#this was supposed to be for watching and dreaming but i decided to color it so now im suffering hahaha 💀

[biscuitsnbee]

Wip

[ladyrosemone]

𝙰 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚃𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑

I need a human's touch, but you don't need me.

I'd forgotten what writer's block felt like, and just when inspiration was returning, I got sick! But nothing will stop me from thanking you all for supporting my writing! Even following my account! I truly love you! Enjoy reading!

┏━━━•°❁⊕❁°•━━━┓┏━━━•°❁⊕❁°•━━━┓

A new game recently came out for all electronic devices.

An otome game unlike any other you've played; more detailed graphics, an engaging story that combines science fiction, powers, reincarnations, and different events into one, and, as the icing on the cake, five routes to choose from with delightful variety.

An ice doctor, the hospital's best heart surgeon, and MC's childhood friend; reserved and distant, his story reveals him as a patient lover who each time chooses to fall in love as if it were the first time, even if it means his own death at the hands of the God he once swore to serve for eternity.

A hunter of beasts known as wanderers, MC's battle companion, and prince of an entire planet in the future; a loyal and dedicated man to his beloved, who will give his life again and again, crossing space and time to save the life of his beloved queen.

A sarcastic, talented, and handsome artist who holds the world in the palm of his hand, he actually hides his true identity as the God of a marine race on the brink of extinction, which he caused many years ago; lethal and protective, he has waited for his beloved wife for eight hundred years to be together again.

A criminal, a bloodthirsty man unafraid to stain his hands with blood, a dragon made man, his soul linked to hers since their first life together, head of an organization that rules the dark side of the city; devoted and passionate, his strength is MC's strength, creating an unstoppable team.

A colonel of a fleet that navigates deep space, MC's adoptive brother whose history was written from syringes and glass cages inside laboratories, always levitating close to each other, fearing but longing to break that barrier until a visit from death forced them to do so; devoted and desperate for the love of his beloved, he is the one in this life who seems to have chosen MC.

And a sixth character who hasn't been revealed yet, but the theories are almost as good as the official clues! From the protagonist's secondary friends to the secondary friends of the love interests, you swear you were only following the Mephisto route through memes until you saw that fanart on TikTok! The point is, the game is a complete and utter blast. You love reading every new letter, every piece of information that expands the lore of the universe and connects the dots to more revelations, watching parody videos, and of course, reading fanfics on every platform possible.

Wattpad, Ao3, Tumblr, Facebook (you'd barely entered the fandom, so don't judge yourself too harshly), Fanfiction Net, TikTok's "Imagine with…" threads, I think the message got through! You're deep into your new hyperfixation. And what do you love more than reading, writing, drawing, all of that combined about Love and Deepspace? (cough cough depression cough cough) Customize MC.

Even though MC is supposed to be you in the game, your animated reflection, with your features and everything that a self-insert is about, you have to admit you're not entirely honest about that…

That's not your hair color, that's not your skin tone, that's not your hair, that's definitely not the shape of your eyes, your lips, your face, or even your body, but somehow it's perfect for you; you chose it because it's the best version of you you dream of being, because it complements the aesthetic of your favorite love interest, maybe that's your OC, and you literally use that design for absolutely everything that allows you to design a character. What matters is that you chose it, you created it, you loved it from the moment you hit "accept design" and you decided to keep it until now.

In short, it's your baby.

Maybe you'll even spend more time pampering her with exclusive clothes, accessories, and poses than increasing the affinity with the other characters, but your sweet little girl deserves it, only the best. The others should understand that; pfft, what are you talking about? Of course they would (if they were real), what wouldn't they do for her?

In the comfort of your room, where you can scream and cry over letters from Rafayel and Zayne, blush with Caleb and Sylus, or even sleep with Xavier, is where you can admit that you might feel a little…jealousy for your MC.

Not unhealthy envy! Nothing that goes to extremes or makes you jealous even a pixel! Just…sometimes it makes you wish you could find a love like that; a wild and intense fairy tale, a passionate and tender love story, with someone who loves you to the point of leaving their kingdom, their power, their duty, their status, and their life for you…

But that's not possible in real life, not only isn't it possible, it's not healthy, so you're happy to leave it to fiction and otome games. Anyway, you have to throw away those stars and wait for that new dress or Caleb's new birthday card!

-.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / -- -.-- / .- -. --. . .-.. --..-- / -.-. --- -- . / ..-. .-. --- -- / .-- .- -.-- / .- -... --- ...- . / - --- / -... .-. .. -. --. / -- . / .-.. --- ...- . .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.

Philosophers say that life begins with light.

They describe it as an explosion where there is a void that needs to be filled, a response to a need, others use metaphors of good and evil, yin and yang, hate and love, life and death. The description doesn't matter; the reasons always come down to the same words: complement and existence.

She gave them a reason to exist, their complement. She is their blinding light, their Sun and their Moon, their star and their sea, their air and their warmth, their destiny and their purpose.

That's why they hate being away from you.

Before they hated the distance, they hated discovering they're characters in a dating game simulation; not the typical existential crisis of knowing there's something bigger than them (which there isn't, one is literally a God) or that they serve a purpose beyond their control, but even the phase of knowing that everything they thought they were (likes, hobbies, goals, personal resolutions, dislikes, and even their sleep schedule) they'd chosen for themselves is just one code among millions of others that could easily be one of the tapestries of the coffee shop they frequented.

The worst part of it was knowing that their pain, their sadness, their chains, everything they lost for a girl their digital code demands they love is nothing more than morbid entertainment for anyone who sees them from above, above Astra, above the game's villains, and above themselves.

Until they hear your voice.

They hear a narrator, someone who encourages them when they feel exhausted, who cries with them over their unjust fate, who wishes them victory in every battle, praises their artwork, is moved by every hunt, or simply admires deep space.

They find your light.

Zayne feels you like a breath of fresh air, and for someone who is (literally) an element of ice, he finds that comforting. Xavier searches for you among the stars, those who await him in his home in search of a well-deserved rest, to rule by his side. Rafayel paints you, he doesn't know what you really look like, What is your skin tone? What are your facial features like? Do you have freckles? Do you have dimples when you laugh? Are your teeth even or crooked? Big or small eyes? Wide or perky nose? Is your hair short or long? What is its color? Wavy or straight? No matter how many paintings he makes or how many sculptures he presents in each art exhibition, it is not enough, and in his insufficiency you give him the spark he thought was lost eons ago to keep searching searching for you

Sylus is a dragon, a beast of fire and blood, a hunter of heaven and earth, the ultimate predator, he has conquered lands and amassed so much gold that even in this life it will never end, there is nothing he doesn't have, and yet he would give it all up for that jewel you chose for him at that boxing event, where you agreed (using MC) to be his wife, that ring is the dragon's most prized possession, worthy of his wife, of you. Caleb is, of all of them, the one most obsessed with finding you, he is the one who travels across space to feel the supernova that connected him to you in the first place, there isn't a second that goes by that he doesn't yearn for that warmth, that feeling of being alive for the first time.

Once they became aware of their "condition" finding each other was a game of hide-and-seek.

Zayne and Caleb have a history; the two already know each other; it was only a matter of time before Infold brought them together in a letter, event, or special; Sylus and Xavier also share a myth, or glimpses of typical fairy tale rivalries: prince versus dragon, good versus evil, light versus darkness. Rafayel was the last; he considers himself the ultimate prize for the first couple to find him, too magnificent to have a rival who would compete with his divine ancestry.

Talking among themselves, they all realized two things: each has a different level of affinity with you (some are more favored with gifts or attention, arousing jealousy in others), and they can only interact directly (or as much as they can until the program closes the application due to glitches in the binary code) with you through MC.

MC…doesn't even have a name.

Oh well, you gave her one, but it's so worthless to them that they should remember it or keep it in their files, who does she think she is? Daring to be so close to you, an imperfect imitation of his light, his true light, the one not programmed for him, telling him what he wants to hear, acting from a script, with no personality or spark. And somehow she gets the best of you; your attention, your money, your praise, your time! All for her!

If only they could…take her out of the game, let a wanderers eat her, let a bullet hit her, let her drown at sea, let her heart fail, or let her get lost in space.

She's an obstacle for Sylus, for Zayne, for Xavier, for Caleb, for Rafayel.

They hate her.

And her? She knows it, and she enjoys it.

What? Did you really expect her not to notice that she isn't completely herself? That something else guides her, saves her, keeps her alive.

At first it was confusing, then invasive, then cathartic, but in the end it was…liberating.

Do you know what it feels like to know, from the very beginning, that your existence is a story of tragedy with no happy ending? That no matter what you do, it's not enough? Not being able to save anyone, not being able to love anyone because they'll die, being the reason for someone else's misery, and repeating that cycle over and over and over again. It's exhausting.

Until she found you, her savior.

She found in you a love without tragedy, a care without caring, to be the protected one instead of the protector, to have the freedom to be herself, to discover how to be herself, to be pampered, to be the first option by choice, not because she was designated that way.

MC was the first to wake up, and she enjoyed every second where it was just the two of you.

The clothes you put on her? Perfectly stored, immaculate, and ready for you, the hairstyles you did for her? Search through every mod you added to the game to perfect the graphics and notice every strand of hair, the shine in every lock, the fluidity every time you move her and take pictures,the poses? All you want, as many as you want, she even strikes suggestive ones when you're not looking, saved in the folder with her name, just for you.

Everything was so perfect, until they woke up too.

Now it's harder to leave them in the background, to forget to boost your affinity or answer calls, she can no longer delete messages or block audio recordings, she can no longer hide them like she did when they were dogs loyal to the idea of ​​her and their destinies. No, now they're her enemies, viruses she has to keep at bay until she discovers a way to eliminate them so it can be you and her again, just the two of us, as always, detour and as it should be.

Until then, wait for them. Don't worry if the screen freezes, don't be surprised if you wake up with more diamonds than anyone else on the server, don't be confused if there's dialogue that doesn't appear in the official clips, and please don't uninstall the game when they call your name.

You are their light, their reason for existence, their destiny, the love of their life, their soulmate.

Theirs.

You just have to wait a little longer, can you do it?

Of course you can.

There's no other option.

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[sourkiki]

BEHIND THE SEAMS. (TEASER)

SYNOPSIS: It was supposed to be a regular celebration at the club, a celebration that you had gotten your dream job. What you didn't expect was to end up sleeping with an attractive stranger, who turns out to be your boss in your new job.

CONTENT: porn with plot, office romance, CEO! riki x employee! fem reader, attempt at comedy, slight enemies to lovers, one night stand to lovers, unprotected sex, pussy eating, face sitting, blindfolding, sex tapes, blowjobs and more to be added.

WORD COUNT: TBA (currently at 8k).

NOTE: hihi, i decided to make a short teaser for this fic that i've been working on for a while now. i'm too lazy to do events so i decided to write a long fic to show my thanks for all the love and support for this blog so far hehe. comment on this post or send an ask off-anon to be added when the full fic is published. please have your age somewhere or i won't add you. shoutout to my lovely wifey @jun2ki for helping me make the header hehe

“Hey, is this seat taken?”

You looked over your shoulder, only for your breath to hitch when you laid your eyes on the most jaw-dropping and attractive man you’ve seen in your entire life. His hair was dyed in a blinding shade of blonde, making him stand out from the dim, colorful lights of the club. He was dressed in a simple, plain outfit of a white, long sleeves with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing fairly toned arms that made you unconsciously squeeze your legs together. 

“Not anymore, you can sit,” you flashed in what you hoped was a warm smile, allowing him to sit beside you.

He nodded, occupying the seat on your right and his clothed knee brushed against your bare knee, sending pleasant shivers down your spine. You watched as he waved down the bartender, raising his hands to show the number sign: ‘two’ and before you could stop him, a shot glass appeared before you. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you said, attempting to push it towards him but he stopped you by grabbing your hand. You were able to feel him tracing your knuckles with his fingers, making you wonder how it’ll feel against your bare skin. 

“I want to. It’s not every time I get to sit beside someone this gorgeous,” he sends you a boyish and cheeky smirk. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said.

He smirked. “Like what?” 

“...Like you want to kiss me,” you replied, not sure where you got the sudden courage from but you had picked the right response, considering how he leans in until your lips grazes against one another, until he is in your personal space and until you’re breathing in one another’s air. 

“And if I want to? Would you let me kiss you?” He murmured, voice dropping an octave lower. 

“Are you sure you only want a kiss? Would you be satisfied with that?” You chuckled. 

“Would you hit me if I say no? I wanna bend you over this counter and fuck you in front of everyone. Eat you out until you’re begging me to stop. Maybe make you sit on my face too,” he continued, words slipping from his mouth, smooth like butter. 

~ 

“I’m so sorry I’m late! This won’t happen again.” 

Riki froze when a painstakingly familiar voice pierced the silence. He went as still as a statue—hand hovering over the handle of the door leading to his office with his back facing the source of the voice. Jungwon, on the other hand, didn’t notice his sudden change of behavior as the footsteps got closer and closer. 

“You must be (Name), welcome,” his assistant greeted in his signature warm, friendly voice. 

“Ah, thank you. I’m really sorry I was late. My alarm didn’t ring even though I swore I had set it yesterday night,” the voice replied, flustered. 

Jungwon chuckled and Riki could already imagine him shaking his head. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

What he said next made Riki contemplate jumping out of the window. 

“Oh, let me introduce you to the boss: Nishimura Ni-Ki.” 

This leaves him no choice but to fully turn around, revealing himself and he had to resist the urge to smirk at how your eyes widened, mouth dropping open. He saw the way both horror and recognition hit you in the form of you nearly dropping your bag.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, (Name). I’m looking forward to seeing how you’ll perform here,” he said, forcing himself to smile and he could only pray that it looks natural. 

Thankfully, you went with the flow, accepting his handshake and flashed him a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Nishimura. I hope I can meet your expectations.” 

tag list: @swiftcityy, @jun2ki, @yenienha, @katseye4mimi, @invsomnixa1, @cutehoons02, @rikisoup, @vixialuvs, @rikidaze, @fancypeacepersona, @k1ttyjwon, @androgynouscrownorbit, @rosepetals09, @coconutx-o, @teenagecheesecakereview, @blooqz,

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Sypnosis [The idea, the reality of the Safe Haven seemed like a dream. Practiced words of security and all, you really wanted to believe it. But your body finally gave out on you.]

Characters [Poppy, Doey The Dougman]

Note || I canNOT, stop thinking about this chapter. Had to get something out, RAGHHHH.

The Safe Haven was a sight for sore eyes. After what felt like an eternity of running, hiding, and barely escaping death, the sight of a place that promised some semblance of safety should’ve felt like relief. But it didn’t. Not for you. Not after everything you’d been through—everything you had to endure. Your mind raced with fragmented memories, sharp jabs of terror, grief, and pain.

Poppy, with her porcelain skin cracked and her freckled face stained with something like sorrow, had said something. You couldn’t quite recall what. Her words blurred in the haze of dizziness, each syllable becoming more distant as you stumbled forward, breath ragged and shallow. Kissy Missy, bruised and battered, limped behind you, her usually vibrant form now barely recognizable. The damage was too much; you could see that in her eyes. She wasn't the playful, colorful mascot anymore. She was a broken thing, her energy and joy long siphoned away by the cruelty of whatever twisted force controlled this place.

Doey had already disappeared ahead of you, his doughy body oozing through the walls, reshaping as he went to ensure a path for you, keeping watch for anything dangerous. You could hear his voice echo back to you, encouraging but soft, "It’s just a little farther, hang in there."

But you could barely move anymore. Your limbs were heavy, like lead weights had been strapped to them, your chest tight with every breath. The psychological toll of the horrors you’d witnessed, the twisted machinations of the toys, the monstrous creatures, the feeling of being hunted—it had crushed you. Every time you closed your eyes, the faces of those you failed to save haunted you. And yet, the worst part of it all wasn’t the bloodshed. It was the realization that none of this had really been an accident. This place, the factory, Playtime Co. itself—it had been engineered, designed to trap, to break, to destroy. The lines between the real world and the horrors within had blurred beyond recognition.

But the Safe Haven was supposed to be different. They had told you it would be.

"Poppy... what’s happening?" You barely whispered, stumbling forward, your hand reaching for her as if she could somehow anchor you to sanity.

She glanced at you, her cracked porcelain face betraying something deeper than concern—fear. But she masked it quickly with a false sense of politeness, that same flicker of the commercial persona. "We’re safe, just for a moment. Doey’s gone to prepare a place for you to rest. You need to sleep. You’ve... been through a lot."

The words sounded hollow, too rehearsed. You saw the cracks in her mask, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly, like she was holding something back. Something far darker than just the factory’s horrors.

But before you could ask more, your body rebelled. Your legs gave way, the floor rushing up to meet you with a suddenness that felt like fate had finally decided to claim its prize. The world around you blurred, spinning into a vortex of shapes and colors you couldn’t make sense of. A warm, tingling numbness spread through your limbs, and everything—the noise, the cold, the crushing fear—faded away into the suffocating embrace of blackness.

---

When you woke, the first thing you felt was warmth. It wasn’t the sterile, metallic chill of the factory, nor the harsh stabs of cold that had been your constant companion in the last few hours. No, this felt different. Soft, welcoming, like something familiar.

For a moment, you almost wished it was just a dream. You wanted to close your eyes again, to pretend you could go back to a time before all of this—the monster-filled corridors, the broken toys, the grotesque creations. But you couldn’t. The memories burned too bright, too sharp.

You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze falling on the dimly lit room around you. It was nothing like the rest of the factory—small, homely even. The walls, though still bearing the industrial scars of the facility, had been adorned with what little warmth could be found in this hellscape. A blanket. A chair. The soft hum of a distant power grid keeping things alive. For the first time since you’d entered this nightmare, you felt almost safe.

But that peace didn’t last long. As your vision cleared, you saw the figures sitting in the corners of the room. Poppy, who hadn’t left your side, stood near the door. She was watching you, a mixture of relief and something darker in her eyes. And Doey, the plump, doughy creature who had led you here, was pacing anxiously by the wall, his multi-colored arms twitching nervously.

“You’ve been out for a while,” Doey said softly, his voice carrying a hint of concern, though he tried to mask it with a smile. His orange and yellow limbs flexed as he continued to move, seemingly uncomfortable in the quiet.

Poppy spoke next, her voice softer now, stripped of the false cheer she used to mask her true emotions. “You’re safe here. For now. But…” She hesitated, glancing at the door, as though she could feel the very presence of something lurking just beyond it. “We don’t have much time.”

Your heart skipped, but it was different now. There was no running, no desperate flight. You were here, in this moment, still alive. That was all that mattered. But the reality of what you’d been through—what you had to survive—settled heavily on your chest. The thought of continuing on, of facing whatever nightmare lay beyond this brief respite, made the idea of sleep seem almost impossible.

“I can’t…” You started, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t keep doing this.” The words felt weak, pathetic even, but they were true. The doctor, the toys, the horror—the toll had been too much.

Poppy’s smile wavered again, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she knelt beside you, her porcelain skin reflecting the dim light. “You’re not alone,” she said, her voice barely audible. “We’ll face it together, okay? You can rest for now. You’ve earned it.”

But you could feel the weight of her words. Together. It was a fragile promise, one that carried with it more uncertainty than comfort. Still, you had to believe in it. Because in this place, with the world crumbling around you, it was the only thing left worth fighting for.

You closed your eyes once more, but this time, the darkness was different. It wasn’t filled with monsters or screams. It was filled with something far simpler, far more fragile—hope.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to rest.

[canihaveacalmtime]

"Liam.. I thought- we- we are friends...?"

"We were friends, (Y/N). I'm just bored of you and you are of no help for me, really."

You and Liam were best friends since primary cause instead of ignoring him for his stuttering, you actually held out a hand and help him get over it bit by bit.

When Liam finally got rid of his stuttering in the first year of highschool, you were so happy for him, even felt proud. He begin having more friends, become more mature and handsome, his popularity even hit the peak after he participant in the school's talent show as a singer.

But as time goes by, you took noticed of his behaviors and actions towards you. From a gentle guy you once know, he became more harsh and occasionally lash out at you when you try to ask him to have a conversation.

It seems like the Liam you once known was not your Liam anymore, he's everybody's Liam except for you.

But you were there, you were there for him everytime he make a progress, reach a milestone and succeed a goal he wanted to achieve. You were there, on the stadium, in the crowd, by the guests lane, always watching and look out for your once to be best friend.

All of that for a sentence that would haunt you for the rest of your life, rip apart your most painful old wound that no amount of comfort can heal. That day, at the park you two would always hang out when you were little, Liam, out of all people was the one who cut the string that tied the two of you for over 10 years.

"Maybe I should've listened to the others when they said you were fucking useless. And now that I can confirm it myself, yeah, you're fucking worthless, (Y/N)."

--------------------------

Yandere ex best friend, after graduated from college, succeed in the economic field and become a very famous CEO, a man of every women's dream and the man that all the other men fighting to be one day. He's hardworking, a true gentleman and a man of words, he make impressions not create disappointments. To colleagues, he's the boss that every office workers wished to have, to business partners, he shines like a true leader that leads all the cooperations to succeed.

Yandere ex best friend despite in all of his glory, hides his dark and painful past with his savior, the person he suppose to return the favor to, not to hurt them or be a bastard to. But he did, he hurt you and over all became a rude jerk to you just because he's so greedy for all the glory attention he got back then that he wanted to get rid of a dirty stain like you. He's wrong, he knew now but when he tried to turn around, you were no longer there and for the past 3 years, finding you seems like an impossible task, like you just vanish, completely vanished without a trace to track.

Yandere ex best friend suddenly got news from the workers whispers that one of his company's small agency recently hired a new secretary that boosted that agency value up so much that even the workers needed to talk about it so after dismissed all the fuss going on, Liam decided to just check it out himself.

Yandere ex best friend were just shocked and baffled by the fact that you were that secretary everyone was fussing over about, while you have a really warm look for everyone in the agency, the moment he stepped inside the place, it seems like you just put on a completely new face to greet him. Its not a annoyed face or a furious face, your expression was juts cold to say at best and even a hint of uncomfortable, fear at worst. He understands why you have those expressions directly towards him but he couldn't not notice how his heart stings whenever you look at him with those lifeless (eye color) orbs.

Yandere ex best friend immediately order the agency's director to let him have you as his personal secretary and become his right hand. Of course, when the news got out, all the workers there were just shock but it's a negative shock, they were finally have another hidden gem as their colleague just for the highest tier to came and take them away again.

--------

"Sir Liam Rigus, we understand that we are holding a hidden gem but you can not take them away out of thin air...!"

Your boss argue, his face is showing various kinds of emotions right now, you might seems normal but inside, you are just another disaster, all the negative thoughts and emotions together making you want to break down but don't dare to. You can not show your weakness to your enemy, the CEO of your company, the hand holding your agency on a hair string.

"Unfortunately director Ron, my words will go as planned, no argue."

And just like that, you were taken away from your new home without your consent and begin forced to work somewhere else, a new environment where you not even sure if anyone there gonna take a good impression of you or not. You can only pray.

--------

Yandere ex best friend ordered his personal guards to escort you and bring your belongings into his penthouse as this is where you're gonna be working from now on. With your new room next to his, work in his private office and have to share every meals with him, to you, this is a living nightmare no more no less.

Yandere ex best friend loves how your hand feels whenever you hand him the daily paperworks and random documents, he feels so content just by staring at you while you're working, the best thing for him is, you're just too focus on your work to even notice a pair of love sick yellow eyes looking at you.

Yandere ex best friend always bring you to your room whenever you passed out on your work table or accidentally fall asleep when you're talking to him about work stuffs. After tucking you in your bed, he would always leave a few kisses here and there, even check your body if you're eating well lately or not, sometimes he would just sits by your bed and stares into your cute sleeping face or some rare occasions, he'd even climb onto the bed to sleep with you. He doesn't worry about getting caught because he knows well you're a real deep sleeper, he has been watching you much and long enough to know everything, once you're asleep, you won't even know an earthquake is happening so how'd you know if he has done something more than just stare or touch?

