#mdi

Pairing :Michael Jackson x Black!reader

Genre :Dark romance, Psychological Thriller, yandere romance, Angst , Stockholm syndrome.

Wc:3.8k

Warnings :18+ ( MDI - minors do not interact), pregnancy, obsession, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional abuse, psychological, abuse, unfair power dynamics isolation,( you have been warned, I did not condone this in real life nor does it reflect my own personal views ) surveillance, toxic relationship dynamics, stalking, blackmail, coercive control, dark themes. Morally grey characters, dead doves don’t eat,

the world calls it a fairytale.

you call it a prison.

Synopsis :Months after the tape scandal, the public becomes obsessed with a new story:

Michael Jackson’s pregnant fiancée.

The magazines call you lucky.

Fans call you a real-life princess.

Television hosts gush over the extravagant gifts, the massive diamond ring, and the glamorous photographs Michael carefully allows the world to see.

What nobody knows is that every interview is scripted.

Every smile is rehearsed.

And every public appearance is followed by a private reminder of what happens when you embarrass him.

Inside Neverland, your life has become painfully small.

The gates are locked.

The staff answer to Michael.

Your old friends have slowly disappeared from your life.

And every room in the house seems to contain a photograph of you.

Then a journalist releases a forgotten piece of the original tape.

A section that was never supposed to reach the public.

A section where you can clearly be heard crying and begging Michael to let you leave.

For the first time, people begin questioning the perfect image he’s built.

But instead of panicking, Michael smiles.

Because if the world is finally paying attention again…

he can give them a new story.

A televised wedding.

A perfect family.

A beautiful baby.

And if he can convince the public that you’re happy, who would ever believe you if you said otherwise?

By the time the invitations arrive, you realize something terrifying.

The wedding isn’t a celebration.

It’s proof of ownership.

And the entire world has been invited to watch.

————————————————————————-

The diamond studded heels pinched your toes, but you didn’t dare shift your weight. Not with Michael’s hand resting just above the small of your back, his fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you stay still, smile pretty. The studio lights burned hotter than the California sun, and the host’s laughter grated like broken glass. "You two are just adorable together!" she cooed, leaning across the couch.

Michael’s thumb traced idle circles against your spine, his other hand lifting to adjust his cufflinks black onyx, to match the suit that clung to him like a second skin. "We’re blessed," he murmured, voice syrup smooth. His eyes never left your face, dark and unblinking. "Aren’t we, sweetheart?"

You nodded, lips stretching into the practiced curve he’d taught you in front of the mirror. "So blessed." The lie tasted like bile. Behind the cameras, a PA adjusted a reflector, casting Michael’s shadow over you long and suffocating.

The host tapped her manicured nails against her clipboard. "Now, Michael, rumors are swirling about a very special announcement…?" Her grin was all teeth.

Michael's fingers tightened imperceptibly against the silk of your dress , high-necked, with pearl buttons running down the spine like a delicate prison gate. His lips brushed your ear as he leaned in, the scent of his cologne (something dark, expensive, with a hint of citrus gone sour) drowning out the studio's artificial floral air freshener. "Joseph," he murmured, the pet name curling around you like a noose. "You're squirming." His teeth grazed your earlobe, quick enough that the cameras wouldn't catch it. "Don't embarrass me."

The set around you was a grotesque parody of intimacy plush cream couches, oversized hydrangeas in crystal vases, golden light filtering through gauzy curtains to create the illusion of golden hour. The host's pink blazer matched her lipstick exactly, the color of bubblegum stretched too thin. You focused on the way her earrings swung when she tilted her head, anything to avoid looking at Michael's fingers drumming against your thigh in a slow, proprietary rhythm.

———————————————————————

*Three months earlier*

The plastic stick sat on the marble counter like a grenade. You'd counted the days twice, triple checked the calendar hidden under your mattress where Michael wouldn't find it. The second pink line bloomed slow and inevitable, seeping across the white like blood through bandages. The bathroom door clicked open before you could even breathe.

Michael's reflection appeared behind you in the mirror, his hands coming to rest on your bare shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the hollows above your collarbones too hard, always too hard as he took in the test. His breath hitched, but when he spoke, his voice was syrup thick with triumph. "Oh, Joseph," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "This is perfect".

Your stomach lurched. The way he said it like he'd been waiting. Like he'd plannedit.

Later, after he'd called every Jackson sibling in some bizarre victory lap (Janet's congratulations strained, La Toya's pause just a beat too long before she squealed), he pressed you into the satin sheets of his bedroom, fingers tracing the nonexistent curve of your stomach. "You see?" he murmured, nuzzling against your neck as the phone kept ringing off the hook. "Now you'll never leave me." His teeth scraped your pulse point not quite a bite, but close enough to make you freeze. "That's good, isn't it? Our little secret."

———————————————————————

The host's shrill voice snapped you back to the studio couch. "*So*! When can we expect baby Jackson to make their grand entrance?" Her manicured finger jabbed toward your stomach, the movement sharp enough to make you flinch.

Michael's grip on your thigh tightened a warning. "Early spring," he answered smoothly, his free hand splaying possessively over your abdomen. The diamond on his pinky caught the light, throwing fractured prisms across your lavender dress. "A new beginning." His smile was all warmth for the cameras, but when his thumb dug into the sensitive spot just above your hipbone, you knew what he really meant: You're mine now.

———————————————————————

*Four weeks earlier*

La Toya had pulled you aside in the Neverland kitchen when Michael went to fetch more champagne, her grip surprisingly strong. "You okay?" she whispered, eyes darting to the doorway. The pity in them made your throat close up. Before you could answer, Michael's laughter echoed down the hall, and she dropped your hand like it burned. "Congratulations," she said loudly, plastering on a smile as he swept back in, already dialing another number.

That night, as he traced the Jackson family tree onto your bare stomach with a cold, practiced finger ("Our son will sit right here see?"), you realized with dawning horror that every condom had probably been sabotaged. Every whispered "I love you" a calculated step toward this moment. The way he'd isolate you from friends ("They don't understand us"), monitor your calls ("For your safety"), even time your cycles it wasn't paranoia. It was a blueprint.

