#to be continued..😉

[jadegmfu]

thinking of clay x reader who's his personal little assistant.

A/N: literally thinking of clay being a divorced 38 years old man who hasn’t dated anyone for 15 years because of what sam did. Then there’s reader coming along, being such a ray of sunshine and very dedicated, committed, focused, disciplined, and persistent whenever they’re at work. He can’t help but fall slowly, he hated that he was getting attracted and was slowly trusting someone again.

Clayton Beresford was your boss, you weren't confident at first that his employer would accept you or hire you at all. but to your surprise, they had gave you the job.

it was hard to fit in at first, with your boss being difficult to get along with. hell, he was stern, mean and strict. you can't be minutes late or a minute late for work — you had to be early. you had to pick his usual preferred coffee from the café that was a few blocks away from the company, you had to watch your words or else he'll get all pissy if you said something wrong.

but a while passed, you got used to his mean, cold demeanor. he was starting to.. soften up at you. but you didn't notice that, you were to focused on your job, and there's this guy in the office that you admired— his name was tom, he was charming, nice. clay can see that, but he was getting.. jealous of him. he wanted to tell you that— tom was just messing with your feelings, that tom only wanted a night with you then straight up act like nothing happened at all.

later, it was a late evening. clay had asked you to stay and work with him late. you were helping him go through the stock files, he kept stealing glances at you, fuck. why were you so beautiful and sweet in his perspective? he wanted you all to himself. he wanted to take you, right here, right now.

he wanted to taste those beautiful full lips, he wanted to ravage your body, fill your beautiful exposed neck with love bites. he wanted to do that to your thighs too. heaven must be waiting for him in between those beautiful thighs of yours.

A/N: should i continue this?🤷🏻‍♀️

[vvvvvvvvvvv17]

day three (timey wimey)

chronicles of iridescence by Aquamarine_Crystal and Stardust_Warrior

[pushing500]

I've been letting Alistair help with the animals around the colony since he gained a minor passion for it after he awakened. He likes having strange conversations with our housekeeper cat, Macbeth. It's funny to watch.

The trend of things falling from the sky continues after the noctoliths that almost killed Ivy. Fortunately, this little guy didn't hit anyone on his way down, and I've set him to be tamed ASAP because he's adorable and I love him.

But in answer to Beau's question of "when will it stop"...

... please, Mr. The Void, I don't have enough hairstyle mods to accommodate new clones...

Phew! It's only a twisted obelisk. No risk of any new clones anytime soon, then. We'll just have to keep an eye out for fleshmass organs and strange tentacles, and perhaps our harbinger grove will expand. That's alright. We can handle that.

Told ya he has weird conversations with the cat. I wonder what the connection between authoritarianism and authoritarianism is? I can't think of anything they'd have in common.

First | Next | Previous

[lady-z-writes]

It's late.

You can tell he's walking on eggshells.

And it's not his fault, not really.

You all drew straws.

And you two drew the smallest.

So now here you are, waiting for him to pick you up, standing on the sidewalk in this ridiculous outfit.

You're heading to an event.

Some promotion for some new sex club in the city. Some snooping and rubbing elbows with people who have information on some supe you're currently tracking.

It's always something.

The invitation the team happened to get ahold of said "porn star attire" and you can only imagine what you're walking into.

Frenchie joked you should just put on a g-string and some pasties but the thought of being that naked around Butcher made your stomach flip.

So you have a crush. So what?

When you drew straws and you were the lucky winner, you'd covered your face, scanned through a mental image of your closet to see if you had anything revealing for tonight.

Of course you didn't.

And when Butcher drew the other straw you could feel your face heating up.

"Oi, lovey. Just you 'an me," he'd opened his arms wide, gave you a big grin.

You wanted to melt into the floor.

Kimiko came with you to find an outfit.

You're currently cursing the drinks you'd had before your shopping. Mistake. Thankfully Kimiko had been clear-headed enough to be your voice of reason. She knew your crush. Kept your secret.

The outfit wasn't as revealing as you could have gotten. A black, figure-flattering frock. The cut was deep, almost went to your navel, showing off your tits. The low-back made you feel so sexy, only you couldn't wear a bra which made you nervous. It was full-length, a high side slit on your left leg revealing pastel pink rhinestone stilettos. It hugged your hips before cascading down with a short, dramatic train. Slight ruching accentuated your ass. To top it all off, Kimiko suggested a collar; something simple, almost elegant-looking. She'd insisted on a leash - details, she'd signed.

