Something About Caleb Faking His Amnesia, Observing Your Response To His Offer Of A Fresh Start. He Watches

MC, laying in bed: Get out of my room.

Caleb, standing just outside of the door frame: I’m not in your room.

Hello! Hope your days going great.

Saw you opened requests for Valentine's and honestly you're my go to blog for dealing with all the feelings Zayne gives me. 🫠

I tried to really think about a good proper fluffy Valentine's prompt, but I can't get the idea of Zayne's full body weight on reader.

Just full on flop, waist between knees, nose in neck crook, arms around an arched back type of full contact cuddle. 😩🤌🏼

Post date? Early morning? Maybe the first time he ever truly let's himself he held? Not worrying about crushing them?

I just want him to drape over me like a weighted blanket.

Bonus points if there's some scalp scratching type of melty action? I just want to smother that man in my love honestly.

All Night Forever

Zayne x gn!Reader

I will always drop everything to hold this man and give him the attention he deserves

Title from "All Night Forever" by TWRP (it suits him SO well)

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, established relationship, slow dancing, cuddling, kissing, touch-starved Zayne, literal sleeping together, silly, teasing, banter

Word Count: 1,190

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Zayne smiles softly as he watches you twirl into the house. You hum a song aloud, mindlessly kicking your shoes away and following imaginary dance steps. It’s one of the songs they played at the gala tonight.

He toes off his own shoes. Crouching down, he sets his them in their proper place before gathering yours and neatly aligning them in just the same way. He doesn’t have a chance to grab your slippers before you’re tapping on his shoulder and tugging on his arm.

“Dance with me,” you say. Your movements have the familiar lag of exhaustion, lingering just at the very edge of your swaying hips. Your eyes are still so bright and excited, but the bags underneath are more prominent with the late hour. And yet here to are, pulling him back up to his feet so he can dance with you.

He chuckles as he steps closer, his hands settling easily on your waist. “Haven’t you danced enough for one night?” You wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers play with the edge of his collar, guiding him with you as you step away from the door and into the house proper.

It’s dark. The only light to guide the way comes from the ceiling light in the entryway, but its warm reach only extends so far. It’s substituted by the moon’s blue glow the further you go, highlighting the edge of furniture and the side of your face. Despite the lack of proper light, you move through the house with ease. You never have anything to fear; even if you were drunk and stumbling, Zayne would guide you away from any danger, protecting you from a stubbed toe or banged up shin.

You step back, he steps forward. Each step is reciprocated, timed out to the slow song you hum. You lead him into the living room. He quirks an eyebrow in question, but he follows. He would follow you into hell, swaying back and forth and never letting his eyes stray from your face.

He’s caught off balance when you hug him tighter and pull him down, though he should have expected such an act of mischief from you. You fall back onto the soft couch cushions, bouncing lightly with the impact. He has to let you go in order to catch himself. His hands cage you in, one knee between your legs. His other leg is extended out, standing on the soft carpet laid out across the floor to keep himself steady. He shoots you a glare, though it lacks any real upset.

“Lay with me,” you plead sweetly. You tug on him lightly, but he stays firm. “I want to hold you.”

He shakes his head with a soft, breathy laugh. “You’re going to be uncomfortable,” he warns, thumbing at the sleeve of your attire, “dressed like this.”

You shift so your knee presses against his side, urging him further to lay down between your legs. “That’s a Future-Me problem. Now-Me wants to hold my boyfriend.”

“Future-You is going to be complaining to Future-Zayne about this. He won’t say ‘I told you so,’ but he’ll be thinking it.”

You giggle. “Noted. Now, please?”

“You need to move over.”

“Nope. Just lay on top of me!”

He gives you a dubious look. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Never truly able to resist your antics, he relents. He brings his other leg up onto the couch. As he lowers himself down to lay on top of you, his legs stretch out behind him, toes nearly touching the arm rest. His arms are the last to adjust. You can tell by the serious, focused look on his face he’s concerned about resting his full weight on you. All it takes to remove that worry is, naturally, you: you hug him close, guiding his head to your chest and kissing his forehead, and he finally slips his arms under your back to hug you in return.

Once everything has settled into place, he rests his chin on your chest to look at your face. “Happy?”

Your smile puts the moon to shame. “Almost.”

Before he can ask what else you want - your dear Zayne, always ready to ask ‘how high’ when you say ‘jump’ - you’re taking it for yourself. You drag your nails along his scalp, immediately drawing shivers and a shuddering sigh from him. His arms curl tighter around your body. His ears turn pink with blush. But all this leads to what you really wanted, as his body relaxes further into yours and his weight presses you deeper into the cushions.

“Now,” you whisper, “I’m happy.”

You think he flushes deeper with embarrassment at being caught so off guard by such a simple touch, but he doesn’t fight it. He turns his face to the side, resting his cheek against you. “You still find ways to surprise me, even now,” he murmurs. “However, I won’t deny that it feels nice.”

You bite your lip to try hiding the wide smile that wants to break free. You watch his face as you tangle your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly across his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head and back. It’s addicting, watching the way his body reacts. You can see the tension leave his shoulders and back. Feel the way he all but melts into you. His head tilts slightly into your touch, chasing after the sensations that tingle under his skin, even as he tries to lie still. His soft breaths, shaky and content.

Minutes pass by in comfortable silence, broken only by your shared breaths and synced heartbeats. You thought he was already asleep when he slowly shifts further up, adjusting himself so he can hide his face in your neck. His nose is cold where it brushes your skin. He murmurs a soft apology when you involuntarily jolt from it, but you don’t let him pull away. Instead it nuzzles into your pulse, replaced every now and again with his soft lips leaving tired kisses that linger as he counts each beat of your heart.

You brush his bangs aside to kiss his forehead. “I love you…” you whisper against his skin.

