#it does not work with the idea i have and is ugly

[nympheagain]

Waiting, hurting, loving

A/N: any babes that crave intimacy but are so scared of it at the same time? yeah.

This is different to what i usually write but i hope you guys enjoy it nevertheless. Super duper angsty, I’m in my feels yall.

—Listening to the Montell fish JAMIE album while writing this. I’d dedicate this to the first love of my life, but I’ve spent more time getting over him than i have loving him.

“I’m scared, Mark.” You tell him, and it takes everything in you to not run away right there. Your eyes are burning, and you don’t know why you just admitted the biggest secret of your life.

He’s staring at you, and his eyes seem unfocused, not like he’s staring past you, but rather through you. And it terrifies you.

The idea that anyone would be able to see all of you, the good, the bad, and the ugly, sent a horrible chill down your spine. But Mark has. And he’s still here.

He’s smiling softly, telling you, “I understand.” He’s nodding, and it’s barely there, like it’s a secret meant for the two of you and no one else. Not even the four walls of that room. And it makes you feel safe.

It also takes the weight off your chest. If Mark could still love you, even the unpolished, unfinished, work-in-progress-on-two-legs you, then maybe you could allow yourself to love.

Maybe this was the eventual reality for you. That you could finally let the love that you had for him, the one that was bursting at the seams, seep through and envelope him. But then again, what if it were too much? What if you were too much?

“It’s okay,” he whispers. And for a moment it feels like it really is. “We have each other, and we can figure the rest of it out later.” His hand is reaching out for you, crossing the space between you two, bridging the gap.

You release a breath that you wished you weren’t holding. You wished that you could be normal about this. That Mark wanting to be more than friends, just like you, would be an exciting prospect and nothing else.

So why did it have to be so gut-wrenching?

Why was all you could think about the negatives. The glass half empty side of things. The knowledge that this could never last. That at some point, Mark would look at you and realise it was all a facade.

So you push him away, like you always do, and he stays at a distance, like he always does, but never too far. Close enough to reach you as soon as you called out to him. Close enough for you to feel his presence.

And he wondered, did you feel his hurt too?

Did you consider it, amongst your own? Did you have space for all the feelings he had for you? Would you make space for him if he asked? Would you let him help?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was willing to wait until you were ready to have him. He’d wait years. And he’d still beckon you with the same softness as the first day he knew he loved you.

[antianakin]

That's... literally almost exactly what I'm saying?

Yes, the Jedi could not fix every single possible ill in the galaxy, ESPECIALLY small local injustices like what happened to Bix. There's corruption everywhere at every level, that's just a facet of life, and something that will never be completely stamped out. The Jedi cannot and SHOULD not be expected to be capable of keeping every single injustice from occurring, and the idea that they can or should be able to is exactly what Palpatine played on to convince people that they were failing and needed to be eliminated.

I don't think Andor is making statements about the Jedi. It's very very carefully avoiding ever having Force sensitive characters in the show or even MENTIONING Force sensitive people. The most we ever hear about are references to the Emperor, but I don't think there's even been mentions of Vader let alone discussion of the Jedi.

I DO think that Andor is one of the shows that has most encapsulated the themes and messages about attachment and commitment that the original Star Wars films were going for and one of the places we most see that message being gotten across in the films is through the Jedi characters (Obi-Wan, Yoda, Qui-Gon, Mace). So I do think that Andor really embodies Jedi values simply by being true to the values Lucas was choosing to instill in his own story.

And while the show isn't making any statements about the Jedi, it doesn't exist in a vacuum, and so you CAN look at it in the context of the other stories we've gotten with Jedi in them and the ways the Jedi's relationship to the galaxy has been represented elsewhere. Obi-Wan has an entire scene in Clone Wars where he discusses the issue of people in the galaxy NOT standing up for themselves and relying on the Jedi to do everything for them and how that's causing the war to drag on much longer than it should. It's the Jedi who fall while the Senate cheer later. And while the rebellion builds itself up without (much) Jedi assistance, it also DOES use the Jedi as a way to identify themselves. Their symbol is pretty clearly a modified version of the Jedi symbol. They all use "May the Force be with you" when going out on missions, which is a pretty Jedi specific phrase. And when they are their lowest, when the regular people in the rebellion are ready to give up, it's the Jedi they turn to for help. Bail and Mon Mothma turn to Obi-Wan, because int he darkest hour, they do still need a Jedi to help a shine a light. And Obi-Wan doesn't make it, but Luke DOES.

Luthen's big speech to Lonnie in season 1 does a lot of referencing to the idea of how there need to be heroes in addition to people in the shadows doing the ugly work in order for the rebellion to succeed. He's obviously referring specifically to Lonnie himself in the moment, but on a meta level it also feels like it's referencing people who will come along in the future, the Luke Skywalkers and Leia Organas and Han Solos. You can even argue that it may is referencing the Kanan Dumes and Ezra Bridgers or the Cal Kestises who all being VERY visible work as rebels, and their mere existence alongside the rebellion does seem to bring a lot of hope to those people. The Jedi can't do it by themselves, they NEED people to stand with them, but you can make just as much of an argument that the regular people can't necessarily do it by themselves, either. The Rogue One crew get the plans off of Scarif, and Luke never would've defeated the Death Star without their efforts, but their efforts would have meant nothing if Leia and Luke and Obi-Wan hadn't taken that baton and brought it across the finish line.

Andor is telling us that you need BOTH to bring down an Empire, and we've focused a lot on the heroes, so we're focusing now on the little people doing work in the shadows, without whom the heroes wouldn't be able to do their part. So while Andor isn't ABOUT the Jedi, I don't think it's entirely accurate to say that it's making the claim that the rebellion never needed the Jedi at all or that it proves that no one ever needed people like the Jedi.

I think it's fair to say that Andor, despite having no Jedi in the show, makes the greatest argument as to why the Galaxy needs the Jedi! I mean, look what happened to Bix!

See, that's not really how I take it. Andor is hardly the first piece of media to show the Empire being completely awful and showcasing that they're a force that needs to be stopped. The first piece of media to do that was A New Hope when it literally showed them massacring an entire ship, burning down the Lars home, torturing Leia, and then blowing up an entire planet.

The message that Andor is trying to send is much more about COMMUNITY and solidarity and commitment to a cause greater than yourself as being the things that will truly save you from oppression.

The way I connect it to the Jedi is that THIS IS WHAT KILLED THEM. People DIDN'T have a sense of community and solidarity and commitment to something greater than themselves. They RELIED on the Jedi to solve all of their problems and if anything bad happened to them at all, then it was the Jedi's fault for not stopping it somehow, despite all of the many many reasons why the Jedi logistically could not stop every single ill in the galaxy.

Things like what happened to Bix were likely happening every day even during the Jedi's hey day. Plenty of planets likely had corrupt officials in their local governments, and obviously plenty of normal people are just bad people who have no issue with hurting others for their own gain or pleasure. The Jedi cannot and should not be expected to somehow be able to keep all of it from happening. The Jedi RELIED on regular people being willing to stand up to corruption and oppression and injustice themselves. The Jedi were intended to be an INSPIRATION to others to fight back against their own darkness and the darkness around them, not the end all and be all of the solution to darkness.

And THAT'S what allows the Empire to fall eventually. The Jedi were gone, so people finally had to stand up to darkness on their own. There was no one left to hide behind and shield them from the consequences of their own cowardice. And not only do they stand up, but they ultimately win because we see them standing BESIDE THE JEDI. In Rebels, it's all of the regular people in the Rebellion working with both Kanan and Ezra that takes down Thrawn and saves Lothal. In the Original Trilogy, it's Luke using the Force and working alongside the other Rebel pilots that destroys the first Death Star and saves the Rebellion from total destruction.

What's interesting to me about the situation on Mina-Rau is that we see the community around them get scared and uncertain, same as we did on Ferrix, and we aren't entirely certain how the shop owner is going to react when the stormtroopers finally show up, but instead of falling prey to his own fears and selfishness the way Timm did last season, he actually STANDS UP and helps Brasso and Bix and Wil as much as he can. He gets them a way to escape, he refuses to sell them out, despite whatever he may or may not feel about them as undocumented immigrants. And it's not enough, obviously, it doesn't save Brasso or Bix, but it's still important that he DID make that choice to help them when he didn't have to and it put himself and his own family at risk to do it.

And that's what's important here. It's not a message that this is why the galaxy needs the Jedi, but a message that this is why it's important to continue to stand up for each other, to protect the people in your community, regardless of how you might feel about their choices or their politics personally. Maybe it won't save everyone, but that doesn't make it less worth doing. It's important for everyone, even regular people, to ACT like the Jedi, to have that compassion towards others, because THAT'S what's going to save us in the end, THAT'S what's going to defeat the darkness.

[daemyra-fire]

How needy Nick was for love in this chapter, how much he needed June and even though she stayed and she really wanted to know what was wrong with him, he was in a very bad place with the stupid commander.

He invited her to stay at his house and wanted her for himself, even the next day the only thing he thought about was running away with her and leaving everything behind.

And I understand that June is sometimes very selfish but please she literally melted for Nick, when he told her to stay she decided to stay, when he arrived saying that they should go to Paris and be a family, she was willing to leave, in the same flashback she tells him that even without Gilead she would love him.

So no matter how selfish she is, she still loves him and I feel that when they say no she puts Nick first it is because she knows that he is capable of surviving on his own more than the others so she prioritizes the rescue of others, over Nick.

Now the real problem is the betrayal, does that affect many people? Of course it started with Lawrence, but all he did was survive. Wharton is crazy and we could see it when he exploded in anger. Nick gave him something that he knew wouldn't endanger June, and that's always been his priority. It was ugly, of course! But the commander already knew that he killed the boy in the hospital, and he had to maintain his trust so that he wouldn't send him to the wall.

June will be upset about it, of course everyone in her position would be, is that why she stopped loving Nick? I don't think so, I think she might separate them and obviously not go with him but that doesn't mean their relationship is dead, the girl was willing to leave everything for him and she more than anyone knows that in Gilead there are times where you play the bad guy. I don't think she understands it now and more if she doesn't hear the reason why he did it, if she doesn't know about the hospital or what Wharton means but I think that with time she might understand.

What bothers me is that this happens 4 chapters before the end, this should have happened in season 5 or before, giving us the idea that they are not going to be together is the stupidest idea the directors and writers have had, because those two move the show, Nick is the favorite of the majority, why torture the fans like this before the end? Don't they want people to see the testaments?

but well I still believe that they will end up together, I feel that Nick would still give his life for June and she would see it, like when he found out that she worked for soj and nothing happened, survival and attacking Gilead is now more important, I also doubt that June is with Luke even if she is not with Nick, because all season we have seen that their relationship is dead, that they only stay together for Hannah and that is not even enough so if it is not with Nick she will be alone. everything except with Luke.

so my hopes are still standing, despite this "betrayal" they both love each other and more than once June has been reckless and more than once Nick has given her up to protect her and help her, so let's hope that it develops well and that they give us a decent ending for both of them, they said in the promotion that it's a season for the fans and that we will like the ending, so I doubt that they don't know that the fandom loves Nick and June together, when their networks are full of messages from Nick and June end game, lol 🤣 I don't think they are that blind, so let's keep the faith that this will be solved one way or another.💖

[hafwen]

It's one week before my mom's birthday and I've decided I hate her card and am starting again

[quinn-pop]

scared of the dark? marry a flashlight

[maxdibert]

Well, what can I say — I basically agree with almost everything, we pretty much share very similar views on this. Also, I think everything you’ve said is super interesting for anyone thinking about writing about the kid, because honestly, he’s a headache of a character in this context hahahaha.

