#without asking for anything else in return

[yukkiji]

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

still here, still yours

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

starring. suna rintaro x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, light angst, smut

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

wc: 11.8k

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

it’s subtle at first.

the distance.

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

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

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

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

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

because technically, nothing’s wrong.

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

but something’s missing.

something deep.

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

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

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

and still—you ache.

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

you try.

you really try.

but your hand doesn’t feel like his.

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

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

but it’s not the same.

your own touch feels foreign. lonely. hollow.

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

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

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

you miss the way he used to need you.

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

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

but still—you miss him.

and more than that, you miss feeling wanted.

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

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

but because he couldn’t not.

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

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

lonely.

quietly, devastatingly lonely.

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

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

but this quiet?

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

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

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

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

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

except, sleep doesn’t come easily anymore.

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

so you sit up.

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

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

that version of him feels so far away now.

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

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

12:46 a.m.

then 1:22.

then 1:37.

no update.

he’s not home.

again.

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

nothing.

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

you don’t want to be a burden.

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

he looks… drained.

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

“hey,” he mumbles, like always.

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

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

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

“i couldn’t sleep.”

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

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

you stay where you are.

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

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

but you can’t move.

not yet.

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

you hear the water shut off.

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

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

but instead—

“…babe?”

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

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

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

but he never made it that far.

because you’re still not there.

and he notices.

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

you don’t answer at first.

you just look up at him.

and that’s when he really sees you.

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

his expression falters.

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

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

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

and that’s when your voice cracks.

“did i do something wrong?”

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

small. fragile. broken around the edges.

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

“did i do something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i wasn’t waiting,” you say, barely.

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

he pauses, then says quietly:

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

you blink again, this time letting the tears fall.

“rin…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you okay?” he asks, softer now.

you nod, eyes half-lidded.

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

his jaw clenches.

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

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

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

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

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

his jaw tightens, eyes darkening.

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

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

you shiver.

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

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

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

your breath catches in your throat.

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

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

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

loudly.

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

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

then he dives in.

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

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

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

and god, he gives.

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

“rinnie—” you gasp.

that name. that soft little plea.

it makes something snap in him.

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

“say it again.”

“rinnie,” you whisper, voice shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

“y-yes—!”

“this is mine,” he growls. “say it.”

“yours! it’s yours—rinnie, please—!”

his fingers speed up.

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

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

you’re too far gone to speak.

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

and then—

you fall apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then—

he raises his hand.

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

and without breaking eye contact—

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

slow. leisurely. obscene.

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

your breath catches hard in your throat.

you feel it.

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

he notices.

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

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

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

your voice comes out breathy. “rinnie…”

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

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

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

your breath hitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he hisses under his breath, arms tightening around you.

then—smack.

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

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

you bite your lip, nodding wordlessly.

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

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

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

he looks down at you.

bare. breathless. glowing.

and he lets the towel drop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then—finally—he pushes in.

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

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

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

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

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

he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

“there,” he whispers. “finally.”

you nod, dazed, barely able to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

his expression softens like he’s about to break.

“i won’t,” he says. “never again.”

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

and finally, finally, suna starts to move.

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

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

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

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

“missed this. missed you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“rinnie—please, don’t stop.”

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

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

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

“you’re everything to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s quiet for a beat.

just your bodies moving together.

your soft moans swallowed between kisses.

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

the weight of weeks of longing melting between the sheets.

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

your voice is barely more than a whimper.

“rin… faster, please.”

he freezes, eyes flicking down to meet yours.

and just like that—his expression shifts.

from tender to something darker. more possessive.

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

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

the mating press.

his favorite.

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

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

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

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

and then he starts to move.

harder. deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“rin, i’m—! i’m gonna—!”

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

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

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

and then—he touches you.

a single, perfect swipe.

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

“rinnie—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“then fuckin’ let go.”

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

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

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

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

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

but he’s still hard. still inside you.

and still fighting his own edge.

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

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

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

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

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

that’s all it takes.

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

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

you feel it. every drop. every throb.

and it only makes you hold him tighter.

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

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

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

and neither is he.

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

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

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

“then let me take care of you now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

him.

hardening again beneath you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

always want him.

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

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

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

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

both of you groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then—his mouth finds your breast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

weeks. it’s been weeks.

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

but this?

this is everything.

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

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

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

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

that’s when he notices.

the way your moans turn into soft, broken whimpers.

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

and suna grins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“y-yes, rin—please, it’s so much—”

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

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

the stimulation is blinding.

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

his mouth at your chest.

his voice whispering filth and devotion in the same breath.

his fingers never stopping.

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

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

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

and then it hits.

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

you squirt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that’s what does it.

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

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

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

him.

still hard.

still inside you.

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

“rin… you’re still… hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he gives you everything.

he proves himself over and over again.

with every deep thrust that leaves you gasping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he smiles at that. “yeah, i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

and somehow, even after everything—your body responds.

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

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

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

one long stroke, then another.

and your body gives up.

you squirt again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not when he’s right there.

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

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

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

then his arms tighten around you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“but—”

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

you shiver—not entirely from fear.

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

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

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

suna kisses the pout away, slow and deliberate.

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

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

“behave,” he murmurs against your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his hand stills.

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

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

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

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

his voice gets softer, more serious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“happy now?” he mumbles sleepily.

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

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

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

it feels like home.

[strawberrystepmom]

"Are you in love with me?"

Even though Dante is pretending to be asleep, curled over your back with a forearm thrown over you to pin your body against his chest, the cadence of his breath changes as soon as you get the words out.

It's like you caught one and stole it for yourself – not an uncommon occurrence.

The question lingers for a second. And another. Then a few more. Thankfully you abandoned shame in pursuit of love long ago, leaving you free from the burn of rejection or pain in case that’s what the silence means.

It also helps that you are confident this is not what his silence means. 

You know he isn’t asleep, at least not all the way yet, but you can still practically feel the trepidation dripping from his fingertips where they skim your bare hip. 

“Silly me, I know you’re asleep,” a featherlight lie drops from your lips. 

He nearly exhales in relief, fingers relaxing against your skin. In response, you tense, back straightening and shoulders squaring. 

“So, I’m going to say this while I still have the courage. I am in lo–”

Dante’s hand slides from your chest to your mouth, covering it gently. 

“I am.” His disused voice rasps.

Pulling his hand down from your face, you pipe up. “You are…?”

“In love.” He kisses your temple for the briefest of seconds before lifting his chin to fully tuck his head beneath it, cradling you as though it’s what he was born to do. “Pathetically, stupidly, life changingly in love with you.”

Silence returns but your heart pounds so hard in your chest it echoes in your ears. You weren’t quite expecting him to drop the act entirely and fess up.

“This is, uh, harder than I thought it would be.”

Trying to lighten the tension, you clear your throat. “First time?”

He can’t see your cheeky smile but thankfully he can picture it.

“Yeah, actually. Never had any reason to say it to anyone else.”

What if your heart bursts? It feels like it may when you consider the implication of being the first woman he has loved aloud at the very least. Your clammy palms remain wrapped around his forearm, clutching him.

“You terrify me.”

Such a statement might not be the best method of diffusing the tension but he’ll try it anyway. 

“That’s fascinating coming from a big bad guy like you.”

Chuckling, he tightens his grip around you. His chin drops to rest against your shoulder, voice loud and clear right in your ear. “Maybe I’m not as big and bad as I look, have you ever thought about that?”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, finally turning in his arms and slipping your calves between his legs. He can finally make out the smile you’ve been struggling to hide even in the dim light, his breath stolen once again. 

“All the time, handsome.” You reach up to brush his mussed hair off of his face. “Alllll the time.”

“And it never makes you love me less? I mean, let me not get ahead of myself here – you do love me, right?”

“If you would have let me finish before playing the hero you definitely would’ve heard me say it the first time. But…” 

You look away, a little flustered despite that abandonment of shame you were so proud of. 

“God, yes. I think I’ve loved you since that first night, as insane as it sounds.”

Insane or not, he’s always felt it too. 

“Oh, so that’s why you hid from me for two weeks after that?”

You roll your eyes, reaching behind him to pinch his thigh. “It was three and yeah, exactly. Now you’re getting the hang of things.”

Both of you devolve into a small fit of giggles, bodies rubbing together while sleepy laughter wracks your chest and shakes your shoulders. It dies down, the tension mostly dying with it.

Still, there’s just enough left that tells you he has more to say. 

“Permission to be honest?” He asks, in a far smaller voice than usual.

“You have my permission to be anything, Dante.”

You can only hope he understands how true it is. 

“You terrify me because I don’t think I would know how to live without you now that I’ve had the luxury of living with you.” 

Smiling, you raise your eyebrows. “The luxury, huh? What a flatterer…”

“Hey,” he warns, capturing both of your hands in one of his and pressing your fingertips against his puckered lips. “You gave me permission to be honest, remember?”

Straightening up, you purse your lips and suck them inward, pretending to shut your mouth tightly. Your wide eyed stare makes it difficult for him to keep it together, a laugh on the precipice of his tongue. Somehow, he holds back, knowing that this is his chance. 

“The luxury. The privilege. Whatever you wanna call it.” He continues, eyes soft despite the tense set of his jaw. “I don’t want to fuck it up or eventually make you regret ever signing up to be a part of this thing I call a life.”

The amusing expression on your face turns somber before his eyes. 

“Do you want to know why I eventually gave up the whole running away bit?”

Feeling guilty for dampening the sweet mood, he opts to keep quiet and simply nods in response.

“Because I wanted to be part of your life. It’s not a thing, Dante - it lives and breathes and…it matters.” You smile, shaking your head. “Your life, you, us. It’s more precious than anything to me.”

“The only thing you could ever do to disappoint me would be to hurt me.”

“I wouldn–”

“I know. Not you, not ever. You’re not the type.” You crane your neck to kiss him. “Plus, I’m almost surprisingly hard to run off once I find somewhere worth being.”

“Then I really did get lucky.”

“No. You’ve just ended up where you’ve always been meant to be.”

[kentothirdleg]

jjk men react to you asking them to kill a bug!

ft geto, todo, choso, n nanami౨ৎ

Geto Suguru

‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁

“You’re a special grade sorcerer,” you whisper from behind him, voice shaking. “You can handle curses... Can you please handle this bug before I pass out?”

Geto sets his book down slowly. “What kind of bug?”

“The kind that flies. The kind that looks like it has a passport and a grudge.”

He sighs, stands, and walks to the kitchen with the calm serenity of a monk. You follow at a very safe distance. The second he sees it—

“Oh. That’s disgusting.”

“RIGHT?”

He picks up a glass like he’s about to catch a butterfly and slowly, gently traps the bug. Slips a paper underneath and carries it toward the window with surgical grace.

“You’re releasing it?!” you gasp.

He smiles. “All life is precious.”

“It flew at me with violence, sugu..”

“I believe in rehabilitation.”

You fold your arms. “You wanna rehabilitate that bug, but had a whole cult last year?”

"Alright [꣑ৎ] that's enough.."

Aoi Todo

‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁

"Aoi.”

“Yes, my best friend and queen?”

“There’s a flying bug in the bathroom.”

He squared his jaw. “Say no more.”

He sprinted to the bathroom like a man possessed. You heard a battle cry. A slam. The unmistakable crunch of justice.

When he emerged, shirtless and slightly sweaty, he held the remains in a tissue like a fallen enemy.

“It has been done.”

You nodded. “You are dramatic and I love it.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “A real man protects the woman who appreciates Jennifer Lawrence and fears flying bugs.”

You stared. “I’ve never said I liked Jennifer Lawrence.”

He gasped. “Who are you?”

Choso

‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁

You screamed. He screamed.

You ran out of the room. He followed you, panicked, grabbing your arms. “What happened? Are you hurt?!”

“No! No—Choso, please, calm down. There’s a bug. Big. Flying. I need backup.”

He blinked. “...That’s it?”

“Yes! That’s all!”

He gave you a proud, protective nod and marched into the room with a broom like it was a sword. Five minutes of yelling, crashing, and one broken lamp later, he returned.

Breathing hard.

Broom bent.

Bug: obliterated.

You looked around the wreckage.

“Thank you baby” you said sincerely.

He smiled softly, bloody nose slightly crooked from hitting the wall mid-fight. “I’d do it again.”

Nanami Kento

‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁

You screamed and ran.

Nanami looked up from the kitchen, where he was slicing fruit like it was meditation. You burst in, wide-eyed and clutching the doorframe.

“Nanami. There is a FAT bug in our bedroom. Wings. No remorse. I need you to kill it NOW.”

He blinked once.

Then again.

Then set the knife down gently, exhaled through his nose like he just got assigned unpaid overtime, and muttered, “I work twelve-hour days, and this is how I spend my evening off.”

You followed him back down the hall at a distance, peeking from behind him like a child watching a horror movie through their fingers.

