#but sometimes it’s the minute things that get to you…you know?

[wispstalk]

"you can just sell her firewood to make her marriageable" listen. Read too much into an obscure one-note NPC with me for a minute. Of course Gilfre Mixwatermill thinks the dragonborn chopping wood is the hottest thing she's ever seen. All her workers left to go die in a war or whatever. Her only neighbors are giants, whose herds are threatened by goddamn dragons. And she goes on running the mill by herself bc people still need boards and shit. World's ending, but we all gotta make a living.

You happen by and need some travel money, so you put in a day's labor. After all that hard work, you can crash in the old workers' house but it's been empty for a while, it's a wreck, maybe the animals have been at it. You're already tired from slaying the dragon that encroached on her neighbors. You need a good night's rest before you move on, because there's another dragon waiting half a day up the road. Too bad tho. You're not gonna get any sleep, because Gilfre Mixwater Mill has invited you up to her house to get your back blown out.

And of course she has! Maybe because you're the propecied savior come to deliver us all from the end times, but mostly because you did some work to keep her mill going. And you were sweaty and shirtless and grunting like a fucking bear about it. Who among us would deny that, I ask you.

I know we love to joke about bethesdas ~environmental storytelling~ bc of all the skeletons with nearby books on How To Become a Skeleton, but they are good at it sometimes. Her fucking environment!!!!!!! bethesda give me a new game I can't keep living like this

[littlesoulshine]

with sam gone trying to get food and dean in the shower, your bed felt too big and too cold without them. you curled your fingers around the silk sheets, bare legs tangling in the fabric as you let out a soft sigh. dean had disappeared into the bathroom nearly twenty minutes ago, and the sound of running water had long since died.

"deeeean," you called, voice syrupy-sweet, teasing, but there was no answer.

you pouted, shifting onto your stomach, the soft bounce of your chest against the mattress making you shiver. maybe he got caught up shaving? you knew he liked to take his time sometimes, but this was ridiculous.

another minute passed, then another, and finally, with a huff, you slipped off the bed, padding barefoot toward the bathroom door.

your hand barely brushed the handle when it swung open—slammed open, actually—and there stood dean, sweat beading along his brow, chest heaving beneath his half-unbuttoned flannel. his belt was barely looped back through, his jeans riding scandalously low, and his knuckles were white where they clenched the doorframe.

"jesus," he rasped, voice thick, wrecked. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. he looked...worn out.

your brows furrowed, but before you could say anything, something slipped from his grip—a glossy magazine. a playboy magazine. the one from that old playboy shoot, the one with you sprawled out on the hood of a red pickup trunk with nothing but a flannel showcasing your tits, little daisy dukes pooled at your cowboy boots, brown cowboy perched on your head, and lips parted in a coy little ‘o.’

the moment stretched with realization hitting you like a truck. your lips parted, a knowing smirk curling at the edges.

"you were jerking off to me?"

dean let out a shaky breath, wiping a hand over his face like he was trying to pull himself together, but his cock—still straining against the front of his jeans—said otherwise.

"fuckin’ hell, sweetheart," he muttered, finally meeting your eyes, and damn if he didn’t look wrecked. "how the hell am i supposed to handle this when you're right there?"

your stomach flipped, heat pooling low, a slow, teasing giggle slipping from your lips as you stepped closer.

"you poor thing," you purred, dragging a manicured finger down his sweat-slick chest. "maybe next time, you should just take me to bed instead of locking yourself up in here all alone."

dean groaned, the sound rough, needy, and when you pressed up against him, his whole body shuddered.

"yeah?" his hands found your hips, grip bruising. "then get your ass back in bed, bunny. ‘cause i ain't wasting another goddamn second."

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel @zepskies @liiiilsss

[navydoves]

Cat!Zayne and his strange affectionate habits

you love your kitty boyfriend, but he does some strange things!

✎ᝰ a/n: highly requested kitty zayne is now part 4 of this series. im gonna do a "habits while in heat" sister series so if you wanna be tagged just tell me. caleb is gonna be the last one to complete the 5.

bunny xavier mermaid rafayel dragon sylus

⭐︎

❥ he’s likes waiting. kitty zayne is very patient. he’ll never whine or complain (too much) about how long you’ve been gone or how far away mealtime is. he’ll definitely miss you, yes, but he likes focusing on the fact that you’re with him now.

he’ll sit by you on the bed and wait for you to wake up, but he’ll do this for hours if he needs to. if he wants to play or spend time with you but you’re busy, he’s perched right beside you quietly just very patiently waiting. you feel a little bad sometimes, but zayne reassures you by telling you that he doesn’t mind waiting. that all he cares about is getting you as his reward.

❥ he holds you with his tail. zaynes favorite form of physical affection is gripping onto you for dear life with his tail. it’s very casual too. when you’re doing dishes he’ll come up behind you and peck your scalp while his tail wraps around your waist. he’ll wrap his tail around your wrist in public to guide you and show affection.

he especially loves wrapping his tail around you when you’re asleep with him. with his strong arms under your armpits and around your chest and his tail either wrapped on your thigh or midsection, zayne refuses to go to sleep any other way. it’s a bit suffocating but zayne is naturally cool-skinned so it doesn’t make you overheat.

❥ he has sensory issues. because of this zayne is very particular about what he sleeps on, the texture of his food, how his ears/tail/nails are trimmed, etc. you’ll see him on the bathroom very meticulously snipping away at his hair to ensure it’s always clean and neat because it’ll bother him if it’s any other way. it’s also a plus to know he’s very clean.

he’s usually adverse to getting too close to someone because he also very easily overheats. which is why when he cuddles you, you’ll see him use his evol on his skin. similarly he prefers wearing very light clothing or being just straight up naked in bed because it helps him with temperature and also, he likes you feeling his bare body <3.

❥ he’s subtly territorial. he likes to remind you and everyone else around you that you’re his and vice versa. he’s not the type to whine or pout about it, but he’ll do things like stare people down or wrap his tail around your ankle if they’re being too friendly with you.

he also likes scenting you in every way possible. you think his head nudges and rubs are purely affectionate, but he also does them to get his natural kitty scent on you. its not a once or twice thing, its constantly throughout the day. especially when your scent is gone after a shower he’ll take like 10 minutes just to cover you in his smell again.

❥ he massages (kneads) you a lot! it’s well known that cats like kneading when they’re happy, but zayne likes to call it “massages”. this is because he only ever kneads you. his favourite places are your tummy and your thighs, but he’ll take anywhere.

very firmly but still gentle, he cups your soft flesh and squeezes or rubs with his large palms. even kitty zayne knows anatomy pretty well, so he’ll target the areas where the biggest muscle groups are or where you complain about being achy. it’s very soothing and somewhat erotic at times because his attention is fully on you. likes it’s a job to him play with your chub and skin.

❥ he’s at your beck and call. if zayne is gonna do something its gonna be listen to you. zayne is not submissive by nature, but he enjoys taking care of you so much that he’ll let you boss him around. he’s not a dog, but he’ll fetch if you ask.

if you ask him to cook he’ll cook for the next few days and always serve you first. if you ask him to use his car he’ll drive you himself and give extra money. if you ask him to jump he might just ask how high. it’s not overbearing by any means, it’s actually rather domestic and husband-like. he does things for you silently but his tail wags always indicate how happy he is doing it. ⭐︎ hey frens tags : @otomegamesforlife , @chersyluvs

[lovelybucky1]

i love your go greek!au and i was wondering if you have anything smutty with matt? thinking about matt lately!

i’m always thinking about matt // go greek masterlist // cw: dry humping, light dirty talk, semi-public sex, light exhibitionism, interrupted sex // 18+ minors dni

You have no idea how a blind man can wrestle, let alone kick your ass at it. Boxing is his strong suit, but no matter how much you begged him, Matt refused to put you in a situation where he potentially could hurt you. Instead, you settled on wrestling in the living room. It’s just as physical but instead of throwing punches he is just trying to pin you down. And pin you down he did.

“Matt,” you whine, squirming as he holds your wrists down above your head. The carpet is scratchy on your bare skin, but the feeling Matt’s thigh between your own distracts you from any discomfort.

“What was all that talk about giving me a run for my money?” he asks.

He took his glasses off before you started and now you can see his eyes, hazel and unfocused. You’ve seen them before but never this close.

“No fair,” you huff, still struggling.

“This is perfectly fair, sweetheart. If anything, you had the advantage.” Bullshit.

“I wasn’t ready!”

Matt chuckles. “Okay, fine.” He drops to the floor next to you, laying on his back, and pulls you on top of him. You mirror the position he was in moments ago, though your hands brace yourself on the floor next to his head instead of holding his wrists. “If you can pin me down, you win.”

“You’re already down,” you point out.

“Pin me down and keep me there.”

It’s unfair, you know it is. You’ll never have a chance, but you have to try.

You sit your weight on his abdomen and put your hands near his elbows, pressing them down. He struggles for a minute but you discover it’s all for show when he pushes his arms up and grabs your wrists. You manage to break his hold, but when he places his hands on your waist, you forget the objective of the game.

You shriek his name as he slides you back to sit on his thighs. The feeling of the bulge in his shorts is unmistakable through your compression shorts. The battle seems to have taken a pause, neither of you moving until you speak up.

“Does this mean I win?”

“You consider this winning?”

“You’re not moving, right?” you ask, teasing him.

To prove you wrong, Matt rolls his hips which brings you along for the ride. You hum. No, you didn’t win, but it doesn’t exactly feel like you’ve lost either.

In a flash, he has you on your stomach, face down on the floor. He drapes himself over your back with his body weight holding you down. He doesn’t crush you, and based on the way his forearms flex, he’s supporting himself so he doesn’t do just that.

“I think I won,” Matt says in your ear. He rubs himself on your ass and the friction is delicious for him, even through his gray sweatpants and your gym shorts.

“We never decided on what the winner gets,” you reply, deciding that if you’re pinned, the next best thing is to tease.

“I have some ideas,” he says. “You could buy me dinner. Y’know, dress up all pretty and take me out. Maybe I’ll have you do my assignments for the next week. Environmental law can be a real bitch, so it might take you some time.”

He leans his weight on his left side so he can use his right arm to wrap around your middle, pushing your hips even closer to his.

“Or you could let me have you right here.”

Right here is in the living room which is right off the front door. Anyone could walk in, anyone could see you letting Matt take everything he wanted from you, all because he won at a game that was always rigged in his favor.

“Since when did you become so shy?” he asks as if he can read your mind. “Suddenly you have a problem with the guys seeing you like this?”

Matt, for a charming and sweet as he is, can be mean sometimes. All the other guys treat you like a princess and while you bask in their attention, there’s something addictive about the way Matt treats you. He knows you won’t break and he wants to push you, wants to see how dirty everyone’s perfect angel will get.

“How ‘bout we just stay like this, huh?”

He continues to rub against you and you sneak your hand down your front, seeking friction of your own. He groans when he realizes what you’re doing, touching yourself for him.