*Two days earlier*

Janet brought over vitamin supplements in unmarked bottles, pressing them into your palm during one of Michael's rare bathroom breaks. "Take these," she muttered, eyes flickering toward the security cameras. "They'll help with... everything." Her voice cracked on the last word. Later, you'd find the hidden note tucked under the cotton balls a phone number for a women's shelter that dissolved in water after one read.

Michael found it anyway.

That was the first night he didn't bother with the silk ropes. Just pinned you with his weight, lips brushing your temple as security dismantled your phone by the bedside. "You don't need anyone but me," he murmured, fingers carding through your hair like you were some skittish animal. "Especially not now."

La Toya showed up unannounced two weeks later with a bassinet wrapped in mint tulle the exact shade of Neverland's gates. "Family tradition," she lied through veneers when Michael raised an eyebrow. You saw how her hands trembled arranging it by the bedside, how she positioned it just so the monitoring cameras couldn't see her slipping the switchblade between the mattress and box spring.

Later, when Michael ran his nightly "security check," his polished loafhes paused at the bedside. He sniffed once that awful, predatory stillness before plucking the blade from its hiding place with a chuckle. "Cute," he murmured, flipping it open against your thigh. The cold steel bit through the satin pajamas he'd picked out that morning. "Try again, Joseph."

The knife disappeared into his pocket. Your hope disappeared with it.

———————————————————————

Rehearsals for the televised pregnancy announcement were worse than the actual taping. Michael made you stand in different lighting for hours while he adjusted angles, murmuring about "soft edges" and "maternal glow." The stylist a silent man with bruised wrists painted your lips three shades pinker than natural. "Smile with your eyes," Michael instructed, demonstrating with that terrifying Cheshire grin. "Like you love me."

You practiced in the vanity mirror until your cheeks ached. He rewarded you by letting you pick the dress lavender, not white. "For mourning," he whispered against your nape, laughing when you stiffened. "Just kidding, baby. It's for innocence."

The host's next question made your pulse stutter. "Any cravings yet?" Her wink was obscene. Michael's fingers twitched against your ribs his tell for irritation.

You'd been craving citrus for weeks. Oranges mostly, the kind they served in the commissary at your old job. Michael had the trees removed from Neverland after you mentioned it. "No cravings," you lied, watching the host's smile falter. "Just... peace and quiet."

Michael pinched the tender skin above your elbow hard but his voice was butter smooth. "She's been stealing my milkshakes." The audience tittered. His grip tightened. "Isn't that right, Joseph?"

The nickname tasted like battery acid now. Back when he first whispered it against your nape in that hotel bathroom, you'd mistaken it for affection. Not the punchline to some private joke about control Joseph, like the biblical figure trapped by Potiphar's wife. Exactly where you belong.

———————————————————————

The studio lights dimmed with a final, merciful click, and the moment the cameras stopped rolling, Michael’s grip on your waist turned from possessive to protective a seamless shift that made your skin prickle. Backstage was a flurry of assistants and producers, but they parted like the Red Sea as Michael guided you through, one hand cradling the curve of your belly while the other warded off anyone who dared linger too long in your path. "Eyes lowered ," he snapped at a starstruck intern, his voice a whip crack that sent the boy scrambling backward into a rack of equipment.

Jermaine materialized from the shadows near the exit, his tailored suit a shade too close to Michael’s for coincidence. He murmured something low into Michael’s ear a string of words that made his jaw tighten before shooting you a look that wasn’t quite pity. More like the grim understanding of a man who’d seen this play out before. Michael’s fingers flexed against your hipbone. "Handle it," he muttered, and Jermaine vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, his polished loafers clicking against the concrete floor.

———————————————————————

The limo ride back to Neverland was suffocatingly silent. Michael had draped his suit jacket over your shoulders a gesture that might’ve been sweet if the lining didn’t smell like his cologne, that same cloying blend of bergamot and something darker, something that clung to your pores. Outside the tinted windows, the California hills blurred into an endless stretch of green, but you focused on the way your silk dress (pale lavender, high waisted to accommodate the swell of your stomach) pooled against the leather seats. Michael’s hand never left your knee, his thumb tracing idle circles that felt less like affection and more like a man checking the bolts on a cage.

"Your mother called," he said suddenly, voice soft as he watched the ranch gates swing open ahead. The lie was so smooth it almost sounded true. "She’s doing fine." You didn’t ask how he’d gotten her new number the one you’d whispered to Janet in a bathroom stall two weeks ago just clenched your hands around the fabric of your dress. The world still saw her as the manipulative gold digger from that first leaked tape, the one where she’d sobbed about medical bills while the tabloids painted her as a mastermind. Michael’s fingers tightened. "No one believes you anymore, Joseph. You know that."

——————————————————————-

The ranch was eerily still when you stepped inside, the staff moving like ghosts through the halls.

You barely had time to process the chill of the marble floor beneath your bare feet before a crash echoed from somewhere downstairs glass shattering, then the muffled thud of something heavy hitting the ground. Michael went statue still, his grip on your calf tightening to the point of pain.

Someone had lit the fireplace in the master suite. a ridiculous touch in June and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and something metallic. Michael loosened his tie (black silk, the same shade as the shadows under his eyes) before crouching to unstrap your heels, his hands oddly tender as they skimmed your ankles. "You did good today," he murmured, lips brushing your kneecap. The praise felt like a noose tightening.

His polished loafers were soundless against the hardwood as he slipped into the hall, leaving you standing there in your lavender dress, the fire casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. your ankle in his hand again, fingers pressing into the pulse point as if checking for escape plans in your bloodstream. "Just the gardeners," he lied smoothly, but you saw how his other hand kept flexing the way it did when he'd broken Jermaine's nose last month for "interfering."

The next morning, breakfast was served on the terrace as usual, but the staff moved with a new, skittish energy. The usual spread of fruit and pastries had been arranged with surgical precision around a single envelope at your place setting thick ivory paper, embossed with gold foil. Michael watched from behind his sunglasses as you picked it up, his lips curving when you froze at the return address: The New York Times.Inside was a single printed email chain between one of their reporters and a private investigator, timestamped three days ago. Every message contained fragments of that original tape the parts even TMZ hadn't dared air. Your own voice, ragged with tears , “Please, I just want to go home—"

Michael plucked the envelope from your shaking hands and fed it to the fireplace without breaking eye contact. The flames licked hungrily at the edges, turning alleged coercion to ash in seconds. "They won't print it, Silly you are home , I’m your home ." He said, stirring his coffee with the same hand that had broken three of La Toya's fingers last winter. "Not after what happened to their last journalist." The way he said it casual, almost bored made the orange juice taste like copper in your mouth.

