neo-dream

[neo-dream]

He looks hot no questions asked

[neo-dream]

lucian was not a naughty boy.

no, he absolutely hates being called naughty.

no one should call him naughty. not mama, not papa, not biggies, not even kee-ro.

because saying naughty is the sound of anger. to him, naughty invokes disappointment, guilt, annoyance— too big words to know. 

they take form in a tummy ache.

the tone of it, as well, haunts him. 

always beginning like approaching thunder calling his name. it roils through space and renders him as motionless as the seabed before a tsunami. 

and then the scolding. firm and final— to not do what he is doing. 

and then the sucker punch— stop being naughty. 

most of the time he doesn’t truly mean to. exploring his boundaries, pushing against limits he still has yet to discover. it is the nature of his explorations that cause his family’s visceral reactions.

and so he has learned: no banister slides, no climbing shelves, no jumping too high on the bed, no running in the garage, no touching kieran’s tools, the list of limits goes on.

one must forgive him, for there are far too many to remember.

his bedroom is quiet when he wakes. the steady stream of sunlight illuminated small particles of dust in the air, touching his shoulder as if to wake him. 

to his right, kyros’s bed is already empty. he’d gone down to get some breakfast, no doubt. 

in the humming glow of morning, he wonders if papa is home. last night, he’d felt the familiar shadow creep into his bedroom and plant a kiss on his forehead. along with a whispered farewell and a promise to return by morning.

it is morning, as much as lucian can tell— mornings have suns.

he first travels to the bedrooms. kieran and luke have both left their doors ajar. to lucian’s surprise none of them were there either. 

he checks your book-room, where he knows he can find you writing on your armchair on occasion. but again, you are not found.

emptiness cuts through his feeling heart for a moment. not the kind that saddens, but a realization. an eye opener— that he exists. 

just as he understands everyone else’s states going beyond his sight, he successfully inverses the theory and pieces together that he too is here.

beyond anyone’s perception.

practically invisible.

papa and mama’s bedroom is his first target. rushing bare feet thud thud thud on the carpeted ground as he practically flies there.

the beddings are nearly ripped off the mattress. his fingers dig nail-deep into the creases of the blanket as he hauls himself up the bed. and when he gets there, he jumps.

giggling and squealing like a tickled toddler. he sings about monkeys on the bed, hopping and jumping and falling off and bumping its—

“lucian. stop that.”

every limb turns to ice. he freezes. his ankle catches in a twist of the duvet, and he rolls into the pillows. 

a cool stone sinks to the pit of his stomach. his breath turns measured, yet quick. and the beginning of a tummy ache makes itself known.

his eyes flit to each corner of the room, only to find no one. his mind short circuits. he tries his voice. he speaks over it. 

“hello?” 

“— i told you not to jump on the bed—“ 

“—hello?!” 

“hello, angel.” the voice sighs. strange. it sounds so much like papa… which cannot be. because papa isn’t home yet.

“who’s dis?” 

the voice pauses. “lucian, it’s me. it’s pa—“

“—papa? no! who’a you!”

there is an unmistakable chuckle through the robotic crackle of static. the image of lucian on the screen looking frantically left and right made sylus’s stomach hurt in the best way. he clears his throat, “stop—stop jumping on the—“

“where!” lucian yelps helplessly. heels digging into the mattress, briskly pressing himself to the headboard, hidden amongst the pillows. “come out!”

sylus doesn’t like laughing at his children’s misery. honestly, his heart twinges at the pure innocence of it all. but can you truly blame him when his sons are the funniest creatures on the planet? “angel, i can see you through—“

“‘top! ‘top t’eeing me!” he screams, truly frightened now. then comes out, crawling through the walls of his throat, a desperate screech. “mama! mama!” 

there's a commotion downstairs.

“lucian!” mephisto interrupts. he is laughing, deep and familiar, as he lands on one of the pillows before the boy. his beak opens to resonate the voice box sylus speaks through. “calm down, angel.”

“mephie? talk?” up close, lucian is near tears.

sylus’s fingers ache to reach through the colored monitor to squeeze his cheeks. “it’s papa. i can see you through mephisto, sweetheart.” 

“oh,” lucian mutters, still shaken up. but that makes sense. the back of his sleeve is used to wipe away trail of snot onto his cheek. 

calmer now, he greets, “hi, papa. can see me?”

sylus grins on the other side. “yes, angel.” 

lucian reaches for mephisto, who hops into his embrace and offers his services as a comfort animal. warming his energy core to imitate blood-flow, fluffing his feathers extra for a plushie finish. perfect for the little one’s needs. 

lucian’s breathing steadies. his heartbeat slows. his words cease their wobbling. “home yet?” 

sylus should bring it up— the jumping on the bed. he isn’t allowed to in the first place. naughty, he’d remind him. 

but then again, he did make him cry.

and your reaction to the yelling from your son was turbulent, a bottled storm breaking loose. you'd practically fallen off your chair. had it not been for him stopping you, you’d have ripped the house in half with your terror. in turn, you glare daggers at him. 

so, he lets it go. calling it even. for now, he says, “here.”

and appears at the doorway. pocketing his phone, it takes five long strides to get to lucian and fish him out of the nest, into a tight embrace. little arms squeeze his neck in return and he can’t suppress the amusement he has for his boy, no matter how impulsive he can be.  

“come have breakfast.” he says. his nuzzles are sweet and seeking. lucian grabs his earlobe in return. a grounding gesture, comforting like an attached charm. attached to papa. because now, papa is here.

“did i scare you?” sylus inquires. soft breath ruffling lucian’s bangs like a breeze before a rain shower.

lucian sniffles. needing to be cradled closer. “yes.” then he rubs his eyes. in spite, he murmurs. “naughty papa.”

sylus is struck silent. his shoes are suddenly lined with iron, not leather. and his son weight strains his arms a little more. 

he smiles despite it. even at the edges of fear, lucian still manages to humble him completely. “i’m sorry, angel.” 

stealing his script, the toddler huffs. “don’do it again, okay?” 

sylus raises an inquisitive brow. processing the emotions that run through him at the accusation. guilt. disappointment. quietly, he makes a mental note of limiting the usage of the word to his children.

“I won’t.” his lips press reverent kisses into his son’s silver crown. in the place of what was, he implores, “oh, lucian, my brave boy.”

lucian blinks. 

his stomach untwists. gone is the sunken stone; broken down into powder. his belly feels lighter, his breath freer. he hides his shy smile into the lapels of his father’s clothes.

lucian is a brave boy. 

yes, he likes being brave. 

smthin sweet for sweet lucian. thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹ᰔ

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

[neo-dream]

Art Student!Choso

Renaissance: worship

Word Count: 5.4k Contents: 18+ mdni, plot with smut, mostly fluffy, direct continuation of the part 5 smau, and concludes pre-relationship Choso's story, not proofread Masterlist

You’re staring at the most beautiful mural you think has ever been created. It’s made up of harsh strokes of ash, curving and spiralling into one another, sprawling across the entire back wall of the gym. The smudges and the streaks breeze from corner to corner, bouncing along the edges as they create layers of shadows which seem so thick you could feel it from where you stand. 

There, in the centre, you can make out a face. It’s contorted, mouth stretched inhumanly, eyes bulging and threatening to pop out. Fragmented and clawing itself, tearing skin and pulling until its face morphs into something you can’t quite make out. Dissolving into the fray, with the stark chalk, it spirals into frenzied strokes, suffocating itself. 

A gasp leaves you when you step back, taking more of it in at once, and you see amidst the smoke and the chaos, symbols, jagged and torn up. They make up even more faces, just as contorted and as uncanny, all stretched out in silent screams that pierce your soul and render your knees weak. 

It’s haunting. 

You had no idea you would walk in to find this when you were searching for Choso. And when you meet his eyes from above, leaning against the railing, you think you might actually fall to your knees. It’s the same eyes that match the big ones on the wall, both equally broken, accusing and full of heat as it never wavers from yours. 

There are so many things left unsaid, things that are desperate to get out, to be screamed at him so he’ll understand, so he’ll know. But only silence remains. 

Choso doesn’t say anything, just lets the moonlight streaming from the windows encase you both in half light, half-darkness. You can’t see the smudges on his hands, but you can see the yearning in his eyes, like he too has so much to say, so much for you to understand and accept.

Click. 

Both of your eyes dart to the entrance, there’s a security guard, holding a flashlight, aimed right you. There’s no way to escape. That’s what your thumping heart is telling you; you’ve been caught. And you haven’t done anything wrong.

“Hey! Did you do this?” He yells. 

You’re rendered speechless, frozen from the realisation that there’s no way out of this. Without looking at him, can’t bear to discover what expression he’s wearing now that it’s all unravelling between you, you walk to the guard and let him drag you of there. 

You don’t look back. 

——

“What would possess you to vandalise private property?” The Dean questions. 

His bald head is shiny, and the light’s reflection is all you can focus on as he thumps his fist against the mahogany desk separating you both. Thank God, too, because by the looks of that bulging vein on his forehead, he's pretty keen on giving you a lesson or two. It’s just you and him in his stately, stuffy office. The walls are lined with tall, dark wood bookshelves, which in turn are filled with old, leather-bound books in perfect condition, not a single dust in sight. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It goes without saying, I’m sure, that I’m disappointed in you,” he ignores you, voice gruff and measured, all condescending and pretentious. You’re convinced that’s not even his natural accent. “You have the talent, the potential, to do anything with your gifts. Your works have won many awards, and you could one day find them in museums or galleries across the world. Instead, this —this is how you choose to leave your mark?”

The chair squeaks when you shift uncomfortably, and your eyes choose to scan his meticulous desk, as opposed to his beady ones. There’s not a single paper angled wrong, no pens misaligned, not a smudge or even a water mark. 

“You’ve disgraced this fine institution. Our beloved Eden University for the Excellent has stood as a beacon for ambition, sophistication and innovation! And with every act of ‘artistic rebellion’ with your ‘cursed death paintings’, or the like, you have threatened everything we have built for centuries!”

You could try and defend yourself, could rebuff the accusations since you are, of course, innocent. But, well, the evidence is damning: you were at the scene of the crime, you’re an art student, you have attended practically every protest on campus, have liked posts from Cursed Womb’s fan-pages, and damn it, you had paint all over your shirt and hands.

You’re fucked. 

He leans back in his chair, sighing as he folds his glasses onto the desk. “There are no excuses; none I will accept. Therefore, it is with the deepest regret that I hereby — “

The door slams open. 

You both jump. 

“Dean Hanami,” a sneer projects through the office and you recognise it immediately as belonging to a guy that knocked on your door and glared at you as if you were dirt on his shoe. “We have much to discuss.”

When you twist in your seat, you’re alarmed to find three men: Sukuna in a newer looking jacket than you remembered, an old man in a suit, and a guy you haven’t seen in almost two weeks. 

Choso’s not looking at you, he’s not even entering the room, choosing instead to hang around by the doorway. 

“Mr. Ryomen, I am in the middle of a meeting,” the Dean splutters. 

Sukuna pokes your shoulder with a pen he picked up from the desk, looking over at you with complete disgust, like you’re a little cockroach. Still as rude as ever, he’s signalling for you to leave and as you look between the two men, one much older than the other, you choose to go with your instincts and rush out of there. 

“This is how it’s going to work,” he drawls, sliding into your seat and snapping his fingers at the man in a suit, “you’re going to give back everything I want, and you’re going to let this Cursed Womb farce go.”

The last thing you hear is the sheer humiliation of the Dean’s defeated stammering. You close the door behind you. 

Without looking at Choso, you walk down the hallway. 

“Y/n, we should talk,” he follows beside you. 

“Now you want to talk?” You sigh. You know you’re not being fair. Counting to ten, you try a softer approach. “Listen, Choso, it's been a long morning. Can we have this talk somewhere private? These hallways are so depressing.”

He nods, his pigtails moving with him. Wordlessly, he leads you outside, to his parked car, it’s all shiny and sleek, classic Ryomen money, and you get into the passenger seat. 

It’s odd being in such close proximity with him when he’s avoided you for so long, but you try to get comfortable regardless, ignoring the elephant in the room. There’s a Cursed Womb sized hole between you and there’s so much to be said but you’re afraid you’ll push him, that you’ll say the wrong thing and everything will be for nought; you’ll go back to being strangers, passing each other by, just like last year. 

And, whatever you feel for him, you just can’t let that happen. 

“Choso,” you begin, voice soft, “what happened? What happened between us?”

Driving, he doesn’t dare look at you, can only chew on the inside of his cheek before seemingly deciding on the right words. “I liked you. From the very beginning, I liked you. People either like me ‘cause of my family or 'cause of rumours, but you’re one of the very few people that actually reached out, saw me as an equal.”

You’re silent. He’s opening up in a way he has never before and you don’t dare disturb his flow, like one would watch a Master at work. Everything about him is compelling, the whites of his knuckles as he grips the steering wheel harder than he should, the furrow of his brows as he thinks hard, the way his gaze slides over to you, just not meeting your eyes, and even the way he studies you, in just your thin jumper and jeans and turns up the heater without asking.

Trees fly by, everything a blur as you keep your gaze fixed solely on him. He drives pretty smoothly, unlike you. You're always pressed right up against the wheel, eyes darting to every mirror like a car would appear in the millisecond you looked away. But him...he drives like it's second nature, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick.

“Despite me not being very open and particularly approachable I guess, you still made the effort to reach out, to include me in discussions, to ask if I’m coming to class — even lecturers have stopped asking. And you’re very smart! I like how passionate you are, you’re so full of great ideas, practically beaming with them. You never lose your optimism even when your art gets critiqued too harshly.”

This is the first time anyone’s ever described you like this, like he appreciates you by pure virtue of your existence and the way he sees your hard work, the strength it takes to get back up that you hadn’t recognised in yourself -- it feels like the way one would appreciate Starry Night. 

You can tell he practised this speech.

“But,” there’s a tremble in his voice and it makes your hand twitch, “you don't like me. Not like how I like you. And it makes me upset. Because you're so great and nice and pretty. Not that I like you because of your appearance, even though you have a very nice body. I mean that respectfully! Okay, actually just forget I said that. I like you for lots of different reasons. And I've been trying to get you to see me as more than your classmate or just your friend. But it's all pointless because you like Cursed Womb.”

“Choso, you are Cursed Womb.”

The car screeches to a halt. 

His hand flies out, pressing hard on your chest to stop you from flying forward. Thank goodness you’re wearing your seatbelt. And thank goodness the road is empty. 

“What the fuck!”

“Sorry!” He pants. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise.”

Like you’ve been possessed, you laugh. It’s more a cackle than anything else to be honest, but the look of utter shock and disbelief on his face is making you tear up, your sides hurting as you cradle them. “Oh my god, Choso, you should have seen your face. HA!”

He’s panicking, hands waving in the air as he tries to decide between lifting your hair up to inspect for damage and going to the steering wheel so he can drive off to safety, where the chances of a car accident caused by your blunt mouth are slim. Conflicted, he decides to keep them in his lap as he winces at your chortles. You’re finding this way too funny. 

“You’re being mean,” he pouts. 

Wiping tears from your eyes, you’re desperately trying to calm down, trying to school your features into something more neutral or, better yet, something serious so you can have a mature, adult conversation. But he’s just so adorable you can’t help yourself. 

“Sorry, Choso,” you playfully frown at him, making a puppy dog pout so he’ll cave in. “But be honest here, sweetheart. You didn’t actually think you were slick, did you?”

