albakore

[albakore]

how they sound in bed

featuring: albedo, childe, ei, navia, kazuha, arlecchino

content: sub!genshin characters, dom!reader, begging, mentions of overstimulation + biting (arlecchino), a bit of degradation (childe)

albedo:

gentle and pure, like freshly fallen snow. albedo isn't the most reactive by nature, and on top of that he's pretty good at holding his voice back if necessary, letting no more than a few hums and hitched breaths meet your ears. but when the pleasure overpowers his self-control and he does let out a moan for you, it’s pure heaven. his voice is so soft and sweet, he sounds every bit as delicate as he looks. when you take him slowly, he lets out airy sighs that make you eager to push him further and see what kind of noises you can coax out of him. when you go hard and fast, tiny little whimpers rise in the back of his throat that surprise the both of you. they build up higher and higher in pitch until anything he tries to say makes his voice crack and his cheeks heat up a bit.

albedo doesn't talk very much unless you prompt him to, but every now and then he catches you off guard with the most sinful, filthy plea for more. he does have a smart mouth after all, and he knows exactly how to beg with it while sounding as princely as ever. his curious nature never stops for even a second, so the entire time you're picking him apart, he's trying to study you too, so he can see what reactions of his turn you on the most. everything he does, right down the noises he allows himself to make, is all for approval. he's not very loud when he cums. rather, he chants out frantic little "ah ah ah"s when his high approaches, sucks in a sharp breath as he reaches his peak, then lets out a long, feather-light moan that's like music to your ears. it's rare to get an intense reaction out of him, but the way your name sounds on his soft-spoken lips more than makes up for it.

"use me," he breathes, quietly resolute. "i was made for you."

childe:

insanely vocal. not just in the sheer amount of sounds he makes, but verbally, too. childe is one to moan, whine, gasp, grunt, groan, whimper, and make every noise under the sun, all while trying to stutter out sentences in between because he can't keep his mouth shut to save his life. the more worked up he gets, the more he starts to babble, almost like a puppy wagging his tail in excitement. his attempts to tease you range from endearing to unbearable; usually in the form of throwing out weak, breathless taunts just so you can go harder and put him in his place. he makes it no secret when something feels good, and unless he's being a brat, he’s not ashamed to beg for you. even if his face starts to flush a little when he hears the pathetic noises coming out of him, childe gladly chases the pleasure you dangle in front of him, moaning and whimpering for you like a dog in heat.

he has a filthy way with words that drive the both of you wild, and the way you degrade him for sounding like such a whore just makes him throb harder. he swears a lot and repeats words over and over like a broken record. when he gets close to cumming, his speech starts to slur together into one long, incoherent whine, only made worse by the drool pooling on his tongue. you can cover his mouth with your hand to try and quiet him, but even, then his muted whines still break through. he'll almost definitely start licking and biting at your palm like the little freak he is, too.

“please, please, please—ah, fuck! please, lemme cum ‘m a good boy," his frenzied whines echo off the walls. "been so g-good for you. so so—mmph—good!”

ei:

a combination of elegant and cute, ei’s true voice is a stark contrast to the cold, commanding tone of her shogun puppet. she’s not very loud or vocal at first—especially because she has a tendency to suppress herself, it can be hard for her to let her voice ring out naturally. so when she holds her breath to try and keep in a gasp of pleasure, she ends up making muffled squeaking sounds instead that are painfully cute. it flusters her a bit when she can't control herself like she normally would, but she feels more encouraged when you coo over how pretty she sounds, even if she doesn't quite understand why you're so enamored with something she finds to be an embarrassing lack of composure.

if ei is service topping (which she often does, she’s very obedient and will bottom if you ask her to, but she gets antsy if she feels like she’s not working hard enough to satisfy you) she lets out soft but enthusiastic grunts of effort, so concentrated on making you feel good that she doesn't worry about keeping her voice down. her breathing gives away how turned on she really is, as it grows more labored every time you praise her for doing a good job. when she's on the receiving end of pleasure, especially when she’s close to climaxing, she breathes out quick little "oh oh ohs" that are as sugary sweet as the desserts she loves so much. even when ripples of pleasure are shaking her body, she has a certain poise and grace to her, moans spilling out of her as soft as flower petals followed by blissed out sighs so gentle that listening to them could soothe you to sleep.

