like this was your only option, you quickly followed the man, letting the roaring of whatever monster back there fade into the distance. You could feel your heart pounding in your ears, the stress causing hot saliva to pool in your mouth. Your lungs began to feel that dreadful burn but you keep pushing it down, trying your best to suppress it once more.

As if the world was trying to play a cruel trick on you, you tripped over your own foot, falling to the floor with a grunt. This gained Jayce's attention who screeched to a halt, running back to grab your hand, helping you to your feet. You felt your lungs giving out as you weakly stood, knees buckling and breaths wheezing. As if on instinct, the man scooped you up in your arms, carrying you bridal style as he kept running.

"Come on, stay with me, we're almost there." The man grunted through gritted teeth. "Once we get there, I'll explain everything." He added, adjusting his grip on you in his arms. You tried to reach for your pills in your pocket but the man's grip inadvertently restricted your movement. Your lungs and throat burned like hell as you tried to remain conscious. However, the pain eventually became too much and you shut your eyes to be greeted by pure black.

beep...

You could hear a faint beeping fade in. You felt warm and safe, covered in some sort of blanket.

beep...

"Who are they?" A warm feminine voice spoke up, one vaguely familiar to you.

beep...

"I don't know, they just ran up to me after... you know." The voice of the mystery man from earlier declared.

You could feel some sort of needle lay stagnant in your arm that slowly pumped liquids into your bloodstream.

beep...

"Jayce, we have no idea who this person is or what their intentions are."

You could feel a tube in your nostrils, blowing cold air into your respiratory tract.

beep...

"With all do respect, Mel, they looked scared. I couldn't just leave them there. Besides, they weren't... you know... 'healed' by Viktor yet."

Healed? Did he mean the healing caused all of this?

beep...

You could feel your fingertips as you began to move them a little, trying to wake yourself up from this episode of sleep paralysis.

beep...

"They're waking up." The woman, presumably named Mel, spoke informatively.

beep...

Slowly, you felt your eyelids get less heavy, allowing them to slowly open. Your vision was flooded with a bright white light, causing you to wince at the change of scenery. Soon enough, the white faded and you were greeted with two faces looking down at you: one familiar and one not.

"You're awake" The woman stated, her hazel eyes scanning your person. Your eyes gazed around, realizing you were in some sort of infirmary. But this was most definitely not like Zaun. The room was clean and well kept, unlike the dilapidated hospitals in the Undercity.

"Where are we?" You croaked out, slowly sitting up as the tan nasal cannula slipped from your left nostril.

"You are in an infirmary." The mystery man, presumably named Jayce, explained.

"I'm aware of that, but where? This is not like any infirmary I have seen." You rasped, adjusting the nasal cannula. The two other individuals exchanged glances before looking back at you.

"You are in Piltover's main infirmary. Do not worry, you are safe here." Mel declared, sitting on a chair at your bed side. Piltover? How the hell did you get in Piltover? Mel seemed to pick up on your confusion, resting her hand on your shoulder. She looked up at Jayce who had his brows knitted in concern. "Want to explain what happened to them, Jayce?" She queried, glancing up at the now more well-kept man who was now wearing a black form-fitting professional shirt instead of the raggedy white coat from earlier. Jayce cleared his throat before beginning.

"I found you at Viktor's commune after... what happened... and we were running but you collapsed. I tried to keep you awake but you started coughing and gasping before passing out. I luckily got you here in time and used one of those pills from that pill bottle in your pocket on you. You were really out of it for a while as I ran you to the infirmary and now we're here." Jayce explained, his voice laced with worry. Wait... Viktor. What happened to him?

"Where's Viktor?" You questioned, your brows knitting together in slight confusion. This seemed to bring an air of tension to the room as Mel sighed shakily.

"Viktor... is dead."

What?

"How?" You questioned, looking at Mel then at Jayce. Jayce's face looked crestfallen as he averted his gaze to the floor.

"I did what I had to do." Jayce proclaimed, still holding his hammer at his side. In his other hand, he held a small silver gear that seemed to be dappled with multiple colors, spinning it slowly in his fingers. The room fell into heavy silence as if all of us were processing something in the inner machinations of our minds. "It was for the greater good, even if Viktor was my partner." Jayce commented, pocketing the gear. Partner in what context? You had no idea, yet you felt like you shouldn't ask that in this moment. It was obvious Jayce was close to Viktor in some context and did what he did out of some form of necessity.

"I... I see..." You muttered, slowly taking the nasal cannula out of your nose as you felt like there was no longer a need for it.

"Were you close to Viktor?" Jayce queried, resting the head of his hammer on the floor as a sort of support.

"Not particularly, no." You spoke up, sitting up straight in the bed.

"So why were you at the commune? And why aren't you... healed?" Jayce interrogated, his thick brows knitted together.

"Well, Viktor had convinced me to stay three days to see what it was like before I made my decision." You proclaimed, swinging your feet over the edge of the bed.

"Decision to be what?"

"To be healed." To this, Jayce sighed softly.

"Well, be glad you weren't." Jayce muttered, sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed.

"How come?" You asked as your feet adorned with hospital socks grazed the off-white tile floor. A crestfallen look appeared on Jayce's face as he sighed, his gaze shifting to meet yours.

"All the people Viktor 'healed'? They are all essentially his puppets now." Jayce answered, his voice seeping from his lips like billowing smoke.

"What? How?" You inquired

"Well, Viktor has some sort of control over the people he has used his powers on. It's correlated to his use of the Hexcore." Jayce

"The Hexcore? What's that?" You questioned, your curiosity peaking

"It's what gave Viktor his powers in the first place. It's... something him and I were researching before the attack on Piltover's council... It was something I should have destroyed long ago when I had the chance." Jayce explained, still spinning the gear in his fingers. Mel took a deep sigh as she looked at you, continuing.

"Now, it seems like Viktor has taken on some new sort of omnipresent form through the husks that were once his commune members."

"Now, it is something your mother is trying to weaponize as an unstoppable army." Jayce grumbled, clutching the gear tightly.

"She has no idea what she is dealing with, Jayce." Mel proclaimed, her brows furrowed.

"We know that, she does not."

"She is tempering with forces outside her reach."

"Well, we still have to stop her."

"What are you two going on about?" You interjected, lost in the lack of context.

With a sigh, Mel looked at you, the golden accents on her skin glistened in the lamplight.

"There is about to be a large war between Noxus and Piltover, and Viktor is in the center of it." Mel explained, putting her hands on her hips.

"Viktor is on the precipice of something he calls his 'glorious evolution'. If it comes true, the world as we know it will cease to exist." Jayce interjected, standing from his chair. The thought of this coming a reality chilled you to the core. This man you were thinking of letting heal you was going to... start the apocalypse?

"You mean the world will end?" You enquired, your fingers gripping the white sheet of the cot. To this, Mel rose from her chair, her white cloak dancing with her elegant movement.

"Exactly. That is why we are gathering soldiers now to fight back." Mel spoke, her gaze moving to Jayce. To this, Jayce gave an affirmative nod.

"We are going to need as many people as we can with this or we don't stand a chance." Jayce declared, also rising from his chair. Jayce's golden gaze shifted to you as you sat on the edge of the cot. With wobbly knees, you rose as well, trying your best to stay standing.

"You guys said you needed people, right?" You probed, your gaze meeting Mel's then Jayce's. To this, Jayce tutted, putting a hand on your shoulder.

