#imagine the smiles on their faces and warmth in their hearts when they see and feel it

[karaaeilish]

𝜗𝜚 LET GO b. eilish. . .

ex!billie x married!reader

➥ ANGST & FLUFF

🎧 STARRY NIGHT — JORDAN CRITZ

tw — r has a husband, bil has a gf, cheating, desperate kisses, r and billie miss each other like CRAZY. probably the best thing i’ve written in months.

you moved on. you forgot her. you don’t love her anymore. at least that's what you kept telling yourself for the last four years since you broke up.

that's what you told yourself when you started dating another man.

when he put a ring on your finger.

when you became his legal wife.

you still wanted her. her lips, her touch, her kisses, the warmth of her body. you missed every second spent away from your billie. it was unbearable. it hurt that you couldn't be with her. it hurt that you were breaking the heart of a really good person who truly loved you. and it wasn't his fault that your heart would forever belong to another woman.

you were sure that you would never meet her again, never hear her voice, sweet as honey, so tenderly calling your name. never feel the warmth of her fingertips on your arms. but how wrong you were.

you felt a shiver run down your spine as you felt her presence behind you. her perfume hit you so hard that you thought you’re gonna faint.

"hey," she says softly, and you don't even have to look at her to feel that smile on her face; shy and sweet. the smile you imagined every morning, waking up in bed with someone you didn't love.

you turn around, meeting her sky-blue eyes, so familiar, but so foreign after so many years. you freeze for a few seconds. "billie?"

your voice doesn't sound as confident as you'd like, betraying all the longing, pain and love. sincere, endless love for this girl.

"so you’re married?" she points her finger at your wedding ring, making you shift from foot to foot, as if ashamed of it. "yeah… a couple of months ago"

she smiles weakly, pretending not to be jealous. that she wouldn't want to be in this man's shoes, touching you, kissing you, seeing you every damn day. the thought of someone else's hands on your body made her stomach clench painfully.

"congrats" she says quietly, glancing at your lips, then looks away, not wanting you to see her eyes when she asks the next question. "is he good?"

billie blurts out, but then wants to bite her tongue. it's too much to ask. not after four years of separation.

a spark runs through your body. hope? warmth? joy?

"he's… good" you say softly, leaving out one important detail: you don't love him.

billie's eyes darken, as if that wasn't what she wanted to hear. deep down, she was waiting for only three words. the ones that were now so deep in your throat. an awkward silence hangs between you, which you dare to break. "what about—?"

but your question is cut off when you hear a clear, high-pitched voice coming from a few meters away. billie sighs heavily, breaking out of the world of thoughts where it was just the two of you. where you wore her wedding ring on your finger.

a short, pleasant-looking girl appears from behind her, immediately grabbing her arm and kissing her cheek. the answer to your question immediately became clear, and you feel like you’re gonna throw up. this was so wrong. she was no longer yours.

noticing your piercing gaze, her girlfriend turns around completely, still holding billie's arm in a tight grip. she looks first at you, then at the billie, asking a silent question.

"uh, millie, this is my… old friend" after these words, a nasty aftertaste remains on her tongue, as if she had just committed a crime, calling the love of her life an 'old friend'

you smiled falsely, meeting millie's eyes. "nice to meet you" you did everything possible to keep these words from dripping with venom.

the girl smiles innocently, then tugs billie's hand a few times, pulling her away from you. "baby, the show's 'boutta start!"

and then you finally remembered where you were. the opera. and somewhere here your husband is sitting, looking for you. you need to get back to him before he sees you looking at your ex. it will break his loving heart.

you smile at billie one last time as a farewell, whispering something like goodbye under your breath before turning back to your husband, who has already lost you.

"my love, are you okay?" he took your hand in his, squeezing it gently. the action calmed you down a bit, and you gave him a soft smile, telling him that everything's fine.

your eyes fell on the vast stage, where the show itself had not yet begun. the lights were still on, illuminating the opulent paintings and ornamentation that adorned every inch of the room. but there was something—someone, that was more beautiful than all of it. her.

your gaze fell on billie, sitting in the same row on the fire side, and your eyes immediately met hers. she was looking at you. only at you. like you were the only one there, like you were the only piece of art she could enjoy forever.

your eyes studied each other until you realized how tightly your chest was clenching, aching for her touch, her kisses, all of her.

your legs were wobbly as you excused yourself, heading for the restroom without looking back. you just knew she'd follow you. you could feel it. and you were right.

as you walked into the small room, your eyes were fixed on your own reflection; hair done to perfection, your dress hugging your figure in every place, the natural makeup highlighting every feature of your face perfectly.

your heart skips a beat when you hear the door open. then it slams softly shut, locking it. your eyes meet in the mirror. desperate, hungry, filled with pure longing and love. billie comes closer, staying millimeters from your body. "hey…"

she whispers, not knowing what to say or ask. the only thing on her mind was your lips. your sweet taste. your hands in her hair and those adorable whines you made every time she bit your bottom lip.

you turn to face her. your lower back pressed against the marble counter, eyes meeting as you look up. and in that moment, nothing and no one could stop you.

her lips plunge into yours with desperate force, her hands hugging your back, waist, shoulders. everything she could touch. your fingers buried in her hair, pulling her impossibly closer to you. moans leave your mouths, melting into each other's lips.

you kiss her again and again, each time with renewed vigor, leaving no air in your lungs, but it doesn't stop either of you. her hands fly to your hips, lifting you onto the counter with effortless force and stepping between your legs.

you wrap your arms around her neck, kissing and biting her lips, and she repeats every movement, squeezing your body so hard that it felt like your ribs would break under her hands. it was desperate. it was an animalistic, primal need. like all living things need oxygen to function, she needed your touch.

you kiss, breathless on each other's lips, pressing yourself as close as possible, needing to feel that familiar warmth, and an eternity passes before you pull away, breathing heavily. "we need to stop, you're married"

your foreheads touch, her breath warming your face. the thought of your husband, her girlfriend, waiting outside makes your heart clench painfully. you take her face in your hands, kissing her again, more softly, and she responds, deepening the kiss.

your tongues intertwine, exploring each other anew. she takes your hands, squeezing your fingers, before aggressively pulling the wedding ring off your finger, tossing it somewhere in the sink.

tears fill your eyes, rolling down your cheeks. you kiss her harder, more desperately, not wanting to end this moment that felt like an eternity. your bodies drown in each other's arms, and soon you pull away, your head falling on her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent.

she begins to leave kisses on your skin, making you whine and moan softly as her teeth sink into your soft skin. "you smell like him," she growls, for the first time all evening, openly admitting her jealousy.

she didn't know his scent, she knew you would never wear perfume like that.

forgetting all norms and boundaries, she runs her tongue down your neck, sucking on the skin until a dark mark begins to appear. "billie…" you try to push her away, knowing that you can't do that now.

"shut up," she says it so gently, but so roughly that your body weakens. her kisses are now spreading all over your neck, collarbones, chest. "please, just shut up."

your hands are locked in her hair again, pulling her closer. she moans.

“he’s not the one for you” she whispers against your skin. “he doesn’t deserve you”

words send shivers through your body. you sigh softly, cupping her face in your hands to make her look at you. her eyes are watery, and now you’re both here, lips swollen from crazy kisses and makeup smudged with tears. this is ridiculous.

“i don’t want this” her lips tremble as she whispers. her eyes don’t leave yours for a second. “i don’t want his hands on you. you’re not his. you’re mine”

as possessive as the words should sound, all you heard in her voice was pain and desperation, filling you both to the brim.

you purse your lips, thumbs wiping away the tears from her cheeks. “i know. my love, i know”

you lean in, letting your lips meet again in a soft, sensual kiss before pulling away. her fingers smooth small circles on your thighs.

“can we start over?” she asks, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. you both know how absurd that would be. to just run away like you were sixteen year old schoolgirls in love again. like there's no tomorrow for you.

a stab of pain for your husband pierces your heart, making you hesitate for a few more seconds before answering.

“can we?”

[thedarksilkpen]

Safe With Halsin

soft Halsin request from @optimisticgrey!

this wound up being 1,400 words oops.

NSFW Below

Halsin’s quarters smell of wild sage and soft earth, a mingling of dried herbs and sun-warmed wood. Lanternlight glows low and amber along the curved walls, casting golden halos on stone and fur-lined floor. The grove breathes gently beyond the door, crickets humming, the occasional rustle of leaves slipping into the hush between heartbeats. It's only been a few days since you arrived with the last refugee train, but you already feel at home amongst the Druids.

You stand at the center of it all, bare feet brushing against woven reeds and cool painted stone, watching Halsin unlace his tunic. His eyes hold yours, steady and warm. He strips with the patience of one who knows there is no rush, no pressure. Only trust. When he approaches you, it is without pretense or performance. He touches you like he already knows your body, not from having claimed it, but from having imagined it with reverence.

His fingers graze your shoulders first, brushing the straps of your garment away, letting it fall. The fabric slips down your body and pools at your feet. His hands are gentle on your skin, but hardened with callouses. Halsin slowly leans in, his mouth at your collarbone, breath curling into your skin. He kisses you there, slow and sure, then presses another kiss just below your jaw.

His hands cup your face, warm and strong, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if you are something fragile. Halsin's eyes meet yours and you hear his sharp intake of breath-- he wants this too. You lean into his touch, and his lips find yours, soft and coaxing. He kisses you with care, drawing out each breath, each sigh, until you feel yourself tilting into him, anchored only by his arms around you.

He guides you to the low bed tucked against the stone wall, layered with fur and thick woven blankets. You sink into them, watching him through your lashes as he joins you. He crawls toward you with the quiet grace of a bear through the woods, large and grounded and focused entirely on you. When he lies beside you, he doesn’t reach for anything but your hand.

You lace your fingers with his. Halsin smiles.

He leans in again, his mouth brushing the corner of yours, then your cheek, then your temple. His free hand drifts across your waist, curving around your hip. He pulls you closer, your thighs meeting, his warmth folding around you until the outside world disappears. You rest your palm against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart and the course hair .

His kisses deepen gradually. He lets you set the pace. His hand trails down to your thigh, resting there until you shift, canting your hips towards his hand and inviting him in. His fingers slide between your legs, gliding through slick heat. He hums against your lips, his pleasure threaded with awe. He murmurs to you, voice low, each word spoken like a gift.

He strokes you gently, never hurrying. The rhythm he finds is easy, meant to soothe, to open. Your legs fall further apart for him, hips rising to meet his touch, your breath catching on every slow, deliberate movement. When he slips a finger inside you, the stretch is perfect. Halsin's fingers are short but thick, the nails well trimmed and clean. His finger crooks perfectly inside of you to hit the spot that makes you see stars and you gasp, one hand flying to grip his forearm. You can feel his muscles under your hand as his moves, flexing and relaxing with each slow pump of his finger inside of you. The Druid's thumb finds your clit, circling, coaxing. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in, his own breath growing shallower.

Another finger joins the first, and still his hand remains gentle, reverent. He watches you, every twitch of your brow, every press of your lips, every gasp that leaves your throat. Halsin's eyes sweep up and down your body, hovering at the spot where you and he are joined. You feel completely seen, laid bare in a way that leaves no room for shame.

You whisper his name and he answers with a kiss, tongue parting your lips with ease as he redoubles his efforts between your legs.

When he finally withdraws his hand, it’s only to push himself up slightly, adjusting his body so that he can slide between the apex of your thighs. You part them further for him willingly, arms wrapping around his broad back as he lowers himself over you. He pauses, forehead resting against yours. His hand moves between you, guiding himself to your entrance. The back of Halsin's hand bumps your clit and you gasp, arms tightening around him briefly.

He pushes in slowly. The first inch is nothing but pressure and warmth. He groans softly, a sound full of restraint and reverence. You wrap your legs around his hips and he sinks deeper, filling you in long, careful strokes until he’s buried to the hilt. He stills, letting you both adjust. Your fingers flex against his back.

He begins to move with unhurried precision, hips rocking in a rhythm meant for connection, not conquest. Each thrust sends a new wave of sensation through you, soft and consuming. The friction builds gradually, tempered by the way his hands cradle your face, the way his lips return again and again to yours. He kisses you like he’s trying to etch the shape of your mouth into memory.

You whisper to him.

Praise, need, love.

Whatever slips free from your lips, he answers it in kind — with his mouth, with his body, with his hands. He never looks away. Not once.

Your climax builds without force, a warm tide that rises and spreads, tightening your thighs around him, stealing your breath. He feels the shift in you, adjusts his angle slightly, and your moan is immediate, raw. He whispers your name, then again, then again. The tension coils. Then breaks, and you come with a cry muffled against his neck. He holds you through it, moving just enough to carry you through the tremors, his own breath labored, his arms around you like sanctuary.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, voice catching. His release is quiet but devastating, the sound of it carving through the silence like devotion. He stays inside you as he softens, breath mingling with yours, lips pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder. The last few pulses of his thick cock make your own hips jolt under his, drawing slight hisses of overstimulation from the both of you.

Afterwards, you lie tangled together, bodies still humming with the afterglow, heat softening into comfort. Halsin's hand moves in slow circles along your spine, a steady, grounding rhythm that lulls you into stillness. Your cheek rests against the curve of his shoulder, his heartbeat slow and strong beneath your ear.