“There,” you pointed. “Right there. Look at it. It’s thick. It’s got muscle. I swear that's the thickest bug i've ever seen.”

Nanami pushed his glasses up and stared at the insect with a disgust usually reserved for curses or unpaid taxes.

“That is not a bug. That is a pestilence.”

You: “Right?!”

Without another word, he took off his house slipper with the quiet precision of a seasoned assassin. He measured the distance. He waited for it to stop moving.

And then— SMACK.

Nanami turned to you, completely unbothered, slipped his slipper back on, and said, “Handled. Is there anything else terrorizing the peace in this apartment, or may I go back to slicing mangoes?”

You blinked. “...You’re the sexiest man alive.”

He adjusted his tie even though he wasn’t wearing one.

“I’m aware.”

[t6ji]

— late return.

pairing. nerdy!toji fushiguro x fem!reader

cw. public-ish sex, jealousy, riding, thumb sucking, possessive!reader, territorial behavior, very subtle femdom energy, toji being too sweet and too fuckable for his own good, claiming in a library after-hours

you weren’t supposed to see it.

you were just stopping by the library to pick up your notes—left them in the second floor study lounge during your 4 p.m. calc panic—and figured you’d be in and out before the closing lights even flickered.

but fate, as always, had other plans.

the laugh catches your ear before anything else. it’s high and girlish and artificial in a way that makes your jaw tighten without thinking. the math aisle curves into a little alcove near the back, and as you round the corner, you catch the tail end of a sentence:

“oh my god, you’re so smart.”

you stop walking.

she’s sitting far too close to him. the air between them isn’t even warm—it’s thick. intended. she’s propped up on one arm, leaned over his thigh just enough to toe the line of inappropriate without technically crossing it. her voice is saccharine. fake clueless. the tone of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

and toji, your sweet, soft-spoken boyfriend?

he’s none the wiser.

he’s got that tired, shy smile on—the one he gives when someone compliments him and he doesn’t know what to do with it. he’s kneeling on the floor, glasses slipping low on his nose, cardigan sleeves pushed up as he scratches an equation into a spiral-bound notebook. he’s explaining something patiently, slowly, like he’s done a hundred times before, completely unaware of the way her eyes are devouring him.

“you make it sound so easy,” she giggles. “i think i just need one-on-one tutoring every week.”

he chuckles quietly. “you’re getting better, though.”

you don’t even hear the rest.

your spine feels too hot, your molars press too tight.

you turn, step back into the next aisle over, and press your tongue against your cheek.

you don’t doubt him. it’s never about trust. it’s about her.

and if she’s gonna act like your man is fair game, then maybe she needs a reminder.

forty minutes later, the library is closed.

you’re still inside.

technically the door is locked, technically there are signs that say the study spaces shut down by 10:30, and technically you should be halfway across campus by now. but you’re not in the mood to follow rules. not tonight.

you hear him before you see him again.

his voice is low. muttering something to himself.

and then—there he is.

back still pressed to the shelf. glasses on. clipboard in his lap. sleeves rolled up, collar twisted, legs folded long beneath him like he’s settled in for the apocalypse. he doesn’t even notice you at first. just squints down at his notes, muttering numbers under his breath.

you take a step closer.

then another.

he finally glances up. blinking.

“…you’re still here?”

his voice is tired. soft. unaware.

and in a single breath, you decide you’re not letting him go home unclaimed.

you kneel between his legs slowly, deliberately, and his brows furrow with that dumb little concern he always gives you when you act slightly out of pocket.

“baby?” he asks, breath catching. “what’re you—”

you straddle his lap.

his mouth parts just a little.

you lean in and brush your lips along his jaw—soft, slow, like you’re kissing a bruise. his breath catches again.

“you’ve been out here helping girls who already know how to divide matrices,” you murmur, voice featherlight against the shell of his ear. “i figured i’d come remind you who’s actually failing math and needs your attention.”

he freezes. blinks. stutters.

“she really did need help—i wasn’t—i wasn’t trying to—”

you rock your hips.

he goes silent.

his cock is already thick beneath you, pressing up against the soft material of his corduroy pants, and when you grind down again—harder this time—he chokes on a breath and tips his head back into the shelf with a soft thud.

your voice dips lower, curling like steam.

“you’re hard already?”

his glasses fog faintly.

“you—fuck—you’re grinding on me, how could i not—?”

you hum, skirt hiking higher, heat building. every shift of your hips drags your soaked panties over his clothed cock. he’s shaking beneath you already.

“thought you liked when i was quiet,” he breathes, a pitiful attempt at levity—but it comes out too needy, too cracked.

you kiss the corner of his mouth, lips grazing his skin as you whisper:

“you’ve been sweet to everyone but me today. so no, baby, i don’t want you quiet.”

his hands come up like he wants to stop you, but they don’t land anywhere. they hover—lost. he looks up at you with that helpless expression, face flushed, mouth parted. his hair’s falling into his eyes.

you take his glasses off slowly, fold them, set them on a forgotten textbook.

he looks dazed.

you kiss his cheek, then press your thumb to his bottom lip.

he gasps. swallows. obeys immediately.

his mouth opens. you slide your thumb in.

his tongue presses against it. warm. wet. obedient.

“i didn’t mean to make you mad,” he murmurs, voice thick around your thumb.

you tilt your head slightly. “you didn’t make me mad.”

you lean forward, lips brushing his jaw.

“you made me territorial.”

his hips twitch.

your cunt clenches around nothing.

you roll your hips again, slow and deep, pressing his cock right against your slick heat—and he whimpers, chest arching toward you, arms trembling like he’s holding back from tearing you down onto him.

his throat is flushed. adams apple jumping.

“you’re—fuck—” he groans. “i can’t—please slow down, i’m gonna—i can’t hold it—”

you kiss his throat, twice, maybe three times, before you finally reach down and tug your panties to the side.

“don’t wanna slow down,” you whisper. “wanna make you cum so hard she feels it when she tries to talk to you tomorrow.”

his breath breaks.

you sink down on him.

he moans—loud, wrecked—and it echoes through the dead-quiet library like sin.

you keep going anyway and now you’re already fucking him before he can catch his breath.

your panties are still tugged to the side, your skirt rucked up around your waist, and his cock’s buried so deep inside you it feels like it’s been there for hours—like it belongs there. he’s warm and full and pulsing under you, breath shattered into fragments, like he doesn’t know if he should be begging you to slow down or speed up.

but he’s not really speaking anymore. just soft, helpless little moans—like “ah…hahh… please…”—mouth parted, lashes wet, trying to blink up at you through the blur.

you’re sitting flush against him now. riding him slowly, cruelly, grinding your hips down just enough to feel him twitch every time your cunt sucks him in. it’s hot between you—your skin damp, your chest flushed, your thighs clenched around his. the quiet library air turns sticky. you hear your own wetness in the air, slick sounds echoing off the walls.

toji’s cardigan is slipping off his shoulder. his glasses are tossed away, useless. he keeps trying to focus, keeps trying to look at you—but his eyes roll every time you move.

his head tips back into the bookshelf behind him, a quiet thud lost in the heat between you.

you lean in—close, chest brushing his—and reach up to touch his jaw with one hand. he leans into it like it soothes him. you trace his bottom lip with your thumb. just once. slow.

and he moans.

his mouth parts, barely even a second of hesitation, and then—he pulls your thumb in with his lips, tongue wrapping around it immediately like he’s starved for something only you can give.

you feel it all. the warmth. the texture. the tremble in his breath as he sucks, slow and instinctive, his eyes fluttering half-closed as he lets the sensation anchor him.

his hips jerk again under you.

“baby,” he breathes around your finger, voice low and ruined. “you’re—i’m gonna—fuck—”

he tries to hold still.

he tries. but his cock twitches again, and your pussy tightens around him like a reflex, and that’s when you see it—the way his whole face starts to break open, all flushed and vulnerable and raw.

you keep your thumb in his mouth.

and keep moving.

not faster. just deeper. every grind is a threat, a promise, a pressure point. your walls clamp down around him with a wet, obscene sound and his breath shatters completely.

“too much,” he whispers, barely able to say it. “s’t-too much—feels too good—fuck, fuck, please���”

his thighs tremble underneath you. his fingers dig into the back of your sweater like he needs to cling to something, anything, or else he’ll come apart.

you shift just slightly, angle your hips a little higher so his cock hits deeper—and he gasps around your thumb. doesn’t stop sucking. doesn’t even think to.

you lean down, forehead to his, lips brushing his flushed cheek.

“you close?” you whisper.

he nods. barely. eyes unfocused.

“don’t hold it back.”

he comes like his body can’t help it.

trembles. cries. lips still wrapped around your finger, mouth dripping. his whole body jolts forward like you’ve shocked him, and you feel his cock throb inside you—once, twice, three times—hot cum spilling deep as his hands slip down to your thighs, clutching like he’s drowning.

and still—you don’t stop.

you grind down again, soft and slow. drawing out every shiver. every breath.

his whine catches in his throat. his thumb twitches against your ribs. he nuzzles your neck like he’s trying to ground himself, but his mouth is still open, still latched around your thumb like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart all over again.

your other hand slides into his hair.

you kiss his temple.

you ride the high with him.

and when he finally looks at you—eyes red-rimmed, lips parted, spit shining on your thumb—he looks like someone who doesn’t just love you.

he belongs to you.

t6ji | 2025 prod — do not copy, reuse, or translate anything written on this blog.

[onlygarden]

[i built my life around you] - yang jungwon

genre: angst

description: as jungwon grows more distant, you grow more desperate to tell him. after all, both of your lives were built around the other.

a/n: okay so. i know i closed my blog several months ago but is it too late to say sike. i've had so much inspiration and so many ideas that i NEED to work on so here we are. this one is heavy but everything else should be much more lighthearted hehe im so excited!!!!

of course, you were getting older. that much was blissfully apparent to you. it glared at you in many unnoticeable ways, though one stood tauntingly amongst the others; your carefully, cautiously woven relationship with jungwon was splitting, threatening to leave you lonely with each painful unwind. it’s hard to say whether you were ever prepared for a stage like this to approach the relationship you shared. the soul-binding, finger-intertwining relationship – the promise you built your life around, the bond which always extended an offer of foundation, assurance. the thought of jungwon was never accompanied by the thought of fragility or instability. thoughts of the future, for both of you, never fluttered without the company of the other. that’s the way it seemed, at least. both of you, hands intertwined, traversing each stage of life and quelling each other’s fears by mere presence. your soul laid bare to him, after all. both of your hearts were bared to the other, at all times. nothing he could hide from you, and nothing you could hide from him. as euphoric as it seems, his inability to hide himself from you offered you pain, as well.

you woke up before him this morning, much like most mornings, preparing a breakfast that the two of you will share. these moments were always precious to you – slow, easy, a private blanket of shared connections and natural conversation. 

you perk up as you hear jungwon descending the stairs, a gesture not well hidden by your demeanor. not that you would want to hide it anyway. at least, you never did before.

“good morning, won,” you tell him, so simple and unhurried, much like the smile you offer him. he yawns, perching himself at a stool in front of the counter to observe as you prepare breakfast. it’s a daily occurrence, albeit, his eyes are always bulging with the words ‘i love you, i really do.’

“morning, baby,” he returns, offering a similar smile to you, but it lacks any of the familiar warmth you’ve gotten so accustomed to wrapping yourself in. it’s subtle, but you see it.

you see the way his attention is quickly absorbed by the notification arriving to his phone. the buzzing has become so prominently unsettling to you, sinking into every pore on every limb of your body, inviting itself without knocking, as a teasing reminder that you can’t keep his gaze anymore. you don’t just see it, you feel it.

“who’s that?” you ask, though you know the answer. it’s anyone or anything that will distract him from his life with you. his needy little thing – fond, exhausting, and fond. 

“just the guys. wanting to hangout this afternoon,” his answer is clipped, his words not rooting into a natural conversation at all. in fact, his tone conveys the desire to just end the conversation as quickly as your eager mouth would allow.

just ask him if he’s going, your mind echoes. just rip off the bandaid. the worst he could say is yes, i’m leaving you to be painfully aware of your loneliness all day. though all he would truly say is ‘yes’ and your dramatics will take care of the rest. not too soul crushing. 

“are you going?” you dare ask, but you’re not daring enough to look at him.

“yea,” he says, the syllable drifting easily off his tongue, simple in its creation. such a simple phrase, only three letters, brewing such destruction in your chest. it’s silly, almost, but it aids in solidifying your growing doubts; aids in your unwinding. 

you don’t argue, and you don’t allow your feelings to seep through and spill all over him. you don’t want to be selfish, after all. is it selfish to crave the connection which came so naturally before? you can’t help but contemplate, maybe it’s only selfish when it’s not mutual.