“I love you, too…” he whispers back, just before his breathing evens out and he falls asleep in your arms.

-

BONUS:

You sit up with a groan, rubbing at your neck and arching your back in hopes it’ll pop and steal with it the ache in your spine. Lines are imprinted in your skin from your clothes, that now feel like sandpaper against your skin.

Zayne, wet hair sticking to his forehead and fresh, comfortable clothes in place of his suit from last night, smiles down at you. He wordlessly passes over two pain tablets and a glass of water.

You glare at him as you take the medicine. “You can’t say it. You said Future-Zayne wouldn’t say it.”

“I did,” he concedes. His smile only grows wider as he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your forehead. “But I also believe I said he would be thinking it.”

---

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Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. This list may be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. nothing to worry about!

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated!

word count: 4.1k

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I. L'Inverno

"I vow. You vow. We vow."

Snow clung to the thatched roofs of Linkon, its crooked houses huddled together as if seeking warmth from one another. The village was near silent, save for the occasional groan of timber as the wind pressed its icy fingers against shuttered windows. Most homes sat in darkness, their inhabitants tucked away beneath layers of wool and fur, yet from time to time, a candle burned low, casting a feeble glow onto the frost-laced glass.

But the church—ancient, towering, its spire piercing the night like a needle through black silk—stood in stark contrast. Every arched window blazed with golden firelight, the stained glass casting fractured patterns onto the snow. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron, remained slightly ajar, beckoning stragglers into its embrace. The bells had long since gone silent, yet the warmth from within promised solace against the night’s bitter bite.

Somewhere, the distant cry of a lone crow shattered the stillness, its echo swallowed by the ever-falling snow. A path, trodden by hurried footsteps, led from the heart of the village to the churchyard, where the tombstones wore thick white shrouds, their inscriptions lost beneath the frost.

Linkon, though quiet, was not entirely dead. The village, half-buried in snowdrifts, exhaled plumes of smoke from crooked chimneys. A child, bundled in layers too thin for the cold, pressed small, chapped hands against the glass of a shop window. His wide eyes traced the contours of a single, dust-covered toy—a wooden horse with a broken leg, long since forgotten.

The boy lingered for a moment longer, his breath fogging up the glass as he gazed longingly at the wooden horse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he could will it into his hands just by staring hard enough.

"Mama, do you think I can get that?" His voice was small, barely more than a whisper against the wind. One of his front teeth wobbled slightly as he spoke, not quite loose enough to fall out but just enough to make his words lisp.

His mother, a tired woman with deep lines etched into her face, did not slow her pace. Her grip tightened around his wrist, tugging him away from the window with a scowl.

"You’ve no business playing with toys," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Come now."

The cold bites at your fingertips as you flex your aching hands, the stiff joints protesting after gripping the rough bark for too long. The weight of the log still lingers in your muscles, a dull ache settling in your arms and shoulders. Your breath curls into the air in wisps of pale mist, vanishing as quickly as it forms.

The wagon creaks under the added weight, its wooden frame groaning in protest. You glance over the pile of logs, stacked haphazardly in the cart, some dusted with frost, others stripped bare where the axe had bitten deep. It’s enough for now. Maybe.

Rolling your shoulders, you take a moment to stretch, tilting your head back just enough to see the sky.

From the porch, Gran smoked her pipe. 

She scoffs, tapping the edge of her pipe against the arm of her rickety chair. Bits of ash flake onto her apron, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Hmph. Thought you was going to be a postulant,” she says again, this time with less interest, as if the idea alone tires her. She takes another slow drag, the pipe’s ember glowing bright before she exhales another cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

You grimace, waving the fumes away with a scowl. The scent clings to the air, thick and cloying.

“I am, Gran. But I can’t let you get cold before I leave. Gotta make sure you got enough wood.” You heft another log into the wagon, the weight of it jarring through your arms.

Gran mutters something under her breath, half a curse, half a grumble of reluctant approval. Something about how you fuss too much, how she’s not some helpless old crow, but she doesn’t tell you to stop. You know better than to expect gratitude—her warmth was never in words, only in the way she let you stay, let you chop her wood, let you fuss.

She shifts in her chair, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders before taking another slow puff of her pipe. "Bet the nuns don’t let you run around swinging axes," she mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for another log. "Probably not."

“Why d’ya wanna be a nun anyway?” She exhales another plume of smoke, the scent thick and heavy in the cold air. “There’s nothin’ for you there, and you sure as hell ain’t no saint.”

You pause mid-motion, a log balanced against your hip, her words pressing heavier than the wood in your arms. You knew this conversation was coming—Gran had been biting her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to let her doubt slip through.

A part of you wants to argue, to tell her that this is the only path left that makes sense, that it’s not about sainthood or salvation. But you know she won’t buy that. Not Josephine.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two. 

Gran mutters something half-assed under her breath, the words trailing off into the wind like the smoke she puffs out. It’s too quiet for you to catch all of it, but you hear enough to know it’s not much of a compliment. She never was good at hiding her feelings, though. You’re used to it by now.

"I ain’t some poor fool that needs babysitting, y’know." Her voice is gruff, but there’s a thread of something softer in it—something you’ve learned to recognize over the years. She’s stubborn, always has been.

You give a small nod, moving to stack the last of the logs. "I know, gran. I know. But I won’t feel right leaving unless I know you’re taken care of. You know that."

Gran doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes another slow drag from her pipe, her gaze lingering on the snow-covered fields in the distance, the world outside seeming endless and cold. After a long pause, she huffs again, quieter this time. "Don't go thinkin' you’re some saint for it," she mutters. 

Finishing up, you dust your hands off on your clothes. You’d really need to get some balm for your hands later at this rate. 

The wagon creaks and groans as you guide it up the worn path to the porch, wheels crunching over the frozen slush of mud and snow and dead leaves. 