Like a child, he smacks his steering wheel, all grumpy and upset. “No one else knew.”

“That’s ‘cause no one else tried to know. Sure, people were investigating, trying to piece together clues, but no one really wanted to know; the mystery was addictive, and that’s what peopled liked. But you think you’re the only one who pays attention? I watch you all the time. Plus, your family’s presence today was concrete proof; Sukuna would never do that just because you asked, right? And on top of all of that, you’re not a very good liar, sweet Choso,” you coo. 

He stutters, “B-but you never said. You kept talking about him l-like —"

“Like he’s not you?” You finish for him. 

“Yes! Even that night when I asked you to hang out, you didn’t want to go with me but when I mentioned the painting, you said yes.”

Your hand reaches out to play with a loose lock of hair from his messy pigtails and he lets you, his eyes flutter shut when your hand grazes his cheek. Heart clenching, you sigh again. “I was genuinely busy, Choso. But when you mentioned that ‘your friend’ painted again, I knew that meant trouble. What you do is dangerous, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“What about the other time when you didn’t want to have lunch with me? And you just wanted to work?”

You giggle, playfully pulling at his hair, and he has to pretend he’s not getting hard. “Choso, you do realise we have to balance our project on top of our schoolwork, right? Like we have to actually study and work, to meet deadlines?”

Choso pouts again and you smush your thumb against his plump lips, easing away the tension there. All muffled, he whines, “But I wanted to have lunch with you!”

“And we enjoyed sandwiches, did we not? Which by the way, you never paid me back for. But eh, that's okay. Just treat me out next time -- I'm a broke college student.”

He groans, pulling away to smack his head against the wheel. It honks and you laugh again. He’s clearly embarrassed and frustrated and he doesn’t know where to begin, so you try for him. 

“Choso, sweetheart,” you rub his back, “don’t be upset. I’ll be completely honest: I was messing with you. I kinda just wanted to see how far things will go. I mean, I knew as soon as you told me he’s your ‘friend’ that you were Cursed Womb. It’s such an obvious throwaway; I hope you weren’t feeling very proud of yourself.”

Scrunching his nose at you, he sinks back into his seat. The road is still empty, and he doesn’t seem to have any desire to drive off yet. So, you let him take it all in, rubbing his shoulder in pity for the poor guy who was clearly so proud of himself for keeping such a huge secret from everyone. 

“What’s gonna happen with the Dean?” You just realised technically you were expelled or were going to be expelled. No longer a student, you aren’t sure what you would do as a non-student — would you even make a very inspirational contributive member of society?

What’s next? 

Taxes and mortgages?

You shudder. 

Choso grabs your hand, holding it in his lap as he fiddles with your rings, clinking them with his own. His nails are painted black in true male art student fashion and his fingers are so beautifully long and slender you’re not afraid to admit that you’ve stared at them a little too long during clay sculpting class. 

“The family’s going to take care of it. Make it go away like they did when Sukuna beat up some guy who pushed Yuji. Or when I got caught by some other security guard.”

You nodded. “Where does that leave us?”

“Us?”

“There is an us, right, Choso?”

He fiddles with your ring finger, and you try really hard not to notice the hearts in his eyes. “Do you want there to be us? It’s not because I’m Cursed Womb, is it?”

Of course, you don’t blame him for feeling this way; you played around too much, gave him too much power when you really should have made the decisions to begin with, forced him to confront everything that was unspoken between you much sooner. Then there wouldn’t be this awkward energy that's holding him back from meeting your eyes. 

“Choso, I never liked you because you were Cursed Womb. Sure, I liked Cursed Womb. I stand by everything I said — he’s cool, he stands for what’s right, he sends a message and isn’t afraid to put his art out there to be critiqued by the masses. How many people can say that? But I liked him like one likes a pop star! You, on the other hand, I like you as you are. All shy and sweet and considerate. And I know the picture of me was from you, by the way.”

He opens his mouth to argue, and you shut him up with a stern look. 

“We’re project partners, Choso!” You laugh. “I’ve seen your handwriting and the way you write your Cs, you silly silly boy.”

“But you teased me anyways."

With a shrug, you explain, "You liked it."

And then he’s kissing you. 

His seatbelt is off, and you’re being pressed back into your seat, his hands cradling your face. It’s soft and sweet and gentle and it’s so Choso you can only moan in his mouth. He’s holding you like the two lovers of Rodin, with so much care, so much passion, it's leaving you breathless. You feel so much warmth and adoration through every lick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth and every moan of your name he’s breathing into you. 

You push him back, taking your belt off so you can climb into his lap whilst he pushes the seat back. He kisses down your neck, sucking your pulse point and gripping your hip as if he’s scared you’re just a figment of his imagination. And when you grind down on his hard length, he moans your name again. You’re soaking. 

“I’m sorry for teasing you too much.”

With tentative hands, he lifts your sweater up your stomach, searching your eyes for any resistance. You smile and take it off for him. He wastes no time sucking a tit, flicking the hard bud with his tongue and you’re gripping his pigtails. That makes him groan.

“I’ll forgive you if you do one thing for me,” his words are garbled, on account of him trying to swallow the entire globe of your breast, cheeks all puffed up, and you can’t help but press a kiss against his forehead. “Call me Cho again.”

“What?” His teeth graze your sensitive nipple and you arch into him, eyes crossing.

“You only call me Cho when we’re like this, touching in a way we shouldn’t.”

“Do I?” Grinding down on his dick, you tug a pigtail back so you can tilt his face away from your wet tits and back to your mouth. You kiss him again, craving his taste, his warmth. “Sorry…Cho.”

He bucks into your clothed core, straight up to your clit and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths. This isn’t enough, you both need more. Neither of you even care that you’re on the side of a road and it’s midday. 

“I want you,” he whispers, and he’s tearing up, the frustration building up to a point where he’s clawing your jeans off and burying his face between your tits and inhaling deep. “Can I? Can I have you?”

“Of course, Cho. I’m yours,” you kiss his hair. “You can do whatever you want with me, baby.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. 

Because the next thing you know, the seat is folding back and you’re being thrown onto the seat, facing the plush roof. He’s tugging your jeans down, pulling the material as if it’s singlehandedly his worst enemy. You can only rub his head as he frantically looks between your face, your tits and your panties like he doesn’t know where to begin. He’s desperately asking for permission, for guidance. 

“Choso, we can do whatever you want, just take your time.” And then, as an afterthought, you add, “Although, you shouldn’t take too long since we are outside. If we get caught, I’m not sure your family can take care of the charges we’ll face.”

He nods and then with dark, unfocused eyes, he shoves his face between your leg as he kneels on the floor, spreading your thighs with his strong arms. Sniffing is all he does, inhaling deeply and moaning. You blush, pushing his hair from his face. And, as if the urge has gotten too much, he pushes your panties to the side and licks a strip up your slit, from quivering hole to the clit. 

Your back arches off the seat. 

Moans and groans escape you, shaky breaths fanning the air as he sucks your clit, mumbling your name and the vibrations leaves you lightheaded. 

“Tastes so good. Knew you would taste so good.” He pushes in a finger inside and he groans with you when he wriggles it. “So wet, baby. You’re so hot a-and wet and I want to stay here forever.”

He curls his fingers inside, rubbing against that spot inside of you that has you gushing cream all over his mouth, and he laps it up like he’s starved. Just as a car drives past and he dives deeper into you, you find yourself cumming all over his mouth and fingers, clutching his pigtails harder.

"Fuuuuuck, don't stop, Cho!" You ride out your orgasm on his face, spreading your wetness all over his chin and his cheeks, clit bumping against his nose.

Shuffling up, something wet and hard traces your lips. It’s salty. You don’t hesitate to widen your jaw, letting him push his hot and hard length into your throat. It’s an awkward angle, with you laid not fully back and him having to crouch down, but you manage a few suckles before he gets frustrated and embarrassed, and he climbs back down to pet at your pussy. 

"That's just going to have to wait later, I guess," you chuckle.

A blush blanketing his cheeks, he nods and strokes his dick. He must have taken it out when he was licking you. It's long and hard and your body remembers the feel of it in your hands. And Monet! His tip is flushed red, leaking cum like a faucet. How adorable.

You see him lining his beautiful cock to your quivering hole, but you have to press a hand against his chest to still him. “Tut tut, Cho. Do I need to lecture you on the importance of safe sex, silly boy?”

He blushes and pats his pockets with frantic, panicked movements. You sigh. You didn’t bring one either.

“Well, you’re not allowed inside without a condom,” you mutter to his cock, telling it off as if it’s responsible for its owner irresponsibility. “I mean, really, Choso. You’re a grown man, a college student! You should always have condoms, silly.”

“I didn’t think we’d ever be together so I didn’t buy any,” he mumbles, laying down on you so he can hide his sheepish expression in your shoulder. 

The implication warms your chest, making you pout and rub his back. You coo, “Aw, did my baby not want to fuck anyone else? Just me?”

Pushed to his limit, he bites your neck and then quickly soothes it with his tongue as if upset at himself for hurting you. But it’s you who feels the most guilt; you played around too much, teased him too far, and now his hips are making short thrusts against your pussy. He just can’t help himself. It’s as if the magnetic pull of your cunt is too much for a weak man like him. You’re going to have to work very hard to earn his forgiveness even if he’s willingly thrown it at you. 

Starting, of course, by wrapping your legs around his hips and pressing him closer. You whisper, “Make yourself cum on my pussy, Cho.”

He groans. Maybe it’s the seductive way you ordered him to, the vulgar term you used, or perhaps it’s the fact that you called him a nickname he loves to hear. Well, whatever it is, it’s making him whimper in your ear as he thrusts against your lips, coating his length with your juices. His tip bumps against your clit and you both moan. 

“I-I missed you, y/n!” He cries in your ear, warm breath tickling your skin. 

Again and again, he thrusts, still clinging onto you and holding you close. You can feel his desperation, sincerity, and his pre-cum all seeping into your skin. Rolling back, your eyes disappear — this is supposed to be for him, and yet you’re panting too, holding him tight, shirt threatening to rip under your claws. 

The fact that you’re naked and he isn’t is making you sensitive all over, from the way your nipples are rubbing against his chest and how he pinches at one all the way to the mumbling of your name, like a mantra, against your neck. 

You’re going to cum too. 

“Ngh, Cho! Keep going!”

He must have liked that because his thrusting gets more frantic, his cock head meeting your clit again and again and you’re both nearing your high. Your nails dig into his back and he bites your neck to stifle the broken moan that escapes him. Hot ropes of cum paint your stomach and it makes you arch your back once more, eyes closing shut. 

"So warm ngh!" He groans into your ear.

Hips stuttering, he drags out his orgasm like his body can’t help himself and a beat or two passes. He falls on top of you, still muttering your name like his brain has short-circuited and it’s all that’s left in there. 

“You like me better than Cursed Womb, right?”

You laugh. “Cho, you silly man. You’re the same person.”

Choso pushes himself up onto his elbows, slightly out of breath and dazed, a blush highlighting his face tattoo. You kiss him on the nose which brings out what sounds like a mewl from him. He copies the movement, and it tickles you. That makes him smile, still panting. 

“I know, but I want to know who you like better,” he licks a bead of sweat from your forehead and you have to smack his back. 

Sighing, you push him off, concerned over the fact that you’re naked and in a public space. He lets you scramble back to your seat, fixing your panties and leggings and he hands you your jumper. All in silence, you get settled back in. 

He starts the engine, looking a little upset and you have to still his hand with yours. Words aren’t really enough, you know that. So, the only thing to do is to show him. 

“Take us to my place, Cho.”

—

He’s confused, head tilting and brows scrunched together like a little puppy as you lead him to your dorm room. Whereas you’re practically buzzing with excitement, struggling to get the keys in due to your shaking hands. But you manage and you welcome him in. 

It’s the first time he’s been inside your place — there wasn’t a particular reason why you waited, it was really just because his place is bigger and cooler and generally a much better place to work in. 

Despite it being a pretty standard room, he’s marvelling at the space, eyeing the pictures of your friends strewn across the walls, the fairy lights and the open journal on the table full of your watercolour works. Choso looks like he just entered Santa’s workshop, and you giggle as you press your face in his back, hugging him and swaying you guys side to side. 

“Sorry about the mess, Cho. I didn’t know you’d come over.”

He holds your hands, swaying with you, but his focus is on only one thing. 

There, on your easel, stationed by the window for natural lighting, is a sketch. The lines are messy and criss-crossing, overlapping each other, the lead of the pencil unravelling to create a face loss in thought. It’s tilting its head as its own creation, examining the angles and the proportions, and you can tell it’s completely entranced in its work, losing grip with reality and wholly immersed in their own imagination. 

It’s the kind of expression you’ve decided is most beautiful in all your years of looking and sketching and studying. In all the models, in all the strangers, and in all the works of art you’ve come across, only one figure has captivated you as much it has. 

“Recognise him, Cho Cho?”

Despite the teasing tone of your voice, you’re actually pretty nervous. This has never been a problem for you; you’ve presented your work to countless of people, by virtue of being an art student, you’ve consented to being ripped apart again and again. But this time, you’re feeling a certain kind of insecurity you never have before. 

“Do you like it?”

“This is me?” He breathes out. 

You bury your face harder in his back, feeling a blush creeping up. “Yeah, Cho. I started it back in first year. I never got to finish it because, well, we’re art students and we all have ADHD or whatever. But when we became project partners, I’ve been adding to it, adding lines and details for every time I noticed something new about you. In fact, I was working on it that night you asked me to hang out and I almost turned you down. Sorry about by the way, baby.”

Waving a hand over the general area, you explain further, "At the end of first year, you got that face tattoo, and I struggled all summer adding it in because I only saw it once and wanted to recreate it from pure memory. But I couldn't ever seem to get the proportions right."

"Y-you started drawing me in first year?"

Pressing a kiss to his back and smiling at the flex of his muscles, you think back to a memory. "It wasn't like I was obsessed with you, or anything creepy, I swear. It's just that, you're a pretty handsome dude. The List agrees and well, when I first saw you in the lecture hall, I thought wow, someone needs to capture that guy in a drawing or something. And you know how us artists work — we develop fixations. I guess, you could say you've been my on and off one for a year now."

That was a lot of words and you’re not sure he registered any of it because of how silent he is, but then he’s clasping your hands tightly. And you’re shocked into silence when something cold slides down one of your fingers. On your left hand. Your ring finger. 

“Cho?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he shakily whispers. 

You want to laugh — it’s such a sudden admission and you’re fairly convinced it’s just that post-nut high. But the way he says it, the way it’s so serious, so real makes you pull away. 

He turns, desperate to see your face. And with another whisper, he admits, “I have one of you too.”

“What?”

“I painted a portrait of you. In my place.”

It strikes you there. You remember. The painting with the tarp over it. That was of you, and he hid it because you were coming over. With a grin, you raise your hand up to eye the golden signet ring on your finger, way too big and threatening to fall off if you don’t hold it tight. 

“We’re a pretty cool duo, aren’t we?”

Choso falls to his knees, pigtails bouncing, an expression of desperation and torment written all over it. He's never looked more beautiful staring up at you. "Please let me be your boyfriend!"

You laugh again, hands on your hips as you shake your head in disbelief. Rolling your eyes playfully, you respond with, "Alright, I guess I can grant you that one wish. Actually, since you gave me two orgasms, I'll give you another one."

He reaches for your hand with his eyes closed and you let him press it against his face. Cupping his cheek, your smile drops and you feel a fire burning inside and explode in your chest when he presses a distressed kiss to your wrist, full of panic like his brain is malfunctioning and he can't settle on one thought or feeling.

