No title available
RMH
Three Goblin Art
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
★
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Stranger Things
trying on a metaphor
occasionally subtle
ellievsbear
titsay
$LAYYYTER
Peter Solarz
Sade Olutola
if i look back, i am lost
No title available
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Not today Justin
Keni
seen from Bulgaria
seen from Italy
seen from Indonesia
seen from Brazil
seen from Ireland
seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands
seen from Poland
seen from Singapore
seen from Belarus
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Peru
seen from Egypt
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@soft-like-yuki
⋆.𐙚 ̊ 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭-𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞-𝐘𝐮𝐤𝐢 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
ᴬᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵐᵉ ⁻ ˢʰᵉ/ʰᵉʳ | ᶜᵃˡˡ ᵐᵉ ʸᵘᵏⁱ | ᶠᵃⁿᶠⁱᶜ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉʳ | ᴷᵃⁱˢᵉʳ ˡⁱᵛⁱⁿᵍ ʳᵉⁿᵗ ᶠʳᵉᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵐʸ ʰᵉᵃᵈ | ᵇᵈᵃʸ ᵒⁿ ᴶᵃⁿ ³ | ᵒᵇˢᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃⁿⁱᵐᵉ, ᵍᵉⁿˢʰⁱⁿ, ᵘⁿᵈᵉʳᵗᵃˡᵉ, ᵈᵉˡᵗᵃʳᵘⁿᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶠⁿᵃᶠ | ᵐʸ ᶠᵃᵛ ˢʰⁱᵖ ᵏᵃⁱˢᵃᵍⁱ, ᵏᵘⁿⁱᵍⁱʳⁱ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶻʰᵒⁿᵍᶜʰⁱ | 日本人 | ᴬᵏⁱᵗᵃ | ᶜᵃᵖʳⁱᶜᵒʳⁿ
𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 | 𝐉𝐮𝐣𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐮 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧 | 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐤𝐚𝐢 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐌𝐚𝐧 | 𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 |
⋆.˚ 𝗥𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗻 ⋆˚｡ꫂ᭪݁
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡
So down bad with a hard yearner Diluc
Though he prefers working alone, with all the ridiculous amount of workload he’s been getting, and fatigue he’s been feeling, he (finally) think its time to require some assistance.
So he puts up posters everywhere around Monstadt about it
“Dawn Winery: hiring assistant”
And the folks just go wild.
Ladies think its an opportunity for them to get closer to him and take their chances.
Men think its an offer of a life time, getting discounts on alcohol and getting all buddy-buddy with one of the most important figures in Monstadt? Quite a deal.
It took weeks and weeks to finally find the perfect assistant, and they’re just too perfect, Diluc himself can’t help but admire them.
Then he starts having a crisis, about his feelings towards their own co-worker/employee, and he tries to stop himself, but he just can’t help but be subtly flirty with them from time to time.
(Hard yearning and forbidden relationship😛😝😜)
𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭
A/n: THIS IS SUCH A GREAT IDEA!! >-< i really had fun writing!! Even tho it took me longer as it should 🥀 but that's fine 😭
After weeks of searching for someone capable enough to help him, Diluc finally hired you as his assistant at Dawn Winery.
The first few days were calm. You mostly organized papers, checked shipments and helped the workers with small tasks around the vineyard. Diluc didn’t say much, only giving short instructions whenever something needed to be done.But he noticed.
He noticed how quickly you understood the work. How you corrected a merchant who tried to overcharge the winery without even raising your voice. How the staff started relying on you almost immediately.
Ahhh why no one tok to me 🥀
Reader touching Dan Heng not in a sexual way per say but in a curious manner. With his permission, somehow, (you gave the most devastating pleading expression), you got to touch him (up to you with what form).
I really don’t care if it’s suggestive or pure fluff, but what I’m mainly asking is, what is his most sensitive spots?
(Honestly this type of request could work with any other character too)
a/n: I'd love to write it with others characters too but the the fact that I'm new to hsr makes me overthink that If i mischaracterised the character 🥀. Anyways this is what I think would his sensitive spots be 😭
‧₊˚𝗔 𝗗𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗧𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵‧₊˚ ☽
Dan Heng is reading when you sit beside him.