“oh, okay,” you respond. it’s short, but it doesn’t lack any of the sweetness or warmth you usually send to him. your fondness towards him was nearly visible, radiating off of you. 

his departure summons an ache that only his presence can soothe. everytime, you feel it, whether your mind thinks it’s pathetic or not. those thoughts are getting quieter, anyway – muted by the feelings threatening to overwhelm you. 

when he returns that night, you’re still awake, resting on the couch. for you, the time crawled, but you’re certain he was so immersed in his time away that he couldn’t feel the hours passing at all. your hopes come flooding upon his arrival, whether you want to tame them or not, still clutching onto the silly concept that ‘this time, he’ll be excited to see me.’ of course, you wouldn’t dare to miss an interaction with him, no matter how brief it might be. 

as he shuts the door behind him, he’s bright, rejuvenated, his body surrounded by peace. a contented sigh dances happily past his lips, proof of all the lovely traits he hasn’t been able to absorb in your presence lately. 

“hey, baby,” he says, his words not accompanied by much more than a glance as he heads towards the kitchen. well that’s nice.

this time, you follow behind him, motivated by the relentless thoughts you’ve cycled through during your relentless time alone, reaching a certain state of delirium only the pain of uncertainty can send you into. 

he’s setting down a few bags on the counter as you enter, seeming to revel in the bliss of disregarding you and your futile emotions.

“hey, i… i’ve been wondering,” you start, the lack of confidence, the fear making your tone flimsy. it doesn’t matter, so long as he will understand. 

“what have you been wondering?” he asks, his focus now directed towards your meek, almost resigned figure, his brown eyes glazed with a fondness, a worry that his words can never truly convey.  god, why do you have to squeeze his heart like this? especially when he’s agonizingly aware of where this conversation will go, and now he has no choice but to join it.

“why don’t you take me out anymore?” you ask, the well of emotion you’ve forced yourself to garner now threatening to overflow, akin to the tears shining against your eyes. of course, the tears are coming now, in the moment when all you desperately wish to do is tell him how you’ve been feeling.

each of your words cut into jungwon, bringing a heaviness to the atmosphere, but beginning to chip away at the boulder you’ve been carrying on your chest for months. he knew you would ask him this, he knew you noticed his distance – it was just something he’d grown content with disregarding. of course, it pains him, but of course, he needs to defend that contentedness. 

he sighs, turning his attention back to the bag in front of him, a hint of irritation shielding his worry. he can’t bring himself to focus on you, and the raw splatter of emotion you’re displaying for him, because of him. it’s so, so much, and it underlines so purely the heaviness of the relationship he knows he promised to withstand. 

“maybe i just wanted to spend time without you. do you always need to be around?” his eyes still stubbornly refuse to fall into yours, as he stubbornly removes items from the bag in front of him. you’re laying yourself bare for him, and he’s handing his irritation and dismissal to you in return. each of his words cut into you, the well of your vulnerability streaking freely across your face. you weren’t sure you trusted him with such vulnerability, anymore. 

“jungwon, i-i’m lonely, i… i feel like i don’t even have you at all—”

a particularly loud slam of his palm against the counter slices through any remnants of those words tumbling from your weary lips. now, he’s looking at you.

“of course you are! dammit, everything is always… something with you. this is why i’ve been gone so much! i need a fucking break and you never give me that. you’re so goddamn needy. i can’t take it,” he admits, with his voice raised, laying himself bare before you. his eyes bore into yours, now stubbornly refusing to look away as he watches the way his words sink into you.

your tears decorated your face, and the ache overwhelming each of your senses bled through every word you spoke. you always wore your vulnerability so loudly, and it was true, you always sought him. however, it always felt mutual. you never thought you’d feel the need to hide yourself from him. you never thought he’d use your trust against you. 

needy. through your tears, your voice raises too, begging to be heard and acknowledged.

“yea, maybe i am. maybe i am needy for wishing i didn’t have to be alone when i’m in a relationship!  when you have someone who’s always there for you, it’s easy to forget what it’s like to be alone. it hurts, jungwon! i just wish you would make me a priority!”

his irritation bubbles, transforming into genuine anger, his voice fiercely refusing to lower in volume as the tension built by several months of concealing the raw issue ascends to the surface. 

“a priority? i’ve done nothing but make you a fucking priority! it’s exhausting, i can’t spend a second away from you without you acting like a baby! do you realize how pathetic you are?!”

your features scrunch with hurt, the pain of every new admission, every insult weaving itself into your weary chest. 

“why do you have to talk to me like that jungwon? why?! i’m telling you how i feel. you’ve spent almost no time with me for months, and it doesn’t make any sense to me because i thought we were happy–”

again, your words are so incredulous to him, he cannot let you continue. 

“happy? you thought i was happy? you can’t make anyone happy,” he tells you, the anger arranging his words, his frustration, in a way that he knows will be painful for you, but he can’t soften for you yet. 

“what?” your voice reaches him in a manner that is marginally quieter than just moments ago, the motivation to just beg him to understand is now flooding your exhausted body rapidly, your frustration and pain now dissolving into utter devastation. he’s never made you feel so crushed. 

“you heard me. you can’t make anyone happy. you always need more, like a goddamn parasite. how do you not see it? i’ve been trying so hard to keep loving you, but i don’t even know if you’re worth all of this stress,” he tells you, each word blaring throughout every wrinkle of your mind, telling you that he’s finally being honest. these are jungwon’s genuine, unfiltered, unrepressed feelings for you, and you finally know.

with trembling legs, you turn your body around, muttering a pitiful “i’ll leave, then,” as your trembling hand struggles to clear your vision of the tears you could never seem to reign in.

“that’ll probably be for the best,” he voices, and he knows he doesn’t mean it before the words even escape his lips, but the anger consumes him. he can only hope that you know he could never mean that.

you force your legs to carry you to the door, wanting so violently to leave the home you poured so much love into, evidence of the love you shared with jungwon seeping from every crevice of every room. his beautiful connection with you woven into your soul, now snapping as each moment of doting, each moment of trust and security rewrites as cruel insincerity. you couldn’t bear to contemplate too long, knowing the memories would only engulf you. nor could you bear to turn around and fall into jungwon’s eyes. 

again, his heart constricts. he’s never found the ability to just endure, not when he can see your tears, your pain. after all, he truly does love you. the panic he feels as you reach for the doorknob jolts his body into action, and his legs are dragging him towards you without a single shred of reluctance. he needs to make you stay, with every fiber of his being. 

“baby! baby, wait, i shouldn’t have–”

even as he crosses the room to grab your wrist, with speed that can only be offered to him by pure desperation, you still find difficulty in shaking the doubt. you can’t trust that he’s being genuine, not after the honest frustration that flowed from him only moments ago, and certainly not after the months of avoiding you on purpose.

“no! no, jungwon, you don’t have to pretend. you told me how you feel,” you shout, the tears demanding you to speak past the tightness in your throat. 

god, he can’t let you believe that. he could never allow his anger to plant doubt within your mind. he pulls your body closer to his, feeling your fatigue in your gentle attempts to resist him, to tug away from him. his arms wrap around you, blanketing you, offering you the tight comfort and warmth you had been deprived of for so long.

“i love you, baby. i love you so much… i was just so angry, but i was so stupid. so, so stupid. you can’t leave, okay? i should’ve… i should’ve never been so angry with you. anything you want, baby… i’ll spend every second with you. i don’t want to hurt you. just please, don’t leave,” he tells you, his words desperate, gentle, scattered, his own neediness woven into every word. this time, his raw vulnerability mirrors your own, as he bares his soul before you.

“no, jungwon! stop! why can’t you just stop lying to me? why do you have to destroy me like this?! i don’t even know you anymore. i thought i did, but i don’t,” you shout, your words pleading with him to just let your suffering end, as much as you don’t want to spend a second of your life without him. but he’s already made you do that, countless times, hasn’t he?

jungwon’s eyes stretch wide, trembling with the fear that this will truly be his last moment looking at you, his delicate features furrowed with desperation.

his grip on your body tightens, binding you to him, even as your body begs him to free you.

“baby, please… don’t… don’t say that. you do know me. i’m just… i’m selfish. i’ve been so selfish. i know im still being selfish, but i just can’t let you leave,” he’s squeezing you, his words are squeezing your heart, and he’s trying with every bit of his desperation to keep you close to him in every manner of the word.

“you didn’t care! it didn’t matter to you at all! and even though you’ve done nothing but push me aside, i still love you! i still love you, so fucking much, jungwon, don’t you understand?!” you let your pain soak into him, your voice still raised with the symptoms of it. you refuse to allow yourself to give in to his warmth just yet, not because of pride, but fear.

god, does it pain him. the plain honesty of what he’s done to you, laid out before him in every bit of the suffering he’s made you endure. you, the woman he cherishes through every phase of life, because there would be no meaning or purpose in it otherwise.

“i understand. baby, please, i understand. just please, let me… let me fix everything. i promise you, i’ll spend every second of my life making you feel as special as i know you are,” he begs, refusing to cease his desperation until he’s sure he’ll never lose you.

you’ve never seen him so fraught, though it’s not like you’ve ever tried to leave him before, either. you believe him, you truly do. the tension and resistance in your shoulders finally makes its departure, leaving you fragile against him.

“okay, won… okay,” you relent.

through the doubt which you know, and he knows, will need patience to sweep away, he reminds you of the love he was so foolish to withhold. your body slowly, cautiously begins to relax against his embrace, the kind caress of his hand against your back, and the vulnerability in his words, rebinding each connection you began to unravel. 

“please, never leave, i don’t know what life would be without you,” he reminds, ensuring that he will not make you doubt him a second time.

[kithtaehyung]

literally cannot get this out of my mind like this is the most yoongi to ever yoongi and i seriously can’t think of much else other than his gentle soul and endless effort and infinite capacity for love despite everything he’s been through and his attention to the smallest things that make the biggest difference and his quiet strength to provide help without asking for anything in return and his ability to amplify good just by diving headfirst and pouring time and money and his own self into these topics that deserve more attention and better understanding i just

[orellazalonia]

His World

Summary: Bucky gradually lets you into his hidden world, starting with guarded trust, then slowly introducing you to the quiet power behind his empire. (Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 1.9k+

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

The silence stretched between you for what felt like forever.

You could feel his eyes on you. Waiting, bracing, like your next breath might decide whether his entire world stayed standing or cracked in two.

You took a slow step back, away from his outstretched hand.

“I love you, James,” You said, voice steady. “But I can’t love you like this.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I can’t sit home at night wondering if the blood on your shirt belongs to you or someone else. I can’t pretend the world you’re in doesn’t exist. I’m not asking you to change for me, but if I’m going to be with you… it can’t be in the dark.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something flicker behind his eyes. Not anger. Not resistance.

Respect.

He gave a quiet nod, like he understood the cost.

“What do you need?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You hesitated. Then gave him your answer.

“I need time,” You said. “I need to feel safe. I need to be able to walk to work without wondering if someone’s watching me because I matter to you.”

“You do matter to me.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still here.”

You stepped closer, just enough to brush your fingertips against his sleeve.

“But I need to trust that I’m not just something you protect. I need to know I’m something you’ll let in. All the way. No more lies. No more ‘it’s nothing.’ If I’m going to love you, I need to love all of you.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he nodded again, firmer this time.

“I’ll make it happen.”

The next day, the SUV was still outside your building but this time, the driver tipped his head politely when you left.

When you got to work, you noticed the same man from before with a dark coat and quiet eyes, standing across the street with a cup of coffee from your cafe in hand. He wasn’t watching the street anymore.

He was watching you.

You didn’t ask questions. But that night, Bucky texted:

“You’ll have eyes on you, always. They won’t interfere unless they have to. You’re safe. That’s not negotiable.”

Your reply was short:

“Okay. But I’m not glass, James.” “No,” He wrote back. “You’re fire. I’m just trying not to burn down what you love.”

Days passed.

You didn’t see him. But you felt his presence. The small changes, the careful signs.

Your doorbell buzzed less. The man across the street switched every six hours like clockwork. A quiet envelope appeared in your mailbox with no note, just the full payment for your next three months of rent.

Then, on a Thursday night, there was a knock.

You opened the door. And it was him.

His coat was clean. His hands unbandaged. His eyes were tired, but calm. He held nothing but a small paper bag and a softer look than you’d ever seen on his face.

“I brought you peach cobbler,” He said. “From that place uptown. I remembered you said your grandma used to make it.”

You stared at him for a second. Then stepped aside, letting him in.

He didn’t stay the night.

You both knew this wasn’t a return to what was. It was a rebuilding.

But when he left, he paused in the doorway, thumb brushing your knuckles gently.

“I’m working on it,” He said. “All of it. I want you in my world, not just on the edges.”

You nodded, eyes soft.

“I’m working on it too.”

And true to his word, he did start letting you into more of his life. Small things, of course.

He didn’t bring you to meetings, not yet. But he started answering your questions. Not brushing them off. Not changing the subject. Just… telling you the truth.