He does not speak. Neither do you. The quiet is full of understanding, of gratitude, of something deeper that you do not dare name. He shifts only to pull the blanket higher over your bodies, then settles again, curling his arm tighter around your waist.

His nose brushes the crown of your head. A kiss follows, light and lingering. His hand slips down your back to the curve of your hip, not to tease, only to hold. You press closer, letting your leg slide between his, your fingers stroking the short hair at the nape of his neck.

You feel safe. Sheltered. Cherished.

His breath deepens, and yours soon matches it. Sleep doesn’t take you all at once. It comes slowly, cradled between his warmth and the quiet symphony of the grove outside. The room seems to breathe with you, the stone feeling safer than the camp ever could. Here, with his body wound around yours, with his scent in your lungs and his heart beating against your skin, the world is as it should be.

Eventually, Halsin shifts to pull a thick woolen blanket over both your bodies. He curls his large body around you, shielding you from the cool night air that blows through the cracks in the stones, pressing one last kiss to the back of your neck.

Sleep comes easily in his arms. The grove outside continues its gentle song, but here, within these stone walls and warm blanket, the world has narrowed to the steady rhythm of Halsin’s breath and the memory of his hands on your skin.

[giggletea]

Caleb // focus

Pairing: Caleb x fem!reader ☆ Fluff, suggestive themes at the end! ☆ ~700 words

Based off this interaction:

“Stop moving.”

“You’re pulling too tight.”

Caleb sighs, running his fingers over the spot where he had tugged. His touch is lighter than it was before, but he still clicks his tongue as you shift in your seat. You can’t help it—the afternoon heat makes you feel gross!

“You’re ruining these braids.” He mumbles. “Told you to stay still, pipsqueak. Don't follow orders well, do you?”

You reach a hand around your back to hit him on the thigh, scowling, “Watch it, colonel. I should be the one complaining, you’re disturbing me.”

From behind you, Caleb chuckles. He’s close enough that his breath fans the back of your neck, deft fingers resuming their motions of plaiting your hair. The room fills with a comfortable silence, accompanied by the quiet taps of your keyboard, and Caleb’s soft musing.

“...What if I go bald because you’re pulling on my hair too tight?”

Though you can’t see him, you can imagine Caleb rolling his eyes, annoyed frown on his face and all. The image makes you bite back a grin.

“Wouldn’t have to wrestle with it if you’d stop moving, pipsqueak.”

“Remind me why you’re suddenly giving me a new hairstyle again?”

His easy laughter rumbles through his chest, warmth radiating against your back. “I told you… I’d braid your hair if you didn’t focus.”

“I’d focus better if you weren’t so distracting.”

“Oh really?” He hums, voice teasing. In one move, Caleb spins your chair around to face him. He tilts his head to the side, peering at you through his lashes. “What part of me is such a distraction, huh?”

Mischief sparks in your heart as you grab his chin, pretending to examine his face. He lets you, pulling your chair closer to his, settling you between his legs.

“This lethal face card, duh. What would you do without it?”

“You like my face?” His smile grows wider, cheeks flushing. “Tell me more.”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Only from you.”

His response is so quick it makes you giggle.

Caleb reaches out a hand to pat your head, careful not to disturb the braids-in-progress. Softly, he urges, “Go back to work, honey. Let me continue mine.”

You don’t get to argue before he’s spinning your chair back around, making you face the papers strewn about your table, and the endless documents on your laptop. You pout.

As if sensing your displeasure, he leans over slightly to press a kiss to your temple. “Sit tight, pipsqueak. I’m almost done.”

It’s early evening when you’re finally done with everything. Euphoria fills your veins as you shut your laptop and shove the papers to the side, arching your back for a good stretch.

Caleb’s still seated behind you, arms coming to wrap around your waist. He rests his head on your shoulder.

“Finished? Perfect timing,” He says, “I’ve been wanting to show you these for ages.”

“Aww, you waited for me?”

He looks at you, deadpan, and you grin at him sheepishly. Of course he would.

“C’mon, lemme see.”

At your request, Caleb drapes the braids over your shoulders, passing you a hand mirror at the same time. You gasp at the sight—while you were focused on work, he had put a lot of effort into decorating your hair. Familiar clips and ties adorn your new hairstyle; you recognise them as ones he had chosen for you on your last shopping trip together.

You see Caleb watching you in the reflection, eyes bright and curious. The smile on your face matches the one on his.

“I did a good job, didn’t I?” He asks. Pride’s laced in his words.

Laughter bubbles out of you—he’s right. Despite your moving around, Caleb really did a good job. Seeing how much care and attention he put into this makes your tummy flip.

“Is this really how you spent your day off, colonel?” You tease, “Braiding my hair?”

“Well… the day isn't over yet.” Caleb hums, pursing his lips. He reaches to take the mirror from you, placing it face down on the table. “I can think of other ways we could spend our time together.”

The sudden change in tension has you speechless—you barely suppress a shiver as his fingertips trail across your skin, featherlight and teasing. One hand slides lower, slipping under your shirt, caressing the flesh there. For a second, your mind blanks, breaths turning shallow, before Caleb nips at the back of your neck. The warmth of his lips snaps you out of the fog clouding your mind.

“Okay,” You whisper, twisting around to crawl into his lap. He startles a little at the shift in positions, but his surprised expression quickly morphs into something heated. Narrowed eyes, flushed cheeks… you lean down to bite at his bottom lip, and he lets out a low whine.

“But you have to stay still and focus on me, yeah?”

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

Close To Home

Knew what was coming, still was not prepared for that episode... Needed to write something that distracted me from it!

***

It had been one of those long weeks—relentless and exhausting, the kind where everything seemed to pile up all at once. Papers to grade, parent emails to respond to, lesson plans to tweak. By the time Friday night rolled around, your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. So when a few friends invited you out for a drink, you didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t going to be anything wild—just a low-key night at a local bar, the kind of place where you didn’t have to shout to be heard or worry about getting dressed up. And after the week you’d had, that sounded like heaven.

The bar was alive with a familiar hum, cozy and dimly lit, its wooden booths and low-hanging lights gave it a warmth that cut through the evening chill. The place smelled faintly of beer and old leather, the kind of scent that wrapped around your shoulders like a worn-in jacket. You spotted your friends near the back—already half a drink in—and slid into the booth with a tired smile.

Laughter came easily. The comfort of old friends, shared stories, and a couple of appetizers helped ease the tension that had been coiled in your spine all week. You sipped your drink slowly, letting the low buzz of music and conversation soften the edges of your stress. It wasn’t a remarkable night by any means, but that was the beauty of it—simple, effortless, grounding.

Then you saw him.

He was at the bar, leaning one forearm casually against the worn wood, his broad shoulders relaxed but purposeful, like someone who carried himself with quiet control. His flannel shirt was open over a faded black tee, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms dusted with a few old paint or drywall marks he probably hadn’t noticed. His hair was dark and just a little messy, like he’d run his hand through it on the way in, and his profile caught the low lighting in a way that made your heart stutter unexpectedly.

There was something about him—familiar, but not in a way you could name. You were sure you’d seen him before, maybe around town or in passing somewhere. He wasn’t flashy. If anything, he blended into the room more than he stood out. But something about his stillness, his grounded presence, pulled your attention and held it.

Then he turned, just slightly, and his eyes met yours.

There was a pause. Just a breath. His gaze lingered, and there was a flicker there—curiosity, recognition, something unreadable that sparked beneath the surface. He gave a small nod. Nothing more.

Your stomach fluttered, uninvited but impossible to ignore. You quickly looked away, unsure if you'd imagined the whole moment. But even as your friend nudged you, asking if you wanted another round, your mind was already halfway to the bar.

“Sure,” you said, standing up and smoothing down your shirt, brushing off the hesitation.

You made your way toward the counter, weaving between tables. He hadn’t moved. Still leaning casually, eyes on the bottles lined up behind the bartender, but now and then glancing around the room like he wasn’t fully absorbed in anything—just... present.

You stepped up beside him and caught the bartender’s eye, ordering your usual.

“Evening,” you said, your tone light but deliberate, letting your body angle just slightly in his direction.

He turned to face you then, slow and unhurried, as if taking the time to read the moment. His lips curved into a small smile, eyes soft but searching. “Evening,” he replied. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You blinked, thrown for a second. “Oh? You recognise me?”

“Yeah,” he said, a gentle rasp in his voice. “Seen you around. Thought you looked familiar.”

You laughed quietly, a little flustered but oddly pleased. “Guess that makes two of us. I thought the same about you.”

“Small town,” he said with a shrug. “We’re bound to cross paths sooner or later.”

You nodded, watching as the bartender set about making the drinks you ordered. “Needed to unwind after a long week.”

He gave a knowing look. “I hear that. It’s been a rough one on my end, too.”

“What do you do?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Construction. Contracting work mostly. My brother and I run jobs around town—renovations, repairs, new builds when they come through.”

“Working with family,” you said, amused. “That sounds... chaotic.”

He chuckled lowly. “It can be. Tommy’s got a lot of energy. But we make it work.”

There was something easy in his presence, something grounded and honest. The kind of person who spoke with purpose and didn’t waste words. You liked that. You didn’t even realize how long the two of you had been talking until your friend sent a teasing glance your way from across the room.

You ignored it, your focus on the man beside you and the comfort of the slow conversation. It didn’t feel like a typical bar interaction. No performance, no pressure. Just two people talking like they’d known each other a little longer than they actually had.

“I’m Joel,” he said eventually, offering his hand in a quiet, steady gesture.

You gave him your name, shaking his hand, his grip firm and warm.

“I should probably get these drinks back before they send out a search party,” you said, gesturing toward the small tray the bartender had just handed you with your friends’ orders.

Joel nodded, that small, quiet smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess I shouldn’t be the one to get you in trouble then.”

You chuckled. “No, probably not. Though I’m pretty sure you’d be forgiven.”

He didn’t respond to that with words—just a look, one that lingered a beat longer than necessary. There was something unreadable in his eyes. Not forward, not demanding—just observant. Curious.

You turned and started to make your way back toward the booth, weaving through the crowd carefully with the tray in hand.

You rejoined your friends, placing the drinks on the table to a few cheers and playful jabs about how long it had taken you. You laughed, brushing them off with a shrug, settling into the rhythm of conversation again—but it didn’t hold you.

Every so often, your gaze drifted toward the bar. Joel was still there, leaning one elbow on the counter, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass. He looked completely at ease, like he wasn’t waiting for anything or anyone. Just... there. Present. Steady.

After a while, your own glass was nearly empty. You turned it idly in your hand before setting it down with a quiet clink and slipping out of the booth.

“I’m getting another,” you said casually. “Anyone else want one?”

Your friends shook their heads, mid-conversation about someone’s new apartment or bad date—you weren’t really listening anymore. With your now-empty glass in hand, you headed back toward the bar, but this time your path curved just enough that you brushed by Joel.

He looked up as you neared, the edge of a smile already on his face.

“Back so soon?” he asked, voice warm with amusement.

You lifted your glass slightly. “Figured I’d earned another.”

Joel tilted his head, eyes flicking to the stool beside him. “Didn’t take you for the kind who drinks alone.”

You smiled. “I’m not. But the company at the bar’s better.”

He let out a quiet laugh and gestured to the seat. “Then by all means.”

You slid onto the stool next to him, resting your glass on the bar and signaling the bartender for a refill.

“So, Joel,” you said, lips curving slightly, “you come here often?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You really gonna hit me with that line?”

“Absolutely,” you grinned. “Gotta start somewhere.”

Joel leaned back in his seat, watching you like he was trying to figure out where you'd come from—and maybe why it felt so easy to be sitting beside you.

***

You stayed at the bar longer than you’d planned. The conversation with Joel had unfolded slowly, like the kind that slips easily into the kind of quiet rhythm you didn’t even realize you were craving. He was easy to talk to—direct without being pushy, funny in a dry, unbothered sort of way. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to your lips when you laughed, and you’d feel your stomach tighten just a little.

Eventually, you glanced back toward your table and winced a little. Your friends were still there, but one of them caught your eye and immediately smirked. You sighed through a smile.

“I should probably check in before they think I've dropped off the face of the earth,” you said, slipping off the stool.

You made your way back to the booth, and as soon as you were close enough, the teasing began.

“Well, well, well,” your friend said, lifting her eyebrows. “Look who remembered we exist.”

“You were gone forever,” another added with mock betrayal. “Should we be mad or impressed?”

You held up your hands. “I was just having a conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” one of them said, stealing a look over your shoulder. “Conversation with the guy in the flannel who’s now definitely watching you walk away.”

You tried not to smile—tried. “It wasn’t like that.”

The table groaned collectively, unconvinced.

“So, what’s the plan?” your friend asked, nudging your leg under the table. “You heading out, or are we pretending we don’t see that look on your face?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stick around a bit longer.”

They gave you a knowing look but let it go, the conversation moving on. Still, you felt it—the way your thoughts kept pulling back to him.

After another five minutes or so, you said your goodbyes, hugging your friends, accepting the raised brows and whispered 'text me later' comments with a shake of your head and a smile that probably said more than you intended.

When you circled back to the bar, Joel had stood and was leaning slightly against the counter, drink now empty, jacket in hand.

“Thought you might’ve disappeared,” he said.

You shrugged. “Just tying up loose ends.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then offered a quiet, “You wanna get outta here?”