———————————————————————

“ I want to marry you josphe , please “ . Michael whimpered, his eyes filled with tears as he got down on one knee in front of his whole family , his hands shook and his voice cracked .

The dining room fell silent, save for the clink of silverware against china. Michael’s family Janet with her tense smile, Jermaine’s fingers drumming the tablecloth, La Toya’s barely there flinch all froze mid bite. The chandelier overhead cast fractured light across Michael’s face, making the wet gleam in his eyes look almost angelic. You knew better. You’d seen that same glitter in his gaze when he’d whispered “ You’ll have me forever my love “ . into the hollow of your throat last night, his teeth leaving crescent moons in your skin, as you guys made sweet passionate love that night .

His palm cupped your knee under the table, hidden by the damask cloth. "Say yes," he murmured, thumb pressing into your pulse point just hard enough to bruise. The diamond ring he slid onto your finger was cold, heavier than the one you’d "lost" last month the one you’d flushed down the toilet while he was on a conference call. This one had claws, the prongs digging into your flesh like a predator refusing to let go.

The room erupted in applause before you could inhale. Katherine Jackson dabbed her eyes with a monogrammed napkin, while little Blanket clapped with syrup sticky hands. Only Randy noticed how your fingers trembled when Michael lifted your hand to his lips, his kiss lingering a beat too long against your knuckles. "See?" Michael whispered, his breath warm against your skin. The cameras always the cameras caught the way his lashes fluttered, the perfect picture of vulnerability. "Everyone’s so happy for us." His grip tightened fractionally, his thumb tracing the vein in your wrist like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat.

Dessert arrived on gilded platters a towering chocolate cake shaped like a bassinet, the cursive “Baby Jackson” piped in raspberry coulis that looked eerily like blood. Michael fed you the first bite, his fingers lingering at your lips as the flashbulbs popped. "Smile, Joseph," he murmured against your temple, the words lost in the cacophony of cheers. His teeth grazed your earlobe quick, sharp as the cameras zoomed in. "Or I’ll give them something real to photograph."

———————————————————————

Later, when the staff cleared the plates and the family dispersed into Neverland’s shadowy halls, Michael cornered you against the grand piano in the music room. His hands cradled your face with terrifying gentleness, thumbs wiping away tears you didn’t remember shedding. "Why are you crying, baby?" he cooed, pressing a kiss to each wet eyelash. The Steinway’s polished surface reflected the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes flat and black as a shark’s. "This is everything you wanted." His fingers slid down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a collar. "Isn’t it?"

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Michael’s grip vanished instantly, replaced by the tender brush of his lips against your forehead. "She’s emotional," he called over his shoulder to Janet, who hovered in the doorway with two flutes of champagne. His voice dripped with performative concern. "The hormones, you know?"

Janet’s gaze flickered to your white knuckled grip on the piano bench. "Mm," she said noncommittally, setting the glasses down untouched. The look she shot you was equal parts warning and apology don’t run, he’ll catch you before disappearing down the corridor.

Michael waited exactly three heartbeats before spinning you around to face the piano’s mirrored lid. "Look," he whispered, standing behind you with his hands splayed over your belly. The reflection showed a perfect tableau yiur so beautiful “ you cried softly as The Days burred into weeks in those weeks bleed into months as news Tabloids caught wind Of the new engagement today was the day for everyone to witness beautiful ceremony between the two of you or rather ownership of permanent damnation His breath hitched when he pressed closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "See how happy we are?"

The words slithered under your skin. In the mirror, your face was frozen in that practiced smile lips parted just so, eyes crinkled at the corners like he'd taught you. But Michael's reflection wore something far more terrifying than anger pure, unfiltered delight. His eyes shone with that boyish sparkle the world adored, the same one that made audiences scream when he popped outside.

his collar onstage. Now it made your stomach twist.

Somewhere beyond the dressing room's gilded doors, an orchestra warmed up with a syrupy rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon." The melody wafted through the cracks along with the scent of gardenias your least favorite flower, now drowning Neverland in sickly sweetness. Michael had ordered them by the truckload after you'd once mentioned hating them.

"Turn for me, baby," he murmured, adjusting the diamond choker around your throat. His fingers lingered on the clasp a delicate thing designed to look like lace from afar, but up close, the links were unmistakably metal. The dress was worse acres of ivory silk and tulle with a corset so tight you'd fainted during the final fitting. Michael had merely chuckled and ordered the seamstress to take it in another inch. "Perfect," he'd purred, watching the boning leave red stripes across your ribs.

Now, as he spun you gently toward the vanity, the gown's train slithered across the marble like a living thing. The mirror reflected a stranger flawless contouring hiding the shadows under your eyes, false lashes making every blink feel weighted. You looked like one of his porcelain dolls, the kind kept in glass cases where no one could touch them.

Michael's reflection appeared behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. "You're shaking," he observed, tilting his head with that eerie childlike curiosity. The black curls framing his face were perfectly arranged, his makeup just heavy enough to soften the sharpness in his gaze. He looked like an angel painted by a Renaissance master all soft edges and calculated innocence.

Outside, a burst of applause signaled the arrival of Elizabeth Taylor. Michael's thumbs dug into your collarbones. "Smile for Daddy," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. The pet name curdled in your stomach. He'd started using it after the first ultrasound, when the doctor had said "it's a girl" and Michael's grip on your wrist had turned bruising. "We'll name her after my mother," he'd decided right there in the stirrups, fingers tracing the monitor like it was already his property.

The dressing room door burst open before you could respond. A team of stylists swarmed in, their chatter dying the second they saw Michael's hand still possessively gripping your nape. "Five minutes," the head stylist squeaked, darting forward to adjust your veil with trembling fingers.

Michael caught her wrist mid-air. "No one touches her," he said mildly, but the way his fingers tightened made her gasp. The stylist retreated, nearly tripping over the train as he backed out of the room.

Once they'd gone, Michael knelt before you, his hands smoothing the satin stretched over your thighs. The dress was monstrous layers of silk and tulle weighted with seed pearls, the bodice boned so tightly you could only take shallow breaths. He'd chosen it himself after rejecting seventeen others for being "too plain." Now, his fingers traced the embroidery along the hem tiny musical notes spelling out *Billie Jean* in thread of gold. "See?" He tapped the staccato pattern. "A piece of me will always be with you."

