箴—WELCOME

||Requests: Open||

[darkside-writing]

They say war is hell but has anyone considered the possibility of incest during times of war? Imagine when tensions are high, men are dropping like flies and there is a need for a semblance of home and familiarity because you don't know when your last day will be.

A soldier who has always loved his little sister and protected her growing up is desperately homesick for her. He keeps a photo of her in his helmet and looks at it often. She has been his anchor through the whole thing, dutifully writing letters. Time away from home blurs the lines of familial love to something much darker and deeper. When his brothers in arms ask about the pretty girl in the photo he's always taking out to look at, it comes out of his mouth so quickly and naturally that he says it's his wife.

No one knows that's his little sister, his own flesh and blood. The one he protected from bullies and watched her grow up into the beautiful person she is now. Soon enough he begins showing off to everyone saying that's his little wife, the one he will return to when the war is over and give her the family she deserves. That he will fill her up with babies and they will be happy together forever.

[darkside-writing]

Foxhole Relief

Summary: In a cramped foxhole with your heat tearing you apart, you beg for a knot Eugene can’t give. So the gentle medic knots you with his fist instead—deep, slow, and filthy—while shells explode overhead.

Warnings: ABO dynamics, Omega heat, Dubcon (heat-induced desperation), Medical kink, Fisting, Knot substitute, War setting (WWII, explosions, foxhole)

The foxhole was a narrow grave of mud and splintered wood, barely wide enough for two bodies pressed close. Rain had turned the bottom into a slick slurry that soaked through your uniform trousers hours ago. Distant artillery rumbled like thunder, shaking loose dirt from the walls, while the sharp crack of rifles cut through the night. You were curled against the earthen side, shivering and burning at once, your heat crashing over you like a fever that no amount of willpower could break. The last of the suppressants had run out two days ago—supply lines shredded by German shells—and now your body screamed for an Alpha’s knot, for the stretch and lock that would ease the gnawing ache deep in your core.

“Eugene… please,” you whimpered, voice hoarse and delirious. Your fingers clawed at his sleeve, pulling the medic closer in the cramped space. Sweat slicked your skin despite the chill air, your hair matted to your forehead, eyes glassy with need. “It hurts… I need it. Need a knot. Fill me—please, I can’t—”

Eugene Roe knelt beside you, his Beta scent—warm, steady, like pine and clean sweat—cutting through the heavy Omega slick and desperation thick in the air. His hands were gentle but firm as he brushed damp strands from your face, his Cajun drawl low and soothing even as his dark eyes flickered with worry. “Shh, cher. I got you. Breathe for me, alright? I know it’s bad. Them damn supplies… but I ain’t leavin’ you like this.”

You arched against him, thighs squeezing together as another wave hit, soaking your panties further. The ache pulsed, empty and throbbing, your pussy clenching uselessly around nothing. “Knot… Eugene, knot me. Please, I’m burning up inside—”

He hushed you softly, one calloused palm cupping your cheek while the other stroked down your side, trying to ground you. “Easy now, darlin’. I ain’t got one. You know that. I’m Beta through and through—no knot for you, sweet girl. But I’m here. I’ll take care of you best I can. Just focus on my voice, yeah? Let me help ease that fire.”

His words barely registered through the haze. You begged again, hips rocking desperately against his thigh, slick coating your inner thighs. Eugene’s jaw tightened, his own breathing rougher as your scent overwhelmed the tight space. He’d tried everything—cool rags from his kit pressed to your neck, water from his canteen dribbled between your lips, quiet stories of Louisiana bayous to distract you, even holding you tight through the shudders. But the heat only worsened, your pleas turning frantic.

“Eugene… please, I need to be full. Knot—knot me deep…”

Eugene’s breath caught in his throat as your desperate pleas echoed off the muddy walls of the foxhole, your slick-soaked thighs trembling against him while distant artillery shook fresh dirt onto your tangled bodies. His heart hammered with raw conflict—he was just a Beta medic, no Alpha knot to soothe the brutal fire ripping through you, and the thought of pushing you too far in this cramped grave of earth and rain made his stomach twist. “Cher, I… I don’t know if I should,” he murmured hoarsely, voice thick with hesitation even as your Omega scent and frantic begging clawed at his restraint. What if he hurt you? What if this only made the ache worse? But your glassy eyes, the way your pussy clenched and wept for something—anything—to lock inside you, cracked his resolve. Swallowing hard, he pressed his forehead to yours, voice dropping to a pained whisper. “God forgive me… but I can’t leave you sufferin’ like this. Gonna use my fist, darlin’. Stretch you full like a knot, keep you stuffed till the heat eases. That's all I got. You tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

He exhaled shakily, glancing up at the lip of the foxhole where distant flares lit the sky. No one nearby. Just the two of you in this muddy tomb. “Alright, cher. Alright. I’m gonna help. Gonna make the ache go away. But you gotta trust me. Can you do that?”

You nodded frantically, legs parting as he shifted between them in the confined space, your back against the dirt wall. Mud squelched under his knees. He peeled your soaked trousers and panties down just enough, exposing your glistening, swollen folds to the cool night air. The sight of you—so wet, so needy—made his cock twitch in his pants, but he ignored it. This was for you.

“Pretty little pussy’s drippin’ for it,” he murmured, voice dropping as his fingers traced your entrance, gathering slick. “So swollen and hot. I see how bad you need it.” He pushed two fingers inside slowly, curling them, scissoring to stretch you. You moaned loudly, hips bucking. “That’s it. Good girl. Let it out.”

His thick fingers slid through your drenched folds with a wet, obscene glide, two at first, then three, stretching your fever-hot pussy open as slick gushed around them in messy rivulets, coating his knuckles and dripping down to puddle in the muddy bottom of the foxhole. You clenched greedily, inner walls fluttering and sucking him deeper while he curled and pumped, the filthy squelch of your arousal echoing between the earthen walls with every thrust.

But it wasn’t enough. Your walls fluttered, still begging for more, for the impossible stretch of a knot. “More… Eugene, please—knot—”

“I know, darlin’. I know,” he cooed, adding a third finger, pumping steadily. The wet, obscene sounds of your slick echoed in the foxhole, mixing with your whimpers and the patter of rain. “Ain’t got a knot to give you, but I’m gonna fill you up good. Make it feel like one. Just breathe and open up for me.”

He worked you open carefully, adding the fourth finger, his thumb circling your clit in firm strokes. Your head lolled back against the mud, delirious cries spilling out. “Yes—yes, deeper… knot me—”

Eugene leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, his free hand cradling the back of your neck. “Shh, I got you. No knot, cher, but I’m right here. Gonna take care of this greedy cunt.”

Then his thumb tucked in tight against his palm and he pushed—slow, relentless—his entire fist sinking into your sopping cunt with a slick pop, the brutal stretch burning so perfectly as your pussy swallowed him up to the wrist. The thick bulge of his hand filled you completely, knuckles dragging along your sensitive walls, every subtle twist and shallow thrust making fresh gushes of slick spill out around his buried forearm while you writhed in the mud, stuffed fuller than you’d ever been.

You gasped sharply as the stretch hit, your pussy yielding to the thick intrusion. The pressure was intense, overwhelming, mimicking the bulbous swell you craved. Mud caked his wrist as he sank deeper into your heat, the tight ring of muscle gripping him like a vice. “Oh god—Eugene—full… so full—”

“There you go,” he praised, voice rough with restraint, lips brushing your temple. “Takin’ my fist so well. Just like a knot, huh? Feel that stretch? I’m lockin’ you up nice and tight, darlin’. No pullin’ out till you’re done.” He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, the foxhole’s damp earth pressing cold against your bare ass while your inner walls pulsed hot around his hand.

Then he began to move—slow, shallow thrusts of his fist, twisting gently, his knuckles grazing that sweet spot inside you with every shift. Slick gushed around his wrist, dripping down into the muddy puddle below. The filthy squelch of it filled the air, louder than the distant shelling. Your body shook, heat delirium breaking into sharp pleasure as the mimic-knot pressed relentlessly against your walls.

“Eugene—fuck—yes, like that,” you babbled, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop… need it locked in me…”

“I ain’t stoppin’,” he promised, kissing your flushed cheek, then your lips, soft and reassuring. “Gonna fuck you through it with my hand till the ache fades. You’re doin’ so good for me, Omega. My sweet nurse… lettin’ me take care of her in this hole. Just let go. Come on my fist, cher. I got you.”

Delirious chirps and soft, pleading omega cries escaped your lips between gasps, your voice cracking into a high, needy whine every time his knuckles grazed that perfect spot inside you.

His pace quickened slightly, careful but firm, thumb still working your clit as his fist pumped in and out of your sopping cunt. The stretch burned so perfectly, the pressure constant and deep, mimicking the lock of a knot you’d never get from him. Your first orgasm crashed over you hard—walls clamping down around his wrist, gushing fresh slick as you cried out into his neck. He held you through it, murmuring praises in that low, comforting drawl: “That’s my girl… good Omega… squeezin’ so tight. I feel it. Let it all out.”

A sudden whistling scream cut through the night, followed by the distant crump of exploding shells that shook the foxhole and sent fresh cascades of dirt rattling down onto your sweat-slicked bodies. Eugene’s head snapped up, jaw tight, just as a frantic voice shouted from somewhere down the line—“Medic! Roe! We got a bleeder over here!”—the call echoing faintly through the chaos.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, conflict flashing across his face even as your desperate Omega whines and chirps grew louder, your pussy clenching and fluttering wildly around his buried fist. “They’re callin’ for me, cher… I gotta be quick.”

He didn’t pull out. Instead, he leaned over you protectively, one broad shoulder shielding your body from falling debris while his fist began to thrust faster—deep, wet, filthy pumps that made your slick squelch loudly with every motion. His knuckles dragged relentlessly against your swollen walls, the thick stretch mimicking a knot as he worked you harder, thumb grinding firm circles over your throbbing clit with his other hand. “Come on, darlin’—give me another,” he urged, voice low and urgent against your ear, breath hot. “I know you’re close. Let me feel you squeeze my fist before I gotta go.”

You keened sharply, a string of needy chirps and broken whines spilling from your lips as another shell burst closer, the ground trembling beneath you. Eugene’s free hand cradled the back of your head, holding you steady in the muddy cradle while he fucked you with his fist—faster, deeper, the obscene sounds of your dripping cunt nearly drowning out the war outside. “That’s it, sweet girl… good Omega. Come for me—now.”

Your climax hit hard, pussy locking down around his thick wrist in pulsing waves, fresh gushes of slick flooding around his arm as you cried out in a high, keening whine. Eugene groaned softly, holding his fist buried deep through every shudder, pressing tender kisses to your temple even as the distant calls for a medic grew more insistent. “Atta girl… I got you. Stay here— I’ll be back soon as I can.” He finally eased his hand free with a wet pop, wiping it hastily on his trousers before pressing one last, grounding kiss to your forehead and scrambling up the side of the foxhole.

Alone but no longer burning, you listened to the war rage on—the whistle of incoming shells, the shouts of men, the endless grind of the front—while a quiet, sated calm settled over you. Your body still hummed with the memory of his fist buried deep, the comforting scent of the Beta medic clinging to your uniform. For the first time in days, the ache felt manageable. You closed your eyes, breathing steady, trusting he’d return to you as soon as the wounded allowed.

[darkside-writing]

Has anyone ever considered A/B/O Band of Brothers?? Currently thinking about writing a fic about Beta! Eugene Roe helping out Omega! Nurse! Reader. When the suppressants have run out due to supplies issues in the front lines, Eugene can't offer the knot she is desperately begging for and is forced to use manual stimulation to mimic knotting by fisting her pussy

[darkside-writing]

Lightbulb just went off in my head!