Your heart gave a quiet little lurch, your answer already forming before you even paused to consider it. You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

***

Read part two here!

[cicidarkarts]

Don't Let Me Wake Up

Summary: Vent fic ahead, mentions of chronic nightmares, angst filled, pmdd & depression driven, pure self-indulgence. A fic about dream manifestation, where I complete the dream the way I wanted it to be, where Matthew Patel holds me and reassures me of his love. Ended up involving more crying than anticipated.

It was all a dream. I knew it from the second I saw Matthew Patel on the television, playing his role in the Takes Off cartoon like I’m not even there. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm not happy to see him, but… he's still just a face on a screen. Like always.

No kissing. No hugging. No late night chats, no mundane activities. No moonlit walks or dancing with him barefoot in a field of golden flowers. Everyone else has dreams of their f/o…

So why not me?

The envy I feel overtakes me and I look away from the taunting screen. I’m happy for them, of course. But I wish I’d have dreams of my f/o. For comfort and love. To banish my chronic nightmares. Whenever I fail, even after trying so hard to dream of Matthew, there’s a horrible little wriggling part of my brain that says ‘see? He doesn’t like you. That’s why you can’t dream of him’.

And it’s silly. I know. But it’s real to me—the pain and heartbreak, the fears and sorrow. The joy and happy tears. The comfort and warmth from watching him be himself.

I just want him so badly.

“Moonflower,” I hear, and my gaze snaps back up. Matthew has stopped acting his role, and he's looking directly at the audience now.

Directly at me.

“Matthew?” I ask. “Turn around,” he says. 

My heart races. Is this a trick? What's behind me? Horrors beyond my imagination? Someone who wants to hurt me? Or even just something stupid and boring and mundane—I can't have another one of any of those dreams.

But I'm curious, and Matthew doesn't seem nervous. So I turn around. 

My heart rate skyrockets when I see Matthew Patel standing behind me. He's in a black waistcoat snug against his sides, a jet black tie tucked inside of it, matching form-fitting dress pants that make his legs look long and slender, shiny black shoes, and an off-white shirt with long sleeves. His eyes are upon mine, gaze soft, a smile gracing his lips. He outstretches his arms. 

“Sweet angel,” he coos, eyes glistening. “Come to me, my love.”

A single step towards one another, and I leap in his arms. He’s warm, tender, safe; he holds me with the perfect pressure to cuddle my racing heart.

“Oh my god, Matthew!” I call, nuzzling my face against his chest and neck. “I'm so happy to have you in my arms, moonflower!”

I breathe him in—cologne of sandalwood and teak, the slightest herbal scents and citrus notes, and a wafting subtle mint. He smells and feels even better than I could've imagined. So warm, so perfect, my face nestled in his neck; my body utterly melts.

“I can't believe you're here,” I say, holding him tight. “Believe it, angel. And here's something else you really wanted.”

He dances with me, swaying and turning me with him. The scenery changes as we move, from that nondescript building in front of a television, to a bright, sunny field of golden flowers. Matthew takes my hands in his. Broad fingers caress my knuckles as he leads me through the flowers, shoes forgotten, our toes digging into the soft soil and kicking up whirling petals.

He kisses each knuckle in reverence and devotion, every kiss lingering, every ghost of them settling upon my skin. Then Matthew runs a gentle hand across my hip. He pulls me in close and I hurry to lessen the gap. Anything to keep holding his warm, welcome hand. Anything to feel his body against mine.

Our gazes mingle in our gentle dance. I’m enthralled by his tender smile, his gorgeous face, his classic eyeliner and long bangs hovering over his right eye, leaving it to peak out when the wind hits it just right.

The scent of the flower field fills me—floral and sweet—as we dance under the cozy sunlight. The gentle turning calms me like much needed meditation. Our brief dance comes to an end. His hand leaves my hip and cups my face. I find that my usual clothes have been replaced by a black sundress that flows around him as we stop.

His soft thumb caresses my cheek. “My goddess. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here with you.” “Oh, Matthew,” I say, breathless.

But more than happiness swells within me. I feel it creeping along my eyes in its burning wake. That envy. That heartbreak. That fear. All rushing through me, all threatening to pour from my eyes. Matthew’s glowing face, haloed in the light of the sun, drops as soon as it happens.

“Angel?” “I don’t understand. Why do I try so, SO hard to dream of you but it just never happens? I’m so sick of nightmares. I’m so sick of waiting.”

My voice cracks and I clench my lips together to prevent my tears from clawing out. But it’s too late; I can’t stop them. The moment the tears slip out of my grasp, Matthew pulls me into his arms, wrapping me up in his embrace. He leads me to the ground, sitting with me, gently swaying me.

“I got so upset I couldn’t even look at you yesterday,” I admit, hiccupping back my tears as he cradles me. “I’m so sorry, Matt, I’m not trying to be upset with you.” “No, angel,” he says, “don’t be sorry. I didn’t mean to do this. When I saw how hurt you were, it broke me. I want to be there for you. I want to be with you in your dreams so you don’t ever have nightmares again. I’m the one who’s sorry, moonflower. I never meant to hurt you.”

He pulls back to wipe my tears, his own eyes glistening in sorrow though his voice had stayed strong. His lips meet my wet cheeks, layering kiss after kiss as though trying to outnumber the tears that have fallen. But there is no dam strong enough to keep them at bay.

His words hurt. Because I know how much I blamed him for not showing up in my dreams. Because I know how much my brain tells me he must hate me because he’s never there, despite how badly I crave, despite how badly I desire and yearn and need.

His words hurt because I know I’ve hurt him.

“I wish I could promise you,” he says, voice soft and low, rumbling in his chest, “that I’ll be there in your dreams every single night. I wish it was that easy for you. But please, moonflower, please know that I love you. I love you so much. I never want to hurt you. I want to be there for you and protect you and love you. My sweet angel. Please know that. Please don’t let your mind tell you that I don’t love you. Because I love you more than anything.”

I sniffle as he wipes away more of my tears. Slowly, my composure returns, piecing itself back together under his guidance and comfort. In the tranquility of the flower field and the golden light, I try to return to the present. He’s here now. He’s here with me.

“I love you, too, Matt,” I say, voice still quivering but regaining strength. “I love you so much.” “Can I kiss you, my love?” “Please.”

And finally, after so many nights wondering if our love is real, so many nights spent battling nightmares on my own, Matthew takes my lips in his.

The heart pounding warmth I feel is like a jolt of new life. That kiss fills the cracks in my dam and fights off my doubt. His soft lips hold mine in their warmth and serenity. They brush along me and resettle. They break our liplock only to rejoin deeper, more impassioned.

One of my hands finds home in his hair and his do the same for me. Fingertips roll along my scalp, brushing back my hair, weaving through locks. My opposite hand rests across his chest, feeling his heartbeat slightly quickened. His lips gently spread mine so his tongue can dip inside.

The electrifying passion floods my body. I pull him down into the flowers, holding him atop me. My legs wrap around him in a plea to keep him close. I don’t ever want to let him go. I want to live in this dream for the rest of my life.

He releases my lips to place his forehead against mine. His face is lit up once again by the presence of his incredible smile. My palm strokes the gorgeous dark skin of his cheek and rolls along his beautiful neck until it settles once more on his chest.

“My angel,” he says softly, “I could be here with you forever.” “Matthew, my love. Please don’t let me wake up.”

I beg my own brain more than him. He kisses my forehead, then another affectionate peck upon the bridge of my nose. His elegant hand runs through my hair, spreading a few locks along the flowerbed. He picks one of the flowers and threads its green stem into my hair.

“I don’t want you to wake up yet, moonflower. I want you to stay with me. You deserve this peace. And know that if you ever feel a warmth embracing you, if you ever feel a breeze on your skin, if you ever find a sudden bravery where there was only fear, that’s me helping you find your strength. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll always be with you.”

With his poetry, as he looks upon me with veneration and love, my heart settles. My mind calms. He returns his lips to mine, entwining much like our limbs, flesh upon flesh in an enticing, impassioned embrace.

And I know that our love is real.

[sqoa]

toji zenin, who has only stayed with the zenin clan because he just can’t give up the sweet pussy of his personal servant—you.

because you don’t adhere to the strict rules given to the servants. and you can’t bring yourself to care about them either.

because why should you wake toji up by parting his window shutters and letting the sun stir him awake, when you could rouse him from sleep with your lips wrapped around his cock instead? you’re sure he prefers waking to the warmth of your throat, delicate eyes looking up at him through your lashes as you take his length to the base.

his hand, even in his half-asleep state, reaching down to push you even further on his cock until he can feel the back of your throat and your nose is tickled by his dark pubes. because there’s no better alarm sound than that of you gagging on his cock as you swallow the load he gifts you.

and how could he bring himself to leave when he has you at his beck and call at all times? all he has to do is shoot you a look from across the room and you’re ducking out to meet him in a quiet corridor or empty room so he can hike up your robes and drop to his knees to return the mornings favour. sure, he’s a selfish man, but he’s greedy and indulgent when it comes to tasting you.

you always try to be quiet when cumming on his tongue but you never succeed, and toji loves it. he loves knowing the assholes in his clan hear it every time he sinks into you, because you’re moaning his name so pretty that any lesser man would cum as soon as you tighten around his pulsing cock. he loves knowing every time you serve him in their presence they’re only imagining the way you serve him with your cunt behind closed doors.

god, he doesn’t even care to close the door half the time. too many times has a clan elder walked in to see you, pressed up against the wall as toji fucks you from behind with fast strokes and drawling groans. and he never stops, never slows down or even bothers to care about an unwelcome audience—because you never care. you serve him, not them, and if worrying about prying eyes takes from your duties—you’d rather take his affections in stride.

because you are his in every aspect of the word. you serve him hand and foot, you take his cock into your mouth each morning, you let him fuck you full of his cum each evening, you turn his scowl into a gentle smile with each kiss you lay upon his lips. your heart is his, and his yours.

and one morning before the sun has risen to find toji in the servants chambers, his lips patched around your clit and two fingers already pumping into you. he plays the servant, and wakes you for once. you cum not once, but twice around his fingers, back arching as pleasure washes you clean. and as he pulls away with a glistening lower half of his face and presses the most gentle kiss to your inner thigh, he whispers something that changes the course of your life entirely.

“let’s get the fuck outta here, whaddya’ think, dollface?”

[plutotheplum]

ᡣ𐭩 caleb | dog tags ᡣ𐭩

cw: masturbation, p in v, possessiveness

caleb’s dog tags are precious to him. 

perhaps not as precious as you, but he considers them to be a close second. there’s pride embedded into the silver metal. he’s worked his ass off, becoming one of the best for the DAA didn’t come easy. 

it’s all the more worth it when he sees you, however, his laugh morphing into a grunt as you barrel towards him, throwing your arms around his neck and clinging to him. caleb’s actions are second-nature to him now, spinning you around as he hoists you up into his arms and presses his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling into the warmth. he’s missed you.

caleb can feel the way you fiddle with the chain of his dog tags when he sets you down onto your feet, you’ve always been strangely enamoured by them. it doesn’t seem to help when you rock up onto the tips of your toes and press a gentle kiss to the metal as though it’s been somehow keeping him safe.

caleb’s bided his time for years now, and with every passing day he can feel his control slipping, his heart aching at the sight of you and the ever-pressing urge to just cup your cheeks and kiss you. but he cares for you more than anything, so he bottles it up inside and excuses himself under the guise of needing a shower.

his cock is hard and throbbing and the dog tags around his neck do little to calm his rampant heart rate, his hand wrapping around his cock and squeezing. caleb muffles his groans, although he’s sure you can’t hear him over the rush of water.

he pumps himself over and over, and somehow his dog tags end up in his mouth, his teeth gritting against the metal as he imagines you on your knees in front of him. it’s terrible really, the way caleb thinks of you, but he can’t help himself when he sees your wide, innocent eyes and fuck- he’s grown up with you but there’s an urgent need inside of him to be yours.

maybe you’d let him, he thinks, brows knitting together as he imagines you pressing up against him, whining for kisses as he helps you sink down his cock. sure, caleb’s cock is a little thick, but he likes that, wants to see your little pussy stretch out as he presses it into you. he’d teach you to ride him, whisper sweet praises as he guides your hips and you’d surely dig your nails into him and it’s enough to make him cum, his breaths ragged as he presses his forehead against the wet tiles and comes down from his orgasm.

caleb’s smile is back when he returns, his arms wrapping around you as you snuggle up to him, your sides flush together. he rubs your side soothingly as you ramble about mundane little things - until you lower your voice and whisper to him like it’s a secret.

i heard you in the shower, caleb.

his cheeks are hot with embarrassment, gaze downcast as shame washes over him. caleb’s mouth opens and shuts, an apology sitting on the tip of his tongue but when he opens his mouth again, you’re already clambering up onto his lap like an unruly puppy, your fingers hooking into his dog tags to tug him closer. he breathes out a protest, but you’re stubborn, so stubborn, pulling him closer to slot your lips over his and kiss him feverishly.

fuck, caleb curses in his mind, he wanted to be the one to kiss you. 

not that he can dwell on the shortcoming, not when you’re pulling at his shirt needily and sighing into your mouth like this is what you’ve always wanted. caleb nearly cums when you yank him closer by the chain of his dog tags when he strays too far from your lips. 

he squeezes the fat of your ass, large hands grabbing at anything and everything, his hand coming down on your ass. caleb smiles against your lips when you squeak, pulling his shirt over his head quickly while you’re distracted. he likes the way you look at him, the way you trace your fingers over the dips and ridges of his abdomen, the way you dip your head to kiss his pec, right over his heart. if he could brand your name into his skin, he would.

his head tips back when he feels your hand wrap around his cock, a loud groan leaving him, his hips bucking under your touch. when he finds your eyes again, he can hardly believe that the girl he’s liked- no, loved, for years is here, stroking his cock sweetly like the pretty, little thing you are.

caleb thinks you like it, the feel of cool metal slipping and sliding across your skin as he laves his tongue over your hardened nipples, pressing his hand against your back firmly to suck your breast into his mouth. caleb likes the sounds you make, the little whimpers and whines, his cock throbbing whenever you paw at his broad shoulders as he bites down on your nipples with measured care.

he helps you sink down on his cock later, and maybe dreams do come true because your pussy is stretched out, your fingers clinging to him tightly as he bullies his cock into you. caleb can’t hide his appreciation for you, hands squeezing at your hips, thighs, breasts, his lips peppering kisses across your sternum as he grabs your ass and makes you move against him.

it’s not enough, despite the intoxicating sway of your hips that has him biting your shoulder, his eyes half-lidded. caleb wants to see you under him. he rolls his hips when he lays you down, his dog tags dangling down in your face.

his eyes roll back when he sees you lean up, your teeth latching onto the dog tags, sucking them into your mouth. caleb’s hips pick up speed and he’s grabbing your thighs, pushing them up to pound faster and deeper, with enough force that the bed frame has begun to shake.

caleb can feel the burn of his chain against his skin when you tug him down again, throwing your arms around his neck as you kiss him, legs squeezing around his hips in a daze. the tight clench of your cunt has him moaning, his head dropping forward, lips pressing against your forehead. 

