#Because there's nothing wrong with wanting to know everything

[sheeezu]

What to do if you have not shifted for +++years

(Most of my anons were along the lines of this same issue, I want to make a common post for them. I won't be telling you "you're already there" or "persist" I'm going to have a heart to heart conversation with your mental health in mind, this will be a long post)

First and foremost I have to say, this post is very heavily opinion-based. Alright, I'll divide it into topics, and two categories: before shifting and during shifting.

Before Shifting.

Determining the laws of your reality.

This is where you've got to do most of the work. (Don't worry, it won't be 7 hour subliminal listening sessions) now let's present a very important note: I don't know who you are. But most importantly I don't know what you believe in. Shifting isn't a known set of rules, Shifting doesn't have a single method, it does not have a wikihow page. Everything that exist is because of you. Therefore there are differences in my reality and yours. What you believe in is acting out in reality. LITERALLY.

So first you need to ask yourself some questions, with full honesty, oh and don't apply the thoughts you have by certain reprogramming affirmations, don't force yourself just because you have to persist.

"What am I?" What do you believe you are? Currently, are you a soul, a human? Or you something greater, seek within yourself to answer what you believe.

"What is reality?" How is everything working around you? Why are you here.

"Who is in control?" Who makes you shift. Who or what makes everything happen.

"How to shift?" Self explanatory. If you write with utmost truth on what you think shifting is like and when and how it happens; you'll basically have the code of how reality works for you.

Relax.

After you've gathered your research sheets. Take a breath, since you've got all the answers you need. Now, close your eyes, whenever you like. Imagine a serene atmosphere, for example, sharp sunlight falling on your skin, warming you up, or the rain droplets drowning your senses, as you run across a forest. Tell yourself, "this is what shifting is" , and "I've shifted." That's all it is. You feel some you get some.

Some important realizations,

• Time is not linear.

• Failure is a perception.

• You're not beneath anyone.

• You don't need to prove yourself to anyone.

• you'll survive, you'll be alright.

Don't. Kidnap. Yourself.

The title sounds weird, but it is regarding heavily applying the principle of assuming until you have it, to EVERYTHING. Idc if people come after me. I don't want anyone to suffer by stamping their foreheads with "persist!" Even if it works. I love loa, until it crosses over into toxic positively. Don't just put yourself in a coffin; don't become a prisoner to your thoughts! Don't make it feel like there's an angry witch in your mind, who will scream at you if something goes wrong, the problem is! Something might go wrong and you'd end up highlighting the idea that you are being forced to assume against something. Don't feel forced. Simple. (You can still use loa, if you like)

Declutter your mind.

I said it before. and @ilovecatfr explained this here, there's so much in your mind. I can tell. Each and everyone has their own unique spin on shifting. That's great and they put out advice to help people, similarly you... also have it within you. Afterall, these bloggers, big well written and decorated posts are the projection of your assumptions. I'd like to say, majority of the bloggers are kindhearted with the aim to help others. Although for some, you being desperate in their asks is an ego boost, nothing is wrong with feeling good about yourself for your knowledge, but you the person at the other end of this screen, are not a pawn, not just another anon, alright? you know how to shift, look back at what your answers were to the questions.

Control your emotions towards this reality.

I've always wanted to discuss this. Emotions are the puppeteers of this show. They're a grounding mechanism of any reality. If you feel something deeply, you're angry at circumstances you form an attachment to this reality, it keeps you here. Think about what happens to a person when they get disassociation. Similarly belief + emotional investment = reality. Its a code. I can confidently say anyone who has not shifted (... not targeting anyone, genuinely trying my best to help; ty ty back to the text) is because they're giving too much emotional importance to this reality. This can be in the form of stressing that you have not shifted, being worried that you're not in your dr, putting much focus on the "What ifs" of if you wake back in this reality.

But we can't just go BLANK. we're still humans who feel deeply (for now huehue) so what's the solution to this non-issue? Direct these feelings towards your destination, your intended reality! This would mean feeling like your dr self, if you're experiencing negative emotions you can last second convert them to any scenario related to your dr, emotional investment there pays well, here? It just wastes time.

Don't let feelings get the best of you and keep you here; you're their creator after all.

(Optional) Create a homey dr.

This comes from personal experiences. If I don't mention this I won't be completely open with each one of you. I shifted through intense love and reverence for my home. I knew that each and every second spent in this reality led up to me shifting to my home.

So for ease later on when you can't decide between drs, it'll be comforting to have a reality you can call home and choose over and over again.

Rewire.

This is where you come back to what you answered to the questions. Do you like your response? A human is living in a reality, and your answers are the universal law there. Will they have an easy time with shifting? If you think so, then choose to not do any "rewiring" and act upon the answers you wrote, shifting in accordance to them as they have become the pillars of your reality. If you think the person's reality's laws regarding shifting are complicated, then you can choose to rewire them. This can be a simple manifestation. As it has no basis in the 3D yet, you will manifest it within seconds. You can either write it down, listen to a subliminal, or simply think of the new beliefs in your head (eg "I shift in seconds") and let go. Stop.

(Severely optional) strive for spiritual awakenings

*shrugs* I thought I should mention based on personal experience.

During shifting.

Confuse your logical brain

You don't have to give it validation. Instead, just make it unable to predict the next move of it creator. Its built to look at everything with skepticism.. but it has nothing when you don't give it the chance. For example, the anti method by @hrrtshape is the best example. I like that you can do this, pre-method like a little warm up. (You can also manifest to not think logically)

Know your game

To act like you're in a battle field is not the way to shift. You don't have to give the actual practice of shifting much or any importance. You know how to shift, then why is there a need to have plan B's and checking your own environment? You are the commander in front, you're the one switching the reality, your reality is not the one switching.

Senses shift last

Explained by @stilljuststardust here.

Be blind and deaf to each and everything other than your intended reality

...and be so obsessed with your intended reality. Live out entire days, you're there, no, time is not passing by, the previous reality has disappeared by your hyperfixation on your intended reality. Ever done that exercise where you stare at a dot for so long, everything around it disappears? Well then, EXACTLY. Make it dissapear. Make it dissappear by not giving it any more of your energy. ....how I shifted. This is based upon being your dr self, that's snatches away the spotlight from this current reality.

Keep yourself comfortable

All of you are experienced enough to know, you don't need to lay in the starfish position. But remove the unnecessary thought that if you dare move your finger you might mess up the whole attempt (This is a subconsciousness belief) here's how to not worry about your 3D: again, senses shift last, Your current reality = intended reality.

It is about breaking free from human functions

Your software is set to being an earthly human. This is why acting like your current reality (the noises from the environment, physical annoyances) are from your intended reality, helps. This allows you to trick your human brain and move forward. The more you try to make sense of shifting, the more less it'll make sense. You don't have to know everything about shifting. The point is to be awfully natural about it. Just like how you wake up in this current reality without any requirement. You don't overthink it, then why overthink shifting.

Hope I cleared everything, I spent 5 hours on this post. If anything is not clear, please send in an ask, I am 100% avaliable to answer anything amiss.

Now let's see how much time I take to actually make this post aesthetically pleasing, so people don't have to bleach their eyes or ruin their blogs with this.

Dedicated to @lilyblairkinda who gave me this idea, once.

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong

pairings: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you try surprising lando...

warnings: angst, cheating

melbourne, australia – sunday night

you hadn’t been this excited in weeks.

the plane landed thirty minutes early, but it still felt like it took forever to reach the city. every step off the plane, through customs, into the cab—it all buzzed with a kind of electricity that made your fingers twitch. you were barely keeping it together.

you were going to surprise him. your boyfriend. your person.

lando.

you hadn’t seen him in three weeks. the season had barely started, but it already felt like the world was swallowing him whole. interviews, practice, media, debriefs. your conversations had gone from long, late-night calls to quick voice notes and blurry facetimes while he was on the move.

but today was different.

he won. first place. finally.

you watched it on the tiny tv at home, hands over your mouth, heart pounding with his. and when he crossed the finish line, when the team screamed over the radio, when his voice cracked through the headset—you felt it all. pride. joy. love.

you booked the flight that same hour.

you didn’t tell him. didn’t want to. it was supposed to be a surprise. you wanted to show up, wrap your arms around him, and whisper, “you did it. i’m here.”

the rooftop bar was chaos.

you barely made it through security, but someone from mclaren must’ve recognized you and let you up. the elevator was packed with strangers—some people dressed like they lived here, others clearly part of the racing circus. cameras were already out. music thumped through the walls.

when the doors opened, the night hit you full force.

neon lights. booming bass. drinks spilling over glasses. laughter, loud and echoing. flashes from phones and disco balls and champagne bottles. the kind of party that blurred together like a fever dream.

but your eyes were searching for one thing. just one.

him.

and then you saw him.

lando.

halfway across the rooftop, surrounded by a crowd of familiar faces—some engineers, a few of the pr team, people you’d met once or twice. his curls were a mess, shirt slightly untucked, a drink in one hand, and that signature post-win smile stretched wide across his face.

your breath caught in your throat.

god, you’d missed him.

you stepped forward, your fingers gripping your purse a little tighter, heart ready to burst.

and then everything stopped.

because she was there.

a girl. standing too close. laughing at something he said, one hand on his chest.

and before you could even blink, he leaned in. and kissed her.

slow. familiar. like it wasn’t the first time.

you froze.

it was like your body short-circuited. like someone hit pause on the world, but forgot to tell your heart to stop breaking.

his hand was on her waist. hers tangled in his curls—the curls you used to touch when he couldn’t sleep, when he was anxious, when he needed grounding.

and he was smiling into it. drunk. relaxed. like there was nothing wrong.

like you weren’t even real.

you didn’t know how long you stood there.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t blink. couldn’t even breathe properly.

the music was too loud. the lights too bright. the room spinning too fast.

lando norris—your lando—was kissing someone else.

and you were just… standing there.

uninvited. unseen. the girl who showed up late to her own story.

your heels clicked too loudly as you turned around. pushed through the crowd. passed people who didn’t know you, didn’t care. the elevator took forever. someone asked if you were okay. you nodded without hearing them.

once outside, the air hit you like a wave.

melbourne at night was still buzzing. people celebrating. cars honking. the city alive.

but your world had gone completely, painfully still.

you walked. didn’t know where. didn’t care.

you just needed to get away from that rooftop. away from the music. the cameras. the kiss.

you had come here to surprise him. to celebrate with him.

but he had already moved on.

sunday night – 1:42 a.m.

you didn’t remember getting to the hotel.

your phone said it was fifteen minutes away, but your mind had gone quiet somewhere between leaving the club and stepping into the empty, too-clean lobby. everything felt hazy. like you were watching yourself from the outside, like you were just playing a part in a story that was never really yours.

the keycard slid into the door with a beep. you stepped inside the room. lights off. no sounds. just the low hum of the air conditioning and the dull ache behind your eyes.

you dropped your purse on the chair. kicked off your heels. the dress, once so carefully picked for him, slid to the floor with a whisper.

you stood there in silence. bare. weightless. like if you closed your eyes, you could just disappear.

but you didn’t.

you walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and finally—finally—let it out.

not the sobbing kind of cry. not the messy, movie-scene breakdown.

this one was quieter. smaller.

it started in your chest. then your throat. then your eyes, slow and warm and unrelenting.

you buried your face in your hands. curled in on yourself.

this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

you’d imagined it so many times.

lando opening his hotel door and seeing you there. his eyes going wide, grin stretching across his face as he pulled you in, lifted you off your feet like he always used to. his voice thick with disbelief, “you’re actually here?” followed by kisses, laughter, maybe even tears.

you would’ve run your hands through his curls, whispered, “you did it, baby,” and he would’ve held you like the world had stopped.

that was the version you flew across the world for.

but instead, he kissed someone else.

and smiled while doing it.

your phone lit up on the nightstand.

1:51 a.m. text from: oscar

hey, lando’s pretty out of it. you coming by? he’s been looking around like he forgot something. maybe you?

you stared at it.

what were you supposed to say to that?

you started typing.

i saw him.

paused.

deleted it.

typed again.

i’m here.

no. not right.

you sat there, thumbs hovering over the screen, heart pounding in your ears.

finally, you sent:

tell him congrats.

short. distant. detached.

you turned the phone face down after that.

you laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together. the sheets smelled like hotel bleach and artificial lavender. the kind of clean that made everything feel more sterile. more empty.

you used to feel so close to him, even when he was halfway across the world.

but now?

you’d never felt farther away.

you thought about calling someone. your sister. your best friend. anyone who could make this moment less sharp. less lonely.

but how do you explain flying across the world to surprise someone, only to find out they stopped waiting for you?

how do you explain watching the person you love put their hands on someone else like it meant nothing?

you didn’t want to talk.

you just wanted to forget.

your eyes fluttered shut. and for a second, the image played again behind your eyelids.

lando, laughing. her fingers in his hair. his mouth pressed to hers.

your stomach turned.

you rolled over, facing the wall, trying to breathe past the ache.

you came all this way. you were the surprise.

but he didn’t even notice you were gone.

flashback – eight months ago, london

the rain had come out of nowhere.

you were both soaked—shoes squishing, clothes clinging to skin, hair plastered to your faces as you ran down the narrow london street, laughing like idiots.

lando had forgotten an umbrella. of course.

“i told you to check the weather,” you teased, huddled under a shop overhang, trying to catch your breath.

“you did. i just didn’t listen.”

he was grinning. water dripping from his lashes, curls a mess. he looked ridiculous. beautiful.

you stared at him, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling.

“we’re actually drenched.”

“romantic, though.” he leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “like a movie scene.”

“a very soggy movie scene.”

he laughed. and then he kissed you. right there, in the middle of the street, while strangers rushed past and the sky kept pouring.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect. but it was real.

that was the thing with lando—he made even the messiest moments feel soft. warm. like something you wanted to wrap yourself in.

later, back at his place, you sat on the kitchen counter in his hoodie while he made tea. music playing low, windows fogged up from the cold. the quiet kind of night that felt like home.

he walked over, pressed a mug into your hands, then stood between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“i hate how much i love you,” he said softly, eyes on yours.

you raised an eyebrow. “that a bad thing?”

he shook his head. “no. just scary. i’ve never had this before.”

you swallowed.

you’d never had it either.

“what’s ‘this’?”

“you.” he smiled, just a little. “you feel like the only thing that makes sense when everything else is insane.”

you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

“then hold onto me, yeah?”

“always.”

and you believed him.

present – melbourne, 3:13 a.m.

you were still awake.

still staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

the hotel room was quiet except for the occasional car down on the street below. you hadn’t moved much. your body felt heavy. not tired, just… hollow.

you kept replaying that night. london. the rain. his hands. his words.

he said he’d hold onto you.

but somewhere between then and now, his grip slipped.

or maybe yours did.

maybe the distance got too loud. maybe the silence in between texts got too long. maybe love needs more than belief to survive.

you reached for your phone again.

no new messages.

not from him.

not from anyone.

you considered texting him. asking why. asking if he meant to do it. if he even knew you were there. if she was just some mistake or someone he’d already planned on seeing long before tonight.

but deep down, you knew the answer.

lando never did things by accident. not like that.

you turned your phone over again. shoved it under the pillow.

whatever you had—whatever you were—maybe it wasn’t enough anymore.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

[mssishipi]

soft love — pjs

— in which you found purpose in jay's control that love was so soft to be touch and tight enough to never let go.

warnings: dark romance, emotional manipulation, psychological control, jay is older than reader, power imbalance, dependency, themes of submission and ownership. explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, implied breeding kink. MDNI

Dating older guys, they said, would be so good.

"They’re more mature," they told you. "Patient. Experienced. They know how to take care of you. They’ll spoil you, treat you like a queen."

Jay was all of those things and more.

