#why are half of his tags with one c and half of the other with two cs

[saintormentor]

tag teamed m. s & c. s

in which . . . matt suggests a threesome with his brother chris, which made you hesitant at first. key word: at first.

content warnings . . . threesome ( zero incest. that’s disgusting. ) dizziness, oral, p in v, roughness, basically hardcore smut

matt brings it up one night, voice barely above a whisper. it’s late—way past midnight—and the sheets are tangled around your legs, his arms warm and clumsy around your waist. you’re scrolling through your phone, half-listening to him mumble, until he says it.

“would you ever… like… i don’t know. like a threesome?”

you turn your head. “with who?”

“me,” he swallows, “and chris.”

you blink. “your brother?”

“i mean—only if you wanted to! you don’t have to, like, it was just a thought i—i don’t know, i shouldn’t’ve said anything, it’s stupid—”

it takes another full week for it to become real. because matt is sweet and soft-spoken, because he second-guesses himself even while kissing your throat. but chris? chris is the opposite. cocky. unapologetic. he hears about the idea and shrugs like it’s already happening.

“you sure you can handle that, pretty girl?” he asks when matt brings it up again in front of him. you can’t tell if the question’s for you or matt.

they don’t rush. you thought it would be fast, wild, messy—but it starts gentle. because matt needs it to be. because he looks at you like you’re made of something delicate, and chris lets him take the lead even if he clearly wants to wreck you first.

you’re on the bed in matt’s room, soft light casting gold shadows over everything. matt’s mouth is warm on yours, tentative, like he’s still scared to do this wrong. chris leans against the door, arms crossed, watching like it’s a private screening.

“you okay?” matt whispers into your lips. you nod. he swallows again. “i just want you to feel good.”

his fingers are slow. familiar. they ghost over your skin like he’s mapping every breath, and when you arch into his palm, his eyes flutter shut. he doesn’t even realize chris is moving closer until you both hear his low laugh.

“you gonna keep her all night, or am i allowed to touch too?”

matt doesn’t answer. but he nods.

chris kisses you different. like he wants to leave a mark, make a memory, brand your body so you know the difference. his hands are everywhere—faster, rougher—and he doesn’t ask permission before sliding your legs apart and mouthing at the inside of your thigh.

“so fucking sweet,” he says against your skin, voice thick. “clearly you’ve got matt wrapped around your finger.”

matt’s behind you, holding your hand while chris works you open. his face is flushed pink, but his eyes never leave yours. he kisses your temple and murmurs, “tell me if it’s too much, okay?” he means it. he would stop. he would ask.

chris doesn’t stop. not unless you tell him to. and you don’t.

you’re on your hands and knees now, the room hazy with heat and sweat and low moans. chris is behind you—in you—and every stroke is deliberate, hungry. his grip on your hips is bruising, but it only fuels the slick heat building in your core. he’s got one hand tangled in your hair, the other spread across your lower back, pinning you exactly where he wants you.

“fuck, you feel insane,” chris groans, hips snapping forward, cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. “makes snese why matt’s always so fucking whipped for you.”

matt’s in front of you, lying back on the bed, flushed and shaky, his thighs spread. his cock is hard and twitching under your tongue, every lick making him whimper. he’s got both hands on your head but isn’t guiding—just holding, grounding himself, fingers trembling as you take him deeper.

“baby,” matt gasps, eyes locked on yours, “fuck—you’re so perfect like this—”

chris thrusts deeper at that exact second and your moan vibrates around matt’s cock. his hips jerk, and he almost pulls away, but you keep him there, hollowing your cheeks, eyes watering with the stretch. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, your throat fluttering around him.

behind you, chris gives a dark laugh. “look at her,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “messy little mouth, taking him so sweet, dripping all over my dick. you like this, huh? being used by both of us?”

you nod, choked moan muffled by matt’s cock. matt’s already close—you can feel it, the way his thighs are tense, how his fingers twitch in your hair. but he doesn’t want to finish yet. he pulls out with a gasp, breathing hard, cock flushed and wet.

“wait,” he pants. “i want—i want to be inside you too.”

you barely have time to process before chris pulls out with a filthy smack and grabs your chin, turning your face up. he kisses you hard—rough, greedy—and tastes the salt of matt’s skin on your tongue.

“switch,” he says, low.

matt kisses your cheek as he guides you down to lie on your back, whispering your name like an apology. his hand strokes between your thighs, tender where chris was rough. he lines himself up and slides into you slowly, watching every inch disappear inside. your walls clench around him, slick and overstimulated, and he groans into your neck.

“still so wet,” he breathes. “you feel even better than i remembered—”

chris kneels beside your head, cock hard and leaking. he rubs the tip across your lips, and you open for him like instinct. his voice is a low growl. “yeah… just like that.”

matt moves gently, hips rolling slow and deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your breath stutter. he keeps one hand on your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open. his eyes are locked on your face—watching, memorizing every twitch and gasp as chris begins to fuck your mouth.

they don’t touch each other. (‘cause that’s fucking disgusting.)

but they both fuck you.

your body is shaking. your throat full. your cunt pulsing tight around matt as his rhythm stutters. he whispers your name again, voice breaking.

“i can’t—fuck—i’m gonna come—”

you pull back from chris, gasping for air, spit stringing from your lips to the head of his cock. your nails dig into matt’s shoulders and your hips arch up, crying out as he pushes in deep one last time and spills inside you with a trembling moan.

he doesn’t pull out right away. just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“thank you,” he whispers. “i love you.”

chris chuckles low from beside you. “you done?” he asks matt, already fisting himself. “’cause i’m not.”

your eyes flutter open—exhausted, raw, but greedy—and chris catches your look and smirks.

“that’s what i thought.”

he flips you over like you weigh nothing, presses your face into the pillows, and fucks you so hard your voice breaks.

and still—matt stays close. holds your hand. kisses your shoulder. watches you fall apart again.

between them, you’re everything.

and you’ve never felt more wanted.

a / n . . . nothing to see here

[thatnightlamp]

KONRAD CURZE NSFW ALPHABET

Tags : @incrediblethirst, @iluminatka16, @myns-world, @dyonys, @absynthe-mind

A = Aftercare

Silent and shaking. He doesn’t know what to do after, it overwhelms him. Sometimes he curls around you and sobs against your chest, muttering half-formed apologies. Other times he vanishes into the dark and watches you sleep from the ceiling.

B = Body Part

Your eyes. He stares into them while he fucks you, searching for fear, love, worship, anything to tether himself.

C = Cum

Hot, fast, and a little frantic. Konrad finishes like it’s being ripped out of him, shaking, growling, his body tensing as if the pleasure hurts. If he cums on you, he’ll stare at the mess with a mix of guilt and reverence, whispering apologies or licking it away like penance.

D = Dirty Secret

He’s carved your name into his skin. Over his heart. With his claws. You’ll never see it, he won’t let you, but when he touches you, his fingers tremble over that spot. Like your name is the only thing keeping his ribs from cracking open.

E = Experience

A nightmare made flesh, but a careful one. He studied what brings people pleasure the same way he studied how to break them. At first, he was cold and confused, but once he learned how to make you moan? He became addicted.

F = Favorite Position

He likes to see your face. Him between your legs, one hand pressing your wrists above your head, the other stroking your cheek. The contradiction of violence and worship. “Look at me,” he begs, voice cracking.

G = Goofy

Never. There is no laughter, no lightness. Sex with Konrad is a ritual. A collapse. A grave you fall into together. If you do laugh, he’ll freeze and stare, stunned and unsure how to process it.

H = Hair

Slick black, always damp at the roots. On his body, it’s fine and barely visible, his flesh is almost corpse-pale, like moonlight. Below the belt, it’s sparse, black, and neat. He shaves it sometimes, not for vanity, but to feel cleaner.

I = Intimacy

Terrifyingly intense. He cups your face with clawed hands like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He’ll whisper, “Why are you still here?” and then fuck you like he’s trying to brand the memory into your soul. When he’s gentle, it’s trembling, hesitant, like he thinks he doesn’t deserve you.

J = Jack Off

Only when he’s desperate. Usually after a nightmare. He hates how much he needs you, so he punishes himself, harsh, painful strokes in the dark, muttering your name like it’s an accusation. He always ends up collapsing, shaking, whispering “forgive me.”

K = Kink

Somnophilia. He watches you sleep, hard and aching, and sometimes… he touches. He fucks you slow and careful, whispering apologies into your neck.

Fear kink: He thrives on your trembling, your gasps, your heartbeat racing. He never wants to hurt you, but your fear feeds his desire.

Mommy kink. If you let him call you that: instant emotional collapse.

L = Location

Dark rooms, your bed, his coffin. Places he feels safe. Or not safe, he likes fucking where he shouldn’t. One time, he took you in front of his brothers' armor displays. They all watched through dead glass.

M = Motivation

The fear he sees flicker in your eyes before it turns to trust. The way you reach for him. The way your heartbeat speeds up when he growls your name. He’s a predator who lives for the moment his prey chooses to stay.

N = No

He won’t share. Ever. Even the thought sends him spiraling into a jealous, self-loathing pit. And he won’t degrade you, not truly. He might growl like you’re prey, but he worships you, body and soul.

O = Oral

Giving. Wild. He eats you out like he’s starving, moaning into your flesh, his claws digging into your thighs to hold you down.

P = Pace

Frantic. Unrelenting. Every thrust like he’s trying to bury himself in you and never come back out. If you ask for gentle? He tries. It just breaks down when he hears you gasp.

Q = Quickie

Yes, but not casually. If he takes you against a wall, it’s because something broke, panic, arousal, anger. He’ll slam into you hard, panting against your neck, like it’s the only thing grounding him.

R = Risk

Unhinged. He’ll try anything that feels like sin. Bloodletting. Binding. Psychic connection during orgasm. He wants to feel your soul against his. He wants to haunt you forever.

S = Stamina

High, but fragile. He can go multiple rounds, but emotionally? He’s wrecked after the first. If you coax him gently, he’ll keep going until you can’t breathe.

T = Toys

His claws. His tongue. His voice. He doesn’t trust devices, he thinks they’re impure. But sometimes he’ll carve your name into a candle and fuck you beside it while it burns.

U = Unfair

Oh, he can tease, but not in a smug way. In a desperate way. He’ll hold you still, his breath shaky, whispering “I shouldn’t…” while grinding his cock against your thigh, trembling with need. He gets off on denial, yours or his.

V = Volume

Mostly quiet. Whimpers. Ragged breathing. Sometimes, when he’s close, a deep broken moan like something being torn open. He’ll bury his face in your neck to muffle it. When he cries out, it’s because he’s lost in you.

W = Wild Card

He carves your name into his armor. Not on the outside, inside, on the chestplate where it touches his heart. So when he fights, it’s with you against his skin. Always.

X = X-Ray

Lean but deceptively thick. Long enough to reach deep and brush that spot that makes your legs shake. Veins dark and raised. Tip flushed purple when he’s fully hard. He loves pushing it in slowly, watching you stretch around it.

Y = Yearning

High. Too high. He craves you like a drug, fights against it, then gives in and devours you. If you’re gone too long, he withdraws into himself, and when you return, he doesn’t even speak. He just kneels, clutches your hips, and breathes you in.

Z = Zzz

Sleeps very little. He lies beside you, staring. Memorizing. Sometimes, he rests his head on your stomach and listens to your breathing until it calms him enough to doze off.

[lumiileth]

let you break my heart again: part iii

part 1 part 2

pairing: Shanks x Marine!Reader, Garp’s Daughter!Reader, Familial!Luffy x Reader,

tags: Bittersweet, Angst, Requited Unrequited Love, Angst, Non-Sexual Tension, No Use of Y/N,

Manga spoiler warnings

word count: 8.200

summary: She was an anchor, foolishly reaching for the tide, but Shanks was the sea—vast, restless, and never meant to be caught.

or: She realized that Shanks and Luffy were the same - both too wild and free-spirited to be held back, they were always going to chase their dreams, while she just had to accept being left behind.

“So your dad is Garp?!” Shanks gawked, eyes wide at the aftermath from the chaos erupted before them, specifically, a brawl between Vice Admiral Garp and their captain, Gol D. Roger.

It wasn’t much of a fight. Fists flew, grunts echoed, and it ended rather abruptly when a small, furious voice rang louder than either of the two legends.

“ I don’t wanna go back yet !!”

There she stood, barely reaching anyone’s shoulder, arms crossed, cheeks puffed with defiance. Garp turned to his daughter, visibly flustered. He was caught off guard by his only daughter’s request. 

The Roger Pirates watched, utterly entertained, as the Marine Hero, the same man feared across the seas, crumbled at the hands of one little girl. His face twisted with frustration, muttering half-baked scoldings, while his eyes shimmered suspiciously.

And when Roger let out a booming laugh, the rest of the crew followed suit.

“ Oi, Garp! Looks like you’ve met your match !” Roger cackled.

“Yeah,” she muttered, propping her chin on her palm, elbow balanced on the edge of the ship’s rail. Her voice was calm, too calm, given what had just come out of her mouth.

Across from her, Buggy let out a shriek so loud it startled nearby seagulls into flight.

“SO IT’S TRUE?!” he howled, his body exploding apart in every direction like fireworks in a panic. His head spun midair, hovering with wild eyes and twitching lips. “No wonder you’re scary, Garp? The Garp that’s always on Captain’s tail?”

She blinked at him, unimpressed. “I guess so,” she said, brushing a stray hair behind her ear with a casual flick.

Buggy’s floating head nearly dropped from the sky.

“C-Crazy, you’re crazy!” he stammered, “That man’s a monster! A living legend! You’re saying that guy is your dad?! So what are you doing on this ship?!”

She leaned back against the rail, gazing out toward the endless stretch of sea. “Hm… Out of all the ships I saw, the red sails looked the most exciting!” 

Her gaze lifted to the sails above, bright red and billowing against the wind, a shimmering glint of admiration.

“It looked way cooler than the other ships.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “I didn’t even realize it belonged to the infamous Gol D. Roger. I just thought it looked like it could take me somewhere I hadn’t been before, super flashy!”

Buggy’s head bobbed midair, the wonder in her voice catching him off guard.

“R-Right, right!” he said, recovering fast and puffing out his chest, well, where his chest would’ve been. “Our captain’s the flashiest of them all! You’ve got good taste!”

“So, why aren’t you going back?” Shanks asked, inching a little closer to her on the deck, curiosity tugging at his features. Up close, he was reminded again just how tall she was, Garp’s blood ran strong, apparently.

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and keeping her eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s fun being pirates.” Her lips curled into a small, teasing smirk. “Why? Want me gone that badly?”

“Yes!”

 “No!”

The two answers clashed in the air instantly.

She didn’t even need to look up, she already knew who said what. Her sharp glare zeroed in on Buggy, whose face had already contorted into an exaggerated grimace.

“But you’re basically a Marine! ” Buggy protests, flailing dramatically as he frantically turns to Shanks. “What if she rats us out?!”

“Oh, shut up, you’re just scared” she snapped, eyes narrowing.

Rayleigh’s voice cut through the tension, calm but pointed. “Did you know your father made it his life’s mission to capture our captain?”

He stepped into the conversation like he’d been listening the whole time, because he probably had. Rayleigh looked at her with just a small amount of curiosity, after he had checked in with his careless Captain who had just fought her father. 

“How do we know you’re not feeding him information behind our backs?” he added, expression unreadable.

“Come on , Rayleigh,” another crew member, Taro, she recalled, interjected with a huff. “If that were true, Garp would’ve been breathing down our necks a long time ago.” He ruffled the girl’s hair. 

“Exactly!” she threw up her hands. “As if I’d let him get information that easily. No way in hell I’d give him the satisfaction.”

Once things settled, the conversation drifted naturally back to the trio, to their familiar corner on the deck of the Oro Jackson. The wind had calmed, but the curiosity between them hadn’t. It wasn’t quite an interrogation, but she could feel the way their eyes lingered on her, wanting to ask more questions. 

Especially now, knowing who her father was, someone even Captain Roger spoke of with an odd mix of exasperation and respect.

“Why don't you wanna be a Marine?” Buggy asked, tilting his head with a finger pressed to his chin. “You’d probably get a high rank right off the bat! You’d be rich!”

She gave him a flat look, the kind only someone used to his antics could muster. “Buggy, that’s called nepotism.”

He shrugged unapologetically. “So?”

“I don’t know…” she sighed, toying with the loose threads on the hem of her shirt. Her voice softened. “I… got onto this ship just for fun, I thought one day I’d just leave and continue my way through my dad.” 

“But?” Buggy tilted his head, intrigued by her answer, her dad is a scary man with scary potential, he needs to know these things. 

“Sailing with you guys is so fun,” She mumbled, her voice had a slight tremble to it as she still didn’t want to look straight in the eyes at the other apprentices. 

“My older brother’s a Marine.” Her thoughts briefly flicked to Dragon, once a loving brother figure to her, now an increasingly distant one. She recalls her childhood where Dragon and her would scavenge through the forests in Dawn Island, waiting for Garp to finally show and do some training. 

“Rarely saw him after, and when I do, he looked like shit!”

“You mean that Dragon guy?” Shanks asked, blinking as if trying to remember something, “I think you mentioned him before.”

“Mhm,” she nodded. “Never home. Even Dad visits more.”

“You sound like a brat throwing a tantrum,” Buggy chimed in again, grinning. “So you do act like a girl sometimes, I thought you’re just a brute.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Excuse you?! ”

“Now, now,” Shanks stepped in quickly, arms between them like a referee. “Let’s not start a war on deck, alright?”

“She started it,” Buggy mumbled under his breath.

“You provoked me!” she shot back, leaning forward with a glare.

“Alright, alright,” Shanks laughed, placing a hand on her head and ruffling her hair. “Let’s take it easy, marine spawn.”

“Hey!” She shot up, clearly offended, a frown scrunching up her face. “I’m a pirate through and through now, okay? I hate Marines.” Her arms crossed over her chest with the full drama of someone thoroughly committed to the bit.

Buggy blinked at her, unimpressed. “So you hate your family?”

“That’s different!” she huffed, turning her nose up. “They don’t count.”

-----

“How ya feeling?” Hongo asked, standing beside the bed with his arms loosely crossed, his expression gentle but observant. He had just finished checking her vitals, carefully, given how frantic Shanks had been when he all but shoved her into his care. It had taken a lot to calm the captain down.

The girl blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling before letting her gaze drift around the room. Clean. Nautical. Slightly chaotic. She didn’t recognize a single thing, except for the man watching her with quiet patience.

“Hongo,” she finally said, her voice dry but teasing, “I see you got your teeth back.”

“Hey,” he replied with a short laugh, clearly not offended. “We can trade barbs when you’re not halfway to the grave. Let’s not make my captain worry more than he already is.”

A pause, then a soft murmur: “I’m on the Red Force, huh?”

“Yeah.” Hongo nodded, but then narrowed his eyes slightly. “If you’re not gonna answer my questions, I’ll go get Shanks.”

“No!” she blurted, sitting up too fast before wincing at the effort. “No, I’ll answer. Just… please. I need to be away from Shanks for a bit. If that’s okay?”

Hongo eyed her, reading more between the lines than she realized. Then, with a small smile, he said, “Can’t reject a lady’s request.”

He pulled a chair closer to her bedside, his tone gentle but firm. “So… what happened?”

She stared down and then she told him. Everything. (or at least stuff that are relevant)

-----

“Hey, Capt.” Hongo greeted as he stepped out of the room, only for Shanks to immediately crowd him, hand still half on the doorframe.

“How is she? Is she okay?” Shanks asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant, he failed miserably. Everyone on the crew knew just how much the girl meant to him. He might’ve tried to act cool about it, but the fact he’d been standing outside the door the entire time, down to the second, said everything.

Hongo sighed, his hands on his waist. “She needs rest. Her health isn’t great. She told me a few things, but… I don’t think it’s the full story. I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle all of it.”

“She’s awake?” Shanks asked, eyes lighting up, completely ignoring the rest of Hongo’s words.

“Yes, she’s awake, but—”

Before Hongo could finish, Shanks had already turned to push the door open, only to be yanked back by Benn Beckman with one hand. It looked comical, like someone dragging back an overexcited cat.

“Whoa there. Listen to the doctor, she needs rest,” Beckman said, calm but firm.

“Ugh, fine,” Shanks groaned, deflating like a sulking kid.

“Never thought I’d live to see Pouting Shanks,” Yassop muttered to Lucky Roux with a smirk.

“We’re gonna be seeing a lot of that,” Roux whispered back, both of them shaking their heads with amusement.

“Hm, I think Limejuice is calling for me,” Shanks blurted out, already half-turning to flee down the front of the deck, clearly hoping no one would question why Limejuice, of all people, would ever need him urgently.

Behind him, several senior officers exchanged knowing smirks, low chuckles echoing through the corridor. Watching their proud captain all but retreat because of a woman? Now that was a sight.

“So,” Benn Beckman called out casually, arms crossed, “What did she actually say, Hongo?”

Yassop and Lucky Roux blinked, then leaned in like kids overhearing gossip for the first time.

Hongo, ever calm, adjusted the strap of his med kit and sighed. “She asked me to keep Shanks out of her room for a while.”

That made the air shift slightly.

“Not sure what happened between them back on that island,” he added, voice just low enough to make it sound important, “but whatever it was… it definitely something .”

The silence that followed was punctuated only by Shanks’ very unsubtle footsteps retreating down the Red Force, faster than any pirate captain should ever be walking.

----

“Now,” a voice called from the doorway, smooth, teasing, yet unmistakably firm. “Why did I hear from my doctor that Ms. Patient in here doesn’t want my presence?”

The air shifted.

She flinched before she could catch herself. That voice, low and careless, threaded with an old warmth that unsettled her more than she'd admit, dug into her chest like a dull blade. She didn’t turn toward him. She didn’t want to.

“Because Ms. Patient ,” she said tightly, her eyes fixed on the wooden planks, “ explicitly does not want your presence. Is that too hard to understand, Red-Hair ?”

Shanks stepped inside anyway, she had been cooped in the room for awhile, but guessing from the silence on deck and the night sky, it was around dawn, she finally saw that familiar smirk was already tugging at his lips, boyish and far too charming for someone so infuriating.

