A little bit of everything

" How sad would it be if Laughter should dissapear ?"   Aspiring Writer Coffee Lover <3 Anime and Manga Enthusiastic

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

“I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can.”

— Jack Gilbert

[sukunahs]

crazy in love | ryomen sukuna

chapter 1: temptations

pairing: serial killer!sukuna x reader

summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.

he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.

if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.

word count: 8.3k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, dark content, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's good to reader exclusively, fic takes place in the early 2000s, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!

a/n: I've been sitting on the plan for this for a while and I'm so excited to get into it! Hope you enjoy!

masterlist | ao3 | next chapter (coming soon!)

During your final year of high school, your boyfriend died at a party. 

They never caught the guy who did it - he was long gone by the time Ryu’s body was discovered, mutilated in the garage of the poor party host. 

He’d been practically ripped apart, torn to pieces by someone with deeply malicious intent. There was no explanation for the act, no note, no leads. Just the assumption, that either your boyfriend was caught up with something nasty that he’d never thought to divulge or, there was someone immensely sick living in your little town. 

It haunted you for a long time afterwards. 

You’d been the one to discover him - you and one other party-goer. The vision of him, his guts strewn about the place, ribs pulled out one by one, was something that would never leave your mind. Even now, four years later, you’d still occasionally see the image when you closed your eyes. 

An unshifting feeling of guilt had followed you ever since that night, deep sorrow for the acts that you’d committed. You could never quite forgive yourself for the fact that, instead of being at his side throughout that party, you’d been holed up in the bathroom, letting another man fuck you over the sink. 

If you’d been faithful, maybe he’d still be alive. 

There’d been plenty of effort on your part to bury that thought via various different methods. You’d gone off to university, where you’d partied, gotten insanely drunk and fucked your fair share of guys in an attempt to drown your sorrows through hedonism. When that only seemed to make things worse, you’d isolated yourself from your peers, turned to support groups and therapy, hoping that you could let the whole thing go. 

And to be fair to the tenacity of your therapist, while your guilt hadn’t disappeared, it had shrivelled up considerably in that time. 

Enough that your heart no longer palpitated whenever you were back in your hometown - a blessing, considering that it looked like you’d be staying there for the foreseeable future. 

You’d tried to get a job out in the city, but with the dire state of the employment market, you found yourself coming up empty handed. You couldn’t afford to stay in the little apartment that you’d rented out throughout university, leaving you no choice but to return to your childhood home. 

There, at least you could be employed and earn a little bit of money for your future. Your father owned a construction business, and with various expansion efforts taking place on the outskirts of town, his company had been growing in size significantly. It meant that he was keen to have someone manage the more admin heavy tasks that he was struggling to keep up with. 

While it wasn’t your calling, it sounded like fairly easy work and it would keep your dad happy. Besides, there was a part of you that was excited to move back to your hometown. Most of the people you’d known from school were still around, either in a similar situation to you, or having never attempted to leave in the first place. 

Considering that you’d never really clicked with anyone at university, bar one guy that you were currently engaged in some sort of situationship with, you were excited to be back with people that you’d known for years. 

Perhaps that would dispel some of the loneliness you’d been feeling. After years of guilt and isolation, it was time to start moving on. 

“Everything going okay, sweetie? Need anything?” Your dad popped his head around the door of the trailer that served as his office. You’d been rapping your fingers on the wooden desk, staring blankly at the computer before you, waiting patiently for excel to start up. The machine looked like it had been made in the 80s, and it certainly operated like it. 

“I’ll be all good once this thing cooperates.” You responded with a smile. 

“Be nice to it and it’ll be nice to you!” He chuckled, as if the ancient technology was sentient in any manner. You nodded along all the same, knowing that he was being genuine. He wasn’t the most tech literate man, and honestly believed that these things could smell your fear. 

A ridiculous, but endearing quality of his. 

“I showed you how to make an accident report, right?” He continued, expression turning a little more serious. “One of my guys has hurt his hand. Nothing serious but we gotta write it up - think you can handle that, sweetie?” 

You shrugged. How hard could it really be? All you had to do was open up a word template and fill out the questions accordingly before filing it away - any seven year old with two IT lessons under their belt could figure it out. 

“Sure. What was the accident?” 

“I’ll just send him in to explain, he should really be off the clock for today anyway.” Your father gave you a thankful smile before heading back out the door. It swung shut with a heavy creak, and you fidgeted with a pen for a few moments, staring at the digital clock on the desk as you waited for the worker to arrive. 

You hoped that they were a quick talker - it was already 4pm, and you were meant to clock out at 5. Ideally you didn’t want to be here any later than absolutely necessary. 

The door creaked open once more, and you barely raised your head. You didn’t have much interest in your father’s employees, most of them were on the older side, and had been working for your dad since you were a little girl. There was a limited amount of good work in town, and your dad offered one of the few places where a man could find steady employment. 

Naively, you’d assumed that it would be one of those men entering the office. A pleasant old guy who had worked here long enough to remember you coming along for ‘bring your daughter to work’ days. 

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the deep, familiar voice that sent tingles crawling up your spine. 

“Well, well. Isn’t this a nice surprise.” 

You blinked a couple of times as you looked up, voice failing you at the sight of the man towering over your desk. He’d grown even taller since the last time you’d seen him, if that was even possible. His pink hair was a little longer, still pushed back from his forehead as it always was. More tattoos had appeared on his tanned skin, the ones lining his face just as striking as ever. 

The soft, involuntary gasp that fell from your lips was a little embarrassing, especially considering the way that his grin widened at the sound, sharp canines on display. His red eyes were alight with that same intensity that had always burned within them, that alluring gaze that always felt like it was stripping you down to nothing. 

“Should’ve told me you were back in town,” he said, eyes dragging slowly up your figure, as if assessing all manner of ways you’d changed in the years since he’d last seen you. 

“I- I’ve only just got back, a few days ago.” 

It wasn’t a lie, you really only had been there a couple of days. That wasn’t exactly the reason that you hadn’t reached out though. You’d been avoiding him ever since the murder four years ago, guilt curling in your stomach at the mere thought of him. He’d been the one with you in the bathroom at that party, hands gripping your hips, buried to the hilt inside you. 

While your poor boyfriend bled out in the garage below, Sukuna had been whispering filthy things in your ear, holding you like you belonged to him. 

It was a mistake that you could never take back - a moment of lust, of frustration with your boyfriend, clouding your judgement into a single, awful decision.

“You working here now?” He asked with a tilt of his head, pulling out the chair opposite the desk and sitting down. His tongue swiped across his lip for a moment, the silver of his piercing glinting in the golden light streaming through the window. 

You could still recall the feeling of that little metal ball against your pussy, sobbing softly as he teased it against your clit, fingers digging hard into your thighs, holding you still for him. You hated to admit that for every night you’d spent picturing your ex-boyfriend’s lifeless body, there was a night spent replaying that evening with Sukuna. 

How pathetic. 

“Something like that, yeah.” Your tone was cautious, not sure what to make of all this. You hadn’t expected Sukuna to be working for your dad, had almost expected him to have gotten out of town by now. Despite appearances, he was a smart guy - it wasn’t like some construction job in a dead end town was all he was capable of. 

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then.” 

The statement hung heavy in the air, his eyes fixed on yours. It felt like a test, to see if you’d squirm beneath his statement that almost certainly held double meaning. This was how he’d spoken to you back in high school, greeting you with teasing lines that would never fail to make your heart race, to further your attraction for him. 

He knew exactly what he was doing. 

Even now, your cheeks reddened ever so slightly, gaze dropping down to the desk in an attempt to escape the intensity of his eye contact. 

“I guess so.” 

You fell silent, not sure how to continue. It felt awkward, almost scary to be in his proximity again. There was still so much tension between the two of you, things left unsaid after that evening together. You’d slipped from his grip, lost in a sea of guilt, unwilling to face that night. The few times that Sukuna had reached out via text, you’d ghosted him.

He was a reminder of your sin, one that you wanted to wash away, no matter how much you ached for a repeat of how it felt to have his body pressed against yours. 

It seemed like he was finding your reaction amusing, elation drawn across his handsome face. With the silence stretching on, he leant forward, planting his elbows on the desk. Your skin prickled as he drew closer, almost able to feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke. “So, aren’t you meant to be writing an injury report for me or something, sweetheart?” 

Your mouth opened and then closed again, unsure as to whether you should object to the nickname. One one hand you were currently in some sort of relationship, even if it was a little fraught, and therefore shouldn’t abide by men calling you sweet names. On the other hand, you couldn’t deny the way that it built pressure in your gut, to hear the word drawled out in his deep voice. 

“Oh, uh- yeah, one sec.” 

You scrambled to pull up the report, goosebumps rising on your skin at the acute awareness of how closely he was watching you, a soft little smile curving his lips. The air in the room felt too close, charged by his presence. Trying your best to ignore it, you focussed on the document, filling in the parts that you already knew - the basic things like his name and date of birth. 

It was only then that you turned back to him, heart stuttering at the sight of his smug expression. “What- what’s the nature of your injury?” You asked, after clearing your throat, reading the question word for word off the document. 

Slowly, he turned his hand over, revealing his palm to you. You flinched back in surprise at the sight of a deep cut ravaging his tanned skin, blood still trickling from the open wound. He didn’t seem bothered by it, more amused by your shocked reaction. 

“Fuck. my dad said it was nothing, that’s deep!” 

Sukuna pursed his lips before shrugging. “There’s been worse. Some old dude’s arm got chopped off two weeks ago.” 

“Still, we need to clean that up.” You urged, the tense atmosphere lightening a little now that you’d broken the initial barrier of awkwardness. Report forgotten for the moment, you rummaged around in the desk drawers until you found what you were looking for, pulling out a first aid kit. 

He sat still, watching you eagerly as you looked through the kit, pulling out cleansing wipes and a roll of bandages. You didn’t hesitate to reach for his hand, his fingers warm beneath yours while you held him still. You made quick work of wiping up the blood, before wrapping a bandage firmly around his damaged palm. 

You’d have to lecture your father later about taking better care of his employees. If you hadn’t been there what would’ve happened to Sukuna? Would he have just gone back to work as normal? 

What happened to the guy who lost his arm?

“How did this even happen?” You asked, exasperated. 

“Aw, you worried about me?” His palm was still outstretched on the table, even though you’d long since retracted your own hand. 

“I’m worried about everyone working here if this kind of thing is normal.” 

His grin didn’t waver, telling you that in his mind, it was the former. Regardless, he offered you the answer you’d been seeking. “Just some glass buried in the dirt, I didn’t see it before I was sticking my hand in there.” 

Your gaze flicked back down to his hand, brow a little furrowed. You weren’t sure why he’d be doing that in the first place, and his hands were miraculously clean for someone who had been digging around in the mud, but you figured it was best not to pick him up on it. It wasn’t like you really understood the processes surrounding what went on around the worksite. 

“You should be more careful.” 

“When I’ve got a nice little angel in here ready to patch me up when things go wrong? Nah, I think I’ll be more reckless.” He sported a boyish grin, one that you were all too familiar with. It had been reflected in the mirror the last time you’d seen him, when he’d been all up in your guts. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the way his smile made your heart pound. It was wrong - you didn't deserve anything with Sukuna - that was your atonement for the cheating, for the betrayal of your boyfriend all those years ago. 

Moving back to the computer, you typed out a quick description of the wound, followed by Sukuna’s short explanation of how it had happened. You then detailed the first aid that had been administered, before sending the document over to the printer to create two copies. Sukuna stayed silent through all of it, crimson eyes just watching as you headed over to collect the freshly printed reports. 

You could feel the way that his eyes lingered on your ass as you walked, making little effort to hide his continuing desire for you. It was as though you hadn’t been gone for four years, like Sukuna had been keeping you in the front of his mind this whole time. 

It was embarrassing how giddy the idea made you feel. 

“Toji’s having a party at his place tonight, you should come,” Sukuna said. 

Biting down on your lip, you hesitated. Partying had stopped being your scene a long time ago - after your first year at university you’d mostly just stayed holed up in your room. Parties came with too many reminders of what had happened to Ryu all those years ago, and you found that it was easier to avoid them altogether. 

Besides, you weren’t sure that hanging around with Sukuna was the best course of action for you. Your history considered.

Sensing your hesitation, he continued. “It would be nice to catch up under better circumstances. Y’know, when I’m not bleeding out and all.” He held up his hand with a charming smile, and you couldn’t help but giggle. 

“I think you’ll be fine,” you said. “I’m a great doctor.” 

“You are.” He agreed. “I think a really great doctor would come and check up on their patient later, to make sure the wound hasn’t reopened.” 

It was a smooth line, that had always been the way that he operated. You were well aware of what he was doing - wise to the gentle, enticing, flirting that was so characteristically him. But it would be wrong to give in, even if you wanted to. Anything between you and Sukuna would always be marred by that fateful night.

Besides, you had your situationship to consider - even if Kashimo wasn’t technically your boyfriend, he still deserved some level of respect. 

The rejection, the lie about being busy, had been sitting on the tip of your tongue when the creaky door to the trailer opened. Your dad stepped in with a kind smile, glancing between the two of you. “Everything all good in here?” 

“Y-yep!” You stuttered over your words, cursing yourself. You hadn’t wanted your dad to sense any tension between the two of you, but the way that you fumbled as you handed Sukuna his copy of the accident report had your dad frowning. 

You weren’t generally a flustered girl, usually very calm and collected. The flush that decorated your cheeks paired with Sukuna’s amused gaze clearly had some cogs turning in his head. 

“Oh, do you guys know each other? You must be around the same age.” 

“We went to school together,” Sukuna said, easily. “It’s nice to see each other actually, we haven't had the chance in the last few years.” 

You nodded along, hoping that Sukuna wouldn’t divulge any further information than that. Your dad certainly didn’t need to know the intimacy with which you’d known each other. In fact, you were rather confident that your dad would hate the idea of you bringing home a guy like Sukuna. He’d always been eager for you to find a nice man with a good job. 

“I was just inviting her along to a party actually. Loads of people she knew from school will be around, I bet they’d love to see her.” 

Sukuna smirked at you as he spoke, like he’d picked up on your hesitation and had known exactly how to counter your uncertainty. To an outsider it all looked so innocent, just an old friend looking to encourage you to reconnect. To your father, there would be no hidden intentions behind the invite, no history to consider. 

“Oh isn’t that nice!” Your father exclaimed with a bright smile, taking Sukuna’s bait easily. “You should definitely go, sweetie.” 

He’d been worried about your apparent isolation throughout most of your university years, and didn’t want you moping around in your room now that you were back in town. To him, this probably sounded like the perfect opportunity to reconnect. 

And you supposed it probably was. 

You just needed to make sure that you didn’t do something you’d regret. 

—

Toji lived in a nice house in the suburbs. 

It didn’t really surprise you since his family had always been wealthy. They ran some sort of agriculture related business and had made millions from it. All of the Zenin kids went on to work there, no need to worry about university or getting their foot in the door somewhere - Naobito would take care of them all. 

It had been Naobito’s house that Ryu’s murder had taken place in all those years ago, during a party that Naoya had been throwing. Apparently they’d sold up after that, moving into a new place across town. Naobito had been very publicly enraged about how the murder had damaged the value of their old house - a place that, for all intents and purposes, had previously been a lovely place to live. 

Toji’s house was smaller than either of the Zenin mansions were, but still larger than most houses in town. The sound of music was blaring from within, a handful of people hanging around on the lawn, smoking and chatting. You didn’t recognise any of them, but Toji was a few years older than you, so you wouldn’t be surprised if they were classmates from his own school year. 

Taking a deep breath, you made your way up the fancy driveway and through the front door, trying not to think too much about the last time you’d attended a party just like this one. It wasn’t like the same thing would happen again, it was narcissistic to believe that the murder had anything to do with you in the first place. 

Even if your guilt wanted you to believe it. 

Inside, you discovered a scene that wasn’t too unlike the parties you’d attended in high school - although, there was a lot less hiding where drinking alcohol was concerned. Some terrible skater anthems were blasting, seemingly courtesy of Toji’s buddy Choso, who had a DJ rig set up in one corner. Everyone was dancing and mingling, and you felt a mild panic wash through your body at the overwhelming number of people. 

Especially because most faces seemed unfamiliar to you. 

The fear dissipated at the sound of a familiar voice, a gleeful shriek of your name followed by the weight of being tackled into a bearhug. “I can’t believe you’re actually back!” Your senses were overwhelmed by the smell of some rosy smelling perfume and the light blonde hair of your attacker falling in the way of your eyes. 

Yuki felt like she was squeezing the life out of you, making up for years of limited contact with a single hug that had you gasping by the time she finally released you. “Hey,” you said with a smile, eyeing her up. She looked gorgeous in a halterneck burgundy dress, her hair flowing freely around her shoulders. 

She’d been one of your best friends in high school. The two of you had always been joined at the hip, along with Shoko, who was currently catching up to Yuki, trying not to spill her drink as she hurried over to you. “Hey girl!!” She was much more careful with the hug that followed, only wrapping one arm around you, aware that her plastic cup was too full to take the risk of hugging you properly. 

“Didn’t think we’d be seeing you until Saturday!” Yuki said with a smile. 

She and Shoko were the two people that you’d actively told about your return to town. While you’d drifted apart over the last four years, all off at your respective universities, you’d still called them every now and then to catch up, keeping each other updated with important life matters with regular texts. 

Yuki had moved back to town permanently after university. She’d landed one of those cushy corporate jobs that lets you work from home four days a week, in which your main job is responding to emails for an obscene amount of money. She could certainly afford to live in the city, but she and Choso had been dating for about a year now, and he had no interest in leaving town. 

Shoko was still going through medical school, attending a university a mere ten miles from your little town. Her mother had been sick when she was first going through the application process, and had therefore opted to select a school nearby. It meant that she could live at home, be with her mom, and save a load of money in the process. 

It would be nice to have your little group back together, and you’d all planned to go and get your nails done together on Saturday, treat yourselves to a nice girl’s day out. You were certainly long overdue one - there was so much that you needed to bring them up to speed on. 

“Yeah, I thought you weren’t big on parties these days?” Shoko enquired. 

“I’m not, but I figured it would be nice to pop along and see some familiar faces.” 

You really hoped they didn’t ask you who had actually invited you to the party. They both knew what had happened with Sukuna four years ago. They were part of an elite, private group that was aware of the truth. That group consisted only of the two of them, and your therapist. And, you supposed, anyone Sukuna might have told. 

In their eyes Sukuna was bad news - they believed he’d manipulated you into sleeping with him and cheating on Ryu when you were in an emotionally volatile state. They weren’t technically wrong, but it didn’t account for how badly you’d also wanted Sukuna, how little he’d actually had to try to get you bent over in that bathroom. 

You’d fantasized about Sukuna long before that night.

Either way, like true friends, they never accepted that any of the blame lay with you, and piled everything on Sukuna - and partially on Ryu for the part that he played in the situation, since he’d cheated on you first. Although blaming the latter was harder to justify considering the depressing end that he’d met. 

It was easiest to just blame Sukuna. And for that reason, they’d been on Sukuna watch for a long time, ensuring that the two of you wouldn’t cross paths, warning you not to respond to him when you’d tell them about texts he’d sent to your phone. 

They’d definitely be angry if they knew you’d come here because of him. 

“Let me get you a drink,” Shoko said, “I’m pretty good at cocktails, you used to like mojitos right? I can make you one.” 

“Oh, it’s fine, I can-” 

“No, no, you guys head out to the garden, I’ll do it!” 