Soldiers are rewarded for combat and perfect discipline with a unique currency: "Merit Points." These points are the only way to access the captured citizens from the enemy nation who have been broken into submission and reclassified as rewards to satisfy the soldiers' desires, relieve tension, or help the soldiers breed their own families.

Maintaining immaculate behavioral adds points to their balance. Minor infractions deduct them.

MC’s been enlisted for a good amount of time now, and he’s reached a very good position in the military. Racked up a good amount of merit points. Finally gets the chance to retire young and pick out a fertile wife and serve his country more by breeding many children into her!

Warnings: Noncon, Breeding/Impregnation, War/Mentions of violence

The Merit Allocation & Redemption Center smelled of disinfectant and polished concrete. Cold fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sterile white glow that made the place feel more like a hospital than what it really was — a distribution hub for human rewards.

Staff Sergeant Dominic Kane stood at the reinforced counter, his dress uniform crisp despite the years of mud, blood, and frostbite still living in his bones. The officer on the other side of the glass — a soft-handed major who had never jumped from a plane — checked the ledger one last time.

“Two thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven merit points, Sergeant. That’s more than enough for a permanent Class-A allocation.” The major’s voice was professionally neutral. “Full retirement eligibility. You’re young for it. Most men wait until they’re broken or dead.”

Dom didn’t smile. He hadn’t truly smiled in years.

“I’m not most men.”

He slid the requisition form across the counter. The major scanned it, eyebrows lifting slightly at the selections.

“Permanent breeding allocation. Top-tier fertility profile. Healthy, unbroken stock. You want one you can retire with and… expand the bloodline.” The major cleared his throat. “Ambitious. The nation thanks you for your service and your future contributions.”

Dom’s jaw tightened. Future contributions. That was the polite way of saying breed as many loyal citizens as your body can manage before the war finishes what it started with you.

He had earned every single one of those points the hard way. Normandy. The hedgerows. The frozen hell of the Bulge. Every confirmed kill, every perfect inspection, every time he swallowed his disgust and followed orders that left good men in pieces. Discipline and death had bought him this.

And now he was going to spend it on something soft. Something alive. Something that could still grow.

The major tapped a few keys. “We have several new intakes from the eastern territories that match your criteria. Would you like to review files or see them in person?”

“In person.”

The selection gallery was a long, narrow room with one-way glass along one wall. Behind it, the women stood or sat in simple white shifts, numbers projected above their heads. Most kept their eyes down. Trained. Broken. Reclassified from “enemy citizen” to “national resource.”

Dom walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back, boots echoing on the tile. He had seen enough dead bodies to last ten lifetimes. What he wanted now was the opposite.

He stopped in front of the third alcove.

You.

The number above your head read 47. Your eyes — wide and still holding the faintest flicker of something that hadn’t been fully extinguished — lifted for just a second before dropping again. Your body was exactly what the breeding profiles promised: soft and made for survival and for carrying life. Breasts strained against the thin fabric of the shift. A gentle curve to your belly. Hips and thighs that spoke of easy pregnancies and plenty of milk. The kind of body that had been rare in the starving territories these last years.

Something in Dom’s chest — something he thought the war had burned out of him — pulled tight and hot.

There.

He didn’t need to see the rest. The file confirmed what his eyes already knew: high fertility markers, no major health issues, recent reclassification, still relatively sheltered before capture. Perfect.

“I’ll take her.”

The major didn’t even blink. “Number 47. Permanent allocation. Your points will be deducted immediately. She’ll be prepared and brought to the claiming suite. Congratulations, Sergeant Kane. Or should I say… retired Sergeant Kane.”

Dom didn’t correct him.

The claiming suite was small but private — a bed, a washbasin, a table with a simple meal already laid out, and a locked door that only his new access code would open from the outside. Dom stood in the center of it, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching the door.

When it opened, two handlers escorted you inside. You were still in the white shift, barefoot, hands clasped in front of you like you’d been taught. The handlers left without a word. The lock clicked behind them.

For a long moment, Dom just looked at you.

You were even softer up close. The curls framed a face that was still too innocent for what this place had done to you. Your lips were slightly parted, breath coming a little fast. Your nipples had tightened against the thin fabric from the cool air — or from fear. Probably both.

He stepped forward slowly, like approaching a skittish animal. One large, calloused hand came up and caught a curl between his fingers, rubbing the silk of it.

“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “They said you were fertile stock. Didn’t say you’d look like this.”

His other hand settled on your waist, fingers sinking into the plush give of your side. He squeezed once, testing, then slid lower to the flare of your hip. Wide. Perfect for what he intended.

“You know what this is,” he said quietly. Not a question. “You’ve been told. You’re mine now. I paid for you with every drop of blood and every year they took from me. Two thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven points. That’s how much your body and your future are worth to me.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers so you had to meet his eyes. They were dark, intense, and utterly serious.

“I’m not going to use you and send you back. I retired for this. For you. You’re going to be my wife. You’re going to take my cock and my seed until your belly swells with my children — as many as I can put in you. That’s how I serve now. That’s how you serve.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“I used to believe in a lot of things,” he continued, voice dropping lower, rougher. “God. Country. Happy endings. The war took all of it. But it left me with enough points to take something back. And I’m taking you.”

He didn’t wait for an answer you weren’t allowed to give.

Dom’s hands moved to the hem of your shift and pulled it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The fabric whispered to the floor. Cool air kissed your bare skin.

A low sound rumbled in his chest. Not quite a growl. Something closer to reverence mixed with hunger.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “All this softness. All this life waiting to be filled.” His palm slid over your belly, pressing gently as if he could already feel the future he was going to force into it. “War makes everything thin and hard and dead. But you…” His fingers dipped lower, parting your folds without warning, finding you warm and already slick from whatever conditioning they’d put you through. “You’re going to be warm and full and mine.”

He walked you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. With a firm hand between your shoulder blades, he bent you forward over it. Your cheek pressed into the rough blanket. Your soft ass and the glistening seam between your legs were presented to him like an offering he had more than earned.

Dom unbuckled his belt with one hand, the other still gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. He freed his cock — thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip from the sheer relief of finally having something good in his hands after years of nothing but death.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask.

He lined up and pushed inside you in one long, relentless thrust.

Your body yielded around him with a wet sound that made his vision blur. Tight. Hot. Alive. He bottomed out with a groan that sounded like it had been ripped from somewhere deep and wounded.

“Fuck… there.” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades for a second, breathing hard. “This is what I fought for. What I killed for. What I earned.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t gentle. It was years of pent-up desperation and control finally unleashed. Each thrust drove you harder into the mattress, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the small room. His hands roamed constantly — gripping your waist, reaching under to squeeze and lift your breasts, sliding over the curve of your belly like he was already claiming the space where his children would grow.

Between harsh breaths he spoke, low and rough against your ear:

“You’re going to take every drop I give you. Every time I get hard, you’re going to open these pretty thighs and let me breed you. No more thinking about the world outside. That world is dead. This is your world now — my cock, my seed, my children growing in this soft little body.”

He reached around and rubbed tight circles over your clit, not to be kind, but because he wanted you to come on him. Wanted to feel you clench and milk him when he filled you for the first time.

When you did — a broken, helpless sound tearing from your throat — Dom followed with a guttural curse. He buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard, pulsing thick and hot inside you, hips jerking with every spurt like he could force it deeper, plant it permanently.

For a long moment he stayed there, cock still twitching inside your fluttering heat, one hand splayed possessively over your lower belly.

Then he pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from you with dark satisfaction. He used two fingers to push it back in.

“Stay like that,” he ordered quietly. “Let it take.”

He cleaned himself with a cloth from the basin, then came back and pulled the blanket over your trembling, marked body. For the first time since he’d entered the room, his voice softened — not much, but enough to show the crack beneath the steel.

“Rest. We leave for my new quarters in an hour. You’ll sleep in my bed tonight. Every night from now on.”

He brushed a hair from your damp cheek, his thumb lingering.

“I lost too much to let anything take you from me. So don’t fight it, little one. The war’s over for both of us. Your only job now is to be soft… and to grow what I put inside you.”

Dom sat on the edge of the bed, one heavy hand resting on your hip like an anchor, and watched you with the eyes of a man who had finally found the one thing left in the world worth guarding with everything he had left.

His reward. His wife. His future.

And he wasn’t letting go.

[darkside-writing]

Love Me More

Summary: For three years Bear loved you in silence from the corner of the music store. Then he found a willow that could make you love him back — and he never planned to let the spell break.

Warnings: Magical coercion/non-consensual mind and emotion alteration, Obsessive/possessive behavior, Yandere! Bear

The rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the city into a watercolor smear of gray and neon. Inside the little music store on 12th, the air smelled of old vinyl, warm dust, and the vanilla candle Sarah always lit when the weather turned mean. The “Closed” sign was crooked in the window, but none of you had left yet.

Ian was sprawled on the battered couch with an acoustic guitar across his lap, but he wasn’t really playing it. He kept strumming random, half-hearted chords while he talked shit with Sarah about a difficult customer from earlier, occasionally laughing at his own jokes. Sarah sat tucked against his side, phone in one hand, but she wasn’t fully checked out. She kept glancing over at you with that gentle, watchful expression she always got when she thought you were being too quiet. She’d already pressed a warm mug of tea into your hands earlier and kept sneaking looks to make sure you were actually drinking it.

Bear sat on the floor near the record player, back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him. He wasn’t playing anything. He was watching you.

He had been watching you for three years.

You had started as the new part-timer, shy and sweet, the one everyone automatically protected. Ian called you “kid” and ruffled your hair. Sarah called you “sunshine” and made sure you ate lunch. Bear never gave you a nickname. He just… was there. Quiet. Steady. The one who walked you to your car when it was dark. The one who fixed the wobbly shelf without being asked. The one who remembered you liked your coffee with oat milk and an extra shot even though you’d only mentioned it once.

He had loved you almost from the first week.

It wasn’t loud. It was the quiet, aching kind—the kind that settled in his chest and never left. He loved the way your voice went soft when you talked about simple things. He loved how you still got excited over finding a rare pressing in the dollar bin. He loved that you were sheltered in a way the rest of them weren’t anymore; you still believed people were mostly good, still hugged like you meant it, still looked at the world with wide, trusting eyes. You were the innocent heart of the group. And Bear, awkward and insecure and too tall for most rooms, had fallen so hard he sometimes forgot how to breathe around you.

He had loved you for so long that the wanting had stopped feeling like a choice. It lived in the way he memorized the sound of your footsteps on the old floorboards, the exact shade your eyes turned when you were tired, and the quiet, shameful way he sometimes let himself imagine what it would feel like if you ever looked at him the way he looked at you.

He never told you. How could he? You saw him as safe. Reliable. Big brother Bear.

You trusted too easily. You saw the good in people who didn’t deserve it. You looked at him like he was safe.

He wanted to be safe for you. He also wanted to be the only thing you needed.

Sometimes he caught himself counting how many times you smiled at him in a single shift. Sometimes he stayed behind after everyone else left just to stand in the spot where you had been standing, like the air might still hold something of you. He never let himself think too hard about why.

Tonight, after Ian and Sarah finally called it and left with hugs and shouted goodbyes, you lingered. You gathered your bag slowly, then turned to him with that gentle smile.

“Thanks for locking up. And for… everything, really.” You stepped closer and hugged him, brief and warm, your head fitting just under his chin for a second. Your sweater was soft against his chest. You smelled like rain and something floral. “You guys are my safe place. Especially you. I don’t know what I’d do without my big brother Bear.”

The words landed like they always did—kind, grateful, and devastating.

Bear managed a rough chuckle. “Anytime.”

You left. He stood in the dark store for a long time after, neon light painting his face in shifting colors. Then he drove to the little crystal shop two blocks over.