He was sweet in that effortless, older-man way, never fumbling or awkward, always knowing the right thing to say, always knowing exactly what you wanted before you even said it. He'd buy you things without you having to ask. Something you liked, something you needed and the next day, it was waiting in your hands like magic. Clothes, jewelry, rides, trips... everything.

He gave you the kind of love that made it easy—too easy—to fall into him. And you did.

He made you feel safe, special. Protected. Like nothing in the world could hurt you as long as you were his. Like you didn’t need to worry about anything anymore.

And little by little, you stopped.

You stopped checking your own schedule because Jay always had plans for both of you. You stopped talking to certain friends—Jay didn’t like them anyway. You stopped doing a lot of little things because he took care of them for you... until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

He became your whole world. And at first, that was intoxicating.

But it started to shift. You didn’t notice it all at once. The control didn’t come like a storm. It came in whispers.

In little comments, like: "You don’t need to go out tonight, stay with me instead." Or: "Why do you even talk to him? You know I don’t like it." Then one day, it was: "Wear this instead, I don’t want other guys looking at you."

And when you pushed back, even gently—just asking questions, wanting to understand—he’d smile that same sweet smile he always had. But it didn’t feel sweet anymore. It felt like warning.

He was still patient. Still spoiled you. Still called you "baby" with that soft voice that once made your stomach flutter.

But, sometimes, it made your skin crawl.

Because when Jay got angry—really angry—it wasn’t loud. It was cold, still and heavy. He didn’t yell. His silence said enough. His glare made your heart skip beats for all the wrong reasons. You forgot how kind he could be in those moments. You only remembered the way your breath caught when you saw the shift in his eyes.

"Love, my friends are planning to visit Indonesia, can I go with them?" 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. You speak without looking up, your fingertips nervously playing with the edge of your sleeve, eyes fixed on Jay as he types away on his laptop across the room. You already know what he's going to say, but you ask anyway—half-hoping for something different this time.

Jay doesn’t stop typing, not at first. The rhythm of the keys continues for a beat too long, the silence between you stretching thin. Then, without looking up, his voice comes out flat. 

"I told you, I’m not comfortable with your friends." Click. Click. "Didn’t one of them have a scandal at some bar? They’re a bad influence."

You flinch, "love, it’s not a scandal," you murmur, careful not to let your tone rise. "She was... she was a victim."

That’s when the keys stop. Just like that, the room feels heavier. His fingers hover above the keyboard.

You dare to glance up and regret it. He’s staring at you now. Not angry. Not yet. But disappointed, which somehow always hurts more. You hate that about yourself, how fast you shrink under his gaze, how quick your heart races when you think you’ve said the wrong thing.

"You always defend them," he says quietly. There’s no yelling, no raised voice, but you feel like you’ve been slapped.

"I’m just saying—" you start, but the words catch. Because what are you saying, really? What are you trying to prove?

He sighs, turns his eyes back to the screen. "I just want what’s best for you. I thought you knew that."

And just like that, the conversation ends. Why did I even ask for permission? That was never your mindset before. You were independent, assertive, unafraid to make your own choices. But somewhere along the way, that changed.

They say it’s normal, even healthy—asking for your partner’s approval. That’s what being in a relationship is, right? Compromise. Communication.

But you feel like you're being held tightly. Not by arms, but by invisible strings that pull every time you try to step too far away. The worst part is you don’t even want to fight it.

You don’t know anymore what’s right, or what’s normal. You just don’t want Jay to look at you like that again. You don’t want to see that shift in his eyes. You don’t want to feel that pit in your stomach, or the shame curling hot in your chest like you’ve done something wrong.

It hurts. Not the kind of hurt that bruises skin but the kind that seeps into your bones, the kind you carry without scars, but never really heal from.

The bed shifts with the familiar creak of weight settling beside you. The mattress dips, and even before he says a word, your body responds on instinct.

You turn toward him immediately, almost reflexively, slipping your arms around his waist and pressing your head against his chest. It’s automatic now, seeking his warmth, his presence. As if holding him tight enough could make everything feel okay again.

Jay’s hand finds your back, slow and soothing, running a few gentle strokes over your spine before settling there. The steady thump of his heart under your ear should feel comforting, but instead it leaves your chest heavy. You breathe in the clean, cool scent of his cologne. Familiar. Inescapable.

“We can go to Indonesia,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “Just the two of us, hm? What do you think?”

He presses a kiss to your forehead like a peace offering. You nod against him, almost automatically, the motion small and quiet.

It’s not what you wanted. But it’s something. And it’s him. That’s enough. Isn’t it? 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, not sure if you’re apologizing for asking, or for pushing, or just for being difficult. You feel him pull you in tighter, his arms wrapping around you.

“It’s okay. I understand,” he says, his voice calm.

Your eyes sting, warmth welling up. You bite your lip, holding the tears back even though you know he can probably feel it—your breathing, just a little uneven now. You blink quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the dampness gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re not sure what hurts more, that he does understand, or that he never really had to.

You nestle closer into his chest, burying yourself in him. You feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the weight of his hand pressing gently against your back.

This moment is love. You’re lucky, so lucky, to have someone like Jay. That’s what everyone says.

A man who takes care of you, who thinks ahead, who plans things for you because he knows what’s best. A man who holds you at night, whispers apologies even when you feel like you were the one who did something wrong. A man who spoils you without asking, who says “I understand” even when you don’t deserve it.

He always knows how to bring it back to this. Where guilt fades into gratitude. Where you start to believe that maybe you are overreacting, maybe you are too sensitive, too quick to doubt someone who’s only trying to love you the right way.

Jay never yells. Never hits. He doesn't need to. He just speaks softly, slowly. He makes you feel like the bad decisions you make are your own—even when they were never really yours to begin with.

He listens, and then he corrects, but always gently, always with a calmness that makes you feel childish for pushing back. And every time you hesitate, he meets you with patience… and just enough disappointment to make your stomach twist with shame.

He gives you so much, how could you question him?

You remember the way he brought you your favorite drink after you got upset. The time he booked that surprise weekend trip just because you were stressed. The necklace you wear every day—he noticed you admiring it once and had it delivered within a week. He always comes back with something better. Something to make you forget the argument. Something to remind you that he's still the one holding everything together.

So maybe you were wrong about Indonesia. Maybe it’s selfish to want something he doesn't feel good about. Maybe you’re asking for too much.

Jay is the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.  

That’s what you remind yourself, even when everything feels complicated. He’s perfect. Handsome in that effortless, masculine way, with a sharp jawline and steady eyes that seem to see right through you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of body that makes you feel small when he wraps around you. Safe.

He knows exactly how to touch you, how to take you apart and put you back together like you were made for his hands. There’s no awkward fumbling, no hesitations. He takes, and you give—because giving to Jay feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s expected. Like it’s right.

"J-Jay!" you gasp, your voice breaking as his pelvis slams into you from behind, every thrust hitting deep. Your breath catches as his grip tightens around your wrists, pulling your arms behind your back.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmurs between thrusts, filled with that dangerous softness he always uses when he wants you to feel safe while giving in. “Only mine. Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” you cry out, the words tumbling past your lips before you even think. Your hips instinctively roll back into him, body desperate to meet every stroke. Your own moans betray you, building with the wet slap of skin and the sound of his breath unraveling behind you.

“Wanna keep you to myself—fuck,” Jay growls, his grip flexing around your wrists as your walls tighten around him. “You’re too beautiful. Everybody wants my girl.”

You feel him shudder, throwing his head back, a moan tearing from his throat as he sinks deeper, harder, the pace growing erratic. His words come broken now, laced with raw possession.

“You’re mine… mine… mine… fuck—mine.”

Your whines rise with him, high and trembling, legs shaking beneath the weight of his rhythm. He’s hitting every spot  like he owns them—because in his mind, he does.

Jay always knows what you need before you do. He knows when to be soft, when to be rough. When to pull you close, and when to make you beg. 

He releases one of your wrists, only to slide his hand down your front, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your legs nearly give out the moment he touches you. His fingers circle it with cruel expertise, pulling out helpless gasps as your body responds.

“See how good I treat you?” he breathes against your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “No one else can fuck you like this. No one else gets to.”

You moan in response, pushing your hips back to meet the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. Your ass collides with him, each impact echoing in the room. He growls low in his chest, gripping your hips, dragging you back onto him with a force that leaves you breathless.

“I’m gonna fill you with my cum,” Jay hisses. “Gonna make you pregnant, baby. Everyone will know who you belong to.”

Your moans break into sharp cries as the pleasure burns through your veins, white-hot and endless. Every stroke of his cock drives deeper, rougher, shaking what little strength you have left. Your body can't hold itself up anymore—your arms collapse beneath you, face pressed into the sheets as he continues his assault from behind.

“I love you,” Jay groans, his voice fraying into a broken moan. “I love you, I love you, I fucking love you—”

Something inside you snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking loose after too long held back. It’s overwhelming, violent in its depth, unstoppable in its force. Your body tightens around him as pleasure detonates from your core, spreading outward in pulsing waves that steal your breath and leave you crying out his name.

Your hands claw at the sheets beneath you, your back arching as every nerve lights up, every muscle trembling beneath the pressure of his thrusts. It’s like falling and flying at the same time, the intensity of it burning behind your eyes, blinding everything else.

All you can hear is his voice—those words repeating, claiming you. I love you. I love you. I fucking love you.

You’re still trembling as he keeps going, chasing his own end, using your limp, pleasure-drunk body. “Yours,” you whisper, the word broken and breathless into the sheets. “I’m yours, Jay…”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a sob, thrusting harder, deeper, messier now. And you can feel it coming—his climax, the one he’s been holding off for you, the one he’s about to give with everything he has.

Even with your limbs trembling, your body still oversensitized and wrecked from your own release, you shift your hips to meet him, chasing his rhythm. Moaning, shakily, as the pleasure blooms again when you feel him release inside you.

A broken curse falls from his lips, and then he’s spilling into you, his entire body seizing with it.

Every pulse inside you is another claim, another mark, another reminder that you belong to him.

“I love you,” he whispers. His breath is hot against your skin, each word punctuated with a kiss pressed to the curve of your neck.

He stays inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, skin slick with sweat and warmth. You feel the full weight of him, one of his hands slides up, fingers threading gently through your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to press a kiss to your nape. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

And when he finally presses his lips to yours, it’s a ghost of a touch. A silent apology.

He whisper, again, I love you, buried in your hair now. Oh, how it feels so good.

To be wanted like this. To be needed this much. To be held so tightly that you forget what it was like to ever stand on your own.

Because in Jay’s arms, even when everything else fades, even when you’re lost in the dark—It always feels like home.

[hittmeandtellmeyouremine]

puddin!reader being a crybaby on her period?

pairing: puddin!reader x older!rafe

warnings: mdni, lottie do not read, mainly fluff but suggestive content, ddlg themes, use of 'daddy'.

word count: 700+ words

a/n: cel finally sticking to just a blurb??? btw i fear this is just me on my period...

tags: @athaliahxoxo

rafe was met with cries bouncing off the walls as he came through the front door, dropping the bags in hand to look for you immediately.

"puddin'?" he calls out, making his way upstairs to find you on the floor of the bathroom sobbing. your legs were folded beneath you, head tilted up as the tears flowed down your cheeks.

"baby, what's wrong?" he asks, crouching down in front of you.

he grabbed your arm, looking over you with a worried expression and checking for any sort of injuries you could've had.

"you left me" you sob, throwing your arms around him.

your words caught him off guard but he wrapped his arms around you, hand rubbing your back gently.

"puddin', i asked you if you wanted to come and you told me no" he says softly.

"but you didn't say you wanted me to go with you" you wail, burying your face in his chest.

it was the second day of your menstrual cycle, which was arguable the worst. your flow was at its heaviest, cramps riddled your body with discomfort, and you were emotional as ever.

you had thrown a fit earlier about there not being any good snacks in the house; nothing chocolate, nothing sweet, nothing savory, nothing you wanted. the subtle complaints turned into cries, rafe finding you on the kitchen floor in tears over the matter.

so, like the good fath-... lover he was, he offered to go get you all the snacks your bleeding heart desired. he even sat with you at the breakfast bar while you made a list of everything you wanted him to pick up—which was damn near the entire store.

he asked if you wanted to come with, just in case you saw something that you didn't think of, but you declined. you actually told him you'd rather die than leave the house in your state—he widened his eyes and slowly nodded at that.

he also figured maybe you wanted your space from him because you usually did during this time. one minute you were all over him and the next his presence made you want to hurl. he concluded the latter had been long forgotten by this point.

"i'm sorry, puddin'" he soothes, hand brushing over your hair. "daddy shouldn't have left you all by yourself"

you nodded against his chest, continuing to sob into it. he knew you weren't really upset over that, not genuinely. your hormones were just so out of wack that any little thing was setting you off. it was best to just comfort you and let you get it out of your system.

"shh, it's okay. daddy's got you" he cooed, holding you close and littering kisses on your head until you finally calmed down.

"come on, let's get some food in you, yeah?" he asks, looking down at you.

you nod weakly. with that he helps you up from the floor, taking your hand in his and guiding you downstairs. he sets everything he purchased on the counter, pressing behind you as your eyes trail over the items.

rafe cooks your favorite, something you hadn't even thought of when making the list. rafe did though, because he knew you better than you knew yourself. you're pressed either into his side or against him the whole time he cooks.

when he finally finishes, he sits you on his lap and feeds it to you, knowing you wouldn't even bother touching the fork yourself. and since he knows you so well, he knew you would crave something sweet after.

he had gotten you an array of various sweets; ice cream, brownies, cakes, and candies. he gave you ice cream though, for now, mumbling something about making you brownies later in the night.

he watched you swirl your tongue around the cone, eyes glued to the living room television that was playing. his thoughts drift as he watches you, but he keeps them tucked away.

"that's my pretty girl, all better now?" he asks.

you give him a nod, settling back against his chest contently.

rafe didn't leave your side for the rest of the week. he fulfilled your every request and even when you briefly declared you wanted your space from him, he was never too far. he even canceled all his work meetings, saying he had "family things" to take care of.

anything to keep his puddin' happy.

-

[izzih22]

you should definitely do a fic of pazzi of when they get into a heated argument (slamming doors , screaming 😼) then one of them ignore or give the other silent treatment for like a day or two. then like they make up and js cute fluff ! I rlly hope that makes sense and you see the vision ykyk😛

The Worst Way to Love You

Note: I hope I got it right also here y’all go stay active pleas and thank you

They’ve been together for years—since high school, since long-distance flights and FaceTimes that lasted until sunrise. They know each other better than they know themselves.

Which is why it hurts so much when they fight.

Because no one else can cut you open like the person who’s memorized every piece of you.

⸻

Thursday, 9:12 p.m. – UConn Dorms

Azzi’s sitting on the edge of their bed, back straight, jaw clenched, arms crossed over her chest. She’s been trying to stay calm. She’s always the calm one.

Paige is standing with her arms thrown up in exasperation, pacing.

“So now I’m selfish? That’s what we’re doing?” Paige’s voice is sharp, edged in disbelief.

“I didn’t say selfish,” Azzi replies, controlled but cold. “I said inconsiderate.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“No, it’s not. It means you don’t think about how your actions affect other people—me. You just do what you want, and I’m left trying to adjust around you.”

Paige’s eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is always being the one who bends!” Azzi fires back, louder now, standing. “I rearranged everything this week so I could be there for your appointment and then you just… bailed. No text. No call. Nothing.”

Paige runs a hand through her hair, jaw tight. “I forgot! I had weights, and then Geno pulled me for film, and—”

“You forgot?” Azzi repeats. “That’s your excuse?”

Paige’s hands drop to her sides. “I’m not perfect, Az.”