“There’s my girl. Just stay still for me.”

His voice is like velvet and it stirs something deep within you. You’re a good girl, you know you are, but Matt brings out a primal need, one you’ve never let yourself indulge in. Whenever he gets like this, it’s like something possesses him.

You have no idea how close he is. He might be planning on dragging it out and really enjoying his winnings, or he might want it quick and dirty. You never get to find out his intentions, though, because Wade and and Logan walk in on you.

“On the floor, Murdock?”

“Fuck off.”

[inosukijiro]

✮⋆˙ sammy

𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ the first time you call him sammy.

𖤐 𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 .ᐟ i had this idea bc ik he hates it when ppl call him that — except dean sometimes. but the other day i was real sad, and i just want a sam to treat me soft yk. anyways hopefully u all like it 🤧 sammy is such a cutie name tho

𖤐 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 .ᐟ fluff. crying reader, reasons not specified. hurt/comfort, emphasis on the comfort. sam-centric. gender-neutral reader. can be read as modern reader in spn, or not. isn’t season specific, but written with earlier seasons in mind. probably ooc.  2.1k words.

   ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───

The first time you call him Sammy, he hates it. He hates it because he hates the way it sounds. It's ringing in his ears. The way it comes off your tongue is putrid and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It’s unexpected and it has him gapping. He hates it the most, though, because you’re crying.  

There’s a laundry list of reasons why he hates it. But none of those reasons have anything to do with you. Even then, you’ve never slipped up, never even come close to saying it. Maybe you’ve thought about it, maybe you haven’t — Sam isn’t a mind reader. But he’s pretty sure you know he doesn’t like it. You’ve heard him shut others down before, made it clear it was off-limits. Whether or not you ever wondered why never really crossed his mind. It could be that you’re just understanding. You’re always patient with him, always respectful. It wouldn’t surprise him, though, if you already knew.

It’s in the way you glance at him whenever someone else says it, some stranger who doesn’t know better. The way your eyes flick to his, gauging his reaction, but you never ask. Never push. Never assume you have the right. It’s like you already get it — that to him, Sammy is a chubby twelve year old with too big eyes and an even bigger heart, a kid who still believed in things before the world beat it out of him. Sammy is powerless. Sammy is soft. And Sam has spent his whole damn life trying to be anything but.

Dean gets away with it — most of the time. Some days, it doesn’t sting as much. Other days, it makes his skin crawl. But you? You never try. Never tested the boundaries of what he’ll allow, like it’s some kind of game. You call him Sam. Just Sam. Nothing more, nothing less.

However, that doesn’t matter right now because you’re crying. Because you’re hurting so much that it’s spilling out of you, raw and unfiltered, past your lips in desperation. And Sam knows — knows you’d never call him that on purpose, never say it just to get under his skin. You know how much it bothers him. But right now? He can’t bring himself to care. Because how could he, when your voice is shaking, when your hands are trembling, when whatever pain you’re carrying is heavy enough to make you forget something so simple? He wouldn’t be mad at you — not really. He actually doesn’t think he could ever be mad at you. Especially not when you’re looking at him like that, like you need him to be steady, to be something solid when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.  So he swallows whatever flicker of irritation tries to rise in his chest and focuses on what actually matters. You. 

You, who’s crying. You're crying and you won’t stop. It’s the kind of crying that shakes your whole body, that makes your breaths come out in sharp, broken gasps. And Sam doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t ever seen you cry like this before. Maybe a quiet sniffle, or a small tear you’d quickly wipe away when you thought no one was looking — but never this.

He hadn’t expected this when he came back to the motel room. Dean had dropped him off before heading out to the bar down the street. It's the usual thing he does to celebrate another successful case. While Sam would’ve loved to join, he really didn’t. You were here and Sam could never stay away from you for too long. All Sam wanted to do was be with you and go to bed. 

But he hears it the minute he walks up to the door. It's muffled through the walls and the wood, but he can hear it clear enough. The sounds of heartbreaking cries and Sam grows frantic.  He’s quick to get the key in the door to unlock it. And no sooner does he do so, as he pushes it open, he finds you. He finds you sitting on one of the beds — at this point he isn’t sure which one it is and he doesn’t think you do either. Neither of you actually care, because that isn’t the concern. 

The sight before him is, and it breaks his heart. But he rushes in; fast and swift. The door shuts behind him with a clunk, and he sees you jolt. And all Sam can think to do is gather you up in his arms.  Because Sam isn’t some heartless freak that would close the door and walk away. His brain is too frazzled to think about anything else. He needs to hold you. He needs to calm you down. The tears streaming down your face tell him that you've been crying for hours. And just a little, it makes him sick, thinking that you’ve been upset for that long. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, your face buried in his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear into him. And all Sam can do is hold you. His arms wrapping around you so carefully, so gently, as if he’s afraid you’ll break apart completely if he isn’t careful — like you're fragile. 

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers softly. “I'm here.” He soothes as he holds you. “Just breathe f’me, okay?” His voice is steady, even if everything else isn’t. You’re wrapped up in him, as your body trembles. It's not just from your crying. No, it’s one of those involuntary shudders. He cradles the back of your head with his hand, helping you press yourself further into him. It’s almost as if he's shielding you as you hide away from everything. And while Sam might not know what that everything is, he’ll find it and make sure it never bothers you again. 

And that’s when he hears it. It’s muffled against the fabric of his flannel, and just low enough that he would’ve missed it. But he can’t. Because you’ve kept repeating his name through your broken sobs. It’s rapid before it slows. You say his name like you're trying to convince him of some urgency without having to say anything else. And then he realizes that you aren’t just saying his name by the time you start teetering on the edge of calming down. You hiccup and sniffle, and he can feel the heat of your tears against his neck.

The world around him seemed to fade and the sound of the highway outside dulled to nothing. He freezes for a brief moment, his breath hitched as those syllables hit his ears. So soft but shattered — fragile and so, so heavy. It was gut wrenching, and the way you had said it was different. It was different then he’d ever heard it before. Dean said it with familiarity, obviously — sometimes teasing, sometimes sharp, sometimes warm, sometimes just to mess with him. But you? It wasn’t just his name anymore. It was everything you had been feeling. All the hurt and exhaustion and desperation bundled into those two syllables — and he feels that flicker of irritation in his chest shift.

That irritation changes into something intense and unhinged. It burns in his lungs and coils around his heart. He felt cheated, robbed of something precious — because he had always wondered how it would have sounded had it ever left your mouth. Because he trusts you so much that he’d imagine it plenty of times. He imagined it sultry and light, full of love and care. The way you’d look at him like he hung the moon and stars. He pictured the way your lips would curve around the syllables, how the name would dance from your tongue and into his ears. And even if Sam thinks he doesn’t deserve it, amongst all the things that haunt and plague his mind; he thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he had ever heard it like that, it would’ve healed something in him.

But now, in contrast to everything else, the name began to taste like salt and sorrow. 

You don’t really say anything else after that and it's clear that you don’t really know what to do next either. All you do is try and sink deeper into him, and Sam lets you. He’s patient as your breathing slowly begins to even out as he lets his warmth encase you. Your head lays so lazily against his shoulder, as does your body against his — so defeated, so worn out. And Sam feels just a bit guilty the moment he pulls away and your face is forced to emerge. 

He watches as your lip trembles as you take deep breaths. And a soft, small whimper nearly escapes your throat before he's pressing sweet kisses into your skin. It doesn’t matter where they land, whether it’s your cheek or your nose, he’s peppering you with enough kisses before you could even think about working yourself up again.

“Hey hey hey,” he coos and frowns slightly at your tear stricken face.  “It’s okay, honey. I got you.” 

He studies your face as you look at him, your cheek squishing and settling into his cupped hand. You just look so tired. He moves to smooth the hair away from your face and comes to the decision that he can’t just leave you like this. To leave you with dry tear tracks along your face and to wake up feeling miserable. No, he can’t have that. As gentle and loving as Sam can, he presses a kiss to your forehead and gingerly uses his thumbs to wipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. 

He’ll suggest ever so lightly to get you cleaned up. He murmurs it ever so tender, afraid of uttering any words too loud. And you don’t argue. You don’t wave him off — you don’t have the strength to. Instead you nod weakly and follow his lead as he sits you up. He moves fast, grabbing a washcloth that isn’t too far away in the bathroom and dampens it before dabbing at your cheeks. In fact, he wipes down your whole face so that there isn’t even a trace of your cries left. He moves more of your hair out of your face, the small strands of hair that were either dampened from your tears or the cloth, he isn’t sure. 

But his hands are steady. Sam is pretty sure that his hands have never been this steady in all his life. They’re precise and patient, soft in a way that is only reserved for you. And when you look up at him — with a small sad thankful smile and red rimmed eyes — he’ll just smile back reassuringly, pressing yet another kiss to your temple.  

He’ll ask if it's all better, and you’ll nod. You do seem much better now — calmer, more still — which Sam is glad for. And soon enough, the two of you are tucked tight beneath his covers, the warmth settling over you like a heavy, quiet comfort. You latch onto him immediately, burying your face as deep as you can into his chest, like you’re trying to disappear into the space between his ribs. Your grip on him, however, is no longer desperate but something softer, something lingering. His arms settle around you instinctively, holding you close. The slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing seems to lull you, your body finally relaxing against his. It’s peaceful. Almost perfect.

Though, a small ‘..ank you, ..ammy’ is murmured. The words drowsy, barely forming — melting into the warmth of him as sleep drags you under.

Sam tenses for half a second and his chest tightens briefly. But in the next moment, he isn’t paying it any mind. He doesn’t need to dwell on it. Instead, he just holds you tighter; pressing his lips to the crown of your head, lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him, and exhales.

He wonders if you’ll remember in the morning — if you’ll realize what you said, if you’ll apologize for it, or if you won’t even think twice. He thinks about if you’ll say it again. Because, yeah, he feels extremely robbed. The thought gnaws at him. It's like it's been tainted with something new and he’s almost eager for it to not be. And maybe it won’t be tomorrow, maybe not even next week, but eventually. Because somewhere, deep in that big, smart, dummy brain he has, he knows that you will say it again. And when you do, it’ll be soft, bright, and full of something that only he could wish for. 

He can already hear it. He can already imagine the way his nickname will sound when it’s spoken by you not through exhaustion or desperation, but through delight. And it’s already music to his ears. Because maybe — just maybe — being called Sammy wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if it’s coming from you.

