#my thoughts and prayers go out to him

[bluephoenixgirl]

I just learned more about what happened to Florida States quarterback and saw the play and omg it was bad. I feel so bad for him and that team. Being ranked number four and having the season he had been having and having an injury like that I can’t imagine what he’s going through. He’s definitely out for the year and most likely broke a bone in his leg. My thoughts and prayers are with him, his family, and his teammates. It makes my heart ache to see injuries like this happen. Again, sending my thoughts to him, his family, and his teammates. So devastating.💔😔

[teh-nos]

u know what though... i don't think this facepalming is for the witnesses in the room, but i also don't think it's an "oh no, thor's so stupid" facepalm, i think it's a "why the fuck did i do that?" one. i don't think loki especially wants to invade jotunheim, he just thought it'd be a laugh to get thor to do it, but then oh shit thor is actually going to do that so now he needs to sabotage it somehow (telling the guard) but also:

"shit, i've fucked this up, haven't i?" it seemed like such a good idea two minutes ago. couldn't help himself. wouldn't it be funny if? but now they have to go to fucking jotunheim and he could so easily have just not done that. oops! facepalm time!

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

questioning sexuality is so exhausting

[princelancey]

.

[bisexual-birdy]

god dean and cas are SO gay for each other

[toestalucia]

if u told me theyd keep mentioning the zombie outbreak in events....

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. ��come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[iloveyouhoneybear]

pope leo xiv used to hang out at the church i go to like talk about a literal sign from God it’s gonna be alright for meeeee

[skeletonsucker]

COMMUNICATE

Cut because it's just me begging a character that isn't even real

Please just

JUST

Fucking COMMUNICATE

Write a note somewhere and just like

Let it be

Leave your phone on the table with the note on the app, pretend to have misplaced it or something

Make sure that bitch CANNOT turn off no matter what NO AUTO OFF

HAVE HIM READ IT BY ACCIDENT

Please PLEASE

JUST TELL HIM

I'm begging you

C O M M U N I C A T E

I need you to

I NEED YOU TO

An idea of fluff turning to angst

inspired by this

Gaz x f!reader

You never understood the saying 'he's too good for me' until you met him.

He was beautiful, his presence alone was ethereal, turning heads to his direction. A smile that brightened the room, voice smooth as silk that made people around him swoon.

He treated you well, so well. He'd have a bouquet everytime he visited you for a date (which was a lot), paid everything without being asked to, pampered you with gifts and affection.

He was perfect.

The kind of man everyone would want to date, to introduce to their parents, the Prince Charming pulled out of a romance novel.

And at first, you felt like the luckiest girl alive.

But then, it started to get to you.

How he was always so effortlessly attractive, and while he always made it clear that he was taken, you couldn't help the lump forming in your throat every time someone couldn't take the hint or just wouldn't take any kind of rejection and kept pestering him.

He put his foot down yeah, pulled you to his side by your waist before leaving the scene, not wanting to start any kind of commotion in public. It should've comforted you, but when it happened so often.. you just couldn't take it anymore.

He was always so well dressed, even if you two were just going for out for a quick grab of greasy burgers. plated shirt with two buttons undone, showing a glimpse of his chest with his dog tag hanging around his neck, simple jeans with a belt that matches his sneakers, making it obvious that he put an effort to his look.

While you were.. well.. you haven't even showered, this was something spontaneous after all. You weren't the kind to be all dolled up all the time.

And he didn't mind it, you appreciated it. But, being out here with him looking like that? made you feel like trash. Made you feel bad for not caring about your own appearance enough.

Even when you tried your best to ignore the judgemental look you got from people by being at his side.

It wasn't his fault so you never said anything about it, it was pathetic of you, you were just so insecure- again, it wasn't his fault.

Before Kyle, you never received flowers. So you were so happy when he first got you one, and another, then another.

Then, you realized that you don't like flowers that much, what do you do with it after anyway? you've looked up how to take care of it in the internet because why would you throw them all out? it would be evil of you to throw gifts away. And it should be flattering, you should be happy to take care of every stem, but.. you didn't like how you barely have any surface in your flat that wasn't occupied with vases.

Though, you still tried to smile whenever he got you another bouquet.

He liked to take you out to fancy restaurants. It was very romantic of him. But.. those things isn't really your cup of tea for a perfect date. Being in that scene made you antsy, couldn't have your foot up to the seat as you had to act proper, got you fidgeting in your dress, eating slowly so as to not mess up your makeup.

Again, you've never said anything about it, because how could you when he looked so proud of himself, when he clearly put a lot of effort into preparing such a perfect date just for you?

Kyle felt like he always tried to be a perfect boyfriend, so he didn't understand it when you mumbled under your breath about wanting a break from this relationship.

[divinedomainn]

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

play previous song? || ◁ PART 2 ▷ || play next song?

summary : Your inbox has turned into a horny battlefield—six familiar usernames, six neck-down thirst traps, all hard and very, very eager.

No faces. Just bodies. Dicks. Bold lighting choices. Questionable bedsheets.

You sit cross-legged in your underwear like you’re judging Olympic figure skating, except everyone’s naked and begging to be picked.

Time to start scoring.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, horny simp men, sukuna being sukuna, reader being willfully ignorant for her own sanity.

A/N : time to make your first choice for the first week by voting in the poll at the end, i'll be doing this all in descending order based on who was the most voted to the least - so vote well >:) goodluck reader ! (i wonder who the mystery man could POSSIBLY be)

You sat back for a few hours, letting it really settle in for yourself and your viewers. You had hundreds of messages and you hadn’t even finished scrolling through the first wave of submissions when the familiar usernames started sliding into your inbox—like wolves answering the call. And it was obvious, immediately, which messages you were actually going to open.

These weren’t just horny randos with messy lighting and desperate angles.

These were your regulars.

The six you already knew by username. The six who tipped with the intensity of men bidding for real estate inside your body. And now they were showing themselves to you. You hoped to whatever deity was listening that these guys were hot with huge cocks. What? It was fun to be a little superficial sometimes. First up:

EmoWithaBoner.

His message was soft-spoken, despite the picture attached being the exact opposite of that, just like always. No emojis. No bravado.

“Didn’t know how to pose,” it read. “But I thought about how you’d look on top of me, and it kind of just happened.”

It was soft, unfiltered, and a little shaky. The photo was reflected from his mirror and showed him stretched out across gray sheets, pale skin dusted with faint freckles. He looked like he went to the gym often with how built he was. Narrow hips. His cock sat flushed against his stomach, long and lean—at least seven inches, maybe more—and wait.. was that? You looked closer towards the image, inspecting it like you were trying to solve a case. Yep. It was pierced at the frenulum with a delicate curved barbell. A glint of silver. Great heavens. Saved.

TempleOfSin.

