#never forget why youre fighting for something good

[mostlymarvelgirl]

Sam Winchester' Type

Let's talk about it.

This man. He's got phases. Especially when it comes relationships.

And these phases? They're basically based upon his age and experiences in life.

So if you're someone who's meeting him for the first time, good luck trying to figure out who he truly is like.

Of course he's not evil or anything, but he's got layers. And trust me, those layers are thick and deep.

Basic layers would include his absence of a maternal figure and a proper paternal figure. (I know Dean was like almost a dad but I'm talking about an actual father and let's be honest, John sucked)

Then you'll reach tough ones, the fights, the bullying, fitting into society, not feeling normal, being the weird one, etc.

Yes, he has had experiences with struggling to accept himself as a person. (You'd know that if you watched S1 to S5. He's not exactly someone who had smooth life in a normal society)

After that, demon blood phase (addiction and coping), his brother dying, his loved ones passing away, and then being alone.

These are just a few layers. He looks simple from outside though, right?

Now, let's bring in his horoscope.

Sam's sun is a Taurus. He's planner. Likes stability. He prefers a routine. He likes order. He likes control. His moon? His moon? It's Virgo. He's meticulous. He likes to be neat. Keeps things organized. He likes to go into deep analysis. If you meet him, he's forming an opinion on you. He's analyzing you. He may not show it, but he is. He will welcome you and be friendly. But for him? First impressions mean a lot. Yes he forgives. But he doesn't forget. His Ascendant is a Capricorn. He's driven. Passionate. Loves discipline. That's why he does Law, duh.

Now this man, he may not look threatening. In fact, he seems like an adorable harmless puppy. That is, as long as you are on his good side and you probably know him briefly. You spend time with him close. You get to know him, you'll see, he's not that puppy inside at all. He's got a burning fire in him. You'd never see it, but if you do, you have to learn to accept it. If you don't, you're already sidelined.

So, say you like him. Let's say he's the type of guy where slow burn is actually slow burn. It's always going to begin as friends. Not the kind for enemies to lovers. He doesn't do that. He doesn't do irrational and erratic. If he does, it's never to last long or something he cares about. He's all about going slow and paced. You force him? Yeah, consider getting yourself therapy cause that will hurt your feelings.

He's very clear on boundaries. He keeps them. If you have them, he will respect them. Unless said otherwise. He's very forgiving. But not the type who'll forget. If you betray him and have a valid reason or whatever, he will forgive. But he'll lose trust in you. He'll never look at you the same. So don't try anything stupid.

He's very loyal. Cheating is not in his bones. And he would expect that from you. It's bare minimum after all. He'll love his partner. If they're clingy, He'll give them the required attention and praise. He likes control. But at the same time, he won't be controlling. There's a difference.

He's a practical guy. He will seek for someone who craves and bonds on emotional depth. You have to be someone who is more observant than him. And he lives for that. He loves when someone understands him without him having to explain. It's his type.

He's someone who appreciates someone who gives him an emotional depth. He craves for intimacy deep down. He wants to understood and he will give you the same. It will take long. Very long for the trust to build. So be patient, and you will cherish and thrive from this relationship.

Now, getting to the real interesting part we all have been waiting for. Sex. Is he a freak? Who'd initiate first? How would it happen? How far along into the relationship?

Now, he's a guy who builds relationship on trust and loyalty. Honesty and mutual understanding. These are important things he sees and wants in a relationship. And he's a respectful guy. He waits for consent. Never forces. So, sex will only happen when you want it. He will never tell you. Or ask you. Or force you. It's all based on your decision. You will have to bring it up.

And when you do, he will be sweet, loving, careful and understanding. The first time it happens it's purely on trust and love. He won't rush it. He focuses on pleasuring you. He makes sure you feel comfortable. If you're insecure, he will comfort you. To him, physical appearance is the last thing on his mind. He cares about what you are from inside. What you are truly. What your real self is. The first time is when things also get more intimate and deep.

The relationship begins to evolve. You both speak more openly. Talk about your needs and preferences. He won't mind if you're a little crazy or freaky. He'll match you. He will love it the more you open to him. He feels special. He's proud that you tell him your desires. He's a careful man. He keeps a list in his head to remind himself on what you like and what you don't. In the relationship, you will always be the one who decides. You are his pillar. He wants you to be treated like a queen. He will be your pillar as well. He supports your decisions. He understands. What more could anyone want?

And that, is Sam Winchester's type.

[writesvani]

down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

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

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

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

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you: stop teasing me kook

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

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

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

And it makes you want him more.

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

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

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

JK: kk, see u baby

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

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

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

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

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

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

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

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t push him. You never do.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. “About what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe he has.

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

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

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

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

And he is. Again and again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

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

[grandma-the-ghost]

~Smoke break~

a shadowpeach ?angst? Fic + art<3 : art & writing by me. Hope you enjoy ~

tw: smoking+minor sh

Swk stood leaning against the railing, smooth smoke rolling off his lip.

It feels like century’s since he’s done this, He started this habit near the end of the journey to help with his stress, and he kinda tapered off of it after becoming somewhat of a hermit.

But history has the tendency to repeats itself now a days.

Thankfully it doesn’t really effect him ,medically, one of the many perk’s of being an immortal!

But It doesn’t not affect him.

It clouds his mind making him feel fuzzy, grounding him in the moment while making his problems blur into the background.

The moment? watching the city that holds the last remaining people who somehow care about him,

The water refracting the flickering Lights making a halo effect on the city.

But of course all good things come to an end,

“Ooo~ what do we have here~” it rung in his ear.

It was a degrading voice that ever since the day he met it love to remind him of every little mistake.

reminding him

Why he’s nothing.

And That no matter how hard he tried he’ll never be enough.

Even when the owner of the voice was gone 

It still lingered-

Poking-

Prodding-

Crawling on his back-

It’s suffocating, like it’s holding him down.

…

“What would Mk think”

It was macaque-

“The great sage falling for mortal addictions, how disappointed would he be?~~”

He hummed with a teasing smile.

leaning over the railing trying to get wukong to look him in the eye.

But the king just leaned into his cigaret taking another drag.

He dropped his smile, disappointed.

“Why ARE you smoking” he was more accusatory this time 

“You know it won’t help, RIGHT!” 

The king Held his breath

 “or are you doing this just to forget about your responsibil-“

Apparently smoking makes him even more impulsive too,

Because before he knew It he had macaque by the scarf with their lips pressed together. He letting out a shaky, and agonizingly slow breath out.

Letting The smoke that filled his lungs, fill macaque’s.

His eyes were closed but he could feel macaque lean in, he was trying to tease him, wukong figured.

When he pulled back the six-eared-macaque was wearing an unreadable face.

His eyebrows raised and nit together, eyes wide, pupils small, and mouth slightly agape letting smoke slip out.

He was surprised yet something else, wukong didn’t care to find out.

Breathing in “you can ether LEAVE or SHUT UP and have a smoke” Swk said gesturing to the pack of cigarettes. The pack had been resting on the railing, being the only company he had before macaque showed up, it only had two cigarettes left.

Wukong turned towards the city inspecting the one he already had, It was almost burned out.

He lifted it up, pressing it deep into his neck before twisting it. Making it Let out a sharp sizzle. In the corner of his eye he could’ve sworn he saw macaque flinch, But he knew better.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow sigh. Before tossing it into a nearby trash can.

He turned to grab another, but in one swift movement macaque grabbed the whole box.

Apparently he chose to stay.

While Giving him a glare. He stuffed the box into his pocket while lifting one of the cigarettes to his mouth .

Once his other hand was free it was lifted to the other end of the cigarette.

There was A flash of purple before it started smoking.

“You really are the worst mentor” it was macaque‘s favorite insult nowadays, a guaranteed fight. He just loved the attention didn’t he? But the monkey king just kept looking at the city. Even though Swk would never admit it, macaque was right.

that kid does deserve better 

And He knows he isn’t Good enough, yet, but he would be damned if he didn’t try.

So he will become better, or die trying.

——————

AAAAAA- I spent my whole weekend working on this, sorry for the shittty art- I was tearing through art block. Any constructive criticism about my writing though is welcome~

anyway have a good day~~~

[trashytracktales]

lowkey feel like an overprotective bf who always asks their gf "where are u now" every hour every time you don't post anything 😭😭 LMFAO that's bc i really enjoy your blog and fics so much and it's kinda killin me if i don't read a single thing from you 🥺 but i hope you always have a good day and everything goes well for you #keepwriting #loveeeee ❤

NOTE: I AM IN ACTUAL TEARS. I appreciate you so much, genuinely ♥︎

First of all, know that I have multiple requests waiting in my drafts to be posted. I see every single one of you and your brilliant ideas, it’s just that I am one (1) person, and as I’m posting this, there are over 100 asks chilling in my inbox. I am so extremely sorry for getting to you so late. I, unfortunately, am not a robot nor a writing machine 😔

Second, for the people that are familiar with this blog, you guys know this is not my usual type of content. Honestly, I’m not planning on making a habit out of it, but I do think I owe you a reason why I took such a sudden step back without giving you something.

Sometimes, being in my own head isn’t easy. I know a lot of people are struggling with mental health, and I’ve been battling mine for ages now. Every now and then, the mind wins. It’s not a pretty view when that happens, and the hate I give myself in those moments is unmatched. It’s sad and unfortunately, I’ve never learned how to be kind to myself. I overthink, I overwork my body, and I always forget that I need rest in order to be at my full capacity. When I do forget, my body is reminding me in the most brutal ways.

I know my triggers, I am constantly working on myself, and I am very careful of what external factors I surround myself with. Yet, somehow, I end up in the same vicious cycle. You would think that, by now, I would be better at handling it, but healing isn’t linear. It has many twists and turns, and sometimes a wrong turn leads into a deserted nothingness. Suddenly, you’re all alone and you have to map your way out of there, but it’s dark, you’re tired, and you ran out of gas.

I am not sharing this for pity, but to remind you that we all carry things others can’t always see. Everyone is fighting their own quiet battles, and sometimes just being gentle, patient, and kind can mean the world to someone. I know it does to me, that’s why I am so overwhelmed by your words. If me being open can make one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

Writing has saved me more than once. And now, through this blog, I am so grateful for everyone who has ever read me, liked, reblogged, commented and left their thoughts in my inbox. I value you all and this lil chaotic community you’ve helped me build. I miss you a hundred times more, and I can’t wait to be back on schedule aka annoying all of you with 173 posts a day 😌

Thank you so much for (still) being here.

Love you, always ♥︎

– T

[film-in-my-soul]

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Summary: Partnership is such a funny term. A non-qualifying quantifier. Sometimes Viktor thinks that's why Jayce chose it. 'Partner' needs no definition, no explanation. It just is.

wish I could knock your skull in/but I'll try to rise above it | 799 | historymiss

Summary: “Of all the things you’ve bolted to yourself, I think the stick up your ass is the one I hate the most.” “I suppose you came by yours naturally.”

Belated Birthday | 1,435 | zillac / @zillac

Summary: They are just over one year into their development of Hextech when Jayce realizes that he must have missed Viktor’s birthday.

(see more recommendations below!)

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Chrysalis | 2,258 | thirty2flavors / @oodlyenough

Summary: “You came back to the lab.” There’s a note of wonder in Viktor’s voice. “You said you had council business last night.” It’s not technically a question. Jayce sips his coffee to delay his answer anyhow. “I did. Sort of."

Attempted Flirting | 3,385 | JunimoKarter

Summary: When Viktor decides to try and tempt Jayce, he runs into a problem. He doesn't know how to flirt. But he'll be damned if that stops him.

Commutative Law | 3,996 | thirty2flavors / @oodlyenough

Summary: “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.” Absurd. Viktor scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t.” “No?” Incredulous and irritated, Peter leans down. “Then why did the guy at the door just introduce himself as your partner?”

What Matters | 4,519 | JunimoKarter

Summary: 'When someone has a crush on you, their thoughts about you appear on you as tattoos AU' Viktor is almost bare, Jayce is nearly covered. Not all is as it seems.

I prayed (God sent me right to voicemail) | 5,156 | jumpfallflysoar / @agravetokeep

Summary: "I hate to be the one to tell you this but explosives aren't the answer to most scientific inquiries, V." "You're right, they're the answer to all of them." Jayce paused to look over at him– mouth set in a hard line and one eyebrow raised– and sighed deeply. "I- I don't know what you want me to say to that." "A hum of agreement would suffice." "I think I need to remove the nitroglycerin from the supply closet." Viktor's head popped up. "Our shipment came in?" Jayce blinked at him slowly. "No it didn't. Not anymore."

Balance (this world is a wasteland but we can still grow) | 35,739 | zillac / @zillac

Summary: Viktor stays in the Hexcore chrysalis a few more hours. Jayce stays busy falling into the ravine of an alternate dimension and fighting his way back to his partner so that they can invent something new together: a future. “What am I?” Viktor asked. “What do you want to be?” Jayce was bearded and haggard and hopeful. “Yours,” Viktor said, a memory and a realization both, like it was a truth that was woven into each of his metal and organic molecules.

perfectio propter imperfectionem | 4,498 | perfidiousalbion / @perfidiousalbion

Summary: It’s too easy for Jayce to forget, sometimes, that Viktor isn’t nice. Viktor’s good. Viktor’s kind. Viktor wants to lift up the weak and the helpless and cast down the mighty. But he isn’t nice. And he’s only human: sometimes, he takes things too far. Sometimes, Jayce wonders if Viktor pictures perfection as a vast white wasteland: sterile, untouched. But Jayce isn’t one to criticise. He, too, has his flaws. That night, Jayce pictures Viktor bent over the welding bench and he takes himself in his hand, moving quick and fast and cruel until he comes. Yes: he, too, has his flaws.

Talis, V. Talis, J. "Social Behaviors of Lokfar Peninsula’s Wild Mammals (Specifically Those of my Co-Author)" | 13,489 | zillac / @zillac

Summary: Nobody rescues Jayce Talis. He’s left for dead in a blizzard. A young boy claws his survival from the forests of Freljord to become a man who barely remembers that name. And, eventually, a yordle professor drags his assistant along to study murk wolves in the field. Pinned lightly against a pine by his throat, the scientist studies the face of a wild man. Long hair, scraggly beard, a small gap in bared teeth, eyes deep and searching. Severe. “I’m Viktor,” he says, once the strong, callused fingers permit him the room to breathe properly. “Who are you?”

Wash Out Your Mouth | 33,797 | wobuzhidao322

Summary: “Can I help you with something, Mr. Talis?”  Jayce started, managing little more than a rather dumb-sounding “uh” in response. The man with the golden eyes gave him the once over, decidedly unimpressed.  “No...I—uh—I was just walking.” “Walking?” The golden-eyed man arched one perfect brow, gaze pointedly flickering towards the pile of books in his arms. “In the dark? With half the library?” Jayce flushed. If his hands weren’t fully occupied, he might have hidden behind them.“Uh…Yeah,” He said haltingly. “I was at the library, doing some work, but it closed, so I was headed back to my—Are you alright? That seemed a little…he didn’t hurt you, did he?”  Those brilliant eyes widened just a fraction, pouty lips parting in a silent ‘oh.’ He clearly hadn’t expected that—the care, or perhaps, the interest. In an instant, the hall was flooded with the scent of summer—strawberries, vanilla, honey cake. Omega.

