Bubbles

welcome to my little flower valley lads fan/fic acc 🪷 minors and ageless dni

[wickedbubbles]

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬

✿    ໋ ֢ 🪷　wickedbubbles or bubbles ⸝⸝ twenty-three ⋆ s/her ⋆ african american — this blog contains spoilers, (n)sfw, some dark content . requests closed, inbox open !

𓂃⋆.˚͜ ◞ ིྀ﹒  rules & req’s ⋆ masterlist ⋆ navigation ⋆ wips ⋆ awareness

also me: @v1rtualvix3n ⋆ ao3

˙ Ꮺ ° ˖ 🌸 ⋆ ｡ ˚ ꩜

© wickedbubbles 2026 ⸝⸝ do not repost, translate, plagiarize, AI feed any content found here ⸝⸝ divider creds to… @uzmacchiato¹

[xxfrozenpearlsxx]

tip your server (with a kiss)

⋆. — headcanons for dating him while you work in a restaurant (based on this request) ⋆. — slice-of-life + fluff ⋆. — word count: max 700 each ♡

Rafayel

Here’s the thing about dating Rafayel while working in food service: he was simultaneously the best and worst thing that ever happened to your tips.

He became a regular within a week of finding out where you worked. Not because he particularly enjoyed dining out—Rafayel would happily subsist on seafood he caught himself and whatever Thomas shoved into his hands between deadlines—but because the concept of you being somewhere for eight hours where he couldn’t reach you was, apparently, a personal offense against his entire emotional stability.

So he’d show up. Always at the same booth, tucked into the corner near the window where the light was good, sketchbook open, ordering the most ridiculous thing on the menu just to watch you try to keep a straight face while reading it back to the kitchen. He tipped absurdly. Embarrassingly. The kind of tip that made your coworkers fight over who got to take his table on the nights you were hosting instead of serving.

“That’s the painter, right?” one of the newer servers whispered to you once, sliding past with a tray. “The famous one? He literally just ordered a kids’ menu chocolate milk and drew a fish on the placemat.”

Yeah. That was your boyfriend.

The teenagers on staff adored him, which was both predictable and deeply annoying. He was exactly the kind of effortlessly gorgeous, unbothered celebrity presence that made sixteen-year-old hostesses forget how to speak. He didn’t notice, or if he did, he wielded it with well-thought mischief—signing napkins with little doodles when they asked, then immediately turning to you with those shifting blue-pink eyes and a grin that said jealous yet, cutie?

You were not jealous. You were at work.

He learned your coworkers’ names within the first month. Not because he was social—Rafayel’s tolerance for humans that weren’t you hovered somewhere between “barely” and “absolutely not”—but because they were part of your world, and he was quietly, stubbornly invested in every corner of it. He knew your manager’s coffee order. He knew which cook always burned the garlic bread. He’d once spent an entire slow Tuesday afternoon teaching your youngest busser how to sketch hands, their apron still on, while you ran tables around them.

The period thing, though. That was where it got theatrical.

He didn’t pay off your manager. That would’ve been subtle, and Rafayel didn’t do subtle. What he did was show up on one of your bad days—the kind where the cramps sat low and mean in your abdomen and you were running on ibuprofen and spite—take one look at your face, and walk directly to your manager’s office.

You didn’t hear the conversation. You didn’t need to, if you were honest with yourself. Your manager emerged five minutes later looking vaguely shell-shocked and told you to take the rest of the night off, and Rafayel was already waiting by the door with your jacket, his ears faintly pink.

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing.” He draped the jacket over your shoulders. “I simply explained that my cutie was in physical distress and that her energy was being siphoned by capitalism, and that I would be taking her home now.”

“Raf, you can’t just—”

“I also bought four desserts to go.” he held up a bag, smirking. “The chocolate one is mine. Don’t even think about it.”

You thought about it. You stole the chocolate one in the car. He let you, grumbling the entire drive back to Whitesand Bay, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your knee, thumb tracing slow circles that matched the rhythm of the waves outside his studio.

He drew you that night. Curled up on his couch, heating pad on your stomach, chocolate on your mouth. You found the sketch weeks later, tucked between two canvases.

He’d titled it My cutie, Resting.

Zayne

The restaurant was equidistant between Akso Hospital and your apartment, which made it a logical midpoint for the nights when his shift ended late and yours ended later. He’d come in, sit at the bar if it was available, order something light, and read medical journals on his tablet while he waited for you to finish closing.

Your staff thought he was terrifying.

This was, to be fair, not an unreasonable assessment. Zayne sitting at a bar in his dark coat, glasses on, expression carefully neutral, reading about cardiac valve regeneration while the dinner rush swirled around him, radiated an energy that made your servers instinctively straighten their posture and stop swearing in the kitchen.

“Your boyfriend is here,” became the unofficial signal for everyone to start acting professional.

He didn’t mean to be intimidating. You knew this because you’d seen this man eat an entire sleeve of cookies at 2am while watching a nature documentary about penguins, and because he once got so flustered by a compliment you gave him that his ears turned red for twenty minutes. But the restaurant staff didn’t know any of that. To them, he was the tall, sharp-jawed surgeon who looked like he could perform your annual review and your appendectomy simultaneously.

The teenagers, though. The teenagers loved him. Not in the swooning, blushing way, but in the specific way that teenagers latched onto any adult who treated them like a competent person. Zayne answered their questions. Zayne remembered their names. When one of your teenage hostesses mentioned she was thinking about pre-med, Zayne spent fifteen minutes of a slow Wednesday evening explaining the residency process with a lot of patience, probably the same amount he gave his own residents, and the girl walked away looking like she’d been handed the keys to the universe.

He knew your schedule better than you did. This wasn’t romantic so much as it was clinical—he tracked your shifts the way he tracked your blood pressure, your sleep patterns, your eating habits. Data points in the ongoing project of keeping you alive and functional, which he approached with the tender, relentless focus of a man who had chosen cardiology because the person he loved had a heart condition and he’d decided, apparently at age fourteen, that he was going to be the one to fix it.

When your period hit, Zayne didn’t talk in person to your manager. Zayne did something worse: he texted your manager. A single, polite, medically worded message about the physiological impact of dysmenorrhea on work performance, citing two studies, and suggesting—not demanding, because Zayne was nothing if not professional—that a modified shift might be advisable.

Your manager, who had a healthy respect for anyone who used the word "dysmenorrhea" correctly in a sentence, gave you the afternoon off.

You found out about the text three days later.

“Zayne. You sent my boss a medical briefing.” you bit back a smile, astonished yet not entirely surprised at the gesture.

He was chopping vegetables in your kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow, glasses slightly fogged from the steam. He didn’t look up. “I sent her relevant literature. What she did with it was her decision.”

“You cited sources.”

“Would you have preferred I didn’t?” the ghost of something dry flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I could have simply told her you were unwell. But I find that people respond more favorably to peer-reviewed evidence than to emotional appeals.”

You stared at him. He continued chopping, precise and even and utterly unbothered, and the warmth in your chest simmered the way it always did around him—slow, steady, the kind of heat that didn’t burn but never went out.

“You’re unbelievable sometimes.” you scoffed, amused and smiling so big it reached your ears.

“I’m thorough, my love.” He set the knife down and crossed to you. Pressed his cool hand to your forehead out of what you suspected was pure habit, his thumb brushing your temple. “There’s a difference.”

Xavier

Xavier just... appeared.

That was the only way to describe it. One day your restaurant didn’t have a silver-haired regular who napped in booth six, and the next day it did, and nobody could pinpoint exactly when the transition happened. He materialized quietly, without announcement, as though he’d always been there and you simply hadn’t noticed yet.

He ordered the same thing every time. Whatever you recommended. It didn’t matter what it was. You could’ve told him the special was a bowl of lukewarm soup and a bread roll and he would’ve nodded, eaten every bite, and left a neat, precise tip folded under his glass. Not flashy nor excessive, but simply the appropriate amount that suggested he’d actually thought about it, calculated the percentage, and rounded up because that was what you did for someone you loved.

He never sat in your section on purpose. You figured this out after the third week, when you realized he always chose whichever booth was furthest from your assigned tables—close enough to watch you, far enough not to be in the way. If you caught his eye across the dining room, he’d give you that barely-there nod, calm and warm, and go back to whatever he was doing.

What he was doing was usually sleeping.

Your coworkers had opinions about this.

“Is he... is he okay?” your colleague asked you once, genuinely concerned, peering at the silver-haired man slumped gently against the booth wall with his eyes closed, empty plate pushed aside, looking for all the world like a very beautiful, very tired cat in a human suit.

“He’s fine. He does that.”

“Should I bring him some coffee?”

“He’ll wake up when I get off shift.” And he always did. Right on time, every time, like he had some internal clock synced to your schedule. Eyes open, standing, jacket on, waiting by the door. Ready to walk you home because the route was dark and he just had to make sure you’re safe.

The teenagers on your staff were terrified of him, which was genuinely funny because Xavier was about as threatening as a sleepy golden retriever. But something about the way he carried himself at times—the stillness, the quiet intensity, the fact that his eyes tracked every person who got too close to you with a focus that was more hunter than boyfriend—made the high schoolers give his booth a wide berth.

He knew your manager by name. Your manager did not know how Xavier knew her name. This was never addressed.

On the bad days—the period days, the days when you moved through your shift with a heating pad shoved under your apron and your jaw clenched against the cramps—Xavier didn’t talk to your manager. He didn’t make a scene. He just appeared at the end of your shift with a bag from the convenience store near your apartment: painkillers, your favorite brand of chocolate, a hot water bottle and a packet of those instant soup noodles you only ate when you felt terrible.

He handed the bag to you in the parking lot, took your work tote off your shoulder and transferred it to his, and started walking.

“Xavie, you didn’t have to—”

“I know.” he adjusted the tote strap and kept walking. “I was already at the store.”

He was not already at the store. The store was twenty minutes in the opposite direction of his apartment. You knew this. He knew you knew this.

Neither of you said anything else. You walked home in the comfortable silence, his shoulder brushing yours with every step, steady and warm and there.

He was always just... there.

Caleb

The thing about Caleb knowing you worked in a restaurant was that Caleb was a better cook than your entire kitchen staff, and he would never, ever let you forget it.