His body was art. Broad chest, warm tan skin like satin, sculpted muscle that looked carved. His torso was tapered, lean and strong, with a small trail of black hair leading down to a thick, curved cock—seven inches minimum, hand loosely resting at the base like he was showing it off without trying too hard. He was neatly trimmed. It looked like there was a bunch of robes beside him haphazardly taken off for the photo. “Consider this a formal offering,” the message read. “You could worship every inch of me truly, my loyal little follower.” Odd as always, but hot. Saved. You could hear your prayers being answered, two down and so far all was good - in fact, perfect. You were surprised these were the guys paying you, and for a second or two you felt like you should be paying them for the photos.

SixEyesOnly’s submission hit next—and of course, it came with a $500 tip before you even clicked on the message. The sight that hit your eyes made you choke a little on your own spit. 

Of course he sent multiple angles—three, actually. You picked your favorite: a half-reclined shot on luxurious navy bedding, torso lit with just the right amount of golden light. He was toned, lean muscle over abnormally long limbs, subtle abs. A soft trail of white hair led down to a perfectly girthy cock, mid-stroke—maybe just under eight inches, thick enough to stretch you open. His other hand was holding a handwritten sign: “Good enough for you?” “Oh, SixEyesOnly, absolutely.” You spoke to yourself whilst your eyes remained glued to your laptop screen. Saved. Then—unsurprisingly unhinged—daddyissuez.

“i jerked off right before i took this and got hard again just thinking about fucking you.”

And the photo… Jesus. The photo was taken in low lighting, like a scene from a noir porno. He was sitting wide-legged on a leather couch that looked like it needed replacing, legs thick and powerful, thighs dusted with black hair. His chest was solid, scars faintly visible across his abs and ribs. You closed your eyes for a second and tilted your head up to your ceiling in a silent ‘thank you’ before looking back down at the image. His cock was huge, just like the rest of him. Probably just shy of nine inches, you couldn’t keep your eyes off it. Balls heavy. Tip already glossy with precum. One hand gripped the base. The other rested lazily on his thigh like he was used to being admired. With a cock like that you couldn’t blame him. Saved. OfficeAfterHours was, predictably, meticulous. His message read like an email you’d get from someone managing your retirement plan, if that person also wanted to bend you over a desk.

“Apologies for the delay. Here’s my formal submission. Discretion guaranteed. Let me know if you'd like a second angle.”

Shot in high-resolution against crisp black sheets, his body was a symphony of intention. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, abs that looked like they’d been sculpted from marble. Not huge, but built like someone who took care of himself for discipline, not vanity. A thin trail of blonde hair led down to a cock that was gorgeous—perfect shape, thick but not excessive, probably seven inches on the dot, with veins that begged for attention. Trimmed. Clean. You could almost imagine his voice saying something like, “Breathe through it, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.” A weird sound came out of your mouth in excitement from your own fantasy. Saved.

You were already overstimulated and halfway folded into your sheets when the final message hit.

KingOfRot.

You hovered over it for a second like it might bite. Which was ironic, considering he probably would. He was always the most feral in chat—filthy, relentless, tipping like his wallet had a death wish.

You clicked.

Instant regret. Instant need.

The photo looked like it had been taken during a crime.

Bathroom mirror. Harsh yellow light. Shirt pushed up to his collarbones, muscles tensed like he’d been fucking someone just before he snapped the photo. Chest broad. Arms thick. Veins roped down to his forearms. Stomach lined with clean muscle. Ink everywhere—heavy black bands around his biceps, tattoos sharp and ceremonial-looking across his chest and stomach like a ritual.

And then his cock.

You actually flinched at the offensive monster staring right back at you through the screen. Long. Thick. Too thick. Heavy. Veins running down the shaft like it had a pulse, flushed red like it had been hard for too long. The kind of cock you’d have to apologize to your body after taking. You didn’t even want to hazard a guess at the size.

He wasn’t even touching it. It was just there holding its own weight up like a pole rather than a piece of actual flesh. 

But what got you, what really made your stomach drop, was the tattoos.

They were familiar.

You’d seen them before.

There was a guy on campus—tall, smug, terrifyingly hot in the way that sent your libido into a frenzy—who had tattoos just like that. You’d seen him walking out of the athletics building once, sweatpants slung low and his shirt mysteriously missing, laughing like he knew every secret in the world. He had loudly shouted “What!?” at you when you had stared for a little longer than needed. Embarrassingly seared into your memory for that exact reason.

You squinted.

“Nope,” you muttered. “No. Not connecting the dots. That’s above my pay grade.” Surely it couldn’t be the same guy, right? The tattoos were probably, like, one of those trends that everyone was getting. That's what you were telling yourself at least.

You were about to save the photo when you finally looked at the caption.

“Pick me. I’ll fuck you so hard your ancestors will feel it. You’ll be a fucking shrine by the time I’m done.” Was that a death threat? Probably. Should you block him? Probably. “Ancestors. Okaaaaay.” You nodded your head slowly as if he was across from you saying it with a gun pointing at you. 

And then you saved it. Of course you did. Then flopped onto your back, one arm flung over your face, trying to mentally prepare for the chaos you had just invited into your life. All at the right price of course. “Thank you to whoever is listening for blessing me with viewers that are hotter than the guys I have wilfully hooked up with for free.” You spoke to your ceiling, a common theme nowadays. Seven men. Seven bodies. Seven chances to let your subscribers watch you get absolutely wrecked on camera.

Your legs were trembling from what you decided was mostly horniness.. and a little bit of fear for your own pussy by the time you shut your laptop fully. Friday couldn't come soon enough.

Now, the real question was - who would you choose first?

taglist : @syubseokie @frozenmallows @90s-belladonna @moncher-ire @kunareads @blublublubby @grignardsreagent @soozeu @mochiivqi @sweetsformysoul @killak9mi @celloccino @gurlhere4fluff @gorouenjoyer @linaaeatsfamilies @lov3-ly @des-todoroki @aiicpansion @lazylunarlover @kentoslvr @cherry-berry-21 @cure-alexandrite @yourname-exee @pinkyogoart @sillymortalblob @kyvyes @xxxieli @swoozleee @augustineyukimura @uniquecutie-puff @ayepitita @luna-v-roiya @kill-your-darling274 @babiestarrcandy @b3bybunny @midnightwriter21 @miizuzu

[keeps-ache]

introduced my brother apollo to vaporwave last night (the general first results stuff and then the pools because the pools are so important to me) and he's been zoned in on recreating one of the pool rooms in roblox for about. i think 10ish hours including last night lol :)

[shinig6mis]

currently obsessed with clingy!bakugo . . .

he would definitely scoff at the idea of being clingy—at least in front of anyone else. but when it came to you, there was no denying it. the guy was attached in ways he didn’t even realize half the time.

like how he’d grumble when you came back late from work or a night out with friends. he’d plant himself on the couch, arms crossed, refusing to admit he’d been waiting up for you. the second you walked through the door, though, he was pulling you onto the cushions with him, wrapping you in a blanket and practically growling, “you’re late.” you’d laugh, telling him you weren’t on a curfew, but he’d just nuzzle into your shoulder, muttering something about how it was too damn quiet when you weren’t home.

then there were the mornings. he was not a morning person by any stretch, but if you got out of bed before him, he’d wake up in a panic, grumbling your name like you’d abandoned him. his voice would carry through the apartment, rough and gravelly with sleep.