Yandere ex best friend was having a super terrible day and you took noticed of that so you tried to not bother him at all with the paperworks despite struggling with it so bad. A maid happened to bake some sweets, you also remember that he always consume sweet food whenever he stressed out, so you give in and decided to bring him a plate of cookies but you didn't expect it to turn out so badly.

--------

"CAN YOU LEAVE ME ALONE!? AREN'T YOU USELESS ENOUGH ALREADY!?"

Was all that you heard before the plate of cookies on your hands fell to the ground, shattered into pieces as the sound echos through the quiet office room. You felt as if all of your abusive memories came rushing back into your very soul as your hearing turns into loud voices speaking negatives into your head one by one more and more. You don't know, you don't feel anything, you don't event know when did you ran back into your room, lock the door tight or how panicked the maids were when you ran down the hallway with blood all over your bare legs or how horrified Liam was when he snap into his senses as he tried to catch you stop running but all he can do and is doing now is banging on the door, try to break in and stop you from hurting yourself even more.

"(Y/N)!!! Please open the door!!! Please, I'm sorry!!! (Y/N)!!!!!"

Everything turns into a blurred out vision.

The next time you opened your eyes, you found yourself on the hospital bed with your legs unable to move. Your doctor told you that due to the amount of blood lost from your legs and how damaged it was from the accident, you're completely lost your walking forever and now even have to rely on someone to take care of you. For the first time in so long, you thought about finding 'freedom' again but before you can even grab any sharp objects, Liam walks in, his eyes completely lock in on you.

"Are you happy?"

You ask him, giving him a hopeless smile with your lifeless eyes as tears begin falling down your face continuously.

"You must be so hapoy to see me like this- I bet you couldn't wait for this day to come- surely y-"

you can only laugh lightly

"(Y/N)."

He crouched down onto the hospital floor as he hold your face tenderly in his hands, wiping away any tear falling down and look straight in your eyes.

"I swear that from now on, I'll be responsible for you and for what I've done, you can just rely on me only from now on and I'm sorry."

As he awaits for your answer as you can only laugh lightly in a dying tone as if mocking him that what he's trying to do is so stupid and time wasting.

But he never go back on his words as for the next days, weeks, months then years, he really do as he said, taking care of you from A to Z without even complaining one bit but there's one thing he forbid you to do is work, he has enough to take care of you and he doesn't want you to overwork yourself anymore, he only needs you to relax and do whatever you want, of course, with a maid or a guard nearby to watch you 24/7.

After 2 years, you begin open up to him again, you begin talking to him again and slowly, you and him just turn into the pair of best friends like how you two were back in the days but some times, in the back of your head, a voice would scream out to you, telling you that you need to escape, run away from him but how far can you even go with this condition anyway so you dismissed that voice even though that voice is yours itself.

-------------------------------

Liam hugs you close to him as you let out soft snoring, deep asleep. He gives you a love smile and he plays with your hair.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for a night like this to come, darling."

He traces his finger across your closed eyes then your nose and your lips. They all so delicate to him as if he's holding a flower in his arms.

"You know... when we found you unconscious in your bedroom after the broke down that door, it was a perfect opportunity for me to finally tied you here with me forever even though I felt like I should just kill myself when I realized I hurt you."

Liam put his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your comfort smell while kissing your bare shoulder.

"Your injuries weren't that servere to be honest, I knew you can recover with that amount of injuries but then you will have the chance to escape, to get away from me, leave me and abandon me again. I can't let that happen..! You know."

He then reach up to give you a deep kiss in the lips, as he parts away, he can see your cheeks turn pink from the lack of oxygen but you still deep asleep despite that.

"So I may have interfered with making you... lost your ability to walk. I didn't mean to hurt you with that- it just! Just... I wanted to keep you here but now you're here, 'you' are back also, so I can not be happier."

He laughs out a rather happy but maniac laughter as he watch his darling like admiring a gorgeous painting.

"I love you, (Y/N) and I'll make sure you know that, sooner or later."

----------------------------------------------

:3

[nizhspo]

pairing: suguru geto x reader

content: 18+, bridgerton-style au, forbidden romance, noble!reader, duke!suguru, oral (part one here).

the sun had already set when you found him.

the cathedral ruins were quiet at dusk, the sky the color of cut garnets, and the stone saints above you were nothing more than featureless outlines now, holy silhouettes worn down by time and rain. no one came here after dark. not the stewards, not the clergy, not the highborn girls with names like lilies and lace.

only you. and only him.

suguru was already waiting.

you had been half-afraid he wouldn’t be—not out of cruelty, but out of caution, or perhaps he had the good sense you had so clearly misplaced by the time you’d slipped from your bedchamber at half-past midnight, leaving nothing but fluffed pillows in your place.

you had whispered apologies to your mother’s portrait as you passed her in the corridor, hands shaking as you lifted your skirts to avoid the creak in the third step from the landing.

every inch of the castle had been carved and paid for by your grandfather’s ambition, polished by your father’s spine—and you, daughter of a viscount, were risking all of it for the taste of a man who was not only already owned, but promised, and spoken for. his hand pledged to the duchess of nara prefecture.

yet, it was your name he whispered in the dark.

your slippers crunched gently over gravel as you entered the ruins, and the wind pulled at your cloak like a warning—but it seemed to already be too late for those.

his cloak had been unfastened and thrown across the jagged spine of a broken pew, dark wool caught in the teeth of the stone. he stood beside it, one hand braced on the worn altar ledge, head half-turned. the breeze caught the edge of his collar just as he turned toward you, unhurried, like he’d known you were near the moment the earth had noticed.

“you came,” he murmured, voice low as candlewick, “and here i’d half-thought satoru finally took you from me.”

you huffed a laugh, more breath than sound. you hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until the tension began to slip loose from your shoulders.

your hands lifted to your hood, pushing it back, and your eyes glittered despite the shadows.

“jealousy doesn’t suit you, my lord,” you said, with a tilt of your chin and a lift of your brow. “though i suppose it would suit him—satoru has always been more fond of gold than good sense.”

“mm,” suguru hummed, gaze trailing down your frame, from the flush on your cheeks to the bodice of your night-blue dress, half-crushed from the haste of dressing in the dark. “and yet here you are.”

“here i am,” you agreed, stepping closer, until your hand brushed his on the edge of the altar.

he caught it gently, brought your knuckles to his mouth. didn’t kiss them. only let them hover there, as if he wasn’t sure whether you were a dream or a curss, and couldn’t quite decide which would damn him faster.

“tell me,” he said softly, “did the crown prince ever get you to say yes?”

you smiled, slow and amused. “only to a second dance.”

“and sukuna?” he asked, though his voice held no true curiosity.

your eyes flicked upward, toward the ruins’ edge, where the breeze threaded through the gnarled ivy like fingers in hair. you smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

“he only stares,” you said, tilting your head just slightly, as if recalling the weight of sukuna’s gaze made your skin prickle. “i don’t think he speaks at all.”

“and nanami—?” he asked next, more softly.

you hesitated this time, your hand still curled lightly in the fabric of suguru’s coat, thumb brushing along the seam as you thought. “he watches me like a ledger,” you said at last.

suguru’s jaw shifted. “but not like i do.”

your smile faltered, but only just.

“no,” you admitted, just above a whisper. “not like you do.”

suguru’s mouth twitched, a phantom of something sharp, and your gaze dropped to suguru’s chest, to the pearl of his topmost button—his breath rising beneath it, measured and deep.

“he watches as if he’s balancing risk and return,” you added. “as though he’s trying to decide whether i’m worth the debt.”

that made suguru laugh, but it was quiet, dry, almost pitying, as his fingers tightened ever so slightly at your waist, and he leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours.

“fools,” he murmured, as if to himself. “counting coins when they should be on their knees.”

his thumb brushed the edge of your palm, and his voice dropped to something dangerous. “because none of them,” he said, leaning in now, “have had the viscount’s daughter bent over a balcony in the king’s garden, have they?”

your breath stilled, as his other hand rose to the small of your back, pressing slow and familiar.

“none of them,” he murmured, mouth at your ear, “have had you gagging on their fingers while a ballroom full of dukes and daughters danced not ten paces away.”

“suguru—” you breathed, scandalized, thrilled.

“none of them have heard how you moan,” he continued, voice low and wicked, “when you know anyone who wandered out for air could see you. could hear you. your silk bodice wrinkled, your mouth too wet, your thighs trembling as you begged me not to stop—”

your hand curled in the lapel of his coat.

“you shouldn’t say such things,” you whispered.

“and yet,” he said, finally kissing your knuckles, “you came.”

your lips parted, your breath unsteady.

“and i’ll say them again,” he added, “until you come apart in my hands the way only you do.”

and with that, he guided you back, toward the crumbling wall behind the altar, slow and certain where the stone saints were faceless and the stars above bore silent witness. until the hem of your skirts brushed the tips of his boots.

“you shouldn’t,” he whispered, lifting his hand to the edge of your jaw. “but you do.”

“shouldn’t what?” you managed, even though your voice was already thin, already breathless, already undone.

“want this.” his thumb stroked beneath your cheek. “want me.”

you nearly laughed at the irony of it, because not only was he right, but you’d never wanted anything more.

but you didn’t say it. because he was kissing you then, mouth warm and plush, the way a man starved might still pause to give thanks before the feast. he tasted of something sunlit and forbidden, like late summer wine and honey-thick sin, and the way he kissed you made your knees buckle.

“god,” suguru breathed against your lips. “you’re so—” he kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding past your teeth. “so sweet. sweeter than i imagined since i last saw you.”

you didn’t want to ask how many times he’d imagined it.

how many nights he’d laid awake with your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped tight around the memory of your taste. how many letters he’d written and burned. how many times he’d bitten back your name when standing beside the woman he was meant to marry.

you didn’t ask, because you already knew.

his hands were careful, even when they weren’t. one curled at your waist, the other fisting your skirts, pressing you there to the alter ruins, pinning you like parchment to prayer. every part of him was warmth and want, body pressed to yours as though there’d never been air between you.

you gasped as he moved lower, lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot against your throat.

“i should let you go,” he murmured into the hollow of your collar. “i should tell you to return to your chambers. i should behave like the man they say i am.”

your breath caught as his hands slid along your sides, slow and adoring.

“but you are here,” he whispered, “and i am weak.”

you made a soft sound, more plea than protest, and he pulled back, just far enough to look at you. your face in his hands, your breath fast, your heart louder than the birds in the trees.

“may i see you?” he asked, voice low, fingers already skimming the edge of your bodice, trembling with restraint.

you laughed, light and breathless—but it caught on a gasp the moment his teeth grazed your throat, just above the pulse. your spine arched instinctively, and your hands fisted in his collar as his mouth lingered there, open and warm.

“you’ve had no trouble asking any other time,” you whispered, the words nearly lost in the wind.

his lips curved against your skin.

“i was trying to be respectful,” he said, dragging the line of your neckline down with a single knuckle, “for the honorable.”

his hand slid beneath the loosened fabric, just enough to ghost over the swell of your breast.

“but i see,” he murmured, darker now, “you’d rather me ruin you.”

your breath hitched as his hand slipped lower.

“say it.”

and god help you—you nearly did.

but you’d disobeyed everything else in this kingdom. you’d climbed the stone garden walls in slippers, you’d smiled at princes and curtsied for no one, you’d let a man not your betrothed put his mouth between your legs and had still met his eyes the next morning.

you were your mother’s child, after all.

so instead of answering, you jerked your hips forward, the smallest, neediest little gesture—and pouted.

“for god’s sake, suguru,” you muttered, voice petulant and breathy. “just get on with it.”

he stilled. and then—he chuckled. low, decadent, maddening.

“well,” he said, drawing back just an inch, enough to make you whimper, “now i’m going to do the opposite.”

you might’ve cursed him. you might’ve begged.

but he was already moving behind you, lips at your shoulder, hands slipping beneath your cloak.

he was careful with the laces of your gown, as if each ribbon were sacred, each knot a confession he wished to unmake. his fingers were steady as he loosened the corset stays, as he drew the silk down from your shoulders, as he peeled you out of dove grey and into moonlight.

you didn’t rush him again.

because the way he looked at you, gown folded at your feet, breath trembling at your ribs, skin bare and waiting, was anything but patient.

it was worship. it was possession. it was ruin, slow and inevitable.

the air kissed your skin, but his hands followed fast after, palming over your hips, then up, slow, until he cupped your breasts, bare and high from the corset. he exhaled harshly, head dipping.

“look at you,” suguru whispered, mouth brushing the curve of one. “god above. look what you've been hiding beneath those silk sleeves and stiff smiles.”

you whimpered, and he licked softly over your nipple.

“so perfect,” he muttered, lips closing around it now. “do they know? the men in those halls. do they know what you are beneath your gloves and your good breeding?”

your spine arched and he caught you, hand firm at the small of your back. his tongue swirled, slow and languid, before he kissed lower, down the soft line of your ribs, over your stomach, devout as a priest with his holy book.

his mouth returned to your throat next, kissing along the line of your jaw before dipping lower, teeth grazing just beneath your ear. you gasped, sharp and startled—and he groaned softly in response, lips parting as he began to suck, slow, coaxing, his mouth pulling gently at the skin until your head lolled back, spine curving helplessly toward him.

he licked the spot once before closing his lips around it again, harder now, like he wanted to leave something permanent there. something only you would know was his.

your fingers scrambled for purchase, clutching at the edge of his coat, the stone behind you, the air itself, but he caught you easily, hand sliding firm to the small of your back, holding you steady as your knees threatened to go.

“that’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing lower, against the slope of your collarbone. “let me have you.”

and then, lower still, his hands slipping the rest of the way down your arms, your bodice already falling open. he mouthed along your chest, warm breath dragging over newly bare skin, and when he reached your breasts again, he stilled for just a moment, gazing at them like they were something holy.

“every time,” he whispered, eyes dark. “you undo me.”

his mouth wrapped around your nipple before you could breathe.

you cried out, softly, instinctively, and he groaned in return, low and hungry, as if your sound had gone straight through him. his tongue moved slow at first, languid circles that dragged heat through your belly, and then faster, lips closing tighter, sucking gently until your back arched off the cold stone behind you.

he kissed across to the other, hands sliding up to cup them both, thumbs brushing softly over the slick he’d left behind. his tongue lapped over your breast again, then flicked the sensitive peak until your thighs pressed together and your whole body shivered.

“you’re so responsive,” he murmured, mouth still against your skin. “so sweet. you were made to be worshipped, weren’t you?”

you couldn’t speak. you could only tremble as he kissed down again, over the swell of your ribs, down the curve of your waist, each press of his lips slower than the last. his tongue traced along your skin like scripture, like every inch of you was a verse he meant to memorize.

and by the time he reached your stomach, he was already sinking.

“i’ll be damned for this,” he said, dropping to his knees. “and i’ll kneel again for it. gladly.”

you stared down at him, lips parted. the heir to a dukedom—his mouth now at the top of your stockings, kissing the inside of your thigh like you were sacred.

he lifted your leg gently over his shoulder. kissed the soft flesh just beside the place you throbbed.

he pressed his mouth against you through your thin underthings, and your knees nearly gave out. he caught you again, groaning low in his throat.

“so wet already,” he murmured, mouth now moving the fabric aside, finally—finally, sliding his tongue against the slick, aching heat of you. “were you like this in the ballroom too, dove?”

your gasp was ragged. your hands tangled in his hair, and he moaned again.

“did you sit beside your mother with your knees all neat and your hands folded in your lap,” he whispered, between kisses, “while this perfect little cunt ached for me?”

you cried out at that, hips stuttering forward, and he growled against you.

“that’s it,” he breathed. “don’t be quiet. not here. not for me.”

his tongue moved with precision, slow and devastating, licking long stripes up your center, teasing and curling, until he found the place that made you gasp and jerk, and then he stayed there, sucking gently, lips wrapped soft and greedy.

“yes,” he groaned. “there. you like that, don’t you?”

you could only nod, only moan, your voice barely your own, high and breaking. he licked again, faster, dragging sounds from you you’d never made before, sounds that startled even yourself.

your thighs trembled around his ears, and he only tightened his grip, mouth working harder.

“so good for me,” he muttered, voice half-muffled against you. “you taste like heaven. no wonder i’ve been dreaming of this.”

his lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking in slow, deliberate pulses, tongue pressing flat, then curling just enough to make your hips jerk. and still, he held you steady, one arm hooked around your thigh, the other sliding lower, and—

you gasped when you felt it. his fingers, warm and sure, slipping between your folds, gliding through the slickness he’d already coaxed from you. he groaned low against your cunt, the vibration so deep it made your knees buckle.

“look at you,” he breathed, fingers dragging upward, teasing. “you’re dripping.”

and then, his middle finger pressed inside.

you cried out, sharp and soft, the stretch making you shudder. he pushed in slow, the way you’d always imagined it might feel like, being filled with something that knew you. something that had waited.

his mouth never left you. he licked you through the gasp, sucked your clit again while his finger curled inside, slow and searching. he moaned when he felt the way you clenched around him.

“there,” he murmured. “right there, isn’t it?”

your hands scrabbled against the stone, head falling back, and he added another finger, carefully, patiently, lips still working you, tongue drawing dizzying circles as his knuckles pressed deeper.

he was making sounds now, deep in his throat. like he was the one unraveling.

“you feel so good,” he said, words hot and desperate against you. “so warm, so tight—fuck, i could die right here with my fingers inside you and my mouth on you.”

you whimpered something that might have been his name. might have been a plea.

he pumped his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right, his tongue flicking faster now, and the combination had your body quaking, hips bucking up into his mouth, thighs clenching around his head like you never wanted to let him go.

and still he didn’t stop.

“that’s it, dove,” he whispered. “don’t hold back. give it to me. fall apart, right here in my hands.”

your moans came high and broken, breath stuttering with every pass of his tongue, every slick curl of his fingers inside you. you felt the heat winding in your belly—tight, dangerous, inevitable.

and he could feel it too.

“you gonna come for me?” he asked, low and filthy. “right here, in the ruins? right here where anyone could find you—but no one ever will, not like this.”

he thrust his fingers harder then, just once, and sucked your clit so tight and fast it shattered you.

your whole body seized.

you cried out, helpless, unguarded, as your release crashed over you, wave after wave of blinding heat and trembling limbs. suguru didn’t stop. he licked you through it, groaning into you, drinking down every sound you made like it was his only prayer.

and when your thighs finally slackened, when your chest heaved and your eyes fluttered, he lifted his head slowly.

his lips were wet with you, and his eyes—utterly, worshipfully ruined.

“mine,” he said, softly.

and you were, your whole body molten in his hands. and as the stars began to rise above the cathedral ruins, you realized—

you would never belong to anyone else again.

[twstfanblog]

Idia x a reader who's an introverted shut-in nerd loser just like him...

SSR Connection

Idia x Reader (Could be read as platonic)

The prefect isn't entirely sure what any of the NRC teachers were smoking but they fucking wanted some. It wasn't even midterms, yet every class decided they would have massive tests on the same day. And to make matters worse, their gacha game was having its long-awaited event! The SSR of their dreams was finally in their grasp.

Normally, they'd be on their phone the entire day, even during gym if they could swing it. Grinding gems and completing tasks to roll for the new event.

But NO. They had to be 'present and engaged' with clases because every one of their teachers decided to fuck their life with big fat tests. The only glimmer in their mind was the fact Ortho was a dear friend. A dear friend who didn't have to participate in classes and was most likely in his brother's room doing a lot of nothing all day. So, with a barely functioning brain, they had raced to Ignihyde. Throwing open Idia’s bedroom door with a fast-forwarded explanation of what they needed the android to do. Simply use every gem to get the new card, and do their games' refuel battles to earn more.

They said that while throwing their phone at the flaming blue hair, before closing the door, no more than three seconds later.

And they survived! Every test completed and hopefully passed. They stopped at Sam's for a treat, seeing Ortho scanning the shelves, they called out.

"Ortho! Sorry about this morning. I was in such a rush, I must have scared you with how I busted in there."

"Hm? It's no issue, I suppose. But, what are you-"

"Today was wild. The baby midterms every teacher decided to give were brutal. But, I made it! Thank you so much for watching my phone for me."

"Prefect, I don't have your phone."

...

To say that the prefect started wailing was an understatement. Ignihyde was more blue than any other color of the spectrum. There's no telling if they tossed their phone at Idia or simply into an empty room in their panicked and sleepy state. Ortho was nice, guiding their weeping self towards Ignihyde and his brother's room. If lucky, their phone was just sitting on his bed or desk, untouched. If unlucky, Ortho was sure his brother would help locate the device.

But once they got to Idia's room, the housewarden barely acknowledged their entrance. He had his phone in one hand, the other typing on his keyboard as an emulator played on screen. Wires connected to the Prefect's phone.

"Um...Nii-san?"

"Good! Ortho, you're back, I need you to-" Idia turned, curling into himself at seeing another person in the doorway. He only grew more frantic in his typing at seeing who it was, "W-wait! I'm almost finished grinding! You can have your phone back after that!"

The prefect perks up, a small gasp escaping their mouth, "You had my phone all day?"

"Um...yeah." Idia looked between them and the screen before slamming a fist onto the desk, "How long have you been playing 'My Lovely Hero Academia'!?"

"A-a few months? Why-" They flinch as Idia swiped at his monitor, thinking that he was literally throwing it at them, only to see he sent over a holo screen showing the emulator display.

"How did you get Madame Justice!? I've been playing for literal years and I still haven't gotten her drop!"

The Prefect waves the screen away, raising an eyebrow, "Is...Is she rare? She's like the poster girl for the whole series, isn't she? She's got an SSR for every event, even if she isn't in it?"

"Yeah, you can get those, whatever. This is the launch day SSR! THE RAREST DROP IN THE GAME! WHERE DID YOU GET THIS!?"

"I...I got her in the starter pack? I didn't know she was so rare..." The Prefect folds their arms, mumbling under their breath, "They whore her out enough, I wasn't surprised when she showed up..."

"THE STARTER-" Idia just stand from his chair, rolling over and gripping the Prefect by their arm and tugging them back to the table of monitors, "Come here! What do you even do? Your cards are all shit but you've got rare SR AND SSRs out the ass!?"

"I don't know!? I just like the card art man!"

Idia picks up the Prefect's phone, pointing at it in barely contained anger, "You literally have my dream lineup and you've done nothing with them!"

"Well, I don't really like the main story, and the battle system is-"

"ANOTHER THING. You haven't played past the first arc of the main story!?"

"It's boring!"

"BORING!?"

Ortho watched from the doorway, looking between the two before slowly backing away. His eyes crinkled for a moment, though it was an argument, his brother was talking to someone openly. He could barely keep his giggle to himself as the Prefect had fully sat down, snatching their phone from Idia’s hands and pulling up a new app.

"Now, if we're talking interesting, you need to play 'Star-Trail Impact'-"

"By the Seven. Just BURN your money instead."

Ortho closed the door behind him, snickering into his hand, "I'm so glad my brother is making friends~!"

[hitomisuzuya]

Hiii! hope you're doing well❣️

In some recent fic you mentioned scara having a bit of separation anxiety and now i cant unsee it...