𖤐 .ᐟ i feel like i rushed the end, but its literally 2 am and im tiredd.  anyways,, tysm for the likes, reblogs, and support i love writing these little stories for u all  ( • ̀ω•́ )✧

[handlemehyuck]

dreamies 𓍼 but, he’s dating your sister

you’re in love with dreamies, and you’re roommates with your sister. you see him all the time, and he sees you, too. he really sees you.

mark: it’s his folded frame in the middle of the night, seated in the armchair resting closer to the window than it ever has before. he apologizes and tells you he was planning on moving it back before he leaves like the small living room rearrangement would ever bother you. “are you ok?” you’re watching his profile and clutching a mug when he smiles, so you only see half of the expression, and it’s gone when his head turns to you. “i can’t be honest with you. i’m dating your sister.” you laugh and walk around the couch to sit at the end that’s closest to him. “i overhear your conversations. i’m never listening on purpose, but the walls are thin, and i don’t study with headphones in. the way you talk about the world is fascinating—there are a lot of things that i see the same way. it’s ok if she doesn’t always get it, but sometimes… at least sometimes she should be curious.” he smiles again, and this time, you see the entire thing. “are you curious?” your head falls to the side, and it’s about to brush the couch’s arm when your palm catches it instead. you wonder if he’s aware of the stars in his eyes. “i can’t be honest with you, mark lee. you’re dating my sister.”

renjun: it’s the way he looks standing in your bedroom, observing pieces of you all over the walls, displayed through photographs and magazine cutouts—printouts from pinterest. he sits on your bed with his hands in his lap and too many thoughts in his head to know where to start. he shouldn’t be here, but you’re here. you’re cracked open in this room. the air smells like you. your closet door is open. he can see the sweater you wore on christmas last year. he couldn’t get closer to you without crossing a line, so he’s sitting on your bed with his hands in his lap, breathing you in. fragmented thoughts pierce his tongue, beg him to open his mouth, but he’ll cross the line the moment his lips part. it’s as if you know as if you can see it from the window seat: “talk to me, please?”

jeno: he wakes you from a nap, his tone gentle, his body crouched in front of your sleeping self on the couch. he smooths back your hair without realizing he wanted to until his fingertips are already there. "hey, i'm sorry to wake you. you have class in 20 minutes. it didn't look like you had an alarm set. i don't even see your phone." he's whispering. the warmth of his breath smells of spearmint: it’s the gum he chews. the gum he offers you. the gum stashed in his car's glove compartment. he doesn't stand when you start to sit up. his hand slides down your arm and nearly caresses your waist before his touch is withdrawn. "thank you.” you rub your eyes, “i didn't mean to fall asleep."

haechan: it's his raw exhaustion and unmasked annoyance. it's your sister's arm around his shoulder and her purse hanging from his neck. it's the hoarseness in his voice and the darkness beneath his eyes. it's the forced smile and hidden embarrassment because he only wants you to see him at his best. "let me help. you should get home. isn't your shoot in three hours?" you feel his warmth—it saturated the entryway—when you step closer to take the weight of your wasted sister, who groans at the loss of his familiar contact and warmth, no doubt. "yes, i should... i'm sorry. leave some advil and water on her nightstand if you have any." he doesn't kiss her forehead. he doesn't whisper sweet nothings in her ear that turn your head away from the intimate moment. he's looking at you, and you've avoided his eyes far too many times to read their message this time.

jaemin: it's moments in the morning that make you fall in love with him. he's the first face you see on a sunday, floating around your kitchen like it's his and you're the welcomed guest. he's making breakfast. he went to three stores for the hazelnut creamer you can't drink coffee without. he brought the photography book you showed interest in reading. he asks about your classes and internship. his lazy smile perks up in front of you, it sparkles when you laugh. his messy hair shines beneath the kitchen lights. his voice flutters your eyes, but he blames it on the all-nighter you didn’t pull.

chenle: it's the conversations at night that make you fall in love with him. after dinner, while your sister is at pilates, he relaxes in the living room. he drinks a beer or accepts a cup of tea after your kettle whistles. you ask him questions, some surprise him, others he's never heard before, and a silence fills the space as he thinks, seated on the floor with his head tipped back and resting against the couch cushion. you stimulate his mind in a way your sister never could, and he knew that early on: he and your sister aren't a perfect match, but he convinced himself the gaps were small and barely noticeable. he’s convincing himself slipping through them to reach for you is an impossibility.

jisung: it’s his face in the audience at your recital, seated beside your best friend and three empty seats you reserved for your sister and parents. it’s his soft smile and the glow in his eyes that you find every time the choreography leads you back to stage left. it’s the bouquet of tulips he’s nervous to hand you that comes along with prideful praises, highlighting his knowledge of the art. it’s your best friend witnessing the exchange, and the scary fact that she knows all of your body’s signs when you like someone—love someone.

[afsalovescats]

helloo !! i was wondering if you could write something with beast dazai <3 maybe where hes readers husband or something like that ヾ(´▽｀;)ゝi feel like he would be a sweetheart with the one he loves

omg beast dazai is literally so AGGHHHHHHHH

need him.

heheheehe ^ 3 ^

sorry for being on and off u guys, luv u sm. take care of urselfs <3

Dazai was something. That was for sure. Your husband was a little crazy, but you didn't mind. He was so sweet with you.

Your husband has such a huge obsession with you. One of them is touching. You can't think of a time where his hands weren't on you. Caressing each part of your body, holding you, just skin against skin was something he favored. Its genuinely a problem since most of the time he genuinely could not function with you around. He needs to consume you whole, you think.

I mean despite him being a scary and complex figure, he masked that up pretty well..? You knew he loved his spouse- you, very dearly. You clutched his heart in your hands tightly, he simply could not resist you.

Perhaps this is why currently you are under him on the couch, his kisses softly yet slowly trace from your temple, to your forehead, your eyelid, nose and so on. You simply close your eyes basking in the moment. His semi chapped lips planting kisses wherever he could reach.

His hands trail against your body, touching anywhere, but he favored your waist. He loved any and every part of you.

Sometimes he didn't tell you things, but you knew there was something. You wouldn't bug him about it which he appreciated.

Then he nips at your neck slightly harsh and you instinctively your eyes shoot up. Glancing down at him. You keep on staring at him, telepathically communicating 'what was that for?'. He lets out a dry chuckle as if to telepathically communicate 'nothing'.

It seemed none of you wanted to break the quiet moment, nor the eye contact. So he slowly trails up, his lips finding yours. It fit perfectly, so perfect. you gently close your eyes as you reciprocate.

You didn't know for how long, but you knew it'd been a while. Kissing and smooching and combining lips, over and over again. Dazai's lip kept on finding yours as they continued their worship on yours. You then placed a hand over his heart, it was pounding. Sometimes he felt you were the only one who could make it beat, which sounded ridiculous but it was somewhat of an understatement.

"you know I can never resist you," he murmurs, but he didn't even have to. His eyes communicated with yours as a small smile graces his lips. He gently nips at your bottom lip, then traces it with his tongue. To apologize, you assume.

You get really content after a little. Really really content. You ended up falling asleep mid make out session. He didn't even really notice until after a minute. He pauses and furrows his brows. He felt offended for a second, 'am I boring you?' he thought.

But as quickly as it comes it goes. You looked so vulnerable. You trusted him if you fell asleep like this. He simply stares at you. Then plants a kiss as he dims the lights, enough to see you. Then grabs a blanket as he lays over your chest with the blanket covering you both.

After his eyes continue tracing your features as you slept peacefully, his hand gently slides up to yours. The one with the ring. The pretty one he got you, that you loved and adored. He eyes it. Bring's it up to his lips, kissing that finger. Then each knuckle and finger tip separately. This goes on for a little until sleep consumes him. You both fall asleep and wake up together later that day. You enjoyed moments like these. especially with him. Your husband and you.

[idorelyss]

LEILA OUAHABI X EXWIFE.ᐟREADER HEADCANONS

author note. here some headcanons to go along with those text messages since yall loved them so much ❤️ will def be writing a few fics about this.

━ the divorce between leila and you went as smooth as a divorce could possibly go. she signed the papers, moved out of the home you two bought, and agreed with whatever the court decided on. leila always had the mindset of you get whatever you want so even in the case of a divorce, she gave you what you desired. that doesn't mean she stop loving you or tried to move on. never that.

━ leila's new flat is only a ten minute drive away from your place. it doesn't even matter since she is always over your house. one thing that leila refuses to be is a deadbeat parent. marco sees her everyday, she's always taking care of him, making sure he has whatever he wants, and brags about you guys' son all the time. on days where she is too busy to come over, have away games, or international break, leila always calls and talks to marco for atleast an hour. sometimes she does take advantage, having marco help her beg to stay over. you can never say no to your son so you always give in.

━ everybody believes you two are still together because of the way leila acts. she will say "my wife" when talking about you with no shame. people closest to her know that you two are separated, but everybody else? nah. she still posts you for mother's day & your birthday, comments on your posts, and praises you whenever people ask her directly about you.

━ your attendance of man city matches have dropped since the divorce, but that number is not zero. marco loves going to see leila play. he also loves seeing and interacting with all the man city girls, so there are a few select matches where you will show up with marco with him dressed in a leila jersey while you're wearing someone else's. those are the best days for leila. she doesn't care that you aren't wearing her jersey, just seeing you in man city colors reminds her of when you two were together.

━ leila has serious jealousy issues. the moment she gets a small hint of you moving on, she is ready to argue. alongside that, leila will downplay anyone that you try to be romantic with. bragging that she's better, they can't take care of you like she did, they don't got money like she does, can't love you like she do. will and has found people you talk to then proceeded to either convince them that you two are still together or that they are just rebounds. absolutely hates the idea of anyone being a "step-mom" to marco. his only parents are you and her, that's it.

━ she hasn't been romantically involved with anyone since the divorce. she had one hookup, which was literally a week after the divorce, and the woman looked exactly like you. after that, leila just refuses to move on or look at anyone else. she wants you, simple as that.

━ your family still loves her, and she teases you about that all the time. she shows up to the family gatherings with no push back, quite the opposite. your mom & aunts love having her help in the kitchen, your father & uncles love watching football with her, your younger cousins are obsessed with hanging off of her & playing around with her. it's like the divorce never happened when she comes to a party. leila fits into your family like a glove.

━ her lockscreen and homescreen wallpaper is still a picture of marco & you. one that she took years ago; baby marco in your arms as you sit on the beach, smiling softly at the camera. it's her favorite photo of you and marco. your contact in her phone stays unchanged; princesa 💕 stays in her phone.

━ can't stop herself from flirting with you whenever she sees you. if you tell her to stop in a firm enough tone, she will, but besides that, she will sweet-talk you the entire time. also cannot stop herself from touching you. it's nothing crazy, just a short hug most of the time, but that's enough physical touch to satisfy her.

━ sends your gifts all the time. flowers, sweets, clothes, whatever you want or need, she got you. even when you tell her she doesn't have to, leila just shrugs you off. she always has to take care of you.

━ every time she's drunk, all restraint, she has falls away. she spam calls you, and if you don't answer, then she will just spam text you. she will be all up in your phone begging for you to take her back. talking about how she loves you, how she wants you back, how she wants her family back. one time, you blocked her, and somehow, she made her way onto your doorstep an hour later. when she's back sober, leila has no shame. she stands by whatever she said.