You’d be curled on the couch, sipping tea, and casually ask, “What did you do today?”

And instead of “errands,” He’d say, “I went to check in on one of our suppliers. The docks have been tense lately. I had to remind someone not to get greedy.”

You didn’t ask what that reminder looked like. But the fact that he told you at all meant everything.

Another night, he asked, “You want to see something?”

You tilted your head, curious. “Is it illegal?”

He smirked. “Not technically.”

So, you followed him out to a wide, quiet warehouse past the edge of the river. It looked empty from the outside, but when he opened the door, warm yellow light spilled out and the sound of laughter echoed through the dark.

Inside were people. His people. Sitting at metal tables with takeout containers, playing cards, sharpening knives with lazy hands and easy jokes. A dog barked once, tail wagging like it lived there full time.

And when they saw you, the room didn’t go tense.

They just nodded. Some even smiled.

Because they already knew who you were. The reason Bucky hadn’t cracked a skull in three days. The one he talked about when he thought no one was listening. The girl with whipped cream in her hair and sunlight in her voice.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“This is where you go when you disappear?”

“Sometimes.”

“It's… less scary than I imagined.”

He smiled, genuinely.

“I don’t bring people here.”

“I figured.”

He let you wander a little. Watch the armory wall, the crates of supplies, or the map pinned with red strings and initials. And then he tugged you gently toward the back, where a small, surprisingly clean office waited.

You stepped in, expecting danger.

Instead, you found a couch, a bookshelf, a blanket folded neatly on the armrest and more.

“Is this yours?”

“Yeah.”

“You live here?”

“More like rest stop when I can’t get to you.”

You sat slowly on the couch, brushing your fingers over the soft fabric.

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to keep seeing more, slowly, but I need you to promise me something.”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Anything.”

“Don’t show me only what you want me to see. Show me what’s real even if it’s ugly. I want to love you with both eyes open.”

He looked at you for a long moment. And then he did something rare. He knelt in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees.

“I’ve been in this life a long time, sweetheart,” He said. “And I’ve never loved anything as much as I love you. So when you’re ready, I’ll show you everything. Piece by piece, no more hiding.”

You reached down, brushing his hair from his face.

“And I’ll try not to flinch.”

That night, you didn’t sleep at your apartment.

You fell asleep on that warehouse couch, curled under his coat, while he sat nearby with a quiet laptop and a loaded gun tucked just beneath the desk.

You never saw the gun.

He never told you who tried to threaten his hold on the west side that night. But you woke up to hot coffee and a gentle hand on your cheek.

And in that moment, the world didn’t feel so divided.

He didn’t ask you for another trip until the end of the week.

You were curled on his couch again, half-dozing under his jacket with your fingers absently tracing the edge of his hand where it rested on your knee. The room was quiet, lit by the dim gold of the streetlight outside. Neither of you had spoken in minutes.

That’s when he said, quietly:

“You wanna see where I really live?”

You blinked, eyes half-lidded. “This is where you live.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “No, sweetheart. This is where I visit.”

You straightened. “You mean… the real place? The one you don’t talk about?”

He nodded once, his thumb brushing against your wrist. “I want you to see it if you’re ready.”

And you agreed.

You didn’t know what to expect. A fortress? A bunker? Something cold, hollow, and full of ghosts?

But when the car pulled up the next night, and Bucky stepped out first to open your door himself, you saw it for what it really was:

A mansion.

Old, elegant, and quiet. Set back from the street behind iron gates and many trees. It looked like it had been there forever, like the city grew around it, not the other way around. Light spilled from the tall windows in amber squares.

The moment you stepped inside the mansion. It was quiet and warm, old and elegant. You felt like you’d crossed into a part of Bucky no one else had ever touched. He didn’t just live here.

This was where he existed.

At the top of the grand staircase stood a man you recognized immediately. Not because of photos or rumors, but because of the way Bucky had mentioned him.

Never “Steve Rogers.” Just: “My brother.”

He descended the stairs with easy grace; broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp dark sweater and sleeves rolled to the elbows, like he’d come straight from a war room or a bookstore.

He smiled before you even spoke. “You must be the one who makes him smile like an idiot.”

You blinked, surprised. “I–what?”

Steve grinned and shook your hand warmly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m Steve. I’ve heard a lot about you. And Bucky is very bad at hiding when someone means something to him.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “I hope it was mostly good things?”

“Only good,” Steve said sincerely. “The rest, I figured out myself. You’re the first person he’s brought into this house. That means something.”

Beside you, Bucky gave a soft grunt, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m absolutely helping,” Steve teased.

Dinner was light and warm like a family meal you didn’t know you were missing.

Steve didn’t interrogate. He asked. Softly, kindly, and interested.

“He tells me you make the best muffins in Brooklyn. That true?” “You look at him different than most people do. You see him. That’s rare.” “You ever bake something and eat the whole thing before anyone else sees it? Bucky once ate an entire cherry pie meant for Sam’s birthday.”

That made you laugh as Bucky groaned behind his wine glass.

“I told you that in confidence, punk.”

“Yeah? You also said her laugh was your favorite sound, so you’re welcome.”

You weren’t expecting that.

The ease, the teasing, the way Steve made room at the table like it was always meant for you.

At one point, when Bucky stepped away to take a quiet call, Steve refilled your glass and said gently:

“I’ve known him my whole life. I’ve seen him break bones without blinking. Burn bridges. Walk away from people who thought they knew him. But I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

You swallowed.

“I’m still learning who he is.”

Steve smiled, kind and patient. “So are all of us. Just don’t stop.”

Later that night, when you and Bucky walked through the mansion halls, your hand brushing his, you whispered, “He’s not what I expected.”

Bucky smirked. “Steve?”

You nodded. “He’s… warm.”

“He always has been,” Bucky said quietly. “That’s why people follow him. He leads with his heart. And if he welcomed you like that… it means he sees what I do.”

You turned toward him.

“And what’s that?”

He smiled, small but real.

“Hope.”

[chroniclesofskz]

The Moonlit Confession

You had been looking forward to this evening all week—just you and Felix, sharing a quiet dinner, laughing, and reconnecting after busy schedules and endless rehearsals. You’d imagined cozy takeout, soft music, maybe some small snacks, curled up on the sofa. It was your little sanctuary from the chaos of life, a moment just for yourselves.

You glanced at the clock, feeling a flutter of excitement as you heard the key turn in the door. When Felix stepped inside, he was still dressed in his practice clothes, a faint sweat glistening on his brow, but his eyes were brighter than usual, warm and full of affection for you.

“Hey, love,” he greeted, dropping his bag and pulling you into a gentle hug. His scent—a fresh mix of his shampoo, the outdoors, and a hint of his cologne—enveloped you as he held you close. You took a deep breath, breathing it in happily, feeling all the tension melt away under his touch. His warmth radiated through his body, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fade. You felt safe, loved, complete. You closed your eyes for a second, just soaking in his presence, feeling his steady heartbeat under your fingertips.

“How was your day?” you asked softly.

He responded with a deep, contented groan, his voice gravelly from fatigue. The sound vibrated through his chest, sending gentle waves of resonance into your ear as you were pressed close to him. You could feel the subtle tremor and warmth radiating through his body, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. A fuzzy, warm feeling spread through you, and you felt all cozy and loved in that moment. His voice, so deep and genuine, made everything around you feel lighter.

“It was good,” he said with a soft smile, his tone steady. “Long day, but I needed to see you. You always make me feel better.”

You smiled up at him, eyes shining. “Me too.” You hesitated briefly, then gently pulled back. “So… do you wanna go grab something to eat? Just us?”

He rubbed the nape of his neck, but there was no hesitation in his response—just straightforward honesty. “Nah. I can’t tonight. Got a Louis Vuitton photoshoot tomorrow morning. The stylist was really strict—no bloating, no excess. I need to be prepared.”

Your heart tightened at his words. Seeing the worry flicker in his eyes made you ache for him. You reached out and took his hands in yours, standing closer.

Looking up into his face, you softly placed a hand on his cheek. “Felix,” you said gently, “you are already perfect. You don’t need to be anything else for a shoot or for anyone else. You’re beautiful—inside and out. Your smile, your laugh—those are the things that matter. Not how you look with a little extra here or there.”

His eyes shimmered with emotion, but he didn’t hesitate—his voice was steady. “I worry I’ll look bad. I don’t want to be bloated or tired when they take the pictures.”

Without missing a beat, you pressed your hand a little more firmly to his face, thumbs softly brushing over his cheeks, your touch tender and reassuring. “Love,” you whispered, “you’re more than enough. You’re a shining star—literally. An angel in my eyes. And I want you to see yourself the way I do. Beautiful, loved, just as you are. No need to punish yourself for wanting to enjoy life or food.”

His hand trembled, but he nodded confidently. Wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, his face buried in your shoulder, he took a deep breath. You could feel the steady vibrations from his chest—so warm, so real—and it made you feel all fuzzy inside, wrapped in the comfort of him. That groan, so genuine and relaxed, made your heart flutter.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” he murmured against your neck.

“And I always will,” you said softly, holding him tight. “Tonight, forget about everything else. Let’s order your favorite snacks and just focus on us.”

Felix’s smile returned, bright and genuine. “That sounds perfect.”

And as you cuddled together on the couch, wrapped up in each other’s warmth and reassurance, it was undeniable—you didn’t need perfection, just love. Felix was loved, deeply and completely, flaws and all.

[scimita]

oh woww im not usually a liushen shipper but this has me having THINKING and THOUGHTS and THINKING THOUGHTS.

As Liu Qingge starts leaving the sect more and more, and for longer periods of time, and avoiding (sometimes straight up ignoring) Shen Yuan, Shen Yuan has to come to terms with the fact that his best friend ended their friendship (he doesn't understand exactly why, was it because he bought Binghe to the sect before he was the right age to cultivate? Was it that he adopted Binghe but wasnt married? Did Liu Qingge just grow tired of him? ).

So, after months and months, Shen Yuan stops trying to figure out what set his best friend, Liu Qingge, Shidi off, figuring that Shidi probably has a good reason for not talking to him anymore and tries to mind his own business from then on. All is well! He's completely fine with this! He doesn't go to try and enter Bai Zhan anymore (the Bai Zhan disciples wouldn't let him anyway), he doesn't send letters (they were all left unanswered), he doesn't even ask the sect leader how his Shidi is doing (the pity in YQY eyes became a bit too much for him)!! Hes completely indifferent to this sudden change in his life and daily routine!! Everything is completely fine and he! is! handling! it!!!!!! Now, if everyone else would understand that and leave him alone about it, then he'd be even better!!!!

The only people that visit Shen Yuan and Shen Yuan visits are his brother and, urgh, Shang Qinghua. Though, lately, he's been too...busy...with work..... to attend tea time with his brother, totally not avoiding him because he's being interrogated everytime without fail about what exactly happened, even though Shen Yuan told his didi the truth the first time around (that Liu Qingge visited him to ask about the rumors and then met Binghe, ask about how long he's been Shen Yuan son, and the stormed off completely unprompted, and is now refusing to even look at him). Shang Qinghua just gets this look in his eyes everytime he visits and its making Shen Yuan uncomfortable (pity, Cucumber-bro, that you dont realise how whipped the War God is for you). But Shang Qinghua values being alive so he doesnt ask Shen Yuan about what happened.

So. Yeah. Shen Yuan is spending more and more time isolated, alone, lonely working on his peak. Binghe seems to be having a good time though so thats good. His fellow disciples have integrated him in their circles, he has friends, he attends classes like all the other kids (even if he quickly seems to outshine them), and he worries about spends time bonding with his a-die.

From Binghe's perspective, his a-die's very dear special friend has stopped visiting ever since Binghe came to the peak (the other disciples tell him of the courtship, of the visits, of the times his a-die didnt look like he was crying his eyes out every night instead of sleeping). A-die has reassured him time and time again that it's not his fault, that Binghe has done nothing wrong, that everything is fine and that he's not responsible for how adults react to his presence, and For God's sake, Binghe! Im not kicking you out of the sect because of Liu Qingge, who told you that ??!!!, and Stop apologizing, my sweet Binghe, you didn't ruin anything by being here, my son deserves only the best regardless of other's opinion on this matter.

Now. Let it be known that Liu Qingge is not having a good time. His long-time courtship partner has admitted to cheating on him and then proceeded to tell him it's none of his business what he does with his private life, so.