“oi, where the hell are you?” and when you came back into the room, coffee mug in hand, he’d just pull you into the bed, trapping you under his weight like a human blanket.

katsuki also had this thing about texting. you weren’t allowed to go more than a couple of hours without replying, or else he’d blow up your phone with a string of passive-aggressive messages:

“you dead or something?”

“i’m not waiting around for you all day, you know.”

“pick up, dumbass.”

but the second you replied, he’d act like he hadn’t been pacing the room, phone in hand, waiting for the notification.

when it came to fights, he didn’t handle distance well, either. he’d huff and puff, slamming doors and crossing his arms, pretending he didn’t care. but an hour later, you’d find him standing in the doorway, arms still crossed, looking like a kicked puppy. “this is stupid,” he’d say, his voice quieter, eyes darting everywhere but at you. “just—come here already.”

he hated when you were upset with him. if you were quiet for too long, katsuki would hover around you like a storm cloud, poking and prodding until you told him what was wrong. and when you didn’t, he’d start doing things he thought would make it better—cleaning up the apartment, cooking your favorite meals, even sitting next to you in complete silence because he couldn’t stand not being near you.

katsuki was also ridiculously overprotective. he’d act like a grump about you needing him, but the truth was, he loved it. if you so much as sighed, he was there, rubbing at the knots in your shoulders or tugging you into his lap. “you’re always stressin’ over shit,” he’d mutter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “lemme take care of it, doll.”

and god forbid anyone so much as looked at you wrong in public. he’d wrap an arm around your waist, holding you tight against him with a glare that could melt steel. “they’ve got eyes, don’t they?” he’d mutter under his breath. “they can look somewhere else.”

at night, he was at his softest. after a long day, katsuki would all but collapse into bed, dragging you down with him. he’d wrap himself around you, burying his face in your hair, and grumble about how annoying you were, but his grip never loosened. he’d stay like that all night, holding onto you like you might disappear, and in his sleep, you’d feel his lips brush your skin, hear him whisper your name like a prayer.

a/n: remind me why he's not real again?

© 2025 shinig6mis | do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my work.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Dick bored in class thinks loudly: Are there any mind riders here?

Danny thinks back: Yeah, hi.

Dick: *Falling out of his desk with a shriek*

Teacher: Mr. Grayson! If you are going to disrupt this class one more time, I'll have you thrown out!

Dick: Sorry, sorry. *sits in desk mentally shouting* Who are you!? What information have you stolen from my mind!?

Danny: Whoa, calm down there, Robin. You were the one who asked. I thought you already knew about me.

Dick: How could I possibly know about you!?

Danny: You literally lit candles for me yesterday. You said this lovely prayer, too, though I couldn't understand it

Dick: I lit candles for the dead homeless kid i found- oh. You're a ghost.

Danny: In a way.

Dick: Did the light not guide you home? Should I light more candles?

Danny: If you like. What's that about anyway? The candles?

Dick: It's a Romani tradition. Ussually, the candle is light on your death and kept on until the funeral, but I found you too late, so I just made a circle.

Danny: That's so sweet. Thank you for including me in your people's way.

Dick: Of course. Are you haunting me now?

Danny: *Literally sitting behind him in class* One could say that yes.

Dick: Cool. What's your name?

Danny: Call me Phantom.

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 4

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance, hurt/comfort

A/N: Another chapter for my lovely readers! Thank you for the support! I hope you enjoy this one. <3 I'll also be cross-posting to AO3 now that this chapter is written.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 4:

What They Would Give

The dream was silk and shadow.

Gold candlelight flickered across paper walls. A bipa hummed in the distance, low and mournful, each note a whisper from another life. Your bare feet pressed against cold stone floors, hem of your hanbok brushing the ground as you moved silently through the eastern wing of the palace. You knew this place. Knew every turn, every tile, every secret door the nobles thought you were too stupid to notice.

But you weren’t stupid. And he always knew that.

“Yeobo,” a voice breathed behind you—low, reverent, broken. You turned.

Jinu stood beneath the moonlight, hair tied back, royal silks stained with dirt. His face was young—so achingly young—but those eyes held lifetimes. They always had.

He reached for you, and when you didn’t flinch, his hand cupped your cheek like you were something made of music and prayers. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You smiled, teasing, like always. “Neither should you.”

He laughed softly. God, that sound.

“Did they find out?” you asked, voice quieter now. “About us?”

His silence was answer enough.

The dream shifted. You were in his private room now, tucked between scrolls and incense and the scent of him. He knelt beside you, watching as you dabbed the scrape on his hand.

“I’m not worth the blood you spill,” you whispered once. And he had looked at you like you’d torn open the sky. “Don’t say that.”

“Then don’t let them hurt you for me.”

Another shift. Rain pounded against palace tiles. The smell of smoke. The wail of women in the distance. He held you against his chest—his heartbeat frantic as yours slowed.

“Stay awake,” he begged.

But the poison was already in your lungs. You tried to speak, to tell him you weren’t afraid. That it wasn’t his fault. But all that came out was blood. And he had screamed your name like it would call your soul back.

The dream cracked.

You stood in the palace courtyard now. Alone. Wind howling. Your breath fogged before you. A mirror rippled in the dark—a still pool once used by concubines for beauty rituals.

You stepped forward. Looked in. And saw him.

Not Jinu.

Not exactly.

His face was his, but darker. Skin a cold hue of purple or blue- you couldn’t tell. Patterns twisted across his neck and flawless face like vines. They glowed a faint violet. His eyes—black and gold, molten and endless. Clawed hands. No blood on them—but you knew there had been. His silks were gone, replaced by flowing black garments that moved like smoke.

He looked up at you. And he smiled.

You screamed.

And woke up. Gasping, drenched in sweat, your sheets tangled around you like vines. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Faint morning light filtered through the blinds, soft against the sheen on your skin.

What the hell was that?

The memories weren’t yours. Couldn’t be yours. You’d never worn a hanbok. At least, not since you were a little girl. Never kissed Jinu beneath the stars or held his trembling hands in a candlelit room. So why did it feel more real than anything else in your life?

You sat up, pressing a shaking hand to your chest. Then—

Knock, knock. Your head snapped toward the door. A voice. Gentle. Familiar. 

“Y/N?” Jinu.

You swallowed, heart still pounding. “I… I’m fine,” you said. Too fast. Too high.

Silence.

Then, “Alright. If you need anything… I’m right outside.”

You exhaled. Slowly. A beat passed. Your hand stayed pressed over your chest. But your thoughts drifted back—not to the kiss, or the palace, or even the blood.

No.

They stayed on that reflection. The patterns. The eyes.

Was that Jinu?

And more terrifying—

Why aren’t you scared of him?

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You padded into the kitchen wrapped in silence and Jinu’s hoodie.