“please…i-if you keep going so fast," she murmurs breathlessly. "i still want to please you, too. let me be of good use to you.”

navia:

passionate. navia is so expressive in anything she does and this is no exception, so controlling her volume is the last thing on her mind when you’re making her see stars. she’s receptive to your every touch, eager to let you know how good you’re making her feel with sharp gasps of pleasure and the most irresistible, high-pitched whines for more. it's very hard to deny her what she wants when she begs so sweetly. playfulness is a given for navia, she loves making cheeky remarks to spur you on, though usually not to the point of full-blown brattiness. communication is a big part of sex to her, it eases her nerves to have a comfortable back and forth with you, knowing she’s safe to fall apart in your hands.

sure enough, though, her banter slowly fades out along with her boldness once you take things further, replacing her teasing with moans so pretty you’d think they were practiced. but navia is far too focused on your mouth and fingers to force any of her reactions, and it shows with all the cute, involuntary squeaks every new sensation earns from her. her glossy lips fall open and stay parted the entire time your fingers plunge in and out of her, spilling out pleas so primal and desperate that they send shivers up your spine. she’s so lost in the pleasure that she doesn’t notice how loud she is until you murmur "listen to yourself" in her ears, but even as her face flushes with embarrassment, she can’t help how vocal she is. when she reaches her high, it’s a burst of passion, crying out your name over and over until her voice breaks and trails off into tiny, satisfied mewls. having to muffle her volume with a kiss as she cums is a very common occurrence, and it always leaves her blushing up at you with a shy pout.

“don't tease me! y'know i-i can't...help it," her protests lose effect when she’s stammering over every word. "you just m-make me so crazy. please, baby, i��m so—ah!—close.”

kazuha:

angelic. it’s almost unfair to you, how every word, every sound that leaves this man's mouth feels like a silk blanket draping over your brain. his voice is gentle and melodic as a songbird's, and though not very loud, kazuha is incredibly vocal. he wants to appear calm and composed in front of you so badly, he cherishes being able to spin together the most beautiful sentences for your ears, but all of his eloquence effectively crumbles to dust the moment your lips find his neck and your hands roam his body. he’s sensitive. his unique constitution has all his senses perfectly in tune with the natural world, after all, which is something he typically considers a gift until a simple touch from you elicits the most pathetic whimper from him. you’ve gotten used to having to tug his hands down when they fly up to cover his burning red face, mortified by his own mewls echoing off the bedroom walls. kazuha isn't much of a whiner, but embarrassing him like that is one definite way to earn the cutest whines from him, pleading shyly for you to let him muffle himself.

broken whimpers and hums rise in his throat over every little burst of stimulation you give him, and he’s hyperaware of every single one. he bites his lips a lot in an attempt to hold himself back from moaning, turning them into breathy squeaks just like the ones he lets out after giggling. it’s hard for him to get words out between all the sounds he makes, and when he does manage to speak, it's all stuttered and slurred together in a whirlwind of “please” and “more”. the complete contrast to his usual poetic word-weaving makes it all the more satisfying to see what a mess you’ve made of him. when his orgasm hits, kazuha’s honey voice almost always cracks because he’s not used to crying out with such intensity. he doesn’t swear very often, even when you’re fucking him senseless, but sometimes when he cums, a few hushed curses slip out in between his moans. it’s a crime how even the filthiest words can sound so sweet and innocent on his tongue.

"p-please, my love, i can't take much more," he begs, voice turning up in a helpless whine. "you make me feel s' good, so, so good. i really...hah...won't last."

arlecchino:

the epitome of discipline and self-control, arlecchino has spent her whole life ensuring that she always has a secure handle on her emotions. it makes her the perfect sub if she’s willing to obey you, but it also means she’s not very expressive. the most reaction you typically get out of her is long claws digging into the mattress or a few shaky exhales through her nose, even when you've pushed her to her limit. it takes a while for arlecchino to unlearn the belief that being vulnerable in bed isn’t a sign of weakness, and that you want to know what makes her tick. she doesn't exactly get it, but she's willing to comply, for your pleasure, if nothing else. when she first allows herself to let a sigh slip out, she's a bit stiff, almost awkward in a way that you probably shouldn’t find so endearing. if it weren't for your consistent orders for her to let loose, she'd revert back into old habits immediately and go quiet.

she relaxes her breathing little by little until every exhale starts to hold a bit of a rasp to it, letting you know that her guard is gradually lowering. her voice is so seductive without even trying. it's low both in pitch and in volume, a husky, rich tone that only makes you more determined to get some proper reactions out of her. sinking your teeth into her skin is one of the best methods to achieve that, the way her breath hitches in her throat, followed by a soft grunt, is addicting to you. her exhales get heavier the more the pleasure creeps up on her, as do the content hums bubbling in the back of her throat. with the delicious edge her voice has, it almost sounds like she’s purring for you. as her peak draws closer, the heat in her core combined with the feeling of your mouth sucking marks into her neck becomes all-consuming. her groans rumble under your teeth when you bite down on her flesh, and when you swirl your tongue over her skin, she hisses softly. her orgasm comes with a quiet warning and a sharp inhale. then, she goes silent for a moment before a deep, sinful moan rings out. but the best part comes when you keep going without giving her a chance to recover from her high, overstimulating her into louder, less controlled reactions. it leaves her panting heavily, voice hoarse and a trembling plea for mercy on her tongue.