Steadying it at the base of the stairs,  the weight of the logs a comfort now that they’re safely in place. The cold air bites at your face, the evening shadows stretching long across the ground.

Gran has already begun making her way up the steps, her movements slower than usual but still determined, stubborn as ever. You catch up with her, slipping your arm around her shoulders to steady her, though she gives you a glare that says she doesn’t need it.

"I’m fine," she grumbles, but there’s a softness to it, and you know she’s just too proud to admit otherwise.

You press a quick kiss to her weathered cheek, the touch brief but warm. "Come on, gran. Let’s get you inside before that fire goes out."

As soon as you open the door, Gran makes her way toward the hearth, moving a little more slowly now, her back bowed from years of wear. You follow her, dropping the last of the logs into the small pile beside the fire. The hearth crackles and spits, the flames licking at the logs, eager for the kindling to catch.

You kneel down and add a few smaller pieces to the fire, feeling the warmth crawl up your limbs as the room begins to fill with its heat. The crackling flames dance in the dim light, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Gran settles into her favorite chair, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she rubs her hands together to warm them.

But then. 

The sharp scent of burning soup cuts through the warm, smoky air of the house, and you both freeze for a moment, the sudden change in smell jarring after the comfort of the fire. The frantic voice of Tara rises from the kitchen, a high-pitched, rapid-fire chant of "Oh no, oh no, oh no," each repetition growing more frantic than the last.

A smile finds its way to your face. 

“What the fuck.”

"Girl’s got no business in the kitchen," Gran remarks dryly, her eyes twinkling with the kind of amusement only she can manage at a time like this. She shifts in her chair, clearly comfortable in her role as the unbothered observer. "Can’t even cook a proper pot of soup without burnin' it."

You groan, heading to the kitchen, following the sound of Tara’s  frantic movements, the clatter of pots and pans unmistakable even from here. Gran’s right, as usual, but you can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes you as you push through the doorframe.

Inside, Tara is a whirlwind, her wide eyes locked on the blackened pot on the stove as she mumbles apologies to it like it's the one offended. The soup’s beyond saving, burnt beyond recognition, the acrid scent lingering in the air.

“Again?”

Tara whips around at the sound of your voice, looking both horrified and sheepish. "I—I swear it wasn’t this bad five minutes ago!" She gestures helplessly at the ruined pot. "I just... I wasn’t paying attention. Oh no, oh no..."

Gran’s voice calls from the living room, barely muffled. "She’ll survive, I’m sure."

"Put the damn pot in the sink, Tara," you say, your voice flat and tense, the stress from the day's work starting to catch up with you. The words are sharper than you intend, but it’s hard to keep your frustration in check.

Tara hesitates for just a moment, her shoulders slumping. Then, with a small, defeated sigh, she lifts the pot carefully, her movements slow as if she’s afraid it might bite her.

"You’re lucky I’m not trying to cook tonight," you mutter under your breath, rubbing at your temples as the weight of it all presses down harder. The house feels small, and the noise of the fire and Tara’s flustered movements make it feel even smaller, closing in around you.

That was a year ago. 

The cold slipped through the cracks of the old stone walls, settling deep in your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The convent was quiet this late in the evening, the only sound the rhythmic echo of your footsteps against the frozen floor. Winter, it seemed, was only growing harsher with each passing year, as if the world itself had grown bitter.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric rough but familiar. Outside, the wind howled against the monastery walls, a mournful sound that made the candle flames waver in their sconces. The flickering light cast long, skeletal shadows along the corridor, stretching and twisting with each uncertain step you took.

Stopping by a frost-rimmed window, you pressed your palm against the cold glass, watching it melt some of the frost buildup. 

"Sister, why are you not inside?" A light, charming voice chuckles behind you. 

You turn slightly, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself as you glance over your shoulder. The voice belongs to a man—young, by the sound of him, with a tone too smooth to belong to any of the elder priests or the somber sisters of the convent.

He stands just a few feet away, wrapped in a heavy traveling coat, the fur-lined hood pushed back to reveal lavender curls dusted with melting snow. His features are sharp, striking even, but softened by the amused curve of his lips. His eyes—clever, too knowing—gleam in the dim candlelight as he studies you.

"Sister, why are you not inside?" he asks again, then pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, no—you’re one of the postulants, I take it?" His voice carries an easy charm, the kind that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.

You straighten, instinctively guarded. "I am."

His smile widens. "Thought so. You don’t quite carry that air of solemn devotion yet." He gestures vaguely, as if that explains everything. "I imagine the cold must be unbearable, then. Postulants don’t get the good cloaks, do they?"

"You shouldn’t be wandering about at this hour," you say, keeping your voice even.

His chuckle is soft, almost indulgent. "Neither should you, Sister."

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle.

You don’t have time to say anything, though. A sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat cuts through the cold air, and you both turn.

Sister Jenna stands at the end of the corridor, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her expression betrays a hint of unease—whether at your presence or his, you can’t quite tell.

“Father Rafayel,” she says, voice carefully measured. “We weren’t expecting you to come so soon.”

Your breath catches slightly. Father Rafayel?

Your gaze snaps back to the man beside you, taking him in with fresh scrutiny. This—this is the new priest?

He hardly looks the part. No somber robes, no quiet piety in his posture. Instead, he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched, someone who finds amusement in the scrutiny of others. His traveling coat is dusted with melting snow, but beneath it, you catch the glimpse of a dark cassock, barely visible against the dim candlelight.

Father Rafayel, for his part, only smiles, unfazed by Sister Jenna’s presence. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the storm made it easier to press on than turn back.” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “I do hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

Sister Jenna shakes her head. “No trouble at all, Father. We simply expected you closer to the week’s end.”