That said, I’ve never imagined people messing with him like that. I always thought it was more about the fact that he’s been told so many times he’s ugly, horrible, and constantly mocked for his looks — plus the fact that he has basically no self-esteem and thinks he doesn’t deserve anything because of his overwhelming guilt. That’s what would make him think someone’s messing with him. Like, how could anyone be attracted to him? That would be the first thought crossing his mind, not because of past experiences of being tricked, but because he sees it as ridiculous that anyone would want something with someone like him. I mean, Severus hates himself with all his soul — he’s his own biggest hater — so the idea of someone actually wanting him would be like, “What the hell is wrong with this person?” Or at least, that’s how I’ve always imagined it whenever I try to develop this.

The point about his temperament is also 100% spot on. And I think it’s one of the most important aspects. No matter what kind of character you’re dealing with — canon or not — it has to be someone who can handle his shitty attitude. Because Severus is someone who constantly pushes people out of his life, his way of protecting himself emotionally is by pushing people away, and he doesn’t do it nicely either — he can be really cruel and unpleasant. So, a potential partner would have to be someone who’s also got a bit of a shitty personality to deal with his own crap, but at the same time, someone a little more emotionally mature than him, or at least mature enough to understand what he’s doing, why he does it, and how his behavior is basically just a defense mechanism.

I also think Severus would hardly be attracted to someone who didn’t have character. I mean, I’ve read fics where the MC is basically a cotton candy puff, and it just doesn’t feel realistic to me, I’m not buying it. Severus would eat a person like that alive and leave them needing therapy. Plus, Severus isn’t here to parent anyone, because he’s an emotionally dysfunctional adult stuck in adolescence — he can’t be the mature one emotionally in a relationship. He can’t be the one taking the lead in the flirting game, or the savior type, because he’s way too broken to even save himself. In that sense, I think he could only realistically work with someone who’s got a lot of character and would tell him to fuck off when necessary, but who also knows how to grab the bull (pun intended with what you said about Capricorn) by the horns. And yeah, the zodiac thing fits so well because Severus is one of the most stubborn, strong-willed, difficult signs in the whole wheel. It’s no easy task.

I picture him at first brushing off any compliments (another defense mechanism and that idea that people are messing with him), but even if he eventually realizes it’s not a joke, he’d still scoff whenever that person said something nice to him — like a cat hissing at you — brushing it off or going “there you go again with your nonsense,” because even if he knows they’re serious, he still doesn’t believe it or agree with it, and he has absolutely no idea how to accept a compliment. So he just scoffs, makes a face, and changes the subject.

I didn’t know there was a “maxdibert way” hahahaha, but honestly, at the time it seemed like a great idea — like look, I’m not here to be your therapist. The thing is: you turn me on. Deal with it. You’re a grown-ass man, you’ve got hair on your balls. And in the end, that’s how you have to treat kids too, right? You can be all understanding and pedagogical, or you can just tell them how it is and that they have to accept it. And I say “kids” because Severus is emotionally a child, basically.

As for the sex part, I also think he’d be someone who wants to be in control at first — to handle the situation so he can feel secure through that control — but if he ever gets comfortable enough, and his partner manages to get him to lower some of those walls, if he actually starts to feel truly safe with that person outside the bedroom, then he could eventually give up that control and even enjoy letting go. I’ve always thought of Severus as a switch in that sense — because precisely due to his lack of confidence and need to control things, at first he’d probably be pretty dominant, but as he gains trust and relaxes, he could let his partner take the lead and actually love being a sub and just letting himself go. Although for that to happen, he’d have to fully trust them �� or at least that’s how I see it.

The exact wording of the ask I got was: 'what if someone was asking deprived!Snape (read my whole essay about him) to "break them off a piece of that KitKat bar?" How would they go about it?'

So today we're going to discuss this. Buckle up people.✨

SO his reaction will largely depend on the context and their current relationship but one thing that will happen FOR SURE every time before anything else is that he's going to think they're messing with him.

What else could it be? This man had been so heavily bullied as a teen his self-esteem is buried and has its own tombstone.

"Here lies Snape's self-image. Spit to pay your respect."

We don't have any canon proof of it happening but many people headcanon that some of the bullying might have been people being dared to come up to him and fake attraction or compliment him (so funny omg) only for him to realize they were just messing with him. It's totally the kind of immature stupid shit kids will come up with (speaking from personal experience here). Not funny but deeply scarring for one's self-image. So being told he's attractive would trigger him in his adult life. Any potential suitor asking him out would be welcomed with him immediately closing up and getting angry at them. They'd need to find a way for him to believe them first.

If you're thinking "this already sounds like a pain", yes it is. Welcome to deprived!Snape. Welcome to Snape, basically. If they want a piece of him, they have to brace themselves for the long run.

He will get angry and leave a lot. Fleeing the situation - since it's a very vulnerable subject for him - will be his go-to move. The whole ordeal will require patience. So what should this person do?

Friend or Stranger?

If it comes from a DE he'll think it's an angle. If it's from a member of the Order, he'll think it's a joke. If it's from a colleague at Hogwarts, he maaaay be a tad less suspicious? In any case, it will depend on how close they are. The more time they have spent together, the closer he'll be to not flip out... too much.

I'm a bit torn about his reaction if it was coming from a stranger. Either it's easier because he can lean into the idea that maybe they're lying about their attraction and he doesn't care (and if he's horny then why the fuck not, it won't affect him as much since they both now they're here for physical release) OR he might not be into it at all because he actually needs a real connection (and I think this is more realistic). Severus is a feral cat, he needs time to trust people.

What else? He could also maybe open up faster with someone not from his usual inner circles (a foreigner or a muggle) as the interactions wouldn't be charged with the same deep-rooted habits and expectations.

I also believe he'd unconsciously feel way more at ease with someone coming from a modest background. A pureblood aristocrat hitting on him would have little chance of getting past his natural distrust of them (unless he knows them very well).

So what should they do?

Build trust

The quality of their interactions and conversations will have a huge impact. Do they have an interesting personality? He needs someone capable of taking him on and keeping up intellectually. Can they keep up with him and challenge him?

Severus has a temper. Can they deal with his bullshit and not give up on him at the first scowl? Argue with him? It doesn't mean they can't be nice, but I don't see him get worked up over someone cowering under his gaze.

They need to be stubborn. He's a Capricorn and he's got the horns. He's hard-headed. They need to not back down when he bites or dismisses their attempts at flirting. One of Severus's classic tactic is to hurt people so they leave him alone, so they need to be able to dodge the attack, make fun of him or retaliate.

If they manage to deal with his temper, they will start to see what's on the other side of the snarky exterior. Then, they'll be able to start kneading the dough (Severus is the dough).

Convince him the attraction is real

That person could go the gentle/honest way, assuring him they're not kidding and explaining what they find attractive about him (he'd be super wary and need days to digest it - if he can). Genuine compliments could work quite well as he's good at reading people but it would be a process and it shouldn't be too much at once. He's NOT USED to compliments so if the person goes too hard, he's going to get overwhelmed, distance himself and reject it. A good trick would be to compliment his intelligence and magical skills alongside physical traits. A 2/3-1/3 ratio would be a good start. He would trust compliments about his big brain way more than anything regarding his cute butt.

Complimenting his presence, aura, voice might be good too as it's not directly related to physical traits. Else, physical starters could include hands and eyes. But I also love the idea of taking him by surprise and complimenting his nose. Might weird him out in a good way.

Or they could go the blunt way (or what I now refer to in my mind as the @maxdibert way) and be like "dude, I really think you're hot, deal with it" and leave him to sort his feelings out like a big boy.

The two strategies can be mixed of course. But at the end of the day, the real problem is that Severus as approximately a thousand confirmation bias in his mind telling him this is not happening. So what could they do to help ease this process?

Make him horny

Less overthinking = more chances to get this piece of ass.

Severus Snape needs to be warmed up. And as stated in my previous essay, he's plagued with the core beliefs that he's ugly, ridicule and undeserving. These beliefs need to be kneaded and challenged enough (not healed, this would take decades and it's not their job), so that he can relax and open up to the idea of intimacy.

Here are a few strategies to do so.

First, de-dramatize the subject. Making the topic less taboo by talking about it in a lighthearted way (no flaunting! certainly not!). A good move would be to joke about it. Deprived!Snape isn't comfortable with the subject but it's because it's evaded him and then he convinced himself he wasn't concerned or interested.

-> Here are some of the things he could benefit from hearing: that sex is not a big deal at all and we can laugh about it. It should be fun, a shared moment, trials and errors are part of it and there should no be judgment about experiences and preferences. People with a high 'body count' aren't necessarily good lovers, it's all about presence and intent etc.

His potential partner could share funny mishaps that happened to them and - when there's an opening - ask him what he would expect from a pleasant intimate moment (that's a very advanced move, don't forget he's bad with words)(it would only work in my opinion if they're both drunk and have been going at it for a while).

Also sharing experiences is a great way to build trust and intimacy (and arousal). He thrives on knowledge so learning more about his potential partner might ease his mind in some way (and give him some free intrusive thoughts). See it as added ingredients to make him simmer.

Though they shouldn't talk too much about the number of partners they had and said partner's skills. This might make him retreat. Again: low self-esteem and always on the lookout for an excuse to sabotage it.

Wait what about drunk!Snape you say? That's a trope we enjoy around here. Although I headcanon him as not being a heavy drinker (if a drinker at all because of his father) it would be a great way to lower a bit his inhibition. A DE would have a hard time sharing a drink with him, same for an Order member (he never stays after meetings but could be coerced), but a colleague could maybe drag him to the Three Broomsticks with other members of the staff and then leave early with him. wink wink Come on, rub his foot under the table and look at him choke on his ale. He'll skin you alive with his eyes and you can just raise a suggestive eyebrow back.

Persistence, persistence.

Of course a bit of physical baiting could help with his dusty libido. After all, they'd kinda be dealing with an teenager, experience-wise. Nothing too bold (though I headcanon that his sooty Cokeworth self would get way more worked up over unabashed desire than delicate courting but he's buried a bit too deep at the moment) but a nice cleavage, some leg showing, a fitting pair of pants or robes might not be a bad move. Since he might be uncomfortable with words, they could flaunt the goods in his face! The man has eyes, let him look and scold himself for looking. Also a few heavy looks, biting a lip and lingering fingers could go a long way for such a deprived man, especially if it's directed at him.

At the end of the day, the trick is to make him able to put his worry aside (or snap, if you find the word sexier).

They could go the provocative way, being insufferable and making him want to shut them up.

They could try some endless teasing until he's a lost hot mess, unable to express what he wants except by going 'fuck it' and going for it.

They could go slower and create a safe space with a weekly ritual (every Friday night meeting for a drink/to grade essays/to hang out) which can lead to a late night snog (floating candles optional).

They could be blunt and go 'I want to kiss you so bad right now' as they leave Hogsmeade together and are walking on the dirt path towards the castle. A gust of wind will prevent him from hiding himself behind his hair and they'll see the flush creeping on his face.

They could hammer the compliments and validation, because Severus craves recognition (is there a praise kink in there? yes). So first it could be his mind, his work, his skills... then the way his cape suits his frame so well, his silky voice... and then bam, hitting the nail on the head with complimenting his mouth. Blabbering mess guaranteed. Might flee but blush deliciously. Or might stop dead in his track and then it's time for them to claim these lips.

Kissing

Clumsy. Tentative. Awkward.

But earnest.

He might freeze at first. Wait, these lips knew how to do that once upon a time... how does it go again? He'll need a bit of time to remember but the best way to (re)learn is practice.

It will be a lot for him. As he's extremely touch-deprived he'd be literally rediscovering human contact. So much to feel, the supple of the lips, their shape, the softness, the wetness.

Honestly, deprived!Snape could get really worked up just from kissing.

(They could honestly make him cum just from this and some grinding. Amen. If he does he'd need reassurance after and still might flee and hide and snarl for a few days because male performance blahblahblah. Hopefully they'd be able to skip this step at this point in the relation.)

But I believe he'd enjoy it greatly and this might be a step he'd want to stay at for some time before going further.