"am i...doing this right?" she mumbles. "whatever you desire, just say the word and i'll obey."

[albakore]

"First Morning of Forever"

a/n: The first morning after moving in together is special in such a quiet, magical way — nothing fancy, just the comfort of waking up in the same bed knowing you don’t have to say goodbye at the door anymore. Anon request!

pairing: scaramouche x you

genre: fluff

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the light through the curtains.

It wasn’t the faint noise of cars passing on the street outside your new apartment.

It was him.

Warm. Heavy. Draped over you like he’d melted in his sleep. His arm was curled snugly around your waist, one of his legs hooked lazily over yours, his face tucked into your shoulder like he was trying to fuse with you.

The scent of fresh laundry lingered faintly in the room — not because everything was actually fresh, but because all your clothes had been washed before packing them. The cardboard smell of moving boxes still clung to the corners, and there was the faint, sweet note of his shampoo in your hair from last night’s shower.

Everything was new and a little messy. The curtains weren’t hung properly, just clipped to the rod with binder clips. Your nightstand still held a half-empty mug from the exhaustion tea you’d shared after unpacking. And yet… the bed felt like home already.

You shifted ever so slightly, trying to stretch your legs.

Instantly, the arm around your waist tightened.

"…Don’t," came his low, sleepy mumble.

You smiled into your pillow. "Don’t what?"

"Don’t move. Stay here."

"I was just going to get some water."

"You were going to abandon me," he corrected, his voice muffled and warm.

You turned just enough to see him. His hair was rumpled, sticking in every possible direction. His eyes were only half-open, a little glassy with sleep, his cheek pressed into the pillow. He looked impossibly soft like this — which was unfair, because he’d argue later that he "looked like a zombie."

"You’re ridiculous," you said fondly.

"I’m comfortable," he countered. "And you’re ruining it by thinking about leaving."

You let yourself sink back into the pillow. "What if I wanted breakfast?"

"Order in," he replied instantly.

"What if I wanted pancakes?"

He shut his eyes again. "I’ll make them. Later."

"How much later?"

"When I feel like letting you go."

Last night had been a whirlwind.

You’d carried the last box up the stairs, both of you groaning about how your knees weren’t built for this. You’d argued about where to put the couch, laughed when he insisted his game console deserved its own shrine in the living room, and ended up eating takeout straight from the containers while sitting on the floor.

By the time you’d both collapsed into bed, you were too tired to do anything but curl into each other. He hadn’t let go of you since.

"Scara?" you murmured now.

"Mm?"

"What if I wanted to shower?"

"Then I’m coming with you," he said without hesitation.

You rolled your eyes, grinning. "Of course you are."

The room was quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen. For a moment, you thought he’d fallen back asleep.

Then his voice came again, softer:

"I like this."

You tilted your head to look at him. "Like what?"

"This," he said simply. "Waking up and you’re here. No texting you in the morning, no waiting for you to come over. Just… here."

Something in your chest fluttered.

"I like it too," you whispered.

His mouth curved into the smallest smile. "Good. Because you’re stuck here."

You laughed quietly. "Forever?"

"Forever," he confirmed, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple before burying his face in your hair again.

The water could wait.

The breakfast could wait.

Even the half-open boxes waiting to be unpacked could wait.

Because it was your first morning together, and the only thing that mattered was the warmth between you, the quiet certainty of his arms around you, and the unspoken truth that this — the slow mornings, the shared space, the easy closeness — was exactly where you were meant to be.

[albakore]

i am highlowkey falling back into my genshin hyperfixation HARDCORE. objects of affection on the chopping block recently have been kazuha (?? coming out of left field quite honestly) and scara. send help

[albakore]

ɢᴇɴꜱʜɪɴ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ // fic recs

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

wriothesley

want some tea? shared dreams, blossoming hearts his sudden favoritism no touching for you, i'd steal the stars. oh, the man he is... doctor's note

al haitham

of spices and parchments drunk confessions a shoulder to cry on one second dream a little dream of me? the misadventures of a scribe, howl's distant cousin, your poor soul: oh my archons they were housemates! i visited idiot street and everyone knew your name! father cupid

kazuha

slow dance two points of view destined parting what the wind brings time and fallen leaves meet me at our spot snowy horizons morning angel

neuvillette

retrouve-moi dans le jardin à minuit i thought the world would be black and white, (it's golden) to lie, to lose raindrop a chocolate secret poetry vient la douleur

[albakore]

✦ caught in between

kazuha x fem!reader x scaramouche

cw: soft dom kazu, rough dom kuni, sub fem reader, oral (giving + receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, spit-roasting, overstimulation, possessiveness, jealousy-fueled sex, emotionally charged threesome, praise kink, degradation kink, guilt sex, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism, soft and rough dynamics clashing. modern college au.

you meet kazuha first.