“The risotto’s overcooked,” he’d murmur, barely glancing at a plate being run past your section, his cap pulled low and his long legs stretched under the booth he’d claimed as his personal territory every Tuesday and Thursday night. “Tell the cook to pull it thirty seconds earlier.”

“Caleb, you can’t tell my line cook—”"

“I’m not telling him. I’m telling you, baby. You can tell him.” He swiped a fry off the appetizer plate you were about to deliver, popping it into his mouth with a grin that was all teeth and zero remorse. “Also, those need more salt.”

Infuriating. Completely, devastatingly infuriating. And right. He was always right about the food, which made it worse.

Caleb became a constant presence at your restaurant the same way he’d become one in every other part of your life—by simply refusing to exist anywhere else. He showed up after flight briefings still half in uniform, jacket unzipped, looking like the kind of trouble that made your hostesses suddenly very interested in the seating chart near his section.

The teenagers worshipped him. Openly. Without shame. He was tall and athletic and had that effortless, golden-boy energy that made high schoolers want to impress him, and he played into it just enough to be charming—remembering their names, asking about their games, challenging your teenage busser to arm-wrestling contests during slow shifts that he won without trying and then pretended were close.

But his eyes always tracked back to you.

That was the part your coworkers noticed. The way he watched you move through the dining room—not casually and definitely not passively. The way a pilot watched a radar screen. Constant, precise awareness. He knew where you were at every moment, which tables were giving you trouble, which customer had been rude, which coworker had stuck you with their side work again.

He filed it all away. You’d learned that about the new version of Caleb—the Colonel version, the one who’d come back sharper and darker and more honest about what he wanted. He didn’t forget anything. He held it, sorted it, and deployed it later with a precision that was equal parts comforting and terrifying to you.

“Table nine was rude to you.”

“Table nine was just impatient, Caleb.”

He ate another fry. His eyes didn’t leave table nine for a very long time. Table nine left a generous tip and exited quickly. You chose not to investigate why.

He knew your staff better than some of them knew each other, because Caleb had grown up studying people—reading rooms, tracking hierarchies, figuring out who was trustworthy and who wasn’t. Your manager liked him because he was polite and charming and tipped well. Your manager did not know that Caleb had memorized her scheduling patterns and had, on more than one occasion, subtly rearranged your availability through a series of very casual, very friendly conversations that somehow always resulted in you getting the shifts you wanted.

When your period hit, Caleb didn’t negotiate with management. Caleb showed up at your apartment before your shift with a container of homemade soup, the heating pad you liked, and a text already sent to your manager from your phone—which he’d unlocked, because of course he knew your passcode, he’d watched you type it once six months ago—saying you wouldn’t be in tonight.

“Caleb! You can’t just do that!”

“Already did.” he steered you back toward the couch with both hands on your shoulders. Gentle but absolute. The grip of a man who had decided what was happening and was deeply uninterested in alternatives. “Sit down, pips. You’re not carrying plates for eight hours when you can barely stand up straight.”

“I can stand up perfectly—”

He raised an eyebrow. You were, at that exact moment, slightly hunched.

You sat down.

He tucked the blanket around you, kissed the top of your head, and went back to the kitchen to finish the soup, humming something under his breath, his shoulders relaxed in the particular way they only got when you were close and safe and exactly where he wanted you.

“I’m calling in tomorrow, too,” he added, back to you, stirring. “Your fridge is empty. I’m making enough for three days.”

“You have briefings—”

“Rescheduled.” He glanced over his shoulder. You caught the ghost of his smile—warm, certain, the smile of a boy who used to carry you home on his back and had simply never stopped. “You come first. You always come first.”

Your chest ached. The good kind. The kind that had been there since childhood and had only grown louder in all the years since—through the separation, the grief, the silence, and the impossible, aching miracle of his return.

You pulled the blanket tighter and watched him cook, and the soup tasted like home.

Sylus

Sylus didn’t come to your restaurant. Sylus acquired your restaurant.

Not literally. Not on paper. But within approximately two visits, every single person on staff—from your general manager down to the dishwasher who only worked Sundays—understood with perfect clarity that the white-haired man in the corner booth was not a person you kept waiting, served the wrong order to, or looked at sideways. This understanding was not communicated through threats. It was communicated through Sylus simply... existing. In their space. With that energy.

The first time he showed up, your floor manager nearly had a cardiac event. Not because she recognized him—most people outside the N109 Zone wouldn’t—but because Sylus occupied physical space the way a thunderstorm did. You couldn’t ignore it. You just had to decide how wet you were willing to get.

“Table for one?” your floor manager had managed, her voice only slightly strangled.

Sylus had looked past her, found you across the dining room, and the slow, proprietary curve of his mouth made your entire section of tables feel like they were intruding on a private conversation.

“I’ll sit wherever she is.”

He tipped like he was laundering money. Which—given his background—you occasionally worried he was. But the staff didn’t ask questions. The staff had developed a collective, unspoken policy of treating Sylus’ visits with the respectful caution of people who understood that this particular regular could buy the building and was choosing not to out of what appeared to be affection for one specific server.

The teenagers were a mixed bag. Half of them were openly terrified. The other half had developed the most transparent, mortifying crushes you’d ever witnessed, which Sylus navigated with the lazy amusement of a large predator watching smaller creatures attempt to bring him offerings. One of your teenage bussers once left a mint on his table with a smiley face drawn on the wrapper, and Sylus pocketed it without comment, and you watched a sixteen year old nearly ascend to another plane of existence.

He knew your staff. Not by effort—by intelligence. The man ran a criminal organization; he could memorize the name, shift pattern, and temperament of a twelve-person restaurant crew in his sleep. He knew which cook to compliment to get your food out faster. He knew which server was skimming tips. He told you about that last one privately, because he didn’t involve himself in things that weren’t his business unless they affected you, and someone stealing from your tip pool very much affected you.

The period situation was handled before you even realized it needed handling.

You’d texted the twins—because some things were embarrassing even when your boyfriend never made you feel embarrassed—that you were having a rough day. Cramps. Didn’t want to call in because you needed the hours.

Twenty minutes later, Luke texted back. In your work locker, you found a heating pad that was somehow already warm, a thermos of something that smelled like ginger and honey, imported painkillers you’d never seen before that turned out to work twice as fast as anything over the counter, and a note in handwriting that was elegant and unbothered and entirely Sylus.

Take these. Finish your shift if you insist. I’ll be in the parking lot at closing.

—S

p.s. If your manager gives you trouble, give him my number. I’d enjoy that conversation.

Your manager did not give you trouble. Your manager had never given you trouble. Your manager had once seen Sylus hold a door open for you and had immediately restructured the schedule to give you every holiday you’d ever requested off.

You finished your shift. He was in the parking lot, leaning against the car, arms crossed.

“You didn’t have to do all that, Sy.”

“Get in the car, sweetie.” he opened the door for you. “I made reservations.”

“Sylus, I work in a restaurant. I don’t want to eat in another—”

“Not at a restaurant. At home. I cooked.” the smirk softened into something quieter. “You’ve been on your feet for nine hours. Sit down and let someone take care of you for once.”

You got in the car, and let him.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

🏷️: @aiycnlyme, @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @youkoden, @w0ndert1nk, @deadlyskepticalnightmare, @2affectionate4z, @daisybbyxx, @kokoa21, @imaginationofafan

🔗 - comment to be added to the taglist for future fics. comments, reblogs and likes are very appreciated! ♡

[wickedbubbles]

As a former server/hostess who hated it. I need them, your honor. 🤭

[toruuholic]

18+ owner!nanami cockwarming his bunny girl ❪ req ❫

nanami’s office is quiet except for the low hum of his laptop and the occasional scratch of his pen. you’re curled in his lap, knees tucked on either side of his hips, your soft bunny ears twitching every time his cock twitches inside you.

he’s buried to the hilt, thick and warm and unmoving, stretching you open so perfectly you can’t help the tiny, helpless sounds that slip from your throat. your fluffy tail fluffs up against his thigh, fingers curling into his shirt every time you shift.

“easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-smooth, one large hand stroking slow circles over the base of your spine. “just keep me warm while i finish this report.”

you whimper, clenching around him involuntarily, and bury your face deeper into his chest. “k-ken—s’too full… feels so gooood—”

he hisses through his teeth, fingers tightening on your hip for a second before relaxing again.

“uh huh,” his thumb traces the sensitive spot right behind your ear, making your ears flop and your hips jerk. “you’ve been needy all day, haven’t you?”

you nod against his chest, nose pressing into the crisp fabric of his tie, breathing in the clean scent of sandalwood and coffee. your walls flutter around his cock again and he lets out a soft, shaky breath, free hand sliding up to cup the back of your head.

“h-haa… so warm ‘n full…”

nanami’s breath catches, free hand sliding up to cup the back of your head as he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, lips brushing velvet-soft fur of your ears.

“shhh, i know, bun. i know it feels good.” he mutters against your hair, hand sliding down the arching length of your back to settle just above your ass. “just a little longer. let me spoil you like this… almost done, okay?”

you mewl, hips rocking the tiniest bit, and he chuckles—low, fond, utterly gone for you.

“so greedy today,” he whispers, but there’s no scolding in it, only warmth. his cock pulses inside you and you both moan quietly. “my perfect girl… taking me so well while i work, hm? yeah, you are, bunny. you’re making it so hard to concentrate, you know that?”

another slow stroke along your tail, fingers gentle as they pet the fluffy puff. you arch into the touch, pussy clenching tight around his length, and kento’s pen finally stills.

he leans back in his chair, pulling you closer until your chest is flush to his, lips brushing the shell of your twitching ear.

“always feels so good,” he breathes, voice gone rough at the edges. “so warm and soft… all mine.”

you nuzzle into his neck, whimpering his name like a prayer, and he smiles against your hair—sweet, helpless, completely down bad.

“just a few more minutes, baby. then i’ll take care of you properly… promise.”

he just holds you tighter, smiling at every soft sound, like he could stay like this forever and be the happiest man alive. your fluffy tail twitches happily as you melt into him with another long, drawn-out whine.