You’re still eyeing him, suspicion creeping into your bones like the winter chill. This is the man meant to guide the convent, to lead prayers, to uphold the faith? Something about him doesn’t sit right. Not the charm in his voice, not the sharp glint in his eyes, nor the way he watches you now—curious.

There’s no way he was qualified. He looked too young for such a position—too worldly, too.

A man like him didn’t belong in a convent, much less as its priest. His sharp, knowing eyes, the way he carried himself with an ease that lacked the usual humility of a clergyman.

Priests were supposed to be solemn, restrained. Father Rafayel looked like a man who had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with prayers and penance.

Sister Jenna, however, seemed unfazed. She led him down the corridor without hesitation, speaking softly, though you couldn’t make out the words. You stood frozen in place, watching the flickering candlelight stretch his shadow long against the stone floor.

Just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

The cold pressed in around you once more, but somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the real storm had just arrived.

You sat curled on the low stool, knees tucked to your chest, as Sister Jenna worked in practiced silence, the soft snip, snip of her shears the only sound between you.

Loose strands of hair fell onto your shoulders, then to the floor, forgotten. It had grown too long, peeking out from beneath your habit—a small indulgence you had let slip, one that had finally caught up with you.

"You're growing it too long again," she chided, skilled fingers steady as they guided the blades. "You know the rules, child."

You knew. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to trim it back, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Still, you found yourself reluctant each time. The strands fell around you, dark against the cold stone floor.

“You were out late last night,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

You exhaled slowly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed, neither questioning nor believing you entirely. The shears snipped again.

It wasn’t a lie. Something about Father Rafayel had set you on edge. His presence felt like an ill-fitting piece in the convent’s quiet, predictable world. He was too young, too smooth, too something that you couldn’t quite place. And the way he had looked at you—like he knew you, or wanted to.

Sister Jenna hummed as she brushed the stray hair from your neck. "Change can be unsettling. A new priest means new ways of doing things. But it is not our place to question Astra’s will."

You exhaled slowly, watching as a strand of hair landed on the toe of your worn leather shoe. "I suppose."

She gave your shoulder a gentle pat, signaling she was finished. You straightened, reaching up to brush your fingers along the freshly trimmed ends, still uneasy.

The morning light filtered pale and cold through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere beyond, the village was beginning to stir, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the distant chime of the church bell.

"Sister Jenna? Where is he from? He's certainly not from Linkon. His clothes are too fine."

Sister Jenna paused, dusting stray hairs from her lap before responding. “No, he’s not from Linkon.” Her voice was measured, careful.

You turned to look at her, frowning. “Then where?”

She hesitated, which only made your unease deepen. “The capital, I believe. Or somewhere near enough to it.”

That made sense, in a way. His fine clothes, the way he spoke—it all carried the air of someone who had been raised far from the humble quiet of Linkon. But the capital bred men of ambition, not men of faith.

“And he was sent here?” You couldn’t hide the skepticism in your tone.

“I’m not sure where he’s from, but he was sent from the main cathedral in Anbusas. Handpicked by the bishop himself.”

That didn’t sit right with you. The bishop rarely took personal interest in appointing priests to small villages like Linkon.

“But why him?” You tried to keep your voice measured, but suspicion was creeping in. “He’s young. Too young, I’d say, for a position like this. But….wow. So he must really know what he's doing then..." A hint of awe laced your tone, surprising you.

Sister Jenna glanced over her shoulder at your words, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"One could say that, yes," she replied, her voice softer now, as if measuring her words carefully. "He has the bishop's favor, after all. It’s not often one is given such a position at his age."

Simone’s voice cut through the quiet like a bird’s chirp, the door creaking slightly as she poked her head into the room.

"Good morning, Sister Jenna!" she chirped cheerfully, unaware of the tension lingering in the air. "Father Thomas wants you to know that Father Rafayel is ready whenever you are and he'll be in the left Temple."

Sister Jenna nodded, her demeanor shifting instantly to one of calm professionalism. "Thank you, Simone. I’ll be there shortly."

Simone smiled and disappeared, leaving the door ajar. The distant chime of the bell rang, signaling the start of the day’s service. Sister Jenna turned back to you, her expression softening.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Wait—no breakfast first? I didn’t wake up late this time though!” You felt a small twinge of frustration at the idea of going straight to the Temple without even a moment to eat, especially after the restless night you’d had. 

Sister Jenna gave you a long, measured look, as if weighing your words. For a moment, you thought she might give in to your light protest, but instead, her lips quirked up into a faint smile, as if she wanted to laugh.

"Breakfast can wait, Sister," she said with a soft but firm tone. "The Lord’s work must always come first. The Temple needs its faithful."

With a reluctant sigh, you adjusted your habit, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I didn’t wake up late this time, though. That’s got to count for something."

Sister Jenna’s smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps you can indulge yourself with a piece of bread afterward. But for now, we have more important matters."

And just as expected...

It was dull.

The air inside the Temple was thick with incense, its rich fragrance heavy and choking in the early morning. The dim light from the candles cast flickering shadows against the walls, making the whole place feel like a forgotten crypt rather than a place of worship. The cold stone beneath your feet was no better than the air above, offering no comfort.

Who the hell decides to preach at 5 in the morning?

You stifled a yawn, keeping your head bowed as you sat with the other postulants, staring ahead at Father Rafayel who stood at the altar. He was as polished as ever, his posture impeccable, voice smooth and persuasive as he recited verses in a tone that could put anyone into a trance.

But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. His words were like an echo in your skull, a ringing noise that faded the longer you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you.

It’s too early. Too much incense. Too many eyes on me.

Your fingers clenched at the hem of your habit, and you glanced at the other postulants beside you. They were all in some sort of trance, eyes glazed, faces reverent, nodding along with every word he spoke.