“Yeah,” he said with a mock sigh, “I guess it is. Y’see, I’ve never really had women reject me before.” His voice dipped with amusement, eyes scanning the room before locking onto her still form. “Kind of a new experience.”

She rolled her eyes, slowly turning her head to glance at him, just a little. “Glad I could be your first,” she muttered.

“I’d love for you to be my firsts,” He had jokingly said, but was met up with a glare from the bedridden patient so Shanks immediately deflected, “So,” he said, gaze drifting around before settling back on her. “How’ve you been?”

The silence between them stretched.

“Peachy,” she answered curtly, her voice clipped, eyes already drifting back toward the ceiling as if it could shield her.

Shanks inhaled, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Right. Should’ve expected that.”

There was a flicker in her gaze then. Still, her voice was softer this time. “Luffy missed you.”

Shanks’ face shifted, just slightly. His grin widened at the name being dropped, he thinks of the little guy who had dreams like his former captain, who’s now wearing his hat like a legacy. 

“Missed that little anchor too,” Shanks said with a smile. 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The name alone was enough to carve silence between them.

But Shanks pushed forward anyway, taking a cautious step closer, his eyes scanning her face like he was searching for something left unsaid.

“But I asked about you , sweetheart,” he said gently, his voice lower now. No grin. Just rawness.

“Never better,” she bit out, her voice thick with sarcasm as she shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the sting that laced through her ribcage. “Is that what you want to hear?”

Shanks didn’t flinch, but something tightened in his eyes. His arms were still crossed, his stance relaxed—but only on the surface. “I want to hear the truth, at least,” he replied, tone softer now, stripped of that usual teasing lilt.

She stared at him, and then, without warning, glared, sharp, unfiltered, exhausted.

“Well,” she said, dragging the word like a blade, “I feel like shit. My head’s pounding, I can’t feel half my fingers, and I think I might hurl in about two minutes. So if you’re done playing pirate therapist, could you please get me a bucket?”

Shanks blinked once. “Why a bucket,” he said, already walking over to the gaped door with a nonchalant tilt of his head, “when you’ve got a perfectly good sea right outside this room?”

Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. 

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, “As if I’d dare tarnish your beloved sea.”

He turned back, just in time to catch the faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t bitter. Just a flicker of something long buried between them, genuine, if fleeting.

Her words held no venom now, only the dry edge of someone too tired to pretend and too familiar with the person standing before her. It was the kind of banter only shared between people who had once known each other too well and maybe still did.

Shanks leaned against the wooden walls of the room, watching her with a quiet fondness. “My sea’s been through worse,” he said, “It can handle a little heartbreak.”

“How ‘bout you?” she asked suddenly, voice casual but eyes carefully trained on him, like she was daring him to be honest. It caught Shanks off guard, but he recovered with a tilt of his head and a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How’s the big scary Yonko faring in his beloved sea?”

A laugh erupted from him, loud, familiar, and echoing with that signature Red-Haired charm. It rumbled from his chest, deep and full, and for a fleeting moment, she saw not the infamous Emperor of the Sea, but the boy who once dangled his legs off the Oro Jackson beside her, carefree and bright-eyed.

“This big and scary Yonko,” he said, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye, “was absolutely terrified for a certain patient’s life. Scariest I’ve ever felt, I fear.” His voice dipped with quiet sincerity toward the end, a tremble of truth hidden in the humor.

She held his gaze, her smile softening just slightly before her tone leveled into something more grounded.

“I’m fine, Shanks,” she said, but it was too clean, too rehearsed. Her posture had stiffened, the slight tremor in her fingers betraying the calm she tried to maintain.

He watched her closely, unconvinced. The image of her back on that bloodstained island, crumpled beneath the weight of everything she carried, played on repeat in his mind.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, his voice low and earnest, no longer laced with his usual levity.

“I’m not pretending,” she lied.

“Here’s some tangerine, your favorite,” Shanks suddenly said, setting down a small woven basket on the bedside table with a casual air that didn’t quite mask the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. “A bit sour since it’s not in season, but still sweet enough to eat. Don’t worry.”

She blinked at the offering, then at him, eyes narrowing slightly, not in annoyance, but in curiosity. Her fingers reached toward the fruit instinctively, brushing against the coarse skin of one of them. The scent was immediate, bright, citrusy, familiar.

“You have a tangerine tree on your ship now?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, as if trying to place the absurdity of it. Her voice was light, teasing, but her gaze stayed fixed on his face.

Shanks just hummed in response, a noncommittal sound paired with a shrug.

But you don’t like tangerines.

She didn’t say it out loud. It stayed trapped in the back of her throat like so many other things she didn’t allow herself to speak. Shanks never liked tangerines. Too acidic, he used to say. Always gave her some every time the three pirate apprentices scavange through a new island they just docked in. 

“Thanks…” She quietly said as she watched Shanks leave the room.

----

“Look who’s up!” Lucky Roux bellowed from the edge of the deck, waving one thick arm toward the figure emerging from the cabin. A broad grin stretched across his face, and several heads turned in her direction.

“I’m not that sick,” she called back with a small smile, the breeze catching strands of her hair as she stepped fully into view. Sunlight kissed her skin, and for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was suffocating.

“For the lady,” Roux said, presenting her with a skewer of freshly grilled meat, steam still rising from it.

As a Monkey D., she knows better than to reject a peace offering. Especially if it’s meat. She takes the meat with little to know grace, munching on it immediately. 

The crew chuckled, a few raising their mugs in a lazy salute.

“Not pairing my meat with beer? That’s preposterous,” she added with a mock frown, biting into the meat again. It was warm, juicy, something she missed. 

“We’re gonna dock soon,” Lucky Roux said, shifting beside her. “Might take a couple of days.”

She arched her brow. “One of those usual remote islands you lot crash on for rest and reckless drinking? Or something different?”

“Nah, captain said we needed to restock,” Yassop chimed in, puffing lazily on a cigarette. “Supplies, medicine, the works.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she inhaled deeply. The scent of the sea filled her lungs, salt and wind and wood and freedom. The breeze danced over her skin, she closed her eyes briefly, letting it wrap around her.

Being on a pirate ship felt different. It was different.

Even as a Vice Admiral, she never got to experience this, the quiet laughter, the sun-warmed deck beneath her feet, the unspoken bond between people who’ve risked their lives together not for duty, but for choice.

This wasn’t obligation. It was freedom.

And god, how she missed it.

“Now look who’s finally out of their room!” Shanks shouted, his voice booming with playful exaggeration as he strode across the deck. Without hesitation, he slung a heavy arm over her shoulders.

The gesture, so familiar yet distant, made her shoulders tense instinctively. Her balance wavered, just for a moment. She wasn’t as steady on her feet as she thought she’d be, her recovery is growing less and less each day. 

“Shanks,” she murmured, her voice low but not cold. A soft smile ghosted across her lips before she could stop it, brief, fleeting, but real. The man beside her still carried the same spark in his eyes, the same lopsided grin that used to drive her mad. 

“Oh~?” Shanks leaned closer, his red hair brushing her cheek as he tilted his head with mock disbelief. “Was that a smile I just saw? Are you actually happy to see me now? Miracles do happen.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed, loud, unrestrained, like a certain captain they sailed under from back then, Shanks nudged her gently with his elbow. “You wound me. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“Your everything ain’t much if I’m being honest,” She jabbed at red-haired.

“Hey!” 

Choruses of laughter from his crewmates erupted.

----

Roger’s execution wasn’t a celebration, no matter how the world painted it.

The crowds in Loguetown had gathered like it was a festival, eager to see the Pirate King die, their voices loud with awe and hunger for a new era. Some cheered. Some jeered. Some clung to hope for the treasures whispered in dying breaths. But for her, for them, it was mourning in the truest form.

Heavy rain fell like judgment. Cold, sharp, relentless.

She stood in the shadow of the gallows, soaked through, her coat clinging to her frame, fists clenched at her sides. Beside her, Shanks was silent, red hair plastered to his face, lips drawn tight. He had cried, she realized, but now that it was raining heavily, she couldn't quite decipher it as well.

Buggy had just run off, screaming something about Shanks being a fool, his figure vanishing into the storm.

“Buggy rejected you, huh?” she said at last, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the patter of rain. It wasn’t mockery, far from it. Her tone was flat, like she had already expected it.

A beat of silence passed between them, and then Shanks took a hesitant step closer.

“I was gonna wait to ask, but…” He extended his hand, trembling just barely. “The offer’s for you too. Come with me. Let’s be pirates together.”

She looked down at his hand. It was the same hand that had once pulled her up when she stumbled on the deck of the Oro Jackson. The same hand that offered her meat when she hadn’t eaten. The same hand she used to sneakily reach for during storms when she was scared.

Now it was shaking.

Her eyes flicked toward the empty scaffolding, the wooden beams stained with rain—and Roger’s blood.

“Shanks…” she whispered.

“Don’t say no,” he said quickly, almost desperately. “Not after everything.”

She exhaled, slow and shaky. “Sha–”

Shanks interrupted, not wanting her rejection and excuse to be verbalized, “You wanted to, you wan–”

“I’m going to be a Marine,” she cut in, her voice firm, though her lips quivered. “I’ve already decided.”

His hand faltered in the air.

It made sense to her. It was the rational thing to do.

She had just watched a man—no, the man who had changed her life—die at the hands of the system her family served. A system her father upheld. A system her brother once fought for.

A system she had no choice but to return to.

To her, becoming a Marine was the only way to keep what little stability she had left. Garp was a Marine. Dragon was a Marine. Her blood was steeped in justice, in duty, in structure. Her and the naive dream to be able to change it.

But for Shanks?

For Shanks, it was betrayal.

He had just witnessed the World Government and the Marines steal the life of the only man he ever called Captain. He had lost Buggy. He had lost Roger. And now, he was losing her too.

“Decide differently,” Shanks said, the words sharper than he meant them to be. His voice was tight, strained.

She blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone.

“You think this is easy for me?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t raised, but it was cold. Steady.

“You think it’s easier for me?” he shot back.

“I have ties in the Marines,” she said, stepping back as if putting physical distance might temper the fire in his chest. “I’m not meant for your kind of freedom, Shanks.”

His hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, why it felt like her words were slicing open old wounds he hadn’t known he still carried.

“You don’t know a thing,” he muttered.

She frowned. “I know enough.”

She didn’t. She didn’t know that Shanks came from a past as stained and fractured as her own. That he wasn’t born free. That Roger saved him from a fate darker than most could imagine. That one day he had to step inside the place of his lineage, as much as he hated it. 

“You’re going to regret it,” Shanks said, not as a threat, not as spite. His voice was low, roughened by rain and grief. There was no smugness in his tone. He wasn’t warning her out of arrogance, he was mourning her before she even left.

She didn’t meet his eyes. If she did, she knew she’d shatter.

Shanks stepped forward, just once, but stopped himself from reaching out. They had touched so many times before, laughs shared under starlight, bruises exchanged during sparring, warmth passed during cold nights at sea.

But now?

Now his hands stayed at his sides. Anchored.

“I know you better than you think,” he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly, pained. “You’d hate yourself.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep it together. One second longer and she’d break.

“Goodbye, Shanks,” she said instead, turning and walking away from the comfort. “See you at sea.”

----

They met again for the first time in years.

----

The bitterness that had once wrapped around their hearts like iron had eroded, softened by time. With distance came clarity. With maturity came yearning, not the painful kind, but the quiet ache that settles in the chest when you realize the person you once pushed away is still part of your soul.

She hadn’t expected to hear her name that way, called out so openly, so joyfully. It echoed across the harbor, cutting through the noise of the port town.

And when she turned, blinking under the sun, there he was. A flash of crimson, a familiar grin, a mop of unmistakable red hair. Shanks.

“Shanks??” Her voice pitched up with disbelief and delight, her smile radiant, blooming like spring after a long winter.

Before she could say more, he was already there, arms around her, spinning her off the ground in a hug that pulled the breath out of her lungs and replaced it with laughter. She clung to him without hesitation, surprised by how natural it still felt.

“What are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly, once her feet found the earth again.

Shanks, still holding her elbows, looked at her with stars in his eyes—his grin boyish, just slightly crooked. “Docked here for some supplies,” he said, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, “but rumor had it there was a very charming and dangerously competent captain in the area.”

She snorted. “Who would that be?”

“I wonder who?” he said with a lopsided grin as they stood there for a moment longer than they should’ve, in the middle of a bustling dock, hearts caught somewhere between nostalgia and something dangerously close to hope.

“Huh,” Yassop muttered, eyes narrowing as he watched the woman who had been lingering near their captain ever since they docked. His arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable expression painted across his face. “You don’t look like the Captain’s type.”

She turned toward him, a brow arching. “Your captain has a type ?”

“N—” Limejuice tried to interject, perhaps to soften the blow, but Yassop barreled right over him.

“Petite,” Yassop began, counting on his fingers with theatrical flair. “Cute. Small. Maybe even a little helpless. You know, that damsel in distress effect.”

Each word stabbed just a bit sharper than the last.

She blinked. Her lips parted slightly, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh…” she exhaled, her mouth agape just enough to hide how that landed, deep and uncomfortable. Convenient , she thought. That’s… everything she wasn’t.

Too tall. Too harsh. Too stubborn. Just gr—

“What are you guys talking about?” Shanks asked, flashing his usual boyish grin as he approached the small gathering.

“Nothing!” Yassop and Limejuice chimed in unison, a little too quickly. The woman beside them merely smiled with quiet amusement, clearly enjoying their flustered state. For all his carefree charm, it was easy to forget how much Shanks was respected by his crew, despite his young age. But now that they’d reunited, she could see how much he’d grown. 

“Really?” Shanks tilted his head, raising a brow in suspicion.

Before the others could dig themselves into a deeper hole, she casually looped her arm around his and leaned into him with a playful bump of her shoulder. “Exactly that. Nothing.”

Shanks glanced down at her, teasing warmth in his voice. “You’re getting awfully chummy. How would the world react, seeing their beloved Marine Captain arm in arm with a pirate like me?”

“They’ll live,” she quipped, her tone light but steady. “Besides, it’s not like you’re pillaging this island, right? Normal people know you don’t do that. I think.”

Shanks let out a laugh, light and windblown, “You think, huh? You sure you’re not ruining that pristine Marine record of yours by hanging around me?”

“Oh come on, your being noisy," She rolled her eyes , "let’s go and eat something. There’s this nice place that sells lobster, you still like that, right?” she said casually, though her eyes flickered with something softer, nostalgic.

Shanks’s face lit up like the sun hitting open waters. “I could never reject a woman’s offer to eat lobster,” he grinned, already falling into step beside her.

The streets of the island were warm and busy, dotted with cheerful chatter and the occasional cry of seagulls. They didn’t talk much as they walked, comfortable silence now filled the space between them.

When they reached the restaurant, Shanks looked around in delight, already imagining a seat by the window, B ut she surprised him. “To-go, please,” she told the vendor instead, then turned to Shanks. “We’re having a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Shanks raised a brow but didn’t protest, already intrigued.

“There’s a spot nearby, by the cliffs. I sit there when I needed to clear my head.” Her voice lowered, just slightly.

He smiled, following without another word.

As they found the perfect place overlooking the ocean, she spread the food between them on the grass, the red of the lobster almost glowing under the sun.

“If this keeps going, my crew’s gonna start calling me a neglectful captain,” Shanks teased, taking a generous bite and groaning with exaggerated delight.

“It’s been years since we ate together like this,” she said, smiling as she picked at her lobster with delicate precision. “They’ll live.”

Shanks let out a hearty laugh, the same laugh she remembered from what felt like a lifetime ago. “You really look like a reliable captain now,” she teasingly said out of the blue, taking a big bite of his own.

"While you still eat like an animal,” He said back, watching her with a playful smirk.

For a moment, the world around them faded, no Yonko, no Marines, no war or duty or time. Just them, sitting cross-legged on a faded cloth under the shade of an old tree, salt on their lips and sea breeze in their hair.

They talked like no time had passed. Jokes about Buggy’s tantrums. Memories of Roger yelling at them to “hold on tighter” during storms. The nights spent huddled beneath the stars, whispering dreams and dumb ideas to each other.

Shanks was the same. Older, yes. Stronger, yes. But his spirit? Still that scrappy, sharp-eyed boy, S he caught herself watching him too long, too softly. The way the light hit his hair, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way he still made her laugh without trying.

And then she felt it, that tug in her chest, that familiar ache.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Not again. But sitting here, with him, the years peeled away like they never existed.

She can’t help but fall in love with him all over again. 

----

That’s why, after a few weeks of The Red-Haired Pirates docking in this quaint island, she had decided to do something quite reckless.

She had kissed him, and he could only look at her with widened eyes. She was hoping for warmth, a laugh, a grin, maybe even the rare sight of the infamous Red-Haired Captain flustered.

But what she got was silence. His fingers rose, gently brushing against his lips, as if trying to hold onto something already fading.

“I can’t,” Shanks murmured, barely above the sound of the sea between them.

Her heart dropped.

Her love was answered with an I can’t . With rejection.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting salt that wasn’t from the ocean.

She thought of the nights wrapped in the same blanket, their knees touching beneath a shared silence. The soft laughter. The reckless teasing. The vulnerable conversations under the stars, whether it was yesterday or ten years ago, it all remained etched in her, stubborn and beautiful.

She had believed that maybe, maybe, some part of him held onto it too.

But now, with a kiss she never meant to be a goodbye, she knew, this moment would shift everything.

And that was the last moment they had with each other.

She knew then, as his laughter from his ship faded into the night and the scent of salt clung to his cloak, that she had never stood a chance. Not truly. Not against the pull of the horizon, not against the freedom in his veins.

He belonged to the sea.

And the sea never shared.

----

“Men!” Shanks called out, voice cracking ever so slightly as he raised a half-filled mug toward the sky. His usual grin was replaced by something softer.

“Let’s drink!”

----

Years later, when they meet again, it will be beneath the sun that shines over hometown, and standing beside her will be a wide-eyed, grinning rascal, pestering Shanks with unrelenting energy, who will soon inherit the will that’s the Straw Hat.

----

“Shanks…” Hongo’s voice came out low, hesitant, as he stood just outside her door. He couldn’t meet his captain’s gaze—how could he, with the weight of the news sitting like lead on his tongue? “I’m sorry.”

Shanks turned to him, smiling out of habit, though something uneasy tugged at the edges of his chest. “What is it, Hongo?”

The ship doctor hesitated for just a moment longer before the words dropped, heavy and final.

“She only has a few months left to live.”

The smile on Shanks’ face faltered, no, shattered. One word slipped from his lips, barely audible over the crashing waves beyond the deck.

“…What?”

----

“You knew?” Shanks’ voice was low, but there was something sharp in it, something that cracked beneath the surface. His eyes, usually warm with mischief or mirth, had gone cold. Focused. Piercing.

She didn’t flinch.

“Yes, I knew.” Her voice cut back with equal weight, though not as steady. “And I knew the real reason you kept docking on islands with no real trade value.” Her hand dragged down her face, wearied more by the conversation than her illness. “You weren’t looking for food or supplies. You were looking for a cure.”

Shanks stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a taut rope. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Hongo’s your senior officer,” she replied flatly. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to hear it from him?”

“You don’t believe that,” Shanks said. “Do you?” Shanks would much rather listen in on the person with said illness, the same person he had cared for as well. 

She didn’t respond, and in her silence, Shanks sighed, long and tired, the sound of a man who’s been fighting something he can’t punch away.

His voice dropped. “So… you knew from the beginning. That’s why you asked me, isn’t it?”

Her eyes flickered, the briefest trembling in her fingers before she folded them into her sleeves. “I said what I said and I’m not going to take it back,” she murmured, “because I trust you more than anyone in this world.”

She looked at him then, not fragile, not even afraid, but unguarded.

“I can’t rely on anyone else to do it right.”

“You’re a cruel lady,” Shanks said, and though his voice held a teasing lilt, it faltered at the edges. There was a bitter smile on his face, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, because deep down, he knew: he couldn’t win with her. Not in this. Not ever.

She let out a lifeless chuckle, dry and hollow, despite wanting to ease the tension. “If only you knew what they call me in the Marines.”

“I don’t need to know,” he replied, softer now, searching her face for something, anything, beneath the cracks. “cause I know what you are.”

“Oh?” she raised a brow, dragging her gaze up to meet his. “And what am I, Red Hair?”

Shanks hesitated. The truth itched at the back of his throat.

“You’re someone who carries the world on her back, smiles like it’s light, and dares anyone to notice the weight.” He exhaled slowly, his words sincere. “A reckless woman indeed.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. But it passed quickly.

“That’s funny,” she murmured. “Because when I look at you, I see a man who sailed the seas to outrun the things he couldn’t fix. We’re not so different, you and I.”

Shanks looked away for a moment, jaw clenched, tongue caught behind words he wanted to say. That’s not true, if you knew what I’ve been doing these past few years…

“But you still asked me,” he said quietly, unsaid words remain unsaid. 

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

“You know I love you, right?” Shanks whispered, as if the words themselves might crumble under their own weight. His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, like he was afraid of what the sentence might become once spoken. 

She didn’t answer at first.

Brows furrowed, she blinked slowly, as if trying to decipher whether she had truly heard him right. She thought she had misheard the man she had known since childhood. 

Then after a few pauses, she answers, her hands clenched onto the bedding, glaring at the man, not believing a word that had left his lips. 

“No,” she said, curt and steady. “I don’t.”

Shanks blinked, surprised by the bluntness of it. He wasn’t expecting that type of answer.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” she continued, her voice cold under the silver gleam of moonlight. “Don’t you dare ever say you love me.”

Her words hit like a blade, it started blunt, yet it got sharper the more she says and she didn’t stop.

“Love is unconditional. Love is warm,” she said, jabbing a finger into her own chest. “You want to talk about love?”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“I’m afraid to die, no because of the pain, or what hell or judgement I’d face, but because I want to see Luffy become Pirate King. I want to see Ace carve his name into the world leaving his own legacy. I want to see the day my brother and my father finally reunite.”

She got out of bed, stepping forward towards where Shanks is, and now her finger pressed hard into his chest.