━ actually takes family therapy very seriously. despite having a smooth divorce and her being very present for marco, she still has worries on how transitioning from two parents in the same house to two different houses & his parents being apart will go for him. she cares deeply about being a good co-parent with you. neither of you will ever use marco against the other. he's your child, not a pawn.

━ will argue with you over text but refuse to argue in person. leila doesn't believe in yelling at each other and will talk calmly to you whenever you bring any issues you have with her in person. now, over text is a different story. she can antagonize you sometimes.

━ has marco's name and your name tattooed on her back.

[hufflepuffsthunderdome]

Flustered pt 4.

Summary: sex leads to some cute domestic moments as Schlatt hopes for more A/N: A tiny cute little bonus part that I wrote in like 20 minutes, because our favourite gooner @the-slimebox wanted more cuddles in pt 3 and I do play favourites. No gooning to this I'm afraid but I hope you enjoy regardless ily ❤️

It’s been months now of this weird game of cat and mouse; every time you or Schlatt were in the same city, he’d be in your hotel room, on his knees, eating you out the second you asked him to. He relished in the way you moaned and writhed above him, wanting nothing more than to please you, to feel you tug his hair, praise him, tell him how pathetic it is even.

Because he knows it’s pathetic, how easily he gives in and drops everything for you the second you ask, how hard he gets from hearing you moan for him, completely neglecting his own needs. He has you on an alter in his mind, this goddess who graces him with a second of her time that he should feel lucky to have, but fuck he wants more.

With a pornographic moan you clamp around him as you feel him pulse inside you, collapsing on top of him as he fills you up with his cum. He immediately wraps his arms around you as he pants into your hair, holding you close as you both come down from your high.

The room I quiet, music playing from his phone somewhere discarded in the room, the sounds of the city outside nothing but white noise as you lay together. You make no effort to move, nor even flinching when his soft cock slips out of you and his cum dribbles out, too exhausted to care.

He doesn’t dare move, just lying there and holding you tight to him. He’s not used to this. Usually, when you have sex, you’re the one stroking his hair, whispering how good he did as you encourage him to sleep, just to slip out of bed and sneak off before he can wake up.

His heart aches painfully as he hears the soft sigh fall from your lips, his own breath stuttering at how right this feels, to have you in his arms like this. He moves his hand, lazily dragging it up and down your back as he pressing his lips to your temple.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers, breaking through the silence as he lets himself speak just part of how he feels about you. He feels you tense up in his arms and his breath stutters as he worries he's ruined it all. You get like this sometimes, when he tells you these things after you've come down from your high. Tense and shy, you'll push him away under the guise of being playful while he desperately reaches out to pull you closer.

You don’t reply this time, though, no pushing him away, no laughing him off, just staying in his arms, slightly tense, breathing deep and long as you let him hold you. His hands on your body, his warmth surrounding you pulls you further into him as you let your eyes flutter shut and your body relax.

“Y/N?” he whispers softly into the room, breath shaking as he hears you hum in response, “will you stay the night this time?” he whispers, hands shaking with nerves as he finally manages to push out the question he desperately wants to ask you every time. The room goes silent for a while, as his hand still on the small of his back, anxiety settling in his stomach as he worries he's messed everything up.

Tiredness overtakes you as finally you nod gently into his chest, lulled by the sound of his pounding heartbeat as you press a kiss to his skin, feeling the way it heats up against your face, “yeah,” you whisper softly, “I'll stay.”

He feels the tears well up in his eyes as he holds you, letting out a sigh of relief as he feels your breathing against his chest even out. He keeps a hold on you, basking in the domestic bliss he has so desperately been craving for all these months. He doesn’t know when lust turned to love, but he holds onto these tiny moments of intimacy whenever he can.

He lets himself relax, keeping his grip firm on you, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away into the night as he lets his eyes shut, falling asleep with you for the first time since you started all this.

He wakes up the next morning, registering your gentle weight on his chest before he even opens his eyes and failing to hold back the smile that breaks out on his face. He opens his eyes lazily and looks down at you, still curled up where you collapsed against him the night before, hands wrapped tightly around him as you drool on his chest in your sleep.

He tightens his hold on you as he admires you while you sleep, the soft breathing through your parted lips breaking the early morning silence. He gently strokes his thumb against your cheek, smiling softly when you begin to stir against him.

Your eyes flutter open as you look up at him, blinking a few times as you process where you are. He’s smiling down at you, stroking your cheek as he looks at you in total awe. You feel your heart stutter in your chest as you look away bashfully for just a second, before he’s guiding your head back to face him.

“Morning,” he whispers simply, too scared to say all the words he wants to say as he takes in your presence, naked and clinging to him, right where you belong.

You blush as you look up at him, chin resting on his chest as you take in his messy curls and lazy smile, “morning,” you whisper back, before you’re resting your head against his chest again, chasing his warmth as he pulls you tighter.

[f4ggydog]

I NEED stalker/obsessed g!p Misty x reader. It’s all I can think about 🤭

okay so while writing this I admit I was listening to "the outsider" by marina and the diamonds not only mourning one of her peak songwriting eras but also because I feel like it fits Misty INSANELY WELL SO GO LISTEN TO IT TOO (anyways minors and dark content haters don't interact)

Misty can't connect the dots on when her obsession with you started to take root. It was the one mystery she couldn't solve. There shouldn't be anything that made you stand out from the average person, and Misty couldn't discover that one thing that made you special. But she knew that you were unique. She had a hunch. And when people were special to her, that also meant they were ripe for the taking.

Misty wanted to know more about you. And she would, no doubt about it. First, it started with discreet spying in the locker room. Misty wasn’t usually allowed in the locker rooms before practice because she didn’t have a soccer uniform to change into. After all, her job was only the equipment manager. She originally planned out multiple possibilities. Maybe Misty could bribe the coach into promoting her to a proper member of the team. If she could prove her worth, maybe she could even get upgraded to goalie.

But Misty’s skills weren’t promising. Whenever she’d practice on her own and people would notice, they’d simply laugh. And something told her that they were laughing at her, not with her.

So she went with the simpler approach, sneaking a camera into your back bag. The method seemed drastic and completely stupid, but it somehow turned out to be foolproof. For some reason, you never seemed to notice when a piece of technology slipped into your bag.

Then, to make matters seem even more unlikely, she managed to retrieve the little camera by the end. Granted, it was a mini one that was designed to not be noticeable. Every time you left for practice, Misty would quickly sneak into the locker room, when you were done changing, to snatch her little device.

When Misty got home, she peeled off her pants and would immediately start jerking. It was meant to be gooner bait. Misty didn’t care about savoring the moment or taking her time to enjoy your flawless, naked body. She was overwhelmed the minute she saw you on the camera and it didn’t take more than four minutes before cum spilled out of her veiny cock.

Misty would overstimulate herself, using her own hot cum to jerk herself off as lube. She’d usually just go for one round quickies, but when she felt adventurous, she’d sometimes aim for three rounds. But that was only the beginning of her depravity.

One day, Misty decided to create a little shrine in her room dedicated to you. The shrine would consist of little items that belonged to you that would be perfect for her collection. A couple of the items were innocent. Misty would swipe a pencil or eraser from you or tear off a piece of paper that you’ve written on. But then, the items got progressively more gross. At some point, Misty managed to snag the core of an apple that you’ve finished eating. When she brought the object home, it would become a routine for her to lick the teeth marks. She fished inside of the garbage for an old bandaid you threw out that had a spot of your dried blood on it. And the worst of offense of all, grabbing a pair of your underwear from the locker room when you weren’t looking. Though Misty only did this once because she worried you’d become suspicious if more undergarments disappeared. See? She really knew how to think ahead.

It wasn’t enough though. Jerking off to you on video wasn’t enough. Jerking off using your used underwear wasn’t enough. No, she craved the closeness to you. She needed to feel you pressed up against her. Misty needed to be so close to you that she could taste it.

But, what if you rejected her affection? What if you told her off and shooed her away for being a creep? (Like any rational person would) What if you accepted her feelings but then realized she had a cock and suddenly lost your interest?

Misty couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t risk losing you. Not after everything she had been through. She couldn’t lose the love of her fucking life.

Sometimes people go to drastic measures for the ones that they care about most. And Misty was no exception to this rule. If she had to break the law, she absolutely would. If she had to risk potential prison time, she’d still be more than happy to take the chance. But losing you was not an option.

What was an option, though? Kidnapping.

[peachyforthis]

Brought to surface

In which you are “just friends” with wriothesley (as he thought so) and one day you “accidentally” send him a pic ;)

In honor of Wrio’s rerun and me getting him very early with 50/50!!!

Notes: lil smutty so read at your own risk, reader and wriothesley being friends with hidden feelings, fem! reader with a playful personality, au where people do have phones although they are not that advanced (ofc for the plot)

It’s been a gruelling week so far….

Breaking up serious fights in the Fortress, personally guiding new inmates to adjust to their new life and overviewing the reports of the Gardemeks stationed… Wriothesley has had a tough time. All he wants now is to retreat in his office for the day, his tea waiting to be made on the kitchen counter and the bed ready for his nap. There’s just this one short meeting he has to endure with Monsieur Neuvillette and a few of the court officials… a round-table conference type. Ugh.

Okay this is getting too long now, it’s been an hour of him sitting and debating with these officials to get additional funds for the Fortress. With each passing minute, he’s getting impatient… of course these “overworld” dwellers still don’t understand the workings here and how hard actual manual labour is. Although Neuvillette supports him in his ideas. Ah if only she was here… he laments. You understand these things better than anyone, considering you spent a good part of your time around here… with him. Even as one of Neuvillette’s trusted advisors, you preferred to visit more of the underground.. remaining alongside him. Atleast he could always count on you to back him up..

While the officials are busy viewing the reports and making their own discussions with Neuvillette, Wriothesley feels a vibration in his pocket. Oh, someone must have sent him something. He wondered whether it was you… considering it had been a while since you both had talked to each other, with your work sometimes being in Palais Mermonia. He couldn’t lie, he missed your company these days. The way you laughed at his sarcastic jokes or scolded him when he didn’t eat properly or was up too late… or when your occasional gentle touches on him lasted longer than it should have… ahem now wasn’t the time to be thinking this in a very professional meeting. He would just see the message and keep the phone back in his pocket. Yes, that’s it.

He realised too late that this was a very bad idea.

As he held up the phone to his face, he was greeted by a photo of your rear view with a huge chunk of your bare ass in a thong, face mostly hidden except for your lips which was stretched in a sly smile with one of your breasts barely hidden by your hand. He could tell your phone was propped up on the table with the counter behind you being his…

Along with the message, “Ah my bad! sent that by mistake ;)”

There are a few things in Teyvat which phases Wriothesley, and he was going to know that this was one of them.

Was this a joke? He was completely taken aback. When did you even come here?

Wriothesley?