Wolf on a Leash | 707 | LiterallyThePresident

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Hit the Back | 2,384 | alltimelines

Summary: It’s a moment suspended in time as they simply stare at one another. Jayce doesn’t stop massaging, shoves his knuckles into the heel of Viktor’s foot and smirks when it elicits a bitten-back groan. Jayce has done this a million times, offering his strong hands to ease his lover’s aches and pains. It’s never been inherently sexual, except… Except now there’s a really pretty smattering of pink sitting high on Viktor’s cheekbones that he’d like to explore. Or: Jayce gets a footjob from Viktor.

Meridian Response. | 2,676 | Azurita25 / @madelynejpryor

Summary: Then, finally, it was 8 pm. Jayce refreshed the page again to find there was a new thumbnail waiting for him, and the image alone made his heart stop. Viktor’s fingers, long and lithe, displayed on either side of the box, his box. He was posing with it, showing it off. That thought alone was enough to make his mind spin, to make him sigh as he sunk down into his chair more, letting his legs spread under his desk as he clicked play. “Hello, everyone.” Viktor’s voice was low, and his hands politely waved over the surface of his workstation, “It is nice to see you again. If you are new, it is nice to meet you.” --Or, Jayce Talis is obsessed with a bookseller who he is convinced moonlights as a niche ASMRtist. One night, he decides to watch a particular video a little differently. (For Dark Jayvik Week, Day Two: Obsession)

Ode to serotonin | 4,412 | MGCraig

Summary: “I should shower," Viktor says. Jayce’s hands involuntarily tighten on Viktor’s thighs, and he feels a surge of what he can only describe as territorial. Over Viktor’s desire to shower. That’s probably normal. Jayce leans into it, because it’s been five nights without Viktor and it’s not like Jayce hasn’t leaned into a dozen kinky things that Viktor has asked of him over the last few months. “Could you… not shower?” Jayce asks.

Experiments in self care | 4,673 | CaptainKidneys / @oddp1ant

Summary: "So… did it work?" Viktor’s head snaps up, brow twisted in confusion. "What?" "Did it help? With the pain." Viktor's eyes narrow. "I can't say. The trial was… interrupted." Jayce takes a deep breath, dredging up his courage for… whatever he’s about to say, he barely knows before he hears the words trip off his own tongue: "Can I help?"

Friends, Colleagues, Partners | 4,704 | tardigrape / @thetardigrape

Summary: After a moment, Jayce says, “How do you know that guy?” “Dorian?” Viktor looks up and shrugs. “I met him when we were both students at the Academy. We have remained friends since. We occasionally meet up for intercourse.” Jayce huffs a breath of a laugh. “I, uh, don’t think you’re using that term correctly.” “Am I not?” Viktor frowns. “What I mean is, we have sex.” “You what?” “Surely I am not using that term incor—” “You’re fucking that guy?” Viktor quirks an eyebrow. “Not at the moment.”

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Summary: Jayce locks himself into the bathroom at a house party to have a breakdown. Viktor is smoking in the bath tub. Good thing he's totally not high and is absolutely a-okay to take care of Jayce.

scorched earth | 5,264 | SyciaraLynx / @syciaralynx

Summary: It takes a moment to feel out the difference, glancing around at no obvious threat, before the sudden waft of scent hits him full force. Jayce. Hunched over a worktable, wiring something complex into the newest drive for their hexgate as blue sparks shoot off in odd directions as he continues to work. Jayce, his very much in rut, alpha, partner, who is throwing off scent like someone dropped a bottle of cologne in the middle of the lab, sitting with obvious beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

theories and findings | 6,976 | cuubism / @cuubism

Summary: Jayce gets anxious sometimes. Viktor has thoughts on how to help him out with it…

Thank Janna For Rec Soccer Leagues | 7,247 | Purplesauris / @purplesauris

Summary: It had started with Jayce joining a rec soccer league— Something to keep him in shape, though Viktor had warned him that putting undue stress on his bad leg and knee were tantamount to signaling the universe that he had yet to learn his lesson. Jayce had waved it off with his usual cheery denial, stating that the shin guards would block the worst of any impact, and further, that he was the goalie, so his chances of an impact were minimal to begin with. Which brings them to Viktor's current predicament. Or, Viktor must deal with seeing his husband in a uniform being unfairly competent in an amateur soccer league.

only a man | 8,296 | InAllPossibilities

Summary: Viktor chuckles beneath the mask, a dry, rasping sound. "I would simply like the chance to present some scientific breakthroughs to the only other man capable of understanding them.” That sounded like a compliment. It almost- almost, makes Jayce blush. “Fine, fine.” Jayce sighs, knowing there’s no way out of this now. “But I have limits, we should-” “I think we both know we’re just capable of working within each other’s limits as we are pushing them.” Viktor interrupts. That makes Jayce blush.

The necessary distance for doing business | 8,548 | MGCraig

Summary: The fact of the matter is, Jayce wants to fuck Viktor. He hasn’t had the courage to say as much, no, but it’s all there in the way his eyes linger on Viktor, and the soft way he calls Viktor his partner, and the late-night desserts. Viktor would be interested if there wasn’t the matter of his entire livelihood on the line. He simply won’t risk it for sex. Even if it might be pretty good sex.

Help Alleviate Your Platonic Bro's Surgery Pain With This One Weird Trick! | 10,220 | palant1r / @palant1r

Summary: “If I so much as catch a whiff of you around this lab before three weeks after the surgery —“ (three weeks! Viktor sputters incredulously, but Jayce powers on) “— I’m dragging you back to…” he blinks. “Who am I dragging you back to? Who do you have looking after you?” “I do not need a babysitter,” Viktor scoffs. “I have been through worse. I will be fine. I will pay someone to deliver some meals and take the week off work.” Jayce looks at him like Viktor’s just said something incredibly and unbearably sad. “So,” Viktor continues, “are you going to do the laundry, or not? If not, I will find someone else.” Jayce is silent for a long moment. Then: “Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”

Toe the Line | 11,188 | yellow813

Summary: Sleeping with your professor's research assistant for a passing grade is one thing– there’s an exchange there, albeit not a very ethical one, but a mutually beneficial agreement nonetheless. The issue is that Jayce doesn’t need to get on his knees for a good grade, so when he starts hanging around Viktor’s office hours, and finds himself kneeling on thin, scratchy carpet more often than not, it’s a little hard to explain what exactly his motivation for this affair is.

points of contact | 16,968 | SyciaraLynx / @syciaralynx

Summary: It is an incredibly frustrating thing, to have the knowledge of how to do something, without the practical skill needed to do so. Viktor had tried several iterations of a new brace for his leg with what he had at his disposal, but all of them lacked the strength for true support, let alone longevity. This one had outlasted all the others at least, but had given out at what had to be the most inconvenient moment possible. At least it is still mostly holding his weight, and he takes care to shift his cane tight to his hip to provide as much help as possible after he feels the give and bend of one of the bars. “Shit.”

Huzzah to the Hammersmith | 23,949 | zillac / @zillac

Summary: There’s no problem at all with a fun fling while working the summer Renaissance Faire, so long as the following unspoken rules are followed: 1: Don’t fall too fast 2: Don’t figure out that you are fucking your future research partner “Caitlyn, our new blacksmith needs proper garb before the gates open in the morning. Would you please show him to his site and introduce him to my darling tailor? It would seem he’s set up just across the lane from Jayce’s smithy.” Mel Medarda smiles. “Please inform Viktor that he can thank me later.” Jayce and Viktor have a couple problems.

Blog Info ☆ 2025 Reclists ☆ 2024 Reclists

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: “All Yours”

You still look at him the same way.

Like he’s just Marshall, the kid from the wrong side of Detroit who used to borrow your notes in English class. The one who walked you home even when it added thirty minutes to his own route, who couldn’t stop rapping under his breath, even with a busted lip.

Even now—after the world knows his name, after the stages and screaming crowds, the platinum plaques and chaos—you still reach for his hand under the table like it’s just him and you and nothing in between.

He never tells you this, but it drives him crazy. The way you blush when he calls you his girl. The way you hide your face against his chest when he’s got that gravel in his voice and says things in your ear he shouldn’t say in public. The way your submission is so natural it makes his fucking chest ache.

You don’t even realize it.

You're standing in the kitchen now, barefoot, wearing one of his old shirts that falls halfway down your thighs. You’re biting your lip while reading a recipe off your phone, concentration furrowing your brows. You’re so soft, so sweet—so his. And you don’t even realize how much he’s watching you like a starved man.

“Hey,” he rasps from the doorway, voice low.

You jump, startled. “God, Marsh—don’t sneak up on me!”

He smirks, slow and lazy. “Didn’t sneak. You were just too focused on that phone.”

You shift your weight, fingers curling around the hem of the oversized shirt. You always do that when you’re nervous, and somehow you still get nervous around him. “I was gonna try that cookie recipe you liked last week…”

“You don’t gotta do that,” he says, stepping closer. “You already do too much.”

Your eyes lower. You’re not even aware of how you melt a little at praise. How you almost instinctively tilt your chin so he can press a kiss there. How every movement of yours whispers obedience—soft and subtle, untrained, but real. It’s not a role. It’s you.

He cups your jaw, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth. “You know what you do to me, baby?”

You blink up at him, innocent. “What do you mean?”

And fuck, that answer. That look.

He growls low in his throat and backs you up until your hips hit the counter. You let him, eyes wide but trusting, never fighting him—not because you’re afraid, but because deep down you want to be taken care of. You need it. He sees it every day.

“You really don’t know,” he murmurs, dipping his head until his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. “You walk around here in my shirt, looking at me with those big eyes like I’m your whole world. You do everything I say without even thinking twice. You don’t even try to be good—you just are.”

You shiver, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t find the words.

He kisses your throat once, slow. Then again. “You ever wonder why I can’t keep my hands off you?”

You shake your head.

He chuckles, dark and warm. “It’s ‘cause of that. That softness. That quiet way you say my name when you need something. You don’t even know how sexy that is, do you?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “No…”

He grins against your skin. “Good. Don’t start now. I like you just how you are.”

His hands find your waist and he pulls you against him, humming at how perfectly you fit. His shy little wife. The only thing in the world that keeps him grounded.

“You belong to me,” he says. Not a question. A statement. A truth.

And you, sweet and obedient, nod like you always do.

“Yes, Marshall.”

You feel his breath against your neck, warm and steady, and it sends a shiver straight down your spine. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, but they tighten slightly, pulling you even closer like he wants to feel your heartbeat through your skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes flutter shut. Every time he gets like this—close and quiet, voice like velvet—you forget how to think. You don’t understand how just standing there, letting him hold you, makes your knees feel weak. But it does. It always does.

“You ever think about what that does to me?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear now. “The way you listen so good… the way you let me take care of you, even when you don’t know you’re doin’ it.”

You shake your head again, too shy to answer, too overwhelmed to try.

His lips curve into a smile against your skin. “That’s alright, baby. I like that you don’t know. Makes it even sweeter.”

He leans back just enough to look at you. His thumb grazes your cheek, your lips, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. There’s heat in his gaze, sure—but something else too. Possession. Devotion. That quiet intensity that’s always been there when it comes to you.

“You remember when we first got married?” he asks, voice softer now.

Your lashes lift. You nod slowly. “Mhm.”

“You were so shy you couldn’t even say ‘I do’ without whisperin’ it,” he murmurs, smiling fondly. “You looked up at me like you were scared I’d change my mind.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you say softly, shaking your head, eyes on his chest now. “I just couldn’t believe you picked me.”

His jaw tenses. Gently, he grips your chin between his fingers and tips your face back up. “I didn’t just pick you,” he says, voice low and rough. “I claimed you. You’re mine, and you’ve always been mine. Don’t ever forget that.”

You swallow, nodding under his touch. “I know.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips—slow, deep, possessive. The kind that leaves no room for doubt. When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, blinking up at him like he just pulled the world out from under your feet.

“You make me wanna be better,” he says, forehead resting against yours. “But you also make me wanna keep you locked away so no one else ever gets to see you like this.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t have to do that,” you whisper, smiling timidly. “I only look at you like this.”

He groans low, hands sliding down to your thighs. He lifts you up like it’s second nature and sets you on the counter, stepping between your legs. “Say it again.”

You blink. “What?”

“That I’m the only one.”

You nod, lips parting around the words. “You’re the only one, Marshall. Always have been.”

That’s all it takes for his control to snap.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more urgent this time, hands gripping your hips like he never wants to let go. And through it all, you stay soft beneath him—pliant, trusting, his. You still don’t fully understand the way you affect him, but he doesn’t mind.

He’ll show you. Again and again.

And every time, you’ll let him.

His lips never leave yours as he lifts you off the counter, holding you like you weigh nothing. You clutch his shoulders on instinct, heart racing, eyes wide and trusting as he carries you down the hall like something precious. Like he’s scared if he lets go, you might vanish.

You don’t say a word. You never have to.

The bedroom door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and he sets you down on the edge of the bed. His hands find your knees and gently part them, standing between them, his eyes dragging up your frame slowly—like he’s savoring you.

“You look so damn innocent like this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Sittin’ there in my shirt, lookin’ up at me like you’re waitin’ to be told what to do.”

You squirm slightly under the weight of his gaze, your fingers twisting in the fabric at your thighs. You don’t know how to be anything but soft for him. You don’t even try to resist it. You wouldn’t want to.

He leans down, his hands bracing on either side of your legs. “Take it off,” he says quietly. “Let me see you.”

You hesitate—not because you don’t want to, but because you’re shy. You always have been. Even after all this time, after years of being his, you still blush when his eyes are on you like this. But you obey. You always do.

Your hands tremble just a little as you pull his old T-shirt over your head, letting it fall beside you. You sit there bare, chest rising and falling, eyes lowered. You can’t bring yourself to look up, not with how intense he gets when you’re like this.

But his hands come to cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice almost reverent. “You don’t even try to be perfect, but you are.”

You look up at him finally, lips parted, vulnerable in a way only he ever gets to see. “I just… I wanna be good for you.”

His jaw clenches. His fingers tilt your head up, and he kisses you again—slower this time, like he wants to savor you. His tongue slides against yours, coaxing soft whimpers from your throat that he drinks down like he needs them to breathe.

He lowers you back onto the bed with careful hands, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, between your breasts. Every inch of you is worshipped, touched like you’re sacred. You arch into him without thinking, your body responding to every wordless command.

When he finally slides inside you, your fingers grip his back, your mouth parting in a quiet gasp. He groans, forehead falling to yours.

“You feel that, baby?” he murmurs, thrust slow and deep. “No one else gets this. No one else gets you. You’re mine.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Only yours…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he growls. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your back arches, a moan escaping you. He grabs your wrists and pins them gently above your head, eyes locked to yours as he moves inside you like he owns every part of you—which, he does.

You don’t fight. You never would.

You give. Every time. Every part of you.

And when you fall apart beneath him, trembling and breathless, he follows right after—burying himself in you with a guttural groan, like he’s never known anything sweeter.

His body stays pressed to yours for a long moment—his breath warm against your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around you like he needs to make sure you’re still here. Still his.

You’re quiet beneath him, dazed and soft, your fingers ghosting across his back in slow, lazy patterns. You always go quiet after. Not out of discomfort—but because you’re still floating, lost in that space where all you know is him. His voice, his hands, his weight. His love.

Marshall finally shifts, just enough to ease out of you and settle beside you, pulling you into his chest instantly. His arms cage you in. One hand strokes your spine beneath the blanket he tugged up over your bare bodies. The other rests on your hip, fingers possessive even in rest.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs against your hair.