Then, his eyelids fly open and meet yours with a clarity that has never been there. Never. Not even since first year when you made eye contact in passing and you couldn't get his face out of your mind. And it's like all the anguish you saw that night is gone, the chalk mural fading from view.

More certain than ever, you know he'll give you all the opportunities you need to finish your portrait of him, and every new one you'll make. And your project will be renewed with a deeper level of teamwork, because you've transcended the definitions of your connection.

“I want to eat you out again.”

And well, who are you to say no to a man on his knees?

[neo-dream]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ୨୧‧₊˚✧ caleb's first kiss

cw: sfw mostly, just kissing, my first real attempt at fluff, suggestive thoughts though, he's a little yandere here but blink and you'll miss it, just testing the character out, this is longer than I meant for it to be, fun fact: this happened to me last year and was the beginning of the most traumatizing relationship ive ever experienced in my life so im writing it with caleb to make the memory happier since doing drugs failed to burn it out of my head ♡

taglist app here

Caleb tightens his grip on your hand as the rain intensified, the drops now hammering against the ground with a quicker rhythm. He glanced down at you, noticing how quickly your clothes began to cling to your body, outlining your form, a sight that sent a flicker of warmth through him that he had to push aside. You hold up your wrist to push the, now soggy, sweater sleeve up your forearm and make a sound of discomfort.

"Came out of nowhere," He murmurs, pulling you closer as he hurries you towards the parking lot and ushers you to his car. Your hair clings to your neck and hides your skin from his eyes, plastered to you with chilly fresh rainwater. You glisten from the raindrops and it's a vision that he enjoys soaking in but he'd feel like an asshole if he dragged you out of the house to get some fresh air, from studying so much, and you ended up catching a cold. The summer rain pelts the two of you as he goes to the passenger side and opens your door for you.

Your best friend watches as you slide into the passenger seat, your damp dress riding up slightly to reveal a glimpse of your thigh. He swallowed hard, quickly closing the door behind you before jogging around to the driver's side--more than just a little annoyed that the unpredictable weather doesn't permit him to linger and enjoy the sight before him. As he settles into the seat, he can feel the chill emanating from your soaked clothes, making him acutely aware of the contrast between the cool air and the warmth he craved from you.

Caleb reaches over to turn the heater on in the car, aiming the vents towards you only. "I'm so sorry, baby, should've check the forecast before I dragged you out like this." He scratches the back of his neck in apology and rubs his hands together to create a friction.

"That's okay," You crack a smile and remove your soggy cardigan. You reach over and turn one vent to warm Caleb up as well so that you're both gradually drying up. "I did need to get out, even in this weather." Your eyes shy away from him but you can't help but notice the way his own clothes cling to him and expose each ripple of muscle that your childhood friend earned while in the military.

His eyes flick over to you, taking in the way your face soaks in the sweet mist that soaked through to your bones, the damp strands clinging and highlighting your features. He feels the same urge to brush it all from your face to get a better look at you in the sun-dappled lighting like this but he doesn't trust himself to not cup your face and pull you in across the console.

It's not long before Caleb's car is filled with only the sound of the both of you catching your breath from rushing and the sound of the rain droplets pummeling the metal roof and windows. It turns into a cocoon of sorts or, the storm trapping the two of you and isolating you from the rest of the world... at least for a little while. The scent of wet earth and rain fills the air and it hasn't totally washed away the aroma of your perfume, which is always enough to dizzy him. Without even thinking of it, he finds himself breathing in deeply, savoring the intimate fusion of these two fragrances. In the confines of the car, with the rain a constant drumroll around you two, your friend feels an inexplicable closeness to you. His heart beat a little faster, a heat kindling in his chest that has nothing to do with the heater blowing at you.

He glances at you, noticing the way your teeth chatter slightly, your arms wrapping around yourself for more warmth. An overwhelming urge to pull you close, to wrap your arms around his and tangle the two of you together are his body heat, surged through him. He wanted to chase away the chill, to feel you melt into his embrace until you lost the shiver and went pliant against him, until your breath was warming his skin instead of the hot air from the car's heater, until the two of you were embracing each other like destined lovers.

Caleb almost pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering why his thoughts are suddenly so intense like this. Maybe he's running out of self-control--at least where it concerns you. He finds the restraint and reaches out to turn up the heat a notch. "You're shivering, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in the close space. "I wish I could take your clothes off... and dry you myself." he trails off, realizing how that sounds. A faint blush creeps up his neck, and he quickly clarifies. "I man, your dress. I wish I could dry your dress for you. Hopefully it won't shrink or anything, you know?" His eyes linger on your face, a hint of possessiveness flickering in their ultraviolet depths. He'd do anything to keep you safe, to chase away your discomfort or unhappiness.

You giggle at his sudden awkwardness and reach out to run your hand through his short strands, feeling how soaked his hair got in the storm. He shuts his eyes briefly at the contact and you lower your voice to tell him, "Don't want you to catch a cold." Caleb feels your fingers combing through his hair, your touch sending a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with the strange mixture of hot and cold in the air. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he breathes in the intimate gesture. When your shy whisper hits his ears, he mirrors your concern. He can't help it.

In a moment of non-existent restraint, Caleb grips your wrist, his fingers curling around your delicate bones. He pulls your hand closer. So much closer so that he can press his nose against the soft skin of your inner wrist. He inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of the rain soaked into your body. It's intoxicating, a perfume he could easily become addicted to. Your friend's heart pounds in his chest as he holds onto you, thumb absently stroking you. He can feel the pulse jumping just under the surface as you hesitate to pull away from him and question the intimate, possessive gesture. He nearly speaks of a longing for closeness, for connection, for much more.

Caleb's voice is a low mutter against your skin, his breath ghosting over your flesh. "I don't want you catching a cold either." he admitted, voice rough with need. "You know that you're more important to me than anything else." Before you can respond, Caleb looks up at you with darkened eyes, a hint of something that feels almost dangerous and consuming flickering in his irises.

Your friend's heart races as he gazes into your eyes, seeing his own longing and desire reflected back at him. He has to take a moment to wonder if he's only seeing what he really wants to see though, if you're really not shying away from him before he takes things to far. He's unable to resist you anymore though. He kisses your wrist softly before letting you go and leaning in, closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours in a soft, tender kiss, pouring any pent-up emotions and affection into the gentle press of his mouth against yours.

He can feel how shocked you are immediately, your eyes widening and your dewy body stiffening. You manage to squeak out a small sound of surprise against his lips, a soft 'ah' that sends a jolt of electricity through Caleb. For a heart-stopping moment, he fears that you'll push him away, that you'll reject his advances and shatter the fragile dreams of love that he's always harbored for you.

Miraculously, he feels you melt into his kiss though. Your lips soften beneath his as he dominates you and grips your chin. A tentative hand rises to rest on your chest, your fingers curling into the damp fabric of his shirt. It's a silent acceptance, and an entirely wordless invitation to continue. Your best friend deepens the kiss, his lips moving perfectly against yours with hunger. His free hand comes up to cup your cheek, calloused palm a contrast to the smoothness of your face but the deftness isn't unwelcome. He angles his head, changing the trajectory of the kiss and coaxing your lips to part and allow him entrance to the warm, wet cavern of your mouth.

The rain continues its relentless pounding on the car, the sound a distant pitter-patter that fades into the background as Caleb loses himself in the taste and feel of your tongue, suckling gently at your flavor. The interior of the car fills with the occasional hitch and gasp as the kiss deepens and only grows in heat, in speed, in power. The man hums against your mouth as he tastes the sweetness of your lips, the taste that's purely yours. It's a taste that he can't get enough of and you have a scent that will surely take over all of his dreams. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, not letting you back away from him, anchoring you to him as he explores the silken recesses of your mouth.

Your hands roams over his chest and shoulders, your touch leaving trails of fire in their wake. To him, you seem just as lost in the moment, just as consumed by the passion that has sprung to life between two friends. Your lips move against his, your tongue dancing and twining with his own in a ballet that leaves you both breathless. You can almost hear Caleb's heart thundering in his chest, to a beat that matches the pulsing heat building low in his belly. He wants nothing more than to consume you, devour you whole, make you a part of him in the most intimate way possible. His free hand slides down the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, until he could feel every dip and curve of your body pressed to his hard-earned muscle.

You pull back slightly, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. You lips are kiss-swollen and glistening thanks to him and he doesn't miss the way your eyes go hazy. You look breathtaking, a vision of loveliness that makes Caleb's heart ache with a love he can't force himself to keep hidden anymore.

The world falls away, the rain and the car and everything outside fading into oblivion, somewhere he can send things that don't matter; things that don't have anything to do with you. There's only you. There's only the feel of you, the taste of you, the scent of you. "I'm in love with you." He speaks, never breaking eye contact. And in this moment, Caleb knows that he would do anything, anything at all, to keep you all to himself. To make you his forever. All his.

₊ . ݁˖ ‧ ୨୧ if you enjoyed my content, pls consider reblogging ୨୧ . ݁˖ ‧

[neo-dream]

Shared bliss 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Something that Sylus and your daughter both loved to do was sleep on their stomachs (⁠ ⁠˶⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠˶⁠ ⁠)

— next week: 1k followers special >o<!!

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

After a long mission, your body was heavy with exhaustion, but your heart was simply relieved to be home. The house was quiet, lights dimmed, and you already knew your husband and daughter had long since fallen asleep. After a warm, soothing bath and a change into your sleeping clothes, you padded softly down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door.

There they were.

Sylus and your little girl, sprawled across the bed, both lying on their stomachs in nearly identical positions. The sight tugged at your chest, melting every last ounce of fatigue in you. You and Sylus had been gently encouraging your daughter to get used to her “big girl” room, but clearly, your husband hadn’t been able to resist her nightly pleadings. He always gave in, always made space for her beside him.

With a quiet smile, you slipped into bed beside them. The mattress dipped, and your daughter stirred, blinking sleepily as she pushed herself up just enough to climb onto your chest.

“Mommy…” she mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered, brushing back her messy little curls.

A tiny sigh left her lips as she snuggled into you. “Missed you…”

Your heart clenched at the softness of her words. You kissed the top of her head, holding her gently.

“I missed you too. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

A heartbeat later, Sylus shifted too, his arm sliding around your waist, drawing both you and your daughter into his hold.

You chuckled quietly, your daughter’s tiny snores already filling the space between you. You leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Sylus’s temple. “Go back to sleep, Sy. I’ve got you both now.”

“Mhm… don’t go anywhere,” he muttered, tightening his hold even in his sleep.

And just like that, the three of you sank into the warmth of the night—your little family safe, tangled together, and finally home.

[neo-dream]

REQUEST !!! Oki so imagine this.. baby daddy!Bllk boys scored a goal and their wife reader along with their baby had watched but lil did they know that their baby is about to make their first steps into the field to reach their daddy😭❤

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲”

a/n: THIS IS SO CUTE OMG 😭😭😭

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

isagi scores his goal, and his celebration is pure joy – arms up, face lit with that boyish grin. he always searches the stands for you and the baby, waving like a complete dork while bouncing on his heels. 

he’s mouthing “did you see that?” toward you when the crowd screams louder than before. isagi thinks it’s the replay. maybe his goal looked even cooler in slow-mo. 

but no, the cameras are all panning to a tiny little figure wobbling forward on the green. isagi freezes mid-wave. 

his heart almost stops. “... no way.” he blinks hard, and sure enough, his baby is toddling straight toward him, little arms out like they’re chasing their hero. 

isagi’s instantly tearing up, pointing at them, shouting to his teammates, “they’re walking! they’re walking to me!!” before sprinting full speed across the field. 

he doesn’t even care about the match anymore. scoops the baby up mid-step, spinning them around in his arms. his tears are dripping down his cheeks while he’s laughing so hard his voice cracks. 

he yells up at you in the stands, clutching the baby tight: “LOVE!! THEY WALKED TO ME FIRST!!” 

the crowd melts over the sight of japan’s golden boy crying on the pitch with his baby in his arms. it trends worldwide within the hour. 

when the baby babbles something incoherent, isagi gasps like it was their first word, too. 

itoshi rin

rin scores, as usual – sharp, clinical, no-nonsense. a small fist pump, a calm jog back. to everyone else, it’s just another point. to him, it’s all routine. 

until he hears a collective sound from the crowd that makes his brow furrow. confused, he glances up at you, and your hand is covering your mouth, tears in your eyes. 

then he notices it. a tiny, wobbly body stumbling across the grass. his baby. walking. 

rin literally stops moving. his chest feels like it got punched. in front of tens of thousands, he suddenly looks like a deer in headlights. 

then he kneels. doesn’t even think about it – he just drops down onto the field, arms wide open, eyes locked on the small little steps. 

the baby toddles right into him, and the moment they collapse against his chest, the mask breaks. rin smiles. soft, trembling, so raw that the cameras immediately zoom in. 

he lifts the baby gently, presses his face into their tiny shoulder, and for the first time in his career, he forgets the game completely. 

you’re crying in the stands, and rin looks up at you with this fragile, almost shy grin, mouthing “they walked to me.” 

later in the locker room, teammates tease him about the viral clip. rin pretends to be annoyed, but secretly replays it on his phone over and over. 

itoshi sae

sae barely celebrates his goals – he jogs away with that unreadable expression, ignoring the crowd’s wild cheers. same old routine. 

but this time, the energy shifts. the cheers feel different. sharper. louder. when sae glances up at you, he sees your eyes wide, your hands pointing toward the grass. 

then he sees it. his baby. on their feet. walking. and not just walking, but walking toward him. 

his cool facade cracks immediately. sae blinks, stunned, before slowly sinking to one knee, like he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him steady. 

the baby stumbles right into his chest, and sae catches them with a rare, full-bodied laugh – a sound so soft and unguarded that even his teammates look shocked. 

he presses his forehead to theirs, whispering something only the baby can hear: “you did it, huh? you came to daddy first.” 

the cameras go crazy. the stoic genius, looking absolutely smitten, holding his baby like the whole world just stopped existing. 

then sae stands, baby balanced on his hip like it’s second nature, and casually waves at the crowd like “yeah, what about it?” as if his life wasn’t just changed forever. 

later, he mutters to you, “i’m glad it was me. their first steps… i wanted it to be me.” 

nagi seishiro

nagi scores his goal almost lazily, jogging back while scratching the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather nap. he’s just about to yawn when he hears the stadium erupt. 

he figures they’re just replaying his strike on the big screen, but then he sees it. the tiniest human alive wobbling across the pitch, arms flailing, legs shaky. 

nagi’s mouth falls open. “eh? are they… walking???” 

by the time his slow brain catches up, the baby’s halfway there, determination in every little step. nagi finally drops to his knees, arms open. 