The orchestra swelled into Here Comes the Bride, the strings slightly off key. Michael rose fluidly, his reflection towering over yours in the vanity mirror. Outside, you could hear the shuffle of guests rising the hushed whispers of Spielberg, the nervous giggle of Brooke Shields. Michael's hands came to rest on your shoulders, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. "Stand up slowly," he instructed, fingers tightening when you swayed. "Wouldn't want you fainting before the vows."

The walk down the aisle felt like drowning. Every step forward was a step deeper into the nightmare, the heavy fabric dragging like chains. The guests blurred into a sea of familiar faces Katherine , dabbing her eyes, Macaulay Culkin shifting uncomfortably in his seat. At the altar, Michael stood perfectly still, his smile beatific under the floral arch. Someone had woven gardenias through his hair, the white petals stark against his dark curls.

The minister's voice boomed through the sound system. "Who gives this woman—"

"I do." Michael answered before the question finished, stepping forward to take your elbow. His grip was deceptively gentle, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist where the veins pulsed blue. The cameras zoomed in as he leaned close, his lips brushing your cheek. "Look at me, Joseph," he murmured, the endearment curling like smoke between you. "Only me."

The ceremony was a blur of Latin phrases and exchanged rings, Michael's hands trembling with performative emotion as he slid the new band onto your finger platinum, with three diamonds set like teeth. When the minister pronounced you man and wife, Michael's kiss was chaste for the cameras, but his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave crescent moons through the layers of silk.

The reception was worse. Neverland's Great Hall had been transformed into a grotesque fairy tale ice sculptures of cherubs weeping melted tears, a five tier cake shaped like a crib. Michael guided you through the crowd with one hand splayed possessively across your lower back, the other waving regally at guests. Every so often, he'd pause to press a kiss to your temple, whispering corrections when your smile slipped. "Eyes crinkled, remember? Like we practiced."

At the head table, Elizabeth Taylor raised her champagne flute with a tremulous smile. "To true love," she toasted, her famous violet eyes darting nervously to where Michael's fingers were tracing circles on your thigh under the tablecloth. The guests erupted in applause, none noticing how his nails bit through the fabric when you reached for your water glass.

The first dance was a nightmare set to music. Michael had choreographed every step your left hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his right arm banded tight around your waist to keep you upright in the corset's vise. As the string quartet played "I Just Can't Stop Loving You," he spun you slowly under the chandelier, the crystals refracting light across his unnaturally smooth face. "You're perfect," he murmured against your hair, his breath warm where his lips brushed the diamond choker. "Just like I made you."

Halfway through the waltz, your knees buckled. Michael caught you effortlessly, his hands tightening to keep you vertical as the guests sighed at the romantic display. Up close, his cologne smelled different less citrus, more antiseptic, like a hospital masking rot with air freshener. "Stand up straight," he hissed through his smile, fingers digging into your ribcage where the boning pressed deepest. The cameras caught the way your lashes fluttered, mistaking it for bridal emotion.

The cake cutting was a spectacle. Michael guided your hands around the silver knife, his body pressed flush against yours as you sank the blade into the fondant. When he fed you the first bite, his thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, swiping away nonexistent crumbs. The frosting tasted like nothing just sweet emptiness that stuck to the roof of your mouth. Later, you'd find the prescription bottle in his jacket pocket, the label peeled off but the pills unmistakably familiar. The same ones Janet had slipped you months ago with a warning about "managing your moods."

Your children have been hurt.

characters: Sylus, Zayne, Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel

w: 4,3 k

warnings: not to be read by anyone who's sensitive about fathers. bullying, mdi, hurt/comfort, fluff, soft, +18, maternity certificate, child abuse. Fem!Y/N

a/n: [Y/D/N] — your daughter’s name. [Y/S/N] — your son’s name. My father is strict and I never tell him if something is happening to me. So I wanted to make the men from LADS into fathers you can only dream of. English is not my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes. Requests are open. Dividers belongs to me.

Sylus:

Lately, you both have noticed that your child has become withdrawn: he doesn't join you at the table, stays silent, and spends all his time in his room.

Your heart aches every time you see bruises on your son's face. You have anxiously asked him more than once, “Sweetheart, what happened? Did someone hurt you?”

He answers your questions sharply and coldly, “No.”And then he goes to his room. At first, it seemed like it was just a teenage phase, but your motherly heart tells you that something bad is happening.

Sylus often spends time with you and has noticed his son's behavior, which has alarmed him. Something had to be done. And so, after another outburst from your son, who retreated to his room, Sylus stroked your head and went after the boy. “Don't worry, Kitten, I'll talk to him.”

After knocking on the door and not hearing a "Come in" in response, Silas stood by the door for a while, thinking about the right words, and then opened it. “Hey, buddy, can we talk?”

“I'm not in the mood... Dad,” your son mumbled, burying his face in the pillow. Taking a deep breath, the man walked into the room and sat on the edge of his son's bed. “You haven't been yourself lately, do you want to talk to me?”

[Y/S/N] shook his head negatively. Deep down, he wanted to talk about what was bothering him, but he was scared.

“Son...” Sylus rarely addresses your child like that, only when he has something truly important to say. “Know that your mom and I have your back, no matter what. We're not your enemies, and we'll always be on your side.” He ruffled his son's hair. “Remember that we care about you and your feelings. You don't have to talk now, but you can tell us whenever you're ready.” Sylus gave his son a gentle smile and got up from the bed.

“Dad, wait!” The man stopped at the door, turning his head towards his son. “I... thank you.”Sylus nodded in response. “And I'm sorry for making you and Mom worry. You know, these are tough times... people have become more ruthless, ha-ha.” [Y/S/N] laughed nervously and looked away. Sylus felt like he was looking at you, because when you're worried, you start laughing nervously and avoid eye contact.

“Are other kids bullying you?” Sylus asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly,” your son said, taking a deep breath.

“Then who?” The man's face became more serious.