The sound and a slight raised eyebrow on Neuvillette startles him back to the situation. Oh shit, he knows his face is flushed in shock as he feels the sensation of faint heat gracing his cheeks. It takes time for him to register what he has seen. Ah, you sly fox… making tea for him dressed like this…

Okay this is not the time… he coughs slightly, taking a deep breath and forcing himself back to reality. Thankfully, Wriothesley is a man of many talents, so even with his lower area getting too tight for comfort, he adjusts himself in a professional demeanour as always.

“My apologies, Monsieur… Must be the humidity in the air that’s getting to me. Now, what are your final thoughts on this budget?”

Thankfully the meeting goes smoothly and finishes soon after, much to Wrio’s relief. It had been hell focusing after the little stunt you pulled. He knew you always to be a bit playful and flirty with him but… this was something new entirely. Even though you both maintained your label as companions, deep down he wouldn’t deny how beautiful and smart you were. But he had always believed you didn’t really feel the same. As he escorts the guests to the exit elevator, he falls into his own thoughts, wondering what you might be doing now. Still waiting for him in those skimpy clothes in his kitchen or even in his room?

Wait—

Shit… he realizes now that he has officially gone beyond repair.

Now, he slowly creeps up the stairs to his office door, anticipation and nervousness bubbling in his throat as he tries to swallow it down. When did you start having an effect on him like this? He thought he always considered you as just a friend, save with the occasional flirting at times… but now… he couldn’t deny the desire he had for you. It has all been brought to the surface from the depths of his heart.

All these thoughts continued to float in his mind now… but the most prominent being that he understands there’s no going back after this. Nor does he want to as he swings the door open, eyeing you still sitting on his counter in your lingerie… sipping the tea you made in his cup.

“Hope the meeting went well.. Your Grace..”

If you guys like it I’ll make a part 2 soon heh^^

[aerkame]

Which version of Sun Wukong do you like the most? (Both in character and design)

Which one would be your final choice?

You can't just ask me to pick one like that. 😭 There are so many versions of Sun Wukong throughout history from different media.

My favorite version of Sun Wukong is the one from New Gods: Nezha Reborn. I can't even begin to express just how much I love his character overall once I began to take notes for writing him (I'm still taking notes, there are many details). Both his design and character were well thought out for the movie and it's such a shame that he didn't get his own movie or have more screen time.

PERSONALITY

I know Nezha Reborn Monkey King probably isn't everyone's favorite, but what won me over was the amount of details to his personality, missed easter eggs, and his overall design that both matches the world he's in and also makes him stick out. For starters, Monkey King in this version is quite scary in my opinion despite his silly old man act. I really do believe he is a silly guy who is just minding his business and having fun. Sometimes in the movie, he truly does act like a monkey (makes you wonder how no one figured him out yet, he even has a giant metal sculpture of himself with his motorcycle collection), swinging from chains, climbing around, making small noises at times, having too much energy to the point of not being able to hold still for a single minute... but he's an assassin, a hitman. Monkey King being easily hired by Ao Guang as a hitman in the past plenty of times is scary enough. On top of that, his behavior is pretty cutthroat as well.

Sure, he's a silly old man, but it's hard to ignore how he acts sometimes. Especially when he not only ate another yaoguai, but he offered a piece of the dead assassin to the very guy who hired that yaoguai to kill Nezha's reincarnation (Ao Guang). This Monkey King is also more than an expert at acting. I think he even has a portion of the fandom tricked. There are only a few times in the movie where he acts like his true self and it's mostly around Nezha's reincarnation (Ever notice that he knew ALL of the names of the previous ones?)

He goes from silly guy to the biggest threat in the room real quick. This Monkey King is a very morally grey one. He's done plenty of bad things and plenty of good from the context given in the movie. It all depends on his motives if he has any. Who knows, he did say he's just tired.

DESIGN

Nezha Reborn Monkey King's overall design is just as thought out as his character too. If you look at the main cast or any character really, you'll notice that their clothes usually don't have any bright colors or anything that would have too much saturation to it. It's mostly all dull colors. Wukong however, has a bright pink suit and pants. Even the clothes he wears in his home are bright and colorful. This goes hand in hand with his personality. He's shown to have some greed in him when Ao Guang offered a larger payment for Li's assassination.

Monkey King is still a monkey, and he likes shiny valuables and that can be seen in his greed and the gold jewelry he wears (which has human skulls on it by the way-). He also has a huge amount of confidence and wearing bolder colors is definitely something he would do to show it. He does what he likes and wears what he wants.

The choice of colors and clothes not only matches his personality but they also serve a purpose in this movie's setting. Donghai not only has a water problem but it also has a poverty problem. We're shown around the beginning of the movie a background character who got a new dress that was a more muted plum purple. From the context of the two characters talking, having a dress like that is a statement of the person's wealth. So in conclusion, Monkey King is pretty loaded. I would like to argue though it's not just from taking expensive hits from Ao Guang, but also from the place he owns. In the beginning of the movie he introduces himself to Li after a race and says he owns the place (likely the whole area including the track since I could not find evidence anyone ever visits the place outside of races). That entire place looks like a water factory, which means he's likely making money from that too since water had become more expensive than currency.

The entire inside of the place he lives would earn another couple of paragraphs too, but it follows just about the same things I've said. Another detail I like, that might have been missed is that he fits the slang "Wrench monkey" pretty well. Just some food for thought.

I really could write a whole essay about him and several things I've noticed but I'm not sure if anyone would read this at all if I kept going. I might make a more in-depth essay sometime though or share my notes on him.

[blessedmisery]

Hi, I'm actually a new follower I love your Igris bf head cannons, I'm not if you've done Manager Woo, 👉👈 I'm a sucker for this man.

✰ pairing: woo jinchul x reader ✰ summary: what woo jinchul would be like as your boyfriend! ✰ warnings: smut, fluff a/n: yk what...ur onto something with him. i hope i did a good job of characterizing him! sadly we get literal crumbs of him in the anime and manhwa but regardless enjoy <333 likes and reblogs always appreciated!

hes a go-getter, he knows what he wants and he will not stop at anything to get it.

in this case, it's you.

he'll be the one to ask you out and he'll take you on a date, somewhere really nice in the city.

super straight forward and bold, he will be the one to ask you to be his significant other

this man works like there's no tomorrow, he's always at the office, always in a meeting or even at home he's always WORKING.

it kinda pisses u off... but he gets that bank soooo you don't complain

likes expensive things

lives in a super modern penthouse apartment in the heart of seoul and drives a super expensive sleek black car

i mean being the right hand man of the chairman of the hunters association does have it's perks right?

spends his lunch breaks only with you <3

his coworkers want to have lunch? hell no. he's spending every spare minute he has with you.

lovessss when you visit him at work and bring him food or coffee to his office!!

a city man at heart.

really likes exploring coffee shops with you

and shopping omgggg he loves to buy you expensive jewelry and nice clothes.

his baby gotta look good next to him.

while he's straight forward and all his communication style can be kind of confusing. he comes off as super blunt and direct and unknowingly hurts your feelings sometimes

but don't worry, if he does, he'll apologize for it later by eating you out.

doesn't like to cook, he's a takeout kind of guy but if you cook him food? he'll be on his knees within minutes.

very very protective. always has a hand on your waist in public, or always touching you in some way to make sure no one can hurt you while he's not looking!

his love language is definitely gift giving and physical touch

buys you flowers AT LEAST once a week

and you know they're the most expensive ones too...

really likes showering together. it does not count as a good shower if he has to do it alone.

he's got really healthy habits and loves sticking to a routine.

morning run, workouts after work, healthy food, protein shakes you name it he probably incorporates it into his busy schedule somehow. tbh he's so inspirational.

likes when you practice these habits with him!! like going to the gym together :p and fucking in the locker room

hates deviating from his routine, i think he's kinda anal about how and when things are done.

just be consistent with the man that's all he asks

but despite his serious demeanor he is so lovey and sweet <3

very cuddly and loves spending his weekends cuddling up on the couch together to watch movies

likes having an arm wrapped around you when he sleeps.

feeling sad? he'll give you the best, most tender hugs.

super great at comfort. he's super direct but also great at knowing when you want solutions vs when you just want to rant (we need more men like him fr.)

onto the spice:

has insane stamina and a HIGH sex drive.

a bit of an exhibitionist

likes semi-public sex, hes just not patient enough to wait until you two get home

OFFICE SEX! fucks you rough on his desk late at night.

thigh riding. fucking loves having you ride his thigh like a needy puppy when he's working.

"keep it goin' baby you're doing well" his warm whisper hits the shell of your ear and sends light shivers of pleasure down your spine. you're desperately rubbing yourself against his thigh, needing more than just the friction from his nice, expensive dress pants. but he won't give it to you. no, he likes you all worked up and fucked out BEFORE he even thinks about putting his dick inside of you. "jinchul e-enough, just fuck me already" you whine between sobs, pushing and pounding your curled up fist on his chest. but he doesn't take well to whiny, needy brats like you. "i told you to be patient" he grabs hold of your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "do that again and i won't be so merciful" he whispers, his voice low and seductive, before turning back to his computer to work.

lmfao i'm down bad

anyways

he's lowkey a fucking freak. he appears to be so locked into his job and so serious all the time but that man needs to get that pent up stress and anger out somewhere.

you're his favorite outlet <3

huge fan of morning sex before work. he claims it gets him going for the day lol

even if you don't have to wake up as early as him he will wake you up with a cock in your warm, wet pussy and fuck you slow and good in missionary.

this is your favorite way to wake up.

also really likes car sex. after every date, any grocery run, honestly anytime you're in the car with him the two of you will fuck.

HUGE fan of blowjobs. SUCK THIS MAN OFF!!!

remember how i said he likes showering with you? well obviously that entails shower sex. he will fuck you so good against those expensive, marble, shower tiles of his.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Visiting Johnny’s Family in Scotland —You wanted to make a good impression. Johnny wanted to talk about your sex life. His mum is thrilled.

Inspired by: @goatgoesmbe 's blurb (?)

You were doing so well.

The table was set. The roast was perfect. Johnny’s family was loud, warm, and weirdly obsessed with feeding you every ten minutes. His mum had already hugged you four times. His gran offered you whisky at 2PM. It was chaos, but sweet.

Then came the baby comment.

His mum, spooning potatoes onto your plate with a sly smile, said,

“Well, we’ve only got the one grandbaby from Johnny’s sister—and you know what they say, love. A full house is a happy house.”

You smiled politely. “Oh, we’re not in any rush—”

Johnny? He took that as a personal challenge.

“No rush, aye, but we are tryin’,” he said proudly, leaning back with one arm thrown casually over your chair. “Like, seriously puttin’ in the work.”

You nearly choked on your wine.

“Johnny,” you hissed, elbowing him.

“What?” He grinned, eyes dancing with zero shame. “She brought it up! I’m just sayin’, we’re very committed to the process. At least twice a day when I’m home. Sometimes three if we’re well fed.”