“come on, lil one. almost there… don’t make me move too much, yeah?” he coaxes them like it’s some high-stakes video game level. 

the baby toddles straight into his arms, and nagi scoops them up with a soft “good job, sleepyhead,” collapsing backward onto the grass with them on his chest. 

the crowd is shrieking, the cameras are zoomed in, but nagi doesn’t care. he just strokes the baby’s hair and whispers, “you’re cracked at walking already. must be in the genes.” 

then he falls flat on the ground with the baby still on top of him, refusing to stand until a ref tells him he has to. 

mikage reo

reo thrives on the drama of scoring. he spreads his arms wide, soaking in the spotlight, pointing up at you and the baby in the stands. 

but when the crowd suddenly explodes in a different kind of cheer, reo turns to see his baby wobbling their way across the grass. 

he lets out the loudest gasp known to man. “NO WAY. IS THIS REAL?!” and he’s off, sprinting full-speed toward them like he just got subbed in again. 

he drops to his knees, clapping, coaxing, cheering, “that’s it, angel, come to daddy!!” like it’s the final minute of a match. 

when the baby finally toddles into his arms, reo scoops them up, spinning dramatically until both of them are dizzy. “THEY WALKED TO ME!! FIRST STEPS!! WITNESSES, ALL OF YOU!!” 

he points at the commentators’ booth, screaming, “SAY IT!! PUT IT IN THE RECORDS!!” and sure enough, the highlight reel later includes “reo’s baby’s debut.” 

he spends the rest of the match bragging – half to you, half to the crowd – that his baby’s a natural athlete. “must be the mikage genes, babe. they’re born to shine.” 

you’ll never hear the end of it. 

shidou ryusei

shidou’s fresh off scoring his trademark ridiculous goal – sliding across the grass on his knees, arms out, screaming like a banshee. the crowd’s already wild, but then he hears a different kind of scream ripple through the stadium. 

he turns and spots a tiny little body wobbling toward him on two legs for the very first time. his baby. taking steps. right into the chaos. 

shidou instantly loses it. “OH HO?? LOOK AT MY LITTLE MONSTER!!” his grin is sharp and huge, teeth bared, like he just won ten championships. 

he flops down flat on the grass, chest pressed to the ground, arms open like a lunatic goalie. “COME ON, TINY DEMON!! DADDY’S HERE!!” 

the baby waddles and stumbles, but with shidou’s insane cheering (“YESSS, THAT’S IT, LITTLE KILLER!!”), they manage to toddle straight into him. 

shidou screams like he just got the winning shot, rolling across the grass with the baby in his arms. “YOU SEE THAT?! FIRST STEPS ON THE PITCH, BABY!! BORN LEGEND!!” 

the crowd can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, but the cameras catch everything: the unhinged striker kissing his baby’s cheeks and holding them up like a trophy. 

afterward, he proudly brags to you, “they walked to me first. obviously. who else would they pick, huh?” 

karasu tabito

karasu’s always a bit of a showman – after his goal, he points straight at you in the stands with that cocky grin, mouthing, “that was for ya.” 

but then he notices the crowd’s noise shift. sharper, higher-pitched squeals. he follows the pointing hands, and his jaw drops. 

his baby is wobbling across the pitch like they’ve been training for this. legs shaky, arms out, determination in their little face. 

karasu bursts out laughing, crouching down and clapping loudly. “ohh, let’s go, little crow!! that’s it! one foot in front of the other, atta baby!!” 

he coaxes them step by step, clapping his hands, calling their name, until the baby stumbles right into his chest. the crowd erupts like another goal was scored. 

karasu scoops them up, spins them once, then dramatically bows to the stands, holding the baby high like he just won an award. “thank ya, thank ya, my kid’s debut performance!” 

he looks up at you with a grin and shouts, “guess they like me better, huh?” though his voice wobbles because he’s fighting back happy tears. 

that clip of him kneeling on the pitch, baby in his arms, laughing with his head thrown back – yeah, it goes viral instantly. 

kaiser michael

kaiser scores, and his celebration is smug perfection – blowing kisses to the crowd, tapping the crest on his chest, soaking in his spotlight. he’s thriving in his element. 

until his spotlight gets stolen. the crowd roars, but it’s not for him anymore – it’s for a tiny little person stumbling onto the pitch. his baby. walking. 

kaiser’s smirk drops completely. his breath catches as he sees those little arms reaching for him. “mein gott…” he mutters, instantly melting. 

he kneels down right there in the middle of the pitch, ignoring his teammates, ignoring the cameras, waiting with his arms wide. “komm her, liebling. come to papa.” 

when the baby toddles into his chest, kaiser sweeps them up and spins dramatically like it’s the most romantic movie scene in history. his grin is so big and real that the entire stadium gasps. 

you’re bawling in the stands, and kaiser looks right up at you, holding the baby high in the air like a prize. then he mouths, “they chose me first.” 

the commentators go insane. social media trends with clips of “kaiser michael’s realest moment,” comparing it to a fairy tale. 

later, he tells you quietly, “i’ve scored a lot of goals, liebe. but that – seeing them walk to me – that’s my best win.” 

ness alexis

ness is already tearing up a little from kaiser’s goal (as usual), clapping, running up behind him, when suddenly, the crowd noise shifts. his heart skips a beat. 

he turns and sees his baby, his baby, waddling their way onto the grass for the very first time. 

ness lets out the softest, most high-pitched squeal, covering his mouth with both hands before rushing forward. “oh my goodness!! look at you!! you’re walking!!” 

he kneels down, arms wide, practically crying already as he coaxes the baby forward with soft little “come on, papa’s here, you can do it.” 

when the baby toddles into his chest, ness breaks instantly. he sobs, clutching them close, kissing their cheeks a hundred times, whispering “ich liebe dich.” 

the cameras zoom in on his face, red and blotchy from crying, but the crowd loves it. commentators are like, “ladies and gentlemen, ness is officially the proudest dad alive.” 

afterward, he won’t stop telling you how perfect it was. “they walked to me. they really did it. i was their first.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[neo-dream]

you refuse to kiss sae after he got kissed by a fan

you hadn’t said a word on the drive home. sae noticed. he noticed the way your arms were crossed, the way you stared out the window even when he rested a hand on your thigh. the clip had been everywhere: some overeager fan leaning in, pressing her lips against his cheek, and way too close to his lips, before security dragged her away. it wasn’t his fault, but the image still burned in your head.

by the time you were back in his apartment, you were quiet enough to make him twitch. sae hated guessing games and he hated being ignored even more. “you’re mad about that?” he asked, voice flat as he herded you toward the bedroom. “i didn’t move. i didn’t even look at her.”

you hummed. not exactly agreeing, not forgiving and that set him off. one shove and you were on the mattress, shirt ripped over your head before you could protest. sae’s mouth was hot and demanding against your neck, but every time he angled up for a kiss, you turned your face away.

the first time, he let it slide. the second time, his eyes narrowed. the third time, his patience shattered.

“stop fucking playing with me.” his voice was a growl against your ear as he yanked your shorts down, shoving his sweats low enough to free his angry flushed cock. “you’re mad at me for something i didn’t even do? fine. be mad. but you don’t get to pull this shit with me.”

he was already leaking when he slid into your cunt without warning, without buildup, making you gasp at the stretch. sae didn’t give you time to adjust. his thrusts started deep and sharp, controlled only by his own temper. you clawed at his shoulders, head tipping back, but when his lips brushed yours again, you still refused him.

“don’t.” thrust. “look.” thrust. “away from me.” thrust.

his hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. sweat beaded on his forehead, his usual calm gone, replaced by a raw edge of frustration and need. “kiss me,” he ordered, breath ragged. you clenched stubbornly around him and looked anywhere but his face. sae snapped.

the pace went brutal, hips slamming into you hard enough to rattle the headboard. his flushed crown bullied your cervix with every thrust, making you see stars. he leaned down until there was nowhere for you to turn, his lips hovering over yours teasingly, not letting you escape.

“i said kiss me.”

when you finally broke, dragging him down into a messy, teeth-clashing kiss, sae groaned like it was the first breath he’d taken all night. his tongue pushed deep, swallowing every sound you made until you were gasping and drooling against his mouth.

“yeah,” he panted against your lips, hips grinding in deep, “that’s mine. no one else. remember it.”

you came hard, shaking around him, but sae didn’t stop. even after you collapsed back onto the sheets, he hauled you into his lap, still buried inside you. his mouth stayed glued to yours, stealing breath after breath as he bounced you on his cock, forcing more broken moans into his mouth.

“not done,” he muttered darkly when you whimpered, trying to pull back. “you’re gonna sit here and kiss me ‘til i say we’re finished.”

you did. dizzy, fucked-out, lips swollen and wet while sae rutted into you, each thrust punctuated by another bruising kiss as if he could scrub the memory of anyone else ever touching him right out of your head.

[neo-dream]

BUILT BY LOVE

PAIRING : damian wayne x fem!reader

ONESHOT: damian kept his marriage to you a secret, until one of his brothers just happened to intrude

      Nights were softer when Damian wasn’t on patrol.

     The kind of soft that wrapped around you like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. You were curled into his chest on the couch, half-lost in a book and fully immersed in domestic bliss. Time didn’t seem to exist when he was home. Hours slipped past like lazy clouds. And honestly? You weren’t complaining.

     His breathing slowed as you read aloud, voice low and steady, the room lit only by the fire’s gentle glow. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and calm, as if your presence alone was enough to make the most high-strung man you’ve ever met relax.

     “Damian?” you asked, finishing the chapter and peeking up at him.

    One eye cracked open slowly, dark lashes catching firelight. “Hm?”

     That single syllable rumbled through his chest, warm and low, and way too effective for how little effort it took.

     You smiled. “I’m gonna make some tea. You mind putting on a movie?”

     You started to move, but he tugged you back with a single arm, just long enough to kiss your shoulder, soft and brief.

     “Of course, hayati.”

     The book was abandoned on the coffee table as you padded toward the kitchen, the fire crackling behind you like background music. The dim living room gave way to the aggressively bright kitchen lights, and your eyes squinted against the sudden change. Still, you moved easily, muscle memory guiding your steps through cabinets he’d made sure were filled with all your favorites.

     Your kitchen was perfect. Your house was perfect. Your house together. Every inch of it had your touch, and every corner had been molded by love, arguments about tile, and midnight dance parties. He had made sure of it. This was the dream, and he had helped build it.

     Which is why, when the kitchen window creaked open behind the curtain, your entire body tensed like someone had just dropped ice down your shirt.

     You grabbed the nearest knife— because it’s Gotham in the end— and turned toward the sound.

    “Hey, Dami! Sorry to just barge in—” said a voice you didn’t recognize yet somehow knew. The uniform was dark. Familiar. Definitely not Damian.

     The man stepped through the open window like that was a normal thing to do, holding his side like something had clawed through him. “I forgot how sharp Croc’s nails are. I could use a little patch—”

     He stopped. You both stared.

     “You’re not Damian.”

     “Hi?” you offered, knife still in hand, voice halfway between polite and ‘I will absolutely stab you.’

     You knew who he was. Of course you did. You’d seen photos. Damian didn’t hide his family— just… kept them far away. Far, far away. Far enough that they couldn’t reach you. Or know about you. He had insisted on a small, private wedding outside Gotham. No invitations. No interruptions. No Bat-family drama.

     So seeing him, here, in your kitchen? It was like seeing a ghost.

     “Beloved?” Damian’s voice came from the hallway, smooth and casual, but with that edge that only came when something felt off. “I heard a commotion. Is everything alright?”

     You barely had time to answer before he appeared, gaze moving from you, knife in hand, to the man across the kitchen.

     The man who looked way too much like him.

     His entire body changed. Shoulders squared. Smile gone. Arms crossed. His expression turned into something cold and sharp. Something you hadn’t seen directed at anyone but enemies.

     “Grayson.”

     Oh.

      “Whoa,” Dick said, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Damian, you got a girlfriend and didn’t tell anyone?”

      “Leave,” Damian said flatly.

      “Seriously? That’s how you’re gonna play this?” Dick blinked. “Dude, who is she?”

     “Wife, actually,” you said, because someone had to say it. “But hey, great to meet you too.”

     Dick froze. “Wife?”

     “Surprise!” you offered, stepping forward and placing the knife gently on the counter like a hostage negotiator. “You must be Dick.” 

     “I… yeah. And I’ve never heard a word about you.”

     There was a pause, long enough for the tension to stretch the air between you like rubber. You could hear the faint static of a comm in his ear before he brought a hand up to respond.

     “I’m alive,” he said, then added, “Ran into Killer Croc. Also apparently just met Little Robin’s wife. Sorry, what was your name again? Oh— wait— never mind, Dami never even told us he got married.”

     You looked at Damian, whose jaw was so tight you could probably use it to cut glass.

     “You didn’t need to know,” he muttered, but he stepped beside you anyway, hand finding your waist on instinct. Not his usual spot, no chin on your shoulder, no soft kiss to your cheek. But a protective, possessive grip that told you everything.

     “They’re going to show up, you know,” you whispered, leaning slightly into him.

     “I know,” he whispered back, tone grim. “They’re already on their way.”

    You sighed. “Guess I’ll make more tea.”

     Damian didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the open window, on the man still standing there like a shadow from another life. But his hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like a silent promise.

     You smiled at him. A quiet, but warm smile. The kind of smile that made Damian finally relax again, just enough to lean in and press a kiss to the top of your head. It wasn’t overly affectionate, it never was. But it was grounding. A silent “I’m here”.

     “Let them come,” he said quietly. “They’ll learn this is home now. And you are everything worth protecting.”

    And just like that, the storm on the horizon didn’t seem so loud.

REQUEST, from anon...

taglist : @6000-fandoms

masterlist

[neo-dream]

never leaving

abt: u prank them by trying to break up with them but it doesnt go the way it was planned ^.^ heavily inspired by @shackled-dreams i lov ur smaus so bad

warnings: they're a bit crazy, heavy yandere themes, they're jus unstable rlly, PLEASE dont read if you're uncomfy by these things!!

minors dni

[neo-dream]

Headcanons

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ PAIRING: Caleb x You

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ GENRE: fluff, humor, dork!Caleb, mild hurt/comfort

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ WORD COUNT: 3,400

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ AO3 ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

He fidgets. Caleb would never admit it, but when he’s thinking, his hands find something to toy with, whether it's your sleeve hem, the strap of his gloves, the edge of your scarf. It’s absentminded but it keeps him grounded.

You were scrolling through your datapad when you felt it: a gentle tug at your sleeve. You glanced down. Caleb’s fingers were hooked on the hem, twisting it like he was trying to wring water from the fabric. “Caleb,” you said. “Hm?” His eyes didn’t leave the schematics in front of him. “You’re… pulling my sleeve.” He blinked, looked down, then released the fabric. “Sorry, pips. Didn’t notice.” You raised an eyebrow. He offered a small, crooked smile before his attention drifted back to the schematics. His fingers twitched once against the table, searching for something else to toy with.

He walks slower when you’re around. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it, adjusting his stride so you’re in step with him, making sure you never have to hurry to keep up.

It hit you while walking down the street. Caleb was walking beside you, hands in his pockets, gaze straight ahead. Nothing unusual—except suddenly you realized you weren’t struggling to keep up. You never had been. You slowed a step, testing it. He slowed too, effortlessly, without even looking at you. When you quickened again, his stride matched yours in perfect rhythm. You stopped dead on the sidewalk. “Wait.” He glanced back. “Huh?” “You’ve… you’ve always walked in step with me.” Caleb tilted his head, like he didn’t see the point of the observation. “Is that strange?” “You’ve got legs twice the length of mine. You should be halfway down the block by now.” A faint crease appeared between his brows, then the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. He shrugged, starting forward again. “If I have, I don’t notice it.” Then, after a beat, softer: “Feels natural.” And just like that, he was walking beside you again, perfectly in step.

He keeps one of your texts pinned. Just one. You don’t know which, but on the heavier days, he finds himself scrolling back to it without even thinking.