Id like to request a very fluffy and a little angsty fic (some nsfw is ok too ^^) where he's been away from us, and since he feels down we make a surprise visit 🥹

I hope it wasnt too confusing...

scaramouche x fem!reader. fluff. some angst. some smut.

this request🥰 i hope the level of smut is okay.

scaramouche hates being away from you like he hates sweets. he loathes it. he despises it. you are what makes the world look a little less gray to him. it makes him very anxious being away from you.

a selfish part of him feels a little resentful for a moment at how nice you are. you'd gone away to help a friend as moral support for a few days. he understood that. he likes how disgustingly caring you are, but why did you have to always go and be so nice all the time?

if you had just said no, and not been so nice then you could be here with him instead. and he wouldn't be in his incredibly foul mood.

sighing, he picks up his phone and looks at the time restlessly. it was already so late, and you no doubt would be asleep. he decided to try and mess around on his phone in an attempt to take his mind off his anxiety.

these attempts usually are to no avail. anything he did, he couldn't stop thinking about you. how much he misses you and wishes you are here with him. he couldn't even play video games because it just wasn't the same without you. you wouldn't be there next to him praising him and calling him amazing when he did well. or encouraging him when he got pissy about something in the game.

he settled on reading your text messages. it was a little comfort to him because those typed words had come from you, your fingers had done the typing and your thoughts had put the words together. however, reading them just made him miss you more.

scoffing, scaramouuche rests his head back against the wall, tossing his phone on his bed next to him. he cringes for a moment thinking it was going to bounce off the bed and on to the floor.

the absolute last thing he needs is to break his phone. then he wouldn't be able to talk to you at all.

relived to see that it hadn't clattered to the floor, he let the quiet of his room settle around him. maybe he turned on the tv and left it at a low volume he would be able to fall asleep eventually? he supposes the sooner he falls asleep, the sooner he can wake up to a good morning text message from you.

he freezes as his phone vibrates. hastily, he grabs it and almost couldn't believe what he read. it is a text from you that says: 'can you come let me in? it's kind of really cold out here🥺'

"shit!" he hissed, and practically fell getting out of bed. he scrambled downstairs and to the front door. were you really here?! life had better pray it wasn't fucking with him. that this wasn't some dream he was having. did he fall asleep without realizing it?

he unlocked and opened the door. there you were, standing there while snowflakes swirled around you. there was only one way he could be sure that this was real.

he grabs your wrist and pulls you to him. wrapping his arms around you, he kicks the front door closed and is immediately greeted with the relief that he could feel the warmth of your body on his as your body settles against him.

his arms tighten around you. you are actually here.

"i missed you," you greet, putting your arms around him. "i pulled some strings and came back early," you nuzzle your cheek on his chest. you didn't like being away from him, either.

"i knew you couldn't stay away from me," he teases, smirking as he watches the cute, flustered blush color your cheeks. as vulnerable as he feels, he is also more than a little scared you would see him as weak.

"i couldn't," you reply, smiling softly up at him. you always miss him just as much as he misses you. chuckling, put his finger under your chin and tilts your head up.

the moment that your lips met his, he knows he doesn't have to be scared of you seeing him this vulnerable. you understood him. you are patient with him. you are entirely accepting of his many quirks. you miss him. nobody ever misses him.

but he could feel it in your kiss. in the way you sweetly open your mouth for his tongue. in the way you shiver in his arms as he runs the tip of his tongue on the sensitive roof of your mouth. in the way you moan softly as he deepens the kiss, his hands wandering on your body.

scaramouche fully intended to pin you against the wall of the hallway and start taking off your clothes while he kissed you, but your hand dips down between his legs to cup his erection outside his jeans. he groans as you palm and rub his cock, feeling his back rest against the wall.

it didn't help that some of your text messages to him had been very dirty. scaramouche knew he could just jack off, but that wouldn't cut it. it would only make his cock ache more, and he would miss you even more. he needed you. so so badly.

it's been really, really rough for him.

"let me take care of you now, scara," you said, your lips hovering over his as you unbutton his jeans. he shudders as you free his cock from his confines, and wrap your hand around it. you pump your hand up and down on his pulsing cock, rnassaging your thumb on his leaking cockhead.

a loud moan sounds from scaramouche as he rests his head against the wall, rutting into your hand. it felt so fucking good on his cock that it was overwhelming for him. you brush your knuckles over the vein that bulges to the surface.

"oh fuck, i missed you. i missed you so fucking much," his moan is tinged with a soft whimper, his cock throbbing in your hand. putting a hand on the back of your head, he kisses you. tangling his fingers in your hair, his teeth bit at your lips, his tongue curling and gliding against yours.

his lips linger on yours for as long as they could before scaramouche suddenly tore his mouth from yours. he couldn't stop the string of loud moans that tore from his throat as you increase the pace of your hand.

"oh fuck," he hisses, rutting more urgently into your hand. you gently twist your hand, squeezing his cock in anyway that made him see stars. he shakes as cum spurts into your hand.

"i'm really glad you are back," he moans shakily, losing himself in the pure bliss of your hand stroking his cock through his orgasm.

"like i said, darling," you press a soft kiss on his lips, "i just couldn't stay away."

[serenity-loves-red]

The university’s gymnasium was packed with people from different departments. Students brought different props that varies from colorful lights, large banners, to even drums just to show their unyielding support to their respective representatives.

Today was– after all– the most awaited Basketball Championship Match, lead by Caleb Xia of Aerospace Department against the Marketing Department.

You were supposed to come early to see the game. Unfortunately, your professor gave you some last minute errand for you.

You immediately called Caleb, apologizing profusely that you’ll going to be late– or worst you’ll completely miss his match. You knew how important this game is to him and as much as possible you don’t want to make him feel bad that may distract him from doing his best.

“It’s alright, Honey.” Caleb’s voice echoed from your phone. “Just take care of it and don’t rush. I don’t want you to have any accidents.”

That doesn’t make you feel less guilty. In fact, it made you feel worse. “I’m really sorry Caleb, I even promised to watch and cheer for you.” You trailed off.

“You’ve always cheered for me, Pips. Remember that good luck kiss this morning? It’s already enough for your Caleb to win you that trophy.”

“Silly Caleb.” You laughed. “I’ll have to go now so I’ll hang up. Good luck and love you.”

“I love you too, Honey.” He cheekily replied.

After the call, you immediately went to finish the errand you got assigned. Fortunately, you were able to finish earlier than you expected and was able to catch up to the match, few minutes before the game ends.

The seats at the bleachers are already full, and just as expected there were loud cheers throughout the entire stadium. And the name that was mostly cheered was your boyfriend’s.

“Caleb!! GO CALEBBB!!” From both men and women alike. You almost forgot how popular Caleb is. Well, almost.

Since you were late, you got to stay with one of the few groups of crowd who stood at the back. To see Caleb play more closely, you decided to squeeze through to reach the front.

Although still far, you still got yourself a bit closer the court. And together with the crowd, you cheered your boyfriend’s name.

“GO CALEB!! AhhHHHH!”

Whether or not had he heard you, you still continued to chant his name, specially when he scored the last shot that secured their victory.

You immediately saw Caleb got swarmed by his team after the buzzer. You were about to run towards him when you got squeeze by the crowd, covering your view of him.

Suddenly, there were high pitched screams from the crowd around you that got louder and louder.

Curious, you looked ahead only to see Caleb an inch away from you, who then swept you into his arms.

“Caleb?!” You exclaimed surprised. “You’ve won, congrats! But how did-“

“-I saw you? You shouldn’t underestimate me Pipsqueak, specially when it comes to you.” He replied, proudly smiling.

“And who would’ve lose when they have someone like you cheering for them?”

Note: This was inspired from a dream I had with Caleb about a month ago hshshsh. The dream ended just after Caleb hugged me after his match so yeahhhh🫠 still waiting for part 2 from that dream trust 🤞🏼

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Sirius Black was the best adult in Harry's life and I'm forever salty that we didn't get to see more of him

So, I love Sirius Black. He's a complex and interesting character that I love dearly. He's handsome, smart, brave, not as reckless as some fanon make him out to be, and above all else, he tried his best to be a good godfather to Harry.

I truly believe Sirius could've been an amazing father figure (more than he already was) to Harry if given the proper chance. And he's a much better parent to Harry than Arthur and Molly Weasley.

Here are some quotes along with my ramblings to prove it.

So, what I'm going to cover here are some quotes from Sirius and Harry that show their dynamic and how much Sirius cared and tried to be there for Harry. Also, I think Molyl and Hermione are wrong about Sirius seeing Harry as a James replacement.

“He came back to the country just because my scar twinged. He’ll probably come bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone’s entered me in the Triwizard Tournament —”

(GoF, page 290)

Harry wrote to Sirius at the beginning of GoF about his dream with Voldemort and his scar's reaction to it. Sirius left everything immediately to return to Britain — a place where he is hunted down and is a wanted man. All because he wants to be close to Harry, so he can spring up to protect him if the need arises.

Harry is correct in his assessment here.

“Poor old Snuffles,” said Ron, breathing deeply. “He must really like you, Harry. . . . Imagine having to live off rats.”

(GoF, page 534)

Ron is absolutely right. Sirius loves Harry more than pretty much anything. He would and does go incredibly far for Harry. I don't think Molly and Hermione are right about how Sirius sees Harry as James. He just doesn't.

He doesn't treat Harry as an equal to him, but as someone he needs to protect. Someone he is responsible to protect.

He stays around Hogwarts, eating rats in GoF so he can better protect Harry. He wouldn't have done the same with James because he treated James as an equal, not as someone he needed to protect.

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing,” said Sirius calmly. “That’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand —” “It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kindly face looked dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?” “Which bit?” Sirius asked politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight. “The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know,” said Mrs. Weasley, placing a heavy emphasis on the last three words. Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George’s heads turned from Sirius to Mrs. Weasley as though following a tennis rally. Ginny was kneeling amid a pile of abandoned butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her mouth slightly open. Lupin’s eyes were fixed on Sirius. “I don’t intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly,” said Sirius. “But as he was the one who saw Voldemort come back” (again, there was a collective shudder around the table at the name), “he has more right than most to —” “He’s not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!” said Mrs. Weasley. “He’s only fifteen and —” “— and he’s dealt with as much as most in the Order,” said Sirius, “and more than some —” “No one’s denying what he’s done!” said Mrs. Weasley, her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her chair. “But he’s still —” “He’s not a child!” said Sirius impatiently. “He’s not an adult either!” said Mrs. Weasley, the color rising in her cheeks. “He’s not James, Sirius!” “I’m perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly,” said Sirius coldly. “I’m not sure you are!” said Mrs. Weasley. “Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it’s as though you think you’ve got your best friend back!” “What’s wrong with that?” said Harry. “What’s wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, however much you might look like him!” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes still boring into Sirius. “You are still at school and adults responsible for you should not forget it!” “Meaning I’m an irresponsible godfather?” demanded Sirius, his voice rising. “Meaning you’ve been known to act rashly, Sirius, which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to stay at home and —” “We’ll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of this, if you please!” said Sirius loudly.

(OotP, page 88-89)

This above quote is a long one, but I love it. I mean, this shows a big contrast between Sirius' approach to parenting and Molly's. Sirius, while not seeing Harry as his equal, does see Harry as a capable wizard who deserves to know the full picture. Sirius knows Harry would be in more danger when ignorant and wants him as safe as possible. He thinks Harry deserves to know things that pertain to him, and I have to agree with him here. Keeping Harry in the dark is what eventually cost Sirius his life.

Molly, on the other hand, is intent on keeping Harry, Hermione, and her kids ignorant. She has the same intention as Sirius: to keep them safe. But she tries to keep them safe emotionally, even when this ignorance can and does place them in physical harm's way.

And Sirius is right. Harry is capable. And a 15-year-old shouldn't be treated the same as an 11-year-old child. And let's be real, Harry was never a regular child with how he grew up, and I think Sirius sees his maturity and treats him accordingly. Sirius actually gave Harry advice to not approach danger in GOF and Harry listened to him because Sirius treated him with respect, which works best with Harry who never really had parental figures.

“I don’t know,” said Sirius slowly, “I just don’t know . . . Karkaroff doesn’t strike me as the type who’d go back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was powerful enough to protect him. But whoever put your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I can’t help thinking the tournament would be a very good way to attack you and make it look like an accident.”

(GoF, page 334)

This is an expert from the Fireplace conversation Haryr had with Sirius before the first task. Sirius shares his theories with Harry because he needs him to know who to watch out for. Because everything he does is to keep Harry safe. And this is the same approach Sirius wishes he could take with Harry in OOTP. Because he knows it works. Keeping Harry informed means that if he does put himself in danger, at least he would inform Sirius about it; Which would allow Sirius to protect him.

I'm not copying all of them, but Sirius' letters to Harry throughout GOF are so caring and sweet. Harry deserved to have more of his godfather in his life:

Nice try, Harry. I'm back in the country and well hidden. I want you to keep me posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts. Don't use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don't worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don't forget what I said about your scar. Sirius

(Gof, page 240)

This treatment encourages Harry to actually share everything with him and ask him for advice. Something he doesn't do with Dumbledore ever. (Harry actually doesn't like or trust Dumbledore all that much until book 6, it's usually Hermione who trusts Dumbledore fully)

“Sirius — how’re you doing?” ... “Never mind me, how are you?” said Sirius seriously.

(GoF, page 331)

Sirius again, shows his responsibility towards Harry's well-being over his own (both here and in the above letter).

Sirius is the only adult who actually talks to Harry about the Dursleys with sympathy:

“But if they do expel me,” said Harry, quietly, “can I come back here and live with you?” Sirius smiled sadly. “We’ll see.” “I’d feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry pressed him. “They must be bad if you prefer this place,” said Sirius gloomily.

(OotP, page 116)

We know Sirius would love nothing more than for Harry to stay with him. He's lonely and bored at Grimmauld and would love to have Harry there. But at the same time, he doesn't want Harry expelled from Hogwarts and is trying not to be hopeful for it.

Sirius understands the Dursleys are awful, he just know the full scope, but it's more of a reaction than we get from most adults in this series. To me, it looks like Sirius is annoyed by how limited he is in helping Harry. He can't really do much about the Dursleys or their status as Harry's guardians.

“So you want me to say I’m not going to take part in the defense group?” he muttered finally. “Me? Certainly not!” said Sirius, looking surprised. “I think it’s an excellent idea!” “You do?” said Harry, his heart lifting. “Of course I do!” said Sirius. “D’you think your father and I would’ve lain down and taken orders from an old hag like Umbridge?” “But — last term all you did was tell me to be careful and not take risks —” “Last year all the evidence was that someone inside Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!” said Sirius impatiently. “This year we know that there’s someone outside Hogwarts who’d like to kill us all, so I think learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good idea!” “And if we do get expelled?” Hermione asked, a quizzical look on her face. “Hermione, this whole thing was your idea!” said Harry, staring at her. “I know it was. . . . I just wondered what Sirius thought,” she said, shrugging. “Well, better expelled and able to defend yourselves than sitting safely in school without a clue,” said Sirius.

(OotP, page 371)

I love this scene as well. Sirius cares for Harry's safety first and foremost. Harry being safe is his top priority at every given point. And he's reasonable and logical and treats Harry like someone to protect, not like a friend.

Like, Harry when he has a problem and needs advice throughout books 4 and 5, he calls Sirius. He's Harry's go-to parental figure for advice, and Sirius takes his rule seriously. He gives the advice he honestly thinks is best and ensures Harry's safety and continued survival to the best of his ability.

“It matters because we don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that are happening hundreds of miles away!” said Sirius angrily. “Have you any idea what the Ministry would make of that information?” Fred and George looked as though they could not care less what the Ministry made of anything. Ron was still white-faced and silent. Ginny said, “Somebody else could have told us. . . . We could have heard it somewhere other than Harry. . . .”

(OotP, pages 476-477)

Again, Harry's safety is Sirius' first priority above everyone else. Harry's happiness and privacy also take precedence over most other things. He doesn't want Harry under even more scrutiny from the ministry and the Wizarding World and protecting him from that is just as important to him.

To me, it feels like people who say he treats Harry like a James replacement didn't read the books....

“It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that’s all,” said Sirius. “You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and —” “It wasn’t that,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It was like something rose up inside me, like there’s a snake inside me —” “You need to sleep,” said Sirius firmly. “You’re going to have breakfast and then go upstairs to bed, and then you can go and see Arthur after lunch with the others. You’re in shock, Harry; you’re blaming yourself for something you only witnessed, and it’s lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. Just stop worrying. . . .” He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.

(OotP, pages 480-481)

And I love this too. How he tries to comfort Harry and make everything easier for him. When the rest of the Order were gossiping about how dangerous his connection to Voldemort is, Sirius is honestly trying to get Harry to worry about it less.

He might be lying here, but he is right about sending Harry to sleep after a sleepless night like they had. And he is right about Harry being in shock and needing the rest. I just, really like how much Sirius cares. Harry just doesn't have other adults in his life who care for him like Sirius does.

But some part of him realized, even as he fought to break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him waiting before. . . . Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry, to help him. . . . If Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back. . . . That he really was . . .

(OotP, page 808)

This. Scene. Just kills me.

Like, Harry understands how much Sirius cares about him, and how Sirius always puts him first. He knows the only way Sirius won't drop everything to come and when Harry calls for him is if he can't.

Because Sirius escaped Azkaban when he realized Harry might be in danger from Peter, not for his own safety, but for Harry’s. Sirius dropped everything and moved to live in a cave and eat rats when Harry's scar hurt. He stuck around Hogwarts and Hogsmead during the Triwizard Tournament, when it was crawling with ministry officials because Harry might need him. He was willing to do so much for Harry. And Harry knew this.

I think, given time, they could've had an amazing dynamic, and I wish we had more of Sirius and his care for Harry. That we saw more of his approach to parenting Harry.

[lveisagi]

CRESCENT MOONS !! ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

RIN ITOSHI x reader

CW : emotional distress, feelings of rejection, anxiety / nervousness, slow-burn romantic tension with moments of frustration or conflict

SYNOPSIS : you’ve always hated the delicate crescent moon tattoo on your wrist—what if it’s not a blessing but a curse? surrounded by couples seemingly finding their perfect matches, you wonder why fate marked you this way. rin itoshi, cold and distant, hides the matching crescent on his own wrist, shutting himself off after painful family wounds. when fate keeps throwing you together, friction turns into a tentative friendship. but can two guarded hearts learn to trust the soulmate bond, or will the past and fear keep them apart?

A/N : yupp this took way too long. i started waffling half way through and wrote too much. i wanted this to be really angsty but its not ughh. i love angst way too much lol. pls DONT MIND THE MISTAKES!#1 i hope you enjoy.

WC : 8.8k

blue lock! masterlist

main! masterlist

you have always hated the tattoo on your wrist.

a delicate black crescent moon, inked just below the bone. small, simple, something other people might call pretty. but not to you. not when it means something you can’t understand, can’t control.

you’ve traced its shape a million times, your fingertip brushing over skin worn familiar with the motion. sometimes in boredom. sometimes in frustration. more often in quiet, heavy dread.

everywhere, people are finding their soulmates. that’s how it’s supposed to work: the mark tells you. when you meet them, it changes—color, warmth, anything to prove fate has finally decided to stop keeping you waiting. friends, strangers, even people you can’t stand. all of them are finding answers while you stay stuck.

stuck staring at a mark that never changes. stuck wondering why yours feels more like a curse than a promise.

you hate it.

you hate the questions from people who think it’s safe to ask: oh, who’s the lucky one? you hate the awkward silence that always follows when you say you don’t know. you hate pretending you’re not waiting, not hoping, when the truth is worse: you’ve started to believe maybe you’re not meant to find anyone at all.

sometimes, late at night, you let yourself wonder what that would mean.

would the mark just stay black forever? cold and useless against your skin, a permanent reminder that something is missing? would it fade, maybe, if fate got tired of waiting too? would you spend your whole life glancing down, flinching at every almost-connection, every maybe, every not-quite?

you don’t know which answer hurts more.

you pull your sleeve down further over your wrist, covering the crescent moon even though no one is watching. it doesn’t matter. you can still feel it.

some days, you dream about scrubbing it off. taking a knife to it, carving it out until your skin is clean again. free.

but it’s not that simple.

fate doesn’t let go just because you want it to.

and that’s the worst part.

because deep down, you know you don’t really want it gone.

you just want to understand why fate gave it to you in the first place.

the delicate black crescent moon inked on your wrist isn’t just a mark—it’s a question, a puzzle, a silent promise you’ve never been able to decode. you’ve traced it a million times, fingertips lingering over the cool skin beneath the curves of the crescent, wondering who it belongs to, and why it feels like a weight you’re meant to carry but don’t understand.

you see couples around you, their matching tattoos glowing in the light like a secret code only they can read. they talk about soulmates as if the universe had already written the story for them. but for you, it’s just a mark of confusion and frustration, a reminder of all the things you don’t have.

because maybe you don’t just want someone to complete you. maybe you want to know why you were chosen for this connection, why fate marked you with a half of something you can’t even see fully yet.

and somewhere, not too far away, rin itoshi is hiding his own half of a crescent moon under the long sleeves of his shirt, shrouding it from the world as much as he tries to shield it from himself.

rin isn’t like those couples either. he knows what it’s like to be abandoned by someone who should have been there. someone who was supposed to be family.

sae. rin’s older brother. not his soulmate, not his other half, just the person who should have meant the most but who walked away. emotionally distant, cold, pulling back until rin was left grasping for pieces that would never come.

rin clenches his fists inside the fabric that covers the tattoo—half of a crescent moon, black and simple but heavy with meaning. it’s supposed to be a symbol of hope, of love waiting to be found. but for rin, it feels like a scar.

he remembers when sae was different. when the house was filled with noise and warmth and the crescent moon was just a mark, not a symbol of loss.

but the distance grew, until sae’s presence was a ghost haunting the edges of rin’s world.

rin shut himself off. from the idea of soulmates, from the idea of connection, from the idea that anyone could complete him when the person who shared his blood couldn’t.

so he hides the tattoo. he hides the hope. he hides the pain.

rin trains harder, pushes himself further. because if he can’t have connection, he can have control. strength. victory. something he can hold onto when everything else feels so uncertain.

but sometimes, late at night, when the silence grows too loud, rin’s thoughts drift back to the crescent on his wrist.

does his soulmate even exist?

does he want to find them?

or is the tattoo just a cruel joke—an endless reminder of what he’s already lost?

rin’s breath catches as he remembers the last time sae looked at him with anything other than indifference. the last time he felt anything close to family.

and then he shakes his head, pushing the memories away.

because rin itoshi doesn’t have time for weakness.

yet, as the cold air seeps under his sleeves and brushes against his skin, rin feels the tattoo stir beneath the fabric. a quiet pulse, like a secret calling out from the shadows.

he wonders if there’s someone out there tracing the other half of the crescent.

he wonders if maybe fate hasn’t given up on him yet.

and maybe, just maybe, he’s not ready to give up on it either.

you and rin cross paths more times than either of you can count. at first, they’re just brief moments—passing each other in crowded hallways, catching glimpses in the distance, the faintest brush of presence that feels like a brush with fate.

rin itoshi moves through the world with a calm intensity that’s hard to ignore. tall and lean, his posture always perfect, his dark eyes sharp and calculating, like he’s analyzing everything — people, places, even you. his expression rarely changes, keeping others at arm’s length with a quiet coldness that feels less like arrogance and more like self-protection.

he doesn’t smile much, and when he does, it’s fleeting, almost like a secret no one else is meant to see. his focus is relentless, and you get the sense that his mind is always elsewhere, chasing something only he can understand.

you’re the school journalist, and your current assignment is to cover the football team. it’s not your favorite subject—your interests usually lie elsewhere—but you’re determined to do well. so, with camera in hand, you head to the football field. 

you stand at the edge of the field, heart pounding just a little too fast for comfort. your camera feels heavy in your hands, the lens like a spotlight drawing attention to every shaky breath you take. today’s assignment isn’t just about capturing the game—it’s about getting the perfect shots of the players, and maybe even snagging some quotes for your article. but there’s one problem: rin itoshi.

you’ve seen rin around school enough times to know he’s... intimidating. not because he’s loud or aggressive—far from it. it’s the way he carries himself, like he’s always a step ahead, like nothing could ever catch him off guard. you’ve never talked to him before. not once. and honestly, you don’t know if you want to.

the football team is your beat for this week, and rin is the star player. everyone talks about him—how skilled he is, how intense he plays, how cold he seems. it’s like he’s this untouchable force, and you’re just a reporter trying not to get crushed underfoot.

you take a deep breath, adjusting the strap of your camera around your neck. your fingers twitch as you check the settings for what feels like the hundredth time. you’ve read every article you could find about photographing sports, but nothing prepares you for the thought of being so close to rin itoshi in action.

what if he thinks you’re annoying? what if you mess up and all your pictures come out blurry? what if you can’t get the shot that captures the intensity everyone says he has? what if he just... ignores you?

your mind races with worst-case scenarios, and it’s exhausting. you remind yourself this is just another assignment—something to add to your portfolio, something to push you outside your comfort zone. but it’s easier said than done.

you move cautiously along the sidelines, spotting the team warming up. the sun is dipping low, casting long shadows across the field. rin is already out there, stretching with his teammates, looking calm and collected. your breath catches when you realize just how focused he is. there’s no hint of a smile, no distractions—just pure concentration.

you raise your camera and try to steady your hands, snapping a few quick shots. the shutter clicks, and you force yourself to look through the viewfinder again, searching for a moment that feels real. rin moves with a grace that’s almost hypnotic, his every step deliberate and powerful.

but as you snap photos, your nerves don’t disappear. you notice other players stealing glances your way, probably wondering who the new reporter is, why you’re hovering so close to the sidelines. you wish you could disappear, but you can’t—not until you get the shots you need.

the coach blows the whistle, and the practice game begins. rin takes the ball and sprints across the field, dodging opponents with ease. you follow his movement with your camera, heart pounding harder now. this is your chance—the moment to capture the intensity everyone talks about.

click.

click.

click.

your fingers move faster now, adrenaline helping you focus. you manage to catch rin’s sharp eyes scanning the field, his muscles tensed for the perfect pass. you can almost feel the tension radiating off him.

then, suddenly, a sharp whistle cuts through the air. rin stops, looks your way, and for a moment, your eyes meet. your heart skips a beat. he doesn’t say anything—just stares, expression unreadable. you quickly look away, cheeks flushing with heat.