“i love you,” caleb rasps, his arms wrapping around you to pull you close. “fuck- sweetheart, i love you.”

you whine, clinging to him as he pulls you up into his lap again, face pressing into the crook of his neck. your voice is a soft hiccup, fingers running through his hair. 

“i love you too, caleb.”

caleb shudders at the words, his hands holding you down flush against his hips as his cock throbs and kicks, thick, hot cum spilling inside of you. he holds you tightly when you twitch, kissing your forehead and cheeks and every bit of skin he can reach, fingers squeezing at your sides soothingly.

“you mean it, pipsqueak?”

you let out a breathless laugh, swatting his shoulder. “stop calling me that,” you pout, kissing his cheek, “and yes, i mean it.”

caleb hums, a satisfied smile settling on his face. he helps you get ready for bed, trailing kisses along your neck as you brush your teeth, his palms warm against your stomach as he caresses you under your shirt.

he holds you close when you snuggle up in bed, stroking your hair gently as you press your face into his chest, letting out a contented sigh. something uncomfortable settles in his chest when he sees your phone light up with a text from zayne after you’ve fallen asleep.

caleb doesn’t like that. 

he stares down at your sleeping form, your face peaceful and soft in the dim light. no, he thinks, zayne can’t have you.

caleb’s waited years, and he’s not prepared to give you up so easily.

you’re his now.

[classyrbf]

you and bf!choso who’ve decided that you can’t fuck each other for a week. It was a stupid challenge both of you made up while drunk and the loser who breaks first has to do all the house chores for a month. You thought it was a huge joke, but you were oh so wrong. He’d push you away at any sort of intimacy, even a hug. You could tell it was making him break. Just a slight south on his shoulder made him jumpy. He wasn’t handling as well as he thought he would. It was funny to see him losing his mind, whining about not being able to touch or kiss you. “You did this to yourself, Cho.” You smiled. “You can still touch and kiss me, we just can’t…have sex.” You shrugged.

Choso plopped his head into the pillow. “That’s the point! If I do any of those things, all I can imagine is fucking you.” His muffled words come through the pillow. And though he has been getting the worst end of the stick, you’ve also been missing your man…a little too much. You sneakily undress yourself, climbing into bed while he’s face down, your hands running up and down his bare back, completely unaware of your malicious intent.

“Come on, baby. As long as you don’t put it in, we’ll win.” You try so hard to break him, but you know how tenacious he is. He shakes his head, covering his ears to rid himself of your sultry voice.

“I will not listen to you devil woman. You cannot persuade me.” He’s completely lying because he’s hard right now and trying so hard to distract his mind, but it always leads back to you.

“No? Not even if I do this?” You grab one of his hands, placing it on your bare chest. His hand freezes when he feels your warm skin, taking a second to recognize what he’s touching. It slightly moves, his thumb running over your hardened nipple. “I’m bored, Cho! I miss you, baby. Please, please—” He quickly pushes you back on the bed, his body hovering you. His eyes hurriedly scan your naked body, taking in every inch of you.

“Baby, no,” he breathes. “You can’t—god, fuck. Why are you like this? You know I can’t resist you.” He says above a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut. But when he feels your hands run down his abs and into his sweats, his eyes spring open to see that wicked smile on your face. “Fine, fine , fine.” He quickly pulls his sweats off, tossing them to the floor, his cock already throbbing. “Fuck, you’re crazy…I love it.”

“I know you do,” you giggle, slowly jerking him off. “If you just do…this,” you rub his cock along your folds, his tip nudging against your clit, “and go slow, we’ll be fine.” You bite down on your bottom lip. He lets out a shaky breath, moving his hips as his cock glides up and down your pussy, gathering slick and smearing it. “There you go, baby. Good job.” You praise.

He gulps, everything in him just wants to be inside you. He can feel your warmth, your wetness, how badly you need him. He needs you just as much. He doesn’t know why he’s so determined to win this challenge, he could forfeit right now just to get a feel of your pussy. He feels like it’s been forever, when it’s only been five days. Is he losing his mind? Why does this feel so good already? Everything about you is tempting him. You little whimpers and moans, your perky nipples that are begging to be sucked, you plump lips ready to be kissed. He can’t do it. He pulls away before he makes a mistake. “I-I can’t do it, baby.” His breaths are heavy, heart pounding against his ribcage. “We cant.” But he wants to so bad, he wants to keep going.

“You’re just gonna leave me all alone like this? Hm?” You blink your lashes up at him, reaching your hand down to your clit, rubbing it in slow circles. His eyes follow your hand, fully fixated.

“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. He’s so hard it hurts. Without even thinking, his cock is back on your pussy, his tip massaging your clit. “Can’t believe we’re doing this.” He looks up at you and sees just how much you’re enjoying this, that smile on your face and that glint in your eye. “You’re so wet, baby,” he huffs, your pussy squelching with each movement.

He spreads your legs further, slapping his cock against your cunt earning a small gasp from you before grinding against you again. He hates how good this feels, how easily he’s ready to cum. “Feels so good,” you moan, tossing your head into the plush comforter. He continues to rub his cock against your clit, sensitive from the five days of no sex. You pull at your taut nipples, adding another form of stimulation to help drive you to your orgasm. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.” You suck in a breath, your eyes rolling back when he starts moving faster. “Just don’t put it inside, baby. I know you want to.” You shake your head at him, brows furrowing in pleasure.

He stares back at you, a teary look in his eyes as he fights so hard. You can tell he’s close too, his chest rapidly moving up and down with each whimpering breath, and his flexed abs. “Fuck, I want it so bad. Wanna cum inside you so fucking bad,” he moans softly. “I’m gonna cum—mmmph! Baby, cum with me, please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Ah, ah, shit!” His body shakes as thick ropes of cum coat your pussy, covering every inch. Both of your moans mixed as you both entered your highs, cumming just seconds after him. He continues to rub his cock through your folds, smearing his cum in each crevice but inside.

“Did such a good job holding back, Cho. Mmm, come here.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a heated kiss. His hands ghosted over your skin, gripping at the flesh of your waist. “That felt so good.” You lazily smile at him.

“I was losing my goddamn mind. I still am.” His eyes flutter shut. “And I’m still hard,” he groans in annoyance. “This is your fault.”

“Sorry,” you laugh. “I just wanted to have a bit of fun.” You peck his lips as he falls back onto the bed. “I missed you.” You climb on top of him.

“I missed you too, but we have to behave. Only two days.” You grips your waist, tracing circles on your skin.

“But if we both win, who does the chores?” You questioned.

Choso sat in silence for a moment. “That’s actually a good question. I guess both of us?” He shrugged.

“And if we both lose?” You say in a playful voice, leaning down to press kisses against his neck. “Doesn’t that mean we both do the chores still? So, technically we can have sex…”

[siennasfantasies]

Mitsuki's heart shattered as she watched her son, Katsuki, slowly come to a painful realization. He was falling—and he was falling hard. The kind of fall that wasn't just physical, but a soul-deep, inevitable descent into love.

Katsuki Bakugou's heart ached for you in a way that felt almost cruel, like a wound that wouldn't heal. He’d loved you since he was five, though he hadn't even known it until he was thirteen. At night, he lay awake, the weight of his feelings a constant pressure on his chest, drowning in thoughts of you. His mind was consumed with you, a curse he couldn't shake.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?"

His mother’s voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. She stood in the doorway, her face soft but tinged with concern. The tenderness in her gaze made Katsuki’s chest tighten, the vulnerability of the moment unbearable.

"Mum, how did you—"

Katsuki stopped himself, suddenly overwhelmed. He dropped his gaze to the floor, feeling exposed, small, standing defenseless in his own room. His mother smiled, a quiet understanding in her eyes as she moved to sit beside him, patting the bed beside her.

"How did you know you loved Dad, Mum?"

Katsuki’s face flushed deep crimson, not from embarrassment, but from the slow, dawning awareness that struck him like a bolt of lightning. The words tasted like truth on his tongue, even if they terrified him.

"Love, huh?" Mitsuki’s smile softened, her eyes filled with a warmth that only a mother could give. "It’s a powerful word. A heavy one." She paused, her gaze never leaving his face. "I knew I loved your father when all I could think about was seeing him again, every single day. When I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it."

Katsuki’s breath caught as he finally lifted his head, meeting his mother’s gaze. The look in his eyes—the way they mirrored the same raw, unguarded emotion Mitsuki had once felt—broke her heart.

Katsuki’s gaze flickered to the window, his mind replaying the image of you, your smiling face floating in his thoughts, unbidden and impossible to ignore.

"Thanks, Mum," he murmured, his voice thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

Mitsuki stood, her heart aching, but she said nothing. She walked over to the window, her hand brushing the edge of the sill as her eyes absently scanned the clock.

"Sleep, you’ve got school tomorrow."

Katsuki nodded, but the words felt distant, a fog surrounding him as he crawled beneath the covers. He faced the wall, but sleep would not come. His mind was alive with thoughts of you. Only you. Nothing else mattered.

As Mitsuki turned to leave, she paused at the door, her heart heavy. She whispered a silent prayer to herself, the words slipping out in a quiet rush.

"Lord, please look after my boy. Protect that girl... and whatever the future holds for them."

With a final, lingering glance at her son, Mitsuki closed the door softly behind her. As she walked back to her room, her thoughts turned to you—the girl who had so quietly and firmly wrapped herself around Katsuki’s heart. If he did choose to love you, at least she would know you’d keep him safe.

[shaiyasstuff]

through the fire | sylus

synopsis : In a world where soulmate marks appear on your skin, yours arrives in red—the color of unrequited love. And the name written there is the last one you ever wanted to see: Zayne.

content : soulmate!au, unrequited love, angst

You stared at the name scrawled in red across your forearm.

Zayne.

So small. So cruel. So final.

Your breath caught in your throat, a trembling whisper slipping past your lips.

“Why is it his?”

The question barely made a sound, yet it rang loud in the silence of your apartment, echoing off the sterile white walls and the clinical smell of hospital-grade soap still lingering on your skin.

You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.

But red ink never fades. It brands.

It condemns.

A red soulmate mark.

You had seen the pamphlets before—those rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.

The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.

Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.

You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.

Until now.

Until it was his name.

Until it was Zayne.

Your Zayne.

Your friend. Your colleague.

The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.

The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.

The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.

The one you tried not to love.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Because his mark had already appeared months ago—in black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.

You remembered how he told you.

How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find her.

You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.

And maybe you were happy.

A small, pure part of you had been.

But the rest of you was bleeding.

But you didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the universe to be so cruel.

Because months later, your body chose him.

As if fate wanted to mock you.

As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.

Red meant doomed.

Red meant defect.

Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.

Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.

You imagined what it would feel like to show him.

To watch his face crumble, or worse—pity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.

That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.

You would never be that name.

You would never be enough.

So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.

The name still burned beneath the fabric.

And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to break—silently, like you always did.

Because even the stars knew.

You were never meant to be loved.

Only to love.

—•

Day by day, you saw him.

In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.

He was always there—smiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.

Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.

He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.

Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.

Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.

It had been months.

You had become an expert at hiding the truth—an actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.

You laughed when he teased you.

Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmate’s identity.

“He probably doesn’t live around here,” you’d say with a light shrug, the same one you’d perfected in the mirror.

And he’d nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.

And maybe that made it worse.

That he was kind.

That he was always kind.

His soulmate didn’t make things any easier either.

She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldn’t bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.

She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, “For when life gets too sterile.”

Just like now.

You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.

The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.

She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.

“You need to eat properly,” she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.