“Well, at first, it really was just some kids, and I could handle them myself, but then... their parents started picking on me too. I don't understand why everyone hates me so much... I haven't done anything wrong...” Your son couldn't hold back his tears any longer and began to cry, trying to hide his tears from his father. Sylus took a few large steps and was by his son's side, holding him tightly. “You're not alone. As long as your mom and I are around, no one will dare to even look at you the wrong way.” And so it was. Sylus's anger was uncontrollable, much like your own. As soon as you found out WHAT was happening to your son, you wanted to tear everything apart. How dare anyone touch your child?! Well, let me tell you, you paid back your child's tormentors in full—they're in the hospital with broken bones, and the children are so intimidated that as soon as they see [Y/S/N], they start to shy away. Now, no one will mess with your son everyone suddenly wanted to be friends with the kid whose parents are the most dangerous people in the country.

Zayne:

He's the kind of father who's rarely home due to work. But the moment he gets a chance to see his family, Zayne drops everything. No matter how exhausted he is, his main priority is making sure his beloved princesses are doing well.

Today, he got home earlier than usual, but found the house empty. Glancing at his watch, it was one in the afternoon, so his daughter must be at school. But what about his wife? Zayne kicked off his shoes and headed to the kitchen. A note on the refrigerator read, "Gone to the store, be back soon ♡"

Smiling, Zayne walked into the spacious living room, where a plasma TV hung on the wall. He turned on the news and sat at the table, opening his laptop. Well, while you're away, I might as well get some work done.

About thirty minutes later, you returned from the grocery store, laden with bags. Spotting your husband in the living room, you set the bags down in the kitchen and approached him, kissing him on the cheek. “Hi, honey, how's work going?”

“Hello, darling. Everything's fine. How was your day?” Zayne asked, taking off his glasses and closing his laptop. He pulled you closer by the waist and kissed you softly on the lips. “Oh, Zayne, my day was good too. Is [Y/D/N] in her room?”

At your question, Zayne raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn't she be at school?” He glanced at the time with concern. It had been an hour since he got home, and his daughter still wasn't back.

“What?... Her classes ended half an hour ago, and it's only a 10-minute walk from school...” You tapped your chin, deep in thought. “What if something happened on the way home?!” You immediately sprang into action, heading to the hallway and grabbing your windbreaker. Zayne followed you. But just as you were about to leave the house, the door opened and your daughter walked in.

“Mom? Dad? Are you guys going somewhere?” she asked, her voice a little hoarse.

“Sweetheart! You scared me half to death!” You immediately pulled your daughter into a hug, but quickly released her when she hissed in pain. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where? Here?” You gently touched her shoulder. Her composure crumbled, and she simply burst into tears, burying her face in your stomach.

Zayne furrowed his brow and approached the two of you. Stroking his daughter's hair, he scooped her up in his arms, simultaneously removing her street shoes, and headed upstairs to her room. After tidying up a bit, you followed your husband.

“Snowflake, what's eating you?” Zayne asked softly, carefully laying her down in bed.

“The girls... the girls in my class ganged up on me because a boy likes me... Daddy, it hurts so bad.” She didn't hold back her feelings when she was with her dad. He never pressured her and always knew how to handle these situations. Zayne listened patiently, wiped the tears from her face, and kissed her forehead. “Don't be afraid of anything; Daddy's here.” His words resonated not only with your daughter but with you as well.

You stood outside the door, hearing every word. Zayne never made empty promises. After settling your daughter, he exited her room and noticed your worried eyes. With a sigh, he stroked your hair. “She's being bullied at school.”

“I see...” you said, feeling a surge of anger. How dare anyone lay a hand on your child? You were ready to go and tear them all limb from limb. Zayne could clearly see your fury.

“Honey, calm down. Tomorrow, we'll go to the principal and try to sort things out peacefully...” remember these words, kids, because the next day YOU were the one who had to calm HIM down he froze the principal's office and nearly skewered the parents of the kids who bullied your daughter with icicles.

Caleb:

He loves sparring with his son because it's a chance to bond and teach the kid some self-defense. The only problem? [Y/S/N] takes after you and can't land a decent punch to save his life. He's too worried about hurting his dad. Caleb's always saying he needs more killer instinct.

But lately, your son's been dodging training sessions like the plague. When asked why, he just shrugs it off with a quick, “I'm tired.”

Caleb's not one to force his kid into anything, but it's been bugging him. [Y/S/N] used to be all hyped up for a friendly spar, practically dragging Caleb into the ring. Now, the mere mention of "fighting" makes him clam up. And Caleb's not happy about it. Not one bit.

“Don't you think [Y/S/N]'s been acting kinda weird lately?” You asked, drying the dishes. A mother's intuition is never wrong, and you knew something was up with him.

"Maybe he's just worn out from school?" Caleb shrugged, switching the news to "The Avengers."

“Do you wanna talk to him?” You put down the plate and towel, walking over to him. “I'm worried…” You wrapped your arms around him from behind, nuzzling your nose into his shoulder blade, inhaling his scent.

"I'll try." Caleb squeezed your hand, which was resting on his stomach.

Your son came home from school and went straight to his room without saying hello. He tossed his backpack aside and flopped onto the bed, closing his eyes. But then he remembered the bruises and winced. It hurt like hell. [Y/S/N] started scratching his chest, as if trying to rip his heart out of his body from the unbearable pain. Heartache. Bruises and cuts heal, but a shattered soul? That's another story. [Y/S/N] didn't even hear the knock on the door, his father's voice, or him approaching the bed. Feeling a hand on his head, he startled and turned to see his father's stern gaze. “Dad…”

“I'm here,” Caleb announced, and upon hearing his words, his son launched himself into his father's arms, momentarily forgetting his stinging wounds. “What's been going on with you lately?” your husband asked, gently stroking his son's back.

“I hurt, Dad. I hurt so much.”

You entered the room, instantly drawn to your family. Seeing your son clinging to his father, uttering “I'm not okay,” nearly shattered your heart. Kneeling by the bed, you embraced your child as well, kissing the top of his head. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

“My friends... they're hurting me.” Wriggling out of your and Caleb's embrace, [Y/S/N\] pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the angry bruises. You gasped, covering your mouth in horror. “But it hurts more here...” Your son placed his hands over his chest, indicating his heart. You and Caleb had instilled in him that you never hurt your friends, so your child never retaliated – because hitting a friend was like hitting himself. But not all kids were raised with the same values. Rage consumed Caleb. He shot up from the bed and stormed out of the house. Where to? Neither you nor your son knew. “Mom... are you... are you proud of me? Did I do good?” your child asked, nestled in your lap.