He shifts slightly to give you space, though he doesn’t look up right away.
You watch him for a moment, the way his attention stays fixed on the page, calm and focused.
That’s exactly why you reach over and place your hand against his stomach.
It’s just curiousity.
He stops turning the page.
Slowly, his eyes lift to you. His free hand comes down and wraps around your wrist, firm but not harsh, just enough to stop you from moving further.
“What are you doing?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing,” you reply, far too innocent.
He studies you for a second, clearly unconvinced. Then you slip your hand free and press lightly against him again, testing.
This time he exhales softly and closes the book against his palm.“You’re doing that on purpose.”You don’t deny it.
Instead, your fingers move more slowly now, tracing absent patterns through the fabric of his shirt. Not poking anymore. Just feeling. Observing the way his breathing changes ever so slightly beneath your touch.
He goes still again, but he doesn’t stop you.
There’s a brief pause where he considers it. His gaze drops to your hand, then returns to your face. Whatever he’s deciding, he decides quickly.
“If you’re going to continue,” he says at last, voice steady, “don’t fidget.”
It isn’t a full invitation, but it isn’t a refusal either.
So you settle your hand properly this time, letting your palm rest there instead of moving restlessly. Your thumb traces slow, deliberate circles. You can feel the warmth through the thin layer of fabric, the subtle rise and fall beneath your touch.His shoulders relax slightly, though he remains very aware of you.
After a moment, his hand returns to yours. You expect him to remove it again, but instead his fingers rest loosely over the back of your hand, holding it in place.
“You’re strange,” he murmurs, though there’s no real complaint in his voice.You press lightly once more, curious, and he inhales just a little deeper before catching your wrist again. This time the hold is gentler.
“That’s enough,” he says, not irritated, just careful.He lifts your hand away, though his thumb brushes once over your knuckles before letting go. The book stays closed in his other hand. He doesn’t reopen it.
You lean back slightly, satisfied with the reaction you managed to get out of him.He looks at you for a long moment, composure restored but thinner than before.
“You enjoy provoking me,” he observes.
Maybe you do. :3
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
i need a idea please 😭🙏
Hi! I just love your writing and had to think about you while I had an idea in mind: What if reader falls madly in love with the charming talking lantern reader found one day? Of course its Flins. And reader is super curious to meet him in person, but Flins is reluctant ... Would love to read such a story, but don't feel pressured to write it. Have a great day! ✨
𑣲 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 .✦ ݁˖
You hadn’t meant to take it home.It was supposed to be nothing more than a curiosity, something half-buried in the corner of an antique stall, its brass dulled with age and its glass faintly clouded as though it had been breathing for years without being noticed.
The vendor had shrugged when you asked about it and said it sometimes made sounds when the wind passed through.It did not wait for the wind.The first night you lit it, a voice answered.Low. Polite. Almost startled.“…Ah.”
You nearly dropped it.The lantern flickered gently in your hands, light steady but somehow attentive, as though it were looking back at you.“I apologize,” the voice continued, composed despite the situation.
“It has been some time since anyone has bothered to speak.”You should have been frightened.Instead, you sat down.
That was how it began
He introduced himself as Flins after a while, though he admitted the name had grown a little old with time.
You never saw him, only the warm glow that brightened when he laughed quietly at something you said. He never answered certain questions directly where he came from, how long he had been bound to the lantern but he spoke with the careful courtesy of someone who had once existed very solidly in the world.
You found yourself talking to him every evening.At first it was curiosity. Then companionship. Then something softer that crept in without permission.
Flins listened the way few people did. He remembered small things, asked thoughtful questions, and never dismissed your thoughts as trivial.
When you were tired, his voice lowered as though afraid to disturb you. When you were excited, the light in the lantern burned brighter, almost golden.You started bringing him with you from room to room.
“You needn’t carry me everywhere,” he said once, faint amusement threading through his tone.“I like the company,” you replied.