When Butcher pulls up, you feel so stupid.

Little do you know he'd let out a deep breath as he pulled up, eyes scanning over you.

You rush into the passenger seat, huff out a breath, don't make eye contact when you hand him the leash.

He bites his tongue, not trusting himself to speak.

"Kimiko insisted. Just...drape it across your neck."

He does as you ask, ignoring the jolt of his cock as he feels the leather trail over his skin.

He points toward the floorboard, nods at you.

"Figure ya may need a lil somethin' to ease into this."

You're gripping the neck of a bottle. It's dark, you've no idea what you're drinking, but you're thankful for the thought.

As he drives, you try not to notice what he's wearing, but your eyes trace over the leash hanging down his plain white shirt. The buttons are undone and it shows off his drool-worthy skin. He knows what he's doing.

He smells so good. It's overwhelming in this small space.

The three sips of this drink have you heated; you haven't eaten lately.

You sigh, cover your face as the car pulls up to the building.

"What?" To your surprise, Butcher has a laugh at the end of the word.

"What even is my life?" You can't help but laugh, gazing down at your outfit. "I'm a mess."

He's silent a beat as he parks, shuts the car off.

As he opens his door, he says, "for what it's worth, I think you're fuckin' stunning."

Your stomach flips again. You put down the bottle before you do something stupid.

And you let him lead you inside...

[evlia]

I need older gale and young john, I need gale in his forties, loner, introverted, quiet and reserved gale, gale who only has his books and few friends who he sometimes talks to, Gale with this look of detachment constantly on his face, gale who lives alone and actually prefers the quietness of his apartment rather than crowded places, gale who isn’t used to befriending people, talking to strangers, gale who is so used to being alone, that somewhere along the way he found comfort in it. Gale who is quiet and smart, who spends most of his time reading and who enjoys small things like nicely brewed coffee and homemade meals.

And then there’s John, young vibrant and so full of life, John who is confident, cocky and everything gale is not, john who falls head over heels for Gale and is persistent in his pursuit, john who wants nothing more than to have Gale in his arms, to kiss him, to make him laugh, to make him tremble with pleasure, to make him moan and to give him everything he can and more

[kaontic]

This is an every night thing isn’t it? :/

[sashabarkovonly]

GOD HE MAKES SO WEAK - 😫

[erinsworld]

Single Sentence Sunday

And truth be told, if either of them thought for even a flicker of a moment about withering under her glare, the two of them would be in much more trouble than they currently are.

Feel free to post a line from a WIP that you're working on. Would love to read all the goodness 🩵

[dimsilver]

🏥

[summer-oil]

today i’m thinking abt leonardo ikevamp :33

[loveryss]

Globetrotter will return next week!

[hideawaysteward]

“You have integrity.”

PERSONALITY-BASED COMPLIMENTS

@phoenix-flamed

Subtly widened slate-blue eyes lifted from the ledger he was annotating. The honest stare they found rushed a huff past Otto's lips, a release of flustered pressure before it could build high enough to color his cheeks.

"Come off it. I just do what anyone should." Otto looked down at the ledger again, pretending to check it over but mostly just trying to evade meeting Miles' earnest eyes again. Bloody handsome Cursebreakers and their bloody compliments... "No one lasts long 'round here without integrity anyhow, so it's not like I'm the only one."

[tsunomenom]

2 hands | op81 smau

♡ summary: where you try to soft launch your boyfriend but your fans link you to the wrong papaya boy

♡ pairing: oscar piastri x singer!reader

♡ warnings: use of yn, some implied suggestive comments

♡ faceclaim: tate mcrae

masterlist

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

𝜗𝜚

yourusername

Liked by oscarpiastri and 675,821 others

yourusername 2 HANDS SONG & VID OUT NOW 🏎️🌟🏆

View all comments

user21 EATS EATS EATS

user33 POP PRINCESS YN DROPS ANOTHER BANGER‼️

user921 WILD

oliviarodrigo HAWT 🤭

yourusername 😍😍

user13 orange is her color guys 🤭🤭

yourusername it’s papaya 😉🧡

user541 yourusername STFU

user302 WE SAW THAT MCLAREN GIRL STOP WITH THE HINTS 🥲🥲

user921 she stays cryptic i’m so tired 😭

landonorris ate 👏👏 ♥︎ by author

user209 i see u 👀

user412 giving… boyfriend?