Shoko scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her drink in your hands while she went to make you a fresh one. You stared after her, a little perplexed by her insistence since you weren’t sure she’d ever gone to get a drink for you at a party before. For one panicked moment you wondered if the two of them thought you needed babysitting for your first home town party in years. 

Yuki caught your confusion before your theories could evolve any further. “Utahime is in the kitchen, Shoko is down bad for her. She’s just looking for an excuse to go back in there.” 

“Oh right!” You giggled softly. Shoko generally kept things like crushes close to her chest, and was likely doing everything she could to deny having any feelings towards your former classmate, but Yuki had always been far too astute to have such secrets kept from her. 

“Anyway, most of the people we know are out in the garden.” Yuki grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd of bodies in the direction of the patio doors at the back of the house. “No idea who most of the people at this party are though! I think they work for Toji or something.” 

Making your way outside, you were greeted with a beautifully manicured garden, set up with a lovely firepit in the middle, surrounded by an array of benches, crates and camping chairs for people to sit on. You couldn’t picture Toji labouring away outside, so you could only imagine that he had a gardener to keep things in such pristine shape. 

Yuki led you over to the firepit, waving at various people that you’d known from school, parading you around like a trophy. You supposed that your presence was a novelty, since you’d been absent from any such gathering for a long time. 

As she brought you around to the far side of the pit, you caught the eye of Sukuna, sitting in between Toji and Gojo. His gaze locked onto you immediately, a small smirk playing on his lips as he gave you a nod, raising his beer ever so slightly in greeting. Yuki gave you no window to respond, her grip on your hand firm as she ushered you past the man. 

She didn’t want you to acknowledge his presence. 

Even as Gojo stopped you with a bright smile, gushing over how long it had been, Yuki inserted herself in front of Sukuna, effectively shutting down any chance at conversation, giving you a few minutes to fill in Gojo on the last few years of your life before interrupting and dragging you away, claiming that she “deserved more of your time than any stupid boy.” 

The two of you eventually found a seat on a crate a little further around the circle to where Sukuna was situated, next to Mei and Manami, who both seemed thrilled to see you. They hadn’t been your closest friends by any stretch of the imagination, but they’d both been in lots of your classes, and had shown plenty of support when Ryu died. 

As such, you found yourself getting caught up in conversation with them for a while, attention only waning when Yuki started gossiping to Mei about some guy that they worked with, your mind starting to tune out the conversation, eyes drifting in the direction that you knew they shouldn’t. 

Sukuna was already staring at you when you looked over at him, red eyes lighting up in amusement at your lack of resistance to his presence. Unnerved by being caught, you were quick to glance away, reminding yourself that your current kind of boyfriend, kind of friends-with-benefits, probably wouldn’t approve of you looking at or thinking about Sukuna in the way that you did. 

You’d made the mistake with Ryu, you wouldn’t make it with Kashimo.

In a bid to avoid Sukuna’s gaze, your eyes drifted over to his left, where Toji was spread out on a camping chair, lounging in it like it was a throne. He’d always been the type of person that commanded a heavy atmosphere, confident in himself despite all his failings. He and Sukuna had much in common on that front, though you’d always found Sukuna much more palatable. 

There was an intelligence to Sukuna that you couldn’t really see in Toji. You were certain that he was street smart, but his conversations tended to hold little weight. If you weren’t interested in discussing gambling or sex, he wasn’t interested in you. 

Sitting pretty on his lap was Takako Uro, twirling her vibrant pink hair and slapping his shoulder as she giggled at some joke. The sound might as well have been nails dragging down a chalkboard as far as you were concerned, for she was decidedly not your favourite person. 

She and her best friend, Yorozu, hadn’t been all that nice to you during high school, deciding for some reason that you were a decent target of ridicule. You were aware that jealousy had a big part to play in that, since Yorozu had always been down bad for Sukuna, who would never care to spare her a glance but seemed to have all the time in the world for you. 

It led to plenty of instances of bullying - spreading rumors about you, leaving nasty notes in your locker, hiding your normal clothes after gym. For the most part you ignored it, rose above it even. You had good friends, and you knew that Uro and Yorozu would never take it too far for fear of how Yuki would deal with them if you were to tell your friend about their actions. 

That didn’t stop Yorozu from sleeping from Ryu though, bragging about how he’d had her over the desk in an empty classroom, while you were still dating him. She’d said it loud enough for you to hear, turning to grin at you as she smashed your first relationship to pieces. Revenge for garnering interest from a man who wanted nothing to do with her.

That incident was why you’d been so angry at Ryu that night that he’d died, why you’d been so pliable to Sukuna’s advances in a manner that you wouldn’t usually be. 

You supposed that in a way, you got the better of Yorozu in the end. She might’ve fucked your boyfriend, but all it did was drive you into the arms of the true object of her affection. Not very clever of her really. 

“Ugh, gross,” Yuki said, wrinkling her nose as she followed your gaze, just in time to catch Toji sticking his tongue down Uro’s throat. “Thought she’d be less insufferable without her other half but somehow she’s worse now.” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion and you glanced up at her. “Without her other half?” 

“Yorozu.” 

You shot her a blank look that told her you understood who she’d meant, but lacked the context to understand Yorozu’s absence. 

“Oh you don’t know?” Yuki asked, a little surprised, as if you were missing out on common knowledge. “She skipped town after high school. Ran away in the middle of the night, just left some dumb note for her parents about how she was gonna go be a star. No one’s heard from her since.” 

“Oh.”

You weren’t sure what else to say, mainly because you were trying to stop a massive grin from creeping across your face.

“Uro was devastated, all this crying and screaming about how Yorozu wouldn’t just ditch her like that. Doesn’t seem all that surprising to me though,” she said with a shrug. “Yorozu’s always been a bitch.” 

You laughed softly, trying not to look too overjoyed that you wouldn’t have to worry about running into her ever again. It was a little spiteful, but a big part of you hoped that she never managed to become a star. In your mind she’d ended up in some nasty crack den somewhere before she even made it halfway to Hollywood. 

Although, considering how panicky most people in the town had been following Ryu’s death, you were surprised that a simple note had been a valid enough explanation. “Did her parents not search for her?” 

“Nah, Uro kicked up a whole fuss reporting her as a missing person and the police got involved, but Yorozu’s parents basically shot it all down. Apparently, she’d spouted off about this plan non-stop, so they told Uro to just let it go. Police didn’t find any signs of foul play.” 

You hummed, eyes flicking back over to Sukuna for a moment, breath knocked from your lungs at the intensity with which his red eyes were fixed on you, crimson irises glowing in the light of the fire. You wondered if he was relieved that Yorozu was gone - she’d always stuck to him like glue no matter how hard he pushed her away. 

The ugly thought jumped into your mind that you’d actually be happy if Yorozu had met the same fate as Ryu. She wasn’t the worst person to be wiped from the world. Not that you’d ever say such a thing aloud. 

Considering some of the things Sukuna had said to her, you wouldn’t be surprised if he felt the same. 

“Anyway, good riddance. Things have been nicer without her around,” Yuki said easily, taking a long sip of her drink. 

“Yeah.” Your response was absent-minded, thoughts already drifting back to Sukuna - transfixed by the way that his thighs were spread so easily on the bench that he occupied, tattooed biceps on display in that blank tank that clung to him so perfectly. You should really stop staring, stop inviting any opportunity for interaction, but your body had always been a traitor when it came to him. 

You’d hoped that your friends would draw your attention back to them. Shoko and Utahime had joined you, sitting together on their own bench and giggling away at something that Mei had said. Surrounded by people, it was harder to get caught up in that magnetic pull that Sukuna seemed to command over you. 

And yet, as there was a call to play Spin the Bottle inside, one that your friends all jumped at, you found yourself declining. You had a boyfriend - that was the excuse that you gave, claiming that he wouldn’t like you kissing some other guy, and you’d rather stay out here in the fresh air anyway. 

They’d tried to convince you for a few minutes before conceding, leaving you sitting on the crate, drink in hand, left practically alone. Almost everyone that had been sitting around the fire had gone inside, leaving only a handful of people dotted around. Most of them were strangers to you. 

Except for one. 

He wasted no time sidling up to you, taking a seat next to you on your little crate without so much as asking if it was okay. 

“Looking kinda lonely over here.” His voice was deep, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand came to rest on the crate behind you, no doubt under the guise of maintaining balance, but you could feel the slight brush of his skin against your back. 

You shrugged as nonchalantly as you could, pretending your heart wasn’t racing. “I’m doing just fine.” 

“Yeah? It's funny, the way you were looking at me made it seem like you wanted me to come over.” 

You opened your mouth to bite back, to say that you wanted no such thing, but it would be a lie. You did want him to come over, you wanted him next to you, craved his attention. Even though you knew you shouldn’t, knew that anything with him would be built on bloodied foundations, it didn’t stop the desire. 

If you were more religious, you might’ve considered Sukuna to be the devil himself - a manifestation of all your deepest temptations, built solely from sin. As such, you really shouldn’t keep giving into him. 

And you were trying your best, really. 

“You look good.” The compliment was easy, straightforward. It shouldn’t have made you flush as deeply as you did. 

For a second, you almost forgot yourself, the response of so do you lingering on the tip of your tongue, only for you to force it back down your throat. 

Instead, you did the responsible thing. “I- uh- have a boyfriend.” 

The glimmer in his eyes dulled a little, smile faltering for such a miniscule second that you weren’t even sure it had happened at all. “A boyfriend?” 

Boyfriend wasn’t really the right word, not from your side of things at least, but you were certain that if you referred to Kashimo as a situationship, Sukuna would disregard it as a whole. As far as he was concerned, if there was no actual relationship then you were fair game. In the case of Ryu, even that hadn’t stopped his advances. 

Though he’d at least been more subtle, more careful, waiting for the perfect moment. 

“Yeah, a boyfriend,” the words felt foreign in your mouth, too heavy, your heart unmoving for Kashimo in the way that it should be. Half of you even considered calling the whole thing quits and crawling onto Sukuna’s lap there and then. 

But that wouldn’t be fair - not when Kashimo had been there for you unwaveringly. He was a good guy, the type of guy who’d take you out on cute little dates, supported you when your anxiety popped up from time to time, understood your trauma from Ryu’s death. He’d been patient around stuff like sex, taking things slow, always listening to whatever you wanted. 

He was a good guy. 

You knew that he wanted to be your boyfriend. You were the one standing in the way of any serious commitment. That had been the case with any man you’d met in the last four years, and you’d convinced yourself that it was a trauma response, that you were afraid of what had happened to Ryu happening to any other boyfriend you had. 

In the depth of your soul you knew that wasn’t really the case. 

The reality was, you compared every man that you met to Sukuna, and always found that they came up short. They didn’t ignite that fiery lust within your chest, didn’t fuck you like he did, didn’t make you feel giddy like he did. 

“You sound enthralled by him.” Sukuna said, sarcasm heavy in his tone. 

“I- it's steady.” The defence was pathetic and you both knew it. 

It was steady, it was nice, safe. He was the type of guy who had a good job, who you could bring home to meet your parents without fear of what they might think. 

Even if Sukuna did work for your dad, if you were to bring him home, you were certain your parents would hate it. They didn’t want you with someone like him, someone tough and volatile, someone who pushed you to cheat on your boyfriend.

They wanted you to be with someone like Kashimo. He was the exact type of guy that you should’ve wanted for yourself. 

And yet there you were, right at Sukuna’s side, not quite shutting him down despite having plenty of reasons to. 

“Sounds like he isn’t keeping you interested. I’m sure you wouldn’t run into that problem if you were with me,” Sukuna purred, a confident grin stretching across his handsome face.

Your eyes widened at how straightforward he was with his words, willing to lay out his intentions on the line. It was as though he’d spent a great deal of time considering what he’d missed out on all those years ago, and didn’t want to lose it again. 

And you had to fight the impulse to nod your head and agree, because you were certain that you wouldn’t run into that problem if you were with him. But unfortunately that wasn’t all that dictated a relationship. And what kept you from Sukuna wasn’t really Kashimo - you were just using your current situationship as a convenient excuse. 

“No.” You said with a shake of the head, turning him down despite the way your heart was hammering in your chest. “We killed someone, Sukuna. We don’t get to be together.” 

He rolled his eyes, clearly displeased by your dramatic wording. “We didn’t kill anyone. Ryu would’ve died whether we were fucking in that bathroom or not. Trust me.” 

It was probably true, you’d always known in your heart that it was probably true. Your therapist had made it abundantly clear to you that you should not be held responsible for his death. You’d already punished yourself plenty, that was what she’d said, at some point you had to forgive yourself. 

And yet it felt impossible to fully push that feeling off your chest. 

“I betrayed his trust. I don’t get to ride off into the sunset with the man I was cheating with while he’s laying six feet underground. That’s my punishment.” 

Sukuna was staring at you like you were stupid, red eyes narrowed in disappointment. “Punishment from who? At this point you’re just punishing yourself, and me.” The hand he had positioned behind you moved, wrapping around your waist carefully. It was a test, to see if you’d push him away. 

You didn’t. 

“He was a piece of shit, he cheated on you, baby. Gonna live in regret because of a guy like that? Not sure why you were even dating him. You could’ve been with me the whole time.” 

You nibbled on your lip, unhappy to hear such words coming from his mouth, trying to break down your walls. He said it like it had ever been that simple. You hadn’t understood the depth of Sukuna’s feelings before you’d gotten together with Ryu, and had assumed that all he’d really wanted was to play with you like he played with other girls. 

What Ryu had shown you was something real, tangible. He’d been straight forward in his affection, asked you to be his girlfriend without any doubt surrounding where you stood with him. It wasn’t the confusion that you felt with Sukuna, never quite sure if you were the object of his affection or his prey. 

“Maybe you should’ve learned how to use your words back then.” 

He grinned at you. “I really think that would’ve taken away some of the fun.” 

You rolled your eyes in disbelief. You certainly didn’t consider what had gone down between the two of you fun. You’d spent plenty of high school wondering, fantasising about Sukuna, wondering if his flirting was something legitimate. It had stressed you out to the point where your heart would go into overdrive whenever you’d see him, never quite sure where you stood. 

When Ryu had asked you out, after experiencing nothing but vague flirting from Sukuna, you’d figured you’d take the opportunity. Everyone else you knew had done stuff with guys and you didn’t want to be left behind, didn’t want to be played with by a guy who wasn’t really interested. 

Even having sex in the bathroom of that party wasn’t really fun, no matter how good it had felt. It was too corrupted by feelings of guilt for you to look back upon it fondly. Because even with your continuing lust for Sukuna, the emotion was never simple, always caught up with this big ball of insecurity and shame. 

He was staring at you, pressing on when you offered no response, not even a hint of a smile at his comment. “I’m using my words now,” he said with a sigh. “I missed you, I want you. Is that straightforward enough for you?” 

He leaned in closer to you, breath warm against your face. His arm tightened around your waist, and you could feel heat building between your thighs, memories of the feeling of his big hands gripping your hips all those years ago flooding your mind. 

“We can go inside and I can show you just how much I missed you, make you forget about all of that Ryu shit - help you remember that before that fucker died, you were thinking about breaking up with him and dating me.” 

That was true. You’d told him that the first time you’d fucked. Your fingers had been white with how tightly you were gripping the sink, breaths coming out in ragged gasps as you whined Sukuna’s name. Between thrusts you’d mumbled about how good he made you feel, how much bigger he was than Ryu, how you wished he was your boyfriend instead. 

Of course, with the discovery that followed, your priorities had changed - you’d grown too disgusted with yourself to follow through on any of that, keeping yourself as far away from Sukuna as you could to stop yourself from facing how awful you were. 

You still felt awful. But it was harder to shut him down when he was right next to you, his scent heavy in your nostrils. It was unfair how good he always smelt, how familiar. It had the power to draw you closer to him, eager to be wrapped in his scent. 

He must’ve felt you lean into him ever so slightly, because he took it as permission, free hand moving to your chin and tilting it up ever so slightly. Your skin tingled under his fingers, eyes widening as you met his gaze. 

“Such a pretty girl.” 

He leaned in, and for a moment you let him, his lips grazing yours before you found the sense to push him away. You weren’t sure if it was your ongoing guilt from the situation with Ryu or if it was out of loyalty to Kashimo, but you knew that doing anything with Sukuna wasn’t right. 

Not right now. 

“I have a boyfriend.” You reminded him finally, shuffling away from his arm. His face fell at being thwarted by that line for the second time that night. 

“Its not like that stopped you before.” 

Your mouth opened in shock, staring at him in disbelief. Even if he was right, the audacity to state that so plainly made you feel sick. How could he not feel bad about what had transpired? Could he not see how guilt-ridden you were over that one mistake? 

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever done,” you said, bitterly. “If I could go back and undo it, I would.”

You didn’t divulge the fact that you might’ve done some other things differently too - might’ve chosen Sukuna over your boyfriend in the first place, broken up with the guy when you first felt things getting stale. You’d strung him along because you were too scared to hurt his feelings, fucked Sukuna because you’d wanted him for months and couldn’t ignore you impulses any longer. 

It wasn’t surprising that Ryu had fucked Yorozu when you’d been so distant with him ahead of the incident, your mind too fixed on someone else. 

Because you were awful. 

Every choice you’d chosen had been the wrong one, and you weren’t going to let history repeat itself. Any chance for love with Sukuna had been thoroughly fucked up by the events of that fateful night, it would always be corrupted by it. 

If you chose him, you’d be living with your sin, affirming it to be correct. That just wasn’t possible. 

“Yeah?” He asked with a purr, seemingly unphased. “Because you’re looking at me like you’d crumble and let me fuck you in the bathroom again if I so much as touched you.” 

Your mouth opened to reject his words, to tell him that he was dead wrong. But that flutter of butterflies made itself known in your stomach and you knew that you were about thirty seconds of convincing away from folding. 

It was pathetic, you were so pathetic. 

You needed to leave. 

“Fuck you,” you just about managed to hiss, the weight of your words completely lost. You both knew there was no spite behind it, both knew that he was right. He hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted in high school, hadn’t had the chance to pull you into his grip. 

He wasn’t the type of man to fail twice. 

It was just a matter of time. 

a/n: hope you enjoyed this first chapter! this one is very much a set up for the juicy stuff that's coming, I can't wait to share the next few chapters with you all because sukuna is both needy and unhinged (and you'll be getting his pov next chapter!)

thank you for the support, comments and reblogs are appreciated as always! <3

taglist (open): @indiewritesxoxo @alebrasil0101 @unikittylover57 @maomimii @xadenpoop @mxchiii @tinkspen @martianzmars @drasticallyinluv @grimm3r @choyuxx @janellawliet @nanamigirl4ever @actuallynarii @aiive @chloe022r @targaryenposts @erasersslut @loulasav @natsolox @kenstarsworld @elviqss @blu3berryies @cupidstrace @ksjtozaki @feyrinnn @heartless-rythm @beaniesayshi @shazzer29 @mortallyshadysoul @neverlandqueen36 @sweethoneycream @mikkmmmii @sikurgvx @8nitxe @lexispeak @inmywhitegown @unlimited-impressions @absolutelycaffeinateddevil @paulineeo @onlykuna @jjkfannn34 @queendom-of-yuki @blinmkk @emmaiscool22 @angelbabyy111 @moonsquid49 @0imliterallybatman @crunchycathy @yailuxe 

© sukunahs

[leighsartworks216]

Sylus is the type of dad to take a nap on the couch and the kids all slowly pile onto him to take their own naps or just exist close to him bc they associate him with safety and comfort. This I believe with every atom in my body

[leighsartworks216]

"Psst. Papa? Pssssst, papaaaaa?"

He lets out a long sigh, mind coasting away from dreams into semi-consciousness. "Yes, baby?"