You nod, so small it’s almost imperceptible. “Mhm.”

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh, rough and low. “That’s all I get? A little hum?”

You lift your head a bit, cheeks warm as you meet his eyes. “I’m just… I feel floaty.”

That makes his expression soften in that way only you ever get to see. He brushes your hair back with surprising gentleness, kissing your forehead. “That’s ‘cause you gave me everything. I don’t take that for granted. You hear me?”

You nod again, but this time you speak. “I know. I trust you.”

That simple truth hits him harder than it should. Trust, for him, has always been fragile—shaky, earned through battles. But with you, it’s effortless. You hand it over without fear, without question. And he’ll never stop protecting it.

“I’m gonna get you some water, alright?” he says, but he doesn’t move yet.

Your hand curls in his chest. “Don’t go yet.”

He smiles—touched, always, by how much you need him even when you’re too shy to say it out loud. “Okay, okay. Just a minute longer.”

He tucks you tighter into his arms, letting you press your cheek to his chest as your breathing slows, your body relaxing fully against his.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Soft. Sweet. Mine.”

And even as you drift off in his arms, you whisper it back.

“Yours.”

Your body’s just starting to melt into sleep when it happens—

the sharp chime of Marshall’s phone from the nightstand, slicing through the warmth like a cold breeze.

He groans under his breath, head dropping back against the pillow. “Fuckin’ hell…”

You don’t move at first. You’re too wrapped in that hazy softness, that post-everything glow that makes your limbs feel like silk and your thoughts slow and quiet. But when you feel him start to shift, feel the arm around you loosen just a little, you react without thinking.

A soft little whimper escapes you as you burrow closer into his chest, nuzzling against the warm skin there like he’s your shelter from the world.

His hand immediately comes back to your spine, stroking slow, calming. “Hey, hey… it’s alright, baby. Just my phone.”

You hum in protest, your fingers curling against his skin like you’re scared he’ll leave if you don’t anchor him down.

“I don’t want you to go,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep and that helpless little vulnerability that only he ever sees.

He exhales hard, like the sound hurts. “Shit. Don’t say that.”

Your cheek presses against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “But I mean it…”

“I know you do,” he says quietly, hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “That’s the problem. You make it so fuckin’ hard to walk away.”

The phone chimes again.

He growls low, but doesn’t make a move for it. Instead, he kisses your temple and lets his lips linger there. “I got that session this afternoon. You remember, right?”

You nod, slowly. “But can’t they… do something without you first?”

He laughs softly, tired but charmed. “You tryna keep me in bed, sweetheart?”

“Just for a little,” you whisper. “You’re warm.”

And damn, if that doesn’t undo him all over again. Not because of anything wild or seductive—but because it’s so you. Sweet, honest, soft to the core. Still somehow shy, even after everything.

He rests his chin on top of your head, both arms wrapped around you now, the phone forgotten.

“You know what?” he mutters. “Let ‘em wait. They’ll live.”

You smile against his chest. You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to.

He holds you like that for as long as he can get away with—his shy little wife curled against him, still soft, still his. And even when he does leave later, reluctantly, you know he’ll come back needing you all over again.

Because you’re the only thing in his world that makes him feel peace.

And he’d do anything to keep you soft like this.

---

The third chime finally makes Marshall sigh, long and low like it physically pains him to pull away. He presses one last kiss to your temple and eases back just enough to reach for the phone, squinting at the screen.

“Paul,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Probably pacing in the damn booth by now.”

You murmur something unintelligible and curl tighter into the spot his body just started to leave, like you're trying to hold on to his warmth. The oversized blanket slips off your shoulder, and your bare skin peeks out, soft and flushed from earlier. You're blinking up at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, like he just tore you away from the safest dream.

It wrecks him.

“You’re really gonna make me leave lookin’ at you like that?” he asks, half-teasing, half-tortured.

“I don’t mean to,” you whisper, voice small.

He groans and tosses the phone back onto the nightstand, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he looks at you like you’re a problem he wants to have for the rest of his life. “Goddamn… you’re too soft right now. Like, dangerous levels of soft.”

You blink slowly, confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he mutters, leaning back down to kiss the corner of your mouth, “if I walk out this door without you, I’m not gonna be able to think about anything else.”

You give him this sleepy, innocent look—like you still don’t quite understand the effect you have on him, even after all this time.

That seals it.

“Get dressed, baby,” he says, pulling away and grabbing a hoodie off the chair. “You’re coming with me.”

You blink, still quiet. “To the studio?”

“Yeah. You think I’m leavin’ you lookin’ like that? Nah. Sit in the booth, nap on the couch—I don’t care. I just need you close right now.”

Your lips part like you want to protest, maybe say you’ll be a distraction. But the moment you sit up and reach for one of his shirts again, he’s already tossing you a pair of sweats from your drawer, helping you get dressed like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he gives you the chance.

And when you’re bundled in his hoodie, hair messy and face still flushed, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in for a deep kiss at the door.

“You always look this sweet after?” he mutters against your lips. “You’re gonna have me recordin’ love songs today.”

You giggle softly, and it’s the only sound he needs to hear to know he made the right call.

He keeps his hand on your thigh the entire drive, glancing over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re real.

---

The second Marshall walks into the studio with you tucked under his arm—wearing his hoodie, your hair all soft and messy, your cheeks still tinted that telltale pink—everyone in the room knows.

And they notice.

Paul barely even looks up from his laptop before deadpanning, “Well, well, look who finally decided to show up. And look who he brought—fresh out the honeymoon suite.”

You shy immediately, tucking into Marshall’s side like you can disappear into the fabric of his hoodie. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says flatly, steering you toward the couch like he owns the place—and you. “And?”

A couple of the guys snicker from across the room. One of the engineers coughs something that sounds suspiciously like “whipped”. Someone else whistles low under their breath when they catch the way you settle on the couch, curled up like a sleepy kitten in Marshall’s hoodie, blanket and all.

Marshall just throws his hoodie off and grabs a bottle of water, calm as hell. “Y’all act like you wouldn’t bring your girl if she looked like this after gettin’ wrecked.”

You gasp softly and slap his arm without thinking. “Marshall!”

He smirks at you, full of smug affection. “What? It’s true. Look at you. You still floatin’, baby?”

You duck your head into the hoodie, muffling a whimper that only makes him grin harder.

Paul groans. “Jesus. You two gonna make me start charging y’all rent to use the studio as your second bedroom?”

“You’re lucky she’s here,” Marshall mutters, popping his knuckles like he’s ready to get to work. “Otherwise I’d say way worse shit.”

Despite the teasing, no one really presses him. They know better.

Because Marshall doesn’t let anyone touch this—you. The softness, the quiet, the way you stay close and blink up at him like he hung the damn stars. He wears your devotion like armor, and if anyone thinks they can joke him out of it, they’re sorely mistaken.

He slides into the booth a few minutes later, glancing once through the glass to see you curled up with a throw pillow and a bottle of water. Still soft. Still sleepy. Still glowing with that post-him look that makes his blood run hot even now.

And when the beat drops and he starts spitting bars, there’s a new kind of heat in his voice—raw, possessive, laser-focused.

Because you’re in the room.

And no one gets to have that but him.

---

The session's winding down, and the booth’s gone quiet for now. Marshall’s leaned over the mixing board with his headphones on, one hand adjusting levels while the other taps idly on the desk, eyes narrowed in focus.

You're still curled up on the studio couch, legs tucked under you, sipping water and half-dozing while everyone else lounges around the room, talking low and lazy now that the intense part’s done.

It starts with one of the guys—Tone, maybe—stretching out with a groan and throwing a smirk across the room.

“Man, we were wild back in the day,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wonder what my body count woulda been if we were famous younger.”

“Way higher,” another one jumps in. “No way you could’ve handled groupies at eighteen.”

That cracks a few of them up. Suddenly they’re all tossing numbers around, comparing, embellishing, bragging—typical guy banter, but low-key and harmless.

Nobody even thinks to ask Marshall.

He’s the one guy in the room with a clear, unspoken line around him—especially when you’re here. Everyone’s seen the way he is with you. They know.

But then one of the engineers—newer, maybe a little too bold—grins and leans back in his chair. “What about you, though?” he says, tilting his head toward you. “What’s your body count?”

The room goes dead quiet.

Even Marshall, mid-adjustment, stops. Fingers hovering. Shoulders tense.

You blink. Confused. “My what?”

The guy chuckles, light and easy. “Your body count. Y’know—how many people you’ve slept with.”

Your eyes go wide.

Marshall doesn’t turn around. Not yet. But his head tilts just slightly, and everyone in the room can feel him listening now. Like a wolf with his ear to the ground.

You look down, cheeks heating fast. “Oh,” you whisper. “Um…”

Then you pause.

Brows knit a little.

“What if… what if I don’t really know what that means?”

That breaks the tension. The room bursts into low, startled laughter—not mocking, just fond. Like they suddenly realize you really are that sweet. That shy. Like Marshall’s been keeping the softest secret all to himself.

Someone across the room grins. “It just means how many people you’ve had sex with.”

“Oh.” Your voice is even quieter now, eyes flicking up, then back down again as you fidget with the hem of the hoodie. “Um… well, then I guess just… one.”

Silence.

And then—

Marshall turns around in his chair, slowly.

And the look on his face?

Possessive. Fierce. Wrecked.

His jaw’s tight. Eyes dark. Like your answer was a punch to the gut and a gift all at once. His gaze zeroes in on you like you’re the only thing that exists, heat rolling off him in quiet, controlled waves.

You flush all over again, your whole body tingling under the weight of it. Like you said too much. Like you’re too honest. But that’s all you’ve ever been with him.

He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at you.

And in that silence, every man in the room suddenly remembers why no one ever asks Marshall personal questions.

Because this—this soft, sweet, shy thing that’s still red in the face on his studio couch—is his.

The room stays dead quiet. You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the silence has gotten, how still Marshall is.

Then—

Without a word, he stands.

The chair screeches softly as he pushes it back. His headphones come off with one smooth motion, tossed onto the desk. The tension in his body is palpable—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, veins visible in his forearms like he's holding something barely beneath the surface.

And then—

His eyes cut to you. Sharp. Burning.

You barely have time to blink before he’s across the room.

His hand finds your wrist—not hard, but firm—fingers wrapping around it like a command. A tether. Something primal and possessive in that simple touch.

“Let’s go.”

You blink up at him, stunned. “W–what?”

“I said let’s go.” His voice is low. Rough. Dangerously calm in that way that says it’s not calm at all. “We’re done here.”

The guys glance at each other but don’t dare speak. They know that tone. They've seen it before—usually in the booth, in lyrics that tear skin. But now it's real, right here, carved into the air like smoke from a gun barrel.

You let him pull you up, your legs wobbling a bit as you follow, hand still clasped in his.

He doesn't look back.

Doesn’t explain.

Just drags you gently but insistently toward the door, his fingers curling tighter every time you stumble. Like he can’t wait another second. Like whatever’s building inside him will break if he has to keep his hands off you any longer.

Someone tries to say something—maybe Paul, maybe one of the guys—but Marshall doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t respond.

The door shuts behind you with a hard click.

Out in the hallway, he finally slows, but only so he can glance over his shoulder at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable, voice still rough with that barely contained edge.

“Just one?” he rasps.

You nod, breath catching. “Y-yeah. Just… just you.”

Something in him shatters—but not in a way that hurts.

It’s reverent. Feral. Like your innocence is a gift he doesn't deserve but will burn the whole world down to keep.

His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin as he exhales hard through his nose.

“You really don’t fuckin’ know what you do to me, do you?”

You shake your head, wide-eyed.

That makes him groan, low and guttural, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re so goddamn sweet, baby. So good. And you think I’m just supposed to walk that off?”

You press your palms to his chest, shaky and flushed, trying to breathe around the weight in your throat.

“Get in the car,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet. “Now.”

Because whatever restraint he has left?

It’s already unraveling.

---

The second the passenger door shuts, the air in the car changes.

Marshall’s behind the wheel, one hand gripping it tight, the other flexing restlessly against his thigh. His jaw is clenched so hard you can see the tension in every sharp line of his face, his eyes fixed on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

You sit in the passenger seat, quiet and flushed, fingers tangled in the hem of his hoodie you’re still wearing. His scent surrounds you, thick and familiar, but there’s something new riding underneath it now—heat. Possession.

The car is too quiet.

Too charged.

And then he speaks—low, rough, like gravel dragged across velvet.

“You really meant it?”

Your voice comes out soft. “About… my body count?”

His jaw twitches. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “Of course I did.”

Silence.

His tongue runs over his teeth, like he’s trying to process the words, contain the storm clawing its way up his spine.

He doesn’t speak again for another two turns. Then—

“You never wanted anyone else?” His voice sounds wrecked now. Like he needs to hear it. Like it’s killing him not to know every inch of what lives inside you.

You turn your head, eyes wide. “No. Just… just you. Always you.”

His breath leaves him in a shudder.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Just hits the gas a little harder.

His hand leaves the wheel only once—to rest on your thigh, firm and grounding. His fingers splay wide, squeezing gently but with purpose. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he’s silently reminding you who you belong to.

By the time you’re pulling into the driveway, his hand is still there, and he’s visibly barely holding it together. His leg bounces as he throws the car in park. He kills the engine, sits there in the silence, and turns to you slowly.

Eyes locked on yours.

There’s something unhinged in the way he’s looking at you now—like that one soft confession cracked something open in him he doesn’t know how to put back.

He leans in, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You better get your ass inside, baby.”

You swallow, heart pounding. “W–why?”

“Because if I touch you in this fuckin’ car, we’re not makin’ it to the house.”

And when you open the door, legs shaking just a little, his hand is right back on you.

Guiding. Possessive. Starving.

Because now that he knows he’s the only one—

He’s going to make damn sure you feel it.

---

The door clicks shut behind you—and it’s like flipping a switch.

Marshall’s on you in seconds.

Your back hits the wall with a soft gasp, and his hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, your waist, cradling your face like you’ll vanish if he blinks. His mouth crashes onto yours with a heat that steals your breath, rough and messy, all teeth and tongue and need.

“Mine,” he growls between kisses, his voice a broken rasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

You shake your head, dazed, lips swollen and parted. “I—I just said the truth…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. Your flushed cheeks. Your wide eyes. The tremble in your voice.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “You could’ve said anything else—any number—and I’d still love you like I do. But you say just me?”

His voice breaks, just a little.

“I’ve been the only one inside this soft little body?” His hand curves around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Owning. “Only one who’s ever heard the sounds you make when you fall apart?”

You whimper, eyes fluttering.

His grip tightens on your waist. “Only one who’s ever had you like that.”

“Y-yes,” you whisper, and that’s it.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around him on instinct, and carries you down the hall with purpose in his step. Bedroom door? Slammed shut. You barely hit the bed before he’s on you again, pushing the hoodie off your shoulders, stripping you with the kind of reverence that feels like worship disguised as ruin.

“You think I’m gonna let up now?” he murmurs, dragging his hands down your bare thighs. “After hearing that? After knowing I’m the only one who’s ever touched you like this?”

You can’t even find the words to answer. You just nod, breathless.

And he smirks—dark, possessive, eyes full of something wild.

“Oh, baby…”

He lowers himself over you, lips trailing down your neck, across your chest, down, down, down—

“I hope you weren’t planning on walking tomorrow.”