user307 NOT SLICK MF

user100 SHE WANTS UR 2 HANDS

user312 OKAY THEY NOT SLICK AT ALL WE ALL KNOW THATS landonorris IN SLIDE 2 😭😭

user44 HONESTLY 😭

sabrinacarpenter you don’t know how to not make a bop 😩😩

yourusername PLEASE COMING FROM YOUUU 🥲🤭🤭

user312 idc who she’s dating (cough lando norris cough) whoever it is wildling cause what do you mean YOU LOOK GOOD ON TOP OF ME 😭

user031 FREAKYYY

user991 she went to the same school of ovulation songs sabrina and taylor did

alexandrasaintmleux i haven’t stopped streaming since it dropped beautiful 😍😍

yourusername I LOVE YOU STAWP

user621 THAT VIDEO WAS HAWWWWT LIKE OMFG 😭

—— twitter

replies—

user341 they’ll make a power couple tbfh 😩

user031 TWO HOT PEOPLE (allegedly) DATING 😍🤭

user145 I LOVE WHEN HOT PEOPLE DATE OTHER HOT PEOPLE ‼️

user773 HONESTLY 😭

user981 they’re my celebrity crushes i can’t handle this (allegedly)

~~~

user044 CAUSE HONESTLY THAT TIKTOK CONVINCED ME-

user992 NO SAME

user312 not to play devils advocate but lando really is the only papaya driver who has that kinda merch 🤷‍♀️

user210 confused but continue

user312 user210 just saying she could be dating like oscar or pato just cause it’s lando’s car doesn’t mean it’s lando

user210 user312 back to bed grandma (also f1 literally commented on the og tiktok referencing lando…)

user087 she wasn’t slick with that video especially not after liking the f1 comment 😭

user127 WHAT COMMENT?

user087 user127 f1’s official tiktok commented on the tiktok referenced here “this might be lando norris 😳”

user127 user087 YOURE KIDDING

user787 this was honestly THE proof for me like it sealed the deal for me.

user991 i was convinced theyre dating after this too 😭

~~~

user912 GIRL IS OBSESSED 😭

user012 he’s got her down bad and i love the content 😭😭

user132 ITS SOOO GOOD THOUGHHH 😭😭😭😭😭

user778 NO FR FR SHE ATE

user341 SHES DOWN BAD AND IT SHOWWWS 😩

user003 i’m obsessed (but not convinced she’s dating lando 😬)

user778 OH?? whyyyyyy?

user003 user778 just the vibe also her soft launch has had an underlying aussie theme i feel 🤷‍♀️

user334 user003 back to bed grandma it’s ynlando endgame 😩

~~~

user922 is this a safe place?

user176 … i guess?

user992 don’t think yn is dating lando.

user176 nvm not a safe space.

user076 I AM EATING UP EVERY BREADCRUMB SHE DROPS TILL WE GET THE YNLANDO HARD LAUNCH 😭😭😭

user199 i’m obsessed with this and the new album is def papaya coded 😭😭😭

user990 THERE WAS A WHOLE ASS MCLAREN IN HER MV LIKE WTF 😩

user954 SHES NOT SLICK AT ALL

user103 i can’t get over her obvious easter eggs that lead straight to lando 😭😭😭

user031 left field here she’s dating pato ☺️

user176 this is actually hilarious as shit 😭😭

user988 BYE PATOOOO 😭😭😭

—— messages between yn & oscar

—— instagram

oscarpiastri

Liked by yourusername and 854,765 others

oscarpiastri Happy.

View all comments

user072 his caption would be that on a soft launch 😭

user871 he’s a man of few words

user880 OMG A SOFT LAUNCH 😭🥲

hattiepiastri i’m appalled on behalf of your girlfriend. that caption has no enthusiasm

oscarpiastri I’ll have you know i was actually very happy writing that.

hattiepiastri YOURE BEYOND HELP 😭😭

user701 AWW HIM AND LANDO BOTH HAVE GFS 😍

user299 who is lando’s gf?

user701 user299 yourusername

user976 user701 ALLEGEDLY ☝️

user232 THIS IS ADORABLE

landonorris i did not approve that caption when i helped you make this post.

user189 BYE HE ASKED LANDO FOR HELP 😭

alex_albon damn just expose him like that 💀

oscarpiastri I asked for your help in confidence…

rileywhittall disrespecting my wife with that caption is wild 🤧

lilymhe no honestly he needs more enthusiasm when posting about her 😓😓

oscarpiastri logansargeant alex_albon They’re bullying me.

user876 so lando’s dating yn ln and oscar is soft launching what world are we living in 😭

user109 you’re living in delusion cause when has ANYONE confirmed yn and lando

user716 THIS IS CUTE THOUGH GUYS 😭😭

user776 NO FR LIKE I LOOVE

user614 i’m obsessed with this stoppp 😭🤧🤧

user031 cutest soft launch i’ve ever seen 😩

user845 yn in the likes…

user103 supporting her man’s teammate’s soft launch 😍

user845 user103 or hear me out just supporting her man 😍

user103 user845 nope.

user143 the girl looks like yn…

user034 except she’s dating lando 😍😍

user778 user034 ALLEGEDLY