Liu Qingge is having a very bad time, actually. He's returned all the courtship gifts, has been ignoring and avoiding Shen Yuan, the love of his life, his Shixiong, and leaving the sect on progressively more dangerous missions. His own courtship gifts have yet to be returned, but it's understandable. Most of them were rare beasts with miraculous cultivation properties so they were eaten, or refined into pills, or something other he doesnt care about because he is not thinking about Shen Yuan right now. Though he told his disciples to leave the box of other gifts in front of his house in case he isnt on the peak, it has yet to arrive. He doesn't understand, didnt his Shixiong tell him his life has nothing to do with Liu Qingge's? Didn't he admit to loving another and having a child with them and then raising said child in secret? Is he just laughing about how pathetic and desperate Liu Qingge has been to believe he actually accepted his courtship that whole decade? Whatever. It doesn't matter. His Shixiong has made himself very clear and Liu Qingge is not one to ponder such things. He is not.

It is on one of these very dangerous missions that Liu Qingge ends up incredibly wounded and forced to spend time healing in a nearby, somewhat isolated, village. He doesn't know exactly where he is, somewhere along the Luo river, but somehow, the villagers seem to recognize him. They help him with a room at an inn, with the meager medical supplies they have, and with time alone to rest and heal. It is not unusual for mortals to look up to and idolize immortal cultivators, but even by Liu Qingge's standards and expectations, they are going above and beyond. Suspicious after being treated such a way while being in a very weakened state, he asks. The villagers' responses vary, but the gist is Oh Immortal Cultivator, how could we possibly sit by and watch when we could help instead? and Oh Immortal Cultivator, we have heard only the best things about The Bai Zhan War God! Of course we'd want to be of assistance! and Oh Immortal Cultivator how could we not help Peak Lord Shen Yuan's husband? He has done many things for our village, including adopting an orphaned boy to save him from the bullying! and most of these responses grate on his nerves because he hasn't been met with such kindness ever sincer he first met Shen Yuan and..... wait. Wait what. What do you mean, adopted? What do you mean HUSBAND?

Well yes, say the villagers, back when the war was still on, Peak Lord Shen Yuan came running with an infant boy in the village, yelling for a healer. Back then we didnt know who he was, and we were already nearly out of food for the winter, so we didnt have the means to help him. A washer-woman stepped up, even though she herself was barely surviving, and helped him and the infant. It's from her that we found out that Peak Lord Shen found the baby boy floating down the Luo river in the dead of winter, newly born and nearly frozen to death and chose to save him. Liu Qingge feels like he's been thrown off his axis. What do you mean, floating down the river? Isnt the boy his son? How do you know he didnt just lie and tell you he only found the boy to avoid accountability for having a son out of wedlock?

Well yes, say the villagers, the town healer came eventually. After Peak Lord Shen promised a hefty sum, the healer treated the boy of a very high fever, telling Peak Lord Shen that he's lucky his son only had a fever, and not hypothermia. The Peak Lord then insisted that the boy wasnt his by blood, only that he found the baby, and offered to show us proof. The healer asked how he planned to prove that he didnt father the boy and the Peak Lord said he has a special flower, gifted to him by someone very dear, that could prove his innocence. He smeared a drop of blood on the flower and said that if it's petals turn blue once it touches the infant, then he is his father. If it turns red, then there is no blood connection between the two of them. The flower turned red.

Liu Qingge has to sit down. His head is spinning and he doesnt know what to believe anymore. The villagers seem to be telling the truth, but didnt Shen Yuan admit to cheating? Right, of course, perhaps the boy isnt his by blood, but he still called him his son. Perhaps Shen Yuan's lover had a child then attempted to get rid of it before Shen Yuan found out, though without any luck. The boy also calls him a-die, so what if Shen Yuan's lover is simply the washer-woman? What if they fell in love when Shen Yuan bought Binghe in the village?

No No, say the villagers, the washer-woman and Peak Lord Shen didnt even live in the same house those 4 years Binghe spend in the village. Peak Lord Shen was away for long periods of time, he said he was looking for the boy's mother along the river, but everytime he came back, he would teach the boy and help raise him, that's why he calls him a-die. When the washer-woman died of an unknown disease and before the Peak Lord adopted the boy, the Peak Lord was already back at his sect. And besides! The Peak Lord was buying gifts left and right for his intended! He spoke very highly of them!! He told us his very special friend was the War God of Bai Zhan and was hoping to find a gift that his Shidi would appreciate!!!

Liu Qingge feel ready to combust. His head is pounding, he's never been more confused, and this damn injury won't heal fast enough!!! With a bone weary sigh he asks one last thing, why did you refer to me as Peak Lord Shen's husband? If Liu Qingge calculations are right, then Shen Yuan has been meaning to ask him to marry for about six years. SIX YEARS!! (...well, seven now, but he's already broken off the courtship and is starting to think that it might have been a mistake).

Well, say the villagers, when the Peak Lord left the village, he said he had to go back before his best friend started to worry! He said he found a suitable gift and he was building up the courage to gift it!! Naturally, we assumed that, since he came back to adopt the boy and bring him to the sect, his gift was accepted, the wedding held, the boy had a second father, and all was well!

Liu Qingge retires for the night. He's suddenly hit with a very deep sense of dread. He feels like the guilt of his relief crash down on him and doesn't know how to process it. The Boy is adopted. Shen Yuan was going to ask him to marry him and raise a Child together. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Liu Qingge is not panicking. He is not on the verge of a panic attack in his room at an inn in an isolated village, god knows how far away from the sect, healing from an less-awful injury and he is not conflicted as to what to believe. Shen Yuan admitted to having the boy during the war, but then again, he didnt say he fathered him, just that he's been raising him. Shen Yuan has said that his private life has nothing to do with Liu Qingge's, but then again, it's not unusual that his Shixiong was just telling him that it's fine to keep their lifes somewhat private from one another, his parents did that too, had separate bedrooms and everything but they were more than happy together. Liu Qingge feels ready to pass out!! This is too much for one day!! He'll think of a solution in the morning !!

So. Liu Qingge leaves the village the next day, after getting some directions towards the sect, like his ass was on fire. He still doesn't know exactly what's happened during those 4 years, but is now willing to try and clear things up with Shen Yuan. Except. When he gets to the sect (in record time!) he is immediately accosted by Mu Qingfang and subsequently put on house arrest. He is not to leave his bed for as much as a leisure walk Do You Hear Me ?!?!!! so he devises to come up with another way to meet with Shen Yuan. He tells his disciples to let Shen Yuan onto the peak, to lead him straight to his house, to stop glaring at him goddammit! But. Shen Yuan doesn't visit, doesn't write him, doesn't even seem to know that Liu Qingge is back and has been stuck in his own home for the past 2 weeks. So!! Seeing that he has no other choice, Liu Qingge sneaks (yes, sneaks, those talismans at his front door are no joke) out if his home, out of his peak, and onto Shen Yuan's peak, going straight for the Peak Lord's residence on foot.

However tired he is when he gets there, he take two deep breaths and knocks (knocks!!!) on the door. For a moment, all is still and silent. Then, the patter of footsteps coming towards the door, then the door being opened, then!!!!....oh. Shen Yuan's Binghe. For a moment they just stare at each other. Gone is the warm, shy smile Binghe first greeted him with, now The Boy's face is stony, nearly blank. He doesn't greet his Shishu. He doesn't call out to his a-die about this traitor his fellow Peak Lord being there. Liu Qingge is the first to break the silence for once, where is Shen Yuan? aggravated, Binghe nearly shuts the door in his face. Why do you care? he responds, Liu Qingge ignoring his question says Shen Binghe, call your father out here now. Now truly upset, Binghe replies my name is LUO Binghe, and MY father doesn't want to see you!!! and slams the door in Liu Qingge's face before he can open his stupid stupid mouth again!!

Liu Qingge is stunned at the audacity of this boy. Fine, if The Boy wont let him in, he'll ask someone else!! So, against his better judgment, he goes to Qing Jing. He is promptly mocked and laughed off the peak by that Shen Qingqiu! So he goes to An Ding, and!! he is more or less thrown off the peak by that RAT Shang Qinghua! What the Fuck! Its fine, its fine. He'll speak to Shen Yuan at the next Peak Lord meeting.

And so, he attends, actually on time, and goes straight for Shen Yuan, only to be intercepted by the goddamn Sect! Leader!! He ends up spending the rest of the meeting staring at Shen Yuan's drawn face, at his eyebags, his way too thin complexion and has to leave before he drowns in guilt. Its not fine, its not fine, Shen Yuan still smiles at him, a strained thing, even though Liu Qingge is the reason he look like that.

Liu Qingge get lucky. A village south of the mountains has requested his and, specifically, Shen Yuan's help with a wild beasts lurking in their forest. Unable to refuse, both of them accepted. Liu Qingge spends the days before their upcoming mission panicking pacing around to make sure he has everything packed, regardless of the fact that he used to leave with nothing but his sword. When the day to leave comes and he sees Shen Yuan, something starts to feel tight in his throat and he is completely unable to say a word to the man he is still hopelessly in love with before they depart from the sect. As for Shen Yuan, well, he takes the silence as another indicator towards the fact that his Shidi cant stand him anymore, not that he knows why. They leave the sect on their swords. Shen Yuan eventually breaks the silence to ask where exactly they are going, he doesnt recognize the village name, and for how long they will be flying (could he have asked the Sect Leader? Yes. Did he? No.). Liu Qingge answers easily enough. But when it comes his turn to ask anything or to start (start!! how the mighty have fallen) a conversation, he is met with dry, short answers and a lingering tension in the air. Liu Qingge feels like this might be something he cant fix. He hasn't even asked about The Boy yet!!!

Shen Yuan thinks he's doing great! He hasnt answered his Shidi with his usual rambling, not wanting to annoy him and risk being ignored the rest of this missions, and is ignoring the uncomfortable silence with great success!

And thus, this is exactly how most of the mission goes. Stilted conversations in place of the usual easy going ones, uncomfortable silence for long periods of time and even a moment where, upon actually seeing the beast, Shen Yuan has lost his inhibitions and gone on a long rambling tangent about the beasts usual eating habits, sleeping habits, mating habits and everything and anything that came to mind about it. It does, however come to an abrupt stop, when he turns to look at Liu Qingge, a bright smile lightning up his face, and finds his Shidi already looking a him, face soft. When they make eye contact though, Shen Yuan smile falters, then drops not a moment later, and his rambling ends with a weirdly strained uh, yeah, anyway, thats what we were looking for. Then he falls completely silent and Liu Qingge's guilt threatens to swallow him up, so he asks, perhaps a touch annoyed about The Boy. And he sees it. The second his Shixiong, his Shen Yuan, completely shuts him out. The moment his face becomes blank, the second Shen Yuan apologizes and tells him Shidi has made it abundantly clear what he thinks on the matter of my son, there's no need to speak on it anymore.

The ride back is dead silent. Liu Qingge is beating himself up for botching the conversation, Shen Yuan is scolding himself for getting carried away and having his Shidi remind him of the fact that they are not even friends anymore. They dont say anything to one another even when they reach the sect.

The following weeks seem to be a blur. Liu Qingge starts sending beasts to Shen Yuan's peak as an apology for the uncomfortable conversation, Shen Yuan assumes Liu Qingge's telling him that he hasnt forgotten about what he's done wrong on the mission (exactly what he doesnt know, but he knows his Shidi got annoyed enough to nearly leave him behind when going back to the sect) so he sends the beasts back, along side boxes upon boxes of every gift Liu Qingge has gotten him, because, well, can he really move on if he keep holding on to someone who doesnt want anything to do with him anymore? Liu Qingge misunderstand, believes he is being rejected, starts desperately sending rarer and rarer beasts, and Shen Yuan just keeps sending them back. Everyone is confused. The disciples dont know whats going on anymore, the Sect Leader doesnt even want to get involved, Luo Binghe start outright disrespecting Liu Qingge to his face everytime he sees the man.

And this is where im gonna end it because i have developed LiuShen worms in my brain and just needed to clear them out. Wonderful AU, im no writer but i just wanted to share my Thoughts and Thinking

I have this older-brother-SY (also beast peak lord) AU cooking and although I have Many thoughts here’s the liushen part (warning this is long af, TLDR at bottom):

LQG has been pining for the beast peaks’ head disciple for years and SY has no idea (like usual). LQG, over time, has recognized and accepted his affections, but has no idea if SY feels the same. Sure, they get along great, and he’s confident SY considers him a friend (if not a best friend), but more than that? SY if friendly to everyone- and LQG can’t tell what liberties, if any, are exclusive to him.

But it’s clear that the cultivation world is on the brink of a war with the demon realm- and LQG will be at the forefront. As much as he prides himself on his battle prowess he knows he’s not indomitable- and Tianlang-Jun is a force to be reckoned with.

So, he decides to offer SY his suit- even if he's rejected, at least he'll know. In melodrama fashion, LQG asks SY, if he'll accept his courtship once the wars over. SY (unknowingly, the dumbass) accepts.