His littlest bird, your only daughter so far, grabs his cheeks with clumsy hands as she whispers to him. "Can eep here wif you?"

"You wanna have naptime with me?" he murmurs, opening one eye to look at her round, squishy cheeks and too-big eyes. She's practically your spitting image, hair frizzing and wild as she nods. "Okay, baby, c'mere. We'll nap together."

He helps her settle into his side, in the crook of his elbow like a football. He used to carry her like this all the time, when she was still too young to speak or walk around by herself. She presses her face up against his chest, listening to his heart as she lets out a big yawn and gets ready to fall asleep.

But, alas, his twins always demand his attention, too. They see their little sister getting this special attention (attention they themselves could also have at any time, that they never think to ask for given they're always bouncing off the walls and never eager to sit still) and they climb into his lap next. His mind is still threading the needle between waking and sleeping, his head heavy with exhaustion and body practically limp with tiredness.

"Papa," one whispers, too loudly.

"Wha'bout us?" the other finishes, too quietly.

"Hm?" he replies dumbly, too sleepy to piece together their words on his own as he stubbornly refuses to open his eyes again.

"Can we sit here, too?"

"We wanna nap, too."

It's a damn lie - they've never in their short-lived lives ever wanted to be put down for a nap. But, they're his babies, too, so he nods and helps them settle in on his other side, squeezed in together under his arm. They restlessly shift about, but he drifts away back into sleep regardless.

The next time he wakes up, there's no way of telling how much time passed, but the weight on his leg is much more than any of his kids are. His brow furrows as he squints his eyes open to see who's disturbed him this time, only to find your face smiling down at him.

Any frustration at being woken up melts away with a sleepy, dopey grin. "You look cozy," you tease, whispering to keep from waking up the other three using him as a pillow.

He hums, low and rough at the back of his throat. "'S not terrible," he murmurs back.

"Room for two more?"

Never one to pass up the chance of his lovely wife cuddling up against him, he nods at your daughter, the heavy sleeper of the bunch. You're easily able to lift her into your arms and cradle her to your chest as you take her spot, tucking your face into his neck where you can feel and hear every breath and every heartbeat.

His hand circles your waist to rest at your swollen belly, and the newest life awaiting inside. He sighs with contentment, leaning his head against yours and kissing your forehead. "Thank you for giving me this."

[luna-azzurra]

For everyone who’s been wondering why I suddenly stopped posting or seemed to vanish into thin air... hi, yes, I’m still alive. I’ve just spent an embarrassing amount of time changing all my book covers.

Why? Well... Because the old ones didn’t really feel like me. You know that feeling when you look at something you made and it’s fine… but also not? Exactly that. So, here are the new covers! I hope you love them as much as I do (please say yes, otherwise I might actually cry).

Oh, and as you might’ve noticed, they’re all hardcover now. Because, well, they finally are.

I’ll eventually update the older books too, but for now… I need a break. My brain is soup. 😭

Currently working on another writing project. Hint: Werewolf Prompts. That’s all I’m saying for now. 🐺✨

Amazon Shop--Click here!! ✨

[heartyluv]

caleb masterlist ♡

✮ Caleb Taglist - CLOSED

⚠︎ = Explicit • ☁︎ = Fluff • ⚡︎ = Angst • ⭐️ = Personal favs

✰ —Click Here— for Camboy!Caleb Series! ⭐️

✰ Coming Home To Horny Caleb - 1.4K ⚠︎

✰ Possessive!Caleb/Reader - 3.1K ⚠︎

✰ FwB&Jealous!Caleb - ⚠︎

✰ ToxicBF!Caleb - ⚠︎

✰ Horny!Caleb/Reader - ⚠︎

✰ Toxic Caleb Tells You He’s “Sorry” - 2.3K ⚠︎

✰ Stalker!Caleb/Camgirl!Reader - 2.7K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Jealous&FwB!Caleb/Reader • Full Fic - 2.2K ⚠︎

✰ Perv!Caleb/Perv!Reader - 2.7K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Cowboy!Caleb/Reader - 4.2K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Cowboy!Caleb/Possessive!Reader - 4K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Possessive&ToxicBF!Caleb/Reader • Full Fic - 2.7K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ TattooArtist!Caleb/Reader - 4.5K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Giving Caleb Head on the Beach - 1.2K ⚠︎

✰ Happy Birthday, Caleb - 2.3K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Devilish Expectations ~ Part One - 3K

✰ Devilish Expectations - Part Two - 3K

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✰ Horny!Caleb/DeliveryGirl!Reader - 2.9K ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Caleb loves your big bewbs ⚠︎

✰ Firefighter/Roommate!Caleb/Reader - 2.9K ⚠︎

✰ Hide & Seek With A Kiss - 2.2K ⚠︎

✰ Once Bitten, Twice Repaired - 8.7K ⚡︎ ⭐️

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✰ Not So Hidden Waves - 2.1K ⚠︎ ⭐️

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✰ Undergroundfighter!Caleb/Reader - ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ Sweaty Caleb, My Luv - ⚠︎ ⭐️

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✰ Anything for you • SMAU - ⚠︎ ⭐️

✰ The Corpse Groom - 7.8K ⚡︎

✰ Just Friends? - ⚠︎ ⭐️

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Ex-Husband!Caleb Mini-Series

✰ Ex-Husband!Caleb • Part One - 2.3K+ ⚡︎ ⭐️

✰ Ex-Husband!Caleb • Part Two - 4.2K+ ⚡︎

✰ Ex-Husband!Caleb • Part Three - 4.6K+ ☁︎

✰ Ex-Husband!Caleb • Part Four - 7K+ ⚠︎ ⚡︎ ☁︎

• I do not consent to my work being translated or copied onto any other platform for any reason and I do not consent or allow for my work to be fed to or through Al.

• Everything within this masterlist is my work. Do not try to claim or rework any of it.

creds to @/uzmacchiato for the leopard dividers!

[comatoaster]

[saintobio]

sincerely yours. (14)

↳ gojou satoru/reader

when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after. 

genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+ 

tags/warnings. explicit smut, violence, jealousy, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of cheating

notes. 7.6k wc. don't have much to say for now :'D i'll pour it all out on the last chapter. thank you for waiting on this one!

series masterlist -> episode fifteen (finale)

There were days, you realized, that were more forgiving than the others. At least you could say that in your world. You were so used to enduring the worst that life could throw at you—drained by endless tears, heartbreak, and disappointment. Yet, every so often, there came days when life granted you a brief reprieve from the pain. Perhaps it was to prepare you for another storm. Or perhaps it was a sign that your heart might finally find peace. 

You hoped it was the latter. Because today seemed to be a better day, as the morning light broke across the whitewashed walls of the hospital as if to signal a new beginning. The rain had finally stopped, taking with it the gloom it had cast over the city for the past week. 

After days of anxiety and sterile air thick with disinfectant, the world finally seemed to exhale with you. The doctor said Sachiro was well enough to be discharged. The IV lines were gone, the heart monitor silenced, and the medical tubes pulled out, leaving only small tapes and faint bruises on your son’s soft skin. He looked smaller somehow, fragile in a way that made your chest ache, though his smile was bright and unburdened like nothing had happened at all. What a strong boy, you thought in tearful silence. Feeling bad for your son, but also proud of his resilience as a mere 3-year old boy. 

“Doctor, I can’t thank you enough,” you said in utmost gratitude to the person who saved your son’s life, “From fixing my heart, and now, Sachiro’s…”

“There’s no need to thank me, Y/N. This is my job,” he replied, smiling, “Besides, your father and I go way back. I know he’d have given me a hard time if I didn't handle yours and Sachi’s cases successfully.” 

Your dad joined in with a chuckle. “I’m glad you know.”

While you and your father continued to speak to the doctor about medications, aftercare, follow-up tests, Sachiro sat cross-legged on the bed beside Satoru, eyes wide with child-like determination while in a conversation with his daddy. You caught the gazes they exchanged and didn’t miss the chance to eavesdrop, listening in on them while speaking with the doctor. 

“Dada,” he said, with that little boy stubbornness he inherited from his father. “Let’s go home to your house.”

The words made you pause. Even your father did, too. Your dad’s brows even furrowed immediately as concern knitted across his lined face. “Sachiro,” he said gently, speaking as if Satoru wasn’t in the same room. “Grandpa's house is better for you. It’s quieter. You should rest.”

But Sachiro only shook his head, his little fists balled on his lap. “But Sachi want Dada’s house! I like it there.”

Satoru didn’t look at you when his son said it. As though he knew his son’s request was a landmine waiting to be stepped on, which was also why he didn’t interfere. Not one word from Satoru convincing anyone of anything. He simply stayed silent, allowing the decision to be yours and yours alone, even if he was the paternal figure to your broken family. Still, you didn’t miss the sadness that shone on your ex-husband’s eyes. Sachiro choosing to stay with his father seemed to have touched his heart in ways a normally disregarded parent would. 

“I’ll come with Sachi.” You stood there, a folder of discharge papers pressed against your chest, suffocating from the weight of your father’s gaze on you before he even spoke.

“Y/N,” your father began, carefully, like he was afraid the wrong tone might make you snap. “It’s not… proper. You staying in another man’s house like that? You’re unmarried.”

His words bit into you sharper than they should have.

Unmarried.

As if the ring once on your finger, the vows you had spoken before God and family, the home you once shared with Satoru Gojou had never existed at all. As if the boy sitting there—your son, with his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s gentle mien—had been born without history, without consequence, without love that once ran so deep it drowned you both.

Your father’s voice then softened, cautious but only because he must have realized his poor choice of words. “People will talk, Y/N. They always do. I don’t want you to go through this again and have Ian clear up your name every time.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe the whole country would, yet again, feast on this rumor like wolves on a carcass—how the divorcee ran back into her ex-husband’s house the moment she had her chance again. How she stayed there with him, nights under the same roof, like his shameless paramour.

But they wouldn’t see the truth, would they?

They wouldn’t see the nights Satoru never left the hospital, slumped over Sachiro’s bed in the same wrinkled clothes, red-rimmed eyes refusing to close even when exhaustion carved shadows into his face. They wouldn’t see the way his hands shook when Sachiro cried in pain, the way his voice cracked when he told him it would be okay.

They wouldn’t see that this wasn’t about romance, or reputation, or whatever fantasy the world wanted to paint over it.

This was about a boy who wanted both his parents in one place because the machines that beeped by his bedside had reminded him—too early, too cruelly—that life could take them away.

Your father sighed beside you. “It isn’t right,” he murmured again, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “You're smart, Y/N. Don't make foolish decisions.”

“Dad, I…” Satoru suddenly spoke up, his voice laced with nervousness, so much so that he didn’t realize he slipped and called your father ‘dad’. “I’ll take good care of them. I’ll be by Sachi’s side until he recovers and I’ll help Y/N with everything she needs. I promise they’ll be—”

“Y/N, we should discuss this outside.” Your father callously ignored Satoru like he wasn’t there. And you watched how he was visibly hurt by the way he was treated by your dad. He didn’t deserve it, no matter how much pain you had suffered because of him, he was still human. 

But Satoru wasn’t just any man.

He was your ex-husband.

Your son’s father.

The man who had once memorized every inch of your body like scripture and now hovered silently in the background, tucking Sachiro’s jacket into his overnight bag with hands too careful for someone so outwardly indifferent. He didn’t even try to join the discussion anymore. He gave up with his one attempt and respectfully just let you decide, like your word alone could shift the earth beneath his feet.

And maybe it could.

Because you saw the truth in the little things: how he was genuine about taking care of you and Sachiro, how he was hopeful to be given a chance at letting you stay in his home. He must have seen it as the perfect opportunity to make up with you, especially now that you still had many things to clear up and problems to resolve. 

You exhaled slowly. “It’s just for a few days,” you said to your dad, your voice quieter than you expected as you stood by the door. “Until Sachi’s better. My decision is final.”

Your father looked at you like he wanted to argue, but the words never came. Because there was nothing improper about a boy wanting both his parents near. And there was nothing sinful about a mother wanting the same.

––

The days that followed blurred into something almost dreamlike.

Because Satoru Gojou, for all the chaos he carried in his bones, was steady now.

He didn’t outwardly show his joy per se, but the bliss he felt inside glistened like stars in his eyes. He seemed happy, very much so, now that his family was living together with him as if everything had finally settled into perfect harmony. 

Satoru rose before you every morning, padding around his penthouse in quiet socks as he prepared Sachiro’s breakfast and made sure you had something warm to eat, too. You could tell he was very specific about what he cooked, choosing healthy ingredients catered to a recovering child and a pregnant lady. He even refilled the humidifier in your room, worried that the air was too dry and could trigger your allergies. He moved through the house with careful treading as this—the son curled up on the couch watching cartoons, you walking slowly through the hallway with one hand instinctively resting on your belly—was something he might wake from if he breathed too loudly.

And he never once touched you without permission. Not once, which was unusual of the Satoru Gojou you knew. 

Every time his hand brushed yours when he offered you tea, every time he tugged the blanket higher over your shoulders while you napped on the couch, every time he looked at you like you were something worshipful—he waited. He waited and let you feel his devotion without demanding anything in return.

Maybe that was what softened you.

Because you had told him you needed time. That he couldn’t just slide back into your life like nothing had happened, like there weren’t years of pain and mistakes between you.

But he made time feel weightless.

He made it so easy to forget the ache in your chest when he kissed Sachiro’s hair before bed, when he wordlessly washed the dishes after dinner, when he crouched down to tie your shoes one morning because you had bent down too quickly and he scolded you for it under his breath.

Was he only this sweet because you were carrying another piece of him inside you? You sighed, wondering why you still doubted his love even after the confession you both made that night by the lake. But you just couldn’t help but think deeply sometimes, and maybe stare at the view of the city while thinking of thoughts that should never consume you. Thoughts of whether he would have been this sweet and devoted if it was Akemi carrying his child. Was it cruelty that made you imagine Akemi pregnant with his child just to feed your jealousy, even after she told you she was dying? Or was it spite that kept you from feeling even a flicker of pity when she said Satoru left her like she was nothing? Perhaps you even took pleasure in knowing that after all her desperate wishing to have a baby with him, you were the one he had gotten pregnant, without even trying, for the second time around.

You were never an angel to begin with, especially not after everyone around you had been brutal and malicious. She didn't deserve to suffer that much, obviously. But life was simply never fair, and she wasn’t exempt from it. 

The funny thing was, Satoru wasn’t even aware of the spiteful thoughts that plagued you during those silent afternoons. He had no idea how you would manage to work yourself into a fury over imagined scenes of him and Akemi in this very penthouse—repulsed by the visions your own mind conjured. Maybe you were being petty. Maybe it was just the hormones. But every time Satoru walked by, oblivious and unbothered, you were simmering hotter than before.

But maybe he sensed it in the way you protectively held your stomach sometimes when you thought no one was looking. Perhaps he noticed how your replies had shrunk to single words, or how you would send him an accusatory glare when he was merely trying to start a conversation. Maybe he felt it, too, in the way you looked at him—as if this man, this flawed, beautiful man, was somehow your greatest enemy.

Damn it. Perhaps it was time to admit it—was it truly jealousy burning through you, or was it the ache of being untouched by the man who supposedly was in love with you?

The room was quiet, and you sat at the edge of the bed in your nightgown, watching Satoru’s long frame as he got out of the shower, only a towel covering his lower half. His head tilted down like he didn’t dare meet your eyes too long. He looked almost anxious, though he would never admit it. 

And he had been so careful with you. Too careful that it bothered you.

“Is Sachi asleep?” He cleared his throat once and tried to strike a conversation. But you didn’t answer. You ignored his pitiful attempt at talking to you, busying yourself by putting lotion on your legs. It felt humorous to have the upperhand now, with him clearly on edge, and you acting like you didn’t owe him any interaction. “...Y/N, did I do something wrong?” 

You didn’t return his gaze. Instead, you closed the lid of the lotion and placed it carefully atop the nightstand. “No.” 

Next thing you knew, the man was already standing in front of you, his damp white hair dripping down his toned body as he crouched down to meet your eyes. “You’ve been angry with me for three days now. Please tell me what I’m not doing right, I’ll fix it.” 

“Leave me alone,” you muttered, still avoiding his gaze while opening the drawer, only to see an unopened box of condoms. They weren’t meant for you, clearly. He had probably saved it for when Akemi used to visit. And he knew that was exactly what you were thinking the moment he saw the box, too. 

“That’s not…” He tried to explain, but what was the point? You knew they were sexually involved before her illness had worsened. Satoru could only sigh under his breath, the sound closer to defeat than frustration, then placed his hands on your knees with bright blue eyes that begged for your understanding. “I’ll throw it away.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You clearly knew what a condom is,” you shot back, your tone sharp enough to cut. “Should’ve used it on me that night at the cabin.” 

For a moment, he was caught off guard by your remark, but then he shook his head and let out a soft chuckle like something had just clicked in his mind, something that made all this absurdly amusing.

“What?” you asked, irritation sharpening your tone.

Satoru reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face before lightly pinching your cheek. “Nothing,” he murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You acted like this when you were pregnant with Sachi, too.”

“What are you talking about?” You slapped his hand away, scowling.

He only laughed quietly, moving closer until his warmth pressed against your side. One arm slipped around your waist, the other covering your hand. “You were always irritated with me back then,” he said, voice gentle, teasing. “And jealous. A lot.” He nuzzled your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. “Are we having a boy again?”

You hated it. The way your chest tightened, that stupid rush in your heartbeat. It only ever happened because of Satoru. You couldn’t even remember the last time your heart fluttered wildly like this, but somehow the memory was still there, vivid enough to shatter every wall you had put up.

“Why do you keep your distance?” you finally asked, your eyes meeting his ocean blues. “Why ask me to sleep in the same room as you when it would be more proper to sleep apart?”

He wasn’t oblivious—he had to know what you were implying, how your words really pointed to his reluctance, his lack of intimacy, and the insecurity you were feeling because of it. 

“We just got out of the hospital,” he explained, almost cautious. “And you’re pregnant. I wanted to look after you but still respect your space. I thought… maybe you needed time.”

But you had laughed, incredulous, pulse fluttering. “Time?”

And that was all it took. Because then his arms dropped to his sides. His shoulders straightened. His blue eyes darkened, and you knew—you knew—that thin rope of restraint was about to snap.

“You think it’s easy for me?” His voice was strained, like a puppy being deprived of treats. “Every night I lie next to you, and all I can think about is you. Touching you. Tasting you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering by his confession. “But you—”

“And how you wearing this thin nightgown,” he whispered in your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine, “does unspeakable things to me.” 

Literally so. Because you didn’t need to look down to see the bulge growing under his towel. You didn’t need to search his face to find the lust brewing behind his eyes. And somehow, his reaction excited you. His visible restraint woke all the desire you had been craving to satiate. 

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Satoru’s voice dropped low as he caught your chin between his fingers. “There’s a reason you end up pregnant every time I touch you.” His eyes lingered on your mouth, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Let me remind you why.”

It was him who crossed the line first. Him who kissed you, loud and passionate, pulling you tighter by the waist as if he might burn alive if he didn’t. He groaned into your mouth with a raw, guttural sound that went straight through you, hands gripping your hips like he was finally done pretending he didn’t want this. When he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing—and made you straddle him, his mouth never left yours. Not once. His kiss was everywhere: down your throat, across your collarbone, all over your chest, tracing fire over your skin. 

And when his fingers tugged the strap of your nightgown, you realized just how long he had been holding himself back.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your neck.

You grabbed a fistful of his white hair. “Don’t you dare.”

That was all he needed.