“They left me. Over and over. And still, I wait. Like some loyal fucking dog.” She took a shaky breath. “That’s love.”

Her hand fell back to her side, clenched into a trembling fist.

“That’s fucking love, Red-Haired.”

Shanks stood there, silent. Taking it. Letting her speak, letting her bleed it out, because he knew he had no right to interrupt.

“And you?” she laughed bitterly. “You brought me nothing but confusion. Silence. Half-truths. Heartbreak.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes wet but blazing.

“So don’t you dare tell me you love me now, when you couldn’t even give me the dignity of closure.”

She turned her back slightly, her voice growing smaller, but no less furious.

Shanks tried to reach for her arm, her name softly leaving his lips, but she continued.

“You’ve always loved the sea more than me. And that’s fine. I made peace with that a long time ago.” She laughed, 'cause what can she do? The man she had painfully pined over the years and in the end rejected her, says that he loves her, when she was running on limited time.

“What I can’t forgive,” A pause, “what I’ll never accept is you standing there with those sad fucking eyes, telling me you love me... like it makes things better between us.”

Shanks didn’t say anything for a long time.

The night wind moved around them through the open door. brushing past her like an apology, rustling the red hair that earned him his name, now shadowed by guilt.

He stepped forward once.

Then stopped.

His hands clenched at his sides, not out of anger, but restraint, because the part of him that wanted to reach out, to hold her, to pull her close and say I’m sorry , was still the same part that had left her all those years ago.

"I don’t expect you to forgive me," Shanks said at last, his voice low, honest in a way that felt almost cruel.

She didn’t turn to face him. Her shoulders remained rigid, like the tension alone was holding her together.

"And I won’t insult you by asking for it."

Silence. But her breathing wasn’t steady anymore.

“I meant what I said,” he continued, each word heavier than the last. “My love for you… it was consuming.”

She furrowed her brows, a bitter scoff caught in her throat. Another excuse. Another romanticized lie.

“What I wanted was to live a quiet pirate life, just the three of us,” Shanks started out, a smile etched on his face as he thought back the memories they had in the Oro Jackson, the happiest moments of his life. 

“But then there were times I imagined something else. A quiet life. You and me. A farm, maybe. A family.” He shook his head, bitter at the dream. “And that's what terrified me.”

Her silence stung. So he kept going, the only way he knew how, forward, even if the ground was falling apart beneath him.

“I’m a pirate. The sea calls for me. But you—” Shanks looked at her, really looked at her— “You were like my anchor. You pulled me in, even when I didn’t want to be caught.”

She turned her head slowly, just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. “I was your anchor? So I was the weight? The thing that held you back from chasing your grand adventure?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

But she wasn’t convinced. Her fingers twitched at her sides, trembling from holding back too much for too long.

Shanks stepped forward, his voice quieter now. “You were my freedom too. I just didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

That’s when she turned fully. Her gaze met his, glassy but sharp.

“Do you think that makes it easier?” she asked, voice frayed at the edges. “Hearing that now?”

“No,” he whispered. “But you deserve the truth. Even if it’s a thousand years late.” Eyes yearning for a future they never get to live in.

The wind picked up slightly, pushing the salty air against her cheeks, but it did nothing to cool the fire inside her chest. She hadn’t meant to say any of it, not to Shanks, but the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. She didn’t want his pity, she never did, but it felt like the weight of everything was finally collapsing on her.

“I lived a life where everyone I love left me,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words made them more real. 

“My mom, my dad,” She pressed her hands to her forehead, shielding her eyes from Shanks, the tears falling freely now, “My brother.”

Shanks didn’t move. He didn’t speak, but his eyes never left her, his presence quiet and steady.

“I gave up my freedom for Garp and Luffy,” she choked out, her breath hitching. “I stuck with Luffy because... because I grew up alone, and I didn’t want that for him. His dad... my brother left to do something greater, something important.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop.

“I wanted to do the same,” she continued, her chest tightening, her grip on her hair becoming more desperate. “But I just can’t leave Luffy alone.” She shut her eyes, biting her lip so hard that it almost hurt, willing herself to stop the flood of emotions. She didn’t want him to see her this way. She didn’t want to break down in front of him.

But he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Then he found himself his own family,” she continued, her words bitter with the sting of truth. “And he’s leaving, too, to be a pirate. And in the end... I’m the idiot who’s left behind, waiting for everyone to come back. I’m the one who stays, Shanks. I’m the one who stays .”

Her breath was ragged now, tears still falling, though she no longer cared.

Shanks didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He simply moved closer, his large presence both grounding and comforting.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough, his words quiet, but firm. “You’re not waiting. You’re living. You’ve been living, fighting for those you love, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering in her eyes, but Shanks didn’t meet her gaze. 

“I never wanted to leave you behind,” he murmured, “I never wanted to make you feel like that. But the sea... the sea calls, and we have our paths. We all have our own journeys. But that doesn’t mean you’re not important. You’re more than just someone left waiting. You’ve taken a piece of my heart with you, whether you believe it or not.”

“I don’t,” she whispered softly, “I don’t believe it.”

For a moment, the two stood there, locked in the silence of everything they were and everything they could never be.

----

“Boss?” Lucky Roux called, stepping toward Shanks the moment the red-haired captain emerged from the room she’s staying in. The sea breeze tugged at his coat, but Shanks didn’t seem to feel it.

Shanks stood still for a beat, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his hat. His jaw was clenched, his usual grin nowhere to be found.

“Find a remote island,” he said, voice low and cold— resigned. “We’re doing this.”

A beat of silence.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” his crew echoed, voices steady but weighed with unspoken understanding.

----

Her fingers trembled by her sides, but her eyes, her eyes were still. Steady. They gleamed under the soft light with a clarity Shanks hadn’t seen in her for a long time: resolve, and something heavier, something final. He hated that look. It meant her decision had already been made. She wasn’t waiting for him to change it, just to accept it. Still, Shanks looked at her as if the weight in his chest might lift if he could just say it, if he could finally admit what he’d never been brave enough to before.

“I love you,” he said, quieter this time. No grin, no teasing lilt, just the truth. Raw and bare, stripped of everything he usually used to protect himself. It was the only thing he had left to give her.

There was a pause. A silence so thin it could’ve split open if one of them so much as breathed wrong.

“Yeah,” she said, voice soft, a smile tugging at her lips like it had been stitched there with thread too weak to hold. “I love you, Shanks.”

But she didn’t say 'too.'

And that absence meant everything.

Not because the words weren’t true. They were more than anything else she’d ever said. But because acknowledging it, admitting it fully, would’ve broken her. Would’ve tied her down to something she could no longer afford to chase.

She believed he said it to make her feel better. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter.

Because in the end, this was it for her. 

He felt it, every trembling breath she took, every flicker of pain she tried to bury beneath that ever-steady gaze. It took everything in her just to stand, to speak, to let him see her like this: fragile, fading, but still proud. She never begged. Never cowered. Even now, at the end of everything, she clung to the last remnants of who she was. That was her final act of defiance.

“I’m asking you to set me free,” she said, cutting through the silence, her voice steady, almost gentle. “Before it gets to me. Before I forget who I am.”

Shanks’s hand curled into a fist. His jaw tightened so hard it ached. “Change your mind,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Don’t ask me for this.”

But she only looked at him, unwavering. “I made up my mind, I trust you, Figarland Shanks.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes, refusing to fall, not yet. Not until she meets her peace. 

“Make it fast?” she asked, and this time her voice wavered.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice breaking around the edges, but still he meant it. With every aching bone in his body, he meant it.

She closed her eyes.

And then, with the quiet grace of a man who had carried the sea in his chest, Shanks drew his blade, not with anger, not with grief, but with reverence, as if he were not ending a life.

She waited for it, waited for the sharp, clean edge of mercy. But instead, he stepped forward. Gently, without a word, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

It shattered her.

The intimacy, so simple, so tender, caught her off guard. Especially after everything that had passed between them in their last encounter: the distance, the denial, the years filled with unspoken longing. The affection she had buried deep in her ribs, pined for in silence, was suddenly returned. But at what cost?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice low, raw.

Her tears came in torrents, freely now, spilling down her cheeks as she managed a breathless, “I know.”

Then—

The blade slid through her heart like a whisper.

No sound. No resistance.

Only the wind remained.

And when it passed, she was gone.

Shanks stood there, unmoving, holding her close even as the warmth slipped from her limbs. For a long time, he said nothing. Did nothing. The sea was quiet, almost reverent, mourning with him in stillness.

And then, he wept.

Not loud. Not wild. Just a single tear, slipping down a face that had braved storms and gods.

Even the sea could not carry this loss.

----

“Men!” Shanks called out, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he raised a half-filled mug toward the sky. His usual grin, wide and reckless, was replaced by something more hollow, 

He could not hide his sorrow, not tonight. Despite the cheery lilt in his tone, his cheeks were stained with tears, carved by grief like rivers over weathered stone. 

“Let’s drink!” he declared, loud and bright, as if the sheer force of his voice could drown out the ache swelling in his chest.

“To her,” he said, quietly this time, to himself, voice nearly lost to the wind,

----

[oozeandgoo-art]

heard it's open season on yachts down here

[smorhe]

projecting how i wanted to look when i was 7 onto him

[coffee-and-geto]

SATORU, PhD (PRETTY HOT & DOMESTIC) — prof gojo series

His students get theories. Well… You? Satoru in a half-buttoned shirt.

pairing: professor!gojo x f!reader

summary: unlike the vast majority of people, your life at university has sometimes... nothing to do with a normal student life. good grades? pfft. partying? what’s next? no, it’s better to be your professor’s girlfriend. the roguish, charming and arrogant satoru gojo — the one who turns heads and has the knowledge to fulfill your satisfaction. and even to fulfill both your lives, which are only destined to merge… enough for you to live together.

warnings: MDNI +18 ONLY, smut, nsfw, fingering (f! receiving), oral (f! + m!), shower sex, kitchen sex, car sex, office sex, probably a lot of sex, sex p in v, unprotected sex, rough and gentle sex, (reverse) cowgirl, missionary, doggy-style, teasing, 69, creampies, overstimulation, eventual anal (why not?), multiple rounds, eventual breeding kink but not as main (once or two), art by @/3-aem.

content: reader is in her early 20s/gojo in his early 30s, age gap, college AU, golden retriever! gojo, slight black cat! reader, suggestive, jealousy, domestic life, fluff, slight angst, crack, smut (a lot actually), gojo being gojo, student-teacher relationship, gojo wants the reader as his wife, he’s quite rich.

wc: 0k

status: ongoing

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. A DISTRACTION? OR A DUTY-FULFILLING BOYFRIEND?

...and more to come!

a/n: welcome to this new series! i don’t have much to say here cuz honestly? i crave professor gojo so bad that i need to write down what i’m daydreaming about him all the time. also, i don’t think i’ll write everytime for this series but at least once a month when i’m ovulating or have a new idea. now, i can only wish you guys to enjoy this silly little series of one-shots with a life as professor gojo’s girlfriend :)

put your age clearly in bio before asking to be tagged please!

tag list: TEMPORARILY CLOSED | @izumkay , @lostfracturess , @nariminsstuff , @superdonkeypatroleggs , @0hisu , @iheartgojoo66 , @cax-per , @not-aya , @petalsrdead , @kimkimoruo , @indiewritesxoxo , @paolarox01 , @reverrieee , @billiondollarworth , @myahfig4 , @lilac-witch , @markliving , @sukunaslilsocks , @hyori2 , @lilychan176 , @yvesdoee , @redbambii , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @princess-bblgm , @oh-my-god-donald , @etsuniiru , @ethereal-moonlit , @lymsfm , @mutsu422 , @bearwithmoo , @chiiiiiichan , @ziggy0stardust , @purplegemadventures , @shibataimu , @chich1ookie , @c-moon20-12 , @cyrenees , @tbzzluvr , @kimvmarvel , @leabyjulia , @flowerpot113 , @luvvcho , @nanaosaki3940 , @rriwyu , @heybeebax , @satorugojoisamenace , @euhphoq , @aleviia , @hellowoolf , @petalshxwer , @gojo-caturo , @ssrist , @winniethepooh-lover , @kiriyue , @your-mum3000 , @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 , @satorusmochis

© 2024 COFFEE-AND-GETO - Plagiarism, steal, translation, or publication without consent is strictly prohibited — including others social medias like Wattpad, Tiktok, Tumblr, and everything else.

[connorsui]

Marked in Metal

Caleb... loves ... buying you rings.

It wasn’t something you directly questioned—at least, not seriously. He had always been like that, always finding little things to slip into your life as a form of joy. Bracelets, necklaces, little earrings here and there.

But ...rings?

Oh, those were his favorite.

— Princess cut, Briolette, Trilliant, Radiant.

Oval and round. The entire catalog.

And it wasn’t just about the aesthetic. No, it was something else entirely—something unspoken in the way he always lingered just a second longer when slipping the ring onto your finger, something in the way his eyes darkened with quiet satisfaction whenever you lifted your hand, light catching on whatever new piece he had picked out for you.

Like now for instances.

"Here," he said one afternoon, handing you a small velvet box. His voice was casual, but his fingers brushed yours when you took it from him. "Saw this new piece on my way home and thought of you."

You barely glanced up from your work before popping the box open, the soft click of the latch followed by a quiet inhale as you took in the ring nestled inside. A smooth sterling silver band, sleek and polished, with fluted rose gold prongs holding a citrine gem. The cut was extravagant, the kind of thing that should have been reserved for engagement rings, but you had long stopped questioning Caleb’s taste.

"Caleb," you groaned, rolling your eyes but still sliding it onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as they always did. "You have to stop doing this."

"And why should I?" He smirked, leaning back against the couch, arm thrown over the backrest as he watched you admire the ring despite your protests. "Looks good on you."

You twisted your fingers, letting the metal catch the light. He could see it in your face—the way your lips curved slightly, the way your brows relaxed—that moment of pure, genuine appreciation. He memorized that expression every time.

Because no matter how much you insisted it was too much, you never turned them down.

And he never had to worry about you asking how much they cost.

But it wasn’t about the price anyway. It was about the way you wore them, the way your hands danced through the air when you talked, your fingers adorned with pieces he had chosen. It was about the quiet thrill of watching everyone else notice, of knowing that every time someone asked where you got them, your answer was always the same.

"Caleb, obviously. He’s the reason I have half my jewelry box."

That was enough for him.

But this one was different.

"Wait, Caleb?" Your voice broke through his thoughts, amused and lilting. "Did you know this was engraved?"

You held up the ring between your fingers, tilting it just enough for the small inscription inside to catch the light.

.C.

Delicate, subtle, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.

He raised a brow, feigning nonchalance. "Oh? …I don't actually remember seeing that anywhere?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You seriously didn't notice?"

"Guess not." He shrugged, and you huffed out a laugh, shaking your head.

"I don’t think I believe you."

He didn’t respond, only watching as you lifted your phone, snapping a picture. Within minutes, your messages flooded with the usual teasing.

"Another one? Does Caleb just collect rings for you now?"

"That’s basically a proposal, babe!"

"Correction. This is the one billionth proposal"

And, as always, your reply was the same.

"Of course it’s Caleb. Who else spoils me like this constantly?"

He loved that. Loved knowing that when others have noticed the rings on your fingers, they knew exactly who put them there.

But even when he adorned your hands, his own ring was different.

It never sat on his finger. It had its own place, strung securely onto the same chain as his tags, resting against his chest beneath the layers of his uniform.

Same material, same weight.

But the chain never left his body. It was there in the dead of night, cold against his skin. There in the thick of the day, clinking softly against metal. It was there when the world was loud and chaotic, when exhaustion pulled at his bones, grounding him with the quiet weight of something real.

Something that brought him back to you.

And when he returned home?

when he was finally home, the chain came off—but the ring never stayed in some forgotten drawer.

No, it belonged in the same place it always did.

Right where you were—pressed close against his heart.

[reilemon]

Powdered Gold

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ synopsis: When you invited Caleb to stay at your place in hopes of rekindling your friendship, you didn’t realize you’d be inviting the feelings you shunned years ago. You both changed, but what you feel for each other hasn’t—and maybe, this time, you’ll be brave enough to reach for it.

♡︎ pairing: Caleb x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: fluff, angst, smut, Caleb calls you pipsqueak (and always will in my fics), Caleb is a virgin, but reader isn't, oral (both of them giving and receiving), creampie as always

♡︎ word count: 10.3k

♡︎ a/n: this is my first time writing Caleb, so pls be nice to me ok??

♡︎ this is not beta read but i'm still giving a shout-out to my bestie ♡︎@its-de♡︎

divider by @/anitalenia

Caleb’s voice echoes from the bathroom, breaking you out of your thoughts. “How many body lotions does one person need?”

You roll your eyes but don’t respond immediately. Instead, you smooth the fabric of his shirt between your fingers before placing it on a hanger in your closet. Then you go to the bathroom.

You lean on the doorway, crossing your arms, “You’re not being a very pleasant house guest with comments like that.”

He’s standing in the shower, placing his travel size toiletries in one corner, his back turned to you. “And you’re not bein’ a very nice host for making your guest sleep on the sofa.”

You roll your eyes again.

This was your idea. That’s what you remind yourself as you watch Caleb settle into your space like he’s always belonged there. You were the one who matched your vacation days with his, and invited him to stay here instead of a hotel.

It made sense. You hadn’t seen much of each other since he came back, just a few meetups here and there, a handful of nights at his place. But now, for the first time in what felt like years, neither of you had somewhere else to be.

The sight of him here, snooping around your bathroom after setting down the toiletries you know he’ll use up in a day before inevitably stealing half of yours, warms your heart. When you’re like this - so close to him, grabbing his wrist to drag him out of the bathroom because ‘why are you inspecting every corner, you’re so weird!’  - and when he lets out that impish chuckle as he says ‘but I need to get acquainted with my vacation place.’ - it feels like nothing has changed.

Like there are no threats in the shadows. Like both of you haven’t lost a little light in your eyes.

But you have.   

And now, watching him here, so effortlessly at home in your space, you’re not sure if it’s comforting or bittersweet.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Time quickly passed while helping him unpack and putting away his stuff, and now it’s already dinnertime and you’ve worked up an appetite. You glance, from where you’re sitting on the sofa, at Caleb who’s rolling up his sleeves before opening your fridge. Before he can ask you anything, you stand up and start walking towards the coat rack.

“Since I am such a gracious host,” you begin, earning Caleb’s attention and he turns to you, “I’ve decided to spare you of your cooking duties on your first day – “

“It’s dinnertime.” Caleb intercepts, with a mock offence in his voice.

You ignore him. “We’re going to one of my favorite places to eat.”

He closes the fridge and turns to you, crossing his arms. “That is too vague. Do I need to change and wear something fancy? Is it your treat?”

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Sure!”

You toss him his jacket and when you reach for your purse you remember something. “Oh, wait – I got you something.”

You dig into your purse and pull out a brand-new lip balm, holding it up with a triumphant look. Caleb eyes it, then sighs.

“You’re so thoughtful. Thanks.” His flat tone as he accepts it makes you grin.

“It’s extra moisturizing so I don’t have to keep looking at your dry lips.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Why do you want to keep staring at my lips?”

Heat spreads across your face instantly. You immediately look away, mumbling, “I’m not staring.”

He hums, unscrewing the cap as he tilts his head. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

You exhale sharply, ignoring him. But the moment he swipes the balm across his lips, with orange glow of sunset spilling over his face, you can’t help but steal a glance. And you just know he catches it. But, for once, he doesn’t tease. He just smirks knowingly.

You grab your jacket a little too quickly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows, still smirking as he tucks the lip balm into his pocket.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

By the time the two of you return to your apartment, you feel sleep already overtaking you. The dinner turned into wandering around some shops, then you had smoothies, then Caleb insisted walking around more to burn off calories. Usually, an evening like that wouldn’t be so tiring if you didn’t spend the whole day cleaning and tidying up, and then picking him up at the train station. And there were these waves of butterflies in your stomach, that would appear whenever you thought of him. It was draining, and frustrating.

But not confusing.

You thought those feelings had disappeared. You really did. But as the years passed and you started a new life here—new city, new people, new experiences—you told yourself you’d moved on. You had to.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you fluff up his pillow after slipping it inside a fresh and clean pillowcase. You already took a shower, stole one of his baggy shirts and paired them with pajama shorts and fuzzy socks. While he’s in the bathroom, you decided to set up the bedding on the sofa, since you’re sure he must be tired as well, even if he’s not showing it. As always.

Though your body feels like velvet, heavy with exhaustion, you still accept Caleb’s suggestion to watch a movie before bed.

"We don’t have to watch it tonight." Caleb lingers in the doorway, eyes flicking over your sleep-heavy expression.

"I’m fine!" You try to sound convincing, but you’re already tugging the duvet over yourself. "I just need to lie down."

Caleb huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he watches you nestle deeper into the cushions, head resting on the pillow meant for him.

"It’s so nice and cozy in here," you murmur, voice already thick with drowsiness. The crisp, freshly washed bedding cocoons you, pulling you under.

He chuckles, stepping closer and tapping your legs, silently telling you to move. "You’re just trying to convince me that this is comfortable for me."

Before you can protest, he takes your legs and settles them over his lap.

Your body stiffens at the contact. This is normal. It should be normal. It’s not the first time he’s had your legs in his lap. You inhale deeply, telling yourself to relax, to stop overthinking. You’re just getting used to his presence again.

Though, suddenly, you don’t feel so sleepy anymore.

The movie plays on the TV, filling the space with voices and background noise. Comfortable silence settles between you both, broken only by occasional remarks—mostly Caleb critiquing the acting. Of course he can’t keep quiet even during a movie. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but the annoyance fades the moment his hands slide under the covers, grazing over your shins.

He glances at you, voice low. "You seem a little tense. Was the walk too exhausting?"

Your breath catches for a second before you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. His fingers press against the tight muscles in your calves, kneading gently.

"Maybe a little." you murmur, your voice softer than intended.

He murmurs a small apology, letting his hands make it up to you. He presses and kneads with just the right amount of pressure, his thumbs digging into spots that unravel you far too easily.

Heat blooms deep inside you, catching you off guard.