OK. so now that we have context, lets get silly with it :)

The war goes over the same how it did in SVSSS, YQY subdues TLJ and all peak lords survive. LQG begins to officially court SY... who's been traveling along the Lou river since the end of the war. It's not an issue per say but he also won't tell LQG why; just that he's looking for something. This continues for 4 years. After those four years, SY returns to CQMT. He doesn't leave for extended periods anymore, unless a mission requires it, and even then it's clear he returns as soon as possible. In lieu of his travels he's begin descending the mountain several times a week, to the small town at its' base. He deflects whenever anyone asks why- and although LQG does find it odd, he trusts SY, who says, impishly, that LQG will find out eventually.

That day does come 6 years later.

Word spreads fast around CQMT, so of course LQG, usually not privy to the intersect gossip, (“Shizun, this one has news! Ah! I know gossip is bad, I would never- it’s about Shen-shibo! He’s brought a young boy back to his peak!”) would be near-first to visit his beloved.

LQG: “The rumors are true?”

SY: “Hm? Meddling in gossip are you, shidi? What are they saying, exactly?”

LQG: “Tsk- that you’ve brought a new disciple to the peak- one much too young to cultivate.”

SY: “Ahhh well… I surmise there is some truth to that hearsay after all… he’ll be home for dinner soon- he’s a great chef! Oh, shidi, you must stay for dinner!”

…

SY: “��and their claws are retractable! Despite taking up 50% of their paws! They use this to ambush larger prey, making said prey think they’re harmless- oh, Binghe, come, come; meet your Shishu!”

LBH: “Yes, A-die!”

LQG: "..."

LQG: “……what?”

SY: “Binghe, this is Liu Qingge, your shishu, and a dear friend of mine. Qingge, this is Binghe.”

LQG: “…he called you a-die.”

SY: “Oh! Yes, I’ll sure he’ll need some time to adjust to Shizun.”

LQG: “Adjust.”

SY: “Yes, adjust, he’s called me A-die most of his life. After all, he is my son.”

LQG: “Your son. That you’ve been raising.”

SY: “Yes, Shidi, that’s correct.”

Lqg goes only silent for a bit and SY releases LBH to the kitchens. He’s gotten quite good at reading LQG over the years and knows he’s upset- at what he isn’t sure.

SY: “..Shidi?”

LQG (jaw pinched): “How long?”

SY: “..How long what, shidi?”

LQG : “Have you had-“ (handwaves)

SY: “How long have I been raising him? About 6 years, why?”

LQG: “….and how old is he.”

SY: “Ah, he’s 10, will be 11 this upcoming winter. Make no mistake, I would have been there since birth if given the chance!”

LQG: “… Since the war ended. You- you had a child during that time? You never thought to tell anyone- to tell me?”

SY: “..Well, family matters are private matters, I’m sure shidi understands.”

LQG: “Private! You- shameless! A decade- I’ve wasted a decade- and you never intended to tell me? What did you think would happen when you brought him here, Shen Yuan?!?”

SY (doesn’t know what’s going on but is protective of LBH nonetheless): “Does it matter? He’s here now, and that isn’t going to change! I’m not sure why you’re so concerned with my private life!”

LQG: “Your life- did you ever consider mine?!”

SY: “Like your life will change! I have a son to raise and protect- what all does that have to do with you?!”

LQG (fuming): “I see. You’ve made your point, Shen Yuan. I’ll stop interfering in your life- so separate from mine.” (Storms off)

CQMT witnesses the worst breakup imaginable.

SY has no idea why LQG got so worked up- maybe because SY wasn’t married? LQG was always so traditional…

Apparently, LQG left the day after their fight. Well whatever his issue is hopefully he’s in better spirits once he returns.

LQG returns 4 months later and doesn’t visit like usual. In fact, two days after his return, SY starts receiving packages. Boxes filled with trinkets and books he’s given LQG over the years- even a couple pairs of robes and a set of vambraces he had custom made for LQG. So. Whatever set LQG off clearly hadn’t been resolved. And he really doesn’t want to lose his best friend over… what? He still has no idea why LQG got so upset.

SY resolves to snub his pride and treck to Bai Zhan.

Only, once he arrives, he’s.. blocked? Denied entry? By the Bai Zhan disciples?? They were usually so sweet, charming in their own gruff way, but now they’re just short of openly hostile.

It’s dumb and angsty 🙄 but it tickles something in my brain

TLDR; LQG begins courting SY early in the story, before LBH is born. After TLJ is subdued and SY connects the only heavenly demon to obvi being LBHs dad he sets off to find LBH and ensure he has a better life. He ends up raising LBH with the washerwoman and LBH views SY as his dad and calls him such. Once she passes SY takes him back to CQMT where they meet LQG. LQG hears LBH call SY "a-die" and thinks that SY cheated on him; SY unknowingly confirms this- he also doesn't know that LQG has been courting him. Cue melodrama rivaling QiJiu except the whole sect gets to watch the fallout not just the aftermath.

[gogandmagog]

Rilla of Ingleside, Chapter 5.

First of allllll, I adore this lush and scenic opener, where Rilla is taking herself down to Rainbow Valley, and is staring unseeingly at the “dazzling blue sky of the August afternoon – so blue, so peaceful, so unchanged,” because the use of ‘unchanged’ is so deliberately antithetical to our newly very much changed Rilla, having shed her first self. I know it doesn’t come around until a little later in this book, but I am thinking here of one the (imo) ‘very best of’ lines of Mauds, “The body grows slowly and steadily but the soul grows by leaps and bounds.” 🥹🥹🥹

“When our women fail in courage,  Shall our men be fearless still?”    Well, here Anne is quoting Kate Tucker Goode’s poem, published in 1914, called “Calebs Daughter,” which is itself, of course, based on scripture, and it is peeerfectly coupled up with Rilla (and Anne) refusing to cry. Achsah (that’s Calebs daughter btw) of the bible is herself married to a godly man, who answers ‘the call’ to arms and goes to war, leaving Achsah waiting for his return. She does so with remarkable courage and faith. And soooo, with that in mind, and with Kate Tucker Goode’s poem openly referencing Achsah, a true example of summoned faith, we arrive at this first spot in this novel, which becomes a whole little theme in this novel... that part (maybe even a large part) of ‘the call’ upon women starts with the stoic-like commanding their own emotions, and that by so doing, they really help their loved ones in the service. 

ALSO and basically reiterating that the Blythe boys are meant to represent The Big Three different types of soldiers, is the way they even each individually approach their parents about enlisting. Hyyyyyped Jem doesn’t even ask, so much as tell, which I find immensely interesting when compared to sweet Shirley, who later does pointedly seek a blessing from Anne and Gilbert – despite ofc 18-year-old boys not requiring parental consent. (No need to mention poor Walter’s reluctance, 🥲.) 

Anne, eyes filled with “imploring anguish” says sooo much. Imploring, by definition = asking someone to please do something, and Gilbert reads the meaning of this look effortlessly, but in this situation and as with the recalling of the tragedy around Joyce, what can be done, indeed? I really start thinking of Maud’s own journal entries in this area, because when the war began unfolding around her and her community, and there was an irrefutable aura of tragedy and loss impending, she too began to reflect on the loss of her stillborn son Hugh. I won’t insert any quotes here though, like I’m sure everyone’s already depressed enough lmao. ): 

Gilbert and Rev. Meredith’s construction of a “patriotic society” is laksdflkasjfdlkaj, eternally endearing and stunningly insightful in terms of anticipating community needs. The scholars (as cited in the book of essays titled “L.M. Montgomery and War”, I can dig up which one exactly drew this conclusion is anyone caaares) have concluded that this is a fictional representative of the irl Candian Patriotic Fund, which was a brand new organisation (est. Aug. 1914), one that generated funds and manpower and provided social support, designed to help soldiers' wives and children (or any other dependent) that were left behind (sometimes without adequate provision). This meant anything from you directly donating funds, or even you offering your sparable manpower with like, a teenager willing and able to chop wood for the husbandless neighbor... oooor maybe if you’re a physician, you’re all in for providing free medical care (something we can cite good old Dr. Blythe with, in TBAQ, although tbh in this instance it is to do with low income families). I really, really love this. And it’s something so huge, communicated in such an easily passable line! 

Okay, what else? ALSO, that one line about Faith and Anne’s smiles chillssss me, because “a little stiff and starched,” reads exactly like you’d obviously expect from clothing. Or even, should we say... a uniform. Jem and Jerry are in theirs. So are Faith and Anne. 🥹 Stop it.

MUCH 2 say about Walter and Gilbert, and I’ll add/reblog to this a little later (looking for a particular cross reference), unlessaas I can hunt up someone else’s post to piggyback on. 🤡

[thebatdadnomad]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕀 𝔻𝕚𝕖 𝕀𝕤 𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕐𝕠𝕦

Pairing: Bruce Wayne & Everyone Summary: The death of your soul or the soul of a loved one? Choose now. "Mine." As you wish. AN: Bringing you some light angst w a happy ending :')

It was 24 hours to detonation when Bruce realised that there was a seemingly invisible, indestructible bomb attached to his body. One that couldn't be seen by cameras or mirrors in the early afternoon light. It should be fine. He'd had worse.

It was 23 hours to detonation when Bruce finished testing out all of his gadgets on the device with no result. Still, it was not like he was out of options, no need to worry Alfred, Tim, Damian, or anyone else in the manor about it.

It was 22 hours to detonation when he realised that this – continuously ticking bomb that only he could hear – was an alien invention, created to permanently separate the soul from the body without allowing it back into a supposed reincarnation cycle. It had caused five known sudden deaths and its origin was unknown according to a few heavily encrypted reports on The Watchtower’s database. He called in Zatanna.

It was 21 hours to detonation when the magician arrived and he told her about the device, intentionally hiding that it was a life-ending bomb. He didn't want to worry her; she wouldn't work to the best of her ability under that kind of stress. Regardless, Zatanna couldn't tell what it was, she couldn't even sense its presence, so she said she'd be back. But it was alright, he knew other magicians. Alfred was starting to get suspicious, but, by the end of the hour, his butler didn't say anything.

It was 20 hours to detonation when Bruce realised after Doctor Fate was not able to detect it either, that this wasn't exactly a magical bomb, but more so one made by good old scientists. Advanced, incredibly intelligent scientists. Now, Bruce knew he was good, better than good, but his brilliance was admittedly based in detective work and solving puzzles. Not in building and dismantling. So, if he wanted to disarm this bomb, he needed to take his evidence to the smartest and most trusted inventors he knew. He called in Toyman and the Atom.

It was 19 hours to detonation when Alfred brought in refreshments and confronted Bruce on this 'new case' that he was working on with a dry, knowing tone. After a bit of prodding, Bruce relented and told him about the otherworldly device stuck to his person, leaving out the bomb part of his explanation as the two geniuses said their thanks for the tea and gave him a look over.

It was 18 hours to detonation and Bruce was still being looked over by the pair of inventors. Their initial confident attitudes had diminished and made way for concern. He was not worried, though, he created their files. He knew about their achievements and growth potential in detail. If there was anyone who could locate, investigate and disable this bomb, it was them.

It was 17 hours to detonation when Bruce reconsidered his theory. Since they hadn't even been able to bring it out of whatever 'stealth mode' it was in to disarm it in two long hours. And to make matters worse, just before the pair left, Zatanna returned, bringing hope back into the cave. But after a hell of a lot of experimentation, the three of them still came up with nothing of note. No matter what, the device didn't budge to the 'physical realm' as she called it so Bruce just sent them all away. He then waited until Tim, Stephanie, Cassandra and Damain finished getting ready for patrol before continuing his research. Letting them know that something came up and hoping his cheeky children let it go. They did.

It was 16 hours to detonation when Bruce finally grasped that he was going to have to do some more active research. Had to ask questions, visit aliens who may have come into contact with this bomb or the bomb's previous victims. He couldn't just sit in front of his monitor waiting for information to drop into his lap, otherwise who knew what would happen to him? Luckily, Alfred didn't seem worried about Bruce anymore when he used the Zeta-Tube.

It was 15 hours to detonation when Green Lantern – Hal Jordan– and Orion offered their help. Again, not aware of the nature of the device, but happy to assist regardless. Mostly because they knew Bruce wouldn't ask for help unless it was absolutely necessary. Travelling to the planets in the solar system was ultimately a dead end, so they went elsewhere. All the while he was in a space suit, protected by Green Lantern's beams as the bomb protruded out of the front. It was incredibly disorientating.

It was 14 hours to detonation and they still came up short of any real answers. According to some beings both Orion and Hal knew, the bomb was not there. But he knew it was. He'd had a dozen check-ups from the magicians to suggest that he was as sane as he was before this bomb appeared. And while he might not have an impressive amount of sanity, it was enough to ensure that he was not seeing, feeling and hearing things. It was still ticking.

It was 13 hours to detonation when they were suddenly attacked by a group of Yellow Lanterns and had to fall back. Almost beaten by pure numbers. Using this as a sign, Bruce thought it best to return to The Watchtower. Insisting that blindly looking for evidence was going nowhere. But, it was really because he didn't want to put anyone else in jeopardy over his life. He was not that important. Once they returned to the tower, the two leaguers told him to call them again if he needed their help again. He wouldn't.