Some days weighed heavier than others. The kind where silence pressed in too tight, where every sound reminded him of things he’d rather forget. On those days, Caleb found himself unlocking his phone without really thinking about it. His thumb moved with muscle memory, swiping, scrolling, tapping—until it landed on the same place every time. Your message. The one he’d pinned. He never lingered on the words for long, just enough for his chest to loosen a fraction, for his jaw to unclench. There was something comforting about it, like a hand on his shoulder, a reminder that he hadn’t imagined you, that there was something outside of the noise. He didn’t know why it was this message, not the others. It was just… the one that always made the air feel a little less heavy. Caleb locked the screen again, slipping the phone back into his pocket. His shoulders felt lighter. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He tells the worst puns with a straight face. You groan, he smirks, and then, just when you’ve moved on, he repeats it to watch you suffer all over again.

You were halfway through dinner when he struck. “Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?” Caleb asked casually while stabbing a piece of food. You gave him a wary look. “…No.” “Great food,” he said, deadpan. “No atmosphere.” You groaned loud enough for the whole block to hear. “Caleb.” He smirked, satisfied, and went back to eating like nothing happened. You shook your head, determined to let it go. Ten minutes later, just as you were sipping your drink, he spoke again. “Shame about the moon place.” You closed your eyes. “Don’t—” He leaned back, face perfectly straight. “Food’s great. No atmosphere.” You set your glass down with a thud. “I hate you.” He smiled wider, not even pretending to be sorry. “Copy that.”

He makes sound effects when he’s fixing things. Little “pew pew” or “click” noises under his breath.

You were curled up with a book on the couch while Caleb worked on the loose wiring by the wall. He had his toolkit spread out in neat rows, movements efficient, precise. And then, under his breath, you heard it: “click… bzzt… pew.” Your eyes flicked up from the page. He didn’t notice, he was too focused, brows drawn as he twisted something into place. Another soft sound followed. “Chk… chk… fffssht.” You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile. He wasn’t doing it for you; he probably didn’t even realize he was doing it at all. Each tiny noise seemed as automatic as breathing, slipping out in time with his hands. You went back to your book, though the words blurred a little. The quiet rhythm of Caleb’s makeshift sound effects was far more entertaining than anything on the page. And you didn’t say a word.

He always faces the door. In cafés or briefing rooms, Caleb somehow ends up in the seat with a clear view of the entrance. It’s instinct, sure, but you’ve noticed he settles a little easier when you’re in his line of sight too.

You were mid-rant about the latest twist in your favorite series when Caleb dropped into the seat beside you, coffee in hand. He didn’t interrupt, just leaned back, posture loose. To anyone else, he looked like a man on break. But you noticed the way his eyes flicked past you every so often, tracking the door, the barista, the two new customers who’d just come in. You kept going, hands flying as you talked. He hummed here and there, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth as you got more animated. His attention wandered the room, sure, but it always found its way back to you, like it couldn’t help itself. When you finally stopped to breathe, the sugar jar was already sliding across the table toward you, nudged there by his hand without a glance.

He’s always up before you, but he never leaves the bed cold. If he has to slip out early, he’ll tuck the blanket snug around you, leaving just enough warmth behind so you hardly notice he’s gone.

The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The blankets were tucked snug around your shoulders, holding off the early chill. For a moment, it almost felt like Caleb was still there, his heat lingering in the sheets. Sleepily, you reached across the bed, fingers brushing against empty space. He was already gone. But the bed wasn’t cold, he’d made sure of that, wrapping you in what he left behind so you wouldn’t feel his absence too sharply. The thought made you smile into the pillow. Caleb always worried, even about little things like you waking up alone to a cold bed. With a quiet sigh, you pulled the blanket closer and let the trace of his warmth ease you back into sleep.

He double-knots everything. His boots, his bag straps, even your scarf if you let him tie it for you.

You tugged at your scarf for the third time, but the knot refused to budge. “Caleb,” you groaned, turning to glare at him across the room. “What is this? Did you tie my scarf with military-grade rope?” He didn’t even look up from lacing his boots. “Double-knot,” he said simply, like that explained everything. “Yes, I can see that. The problem is now I’m suffocating in wool, and I may die here on this very floor.” Caleb stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “At least you’ll be warm.” You flailed uselessly at the scarf. “This is sabotage.” He finally glanced at you, smirking faintly. “If you wanted me close enough to untie it for you, you could’ve just said so.”

He makes terrible “mission names” for chores. Taking out the trash? “Operation Disposal is underway.” Laundry? “Codename: Clean Sweep.” And he always commits to the bit.

You were curled up on the couch when Caleb appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled up and a dead-serious look on his face. “Operation Suds Strike commences at 0900 hours,” he announced, holding up the laundry basket. You blinked at him. “You mean… you’re doing the wash?” “Affirmative.” He shifted the basket to one arm so he could give you a crisp little salute. You snorted. “Do I even want to know what you’ve named taking out the trash?” “Operation Disposal.” He didn’t even hesitate. “And dinner?” “Codename: Hot Zone.” You groaned into a pillow. “Why do you commit so hard to this?” He was already marching toward the laundry room. “Because, Adjutant, morale is critical. And if I fall in the line of duty, know that my sacrifice was not in vain.” There was the slam of the washing machine lid, followed by a triumphant: “Clean Sweep has begun.”

He says “copy that” in everyday conversations. Tell him dinner’s ready and he’ll respond like he’s on comms. Sometimes he even taps an earpiece that isn’t there.

You leaned against the kitchen doorway. “Dinner’s ready.” Caleb didn’t look up from the plane model in his hands. He just tapped the side of his head like he was wearing comms. “Copy that.” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not even wearing an earpiece.” “Doesn’t matter,” he said, perfectly straight-faced. “HQ still needs to know I got the spaghetti briefing.” You snorted, turning back toward the table before he could see you smile. “One day, I’m not serving you until you answer like a normal person.” Behind you, his voice dropped into a clipped, mock-radio tone: “Negative, command. Civilian morale depends on carb intake. Prioritizing spaghetti. Over.” You groaned, but his laugh chased you all the way to the table.

He pretends to “scan the perimeter” for snacks. Opens the cupboard, peeks left and right, then reports: “Area secure. Chips acquired.”

You were perched on the couch, halfway through your third cup of tea, when Caleb slipped into the kitchen. He crouched dramatically by the cupboard, eyes darting left and right. You raised an eyebrow. “Scanning the perimeter,” he murmured, voice low and serious. Then, without breaking character, he yanked open the cupboard door. “Area secure,” he announced, holding up a bag of chips like it was a hard-won trophy. “Chips acquired.” You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “You do realize these are just chips, right?” He straightened, lifting the bag higher. “Every mission counts.” “Even snack missions?” “Especially snack missions,” he said, perfectly deadpan, before striding back into the living room like a soldier returning from battle.

He hums without realizing. Not a tune you recognize, just a sound that slips out when he’s cooking or tinkering with something.

You leaned against the counter, scrolling through your datapad, when a low hum drifted from the kitchen. Caleb stood at the stove, carefully stirring something in the pan, completely absorbed. The hum was steady, tuneless, a little offbeat. You paused, listening. It wasn’t a song you knew. He didn’t seem aware you were watching. His attention was on the pan, the stir, the tiny adjustments he made to get everything just right. The hum came naturally, quietly filling the space around him. After a moment, you smiled and went back to your datapad. It was comforting—like the world had narrowed down to him, the stove, and that soft, humming rhythm that made everything feel a little more like home.

He keeps your favorite snacks stocked. Nothing showy, just quietly replenished whenever they run low, as if it’s second nature.

He crouched in front of the cupboard, glancing over the shelves. The granola bars were running low. Not empty, just low. He slid a fresh box to the front so it would be easy to grab. Then he eyed the chips—half-empty—and tucked a new bag behind the others, just far enough that it wouldn’t be obvious he’d restocked them, but close enough for you to reach without thinking. It wasn’t about showing off. He didn’t do it for thanks. It was just… habit. You liked these things. Always had. And if he could make a small corner of the world a little easier for you, why wouldn’t he? He stood, brushing his hands quietly. Whether you noticed or not didn’t matter. The satisfaction came from knowing you were taken care of.

He makes tea when you can’t sleep. No questions, no fuss—just a warm mug in your hands and his quiet presence until you start to relax.

You sat up on the bed, shifting under the blankets, wide awake. You weren’t sure how long you’d been staring at the ceiling before the soft sound of the door opening made you look up. Caleb stood there, a steaming cup of tea in hand. Without a word, he slid onto the bed beside you, careful not to crowd your space. He draped an arm over your shoulders, warm and steady, and pressed the mug into your hands. You held it between your palms, feeling the heat seep through, while he rested his head lightly against yours. No words were needed. When you finished the tea, you set the mug on the bedside table. Caleb shifted closer under the blanket, pulling you both snug in its warmth. Your shoulders relaxed, your breathing slowed. When your eyelids finally grew heavy, he tightened his arm just slightly, a quiet promise without a single word.

His hair always sticks up in the back in the mornings. No matter what he does, it refuses to lie flat. Sometimes you suspect he leaves it that way on purpose, just so you’ll fix it for him.

You padded into the kitchen, still half-asleep, only to stop short at the sight before you. Caleb sat at the table, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other, looking far too well-put together for so early in the morning. If you ignored the stubborn tuft of hair sticking straight up in the back like it had launched itself into orbit overnight. A laugh bubbled out before you could stop it. “You know you’ve got a whole… situation going on back there, right?” He didn’t look up from his paper, just said, perfectly straight-faced, “It’s a style choice. Ahead of its time.” You rolled your eyes and stepped behind him, smoothing a hand over the mess. It bounced right back up again. He finally glanced at you, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Told you. Untamable.” “Mm-hm,” you murmured, wetting your fingers before trying again. This time, when you brushed through his hair, he leaned back ever so slightly, eyes slipping shut, a quiet sigh escaping him. You narrowed your eyes. “You totally did this on purpose.” He only hummed, not even bothering to deny it, clearly enjoying the attention. Like a smug puppy that knew exactly what it was doing. When you finally wrangled the rogue tuft into submission, he cracked one eye open and gave you a soft, satisfied, “Thanks.” And just like that, the irritation melted into something warm, leaving you wondering why you’d even been annoyed in the first place.

He’s annoyingly good at catching things. Toss something at him without warning and he’ll snag it one-handed without looking. You swear he’s using his Evol, but you can’t prove it.

You chucked the TV remote at him without warning, ready to watch it smack into his shoulder. Caleb didn’t even glance up from his book—just lifted a hand and snagged it out of the air like it was nothing. He tapped the volume up a notch, then set it back on the table. You squinted at him. “Nope. That’s not normal. You’re using your Evol.” He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “For a remote? That’s the conspiracy you’re going with?” “Yes. Normal people don’t have reflexes like that.” The corner of his mouth tugged up as he turned another page. “Or maybe you’re just terrible at throwing.” Your hand closed around the nearest object—an apple. You launched it at his head. His hand darted up, snatching it without a glance. He set the apple neatly beside him, still reading. You gawked. “You didn’t even look.” “Mm.” He finally slid his gaze up to yours, eyes glinting. “Jealousy looks good on you.” You crossed your arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Keep laughing. One day, I’m gonna catch you off guard.” A quiet laugh slipped out of him. “Can't wait to see you try.”

He messes with gravity just enough to be a menace. If you’re reaching for something high, he’ll “help” by making it hover just out of reach. When you glare, he’ll look perfectly innocent: “Strange. Must be faulty gravity.”

You stretched onto your toes, fingers brushing the box on the top shelf.... and it floated higher. “Caleb!” you barked, swatting at thin air. From the counter, he sipped his coffee like nothing was happening. “Weird. Gravity must be faulty again.” “Gravity can't get faulty!” you snapped, hopping now, swiping at the air while the box hovered like it was taunting you. He hummed thoughtfully, eyes on his mug. “You sure? Looks pretty faulty from here.” “You’re faulty,” you shot back, making one last desperate leap and smacking straight into his chest. Strong arms caught you before you could stumble. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt, the steady rise of his chest against your cheek making you feel both safe and a little dizzy. Somehow, the box had conveniently drifted into his free hand. He dangled it just overhead, lips curving into a smug little smile. “Problem solved,” he said, finally lowering it into your arms. You glared, cheeks heating. “You’re the worst.” “Funny,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath brushed your ear. His eyes found yours, darker now, before dipping briefly to your mouth. “You always end up in my arms anyway.” Your pulse stuttered. He didn’t need to say it, he’d just scored another quiet victory. Caleb, 1–0.

He does finger guns. Not ironically. He genuinely thinks it’s funny. Worse, sometimes he pairs them with his gravity powers to make objects float dramatically.

You rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead. Caleb was standing by the fridge, eyebrows drawn in fierce concentration. His hands snapped into finger guns, pew pew noises included. Every cabinet door hung open. “…What exactly am I witnessing?” you asked slowly. “Training exercise,” he said gravely, firing a shot at the sugar tin. It floated across the room and landed with a clink on the counter. You blinked. “Training for what? Embarrassment?”

He has no poker face for food. If something’s too spicy or too sour, it shows but he’ll finish it anyway, stubborn to the end.

You’d worked on the dish all afternoon, humming with quiet satisfaction as you set the plate in front of him. “Surprise. I cooked for once.” Caleb’s brows lifted. “Did you now?” He picked up his fork with the caution of a man defusing bombs. “Smells… interesting.” You squinted. “That better be a compliment.” He didn’t answer, just took a bite. And that’s when it happened. His entire face went through a tragic, silent transformation: surprise, pain, determination. A faint sheen of sweat broke across his brow. His jaw worked like he was chewing molten lava. “…That bad?” you asked carefully. He swallowed, hard. “No. Bold. Very bold. Like being kissed by the sun.” His voice was strangled. Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, it’s too spicy, isn’t it?” He shook his head quickly, stabbing at another bite. “I’m fine.” His left eye twitched. “Totally fine.” “Caleb—” He cut you off by shoveling more into his mouth, expression caught between agony and sheer pride. “Delicious.” He wheezed. “So much… flavor.” You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh. “You don’t have to finish it, you know.” He leveled a watery-eyed glare at you. “Yes. I do.” And he did. Every single agonizing bite. By the time the plate was clean, his cheeks were flushed, hair damp, and his voice came out hoarse. “Best meal of my life.” You raised a brow. “Mm-hm. Want me to get ice cream before you spontaneously combust?” His voice cracked, betraying him at last. “Please.”

[neo-dream]

HIGC: Nanami’s Game

ᯓ✦: satoru, suguru, nanami, haibara, shoko, utahime

note: everyone finds out about the girl crushing on nanami ! nanami continues to conceal his feelings for reader. pre-relationship with suguru

warnings: cursing, kys jokes, immature gojo, f!reader

I BLOCK MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS

[neo-dream]

fever dreamt echoes

— Sylus's instincts flare when you are ill, needing to nurse you back to health, whatever it takes... he fails to notice that his boys have his instincts too.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: a sickie fic that took my left shoe and ran away fr me. what was supposed to be the fam nursing mama to health becomes a deepdive into Sylus's oversights as a father. phew. enjoys! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: lucian and kyros are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. 2 turning 3 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, mild angst, comfort. sick!reader, husband!sylus, dragon babies just wanna see mama tw: imagery of illness/migraine symptoms, vomiting, (past) emotional trauma

Sylus’s hackles rise at the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut at noon. 

Lucian and Kyros, positioned on their bellies on the carpet by his feet, pause their coloring with a curious glance. Turning their heads to the sound, they rise to go see who it is. But before they could rush off, Sylus holds them steady with his evol and strides ahead of them. 

The big twins were out of town on a mission he’d expected to take a week longer. 