“focus,” you whisper to yourself, trying to block out the rush of embarrassment.

practice ends, and the players start to gather near the benches. you try to blend into the background, but you know you’ll have to talk to them eventually—for quotes, for background, for the story you have to write. and rin will be the hardest.

you watch as rin stands a little apart, arms crossed, watching the team with a critical eye. no one approaches him easily; there’s a wall you can almost feel.

you grip your camera tighter, thinking about what you’ll say if you get a chance to talk to him. “how do you stay so focused?” “what drives you to play your best?” questions that seem simple but feel impossible to ask.

your friends have told you not to overthink it. “he’s just a guy,” they say. “treat him like anyone else.” but you can’t shake the feeling that rin itoshi isn’t like anyone else. and that makes you nervous in a way you haven’t felt before.

the sun sets, and the chilly air wraps around you. you pack up your camera slowly, reluctant to leave the field behind. you still have no idea how you’ll start the conversation with rin, or if you even should. but something about today makes you think maybe, just maybe, it won’t be as hard as you thought.

you stand just outside the locker room, clipboard in hand, trying to steady your breathing. today’s the day you finally get to interview rin itoshi. the thought sends a wave of nervous energy through you—excitement tangled with doubt. you’ve spent weeks watching from afar, capturing his every move with your camera, but now you have to find the right words, the right questions, to break through the wall he so carefully keeps up.

you remind yourself to stay calm. this isn’t just about getting a good quote or a story for the school paper—it’s about understanding the person behind the stoic exterior. and maybe, just maybe, seeing if there’s more to rin than the intimidating athlete everyone talks about.

the locker room door swings open, and rin steps out. his expression is as unreadable as ever, eyes sharp and calculating. he spots you almost immediately, and you feel that familiar flutter of nerves in your chest.

“hey, rin,” you say softly, forcing yourself to sound confident. “i’m here for the interview.”

he nods briefly, his gaze flicking to the clipboard in your hands. “make it quick.”

you swallow, nodding. “of course.”

you follow him down the hallway to a quieter spot near the gym entrance, the sounds of bustling students fading behind you. the air feels charged, the tension between you thick but not uncomfortable.

you take a breath and start with the easy questions—how long he’s been playing football, what position he likes best, what drives him to keep improving. rin’s answers are brief but precise, each word measured and deliberate. “since i was a kid,” he says, eyes steady as they meet yours. “striker.” when you ask what pushes him, he pauses for the first time, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. “winning,” he says simply. you jot down his answers, feeling the weight of his intensity even through the quiet room.

the interview wraps up smoothly. you pack up your notebook and camera, feeling a bit lighter than before—like you’ve crossed a small bridge over a stream you thought was too wide.

rin doesn’t say much as he stands and stretches, his usual calm, unreadable expression back in place. you catch a quick glance at the faint crease between his brows, and for a second, you wonder what thoughts are behind those sharp eyes.

“thank you,” you say quietly, your voice steadier now.

he nods once, then turns and walks back toward the field, blending easily into the group of players warming up.

you watch him go, a strange mix of relief and lingering curiosity swirling inside you. the distance between you feels smaller now, even if neither of you said much.

as you gather your things, you realize this interview might just be the first step toward understanding rin—it’s a start, even if the path ahead is still unclear.

you and rin cross paths more times than either of you can count, mostly because of science class. it’s not like you chose to spend time together, but the teachers seem determined to pair you up for every project, lab, or presentation the class throws your way. honestly, at first, you thought it was a cruel joke.

“y/n, rin,” ms. takahashi announced one monday morning, standing at the front of the classroom with her usual cheerful but slightly intimidating smile. “you two will be partners for the next lab. please grab your materials and get started.”

rin barely glanced your way before grabbing a lab manual and heading to the back of the room, where he pulled out a chair beside you with the barest hint of reluctance. you sat down opposite him, your fingers nervously tapping on the desk.

you had never really talked to rin before, apart from the interview, of course. he was that quiet, intense type who seemed to float through school with this kind of calm confidence that made other people nervous to approach him. the star of the football team, sure, but outside of the field? he kept to himself. or at least, that was what you thought.

“so,” you started, flipping open the lab manual to the page titled ‘chemical reactions.’ “let’s do this.”

rin nodded, his dark eyes scanning the instructions like they were a puzzle he was already solving in his head.

as you measured out the chemicals, you noticed how precise rin was — no wasted motion, no rushed gestures. it was clear he took this seriously, even if he never said much. you tried not to stare, but there was something about his focused expression that made you curious.

“you’re kinda quiet,” you said, breaking the silence.

rin didn’t look up but replied, “you talk enough for both of us.”

you blinked, a smile twitching on your lips. “fair.”

the first lab was awkward but productive. you learned to split the work — rin handled the precise measurements and calculations, you took notes and kept track of observations. by the time class ended, you were surprised to find yourself not dreading the partnership as much as you thought.

over the next few weeks, the pattern repeated itself. ms. takahashi would announce yet another project, and you’d find yourself paired with rin. presentations on photosynthesis, group reports on genetics, creating posters on the human body — whatever the topic, you two tackled it together.

and with each forced collaboration, the distance between you shrank just a little.

one afternoon, you arrived early to science class, the room still quiet except for the faint hum of the projector. rin was already there, sitting by the window, scribbling in a notebook.

you hesitated by the door, then shrugged and slid into the seat next to him. “early bird,” you said.

rin glanced up, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. “i like to get started.”

you smiled. “me too.”

for once, no awkwardness. just two people who knew they’d be working side by side.

“what are you writing?” you asked, nodding toward his notebook.

rin closed it quickly. “nothing important.”

you raised an eyebrow. “come on. you’re usually pretty private, but i’m curious.”

he hesitated, then sighed. “it’s just some ideas for a project. something i want to try.”

“sounds interesting. can i see?”

rin flipped the notebook back toward you, revealing detailed sketches of a small robotic arm, notes about sensors and motors.

“wow,” you breathed. “you’re into robotics?”

rin shrugged. “it’s a hobby.”

“that’s cool. i wouldn’t have guessed.”

he smirked slightly. “guess you don’t know much about me.”

you laughed. “true. but maybe that’ll change.”

rin didn’t say anything, but you caught a flash of amusement in his eyes.

during one particularly grueling group assignment, you found yourselves stuck on a question about chemical bonds. the whole class was buzzing with confusion, but you and rin had to figure it out together.

“okay,” you said, rubbing your temples. “so covalent bonds involve sharing electrons, right?”

rin nodded, pulling out his phone to look up a diagram. “yeah, and ionic bonds are about transferring electrons.”

you bit your lip. “but why does the diagram show overlapping circles for covalent bonds? shouldn’t the atoms stay separate?”

rin glanced at you, surprised you knew some of this already. “it’s because the electron clouds overlap, creating a shared space. that’s what holds them together.”

you frowned, trying to picture it. “so the atoms kind of... hug?”

rin blinked, then cracked a small smile. “yeah. they hug.”

you giggled. “okay, science hug it is.”

from then on, “science hug” became your inside joke whenever something tricky came up in class.

as time passed, you learned more about rin — not through deep conversations, but small moments.

like how he always helped the younger students when they struggled, quietly offering tips or lending his notes.

how he hated being late, always arriving to class with a minute to spare, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair.

how, when he laughed (which was rare), it was this soft, almost surprised sound that made you smile.

you still didn’t know everything about him, but you liked the pieces you were discovering.

and sometimes, when you worked on a project late into the afternoon, the sun would start to set, and you’d watch rin’s silhouette against the orange sky, feeling this quiet warmth spread through your chest.

one day, ms. takahashi gave you and rin a big assignment — a presentation on renewable energy. the two of you would have to research, prepare slides, and present in front of the class.

you groaned inwardly but tried to keep a good attitude.

“ready to start?” you asked rin after school, settling in at the library.

rin nodded, pulling up articles and jotting down notes.

as you worked, you found yourself asking questions, and rin answered patiently, even offering ideas you hadn’t considered.

at one point, you accidentally knocked over your water bottle, spilling across your papers.

“great,” you muttered, trying to soak up the mess with tissues.

rin reached over and grabbed some extra paper from his bag. “here.”

you looked up, surprised by the gesture.

“thanks,” you said softly.

rin just shrugged. “don’t mention it.”

the afternoon faded into evening, and when you finally packed up your things, you realized you didn’t want the day to end.

the day of the presentation arrived. you stood side by side with rin, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement.

rin glanced at you briefly, then focused on the audience.

your voice was steady as you introduced the topic, and rin’s clear explanations made the complex science easy to follow.

afterward, ms. takahashi smiled. “well done, both of you.”

rin gave a small nod of acknowledgement, and you exchanged a look — quiet, but full of meaning.

you had come a long way from those first awkward moments in the lab.

as the weeks passed, the forced pairings didn’t feel like a punishment anymore. they were chances — chances to talk, to learn, to be around someone who surprised you.

one afternoon, you and rin found yourselves alone in the science lab, waiting for class to start.

“you ever think about what you want to do after school?” you asked.

rin paused, then said quietly, “i want to be a professional soccer player.”

you smiled. “makes sense.”

“what about you?”

you shrugged. “i like writing. maybe journalism.”

rin nodded. “good.”

for once, the silence that settled wasn’t empty — it was full of possibility.

slowly, you and rin became friends — not the loud, inseparable kind, but the comfortable, reliable kind. friends who understood each other without needing to say much.

you looked forward to your science class collaborations, knowing that no matter how busy or stressful life got, you had someone who was quietly in your corner.

and maybe, just maybe, that was the start of something new.

the library is quiet, but not silent.

the faint hum of the air conditioning blends with the occasional sound of pages turning. every so often, someone coughs softly or shifts in their seat. you sit across from rin at one of the long wooden tables, your notes spread out in front of you, a highlighter tucked between your fingers.

neither of you says much. neither of you needs to.

he’s focused, as usual. his notebook is half-filled with small, precise handwriting. his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he scribbles in neat columns—formulas, diagrams, things you can’t make sense of without leaning closer.

but you don’t lean closer. you just watch, for a moment longer than necessary, then glance back at your own textbook.

he catches you, though. you know he does, because when you look up again, he’s watching you quietly, pen still in his hand. not frowning. just… watching.

you clear your throat softly, more to yourself than to him. “what?”

“nothing,” he says, voice low but not cold.

your gaze drops back to your notebook. a little embarrassed, though you’re not sure why.

minutes pass.

your pencil slips in your grip. frustrated, you sigh under your breath, erasing another mistake from your diagram.

“you’re drawing that wrong.”

you blink. “huh?”

rin nods faintly toward your page. “the circuit diagram. that wire’s supposed to connect here.”

you pause. “right.”

you let him lean over slightly, his hand brushing near yours as he points. your heart trips, just for a second, then steadies.

“thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

you go back to working, and so does he.

later, rin leans back in his chair, stretching slightly. his scarf is gone today, his hair a little messier than usual. he looks tired, but not in a way that suggests defeat—just that he’s always working at something.

“done?” you ask.

“for now.”

you hesitate, then ask softly, “you always this serious about studying?”

rin glances at you. “you’re not?”

“i mean… i try.” you smile a little. “but you’re intense.”

he shrugs like that’s not news to him.

but then, after a pause, he adds quietly, “it’s easier to focus around you.”

your heart stutters.

“oh.”

rin looks down at his notebook again, like he regrets saying anything.

you don’t push. instead, you go back to your notes. and the silence between you… isn’t awkward.

it’s just quiet.

peaceful.

comfortable.

two people who, somehow, have learned how to exist beside each other.

he rain is heavy outside—loud against the library windows, steady and relentless. when you glance up from your notes, the sky is already dark, the world beyond the glass a blur of grey and silver.

you sigh softly. “it’s pouring.”

rin doesn’t look up. “yeah.”

you watch for a moment longer, then check the time on your phone. “we should probably go.”

rin finally raises his head, eyes flickering to the window, then to you. “you didn’t bring an umbrella, did you.”

it’s not a question.

“...no.” you wince.

he exhales through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh—but not quite. “figured.”

“you didn’t either.”

“no.”

you both fall silent again.

the rain only seems to get heavier. neither of you moves.

eventually, rin stands, slowly gathering his books and notes into his bag. “guess we’ll get soaked.”

you make a face, standing too. “great.”

rin glances sideways at you, his expression unreadable—but his voice is softer when he says, “stick close.”

you blink. “why?”

“i don’t know. just… do.”

you’re too surprised to argue.

you follow him to the entrance, where the glass doors shudder from the storm. outside, everything looks cold and drenched. without thinking, you step closer to him, instinctively seeking the small bit of warmth he carries.

rin notices. but he doesn’t move away.

when the doors slide open and the cold air hits, you both hesitate for half a second.

then rin says, almost flatly, “let’s just run.”

and you do.

you both bolt into the rain—splashing through puddles, laughing breathlessly even though neither of you really knows why. the water soaks you instantly: your hair clinging to your face, your clothes heavy and cold. rin’s jacket darkens with the rain, his hair flattened against his forehead. but he stays beside you, steps steady even as you stumble once, nearly slipping.

he catches your arm without thinking.

doesn’t let go right away.

his hand is warm, even through the cold, soaked fabric of your sleeve. for a second, neither of you moves. you’re both too stunned by the contact, the sudden closeness.

when rin finally lets go, his fingers drag slightly against your skin, tugging your sleeve up just a little in the process.

just enough.

his gaze drops.

he sees it.

the delicate black crescent moon inked onto your wrist, clear as day against your chilled skin. a mark you’ve hidden your whole life. a mark you’ve traced in the dark countless times, wondering why fate cursed you with it in the first place.

your breath catches.

his eyes linger for a heartbeat longer than they should.

then he jerks his gaze away. his expression shifts—not cold, not distant… but unreadable. guarded.

you stare down at your wrist, heart racing. the rain keeps falling, cold and relentless, but you barely feel it now.

because suddenly… it clicks.

his reaction.

the way his eyes lingered.

the way his whole body tensed like he’d seen something he wasn’t ready to face.

your throat feels tight. the realization hits slow, heavy, like a stone sinking in your chest.

you’ve both seen enough stories, heard enough whispered tales, to know what it means when two people share the same mark.

matching soulmate tattoos.

and his expression… that look—guarded, careful, almost scared.

your hand shakes as you curl your fingers over the crescent moon on your wrist, hiding it like that could somehow make it untrue.

but deep down, you know.

you know.

rin itoshi has the same mark.

and he knows too.

you glance back, despite yourself.

he’s standing in the rain, unmoving, head bowed, hair plastered to his skin, fists still clenched at his sides. like he’s trying to keep himself from looking at you. or like he’s fighting something inside himself.

you think about saying something.

you really do.

you take a step back without thinking, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. his silence is heavy—not cold this time, not dismissive, but something worse. something uncertain.

you’re terrified.

not of him, but of what this moment means.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. his eyes, always sharp, always guarded, flicker to yours just once before darting away again. like looking at you hurts.

you can’t breathe. the rain hammers down, soaking through your clothes, but it’s nothing compared to the weight pressing on your ribs.

“rin…?” your voice cracks. small. afraid.

he flinches.

that’s when you realize—he’s scared too.

scared of you. scared of what your matching tattoos mean. scared of whatever fate’s put between you both.

you watch his throat work as he swallows hard, like he wants to say something but can’t force the words out.

and then, quietly—barely audible over the rain—he shakes his head.

“don’t,” he mutters.

that single word breaks something inside you.

neither of you moves.

neither of you speaks.

the space between you stretches wide and unfamiliar.

when he finally takes a step back, it’s like the ground gives way beneath your feet.

“just… forget it.”

you don’t know if he’s talking to you or to himself.

before you can say anything—before you can ask what he means, or why he looks so lost—he turns away.

“this doesn’t mean anything.”

rin says it before he even knows he’s said it. like spitting out something bitter.

but as the words leave him, they don’t settle right. they linger in his mouth, heavy, wrong. because he knows he’s lying.

the sight of the crescent moon on your wrist burned itself into his mind the second he saw it. he can still see it now, even as he stands in the rain with his back to you, fists clenched at his sides.

this doesn’t mean anything.

but it does.

it’s everything he’s been running from.

his whole life, he told himself soulmates were a joke. meaningless. just another way for the world to control people. after sae left him behind, rin stopped believing in the idea that anyone could care about him without eventually walking away.

so he built walls. thick, cold walls. told himself he didn’t need anyone.

and now you.

you, standing there in the rain, looking at him like he’s something fragile, something breakable. like you’re scared he’s about to shatter—and worse, like you’d care if he did.

he hates it.

he hates how his chest tightens just thinking about what it means.

how part of him wants to turn around.

wants to take your hand and trace the shape of your tattoo.

wants to ask if you’ve been searching for him too.

but he doesn’t. he can’t.

if he admits this means something—if he lets himself believe in you—then it’s real. then you’re real. and that terrifies him more than anything.

so he tells himself the lie again, even as his heart betrays him.

this doesn’t mean anything.

he starts walking, because if he stays another second, he’s going to break.

you stand frozen in the rain, watching his back as he walks away.

you tell yourself not to care.

but it hurts. more than you expected.

you always thought finding your soulmate would be a moment of relief, or maybe joy—something easy, something right. instead, all you feel is small. like fate played some kind of cruel trick on you.

because he looked at your tattoo like it was something dangerous. something he didn’t want.

and now he’s gone.

you hug your arms around yourself, rain soaking through your clothes, through your skin.

you try to remind yourself that you’ve never needed anyone.

but the truth is… you wanted him to stay.

you trace the crescent moon on your wrist, like you’ve done a million times before, and for the first time, it feels like a curse. not because you don’t know who it leads to—but because now you do.

and he doesn’t want you.

you’re not surprised when the teacher calls your name alongside rin itoshi’s. it’s happened enough times now that you’ve stopped hoping for a different partner. he doesn’t react either—just glances at you once, unreadable as always, then shifts his chair slightly so there’s space beside him.

you hesitate for a moment before raising your hand. “can i… work on my own for this one?” your voice is quieter than usual, but you know rin hears it too. you catch the brief flicker of surprise in his expression, but he looks away before you can read it.

the teacher pauses, eyes narrowing slightly like they can sense something deeper. you try to hold their gaze without letting your voice shake. “please.”

silence stretches for a moment longer than comfortable. then, finally, the teacher sighs. “fine. just this once.”

you mumble a thank you, avoiding rin’s eyes completely as you gather your things and move to an empty table near the window. you can feel his gaze, even if you never meet it. the shift in the air is unmistakable.

you know the teacher sensed it too.

but you don’t care—not right now.

you open your notebook, but your hands tremble too much to write properly. the last thing you want is to sit next to him after everything. after seeing the look on his face that night. after hearing him say it didn’t mean anything.

from across the room, rin sits frozen in his seat.

he doesn’t say a word. but he doesn’t start working either.

you start avoiding rin without even realizing it at first.

 you take different routes between classes just to not run into him, even if it means being late.

 when you spot him ahead, you turn around or pretend to check your phone, hoping he won’t notice. you skip the cafeteria entirely, choosing quiet spots like the library instead, and you make sure to never sit anywhere near the football team’s table like you used to. 

in class, even when you’re assigned seats next to each other, you act like he’s invisible—passing papers without looking, answering questions without acknowledging him. when he tries to quietly say your name, you pretend not to hear.

 you refuse to work with him on group projects, always asking to work alone, and the teachers start to notice but say nothing.

 at school events, you avoid covering football matches altogether, making excuses about focusing on other stories, so rin doesn’t see your camera pointed at him anymore. 

once, when your eyes accidentally meet in the library, your heart races and you look away fast, but rin holds your gaze a moment longer, silently watching you leave, his expression unreadable yet tense.

the space between you grows, filled with unspoken words neither of you dare to say.

rin feels like he’s constantly teetering on the edge of breaking. every time he sees you, there’s this hollow ache in his chest that’s almost unbearable—like a quiet, slow burn that won’t go away. he wants to look away, to pretend he doesn’t care, but it’s impossible. not when you’re always just out of reach, so close but so impossibly far.

he hates how you avoid his eyes now. not like before—there was a time when he thought maybe you could like him back, maybe you didn’t think he was some cold, unreachable figure. but now? now you look at him like he’s some ghost, like he’s already given up on you. and rin? he’s terrified you’re right.

he tries to tell himself it’s better this way. better if you don’t get involved, better if he doesn’t have to explain the mess he is inside. but every time you flinch when your names get called together in class, every time you shift uncomfortably beside him, rin’s stomach twists in knots. he wants to say something—anything—that would make it easier for you. but his mouth is dry, and the words feel like poison, sharp and impossible to swallow.

when the teacher pairs you two again, rin watches you tense, the way you glance away like you want to disappear. and he hates himself for being the reason. because if he were braver, maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. maybe you wouldn’t be trying to find excuses to work alone.

he shifts his chair a little to give you space, but it feels like he’s only making more distance between you. he wonders if you hate him now. if you wish he would just leave you alone, stop making everything complicated. and that thought—it crushes him.

rin thinks back to the moment he saw your tattoo. that delicate crescent moon on your wrist, just like his own hidden beneath his sleeve. his heart had stopped. part of him wanted to run, to pretend it didn’t exist. because accepting it means accepting a future he’s terrified of—a future where he has to let someone in, where he can’t protect himself with walls and silence.

and yet, he can’t stop thinking about you. your laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re focused, the softness in your voice when you ask a question in class. rin hates how much he wants to be close to you, to reach out and hold your hand, to tell you it’ll be okay. but he’s so scared you’ll push him away.

sometimes, when you’re not looking, rin catches himself staring at your wrist. it’s stupid, really—a small mark on your skin—but to him it means everything and nothing all at once. it’s like a reminder of something he can’t have, or maybe something he’s too scared to want.

he’s not proud of how pathetic he feels. he’s supposed to be strong, confident—the star football player, the guy who has it all together. but around you, all of that crumbles. rin’s just a scared kid who doesn’t know how to say what’s on his mind.

he wonders if you feel the same way. if you’re just as scared, just as confused. or if you’ve already given up on whatever connection might have been there between them. the thought of you shutting him out for good is unbearable.

rin doesn’t know what to do. every time you say the bare minimum, every time you ask to work alone, he wants to scream that it’s okay, that you don’t have to be afraid. but instead, he just nods quietly and watches you slip away.

he hates the silence between you. it feels like a wall too high to climb, too thick to break. rin wants to tear it down, but his hands are trembling, and he doesn’t know where to start.

sometimes he thinks about giving up—just walking away and pretending none of this ever happened. maybe it would be easier that way. but then he remembers the way you look when you think he’s not watching. the flicker of sadness in your eyes, the tiny smile you hide behind your lips, the way your hand unconsciously brushes your sleeve over your tattoo.

rin doesn’t want to lose you. not like this, not without even trying. but he’s so afraid of making things worse that he’s frozen in place, stuck between what he wants and what he thinks you deserve.

he wishes he could be braver. wishes he could be the guy who reaches out, who says all the things that are tangled up in his heart. but right now, he’s just this broken kid who’s scared to be seen.

and so, rin waits. waits for a sign, a word, anything that tells him you might still want him too. he doesn’t know how long he can keep waiting, or if you’ll ever give him the chance.

but for now, he’s here—in the quiet, in the shadows, in the spaces between your words—hoping that someday, you’ll let him in. and maybe then, rin can stop feeling so small.

you’re walking down the hallway after class, your bag slung over one shoulder, mind swirling with everything that’s been piling up lately. the weight of that tattoo on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a constant reminder you don’t want to face right now.

then, suddenly, rin steps in front of you, blocking your path like he’s been waiting for this moment. your breath catches—not because you want to talk, but because you really don’t.