It was 12 hours in when Bruce started to tug at his black locks. What was he missing? What was this bomb? Had it been too premature to say that it wasn't an illusion? Or was he in an illusion? He ran countless tests regarding what he'd learned, contemplated calling the magicians and scientists in again for the second time that day. But without any new knowledge, he suspected they'd just end up wasting their time.

It was 11 hours to detonation when he felt the first urge to sleep crawl in. It was now the early hours of the night and he was suffering from jetlag from sudden space travel too, but all of that didn't matter. 11 hours was not a long time, he had to keep working. He had to keep trying. It was not that he cared too much about himself or his life. It was because of his family. He couldn't protect his family if he was dead. And Gotham and the league, of course. But mostly his family.

It was 10 hours to detonation when Bruce heard something deep in the pit of his mind. A low voice clear and smug as if telling him the following words was its most secret pleasure.

The death of your soul or the soul of a loved one? Choose now.

"Mine."

As you wish.

And after that short exchange, Bruce, dizzy and fatigued, decided to give up and let things be. He had tried his best, he truly had, but this was the confirmation that this bomb was meant to kill him, and so, he’d die. Because even if he was truthful and asked for help within the family, nothing would change unless he was willing to put them in harm’s way – which he wasn’t. He knew that now. So, Bruce, ever the practical man, thought about how he wanted to spend the last 10 hours of his life and headed down to the only 24-hour shop in Bristol with a genuine smile on his face.

It was 9 hours to detonation when Bruce laid everything out in his Wayne Enterprise office. He got everyone he loved's favourite snacks from the shop, made some postcards printed with his favourite pictures of them and him and was about to film personalised videos for each of them following his death. Of course, he already had a tonne of contingency plans and recordings for situations like these. But, for once, Bruce decided to do something spontaneous. To capture how he felt in the moment, now. Not what he had imagined he’d feel. So, instead of, "In the case of" these all begin with "I have 9 hours to live" and that, he found, felt right.

It was 8 hours to detonation when Bruce started deeply thinking about the people he loved. Alfred, his surrogate father who refused to abandon him. Dick, his inspiring son who was the first to show him the true meaning of happiness. Jason, his miracle son, who proved to him that love transcended life and death. Tim, his genius son who made him reconsider whether he was worthy to even call himself a dad. Damian, his serious son who made him proud just by existing. Cassandra, his only daughter who taught him what feeling healed through touch was like. Selina, the woman who accepted a broken man like him for who he was mind, body and soul like a fallen angel on Earth. Barbara, Stephanie and Duke who he loved just as much.

Bruce wanted to see them, but he knew how hard it was for them all to get a good night's sleep, so it was alright. He wouldn't wake them yet. He still had time.

It was 7 hours to detonation when he started to think about his parents. Wondering whether they would be proud of him for living the way he did, working the way he did, loving who he did and being who he was. He thought of going to their graves, but he just went there last week. Plus, they probably didn't want to see him with a bomb strapped to his chest. So instead, he went to the theatre room, put on a movie, The Mask Of Zorro, and cried the whole way through it. Holding his bag of snacks and postcards in his hand the whole time.

It was 6 hours to detonation when the sun slowly began to rise in the sky again as dawn broke. But the movie hadn't finished yet so it didn't matter and it did nothing to stop Bruce's tears.

It was 5 hours to detonation when someone creaked the door to the theatre room open. Expecting it would be Alfred and unable to hear much over the speakers, Bruce didn't bother to rub away his tears too quickly. But little did he know that the person paying him a visit was not his butler.

"Bruce?" Dick's melodic voice broke the silence of the room as the credits rolled, "I didn't think you'd be up already," he said, but Bruce heard the 'Why aren't you sleeping?' loud and clear.

"I wasn't on patrol," he reminded his eldest son, "So I got some sleep earlier on."

But Dick wasn't buying it as he walked closer and sat next to Bruce on the couch. Their years together told him otherwise. "Nope. I don't think you did."

Bruce sighed, lifting his hands up in surrender and Dick's eyes quickly latched to the bag that rustled in the action. Either not able to see his tear-stained face in the dim light or not simply commenting on it. Bruce predicted the latter. "Is this why? What's in there? Pain killers?"

The man actually laughed at that, much to Dick's visible surprise. "They're gifts."

"Gifts?" A slow grin grew on his son's face. "For me?"

"For everyone," Bruce corrected. "Including you."

"Aw, that's so sweet of you!" Dick exclaimed, taking the cereal bars out of the bag before finding a postcard of a young Dick swinging off of a younger Bruce's shoulders reading 'You're the best performer I’ve ever seen – Bruce'. "Woah!"

"I hope you like it."

From then on, it was all excitement and hugging and speculation as the others – Tim, Damian and Alfred – currently in the manor this weekend came in too. Entering curious about the noise and leaving with one of their favourite snacks and little compliments on the back of their respective postcards. It felt good to watch them smile so much over his random act of kindness. Bruce regretted not doing it more often. If only he had more time.

It was 4 hours to detonation when Bruce decided that he might as well seek out the others he wanted to give his gifts to like some dying Santa Claus dressed in a suit and tie.

Jason acted mad to see him outside of his apartment this early but still accepted his gifts with a small smile and Bruce couldn't help but give him a hug that the young man sort of returned. Barbara nudged him on the arm, reassuring him – and by that he meant teasing – that they wouldn't send him to a nursing home so there was no need to do this.

Stephanie was on her way to school but accepted it with just as much excitement as Dick had. Duke seemed embarrassed to receive his but made sure to say how much he appreciated it with a smile of his own. As did Selina. Though, Selina wasn't embarrassed, just confused as she pressed a huge kiss on his lips, touched.

Cassandra wasn't nearby, so he used his Zeta Tube to follow her tracker all the way to a public park somewhere in Hong Kong where she had been and handed the present over. And he could say with moderate certainty that he hadn't seen her grin as wide as he did then.

It was 3 hours to detonation when Bruce located the last two members on his list. Superman and Wonder Woman. The only leaguers that he could hesitantly admit to himself that he...loved, he guessed. In a platonic fashion. Neither of them were in the Watchtower at this time of day. But Bruce was sure that should he ask for Clark with enough pain in his voice, the man would find an excuse to leave his morning briefing early…He really didn't want to inconvenience them, but he was sure that this shouldn't be too much of a burden. He just...wanted to see them.

"Help me, Superman. I need help!" Bruce shouted, still in China with Cassandra who startled at his sudden yelling and even more at Superman who flew in a minute later and received a bag of pretzels and a complimentary postcard. Agreeing to take him to Diana as long as he let Clark hug him in return. Bruce allowed it. The ticking started to get louder as they flew.

It was 2 hours to detonation when Bruce got found out. After handing an overly grateful Diana her gifts in Washington DC where she had been and being escorted back to the cave by a beaming Clark before the man disappeared, Bruce found some of his family waiting for him. Mild worry on Alfred, Dick, Tim, Damian and even Barbara's faces. It made him sad. They asked questions about this 'device', but he brushed them off. Hadn't he managed to make them happy enough today? That was all he wished to do, but it seemed he had failed to do even that. Why were they acting like this? He only wanted them to remember the good times, not arguments such as these. Why couldn't he do anything right?

That was when the timer got too loud. Almost unbearable to the point that Bruce collapsed in pain at the thunderous ticking. Because no earphones, high speed or fingers in his ears could stop it. Tick, tock, tick, tock! Damn. He was going to die.

It was 1 hour to detonation when John Constantine, Zatanna and Toyman all appeared in the cave at the same time after having talked to each other about the mysterious case and realised the truth of what the device really was. John said that if they couldn't do it the textbook way, they'd do it by ear. That Bruce shouldn't give up. Revealing everything to his family who gradually became more and more infuriated once they realised what had been going on right under their noses. Jumping in to help in any way they could and pulled up his failed investigation and information on the topic.

But Bruce had no hope. He didn't want hope. He wished they could've just taken his gifts and left it at that. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick—!

It was 0 hours to detonation when the bomb went off and Bruce felt a dreadful piercing sensation in his forehead as his mind finally stopped ringing...John was frantically chanting as Zatanna activated some sort of field, Toyman was preparing for something. But all Bruce could see was his panicking children and loved ones. Some cried, some screamed, and others reached out to him. But he was not tangible anymore. He couldn't feel them. In fact, he felt himself drift outside of his body which tumbled onto the floor of the cave, he couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Until the magicians stared up at him – the real him, not his physical body – and started to yank him back. Put plainly, it was an excruciatingly painful ordeal. It felt as if they were trying to remove his toes from his feet, but all over. As if tormenting Bruce's nerve cells on a molecular level. And he couldn't help but let out a shout at every pull. But eventually…it worked and he awakened again in his own body. With no bomb, no fear and no more fucking ticking.

The bomb had finally detonated and yet the tears, the jabs, the hugs proved that he would live another day.

[eggcompany]

Zosan except

Zoro was pretty sure he'd marry Sanji. And live together forever. And make their own little family and grow old together and die together and spend eternity together. They'd been together since they were 15, they were each other's first everything.

First kiss, first make out, first to all sex. Zoro liked it, about to turn 20, about to get into the work force and provide for his dear Sanji. He loved life. He liked having sex with Sanji every few days, he liked eating his food, he liked coming home and seeing Sanji there. He didn't... expect it.

Sanji leaving. Just... disappearing without a trace. Zoro went to work as usual, leaving with a kiss to Sanji's forehead, and when he returned... Nothing. His cookware was gone, his clothes, his awards, his paperwork, everything was gone except for his cellphone on the counter.

Zoro had been in ruins for weeks. He just felt like a shell. His friends noticed, they were just as upset, but they could see he was worse. Zoro thought... he thought everything was ok. He thought they were good, their apartment, their bed, their- their everything. They'd been together and had done so much together and why would Sanji leave? What did Zoro do?

It took years for Zoro to become as close to whole as he could be again. He didn't date. Couldn't. But he went out with Luffy and the gang, he smiled, he... he lived.

He still sat up at night, looking at his ramshackle kitchenette in his studio apartment, remembering how happy Sanji had been when he got those big sets of pans for one Christmas. They were cheap but... he'd been so happy. He can still remember the sound of Sanji fussing at him when he stood by the stove and ate food before it was plated. Zoro always smiled, because they were so young, so happy.

Zoro was leaning against the brick wall of the club, his employee shirt snug over his chest. He was just standing in the alley, phone in his hands as he mindlessly scrolled around, his break a welcomed thing. He only looked up when he felt someone looking at him, standing just in the shadow of the building, someone was there farther down the alley.

"Hey, you alright? Need a taxi?" Zoro asked, thinking it was someone who'd stumbled out from the club, maybe too much to drink. But the person stood there, eyes wide, staring at him, skinny, lanky. Zoro pushed himself up off the wall, moving towards the person. Were they high? Maybe someone with mental problems? Did they need-

"Z-Zoro?" That voice, the way the name fell, it felt familiar. Zoro stepped closer, the person curling in on themselves, arms crossing over their chest. Zoro really looked the darkness making it difficult, the hair hanging over their face, hiding them away.

But there was no one else with those eyes. With that sunlight hair, as long and flowing as it was.

"Sanji?" Zoro asked, hands shaking slightly as they reached towards the blonde man, his arms were hairy where his sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up. Zoro really looked and there was no mistake. Even with dark pits around them, even with his patchy facial hair and his rumpled black outfit, Zoro would know Sanji in any way.

Sanji looked away, ashamed. But Zoro couldn't care. He wrapped his arms around him, his heart racing a smile breaking across his face without his permission. He felt everything else melt away, because he had his Sanji back. His. He pulled back, hands going to Sanji's long hair, gentle as he held his jaw, thumb going over his jaw under his dark eye.

"Sanji. You're here." Zoro said, the words making something break apart in his chest because he was right there. Right there. After years. Finally his missing piece was right there.

"Can you- Would you help me?" Sanji said, the words shaking as he said them. Suddenly Zoro felt less joy. Of course. Sanji would never come crawling back to him without reason. But he still- he still would do anything.

"You don't need to but... I'm in some trouble. Not- Not money. It's not money I promise. I just..." Sanji started but then a side door opened, slammed open. Sanji jumped, eyes going wide again, this time in fear. An enormous man walked out, followed by two others.

"Blondie! Get your ass back in there! Smoke when you're done with the client. Do you want the kennel again?" The man said ignoring Zoro's presence completely. Sanji shot him one last glance before turning and going back into the club, the man smacking his ass on the way in.

Zoro didn't care if Sanji- If Sanji left because of another guy. Or if he was unhappy, or if he felt trapped or anything else. Because he finally had a chance to get him back. And Now is the only thing that mattered.