He told himself he was going for the tiger’s eye pendant. You’d lost yours last month—the one you wore every day—and he’d been meaning to replace it. Something small. Something that said I see you without saying anything at all.

The shop smelled of patchouli and old paper. Crystals glittered under glass. Near the counter was a cheap cardboard display: small wooden boxes printed with cheerful red letters.

ONE WISH WILLOW Crack open! Make your wish come true! (One wish only — choose wisely!)

Bear picked one up. Inside was a small, pale piece of wood, gnarled and smooth in places, faintly greenish. It felt heavier than it looked.

The tired woman behind the counter glanced at it. “Novelty item. Some old willow story. People buy ’em for parties. Most wish for money or a date or whatever.”

Bear bought it. And the pendant.

Back in his apartment—the small, quiet space filled with records and a guitar he rarely touched—he sat on the edge of his bed. The broken streetlight outside flickered through the blinds. He turned the willow piece over in his hands.

He should throw it away. It was stupid.

But the ache in his chest was real. The years of wanting were real. The way you had called him big brother tonight was real.

He closed his eyes. Saw your soft smile. The way your eyes lit up when he brought you coffee. The way you trusted him completely.

“I wish,” he whispered, voice cracking, “that you would love me more than anyone else in the world.”

He snapped the wood.

The crack was sharp and final, louder than it had any right to be. A cold breeze stirred the still air, carrying the green scent of crushed leaves and rain. The lights flickered once. Then nothing.

Bear sat there, heart hammering, feeling like an idiot. He put the broken pieces in the drawer with the other small things he’d kept of yours—a hair tie, a receipt with your neat handwriting, a polaroid from a group trip where you stood close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He went to bed.

The days after blurred into one long, rain-softened haze. Bear told himself he was imagining it at first. But the next afternoon you walked into the store carrying two coffees and handed him one without being asked—oat milk, extra shot, exactly right. Your fingers brushed his and stayed there a second longer than necessary. When Ian teased him for being quiet, you had laughed and said, “He talks to me. He just doesn’t need to say everything out loud.” Something in Bear’s chest had cracked open and stayed open.

By the end of that first week the changes were impossible to ignore. You started closing with him even when it wasn’t your shift. You texted him at night—small things, soft things. Rain’s loud tonight. Can’t sleep. He would stare at the screen until the words blurred, then type back something careful and steady. One evening you had leaned against his side while he alphabetized a new box of records, your head resting on his arm like it had always belonged there. “This feels right,” you’d murmured, almost to yourself. He hadn’t trusted his voice enough to answer.

He gave you the tiger’s eye pendant on a slow Tuesday. You were in the back room sorting returns when he pulled the small box from his jacket. “Found it,” he said, voice rough. “Figured you should have something to replace the one you lost.” Your eyes had gone wide and glassy. You let him fasten it around your neck, skin warm beneath his clumsy fingers. After that you touched the stone constantly, and every time your hand rose to it you seemed to drift closer to him. “It makes me feel safe,” you told him once, quiet. “Or maybe that’s just you.”

The first time it started to slip was almost two weeks later. You were humming while you wiped down the counter when your phone lit up. Ian. Something about dinner after close. You smiled at the screen in a way that made Bear’s stomach turn over. “He found a new Thai place,” you said, almost apologetic. “Vegan options and everything. You want to come?” Bear had shrugged, tried to sound easy. “Go. Have fun.” But when you left that night the hug you gave him was friendly again—grateful, warm, distant. Big brother Bear. Your eyes were clear. The ache in his ribs returned so sharp he drove straight to the crystal shop without thinking.

That night he reread the box.

Bear’s hands trembled as he turned the box over beneath the flickering streetlight bleeding through his blinds. He had bought four of them now and had never looked past the cheerful front. This time he read the small, cramped text on the back all the way through.

The granted wish will hold until it reaches its natural peak or until the death of the wisher. Renewal not recommended.

The words blurred for a second. Until his death. His stomach dropped so hard he felt sick. If something happened to him — anything — you would wake up. You would remember every soft smile you had given him, every time you had reached for him like he was the only thing keeping you steady, and you would know what he had done. His breath came too fast. He dropped the box onto the bed like it had burned him and pressed both hands over his mouth, trying to stay quiet even though there was no one else in the apartment. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t let the wish reach whatever peak it was building toward. He had to keep buying them. He had to keep you exactly like this — soft, trusting, his — for as long as he could. Because the second the magic slipped for good, he would lose you forever.

The second willow cracked between his fingers in the dark of his apartment. The cold green wind came again. The next morning you arrived early, wrapped both arms around his waist the second you saw him, and pressed your face into his chest like you were trying to disappear there. “I kept thinking about you last night,” you whispered. “It felt wrong not having you close.” Bear closed his eyes and let himself believe it for a little while.

The third time the wish thinned, it happened faster. You grew restless. You wiped the same section of counter twice. Your humming kept breaking off. Twice you glanced toward the door like you were waiting for someone who hadn’t arrived yet. Ian had texted about bringing pizza for the late-night hang the group sometimes did after closing. Bear watched the way your shoulders stayed tight even when you smiled at him. The brightness in your eyes flickered like a bulb about to go out.

He bought the fourth willow that same evening.

The One Wish Willow sat in the glovebox of his car like a secret he kept feeding. He had used three already. Each time the effect began to thin—your smiles a little less automatic, your eyes clearing for a few hours like you were waking from a long dream—he bought another from the crystal shop that never seemed to close. He told himself it was mercy. You were happier this way. Softer. Completely his in the way he had always craved but never dared ask for.

Tonight the current wish was slipping.

You were humming under your breath while you wiped the counter, but the tune kept faltering. Twice you glanced toward the door like you were expecting someone else. When Bear stepped out, you smiled at him—warm, genuine—but it didn’t quite reach your eyes the way it used to before the first willow.

“Hey,” you said, voice gentle. “You okay? You’ve been quiet even for you.”

He shrugged, the movement small. “Just tired.”

You nodded, accepting it the way you accepted everything. “Iantexted. He’s bringing pizza. You staying?”

Bear’s chest tightened. The old you would have asked because you wanted him there. The version the willow had made wanted him there because the thought of him leaving made something inside you itch.

“I’ll stay,” he said.

You brightened, but the brightness had an edge now. “Good. I… I don’t really want to be here without you anyway.”

The words landed like a stone in still water. Bear felt the ripple in his blood.

Later, after Ian left and Sarah had gone home, you helped him lock up. The street outside was empty, the only sound the distant rush of the highway and the soft scuff of your shoes on the pavement. You walked close enough that your sleeve brushed his. When a car backfired two blocks away you flinched and your hand found his forearm, fingers curling tight.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “Everything feels loud tonight.”

Bear stopped under the flickering streetlight. Your face was half in shadow, eyes wide and trusting even as the willow’s hold loosened around the edges. He could see the real you surfacing—the girl who had once told him she was scared of disappointing people, who still called her mom every Sunday, who baked when she was anxious. She was fighting her way back.

He couldn’t let her win.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

You shook your head too quickly. “Can I… can I come to your place instead? Just for a little while. I don’t know why but the idea of my apartment feels wrong right now. Empty.”

Bear’s pulse thudded in his throat. He nodded.

Your hand stayed on his arm all the way to the car.

His apartment was small, the kind of place that smelled like coffee and the cedar blocks he kept in the closet. One lamp glowed in the corner, throwing long shadows across the floor. You kicked off your shoes by the door the way you always did now—without asking—and padded straight to the couch like it was yours. Bear watched the way your shoulders relaxed the second you were inside his space.

He made tea because you liked it. Chamomile, two sugars. When he handed you the mug your fingers brushed his and lingered.

“Thank you,” you said softly. Then, quieter: “Bear… do you ever feel like something’s changing and you can’t stop it?”

He sat beside you, close but not touching. “What do you mean?”

You stared into the tea like it might answer. “I used to love being alone. Now when I’m by myself I get this… tightness in my chest. Like I’m forgetting how to be a person unless someone’s looking at me. Unless you’re looking at me.” Your laugh was small and shaky. “That’s weird, right? I sound crazy.”

Bear’s hand moved before he could stop it. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the same gesture you always did yourself. Your eyes fluttered closed at the touch like it was the only thing keeping you steady.

“You’re not crazy,” he said. His voice came out rough. “You’re just… figuring things out.”

You opened your eyes. For a second the old you was there—clear, a little scared, wanting reassurance. Then the willow’s current surged again, or maybe it was the last dregs of the previous wish fighting to hold on. Your gaze went soft and glassy at the edges.

“I don’t want to figure it out without you,” you whispered.

Bear’s heart cracked and mended in the same breath.

He waited until you fell asleep on his couch, curled under the blanket he kept for you. Your breathing was deep and even, one hand still clutching the edge of the fabric like you were afraid it would disappear. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted slightly, the faint crease between your brows that only appeared when the wish was thinning.

Then he stood, grabbed his keys, and drove.

The park on the edge of town was closed after dusk, but the chain across the entrance had been cut months ago and never replaced. Bear parked in the shadow of the trees and walked the overgrown path barefoot, shoes in one hand, the new One Wish Willow in the other. He had bought it that afternoon from the crystal shop. The woman behind the counter had smiled like she knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care.

The willow trees here were real—ancient, their branches hanging like green curtains over the black water of the retention pond. Mist curled low across the surface. The air smelled of wet earth and decaying leaves and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit. Crickets screamed. Somewhere far off a train moaned.

Bear pushed through the hanging branches of the largest tree until he stood in a natural cathedral of leaves. The moonlight filtered through in pale stripes. He sat on the damp ground, the toy balanced on his knees. It looked ordinary—a twisted length of pale wood with a cheap paper label—but it felt warm, almost alive, against his skin.

He closed his eyes.

“I wish,” he said, voice low so the night wouldn’t carry it, “that she stays with me. That she needs me the way I need her. That her world narrows until I’m the only steady thing in it. I wish she loves me—really loves me—even if it’s because I made it happen. I wish she doesn’t slip away again. I wish the real parts of her that fight this… I wish they stay quiet. Just let her be mine. Please.”

The last word cracked.

He snapped the willow in half.

The sound was louder than it should have been, like bone breaking underwater. A cold rush swept through the little grove. The leaves above rustled though there was no wind. One long branch brushed the back of his neck like fingers. For a heartbeat the surface of the pond rippled outward in perfect circles even though nothing had touched it. Bear’s breath fogged in front of him even though the night was warm.

He stayed there until his legs went numb, until the cold in his chest settled into something like peace. Then he walked back to the car with the broken pieces in his pocket.

You were still asleep when he slipped inside at nearly four in the morning. He showered the scent of pond water and guilt off his skin, changed into soft sweats, and sat on the edge of the couch. Your hand found his wrist in sleep, fingers curling around the bone like a lifeline.

When you woke it was slow. Your eyes opened, found him immediately, and filled with something warm and desperate and new.

“Bear,” you breathed. You sat up too fast, the blanket pooling at your waist. “You left.”

“Just for a little while.”

You reached for him. Both hands this time, framing his face like you were afraid he was smoke. Your thumbs stroked his cheekbones. The touch was gentle but the grip was not.

“I woke up and you weren’t here and I thought—” Your voice broke. “I thought maybe I’d made it all up. That you were never real. That I was back in my apartment alone and none of this had happened.” Tears gathered but didn’t fall. “Don’t do that again. Please. I can’t… I can’t do the empty without you anymore.”

Bear’s hands covered yours. He turned his face and kissed your palm, slow and deliberate. You made a small sound, almost a whimper, and leaned in until your forehead rested against his.

The kiss that followed was yours first.

Soft at first—testing, almost shy, the way the old you would have kissed if you had ever been brave enough. Then the willow took the wheel. Your mouth opened under his with a hunger that didn’t match the sweetness of your face. Your fingers slid into his hair and tightened. You climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss, knees bracketing his hips, the heat of you sinking through the thin layers of fabric between you.