"No, absolutely not, you are far too weak right now." Jayce reprimanded, gently pushing you back into a sitting position on the cot. To this, your gaze hardened at the man before you.

"Maybe now, yes, but the war is not right this moment, right? Give me the night to recover and I can be on my feet in the morning." You asserted, your conviction and determination strong. Mel cocked a brow at your statement, surprised by your altruism.

"What help could you be to us in a situation of war?" Mel countered, her voice laced with judgment and uncertainty. You refused to sit around and watch the world end. You have fought for this long to keep living, like hell you'd give up now without putting up a fight.

"I'm one more person who is willing to fight. I will not let myself lay idly in this bed and watch the world end. You need people, well, I am a person." You affirmed, your words laced with determination. To this, Mel's gaze shifted to Jayce.

"They have a point, Jayce" Mel asserted, a soft smile on her lips. To this, Jayce grumbled, grabbing the handle of his hammer.

"Don't encourage them. They crumbled when they tried to run from the commune with me." Jayce shot back, his tone full of uncertainty.

"You can always fall as long as you get back up." You proclaimed, raising from your cot once more as you stabilized your legs. You stood proudly as you looked between the two before you. "Besides, Viktor once told me that while my body may be limited, my soul is strong. I will help in any way I can." You added, adjusting the fabric of your hospital gown. Jayce looked intrigued by your statement before he reluctantly sighed.

"Fine, but you better be willing to fight with everything you have." Jayce relented, his tone wavering from uncertainty and sternness. You felt a warm hand glide onto your shoulder. You look over to see Mel smiling softly at you with a look of hope in her eyes.

"Trust in them, Jayce. I know a good warrior when I see one." Mel proclaimed, her smile soft yet assuring.

"I will not let you two down."

¹ miláček — "darling" or "sweetheart" in Czech

² rozumím — "I understand" in Czech

SONG OF THE FIC: DISEASE - LADY GAGA

VALETUDINARIANISM Taglist: @clownery-atits-finest, @unmotivatedbug, @sheepv, @barryatsumu, @killjoy-youngblood, @reiiydained, @frickidyfrog, @lindsay00000 Want to join the tag list? Click here to learn more!

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 5 hours ago

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i would absolutely adore it if you wrote something with yan!silco punishing his darling and soothing them after !!

teehee i had too much fun with this…sadistic silco for the win >:) tysm for requesting ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Yandere!Silco x Reader

tw: physical abuse, manipulative behaviour, kidnapping, mentions of throwing up

“Oh, Y/N. What happened to all our great progress, hm?”

Silco circles you like a hawk, cedar-spiced cigar held loosely in one hand, the plume smoke overwhelming his office. You feel dizzy, nauseous, petrified - yet all you want to do is collapse into his wiry arms and ask, no beg, for his forgiveness.

It had been what, two hours? Two gruelling hours since Silco had forced you to kneel in a bed of rice grains as punishment for trying to escape him.

The sensation of freedom when you managed to briefly pry yourself from his iron grip electrified your soul. You wandered the lanes for two hours, cautious definitely but teeming with newfound enthusiasm; the sounds of the city were louder, colours more vibrant and the rain seemed to wash away the pain you learned to carry along with you everywhere.

But here you are, trapped with Silco once more, kneeling in rice that cuts up your knees into something bloody and raw. Any longer and you’re afraid you might throw up on his expensive rug which wouldn’t end well for you.

Your body starts to waver and his mismatched eyes narrow in displeasure. He crouches down on his haunches next to where you threaten to topple over and takes a slow drag of his cigar, exhaling in your face and pressing the lit end onto your shoulder. You hiss sharply. You can hear fucking sizzling as the smell of burnt flesh mixes with his heedy smoke and you can’t stop yourself as you dry-heave from the overstimulation.

Salty tears run down your face, further adding to the mess of snot and saliva covering your face. You look up at the tall man, wondering how he can just watch as you suffer and not feel a thing. You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him - pull him out of whatever insane mindset he’s in that makes him think any of this is remotely normal.

Instead, you watch as Silco flicks open his pocket watch and lazily checks the time before sighing and pocketing it again. He whips out his handkerchief and roughly wipes at the mess on your face as if you’re a nuisance.

He stands back up to his full height and drags you up from where you’re kneeling to carry you to the couch, knowing you’re too weak to stand on your own. You hope and pray that he might leave to let you reflect on your actions but he stays put right next to you on the seat. Your stomach drops.

You tremble under his watchful gaze, his cold eye disturbing you. He turns his sight to your shaky legs and it’s almost as if his entire body deflates at the sight of you looking so pitiful and worn down.

His hands travel down your thighs and stop at your kneecaps where his eyes are trained. His fingers slowly inch towards the inflammed flesh and strokes ever so gently but even his light touch makes you wince and groan in agony at the sharp pain that shoots up your spine.

“I-I’m sorry, Silco! I’ll never hurt you like this again I swear! Please don’t!” You whimper pathetically, eyes downcast as you form a makeshift shield, wrapping your arms around your torso to protect yourself from his temper.

“Oh, sweet Y/N,” he murmurs, nose buried in your hair as he raises a hand to pet the back of your head, cradling you right at the junction where your head and neck meets, “I simply demonstrated the consequences of your stupid actions, if you didn’t step out of line then I wouldn’t have been forced to teach you better, you understand?” His molasses voice flusters you despite the taunting vitriol that lurks behind his words.

You nod shakily, throwing your arms around his neck and sob into his chest as he rocks you back and forth. He hums to you with masterfully faked sympathy, you’re both aware it is, but all you care to do in this fragile moment is chase his comforting body.

“There, there. You did so well for me, I trust you learnt your lesson?”

You stay quiet, sniffling and gripping onto the lapels of his maroon suit jacket for as long as hello allow it.

Eventually, Silco lays you back down among the pillows and flashes you a warm smile that isn’t appropriate considering the circumstances. He then ducks his head down to your legs and, before you can understand what he plans to do, his chapped lips are kissing at your bloody knees, tongue darting out to press little kitten licks at the grazes he made.

He goes on like this for what seems like an eternity, just lapping up your wounds in stilted silence until he’s satisfied they’re clean. He goes to rummage through his drawers and comes back with a roll of bandages he carefully wraps around both knees. Even though he’s just put them on, dark red stains are already seeping through the white cotton, a bleak reminder to never disobey Silco like this again because in the end, he will always win.

“Would you like me to kiss it better?” His husky voice calls out to you but you already know this isn’t the kind of question you have the luxury of answering truthfully, so you choose to give him the answer he wants.

“Yes please, Silco.”

You feel his lips smile against your skin when he ducks back down to kiss your tender knees.