He works his way down, his palms smoothing over your ankles, rolling slow circles there before moving to your feet. The added texture of your socks only makes it worse—the friction, the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the way his thumbs press into the soles of your feet, it makes it so much harder to focus on the movie.

You bite your lip, pulse thrumming. A small sound threatens to escape your throat, and you swallow it back before lifting your legs off his lap. You murmur a small “thank you” and curl up on your side, your gaze now glued to the screen.

Caleb teases you, saying you look like you’re about to pass out. And even though you mumble a half-hearted protest, swearing you’re still awake, your eyes flutter closed before the movie is over.

His presence might be the source of your simmering frustration, of all the feelings you’re trying to ignore—but it’s also the most comforting one you’ve ever known.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes open, it’s already morning. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over your room. You’re warm, nestled beneath the comforter, a plushie tucked securely in your arms. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you nuzzle against it. You don’t remember how you got to bed, but you don’t need to think too hard about it. Caleb must have carried you here last night, just like he always used to, slipping back into old habits as if no time had passed at all.

The scent of something familiar drifts in from the kitchen, rich and savory. He’s up, moving around the kitchen, already making breakfast.

You stretch lazily before dragging yourself out of bed, moving through your morning routine. After freshening up and changing into more presentable loungewear, you step into the living room.

"Look who’s awake!" Caleb’s voice greets you the moment you enter. His back is turned as he works at the counter, only glancing over his shoulder briefly before returning to whatever he’s preparing.

You groan, voice still laced with sleep. “I don’t want to hear the usual ‘by the time you got up I already jogged’ and blah blah blah!” Caleb laughs at your mocking tone, shaking his head as he grabs a pair of plates from the cabinet. He starts setting the table, saying something in response, but his words blur in the background when your eyes catch on something unexpected.

A pillowcase. His pillowcase.

It’s hanging on the drying rack by the window, the fabric swaying slightly from the morning breeze. Your brows knit together.

"When did—why did you wash this?" You gesture toward it, confusion clear in your voice. "It was completely clean."

Caleb barely falters. "It was, but I drooled on it last night," he says easily, still arranging the table. "Didn’t want to make too much noise, so I hand-washed it."

You huff a small laugh, tempted to tease him for drooling, but for some reason, you don’t. Maybe he was exhausted. Or maybe your scent bothered him. Your stomach tugs uncomfortably at the thought, but you brush it off before it can settle. Don’t be ridiculous.

Instead, you take a seat across from him, scanning the breakfast spread. He made everything you like in the morning—even bought coffee from one of your favorite coffee shops. The warmth in your chest is immediate, dangerously soft, dangerously familiar.

“You should quit the colonel position,” you look up from the bowls and plates, meeting his gaze properly since you walked in – he’s already watching you, a hint of amusement in his eyes, “A – and be my personal chef.”

Damn it.

Heat creeps up your neck at the stumble in your voice.

He shakes his head with a small chuckle, setting a glass of water in front of you. "I wouldn’t mind that."

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The room is bathed in the dim, flickering light of the television, casting soft shadows across the coffee table cluttered with half-eaten snacks. The scent of buttered popcorn lingers in the air, warm and familiar, mixing with the faint traces of Caleb’s cologne. He sits comfortably beside you, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed, his focus on the screen in front of him.

You should be watching too. After all, you’re the one who recommended it, but Caleb wanted to wait, saying he’d rather watch it for the first time with you instead of on his own.  And now, here you are, barely paying attention at all.

Your eyes are glued to the phone screen, and every so often, a quiet giggle escapes you, fingers tapping swiftly against the glass as you reply to messages. You don’t notice the way Caleb’s gaze flickers to you from the corner of his eye. You don’t register the barely-there tightening of his jaw as you keep getting distracted, your smile aimed at a screen instead of him.

At first, he says nothing. He lets the minutes pass, lets you have your moment, but with every small laugh, every glance downward, his patience begins to fray at the edges.

Who the hell is so funny?

He shifts beside you, stretching slightly, making himself known, a silent reminder that he’s still here. But you don’t even glance up.

Fine.

The movement is swift—before you can react, Caleb reaches over and snatches your phone out of your hands.

“Caleb!” You protest in disbelief.

He leans back against the sofa, holding your phone just out of reach, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"I thought we were watchin’ this together?"

You blink at him, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity, before a scoff escapes you. "Did you seriously just take my phone?"

He shrugs, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it, like he has every right to.

Your eyes narrow. "That is a violation of privacy."

His smirk widens slightly, thumb hovering just over the screen. "So what were you laughin’ at?"

You sigh in defeat. Time to change the tactic.

You lunge for your phone without hesitation, but he’s faster—his arm lifts easily, keeping it just out of reach, and he leans away, making you chase after it.

"Caleb—!"

The next few seconds is a blur of limbs, the glowing screen of your phone, and breathless laughter.

You scramble onto your knees, grappling at his wrist, stretching upward, trying to reach the device, but he moves effortlessly, dodging you like this is nothing. You nearly lose your balance in the process, your hands bracing against his chest—

Fuck, those muscles are strong.

Caleb chuckles at your failed attempt, his grip on your phone still firm, completely unbothered by your struggling.

You’re not giving up that easily.

With renewed determination, you grab at his wrist again, pushing against him with your full weight, throwing him slightly off balance. Your bodies end up in a tangled mess of limbs as both of you topple on your side onto the cushions. His body is so close, his warmth suddenly everywhere. Your breath catches, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because you notice a slight flinch when your fingers brush against his ribs.

You blink up at him as realization dawns, slow and sweet and far too tempting.

Caleb’s expression shifts instantly. "Don’t."

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across your lips.

You dig your fingers into his side, and he twists in protest, his muscles flexing as he tries to escape you. His laugher is light and carefree - and it is the most unfairly attractive sound you’ve always loved.

You falter for a second too long.

Caleb doesn’t waste the opportunity. Before you can react, he grips your wrist, and with ridiculous ease, he flips you onto your back. By the time you catch your breath, he’s already caging you in, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

Everything stills for a moment. His breathing is heavier now. Yours is too. The TV hums softly in the background, but neither of you are listening. Your phone has slipped onto the carpet, forgotten. His grip isn’t tight, isn’t restricting, but it keeps you in place. Caleb’s gaze lingers on you, no trace of teasing left in his expression. And something about that - the way he’s looking at you, about the weight of his body pressing against yours, how his chest rises and falls above you—sends a slow, unbearable warmth curling through you.

But then, just as easily as he pinned you down, he lets go. You sit up quickly, forcing a small laugh, brushing off the moment like it was nothing. Caleb leans back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair before reaching down and lazily tossing your phone back to you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop stealin’ your stuff. For now.”

You roll your eyes, unlocking the screen, but you hesitate for a second before speaking. “I know it was rude to text during the movie,” you admit, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “I was just talking to my friends about tomorrow.”

Caleb doesn’t react at first. He’s stretching out his legs, seemingly unfazed, “Yeah?” his voice is too neutral. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“I already made plans to go out with them.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, something quickly buried, masked with indifference. He exhales through his nose, nodding, like he’s completely unbothered.

“Cool.”

"I won’t be out late," you say quickly, feeling a pang of guilt. “Just a couple of drinks, maybe some dancing. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, eyes flicking back to the screen, but his jaw is tighter now.

You hesitate, studying him for a moment, before offering a small smile. "If it makes you feel better, you can come pick me up.”

That makes him glance at you, his eyes softer now. “Yeah. Alright.” Then he takes the TV remote to pause the movie, and now his full focus is on you. “So, what are you gonna to wear?”

The question makes you flustered, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I don’t know.” You admit quietly. It is the truth, which is why you’ve been texting your friends during the movie. But he hasn’t seen you in anything revealing before—not really. Not outside of tiny glimpses in summers past, when you’d lounge around in shorts and tank tops, never once thinking about how his eyes followed you.

And it shouldn’t be a big deal. It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t so unbearably attracted to him.

You spent too much time getting ready this morning. From the cozy loungewear you’d picked out before breakfast, to the outfit you chose for your day out with him, to the subtle refresh of your makeup before settling down for the movie—it had all been intentional. Every choice, every small detail, designed to make you look effortlessly good.

“Why don’t you show me the outfits you had in mind?” He asks, leaning back against the sofa, “Maybe I can help you.”

You force yourself to exhale, keep your tone light. "Fine. But don’t be annoying about it."

Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly. “No promises.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You disappear into your room, trying to shake off the ridiculous way your body reacted to that simple suggestion. You shouldn’t care. It’s Caleb. He’s seen you barefaced and half-asleep, wrapped in blankets, wearing mismatched pajamas. He’s been around you long enough to know every version of you.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress. It’s soft beneath your fingertips, sleek and form-fitting, hugging the shape of you in a way that suddenly feels too revealing. You refuse to dwell on it.

You smooth your hands over the fabric before stepping out, ignoring the way your pulse picks up the moment you re-enter the living room.

And the moment you do, Caleb stills.

He doesn’t shift, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t offer some offhanded remark the way you expect him to. He just watches, his gaze moving over you. Then, his brows pull together slightly, his head tilting as if he’s weighing something in his mind.

"Hm. I don’t know."

You gasp, almost appalled at the comment. “What do you mean you don’t know?” You’re trying your best to sound normal, and not like your cheeks are burning under his gaze. He looks effortlessly handsome, sprawled across the sofa with his arms draped over the backrest, legs spread in a way that makes him seem both completely at ease and utterly in control of the space around him.

His eyes lift to yours. "Turn around for me."

The request is effortless, spoken with the same ease as everything else he says. But something about it—the quiet authority in his voice, the way his gaze stays locked onto yours, unblinking—makes your skin prickle.

You try to shake off the thought, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Turn around? What, am I on a runway?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Exactly. Indulge me.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You try on another dress, stepping out with a little more confidence this time, expecting at least some approval. But Caleb only exhales, tilting his head slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"Not my favorite."

You huff, retreating into your room once again, determined to find something he can’t find an issue with. But it becomes a pattern. No matter what you put on, Caleb always has something to say.

"That one’s not very practical."

"You’ll be freezing in that."

"It’s fine, I guess."

But you’re not stupid. The pattern is glaringly obvious—the more revealing the dress, the less he seems to like it.

After one final unimpressed hum from him, you let out an exasperated breath. There’s a pile of clothes on your bed and your muscles are aching from the endless zip-twirl-sigh routine. “Okay,” you snap, sharper than intended, “you’re officially no help.”

Caleb smirks, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. “Just bein’ honest.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your phone on the coffee table. "Whatever. I’ll just ask my friends."

You barely hear whatever excuse he’s offering now, his voice a low murmur in the background as you tap out a message. Then, an idea pops up in your head. You glance up from your screen, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You should go out as well.”

Caleb stops, his gaze flicking to yours, just for a second. Then, he shakes his head, exhaling lightly. “Clubs aren’t really my scene.”

You nod, finishing your message and sending it off before locking your phone. You lean your shoulder against the wall, the cool surface pressing against your heated skin.

"Well, who knows—" your tone is casual, "you might meet a cute girl."

His laugh is hollow. “Doubt that’s happening.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head slightly, feigning innocence. “You have someone back home?”

The room stills.

You notice Caleb’s jaw shifting just slightly before his frown deepens. It’s not irritation—not exactly.

"I don’t." His voice is steady. Then, his gaze sharpens, latching onto yours, his expression more serious than before. "I would’ve told you, like I promised."

A breath catches in your throat.

"Like we promised."

Caleb’s words linger. I would’ve told you. Like we promised. You stare at him, throat tightening as his gaze sharpens—he’s studying you, dissecting the guilt spreading across your face.

“You never told me,” he says, voice deceptively casual, “if you ever liked someone.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand, but you barely register it. You don’t want to answer this question. You swallow, but your throat feels dry. "We weren’t talking as much." The words come out quieter than you intend, "It didn’t seem relevant."

“Relevant.” He repeats.

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even as something in your chest tightens. "You can’t deny we grew apart, Caleb." The words claw their way up, bitter and ugly, “And you're the one to talk - as someone who decided to go no-contact for months.” and the second they leave your mouth, you regret them.

You watch his face shift from stunned to something that looks an awful lot like hurt.

Before he can speak, you sink onto the sofa beside him, your scarred knee bumping his. “I’m sorry.” you curl your fingers into the fabric of your dress to keep from reaching for him. “I didn’t mean that.”

His eyes soften and a sigh leaves his lips. Then, the faint pressure of his palm settles on your head, the familiar gesture offering comfort. “You don’t have to apologize,” he says, voice low.

You lean into his touch, eyes burning. “But I am sorry.”

“I know.” His hand stills, heavy and warm. “So am I.”

The admission is so quiet you almost miss it. You glance up, but he’s already looking away, jaw clenched against whatever else wants to spill out. So am I for leaving. So am I for coming back broken. So am I for loving you like a man who was never meant to fly—reaching for the only light that ever felt like home, even knowing that if I get too close, you’ll be the one who burns.

You don’t press. Instead, you let your shoulder bump his. He exhales, tension seeping out of him as his hand slips down to cradle the nape of your neck. "Come on, pips." His voice is quieter now, lighter. "We should get some sleep."

The argument dissolves, but the ache remains—a bruise you’ll both keep pressing, to remind yourselves it’s real.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Even though it was late, you had insisted on finishing the rest of the movie, clinging to the familiar comfort. You slipped back into the playful banter – you had whined about the pile of clothes still sitting on your bed, blaming him for it. Caleb, ever unbothered, had only smirked and offered to neatly put them away tomorrow.

While he was in the shower, you took the time to make up the sofa, tucking the sheets with more care than necessary. When he stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, skin warm from the heat of the water, you didn’t comment on the familiar citrus scent clinging to him—the scent of your body lotion.

You’d exchanged a quiet goodnight before retreating to your bedroom, closing the door behind you.

Grabbing the pile of discarded clothes, you stacked them onto the armchair in the corner, ignoring the mess for now. You had planned on wearing your usual pajama tank top, but Caleb had insisted you wear one of his shirts again, claiming it was more comfortable.

You’re here now - lying beneath the comforter, pajama shorts brushing against soft sheets, the soft fabric of his shirt enveloping you, and yet still— you’re completely awake. Your eyes remain wide open, staring into the darkness, as if sleep might find you if you just keep pretending you’re not thinking about him.

You shift beneath the comforter, rolling onto your side, then onto your back, only to flip your pillow to the cooler side and press your cheek against it. The softness offers no relief.

A deep sigh slips past your lips, but the weight in your chest remains.

I should have told him.

You should’ve told him about the men you’ve dated. You should’ve kept your promise. That’s what he did. But you tell yourself, keep comforting yourself, that at some point your lives drifted apart. When time and distance made him feel more like a memory, you thought it didn’t matter anymore.

Except it did. It mattered to Caleb.

He’d said it plainly —I would’ve told you—as if keeping that promise was as simple as breathing. No loopholes. No expiration dates.

Your breath hitches slightly, something twisting in your chest. You roll onto your side again, eyes drifting toward the empty space beside you.

The dull ache in your lower back pulls at your attention, a stiffness lingering in your shoulder. You shift slightly, frowning at the discomfort— a souvenir from last night when you’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He had carried you to bed, made sure you were comfortable. And now, he’s the one out there, sleeping on the same sofa, crammed into a space too small for him.

The guilt creeps back in.

Finally, with a sigh of surrender, you throw off the covers and rise from your bed. You move carefully through the dark, the wooden floor cool beneath your bare feet as you make your way toward the living room.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The apartment is silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, and as you reach the doorway, you pause, peering inside. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, but you can already make out the shape of him—Caleb, stretched out on the sofa, one arm draped over his stomach, his breathing steady. For a second, you think he’s asleep -

"Can’t sleep?" His voice is quiet, but in the stillness of the apartment, it still makes you flinch.

You step closer, your gaze meeting his, even in the dark. “You should sleep in my bed tonight.”

There’s silence for a moment. You can’t make out his expression, but you can feel the hesitation in the way he exhales slowly.

Then you hear a soft chuckle. “I’m perfectly fine here.”

You narrow your eyes, irritation mixing with your exhaustion. Of course, he’s being stubborn. Any other night, you might have tried to coax him with teasing, maybe thrown in a snarky remark or the fact that he’d be doing the same thing for you if the roles were reversed.

But it’s late, and you don’t have the patience for an argument you know you’re going to win anyway.

So instead, you move without warning.

With one swift motion, you snatch the duvet right off his body, yanking the pillow from beneath his head before he can even react. A startled breath escapes him, but you don’t wait for a protest.

You’re already retreating toward your bedroom, grumbling under your breath, "I’m trying to be nice here."

Behind you, Caleb exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He doesn’t argue this time, just watches for a moment before finally pushing himself up from the sofa and following.

By the time he steps inside, you’re already back beneath your comforter, curled on your side. The mattress shifts slightly as he settles in beside you, his presence familiar yet suddenly overwhelming.

“Goodnight,” you say, too stiffly.

“Night.” His reply is softer.

You close your eyes, and the fact that he is sleeping in a comfortable bed eases your mind long enough to let you drift off to sleep.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes blink open, the darkness feels denser, heavier. The digital glow of your nightstand clock blinks 3:07 AM. You're not sure if you ever truly slept or if your mind simply hovered somewhere between dream and wakefulness.

The room is silent, save for the distant murmur of the city and the steady rhythm of Caleb’s breathing behind you—deep, even, grounding. You listen for a moment, letting the sound soothe you, lulling your nerves the same way it always used to. From the sound of it, he managed to fall asleep.

Slowly, carefully, you shift onto your other side, moving as if the smallest rustle might wake him. Your body rolls toward him, your eyes adjusting to the dark until his silhouette takes shape in front of you. He’s asleep, facing you. The moonlight spills in through the slit in the curtains, illuminating his face with delicate silver light. His brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, and one cheek is gently squished against the pillow.

Seeing him like this makes you smile, faint and bitter-sweet. He looks like a memory. Like all those nights you used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare, when he’d shift just enough to let you under the covers, barely awake but always aware of you, always there.

But the warmth of that memory fades almost as quickly as it came. Guilt rises like bile, acrid and insistent.

I don’t blame you.

You should have said that. You wish you had. When you apologized earlier, when you sat beside him trying to make up for your comment, you should’ve said that too. Because it’s true. You don’t.

You understand why he disappeared. You understand why he didn’t call, why he let you think he was gone—you know that he did it to protect you.

But the girl who slept with his necklace clutched in her fist for months, who scrubbed explosion residue from her hair until her scalp bled—she blames him. A splinter of her still does, lodged too deep to dig out.

Your eyes sting, but you blink quickly, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

You focus on the rhythm of his breathing, his lashes that cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, the slight sheen on his lips. He is right here.

So close you could reach out and touch him. So close you can feel the warmth coming off his body.

And yet, so impossibly far.

But wasn’t he always?

Hadn’t he always felt just beyond reach, even when you shared the same space, the same roof, the same memories?

You had spent so many years convincing yourself he didn’t see you that way—that his devotion was born out of duty, not desire. That he was bound to you by shared history, not longing. You told yourself that he saw you as something fragile, something to protect—not something to love.

But there were glances. Touches that lingered longer than they should have. But he never crossed the line. Never let himself want aloud.

So you told yourself he didn’t want to. That he couldn’t. That you weren’t something he was allowed to reach for.

And that’s why you found distractions. That’s why you chased comfort in other people. Because if you couldn’t have him, you had to have something.

But now, lying here beside him, in the quiet of your own bed, there are no distractions. No excuses. No distance left to hide behind. And suddenly, you wonder—

What if he wanted more?

What if he was always waiting for me?

You could wake him now. Could trace your fingertips over his eyelids, could say the words that have lived in the marrow of your bones since before you knew their name. I loved you then. I love you now.

But your lips won’t move. Your hand won’t reach out. Instead, all that comes is the memory of the aching regret that followed you around when you grieved him, whispering your sins in the dark - You should have told him. You should have been brave.

But now—he’s alive. He’s here. He’s right beside you.

But nothing is the same.

And even if you let yourself reach for him, even if you handed over every buried feeling and begged him to take it—the world around you hasn’t changed.

The people who tried to destroy you once are still out there, still watching, still hunting. There are still shadows at your back, and Caleb has always been the one who walks toward them first.

And if you lost him again—really lost him—

You don’t know if you’d survive it.

Because if regret was unbearable before, the devastation of another goodbye—this time after knowing what it’s like to have him— would split you open, would leave you hollow as the day you buried an empty casket.

You don’t realize the tears have started to fall until your vision blurs, until a soft sniffle betrays you. Caleb stirs - he takes a slow inhale, then a deeper one. You still, but it’s too late. His eyes open—drowsy with sleep—but the moment they land on you, on the shimmer on your lashes, they sharpen with clarity.

"What’s wrong?" He whispers softly, concern clear in his voice.

You swipe hastily at your cheeks, the salt sting lingering on your skin. “Nothing,” you lie, offering a trembling smile. “Just a nightmare.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t search your face for more or press for the truth he knows you’re not giving. He just reaches out. His hand finds yours first, then the warmth of his palm presses against your side, gentle as it invites you closer.

You hesitate, just for a moment. But then your body moves on instinct, pulled to him like it always is, like it always has been. He shifts onto his back, making room for you, letting you tuck yourself against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

You let yourself melt into him. Let yourself take comfort in the solid warmth of his body, in the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek. Your tears dry slowly, absorbed by the fabric of his shirt. Your fingers trace the chain around his neck, finding the pendants, the metal warm from his skin.

And you listen to the heartbeat beneath your ear.

Strong. Steady. Real.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

He’s yours, if you want him.

The fear is still there. The shadows haven’t disappeared. The world is still dangerous, still cruel, still capable of breaking him again.

But here, in the cradle of his arms, with his heartbeat syncing to yours, you finally understand: bravery isn’t the absence of fear.

So, maybe…

If that’s what sits at the end of this—if tears and heartache is what awaits you—then let it be. Let the hurt come. Let it hollow you. At least the emptiness will echo how fiercely you loved him.