“Baby, I've always been proud of you, I am proud of you, and I always will be. Listen, just because you consider someone a friend doesn't mean they feel the same way about you. Friendship has to go both ways, not just one. Stick with those who truly value you, okay?” you asked, holding out your pinky.

“Okay.” He linked his pinky with yours and smiled.

Meanwhile, Caleb was raising hell at the principal's office and throwing punches at the fathers of your child's classmates. “If I ever hear that my son is being hurt again, you'll regret it. I'll shove apples so far up your asses, you'll be tasting them for weeks! Got it?!”

Well, the outcome? Your son is no longer bothered one father didn't get the memo and is now in the hospital with apples in his backside.

Xavier:

Your daughter was always a firecracker, that's why absolutely everyone loved her: passersby, classmates, and acquaintances. She could connect with anyone. Xavier saw you in her – just as impulsive as her mother.

But as we know, when someone is widely loved, there are those who start to get envious. They're like snakes, ready to strike at the most unexpected moment: slithering into the soul and thoughts, injecting venom to weaken and incapacitate their victim, making them easier to devour.

Your daughter had a friend, quiet and modest. You and your husband thought their friendship was very harmonious. Thought. Until your daughter clammed up. It was like her mouth had been sealed shut... but with what? Every time you touched your daughter, you felt a strange surge of foreign energy. “Evol?” spun in your head. But as soon as you tried to figure out more, you recoiled from the jolt. While waiting for your husband after his latest mission, you decided to keep an eye on your daughter.

Approaching her room, you felt a dizzy spell, as if something or someone was trying to invade your mind. Shaking your head and drawing your weapon, you quietly opened the door. The room was as dark as the abyss. Suddenly, something crawled on your leg. Barely finding the light switch and flicking it on, you almost fainted from horror: snakes. A huge number of snakes. And in the middle of these vile creatures was your daughter? No... it wasn't her. The girl looked like her, but those serpentine eyes... and oh god... that was YOUR daughter's body?! She lay on the floor, bitten by these creatures injecting their venom into her. “Oh, Mom!” the thing croaked, grinning wickedly.

“Xiangliu...” your daughter whispered, barely opening her eyes. “Please...”

“Silence!” the girl snapped, and the snakes immediately coiled around her feet.

“You're Xiangliu?” Your voice was like steel. “You're my daughter's friend, right? It's not cool to treat friends like that.” You drew the katana from your robe. “That's just not how it's done.” You lunged into battle, but a huge snake slithered out of the ground, blocking the path to Xiangliu. Oh yeah, your roof, and half the house, will need repairs. Just as you were about to cut down the vile creature, you felt a familiar evol and caught a glimpse of light flashing past you. “Xavier!” you cried with relief. But remembering your daughter, you rushed forward, dodging Xiangliu's attacks. Finally reaching your daughter, you scooped her fragile and pale body into your arms. “Honey, please, open your eyes!” You shook her shoulder, but there was no response. “Xavier!” you cried, tears welling up.

“I'll handle this, get out of here!” your husband yelled. You know he can handle it, after all, your husband is the best hunter. Holding your daughter carefully, you raced to the hospital. Thank god it was close to your house.

“Zayne!” you shouted, spotting your childhood friend. “Zayne, help!”

“Get her on a gurney, quick. Venom?” Zayne asked, seeing the purple marks all over her body. You nodded, clutching your hands to your chest and following the doctors. “Don't worry Y/N, I'll make an antidote and everything will be fine.” He gave you a friendly pat on the shoulder before disappearing with the medical team. Slumping into a chair, you closed your eyes, trying to calm down. “Y/N!” You heard your husband's voice and immediately jumped up. “Where's [Y/D/N]?”

“Zayne and a team of doctors are on it. They're working on an antidote...” You buried your face in your husband's shoulder, tears welling up. Right now, all you could do was pray that your daughter would be okay. “And where...?”

“I handed her over to the police for safekeeping,” Xavier replied, knowing exactly who you were talking about. You both sank into the armchairs, waiting for Zayne.

About three hours ticked by before Zayne finally appeared. “The poison was potent, but I managed to find an antidote. She's sleeping in a room now; you can visit her.” Zayne's calm tone instantly eased your anxiety. She was going to be alright.

“Thank you, Dr. Zayne,” Xavier said with a slight smile, shaking the doctor's hand. Zayne returned a polite smile and, with one last glance at you, left.

Gently easing the door open, you both stepped inside. Your daughter was breathing softly, looking less pale than she had just hours ago. You let out a shaky breath and stroked her hair. “Mom?... Dad?...” her tiny voice whispered.

“Stay still, princess,” Xavier said, rubbing his thumb over her palm.

“What happened? All I remember is playing hide-and-seek with Xiangliu at her house, and then... nothing.” You and Xavier exchanged a look of dread.

“When did you play hide-and-seek with her?” you asked, glancing at the calendar. If your daughter had been acting strange for the past few days, was that really your daughter at all?

“Well, you let us play outside so we wouldn't break your favorite vase.” Oh no... no, no, no. Three days! For three days, some other girl had taken your daughter's place! How could you have been so blind?! “I'm such a terrible mother...” Tears streamed down your face. “I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!”

“Mom... why are you crying?” The girl looked at you with confusion, then at her father. “Dad, what's wrong with her?”

“Nothing, honey, your mom's just being an overprotective worrywart, you know how she gets. You get some rest; Mom and I will check in on you later,” Xavier lied, not wanting to scare your daughter. Taking your hand, he led you out of the room. “You're not the only one who dropped the ball, honey. I didn't like that girl from the get-go, so I'm just as guilty for not voicing my suspicions.”

“We could have lost our child... I'll never forgive myself.”

“Me neither. That's why we'll make it up to her and keep a closer eye on her, especially when it comes to the people she brings into our home.” Xavier chuckled, remembering the time your daughter brought home a homeless man and introduced him as her friend. The look on Xavier's face had been priceless. The man now works as your gardener, by the way.

“That's for sure,” you said, smiling, understanding what your husband was laughing about.

Yes, you'd made a mistake. But together, you would fix it and become the best parents you could be. With parents like you, [Y/D/N] would definitely be safe.