“hey,” rin says, voice low but urgent. his eyes flicker with something you don’t quite understand—an awkward mix of hope and desperation.

you narrow your eyes and cross your arms, already bracing yourself. “what do you want?”

rin swallows hard, running a hand through his hair nervously. “i just... i wanted to talk. about us. about what happened.”

you scoff, turning your head away. “there’s nothing to talk about. you made it clear.”

“no, that’s not true,” rin insists, stepping a little closer, but you take a step back. “i didn’t mean it like that. i was scared—confused.”

“scared?” you repeat bitterly. “you think i wasn’t? you think this is easy for me?”

he flinches, like your words hit harder than he expected. “i know you’re mad. and you have every right to be. but ignoring me won’t fix anything.”

you shake your head, voice shaking with frustration. “maybe i don’t want you to fix anything. maybe i just want space.”

rin’s shoulders slump, but he doesn’t back down. “i’m not giving up that easily.”

“then maybe you should.” you turn sharply, pushing past him, leaving the silence hanging thick between you.

rin wasn’t the type to give up easily. even when you barely acknowledged his presence, he kept showing up—not in grand gestures or loud declarations, but in quiet, steady ways that you couldn’t ignore.

at first, it was little things. he’d wait outside the classroom just long enough to say a quick “good morning,” his voice low and careful, like he was testing the waters. when you didn’t respond, he’d give a small nod and walk away, not angry or frustrated, just... present.

during lunch, you’d find him sitting a few tables away, head down in a book or scrolling through his phone. sometimes his eyes would flicker up to you, meeting your gaze for a second before looking away. it wasn’t demanding attention; it was just... consistent.

when you were partnered for science, he didn’t push. if you wanted to work alone, he respected it, sitting quietly at his own desk. but he always left a textbook or your notes nearby, as if saying without words, “i’m here when you need me.”

there were afternoons he showed up at the library you frequented—never surprising you, never cornering you, just studying quietly across the room. the rain pattered against the windows on those days, and sometimes you caught him watching you from the corner of his eye.

one day, you caught him slipping a small piece of paper onto your desk during science class. when you unfolded it later, you found a simple message: “i’m not going anywhere.”

rin just won’t quit. no matter how many times you brush him off, he keeps showing up—texting, waiting by your locker, even catching you after class just to say one more thing. at first, you thought it was irritating, like, seriously, give it a rest. but then you noticed how genuine he was, how every apology or awkward smile was wrapped in this quiet desperation to fix whatever mess was between you.

he stumbles over his words sometimes, clearly nervous, but he doesn’t back down. “i just want to talk,” he says, eyes earnest and a little pleading. and honestly? it’s hard not to soften a little. because beneath all that stubborn persistence is someone who’s honestly trying. trying to make you see that he cares, trying to fix the distance he accidentally put between you.

it’s annoying, yeah, but in this weird way, it’s kind of cute too. like watching a kid trying to solve a puzzle they don’t quite understand yet—but refusing to give up. and that makes it almost impossible to stay mad.

ugh he is really making this hard for you. 

the rain falls steadily, a soft rhythm against the pavement as you pull your coat tighter around yourself. the streetlights blur through the misty air, casting hazy pools of yellow on the wet sidewalks. your footsteps splash lightly in the puddles, the cold water seeping past your shoes.

you’re alone—no one beside you, no one waiting at the end of the road. the world feels quiet except for the rain, and in a way, that’s comforting. the steady sound drowns out the noise in your head, slows your racing thoughts.

your hair sticks to your face, damp and tangled, and you brush it away absently. each breath you take comes out in a soft puff, fogging the air in front of you. the cold seeps into your bones, but you don’t mind. maybe this walk is what you needed—time to think, to be by yourself.

passing by closed shops and dark windows, you catch your reflection in the glass—a girl with tired eyes and a face softened by the rain. you wonder how much longer until you reach home, until you can shrug off your wet coat and feel warmth again.

the rain is falling harder now, droplets pattering against your coat as you walk down the empty street. your hair clings to your cheeks, and your shoes splash through shallow puddles. the cold has started to settle deep into your bones, but you don’t slow down—there’s something calming about this solitude.

then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone in the distance. rin. he’s walking too, his coat pulled tight, shoulders hunched against the rain. for a moment, your eyes meet through the misty curtain of water, and you both pause.

rin’s expression is unreadable, but his gaze lingers on you a little longer than usual. you hesitate, heart pounding—not sure if you want to keep walking or turn around.

but the rain keeps falling, and with it, the quiet pull between you.

rin breaks into a run, splashing through puddles as he closes the distance between you. his breaths come out a little harsh, mixing with the rain that drenches his hair and clothes. without waiting for you to say anything, he blurts out, voice shaky but urgent.

“hey, wait—i’m sorry. really, i am. i didn’t mean to mess things up between us.”

you stand frozen, rain soaking your skin, caught off guard by the sudden apology. rin’s eyes search yours, earnest and maybe a little desperate. “i just… i want to fix this. can we please talk?”

you bite your lip, still unsure, heart pounding from the unexpected closeness and the rawness in his voice. the rain falls harder, drumming on your jacket, and for a moment, all the noise around you disappears except for the sound of rin’s steady breathing.

“i don’t know,” you finally whisper, voice trembling. “it’s not that easy to just forget. but i’ll let you explain yourself.”

rin nods slowly, stepping a little closer, careful not to crowd you. “i get that. i don’t expect anything overnight. thank you for hearing me out.”

your eyes flicker away, toward the wet pavement beneath your feet. you want to believe him, want to hope maybe this is the start of something different—but the hurt still weighs heavy, tangled with the rain soaking through your clothes.

rin’s eyes darken, the rain falling heavier as he speaks, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “my older brother, sae… he was everything to me once. always pushing me, always demanding more. but it wasn’t just tough love—it was like he didn’t want me to have anything else. especially not anyone who could distract me. when he left… or rather, when he just stopped caring, it felt like everything broke inside me.”

he swallows hard, jaw tightening. “after that, i stopped believing in soulmates. in people who ‘complete’ you. it felt like a cruel joke, like the universe gave me this mark just to remind me of what i’d lost. so i shut down, tried to push everyone away—including you—because i was scared of feeling that kind of pain again.”

rin’s gaze flickers up, searching yours. “but then, seeing you... it stirred something i didn’t expect. and maybe that’s why i’ve been such a mess lately, trying and failing to get it right. i just... i don’t want to lose you.”

you blink, caught off guard by rin’s vulnerability. the usual cold, distant exterior cracks just enough to show the rawness beneath. for a moment, the rain seems to fade around you both, the world narrowing down to his voice and the ache behind it.

“i didn’t know,” you say softly, voice trembling a little. “i thought you just didn’t care.”

he shakes his head, a bitter smile ghosting his lips. “i cared too much, maybe. but caring meant getting hurt. so i built walls.”

you study him, the raw honesty in his eyes making it hard to stay mad. but the sting of feeling unwanted still lingers. “what changed? why come after me now?”

rin exhales sharply, meeting your gaze with a flicker of hope. “because i realized that pushing you away hurts more than any wall could protect me from. i’m tired of being alone.”

for a moment, the rain patters around you both, a quiet witness to the fragile moment hanging between you.

“i don’t know if things can just fix themselves,” he admits, voice low. “but i want to try. if you’ll let me.”

you hesitate, the storm inside you still raging. part of you wants to believe him, to reach out and close the distance between you. but another part is guarded, afraid of getting hurt again.

“i don’t know if i can just forget everything,” you say finally, your voice steady but soft. “it’s not that simple.”

rin nods slowly, as if he expected that. “i get it. i’m not asking you to forgive me right now. just… don’t shut me out completely. let me prove i’m different.”

you glance away, rain dripping from your hair, mixing with the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “you don’t know me,” you whisper. “how can you be sure?”

he steps a little closer, careful not to overwhelm you. “because i’m willing to learn. willing to fight for this— for us. even if you don’t want me now, i’m not giving up.”

there’s something in his eyes—something stubborn and hopeful—that makes your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

you take a shaky breath, the rain washing over you both, blurring the lines between anger and something else—something softer.

“okay,” you say at last, voice barely above a whisper. “we’ll take it slow.”

rin’s face brightens just a bit, a small, genuine smile breaking through the tension. “slow is good. i’m here. whenever you’re ready.”

and in the quiet downpour, with the world fading around you, you both stand there—tentative, unsure, but maybe just beginning.

you’re sitting side by side on the library bench, rain tapping a steady beat against the window like some overenthusiastic drummer. rin’s fingers hover awkwardly above your wrist like he’s not quite sure if he’s allowed to touch it or if it might suddenly zap him or something.

finally, he musters up some courage and gently rolls your sleeve up a bit, revealing the crescent moon tattoo you’ve traced so many times you probably know it better than your own face. rin’s fingertip pokes at it like it’s a tiny mysterious alien spaceship.

“so… this is your infamous tattoo,” he says, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.

you snort a little and shake your head. “infamous? it’s just a dumb crescent moon.”

rin’s eyes stay glued to the tattoo as he traces the curve with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb or something. “dumb crescent moon that apparently means we’re soulmates. wild.”

you roll your eyes but don’t pull away, secretly enjoying how flustered rin looks. it’s not every day you get to see the usually stoic football star looking like he’s trying not to hyperventilate.

“you’re weird,” you say, and he actually smiles—an honest, goofy grin that makes your heart do a weird little flip.

“maybe,” he admits, “but at least i’m persistent.”

you give his hand a playful nudge. “persistent or annoying? sometimes the line is really thin.”

rin shrugs like it’s a badge of honor. “annoying can be cute, did you know that?”

you laugh, the sound light and easy. “okay, annoying cute it is.”

the air felt thick with something unspoken, a tension that had been building for weeks, finally teetering on the edge of something more.

rin’s eyes caught yours, dark and steady, full of warmth that made your heart thump a little faster. without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand. the contact was electric, a small spark that traveled straight to your chest.

he didn’t pull away. instead, his fingers curled gently around yours, holding on like he was afraid to let go. his thumb traced slow circles on the back of your hand, sending shivers up your arm.

“you know,” rin murmured, voice low and a little rough, “i’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

you smiled, your cheeks warming. “me too.”

the space between you shrank until his breath mingled with yours, warm and steady. your heart was pounding, but your hands moved of their own accord, sliding up to rest lightly on his shoulders, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt.

rin’s lips brushed yours softly at first, a tentative touch that was feather-light and full of promise. you leaned in, matching his pace, closing the distance until the kiss deepened, slow and sweet.

his hands moved to cradle your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he kissed you more confidently now. there was a softness beneath the intensity, like he was memorizing every curve, every feeling, afraid it might be a dream.

you sighed into the kiss, the world narrowing to just the two of you—the gentle squeeze of his hands, the way his breath hitched against your lips, the steady rhythm of your heart syncing with his.

rin pulled back just a little, resting his forehead against yours, eyes half-closed and full of quiet wonder. “you’re… everything,” he whispered.

you laughed softly, breathless. “you’re pretty amazing yourself.”

his grin was slow and tender, and then his lips found yours again, this time with a playful teasing that made you giggle.

“don’t think i’m done yet,” rin teased between kisses.

“good,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “because neither am i.”

the kiss deepened again, full of warmth and laughter and all the little moments you’d been waiting for—the nervous smiles, the lingering touches, the way your whole world felt brighter just because he was here.

outside, the rain kept falling, but inside, wrapped up in rin’s arms and the softness of his lips, nothing else mattered.

⁠@ lveisagi, please do not copy, translate, or repost my work. all rights reserved.

[mommyownsmee]

[TW: SOMNO; CNC; BREEDING KINK] [Music: LITHE]

The dim glow of the candles casts a soft, golden hue over the room, flickering slightly where the breeze from the half-open window disturbs the light curtain. The scent of us lingers in the air, mixed with the remnants of warm skin and sleep, heavy and consuming. The sheets are tangled around our legs, the cool linen damp where our bodies have pressed together through the night. The mattress dips beneath your movements, springs creaking softly in protest as you grind yourself against me, your weight warm and solid atop my body.

The air in the room is thick, almost suffocating, heavy with the humid warmth of late summer. Outside, the distant hum of the city filters through, the occasional sound of a car rolling past on wet pavement, the distant buzz of neon signs casting faint streaks of color against the darkened walls. Rain had fallen earlier, the scent of it still lingering, damp and fresh, clinging to the air like an unspoken promise. The sheer curtains shift slightly with the wind, ghosting against the windowsill, framing the room in a quiet intimacy that feels both endless and fleeting.

My body still aches from last night.

You had taken everything I gave you—every command, every touch, every brutal, consuming moment of pleasure until you had nothing left to offer but obedience. I had left you shaking, breathless, too exhausted to do anything but collapse against me, your body spent, marked, claimed. You had whispered my name between ragged breaths, had curled into me, body pliant, the last remnants of resistance broken down into submission. And yet, despite everything, despite how completely I had worn you down, despite how thoroughly I had used you—You still disobey me.

The strap from last night is still buckled tight around my hips, snug and unmoved, the fabric pressing into my skin, a quiet reminder of the way I took you, the way I had made you beg, made you surrender, made you mine. I never removed it—I fell asleep like this, my body still thrumming with the satisfaction of watching you break for me, of feeling you tremble, of knowing you were exactly where you belonged.

You were supposed to wait. You were supposed to stay where I left you, your body sore, obedient, ready for when I decided to use you again.

But instead—

I’m waking up to the heat of your body pressing against mine, the slow, desperate roll of your hips dragging your slick folds over my cock. The warmth of you, the soft friction, the way your breath catches each time your clit brushes against me—it’s intoxicating. You’re already soaked, already dripping, already so fucking needy for me that you can’t even wait for me to wake up properly. It pulls me from the depths of sleep, from something that almost feels like a dream—except this? This is real.

The way you move—needy and shameless, claiming my cock like it belongs to you—is real. Like you own it. Like you’ve spent the entire night aching for me, your body wound so tight that waiting a second longer would drive you insane.

You knew better. And yet, here you are—awake before me, climbing onto my lap, positioning yourself over my strap, and taking it without my consent. You didn’t even want to ask. All you had to do was get up and sink down onto it. And you did.

And fuck, the way you’re feeling against me… the slick heat of your cunt sliding over me, coating me in your arousal with every slow grind, makes my stomach tighten. It’s not just the physical sensation—it’s the way you’re taking it. The way you‘re using me, knowing I’m too dazed to stop you.

You’re playing with fire. Pushing my limits. Dragging me toward that place where I stop thinking and start taking. You’re so wet, so fucking desperate, and you don’t care if I wake up or not. No hesitation. No shame. You take what you need.

“I need it, Mommy,” you whisper, your voice a hushed plea against my skin. It’s breathless, thick with sleep and raw with arousal. The sound alone makes my cunt throb beneath you. “I need you to breed me. I need all your cum inside me. I need to be full of you. Feel so empty.”

The old wooden headboard taps softly against the wall with each movement, a quiet rhythm that syncs with your slow, deliberate grinding. The scent of the candles we forgot to blow out the night before lingers in the background—something deep and musky, mingling with the salty, unmistakable scent of sex. The nightstand is cluttered—half-empty glasses of water, a forgotten book lying open with its pages slightly curled, a phone blinking with an unread message no one cares about right now.

I’m still barely conscious, lost in the haze of sleep, my mind sluggish, my limbs heavy. But the pleasure is undeniable. It seeps into my bones, coils in my stomach, forces my body to react even before my brain catches up. And you know it. You feel it.

You feel the way my hips start to twitch beneath you, the way my breath stutters, the way my cock presses against your slick heat. You feel my body giving you exactly what you’re after—even without my permission. You know you should stop. You know should wait. But you simply don’t.

You keep going, rolling your hips, grinding yourself down, using my cock to chase your own pleasure like a needy little thing. Your fingers are curling against my chest, nails digging in just enough to make me feel it—to ground yourself as you’re riding me, slow, steady, possessive.

“Needed this, Mommy… Needed you so bad… Fuck—feels so good… I can’t stop—”

I groan, the sound low and rough, muscles tensing beneath you. My fingers twitch at my sides like I should stop you. Like I could stop you, even in my sleep. But you know better. You know me too well—know exactly what you’re doing. And you don’t stop.

The soft rustle of fabric beneath us, the shift of the sheets against my skin, the subtle creak of the bed frame beneath our weight—all of it blends together into a quiet symphony of need. The room is warm, but not uncomfortably so, the air thick with something indescribable, something heavy, something that makes it impossible to think about anything other than the way your body feels against mine.

You angle your hips, sinking down harder, taking me deeper, and fuck—it’s almost too much. Your cunt clenches around me, greedy, like you were made for this—for me. Your breath hitches, a soft, broken moan escaping your lips as you take me deeper, as you push yourself further.

The mattress gives slightly beneath us, dipping and shifting with every movement, the weight of you pressing me deeper into its embrace as you adjust, as you make yourself even more comfortable in your slow, relentless conquest of me. The warmth of your thighs presses against mine, your skin slick where our bodies meet, heat pooling between us like a secret no one else will ever know. The sheets slide further away, forgotten, lost to the tangle of limbs and heat and slick, desperate need.

After a moment you’re pressing yourself down harder, letting out a needy little whimper, your hands sliding up my chest, nails scraping lightly against my skin. My skin burns where you touch me, heat prickling along my spine, my pulse a heavy, thrumming beat in my ears.

Your breath is hot against my ear, your voice thick with arousal and just a hint of amusement. The pillows are scattered, one having slipped off the bed entirely, lying forgotten on the wooden floor. Your fingers twitch against my chest, nails skimming lightly over my skin, tracing idle patterns as you move against me, teasing, unhurried.

The worn cotton of your shirt clings to your body in places, barely covering anything, the fabric rising with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips. I can see the way it slides off your shoulder, exposing the soft curve of your collarbone, the line of your neck, the sheen of sweat along your throat.

The dim light flickers again as a stronger gust of wind pushes through the window, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city—But up here, in this room, in this bed, none of it matters. The rest of the world ceases to exist. There is only you, only me, only the unbearable heat of our bodies pressed together in the dark.

Your lips part, a soft, breathy moan slipping free as you grind down, the fabric of the shirt finally shifting just enough to give me a glimpse of your bare breasts beneath it, the shadows teasing at what I already know, what I’ve already tasted, what I crave to feel again. The candles’ glow catches the faint sheen of sweat on your skin, painting you in molten gold, highlighting every curve, every dip, every place I want to touch, to claim.

“Need it so badly,” you breathe, rocking your hips, making me feel how desperate you are. “Need you to breed me. Need all your cum inside me. Want you to fill me up—make me yours.”

Fuck.

That sentence alone makes my entire body tighten. Even half-asleep, my eyes barely open, those words send a sharp, molten heat shooting straight through me, spreading wet and heavy between my legs. My stomach clenches, my hips buck against your heat, and suddenly, I’m awake. My breath stutters, my jaw tightens, my body responding before my mind can fully catch up.

I grab your hips, fingers digging into your soft skin, my voice a low, rough growl. “Get up.”

I barely recognize my own voice—it’s thick with sleep and raw with arousal.

The candles flicker again, the light shifting over the lines of your body, the fabric of your shirt slipping further, baring more of your skin to the warm air. The scent of you—sweet, intoxicating—fills the space between us, mingling with the lingering traces of rain, of the old wooden floors, of the night itself. The sheets slide further away, completely forgotten, left crumpled at the floor. The mattress shifts beneath our weight, the soft creak of the springs drowned out by the way your breath catches, the way you press yourself down harder, the way you refuse to stop.

I grab your hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the shirt you’re wearing—mine, worn and stretched, barely clinging to your frame. It hangs off you in a way that drives me insane, slipping from one shoulder, exposing the slope of your neck, your breast, the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the candlelight. The way the fabric shifts with your movements teases me, offering glimpses of bare skin, of the curves I already know too well.

“Get up,” I growl again, my voice thick with sleep, with something darker curling at the edges.

The air between us is humid, heavy, thick with the mingling scent of your skin, of the lingering candle wax melting in its holder, of sweat clinging to the sheets. The room itself feels smaller now, as if the walls are pressing in around us, enclosing us in the warmth of this moment, in the weight of your body against mine.

I shift beneath you, tightening my grip, making it clear what I want—to flip you over, press you into the mattress, claim you properly. But you don’t move. Instead, you smirk, lazy and teasing, your breath hot against my skin.

It’s slow, that smirk. Knowing. And then you roll your hips again, grinding down with that deliberate, torturous rhythm that makes my stomach clench, makes my restraint snap thread by thread.

“No,” you purr, dragging your nails down my chest, your voice sweet but dripping with something dangerous. “You don’t want me to get up. You want me to take what I need. You want me to keep riding you, to milk you dry, to use you until you’re nothing but a desperate, fucked-out mess.”

The light is casting shifting shadows along the walls, illuminating the way your body moves above me. The way the oversized shirt pools around your hips, riding up with every slow grind, revealing more of the slick heat between your legs makes my head spin.

I know I should stop you. I should grab you, shove you off, flip you over, and remind you who’s in control. But I don’t.

Because you’re right. I do want it.

I want to feel the way your body clenches around me, want to watch your head tilt back, your mouth parting as you lose yourself in the pleasure of fucking me. I want to hear you whisper those filthy little confessions, to push me, to break me, to convince me until I give in.

You know exactly what you’re doing. You rock against me, slow and deliberate, dragging your slick heat over every inch of me, making sure I feel it. Every roll of your hips is calculated, pushing me further, making me unravel. The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat, the soft linen sticking to my back as I fight the instinct to grab you, to take control. The distant sound of a car rolling past outside feels like it belongs to another world—one where this moment doesn’t exist.

“I’m not stopping,” you whisper, lips brushing against my ear, breath hot and teasing. “Not until you give me what I want.”

I shake my head, a weak protest, my voice hoarse. “No… I can’t… Stop.”

But even as I say it, my hands twitch at your sides, fighting the instinct to grab you, to hold you down, to fuck you the way you‘re begging for.

You don’t listen. Of course you don’t.

You tilt your hips, sinking down harder, letting me feel just how wet, just how ready you are for me. The oversized shirt you’re wearing slips down your arms, your breasts. It does nothing to hide you, does nothing to stop my gaze from drinking you in—the way your thighs tremble as you move, the way your lips part with every sharp inhale, the way you look in this light, all soft curves and wild hunger.

“You’re already giving in,” you murmur, dragging your nails down my chest, watching the way I shudder under your touch. “You say no, but your body says yes. You’re already so deep inside me, so hard for me. I can feel how you’re soaking the sheets with me. You can pretend all you want, but I know the truth.”

I swallow hard, jaw tight, trying to resist the way you move—the way you feel. But fuck, it’s impossible.