You lift your head from the steady rhythm of his chest, propping yourself on your elbow, your face hovering just above his. Your eyes find his in the moonlight—half-lidded, warm, still laced with sleep, but softened by the sight of you. A small, barely-there smile touches his lips, a quiet relief. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, calloused and warm, and you lean into his touch, your lashes fluttering shut. Then you feel the press of his lips against your forehead, featherlight and lingering.

When your eyes open again, he’s still watching you. Your faces are close now, close enough that your breaths mingle, close enough that the brush of your nose against his sends a soft shiver down your spine. You glance down at his lips, drawn to the place you’ve denied yourself for too long.

His fingers still on your cheek.

And when your gaze returns to his, you see it - the look you’ve spent years misreading. The one you chalked up to pity or duty, something you’ve caught glimpses of over the years and turned away from. Something you didn’t recognize at first. Then later, refused to acknowledge out of fear.

But now, there’s no more running.

You shift closer slowly, cautiously, as if giving him time to stop you if this isn’t what he wants. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart to your lips, just once, but it’s enough.

In that stillness, you close the distance.

The kiss is soft. His lips are warmer than you imagined, but still a little chapped. He goes utterly still, as if fearing the slightest movement might dissolve this moment. But when you press closer, his hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him.

And when you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.” he murmurs.

You smile softly, and press a delicate kiss to his eyelid.

“You’re not dreaming, Caleb.” you whisper.

His lashes flutter open. His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to understand how this happened. His hand rises to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with aching gentleness. And then he moves. This time, he closes the distance. His mouth moves over yours, his breaths shaky against your skin. There’s no practiced skill, no calculated seduction—just raw, aching want, tempered by the fear of wanting too much.

Your hands slide from his chest to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the silken, messy hair. He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you as his tongue brushes hesitantly against yours. It’s clumsy, earnest, his nose bumping yours, his teeth catching your lip by accident.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but you laugh—a soft, breathless sound—and pull him closer.

“Don’t be.”

You lean into it, guiding him with soft sighs and quiet hums.

His hands hold you tighter now—one on your back, the other slipping down, splayed at your waist like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’s started.

And when your lips break apart for breath, you don’t pull away. You rest your forehead against his, and you whisper, barely audible, "I don’t want to stop."

He exhales, "Me neither."

Your fingers tremble slightly as they wander from his hair, along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing lower. Over the column of his throat, skimming the pulse beneath his skin, before drifting lower—over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. You feel the way he shivers beneath your hand, how his muscles tense slightly.

His breath hitches when you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling there, his gaze locking onto yours.

He doesn’t need you to say it.

Without a word, he sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he yanks the shirt over his head. The fabric falls to the floor, and for a moment, you just stare—you’ve seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never yours.

You gently press against his shoulder, coaxing him to lie back down, and he does so, collapsing against the pillows. You swing one leg over, your thighs bracketing his hips, but you hover just above him—close enough to feel his heat, yet far enough to let him breathe. You lean down to reclaim his mouth, your hands framing his face. The kiss deepens, and you tilt your head to better taste him, to feel more of him. He gasps into your mouth, one hand slipping to your lower back, the other lowering—slow, unsure—to brush against your bare thigh, the contact making you shiver.

And still, his hand doesn’t wander, doesn’t explore. It lingers like he’s afraid of being told to stop.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your breaths mingling between kisses. Your hand covers his where it rests against your leg, and you guide it higher, to your hip, where your skin is warmer.

You hold his gaze.  “You can touch me, Caleb.” Your voice is soft, “Wherever you want.”

His eyes widen slightly, color blooming high on his cheeks. His fingers flex against your skin, then he speaks, “I don’t… I’ve never—” He swallows hard, and you see the flicker of frustration in his eyes, not at you, but at himself, at his own nerves.

“I know,” you whisper, your hand slipping up to cradle his jaw, your lips brushing just beneath his ear. “It’s okay.”

Then, slowly, you lower yourself until your hips meet his, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against you. His head falls back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. Heat blooms through your belly at the contact, and your hips rock forward just enough to make him shudder.

His hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still. “Wait—wait.”

You freeze, pulse thrumming in your ears. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he says, eyes snapping open. “Just… let me—” He swallows, his voice dropping to a plea. “Let me do this right.”

You smile, and brush his hair away from his eyes. “There’s no right, Caleb. Just us.”

He exhales, nodding, and then his hips roll upward tentatively, the friction drawing a gasp from both of you. His thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips as they continue to move against him in a slow, rolling rhythm. The thin barrier of fabric between you—his sweatpants, your pajama shorts—only amplifies the heat, the friction of every roll of your hips against his. His breath hitches, his eyes fluttering closed, as you grind down again, your own shorts riding up, the seam catching just right. He curses under his breath, hips jerking up to meet yours, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs.

You want to feel all of him, nothing between. And the way his hands start to roam, still cautious, still learning, tells you he’s thinking the same thing.

You shift slowly, rising from his lap with a final roll of your hips that leaves him gasping, lips parted, brows knit. His hands fall away reluctantly, his eyes flickering with confusion and curiosity. Your hands trail down his chest, over the taut planes of his stomach. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers graze the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” His hand covers yours, trembling. “You don’t have to—”

You lift his palm to your lips, “I want to.” Your gaze holds his. “Let me show you how much.”

He swallows hard, but nods.

You hook your fingers into the fabric, tugging gently. He lifts his hips, letting you peel the layers away, his eyes never leaving your face. When you finally see him, all of him – hard, heavy, straining for you, you feel a fresh heat rise in your chest, in your belly, deeper.

When your eyes meet his again, you find him watching you just as intently—like he’s searching your face for any flicker of doubt. But there’s none. At first, his body tenses—thighs taut beneath your touch, hands clenching the sheets under him. He tries to hold still, tries to be polite, tries to hide the way his hips twitch when your lips press to the sensitive skin just below his navel.

“Breathe.” you whisper against his skin, and you feel it when he does - shoulders softening, jaw loosening, a low groan slipping past his lips as you finally take him into your mouth. You take your time, learning what makes his body melt under your touch. You relish the way his hips stutter when you swirl your tongue, the broken whimper he tries to smother with his fist, the devotion in his voice when he rasps your name.

Gradually, his iron grip on the sheets loosens, one hand resting on the back of your head, and his hips finally start to move to the rhythm you set.

His breath starts to come faster. You feel the change in his body—the way his thighs tense, how his fingers flex and twist in the sheets. “Wait—” His voice is rough. “If you keep going, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You slow, just for a moment, lifting your eyes to his flushed face. You reach for him, one hand sliding up his stomach, calming. “It’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the sharp cut of his hipbone. “Let me take care of you.”

He groans at that, head turning into the pillow. He doesn’t speak again, but his muscles start to twitch, his legs falling wider, hips stuttering as your mouth picks up the pace. His moans become deeper, more raw, and then your name spills from his lips again.

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

You hum in acknowledgment, not letting up, your hands gripping his hips as he shudders beneath you, and then—he falls apart. You taste him on your tongue, feel every desperate pulse of release as his thighs tremble beneath your hands, coming undone in your mouth—helpless and wholly yours.

You don’t pull away. You stay with him through it, coaxing him through the final tremors. You only ease off when he makes the faintest sound of overstimulation, brushing your lips one last time to the hollow of his hip before sitting up.

Caleb is panting, eyes closed, arm thrown over his face.

But when you crawl back up his body, he opens his arms instinctively, pulling you into his chest, where you hear his heart is thundering under your ear. And after a long pause, his hand cups your cheek and kisses you softly, tasting himself on your lips.

His breath is still uneven, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. But he sits up, and for a second his eyes search yours again—asking permission without words. You nod once, and his fingers curl around the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.

He pulls it up slowly, his eyes tracking the reveal of your stomach, the curve of your breast, watching the way your chest rises and falls a little faster under his gaze. His hands tremble, just slightly, and you can see it - that mixture of reverence and disbelief in his eyes. He bends to kiss you again, before his mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, the flutter of your pulse.

He guides you onto your back, and shifts to follow, half-hovering over you. His lips trail kisses along your neck, your breasts. You arch into him, a gasp escaping as his tongue flicks over your nipple, and he hums in response, the vibration rippling through you.

His hands move lower, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pajama shorts. He pauses, “Is this okay?”

You nod, your voice failing you, and lift your hips. He slides the shorts down, his knuckles grazing your thighs, his breath hitching when you’re finally bare. For a moment, he just stares. Fading moonlight spills across your body, catching the sheen of arousal between your thighs. A shaky exhale escapes him as he drags a single finger across the wetness, his touch featherlight.

But before he goes further, before his mouth finds its way to where you’re already pulsing for him, something else catches his eye. The faint scar across your knee. Fading now, but still there. His thumb brushes gently along the uneven line, before he leans forward and presses a kiss to it, the silent apology making your heart flutter.

Then his mouth drifts lower, lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. The first flick of his tongue on your folds is so startlingly gentle you flinch. A soft laugh escapes you, breathless and giddy, goosebumps blooming on your skin.

Caleb stills, lifting his head, brows creased in confusion.

“You’re tickling me,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair in reassurance.

He huffs a laugh against your skin. “Got it,” he murmurs. His mouth presses more firmly, his hands holding your hips as his tongue parts your folds and he groans at the first taste. Your back arches off the bed, a moan slipping out, and it spurs him on. One hand stays braced on your thigh, the other moves to gently trace one fingertip around your entrance, testing. You whisper yes, please, and that’s all it takes. He sinks a finger in, his eyes flicking up to watch the way your face shifts—lips parted, brows gently pulled, the rise and fall of your chest now uneven.

His mouth finds your clit, more confident now. The heat of his tongue, the wet pressure of his lips - it’s clumsy but it’s honest, driven by need and the desire to learn what makes you tremble. Then his finger finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you fist your hand in his hair, the one that makes your toes curl. You whisper yes, yes, yes, and you swear you feel him smile.

His free hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers against your belly.

“Look at me,” he rasps, and you force your eyes open, “Want to see you.”

Your body is starting to unravel beneath him, soft moans spilling from your lips, your thighs trembling.

“Another,” you pant, and he obeys instantly, adding a second finger. His rhythm stutters at first, but you guide him with whispered pleas, your hips rolling against his hand. His tongue flicks faster, his fingers pumping in a deep, steady curl, and you’re suddenly so close to the edge. His name spills from your lips like a prayer, and he growls against you, as if your climax is his own.

And when you fall apart with his name on your lips and your hands tangled with his, Caleb doesn’t stop. He holds you through it, lets you ride it out, his fingers easing only when your thighs start to shake, when your hips twitch with overstimulation. He pulls back, resting his forehead against your inner thigh, his breaths ragged. His erection strains against the sheets, but his focus still on you, always on you, even as his hand trembles where it grips yours.

You pull him up, his body collapsing over yours, and kiss him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hips grind reflexively against your thigh, a broken noise escaping him, but he doesn’t push. Just holds you, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, your hands cradling his damp hair.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breath and skin and the quietness of the morning twilight.

His fingertips trace along the curve of your side, not teasing, just feeling. Like he can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then he murmurs—soft, regretful, honest:

“I should’ve been your first.”

The words make your heart skip a beat. Still, the way he says it isn’t bitter. There’s no accusation in his voice. Only ache.

You draw back just enough to meet his eyes, your palm resting flat on his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Then be my last.” You whisper.

His breath hitches, eyes widening for a split second. He presses a kiss to your temple, before he meets your eyes again.

“Do you… have anything?” A pause, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Protection?”

You pause for a moment. Then you nod, brushing your fingers over his jaw.

“Left drawer,” you whisper.

He hesitates, his thumb circling your hipbone. “We don’t have to—”

“I know.” You press a kiss to his furrowed brow. “But I want this.”

He shifts to reach for it, but you catch his wrist. “Wait.”

His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowed.

You trace the skin with your thumb, suddenly too sheepish to meet his gaze. “We don’t need it.”

He stills at your tone. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." You finally meet his gaze, “If it’s you… I don’t want anything between us.”

He exhales, shakily, the tension in his shoulders softening as his arms wrap around you again.

When your legs shift, parting around his hips, you feel the hard length of him press against your entrance, and it pulls a soft gasp from you both.

Caleb stills. One hand rests by your head, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking softly across your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, threading your fingers into his hair, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

He exhales slowly, trembling slightly as he reaches between you, lining himself up. The head of him nudges your entrance, already wet and aching for him. You feel the pressure first, a stretch that makes your breath catch. He sinks in just a little—then stops immediately when you tense.

“Too much?” he breathes.

You shake your head, running a hand down his back. “No… keep going.”

Inch by inch, his body presses into yours, your warmth pulling him in, taking him deeper. His jaw clenches, a guttural sound caught in his throat as your walls flutter around him, as your hand curls over his bicep for something. His restraint is palpable, sweat beading at his temples as he presses deeper, his hips rolling in shallow strokes until he’s sheathed fully inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His necklace rests warm against your collarbone, the metal shifting slightly as his chest heaves above yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, his lips grazing your temple.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I will.”

His thrusts start slow, each one sinking deeper than the last, his eyes locked on yours as if searching for permission with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck,” he grits out suddenly, halting his movements with a trembling inhale. His entire body shudders as he lowers his forehead to your shoulder, nose brushing your throat, lips finding your pulse.

“I need a second…” His voice is breathless. “I don’t want this to end yet.”

You cradle his jaw, lifting his face up so you can look at him. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Just be here. With me.”

His gaze falters, then finds yours again. He draws back just enough to move again, slow at first, like he’s trying to find a rhythm that won’t break him.

One of his hands tangles with yours, fingers lacing tightly together as he presses it into the pillow above your head. The other slips between your bodies until his thumb finds you, pressing a gentle, slow circle over your clit—and it draws a gasp from you, your thighs tensing around his hips.

“Like that?” His voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” you breathe, hips chasing the movement of his hand. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he leans in to kiss you again—messy now, all teeth and parted mouths. He keeps moving inside you, each thrust dragging along your sweet spots, and the rhythm of his thumb against your clit grows more confident, bolder with every breathless moan you give him. He watches you with blown pupils, flicking between your face and the place where your bodies meet, as if committing every detail of your pleasure to memory.

His forehead drops to yours, the weight of his body pressing deliciously down as his thumb circles faster, more intently, chasing the way your thighs begin to tremble, the way your grip on his hand tightens.

Then his hips shift—just a little, but enough for a sharp discomfort to shoot through you. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a soft, involuntary “ah—” escaping your throat.

He stops immediately. Every muscle in his body locks, his expression flashing from concentration to concern in an instant. “Shit—did I hurt you?” he asks, breath still ragged.

You shake your head quickly, already reaching for his face, your palm cradling his cheek. “No, no,” you whisper. “Just... not like that.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heels pressing against the small of his back, gently urging him into a better angle. “Here,” you guide, your voice low and coaxing. “A little lower. Like that.”

He swallows hard, still frozen in place, but the panic softens as he watches you, sees that you still want this. He nods, his throat working with the effort to calm himself.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I promise.”

He exhales on the word promise, and then he moves again. His brows draw together, not in worry now, but in focus, lips brushing your cheek as he resumes the rhythm that had your body unraveling.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he grinds deeper, the angle just there, the friction so exquisite your vision blurs.

“Caleb—” you gasp, voice cracking as the pleasure rises sharp and fast inside you.

“I know, I know.” he rasps. His hips snap harder, deeper, the slap of skin echoing as you spiral closer. “That’s it,” he grits out, his thumb pressing harder. “Let go. Let go for me.”

When your thighs lock around his waist, when your walls clench around him in a sudden, overwhelming spasm, your release rips through you - deep, intense, every nerve alight. Your back arches off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as you pulse around him, your fingers clawing into the sweat-slick skin of his back.

“Fuck—” His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic. With a shattered groan, he buries himself to the hilt, his hips jerking as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath a ragged pant against your lips.

For a heartbeat, you’re both still, just a tangle of sweat and shared breath, his necklace resting between your breasts, now warm from the heat of your skin. Then he collapses against you, his weight comforting and grounding, his lips brushing your collarbone. His arms curl tightly around you, one hand tracing slow, mindless patterns over your hip, and the other splayed beneath your shoulder. You exhale slowly, your fingers sliding through his damp hair.

You’re not sure how long you lie there like that, tangled and breathless, your hearts gradually slowing from their frantic rhythm. The first sliver of sunlight filters through your curtains, golden and gentle. You tilt your chin to study him, how sunlight looks like powdered gold over his lashes.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, because it’s true, and because you know it’ll fluster him.

His nose scrunches, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Men aren’t beautiful.”

“You are.” You brush the hair from his temple. “Like a pouty Renaissance angel.”

He only chuckles, burying his face against your chest.

You tilt your head to kiss his temple, your voice a soft murmur against his skin. “Come on. Let’s wash up.”

He groans. “Or we could stay like this forever.”

“You’re sweating all over me.” you protest, already nudging at his side.

He lifts his head just enough to squint at you. “You liked it when I was sweating five minutes ago.”

You roll your eyes, pushing him off with a laugh as you both untangle from the bed. The sheets are a mess, still warm with everything that happened, and your thighs ache, making you bite your lip as you stand. You grab a towel and toss one at him too. He catches it, looking far too smug for someone who was blushing just an hour ago.

As you step under the warm spray, Caleb holding your hand for stability, something crosses your mind.

“Hey… did you really drool on the pillow?”

[rafesangelita]

♡ having a pregnancy scare wasn’t on rafe and pogue!sweetheart!reader’s to do list anytime soon.. but alas, here they are waiting to see if two pink lines will change the trajectory of their lives forever.

warnings: pregnancy, mentions of a breeding kink lol, super sweet fluff, slight humor, lots of crying

a/n: this is my not-so-subtle way of introducing babydaddy!rafe to my blog (i’ve been reading a lot of babydaddy!rafe lately.. yum) also just a reminder: pogue!sweetheart!reader is only pregnant in this fic alone. meaning any other works i create with her are not correlated with this one UNLESS stated so <3 you could keep up with this little universe under the ‘₊˚⊹♡ babydaddy!rafe x pogue!sweetheart!reader’ tag of this post!

w/c: 1.3k

“a-are you sure you’re late?” rafe was pacing back and forth, tears pricking your eyes as you flipped through your little calendar book. “yes! i look at my calendar everyday rafe, it’s been three weeks!” you sniffled, checking for the millionth time. rafe joined you on your bed, realizing he probably wasn’t making you feel any better if he was freaking out too. “hey..” he cupped your chin, “it’s gonna be okay, baby. what do you need me to do? ‘want me to go get some tests from the store?” you cried even more, the whole thing becoming too real all at once. “i don’t know! i don’t know what to do, ray!”

he sighed, holding you as you wept in his arms. “oh, baby,” rafe rubbed your back, “you know i’m going to take care of us, of you.” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. he wiped the tears from your eyes, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “i know.. it’s just— this is so new, and even though we don’t have a for sure answer yet, i feel like i really am. you know.. pregnant?” saying it out loud made rafe’s heart drop to his stomach. you saw the way his expression softened, his eyes flickering down to where you two held hands.

while it shouldn’t be too surprising, considering you two never use protection.. it’s still a delicate matter that rafe took very seriously. “am i gonna sound crazy if i say i hope that you are?” you took a breath, stroking the side of rafe’s face. “no. i want it too.” letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he pulled you against his chest, embracing you once again. “why don’t we find out? ‘go to the pharmacy and get some tests?” you nodded, the anticipation already feeling unbearable. “okay.” you pulled away, getting under your knitted blanket.

“you’re not going with me?” rafe laughed. “are you joking? the owner has known me forever. if he see’s us buying a pregnancy test, he’ll—” you lowered your voice down to a whisper, “he’ll know what we’ve been doing..” your cheeks heated at the thought of the sweet old man who’s known you for all of your life checking you out for a test that indicates you’ve been doing a lot more than just baking cookies. “baby, if you didn’t live in the middle of nowhere, and far away from any kind of civilization, everyone on this island would know what we’ve been doing.” he winked.

at his words, you shooed him out of your camper as a giggle escaped your lips. he wasn’t wrong. rafe knew all the ways to make you scream and tremble in pure bliss. it felt like forever since rafe had been out, but one glance at the heart shaped clock on your wall, and it had only been ten minutes. you laid on your back, fingertips skimming your tummy. imagining a baby, half of you, and half of rafe, a result of two worlds, both full of so much love, colliding into one and making the most beautiful creation you were sure to ever see, made a smile grace your pretty face.

now you were thinking about a nursery, wondering if you’d be painting it baby pink or powder blue. either color was fine with you. sitting up, you looked around your camper, really seeing just how small it was. you and rafe barely fit in here together, let alone with a little baby that’ll eventually grow and want to run around. now you felt sad at the indication that you might have to move out of the only place you’ve ever known. this would change your life, but with rafe by your side you felt more ready than ever. just as you were going to call rafe and politely tell him to hurry up, he walked through the door.

“i wasn’t sure which one you wanted, so i just grabbed one of each.” rafe gave you the bag, plopping down next to you. there was about ten different tests in there, including a lot of the snacks you’d been craving over the last week. sour gummy bears, chocolate, and spicy chips mostly. taking out a pink box, you read the instructions before looking back at rafe who already had his full attention on you. “can you come with me?” without hesitation, rafe helped you up and guided you to the bathroom. “alright..” he leaned against the doorframe, watching as you unwrapped the test.

“i can’t really pee if you’re looking..” rafe had zoned out, thinking about house hunting already and wondering what kind of car seat would be the safest for a baby. “right, i’m sorry.” he turned around, swallowing the lump in his throat. rafe needed the confirmation just as much as you did, his stomach doing somersaults as he nervously bit his lip. “you okay?” he asked. you hummed, peeing on the stick before setting it down on a piece of toilet paper. washing your hands shortly after, you and rafe left the test in the bathroom as you waited in silence.

“my heart is beating so fast right now.” you laughed, on the verge of tears as rafe rubbed circles into the flesh of your thigh. “i want you to know something..” rafe whispered, “whatever those test results come out to; negative or positive, we’re going to be okay. i don’t want you to worry about a thing, alright?” your chin wobbled as you nodded, your head falling in the curve of his neck. you stayed quiet for the rest of the time, the timer on rafe’s phone going off. “oh, god..” you whimpered, motioning for rafe to grab the test. “don’t look at it, just bring it over!” you called out.

rafe walked back with his eyes closed, nearly bumping into the wall as his hands trembled with excitement. “where are you?” he kept his eyes screwed shut, in which you followed suit. “i’m right here.” you squeaked out, holding onto his wrists. “on three we’re gonna look down.” you nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “okay, i’m ready.” both of you smiled. “one, two, three—” both of you looked down, rafe jumping and running out of your camper as you stared down at the sight of two, very prominent, pink lines. rafe was shouting outside, the sound making you laugh as you took a seat on the couch.