Undressing

I headcanon deprived!Snape as being very self-conscious about revealing his body so it might only be possible with someone he really trusts. It might be painfully difficult for him (might require dimmed light if not obscurity but I mean come on, they're here to look at him and it'd be better for him to rip the bandaid... but giving him the option might help).

Either he'll be too aroused to care (or act as if he doesn't) or he'll feel very self-conscious and look for cues to confirm his belief that his partner will find him disgusting. It's the right moment for them to express their desire.

If for some reason he gets too triggered and leave, they wouldn't be back to square one but again, patience is key. He needs time. Or maybe they could convince him to stay and try to resolve the situation by stopping the intimacy and just talk about something else. It could be good practice to show him this isn't a big deal and that everything is fine.

But at this stage, complimenting him sincerely (no coddling) whilst not hiding their arousal could work nicely. Sprinkling some of the fantasies they had about him as well. ('I've been dreaming about these hands on me', 'You have no idea how much I've been wanting to kiss these lips to make you shut up', 'I laid awake at night thinking about touching this part of you'). Showing appreciation with touch could convince him more though and it has the advantage of preventing him to think too much.

But really, he won't like to focus on his appearance as it's something he has no control over so they should -unfortunately- bite their tongue and keep the flood of horny compliments to themselves at first. A new one might be fed to him once every two weeks to slowly build his confidence.

In Bed

Deprived!Snape is: prideful, yearning for control and very sensitive.

Now honestly I could make a whole other post with the different scenarios where he'd be more top or bottom. Instead, I will focus more on what would happen either way.

He'll want to learn. Because Severus is nothing if not a scholar. He's got a very curious nature regarding topics that interest him so if his partner is showing him how they like something, he'll get super serious about it. He will try to touch them in the exact same way at first and he's a fast learner so once it's mastered, he'll experiment. And he's going to be good at it.

That man got dexterity and an inventive mind. And that's canon.

But his focus on his partner might also be a way to keep control during this highly new situation. Depending on how self-conscious he is about his inexperience, shifting the focus on him might be a challenge. Maybe letting him take the lead could be a good idea. But maybe shoving him against the mattress and seizing control is the way to go here.

Now, he will be very sensitive, won't he?

Yes, he might. He might be a whimpering mess in no time. His partner should be cautious and gentle with him. Severus letting his guard down and letting them touch him is a very big effort coming from him so they should savor it and be sure to make it feel safe if they want this to happen again. Help him relax, let him breathe, don't hesitate to pause if he gets nervous. The walls will be destroyed, moan after moan.

But what if he isn't sensitive?

That's a possibility as well. He's been by himself for years and his wariness of intimacy and people is wired in his cells at this point. He's disconnected from his own body and never pays attention to it. He might also tense heavily once in bed with his partner, the vulnerability of it accentuating the disconnection. He might not feel pleasure, might get frustrated and feel angry or inadequate.

This situation - which I find very interesting and seems like a realistic follow-up to him wanting to kiss for a long time and struggling with undressing - is tricky and will require diplomacy and more patience.

But maybe this could be a dealbreaker for him. If the payoff isn't worth the discomfort, he could easily take it as a confirmation bias that intimacy isn't for the likes of him. The best course of action could be to focus on non-sexual aspect of intimacy.

But this essay is way too long already so I'm going to stop here.

What should I write about next? Is there something you wish I had addressed here? Is there something you'd like me to discuss next?

TLDR: He's gonna be a pain, his partner needs to have calming draught for their nerves but in the end it will be very rewarding because he's starved and inventive.

[stuworbutwitheds]

This might be a hot take(?) but i do like how Eddy become more grumpy as the show went between seasons

Of course he is more mean and kinda more aggressive with his friends.

But i think it's a great way to show how trauma can affect your personality, especially when it comes to physical abuse. Not every child that suffers like that is quiet and shy, some of them can mirror the bad traits of their abuser and they're just as valid to get love and support.

[muirneach]

people oft like to make reference to having ‘tennis merch’. i dont think that exists. you mean that one nike court shirt? a slam hat? copping the same nike kit as rafa or something?those r basically our only three options as afar as merch goes and lets be real they all suck

[liraspins]

A confused, instinctive smile rushed onto Lira’s face when the small man entered, implying he was the doctor. Of course he was. She almost laughed. She rolled her eyes as Rem referred to her when asked about damage. But it was the little pause after he said "It's paid for" that really made her glance up. Palpable. But only for a second—then the doctor moved on, slicing through the room with that same dry, razor-edged professionalism. Clothes. Sit. She caught the rack out of the corner of her eye. Fancier things than she ever owned, crisp and shapeless at the same time. Rich people’s idea of "casual." Lira grabbed the first thing that didn’t look like it needed an instruction manual—an oversized t-shirt, soft enough to pretend it wasn’t meant for someone else—and dropped the towel without hesitation. Modesty was a rich girl’s game. She tugged the shirt down over her ribs, wincing as the fabric dragged across bruises. The doctor was already talking, slicing through the room with that sharp, dry efficiency. Rare, he’d said, about her. Civilian. Like she was a stowaway caught hiding under a tarp.

“are you aware of what your sponsor does for a living?”

After raising an eyebrow at 'sponsor', Lira's lips formed the beginning of the word 'Well...', but the doctor went on. She exhaled the breath she'd taken for her answer, nodding along absentmindedly at first—then faster when he guessed she had questions. "So many..." she mumbled between his words, cracking a half-smile. Rem, ever the brick wall, declared she was tired. Lira opened her mouth to protest, but again, the doctor cut neatly through it:

“She can be tired and curious,”

The brunette raised her eyebrows at Rem, gesturing towards the doctor as if saying 'See?! He gets me'. The dry amusement in the doctor’s voice made her mouth twitch. When he mentioned alcohol, she caught the subtle judgment in his gaze and gave a tight-lipped smile in return. Yeah. She'd earned that one. Still, Lira felt a flicker of something complicated—something uncomfortably close to gratitude. Finally. Someone who talked like a real person. Then he held out his hand. Lira didn’t move right away. Just stared at it like it might vanish if she was stubborn enough. But the middle finger was still throbbing in miserable, hot waves, and she could still taste varnished wood and regret at the back of her throat. She gave in, letting her hand slide into his—reluctant and slow. Up close, it looked even worse. Bruised all the way through the knuckles, swelling ugly around the reset joint. Lira exhaled through her nose, eyes half-lidded, as the doctor began to prod gently, checking the damage with dispassionate fingers. "I, uh, I already fixed it," she muttered, half-defensive, half-weary. "Should be back in place. Been through it before." The words tasted bitter. Too many memories. Too many nights spent wrapping her own fingers with whatever was lying around, because going to a hospital cost money she didn’t have. You learned, after a while, how to patch yourself up. Even when you had no business doing it. "What’s he sponsoring, exactly?" she mumbled, voice dry. "Poor life choices? Creative applications of gravity?"

She watched the doctor work, exhaustion dragging at her bones, her mind bubbling with a hundred questions she didn’t know how to prioritize. Her gaze darted sideways to Rem, who—of course—had the same stoic look on his face. Typical. You could probably drag him through hell and back and he'd just blink like he was inconvenienced. "So," Lira said, words coming a little too fast now, spilling to fill the empty spaces because otherwise she'd think too hard, "what’s the Order? Is it like a book club? Secret billionaires? The world's grumpiest Avengers initiative?" She almost smiled at that one. Almost. The doctor’s fingers were careful but ruthless, poking and pressing in ways that made her feel every nerve ending she owned. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and powered through it. "And what does he actually do?" she asked, jerking her chin toward Rem without looking at him. "You said I'm ‘aware enough’ but honestly? I’ve spent the last...five? Ish? hours hanging out with a brick wall in a nice shirt. Not exactly briefing material." She caught the edge of a smile tugging at her own mouth. It hurt. Everything hurt. But at least for the first time in what felt like hours, maybe days, she didn’t feel invisible.

Rem’s gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. The grooves in the plaster- imperceptible to most- drew his attention more than the muffled rhythm of music bleeding through the bathroom door. She was the third person he’d known who played music while bathing. The first had been his sister. The second…irrelevant.

His muscles ached, but it was dulled now, dismissible. Fatigue, however, was taking hold. Heavy. Inevitable. Still, he waited. For the doctor. For Lira.

The night had taken its toll. That much was clear in her voice earlier- flirtation spoken like a reflex, a compulsion to fill silence, to say something light even if there was nothing behind it. If she passed out within the hour, it would be a relief.

Between the rush of water and the steady pulse of music, it should have gone unnoticed. But Rem had been listening. So when the sound came, sharp and off-rhythm- a sudden exclamation, followed by a clatter- he heard it.

He sat upright, but didn’t rise. Just listened. When she emerged, she didn’t speak. Neither did he.

A knock interrupted the silence. Rem stood, crossed the room, and opened it without pause.

The man who entered was older, wiry, with the tired posture of someone who’d seen too much and come to expect very little. A medical bag in one hand. Glasses perched low on his nose. “What’s the damage?” he asked, already stepping inside. His gaze flicked briefly to Lira, assessing. Then back to Rem.

“Her,” Rem said.

“She declined medical,” the doctor replied, arching a brow.

“It’s paid for.”

A beat. The doctor gave him a look- dry, skeptical. But he didn’t press. “Fine.” He turned toward Lira, tone brisk but not unkind. “The clothes are here. Change. Then sit.” He stepped aside as a hotel staffer rolled in a rack of garments, then exited without a word. Five outfits for Lira. Two for Rem: loungewear and a black suit.

Rem took the loungewear. He changed quickly, removing the towel once he’d pulled on underwear.

The doctor watched him for a moment. Then, casually, as he laid his case across the edge of the bed, “In all these years, I’ve never seen you bring someone who wasn’t affiliated with the Order.” A pause. “And a civilian?” He opened the case, revealing neatly arranged supplies, sterile and gleaming. “Rare.” He didn’t look at Rem as he continued. “Miss,” he added, glancing to Lira, “are you aware of what your sponsor does for a living?” He didn’t expect an answer. He wasn’t asking. “She likely needs care for the same reason you do,” he went on. “Which means she knows enough.” His attention returned to the instruments as he spoke again. “He’s not much of a talker. Never has been. So I imagine you have questions. And since Mister Veldt is so insistent you be treated first, he can answer them while I work.”

Rem’s jaw ticked. “She’s tired.”

“She can be tired and curious,” the doctor replied evenly. “Might help distract her. Until the alcohol gets here.” He turned to Lira, the faintest edge of amusement in his tone.“Right?” The doctor didn’t wait for confirmation. He simply held out his hand toward her- steady, expectant, fingers open in silent command. “Let’s see it,” he said, tone clipped, already scanning for swelling and signs of damage. “Your hand.”

[guidingthulite]

i'm up to date with the super manga now

[yoohyeon]

I only have one xmas gift left to do cause I rage quit the last time and now it won’t open on my iPad

[fierykitten2]

I swap between MeowscaradaxQuaquaval and MeowscaradaxCinderace like I swap between DouglasxRobert and DouglasxSamus

[kashverse]

inspired by @freakycore's post here!!

sukuna was convinced you were trying to seal him away.

the moment the package arrived, he narrowed his eyes at it, his arms crossed over his chest as you ripped the box open with excitement. when the pink and black plush was finally freed from its plastic prison, you squealed, hugging it to your chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. sukuna, on the other hand, looked like he was about to commit homicide. "what the fuck is that?" he demanded, stepping closer to snatch the plushie out of your hands.

"it's you!" you beamed, completely oblivious to the way he was scrutinizing the poor thing as if it was some cursed object about to explode. "you made a doll of me?" he growled, shaking the plush slightly. "what kind of half-assed sealing method is this? you trying to imprison me in this ugly thing?"

"first of all, rude," you huffed, grabbing it back. "second, no, it's just a cute plushie. i spent so much money on this, you have no idea."