“mmmmm… love you…”

“love you too, sweetheart.”

i heart hybrid aus + experiments with a diff layout >_<

[wickedbubbles]

[cheriefrosting]

Up for a joyride? | Pornstar!Sylus Headcannons

Warnings: nonmc!reader x sylus, sylus and reader are both pornstars, portrayal of the industry could be inaccurate, oral (both receiving), mentions of nelson, doggy, cowgirl, mdni. Word Count: idk, I was ovulating

Pornstar!Sylus who is revered and a consistent fan favorite with a huge fanbase of women and men of all ages.

Pornstar!Sylus who is almost a veteran in the field for the amount of time he's been in the industry.

Pornstar!Sylus whose performance almost always leave all his co-stars in love with him by the time he pulls out of them.

Pornstar!Sylus who has a dedicated wall of fame for all his contribution to the industry.

Pornstar!Sylus who is a one-of-a-kind of professional in a taboo field that gets luxury brand deals and is the face/ambassador of multiple brands.

Pornstar!Sylus who doesn't treat his profession as a hobby, is dedicated to the content he puts out and first and foremost, always committed to ensuring his female co-stars are comfortable around him.

Pornstar!Sylus who researches his partners prior to shooting with them, understands their preferences and discusses all the parameters in advance.

Pornstar!Sylus who watches from his seat as you walk on set, greeting everyone as your personal crew gets to work, brimming with a silent confidence despite your image as a shy pillow princess.

Pornstar!Sylus who unfolds from his seat and stands to his full height, towering over you as you offer him a demure smile, greeting him respectfully but with clear enthusiasm in your tone as you tell him you've been looking forward to working with him.

Pornstar!Sylus who is entranced by the curls in your hair, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, your petite profile that seems dwarfed in comparison to him, your head barely reaching his shoulders.

Pornstar!Sylus who is hellbent on breaking your goodie two shoes, girl-next door persona and bring out the real she-devil he knows you're hiding.

Pornstar!Sylus who spends his entire night scrolling through your profile completely and watching every single video, unashamed about the cock he's been fisting the entire time.

Pornstar!Sylus who becomes obsessed with the way your tits bounce when you're being fucked within an inch of your life. His laser focus is zeroed in on how pretty you bruise, how your back arches to take your partner to the hilt, the way your mouth falls open when you're close, the sounds you make when you come, how enticing you look with cum splattered all over you.

Pornstar!Sylus who has a strict policy of never cumming on his partner's face feels his resolve waver when you smile at him across the room next day, your robe dropping to reveal the tiny number you're wearing.

Pornstar!Sylus who goes over the script with you, reminding you what the safe word is and that you're allowed to call the whole thing quits at any time.

Pornstar!Sylus who is instantly hard the moment the cameras are rolling and you step into view.

Sylus hates porn without plot. As someone whose entire livelihood depended on it, he was committed to the art of shooting a good adult film.

The current plot that he was playing out with you was a tale as old as time. Infidelity as revenge on your husband with your husband's rival. You show up at his hotel room, dressed slutty with your hair mussed up, makeup messy and heels so high, it's a miracle how you're standing steady on them. Meanwhile, Sylus didn't even bother dressing up for his part. Showed up in clothes he owned, ever the brand ambassador for his immaculate product placements even in a porno.

The plot is progressing steadily, you're in his lap squirming, playing the part of the unsure wife to perfection as he lifts the hem of your dress to explore underneath.

Pornstar!Sylus who is glad his face was covered by your voluminous hair when his fingers glide against your soaking folds, no barrier keeping him away.

Pornstar!Sylus who plays along, calls you a dirty girl for acting so slutty and showing up to his hotel room without any underwear, before he rises from the chair with you in his arms and tosses you on the bed.

You bounce on the mattress, about to sit up but Sylus is already on you, kissing you so hard that your brain short circuits almost immediately. While pornos also followed a certain script and had pre-decided positions, the directors also gave leeway for creative freedom for the sake of realism.

Sylus' is bunching your dress up to your waist, his tongue is in your mouth and his body weight is pressing you down in the most delicious way that has your juices gushing out of you and he's not even touched you there yet.

But with the way you're panting, trying to rub off on his leg, he can tell. His smirk is prominent against your mouth as his fingers glide down your belly and hover above your landing strip "What a desperate little kitten" He murmurs into your skin, his knee finding the juncture between your thighs and pressing down at the exact spot that makes you buck up, mouth falling open.

Pornstar!Sylus' instant stardom was thanks to the title he had earned early on in his career. Olympic-level eater.

Pornstar!Sylus has never skipped on eating out any of his partners. He's had multiple videos made just to teach the art of going down on someone. He has an immaculate track record of getting his partners to cum on his tongue before they fall apart on his cock. As he kneels on the bed and throws your legs over his shoulders before diving in, he's devoted to maintaining his record.

Pornstar!Sylus doesn't account for the fact that he might end up addicted. Something about the way you forget your demure persona for a moment, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and grinding against his mouth, making his nose bump against your clit with every move, Sylus fears that he's hooked.

Pornstar!Sylus is tearing your flimsy dress off you while you lay spent after he tore two orgasms out of you in the span of ten minutes. As a pornstar with a PhD in Vibratorology, it's a feat even you find difficult most times.

Pornstar!Sylus is stretching you out with his fingers to accommodate his size, talking filth that was lying between praise for taking him so well and insults for being a whore for a man her husband hates.

Pornstar!Sylus is convinced he's died and gone to heaven the first time you wrap your lips around his cock and take his entire length down your throat as far as you can. Even with the most skilled partners he's had, they take their time and do it inch by excruciating inch. With the way your throat was suctioning his cock, he's certain you're trying to get him to meet his maker.

Pornstar!Sylus pulls you off him right before he prematurely ends up shooting his load into you and ruining the entire shoot. You let go with a pop, lips glistening with his pre, mascara running down your face from the overstimulation and from your jaw aching to cater to his size.

Pornstar!Sylus has you pressed into a Nelson from the get-go, giving you no room to catch your breath as he thrusts relentlessly into you, not letting you take your time to adjust or giving you any leeway to move, pressing his forehead to yours and watching with a twisted satisfaction as you start crying in earnest.

Pornstar!Sylus would need a crane dispatched to be lifted off of you because he's a man possessed as he rubs at your clit incessantly, not letting you tap out till he's made you squirt.

Pornstar!Sylus who flips you onto your stomach the moment you've showered him in your juices, soaking his entire front and the bedspread but he is unbothered, lifting your hips up and pressing you face down as he begins rutting into you like an animal in heat, chasing his own release.

You've been shooting for nearly 80 minutes without a break, you're dehydrated and spent in the best way possible. You'd heard rumors about how good Sylus was, fellow costars giggling about how they loved the experience with him most, how he acted like he was your real lover and you'd believed it all to be hearsay.

But the moment you think you're done, Sylus is pulling you on top of him, spanking your already bruised ass as you easily slide onto his rock-hard length. The fact that he could go multiple rounds with such less recuperation time was a true testament to his stamina and hard work.

"Didn't you say you were up for a joyride later?" He's whispering against your throat, kissing it slowly, almost reverently. It was such a far cry from how he'd fucked you in the previous hour, his crimson eyes gleaming with devilry.

Even though you weren't from the big leagues like Sylus was, you had a dedicated fanbase from your days of being a camgirl. But the innocent, shy girl persona that you had in your early years had been almost impossible to shake off. Everyone wanted the compliant girl, who lay there and let herself be manhandled. Not once, had any of your previous partners agreed to let you be on top- in charge.

As you started moving your hips in 8-figure movements, Sylus groaned deep in his throat before tugging you forward and kissing your bitten and swollen lips. He'd manhandled you too but for once, it had felt like it was on your terms. Like your entire purpose wasn't to sit there and take it, like you'd actively participated. You'd fucked him just as much as he had you.

Your hands are on his knees behind you, leisurely bouncing your hips as Sylus bites yet another hickey into your breast, the blood blooming almost instantly. Baring your teeth, your lips close around his nipple, already donning bitemarks from earlier, ever since you'd discovered he was sensitive there. When you finally start fucking him in earnest, he stands at attention, cock rock-hard inside you as he holds your arms trapped while broken moans escape you.

It is only when he ends up cumming at the same time as you, do your movements slow. When you both fall to the bed after the director calls cut, you're laughing to yourself and Sylus is smiling. Neither of you bring up how cowgirl wasn't on the list of approved positions.

Pornstar!Sylus keeps up with his habit of sending an aftercare package and flowers to his partners. His team is used to it. He's known for it. What he's not known for is giving specific instructions to deliver roses. What he has clocked as your signature scent.

Your crew is fawning over the flowers and the expensive products in the gift package as you twirl the card that had been sent with it. One you'd plucked out before anyone could see it. Also something Sylus isn't known for.

You're rereading his tiny note, your gaze that has gone over the numbers so many times that you've memorized them. That and the swirl of the S from where he's signed his name underneath.

When your crew finally packs up and checks out of the hotel, the flowers are left by the windowsill.

And the card's remains lay in the dying embers of the fireplace. His phone number and invitation long forgotten.

A/N: Not the reader Carolyn Besseting him. ANYWAYS-

[wickedbubbles]

WAIIIIIT- WAIT A MINUTE! WAIT A MINUTE!! 😭🏃🏽‍♀️

[sacratiti]

nanami giving backshots for the first time...

the man has always prided himself on being a doting partner.

that's why he likes missionary, or lotus position, where he can see the pretty face he fell in love with. he'd never refer to lovemaking as 'smashing' or 'pounding'; it's too vulgar, too immature. your pleasure, and being the cause of that pleasure, is his favorite part of intimacy.

so it's a shocker when your caring, sweet husband is giving you the roughest fucking of your life. and from behind, no less.

"ah-nana! 's too big, too big!" every syllable is accentuated by him knocking into you, hips drilling into your plush ass. "you take it every night, baby," he coos, voice still gentle despite his juxtaposing motions. if he weren't as nice, he'd be smacking your ass by now.

"don't complain because it's a different position." the thought of a feeble rebuttal is fucked out before you can make it. that long, curved cock is nearly hitting your pretty cervix, making your freshly manicured toes curl in pleasure.

back arched in doggy, he has a pillow under your pelvis, making his cock hit even deeper. it's relentless, deadset on making you cum as hard and fast as possible.

missionary allows for more connection, lets you know his next move. there's none of that in this position. only embarrassing, loud sobs from your throat and squelching from your gushing pussy filling the shared bedroom.