“oh my god.” rafe poked his head in, your teary eyes meeting his. thankfully, he was able to read the room and calmed down a bit. “oh my god.” he repeated, kneeling down in front of you. “are you okay? are you happy?” rafe rubbed the side of your thighs, his touch providing a comfort like no other. “yes! i just can’t believe it..” you hugged him, his arms wrapping around your waist. “we have a lot of planning to do.” you sniffled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. rafe could already see it. the white house, the white picket fence, both of you were already two steps closer to your dreams becoming a reality.

“yeah, we do,” he agreed, “let’s just take it one day at a time, yeah?” you smiled, cupping his face. “i love you so much, this is crazy.” he kissed your lips before taking the test in his hands again. “a whole baby..” you were in utter disbelief. “maybe i should take the rest of the tests?” you stood up, taking the plastic bag with you to the bathroom. by the time you finished, the sun was already setting, both you and rafe staring at the approximately ten tests in front of you. all positive. “looks like we took the breeding kink a little too seriously, huh?” you looked up at rafe through his reflection in the mirror. “that was a good one.”

[comatosebunny09]

defense(less) zone | sylus

— summary: it wasn’t until your friend returned with a third glass that he noticed something was…off. the woman—tara, he believes her name was—pat him on the shoulder as she strode past. “have a good night, mr. skye,” she drawled, leaving sylus to ponder what the hell that meant. — cw: aphrodisiacs, written with female reader in mind, awkward boners, stupid humor, alcohol consumption, accidental intentional drugging, profanity, sylus in-heat, sexual content, mdni — notes: here's half of what you asked for. once i finish up with my other wips, i'll revisit this one. thank you so much for reading! — tags: @leighsartworks216 @world-of-hearts @queenofstresss @cheshireworld @beewilko

Sylus knew better.

He knew after the third time you warned him not to touch the grog that it was imperative he listen.

Sure, he teased you about it. “I assure you, sweetheart. I know how to hold my liquor.”

The sharp look in your eye held a warning. “That’s not the problem.”

He chuckled with his hands thrown up in mock surrender. You were being a killjoy, sure. But he heeded you, avoiding the table that held the concoction of spirits like the plague.

Until…

Well, your friends—they were so lovely. Equally as insistent, shoving drinks and hors d'oeuvres into his hands while you were off socializing.

It was your fault for leaving him alone. You were the talk of the ball since you’d stepped foot in the venue with Mister Tall, Dark, and Devastating. Naturally, when you left his side, your friends swept in, buzzing about like hoverflies.

They bombarded him with questions, swooned over him, complimented him. He was used to the limelight. This level of attention. But it hit differently when people weren’t kissing his ass because he was a kingpin.

He found his defenses melting into the floor the more they talked to him, and it was easy for Sylus to understand why you acquainted yourself with them. They were lively. Disarming. Dangerous.

One of your lady friends sidled up to him with a glass of something ominous. Light pink in color, and it swirled and glittered like a nebula. Its acrid scent should’ve been enough of a ward. But he didn’t want to be rude. And he wasn’t a bitch, so he drank it, ignoring its harsh edge. He needed to blend in. Show you he could drink like a sailor and still carry you home by the night’s end.

And…maybe he was being a little impressionable.

It wasn’t until your friend returned with a third glass that he noticed something was…off.

“Thank you,” Sylus said, the glass poised at his lips.

Your friend watched with mischief painting her features. That didn’t bode well. Sylus threw back the last drink, placing his glass on a waiter’s tray passing by.

The pair stood in uncomfortable silence—Sylus smiling warily with a hand stuffed in his pocket and the young lady refusing to look away as a Chesire grin split her face in twain.

The woman—Tara, he believes her name was—pat him on the shoulder as she strode past. “Have a good night, Mr. Skye,” she drawled, leaving Sylus to ponder what the hell that meant.

The rest of your coworkers followed suit, slowly trickling away to the dancefloor. As Sylus said his goodbyes to the last of them, the room started to teeter, and his chest grew heavy as if weighed down by lead.

Sylus massaged his temple, trying to blink away the sudden bleariness. There was no way in hell he was drunk. Not this early in the evening, and not after a handful of watered-down cocktails.

He scanned the room. Caught your eye amongst the sea of revelers. You raised your champagne flute to him in greeting, a quiet smile rounding your lips. This ball was important to you—an opportunity to create a lasting impression on your new superiors. Sylus would kick himself if he spoiled it. So, he nodded.

But he learned to regret that simple gesture soon enough.

He stumbled forward a step or two, and the marbled floors below swam. What the fu—

Shaking his head, Sylus’ eyes flit to you to see your brows pinching with concern. You looked like you wanted to tear through the crowd to get to him. He smiled to lay your worries to rest, mouthing, ‘I’m alright.’

Seemingly satisfied, you spared him another apprehensive look before returning your attention to the woman before you who’d ensnared you in conversation.

Sylus wasn’t exactly sure what was amiss with his body. Just knew he was growing hot beneath the fibers of his tux, and the hairs at his nape were pasted to his skin by sweat.

He wended through the crowd, taking long strides towards the restroom. Maybe a splash of cold water would draw him back to sobriety.

On his journey, he caught sight of the punchbowl you’d steered him away from all night.

He swallowed past a lump of barbs in his throat, quickening his pace as a familiar swirl of pale pink gleamed condescendingly at him from within.

—

Thankfully, the bathroom was empty.

He inspected himself in the mirror, his large hands on either side of the sink bowl to keep him upright.

He’d broken out with a fine sheen of sweat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Why the fuck was it so hot? And why was his chest burning like that, the sensation slowly puddling in his stomach?

Sylus turned on the faucet. Cupped his palms beneath its languid spray, splashing water onto his face. He slapped his cheeks, willing himself to get his shit together. Despite his efforts, the lights of the men’s room continued to spin and blur, and he struggled to keep himself afloat.

He winced at his reflection. Took a deep breath, mouth hanging open when he exhaled. He looked flushed. Unkempt. The veins of his neck visibly throbbed, and he felt the beginnings of a headache seeping in. Could he really not hold his liquor?

“Hey, man!” called a boisterous voice from behind. It was followed by a clap on Sylus’ shoulder, and had he been anyone but himself, he would’ve barreled into the wall. A growl roiled in his chest, and he cut his eyes at the intruder.

The guy in question—one of your coworkers whom Sylus spoke with earlier—draped an arm about his shoulders, studying both their visages with a drunken cant to his lips.

“Great party, huh?”

Sylus could only grunt, his throat slowly constricting, and his wits scattered about.

“You alright, man?” he queried. “Not lookin’ so hot there.” He studied Sylus’ side profile a moment longer before a knowing foxlike grin crept over his lips. “Aw, dude! You get a hold of the grog, too?”

Sylus felt the color drain from his face.

“Yeah, man. That shit’s lethal. Don’t know what they put in it this time, but I’m harder than a rock!” The room erupted with his raucous laughter directly into Sylus’ ear. He proceeded to palm himself, playfully wiggling his hips.

Sylus wondered how long you’d give him the silent treatment if he committed murder tonight.

“Take care, man,” the obnoxious asshole bellowed, patting Sylus a little too roughly between his shoulder blades. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Sylus tracked his movements to the door until it swung closed behind him, blotting out the swell of noise beyond. He bowed forward, his forehead colliding with the glacial surface of the mirror—a welcomed contrast to his inflamed skin.

“Fuck,” he rasped, hanging on by a thread.

They spiked the grog. They spiked the fucking grog. He’d had three glasses of it, and whatever was in there disrupted his senses and made his pants grow unbearably tight. That would explain why everyone was so nauseatingly happy.

Your visage flashed in his mind. Made his body pulse, and he crumbled with grit teeth.

He knew you’d be up his ass when you found out.

In his defense, you left him to the wolves. To those jackals you called friends.

—

He finds you in no time. Sniffs you out like a bloodhound after he gave himself a lengthy pep talk in the bathroom.

“Sweetie,” Sylus calls from behind. Eases a hand down the curve of your spine. You shiver. Damn your dress for having such a devastating plunge. For boasting your pretty skin like that.

You’re so soft here, he thinks, dragging the backs of his fingers up and down the ripples of your vertebrae. The scent you carry is lethal. Floral and sweet. His eyes nearly pitch into the back of his skull when he gets a whiff, toes scrunching in his dress shoes.

You peer at him over your shoulder, a soft smile to your lips. Toy with your necklace. Very demure, very docile.

“There you are,” you purr with that thousand-watt smile, your voice honey-smooth. He feels it pooling in his lower belly. Bites his lip against a pathetic sound threatening to make itself known.

Over your shoulder, he gives your company a curt, dismissive smile. Perches a hand on your hip, drawing you back towards him to spin you around. He then leads you to a spot devoid of people, away from the strobing lights. His palms clasp around your arms, thumbs cruising over supple skin.

“What’s up?” you whisper, pressing a concerned hand between his pectorals. His Achilles Heel. His heart beats a war cadence against you. He might just take you here if you’ll let him. Split you nice and open.

Alarm meddles with your features at his silence. At the violent tremor of his heart. Your brows furrow, and your lips quiver. “What’s wrong, Sy?”

God, you’re beautiful, even when you look all concerned. He traces a languid triangle between your bowed lashes and lips. Wants to kiss you so fucking bad. Smudge that pretty lipstick down your chin. Slide his hand between your thighs and make you sigh his name in front of all these people.

His dick throbs.

Fuck. Focus. Stay focused.

“Sweetie,” he tries again, swallowing thickly. His eyes are at half-mast. He’s trying his best not to sway—not to look like a bumbling idiot, but whatever’s in his system has him seeing double.

You jet into mom mode. Gently grab his wrists, the feel of your digits branding his skin, wrenching a needy sound from his throat. “Sylus, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

He debates on telling you the truth. Turns it over like a record in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. Feels silly, like a child admitting to rifling through the cookie jar.

A wave of vertigo hurtles into him, reminding him of his plight. He teeters forward, catching himself at the last minute. Angles closer, his breath stirring your baby hairs.

“I…might’ve indulged a little.”

“Huh?” you ask, rubbing up and down his arms. You smooth his hair away from his forehead, behind his ears. Gather his cheeks into your palms, and he burns like an inferno. “The hell does that even mean?”

He tries his best to roll his eyes. For someone so gorgeous, you can be incredibly daft.

“The grog, sweetie.”

“The grog…” There’s a faraway look in your eyes.

He watches the gears turn in your head before realization descends on your shoulders. Whatever concern you held for him sloughs off, replaced by mortification. The world eases by in a Gaussian blur, every sound a muddled mess to his ears.

Suddenly, you’re shoving at him. Pelting his chest with half-hearted jabs, and he stumbles back. Bad idea. He catches your hands, holding on tight to keep himself afloat.

“You drank—you drank the fu—”

Glancing around, you haul him towards an alcove. Push him up against the wall none-too-gently, forcing a grunt from his lungs.

“You drank the fucking grog?”

Uh-oh. You’re whisper-yelling. He’s in for it now.

“Yep.”

“After I told you, like, thirty times not to?!”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck, man!”

He’s swaying again. Plasters on a silly grin. It’s comical, watching you quietly panic.

“To be fair, your friend fed it to me.” He motions to something off to the side with a tilt of his head.

You pick up on his cue. Tara’s not too far off, waggling her fingers in a way that bleeds mischief.

“Unbelievable!” you sigh, scrubbing a frustrated hand down your face. “I can’t leave you by yourself for two seconds.”

You’re clearly upset. He doesn’t mind catching strays. Couldn’t dodge them even if he tried. So, instead, he takes hold of your hands to calm them. Tugs you closer, eyes a bleary shade of burgundy. 

“What’s done is done, sweetheart. How we next choose to handle this is what matters now.”

You give him a look. A once-over, painting a sharp line down the slope of his body. It is then that you catch sight of him—hot and turgid against the stitching of his trousers. A knit forms between your brows. You look like you want to scream-slash-cry.

“That bad?” you ask. Your disappointment from before abates, replaced by something of concern. He chuckles, and it’s an effort on its own. 

Sluggishly, he directs your hand to the cusp of him. Groans something filthy and bitten-off, eyes screwing shut. He bows into you, a bead of sweat trailing down the ridge of his Adam’s apple. 

“That bad.”

[kaciidubs]

A-B-C

✧ Summary: Secret baby questions and lazy Sunday afternoons, you wouldn't have it any other way. ✧  ✧ Word Count: 659 ✧ Warnings: Slice of life, fluff, mention of Bubble, pregnancy, Chris is a lovable goofball ✧  ✧ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ✧  ✧ Additional Tags: Chan is referred to as Chris, and Fiance, Reader is referred to as Fiancee, this could be faintly related to Confiscated, so take that as you will, lightly edited ✧ Stray Kids Masterlist ✧ General Masterlist

| How did you learn the ABC song?

Pursing your lips, you peeked above the top of your phone to stare at the man sitting on the opposite end of the couch, his left hand gently massaging your left ankle as his thumb slid across the screen of his phone.

“Chris, you did not just ask Stays that question.”

His movements stopped, though you could see the bashful smile fighting its way onto his face despite his best efforts of pretending he didn’t hear you.

“Christopher.”

The playful warning in your voice was enough to make him give up the charade as he looked over at you, embarrassed laughter tumbling from him as his eyes creased into half moons.

“What? I’m just trying to get a bigger scope on this to see if there’s actually a huge difference in these things!”

You had just barely crossed over into the third month of your pregnancy, and with that came the casual, increased conversations of your own respective childhoods and what things you would like to incorporate into raising your own little bean. From family traditions and religions, to stances on co-sleeping and methods of potty training, there was almost nothing the two of you haven’t gone over since those two blue lines came into your life.

“Also,” Chris crossed his arms over his chest, peering at you with a raised eyebrow, “why do you still have my bubble?”

It was now your turn to laugh, before reigning it in enough to muster up a dramatic gasp.

“Is it such a crime to want to support my fiance’s career?”

“It is when my fiancee not only pays for my bubble, but my friend’s bubbles, too – as if she’s not already in a group chat with them where they can actually reply directly to her.”

You hummed, nodding and pursing your lips, “Or, you just don’t want me to catch you asking secret baby questions to Stays!”

The dramatics now transferred to him, his hand flying to his chest as his jaw dropped, “Secret baby questions?! Me?! I would never! I’m just having a conversation with Stays that somehow also relates to one we had a few minutes ago – I think that’s more ironic than anything.”

There was a beat of silence as you stared at him, and him back at you, until you both broke out into a fit of laughter; the sounds of your combined silliness bouncing off the living room walls and dancing in the air in notes not even the finest symphony could recreate. 

As your laughter simmered into breathless giggles, you watched as Chris wiped tears from his eyes — still in the clutches of the Sunday sillies — and let out a small, happy sigh.

That was the man you opened your heart to, the man who showed you in more ways than one that he would do everything in his power to make sure you felt loved and safe, the man who got down on one knee and thanked you for everything you brought into his life, and the man who subsequently cried when you gave him the wrapped pregnancy test a minute later — the greatest gift exchange either of you could have ever had.

“I love you.”

His glimmering eyes found yours, and whatever remnants of unbridled joy morphed into something warmer, softer, and inexplicably yours.

“I love you, too,” Chris smiled, his dimple pulling at his cheek as his gaze flicked down to the small bump underneath the wrinkles of your t-shirt. “The both of you.”

Blowing him a kiss, you both settled back into your own little worlds with ease; your phone in your hand and his in his own, his left hand massaging your ankle as if nothing had changed — even when you shook with barely contained laughter as yet another Bubble message popped onto your screen.

| I know it as… A B C D E F G H I J K ellemeno P

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons, @kimahreummm, @ta3baee, @bethanysnow, @skz-smut-reader

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[flawssy-227]

Day Dreaming | Harry Castillo x female reader

harry castillo x (bartender) f!reader

summary: harry is your bar regular, reeling after his breakup with Lucy, you two form an unlikely bond.

tags: 18+, female reader, always write for woc in mind, but there are no descriptions so everyone is welcome to read. unspecified age gap, classism, alcohol consumption, kissing

a/n: I can't wait for this movie omg -- loosely inspired by the best song ever, day dreaming by Aretha Franklin.

w/c: ~2700

“Your man is back again.”

You were just in the middle of making yet another old fashioned, a staple amongst the finance bros who frequented your workplace, when you looked up to see Harry Castillo gliding into the empty stool at the far end of the bar.

He had become a staple during your shifts for the last eight weeks or so, one Susan, your coworker, annoyingly loved to point out.

“Not my man,” you replied, but you couldn’t keep the smile off your face when you made eye contact. You handed the now complete old fashioned to a very inebriated man wearing a Morgan Stanley vest. He would be cute if you had eyes for anybody else.

You made your way down to Harry’s side of the bar, Susan giving you a nod of acknowledgement that you knew meant she would manage the rest of the patrons while you caught up with Harry. She was annoying as hell, but you had to admit she was one heck of a wingwoman.

The smile he gave you changed his entire demeanor. His default setting was shrewd businessman, scowling at those who tried to get too close. But with those who he tolerated, maybe even liked, he offered warm, wide smiles that spread across his face and brought life to his big, brown eyes. It made your heart catch to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles.

“Three times in one week,” you grinned at him. “What a lucky girl I am.”

“Sometimes you gotta make your own luck,” he responded. You had half a mind to question what he meant by that, but the wink he shot you succinctly short circuited your brain. This man was too cute.

You cleared your throat, trying to suppress the heat that was spreading across your face. “You want your usual?”

Harry feigned thoughtfulness, but you rolled your eyes, knowing he only ever ordered your old fashioneds. 

“Don’t know why I bothered asking.”

You got to work, peeling an orange, muddling a dark cherry and sugar cube when he broke the silence: “What time are you off tonight?”

“12. I always close on Fridays.”

Harry just hums at that, patiently waiting for you to finish making his drink. When you're done and he takes his first sip, the moan he releases at the taste is absolutely sinful. 

“Been waiting all day for this.” He leans back in the seat and takes an appreciative look at you. 

The way he was looking you over was making you feel incredibly heated. Big brown eyes scanning you up and down. You did the same, noting the way his dark brown sweater fit his shoulders perfectly. With the hours he worked, you wondered if he made time for a personal trainer and was just naturally built. He looks healthier now than he did a few weeks ago.

When you first met Harry, he was a man healing from a brutal breakup.

“She completely blindsided me,” he had told you one night when you had definitely overserved him. 

This big businessman who had been on the cover of Forbes three times in the past decade was crying to you about some matchmaker who broke his heart. It was… disarming, to say the least. You shared your own brutal breakup story with him and before you knew it, you were fast friends. It didn’t hurt that he frequently left you crisp $100 bills as a tip. Some of your other regulars would murmur about how the Harry Castillo was so close to them; you had to Google him.

And now, Harry was energetic, light even, seemingly over his heartbreak and back to being the heartbreaker himself. It was nice to see.

Two hours later, you and Susan were closing up, cashing out checks and collecting abandoned glasses. It wasn’t lost on Susan that Harry was still there, patiently sitting at the bar and responding to emails idly on his phone, glancing up at you and throwing a heart pounding grin your way when he caught you staring.

“We’re closed now, Harry,” Susan stated over the roar of the dishwasher, a cheeky smile on her face. “If you’re gonna stay here, you gotta make yourself useful.”

Harry stood up from his seat and you figured he was tired of Susan’s light ribbing. This man was an old money, multi millionaire in private equity—he didn’t need to take shit from some random bartender. You were about to tell her to lay off, if not for the fact you were harboring a tiny crush on Harry, at least for the sake of his incredibly generous tips, when he grabbed a serving tray and started collecting miscellaneous glasses from around the room. Your jaw dropped. 

“Holy shit,” Susan muttered.

Harry didn’t even turn to look back at you, he just kept bussing your tables like it was second nature. “Are you two gonna help or make me do all the work?”

Harry wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart, of course. He tried to recall a summer in the early 90s where he helped buss tables at his godfather’s restaurant. His dad told him it’d help build his character, something about not relying on nepotism alone to become a success.

In truth, Harry was helping you both close down the bar for purely selfish reasons. He wasn’t sure when exactly he stopped reeling over Lucy and you began consuming all his thoughts. He had thought about putting some distance between you both, maybe skipping the bar a bit more. He forced himself to stay away on Thursday after seeing you already twice this week, but during work on Friday, in meetings he should have been more present in, it was only you that was on his mind. He worked late, finishing up all the things his workaholic self would have done to fill up his Saturday, knowing that tonight, he was going to take things with you to the next level. 

He didn’t have anything specific in mind—maybe dinner at that 24 hour diner he used to frequent when he was at Columbia for grad school or perhaps he could convince you to grab breakfast with him tomorrow morning. Hell, if you at least gave him your number he would walk away from tonight happy as a clam.

It was almost 1 AM when you finished cleaning. Typically by now you would be dead tired, aching all over but with Harry still hanging around, the promise of something new gave you an extra burst of energy. You kept catching his eye, unable to stop the smile on your face when you did.

“Alright kids,” Susan started, an easy smile on her face when she looked at the bashful looks you two were giving each other. “Let’s get outta here.”

She locked the doors, gave you both a wave and a wink before she headed to the subway. The silence was slightly awkward. After an entire evening of him drinking at the bar and helping you clean with an ease that made it seem like he had always been there to help you, he was quiet, lost in thought. Men are all the same, you thought to yourself. He was being too quiet, too pensive, and you weren’t sure if you should try to extend the evening or just call it a night. Before you could make a real decision, Harry finally speaks up:

“Wanna take a walk?”

And yes, you really do.

You don’t have much of a destination in mind, your apartment is on the other end of the island and you’re certain Harry has a driver on standby somewhere, but right now, in the middle of the night in Lower Manhattan, he’s light on his feet and ready to spend the rest of the night walking 60 blocks with you.