Your gasp is swallowed by the sheets the moment his mouth finds you—hot, sure, hungry. He’s not slow about it, not this time. There’s no teasing. No playing. Not when he’s this wrecked over you.

Not after that confession.

He drags your thighs over his shoulders, holding you open with a grip that says you’re not going anywhere. His breath fans hot over you for half a second before he dives in, tongue sliding through your slick like he’s chasing something buried deep.

And he is.

He's chasing claim. Proof. Something only he can ever have.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, trembling, thighs twitching as you try to close them—but he growls against you, the sound vibrating all the way through your core.

“Don’t,” he hisses, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with you, face flushed, lips wet. “Don’t you dare hide from me, baby. You gave me that truth, now you let me fuckin’ own it.”

You nod, eyes glassy, so far gone already.

He groans, low and wrecked, like the sight of you like this is dragging him under. “That’s it. My good girl. So fuckin’ sweet. So perfect—just mine.”

His tongue is back on you in an instant—sliding, circling, dipping, devouring—until your thighs are shaking and your hands are fists in the sheets. You try to warn him, try to say his name, but it comes out in a broken little whimper right before you shatter around him, hips stuttering, body arching as pleasure crashes over you like a wave.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

His hand snakes up to your chest, fingers curling over your throat again as he lifts his head, panting.

“One ain’t enough,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You think I’m gonna stop at one after that? Nah, baby. You’re not gettin’ up till I’ve ruined you for real.”

You try to speak—some soft little plea—but all that comes out is his name, breathy and trembling.

He crawls up over you slowly, grinding his hips against your soaked core, cock heavy and hard between you. You feel every inch of him, and your body trembles at the thought of taking him again.

“You gonna let me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, one hand stroking down your side like a question. “Gonna let me make sure I’m the only one you’ll ever want, too?”

“Yes,” you whisper, already breathless.

“Good.”

Because when he sinks into you again, it’s not fast—it’s deep. Possessive. With every thrust, he’s not just fucking you. He’s sealing something in. Rewriting your body with his name, his rhythm, his need.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you come again.

Not even after.

By the time he collapses over you, sweat-slicked and trembling himself, you're spent. Boneless. Barely able to form words.

He wraps himself around you like he can’t bear the space between your skin.

Still inside you.

Still holding on.

Still whispering, “Mine,” like a prayer.

---

The room is dim and warm, the quiet hum of the house settling around you like a lullaby. Your limbs feel like liquid, your body trembling with aftershocks, your skin hypersensitive to even the faintest shift. And Marshall—he hasn’t moved much either, still buried inside you, still hovering over you with his forehead resting against yours, like even gravity can’t pull him away yet.

You whimper—just a little—when his hips shift, not even on purpose. It’s not pain, not even discomfort. Just too much. Everything is too much.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair back, his voice like velvet soaked in honey. “I know. I know, you’re so sensitive now.”

Your fingers clutch weakly at his sides, pulling him closer, like if he moves away you might float off the edge of the world. He feels it—how soft you are, how far gone—and his arms come around you instantly. He rolls to his side, bringing you with him, keeping you wrapped in the warm cage of his body.

You end up half sprawled on top of him, your cheek pressed to his chest, one leg thrown over his hip. His hand cups the back of your head. The other strokes gently down your spine, up and down, again and again. Calming you. Grounding you.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the crown of your head. “Took me so well. So sweet, so soft for me…”

You whimper again and shift, your thighs aching and slick, but all you can do is cling tighter, your breath hitching when his thumb drags softly along the back of your neck.

“I got you,” he breathes. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

He kisses your temple, then your jaw, then the shell of your ear. You make a tiny, broken sound—almost a sob, but not from sadness. From being completely undone.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, rocking you gently. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe for me, baby.”

Your fingers curl into his chest, your breathing slow and shaky. His hands never stop moving—slow, steady, reassuring.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmurs again, voice rasped and reverent. “You say one little thing and I lose my fuckin’ mind. But I’ll always take care of you. Always.”

You nuzzle in closer, lips brushing over his skin, and he lets out the softest sound—something between a sigh and a prayer.

“You still with me, angel?”

You nod sleepily. “Mhm. Just… floating.”

That makes him smile, even as he holds you tighter. “Stay here with me. I’ll keep you grounded.”

And he does. He holds you until your breathing evens out, until the trembles fade, until the only thing left in the world is his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the warmth of his arms wrapped around you like a promise.

---

Morning slips in soft through the blinds—barely-there sunlight kissing your skin, painting the sheets in pale gold. But it’s not what wakes you.

It’s him.

You feel it first in the way his hand strokes slowly over your hip, gentle and patient like he’s been doing it for a while. His other hand is buried in your hair, his nose tucked behind your ear, breath warm where it spills down your neck.

“Mornin’, baby,” he murmurs, voice still husky from sleep. “How you feelin’?”

You try to stretch, but everything’s sore—hips, thighs, even the back of your knees. You let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and immediately feel his arms wrap tighter around you.

“Aww, baby…” he croons, pulling you closer, cradling you against him. “You that sore?”

You nod, cheek pressing into his chest. “Mhm.”

There’s a pause. Then a quiet, sheepish laugh that rumbles through his chest.

“Shit. Guess I really meant that promise, huh?”

You give a soft, sleepy laugh. “You really did.”

He leans in, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your shoulder. “You should’ve seen your face last night,” he whispers, voice full of warmth now instead of heat. “So gone. So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart for me.”

You hide your face in his neck, embarrassed, and he grins, his hand smoothing gently up and down your back.

“Don’t do that,” he says, tipping your chin up so you’ll look at him. His thumb traces your bottom lip. “Don’t hide. You got no idea what you looked like. How perfect you were.”

Your cheeks flush all over again.

“Hurts, but… I feel good,” you admit quietly.

That softens him even more, something deep in his eyes going warm and melted.

“Good,” he murmurs, nuzzling your nose. “You deserve that. All of it. Gonna take care of you all day now. Can’t let my sweet girl be sore and floaty without spoilin’ the hell outta her.”

His fingers drift lower again—slow and featherlight. “Wanna get in a bath with me? I’ll wash your hair. Rub your back. Carry you if I have to.”

Your body’s still heavy with the afterglow, and your mind even softer, but that thought makes you smile.

“I’d like that,” you whisper.

And the look he gives you?

Like he wins every time you whisper something soft like that. Like your quiet love is his greatest treasure.

“Yeah?” He kisses your knuckles, lacing your fingers with his. “Then it’s done. I’m not lettin’ you lift a finger today, baby. You gave me everything last night.”

He rolls out of bed, pulls on some boxers, and lifts you into his arms like it’s nothing—your legs instinctively curling around him, face tucked into his neck again.

“I’ll take care of the rest.”

And he does.

[look-whos-tolkien]

Chapter Four “First Kisses and Imaginary Friends” and Five “The Game” are out!

Yes, I did forget to make a post about chapter four so I’m incorporating it now :,)

Synopsis:

Because no matter what numerous gossip magazines had to say about it, John Watson was definitely and unequivocally straigh

So he would have to either be a fool or a masochist to accept it, really. “You really reckon you can find ten things to deduce about me?” John, who was a little bit of both, asked.

A.K.A: Something unexpected… Wink wink (it’s quite literally in the chapter title) causes John to have a brief but intense identity crisis, immediately followed by two idiots unknowingly flirting by the poolside for about 10.000 words. Lots of fluff. Maybe a little angst? Depends on how you define angst.

They’re so oblivious and I love them very dearly.

In other news: Man, writing really this made me wanna go to the beach.

Little chapter extract:

“Fine, you’re bored,” he said. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Well, I expect you to entertain me,” he replied, like it was the most obvious conclusion to draw. And perhaps to him it was. Perhaps in his little world entertaining him was John’s job just as making him tea was Mrs. Hudson’s. Frankly, at this point John would rather not know.

“Well, you could... read something, maybe?” he suggested. “Borrow a book from the library. God knows I could do with the quiet.”

“Boring.”

“You could go for a swim.”

“Dull.”

“We could play cards,” he tried again, now beginning to feel a little foolish in his attempts. They both knew there was only one thing that could keep him satisfied long enough for John to enjoy his morning off, but despite his desperation John certainly wasn't about to go murder some poor chap in the detective's name. Once had been enough. Although, if things continued this way, he might just consider it. “I mean, we don’t have them right here, but I think there must be a store somewhere.” There was no answer, which might have been a good thing or it might have been a bad one, John wasn’t sure. “I’m pretty good at poker, actually.”

Sherlock squinted at him, with the face of one who’s scandalised - but not surprised - by the amount of idiocy his interlocutor has just displayed.

”Please,” he said with a disdainful scoff.

“What?”

“You really think you have a chance against me? Trust me, I would humiliate you.” He turned his head back towards the pool, resting his back against the chair. “It’s no fun.”

John inhaled deeply, fighting the temptation to strangle him. Which wouldn’t be particularly productive, but in his defense the man was really asking for it.

“Okay, no poker,” he said. “How about bridge?”

“Oh, why do I even bother?” the detective grumbled miserably, ungrateful and unhelpful as always.

“Or you could just continue being an insufferable prat,” John replied, halfway to himself. “That seems to suit you just fine.”

“I need a case, John!” Sherlock raged. “I need the action, the thrill of the chase. Without it my brain rots, and then what would you be? A blogger without anything to blog about.”

“Hang on, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock let out a brief, cruel laugh. “Do you really believe people would read your stupid stories if they were about the life of a boring divorcee?”

Again, John took a deep breath. ‘He’s just trying to push your buttons.’ he reminded himself. ‘Reacting would be giving him what he wants.’

It was a mantra he had to repeat to himself quite often now that he’d returned to living at 221b.

Initially Sherlock had made all sorts of promises trying to get him to move back in; that he’d be on his best behavior, that that he’d never mix up his girlfriends again - not that there had been any girlfriends after Mary. That he’d even do the dishes. Sometimes. If necessary. Maybe. But of course all it’d taken had been two weeks and a particularly tricky case for him to fall back into his old habits - not that anyone expected any differently.

John didn’t doubt that he’d meant it, exactly. He was sincerely convinced that when he’d sworn it he’d had all the good intentions in the world. But…

Alright, here was the thing; Sherlock was a creature of the present. He lived case by case, moment by moment. He didn’t do calendars, or sleep schedules, or any other of the neat little systems ordinary people have invented to give structure to their lives. He could be perfectly fine one day and gone into a sulk the next, and then fine again the one after that without any real explanation. That was just the way things were.

So really it would have been unfair of John to hold him to the promises he’d made months ago, nor could he really blame him for saying the most insensitive things when he was in one of his moods. It was part of the deal, John had known this since he’d first met him.

For him, loving Sherlock - platonically, of course - had always meant putting up with all the downsides (the condescension, the quiet fights, the cruel comments), because despite how irritating and exhausting the bad days could be they were nothing compared to the barest glimmer of the connection they shared on the good days. The mad rush of feeling Sherlock's eyes searching for his in a room full of strangers, their minds communicating silently, moving together like limbs in the same body, that alone was worth anything Sherlock could throw at him when he was frustrated.

It was simply the price for being part of his life, John had accepted it a long time ago. And he would pay it again and again, if necessary, he knew that.

Still, acknowledging that didn’t mean he had to put up with everything the detective did.

”Fine,” he huffed. “You know what? Since you’re so brilliant, you can bloody well come up with something yourself.”

Looking for a fun read? You might be interested in my Johnlock murder mystery/fake dating AU!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64312954/chapters/165089941

John Watson isn't an idiot - let's start there. His newly-finalised divorce has left him with no moustache, very few acquaintances he can trust and a very solid resolution never to attend a wedding again, unless it just so happens to be his own.

But when the opportunity presents itself to accompany his best friend to a family destination wedding and get to witness a whole new, uncharted side of him, curiosity takes over. And if the price for this knowledge is pretending to be Sherlock's boyfriend for a day or two, well, so be it.

After all, John Watson isn’t an idiot, but he’s not exceptionally wise either.

Here goes nothing, I guess :)

[eyes-0f-etro]

thinkinggggg abouttttt naruuuuto and sasuuuuke

[faemurmur]

-> soft yandere caleb hcs:

1. “you’re mine. you said so.” you get busy—miss a call, forget a text—and when you finally answer, his voice is calm, too calm. “i waited. for hours.” you apologize, sweetly, teasingly even, but he doesn’t laugh. “you promised you’d always be there, remember? don’t break your promises. i… don’t handle that well.” and later, when he holds you close, you feel the way his hands tremble slightly against your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

2. his name in your phone has a lock emoji. -> he changed it himself. he also disabled the option to delete his contact. “just in case someone thinks they can slide into your messages,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “they’ll know who you belong to.”

3. he tracks you. -> not in a creepy way (okay maybe a little), but he has your location always. and when he sees you’re somewhere unexpected, he texts immediately: “what are you doing there?” ……you ask how he knew. “because you’re mine pipsqueak, and i need to know you’re safe. that’s not too much to ask, is it?” and the look in his eyes? he’d burn the whole galaxy just to get you back home.

4. he doesn’t like you being friends with your ex-> at all. he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t tell you not to. he just shuts down emotionally, turns icy and unreadable. it’s bound with his actions though… he would probably still do everything acts of service wise. but he wants you to understand something is wrong, wants you to probe… and when you confront him, he finally murmurs, “i don’t want to be second choice to anyone. i want to be your only. and if that’s too much—” you cut him off with a kiss. you have to. because his voice was starting to sound a little unhinged and a little too honest.

5. he locks the door when you argue.-> not to trap you essentially (which he thinks he isn’t doing…) just to make sure you don’t leave. “we’re not going to sleep angry pips,” he says, softly. “you don’t walk away from me. not when we love each other this much baby.” and when you calm down, he pulls you into his lap, arms like iron around you, and whispers again and again, “mine. mine. mine.”

6. he doesn’t like you dressing up for anyone but him.-> you put on a new outfit, stunning, radiant—and his jaw clenches. why are you so breath-taking my gorgeous he thinks… no wonder he wants a world with just the two of you. “who’s that for?” / “me,” you say, innocent. but he steps closer, cups your jaw gently, possessively. “next time, wear it only when we’re alone. i don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine. or~ you’d hate how i become and say something like i killed your old caleb.”

7. his anger is unpredictable.->when someone flirts with you in front of him, he doesn’t start a fight. but sometimes the look in his eyes speaks more than words ever could. maybe he will break their bones when you leave, maybe he will let it slide. who knows what caleb’s mood dictates him to do. sometimes, he just smiles. and later, when you’re home, he pins you softly to the bed, hands on either side of your head.“do you want them?” he asks, voice flat. “because i can make sure they never speak to you again.” and you— you tell him it’s just him. it’s always been him. like a prayer, like a chanting to balm his rage. and he finally kisses you like a starved man, whispering “good girl.”

8. he deletes numbers from your phone.->you’ll never notice. he’s too smooth. but people you used to talk to? stop replying. and when you ask caleb, he just shrugs with a soft smirk, “maybe they realized they could never compete with me.” and then changes the subject with a kiss and that dangerous look in his eyes again…. this isn’t out of sheer possessiveness though its just out of trust issues.

9. he doesn’t like letting you sleep mad at him.-> you try to turn away in bed, still upset. away from him… back on his face like an iron wall. but he slides his arms around you from behind, strong and unyielding.“no. you don’t get to walk away from me in your sleep, either.” and you can feel how serious he is. “we fix this now, angel. i’ll do anything. but you don’t leave.”