“You feel it, don’t you?” you purr again, voice dripping with satisfaction. “How perfect we fit. How fucking good it feels. You don’t want me to stop.”

The room feels stifling, the warmth wrapping around us like something alive, something tangible. The neon light outside has shifted, the red glow growing stronger, painting your skin like something sinful, something forbidden.

I clench my teeth. “I… I can’t…”

But it’s a weak protest. We both know it.

You lean in, your lips brushing against my jaw, your voice sinking into me like a drug. “Then don’t.”

My breath stutters as you kiss down my neck, slow and sensual, tongue flicking against my pulse. “Don’t hold back. Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

I know that you know it. The way my jaw clenches as I fight against the pull, against the raw need curling in my gut. The way my hands tighten at my sides, the way my cunt pulsates beneath you, betraying me, proving that despite every hoarse “No” I breathe, my body wants nothing more than to give in.

And you enjoy it too much. You press your hands against my chest a little harder, your body sinuous and sure as you rock against me. The soft creak of the mattress beneath us is the only sound in the room, aside from the uneven rhythm of our breathing, the occasional hitch in your throat when you sink down just right.

“You want it,” you whisper, dragging your lips along my jaw, your breath warm and steady. “Admit it.”

My head tilts back against the pillow, a deep groan tearing from my throat.

“Tell me.” You bite my earlobe, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight through me. “Tell me you want it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard. “No— I— I can’t—”

Your hand slides down, pressing against my stomach, right where our bodies meet. You circle your hips, slow, deep, making me feel the maddening stretch of your heat around me.

The scent of rain drifts in again, mixing with the warmth of us, with the remnants of summer night air. In this moment, time is slipping away.

“You’re going to put a baby in me.”

My breath catches. Every muscle in my body tenses.

“I won’t stop until you do,” you murmur, pressing your forehead against mine, your lips hovering just inches away. “Until I feel you spill inside me, until there’s no way I’m not yours. Marked for everyone to see.”

A sharp, strangled sound leaves my throat.

One of the candles flickers one last time before the flame dies out.

The room there falls into darkness.

“You’ll give it to me,” you whisper, dragging your nails down my chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake. “I know you will.”

My breath stutters, my jaw tight, my body betraying me with every sharp inhale, every twitch of my fingers against the sheets. The mattress dips beneath us, every movement shifting the weight between us, the bedsprings giving a quiet protest.

“You want it, don’t you?” Your voice is velvet-soft, dripping with wicked intent. You drag your lips along my jaw, slow, teasing, your breath hot as you let your words sink in.

I’m clenching my teeth, my body tightening beneath you, my fingers twitching at your hips but still refusing to act—to pull you closer, to push you away. The war in my chest is suffocating, the heat in my veins unbearable.

You hum, amused. Unrelenting. “Say no,” you murmur, circling your hips, sending another pulse of unbearable pleasure through me. “Tell me to stop.”

I don’t. I can’t. There is no word forming on my tongue. No word that would be able to slip out of my mouth.

Your lips curve into a knowing smirk against my skin. “That’s what I thought.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make me feel the unbearable loss of you before sinking back down, dragging out the sensation, making me shudder. My hands finally move—instinct overriding restraint—fingers tightening at your waist, digging into soft flesh, a silent acknowledgment that I’ve lost this battle.

A low, breathy moan slips from your lips, your body trembling at the way I finally, finally touch you. The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat, twisted from movement, the scent of you clinging to every inch of fabric.

“You feel it, don’t you?” you murmur, rocking against me, slow and torturous. “How perfect we fit. How easy it would be to just let go. To give me what I want.”

I swallow hard, trying to hold onto the last thread of restraint, but the way your body presses down against mine, the way you feel so unbearably warm, so impossibly soft, is unraveling me by the second.

“You don’t want me to stop,” you say again, voice like silk, like a promise. “I can feel it.” Your nails scrape lightly against my skin as you shift, adjusting, taking me deeper, making my breath stutter as pleasure coils tight in my stomach.

“You want this,” you murmur, your voice thick with something dark, something knowing. Your fingers skate along my chest, nails tracing barely-there lines over heated skin. “You always do.”

I should stop you. I should grab you, flip you onto your stomach, remind you who’s in control. But I don’t. Because you’re right. I do want this.

I want to watch the way your body moves above me, the way the flickering neon light paints your skin in shifting hues, the way you whisper those wicked, breathless words against my ear, unraveling me one syllable at a time.

You hum against my skin, pleased, satisfied, your breath warm as you press closer, your fingers tightening where they rest against my chest. “I told you,” you whisper, voice dripping with amusement, with triumph. “You can’t resist me.”

You know me too well. You see through the tension in my jaw, the way my breath stutters, the way my fingers tighten in the sheets.

The heat between us is unbearable, thick and inescapable, wrapping around my body like a vice. A sliver of cool air comes in through the slightly cracked window, but it does nothing to soothe the fire burning between us.

You lean closer, your breath hot against my ear, your voice nothing more than a hushed whisper laced with dark amusement. “You can’t hold back forever.”

The remaining flickering candles on the nightstand have almost burned themselves out, the wax pooling at their base, the flame struggling to stay alive. Just like my restraint. Just like every last shred of control I have left.

You tilt your head, watching me, studying me, your eyes dark, heavy-lidded, filled with something unreadable. And then you smirk, slow and knowing, because you can feel it—the way my body is betraying me, the way I’m losing this fight second by second.

Your fingers slide down, ghosting over my stomach, your touch light but searing, sending a shiver up my spine. The last candle on the nightstand finally sputters out, plunging the room into darkness, leaving nothing but the neon glow from the window to paint the scene in shifting colors. The flickering red light catches on your parted lips again, on the faint rise and fall of your chest, on the wicked, triumphant gleam in your eyes.

You press closer, your breath hot against my ear, your voice nothing more than a hushed murmur laced with quiet victory. “You’ve already given in,” you whisper, your lips barely brushing against my skin, sending a slow, burning shiver through me. “You just won’t admit it yet.”

It’s maddening—the way you say it, the way you know. The way your voice drips with satisfaction, teasing, taunting, pulling me further into the trap you’ve been weaving all night. My breath stutters, my restraint frays, my hands finally move—not to push you away, not to stop you, but to hold you, to claim you the way you’ve been demanding all along.

A soft, breathy sound slips from your lips, something caught between a gasp and a moan, something triumphant. Your fingers curl against my chest, nails pressing in just enough to make me feel it, to mark me, to brand your victory into my skin.

The room is still, the air heavy, the silence thick with something unspoken, something undeniable.

Then the neon light flickers again—red and blue and red—casting shifting hues across your face, your expression raw, desperate, entirely too real. Your breath hitches, your body trembling slightly under my touch, the control you held slipping just a little—just enough for you to realize that the moment you’ve been pushing for is here.

That you’ve won. That I’m not going to stop you. Not anymore.

I inhale sharply—my breath coming out as a slow, shuddering exhale.

And then, I move.

The bed creaks beneath us, the sound swallowed by the night.

“You want it, baby?” My voice is low, rough with something dangerous, something inevitable. I feel the way your body tenses, the anticipation curling through you, the way your fingers grip at my skin. I press the full length of my strap between your folds, the slick heat of you coating every inch.

“Then take it.”

I push inside—slow, just to feel it. The way your body stretches, the way you clench down around me, the way your breath stutters, turning into a choked little whimper.

And fuck, you’re perfect.

So tight, so ready, so utterly mine.

My hand slides up to your throat, tilting your head so you have no choice but to look at me—to let me watch the way your body reacts to me, to the way I take you.

And I can see it.

The flush spreading across your skin, the way your lips part, the way your fingers press against my chest, your grip faltering as you struggle to keep yourself upright. Your body is betraying you, unraveling, pleasure overtaking every muscle, every thought.

Your brows furrow, your expression shifting, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open in breathless gasps.

“Mommy, please—”

You don’t even have to finish your sentence. I know what you want. You’ve been convincing me for at least an hour now.

I grab your hips and slam into you, dragging a wrecked sob from your throat.

Your body jolts with every thrust, your hands slipping off my chest, hanging at your sides, your moans turning into high, broken cries as I take you apart.

“You’re going to look so fucking good, baby,” I murmur, my voice dark, possessive, my grip tightening, owning you in every way possible. “All round and full for me. Everyone will see it. Know it. Know exactly who you belong to.”

The thought alone makes something in me snap.

I press deeper, harder, watching the way your body gives under my control—how you melt for me, how your eyes roll back, lost in it, lost in me for that moment, too dumb and wrecked to do anything but take what I give.

And that’s exactly where I want you. Where you belong.

The neon glow outside still pulses in slow, lazy waves, painting your flushed skin in shifting hues—deep red, then blue, then red again—like a heartbeat, a rhythm that matches the desperate, aching roll of your hips against mine.

Your fingers tremble where they try to grip my shoulders, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your body caught between surrender and hunger, between control and the way I take it from you piece by piece.

“You like disobeying me, don’t you?” My voice is low, rough, more a growl than a question, but I already know the answer. I can feel it in the way you push back against me, in the way your thighs tighten, in the way your breath stutters but you don’t stop moving. “You want me to breed you like the whore you are, even though what you did?”

A sharp whimper escapes you, half-choked, desperate, pleading, but you still don’t answer me. You still hold onto that last sliver of defiance, that last flicker of resistance, testing how far you can push me before I snap.

I tighten my grip on your throat—not enough to hurt, not enough to scare you, but just enough to remind you. Just enough to make your breath hitch, your pulse hammer beneath my fingers, your eyes widen as you realize how easily I could break you completely if I wanted to.

“You should be begging me for forgiveness right now,” I murmur, my lips brushing against the shell of your ear, dragging the words over your skin, letting you feel the weight of them, letting them sink in like a promise. “But instead, you’re riding my cock like you earned it.”

Your body shakes as I press deeper, as I pull you down harder, forcing you to take every inch, forcing you to understand exactly what happens when you disobey me.

Your lips part, a high, broken sound slipping from your throat, your nails digging in, your body going boneless against me, and for a moment—just a moment—I think you might finally give in.

But then you smirk.

And then you roll your hips, deep and filthy, grinding down with purpose, making me feel every slick, desperate inch of you.

It’s not an apology. It’s not surrender. It’s another fucking test.

I see it in your eyes, in the way they flick up to meet mine, challenging, pushing, daring me to do something about it. And fuck, I do. I move before you can even breathe.

In one swift motion, I flip you onto your stomach, pressing your body into the mattress before you can even protest. A gasp rips from your lips as I pin you beneath me, my weight pressing down on you, my hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head to the side so I can see you—so I can watch every shattered expression cross your face as I take back the control you tried to steal.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” My voice is a low, dangerous murmur against your ear, my breath hot, heavy, my grip tightening in your hair as I drag your head back just enough to make you feel it. My other hand slides down, nails raking across your spine, over the curve of your ass, reminding you exactly who you belong to.

You don’t answer—you can’t. Your mouth falls open, your breath coming in shallow, desperate pants, your body trembling beneath me, but that smirk?

It’s still fucking there.

You like this. You like pushing me, testing me, knowing exactly what buttons to press to make me snap. And fuck, it’s working.

I press down harder, my chest flush against your back, my breath hot against your neck. “You wanted to be punished, didn’t you?” I drag my nails up your side, slow, deliberate, feeling you shudder beneath my touch. “That’s why you disobeyed me. That’s why you woke up and took what wasn’t yours to take.”

You whimper, your hands fisting the sheets, your body caught between resisting and giving in. I can feel the conflict, the way you crave the consequence, the way you need me to remind you exactly who’s in control.

I let go of your hair, only to grip your wrists, pinning them above your head, stretching your body beneath me as I press closer, as I make sure you feel every inch of me, unyielding, inescapable.

“You’re mine,” I murmur, my lips brushing against the back of your shoulder, letting my teeth graze your skin, letting you feel how close I am to breaking you completely. “And I’m going to fill your cunt and give you what you deserve.”

Your breath hitches, your body arching, needing more, and fuck, the way you react to me, the way you tremble beneath my hands, the way you push even as you surrender—It makes me feral.

I tighten my grip, forcing you to stay where I want you, forcing you to take what I give. “Say it,” I growl, my voice thick, rough, demanding. Your body shudders, your lips parting, but no sound comes out. You’re too far gone, too wrecked, too lost in it.

I press down harder, my mouth against your ear, my breath sending another violent shiver down your spine.

“Say. It.”

A ragged, broken sound escapes your throat, your fingers curling against the sheets, your back arching, offering yourself up. “I’m yours,” you whisper, voice barely audible, barely a breath, but fuck, it’s enough.

The world beyond these walls doesn’t exist. There’s only this.

Your body is wrecked, trembling beneath me, breathless and pliant, your fingers twitching against the sheets like you’re searching for something to ground you. But there’s nothing left to hold on to. You’ve already given in. Already surrendered. And I made you.

My hands are still on you, on your throat, my other hand pressing into the soft curve of your hips, holding you exactly where I want you, exactly where you need to be. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the aftershocks of what just happened still rolling through you in slow, shuddering waves.

“You should’ve waited for me.” My voice is soft, deceptively gentle, but edged with something darker, something dangerous. My breath is hot against your ear, my lips brushing against the damp skin of your throat as I lean in, letting my weight press you deeper into the mattress.

I can feel the way your body reacts, the way you shudder, the way your thighs tighten as if you’re trying to prepare yourself for what’s coming—even though we both know you can’t. Not really.

“You knew I’d punish you for disobeying me.” My fingers ghost down your stomach, trailing lower, teasing, not giving you enough. Just a whisper of touch. Just enough to keep you on edge. Just enough to remind you that I own this moment. That I own you.

Your breath stutters, your nails digging into the sheets as you try—fail—to stay still beneath me.

“Didn’t you?”

A small, broken whimper escapes your lips, barely audible, barely more than a breath, but I hear it.

I drag my teeth over the side of your neck, slow, deliberate, feeling the way you arch into me, the way your body is already responding, already begging for something you haven’t even asked for yet.

“You wanted this,” I murmur, my voice dripping with amusement, with satisfaction, with something unshakably dominant. “That’s why you climbed on top of me this morning without permission. That’s why you took what wasn’t yours to take.”

Another sound escapes your lips—a half-swallowed whimper, desperate, wrecked.

“But you forgot something, baby.”

My hand moves lower, pressing against your stomach, feeling the way your breath catches, the way you tense beneath my touch. The room feels even smaller now, the air heavier, the heat suffocating.

I grip your chin between my fingers, tilting your face toward me, forcing you to look at me, forcing you to see the way I’m watching you.

“You don’t get to take from me.” My voice is barely more than a breath against your lips, low and dangerous. “You wait until I give it to you.”

I let the words settle, let them sink into your skin, let them own you the way I already do.

And then I move.

You gasp, your back arching, your hands flying up to clutch at my arms, at anything, but I don’t let you take control. I don’t let you escape.

“You’re so fucking desperate,” I murmur against your jaw, feeling the way your body tightens, the way you pulse beneath me, the way you shudder when I grip your hips and force you on my cock, making sure you take it, making sure you feel exactly how much you pushed me, exactly how much I’m not letting you get away with this.

“You wanted me to ruin you?” I laugh, low and dark, dragging my nails down your spine, feeling the way you jolt under the touch. “Then you’re going to take every second of it.”

The air is thick, electric, buzzing with something I can’t name—something dangerous, something feral, something that has every muscle in my body tight, every nerve on fire.

“You belong to me,” I murmur against your throat, feeling the pulse beneath my lips, feeling the way you tremble under my control. “Every fucking part of you belongs to me.”

The weight of those words lingers, settling deep into your bones.

And this time, when you finally respond—when your lips part and you let out a shattered, gasping “Yes, Mommy,”—

It’s not defiance.

It’s submission.

Complete.

Utter.

Perfect.

That’s what I wanted from you all along.

“You knew what you were doing when you took what wasn’t yours to take,” I murmur, my voice low, dangerous, dripping with something possessive, something unshakable. I drag my lips along the side of your throat, letting my teeth graze the sensitive skin there, feeling the way you shudder beneath me. “You knew what it would mean.”

Your body is trembling, caught between resistance and surrender, between fear and hunger, between the need to push me further and the desperate, undeniable desire to let me break you completely.

“You should’ve waited for me.”

I press deeper, letting you feel it, letting you understand exactly what I’m about to do to you.

“But you didn’t.”

Your breath catches, your body arching, reacting instinctively to my voice, to my touch, to the way I hold you still, refusing to let you escape, refusing to let you pretend you don’t want this as much as I do.

“So now you’re going to take all of it.”

My grip tightens, my nails digging into your hips, forcing you to stay still, forcing you to take everything I give you, forcing you to feel it.

“Every second.”

Your body jolts, shuddering beneath me, your muscles tightening, your breath hitching in a sharp, broken moan. I don’t let up. I don’t slow. I don’t let you escape the weight of this, the reality of what’s happening, the undeniable, unrelenting force of my control over you.

“Every inch.”

I make you take all of it. I make you feel all of it. The pressure. The stretch. The overwhelming fullness that has you gasping, that has your fingers clawing at the sheets, that has your breath breaking apart into shattered, incoherent sounds.

You asked for this. You begged for this.

“Every fucking drop.”

I press you down harder, making sure you feel the moment when I finally let go, when I lose myself completely in the heat, in the intensity, in the sheer, overwhelming need to leave a part of myself inside you. My breath stutters, my body going tense, my fingers digging into your hips as I hold you still, keeping you right here, making sure there’s no possible way you don’t understand what I’m doing to you.

You’re whimpering, your body trembling with need, but I don’t let you move. You don’t get to decide when I give you what you want. That’s my choice. My power.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” I murmur, my voice thick with control. My grip tightens on your hips as I slide in and out of you, teasing you, making you crave it even more. “Say it. Tell me how bad you need it.”

A needy moan escapes your lips. “Please,” you gasp, pushing back, trying to take me in deeper. But I hold you still, denying you, making you beg properly.

“Please, what?” I press, my voice laced with amusement and dominance.

“I—” You shudder, breath hitching. “I need it. I need you to—”

I grip your chin, forcing you to meet my gaze. I want to hear you say it.

“Use your words, baby.”

You swallow hard, desperate now, needy, ruined by my teasing. And then it spills from your lips, raw and pleading.

“I need you to fill me up. I need you to breed me.”

A dark, satisfied groan rumbles from my chest, and my grip tightens. “Good girl.”

And then, finally, I want to give you what you’re begging for.

I keep thrusting into you in slow, claiming strokes, stretching you to fit me, making you feel every inch. You cry out, gripping the sheets, your body shaking with relief, with pure, overwhelming need.

“That’s it,” I groan, setting a punishing rhythm. Every thrust forces you to take me deeper, to take me how you were meant to. “Taking me so well. Taking me like you’re made for me.”

Your gasps turn into whimpers, then pleas. “Please,” you pant, voice high and breathless. “Please, I want it—I need you to give me your baby.”

A guttural growl escapes me, and I grip your hips so tight I know you’ll feel it tomorrow. I slam into you, grinding deep, forcing my cock as far inside you as your body will take. My breath is ragged, my muscles tight as the need to fill you, to breed you, to claim you completely consumes me.

“You want my baby?” I snarl, my thrusts turning rough, relentless.

“Yes—yes, please, I want it so bad, I need to be full of you, need to carry you—”

Your body gives in to me completely, molding against mine, surrendering, accepting, taking it all the way I need you to, the way you wanted to, the way you were made to.

I groan, gripping your throat, pinning you down completely as I lose myself inside you.

“Then take it.”

You swallow hard, your body jolting under the force of my possession, and I groan at the way you squeeze around me, at the way your body welcomes me, takes me, begs for more without words.

“Please—please, I need it, I need you to breed me, to fill me, to put your baby in me.”

“Good girl,” I growl, setting a punishing rhythm, thrusting deep, claiming you with every stroke. “You’re going to take it all, aren’t you? Going to let me fill you up until there’s no doubt who you belong to.”

“Yes—yes, I want it, I want to be so full of you.”

I grip your throat, pulling you up against me, keeping you bound, helpless, completely at my mercy as I thrust even deeper.

“Say it,” I demand. “Say what you want.”

Your voice is wrecked, your breath ragged.

“I want your baby.”

I groan, my control slipping.

This is possession.

My cunt pulses, my control slipping for just a moment as I give in, as I let go.

As I cum for you. And you cum for me.

The heat of our orgasm floods us, filling us completely, my body shuddering against your as I push deeper, grinding against your ass as I make sure every last drop stays where it belongs.

My whole body shakes, throbbing. It almost feels real—The feeling of me filling you, marking you, claiming you, owning you.

This is what you begged for.

This is what you were made for.

This is why you’re mine.

You‘re mine.

Mine to take. Mine to fill. Mine to ruin.

The thought alone sends another wave of satisfaction coursing through me.

I linger there, savoring the way you squirm beneath me, still so eager, so desperate for more even as you're already stretched and used to perfection. I’m feeling the way your body trembles, the way you instinctively tighten around me, trying to keep me inside.

When I finally pull back, I pause, my gaze locked onto the mess we‘ve left behind. You slowly leak from your wrecked little cunt, your juices glistening in the dim light.

I press two fingers inside you, pushing it back in, making sure you keep every last drop.

“You’re going to keep it in,” I murmur, my voice still thick with lust, with possessiveness. “I want to see you dripping with me for the rest of the night. I want you so full of me that there’s no doubt who you belong to.”

You shudder, body still trembling, still desperate. “Again,” you whisper after a few seconds, voice wrecked but still needy. I can see it in your eyes—the silent plea for more, the need to be taken again, used again, bred again.

I smirk, running my hand down your back, watching as you arch instinctively into my touch, still so pliant, still so eager to be owned.

You shake your head, your body arching into my touch, chasing it, needing it. “Never enough,” you murmur, eyes wide, glassy, pleading. “I want more—I want all of it.”

With a silent laugh I grip your hips again, dragging you back onto your knees, spreading you open for me one last time. You moan as I press my cock against your swollen entrance, already sensitive, already pulsing with the aftermath of everything I’ve given you—but still, you push back against me, needy, desperate, insatiable.

“One more time,” I murmur, voice dark, filled with promise. “You can take it, baby. You were made for this. Made to be filled. Made to be bred.”

You whimper, pressing your face into the sheets as I slide inside you again, slow, deep, possessive. There’s no urgency this time, no desperate, reckless pace—just the steady, claiming rhythm of ownership.

I drag my hands over your stomach, pressing down, groaning at the thought of how it would be if my juices could really take root inside you.

“You feel that?” I whisper, pressing deeper. “That’s me. That’s my baby inside you, growing, claiming you from the inside out.”

A wrecked sob catches in your throat, and fuck, I feel the way your body clenches, the way your fingers grasp at the sheets, the way you milk me for more.

“Yes—yes, please,” you gasp, voice trembling, wrecked, pleading. “I need it, I need to be pregnant with you, swollen with you, so full I can’t think of anything else.”

My breath stutters, something dark and possessive curling deep in my chest.

“Good girl,” I groan, gripping your throat, tilting your head back so you feel every inch of my claim. “Then take it. Take all of it.”

I thrust deep, holding you down as I fuck you one last time, grinding against you, forcing my strap deeper inside you, making sure you take every single inch. Your body locks up, a shuddering whimper spilling from your lips as you collapse beneath me, trembling, wrecked, completely owned.

I stay inside you, breathing hard, letting the weight of what just happened settle over us. The room is heavy with heat, the scent of sex thick in the air, the evidence of my claim dripping between your thighs.

I exhale slowly, my body still pressed against yours, keeping you grounded beneath me. I trail my fingers down your spine, soothing the tremors still rolling through you, my touch shifting from dominance to care, from ownership to reassurance.

“You did so well for me, baby,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against your shoulder, letting you feel the warmth of my lips, the softness after the storm.

You make a soft, incoherent sound, too lost in the haze to find words, too spent to move. I smile against your skin, pressing another lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

And then, carefully, I shift you onto your side. You whimper, shifting slightly, but I don’t let you go far. I pull you against me, pressing you into my chest, wrapping you in warmth, in safety, in me.