"ohmygod, so fucking tight," he groans, baritone turning you on even more. he can't lie, the angle is amazing. hot ropes are threatening to spill out too early, fill up your hole till you're stuffed.

"mm, nana! gonna make me cum, no more!" unfortunately for you, your moans only spur him on, begging him to fuck you harder. "you wanna cum?" he asks, mouth now right in the crook of your neck. "yes please," you whimper over and over, incoherent. "then look at me."

hands are tangling in your hair before you know it, wrapping around like a leash as your neck is craned back. two dark, half lidded hazel eyes meet with yours. contrary to his, yours are rolling back, weakly trying to look at him. "come on, look at me, pretty girl."

pretty girl. that nickname that's had you creaming on him more times than you can count. like every time, it works.

"fuck, nana! i'm cumming, i'm cumming!" on command, his hips speed up, desperately trying to stay inside of your tightening pussy. "don't stop." he knows you won't, not with the mind blowing fuck he's giving. it's to dominate, to show you that you'll do it as long as he says.

overstimulated, you crumple onto the mattress, legs splayed wide for your husband. his ring is glinting in the low light of the bedside lamp, a reminder of who you belong to. like the gentleman he is, he's holding you up by his grip on your hair, back still arched perfectly.

your eyes roll back again with the feeling of your orgasm, intense and long. your eyes are squeezed shut, the only way you can bare the pleasure. his hips, his cock, hands, muscles, him, it's all you can feel. it's familiar yet overwhelming. there's a new sensation, though, and it's not nanami's cum.

streams of slick and cream are running down your thighs, coating nanami's balls. the added wetness feels delicious on your clit, his full sack smacking into it without fail. his head tilts back, golden tresses falling onto his face with a low moan, the one he lets out when he's close.

"fuck, it's pushing me out!-" not a thrust later, his entire cock is out of your pussy, settling onto your sore ass. with the way you're shaking, ass jiggling too, he can't help that he cums then and there.

white, warm cum spurts out of his dick like water to a sprinkler. the sight of it covering your skin nearly makes his eyes cross. without thinking, he's thrusting into your cheeks, rubbing his mess all over them.

"nana! you're being gross," you whine, barely regaining your senses. amusement graces his features. not that you can tell, though. his hand left your hair the second you squirted.

"i'm sorry, darling. this ass is just too fucking sexy." he gives the doughy flesh a pinch in apology. his eyes crinkle, smiling at the yelp you give.

"you were supposed to come inside, y'know," you say, muttering. "doggy feels better for guys, at least i think." the bed dips as he lays on his side, eyes level with yours. "as long as i have my beautiful wife, i'm satisfied." you roll your eyes.

there's a beat of silence. it's broken by nanami, even though he'd prefer no talking. "darling?" "hhm, nana?"

"if you want it inside that bad, we can always go again."

[c1nnam0roll-08]

✧DADDY'S HOME ｡･:*˚:✧｡

✧Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x fem!reader

✧Synopsis: The hot single dad, Toji Fushiguro, needs someone to watch his baby while he goes out on missions. You, the college student down on her luck, needs some extra cash. What was meant to be a strictly mutually beneficial arrangement, quickly gets complicated when the older man can’t keep his dirty thoughts and wandering eyes in check. 

✧Content Warnings: age gap, baby megumi, daddy kink (sorry), oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding kink (if you squint), rough sex, running from it, multiple orgasms, squirting, pet names, lowkey abuse of power, dacryphilia (if you squint), masturbation, folding under no pressure, slight canon divergence, Toji is a bum (duh)

✧Word Count: 6.1k (sorry)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅

The loud bell rings as you walk into the run-down ramen restaurant. You’re already annoyed, getting ready to spend your last bit of money just to eat for the day. You shuffle up to the counter, quietly counting out your spare change when a string of soft babbles catches your attention. 

Glancing around, you search for its source—your heart warms when you lock eyes with the cutest baby you’ve ever seen. He beams at you, all gummy smiles and bright eyes, perched on the shoulders of who you assume is his father. His chubby hand reaches out to you with a wave. You can’t help but smile back at the little munchkin before turning back to the counter to place your order.

“Oh shit- I’m sorry-“ you’re recounting your change over and over only to find out that you’re short a couple hundred yen. “Don’t worry about it- I’ll just go.” you flash the worker an apologetic smile before turning to leave—you bump into a solid chest, letting out a quiet squeal before looking up to excuse your clumsiness.

“Too broke for food?” the man asks, who you quickly realize is the father of the baby who had been ogling you earlier. The child is perched on his hip giggling at you. 

“Uhm- yeah, college tuition, y’know-“ you laugh off your own awkwardness before moving to leave, but a harsh tug on your hair pulls you right back. 

“Heh- sorry about him, just misses his mom I guess-“ the man mumbles, before unlatching his son’s hand from your hair. “Sit down, I’ll get you something.” he says firmly, leaving you no room to protest. 

You reluctantly move to the man’s table and take a seat, mouth watering as you await his return with your precious meal. You haphazardly glance around the run-down restaurant before you settle for watching the horse race on the box TV. You jolt when a bowl of ramen is placed in front of you, your savior moving to sit down next to you. 

“Thank you-“ you hesitate, waiting for him to give you a name.

“Toji.”

“Toji, you really didn’t have to do this.” you say gratefully before digging in, your growling stomach becoming increasingly uncomfortable. 

“Don’t worry about it, It’ll all come back to me soon enough.” Toji says, his eyes locked on the horse race, a ticket in between his fingers. 

A gambler, then.

“What’s his name?” you ask, referring to the smiley baby that’s still reaching for you, wriggling in his dad’s arms. 

“Megumi.” Toji answers, still watching the race before his phone rings. “Sorry, I gotta take this, could you hold him for me?” He quickly hands Megumi over to you before you can even answer, standing up and walking out the building. 

What the hell?

You huff, accepting your fate as you rest the baby on your lap—you practically inhale the rest of your meal while fighting off grubby hands. 

“Your dad is a pretty weird guy, huh?” you ask the baby, not expecting an answer but what else can you do to pass the time? Megumi just babbles in response, bouncing happily on your lap. His black, spiky hair tickles your neck as he pushes off your shoulder to stand wobbly on your knees, looking behind you in search of his dad. 

“Sorry about that, work was calling.” Toji strides back in, sitting next to you again. He rests his face in his palm as he looks between you and his son. Megumi is nuzzling against your shirt, yawning tiredly. “He likes you.” he says simply, gaze never wavering. 

You can only nod as you take in Toji’s striking looks—tired eyes, silky black hair that falls over his forehead, and the scar across his lip. He looks dangerous- hot, but dangerous nonetheless. 

“What do you do for work?” you ask, trying to strike conversation. Toji doesn’t answer right away, clearly thinking before he speaks. 

“Odd jobs.” 

“Hmm- so mysterious for what?” you laugh it off, slightly skeptical about whether or not you should be talking to the guy. 

“What do you do for work?” he counters, voice slightly bored. 

“I was fired. Too busy with school to make it on time for every shift.” you answer, slightly embarrassed but he doesn’t look like the most successful guy either. 

Toji just looks at you, deep in thought as you gently bounce the now sleeping baby in your lap. 

“You need another job?” he starts, like he’s about to offer you something. 

“What kind of question is that-“ you choke on a loud laugh when you remember the sleeping baby on your lap. “I can’t even afford food right now.” your voice back down to a quiet mumble. 

“You wanna watch Megumi for me?” he offers sincerely before elaborating. “I’ll pay you for it—the kid likes you anyways and I have nowhere else to take him, I’ve got a big job coming up.” 

“I’m sorry- but, I don’t even know you. And why would you trust me with your kid?” you’re in disbelief at his bold proposition. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I’m sure you know that too.” Toji just huffs, you can tell he’s getting impatient. 

You pause to think for a moment. He is right, you won’t be able to eat at this rate, never mind affording student housing. If Toji pays you enough, assuming you’re watching Megumi for him for a large majority of the time, you could have enough money to get back on your feet—at least until the semester is over and you can work again. But what kind of lousy dad does he have to be to even consider this? 

“Fine. Where would I be watching him, and for how long?” you ask, trying to gauge how much work this is going to be. 

“You can stay at mine or yours, doesn’t really matter to me, just keep the kid alive and well.” He's got a subtle smirk on his face now, looking you up and down. “You’ll have to stop by and get his bottles, diapers, and whatnot anyhow, might be easier to stay at mine but up to you. This job could take a few days.” 

You don’t really want a crying baby in the dorms, the thought of dealing with the complaints and questions is already stressing you out. 

“I guess yours is fine. I’ll need the address though-“ 

“Give me your phone.” 

You sigh before reaching into your pocket, pulling out your shitty flip phone and handing it over. Toji snatches it and saves his number to it, texting the address and handing it back to you—your hands brushing for a moment before you grab it from him.

“Come over tomorrow night, I’m leaving early the next morning.” he grumbles, reaching out to grab his sleeping son from you. 

“Okay, but I have a lecture the morning you leave-“ you start, gently transferring Megumi back into his father’s arms. “I don’t know what I should do with him.” 

“Skip it, or take him with you-“ he pauses to look at his son, a small smile flits across his lips—its barely there, but you catch it. “If he’s tired enough, he’ll sleep through the whole thing. Do what you will with that.” he says, standing up to leave. 

Talk about a crazy job interview.

The following day, you find yourself outside Toji’s sketchy apartment building—trying to convince yourself that this is a perfectly safe and sane thing to do. But in Toji’s words- "beggars can’t be choosers.” you suppose. 

You’re buzzing with anxiety the whole ride up the shaky elevator, clutching on your overnight bag every time it rocks. You make your way down the smoke stained hallways until you’re face to face with Toji’s front door. Bracing yourself to be murdered, you raise your hand to the door and knock. 

The door doesn’t open, only a fleeting shout of “it’s unlocked!” reaches your ears. When you push the door open, you gape at the state of the place. 

It’s cluttered, to put it lightly—dirty dishes are stacked on the counter, tracks of mud on the floor, baby toys scattered across the living room carpet, and loud rock music is blaring from a fuzzy radio. Toji and Megumi are nowhere in sight so you gently close the door behind you, take your shoes off and move further into the apartment in search of your new employer. 