10. he has nightmares about losing you.-> he never tells you the full details either. just that he wakes up shaking, pale, and pulls you into his lap, holding you so tightly it almost hurts. “i saw you leaving me,” he whispers into your neck. “don’t ever do that. i wouldn’t survive it.”

[coliessions]

gojo satoru has you all covered. they were not joking when they said that this man would serve and protect because not a single thing touches you, ever. and gojo satoru is proud of that, that's what he's good at: being your personal shield.

and yet, even if he were to extend his infinity to you at every hour of the day, the one thing gojo satoru could not protect you from is getting sick.

then and there, the strongest one forgets how to act. this was not something he could fight off, something he could exorcise. no. but he felt helpless watching you squirm and curl up into a ball, sneezing and coughing on your bed.

he'd do everything in his power to take care of you, of course. but it was fidgety, at best. he never got sick growing up; he wasn't aware of the procedures of this all. so... he googled.

what else was he meant to do? you refused to eat, you were coughing up something, you were shivering, your temperature extremely high, and more things he truly did not want to think that you were going through. still, it was those same things that found their way to the google search bar as gojo satoru looked desperately for anything that could make your shivering figure feel better.

comfort was the last thing he got from his trip to the internet, however. the text on his screen informed him of the demise you'd supposedly face at this rate. you were gonna get worse and he was gonna lose the light of his life... is how he understood the search result.

after spending the whole afternoon napping, you finally stir awake feeling a cool towel on your head and something dripping on your hand. you blink the sleep away for a few more moments, eyes finally focusing on the sniffling figure holding your hand.

"toru, what's going on?" you squeeze his hand back lightly. you hear an almost theatrical gasp matched with widened blue eyes and immediately become engulfed in big bulky arms.

"i thought i was gonna lose you." he sniffs, nuzzling his face in your neck. you're left puzzled but return the hug nonetheless. "what made you think that?" satoru pulls away and examines your face. "baby, it felt like you were dying on me," he exclaims, still cupping your face.

"toru, it was probably just the flu-" you are interrupted by a cough that erupts from your throat.

"see! this is what google said would happen!"

"google? satoru gojo, you consulted google? and that's why you were crying?"

"next time i'll just exorcise every germ in this world."

"if you say so, baby"

[ponderingmoonlight]

Sharing a bed with kny men

Pairings: Yoriichi x fem!reader; Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 5,7k (lmao)

Warnings: injury in Yoriichi's part, smut in Sanemi's part so read if you're 18+, this is a long ass fic y'all, not proofread

This is actually my first time posting Sanemi smut and I'm super scared. Let me know what you think 🥹🤍

Also, do you want me to do other characters too?🫶

Yoriichi

I heard you @laurencrsnt 🫶

All your life, you never even thought about the possibility that maybe, you’ll encounter a demon someday. Why you, out of all people? Why especially you?

Even now with its cold eyes glaring down at you and your shoulder ripped open by its claws, you fail to find an answer for that. Is it your fate to die right here, when you only went out at night in order to buy medicine for your little sister who has fever? Is dying the cruelest death really your destiny when you wish for nothing more than growing old and watching your own children live their lives?

It’s unfair.

You shouldn’t lay here, crumpled onto the still wet street. You shouldn’t feel the sensation of your eyes watering, your hands trembling, your heart racing.

This shouldn’t be your last day walking on this earth. You didn’t even have the chance to find the man of your dreams yet…

It’s ridiculous and you know it, that spark of determination that rushes through your bones. All of the sudden you spring back onto your feet and start running. Out of the city, away from the lit streets straight into the dark woods.

Even if you have to die here, you won’t give up this easily. You won’t allow this demon to end your life without putting up a fight.

“Why do you girls always think you can run away, huh? It’s too easy to sweep you off your feet”, the demon behind you comments dryly.

With a swift motion of his hand, it digs open your tender flesh all over again, sends your violent scream echoing through the lonely forest. You fall to the ground like a bag of rice, your torn leg now refusing its service completely.

“Let me go!”, you shriek in horror.

No, you don’t want to die here, you just want to go back to bed and forget about this.

But the forest ground isn’t your bed and the demon in front of you who’s ready to slice through your throat isn’t only a nightmare.

Your heart sinks to the floor, body suddenly feeling numb and lifeless. You will die here.

“I’ll keep you in good memory. Well, at least for tonight”, the demon jeers at you.

You close your eyes, desperately try to imagine your little sister. She’ll find herself a loving husband and her very own family without any doubt. Even without you around, her life will turn out alright. Even without you around, life goes on. You don’t have to feel sad or guilty, you just have to let go…

“Get away from that woman.”

A low male voice, so charismatic that you think you might dream. He sure must be handsome. Men with voices like that always have a matching face.

A slicing blade, a dull thud. But no claws that dig into your flesh one last time, no bow of relief that you’ve been awaiting for quite some time by now. Your eyelids start shivering. When is this finally over?

“Are you alright? Please allow me to help you up.”

The second something touches your skin, your eyes snap open in an instant. But they aren’t greeted by those venomous red orbs from earlier. No, these ones are soft but strong and have that calming fuchsia color. This isn’t a demon.

This is a man.

“Don’t be afraid. The demon is gone”, he continues speaking with his low voice.

You have no control over your own body and shivering limbs. It’s impossible for you to say a single word. Are you really out of danger? Is it really over?

When he pulls you off the ground, a violent scream escapes your lips. No, you don’t want to die, you don’t want your life to end tonight. Not like this, not without saying goodbye.

“Please calm down, everything is alright now”, the stranger tries to reassure you, but his words don’t even reach your ringing ears.

You gasp for air like a fish on land, forehead now covered in ice cold sweat. This can’t be your end.

If Yoriichi doesn’t act now, you might faint due to your stress. But what is he supposed to do? You don’t seem to listen to his words and touching you might only make it worse. Maybe you need, assurance?

“I won’t hurt you, see? My hands have no intention of doing you any harm.”

Gently, he glides his fingertips up and down your uninjured harm. Despite the look of horror on your face and your gaping wounds, you do have a lovely face and truly remarkable eyes.

“I came here to help you”, he continues until his fingertips finally brush over your tear-soaked face.

What is this feeling of warmth deep inside his chest? You aren’t the first woman he saved from the claws of a demon.

“I would like to accompany you on your way back home-“

“No”, you suddenly blurt out.

Even though lying in bed on your own was all you were able to think about just a few moments ago, the thought feels like a threat now. What if another demon follows you back home? What if your little sister gets attacked because of your foolishness? No, you simply can’t go back now. But on the other hand…Just the thought of sleeping alone here in the woods runs shivers down your spine.

“I…I’ll find a place to stay. Otherwise…they might harm my sister…”, you mutter.

“Allow me to escort you to my estate, then.”

You yank your head to the side in sheer disbelief, eyes searching for a spark of humor in his calming orbs. Is he really serious about that? After all, you’re a stranger. He doesn’t even know your name. Now that you think of it…who is this?

“How can I know for sure that you aren’t a demon yourself?”

“Take my hand”, he instructs you gently.

Is this really a good idea? You take a deep breath in, try to calm down your pounding heart. What do you have to lose?

When your shaky fingers wrap themselves around his much larger hand, you get ingulfed by warmth. His palms feel rough but also comforting against your bruised skin.

“Demons are cold since they are dead”, he explains briefly.

“But I am not. I am a demon slayer. It is my only destiny to safe innocent souls from their death.”

Oh. Your gaze drifts towards a katana that hangs dangles from his belt. No, demon don’t find with those weapons. So, are those words really true?

“You…You want to help me?”

“I’d love to help you if you allow me to.”

What has gotten into him? Did he really offer you to hold his hand, let alone to sleep at his house so you don’t have to fear the night on your own? Never in his life, Yoriichi allowed himself to develop feelings apart from empathy for those around him.

But those eyes. Those eyes of yours really captivate him, devour him fully. How is he supposed to leave you out here, soaked in your own blood with bruises all over your body?

“You…really would?”

Is this really okay? When you were a child, your mother told you over and over that you aren’t allowed to talk to strangers, let alone man.

But…does that also include the handsome, charismatic and armored ones?

“I keep my word. Also, your wounds need care as well. Please, allow me to help you.”

What do you have to lose.

“If that’s the case, I’d love to take your offer”, you reply shyly.

“I’m glad to hear that. I will show you the way-“

A loud groan escapes your lips before you’re able to stop it. His charismatic eyes almost made you forget about the gaping wound the monster from before inflicted on you.

Almost.

“You shouldn’t move your leg with a wound like that. I will carry you to my estate.”

“You will…carry me?”, you mutter with widened eyes.

But just when you try to take a step forward, his words become painfully clear. No, there really is no way you’ll be able to walk anywhere with that leg. But allowing him to carry you?

“I might be a little heavy.”

“Let me assure you, you aren’t heavy at all.”

“Fine…”, you grumble.

“But only a few meters.”

Gently, he stranger wraps his arms around your shoulder and knees before he starts walking.

He smells good. Like a field of flowers on a sunny day. And the way his heart beats against your cheek reminds you that you’re still alive, that you survived somehow.

This man saved you.

“I didn’t even thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. This is the least I can do for you after I almost came too late.”

He stares blankly at the blood that still drips from your leg. Just a few seconds later and that demon would have killed you with him simply watching. Why? Why is he not able to save them all, why is he still not good enough to stop this madness?

“Don’t tense up, don’t think anything less of yourself because I was injured. I was a fool for leaving the house this late at night on my own.”

Despite the fact that cold sweat still runs down your forehead and even though your fingertips still shake in shock, you cup his cheek and force his troubled eyes to look at you.

“I am beyond thankful for my rescue. The worst thing about dying today would have been leaving my little sister behind. But you saved me. And not only that, you even offered me a safe place to stay for the night. I really don’t know if…If I’d be able to sleep on my own tonight…”

The stranger doesn’t say a word, his eyes roaming around your face without a real aim.

“Oh, I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

“My name is not important-“

“I’m (y/n)”, you introduce yourself friendly.

“My…my name is Yoriichi”, the man carrying you mumbles.

Yoriichi. An unusual name that you’ve never heard before.

“That name suits you well.”

“We’ll arrive soon. I hope you don’t expect a big mansion since I am living in a rather small cottage-“

“I’m living in a tiny barrack in the city. A house in the woods sounds like a dream”, you mutter.

The second you open your eyes again, you find yourself in a wooden cabin with a plain futon lying on the floor and an improvised kitchen in the back of the house. Nothing special, very fitting for the man who gently lowers you onto the futon.

“I will take care of your wounds now”, he announces before taking off his haori and katana.

Without his threatful weapon dangling from his belt, he looks like a normal man.

If it wasn’t for those captivating eyes. He has to be the most breathtaking man you’ve ever seen.

“Fortunately, the cut on your leg isn’t deep. I’ll disinfect the wound and bandage it”, he explains briefly before his skilled hands spring into action.

“You really are good at everything”, you comment.

He’s so gentle that even the alcohol that disinfects your wound doesn’t seem to burn. Why have you never stumbled across him? You were so sure that you know each and every man around that it almost drove you insane. But him? He’s different from all the others. He’s truly special.

“You will have to take your kimono off. I need access to the wound on your shoulder.”

Oh.

“Y-yeah, sure…”

Hesitantly, you pull the blood-soaked fabric down your shoulder so that only your chest is still covered. Yoriichi’s eyes seem to gleam in the moonlight like liquid metal.

“You look lovely”, he flusters into the night.

He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. Is it the alcohol rising up his nose, the smell of blood that radiates from your bruised body that makes him say those strange things?

No. It has to be because of those eyes of yours. Those eyes that captivated him from the moment he first saw them.

"Thank you," you stammer, your cheeks flushing as you nervously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You too," you add quickly, immediately regretting your awkward response.

Both you and Yoriichi swallow hard, the atmosphere in the room suddenly changing.

“I am finished. You should rest for tonight. After all, this was a draining fight for you”, he mutters while getting up.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, heart still hammering so roughly against your ribcage that you’re almost sure he’s able to hear it. What was this tension?

“But…this is your futon-“

“You are my guest. Of course, I will sleep on the floor on the other side of the room.”

Oh. A wave of disappointment rushes over you before you’re able to stop it. What were you expecting, secretly hoping? That this man will share a bed with you?

Honestly, yes.

“You…you really don’t have to…”

Oh, how much Yoriichi wished he wouldn’t have to.

“I insist on taking the floor.”

“I actually want you to sleep by my side. Please.”

The begging tone in your voice stops him mid-track.

“This night was…horrible. A little company would definitely help, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all”, he replies a little too hasty.

“I just don’t want to invade your personal space. After all, I’m a stranger.”

“A really kind stranger”, you add shyly.

Are you acting out of line? You shouldn’t push him to sleep next to you when his offer to let you sleep here is already generous enough, right?

“Forget my question, I was acting out of line-“

“No, not at all. I would love sleeping besides you.”

He crosses the room in an instant and kneels down next to you.

“But let me know whenever I become too much.”

What a ridiculous thought. Why would he ever become too much? Him, your savior, that remarkable man.

You scoot over until your back is pressed against the cool wall, eyes still fixated on his gleaming eyes. Will you really be able to sleep tonight when this is the first time ever a man lies beside you?

And what a handsome one on top.

“You should try to sleep now. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here”, he reassures you.

That is the least he can do after failing to protect you in the first place.

“Again, thank you for all of this. I definitely own you a favor”, you mumble.

Suddenly your lids start to get heavy, your mind slows down bit by bit. Maybe this rough night really took its toll on you. Is It the safety he radiates, his calming smell? In the matter of seconds, only your low and even breath is heard.

Finally, Yoriichi is able to allow himself a closer look at you. You look so peaceful and innocent with a face so remarkably beautiful that he can’t stop staring. You have to be the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. A man like him really doesn’t deserve lying next to a woman like you. Maybe he should give you space, leave you now that you fell asleep-

With a quiet groan, you draw closer to him in your sleep until your head rests on top of his chest and with your arms wrapped around his upper body.

He doesn’t dare to move an inch, eyes widen in utter surprise. Is this…cuddling? His mind races back and forth, eyes resting on your calm features. What is he supposed to do now?

Hesitantly, he allows his hand to rest on your back. What an unknown sensation, all those feelings that rise up his chest right where your hand rests.

For the first time since forever, he is the one who feels safe.   

He is the one who feels loved.

He is the one who feels warm.

And you? You cuddle yourself against him until the sun rises all over again.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

This one's for you @muichirolover14 🤍

“This is bullshit”, the man walking next to you mumbles under his breath.

“Keep focused. It was Kagaya-sama’s personal wish that the two of us go on this mission together”, you mumble with a fake smile decorating your bright red lips.

And that’s the only reason why you agreed in the first place. Why else would you pretend to be Sanemi Shinazugawa’s personal concubine if it wasn’t for Kagaya-sama and this undercover mission?

The plan is pretty simple. Countless people, including other demon slayers, lost their lives in this little innocent village that becomes a red-light district at night. Nobody knows why or who is responsible for this.

One of the upper moons, maybe.

It just made sense to dress you up as a concubine. After all, you are the light hashira, a mighty swordswoman and probably the most talented out of Mitsuri and Shinobu when it comes to acting.

And then there’s him. You glance at Sanemi’s annoyed face from the side. Why on earth did Kagaya-sama choose him? What about Rengoku, Giyu, Obanai, Tengen, Gyomei? Aren’t they a way better fit?

You sign to yourself.