[iwrite0]

"A glowing ball of stress"

Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Quirk: Light manipulation. You can move and summon light, light bending, summoning balls of light ranging from small particles to large masses.

Side note- Guitarist!

Song ~ I can - Esha Tewari

Exam season always felt like drowning.

Whether it was a pop quiz, midterms, or the weight of entrance exams looming overhead—pressure always found a way to claw its way into your lungs. You’d gotten good at hiding it. Smiles during roll call. Polite nods. Soft, practiced “I’m okay”s.

But your body always knew better.

The headaches. The nausea. The fevers that rolled in like tides every time you pushed yourself too hard.

And when it got bad—really bad—the only thing that made sense anymore was your guitar.

When words failed, music stepped in.

Your hands remembered what your mouth couldn’t say—notes full of breathless panic or wordless peace.

You’d stay in your dorm, dim the lights, and summon small orbs of glowing light—like your own personal fireflies.

Then, you'd play. For no one but yourself.

You never intended for anyone to hear.

You weren’t even sure you wanted them to.

Even when Katsuki asked a few times you turned into a blushing mess and refused.

It had shocked almost everyone when you started dating. You—timid, soft-spoken. Him—a wildfire in human form. Loud, brash, and explosive in every sense of the word. Some people whispered concerns.

“Won’t he scare them?”

“Isn’t he too much for someone like that? "

They didn’t see the way he looked at you. The way he listened.

He never scared you. He made you feel safe.

And in return, you calmed him in ways no one else could.

He helped you stand taller, taught you how to defend yourself, how to stop letting the world walk all over you. And you? You taught him that not everything needed to be met with fire and fists. That some things—some people—needed gentleness.

Over time, he started to really notice things.

How your hands picked at your sleeves when you were nervous.

How you skipped meals when exams drew near.

How the lights in your room dimmed when your stress got bad.

And when he heard your guitar after lights-out? He knew.

Knew you were spiraling again, even if you never said it out loud.

He'd toss you cough drops or vitamins like it was no big deal. “You look like crap. Take care of yourself, dumbass.”

But he meant every word.

As finals loomed, he reminded you—aggressively—not to push yourself too hard.

“Study smart, not stupid.”

Of course, you didn’t listen.

You worked yourself into exhaustion, caught another cold, and ended up feverish in bed for days.

He scolded you, muttered something about “not knowing how to stop,” but cooked you soup and sat by your bedside anyway.

When you finally got better, you started playing again. Quietly. At night.

And it made him happy.

He’d never tell you, but those late-night songs gave him peace. As if hearing your fingers move over the strings meant you were still there, still breathing, still okay.

One night, long after curfew, the playing didn’t stop.

At first, Bakugou groaned and rolled over in bed, pillow shoved over his head. But then—

You started to sing.

It was soft. Barely audible through the wall.

"I can be the person you want I can be everything I can be anyone I can be anything"

He froze. Sat upright.

Was that about him?

Did you feel like you had to change just to be with him?

The thought punched him in the gut.

Without hesitating, he got up and went to your door just a few steps away. He knocked three times.

No answer.

So he let himself in.

You were sitting on the floor, headphones over your ears, eyes half-closed in concentration. Your guitar sat across your lap, glowing softly from the tiny orbs of light floating lazily around the room. Your skin glowing softly, like something unearthly. Like something divine.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just stood there—watching. Listening.

It felt like walking into a prayer.

When you finally noticed him, you yanked off your headphones, startled.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to play so loud, I didn’t think you’d be awake, I—”

He raised a hand. “It’s fine, dummy.”

His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “I was just... worried. It’s almost 1am.”

You stood, not answering him, placing your guitar on its stand. The glowing lights began to flicker out, one by one, until the room dimmed.

And then you said it. You knew he heard it anyways.

“I just... I feel like you could do better. I freak out over everything, I get sick all the time... I’m quiet. I’m needy. I feel like I make things harder for you.”

His eyes narrowed. Then he stepped forward and said, flatly:

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

You blinked, stunned.

“I love you, you idiot,” he said, voice low and tight. “Don’t think I’d want anyone else.”

He let out a slow breath, grounding himself. “You calm me down. You don’t even realize how much. I know I’m loud and angry and probably a pain in the ass—but you? You make me feel like I’m worth something.”

He sat beside you, back to your bed, knees brushing yours.

“And maybe that scares me. Because if you think I’m good... maybe I actually am.”

You didn’t know what to say. So instead, you told him everything.

How guilty you felt making him worry. How you hated your weak immune system. How it hurt to think you might be a burden. That maybe he'd be happier with someone stronger.

He listened. Quiet and still.

Called you dumb a few more times. Told you you were the best thing that ever happened to him.

Eventually, exhaustion hit you like a wave. You leaned into him, warm and sleepy, until you finally slipped into unconsciousness against his shoulder.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Eventually, he lifted you gently into bed, tucking the blanket around your frame.

But as he turned to leave, your fingers found his wrist.

“Stay,” you murmured. “Please, Katsu.”

He sighed.

“You’re annoying when you’re clingy.”

But he didn’t go.

He slid into the bed beside you, stiff at first—until you curled into his chest like you belonged there.

He stilled. Then slowly, he wrapped his arms around you.

When morning came and curious eyes followed him out of your room, he didn’t care. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

He’d fight anyone who dared question his love for you.

You weren’t too much. You weren’t a burden.

You were his peace.

And for once in his life, he had something to protect—not out of obligation or pride.

But because he loved you. Fiercely. Honestly. Completely.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

[dee-writes-anime]

Hey pookie, I was hoping u could write some more dadzawa stuff, but this time more fluffy rather than angsty? 😼 like aizawa is grading papers and they're just sort of clinging to him, watching him grade, and waiting until he's done so they can go out for a late night snack run at the super market down the street? I love ur writing it's so awesome😋❤

The Quiet, Ordinary Magic of Being Loved

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY Aizawa’s grading papers, you’re draped across the couch waiting for him to finish, and when he finally clicks his pen shut, it means one thing—late night snack run tradition is on.

CONTENT WARNINGS domestic father-daughter fluff, dadzawa is an environmentalist(!!!!), paper grading (insert ominous chills), reader gets lost (mentioned), reader is dramatic (as you should be queen)

AUTHORS NOTE I'm starting to run out of good images for banners :(((((( hope you enjoy the dadzawa fluff toecrust, thank you for the compliment <3

The soft rustle of paper was the only sound filling the living room, save for the occasional sigh from the man on the couch and the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Aizawa sat slouched over his grading, the red pen in his hand clicking open and closed in a steady rhythm that somehow didn’t break the quiet—it was part of it. He looked comfortable in his exhaustion, the way only a man who’d learned to live inside it could be: hair tied back with a scrunchie that was almost definitely yours, black long-sleeve sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and glasses perched low on his nose.

You were draped sideways across the couch beside him, one leg slung lazily over his lap, your hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands as you watched him grade. Or, more accurately, watched the clock, his pen, the wall, the back of your eyelids—anything to pass the time. You weren’t even hungry anymore, not really. You just liked the tradition of it. Waiting for him to finish his last batch of papers so you could go on one of your shared late-night snack runs down to the 24-hour market at the end of the street.

“How much longer?” you mumbled into your sleeve.

“Same as the last time you asked,” he replied without looking up. “Still three papers left.”

You groaned dramatically, letting your head roll back over the armrest like your soul was leaving your body. “We’re gonna die of old age before we get to the instant ramen aisle.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached up and adjusted his glasses, pen scratching faintly in the margins of a paper. Then, after a beat: “I’m starting to think the dramatics aren’t an age thing. Just genetic.”

“You saying I got it from you?”

“I’m saying there’s a clear pattern forming.”

You snorted, turning your face toward him with a lazy grin. He didn’t return it, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. He always acted like he was immune to your antics, but after so many years together, you knew better. Knew how to read the shift in his eyes when you made him smile even just a little.

You didn’t say anything else after that. Just lay there, your leg still resting warm across his lap, listening to the steady, soothing rhythm of pen-on-paper. Occasionally, he’d shift to underline something, or scribble in the margins—things like "Needs clarification," or "Solid structure here," in his sharp, neat handwriting. You watched the way his brow furrowed just slightly when he hit a confusing paragraph, the way his thumb tapped the edge of the paper while he reread something twice.

Sometimes it was hard to believe this man—the famously grumpy, dry-as-sandpaper underground pro hero—was also the one who made you sob-laugh when you were seven because he got stuck halfway through assembling an IKEA bookshelf and ended up just turning it into a very unstable “modern art table.” Or the one who always left exactly three sticky notes on the fridge when he went on patrol, each with a tiny, comforting detail: Don’t forget to eat. Lock the balcony. If I’m not back by morning, there’s rice in the rice cooker.

When he finally clicked his pen shut, the sound echoed like a starting bell.

“Done?”

“Done,” he confirmed, straightening the pages with a satisfying thwap and setting them in a neat stack on the coffee table.

You sat up immediately, hoodie riding up your back, hair messy from where it had been squashed against the couch cushion. “You’re the best. I love you. Let’s go.”

He stood with a quiet groan, stretching until his shoulders popped. “You better not disappear halfway through the store again.”

“I was literally one aisle over. You act like I got abducted.”

“You vanished into the void of snack options. I had to bribe a worker to use the intercom.”

You laughed all the way to the door, tugging on your shoes while he slipped into his coat. He grabbed his keys, gave the apartment a quick once-over, then paused as you opened the door.

“Wait—hang on,” he said, walking over to the kitchen. You watched as he opened the cabinet, grabbed one of the reusable bags folded neatly in the back, and tossed it to you. “We’re not bringing home ten plastic ones again.”

You caught it with a grin. “Look at you. Hero, dad, environmentalist.”

He gave you a flat look and nudged you out the door with his elbow.

The night air was cool, the kind that clung softly to your clothes without quite being cold. Streetlights cast pale gold puddles across the sidewalk as you walked side by side, hands in your pockets. The world felt quiet, like the city itself was asleep, and the only sound was the soft scuff of your sneakers and the quiet rustle of leaves overhead.

“Did you ever think,” you said after a moment, “when you decided to take in a kid, that you’d be spending your future Friday nights buying mochi and cheese puffs at midnight?”

He gave a thoughtful hum. “I thought I’d be cleaning up slime villains in alleyways and doing paperwork in peace.”

You bumped his arm lightly with your shoulder. “Liar.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then: “Maybe I hoped for this.”

That was all he said, but it was enough to warm your chest more than any winter coat. You didn’t need big speeches from him. He never had to say “I love you” outright—he said it in the way he always made sure you had leftovers in the fridge, in the way he sat through your rants about classmates with quiet nods and the occasional muttered “idiot,” in the way he brought an extra jacket on cold nights even when he wasn’t cold.

When you reached the corner store, its flickering neon sign buzzing faintly in the silence, he held the door open for you like always. Inside, the fluorescent lights were jarring, but familiar. You headed straight for the snack aisle while he grabbed drinks, occasionally calling over his shoulder:

“One sweet, one salty. That’s it.”

You ignored him entirely and tossed in three things. He didn’t stop you.

At the checkout, you handed him the bag, watching as he methodically loaded it like a grocery Tetris champion.

“You spoil me,” you said.

“You’ll pay me back one day.”

“Sure. When I’m rich and famous. Or I’ll just sneak into your agency office and leave fruit snacks in your desk drawer.”

He let out a tired sigh, but you caught the smile he was trying to hide.

You walked home with the bag swinging between you, shoulder to shoulder in the quiet. When you got back, the papers were still neatly stacked on the table, and the living room still smelled faintly like coffee and old books and the cologne he always used, subtle but comforting.

You settled onto the couch again, legs curled under you, peeling open the first snack as he sank down beside you.

Your heart warmed, feeling safe and comfortable in your little home. It really didn't take much, just a late night, a warm room, and the quiet, ordinary magic of being loved.

[edelgardism]

this excerpt from kaveh’s old sketchbook makes me clinically insane

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Okay 3 things

1. I was thinking about an aroace Sonic who says things that can be taken as wildly flirty/romantic but he just means them genuinely. “You have beautiful eyes, I keep getting distracted while looking at them,” not cause he’s interested romantically in them but because eyes can be really cool and pretty man I dunno what to tell you he likes looking at cool things and he thinks his friends are neat. “You’re the most beautiful person here,” because he really thinks that, he loves his friends

2. Sonic randomly dropping heartfelt genuine comments on his friends out of the blue completely blindsiding them and then moves on like nothing happened while they’re left going ?????? Bonus points if he does something immensely stupid or jerkish just before or immediately afterwards and they can’t tell if he was serious or not with the compliment (yes he was)

3. Sonic usually being so allergic to truly vulnerable moments that when he expresses something heartfelt randomly Tails thinks he’s been stabbed or something and does not believe him when he reassures him that he’s fine he’s fine he’s not dying yeesh