#its technically not a question but it is an ask...

[craniumcrunch]

i’ve thought about this a lot recently — more specifically asking myself the question of, had any of the others reached out to misty, would she have accepted?

look at her relationship with walter. it started out tentative, with misty initially shying away from his advances in favour of seeking out nat. then in the compound nat forsakes her (in a sense) for lottie, and in their brief encounter shauna seeks to alienate her from the rest of the group. these are the seeds sown for the deprivation tank hallucination, wherein which her ‘perfect partner’ is one who accepts her exactly as she is. and i mean, walter can technically never fit the mould of perfect partner because he’s a MAN, but other than that he *should* check her boxes. and at a distance, he does! it’s not like misty only ever feels derision regarding him. there is a compulsion to be close to him because he is possibly the only person on the planet who cares (in his own weird way). vulnerability. a perceived, false connection, vastly different to all the others she’s formed — in which misty plays the role of the *pursued*, rather than the *pursuer* and it makes her so, so uncomfortable.

so that’s kind of what i want to talk about here. misty being the object as opposed to the subject. misty being on the receiving end of affection rather than its giver. one of the reasons her relationships just *can’t* work out is because misty invests 100% of her energy into the person she’s focused on and expects them to give, like, 7% back. and i think she’s afraid of doing things differently. i think that, secretly, she’s relieved when none of the girls call her up.

this rejection of care isn’t something we see her do with walter alone, bc then it could just be chalked up to *that*. no, when nat’s on the phone with her, back in s1, misty interrupts her before she can apologise. equally, she glosses over nat’s apology at the door. because these interactions are genuine, and misty spurns affection unless it’s something manipulated/controlled. that isn’t to say she doesn’t desire being cared for — it’s to say it’s a shallow desire, it’s her chasing an idea, like she does with romance/men.

also to do with how she subconsciously hates herself and actively pushes away anybody who emulates any one of her behaviours. case in point, walter, and you could even argue shauna — what with her stalking and their similar responses to lottie’s death and such. + shauna giving her that brief monologue at the end going like ‘you’re just like me’ and misty’s face going all blank. yeah, she’s figured out they’re a lot more similar than either of them originally thought a long time ago.

i have completely forgotten about how misty canonically spent 6 WEEKS in bed after nats death and literally none of the girls called or went to check on her #KILLINGMYSELF

[yukkiji]

i js wanted to drop in and say ur writing is some of the best here on haikyuublr right now and u have such a talent <3 loved ur iwa and atsumu fic and greatly loking forward to reading more of ur stuff after writing this. thank u for sharing ur stuff and excited for whatever else u decide to write!!! ALSO i would love to request something longer with suna if thatd be possible,, maybe something where reader's feeling insecure bc its been a while since theyve done anything? when in reality suna's js exhausted from work and accidentally neglected her T-T if u dont wanna do this i dont mind at all anything with sunarin is fine <3 love ur writing againnn

still here, still yours

after weeks of exhaustion and unintended neglect, pro volleyball player suna gently reassures his insecure partner through tender, praise-filled intimacy—reminding her she's always wanted, never forgotten, and deeply loved.

starring. suna rintaro x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, light angst, smut

warning: 18+ mdni., smut, nsfw, praise kink, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, dom!suna, emotional neglect, reassurance, light spanking, shower scene, soft aftercare, verbal praise, body worship, unprotected sex

wc: 11.8k

author's note: long overdue but here it is! i hope you enjoy reading this hehe

it’s subtle at first.

the distance.

not a storm, not a blowout, not even a sharp word. just… a creeping quiet. the kind you don’t notice until you’re already sitting in the dark, wondering when the lights went out.

you chalk it up to exhaustion—the kind that’s expected from a professional athlete grinding through mid-season. rintarou comes home past midnight most nights now, his footsteps dragging, his voice low. the door opens, then closes with a tired sigh. his bag hits the floor, and he exhales like the weight on his shoulders is just too much.

he always greets you. always. a soft, automatic “hey,” murmured against your hair as he walks by. sometimes a kiss on the top of your head if he remembers. sometimes, if he isn’t too far gone, he pulls you against his chest for a minute, just holding you in that quiet, liminal hour between exhaustion and sleep.

but more often lately, he heads straight to the shower. a ten-minute rinse, the door left cracked open so the steam doesn’t fog the glass. when he returns, towel slung low on his hips, he drops into bed beside you with a grunt, kisses your shoulder if he’s awake enough, and passes out before you can even finish whispering, “welcome home.”

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

because technically, nothing’s wrong.

you still laugh at the memes he sends you at 1 a.m. from his side of the bed. you still hear him humming under his breath when he makes you tea in the morning. he still saves your leftovers when he eats out with the team. he still picks up your favorite snacks at the corner store without you asking.

but something’s missing.

something deep.

and you don’t even realize what it is until the third night he doesn’t come home at all.

no warning. no messages until after midnight, just a tired update: [rintaro]: staying at the facility tonight. too tired to drive back. love you.

you believe him. of course you do. you never doubt him. suna may be many things—dry, aloof, chronically low-energy—but he has never lied to you. never once gave you a reason to question his loyalty, his commitment. he’s yours. fully.

and still—you ache.

you lie in bed in one of his old shirts, the fabric stretched soft from years of wear, and your hands wander. you trail your fingers down your ribs, over your hips, part your thighs and slip under your panties.

you try.

you really try.

but your hand doesn’t feel like his.

your fingers don’t curl with the same hunger, don’t slide with the same deliberate slowness that he always used when he wanted to wreck you slowly. they don’t press firm and steady on your clit the way he does, the way that always made your legs shake. they don’t fill you the way he does—long fingers that crook just right, mouth murmuring praise between licks as you unravel under him.

you moan, trying to conjure him. you imagine his voice, low and thick with sleep, telling you what a good girl you are. how sweet you taste. how soft you feel. you remember the way he used to breathe harder when he got close to making you come, like your pleasure turned him inside out.

but it’s not the same.

your own touch feels foreign. lonely. hollow.

and when the heat finally builds and fizzles out, you lie there unsatisfied, eyes burning, chest aching more than your thighs.

not because you’re angry. not because you don’t trust him.

but because you miss him in a way that makes your body ache.

you miss the way he used to need you.

now it feels like he needs rest more than he needs you.

you know he’s tired. you know he’s overworked. you’ve seen the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winces when he peels off his tape, the dark circles deepening under his eyes. you know that every match, every practice, every press event chips away at the energy he has left.

but still—you miss him.

and more than that, you miss feeling wanted.

not just loved. not just adored in the passive, every-day kind of way. but craved. desired. claimed.

you can’t even remember the last time he touched you like that. not out of obligation. not for routine.

but because he couldn’t not.

because his body had to be on yours, had to taste you, had to feel you wrapped around him.

you pull your hand back and curl into yourself, frustrated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. you’re not mad. you’re not suspicious. just…

lonely.

quietly, devastatingly lonely.

and you don’t know how to bring it up without sounding like you’re asking for too much.

without sounding like one more thing he doesn’t have the energy for.

but this quiet?

it’s starting to feel like a slow kind of heartbreak.

like watching the tide pull away, further and further, and wondering if it’s ever going to come back to shore.

it’s starting to feel like a slow kind of heartbreak.

like watching the tide pull away, further and further, and wondering if it’s ever going to come back to shore.

you wipe your hand on the hem of your shirt and breathe in deep—once, then again—trying to convince your body that the tears pooling in your eyes are just from frustration. not sadness. not rejection. just a fleeting ache. something that sleep will solve.

except, sleep doesn’t come easily anymore.

not when the bed feels too cold on one side. not when the sheets still smell like him, and your fingers ache from trying to replace a warmth that only he can give.

so you sit up.

pad into the kitchen. open the fridge. close it. not hungry.

you scroll your phone, rereading old messages from months ago—selfies he used to send from the gym, photos of his legs iced up and flexed after a match, paired with a lazy “you like this, don’t lie” and a smirking emoji. voice memos of him mumbling how much he missed you after a long away game. a grainy video of him shirtless in the locker room, whispering a low “wish you were here” against a backdrop of noisy teammates.

that version of him feels so far away now.

not gone. but buried. like a season passed, and no one told you it wouldn’t come back the same.

you curl into the couch with a blanket over your lap, eyes on the clock.

12:46 a.m.

then 1:22.

then 1:37.

no update.

he’s not home.

again.

you check your phone just to be sure, even though there’s no buzz, no badge.

nothing.

you think about calling. about asking if he’s okay. about whether he ate dinner, or if he remembered to put on the muscle rub that helps with his back. but then you imagine him in the locker room, tired eyes barely open, chin tucked to his chest as he tries to survive the day, and guilt gnaws at your resolve.

you don’t want to be a burden.

but when the door finally creaks open at 2:04 a.m., your body jolts upright before you even realize you’ve moved.

he looks… drained.

dark circles. damp hair. eyes dull like a storm cloud that never opens up. he kicks off his shoes without looking up, his bag thudding against the door.

“hey,” he mumbles, like always.

suna walks toward the couch, still shrugging off the weight of the day, and bends just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. the press of his lips is warm—familiar—but distant, like a habit rather than a want.

"why are you still awake, baby?" he murmurs, voice low and raspy, like gravel smoothed by exhaustion.

you stare at the muted tv for a beat too long before answering.

“i couldn’t sleep.”

he hums absently, his hand brushing the top of your head in that same distracted way he always does lately. like he means to be comforting but doesn’t linger long enough to make it count. then he turns, already peeling off his hoodie as he makes his way down the hall.

"don’t wait up for me,” he says, voice fading as he walks, “i’ll head to our bedroom after i shower, okay?”

you don’t answer.

because if you do, you’re scared it’ll come out as a sob.

so you just nod, even though he can’t see it, curling in tighter on the couch as you listen to the bathroom door click shut. the sound of running water soon follows—soft at first, then rushing.

you stay where you are.

wrapped in silence. in soft cotton and worn-out longing. your body curled like muscle memory, trying to make yourself small. the blanket's gone cold now, and the cushions beneath you are sunken with the weight of waiting.

you think about getting up. think about brushing your teeth and sliding under the sheets like nothing hurts. think about pretending you didn’t cry earlier, about slipping into bed beside him and offering your back like a silent invitation he probably won’t take.

but you can’t move.

not yet.

because even now—after he’s home, after he kissed your temple, after he said he’d meet you in bed—there’s still a hollow ache in your chest that hasn’t quieted.

you hear the water shut off.

moments later, the door opens. his familiar steps thump softly against the hallway floor.

you expect him to go straight to the bedroom like always.

but instead—

“…babe?”

his voice comes from behind you, confused. not panicked. but uncertain.

you blink slowly, still curled up on the couch, and turn your head just enough to see him standing there, fresh from the shower.

hair damp, sticking in dark strands across his forehead. a towel slung loosely around his hips, clinging low on his hips. water still glistening down his chest—broad, lean, the kind of frame built from quiet discipline and relentless training. his hand clutches a shirt he probably meant to put on in the bedroom.

but he never made it that far.

because you’re still not there.

and he notices.

“…why’re you still out here?” he asks quietly, his brows drawing together.

you don’t answer at first.

you just look up at him.

and that’s when he really sees you.

the tired set of your shoulders. the way your lips are pressed together like they’re holding back a flood. the way your eyes glint—not from the tv light, but from the tears you refuse to shed a second time tonight.

his expression falters.

he drops the shirt in his hand, chest still rising and falling slowly from the heat of the shower—and maybe now, from something else.

he crosses to you without a word, crouches beside the couch, and touches your knee with gentle fingers.

“talk to me,” he says, softly. genuinely. “please.”

and that’s when your voice cracks.

“did i do something wrong?”

you don’t mean for it to come out like that.

small. fragile. broken around the edges.

but there it is—bare and trembling in the air between you.

“did i do something wrong?”

suna’s breath stutters, his hand tightening just slightly on your knee. not out of anger. out of heartbreak. it’s written all over his face now—the pieces finally clicking into place, sharp and clear and cutting.

“no,” he breathes. “no, baby, you didn’t.”

you look away, ashamed, eyes blinking hard as your throat constricts. but he doesn’t let you pull away—not even in silence. he gently climbs onto the couch beside you, still shirtless, still warm from the shower, and wraps an arm around your shoulders like he’s trying to shield you from the weight you’ve been carrying alone.

“i just…” your voice trembles. “you haven’t touched me in weeks. you don’t look at me the way you used to. you barely come home anymore. i thought maybe—maybe i wasn’t enough for you anymore.”

“hey—hey.” he pulls back just enough to cup your cheeks, to make you look at him. “don’t say that. don’t even think that.”

you try to hold it together, but your bottom lip quivers.

“i trust you, rin. i do. i never thought you were cheating, or that there was someone else, i just… i miss how it used to be. i miss how you used to be with me. i miss you.”

he lets out a quiet sound, like it physically hurts to hear.

and then his forehead is pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face with aching care.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers. “you didn’t do anything wrong. you’re still everything i want. everything i need. you always have been.”

“then why…?” your eyes flicker shut, voice barely a breath. “why did it start to feel like i wasn’t?”

“i got caught up,” he admits, voice hoarse. “with the team, and travel, and press—and i kept telling myself i’d make it up to you after the season, or the week after, or the next time i had energy. but all that time, i didn’t notice i was slowly… fading out of us. and i didn’t realize how far i’d drifted until i looked up tonight and you weren’t in bed. you were still out here, waiting.”

“i wasn’t waiting,” you say, barely.

he nods. “i know. i mean—i know you were done waiting. i should’ve come home to you weeks ago. i should’ve noticed that i was holding you at arm’s length when i should’ve been holding you close.”

he pauses, then says quietly:

“you never stopped being enough. i just stopped showing you that i saw it. that i saw you. and that’s on me.”

you blink again, this time letting the tears fall.

“rin…”

he wipes them with his thumbs, leaning in to kiss your cheeks—once, twice—then your nose, then your forehead.

“i love you,” he murmurs. “i love you so fucking much. and i’m sorry for making you feel anything less than wanted. i hate that you thought you had to question how much i still want you.”

your voice comes out cracked. “it’s been hard.”

“i know.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and slow. “let me make it easier again.”

you hesitate. “i don’t want you to do it just because you feel bad.”

“i’m doing it because i miss you,” he says, firmer now. “because i’ve been starving for you and too fucking tired to reach out. but i’m reaching now. if you’ll let me.”

you nod slowly, and he presses his lips to yours fully this time—gentle at first, then deeper, like he’s pouring every apology and longing into the kiss. like he’s been aching too. like he finally remembered how to hold you.

he kisses you like he’s starved for it—like he’s been standing in the doorway of himself for weeks, unable to find the key, and tonight you finally let him in.

his hand slides up your thigh, warm and steady, until his fingers dip just beneath the edge of your shorts. his knuckles brush your inner thigh, and you shiver, gasping softly into his mouth. the heat that floods your body is instant—dizzying—and he groans as you squirm in response, like your reaction only feeds him.