Bear groaned into your mouth. His hands found your waist, then your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left. You tasted like the chamomile tea and something darker, something that hadn’t been there before the willows—something that tasted like surrender and need and the kind of love that devoured.

When you pulled back for air your eyes were glassy again, pupils blown wide in the low light. Your lips were swollen. A faint tremor ran through your whole body.

“I love you,” you said, and the words were too steady, too certain for how new they should have felt. “I think I’ve always loved you. It just took me a long time to see it. Or maybe… maybe something helped me see it.” You laughed, small and wondering. “Does that make sense?”

Bear’s thumb traced your lower lip. He could still feel the ghost of your kiss. “It makes sense to me.”

You smiled—the full, radiant smile that had always undone him—and tucked your face into the curve of his neck. Your breath was warm against his skin. One hand stayed fisted in his shirt like you were afraid the world might try to take him.

Outside, the first gray light of dawn crept across the windows. Inside, the shadows in the corners of the room seemed deeper than they should have been. Bear held you while you drifted again, your body heavy and trusting against his chest. He could feel your heartbeat against his ribs—fast, then slowing, then steady in a rhythm that matched his own.

He liked how the wish made you reach for him without thinking. How you lingered after your shifts ended, how your texts came faster when he was quiet for too long, how you seemed to relax only when he was in the room. The old you had friends and plans and a life that didn’t revolve around him. This version — the one the willow had given him — turned toward him like a plant toward light. He told himself it was better this way. You were safer when you didn’t look anywhere else. You were happier when he was the only one you needed. And if the spell ever started to thin again, he would drive straight back to the crystal shop and buy another willow before he let you remember how to stand on your own.

He thought about the broken pieces of willow still in his jacket pocket. He thought about the next time the effect would begin to thin, the way your eyes would clear and the old you would surface, confused and frightened and still so sweet it hurt. He thought about driving back to that pond under the hanging branches, whispering the same words into the dark, snapping another twig while the water watched.

He would do it again. And again. As many times as it took.

Because this—you, soft and warm and completely reliant in his arms, whispering “I love you” like it was the only truth left in the world—was the only thing he had ever really wanted. The only thing the shy, obsessed part of him had ever allowed himself to imagine.

And the willow, whatever lived inside it, had given it to him.

Bear closed his eyes and let the rhythm of your breathing pull him under. Outside, the wind moved through the trees beyond his window, and for a moment it sounded almost like the rustle of long green branches over dark water.

He would keep you.

He would keep wishing.

And you would keep loving him—more than anyone, more than anything—until the day he stopped breathing and the last willow finally expired with him.

For now, in the quiet gray morning, with your fingers still curled in his shirt and your breath warm against his throat, that was enough.

That was everything.

[darkside-writing]

Recently all I can think about is a traumatized soldier coming across a sweet, innocent civilian in the countryside. She's the prettiest thing he has seen since the world has gone to hell. Being so desperate for comfort and physical touch, he rapes her in a barn then breeds her thoroughly. He leaves her shortly after to return to the front lines with the possibility of her being knocked up but promises he will return after the war is over to rape marry her so they can be a proper family.

[darkside-writing]

I just know that Eugene Roe would absolutely be gentle with you during your period. If you have cramps, he is prepared with all the supplies. Hot water bottles, pads, and may even slip some morphine if it's bad enough. He just doesn't want his girl hurting. He may even offer holistic methods and suggest sex to get the endorphins going and muscles relaxed. Blood does not bother him at all, so don't even fret over the mess. If you say yes, he’d undress you slowly, kissing every inch of your body and murmuring how beautiful you are. He’d take you on your side, spooning you so he can hold the hot water bottle against your belly with one hand while he moves inside you with slow, deep thrusts. Lots of praise and soft Cajun French in your ear. Afterward he’d clean you up tenderly and hold you for hours, refusing to let you do anything.

[darkside-writing]

A Quiet Kind of Mercy

Summary: Exhausted by the endless strain of war, Doc Roe turns to his kind nurse for comfort only she can offer.

Warnings: Drug use, Comfort sex, Unprotected sex, Established romantic relationship, Mentions of trauma

The lantern flickered low in the corner of the abandoned Belgian cellar, its weak yellow glow barely pushing back the damp chill that seeped through the stone walls. Outside, the distant rumble of artillery was a constant heartbeat, but here, for these stolen hours, it was only you and Eugene Roe.

He had found you after the last convoy of wounded had been stabilized—your hands still trembling from hours of holding pressure on arterial bleeds, his own dark eyes hollowed by the endless supply shortages and the faces he couldn’t save. Doc Roe, the quiet Cajun medic everyone leaned on, had simply taken your wrist in the corridor and led you down here without a word. Now the door was barred with a crate, and the two of you were finally alone.

“Come here, cher,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and that soft Louisiana lilt that always made your chest ache. He pulled you into his arms, your nurse’s apron still tied over your uniform, his medic bag discarded on the floor. His lips found yours in a kiss that started gentle and quickly deepened—hungry, desperate, the kind that tasted of fear and relief all at once. You clutched at the front of his wool jacket, fingers curling into the rough fabric as his tongue slid against yours.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were shaking. Not from cold.

“Too much today,” he whispered. “I can still hear them callin' medic. Can’t stop hearin' it.” His thumb stroked your cheek, tender despite the calluses. “You neither, I know. Your eyes… they’re too kind for this war, mon cœur.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I just… I need to feel something good. Something real. With you.”

His gaze dropped to the small metal case he’d pulled from his bag. Morphine syrettes. The same ones he used to ease dying boys. He held one between his fingers, the needle capped.

“Just enough to take the edge off,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours for permission. “So we can slow down. So I can hold you the way you deserve. No rushin'. No ghosts. Just us. You trust me?”

You did. You always had. You rolled up your sleeve without hesitation. He cleaned the skin with a swab from his kit, then pressed the syrette to the crook of your elbow. The prick was sharp, then the slow burn as the morphine slid in. Warmth bloomed outward almost immediately—your racing pulse easing, the tremor in your fingers softening, the world narrowing to the man in front of you.

He did the same to himself, a small dose in his own arm, then recapped everything and set the case aside. When he looked back at you, his pupils were a little softer, the tension in his shoulders visibly melting.

“Better?” you asked, voice already lower, dreamier.

“Much.” He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you again, slower this time, thorough, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. “Let me take care of you tonight. Let me love you slow.”

Clothes came off piece by piece in the dim light. Your apron and blouse first, then his jacket and shirt. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his bare chest. You ran your palms over the lean muscle there, the faint scars, the warmth of his skin. He was beautiful like this—quiet strength, gentle hands that had saved so many lives now mapping every inch of you with reverence.

He lowered you onto the makeshift bed of blankets and his greatcoat. The wool was scratchy under your back, but you barely noticed once he was over you, skin to skin. His mouth trailed down your throat, sucking softly at the pulse point until you sighed. One hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it tightened, drawing a quiet whimper from you. He took the other into his mouth, tongue warm and wet, sucking gently while his fingers stroked down your stomach.

You were already wet for him—had been since the first kiss—but he took his time. Two fingers slid between your folds, stroking through the slickness, circling your clit with the same careful patience he used when treating wounds. The morphine made everything feel heightened and distant at once; every touch bloomed slow and deep.

“Eugene…” you breathed, hips lifting.

“I got you, sweet girl,” he murmured against your breast. “So soft. So good for me.” He kissed lower, nuzzling the inside of your thigh before licking a slow stripe up your center. You moaned, fingers threading into his dark hair as he licked and sucked with unhurried devotion, tongue flicking your clit until your thighs trembled around his head. He didn’t rush you over the edge—just kept you floating in that warm, drug-softened pleasure until you were gasping his name.

When he finally rose over you again, his cock was hard and flushed, pressing against your belly. You reached down and wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly, feeling the weight and heat of him. He groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering.

“Need to be inside you,” he said, voice thick. “Need to feel you all around me.”

You nodded, pulling him down for another kiss as you guided him to your entrance. He pushed in slowly—inch by careful inch—until he was seated deep, your bodies locked together. The stretch was perfect, the fullness making you both sigh in unison. For a long moment he simply stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing with you.

Then he began to move.

Not thrusting. Rocking. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that kept him buried inside you while the base of him ground against your clit with every motion. Your legs came up and wrapped around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. Your arms slid around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as you could. Latching. Clinging. Neither of you wanted any space between your bodies.

The morphine made it all languid and endless. Every slide of his cock through your wetness felt like it lasted forever. Every time he bottomed out, you clenched around him and he shuddered, whispering against your lips.

“I love you,” he breathed, the words quiet and raw. “God, I love you so much. You’re the only thing that feels real anymore.”

Tears pricked your eyes—from pleasure, from the overwhelming tenderness, from the war that tried to steal this from you both. “I love you too, Eugene. So much. Don’t let go.”

“Never.” His hips rolled again, deeper, and you moaned into his mouth. “You’re mine, cher. My sweet girl. My home.”

He shifted just enough to get a hand between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in slow circles in time with his grinding. The dual sensation—his cock filling you so completely, his fingers working that sensitive bundle—built steadily, molten and unstoppable. Your nails dug lightly into his back. His dog tags swung between you, cool against your heated skin.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice shaking with restraint. “Let me feel you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm rolled through you in long, gentle waves rather than a sharp peak—your whole body tightening around him, thighs squeezing his hips, a soft cry muffled against his shoulder. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck as he pulsed deep inside you, hips jerking in small, helpless movements while he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a long time afterward, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, softening slowly, while you held each other in that full-body latch—legs still wrapped, arms tight, hearts beating against one another. The morphine haze kept the world soft and quiet. No artillery. No blood. Just the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint scent of his soap and the cellar damp.

He brushed damp hair from your forehead and kissed you there, then your eyelids, then your lips—slow, lingering presses.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Right here. Just like this.”

You nodded, nuzzling into his throat. “Always.”

His arms tightened around you. One hand stroked slow lines down your spine. “When this is over… I’m takin’ you home to Louisiana. Gonna marry you proper. Build you a little house with a garden. You’ll never have to see another wounded boy again if you don’t want to.”

You smiled against his skin, tears slipping free. “I’d like that. As long as you’re there.”

“I will be.” Another soft kiss to your temple. “I’m not lettin’ this war take you from me. Not ever.”

You drifted together in the dim lantern light, bodies still joined, hearts still latched, the morphine and the love between you wrapping everything in a cocoon of safety. Outside, the war raged on. Inside, for these hours, there was only this—slow, quiet, endless comfort in each other’s arms.

[darkside-writing]

Polished

Summary: In the privacy of a borrowed room, Dougie finally has his sweet girl all to himself for one stolen night. Silk stockings, heated whispers, and the slow burn of long-denied desire turn the space into their private world.

Warnings: NSFW, Spit play/Saliva kink, Light power exchange / dominance & submission, Boot/Uniform kink, Stocking fetish

The door to the borrowed room above the pub had barely clicked shut before Dougie’s hands were on you—his doll—hauling you against the rough wood with a low, hungry sound in his throat. The muffled swing of the dance band still drifted up through the floorboards, laughter and clinking glasses a world away. Weeks of stolen kisses in supply closets and frantic touches behind the infirmary tent had built to this: a rare pass, a borrowed key, and finally time alone with his girl.

Dougie locked the door behind you both, then turned and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. His tongue slid hot and demanding against yours while his fingers found the zipper of your dress. Silk whispered down your body and pooled at your feet. Underneath, the stockings he’d somehow scrounged for you clung to your legs—soft, sheer, the seams running straight up the backs of your calves and held by a simple garter belt that hugged the generous curves of your thighs.