~~~

f1wags

Liked by user876 and 20,489 others

f1wags SPOTTED Lando Norris and model, Magui Corceiro, recently in Monaco. Rumors of Lando and YN LN have been spreading recently but has this development squashed those?

View all comments

user781 that’s crazy…

user091 oh- so yn’s not dating lando…

user845 I WILL BE ACCEPTING APOLOGIES

user097 BUT WHO IS SHE DATING

user199 user097 HEAR ME OUT… OSCAHHH

user188 so ynoscar girlies is it our time??

user976 YESSSS ynoscar

user009 lando and magui make more since than lando and yn

user755 true true

user129 WAIT SO 2 HANDS IS ABOUT OSCAR 😭

user087 still allegedly ☝️

user631 STOPP THE OVULATION BOP IS ABOUT THE POLITE CAT OSCAR PIASTRI 😭😭😭

user917 still in shock from loosing ynlando like that 🤧🤧

user900 mourning a relationship that never existed is CRAZYYYY

user930 they look good together 😭

user021 actually obsessed with them

user487 lando hard launched so people would stop shipping him with his teammates gf 😂😂

user079 NO FR 💀

—— yourusername instagram story

replies—

sabrinacarpenter ANOTHER BANGER?

➥ yourusername 👀👀👀

➥ sabrinacarpenter STOPP

user087 OMG OMG OMG

user916 YESSS A NEW SONG‼️‼️

lilymhe i just screamed ngl 🥲🥲

➥ yourusername BYE ILY 😭

user009 ANOTHER BANGER ANOTHER BANGER

oliviarodrigo is this THE one 👀

➥ yourusername maaybeee 🤭

user991 AHHHHHHHHH

user021 A SONG ABOUT OSCARR?

alexandrasaintmleux SHUT UP 🤧

➥ yourusername eeeeeeeeek

—— instagram

yourusername

Liked by oscarpiastri and 1,235,405 others

yourusername SPORTS CAR mv and song out now!!!!! this video was a dream come true! thank you to everyone who made it possible and a special shoutout to the muse for the song ;) oscarpiastri

hope you guys enjoy it. love youuuuu <3

View all comments

user920 HARD LAUNCH I REPEAT HARD LAUNCH

user801 YNOSCAR GIRLIES WONNNNNNNNNN 😍😍😍

user167 ITS GIVING BRITNEEEEY

spotify gonna rent a sports car so we can play sports car in a sports car

ynhq Pop star. ♥︎ by author

user910 REAL

user192 100%

user676 POP PRINCESSSSS

user921 ATE ONCE AGAIN

user003 HARD LAUNCH OF THE CENTURYYYYYYYYYYY

landonorris i couldve gone my whole life without seeing these lyrics ☺️

yourusername whoops ☺️

landonorris yourusername no apology?

yourusername landonorris nope 👍

user039 OVULATION SONG 🔥🔥

user107 POP DIVA YN DEVOURS ONCE AGAIN

lilymhe I LOVE THIS SO MUCH DIVAAA

yourusername MWAH 🤭

applemusic 👑🏎️

user103 ACTUALLY ATE AND POP PRINCESS WILL EAT UP THE PADDOCK 😍😍😍

user309 YESS F1 WAG YN IS GONNA DEVOUUUURR

hattiepiastri you’re literally perfect 🤧🤧🤧

yourusername stfu you’re perfect 😭 literally my favorite piastri‼️

oscarpiastri yourusername Rude.

user937 YES.