He had ripped your nightgown easily, though careless, and elicited a shriek from you. That was the last thing you thought he would do, but Satoru was getting rougher by the second, clearly because of your provocation. He was acting like an animal released from being in a cage for too long. He was hungry. Very hungry. And putting his mouth on your bosom was his first favorite treat. 

You leaned against him as he circled his tongue along your nipple—teasing, suckling, and a little bit of biting. “H-Hey!” 

“Sorry.” He displayed a smug smile before proceeding to suck your other tit. “Got carried away.”

While his mouth was on your breast, his hand was kneading the other. He massaged the slope with both a gentle yet rabid touch, flicking the nipple, and then back to squeezing your tit as if he was touching it for the first time. It was at that point where you couldn’t suppress your moans anymore. You shamelessly melted into his touch, driven half-mad by the days of unspoken want that had finally come undone.

And in your own sensual frenzy, your hand reached down to just where his bulge was. It was hard, begging to be released, and twitching underneath the towel. He moaned from your slightest touch. Then, got too excited when you started rubbing him, he almost couldn’t breathe. 

“Y/N…” He pulled away, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. “You’re driving me insane.” 

“Did I tell you to stop?” you asked, almost sternly, which only excited him even more. 

His smirk was that of a man who had won the jackpot. How arrogant! And so, he continued kissing your breasts, one after the other, and especially enjoyed when his face was between them. He didn’t have time to do all this back at the cabin, since that moment was unexpected and it was your first time reuniting in bed after many years. But you remembered Satoru loving your pair, giving them equal attention and leaving every inch of skin with marks that belonged to him. 

Did he love doing this to Akemi, too? Did he kiss her body like this? Left marks all over her skin like this? 

Out of sheer frustration, you pushed Satoru back. His eyes went wide, startled, as if to ask what was wrong, but your glare silenced him. You stepped between his legs and yanked at the towel around his hips. There, his hard member stood, pulsating and dripping at the tip. Your finger traced the veins on his throbbing cock, making it angrier than it already was. 

“Y/N, please…” His face begged you to do more. 

And it sure was entertaining to see him like this after a long time. Back when you two were married, you did it everyday like animals in heat. You were so smitten, so passionate, so intoxicated with your toxicity that every push-pull ended in the most satisfying, most mind-blowing sex. 

You were on your knees as he looked at you, his entire length being stroked by your hand, before you placed your tongue flat on his tip. Satoru cursed under his breath and threw his head back, but you continued to roll your tongue along the head—the pink and swollen head—then finally started wrapping your lips around his girth. 

Even with Toji, you never enjoyed giving head the way you did with Satoru. Perhaps it was the connection, or perhaps, it was simply because you prefer doing it to someone you really loved. 

“Fuck,” your ex-husband growled, seeing your head bobbing up and down as you sucked every inch of him. “That feels so fucking good.” 

You even kissed the sides, the ridges, then put him back completely in your mouth. This time around, you forced it all the way down your throat, resisting the gag reflex but still ended up choking on his cock. Goddamn were you horny. You knew this was the pregnancy hormones, but you wanted more and you couldn’t be stopped. 

“Y/N.” He sat up as you jerked his member, his entire length coated by your saliva, while he started pulling you up. You stood before him as he was face level with your tummy, and his hands began tracing your legs, your hips, until he was able to playfully squeeze your bum. Satoru looked up at you, then. With eyes that screamed of bliss, his chin resting on your belly where your baby would be in. His breath ragged as he looked at you. All of you. His hands traced your curves, lingering over your belly as though it was sacred, before he kissed lower, lower, worshipping you with his mouth until you were trembling, arching, gasping his name like a prayer. “Can I…?”

Nodding, you could feel him give your buttocks a final squeeze before he started lifting your leg over his shoulder. The other stayed on the floor, which gave him the best access to see your pussy. And of course, he didn’t waste any second before he dove in. 

“Satoru—”

His lips were on your clit in a snap, tongue lapping between your folds—slurpling, suckling, and tasting your slick inside. The deeper he was, the weaker your legs felt. But his strong arms held you in place, fingers digging into your thighs as though he could hold you here forever. Although one hand switched places with his mouth every now and then—one moment his hand would palm your pussy, the next his mouth would be kissing your entrance, his tongue swirling in it and around it.  

“God, you taste so good,” he groaned, two fingers now stretching your core and entering you in and out, “Been dreaming about this… about you… every damn night.”

“Mhmm—”

He sure took his sweet time with the foreplay that by the time he made you lay in bed, you were already catching your breath. Your legs were already shaking, and your head was already dizzy. But it was not enough, no. Not for the both of you. You wanted him inside just as he wanted to be inside you. 

So by the time he finally had you in a perfect, comfortable position, he spread your legs apart and placed his tip at your entrance. His lengthy cock teased, circled, and then rubbed against your clit. Again and again. Purposefully so, because he chuckled at the way you glared at him impatiently. 

“Hnng—! Just put it inside.” 

He did it slowly when he slid into you, careful but deep. You swore you felt the world tilt off its axis. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven, like he was trying to keep it together even now. You could see his girth coated with slick, with every entrance to your pussy making you clench around him tighter. 

“Mm—fuck!”

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered, hips snapping harder now, and faster, too. Each thrust shaking through you until your words broke into gasps. “All I want… all I ever want… is you.”

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled sharp and hot in your belly. He kissed you through it, swallowed your cries, held you so close it felt like he might break you apart just to keep you. His bed was steady enough not to make any noises through the walls, but it was your moans that echoed loud enough across the room. The squelching, the whimpering, the snapping of skin-to-skin. 

“Satoru, I’m gonna…” 

He held your hips in place, slamming himself balls deep into you, and watching your breasts bouncing all over the place as he raced to chase his climax. “Me, too, baby.” 

Both of you were tangled in sweat, and the sound of your own ragged breathing filled the room until he released thick ropes of cum inside you. You couldn’t tell how much, but he stayed inside you for a minute or two, giving your lips a sweet peck before he finally pulled out. Almost immediately, his cum came spilling out of you. They dripped out of your hole as if they were too full and no longer had space inside.

It was filthy and tender all at once—love and obsession and devotion and ruin. And you remembered his words earlier, how this was why he could get you pregnant so easily. Funnily enough, it wasn’t just about how much of his semen was inside you. Not literally. It was the love and passion he was pouring into your lovemaking. It was how your body would always recognize his, as though you two were perfectly made for each other. 

When it was over, he scooped you into his arms, wrapped tight like he couldn’t bear to let you go. He kissed your temple softly, reverently this time.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how much I love you, Y/N. Through anything and everything. You’re my only one.”

––

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the living room curtains, warm and golden, catching in the strands of Satoru’s hair as he sat cross-legged on the floor with Sachiro perched in his lap. You sat beside them on the couch, one hand idly resting on your belly, watching the way Satoru absentmindedly fixed the cowlick in Sachi’s hair while the boy leaned against him, still groggy from his sleep.

It felt domestic in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Too peaceful. Too comfortable. Like the war between your hearts had quieted for this one stolen moment.

“Good morning, Mama!” your little boy greeted.

“Morning, my baby.” You added it with a kiss to his forehead. “Did daddy make you breakfast?”

Sachiro hugged his teddy bear as his eyes fixed on the television screen. “Yes, Mama. Sachi ate pancakes!” 

Satoru gave you a quiet look then. It wasn’t anything naughty. In fact, he had a very thoughtful gaze, seemingly worried that he might have gotten too rough with you last night. “I’ve prepared you a plate there and some apple juice.” 

“Thank you,” was your simple reply. No morning kisses, no overly sweet gestures. Your son still wasn’t aware that his parents were expecting again, so you were treading the situation carefully. It also helped that Satoru could read through your movements and respected you enough to handle it at your own pace. 

“Hey, Sachi,” you began softly.

He turned to you, wide-eyed, curious. “Yeah, Mama?”

You swallowed, glancing once at Satoru before you said it. “You’re… going to be a big brother soon.”

For a moment, there was silence.

And then—

“Huh?!” Sachiro twisted in Satoru’s lap so fast the man almost lost his balance. “A baby? Like… a real baby? In your tummy? Right now?!”

You nodded, lips twitching and unsure what to make of your son’s reaction. “Yes, right now. Mama is pregnant.”

His jaw dropped like you had told him the moon was moving into the guest room. “But… but… how did it happen?” He blinked rapidly, the picture of childlike innocence, before his little nose wrinkled. “Wait… don’t tell me. I think I know.”

“Oh, do you now?” Satoru acted surprised, poking his son’s cheek. You smothered a laugh into your palm. He didn’t even bother hiding his.

“Yeah,” your son said confidently, looking between the two of you with all the gravity of a seasoned detective. “It’s because you and Mama love each other again, right? That’s how it works! Auntie Gen told Sachi babies are born when the mama and dada love each other.”

You froze for half a second. Love? You quickly forced a smile. “Something like that.” 

But then Sachiro tilted his head again, eyes darting between you and Satoru like he was connecting even bigger dots. “Is Dada going to be Mama’s husband?”

The words fell into the room like pebbles into still water. Quickly enough, your body went still and Satoru’s hand froze midair on his son’s back. The boy looked between you both expectantly, as if marriage was the obvious next step, as if it was the only logical conclusion to his parents having another baby on the way.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then forced a small, gentle smile. Sometimes, Sachiro was a little too smart for his age. “That… is for another conversation, my sweetie.” 

Satoru stared at you for a good minute, careful not to cross any boundaries and give answers unaligned to your own. But you could tell how much he had wanted to say yes to Sachiro, to say that his dream of bringing his family back together was no longer far-fetched. 

Meanwhile, Sachiro squinted like he wanted to protest, but then his face lit up, wide and beaming, his entire little body vibrating with joy as he threw his arms around Satoru’s neck. “I’m gonna be a big brother!” he announced, muffled against Satoru’s shoulder. “Dada, we need to buy a big house like grandpa’s now!”

Satoru chuckled then. “Of course, buddy.” 

And for that moment, with Sachiro grinning like Christmas had come early, you let yourself believe in this fragile, imperfect little happiness. But still, there were many things to worry about. When your son mentioned his grandfather, you were immediately reminded of the things you still need to clear out before you can fully live in this dream-like fantasy. 

It didn’t surprise you how soon Satoru joined you in the kitchen the moment his son had become too engrossed in the cartoon he was watching. He knew there were things he had to clarify, so approaching you for a private talk was the next thing he did. 

“You told him,” mentioned Satoru, reaching for your hand. “Does this mean you’ll keep our baby?” 

You solemnly looked into his eyes. “It’s ours.” 

His warm lips pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “Thank you for letting me be a father to them, Y/N. I promise I’ll live my whole life serving you and our kids.” 

Sighing, you squeezed his hand. “But Satoru, we still have to tell them.”

He looked up, confused. “Tell who what?”

You hesitated, lips pressing together before you exhaled slowly. “I mean, my family. My dad, Gen—them.” The words felt strange on your tongue, even though they were your family, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “They’re not going to take it well, Satoru,” you warned softly. “After everything, they’ll think I’m out of my mind.”

He didn’t flinch. Not at all. He simply wrapped his arms around you, his gaze softening in a way it only did for you. “You’re right,” he agreed wholeheartedly. “They need to hear it from us first before anyone else. I know they won’t accept it right away, but I’ll fight for you. I promise I’ll do everything until I earn their trust again. Maybe not fully, but even a scrap is enough. Even just trusting that I won’t ever hurt you again. Because I know I won’t.”

“Satoru…”

“I mean it, Y/N.” He pressed his forehead against yours like a groom reciting a vow. “I lost this once. I’m not losing my family again. Not you. Not our kids.” 

You stared at him, this man who had once been reckless with your heart, now speaking like he would burn down the world just to keep it safe.

And for the first time in years, the idea of a future with him didn’t feel like a betrayal of yourself.

It felt like coming home.

––

The Creston mansion never felt so cold in your years of living there. It was the opposite of the Gojou mansion, where the air of toxicity lingered in every corner of their estate. But to your own family’s place, you couldn’t remember the last time those beige walls felt so lifeless. Its marble pillars, the polished brass of its doors, the cold gleam of chandeliers—everything felt hostile tonight. It had always been your father’s pride, his empire, the seat of his authority. But as you stepped inside with Satoru’s hand brushing lightly against your waist, you felt like a criminal walking into the gallows.

Am I simply overthinking? You took a deep breath, but even the air felt shallow. 

Gen was there first, rising from the velvet chair with a smile that faded the moment she saw Satoru trailing behind you. Your father sat across the room, his reading glasses low on his nose, glancing briefly at the two of you before setting aside the papers in his hand.

“Gen, Dad,” you spoke first, cutting the tension before it could rise. “How are you?” 

“We’re fine. How’s Sachi doing?” Gen asked as soon you both sat on the couch. “Is he recovering well? I thought you were going to bring him today when you texted me you’d stop by.” 

You offered a small smile. “He’s pretty great, actually. He still needs more rest, but Satoru takes good care of him.” 

Your dad nodded. “Are you going to bring him next time?” 

“Of course, Dad.” 

There was small talk at first. Forced politeness. Gen asking about Sachiro’s daily maintenance. Your father commenting about the food his grandson should eat. They both pretended like the air didn’t reek of tension while Satoru sat silently beside you, respectful, composed, with his hands folded in front of him.

But it was that one question. So plain, so harmless on the surface—yet heavy with implication that unsettled you.

And it came from your father. “Since Sachiro’s getting better, I suppose you’ll be coming back home in a few days, right?”

“I… I’m not sure about that one, Dad.” 

Your father’s gaze hardened at your answer. “What do you mean?”

You drew in a deep breath, deep enough it could’ve filled an entire oxygen tank. The words sat heavy in your throat, but you couldn’t force them out, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how much you had to. Maybe it was fear. But of what? That your family wouldn’t approve? You already knew they wouldn’t. That they’d demand you return to the mansion immediately? That wasn’t even the worst of it.

So you said nothing. You just sat there, lost in the storm of your own thoughts, not until Satoru’s fingers slipped over yours, squeezing your hand gently. It was his silent way of reminding you that you weren’t alone. That whatever came next, he was staying. Because his love was worth fighting for. 

Your father, displeased to see your hand-holding, broke the silence. “Y/N, what is this—”

“Dad, I’m pregnant.”

The house fell into stillness.

Even the birds outside stopped chirping.

“WHAT?!”

Gen blinked rapidly. Your father froze mid-motion, one hand still on a teacup that crashed onto the floor later. It was like the air thickened in a single breath, everyone caught in it, everyone waiting for the obvious name to be spoken.

“Toji’s, right?” your father finally asked, voice flat, cold. It was intentional. The question was disgustingly intentional that you couldn’t believe it came from your father at all. 

“No!” you quickly denied, “You know we’ve broken up months ago, Dad. It’s not his!” 

You could see Gen shaking her head, a hand pressed to her face as if holding herself back from exploding. But her sharp, furious eyes found Satoru in an instant. She seemed to have seen this coming, but refused to believe that her suspicions had actually come into fruition. “Is it the night of Shoko and Suguru’s wedding?” she demanded, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “The one that turned into a cheating scandal—again—involving my sister?”

Your ex-husband swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face. “It is.”

Your father’s eyes darkened.

And then he moved.

It happened so fast, the way he lunged at Satoru before anyone could speak, his fist slamming across your ex-husband’s jaw with a sickening crack. “You goddamn son of a bitch—!”

“Dad, stop!” you screamed, but nothing could stop an angry father whose daughter got hurt over and over. He grabbed Satoru by the collar, spitting words like fire as his fist landed on him again and again. “Dad, please! Don’t hurt him!” 

Even Gen tried to help out. “Dad, that’s enough.”

“You bastard! You despicable bastard!” he roared, his voice shaking with fury you had never seen in him before, not even when Satoru’s first cheating incident tore your world apart. “You already ruined her life once—humiliated her, made her suffer—and now you trap her again? Another child? Another lifetime of misery with you?!”

Satoru took the hits, grunting, stumbling, but not once raising a hand in defense. He let your father vent every ounce of hatred into his body until finally, he caught his breath and pushed back. 

“I love her,” Satoru declared, jaw bloodied, eyes wild. “I’m s-sorry. I know it didn’t seem like it, I know I’ve hurt her far too many times for you to believe it, but I fucking love her, and I’m not going anywhere this time! I already wake up every day hating myself for the things I did to her. But this—” He reached for you even as your father shoved him back, “—this is my family. And I will fight for them, with or without your blessing.”

“Blessing?” your father seethed, “You dare speak of blessings after wrecking my daughter’s life?” He turned to you then, his face red, his eyes full of both fury and heartbreak. “If you choose him, Y/N… you choose this bastard and you are no longer my daughter. No longer a Creston. No inheritance. No name. Nothing.”

“Dad, please,” you sobbed, stepping between them, your hands shaking as you held your father back. “Please don’t do this. Please.”

But your dad wouldn’t listen. His voice cut through the room like a blade, speaking words that you never in your life thought he would utter. Words that even Gen herself, no matter how callous she was, could never speak to you. 

“If you walk this path with him, Y/N, you walk it alone,” warned your father, “You will be disowned by this family. Completely.”

You felt the world shatter under your feet.

Satoru tried to reach you, his hand trembling as he whispered, “Please don't do this to Y/N—”

But the guards came before he could finish. At your father’s command, they grabbed Satoru by the arms, dragging him toward the door as he struggled, shouting your name. “Y/N! Please, Y/N!”

“Stop!” you begged and cried and pleaded to everyone in the room, but no one listened.

And the more Satoru resisted, the more they were aggressive to him. “Let me go! I need to talk to her! Y/N!”

His voice echoed through the marble halls until the heavy doors slammed shut, leaving you behind, shaking, sobbing, frozen solid to your place as your father’s ultimatum rang in your ears like a death sentence.

––

Satoru didn’t remember how he got home.

One moment he was being thrown out of the Creston mansion like a criminal, and the next thing he knew, he was in the penthouse alone, pacing like a madman, replaying the events in his head until it made him sick.

You didn’t come out of the mansion. You didn’t walk out the door. Not even when they dragged him out like he was nothing. Not when he called your name with his voice breaking in half.

You stayed. You stayed behind.

And Satoru knew what that meant. 

Blood ran thicker than water, after all. And Satoru envied you for it—for the way your family stood together, for how naturally you fought for one another. His own family was nothing like that. Broken, dysfunctional, poisoned from the inside out. He couldn’t quite grasp how yours could love so fiercely, so selflessly. It didn’t sink in right away why you would choose them over him, why cutting them off wasn’t as simple for you as it had been for him and his own family.

His chest caved under the pain of it. He staggered into the living room and slammed his fist into the wall so hard the frames rattled. Again. And again. Until his knuckles split and the sharp pain screamed up his arm, but never enough. He wanted to break something, everything. Maybe himself most of all.

“Why,” his voice cracked, “why can’t I fix this?!”

He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Was it God? Was it his subconscious? Regardless, the questions fell out like prayers no one would answer. His shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands, tears spilling freely now, the mask ripped off until only the wreck of a man was left behind.

He thought about you. About the way you had stood there between him and your father, crying like the world was ending. About how he had ruined everything once before, and now here he was again, cursed to repeat it like some sick punishment.

“God, I just want my family back! Please… Please, I’m s-sick of this! I’m fucking sick of it!” he choked out, his voice breaking as his fists hit the wall again, with each punch harder than the last. The plaster cracked and his knuckles throbbed, so much so that he wondered if he broke his hand, but he liked it that way. He wanted to feel it burn, wanted it to hurt because he deserved it, because maybe if it hurt enough, it would erase the never ending guilt crawling under his skin.