Azzi laughs without humor. “I never asked you to be. I just want to matter enough that you remember I exist outside of practice.”

There it is.

The sentence that slices Paige straight down the middle.

“You know you matter to me,” she says, quieter now, but it’s sharp, desperate. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you’re just some afterthought—”

“Then why do I always feel like I come last?”

The silence that falls is suffocating.

And Paige—Paige who’s always so quick with words, with fire—says nothing.

Azzi’s eyes are glassy now, but she doesn’t cry. Not yet. “You get to be everything for everyone. The leader, the hero, the player who carries us. But I’m the one who’s always here when you burn out. And I don’t mind—I love you—but it gets lonely when the only time you need me is when you’re falling apart.”

Paige’s voice is barely a whisper. “That’s not true.”

But Azzi just nods once. “Okay.”

And walks into the bathroom. Closes the door.

Paige stares at it.

And then turns around, walks to the front door, and leaves.

⸻

Friday Morning – Silent

They don’t speak.

Azzi makes tea for herself. No extra mug.

Paige comes back after class and doesn’t even change in their room.

They go to practice and Paige leads warmups like nothing’s wrong—voice loud, encouragement booming—but no one misses how she doesn’t look at Azzi once.

Azzi doesn’t flinch when Geno yells at her. Doesn’t smile when Ice makes a joke. She’s locked in. Focused.

But not with Paige. Not beside her, like always.

The team doesn’t ask. But Morgan mutters to Aubrey, “They’re too synced. When something’s off, it messes with the whole vibe.”

Aubrey hums. “It’s like the moon fighting the sun.”

⸻

Friday Night – 11:38 p.m.

Paige is curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over her head, scrolling through old photos.

Her finger pauses on one: Azzi asleep in Paige’s hoodie, curled against her chest in a hotel room during their sophomore year. Paige remembers the way Azzi had mumbled “I love you” in her sleep.

She presses the screen to her chest, eyes wet.

She wants to say she’s sorry.

But they’ve been here before—where love feels like too much and not enough all at once. Where they push because they’re scared. Where they hurt each other, not out of hate, but because they love so hard and don’t always know what to do with it.

⸻

Saturday – All Day

They don’t text. They don’t fight. They don’t speak.

It’s worse than yelling.

Paige doesn’t sleep. Azzi doesn’t eat.

KK walks into the locker room after a solo shootaround and sees Paige staring at the floor, earbuds in but no music playing.

“She’s not okay,” KK says later.

Ice snorts. “You think?”

⸻

Saturday Night – 10:01 p.m.

Azzi walks into the room after dinner with her mom. She pauses in the doorway.

Paige is sitting on the bed—her bed—knees pulled to her chest.

She looks up.

Azzi doesn’t move.

And then Paige’s voice cracks. “I didn’t forget because I didn’t care. I forgot because everything’s moving so fast and I’m overwhelmed and I didn’t want to ask you to carry more of my weight.”

Azzi says nothing.

So Paige keeps going.

“I let everyone down if I drop the ball. Geno. The team. The program. I can’t let them see me slip. But with you… I don’t want you to see me like that either.”

Now Azzi steps in.

“But I already have. I know you like that, Paige. Messy. Tired. Stubborn. You’re not too much for me. You never have been.”

Paige’s eyes fill. “I just didn’t want to keep being the one who needs. I want to show up for you, too.”

Azzi kneels in front of her, hands on Paige’s knees. “Then let me in before you fall. Not after.”

There’s a pause.

And then Paige folds.

She slides down, presses her forehead to Azzi’s shoulder, and breaks.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

“I missed you too.”

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back.”

Azzi wraps her arms around her tightly. “There’s nowhere else I’d go.”

⸻

Later

They’re tangled in bed, Paige clinging to Azzi like her anchor. Azzi strokes her back, slow and soothing.

“I said some stuff I didn’t mean,” Paige whispers. “About not needing you.”

Azzi kisses her temple. “I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s why I didn’t leave.”

“You’re the only thing that makes all the pressure worth it.”

Azzi smiles against her hair. “You’re not a burden, Paige. You’re mine.”

Paige sniffles. “Even when I’m a disaster?”

“Especially then.”

⸻

Sunday – Practice

They’re back to moving as one.

Paige’s energy is electric. Azzi’s calm cuts through it like a blade. And when Geno calls a timeout, he mutters to KK, “Looks like the wives made up.”

KK grins. “Balance restored.”

Paige and Azzi fist-bump after a perfect backdoor cut.

And maybe Paige kisses Azzi in the tunnel when no one’s looking.

But that’s just between them.

[monicfever]

ben poindexter as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean he’s a murderer so

BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.

he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”

he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.

ben does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.

he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.

he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.

always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.

his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.

can’t sleep unless he’s touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.

keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”

loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.

likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s you alive.

plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”

notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.

he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.

your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).

he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.

he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s so good at hiding just how deep it runs.

he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.

he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.

he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft — a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.

he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.

his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.

he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”

can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.

refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.

has ‘rules’ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it — he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.

saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when he’s spiraling.

he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.

gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.

but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.

has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.

“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s glad you dreamed him.

collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.

panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.

his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.

he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.

gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.

gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”

clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.

keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.

memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.

he’s watching everyone — every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.

texts you “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)

calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.

won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”

he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.

takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.

he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.

he’ll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist — and behind his eyes, he’s already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.

he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.

he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you — he’s the most focused man alive.

stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.

doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.

loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside he’s screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.

he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”

gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.

has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.

so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”

doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.

knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.

obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.

he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”

and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.

he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”

he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

WEEPING WILLOW

summary: alternative universe where die young reader lived and actually met her siblings yet still she meets her end even in another universe.

Time never stops, nor does the world yet, whenever I peer back at your picture name , I feel like time has for you. You still look youthful , still vibrant as if the world's cruelties haven't touched you yet. Haven't gutted you out and left you for nothing.

For the first time in twelve years, I visited that tree you were so insistent on seeing that day . It's an old willow that overlooks a sea - straight out of a picture book like the ones you always read before you sleep.

Home doesn't feel like home anymore name , not without you here anymore . It feels empty and cold without you. Big brother Dick has yet to visit Gotham , his last visit was your own funeral.

Your other older brother Jason started getting violent again every patrol , he beats up criminals so bloody they practically flee. Tim hasn't said much , he's been so quiet, and he just floats around now . Damian took your death the hardest .

He sleeps in your bed every night , wailing to himself about it. Barbra and Stephanie are trying to keep the family afloat, but they know deep down we're cracking. Duke stopped playing hockey - he says it feels so wrong to not when your not there to throw the puck back at him.

Alfred started back drinking and smoking - we hear him in dead of night sobbing and pleading for you to come back home. Bruce stopped living - he barely eats , sleeps , he barely does anything . Every day, he visits your grave , flowers in hand, and just wails about everything.

Again, the willow tree on that hill just sways to the beat of the calm breeze , as if time doesn't affect it. No one would ever understand why on that Sunday you went to that willow tree alone .

No one would understand why you hugged us all so hard before you had set off . No one will ever understand why your body was found laying on the bark of the tree so lifeless and cold .

We will never understand why you choose to go by yourself - why not go with us around you. Uncle Clark told Bruce, " Name was always a kind child , she didn't want you all to have the last memory of her to be sad sad." Your dad punched him in the face - he had argued , " my child didn't have to go through death by herself!" .

We would never know why - it's not like you're here anymore to tell us to comfort us. Long gone with the Friday nights, we all stayed up past 4 A.M. , all ganging up on Bruce and Tim in monopoly, Dick always quick to tackle Tim to the floor because he swears he robbed him of $100.

Gone were the days we'd all make bets if Damian was going to walk in with a new stray to his name and watch him and Bruce go back and forth on it. It feels like yesterday when Barbra , Steph and Cass took you to sephora and convinced you to buy that one overpriced lipstick. It's still sat on your nightstand idly.

Gone were the late nights , Jason and you would have snuck out late to drive around Gotham on his motorbike and stop by Dairy Queen. Gone were the quiet evenings spent with you and Tim building a castle on ya'lls minecraft base.

Gone were the days you and Damian would argue when you would both try to build legoes and would fail miserably . Alfred misses the times where you use to join him in attempting to cook - god knows the evidence of your attempt to fry an egg is still stuck on the ceiling.

Bruce misses your hugs the most - you were the only child he had that actively hugged him, and he missed the way how after patrols you always made him hot chocolate .

Nothing feels right - never will because you're not here . It feels wrong to walk these halls, knowing you would have walked them too . It's weird living knowing you could have been living - breathing along with them.

It feels like no matter what universe we have you in , you always leave, and it always hurts. Why must in every universe you leave us behind ? Why must every other universe does God have to take you away ?

Why must in every universe we always mourn you ? It hurts - it hurts so much to watch your body be covered in soil . No one talks about how you practically hold your breath when you see your loved one go down in that grave as if - by some miracle, they'd open their eyes and jolt out the grave. It sounds so ridiculous, but they'd never get that desperation of wanting that loved one to be alive.

It hurts when we hear about the rumors - the rumors that you killed yourself ? That you went to the willow tree to end your life ? Bruce had practically went raging mad that evening when he got word - that same night, the entire PR team got to work into suing those persons.

Some suspected you got possessed because you had sold your sold your soul off - that's why you hugged us all before you left - you didn't want the demon to follow the family back home. It was a stupid rumor going around in school, and Damian had practically beat the shit out of the senior who started it.

Some said we abused you - that had Alfred cursing them out because how dare they - you were loved in this family and still very much loved even though you are long gone.

No one would know , not even we will - all we know was one Sunday evening . Dinner was being set up when Bruce got a call from Comissioner Gordon , " Two passerbys reported seeing your daughter laid unresponsive atop Willow Hills" .

Bruce dropped everything in that moment and immediately bolted to that willow tree , the others running behind him . He didn't wanna believe it - wants to believe you're just asleep - had just accidentally dozed off and lost track of time because there was no way in hell his 15 year old daughter is dead.

When the others reached him , they just saw him embracing you and crying his heart out . You were long gone , had long passed away without them, and none of them knew how to handle that reality .

We miss you name , please come home , we need you back .

▬▬ Wayne Family

Taglist ▬▬

@itsmossy @sugarrush-blush @shirp-collector-of-fixations @anteroz @cxcilla @shynerdtriumph @amber-content @azulesworld @1abi @crazycaoticsimp

ty for reading <3

[trashcigs]

what breaks them after a break up ・ 엔하이픈 gn reader + word count 1.5k genre angst hurt no comfort cw not proof-read, kissing — more  🕷️

HEESEUNG

it happens a few days after your break up when you send him a text message. it’s the first one in a long time, it’s nothing much just a simple warning that you’ll be coming over to pick up your stuff in the next hour or so. 

he agrees, of course mentioning how he’ll pack it up for you (— i’ll set them outside for you —) he types back. and you send him a simple ok in response. the box stays empty in front of him, his hand gripping onto a a shirt of yours. 

his knuckles turn white. 

he doesn’t know what to do. no, he’s lying. he knows exactly what to do but every being in him is telling him not to. your shirt still smells like you, (he smiles to himself) ofcourse it does. but now the thought of you really leaving him seems all too real. 

heeseung shoves the shirt into the box with care — he refuses to rumple it. so he grabs another one, and folds it before shoving into the bottom of the box. and then again, and again, and again. 

now losing you feels all too real, everytime he puts another item into the box heeseung loses apart of himself. he hates this. he hates himself even more. 

eventually he stops, he can't bare to look at your clothes again or anything reminding you for that matter. his head rests against the edge of the bed, the rest of his body leaning into the frame.

thoughts run to his head, of what if's and words falling and being thrown and — he didn't meaning. heeseung didn't mean to say it was over, didn't mean to say all those words but he did. the box stays half empty or half full, he's unsure about everything. he want's to apologise but he knows you made up your mind but he wants to tell you wants to beg in front of you and—

the doorbell rings. you're here. 

JAY

it happens when he and his friends go out for dinner, bottles lined up and empty. music roaring in his ears, laughter even louder. he constantly tells himself that he'll only drink a little, that he needs to be sobber enough to get himself home.

but instead he finds himself stumbling to your apartment building, like muscle memory. jay knows he isn't in the right mind -- he knows its not the perfect excuse, that he's drunk and just needs to find a place to stay but he does it anyway, his feet dragging him otherwise.

so he sits on the curb and stays there, swaying back and forth and forth and back and biting his tongue and staring at the ground while he waits. waiting for you to approach him, to speak to him to ask him whats wrong.

and he knows you well and stays hopeful, that he'll catch a glimspe of you before leaving. and you do, ofcourse you do. coat wrapped snuggly around you and a plastic bag in a hand, as you quickly walk up to the man.

("jay?" you crouch down to see his face, his cheek and nose a deep shade of red and tears making everything all too blurry. he begins to doubt that anything is real.)

your voice is soft and comforting that in an instant. he cries. because that's what really breaks him. the fact that youre still concerned, the fact that you still care. the fact that he hurt you and you didn't even slam the door in his face, you didn't hate him enough to do it.

jay wipes the tears spilling down his cheeks, though the choked sobs escaping his lips do little to hide the fact that he got so emotional. jay the prideful, jay the strong is still love sick jay who still craves your warmth

and when you pull him into half a hug, where his head rests comfortably on your chest while he sobs — he wishes, oh how he wishes this'll last a little longer.

JAKE

It happens when he returns home from practice, tired and sweaty and all he can think about is being wrapped in your arms. 

he shoves the key into its hole and, turning and twisting it until it clicks. his hands holding a bouquet of your favourite flowers. 

jake is excited, too excited. hes kicking off the shoes from his feet and yanking his coat from his shoulders. he almost yells out, “I'm home!” in his deep accent, dimples on display. 

but it gets stuck in his throat, your shoes aren't where there supposed to be. they aren't anywhere at all — they aren't at the doorstep and your coat isn't in the closet. your keys aren't hung anywhere and your perfume is gone and— 

oh. it comes back to him like a wave. oh. he gives himself a pathetic laugh, a dry half cough half sigh. his lips quivering at a silly promise the two of you made.

that he'd always return to your arms, and into a house that's full and lived and loved , with you in it.

but now its empty and cold and jake doesn't know what to do anymore. he lets out a shaky breath as layla senses his return, but even she doesn't bark with all her excitement anymore. tears cloud his vision as he stumbles onto the ground, resting himself against the cold metal of the door.

the flowers lay flush against the man's chest, arms holding it tight afraid to let go. sobs echo through the room, he won't let go. he can't — the very last of you.

SUNGHOON

sunghoon stares blankly at the trashcan at his feet and, then up at the fridge in front of him. and he doesn't know what to do.

pictures of the two of you together, has him spiralling. the fact that you're still smiling in all of them makes him feel sick.

it happens when he's cleaning up after, trying to get rid of anything and everything that reminds him of you. so he starts in the kitchen, the sticky notes plastered all over the fridge with phrases that tug his heart the wrong way, (soft i love you's and reminders)

the easiest thing to do (ofcourse), would be to throw it out. it happens when he's forced to look back at the past of what you were and think about what you could've been.

he finds himself furiously trying to wipe the tears spilling from his eyes, but to no avail. he grabs a photo, the one at the top left, the one taken at a photobooth. where your hands pull his head closer to your lips til you finally place a soft chaste (mwah!) onto his cheek.

but the photo feels dull. it taunts him. he wants to rip it. he wants to get rid of it, he wants to crumble it and throw it away. but he can't — he can't get himself to.

so the trashcan is still empty at his feet and the fridge still full. sunghoon doesn't know what to do -- he doesn't want to let you go, not yet. it makes everything all too real.