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 6 hours ago

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Hiya!! How are you? And could you please write silco headcanons with a sick reader :3 also happy new year!!!

silco x sick reader hc

thank you for the new years wishes, i hope 2025 is going great for you!!

you needed to go shopping and silco told you to wear a jacket, it was cold and rainy after a all

you rolled your eyes and decided against it since you would only be out for a bit

now you’re tucked up in the bed you share with silco, the stern man frowning down at your shivering body

“y/n i specifically told you to wear a jacket, did i not?” he pinches the bridge of his nose as he stands over you, and you open your mouth to retort but a cough racks your weak body instead

his eyes manage to sharpen even more so than they did before before

you start to sniffle and he lets out a defeated sigh as he continues to take in your rather pathetic demeanour

silco gets one of his lackeys to make you a chicken broth, something easy to keep down but warming enough to combat your shivers and shakes

he’s constantly coming by from his office to check your temperature and place a new cool flannel on your forehead

he tries to act annoyed by this “inconvenience” but you both know that he’s worried sick about you no matter how hard you try to convince him that you’ll be right as rain in no time

he rubs salves on your chest and back to ease any congestion, maybe taking sliiiiightly longer than he needs to

if you complain of any aches or pains he’s right on it, softly massaging away any discomfort with such expertise you would think it was his job

silco buys you a warm, and expensive, coat that goes down to your ankles and makes sure to guilt trip you into wearing it next time you go outside

he sings

quietly, just as you’re drifting off to sleep, he sings hushed lullabies and old songs since he’s convinced you sleep better when he does

and that’s all he wants - for you to get better

definitely has singed come by with medicine specially made for you - silco doesn’t let anyone else but him administer it though

when he feeds you spoonfuls of medicine, he always strokes your damp baby hairs with such sincerity and gentleness it makes you tear up

of course he gets startled by this and panics that he hurt you somehow and immediately tries to fix what he did

you drag him in for a hug before he works his way into a pit of anxiety and kiss him for as long as you can before pulling away to cough yet again

silco blushes like CRAZY and you finally feel like you have the upper hand

that’s until silco is also sniffling in bed with you by the end of night, complaining that he “caught your disgusting germs” despite the sweet crinkle of his eyes as you both weakly chatter away

now it’s sevika’s turn to (begrudgingly) look after you guys but she can’t even be mad when she sees how cute you two are tightly tucked up in bed snoring away well into the afternoon <3

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 8 hours ago

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#NEEDTHATNEEDTHATNEEDTHAT

A soft whimper spilled from his lips as you rolled your hips, slow but shaky, and the movement made his breath catch in his throat. Lion’s hands spread across your lower half, thumbs pressing gently into your hip bones, fingers curling just above the curve of your ass. He didn’t guide or grip you, just held.

His eyes were focused on you, wide and non-blinking, pupils blown, tracking every twitch your body made. He looked dazed, lips parted and glossy, watching your chest rise with each rock, your stomach tighten with each grind. Your body, on him, around him, seemed to knock the air from his lungs.

He licked his lips absentmindedly, his mouth dry from the way he'd been panting. His eyelashes fluttered like he might fall asleep if you slowed, just melt into the mattress, but every time they fell, he forced them back open. He had to see you. Had to watch.

Your back arched when the head of his cock grazed that special spot, hands bracing on his thighs as you leaned back. You felt the muscles tighten under your palms, and his legs gave the slightest jerk, like he was holding back from bucking up into you. His voice got caught somewhere in his chest when your pace shifted just slightly, a breath hitching behind clenched teeth.

He let out something between a sigh and a moan, wrecked and heated. “What'cha you doin’ all the way up there, hm?” he hummed, the words slurred. His voice cracked like his balls had just dropped.

You blinked down at him, eyes half-lidded, humming in response, breath caught in your throat, hands sliding up higher on his thighs as your hips moved again with his.

His middle finger brushed the small of your back, just a little pressure, just enough, and you followed it without even meaning to.

“C’mon down here with me, baby,” he whispered, low and lazy.

You followed his voice blindly without thought, like a siren. Your mouths met as your bodies did, messy and open, teeth catching once before you both calmed. His tongue met yours in a slow drag, and he sank back into the bed with a groan so soft it almost sounded like he'd already come.

His hands were everywhere now, palms skimming up your spine, curling over your shoulders, fingers tangling in the back of your hair. You followed the pull, arms sliding past his head to brace against the pillows, your chest pressed to his, skin hot and damp and trembling with every shaky inhale.

The kiss turned sloppy, desperate. Neither of you could catch a rhythm, too much want, too much ache, too close to the edge.

Your hips curved and your forehead dropped to his, breath spilling against his mouth. He tasted like sweat and meat and you.

The knot broke with your voice, and he wasn’t far behind.

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 8 hours ago

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Doll Eyes — Lion Kaminski

Summary : Lion Kaminsky, a petal of leaves floating around in a world of blood, bet, and money. Despite a hundred thousand dollars, Lion successfully won over after his big fight in San Francisco — he didn't really have a home to return to. His only family left — Stanley was arrested on the account of his own bad choices in life. Therefore, now, it was just him and the woman he first ever handed his heart to: Sky a.k.a Mary McGinty. He built a life of his own, back to where he had once settled with his brother in Portsmouth. Living up to his small, simple dreams of opening a dry cleaning business. A laundromat. Not long after the home they made for themselves — Sky had grown distant. The feeling for Lion she once had now gone like dandelions blows in the wind. Lion looked at her like she was his safe place when she didn’t feel safe herself. She was done. Sky had made up her mind and thought she had saved him enough. Thus, half of her toothpaste, shoes by the window — gone. She left. With a note.

Warning : Slowburn, angst with a bit of fluff and smut, emotional trauma, betrayal, PTSD, mentioned of fighting/violence, scars and bruises, hurt/comfort

Pairing : Lion “Walter” Kaminsky x fem!reader

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⋮ [Prolog of part 1 : Drifting on borrowed time]

"Don't get too close. Don't get too attached. Feel it again" —Juicy Luicy

The summer air of July, spirited and hopeful, welcoming your presence — whispering poetry into the back of your neck as your feet carry you away toward a corner shop where time runs on a rinse cycle.

The aerial of this harbouring city, fresh and lively—the kids’ laughter and family's courtesy chat resonates in the atmosphere. Every step felt like flipping through pages of your favorite book.

Despite the situation this morning. Your sister crying over a spilled ink on her dress — her own doing — she claimed that not one of her new classmates would like her, had she showed up the first day wearing an ink stained dress.

“They’re gonna think I’m weird! And… and no one’s ever gonna wanna be my friend!” She'd wail, you'd sigh and roll your eyes.Ugh, that little racoon.

“Calm down, it's not that serious you dum-dum. You're the coolest already.” You'd offer a reassurance, your words bounced back and perished into nothing. She'd pace around the small living room, phones in hand, fingers anxiously tapping on the screen before she pressed send.

For fuck's sake, this is what you're getting in return for being years of your mother's pain in the ass. Somehow that song by My Chemical Romance couldn't be more true. Teenagers do scare the living shit outta you.

You wouldn’t spare her the opportunity to miss a day of school—even more so — her first day of school.

Therefore, here you find yourself, earphones on—the weeknd's on shuffle, hair thrown lazily in a half-bun up, sleeves rolled until it reached your elbows, and quite a heavy bag loaded with dirty laundry.

Kaminski's Press & Clean. Newly opened.

You took a slight turn to the left past the tailor store with a small hop, jogged your way there all steps and twirls. This place has grown on you.

You had expected to meet the lady who handled your registration. The blue eyed face is as pretty as a deer. Skin was adorned with beautiful freckles that made her look like a strawberry. The last time you saw her, she was not quite in a state who'd taken conversation lightly. She had tears streaking down her cheeks, bag packed sitting around one of the customer's stools, she was going somewhere you think. You didn't overstep and ask, instead you bid her farewell. “Hope you have a good day, Miss.”

Kinda regretting that.