And he would’ve gone on like that if not for the tiny, fragile voice behind him. “Dada?”

That was the only thing that made Satoru freeze. He turned around to see Sachiro standing there in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and the other holding onto his teddy bear. He looked so small, so breakable, and his innocent gaze moved from the blood dripping down Satoru’s knuckles to the tears on his face.

“Are you… okay?”

Something in Satoru snapped then, not from anger this time but from the sight of his son looking at him like that. He quickly dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms so tightly Sachiro squeaked at the suddenness of it.

“I-I don’t know, buddy,” he whispered into his son’s hair, his voice shaking so hard it hurt. “I don’t know what’s going to h-happen to us.”

“Dada, why you crying?”

“Because…” Satoru shut his eyes, inhaling sharply, “because I keep messing everything up. I-I can’t bring your mommy back. I’m sorry, Sachi. I’m so sorry I can’t give you the family you deserve. I… I failed you. I failed mommy and our baby. I’m so lost.”

Sachiro wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck like he was trying to hold him together even though he was too small to fix anything. “I’m here.” 

Even his tiniest, most innocent gesture was enough to split Satoru open. Because after everything, after convincing himself, even for a fleeting moment, that he could be a perfect father to his kids, he was reminded over and over that he would never be. 

He couldn’t even manage to be a decent husband, let alone a good man. A cheater. A coward. A pathetic excuse of a man who had ruined everything good that ever reached for him. He disgusted himself down to the marrow. He was a piece of shit, an asshole, a useless good-for-nothing scumbag—

The doorbell rang. Once. 

Damn it!

Then, again. 

God fucking dammit!

“Dada.” His son tugged at his shirt. “Someone’s at the door.” 

Satoru stiffened, wiping his face with his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to face the police, not after he had just broken down in front of his son, and still drowning from the heartbreak of losing you. Couldn’t your father give him even a little bit of mercy and just let Sachiro stay the night? 

Satoru felt like he was losing his mind. 

The lock clicked. Footsteps crossed the threshold.

He turned toward the door with his heart pounding, Sachiro following him behind.

...

...

And there you were.

Standing with your bags, eyes red from crying, looking at him like there was never any other choice but him.

[lalunanymph]

KINKTOBER 2025: LIGHTHOUSE LOVER

sypnosis lonely and cold, a lighthouse keeper starts a torrid love affair with a merman who washed upon her shore. a real love story? or the fatal effects of mercury poisoning?

— tags. rafayel x fem!reader, reader is a lighthouse keeper, monsterfucking, breeding, merman!rafayel, two dicks, gaslighting, unreliable narrator, implied murders, slight gore, small town horror, law enforcement, inspired by the OG ending of 'little mermaid', anal play, forbidden love

— dawn says. phewww this one was fun yet challenging to write bc i tried to walk the tightline between psychologically disturbing while also maintaining the unreliable narrator tangent. day 2 down and 2 more fics to go! enjoy monsterfucking with merman rafayel 🌞

kinktober 2025 | A03

The first time you ever saw Rafayel’s face was through the diamond-shaped mesh of a fishing net.

He’d been hauled in from the shore by three fishermen, torso bleeding, hands like claws grappling the rope as if his life depended on it; his soft grunts lost in the crashing of waves against the shore.

“Look at this loaded one we caught,” one of them crows.

“Put up a hell of a fight in the middle of the sea!”

Another man grunts, teeth stained red from tobacco. His cohort throws their head back and laugh, spittle flying from their dry lips into the frosty dawn.

As the resident lighthouse keeper in Uncanny Valley, you’ve seen your fair share of weird.

But this absolutely took the cake.

Because for some rhyme or reason, none of the men could see that they had netted a man-fish, his eyes wide with fear, clear face like a pearl twisted into a feral snarl.

“Wonder how much ol’ Nelson by the pier is gonna charge us for this beauty,” the last one chuckles.

“Tuna’s bout as pricey as a house these days—we’d be swimming in gold!”

Your eyes, wide with alarm, land on his frantic ones.

Tuna…?

What the hell were they talking about?

Clearly it was a man caught in the netting.

Or, were they all still drunk off cheap scotch from yesterday’s bar session to not see the sheen of scales covering his midsection?

Chromatic purple-pink, it’s would be hard for anyone to miss.

Shell-shocked, you try to warn them.

To open your mouth and shriek that they’ve caught a half-man, half-fish.

But, one cold, piercing look from the strange fish-man silences your attempts.

As if you can read his mind, he shakes his head.

Don’t blow my cover.

Rooted to the spot, you can only watch as they prepare a huge ice box to transport the merman (?) to the docks.

However, neither of you anticipate the sudden rolling of thunder clouds, the heavens opening up in the blink of an eye to pour down icy-sharp drops that cut through your skin. Screaming, the men disperse and you follow suit, hiding under a shop’s awning as everyone watches—horrified—as the “tuna” catch cuts through the net and twists over the docks, disappearing under the choppy waves.

The fishermen curse and stomp their feet.

But, you’re still staring at the spot where the man used to lay, wondering if you had finally lost it.

An icy finger slides down your spine which has nothing to do with the sudden hail-like downpour.

Something tells you this wouldn’t be the last time you’ll see him again.

—

Saltwater spray crashing from a rocky edifice you’re standing on nearly blinds you.

Gazing down from the sharp jut, you turn your gaze towards the blood-red setting sun.

It’s around this time that he’ll appear.

The man with a tail, scales, and siren song like honey in his mouth.

The man who has captivated you enough to make you forget about your evening duties and spend your time waiting by the shore for his return.

Rafayel.

Like a tale from an old, forgotten book, you're enraptured by this man who you came to find out is part of the sea— quite literally.

Born from primordial powers you can’t even wrap your head around, Rafayel spans easily 9-feet with his tail, powerful enough to slash through a man in half with one swish. His long, flowing amethyst hair flutters in the current, lovely face looking up at you through the shimmering water.

“Hi, Fishie,” you tease, using his least favorite nickname on him.

Rafayel chuckles, air bubbles rising to the surface as his head breaches past the water.

“Feisty,” he rasps, and hauls himself out by the forearms onto the rocky shore, his long tail curling around him like a scaly beacon.

You once asked him why you were the only one who could see his true form, and he had fallen silent.

Unable to answer you.

His eyes now gleam with a hunger you can’t deny. As a god of the sea, he’s starved for human worship, and you’re more than happy to provide it.

Sinking to your knees, you grab his face in your hands; like drinking from a mystical fountain, you tip his lips to yours and swallow his kisses.

“Gods—”

It’s blasphemy and he knows it. But, Rafayel would go against the heavens itself to mandate you by law to be by his side.

“My bride tastes good,” he purrs and licks his lips, smirking. “How’ve you been, my lovely?”

He props a hand under his cheek, leaning in to show his interest.

You have no idea why Rafayel is enamoured with you: the life of a lighthouse keeper isn’t a terribly exciting one.

The most interesting thing you will ever experience is two ships docking into the port at once.

But, he’s fascinated; listens with an enraptured expression on his face.

He keenly slurps up some corn soup you made for dinner, and you let him play his flute to soothe you to sleep.

“I’ll lock you in my bathtub if you keep this up,” you murmur, only joking.

Rafayel stops playing.

“Is that a promise? Or, a threat?”

He chuckles and sets his instrument down. “Do not start something you cannot finish, little one.”

You huff, and while he’s staring at you like you hung the stars across the sky, you tug him closer, tasting saltwater off his lips.

Rafayel moans and kisses you back.

“Little minx.”

He growls and tackles you to the rocky edifice, laughing quietly when you squeak and try to push his broad shoulders.

“Rafayel—!”

“You started this,” he rumbles, and nips your shoulder.

Lithe fingers start to unlace the ties holding your pants together.

“My rebellious—little—bride,” he drags his teeth over your exposed neck, making quick work of your clothes. “It is time to put you back in your place.”

“What if I did this on purpose?” You breathe.

He laughs. “All the more reason for me to devour you, my bride.”

The brilliant sunset throws his gentle lilac eyes into a deep blaze. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted… all I could ask for.”

Your breathing hitches.

This union will not make sense to many people, but it feels right.

Land and sea, human and merman.

Rafayel has not once treated you as anything other than his.

Those long fingers finally unwraps you free from your clothing, and you’re naked on the shore, his lips on yours.

The feel of his scales sliding against your skin makes you shiver.

The wind picks up, but in his arms, you’re warm and safe.

“Are you ready?”

You nod, eager.

The first time you ever took him, your legs had shook, and you had to spend the next day bedbound.

A merman's… physiology… is remarkably different from a normal man's.

One dick, you can take.

Two?

Well, sometimes Rafayel has to call in for reinforcements.

This time, he feeds you a sweet, yet tart berry with a crunchy outer layer—a Lemurian dessert—as he calls it.

The fruit makes you woozy, eyes growing heavier. Body feeling denser. You’re relaxed enough to not wince when the thick head of his second cock brushes your entrance, the other one grazing the less-used puckered hole, sending a dirty thrill up your spine.

“Raffie,” your sweet honey sighs brings a smile to his lips.

“Yes, my bride?”

Your hips twitch and you squirm, the hunger in your eyes unmistakable.

“I’ve been waiting for you all day—don’t make me wait any longer.”

On the pillowy soft sand, Rafayel stakes his claim. Ploughing into you with the force of a tsunami trying to drown a wrecked boat.

He takes and takes, stopping only to kiss you full on the lips. His tongue delves deep into your mouth, fingers plucking the tiny cherry-tipped buds on your chest with a terrifying efficacy that borders on him knowing your body better than your own.

Mmhh!

Your moans are his fuel, and your kisses his fire.

Rafayel consumes you like a blaze, swallowing down your cries.

There’s sand everywhere.

In your hair, between your butt cheeks, scattered all over your stomach and chest.

It's raining sand down on you and you love it.

The stars are beginning to rise in the upper hemisphere when Rafayel finally slows down, sheen of sweat glistening on his chest. He breathes hard and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, gently cupping your face.

“Are you well, my bride?”

You nod, too fucked out to form words.

He grins and rolls off you, large palms sweeping down your chest and body to brush off the granules of sand still clinging to your skin.

“I shall return tomorrow, when the sun dips below the sky,” he promises like he always does.

You roll over to your side, supporting your head with a hand under your chin.

“You swear?” Extending a pinkie finger towards him, Rafayel chuckles and tentatively wraps his longer one around yours.

“I promise.”

…

He’s broken his promise.

Rafayel doesn't return tomorrow, nor the day after.

You grow restless, eyes constantly flickering to the seashore for a glimpse of chromatic purple or pastel pink.

You start to see him in the seaweed washing up in the shore; wondering when did dull green fibers start to resemble the wondrous hues of his lilac hair.

You think you hear his voice in the breeze, but it’s the whistle of the wind.

The loneliness eats at you. Nights spent watching the coast for a glimmer of his appearance.

You’ve taken to sleeping on the balcony overlooking the obsidian sea where he usually makes an appearance.

Still, he does not come back to you.

One fateful night, when the rain beats down like bullets on your window, you hear the faintest knock on the front door of your home.

Instantly curious, you undo the bolt and when you see who’s on the other end, your heart nearly stops.

It's Rafayel.

Just not the Rafayel you were expecting.

But, a man walking on two legs.

Your knees buckle. The world starts to spin.

“Where…” you swallow hard. “Where is your tail?”

Your lover chuckles at the question. He’s dressed head to toe in velvet—coat, gloves and a pair of leather boots to compliment the eccentric getup.

If you didn't know any better, he probably ransacked the closet of an elderly socialite.

“Is that anyway to greet someone who went through hell just to see you?”

His tone is light, the words deceptively honest.

You gape at him.

Asking him the one question that addresses the elephant in the room.

“How?”

Rafayel’s lips twitch.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. “Yes, I do—” A sharp breath. “I waited for you. For so many nights—”

You hate how your voice starts to break. The sting in your eyes and wobble in your lower lip obvious.

“—and I thought you left me—”

The rest of your words disappear in a muffle embrace full of velvet.

Rafayel holds you fast to his chest, murmuring into your hair.

“I would never leave you, my bride. You’re all I need want—all I could ever need. Besides—” he grins and gently chucks your chin with two fingers till you crack a smile. “—who else is going to remind you to do your rounds in the lighthouse if it weren't for me?”

Though his sudden appearance raises a few red flags in your mind, your innate need for his company doesn’t abate. You tighten your arms around him.

“As long as you’re here… that’s all that matters.”

—

The funny thing about love is that is makes you blind to someone’s lies.

Life was perfectly in bliss with Rafayel back at your side. Though you tried to ask him about his legs—how he got them when the last you remembered, he had a seven-foot long tail, he always shut down your curiosity before it could go too far.

Distracting you with honey-sweet kisses that fill your chest with warmth.

On rainy nights, he would bring out his record player and the two of you would dance barefoot across the cold, concrete floors.

The thought that he would leave never occurred to you.

Not even as you spend your mornings sweeping the coast with your binoculars, or filling an order form with next month’s supply rations to be delivered.

As long as Rafayel was by your side, you were happy.

His footsteps come up behind you, arms wrapped around your waist.

“Morning, beautiful,” he husks into your ear, and you turn to smile at him, only to catch his eyes widening in alarm. “Y/N—you’re bleeding.”

He instantly pulls out a handkerchief and gently dabs at your nose.

“Shit—” you tilt your head back, wincing. “That’s funny,” you murmur as he pinches your nose, your next words a nasal wheeze. “I haven’t had a nosebleed since I was five.”

Rafayel admonishes you with a look. “You’re overworking yourself. You need to take a break.”

“I’m fine,” you lift a hand to his wrist. He catches the slight tremor in them and his eyes narrow further.

“You’re not—that’s it.”

He sweeps you into his arms, lifting you straight to bed. “You are resting for the whole day. No ‘buts’—you need to take it easy.”

“But, the boats—”

“Will survive for the night,” he grouses. “I can switch on and off a humongous bulb. You just rest, okay?”

Okay. Your voice is small, lost in the mountain of blankets he stacks on top of you.

Despite his careful attentions, you don’t get any better. There are times at night when you’d lie awake in his arms, unable to fall asleep. Dizziness would get the better of you at times, and you’d have to slump over your work desk to catch a breath.

It doesn’t help that the local police have been darkening your doorstep for the past week.

Something about a man by the docks who was found with his body sliced in half, legs missing.

You shake your head when they show you his photo.

I don’t recognize him. Sorry, officers.

They persist, saying he was on his way to the lighthouse to deliver some heat packs when he turned up dismembered near the shore.

You shake your head again.

I’ve never heard of this man, nor seen him in my life.

Eventually, they grow weary of hounding and take their leave, but not before one of the younger officers casts his gaze around the circular, hollow lighthouse.

“Bit daunting to be a woman all alone here, eh, miss?”

You narrow your eyes, sensing where he’s getting at.

All your life, people had questioned your choice of taking over your father’s job as the new lighthouse keeper. Most of them came from a good place; others like this officer did it to feel a smidgen of superiority—insinuating that you didn’t have what it took to be the guardian of the seas.

You raise your head, tightening your jaw.

“Only if you can stand the sea wisps who try to steal your soul.”

His expression changes into one of furious confusion. His burlier colleague pats his shoulder, throwing you a strained smile.

“We’re done here, Miss. Enjoy your day.”

After they leave your doorstep, you feel more than hear Rafayel coming up behind you.

“Those bastards are lucky I’m in a good mood,” he comments, tracing your sides with a light touch. “Or, I would’ve sliced up and ate them raw.”

You scoff, leaning into his touch. His lips press against the crown of your head, tender and reassuring.

“Relax. I’m here.”

The broad and sturdy muscled plane of his chest reassures you, and you let yourself sink into his touch.

As much as you try to force yourself to relax, you can’t quite get the words of those officers out of your head.

“A man sliced in half… his legs missing.”

Rafayel tenses behind you. A part of you wonders if…

“How’re your legs feeling?” You casually ask, remembering how he’d complain of their joints aching last night.

“Never you mind,” he comments breezily. Almost too casually. “I’ll find some ointment for them. You, however, my pretty pearl, need to sleep.”

He evades your questions again.

And the next day, he doesn’t respond when you probe him about his legs.

You should’ve known something strange was going on when he refused to let you take off his pants. Or, go down on him.

In fact, you can’t remembered the last time Rafayel actually had sex with you.

Really, really had sex with you.

It was always heavy fondling, or he’d take his time between your thighs, eating you out until you cried out in ecstasy.

The moment you let your hands drift downward, he’d catch them and press a kiss to your wrist.

I want to focus on you, princess.

Let me make you feel good.

Don’t worry about me.

Could it be…? No.

You try to shake off those thoughts.

It doesn’t mean anything… right?

The radio by your nightstand crackles, blasting an important news update.

“… we interrupt the morning traffic announcement to inform civilians of Uncanny Valley to be on high alert for a serial killer with a penchant for dismembering legs…”

Slender fingers turn down the radio dial, and you startle when Rafayel’s grinning face appears in your vision.

“It’s a lovely day, princess. Come on. We should stroll down the beach.”

He takes your hand and you can’t protest at his enthusiasm—it’s the first time you’ve seen him this happy in a long while. The air is warm, with a hint of sea salt carding through your hair. The sun shines down and Rafayel tugs you into an alcove, far away from prying eyes.

His hands sink in your hair, lips pressing onto yours with an eagerness that makes you gasp.

The cave is dark, and you can’t see him, but you can feel his arousal stiffening against your thigh. Scent the musk of his kisses in the heat of your mouth. Rafayel devours your moan, hitching your legs around his narrow waist.

“Lay down—yes… just like that.”

Your back meets cool rock. On a flatbed of stone, he begins to undress you. There is no sound beyond your staggering breath the steady drip-drip-drip of water trickling down from the damp rocky ceiling into a quietly bubbling underground stream.

Even with the lack of light, Rafayel’s warmth is enough to reassure you.

Like a burning flame in the deepest depth of night, he fills you with a rush of safety.

“God, you taste so good.”

He moans against your neck.

“I’ve missed you like this…”

Your clothes are shed to the floor, and he nips and licks at your mouth, desperate to taste you.

Blooming like a flower, your lips part for him, just like your legs.

He settles between them, a comforting weight.

A look of tenderness sparks in his cosmic lilac eyes, streaking through your soul like a fiery comet.

“I love you.”

Your sudden admission leaves him breathless.

He moans and buries his face into your shoulder, licking and biting your bare skin.

“Say it again,” he demands, almost desperate. “Say those words again.”

I love you.

You brand it into his neck, leaving your mark.

I love you.

Your body whispers when you straddle his lap, raising your hips. He watches from below, a love struck god entranced by his devotee.

The warmth of your palms seeping into his chest makes him shiver, twitching deep inside of you.

It’s one now, not two—no double penetration, and somehow, you miss the feeling of being completely filled and taken.

He seems to sense this, and slides a finger between your crease, testing the waters by gently easing the tip of his index past the tight rim of your ass.

Fuck!

Your gasp riles him up, and Rafayel pushes deeper.

It’s enough to get your walls fluttering around him.

"Come for me,” he urges, low and deep. “Come for your sea god.”

Head tossed back, eyes squeezed shut, your release crashes you apart; a violent wave dragging you deeper, and deeper till his cock is the only thing you can anchor yourself to; till the salt tang of his cum is what you can taste behind your throat.

He cradles you in his embrace, sturdy and sure.

As you drift off, his kisses rain like warm specks of dew, dabbling your cheeks and smearing it with his devotion.

Sleep now. I’ve got you.

The last thing you remember before drifting off into unconsciousness was how he tightened his arms around you, as if desperate to let go—afraid you would float away.