SUNOO

It happens at a convenience store, when hes working late hours and tending to the drunk man that doesn't know how to leave him alone. he practices in his head, more times than he can count — about ways to really give it to you, when he does get the chance. he lazily punches the numbers into the cash register, brows scowling as he rehearsed, again. 

sunoo has been doing everything and all that he can to keep himself busy, his apartment too large and too empty all of a sudden. jungwon no longer provides him the emotional support that was supposed to be guaranteed within the friendship (a pact — we made a pact)

everything made him feel sick — his shirt was too tight, his vest clung everywhere it wasn't supposed to, the fluorescent light flickering above him, the smile you gave when you told him that you were breaking up with him — sick. 

sunoo was going to give it to you, he promised himself. he'd tell you how much he hates you and how you're a terrible person, and tell you all the things he could've, would've said if you were together.

he'd ask why and what he did wrong and— 

the bell rings and he says his usual welcome in his customer service voice, until he sees who it is. the voice trails off and he sees you. sunoo finally sees you. 

you seem to be doing great, he notes to himself. your hair is all nicely done, your shoes look brand new and your look.. pretty. he watches you pass throught the aisles, bending and turning to catch a glimpse of you.  time seemed to be slowing when you were around. 

you finally walk up and he— (“im sorry,” he ends up saying eventually. “It was really stupid of me to and i didn’t mean what i–” you cut him off. “How much is it.” 

he blinks. what. you repeat it again, much firmer this time rummaging through your bag. sunoo opens his mouth to speak — “sorry sir, I really need to go. how much is it?” 

sunoo feels the lump in his throat, the sting behind his eyes, his lips quivering into a cry. He swallows the apology. “Your total is twelve dollars fifty three cents, cash or card?”

JUNGWON

he can’t hear anything over the roaring of his ears. the sound of his friends laughter filling the air and the bass of the music playing from the karaoke machine thrumming his bones. his drunken frising yet another song, jungwon fixes his position against the corner of the couch 

jake had ask him if he could retrieve a photo of him ( –’sure’, he answers). the phone light illuminates his face, he is quiet for the most part. Scrolling through your messages to retrieve an old message of himself. 

he tells himself that he’ll block you once he finds the photos, that he’ll be done with you once he gets those goodman photos back but every message he sees youve sent laced with love only causes a  lump in his throat 

jungwon is biting back every urge to cry. he doesn’t like this – he hates this, but his thumb only seems to scroll slower. he takes in everything, the way you write, the emojis, the pet names, the selfies, the “this reminds me of you” – (everything reminds him of you now). 

tears cloud his eyes, as he scrolls faster to find the images. he seems to completely miss the response to his desperate message for you to comeback.

NIKI

its when his friends ask when you were going to come over and hang out. "she's busy," he lies, the corners of his lips pulling into a thin line. niki smiles, playing with the hem of his shirt.

he has nothing better to do, so he lies. he lies that you're still together, that you still have pizza nights and hangouts. he lies that you're hanging out with friends or busy with work. he lies that you're still in love with him. but they know better, niki's friends know he's lying. they mask their pity with laughs and chortles but they know niki lis lying.

background noises turn to distant humming and niki is left toying the tab of his half empty soda can. he swallows hard, looking down at his phone that illuminated his face and made his features much clearer. niki doesn't want to admit that you guys broke up, that you left him and that he let you go. one hand runs through his hair, trying -- desperately trying to pull up your phone number. a string of silent pleas leaves his chapped lips.

it simply becomes a blur, the break up but he remembers raising his voice and he remembers yours yelling back and he remembers and remembers and the more he does the more he finds himself pulling his hair, lips quivering and etars falling.

he's left to voicemail, a "this phone number isn't available right now." and he finds himself shaking as he tries again and again... and again. he muffles his sobs with his knuckles, teeth sinking into his skin. surprisingly, it hurts less.

it comes to him in heartbeats, he feels his heart sink as he calls again. the ache that becomes a reality, the terrifying realization that you might really really be gone for good.

and that no matter how many times he'd tell everyone "they're busy," you're never coming back. and niki's not ready to accept that.

notebook I hope I wrote them accurately!!!

taglist open ⁉️ .....

[writesvani]

down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

[himasgod]

Some twisted wonderland character comforts us when we broke down because we want to go back to our home ( separated) but it was no way back home

( if so can you make one with Jamil? )

ACE AND DEUCE AND JAMIL X READER

Where they comfort you when you miss home

How would the boys act when they find you crying because you know there's probably no way home?

The stars in Twisted Wonderland weren’t the same.

They were too blue. Too distant. Too still.

Back home, you remembered lying on your roof during summer nights, watching airplanes blink past, hearing distant traffic and dogs barking in backyards.

Here… all you could hear was wind. A different wind. One that felt like it didn’t belong to your lungs, like it didn’t know you.

You were used to pretending, smiling like things were okay. You had magic to study, housewarden rules to follow, ghosts to wrangle. But tonight… it cracked.

You sat on the crumbling steps of Ramshackle, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists, knees drawn up to your chest. The sky blurred above you because of the tears you’d been holding back for months, now spilling down with no resistance.

You missed everything.

The feel of your own bed. Your mom’s voice. The dumb jingles from your favorite shows. The smell of your old laundry detergent. Even the mundane fights with classmates.

There was no way home.

Crowley said it over and over, he was trying to find it.

But now it felt real. You were trapped.

Like the story had been closed, and you were the only character left behind in the wrong book.

You didn’t notice when someone walked up the path to Ramshackle.

You didn’t hear the footsteps on the gravel.

“…Yo,” came a voice—too casual for the quiet night. “Did you forget what time it is? You’re gonna catch a cold out here like that.”

You blinked hard and looked up.

Ace stood a few steps away, jacket slung over one shoulder, a paper bag in his other hand.

Behind him was Deuce, fidgeting with something behind his back, expression hesitant but worried.

“…We brought you dinner. Er… late dinner,” Deuce said softly. “You weren’t in the cafeteria today.”

You tried to wipe your face quickly, but it was obvious.

“…Oh. I—I wasn’t really hungry,” you whispered, your voice cracking halfway through.

Ace dropped his bag next to you and sighed, crouching down to your level. He didn’t immediately say anything, just stared at your blotchy teary face

“Okay. Out with it. You’re too crap at hiding stuff.”

Deuce sat on the other side, carefully putting down a warm container of food next to you. It smelled like miso soup—maybe something Sam sold them.

You shook your head. “It’s dumb. I’m just… being stupid. Sorry.”

“Don't do that,” Deuce said, his tone suddenly firmer.

“You don’t have to say sorry. Not to us.”

Ace leaned his elbows on his knees, lips twitching.

“You seriously think we haven’t noticed you spacing out lately? Every time someone says something about ‘home’ or ‘parents’ you get that far-off look like someone hit you with a sad spell.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda,” Ace said.

“But we didn’t wanna push. Thought maybe you’d talk when you were ready.”

You swallowed hard.

“I just… I want to go back. To where I belong. I don’t want to stay here forever. I want to be home, and there's no mirror, no spell, no nothing that can fix that. Crowley keeps pretending he’s looking but we all know he’s not really doing anything. It feels like I’m slowly being erased from my own world…”

Your throat clenched as your voice wavered.

“And I’m scared I’ll forget what my mom’s laugh sounds like.”

That was when the silence fell heavy.

Deuce looked down, fists clenched. He finally said, quietly.

“I’d be scared too.”

Ace was still. His normal sarcasm was gone.

“…That sucks,” he muttered, honest for once. “That really, really sucks.”

You let out a sob you didn’t know you were holding.

Without a word, Ace scooted closer and dropped his head against your shoulder.

“I’m not gonna tell you everything’s gonna be okay, ‘cause that’d be a load of bull. But…”

He reached over and flicked your forehead—light, just enough to be annoying.

“If you cry without telling us, I’m gonna be mad. Seriously.”

“Same,” Deuce added, resting his head in your other shoulder, more gently.

“You’re not alone, okay? You’ve got us.”

You looked between them, sniffing.

“Why… why do you two care so much?”

“Because we’re friends, dummy,” Ace said immediately, almost insulted.

“You’re our weird, stubborn, always-in-danger-because-you-have-zero-self-preservation-and-you-need-to-help-every-fucking-body friend. What kind of guys would we be if we didn’t have your back?”

Deuce smiled a little.

“And because you’ve helped us a lot too. You were there when we messed up. It’s our turn now.”

You covered your eyes with your sleeves again.

“…Thanks. Both of you.”

They didn’t push more.

Ace leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, and started complaining about how cold the steps were and how he should have brought a chair.

Deuce stayed beside you, occasionally handing you tissues from his uniform pocket.

At some point, you ate the soup.

It wasn’t your mom’s cooking, but it was warm, and it tasted like comfort.

And when you finally stood up, heart heavy but a little less cracked, Ace grinned and nudged your shoulder.

“Still stuck here with us losers, huh? Guess that means we better keep you around.”

Deuce laughed.

“And maybe… someday, there’ll be a way back. But until then… we’ll make this place feel a little more like home.”

And for the first time in a long while, you believed them.

You weren't supposed to be here.

The lounge of Scarabia in night wasn't exactly forbidden, but it was hardly a place students went after hours.

It was quiet. Isolated. Uncomfortable, even, with the cold stone beneath you and the wind tugging at your sleeves. But maybe that discomfort was comforting in its own way. Tangible. Something you could feel while everything else felt so...

Detached.

The sky above was foreign—unfamiliar stars scattered in constellations you didn't recognize, a moon that looked the same but felt completely different.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, pulling your knees to your chest, and stared into the distance.

"I want to go home," you murmured. The words felt like a betrayal.

Saying them out loud made them heavier.

You hadn’t heard the voice behind you.

"Then why are you here, instead of asking Crowley for the thousandth time to send you back?"

The voice was dry, even. Unmistakable.

You turned slowly. Jamil, arms crossed. His gaze was sharp as always, but there was no mockery in his expression.

Only... observation. Careful, measured.

"I didn't think anyone would notice I was gone," you said, managing a weak smile. "Let alone come looking."

Jamil stepped into. He didn't respond right away. Instead, he glanced up at the sky.

"Grim noticed. You left your bag behind, and he was tearing apart the hallway like you'd disappeared into thin air."

You huffed a bitter laugh. "Well, that would be on-brand for this world, wouldn't it?"

He didn’t laugh.

He just moved to stand beside you, the silence stretching long. The wind tugged at his braids.

"You want to go home," he said again, quieter this time.

You didn't answer.

"You're not the first person who wanted to leave this place," he continued. "And you won't be the last."

"You sound like you know what it feels like," you said.

Jamil sat down beside you, back straight even as he lowered himself. He rested his arms loosely on his knees, his fingers laced together. Always in control. Always composed.

"I used to think I could escape too. That one day, I'd walk away from Scarabia. From Kalim. From... all of it."

You glanced sideways. "What stopped you?"

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Reality."

That one word hit harder than anything else had.

He continued, gaze fixed on the sky.

"No one ever asked me if I wanted to serve the Al-Asim family. No one ever asked me what I wanted. They just assumed. And when you're trained your whole life to be useful, your desires become irrelevant."

His words should have sounded bitter. But they didn’t. They were too matter-of-fact for that.

"And now?" you asked.

"Now? I play the part. Because if I don’t, someone else will write the ending for me."

Your throat tightened.

"I'm sorry."

Jamil looked at you finally, and for a moment, his eyes softened.

"You don’t need to be. You’re not the reason things are the way they are."

The silence returned. But this time, it was gentler. Less suffocating.

"I miss them," you whispered.

"My family. My friends. I miss the smell of my house. The taste of my grandma's food. I miss sunsets I recognize. I miss waking up and knowing where I am."

Jamil didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He let you speak.

"And sometimes I feel like... if I let myself forget even one thing, it means I'm giving up. That I'm letting this place win."

Your voice cracked.

"I forgot the password on my old phone. I forgot the tune my sister always sang when she came home from school. I briefly forgot my dog's birthday."

"I'm tired, Jamil. I'm so tired."

He didn’t reach for you. That wasn’t his way

He leaned a little closer. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Just barely.

"Then rest. Just for tonight."

You looked at him, eyes stinging. "I don’t know how."

His expression didn’t change. But he said, softly:

"Then let me keep watch while you figure it out."

A lump formed in your throat. You turned your head away, but not before he saw it.

"You don’t have to be strong every second of every day," he continued. "I know what it’s like to keep everything inside until it eats you alive. I won’t let that happen to you."

He said it like a promise. Quiet. Fierce.

You wiped your eyes with your sleeve and leaned into him a little more. He didn’t move away.

"We’re both trapped, aren’t we?"

"Maybe," he murmured. "But under the same sky. Under the same stars."

You sat there together, under constellations neither of you recognized, listening to the wind.

And when your head gradually rested against his shoulder, and his warmth settled around you like a shield, you felt him shift just enough to let it happen.

He didn’t speak again, but you felt the faintest brush of his fingers as they hovered near yours doing constellation figures—hesitating, uncertain.

And then, softly, he intertwined them with yours.

The night didn't feel quite so cold.

[dizzydaisychains]

ℭ𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔬

⋆｡°✩ pairing: sylus x reader

⋆｡°✩ word count: 10k

⋆｡°✩ summary: because sometimes, love grows quietly; thorns and all (or alternatively: eight times sylus falls in love, and one time he actually says it out loud.

⋆｡°✩ ao3 link (if you would like to read it on there instead): https://archiveofourown.org/works/64993741

I.

It starts on a Tuesday. 

And really, Sylus should have seen it coming from a mile away, should have taken note of the flashing neon signs that his brain had been setting up for him ever since he found you again, but like most trivial things, he’s chosen to ignore it for the time being. Ignorance is bliss after all, but now, in this current situation, he’s beginning to wonder if it’s too late to run. 

Because it’s 2am on a Tuesday night, and instead of cleaning up a job gone wrong or dusting his vinyl collection for the nth time, he’s lying in the grass in a field outside Linkon city, your head on his chest as both of you stare up at the glittering constellations spread over the night sky. 

And no matter how hard he tries to concentrate on Cassiopeia or Orion, all he can think about is all the ways he can get you to stay here a little longer. 

It’s like the first sign of sunshine after a particularly long winter, or the feeling of falling into bed after a long day. Being with you has made all those years of solitude worth it, has given his life purpose when he had slowly been sinking into eternal ennui, yet, for some reason, he can’t find the words to tell you this. Words usually come easy to him. Striking a deal, manipulating a soul; he’s mastered the art of conversation in every shape and form, but when it comes to you, he finds that most of his words aren’t enough.

On top of that, there’s also the fact that your current relationship is delicate. His abysmal attempts of getting you to remember him had only ended up earning him your resentment. Since then, he has vowed to never let that happen again, but this slow pace is burning him alive. Are you two even dating? Everything is vague, yet nothing feels as clear as this; him holding you in his arms as you both pick apart the stars, trying to make sense of why they burn and how long it would take to reach one.

“Sylus?”

Your voice lulls Sylus out of his thoughts, his eyes landing on your soft gaze. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Sylus shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

He tries to ignore the look you give him as you reach out and trace the crinkle between the bridge of his nose and his forehead. 

“Liar. I can see your frown lines. You’re worried about something.”

Sylus scoffs. “I never worry, Kitten. I’m too powerful for that.” 

“Oh really? Then what about that time you thought you scratched your favourite vinyl? Or the time I nearly shrunk your sweater in the dryer?”

“Do you often keep note of my habits like this?” He smiles as he notices a faint blush appear on your cheeks.

“Force of habit. I’m a Hunter. I need to keep a close eye on Linkon’s most wanted.”

“Ah, so you still see me as someone dangerous . I see how it is…”

“You know that’s not true.” 