His entire family burst into laughter.

His mum? Absolutely beaming. “That’s the spirit, son!”

You covered your face, groaning. “Please stop.”

“Oh come on, sweetheart,” he said, nudging you. “What’s wrong with tellin’ them we’re gonna make the cutest wee MacTavish in Scotland?”

“You’re wrong with it,” you muttered, mortified.

“And when it happens,” he added, looking around the table like this was a family briefing, “I swear, I’m goin’ full dad-mode. Buildin’ cribs, learnin’ lullabies, gettin’ one of those chest baby carrier things—”

“Johnny!”

“—and don’t even get me started on her pregnancy hormones.” He looked directly at his mum. “Wild. Absolute wildfire in bed.”

The table erupted. Someone dropped a fork. His gran looked delighted. You wanted to fall into a pit and die.

You grabbed his arm, cheeks burning. “Can we not talk about this in front of your entire bloodline?”

But he just grinned at you, soft and unapologetic.

“I’m not ashamed to talk about wantin’ you to be the mother of my kids, bonnie,” he said, voice dropping just for you. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever wanted.”

You blinked. Speechless. Face still burning.

“Now,” he added, raising his glass to the table, “someone pass the potatoes. She needs the stamina.”

[shaiyasstuff]

time | rafayel

synopsis : You’ve spent your entire life within hospital walls, your world limited to sterile rooms and ticking clocks—until a peculiar boy named Rafayel stumbles into your ward by mistake. In the days that follow, his presence becomes a quiet comfort, his stories a glimpse into a life you’ve only ever dreamed of. As your body begins to fail, the bond you share becomes something deeper—proof that even the shortest moments can carry a lifetime’s worth of meaning.

content : angst, non-cannon!au, subtle mentions of death

quote : “Time waits for no one—and no one can stop time.”

Tick. Tock. Goes the clock.

As the minute hand shifts, as the hours run.

Time waits for no one—and no one can stop it.

You stare out at the storm beyond the glass. Sheets of water blur the world outside, painting everything in smudged greys and shadows.

On gentler days, you might have opened the window, let the wind thread through your fingers, pretended you were anywhere but here.

But not today.

Today, the sky weeps like it knows something you don’t.

The quiet shuffle of shoes breaks the silence behind you.

“Y/N, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” the nurse says gently, stepping into your room.

You don’t turn around immediately. What’s the point?

“I’m already dying,” you say flatly, your voice void of drama, just fact.

She doesn’t reply right away.

When you glance back, her expression is soft, pitiful. Like you’re some fragile thing behind glass, a creature slowly fading.

You scoff inwardly. They always look at me like that. Like I’m something to mourn before I’m even gone.

“Still,” she says eventually, her voice carefully chosen, “you should be resting. The doctor will be making his rounds soon.”

You let out a hollow sigh and drag yourself away from the window, bones aching with the weight of it all.

Slowly, you settle back into the bed, the sheets too crisp, too white—too much like a shroud waiting to be pulled over you.

Outside, the rain doesn’t stop.

—•

The door creaks open and in walks the doctor, his white coat pristine, clipboard in hand.

He offers you the same smile he always does—gentle, practiced, and far too optimistic for a place like this.

He flips through the charts, murmuring numbers, notes, things that no longer mean anything to you.

“You’re getting better,” he says, voice warm, like he believes it.

They always say that.

You don’t bother replying. Instead, you stare past him, toward the rain-streaked window.

If I’m getting better, why am I still dying?

You’ve heard those words your entire life. Encouragement wrapped in lies. Hope spoken over wounds too deep to ever close.

As if saying it enough could erase the truth written in your blood.

You were diagnosed when you were just a child. Something rare.

Something cruel. Something that’s kept you here—in sterile rooms, under dim lights, where life passes by without ever truly touching you.

You don’t remember what it’s like to breathe air that doesn’t smell faintly of antiseptic. Or to sleep without the hum of machines.

Your parents were gone before you ever opened your eyes to the world. Your mother left behind more than her love.

She left you her illness—an inheritance carved into your very bones. Your father, too broken to stay, faded into silence.

It was your aunt who picked up the pieces.

She raised you with calloused hands and tired eyes, soft lullabies whispered over hospital beds, birthday candles blown out under fluorescent lights.

She tried to give you something close to a life, even if it existed only within these four walls.

She gave you everything—

But even she can’t stop time.

And time, as always, is running out.

You didn’t even flinch when the doctor left—just the soft click of the door, and then silence.

You stayed where you were, sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes fixed on the rain. On the distorted outlines of a world you’ve never really known.

You imagine it, sometimes.

A life without machines or medications.

A version of you that could run barefoot through wet grass, arms outstretched, laughing like you weren’t always on borrowed time.

A version of you that was free.

You let the thought linger, painful and persistent, when suddenly—

The door flew open.

Your body jolts instinctively, startled, eyes darting to the sudden intrusion.

There, standing awkwardly just inside your ward, was a young man.

He looked… out of place.

Like he’d stumbled into the wrong room or the wrong world altogether. His hair was an unusual shade of dusky purple, slightly damp from the storm, strands clinging to his forehead in soft waves.

But it was his eyes that made you forget how to breathe for a second—astonishing bluish-pink, like the sky at the edge of dawn. Like something pulled straight from a dream.

And those eyes—

They looked up at you, wide and sheepish, as if he was the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.

“…Hi,” he said, voice low, almost uncertain.

You blinked, unsure if you were hallucinating.

Because no one ever just walked in here.

Not into your ward.

Not into your life.

Not like this.

For a moment—

Finally, time stood still.

The ticking of the clock faded, the rain hushed to a whisper, and the sterile world you’d always known seemed to hold its breath.

It was as if everything—the ache in your bones, the weight in your chest, the quiet grief that clung to your every breath—paused.

Suspended in the space between his hesitant smile and your stunned silence.

You stared at him, unsure if he was real.

Because how could someone like him exist in a place like this?

With his rain-kissed hair, eyes like fractured starlight, and the faintest trace of wonder painted across his face, he looked like he belonged somewhere far away from IV drips and white walls.

Somewhere alive.

But there he was, in your world.

Looking at you.

And for the first time in forever, you weren’t thinking about how much time you had left.

Just the way he looked at you—

Like you weren’t dying at all.

“Who are you?” you finally managed to croak, your voice thin and rough from disuse, like it had been buried too long beneath silence and sorrow.

The boy blinked, startled for a moment, then rubbed the back of his head with an awkward laugh.

“No one! I—I stumbled into the wrong room,” he said quickly, as if trying to make himself smaller.

He laughed again, sheepish and breathless, and something in your chest fluttered.

Not pain this time. Not the sharp reminder of your failing heart.

But something gentler, something unfamiliar.

Warm.

“I was looking for a friend,” he added, gaze flickering to the door and back to you. “I was going to, you know, gently open the door… but I, uh… tripped.”

He smiled—crooked, boyish, the kind that doesn’t belong in places built for dying.

You found yourself staring.

Not because he was strange.

Not because he didn’t belong.

But because, in all the years of your life within these walls, no one had ever stumbled in by accident.

And no one had ever smiled at you like that.

He glanced down, and for the first time, seemed to really take in the sight of you—

The pale tint to your skin, the too-thin frame lost in hospital linens,

And the delicate web of tubes threaded into your wrist like fragile veins made of plastic.

His smile faltered, just slightly.

“What is it?” he asked, voice lower now. Gentler. A look of quiet sympathy softening the brightness in his eyes.

You followed his gaze, then turned your hand palm-up, studying the bruises that bloomed around the needle sites like faded violets.

“My heart,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s weak. Born with it.”

There was no bitterness in your tone, no trace of self-pity—just a quiet acceptance.

The kind that only comes after years of knowing the world wouldn’t change, no matter how much you wished it would.

You didn’t expect him to say anything.

Most people don’t.

Most people just nod, avoid eye contact, and retreat into awkward silences.

But he didn’t.

He looked at you—really looked at you. Not like you were fragile. Not like you were tragic.

Just… a person. A whole person.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like a patient.

You just felt seen.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, glancing at you one last time. “I need to look for my friend now. Sorry again for… intruding.”

That crooked smile returned—brief, apologetic, but warm in a way that stayed with you even after he turned away.

Then the door closed behind him, soft and final.

And just like that, he was gone.

You remained there, staring at the spot where he’d stood, as if the echo of his presence still lingered in the air.

The room felt a little less sterile now. A little less cold.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips—faint, unpracticed, but real.

“How odd,” you whispered to yourself, fingers ghosting over the edge of your blanket.

As if, for a fleeting moment, something had shifted.

As if a stranger had stepped into your life… and left the door just slightly ajar.

—•

“I’m fine, Mom,” you groan softly, the corners of your mouth curving into a small smile as you watch your aunt fret over the IV line.

She doesn’t correct you. She never does when you call her that.

“The tube’s too tight,” she mutters, adjusting it with careful fingers. “It’ll leave a mark.”

“It always leaves a mark,” you murmur back, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“If you say so,” she sighs, finally settling into the chair beside your bed, her movements heavy with reluctant resignation.

You glance at her, and something about the way your eyes catch the light makes her pause—

There’s a glimmer there. A rare spark, like something new has crept in and taken root beneath the exhaustion.

“I met a boy,” you say quietly, almost conspiratorially.

Her eyes widen, surprised, and then soften as she sinks deeper into the seat beside you.

“A boy?” she repeats, the word falling gently from her lips, as if she’s afraid to touch it too hard and make it vanish.

You nod slowly, smile curling like the start of something delicate. Something impossible.

And for a moment, she doesn’t see the tubes or the monitors.

She just sees you—smiling, alive, dreaming.

And maybe, just maybe, hoping again.

You began to describe him, voice soft but animated in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.

“He had this messy, purple hair—like he’d just run through the rain. And his eyes…” You paused, searching for the right words, but nothing felt quite right.

“They were bluish-pink. Like… like the sky just before the sun rises. Strange, but beautiful.”

A small smile played on your lips, unbidden, delicate.

It stayed there as you recounted how he burst into your ward by accident, how he stumbled and laughed and apologized twice before disappearing like he’d never been there at all.

“He said he tripped,” you added, a quiet laugh escaping you. “He was looking for a friend but somehow ended up in my room.”

Your aunt didn’t interrupt.

She watched you with an expression you couldn’t quite place—somewhere between wonder and quiet relief. Like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Like she was afraid if she blinked, this moment—you—might fade back into silence.

She leaned in a little, her voice soft but teasing. “And just like that, he walked into your life?”

“Just like that,” you murmured.

For the first time in what felt like forever, your world hadn’t been shaped by monitors or doctors or waiting rooms. It had shifted, even if just slightly, because of a boy who wasn’t supposed to be there.

And your aunt—who’d spent years watching you drift between days—

Listened, utterly intrigued.

Because someone, somehow, had grasped your attention.

And that meant something.

You chuckled, the sound light and fleeting, like wind chimes in the distance.