You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.

You mean it. You really do.

Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeve—raw, restless, unbearably red.

Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.

You thank her.

You eat.

And you pretend not to feel the burn.

“Any luck yet?” she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.

You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“No,” you say, voice light, practiced. “Maybe I’m just destined to be alone.”

A half-truth.

The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.

Because what could you say?

That the name on your wrist has been there for months?

That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?

That it’s his name—her soulmate’s name—written in red?

That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?

So instead, you say nothing.

You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between you—gentle, unspoken, and unbearable.

She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.

“You’ll meet him someday.”

And there it is.

The ache.

Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.

You nod, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Because she’s looking at you with such kindness, such sincerity—never realizing that her comfort is the wound.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t.

That you’ve already met him.

That he’s just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.

That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.

So you smile again.

The kind that feels more like a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

—•

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.

Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand rests—light, familiar, right—against his.

And Zayne—

He looks down at her like she hung the stars.

With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.

Before the mark.

Before everything changed.

He told you once, in passing, how they met.

At a park. A lost puppy.

He’d helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.

Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.

You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.

“Shaiya.”

Like it meant something holy.

Like it made sense.

You had smiled back then too.

And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady. “See you.”

She waves, content.

Zayne glances at you, just for a second—just long enough for your heart to betray you.

Then they turn.

And you’re left behind.

As always.

Your mark burns again as you watch them walk away—slow, steady, inseparable.

It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.

When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.

As if fate itself is reprimanding you.

As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.

Just a defect. A flaw in the system.

But you ignore it.

You’ve learned how to live with fire under your skin.

Instead, you cling to the memories—the ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.

“I hope your name appears on my wrist someday,” he’d said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.

You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.

“If I was your soulmate, you’d probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.”

It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.

But now—

Now, it tastes like irony.

Because it did appear.

Your name did show up.

Just not where it was supposed to.

Not on him.

—•

You didn’t quite know how you ended up here.

Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Or maybe—just maybe—you were tired of pretending you were okay.

So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.

You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.

One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.

“Here’s to unrequited love,” you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.

You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel it—just for tonight.

Then—

A scent. Sharp. Clean.

Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.

It hits you all at once.

And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside you—unhurried, confident.

He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.

You catch a glimpse.

White—no, silver—hair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.

“Gin. On the rocks,” he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.

You glance at him, just for a moment.

And somehow, you felt drawn.

You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.

He was striking in a way that demanded attention—dangerous, almost.

Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.

His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.

And his mouth—curved in an easy, knowing smirk—looked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.

As if he was always just about to say something wicked.

There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasn’t merely sitting at the bar—but claiming it.

You stared a beat too long.

And then—

A sharp sting.

Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.

You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.

Of course.

Even now—even with someone like him sitting beside you—the universe couldn’t let you forget.

You were still branded.

Still trapped.

Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.

And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.

You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.

You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull something—anything.

It didn’t.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.

The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—sharp, deliberate.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… intrigued.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.

“Something like that,” you muttered, not looking at him.

But he didn’t look away.

And somehow, you felt seen.

Not pitied. Not judged. Just… noticed.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking through you.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.

“Same here,” he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“I’m Sylus,” he says, turning slightly to face you now.

There’s something in the way he says it—easy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like he’s giving you a choice. To take it or don’t.

You glance at him again.

That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

He just waits.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you give it.

“Y/N,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.

Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and somehow, it doesn’t feel empty.

Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.

You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.

“All my nights are rough,” you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Not just this one.”

You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.

Beside you, Sylus raises a brow—curious, maybe, but respectful. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

And somehow, that’s more comforting than if he had.

So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.

Not forced. Not heavy.

Just… there.

The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowly—like a held breath finally exhaled.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe it’s his presence.

Maybe it’s just that for once, you don’t feel so unbearably alone.

A sudden courage bubbles up—liquid and reckless.

You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.

“What do you think of people with red marks?”

You feel him glance your way.

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passes—something unsaid.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says after a sip of his gin. “Mine’s never shown.”

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasn’t touched him at all.

And somehow, you envy that.

“Good for you,” you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.

A beat of silence follows.

Then—a chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… amused.

Knowing.

“Interesting,” is all he says.

The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

Like he’s already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence beside you—steady, unbothered.

As if your pain isn’t a burden here.

As if your broken pieces don’t make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a pen—moves smooth, unhurried.

You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.

Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.

He doesn’t look at you right away—just takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.

“I am fully aware of stranger danger,” he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, “but do call if you need… company.”

His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.

Not suggestive.

Not empty.

Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.

You glance down at the number.

It looks oddly out of place between your fingers—this small, absurd lifeline.

But it’s there.

And so is he.

You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.

“Maybe I will,” you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.

To bruised hearts.

To broken fates.

To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.

You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.

No questions. No confessions.

Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesn’t ask you to pretend.

When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.

The mark on your wrist is calm now—dormant, for once.

You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.

Sylus.

You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.

As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.

—•

You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.

Every part of you aches—your back, your hands, your mind.

Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone else’s life resting in your palms.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.

Zayne.

His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.

He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cup—your usual coffee order, still warm.

“Long day?” he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.

Your chest tightens.

And then it comes—the burn.

That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.

You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, hoping your fingers don’t brush too long against his.

He doesn’t notice the wince you try to hide.

Doesn’t see how tightly you’re holding your sleeve.

Because to him, it’s just kindness.

To you, it’s agony.

You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didn’t ache so much.

The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the moment—keeping you from unraveling.

Then he speaks.

“I saw you out two nights ago.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it—curiosity, maybe. Concern, even.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words don’t mean much.

“Were you drinking again?”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.

You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.

So many things you could say.

Yes. Because pretending I’m fine all the time is exhausting.

Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didn’t kill me.

Because my mark won’t stop burning, and I don’t know how to live with this kind of love.

But instead, you offer a small shrug.

“Just needed some air,” you say quietly. “That’s all.”

A lie.

But it’s one he won’t press.

Because he trusts you.

Because he doesn’t know.

He gives you that small, familiar smile—the one that always undoes you more than it should.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he says softly, like it’s second nature to worry about you.

Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation he’ll never see.

Your fingers curl around the cup.

Tight. Too tight.

As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.

But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.

As if it’s angry.

As if it’s jealous.

And for a moment, you wonder why it hasn’t bled.

Why it doesn’t just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.

“Stop being so kind to me,” you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.

But there’s no one left to hear it.

Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breaking—quiet and familiar—as tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.

Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.

The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.

Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.

Sylus had texted you the address after your call—short, clipped, and straightforward, like him.

And now you’re here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what you’re hoping to find on the other side.

Healing?

Distraction?

A place where your mark doesn’t matter?

You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.

Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.

One. Two. Three quiet raps.

A pause.

Then the door clicks open.

And there he is—Sylus.

Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than you’ve ever seen them.

No questions. No judgment.

—•

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.

Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.

The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylus’s eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at you—then away again.

You’re still.

Tired.

The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.

The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.

And your mark—

Still there.

Still burning beneath your skin.

You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breathe—slow, deep, and unguarded.

Sylus doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t pry.

He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.

And in that silence, something shifts.

Not healed. Not whole.

But a little less alone.

You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm gold—sharp, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Sorry,” you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.

For what exactly, you’re not sure.

For showing up. For falling apart.

For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn to look at you.

Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.

“It’s good company,” he replies, casual, like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t a burden.

Like this—the silence, the ache, the weight of everything you can’t say—is somehow welcome.

You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.

Maybe that’s what you needed.

Not comfort. Not words.

Just someone who doesn’t mind the quiet, even when it’s heavy.

“I can understand.”

His voice breaks the stillness, low and quiet—almost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.

Your eyes dart to him.

Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.

“I love someone,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “But her name isn’t on my wrist.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.

“There’s another name on hers.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—soft, but heavy with weight.

And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didn’t flinch at your pain.

Because he knows.

He knows what it’s like to love without being chosen.

To look at someone and see a future they’ll never see with you.

To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughter—wanted, but not meant.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Does she know?”

A pause.

“No,” he murmurs. “And I’m not sure I want her to.”

And for a moment, you’re not two strangers on a couch.

You’re two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.

And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

“How does it work?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeper—something raw.

“Love. How does it work?”

There’s a pause.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.

You finally glance at him.

He’s staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think it does,” he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. “Not the way we’re told it should.”

His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.

“Everyone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.”

He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.

“But love—it’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It doesn’t follow rules or timing or marks.”

You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.

“Then why does it still hurt this much?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.

“Because you love honestly,” he says. “And honest love never goes unpunished.”

“I just want it to stop burning,” you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.

You’re not looking at him—your gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. It’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not the unrequited part,” you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. “I always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.”

You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.

“But the mark—it burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.”

The heat isn’t just under your skin. It’s inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.

A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.

“I just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.”

A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Love shouldn’t feel like a wound,” he says.

You glance at him. And for once, there’s no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.

“And yet,” you murmur, “it always does.”

He doesn’t offer easy comfort. Doesn’t pretend to have answers.

Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “the pain won’t go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.”

Your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not from the burn.

It’s from the way he says it. Like he means it.

Like he would.

He steps toward you—unhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.

“I may not know you,” he says slowly, voice low and steady, “but I know your pain.”

His words settle over you like a weighted blanket—not too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.

Then—

He extends a hand.

Open.

Unassuming.

Offered without expectation.

Not to fix you.

Not to save you.

Just to stand with you in the wreckage.

You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for something—someone—to anchor you.

And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger.

Because pain recognizes pain.

And for the first time in a long while… you don’t feel alone in it.

You hesitate—just for a breath—then slip your hand into his.

His grip is firm, warm, steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.

And then—

The mark flares.

A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.

But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.

“Let it burn for a bit,” he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.

Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

And in that quiet, flickering room—with the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promise—

you let it burn.

—•

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.

You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiya’s concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.

You’d drifted again.

Your thoughts had wandered—slipped away from her words, from the crowded café, from the clatter of cups and the warmth of the sun spilling through the window.

You were thinking about him.

About Sylus.

About how his arms had felt around you.

How steady his heartbeat was.

How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.

“Sorry,” you murmur, straightening in your seat. “I was… thinking.”

Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” she says gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.

If only she knew who you were thinking of.

And how much it wasn’t her soulmate.

“Just… soulmate,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.

Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.

Shaiya’s face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.

Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.

“Did you find him?” she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.

You freeze.

There’s a second—a split, breathless second—where the truth rises in your throat like a wave.

That yes, you found him.

That it’s not a matter of who, but how painful it’s been.

That his name is carved in red into your skin.

And that her name is written on his.

But you don’t say any of that.

You just force a smile, one you hope doesn’t look too broken at the edges.

“Not exactly,” you say softly. “It’s complicated.”

How do you explain being loved—held—by someone who might be more than a stranger… but isn’t quite fate?

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shoulders—casual, confident—and your breath catches in your throat.

The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.

Then the warmth.

Then the voice.

“Why don’t you just tell her you did?” he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.

Your heart stumbles.

You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.

Sylus.

Of course it’s him.

You’re frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeve—burning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos he’s just dropped into.

Shaiya’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips parting in surprise. “Is this…?”

And still, Sylus doesn’t move his arm.

He just smirks.

And you—

You can’t decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat.

He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I’m Y/N’s soulmate.”

The words land like a strike of lightning.

Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at him—then to you—then back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.

You feel the burn instantly—sharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.

Your mark is screaming.

But you smile anyway.

You lie through the pain like you’ve always done.

With practiced ease, you reach for Sylus’s arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.

His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. “We’ve been… keeping it quiet.”

Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasn’t stepped into a dream.

You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

And all you can do is smile.

Even as your wrist burns like a brand.

Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.

Because in this moment—right here, right now—you just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great! How did you guys meet?” Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.

You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.

He smirks faintly, unbothered.

“At a bar,” he says smoothly. “She toasted to unrequited love.”

You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes on him. “And he didn’t walk away.”

Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.

“Oh, I have to tell Zayne!” she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.

Your breath catches.

You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.

There’s a flicker of panic—of heartbreak—just beneath the surface.

And then you feel it.

Sylus’s hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.

Silent. Certain. There.

You glance at him, and he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.

So you smile.

Small. Fragile.

But real.

Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that won’t heal.

After the café, Shaiya darted off, excitement practically radiating from her as she called over her shoulder about celebrating soon.

You could only wave, sheepishly, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Beside you, Sylus chuckled, that familiar, low sound that always managed to cut through your thoughts.

You turned to him, brows furrowed, voice soft.

“Why?”

He glanced down at you, completely unfazed, and shrugged.

“Would you rather people think you were lonely for the rest of your life?” he asked, smirking. “Because you were giving off tragic energy.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, Sylus was everywhere.

In the hospital lobby, leaning against walls like he belonged there.

In the café line beside you, pretending it was coincidence.

On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.

You didn’t complain.

Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.

Because his presence—while painful—was constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldn’t bear to face alone.

Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.

Zayne.

You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something frayed at the edges.

Conflicted.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.

Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You finally found him?”

You nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He opens his mouth—stops. Looks at you.

“That’s… good,” he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.

You ask, carefully, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. Smiles. Too polite.

“Yes. I’m just… glad.”

And as he turns to leave, your mark pulses—not from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.

You’re left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.

Because this time, it wasn’t just unrequited.

It was almost.

Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.

The room doesn’t announce him—he simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.

His eyes find you instantly.

You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.