Sylus huffs as you shift your position to face him properly. He can’t help but love how his hands naturally gravitate towards your waist, gently steadying you as you look down at him with a pout on your lips.

“Do you really still believe I think of you like that?” 

Sylus holds his breath as you hold his face in your hands. Warm. Your hands are always so warm. Sylus craves it. Craves your touch, craves your soft fingertips on his skin as he looks at you wondering if you can tell that he wants nothing more than to kiss you until he runs out of breath. 

“Then what do you think of me?” Sylus asks, voice low. 

“You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you,” you sing with a soft smile.

Sylus smirks. “So you went with the words of E.E Cummings. When did you start learning to recite poetry like that?”

“Since you started reading it to me at night when you think I’m asleep.”

“Well aren’t you always full of surprises?”

Sylus smiles as one of your hands moves to his hair, twirling the loose strands between your fingers. It’s all so intimate . He doesn’t know how much longer he can restrain himself, your sweet scent is driving him insane. Would it be so bad to kiss you? To admit that maybe…the feeling is real? Would fate be so cruel as to punish him for confessing to what it has cursed him to do until the end of time? 

But perhaps, it isn’t up to him at all, because it’s you who leans in and kisses him, once, then twice, and then he loses count, his grip on your hips tightening as you hold his face, guiding him as he chases the burning feeling in his stomach.

And he desperately tries to ignore it, the thorns curling around his chest. You know where this ends, his conscience hisses at him. You’ll lose her again if you keep giving in to your desires. The weight of the dragon’s curse will haunt you until your last breath–

“Sylus …”  Your desperate voice breaks through the darkness. 

“Sylus..I…I…”

“It’s okay,” Sylus pants in between kissing you. “It’s okay Kitten, you don’t have to say anything.”

“But–”

He deepens the kiss and you moan, your hips grinding against him. It’s too much. Sylus knows he has to stop. Christ, he doesn’t want to though. You feel amazing in his lap, his hands gliding up your soft thighs. 

“Kitten…” He pulls away and looks at your swollen lips, the desire in your eyes. 

“Why’d you stop?” you whine, grinding in his lap, which makes him laugh a little. The darkness in his heart subsides briefly. 

“Now isn’t the time and place.”

“Why do you always have to be right,” you sigh in response, leaning against his chest as you both catch your breath under the stars. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, trying his best to keep it together. 

Perhaps it is too late to run. 

Sylus shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, tries to shut out the voices in his head.

There’s no denying it;

He’s falling in love.

And so, it starts on a Tuesday, but really, deep down, Sylus knows it started long before that. 

II.

Admitting that he’s in love is one thing, but accepting it is another predicament that Sylus has been unsuccessfully avoiding over the past week. 

He sighs deeply as he stares out the window of his office, his hand stroking Mephisto’s sleek feathers a few times before heading towards his desk where a pile of paperwork sits waiting to be read through and signed. One of the top ten ‘perks’ of being the leader of a powerful mafia gang; fucking paperwork. 

Taking a seat, he runs a hand through his hair and begins to scan through the documents. It’s a tedious task. It takes him about two hours to even make it halfway through the pile. 

He’s beginning to feel the start of migraine forming in the back of his head when suddenly, the door bursts open and the twins come tumbling in.

“What have I said about knocking before entering?” 

“Sorry, Boss! But it’s urgent,” Kieran waves a phone in his face, Sylus’ own phone to be exact. He must have left it in the dining room after breakfast this morning.

“Whoever it is, tell them I’m occupied,” Sylus scoffs, turning his attention back to the document in front of him. 

“Err…Boss…I think you might want to look at this.” It’s Luke this time, the bolder one of the two. Sylus flicks his gaze upwards, curious to see what exactly is so urgent. 

“It’s…well it’s her. She’s in a bit of trouble. Seems like she’s been kidnapped. They said they won’t harm her if we let them talk to you.”

The twins must feel the chill in the air as the temperature immediately drops. They shiver as Sylus slowly stands up, one hand taking the phone from Luke, the other slowly curling into a fist as his Evol begins to swirl around the room. 

“You have ten seconds to give me your location,” Sylus says into the phone, voice deadly calm, but it’s a voice that the twins know all too well. Luke elbows Kieran before mining a blade sliding across his throat. Whoever is on the other end of the phone might as well start planning their funeral.

“We’re not giving you anything until you agree to our terms,” the voice on the other end of the phone hisses. “We heard your little Hunter here has an Aether Core in her possession. However, she won’t cooperate. We’re not exactly sure where she’s hiding it though, and she’s been quite difficult to extract information from–”

“If you fucking lay a finger on her, you’ll be sorry you were ever even born,” Sylus growls, to which the voice on the other side of the phone laughs in response to.

“Convince her to give us the Aether Core. If you can do that, we’ll let her walk free.”

“Are you asking me to make a deal with you?”

“I heard you love making deals. Tell you what, we’ll throw in an extra batch of enhanced protocores, just because I’m feeling generous.”

“And your location?”

“The abandoned warehouse downtown. You know the N109 Zone well enough to figure out which one.”

Sylus takes a deep breath. 

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. If I see a single mark on her when I get there,” he pauses, fingers tracing over the gun on his desk. 

“Well, it’s already a bit too late for you anyway. You’ll find out soon enough what exactly it means to strike a deal with me.”

He hangs up the phone and looks at Luke and Kieran, his scarlet eyes blazing, but his demeanour as calm as ever. 

“Gather whatever weapons you’ll need and meet me outside in five minutes. Looks like the paperwork will have to wait.”

They salute him. “Yes, sir!” 

Sylus smirks. Good thing he was feeling bored anyway. 

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

It only takes him seven minutes to track down the warehouse, and it takes him even less time to annihilate the ‘security’ that the kidnappers had set up to delay him. By the time he makes it to where they’re holding you hostage, most of the vermin have either fled or have met an untimely end. 

Only half a dozen remain, and they surround you and a tall man in a trench coat like magpies protecting a sacred treasure. Sylus looks at you, tied to a chair, a bored expression on your face. 

Noticing his arrival, you give him a cheerful wave despite an ugly bruise on your cheek. The sight of it makes Sylus want to burn the warehouse to the ground. 

“Took you long enough!” you yell at him, causing one of the thugs to jab at you with the muzzle of a gun.

“Traffic was bad,” Sylus replies, which only makes you smile at him. Oh, he’s going to enjoy this all right. 

Sylus takes a step forward as the gang raise their guns, all six of them aiming at you in the chair.

“Don’t move or we’ll shoot her!”

Sylus rolls his eyes and throws up his hands.

“I come in peace,” he says dryly, a lazy smirk on his face. The thug in the trench coat (who Sylus has already clocked as the asshole leader he had spoken previously with on the phone) walks towards him, clapping his hands like an idiot. 

“Well done! You managed to take out my security. But sadly, we need to shake on our deal before I hand over little Miss Hunter.” He walks towards Sylus, his arm outstretched to reveal a grubby looking hand.

Sylus lowers his arms and lets the man come to him. “Ah, I see. Yes, we made a deal, but it seems you haven’t kept your end of the bargain up. She seems to have a number of marks on her face.” 

“She needed to be disciplined.”

“Do you enjoy picking on your enemies when they’re at their weakest? Binding her hands and her feet while you beat her. Is that really fair?” Sylus tilts his head to the side in mock curiosity.

“She kicked my shin and spat on me. Tying her up was one of my nicer punishments.”

“That’s my feisty little Kitten for you. Rile her up like that and she’ll scratch you.”

Sylus watches as the man comes to a halt in front of him. A pale, sinewy looking man up close. He tuts in disappointment. At least dress like a leader before you start acting like one, he thinks to himself. 

The man motions for Sylus to shake his hand, except, before Sylus can even react, the man whips out a pistol and shoots him in the chest.

“Ouch,” Sylus deadpans, watching as the man’s expression changes from arrogantly confident to extremely concerned. It’s a look that Sylus is used to seeing, and honestly, he should be tired of it by now, but deep down; this is his favourite part of the game.

“H-How…” the man stammers, but it’s already too late, and Sylus can’t stop his smile from spreading as he knocks the pistol out of the man’s hand, his Evol snaking around the man’s body, curling around his arms, his legs, until suddenly it engulfs him fully, squeezing, choking….the man doesn’t even realise it’s too late until poof! He’s gone. 

Sylus turns his attention to the remaining thugs. One look from him and they drop their guns before scattering like rats in a sewer. 

“Luke, Kieran,” Sylus says as the twins seemingly materialise by his side.  “Clean up the rest of this mess. Make sure none of them leave here alive.”

“Yes, Boss!” The twins scamper off, giggling like kids in a playground. 

Sylus makes his way over to you and crouches down, his hands moving swiftly to untie you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

“What? No smart comments about how the hell did I manage to get kidnapped?” you mumble, feeling embarrassed that he had to save you. 

“I figured your pride was already hurt enough.”

You sigh in annoyance as Sylus finishes freeing your feet and hands. “They managed to inject me with a tranquilizer. Bastards. I would have been able to take them if they hadn't of caught me off guard.”

“Not like you to be caught off guard like that.”

“I was buying ice cream after a long shift.”

Sylus laughs, reaching out to cup your cheek with his palm. You wince a little as his fingers graze your bruise. 

“Does it hurt, Kitten?” His eyebrows furrow in concern. 

You shrug. “Just a little. Nothing an ice pack can’t heal.”

He scans the rest of your body, searching for more injuries, but you reach up and surprise him with a hug, pulling him tightly into your arms.

“Thanks for coming for me. For a second I thought you wouldn’t pick up your phone. You usually sleep during the day.”

Sylus shuts his eyes as he lifts you into his arms, the knot of worry untying in his chest now that you’re safe.

“I had some paperwork to get through. Had to wake up early to sign a few things.”

You laugh, nuzzling into the crook of his neck . “The leader of Onychinus doing paperwork? Surely you have an admin person that can do all that for you.”

“Too many secrets in the paperwork. Can’t trust anyone.”

“How about me? I can help you.”

Sylus pinches your side.

“Hey! That tickles.”

“Hilarious how you think I’d let a Hunter pry into Onychinus’ affairs.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I already know where your base is. If I didn’t like hanging out with you so much I would have turned you in by now.” 

You let out a small yawn as Sylus’ head spins, your words making him feel like a fireworks display has suddenly erupted in his heart.  

“Can you take me to your place on your motorcycle? I’m too tired to call a taxi back to my apartment after today's events.”

Sylus gets to his feet, still carrying you in his arms as you rest your head against his chest.

“Depends. Are you going to make me watch another bad comedy film to try and make me stay awake during the day again?”

You punch his chest lightly. 

“You pick a movie then. But it can’t be one of the black and white silent films you like to watch. Are you sure you’re not ninety years old?”

Sylus doesn’t say anything to that. Just pinches you again, but he can’t seem to take the stupid grin off his face. 

A small glimmer of hope shines through the walls of the castle he has built around himself. Perhaps loving you in this life doesn’t have to end in tragedy. Perhaps fate might grant the two of you mercy if he can protect you properly this time.

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

And as it turns out, there is a way to make paperwork slightly more interesting. He discovers this later that evening, and it involves bending you over his mahogany desk, his hands on your hips, your body spread over the documents as you beg him to fuck you faster.

“Sylus, ” you moan, turning your face to look at him as he holds your wrists in his hands, firmly keeping them behind your back. “Feels so good…I…I don’t know if I can stand much longer.”

He curses as he notices your trembling thighs. Fuck, it makes him feel so fucking hard seeing you like this. But you’re right. You’ve been through a lot today, so he should take it slow and steady with you.

With all the gentleness of the first snowfall of winter, he picks you up and carefully places you on the table, spreading your legs as your back lays against the paperwork. You whine as you feel his cock slip out of you, hating the feeling of being without him for even a second. 

Sylus soothes you with a soft kiss before he puts himself inside of you once more, giving you a few seconds to adjust before he starts thrusting again. 

“Sylus, please. I need you to fuck me like you mean it. I need to feel you in me,” you beg, eyes filled with nothing but lust as you stare at him from behind long lashes.

And who is he to refuse? He fucks you until you scream his name, fucks you until you both come, your arms spread over the paperwork as if you were an angel with wings made of pure divinity. 

III.

“Sylus, look!”

Sylus stares at the matching pair of couple’s pyjamas in your hands. Baby pink and baby blue. The pyjamas also have matching baby chicks printed all over them. They seem to stare menacingly at him with their little cartoon eyes as he examines their ugly faces. 

“We have to buy them!” 

Sylus grimaces as you wave them in his face. He supposes this what he gets for agreeing to shopping with you. 

“They’re not exactly my taste.”

He watches with amusement as you give him your best puppy eyes. 

“But you’d look so cute in them.” You continue to wave them around, as if you’re trying to hypnotize him into liking them. 

“Not a chance.” Sylus walks off, trying to hide his laughter as you continue to pout behind his back. 

“You’re so boring,” you grumble as you put the pyjamas back on the rack, trailing after Sylus through the department store. 

“Oh wow!” 

Sylus watches as you walk excitedly towards a pair of earrings on display in the jewellery section. A simple pair of studs in the shape of little dragons. Their wings have small rubies encrusted in them. 

“Something else caught your eye?” Sylus sidles up next to you, examining the earrings through the glass. 

“Uh…it’s a bit out of my budget,” you mumble, fiddling with your fingers awkwardly. 

“Such a shame,” Sylus laments, folding his arms. “They would suit you.”

You reach up and pinch his cheek. “No need to rub salt in the wound.” 

You walk off, leaving Sylus alone with the earrings glistening up at him. He waits until you’re a few metres away before calling over the store clerk. 

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I’ll take these.” Sylus gestures towards the earrings. “Can you gift wrap them for me?”

“Of course. Just to let you know, these are part of a couple’s set.” She motions towards a necklace with the charm of a dragon’s wing on it. 

Sylus isn’t even surprised. Fate loves tormenting him after all. Always dropping little reminders of his curse. The earrings were one thing, but a matching necklace… he should have known.

But despite it all, he eyes the piece with interest, tapping his chin in thought as the rubies shine up at him. 

“I think your partner would love you to wear it,” the store clerk says, eyes shining. “I know my job is to upsell…but between you and me, the girl who was with you earlier…she looks at you as if you’re the most important person in the world.”

Sylus nearly chokes. He hadn’t really noticed that before. 

“I’ll take the set.”

He supposes this could be a way of saying fuck you! to fate for once. 

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

He gives the earrings to you later that evening, playing it casual as he hands you the box before sitting in his armchair and pulling out a book of sonnets, his eyes peeking over the top of the pages as he secretly tries to gauge your reaction.

“Sylus! You shouldn’t have bought them! They cost a fortune!” You thank him with a kiss that’s sweeter than the spring flowers that grow in the valley of a mountain range.

Sylus shrugs as he watches you run off to admire the jewellery in the mirror above the fireplace. 

“Money isn’t an issue,” he says, nonchalant. 

“I know that, but still! You don’t have to buy me things.”

He gets to his feet and takes the earrings from your hands.

“Allow me.”

He carefully inserts the earrings into your earlobes, loving how they compliment you so well. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes, tilting your chin up.

“Thank you.”

“I was talking about the earrings, not you.”

“Sylus!”

His laughter is loud enough to fill the entire Onychinus base.

Little does Sylus know that you spot the matching necklace peeking out from under his shirt later that night, but you don’t mention it, afraid that he’ll take it off in embarrassment.

Sometimes some secrets are best kept hidden.

IV.

“Mister Sylus?”

Sylus sighs as he twirls a handful of linguine around his fork. 

He is not having a good week. 

The whole love situation has been driving him a little insane recently. After facing the obvious and admitting to himself that, okay, maybe he is falling in love with you again (not that he had ever really stopped being in love with you), he had finally made peace with the whole situation. 