“Toji?” 

You round the corner to the hallway, passing by a couple closed doors until you reach the bathroom—the door is wide open and the lights are on, small splashing sounds and babbles can be heard from inside. 

Toji is bathing the chubby baby with a scowl etched on his face—his sweater is soaked with water and the floor is wet. You can’t help but laugh at the sight until you realize that this is exactly what you’ll be dealing with over the weekend.  

Megumi’s devious behavior is halted the second he sees you in the doorway, that same gummy smile washing over his features. Toji sighs in relief once his son finally stops squirming and splashing—he turns his head to look at you like you were an angel that came to save him from the pits of hell. 

“Thank fuck-“ he groans before lifting Megumi from the water and wrapping him in a towel. “Little miss babysitter is here to take you from me.” he jokes, planting a kiss on his son's wet forehead. 

You hardly get the chance to set your bags down before Megumi is shoved into your arms, Toji already bending to grab your luggage and carrying it off into one of the rooms down the hall. 

“Hey gumi-“ you coo, brushing his wet hair from his forehead. “your dad is leaving you for a while, I guess you’re probably used to that though?” you giggle at your own joke. 

“The kid is fine.” Toji grumbles from behind you, not amused by your comment. “Your shit is in Megumi’s room, there’s an air mattress on the floor for you.” His hand grazes your back, guiding you down the hall. 

The room is expectedly small—Megumi’s crib pushed against the far wall, your mattress clearly cramped inside the tight space. There’s a basket on the floor with the baby’s clothes in it, and beside that is a large stuffed bunny. 

“Awww- you want the bun-bun, Gumi?” the baby in your arms is reaching for the stuffed toy like it’s life or death. “Let’s get you dressed first, okay?” You kneel to set Megumi on the floor before picking a onesie from the basket. 

“I’m going to bed, gotta leave early-“ Toji says from the doorway, eyes trained on your maternal display. “There’s some cash on the counter, should last you for the days I’m gone-“ he pauses again, holding his breath, shocked by the unforeseen tightening of his pants. “Megumi’s formula is somewhere in the cupboards- I’m sure you’ll find it-“ you’re still occupied with his son, giving light nods of your head to let him know that you’re listening. “Make sure to lock the doors and whatnot-“ he trails off, lips parted when you pick up the now clothed baby moving to sit next to the bunny in the corner. 

“Cool, thanks-“ you pause to set down his son next to the plush. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” you’re looking at Toji now, a reassuring smile on your face. “As long as you pay me, I’ll make sure Megumi doesn’t die.” you joke, warm giggles radiating throughout the small room. 

Toji can’t breathe.

“You okay, old man?” 

“Shut up- I’m only twenty-eight.” he grumbles, quickly recovering from his stupor to defend himself. 

“Older than me- heh- you probably wish you were nineteen again.” you’re still giggling, unaware that Toji is trying to shoot his own dick off for having the hots for a damn teenager. 

“Yeah, no- I’m going to bed-“ he rolls his eyes, turning around to leave before saying one last thing. “Thanks for your help, doll.” he says, leaving the doorway and walking down the hall.

“Goodnight, Toji.” you call before he closes his bedroom door.

You nearly have to slap away the heat rising to your cheeks—the pet name caught you seriously off guard. But luckily for you there is a distraction in the form of a babbling baby right next to you. 

“I think it’s time to put you down, Gumi.” you sigh, easily catching on to Megumi’s drowsiness. He’s yawning, cuddling up to the stuffed rabbit, eyelids heavy. 

You pick the baby up, laying him on your chest and start rubbing his back to soothe him. After a few minutes, soft snores reach your ears and drool stains your shirt. You carefully stand up, moving over to his crib and gently lay him down. You let out a breath of relief when Megumi doesn’t stir. You guess Toji’s bit about his son being a heavy sleeper is true. 

A room over, Toji is standing under ice cold water—becoming increasingly annoyed when his erection doesn’t calm down like he had hoped. He groans before reluctantly reaching down to fist his strained dick. For some unknown reason, the nineteen year old babysitter he met yesterday being all motherly to his kid was really reminding him of his year long celibacy. 

Toji would have preferred not to jerk off to a random girl who’s putting his son to bed next door, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

This bounty better get his head on straight before he comes back.

You groan when you awake to loud cries right next to you—Megumi is holding on to the bars of his crib and wailing. You look to the alarm clock on the windowsill- 

4am

“What’s wrong, Gumi?” you’re quick to stand up and hover over the baby’s crib. “Are you hungry or something?” you reach in to grab him, placing the crying child on your hip before walking outside to the kitchen. 

You scour through the cabinets until you find the formula—it’s then that you realize that you have no idea how to make a bottle. You’re gonna have to wake Toji, if he’s still even here? Just as you’re about to make your way over to his bedroom door, Toji walks out and you swear your jaw hits the damn floor. 

That ratty sweater of his must be deceiving because what you’re looking at right now is not what you expected. His tight black compression shirt does little to hide his built frame—highlighting his biceps the size of your head, and the faint outline of his defined abs show through the fabric. You must have been staring for a beat too long because the crying baby breaks the silence with a loud shriek.

“Uhm- I’m sorry I-“ you’re shameless gawking had wiped all thoughts from your head it seemed. “I don’t know how to warm Megumi’s bottle-“ you’re rambling, tripping over your words. “If he’s even hungry-“

“Relax.” 

Toji is making his way to the kitchen before you can even blink—you watch intently as he measures some of the formula before mixing it with warm water in the bottle, he shakes it with his finger blocking the nipple. Then he turns on the tap to the hottest it will go and lets the bottle sit under the steaming water for about thirty seconds. 

“Thank you. I should’ve asked you to show me earlier.” you apologize before taking the bottle from his extended hand. 

“Don’t worry about it.” he says, gaze lingering as you cradle Megumi and bring the nipple of the bottle to his mouth. The baby’s wailing is silenced the second he takes his first big gulp.

“Isn’t he a little old for bottles though?” you ask sincerely, considering you assume Megumi to be about a year old. 

“I’ve been meaning to wean him off of them but it’s just more convenient and less messy.” he answers simply, eyes still trained on you. You hum, moving to sit down on the squeaky bar stool by the counter. 

“Don’t you have an odd job to get to?” you giggle, raising your gaze to look at him, locking eyes. 

“Shit- yea I do-“ your comment snapping him out of his trance. “I should be back in a couple days-“ he turns to look at the time before groaning. “Lock the-“

“Lock the doors, yea, yea.” you finish his sentence for him, prying the bottle from Megumi’s lips and sitting him up in your lap. “Wave bye, bye to daddy.” you take his son’s hand in your own and raise it in a mock wave. 

Daddy. 

Hearing that word from your lips has his pants tightening all over again. You’re trouble. This bounty needs to knock some sense into him. Toji basically sprints out the door without looking back. 

“Damn, guess daddy didn’t wanna wave back.” You joke, looking down at the hiccupping baby on your knee. 

You had managed to sleep for the remaining hours before your morning lecture, believe it or not. And just like Toji said, Megumi dozed for the whole duration of it. You got the odd compliment on his chubby cheeks and a fair amount of questions but it went smoothly for the most part. 

You half expected Toji to be texting you about his son’s well being, but got nothing but radio silence. Not that you’re surprised, although you tried to be optimistic about his parenting. 

Once you get back to Toji’s apartment, you’re relieved by the fact that it’s now officially the weekend. Not that you could party or anything—you’ll be playing housewife, but you find yourself being okay with that considering that you’re warming up to baby Megumi. 

You’re starting to hope that this won’t be a one-time thing, especially if Toji ends up paying you well. You like your little role as babysitter, and the fact that Megumi’s dad is nearly as cute as he is has nothing to do with it, you swear! 

The weekend rolls by with very few hitches. Sure, Megumi had his moments—there were a few diaper mishaps and some dramatic crying but he was well behaved, for a baby at least. 

It wasn’t until “mama” slipped into Megumi’s vocabulary that you started to worry. That was a serious problem—you dreaded the moment he might say it in front of his father when he returned to release you from your duties. You weren’t his mother, and you weren’t involved with his dad either.

You had tried to get Megumi to start saying “dada” instead, but he would always respond with the dreadful “mama”—pointing to you every time. You were just a broke college student filling in as a babysitter for the weekend, but apparently to Megumi you were his long lost mommy. 

By the time Sunday rolled around, you were awaiting Toji’s return. Not that he had given a specific day or time he’d be back, but you had assumed that the approximate time was coming to an end. You had waited all day, tending to Megumi’s needs and playing with him until the both of you were exhausted. 

You had passed out on the couch with Megumi asleep on your chest when Toji finally made it back. You didn’t hear the door open or feel Megumi being lifted off of you. It wasn’t until you heard a small cry of “mama” coming from the hallway that you stirred. 

“Gumi?” you call, voice slightly hoarse. You rub the sleep from your eyes, jolting when the couch dips from the weight of Toji sitting by your feet. 

“He’s in his room. He’s fine.” his gruff voice assuring you of the baby’s safety. 

“What time is it?” you ask, moving to sit up.

“Midnight.” 

“Okay, I guess I’ll get going.” you try to stand up but Toji grabs your hips and sits you back down—with a little more force than you would have liked.

“Don’t bother, it’s too late. You can go in the morning.” he’s looking at you now, holding you in place with his intense gaze. 

Now that you’re really looking at him, you notice a small gash on his forehead—blood drips from the wound, soaking his brow in red. Your face contorts with concern and your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself. 

“What happened?” you ask. You knew that Toji probably had a dangerous job but this is physical proof. 

“Nothing.” he grunts, leaning further back into the couch. 

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But you still need to clean it.” you say, rising to your feet and striding to the kitchen to wet a cloth. 

“M’fine, doll.” he’s insistent as you stand in front of him with the fabric in hand.

“Don’t care.” you lean down to tilt his head towards you. He scowls as you wipe the blood from his forehead—he lets you fuss over him with a strange willingness despite his earlier dismissal. 

His head still isn’t on straight, evidently.

But how could it be when you’re leaning over him— soft tits spilling from your tank top, cleaning his wound with a dedicated focus only a mother could have. 

“Mama, huh?” 

You freeze. Instant embarrassment washing over your body as your face goes blank. You forgot that Megumi had called you that when he was taken from you. This is bad. 