But instead—

He just looks at you.

And something in his expression softens.

Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.

Like seeing you—tired, unraveling, still trying to hold it together—matters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The question isn’t really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.

It slips out before you can stop it—raw, unguarded, aching.

You’re not sure what hurts more.

The look in Zayne’s eyes, or the fact that it came too late.

Too late, when you’d already chosen to pretend.

Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away.

He just steps closer, his gaze steady—never pitying.

“Because,” he says softly, “he’s starting to see what he never let himself feel.”

And the worst part is… you’re not sure that changes anything.

“That’s worse,” you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. “That means he knew.”

The realization crashes over you like a wave—sharp, cold, merciless.

All this time.

All those quiet moments.

All the silence between your smiles.

He knew—and still chose someone else.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly you’re unraveling—slow, quiet, but completely.

And without a second’s hesitation, Sylus is beside you.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like he’s done this before—like he knows this pain.

You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.

One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And for once, you believe it.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

“That means he had a choice,” you whisper. “That the soulmate mark… meant nothing.”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.

Because if Zayne knew—if he saw your love and still turned away—then the mark wasn’t fate.

It was just a cruel joke.

Something to cling to while he chose someone else.

Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a moment—quiet, intense.

Then he speaks, voice low and steady.

“It means the mark doesn’t make the choice. We do.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.

“And he didn’t choose you,” he adds, soft but honest.

“But I would.”

You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.

“But you… you don’t have a mark. Not yet.”

Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—wry, almost sad.

“I had mine removed,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t once cost him something.

“Years ago.”

You blink, stunned. “Why?”

His gaze lingers on you, softer now.

“Because I didn’t want fate to decide who I could love.”

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I wanted the choice to be mine.”

“Then… the girl,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “The one you loved…”

Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.

Sylus’s eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieter—something older.

“She never chose me,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Even before the mark showed up, I think I knew.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“And when it finally appeared,” he continues, “I already made a choice.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.

You feel it—the familiar sting of being almost enough.

And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because he understands.

You wanted to feel happy.

Wanted to let Sylus’s words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.

But the mark burned—sharp and relentless—like it knew you were trying to let go.

Like it refused to be ignored.

A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyes—

your heart still belonged somewhere else.

To someone who never asked for it.

And never wanted it.

And that was the worst part.

Because for once, someone was choosing you.

And still, some part of you couldn’t stop choosing him.

Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on you—the part of you that still hadn’t healed.

He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.

And then, softly—gently—he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now.”

No pressure. No expectation.

Just understanding.

Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldn’t let go of someone else.

And still, he stayed.

Not to replace. Not to compete.

But simply to be there.

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like he’d been waiting—like he knew you would break again, and he’d already decided he’d be the one to catch you.

You let yourself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything you’d been trying to bury.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He just held you.

Steady. Solid. Safe.

And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.

—•

You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.

Sterile. Still. Silent.

The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadn’t caught up yet.

It had been three months.

Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.

Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didn’t know you needed—space to fall apart.

Three months since everything changed.

And Sylus never left.

Not once.

He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldn’t sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.

He was there when you made the decision—tired, trembling—to pack your things and leave it all behind.

Zayne.

The hospital that held too many memories.

The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldn’t have.

You moved somewhere quieter.

Somewhere you could breathe.

And now you were here—lying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.

You weren’t doing it to forget him.

You weren’t doing it out of spite.

You were doing it to reclaim your skin.

To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.

To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.

There was fear, yes—lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.

But there was peace, too.

Because this time, the choice was yours.

And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.

Waiting—not to save you.

Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.

The procedure wasn’t just to erase ink from your skin.

It was to quiet the fire.

To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.

The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.

At first, you were afraid.

Afraid of what you’d lose.

Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothing—or worse, that the emptiness would linger.

But then you thought of him.

Of Sylus.

Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.

Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.

And somehow, that gave you strength.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.

The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered it—soft, steady, final.

“Goodbye, Zayne.”

And this time, you meant it.

masterlist

[d1stalker]

A Peaceful Repose [Logan Howlett]

Summary: After some time away on a mission, Logan comes home, and all he wants to do is be around you

Warnings: clingy logan, showering together, sooo much fluff WC: 1.6k - MASTERLIST

----

The door of your apartment slowly creaks open, followed by the sound of a familiar, heavy tread against the wooden floor. Your heart skips a beat, in both relief and excitement—Logan’s back. 

But as he steps into the room, the sight of him makes you pause. He looks every bit as exhausted as you imagined, but it’s more than that. His clothes are torn and stained with dirt and dried blood, and a faint, musty smell of sweat and grime clings to him. His normally fierce gaze is dulled with fatigue, and the well-kept scruff on his face has grown wilder, more unkempt.

Your nose wrinkles slightly as you take in the full picture. “Logan…” you start, hesitating as he drops his bag on the floor with a loud thud. He catches your expression, and despite everything, he smirks, though it’s softer than usual, his eyes gleaming as they meet yours.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly and rough, but filled with a warmth that makes your heart swell.

“I missed you too,” you reply, stepping forward to close the distance between you. He reaches out, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close despite the state he’s in. The embrace is tight, almost desperate, and you feel the stiffness in his muscles, the way his body seems to sag against yours, as if holding you is the only thing keeping him upright. And as much as you want to melt into him, as much as you want to rest your head on his shoulder and breathe in his scent, the feel of the grit against your skin pulls you back.

“Logan, you need a shower.” Your voice gently chides as you lean back to look up at him, your hands smoothing over his chest before you brush a lock of hair away from his forehead, your fingers grazing the sweat-dampened strands.

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as he holds you, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek. “I just wanna hold you,” he grumbles, his face nuzzling into your hair.

You tilt your head back a bit, giving him a fond, but pointed look. “Not like this, you don’t,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek before wrinkling your nose again. “Seriously, babe, you stink.”

His mouth quirks into a tired, yet genuine smile, a rare sight that always makes your heart flutter. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he mutters, his eyes softening as he looks down at you.

“Go on,” you urge, giving him a gentle nudge toward the washroom. 

But Logan doesn’t move right away. Instead, he gives you a look, one that’s almost boyish in its vulnerability. “Can you come with me?” he asks, almost begging. “I’ve missed you… a lot.”

The sincerity in his tone, the way his eyes seem to plead with you, makes it impossible to refuse. You sigh, pretending to be more exasperated than you are, but the truth is, you’ve missed him just as much. “Alright, alright,” you relent, rolling your eyes playfully. “We’ll get cleaned up.”

A hint of relief washes over his features as he takes your hand, his rough fingers intertwining with yours as you lead him toward the bathroom. Once inside, you turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the steam begins to rise around you.

You turn to face him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms. “Let’s get you out of these clothes,” you say softly, reaching for the hem of his shirt. 

His hands cover yours, guiding them as he helps you pull the fabric over his head, his gaze never leaving your face. You can’t help but notice the remnants of bruises and cuts scattered across his body, and your heart aches to see him like this, knowing the toll the mission must have taken on him.

When he’s finally undressed, you shed your clothes quickly and step into the shower. Logan wraps his arms around your waist as he presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing as he takes in the moment.

The warm water cascades over both of you, and you can feel the rise and fall of his chest, each breath syncing with your own. There’s a stillness between you, a moment suspended in time where nothing else exists but the two of you.

“God, I missed this,” he murmurs affectionately, gazing down at you with a quiet longing. 

“Me too,” you echo your voice barely above a whisper as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile intimacy of the moment. You reach for the soap, lathering it between your hands, the bubbles forming quickly as the scent of fresh citrus fills the air.

Logan watches you with an almost reverent expression as you begin to work the soap across his chest, your fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles. His skin, though scarred and battered, is warm beneath your touch, the tension slowly melting away under the soothing rhythm of your hands.

He lets out a low, contented hum as you wash him, his eyes slipping closed as he leans into your touch. “That feels good,” he breathes, the words rumbling through his chest. 

You smile quietly, taking your time as you work your way across his torso, roaming every inch of him. When you reach his shoulders, you pause, stepping a little closer so you can run your hands up the back of his neck and into his hair, your fingers gently massaging his scalp.

The sound he lets out is almost a groan, and you can feel his body relax even further as your fingers work through the tangles in his hair. You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s a lazy, unhurried gesture, one that speaks of comfort, and Logan responds immediately, turning his head slightly to capture your lips.

The kiss is slow, achingly slow, devoid of the usual urgency or passion, but instead filled with something deeper—love, trust, and a profound sense of belonging. His lips are warm and soft against yours, and you find yourself sighing at the familiar taste of him.

When you finally pull back, your breath mingles with his, and he opens his eyes to meet yours. He doesn’t say anything, but his hands slide from your waist up to your back, pulling you so close into his orbit that there’s no space left between you. He holds you like this, his chin resting on the top of your head as the water continues to pour over both of you. It’s not about desire, but rather a need to feel you close, to reassure himself that you’re here, safe and sound in his arms.

You continue to wash him, your hands moving slowly and gently over his body, lathering his hair with care as the water rinses away the grime of the mission. Every so often, Logan presses a soft kiss to your forehead or the top of your head, small gestures of affection that make your heart ache with how much you love him.

As you wash the soap from his hair, you reach up to run your fingers through it one last time, making sure it’s clean. You notice his eyes are half-closed as his head begins to droop down toward your shoulder.

“You’re going to fall asleep standing up,” you tease gently, running your hands down his chest before stepping back to grab the showerhead, directing the water over his shoulders and back.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs thickly with drowsiness. “You’ve got magic hands.”

After you’ve both rinsed off, you turn off the shower and reach for a towel, wrapping it around yourself before grabbing one for Logan. He takes it from you with a small, grateful smile, quickly drying off before he wraps the towel around his waist. But before you can do the same, he brings you into his arms again, his damp skin cool against yours as he holds you close.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice low and soft as he leads you towards the bed. He pulls back the covers, and the two of you climb in, still damp from the shower. Logan pulls you close, his strong arms encircling you as he pushes his face into the crook of your neck.

The scent of fresh soap and clean skin fills the air, and you can feel the last bits of tension leaving his body as he settles into the bed, his breathing evening out as the warmth of your embrace soothes him.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you respond, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Your fingers trace soothing circles on his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Logan hums in satisfaction, his arms tightening around you as he presses closer. 

“You’re my everything,” he whispers.

You turn in his arms so you can face him, your hand resting against his chest. “And you’re mine,” you whisper back, your thumb brushing over his heart in a slow, soothing motion. 

In the quiet of the room, the only sound is the steady rhythm of Logan’s breathing and the faint thump of his heartbeat beneath your hand. You feel completely safe, completely loved, wrapped up in his arms, and you know that he feels the same. 

Drifting off to sleep, the last thing you hear is his voice, low and filled with affection. “Don’t ever leave me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead.

“Never,” you assure. “I’ll always be here.”

Logan lets out a deep, contented sigh, pressing a final kiss to your temple. And as the warmth of his embrace lulls you into sleep, you can’t help but think about how you were always meant to be here, by his side.

----

[flwrstqr]

[ .. ] DREAM ✶. WHEN THEY CALL YOU "WIFE"

𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗖 ᪲ 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆, 𝖺 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀.

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ '𝒏. ｡ boyfriend!enha & fem!rea 7OO ୨୧ fluff reaction imagines ✶ petnames skinship ◜ᯅ◝ 𝑙’ click

note. a remake of my old fic part like whatever.. but i hope you enjoy ! was fun remaking a fics >_< i promise i'll write more newer ones in the future

LEE HEESEUNG

you’re curled up on the couch with heeseung, his arm lazily draped over your shoulders, thumb absentmindedly tracing circles your skin under his hoodie—well, technically his hoodie, but you’ve claimed it. he leans in closer, as he whispers, “you’re so pretty, my wife.” you tilt your head with a teasing grin. “who’s wife? i don’t see a ring.” his eyes sparkle, lips tugging into that cocky smirk you know all too well as he murmurs, “yet.” the word slides off his tongue, and it sends butterflies straight to your stomach. you swat his chest with a laugh, but he just pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck. “mm, my baby’s shy,” he coos, “but you’ll look so good with my last name.” "heeseung!"

PARK JAY

jay’s sitting beside you on the bed, one arm casually slung around your waist, the other scrolling through his phone as he chats with his assistant on the call. “yeah, that one in beige—my wife loves neutral tones. oh, and add the matching wallet. she’s been eyeing that set for weeks.” you blink. once. twice. slowly turning your head toward him like did he just— “what did you just call me?” you whisper, stunned, your hand frozen mid-air with a chip halfway to your mouth. jay ends the call soon after, locking his phone before turning to you with a grin, his voice all warmth and silk. “wife,” he repeats, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you don’t like it?” you roll your eyes, “you can’t just say stuff like that and expect me to breathe, jay.”

SIM JAKE

you’re perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging as jake rummages through the cabinets for snacks, mumbling to himself until he finds your favorite. “got it—knew my wife would want this one,” he says so casually. you blink, head tilting. he turns around, already grinning like he knows what he did. you squint,  “okay then… thanks, husband.” his brain short-circuits. the bag of chips nearly slips from his hands as he stares at you, mouth slightly open, cheeks turning pink. “wait—say that again. no, actually, one more time. please.” he’s already walking back to you, standing between your legs, hands resting on your waist. “baby, say it again. call me that again. i’ll literally do anything—buy you a house, a puppy, a whole island.” you giggle, tugging him closer by the shirt. “relax, husband.” he melts. fully. game over.