Until of course, the nightmares started, and now he’s lost count of all the ways he’s watched you die in front of him.

Dreams are just dreams , he knows this. But that doesn’t make them less terrifying. He’s the head of Onychinus for Christ’s sake. It’s a known fact that nothing really scares him. But losing you again…no. He’s not letting it happen. And after the kidnapping incident, he’s made sure that something like that won’t ever happen again. He has Mephisto giving him daily updates, making sure that no one suspicious has been tailing you. 

But the darkness still resides in his heart. So instead of letting it get the better of him, he’s been trying to stay awake. In total, he’s probably been getting four hours of sleep every night for the past few days.

And of course, to top it all off, he’s been cleaning up Onychinus related messes all week (none of which were his fault, but all of them required his assistance, apparently). Between dealing with a missing batch of protocores and a shoot-out with a group of idiots that couldn’t hit him no matter bullets they fired, Sylus is on the verge of losing his mind as he sits across another useless mole that Luke and Kieran found for him, and now he has to deal with it on very little sleep. 

“Your lies, they’re boring me,” Sylus says eventually, eyes still on his pasta. “My time is precious, and you’re wasting it.”

His gaze moves slowly to the man opposite him. A sheen of sweat has broken across his forehead. It makes Sylus smirk, the effect he can have on people. 

“I promise Mister Sylus, I would never lie to you. My loyalty to Onychinus is–”

“Unwavering? Infinite? Please, I’ve heard it all before.” Sylus curls his hand into a fist, the familiar feeling of power coursing through his veins as his Evol snakes around his wrist, slowly seeping into his fingertips. 

“Mister Sylus…” the man watches him with bulging eyes. “I-I swear–”

“Swear on your life? Don’t worry. You won’t have to make false promises anymore.”

And really, he’s about to have the most fun he’s had all week, because there’s nothing more satisfying than the feeling of having his energy consume another weak soul. His fingers twitch as his Evol creeps towards the mole’s throat. Three…two…one…

“Wanderer!”

They have got to be fucking joking.

Sylus curses as a Wanderer suddenly crashes through the window of the restaurant, forcing him to take cover as glass shatters all around him. Familiar screams of terror fill the air as the Wanderer begins to destroy everything within a two metre radius, and the mole, God damn it, the mole has somehow managed to slip away in all the chaos. As if his day couldn’t get any worse. 

He thinks he might just call it a day and let someone else deal with this mess. He’s already cleaned up about three incidents today anyway. He sighs as he stands up and dusts off his jacket, tutting as he notices a sizeable stain on his shirt. He’ll have to get Luke and Kieran to send it off for dry cleaning later. 

He glances outside at the chaos on the streets. About six Wanderers are crashing through the square, the protofield already beginning to form. Sirens wail in the near distance and soon enough the Hunters flood the streets, right on cue. It’s enough to give him a very inconvenient headache. He’s about to use his Evol to disappear when he hears something that makes him freeze. 

“Everybody, please remain calm!” 

A stern voice that can be heard above all the chaos. A voice that Sylus would recognise in every universe, in every lifetime. You. 

“Please evacuate the area as quickly as possible! The Unicorns will take it from here!”

And all of a sudden, Sylus is on the street pushing roughly through the crowd, heading towards you, his Evol pulsing in his veins as the familiar sense of power builds in his bones.

“Take cover!”

He barely has time to dodge as a car flies over his head, barely has time to register that the car is flying straight towards you, your back turned as you shield a child in your arms. 

He’s seen this before. So many times. The nightmares always end the same. But this isn’t one of his nightmares.

This is real. 

"Run!” Someone screams, and Sylus watches in slow motion as you turn around too late, your eyes widening as you see the car hurtling towards you at a hundred miles an hour, ready to land right where you stand. 

Shrill screams, a blur of red and black, and suddenly the car freezes, as if caught by an invisible force, only it isn’t quite that. Wisps of scarlet smoke wrap around the car, crushing it until it dissipates into dust, and in front of it all, shielding you and the child, is Sylus. 

“Are you alright?” Sylus pants, slightly out of breath as he turns around and scans your body for any injuries.

Too stunned to speak, you stare at him in awe as the child clings onto your leg. 

“How…where…” you stammer. He pulls you into a brief hug before he takes your face into his hands and gives you a stern look. 

“What exactly are we looking at here?”

“High metaflux fluctuations in this area. There’s about twelve Wanderers, and the protofield is forming quickly. We need to evacuate the citizens and eliminate the Wanderers as fast as we can before they spread the protofield further over Linkon,” you say, scanning through the slides on your Hunter’s watch.

Sylus nods. “You guide the child to safety. I’ll start with the Wanderer that nearly took you out with a car.” He points at the fountain in the centre of the square. 

“I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. You can help me finish the rest of them off.”

You give him a look as you lift the child into your arms. “I only need five.”

“That’s my girl,” Sylus says, watching as you sprint away, his heart warm.

With you by his side, perhaps today won’t be a bad day after all.

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Two hours later, three close encounters, one scratched forehead and one broken fountain, Sylus finds himself sitting beside you on a piece of rubble, a cap and a pair of sunglasses hiding his face as you frantically look around, triple checking that no one is giving Sylus any strange looks. 

“We just killed a dozen Wanderers, Sweetie. I doubt anyone is worrying about the N109 Zone’s crime lord gracing them with a surprise appearance.” He hands you a mango ice pop. 

“A reward for your performance today.”

Satisfied that Sylus is unrecognisable to the public eye, you take a bow as you accept the ice pop before taking a seat beside Sylus in the rubble. 

“Always a pleasure fighting alongside a crime lord.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve gotten stronger. Our training is paying off.” Sylus can’t help but feel proud of your strength. 

“You need to work on your defence though.” His fingers reach out to gently touch the graze on your forehead. 

You shake him off. “I can handle an injury or two.”

“I know you can,” Sylus sighs, looking at the determination in your eyes. “But sometimes you run recklessly into things. It’s important to think before throwing your punches.”

“Well, I know you’ll always have my back to pull me out of trouble anyway,” you say with a shrug before sneaking a bite of his ice pop. 

Sylus opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by your Hunter’s watch buzzing. 

You get to your feet and give him a mock salute. “Duty calls, I guess. Maybe I’ll see you later? How about a movie night in my apartment?”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “And if I say I already have plans?”

“Cancel them.” You lean down and give him a quick peck on the cheek. 

Sylus can only smile as he watches you run off. You blow him goodbye kisses as a group of Hunters throw their arms around your shoulders, congratulating you on another successful mission.

V.

Flowers can’t grow in the N109 Zone, unless of course, you know the right people, or unless you’re the leader of Onychinus, which Sylus just so happens to be, thus, this is how he finds himself in a little corner shop tucked away from the the busy streets of the N109 Zone’s main square. A miracle really, how it has managed to survive in such a desolate place, but the owner has a special kind of Evol that can make flowers bloom even in darkness.  

“So how can I help you today, Mister Sylus?”

A young girl with a green apron and a gentle demeanor blinks up at him with curious eyes. He supposes it’s not everyday that someone like him would be in a shop like this. 

“I need to buy flowers for a friend,” he says, looking around at the bouquets sprawling out from the shelves around him. It feels as if the flowers are responding to his presence, the pretty ones shaking their petals, trying to get him to reach out and touch them so they can have a peek into his desires. 

“And the occasion?” The girl tilts her head to the side, but she’s looking at him as if she’s already figured out the answer. It’s a little unnerving. He wonders if this is how his enemies often feel when he’s picking them apart with the Aether Core in his eye. 

“No occasion,” Sylus hums, turning his attention to a sunflower that has begun to poke him with its leaves. “Do all your flowers greet your customers like this?”

The girl laughs. “The flowers have a mind of their own. I only use my Evol to encourage them. You can’t tame what’s natural, you know.”

“And what are your flowers telling you now?” Sylus reaches out to touch the leaves that are reaching for him. 

The girl folds her arms. “That you’re not buying flowers for a friend.” 

“Perhaps not,” Sylus sighs, feeling the familiar sensation of invisible thorns pressing into his chest. “How do you tell someone they mean the world to you? That you’d search for them in every lifetime? In every dimension…you would choose them over something as precious as life?”

“Zinnia.”

Sylus watches as the girl waves her fingers and summons a small bunch of magenta coloured flowers. “Representing everlasting affection and endurance due to their willingness to grow. They’re tough little guys to grow too. They need a lot of encouragement.”

Sylus smiles, thinking back to a memory of you standing over the little plant you left on his window sill in his bedroom, one hand on a small water can, the other tapping the leaves of the plant with soft affection.

“Make sure you grow big and strong so Sylus won’t have to feel lonely anymore, okay?” 

Sylus watches you from the doorframe, your back facing him, completely unaware that he’s even there. 

“He doesn’t say it in front of me because he thinks it makes him look weak, but I know it upsets him that nothing can grow in the N109 Zone.” He watches as you bend down and kiss the petals of the plant.

“So prove him wrong and make sure you grow big and strong. Make him smile when I’m not here.”

“Mister Sylus?” 

The girl’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Sylus nods. 

“Two months ago, I received a letter from an unknown sender who invited me to open a flower shop at this exact location in the N109 Zone. The letter stated that it would cost me nothing, that my exceptional Evol was enough payment for whatever the cost of the shop would be.”

She looks at him then, really looks at him. He supposes he should have seen this coming. Secrets are one of the top selling items in the N109 Zone. 

“Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s a big risk accepting an invitation to the N109 Zone from a stranger?” Sylus asks.

“I suppose I left out a crucial part of the story.” The girl motions to a letter that hangs on a corkboard over the counter by the cash register. “The letter had the stamp of Onychinus on the bottom of it.”

“Yet you still came and opened your little shop.”

“I know you sent that letter yourself. I know you asked me to come here and open a flower shop in a place where flowers can’t even grow. I just couldn’t figure out why. There’s rumours about you, you know. That you can kill a person with just a flick of your wrist. That you have horns and a tail that only come out when someone is about to die.”

“Are you upset that the rumours were false? Or are you perhaps scared that I’m here today to prove that they might be true?”

“A man that requests someone to open a flower shop in Hell…he doesn’t kill for sport. No, you’re not what people think you are.”

Sylus laughs as he throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Do you interrogate all your customers like this?”

“You’re exactly how I thought you’d be. Arrogant, sarcastic, yet you’re here because there’s one thing you can’t figure out, and you think flowers might be able to do the job for you.” 

The girl gives him a smirk. “You’re in love, Mister Sylus. You’re so in love that you tracked down an Evolver that can make flowers bloom anywhere so you could send flowers to your beloved.”

Sylus sighs, tired of the game now that the exciting part is over. “So you’ve caught me. However, I haven’t had the chance to buy any flowers for her yet.”

“Too busy closing deals and blowing up buildings?”

“Something like that.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “You know the best way to tell someone you love them is actually telling them.”

“And if words aren’t enough?” Sylus sweeps his hand through the air, motioning towards the flowers. 

“I suppose roses would also work. Classic eternal love. Or Chrysanthemums. Faithfulness and longevity.”

“And what about those flowers?” Sylus twirls his fingers as his Evol tickles the petals of flowers that point towards the ceiling. Solitary, beautiful, they stand out like fresh snow on top of a mountain peak.

“Antirrhinums,” the girl says with a soft expression. “Also known as Snapdragons. White represents purity and grace. The purple ones represent love at first sight.”

A thousand memories flash through his mind as he stares at the flowers.

“I’ll take all of the Snapdragons you have.” 

“All of them? Unusual. Nobody really picks the Snapdragons. They’re often overshadowed by their peers.”

“People will often stay away from anything associated with dragons,” Sylus snorts as he walks towards the little flowers. 

“Dragons are solitary creatures. Even catching a glimpse of one can cost you your soul.” He reaches out to touch the delicate petals with his fingers. The girl watches him with interest. Surely the leader of Oncychinus is not as vulnerable as this? 

“But even dragons have a soft spot for beautiful things such as flowers.” Sylus touches his hair, feeling the ghost of a flower tucked between the strands. 

Years come and go. Sylus wonders if he’ll ever be able to save you from the cursed merry-go-round of fate. 

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

He gets a phone call that evening.

“Did you really send me one hundred and nine bouquets of flowers?”

“And how did you get to that exact number?”

“I counted them all of course!”

“Usually people would say thank you by now.”

“I was getting to that. You’re just impatient.”

“I have all the patience in the world, Kitten.”

A beat of silence. 

“I had to look them up online because I’ve never seen them before. They’re called Snapdragons, apparently.”

“Yes, the florist said they're often overlooked.”

“Oh. Well…I’m glad you bought them then. They won’t feel lonely here. I’ll make sure of it.”

He thinks he might say it then and there. 

I love you. 

But the sentence never seems to make it past his lips. 

VI.

Maybe it’s time to address it.

“Oh, fuck, Sylus…” 

A simple late night phone call, whispers of I miss you, and all of a sudden, you’re at his door, your eyes dark as you step inside, throwing off your coat and wrapping your arms around his neck before he can react. 

“Sylus… please…”

Sylus smirks as he sucks at the skin on your inner thigh, using enough pressure to leave a hickey that will last for at least three days, maybe a week. A reminder that he’s been there; been to a place reserved only for him. 

“Does it feel good, Kitten?” he asks, gently stroking the bruise, his scarlet eyes glowing as he looks at you with lust. 

“Yes…please don’t stop…” you trail off as his lips trail kisses down your thighs, your hands sliding to hold his hair between your fingers as he gets closer and closer to the spot where you need him the most.

“You’re so wet, Sweetie,” he breathes, voice low as he stares at your heat. “Such a good girl…tell me…do you want it?”

“Yes…please… fuck Sylus, I need you so bad,” you moan, using your hands to guide him between your thighs, his breath warm

Yeah, maybe now’s not a good time to address it. 

Sylus can sense your neediness, his cock straining against his trousers as his mouth finds your heat, moaning as you squeeze his head gently between your thighs, his tongue working inside you as you slowly begin to unravel. Your body begins to tremble because fuck, Sylus always makes you feel like heaven is a place on earth, tucked away here, on his four-poster bed, in between cool silk sheets. 

And Sylus, well, he’s seeing stars, eating you out as if you might disappear tomorrow. His hands spread your legs wider, trying to find the best angle to make you fall apart. He fucking loves seeing you like this, loves the way you both submit yourselves to each other. A newfound trust that means more to Sylus than any protocore in all of Deepspace.

He continues to fuck you with his mouth, the taste of you like honey on his tongue. 

“Sylus…I think…I’m…ugh …” you trail off again, biting your lip as a familiar feeling builds inside you. 

Sylus smirks, and you can feel it between your legs. You tug on his hair a little harder, urging him to just fuck you more, because, Christ, you’re so fucking close. He seems to get the message, and begins to fuck you faster with his tongue, using his hands to guide your hips so they’re rutting against his hot mouth. 

He’s so fucking hard, he thinks maybe he could come like this, with your hands in his hair and his head between your legs. He knows you’re close, can sense it in the way you’re moving, so he decides to help you a little, his fingers creeping up to your clit before they begin to massage the bundle of nerves slowly, making you cry out in pleasure. 

“Baby…gonna…gonna come soon,” you whine, the world spinning as your head falls against the mattress. 

A growl leaves his lips. “Then come for me, my darling.”

And that’s all it takes for you to fall apart, and Sylus, the angel he is, keeps going until you pull him out, whining at him, tugging at his shirt to bring him closer to you. 

“I need you in me, baby.” 

People think he’s a strong man, yet a single sentence from you can make him fold like a sheet of paper.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shutting his eyes and letting out a quiet sigh of pleasure as your hands find their way to the bulge straining against his trousers. 