at a poetry night your roommate drags you to.

small room. carpet stained with wine, string lights sagging above thrift-store pillows. someone’s reading about heartbreak into a $20 mic, and you’re halfway through a cup of cheap rosé when you see him.

in the corner. folded into himself.

quiet. thumbing the edge of a crumpled paper like it might disappear if he looks at it too long.

but when he gets up to read, he changes.

his voice is low. deliberate. every word lands heavy and soft, like snowmelt. metaphors that ache in your chest. lines about the sea and bruised mouths and gentleness like it’s a language. like he’s fluent in it.

afterward, you find him near the door.

you say: “that was beautiful.”

he blushes. thanks you softly. says you have kind eyes. offers to walk you home.

you say yes.

and two nights later, he’s in your bed.

it starts slow.

you’re side by side on the sheets, dorm lamp glowing soft yellow, casting gentle shadows on the wall. your fingers brush once, twice — then stay. he smells like flowers and something fresh, like green tea steeped in rain.

he’s watching you. carefully. like you might vanish.

“you make me nervous,” he says, voice barely audible.

you blink. “why?”

his throat moves. “because you’re not afraid to look at me like you want something.”

and you’re not. so you kiss him first.

his lips are soft. hesitant. like he’s writing something and second-guessing every word. one hand finds your jaw, thumb resting just under your ear. the other presses gentle to your ribs, grounding you both.

when you whine softly into his mouth, he deepens it. kisses you like a gasp. like a slow burn.

and then he exhales, like he’s made a decision.

he starts kissing down your neck. open-mouthed, slow. reverent. he murmurs things against your skin, breath hot and ragged — not words, exactly. just sounds. you think he might be humming. or reciting lines under his breath.

his hand ghosts over your hip.

“may i?” he asks, already tugging at your shirt.

you nod, breath caught. he peels it off like something sacred.

his hands find your waist first. warm, steady. then your thighs, thumbs pressing soft circles as he slowly spreads you open.

you shiver under him.

“gods…” he breathes, staring down at you like you’re a miracle. “you’re—”

he doesn’t finish. just kisses your stomach. then lower.

his mouth lingers right above your panties. he noses against the fabric, eyes fluttering shut.

“may i taste you?”

you nod again — too fast. too desperate.

he pulls your panties down so, so slowly. like unwrapping something delicate. kisses the inside of your knee. then the soft skin of your thigh. works his way up.

his mouth finds your cunt with almost painful gentleness. the first lick is slow. long. he groans — like he wasn’t ready. like you taste too good.

he doesn’t start fast. he takes his time.

soft, precise licks. shallow circles around your clit. fingers teasing at your entrance, not pushing in yet. just stroking you open. easing you wider.

you can barely breathe.

“so wet,” he whispers. “so soft.”

his fingers slip in slowly. one at first, then two. he curls them just right — you arch off the bed.

his tongue presses to your clit again. this time firmer. his rhythm steady. like he’s studying you. reading you. learning you one sigh at a time.

you’re whimpering now. legs trembling. hands tangled in his hair.

“please,” you whisper. “please—kazuha—”

he groans into you when you say his name.

his pace picks up. tongue working in slow, perfect circles. fingers pumping deep and steady. every movement deliberate. you swear he’s writing with his mouth. spelling something out against your skin. over and over.

“don’t stop,” you gasp.

“never,” he says. voice hoarse. “not until you break for me.”

you do.

you cum with your thighs shaking and your back arched off the bed. eyes screwed shut. his name falling from your lips like a prayer. you’re wet everywhere — thighs sticky, sheets damp, mouth gasping open.

he doesn’t stop right away.

keeps kissing you gently, slowly, coaxing you down.

you’re limp when he finally pulls back. blinking up at the ceiling, lungs burning. he kisses your stomach again. then your chest. your collarbone.

he lies beside you. breath uneven.

you glance down — he’s hard. pressed up against his sweats.

you reach for him, dazed. “kazuha—”

but he catches your wrist.

“not yet,” he murmurs. “i want to remember this. you—like this.”

you blink at him. flushed. panting.

“just let me hold you,” he whispers. “for now.”

and he does.

he pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his fingers still damp from your cunt. he strokes your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. like this moment might slip away if he doesn’t anchor it to your skin.

you fall asleep like that.

with his breath warm in your hair. with his lips pressed to your shoulder. with your name still stuck between his teeth like a line he hasn’t figured out how to end.

but the thing about softness is that it doesn’t last.

kazuha leaves a poem in your notebook and doesn’t text back for days.

you try not to spiral. try not to read it over again and again and again like there’s some hidden meaning underneath the stanzas. like there’s anything to analyze except the silence.

you need something loud. fast. something that doesn’t feel like holding your breath.

you meet scaramouche the same week.

you’re still thinking about kazuha.

how soft his hands were. how he kissed you like you were made of paper. how he left a fucking poem in your notebook and then disappeared.