The boys were already there—some seated, some standing—bathed in morning sunlight and the smell of eggs and something sweet. Pancakes maybe? Abby was at the stove, flipping something with surprising delicacy. Baby lounged in the corner seat, head resting lazily against the glass. Mystery sat curled up in his seat like a housecat, eating fruit with his fingers. Romance leaned against the counter, cradling a mug like it was a stage prop he was dramatically rehearsing with.

And Jinu—

Jinu sat at the head of the table, reading a folded newspaper like he hadn’t held you for hours last night, lips pressed against your forehead while your body trembled in remembrance. Before sleep had taken you into that haunting dream.

His eyes flicked up when you entered. “Morning,” he said softly.

You nodded. “Morning.”

You could feel it—the heat of their gazes, the air shifting around you like invisible fingers brushing your skin. There was a gentleness in their posture. A quietness. But also… something else.

Caution.

They were being careful with you. Too careful.

You sat down in the seat Mystery scooted out for you. His cheek brushed your arm and he inhaled like he was starved for it. Your heart did a small, weird flutter. You avoided Jinu’s eyes.

Did they know? Did they see? They were demons. They probably felt it. The bond. The kiss.

Your face burned as you accepted a plate from Abby, who set it down with too much force. His eyes flicked to your neck for half a second before looking away. You could feel the tension rippling through his shoulders.

Oh god. They did know.

Romance was the first to speak. Of course he was. “Sleep well, sweetheart?” he purred, voice warm and slippery. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, stabbing your pancake with unnecessary aggression. “Just hot.”

“Hmm,” he said with a smirk, “I bet you are.”

You flinched. They definitely knew.

Your thoughts spiraled. One kiss. Just one. You didn’t even mean for it to happen. But now— Were you supposed to kiss them all? Were they expecting that? Were they mad?

A clatter drew your eyes—Baby had dropped his fork. He didn’t pick it up. Just stared at you, elbow on the table, jaw resting against his hand. His black eyes flicked down to your mouth.

You quickly looked away.

“I didn’t mean—” you blurted, then froze. “I mean. I… I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this. With you. With the bond.”

A pause. And then Jinu spoke—gentle, but unshakeable. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You blinked.

“You don’t owe us anything,” he added, folding his paper. “The bond… it’s not a leash. It’s a thread. You pull when you’re ready.”

Mystery leaned against your side, nuzzling your shoulder. “We’ll wait,” he whispered, voice soft. “We always do.”

Romance tilted his head, smiling faintly—but there was something sharper beneath it. “We’ll be patient. But not passive. We still want you to choose us.”

Abby sat beside you, jaw tense. “You don’t have to split yourself up,” he muttered. “You don’t have to kiss anyone until you want to. Really want to.”

You stared down at your plate. Your hands shook. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you whispered. “It’s just… too much. Too fast.”

“No one’s hurt,” Jinu said. “We’ve waited four hundred years. We can wait a little longer.”

“You’re not gonna disappear again,” Mystery whispered, holding the edge of your sleeve like he was afraid you might.

“And when you do come to us,” Romance added with a sly glint, “we’d prefer it if it’s because you’re burning for us. Not because you feel guilty.”

You swallowed. Baby’s voice was last to join, quiet but absolute. “We’ve already had your soul. We want your heart now. The rest… can come later.”

You stared at them. Five monsters. Five men. All of them impossibly patient. All of them aching. And still willing to wait for you to fall in love again.

Your throat tightened. You nodded. “Thank you.”

Romance lifted his mug. “Anytime, darling.”

Baby smiled faintly. Abby grunted. Mystery purred. And Jinu just watched you with the softest expression you’d ever seen. 

You took a bite of the pancakes Abby had stacked on your plate and paused. Your eyes widened. “Wait… these are actually good.”

Abby raised a brow. “What do you mean actually?”

Sheepishly, you stabbed another forkful. “I just didn’t expect a demon to know how to make pancakes.”

He scoffed, flicking batter from the spatula. “I’ve been alive for centuries. You think I wouldn’t know how to scramble an egg or flip a damn pancake?”

Romance leaned in, chin on his palm. “He’s particularly good with his hands, if you’re wondering.”

You choked. “I’m not—”

“I have a very diverse skillset,” Abby interrupted smugly. You rolled your eyes—but your smile faltered. Because just then, the warmth of the kitchen, the golden sunlight on the tile, the smell of syrup and coffee—it all fell away.

You remembered silk. And blood. And a flicker of something with glowing eyes staring back at you in a polished palace floor. Your fork paused halfway to your lips. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

All of them stilled. Jinu looked up from his mug. “Of course.”

Your voice dropped, uncertain. “Last night. I saw something. In my dream. It was… dark. I think it was you. But not you.”

Jinu’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. The others were still. Tense. “I think… I saw your demon form,” you said softly.

Romance’s smile vanished. Mystery immediately tucked himself tighter against your side. Baby stared at you, silent and unmoving, his gaze like ice.

You looked around the table. “I just… What are you? What do you look like?”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Jinu sighed. “We’re not hiding anything from you.”

“We just…” Abby scratched the back of his neck. “We’re not exactly cuddly in those forms.”

“She’d still like me,” Mystery mumbled into his fruit.

“You don’t know that,” Abby grunted.

“I do.”

“We literally glow purple and get creepy marks all over our face—”

“She thinks they’re cool!”

“Your eyes turn gold like a cursed cat, bro.”

“She likes cats!”

“Boys,” Jinu said firmly, not looking up from his tea. They went quiet instantly. He turned back to you. “We will show you. In time.”

Romance’s voice was softer than usual. “You’ve already seen us in your dreams. But dreams are hazy. Romantic. We’re… not.”

“We don’t want to scare you,” Jinu said.

“I’m not scared,” you said too quickly.

Five sets of eyes landed on you at once. You shrank a little in your seat. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Romance smiled sadly. “We’d rather you see us when you’re ready. When the bond is strong enough that you feel what we are before you ever have to see it.”

Jinu reached for your hand gently. “When you’re ready,” he said again. “And when you are… we’ll show you. All of us.”

You swallowed. Nodded. And returned to your pancakes, even though they didn’t taste quite as sweet anymore.

After breakfast, you’re slipping on your coat when a warm hand wraps gently around your wrist. You turn—and Jinu’s already pulling you into the hallway beside the kitchen, just out of view of the others.

“Jinu?” you ask, heartbeat stuttering. His touch isn’t rough. But it isn’t something you can ignore either. He says nothing for a moment. Just watches you in the soft light. His gaze flickers to your lips, then to your throat, then back to your eyes.

“I heard you wake up around five,” he says, voice low. “Your breathing changed.”

You blink. “You… heard me?”

“I always hear you.” His thumb brushes over your wrist, tender. Like he’s memorizing the pulse there. “Even in my sleep.”

Your cheeks flush, and for a second you look down—but Jinu lifts your chin with two fingers. “You didn’t come out of the room,” he says. “Did the dream scare you?”

You hesitate.

“It’s okay,” he adds, gentler now. “You don’t have to tell me. I just… wanted to see you before you left.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper. “Really.”