The glow warmed noticeably.It happened gradually, the falling. You realized it one quiet night when you were lying on your bed with the lantern resting on the nightstand, his voice soft in the dark as he told you about constellations he remembered from a different century.
You were not even looking at him, yet your chest felt impossibly full.“I wish I could see them the way you do,” you murmured.There was a pause, longer than usual.“And I,” Flins said carefully, “sometimes wish I could see you.”Your heart did something reckless at that.
From then on, curiosity turned dangerous.You began asking more direct questions. What did he look like? Was he always like this? Could he leave the lantern? Each time, his answers grew more measured.
“It is… complicated,” he would say.One evening, you gathered your courage.“I think I’m in love with you,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could reconsider them.The flame inside the lantern stilled.
For a moment, you feared you had frightened him into silence.When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you had ever heard it.“You deserve someone who can stand before you,” he said. “Someone tangible.”“I don’t want tangible,” you replied. “I want you.”
The lantern’s light flickered unevenly, betraying emotion he rarely let surface.“Meeting me would change things,” he warned gently. “You may find I am not what you imagined.” “Then let me decide that.”Silence followed, heavy but not cold. You could almost feel him thinking.“You are certain?” he asked at last.“Yes.”
The room dimmed suddenly as the lantern’s glow concentrated inward, folding in on itself like a breath being drawn. The air shifted, warmer, charged. Light spilled outward, spilling across the walls in soft gold, and then A figure stood where the lantern had rested.
Flins was exactly as his voice suggested: composed, elegant, a little out of time. His expression carried that same thoughtful restraint, though now it was accompanied by unmistakable vulnerability. He looked at you as though bracing for disappointment. You stepped closer.
He did not move, as if afraid to.“You’re real,” you whispered.“As real as I am able to be,” he replied.You reached out slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. When your fingers brushed his sleeve, warmth met your skin.He inhaled sharply.“I was reluctant,” he confessed quietly. “Because if you looked at me and felt nothing, I believe I would have returned to silence willingly.”
You smiled, heart racing.“Good thing I don’t feel nothing.”For the first time since you found the lantern, his composure cracked completely. The faintest, almost disbelieving smile touched his face.“May I?” he asked, as he always did.
You nodded.When his hand finally settled against yours, solid and warm, the lantern behind him dimmed to a soft, content glow, as though its purpose had finally been fulfilled.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
should I start writing again?
Columbina finally released she looks so beautiful!!
OMG OMG We reached 100 followers!! Ty for all of your support 😭🫶💖✨
⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ𝐈 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬᯽ ݁˖·
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
A/n: So this is my first time writing hsr and I'm new to it I may not know alot of things but as dan heng's my favourite character so i made his first idk how will this turnout but I hope it will become good
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You find Dan Heng on the couch, a book in his hands, calm as ever. His legs are crossed, posture relaxed but upright, like he’s always aware without needing to announce it. You don’t say anything. You just sit down beside him, close enough that he can feel you.
He glances at you once and shifts slightly to make room. Before you can react, he pulls you onto his lap, one arm circling your waist while the other holds the book open.
“You’re in the way,” he says quietly.
“You pulled me here,” you murmur.
“Yes,” he replies, as if that explains everything, like nothing more needs to be said.
You sink against him. His hand rests lightly at your side, steady and warm.
Time passes quietly. A stray lock of hair falls across your face. He lifts a hand and tucks it behind your ear, thumb lingering just long enough to make you notice. He could return to the page, but he doesn’t.
The warmth of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the calm weight of his presence—slowly, it lulls you into sleep. Your head sinks a little further against him. You don’t fight it. You don’t stir. You drift off completely, resting there on his lap.
Dan Heng notices, but he doesn’t move or disturb you. He adjusts you slightly to make you more comfortable, keeping his hold gentle and steady. His chin rests lightly near your head, the book forgotten, his presence quiet and unwavering.
Minutes pass. Outside, the world continues, but here, on this couch, all that matters is you, asleep against him, and the certainty that he’ll stay just like this, holding you without a single word.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
·༻𐫱༺·
My Exams are finally over and I've never felt this much happy 😭
I might as well turn into a flins writer now (that's not happening)
Hi!!