How can they stand this? You thought, almost irritated. It’s the same every day...

Your eyes flickered up to the altar again, drawn to Father Rafayel.

He was watching you.

Not the others. Not the candles, not the altar, not even  Astra’s book. No, his eyes were locked on you. A glimmer of something passed between you—something sharp and knowing—and for a split second, you felt like you were the only one in the room. 

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his face, making the sharp planes of his features seem even more severe, almost otherworldly. His voice carried through the temple, smooth, unwavering—yet somehow, you felt as if his words were meant for you alone.

"And so, Astra delivered both sustenance and shelter, and with that, commanded that the devil’s kin watch as the festivities begin."

The devil’s kin.

Your fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of your habit. The phrase lingered, wrapping around your mind like a vice. The way he said it—like it held weight, like it was more than just scripture—made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice. Simone was still half-asleep beside you. Sister Jenna sat upright, hands folded, expression placid. The other postulants were dutifully listening, reverent in their silence.

Just you, then.

Just you, under his gaze.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Father Rafayel finally looked back down at his scripture, his tone shifting into something more measured, more fitting of a man in his position. He explained the verses, weaving meaning into them with ease, as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just spent an eternity watching you.

The rest of the sermon blurred together. The words flowed in and out of your ears, but none of them stuck. The incense, the candlelight, the steady rhythm of his voice—it all folded into something dreamlike, something unreal.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

The sun had begun its slow ascent, spilling weak, golden light through the stained-glass windows. The cold stone of the temple seemed a little less biting, but it was still winter, and the air still clung to you, heavy and unmoving.

Father Rafayel closed the book, lifting his head once more.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice carrying through the space. “And may Astra’s light guide you.”

The sisters murmured their responses, standing from the pews with quiet rustling. Some stretched discreetly, others moved toward the door without hesitation, eager for warmth and food.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

But it was long enough for Father Rafayel’s gaze to flicker back to you.

A knowing look. A brief thing, barely noticeable.

And then, just like that, he turned away, bidding you all good day.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

okay so the thought of mutual beef between Zayne and Caleb is very fun and I have my own takes on it BUT I want to offer another possibility: One-sided beef by Caleb's side.

Can you imagine how freaking funny it would be that Caleb is ripping his hair out over Zayne "seducing" you while the guy is just offering to share a box of chocolate he has with you, completely unaware of the evil eye he's receiving? Not to mention the petty comments between them when they were just teens like

Zayne: What time is it?

Caleb: Wouldn't you like to know weather boy

Zayne: .....? No, not the weather. The time, if you wouldn't mind.

Caleb: 🙂 *internal screaming*

I believe they're both aware of the other's feelings for you but there's a silent agreement to not do anything for very different reasons, while growing up at least. Caleb sees him as a threat because Zayne is not shackled by the responsibility of being your "gege"/family figure and part of him is almost envious of that. He's always restricting himself and playing the part he's been given for you, but he wants so much more.

Meanwhile, Zayne has to control his own heart for you otherwise the curse will eat away at him. He is not allowed to love you the way he wants unlike Caleb, who is so easily affectionate with you in a way he can only dream of.

it's so ughhhhhh I love their dynamic and if Infold won't give me content then I'll just have to make it myself

imagine being Caleb’s hello kitty girlfriend…you wouldn’t hear the word ‘no’

you’d have the biggest stuffies on your bed, the super jumbo limited edition ones down to the ones in various sizes that catch your eye at a grocery store. you’d have the themed accessories, the ones bedazzled in pretty pink and white rhinestones. posters, keychains, stickers, figurines…

he doesn’t let you miss out to the say the least. you just look so cute all snuggled up in your pretty pink bed with all the stuff he’s gotten you, waiting for him to join you with a beautiful smile. it makes his heart skip.

I am edging you guys with the snowleopard gojo fic haha!

I gift you, puppy!satoru this time :)

sex implied at the end, suggestive. not proofread.

you surely have the cutest puppy hybrid throughout your neighbourhood. He’s got hair as white as snow, the widest blue eyes and such cute floppy ears!

your satoru is such a handsome boy! your precious baby!

okay, you’ll be honest he’s not really a baby, definitely a grown man. but in his heart he is!

puppy!satoru always wants kisses, never just a peck no satorus too good for that. it’s always him shoving his tongue down your throat, kissing you so sloppily. your friends say you shouldn’t let him get too comfortable being ontop of you, but you’d do anything to see his wagging tail!

puppy!satoru is always touching you, may it be holding you in his lap, resting his head on your chest, or his sneaky hands not-so-secretly snaking under the waistband of your pants. ‘my hands are cold’ is his usual excuse. half-assed yet it always works.

puppy!satoru has many other hybrids trying to seek him out, and to be frank your pups not shy at all. he tries to mingle with his fellow-folk, then he realises he prefers to be your baby, your handsome boy who you love very much!

puppy!satoru loves being dominant over you, what was once a playful game between you two became satoru’s guilty pleasure. seeing you pinned down before him riled up the poor pup :(( being the good owner you are you happily let him blow off some steam! just don’t expect him to go soft, he’s really pent up ;)

GREED.

pairings:Rafayel x you!

warnings:slight nsfw content poor grammar not proof read. very short whoops

Usually Rafayel isn’t so greedy with things, but when it comes to you he’s almost obsessive.

Sometimes, he’d lock you in his studio with him making sure you wouldn’t leave :)

His head was resting against your shoulder shallow breaths falling from his lips.

Rafayel gripped your hips and moved you in a steady rhythm his girth rutted deep into you shamelessly.

a moan falling from your lips as you tried pulling away from him.

“Rafayel- i really need to get to work.”

The moment you tried pulling away from him Rafayel pushed his cock deep into you hitting your cervix over and over again.