His eyes narrow like he doesn’t quite believe you—but he lets it go. For now. “I just needed to know,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “that you didn’t regret last night.”

Your breath catches.

Jinu’s face is barely an inch from yours now. His voice is like velvet wrapped in steel. “Because if you did… I’d find a way to make you forget the regret. I’d replace it with something else.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like it’s sacred. “I know I said I’d go slow,” he says, head tilting, “and I will. But when you kissed me—Y/N, I’ve waited four hundred years to feel that again. If you ever change your mind… just know I won’t stop you next time.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. And then—he leans forward. But he doesn’t kiss your lips. His lips graze your forehead, soft, reverent.

A mark. A brand. A promise. When he pulls back, his smile is small—but there’s fire behind it.

“Be careful out there,” Jinu says, brushing a loose hair from your face. “Don’t talk to anyone who looks at you too long.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s a warning. For their sake.” And then he lets you go.

But as you step out the front door, you feel it: his gaze burning into your back like a tether. Like he’s already counting the seconds until you return.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The morning air nipped at your cheeks as you walked beside Abby down the sleepy Seoul street. The hem of your coat brushed your knees, and your fingers were wrapped tight around the coffee Abby insisted you hold—even if you were about to clock into a café that sold twenty variations of the same drink.

“I still don’t get why you have to work here,” Abby muttered for the third time this morning, tugging the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder like it offended him. “You should be sleeping in. Eating fruit someone peeled for you. Or being worshipped. Like a normal girl.”

You glanced up at him. “A normal girl?”

“Well, a normal soulbound girl. Obviously.”

You snorted. “Not helping your argument.”

He didn’t laugh. Just walked closer, his frame blocking the wind like a personal fortress.

At the café, he waited until you stepped safely inside before crossing his arms and glaring through the glass like the windows were one sneeze away from shattering. You pretended not to notice.

By midmorning, the scent of caramel and burnt espresso clung to your skin, and the line was a manageable trickle. Mystery had popped in an hour ago to leave a pack of honey biscuits on the counter (“In case you didn’t eat enough.”) and Baby had passed by too—not entering, just lingering outside like a ghost in the reflection of the glass. You couldn’t be sure, but you thought he was watching your manager. You tried not to think about it.

Then, of course, there was Romance.

He swept in at 11:47, in sunglasses and smugness, murmuring something about how coffee tastes better when you're watching the love of your life make it. You’d rolled your eyes and told him to sit in the corner and stop causing a scene. He winked and obeyed.

Everything was going smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

The bell above the café door jingled sharply—and something inside you prickled. The new customer wasn’t odd at first glance: young, tall, dressed like a college student. But there was something off. Something in the way he looked around the café, not like a customer, but like he was searching.

You stiffened. Then he looked directly at you—and smiled. Your stomach dropped.

He walked to the counter, but didn’t order. Just leaned in a little too close. “Y/N, right?” he asked.

You blinked. “Do… do I know you?”

“Nah,” he said. “But I know you. Been seeing your name around. Cute face, too. You’ve got fans, you know.”

Something about his voice scraped at your nerves. You took a small step back. “Sorry, you’ll have to order something if you’re not here to—”

“You smell different than I expected,” he said suddenly, nostrils flaring. “Sweeter. Almost... too sweet.”

Your blood ran cold. He wasn’t human. Before you could say another word, a deep growl split the air. And then Abby was there.

You didn’t see the door open. Didn’t hear him enter.

But suddenly, your coworker was shoved behind the counter, Romance was standing from his corner seat with eyes glowing faintly gold—and Abby had the stranger by the collar, slammed against the nearest wall with a crash that rattled the syrup bottles.

“You have five seconds,” Abby snarled, voice low and rumbling, “to explain why a low-tier, trashborn demon thought it was smart to walk within ten feet of her.”

The stranger choked on his breath, writhing under the hold. “I didn’t—I was just curious—! The scent—she’s—”

“You looked at her,” Abby snapped. “You spoke to her.”

“She doesn’t even know what she is—!” The air changed. Abby’s eyes darkened. Not just with anger. With promise. He leaned in, and his voice was a whisper made of knives.

“Then let me teach you what I am.”

The café was silent. Your coworkers frozen. Romance stepped between you and the others like a shield, hand on your lower back.

“Close your eyes, baby,” he murmured.

“Abby,” you called—panicked now. “Abby, stop.”

And maybe it was your voice that pulled him back. Or maybe it was the fact that the stranger was already whimpering, nose bloodied, eyes wide with terror.

Abby let him go. The demon crashed to the floor, wheezing. “Leave,” Abby said. “Before I finish what I started.”

The demon scrambled, vanished out the door with supernatural speed. And still Abby stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving. His eyes scanned your face. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I think so.”

Romance brushed your hair back, but didn’t smile. “You’re not supposed to be seen. Not like that. Word’s spreading.”

“I’m… sorry,” you mumbled.

Abby looked like he wanted to punch something else. “Not your fault.”

Romance’s jaw tightened. “We’ll talk later.”

But something was clear now. Crystal clear. You weren’t safe. Even here.

And the boys? They’d burn the world to make sure you were.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys don’t notice them, but Huntrix watches.

Perched across the street from the café, tucked behind a rusted bus stop, Zoey chews on her gum like it’s the last sin in Seoul. 

They see it all. Abby bursting into the café without a sound. Romance standing from his seat like a prince with knives in his mouth. Y/N, frozen in confusion and fear, wide-eyed behind the counter.

And then it happens. Abby slams another demon against the wall so hard the menu board rattles. Mira’s hand twitches toward her weapon on instinct—but she doesn’t move.

“She’s… still with them,” Mira says tightly, eyes fixed on the scene.

“Not just with them,” Zoey mutters. “They’re protecting her.”

“No,” Mira says, trying to convince herself. “They’re using her. Shielding their asset.”

Zoey shakes her head, frowning. “Then why did he just attack another demon? That guy wasn’t even hostile. Just sniffing around.”

“She’s human,” Rumi says softly, still watching. “I’ve scanned her three times. She’s not cursed. Not altered. No patterns. She’s… just a girl.”

“So why are five demons orbiting her like she’s the goddamn sun?” Zoey exclaims.

None of them answer.

Inside the café, the tension breaks. The intruder flees. Abby stays between Y/N and the rest of the world like her bodyguard—or her beast. They watch Romance reach for her shoulder. 

They’re not acting. They’re not pretending. This isn’t manipulation. It’s something far more dangerous.

“They care about her,” Rumi says finally. “Or… they think they do.”

Mira scoffs. “Demons don’t care. They hunger. They cling to whatever they’re trying to own.”

Rumi stays silent. But her hands are white-knuckled inside her sleeves, fists clenched so tight they tremble. Because she’s seen something the others haven’t. A memory she wasn’t supposed to find.

Tucked deep in the bottom of a chest meant to stay locked—a yellowed letter, written in ink faded with age and smudged by something darker. She found it years ago, back when she was still trying to piece together who her mother really was. A letter written in a language she’d never been taught, yet somehow… understood.