“Of course.” 

Sylus flips you over, moving so his back can lie against the headboard. He uses his Evol to place you strategically on his lap as your fingers begin to undo his belt and zipper. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he groans, dizzy with pleasure as you wrap your hand around his aching length. Even with your two hands wrapped around him, his cock is huge. The thought of it inside of you is making you wet again. 

“Lie back,” you order, and Sylus obliges, his eyes glowing through the soft haze of his bedroom. 

He squeezes your ass as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock, a loud cry escaping your lips. Even after doing this a few times, you still get surprised at his size, but his length sliding into you always feels like a home run. Sylus thinks you were made to take him like this; your body moulded just for him. 

“You’re so tight,” Sylus moans, his forehead falling against your chest. He places a soft kiss to your cleavage before bucking his hips up a few times until suddenly he starts pounding into you, your moans drowning out the squeaks from the bed frame.  

Good thing he sent Luke and Kieran out on a few errands. Sylus doesn’t think they’d recover from the noises you two are making.

“Sylus, baby, faster, ” you beg, gripping his shoulders for support, your hips grinding on his cock. “Fuck, you always feel so good.”

“You too, my darling. You’re fucking made for me. Always feels like heaven being inside of you,” Sylus growls, his hips fucking you like there’s no tomorrow. 

Heavy breathing and the sweet scent of sex fills the room as you both rock your hips in harmony, pulling each other closer and closer to the edge. Sylus can feel his orgasm building in his stomach. He needs to feel you more. 

“S-Sylus…” you pant, your legs beginning to ache a bit. “More. Please. I need…I need more .”

Yeah, he thinks he does too. 

Without warning, he pulls out of you, switching positions and pushing you on to the mattress before thrusting back into you with full force. Your hands fly to your mouth as you cry out in pleasure. 

Sylus tuts, removing your hands, interlocking your fingers with his own above your head as he fucks you slow and hard.

“It’s okay. No one’s home. I want to hear your sweet little moans, Kitten,” he coos, leaning down and kissing your neck. 

You shut your eyes, letting your voice echo around the room. 

“I think I’m close, baby,” you breathe. 

Sylus nods into the crook of your neck as his thrusts begin to pick up speed again, the sound of skin slapping skin getting louder and louder. 

“I have you, darling,” he pants, looking into your eyes with sincerity. “So be a good girl and come for me again.”

“You too,” you whine, thrusting your hips up to meet him halfway. 

“Fuck …” Sylus grunts, his hips stuttering as the feeling in his stomach comes to a boil. 

He’s not sure which of you comes first, all he knows is that suddenly everything feels warm, and when it’s all over, the earth seems to stop spinning, and nothing matters but the two of you together like this.

Time slows down after that. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you, a silence that remains as he cleans you, a soft towel wiping over your damp skin before he wraps you in one of his silk robes. He doesn’t bother asking you if you’re staying over tonight. It’s an unspoken agreement that has become a silent habit. 

More time passes. Somewhere in between the post-sex conversations and after-midnight kisses, you fall asleep in Sylus’ bed, the moonlight slicing through the gaps in the curtains, shining on your bare skin, making it look like you’re made of pure starlight. 

As you sleep, Sylus tucks your hair behind your ear and whispers gentle words into the night air.

“You are my sun and my stars. My fate is yours, for eternity. In my past life, in this life, and in every life to come after, I will be yours if you’ll allow it.”

Sylus wonders why vulnerability comes out easier under darkness than in daylight.

VII.

Glittering chandeliers and bubbly champagne. Jewel encrusted cutlery and a grandiose ice sculpture; yet all the riches in the world pale in comparison when placed next to you. 

Or at least, that’s what Sylus thinks, as he takes your hand, your high heels unsteady as you step out of the limousine he had prepared for the evening. It’s not often he accepts invitations to grand events such as Galas and Balls. His time is precious, and these events require a lot of false smiles and forced conversations. 

But as he looks at you – your shimmering ball gown twinkling in the moonlight, the pearl necklace glowing against the soft skin of your neck that he likes to trace when the world is asleep – he thinks it might be worth it this one time.

He leads you towards the entrance, admiring how the crowd parts for the two of you. The feeling of power; it’s addictive. Sylus has lived with it for so long that after a while, it made him a little jaded. But even the heaviest of snowfall melts over time, and as he watches your eyes sparkle as he leads you towards the ballroom, he regrets every second he wasted not searching for you. 

Not that he ever gave up, either. 

The ballroom is as extravagant as the ones described in a child’s fairytale. A roof with a Renaissance style fresco that stretches for miles, long tables with all the food from every corner of the world. Champagne fountains, decadent cakes, and you – having drifted away from his side to admire the scene – standing in the middle of it all. A single snowdrop. His flower.

“Good evening Mister Sylus.” Sylus nods at a couple as they greet him. Friends of Onychinus that would probably stab him in the back if he hadn't of invited them to this event. 

“Good evening,” Sylus replies, still not taking his eyes off you. 

“It’s not often that you grace us with your presence at these events,” the woman says, eyeing him with a look that could turn even the sweetest fruit sour.

“I have to keep an eye on things after the explosion incidents in Linkon.” 

“Ah, I see. Terrible how our own can turn on us just like that.” 

Sylus doesn’t even bother reacting, the conversation already boring him. 

“If you’ll excuse me, there’s somewhere I need to be,” Sylus says, excusing himself and making his way over to you. He stifles a laugh as he spots you helping yourself to the cakes and pastries on the table.

“Hungry, Kitten?”

You turn around and pout at him, your mouth full of cake. Sylus tuts as he wipes away the frosting on your lips. 

“I’m starving,” you groan through a mouthful of cake, to which Sylus laughs. He licks his finger, tasting the frosting he wiped off your lips. It’s a bit sweet for his palette, but if it’s something you enjoy, then he’d eat ten slices of cake just to see your smile. 

“Have you been enjoying yourself?” He reaches out to adjust the ruby crow brooch on your dress. “Collected enough intel to bring back to the Hunters Academy?”

“I’m not here on business,” you huff. 

Sylus lightly flicks your forehead. “But an intelligent Hunter like you never takes a day off.”

He smiles down at you, just as the orchestra begins to play a bright piece of music, making people flood to the floor for a dance.

“May I?” Sylus holds out his hand. 

“Are you asking me to dance?”

“It would be a shame to have all our practice go to waste,” Sylus says, his mind thinking back to a couple of nights ago. 

"One two three, one two three…”

Sylus tries to suppress his laughter as he watches you stumble around, trying to keep your pace in time with the waltz crackling through his vintage gramophone. He tries to guide you carefully in the right direction, one hand on your waist as he elegantly glides across the marble floor, but this only makes you step on his toes again. 

“Are you even trying, kitten?”

“It’s a lot harder than it looks!” you argue, trying your best to avoid stepping on his toes again. “And I’m not used to wearing heels.”

Sylus sighs and stops dancing, causing you to collide into his chest, but he anticipates this and catches you in his arms.

"How about we change tactics?” he asks. He lifts you gently so that you end up standing with your feet on top of his.

“Watch and learn.” 

Sylus uses his Evol to place your hands on his shoulders as his hands find their way onto your hips. He sways you both gently, his eyes focused on you, his heartbeat steady as he sways to the waltz. He picks you up and spins you around, causing you to squeal as you rise high into the air like a dove before he pulls you back into his arms. 

The memory warms him as he thinks about it. Fills his chest with butterflies as he watches you dance once more, except this time, your eyebrows are furrowed in full concentration. You’re trying for him, and he adores you for it. 

As the waltz continues, Sylus finds himself  becoming lost in the music, the room fading away until all he can see is you. Your eyes on his, his eyes on yours. You spin and step together in harmony; two souls in matrimony. 

“Kitten,” Sylus says, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “In case I forget to tell you later…” he trails off as he gently presses a kiss to your neck. 

“Not even the brightest stars could take away from your beauty tonight.”

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Later on, Sylus takes you out to the garden for some fresh air. Under the stars, your flushed cheeks from the heat of the ballroom glow like cherry wine. You find a private spot in the maze made of hedges and take a seat on a small bench surrounded by roses. 

Sylus kisses the crown of your head as you lay on his shoulder, a comfortable silence surrounding you both. Your skin is still flushed by the alcohol. Sylus suspects you’re a little tipsy from all the champagne. 

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” 

Sylus shifts his gaze to your pouting face. 

“Should I tell Luke and Kieran to get the guest room ready?”

You pinch his side with your fingers. “I think there’s enough room in your custom made, luxury bed for one more person. Plus, you and I both know I’ve only slept in the guest room once.”

Sylus smiles down at you. 

“And if I don’t want to share my bed tonight?”

You yawn, shutting your eyes and nuzzling your face into his jacket.

“You can sleep on the floor then.”

“You know that’s not going to happen.”

“I know.”

“You know.”

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

On the drive home, you end up falling asleep. Not wanting to wake you up, Sylus carries you to his room and tucks you in, gently removing your makeup with the cleanser he keeps on standby when you visit. 

Although he tries his best to make sure you stay asleep, you stir a little at his touch, mumbling something as he wipes away the last of your mascara. 

“WhereamI?” you croak, eyes flickering as you try to sit up. But Sylus shushes you, gently pushing you back onto the mattress, and assures you that everything is fine. That you just fell asleep on the way home. 

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, you shut your eyes and pull Sylus down with you, burying your face into his chest as he falls into bed next to you. 

“Promise me you’ll stay until I fall asleep,” you whisper into his ear. It sends shivers down his spine. A promise is a heavy burden for a dragon. Not that he is one anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten about the past, forgotten about what it actually means if he breaks one.

What if one day he makes you another one he can’t keep? 

“Sylus?” A hand reaches out through the dim light and pokes his face. “Are you still here?”

Fuck it. He’s already this deep anyway. Running would be futile at this stage. Maybe it’s time to stop being afraid. He catches your hand in his and presses your fingertips to his lips.

“I’m still here,” he whispers. “And I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile, your eyes still closed. “Goodnight Sylus.”

“Goodnight.”

True to his word, he stays until you fall asleep. In fact, he lays beside you until the sun rises.

And when you wake up and find him asleep next to you, the sunlight creeping in through the curtains making him frown in slumber, you pull the duvet over both of your heads, a smile spreading across your lips as you curl into his chest. 

Sundays are for sleeping in anyways. 

VIII.

As Summer draws to a close, Sylus finally finds a day to take you hiking to a place outside of Linkon where no one will recognise him. He picks you up late in the afternoon, the plan being to reach the summit by sunset. 

Even though he’s become accustomed to cold nights, Sylus has grown to enjoy the feeling of the warm Summer wind in his air, one hand on the steering wheel, the other shifting the gear stick as you sing along to the radio, him occasionally joining in, which only causes you to burst into a fit of laughter every time. 

It’s not often he’s awake during the day, but recently he’s begun to embrace the light. Maybe because it highlights your beauty in all its glory. Loving you has changed a lot of things for Sylus, has made him feel stronger, yet more vulnerable at the same time. 

And he’s been watching you grow too, like a flower that blooms in adversity, slowly, but surely. Through all the pain in your heart, you still have managed to flourish, and it makes him proud, seeing how strong you’ve become since he found you again in this lifetime. 

“Sylus, up ahead, look!” You point excitedly to the mountain in the near distance. Sylus hums as he steps on the gas pedal, not wanting to waste another second in his thoughts.

The sun is already beginning to dip into the horizon as Sylus pulls into the parking lot. He grabs your bags from the trunk as you tie your shoe laces and check your Hunter’s watch, scanning through the exact route that you both had planned together. 

“If we leave now, we should make it to the top by sunset,” you say, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you examine the route. 

Sylus takes your hand in his. “Lead the way, Miss Hunter.”

𓅇 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

By the time the two of you reach the summit, most of the crowds from the afternoon have dispersed, leaving behind a tranquil atmosphere. The air is a little crisp, the early signs of Autumn creeping into the dregs of Summer. Sylus notices you shivering slightly as you both look out at the view. Without a word, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. You give him a grateful look. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say, breaking the silence, eyes gazing at the sweeping landscape below. 

“You weren’t kidding about the view. It’s breathtaking. I feel like I can touch the sky.” You reach out into the air, basking in the last rays of light of the day, smiling at Sylus with all the warmth of the sun.

“You’re right,” Sylus says softly, watching how the light casts a golden glow on your skin, as if you’re an angel and all he can do is pray to heaven they’ll let him keep you on earth. 

“It’s beautiful.”

In this exact moment, Sylus knows the time has come. He has to tell you.  

He clears his throat. “Sweetie, I–”

“S’mores for sale! Get your s’mores here!”

Sylus curses as a stall owner starts causing a ruckus a few metres away. 

“Oh my god, I haven’t had s’mores since I was a kid!” you squeal with excitement. Sylus can feel his eye twitch slightly as you grab his hand and pull him in the direction of the food stall, a steady queue already beginning to form. 

“What even is a s’more?” he grumbles, still feeling a little disgruntled that his big speech was rudely interrupted. 

“Wait, you’ve never had a s’more before? I thought you went camping all the time.”

“And what has camping got to do with these so-called s’mores?”

Your jaw drops in disbelief. “S’mores are like…the best campfire treat ever! Warm chocolate and toasted marshmallows all squished between two graham crackers.” You mime squashing the s’more between the palms of your hands. 

“And voilà! The best snack you’ll ever have in your life, all put together in less than a minute.”

“Sounds like a one way trip to diabetes.”

“You’re such an old man sometimes.”

“I suppose I am ninety years old. If you believe the rumours that is.”

You both continue to bicker back and forth until you finally get to the top of the queue. Sylus doesn’t even get a chance to argue before you order two s’mores, slapping a handful of coins onto the counter. 

The smell of sugar fills the air as he allows you to drag him to a secluded spot on the summit with a bench overlooking Linkon. By now, the city’s lights are slowly beginning to flicker on as the sun continues to lower itself deeper and deeper into the horizon. 

A fond smile ghosts his lips as he notices that you're halfway through your s’more, chocolate smeared on the corner of your mouth. 

“This is the best day ever,” you say dreamily, your eyes shining as you once again admire the view. Finishing the last of your s’more, you lean against Sylus’ shoulder, sighing with satisfaction as you pat your stomach dramatically. 

Afraid the chocolate will melt and stain his hands, Sylus begins to eat his own s’more, his nose scrunching at the taste.

“As expected, this is nothing but pure sugar.”

“Aw c’mon, it’s delicious,” you huff, taking the s’more from his hands and waving it in his face.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his eyebrow raised with suspicion. 

“Say aaaah!” You shove the s’more into his mouth, forcing him to take another bite. He coughs as the sickeningly sweet taste of the s'more fills his mouth again, but he finishes it anyway.

Not before he jabs you in the ribs for fun, of course. 

“Okay, okay! I surrender. It tickles too much!” you wheeze as he continues to jab you with his fingertips.

Satisfied, Sylus leans in and wipes the chocolate from your face with his thumb. 

“Are all kittens this messy?” he teases, and before you can complain, he presses his lips briefly against yours, smirking as he pulls away.

Cheeks flushing, you have no idea how to react to that, so instead you bury your face in Sylus’ sweater, trying to hide your blush from him. 

You sit in a comfortable silence after that, Sylus holding you close as you both take in the sunset together. He can feel your heartbeat, can feel the steady rhythm that brought him to you through Deepspace. He thinks if he had to go through all those years of loneliness again just to hold you like this for even a second, well, he’d do it all over again with zero hesitations.

And just like that, like a puzzle sliding into place, like a shooting star finding its way home, the universe whispers for him to bring the crescendo of his unspoken symphony to its climax. 

“I love you.”

Those three words; they’ll never be enough.

But for now, they’ll do. 