"stupid," sukuna muttered under his breath, but he didn't let it go. instead, he grabbed the plush back and began an extensive examination.

he poked at its belly. he pulled at its little stubby arms. he flipped it upside down, shook it, and even sniffed it.

"did you just smell the plushie?" you asked, horrified. "shut the hell up," he snapped, grabbing the plush by the head and staring directly into its beady little eyes. nothing happened.

he scowled.

"stop looking at it like you're waiting for it to start talking," you sighed, reaching for it again. sukuna yanked it out of reach, clicking his tongue. "if it does talk, i’m tearing it apart."

"you’re going to make me cry."

with great reluctance, he finally let you keep your ridiculous purchase

but later, while you were at work…

sukuna stood in front of the mirror, holding the plush up to his face. "tsk. ugly," he muttered, rotating the plush so it was nose to nose with him.

he stared into its beady little eyes. it stared back.

he squinted. it squinted back—no, wait, that was just his reflection.

frowning, he propped it up on the bathroom sink and crossed his arms. "go on. say something," he ordered.

silence.

his eye twitched.

he grabbed the plush again, shaking it slightly. "i know you're in there, bastard!"

silence.

sukuna scowled harder, throwing it onto the bed before storming away. but twenty minutes later, he was back, sitting at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, glaring at the plush like it had personally insulted him.

this wasn’t over.

[lxnarphase]

━━ ❝ sweet, sticky, thick, and pretty ❞

☾₊‧⁺...synopsis : toji wants to give you another baby

☾₊‧⁺...cw : toji fushiguro x fem!reader, smut, penetrative sex, pre-established relationship, overstimulation, unprotected sex, breeding kink, dirty talk, rough sex, begging, smug and cocky reader, feral toji

☾₊‧⁺...a/n : this is a post from my old blog but i revamped it and i really wanted to share this again because i was really proud of it. and yes, it's another breeding kink + pregnant kink. consider it a part two, since it takes place after megumi is born

toji never thought he’d get off on the idea of having another kid with you.

yet here he is, dick hard in his sweatpants as he thinks about you carrying his baby again...how you'd start to fill out all over again, that cute chubbiness coming back, how he'd have an excuse to dote on you whenever you complained about the simplest of things.

it starts off with how he sees you coo over megumi, calling him your sweet baby. you're such a good mother, too, it's clear you'd likely be the favorite parent to that little brat.

but god, does he find it attractive just seeing you be a mom to the kid that he gave you.

the day you ask megumi what he wants for his upcoming 4th birthday at dinner, neither one of you is prepared for the words that come out of your son's mouth.

“i want a baby sister,” he states bluntly as he chews on the steamed carrots, looking at you and toji. it was clear from how confident the little guy is that he's put a lot of thought into this.

“but, i don’t want her to look like daddy. he’s ugly, i want her to look like mommy.”

little brat. you straight up choke, trying to stop the laugh-coughs as toji looks at his son, offended. this really is his son, because who else but you and the kid he made with you could have the nerve to say shit like that to him?

“twerp, you look just like me, you realize that, right?”

megumi huffs, looking at his dad in the cutest little glare. “that’s 'cause i'm a boy, though," he explains as if it's obvious, his precious little cheeks puffed up as he stuffs more of his food in his mouth.

"my sister has to be like mommy. you’d be an ugly girl, daddy.” toji just rolls his eyes, pinching the cheeks of the mini him, ignoring his protests. as the two bicker, you think. would it...really be that bad to have another baby? you always wanted a girl, after all, and toji took such good care of you and megumi...it couldn't be that bad. “well, uhm,” you begin, catching the attention of toji, an unfamiliar smile on your face.

there's a mischievous look on your face right now, his eyes narrowing as he waits for your response. whatever you're about to say is either going to haunt him for the next few days or make him roll his eyes at you.

“i'm sure daddy and i can work something out for you, 'gumi, but let’s think of some other things, too, m'kay?” 

ah.

you went the haunting route.

ignoring the little cheer his son let out, toji can't hide the disbelieving look that crosses his face when he processes what you just said.

'daddy'?

you've said the word, sure, usually when you talk to megumi about him. but something was different about how you said it, the way you looked at him when you said it, the barely visible flutter of your eyes...a silent promise there'd definitely be a deeper conversation about it later.

the very day megumi has a sleepover with the neighbor's kid, yuuji, toji is mentally cheering. he loves his son with all his heart, he truly does, but having a toddler in bed meant limited contact with his pretty wife.

it's only been 3 days since that little comment you made and it's been on toji's mind constantly. every time he tried to bring it up with you, megumi would interrupt and toji was not being the reason his son ended up traumatized because he overheard mommy and daddy talking about making babies in the kitchen.

"bye, gumi! make sure you behave for mr. nanami, okay? have fun with yuuji," you coo as you press two kisses to your son's cheeks, snapping toji back to the present.

"see ya, kid, be good," toji says, giving a nod of acknowledgement to nanami. megumi barely says goodbye before he runs after yuuji to the car, his run a bit awkward because of his overnight backpack.

waving goodbye to nanami, you shut the door, turning to look at toji with that smile as you.

"hi, toj."

you think you're so cute, don't you?

"hey, mama."

toji can't even lie, you are. wearing his t-shirt and sweatpants? yeah, your the cutest thing he's ever laid eyes one. his hands rest on your hips, pulling you flush to his chest. fuck, you weren't even doing anything but he could already feel himself getting hard just from looking at you.

he's never been so whipped in his life.

"d'you wanna talk," you murmur lowly, your finger running over the thin silver chain on his neck. "we could go to the bedroom...and talk about the baby thing."

toji's eyes darken at the suggestion, knowing exactly what would happen the moment you both go into the bedroom. "yeah. think it's 'bout time we talked about it," he hums as he grips your wrist, tugging you to your room.

as soon you both step foot into the bedroom, toji hungrily presses your lips against his, letting out a deep groan. "had me thinkin' about knockin' you up again all fuckin' week, mama," toji sighs against your lips, tongue running over your lower lip.

"wanted to stuff you full so fucking bad."

feeling you sigh so prettily into the kiss, his doesn't hesitate to shove his tongue in your mouth, hands busying themselves as they push your (his) sweats down off your hips before guiding you back to the bed.

you knew he would get excited over your comment, but you didn't think it would be to the point where he was rutting into you as he practically devoured you, feeling your back hit the bed.

“you want to give our 'gumi a sister? wanna be a mommy again," he questions, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against yours. one of his hands slithers up under the oversized t-shirt to cup one of your tits and roughly knead it, his thumb just barely grazing over your nipple.

"wanna have another kid with big, bad toji? tsk, poor cunt missed gettin' stuffed full of cum?" 

you just hum a little breathless. your hand comes up to cup his cheek, looking from his lips back up to his eyes. he's so handsome when he's over you like this, his chain dangling right in your face.

“maaaaybe. megumi just made me think about it, 's all. you've been a good dad t' him, how could i not want to give you another one,” you coo, guiding him closer so you can press a kiss against the scar on his lip. 

“besides…”

toji grunts when he feels your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you so you can feel the thick, heaviness of his arousal through his sweatpants.

“don’t you want me to make you a daddy again, toji? c'mon, knock me up, big guy.”

after those words leave your pretty little mouth, toji is on you as he realizes that you're 100% going to give him the worse breeding kink ever.

"'m gonna fuckin' ruin you," he growls into your ear. you aren't given a second to protest before he's ripped your panties off, complaints falling on deaf ears. the tips of his fingers gently run over your puffy pussy lips, your slick wetness coating his fingers.

"fuck, mama, you're soaked already." his eyes are focused on your face as you squirm and whimper when he swirls little circles into your clit, an evil smirk on his face. "can't wait to fill you up 'til you're dripping with my cum, doll."

you can't stop your hips from trying to grind into his hand, eyes rolling back when he teased your entrance. "toji, c'mon, baby, i need you s'bad."

"baby, you know you can't take me without prep," he coos at you. he can feel how hot and slick you are, finally, finally slipping two of his fingers inside your cunt. and oh, the way you arch your back a little bit with a pleading whine of his name is so, so pretty, you're so fucking cute.

"mmn, maybe y'don't need prep, you just sucked my fingers right in," he says huskily before pressing a little kiss to the corner of your mouth. "you wanna try, mama? wanna see if you can fit my cock in you? really gonna feel that stretch, though, babe," toji warns, knowing you can't give a sensible answer when he starts pumping his fingers in and out.

when it seems like your about to answer him, the only thing that escapes your mouth is a shaky moan, his thick fingers curling to hit just the right spot inside of you that has you gushing. unable to form words, you tug on his shirt and nod frantically, just wanting to feel toji stuffing you full.

"yeah? you wanna try?" toiji pulls his fingers out of you, chuckling when you whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness. he pops his fingers in his mouth, cock throbbing at the addictive taste of your cunt on his tongue. "c'mon, we're both wearing too much, let's get you outta that shirt, ma."

you waste no time throwing the shirt off, not even giving him the chance to undress you. but once your shirt is off, you're practically ripping off his stupid black t-shirt that made his pecs look fucking delicious and those damn sweatpants and boxers that hid your prize.

as you fuss over his boxers, toji takes a moment to look at you spread out on the bed before him. you still had a bit of chub on you, tummy nice and soft and cute, just how he likes it. if he knew where his phone was, he'd take a picture of you right now; frustrated, horny, naked, and pretty. all for him.

"tojiiii, stop staring and kick off your stupid boxers, you're getting on my nerves!"

you can't even look him in the eye as you say that because you're too busy staring right at his cock, a thick bead of precum formed at the tip. the lick of your lips told him everything he needed to know, but he wasn't fucking your mouth, not tonight at least.

"what? i can't look at my own wife," he asks with a raised eyebrow, biting back a laugh when you swat at his hand that pinches one your puffy nipple. "tch, so rude, doll."

before you can snap back at him, he brushes the swollen head of his cock against your slick folds, smearing your wet over the tip. that shuts you up quickly and toji has to hold back another laugh. always so fussy until he finally gives you what you want. he's spoiled you rotten.

"toji," comes a soft whine, so soft he nearly misses it. your eyes are focused between your legs, lower lips between your teeth as he teases you with his cockhead. you huff, pushing your hand against his chest to give you enough space to shift positions, knowing exactly what would get him to stop teasing you.

once you roll over, you shift so that you're face down, ass up, you hand slipping between your thighs to spread your sticky pussy open, slick dripping down your fingers. "tojiiii, please? please, baby, stop teasing an' put a baby in me...please, hubby, give your wife what she wants."

any other whines or begs are interrupted when his hand comes down hard on your ass. he was going to give you what you wanted, what you both wanted. he was going to fuck you, fill you up with all his cum and whatever leaked out? he’d make sure to push it back in, whether with his fingers, mouth, or tip of his dick. 

when he finally pushes into you, he just lets out the most wrecked groan you’ve heard from him yet, each inch sinking into you stretching those tight walls just a bit more.

"holy shit...fuuck me, baby, too fucking tight, you're strangling my cock," he hisses, fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he gave you inch after inch.

god, just the thought of fucking you not just to feel good, but to fill you up, get you to take his seed deep inside to give him another kid? it's fucking with his head, his wife was gonna be the death of him.

both of you moan once he's all the way inside. you feel so full, his cock is too fucking big it doesn't make any sense and you genuinely think you should've let him fully prep you...but shifting your hips just a little bit has his tip pressing against something sinful. you whine and reach back to grab at one of his hands on your waist, turning to shoot him a mean glare as you demand, “stop stalling n’ knock me up, toji." 

who is he to deny what his wife asks?

using a hand to steady himself on the headboard, his hips begin to move slowly, pulling out just an inch and pushing forward again. "so tight 'n' warm..." each thrust hits deeper and more powerful than the last as toji begins to pick up speed, the thickness of his cock hitting every deep part of you.

it's almost too much, but you don't want him to stop, especially not when toji started running his mouth.