“No, why should work get you all the time and i can’t huh? It’s pretty greedy if you ask me.”

Poor man couldn’t help himself, he just needed you all the time where it became obsessive he was down badly.

a/n:lawd this was rushed! but i hope you guys enjoyed mwah mwah

lonely millionaire

synopsis: sylus likes when you spend his money.

tags: suggestive (mdni), sylus sits you on his lap while you drain his bank account, it's for a cute reason though, dry humping, size difference, teasing, sylus is a scoundrel, use of "kitten" and "sweetie" cause we stick to the canon over here pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mc word count: 640

a/n: i don't really have anything to sa—omg this is my first non-caleb post! but yeah i've been thinking of this for a while. this is the most explicitly sexual thing i've written with worse to come

“Why don’t you get that one, too?” Sylus rumbles into your neck, pointing to a luxurious dress on your screen.

You’re seated on his lap in the bed you share, his legs caging your smaller frame while he peeks over your shoulder at the laptop in front of you. For the last 40 minutes, you’d been browsing the website of the most exclusive boutique in Linkon. It’d been Sylus’s idea—To get you something nice for being such a good hunter, he’d said—but as he urges you to keep adding opulent pieces to your cart—dresses, skirts, shoes, you name it—you start to suspect an ulterior motive. 

Restless, you turn around to face him. But before you can speak, he steals your lips in a lewd, wet kiss, his thumb holding your chin in place while he swipes his tongue through your mouth. 

“Hmm?” he hums when he releases you, expectantly peering into your eyes. 

Dumbfounded, you stare up at him before his slow smirk jolts you back into your right state of mind. “Sylus! Stop distracting me. You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” you accuse with a glare. 

“I don’t particularly enjoy being your distraction, kitten. I’d rather have all your attention in the first place,” he replies, wearing an infuriating look of triumph. 

“You know what I mean,” you whine, thwacking his shoulder in exasperation. “You have me in your lap while I spend enough to buy a house on things I don’t need. I don’t get it—are you enjoying this?” 

Sylus blinks lazily. Slowly, he chuckles before rolling his hips into the plush of your backside. “You’re well aware of how much I'm enjoying it, sweetie.” 

Startled, you jerk your hands to his thighs, the laptop landing onto the bed with a soft thud. “Sylus,” you breathe, a whimper escaping you as he grinds upwards again. “I-Is this really okay? You’ve been so tired lately, you can’t hide it from me. What if I spend too much and you have to work harder?”

Sighing, Sylus snakes one thick arm around your waist, pulling you further back into his chest. As he splays his large hand across your belly, you feel his body warming yours, making your core clench with need.

“Kitten,” he drawls, nuzzling your shoulder. “When I’m out there making Onychinus deals, putting my life on the line just to come home coated in someone else’s blood—it gets…tedious, sometimes. Sometimes I wonder if I should give it all up so we can start fresh somewhere new,” he confesses, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “But having you here with me, knowing I'm putting my life on the line for you? So you can spend what I earn for you, so I can give you all the pretty little things you could possibly ask for? It makes it worth it, kitten. It brings me…peace. Satisfaction.” 

Throughout his musings, he’s been rubbing you harder and harder against his rigid length. Feeling it pulse beneath you, you moan softly and reach your arm back, threading your fingers in his hair. “As long as…as long as you like it,” you pant. “Want you to be happy.”  

His deep chuckle hits your neck, sending shockwaves down your spine. “Won’t you help me relax, then? After all, I've been so tired lately,” he mocks, nipping your ear. 

“Now,” he starts again. “How about you look at the accessories page next, hmm? Let’s see the handbags.”

It’s an hour later when Sylus is finally satisfied with the subtotal of your shopping cart. 

He holds his card out in front of you while you type in the information, and once the order goes through, he captures your lips in a kiss, tender but claiming. 

“What’s your schedule for tomorrow look like, sweetie?” he rumbles, pressing you close. “I think I’d like to look at some jewelry.”

YOU'RE MINE.

nsfw (18+). includes aphrodisiacs, dry humping, rubbing cock over panties, possessive!caleb, caleb is gentle at first until you piss him off, this is basically ‘testing caleb's patience: the fic’, unprotected sex, creampie, i have to mention that caleb is possessive twice because caleb says some freaky stuff, sappy confession during sex, happy (horny) ending <3 likes and reblogs will be very helpful !!

Caleb doesn't accept love letters and chocolates whenever Valentine's Day comes along. However, girls directly stuff them into his bag without his knowledge sometimes, and you take it upon yourself to eat the sweets because Caleb would just throw it straight to the trash otherwise.

“It's a waste,” you'd always say. “You might not like them back, but they still made the effort to make chocolate for you.”

And then Caleb would shake his head, frowning, “Though most of them mean well, sometimes they put weird stuff in the food. So if I were you, I'd spit out that cupcake, pipsqueak.”

You usually don't heed his warnings—Caleb's always been kind of an overthinker. Now, though, you regret not listening to him as an unfamiliar heat spreads across your body, your core throbbing as you feel yourself dripping in your panties.

...The panties that's rubbing against Caleb's crotch right now, soaking the fabric of his pants while you grind down on him. Caleb's expression looks like a mix of confusion, worry, and arousal, his hands hovering above your waist as if unsure where to touch you. “Nn— hey, what's gotten into you? Do you even know what you're doing right now?”

You see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he nervously swallows, and you start feeling something poking you at your clothed core. Caleb sits up on the sofa where you pushed him down a while ago, grabbing your hands on his shoulders. “C'mon, tell me. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong.”

You whimper, your body collapsing on top of his. He quickly scoops you up, one hand holding the back of your head, the other resting on your lower back, ensuring you're properly seated on his thighs.