user776 i wanna apologize for ever thinking she was dating lando cause i can’t wait to watch her unhingeness mesh with oscar’s nonchalant ass 😍

oscarpiastri 🧡

yourusername you got a sports car?? 😏 ♥︎ by oscarpiastri

user003 yourusername have i got good news for you

alexandrasaintmleux actually obsessed!! ♥︎ by author

user921 OSCAR PIASTRI I WAS NOT FAMILIAR WITH YOUR GAME

user209 SHOCKED TBH

user129 THE POLITE CAT PULLED 😍 ♥︎ by author

oscarpiastri You’re so incredibly talented and I am immensely proud of you! Grateful to be called your boyfriend and your muse. I love you 🧡

user031 i’m tearing up stop 🤧

hattiepiastri 👏👏👏

user995 this is too much 😭

yourusername IM SOBBING ENOUGHHHH 🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧 i love you sm osco. best muse ever 🧡

[starlightoru-gojo]

Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-man 😉

The Gojo Parker continues 🫶🏻 credits to @/ aliyartss on IG

[jeonginsleftcheek]

Can I see your d*ck? (pt 3)

pairing: lee felix x afab!reader

synopsis: your pretty best friend shows you some mercy...

wc: 1.6k

warnings: fingering, dirty talk, handjob, oral (m), cum swallowing

a/n: part 3! there might be a part 4...😉

masterlist

You were barely holding on, the last sane part of your mind slipping out just as Felix started teasing your entrance with three of his fingertips.

"F-Felix... Please." you whimpered and he smirked.

"I'm not sure you'll be able to take this." he pouted, teasing you and you were so close to just grabbing his wrist and making him shove his fingers inside you.

"I will, I promise!" you begged, feeling desperate as the embarrassment you felt earlier slowly started flying out the window.

"Hm..." Felix pretended to think, only pushing his fingertips in teasingly and you realized just how much three fingers are. You almost faltered when he smirked at you.

"Spread her for me." he whispered and you almost exploded right then and there as you put your fingers on either sides of your folds, spreading yourself for him.

"Pretty." he smirked and slowly pushed in, meeting some resistance even after you came and were still so wet. A whimper escaped your lips as you tried to relax, spreading your legs more. Felix could see and feel that you were struggling and he stopped midway.

"Does it hurt?" he asked and you could see the concern in his face, making your stomach flutter.

"No. It's just a little uncomfortable." you answered.

"I can stop if you want me to." he offered, his thumb brushing against your swollen, sensitive clit.

"No! Please don't stop!" you were determined to see this through, you were too far gone to back out now.

"Okay, sweetheart." Felix smirked at the way you clenched around him when he used the nickname, your pussy sucking his fingers in as he slowly filled you up.

"Oh, god." your eyes rolled back and you shut them tightly as your hands grabbed at the sheets below.

Felix bit on his lip as he observed you, his heart racing and his dick twitching in his pants. There was only so much teasing he too could take.

Playing with you without giving you what you actually wanted felt like he was edging himself too and it was becoming painful. His dick was straining against his pants so much that he felt as if they were going to burst open soon, he needed some kind of release. So, he used the fact that you were so gone in the feeling of his fingers fucking you slowly and he let his other hand travel down his body.

He gripped at himself, a low moan escaping his lips as he continued his pace, spreading you open with three fingers. Your eyes snapped open and you looked at him in a daze, your gaze traveling down until you stopped, watching him palm and grip himself through his pants.

"Fuck." you groaned. "Please let me see it! I can't wait anymore. Please."

"I think you should- ugh... Be patient." Felix tried to keep his composure but you could see he was slowly unraveling.

"I've been patient enough. I did what you said, three fingers. Come on, no more stalling." you stopped his wrist from moving and he whined, pulling his fingers out and cursing under his breath.

"I guess that a deal is a deal." Felix pulled his sweatpants down and you licked your lips in anticipation as you sat up, the throbbing feeling between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his cheeks flushed as he looked down at himself before pulling his boxers down finally. You gasped, your legs pressing together instantly. You thought that it was the prettiest dick you've ever seen and all you wanted was to have him everywhere in you.

"See something you like sweetheart?" Felix smirked but you knew he was affected by the way you looked at him like you wanted to eat him up.

"Definitely." you said, feeling your body flush with waves of warmth.

"Better than your little porn videos?" he kept smirking and you returned it.

"I'll decide after I touch it." you whispered and leaned towards him.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, sweetheart." Felix grabbed your wrists gently. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

You knew he was teasing you, the slick bastard.