“Been thinking about these all night,” he murmured against your mouth, hands sliding up the silk to squeeze the soft flesh above the garters. “My doll, all dressed up just for me.”

He walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the narrow bed. Then he sat on the straight-backed chair, still half in uniform, legs spread. The boots were scuffed from yesterday’s mission, leather dark and worn. He looked at you with that heavy, possessive gaze that always made your stomach flip and your thighs press together.

“Come here, Doll. On your knees.”

You sank down between his boots without hesitation, the floor cool under the silk. He pulled a soft square of cloth from his pocket and held it out.

“Spit-shine them for me before I take them off,” he said, voice low and rough. “Use that pretty mouth. Polish them up nice and shiny. Show me how good my girl can be.”

Heat flooded you. You gathered saliva on your tongue, leaned in, and let it drip onto the toe of his right boot. The wet sound was intimate in the quiet room. You worked it in with the cloth in slow circles, adding more spit when it started to dry, rubbing until the leather began to gleam under the lamplight. You did the same to the left boot, your breath coming faster as you felt his eyes on you the whole time. One of his hands slid into your hair, not pushing, just resting there, grounding you while you served him.

“That’s it,” Dougie praised, thumb stroking your temple. “Spit on it, Doll. Get them shining for me. Fuck, you look so pretty on your knees like this.”

When both boots caught the light like dark mirrors, he tugged you up by your hair and pulled you into a deep kiss. He tasted like the faint bite of polish and the heat of want. Then he stood, unbuckling his belt and shoving his trousers and shorts down just far enough to free his cock.

It sprang heavy and thick into your waiting hand—flushed dark along the veined shaft, the broad head already glistening at the tip. A dark thatch of coarse hair curled at the base, wiry against your fingers as you stroked him. The weight of it, the way it twitched in your grip, the musky scent of him rising warm, made your mouth water.

“Spit on it,” he rasped. “Get it nice and wet for that tight little pussy.”

You did exactly as he asked, letting a thick string of saliva drip over the flushed head and down the ridged shaft. It slid over the veins, catching in the coarse hair at the root. You stroked it in, watching it glisten, feeling him throb against your palm.

Dougie groaned and pushed you back onto the bed. He stripped off his shirt, dog tags swinging against his chest, then hooked his fingers in your panties and dragged them down, leaving the stockings and garter belt exactly where they were. He spread your thighs and settled between them, the silk cool and smooth against his sides when you wrapped your legs around his waist.

He didn’t tease. He notched the blunt head of his cock against your entrance and pushed in slow, letting you feel every thick inch, every ridge and vein dragging along your inner walls. The coarse hair at his base brushed your clit when he finally seated himself fully, the wiry texture rasping deliciously against your sensitive skin.

“Christ, Doll,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking tight. So warm around me.” He rolled his hips, grinding deep so that coarse patch of hair rubbed right where you needed it. The drag of his cock inside you was perfect—thick, insistent, stretching you just right with every thrust.

He started to move in earnest, deep and steady, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. One of his hands slid under your thigh, hiking your leg higher so the silk stretched taut and the seam pressed against his palm. The other braced beside your head, dog tags tapping against your breast with every roll of his hips. You could feel the flex of his stomach, the faint scratch of hair on his chest brushing your skin when he leaned down to kiss you.

He reached between you, spit on his fingers, and rubbed the fresh wetness over your clit in tight circles while he fucked you. The extra slick made everything filthier, the slide easier, the pressure building fast and sharp.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured against your mouth. “Taking me so well. My sweet doll, all soft and perfect around my cock.” His voice was ragged, hips snapping harder now, the head of him hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl in the silk stockings. The coarse hair at his groin rasped against you with every grind, the thick shaft pulsing hot and deep.

Dougie’s rhythm turned relentless, each thrust punching a wet, obscene sound out of your cunt as he drove deeper. “Fuck, listen to that,” he growled against your ear, voice thick with lust. “So fucking wet for me. This pretty pussy’s dripping all over my cock, making such a mess.” One hand slid down to grip your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your stocking as he hiked your leg higher, spreading you wider. The coarse hair at the base of his cock dragged roughly over your swollen clit with every grind, and the thick, veined shaft stretched you open again and again. “That’s it, Doll. Squeeze me just like that. You’re getting so tight—gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna soak my cock like a good girl?”

You tried to answer him but the words kept fracturing on your tongue, coming out in soft, desperate little gasps. “D-Dougie— oh fuck, I— I can’t—” Your voice broke into a high, breathy whimper as he ground deep, the thick head of his cock dragging over that spot again and again. “It’s— it’s too much— you’re so— so deep, I can feel every— ah—” The sentence dissolved into a shaky moan, your thighs trembling in the silk stockings as his coarse pubic hair rasped relentlessly over your swollen clit. “Please— please don’t stop— I’m— I’m right there, I’m gonna— Dougie, I’m gonna come—” Your words ended in a choked little cry, cunt fluttering wildly around him as the pleasure crested higher and higher, your whole body tightening beneath his.

His dog tags swung and tapped against your breast as he fucked into you harder, the head of his cock battering that perfect spot inside you until your vision blurred. “I can feel you fluttering around me,” he rasped, breath hot against your neck. “So close, baby. Come on. Let me feel this greedy cunt come all over me. I want it messy. I want to feel you gush while I’m buried in you.” His free hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, filthy strokes in time with his thrusts. “That’s my girl. Fuck—there it is. I can feel how close you are. Come for me, Doll. Right now. Soak my cock.”

You came hard around him, cunt fluttering and squeezing, a broken moan spilling free. Dougie fucked you through it, pace turning rougher, chasing his own release. When he finally let go it was with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he spilled hot and deep inside you, the coarse hair at the base pressed tight against your slick skin.

He stayed buried for a long moment, breathing hard, then eased out carefully. He used the soft cloth to clean between your legs with gentle strokes before crawling up to gather you against his chest. His boots were still on; you could feel the cool, polished leather against your calf where your leg draped over his. One big hand stroked slowly down your back, over the garter belt, over the silk still clinging to your legs.

“Stay right here with me tonight, Doll,” he murmured into your hair, voice already rough with the promise of more. “I’ve got you. My girl. Gonna keep you full and happy until the sun comes up.”

His fingers traced the seam up the back of your calf, slow and possessive. You tucked closer, breathing in the scent of leather, polish, sex, and him. The world outside the locked door could wait. Inside this room there was only the shine of spit-polished boots, the whisper of silk against skin, and the steady heartbeat of the man who had finally gotten his doll alone and had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

[darkside-writing]

Roadside Stranger

Summary: Stranded alone on a dark back road, you accept a ride from a tall, broad-shouldered stranger with a thick Manchester accent and hungry hazel eyes. What starts as a simple offer of help quickly turns into something far more dangerous and far more tempting.

Warnings: Size kink, Praise kink, Role-play, Possessive behavior, Breeding, Unprotected sex, Dark romance elements, Virginity/Purity kink, Safe word usage, After care, Manchester accent, CNC

You stood on the gravel edge of the abandoned road in the pretty white sundress, a cardigan clutched around your shoulders against the cool night breeze. Heart hammering with excitement and nerves, you shifted from foot to foot, phone in your hand like you were waiting for help that wasn’t coming. The roleplay had been your idea. “Make me the shy hitchhiker,” you’d whispered over breakfast. “You pull up and… take what you want.”

Headlights cut through the dark. The black SUV slowed, tires crunching on gravel as it pulled over. Simon rolled the passenger window down, leaning across the seat so you could see him— hair tousled, black button-up open at the collar, that sharp jawline catching the dashboard glow. His hazel eyes raked over you slowly, predatory and warm all at once.

“Alright, love?” His Manchester accent rolled out thick and low, like smoke. “Car trouble? You’re a long way from anywhere standing out here in that little dress. Looks like you could use a ride.”

You clutched the cardigan tighter, playing it perfectly—wide eyes, soft, cheeks already flushing. “I… yeah. My car started making this awful noise and just died. I don’t have service out here. I was on my way home from a friend’s place. I’m really sorry to bother you…”

He killed the engine but left the headlights on low, then stepped out, tall and broad in the night air. The door shut with a solid thunk. “No bother at all, sweetheart. Can’t leave a pretty thing like you stranded. Hop in. I’ll give you a lift wherever you need to go.”

You hesitated for show, biting your lip, then climbed into the passenger seat. The leather was warm, the cab smelling like his cologne and the faint citrus air freshener he kept for you. He slid back behind the wheel, but instead of pulling out, he turned to face you fully, one arm draped over the back of your seat.

“Name’s Simon” he said, voice dropping. “And you… you look far too sweet to be out here alone. What’s a good girl like you doing driving these back roads at night?”

Your breath caught. The fantasy settled over you like a second skin. “I’m… I’m just trying to get home. I’m not from around here. Really sheltered, I guess. Never done anything like this.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Sheltered, huh? That’s cute. Makes a man want to take care of you proper.” He reached over, knuckles brushing your bare knee. “But first… I think you owe me a little something for the ride. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Me stopping for a stranger in the middle of nowhere.”

You shivered, thighs pressing together under the sundress. “What… what do you mean?”

He leaned in closer, breath warm against your ear. “Back seat, love. Now.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you climbed over the console, dress riding up your thighs. He followed, crowding you into the spacious back seat, the door clicking shut behind him. The windows were already fogging from the heat of you both. He didn’t waste time—hands sliding up your legs, pushing the sundress to your waist, hooking your panties down and off in one smooth motion.

“Christ, look at you,” he growled, accent thicker now, eyes dark. “Pretty little thing, no knickers, spreading your legs for a stranger in my car. You ever let anyone fuck you raw before, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, playing the innocent perfectly, voice small. “No… never. I’m… I’m a virgin. Please be gentle.”

He groaned like the words punched the air out of him, freeing his cock from his jeans—thick, flushed, already leaking. No condom. Never in these scenarios. He pushed your knees wider, settling between them, the blunt head of him nudging your entrance. “Gentle? Not sure I can promise that, love. Been hard since I saw you on the side of the road in that dress. Gonna fuck you proper. Raw. Nothing between us.”

He sank in slow at first, inch by inch, stretching you open with a low curse. “Fuck— so tight. So bloody perfect.” Halfway in he paused, breathing hard against your neck. “You on birth control, sweetheart? Tell me quick.”

The question hit exactly right. You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. “No… I’m not on anything.”

His reaction was instant— a guttural moan tore from his throat and he thrust the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt with one hard snap of his hips. “Jesus fucking Christ— good girl. No protection. Gonna breed this sweet virgin pussy right here in my back seat.” The pace turned punishing, the SUV rocking gently on its suspension, windows fully fogged now. Skin slapped against skin, wet and filthy, his accent breaking into rough Manchester curses with every thrust. “That’s it, take it. My little roadside slut, letting a stranger fill her up. Gonna pump you so full you’ll be leaking me all the way home. Maybe knock you up and leave you dripping on the side of the road where I found you.”

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, the fantasy pushing you right to the edge. He felt it, reached between you to rub your clit in tight circles, never slowing. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you squeeze me while I breed you.”

The orgasm crashed over you hard—walls fluttering, thighs shaking around him. He followed seconds later, thrusting deep and staying there, whole body shuddering as he came. Thick, hot pulses flooded you, pulse after pulse, his groan wrecked and loud against your ear. “Fuck— taking every drop like a good girl. No birth control, no pulling out… Christ, I’m coming so hard.”

He stayed buried inside you for long minutes afterward, hips grinding lazily like he wanted to push it deeper. Then the roleplay melted away, the way it always did.

His voice softened completely—your Simon again, gentle and full of love. “Hey, baby. Colour check. Talk to me, my sweet girl.”