Because when morning came, he was the first to leave.

Naked and alone, you stumble to drag your clothes on.

Emerging from the cave, your feet stagger on the soft sand, and you shield your eyes against the sun’s sudden harsh glare.

There, in the distance, police car lights bounce red and blue by the lighthouse entrance, making something in your chest tighten in fear.

When you approach them, instead of offering you an answer, they halt, eyes wide.

One of them grips his gun holster tight, as if bracing himself to shoot.

“Wh—?”

“Get on the ground!”

An officer to your right yells. You snap out of your fugue and raise your hands, eyes wide.

What the hell is happening?

You want to scream—to ask them to clarify just why the hell they were in front of your home, weapons raised right at you.

Get on the ground and hands behind your back!

It’s only when you kneel on the gravel do you notice the blood seeping through your clothes. You cry out in fear, but the men don’t hear.

They don’t care if you’re trembling from the confusion and terror.

They don’t care if you keep hurling questions at them, demanding to know what is going on.

One of them cuffs you, while the other surrounds the area, retracing your steps back to the cave.

He emerges a moment later, white as a sheet, and nods gravely at another officer.

The burlier man curses under his breath, and spares you a dirty look.

He doesn’t explain—doesn’t offer you any rhyme or reason—just simply lifts his walkie to his mouth and instructs dispatch to send in paramedics.

There’s a moment when you have an out of body experience.

You’re not handcuffed, sitting hunched back by a broken vase of flowers. You’re following the men inside the cave—seeing a pair of dismembered legs lying limply on the rocky edifice. You can’t scream because you’re not in your own body; relegated to watching with wide, unblinking eyes as they carefully put what remains of Rafayel into a body bag.

It wasn’t me, you want to beg and plead.

It wasn’t me!

Mercury poisoning, one of the mutters under his breath.

This whole place reeks of it.

You would never hurt Rafayel.

You would never—

“Please.”

Forcing yourself to your knees, you glance up at one of the officers.

“Let me call my… my boyfriend. His name is Rafayel. Just let me call him and he can explain everything.”

The officer hesitates. He’s older—big bellied with an equally voluminous mustache.

“Lady, who is Rafayel?”

You hesitate for a split second. Would they think you were crazy—telling them all about the merman you saved who could mysteriously walk on land?

“Take my phone.”

You gesture at your pocket. “We have pictures together—”

The officer nods and gets on one knee, fishing for your phone to find out who ‘Rafayel’ is. He would see the handsome young man posing in front of sunsets, laughing into your lenses.

Perhaps, he’d even be moved by the photos you two snapped of each other, the ones where both of you were obviously in love, immortalized side by side in your gallery.

But, the officer falters.

“You said… you said you had a boyfriend? And you have photos of the lad?”

You nod, wondering why he suddenly sounds alarmed.

In a matter of seconds, you get your answer.

He turns your phone screen to you, and your eyes widen in shock.

Every photo the two of you have taken as a couple—selfies in the sun—only showed you.

You, grinning into the camera, with an eerie man-shaped space beside you. Empty.

No trace of him. Not even a shadow.

No Rafayel reflection in your sunglasses, nor the suggestion of someone who had once stood there.

Just… you.

“It can’t be.”

The officer helps scroll through your gallery, each photo more unnerving than the rest. The romantic sunset walk by the shore—you appearing to hold some invisible man’s hand. A picnic date—you toasting to empty air.

No boyfriend.

No Rafayel.

“Miss, it’s okay,” the older officer soothes you, his tone deceptively calm, but the strain is evident.

“We’re going to get you some help. Some of the best, finest lawyers and shrinks in the city—”

No.

You want to scream.

No!

But, as they haul you up and into the police car, a chill snakes down your spine.

A whisper, barely louder than the wind, brushes your ear: “I’m sorry.”

Before the car door slams shut on your stunned, hollow-eyed stare, your gaze drifts back—drawn to the shoreline.

There, half-submerged in sea foam, a pair of eyes—unnaturally pink and violet—stare back at you.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

Mourning.

— reblogs and comments to support are very much appreciated 💕

© all works belong to lalunanymph aka dawn. do not copy, repost or claim my ideas as your own. do not feed my work into any AI training software or create chatbots based on my depiction of characters. all rights to love and deepspace and stardew valley belong to their rightful creators.

[mournfulroses]

Marcel Proust, from a poem featured in The Collected Poems; A Dual Language Edition

[thoughtkick]

“You’re leaving because it is easier to walk away than to fight for what you really want.”

— Aria Montgomery, Pretty Little Liars

[silentmanifester]

Manifestation is soo simple. It's all about putting your mental energy into the things you want to experience and refusing to entertain any thought that doesn't align with your desires. Thats it period.

♡♡♡

[livelaughlaney]

discipline goes a long way

[violentwavesofemotion]

“She has a heart, too much heart perhaps.”

— Marcel Proust, from The Complete Works; “Remembrance of Things Past,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[deepspacenova]

Draped in Devotion

He pauses then, studying your reflection with a slight curl of his lip, a sharp contrast to the intensity in his gleaming scarlet irises. “Want to know which of these jewels is the best treasure I’ve ever gotten?”

➻➻ ABOUT | 1800 words. sylus x gn!reader.

➻➻ TAGS | emotional hurt/comfort. light angst. insecurity. fluff. flirting. affection. words of affirmation. self-indulgent.

NOTE: My writer's block for my kinktober series is so bad I cried earlier today lol.. SO i decided to switch gears and popped this out instead. A combo of my interpretation of the upcoming 4 star card as well as my intense need for sylus' comfort rn xoxo

The dress doesn’t sit right.

You feel it the moment you look in the mirror, the way the emerald satin catches the light wrong, how it hugs your ribs and your thighs in the right places, but it somehow still feels shapeless.

Your first four dress attempts already lie discarded on the bathroom floor in a shimmery heap of defeat. You tug at the bodice, press a hand over your waist, tilt your head, add the black, elbow-length gloves that pair with it, fiddle with your hair to make it fall around your face differently.

Nothing helps.

The reflection continues to stare back in judgment. You, a statue of frustration and half-pinned hair, brows pinched, eyes dim.

The door opens behind you.

“Almost ready, sweetie?” Sylus’ smooth voice echoes in the tiled room.

You meet his gaze in the mirror and see he’s leaning against the door frame, his red shirt buttoned only three-quarters of the way up, his camel-colored jacket draped loosely around his shoulders. Handsome and confident. Effortlessly put together. He always is.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You force a smile, drop your hands from your sides. “Maybe you should just go without me. I can stay at the base tonight, play that new game with Luke.”

He hums low, crossing the room in a few unhurried strides until he’s behind you, his reflection standing tall and determined while yours seems to shrink and pale in comparison. “I'm afraid that won’t do tonight." He bumps his chin into the crown of your head playfully. “They’ll be expecting their biggest donor.”

“Exactly," you affirm with a small shrug. “That’s why you should go.”

Sylus’ lips curve with a secret smile. “Hm, no. See, that’s the problem.” He reaches out and gently strokes a loose lock of hair near your temple, focusing his gaze on the strands. “The donation was anonymous, but their 'mysterious benefactor' has made you his stand-in, kitten.”

Your mouth opens, closes. “You… What?”

"Well.. there's no way Skye the humble fruit vendor would be chosen as the stand-in for someone who's sponsored an entire wing of Linkon's newest museum."

"Sylus!"

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides gently, brushing a finger along the seam of your satin glove. “You signed the papers.”

“You didn't let me read the papers!”

He pauses for a few seconds, then meets your eyes again with a mischievous grin. “Oops."

Sylus steps back a bit as you turn away from the mirror, exhaling through your nose as your frustration builds again. The frustration isn't at him, really, but at the ache in your chest and the memory of your drab, out-of-place reflection. “This dress doesn’t belong on me.” The words spill out before you can swallow them. “None of them do. I’ve tried four so far, and I still look—”

“Like yourself,” Sylus finishes quietly. The amusement from before has been wiped from his face; this time, his smile is affectionate, sincere.

“Exactly,” you mutter, spreading your arms out and dropping them at your sides. “That’s the problem.”

Sylus pauses at your words, tilts his head back in surprise, and looks you over. It's a slow and deliberate perusal. Lingering on every detail of you from your wrists to your collarbone and even your shoulders and ears, before his study ends at your eyes.

You're captivated by the heat in them, turning the dark scarlet irises into the red of molten lava. Just as you prepare for him to say something seductive, some double entendre that would leave you blushing and bashful and take your mind off your worries, if only for a few minutes, Sylus reaches out to brush a thumb along your jaw, holds up his pointer finger, and strides out of the bathroom.

You blink at the doorway. “Sylus?”

No answer. Just the fading sound of his footsteps down the hall.

You sigh, reaching for your phone. The screen lights up with a notification about the event and reminds you just how little time you have left.

If people are going to be looking at you tonight because of the donation, because of him, maybe you could at least make the most of it by distracting them all with some makeup. A darker eye, maybe, something bold. You lean toward the mirror, sweeping shadow across your lids, focusing on the small, controlled motions instead of the gnawing anxiety in your chest.

By the time you’re done, you almost feel composed again. Until you see him reappear in the mirror.

Sylus stands in the doorway, hands full. Velvet boxes of various colours, shapes, and sizes, rest in his palms and even between his fingers. Without a word he walks up behind you and starts setting them down. His arms come up on either side of you to open one, two, three… until there are at least a dozen jewelry boxes open and gleaming in front of you.

You blink, unable to tear your eyes away from the sight. “What are you doing? What is all this?”

Your gaze lands on a necklace of pearls, each orb the size of your fingertip, surrounded by a halo of small diamonds. You hover a hand over it, afraid you'll soil its value with just your touch. “I can’t-”

“You can, kitten,” he interrupts, abrupt and assertive, picking up the necklace that had just caught your eye and laying it gently across your throat.

"Sylus, this-"

“This,” he says, talking right over you as he clasps it at your nape, “was acquired from the vault of an embezzler in Skyhaven." He rubs a finger over the clasp as the cold kiss of the pearls settles against your skin. “They’re worth about five hundred thousand Linkon gold. Maybe more now that I've determined these are Lemurian pearls.”

You swallow, eyes wide in the mirror.

He reaches for another box, revealing a diamond bracelet shaped like a constellation of stars. “This was a thank you gift," he murmurs, sliding the delicate strand over your glove, his lowered head brushing the apple of his cheek against yours. "For stealing a few priceless artifacts from Chansia."

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “You stole them?”

“And gave them back." He nods, lips curving. “To their rightful owners. An island off the coast.”

The next box holds an intricate ring of interlocking platinum vines. “From a black market auction in the N109 Zone. Nearly started a riot getting it.” He slides it over your middle finger, letting his lips oh so casually brush against your open neck. “Probably worth more than all of Linkon's museums combined.”

He keeps going. Another necklace from the usurper of a small country in the north. A hairpin carved from meteoric crystal. A small brooch shaped like a snowflake from Snowcrest. Each piece comes with a story that's dangerous, wicked, and yet still shaped by Sylus' unique sense of altruism.

By the time he’s done, you’re dripping in treasures, and your reflection in the mirror looks like a painting of a royal in a gallery. The emerald silk of your dress glimmers beneath cascades of silver, diamond, and pearl.

You're draped in the kind of beauty you associate with artwork, not people.

Through it all, Sylus has continued to stand behind you, inlaying you with some of the world's most beautiful and sought-after jewelry like a live model. His touches are soft and reassuring, knuckles grazing your arms, lips pressing kisses into your hair, collarbone, the shell of your ear.

"That's strange." His hands come to rest lightly on your shoulders, voice wavering and raspy. "These all look much more dull than I remember.”

You lean back, your back meeting his chest as the words catch you off guard. He’s watching you, really watching you, the rubies in his eyes bright and alive.

“Everything you wear belongs on you,” he continues, quiet but firm. “Because you belong anywhere you choose to be. Even in a room full of ignorant people, trying to measure your worth by what’s on your body.” He leans closer as if imparting a secret, his palm sliding over your waist. “Let them try. They’ll never get close.”

He pauses then, studying your reflection with something soft and affectionate curling at the corner of his mouth. “Want to know which of these jewels is the best treasure I’ve ever gotten?”

You're caught between laughter and disbelief. “Which one?”

He takes your gloved hand, turns it over gently, and presses his lips to the top of a ring gleaming there, the gesture elegant, almost courtly. But when he looks up again, his eyes catch yours in the mirror, and he leans in, lips brushing your temple with a feather-light kiss as he whispers, “This one.”

The words melt into you, and you almost forget to breathe for a moment around the lump that's formed in your throat. His reflection, close and steady behind you, anchors you there.

“Take them off, and you’d still have the same eyes,” he murmurs after a beat. “The same voice. The same stubborn, so very human heart that somehow deemed me worthy of holding it.”

You laugh softly, a little watery, and shake your head. “Only sometimes.”

His smile deepens. “Then let me make the most of one of those rare occasions then. Don't hide yourself from the world tonight.”

His hands settle at your waist. “Now. Look.”

You do.

The person staring back doesn’t look lost anymore. They look… determined. Powerful. Even a little… intimidating. The emerald dress suddenly makes sense, like it was waiting for this exact moment to come alive.

Sylus meets your gaze through the reflection. “You see it now, don’t you?”

“See what?”

“That there’s nothing I could put on you,” he says with a voice like smoke, “that could ever make you worth more than you already are.”

And when he turns your head to slot his lips against yours, you believe him.

➻➻ MASTERLIST

[blessdunrest-deactivated2026042]

To be cherished, to be held, to be loved

summary: you've never had much luck with love, others choosing prettier flightier beings compared to you. that changes when you meet him in a flower shop. sylus x you. flowershop AU. No evols here. inspired by this: dissection & sylus's birthday card. Epilogue here cw: fluff, fem!reader now playing: musique pour la tristesse de xion. a/n: thank you @rika-mmendmethings for sending me down this divine hell-hole haha.

To be cherished.

To be held.

To be loved.

These are the words you hold dear—words your parents whispered into your ear when you were young, words your cousins modeled with their husbands and children running amok like fireflies, words you found tapestried in dog-eared books and slow-burning romance films.

You, however, never had quite such luck in relationships.

Your partners never stayed for long. They preferred to migrate to finer things like moths to a flame, a flame you could never hold in the same way.

He knocks on your door, gives you a bouquet of flowers and you try not to dissect the meaning of each petal pushing past clear cellophane.

Yellow carnations.

It’s become a habit to dissect everything, lately.

Smile, you idiot. You try to look amiable but with the tired “come in” that accompanies his entrance, you doubt there’s much sincerity in either of your greetings.

At least he remembered your anniversary.

A bitter pill you will have to swallow, knowing this will be your last.

It’s been three years. Three years of you floundering to find your place by his side, of him climbing the ranks to achieve executive status at his newest job, of you turning over parts of yourself you never wanted to hide.

Your plushies, your collection of perfumes, your charmed bracelets, your carefully curated jar of starry wishes.

All gone.

You stare at the empty condo that used to be yours ours, and close the chapter you hope to never rekindle.

You start to question whether those words you hold dear hold much truth.

 Your coworkers are perceptive, painfully so.

Tara likes to give you chocolates after lunch breaks, “something sweet for my sweetest friend,”  she always whispers.

Simone likes to give you mints when you’ve been staring at the computer for too long, “come, some fresh air will do you good.” You never have the heart to refuse the way her hand grips securely around yours.

Andrew likes to give you thin pieces of paper when your pen caps are chewed astray, “you said you liked folding origami stars so…..” the way his words trail off into the atmosphere always leave your hands trembling, your heart achingly hollow.

Their love, however present, never quite feels the same.

...

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when you decide enough is enough.

Enough of the wallowing, enough of the self-pity, enough of the waiting for fate to enthrall you.

You will be grasping happiness your own way.

And that starts with the very gift you tried to hate: flowers.

You stare at the non-ambiguous sign—a crow clutching a pair of moonflowers—and enter.

The space is not what you expected.

Floor to ceiling windows covered by half-open blackout curtains, macrame pots dangling from abandoned light fixtures, scattered vertebrae? serving as place holders for spindly air plants asking for whispers of water and sun.

The floors are lined with luxurious rugs made of tight-knit fibers, a shade of maroon so red you wonder whether you’re swimming in a sea of blood.

The bookshelves are filled with texts encyclopedic in nature—101 plants that thrive in the shade, A Mycologist’s Guide to the World’s Most Deadly Fungi, Common plants toxic to cats and dogs, 101 species of carnivorous plants, How to Care for Daturas.

The last book sends a tingle through your spine, a genus of plants you know well to be beautiful in nature but deceptively cruel. Poisonous.

You’re about to leave the store when you feel an ominous presence behind you.

“Can I help you, miss?”

You grab a bone from one of tables and turn to let out a scream, determined to throw it at the intruder—

But the scream never comes.

You wake to the smell of ginger and honey. Warm, cloyingly sweet, suffusing the room with calm.

You’re laying on a plush velvet couch with a jacket thrown over you.

A finger twitches in front of you, rubbing the fabric absentmindedly.

Heavy. Soft. Expensive.

Definitely not something you would buy for yourself.

You sit up slowly, catching the jacket before it can fall to the floor. It feels precious, worn, like a second skin. Red with swaths of black spanning from the left arm to the lower torso. A horseshoe pin delicately pinned to the right lapel. It feels unfamiliar yet not all the same—too personal for you to carelessly leave behind.

So, you don’t.

You’re about to stand when the door to the room opens and he enters, with two steaming cups of tea and one eerily familiar crow sitting on his shoulder.

“Hello,” the very voice you thought you feared speaks, “it seems we meet again, kitten.”

What greets you is moonlit hair, squared back shoulders, sharp cheekbones, fingers long enough to span an entire piano’s keys, and eyes a startlingly bright garnet.

The color pulls you in like a siren drawn to the ebb and flow of the sea.

Pretty.

You blush when he catches you staring for too long, and you shutter your eyes downwards. You pretend to not hear the chuckle he leaves in your wake.  

He sets down the two cups on the coffee table, folding his legs in the chair across from you. He doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush. Doesn’t demand for answers, doesn’t fill the silence with meaningless chatter. As if waiting for you to speak on your own terms.

You drink a sip, blinking your eyes rapidly at how sweet the tea is; much sweeter than you would like but comforting all the same.

It reminds you of home—of days with your paternal grandmother who’d cut you fruits while she visited, who made you ginger tea just like this when your body ached, who spoke to you in broken English while you spoke to her in broken Mandarin, who hugged you with her weathered hands, who always called you beautiful, and who declared she was proud of you when no one else did. It reminds you of a love that transcends boundaries, of a love of simpler things, of a love that lingers.  

And then the ache returns again, the words you’ve almost forgotten bubbling back to the surface (to be cherished, to be held, to be loved). You clear your throat to speak, trying to cover the sorrow that you’d rather hide than show to a stranger, “I’m sorry. Did I do anything to inconvenience you?”

“Not necessarily,” he takes a casual sip of his cup, “unless you count throwing a bone at me and knocking yourself out from it hitting you back in the face.”

You stand abruptly, squeaking in mortification. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I am not,” he laughs heartily, “You have good instincts, kitten.”

You scrunch your nose at the nickname. “Can you not call me that, please?”

He places down his cup, smiling more earnestly now. “Let’s start over, shall we?” He holds his out hand across the table, “I’m Sylus and this is Mephisto, the face of the shop.” He points to the crow on his shoulder, who caws in greeting. 

You look at his hand, look at him, at the crow on his shoulder, then at his hand once more.

“I don’t bite, kitten.” You furrow your brow in distaste. “Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself?”