“come here,” he murmurs, already tugging your hips toward him until you're lying flat on the couch cushions, head tilted back against the armrest.

he drops to his knees between your legs, and the moment he looks up at you—wet hair falling over his eyes, mouth already parted like he’s hungry—your breath catches in your throat.

“you okay?” he asks, softer now.

you nod, eyes half-lidded.

“i just… i missed you,” you whisper. “so much.”

his jaw clenches.

“i know,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “i’m gonna make it up to you, baby. just lay back. let me take care of you.”

you lift your hips obediently when he starts to tug your shorts down—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. he kisses your inner thigh first, just barely grazing his lips over the sensitive skin, then drags his mouth higher.

when he sees how wet you are—already slick, glistening under the dim light—he pauses.

his eyes flick up to yours, and you don’t even try to hide it.

“i touched myself earlier,” you admit, cheeks burning. “it didn’t feel the same. i—i needed you.”

his jaw tightens, eyes darkening.

still kneeling between your thighs, his gaze drags down slowly—over your flushed cheeks, your heaving chest, the soaked curve of your panties stretched tight against your pussy. and he just stares.

his voice drops, low and edged with heat. “you know i hate it when you touch yourself, baby.”

you shiver.

“but…” he leans in, nuzzles your inner thigh, his lips brushing hot against your skin, “…i wasn’t there for you, huh?”

you nod faintly, biting your lip. “i tried. it just… didn’t work.”

he hums against your skin, one hand trailing up your thigh, splaying wide over your hip. “because this pussy doesn’t open for anyone but me.”

your breath catches in your throat.

then—he hooks his fingers into your panties and drags them down excruciatingly slow, eyes locked on your glistening cunt. you swear you feel his breath hitch when he sees how wet you are.

“fuck,” he breathes, like it punches the air out of him. “you’re soaked.”

he leans in without hesitation, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and moans.

loudly.

like the taste of you alone nearly makes him lose it.

“missed this,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “missed you.”

then he dives in.

his mouth seals over your clit like he’s starved—tongue warm and wet, flicking in tight, steady circles that make your thighs twitch. you gasp, back arching, and he groans again, like your reaction turns him on more than anything.

his tongue flattens and licks broad and slow, then tightens again to flick quick patterns over your clit. when you whimper, he slides his hands up, pressing your hips down with his forearms to keep you in place, to stop you from squirming away.

“you don’t get to run,” he says against you, voice muffled. “you wanted this—missed this. let me give it to you.”

and god, he gives.

he moves like he’s memorized every sound you make, every tremble, every part of you that begs to be touched. his tongue works your clit in perfect rhythm—slow, steady, precise. he moans every time you gasp his name. and when your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, gripping, he growls into your cunt like he wants to drown in it.

“rinnie—” you gasp.

that name. that soft little plea.

it makes something snap in him.

he pulls back for a second, lips slick, panting, and stares at your ruined expression.

“say it again.”

“rinnie,” you whisper, voice shaking.

his mouth crashes back to your clit and he slides two fingers into you with practiced ease. they stretch you open—deep, slow, curling perfectly against your sweet spot.

you cry out, body arching. “oh my—rin—!”

he starts fucking you with his fingers—deep and unrelenting. his pace is slow, but brutal, curling on every thrust. paired with his tongue flicking your clit again, your whole body starts to tremble.

you’re drenched. you hear it. every wet drag of his fingers, every slick suck of his lips over your clit.

“so fucking tight,” he rasps against you. “this pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

“y-yes—!”

“this is mine,” he growls. “say it.”

“yours! it’s yours—rinnie, please—!”

his fingers speed up.

his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking harder now—his tongue flicking faster, relentless. the combination builds fast—pressure curling, tightening, cresting under your skin like a wave you can’t stop.

“i wanna feel you cum, baby,” he pants against your pussy. “you gonna let me taste it?”

you’re too far gone to speak.

so you moan, and moan, hips bucking, thighs trembling.

and then—

you fall apart.

your orgasm rips through you—sharp and hot and overwhelming—your walls fluttering around his fingers, your cries echoing in the room.

suna moans into your release, drinks it down like it’s holy. he doesn’t stop. not until your body jerks from oversensitivity, and your hand pulls weakly at his hair.

then, slowly, he eases his fingers out and kisses your inner thigh like he’s thanking you.

you’re a mess—panting, legs trembling, chest heaving with every shaky breath. your skin is flushed with heat, overstimulated and glowing, and slick glistens between your thighs, dripping onto the couch cushions beneath you.

and him—suna—he’s still kneeling there, shirtless, broad shoulders rising and falling slowly, his chest kissed with droplets from his earlier shower. the towel around his waist has loosened just slightly, dangerously low on his hips, and his cock strains against the fabric, hard and heavy.

his chin glistens with your release, his lips swollen and pink. his eyes—dark, glassy, starving—drink you in like he’s imprinting every ruined inch of you into his memory.

and then—

he raises his hand.

two fingers glistening with your cum. slick and shining in the low light.

and without breaking eye contact—

suna brings those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

slow. leisurely. obscene.

his lips wrap around them and he moans low in his throat, tongue dragging up to savor every last drop of you.

your breath catches hard in your throat.

you feel it.

another gush of heat between your legs—like your body’s responding all over again, already throbbing with fresh want.

he notices.

the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and lazy, but his eyes are still hazy with need. still dark.

“you’re wet again,” he says quietly, fingers slipping from his mouth with a soft pop. his voice is low—dangerous—but wrapped in velvet. “that turn you on, baby?”

you can’t even deny it. not when your thighs press together involuntarily, chasing the friction. not when your skin burns under his gaze like he’s touching you with his eyes alone.

your voice comes out breathy. “rinnie…”

and that name—that sweet, submissive lilt—makes his towel tent even more.

he growls, climbing up onto the couch, crowding over your body.

“you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against your mouth, kissing you again. “and you’re gonna let me fuck you now, yeah?”

your breath hitches.

he presses his forehead to yours, thumb caressing your cheek.

“let me make love to you slow, baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked with reverence. “let me remind you what it means to be mine.”

you barely nod before his arms are sliding beneath your back and thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the couch. the shift makes you gasp, but he holds you close, your bare chest pressed to his while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. the towel is bunched between you now, loose and useless, your slick center brushing against the rigid outline of his cock.

you can feel him—hot, thick, already throbbing.

suna walks with slow, steady steps toward the bedroom, eyes fixed on you. he nudges the door open with his foot, never once faltering in his hold. the hallway light hits just enough to cast the sharp lines of his jaw and the soft gleam in his eyes.

you’re both half-undressed, your body flushed and still twitching from your orgasm, but your need spikes again just from feeling him so close—so hard. you grind against him instinctively, rolling your hips forward to chase the friction.

he hisses under his breath, arms tightening around you.

then—smack.

his hand lands firm and hot against your thigh, just enough to make you jolt.

“behave,” he mutters, voice dark now. his lips graze your ear, and you can feel the warning in his breath. “you wanna cum again tonight, don’t you?”

you bite your lip, nodding wordlessly.

“then wait,” he says, his palm smoothing over the sting he just left. “be good for me. i’ll give you everything. just let me get you to bed.”

you whimper, the heat between your legs pulsing at the way he speaks to you—firm but reverent, like you’re something precious and his.

on the way to the bedroom, his hoodie and your bra are discarded along the hall—rushed, messy, fevered. the moment you reach the bed, he lays you down gently, almost worshipfully, like you’re breakable and holy all at once.

he looks down at you.

bare. breathless. glowing.

and he lets the towel drop.

it pools at his feet, but your gaze doesn’t follow it. your eyes are locked on the heavy line of his cock—hard, flushed, thick, the tip glistening with arousal. he’s already leaking, already twitching as if your soaked body alone is enough to ruin him.

your thighs instinctively fall open, legs parting like muscle memory, inviting him in. suna watches the motion with a soft inhale, his eyes hungry, dark with something primal.

“look at you,” he murmurs, climbing over you slowly, like he’s savoring the view of your bare body spread out just for him. “dripping for me already.”

he leans down, kissing your collarbone first—slow, open-mouthed—then drags his lips across your skin until he reaches your mouth. and when he kisses you again, it’s warm and deep and wet, the kind of kiss that swallows everything.

he kisses you like he’s been dying of thirst and you’re the only thing that could ever quench it.

his hips dip lower, cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in your slick. he moans softly into your mouth when he feels how ready you are—how wet and swollen and clenching at nothing.

“feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough, hips rocking gently to tease your clit with the thick, aching head of his cock. “your pussy’s begging, baby.”

you whimper into his kiss, hips rising to meet his.

then—finally—he pushes in.

the tip eases past your entrance, stretching you open so slowly it makes your eyes roll back. he doesn’t rush it. he keeps kissing you, swallowing your shaky moans as he fills you inch by inch. his tongue slips into your mouth with the same lazy intensity, syncing perfectly with the slow, deliberate slide of his cock.

“fuck,” he hisses against your lips. “so tight. so warm. still the best thing i’ve ever felt.”

you break the kiss with a gasp, head tilting back into the pillow. he follows, mouthing down your throat, your jaw, the edge of your lips. you’re trying to breathe, trying to think, but he’s barely halfway in and your body already feels like it’s burning alive.

your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in when his hips roll forward again, pushing deeper.

“r-rinnie,” you moan, voice breaking into a whisper. “it’s so much…”

he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper.

“i know, baby. you’re taking me so well,” he murmurs against your mouth. “just like that. let me in. let me fill you up.”

his hand cups your thigh, spreading you wider. his pace never quickens—never—he sinks in slow, thick inch by thick inch, kissing you through the stretch, through the way your body tightens around him like you’ve been waiting to be whole again.

you whine against his lips, body arching, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming stretch and sweetness of it all.

when his hips finally press flush against yours, he doesn’t move.

he just holds himself there—buried to the hilt, twitching inside you—his lips brushing yours with a reverent sigh.

“there,” he whispers. “finally.”

you nod, dazed, barely able to speak.

“you feel me, baby?” he murmurs. “deep inside you, where i belong?”

“yes—rinnie, i feel you, i feel everything—”

he kisses you again, swallowing the way your voice trembles, and he doesn’t pull out yet. instead, he rocks his hips gently, barely moving—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the thickness, the stretch.

“gonna take my time,” he promises, voice thick with emotion. “gonna love you so good you’ll forget all the nights i wasn’t here.”

your hands cup his face now, lips brushing his as your eyes flutter closed.

“just don’t stop,” you whisper. “don’t leave me empty anymore.”

his expression softens like he’s about to break.

“i won’t,” he says. “never again.”

and then—he pulls out just an inch, then slides back in, kissing you harder now.

and finally, finally, suna starts to move.

his hips roll into you with a lazy, deliberate rhythm—each thrust slow, smooth, like he’s memorizing the way your walls flutter around him. there’s no urgency, no rush. just the deep, steady grind of his cock inside you and the weight of his body pressed so perfectly into yours.

his lips never stray far from your skin. he peppers soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, then down to your shoulder, lingering at the dip of your collarbone like he’s anchoring himself there. every kiss is slow, reverent—matched to the way he moves inside you, the way he fills you with every deep, perfect stroke.

“feels so good,” he whispers against your skin. “so warm. so tight. you always take me so well.”

you gasp softly, fingers threading through his hair as you tilt your head, giving him more of your throat. he takes it, mouthing gently at your pulse point, his breath hot and ragged.

“missed this. missed you.”

he thrusts again—deep, slow, the kind of pace that makes your toes curl and your breath catch.

“i never got tired of you,” he murmurs, voice rough but steady. “not once. never stopped wanting you, baby.”

you whimper his name—“rinnie”—and his hips stutter, just slightly.

his hand slides down to grip your thigh, spreading you wider as he rocks into you again, a little deeper this time. your body stretches around him perfectly, molding to every slow, grinding thrust like he was made for you.

“not your body,” he continues, kissing below your ear, “not your voice, not the way you look at me when you’re falling apart.”

his words settle deep, like warm honey sinking into cracked skin.

“fuck, i missed this sweet little pussy,” he groans into your shoulder, voice husky. “i’ve been so out of it i forgot how fucking good it feels to be home.”

you choke on a moan, clinging to him tighter as your hips roll up to meet his—chasing his rhythm, desperate to be even closer.

“rinnie—please, don’t stop.”

“not going anywhere,” he breathes, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth again. “you hear me? i’m not gonna stop. not until you believe how much i still love you.”

his thrusts stay deep, measured—his cock dragging perfectly along your walls, kissing that sweet spot inside you with every roll of his hips. you feel so full, so cherished, your body buzzing under the slow build of heat.

and all the while, he never stops touching you, kissing you, talking to you.

“you’re everything to me.”

“you’re the best thing i’ve ever come home to.”

“i’m sorry it took me so long to show it.”

your heart squeezes painfully, eyes brimming with tears as you breathe out his name again.

and he kisses the corner of your mouth, whispering against your lips:

“let me stay here. let me love you right this time.”

the words linger in the air, wrapped in the heat of your skin and the tremble of your breath. your legs are still wrapped loosely around his waist, your arms clinging around his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again if you let go. but he doesn’t. suna stays right there—inside you, above you, around you—thrusting slow and deep, like he’s in no hurry to reach the end.

his palm smooths along the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling as he presses another kiss to your lips—soft, warm, home.

it’s quiet for a beat.

just your bodies moving together.

your soft moans swallowed between kisses.

the slick sound of him sliding in and out of you.

the weight of weeks of longing melting between the sheets.

but the ache is growing—coiling low in your belly. the slow rhythm is beautiful, addicting—but it’s not enough anymore. not with how full you feel. not with how much you need him.

your voice is barely more than a whimper.

“rin… faster, please.”

he freezes, eyes flicking down to meet yours.

and just like that—his expression shifts.

from tender to something darker. more possessive.

his lips curl into a quiet, knowing smirk. “could’ve just asked, baby.”

then his hands slide down—gripping the backs of your thighs as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you beneath him in one smooth, practiced motion.

the mating press.

his favorite.

because this is the position where he feels the most connected to you—where he can press every inch of himself into you, watch the way your face contorts with every thrust, feel your pussy tighten around him with nowhere to run.

where he can fuck you deep enough to hit your soul.