You blinked up at him, hazy and glowing, still full and leaking around him. “Green. So green. That was… intense. I loved it. Felt so risky and safe at the same time.”

He exhaled in relief, pressing soft kisses all over your face—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips. “My perfect sweetheart. You were incredible. Took me so well, stayed in character the whole time. I’m so proud of you.” Carefully he eased out, a warm trickle following that he wiped away gently with the towel he’d stashed in the back seat earlier. He cleaned you both with tender strokes, then pulled your panties back up and smoothed your dress down like he hadn’t just ruined you in the back of his car.

“Come here, love.” He tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you tight, one hand stroking your back under the cardigan. “Any soreness? Legs okay? Need water? I’ve got that bottle in the front and those strawberry biscuits in the glove box if you’re hungry.”

You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in. “Just floaty. And full. I can still feel you inside me. It’s nice.”

He chuckled warmly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he rocked you gently. “Good. Gonna keep you like that on the drive home. My sweet girl, bred in the back seat just like she wanted.” His fingers traced lazy hearts on your hip. “We’ll sit here as long as you need. Then I’ll drive slow, one hand on your thigh the whole way, making sure my girl’s okay. When we get back to the flat, bath, candles, whatever you want. You were so brave for me tonight.”

You tilted your head up, kissing him slow and deep—nothing like the frantic claiming from before, just pure love. “I love you. Thank you for making the fantasy real. And for always taking care of me after.”

“Always, baby,” he whispered against your mouth, accent soft with exhaustion and adoration. “Fantasy gets us hot, but this? Holding my sweetheart after I’ve had my way with her? This is everything.” He kissed the top of your head, then reached for the water bottle, helping you sip while you stayed curled in his lap.

[darkside-writing]

Interrupted

Summary: War doesn’t stop for anything — not even for these men and their wife.

Warnings: Soft! Reader, Interrupted sex, protective/possessive behavior, Married

William “Wild Bill” Guarnere

The old barn on the edge of the village had become your temporary refuge during a rare two-day lull. Bill had you pressed against the wall in the shadowed corner, your dress already pushed up around your hips, his mouth hot on your neck as his hands roamed. You were trembling already — always so sensitive, so quick to fall apart for him — soft little gasps escaping every time he touched you just right.

“Fuck, doll,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. “You’re already shakin’. My sweet girl… always so ready for me.”

You clung to his shoulders, face buried in his neck, completely lost in the feeling. “Bill… please…”

He was just starting to lift you higher against the wall when the barn door creaked open.

“Sergeant Guarnere? You in here? Lieutenant Welsh sent me to find you — said there’s a supply run and he needs—”

Bill’s head snapped toward the door so fast it was almost comical. The young replacement stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene.

“Jesus Christ!” Bill barked, immediately shifting to block you completely with his body. One hand stayed on your waist, the other pointing sharply at the kid. “Get the fuck out! Now!”

The replacement stumbled back a step. “S-Sorry, Sarge! I didn’t know—”

“Yeah, you didn’t know because you didn’t knock, you little shit! My wife is in here!” Bill’s voice was loud and furious, protective fury radiating off him. “Tell Welsh I’ll be there in ten minutes. And if you ever walk in on me and my wife again, I’ll break your goddamn legs!”

The kid fled.

The second the door slammed shut, Bill turned back to you. His expression softened instantly as he gently fixed your dress and pulled you into his arms.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was still rough, but now it was all for you. “Little bastard ruined it. I’m sorry.”

You were flushed and still trembling slightly from how close you’d been, but you managed a small, shy smile against his chest.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I was… really close already.”

Bill groaned and held you tighter, forehead dropping to yours.

“Goddamn it. Now I’m gonna be thinkin’ about that the whole supply run.” He kissed you hard, possessive. “When I get back, we’re finishin’ what we started. And I’m lockin’ every damn door this time.”

Denver “Bull” Randleman

The small room above the café had been quiet all afternoon — a rare pocket of peace. Bull had you in his lap on the narrow bed, your dress bunched up, his large hands steady and careful on your thighs as he kissed you slow and deep. You were already sensitive, already close, soft sounds escaping against his mouth every time he touched you.

“Easy, darlin’,” he rumbled quietly, voice low and warm. “I got you. Just let it happen.”

You were trembling in his arms, so responsive and innocent in the way only you could be, when a hesitant knock sounded at the door.

“Sergeant Randleman? It’s Private Miller. Captain Winters wanted me to find you — there’s a patrol briefing in twenty minutes and he said you should be there.”

Bull went very still.

His hands stayed on you, protective, but his entire body tensed. He turned his head slightly toward the door without moving you off his lap.

“Miller,” he called, voice deep and calm but carrying unmistakable weight, “I’m occupied. Tell the Captain I’ll be there shortly.”

There was a pause on the other side of the door.

“Uh… he said it was important, Sarge.”

Bull’s jaw tightened. He gently shifted you so you were more covered, then spoke again, quieter but firmer.

“Miller. I said I’ll be there shortly. My wife is with me. You understand what that means?”

Another pause. Then a hurried, “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant,” followed by retreating footsteps.

Bull exhaled slowly and turned his full attention back to you. His big hands were careful as he smoothed your dress back down and pulled you against his chest.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You nodded against him, still a little flushed and breathless. “I was… really close.”

Bull let out a low, rumbling sound — half frustration, half affection — and held you tighter.

“I know, sweetheart. I could feel it.” He rested his chin on your head for a moment. “Damn replacements got no sense of timing.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle. “When I get back from this briefing, we’re pickin’ up right where we left off. And I’m puttin’ a chair under the doorknob this time.”

Eugene “Doc” Roe

The quiet corner of the aid station had been cleared out for a few hours — a rare moment of peace. Eugene had you pressed gently against the wall in the back room, his hands careful but urgent as he kissed you. You were already trembling, already sensitive in that way that always undid him, soft little sounds escaping every time he touched you.

“Mon cœur…” he murmured against your throat, voice low and rough. “You’re already fallin’ apart for me. So sweet. So innocent.”

You clung to him, overwhelmed in the best way, when the door to the aid station creaked.

“Doc? You in here? One of the replacements took a bad fall off a truck and we need—”

Eugene moved fast.

He immediately shifted, using his body to shield you completely while one hand reached out and yanked a blanket off a nearby cot, draping it over your shoulders in one smooth motion. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but carried an edge the other men rarely heard from him.

“Out,” he said sharply. “Now. My wife is in here.”

The young private froze in the doorway, eyes wide. “Oh— shit, sorry Doc, I didn’t—”

“Out,” Eugene repeated, colder this time. “And close the door behind you. Tell them I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The private fled, the door slamming shut.

Eugene stayed still for a second, breathing hard, still shielding you with his body. Then he turned to you, expression softening instantly as he gently fixed your dress and pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“You okay, cher?” he asked softly, one hand cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin with careful tenderness. “I’m sorry. Should’ve locked the damn door.”

You were still flushed and trembling slightly from how close you’d been, but you managed a small nod, leaning into his touch.

“I was… almost there,” you admitted shyly.

Eugene let out a quiet, shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he murmured. “I could feel it. You’re always so sensitive for me.” He kissed you softly, then again, slower. “When I get back, we’re findin’ somewhere with a lock. And I’m not lettin’ anyone near you until I’ve taken care of my wife properly.”

Ronald Speirs

The small house on the outskirts of the village had been empty — a rare, perfect pocket of privacy during the lull. Speirs had you on the narrow bed, your dress pushed up, his hands firm but controlled as he kissed you with that intense, focused hunger he rarely showed anyone else. You were already sensitive, already close, trembling beneath him in that innocent, overwhelmed way that always made something dark and possessive flicker in his eyes.

“You’re shaking already,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and calm even as his hands moved with purpose. “So responsive. So sweet.”

You clung to him, soft sounds escaping, when a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Lieutenant Speirs? It’s Private Harris. Captain Winters needs you for a briefing in fifteen minutes — said it’s urgent.”

Speirs went completely still.

For a long moment he didn’t move. Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes cold and sharp as he looked toward the door. When he spoke, his voice was quiet — dangerously quiet.

“Private Harris,” he said evenly, “I am occupied. Tell Captain Winters I will be there when I am finished here.”

There was a pause.

“Sir, he said it was important—”

Speirs’ voice dropped even lower, calm but laced with unmistakable threat.

“Private. If you knock on this door again, or if anyone else does, I will assume you are an enemy combatant and act accordingly. Do you understand me?”

Dead silence on the other side of the door. Then hurried footsteps retreating.

Speirs stayed still for another second, breathing controlled, before he turned his full attention back to you. His expression shifted — the cold edge melting into something intense and focused entirely on you.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, one hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

You nodded, still flushed and trembling from how close you’d been. “I was… really close.”

Speirs’ eyes darkened. He leaned down and kissed you slowly, deeply, possessive.

“I know,” he murmured against your lips. “I could feel every single time you almost fell apart.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your lower lip. “That private just cost me the rarest thing I have — time with my wife.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, but with clear intent.

“When I return from this briefing,” he said quietly, voice low and certain, “no one will interrupt us again. And I’m going to take my time with you. All of it.”

[darkside-writing]

Boy Bites

Summary: You offer your paratrooper part of your sandwich, they take a bite that's much too large, and suddenly you're explaining the difference between a boy bite and a lady bite.

Warnings: None! Just daily nonsense from the uneasy company

William “Wild Bill” Guarnere

You held the sandwich out between you on the blanket, smiling softly. “Here. Take a bite.”

Bill leaned in and took a massive chomp, nearly half the sandwich disappearing in one go. You gasped so loudly a few soldiers nearby turned to look.

“William Guarnere!” you scolded, eyes wide. “That was a boy bite! A huge, greedy boy bite! You’re supposed to take a lady bite!”

Bill froze mid-chew, then started laughing so hard he almost choked. He covered his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking. “A what now?”

“A boy bite!” you insisted, cheeks pink but trying to look stern. “Men take these giant bites like they’re trying to win a contest. It’s not polite!”

Bill swallowed, still grinning like an idiot. He wiped his mouth and leaned in to kiss your temple. “God, you’re adorable when you scold me. Say ‘boy bite’ again. I like it.”

You huffed, but the corner of your mouth twitched. Bill stole another (slightly smaller) bite and winked. “There. That one was a gentleman bite. Happy now, Mrs. Guarnere?”

Denver “Bull” Randleman

You offered the sandwich with both hands like it was something precious. Bull leaned down and took a huge, solid bite that left the sandwich noticeably smaller.

Your eyes went wide. You actually gasped. “Bull! That was a boy bite! Look how much you took!”

Bull blinked at you, still chewing, then glanced down at the sandwich like he was only just noticing. A slow, warm smile spread across his face. “A boy bite?”

“Yes!” you said, half scolding, half laughing. “That’s what men do. They take enormous bites. You’re supposed to take little bites!”

Bull chuckled, low and rumbling, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never heard it called that before. Kinda like it.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Sorry, darlin’. I’ll try to take a… what’d you call it? A lady bite next time.”

He took a deliberately smaller bite after that, still smiling the whole time like you’d just handed him the best gift in the world.

Eugene “Doc” Roe

You held the sandwich out to him with a soft smile. Eugene leaned in and took a big, hearty bite without thinking.

You gasped so dramatically he actually froze. “Eugene! That was a boy bite! You took such a huge piece!”

He blinked at you, cheeks still full, then slowly finished chewing. A quiet, fond laugh escaped him as he wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “A boy bite?”

“Yes!” you said, eyes wide and earnest. “Men take these giant bites like they’re trying to prove something. You’re supposed to take little, polite bites!”

Eugene’s smile grew softer. He reached out and gently took your free hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Never thought about it like that. Guess I’ve been doin’ it wrong my whole life.” He leaned in and kissed your cheek. “I’ll try to take a lady bite next time. Don’t want you scoldin’ me again.”