“Yeah,” you said, eyes still lingering on the memory, “he was… peculiar.”

Your aunt raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Peculiar how?”

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch a moment as you searched for the right shape of the feeling.

“He looked like he didn’t belong here. Like the rain followed him in, and the hospital didn’t quite know what to do with him.”

Your fingers played absently with the edge of your blanket.

“He smiled like he wasn’t afraid to. Like he hadn’t spent years walking on eggshells around people like me.”

A breath, a beat.

“He looked at me like I wasn’t dying.”

The smile on your lips faltered, just a little. Not out of sadness—but something quieter.

A kind of wonder. A weightless ache.

Your aunt said nothing at first. Just reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, her hand lingering for a second longer than usual.

“Peculiar,” she echoed, voice softer now. “Sounds just like what you needed.”

You didn’t say it, but a part of you hoped he’d come back.

That maybe, just maybe, he’d stumble into your world again.

Soon, your aunt rose from the chair with a quiet sigh, her joints protesting softly as she stood.

She gave you one last lingering look, the kind that always felt like a silent goodbye—just in case.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she said gently, smoothing down the blanket over your legs like she always did. “Try to get some rest tonight.”

You nodded, watching her gather her things with practiced ease. The hospital bag, the cardigan she always left behind, the thermos of tea she never quite finished. These were her rituals, and somehow, they were comforting.

At the door, she paused, glancing back at you.

“You’ll let me know if he comes back?” she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

You nodded again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I will.”

She gave a faint hum of approval before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her—

And once again, you were alone with the rain and the quiet rhythm of your monitors.

—•

It wasn’t until a week had passed—seven long, uneventful days stitched together by rain, routine, and restless silence—

Before you saw him again.

This time, he didn’t tumble in by accident.

This time, he came with intent.

The knock was soft, almost hesitant.

You looked up from your book—more out of habit than interest—expecting a nurse or your aunt.

But there he was.

Standing in the doorway, slightly out of breath, with a tiny bouquet clutched in his hands.

The flowers were a mismatched bunch—fresh but imperfect, like they’d been picked out by someone who didn’t really know what they were doing but tried anyway.

Daisies, baby’s breath, a wilted violet tucked awkwardly among them.

His hair was just as wild, a little windblown, and his eyes—those strange, luminous eyes—met yours sheepishly.

“Hi,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “I, uh… thought I owed you a proper visit.”

You stared at him, surprised, the weight of his sudden return settling over you like the hush before a storm.

Slowly, the edges of your lips curved upward.

“You found the right room this time.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm, like something that didn’t quite belong in the sterile quiet of your ward.

“I got these for you,” he said, almost shyly, setting the tiny bouquet on the table beside your bed.

The flowers looked a little tired from the journey, but they brought a color into the room that hadn’t been there before—something living, something real.

He lingered then, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, eventually settling at the foot of your bed.

He didn’t sit.

Just stood there, as if afraid that crossing any closer might break whatever this fragile moment was becoming.

You tilted your head, studying him. “How’s your friend?”

He blinked, caught off guard. Then, he looked away, scratching his neck.

“Oh… yeah. He’s alright. Bit grumpy about being stuck here, but fine now.”

There was a pause—something unspoken threading between you both.

“I didn’t come back for him, though,” he admitted, quieter this time. “I came back for you.”

You startled, caught somewhere between disbelief and quiet amusement.

“For me?” you echoed, brow raised.

He didn’t flinch. Just smiled, a little crooked, a little too honest.

You let out a breath, a faint laugh under your words. “What’s so interesting about a girl connected to tubes?”

Your tone was light, but there was an edge to it—years of fragility mistaken for invisibility, of being seen only through diagnoses and chart notes.

You hadn’t meant for it to sound bitter. But maybe it did.

He didn’t look away. Not even for a second.

“I don’t know,” he said simply, sincerely. “But when I left… I kept thinking about you. How you looked at me like I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, surprised by the way he said it. Not like it was romantic. Not like he was trying to charm you.

But like it was just the truth.

“And the way you smiled,” he added, softer now. “It felt rare. Like something you’d only see once, if you were lucky.”

You didn’t know what to say. No one had ever said anything like that to you.

And for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t feel like the sick girl in the hospital bed.

You just felt… seen.

And maybe, somehow, worth returning to.

You cracked a smile—small, but genuine. The kind that tugged at the corners of your mouth before you could stop it.

“Take a seat,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost teasing as you nodded toward the chair beside your bed.

He hesitated for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed that close. But then he smiled—brighter this time—and moved toward the chair, sinking into it with an ease that made it feel like he belonged there.

He looked around the room as if seeing it differently now, like it wasn’t just another sterile ward, but something quieter. Softer.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come back,” you admitted, your fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of your blanket.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” he replied, honest as ever. “But I kept thinking… maybe you were waiting.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him for a long moment, your heart aching—but not from the condition.

“Maybe I was,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, that same kind smile softening his features. It reached his eyes this time—those strange, starlit eyes that held a little too much depth for someone who claimed to be no one.

“I’m Rafayel,” he said gently, like he was offering you something fragile, something that mattered.

You repeated the name in your head, slowly, like you didn’t want to forget it. It suited him—something a little odd, a little beautiful.

Just like how he’d come into your life: unexpectedly, and now, unmistakably present.

You nodded, the corners of your lips twitching up again.

“I’m Y/N,” you said softly, as though it was the first time you’d said your name in a long while not just to be recorded or written on a clipboard.

Rafayel smiled at the sound of it.

“Well, Y/N,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair like he had nowhere else to be, “it’s really nice to meet you… properly this time.”

And for a moment, just a moment—

You forgot about the tubes.

You forgot about the clock.

And all that existed was this quiet in-between, where a boy named Rafayel had returned, just to know your name.

You both talked, the conversation blooming slowly at first, like something tentative learning how to grow.

Mostly, it was him—Rafayel—filling the room with his voice, animated and unfiltered, his hands moving as he recounted wild, ridiculous stories about the world beyond the hospital walls.

You listened, eyes wide, smile tugging at your lips as he told you how he and his friend had tried to build a kite from scratch—only for it to crash into a police car.

Or how they’d once climbed onto a library rooftop just to see the stars, only to be locked out and spend the night freezing with nothing but vending machine snacks for dinner.

“That’s why he’s in the ward across from yours,” Rafayel said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Sprained his ankle and his ego.”

You laughed—really laughed this time, soft and warm.

The sound felt foreign in your throat, unfamiliar but freeing. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had made you laugh like this.

As he spoke, you found yourself leaning in closer, eyes shining, clinging to every word like they were windows into a world you’d never touched.

And somewhere between his stories and your laughter, your heart—weak and fragile as it was—ached with something deeper.

Longing.

A desperate, quiet yearning to be there, out there, anywhere but here.

To feel wind in your hair. To trip on your own feet. To make mistakes and live through them.

To be normal, even if just for a moment.

But for now, you settled for this.

For Rafayel’s voice.

For the stolen sunlight in his smile.

For the way he made the world outside feel a little closer.

Like maybe, one day, you’d reach it too.

He turned to you, the laughter still lingering in his expression, though it softened as his gaze settled on yours.

“So,” he asked, quieter now, “how long have you been in here?”

You looked down for a moment, fingers tightening slightly around the blanket draped across your lap.

“My whole life,” you said, the words falling gently but heavily, like something worn smooth over time. “I’ve never run. Not even once.”

You glanced up, sheepish, your voice dipping into something unsure—something almost apologetic. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

But Rafayel didn’t laugh. He didn’t look at you like you were strange or broken.

Instead, his face shifted—quiet, thoughtful, like he was carrying your words in his hands.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he said softly. “It’s… heartbreaking.”

And it wasn’t pity in his voice.

It wasn’t the clinical sympathy of doctors or the quiet sorrow of nurses who thought you couldn’t hear them whispering outside your door.

It was something else entirely. Something real.

Something that hurt just to hear.

You blinked, caught off guard by how gently he said it.

“I think,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “if the world knew you were in here all this time, it would stop for a second. Just to say it was sorry.”

You smiled faintly, heart aching in that quiet, bittersweet way it always did when someone reached too close.

And you thought—

Maybe that’s why he came back.

Not because he pitied you.

But because he saw the girl who had never run, and still smiled anyway.

Tick. Tock. Goes the clock.

You smiled at Rafayel, trying to hold onto the lightness of the moment, but something shifted. A subtle tightening in your chest. A pinch—sharp, brief, but enough to make you draw in a shallow breath.

You winced, almost instinctively pressing your hand against your sternum.

Rafayel noticed instantly. “Hey—are you okay?”

Before you could answer, the door opened, and your aunt stepped in—face immediately drawn in concern as she took in the way your expression had faltered.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quickly, her bag slipping from her shoulder as she rushed to your side. “Y/N?”

“I’m—” you began, but your voice trembled. “It’s nothing. Just… a little pain.”

Already, she was calling for a nurse, checking the monitors, brushing the hair from your damp forehead. The room seemed to blur, the laughter from moments before dissolving like a dream chased away by morning.

Rafayel stood frozen by the chair, his gaze locked on you, worry carved deep into his face.

But he didn’t move closer.

The nurse arrived within seconds, and in the flurry of movement—voices, machines, footsteps—Rafayel looked toward the door.

He caught your gaze just before he turned.

“I’ll come back,” he said, gently, as if promising something to a fragile thread.

And then he was gone.

Your aunt stayed by your side, murmuring soothing words even as she pressed the call button again, just to be sure.

You clung to her voice, your heartbeat a little too fast, a little too uncertain.

It was just a scare. That’s what they said afterward.

Just a scare.

But somehow, in the stillness that followed,

The emptiness left by Rafayel’s sudden absence,

Hurt more than the pain in your chest.

—•

It wasn’t until five days later that you saw him again.

The door creaked open slowly, almost hesitantly, and there he was—Rafayel, standing in the doorway with worry carved into every line of his face.

His hair was messier than usual, like he hadn’t been sleeping right, and his eyes—normally full of mischief—held something heavier.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet, but urgent. Like the question had been burning on his tongue since the moment he’d left.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that said I’m still here, and nodded. “Yeah. It was nothing serious… just my heart reminding me it’s still broken.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but only slightly. As if he hadn’t quite forgiven himself for not being there.

Your gaze drifted down to the object tucked under his arm—a weathered hardcover, the edges slightly frayed from time and love.

“What’s that?” you asked, curiosity breaking gently through the quiet.

He followed your eyes, then looked down at the book like he’d forgotten it was even there. A sheepish smile spread across his face as he crossed the room and held it up for you to see.

“It’s a book I used to read as a kid,” he said, almost bashful. “Full of adventures. Castles, forests, treasure maps… the works.”

He placed it carefully on your bedside table, as if it were something precious. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment before pulling away.

“I thought you might like to see it,” he added. “Figured… maybe if you can’t be out there just yet, I could bring a little of ‘out there’ to you.”