Truth is, they aren’t. While Rengoku, Obanai, Tengen and Gyomei would stand out immediately, Giyu would never be able to sell you as his concubine. No, no one except the wind hashira is able to make this look natural.

No one but him looks this good in a dark green kimono.

What?

“Stop staring at me like that, brat”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

“I was just hoping you might disappear if I stare long enough, idiot”, you bite back in frustration.

Why does he always have to be so mean, though? You really tried to get along with him countless times, put on the most precious smile whenever you talked to him and made sure to always bring him ohagi whenever you had the chance to. But Sanemi Shinazugawa never stopped hating you. And eventually, a part of you started to dislike him as well. That one part though…

You allow your eyes a minor glimpse at his barely exposed chest. That tiny part deep within your head is somehow still drawn to him. And you hate it.

“Aren’t concubines supposed to shut up?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll leave immediately.”

“Both of us know you wouldn’t do that.”

You let out your shaky breath, your hand crushing his while you wear the same friendly smile as before.

“Don’t mess with me, Shinazugawa”, you speak out with low voice.

His face tenses up ever so slightly, hand fighting for freedom out of your merciless grasp.

“You’ll regret talking to me like that when we’re alone, brat.”

-at the estate-

“I’d like to show you to my newest possession. Please introduce yourself”, Sanemi speaks out.

Like Amane-sama showed you, you bow in front of the man that looks you up and down with his filthy eyes.

“My name is Kiyomi”, you introduce yourself oh so sweetly.

“That name really suits you. What a beauty you are. I’m sure I’d find a lot of paying customers for you here”, the disgusting man purrs and stretches out his hand in order to touch your face.

“Don’t touch the goods”, Sanemi barks at him immediately before slapping his dirty hand away.

Who does this guy think he is, trying to touch you so casually? No. That jerk isn’t allowed to caress your face. The plain thought of men like him getting to put their hands on you…

Sanemi’s guts turn.

“Aren’t you here to sell her and yourself for the night? If that’s the case, she won’t be your good anymore for the next few hours but mine.”

He smiles at you through rotten teeth, his breath almost forcing you to choke. You are only here to detect the demon who is responsible for the countless deaths in this area. You don’t have to touch any of these men. None of them will touch you.

What about Sanemi, though? An uneasy feeling rises up your chest when your eye catches a group of women who stare him up and down with lust in their eyes. Will he allow himself a taste before continuing with this mission? Will he find a woman he is attracted to? All of them look flawless, too good to even consider the service of a paid men. But if that man looks like Sanemi…

“You will find your room to the right. This is where the female customers choose their good. After paying, you belong to them”, the man explains briefly while showing both of you around.

“Why would these women pay for the services of a man? This is a noble region that is well-inhabited by countless men”, you blurt out.

“It’s not about them being men. It’s about looks. Only the fine-looking men even get the chance to work here for the night”, he explains briefly.

Fine-looking man, huh? Well, there is no doubt in the fact that Sanemi suits that description way too good. With his firm muscles highlighted by scars from countless battles, he looks like a walking god. Let alone his perfect face, his eyes that now look soft and seducing without being irritated constantly. His white hair that frames his features perfectly.

“As for the women, we look for a broad variety of bodies, looks and personalities. You are very easy on the eye and mysterious. I’m sure countless customers will fall for that.”

“And what…what services do they expect?”

The man in front of you bursts out in hysteric laughter, you can feel Sanemi’s eyes piercing through your skull.

“What they expect? Intercourse and everything that revolves around it, of course! Do you think they pay you for some cuddles and nice words?”

You swallow hard. There is no need to do that, right? You’ll somehow shrug them off and investigate this place at night. Maybe you’ll find the demon right away and-

“Now, you are a fine-looking man. Who is this?”, a woman suddenly purrs out of the shadows.

“A new worker for the night”, the disgusting man explains with a dirty smile.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll definitely make a reservation.”

“It would be an honor, my lady”, suddenly replies in the same cheeky tone

Your guts turn in an instant, eyes narrowing slightly as you watch how a smile forms itself on Sanemi’s usual resting lips.

“What a gentleman he is. I cannot wait to meet you.”

“The honor is on my side, my lady.”

And then he steps in front of her. Elegantly, he grabs the hand she already holds out and kisses her knuckles. Your heartrate quickens, the warm flush that starts creeping up your face barely covered by your makeup.

Fucking asshole. So he’s acting like a jerk towards you all this time while treating other women like this? You hate the knot that forms itself in your throat, the disgusting feeling of disappointment that rushes over you.

Does he really hate you this much?

“Well, I think I should introduce myself to the customers as well. Have a pleasant night, Sir”, your monotone voice speaks out on its own.

With one last bow towards him, you follow the man into the women’s corridor without even gifting him a single look. Sanemi can’t help but furrow his eyebrows at your sudden reaction. Did you really want to get rid of him so badly? Maybe you’ll actually meet up with some of those guys and…

“Are you interested-“

“I will meet up with you later this evening, my lady. Please excuse me.”

Without another look or word, he storms into his assigned room and closes the door behind him.

Sanemi’s mind starts going insane. What if you actually like one of those guys? Or what if one of them hurts you, tries to force you into something you don’t want? He heard the worst stuff about places like this.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have let you go in the first place. Why you? This mission is way too dangerous for someone like you, for someone this gorgeous-

“I’m losing my fucking mind”, he mutters through gritted teeth.

“I can’t do this”, you breathe out in sheer panic while lying in bed.

No, just the thought of Sanemi having the fun of his life with that girl from earlier feels like ripping your beating heart out of your chest. Will he really share a bed with them?

If it’s for the mission, he definitely would. Nothing is greater than his urge to kill demons, especially when it comes to an upper ranked one. That little sacrifice wouldn’t stop him.

And it breaks your dumb heart.

A hard knock on the door rips you out of your running thoughts. Is this your first customer? All color drains from your face, eyes widen in horror with every bow against the wooden door.

“Just a moment”, your shaky voice shouts.

You…Do you have to look presentable? You have to think about the things you can tell him. Maybe you don’t even have to sleep with him, maybe this will distract you from the things Sanemi is probably doing right now.

You open the door.

And stare straight into the furious eyes of Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Before you’re even able to react, he pushes himself into your room and closes the door behind him before yanking you against the wall.

“What did you do?”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

Your heart starts hammering roughly against your ribcage. Him? Here?

“What the hell are you doing he-“

“Answer my question right now!”, he barks into your face.

“I didn’t do anything!”, you shriek.

“What the hell has gotten into you!?”

“Has somebody touched you?”

His rough hands start running up and down your neck, yank the sleeves of your kimono upwards in a haste.

“What?”, you breathe out.

What the hell is going on? Just when you managed to pull your arm away from him, he grabs your wrist again with his face only inches away from yours.

“Did somebody touch you?”, he screams into your face.

“No!”, you cry back.

“But why would you even care? It looked like you had plenty of fun!”

He shakes his head while looking at you in utter surprise and confusion.

“What non-sense are you talking now-“

“Did you sleep with that woman from earlier when I was gone?”

God, you hate the way your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, you hate the way your eyes fill with hot tears. He came here to confront you with all those accusations while he was out there having the time of his life, while all you were able to think about is him?

“No, I didn’t sleep with anyone!”

“Stop lying to me!”

“You’re the only one I want!”, he suddenly blurts out breathlessly.

“What?”, you utter in hushed panic.

This has to be a cruel joke, an unforgiving way to stop you from doing anything. Sanemi Shinazugawa, wanting you?

“Since I first saw you with your fucking perfect face and so melodic voice, I can’t think about anything else! You, sleeping with some random guy while I’m just a few doors away. I can’t take it!”

He grabs your head with both hands, eyes staring at you so intensely that you feel like collapsing any minute. If that’s really true, if that’s really how he feels…

“But…I want you too”, you squirm.

“I always wanted you, Sanemi.”

His lips crash against yours with so much power that you almost fall over. Suddenly his hands are all over your body, tongue unforgiving as he discovers your mouth with a passion you’ve never felt before. You allow your very own hands to finally discover the deep valleys of his muscular back, to let your hasty fingertips wander over his tight chest.

It becomes unbearable. Everything starts to become unbearable. That minor gap between your bodies, the clothes that still deny you full access to his naked skin, the feeling of not having enough.

“I need more”, you whimper against his lips, not even knowing what exactly you’re asking about.

Sanemi lifts you up with ease, not even breaking the kiss when he pushes you onto the bed with his massive body lingering on top of you.

You feel like suffocating in the most exquisite way.

“I’ll give you whatever you want”, he breathes against your lips that now find your neck.

A whimper escapes your mouth before you can stop his, body rearing up underneath him.

“S-Sanemi!”

“Fuck”, he hisses before his dark eyes meet you again in distress.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I…what?”

You can’t produce a single logical sound, head still spinning from the unknown sensation that starts building up inside your stomach. Is this what desire feels like?

“Tell me you want this too. Tell me you want me.”

“I wanted you all this time”, you reply without thinking twice.

With a swift motion, you find yourself engulfed by his arms with his lips caressing yours all over again. Like in trance, you begin opening his kimono, expose his bare skin to your merciless eyes.

“You look so shamelessly good”, you whimper.

Oh, how often you pondered about how his chest feels like, if his scars are soft or as rough as his walls.

“Can I…?”

His hands grab the ends of your kimono, eyes staring down at you flustered. Is that blush creeping up his cheeks?

“It’s just…You know…I’ve never done this before…”, you stammer.

“Do I look like I did, idiot?”, he mutters while gently taking off your kimono until you lay underneath him.

Completely naked.

“I mean, yes…”

“No, I didn’t”, he barks.

“I guess I waited for someone special…”

“I did as well”, you reply in an instant.

Is this real or are you dreaming? Sanemi Shinazugawa laying on top of you fully nude. Sanemi Shinazugawa stating that he likes you. Sanemi Shinazugawa’s hand that start moving downwards…

Until he reaches between your legs and simply takes your breath away.

“Are you okay?”, he mutters, eyes filled with worry.

You nod absently, eyes rolling back into your skull. God, this feels like heaven. When a groan escapes his lips, you completely lose yourself. Out of instinct, you grab his neck and yank him even closer towards you, your hot breath clashing against his face.

“Sanemi!”

His name sounds like a prayer coming from your mouth, forces his fingers to move even faster. Is this good? Is he doing everything alright? Your whimpers grow louder and louder, nails digging into his now oversensitive skin with so much pressure that it threatens to burst. You look so gorgeous with your eyes pressed shut, your delicate mouth forming an “o”.

And then you burst right underneath him, scream his name over and over again with your legs shaking. He can’t wait no longer, can’t contain himself another second.

“I need you”, he mutters.

“Please, let me have you.”

“Yes”, you breathe out, mind still spinning when the firework that just exploded in your lower body slowly starts wearing off.

Until you feel him all over again. But this time, not his fingers. Your glossy eyes widen in utter surprise when he carefully stretches you out and disappears inside of you, hands holding onto him for dear life.

“Are you okay?”, he whimpers.

“Please…give me…more…”

He almost loses his mind, the new sensation almost eating him up alive. Countless nights, he dreamed about what it might be like to have you, what it would feel like. But the reality is so much better than any dream.

Sanemi picks up his pace and grabs your waist passionately in order to keep you in place. Over and over, again and again your sticky skin collides with his until he threatens to burst.

“You’re mine”, he presses out through gritted teeth while pounding into you.

“I’m all yours, Sanemi!”, you cry out, nails now leaving marks on his skin.

“I need…ah! I need you! Please!”

He knows exactly what you’re asking for. One last time, he picks up the pace while holding onto you for dear life.

Until finally, you scream his name. Finally, he’s able to let it all go.

“(y/n)!”

He collapses on top of you, his weight leaving you dizzy and unable to move. None of you dares to make a move, the only thing that’s filling the room being your shaky and sharp breaths.

“I love you, (y/n)”, Sanemi finally mutters, his hand caressing your cheek oh so gently.

“I love you too-“

“Mission report, mission report! Kagaya-sama requires a mission re- AH!”

“Get out of here right now!”, Sanemi barks at the crow that casually entered the room.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?”

“Get out!”, Sanemi screams on top of his lungs before yanking up and hunting the crow butt-naked through the room

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt

[wyniepooh]

Loving him was never enough

you don’t have what logan needs, but he still takes all that he can.

Cage fighter!logan x reader. Mentions of violence. Porn with a little bit of plot. mdni; 18+

thinking about being logan’s plaything in his cage fighting days.

It’s not uncommon for the fighters to have a girl around their arms as they enter the ring, and though Logan usually resists against the fan girls who clamour around him in a frenzy, he figures a sweet thing like you could only do him some good.

Not only does it piss the other fighters off, (they hate to see the king of the cage also have a pretty girl like you beside him) turns out, you’re not half bad for company either.

You’re an anxious little thing, brows furrowed and eyes teary before every match. Logan doesn’t bother telling you that he’ll be fine, that he’s going to win guaranteed, that his punch is as hard as metal. Literally.

He hates to admit it, but he finds it endearing, the way you’re so worried for him. through his nonchalant front, he still wipes away your tears with his large hands before every match and reassures you, cooing, “I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

When logan gets in the ring, the fight goes exactly as he expects it to go. The other guy is destroyed before logan even shows his true strength. In a spiteful and humiliating position, the fallen guy comments something like, “I’ll fuck your pretty girlfriend dumb.”

Logan hears, of course, and though the guy is already bleeding and sprawled over the mat on the ground in a pathetic display, and though logan definitely didn’t consider you his girlfriend, he throws the announcer to the side and pounces. Through gritted teeth and a bleeding forehead, he catches your eye, shaking his head lightly before knocking the other guy out.

You wait for him in the small public washroom afterwords, arms crossed and pouting. As Logan approaches the door and sees your stiff pacing around the room, he knows you’re mad. And he knows it won’t stay that way.

“‘was so worried, logan,” you practically run towards him, “why’d you have to go after him like that? he could’ve really hurt you.”

He scoffs and flashes you the fresh wad of cash. “Hurt me? Please.”

He stays still for as long as he can bear while you dab at the wound on his head with your sleeve, silently hoping you wouldn’t notice the red cut slowly healing by itself. When you try to touch his face, to run a finger down his cheek and his stubble, he grabs your wrist harshly to stop you.

You’re confused, confused as to why he allows you to trail along to his every fight and wipes your tears with such a gentle hand, but refuses to let you in. He doesn’t give you much time to think, though, because as soon as you part your lips to speak, he’s picking you up from under your arms and sitting you down on the cold sink counter.

there’s an aggressive desperation behind his kiss, probably produced by the adrenaline of the recent fight and triggered by the soft whine he heard from you when his teeth knocked against yours. His hand reaches down between your legs and drags your panties to the side, and before long, you’re biting his shoulder and mumbling, “‘gonna cum, logan, please, let me cum.”

He does, drawing out your short orgasm with a few more pumps of his fingers and a graze over your clit. When he’s done, you’re practically already numb, head limp on his shoulder as you hear the metal clinking of his belt.

“You want this?” He asks, holding your head up by your chin as he tilts his head and raises his brows. “You want me?”

You nod feverishly, half-lidded eyes flickering as you breathe, “yes, logan. need you.” Your head falls back against the mirror, and he looks down with a grin at the sight in front of him.

he hooks his arms around your knees to bring you closer before you take him to the hilt in one go, burying a mewl into his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. The first thrust burns, always does, but only he can make you forget the pain in an instant. Soon, your hands are tangled in his hair, his beard is rubbing against your neck, and you’re begging, “please, lo, need it so bad. “ Logan fucks exactly like how he fights, thrusting into you so sharply your ass is sliding back on the metal counter with each movement of his hips.