He took a much smaller bite after that, still watching you with that warm, quiet amusement like you were the most charming thing he’d ever seen.

Ronald Speirs

You offered him the sandwich with that gentle little smile of yours. Speirs leaned in and took a clean, decisive bite that removed a very large portion in one go.

Your eyes widened. You actually gasped and pulled the sandwich back slightly. “Ronald! That was a boy bite! Such a big one!”

He paused, studying your face. Then, very slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted. “A boy bite?”

“Yes!” you said, voice soft but scolding. “Men take these enormous bites like they’re conquering the sandwich. You’re supposed to take small bites!”

Speirs looked at the sandwich, then back at you. Something almost tender flickered in his eyes. He reached out and brushed his thumb lightly across your lower lip where a crumb had landed. “I’ve never heard it called that before.” He leaned in and kissed the spot he’d just touched. “I’ll try to remember. Lady bites only from now on.”

He took a noticeably smaller bite after that, still watching you like your reaction was the most interesting thing that had happened all day.

Joe Liebgott

You held the sandwich out between you. Liebgott leaned in and took a massive, unapologetic bite that left the sandwich looking half-eaten.

You gasped so loudly he nearly choked on his food. “Joe! That was a boy bite! A huge, ridiculous boy bite!”

He swallowed, eyes sparkling with laughter. “A what?”

“A boy bite!” you repeated, cheeks flushed but trying to look stern. “That’s what men do. They take these giant bites like the sandwich owes them money. You’re supposed to take little bites!”

Liebgott stared at you for a second, then burst out laughing so hard he had to lean forward and brace his hands on his knees. “Oh my God. ‘Boy bite.’ That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” He wiped his eyes and grinned at you. “Say it again. Please. I need to hear it one more time.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to smile. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s adorable,” he said, still chuckling. He leaned in and stole a much smaller bite this time, then kissed your cheek. “There. Lady bite. Happy now?”

Shifty Powers

You offered him the sandwich with that sweet little smile. Shifty leaned in and took a solid, hearty bite without thinking twice.

Your eyes went wide. You gasped and pulled it back slightly. “Shifty! That was a boy bite! You took such a big piece!”

He blinked at you, still chewing, then glanced down at the sandwich like he was seeing it for the first time. A slow, sheepish smile spread across his face. “A boy bite?”

“Yes!” you said, voice soft but scolding. “Men take these huge bites like they’re trying to win something. You’re supposed to take little bites!”

Shifty let out a quiet, warm laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Never heard it called that before. Guess I’ve been doin’ it wrong.” He leaned in and kissed your cheek, still smiling. “I’ll try to take a lady bite next time. Don’t want you fussin’ at me.”

He took a much smaller, more careful bite after that, watching you with soft eyes like you’d just done something incredibly charming.

[darkside-writing]

Cleared for Takeoff

Summary: The road to romance is paved with aftershave, borrowed ties, and bad advice. A Friday night dance, a pocketful of coins, and one very lovestruck crew chief. What could possibly go wrong? Warnings: None! Borrowed clothing, Borrowed confidence, and Borrowed brain cells. Nurse!Reader, Birdie!Reader

Everyone on base knew her as Birdie.

The nickname had followed you almost from the moment you arrived in England—earned from your gentle nature, soft voice, and habit of always seeming to appear exactly where you were needed. As one of the nurses assigned to care for the men of the Eighth Air Force, your days were spent tending injuries, calming nerves, and offering small comforts in a world that often seemed to run short on them. Somehow, despite the mud, noise, and uncertainty of wartime, you managed to remain kind.

Ken Lemmons liked to claim he was the first one who called you Birdie, though nobody could prove it anymore. What everyone did know was that you were his girl. The ground crew chief might spend his days covered in grease and aircraft oil, but the mere mention of your name could put a grin on his face faster than anything else on the base. Between long shifts, crowded dances, and stolen moments whenever schedules allowed, the two of you had become one of those couples everyone quietly rooted for.

Which was exactly why, on a Friday evening when word spread that Birdie was heading to the village dance hall, half the ground crew suddenly decided that getting Ken there was a mission of national importance.

Ken Lemmons practically jogged the last hundred yards to the ground-crew tent, heart hammering like a runaway auxiliary power unit. Friday night. Free time. And the rumor had spread like engine oil on concrete: the nurses were heading into the village for the weekly dance at the little hall behind the church. Birdie was expected to go. His girl. Out there without him.

No chance he was missing this.

He burst through the tent flap, already peeling off his grease-stained work shirt, and nearly collided with Smitty, who was halfway through lacing his boots.

“Whoa, Lemmons!” Smitty yelped, stumbling backward into Hank, who in turn knocked over the card table. Matchsticks and pennies scattered everywhere like startled pigeons.

Ken didn’t stop. “Nurses are going to the village dance hall. Birdie’s going. I’m going. Need to wash up. Fast.” The words hit the tent like a mission scramble.

The crew snapped to attention like they’d just heard “wheels up.”

Hank recovered first, a grin splitting his face. “Pit crew! Let’s go, boys! Ken’s got a date!”

What followed was pure, beautiful chaos.

Riley dove for the washstand like it was on fire, nearly tripping over Tommy’s footlocker. “Water! Somebody get the water!”

Tommy was already hauling the big enamel basin off its hook, sloshing half of it onto his own boots. “I got it! I got it!” He set it down with a clang that rattled the tent poles. Cold water slopped over the rim and soaked Ken’s socks before he could even kick them off.

Ken yelped, hopping on one foot. “That’s freezing!”

“Cold water’s better for the skin,” Hank declared, already rolling up his sleeves like a barber. “Sit, sit, sit!”

They shoved Ken down onto an upturned crate so hard the wood creaked in protest. Smitty produced a sliver of soap that looked like it had seen better days in 1942. Riley grabbed a towel that had definitely been used to wipe engine parts earlier that day and shook it out dramatically, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

“Shirt off, lover boy,” Riley ordered.

Ken’s ears were already pink. “Fellas, I can—”

“Too late!” Tommy crowed, yanking Ken’s undershirt over his head in one swift move. The shirt caught on Ken’s nose for a comical second, blinding him while the boys laughed.

Hank dunked a washcloth into the basin and slapped it onto Ken’s chest with a wet splat. “Scrub fast. We’re on the clock.”

Water flew. Ken sputtered as Hank attacked his face and neck with the enthusiasm of a man polishing a Fort for the general. Suds ran into Ken’s eyes. He blinked wildly, trying to keep his dignity while four grown men turned his evening wash-up into a three-ring circus.

“Razor!” Smitty barked.

Riley produced a straight razor with a flourish—and promptly dropped it. The blade skittered across the dirt floor. “I got it! I got it!” He lunged, only to have Tommy step on his hand.

“Ow! Watch the fingers!”

Ken, half-soaped and dripping, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “You idiots are gonna get me court-martialed for being late to my own date.”

“Date?” Hank grinned, finally pinning the razor. “This is a mission, Lemmons.”

They sat him back down and went to work on the shave. Hank lathered his face with theatrical swirls while Riley held the mirror at a ridiculous angle, tilting it every time Ken tried to see.

“Hold still,” Hank warned. “One nick and she’ll think you fought a cat on the way over.”

The razor scraped. Ken winced as a tiny cut appeared on his jaw. “Ow.”

“Battle scar,” Tommy declared. “Girls love ’em.”

Smitty was already rummaging through footlockers for clothes. Shirts flew through the air like startled birds. One clean khaki sailed straight into the basin with a splash.

“My last good shirt!” Ken groaned.

“Borrow mine!” Riley stripped off his own and tossed it. It landed on Ken’s head, sleeves dangling over his eyes. Ken flailed, nearly toppling the crate.

By the time they got him upright again, he was half-dressed, half-drowned, and laughing despite himself. Smitty produced a tie—Riley’s good one—and looped it around Ken’s neck with the solemnity of a hangman.

“Hold still while I tie this,” Smitty said. He pulled too tight. Ken made a choking sound.

“Hold still—knot’s coming—wait, wrong way—”

Riley yanked too hard. The tie cinched tight, choking Ken for half a second until Hank slapped Riley’s hands away.

“Too tight!” Hank yelped, yanking it loose. The knot came undone and the tie slithered to the floor like a defeated snake. They all dove for it at once, heads knocking together with a solid thunk.

“Ow!”

“Watch it!”

“Whose elbow is that?”

Ken sat in the middle of the melee, shirt half-buttoned, face stinging from the aftershave Smitty had just slapped on without warning. The sharp, spicy scent bloomed across his neck and made his eyes water.

“Aftershave!” Smitty announced proudly. “One drop to the neck. Ladies love it.”

“That was more than one drop,” Ken wheezed, fanning his burning skin.

Tommy was on his knees now, digging through Ken’s footlocker. “Clean underwear! Does he need clean underwear? Can’t show up for a dance with dirty skivvies!”

Ken’s face went scarlet. “I do not need—Tommy, get out of there!”

Too late. Tommy held up a pair of folded shorts like a trophy. “These clean enough? Smell ’em, Hank.”

Hank actually leaned in. Ken swatted the shorts out of Tommy’s hand and stuffed them back into the locker so fast he nearly slammed the lid on his own fingers.

“No one is smelling my underwear!” he hissed, mortified.

The boys howled with laughter, clutching their sides.

Riley recovered first and started scavenging pockets for coins. “Cokes! He needs money for two Cokes with extra cherries. She likes those, right?”

Pennies, nickels, and the occasional dime rained onto the table as every man turned out his pockets. One coin rolled under a cot. Tommy belly-crawled after it, knocking over a boot and sending up another dust cloud.

“Got it!” he crowed, emerging with cobwebs in his hair and the dime held high.

Smitty counted the pile. “Two Cokes and maybe a pack of gum. Perfect.”

Ken finally stood, fully dressed in a borrowed clean shirt, Riley’s tie knotted mostly straight, and his own trousers brushed within an inch of their life. He smelled like aftershave and engine soap and sheer panic. The cut on his jaw was tiny but visible. His hair had somehow stayed neat through the entire ordeal.

He looked at the four grinning faces surrounding him and felt a rush of affection mixed with embarrassment.

“You fellas are the worst pit crew in the Eighth Air Force,” he said, but the boyish grin broke through anyway.

Hank pressed the small handful of coins into Ken’s palm and closed his fingers around them. “Go get your girl, Ken. Dance with her. Buy her a Coke. And for the love of everything, don’t come back here until you’ve at least tried for a kiss.”

Riley reached into his pocket one last time. “And just in case—”

He pulled out a small paper packet and tried to slip the rubber condom into Ken’s shirt pocket with a wink.

Ken’s hand shot out and slapped the packet away so fast it flew across the tent and landed in the wash basin with a tiny plop.

The boys lost it.

“No!” Ken barked, face flaming. “Absolutely not. I’m not— We’re not— She’s a nice girl!”

Smitty was doubled over, laughing so hard he had to hold onto a tent pole. “We were just looking out for you, Romeo!”

Ken grabbed his cap, jammed it on his head, and headed for the door before they could “help” him anymore. “I’m leaving. Thank you. I think.”

“Tell Birdie the crew says hello!” Tommy called after him.

“And good luck!” Hank added.

Ken stepped out into the cool evening air, the coins jingling in his pocket and the faint sting of aftershave still burning his neck. Behind him the tent erupted in fresh laughter and catcalls, but he didn’t look back. His steps quickened toward the village road, heart light despite the chaos.

Somewhere up ahead, in the little dance hall past the church, you were probably already there— His girl.

Ken Lemmons broke into a grin and started walking faster, the pit crew and their ridiculous “help” already fading into a warm, funny memory.

He had a date to catch.

And for once, the whole world felt like it was cheering him on.