“shit, look at you, baby…takin’ it like a champ.”

now you really wish you stayed on your back, then at least you could've slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up. you drop your head down against the mattress with a moan, starting to move your hips to match his thrusts, the room filling with the sound of skin slapping on skin.

“fuuck, c'mon, throw that ass back on me, thaaaat’s it, good girl.” 

he starts pounding into you harder when he feels you tightening up on him. the sweet moans and adorable words of “gimme more,” “baby, please,” or “s’ too good, toj,’” only pushing him to get even deeper, to get you to cum so he could stuff you full.

he coos when he sees you starting to scramble up further on the bed, away from his relentless fucking. he knows that he found that sweet spot that would have you creaming in minutes.

"tsk, you just never fuckin' learn, huh? 's always gonna be too much for you, isn't it," he huffs as his hand finds its way into your hair, tugging your head back to keep you from moving more. “hey. hey, nonono, don’t run away from it, lemme have it," he coos at you, following you up the mattress.

you never change, always swearing up and down that you wouldn't run from his cock, that you'd be able to take him. you wanted this, you wanted your precious husband to fuck another baby into you, t'give 'gumi a little sister, s’ i’m gonna give it to you.”

toji may sound like he’s still put together, but he’s just thankful you can’t see his face since yours is pressed into the pillows at the top of the bed.

you can’t see how he’s barely holding himself together, trying his hardest not to let himself go too much. the last thing he needs is to cum before you, knowing that while you wouldn’t mind, he’d be annoyed for breaking his streak.

he’s brought back into the present when you manage to turn your head a little, able to look him in the eye, and god, does he love what he sees.

your mouth is open as you moan for him, eyes lidded and focused on only him. he sees the little tears gathered in them, not quite spilling over but the fact that they’re there tells him he’s the one making you feel that good. 

“tuh-toji, ’m gonna cum, gonna cum—!”

"yeah?" hearing you moan so sweetly for him only makes toji smirk, fingers digging into your hips as he helps you meet each thrust. “gonna make a mess f'me already? poor little cunt can't handle gettin' fucked so good? mmn, shit, 's okay, baby. let go for me, mama, cum on daddy’s cock.” 

"t-tojiiiii," you shakily moan, nearly ripping the sheets as you cum suddenly. it was his voice, the way he tried to sound put together but you could hear how desperate he was to feel your pussy clamp down on him and get his cock nice and messy.

toji's deep, guttural moans mix with your cries when he unexpected is pushed over the edge, the way you desperately grinded back against him causing him to swear under his breath as he lost his pace, groaning your name as he emptied into you. it felt so hot, the pulsating warmth of his tip nudging against your cervix paired with his thick cum filling you up dizzying the both of you. 

you expect some kind of snarky comment from toji, trying to catch your breath so you could reply when he said it. but nothing comes (you have to stop yourself from laughing at the pun). you turn to look back, sighing when toji pulls out of you. usually he stayed inside, leaning down to tease you for cumming so fast...but he didn't.

something was wrong and for some reason, you felt like your pussy was in danger.

“toj…?”

he didn’t answer. he probably didn’t even hear you, not with the way he was looking so intensely at the mess between your thighs. the mess he made. toji doesn’t know what comes over him, his hands practically moving on their own as he moves you over onto your back, then moving his hands down to your sensitive hole and spreading. 

the scene in front of him just breaks him. you let out a soft whine, hips gently rolling into his hands. his eyes stay stuck between your legs—sharp and focused—as they watch the thick globs of his hot cum drip out of your hole and down onto the bed sheets.

the groan that leaves him is sinful, and once you make eye contact with him, you realize how fucked you are. he’s hard again, almost making you believe he didn’t cum if it weren’t for the creamy sheen of his cum on his throbbing dick and the hotness of his dripping out of you. before you know it, toji’s climbing over you, making sure your legs get pushed over to his shoulders as he pushes you into a mating press.

yeah.

you're fucked.

you keep making eye contact, and now that he’s so close to you, you see how crazed he looks. his eyes, completely black due to his blown pupils, have an unhinged look in them, and the half smirk on his face only makes you worry about your ability to walk the next day.

“t-toji, if you need a break to calm down, then-oh!” 

he shuts you up by pushing himself inside you, loving how your eyes cross so prettily. he has you now, you can't run away from the overstimulating feeling of him fucking you in this position. and when you feel his hands come up and lock together on your head to really keep you in place, you feel yourself gush all over his cock at the simple display of how strong he was compared to you.

you're so fucked.

all you can do is moan and cry out his name, hands grabbing whatever part of him they could reach. but he doesn't let you break eye contact, keeping you close to his face so he could see every little expression. and fuck, does he like what he sees.

“t-tojiii, t’ deep, t’ deep!”

“wan’ me t’ stop? t’ stop fuckin’ this messy hole?”

“fuck, y-you stop, and I’ll c-choke the shit out of yo-ouh!”

“that’s it, take it, take daddy’s cock, mama, lemme breed you.”

everything about this position is driving both of you crazy.

the closeness has you reeling, the way toji just cannot bring himself to break eye contact, needing to see what he was doing to you.

his thick cock is hitting deep, almost too deep, with the way each thrust of his hips causes the tip to press into the sweet spot inside you every. single. time. 

he has you for the whole day and the whole night, he's going to make sure you're stuffed entirely and doesn't plan on stopping until either you tell him you need a break or until he can't cum anymore. and even then, he doesn't think anything will be able to get him out of your cunt.

but with the way he just moaned into your mouth, thick spurts of more cum coating your insides…and the way he didn’t get soft, instead pressing you even deeper into the mattress as he began to pound into you with a groan of how much he loved your pussy…

you were sure it would be a while until he was done with you.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[whosashan]

Hello! I love your writing! I was wondering.. would it be possible to request a sequel to Bitter for all the guys? The angst really got me good, but an end Where they see the Reader move on, whether it be with another LI or another person. Those sorts of fics soothe the angst for me even if they don’t end up together again.

Sour

Pt.1

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x non-mc!reader

SYNOPSIS: A year has slipped through your fingers like sand, carrying away the sharp edges of bitterness— or so you thought. Yet, the past has a cruel way of resurfacing, and when you stand before your former lover once more, the question lingers: has time truly softened the wound, or does resentment still simmer beneath your skin?

A/N: A lot of you guys asked for a sequel, and I must say - I'm so greatful for all of your support. It feels unreal, knowing that so many people enjoy my writing and get engaged in it. I tried to include every suggestion you gave me in some way. It ended up quite long, because I wanted to make sure they suffer. I really hope it's up to your liking, enjoy!

Xavier

A year had passed—one carved from sorrow, stitched with bitterness. Betrayal, mistrust, insecurities—every fracture in your heart laid bare, every ugly truth dragged into the light.

And yet, in some quiet, inexplicable way, you were grateful.

Grateful for the clarity, for the stripping away of illusions, for the lesson that love—no matter how fervent—could not thrive on longing alone. You had spent so much time searching for a deeper meaning, convincing yourself there had to be one. But sometimes, the truth was simple. Painfully, mercilessly simple.

He hadn’t chosen you.

There had been texts, calls, attempts at conversation. Words typed and deleted, ringing phones you never answered. You knew his tactics too well—the pleading eyes, the soft-spoken apologies, the way he’d paint his regret with honeyed words. But you had learned. This time, you refused to fall.

And so, the city became a vast and empty place, void of Xavier’s shadow. No accidental encounters, no glimpses of golden hair in a crowded street. It was as if the universe had granted you mercy, shielding you from the ghost of what could have been.

And with time, bitter turned to sour. Sour softened into something gentler, something warm. Until one day, you woke up and found yourself unburdened.

You were thriving.

A promotion at work. New friends. Doors opening where once there had only been walls. It was almost absurd, how small your world had been, how much of yourself you had given away for the sake of love that was never truly yours.

Because in the end, one heartbreak wasn’t the end of the world.

And when you finally let yourself step forward, the idea of meeting someone new no longer felt like a betrayal of your past self. It was slow at first—hesitant, uncertain—but why should someone else pay the price for wounds they never inflicted?

You were seeing someone. The phrase alone felt foreign on your tongue, strange in your mind. But it was real. It was different. No silent doubts, no waiting for the inevitable unraveling. Just laughter. Just affection. Just love, in the simplest, most effortless form.

You were distracted by happiness.

And maybe that was why fate decided to test you.

The bell above the café door chimed, a familiar sound that had never meant anything—until now. Until the moment you met a gaze you once knew better than your own.

Blue. Icy, calculating, flickering with disbelief.

Xavier.

He looked different. Sharper somehow, but worn. Dark circles framed those piercing eyes, his golden hair a little unkempt, a crease forming between his brows. There was no laughter in his expression, no easy charm. Just silence—thick, heavy, laced with something you couldn’t name.

Like he was seeing a ghost.

Like, after all this time, he still wasn’t sure if you were real.

He stood from his table, slow and careful, as if you might vanish if he moved too quickly. You straightened your posture, steeling yourself.

"Y/N..."

Your name left his lips like a prayer. Soft. Tentative. As if he didn’t deserve to say it.

And maybe he didn’t.

Still, you had promised yourself you’d be better than bitterness. That you wouldn’t let the past sink its claws into you.

So you smiled. Small, polite, but distant. "Xavier. Long time no see."

Something flickered in his expression, fleeting but unmistakable. Hurt.

"Yeah," he echoed, glancing down for a moment, hands curling into fists before he exhaled, gathering himself. "Long time no see."

A pause. A heavy, unspoken weight settling between you.

And then—"Would you sit with me?" His voice was quieter now, more hesitant. "Just for a little while? I won’t... I won’t nag you, I swear." A ghost of a smile barely touched his lips.

For a moment, you considered.

Curiosity stirred—how had he been? How had life treated him? And yet, you knew better. You had spent too long craving answers that would never change the past. The Xavier who stood before you was not yours to worry about. Not anymore.

So you inhaled slowly, steadying your heart, and said simply, "I don’t think there’s anything left to talk about."

Blunt. Honest. Kind, but final.

And for once, you didn’t feel guilty for choosing yourself.

The bell rang again, the door swinging open, and warmth enveloped you as familiar arms wrapped around your waist, a kiss pressed to your cheek.

"Love," a voice murmured, teasing and light. "You always make me chase after you." They laughed, and you did too, the sound effortless.

Your partner turned, glancing at Xavier with mild curiosity. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing at all," you assured, slipping your fingers into theirs, warmth meeting warmth. "Let’s go."

And as you walked away, hand in hand with the person who had mended what Xavier broke, you didn’t look back.

But he did.

Xavier stood frozen, watching as you disappeared into the city, just as he had let you slip through his fingers once before.

And this time, there was no note left behind. No final words.

Only silence.

And the weight of a mistake he could never undo.

...

But it seemed fate was not yet finished with him. Seeing you again was a wound torn open, an ache that refused to fade. Xavier realized, with the kind of clarity that arrives too late, that he couldn’t let you go.

Not without trying.

And it didn’t matter that you belonged to someone else now—desperation made a man reckless. He would settle for anything. A glance, a word, a sigh in his direction. Proof that he had not become a ghost in your memory.

So he searched. Called. Texted. Every message fell into silence, his words lost to the void. He wandered through the places you once loved, only to find them hollow, emptied of your presence. It was as if you had evaporated, leaving no trace behind.

But then—when he finally found you, sitting on a weathered park bench beneath the fading gold of an autumn sky—his breath hitched. You looked different. Not just in the way time shapes a person, but in the way peace does. It softened you, made you untouchable.

He hesitated. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to seem like a desperate man chasing shadows. But wasn’t that exactly what he was? Obsessed, haunted, unraveling beneath the weight of his own mistakes.

And then you looked at him.

His heart stuttered. Your eyes—once a universe he had called home—held no welcome for him now. There was recognition, yes. But it was distant, indifferent. A ghost of a smile graced your lips, polite but hollow, and something inside him withered.