Today, you're planning to conversate with her. Asking how she was doing. Not that you have too, but because you were trying to spread kindness. Everybody deserves even a glimmer of it in the middle of this cruel world.

Bingo! There it was. The place was too easy to spot. Not that it was eye-catching, the building itself was in flat beige. Not many would notice if it wasn't for the sign displayed on the board.

Your eyes lit up as your long stroll finally met with a result. You chose to walk—you find somehow such simple decisions can lead to an indescribable joy. It was not far from your place anyway. You had your Presa Canario, Starlord, to stand guard to your sister back home.

The bell jingles as you push open the door. Your eyes darted around — the place had somehow shifted into something more duller, lifeless. No signs of other customers around. No sign of the place scheduled to close either.

“Hello! Anyone around? I'm here to pick up my clothes!” your voice queried, no answer save for your own voice calling back to you.

You'd try again. Your feet were groaning in complaint so you took a seat. Body hunched over, feet dangling from the high bar stool.“Miss.. anyone? Do I have to serve myself here?”

Finally, you hear something—someone, clattering about, someone's sloppy steps followed with a curse as they almost tripped over.

“Yo miss! thought you wouldn't show. Was about to turn my heels outta here without my pile.” You let out a relief chuckle.

Turns out the “miss” you expected wasn't a “miss” at all. A man. Eyes empty, blinked back at nothing beneath his hollowed cheeks. The look you recognized was too good. Doll eyes. Nothing behind them at all.

“Oh, Ms. Sky ain't around?” You asked, he huffed, seemed unamused by your question. You hand him your receipt.

You didn’t need him to answer, once again, too unbothered to overstep.

You found him in the similar state you did with Ms. Sky. Eyes soaked with fresh tears. Damn. Did Oizys pay a visit to this place? He sniffled softly—trying to appear presentable. He looked at you and cleared the crack out of his throat before answering.

“Ms. Sky proposed a resignation.” He replied, voice still hoarse despite his attempt.

Resignation.

“oh, too bad.” you could only respond.

“Thought she was the owner or sumn’”

“Not anymore.” He stated shortly. His hands rummaged through the folded orders in the garment rack. He pulled a pile out with your name labeled on it.

“Alright, Ms. Ah.. Aruna.. pickin’ up?”

His voice was slightly clearer, struggling to pronounce your name. You let out a chuckle. Amused by his attempt to roll it out his tongue correctly.

“Uh-uh. That's right. It's.. Aruna.” You held out a hand, suave gesture, a habit you failed to miss.

He stared at your hand, then at you with a puzzled expression. He was hesitant at first, like a lost kitten scared to be pet. He did not find it odd. He simply never received this kind of offer without him needing to trade anything of his. But your warm smile, eyes sparkling like you see him as nothing beneficial but your own neighbor. Nevertheless, he linked your hand with his. Shaking it gently enough as if a slight pull and you might topple.

“Walter.” He replied. “Walter Kaminski.” He gave you his full name despite the tag pinned to his shirt read ‘Lion’.

“Really?” You can't help the teasing in your tone as he looks at you with a dazed expression.

“Why would I lie ‘bout my own name?” He'd return to you genuinely dumbfounded.

“I don't know, you tell me. Why do you have ‘Lion’ as your name tag yet tell me your name was Walter, hm?” You crossed your arms in front of your chest. You found yourself enjoying the barter a little bit more than you allowed yourself to.

“Oh this? this - this is just the past, it's old as fuck. Plannin’ to change it sooner.. Shit's tacky anyway.” He let out a weary chuckle, his hand unclipping the name tag forcefully from his pocket shirt with an intent to smash it across the floor. You pulled his wrist lightly—“No, It's not tacky. And don't change it. It suits you… Lion?” You give him an all teeth smile, holding out a paw as if you had claws.

Your warm and tender flesh meeting him, sends a feverish wave over his skin.

“Well.. if.. if you prefer.. so..” He stuttered. The word tasted foreign in his tongue, considering the two of you had just chatted about not minutes ago.

He worked the wrapper with deft and swift hands. He moved almost like he had done it for all his lifetime. You couldn't miss every muscle that stretched, his veins, tightened and loosened, his slender fingers tracing over the adhesive on the plastic — had you wishing it was you instead that he is doing. You quickly shook the thoughts away.

“Here you go, Miss.” He handed you your neatly pressed laundry, the smell of its mid-grade quality detergent filling your senses.

You welcomed it into your hands, a soft smile lifting your face as you looked up at him — swimming deep into his blue eyes. His eyes were darker than McGintys. Less ocean, more storm. But he didn’t look as sad now.

“You can call me Rune.”

“Rune? Like the uh.. ancient Romanian alphabet?”

“Exactly!”

“How'd you come up with that?” He asked again, tone's real curious.

“It's just short for ‘Aruna’,” you answered, he nodded.

“cool, cool..”

There was a comfortable silence sitting between the two of you, neither one of you feeling the need to break it. Although eventually, you couldn’t stay rooted in this ground doing nothing, you decided it was time to fare him well and bid ‘goodbye’.

“Alright..it's a.. pleasure to meet you, Lion..” He raised a brow hearing you've grown more comfortable using that name instead of his real name. The name had long been forgotten and buried deep within the bowels of the earth of San Francisco. Something the way it rolls off your tongue sounded like forgiveness granted to him.

You spoke his name like a ghost from the past without a face. You weren't one of his crowds. Your almond gaze reads him easily, like reading a children 's book. You've crumbled the walls he built for bordering himself from the world.

“Yeah, yeah, please to meet you too, Rune.. but wait,”

You stopped, tilted your head in curiosity.

"...So, uh… what brings you here? I mean—literally—did you show up in a...?"

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. His question was so try-hard, it bordered on adorable.

"I… came by myself," you said, amused. "I walked."

His eyes widened like you’d just confessed to surviving a war.

"You walked here? I mean—damn, a pretty girl like you walking these streets alone? Hell, nah."

“Why?” you asked back, brows raised.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the shop window like it might give him an answer.

"I dunno... just doesn’t sit right, I guess. You, out here alone. People are weird."

You smirked. "You saying I can’t handle myself?"

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary.

"Nah. I’m sayin’ you shouldn’t have to."

Then, after a beat, muttered, "Even if I bet you could throw a punch better than my brother."

You let out a soft laugh. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

"It was," he said quickly—too quickly.

Then softer: "Just saying… world’s mean. Nicer if someone’s watching your back."

You looked at him. His shirt was dusted with detergent. Hands rough, but steady. There was a weariness in his eyes, the kind that doesn’t come from walking — but from carrying too much for too long.

"What are you suggesting, Kaminski? Cut to the chase.”

His eyes darted across the room, as if he was searching for any hint of how to tell you — he cleared his throat, his gaze found yours once again.

“Can.. uh.. may I..by any chance walk you home?” he asked groggily.

“What about your store?”

“Don't worry ‘bout it. Could use a day off after a lovely breakup, am I right?” He chuckled at the irony. A smile that never quite reached his eyes.

A breakup? Oh, so that's what this is all about? The gloomy presence lingers in the air. The weeping. And the missing of Ms. McGinty. The pieces are coming in a perfect puzzle.

“Yeah. Thank God it's Saturday, right?”

He nodded in agreement.

“Shit, I almost forgot.” You rubbed your face with your palm, eyes wide as the memory hits. “I came here with another load of laundry.”