You are supposed to be at work. You’d left early that morning. In a panic, having risen a few hours too close to the time you’re expected at the Association. Kicking him by accident when you wrestled against the comfort of your warm duvet. 

He had no fight against you wriggling out of his persistent hold, no matter how much he whined at your absence, and was forced to accept the hasty kiss you plant on his lips before rushing out of the bedroom. You promised to be home by dinner.

He had half a mind to go after you and pull you back for his own selfish reasons, but his boys waddled into the bedroom to take your space and curl up against him. Cementing him in a warm pile of baby fat and the scent of blueberries. 

Anyway, you’d said dinner.

So it was a surprise to him to see you at the door just before lunch. Toeing your shoes off, your coat half off your shoulder and your workbag dangling in your loose grip. You meet his gaze from the wall you lean against for extra support, and offer him a smile that lacks it usual depth. 

He clocks it immediately. Zooming in on the details of your features like a machine built to know you. The sheen of sweat on your brow, the heavy droop of your eyelids, the paleness of your lips. It was as if something inside you had made itself at home where it was not welcome. 

Black and red tendrils dissipate from pudgy bellies when his sons start to complain at not being able to reach you. 

He confirms your condition in the way you squeeze your eyes shut briefly at the excited squealing and tittering of your children. The usual melodies feeling like a clap of thunder in your skull.

Sylus is able to move only an inch towards you. And you are already shaking your head and mouthing his least favorite words. “I’m fine.”

Your arms are cooked pasta around Lucian’s waist. Your knees trembling rocks holding back a landslide as you lift him to your height. You are reluctant to reduce the support and give Kyros your other hand as he guides you in the living room. 

All the while Sylus stands at the ready to lighten the load he worries you refuse to lend him. 

The smell of your living room is a balm to your aching sinuses, clean linen and fresh citrus blossoms. The warmth of the filtered sun through the windows is a live wire through your shivering bones. And the heat of your husband’s body as he slots himself between you and the corner of the couch is exactly what your numb skin has longed for the entire morning. 

“Go upstairs.” he whispers in your ear. Unkempt hair in your eyes, features taut and tired— he suffers at the look of you. Lends you his strength to tidy you up with featherlike touches.

Your neck twinges when you shake your head. 

“Boys.” you reason, pressing the weight of Lucian closer to your chest as he talks about his new doctor’s tool kit toy. 

Kyros’s hand had made its way beneath your sweater and onto the skin of your belly, rubbing circles gently. For his own sensory need, unknowing how helpful it is for you too. 

Sylus understands, but frowns in disapproval anyway. “Beloved…” 

“Mama, hot.” Kyros murmurs, continuing his gentle ministrations. “Otch! Hot.” 

“Oh no.” Lucian adds too, unintentionally slapping his hands on either sides of your face a touch too hard, making you wince. Sylus doesn’t mean to scowl, but he does. “Mama, tick?” 

“Gentle, please.” their father almost begs, peeling the tiny hands that squish your skin off. You sigh gratefully at him, your skin beginning to feel uncomfortably tender. 

“No—no tick, pease.” says Kyros, climbing up the cushions to get up close to your face. Sylus is quick to intercept his hand, mold his against the little one silently, to guide gentle combs through tendrils of your hair. “Mama, well.” 

“Just a little dizzy, baby.” you reassure him— but the hypo-nasality of your voice and the light pop! from the top of your spine does little to your case. 

Your family’s face remain unchanged—frowning in worry, staring in concern. 

You swallow. The back of your throat feels dry no matter how many times you do so. Only Sylus can see the strain on your face and he’s digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from overreacting. 

Instinct tells him to switch on survival mode. As if you’d come home with a bullet wound or a broken leg. His muscles itch to take you away, hoard you, encase you in a bubble of safety until you feel better once more. Claiming it his single-handed responsibility to nurse you back to health. 

He’d done it before. Confident to a fault, he’ll do it again.

Lucian protests when Sylus lifts him out of your arms, while Kyros frowns at him in confusion. To placate their watery eyes and erupting sobs, he quickly says, “Go show mama your drawings.” 

Their mind shifts. Papa is suddenly correct, and they rush off to collect the loose leaves of doodle-pressed papers scattered around the room. Lucian also hops off to retrieve his doctor set. 

Buying Sylus the time and space to draw you near his orbit and cage you in his embrace. 

“I’m fine, really.” is what you say and it drives him mad. He’d puff a cloud of smoke through his nostrils in another life with the way he scoffs. 

He is calmed by the way you curl against him anyway; your clammy back to his middle, your heated forehead against the curve of his neck. You are driftwood in a raging stream with the tightness at which hangs on to you.

“I don’t appreciate it when you lie to me,” he says slowly. Not understanding why you insist on still acting tough. “Even if you mean well.” 

Sylus sighs, “Haven’t we agreed? You can lean on me.” 

His sentiment contests your fever as it melts your heart twice as fast. You run your fingers along the blunt stubble on his chin. “I know. I am.” 

But you aren’t in the mood to get scolded. Not when every breath is like shards of glass through your mouth, your nostrils are vestigial and your brain pounds behind your heated eyes. 

You sigh, your gaze trailing after your scampering children. “Don’t scare them.” 

Hardened by experience, the rational side of Sylus’s brain knows you are fine in the grand scheme of things. With a paracetamol, a good sleep and hydration, you’ll be back on your feet at a normal temperature in no time.

But the side of him that feels— the one you bring out with little to no effort— it aches at the sight of you still fighting against your already protesting body. It makes him calloused to anything else that doesn’t involve benefitting you.

So, intentions far from ill but single-minded, he grumbles. “They should know.”

And ever patient you, with a heart so big and generous, push back. “But they don’t. Not yet.” 

You take his hand. He frowns at your searing touch. A kiss is pressed onto his knuckles and he is ice beneath it at your request. “Gentle.” 

One breath through his nose is sighed out his mouth and he nods. Gentle. 

He doesn’t let you go when the boys return. Subtly keeping them from climbing back onto you as they present their scribbles with calculated stretches of his limbs coming in between you and them. 

The boys are none the wiser.

They flit around you like humming birds wearing white coats. Lucian has the plastic heart-shaped stethoscope plugged to his ears. Kyros holds a baby-blue otoscope he insists is a hammer.

They ping-pong from being art curators and doctors. One talks about his drawing, while the other assesses your condition with a plastic medical tool. 

“Dis ‘Pisto with hat.” Says Kyros, as Lucian bends over Sylus’s arm barrier to stick his stethoscope on your chest. 

When Kyros is knocking your knee with the otoscope-hammer, Lucian narrates, “Dis mama, dis papa, dis Wookie and Kee-wan. And ‘Pisto have shoes. And Kee-wo and me—Woosian have cotton candy.” 

The little ones show you their interpretations of the world through whorls and zigzags of color. When you try to listen closely and your mind doesn’t drift off, you catch that Kyros has drawn a field of flowers he sees in his dreams, and Lucian’s new fascination on distant planets. And that your temperature is “three-six” on the plastic thermometer, and you get a shot of “coffee” on your shoulder. 

But you can only do so much. Powerless, thanks to Sylus’s weight on your arms and his lulling scent in your nose; beckoning like home, like rest. 

Soon, your eyes droop and your head bobs back onto Sylus’s shoulder. Just as Lucian is telling you of the beach and Kyros is explaining how m’s can look like birds. 

Sylus seizes their attempts at waking you back to attention with a look, which they take positively. With understanding nods, mouths rounded in quiet “oh…”s, they step away from poking you back awake.

Little fingers are raised to little lips and they murmur shushes and lovely things in your silence. And later, they tail after their father like minnows in a stream when he lifts you down the hallway and carries you to bed. 

-

Kyros knows what papa is saying is important. He knows also, that whatever papa is saying, that papa is right. 

And that he should listen to papa.

But the door to your bedroom is open.

“Make very little noise, because mama’s head…”

And he hasn’t seen you in an hour (which feels like a million years if he knew how to count past five). 

“… go play on your own for a while…”

And he wants to know if—

“Papa.” He blurts right in the middle of Sylus’s very important reminders. Sylus turns to him patiently, taking his hand in his and massaging his palm in acknowledgement. “Roro eep with mama.” 

Sylus frowns. “No, angel. You can’t.” 

“Ah-huh. Can.” He nods, disagreeing with Sylus and tugging his arm back. Sylus steadies him, catching his shoulder and maneuvering him away from the door.

“Kyros.” papa says, voice deep and strong. Kyros is startled by the tone. “Mama is going to be okay.”

“But… tick.” He frowns. His eyes water, catalyzed by the sternness that has befallen this exchange. “Feel better. Need—need huggies.” 

Sylus swallows nails as he stares back at his son. “Mama needs quiet right now. To rest.” 

“I quiet.” He insists, pushing fruitlessly against Sylus’s embrace. “P’omise.”

Lucian, placing his own foot in the mix, chimes in. “Please, papa?”

But the decision is made. Sylus nudges Kyros to his brother, who welcomes him in a consoling hug. They stare helplessly at papa who stands and turns away. “Maybe later, hm?” 

He shuts the door. 

And with a heavy heart, they listen to papa. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The first time you stir from your fevered haze, you notice that you are out of your work clothes and are wearing one of Sylus’s shirts. His scent refreshing and comforting, engulfs you in a phantom hug. 

The glass of warm water on your dresser is almost knocked over in the dark, but you successfully drink it along with the pills in a small dish just to its left. 

Then you lie back down, drape an arm over your eyes, and drift off. 

Or at least try.

It wasn’t quite a sleep— you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, too conscious of the distorted sound of your breathing, and the persistent pulse in the back of your left eye feels like how pebbles do beneath your boots.

Not to mention it was too cold, but you were sweating and shivering all the same. 

Frustration holds hands with sickness; you feel your insides gang up on you to attack. When the nausea hits, you sit up blindly and scramble out of bed into the bathroom to hurl out your already empty stomach. 

Sylus, the shadow you married, is already holding your hair back as soon as your knees touch the ground. “Easy.” 

The headache is maxed to a hundred on its own richter with each seize and each gag. Your one hand waves Sylus away, asking him to go, to save whatever dignity you had left in his eyes. 

But he refuses. A statement he makes as he stays. 

When it passes, you lean back on your calves and try to get a grip of the spinning world around you. Sylus is already getting something damp and cool to press to your face. 

Disgusting, you think as you brush your teeth and wash your face. But the act leaves you feeling better than you started off, paradoxically. 

“Sy—“ you rasp as he guides you back to bed after you’ve cleaned up. 

“Not a chance.” is all he says, lifting your shirt and slipping on a fresh one. His again.

“You’ll catch it.” you murmur. 

He shakes his head, a ghost of a chuckle in his words. “It’s not that bad.” 

He finds it a wonder how you’re akin to a soggy piece of lettuce right now, and still have the wits to tease him. “You’re a doctor now?” 

The chuckle materializes as he tucks you back beneath the covers. “Yes. Family medicine.” 

“Ooh, well look at you—AH!” you yelp, blocking his kiss with your palm as he targets your forehead. “No!”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” he gasps, swooping in for another with a impudent grin. You duck out of the way with a chiming giggle. “Doctor’s orders.” 

“Stop it! I’m gross.” 

He pauses at the declaration and shoots you a dangerous look. “I’ll warn you not to speak of my wife that way.”

You sniffle in disbelief. “Sylus!” 

He dodges your hands expertly and successfully lands a peck on top of your head before bouncing back up to his feet with a victorious grin. You harrumph, tossing a pillow square at his face. He lets it land and laughs. 

“You’ve broken your fever,” he says lightly, bending to brush sickly sweaty hair out of your now glowing face. Taking a moment to caress the plump of your cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

Great. At least that was out of the way. But your mouth still tasted weird, and there’s a little creature knocking albeit politely at the back of your eyeball. 

You groan. “The last time I was this bad was—“

“—The twins.” he smiles fondly, recalling the earlier days of your pregnancy. “You’ve done well keeping yourself healthy for three years then.” 

“Maybe I’m pregnant again.” you joke. 

He freezes. His world tilts. Are you? You couldn’t be— could you? Had he been so busy, miscalculated—

Your hand squeezes his tightly. His face is a picture you wish you could paint, one that makes your heart flutter. “I’m not.” 

The thickened air thins and he releases the breath he hadn’t noticed he’s held in. His brows knit together as he breathes. “Don’t… don’t do that.” 

You search his expression for anything negative, but find only a plucked sense of excitement and wonder in his shining eyes. “Too many kids?” 

He almost laughs at your assumption. “No, not at all.”

“Then—“

“Not enough.” 

The grin he flashes you lingers with mischief and allure, sharp lower fangs almost twinkling at you seductively. Heat crawls up your face and you’re sure this isn’t the fever. You shove any part of him you can reach with all your might in hopes to relieve the tension. 

“Go. Watch the kids. You’re a headache.” you say. Turning on your side to dismiss him… or, really, to hide the flush on your face. 

He leans in, the weight of his hand on your hip. Takes the opportunity to kiss you again. Your head, your cheek, your shoulder—before leaving you to drift off.

This time— you sleep. And sleep is smooth, quiet and deep. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus can’t figure why his boys are extra rambunctious now, when he specifically asked them not to be. 

Usually self-sustaining, Lucian and Kyros are perfectly trained to entertain themselves when the adults are too busy. But today, it’s as if all training has flown out the window, and Sylus is suddenly caring for three people and not just you. 

While striding in and out of your shared bedroom, the chances that he’d have an encounter with a silver haired little boy was a hundred percent doubled. 

He’d caught Lucian by the scruff of his shirt and turned him around. Two giant stuffies in his arms, far larger than his on height along with him. 

Kyros had dragged books and your favorite couch blanket to your door. Sylus had to physically dig through the row of indoor plants to find him and his stash and send him away. 

And at some point, Lucian snaps first. Crying when Sylus carries him off to the kitchen on his way to refill your bottle of water. 

“Wanna to see mama!” He performs a full-blown tantrum in the space of his father’s one armed embrace. Pushing and shoving the unmovable force that holds him captive. “Let me go! Let me go!” 

And Sylus only grumbles. A hair away from losing his own composure. “Lucian, mama is sick.” 

“I doctor mama better!” He shouts now. Fueled by the expression on Sylus’s face giving absolutely nothing away. Just sheer indifference. Done with the conversation before its even started. “Let me go!” 

“Lucian!” Sylus seethes. Done. Firm. Final. 

Lucian freezes. Shock flooding sobering his nerves. 

And then helplessly, he sobs, leaning into Sylus’s chest. Earlier shouts and shoves now faltering in the face of his father’s anger. And that hurts him more than being denied. 

“I sorry.” He murmurs. No flourish, no drama. Just sorrow and regret. Sylus’s shirt is clutched in his small fists, a lifeline to keep his father tethered to him. 

And Sylus is thawed in a flash. His shoulders hunch at every sniffle, his arms curl closer at each hiccup. 

Then Sylus crumbles too. Bending at the waist and burying his face in his son’s hair. “Just… wait, okay?” 

Lucian nods, smearing snot and salt onto Sylus’s sweater. “Love? Love Lucian, papa?” 

Sylus has to clench his jaw to keep himself together. For now he finally realizes how his actions are being received by his children. And though he means well, the struggle between what he thinks is best for you and indulging in his children is like finding a shadow in a fog.

And he bears the back-breaking weight of it as he looks into glassy red irises. “Yes, of course I do.” He nuzzles his nose, wipes tears away with the swipe of his thumb. “I love you. I love Kyros. But mama is sick right now. And I just… she needs rest. So, wait, okay?” 