"I need to talk to you," he rasped, his voice raw from all the words he had never said.

You tilted your head, considering him in that quiet, unreadable way. Then, with a small sigh, you gestured to the empty space beside you. An invitation—not of warmth, but of duty. Perhaps you felt he deserved the clarity he had never given you.

He sat, feeling like a man standing at the edge of a cliff.

"I have no right to ask for forgiveness," he confessed, staring down at his hands as if the answers were etched into his skin. "I know that. But I feel... lost. Lost without you guiding me."

There was silence, heavy as the twilight creeping in around you. And then—

"What’s done is done." Your voice was steady, like the final toll of a bell. "You’re right—some things can’t be forgiven. And actions have consequences. I’ve moved on, Xavier. And you should, too. That’s the only clarity I can give you."

Your words struck like a blade, precise and inescapable. He had braced himself for anger, for screams, for the fury he knew he deserved. But instead, you looked at him with nothing but pity.

And that—God, that was worse.

"Y/N, please," he choked out, his resolve crumbling. "Just give me a chance. I’ll do anything. Anything."

He fell to his knees before you, the weight of his regret pressing him into the earth. Once, he had stood tall beside you. Now, he knelt at your feet, pleading for the remnants of something he had destroyed with his own hands.

You blinked, surprise flickering across your face before you exhaled softly. "I’m happily taken…" The words were gentle, but firm. And then, the final blow—"Engaged, actually."

You lifted your hand, and in the dimming light, the diamond on your finger gleamed like the last star in a dying sky.

Xavier’s breath left him in a ragged gasp. No. No, this couldn’t be real.

"Please—" He reached for you, his hands trembling, his world tilting beneath him. "I can’t do this without you."

You smiled then, and for the first time that evening, it was real. Soft, kind, but completely out of reach.

"I’m afraid that’s none of my business anymore."

You rose to your feet, turning away from him, your figure bathed in the golden light of a world that no longer had room for him. He watched, helpless, as you walked away—each step sealing his fate, each breath pulling you further from his grasp.

And when you disappeared beyond the trees, he realized the cruelest truth of all.

Some mistakes don’t come with second chances.

Zayne

A year.

A year since you had stood in the ruins of what you once called love, waiting for something—anything—to make sense. Since the walls of your world had collapsed beneath the weight of neglect, since the name Dr. Zayne had burned like acid on your tongue.

And yet, look at you now.

Thriving.

You had carved out a life that was entirely your own, no longer bending yourself into smaller, more convenient shapes to fit into someone else’s world. Your career—once just a dream, a hesitant whisper in the back of your mind—had become your reality, a space where your talents were not only recognized but celebrated. Your relationships flourished, no longer strained by the quiet loneliness of waiting for a man who always seemed just out of reach.

The girl who once sat by the phone, heart aching for a call that never came, was gone.

And yet, the ghosts of Zayne still lingered.

The recipe he once taught you? You still loved it, the taste laced with a bittersweet nostalgia. The song he always played while driving? Occasionally, you let it slip through your speakers, if only to remind yourself how far you had come. The pain of his absence had dulled into something quieter—no longer a gaping wound, but a faded scar.

You had learned to appreciate what his neglect had taught you.

Because he had shown you exactly what love wasn’t.

And now, you knew better.

...

It was supposed to be an ordinary evening.

Your partner—warm, steady, everything you had once begged for—had suffered a minor accident. Nothing dire, but enough to warrant a hospital visit, just to be sure. And so you stood there, waiting near the reception desk, arms crossed over your chest, glancing at the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. The air smelled of antiseptic and sterile linens, the faint beeping of monitors a rhythmic pulse in the background.

And then—

You felt it before you saw it.

A gaze. Heavy. Familiar.

You turned.

And there he was.

Dr. Zayne.

For a moment, the world seemed to shrink, narrowing down to the space between you and him. He looked... different. Or maybe it was you who had changed. His sharp, professional composure remained, but there was something wearier about him now. The pristine white coat did little to hide the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the slight furrow of his brows, the way he adjusted his glasses in that meticulous way of his.

And yet, despite it all—he was still devastatingly familiar.

"Y/N?"

Your name fell from his lips like a habit he had forgotten he missed.

There was something almost startled in his expression, as if he hadn’t expected to see you here, hadn’t expected you at all.

"Did something happen? Are you hurt?" He was already stepping forward, concern etched into every line of his face.

There was a time when that look would have unraveled you. When your heart would have stuttered at the mere thought of being the center of his attention.

Now, it felt… strange.

Performative.

Not because you thought he was faking it—Zayne never faked anything—but because it no longer mattered.

You blinked, taken aback for a brief moment before schooling your features into something unreadable.

"I'm alright."

A pause.

Why did he sound as if he had just seen you yesterday? As if a year of silence had not stretched between you like an ocean?

Why was he looking at you like that?

And why—why did it still taste bitter?

His gaze flickered over you, searching for something, before he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "Then why are you here?"

You raised an eyebrow.

"Actually, it’s none of my business," he amended quickly, clearing his throat, adjusting his glasses again—nervous. Zayne never used to be nervous around you.

"But since you’re here," he continued, voice carefully composed, "perhaps we could talk? If you wouldn’t mind, of course."

There was something almost hesitant in his tone. Like he was reaching for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

And before you could decide how to respond—

A warmth wrapped around you.

"Sorry I kept you waiting, baby."

A familiar voice. Soft lips pressed against your temple. A presence that felt like home.

Your partner.

Zayne went still.

You didn’t even need to look at him to know. You could feel it—the way the air between you turned sour, thick with something unspoken, something unacknowledged.

You turned to face your lover, melting into the easy affection they offered, their touch grounding you in a way Zayne’s never had.

"Is that your friend?" your partner asked curiously, glancing at Zayne with polite indifference.

You tilted your head, considering the question.

Friend?

No, that wasn’t quite right.

You let out a soft giggle, shrugging as you intertwined your fingers with theirs. "I guess?"

And then—without another glance, without another word—you turned, walking away.

Zayne remained where he stood, unmoving, silent.

He didn’t call after you. Didn’t reach out.

Because he knew.

He knew that if he had any place in your life, it would have been beside you, not behind you—watching as you disappeared into a world that no longer included him.

And now, the only thing he had left—

Was the taste of regret, bitter and lingering on his tongue.

...

Bitterness clung to Zayne like the aftertaste of a drink too strong, too sharp. And so, he sought sweetness in the only way he knew how—in thoughts of you.

Your touch, the gentle weight of your hand on his wrist. Your voice, quiet yet commanding, soft yet certain. Your presence, steady as the tide, once an anchor, now a ghost.

He had spent too long convincing himself he could let you go. That logic could silence longing, that reason could tame regret. But then he saw you again.

And the moment he did, he knew.

You belonged by his side.

So, it began. A pattern. A ritual. Lingering in the places you once adored, slipping into the coffee shop you used to frequent, hoping—praying—that fate would grant him another moment.

And fate, cruel and kind in equal measure, did.

You were alone, sipping your drink, fingers lazily scrolling through your phone. Every now and then, the corners of your lips twitched into a smile—small, fleeting, devastating. Zayne felt something in his chest splinter.

He wanted to be the reason for that smile again.

With a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding, he stepped forward, lowering himself into the seat across from you.

"Y/N."

Your name left his lips like a confession, quiet, careful.

You lifted your gaze, expression unreadable, an eyebrow arching slightly at his sudden presence. But no shock. No warmth.

That alone made doubt creep in. But it was too late to turn back now.

"...That’s unexpected," you said, returning your attention to your phone. "I thought you didn’t like this café."

His lips curved, but there was no humor in it. "I don’t," he admitted, adjusting his glasses with practiced ease. "But I find myself drawn to places that remind me of you. Old habits die hard, it seems."

A pause. Then—

"Nice."

Nothing more. Not a smile, not a flicker of interest. Just a word, impersonal and distant, slipping from your lips with all the weight of an afterthought.

It caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected warmth, but this? This felt like standing outside in the cold, staring at a window where a fire once burned.

Still, he pressed forward.

"So," he began, voice smooth yet hesitant. "Have you been well?"

"Cut the small talk."

Your voice was calm, but your patience was thin, and when your eyes met his again, he saw it—exhaustion. The kind that settles after a storm, after too many words left unspoken for too long.

"What do you want, Zayne?"

He exhaled slowly, as if composing himself. "I see time has made you even more direct," he mused, before his gaze darkened, sharpened. "Very well. I won’t insult you with pleasantries. I came because I needed to speak with you—about us."

A flicker of something crossed your face, too fast for him to name. And then—

"There is no ‘us,’ Zayne."

Your words were soft, but they struck harder than a shout.

"We didn’t work out," you continued, your voice steady, final. "It happens. Move on."

His fingers curled against the table, the faintest twitch of his jaw betraying the emotion he so carefully masked.

"You make it sound so simple," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "As if what we were—what we could have been—was nothing more than an inconsequential mistake."

"Not a mistake," you corrected. "A lesson."

He laughed then, low and humorless. "I see. And what exactly did I teach you?"

"That love is not enough."

It was cruel in its honesty. Devastating in its simplicity.

He looked away for a moment, staring at the swirl of steam rising from your drink, as if it held the answers he sought. Then, quieter this time, he said, "And yet, I find myself incapable of learning that lesson."

You didn’t respond. You only stood, preparing to leave.

That was when he reached for you.

Fingers wrapping around your wrist—gentle, hesitant, desperate. And in that moment, neither of you spoke.

Because you both felt it.

The ghost of what once was. The warmth of a memory neither had fully let go of.

His grip loosened, but he did not let go.

"Tell me," he said, voice softer now, raw in a way he had never allowed himself to be. "Is this truly the end?"

Your gaze met his, unwavering.

And then you nodded.

A single motion. Firm. Certain. Unshakable.

He let you go.

And though every part of him rebelled against it, though his heart ached with the knowledge that he would wake tomorrow with the same longing, the same regret, he told himself it was enough.

Because if you were happy—if someone else had succeeded where he had failed—then who was he to ask for more?

At least, that’s what he tried to believe.

Rafayel

A year had passed.

The seasons had shifted, weaving through time like a quiet symphony, their passage marked by sun-warmed afternoons and frost-kissed mornings. Life had carried on, carrying you with it.

And somehow, somewhere between then and now, you had left him behind.

Not in a single, heart-wrenching moment, not in some grand, dramatic farewell. No, you had left him slowly—like the tide pulling back from the shore, retreating inch by inch, until one day you realized there was nothing left to reach for.

And you were okay with that.

More than okay.

You had built something new from the pieces of yourself he had never cherished. A life that felt like yours, untouched by the weight of waiting, unburdened by the ache of almost-love.

And you had found someone. Someone who didn’t make you wonder if you were asking for too much. Someone who reached for you first, without hesitation.

You never thought about him anymore.

Not really.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Because today, just as laughter spilled from your lips like honey, warm and golden, just as your partner squeezed your hand in theirs, grounding, steady—

You saw him.

Rafayel.

Standing at the entrance of the café, half-cast in shadow, his sharp gaze locked onto you like a man seeing a mirage in the desert.

Your breath did not hitch.

Your pulse did not quicken.

If there was an ache left inside you, it was nothing more than an old scar—a faint reminder of pain you had long since learned to live without.

But he—

He looked frozen.

Like he had walked into a moment he wasn’t supposed to witness.

Like the sight of you—laughing, radiant, untouched by him—was something he had never considered possible.

You met his gaze, tilting your head slightly.

Oh.

He hadn’t changed much. Still dressed in purple tones, still holding himself with that same quiet confidence, still looking at you like he was searching for something.

But he had changed.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes—once filled with amusement, teasing, always dancing just out of reach—were darker now. Heavier.

You knew that weight.

Regret.

Good.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick with things left unsaid, ghosts of words that once sat on the tip of your tongue, always swallowed before they could escape.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Y/N.”

Your name on his lips used to feel like the start of something. A promise. A quiet, unspoken longing.