Finally, you shake his hand and give him your name. A flicker of surprise graces your features, marveling at how soft his fingers are for someone who breathes intimidation. “I am sorry, for what it’s worth. I didn’t mean to harm you.”

“No offense taken. Now,” he withdraws slowly, “what can I help you with? I believe you came into this shop for a reason, yes?”

You smile timidly, “A bouquet, please.”

He stands and gestures for you to follow, “As you wish,” his eyes sparkle with mirth as he lingers in the doorway, “my lady.”

You try to ignore the traitorous heart of yours that skips a beat.

It’s become a regular occurrence of you visiting Sylus’s shop.

The first time you came, you asked for flowers to give you strength. He gave you a bundle of gladiolus, their upward blooms catching sunlight on days you couldn’t see it yourself. You smiled and vowed to come back.

The second time you returned, you asked for flowers to give you peace. He gave you a newspaper roll of lavender and a bottle of lavender bath salts, “A gift for a returning customer,” he insisted when you tried to pay extra. You dried the narrow stems and hung them over your kitchen windowsill.

The third time you returned, you asked for flowers in celebration. You were recently promoted to a managerial position you were eying for the past year and your best friend recently gave birth to a healthy baby girl. He gave you a glass vase of sunflowers, an exotic pot of orchids, and a free card. “I imagine she’d like to know this was from you,” he placed the card into your hands before you could protest, his eyes softening to a wondrous shade of burgundy. He even suggested a nearby wine shop after you mentioned your friend’s love for red wine. “Get the vintage, darling, you won’t regret it.” You left with your ears burning and your fingers tingling—somehow it didn’t feel like he was referring to just the wine.

The fourth time you returned, you asked for something different—not flowers for you, but for someone else. It was early November, the day your mother passed. These flowers were for remembrance. You took the day off work, dressed in the comfiest clothes you could find, and stepped into the shop. You remember him looking at you once and nodding in understanding, as if he already unraveled the layers of grief you were barely containing. “Tulips,” you whispered. He paused while wrapping the flowers with twine, “They were her favorite.” You silently thanked him for not commenting on the way your eyes glistened. He pushed the bundle of delicate blooms towards you and closed the shop early, “Do you mind if I come with you?”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him no, didn’t have the courage to confess you didn’t want to be alone either. You spent the day together, with him standing beside you at your mother’s tombstone. Watched him slowly help you clean the dust and grime off the placard until only the letters of her name remained. You cried into his shoulder that day, thankful to have a friend who could cherish her existence as much as you did. He held you close, folding you gently into his arms much like when you pressed flowers in heavy books—as if to preserve this moment between the both of you.  

By the time you visited for the fifth time, you were starting to wonder what his existence meant to you.

You arrive at the shop, less weary, more awake, hopefully more presentable.

It’s spring now, April, and you’ve never been so happy to survive another winter.

You overheard from Luke and Kieran, Sylus’s adoptive brothers, that his birthday was today. You were determined to give him something in return for the endless kindness he gave you.

“Little one,” they parroted, “what are you worrying about?”

You twiddled your thumbs nervously, “Do you know what he likes? Does he even like gifts? What if he doesn’t like mine—”

“Now now, birdie,” Kieran mollified, ruffling your hair, “I’m sure he’d like anything you gave him.”

Luke chimed in, leaning in to tickle your waist, “Boss isn’t picky! It’s the thought that counts!”

You swatted Luke’s hands away, trying to stifle the laughter that was bubbling between your frustration, “That doesn’t help at all!”

And so now you were here, desperately hoping you chose the right answer.

“Here goes nothing,” you murmur as you open the door. 

Mephisto greets you at the door as always, hopping on your shoulder to drop a shiny trinket in your waiting palm. Another bottle cap, this time from an aged Belgian lager. You remember this lager, this was one of Sylus’s favorites. You run your fingers over his feathers in thanks, smiling at the commonplace routine you’ve formed. 

“You know, he doesn’t let anyone else do this,” Sylus commented as you were helping Mephisto sort through his daily collection of treasures.

“Do what?” You giggled at how he would place a coin in your palm and hop over to the basket he wanted you to put it in. “You’re so smart, Mephie!”

“I mean, not even the twins are allowed to help Mephisto sort through his trinkets,” he scratched under Mephisto’s chin, earning a soft caw in response, “most of the time, he prefers to do this alone. I only help when he has too many to sort through.” You felt his eyes boring into you as he leaned against the counter, “He must adore you.”

“Does he now?” You slowly placed the coin in the basket, the clatter filling the prolonged silence. You turned towards him, a newfound wave of confidence blooming in your chest, “Then what does his master think of me?”

He leaned in closer until his forehead touched yours, a rare show of fondness breaking through his usual facade, “I think you already know, my lady.”

You reached across the counter and entwined your fingers with his, occupying the spaces between his fingers with your own. Tentative. Wanting. Asking. “And what if I don’t?” 

He inched closer, his gaze flitting between your eyes and lips, “Then–”

The twins burst into the shop, crowing in unison, “Boss, we’re done!”

You pulled away quickly, ignoring the way the daisies across the counter were shining and laughing at you. You spared him a glance as the twins swarmed around him in concern, relishing the way his ears turned as red as yours. 

“Boss, what’s wrong? Do you have a fever? Do we need to call the doctor–”

You never laughed so hard in your life. 

“My lady?”

You clutch the gift to your chest, heart beating like a wardrum. 

And when you turn, Sylus is a vision. 

Cream colored suit, mauve sash, speckles of gold in his necklace and his brooch, you’ve never seen him in these colors before. Bright, warm, enticing like the first crocuses that bloom in early spring. So unlike the deep reds and blacks he usually wears. 

And suddenly, you’re brought back to that day when you stood in the doorway, wholly inadequate in the face of an ex-lover who molded you into a woman you didn’t want to be. You look at your outfit, muted greens and whites all tied together by a simple belt and a pair of boots. Your beauty pales in comparison to his, and suddenly you’re not sure whether you want to give this gift to him. Are you sure you will ever be enough for him? 

He’s the first to speak, his tone growing increasingly concerned, “Sweetie? Darling? Kitten?”

The last name is enough to elicit a growl from you, fiery irises glaring at him with mild irritation.

“There you are, my beloved,” he croons. He squeezes your hand softly in his, sways towards you like daffodils blowing in the wind. 

“My beloved?” Your voice raises another octave, and you search his eyes for any wavering uncertainty. You find none. 

“Yes?” 

You struggle to find the words to say in the face of a man who has delivered his confession to you so casually. So instead, you shove the gift into his chest, hoping your actions will do the talking for you. 

“A book?”

On the cover sits a single red moonflower pressed into the clear window. You urge him to keep going. 

On the first page sits the gladiolus he gifted you. A note, scrawled in your nervous handwriting: Thank you for giving me strength when I didn’t have any. 

On the second page sits a piece of dried lavender. Thank you for giving me peace when I didn’t know how to find it.

On the third page sits a pressed sunflower. Thank you for celebrating my wins with me. 

On the fourth page sits a dried tulip, almost as vibrant as the day you took it to your mother’s grave. Thank you for accompanying me when I didn’t want to be alone. Thank you for allowing me to grieve. Thank you for not tiring of me. 

And on the last page, the scattered remnants of a red rose, crystallized in your devotion for both of them to see. Thank you for cherishing me. Thank you for holding my heart ever so carefully. Thank you for loving me. 

And that’s when the pages fall, when you fall, and he falls with you. 

“Happy Birthday, my beloved,” you echo. Your vision corrodes at the edges as he suddenly presses himself to you, his lips finding purchase on your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks, your chin and eventually your lips. 

Closer to reassure you. Closer to prove his undying love for you. Closer to remind you that he will never tire of you. Closer to remind him that you will never tire of him. 

And finally, after years worth of drought, you feel incandescently happy. 

Cherished. 

Held. 

Loved. 

more sylus fics

divider cred: @uzmacchiato

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Writing References: Tips & Advice

Some Tips & Advice for Writing Fiction

Active Reading ⚜ Hook ⚜ Outline ⚜ Summary ⚜ Wordiness

Allegory ⚜ Food ⚜ Horror ⚜ Humour ⚜ Memoir ⚜ Mystery

Beginning & Ending ⚜ Chapter Ending ⚜ Last Line ⚜ The End

Conscious Language ⚜ White Room Syndrome ⚜ Writing Style

Creative Writing ⚜ Journal Writing ⚜ Speculative Biology

Fight Scene Part 1 2 ⚜ Plot Twist ⚜ Subplot

Procrastination ⚜ Rejection ⚜ Vocabulary ⚜ Your Audience

Writer's Block: Part 1 2

Your Character: Hero ⚜ Likable ⚜ Morally Grey ⚜ Well-Rounded

Writers on Writing

Anaïs Nin ⚜ Andrew Motion ⚜ Annie Proulx

Elmore Leonard ⚜ Ernest Hemingway ⚜ Friedrich Nietzsche

George Orwell: Motives for Writing ⚜ On Poetry ⚜ On Nonsense Poetry

George Orwell: The Prevention of Literature ⚜ On Good "Bad Books"

George Orwell: Describes A Writer

H. P. Lovecraft ⚜ Henry Miller ⚜ Italo Calvino

Jack Kerouac: Are Writers Born or Made?

James Baldwin ⚜ John Rechy ⚜ John Steinbeck

Joyce Carol Oates ⚜ Ray Bradbury ⚜ Ronald Knox

Kurt Vonnegut: The Shapes of Stories

Margaret Atwood: On Plot

Rick Riordan: On Character ⚜ On Dialogue ⚜ On Plot

Rick Riordan: Some Common Problems in Unpublished Manuscripts

Stephen King ⚜ Ursula K. Le Guin ⚜ Vladimir Nabokov

Virginia Woolf: On Censorship ⚜ On Words

W. H. Auden ⚜ William Strunk Jr. & E. B. White

Zadie Smith: Dance Lessons for Writers

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[lalunanymph]

KINKTOBER 2025: UNCANNY PUPPY — CALEB

sypnosis. deciding to adopt an injured wolf-dog you found by the side of the road, things take a turn for the weird when you find footprints instead of pawprints in your newly tilled soil...

— tags. wolf-dog!hybrid caleb, farm!AU, male masturbation, collars, leashes, femdom, power switch, rutting, breeding kink, dubcon, cervix fucking, multiple rounds, slight overstim, caleb and reader were adopted together, branding

— dawn says. third (??) kinktober is here! so excited to kick it off with some puppyleb 🐶 hope you enjoy!! <3

kinktober 2025 | A03

There’s a certain… strangeness … about this dog you rescued one freezing night while out delivering errands for the townspeople of Uncanny Valley.

You’d think you were just being paranoid—if you hadn’t caught him sitting like a human, or walking upright when he thought you weren’t looking.

Briefly, an old Navajo folklore about figures who can transform themselves into animals in order to seed discord and chaos comes to mind.

Skinwalkers?

Nightwalkers?

You can’t quite remember.

And yet, this little dog you adopted—named ‘Apples’ because you found him during fall, under a wizened apple tree—is the sweetest fur-ball to have ever existed.

Dark brown with white and honey-colored streaks in his coat, he had an affinity for nipping at your heels and licking your eyeballs when you were still half-asleep.

As another living being, Apples was the perfect companion out in these farms where you had no one but your breath and the taste of sweat to keep you company.

Shaking your head, you go back to the task at hand.

It’s another backbreaking day of farming.

After tilling the dirt, you whistle for Apples, calling out to him like the wind.

“Apples! Come hereeee boy!”

No response.

You put the shovel down and frown. It’s unlike your beloved pup to ever ignore your call.

Maybe he’s by the forest taking a nap?

That makes sense. Apples always did love to wander past the fences and take a snooze under the old apple tree you found him under.

Shrugging, you go back to your chores.

But, after an hour of no Apples, and thunder clouds brewing in the horizon, you decide to call it a day and head back into your cabin.

The scent of a roast you had going on the oven fills your cramped, but cozy space with the fragrance of red wine and sauteed garlic, making your mouth water.

Usually, Apples would be bounding around ecstatically when you open the oven door, eager to lap up any juices that accidentally spill from the pan as you transferred your meal to the table.

But, his absence makes you uneasy, and you set the hot sheet down, removing your mittens.

Heading straight to the back door that leads to the chicken coops, you swing it open, treading out into the muddy backyard.

“Apples?”

You weave past chicken coops, the soft sounds of your hens snoozing and clucking filling the air.

Your gaze scans the floor, hoping to find any indents of his paw prints in the soggy terrain, when you come to a hard pause.

Footprints.

Huge, distinctively human footprints with five toes, as if whoever created it was walking barefoot all around the backyard.

Your eyes follow the trail, heart in your throat. The wind picks up, whipping your hair around, grabbing at your clothes like invisible hooks, like its holding you back from discovering the truth.

Thunder, loud and powerful, claps directly above your head, and you nearly jump out of your own skin, muffling your shriek with a gloved hand.

Stilling your heart, you suck in a sharp breath and round the bend where the footprints disappear—right into your preservatives shed.

Fear, real and cold, pricks your scalp, running down your back.

You pick up the first item you find—a broken ax, and swing it nervously, reaching for the shed door handle.

…

Darkness diffuses across your vision, and you blink rapidly, trying to force your eyes to focus.

There’s barely a rustle.

But, something sinister lingers.

The air feels like someone is holding their breath—

You fumble for a light switch, and when brightness flickers upon the slate gray walls of the shed, you scream at the hulking figure standing butt-naked between the fermenting blackberries and raisins.

A man towers over the barrels of jam and wine, head bowed, eyes unfocused.

He jerks back at your shriek, gaze snapping up and meeting yours.

He bares his teeth.

In a flash of skin and muscle, he lunges across the room and slams your body into the wall, his hot, acrid breath fanning across your neck where he buries his nose into your pulse point, scenting you.

His thick head of dark hair fills your nose with the scent of musk and dog, your heartbeat hammering against your skin like a trapped hummingbird.

“No—!”

The man snarls and lifts you off your feet, the ax swinging to the ground as he drags you out. You’re no match for him; a head shorter, not enough strength in your muscles to fight him back when your body hits the ground.

He cages you with his strong arms, a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he dips his head down, burying his nose into your hair, against your cheeks and jaw.

For a second, you’re reminded of fluffy bristles—a rough tongue dragging across your face in the early dawn, cheerful yips when you finally open your eyes to a new day.

His name tumbles from your lips like a frozen teardrop.

“… Apples?”

The man freezes.

Turns his brilliant, unnerving violet eyes to devour your startled gaze.

“Y/N…”

He rasps, voice shaky, as if he can’t quite enunciate words yet.

The silver collar with the apple chain around the dog’s neck has transformed into a necklace, the tag hitting your chin when he tries to raise his head up.

The fear still beats in you like a real, raw thing, but its tempered by the horror that the strange pup you adopted… was actually a man all along?

What sick joke is this?

Skinwalker?

Or, a Nightwalker come to life?

As if reading your mind, the man groans and turns on his side, releasing his feral grip on you.

“I… don’t know what happened—”

Before he can finish, you lunge for the nearest rock, and smash it against his head.

Knocking him out cold.

A trickle of blood drips from his mouth into the freshly tilled soil, but you don’t have time to worry about anything else besides restraining this strange… creature.

Spare ropes from the tool shed is wound around his torso and arms. You summon enough strength to haul him back into the jam shed, tethering him to the wall so he has no way of escaping.

His manhood is right in your face, and mortified, you cover it with a piece of cloth.

That should do it.

Except, you’re not sure if it’s enough.

The need to survive is a very human thing, and right now, every fiber of your being is screaming at you to make sure this creature will outlive you, if you had a say about it.

It’s either you, or him.

The knife you keep close to your body is unsheathed, and you stalk over to the unconscious, bound man.

Now, that he’s out cold, you can take a proper, closer look at him.

Under the swinging fluorescent light, his angular features are the first thing you notice. Strong brows, a sharp jaw. Handsome, even.

God.

You shouldn’t even be thinking about him like this.

Focus! Your mind snaps back to the present, and you decide not to cut his throat open just yet. Instead, you sit down on the straw-strewn floor and keep watch. It must be hours that pass when he finally stirs. Your body is frozen from the shock of it all, and your weary eyes—it's now past midnight—flutter back into wakeful urgency.

The man who was also your dog once upon a time lolls his head, thick lashes quivering as one eye opens, and the next reveals semi-lucid violet pinpricks for pupils.

He catches sight of you, and his lip curls over his teeth.

You reach for your knife, showing him that you’re armed.

The man struggles in his bonds, but when he realizes you’ve knotted them expertly, he grunts, settling back against the wall.

“Who are you?”

Surprisingly, your voice doesn’t waver.

Maybe it’s the sudden burst of bravery you feel at having him all tied up in front of you—the false safety lulling your defenses.

The man quirks one, strong brow.

“Untie me first, and then I’ll tell you,” he rumbles.

You shoot him a distrustful look. Waving the knife threateningly, you take one more step closer to him.

“Who. Are. You?”

Despite his current situation, the man hybrid wolf-dog (?) smirks and shakes his head.

“Always so stubborn. You sure you don’t remember me, Pipsqueak?”

The world narrows down onto the curve of his lips; the earnest sheen of his gaze.

Pipsqueak. Pipsqueak.

The nickname goes off in your mind like a stray bullet, shocking you into a frozen stupor.

There was only one boy who ever dared call you ‘pipsqueak’ and get away with it alive. A boy with sunshine on his cheeks, a gap-toothed smile, and the faint constellations of freckles dusting his fair face and neck.

Caleb.

The disbelief rushes out of you in a single exhale.

“Caleb?”

He lifts his head, disarming you with a soft, warm smile.

“It’s me,” he says, no barriers—no fraud. Just pure, unadulterated warmth in his tone as his gaze softens to the point of remembrance. “I’m alive.”

Images flash in your head: sirens bouncing blue-red light off swampy trees, police taping off the area, a broken bike and a ditch beyond where a single boy was thought to have disappeared from the world.

You had spent hours awake with your grandma, waiting for grandpa to come home with news of Caleb’s reappearance. But, it’s as if the boy you grew up with—the one your grandparents took in because he was an orphan—had vanished into thin air.

The night before he left, you two were fighting over which cartoons to watch.

He wanted to catch up with his Tata The Pilot episode, while you insisted on tuning into the new season of My Life as Eva, desperate to know if the teenage robot girl had finally confessed her feelings to her human best friend, Andy.

Caleb had chased you around for the remote, and when you refused to give in—even weaponizing your tears against him—he stomped his foot and took his bike for a ride to clear his head.

You remembered how triumphant you had been.

Hah! I win! You had stuck your tongue out at him, parading the fact that you were finally better than Caleb the Cool Meanie.

I hate you, he blurted, stomping his feet straight to the big shed to pick up his rusty bike. And I don’t want to be your gege anymore!

At first, you had thought he was being dramatic. Every boy in your class couldn’t control their temper, so it made sense why Caleb would’ve lost his cool.

An hour of his silence turned into two.

There were no more episodes about teenage robot girls trying to fit into high school.

Grandma glanced worriedly at the phone. Grandpa reasoned that maybe he was at a diner cooling off, getting a milkshake on the house from the elderly waitress Lucy who was ever so fond of him.

One quick call to the diner—no, they hadn’t seen him.

He wasn’t at his best friend's house; Gideon’s mom didn’t see him ride down the road. The school attendant replied they didn’t see any sign of boys or bikes tearing across the field.

At that moment, it felt like your world was breaking apart at the seams.

Caleb, please come home, you had cried every night under your blankets. They had found his bike, but no Caleb. You can’t leave me alone like this—you can’t leave me, you dummy!