He’s done this enough times to know what makes you whine and dig your fingernails into his back, but he still demands, every time, “that feel good, baby? you like that?” Of course, you don’t have to answer for him to know that it does, that it does feel good, so incredibly good, and that he’s hitting all the right spots in the body only he knows so well.

You aren’t the only one filling the room with lewd noises. Logan is panting too, the echoes of his each and every grunt reflecting off of every corner in the room and into your ear. It only makes your cheeks flush hotter, only encourages your hips to move more eagerly to match his pace.

It’s always when he’s just about there that Logan pulls back and looks down at where the two of you are connected, slowing down his strokes to slowly watch his bulging cock sink deep into your slopping cunt.

It’s the only opportunity with logan that you get to really look at him, to see the raw expression of euphoria on his face, teeth bared and mouth open. Some strands of previously gelled hair are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes rolling back with each press of his pelvis. Your eyes trace the sweat on his shoulder, the hair on his chest peaking from behind his white wife-beater, and the vein on his stomach that connects to the one on his dick.

You gaze flickers back at his face, and you extend a hand to guide his head towards you. He tries to turn away, as usual, and you hate that you know he’s holding back; limiting the noises he’s making, the pace he’s taking.

“Just use me, Logan. I know you want to,” you plead against his lips, inhaling a gasp as you press your lips onto his. You expect him to pull away, to push your head to the side and focus on finishing the other task at hand, but this time, he only pulls you closer, one hand around your waist and the other on the back of your head. He doesn’t give you much time to be shocked before he resumes his previous pace, drilling into you with the same vigor, albeit a bit more sloppy than before.

Logan pulls back to catch his breath, and at the same time, you clench tightly around him. A low groan escapes him, a noise so animalistic and fervent that you reach your high right then and there, shrieking as your legs begin to shake.

He’s close too, you can feel it in his breathing, so you let him fuck you beyond your orgasm, even if it’s getting to be too much and you’re losing your thoughts by the second.

“nobody— ah— fucks my girlfriend,” he suddenly growls, lifting you up from under your arms and shoving you against the tiled wall. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to look into his hazel gaze as he spits, “n-nobody fucks you like I do.”

He plummets into you deep, leaning his lips in and making you swallow one last groan of his before you feel his warm release fill your insides.

When he’s done, Logan is supporting all your weight, your limp arms splayed around his sweaty back. You whimper at the emptiness as he pulls out, feeling his cum languidly drip down your inner thighs.

You’re too exhausted to realize what he just said, to react to what he just referred to you as, and as the fog of pleasure slowly unclouds Logan’s head, he’s glad he fucked you stupid enough to forget.

-

a/n: anyone else feel like they’re incapable of writing good smut? Hey Google how many other synonyms could there possibly be of the word ‘thrust’?

[s4kura-tr3]

the jjk men reaction to their wife without their wedding ring ?

Gojo satoru — Gojo Satoru strolled into the living room, humming a cheerful tune as he casually twirled his sunglasses between his fingers. It was a rare moment of downtime for both of you, and he had been looking forward to lounging around with his beloved wife. His sharp eyes, however, immediately zeroed in on you, sprawled out on the couch with your phone in one hand and your other hand resting lazily on the armrest.

At first, he didn’t notice it. But as his gaze lingered—because, honestly, you looked stunning even in sweatpants—it hit him. Something was… missing.

His blue eyes narrowed slightly, and the grin on his face turned into a playful smirk. He crossed the room and plopped down dramatically next to you, making the couch shift slightly.

“Darling,” he began in a tone dripping with mock severity, leaning closer to you as if he had discovered the secret to the universe.

You glanced up briefly, raising an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for your left hand, gently lifting it as if it were a delicate artifact. He examined it closely, turning it this way and that. That’s when he saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it.

“Oh. My. God.” he gasped, clutching your hand with both of his. “Where is it? Where’s the ring? Our ring?” His voice escalated into a melodramatic pitch, and he looked at you as though you’d just committed the ultimate betrayal.

You blinked at him, utterly unbothered. “I took it off while I was washing the dishes earlier. I forgot to put it back on. Relax, Gojo.”

But Gojo wasn’t about to let it go. He sprang to his feet, one hand pressed to his chest as if your words had physically wounded him. “Forgot? You forgot the symbol of our eternal, unbreakable love?” He pointed dramatically at your bare ring finger. “Do you know what this says to the world? That I, Gojo Satoru, am unclaimed! Unwanted! A free agent!”

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Satoru, nobody in the world thinks you’re unclaimed. You’re too loud for that.”

But he wasn’t listening. He began pacing back and forth in front of you, gesturing wildly. “Do you realize how many people out there are just waiting for a moment like this? They’ll think I’m single! Do you want people throwing themselves at me?” He spun around, his eyes wide with mock horror. “What if Nanami hears about this? Or worse, Gojo’s fan club?!”

That finally got a laugh out of you. “You have a fan club?”

“Of course I do,” he said, puffing his chest out. “I’m Gojo Satoru. But that’s not the point!” He dropped back onto the couch beside you, leaning in close so that his face was mere inches from yours. His eyes, bright and intense as always, locked onto yours. “The point is, you, my dearest, most beautiful wife, have forgotten our sacred bond. And I, as your loving husband, must now remind you why you married me.”

Before you could protest, he scooped you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing. You let out a startled yelp, laughing despite yourself. “Satoru, what are you doing?”

“I’m making sure you never forget again,” he said with a grin that could melt anyone’s heart.

He spun you around once, his laughter mingling with yours. You tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held you firm, his warm hands steady and strong.

“Put me down, you lunatic!”

“Not until you swear to never, ever leave your wedding ring behind again,” he said, his voice playful but with a hint of mock sternness.

“Okay, fine!” you managed between laughs. “I swear! I won’t forget again!”

Satisfied, he set you back down on the couch, but not before brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face and planting a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Good,” he said, his tone shifting to that softer, more genuine one he reserved just for you. He sat back, crossing his arms as if he’d just won an important battle. “By the way,” he added, smirking, “your wedding ring is on the counter by the sink. You’re welcome.”

You groaned, throwing a pillow at him. “You knew this whole time and still made a scene?”

“Of course I did,” he said, catching the pillow effortlessly and flashing you a smug grin. “What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t take every opportunity to shower my wife with attention?”

You rolled your eyes again, but the warmth spreading in your chest betrayed how much you adored him—dramatics and all.

Geto Suguru — It was late in the afternoon, the golden light from the setting sun spilling through the windows of your quiet home. You were seated at the kitchen table, sipping tea while flipping through a book. The peaceful silence was interrupted by the soft sound of Suguru’s footsteps as he entered the room, his long, dark hair tied loosely behind him, and his expression calm as always.

“Hmm,” he hummed as his sharp eyes immediately noticed you. His lips curved into a faint smile. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” you replied with a playful grin, not looking up from your book

He walked over to you and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. Everything about Suguru exuded calm, but there was something sharp about his gaze as he straightened, his attention drawn to your left hand resting on the table.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked, his tone casual but with a slight edge of curiosity.

You blinked, glancing at your hand. “Oh,” you said, realizing the absence of the small band. “I took it off earlier while I was washing the dishes. I must’ve forgotten to put it back on.”

Suguru’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a faint flicker of something in his dark eyes—amusement, perhaps. He moved to the chair across from you and sat down, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded you.

“Forgotten, hm?” he murmured, his voice low and smooth.

You tilted your head, sensing the subtle shift in his mood. “It’s not a big deal, Suguru,” you said, brushing it off.

His smile widened ever so slightly, though there was a teasing glint in his eyes. “Not a big deal? My wife walking around without a ring, making it look like she’s unmarried? How scandalous.”

You snorted, closing your book and setting it aside. “Oh, please. Nobody is going to think I’m unmarried, Suguru.”

“Hmm,” he hummed again, his gaze locking with yours. “Perhaps not. But it’s the principle, isn’t it?” He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushed over your bare ring finger in slow, deliberate strokes. “This little band means something, doesn’t it? A reminder of the vows we made.”

You rolled your eyes, though his touch was warm and soothing. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he said, his tone still even, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed his amusement. “But I quite like seeing you wear it. It suits you.”

“Well, it’s sitting on the counter,” you admitted. “I just forgot to put it back on.”

Suguru sighed softly, standing up from his chair and walking to the kitchen counter. He picked up your ring, holding it delicately between his fingers before turning back to you. His movements were always deliberate, almost graceful, as he returned to your side and crouched down next to you.

“Hold out your hand,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

You quirked an eyebrow at him but complied, holding out your hand. Suguru took it carefully, his fingers warm against yours.

“You know,” he began as he slipped the ring back onto your finger, “this little thing is more than just a piece of metal. It’s a claim, a promise, and a reminder of the fact that you belong to me, just as I belong to you.”

His words were soft but carried a weight that sent a shiver down your spine. When the ring was back in its rightful place, Suguru raised your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles

“There,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

You shook your head, your cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk, standing back up to his full height. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed how much his little gestures meant to you. Suguru wasn’t always loud in his affections, but moments like this reminded you of just how deeply he cared for you—and how much he loved to remind you of it.

Nanami kento — The quiet hum of the apartment greeted Nanami as he stepped inside, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly now that he was home. He loosened his tie as he glanced around, his sharp eyes immediately landing on you sitting at the dining table, your laptop open and a mug of tea beside you.

“Welcome home,” you said, looking up with a smile.

“Good evening,” he replied, his voice calm and steady as always. He moved toward you, setting his briefcase down with practiced precision before leaning in to kiss your temple. “Busy day?”

“Not really,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I spent most of it cleaning and catching up on emails.”

Nanami nodded, his gaze briefly scanning the room before settling on you. As you reached for your mug, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked suddenly, his tone even but with a hint of curiosity.

You froze for a moment, glancing at your hand. Your wedding ring was missing from its usual place, and you let out a small laugh as you realized. “Oh, I took it off earlier when I was cleaning. I guess I forgot to put it back on.”

Nanami’s expression remained calm, but you noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, resting his hands on the table.

“I see,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to your hand again.

You tilted your head, sensing his hesitation. “It’s not a big deal, Kento,” you said lightly. “I’ll go grab it in a second.”

He sighed softly, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s not that I doubt you,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a subtle weight. “It’s just… that ring isn’t just an accessory to me.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

Nanami reached across the table, gently taking your hand in his. His thumb brushed over the bare spot where your ring should have been. “It’s a symbol,” he said after a moment. “Of us. Of everything we’ve chosen to share. When I see it on your finger, it’s a quiet reassurance that, no matter how chaotic things get, we have something solid.”

His words hung in the air, and you felt a pang of guilt mixed with affection. Nanami wasn’t one to dramatize things, but his quiet honesty carried more weight than anything else ever could

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m not worried,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. “I know where we stand. But… seeing it missing felt strange. Like something wasn’t quite right.”

Your lips curved into a warm smile. “You’re such a sentimentalist, you know that?”

He exhaled through his nose, his expression softening as he gave you a faint smile. “I’d argue I’m just practical. But if it makes me a sentimentalist to care about something that reminds me of you, then so be it.”

You chuckled, standing up and leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I’ll go grab it now. I don’t want you to feel off balance.”

As you walked to the kitchen to retrieve your ring from the small dish by the sink, you couldn’t help but feel touched by how deeply he cared about even the smallest details.

When you returned, the ring back on your finger, Nanami’s eyes immediately dropped to your hand. He gave a small, approving nod and reached for your hand again.

“Much better,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the ring.

You sat down beside him this time, leaning into his solid presence. “You know, Kento, you’re a lot more romantic than you like to admit.”

He huffed softly, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, resting his hand over yours.

Toji fushiguro— The heavy thud of boots echoed through the entryway as Toji walked into the house, his presence impossible to miss. You looked up from the couch where you were scrolling on your phone, catching the sharp glint of his green eyes as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a nearby chair.

“Hey, you’re back early,” you said with a smile, sitting up as he crossed the room toward you.

He gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, his version of a greeting, before plopping down beside you. “Work wrapped up faster than I thought,” he said, leaning back and stretching an arm over the back of the couch.

As he settled in, his eyes flicked toward you, and they instinctively scanned over you with the same sharpness he applied to everything. They lingered on your hand for a beat longer than usual.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity.

You blinked, looking down at your bare finger. “Oh,” you said lightly, “I took it off earlier while I was washing dishes. I guess I forgot to put it back on.”

Toji raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sly smirk. “Forgot, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, already sensing where this was going. “Don’t start,” you said, crossing your arms. “It’s not like I lost it or anything. It’s on the counter by the sink.”

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked at you with that unreadable expression of his. “Funny. I didn’t think you’d be the type to forget something like that.”

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “It’s just a ring, Toji. Don’t make it a big deal.”

“Just a ring?” he repeated, his tone laced with amusement. He leaned back again, draping an arm across your shoulders. “That’s not what you said when I gave it to you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at the memory. Toji wasn’t exactly the sentimental type, so when he had proposed—ring and all—it had been one of the rare moments where he let his guard down. The ring symbolized more than just a commitment; it was his way of showing you that you were the one person he trusted enough to hold onto.

“Okay, fine,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not ‘just a ring.’ Happy now?”

Toji chuckled, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “Damn right I’m happy. You’re lucky I’m not one of those guys who gets all pissy about this stuff.”

“You literally just called me out for it,” you shot back, giving him a playful glare.

“Yeah, but I didn’t yell about it,” he said, smirking as he reached for your hand. He turned it over, his calloused fingers brushing against your bare finger. “Guess I just like seeing it on you, that’s all.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. Toji wasn’t one for flowery words or grand romantic gestures, but when he said things like this, it was impossible not to feel the depth of his emotions.

You softened, resting your other hand over his. “I didn’t mean to make you feel weird about it,” you said. “I’ll go grab it right now.”

As you stood up to retrieve your ring, Toji leaned back and watched you with a lazy grin. “Don’t keep me waiting, princess. Gotta make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, but there was no real annoyance behind it. When you returned with the ring on your finger, Toji reached for your hand again, his thumb brushing over the metal as his grin widened.

“Now that’s more like it,” he said, tugging you back onto the couch beside him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help but smile.

“And you love it,” he replied easily, pulling you closer until you were leaning against his chest.

Sukuna ryomen — The air was heavy with the scent of incense and sakura blossoms, the grand halls of Sukuna’s domain illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps. You sat on a low, ornate platform, your fingers absently tracing patterns on a delicate porcelain cup as you waited for Sukuna to return.

The sound of his footsteps was unmistakable, his commanding presence preceding him. When he stepped into the room, his twin sets of eyes found you immediately, piercing and intense. Dressed in his ceremonial robes, Sukuna looked every bit the fearsome king he was rumored to be, his aura suffocating yet magnetic.

“Wife,” he greeted in a low, resonant voice that sent a shiver down your spine. “What mischief have you been up to today?”

You smiled, setting down your cup as he approached. “Nothing that would trouble the great Ryomen Sukuna,” you teased, tilting your head to look up at him.

He chuckled darkly, the sound laced with amusement and menace. “Good. I’ve had enough annoyances for one day.”

As he lowered himself to sit beside you, his gaze swept over you, sharp and all-seeing. His attention lingered on your left hand, resting idly in your lap. His expression darkened instantly, a storm brewing in his crimson eyes.