“I love you,” he repeats, just as the sun sinks into the horizon and the moon becomes visible. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Kitten. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“Oh, Sylus, my beautiful, beautiful Sylus.”

Warm hands reach out as you turn to cup his face, tears glistening in your eyes as you laugh with disbelief. 

“I know. I know you love me, even though you’ve never said it to me before. Your actions, they’re enough. You, right next to me…it will always be enough.” 

He stares at you with nothing but pure reverence in his eyes. 

“And for the record, I love you too.”

At your confession, Sylus wraps his arms around your waist as you continue to hold his face firmly in your palms. Under the twilight, you both stare lovingly into each other’s eyes, the darkness in Sylus’ heart finally fading away into something warm, something golden. Something that can only be described as love.

And as you kiss under the magenta sky, Sylus knows that no matter where fate tries to hide you, he’ll always find you.

Because home is wherever you are.

[cloudcountry]

hellooo i hope you're doing well, i love the way you write sooo muuuuchhh 🥹🥹 can you do another haku content with prompt 11 and 17 please?

SUMMARY: haku gives you hint after hint after hint. you don't seem to catch any of them.

COMMENTS: more haku kusanagi for the people's boyfriend!!

“Is it not obvious? Am I doing something wrong?”

You look over at an exasperated Haku, the tired smile on his face a cause for concern. You’re not used to him looking this weary, not even when Hotarubi gets a little too chaotic or when missions get tough.

Then again, usually there are other people around in those instances. Maybe Haku is allowing himself to be more vulnerable because it’s you?

Ha. Of course not.

“Is something bothering you, Haku?” you ask, snapping your textbook shut, “We can talk about it.”

“Actually, yeah,” he sighs, stretching his arms above him and tucking them behind his head, “I want to know what you think of me, you know?”

You tilt your head at the odd question, bringing a finger to your lips. Haku’s eyes dart to your mouth, and you chalk it up to him being drawn to your sudden movement.

“Well, I think you’re a massive flirt. And you take things way too far with it,” you point out, not missing the way Haku places a hand over his heart dramatically, “But you’re also very smart and kind. You’re dependable, perspective, and strong. I like going on missions with you because I know that everything will turn out okay.”

You have flashbacks to Frostheim’s destroyed building, Sinostra’s huge detonation, and Vagastrom’s prison riot. Nothing like that has ever happened when you’ve been with Hotarubi.

Or, more specifically, Haku.

“Does that mean you enjoy spending time with me?” he presses, a teasing lint to his voice.

“I do. Thought that was obvious,” you laugh, and Haku straightens up immediately.

It was absolutely not obvious. Not at all.

“So...if I were to ask you on a date, what would you say?” he leans closer, giving you his best smoldering stare, and then—

You frown.

“Haku, I told you, it’s not funny to joke around like that. You’re gonna give someone the wrong idea.” you huff, opening your textbook again.

—he bonks his forehead on the table.

Shot down again.

[luna-azzurra]

Dark Romance Prompts #1

↠ The Captor Who Shouldn’t Have a Heart (But He Does And It’s Beating for Her) She’s been taken. Not by accident. Not by mistake. He wanted her, so he took her. She should hate him, does hate him, but the more time she spends locked in his world, the harder it is to tell where the fear ends and something darker begins. Because the real problem isn’t escaping. It’s that a twisted part of her isn’t sure she wants to.

↠ The Hitman Who Was Supposed to Kill Her, But Couldn’t. She saw something she shouldn’t have, and now there’s a price on her head. He was supposed to pull the trigger, but the moment he looks into her eyes, everything changes. She’s terrified of him, and she should be. He’s done unforgivable things. But now he’s the only thing standing between her and the monsters worse than him.

↠ The Villain’s Bargain (Where Love Is Just Another Kind of Trap) She made a deal with the wrong man. A deal she knew was dangerous, but desperation made her reckless. Now, she belongs to him, body, soul, and whatever’s left of her sanity. And he likes watching her struggle. But the more she fights, the more fascinated he becomes. The real game isn’t power anymore. It’s control. And neither of them knows who’s really winning.

↠ The Underground Fighter Who Can’t Decide if He Wants to Protect Her or Ruin Her. She wandered into the wrong place, at the wrong time, and now she’s tangled up in a world of illegal fights, blood money, and a man who is nothing but danger wrapped in bruised knuckles and whispered threats. He should scare her. He does scare her. But when he fights, it’s not just survival in his eyes. It’s something else. Something dark. And it’s looking at her.

↠ The Mafia Prince Who’s Always Had His Eyes on Her. She’s off-limits. Untouchable. A good girl who doesn’t belong anywhere near his world. He’s cruel, merciless, and doesn’t care about things like  

↠ morality. But when someone else threatens to take her, his patience snaps. If the world won’t keep her safe, he will. Even if it means keeping her for himself.

[mysteriousxgirls]

Luna sat frozen, confusion threading through every inch of her aching body as she watched him. Azriel's movements were sharp, erratic—his pacing like a storm barely contained by the concrete walls around them. His voice, when it lashed out, was louder than she’d ever heard it. Harsher. Each word landed like a blow. She didn’t understand. Why this much rage? Why now? Through all of it, her eyes remained soft, pleading. She didn’t interrupt—didn’t defend herself at first. But when he called her reckless, stupid… something inside her began to crack. “I— I know,” she said, her voice small. “And I apologized…” But he didn’t stop. Not even when the weight of his fury carried him to the edge. Not even when he grabbed the mug and flung it. The crash against the wall was deafening, ceramic exploding like shrapnel. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Azriel!” she gasped, forcing herself upright with a groan as pain tore through her ribs. But it didn’t stop her. Nothing could. She reached him in three limping steps, grabbed his arm, forced him to face her. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded, her voice shaking with more than just pain. “I know you came for me. I know you got hurt because of me. And I thanked you. I apologized. What more do you want?” Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and fast. Her hand moved to his chest, holding him back, her other clutching his wrist to stop him from walking into the broken mess at their feet. Her heart was pounding, not from fear—but from the weight of him. “I killed for you, Azriel,” she said, barely above a whisper, her voice fraying. “I killed a man.” Her gaze locked on his, wide, shimmering, vulnerable. She didn’t blink. She couldn’t. “I sliced his throat. Took another in the eye with a piece of glass. All I thought about was you.” Her voice cracked under the weight of it all. “So what are you trying to say?” she cried. “That I’m selfish? That I ruin everything? That I should’ve stayed out of it? That you hate me?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Because it feels like you do.” Her hands dropped, defeated, trembling. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to be around you without caring more than I should.” Her chest rose and fell, uneven and broken.

Azriel stood motionless, the weight of her words pressing against his chest like a vice. Inside, something uncoiled—slow and heavy, like smoke curling through ribs too used to bracing for pain. The bunker was cold, but he didn’t feel it. Not compared to the chill settling behind his sternum. I won’t call you again. I promise. The promise had landed like an accusation, like a punishment she thought he deserved. And that was what made his jaw clench, made his lungs tighten beneath the weight of something unspoken. “Don’t.” One syllable split the quiet open like a blade through frostbitten glass. It hung in the air leaving silence gasping in its wake. “Don’t promise me that,” he bit out, the weight of it dragging gravel through his voice. A muscle twitched violently along his jawline, the only outward sign of the war tearing through him, barely contained beneath skin stretched too tight over rage, over heartbreak.

The bed beneath him groaned under his shifting weight, a tortured sound from rusted springs protesting his presence.“You think that’s what I need from you?” he murmured, voice now a quiet storm. “To watch you walk away and pretend that it’s a favour?” His gaze, once hard and distant, dragged itself down to her like a reluctant tide, finally surrendering to the pull he’d tried to resist. There she was—curled like something wounded, bandages clung to her hand, soaked slightly through, pale fabric against the raw geography of a body that had bled for something reckless. A pause—thick as molasses, bitter with everything neither of them could name. “Fuck’s sake, Luna.” The sound of her name cracked from his chest like something sacred and furious all at once. He surged to his feet with the kind of violence only grief can ignite, boots striking the ground as he strode forward, then spun to begin pacing. “Do you not get it? Are you really that fucking stupid?” His voice lashed through the room, sharp enough to peel skin. He laughed then, bitter and broken. “You nearly got us all killed tonight. You ignored every order, every fucking warning, to play cat and mouse with a guy ten times your size.” He turned, voice rising again—each word hurled like it might wound her enough to match the chaos inside him. “And I still fucking came for you. Still dragged your bleeding body out of that warehouse. Still got shot for you, Luna!” The words struck the air like fists, unforgiving and relentless.

And then the dam broke. His hand closed around the chipped ceramic mug on the side table, and before the thought even finished forming, he hurled it with a guttural roar. It exploded against the wall. The shatter was deafening—a sharp, chaotic crack that ricocheted through the bunker. Fragments burst outward in a scatter of ceramic shrapnel, one shard embedding itself into the plaster like a final punctuation mark. The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was a crater. Wide and hollow. His chest heaved as he stared at the broken pieces.

[theonlyonesora]

Moonless Night

Synopsis. How he reacts to you having a miscarriage in the middle of the night

Pairings. (SEPARATE) Carlos sainz x Reader, Max verstappen x Reader, Lewis Hamilton x Reader, Fernando alonso x Reader

Carlos Sainz

It happened in silence, like a shadow crossing the moon. Blood on your thighs, trembling fingers, the numb sting of knowing. Carlos found you on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., eyes wide, lips bloodless, the soft whimper caught in your throat like broken glass.

He didn’t speak. Just fell to his knees beside you, arms wrapping you with desperation. His shirt soaked with your grief.

“No, no, mi amor…” he whispered, as if saying it enough times would undo it.

You sobbed into his chest. You felt broken. And he, always so composed, let the tears fall down his cheeks as he kissed your hair and held you like you were still everything.

Because you were.

Max Verstappen

Max wasn’t built for softness. He didn’t always have the words. But when he answered your scream in the dark and found you trembling in bed, blood pooling beneath your nightgown, all his edges crumbled.

“No... God—” His voice cracked.

He carried you to the hospital himself, one arm cradling you, the other clutching your hand so tightly you could feel his pulse through his palm.

Later, when the sterile silence of the hospital swallowed your sobs, Max sat beside you, staring at nothing. His hand never left yours.

“It's not your fault,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “None of it.”

And when you turned to him, hollow and undone, he leaned in, resting his forehead to yours.

“I should’ve protected you both,” he whispered.

You squeezed his hand back, and he finally cried.

Lewis Hamilton

The hotel room was too quiet. When the pain hit, your cry woke Lewis instantly, panic flooding his voice before his feet hit the floor.

“Love? What’s happening?”

When he saw the blood, his body froze. Just for a second. Then instinct took over—blankets thrown back, towels, trembling hands holding you, whispering comfort even as tears pooled in his eyes.

The ER lights were cold. The answers colder. And when the nurse finally left, Lewis pulled you close in the little hospital bed, your head to his chest, his hand on your belly.

“We’ll grieve together,” he whispered. “I’m not letting go of you. Not for a second.”

You clung to him like a prayer. Because in that moment, his embrace was the only thing holding you together.

Fernando Alonso

It had been too early to tell anyone. A dream cradled in silence. A secret shared in pillow talk and soft smiles. So when it all went wrong, it shattered like stained glass in your chest.

Fernando was already awake when it happened, instinct pulling him toward you before you could even cry.

“I think… it’s gone,” you whispered.

And something in his face broke. He knelt at your feet, pressing a kiss to your knees, his hands stained with grief.

“I would’ve been a terrible father,” he muttered.

“You would’ve been perfect,” you whispered through tears.

And he climbed into bed with you, tangled in your sorrow, pressing your hands to his heart.

“I didn’t know I could want something so much until I saw it in your eyes,” he said.

And he held you, until the night surrendered to mourning.

[kxsagi]

Hellooo !! I am a newbie around your blog but i loved your writings so i wanted to ask for sth myself aswell. If youre uncomfy with the scenario or dont have time , you can skip this...🩵

Can i ask for a Shidou fic where the reader is a ring fighter ? We know how he tends to get violent and for the scenario , sth happens and he gets physical as always but he is in the wrong. So the reader -his gf- stops the fight and *kindly* beats him up for being too problematic when he is the one at fault. Thats how he learns about her being a fighter and then he is like "that was hot 🥵"

(I def imagine him having the exact same reaction if he ever happens to have a gf who fights well lol)

“𝐰𝐚𝐡𝐡𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐞 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧)”

a/n: FIRST PART OF THE TITLE IS A JOKE

also the header image is from a kdrama called "my name" REWATCHED IT TWICE CUZ THE FEMALE MC ATE SO HARD (HAN SO HEE ILY)

you knew dating shidou ryusei came with side effects. 

like the fact that you could never take him anywhere without him turning it into a wrestling match with someone who looked at him wrong. or the fact that the phrase “it wasn’t that deep” didn’t exist in his vocabulary. or how the last time you brought him to a kickboxing gym, he tried to suplex a guy because “he was breathing with attitude.” 

but this time? he really crossed the line. 

some guy had bumped into him at a food stall. didn’t even spill anything. apologized and everything. but shidou? nah. your lovely, slightly rabid boyfriend decided that was personal disrespect and squared up like it was a street fighter arcade. 

“RYUSEI!” you screamed across the crowd, pushing your way through the chaos. by the time you reached him, he had already yanked the poor dude by the collar, eyes glowing like he was auditioning for a villain role. 

“say sorry like you mean it, punk,” he growled. 

“he already did, dumbass!” you got between them, hands firm on his chest. “let go.” 

“nah babe, i’m teaching him a lesson. no one disrespects me and walks –” 

and that’s when you did it. 

a quick hook to his jaw. not too hard, just enough to snap his head to the side and drop his grip. the entire crowd gasped. shidou stumbled back, eyes wide and a slow, amused smile crawling up his face. 

“… what the hell was that?” he asked, sounding a little too delighted. 

you cracked your neck. rolled your shoulders. stepped into stance like the ring had materialized right under your feet. 

“you wanna act like a rabid animal?” you said calmly. “cool. then i’ll put you down like one.” 

he lunged, instinctively, more playful than serious, but you side-stepped, grabbed his wrist, and spun him around in a clean takedown. his back hit the pavement. hard. 

“oh fuck –” he wheezed. 

you sat on his chest, pinning him with one hand and brushing your hair back with the other. people had started recording. some were cheering. the guy he was about to punch earlier just slowly backed away into the crowd, like nope, not my circus anymore. 

“ryusei,” you said sweetly. “you done?” 

he blinked up at you. his lip was bleeding a little. there was actual sparkle in his eyes. 

“… you’re a fighter,” he whispered, stunned. 

“no shit,” you muttered. 

“you fought me.” 

“because you were being stupid.” 

“… and you won.” 

you stared at him. “are you… are you turned on right now?” 

he grinned, eyes still dazed. “babe, that was the hottest thing i’ve ever seen in my life.” 

you sighed, finally letting him go. “you’re insufferable.” 

he sat up, laughing, wiping blood from his lip like it was a souvenir. “i think i just fell in love again.” 

“you’re such a menace.” 

“no, but seriously, why didn’t you tell me you could do that?” he asked, jogging after you like a puppy as you walked away from the scene. “you took me down like it was nothing, that was so badass. do you do flips too? do you have a cool fight name? wait, do you do like, underground matches where there’s a bell and everything?” 

“ryusei –” 

“please tell me you’ll chokehold me again sometime.” 

you stopped walking. turned slowly. and in the most threateningly gentle voice possible, you whispered: 

“only if you start another fight in public again.” 

he raised both hands. “say less.” 

and that was the day shidou ryusei learned three things: 

your left hook is a warning. 

your takedown is a promise. 

he’s definitely into girls who can kick his ass. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