"I can learn." you freed your wrists from his hands and reached down to wrap your fingers around his length. Felix let out a low groan when he felt your touch, his eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows furrowing.

You bit on your lip as another wave of warmth went through your body, landing in your pussy. The way he felt in your hand, hot and heavy, his tip leaking in anticipation he felt for you only made you want more of him.

You knew he wanted to keep teasing you but his body betrayed him as he leaned into your hand, silently asking you to move. You spread the precum over his length and his eyes were still shut tightly as you started stroking him slowly.

It was almost like all of his resolve started melting with each stroke of your hand and when he opened his eyes and locked them on yours, you could feel him twitch in your hand.

"Am I doing good?" you whispered.

"Looking for praise?" he teased with a smirk.

"What if I am?" you teased back and he rolled his eyes playfully.

"You can go faster, sweetheart." his hand rested on the back of your head and gripped your hair as soon as you sped up. "Yeah, just like that baby. Keep going."

Felix leaned in and kissed you, his tongue swirling around yours as his hips started moving into your hand, matching the pace. You grabbed at his shoulder with your free hand as he knocked the breath out of your lungs.

You could feel him twitch again, leaking more precum as he got closer to the edge but you didn't wanna give him that satisfaction yet so you stopped all movement and removed your hand.

"W-why'd you stop?" Felix gasped, body arching towards you instictively.

"I wanna taste you."

The thought of your lips wrapped around his dick made Felix stutter for a moment as his hand gripped your hair harder.

"Are you sure?" he asked through gritted teeth, holding back from giving in as long as he could.

"I'm sure. Please."

Felix felt his body shiver and he got rid of his shirt before laying down on your bed and propping his hands behind his head, his eyes hazy and a cocky smile playing on his plump lips.

You chewed on your lip nervously before taking off your shirt too, throwing it aside and Felix's eyes darkened at the sight of your breasts.

"What are you waiting for, sweetheart?" he nudged your arm with his knee as you hovered closer to his dick.

"Nothing. Shut up." you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you but you threw it in the back of your head as you leaned down closer, darting your tongue out to taste him.

"Fuck, sweetheart." Felix gasped instantly as you worked your tongue on his slit and the sensitive underside of his tip. "Put your lips around it." he instructed and you did as you were told, making his eyes roll back.

"Just like that, good girl." the praise went right to your pussy and you pressed your thighs together as you felt arousal drip between your legs.

You sucked on his tip before sliding down and taking more in slowly, driving Felix insane. He put his hand on your head, not gripping or forcing you, just guiding you and making sure you stay in place as he didn't let you lift off of him completely.

You rubbed your thighs together as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him, the feeling of him against your tongue, the salty taste, the way he held your head down; it was too much and you moaned around him, making him arch off the bed and slip in deeper. You gagged as his tip almost touched the back of your throat, your eyes filling up with tears.

"Fuck, sorry sweetheart." he bit on his lip and you moaned around him again to let him know you're okay. His fingers tightened in your hair just a little as you continued, speeding up and trying to find the limit of how much you could take, gagging a few times and it took everything in Felix not to snap and start fucking your face.

"K-keep going, baby. Faster." he stuttered, hips lifting into you. You could feel he was close by the way he kept twitching inside your mouth and you ignored the tears in your eyes, the uncomfortable gagging feeling and the way your jaw started hurting, you just wanted to make him feel as good as he did to you.

"Y-yes, oh god! I'm close." he tried to pull you off but you slapped his hand away and gripped the base of his dick, going even faster and deeper, as much as you could.

"S-shit!" Felix groaned and his hips snapped up into your mouth as he exploded inside, the warm liquid filling up your mouth and you panicked in that moment and quickly swallowed, sucking on him a little longer until he gave you everything.

"Did you just swallow?" Felix's eyes widened as you sat up and coughed a little.

"I did." you said breathlessly and he let out a chuckle of disbelief as he sat up too.

"You're crazy, baby." he chuckled and touched your cheek, noticing you were still pressing your legs together.

"Still feeling needy, sweetheart?" he teased with that smirk of his.

"Yes." you whispered, lips hovering closer to his.

"What are you needy for?"

"Your dick." you said and Felix laughed.

"I let you see it. And taste it. You're so greedy, baby."

"Yeah, I am. What are you gonna do about that?" you smirked, teasingly running your finger on his abs and chest.

"I guess I'll give you exactly what you need."

part 4

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[aleksatia]

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.