Harry’s equally surprised at how giggly you are this late. He knows he’s tired, but just being near you seems to recharge his soul. The conversation is too easy, easier than it ever was with Lucy and he’s punching himself a bit at being so hung up on her for so long. He wants to take you to dinner, he decides. Somewhere nice and comfortable, no tasting menu nonsense that still leaves you hungry even after 12 courses. He’s just about to ask you what night works best for you when the loud rumble of your stomach breaks up the conversation. You want to be embarrassed, but Harry just smiles at you and laughs.

“C’mon sweetheart. Let’s get you something to eat.”

The idea of a meal with Harry is enough to light up your eyes, but then your attention shifts to something just behind him. He blinks and you’re running past him, approaching a hotdog vendor. If he’s being honest, the idea of a New York City hotdog makes his stomach curdle, probably something to do with the expensive palate he’s been developing for the past two decades. But he’s helpless when you look at him with those bright eyes of yours and big smile.

“This is the best hotdog vendor below Canal street,” you tell him.

He buys two without thinking too hard.

Once you get to Tribeca, he offers you a sheepish smile and tells you his building is just a little ways away. “Nightcap?” he asks you.

He looks far too earnest for you to turn down, so you follow him to his building. The white-gloved doorman gives you a nod.

“This is where you live?” The $12 million apartment is even more grand than you imagined when you took the private elevator up. “Harry, this is…”

“Too much isn’t it?” He takes an appraising look around, clearly not phased by the size. “Figured one day I would grow into it. Get the wife and kids and annoying little dog, but…” he trailed off and looked at you. Your heart fluttered at the sight. He wants to tell you to move in, that you belong here in his oversized space. He’s certain you would make it a home and less cold to walk into after another long day filled with pointless meetings. He thinks better of it when he remembers he doesn’t even have your phone number.

Patience, Harry.

He pours two glasses of a Bordeaux he picked up in France last winter at some investment conference while you make yourself at home on his sofa. You fall into a comfortable silence, letting yourself enjoy the wine and being so close to Harry. It’s so different from being with him at work, where you’re serving him and separated by the heavy wood of the bar. Here, you’re a guest in his pristine home, not at all ashamed to still be wearing your soiled work uniform on a couch that probably costs two months rent, at least. Harry would not shame you for being working class, so you don’t shame yourself. When you turn to look at him, he’s already there, watching you.

“Harry,” you sigh, “I don’t usually go home with guys I barely know.”

“I think you know me well enough,” he responds. “Plus, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Harry also wasn’t the type to bring women he barely knew back to his palace, but there was just something about you. He couldn’t get you out of his head. You, with your perfect face and perfectly imperfect smile. You ran through his mind all day.

“It feels… I don’t know, different with you.” It’s the first time you’ve seen him look so bashful. 

“I get what you mean,” you tell him with a nod. “It feels like I’ve known you, really known you, for a lot longer than I have.”

He understands what you’re saying. It goes beyond some rich guy who tips you well without being creepy. There’s a pull, some sort of magnetism that brought you together.

“You know, I walked past that bar every day for the past two years and never went in.” You just look at him, soft, glossy eyes peering into his own. “I was a little depressed.”

You laugh at that, because you knew. You had seen him sallow and worn down for weeks. But there was still always something bright about him even when he looked so sad.

“And the day I finally decided to come in, it was because I saw you from my office.”

You gasp at that. “Really?”

He hums in acknowledgement and grabs your hand that isn’t holding the wine glass. “It had just stopped raining, and the sun was shining like a spotlight right in front of the doors. I looked down, and you were there, just basking in the sun like it was the first time you had seen it all winter. And I swear, it kickstarted my heart.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to say something vile or vulgar and take you out of the moment. After years of being single and dating in New York, you had determined there were no earnest men left in the city. Surely no one like Harry, but here he was, laying his heart on the line for you.

“I was heartbroken and you saved me, by just being you.” Like a beacon of hope, Harry was drawn to you day in and day out for weeks. With each passing conversation, you chipped away at the ice in his heart, what had formed in a protective shell since everything happened with his ex. He was oddly grateful for her now, the way she had abandoned him, devastated him. He would have settled down with her and been happy enough, but because she was who she was, and she did what she did, he got to meet you.

“I don’t want to rush into things,” he told you, still tittling with your fingers. “But I really do care for you and I think, with time, we can have something special.”

You were at a loss for words. You liked Harry, but you figured he brought you here for a fun night or short fling, not to explore something serious with you. Perhaps you were classist, holding on to some archaic view of dating politics in high society, but it was clear, that was the furthest thing from his mind.

You decided to wear your heart on your sleeve, just like Harry. “I really like you, too.”

He didn’t say anything, but the slight brightening in his eyes told you everything. He grabbed your wine glass and set it down on the coffee table. He moved closer to you and let his thumb run across your jaw. You leaned into his touch and let your lips ghost over his. 

Harry was all consuming, ravishing your lips like he’d been waiting to kiss you for years. In a way, he had been. Constantly waiting to find the right woman, waiting to feel actual sparks when his lips met someone else’s. Waiting for the butterflies, the fireworks, the chills, and whatever else the romance movies he’d watched as a young man portrayed. He was so close to writing them off, categorizing them as the fiction they were, but you, you had proven them truthful.

You hadn’t had a makeout session in years, never enjoying a kiss as much as you were right now. Kissing Harry Castillo. His lips, his hands, his scent. You were surrounded, drowning in the best way possible, all because of him. You touched his hair, his neck, his chest. You unbuttoned his shirt and moved your hands lower, lower, until he grabbed them and separated from your lips. His breath was heaving and he let his forehead rest against your own.

“Wanna go to bed?” he asked you.

You squeaked out a quiet yes and let him lead you to yet another magnificent room. Wood and earthy tones consumed the space but you didn’t get the best look as Harry pulled your body back into his. You fit perfectly, you decided. A missing puzzle piece that slid into the side of his body, your head resting neatly on his shoulder.

“Can we take things slow?” you questioned, looking into his mocha colored eyes. “I just want to lay here, with you.”

“Of course, baby. We can do whatever you want.”

And you knew that he meant it.

[lucidwntrr]

최수빈 ───〃I NEED U MORE

"why couldn’t you be home right now? why couldn’t you be the one making him feel good? to make him moan and cry for you? to make him cum? god soobin wanted to cum, he needed to cum..."

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅ synopsis: soobin misses you and gets horny thinking about you while you’re working a 12hour shift at the hospital, he decides to do something about it.

⋆˚꩜｡ pairing: sub!soobin x softdom!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ genre & word count: smut || 2k+ ⋆˚꩜｡ tags: masturbation, shy soobin, needy soobin, some pillow humping, punishment but not really b/c soobin enjoys it, thigh fucking, very light degradation, praise, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, soobin gets caught, lapslock ⋆˚꩜｡ notes: yes, this is me projecting as a current nursing student that also works as a patient care tech…

soobin felt like his body was on fire and that he could burst at any moment.

“fuck…” he breathes, “please.”

it was late at night, almost 12am and soobin was horny. and not his usual horny, this was different. he wasn’t yet used to your new job at the hospital and having to be apart from you for so many hours

it drives him crazy that he can’t be around you, snuggle you, or kiss you, and especially fuck you whenever he wanted. pouting and practically begging you not to go to work in the early mornings.

“uhn ~ ” he moans into his sleeve, a sweater-paw coming up to cover his mouth, embarrassed by the sounds he was making.

leading up to this, soobin was simply laying in bed and scrolling mindlessly on his phone. he lie on his stomach, face mushed into a pillow, and a small blanket draped over him.

it wasn’t until he got a quick text message from you saying that you’ll be home soon that his mind started to roam. he started missing you, replying to the text message with a sad face and a sigh. he opens his photos app and skims through the many pictures he has of you.

he comes across a rather explicit photo, one where your stood in front of the mirror in panties and a tank top. your hand teasingly, lifting the top just enough to reveal the bottom half of your breasts.

soobin feels his heartbeat pick up and his cock twitch in his pajama pants. he swallows as his eyes scan the picture, eyes honing in one area in particular, your thighs.

god - soobin loves your thighs, it was his favorite part of you. always kissing, licking, or biting them when gets to eat you out or fuck you. his hands always unconsciously rubbing or squeezing them throughout the day, always finding a way to touch them.

he lets out a needy whimper, grinding his now hard cock into the bed and gripping the pillow under him. it’s not unusual for soobin to get turned just from the sight of you, it’s almost laughable how he becomes a mess just from that. but it is unusual to not be able to do anything about it.

he can’t just do what he typically does, shyly ask you to touch him or to let him be inside you. beg if he has to, cry if you asked him to. he could text you, ask for permission, but who knows the next time you’ll be able to look at your phone and reply?

maybe… maybe just this once he can get away with not asking. you would understand, right? his breathing picks up at the thought. could he bring himself to disobey you? he could probably finish before you even get back with how pent up he was. it’s been a week since you’ve touched him sexually.

every light touch and brush of your hands against his skin, sent tingles through his whole body. bedtime being his biggest obstacle, being pressed so close to you and having his face against your chest, one hand in his hair, the other slowly rubbing his arm or back.

he feels his body warming up, his face likely flushed and his head getting clouded with arousal. in his dizzy state, he hadn’t even realized he’d been rolling his hips into the bed still, his cock aching.

“fuck it.” he mutters, tossing his phone down and sitting up with a huff. he grabbed the pillow he was just resting on and slots it between his legs, straddling it.

he tentatively grinds down on it, breath hitching at the new feeling. he’s never done this before, doesn’t even know what is coming over him. but he thinks back to the picture and of your thighs… and then thinks that he would like the pillow to be your thigh. he would love it, even.

he can just about imagine it. you sat on the bed, plump thighs exposed and him on top of one of them. he would feverishly rub his cock against it, leaving it sticky from the amounts of precum he was leaking. “good boy…” you would whisper as your hands roam his body, leaving no spot untouched, sending sparks down his spine…

soobin starts panting out breaths, his movements getting rougher. he brings a hand up to do what you can’t, sliding them under his sweater and hissing at how cool his hands are in comparison. brushing a thumb over his nipple like you do sometimes.

“mmph - ! ” he chokes on a moan, biting on his bottom lip as he jolts from the feather-light touch. it’s almost too much for him, he wishes you were here to do it for him. he’s too needy, his brain to foggy to do it alone.

he shifts to lay on his back, too hot and too brain-empty to be upright, discarding the pillow. his cock straining against his pajama pants, begging to be touched. he reaches a hand down to palm himself, gasping at how sensitive he was.

slowly, he pulls his cock from his pants with a little string of precum connecting his tip to the pool of it on his tummy. he scoops it up with his fingers, spreading it on the tip messily.

“oh god …” he gasps, eyes rolling into the back of his. he starts to stroke himself teasingly, overcome with need. he makes sure to replicate the exact motions you would, twisting his fist up then down and back up.

he thinks about the one time you let him fuck your thighs. how warm and wet it was as he thrusted his hips into them. soobin has thought about that day countless times ever since, but never got the courage to ask to do it again, to shy to bring it up.

he wishes he could do that right now, that it was your thighs he could be fucking into instead of his stupid fist. what he would give for you to be here right now, command him to get between you, and let him have his way with you while you praise him.

“uhn ~ ” he moans into his sleeve as he pumps his cock faster, a sweater-paw coming up to cover his mouth, embarrassed by the sounds he was making.

why couldn’t you be home right now? why couldn’t you be the one making him feel good? to make him moan and cry for you? to make him cum? god soobin wanted to cum, he needed to cum. he can feel himself getting close, hips bucking up into his wet hand.

“aww poor thing wants to cum, already ~ ? “ you would purr at him, making him whine in shame. all he has done is touch his cock a bit and he already has to cum, how pathetic.

“please… fucking please.” he quietly moans behind his hand. he wishes he could hear your voice, tell him how pathetic he was, tell him he can cum. you would giggle as you tighten your thighs around him, like soobin tightens his grip on his cock. squeezing and making everything so warm, so wet, so good.

soobin is so lost in pleasure he doesn’t hear the front door open or the announcement that you have arrived home. he simply keeps stroking his cock, his head thrown back with eyes screwed shut and his moans muffled, orgasm right on the surface. just a little more…

“soobin ~ “ you call out into the silence. you drop your work bags and kick off your shoes before heading to the living room first. there have been many times soobin has fallen asleep on the couch waiting for you to get home.

you hum when you don’t find him there, instead opting for the only other place he could be which is the bedroom. you hurriedly make your way there, wanting to see your boyfriend that you so dearly missed.

once at the door, you freeze, hand hesitating over the handle. you press your ear to the door to make sure you’re hearing right.

“mmph, ‘m c-cumming !” soobin moans out, loudly. he had both hands on his cock now, fucking into them furiously, embarrassment long forgotten as he unabashedly makes every sound he can. he didn’t care anymore. he gasps when he cums, whole body trembling as he falls over the edge with cum landing on his sweater and dripping down his hands.

he whimpers and whines through his orgasm, trying to catch his breath. he relaxes his tense body, turning his head into the pillow and letting the pleasure wash over him.

“you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” soobin startles at the sound of your voice, opening his eyes to find you standing at the door with an eyebrow raised at him. he doesn’t know what to say or if he can even get words out right now.

you walk into the room, moving towards the bed as a wide-eyed soobin stares at you. his mouth hangs open, trying to find the words and tucking his cock back into his pants. anything that can defend himself, even though there isn’t anything that can.

“i- i missed you…” is all he can manage to whisper with watery eyes and a pout. he moves to the edge of the bed, where you stood, sitting down and tilting his head up to look you in the eyes, searching to them to figure out your feelings.

you take him in, scanning his figure. his flushed face, his disheveled hair, the drying cum on his sweater, his cock that was still hard tucked back away into his pajama pants. he reaches a sticky hand out to come around your waist, but you grab his wrist before he could make it there.

“you missed me, but couldn’t wait for me, hm?” you question, dropping his hand back to his lap. soobin whimpers and swallows, words failing him yet again.

“was too needy…” he mumbles, putting his head down in shame, face burning, and fiddling with his fingers in his lap. “’m sorry.” he finishes with a sniffle and tears threatening to fall.

you hum, moving around soobin to climb into the bed, removing your work clothes in the process and leaving just panties and top on. soobin lifted his head at the movement, wet eyes following you as you stripped.

his sensitive cock twitched, making him groan and press a hand against it, a weak attempt at fighting his hard-on.

“to think i was going to let you fuck me tonight…” you murmur without looking at soobin, absentmindedly checking your nails. you hear him let out a shaky breath though, goosebumps spreading across his skin at what you said.

“w-well can’t i still, please?” he timidly asks, moving next to you on the bed and trying to get into your field of vision so you can pay attention to him.

you laugh, turning to him “really?” is all you reply, blandly. soobin shivers at that, nibbling on his bottom lip, and throbbing in his pants. he looks so pathetic, so helpless…

“okay,” you start, laying back on the bed and turning your head to look at soobin who was staring back with confusion all over his face. “i’ll let you fuck me.” you finish, removing your panties, spreading your legs and patting your thigh.

soobin could swear he was in heaven right now. the day that has constantly been on his mind is finally happening again. is he dreaming? he has to be, right?

“do you not want to? shall i change my mind ~ “ you tease, pretending like you were about to sit up. soobin jumps up from his spot, shaking his head, quickly makes his way to you and placing himself in between your thighs.

his hands instinctively start caressing them, running his hands up and down the sides, occasionally kneading them while waiting for instruction. looking at you with such yearning in his eyes, so intense you can’t help but to look away, your face burning just a tad.

“you can start.” you boredly state, turning your head to collect yourself while clearing your throat. soobin wastes no time, unaware of you slight falter in composure. he lifts your legs up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. he pants while he pushes your thighs together, whipping his sticky cock out and shoving them between your thighs with a whine.

“so fucking good…” he moans, eyes fluttering shut. he pushes all the way until his hips are flush against the back of your thighs, his hold on you tight. he doesn’t hesitate to start using your thighs, pounding into them without abandon, leaking precum all down them, a puddle starting to form on your lower stomach where your shirt lifted.

you could feel yourself also getting turned-on, soobin’s thick cock sliding against you every time he pushes in, your wetness adding onto the slickness. you dip a finger into the precum resting on your tummy and bring it up to your mouth, tapping soobin so he opens his eyes and watch every movement.

you suck the finger into your mouth with a moan, watching as soobin falters, his hips stuttering a bit before he finds his rhythm again.

“oh fuck,” he moans, slamming his cock into your thighs now. you knew he wouldn’t last long, his second orgasm likely building. he looks totally blissed out, his eyes glossy, cheeks red, forehead and neck sweaty and his bottom lip is sucked into his mouth.

“i- fuck can i c-cum?” he cries, fresh tears in his eyes. “please?” he adds when you squeeze yourself around him harder, throwing his head back in pleasure with a choked moan.

“mm, should i let you cum?” you ask out loud, more to yourself than to soobin. he whines, gripping on your thighs as he drives into you.

“yes, yes please. i’ll be a good boy ~ i won’t touch or cum without your permission again.” he babbles, crying and begging for you to finally reach his climax, body quivering to hold himself back.

“you won’t?” you ask, just to be a tease.

soobin wildly shakes his head, “i- i won’t, i promise. just- please…” he pleas, moaning loudly through his words.

“then cum for me baby ~ ” you purr. soobin stills before he starts to shake, shouting when he cums all over your stomach, bucking his hips through your thighs. hot tears run down his face as he orgasm wracks through him.

your praise him, “good boy” and “good job” being said as you let him come down from his high.

his chest heaves as he removes his cock from between you, hissing as his tip drags against them. although gross, he can’t help but to flop down on top of you with a moan. nuzzling his head into your neck and his hands coming around your waist tightly.

you run your fingers through his hair with one hand and wipe tears from his face with the other, soobin sighing contentedly and his eyes drifting shut. he could almost fall asleep like this. he thinks he is falling asleep like th-

“soobin, i love you, you know that. but i will not fall asleep with cum and sweat all over me.” you say, interrupting his descent into sleep.

soobin laughs, but gets up when you give him a gently smack on the head, laughing louder.

©lucidwntrr est. 2025

[theonlyonesora]

The Third Rule

Lily x Oscar Piastri x You (Reader)

Chapter 2 – And Then There Were Moans

If there was a soundtrack to that night, it would’ve started with something obnoxiously upbeat—probably Doja Cat—because we were already half dancing in the Uber before we even made it to the first bar.

“Everyone post your ‘before’ pic now,” Jessy said, phone in hand, duck face locked and loaded.

Lily leaned into me as we posed against the cab window, our faces squished together, her highlighter catching the streetlights just right while my eyeliner decided to flirt with disaster (but in a cute way).

📸 @(Y/N).m first round hasn’t even hit and i already know we’re getting banned somewhere tonight 🍸✨ Tagged: @lily.eng, @jessywithay, @meg.in.crisis Location: Regret Loading...

We hit Bar One—the rooftop one with overpriced cocktails and bartenders who looked like they modeled for Calvin Klein during daylight hours. Meg ordered a round of espresso martinis “for the plot,” and Lily gave me the you better sip this slowly look. I, naturally, ignored it.

“Why is everyone hot tonight?” I whispered to Lily, scanning the room.

“Because you’re drunk and your standards are at sea level.”

Fair.

“Let’s make a deal,” Jessy said, after a sip. “Everyone has to post one cringe Instagram Story by midnight.”

“Define cringe,” Meg asked, already filming us.

“Like, either singing badly, flirting embarrassingly, or oversharing in a bathroom selfie.”

Challenge accepted.

By Bar Two, we were all feeling it. The lights were dimmer, the music louder, and our group chat was blowing up with blurry selfies and chaotic boomerangs.

📸 @lily.eng (Story) protecting this menace from tequila and bad decisions as usual 📸: a video of me doing a dramatic body roll while Lily holds a lime in front of my mouth like I’m some sort of unruly parrot

📸 @meg.in.crisis captioned a boomerang of our clinking glasses with: cheers to women, wine, and mild emotional damage

And then there was Bar Three. The danger zone. The bar with neon signs and sticky floors and a playlist that hadn't updated since 2017—and we loved it.

I ended up on the tiny dance floor with Jessy, our arms flailing, hair stuck to our foreheads, and Meg screaming lyrics beside us like her life depended on it. I looked over and saw Lily at the bar, sipping something pink, her eyes scanning the crowd—then landing on me.

We smiled at each other. The kind of smile that says, this is one of those nights we’ll talk about for years.

📸 @(Y/N).m (Story) a photo of our heels on the grimy dance floor with the caption: if these shoes could talk, they’d scream

📸 @jessywithay (Story) video of me and Lily dancing to “Super Bass” while Meg pretends to be a backup dancer

We stumbled into the apartment like a slow-motion car crash in heels—shoes flung, jackets dropped, keys barely making it into the bowl by the door. Lily called dibs on the bathroom first, Jessy raided the fridge for leftover pasta, and Meg was already halfway through an unsolicited playlist of songs that “deserved more respect.”

Me ? I brought a boy home.

He was cute. One of those quietly confident types with messy curls and sleepy eyes. We’d met at the third bar—he complimented my laugh, which is basically emotional undressing. And okay, maybe I was three drinks past reasonable decision-making, but his hand on my lower back and the way he listened like I was the only girl in the bar? Yeah, he earned the Uber ride.

We made it to my room, which at the time felt like the right thing to do. Except… someone (Lily) had accidentally locked my bedroom door in a flurry of post-party chaos and lost the key.

“You can sleep in mine,” she offered with a sleepy smile, mascara slightly smudged.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll crash with the girls. It’s a full-on slumber party in there anyway.”

So there we were.

Me, this guy—Caleb or Callum or something with a C—and Lily’s room. A room that smelled like vanilla, lavender spray, and whatever perfume she always stole from my side of the bathroom.

“You okay?” he asked, hand resting on my hip as I stood in the middle of her room, hesitant for all of one dramatic second.

I turned, smiled, and pulled him in by the collar.

Meanwhile, in the next room…

“Is she seriously—” Jessy hissed from her place on the floor.