PARK SUNGHOON

you’re leaning against the counter, sipping water while scrolling on your phone when sunghoon walks past, grabbing his keys and murmuring, “i’ll be back in ten, wife.” it’s so smooth, so casual, like he says it every day. your fingers freeze mid-scroll, blinking slowly like you didn’t just hear the man you’ve been secretly in love with drop that word. you try to play it cool, lips twitching as you mumble, “mm? what was that?” he glances over his shoulder, one brow raised, deadpan. “i said i’ll be back, wife.” your smile creeps in before you can stop it, trying to bite your lip to hide how dumbly happy you look. he sees it, of course—he always does—but just smirks as he leaves the door.  “lock the door behind me, babe,” he calls out, like he didn’t just casually claim your whole heart and future.

KIM SUNOO

you were rummaging through the kitchen cabinets when sunoo, curled up on the couch in his oversized hoodie, called out casually, “wife, can you grab the honey too?” and you froze. blinked. slowly turned around with wide eyes. “wait… what’d you just say?” he looked up, confused for a second, then grinned when he realized. “i said wife. what about it, baby?” your brain short-circuited instantly. wife?? wife?! he’s never called you that before. were you missing a proposal?? did he mean it?? was he teasing?? “why would you say that so casually like it’s not a whole wedding vow??” he laughed, arms wrapping around you, “because you feel like home already. and i like calling you mine.” and that was it. brain gone.

YANG JUNGWON

you were sitting on the floor, legs tangled with jungwon’s as you helped him fold laundry, when he mumbled, “thanks, my pretty wife,” while handing you a shirt. your hands froze mid-fold. wife? you whipped your head around, face already heating up. “wait.. did you just call me 'wife'?” you asked, wide-eyed. he blinked innocently before smirking, that dimple making an appearance. “i said wife. sounds right, doesn’t it?” you immediately buried your face in his chest, groaning, “stoppp, why would you say that so casually?” he chuckled, arms wrapping around you as you tried to hide your flustered state. “because you are gonna be my wife someday,” he whispered into your hair, making your heart explode. his voice was too soft, his smile too sweet—how were you supposed to survive this boy? you clutched his hoodie tighter, face still burning. god, you were so hopelessly in love with him.

NISHIMURA RIKI

you were half-listening as riki chatted with his friend, scrolling on your phone until you heard him say, “yeah, my wife likes that too.” and you froze. your head snapped around so fast. “your what now? who’s your wife??” you demanded, staring him down like he just confessed to having a whole secret family. he blinked at you, deadpan. “you. you idiot.” you gawked. “oh. oh.” he burst out laughing, tugging you into his side. “thought i had a side chick or something, huh?” he teased. “maybe i do… but she’s you." “you’re so stupid, riki,” you mumbled, burying your face in his hoodie. “but you like being called wife, huh?” he whispered, grinning. “shut up.” “wife.” “riki, i swear—” “wiiife.” lord, you were never living this down.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 10 — DIRTY TALK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — dan heng, jing yuan, mydei, dr ratio

— warnings. — fem! reader, dirty talk, talking you through it, messy, overstimming

⚝ — DAN HENG

dan heng touches you on places no one else could reach— alas, he was calm only in appearance, but every motion underneath was begging for access— he looks at you, eyes dark, flickering to your lips like they hold some terrible truth he needed to find out as his hands, slightly cold, find your waist.

"you make me say things i shouldn't, fantasize about things that should never be spoken aloud," your moan draws out a helpless tune from him, somewhat between half growl and half sob, "you don't know how beautiful you look, spread out like this, glistening for me, it's maddening," as he presses in slowly, exhaling hard, "that's it… you take me so well, so greedy, I shouldn't like that, but fuck, i do," as his hand trembles, gripping your thighs, holding you open.

slowly, he's memorizing every second, every shape and storing you in some hidden chamber of memory inside his brain to return back in solitude.

but it frays too quickly— dan heng hisses when your pussy begins to squeeze him, forcing him to take him deeper inch by inch until he'd be able to graze at your clit whenever he went fully inside your sweet warmth.

your fingers sink into his shoulder as your back arches off the mattress, fuck, he groans against your mouth in response, soft at first, then deeper, more ragged, "don't stop, not yet," he whines out, voice shredded and low, fucking you while simultaneously watching your tits bounce up and down in tandem with his desperate thrusts.

his hands grip at your thighs like he might drown without the grounding of your skin as he kisses you with the restraint of someone taught to deny himself— but beneath it all, there was hunger, even worse, dark, desperate hunger. despite now, when he finally slides his tongue deeper into your mouth, you found it to be not careful anymore, "you have no idea what you do to me," he says, eyes fluttering shut, your pussy throbbing and soaking him with your slick, "fuck baby— no idea how many nights i've imagined this, your mouth, your noises, how you take me."

you feel him twitch inside you— his hips betraying him, his breath a staccato rhythm of need, "let me, just once— lose control."

⚝ — JING YUAN

"how sweet you're reacting to me, dear," jing yuan points out, calm voice trembling at the edges, the way silk tears under a blade, "shaking like that already? i haven't even started," as he drags his cock along your soaked entrance, slow enough to make you beg.

he smiles, "you know i could keep you here for hours, talk you through every second of it while you cry for more," as his hand cups your face, thumb pressing into your cheek, dragging your gaze up so you'd be forced to look at him.

"you want to be filled, ruined, marked— don't you? say it, i want to hear you, tell me you need me to use this perfect body of yours, tell me i'm the only one who gets to see you like this,"

you don't breathe— you simply cannot— not when he finally pushes back in, slow like cruelty, like a punishment designed just for you as your gasp forms into a sharp, raw tune, desperately torn from your lungs like utter worship, and the sound of it— fuck, the sound of it— it breaks him.

jing yuan fucks not like a man, no, it's something different, something broken open from the inside, teeth bared behind it like violence. he's losing himself, not out of gentleness, but restraint he's had caged behind his heart for centuries.

it's in the way his hips shake, the way his mouth drips spit onto your throat as he pants against it, hot and soaked and shaking.

"tight, fuck— you were waiting for me, knew you’d be like this, soaked and twitching, wanting it filthy, needy thing, aren't you?" jing yuan leans down, panting against your lips, "i'll say everything to you, every little thing i want to do, you want my voice in your head next time you touch yourself? good, because after this, you won't know how to come unless it's to me whispering filth in your ear."

⚝ — MYDEI

mydei doesn't even look away when you shake from overstimulation, in fact, he needs to see it happening, "you poor, sweet thing," he drawls, his thumb pushing through the little hood of your clit before dragging your slick from your folds up to your sensitive pearl like he's painting with it, having fun while being cruel, "this is how you thank me? dripping like a broken thing just because i touched you?"

the man was utterly stimulated from seeing you writhing like this, desperately so as he fucks you with his fingers— slow, wet, curling deep, then changing the entire rhythm and flicking through your clit left right left right.

"keep squeezing me like that and i'll think you're begging me to ruin it, sweetheart, that what you want? you want me to fuck you until you forget your own damn name?" his smile is crooked and mean, teeth flashing like a wolf about to bite, "you hear that?" he growls when you wince out the moment he fucks his cock inches deeper.

"listen to how wet you are for me— nothing but a soaked little mess now, fucking filthy, huh? you were made for me, weren't you?" mydei groans low, his breath hot against your cheek as he smears his saliva from your cheek, jaw and neck, suckling on the swollen flesh harshly.

"gonna talk you through every inch while you're losing your fucking mind," he shoves himself in and pulls out completely, only to push his cock inside more devilishly, your cunt gushing and overflowing with his cum and your slick, "you like that, baby? like when i use that filthy mouth of mine and this cock? then be good and open up for me, i'll make you forget how to walk."

⚝ — DR RATIO

"intellect alone doesn't explain what i want to do to you," veritas was already buried in you, movements obscene, sounds wet and loud, but his voice— his angelic voice— was cruel and saccharine sweet all at once, "if you only knew how often i've imagined this, your thighs shaking around me baby, fuck and your mouth? open in those pretty little gasps, your cunt swallowing me like it missed me, hah," as you cry out when he pulls your hips tighter against him, impossibly close, like he could crawl inside your skin and live there, lusting and downright starved.

"mm baby, yes, just like that, keep clenching, i want to memorize how you tighten when i say filthy things, say more, darling, i'll say everything to make you sound like that," veritas licks a stripe along your jaw, like he's losing his mind with the way you sound, the way you milk his cock and squeeze him so impossibly deep, "you're so far gone, twitching like this, drooling for it, your mind leaking out your ears and i haven't even started talking properly yet."

alas, the man kisses your temple, then says darkly, "i'll speak until your thoughts melt, tell you exactly what your body looks like stretched around me, how i want to stay buried here until it stops being fucking academic and starts being more," as another thrust, this one strong enough that his pelvis rubs on your clit, unfolds your veins and boils your blood as your tits bounce up and down.

he needs you closer— no, closer than that— so close there's no space for thought, for breath, for salvation, he crushes you to him, his veiny hands strong and solid as they drag you in, back and back and back again until your breasts were pressed up against the unbearable heat of his chest— his skin slick, sculpted like sin carved into flesh, his muscles twitching with yearn that's already shattering.

"you understand now, don't you? i'm not stopping until you're crying and still begging for more."

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[jinwoosbabyboo]

The First Meet Self-Aware!Sylus

Is it still kidnapping if you’re in love with him? Yes. It is. Welcome to the N109 Zone get comfortable baby

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Self-Aware!Sylus who can call anywhere home, but is becoming less and less interested in the N109 zone because you’re not there “Well you can’t come here” “Why not?” “You’re not real Sylus how would you come here?” he turns tapping his chin as if he's actually trying to figure out a way to access your world “You could come here”

Sylus wouldn’t out right say it, but he was desperate to have you in his arms it just never seemed possible. There was nothing either of you could do so you settled for a love that would end tragically because you just couldn’t let him go. You found yourself daydreaming constantly about spending your days with him. What it would be like to hold his hand instead of your phone. To caress his cheek and feel his warmth in the palm of your hand. You gave yourself butterflies just imagining him melting into your touch.

Just him.

“You’re spacing out Princess” You slightly jumped at the sound of his voice. You glanced down at the celery you were mindlessly chopping. “Shit I didn’t mean to dice it” You huffed and scraped it onto the pan anyway; there was no way you were going back to the store right now. You looked back at Sylus who was casually sitting on his couch watching a musical. Sometimes it really made you feel crazy seeing him like this. Not the in-game repeated movements that he was programmed to do, but fluid movement and everyday life activities. It really felt like you were talking to a person and not just code in a game. “What are you watching?”

Sylus hummed off key as he answered “Heathers” You giggled at the fact that the big bad Onychinus leader watches musicals in his living room during his free time. “You should join me” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye and smiled to himself like there was some inside joke you didn’t catch. “Only in our dreams” You smiled at him, but it was somber the reality of your relationship always made you a little sad yet here you were doing nothing to end it. You turned back to stir the vegetables you had sautéing because the last thing you need is for them to overcook.

That's when you heard the clearest voice in your ear “Just dreams?” You spun around rapidly flinging food in the process. Your heart pounded against your chest as you scanned the empty kitchen looking for any other sign of life. You immediately swapped out the spoon for the knife you had just minutes earlier. “Sylus please tell me you heard that”

Silence.

You glanced at your phone and saw that the screen was off. “Is there a fucking demon in my house right now?” You snatched your phone ready to call a friend to come over, but your efforts were thwarted when a band of silky red and black mist wrapped around your wrist wrenching you backwards. “I’ve been called worse”

You breath hitched causing you to choke on your own spit as you came face to face with Sylus. Are you going crazy? You struggled against his evol that felt like what you could only describe as smoke with density. “I must be hallucinating” You’ve imagined having this man in front of you for months, but you had no idea he would be this terrifying in person. It felt like you were standing before a hungry wolf that wouldn’t second guess snapping your neck. Why was his demeanor so damn scary? Before you could even process what was happening Sylus grabbed you buy the waist and pulled you close to him. “I’m sorry Princess but this is probably going to hurt”

“Wha-” Pain seared through you in an instant like lightning and fire at once. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as it felt like your vocal cords were singed to a crisp. The pain was unbearable it changed from searing to pins and needles almost like little pieces of you were splitting apart. You couldn’t handle it and your vision went dark as you passed out.

You came too slowly, groaning as you stretched your limbs on a stiff mattress. You sat up slowly realizing you were fine. Rolling your shoulders and rubbing your legs you were sure whatever that was must have just been a terrible dream. Maybe? “I knew I was dreaming” you couldn’t explain the amount of pain you felt though. You turned and noticed instead of your usual view of your room you were looking out amongst a vast dark city. “Where-”

“What do you think?” a voice said in your ear causing your fight or flight to kick in. You pulled your legs under yourself and swung your fist as hard as you could in the direction of the voice. The person groaned at the contact and you reached for the nearest object you could find which was a lamp and swung it, but your wrist was caught mid air and you were disarmed with ease. Within seconds you were pinned down on the mattress.