Now, it was just a name.

You blinked at him, offering a small, polite smile—the kind you gave to distant acquaintances, to strangers who mistook familiarity for significance.

“Oh,” you said, as if realizing he was there for the first time. “Rafayel.”

The casualness in your voice was deliberate.

His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did—just the slightest shift, just enough for you to know he felt it.

“It’s been a while,” he said.

It had.

A lifetime had passed in that year.

“Yes, it has.”

You didn’t ask him how he was. Didn’t give him the opening he was waiting for.

The silence stretched between you, long enough to feel like a choice.

The café smelled of coffee and cinnamon, of sugar melting into warm pastries, but the only thing you could taste was clarity—light, crisp, sweet.

Then—

“Who’s this?”

Your partner’s voice, gentle yet firm, cut through the stillness.

You turned to them, your gaze softening the moment it met theirs.

And that—that was what made Rafayel’s breath hitch.

The way you looked at them.

The way you had never looked at him.

“They’re an old friend,” you said simply.

Not a lover.

Not someone who had once left you waiting in the dark, sifting through the scraps of his affection, trying to find something whole.

Just someone you used to know.

And you knew he heard the finality in your voice.

For a second, just a fleeting second, something flickered in his expression.

Loss.

Too little, too late.

You turned back to your partner, your fingers still laced with theirs.

The conversation resumed. Effortless. Unbroken.

And Rafayel—who had once believed you would always be there, lingering like an unfinished story—stood there, realizing he had become nothing more than a footnote in yours.

You didn’t look back.

And the only taste he was left with—

Was bitter.

...

Regret clung to Rafayel like salt on skin—persistent, inescapable, a reminder of tides that had long since receded.

And he remembered—oh, how he remembered.

The scent of your skin, like the last breath of summer before the waves stole the warmth away. The way your hair moved with the wind, as if it carried secrets only the ocean knew. The way your voice curled around his name, a siren’s call that had once lured him home.

How you understood him without words, how you indulged his recklessness, how—for once—someone had seen him for more than his name, his face, his fortune.

He still knew your favorite color, the way your smile tilted just slightly to the left, how every imperfection only made you more devastatingly perfect in his eyes.

And he couldn’t forget.

He tried, but he was a drowning man, reaching for driftwood, for anything that could bring him back to shore. So, he watched from a distance, fingers hovering over your name on his screen, refreshing, searching. Checking where you were, who you were with, what you were doing.

Love makes fools of men. But obsession—obsession turns them into ghosts.

And when he had mapped the rhythm of your days, he found himself drifting into them. Hovering at the edges of your world, waiting for the perfect moment to pull you back into his gravity.

When it finally happened, he caught you off guard.

You were walking, earphones in, humming a tune under your breath, lost in a world where he no longer belonged.

His hand found your shoulder.

Startled, you swung your bag on instinct, and it hit him square in the arm. He winced, clutching it dramatically.

“Ow, cutie! First, you break my heart, and now you try to break my arm?” His grin was lopsided, but his eyes betrayed him—searching, desperate.

You barely spared him a glance before rolling your eyes, turning away.

“No—wait.” His fingers caught your wrist, hesitant but firm.

You turned back, leveling him with a stare. "What? Want to get hit again?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it faltered under the weight of your indifference. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple.

"I would much rather prefer just to talk to you." His voice softened, no longer laced with teasing, but something closer to pleading.

Then, quieter—more deliberate—

“Y/N, take me back.”

You blinked. For a moment, silence stretched between you, the space between each breath vast as the horizon.

Then, you took a step back. And he felt the distance like an undertow, dragging him deeper.

“Absolutely not.”

There was no anger in your voice, no bitterness. Just finality, as gentle as a wave washing over forgotten footprints in the sand.

His throat bobbed. “…No?”

"You heard me."

His fingers twitched at his sides. “Cutie, please reconsider—”

“Oh god, don’t call me that.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing.

He hesitated, but then his gaze turned serious, the teasing stripped away. “I know I made mistakes—”

“You broke us, Rafayel.”

His breath caught. The truth of it cut through him like cold water, merciless and clear.

“Y/N.” His voice was lower now, quiet in a way that made the world around you feel too loud. “I know I ruined things, but you can’t tell me we weren’t great. You can’t tell me what we had wasn’t—”

“It was.” You interrupted, your expression unreadable. “Until it wasn’t.”

Something inside him cracked.

"I've moved on," you said simply, shifting your bag over your shoulder. And then, with a ghost of a smirk—mocking, cruel in its lightness—

"You should too, fishie."

It should have made him laugh. It should have made him tease you back, call you something equally ridiculous.

Instead, it felt like the tide pulling him under.

He said nothing, only watching you, searching your face for something—anything—that might mean he still had a chance.

And then you turned.

He caught your wrist again, more desperately this time. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice unsteady. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Do you want to see me on my knees?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him.

"I just want to see you out of my sight."

The words landed like crashing waves against stone.

His grip loosened, and you slipped away like water through his fingers.

"Have a great life, Rafayel."

And you walked away.

He should have followed. Should have thrown pride to the wind, should have fallen at your feet and begged like a desperate sailor praying to the sea.

But something in your voice—calm, unwavering—told him the storm had passed. And all that was left was the wreckage.

So he stood still.

And for the first time, he let you drift beyond his reach.

For now.

Sylus

A year had passed since you walked away from Sylus, but time had done nothing to erase the ache in your chest, nor the memory of how effortlessly you had disappeared from his life. You had left as silently as a forgotten dream, taking your heart with you, and leaving him behind to rot in the wreckage of his own actions. The decision had seemed like a balm in the moment, a clean cut. But as the days turned into months, the absence had become a ghost. It hovered in the corners of your mind, a constant reminder of the man you thought you knew, the man who had ruined you. And yet, despite it all, you had learned to live again.

You had rebuilt yourself, piece by broken piece. You embraced the ordinary—the quiet routine of your life, the peace that had once seemed so elusive when he was around. Your life was no longer tangled in the complexity of him. You began to explore things you never had the courage to before, tasting freedom in ways that filled you with pride. The world, without Sylus, was kinder—gentler. You smiled more, laughed more, and found comfort in the simplest of things: a cup of coffee on a rainy day, the soft rustle of leaves underfoot in autumn, the glow of a sunset you hadn’t shared with anyone. You had learned to live for yourself.

And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, a part of you still wondered what he was doing.

The knock at your door shattered the quiet peace you had so carefully built.

You hadn’t expected visitors—especially not him.

Standing there, on the other side of the threshold, was the man who had once been your whole world, the man who had broken it. Sylus.

His appearance was jarring. His usual immaculate self was ruffled, as though the weight of the world had been wearing on him in ways he never allowed anyone to see. His sharp features were drawn, eyes darker than you remembered. There was something unfamiliar in the way he held himself—no longer the man who walked into a room like he owned it, but someone who had been worn down by the passage of time, by regret. And yet, his eyes, the same eyes that had once mesmerized you, still held that magnetic pull. Only this time, they were haunted.

“Sylus,” you breathed, the name slipping out of you before you could stop it.

There was a moment of tense silence, where neither of you moved. And then, his lips parted—just slightly—and a flicker of something like amusement touched his face.

“Missed me, kitten?” His voice was smooth, but there was an unfamiliar hesitation there, something raw in the way he spoke to you.

You couldn’t tell if he was still playing games, or if this was something else entirely. You studied him for a long moment, trying to read him, trying to figure out why, after everything, he still seemed so... familiar.

But you no longer cared.

The words came out before you even thought them. “What are you doing here?” Your voice was soft, there was no venom, no fury. Only confusion. And a quiet indifference that was worse than anything you could’ve said.

His gaze faltered for a second, but he quickly regained his composure, though his smirk was tighter than usual. “I thought you’d be more excited to see me.”

His words were like a knife to the gut, but you felt nothing—not anymore. It was like you had been hollowed out over time, and there was nothing left inside you to give.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes cool. “Ah, where are my manners?” You couldn’t help the sarcasm that slipped out, though it wasn’t playful—more a shield against the weight of his presence. “Oh, how I missed my favorite liar! The one who broke my heart and threw me away like a piece of trash.” You rolled your eyes, a bitter laugh escaping your lips.

The words should have stung, but somehow, you found relief in saying them out loud. For so long, you had kept the hurt buried beneath layers of careful silence, and now, here it was—raw, unapologetic.

Sylus’s face flickered, a faint shadow of hurt passing through his gaze before he regained his composure. “The kitten has grown some claws, I see.” His voice was flat, but there was a trace of something in it, something he was trying to mask.

He took a step closer, as if expecting you to let him in, but you quickly moved to block the door.

“Don’t,” you said simply.

He raised an eyebrow, surprised at your sudden resolve, but you didn’t care.

“You’re not welcome here,” you said, your tone final.

Sylus’s eyes softened for a split second, and in that brief moment, you saw the desperation that clawed at him. The weight of his regret that he never allowed to surface. “You’re hurting me, sweetie,” he said, though it was far from playful. It sounded like a plea.

Your heart didn’t twitch. It didn’t soften. It just felt... heavy.

“Good,” you muttered, looking him up and down, and for the first time, you saw him clearly—not the man you had once adored, but a man who had lost everything and had nothing left to offer.

Just then, a voice came from inside your home.

“Darling, what’s taking you so long?”

You didn’t need to look back to feel your partner’s arms slide around your waist from behind, their presence warm and secure, a reminder of the love you had found after him.

“Hmm, who’s this?” Your partner asked lazily, looking past you to the man who once consumed your every thought.

Sylus’s gaze hardened, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the newcomer, but you weren’t going to offer him any answers. Not anymore.

“He got the wrong address,” you replied evenly, your voice indifferent as you turned back to face Sylus, daring him to challenge your words.

And just like that, the man who once held your heart in his hands realized the weight of his own failure. The realization hit him like a tidal wave.

Sylus opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths, as if he were choking on his own grief.

You met his gaze, and for the first time, you felt no anger—only a quiet, final resolve. “I think it's time for you to leave, sir.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. His heart, once so certain and confident, now shattered under the weight of your indifference.

“Have a good night.” you whispered, the finality of the words slipping from your lips. And with that, you closed the door on him—on the man you once thought you could never escape.

Sylus stood there, staring at the wood that now separated you from him, as though hoping it would open again. But it wouldn’t.

He swallowed, hard. The man who had always prided himself on his control was now nothing more than a broken shell of his former self.

And it was all his doing.

For the first time in his life, Sylus had lost. And he had no one to blame but himself.

...

Sylus was not the kind of man who accepted defeat.

Not when you were so close, so painfully out of reach, like a forbidden fruit dangling just beyond his grasp.

He couldn't—no, he wouldn't—let you go so easily.

His mind clung to thoughts of you, obsessions blooming in every corner of his brain: your laughter, like the chiming of delicate bells, your playful words that always teased, always challenged him, your defiance that had once felt like the spark that kept him alive. You had been his equal, his match—two stars circling in an orbit of shared chaos and fire.

But now? Now you were slipping from him, dissolving into someone else’s arms, and that realization felt like a knife being twisted into his chest. He couldn't bear it. He could never bear it.

Bitterness seeped into his soul, a slow, insidious poison that clouded his thoughts. The feeling of helplessness was foreign to him, suffocating him in ways he had never known before. He had always been the one in control—always the one who commanded the world. And now you were gone, out of his reach, and it tore at him like a storm.

The thought of another touching you, breathing in your scent, seeing the soft glow of tenderness in your eyes—Sylus couldn't abide it. No. Not when he had once owned that gaze, that touch, that part of you that was his.

He needed one more chance.

Maybe it was for the peace of his mind, maybe it was his selfish longing, his desire to reclaim what he believed was his. Or maybe it was because he couldn't let go of the idea that you were a treasure meant for his eyes alone—his to hold, his to keep, like a rare, delicate jewel locked away.