[darkside-writing]

Tasting Gold

Summary: In a rain-lashed English cottage, Hambone teaches his girl how to really kiss a man—slow, deep, and dangerously tempting.

Warnings: Heavy petting, tongue kissing, biting, tasting, thigh riding/grinding, groping, gold teeth fixation, Hambone is a dog

The old stone cottage on the outskirts of Thorpe Abbotts smelled of damp wool, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of engine oil that never quite left Hambone’s skin. Rain drummed against the thatched roof, but inside, the only sound was the crackle of the low fire and the heavy rhythm of your breathing. You’d slipped away from the base dance after one too many jitterbugs, his hand firm at the small of your back the whole walk here. Established didn’t begin to cover it—you’d been his girl for three months now, stolen kisses in the motor pool, quick hugs behind the Red Cross hut—but tonight he’d promised to teach you something new.

Hambone kicked the door shut with his boot and turned the key, the metallic click loud in the quiet. He was still in his Class A uniform, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened, the gold of his bombardier wings catching the firelight. Lean and wiry from endless hours hunched over the Norden bombsight, he had the scrappy build of a man who’d fought his way through every scrap life threw at him—Midwest farm kid turned sky warrior. His hair was tousled from the wind, and when he grinned at you, those two gold front teeth flashed like a secret promise.

“C’mere, doll,” he said, voice low and rough with that easy Kansas drawl. He hooked a finger in the belt of your dress and tugged you forward until your bodies brushed. “You been drivin’ me crazy all night with those shy little pecks. Time you learned how a real man kisses his girl.”

“Kissing a man ain’t just lips, sweetheart. It’s a whole damn conversation.” His mouth brushed yours—soft, teasing, barely there.

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t pull away. You’d asked him once why his kisses always left you dizzy and wanting. He’d laughed then, gold teeth gleaming, and said he’d fix that when they had time. Tonight was that time.

He cupped your jaw with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. His palms were rough, callused from gun turrets and cockpit levers, but the touch was gentle. “First rule,” he murmured, leaning in so close his breath warmed your lips, “don’t think. Just feel.” His mouth brushed yours—soft at first, a slow press that made your eyelids flutter shut. He tasted faintly of the whiskey he’d sipped earlier and the peppermint he chewed to hide it. The gold teeth were cool against your lower lip, a strange, metallic taste that sent a shiver down your spine.

You kissed him back the way you always did, careful and sweet. Hambone hummed in approval, the sound vibrating through your chest where his body pressed closer. “That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “But you can do better. Open up for me, sweetheart. Let me show you.”

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, patient, coaxing. Your heart hammered. You parted them, tentative, and he slid inside—slow and deliberate, stroking along your tongue like he had all the time in the world. The taste of him intensified, warm and intimate, the smooth edge of one gold tooth gliding against yours. A low groan escaped him, and his hands tightened on your face.

“Atta girl,” he breathed when he pulled back just enough for you to gulp air. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “That’s my girl.”

The praise settled low in your belly, warm and liquid. You chased his mouth this time and he let you, guiding you with tiny nudges of his tongue until the kiss deepened again. He tilted his head, fitting your mouths together perfectly, and the world narrowed to the slick slide of tongue on tongue, the wet sounds that should have embarrassed you but only made the ache between your legs sharper.

Hambone’s hands slid down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric of your dress. He pulled you flush against him, one thigh slipping between yours so you could feel the hard line of his body. “Learnin’ so quick,” he rasped against your lips, voice gravelly and wrecked. “Tastin’ my gold like you own it. You have no idea how good you feel right now.”

You whimpered into his mouth, the words hitting you like fuel on a fire. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, bunching the khaki fabric, then sliding up to his collar to tug him closer. He chuckled darkly, the sound turning into a groan when you tentatively licked at his gold teeth, exploring the cool metal the way he’d shown you. The kiss turned filthy—messy and hungry, tongues tangling, teeth nipping.

One of his hands drifted lower, palming the swell of your hip, then sliding back up under the hem of your dress. Calloused fingertips skimmed the bare skin of your thigh, inching higher until they brushed the edge of your stocking. You gasped, hips jerking involuntarily, and he swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking in a rhythm that mimicked something far more explicit.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, breaking the kiss just long enough to trail his mouth along your jaw, nipping at your earlobe. His breath was hot and ragged. “We’re just gettin’ started.” But his hand kept moving, cupping your ass and pulling you tighter against the growing hardness in his trousers. The friction made you both moan—your hands roamed his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the uniform, the flex of lean muscle as he rocked against you.

You kissed him again, tongue sliding against his with more confidence, tasting the gold that marked him as yours. Hambone growled, the sound low and primal, and his other hand found your breast through your dress, thumb circling the peak until it tightened under his touch. Fabric bunched between you; buttons on his jacket dug into your ribs. The tension coiled tighter, thick enough to choke on—every roll of his hips, every squeeze of his fingers, every filthy swirl of his tongue promising more, always more, but stopping just short.

He broke away only when you were both gasping, foreheads pressed together, his gold teeth flashing in a dazed, satisfied grin. Your lips felt swollen, slick, marked by him. His hand still cupped your breast possessively, thumb brushing lazy circles that kept the ache alive. The other gripped your thigh, holding you open against him, the hard press of his arousal a constant, throbbing reminder.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he panted, voice hoarse. “You kiss like that and I’m liable to forget my own name.” He kissed you once more—slow, lingering, tongue stroking deep and lazy—then rested his forehead against yours again. Rain still fell outside, but the heat in the little cottage had nothing to do with the fire. His fingers flexed on your skin, reluctant to let go, the air between you crackling with everything you weren’t going to do tonight.

You smiled against his mouth, breathless and aching, and whispered his name like a prayer. Howard Hamilton—scrappy bombardier, golden grin and all—just pulled you closer, heart hammering in time with yours.

“That’s my girl,” he said again, softer this time, and the words wrapped around you tighter than his arms ever could.

[darkside-writing]

Brainrot of the day: Hitchhiker scenario where you are stuck on the side of the road, wearing a pretty short dress and phone without signal. Just trying to get home after a party. A man pulls up in his car calling you sweetheart and offering a ride. Only when you jump in the passenger seat he demands you spread your legs in the back to thank him properly for the ride. Only when your thighs are spread open and pussy exposed do you remind the man you're a virgin and not on birth control. He doesnt care and says he will leave you dripping with cum and bred on the side of the road where he found you if you dont put out.

[darkside-writing]

A Lady for Winterfell

Summary: A child’s mistake in searching for Lady Stark warms Cregan’s thoughts, reminding him that Winterfell may indeed need such a gentle lady.

Warnings: None

The snow fell lightly over Winterfell, a soft veil that hushed the world and turned the ancient stones of the keep into something almost gentle. Lord Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard near the stables, cloak heavy on his broad shoulders, breath curling white in the chill air as he spoke with one of the master-at-arms about the training of the newest recruits. Winter was always coming, and the North remembered its duties even in moments of relative peace.

A small figure darted between the legs of the horses and grooms, clutching something carefully in both mittened hands. The boy could not have been more than six, cheeks flushed red from the cold, dark hair poking out from beneath a wool cap. He stopped before Cregan, tilting his head back to look up at the towering lord with the fearless innocence only children possess.

“Lord Stark,” the boy piped, voice clear despite the way his teeth nearly chattered. “Where’s Lady Stark? I brought her a winter rose from the glass gardens. It bloomed just this morning, and Ma says they’re her favorite.”

Cregan’s grey eyes flicked down, one dark brow rising. A flicker of amusement softened the stern line of his mouth, though he kept his expression mostly solemn. The North did not smile easily, even at small wonders. “I have no wife, lad,” he said, voice low and steady as the rumble of distant thunder. “You must be mistaken.”

The boy shook his head vigorously, undeterred. He lifted the flower—a delicate thing of pale blue petals edged in frost, still impossibly alive in the biting cold. “But I seen her! She’s Lady Stark. She’s real pretty, with kind eyes that crinkle when she laughs. And her hair—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, nearly dropping the rose—“it catches the light like it’s got snow in it, even when it don’t. She talks to me when I help Da with the horses. Calls me ‘little lord’ sometimes and asks if the mares are foaling true. She even mended my cloak last week when I tore it on a nail. Said the North needs strong lads with warm backs.”

Cregan felt something shift in his chest, quiet as a wolf’s step in fresh powder. He knew exactly who the boy meant. You. The lady who had come into his household seasons ago—first as a guest of honor from a lesser Northern house, then somehow becoming part of the very rhythm of Winterfell. You often walked the glass gardens with the maesters, tended to the smallfolk without ceremony, and met his gaze across the high table with a steadiness that unsettled and steadied him in equal measure. No formal betrothal. No public words. Only long conversations by the hearth, shared silences on the battlements, and the way his hand sometimes lingered near yours when passing the salt.

Yet the boy spoke as if it were known to all the gods.

Cregan crouched, bringing himself closer to the child’s level. The snow crunched beneath his boots. “And you think this lady is my wife?” he asked, a hint of warmth threading through the gravity in his tone.

The boy nodded solemnly. “She smiles at you different than everyone else. Like the sun on ice. And you look at her the same. Da says that’s how lords and ladies are when they’re married proper.” He thrust the winter rose forward. “Will you give it to her? Please? It’ll die if I keep holding it out here.”

For a moment, Cregan simply looked at the boy—at the earnest faith in his small face—and felt the strangest stirring of something like hope. The North was stone and duty and endless winter, yet here was proof that even ice could foster tenderness.

He accepted the flower carefully, its fragile petals brushing his callused fingers. “I will see it reaches her,” he promised, voice grave as any oath sworn before a weirwood. “You’ve done well, lad. What is your name?”

“Eddard, m’lord. Like the old King in the North, Da says.”

A faint smile touched Cregan’s lips then, brief as a winter sunrise. “A strong name. Go on back to your father, Eddard. And tell him his son has a sharp eye.”

The boy beamed and scampered off, leaving tiny footprints in the snow.

Cregan rose slowly, turning the rose in his hand. Its scent was faint and sweet, a whisper of life defying the cold. He thought of you—your quiet strength, the way you listened when he spoke of the burdens of Winterfell, the way your shoulder sometimes brushed his when you walked the covered bridges together. No words of love had passed between you. Not yet. But the boy had seen what others perhaps whispered about in the halls.

He made his way toward the glass gardens, boots crunching steadily through the snow. The flower felt warm against his palm, or perhaps it was only the thought of giving it to you that heated his blood.

You were there, as he knew you would be—hood drawn up against the chill, examining a tray of young herbs with the same careful attention you gave everything. When you looked up at his approach, your eyes met his and something in the world seemed to settle, the way snow finds its resting place on ancient stone.

Cregan stopped before you, tall and solemn, yet the grey of his eyes held a rare softness. He lifted the winter rose between you.

“A young messenger insisted this belongs to Lady Stark,” he said, voice low, almost teasing beneath the gravity. “He described her quite well. Kind eyes. Hair like captured starlight. A smile that warms even the North.”

He watched the faint color rise in your cheeks, the way your lips parted in quiet surprise. For a heartbeat, the weight of duty, war, and winter receded, leaving only the two of you amid the green and glass and falling snow.

Cregan stepped closer, offering the flower with a hand that had wielded Ice in battle yet now trembled, just slightly, with something far gentler.

“Tell me, my lady,” he murmured, the words meant for you alone, “do you think the boy spoke true?”

[darkside-writing]

Brainrot of the day: Daeron's wife being absolutely over his drinking and whoring. Even though he loves her more than anything and same for her, he is still weak for the drink and whatever happens when he is drunk is beyond his control. She tells Daeron for every time he whores around she will visit someone's bed, perhaps Valarr. It sobers him up quickly when his wife comes to bed with her cunt filled with another man's seed.