You stared at the book, heart catching somewhere between affection and ache.

Because it wasn’t just a story he brought to you.

It was a piece of himself.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

You smiled, quiet and tender, the kind of smile that belonged to borrowed moments.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft as a thread of wind.

He sat down beside you without hesitation, the same familiar way he had before—as if no time had passed, as if the fear and the ache of five days ago hadn’t pressed like a shadow between you.

Rafayel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes flicking to the window where the sky was beginning to clear. He didn’t look at you when he spoke, but his voice was filled with something fragile.

Hopeful.

“When you get better,” he began, with a small smile of his own, “maybe I’ll teach you how to make memories. Take you on your first adventure.”

You turned to look at him, your smile still in place—but it ached now.

Quietly. Deeply.

Like a wound dressed in warmth.

It was a lovely thought.

The way he said it, like it was just waiting for you to wake up and walk into it.

Like your future was something you could still build, just outside these four walls.

But you knew better.

Time wasn’t on your side.

The moments you had were dwindling, like sand slipping through cracked fingers, and no amount of dreaming could stop it.

Still, you nodded.

“I’d like that,” you whispered, even if your heart already knew the truth.

Because sometimes, kindness wasn’t about promises that could be kept—

It was about the ones beautiful enough to believe in, even if it’s just for a little while.

—•

That was the last time Rafayel saw you sitting up, eyes bright with something close to life, voice soft but steady as you dreamed of adventures you’d never take.

The next time he returned, the room was quieter—heavier somehow. The hum of machines felt louder. The air, colder.

You were lying down now, body thinner, smaller, almost swallowed by the white sheets. Your skin had lost its warmth, and the color in your lips had faded to something pale and fragile.

But when you saw him—you still smiled.

Barely, just a faint tug of her lips. But it was there.

And it shattered something in him.

He forced a gentle smile in return, despite the way his chest ached, and sat beside you, his hands folding tightly in his lap, as if to stop them from shaking.

As the minute hand shifts, as the hours run.

He watched you for a moment, as the silence stretched and settled like dust between you.

Then your voice broke through it—faint, steady in its resignation.

“I’m dying,” you said. Not as a question. Not even with sadness.

Just truth.

Simple. Soft.

Like it had been waiting there all along.

Rafayel’s heart twisted.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the acceptance in your eyes.

The way you had made peace with something most people spent their whole lives running from.

He reached out, gently wrapping his fingers around yours—cold, delicate, barely able to curl back.

“I know,” he whispered, voice trembling despite how hard he tried to keep it together.

And he sat there, holding on to you as tightly as he dared, while time continued to pass—

Indifferent.

Relentless.

Cruel.

Your voice is barely more than a breath, but it carries the weight of something final, something tender.

“I’m really grateful to have met you,” you whisper, your lips curving into the faintest smile, worn thin by pain.

“Even if it’s just for a short while.”

You don’t have the strength to say more. You just look at him—at Rafayel—as if you’re trying to memorize his face, to hold on to him in the places memory doesn’t fade.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares at you, his expression caught somewhere between sorrow and awe, like he’s never hated silence more.

Slowly, he leans in and takes your hand in his, his thumb brushing gently over your cold skin, grounding you to the moment.

“You changed everything, you know,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “I came here by accident. But you… you were the only real thing I found.”

You feel the tremble in his touch, the heaviness behind his smile.

“I’m the lucky one.”

The monitors hum beside you, soft and steady, reminding you that time is still passing—even if it feels like the world has stopped just for this.

But in his eyes, in the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours,

you know this is what it means to be remembered.

To have mattered, even for just a little while.

And somehow, that’s enough.

The room is quiet now.

Not the sterile kind of quiet you’ve grown used to—the cold hush of beeping monitors and echoing footsteps in the corridor—but something deeper.

Still.

Like the air itself has softened around the two of you, holding its breath.

You lie there, weak and sinking, the weight of your own body almost too much. Yet his presence keeps you tethered. You can feel it. Not just the warmth of his hand in yours, but the way he’s with you.

Fully. Without distraction. Without pity. Without fear.

He doesn’t speak. And you don’t ask him to.

You’re too tired for words now, too worn down to wrap meaning around the ache in your chest or the thoughts swirling gently in your mind.

But somehow, in this silence, there’s no need. It’s all there.

In the way his eyes meet yours and don’t look away. In the way he breathes a little slower, as if matching your fading rhythm.

You study him quietly—his rain-soft hair, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, the tired crease between his brows that wasn’t there the first time you met.

You wonder how someone like him—so full of stories and motion and laughter—ended up sitting here, perfectly still beside someone who’s running out of time.

He shifts slightly in the chair, not to leave, not to speak. Just to be closer. His other hand rests lightly on the edge of your blanket, fingers brushing fabric but not asking for anything.

And still, he says nothing.

There’s comfort in that. In not being asked to explain. In not being told to fight or hope or pretend.

He’s just here.

You let your gaze drift to the window.

The sky is beginning to dim, clouds stretching thin across a lavender horizon. The light filters in quietly, painting the walls in a soft, grayish gold.

For once, it doesn’t feel like something you’re missing. It just feels like something you’re allowed to witness.

He follows your gaze, and for a moment, the two of you sit like that—watching the world go on without rushing to catch it. And you feel something pass between you.

Not love. Not friendship.

Just understanding.

He knows.

He knows what’s coming, even if neither of you say it aloud. He knows that this is all that’s left, that some goodbyes don’t need to be spoken to be real.

That some endings aren’t loud—they’re gentle. Quiet. Honest.

When your fingers twitch weakly in his grasp, he responds instantly, not tightening, just holding on with the kind of steadiness that says: You’re not alone.

You breathe, shallow and slow, and the silence settles around you again.

Not empty.

Not mournful.

Just still.

And in that stillness, the two of you stay—no promises, no expectations.

Only presence.

Only this.

Rafayel felt it before he saw it—

the faintest twitch of your fingers in his hand, not like the gentle, fading flutter from earlier, but something tense, strained.

As if your body, fragile as it was, had just remembered it was breaking.

Then came the sound.

A sharp breath.

A cough.

Then another, harder—rattling through your chest like something trying to claw its way out.

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “Hey—hey,” he said quickly, shifting forward in the chair. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

But you couldn’t answer.

You coughed again, your body jerking slightly against the bed, your face twisting with pain.

The monitors beside you beeped faster, shrill and urgent, and Rafayel’s grip on your hand tightened instinctively.

Your lips were pale now, your breath shallow, uneven, like you were chasing air that wouldn’t come.

Panic surged in his chest, but he swallowed it down. He leaned closer, his free hand brushing your damp forehead, eyes scanning your face for something—anything—to hold on to.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice trembling despite everything. “Just breathe, alright? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Your gaze met his, glassy and unfocused, but still there.

Still you.

And for a moment, just a flicker of a second, Rafayel swore you were trying to smile again, as if even now, you didn’t want him to worry.

But the coughing didn’t stop.

It came in waves, tearing through you like lightning through a tree, loud and cruel and final.

And Rafayel—helpless, terrified—could only hold your hand and call for help, his voice cracking in the stillness that was no longer calm.

The door burst open a moment later, nurses flooding in, machines pulled close, gloved hands moving fast.

They asked him to step back, to give them space.

But he didn’t let go of your hand. Not until they made him.

And as he stood there, heart pounding, watching them surround you, watching you struggle through every breath—

He felt it.

The fragility. The edge.

The moment when time, which had once stood still for you, began to slip away for real.

He stood there, frozen, as chaos moved around him—machines rolling, voices shouting, urgent footsteps echoing down the corridor.

They were wheeling you away.

Your hand slipped from his, limp, fingers trailing against the sheet until they were out of reach.

Someone pushed him gently aside, murmuring something about protocols, about staying calm, but Rafayel didn’t hear them.

Time stood still.

The world had narrowed into that one, terrible image—

You, pale and gasping, swallowed by white sheets and machines, being rushed through sterile halls as if time could be outrun.

But time didn’t move. Not for him.

It hung there, heavy and cruel, stretching the seconds into something unbearable. The space where your hand had been felt impossibly empty, and his own fingers curled uselessly in the air where you used to be.

You didn’t look back.

You couldn’t.

And he—

He didn’t move.

Didn’t follow. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched.

Watched until you disappeared around the corner and the hallway was quiet again.

And then he stood there, alone in the echo of a life that was slowly slipping away.

Time waits for no one—and no one can stop it.

[yukioos]

Hi! Idk if your requests are opened, if they're not please ignore this!! But can I request a reader/iida fic where Iida comes back home after work all tired and slightly injured and reader comforts him and takes care of his wounds?? I love your writing ❤️

all tenya wants when he gets home is you

blood dripped down tenya’s forehead, a silent reminder of his injury from a battle. he took on a dozen villains all by himself, with no heroes to help him out, no sidekicks, no students from UA shadowing him, nothing. although he thought the fight to be easy, and he turned all of them in to the police himself, he still had a burning pain in his cheek.

he wasn’t in a majorly bad condition, but he still felt pain and liquid dripping down his face. through all of the inconveniences, he rushed to your shared house, where you lay on the couch, leg draped over the armrest and. eyes focused on the large screen in front of you.

apparently ‘ingenium,’ who you knew as your darling husband, tenya, took down a dozen villains on his own. he fought the villains with such ease until three eventually overpowered him. suddenly, blood was splattered against his face, but you couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s.

but once you thought more about it, it made more sense for the blood to be his. he’s never even thought of killing another human being, of course, he was physically capable of it, but not mentally. he always believed people could change, but needed to help the unfortunate, the victims of attacks.

you believed he’d be okay. he was fully capable of taking care of himself, but sometimes preferred when you took care of his injuries.

the sound of the front door opening knocked you out of your thoughts, and your husband walked into the house, slightly stumbling.

he still had a smile on his face, and looked for your body on the couch, before greeting, “hello, honey!” his feet pitter-pattered against the wooden floor before he reached you.

you childishly hopped over the couch and jogged to the tall man, who was still in his hero costume. “i was watching you on tv! you did really good, i saw the whole thing!”

he thanked you and ranted about everything he observed during the fight, all while you led him to the kitchen. pushing his chest down, he sat down on the stool, and you wiped his face with a towel, which quickly became bloodied. his costume had small scratches on it, which he would probably become agitated about later on.

once you were done cleaning him up, he stared at you for a minute with adoration in his eyes. he stated, “y/n,” and took your soft hands in his rough ones. “i’m so glad i married you. you are one of the most caring people i know, and,” he paused, a smile forming on his face, “i love you so much.”

tenya loved to express his admiration for you. almost every day, he would give you flowers and many kisses before he went to work or patrol, and when he came back. sometimes he would even make a quick run to your house in between fights, just so he could see you.

but of course, you reciprocated his words to your husband, “i love you too.”

first tenya writing! hope you like it, sorry i took so long to write this! i’m so glad you like my writing, too!