Lion raised an eyebrow. “Another one?”

“Yeah. It’s urgent,” you said, already fumbling for the bag. “One of them’s my sister’s dress — she needs it for her first day of the semester on Monday. Like, needs-needs it.”

He leaned back, hands on his hips. “So we’re talking full-on panic dress?”

“Panic dress,” you nodded gravely. “The kind that if it’s not ready, I’ll never hear the end of it and she'll fuckin’ cry and shit. Streses me out.”

Lion snorted. “Alright, bring it in. I’ll make it a priority. No one’s getting disowned on my watch.”

You grinned. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Lion ended up driving you down instead of walking — you didn't immediately return home, you had suggested to him on account of his gloomy appearance that ice cream would enlighten him.

He'd asked you what flavor. You answered “vanilla.” He'd call you a psycho — euphemism wasn't really in his dictionary. “no offense, but.. you're a straight-up psycho.. - I- I mean who the fuck chose vanilla?”

Of course, you, duh.

You'd laugh and tell him that he can pick another flavor, but you stick to yours. He didn't.

“Vanilla is the base. It's honest and simple. You can’t hide bad vanilla behind sprinkles.”

You exchanged him with the same curiosity.

“What flavor is your preference?” That simple question caught him off guard—simple yet no one had ever been curious to ask him that small matter. Your weight shifted on the park bench, leaning over the armrest casually licking the ice cream, facing him—knees brushing lightly past each other.

“Butter pecan.” He answered. You took a mental note. Butter pecan.

He can see you clearly now — how Helios graced your skin with its warmth, accentuated your features with its soft glow. The hours slowed, the moment stretched, and it felt like almost for the first time in a very long time — the world doesn't rush him. He knows this bubble of peace was borrowed at the moment, and it curdles something deep inside him.

He found himself almost backing away as you pressed your thumb gently and wiped away the smear of vanilla across his lips; “oops, sorry, let me just.. there..” You pulled back, unconsciously, licking the mess of him from your thumb, then casually sat back to your previous position.

While him — he was trying hard to control the rapid beating of his heart — breathing in and out and the cone almost squashed in his hand, the frozen treat melted in his fingers. He quickly cleaned it himself. The thought of you doing it for him again is unbearable — he was going to get a heart attack at that point.

You looked back at him, watching the scene unfolding as he was struggling to clean himself. For the love of God, he was a mess of a man.

“God, you're such a kid.” You laughed and pulled out a handkerchief you've slipped inside your pocket by chance.

“Stop.” You bid, flatly. He immediately stopped his fumbling — he was smearing more than he was cleaning if he continued.

“May I?” You stared at him.

You were asking for his permission this time instead of diving into his personal space, learning from your previous mistake not to startle him again. The close proximity had him holding his breath. It was like a habit you often do, picking up after another, making sure their needs were attended to. It was a brand new habit he thought he was going to get used to from you.

He quickly shrugged the ideas away. No. He'd warn himself. You were a fresh start that he refused to carry along the ride toward his own train wreck. His doom.

“Y- you may..”

You smiled—real and genuine—not the kind that sell-off intentions and needs, not with the roar from the crowds as they crowned him a goddamn medal—a reward for his battered skin and a bonus of matching black eye. Falsity sure ain't a word to describe the beautiful sight of the obvious.

That's nice. He hadn't received a smile from anyone since…-god knows how long.

Your touch was feather-light — the kind of touch he rarely received from barely anyone — well, Sky used to touch him like that, and yet.. she's gone now. Gone.

You rubbed the soft material across his knuckles, the tip of his fingers, his palms, his mouth — he could only watch your delicate movement with intent eyes, no reciprocal.

“‘Sup, I got something on my face or..?” You giggled, noticing his gaze.

“No- nothing just..” He shrugged, a hint of blush blooming across his cheeks after being caught red-handed.

“Just… your smile’s pretty..” he uttered, looking away, hand scratching unitchy spot behind his neck.

You clicked your tongue and tilted your head, “careful, don't get all flirty with me now, Walter.”

Walter laughed, shrugging as he did so — “it's true, though.”

Goddammit to hell. He shouldn't engage in this. He should've kept his distance. But goddamn it if he lied about enjoying your presence. Just sitting there, all innocent and pure, like the angel herself, came down to earth and graced him with kindness. He didn't deserve this.

You handed him the crumpled receipt paper, your number scribbled at the bottom — not too neat, but enough to make a point. Hoped he'd read between the creases of that slip thin paper. Hoped he'd keep it. Hoped next time it was more than just soap and spin cycles.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 9 hours ago

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i have to be silly every day or my brain will start growing mold

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 9 hours ago

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The face of a creature who knows nothing

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 9 hours ago

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creature walk - papa v x reader

you interrupt perpetua’s practice

author’s note: this came about bc i was thinking that while copia is the kind of guy to call you “baby”, perpetua is def more of a “babe” guy. this is also my interpretation of him based on what i’ve seen on stage so far! just a little trouble maker. a quick lil thing, nothing explicit. 1k words. ao3 link.

“What are you doing?” You can’t hide your accusatory tone.

Perpetua pauses, his shoulders hunched, elbows bent and his fingers curled into claws. “I am so glad you asked,” he grins and prowls closer, light on his feet. You quirk a brow and attempt to hide the smile that threatens to tug at your lips. “I’m practicing my new walk, Sister.”

“New walk?” You ask flatly, crossing your arms. He doesn’t bat an eye as he continues on, circling you until he’s right behind you.

“I am supposed to be, like, a being, right? A creature that stalks around stage?” Perpetua’s voice drops an octave as he leans in close to your ear. "It's all in the posture, you see. I need to be more...feral." His breath is warm against your neck.

“I mean, I guess so.” You roll your eyes at his dramatics. "Perpetua, what are you-"

But before you can finish, he dramatically presses his whole body up against your back, his arms draping over your shoulders. His full weight settles on you, nearly making your knees buckle.

"Come on, babe," he whines into your ear, still maintaining that ridiculous posture even as he leans on you. "I'm trying here." He shifts his weight, somehow making himself feel even heavier.

You sigh, "For someone who claims they're trying to be intimidating, you sure are making it hard to take you seriously." You know it's impossible to try to dislodge him when he gets like this.

"That's not what you said last night," he murmurs, dropping the act momentarily as his lips ghost against your ear.

It had started almost immediately after his elevation to Papa. The transition had been so abrupt, nothing like Cardinal Copia's gradual ascension. One day Perpetua was there at the ministry and thrust into the papacy.

Perhaps it was the stress of his new position, or maybe just the magnetic pull of this mysterious man, but you'd fallen into bed together after that first chaotic week. No strings attached, you'd both agreed, just a way to blow off steam.

"Are you thinking about it?" he asks, abandoning his theatrics completely now, his voice taking on that deeper tone that never fails to send a shiver down your spine.

"I'm thinking you're crushing me," you deflect, but your tone lacks conviction.

He lets out a dramatic sigh and finally straightens up, releasing you from his weight. His face falls into an exaggerated pout as he moves to stand in front of you.

"I wish you could come with me," he says suddenly, his playfulness giving way to something more genuine. "On tour. It would be... nice."

You blink at the abrupt shift. "You know I can't. My duties here-"

"I know, I know," he cuts you off, running a hand through his dark hair. "The ministry needs you. The Clergy needs you." His expression darkens slightly. "My dear brother Frater needs you."