Rafayel:

Rafayel was throwing a grand exhibition and needed his gorgeous wife by his side to help greet guests. The only problem? They had no one to watch their son.

“Maybe we should hire a nanny?” You suggested, scrolling through profiles on a website.

“Hmm, not a bad idea. How about this one?” Rafayel said, pointing to a young woman. “Lots of stars and rave reviews.”

“Alright, I'll give her a call.” After dialing the number, you arranged for her to come over the next day. “Okay, great, thank you.” Gently massaging your temples, you headed into the living room, where Rafayel and your son were painting.

“That's awesome! You're doing great! Definitely his father's son!” Rafayel proudly raised his brush, smirking.

“Mommy's!” [Y/S/N] exclaimed, spotting you. He hopped off the chair and ran to give you a hug.

“WHAT?! How dare you steal my son from me, woman!” Clutching his shirt dramatically, he placed the paintbrush on his forehead and pretended to faint.

“Such a drama queen,” you sighed, and your son nodded in agreement. “Listen, sweetie, your dad and I need to go to an important event, and we don't have anyone to leave you with. So... we decided to hire a nanny for you. Be good tomorrow, okay?” You stroked your son's hair.

“You got it, Mom!” He squeezed you tightly, smearing paint on your clothes. “Oops...” Your son stepped back and looked at your stained outfit. “Mom, I didn't mean to!” He ran to Rafayel, hiding behind him. “Dad, save me!”

“Ooh! You finally remembered you have a father?” Laughing, Rafayel lifted your son above his head and started spinning him around. Laughter filled the room, creating a warm, familial atmosphere.

The big day arrived in no time. You and Rafayel got ready and waited for the caregiver, explaining everything that needed to be done. The girl seemed sweet, so you didn't worry too much while you were at the exhibition.

However, as soon as you and your husband left, it was like a switch flipped. The girl acted like she owned the place: she grabbed some chips from the cupboard, turned on the TV, and... SHE SPILLED ON RAFAEL'S FAVORITE COUCH!

“That's Dad's favorite couch! Don't mess it up!” your son exclaimed, standing in front of her, blocking the TV.

“Get lost, kid.” She shoved him aside, popped a chip in her mouth, and your son hit his head on the couch edge. He clutched his head and started to whimper. “Can you shut up?!” she barked, cranking up the TV volume.

“Leave me alone!”

“That's it! You’re just too much!” She found some tape in the kitchen and, wrapping his mouth and limbs, carried him to the closet. “Sit here and think about your behavior, you little brat.” She even switched off the light. For some reason, your son was terrified of the dark and never slept without a nightlight. Panic gripped him; he cried and tried to kick the door with his swaddled legs, but he was too weak.

“I’ve got a weird feeling…” you murmured after greeting another guest.

“Maybe you’re just tired?” Rafayel shrugged.

“No. We need to go home. I have to see my son.” You rushed to the exit, your heart racing.

“Sweetheart! Wait!” But you didn’t reply. “Oh, that woman. Hey!” He called his assistant. “There’s hardly anything left to do, so finish the show yourself, alright?”

You could feel that something was off.

As you swung the door open, an eerie silence greeted you—no one was in sight. But then, a loud voice broke through the stillness. A television show, perhaps? You stepped into the living room, your heart pounding, and froze in shock. Rafayel stepped forward slightly, his expression mirroring yours, both of you utterly dumbfounded.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” he exclaimed.

“Why are you here so early? This isn’t what you think!” the girl began to stammer, her eyes wide with panic.

“Are you kidding me?!” you shot back, leveling a steely glare at her.

“Exactly! You were just five minutes ago fooling around with some loser on MY couch!” Rafayel shouted, his anger boiling over.

Meanwhile, your mind raced as you scanned the room for your son. Where could he be? Panic clawed at your stomach until your ears caught a faint knocking sound coming from the pantry. With urgency, you flung the door open. What you saw made your heart drop—there was your son, tears streaming down his cheeks, wrapped in duct tape.

“Mommy!” he cried, and you rushed to him, your heart breaking at the sight.

“Shh, sweetie, it’s okay. Mama’s here,” you whispered softly, carefully peeling the tape away from his small frame. Just then, Rafayel stormed in, his eyes blazing with fury as he locked onto the so-called "nanny."

“What the hell is going on?!” he barked, his rage palpable.

You held your son close, cradling him against your chest as if that alone could shield him from the chaos erupting around you. The tension in the room crackled like electricity, and you felt a fierce protectiveness take hold.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” you said with steely determination, heart pounding in unison with his.

“She's wrecked Dad's couch! I told her not to mess it up! She shoved me, and I hit my head and started crying!” With tears streaming down his cheeks, your son lamented about the girl. “And then she wrapped me in tape and locked me in the pantry without any light.”

“Rafayel, hold our son for a minute.” You lifted the little boy and handed him over to Rafayel. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, your husband is a true gentleman who would never lift a finger against a woman, even if she were as terrible as this nanny. But you could, because you're also a woman.

With a fierce determination, you pushed her into the hallway, where she collided with the corner of the wall. Standing tall before her, you seethed, “You laid hands on my son?!” Grabbing her by the hair, you delivered a sharp slap across her cheek, pulling her toward the door with a firm grip.

“It hurts!” she screeched, a mix of outrage and fear in her voice.

“Good,” you shot back, your eyes blazing. “Maybe you'll think twice before laying a finger on my child again.” The air was thick with tension, a silent understanding that you wouldn't let this slide. In your mind, you were ready to do whatever it took to protect your family.

“I'm telling you, my son was hurting too, you little witch!” You hurled her out the door with a fierce shove. “This is just the beginning. I’ll make your life a living hell, you little brat.” Slamming the door behind you, you returned to your loved ones, planting soft kisses on their foreheads and wrapping them in warm embraces. “I wish I could've just taken her out,” your husband chimed in, pouting playfully.

“Looks like you've taken on the role of dad's personal bodyguard, huh? Desperately defending my favorite couch, like a true hero!” He scooped your son up and, with a playful flourish, set him down on the floor, heading toward the bathroom for the first-aid kit.

“Y/N! You coming or what?”

“Yeah! Just tidying up a bit, I’ll be right there!”

“Mom! Hurry up! Dad doesn’t know how to handle wounds!”