A demon’s handwriting. The words bled longing. Grief. Worship. She remembered reading the last line over and over: “If I burn for you, let me burn.”

Celine never talked about it. When Rumi asked about her mother, Celine only told her the same thing every time: “She was a hunter. A good one. Until she got too close to what we kill.”

Back then, Rumi believed her. She had to. Celine saved her. Raised her. Trained her. Taught her to never trust a demon’s smile or a monster’s promise. But now…

Now she watches Abby hover by Y/N’s side, tension rippling under his skin every time a customer raises their voice at her. She watches Romance hover near like he’s her loyal shadow. She saw Jinu the other day—calm, regal, protective—glance at the girl like she’s a prayer he’s still waiting to be answered.

It doesn’t make sense. Demons don’t protect humans. Demons don’t get soft eyes and careful hands. Demons don’t love.

Except… maybe they do.

Jinu once told her—in one of their secret meetings, just the two of them, when she let her guard slip for one second—“Demons feel. Some of us wish we didn’t.”

She thought it was a line. Another ploy. But watching him now… watching them… She wonders if it was the truth. And if it is—if demons can really feel like this—then maybe her mother hadn’t been weak. Maybe she hadn’t been tricked. Maybe she’d been in love.

And maybe what terrifies Rumi the most is the look on Y/N’s face when the boys are near. Because it looks like recognition. It looks like longing. It looks… mutual.

And for the first time in her life, Rumi is unsure of everything she was taught to fight for.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Back at the apartment, the mood was sharp—too sharp.

The moment the front door closed behind you, the air thickened like static before a lightning strike. The boys didn’t say anything at first. They just stared. Watched you kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat. Watched the way your hands shook slightly when you went to pour water into a glass.

Then Romance stepped forward. “You need to quit,” he said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your job,” Jinu added, arms crossed. “It’s too dangerous now.”

You laughed, but it came out awkward and dry. “You’re all being dramatic. It wasn’t that serious—Abby handled it. I was fine.”

Abby stiffened beside you, jaw clenched. Jinu’s expression didn’t move.

“It’s the second time,” Mystery said quietly from the corner, curled on the windowsill. Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“Two days ago,” Baby murmured, arms folded and expression unreadable. “There was demon scent on the café’s back door. We didn't tell you. We thought it was just a scout.”

“I confirmed it,” Jinu said. “He was watching you. You never saw him.”

Romance’s eyes darkened, gold flickering like candlelight. “And now one tries to make contact in broad daylight. You think that’s nothing?”

You looked between them, suddenly very, very aware of how much you hadn’t been told.

“You’re not safe there,” Jinu said firmly. “Not when we can’t be around every second.”

You bristled. “Okay, but you are around. Literally all the time. I feel like I’ve got an army shadowing me every shift—”

“Because you do,” Baby said bluntly. “And it’s still not enough.”

You blink at him. “So I just… give up my life?”

Romance softens instantly, like he’s pulling back on a leash. “What he means is—we don’t want to see anything happen to you. That café’s a risk. You’re vulnerable there. You don’t need to be.”

You hesitate. And then—click—your mind makes a connection. Their protectiveness. Their control. And something that never quite sat right with you.

You lift your eyes. “...What happened to Jae?”

The question silences the room. Romance doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles gently. “Ah. The guy from the club?”

“Yeah,” you say. “He was weird, but you didn’t have to—what did you even do to him?”

“Nothing permanent,” Romance says smoothly.

Your gaze sharpens. “Romance.”

He smiles too easily, all charm and warmth stretched over something colder. “I offered him a very friendly warning. Abby may have been more… direct.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is he okay?”

Romance tilts his head, fake-thinking. “He probably won’t remember anything. A touch of glamour and a sprained wrist. Maybe a dislocated ego.”

You stare harder. “That’s not funny.”

“But it’s true,” he counters, smile curling. “And effective. He won’t bother you again.”

There’s a glint in his eye—something too smooth, too polished. Manipulation wrapped in silk.

“You’re lying,” you murmur. The air shifts.

“I told you,” Abby growls, stepping forward. “He touched you.” 

You glance at his clenched fists. “What did you do to him?”

“He doesn’t matter,” Abby says flatly. “He was going to hurt you. I saw it. I felt it.”

“That’s not your call to make!”

“Everything about you is my call,” he growls. “Because I’ll do what you won’t. I’ll cross the lines. So you don’t have to.”

Your breath catches. You suddenly realize how close Abby is and the intensity of his stare.

“Okay,” Jinu says tightly. “Enough.”

Romance straightens his collar. “Let Abby calm her down. She’s overwhelmed.”

Jinu doesn’t argue. He just nods once at Abby and you sigh, letting Abby’s large frame usher you to your room. You wanted to have a word with him in private anyways.

Once the door was firmly shut, the four shared a knowing look with each other in the livingroom. 

“She won’t quit on her own,” Romance says.

Jinu doesn’t respond. He’s staring out the window, pensive.

“She thinks it’s her choice. That’s adorable,” Romance continues with a bitter smile. “But this situation—it’s pulling demons to her like flies. They’ve always been curious, but now that they know where she is and that she’s real.” Romance sneers. “Their curiosity is going to kill them. And every one of them is a threat.”

Mystery’s eyes narrow. “You want to scare her.”

“No,” Romance says smoothly. “I want to guide her. Nudge her toward the life she deserves. One where she’s surrounded by people who love her more than air.”

“And you’ll decide how that looks?” Jinu’s voice is quiet. Dangerous.

Romance’s expression darkens just slightly. “You saw her a minute ago. She’s already cracking. All I’m doing is accelerating the inevitable.”

Baby finally speaks, voice a low echo: “What do you want us to do?”

Romance’s smile returns—cold and wicked. “Nothing direct. Just… let the pieces fall. Let the café fall apart.”

Jinu sighs and turns. “No fire.”

“No blood,” Mystery adds. “She wouldn’t like that.”

Romance raises a hand, smug. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. She’ll leave on her own. And when she does…” His gaze sharpens. “She’ll see that we’re the only constant.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Abby shuts the bedroom door behind him. Not with a slam—but with finality. 

You don’t resist when he gently guides you toward the bed. He doesn’t say much at first. Just pulls you into his arms, into the warmth of his chest like it’s instinct. You don’t know if he means to, but his grip is tight. Fierce. His hand curls around the back of your head, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he mutters.

“I know,” you whisper. You gaze at his arms that were wrapped tightly around you- the ones he’d use to inflict whatever violence necessary for your sake. Your eyes trail up his muscled limbs to his broad shoulders. There was a moment of silence before you spoke. 

“I don’t get it,” you whisper. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“This…” You wave your hand vaguely. “Overprotective. Overbearing. Intense. It’s like you can’t breathe unless I’m under lock and key.”

“I can’t,” he says. Your heart skips. His voice is quiet. No teasing. No growl. Just truth. “I can’t breathe when you’re not safe.”

You stare at him.