“you know i love you like this,” he grits out, adjusting his hips until the angle is perfect, until he’s buried even deeper.

you cry out at the stretch, the sudden change, your hands clutching at the sheets.

and then he starts to move.

harder. deeper.

his hips snap into yours, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. every stroke punches a moan out of you, your legs trembling where they’re pinned against his chest. he doesn’t let up—he won’t.

then—he leans down, shifting his weight so your thighs are still pressed high but his chest meets yours again. his mouth finds your breast, warm and wet as he wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks.

your head falls back with a moan. “rinnie—!”

he groans around your skin, tongue swirling slowly, then fast, then pulling off with a soft pop before switching to the other.

“can’t get enough of you,” he pants, voice muffled against your chest. “wanna be close. wanna be inside you when you cum.”

your nails dig into his back as he fucks you deeper, faster, rougher—his mouth latching onto your nipple again like he’s drinking from you, like it grounds him.

“rin, i’m—! i’m gonna—!”

“i know, baby,” he groans, voice cracked with the effort of restraint, his hips stuttering just slightly from the way your walls are already fluttering around him. “cum for me. milk my cock. show me how good i make you feel.”

and then he shifts—just barely—but enough to slip one hand down from your thigh and press it between your bodies. the way he moves, the way he always knows exactly what you need, even now with his cock buried deep inside you, makes your heart swell.

his fingers find your clit instantly, already slick and swollen from how thoroughly he’s worked you up.

and then—he touches you.

a single, perfect swipe.

your back arches, a cry tearing from your throat before you can even bite it back.

“rinnie—!”

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, low and reverent, eyes flickering from your trembling body to your face as his thumb begins to rub slow, tight circles over your clit. “i always do.”

his thrusts stay deep and unrelenting, grinding into your cervix with each push as your thighs shake around his waist, pinned wide in his favorite position. the mating press makes you feel so full, so claimed, so his. and with his fingers teasing your clit—just right, just perfect—it’s too much.

you sob beneath him, pleasure threatening to snap loose like a wire pulled too tight.

every thrust hits your sweet spot dead-on, his cock dragging against every oversensitive nerve, while his thumb massages slow circles that have your vision going blurry, breath leaving your lungs in shuddering gasps.

“you gonna cum, pretty girl?” he pants, lips grazing your jaw. “gonna cum all over my cock while i’m this deep inside you?”

you nod frantically, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it feels.

“yes—yes, rinnie, i—oh my god, i’m gonna—”

“then fuckin’ let go.”

he leans in close, pressing his mouth to yours, and the second you moan into the kiss—your entire body breaks.

your orgasm hits like lightning—hard and hot, making your thighs twitch violently and your core clamp down around him in pulsing waves. your back lifts off the bed, body arching against his as you cry out his name over and over again, voice raw and ruined.

“fuck, yes—cum on my cock, just like that,” he growls, watching your face, eyes nearly wild as he feels you squeeze and throb around him. “god, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. so perfect. this pussy was made for me.”

you can’t even speak—only sob, gasping as his cock continues to grind deep, his thumb slowing its circles now as your orgasm washes through you in long, drawn-out tremors.

your body collapses against the bed, boneless and overwhelmed, every nerve ending still buzzing.

but he’s still hard. still inside you.

and still fighting his own edge.

suna groans above you, his pace beginning to falter, a different kind of urgency taking over his movements now. his hand leaves your clit to grip your thigh again, pushing your legs even higher, even tighter to your chest.

“so fuckin’ tight when you cum,” he growls, hips snapping harder now, chasing his own release. “can’t hold it anymore—gonna fill you up, baby—gonna cum so deep inside this pretty pussy—”

his breathing shudders as your walls continue fluttering around him, your body still wrung out and gripping him like you never want to let go.

you manage to lift your arms, wrap them around his back, anchoring him to you.

“please,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “cum inside me, rinnie. want it so bad.”

that’s all it takes.

he plunges deep one last time—so deep it punches the air out of your lungs—and cums.

he moans your name as he spills into you, thick ropes of heat flooding your cunt, his cock twitching inside you with every wave of pleasure. his face buries into your neck, one hand gripping the back of your thigh, the other curled into the sheets beside your head as he rides out his orgasm in long, slow pulses.

you feel it. every drop. every throb.

and it only makes you hold him tighter.

he stays like that for a moment—breathing hard against your skin, chest rising and falling with yours, cock still buried deep, not ready to let go just yet.

“i needed that,” he breathes finally. “i needed you.”

you nod, lips brushing his temple, still trembling beneath him from the high. your heart pounds against your ribs, the slow stretch of afterglow sweeping over your limbs, but beneath it all—you're still pulsing. still needy. still not ready to let go.

and neither is he.

suna’s still inside you, his cock softening slightly from his orgasm, but the way your body stays wrapped around him—warm and wet and clenching gently with each little aftershock—has him breathing unevenly against your shoulder again.

his voice is rough, thick with the hint of a groan. “you’re gonna get me hard again if you keep squeezing me like that.”

you smile softly, tilting his chin up until your eyes meet.

“then let me take care of you now.”

he blinks, eyes fluttering, a little caught off-guard by the shift in your tone—no longer pleading or aching, but devoted. steady.

still straddling his waist in the mating press, you slowly slide off of him—every inch leaving you makes you both moan softly, the sensation almost too much, too bare. your thighs tremble as his cock slips free with a wet sound, followed immediately by the warm, slick spill of both your releases—his cum and yours—dripping from your swollen folds down onto his lower abdomen.

it’s messy. sticky. intimate in the way only lovers who’ve been through everything can be.

you try to move, try to shift off him gently, but suna catches the motion. his eyes drop immediately between your legs and he groans—deep and low in his throat, like he’s trying to keep it in but fails.

your mixed slick is coating your thighs, still trickling slowly down onto his stomach, and the sight wrecks him.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening again. “look at the mess we made…”

you don’t even get the chance to respond—not when you feel it.

him.

hardening again beneath you.

you glance down, eyes wide, as his cock, flushed and glistening, twitches back to life against his stomach. he’s already half-hard again, his breathing uneven just from the sight of you still soaked, your folds glistening and dripping with his cum.

“rinnie…” you murmur, somewhere between breathless and shy, “again?”

“i can’t help it,” he groans, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back. “you’re still dripping, baby. fuck, i didn’t even get to watch it all spill out properly…”

you tremble, heat spiraling through your core again despite the exhaustion in your limbs.

“you do something to me,” he murmurs, sitting up so you’re straddling his lap again, chests flush. his cock presses right against your slit now, nudging between your folds, still slick with everything. “you make me insatiable.”

he leans in, kissing you—slow and greedy—his fingers sliding down to spread you open again, groaning into your mouth when he feels how soft and wet you still are.

“and you’re still ready for me,” he adds, voice rough. “still warm. still fucking perfect.”

you whimper into the kiss, rocking your hips against him again, helpless to the way your body responds.

your pussy’s still sore, stretched, and yet—his need for you, the heat of his voice, the mess between your thighs—has you wanting him again already.

“you think you can ride me now, sweetheart?” he murmurs, thumb grazing your clit with a featherlight touch. “wanna see you take me like you missed me.”

and you nod, breathless, already sinking back down—ready to remind him that no matter how many times he fills you, no matter how much he takes, you’ll always want more.

always want him.

your body aches, your thighs tremble, and your pussy’s still throbbing from everything he’s already given you—but none of that matters. not when he’s looking up at you like this. not when his touch is soft on your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself in your warmth.

suna leans back slightly against the pillows, legs spread, his toned chest rising and falling with each breath as he watches you from beneath heavy lids. his cock stands hard again, already flushed and leaking, the head slick from your shared release earlier.

“come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with need. one of his hands slides down between you, wrapping around the base of his cock as he guides you toward it. “i’ll hold it. just take your time.”

you shift your hips, positioning yourself over him, your hands braced against his chest. slowly, carefully, you lower yourself down—letting the thick, aching head stretch you open once more.

both of you groan.

the feeling of him sinking into you again—after already being fucked so thoroughly—makes your head spin. he’s hot, thick, deep, and every inch feels like too much and still not enough.

“that’s it,” he pants, watching your face, his grip tightening around the base as you inch down farther. “take all of me. let me stretch you out again.”

you moan, breath hitching as your body accepts him—slowly, completely—until your hips finally meet his. you’re seated fully now, and you can feel everything. the stretch. the twitch. the fullness that has your pussy fluttering helplessly around him.

“fuck, you feel unreal,” he groans, both hands now gripping your waist. “look at you—already squeezing me like that.”

you begin to move—shallow bounces at first, your thighs trembling slightly with each rise and fall. his hands guide you, steady you, and soon your movements grow bolder—more confident—grinding down against his pelvis with every bounce.

the sound of slick skin meeting skin fills the room again, the wet heat of your cunt wrapping him so tightly that suna’s jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opens them again—locked on you.

“come here,” he growls, sitting up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer until your chest is pressed to his.

and then—his mouth finds your breast.

he sucks in your nipple hungrily, moaning around the soft skin as he tongues it, teeth grazing lightly before he switches to the other with a wet pop. his hands never stop guiding your hips, helping you ride him in rhythm, pushing you down harder each time he thrusts up into you.

“rinnie—!” you cry, your hands tangled in his hair as you arch into his mouth, pleasure building again too fast. “that feels so good…”

“yeah?” he breathes between kisses and licks, lips shining. “these pretty tits missed me too, huh?”

he lavishes each nipple with attention—sucking, licking, pulling with just enough force to make your back arch and your pussy clamp down around him.

your rhythm grows messy, your moans louder, the coil in your belly winding tighter again as he thrusts up to meet every bounce of your hips, his cock dragging along all the right places inside you.

“don’t stop, baby,” he pants, fucking up into you now with more urgency. “wanna feel you cum again—ride me just like that—show me how much you missed this cock.”

and you do.

you ride him like your body was made to fit his. like his cock was crafted just for you—thick and deep and angled so perfectly that every bounce forces the air from your lungs and sends shocks of pleasure through your spine.

every time you drop your hips, he thrusts up to meet you, and the head of his cock kisses your cervix with an aching precision that leaves you trembling. it’s deep. devastating. the kind of depth that makes your vision blur and your breath come in stuttered moans.

“rinnie—fuck—it’s so deep,” you gasp, head falling to his shoulder. “i-i feel lightheaded…”

“i know, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and full of praise, his hands gripping your hips tighter, helping guide your rhythm. “you’re taking it so well. so fuckin’ good for me.”

his mouth finds your neck again, pressing kisses beneath your jaw, tongue flicking against the heat of your pulse point. one of his hands slides up, fingers splayed across your lower back, holding you steady as he bucks up harder, faster, the sound of your bodies meeting growing louder, wetter, messier.

your thighs burn. your clit rubs against the ridge of his pelvis with every movement. and your pussy—slick, swollen, fluttering—clings to him so desperately you swear you can feel the outline of every vein.

weeks. it’s been weeks.

weeks of aching. of waiting. of touching yourself in the quiet of night and hating how empty it felt.

but this?

this is everything.

his heat. his hands. the way he fills you up and stays there, panting against your skin like he needs you just as badly.

“missed this pussy,” he groans, voice cracking as your walls squeeze around him again. “so tight. so warm. no one gets to have you like this—just me.”

your thighs quake where they straddle him, your nails leaving crescent-shaped dents in his chest as your movements begin to falter. the rhythm you kept moments ago—desperate, steady, purposeful—is now stuttering into something sloppy and slow, hips barely rolling, your muscles too spent to keep up.

your head dips forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as your mouth falls open in a soft, breathless moan.

that’s when he notices.

the way your moans turn into soft, broken whimpers.

the way your body trembles like it’s overwhelmed, overstimulated, ruined.

and suna grins.

a slow, knowing smirk curls against his lips as he looks up at you, the flush on your cheeks, the faraway haze in your eyes. his hands slide down, gripping your hips tighter, keeping you perched on his cock like a doll about to fall apart.

“ohhh,” he murmurs, voice deep, lazy, almost playful. “is my baby going cock dumb?”

you whimper, too dazed to even respond properly, only nodding against his neck as your pussy flutters around him again—wet, sensitive, clinging to every inch of him like your body can’t bear the thought of him pulling out.

“yeah?” he coos, a note of pride in his tone. “that’s what i thought.”

he doesn’t wait. he shifts beneath you, adjusting his position just slightly, and then—he starts to fuck up into you from below.

you sob, your fingers flying to clutch his shoulders as his cock punches into you over and over again, so deep, the tip brushing your cervix with every sharp thrust. the slick mess between your thighs makes the glide obscene—wet, hot, perfect.

“you were riding me so good, baby,” he pants, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “now look at you. barely holding on. just sittin’ on my cock like a dumb little bunny, letting me do all the work.”

his hands move to your ass, gripping tight, guiding your hips to grind down in rhythm with his thrusts. your clit rubs against his pubic bone just right—enough to make your entire body twitch.

“feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your jaw. “so deep. so full. this what you missed while i was gone, huh?”

“y-yes, rin—please, it’s so much—”

“you can take it,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “you always do.”

then his mouth finds your nipple again—wet, hungry, greedy—sucking hard as he fucks you harder. his tongue flicks over the sensitive peak while one hand slips between your bodies again to rub tight, deliberate circles over your clit.

the stimulation is blinding.

his cock fucking up into you like he’s trying to brand the shape of himself into your body.

his mouth at your chest.

his voice whispering filth and devotion in the same breath.

his fingers never stopping.

“cum for me again, baby,” he grits, his thrusts turning rougher, deeper. “wanna feel that pretty pussy gush all over me again. i need to feel it.”

your back arches. your thighs start to shake again. and your orgasm builds fast—white-hot and overwhelming, swelling inside you like pressure about to burst.

“rinnie—!” you cry, your entire body going taut. “i—i’m cumming—!”

and then it hits.

your walls clench hard—tightening around him like a vice, squeezing his cock so perfectly it draws a strangled moan from deep in his chest. your climax rips through you like a tidal wave, crashing fast and furious, leaving you breathless as your moans dissolve into shattered whimpers. your entire body trembles in his lap, thighs quaking, nails digging into his shoulders as your release gushes from you uncontrollably. it hits hard—sharp, hot, overwhelming—and then your body reacts.

you squirt.

the pressure releases all at once, sudden and messy, and your slick spills out of you in wet pulses. it covers both your thighs and his abs, drenching his lower stomach, soaking his cock, the bed beneath you already ruined. you gasp, head thrown back, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the pleasure peaks and doesn’t let go.