Lucian doesn’t fully understand. But he listens still. 

Sylus finds Kyros sitting by your locked door, wrapped in your blanket from the couch. 

He can’t find it in himself to feel anything but endearment at the look of him. Not after the spat with Lucian still a stone in the pit of his stomach. 

“Kyros.” He sighs. 

“Mama need blanket?” Kyros asks, rising from his seat. 

“No, angel she has enough.” He says, setting the tray of medicine and snacks to the side and picking Kyros up. 

“One more!” 

“No, Kyros.” 

“Pease?” 

Sylus shakes his head. The look in Kyros’s eyes is pitiful, but Sylus’s resolve is stronger today. Running on fumes from the stress and worry of it all, fluttering lashes and big puppy eyes just won’t make him budge. 

So when Kyros’s face changes from pleading to anger, Sylus is take a back. “What are you doing?” 

“Hmph!” the little boy takes a breath, mouth posturing into cry but no sound comes out. In fact, no air comes out. 

Sylus turns rigid.

“Kyros,” he keeps his calm, rubbing his back with one hand and blowing steady streams of air on his face. But his heart races just beneath the surface. “Breathe, come on now.” 

Kyros heaves again, taking in more air but not exhaling it out. Sylus blows again. “Please, angel. Come on.” 

And with another puff of air, Kyros breaks out of the spell and cries. A loud wail that sinks into silent, frustrated hiccups. Sylus has half a mind to join him. 

“Wanna go the inside!” 

“Only sick people in the bedroom.” He states again, standing firm while gently rocking him side to side. Fumbling with clumsy fingers as he tries to reassure the hearts he keeps breaking. 

“Wait for mama to feel better, okay?” He asks of him, pleads, holding his crying child to his chest. Drowning in the sorrow of causing both of them such pain in a day.

When he’s settled, he takes Kyros to Lucian in their bedroom. Sitting with them for a while to jumpstart a play sequence before slipping out to check up on you.

And in his act of righteousness, he fails to see the pile of your favorite things gathered by the doorway of the twins’ bedroom. Awaiting patiently to be transported to your side. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You vomit again. Sylus sticks with you until the waves of nausea calm and you tread the waters of dreams once more. 

Once your breathing is even and your pupils no longer shift beneath your lids, he goes to check on your boys.

He thought they’d given up after that with the silence that followed after a while. But he clearly didn’t understand how persistent your children actually are. 

“Papa.” Lucian frowns up at Sylus, large eyes twinkling with unshed tears at the wetness of his shirt. He’d tilted his sippy cup a little too much and spilled all the sticky fruit juice on his tummy. He intercepts Sylus just as he exits your bedroom. 

Sylus exhales through his nose, assures him it’s okay, and gives him a change of clothes. 

“My tummy cold.” Lucian tells him, guiding his father’s heavy hand to his middle. Then he heaves, “Blegh. Eugh.” 

Sylus’s voice rumbles with amusement. He rubs his belly in soothing circles until he’s a little warmer and kisses his forehead. 

“Better?” He asks. But Lucian doesn’t seem too happy when he nods and asks to be put down. 

But just as soon as he places him down, Kyros waddles up to him with a tissue up his one nostril. “Pa.” 

What is going on? 

Sylus picks him up slowly. Seeing no urgency or panic in the little one’s eyes, so he’d rather not introduce the emotion to him. “You okay, angel?” 

“A-choo.” He says. Says, like a script he’d planned and produced. Like someone behind Sylus had cued him with an action!  The rolled up tissue flies out of his nose unceremoniously, dry as a feather. 

And then it clicks. 

“Oh.” He nods, understanding fully what his two clever little copies were trying to do. “I see.” 

Lucian, who hadn’t gone too far away, who was idling “subtly” in the corner of their bedroom pushing a wooden car back and forth, looks at Sylus just as Kyros does. 

“Are you two… sick?” 

Kyros bobs his head vigorously, and Lucian is giving thumbs ups from where he sits. 

“Poor angels. Sick too when mama is sick?” Sylus pouts, playing along, smothering the wheezing laughter clawing its way up his chest.

“A-huh. And—and tick babies go in— the inside room.” Kyros supplies, leaning his head on Sylus’s arm, really selling his story all too well. He points towards the direction of your bedroom and squeezes his eyes. “Achoo. Achoo! Pease.” 

“Uh! Me too.” Lucian grunts, rushing over to drape himself dramatically over Sylus’s legs. Squeezing his eyes shut, hands over his very-much-okay-belly and moaning in pain. “Ow! Tummy achy!” 

The laughter is far too strong to suppress now, and he gathers his boys to his chest in an adoring embrace. His caring children, he wonders where they get it from. He makes a show of a loud, defeated sigh as he brings them down with him, backwards onto the bed where they chorus his giggles in return. 

“Miss mama so soon?” He asks, tilting his head forward. He brushes their bangs out of their faces to look into their eyes. 

Too little to be filled with so much worry. 

But understandably so— they’d never seen you sick before. Don’t know how to process seeing you act differently from their usual, put together mother figure. 

And the way he carries himself doesn’t help to reassure them either. Briskly trudging around with a dip in his brow, quick and urgent. A sudden obstacle between them and their mother; equally as worried, equally as distressed. It wasn’t until the fever finally broke and he heard you joke with him once more that his lungs had regained its full capacity.

His boys haven’t had that closure yet. Their last image of you was your fluttering lashes and loosening grip on their crayon-scribbled sketchbooks. To them, it was a cartoon-swoon into an endless slumber— sudden, unexplained, too odd to feel alright with. 

And here Sylus was, keeping them from seeing you. Barely providing them with an explanation outside of “mama is sick”. Underestimating how much they understand and how much they actually care. 

Guilt gnaws at his heels. Faced with failing to calculate balance between caring for you and helping your sons. 

Gentle, you asked him. And instead he dismisses them outright. Preferring them out of the way instead of letting them offer their helping hands to usher you to health. 

He combs his fingers through their hair, marveling at how much they exude you while looking so much like him. 

A wish he’d made when they were born—grant your prayer for them have his features, but let the world be kind and bless them with your heart. 

“I’m sorry,” the words are brittle glass beneath a roaring flame. Broken. Fragile. The talons of his mistake dig deeper into his chest as they continue to wear their innocent hearts on their sleeves. Hearts he’s been taking for granted.

How could he have been so excited at the prospect of having another one with you earlier, while all day he kept pushing his first loves away?

“I’m sorry for hiding mama from you.” He says, cradling soft cheeks in the hard edges of his palms. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Your heart, your beautiful heart— resonates in twin chests. So easy to love. So quick to forgive.

Kyros is the first to touch his face, mirroring his own movements and brushing his own silver hair out of his eyes. “It okay. It okay, papa.”

Lucian follows suit, cradling Sylus’s cheek with his palm. 

His jaw trembles. He bites his lip to steady it. He’d found tears closer to the surface since having sons. Thinks it’s still one of the strangest feelings to have evoked so easily. But he’d also learned to stop being so surprised by the wonders his little ones do for him. 

“Can go the inside room?” Kyros whispers when he finally sits them all up. Unaware of the mountains Sylus has conquered in his mind in that little moment they shared. 

It was a battle he was never meant to win. 

He shakes his head in defeat. He eyes the pile of yours and their favorite things by the door. “One thing before we go.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The next time you wake is after hours of a soul-deep slumber. 

Gone is the stiffness in your neck, and the dryness of your throat. Thanks to the heat-pack cradles your skull. On the bedside, a humidifier fizzes out your favorite scent. 

This time, you do not wake to a pounding skull or nausea.  

This time, you wake to the sound of the whispers that sent you to sleep the first time. Shushes. Lovely things. 

Something hard rests beneath your fingers, it crackles and crunches when you flex. It takes a while for your blurry vision to make sense of it—and the nest of things around your bed—but when the picture comes to clarity, you cant help but smile.

Whorls of spirals in a shape of a flower in an obscure vase. A little queen made of circles and boxes and sticks wears a crown and lies in a heart-shaped bed. 

And in spiraling, elegant handwritten script it is says: Feel better soon, Queen Mama. 

“Took an hour to do that.” Sylus’s weight dips the mattress as he draws near to you. He moves various stuffies and plushies aside just to make space. 

He catches the moisture from your eyes with his finger and finds no resistance this time when he leans in to kiss your forehead. “Boys were debating what color flowers you’d like.” 

“For an hour?” Your mouth tugs downwards despite your joyful disposition. Sylus nods, curling around you like a beast and guiding your head to his chest. 

He gestures to the red whorls overpowering the rest of the colors. “Lucian was very persuasive.”  

You finally crack a smile. “How were they?” 

“They take after you.” Is all he says, nodding towards the other edge of the bed where two curious heads with two pairs of careful eyes wait. Little crocodiles in the water.

Waiting, testing whether to approach or retreat. 

Now, when have they ever held themselves back like this? 

Your heart aches when you realize Sylus’s small movements— his one finger held up and cueing them to hold, his brows raised to prompt them to ask. 

“How’a you, mama?” Lucian asks softly, his voice unused to speaking at such a volume. One hand comes up with the end of his plastic stethoscope, hovering, waiting to be used.

Kyros rasps, “All better?” 

“Mhm.” You coo, and with one gesture from you to come nearer, they’re already overriding protocol and clawing at the beddings, climbing over the edge. Sylus uses his evol to nudge them up the incline. And they close the space between you. 

You sit up against Sylus and watch each twin assume a position. Lucian balances himself on the bed and backs up bum first to sit on your lap and Kyros squeezes himself in the nonexistent space between you and Sylus. 

Just before you’d fallen asleep, you remember their little voices telling you about their drawings. The presentation you so rudely dismissed with your slumber. 

You have every intention to apologize, but Kyros is already starting a new story. In hushed tones and a practiced volume you can only guess is their papa’s doing. 

“Papa make mama better— ‘ike, ‘ike eepy beauty.” Kyros says, pointing to the little queen on your ‘get well soon’ card. 

You shoot Sylus a look and he promptly avoids your gaze. “Is that how the story goes?” 

“Ah-huh! And—and papa too be da dragon that,” Lucian curls his fingers into claws and swipes them around to fill the space words cannot reach. “Roar! Roar! Go ‘way, little twinnies!” 

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest in melodrama. Not at all surprised that Sylus had barricaded the bedroom to give you space. And though you don’t think you’d have minded the little ones, you appreciating his thoughtfulness nonetheless. You didn’t think it was possible for your heart to swell more than it already has.  “Oh no! How did you get through?”  

“Hat twicks!” Lucian grins proudly. He taps his finger on to his temple, while his twin nods in affirmation, echoing, “Mm. Twicks.” 

When you tilt your head in confusion, Sylus clarifies. “Mind tricks.” 

“Mama sickie and—and go in the inside room.” Kyros says, playing with the fabric of your sleeve as he explains. Partly in fascination with the fabric, and partly to make sure you don’t drift away again. “So—so Kee-ro and Woosian sickie too!” 

“Sickies!” Lucian cheers, tapping Kyros’s foot with his hand. Kyros’s delayed tap back to the back of his head tells you it was supposed to be a high-five. 

You hum in understanding, letting each emotion on your face be clear as day. Corners of your mouth lifting at how adorable it must have all been to witness. 

“And papa cry.” 

What?

You gasp—wish it was an overreaction for the littles, but it wasn’t— and your head snaps to Sylus. His palm cradles your nape instantly, steadying you before the headache could return. 

His eyes are blown wide, pupils shaking as he begs his son—don’t with just a look. But Lucian wasn’t briefed for this before he came into the sick room. 

So he misses it, and blurts anyways, “He say—say sowee.” He reaches out to pat your face like he did Sylus’s earlier. Soft, syrupy-warm fingers tapping to soothe against your skin. “Sowee be hide mama.” 

“Oh.” you swoon, nuzzling your nose against the column of your husband’s neck. While he drops his head in defeat, shoulders hunched as if he’s bracing for judgment. One that never comes. 

Instead, you say, “Papa’s a good castle dragon, no?” 

Both of them nod, heads bobbing with effort from the waist enthusiastically to drive the point home. 

Fingers once drumming against the skin of your arm, Sylus reaches out to tap each child’s forehead. Activating them like sleeper agents with his command. “What else wakes the sleeping beauty?” 

Their postures straighten, eyes alight and in a blink of an eye they are climbing up the blanket, over your limbs, exclaiming. “Kissies!” 

Your shrieks are pleasant and warm as you receive a sloppy wet kiss on both your cheeks from each of your children. A sweet barrage of happy “mwa! mmmwa!”s are reimbursed back to them by your own kisses pressing onto the marshmallowy round corners of their face. 

You overdose in their giggles and screeches as they roll around the sheets, finding home once more in your presence. 

Sylus watches with the intensity of a hawk, but softened features of a father nursing his own wounded pride. Holding himself back from joining the fray, swimming in his spiralling thoughts— 

For how could he have missed this? Deprive you of the most effective cure of all? 

Soft lips press hard on his cheek, and he snaps out of it. Blinks to ground himself back in the moment to find you in focus. And offers you a halfhearted smile. 

One you don’t buy. 

“Doctor…” you says slowly, testing the waters for you know they run deep. You try again when he only scoffs in mild amusement. Evoking more from him with a softened, “My love.” 

And as parched earth does touched after a drought, he crumbles.

“They begged to see you all day.” He confesses, watching distantly as Kyros and Lucian finally do what he’d been wanting them to do. Just play. Entertain themselves. 

“They snuck into the plants. Lucian cried. Kyros even did the breath holding thing—“ he breathes through his nose. A wince in disguise. “I told them no, not now. Wait—until you’re better. Wait until I’m not busy. Wait… because I thought I would be all you needed.” 

He winces now for real. The reality of his words said out loud like nails on a chalkboard; crashing cymbals on a porcelain floor. A humorless scoff, filled with disdain and disbelief chokes him. “How cruel.” 

You consider him. The man who’d spent the whole day at your beck and call, catching you before you even fall, nursing you from sickness to health, all the while keeping your children entertained no matter how ridiculous it had gotten—still, still finding impurities in his actions. 

And while he could be right. While he could have hurt them in the process of figuring it out—you can’t help but think it inevitable. “Sylus, you’re figuring it out.” 

He grumbles, “I should have known.”

Damns himself with his voice of venom, “But I dismissed them. Forced them to understand without helping them understand.” 

Acting exactly like the ones he despised, the ones who cast him out when he knew nothing else but to live. 

“You asked me to be gentle with them.” He breathes.

Yet despite it all, gently, you take his trembling chin in your fingers and turn his face to his sons. Grounding him, reminding him where he is. Where he stands. Who he is. “You are.” 

“I didn’t…” he holds his breath. Swallows the confession, but it rises up anyway. Needing to be said. Needing to be witnessed, to be heard. “I didn’t know what to do.” 

That’s what he hates the most. 

All the power, the strength and certainty in every area he chooses to stride; for all he has conquered— here he is. Helpless, scrambling, grasping at straws to make decisions where it matters most. With you. With his family. 

“Oh, Sylus.” his hands are bound together by yours, fingers burrowing in each space. You guide his forehead down to press against yours, letting him feel you here with him. 

“Now you do.” you whisper kindly. So kind, terribly sickly kind to him so monstrous. 

For the first time, faced with greed he now feels shame holding. 

He squeezes your hands tight as if asking for penance.

Flipping it on him—you say, “They didn’t understand. But now they do… because of you.” 