you try not to care. you try not to be the girl who catches feelings from one night.

but it’s friday, and you haven’t heard from him, and you’re spiraling, and your friends drag you out to a party with sticky floors and beer that tastes like pennies.

you go anyway. short skirt. winged liner. drink in hand.

someone hands you a shot. someone else spins you in the hallway. you almost feel okay.

you hear his voice before you see him.

loud. sharp. biting.

he’s leaning against the counter like he fucking owns it — black hoodie, half-lidded stare, rings flashing under the shitty kitchen light. he’s got a red solo cup in one hand and is tearing apart three econ majors with the other. something about soft power. maybe sanctions. you’re not listening that closely — not until he says, “you’re already soft in the brain.”

you snort into your drink.

“he argues for fun,” says the girl next to you, mascara smudged halfway down her cheek. she rolls her eyes. “don’t get involved.”

you sip. “he’s not even right.”

he hears you. of course he fucking hears you. his eyes snap to yours — sharp, electric, like a dog scenting blood.

“you got something to say?” he calls across the kitchen, like he’s bored already. like he’s daring you.

you meet his stare. shrug. “just that you sound like a polsci freshman who learned the word ‘hegemony’ yesterday.”

the crowd goes quiet for a beat.

he stares at you. then laughs. low. amused.

“cute,” he says. “wrong, but cute.”

you roll your eyes and start to walk away — but he’s already peeling off the wall, weaving through people like they don’t exist. like this conversation was always inevitable.

you pretend not to see him. down the rest of your drink in one go. laugh too hard at something some guy says in passing. but he’s still following you. still gaining.

you end up near the fridge. cheap tile under your heels, fluorescent light buzzing overhead. you reach for another drink, but his voice cuts through the static:

“so,” he says, “you got a degree in international relations, or are you just this annoying for free?”

you turn. squint at him.

“jesus,” you mutter. “do you ever shut up?”

he leans in — not touching you, but close enough that you feel it anyway.

“not when i’m right.”

you scoff. “you’re not.”

“say that again.”

“you’re not right.”

he steps closer.

barely an inch between you now. you’re backed into the fridge, nowhere to go. he smells like smoke and clean detergent and something artificial — cologne from some dollar store, maybe. his hoodie brushes your bare arm.

his voice drops low. almost a whisper.

“you’ve got a mouth on you,” he murmurs. “big opinions for someone who’s been unstable all night.”

you tilt your chin up. “fuck you.”

he grins, all sharpness and intent. no warmth at all.

“if you’re gonna act like you know everything,” he says, voice dark and close, “maybe i should fuck the arrogance out of you.”

your breath catches. your heart stutters.

but your voice doesn’t shake when you say:

“then do it.”

and that’s it. that’s the trigger.

his eyes flash. his jaw tightens. and then he grabs your wrist. not gently.

you barely register the twist of your arm as he pulls you through the kitchen — past couples pressed against doorframes, past someone throwing up in a sink, past that girl from earlier who gasps and says “holy shit” as you’re dragged outside into the cold.

you don’t resist. not even a little.

your heart’s in your throat. your mouth is dry. you don’t know his name, and you don’t care.

he pushes open the back door. leads you down the porch steps. past the trash cans. through the dark where the porch light doesn’t reach.

the car’s not even his.

he doesn’t tell you whose it is. doesn’t care. just opens the back door and gestures with his head — get in.

you do. like a fucking idiot.

your ass barely hits the backseat before he’s on you, slamming the door shut and pressing you into the leather like he can’t stand the space between you. his mouth crashes onto yours, all teeth and spit and heat. his hands are already on your thighs, pushing your skirt up without asking. you’re already soaked. you can feel it.

his rings are cold when they touch your skin.

“you want me to stop?” he mutters against your mouth, voice low and ruined, fingers dragging up your inner thigh.

you don’t say anything. you just yank him down by the collar, dragging him into another kiss. messier. hungrier. your lip gets caught on his teeth.

he groans.

grinds into you — grinding that hard cock against your panties, where you’re already pulsing for him. he reaches down, rubs you there with two fingers, lazy and smug.

“you’re soaked,” he sneers. “fucking knew you were like this.”

his fingers press against the fabric. slow, firm, spreading your slick over the cotton.

“you act smart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, “but you get off on this, huh? getting fucked like a whore in the back of someone else’s car?”

you try to say something. maybe deny it. maybe beg.

but then he pulls your panties aside and slides two fingers into you, all at once. your words vanish into a broken moan.

“fuck,” he hisses. “tight little cunt. bet you’ve been thinking about this all night.”

he curls his fingers. pumps them slow. thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit.

you’re shaking already. thighs twitching. his fingers are longer than yours, reach deeper than yours, touch places you can’t. you grind down against him helplessly.