And so, like the predator he was, Sylus followed you, carefully, subtly. With Mephisto keeping watch over you, it was easy to know where you'd be, when you'd be there.

Each time, he approached, his presence lingering just at the edges of your world—watching, waiting. But you rejected him. Rejected him with biting sarcasm, with icy silence that seemed to pierce his skin like a thousand knives.

It drove him mad.

The chase was maddening. The only thing that consumed him was the desire to have you in his arms once more, to feel the heat of your skin, the sweetness of your breath, the intimacy that he had once thought was infinite.

And then one evening, when he could no longer take the ache, he made his move.

You were walking home from work, the weight of the day pressing down on your shoulders. The quiet satisfaction of surviving the day was tempered by the exhaustion that clung to you. But as you turned the corner, a hand suddenly grasped your wrist, yanking you into a shadowed alley. Your heart pounded in your chest, a burst of adrenaline flooding your veins. You opened your mouth to scream, but before the sound could escape, a hand pressed over your lips.

"Relax. It's just me."

His voice—his damn voice—sounded like a lure, familiar and dangerous. Your body froze, not out of fear, but out of recognition. You knew it was Sylus, and despite everything, despite the years of hurt and betrayal, a twisted part of you felt… safe.

When he felt you relax, he let go. You spun around to face him, heart still hammering, but now tempered with anger.

"You’re crazy," you spat, your voice sharp and unforgiving. "What do you think you’re doing?"

His gaze, that unnerving mix of calm and intensity, bore into you. His expression was disturbingly relaxed, too casual for someone who had just dragged you into an alley against your will.

"Getting your attention," he said, his tone smooth, almost mocking. "Seems like it worked."

The words hit you like a slap. Your fists clenched, your anger bubbling over.

"You can’t just pull people into a dark alley, Sylus! You’re actually insane!" You jabbed your finger at his chest, each word punctuating the fury that burned through you.

Sylus didn’t flinch, though you could see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

"...I apologize," he said softly, his voice taking on a tenderness that was so unlike him. He reached out to touch your cheek, but his hand stopped halfway, as if he was still unsure whether he had the right.

The vulnerability in that simple motion—something so un-Sylus, so raw—stirred something inside you. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You sighed heavily, the weight of everything pressing down on you. "What do you want?" Your voice was laced with frustration, your patience wearing thin.

"I thought that would be obvious by now," he said, a faint smirk curling at his lips, the teasing edge still present despite the darkness in his eyes. "Guess you’re not as sharp as I thought, kitten."

The bastard. Even now, he played with you like a cat with its prey.

"I swear, I’m going to file for a restraining order against you," you muttered, your voice tinged with disbelief.

"You can try," Sylus responded smoothly, his words dripping with a dangerous calm. "But you know well enough that such things won’t stop me."

You clenched your fists, your resolve hardening. The walls you had so carefully built around your heart in the past year came crashing down in a flood of anger and pain. You had moved on, healed—didn’t he see that?

"I want you to come back to me," he said, his voice now serious, his gaze earnest, though still haunted by the traces of his past mistakes.

But you wouldn’t crack. Not now.

"Never in this lifetime," you said, the finality of your words a heavy hammer to his chest.

Sylus’s lips twisted into a small, bitter smile. "Then, in another?" His words were light, but they carried a weight that you both felt. It was his way of hiding the hurt, the pain that had followed him like a shadow.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence hang between you, thick and suffocating.

"I’ll pray that I never have to meet you again," you said softly, the words filled with a quiet kind of sorrow. "Not in this life, and not in the ones after."

And with that, you turned, walking away from him, leaving him shattered in the cold, empty alley.

Sylus watched you go, his chest tight with regret. His heart—something he had long kept locked away, something he had never truly allowed himself to feel—was breaking in ways he had never imagined. The storm inside him raged, but he couldn’t stop it.

You were gone, and this time, he knew—he knew—there would be no coming back.

Caleb

It’s been a year since you last saw Caleb.

Well, not really. Sometimes you caught glimpses of him in the crowd—just a silhouette, a shape that might be his. Your heart would catch in your throat, and for a fleeting moment, you’d swear it was him. But the figure would turn, and it would be a stranger. Your imagination had been cruel to you, conjuring up ghosts from your memories and stitching together faces from your longing. Perhaps it was just your mind showing you what you wished to see, like a cruel twist of fate reminding you of what had slipped through your fingers.

A year filled with growth. You learned to be soft with yourself, to breathe through the pain instead of suffocating in it. You allowed yourself to be bitter—let the sadness claw through your chest and the anger burn through your veins. You let yourself crumble, and when the dust settled, you gathered the fragments and made something beautiful from them. A mosaic of healing. You thanked the universe for the lesson, no matter how brutal it had been. Whether it was God, fate, or simply the chaos of life, you accepted it. You learned that you were the only constant in your own story—the one thing that would always remain when everyone else faded to whispers.

In those months, you blossomed. You breathed in the world with new lungs, filling your soul with every small moment that once went unnoticed. The way sunlight painted golden patterns on cracked sidewalks, the way the ocean waves whispered secrets to the shore, the taste of ripe fruit on a sweltering day. You poured your energy into your work, rebuilt neglected friendships, and found comfort in the warmth of those who remained. You taught yourself that it wasn’t your fault—none of it had been—and that loving him too much was never a mistake. Only, you needed to love yourself first.

And when you finally felt steady enough to open your heart again, love found you. They were calm where Caleb had been chaos, steady where Caleb had been a storm. A lighthouse guiding you back to yourself, reminding you that love wasn’t meant to break you. Their hands held you like you were fragile, but their love made you feel strong. You didn’t compare them—Caleb was a different life, a different story. But maybe that’s what you needed. You were happy, genuinely happy, for the first time in what felt like ages.

The train station buzzes around you like a hive of restless energy, travelers weaving past each other with hurried steps and heavy bags. Your lover has gone to grab snacks for the journey, leaving you alone on the worn wooden bench. The air smells of old books and fresh coffee, tinged with the metallic scent of steel tracks. You lean back, glancing at the faded timetable, feeling content in the hum of life moving around you.

And then, like a phantom stepping through the fog of memory, you see him. Caleb. The world seems to stop spinning, frozen in that singular moment. He’s standing on the opposite platform, hands shoved into his coat pockets, head bowed as if weighed down by the past. A bitter wind pulls at his hair, and for a second, he lifts his gaze. Your breath catches as his eyes meet yours, recognition dawning like sunlight cutting through rain. He hesitates, lips parting, and you see the flicker of regret, raw and unguarded.

The hurt surges up unexpectedly, but it’s quieter than it used to be, muted by time and acceptance. You don’t flinch when he takes a hesitant step forward, his mouth opening as if to call out to you. A thousand words hang between you—apologies, confessions, explanations—but none seem to find their way into the open. You see the yearning in his eyes, the way he’s looking at you as if trying to remember every detail he once took for granted.

Your lover appears at your side, offering a small smile as they hand you a paper bag filled with snacks. Their presence grounds you, pulls you back to reality from the haze of memory. Caleb sees them too, and the pain that flashes across his face is like a knife carving regret into his bones. You watch as he realizes what he’s lost—how you’ve moved on, how you’ve found happiness that doesn’t depend on him.

He lingers there, stranded on the other side of the tracks, unable to cross over to where you stand. You almost pity him—the way his shoulders sag, the way his jaw clenches to swallow whatever plea was forming. But the ache that once ruled you has softened, transformed into something quieter. You’re not angry anymore. You’re not shattered. You’ve built something new from the ruins he left behind.

Caleb lowers his gaze, as if surrendering to the weight of his own choices. And as the train pulls into the station, you take your lover’s hand, intertwining your fingers like roots that hold you steady. You feel Caleb’s stare on your back as you step onto the train, but you don’t look back. There’s nothing left to see—just the remnants of a past that no longer defines you.

As the train moves away, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. It’s not triumph, not victory—it’s closure, as quiet and gentle as a sunset slipping beneath the horizon. You made it out the other side. And that, more than anything, is the proof that you are whole again.

...

But the peace you felt wasn’t the same for Caleb. Seeing you again after what felt like a lifetime was like being thrown into the depths of the ocean—lungs burning, heart pounding, utterly helpless. He hadn’t known he was drowning until he saw you sitting there, your feet dangling off the edge of the bench, lips parted in a soft “o” of surprise. You looked at him with that same curiosity, that gentle tilt of your head, and it struck him just how far away you felt—like a dream that had slipped through his fingers.

It wasn’t his place to feel this way. Not anymore. But he couldn’t help the ache that gnawed at his ribs, nor the desperate urge to reach out and pull you into his arms, to whisper apologies into your skin until his words sunk into your bones. Yet even from a distance, he could see how your shoulders were relaxed, your gaze steady and unburdened, and it only made the chasm between you widen.

When another person’s hands found your own, threading fingers together with the ease of familiarity, his heart cracked open—raw and aching. It wasn’t his business. He shouldn’t care. But he did. Too much. More than he thought he still could.

He wanted to run after you, to say something—anything. But what would he even say? That he missed you so much it hurt? That he had spent a year convincing himself he’d made the right choice, only to realize how profoundly wrong he’d been? It all felt pointless now, tangled in regret and longing.

Endless scenarios crashed through his mind like waves against rock, and somewhere in that turmoil, he decided he needed to speak to you—one last time. He needed your attention on him, just once more.

He waited for you outside your workplace, nerves coiling tighter with every second that passed. He wondered if you’d be angry—if you’d tell him to leave and never come back. But when you appeared, you only offered a small, polite smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You looked at him with the calm detachment of someone who had long since made peace with the past.

“Hey...” he murmured, forcing a boyish grin that looked so out of place on his troubled face. He rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to wring out the nerves clinging to him.

You smiled again—gentle, unbothered, and heartbreakingly kind. “Hi.” Your voice was soft, like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp, and it was that tenderness—free from bitterness—that made his chest ache. He had prepared himself for anger, for hurt laced in your words. Instead, you were kind. You always had been, like a flower that bent but never broke, even under the harshest of storms.

“I was wondering if we could talk,” he said finally, hesitating as if the words themselves might shatter.

You didn’t move, just nodded your head. “Talk, then.” Your tone was steady, as if he was just another passerby in your life, not the storm that once tore it apart.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke, words stumbling over one another. “I guess... I didn’t realize how much I missed you—until I saw you at the station. I just—” He took a shaky breath. “I wanted to know if you’d ever consider forgiving me. For how foolish I was. For being so... selfish.” His eyes, those familiar, pleading puppy eyes, bore into yours, searching for a sliver of the past warmth.

You glanced at him, and he saw the flicker of something unreadable in your gaze before you answered. “Forgiveness is too much to ask for,” you replied softly, but your voice held a quiet strength that hadn’t been there before. “But I’ve learned to accept what happened. You should too, Caleb.”

His hands clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach out. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept it.”

You gave a sad, wistful smile, the kind that hurt more than any cruel words could have. “That’s on you,” you whispered, eyes glistening with a tenderness that had nothing to do with him anymore. “I’m happy now. I’ve built something beautiful out of the pieces you left behind. And I won’t let you take that from me.”

He lowered his head, unable to meet your gaze. “I never meant to hurt you,” he whispered.

Your smile faded, replaced by a quiet, unyielding resolve. “Intentions don’t erase consequences. Live a life without further regrets, Caleb.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked away, each step decisive and unwavering, leaving him rooted to the spot—drowning in the knowledge that you were truly, undeniably gone.

And Caleb just stood there, feeling the hollow ache where your love used to be, realizing far too late that he had destroyed the only good thing he’d ever known.

@rubyrubyruuu / @browneyedgirl22 / @valentine-n-ragnarok / @whimsiecat / @esylwen / @crimsonmarabou / @we-rice-boi / @mitchelbr1 / @animegamerfox / @chgumji / @jeondyy / @rafayelridesfisheatsfish

[mynamesdrstuff]

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