“fuck,” suna groans, watching it happen with parted lips, jaw slack. “you squirted, baby—fuck, look at that. look what i do to you.”

you can’t even answer. you’re still shaking, barely able to hold yourself upright, your thighs limp where they straddle his lap. you feel like you’ve melted, like you’ve unraveled entirely. and still—still—he’s hard inside you. still thick, still pulsing, twitching against your oversensitive walls. he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even think about stopping.

instead, he grips your hips tight, lifts you slightly, and drives up into you again.

your cry is sharp and wrecked, fingernails dragging down his back as your overstimulated cunt clamps around him again, your whole body jerking from the intensity.

“s–suna—rinnie—please, i—” you gasp, but the words fall apart when he thrusts again, deep, slow, and deliberate.

“oh, you’re not done,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and feral. “you think you can cum like that and not get fucked through it?”

you try to speak again, try to find something to cling to, but then he rolls his hips up—his cock dragging against every too-sensitive nerve ending inside you—and your hands fly to his shoulders, digging in hard. your nails scratch down his back in helpless, shaky arcs, and he groans, head falling to your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“mark me, baby,” he pants, fucking up into you harder now. “go ahead. scratch me. bite me. let me feel how good it is.”

you do. without even thinking, you sink your teeth into the skin of his shoulder, muffling your moan as another wave of pleasure slams into you. he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking up in response, his cock pressing even deeper—filling you in a way that has your body arching, your head spinning.

“you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, the sound of your soaked pussy squelching around him with every thrust. “this pussy’s so messy for me. so fuckin’ perfect. you like it when i fuck you after you cum, huh? when you’re too sensitive and still can’t stop squeezing me?”

you nod against his shoulder, still biting down, your moans breaking through your clenched jaw as he picks up the pace. he’s relentless now, hands holding your hips in place as he uses you—drives up into you with hard, deep thrusts that have your breath catching, your entire body lit up from the overstimulation.

each drag of his cock makes you twitch. each grind of his hips against yours sends another electric shock through your system.

you’re sobbing now—too much, too full, too fucked out—and he’s still praising you through it.

“take it, baby,” he breathes. “take all of it. you’re doing so good. let me fuck you dumb. let me make you forget your own name.”

your pussy flutters again, clenching down on him like a vice, and he groans so loud it vibrates through your chest. his rhythm stutters, hips bucking more erratically now, breath catching.

“gonna fill you up again,” he growls, voice wrecked. “wanna cum so deep, make you feel me for days.”

you nod again, eyes rolling back, body giving in completely.

“please,” you whisper. “please, rinnie, cum inside me. want all of it.”

that’s what does it.

he lets out a low, broken moan, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts deep, deeper, then stills—his cock twitching violently as he spills inside you. thick warmth fills you again, flooding your sore, stretched walls as he holds you tight, arms trembling around your waist, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

he stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing, groaning softly as you twitch around him—still trembling, still so full, your walls fluttering weakly with every aftershock. his cum leaks out in slow, warm trails, dripping down between your thighs and smearing across both your bodies in the tangled mess you’ve made together.

but even after everything—after you squirted all over his abs, after he came deep inside you for the second time, after your entire body is limp and trembling in his arms—you feel it.

him.

still hard.

still inside you.

and when you whimper, shifting just a little on his lap, the slight movement makes his cock twitch again, still thick and rigid despite how thoroughly he just came. your head lolls against his shoulder, dazed and barely able to think straight.

“rin… you’re still… hard?”

he chuckles low in your ear, the sound deep and smug, his hands stroking slowly down your back.

“told you i missed you,” he murmurs, voice rasping with the weight of his lust. “i’m not done.”

you don’t even have the strength to respond—not with words. but your pussy clenches weakly around him, your thighs twitching, and that’s answer enough.

he shifts you gently, guiding your hips again, and groans when the motion makes your swollen, used cunt squeeze down on him with resistance. you’re sore, so sore, but the sensation of still being stretched open around him, of still feeling his cock twitching inside you, has heat building in your gut again.

“i’ve been away too long,” he mutters, lifting you slightly before thrusting back in—slow and deep, making you moan softly against his skin. “weeks without you. you think i’m gonna stop at two rounds?”

you cry out softly as he starts to move again, dragging his cock in and out of you with slow, grinding thrusts, letting you feel every inch. it’s not rushed this time—it’s deliberate. heavy. sensual. his hands cradle your hips, guiding your body to meet his rhythm.

“you deserve more than that,” he whispers, brushing his lips along your cheek. “deserve to be fucked so good you can’t walk tomorrow.”

you bury your face in his neck, moaning weakly, body already starting to melt again as overstimulation gives way to something new—slower, deeper, a third round wrapped in pleasure that borders on worship.

suna leans back against the pillows, shifting you slightly so your knees are spread wider, your chest pressed close to his, his cock sliding even deeper from the angle. he kisses you then—soft and possessive—while his hips roll up into you again and again, stretching you slowly as your slick mixes with his release and drips down his shaft.

“you gonna let me make up for all that lost time, baby?” he whispers against your lips, voice husky. “gonna let me fuck you again? take it like the good girl you are?”

you nod helplessly, barely coherent now. every inch of your skin feels fevered. your heart pounds. your body burns for him again.

and he gives you everything.

he proves himself over and over again.

with every deep thrust that leaves you gasping.

with every kiss that lingers on your skin like a promise.

with every time he brings you to the edge and pulls you back in.

and long into the night—until you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve cum, how many times he’s filled you—he holds you close, bodies still joined, proving that you were never too much to want.

he just needed time to remember how much he missed everything about you.

now here he was, kneeling at the edge of the bed with a towel in hand, wiping your thighs with slow, deliberate care.

the room is warm with the scent of sex and sweat, heavy with the afterglow of everything that’s just unraveled between you. the sheets are a soaked mess beneath you, tangled and clinging to your body, while your limbs lie slack, trembling, utterly spent. your skin is flushed, glistening in the low light. your chest rises and falls in unsteady breaths, and your thighs twitch involuntarily every time he touches you—still reeling from that final climax.

suna is quiet now, all of that teasing energy faded into something softer, something intimate. his hands move gently over your legs, wiping up the slick trails of cum and arousal that have dripped down to the backs of your knees. his thumb strokes just beneath the crease of your thigh, and even that has you flinching.

“easy,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with tired but affectionate eyes. “i’ve got you.”

you nod weakly, your voice hoarse from moaning his name all night. “i know… i’m just still—sensitive.”

he smiles at that. “yeah, i know.”

you watch as he folds the towel, his brows furrowed in concentration as he leans back in, wiping again, slower now.

and then, because he’s always been a little selfish when it comes to you, suna leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

“rin—” you start, a soft warning in your voice, but it’s too late.

his tongue is already dragging up your overstimulated slit, collecting the last remnants of his cum and your release, and you gasp, your hips jerking upward as your hand flies to his hair.

“i’m just cleaning you up,” he murmurs with a devilish smirk, but the way his mouth moves against you is anything but innocent. it’s slow, tender, savoring.

and somehow, even after everything—your body responds.

your legs twitch again, a sharp tremor crawling up your spine, and you shake your head, breath catching.

“rinnie—please—i can’t—” you whisper, but you’re already grinding against his mouth without realizing it.

his arms snake around your thighs, holding you open as his tongue dips into your entrance again, licking you through it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

one long stroke, then another.

and your body gives up.

you squirt again.

it’s sudden and messy, a wet gasp tearing from your throat as you soak his face with a hot rush of release. it pours down your thighs and splashes across his chest, some of it dripping to the floor beside the bed, and you collapse fully into the sheets, eyes fluttering back as your body convulses one last time.

he groans into you like it’s the best gift he’s ever received, letting the warmth of your release soak him as he finally pulls back—face dripping, lips parted, his abs slick and glistening.

“shit, baby…” he pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks at you with pure disbelief. “you really missed me.”

you can’t even answer. you just groan, turning your head into the pillow, utterly ruined.

he laughs, breathless and fond, and reaches for a clean towel, dabbing your thighs again, this time with a reverence that makes your heart ache. he doesn’t rush. he wipes gently between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your knees, your hips, the swell of your stomach.

“okay,” he murmurs, voice low now, soothing. “let’s get you in the shower. you need to be warm and clean. i’ll help you.”

you don’t protest. you can’t. your body’s heavy and sore, but when suna lifts you into his arms bridal-style, everything in you goes quiet. safe. anchored. he carries you down the hall, bare skin against bare skin, your arms looped around his neck as your head rests on his shoulder.

the bathroom light is soft. the water’s already running—warm, with the faintest scent of lavender from the body wash you both share.

suna sets you down carefully on the shower bench and steps inside with you, guiding your body beneath the spray. he stands behind you, shielding you from the pressure of the water, and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his cheek against the back of your head.

you sigh. the water rolls down your skin like peace itself, soothing the soreness blooming in your thighs, the ache between your legs, the raw tremble in your muscles from being thoroughly and lovingly ruined. you lean back against suna’s chest, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as the steam rises around you both.

but the silence—the warmth—the intimacy—it's not enough.

not when he’s right there.

not when your body still remembers the stretch of him inside you. not when your skin is still buzzing with the echo of every touch, every kiss, every praise-soaked thrust.

"rin…" your voice is quiet, a bit raspier than usual, fragile and needy, "i want more."

he doesn’t move right away. you can feel his lips curve into the faintest smile against your wet shoulder.

then his arms tighten around you.

“baby…” he hums, low and indulgent. “you’ve cum how many times tonight?”

you pout, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder, eyes fluttering open lazily. “i don’t know. a lot?”

he chuckles, nuzzling into the curve of your neck, his breath warm and teasing against your damp skin.

“exactly. you squirted so many times i lost count. you’re spent,” he murmurs. “and i’m not about to let you pass out in the shower just because your pussy’s greedy.”

you flush, both from the warmth of the water and his words, and you squirm a little in his hold, grinding back against where you can already feel him half-hard, heat pressed up against the curve of your ass. you’re too sensitive to do anything serious, but even the faint contact has both of you groaning quietly.

still, he tightens his grip immediately, stilling your hips with a firm hand across your stomach.

“hey,” he warns, voice suddenly stern against your ear. “what did i just say?”

“but—”

“no buts,” he mutters, mouth brushing along your jaw as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “don’t make me bend you over this bench and hold your thighs open while you cry from overstimulation.”

you shiver—not entirely from fear.

he smirks again, knowing exactly what he’s doing, before softening as he kisses your temple.

“i mean it,” he murmurs. “you’ve been so good for me tonight. let me take care of you properly. you’ll get more tomorrow—hell, you’ll get everything tomorrow.”

you lean back into him, huffing softly, your bottom lip jutting out as you whisper, “promise?”

suna kisses the pout away, slow and deliberate.

“i promise,” he breathes. “wanna see you on your knees. then ride you again. want to fuck you in front of the mirror. all of it.”

you moan into the kiss, but when your hips twitch again—another teasing grind—he growls softly and slaps your thigh gently under the water.

“behave,” he murmurs against your lips.

so instead, you melt into him, letting him tilt your chin toward his, his mouth finding yours again with no rush, no heat—just long, tender kisses beneath the stream of water. the kind that say i’m not done with you—not even close—but right now, i love you too much to fuck you again when your legs are already trembling.

your arms loop around his neck, fingers carding into his wet hair as he kisses you deeper. you moan softly when his tongue slides into your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you all over again.

his hands roam your back, slow and reassuring, massaging out the tension in your shoulders. he kisses you again and again, coaxing you down from the edge you didn’t even know you were still standing on.

and even though he doesn’t take you again in the shower, that kiss—the way he holds you against him, strong and steady, murmuring soft little praises between each press of his lips—it feels like more. more than sex. more than lust. it’s him saying: i love you. i missed you. i see you.

when the water is turned off and the steam begins to settle, he wraps you gently in a towel and dries you off like you’re something fragile—like he’s afraid to lose you again to the space that had grown quietly between you these past few weeks.

suna hums under his breath while helping you into your favorite sleep shirt, one that’s oversized and soft, one that used to be his. he slides on his boxers, still damp around the edges, then gently combs his fingers through your damp hair, tucking it behind your ears like it’s second nature. there’s no rush in any of it—just tenderness, care, and quiet devotion.

back in bed, the sheets have been changed—he did that too, while you rested your head against the bathroom counter, legs too weak to stand fully. now the duvet is clean and warm, the lights dimmed low, and when you climb into bed beside him, his arms are already waiting to pull you into the curve of his body.

you curl into him like muscle memory, your leg tangled over his, cheek pressed against his chest. his hand strokes your back lazily, up and down, grounding you.

“you’re so good to me,” you murmur, voice soft and sleepy.

“not as good as you are to me,” he replies without missing a beat, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

there’s a pause, a silence filled with his fingertips tracing shapes into your spine.

“rinnie,” you whisper, “you’re not… tired of me, right?”

his hand stills.

he shifts slightly, tilting your chin up so you’ll look at him, even in the low light.

“never,” he says firmly, his voice low and hoarse from everything—sex, emotion, everything. “i’d never get tired of you.”

you blink slowly, lip quivering just slightly. “even if we don’t do stuff like tonight all the time?”

“baby,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your temple, your cheek, then your lips. “i didn’t fall in love with you because of what we do in bed. i fell in love with you because you’re you. the way you always know when to check on me. the way you always leave the hallway light on because you know i hate coming home to a dark apartment. the way you still get nervous when i kiss your neck like i didn’t already make you mine years ago.”

his voice gets softer, more serious.

“i got exhausted. i let the world outside this apartment wear me down, and i forgot how much you were waiting for me. that’s on me. but being with you? coming home to you? touching you, holding you, just lying here like this? i crave it. i crave you. always.”

you bury your face into his neck, pressing a slow kiss to his skin, holding him tighter.

“i wanna sleep with you still inside me,” you whisper.

he tenses just slightly, then sighs into your hair with a low chuckle.

“you’re insatiable,” he murmurs, voice fond. “you really want me to stay inside you while you sleep?”

you nod against his neck. “you said you missed me…”

“i did,” he groans. “i still do. i always do.”

another sigh, this time heavier, but laced with nothing but surrender. he shifts onto his side, nudging your thighs apart as he settles behind you, one hand guiding himself back to your entrance—still slick, still warm.

he slides in slow, careful, groaning low in his throat as he buries himself inside your sensitive cunt one last time.

you gasp, body relaxing immediately at the feeling of being full again—of him, deep and slow and safe.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, one hand cupping your breast, the other holding your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“happy now?” he mumbles sleepily.

“mhm,” you breathe, already drifting. “perfect.”

and that’s how you fall asleep—his cock still nestled inside you, his arms wrapped tight around your body, your heart steady again in the rhythm of his presence.

for the first time in weeks, the bed doesn’t feel cold.

it feels like home.