“say it,” he growls. “say you like it.”

you shake your head. too far gone to talk. you’re too full, too close.

he slaps your thigh. hard.

“say it,” he demands again.

“i—fuck, i like it,” you gasp. “i like it, i want it, please—”

he shoves his fingers deeper.

your back arches. you clench around him.

“good girl,” he mutters. “knew you’d beg if i made you.”

you fumble for his belt.

he watches you with half-lidded eyes, like he’s bored, like this is nothing to him — and that somehow makes it worse.

you finally get him free. he’s hard already. thick and flushed, tip glistening.

he leans in close. grabs your jaw again.

“you want it?”

you nod. fast. dizzy.

“then fucking beg.”

“please,” you whisper. “please—fuck me. i need it.”

“again.”

“please, i want you, i want your cock, i want you to fuck me—”

he slams into you in one brutal thrust.

you scream — but his hand’s already over your mouth.

“shut up,” he hisses, hips pounding into yours. “you want people to hear what a slut you are?”

you shake your head. his cock stretches you open. it hurts — it burns — but you love it. you fucking love it.

he fucks you deep. fast. no rhythm, no grace. he holds your hips down, grinds into you like he’s angry.

your moans come out muffled against his hand.

“yeah,” he groans. “that’s it. take it. take my cock like a good little toy.”

your nails dig into his hoodie. your body bounces under him with every thrust.

“feel that?” he growls. “feel how deep i am?”

you nod. sob. your legs are trembling.

he leans in, mouth against your ear.

“i told you,” he says, panting. “i told you i’d fuck the arrogance out of you.”

he means it. every thrust is punishing. like he’s tearing something out of you. like he’s trying to fuck his name into your bones.

you feel the orgasm hit before you can warn him.

tight. sudden. white-hot.

you scream into his palm as your pussy clamps around him, soaking his cock, slick dripping down your thighs.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—” he moans, hips stuttering.

he pulls out fast, just in time, and finishes across your stomach with a strangled gasp. thick, hot ropes of cum painting your skin.

and for a second — just a second — everything goes quiet.

your chest heaves. your skin’s slick with sweat and cum. your panties are still pulled to the side. your legs won’t stop shaking.

he exhales. leans forward. brushes your hair from your face — kind of gentle, for the first time.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you’re a fucking mess.”

you blink up at him. your vision’s gone soft. blurry.

he pulls your skirt down. wipes your stomach with the sleeve of his hoodie, muttering something under his breath about how you “shouldn’t walk around looking like that.”

he pulls your panties back into place. doesn’t even laugh when you wince.

he opens the car door. cool air rushes in. you shiver.

“come on,” he says quietly.

“mmfm…wha?”

he sighs. like you’re stupid.

“you’re drunk,” he mutters. “you’re not walking home.”

and the last thing you remember is the sound of the door closing again.

a hand on your thigh. a voice, half a whisper: “fucking idiot.”

you wake up like you’re drowning.

head pounding. mouth dry. your tongue feels like it’s wrapped in gauze. mascara crusted in the corners of your eyes. glitter dusting your pillowcase like confetti from some party you don’t quite remember.

you blink. once. twice.

everything’s too bright. your bedroom ceiling spins slightly above you.

you try to sit up and immediately regret it — your thighs ache, sharp and sticky and sore in a way that feels too familiar. your skirt’s riding up around your hips, tights rolled halfway down. your shirt’s on backwards. your bra’s gone.

your breath catches.

what the fuck.

you search your body for bruises.

your fingertips come away with smudges of black on them — eyeliner, maybe. maybe something else.

there’s a faint, tacky feeling between your thighs.

and you remember — a voice. dark, teasing.

“i told you i’d fuck the arrogance out of you.”

you close your eyes. your stomach flips.

you sit up slowly — shaking. still not sure if you’re going to puke or cry or both — and reach for your phone, but it’s not on your nightstand.

you find it on the floor, face-down, tangled in your charger cord.

1:43pm. a few blurry photos from the night before. one half-lit snap of you in the mirror, tongue out, glitter on your collarbone.

and then nothing. no texts. no missed calls.

you wrap a blanket around your shoulders like armor. make your way to the kitchen, knees weak, bare feet cold on the tile.

your roommate’s there, hunched over a bowl of cereal. eyes still half-closed.

she glances up when she hears you. “jesus. you look like hell.”

you don’t answer.

she spoons cereal into her mouth, still squinting at you. “you remember anything from last night?”

you wet your lips. they feel chapped. “some of it.”

she laughs. “well. hot guy carried you in. that ring any bells?”

you stop. heartbeat skipping.

“…what?”

“yeah, he dropped you off like two in the morning. bridal style. set you down on your bed, made sure you were breathing, then dipped.”

you just stare at her.

she chews her cereal. swallows. keeps going, casual like it’s nothing.