“I don’t know how to do this slow,” Abby says. “I try, I swear I do. Jinu says wait. Mystery whines when I get too close. Baby glares like he’ll gut me if I scare you. But I see you, and all I wanna do is keep you close. Wrap you in my arms and keep every bad thing away. Rip this world apart if it even thinks of touching you.”

You don’t know what to say, so he keeps going. 

“I wasn't always like this. Wasn’t always... this thing you see now.”

You shift slightly in his arms, but his hold keeps you anchored. He exhales sharply and looks away. Not because he’s ashamed—because the memory still burns. Your heart tugs at the expression on his beautiful face. Tortured. Pained.

“Two hundred fifty years ago,” he begins, “I was a general. Loyal to the court. Feared on the battlefield. A war dog for men in silk robes who never dirtied their hands.” You feel his fingers twitch against your back, like he’s gripping a blade only he can see.

“I bled for them. Killed for them. And the moment I became inconvenient, they left me to die in the mud. A spear through my gut. My men gone. My name forgotten.” His jaw tightens. You can hear the snarl he’s holding back.

“I would’ve died. But I begged. Not to the heavens—because the heavens never answered me. I begged whatever thing was listening in the dark.” He turns his face, voice like ash. “And Gwi Ma answered.” He’s silent for a beat. Your breath catches.

“I didn’t die,” he says bitterly. “But I wasn’t human anymore either.” You feel his body tense beneath you as he continues, slower this time. “I wandered. Fed on pain. Destroyed anything that looked like mercy. Until I collapsed outside a village. Thought maybe I’d die for real.”

He goes still. “And then you found me.”

Your heart stutters. His voice goes softer. Fragile, like something made of glass. “You were a healer. Young. Too good. Too gentle. You knew I wasn’t right. You saw the glow in my eyes, felt the heat in my skin—but you stayed anyway.”

Your throat tightens. “You stitched my wounds. You made me soup. You made me laugh. And I didn’t even remember how.”

His voice breaks. “You reminded me I used to be human. I think… you made me want to be one again.”

You say nothing. Just hold onto him tighter and let him tell you the story of how he came to be this way. You wished you remembered- like last night with Jinu. You wished you could share his pain.

“When bandits came, I snapped. I didn’t even think. I just—protected you. The village. Everyone.” A pause. “But I lost control. The fire… it spread.”

Your blood goes cold.

“You died in my arms, Y/N. Crying. You told me you weren’t afraid. That you knew I tried to protect you.” He swallows. “But that doesn’t matter. Because I still killed you.”

You feel his hand press flat against your back like he could memorize the shape of you all over again. He tilts his forehead to yours, voice raw and trembling. 

“I’d die a thousand times before I ever let that happen again.” Abby’s voice is barely a whisper. “And so I’m sorry… if you think I’m too much. I just—” He swallows hard, jaw trembling. “I can’t bear the thought of failing you again. Of standing by while the world takes you from me a second time.”

His hand moves to your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye like he’s memorizing every freckle, every blink. “I’ve spent centuries reliving that moment,” he murmurs. “Centuries regretting every second I didn’t hold you tighter. Protect you harder. Love you more.”

You feel the weight in his touch—the devotion that borders on madness. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And maybe you are.

His arms are still wrapped around you. His heartbeat loud against your ear. You feel his chest rise and fall—deep, like he’s trying to calm a storm. There’s a long silence before he speaks again, voice low against your hair.

“…There’s something I want you to know,” he murmurs. “My name. My real one. From before.”

You lift your head, eyes searching his. He looks almost… shy. No—vulnerable. Like this is the final part of himself he’s never dared to offer.

“I wasn’t always ‘Abby.’ That’s just a stage name. I find it kind of funny actually” He chuckles lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. 

You nod gently, your hand resting against his bare chest. “So tell me,” you whisper.

He swallows. “It was Haneul,” he says. “That was my name, when I was still human.”

Haneul. The sound lingers on your tongue like silk and smoke. You let it roll in your mouth before saying it aloud:

“…Haneul.”

He shudders.

It’s so soft, the reaction—so raw. His grip tightens around you instinctively. His lips part like you just breathed life into him. “Say it again,” he whispers. “Please. Say it again.”

You lean in, brushing your lips to his cheek. “Haneul.”

A sharp breath escapes him. His eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling. You kiss the corner of his eye, your voice barely audible.

“Haneul.”

He exhales like he’s unraveling, hands fisting into your waist to keep himself steady. To keep you close. Like the name is both breaking him and putting him back together.

You kiss the other cheek, so softly he nearly flinches from how much it hurts. “Haneul.”

And then—just before your lips meet his—you say it again. For him. Only him.  

“Haneul.”

He snaps.

Abby—Haneul—surges forward and devours you in a kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s not tame. It’s a claiming, centuries in the making. His mouth slants over yours with aching hunger, hands pulling you into his lap like you belong there, like you’ve always belonged there.

You do.

And he kisses you like your voice saying his name was the only salvation left in the world. And maybe… maybe it was. He groans against your mouth, like the feel of you hurts.

His hands tremble as they cradle your face, your neck, your back—as if he still doesn’t believe you’re real. You feel his restraint—barely holding himself back, like if he slips for even a second, he’ll ruin everything. But it’s all so gentle. Worshipful. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loves you too hard.

His shirt comes off in a rush of movement, as if it was the last thing keeping him distant. You press your palms to his bare chest—warm, solid, steady—and he shudders beneath your touch.

He lowers you both to the bed again, but this time you’re tangled together. Your legs brush. His skin grazes yours and he gasps like it burns in the best way.

He leans in, lips brushing your throat. He murmurs your name there like a prayer. Like a curse. Like a lifeline.

“I’ll never let anyone touch you,” he whispers, breath hot. “I don’t care who I have to kill. I don’t care if the world calls me a monster. If it means keeping you safe, I’ll be all of it.”

You feel your heart trip over itself. It should scare you. But it doesn’t. Because when he looks at you, when he touches you like this… it doesn’t feel like obsession. It feels like truth.

Your fingers slide into his hair, clutching like he’s the only thing holding you together. He leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.

“Say you forgive me,” he chokes. “Say I’m not too late.”

You meet his gaze—and it’s everything. Burning. Desperate. Holy. And so full of ruinous love it steals the air from your lungs.

“You’re not too late,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’m here.”

And Abby—no, Haneul.

Haneul lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before. A small, broken thing. A sob and a breath all at once. Then he kisses you again—deeper, slower, like the world’s ending and this is the only moment that matters. His hands press into your waist like he’s grounding himself there. Like you are his redemption. His punishment. His salvation. And for the first time in centuries… Haneul lets himself believe he might deserve to hold you again.

Your fingers ghost over his chest, and he shivers. The planes of his body are carved like stone beneath your hands, warm and trembling under your touch—as if you’re something sacred, something he never thought he’d feel again.

Your lips part from his only to trail down the sharp line of his jaw, to the tense muscle of his neck. You kiss him softly there, and he lets out a hiss through his teeth. It’s the kind of sound that curls heat through your spine. You don’t stop. You kiss lower, slow and reverent, letting your lips brush the warm skin of his throat. He tips his head back, helpless.