I love how you write flins so much 🥹🥹 Could you write a fic where reader is widowed/lost their lover, and despite respecting reader as a companion greatly, flins can’t help but profess his feelings to reader? I feel like this has potential for so much angst and I would love to see how you write this idea !!
۶ৎ 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈'𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥? ᥫ᭡ ๋𓂃
A/n: Sureee!! I'd love to!!! I tried my best to write and idk why I'm feeling like I messed up somewhere but when I read it again i couldn't find it, btw this is one my unique requests and I love to write them!! 💗💗
˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ━━━━ ━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━ ━━━━✮˖⁺‧₊˚
he never meant to ask for this
Flins understands grief in the way someone understands a language they never chose to learn. He has seen it linger in quiet places and cling to people long after the loss itself has passed, settling into their lives until it becomes something they carry rather than something they confront.
That is why he is careful with you.
From the moment he learns about your loss, he treats it with the same respect he offers the dead, never rushing you, never turning away when you speak of the person you loved. When their name comes up, he listens as though it matters, because it does. When memories surface unexpectedly, he does not try to redirect the conversation or soften it with false comfort. He simply stays with you, steady and present, as if that alone is enough.
You spend a great deal of time together like that, walking side by side rather than too close, matching each other’s pace without comment. He opens doors for you, offers his coat on colder nights, and makes sure you are comfortable before thinking of himself. To anyone watching, it looks like nothing more than courtesy, but he knows better. It is restraint, practiced and deliberate, because somewhere along the way his feelings for you grow deeper than he ever intended.
He falls in love with you quietly.
It happens slowly, in the way you pause to look at small things others overlook, in the care you show even toward spirits who frighten most people, and in the calm you bring to places heavy with old sorrow. He tells himself it will pass if he ignores it, that wanting you would be selfish when so much of your heart still belongs to someone else. He convinces himself that being near you without asking for more is the kindest choice he can make.
For a long time, he believes that is enough.
Until one evening, when the grief catches you off guard.
You are sitting together when your breathing stutters and your hand tightens at your side, as though the pain surprised you with its sudden return. You apologize without thinking, the word leaving your mouth automatically, and something in his chest tightens painfully at the sound of it.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he says gently, turning toward you at once. “Not for this.”
You hesitate before speaking, then admit how strange it feels to be caught between past and present, how the memories still come without warning, and how exhausting it is to carry love that has nowhere to go. You do not cry, but your voice sounds tired in a way that frightens him more than tears ever could.
Flins listens, as he always does, but as you speak he realizes something he has been avoiding for far too long. His silence, meant to protect you, has become its own kind of dishonesty. Loving you quietly is no longer the same as loving you kindly, and the ache in his chest has grown too heavy to ignore.
When you fall silent, staring down at your hands, he takes a breath and makes a decision that terrifies him.
“There is something I need to tell you,” he says softly. “And I need you to know that you are not required to give me anything in return.”
You look up, surprised by the seriousness in his tone.
He keeps his hands in his lap, open and still, careful not to crowd you as he speaks. He tells you that he has grown to care for you deeply, and that his feelings have nothing to do with replacing what you lost or easing your grief. He makes it clear that he would never ask you to forget the person you loved, or pretend that part of your life never existed.
Then, quietly, he admits that he loves you.
He does not dramatize it or dress it up with expectation. He simply tells you the truth and lets it rest between you, giving you the space to feel whatever you need to feel without pressure.
“I do not expect you to be ready,” he adds. “If all I am to you is someone who walks beside you, I will accept that gladly. I only wanted you to know.”
The silence that follows is long but not uncomfortable.
When you finally speak, your voice is unsteady as you admit that you are afraid, not of him, but of what loving again might mean. You tell him you do not know if your heart will ever feel free enough to belong to someone else without guilt following close behind.
Flins listens to that too.
“I would never want you to erase them,” he says after a moment. “Love does not require forgetting. If there is ever room for me, it would be beside what you already carry, not in place of it.”
There is no promise in his voice, only patience.