There's an edge to his voice.

"Are you... jealous?" you ask, unable to keep the hint of amusement from your voice.

Perpetua scoffs, but doesn't quite meet your eyes. "Jealous? Me? Of Frater? Please." He paces a few steps away before turning back to you. "I just don't see why he gets to have you all to himself while I'm gone. It's not fair." You can’t help but admire his getup, the crisp face paint, his black silk shirt and cravat and those tight little pants.

"Have me? Nobody 'has' me, Perpetua," you remind him.

"You know what I mean," he grumbles. "He gets to see you every day, work with you, while I'm stuck performing for the masses."

“Sounds like such a terrible time,” you tease, watching him pace like a caged animal. "Adoring fans, fame, getting to perform every night..."

“I’ll miss this the most, I think.” He stops, swinging his head to look at you as he breaks out into a wide grin. “No one gives me shit quite like you do, babe.”

You roll your eyes again, but there's a warmth spreading through your chest at his admission. "I'll still be here when you get back," you offer quietly, and for a moment, things feel… serious.

But only for a moment. Perpetua twirls away dramatically, his clawed hands gesturing wildly at an invisible audience. "But enough about my woes. I have a performance to prepare for, and you," he points at you accusingly, though his eyes gleam with mischief, "you have paperwork waiting, I'm sure. Frater's probably wondering where his favorite Sister has disappeared to."

“Relax, Perp,” you sigh and walk towards him, closing the distance. “You know he doesn’t know about us and you know we are strictly professional.”

His gaze softens a little at your reassurance. "I know," he sighs, stepping closer until you're just inches apart. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

The tension between you hangs in the air for a moment, neither of you willing to break it. Then Perpetua leans in close, his painted face just inches from yours. "One more night," he whispers, his voice a mixture of command and plea. "Before I leave. Give me that at least?"

“You don’t have to ask me twice, babe,” you hum before reaching up his face, fingers tracing the edge of his silver mask. You’ve been careful not to ask what it’s for — in fact you’ve never seen him without it.

His eyes darken as he catches your wrist, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

"I'll see you tonight then," he says, releasing your wrist and stepping back. The intensity in his eyes shifts to playfulness again. "Now, leave me to my practice. I must perfect this walk before the tour begins."

You nod, unable to suppress a smile. "Don't hurt yourself with all that... prowling."

"Mock me now," he calls after you as you head for the door, "but you'll see. The crowds will be mesmerized."

You throw him one last glance over your shoulder. He's already resumed his ridiculous posture, fingers curled into claws, hunched shoulders, taking exaggerated steps across the room. Despite yourself, you feel a pang at the thought of him leaving soon.

"See you tonight, Papa," you say softly, and close the door behind you.

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thisbastardneedsafatherfigure · 9 hours ago

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𝕱𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖑𝖞

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ/ᴛᴏᴘ(ɪꜱʜ?) ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴡɢɪʀʟ, ʜᴜɢᴇ ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ, ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʀʏ, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ᴛᴏʀᴇᴛᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵; 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰, 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦!

𝘗𝘴: 𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘖’𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧🫠

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 4ᴋ

It’s been a couple of days since the baby shower.

A sweet afternoon. Streamers and soft music. Polaroids on string. Bowls of sugared almonds in pastel pink and blue. The kind of event that hums with gentle domesticity — safety, joy, quiet dreams about a new life on the way.

And for the most part, it was exactly that.

You hadn’t seen your friend in months, and she looked radiant. Glowing in a way that went beyond pregnancy, beyond the usual compliments.

There was something otherworldly about her — not in her features, not in the way she moved, but in the stillness around her. Her smile… there was something unreadable behind it, as if she carried a secret deeper than the child inside her.

You didn’t question it.

You were just happy for her.

You had smiled when you saw Remmick arrive, finally free to join the party now that the sun had dipped below the horizon — and after finally deciding to wear something less 1930s.

You had pulled him through the crowd by the hand, introducing him to the others with that effortless charm of yours. But something in him — subtle, almost imperceptible at first — had changed.

He’d looked in a specific direction, just over your shoulder, with an almost vacant expression. Like something had caught in his throat. When you turned to follow his gaze, you saw only your friend’s husband. Tall, calm, quiet. Kind to everyone. An ordinary man.

But Remmick seemed to keep his distance.

He didn’t say anything at first. He passed the evening in peace — but rigidly. Too rigidly. Every answer measured. Every word filtered.

He never lost control. But you noticed the way his jaw clenched just a little too often, or how his fingers tightened around his glass as if he might shatter it.

Only later — much later — while you were driving home in the quiet dark of the car, he finally spoke.

“She’s not with a human.”

You paused. “What?”

“She’s carryin' somethin' strange, y'know. Didn’t come from any human, that's for sure.” His voice was quiet, but not unsure. Not even remotely.

Your brow furrowed. “She didn’t say anything—”

“Why would she, now?” he cut in, eyes locked on yours. “I can feel it in me bones. Not vampire — somethin' else entirely. But human? No chance.”

You stared at him. Not in fear. Not even disbelief.

Just silence.

Because you know what he is. What he’s capable of sensing.

But even then, even with that revelation hanging between you, you found yourself smiling.

“She looked happy,” you said simply, curling your fingers around his. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Remmick didn’t argue.

But later that night — when the lights were off and you thought he was asleep — you felt the way he pressed closer to you. The way his hand moved down to your stomach, spreading across it with slow, deliberate pressure.

Like he was checking. Like he was counting time.

The movie flickers quietly across the TV screen, painting soft lights across the dim living room. You’re half-sprawled out the couch, one leg tucked under you, the other stretched out — and it’s under that leg that Remmick rests, head nestled against your thigh like it’s the only pillow he’ll ever want. His arm is draped lazily over your knee, fingers absently tracing slow, warm patterns against your skin. A blanket’s tossed somewhere nearby, but you don’t need it — the heat of his body, and the cozy hush of evening, are more than enough.

Your cat is curled up behind you, nestled into the small ledge of space between your head and the back cushion of the sofa. Occasionally, it flicks its tail against your hair in quiet judgment — clearly unimpressed with the movie or the company, but tolerant of both.

Your body hums in a slow, satisfied way — not exactly tired, not quite alert. The kind of stillness that only comes after a long day and a long, long shower with Remmick, where he’d had you pressed to the tile, whispering filth and adoration into your skin while the water did nothing to cool him down.

You’d expected him to be sated.

He’d even looked it, once you’d finally gotten back to the couch — hair wet, eyes soft with post-orgasm warmth. You’d thrown on a long T-shirt and dropped beside him, both of you content for a rare moment of peace. And for a little while, it had been just that: peace.

But now, that same hand tracing lazy circles on your leg has begun to drift. Not urgently. Not obviously. Just a little… lower. A little more deliberate. His fingertips start to wander the hem of your shirt — never quite slipping beneath, but close enough that your skin prickles in anticipation.

You glance down at him. His eyes are still on the TV. Pretending.

But the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you murmur.

“I’m not doin' anythin'.” His voice sounds like false innocence.

His hand creeps higher, dragging across the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Slower now. Less tracing, more claiming.

You shift a little. Adjusting to get away from him — just a little bit. He notices so he turns his head, rests the side of his face directly over your skin and inhales — long and deep.

“Rem,” you sigh. “I’m watching the movie…”

“I know.” His lips graze the top of your thigh, his short bear tickling you. “So am I.”