He glances back at his children at your command. Play fighting across the expanse of the bed, gasping giggles and lifting little fingers to little lips when their volume gets too high, pulling each other away from you when they stumble too close. 

Lucian pauses when Kyros clutches his eye, catching his brother and quietly apologizing. Planting kisses on his hair, squeezing him tight in an embrace. 

Echos of his own words. Mimics of his own actions. Lessons they’ve learned from him. 

“No one wants you to know everything. Not with us.” You assure him, combing disheveled bangs back to reveal his tired eyes. “We just want you.”

He stares at you. Reverently, wistfully— takes your fingers to his lips and presses hard, worshiping you for breathing. Thanking you for being. 

“Gentle edges and all.” You say, the last nail to his coffin. For he has died again and again in your arms, but you bring him back to life each time. 

He nods. Scars tender and seen. Swallows the lesson, digests the truth. You are well, and so are his boys. And whatever mistakes he makes on the way of keeping you this way, he will spend the rest of his life making it up to you. No matter how hard the storms wreak havoc, he swears to emerge victorious.  

Until his wings are clipped. Until his soul is dragged thin. He will keep figuring it out and making things right.

His children offer the levity he needs when they stumble over each other to catch him off guard. They squeeze themselves between him and you, and heal him with kisses as well. The little ones settle themselves within the nest of huggable tokens and memorable trinkets they gathered under Sylus’s command. 

For they hoard his words; they treasure his verses.

They do not tally his sins. Only his love. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Later, when the headache drags you under once more, Sylus does not fight it. 

With a finger to his lips, he slips out of bed to make you dinner. Kyros follows, Lucian stays. 

Kyros is slow in his movements when he plucks an egg from the fridge. When he squeezes the lemon into the soup. When he arranges the spoon and chopsticks on the wooden tray. 

Lucian lays silently beside you, caressing your hair gently until he too slips on his dreams.

And when you wake the last time, Sylus is there, waiting for you. 

And so are your children, with their own breakfast trays and silicone bowls with the octopus grippers to hold them in place. With their spill proof bibs and messy cheeks, already elbow deep into the soup that is served. 

Clumsy hands overshoot spoons into their mouths, trying their hardest to do it on their own. Making space for Sylus to feed you instead. 

“I can eat by myself, you know.” you inform him, but open your mouth for another spoonful anyway. 

He smiles, shy and boyish, caught in his own indulgence. “I doctor you better, sweetie.” 

You snort. “I wouldn’t mind being sick if it means this.” 

He nods, watching Kyros tilt his bowl into his open mouth and Lucian’s fingers dive to retrieve his sunken spoon. A captured beauty in making their mess, with no hurry to be put away. 

Your laughter, despite your exhaustion, melts something in him—peeling back the old ache layer by layer, until he can finally let go. 

“Now, I know.” 

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so much for reading! ( っ´ `)っ

[neo-dream]

𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘺 | LADS + when they send you a picture of themselves (again x2)

warnings: another entry in the sending a pic of themselves saga, suggestive, fluff, mentions of violence (sylus), this was entirely because of this sylus blame him for me being repetitive lmao

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── xavier

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── zayne

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── rafayel

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── sylus

.˚₊‧˗ˏˋ ─── caleb

[neo-dream]

Some of my favorite body references for how I visualize Levi.

(4th picture is a little too bicep-y, but is still nice to think about lol)

Bonus: some face

[neo-dream]

streamer!reader x top donor!Sylus (pt.2)

Part 1 | Note: reader is not the sultry “hot gamer goth” stereotype, she’s the cozy gamer girl. i hate stereotypes and no offense to dream and no hate to goth girls i love all girls btw) synopsis: reader is a streamer doing a face reveal wordcount: 1138

★ "Congratulations! you have reached your goal of 30k donations. post to celebrate." you read the notification at your streaming account. Your latest donation was from the infamous RedRubyCrow109 who donated the remaining 20k to your goal

★ you rubbed your eyes, thinking it’s still a dream. Scrolling through the posts of your community and it was flooded with posts. “what do i do, i haven’t prepared anything!” you ran your hands through your hair in frustration.

★ you start remembering dream’s face reveal and are lowkey scared it'll happen this time TO YOU– but you’re not that well known so it won’t be an issue.

★ you decided to write a post for the community “I can’t believe we reached the goal in such a short time! Thank you for supporting my channel and as i promised i’ll do a face reveal in tomorrow’s stream :)) #pls-be-nice”

★ Obviously half of the comments were excited and the other half complained. however you ignored it and spent the whole day shopping and upgrading your set-up to make it as cute as possible. 

★ next day…the stream will be starting in a few hours. You double checked everything, the lighting was perfect with a hue of purple, with a nice camera angle, you also dolled up for the stream.

★ you stared at yourself through the camera monitor and did some awkward poses. You still felt embarrassed and nervous but whatever, its too late to back down now! And you were gonna make a V-tube model soon anyways, so it won’t matter in the future.

★ the stream finally started! You didn’t open the camera immediately, chatting idly and reading comments until enough people joined. Thankfully your streamers were supportive and kept cheering you up

★ lolbestplayer: “if you’re ugly i’m unsubscribing” Rndmplay replied: “man shut tf up you’re so annoying” Lilgui replied: “it’s a surprise she hasn’t banned you from her stream yet”

★ rolling your eyes at the annoying commentor, well he was beneficial for increasing your popularity with his annoying comments.

★ but you couldn’t help but notice the absence of your top donor. His comments were always so eye-catching due to the numerous badges next to his username...there’s no way you would’ve accidentally missed it, he usually comes early and chats with you.

★ Wait, why are you disappointed? It’s just a random person. Fuck it.

★ taking a deep breath and mustering your courage, you finally enabled the camera, your face showing on a quarter of the stream and the comments started moving faster with heart emojis and keyboard smashes.

★ chat: "omg wait you're so cute! chat: "HOLY SHIT" chat: "UR ADORABLE also where's your top from?" chat: "mid"

★ Honestly, you were so nervous you didn’t even read most of it. You kept subconsciously hiding behind your hands and peeking through your fingers at the comments.

★ but your appearance wasn’t really what your fans expected. Of course, stereotyping sucks. Your style was more elegant, dainty and cute. It’s just your personal style and you loved it anyway. But no one would’ve expected that this girl is the same one that breaks the sound barrier crying when she loses her 50/50 on her favorites banner.

★ chat cheered and spammed your comments, you had an army of simps now and it felt a bit embarrassing but also gave you a confidence boost! You eventually felt more confident and stopped hiding behind your hands or hair. and donations kept coming in again, variety from 10 to 2,000

★ but he is still not here yet...

★ “who else expected a girl with eyeliner, piercings and cat ear headphones? 😭” “Is this a joke?” “I expected a hot mommy with big [redacted]”

★ yeah that last one got banned in a millisecond. And chat cheered for it.

★ “not you guys calling me basic.” you jokingly rolled your eyes. Your shyness was very obvious in your voice tone. You were unusually quiet this livestream.

★ your heart skipped a beat when his familiar icon showed up as he joined the stream and immediately straightened your back.

★ he’s late. and he didn’t comment for a bit and you started feeling a bit self conscious. He was usually active, spamming you with comments and donations but he’s too quiet now without saying a single word.

★ ‘he must be disappointed…’ you thought to yourself and stared at yourself through the camera monitor again.

★ ‘what could possibly be wrong? I did my hair, my makeup was simple…my outfit is nice too. Purple is my best color! Is it cuz i'm not–'

★ DING! RedRubyCrow109 donated 1000: “Hello, you look divine. ”

★ your heart skipped a beat as your hands fiddled with the string of your zip-up hoodie. You felt a bit relieved when he finally commented and tried to not appear too excited

★ “hii, thank you, red ruby! you’re late today.” you joked, immediately stopping yourself from sounding too excited but you did seem giddier.

★ RedRubyCrow109: Sorry, i was unexpectedly busy today. I’m watching your stream while working.” your heart skipped a beat, his dedication was so sweet.

★ before you could respond, “aww, that’s sweet. I–”

★ DING! RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000. Message: "to make up for being late, prettiest face reveal ever." followed with a little heart sticker

★ You almost choked on your drink and chat started spamming again…“O-OH Thank you–”

★ DING! RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000. “Oh and a little congratulating gift. also sweetie could you please increase the maximum capacity of donations? I can only donate max of 5000 per transaction, it’s bothering me.”

★ wow, this man! You can’t tell if it's hot or if it's too arrogant and indirectly calling you broke. you chuckled and brushed a curl out of your face.

★ “I can’t do that right now since i’m in a livestream! I’ll do it after i log off.” you responded with an awkward smile.

★ DING! DING! DING! RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000. RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000. RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000.

★ it just kept going. Your eyes widened as you tried to keep up with the donations and comments. Your hands fumbling the mouse. "Uhmm-- is this a glitch or?!"

★ RedRubyCrow109: I’ll just send it in small chunks if i can’t do it all at once.”

★ ‘IS HE SERIOUS?! Just how much money does he have?!' you thought to yourself

★ Chat: wow bro is printing money Chat: CAN HE BE MY SUGAR DADDY Chat: he called me broke in 295 languages…

★ and well you decided to flag him. you wanted to make sure it's not someone's stolen card or a child using his mom's account!

★ RedRubyCrow109: “Did you just flag me sweetie?”

★ “I didn’t! It must’ve been the server or something! you were spamming, it must've been suspicious behavior or something."

★ RedRubyCrow109: that won't stop me.

I can picture Sylus in the middle of a tough mission then going "hold on i'll miss the livestream

[neo-dream]

Wrote this while half asleep (It's three am, send help). Also, first time doing xreader stuff, so it can be a little eh.

Wanderer checks on your pulse at every opportunity he can get.

When you lay down at night, his ear is always glued to your chest, your heartbeat lulling him to sleep like a newborn baby.

He doesn't complain outloud when you break the routine by sleeping on your stomach or curling into yourself like a cat would, simply settling himself beside you on your shared bed.

However, he is much more cranky in the morning, and his tolerance to stupidity is much more lower for the entirety of the next day. He doesn't raise his voice at you. Doesn't even try to initiate an argument. The only reason you realized your sleeping position can dectate his mood for the day is because of the multitude of times someone pulled you from class to "please leash your man."

Despite being a very private guy, everyone and their mothers know that you two are a thing. It's probably the only information about himself Wanderer lets the public have, and it's mostly attributed to the fact that he makes sure his hand is wrapped around your wrist —specifically, your pulse point— every time you two are out together.

Which is almost always because the moment that motherfucker is done with his business for the day he is sticking to your side until you are free enough to give him the affection he is silently demanding.

It's somewhat endearing, when he does that. You don't say it outloud, because you know he will bristle and hiss at you, and maybe not talk to you for half a day before he comes back saying that he "can't trust you to not stumble and accidentally kill yourself," or something along to those lines.

He's like a stray cat. The wary, sopping wet type that you find on the side of the street on a rainy day and have to feed it canned tuna for a month before it lets you pet it. And then it follows you home and you can never get rid of afterwards. (It's okay though, you don't want to get rid of it anyways.)

And just like a stray cat, he also doesn't like sharing you with others. Namely, the horned boy he brought a week ago after a trip to mondstadt claiming he wouldn't leave his side.

The same horned boy who is now napping with his ear pressed onto your chest like a newborn baby, stealing your boyfriend's favorite sleeping spot as you do your best to run your hand through his hair without getting stabbed.

"What is he doing here?" Wanderer asks, arms folded in front of his chest as he glares at the little thief.

"He's sleeping?" Confused, you lower your book to look at him.

"Well, he can't sleep there. That's my spot. Make him sleep somewhere else."

So this is what that's about. You smile to yourself.

"Are you perhaps... jealous?"

He flushes at the accusation, nose scrunched in disgust at the idea that you think he, of all people, can get jealous. (He is, but he'd rather have Buer force him into one of those boring ass hangouts than admit it.)

"Have you considered that maybe he's a visual learner, and he's just trying to imitate you? He does seem to admire you a lot." You stroke his ego a little, just to make sure he won't storm out of the house to torment the first academia student who doesn't have enough foresight to stay the fuck away from him.

He huffs, but your words seem to calm him down enough to make the situation more negotiable. Your don't hesitate to take advantage of that.

"Come on, you can't just drag a stray home and then expect it to not take some space. He's practically our son now."

You can see the neurons activating in his head at the word "son" and you know you won the argument when a petulant "Fine" escapes his lips.

"But, it's still my spot. He can't always have it."

"Sure, but only if you promise to cuddle with him sometimes."

Bonus:

Nahida's voice blares in your head like warning sirens as you walk back home after along day.

"Come fast. You have to see this."

From her tone alone, the situation doesn't seem dangerous. Nevertheless, you still hurry your steps just in case it is something urgent.

You fumble the keys several times when trying to open the front door, and when you finally succeed in putting the key in, you almost throw it out of frame when you push it open.

"Shhh." The Dendro Archon does a shushing motion with her finger, mentioning you with her free hand to follow after her as she leads you towards your room.

And there you see it; a sleeping Wanderer, who's body is curled around Durin's. One arm laying limp, a pillow to the dragon boy, while the other is used to hug him closer to himself.

You hear the clicking of a Kamera, and you turn towards Nahida with a raised eyebrow.

"It's for the album. You have one, right?"

Okay, maybe you should start praying more.

[neo-dream]

rin swore he didn’t need a babysitter anymore. he was already seven. he could tie his own shoes, he only sometimes cried when he scraped his knees and he’d read two whole chapter books by himself. but his mom still called her you every time she and dad went out for dinner.

not that rin really minded. he liked when you came over. you always wore soft clothes and smelled like something sweet, like peach shampoo or lip gloss. you made popcorn and let him stay up a little past bedtime if he swore not to tell sae. you never laughed when he talked about football, even when his words got fast and tripped over each other.

and tonight you were here again.

you sat cross-legged on the floor, folding laundry, while rin sprawled on his stomach with a crayon gripped in one fist. you hummed a song he didn’t know and rin’s chest felt warm, too warm for just a t-shirt and the blanket tossed over his legs.

“do you have a boyfriend?” he asked suddenly, the words leaping out before he could stop them.

you glanced at him over your shoulder, smile curving the edge of your mouth. “hm? no. why?”

rin’s ears burned, but he pressed on bravely. “because i’m gonna marry you when i’m big.”

you blinked. then you laughed (not a mean laugh like sae’s), but something light and fond that made rin’s stomach flip upside down. “oh yeah?” you said, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “guess i better wait for you, huh?”

he nodded, completely serious. “yeah. i’ll play football and buy a house and you can wear pretty dresses all the time.”

that night, when he brushed his teeth, he stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if his face looked any more grown up. it didn’t. but it would soon. he could feel it. you tucked him in with a soft goodnight and rin smiled to himself in the dark.

he didn’t know how long he lay there before he heard a whisper of the front door, quiet steps. he pushed his blanket off and tiptoed out, careful not to wake anyone. maybe you were getting water, maybe you forgot something. but when he peeked around the corner of the hallway, he saw you on the couch. you weren’t alone. sae was there too. his brother’s hand rested lazily on your thigh, your faces close, too close and then you were kissing him. rin’s breath caught, like he’d been kicked in the chest during practice. his feet wouldn’t move. his eyes wouldn’t blink. you laughed softly against sae’s mouth. and sae, rin’s perfect, smart, cold older brother, looked at you like he already had everything in the world.

rin crept back to bed, pulling the blanket over his head. he didn’t cry. he just clenched his little fists and whispered to the dark, “when i’m big, you’ll love me instead.”