And for the first time since your loss, the idea of loving again does not feel like a betrayal. It does not feel like something stolen or forced. It feels like something that could exist gently, if and when you are ready.
Just a continuation, not a replacement.
˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ━━━━ ━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━ ━━━━✮˖⁺‧₊˚
.✦ ݁˖𝐎𝐡 𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩?⋆˚࿔
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
A/n: I've got alot of requests with a flins fanfic so here it is now! I also tried to do a little experiment with the ghosts and I'm hoping that it did not turn out to be too weird...
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
the ghosts think they’re funny
Flins has always loved things with history.
Not the pristine, untouched kind of beauty—no. He favors the softened edges, the gentle wear that proves something has been held, chosen, survived. Coins dulled by centuries. Gems with hairline fractures that catch the light just right.
So it isn’t surprising, really, the way he loves you.
You notice it in the quiet moments. The way his thumbs linger when they find a scar, how he never rushes past the places you instinctively try to hide. When you flinch, he pauses immediately.
“May I?” he asks, every time. Always asks.
When you nod, he traces the mark with reverence, like he’s committing it to memory. Like it’s something rare.
“I like these,” he tells you softly, pressing a kiss there later, deliberately. “They mean you lived.”
Your insecurities don’t stand a chance against him. Not when he’s so gentle. Not when he’s so relentlessly affectionate, turning every blemish into something cherished.
Most people don’t see this side of him.
To them, Flins is composed to a fault—polite, well-spoken, distant in a way that makes him feel untouchable. Like he exists half a step out of time. Growing close to him takes patience. Trust.
But once you do, he softens. For you, and only you.
He opens doors, offers his coat, checks in constantly. Your comfort is his quiet religion.
What he doesn’t realize is how obvious his feelings are.
Not to you yet but to the ghosts.
They whisper when he passes. Drift closer when you’re around. You don’t hear the words, just the soft, conspiratorial hush that follows him like a shadow.
When he finally catches one of them gossiping, he clears his throat.
“That’s quite enough,” he says politely.
They do not stop.
In fact, they escalate.
The first prank is harmless. You’re sitting with him in his shelter, rain tapping against the roof, when a cold breeze snakes around your ankles. You gasp softly, startled.
Before you can say a word, Flins is already moving, shrugging out of his coat and draping it around your shoulders, hands warm and steady.
“They’re being rude,” he mutters under his breath.
You blink. “Who?”
He freezes.
Behind him, a ghost knocks over a stack of books with a dramatic crash.
You jump. Flins exhales slowly, clearly mortified.
“Oh,” you say, then laugh. “They’re… playful.”
The ghosts absolutely lose it.
Over the next few days, they get bolder. Lights flicker whenever you sit close. A phantom cough sounds suspiciously pointed when Flins’s hand lingers too long near yours. Once, a translucent hand shoves his shoulder forward just as he’s leaning in to speak—sending him far closer to you than intended.
His breath catches.
Yours does too.
Later that night, you find him tense, pacing slightly, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “They shouldn’t involve you.”
You shake your head. “I don’t mind.”
That’s when it happens.
You’re tired. Bleary-eyed. Shaking just a little from the cold and the long day. You look up at him without realizing what that expression does to him—open, trusting, exhausted.
Something in his chest aches.
He hates that his body reacts, heat coiling low at the sight of you like this. It feels wrong to want you when all he wants is to take care of you.
But he can’t take it anymore.
He cups your cheeks, palms warm, thumbs brushing softly beneath your eyes. He takes one breath, commits your face to memor
and kisses you.
It’s gentle. Careful. Almost reverent.
He pulls back instantly, horrified. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
You grab his coat and pull him back in.
Somewhere behind him, a ghost cheers.
Flins forgets everything.
When he finally breaks the kiss, cheeks flushed pink, he clears his throat and takes your hand.
“It’s cold,” he murmurs, embarrassed but smiling. “We should go inside. Somewhere… private.”
The ghosts just stare.