Your eyes widened in shock when you realized who was holding you down “Sylus?” He was just as intimidating as he was in your dream. Or was it a dream? “You’re not dreaming” Sylus squeezed your wrist tightly “Ow stop stop it hurts” he raised an eyebrow as his lip quirked up “See?” You rolled your eyes he was way too amused with your reaction for your liking. “We need to work on that right hook of yours it's a little weak” He can’t be serious right now you just punched him in his jaw and tried to beat him over the head with a lamp and the first thing he thinks of is training your punches to get better? Typical.

Sylus couldn’t help but, chuckle at your expression with your brows furrowed and your lips curled in frustration. “I wish you could see yourself right now” You pushed his face away with your free hand irritated with him for causing you that much pain.

“I wish you would get a new mattress why is this bitch so stiff my fucking back hurts” You squirmed underneath him. He inhaled a sharp breath making you freeze realizing the position you were in; he was nestled perfectly between your legs with one hand pinned above your head. Suddenly there was a knock at the door “Boss we heard some commotion are you okay?” Sylus rolled his eyes “I’m fine. Leave.”

“Yes boss” The sound of footsteps retreated until there was silence again. Sylus looked down at you furrowing his brows, this time is was your turn to smirk. “Don’t say it” He warned. Your lips quivered as you tried to stop your smile from forming “Are those my boys?” Sylus gave you a bored look before rolling his eyes at you as well. “Do you know how hard it was to bring you here Princess? You’re more excited for Luke and Kieran than me” Sylus expression seemed irritated, but the look in his eyes was pouty. You had Sylus jealous of his own men now that was an ego boost. You squirmed in his hold again trying to free yourself. “This is a lot for me Sylus you have some explaining to do" You kicked your legs like a toddler trying to sit up once again "And let me get up your mattress is not comfortable!”

Sylus huffed at your commands, but of course he listened getting up and pulling you with him. He had you straddle his lap with his hands gently placed on your waist. “Is this more comfortable?” He leaned back against the headboard his eyes traveling up and down your body. Based on the look in his eyes it was almost as if even he couldn’t believe you were not only in front of him, but on top of him at the moment.

“No! w-well y-yea but-” You cut yourself off to save face. This man really had you stuttering like porky the pig. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts as best as you could. “How the actual fuck am I here right now Sylus”

“Energy manipulation is stronger than you think” He shrugged like it was no big deal. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“If you turn something into pure energy it can travel wherever you want it to even into as you call it a game world” His words bounced around in your head as you tried to make sense of them. What does he mean energy can travel anywhere. Then it hit you. The searing pain, pins and needles, the black out. “You turned me into pure energy to bring me here?!” You screamed in his face.

“Something like that” He replied in a bored tone “The shopkeeper said it should only hurt the first time” You rubbed your temples just trying to stay calm, how were you supposed to be okay with the fact that you were seemingly ripped apart and put back together inside of a damn game. You felt Sylus shifting underneath you and his hands running up your sides. “Tell me” he tilted your chin down so he could look you in the eye. “Are you not happy to have me like this?” he wrapped his arms around your waist while he rested his chin on your chest. “I can hear your heart beating fast”

“Of course I'm happy to see you” You cradled his face in your hands and he immediately melted into your touch. It was even better than you imagined it would be. His eyes closed and you could feel the satisfying hum that rumbled in his chest. You stared in awe at the sight before you; he was really melting because of you. He opened his eyes and dropped his gaze to your lips causing them to part “Prove it.”

You didn’t need to be a genius to know he wanted a kiss. You two spend many nights talking about it. He made you promise that if you ever actually met him the first thing you would do is kiss him. That promise was clearly broken since the first thing you did was punch him in the face. His lips looked so soft and full you didn’t hesitate to lean in and Sylus met you half way. It lasted no longer than three seconds before you pulled away. “What's wrong?" You shook your head and looked away “Nothing you’re just making me nervous”

You had no time to prepare yourself as Sylus slammed you back on your back and pressed his lips to yours in a heated kiss. Your eyes bugged out of your head before slightly rolling back as you gave into him. He nipped at your bottom lip and shoved his tongue in when you opened up for him. You thought he would be more rough, but he was actually so gentle. He kissed you like he was trying to perfectly mold your mouth to only fit his. No more like it was already made to fit only him. You wrapped you arms around his neck and snaked one hand up the back of his head tugging the hair at the nape. He smiled against your lips “Do that again” he whispered, hooking your leg over his hip. You tugged even harder this time relishing in the satisfied groan he let out.

You could do this for hours, but you had too many questions. You pulled his head away trying to catch your breath. “We’re not done talking Sylus” He sucked his teeth and sighed heavily as he sat up. This time he didn’t pull you onto his lap he helped you sit up and fixed your shirt that was riding up from him almost removing it. “Ask your questions” He leaned back against the headboard with his arms crossed. You couldn’t help, but giggle at the slight pout he was failing to hide. "For starters where can we buy a softer mattress?"

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[s0dium]

Obsession

Warning: Love drunk men, fingering, titty sucking, nipple play, unprotected sex, love drunk reader

~

Love courses through your veins. He’s all you can think about.

You wonder if it's normal to be this enamored with someone, to be this hopelessly head over heels infatuated and obsessed. You can't even focus on what needs to be done anymore because he's absorbed your entire being; he's in your head when you wake up, a gentle whisper in the back of your mind during conversations, a constant in your dreams, day or night.

But it's a doomed one-sided crush you remind yourself. You're not even sure if he knows you exist and in quieter moments, you wonder if perhaps it’s better this way. Loving from a distance means you never have to face the potential heartbreak of rejection, never have to see that polite smile of someone who doesn’t return your feelings. It's safer, you tell yourself, to admire him from afar, keeping your heart guarded behind the shield of daydreams and what-ifs.

So surely, right now in this moment, you must be dreaming.

It feels too vivid, too intense to be just a figment of your imagination. The warmth of his breath against your cheek, the weight of his bare body pressing gently down on yours, the softness of his lips moving against your own with an insatiable hunger—it all feels astonishingly real.

Because it is.

You don't know how but now you're naked underneath him, letting him touch, grope, suck, kiss, nip, and bite anything his hands and mouth can find. He doesn't let up either, he's exploring your body like a starved man, like he'll never get a chance to touch you ever again and wont pull away until he's had his fill.

You gasp when you feel his fingers between your legs, tracing your inner thigh before gliding between your pussy lips. Instinctively, you jerk back at the feeling; his fingers collecting your arousal and sliding up and down. But before you can speak, he kisses you again, his tongue eagerly intertwining with yours. When he finally pulls away, leaving you breathless, a thin strand of saliva connects your mouths.

"Just let me take care of you okay?" He hums before dipping two fingers into your tight hole. "Just been waiting so long to do this."

You don't even have time to react before he's curling his digits and massaging a sweet spot you could only dream about hitting on your own. His other hand gropes your left breast and with his index and thumb, begins to play with your perky nipples. As if that wasn't enough, his mouth found your other breast and gave it the same attention, licking sucking, and rolling your nipple like it was candy.

Colors dance across your closed eyelids and you wonder if this is heaven, if you've died and reached nirvana because the pleasure is just that good. You dont know if you can handle this, handle the fact that he's sucking and playing with your nipples while finger fucking you. Your toes curl and uncurl from the hot searing euphoria that is absorbing your body and emitting from your core. Your back arches off the bed and your crying his name, moaning it even, something you only dreamed about doing late at night when you craved him.

Suddenly, his mouth releases your nipple with a pop and he ceases all of his ministrations, leaving you breathless and confused.

"Fuck, I-" He's breathless himself, his face flushed and pupils blown. "Need to be inside you, need to feel you." He practically groans, and you thickly gulp at his words. Your brain goes fuzzy and you dizzily watch him pull down his boxers, the length slapping against his abdomen after being released from its confines.

He watches you lay down on the bed, breasts and cunt glistening from juices. You dont know this but he actually thinks he is dreaming. You look like a painting right now and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from spilling just at the sight of you.

"Please," You whine, "Please fuck me."

Who is he to deny you?

Without a word he presses his tip against your entrance and slides into you, grunting at the snug fit of your walls. You let out a loud moan from the feeling of him filling you so so perfectly, so well you mentally curse yourself for thinking a dildo or your fingers could ever do the job.

Then with a moan of his own, he slides out of you, nearly leaving you empty, before rocking himself back into you. Oh, how he wanted to fuck you slow and nice, like you deserved, but as the seconds passed, his resolve seep away until he just couldn't possibly hold back anymore.

His thrusts become faster, quicker, slamming in and out of you with such vigor and ease due to your combined juices coating and dripping from both his length and your hole. The friction is delicious, and his tip seems to hit your g-spot perfectly with each thrust. He even grabs the underside of your thigh and pushes them against you, effectively folding you and half and allowing him to go even deeper inside you.

You could feel your rational slipping away as he groaned about how fucking good you felt, about how good you where taking him, how he had been dreaming about this. You want to say something too, say something about how you feel the same way, but the only thing that comes out of your mouth right now is wanton moans of his name.

The pleasure was becoming too much, it had been slowly building and building and you know your about to break any second, burst with such euphoria you don't know if you will ever come back from the high. Before you do though, your brain manages to work again for half a millisecond to express the exact words you are feeling.

"Love you! M'love you so much!" You gasped before letting yourself succumb to the mind-numbing orgasm that was waiting for you. Your whole body shook and quaked from the pleasure and your mind went white. You thought you might cry, from happiness or pleasure you did not know. But you didn't. You simply went limp while you let him use your body like a sex doll.

You are barely clinging onto consciousness when you feel his hips stutter against you and he scoops you up, holding you close while he cums inside you.

"Love you too, love you too." He groans against your ear.

Any character you want ;)

[chuluoyi]

Baby gojo and daddy gojo not wanting to share mama gojo😭✋i-

࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 06:20 P.M 」

aww this is so cute of course this is the first i worked on after getting back from my weekend break <3 and actually i have this one similar ask too so i combined yours with theirs! here's some cute blinking gojo in phantom parade and okay now let us have some crack and make gojo suffer

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

“bwah!” a nudge.

“myah!” a shove.

and then—

“waaa!” a… slap (?) on the cheek.

“huh?” satoru winced, touching where the baby’s palm just connected with his face, blinking rapidly. so he wasn’t imagining things. this really was happening in front of his eyes.

and it was the baby—his baby.

your giggles filled the air in response.

“hey, you,” satoru took on a very stern look and an exaggerated frown, glaring at his own son. the baby merely babbled at him innocently, blinking his wide crystal blue eyes that mirrored his. “bad, bad minion. this is a very serious issue. you shouldn’t do that, you hear?”

the serious issue being each time he tried to lean closer to steal a kiss from you, your son always found a way to repel him away with his tiny hands.

you snorted at his righteous tone. “he’s just protecting me. even your kid knows you’re a danger.”

a gasp left your husband’s shiny lips, mockingly in disbelief. “me? a danger? i make your life a heaven on earth!”

“heav—pfft—”

“i give you love, food, my body—” he emphasized, pointing at himself for a dramatic effect, and you threw your head back, dissolving into a fit of laughter even more, “—heck, i even give you this naughty baby!”

“wha—no! that’s team effort!”

“still! and now he is staging an uprising against me?” satoru cheekily eyed his child, who was now clutching the fabric of your blouse, tiny fingers playing with the shiny diamonds of your necklace—a gift from satoru too, actually.

“look at him go,” he grumbled, his eyes following each little movement his son made, then dramatically yelped when the boy pawed at your breasts. “hey! no touching! those are mine!”

“please.” you almost choked on your laugh. your silly husband always had a way to make things sound funnier than they actually were, and that was what made you fall in love with him more each day, really. “the milk is his!”

“he can have the cow’s! and more importantly, it’s thanks to me that you’re so milky—”

“satoru! you’re so uncouth i can’t—!”

“see? you’re laughing so much! this proves enough that i make you happy every day!”

later that night, after you put your baby to sleep in his crib, satoru gently poked his cheek, his expression tender despite his pursed lips. “he is out like a light…”

satoru might whine a lot, but ultimately, you couldn’t miss the look of adoration and fondness that made him the father of your child. even without saying it out loud, you knew that he would willingly put everything aside and sacrifice anything—first of all, himself—if it was meant for his dearest, most precious treasure.

knowing he'd do the same for you only served to melt your heart even more. and you felt full—so full, in fact, with warmth and love and anything that was soft.

you really do love him, don’t you?

“look at him, he’s like a shrimp,” your husband pointed out, still gazing at his baby in wonder as he kept poking and prodding at the chonky rolls of his little arms, and you thought, nothing could have been more precious than this.

“satoru.”

“yeah?” he turned instantly at the sound of his name, but before he could react further—

you stood on your tiptoes and planted a swift smooch on his cheek, putting the overflowing love you held for him in it. “mwah!”

“…?!”

for the next three seconds, satoru malfunctioned. the brush of your sweet lips on his cheek was so innocent that he was rendered speechless. heat steadily gathered on his face, turning him pink despite himself.

“you…” he groaned, collecting himself, a dopey smile was quickly plastered on his face to cover up his setback as you burst into hearty laughter. “now you’ve started it…” and then he latched on you with a glint of a joker, launching a full-blown tickle attack.

“a—ah! why?! satoru! ahahahaha!”

. . .

safe to say, your wheezes effectively awoke your son from his slumber, and as a bit of payback, you left satoru in the dust to deal with the crying baby, both of them whimpering in unison since he had absolutely no clue how to comfort the little one.