“I... I feel weird,” you pant, clutching the front of his shirt. “I'm dizzy, and my body is hot all over. My...” you swallow down your embarrassment, “my pussy feels empty... Caleb, can't you help me? Please?”

Almost imperceptibly, his grip on you tightens by a fraction. He sighs, angling your head to make you look at him in the eye. Perhaps it's the trick of the light, but Caleb's face is a flustered pink. “I can't do that. You're going to regret it when you turn back to normal and get all weird about it.” He glances at the chocolates you ate on the table, brows furrowed. “Aphrodisiac chocolate... I should've known. Then you wouldn't have become like this...”

Your mind is in a daze. Your body feels unusually heavy, but your head feels like it's floating. Most of what he said is lost on you, and at this moment, the only thing you can focus on is that Caleb is looking at something else. You grab both of his cheeks, forcibly turning his attention to you. “Please help me, Caleb...” Clumsily, you lift up your hips, pressing your cunt against the tent in his pants. It glistens with your wetness, and Caleb can't help but groan when you rub the tip with your thumb. “It hurts... I need this inside me...”

Caleb has always adhered to your whims, but even he has his limits. He pinches your cheek, “I can't put it inside, idiot, I don't have a condom. I just have to make you cum, right?” He gestures for you to pick up the hem of your skirt, sucking in a breath when he sees how soaked you are. “Fuck....”

The entire crotch area is damp, and if he looks carefully, he can even see the faint shape of your clit. Curiously, he draws circles on it, breathing heavily when a fresh glob of slick stains your underwear. “That's hot...”

He pulls down his zipper, releasing his cock from his boxers. You gasp softly at the sight. He's long and thick, arching to a beautiful curve, colored almost red from the strain of holding back. He gives himself a few experimental pumps, moans coming from his mouth as he masturbates at the sight of you, holding up your own skirt to give him a perfect view of your wet panties, an innocent, frilly pair he can't wait to ruin.

He positions his cock to your folds, aiming at the spot your hole should be if not covered by your underwear. You both groan at the first slide, his pre-cum further soaking the fabric of your ruined panties. He wraps himself in his fist, teasing your clit as he pumps into his hand. More pearls of white spurt out of his tip. “Ah, fuck, that's good... so good...”

“Ah, ah, Caleb!”

You move your hips, moaning while he rubs himself against your cunt. The warmth of his cock is driving you crazy, and the added friction of Caleb rubbing your nipple through your clothes makes you even wetter than you already are. He's biting his lip, dazed eyes staring at your body appreciatively. “I'm taking this off, baby.”

He impatiently runs his hand through the buttons of your clothes, some of them popping off to clatter on the floor. “H-hey, I liked this shirt— haa...!”

“I'll buy you a new one,” he grunts, mouthing at one of your tits, sucking as if anything would come out. He unclasps your bra one-handed, throwing it over your shoulder. “These things are fucking annoying...”

Finally, he gets tired of rubbing you over your clothes. He lifts the side of your panties, sliding his cock inside to directly grind against your pussy. “Shit, that's more like it,” he moans loudly, your wetness gliding down his balls. “You feel so good.”

“Caleb, put it inside already,” you whine, scrunching up the fabric of your skirt in your fists. “This isn't enough for you either, hnn, right...? Give me your cock, please...”

Caleb grits his teeth, holding your hips to stop you from dropping on his dick. “Didn't I tell you I don't have a condom?”

“I don't care!” you struggle in his hold. “Fuck me, c'mon... it hurts...! If you don't...”

You pant against his ear, knowing exactly what you're getting into, drugged or not, “...I'll ask Zayne to fuck me instead.”

The effect is instantaneous. He pulls out, replacing his cock with two fingers plunging inside you at once, hitting deep all the way inside. You choke, gasping out for breath as his hand doesn't stop, slick jetting out of your cunt with every push of his fingers. His clothes are getting soaked, but Caleb doesn't care about them at all, coldly glaring at your face twisted in pleasure.

“So you're telling me you'd be fine with just anyone?” He's chuckling, but he doesn't sound like he's happy. “Fuck. I should've just done this from the start, then.”

He grabs two of the chocolates, popping one in his mouth. When he finishes swallowing, he places the other one in his mouth again, but then he suddenly grabs your jaw. “Open your mouth, slut.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, mouths locking together. The chocolate melts from the heat, his tongue licking at yours as he's forcing you to swallow. He doesn't let you go until he's sure you've eaten all of it, drool dripping from the corner of your lips.

“We're not stopping until you learn I'm the only one who gets to see you like this,” he grunts, taking out his fingers and slathering your slick on his cock to make it wet. “I'm the only one who gets to call you mine.”

“Haa... haa...”

Clothes are strewn messily on Caleb's bedroom floor, the mattress squeaking with each thrust of his hips. You're on your back, one leg hooked over Caleb's shoulder, staring into space as you're fucked absolutely stupid.

“Fuck, I can't stop my hips....” Caleb's still fucking into you, hasn't stopped for the past hour. The effects of the aphrodisiac have probably passed after the first two rounds, but his cock shows no signs of softening after release. He cums another load into you, overflowing from your pussy to spread into his sheets. “Ah, hng, shit... Hey, I told you not to waste it.”

He pulls out, pressing his fingers inside your loose hole to fuck his cum back in. You make a sound of protest, already feeling full.

“Are you starting to regret what you said now?” He grabs the back of your thighs, pressing your legs next to your ears. “Too late for that, though.”

Caleb groans, sloshing his cum inside your cunt with his dick. You helplessly grab at the sheets, moaning brokenly. His pelvis rubs against your engorged clit on every snap of his hips, driving you to squirt on his abs again, his torso glistening with your mess.

“You're squirting again? How many times have you cum?” Caleb laughs meanly, sucking another possessive mark among the smattering of hickeys he's already left along your collarbones. “Nasty girl...”