[twilightsumu]

for our eyes only?

connection: r. sukuna x fem!reader

synopsis: your only fans is thriving, especially when your boyfriend films himself filling you up.

content warning: modern au, non curse au, nsfw, mdni, smut, only fans (might have gotten somethings incorrect), established relationship between reader and sukuna, rough sex, hair pulling, biting, spitting, oral (fem receiving), smacking, dirty talk, crude language, name calling (slut, whore), p in v, unprotected, creampie, cum play, consensual recording.

(1) notification: this was actually supposed to be gojo’s one shot! while editing, i felt like sukuna was more suited. i could not be happier with it!

wc: 2.8K (finally learned to stfu!)

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“What’s winning at the moment?” 

“Anal.” 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Sitting on the couch in front of you, your pink haired boyfriend (slash manager — he sees red when you leave that out) responds with a gruff. One of those scoffs he pretends is a laugh. 

His crimson colored eyes locked on the laptop on his thick thighs. Shirtless — the hazy light coming from the kitchen behind you gleaming on his tattoos. His grey sweats hanging loosely on his hips. A lazy dominance weighing heavy in the stilled room. 

“Just fucking with you,” he drawls out, finally lifting his eyes to look at you. “It’s actually creampie and cum play.” 

You circle the coffee table to stand in front of him, your knee brushing his as you lightly lean into him. Your hands planting themselves on his shoulders. His huge hand not hovering over the small mousepad, instantly grabbing your waist. The hold is rough and tense, just like him. 

“I could do with that.” You smile down at him. He rolls his eyes, his thumb tapping on the mouse pad to keep the screen lit. 

“What if I rig it?” He asks almost innocently. But, nothing about Sukuna is innocent. You could only squeeze his shoulder and let out a breathy laugh. 

“Why the hell do you want to do it in my ass so badly?” 

“I fucked every other hole. Might as well finish the set.” 

“You haven’t fucked my ear,” you snort.  

“Can you shut the fuck up?” His hand on your waist is now rubbing down his tired face. You press your lips together to keep your laughter at bay. 

“Cosplaying and a foot job are also options. We have three minutes till the poll is up and creampie and cum play is at,” he stops and looks back at the laptop. “Sixty eight percent.” He deadpans. 

You tilt your head as you look down at him. His lips in its usual snarl, his eyes narrowed at the screen. You could almost hear him counting down the seconds. 

“You don’t wanna cum in me or something?” 

“I always do,” he shrugs, your hand shifting along with his shoulders. “But, you built this little dystopian world where men choose where I cum.” 

“They do pay our bills.” One of your hands creep up the nape of his thick neck. Your fingers slightly running along his undercut. He slightly leans in, his head pushing into your hand. You have to bite your lip to force your comment about affection down. 

He looks up at you, his hand coming up to shut the laptop. Boredom evident in his stare. 

“And ask you to role play as a tree,” he nudges your hip, making you step back as he stands up from the couch. Your arms falling to your sides. “So maybe we shouldn’t fucking trust them with our financial endeavors.” 

“So you won’t fuck me if I was a tree?” You hum as you shiver at the feel of heat coming off of his chest. 

“If this is another if I was a worm question, I’m  going to fucking lose it.” You hear the dry chuckle that wants to escape.

“What if I was a real sexy willow tree or something?” 

“And what would my cum be?” He stares at you. His nose scrunches, eyebrows pulling together, as if he’s really thinking this through. “Fertilizer?” 

“Well, technically… yes.” His lips curl, and you can’t help but throw your head back from laughter. One of your hands reaching to grab onto his solid chest. 

You barely have time to yelp before you’re hoisted  like you weigh nothing. Your chest pressed to his back, view upside down, his hand coming down hard on your ass. A smack full of irritation and affection, typical. 

“I’m choosing what we’re filming next. And no god damn tree shit.”

Sukuna’s rough hand is sliding up your spine, palm flat and warm until it finds the back of your neck. You’re on all fours — your knees pushing into the bedding below you, your palms laid flat on either side of you. 

“Stay just like that,” he mutters — his grip is firm, familiar, and heavy with intention. 

From the corner of your eye, the red light blinks steady on the camera. This was supposed to be for work, content. Bills do not pay themselves. But, the second his breath fans against the back of your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet cunt everytime he shifts — any idea of perfect angles for the viewers is thrown out the fucking window. 

You don’t have time to even mention anything about it. 

Just his mouth, wet and unrelenting meeting your pussy. His tongue drags through your folds, like he too forgot about the camera. 

You gasp, spine arching on instinct. Your hips pushing back, his mouth opening accepting more. His grip on your neck tightens. You’re not sure if it’s to ground you or acting as a warning. 

The flat of his tongue presses hard, dragging along your folds, meeting your clit. Instantly, he’s groaning, low and hungry — the sound vibrating straight through to your core. 

“Shit,” you breathe out. Your arms are starting to feel weak as you struggle to hold yourself up. 

With nothing more than a grunt, his tongue laps at your clenching hole. His hand starts trail down from your neck, roughy fingertips navigating your spine until it’s on your plush ass. He squeezes once, a rough one that makes you yelp as you try to look over your shoulder. Then he lifts it and brings it back down with a sharp slap you sure the camera picked up on. 

You jolt, a moan ripping through your chest. You’re sure you feel him grin. 

Another slap. And instead of pulling away, you’re pushing back into his mouth. Your ass throbbing under his palm. 

You feel your pussy getting wetter — the heat warming between your thighs. He grunts against you when he feels the gush of slick, his tongue flicking faster, meaner. His nose nudging your hole as he devours you. 

All you could do is try to hold yourself up on wobbly arms, helplessly moan, and throw looks at the camera. You know, for content. 

You feel him pull back and you let out a whimper. Your chin drops to your chest as you let out a gasp. 

“Such a pretty pussy for a fucking whore,” he rasps, his voice low and wrecked. Cocky. “Can’t believe I let other men watch me devour it.” 

You shiver, words stuck on your tongue. A weak mewl is the only thing you could pull out your throat. 

He chuckles, that low, dry one. The one he knows gets you dripping. His hands are still on your ass — now spreading you apart. You could picture his hungry eyes looking you over. You don’t have to look over your shoulder to know his tongue is licking over his bottom lip. 

You push back a bit, missing his mouth on you. You feel his face inch closer and before his tongue meets your wet heat — he spits directly onto your cunt. The slick sound of it makes your stomach tighten and nipples harden.

You gasp — hot and loud. And before you could even think, he’s diving back in. Tongue hot, his finger gripping onto your hips. 

All you could hear is your strangled moans, Sukuna’s slurping, and the shakiness of your arms under you. 

His hands spread your wider, wet sound following as he pulls away. 

“Shit, look at you,” he mutters, voice all gravel. Your nipples harden at the tone. “You want me to fuck you like this?” 

“Yes,” you whisper. You turn your head, looking over your shoulder. You’re met with Sukuna’s shit-eating grin, his eyebrows cocked up teasingly. His hands squeeze your ass rougher. 

“Louder. You know they love to hear you begging.” He teases, his voice low. He cocks a thumb towards the camera. Your eyes catch the light again. 

“Do they or is it you?” You start to shift, arms falling below you. You want to tease some more, watch the tick in his jaw as you joke around. 

Slap!

He has you by the hips, your left ass cheek stinging. He’s dragging you back until your thighs are flushed against his. His cock pressing into your thigh. Thick, hard, and unforgiving — you push back 

Your arms are trembling, barely keeping you upright. You’re smiling, giving the camera exactly what it wants. Sukuna would have fun with editing. 

He chuckles — low and heady. A sharp squeeze to your hips, and then the head of this thick cock pressing in your wet entrance. 

You suck in a breath so hard, it burns your chest. Your back arches — ass pushing back involuntary, moving so that you could have him touch exactly where you need him too. You moan, your head dropping forward as your arms barely keep you up. 

“You’re a smartass you know?” Sukuna groans, dragging his hips back slowly. You feel every movement — the twitch in his right thigh, his fingers tapping on your hip, your pussy clinging to his hard cock. “With a cunt that takes me so well.” 

Without warning — he slams back in, bottoming out. The sound of skin slapping harshly snaps through the room. He doesn’t even let you adjust. A brutal pace as his hips meet your ass. 

Your hands are gripping the sheets, trying to keep steady. The sounds of your squelching pussy meeting his cock from each thrust competing with your moans. 

One thrust is so forceful, his tip meeting your cervix — your body jolts forward. Your arms give out on you as your chest meets the bed. 

“Let them see your face,” your back arching as he yanks you by your hair. “Show them who you’re a slut for.”

Teary eyed, mouth agape, your arms shakily holding you up again, drool starting to pool down your chin as he ruts in you deeper. He’s bullying your gummy walls with every rough thrust, the tip of his cock keeps catching that soft, spongey spot inside you. 

The hand not in your hair snakes around your throat. Not yet choking. His fingertips slightly pressing in, reminding you of what he could do. 

You have a comment on the tip of your tongue. You think you do. But his hips driving into yours steals the air from your lungs. And now, you could really only focus on your thighs shaking, your arms completely giving out. You collapse into the sheets, drool soaking the fabric along with your slick between your legs. 

He leans over you, chest brushing your back, his breath heavy as it hits the top of your spine. You feel just how deep he’s in you in this position. You feel his lips leave the lightest kiss on your shoulder blade, your head turning to the side to meet his eyes. Then, he bites into the curve of your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. His hips don’t slow for a second — just keep grinding, brutal and deep.

“Cum in me,” you’re babbling. Moans and desperate mewls as you struggle to keep up with his brutal pace. Your hips barely backing into his before he’s thrusting harshly into your pussy. 

“No shit,” he huffs, his breath still fanning where he just bit you. “Creampie did win. I’m fair.”

His thrusts get sloppier, his heavy ballsack hitting your clit as he continues to fuck into you. His hips are still snapping into yours, but more desperate . Less control, like he’s chasing your high and his. 

He lowly groans your name in your ear. His teeth grazing your ear lobe. 

Then it hits. The room gets all white, Sukuna feels heavier on top of your back. One final thrust that causes a sharp cry out of you and a rough groan from him. You feel him bottom out, his thick cock pulsing inside of you. You feel the warmth as he spills in you, filling you so full, your stomach flutters.

“Fuck,” he grits out. The hand still on your throat slightly squeezing, the other one gripping your hip. Like he’s grounding himself to your limp body on your shared bed. 

You’re both panting, so you don’t register him pulling out until you feel the slow, thick slide of cum leaking from your pussy. A gush of warmth trailing down your thighs. An airy whimper leaving your lips. 

“Turn over,” he mutters, his strong hands already guiding you. 

You whimper, your thighs shaky and soaked. You blink up at him as he ‘softly’ manhandles you, your back meeting the bed with a plop. His eyes are determined. He gets like this whenever he thinks of another shot. 

He reaches back for the camera. His free hand grabbing your thigh as he starts to inch down on the bed. His chest guiding along your body.

Your thighs press together, sticky with his cum and your slick. Twitches and trembles rack your legs, his hand still on your thigh, gripping. You’re a mess, you don’t even have to watch the video back to know that. 

With his face, once again, mere inches away from your pussy. He angles the camera to get the perfect shot of your wrecked pussy. His hand roughly shoving your thigh open, hooking it over his shoulder.

No warning, you feel his fingers. Two of them — his index and middle finger roughing sliding through your folds. No easing them in, just his cum and slick being fucked back into you. 

You watch as his hand not pumping into your pussy grabs the camera so he could move it closer. He shows the camera how perfectly you stretch around him, fingers pumping slow. 

You drop from your elbows, your eyes shutting. A moan escaping your dry lips. The squelching of your pussy is loud and obscene. 

“A whore filled to the brim.” He mutters, his voice low and mean. “You love me stuffing you, huh?” 

You nod, barely thinking, barely hearing him honestly. 

Then, when you’re sure you’re about to cum for the second time. His fingers slip out, a wet noise following their escape. You lift your head — watching him eye his fingers that are covered in his cum and your slick. He moves the camera along to show his fingers. 

His eyes on yours, he brings his fingers to his mouth. His tongue swirling over his fingers. Like he’s licking his favorite ice cream flavor off the spoon. 

He moves up the bed, his movements slow and haunting. His body hovering over yours. The fingers that were just in your cunt are harshly tapping your chin. 

You open your mouth — tongue out, needy, eyes locked on his. 

He smirks, letting everything be lapped up, fall. 

He spits it straight into your mouth — a warm mix of his thick release and your own slick. He watches it pool on your tongue before you swallow, moaning around it. Your eyes never leave the other — even with the camera acting as a barrier between you. 

“Fuck,” he smirks. His voice caught somewhere between wrecked and proud. The camera dropping out of his hands as he leans towards you. “Maybe they made the right decision.” 

One of his hands grabs onto your chin, pulling your face to his. His lips are instantly locking with yours. The kiss is all tongue and teeth, messy and claiming. His teeth nipping into your bottom lip as his other hands grips into your hair, pushing you even closer. 

He pulls away, both of you breathing heavy. Your spit on his lips and his on yours. You don’t miss the way his shit eating grin has became that soft smile he reserved for you. 

“You good baby?” He hums against your lips. You can’t help but smile.

“Mhm,” you hum, your forehead meeting his heaving chest. 

One hand still cradling your face, the other tangled in your hair. You have to remind yourself to get this clip before he edits the video. Just for you. So you could go back to it whenever you want. 

You shift your head so that your eyes could meet his hazed ones. 

“We could do anal next time,” you whisper. His eyebrows shoot up in anticipation. You fight the giggle wanting to escape. “Under one condition.”

“It’s not going to be normal,” he rolls his eyes. His sigh is long and heavy. You can’t help but laugh. Your hand running along his rib cage. 

“I’ll be a sexy tree. Like a super sexy Ginkgo tree.” 

“For fucks sake.” 

Poll Winner!

56,078 Likes 

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Comments:

blueyedemon 😈: I would suck him off just to get a hint of a taste of her 

yn: pass 

maskedfreak: kinda mad she didn’t go tree 

yn : watch National Geographic or something weird fuck

guruonmyknob: ngl I know I could fuck her better

yn: 35.7274457, 139.7337452 

guruonmyknob: ?

guruonmyknob: wait??? 

“Sukuna, did you seriously just reply with someone’s geographical coordinates?” 

skipped the fluff (for now) and went to smut… it’s your turn! @edensrose

© twilightsumu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work.