“Haneul,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his collarbone.

He groans. His entire body bows toward you like he’s being pulled by gravity. Like your voice is the only anchor in a world he no longer trusts. You trail your hands down the ridges of his chest, the faint scars of old wounds hidden beneath his skin. He watches you, eyes wild with devotion. 

“I dreamed of your hands,” he whispers hoarsely. “I used to wake up clawing at my own skin because I missed the way you touched me.”

You kiss the center of his chest and feel his heart stutter beneath your lips. His hands slide beneath your shirt now, palms warm, reverent as they explore your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. He ducks his head to your neck, brushes his lips down the slope of it—and then kisses the spot where your pulse flutters.

You gasp. And that’s all it takes.

A low growl tears from his throat and he bites—not hard, but enough to claim. Enough to make you gasp again, and this time his name spills from your lips like it’s the only thing you know.

His breath is ragged now, and his control is slipping. “Say it again,” he begs, lips against your throat. “Just once more.”

“Haneul,” you moan, and the way he shudders beneath you is almost violent. You feel the darkness curling at the edge of him—the demon just beneath the surface, the possessive, desperate thing that would burn kingdoms for you. But he holds it back.

His forehead presses to yours. Your breath mingles. Your chests rise and fall in perfect sync. His thumb brushes along your cheek as he cradles you like you’re made of glass and starlight.

His voice is low. Gravel and longing. “I’ll wait,” he breathes, fingers curling possessively around your waist. “As long as you need. But don’t think for a second I won’t claim you. One way or another, you’re mine.”

You stare at him. At the burn in his eyes. The way his body shakes beneath your touch—not from fear, but from restraint. Centuries of guilt. Of hunger. Of aching to be close and never having the right.

“I do want you,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Just… not all at once.”

His eyes flutter shut. His jaw clenches like he’s holding back something feral. “Then I’ll take what you give,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “And I’ll make you crave the rest.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then rests his forehead to yours—your breath, your warmth, your heartbeat the only thing grounding him. And in that silence, in the hush of your skin against his, you feel the bond ignite again—hotter now, needier. A thread wrapped around your ribs, pulling tighter. Claiming.

No more running. Not from him. Not from this.

Just you. In his lap. In his arms.

Exactly where he’s always known you belong.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: Huahh Abby or (Haneul) got his turn! I wanted to give them each real names and not just stage names. I chose Haneul for Abby because it means “sky” or “heaven.” It’s poetic, gentle, and deeply symbolic. It's meant to tie into Abby’s protector nature — someone who once soared high as a general but fell and now claws his way back for the one he loves. His love is vast, all-encompassing, eternal — like the sky. And there’s an irony too: he fell from grace (heaven to hell), yet his name remains a tether to what he once was.

Let me know if you guys enjoyed this one! Comments, Likes, Reposts, I see them all and really appreciate all the support! Till Next Time!

Willa x.

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[asherwesley]

“You haven’t even taken your boots off”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

Post-mission | Domestic fluff | Soft!Simon | Comfort

୨────────୨୧────────୧

You hear the door click open – heavy, slow, like the person on the other side is dragging time behind them.

A dull thunk. Gear bag dropped to the floor. Another. Boots. And finally, Simon Riley, slouched in your doorway, looking like he’s been peeled out of war and stitched back together just to come home.

His mask is still on. Eyes shadowed. Posture's like someone who has been shot at too many times and just wants to rest for a century.

“Love?” you say, shifting slightly on the couch.

He lifts a hand in acknowledgment.

The most tired salute you've ever seen.

“You shower yet?”

“Mm.” A sound that could mean yes, no, maybe, or I’ll dissolve into ash if you ask me anything else.

You catch him watching you intently as he stands still, his shoulders loosen – barely – like you’re the only safe thing in the room.

“Food’s in the fridge,” you tell him softly. “I’ll heat it up. Or you can do it, if you feel like–”

“Don’t feel like anything.”

His voice is rough. Brittle. But not unkind.

“Thought so,” you smile. “Okay. Sit first, eat later. But boots off–”

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already collapsing onto the couch.

Already–

“Oh my God, Simon!”

He lands face-first in your lap.

One arm limply draped across your thighs, the other curled beneath him like a kid hiding from the world. His mask nudges your stomach, the weight of him grounding – enormous, solid, alive.

You freeze.

“…Seriously?”

And there's a low groan. Maybe agreement. Maybe defiance.

“You’re dirty. You’re– Simon, you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Not mine,” he mutters.

“That doesn’t help!”

He doesn’t respond.

He’s already out.

Breathing slow. Even. Like his body finally let go now that it found you.

You stare down at him – big, deadly Simon Riley, curled in your lap, completely spent.

With a sigh, you brush your fingers lightly over his knuckles.

He flinches in his sleep. Mumbles something. You lean in closer.

One word: your name.

That’s it.

Just your name. Like a prayer. Like home.

You settle back, resting your hand gently on his broad back. Okay, you think. Shower later. Food later. This… now.

Outside, the world can burn.

But in this quiet corner of the universe, Ghost sleeps with his head in your lap, and that’s all that matters.

୨────────୨୧────────୧

[annarowyn]

Sammy's Anti-Baptism

God is not going to save you.

One of my favorite parts of Sinners (and there are many) is the focus on how Christianity has been used to rip away culture from groups throughout history.

Sammy lives on a plantation, in a house so small his siblings sleep shoulder to shoulder on the floor. But what is the big white pristine building? The church.

The church was a huge part in colonizing black folks and it was immensely effective. The number of people on TikTok saying the movie was too "spiritually unclean" and they had to walk out... accidentally validating one of the massive points of the movie. If you can Christianize someone, you can erase their ancestral knowledge/power.

Annie never forgot that knowledge. She talks of haints and vampires with knowledge that only comes from generations passing down information. She makes mojo bags for the twins, and sells her wares, serving those in her community. Annie preserves ancestral knowledge and magic, which gives them a fighting chance when they realize something is wrong.

Since the beginning of the film, Sammy has been told that his guitar is in direct conflict with the church, that it will call upon the devil, and that he's asking for trouble. In reality, the guitar and his gifts don't call upon the devil; they call upon the spirit of his ancestors. Again, the church is directly in conflict with ancestral magic/knowledge.

At the very end, Sammy thinks he's about to die in the lake. He starts reciting prayers, only for Remmick to speak them in unison. He then says "The people who took everything from us spoke those words too." Touching upon the cultural erasure that the Romans enacted onto the Irish people. It's low key a "ah, they got you too?"

What saves Sammy's life? Not god. Not his prayers. His guitar. The silver they knew to use because of Annie. Because she didn't let the church erase the powerful knowledge in her lineage.

When he goes home, his father, the pastor demands, "let go of the guitar, give over to god."

He never lets go of his guitar.

Sammy knows. God is not where power lies. The gifts bestowed upon him is where true power is. And that is within him.

(P.S. The vampires chanting in the dark "love and fellowship" gave "thoughts and prayers" vibes.)