He leans back, getting a better view of your body. There are traces of him everywhere, from the hickeys on your neck, his cum on your chest because you couldn't swallow everything he poured in your mouth, and the faint bite marks on your inner thighs when he paid the favor and ate you out.

He presses a kiss on your chest, staring at you with dark eyes. “If you didn't say that, I would've been patient with you. Fingered you loose before putting my cock inside, making sure you're comfortable... I would've helped you ride out the effects of the aphrodisiac and never speak of it again. After all, to you, I'm just family.” He nuzzles against your cheek, his voice taking on a darker tone. “But you just had to call out another guy's name, didn't you... Would've fucked him if it was him here, not me...”

Caleb thrusts back inside you roughly, fucking your cervix. “You can't do that, you know? You've always belonged to me. Every part of you is mine, so no one else can touch you.” He cups your cheek, devouring your cries of pleasure with his mouth. “Just me... it's only me, right? I'm the person most important to you, right? You said so... So why are you bringing up another guy?”

He's asking questions, but he doesn't let you answer any of them, kissing you so much you almost can't breathe.

“Even though I'm in front of you...” Kiss. “Even when I'm the only one who loves you this much...” Kiss, kiss. “You're still thinking of another person...” Kiss, kiss, kiss. “That's hardly fair when you're all I think about everyday.” Another sloppy kiss.

You weakly push his chest, breaking away from the kiss. “Wait, Caleb—”

He pins your wrist to the bed. “I'm not stopping.”

“I'm not telling you to stop, I'm telling you to liste— ahh, haa, hnn!” The cock still ramming up your walls makes it much more difficult to speak, hammering against the sweet spot that makes your toes curl. “Fuck, ah— Caleb, listen to me!”

He hums as he sucks another hickey on your skin. “I am.”

You don't have it in you to argue even when he clearly isn't, trembling at the pleasure. The hand holding your wrist travels upwards to intertwine your fingers together, grounding you back to reality.

“Caleb, I was just— I didn't mean what I said...” you stammer, trying your best to speak without getting distracted. “I, mmh....! W-wouldn't do this with anyone else... haa... I just said that so you'd fuck me— ah, ah!”

He scoffs, slowing his pace when he sees you being overwhelmed. “You're just making excuses to get me to stop.”

“I'm not, you dummy! I...” your brows pinch together, embarrassed to say it but you continue anyway, “Caleb, you're the one I think of when I touch myself... nn... And I know it's wrong, and you only think of me as someone you should take care of, but, I, haah, I like it when you kiss me, or when you hug me, and I— gh! I like it when you fuck me hard, too, just like this...”

You move your hand to cup Caleb's jaw, admiring his awestruck expression. He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time.

“I'm not telling you to stop,” you repeat yourself firmly. “I just wanted to say I didn't mean that thing I said earlier, and if it's you, you can do whatever you want to me. Because I love you just like how you love me, Caleb.”

His hips come to a complete stop. “Say that again.”

“I love you, Caleb.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“Okay, you're really pushing it, it's embarrassing to sa— aah!”

He grabs your hip, pulling you back to his cock. He fucks you frantically, harsh groans leaving his lips, your name like a prayer. “Fuck... you love me? You love... me?” The words seem unfamiliar on his tongue, heartbreakingly quiet. You squeeze your connected hands.

“I love you, Caleb. I really, really love you, I've loved you a long time ago...” you tilt his chin, making him meet your gaze. “Now say it back.”

“I love you,” he says with certainty, as if it's a fact of the universe. “I love you so much.” He buries his head into your neck, sucking new marks. “I love you... fuck... I love you so badly, it hurts...”

His cock drives deeper, the wet slaps of skin deafening in the room. Cum dribbles out of your hole with his thrusts, and he swipes it up to smear it on your engorged clit. Rub, rub. Rub, rub.

“Shit, Caleb!” You wail, rutting to his finger. “Everything feels so good, ah, ah!”

“You feel so good, too, aw, fuuuck...” he's melting inside you, your warm walls clenching around him so tight, sucking him back in every time he pulls out. “Your pussy keeps sucking me back in...!” 

“Ah, hnahh, ngh, yes, like that, ah! I'm cumming, cumming!”

His balls draw tight, his cock about to burst. “Fuck, shit!” he fucks in, in, in, until he's filled every space in your cunt, thumb frantically rubbing at your clit. Clear liquid soaks his cock, wetting his pelvis, and he follows you in your release, shooting ropes of milky cum deep inside your pussy. “Fuck, ah, take my cock, take my fucking cum all the way in, ohh— take it deep in your womb—”

He keeps cumming, and cumming, and cumming. “It won't stop,” he moans against your ear, watching your hole overflowing with his semen. “Your pussy feels too good, it's sucking me dry...”

“Caleb, shit, how are you still— ohh, fuuck...” you whine as the last spurts of semen hit your torso, Caleb having pulled out and pumping his dick to cover you in his cum.

Finally emptied, Caleb collapses on the spot beside you, running a hand through his hair. “I need a shower,” he mutters, feeling the stickiness on his body.

“We need a shower,” you correct him. “I probably won't be able to walk for the next few days, all thanks to you, so you better take responsibility and carry me everywhere.”

Caleb laughs, light and airy, nothing like the dark tone he's been speaking in earlier. He pulls you to his chest, pressing chaste kisses all over your face. “Anything for the girl I love.”

"Please be my meaning," he whispered into the closed door when you quarreled.

"We are alone on the whole earth, in the very heart of my pictures," he thought when you didn’t reply to his messages, he trying to remember your common past over and over again.

"In the whole world of made-up truths, I need your warmth," he begged you, kneeling in front of you.

"I want to be your meaning," he whispered between kisses.

"Please, please, please be my meaning," he whispered into your neck again, pressing your naked body closer to his.