[zyafics]

i have a question (please don't misinterpret im JUST JUST JUSTTTT ASKING PLEASE DONT KILL ME)

why are you trying to stop people from writing canon rafe? its fiction, so not a gloification. im sure since we're all adults we can tell that men who act like rafe are DICKS irl. but... fanfiction is writing. witing is an art. art is an interpretation. rafe is... not a good person, but he IS an interesting character tho. writing fanfics isn't about being all about bad behavior but you're looking at stories and emotions from different perspectives. when one writes canon rafe even if its smut you're not excusing him being a horrible bitch. ppl write what's fascinating to them and it's a good way to understand very nuanced characters.

perhaps... you should know how to separate fiction and art from real life (NOT BEING RUDE.)

everyone is technically allowed to interpret a character how they want and you're knda trying to shut that down which just limits creativity and community.

if you or others don't like how rafe is portrayed in canon fics, thats cool and you can avoid 'em! but trying to shame others and telling them to only write fanon rafe is just unfair and not nessecary.

hi! i never try to kill anyone who comes in with genuine curiosity and open-mindedness so do not worry, you're off my list (for now... hehe)

why are you trying to stop people from writing canon rafe? its fiction, so not a gloification.

i'm not! i love writing canon!rafe. i love writers who explore the complexity of his nuanced characterization. i admit, here and now, and over and over again, he is a bad person. his subtext is filled with prejudices—classism, racism, sexism to his own sister—but i never excuse that behavior. i never hide behind the veil that just because you're writing canon does not mean you're not subjected to criticism. additionally, just because you write canon!rafe does not mean you have to romanticize the attributes of his character.

fanfiction is writing. witing is an art. art is an interpretation.

you're right! fanfic is writing. fanfic is free. but that doesn't make absolve it from its problem. that's the beautiful thing about complex topics. two things can be right at once. you can write whatever you want. but that doesn't mean you're free from the criticism of your own writing. i strongly stand by that.

you should know how to separate fiction and art from real life (NOT BEING RUDE.)

i do. fiction and art are separate from real life. if you were here a while back, i even wrote a thought piece on rape and non-con in fanfic. i was advocating for people to have the right to write them. i explained, in explicit detail why people write it the way that they do. but i still stand by what i believe: just because you write a taboo topic, and you're in a fanfic space, does not mean you are absolved of the consequences and callouts of the interpretation of your fics by your audience. intents ≠ actions. and to completely disassociate those two, if you really want to be nuanced, is impossible. i remember reading an article where a serial killer admitted that he got some of the ideas for his murders from a skywars movie: the scene where leia was held up in chains. it was meant to be misogynistic and demeaning; so art and media do have an impact on real life.

everyone is technically allowed to interpret a character how they want and you're knda trying to shut that down which just limits creativity and community.

the thing is, i'm not. never once did i told them to stop writing it. i said to address it. the problem i have with it is the inherent romanticization of the characters. i have read dark, dead doves do not eat fics with rafe cameron, and i never called out those writers. why? because they never framed it as something readers should want. the audience should like. the audience should accept. it was narratively framed as wrong. that's how you go about writing a nuanced character with taboo topics. when you're putting misogynistic!rafe into a setting, and you framed it through a rose-colored glass, where it's actually acceptable, endearing, and romantic, that's the problematic aspect of it. you didn't do your due diligence as a writer to address that.

if you or others don't like how rafe is portrayed in canon fics, thats cool and you can avoid 'em! but trying to shame others and telling them to only write fanon rafe is just unfair and not nessecary.

i do avoid them. i don't read them. i didn't even @ any of the writers. this was something said in my own blog, in my own space, using the general rafe tag as anyone else. you coming onto my blog to tell me to avoid this was unnecessary. i did. if you're applying the same logic of your argument to me: you're coming into a space where you should've avoided my words. you should've "avoid" me. you wanted to come on my blog to let your feelings be heard, and i'm hearing them. but don't ever say that i didn't do my own due diligence. i did.

[amber-aura]

Let us Live since we must Die: Chapter 4: Happy Birthday?

Summary: In 1932, something happened in Mississippi. Something no one could explain. In 2001, a baby was born under a sky that remembered. In 2025, she’s about to find out why. Breana Rae has the power to tear through space, but what she really wants is to connect the pieces of her past. When a rare celestial event reawakens the ghosts of a buried tragedy, Breana is pulled into a mystery far older and far deeper than she ever imagined.

Pairing: Remmick x black!oc

A/N: This chapter was planned to be edited and released 3-5 days ago, but I fell sick so it's late :( But good news! The story officially begins!

Warnings: 18+ comments only. Minors, you can read but do not interact with any of my works. Angst, graphic mentions of blood and gore, eventual smut, slow burn, slurs, mentions of suicide, emetophobia, sexual assault, murder, etc. Will continue adding more as the story progresses for the sake of any new readers.

Word count: 5k

Typing. Typing. Still typing...

Breana had been glued to her laptop for nearly two hours straight, her fingers a blur across the keyboard as she dove deeper into a rabbit hole of research. The hum of the AC in her loft barely registered anymore, her focus razor-sharp as she scanned through articles, forums, archived records—anything that could shed light on 1930s Mississippi.

Her assistants were mildly baffled. Why the sudden obsession with the early 20th century South? Why Mississippi of all places? But they knew better than to pry. Breana had her moods and her muses. Sometimes it was ancient myths. Other times, avant-garde fashion history. This time, it was Jim Crow-era Mississippi. They didn’t ask questions. They just brought her coffee and kept her schedule clear.

Breana didn’t need to start from scratch. She already knew a decent amount thanks to her parents' love of documentaries and her own curiosity about history. But now? Now she needed clarity. Context. Details. She wasn’t just learning—she was piecing something together.

Even so, just reading about that time made her skin crawl.

“Nope,” she muttered to herself, eyes scanning a headline about the rise of white supremacy groups in the 1930s. “Couldn’t have been me.”

The very idea of living back then was a nightmare. No air conditioning. No decent healthcare. No advanced tech. No women’s rights. No rights for people of color—well, not real ones. It was technically illegal to just exist freely if you were the wrong shade of melanin or had the wrong chromosomes. And sure, America still had its systemic bullshit in the present day, but at least she could talk about it without being shot on sight.

“Fair wages? Nonexistent. Racist police? Oh, they been here. The Klan? Running wild like they were police.”

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair, letting out a deep, tired sigh. “And don’t even get me started on that god-awful Mississippi heat. No thank you.”

Her lips curled in slight amusement as her mind drifted to the everyday inconveniences of life back then. Making food from scratch—every single time. Relying on radios for news. Dresses with petticoats and stockings in the middle of summer, no deodorant worth a damn.

“Oh no, they got me fucked up,” she muttered, scrolling past a sepia-toned photo of women in heavy dresses and lace gloves. “I wouldn't wear a damn velvet corset in July. That’s not elegance. That’s a slow bake.”

Still…not everything about the era was a total bust. She had to admit—1930s fashion? S'alright. The silhouettes were graceful, the fabrics had texture, and those sweetheart necklines? Iconic. If she could snatch some of those designs and remix them for a stage outfit, she just might.

But it wasn’t the style that kept her glued to the screen. It was the people. The culture. The pain, the joy, the survival. She wanted to know what kind of world Mary, Elias, and the others had lived in before everything went to hell. What kind of music floated through their windows at night. What kind of dreams they whispered in the dark, even when the world tried to silence them.

She wasn’t just curious anymore. She felt tethered.

Something about it—about them —was pulling her deeper. And part of her didn’t mind being pulled.

Breana clicked over to her notepad document, eyes scanning the bullet points she’d messily typed out while going down this historical rabbit hole. She read them out loud, more to herself than anyone else.

“Alright…if I were to actually be in 1930s Mississippi—God help me—I’d have to know how to play the part. Let’s see…”

She adjusted in her seat, legs crossed, hair tied up in a scarf now to keep it out of her face. She’d pulled it up in frustration an hour ago, and now it kind of matched the vintage vibe she was reading about. Cute. Maybe unintentionally prophetic.

Always use formal titles when speaking to white people. Even if they’re being disrespectful, which they will be, say “yes ma’am” and “no sir.”

Do not look white men in the eye for too long.

Avoid walking alone at night, especially outside of your own neighborhood.

If someone accuses you of something, don’t argue. Just survive.

Breana blinked. “Jesus…”

That last line stung more than it should’ve. But it was true, wasn’t it? That was the law of survival for Black folk back then. Hell, even now sometimes.

She sighed again and kept reading.

Keep your speech “mild.” Don’t sound too educated around the wrong crowd. Don’t draw attention.

Smile when necessary. Stay polite. But never too friendly.

Segregation is the law. Don’t sit at the front of buses, don’t drink from the wrong fountain, don’t use the wrong entrance.

“Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t exist too much. Got it,” she muttered bitterly, highlighting that line just to remind herself it wasn’t hyperbole.

She scrolled further.

Jobs available to Black women: domestic work, sharecropping, laundry, seamstress, midwife if lucky.

Education limited—especially in the South.

Medical care? Almost nonexistent unless you know someone.

Her lips curled in frustration.

And yet, somehow…Mary, Elias, their community—those people had laughed, loved, danced, lived. All while under a system designed to suffocate them.

She didn’t know whether to feel proud or overwhelmed.

Then there were the notes she wrote specifically for herself:

Learn the lingo.

Clothing: Wear dresses. Loose, breathable. Light cotton or linen. Natural look. Wear your hair "short and kept" like the white women (eye roll)

Keep modern expressions to yourself unless you wanna get side-eyed. No slang from TikTok, dummy.

Learn how to cook something from scratch. You’ll need that to earn trust. Or survive. Or both.

Breana leaned back again, staring at the ceiling now. Her eyes were tired, but her spirit felt wired.

This wasn’t just research anymore.

She was prepping for something. Something she didn’t quite understand yet—but her gut said she’d need all of this. Soon.

And if this strange new path was going to demand she walk into someone else’s century? 

She’d be ready...not-

But Lord, it better not be during the peak of summer. She could handle trauma, magic, vampires—but she drew the line at sweating through a cotton petticoat.

“Let me go back with common sense and a heat-resistant body, God,” she muttered, stretching her arms with a dramatic sigh. “Please and thank you.”

Then, she saved the file and titled it simply:

“How to Survive the 1930s"

Just as Breana was about to close her laptop and maybe take a break before her brain melted from history overload, there was a knock on her open studio door.

“Hey, Bree?” one of her assistants, Rayna, peeked her head in, followed by Malik right behind her, holding a smoothie like he knew she hadn’t eaten all day.

“Your birthday’s tomorrow,” Rayna said, walking in like it was breaking news. “You need to decide what you wanna do. Party? Dinner? Photoshoot? Private island escape? Aliens-only rave?”

Breana blinked, still a little mentally stuck in 1932 Mississippi. “Uh…”

Malik handed her the smoothie. “At least drink this before you fry your brain.”

She took it. “Thanks.”

Rayna flopped onto the arm of the nearby couch. “So? What are we doin’? The people are gonna be watchin’. This is the first birthday since your EP release and you’ve got followers foaming at the mouth waiting to see you do something glamorous.”

Breana sipped the smoothie, eyes a little glazed. “Can we just…eat some good food and chill? That’s really all I want.”

Malik raised an eyebrow. “Like…chill-chill or your version of chill, which means binge watching Spongebob and somehow getting drunk on ice cream?"

Breana smirked without answering.

Rayna rolled her eyes playfully. “Alright. But for real, you do need to post tomorrow. Instagram, TikTok, all that. Fans are already making edits with your countdown posts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Breana waved a lazy hand. “I’ll post somethin’. Y’all can take a picture or whatever.”

Rayna side-eyed her. “We are not just gonna take a picture . You’re a brand. Your whole aesthetic is like…soul-deep goddess trapped in a dreamscape.”

“Okay…” Breana replied dryly, sipping again. “Then let me dreamscape in peace tonight.”

Malik laughed. “We’ll let you rest. Just don’t ghost tomorrow. You gotta give the people something. Even if it’s just a selfie with your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat,” Breana mumbled.

“Well…you seem like you should have one. You give cat girl energy.”

Rayna and Malik left, still teasing as they went. Breana stayed seated, smoothie in hand, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

Her birthday was tomorrow.

And something was coming.

Something…

Breana stared down at her notes again, the pages covered in scribbled questions, bullet points—her own chaotic little web of connections.

Logically, there was only one conclusion to draw from all of it. The kind of conclusion that would’ve made her raise her eyebrows if someone else had said it out loud.

Time travel.

That’s what everything was pointing to.

She blinked slowly at the thought, as if waiting for her own brain to catch up to what she’d just admitted.

“I can’t seriously be entertaining this,” she muttered to herself.

But...wasn’t she?

She could already open rifts. That alone threw the rulebook out the window. That day when her emotions surged and the very fabric of reality tore open in front of her—that was the moment the impossible stopped being “impossible.” It was the moment she learned the world wasn’t just weird—it was malleable .

And now?

She had an alignment happening on her birthday—the same rare celestial alignment that last occurred on the day she was born. She’d just met two vampires from 1932 Mississippi , the exact same era her DNA test pointed to when tracking her ancestral roots. The timing was too perfect, too unnerving.

Like she kept saying, none of this was a coincidence. None of it.

The rational part of her brain begged her to calm down. Breathe. But the deeper part—her intuition, her soul—whispered something else.

“Prepare.”

Breana exhaled sharply and tossed her phone from one hand to the other, thinking.

“Let’s just say I do go back in time…” she whispered, eyes scanning her notes again.

Her thoughts drifted to Mary and Elias—two undead souls tethered to the past but walking quietly through the present. They knew that world, the one she was beginning to suspect she’d soon be entering.

Assuming they weren’t too busy—considering, you know, the whole being-vampires-and-can’t-go-outside-during-the-day thing—maybe she could shoot Mary and Elias a quick text.

Just for comfort to check up on them.

Breana sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at her phone like it might bite her back. Her fingers hovered over the group chat and hesitated.

Then, she just started typing.

Breana: good morningggg. hope y’all aren’t sleeping in too much 😅

Breana: i was thinking about our convo from last night. you free to talk again later?

She stared at it for a second, then hit send. She figured if they were still asleep— actually can they sleep? She doesn’t know. Whatever, they’d just get to it when they could.

To her surprise, the typing bubbles popped up immediately.

Mary Mary: Good mornin’ girl ☀️ we’re always up dw, what’s up?

Breana felt a little relieved at the warm response, then quickly followed up:

Breana: nothing deep just had some more questions and i dunno, y’all are chill to talk to. plus it’s my bday eve lol

Mary Mary: Ohhhh! 👀

Mary Mary: I was just tellin Stack you prob got folks lined up for tomorrow. You got plans yet?

Before Breana could reply, Stack beat her to it.