“I- I’m sorry-“ your gentle rubbing on his forehead stops as you stutter out an apology. “I tried to get him to stop saying it-“ you’re buzzing with nervousness, your heart beating far too fast. 

“Don’t blame him-“ his hands raise to rub invasive but comforting circles on the sides of your thighs. “I’d do the same if I had a pretty girl taking care of me-“ he huffs a low laugh. “Gets it from his dad.” his suggestive joke shocks both you and himself. 

If you thought your heart was beating out of your chest before, then you’d be mistaken. 

“Oh, so I’m pretty?” you tease, a small smile flitting across your lips. You continue cleaning his gash with a newfound confidence. 

“Something like that.” he smirks in return, his hands on your thighs moving up to your hips. 

“Watch it, old man-“ you grip his jaw, turning his head to get a closer look at his wound. “I’m just a babysitter y’know-“ you brush some hair away from his forehead. “And you’re a daddy.” you whisper, slightly unaware of the effects resulting from your choice of words. 

“Christ- you can’t say shit like that, doll.” Toji groans, his grip on your hips nearly bruising.

“Huh? Why not? It’s true, you have a kid.” you giggle, still choosing to play innocent. 

“You get a kick out of teasing men a decade older than you or something?” he winces slightly when you pull the rag away from his wound and set it down on the coffee table. 

“Not particularly, but I suppose you’re good looking enough to warrant it.” your heart hammers in your chest as you dare to settle on Toji’s lap. 

Any ounce left of Toji’s self control flies out the window.

“That desperate for me, doll?” he lets you climb on his lap, his hands move from your hips to your waist and squeezes. He has to bite back a groan when your core presses flush to the bulge in his pants.

“Maybe-“ you throw your arms around his neck, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “But you still haven’t paid me for childcare yet.” you giggle, a nervous smile on your face from your bold musings. 

“You’ll be paid, it just depends on what you’ll take as payment.” Toji’s voice drops an octave with his suggestive comment, looking right into your eyes as he experiments with a slow grind up against your clothed cunt. 

“Mfm- I thought I was getting cash.” you fake pout, leaning your head into the crook of his neck to break the intense eye contact—you didn’t want him to see your flustered face turn red. 

“Mhm- I did say that, but think of this as a tip for your great service.” Toji sinks his fingers into the base of your scalp, pulling you from his shoulder and towards his mouth with a harsh tug. 

Your mouths clash, he wastes no time before he’s shoving his wet tongue down your throat—it’s invasive, it’s dirty. All you can do is yelp in surprise against his mouth, nails running through the sweat slicked hair at the back of his neck. 

Toji’s grip on your waist loosens before he’s moving down to palm your ass, squeezing the fat in handfuls—he’s moving your hips in slow grinds against his painfully hard dick. He pulls away from your lips, a filthy string of saliva connecting your mouths—he’s kissing down your neck, making sure to leave purple bruises in his wake. 

“Shit- I knew having a pretty little thing like you around would be a bad idea-“ he’s breathing against your neck, pausing briefly before licking a filthy stripe up to your jaw. “loving up on my son like he was your own-“ he leaves kisses along your cheeks before pecking your lips.

“Why’d a broke bastard like you buy me food and offer me a job in the same breath-“ you're cut off by your own moan when Toji reaches down to cup your cunt in his large palm. “What was your- mfm- motive, Toji?” 

“Let’s just say I enjoy a good gamble-“ he groans when he feels your slick seep through your pajama pants. “And I knew it was all gonna come back to me-“ his free hand sneaks under your shirt to tease one of your nipples—pinching and squeezing. “In one way or another- heh.” 

You just hum, raising your arms so Toji could take your shirt off—far too horny to dwell on his childish gag and vague motivations. He takes a pebbled nipple into his mouth, suckling on it before biting down lightly. 

“Shit-“ you groan, running your nails through his hair.

You reach into Toji’s pants to free his aching cock, but immediate need washes over you when you see the sheer size of him. Hesitantly, you wrap your hand around his girth (barely encompassing the whole thing) and run your thumb over his glossy tip. 

“Damn, doll-“ his breath hitching as he watched your smaller hand stroke him. 

“Why are you so b-big?” you stutter much to your dismay, Toji’s hand on your cunt suddenly massaging your clit through your pants.

“S’cause I’m a big man, baby.” he says like it’s obvious—which it is, you asked a stupid question. 

He kisses down your sternum, his hands tugging on the waistband of your pajamas—he looks up at you, awaiting permission. You nod, releasing his cock to stand and let him pull your pants and underwear down. 

“Sooo wet, doll-“ he groans as he sucks bruises into your lower tummy, making his way down to your visibly dripping pussy. 

“Fuck-“ you cry out as quiet as possible once Toji takes your swollen clit into his mouth and hollows his cheeks, creating an intense suction that has you weak in the knees. His large hands keep your hips still as you stand in front of him, clawing at his black compression shirt that’s clinging to his sweaty shoulders. 

Loud slurps can be heard coming from between your legs as Toji tortures your poor clit. He grabs the back of one of your knees, pulling it up until your foot rests on the couch cushion next to him—this position reveals the rest of your cunt to the open air, allowing Toji to sink a thick digit inside of you. 

“Oh- what the fuck-“ you whine a little too loud—you’re concerned about waking Megumi until you remember he slept through an entire college lecture. Toji is pumping his finger inside of you at a nearly cruel pace, the suction around your clit never letting up. 

“Keep doing that s-shit and I’ll cum too- ngh- fast!” you feel your tummy tightening with every pound to the spongy spot inside and suckle on your sensitive bud. 

“No such thing as too fast, baby-“ he replaces his mouth with fast flicks of his thumb while he speaks. “And I told you to consider this a tip, remember?” he laughs before diving right back into the mess between your legs. 

“Oh my- god- cumming!” you cry out, hips stuttering, jaw unhinged, and warmth spreading throughout your lower body. 

Toji just groans, slipping a second finger inside of you and nearly doubling in speed. He milks every last second of your orgasm with his superhuman dexterity, catching all of your juices in his greedy mouth. He slaps your ass before pulling away when you start tugging on his hair, urging him to stop. 

“So good for me, doll-“ he places sweet kisses on your raised thigh, rubbing your hips with soothing circles as your lower body jerks a few final times. “pussy tastes so damn sweet.” 

“Please- please fuck me.” you’re panting, but insatiable—desperate to be filled up by the man sitting in front of you. 

“You’re so cute when you ask nicely, baby.” his hand runs back up your thigh, thumb brushing your clit once he reaches the apex. “I wanna hear you ask again.” 

“Please- need to be f-full- please fuck me!” the tight circles on your overstimulated clit abruptly stop, making you whine at the loss. You pout, looking at Toji with confusion.

“I think you’re missing something, doll.” he urges you to try again, you’re already thoroughly embarrassed at this point, so what’s the point in being shy now? 

“Please…daddy?” 

“Ding, ding, ding.” a shit-eating grin overtakes his face—the next thing you know, you’re being thrown over Toji’s massive shoulder and taken to his bedroom down the hall. 

He throws you down, not very gently, on his bed before spreading your legs to look at your sloppy cunt. He admires the view for a few seconds before stripping himself of his blood-stained shirt and pants. 

Your cheeks flush red as you watch him strip—sure, his tight shirt did little to hide his physique but seeing it in the flesh had your poor cunt clenching around nothing. His muscular pecs, sweat glazed abs, and a scruffy black happy trail highlighting his v-line were just appetizers to the main course—the dick nearly the size of your forearm. 

“What if it doesn’t fit?” your horny ignorance from earlier is long gone once he’s on top of you. His cock resting on your tummy, spanning all the way up past your belly button. 

“What happened to all that begging, doll?” he mocks you, gathering slick from your hole and dragging it up to lubricate his dick. “Did the little girl finally realize she should be fucking boys her age and size?” Toji laughs, lining himself up to your cunt and awaiting your verdict. 

“No- no I can take it-“ you cup his face in your hands, bringing him down for a chaste kiss. “Just go slow, please-“ you whisper, hands bracing on his shoulders.

You wince when Toji sinks the first inch inside your tight rings of muscle—the stretch is brutal but you have a point to prove. He spreads your legs further, pushing your knees up to the sides of your tits so he can thrust deeper. 

“So tight, baby-“ he lets out a breath before continuing to plunge in more of his dick. “You gotta let me in, relax.” he lets go of one of your legs to rub at your clit. 

“Mfmm- I’m trying-“ you whimper, grip on his shoulders tightening when he pushes in another brutal inch. He’s so close to bottoming out, he just needs you to go slack. 

“You can do it, doll.” he reassures you, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss, circles on your clit doubling in speed. He bottoms out with a loud groan into your now slack-jawed mouth. 

“Fuck-“ you can feel Toji nudging your cervix with unrelenting pressure, your walls stretched thin to accommodate him. 

You swear you can feel him in your damn lungs.

“There you go-“ he grunts, rolling his hips into yours with a deep grind that makes you mewl. “Taking daddy’s cock so well.” you nearly swat at him for his use of the title but you don’t get the chance—he suddenly pulls all the way out to the tip and slams back in with a single thrust. 

“Oh- fuck!” you nearly scream, a single glossy tear falls down your cheek when he hits the back of your cunt with inexplicable force. You’re clawing for purchase on his back, legs closing around his hips—not entirely sure if you want him to leave or stay. 

“So pretty like this, doll-“ Toji’s eyebrows furrow in pleasure, the scar on his lip quirks to the side in a subtle smile. “Almost as pretty as when you’re taking care of my- ngh- baby-“ the pace of his deep, long thrusts pick up every time he feels you clench around him. 

“You’re s-so deep, Toji- shit!” you don’t think you’re able to breathe anymore, the constant thuds against your g-spot and cervix are quickly becoming too much. You plant your palms on his hard abs, trying to push him away.

“Nuh uh, none of that-“ he pulls out and flips you flat on your tummy before you can even protest—he forces himself back inside with a single languid thrust. “You wanted it, so you’re taking it, baby.” 

Your cries of pleasure are muffled by the pillow that you’re being shoved into—you’re stuck in a mean prone bone, stuffed to the brim. Toji’s entire body is splayed on top of yours, pinning you down and leaving you nowhere to run. 