“Where is it?” he demanded, his tone suddenly sharp.

You blinked, confused. “Where is what?”

“Your ring,” he said coldly, his jaw tightening as his eyes bore into yours. “The one I placed on your finger. The one that marks you as mine.”

Realization dawned, and you glanced down at your bare hand. “Oh,” you said lightly. “I removed it while preparing the tea earlier. I didn’t want it to get dirty.”

Sukuna’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it grew more severe. “And you thought it wise to leave yourself unmarked?”

You frowned, sitting up straighter. “It’s just a ring, Sukuna. It’s not as though I’ve forgotten what it means.”

“Just a ring?” he repeated, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He leaned closer, his four eyes narrowing as his hand shot out to grab your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You insult me with such carelessness.”

You held his gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of his presence. “It was not meant as an insult,” you said firmly. “I was thinking practically. Surely you don’t think a piece of metal is the only proof of my loyalty to you.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a wicked grin, though his eyes still burned with displeasure. “No, but it is a visible declaration. One that tells the world you belong to me. You will not cast it aside so lightly again.”

You sighed, reaching up to rest your hand over his. “It was not my intention to ‘cast it aside,’ as you put it. But if it matters so much to you, I will retrieve it immediately.”

“Do that,” he said, releasing your chin with a flick of his wrist. “And do not make me repeat myself on this matter.”

You rose gracefully, moving toward the chamber where you had set the ring aside. Sukuna’s gaze followed you, his eyes dark and watchful, though you could sense the simmering satisfaction beneath his displeasure.

When you returned, the ring once again adorning your finger, Sukuna reached out and caught your wrist, pulling you closer. He inspected the ring as though ensuring it hadn’t been damaged in your absence.

“Better,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the metal. He glanced up at you, his expression softening slightly—though his grin retained its edge. “Do not forget, wife. You are mine. Always.”

You smirked, leaning down so your face was close to his. “And you are mine, Ryomen Sukuna. Do not forget that either.”

He laughed, a deep, reverberating sound that filled the room. “Bold as ever,” he said, his voice dripping with approval. “Perhaps that’s why I tolerate you.”

[calypso-rt]

5 LIL' THINGS

Rafe does as your bf...

-> Rafe x F!Reader

intro

There were a lot of things people said about Rafe Cameron.

Most of them weren’t nice.

Words like reckless, selfish, and volatile were tossed around with such regularity you’d think they were stitched into his DNA.

And maybe some of that was true. He could be a pain in the ass, even on a good day. But then there were the other things.

The things no one talked about.

Like how he’d tilt his head just slightly when he was pretending not to care but actually cared more than he’d ever admit. Or how he’d mutter something sarcastic to cover up the fact that his eyes softened whenever he looked at you. The kind of things that didn’t make headlines but stayed tucked away in stolen moments and quiet gestures.

Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t a perfect boyfriend. But if you paid attention, he was so much better than perfect.

He was Rafe.

And sometimes, that meant big, messy declarations of love. But most of the time? It was the little things. The ones that slipped through the cracks but left their mark anyway. The kind of things you couldn’t forget, even if you tried.

1 | Midnight Runs for Ice Cream

It started as an offhand comment. You were sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, mumbling something about how a bowl of chocolate ice cream would fix everything wrong with the world. You didn’t expect Rafe to hear it, let alone act on it.

But twenty minutes later, he was pulling up in his truck, headlights slicing through the darkness outside your window.

“Get in,” he called, leaning out of the driver’s side with his trademark smirk. His hair was messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his hoodie hung loosely on his frame, but there was something about the way he looked at you: like he’d move mountains just because you said you were craving dessert.

You didn’t need convincing.

In the car, it took all of five minutes for an argument to break out over toppings.

“Hot fudge is the only acceptable option,” you insisted, crossing your arms dramatically.

Rafe scoffed, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Please. Caramel’s where it’s at. You just don’t have taste.”

“Oh, I have taste,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “You’re the one with the palate of a toddler.”

He glanced over, his smirk widening. “Toddler, huh? That’s bold coming from someone who’s about to order sprinkles.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “And don’t even bother denying it. I already know exactly what you’re getting.”

The audacity.

“You don’t know me, Cameron.”

“Sure I do.” His voice was low, teasing. “Chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, and a mountain of sprinkles.”

And, annoyingly, he was right.

By the time you got back to your place, the ice cream was already melting, but neither of you cared. You leaned against the counter, savoring each bite like it was heaven in a cup. Meanwhile, Rafe stayed perched a few feet away, one hip propped against the edge, arms crossed casually.

He wasn’t eating anything. He never did. But his eyes lingered on you, soft and warm in a way that felt unguarded, like the weight of the world didn’t matter for a little while.

“Why are you staring?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I’m not,” he muttered, looking away, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin.

But he was.

And even though he’d deny it later, you knew that Rafe loved these moments.

Just you, the quiet, and the faint hum of the world outside.

2 | Personal Handyman

It was a lazy afternoon when you casually mentioned the faucet in the kitchen was leaking again. You didn’t think much of it. It was a small problem, something you’d fix when you got around to it. It wasn’t worth stressing over.

But apparently, Rafe thought otherwise.

You were in the living room when you heard the sound of his truck pulling up outside. A moment later, there was a knock at the door, followed by the familiar voice of Rafe Cameron calling your name, low and a little rough.

When you opened the door, he was standing there, toolbox in hand, looking like he’d just walked off a worksite.

“Uh… what are you doing here?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fixing your sink,” he said matter-of-factly, brushing past you and making his way to the kitchen without waiting for permission.

“Rafe, I didn’t-”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand. “You mentioned it. I’ll take care of it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he just acted, like it was no big deal. But you knew better.

Rafe wasn’t exactly Handy Manny. But for some reason, when it came to you, he’d drop whatever he was doing and show up, ready to tackle whatever needed fixing.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as he knelt down by the sink, inspecting the faucet like he actually knew what he was doing. It was kind of endearing, watching him concentrate.

He grumbled to himself, clearly getting frustrated as he fumbled with the wrench. “This thing’s not going in right…”

You couldn’t resist. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He shot you a glare over his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

It took him a bit longer than expected, a few more muttered curses under his breath, but eventually, the leak stopped. He leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag, a proud look on his face.

“Done,” he said, standing up and brushing the dust off his jeans.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, I didn’t think you were the handyman type.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, smirking, wiping his hands one last time. “But I’ll do it for you.”

It wasn’t the words that made your heart skip a beat, it was the sincerity behind them. Because Rafe wasn’t the kind of guy who did things for anyone else. But for you?

Anything.

3 | The Protector

The bonfire crackled, flames dancing in the cool evening air, throwing long shadows across the beach as the sound of waves crashed softly in the background.

Everyone was spread out in small groups, drinks in hand, laughing, talking, and basking in the glow of the fire. It was one of those nights where everyone felt a little too wild, a little too free, but you felt calm. Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Except... Rafe had been watching you.

Not in the creepy, overbearing way, but in the subtle, Rafe kind of way. He was always nearby, his eyes scanning the crowd, just making sure no one got too close. He made sure you had a drink in your hand, not too much, just enough so you didn’t have to worry about someone else trying to buy you one.

He had a sixth sense for noticing when someone came too close to your space, his jaw tightening just slightly as he made his way over to draw you into a conversation, his hand resting at the small of your back like a silent warning to anyone who might have been eyeing you.

“Got everything you need?” he’d ask, his voice low and steady, as he plopped down next to you.

You grinned, giving him an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for being my personal bodyguard tonight.”

His lips quirked up at the corner, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I’m always looking out for you." The words felt like more than just an empty promise. They were a truth, simple but intense in the way only Rafe could be.

As the night stretched on, the bonfire began to fade. The crackling wood sounded more like a whisper now, the heat slipping away into the cool night air. You were just about to get up to grab more firewood when you felt a familiar weight settle over your shoulders.

Rafe’s hoodie. You didn’t even have to ask.

You didn’t even notice he’d stood up, not until he returned, draping the fabric over you in one smooth motion. “Don’t want you getting cold,” he muttered, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long, like he was debating whether he should say more. But then he was back to his spot, his eyes scanning the beach again, always on alert, always looking out for you.

"Thanks," you murmured, pulling the hoodie tighter around your frame, the faint scent of his cologne making you smile.

"Anytime," he replied, his voice low, but it was the kind of ‘anytime’ that meant forever.

And that’s exactly how it felt. Forever.

4 | Has Your Back

It was supposed to be a simple night out.

A few drinks, some laughs, the usual. Dinner at a local spot with Rafe and his friends, the kind of casual evening that would slip by unnoticed in the grand scheme of things. But then, Ruthie opened her mouth.

"Honestly," she started, swirling her drink around nonchalantly, "I don't get it. How'd someone like Rafe end up with you?"

The words stung, and you could feel your cheeks flush. Ruthie had that uncanny ability to hit below the belt without even trying. You shot her a sharp look, about to respond, but before you could, Rafe’s demeanor shifted.

One moment he was laughing, holding court with the guys, the next he was leaning in with an icy calmness that made the air around him tighten. His hand shot out, resting protectively on the back of your chair, his body angling just enough to block Ruthie’s view of you.

"Watch it, Ruth," he said, his voice low, but there was an edge to it. "You might wanna take that back before you piss me off."

You could feel his gaze, intense and unwavering, but there was something else behind it. A playful edge that suggested he wasn’t taking Ruthie’s words too seriously, just looking out for you. You swallowed the heat that had risen in your chest, deciding to hold your ground and respond on your own terms.

"I'm not some charity case, Ruth," you shot back, keeping your tone even but firm. "If you’ve got a problem, maybe we can talk about it later."

Rafe’s lips twitched into a barely there smile as he let you handle it. He wasn’t going to fight your battles for you, but the way he hovered, close enough to let everyone know he was ready if things escalated, was enough to settle the tension.

"And just so you know," Rafe added, looking directly at Ruthie with a mockingly sweet tone, "you can keep your thoughts to yourself. I like her just the way she is."

There was a beat of silence, and Ruthie’s eyes narrowed, but she backed off, giving you a pointed look before taking another sip of her drink.

The night resumed, but you could feel Rafe's hand on your back as he leaned into you, giving your shoulder a quick squeeze.

Later, as you and Rafe walked out of the restaurant, he nudged you with a softer grin. "You handled Ruthie pretty well," he said, his voice a little quieter than usual. "Impressive."

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his sincerity. "You think so?"

Rafe nodded, his gaze softening. "Yeah. She can be a lot, but you didn't back down. I respect that."

You smiled, feeling a warmth you weren’t expecting. "Thanks, Rafe."

He pulled you a little closer, his arm around your shoulders. "Anytime. I’ve got your back." And in that moment, it was clear.

His admiration for you was genuine, and he'd always be there, quietly protective in his own way.

5 | More Than Words

After a long, draining day, you stumbled through the front door, exhaustion weighing heavily on you. The world felt too loud, too overwhelming, and you just wanted to escape for a while.

To your surprise, Rafe was already on the couch, his laptop resting in his lap as he looked up at you, eyes softening the second he saw how tired you were.

Without a word, he set the laptop aside, his usual cocky demeanor gone. He just knew.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

He didn’t need to.

Moving toward you, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto the couch, guiding you gently between his legs, holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. His hand softly brushed through your hair, the quiet comfort of his touch calming the chaos of your mind. He didn’t need to say anything; his presence was enough.

"Hey," his voice was quiet, soft against your ear. "I know today was tough."

You nodded, leaning your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He didn’t try to fix anything. He just held you, grounding you with his steady presence. His fingers found yours, the simple act of holding your hand more meaningful than any words could be.

In the silence, you realized something: with all the messiness inside him, all the brokenness he carried, Rafe knew how to find peace in moments like this.

And in this small, quiet space, you found it too.

Wrapped in his arms, the weight of the world seemed a little less heavy.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

[helluvapoison]

Possessive

how the overlords would put a claim on you

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Carmilla Carmine ⁎⁺˳✧༚

As much as she loves spending her mornings in bed with you, wishfully thinking she could stay there all day, she can only give you 3 more minutes at best. Being an Overlord and a CEO keeps her rather busy. You’re grown, you can handle yourself (you have to in this world) she’s not keeping tabs on your whereabouts. Carmilla isn’t itching for a fight like these new “up and comers”. Giving you something to protect you when she’s not around simultaneously puts a target on your back. A simple ring with her name inscribed would suffice, satisfying any possessive vices she may or may not have

˚✧₊⁎ Zestial ⁎⁺˳✧༚

Abhorrent is jealousy, driving the younger generations to filth like, ugh, hickeys. Although, on a certain level he does understand. Being in Hell for as long as he has and alone the same amount, he knows all too well the primal need to claim what other’s might steal. One must leave their mark as a warning sign for others. Zestial’s exceptionally charming when he wants something, notably not asking when he presents you with the crisply wrapped gifts. There’s no less than twenty. Boxes upon boxes of accessories and clothes that suit you but hold his color palette, spider and web details to boot. He’s utterly thrilled when you wear them, showering you in compliments and declaring himself the luckiest soul in Hell

˚✧₊⁎ Rosie ⁎⁺˳✧༚

Goodness, have you seen how sinners nowadays go about the whole ordeal? What happened to romance!? Call her old fashioned, but Rosie likes a smidge of glamour in her techniques! She’ll walk shoulder to shoulder with you, holding her parasail over the both of you. She’ll accidentally press her painted lips on your cheek and forget, quickly getting swept up into conversation with someone or the other. It’s fine, no one would question her! Not if they wanted to live anyways. Butterflies swarm her stomach when she notices you haven’t wiped her imprint away, a proud smile spreading across her face. It becomes purposeful as the days go on

˚✧₊⁎ Alastor ⁎⁺˳✧༚

While happy to broadcast newsworthy exploits, sharing his private affairs with the world is out of the question. Of course the appeal of it all isn’t lost on him, he merely doesn’t see the point. Why broaden your horizons of potential dangers by claiming you publicly? To calm that unruly, covetous alien in the pit of his chest? He’s not that selfish! Besides, nothing less than something permanent could truly satisfy him anyhow

˚✧₊⁎ Valentino ⁎⁺˳✧༚

If he doesn’t have eyes on you, he’s working. Those measley hours apart won’t stop him from reminding all of Hell you still belong to him. He doesn’t trust anyone down here. He’ll convince you it’s for your safety that he tightens the collar around your neck. With a hum of approval, Val’s long and slender fingers twist the tag with his name on it. Heart shaped, of course, he loves you after all!

˚✧₊⁎ Vox ⁎⁺˳✧༚

Only the insecure need to put a claim on their person. That’s not Vox, no way! You’re never really out of his sights anyways, what with today’s power of technology and all! The need to brand you goes a different route. He wants everyone to know you’re spoken for, pulling you on camera every chance he gets. He wants them to stare in awe and envy but cast their eyes down when you walk by in public. A slight on you would be a slight on him personally and no one messes with The Vees

˚✧₊⁎ Velvette ⁎⁺˳✧༚

Truthfully, there isn’t much she wouldn’t do. You’re all over her Sinstagram and that says it all. Every runway show, every red carpet walk, every paparazzi shot you’re always beside her. Vel dresses you left and right to match her OOTD somehow. She snaps a pic every single day (sometimes more) to show her followers their favorite couple is thriving and stylish as always! The description never fails to scream how your all hers

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT next: love in withdrawal

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!