But he’s not. Not really.

His hand is bolder now. Slipping under your shirt, dragging along your hips, finding that soft dip of skin just below your belly. His touch is slow, reverent — but present. Not teasing anymore. It’s filled with a gentle kind of insistence. A promise he’s building with each stroke of his palm.

And then — with a sigh too innocent to be anything but sinful — he shifts.

He sits up slowly, like a cat stretching after a nap, rising from your lap until he’s kneeling beside you on the couch, his eyes now fully focused on you.

You try to ignore it, keeping your eyes on the screen, but your heartbeat betrays you — and he knows it. He always knows it.

He leans down, kisses the curve of your neck. Light at first. Barely there.

Then again, just beneath your ear.

Again, slower, lingering.

You swallow. “Rem…”

You try to turn your head away — needing to regain control — but he follows, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek, keeping your face gently caged. Not forceful. Just enough to guide.

Then, wordlessly, he presses his lips to your neck again with a quiet, low growl, burying his mouth into the skin like he needs to drink you from the source.

You try to squirm away again, but this time his arms shift, moving you.

He lifts your legs with one hand, adjusts your hips with the other, guiding your back gently against the arm of the couch. You gasp as the soft cushions meet your shoulders, and then — he’s over you.

Not heavy, not aggressive — but surrounding.

His body fits between your thighs like he’s lived there, like this is where he was always meant to be. You’re still just wearing that long shirt, and it’s ridden up dangerously now, barely covering you.

“Remmick—” you start again, already breathless. “We already had sex in the shower like thirty minutes ago…” you sigh, turning your head to look at the screen, as if the movie might rescue you from the heat crawling through your limbs.

“Sure,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, higher. “I remember. I remember how ye sounded.”

His lips trail up your neck again, soft and wet, voice getting lower, needier.

“Ye were so warm inside, love. Ye still are. I can smell meself on ya.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“I’m tired,” you protest weakly. “It was a busy day at work…”

That’s when he really melts.

His voice is almost a whine when he replies. Desperate. Soft. Pathetic.

“Ya don’t have to do a thing…” he breathes, kissing your collarbone. “I’ll take care o' ya. I promise. Just let me touch ya. Let me help ya relax.”

His hips grind down, just once — gently — letting you feel the hardness pressed between your thighs, hot and growing harder by the second.

“Ya know I can make it better,” he murmurs into your skin. “Better than anythin'. Better than sleep. Better than this bleedin' film ye’ve seen a hundred times.”

You don’t even answer him with words.

You just let your body soften beneath him, let your eyes flutter shut, let your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. He feels it — the shift in you. And his breath catches like you just handed him something sacred.

His hands move slowly at first, dragging the hem of your shirt higher, exposing your thighs, your hips, the curve of your belly. His eyes flicker — dark and glassy with hunger — but he doesn’t pounce. He kisses his way down.

Your cat shifts behind your head, tail flicking near your face once in vague disapproval.

Remmick lowers himself onto his stomach, settling between your legs like it’s the only place he ever intends to be again. One large hand rests across your belly, keeping you grounded, the other gently easing your thighs open wider.

“Just stay right there…” he murmurs. “Don’t be movin'. Let me do everythin', me dear.”

You can barely breathe as he kisses the inside of your thigh, then the other, his stubble scraping the delicate skin as he works his way in.

Then finally, finally, his mouth finds you.

He doesn’t rush. He starts with long, slow licks — lazy and deliberate — like he’s savoring you, tasting every part of what he already owns. The flat of his tongue presses through your folds, hot and slick, and you feel your hips twitch, instinctive and immediate.

You’re already starting to melt into the couch, limbs loose, thoughts blurred from the rhythm of Remmick’s mouth working you close and you swear you can feel him smiling every time you gasp.

Then suddenly—he pauses.

You feel it before you hear it. His breath stills. His tongue withdraws.

And then he growls.

Not loud — but deep. Low in his chest. A vibrating, frustrated sound that sets off something instinctive in your core. You tense, your hand twitching in his hair.

“…Rem?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He presses a kiss just above your clit, and then inhales, slow and deliberate. Searching. Testing.

And when he exhales, the sound that escapes him is darker. Almost wounded.

He pulls back from between your legs just far enough to stare, his breath hot against your inner thigh, his eyes searching. Desperate.

“Where is it…” he whispers, almost like he’s talking to himself. His brows furrow, lips parting in disbelief. He leans in again, mouth dragging through your folds, slower this time — tasting, checking — and then again, rougher, more frantic.

And when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for…

He whines.

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no—darlin'…”

You blink, flushed and confused, chest rising and falling.You are not understanding.

“Ya scrubbed it clean.” His voice is barely more than a broken breath, trembling with devastation. “Washed me right off o' ya.”

He kisses your entrance, tongue flicking gently, like he’s begging forgiveness with every motion. He sucks your clit, hard, and you writhe beneath him, moaning his name like a warning and a surrender.

“Ah, but don’t be worrin', love” he growls, licking up your slick with renewed hunger. “I’ll fix it.”

He pushes two fingers inside you — not harsh, but firm crooking them just right, and your legs twitch around his shoulders. By now he knew the right points without even making a serious commitment.

His fingers slide in and out of you for a few more moments, wet and trembling, his mouth still pressed reverently against the inside of your thigh like he’s whispering a prayer you can’t hear.

When he finally looks up, his eyes are wild.

You barely have time to ask him anything before he’s shifting, scooping you up into his lap in one swift, desperate movement. You gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders instinctively as he sits back into the couch, pulling you with him, positioning you so your knees straddle his hips and your body rests fully against his chest.

Your cat immediately huffs, jumps off the back of the couch with a dramatic flick of its tail, and disappears into the hallway — likely muttering curses in feline under its breath.

But Remmick doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

He’s already moving your panties to the side, the other one large hand sliding up your butt to keep you suspended.

“Just let me…” he pants, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, not pushing yet — just feeling. Just existing there, trembling with the weight of what he wants.

“Swear, I’ll be gentle,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll be so good. Good as gold for ya…”

You whisper his name — not a protest, not encouragement. Just his name.

And that’s all it takes.

He grips your hips with shaking hands, slowly guiding you down onto him.

You both gasp — you from the overwhelming stretch, the still-sensitive ache of overstimulation, and him from sheer, unrelenting relief.

“Oh—fuck, yes…” he moans, his head falling forward against your shoulder, voice trembling as you sink fully onto him. “There ye are. There ye are.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll go away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You can feel his cock twitch inside you — thick and hard and throbbing. You can feel the shake in his legs, the unspoken need in his every breath.

“Goin' slow,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “I have to go slow.”

And he does — but it’s the kind of slow that’s full of tension, like he’s pulling every thread of restraint until it’s one second from snapping. He lifts your hips barely an inch, then presses you back down again with a shuddering groan, his lips catching against your neck.

“Ye’re still so tight,” he whispers. “Still so warm… like yer body wants to keep me now.”

You don’t answer — can’t — too overwhelmed by the way he moves, the way he’s not thrusting so much as rocking you back and forth, his hands gentle but gripping, grounding you to him.

“I’m gonna leave it in this time, so I am,” he breathes, mouth brushing against your ear. “Not lettin' ya wash me away again. I’ll keep fillin' ya, love— till yer body can’t forget. Till I’m still spillin' outta ya in the mornin'…”

His voice wavers. Cracks.