“Take it for me, doll.” his hips slap against your ass with every pound to your deepest and most hidden spots inside of you. “You can do that, right?” he asks, kissing the top of your head tenderly. 

“Mhmm! Mhmm- I can, daddy!” you’re cock drunk beyond belief, willing to say anything and everything as long as the coil in your belly releases. 

“Can feel you- ngh- squeezing me, baby-“ Toji knows you’re about to cum and he’s not far behind—he sneaks one of his strong arms underneath your to rub your neglected clit in rapid side to side motions. 

“Oh- fuck! M’cumming!” you squeal, hips fucking back to meet Toji’s rough pounds. You shake underneath him like you’re being exorcised, your hand reaching behind you to claw at Toji’s thigh to ground yourself. 

Your juices spray the sheets wet—Toji’s pelvis isn’t safe from your geyser either. All he can do is groan at how hard you’re clamping down on his cock, whispering sweet-nothings in your ear as you come down from your high. Toji rolls his hips in a few more deep grinds before overfilling your pussy with his sticky cum, staining your insides white. 

“God damn, doll-“ he’s panting against the top of your head, hands rubbing up and down the sides of your waist to help you relax. “you okay?” he whispers, in an effort to be considerate.

“Mhmm-“ you whisper back, nodding your head against the pillow. 

Toji pulls out slowly, eyes locked in a trance as he watches his cum leak out of you in creamy dollops. 

“So pretty-“ he groans, spreading your pussy lips apart to see your hole flutter as more and more of his cum drips down your cunt. He brings two fingers up to your pussy, gathering some of his lost seed and pushing it right back in. 

“Ah- M’sensitive-“ you yelp meekly, propping up your upper body to your elbows. 

“Sorry, baby.” he stands from the bed, leaving the room before he returns with a wet cloth to clean you up. It’s the least he could do after you tended to his wound earlier. 

Toji grabs your hips and flips you over on your back—he spreads your legs and wipes away the mess. He throws the rag away behind his back with a dramatic flair that makes you giggle, leaning down to press one last kiss to your lips.

Wailing.

“Shit- Gumi woke up-“ you move to stand but Toji pushes you right back down, not very gently—as per usual. 

“Daddy’s got it-“ he huffs a knowing laugh and winks at you. He pulls on some stray sweats from the floor before he stops in the doorway. “Would the little miss babysitter stay around for a while?” he asks, looking at you from over his broad shoulder. 

“I don’t know, are you gonna pay me?” you giggle.

“I can’t afford that shit-“ he chuckles in return. “free housing and infinite orgasms should be payment enough, doll.” 

(c1nnam0roll-08 / 2026)

[wickedbubbles]

Good lord almighty. This one’s going in my faves EXPEDITIOUSLY.

[eclipses0]

bumping into sylus unexpectedly in linkon city while you’re out with caleb.

caleb stands to the side, arms crossed, watching you guys through the reflection of a cafe window as you exchange pleasantries and fall into an easy, familiar rhythm. 

the back and forth teasing, traded jabs and the lilt of sylus’ voice, which always bordered on flirty, strikes a nerve in caleb.

he scoffs, moving to position himself between you and sylus — he manoeuvres you to stand behind him. 

“hah, funny guy huh. you must be…?”

sylus appears amused, and a little surprised at the sudden interjection. caleb was so heady, nothing like your red eyed friend — rarely bothered by anything. 

“she hasn’t introduced me yet? maybe I’m not as important as i thought i was. your apathy wounds me, kitten.” he replies playfully, directing his words to the only visible part of your figure, your arm, as caleb obscures the rest. 

caleb’s expression falters, his brows flickering in surprise, then furrowing. his head cocks back to you, unmistakably pissed. 

“it’s just a thing he says, it’s stupid. it doesn’t mean anything—” you speak quickly, trying to remedy his growing anger. 

he cuts you off before turning to respond to sylus. he would deal with you later. 

“you’re not from here, are you?” his gaze travels across the silver haired man, assessing him. 

he can’t help but to scowl at his cocky, feline like appearance. 

“i know this city like the back of my hand… and i don’t think i’ve ever seen you.” caleb says skeptically.

“then you must not know it very well.” sylus remarks, a small smirk painting the corner of his lips.

after a long pause, coupled with caleb’s unimpressed, irritated expression, he responds:

“i come here for business, and other pleasures. linkon city is a pretty little place… very befitting for a sheltered little hunter i know.” sylus teases, looking at your arm once more.

caleb swallows roughly at his response. he despised how comfortable this man felt in your presence — how his syrupy words could move, and excite, just about anyone. his mind briefly entertains the idea of this man having gotten you somewhere quiet while he was away, just the two of you, and sweetening you up with his flattering words. the thought causes his breakfast to churn in his stomach.

“you’re awfully familiar with pipsqueak here… i’m not sure how she became acquainted with the likes of you.” caleb deliberately chooses the most provoking words.

“pipsqueak?” sylus repeats, amused by the word. 

“ahh.. i see. so you only let him call you cute names, huh? you hate it when i do it?” he teases, tilting his head, trying to catch a view of your face. 

caleb shifts to cover you again. 

“i didn’t think you were the type of lady who’d accept that kind of nickname, given how opposed you were to all the cute names i gave you — and i gave you many.”

“remind me of who you are again?” caleb’s voice hardens.

“you want to tell him, sweetie? i think he’s getting grumpy”

a low growl erupts from caleb’s lips.

“you know… you should give her a chance to speak. she can be pretty interesting sometimes.” sylus adds.

caleb scoffs incredulously.  

“i don’t need suggestions. i can handle her just fine. i’ve known her since she was a kid. she knows she’s free to do as she pleases.”

“then you should know that she isn’t to be ‘handled’. nor does she enjoy being spoken for, or obscured behind you.”

that does it. caleb laughs in disbelief.

his large reaction attracts the attention of pedestrians who stare at the trio, standing in the middle of the street, bizarrely.

“who the fuck is this guy pip?” he retorts in a combination of amusement, exasperation and astonishment.

you move to stand beside caleb. 

“a friend” you clarify softly. 

“you kept all sorts of people while i wasn’t around, huh?”

he wraps an arm around your shoulder, angling his mouth to your ear

“knowing i couldn’t do anything about it. have fun?” he whispers. 

“guess i did a shitty job of watching over you. don’t worry though, your older brothers here now and he’s going to keep a verrrry close eye on you” he murmurs by your neck. 

you’ve always hated how his words sparked heat between your legs, especially now. 

the arm on your shoulder shifts to your lower back now, rubbing slow, small circles. 

sylus notices and huffs a short, quiet laugh.

“i’ve got matters to attend to. it was nice seeing you sweetheart.” sylus checks the watch on his wrist before caressing your arm briefly. 

“i’ll see you around… and oh, feel free to use my card. you still have the details, right? i never see any charges on it, it’s disappointing.” he muses playfully before walking away. 

that would leave you two with plenty to talk about, long after sylus' departure.

[wickedbubbles]

I’d like to confess: two guys fighting over me is thrilling. But I have 3 holes for a reason.

[etherafayel]

Screwing Pilot Caleb as a flight attendant 

“Good evening… pre-boarding announcement…” 

You claw at the bathroom walls. You try to listen to the intercom outside but your ears are tuning in and out. 

“…Begin boarding soon… Please… Identification ready… Thank you.”

The series of chimes echoes throughout the airport amongst light chatter of those who approach their boarding gates. 

You’re more focused on the nails slightly digging into the skin of your hips. The fat cock being slammed into your pussy from behind repeatedly.

“Did you catch tha- that announcement?” You try to ask between thrusts but he seems to just pick up the pace.

“Nah. No flights are leavin’ without their pilot, are they?” Caleb raises an eyebrow. He suddenly pulls out causing you to whine, loudly.

“Caleeebbbb, why’d you pull out?”

You try and wiggle your hips to have him resume fucking you. The hot mushroom head of his cock drags between your folds and coats everything in his pre-cum.

“I like seeing you squirm,” he says with a grin.

“Not fair, I have a job to get to…”

“Should I send you off like this?” Caleb muses, grabbing a handful of your ass before giving it a smack. You try to shuffle yourself back despite the restraints of your work uniform pooled around your ankles. 

“I’ll never hook up with you again,” you straighten, turning to face him. 

Caleb leans his arm right next to your head, closing the gap between your faces until your noses are touching. 

“Alright, alright. Lesson learned,” Caleb murmurs. He captures your lips with his, his hands making home back onto your hips and he slightly lifts you to rest your back against the wall.

You ever-so gently scratch the nape of his neck as he drags his length against your clit. He groans before fully setting you down on his dick again. It’s so relieving to be full again you could almost cry. 

“That good?” Caleb rasps. His pilot cap tilts down from his head, obstructing his view of you. He’s quick to swipe it away from blocking his eyes and he drops it on your head instead. 

“Good… good, yeah…” You practically babble, cock-drunk from the pilot’s fierce pace. He guides you up and down on his cock, balls slapping against your ass with sharp sounds. 

Every blunt kiss to your g-spot by his cock elicited sounds from you that are way too inappropriate for a public setting. His eyes are fixed on the way your pussy lips hug his length, welcoming every inch inside. 

“Don-… My uniform…” You try to say a coherent sentence but it doesn’t come out that way. His cap on your head jumps with each thrust. 

“I’ll try not to,” Caleb grunts, still understanding what you were trying to say. With a last, more sloppy thrust, he finally gives up his load. His way to not dirty your uniform was to keep his dick inside you as you both finished. Your pussy clenches around him, not wanting to let go.

You both take a moment to catch your breath, just looking at each other.  

Caleb handles you gently as he sets you down and cleans you with some toilet paper in the stall. He pulls your skirt up, fixes your handkerchief and wipes away the smeared lipstick on your face. 

“You have a little something…” You try to point out the lipstick on his skin but it’s far from just a little bit. It’s all over his face and neck. Every smudge of red blended into his tanned skin. 

“I’ll take care of it later,” he says, taking his cap back and fixing it back on his head. He pauses before pecking your lips.

“I’ll see you later then.” 

Caleb leaves the stall, a dishevelled version of the confidently esteemed pilot that entered the airport this morning.