The silence after is thick.

Not the absence of sound, but something deeper, something heavier.

The world beyond these walls still exists—distant sirens wailing, tires hissing over wet pavement, the muffled voices of the city waking up to a new day—but inside this room, inside us, time has slowed, stretching out into something unnameable. Something electric. Something undeniable.

You’re still trembling, still gasping, your body limp beneath me, molded into the mattress like you’ve forgotten how to move. Like I’ve taken everything from you and left you with nothing but the rise and fall of your breath, the erratic pulse beneath your skin, the raw heat still coiling between us, refusing to fade.

And fuck, you’re beautiful like this.

So soft. So pliable. So mine.

I watch the way your body shivers as I finally loosen my grip, the way your fingers twitch as if you’re still reaching for something, still searching for the remnants of control I stripped from you.

I trail my fingers down your spine, slow, soothing, grounding you with my touch as I let the weight of what just happened settle into the space between us.

“I’m so proud of you. You took me so well, baby.” My voice is low, rough from use, from command, but there’s something else there now—something softer, something warm, something yours. “So fucking good for me.”

You whimper, shifting slightly, pressing your cheek deeper into the sheets, too exhausted to lift your head. The flickering neon glow from outside catches on your damp skin, highlighting every inch of you I’ve ruined, painting you in streaks of color—red, then blue, then red again.

You still haven’t spoken.

You can’t, can you?

I broke you.

The thought sends something dark curling through my chest—pride, satisfaction, something deeper.

I press a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, feeling the way you shudder beneath me, the way your breath stutters, the way you’re still so lost in me. My hands are gentle now, sliding over your sides, mapping every curve, owning every inch of you in a way that doesn’t demand, doesn’t take—just holds.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” I murmur, my lips brushing against your damp skin, my fingers stroking idly over your back. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Finally you do.

A deep inhale. A slow, shuddering exhale.

The first sign that you’re coming back to me.

I press another kiss against your shoulder, slow, lingering, as if I can soothe the intensity of what just happened with touch alone. The room is still warm, the sheets still damp, the scent of us thick in the air, woven into every breath we take.

You shift beneath me, your body still boneless, still sensitive, but needing something. Needing me.

I move carefully, pulling back just enough to slip my arms around you, to gather you against me, to hold you in the aftermath of everything I just put you through. Your fingers twitch against my arm, and after a long, aching moment, you cling.

I hum softly, pressing my lips to your temple, letting the quiet fill the space between us, letting you rest, letting you have me.

“You’re perfect,” I whisper against your skin, my voice barely audible, barely a breath, but fuck, I need you to hear it. “So fucking perfect for me.”

A slow inhale. A trembling exhale.

And then, finally—

“Mommy?”

Your voice is hoarse, small, wrecked beyond recognition, and fuck, the way it makes something inside me ache.

I tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at me, to see me, to know that I’m here.

“Mommy‘s here, baby. I love you so endlessly much.”

Your lips part, but whatever words you were about to say get lost in another shudder, another broken sigh, another release of everything you’ve been holding inside you.

I pull you closer, wrapping you in warmth, in safety, in me. “You’re safe,” I whisper against your temple, against your skin, against the fragile pieces of you I just unraveled. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve always got you.”

And that—the way you melt into me, the way your body finally relaxes, the way your fingers curl against my chest as if you’re home—

That’s when I know. That’s when I feel it.

You were always mine to put back together.

And fuck, I love every second of it.

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° hope you think of me

( rin itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — hi all! this is part of my new series! if you know me, or my account in general lol , you'd be able to pick up on some taylor swift references in the form of titles :) i do base a lot of my writing off songs! so, i decided to rework old work and...decided to start the new discography masterlist! the masterlist will be made soon, but the basics is that i paired ( almost ) every taylor song with a bllk character! i hope you enjoy the ride ;)

♡ content — rin itoshi x fem! reader, fem! reader, set in both before rin went to blue lock and when he is a pro soccer player, the past will be in italics, the present will be normal text, established relationship, rin misses reader, kinda angst?, unrequited love, pining

♡ synopsis — It all crumbled down the day Rin Itoshi got that letter from Blue Lock. Why couldn't he easily choose one...you? or his dream? In his mind, the two couldn't exist together.

The bright lights of the stadium flicker on, casting long shadows across the pitch as the crowd roars in the background. The announcer’s voice echoes in the air, but all Rin can hear is the soft whisper of your name in the back of his mind, a constant refrain.

His eyes wander across the field, distracted by the fleeting moments that remind him of you, even though he’s supposed to be focused.

It's strange how everything about this stadium feels like a reflection of you. The banner for the jewelry sponsor—that’s the one you always liked. The colors in the ad are almost the same as the ones in your old childhood bedroom, the same shade of deep blue that you said matched the ocean.

And then there’s the scent of fresh grass, the kind that always reminded him of the times you two spent lying on the grass after school, listening to music while you tried to figure out who was more stubborn—him or you?

He should've known it would end like this.

It all crumbled down the day he got that letter from Blue Lock. Why couldn't it have been easy? Why couldn't he easily choose one...you? or his dream?

In his mind, the two couldn't exist together.

"Why do you care so much, Rin?" you’d asked after his constant nagging about what you wanted to do after high school, your voice soft but strained, like you could already feel the weight of the words before they even came.

He should’ve softened, should’ve told you everything that was happening inside him, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the silence grow thick, each word building a wall between you that no apology could ever tear down.

He pushed you away with every passing second. "It’s over," he’d said. Even as his heart ached, watching your big eyes widen and fill with tears, he couldn't risk giving up.

He had to reach him.

"You wouldn’t understand. Whatever. I have bigger things to focus on than you."

Your eyes… they were full of hurt, but you didn’t say a word. You just turned away, the soft click of your shoes leaving out his bedroom door and home sounding like the final nail in the coffin of everything you had.

The crowd's cheers feel distant now, like they belong to someone else. Rin runs a hand through his hair, trying to focus, but all he can do is look around and see you everywhere.

The water bottle with the same brand you used to buy. The locker room seats that remind him of how you’d wait for him after every match, always there, your smile the only thing that made him feel like he belonged somewhere.

He remembers the things you liked—small, silly details that seemed insignificant at the time, but now, they’re all he can hold on to.

He remembers the little things. The music you loved—the way it played softly from your car every time you'd drove to the beach, how you'd hum along with the lyrics, your fingers tapping the steering wheel.

You said the songs made you feel alive, like it was a memory of something you couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t realize until now, standing here in this stadium, that he was the one who made you feel like a memory.

He stepped onto the field, shaking off the weight of the past, but even as the game starts, the images of you flood back in—your laugh, your touch, the way you’d get embarrassed when you said something too cheesy.

The way you always made him laugh without trying to.

"You really remember everything, don’t you?" you had said once, your eyes teasing.

"Everything that matters," he replied without thinking.

Now, as he steps onto the field, the memory hit him like a punch to the gut. What really mattered? Because what he remembers isn’t just your smile or the way you made everything feel like home. What he remembers is how much you gave him, how much you loved him, and how much he didn’t deserve any of it.

The game continued on, but the colors, the lights, the little reminders—they all blur together.

Rin’s vision fades, and for a moment, it’s just him, standing still in the middle of the field, surrounded by a sea of faces, none of them yours.

And yet, every second feels like it’s laced with memories of you.

hope everyone enjoyed :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!

[murakamiyuki]

My Drunk Princess

Steve Harrington x Fem reader

16+

You had fun at your birthday celebration party. And luckily, Steve was there to take care of you afterwards

TW: alcohol consumption, a little suggestive, non-sexual nudity

A/N: It was my birthday 2 days ago! So as a lil gift to myself, I decided to quickly assemble this little fic with my favorite man of all time! Hope you enjoy it!

Read on ao3

The party was wild. The CD played the summer hits as music blasted through the loudspeakers. The only source of light came from the smoke machine that drowned the room in a smoky, colorful madness. Some people danced on the makeshift dance floor, drinks in hand, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, while others occupied the couch with their full attention on the board game laid out on the coffee table.

It wasn’t supposed to be a party. At least you never expected it to be when your friend Robin dragged you out of your house that evening to celebrate your birthday. Nothing big or too fancy, as she put it. However, her definition of ‘nothing too fancy’ was renting a tiny but cozy cottage house, not too far away from Hawkins. She invited all your friends who greeted you with your favorite flowers, helium balloons in a heart shape, and party horns that nearly busted your eardrums.

To say you melted would be an understatement.

Slowly but surely, the music started, the games were out, and the ‘small and non-fancy’ party began accelerating.

You stumbled into the kitchen, holding an empty cup that you quickly filled up with punch. Eleven and Max sat at the table with cups of grape juice and buzzed each other’s ears off. A dopey grin formed on your lips, cue the consumed alcohol. You waved at them as you approached them in a few quick strides.

“What’s new, girls?” You asked, taking a sip of your drink.

“Eleven saw some odd fashion magazine, and we’re trying to determine whether the outfits are ridiculous or atrocious,” Max replied with a chuckle. She pushed the above-mentioned magazine toward you, and there it was – the most absurd abomination of fabrics and accessories you had ever seen. You weren’t sure if such a thing was allowed to be called ‘clothes’.

You laughed, louder than you intended. The alcohol in your system crumbled every limit. Raw and unfiltered sound flowed out of your mouth, so genuine it was contagious, making two other girls burst out laughing too. The drink in your hand almost made its grand escape before a soft hand wrapped around your wrist, balancing you.

You slowly turned only to see your boyfriend, Steve. Gentle light danced on his face as he smiled softly at you. You grinned in response, leaning into his embrace. You nuzzled into his neck as you inhaled his familiar scent. A sense of home washed over you instantly.

“Whatcha girls laughing about?” He asked curiously as his arm went to wrap around your shoulder, thumb drawing small patterns on the exposed skin.

“Look at that,” you giggled and held up the magazine closer to his face. “Just how high a person must be to come up with something like this?”

“Are you sure it’s wearable? Looks to me like a fever dream,” Steve snorted and kissed your hair.

“Ew, jeez, get a room,” Max drawled, while Eleven made faux vomiting sounds—tongue rolling out, one palm over her eyes while the other rested on her neck. You shook your head, but honestly, their reactions made you want to snuggle your boyfriend even closer, crawl under his skin, and fuse into one powerful being. “So corny,” Max added as she rolled her eyes.

The celebration continued in this manner, with people having fun in the best way they could think of. Gradually, more and more people began dozing off, even while standing. Eddie sprawled on the couch, snoring loudly while Dustin and Robin tried to settle him more compactly to make more space for others. Mike, Will, and Lucas leaned tiredly against the wall, watching the whole ordeal unfold. Max and Eleven excused themselves to occupy one of the spare rooms, instantly claiming it to be a ‘girls only abode’.

Finally, Steve led the very much inebriated you towards the main bedroom. He had one of his arms wrapped around your waist, and the other hand held yours firmly. You babbled about the recent gossip about your annoying coworkers, though, perhaps mixed with a bit too much fiction to sound realistic. Still, he nodded along, smiling to himself.

The bedroom finally swung open, and Steve sat you down on the soft covers. He kissed your forehead when you peered up at him curiously, and then grabbed his bag to pull out the makeup remover he had grabbed previously from your nightstand.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, princess,” Steve murmured to prevent the headache.

He soaked the cotton pad in liquid before he pressed it against your skin. He dragged the pad over your eyes, making you giggle at the sensation.

A warm feeling bloomed in your chest at the doting behavior of your man. Despite his fondness for alcohol, he stayed perfectly sober so that you could have a good time. And now, he took his time to pamper and care for you.

His left hand held your cheek, guiding your face in all directions to get rid of every bit of foundation. And once he was done, Steve kissed your nose with an exaggerated ‘mwah’ before pulling away.

“You’re like a mother,” you commented as your body shook with the power of your giggles.

“So, should I start calling you baby?” Steve quirked an eyebrow and chuckled when you cringed, your nose scrunching adorably like that of a bunny. Then, his hands gripped your blouse, tugging it upwards. “Alright, baby, let’s get you changed.”

“Wow, Harrington, trying to get me naked?” You wiggled your eyebrows as you sat on the bed, clad in nothing but a black bra and a skirt.

“Baby,” Steve breathed out. He leaned down to capture your lips in a sweet and tender kiss, one hand coming to grip your exposed waist. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you chased the sensation of his plush lips. You sighed contentedly. However, before things could escalate, Steve pulled away just enough for you to feel his hot breath still grazing your cheeks. “As much as I’d love to ravage this perfect body of yours, I want you to be conscious and sober for it.”

“Boo,” you drawled with a pout. You were about to complain when your vision began spinning, and you fell backwards, bouncing lightly against the soft mattress. “Okay, fine. Sleep it is…”

“You didn’t have a choice in the first place, princess,” Steve snorted, hands on his hips, truly like a mother. “Now, come here, you minx, let’s get you comfortable.”

You allowed Steve to unclasp your bra and tug down your skirt, leaving you nearly bare and exposed. Even in your intoxicated state, you were amazed by the steel resolve of your boyfriend. His deep love and respect were palpable in every caress against your naked skin. Despite your breasts being on display, his eyes never left your face as he planted yet another sweet kiss on your lips.

And just as you raised your arms to wrap them around his neck, Steve pulled away, tugging you with him. You yelped, at first, at the sudden movement, and then at the darkness that was caused by your pajama t-shirt.

“All done. Now, scooch over,” Steve said. He quickly changed into his spare clothes and climbed onto the bed.

“Yessir,” you slurred, suddenly feeling sleepy. You rolled closer to the wall, allowing Steve to crawl under the covers and wrap you in his secure embrace.

Familiar warmth engulfed you, and you sighed. You buried your face into his neck, breathing in his scent.

“You smell like home…” You mumbled, already dozing off at a record speed.

“Really? I’m glad,” Steve whispered back, kissing the top of your head. His fingers gently threaded your hair, lulling you to sleep. “Happy birthday, again. I love you.”

You never replied, breathing calmly and steadily. Steve wasn’t sure if you heard the last bit, but the dopey grin on your face told him everything he needed to know.

[xylianasblog]

Turmoil.

Pairings: Tsu’tey x FemHuman reader

Summary: Who knew Tsu’tey would enjoy such a weird human thing, especially such a thing as nipple piercings.

Warnings: MDNI, nipple play/piercing play, size difference, p in v, dirty talk, praise, dom/sub relationship(kinda), shy reader, mean Tsu’tey, Non-con (maybe??)

꒦꒷❀꒷꒦ ❀✿❀꒦꒷❀꒷꒦MDNI ꒦꒷❀꒷꒦❀✿❀ ꒦꒷❀꒷꒦

Tsu’tey found himself watching you, always admiring your demon features from afar. Why of all the humans that stayed you were amongst them? What made you so special? Why couldn’t you leave his mind? It was absolutely frustrating, so very irritating.

A tawtute like you consuming his mind, distracting him. Why did he have the need to impress you? To prove himself worthy of being a good mate to you. He hated it, he shouldn’t want you, but he found himself wanting to take you.

Even now while he was supposed to be hunting, he couldn’t get you out of his head, even as your sweet, earthy scent filled his nose. That couldn’t be right you were back at the village; well, you should have been. It’s far too late and too far from the village you shouldn’t be out here.

“Shit.” You muttered as you sat down by a tree, you decided to go walking but you failed to realize just how far from the village you had gone. You had tripped and sprained your ankle, the pain just now getting to you. You rubbed your ankle where the pain was hoping to soothe it at least a little as you relaxed into the tree you were leaned against, small whimpers escaping past your lips as you did so. “Fucking ridiculous.” You muttered. Being consumed in your thoughts you weren’t aware of Tsu’tey standing above you observing your small form.

“You should not be out here demon; you are too little. You will get hurt, stupid demon.” His voice was cold as it cut through the night, your body shivering at the intensity as you shyly looked up at him. Mouth agape in surprise, your words died on your lips and with a huff you turned away continuing to rub your ankle. Tsu’tey continues to observe you his eyes taking in your clothing when he noticed the small metal of your piercings poking out from the sides of your shirt. He crouched down to get a closer look, his eyes trained on the strange item as well as they could despite you being dressed. “What are those? Why do they poke from your demon clothing.” He tilted his head back as he glared at the items.

Piercings weren’t uncommon in the clan, but nipple piercings definitely weren’t something people in the clan had. “I have a way to distract you from the pain.” He murmured as he leaned closer to your small frame, his face a few centimeters from yours. “Do you trust me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, he pushed you back against the tree hands immediately lifting your shirt to reveal your breast, nipples instantly hardening from the feel of the night air. You sucked in a breath a shudder running through your body, Tsu’teys eyes narrowing in on the metal of your nipple piercings. The cute heart shapes on either side of the bar in rose gold colored steel complimented your skin nicely, Tsu’teys couldn’t help but to admire the jewelry.

You watched as he reached his hand up, fingers brushing against your hardened nipples lightly you were sure that if you weren’t actively watching him, you’d be dreaming. His touch was soft, and gentle even as he rubbed the swollen nub before taking it between his fingers. Digits that expertly rubbed and massaged until finally his finger pressed against the side of the bar, the sensation of the steel sliding through your nipple had you whimpering softly. The feeling new but very much welcomed, an oddly satisfying feeling that was pleasurable as he continued to tear your nipples with his fingers and the bare, working them together in a way that had you pressing your thighs together as you moaned.

The smell of your arousal was potent, even outside all that Tsu’tey could smell was you and he couldn’t wait to have a taste of it up either. It seemed the more he teased and played with your nipples the louder you got; this was a different side of you. One that he wished to see more of and that thought alone had him rutting against his loincloth hoping to at least relieve some of the tension he felt as his cock throbbed in its confinements.

You watched as he got on his knees and his free hand wrapped around both of your legs, he was careful of your sprain as he pulled you close as close as the clothes separating you two would allow. Giving another pinch to your nipple his hand moved down to pull your shorts and underwear up, giving him just enough room to have full access to your already slick cunt.

You squirmed around as he rubbed the bulbous head of his throbbing cock against your leaking folds, each little thrust gliding along your slit coating himself in your juices. The delicious glide of his cock rubbing against you, hitting your clit in just the right spot. Your brows furrowed in surprise as you felt his cock slip between your thighs, his thrust starting out slow, but you stayed quiet, you wouldn’t dare ruin this moment even for just a little.

Tsu’tey fucked his cock using your thighs, his hold around your legs tightening slightly as he sped up, your squishy skin felt good, but it wasn’t enough, yet you didn’t deserve to be fucked by him. He shouldn’t even be doing this with a demon like you, his eyes were trained on your face watching your brows scrunch up in confusion. He didn’t like that he wanted to see the look of pleasure cross your beautiful demon features as he brought you an undeniable amount of pleasure. With his free hand he reached down and grabbed ahold of your face, squishing your cheeks between his thick, long digits. “Fix your face demon, no need to frown. If you need me to fill you up, then say that.” His tone was harsh, yet you could hear a bit of lust as he spoke.

All you could do was whimper as his hold on your face tightened, your eyes found his and you scowled. That only seemed to make him more displeased and without much more fight from himself he shifted so his tip was pressing against your entrance. He frowned as he pushed in slowly, he hated that he immediately loved the way your gummy walls took his shape easily molding your fluttering pussy to take his shape. He groaned as you moaned at the stretch his dick was forcing upon your cunt, the burn mixed well with the pleasure of being filled and you couldn’t help but reach out to grab ahold of his arms. “Tsu’tey…” you whined once you felt him button out.

Your mind couldn’t focus on anything except how full you felt, your eyes closed as your mouth opened slightly. “Fuck... so big.” You moaned out. For a moment it felt as if he had pushed all the air from your lungs.

He stilled any and all movements as he stared down at you, the look on your face made his cock twitch. You looked so beautiful beneath him like this, he hasn’t fucked you, yet you looked as fucked out as can be and that pleased him. He loved it, every bit of it as his fingers squished your cheeks causing your lips to pucker up. “Tsk… look at you demon, so pretty, so… free for me to use how I wish.” He murmured as he pulled out until just the tip was pressing against your walls before thrusting back in, he repeated the process over and over until each thrust was pushing juices out around his cock. “Fuck...” he groaned as he let his head fall back.

You were a mess as all you could do was whimper and moan, your movements all restricted by his hold. Your hands the only thing free as your hold tightened in his forearm, nails digging into his skin as he fucked into you. Each time he kissed the tip of your womb as if he was fucking you in a way that you get you pregnant, you couldn’t handle it but the thought of being filled by him had your walls tightening up and his hips stuttering as they pushed deeper if possible. His hold on your face faltered just as his hood on your legs.

His groans soon turned into deep growls that bubbled from his chest, he as carefully as he could opened your legs and leaned down to rest his body on yours. Caging you in with his bigger form, now that your mouth was free you could moan and whine freely. Tsu’tey favorite part was the way incoherent words fell your lips as he fucked into you, he loved looking between your bodies. Each time he pulled out he relished in the feel of your walls greedily clinging to his cock. “Taking me so well, your demon pussy is so needy.” He pulled out slowly as he grabbed ahold of your head, he forced you to watch just how your cunt clung to his thick length. “Look at how your body begs for my cock.” You could only whimper as you watched, walls fluttering at the sight.

Your eyes rolled back as he pushed back in, you were slow close, so very close and you couldn’t tell by the way his thrust became faster and sloppy he was nearing his own release. He released his hold on your head his hands both grabbed your thighs in a bruising grip as he fucked into you faster and harder. The familiar pleasure was back and just as you felt yourself about to come you felt his seed filling you up before he pulled out, his cock still spilling come. The force with which he pulled out caused you to get sprayed covering your breasts and face. “Tsk, look at you.”

꒦꒷❀꒷꒦༻❀✿❀༺꒦꒷❀꒷꒦༻❀✿❀༺ ꒦꒷❀꒷꒦

Taglist: @pandoraslxna @neteyamsoare @criticallybella @sunfyresrider @neteyamsyawntu @tiredmamaissy @headsincloud9 @etherialblackrose @blue-slxt @justcaptiannoodles @neteyamyawne @oakbuggy @hotdsworld @plooto @itchaboi-itchyboy @eywaite @luvv4j4ybe11 @quicktosimp @cardi-bre91 @torukmaktoskxawng

[clumsydolly]

Can you write Obey me side characters x Trey clover!reader?

Obey me x Trey Clover!reader

Warnings! ⚠️: none that I'm aware of!

Thank you so much for the ask, doll! You all be sweet dears and ask some more please!

Diavolo

Diavolo doesn’t know what he expected when you arrived at RAD. Maybe someone nervous, intimidated, desperate to impress. Instead, he got… you.

Polite but direct. Sweet but practical. Steady. You introduced yourself with a bow and a warm smile, then handed him a neatly wrapped bundle, explaining you had no idea what demons liked, so you baked something “universally comforting.” It was a golden-brown tart glazed in clover honey.

He blinked. Barbatos blinked. You stood there like this wasn’t the most charming first impression in the history of the Devildom.

It took Diavolo exactly five seconds to decide he liked you.

From that moment, your presence was… soothing. While others tried to gain favor through flattery or theatrics, you asked calm, insightful questions. You carried a handkerchief for people who cried during lectures. You wrote down notes in tidy, color-coded columns. You made a schedule and stuck to it. You learned everyone’s favorite snack within the first two weeks.

And when people got too rowdy? You didn’t yell, you just raised an eyebrow and folded your arms, that subtle “I’m not mad, just disappointed” energy rolling off you like smoke. Even Mammon shut up under that look.

You were the eye of the storm. And Diavolo, who was used to hurricanes, couldn’t stop gravitating toward you.

At first, it was under the guise of diplomacy. He’d ask you to help organize interspecies school events. You always agreed, but with a sigh like, “Alright, but only if I can bring my cookie tins.”

Then he started finding excuses. Late-night paperwork? You’d be there with tea and honey-lemon bars. Festival chaos? You’d already set up a snack station and were halfway through passing out hand warmers.