“purple hair. wore all black. looked pissed off at the world.” she tilts her head. “kind of hot in an emo way. dunno how you landed that.”

your mouth opens. then closes.

your brain finally catches up: he brought you home.

after fucking you. in someone else’s car. without even telling you his name. he carried you home.

your hands shake.

“did he say anything?” you ask, voice low.

your roommate shakes her head. “just knocked. asked me if you lived here. i said yeah, and he just… dropped you on your bed and left.” she pauses. “honestly, he was weirdly gentle. like, you were all limp and glittery and looked like you’d just sobbed through a mitski concert, and he still, like… made sure you were okay.”

you feel like you’ve been slapped.

you sit down on the edge of the couch — legs folding under you, heartbeat trapped in your throat.

you remember how rough he was. how he shoved you back into the seat, fingers already sliding between your thighs. how he laughed when you whined. how he told you to beg.

but you also remember —

a hand on your waist. a breath against your cheek. something brushing your hair back

maybe you imagined it. maybe you didn’t.

either way, you still don’t know his name.

but now? now you know something else.

he could’ve left you there. but he didn’t.

you’re still lying in bed, phone face-down, trying not to die from dehydration or existential dread, when it buzzes.

your head’s pounding. your mouth tastes like old liquor and regret. your thighs are sticky under the sheets, skin still a little sore. you haven’t even changed out of the crop top you wore last night.

you flip the phone over with a sigh, fully expecting it to be your roommate asking if you want waffles.

but it’s not.

kazuha

hey i hope this isn’t weird but i’ve been thinking about you a lot i still owe you that tea if you want to come over

you blink. once. twice.

you sit up too fast. regret it instantly.

because what the fuck.

he just texted you. like that.

you just stare at the screen, heart thudding, nausea curling slow and low in your stomach.

it’s been a week. a full week of silence. seven days of playing it off, pretending you didn’t care, trying to laugh with your friends and sleep it off and rip the poem he left in your notebook like it didn’t mean anything.

you’d practically convinced yourself it was a fluke. a one-night thing. a pretty boy with a soft voice and a talent for leaving before things got messy.

and now he’s texting like he’s been sitting in his apartment thinking about you for days.

like he still wants to pour you jasmine tea and quote rilke under dim lighting. like he meant it.

and you… you fucked someone else.

you let a stranger finger you in the back of a borrowed car. let him talk down to you, press his hand over your mouth, fill you up like he wanted to ruin you.

you let him get under your skin. into you. and you still don’t even know his name.

your chest tightens. your breath stutters. because now you don’t know how to feel. you don’t know what you feel.

guilt? shame? desire?

yes. all of it.

you text back before you can stop yourself.

hey um yeah. okay. i can come over

you stare at your screen for ten more minutes. motionless. buzzing. your palms are sweaty. your heart won’t slow down.

kazuha wants to see you.

after all this time. after a week of nothing, of silence, of overthinking every word he said in your bed. of replaying how gently he touched you. how quietly he made you fall apart.

and yet — despite all of that, all you can think about is him.

the other one.

the stranger in the kitchen with a sharp tongue and purple hair. the one who smelled like smoke and contempt. the one who ruined you with his fingers and didn’t even stay long enough for you to ask his name.

you don’t know who he is. you don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.

but you’re still thinking about the way he looked at you like a challenge. the way he pulled you into the car like he already knew how you liked it.

your thighs squeeze together. you exhale. and get dressed.

because kazuha wants you to come over. and maybe that should be enough.

kazuha buzzes you up without saying anything.

it’s late afternoon. your head still hurts. you almost didn’t come. you almost talked yourself out of it — four times, actually. but now you’re standing in front of his apartment door with your hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, heart beating like it wants to crawl out of your chest.

he opens the door like he’s been waiting. like he was standing right behind it the whole time.

soft hoodie. loose hair. sleepy eyes.

“hey,” he says, almost a whisper.

you swallow. “hey.”

he steps back to let you in.

the place smells like green tea and rain through the window. warm. lived-in. books stacked on every surface. plants in chipped ceramic pots. a record player humming something slow and instrumental in the corner. a kettle whistling on the stove.

you step out of your shoes. your legs feel shaky.

kazuha watches you. quietly. eyes flicking down like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to look.

“you really came,” he says, almost to himself.

you smile — small. nervous. “i said i would.”

he nods. drifts toward the kitchen. “i kept thinking maybe you wouldn’t. after…”

“after what?”

he doesn’t answer. just turns the burner off and pours the tea.

when he hands you the mug, your fingers brush. his linger.

“i missed you,” he says.

you look at him. really look at him. his expression’s unreadable. soft, but hesitant. like he’s scared to spook you. like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to want you.

your chest aches.

you still have feelings for him. of course you do. he made you feel seen. held. kissed. like you mattered.

you sit down on the couch. kazuha follows.

it’s quiet. painfully quiet.

you take a sip. stare down at the tea. “this is nice.”

he nods. “i thought about what kind you might like.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

you wish he’d kiss you. you wish he’d pull you into his arms and pretend nothing changed. but he doesn’t.

instead, he just says: “i meant to text you sooner.”