You’ll both have to fix yourselves after that encounter. You couldn’t wait until the next time you could reunite with your favourite pilot.

[wickedbubbles]

HONESTLY?? Biblically Accurate.

[wickedbubbles]

Happy Anniversary to this blog! 🥰🥳

[wickedbubbles]

Re-read some of my old written scenes for various WIP’s today. All I remember thinking was, “I used to write like this? Oh my god.”

[lilacgrayskies]

☁︎⋅ (18+) caleb fucking your thighs

your legs were thrown over his shoulder, your thighs pressed together as caleb rutted into them. your panties were drenched with your arousal, his cock brushing against your clit. it was wrong, your gege shouldn’t be touching you like this, but you were drowning too deep in arousal to protest.

caleb’s room reeked of cum. you had came in because you were having trouble sleeping, only to find caleb jerking off his cock and moaning your name. being the good meimei you were, you offered to help him. 

the necklace around his neck, the one you had gifted him, brushed against your calf. the cool metal was a sharp contrast to your burning flesh. 

your breasts bounced with each thrust, caleb was entranced by the sight. you looked down to see his dick poking out from between your thighs. he let out small whimpers and whines as he neared his high.

“you feel so good, pipsqueak,” he moaned out. “fuck…haha…it’s like I’m actually fucking you.”

“don’t say that, caleb!” you squeaked, covering your face.

caleb leaned over you, pressing your knees closer to your chest. a chuckle vibrated in his chest.

“what? me fucking you?” he teased, thrusting faster, his hands pushing your thighs together tighter. “mmnggh…imagine that…gege’s cock inside you. I’ll make you cum, I’ll make you feel good.”

his eyes were primal, almost greedy as he chased his high. and you couldn’t do anything but lay there and take it.

“I’ll do things no one else can, pipsqueak,” he hissed, pressing his cock between your pussy lips. you let out a surprised moan. “and I’ll cum inside you. ‘till you’re round with my baby…”

spurts of cum splattered onto your panties. caleb’s cock twitched as he painted you with his release. 

masterlist

© lilacgrayskies on tumblr

{dividers from @/cursed-carmine}

[wickedbubbles]

>:3c

[applefishcake]

caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her

warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter. wc. 7.4k

Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.

You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.

So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.

Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.

Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes. 

“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.

He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway. 

A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.

The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.

The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it. 

It felt like nothing.

This was not romantic at all.

“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.

“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.

But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

The flame went out.

Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt? 

Does it even matter?

Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.

The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.

Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.

The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared. 

They’re pretty, you think.

Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large. 

“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”

A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”

You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?

“It’s a regular office job.”

“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”

“What about picking up another hobby?”

“I’ve exhausted most of them.”

“Then traveling?”

“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”

You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”

He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”

“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”

“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”

“Again, not the point.”

His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”

You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”

Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”

You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”

He whips his head around. “What?”

You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”

Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.

“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.

When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.

Damn it. 

Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.

You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA. 

It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.

The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes. 

Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.

When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”

“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”

“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”

He coughs again, and you snicker.

You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.

Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too. 

[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)

Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.

Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.

You start down your usual route.

At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.

But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.

You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.

Your fingers tighten around your bag.

Coincidence, surely.

You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.

The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach. 

Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry. 

Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.

[You]: Still there?

[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?

[You]: I think there’s someone following me

Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.

You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.

You don’t turn around.

Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.

A car passes.

He’s closer now, whoever it is.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.

Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you. 

The passenger door swings open.

“Get in.”

Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.

Relief?

This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out. 

Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.

You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap. 

A part of you is envious of her.

“You should’ve called me earlier.”

The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.

“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”

You nod again.

“Are you okay?”

Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.

You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”

“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”

“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.

He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”

For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him? 

How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.

At least you’re home—thanks to him.

“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”

He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”

Strangely, the words make your chest tight.

Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”

You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.

Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.

You’d never tell him that though, of course.

You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed. 

[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?

[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too

[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)

Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.

“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.

“Mm.”

He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?

“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”

You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”

“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”

“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”

“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”

“But I want my own money, too.”

“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”

“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”

He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”

This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re willing to bet on the latter.

Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.

“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”

He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”

“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”

The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?

You’re married, for god’s sake.

Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.

“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”

Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.

“How long?”

“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”

You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.

You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.

The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.

You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.

His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”

It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.

“Who said I want to?”

“You wound me.”

As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…

[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D

[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>

[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave

This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous. 

You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.

A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on. 

It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.

So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.

You pretend not to notice.

What are you doing? What are either of you doing?

You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.

The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”

Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”

A pause.

“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”

He stills.

You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”

“Yeah?”

You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”

He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.

“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.

You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."

It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.

Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.

Panic. Something is wrong.

You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.

“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”

Huh?

“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”

What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.

“You must hate me so much.”

When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?

“Caleb.”

“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”

“Caleb.”

“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”

“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.

His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him. 

A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.

“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”

Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.

The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.

Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?

No. You don’t.

So instead, you kiss him.

A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.

You’re here again.

He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.

Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”

The world stops. 

“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.

Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.

This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.

You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.

The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.

“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”

Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.

It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?

He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”

You don’t get much sleep that night at all.

Morning comes anyway.

And then another.

And another.

His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.

You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.

He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.

You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.

You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does. 

But he always comes back. He has to. 

You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.

The front door shuts faster than you anticipated. 

He’s gone.

This is fine.

This is what you wanted.

The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.

You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.

His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.

“I love you.”

You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family. 

But you’re his family, aren’t you?

You can still smell his cologne in the air.

You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.

You nearly drop it.

His wedding band.

Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.

No.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.

The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.

This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.

And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.

He can’t leave.

The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh. 

Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.

A chance for what, you're not sure.

Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?

Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?

The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.

Finally, you slam into something solid.

The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.

“Hey—watch it—oh.”

You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”

“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”

He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"

“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?

His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”

“So you were going to leave the ring?”

“Well, yes, but can we–”

“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”

He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”

“Then why?”

His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”

Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”

Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.

“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”

“...Confusing?”

“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”

His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.

So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”

You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.

You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.

“What am I to you?”

Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.

“Who am I to say no my wife?”

Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.

taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)

[wickedbubbles]

AWEE!! Angst with a happy ending will always be my fave 😭♥️

[zaynezone]

"We are not having sex here." You glance around the dark, deserted road. Yours is the only car for miles, which at least takes care of any privacy issues. Sylus merely smirks at you, having already moved his seat back.

"Where's your sense of adventure, sweetie?" He smirks as you glare at him, crossing your arms.

"When I let you come with me to the no-hunt zone, I didn't mean so that we could have sex before we get out of here! You can't wait till we get back home?" Your words contradict your actions as you begin to undo your pants. A girl has needs after all. Besides...

It really is such a far drive.

"Just like that." Sylus helps you sink down on his length, making you gasp and press your face into his shoulder. He's panting from pleasure, something you're both so wrapped up in you fail to notice the blonde hunter walking up to the car, knocking on the window.

"Are you alright?" Xavier's voice makes you jump, and you scramble to cover yourself. Sylus, asshole that he is, simply rolls down the window.

"Xavier? What-what are you doing here?" It only takes half a second for him to realize what exactly is going on, and he quickly averts his eyes. Luckily Sylus's jacket covers your lower half.

"Your watch said you were in the no-hunt zone by yourself for hours. So I came to check on you."

"She wasn't alone." Sylus adds, making you glare at him. Something like irritation flashes on Xavier's face, but he masks it quickly.

"Well, since you're...busy, I'll go." He scratches the back of his neck, as if about to add something, before clearly deciding against it and turning to leave. But before Xavier can make his escape, Sylus chimes in.

"Don't be so hasty. There's room in the backseat for three."

[wickedbubbles]

yeah, xavier. where are you going?¿ #StarCrowMybeloved

[wickedbubbles]

So…nobody was gonna put me on Milanote? This makes character creation/storyboarding SO much easier.

[diaryofagirlfailure]

♡┆ past the point of no return

Coronel! Caleb who actually fulfills his promise of having you trapped inside a maze.

He may have feel conflicted at first, after all, you hadn't exactly accepted his... proposal. Still, he had brought you there, made sure to bring there every single thing you could desire, even if you hadn't really asked for it. What else was he supposed to do except adore you?

Sure, his approach had been rather harsh, but he was treating you well, wasn't he? Never getting mad at you each time you threw the delicious food he had made just for you at him, nor when you chose to try and threaten him pointing a knife at him. It was fine, as long as you were with him, as long as he could keep you close to him, even if that meant ignoring all your desires.

The worst part of all of this?

You had slowly gotten used to this kind of "living". At first, spending the whole day inside that house was draining, and he noticed it, so he chose to create a huge garden, one that was filled with beautiful flowers, apple trees and a few fountains carefully made to fit your tastes. And as time went on, you could feel how you had even started to like his possessiveness. Sure, you weren't able to leave that place, and yeah, you were even starting to forget about your friends and workmates, but the relationship between the two of you had became as it used to be. Caleb was just as affectionate as always, maybe even more, now that nobody else could ever try to take you away from him. He made sure to always bring you stuff each time he left you there, sometimes it was a delicious cake from that bakery you loved so much, other times, he chose to bring a bouquete of flowers, together with a box of pretty chocolates to lift your spirits.

Now that more than a whole year had passed (this was solely your estimation), you could even feel happy towards this change. You even felt slightly regretful of being so harsh towards him, he had done with your best interests in mind! He may have taken a bit too far, but everything had been done as a way to make sure you would never feel lonely ever again, that's right! He had put a cuff around your ankle just to make sure you didn't try to hurt yourself while he was away, and he had kept you locked inside the bedroom during the first few weeks just cause he wanted to make sure you were well-rested, right?

You kept telling yourself that as some kind of mantra, maybe as a way to keep you from losing your mind, but it was ok, you accepted him, flaws and everything! Even if those "flaws" meant keeping you away from the world, he was doing this for your sake, silly!

a/n: extremely short, I know. The inspiration in this case was the song Past the Point of No Return, from the Phantom of the Opera. I have sadly not yet read the novel, nor saw the film/musical, but I just can't help but feel that Caleb could fit that song! Let me know what you think!!

[wickedbubbles]

He my man my man my man. Even if he is a little coocoo for cocopuffs. 🤪

[wickedbubbles]

Not people still liking my short fic with filming a sex tape with Sylus. Damn.