Stack: i told her you was gon’ be booked n busy

Stack: but if you ain’t, we’ll happily steal a few minutes after sunset 😎

Breana grinned a little at that. She replied:

Breana: yeah it might be a busy day but i don’t got plans set in stone yet.

Breana: might just do something chill

Breana: or disappear and hide from the world for 24 hrs, haven’t decided 💀

Mary’s reply came fast:

Mary Mary: Girl that’s valid tbh

Mary Mary: But if you feel like talkin tonight, we’ll be at the usual spot. Just text

Stack: bring snacks

Mary Mary: 🙄

Breana chuckled and was feeling a weird comfort bloom in her chest. These two were something else. Unusual as hell, literally, but familiar in a way she didn’t expect. 

But it was good to know someone was out there who could hold space with her in the meantime.

She stretched her arms over her head, rolled her neck, and whispered to herself:

“Okay. I’m not alone.”

Not yet, anyway.

Breana: btw been doing some research this morning

Breana: about your era...

A pause. She watched the three dots flicker under Mary’s name. Then:

Mary Mary: 👀 Oh really now, why tho?

Breana bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t say “just in case I get yeeted through a tear in space-time.” So instead:

Breana: idk just been thinking more about stuff you two said

Breana: trying to understand the time y’all came from

Breana: it’s wild to think about how different things were back then and how much hasn’t changed too

Stack chimed in, of course.

Stack: girl it was a whole other planet back then

Stack: no AC, no internet, no rights, and bread was a nickel 😭

Stack: mary used to churn her own butter lmao

Mary Mary: STOP LYING TO THIS GIRL I AIN’T NEVER CHURNED NO DAMN BUTTER

Breana laughed aloud, then replied:

Breana: 😭😭 y’all are ridiculous

Breana: but fr, it’s interesting. learning how folks survived, how they dressed, talked…

Breana: even the little stuff like what people cooked or how they dealt with the heat

There was a pause before Mary responded again, this time a bit more sincere:

Mary Mary: Well, if you ever got questions about how life really felt back then you know we got stories for days

Mary Mary: Not just the bad stuff either

Mary Mary: We laughed a lot, we danced, we loved hard…it wasn’t all pain

That hit Breana deep. She stared at the message for a while, then replied:

Breana: yeah. i’d love to hear more of those stories sometime

Breana: i’ll text y’all tonight after i get some stuff done

Stack: we’ll be up. undead and wide awake 😂

Mary Mary: Behave, Stack

Mary Mary: Talk soon, Bree 💙

Breana smiled down at her screen, then tossed the phone on her bed again and leaned back with a soft exhale.

What time was it now? 11:30—late morning bleeding into early afternoon. Still quiet enough for peace, but just loud enough for distractions. With nothing else urgent pulling at her attention, Breana flopped onto her bed and unlocked her phone.

Might as well check in.

She opened FaceTime, called a few close friends just to hear their voices, share some quick laughs, and pretend—if only for a minute—that everything was just normal. Then came the scroll. Instagram. TikTok.

Tik...

Tok...

Her thumb stopped on a video with her name in the caption. Birthday posts. A handful of them, actually—fan edits, countdowns, even an astrology TikTok theorizing about what each planet means for your life according to your zodiac for tomorrow’s planetary alignment.

She didn’t even blink. She’d liked so many spiritual and astrology videos that her fyp had flooded.

At first, the news unsettled her.

But not anymore.

No more anxiety, no more questioning. She'd decided: whatever life had planned, it was gonna do it anyway. Might as well face it with her chin up.

A couple of minutes later, her assistants popped in, practically buzzing with excitement.

“Okay, quick reminder,” one of them said, clipboard in hand. “Tommorows your birthday gathering. Just a small thing. Parents, friends, your fave stylists, and us.”

“And yes,” the other chimed in, “we’ll be posting. Everyone’s gonna wanna see what you’re up to tomorrow, so we’re spreading it across Insta and TikTok, don’t fight it.”

Breana just nodded, letting herself smile a little. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

They didn’t need to know what was looming in the back of her mind. They didn’t need to know she was halfway convinced this was her last normal birthday.

Let them have their fun. Let the posts go up.

If tomorrow really changed everything…then tonight? Tonight she’d have her cake. And she was damn sure gonna eat it too.

Today had officially become tomorrow.

Breana's birthday had arrived.

She sat quietly in a velvet-backed chair, legs crossed at the ankles, while her hairstylist gently tugged and twisted her hair into one of her favorite styles—an intricate criss-cross rubber band braid pattern at the crown, with the rest of her hair was loose and full. The stylist’s fingers moved with care and precision, like an artist touching up the final strokes of a masterpiece.

Breana held her phone up and captured a few shots in the mirror—angles, lighting, a little lip gloss pop—before uploading the final look to her Instagram story. She tagged her stylist with a glitter emoji and a heart. Grateful, always.

Once her hair was finished, her assistants ushered her back into her room, chatting excitedly about the day’s schedule and what would be posted when. Together, they helped her slip into her outfit for the party—a dress she had chosen weeks in advance but still gasped at when she saw herself in the mirror. 

It was a black and white, off-shoulder bow-tied stunner, perfectly hugging her form while still giving her the freedom to breathe, to move, to feel . She paired the dress with sheer transparent tights and tall, sharp black stilettos.

Then came the descent down the hall to the living room.

The second she stepped into view—

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

The room erupted with voices, flashes of phone cameras, and a collective energy so warm it made Breana pause for a moment, just to soak it in. For a second, the air felt slower.

She almost cried.

There they were—her parents. Her friends. Her inner circle. All gathered just for her. She hadn’t seen her parents in nearly two months, which made their presence that much more emotional.

“Mom! Dad! ” she beamed, practically running toward them, heels clicking across the hardwood floor with power and precision—because yes, Breana was that girl who could run in stilettos and not fall once.

“Hey, darlin’! Happy 25th birthday!” her dad said with a voice full of pride as he embraced her.

“Hey baby, we haven’t seen you in a minute! Ooooh you look beautiful ,” her mom chimed in, pulling her into a hug like she was still fourteen.

They laid their gifts on the table—among many others from friends and colleagues—wrapped in everything from sleek matte black paper to glittery, rainbow explosion chaos. It was a corner of love and celebration.

The party buzzed around her with the sweet comfort of soul food scents drifting through the air—collard greens, baked mac and cheese, fried chicken, candied yams, cornbread—the works. It had been catered by a high-end Black-owned spot Breana personally requested, and the flavor alone felt like coming home.

Then came the cakes.

Yes— cakes.

The first one? A classic vanilla layered masterpiece, made just for Breana by her parents.

At the top, in blue frosting and yellow letters, it read:

“What’s funnier than 24? 25. Happy birthday!”

Breana burst out laughing. “ Y’all are too much! ” she said through giggles. Spongebob was one of her favorite cartoons of all time, and this was peak humor. 

The second cake, much larger and meant for guests to share, was a red velvet cake adorned with edible flowers and gold flakes. 

Photos were taken nonstop—candid moments, selfies with her besties, and formal poses with her family. Her assistants worked behind the scenes, uploading clips, tagging everyone, managing posts across Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter.

Breana didn’t bother checking her phone. Not yet.

Right now, all she wanted to do was laugh, eat, hug everyone in the room, and hold onto this little oasis of love as tightly as she could.

The laughter in the living room echoed behind her like a sweet chorus, champagne glasses clinking, music humming low beneath the hum of conversation. Someone had just made a joke and everyone erupted, including her parents. It was a perfect moment.

Too perfect.

Breana’s smile faltered just slightly as something pulled at her gut. A tight, cold little thread that hadn’t snapped since the moment she opened her eyes this morning.

She blinked once, twice.

The alignment…

She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to. That thought alone made her mouth go dry.

“Oh crap,” she said softly, just enough for her assistant to hear. “I forgot something—I left it in my room, just give me one sec.”

Before they could even respond or follow up, she turned with a casual wave and headed back down the hallway. Her heels clicked a bit faster this time, but not enough to raise concern. Her heart, however, was pounding.

Once in her bedroom, she shut the door gently—no slam, no theatrics. She was calm… enough.

Until she checked her phone.

The screen lit up with a burst of notifications.

Instagram DMs. Comments. Story tags. TikTok mentions. Duets of fans singing her songs. Edits of her best performance moments. Birthday tributes, fanart, memes—even one dramatic video of someone pretending to faint at the thought of meeting her.

“Happy Birthday, Breana!!! QUEEN ENERGY!!”

“She’s 25 and still not aging?? How??”

“Hope this is your best year yet!!”

Her finger hovered above a video of her laughing earlier at the cake. Her assistants had already edited and posted it. She smiled at her digital self.

Then a new banner appeared at the top of the screen:

Mary Mary & Stack 💙:

Happy birthday, Bree. Don’t get too drunk, see you tonight or tomorrow -Mary Marywhat she said. hope it’s a good one young blood. 🥂 -Stack

She smiled. But the warmth didn’t last.

Because that gut feeling returned—stronger now.

She quickly opened her search bar and typed without fully thinking:

“Celestial Alignment Time May 7th, 2025”

The top result loaded instantly:

“The peak alignment will occur at approximately 1:47 PM PST…”

Breana glanced at the time on her phone.

1:44 PM.

Her breath caught.

She stood there, frozen, as the realization punched through her chest like a bass drop.

“Three minutes… ” she whispered out loud.

Then panic set in.

“Okay—okay okay okay okay okay,” she mumbled, backing up a little, gripping the phone like it was an anchor and she was already being pulled out to sea. Her breathing quickened. She felt a burn behind her eyes. Her hands started to sweat.

Forget her earlier nonchalance. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready.

Breana inhaled deeply—once, then twice—holding the breath in her chest like it might glue all her nerves back in place. She checked the time again. 1:46 PM.

One minute.

She set her phone down on the nightstand. No more looking. No more spiraling.

Just go back out there.

She shook her arms out, forced her best I’m-not-panicking smile, and opened the door.

The second she stepped back into the living room, the atmosphere swallowed her whole again. Jazz music played now, something her stylist picked, smooth and classy. Her parents were dancing together by the windows, her friends chatting by the champagne table. Someone had popped open another bottle.

“There you are!” one of her assistants called out. 

“Come on, come on, we’re about to cut the big cake!” another friend shouted, holding up her phone to record.

Breana nodded, moving toward the table, blending back into the birthday rhythm. She accepted hugs, opened a gift or two, and even let one of her friends convince her to take a sip of mimosa (non-alcoholic, thank God—her nerves didn’t need help).

“Alright, make a wish!” her dad announced with a proud grin, already holding up his phone.

The candles flickered, glowing warm and golden against the frosting.

One minute left…

Breana stared at the flames.

She didn’t make a wish.

She just closed her eyes and thought, Please…not yet.

Then she blew them out.

Cheers erupted. Everyone clapped, and someone from the back yelled, “TWENTY-FIIIIIIIVE!” like it was the age of legend.

The party pressed on.

The house had gone quiet.

The party guests were gone. Empty champagne glasses littered the kitchen counter. Wrapping paper lay crumpled in a pile beside the couch. Her parents had already gone to bed in the guest room. Her assistants had gone back to their hotel after helping her change and unwind.

Now it was just Breana. Alone in her room. Back in her pajamas, her makeup wiped clean, her hair in a bonnet.

She sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, staring out the window.

The moon hung heavy and silver above the city skyline. The sky was too still. Like the world was holding its breath again.

Her phone sat quietly beside her.

Breana exhaled, a hand resting on her knee. She hadn’t expected to have time to see Mary and Elias tonight, but it looked like she just might. Her fingers hovered above the screen, ready to text—

And then she looked out the window.

There they were.

The planets. Aligned.

It was stunning in a haunting kind of way. A string of bright pearls suspended in a velvet-black sky. She’d seen the predictions, the mockups, the TikToks claiming this was it —the moment the world would shift. And now…here it was. Real. Tangible. No turning back.

She wasn’t about to check any news headlines about the “effects” either. If she didn’t have powers, she would’ve dismissed all the online panic: memory loss, time displacement, emotional distortion… Like, girl please...

But as she's known ever since she was eighteen, nothing was impossible anymore.

And she was grateful— relieved, even—that the day had gone by without incident.

Until—

BrrrrrNNGGG—!!

A shrill, splitting hum cracked through her skull.

“Ah—!” Breana’s hands flew to her head. Her eyes slammed shut, her chest seized up, and her heartbeat started hammering like a war drum. The air shifted. Thickened. Her whole body trembled as the sky outside took on a strange glow—celestial, yes, but tinged with something uncanny. Ominous.

Her ears rang.

No— screamed.

The sound wasn’t normal. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t here. It was coming from…somewhere else. Inside?

She stumbled back from the window, breath hitching. She needed her intuition to say something , anything. But her mind was static. A broken signal.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Her knees buckled.

She hit the floor.

Gasping.

Eyes wide and unseeing.

Her powers stirred. Not gently. Not the way they usually did. This was violent. Chaotic. She felt her chest thrum like an amplifier as a soft bluish-purple light began to glow from beneath her skin.

“No—no, no, no—” she whispered.

She glanced down, trembling.

Her whole body was glowing now, pulsing brighter and brighter like a living beacon. Her fingers twitched. She couldn’t move her hands from her head. Couldn’t open a rift even if she wanted to. Her powers were acting on their own, building toward something she didn’t understand.

She needed something to anchor her.

Her phone. Her memories.

She forced her eyes open and spotted it—just out of reach, where she’d left it near the window.

“C’mon,” she rasped. “Please…”

She crawled—every muscle heavy, like moving through water. The light around her body swelled, warping the shadows in the room, distorting the walls just slightly like heat haze.

Her fingers brushed the phone.

She snatched it with a shaky hand and shoved it into her pants pocket. Her other hand scraped against the floor, trying to find grip to push herself up. She glanced toward her desk, where her laptop and notebook sat—pages of the notes she had taken earlier.

Too far.

No time.

The glow surged again, and the room vibrated softly like a low hum of thunder before a storm.

Breana staggered to her feet.

Fucking hell, why—

Breana didn’t even get to finish the thought.

Her mind went blank.

Still glowing, still trembling, her body began to lift. Slowly. Unnaturally. Her feet left the ground like she was weightless, suspended in a cocoon of pulsing violet-blue light.

Above her, the ceiling shimmered. Then— crack.

A rift opened.

Not one of her own.

This one wasn’t drawn by her hands, wasn’t triggered by her focus. It opened like it had a will of its own. It pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat, warping the ceiling into a glowing spiral of nothingness.

Then, just as suddenly, it snapped shut.

And Breana crashed to the floor.

Hard.

The air left her lungs in a harsh gasp as she landed, light still pouring from her body in surges.