Even after grandpa passed on, and soon, grandma, they specifically stated in their will that they wanted to be laid next to his empty grave—to finally be reunited with the grandson they had believed to be dead for the past twenty over years.

And, here he is.

Tied up. Weary. Older.

Still Caleb.

The knife in your grip clatters onto the hardwood floor.

“No…”

Caleb lets you work through the emotions, the silence in this shed growing thick enough to cut with a blade.

Fear, confusion, anger, relief, worry, and elatedness coalesces over your face, your heart palpitating a mile a minute.

“… it can’t be.”

You drop to your knees in front of him. Gazing at him like he’s both a ghost, and a deity returned to the world.

“You… you’re alive?”

Caleb takes the opportunity to speak. “I am. It’s really me, Pips. Promise ya. You know I never break any of my promises.”

I promise you! His gap-toothed grin crosses your memories like an uninvited specter. When we grow up, I’ll marry you—no matter what Gran says!

“Caleb—”

He tries to catch you with his bound body as best as he can when you launch yourself towards him, arms fiercely wrapping around his neck and shoulders.

“Caleb. Oh, God. Caleb—”

You choke his name over and over again, as if saying it could make this moment feel less surreal.

His nose finds a home in your hair, his broad chest shuddering from the weight of scenting you again—peaches and vanilla.

Caleb never expected to have your fragrance stuck in his senses again, after years of being on the run in his hybrid form.

With a quick deftness that belies the tremble in your fingers, you untie him.

The second his bonds fall loose onto the hardwood floor, he’s gathering you in his strong arms. Kissing your forehead, nuzzling your shoulder.

It shouldn’t feel this bittesweet, but it does.

Unbidden, tears prick your eyes, and you sniffle.

“I thought you were gone—”

“I’m here now,” he interjects, shaking his head fiercely as his arms tighten around your quivering form. “I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.”

In the silence that follows, the two of you don’t say a word.

After a few moments locked in each other’s arms, you help him stand. He’s still stark nude, and you try not to let your eyes stray over his toned physique.

It seems that years of running in his wolf-dog form made him leaner than string beef.

Hotter, too.

You try to not let your thoughts stray in that direction.

Caleb leans heavily on you when you lead him back to the farm cabin. He doesn’t complain when you give him some of Gramp’s old clothes to wear after his quick shower, or when you awkwardly tell him he can take your bed while you’ll tough it out on the cramped couch. Nuh-uh, he’d shake his head. You keep your bed, Pips. Don’t worry about me.

During dinner, you finally get the chance to ask him that had happened all those years.

Caleb swallows the dry bite of bread, chasing it with some ginger ale, before delving into his tale.

I was riding my bike when I felt someone knock me off—a sharp bite on my shoulder. I woke up hours later, stuck in my wolf-dog form, and that’s how I’ve been till recently. When someone taught me how to shapeshift back. It’s how I found you—I smelled you even before I saw ya.

You lean back, inudated by the weight of his truth.

“Caleb… you’re telling me… you’ve been stuck as a dog for years?”

He hears the heartbreak in your question, and reluctantly nods.

“I promise ya, I'm fine.” He slips on an easy grin. “I’m back now. And I’m not going anywhere so don’t you worry your pretty little head about me.”

He pauses, taking a moment to look you over. There’s a softened look in his eye, one that’s equal parts nostalgic and awed.

“You brushed up pretty well, huh, Pips?” His smile practically glows. “Gosh, you’re gorgeous. Gramps and Gran would’ve been so proud of you.”

His honest compliment takes you aback, and heat spreads across your cheeks.

“Shut it,” you scold, though you’re pleased he’s still giving you this kind of attention. “Flattery isn’t going to get you out of weeding duty tomorrow.”

He flashes you a wolfish grin.

“Cruel. But, also, valid. I’ll wake up bright and early—bushy-tailed as a squirrel for you.”

This time, Caleb learns to keep his promise.

Sometimes, you think it’s a miracle he’s home.

But, then you catch snatches of the wolf behind the man—bloody prints near the forest edge. A rabbit left on your doorstep with its neck brutally broken.

You try to forget—ignore it.

He’s home.

He’s home, and that’s all that matters.

Strangely enough, news of a strange, new man in town reaches the grapevine, though the other villagers don’t dare approach the topic with you outright. To them, you’re still that same strange city girl who rolled up to the valley a few months ago, taking over your Gramp’s farm, and trying to restore it back to its former glory.

And, Caleb… well. He’s a distraction.

When he isn’t flashing his abs at you when wiping the sweat bulleting down his forehead, he’s sprawled on your couch, too long legs dangling off the arm, chewing on the end of his pencil as he tries to re-train his limbs and fingers to write and draw.

Somedays, he’d take a train to the next town over and come back with new plane models he got from a vintage toy sale.

Other times, the two of you would lay on the carpeted floor in front of the fire, trading stories and lullabies like fool’s gold, trying to bridge the gap that time had so cruelly tore between the two of you.

Life’s pretty good.

As good as it can be.

Until, one day, Caleb starts his first rut.

You’re out of town for a bit, travelling to a nearby port city to drop off some rare seeds when he wakes up with that sticky heat clinging to his bones.

Caleb shudders, rolling over, promptly face-planting onto your living room floor.

“Pips?” He rasps, but no reply comes.

Groaning, Caleb rolls onto his side, trying to shake off the fog that descends over his mind.

But, it doesn’t work.

By the time mid-morning rolls around, he’s made a mess of your sheets, burying his nose face first in your pillows, jerking his sticky, red raw cock till he’s shooting strands onto your blanket.

The torture of waiting for you to come home is agonizing. Caleb pants, fisting the thick base of his rock hard length, and tugging it, pre dripping from the overstimulated tip and dribbling down his wrist. Whining like a dog in heat, he licks at his own desperation, rutting his cock against your pillow, lost in the heightened scent of peaches and vanilla filling his nose.

Fuck, fuck—

A swooping sensation fills his stomach, like a stone sinking in the middle of a lake.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you find him like this.

But, he can’t stop.

Fuelled by animal instincts, and his ardent, incessant need to breed.

Caleb’s eyes flutter shut, and he pictures you on your knees, tongue out, begging for his cum.

You on your hands and knees, taking his knot like a champ, chanting for more, more, more.

It will never be enough.

He can never get enough of you.

The hard lines of his abs contract, and he cries out as another orgasm crests, threatening to spill.

The wet schlick, schlick of his palm working his stiff and sticky pole is the only thing that fills the silence, besides his heavy pants.

Caleb’s brow furrows, teeth catching on his lower lip.

He’s so, so close—

He doesn’t notice when the front door unlocks, or when you stand by the foot of the bed, hands on your hips.

He yips when you grab his neck, holding him back like an errant, naughty puppy who was caught red-handed in destroying his owner’s things.

“Pipsq—”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Caleb groans, face bright red and hot. “It’s not what you think—”

But, even he knows that’s a weak excuse. Not when your sheets are sticky with his cum and he’s butt naked with your pillow between his thighs.

“I can explain—”

You groan, taking in the sight of your soiled sheets and bedspread.

“What the hell did you do?!”

God, please just let the earth suck me up, Caleb prays as he meets your incredulous stare. “I… I’m going through a rut, and… and I need your help.”

Neither of you expected that last sentence to leave his lips.

He said it like a prayer, beseeching you with those wide, pleading eyes.

You reluctantly let go of his neck, and take a step back. For a second, you don’t speak, gears in your brain turning.

“What do you mean… help?”

As if the answer couldn’t be obvious enough. He’s staring at you, hard on pressed against soft cotton, and bare except for his shirt riding up, exposing the tense sliver of his abdomen.

“You want me to help with your rut?”

You repeat the question, wondering if you misheard him.

Caleb swallows, and you follow the hard bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Yeah,” he mutters, shaky yet firm. “I want your help.”

Softly, he adds: “Please?”

Please. Caleb has never asked for your help before with such earnestness. It was always the other way around—you needing him more than he ever needed you.

But, this new Caleb—this new figure in your life—relied on you more, if not wholly on you.

From re-learning human etiquette to providing for him while he got on his feet after almost two decades in his four-legged form, you’re suddenly confronted by the startling revelation that he needs you.

And, god forbid it, you want him to need you.

Need it like you need air to breathe.

Your body moves before your mind can process what comes next.

You loom over him, spine taut, eyes like wildfire. Caleb tenses when your hand reaches out to stroke his dark hair, like an owner soothing their agitated puppy. After a few tense moments, he learns to relax in your touch, eyes falling shut.

Until you grab a fistful of his locks and yank.

Hard.

His yelp bounces across the room, the delicate line of his throat exposed to your biting teeth. He groans, eyelids fluttering shut when you work a mark into the pale hollow of his neck, moaning when you taste his sweat and desperation.

Caleb’s hips jerk up, sticky tip brushing your thigh when you kneel between his spread legs.

The bed dips, a rising humidity permeats the air, smelling of his pheromones and the prickle of sweat dampening the back of your neck.

Despite your outwardly cool demeanour, you have no idea what to do next.

But, he’s looking at you with those wide, piercing baby purples, and you can’t disappoint him.

Glancing at the blushing pink rod between his legs, you hesitate for only a moment, before wrapping your fingers around the girthy circumference of his cock.

Caleb hisses, eyes rolling back into his skull. He’s sensitive.

An easy win.

Even though he’s dumped half of his load on your bed, he still has a backlog of more to go.

Pinning him to the bed is easy enough. He melts under your touch, a rough whine escaping his throat.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your silky command shoots a bolt of heat straight up his spine.

Caleb obliges, if only to earn that small, smug smile etched on your lips. He grinds out your name when your hot lips wrap around one of his stiff nubs, biting down on it and running your teeth over the tender bud.

He hisses when you start to jerk him off, hips rutting against the tight circle of your fist.

"Nghh! Fuck—”

Caleb gasps.

“D-Don’t stop.”

You don’t plan to.

His back arches, spine supplicant, and pushes his stiff pole deeper into the warm clutch of your fingers as if he’s desperately trying to fuck into your pussy instead of your hand.

Heat pools in your core, hot and thick.

You don’t know what compels you to wrap your hand around his throat, and he lets you. Gives into your dominant touch like you’re the air he breathes and he needs to gulp you down.

He’s a dying man and you’re his oasis.

Strong hands reach out to grab your hips, dragging you on top of him.

You look down into his teary, pleading eyes.

“Don’t stare at me like that or else I’ll get the collar and leash.”

You threaten, meaning it as a joke.

But to your surprise (and fascinated horror), Caleb’s cock throbs against your inner thigh. Smearing your skin with another pearly drop.

He whines.

“Please?”

You gasp when he brings your hand to wrap around his throat again.

A dizzying spell nearly drags you under.

He’s pleading… for you to leash and collar him?

It’s too much.

Just a few minutes ago, you were out collecting forage and now you have an overgrown wolf-dog hybrid of a man lying on come-coated sheets, grinding on your thigh like you’re his saviour and master wrapped in one—begging to come undone by a dominance you’re not sure you can give.

But, it’s Caleb.

It’s your Caleb.

The man who did your pigtails for you before school started. Who taught you how to ride a bike before his disappearance. Stood up for you in school when bullies started getting bold. If you couldn’t do something this easy for him—

You steel your nerves.

Suck in a sharp breath.

And, leave the bed.

He whines, about to sit up and follow, but you shoot him a sharp, cold look.

“Stay there.”

Retrieving a thick leash and collar from an old trunk—meant for a husky you never got to adopt—you walk back into the cabin, finding him put just as you commanded.

Caleb eagerly lets you collar him, the dark leather a stark contrast around his neck.

He plays nice, letting you think you’re in control.

When you grind down on him, hitching the hem of your skirt up, you miss that dark glint in his eyes.

The one that promises of a retribution after he’s done tearing your walls down.

Caleb groans into your neck when you tug him closer by his leash, his hot breath puffing on your sensitive skin raising goosebumps down your arms. Like you’re stuck in his blood, your lover eats you up, mouth pressing hot kisses down your neck and shoulder, your scent burning hot through his nostrils.

He knows you’re wet.

Can feel you seeping through the pathetic barrier you call your lace panties.

The tips of his claws contract around your plush thighs.

Even collared and leashed, he can’t fight back the animal wanting to rise and claim you.

From straddling his thighs, you’re twisted on your back, the air knocked out from your lungs.

Above you, his silver-teeth smile cuts through the gathering dusk.

“I’m sorry,” he groans, leaning in to run his rough tongue over your pulse point. “But, I’ve been waiting for you for a lifetime, and I can’t wait any longer.”

To your horror, sharp claws tear your clothes away. Leaving them scraps fluttering onto the cabin bedroom floor.

Caleb grunts when he holds you down, the leash you put on him dangling uselessly in your face.

“Caleb, no—”

Your hands, feeble, weak—human—try to push him away to slow him down.

But, he’s relentless, gathering your wrists and pinning them above your head. Caleb snarls, hot and acrid, and spreads your thighs wider with his other clawed hand. In this light, he looks more beast than man, and when his teeth sink into your shoulder, your cry mingles with his muffled howl—and you know.

You know he’s not in his right mind.

That he might hurt you.

So, why aren’t you afraid?

Crowding you onto the bed with his much larger frame, he groans, licking the shell of your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he chants, over and over again as he lines up his cock to your entrance. “I tried to fight it off—” The two of you gasp when his plump, swollen tip breaches your folds. “—but I can’t.”

His apologies peter out into a pathetic whine.

“I need you,” he licks a strip from your neck to your jaw. “I always did. Always. You make me human—”

“Caleb, stop!”

He isn’t fazed by your denial—your insistence on pushing him away when it’s obvious the two of you need each other. He can smell it in your pulse, in the blood rushing south and secreting your pheromones and wetness into the sheets, the maddening scent of you wafting through the air like siren song.

Forgive him. Forgive him for what he’s about to do—

“I’m sorry—”

The pain from his teeth sinking into your shoulder to leave behind his mark makes you scream loud enough to shake the windows.

Pain—hot, unadulterated pain—seeps through your skin, burning like a thousand cuts by glass shard.

“NO—!”

Your scream is cut off by his lips smothering yours. Caleb lets you bite down on his lower lip—hard enough for you to taste his blood.

Just when you think it’s too much—that you can’t take anymore of the agony any longer—it fades abruptly. Replaced by a simmering heat that’s rising into a dull, aching throb between your legs. Without noticing what he’s done, you’re stretched out around him, his cock settling into you to the hilt.

He’s still, licking at the mark he created on your shoulder.

You want to scream at him. Curse his name to the high heavens.

But, he’s dragged you down to hell and you seem to be enjoying it.

An experimental roll of your hips. Caleb curses into your neck.

“Pips, if you keep this up—”

You grow bold enough to yank his leash, cutting off his words.

"Just shut up and fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Caleb sets a rhythm that has your entire body quaking, your nails stabbing into the blankets.

He’s relentless. Unforgiving.

Every bruising snap his hips batters your cervix, and the pain should’ve turned you off, but instead you’re soaking up the sheets under you even more.

It’s lewd. Shameful.

It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more.

Throwing back to meet him in the middle. The hot, fat tip of his cock catches on your slippery entrance. He cusses, low and hoarse, grasping the base of his enormous prick and swirling the sticky head on your clit, slapping it against the tender nub.

Twack. Twack.

“You’re close,” he pants into your ear, slipping back into your shivering walls.

The sharp nails of his claws tickle the underside of your breast. He pinches one nipple hard enough to make you squeal.

Caleb’s spittle lands on your shoulder, his tongue quick to lap it back up.

“Gonna fill you with my pups,” he groans, rutting his hips harder. The bed creaks under his relentless thrusts. “Make you all round and full and glowing with so many babies you’ll have your hands full with ‘em.”

He growls, the idea of you pregnant and glowing because of him, makes him throb harder.

Close to spilling.

You’re no better.

Arching your back, yowling like a cat in heat.

His brand shines on your shoulder, a gleaming medallion of his claiming.

Caleb can’t stop nuzzling his bite mark on your skin. Licking at it.

He’s no better than a rutting, panting dog eager to breed its mate.

The leash in your hand becomes an anchor rather than a deterrent to his actions.

A sign than even though he wears your collar and lets you tug on the leather strap when your body heaves in pleasure, it’s him who’s in control and not the other way around.

He’ll always have the upper hand. Always.

Ever since the two of you were kids, ever since he’s proclaimed himself as your protector.

That he’s stronger than you, faster than you, bigger than you—Caleb remains at the top.

Your lover, friend, and brother figure all in one.

His hands continue to roam down your body, sharp claws catching on your skin.

Faint lines throb and snake your skin, indents of where he had gripped too hard. Bruises from his kisses paint your back and the sensitive strip of your neck.

He’s leaving his mark on you every way that he can.

The rough, linen blanket rasps roughly against your tight buds and clit, adding another layer of sensation bringing you closer to your reckoning.

Let go, he murmurs into your hair.

Let go and come for me.

The order is implicit—let go and be mine.

You do.

And, you do it beautifully.

Caleb grasps you by the neck, tipping your head up to swallow your hot moans as your body tightens around his.

“That’s it,” he growls, snaking a hand between your thighs to beat you off while you convulse and shake around him. “Come for me—show me who this sweet body belongs to.”

Without a shred of shame, you wail: “You!”

The deal is sealed.

Your body is now his to own, protect and play with.

In a strange, ritualistic mating sense, you’re his.

Whatever forces turned him into a dog hybrid have snared you in their trap, bound to his side as his mate for life.

Caleb already knew this. You’re just starting to find out.

What happens next is a blur: Hours of being folded and fucked in multiple different positions. Till evening turns to night and you’re delirious and begging for him to slow down.

Caleb relents, only half-heartedly, grabbing your hips and stilling for a second so you can catch your breath.

“You still with me, Pips?”

Barely, is what you wanted to answer him. Instead, you groan.

He gazes down at you—sweat-slicked, hair mused, body trembling.

A flash of masculine pride runs down his spine.

He’s wrecked you real good and he’s not afraid to do it again.

Turning you on your back, he’s gentle this time when he slides back in; your body loosened and slippery enough for him to settle to the hilt without much resistance.

The leather strip of the leash dangles over your face, and tiredly, you tug it to pull his face closer.

Caleb chuckles against your lips at your messy, needy kiss.

“Talk to me—you up for another round?”

Your answer is another soft groan. “… are you trying to make me paralyzed from the waist-down?”

That gets an unexpected bark of laughter from him.

"S’not that bad—”

“Look,” you whine and point to your toes. “I can’t even wiggle them!”

Caleb chuckles indulgently and leans in to boop your nose with his. “Drama queen.”

You scoff. “Am not—”

Your argument catches in the back of your throat when he starts to move again. Just like before, he claims you thoroughly, till only his name lingers on your lips.

As night falls and the valley goes to sleep, Caleb finally loses steam and slumps on top of you.

His large, warm hand sweeps across your belly, bulging slightly from the weight of his come, and he presses a tired kiss to the crook of your neck.

“You’re amazing.”

“And, you’re a beast,” you murmur, eyes sticky with fatigue.

He chuckles and kisses your cheek. “Guilty as charged, Pips. Now,” he gently disentangles you from under him, tugging close to his chest where his warmth and comfort permeates your weary bones.

“—go to sleep. I’ll be here when the sun rises.”

A promise from before, when you thought he would never leave you; now one that he fully intends to keep for the rest of his days:

“I promise you’ll see me every day when you wake up.”

— comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

© all works belong to lalunanymph aka dawn. do not copy, repost or claim my ideas as your own. do not feed my work into any AI training software or create chatbots based on my depiction of characters. all rights to love and deepspace and stardew valley belong to their rightful creators.