He ignores them completely.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Hehe it's my birthday soo unfortunately I can't post anything today :(
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!! ⋆˚࿔
I don’t really know how to start this, but i just wanted to say thank you for being here. whether you’ve been following for a long time, recently found this blog, or just pass by every now and then it genuinely means so much to me. this
this year, i want to try my best to write more fics and share more of the stories living quietly in my drafts. i can’t promise perfection or consistency, only that i’ll keep trying and keep writing whenever i can. thank you for your patience, your kindness, and all the love you’ve shown my work it never goes unnoticed.
Updates:
𝜗ৎ i’m currently working on my masterlist, which is taking a little longer than as I expected, but it's okay. And the orders are below
𖤐 Bluelock
𖤐 Genshin Impact
𖤐 Jujutsu Kaiser
Yea the order is just like I've mentioned in my pinned post
𝜗ৎ 2 new fandom will be joining soon, so stay tuned!! (Released)
But I'll not be releasing them at the same time, I'm currently fighting over in my mind to which should I release first 😭
𝜗ৎ my exams are starting soon (ughh I hate them so much), so posts might be a little slower than usual, but requests are still open.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
ִFor My Emperor ⋆°𓏲ּ𝄢
A/n: it took me really long to write this idk why like i sat to write on 25th and now it's completed, I'm posting really late but hey atleast i posted 🥲
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Michael Kaiser never cared much for birthdays.
At least, that’s what he told everyone.
Another year older meant nothing when you already stood above the rest. Another day of praise, cameras, expectations—things he was already drowning in. If anything, birthdays felt like interruptions to his reign.
That was why he was confused when he woke up to sunlight filtering softly through the curtains instead of his usual alarm—and to you, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching him with a smile that felt far too gentle for someone like him.
“…You’re staring,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.
You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, slow and deliberate. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just warm.
“Happy birthday, Kaiser.”
He froze for half a second before his hand came up to your wrist, thumb brushing your skin. His blue eyes searched your face, sharp as ever, but softened in a way only you ever got to see.
“Tch. You’re acting like it’s something special,” he said.
You smiled. “It is. You are.”
He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. When you kissed him again, he kissed back harder, pulling you in, the arrogance melting into something almost needy. His lips were demanding, confident, like he always was—but there was something else beneath it today. A quiet want.
You spent the morning exactly how you knew he liked it: no crowds, no teammates, no noise. Just the two of you. You cooked breakfast while he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, pretending not to watch you move around the kitchen.
“You’re really putting in effort,” he commented.
“For you? Always.”
That earned you another kiss—this one quick, stolen, his hand cupping your jaw as if claiming you. “You’re spoiling me.”
“That’s the plan.”
Later, you took him out—nothing flashy, just a quiet place with a view of the city. Somewhere high enough that he could look down on everything, like the Emperor he was. The wind tugged at his hair, and you reached out to smooth it back, fingers lingering.
He glanced at you. “You’re being unusually affectionate.”
You stepped closer. “It’s your birthday. Let me.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted your chin up and kissed you again, slower this time. His lips moved against yours with practiced ease, but the way his hand rested at your waist was careful, grounding. Like he wanted to memorize the moment.
“You know,” he murmured against your lips, “everyone sees me as untouchable.”
Your forehead rested against his. “I don’t.”
His breath hitched, just barely.
The evening was the best part. Back home, lights dimmed, the world quiet. You gave him his gift last—nothing extravagant, just something personal. Something that showed you knew him.
He stared at it for a long moment.
“…You really get me,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “Of course I do.”
That was when he pulled you into his lap, arms wrapping around you, face buried in your neck. His kiss there was soft, almost reverent, lips brushing skin like he was savoring it.
“Stay,” he said. Not a command. A request.
You kissed his temple, then his cheek, then his lips again—slow, unhurried, full of warmth. He kissed you back just as deeply, hands firm but gentle, like he was holding onto something precious.
“For someone who says birthdays don’t matter,” you whispered, smiling against his mouth, “you look pretty happy.”
Kaiser smirked, forehead resting against yours. “Maybe,” he admitted, “they don’t matter.”
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“But you do.”
And for once, the Emperor didn’t need the world—just you.
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