She groaned, barely able to process what had just happened. A rift opened…without her? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Her power always needed her focus, her will. This felt like something—or someone—else had pulled the thread instead.

Then came the knocking.

Knock knock knock.

“Breana?” her mom called out, her voice tinged with concern. “Sweetheart, are you okay in there?”

Another knock. Firmer. Sharper.

“Breana?”

Then her father’s voice joined, worried and commanding.

“BREANA?!”

But Breana couldn’t answer. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Just a pained, breathless sound.

“Ah…”

She clutched her chest, shaking, drenched in sweat as the light from her skin flickered erratically.

Their voices faded.

Not because they stopped talking.

But because she was slipping.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Her limbs went numb. The sounds of her parents shouting became distant—like she was underwater, sinking deeper and deeper.

And then…

Silence.

Total, perfect silence.

Breana’s eyes fluttered shut.

That moment was the curtain call of her time in this chapter.

<Chapter 3 Chapter 5>

[jkgnggj]

its actually. friday for me. but yeah. torisai thursday ♡♡

Omggg ur so ahead of my time ur living in the future :000 tell me time traveler is torisai canon in ur present?

[littlefuckingthing]

monstrous

this is based upon the concept that the specter has twisted and forced coolkid's body into a more monstrous form so that 7n7 won't be able to recognize him as easily. can you imagine only recognizing your child once he is killing you and understanding that this monster is your son? this grotesque awful thing that has haunted your nightmares for weeks? can you imagine that utter heartbreak?

I also included my headcanon that 7n7 fragments and 'shatters' when he dies. Like shattered glass.

I just think it's an interesting concept. there is also a great deal of tragedy in it, too. you're free to send asks in about this :) !

[the-nothing-maker]

Home is where the heart is

(Alastiel is a vampire lord NPC from @luposlipaphobya's D&D campaign, Une Cour de Chair et de Charme!)

[aroaceleovaldez]

Hiii! I hope this ask doesn’t come off as rude or pushy but I just have some questions about your opinion on Rick Riordan since I’m new the space of author critiquing.

I guess I’ll add I’m pretty young and a bit sensitive when it comes to things I like, so I automatically assumed since you post so much PJO content you liked his writing. But based on some of your posts, was I wrong? Again, I don’t want to sound pushy, I’m just new to being critical and honest when it comes to authors I like and would like to know your opinion on Rick Riordan specifically. Is he a bad writer? I just got wrath of the triple goddess and I’m not sure if I want to read it based on some of your posts.

Entirely focusing on writing itself and not the content within: I like Rick's old writing. His style when writing first series is dramatically different from his newer material, which I feel has significantly dropped in quality. A lot of the newer stuff feels very unpolished and gratuitous (towards the audience for marketing purposes, not his own interests) and he has a serious bathos problem that stunts the majority of the humor and sincerity that once existed in the franchise - and often severely gets in the way of a lot of attempts at inclusion and representation, to its detriment. Not to mention how condescending it feels towards the reader/presumed audience. It's also very clear he's trying to riff off of his previous success, including directly lifting previous sections and minorly rewriting them to try and achieve the same effect (not in a call-back manner, but just copying his own work).

I won't say his old writing is like, my 100% favorite or the end-all-be-all of literature. I have plenty of authors whose writing is more something that I think is structurally admirable. But Rick's original series writing is good! It became a pop culture staple for a reason! But the quality has dipped so severely as the series progress that it's hard to ignore and it's becoming increasingly difficult to enjoy the books for me because of this. Particularly very recent books like TSATS to me are so excessively full of simple structural errors and similar that it's baffling to me how it even got published or how we got here.

I think out of his post-first series writing, his works I've enjoyed the most are MCGA and Demigods of Olympus - particularly leaning towards the latter. It's simple but very enjoyable to me. TKC to me is mostly fine and enjoyable, and HoO is Just Okay. TOA is tolerable. TSATS and the marketing trilogy though are kind of unbearable for me.

I do love the franchise as a whole and it means a lot to me, which is exactly why I feel so strongly about the drop-off in quality recently. It feels like an insult to something I love and know can be better and has been better in the past - not from a personal perspective, but from as much of an unbiased perspective I can give as someone who has studied writing. So if he's a "bad writer" in general is kind of up to discretion i suppose.

[grif-hawaiian-rolls]

RVB OC WEEK : DAY 4 AI/Robots/Aliens/Otherworldly Creatures

"What curious little things you are!"

Man, it would sure be awkward to accidentally summon a so called god in one of those weird alien temples Neko likes to poke around. Like...really, really awkward. ... Hey do you hear that weird humming?

Enter Stage Left: APOVOS.

One of the canonical cosmic powers that little to nothing elaborated on so I, naturally, latched onto her and ran. Not technically an oc but also, at this point, i think she counts.

More about Apovos (or, my version of her at least) below the cut !!

Apovos, or Archival-Perception-of-Visions-on-Stars to use her Forerunner inspired name, fills the role of record keeping slash memory storage slash historian for the Cosmic Powers. It's her job to keep track of everything that has happened, ever. It keeps her busy but to stay on top of it she often has to keep tabs on literally everything going on currently so she knows when something she needs to record happens, so she tends to be quite in the loop on rumors and gossip.

With the claim to "godhood" the Cosmic Powers claim, her role has given her the title of 'God(ess) of Memory and Memorium'- patron of storytellers, historians and the dead. The people who remember, and those who need to be remembered. She's fond of Chorus Cats, and thinks the fact that they match the four eyes she often presents with in her projections is absolutely adorable, and will settle her code in the temples on Chorus to simply watch the little critters run around as a way of unwinding after a busy time. Her projection is inspired by Forerunners, although she can alter it accordingly. I just like drawing the weird alien AI as weird aliens.

[kamishirosiblings]

kamishiro fun fact

kenshin doesnt bother with like queer identity labels simply because he gets mad trying to find ones that make him comfortable and fit him

its also for my convenience so i dont have to remember #hashtag too many ocs

🤝

[solplease]

i've been very excited to post this but here are my ocs haha!! meet lune, cecilia, nox, and aster!

close ups, more info, and a more detailed relationship chart under the cut! this is gonna be a long post haha. there's also some more info about rowan!

cecilia's twin (he's the older twin) ((by two minutes. lol))

the type to go “here to here, i’ll buy it all”

he's got a temper

possessive, devoted, and jealous yandere

people think he's a tad bit insane (and he's self aware mostly,,)

gets into fights often

“want me to kill that guy for you?” (he’s serious btw)

he’s not nice lmao, but to you he is (in his own special way of course..!)

kind of like a cat who will proudly leave dead rats and leaves on your doorstep as a gift bc it thinks you can’t hunt for yourself

hates nox LMFAO

difficult to approach at first but once you get close he won’t ever let you go.

extroverted

LOUD. someone shut him up, this mf does NOT stop yapping bro

annoying as hell and he doesn’t know that lmao

if he absolutely has to, he’ll behave. but it's... odd

constantly needs to be doing something or he’ll get bored lol

has a bit of a sweet tooth (typical)

Bastard (not literally)

played the piano when he was younger with his sister, but he hated playing it

bad terms with his family except for cecilia

huge rebellious streak

shockingly will not kidnap you! everyone already knows you’re his, and he’s yours. and he won’t let anyone get in between you two. yay..!

hates it when you don’t pay attention to him (will absolutely start sulking too)

he’s impulsive but he’s not completely reckless

you probs shouldn’t trust him too much though he has good (????) intentions lol

seems silly (debatable really) but he’s dangerous.

half of the things he says sound like jokes but trust me, he means it. he’d do anything and everything for you, don’t forget!

shockingly pouty and whiny, only in front of you though

him and cecilia have matching bracelets from when they were younger which they both wear to this day

he’s oblivious as fuck, and an idiot

lune's twin (she's younger)

normal (somewhat) ((not really))

sweet and friendly

really likes giving gifts to people she cares about

jumps to conclusion and freaks out easily, but she’s subtle about it

constantly stressed (lune is her brother, so… i get it)

introverted (runs on a social battery)

says things without thinking sometimes

people pleaser

awkward as hell tbh, but it’s really not obvious because she’s good at putting on a front 

kinda has the ”””””princely””””” persona (i didnt know how to describe that better lmao

has abandonment issues

girlfail tbh

hardworking

shes really protective of her loved ones

likes cute things

has issues with her family but still talks to them (lune does NOT)

on really good terms with lune, they’re very close (even though he’s a huge troublemaker that stresses the shit out of her) ((if he fucks around too much she’ll give him a good smack))

packs a good punch

SENSITIVE…

potential yandere? still not too sure if i’ll make her a fully fledged yan but she def has some of the traits lol

her and lune have matching bracelets from when they were younger! (she wears it everyday!)

she doesn’t mean to put on a front it just kinda happens automatically lmao

could kill someone... probably wouldnt tho

used to play the piano with lune, she still plays it now too (as a hobby)

cunning and annoying

def the type to kidnap you

oddly sweet (???)

but also ominous as hell

docile with the one he loves

isolating and manipulative yandere

dislikes lune

nice but you can tell he’s putting up a wall (with strangers and friends)

introverted

wouldn’t put stalking past him tbh

he’s the type that wants to know everything about you.

he has a tough time interacting with others. he feels awkward in social situations

the type to go to a party and spend the whole time petting the cat in the corner (he would not go to the party in the first place tho lmao)

he’s not misunderstood tho, he just can’t socialize and doesn’t really want to

grabs the end of your shirt in an awkward situation (its kinda cute)

takes time to open up, but when he falls for you, his love is so strong, it’s almost overwhelming. so just accept him, alright?

shittiest sleep schedule known to man, like srsly, what is bro doing

this man’s brain probs short circuits every 5 minutes LMFAO go to bed you idiot

really good with his words, very convincing

loves cats

hidden piercings

careful and patient

is really good at taking care of others (but he would only wanna take care of you) you’ll let him, won’t you?

startles easily lol

elf oc

ditzy and kind (to you)

bit of a mean streak (not to you!) 

wants to appear princely in front of you

kinda stupid (a farce but not completely lol)

has a bit of a temper, but nothing too bad

clingy and cunning yandere

two faced

struggles with empathy (he tries, he’s not human, what’s he supposed to do!)

extroverted (?)

he’s really lonely

when he met you for the first time he was absolutely fascinated as he’s never interacted with a human being before!

BLUNT. he’s not used to convos… just give him some time!

at first it was simple curiosity, but that curiosity turned into something… deeper

he was completely alone before this, but now you’re here, and you’re going to stay, right? 

is obsessed with the idea of you staying here with him forever, so why do you keep talking about going home? can’t you stay here? 

but then you bring up the idea of him coming with you, well why didn’t you say that earlier! he's happy to come with you

It takes him some time to grasp certain concepts so please be patient with him, he’s not used to humans

he’s paranoid and hostile to other humans. it’s not fair, he wants all of your attention, so why is everyone trying to take you from him? he doesn’t like that everyone is getting in his way… 

he’s terrified of bugs. will scream incredibly loudly if he sees one lol

he pulled you through a mirror, that’s how you ended up in his land

so if you wanna go back, just ask and he’ll take you! 

gives you jewelry, expensive jewelry. (maybe he’s slipped on a ring before. haha. jk… unless..?)

prefers to stay inside your place because he really doesn’t like people who aren’t you lmao

don’t stray too far from him, okay? he’s always waiting for you

rowan (who i don't have a new drawing of rn </3 sorry!):

he absolutely hates not being a priority, so please don’t ignore him. please? he just wants you to love him.

clingy, devoted, and obsessive yandere

if you don’t reciprocate he might (unknowingly) try to guilt you into liking him back. will appear like a kicked puppy to really sell it (but it’s not an act lol he’s just like this)

at least his intentions are pure! (?????????) but is that better..?

if when (it will happen) you two end up together, he’ll give you the world if you’d asked for it

used to cut his own hair! :D (not great at it tho tbh)

very attentive and will work hard to keep you happy! just don’t forget that you’ll love only each other for the rest of your life. please don’t leave.

has tripped over nothing, will definitely happen again

here's the shitty relationship chart that i rushed </3 its very ugly im sorry HAHA

i really want to clarify that NONE of them will ever hurt you physically on purpose (they might have to pay up for emotional damages tho. they have your best interest in mind ig)

also i would say that they all share some traits like being clingy, devoted, possessive, obsessive, jealous, protective, and loyal. but if i specifically wrote it, it's probs just a bit more intense... just a bit,,, haha...

[goodluckclove]

I cannot think of a worse or less productive argument for me to try and get into than discussing anti-intellectualism with online academics.

[soranker]

Hiiii not sure if anyone's asked this yet but any advice on how to improve on art & anatomy? I use to draw a lot wayyyy back in high school but then stopped because of life getting in the way but now I really wanted to get back into art but realized my art isn't as good as it use to be & I never really cared too much about studying anatomy so all my anatomy/proportions are really wack & I'd like to get better at it. Hope you're having a good day!!! 💞💞💞

HI!!! i dont have any formal training in anatomy nor have i really done any studies, so unfortunately i think i can only offer general advice, but hopefully you can still find it helpful! here's what i'd recommend based on my own experience...

focus on proportions BEFORE anatomy! nailing down the size/length of each body part in relation to each other will give you a good foundation before getting into the specifics of anatomy, since you can practice this with simple shapes (circles, boxes, tubes, etc.). then practice anatomy/build on top of that, rather than trying to figure them out in parallel

practice from real life observation/references (ex. figure drawing)! even if you want to draw stylized, it'll be much more helpful in the long run if you study from real life. you'll be a lot more informed in how body parts actually connect to each other or how they move. observe observe observe! take pics of yourself/watch how your body moves--you can be your own most accessible resource, and a mirror and camera can be your best friends

find a way to keep yourself motivated to practice anatomy! everyone says that you only get better with practice and time... and it's true! but i can understand that sometimes it's hard to motivate yourself. if you ask me, draw your favorite characters :) it's literally all i do HAHA. my mentality is that... if i'm drawing something that i like then the practice feels less of a chore lol

[tommygotwrittenoff]

how is eddie supposed to uhaul back to la without his fuckass truck...

[b-r-i-n-g-x]

Can't believe I'm actually doing this but here we are

Saw that few of you did like the idea and tbh i also love the idea so lemme introduce you..

Smg4 Shrek au-

Meet the main focus of this whole au SMG3 and SMG4

Yes, yes they are shrek and Fiona

I have many ideas and different kind of story that, depends on my motivation, gonna write down into a fanfiction.

The rest of the crew of who are the villians the other side characters will come soon, until then, for a bonus here's Mario...

As Donkey-