“She is,” Meg whispered, wide-eyed. “She’s totally doing it in Lily’s bed.”

Lily buried her face in a pillow, mortified and stifling laughter. “I told her to use the guest blanket! That one’s from Zara Home, it was expensive!”

The first moan hit like a light slap.

“Oh my God,” Meg squeaked, already holding in a laugh.

Another. Then a thud. A giggle. A very audible “right there.”

Jessy gasped like it was the royal wedding. “She’s narrating!”

“She’s a performer,” Lily muttered into the pillow.

By the fourth moan, it was over. Not the act—oh no, (Y/N) had stamina. But the composure. Jessy cracked first, snorting uncontrollably. Meg followed with a laugh that sounded like a seal, and Lily—despite herself—started giggling so hard she had to leave the room with the blanket wrapped around her like a cursed Victorian ghost.

From Lily’s bed, (Y/N)’s voice rang out—clear as crystal.

“Shut UP, I can hear you laughing!”

“WE CAN HEAR YOU!” Jessy shouted back, absolutely cackling.

There was a pause. Then a triumphant moan from (Y/N). As if to say, I regret nothing.

In the morning, (Y/N) emerged wrapped in Lily’s robe, looking like a victorious war general. Her hair was a mess. Her mascara, gone. But her smirk? Glorious.

“Did we… interrupt anything last night?” she asked with faux innocence, sipping from a coffee mug someone definitely didn’t offer her.

Lily didn’t even look up from her cereal. “Just my will to live.”

(Y/N) grinned. “You said I could use your room.”

“I meant the bed. Not perform an entire Broadway musical in it.”

Jessy raised a brow. “Was he the bartender with the tattoo?”

(Y/N) only smiled, walking back toward the bathroom. “A lady never tells.”

“You do!” Meg shouted.

And she did. But only later. Only after they swore they’d never let Lily’s bed forget it.

.

The sun was a bit too enthusiastic that morning, bleeding through the sheer curtains like it knew I was hungover and smug about it. I was curled up on the living room couch in Lily’s robe, sipping lukewarm coffee and regretting absolutely nothing, when her phone buzzed.

Lily, looking entirely too fresh for someone who'd heard the soundtrack of my night in Dolby Surround Sound, picked it up with a groan and answered. "Hey, baby."

It was Oscar. Of course.

His sleepy voice drifted out of her speaker. "Morning, love. You home?"

“Yep. Whole crew’s still here. (Y/N) brought someone back. You missed a show.”

I choked on my coffee.

Oscar laughed softly. “A show?”

Lily flopped down beside me, phone on speaker now—rude. “Let’s just say… my bed is no longer innocent. I offered (Y/N) my room since hers was locked, and she decided it was the perfect setting for live-action erotica.”

Jessy, from the kitchen: “SHE WAS SO LOUD.”

Oscar snorted. “Wait, (Y/N)?”

“Yes, (Y/N),” Lily said sweetly, glancing at me with the smirk of someone enjoying this way too much. “Turns out our little finance girl has a… vocal side.”

“I hate all of you,” I muttered, pulling the blanket over my head.

Oscar was chuckling now, that low, amused sound that made it easy to understand why Lily fell for him. “You okay, (Y/N)?”

“Peachy,” I deadpanned from under the blanket.

“She’s blushing,” Lily reported gleefully.

“I am not!”

“Red as a Ferrari,” Jessy added, walking by with a bowl of cereal like she didn’t just casually roast me in passing.

“You guys are the worst friends,” I groaned.

Oscar laughed again, sounding way too entertained. “I like that you’re keeping Lily’s life interesting. I feel like I missed an iconic night.”

“You did,” Meg called out from her corner of the couch, still wrapped in three blankets. “We were chaos.”

“I was innocent,” Lily said, pretending to sip tea.

“You were giggling like a twelve-year-old hearing porn for the first time,” I muttered.

Oscar's voice softened. “I love that you all have each other. Makes me feel better when I’m away.”

Lily smiled, her voice dipping into something tender. “We love you, too.”

I peeked out from under the blanket, meeting her eyes for a second—and there it was. That look. The one I didn’t have a name for yet.

Tag List:

@freyathehuntress, @mimisweetz, @aleatorio1234, @totallynotluluu, @rorabelle15, @prongslena

[sugar-plum-writer]

Show Me What You Got <3

Tags: Jing YuanxFem!Reader; O*er-stimulation to max; Established Relationship; Jing Yuan eating you out; Man-handling; P*ssy drunk Jing Yuan; c*m-play; body worshipping; rough sex; back to back o*gasms; clit play; NSFW + more NSFW; explicit; MNDI! (18+); usage of pet names- "Love, Darlin', Darling, Sweetheart, Dear, Dearest"; Slightly Possessive and Obsessive Jing Yuan; Down Bad Jing Yuan

A/n: Head empty nothing other than how good Jing Yuan would be at eating p*ssy- I want him so bad- god I have lost it- "Once you close your eyes- eyes, running down your thighs- thighs, got you hypnotized- 'tized, I got you beggin' for more~"

Synopsis: What happens when you ask your boyfriend exactly how good he is at eating p*ssy?

Word Count: 1.6k

Jing Yuan considered himself to be fairly experienced in various aspects, even in the sex business- he's lived for so long after all. His skills will be on another level compared to others.

You knew that he was damn good at what he did- just a touch from him grinding his thumb on your g-spot in that particular way and angle was enough to make you be a mess. It's like he knew your pussy better than you did- knew the exact g-spot- which angle to grind and fuck you in.

But, you were always curious just to know exactly how good he was, who would not?

That's how because of sheer curiosity you ended up with him swirling his tongue on your cunt. The great general, your lover, oh so esteemed man respected in the cosmos between your legs just to satisfy your curiosity of how good he really is

And who is he to not indulge your curiosities? If it means getting to have his way with you~

......

"J-Jing Yuan…hah..ngh I ca-can't", you panted gasping for air as you arched your back, mewling and gripping the sheets while Jing Yuan swirled his tongue against your cilt flicking it

"My love- of course you can~ weren't you the one curious about how good I am hm?~", he hummed against your walls which were clamping down on his tongue burying himself even more nose-deep into your oh-so-sweet cunt- lapping it up like a thirsty man who found water in the desert

"ah- hah ngh!", arching your back even more with hands running through his hair- gripping it till your knuckles turned white

Jing Yuan looked into your half-lidded eyes amused and chuckled, "Someone's falling apart huh? How is it? My skills darlin?~", his deep voice reverberated against your dripping cunt- sending shivers up your spine, scratching a spot in your brain which just made you more lost- god damn why is his voice so deep and hot? He knows exactly what it does to you when he speaks like that

Pressing his warm tongue flat against your vulva, sliding it into the sides- making you widen your eyes and gasp as his tongue continued to caress the nook and crannies- each lip of your vulva exactly at the right angle and spot; letting the pre-cum coat his tongue and then teasingly flick it against your clit- making you whimper as tears trickled from your eyes. He continued circling the spot again- and again- and again- kept repeating this process increasing the speed each time; teasingly drawing out moans from your throat and cum from pussy

Applying and shifting pressure to different areas as his warm tongue glided against your cunt grinding against your clit.

"You like this huh sweetheart? I should do this more often hm?~", the calmness of his voice, and the smug smirk were a sharp contrast to the mess that was your head- you felt so lost; whimpering moaning throwing out curses-

Whenever your movements got too out of hand and your legs started to squeeze together Jing Yuan just held you down unable to move as he continued to eat you out

"J-Jing Yuan...it's.. too good ah…hah ngh!", mewling you squeezed your eyes shut wanting to get away from his skilled movements as the pleasure was too much- frantically trying to hold onto him, the sheets- anything

"I know darlin'- I know Y/n", he whispered huskily, eyes darkened with lust, "You taste so sweet my love- won't you give me more?~"

It felt too good- dangerously good- tears spilled out of your eyes. You wanted to run away, the overstimulation was too much- he was exploring your pussy feeling every little bump, every little curve- the areas which made you jolt, places where your nerves met- you swear even you have never explored your pussy like this ever

In such depth- he was digging deep into your skin- caressing every nerve, vein, and lines; mapping you out. Your bodies Christopher Columbus

"Darling you wanna know a fun fact?", his eyes gleamed devilishly as his tongue continued to caress a particular spot that was knocking the life out of you as you let out a grueling moan, "W-…ah- hah what is it 'Yuan", you stuttered your voice high-pitched and breathless

Seriously what is with him saying the most random things in moments like this?

"There are more than 2 g-spots more like there are 5 spots where the nerve-endings meet darlin'~", he arched his tongue a bit and grazed his canine lightly at the inner lip of your vulva sending jolts of pleasure- just when you thought you couldn't moan higher, here he was proving you wrong

"W-What?..", you shudder shakily trying to focus on what he is saying- eyes glassy glazed with pleasure

"Many times you aren't able to differentiate between them~ why don't I help you find all the spots huh? So you can differentiate between which spot you cummed from and tell me your favorite?~", he continued to ramble in a daze which half entered your head while the other half was just a mess

"I-I didn't even know…hah- that more than ngh ah!", your voice trails off as his thumb pressed against your outer vulva lips rubbing it while his tongue moved faster against the cervix of your inner lip right near the clit

You swore you could see stars with the way he was making you cum- rather than how many times he made you cum it was more about the quality of the orgasms, the pleasure was too much, and your poor cunt was just oozing slick dripping all over as if a tap had been opened

To keep yourself from breaking you continued to grip Jing Yuan's hair so tight you must have ripped off some strands, holding on for dear life feeling your soul left your body. You knew that he had some great skills after all he has lived for so long but for him to be this good you weren't prepared for this.

Hell you think he might be the best pussy eater in all of Xianzhou.

All your nerves felt like it was on mind-numbing fire, ablaze from pleasure- your whole body felt abuzz in such a way your own body felt foreign to you- all tingly, eyes glazed over looking into his gleaming golden eyes which were brimming with sharp focus.

Your body became his.

An alertness looking at each moan that escaped your lips, the way your eyes fluttered as you gasped, each twitch, each arch, and each grind against his tongue

You swear his brain was noting down each movement and your reaction to the movements of his tongue on different areas of your vulva

"My my~ I have not even gotten serious yet you are already such a mess my dear?~", lifting his head with a white sheen coating his lips and chin, golden eyes burning with lust; white hair sticking to his forehead- the smug smirk with sinful teasing words echoing

"Whatever shall we do my dearest? What a messy girl I've got on my bed tonight~", sweeping his long white hair back he continued to maintain eye contact- his features looked even sharper, the dim golden lights making his golden eyes glow even more- hitting his face at just the right angles

How can someone be this handsome? You swear if this locks did not cover his face and he kept his hair swept back- everyone would loose their minds over him- they all simped for him they will simp even more

"Will my love even be able to handle more?", teasingly he wrapped your legs around his neck, hands on your waist moving up to your breasts- pinching the nipples- flicking them with his fingers while his hot breath was on your puffy cunt-

Pressing his lips on the outside of the vulva- kissing it with his tongue- then roughly moving his tongue side by side over your clit at increased speed, focus, and pressure- making you arch your back at the speed he was working making you overwhelmed

"Jing Yuan- !", gazing into his eyes full of desperate need you reached your hand towards him- running your fingers through his white locks, "Need you so bad- please- please I wanna cum!", with quivering lips you mewled as more tears poured out; your brain was too overrun with him- all it could think about was him and his tongue and how good he was making you feel

Looking into your eyes all dazed, seeing the need in them- flushed cheeks, lips parted, so breathless was enough to make Jing Yuan want to give you even more pleasure, hell he'd give you everything you ask for

A sick twisted desire to make you drown in pleasure, an abyss of pleasure till you could not breathe, think, a mind-breaking pleasure you'd never forget- only him- him- and him

He wondered what expression you'd make if he told you these dark thoughts, would you run away?, be scared? or be as obsessed with him as he is obsessed with you?

Closing his eyes he continued to taste you- memorizing the exact spots holding you down- drinking it all in. His mind clouded by your moans, nails digging in deep, back arching, kneading your breasts and flicking the nipples

No one's ever made him like this- so drunk- so blissed out- he's loved many in his lifetime but none to the point of losing himself- he would be ruined if you ever left him- he would shatter if you left him- he loved you so much enough to set the Xianzhou on fire

Throw a single smile his way and give him poison

He'll drink it happily like it's Heaven on Earth

If your hands are wrapped around his neck trying to kill him

He'd admire the beauty in your eyes

"Look at her. I would die for her. I would kill for her. Either way, what bliss"

Link to Master List! Reblogs, hearts and comments appreciated~ <3

[crescenthistory]

okay idea…c1 with regulus and a reader who is either very clumsy or very sick and he can’t help but dote over her and take care of her <33

terribly sorry if you are not a moonwater girlie, but this request has been hijacked into a poly!moonwater fic 🙏 i love them, your honour

Prompt: C.1 "I want nothing more than to kiss away all your pain"

Words: 1.9k

Warnings/tags: fem!reader, references to injuries, light sickness/illness, regulus being a Worried Boyfriend, remus being a Doting Mediator, light hurt/comfort, nauseating amounts of fluff, sirius being the butt of the joke, literally just cuddles massages and kisses

You apparently see your daily life as one long continuous extreme sport, and thus, so are the lives of Regulus and Remus, whose hearts are always working overtime to handle the stress of your near-death experiences.

When Regulus ran up to Remus, slightly red in the face and already huffing and puffing, Remus knew for a fact that you were the cause of his concern. Others might have read his body language as angry, but Remus knew this to be his boyfriend’s mother hen instincts kicking in – which means his were about to, too.

“What’s she do?” Remus sighed as he stood up from his seat outside the Great Hall, already throwing his bookbag over his shoulder, prepared to walk off.

“She’s in the infirmary,” Regulus hissed, grabbing Remus by the arm to pull him away, barely slowing down his gait.

“Oi! You can’t just run off!” 

Remus, admittedly, had forgotten that his best friend – his boyfriend’s brother, mind you – was sitting with him and was in the middle of chatting his ear off when he spotted Regulus. “Sorry, Pads, I’ll catch you later,” he tried calling over his shoulder as Regulus wholeheartedly ignored him.

“What?! Hey, no–” Sirius all but sputtered, self-righteously undignified by the whole ordeal, as if this was not a common occurrence by now. James began patting his back not much unlike one would do a child, placating him with whispers, no doubt about all the mess they could get into without Remus’ supervision.

“Why is she in the infirmary?” Remus asked when he was able to return his full attention to the boy whose breathing was still a bit too quick for comfort. He had half a mind to begin taking care of him instead and calm him down, but for now he settled for pulling him further into his side as they walked.

“I don’t know,” Regulus bit out through clenched teeth. “Pandora just told me in passing that she had seen her in there. I have no idea what she has gotten herself into this time. You’re lucky I walked past you on the way there, otherwise you would have been the last to know.”

Remus mulled over it for a moment, visualising your schedule that he memorised months ago. “She had Care for Magical Creatures last period, right?”

Regulus’ head whipped to the side to stare at him incredulously, clearly not having pieced that together yet. Though it was hard to tell, it seemed like his face had paled. His grip on Remus’ arm migrated to interlocking their elbows so he could more effectively drag Remus along as he sped up at the thought of what could have happened.

One of the things Remus most enjoyed about your relationship was getting to know the small quirks of yours and Regulus', your signs and your tells. For Regulus to forget all about Remus’ aching joints and rushing him along without ample support meant that he was beyond stressed on your behalf. Had Regulus not been here, Remus would have been much the same, thoughts able to spiral into the darkest of places when left to his own devices – alas, he was, so Remus collected himself appropriately and tried to be the grounded one.

“She’ll be alright,” he murmured as they turned the last corner before the infirmary. 

“She bloody better be,” Regulus huffed, voice laced with concern and poorly-hidden devotion. “Because I will be having a word with her about not prioritising her health and safety.”

Remus squared his shoulders, prepared to play the dual role of mediator and concerned boyfriend, perhaps with a touch of nurse as well, if necessary. 

“Good afternoon, Poppy,” he greeted warmly when he saw Madam Pomfrey by the entrance, giving Regulus’ arm a subtle tug to make him slow down. If there was one thing the matron did not tolerate, it was disturbances in her little wing.

“Oh, Remus, are there any concerns today?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion as this visit did not line up with their usual cycle of visits. Quickly, her eyes drifted over to Regulus, whose face was still noticeably flushed and realisation dawned on her face. “Ah, I see. She’s to the left, three beds down. Though I would advise keeping a distance.”

Regulus’ eyes widened almost comically at the last comment, letting go of Remus in favour of stalking down the hall as quickly as Madam Pomfrey would allow. Remus had to admit his own heart twisted in worried confusion as he gave a small smile and thanks before hurrying after his boyfriend.

He saw Regulus slip between some white privacy curtains mere seconds before he was able to follow himself. “Amour!” he heard Regulus say, abandoning any attempt to conceal his worry.

Remus held his breath as he drew the curtain back just enough to enter your little makeshift alcove, expecting the worst. Surely, he would find you with your leg elevated in a large cast, bloodied bandages all over your face or arms, hair half burnt off.

Instead he heard a small sniffle and your flushed face came into view where it poked out from beneath heaps of wool blankets.

“Oh, hi lovelies,” you murmured in the sweetest tone but with the most painful rasp Remus had heard in a while. It was immediately followed by a fit of coughs.

“Oh, dovey,” Remus cooed pathetically, rushing to sit down on the side of your bed. Regulus was still standing by the curtain, mouth slightly agape as he took in the scene.

This clearly was not what either of them had expected.

“What happened to you lovely girl, hm?” Remus whispered to you, perhaps with a small hope that you would reply in an equally low tone and spare your clearly hoarse voice.

You were truly bundled up under mountains of blankets, messy hair, glossy eyes and runny nose the only visible part of your body. The bedside table was littered with used handkerchiefs, paper towels and small plastic cups used to take potions. Some bottles of potion Remus identified as cold treatments were placed on the edge with a little note with jotted down time stamps. You looked absolutely, thoroughly poorly. 

“I’m sick,” you said hoarsely. You made a noise that sounded like choked laughter, likely at how terrible you sounded, but it just made it worse.

“We can see that, amour.” Regulus’ voice had become ten times softer, and he sat down on the other side of the bed from Remus, reaching out to cup your surely overheated face with his perpetually-cold hand. Remus could feel the phantom touch as his fingers ghosted over the apple of your cheek. 

“Don’t be rude,” you whispered cheekily, but you leaned into his touch with a sigh. “I look perfectly happy and healthy.”

Regulus snorted that laugh he only ever let slip around you two. “You do look beautiful as always. Though perhaps a bit like you’re on your deathbed, which you know you’re not allowed to be.”

You groaned, stretching your body beneath the tangle of blankets. “Ugh, I know,” you huffed, sounding pained. “I feel like it, too. Woke up feeling a bit, I don’t know, stuffy, but I tried to head off to class,” – Regulus made a disapproving sound, but let you continue – “and then I just really came down with it in Astronomy. Didn’t even make it to Magical Creatures.”

At least that's a relief.

“You should have stayed in bed if you woke up feeling poorly, love,” Remus murmured, fishing for your hand beneath the blankets. You happily gave it to him and his heart keened at how you seemed to crave his touch. 

“But I didn’t know I felt poorly poorly. Just… poorly. You know?”

Remus sighed almost dreamily. “I don’t.”

At the same time, Regulus softly said, “You’re not making much sense, pretty girl.”

You groaned your way through a voice crack, turning your head into the pillow on the side Regulus wasn’t lightly caressing. “I feel like the fever is eating at my brain.”

Both boys hummed in sympathy. Remus fought the urge to manhandle Regulus into bed beside you so he could hold you both and shield you from the world.

“It’s alright, amour. Sirius has survived 17 years without a brain, so you can surely manage at reduced capacity for a day or two.” He wore a cheeky smile from the beginning of the sentence, evidently proud of the opportunity to jab at his older brother.

Remus would have to deny it if Sirius asked, but he barked a laugh.

“That’s not very nice, Reggie,” you almost whimpered, though you too were smiling too. “I don’t have the energy to tell you off for being mean to your brother.”

“Well, at least we got one good thing out of your suffering,” Regulus offered, and his smile grew genuine when you laughed at that and lightly shoved his shoulder – clearly his end goal.

You furrowed your brows and brought your unoccupied hand up to rub by your temple. “I really do feel horrid, though. I might have to stay here overnight.”

“You poor sweet thing,” Remus cooed in sympathy. He lightly guided your hand back to lay on your chest as he brought his hands up to massage carefully at both of your temples, moving his thumb in slow circles. Regulus let his hand move from your cheek to drift through your hair so Remus could have space, calming the chaos of frizz caused by your time in bed. Your sigh sounded heavenly as you sunk further back into the pillows and let your eyes drift shut. “We’ll take care of you, yeah? Nurse you back to health?”

You hummed your approval, small tug at the corner of your lips that warmed his heart.

Regulus used the spell Sirius had constructed to expand the infirmary beds during Remus’ monthly stays, adding enough space for him to lay down beside you. When Sirius made it, it had originally been with the intention of the Marauders huddling together, but it was quickly capitalised on by you and Regulus. He got more comfortable beside you, head on the pillow next to yours where he continued playing with your hair in that way he knew soothed you. Remus remained sitting so he could give your face and scalp ample attention, relieving you of your tension headache with practiced ease.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, voice muddled by your hoarseness and oncoming sleepiness. Remus just smiled in response, trusting you would know it even when you couldn’t see it.

“Of course, amour,” Regulus whispered in turn, sounding more emotional than usual when confronted with your vulnerable state. This was nowhere close to the scolding-deserving mishap he had expected to find in the infirmary. “I want nothing more than to kiss away all your pain.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” you huffed then. “I don’t want you getting sick.”

Regulus let out a breathy laugh and kissed your forehead defiantly, bottom lip brushing against Remus’ thumb and shooting pleasurable tingles up along his skin. “Too bad, lovely. We’re both staying here.” He looked up through his long eyelashes to meet Remus’ eyes, face scrunching up in affection with his lips still ghosting over your skin.

“Most certainly,” Remus whispered over the honeyed love that coated his throat and tongue. “We will nurse you right back to health, dovey. You just sleep now.”