You weren’t loud about your care, but it was everywhere. Little kindnesses in quiet packages.

And then, one day, he caught you humming while you baked in the student kitchen. He was supposed to be meeting with Barbatos. Instead, he leaned against the doorway and listened.

You didn’t see him until you turned, eyes wide. “Oh—sorry, did you need the room?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Just needed this moment.”

You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Cheesy.”

“But true.”

Diavolo wasn’t used to stillness, but you made him want to linger in it. Made him want to share long walks and quiet evenings and half-baked dreams. You didn’t fawn over his title, didn’t treat him like royalty, but you treated him like a person. And that? That was far rarer.

It wasn’t all gentle either. When he worked too hard, you scolded him. You dragged him away from his desk, pressed a granola bar into his hand, and told him to take a damn break.

He laughed. “You sound like Barbatos.”

“Well, one of you has to listen.”

You said it so seriously he almost choked on the granola.

He liked you in the same way gravity liked keeping things close. Quietly, inevitably, and a little dangerously.

When other demons hinted at your closeness, you waved it off. “I’m just here to help.”

But Diavolo heard the pause. The little breath before the sentence.

He never pushed. Not really. He just… kept looking at you a little longer than necessary. Let his hand brush yours during planning sessions. Spoke softer when it was just the two of you.

You were sharp enough to notice. Of course you were.

One night, after a long planning session for the next school festival, you packed up your notes and leftover lemon poppyseed muffins. He watched you from across the table, elbow resting on a stack of folders, gaze warm.

“You know,” he said, “you don’t have to do all this just because you feel responsible.”

You glanced up. “Who says I do?”

He smiled. “Just making sure you know. You’re allowed to want things for yourself too.”

You froze for half a second. Then gave a small, crooked grin. “That so?”

“Mm. Especially if one of those things might be me.”

The silence stretched, not awkward, but heavy with something unspoken. You glanced down, fingers twitching where they clutched the muffin bag. Then you walked over and handed it to him.

“They’re better warm. Try one tomorrow morning.”

He took the bag, fingers brushing yours. “I’ll save the best one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how will you know which is the best?”

“I trust your hands,” he said, and the quiet between you almost cracked open.

But instead of speaking, you turned toward the door, tossing a soft “Goodnight, Diavolo” over your shoulder.

And he just sat there, grinning to himself, muffin bag in hand, wondering if maybe he was finally being chosen for more than just his title.

Barbatos

Barbatos noticed you before you even said a word.

You were quiet, meticulous, steady. The kind of student who arrived early to class and left a clean desk behind. You took notes in tidy cursive, highlighted by subject, and offered spare pencils to anyone who forgot theirs without ever saying a word about it. It wasn’t just your structure that intrigued him, it was your patience.

The Devildom was chaotic on the best of days, and humans typically responded to it with either shock or barely contained panic. But you? You adjusted.

You wore gloves in the greenhouse. You disinfected your workstation after potion labs. You asked politely but firmly for recipes when the kitchen tried to serve you food you couldn’t identify.

Barbatos found himself watching you. Not out of suspicion, but curiosity. You handled things the way he did. With care. With composure.

Then came the first time you crossed paths formally. He was organizing the RAD Spring Banquet preparations and was about to decline all human assistance when you walked in, clutching a clipboard and holding a hand-written seating chart, complete with tiny paper markers and names printed in calligraphy.

“I know it’s not my event, but Lucifer said I should help,” you said, offering the clipboard like an olive branch. “I made a draft of the seating plan. I thought we could avoid last year’s cupcake fight if we didn’t sit Mammon near Solomon.”

Barbatos paused.

“You accounted for demon grudges?”

You nodded. “Also food allergies and egos. Diavolo has a sweet tooth, right? I put him near the dessert cart.”

Barbatos took the clipboard and, for the first time in centuries, blinked in mild awe.

From then on, you were involved in most of the castle’s behind-the-scenes operations. No matter what the project, you showed up on time, took initiative, and somehow always remembered to bring Barbatos an extra pair of gloves when things got messy.

He appreciated your skills, but he came to admire your calm. When kitchen fires happened or spell ingredients exploded, you didn’t scream or blame anyone. You coughed once, rolled up your sleeves, and kept moving.

“You’re efficient,” he said one afternoon as you were elbow-deep in lemon batter.

You raised an eyebrow, cheeks lightly dusted in flour. “I’m just used to keeping things together.”

He knew what that meant. He recognized that quiet strength, the kind born from being relied upon too early, too often. You reminded him of himself in a way that was… unsettling. And oddly comforting.

You didn’t ask unnecessary questions. You noticed things. When he was too tired to stand, you’d nudge a chair toward him with your foot and say, “Break time. Don’t make me enforce it.”

The first time you made tea for him, his tea, perfectly steeped, with a twist of dry rose petals, he stared for a full three seconds before speaking.

“I never told you how I take it.”

“You didn’t need to,” you said, sliding the cup across the table. “I watched.”

He smiled, small and real. “You do that often.”

“Only with people I like.”

The moment hung there like steam above porcelain. Then you reached into your bag and pulled out a perfectly packed tea cookie tin, and the spell broke.

Barbatos didn’t say anything else about it. But later that week, he slipped a recipe book from the castle’s restricted archives into your bag with a handwritten note: “I think you’ll enjoy page 37.”

You left a honey cake in his office two days later. No note. But he understood.

Eventually, you both stopped pretending these small things weren’t a language.

When Diavolo asked about the two of you, Barbatos simply said, “We work well together.”

But when you were alone in the kitchens, in that quiet hour when the halls had gone still and the castle seemed to breathe with silence, he let himself enjoy it. Let himself pause beside you, hands brushing flour from your knuckles as you kneaded dough, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I never imagined I’d enjoy company in the kitchen,” he said one evening, voice low.

You glanced up from the rising buns and gave him that familiar, unbothered smile. “That’s just because I’m the best sous-chef you’ve ever had.”

“No,” he said. “You’re much more than that.”

You didn’t reply right away. Just slid a finished tray into the oven, wiped your hands, and turned to face him.

“Well,” you said lightly, “if you ever feel like saying more—I’m listening.”

He didn’t speak then. He just stepped closer, the warm scent of spices between you, and gave you the smallest, most honest smile.

It wasn’t a grand confession. Not yet. But it was real.

And for both of you, that was enough.

Simeon

Simeon was the first to notice you because you were kind.

Not overly sweet, not loud or boisterous, just... considerate. Quietly offering a hand when someone dropped their books, wrapping up extra pastries after class and leaving them in the common room without asking for thanks, gently reminding others to eat before a long study session. It was simple, natural, human kindness, but in the Devildom, that stood out like sunlight in fog.

You reminded him of home.

Not in the way that made him nostalgic or sad, no, it was more like a little breeze blowing in from the Celestial Realm during a heatwave. Grounding. Comforting.

The first time he truly spoke with you, it was after a magic theory lecture that had gone entirely off the rails. Solomon had hijacked the conversation halfway through, Mammon fell asleep on the floor, and you were left at the back of the room, flipping through your notes and frowning.

Simeon approached gently. “Did the chaos get in the way of your learning?”

You didn’t look up right away. “I’m trying to make the Honor Student list,” you said, almost like it was embarrassing. “I can’t afford to fall behind.”

Simeon smiled. “That’s admirable. A rare kind of discipline.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You sound like someone who never slacked off a day in his life.”

“Oh, I’ve slacked,” he said, laughing softly. “Just not where it counted.”

From that moment, you ended up spending more time together. It started small, sharing notes, organizing group study sessions, walking back to the House of Lamentation after late-night cram reviews. But Simeon noticed the rhythm of your world quickly.

You were always thinking ahead. Always prepared. Always making sure others had what they needed before you asked for help yourself.

“You carry a lot,” he said one evening as you packed up materials after another club meeting.

You shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve always been the one who holds things together.”

He watched your hands as you sorted paper, measured and even. “And who holds you together?”

You gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I bake.”

He didn’t push. He just started showing up in the kitchen more often. Not to interfere—just to be there. He’d read quietly at the table while you mixed batter or chopped ingredients, occasionally offering to taste-test or pass you the cinnamon.

And he always said thank you. Not just for the food—but for the care. The quiet dedication you gave to every little task.

“You are very gentle with others,” he said once.

You raised a brow. “And not with myself?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied gently. “But you might want to consider letting someone else return the kindness once in a while.”

It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. Simeon didn’t flirt in the usual way. He offered warmth. Steadiness. And a kind of quiet attention that made it impossible to hide when you were overwhelmed.

He noticed when you didn’t eat. When you forgot to stretch after sitting too long. When you were downplaying stress by overfocusing on tasks.

He didn’t make a scene about it. He just… supported. Slid a cup of tea your way during exams. Gently reminded you to pace yourself. Walked you home slower when he could tell you were tired.

You didn’t realize how much you’d come to rely on that until he had to leave for a Celestial Realm check-in. Only a week, but the absence hit harder than expected. No soft hums in the kitchen. No quiet compliments or unspoken reassurances.

When he returned, you were waiting at the castle gates, holding a small pastry box, arms crossed like you hadn’t been worried at all.

“I made extra,” you said, thrusting the box forward. “Because you’re probably tired. From travel. Not because I missed you or anything.”

Simeon took the box with a warm smile. “Of course.”

You walked beside him without speaking for a moment. Then, after a quiet beat—

“You could’ve written.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”

He stopped walking. Turned to look at you, full and steady.

“I always notice when the light goes out of a room.”

You flushed and looked away, mumbling something about dramatics. But he didn’t tease you. He just stepped a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“I missed you too,” he said simply.

There was no need to define what existed between you. Not yet. It was soft. Unrushed. Real.

And when you returned to the House that night, Simeon took the long way around the hall, just so he could walk you to the kitchen, where the tea was warm, the cookies were cooling, and the quiet had started to feel like home.

Solomon

Solomon didn’t mean to mess with you.

Well, he kind of did. But not maliciously. You were just… interesting. Calm. Kind. Methodical. The kind of person who remembered other people’s favorite teas, wrapped sandwiches in parchment, and handed out home-baked treats in the middle of chaotic study halls like it was nothing.

You were a little too perfect. A little too composed. So, naturally, Solomon made it his mission to mess with that.

“Are you sure you measured that powder correctly?” he asked one day, leaning casually against the potions bench where you were working. “It’d be a shame if it turned into a love potion.”

You didn’t even flinch. “You’re the one who spiked Asmodeus’s shampoo with glitter yesterday.”

“Allegedly.”

“You labeled the vial. ‘Glitter Bomb for Asmo.’”

“…Could’ve been anyone.”

You didn’t laugh, but your mouth twitched. Barely. And that was enough to fuel Solomon’s curiosity.

At first, it was just for fun. You were so serious all the time. Focused. Responsible. The kind of person who double-checked ingredient lists, polished their cookware, and folded their apron three times before putting it away. You were clearly trying to be the “honor student” type, and for someone like Solomon, who operated on chaos and charm, that was like waving a red flag at a particularly mischievous bull.

He poked. Teased. Mixed up your labels. Dropped vague hints about cursed flour. And every time, you just gave him this tired, unimpressed look like he was the one who needed a nap and a snack and a better sense of time management.

But the more he got under your skin, the more you got under his.

You didn’t react to stress the way most people did. You didn’t flail, didn’t shout, didn’t throw things. You just got quiet. Focused. Poured yourself into your tasks like cooking was a spell and every motion had meaning.

You could bake someone into a better mood. Brew a tea that soothed aches Solomon hadn’t realized he had. And every now and then, you’d push a plate of food in front of him, eyes tired but firm, and say, “Eat. You haven’t today.”

You noticed things. Quiet things. When his shoulders were tense. When his eyes were dull. When he hadn’t touched his tea. You didn’t ask him what was wrong—you just placed something sweet in front of him and let the silence speak.

He’d forgotten what that kind of care felt like.

“You’re very… difficult to read,” he said once, watching you arrange cupcakes into perfect little rows.

“You’re very easy,” you replied, placing one crooked cupcake in front of him without looking up. “Chaos wrapped in a pretty face.”

He chuckled, leaning forward. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you know you are.”

Touché.

He started helping more after that, without being asked. Stirring pots while you chopped. Cleaning up after experiments (and after himself, for once). Bringing you new ingredients “accidentally stolen” from the Demon Lord’s pantry.

And the more he did, the more he noticed your edges softening. You didn’t smile often, but you relaxed. Let yourself lean a little. Didn’t argue when he walked you home.

One night, after a particularly long study session, he found you asleep at the counter, head on your arms, a whisk still in your hand.

He didn’t wake you. Just sat across from you, watching the rise and fall of your breath, the calm in your expression that you never let anyone else see.

In that moment, he realized: he didn’t want to mess with you anymore.

He wanted to know you.

All of you.

The discipline. The kindness. The little cracks you kept patched over with honey and peppermint tea.

So when you finally stirred and blinked sleepily at him, he just smiled and said, “You know, this isn’t how study dates are supposed to end.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “We’re not dating.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time… you smiled. Just a little.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. It was something warm. Familiar. Something that could, maybe, turn into something more.

You handed him a cookie without speaking. He took it like it meant something.

And when he walked you home that night, Solomon didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease.

He just walked quietly at your side, thinking, for once—not about chaos or magic or games.

But about how good it felt to be understood.

Mephistopheles

Mephistopheles was not one to make a fuss. His presence was quiet, often overlooked, yet unmistakably there. You could spend an entire day with him in the same room and still wonder if he was silently judging your every move, or just waiting for the right moment to speak.

You weren’t quite sure what drew you to him at first. Maybe it was the way he seemed to exist in a space slightly apart from the world, his fingers curled loosely around a book, lips moving just barely in a whisper as he read to himself. Or how he always wore that little half-smile, as if he knew a secret joke you weren’t in on.

He didn’t talk much. And when he did, it was often clipped, straightforward, tinged with dry humor that caught you off guard.

“Did you mean to burn the toast or was that an experiment?”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling both guilty and amused. Mephistopheles, or Meph for short, had this way of pointing out your flaws without really being mean about it. More like a soft jab with a velvet glove.

“Maybe both.”

His eyes twinkled for a moment. “Impressive."

Being around Meph was like standing near a calm ocean surface. Quiet, steady. But beneath that calm, you sensed currents and depths, things he never quite let surface. And that made you want to know more. To read between his words, catch the subtle shifts in his expression.

You tried to break his reserve. Not by pushing, but by simply being there. Sitting near him while he studied, letting him get used to your presence like a cat would—patiently and without demanding attention.

One day, you found him carefully organizing his collection of rare books. “You really care about these,” you said softly.

Meph shrugged, a faint blush touching his cheeks. “They’re... a connection to the past. A reminder of things I can’t always say out loud.”

You nodded, understanding more than he realized. Sometimes silence said everything.

He’d often watch you from the corner of his eye, noting your habits, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous, how your brow furrowed when you were deep in thought.

Meph didn’t easily admit that he noticed. He certainly didn’t say it outright. But when you caught him glancing your way and he quickly looked away, a slight pink haze colored his ears.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and the shadows stretched long in the House of Lamentation, you and Meph found yourselves alone in the library.

He was helping you with some ancient texts, his finger tracing the lines while you read aloud.

“You have a good voice,” he said quietly, eyes on the page.

You blinked, surprised. “You do?”

“It’s... clear. Not forced. Honest.”

You smiled, a little shy. “Thank you.”

There was a pause, comfortable and strange.

Meph cleared his throat, pushing his reading glasses glasses up. “I’m not good at this. Talking about feelings, I mean.”

You shook your head. “Neither am I.”

He looked at you then, eyes searching. “Maybe that’s why we get along. We don’t have to pretend.”

That small confession hung in the air like a fragile thread, connecting you in a way words never could.

From then on, Meph became a little more present. Not in grand gestures or declarations, but in tiny moments.

A cup of tea left on your desk before a tough day.

A bookmark placed exactly where you paused in your book.

A quiet “Good morning” before you could say it first.

You never pressed for more. You understood that for Meph, this was his way of caring, subtle, patient, a slow-burning ember rather than a roaring fire.

And maybe, that was enough.

One night, as you both sat in the garden under the stars, Meph reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

You looked up, meeting his gaze.

There was something unspoken there. Something soft and tentative.

He gave you a small, genuine smile, the kind that made his usual reserve feel like a warm cloak instead of a barrier.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

You smiled back.

And in the quiet between you, something fragile and real began to grow, not loud or flashy, but steady, patient, and true.

Thirteen

At first, Thirteen thought you were boring.

Not in the “I hate this person” kind of way, more in the “okay, and?” kind of way. You didn’t scream when she jumped out of the ceiling vent with a smoke bomb. You didn’t flinch when a trap was clearly about to spring on your head. You didn’t even fall for the classic bucket-over-the-door bit.

“Are you immune to fun or just emotionally detached?” she had asked, crouched on the back of a chair like some chaos goblin gremlin hybrid. “Because that’s either impressive or deeply suspicious.”

You blinked. “I saw the string.”

Thirteen narrowed her eyes. “That’s not the answer I wanted.”

From then on, it became her personal mission to catch you off guard. Not because she didn’t like you, quite the opposite. There was something about your calm reactions and dry wit that made her feel like she was constantly walking into a trap she didn’t set.

You were clever. You were quiet. You were aware.

And it drove her absolutely nuts.

One time, she tried to rig your entire bedroom with tripwires and confetti bombs. You slept through the first two. On the third, you sat up halfway through the explosion and said, “Cool colors. Now can you keep it down?”

Thirteen stood frozen in the middle of the room, still holding the detonation string, baffled and maybe a little bit impressed. “You’re not normal,” she muttered.

You tilted your head. “Neither are you.”

And that was it.

From then on, you became hers.

She wouldn’t admit it, not out loud that’s for losers and normies and people who talk about feelings instead of throwing spiders in your bag. But she started showing up more. Not just for pranks or chaos, but just to be there.

“Totally not stalking you,” she’d say, walking backwards next to you while juggling explosive slime. “Just coincidentally heading in the exact same direction as you all the time.”

You never called her out on it. You just smiled, shook your head, and handed her a snack like it was the most natural thing in the world to share your lunch with a mischievous reaper.

She’d never had that before. Someone who didn’t try to tone her down, or control her, or treat her like a pest to manage. You didn’t just tolerate her chaos. You understood it and you knew how to meet it with equal unpredictability.

Like the time you rigged her trap before she could prank you, and instead of the glitter landing on you, it exploded over her head in the dining hall. She stood there, completely doused, and you just said, “Welcome to the club.”

Everyone froze. Then she cackled.

No one had ever flipped one of her traps before. You weren’t just playing along. You were playing back.

That was the day she realized something dangerous: she actually… liked being around you.

Not just for the chaos.

But for the quiet stuff too.

Like walking next to you while pretending she wasn’t matching your pace. Or leaning her head on your shoulder during movie nights and pretending she was just “stretching weird.” Or catching you watching her and feeling her stomach do something stupid and fluttery.

It annoyed her. A lot.

So, obviously, she set a booby trap under your chair the next day. And the day after that, she gave you a box of cursed chocolates. And the day after that, she got weirdly flustered when you called her “cute” and accidentally set off one of her own firecrackers.

(“Not blushing, shut up!”)

She didn’t do vulnerability, not really. But there were moments where it slipped through. Like when you found her fixing a cracked mask late at night, unusually quiet, and just sat beside her without saying anything.

Or the way you handled her bad days, the ones where she overdid it, or lashed out, or spiraled in her own way.

You didn’t push. You didn’t scold. You just offered space. Or a shoulder. Or a distraction, depending on what she needed.

It freaked her out, how easy you made it look.

“You’re dangerous,” she said once, eyes narrowed, voice soft.

You raised an eyebrow. “Me? Dangerous? You’re literally a grim reaper.”

“Yeah, but you actually get under my skin. That's way scarier.”

She kissed you after that. Or maybe you kissed her. It’s hard to remember who moved first, but she still insists it was you.

“Obviously you cracked first. I’m the master of restraint.”

But when no one’s around, and you’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder under the moonlight with her fingers intertwined in yours and a lazy grin tugging at her lips?

She doesn’t bother lying anymore.

“Fine,” she whispers. “I like you. Ugh. Happy now?”

You grin. “Extremely.”

Raphael

You annoyed Raphael.

Not in the dramatic way Mammon might complain about someone getting on his nerves, no, Raphael’s version of “annoyed” was quieter, more tightly controlled, with narrowed eyes and clipped words. Like he was recalibrating the world’s logic just to understand why you, of all people, were so hard to file away neatly.

You were unpredictable, and not in the usual Devildom sense. You didn’t cause chaos like Thirteen or spark rebellion like Satan. You simply asked questions he didn’t expect. Listened too carefully. Noticed too much.

“You observe people like you’re expecting them to lie,” he once said, sharp and flat.

You just smiled. “Only the interesting ones.”

Raphael went quiet after that. Because he was lying, in a way, always had been. Not about facts or loyalty, but about the way he carried himself: stiff, obedient, every emotion folded neatly away like a pressed robe. He didn’t like to be seen. He preferred order, clarity, clean lines.

But you? You wandered into his space with smudged edges and a look in your eye like you saw through the curtain before he could even draw it.

He wasn’t used to it.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

And yet, there you were. Again. And again.

You had a frustrating way of showing up in his routines without disrupting them. Somehow you’d slip into step with him during patrols, or offer him coffee without asking how he took it (you already knew), or hand him a book with a post-it note halfway through that read: “Don’t skip this chapter. It’s very you.”

He hated how right you were. He hated how curious he became when you weren’t around. He hated how his wings twitched whenever your name came up.

He hated… how much he didn’t actually hate you.

One day, during a particularly long meeting with Diavolo and the others, you leaned toward him and whispered a joke about celestial red tape being the eighth sin. He didn’t laugh, not out loud, but his expression twitched. A flicker. Enough for you to notice.

You bumped your elbow against his. “There it is.”

“There what is?” he asked flatly.

“A sign of life. I was starting to worry they’d replaced you with a grumpy statue.”

Raphael exhaled through his nose. “I am a grumpy statue.”

You smiled again, and this time, he didn’t look away.

The thing was, Raphael knew how to deal with danger. Demons, curses, even celestial politics. What he didn’t know how to deal with was comfort. With someone peeling back the armor without demanding to see what was underneath. With someone who could be present without asking for anything in return.

So when he found himself standing outside your room one evening with a book in hand and no clear reason for being there, he blamed it on celestial curiosity. That was safer.

You opened the door with your usual expression, half amused, half unimpressed, like he was ten minutes late to a party you hadn’t even invited him to.

“Let me guess,” you said, stepping aside. “You want to argue about morality and pretend that’s not foreplay.”

He paused, blinked, and then muttered, “That’s not—” but you were already laughing.

And the thing was… he didn’t leave.

He sat with you. Read with you. Debated a little. Not morality, this time, but art, and intention, and what it meant to choose silence over noise. You said something about wanting peace, not because you feared conflict, but because you knew what conflict cost.

He didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

From that night on, it became a quiet pattern. You, offering a piece of your inner world like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Him, showing up anyway. Listening. Sitting just close enough for it to mean something.

Eventually, you started walking together without words. Sitting together without needing to fill the space. You joked less around him. Not because you were bored, but because some silences felt safer than sound.

One evening, he handed you a charm. Nothing fancy. Just a small sigil etched into a coin-like pendant. You looked at it for a moment, then at him.

“What’s this for?”

He shrugged. “It wards off misdirection. Thought you might find it useful.”

You turned it over in your hand. “Thanks,” you said, softer than usual. “I didn’t think you believed in giving gifts.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I make exceptions.”

And that was that.

No big confession. No dramatic moment.

Just Raphael, choosing to be near you. Again. And again.

And one day, if you ever kissed him, it would be quiet. Intentional. The kind of kiss that says I see you, and I’m not leaving.

But for now, he just stayed.

And in Raphael’s language, that was everything.

Thank you so much for reading! 🩷Sorry this is coming out so late there will be more tomorrow morning, my loves! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!