“Not true! I totally know what I’m doing!”

“Get that enema away from my head! Mom! Please!”

And just like that, the house buzzed with that familiar family atmosphere again: laughter, playful chaos, and a guy who practically jumped out the window to escape your wrath, fearing he'd end up just like that girl he cheated with.

Jamie knew you like the back of his hand.

He knew which song you put on repeat when you were upset but too stubborn to admit it. He knew you hated when your hands got cold so you had no choice but to reach out for his. He even remembered the job you swore you’d have when you were eight.

So it was almost insulting that you thought he wouldn’t notice the way your thighs shut when he called you “annoying”.

The way your teeth caught your lips and the way the air shifted before you mumbled a “sorry”.

It baffled him even more that you thought he wouldn’t notice how you started to purposely get on his nerves.

How you would purposefully misbehave in public just to feel his tight grip on your arm as he scolded you for being a “annoying whore.”

How you would laugh a little too hard at his friends when they were over just to see his expression tighten as he called you a slut.

It shocked him how deliberate you were, how you would constantly push his buttons just to get something—anything out of him.

How you’d apologize so sweetly afterwards, a pout forming on your lips as your hole clenched around nothing.

It surprised him really, the way you’d bite your lip when he threatened to make a mess out of you before forming a pout like he hurt your feelings.

Even the way you’d whimper when he threatened to hit you for just being so aggravating.

It surprised him how quickly you’d hide the shift in your legs and a whimper on the verge of spilling out of your throat behind a trembling apology and a carefully crafted frown.

It surprised Husband!Jamie even more how he’d get a boner from it every time.

You surprised him.

And maybe that’s why he loved you as much as he did.

Bass Harbor Light, done at a paint-and-sip event

AkaKen Smut

Includes: heavy smut, pounding, lotus positions, Omegaverse,

The dim light of the shared apartment filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting shadows over the tangled sheets on Akaashi's bed. Kenma lay sprawled on his back, his lithe body already slick with sweat, chest heaving as Akaashi loomed over him. Both omegas, their heats had synced in a cruel twist of fate, turning the air thick with pheromones that made every breath a spark of need. Akaashi's dark eyes burned with hunger, his cock already hard and leaking pre-cum against Kenma's thigh.

Akaashi's hands gripped Kenma's hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. 'You smell so fucking good,' he growled, voice rough from the haze of heat. He leaned down, capturing one of Kenma's nipples between his teeth, biting down sharply. Kenma arched off the bed with a sharp cry, his small pink bud hardening instantly under the assault. Akaashi sucked hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak while his free hand pinched the other nipple, twisting it until Kenma whimpered, his body trembling.

'Harder,' Kenma gasped, his own cock twitching against his stomach, the tip glistening. Akaashi obliged, clamping down with his teeth again, pulling until the skin stretched taut. Kenma's hands fisted in the sheets, his pussy clenching emptily, already soaked and throbbing with desperate ache. The omega's folds were swollen, slick dripping down to his ass, begging to be filled.

Akaashi released the nipple with a wet pop, smirking at the red marks blooming on Kenma's pale chest. He wrapped a hand around Kenma's cock, stroking roughly from base to tip, thumb pressing into the slit to smear the pre-cum. Kenma bucked into the touch, moaning low as Akaashi's grip tightened, jerking him off with firm, unrelenting pulls. 'Your cock's so hard for me,' Akaashi murmured, squeezing the shaft until veins pulsed under his fingers. He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, making Kenma's balls draw up tight.

But Akaashi wasn't done playing. He shifted lower, his mouth descending on Kenma's cock, swallowing him down in one deep thrust. Kenma's hips jerked, a choked sob escaping as Akaashi's throat constricted around him, sucking with hollowed cheeks. Akaashi bobbed his head, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tracing every ridge and vein. He fondled Kenma's balls, rolling them in his palm, tugging gently before giving a sharp squeeze that bordered on pain.

Kenma's pussy throbbed harder, the empty heat building to an inferno. 'Akaashi... please... fuck me,' he begged, voice breaking. Akaashi pulled off with a filthy slurp, strings of saliva connecting his lips to Kenma's flushed cock. He positioned himself between Kenma's spread thighs, rubbing the head of his own thick cock against the omega's dripping entrance. Kenma's pussy lips parted eagerly, slick coating Akaashi's length as he teased the hole.

Without warning, Akaashi slammed in, burying his cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Kenma screamed, walls clamping down around the invasion, every inch stretching him wide. Akaashi's cock throbbed inside, pulsing against Kenma's sensitive insides, the sensation sending shockwaves through both of them. He didn't give time to adjust—pulling back only to pound forward again, hips snapping with savage force.

The bed creaked under the assault, Akaashi's balls slapping against Kenma's ass with each heavy drive. Kenma's pussy throbbed around the thick shaft, milking it desperately as Akaashi fucked him raw. 'So tight... your cunt's gripping me like a vice,' Akaashi grunted, leaning forward to latch onto Kenma's nipple again. He bit down in time with a particularly deep thrust, the dual sensations making Kenma's vision blur.

Akaashi's hand returned to Kenma's cock, stroking it in rough tandem with his pounding hips. He jacked him off fast, fingers slick with pre-cum, twisting over the head until Kenma's thighs quaked. The omega's body jolted with every slam, his pussy fluttering, walls convulsing as Akaashi's cock dragged over that spot inside him relentlessly.

Sweat poured down Akaashi's back, his muscles straining as he rutted harder, faster. He released the nipple, now swollen and bruised, and grabbed both of Kenma's hands, pinning them above his head. The new angle let him grind deeper, his cock throbbing wildly, swelling as his own heat peaked. Kenma's pussy responded in kind, pulsing around him, slick gushing out with each withdraw.

'Cum for me,' Akaashi demanded, his free hand yanking on Kenma's cock one last time. Kenma shattered, his release spurting over Akaashi's fist, body seizing as waves of pleasure ripped through him. His pussy clamped down like a fist, throbbing in rhythmic squeezes that pulled Akaashi over the edge. With a roar, Akaashi buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded Kenma's womb with hot cum, thrust after thrust milking every drop.

They collapsed together, Akaashi still buried inside, both cocks twitching with aftershocks. But the heat wasn't sated—Akaashi's hips twitched, already hardening again for round two.

Silco’s number 2 is a regular they say….