“Need it to stick,” he whines. “Need ya to hold me.”

He keeps rocking into you, deeper with every pass, your foreheads pressed together now, your breaths mingling. You feel every inch of him — the depth, the thickness, the weight of his want.

And beneath it all, that vulnerability: not lust, not dominance.

Just a man breaking a little more each time he feels you clench around him and knowing that he can never get close enough.

When you finally start to shake around him again, your nails dragging into his shoulders, he groans — desperate and ragged, his thrusts faltering as you flutter around him.

“Gonna come, baby,” he gasps. “Gonna fill ya again. Gonna give it all back.”

You whisper his name — broken, pleading — and he falls apart.

He buries himself deep, jerking his hips once, twice, then holds you there, pressed flush against him as he comes with a low, pathetic cry, spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves.

His forehead is pressed against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his breathing shallow and content.

But he doesn’t soften.

You shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable, and that’s when you notice it: the pressure. He’s still hard.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, meaning to help him relax—ground him, maybe. And he purrs.

A low, almost embarrassed sound vibrates from his chest, like something primal he didn’t mean to release. His arms tighten around you, his hips twitch just once—reflexive, almost apologetic.

You smile. “Rem… seriously?”

“Can’t help meself,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck.

You give a shocked laugh, barely recovered. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

But he moves again—intentionally this time. A slow, deep roll of his hips that makes you gasp and grip hard his shoulders.

“Remmick,” you breathe. “We just—”

“I know,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “But it's not enough, it's just not enough, love…”

He pulls back just far enough to kiss you, deep and slow and needy. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging—trying to make him stop. But he moans into your mouth and presses deeper, harder. His fangs scratching your lips as a warning.

You try again, breaking the kiss. “Stop—seriously, I’m—”

He doesn’t let you finish. With a growl, he wraps his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, cock still inside, and carries you toward the bedroom.

“Remmick—!”

“Please, darlin’,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your jaw, barely holding back his panting. “Please, lemme give it to ya… let me give ya everythin'.”

You claw at his back in protest—halfhearted, overwhelmed—and he whines, hips jerking with each drag of your nails.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart” he pants, nuzzling into your neck. “I know yer tired… I do. I just— I need to, I have to—”

He stumbles into the bedroom, pushes the door open with his foot, and sets you down on the mattress—not gently, but not roughly either. Just… desperate. Urgent.

You try to crawl away, breathlessly, but he’s already on you, pinning you down with his weight, his cock still hard and so ready as it slides back into place like he never left.

He groans at the feeling—like he’s home again.

“Ye’re squeezin' me so tight,” he growls into your neck. “Yer body wants it. It needs me. I know how much it needs me…”

You cry out as he starts moving—no teasing, no slow build. Just deep, messy thrusts, his need spilling out of you with every roll of his hips.

Every wet smack of his hips against yours and the obscene sounds of your arousal mixed together only drive him wilder. All you can do is reach his back, your nails dragging down leaving scratched, walls fluttering around his aching length, and moan your breathless yeses into his ear.

You feel the blood and skin getting under your nails and he gasps.

“Do that again,” he begs. “My sweet girl, my sweet mama.”

You pull at his hair, with the intention of hurting him but he retreated, pushing himself against your lips for a kiss, and it’s too much. He groans into your mouth, sloppy and broken, his hips stuttering.

Your cunt clenches around him on instinct, and he loses it.

He drives in deep, burying himself to the hilt, and comes—loud and raw, his body shuddering as you scratch at his back again, as if the pain grounds him deeper into the pleasure.

Hot, pulsing ropes of cum fill you once again, and he moans your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s giving you everything that’s left in him.

He collapses over you, shaking, panting, his cock twitching inside you with aftershocks, finally starting to soften. His arms are around you, his face pressed into your neck like he’s afraid of being seen.

And for a moment, all you can hear is the sound of both your breathing.

But then something begins to rise in you — not pain, not anger… just something unsettled.

“Remmick,” you whisper, throat dry.

He doesn’t answer.

You shift slightly beneath him. Not to push him away, not even to leave — just move. Reclaim a sliver of yourself.

“Rem,” you repeat, a little louder and colder now. “I need you to get off me. Please.”

He freezes. Completely.

You feel his breath catch, then stutter. And then his whole body shakes.

“I’m so sorry—”

His voice is small. Broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. He lifts his head, and when you see his face, your heart clenches.

His cheeks are wet.

His eyes, completely red and glossy, desperate.

“Did I…did I hurt ya?”

He tries to sit back, tries to pull out, but his hands won’t stop shaking. He looks wrecked, ashamed, lost.

You sit up slowly, reaching for the blanket, covering yourself instinctively as he backs away onto his knees, still trembling, his breathing turning ragged.

He presses his palms into his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, but they just keep coming.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to. Got selfish. I’m so sorry, love.”

You reach out, lay a hand gently on his arm.

“Remmick,” you whisper. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

You pause.

“But you didn’t listen until now. That’s what scared me.”

He drops his head, shoulders curling inward, like your words are physically hitting him.

You speak again, softer now.

“What’s happened to you these days?” you ask, voice almost breaking. “You’re so… clingy. Obsessed. You’ve always been intense, but this? It’s not you.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment.

And then, barely audible—

“I saw how ye looked at 'em.”

You blink. “Who?”

“At yer friend. At her belly.” His voice is strained, lips trembling. “I saw the way yer hand lingered a bit too long when she talked about kickin'. Heard yer heart flutter when I told ye her husband wasn’t human. Ye didn’t say a word, but I felt it all the same.”

You freeze.

He swallows hard, like the confession is strangling him.

“Ye want it,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “Ye want what she has.” Tears well up again. “And I want to give it to ye.”

The room stills.

“I want to build somethin' with ye,” he says, voice cracking. “A…a family…”

He shifts closer, hesitantly, hands gentle as they reach for yours.

You stare at him, lips parted, breath caught in your chest.

You reach up slowly, brushing his cheek with your thumb. He leans into it instantly, like a starving man offered warmth and closed his eyes.

You swallow hard.

“Rem…” you begin, hesitating. “We’ve… we’ve had it thousands of times before. You and me. This. All of it.”

He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tenses slightly.

You keep going, softly.

“But nothing’s ever happened. Not even once.”

You feel his breath hitch.

You almost stop — but you don’t. He needs to hear it.

“Maybe…” Your voice falters. “Maybe he’s something different, even for reproduction. You said it yourself — he’s not a vampire like you. And you…”

You feel his body go still.

“You died, Remmick,” you whisper. “Before you became what you are. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe you just… can’t.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he pulls slightly away, just enough to look up at you — and the look in his eyes breaks you.

There’s no anger there. No blame.

Just quiet devastation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “I’m sorry I can’t give ya what ye want.”

The words land like a stone in the center of your chest.

Before you can even process them, he drops his head to your shoulder, wrapping both arms around your waist and holding you tight — tighter than usual. Not desperate. Not possessive.

Just… broken.

Your arms wrap around him instantly, protectively. You hold back your tears, feeling just how deeply you hurt for him. It was so clear how much he longed for a family. You’d never spoken about it, but you understood why. It was destroying him.

“Remmick, it doesn’t matter if nothing ever comes from this. You are my family. I have everything I want in my arms right now.”

And you truly had everything in your arms.

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