“why didn’t you?”

he pauses.

and then, just as he opens his mouth — a door creaks open down the hall. a shadow shifts behind the cracked bedroom door.

and then — he steps out.

purple hair. black hoodie. bruised mouth.

you recognize him immediately. every nerve in your body goes electric.

it’s him.

you freeze. you don’t breathe. don’t blink. don’t move.

scaramouche steps into the light like he was waiting for a cue. hoodie slouched off one shoulder, drawstrings tangled, purple streaks falling into his eyes. there’s a split on his lip now — fresh or maybe not — and he’s watching you like he already knows how this ends.

he cocks his head.

“oh,” he says. “it’s you.”

you clutch the tea mug tighter. the ceramic’s too hot, practically burning into your palms, but you barely feel it. your pulse is louder than everything else.

kazuha glances up from the couch, voice soft and unbothered. “you’re up.”

your head whips toward him. “…he’s your roommate?”

kazuha blinks. “yeah. sorry—did i not say that?”

and behind you, scaramouche fucking laughs. low. amused. cruel.

you turn back, throat dry. “no,” you manage. “you didn’t.”

“thought maybe you’d met at one of those campus parties,” kazuha continues gently. “he always wanders off and starts fights in kitchens.”

he says it like a joke. like this is nothing. like you’re not spiraling.

you feel like the floor’s giving out beneath you. like you’re in a dream, or a joke, or a punishment.

and he doesn’t stop staring.

“so you’re the one he’s been writing about,” he says, mouth twitching like he’s tasting it.

your head snaps up. heart stuttering.

kazuha blinks again. “oh. um—right. you two haven’t been introduced, huh?”

you can’t speak. your lips won’t work. your lungs won’t fill.

“this is my roommate,” kazuha says, quiet. “kunikuzushi. everyone just calls him scara.”

the name hits you like a punch.

kunikuzushi.

he finally has a name.

you look at him, sharp and crooked and slouched like he owns the room.

he’s smirking. not kindly. not sweetly. like he remembers everything.

the way you clawed at his hoodie. the way you begged. the way you cried when you came.

“nice to meet you,” he says, syrup-thick.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you too.”

you sit stiff as a corpse.

and scara just drops onto the couch beside you like it’s his throne.

sprawls out, legs spread, arm stretched over the back. his thigh presses into yours, casual and close, like it belongs there. like you belong there.

kazuha’s still warm on your other side — too close, too trusting, too soft.

your stomach twists. you’re boxed in.

you can feel your skin buzzing. you’re too hot, too aware of every inch of your body. of every breath. every glance. it feels like a trap and you walked straight into it.

kazuha doesn’t notice.

or maybe — worse — he doesn’t want to.

“so,” scara says, easy, “how do you two know each other?”

his voice is light, but his eyes aren’t.

you can feel him looking at you. feel the way his smirk stretches, just a little.

like he already knows the answer. like he’s daring you to lie.

kazuha answers first. of course he does.

“she came to a reading last week,” he says, voice soft. “we talked after.”

he turns to you, smiling a little. “she said she liked my poems.”

you manage a nod, lips pressed thin. you can feel your pulse in your throat.

“huh,” scara says.

he doesn’t add anything. doesn’t need to. because a second later, his fingers brush your thigh. barely there. but enough.

enough to make your breath catch. enough to send your stomach flipping.

he knows what he’s doing. and he’s doing it anyway.

kazuha glances over, concern flashing briefly behind his eyes. “you okay?”

you smile too fast. “yeah,” you say. “just hot.”

scara exhales softly through his nose. a laugh, low and smug.

you want to punch him. or kiss him. or cry. maybe all three.

he leans in.

close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. for his words to curl against your ear like smoke.

“you always get this squirmy when someone touches you?”

you flinch. it’s not subtle.

kazuha doesn’t seem to notice. but scara does.

his knuckles press in, slow and deliberate, dragging just a little higher on your thigh.

your breath stutters. you don’t move. you should. but you don’t.

“what would he think,” scara murmurs, voice like venom, “if he knew how wet you got for me?”

your skin goes cold. then hot. then cold again.

you want to shove him off the couch. you want to bury your face in your hands. you want to disappear.

but you don’t do anything.

you just sit there. silent. frozen. and then he says it. too sharp, too fast, like he’s slicing through you —

“you gonna let him make you cum next?”

and this time, kazuha hears it.

“…what?” he says, startled.

you stiffen. you feel like you’re going to be sick.

scaramouche doesn’t even blink.

“we hooked up,” he says plainly, like it’s a fun fact. like it doesn’t mean anything. like he’s not holding the knife and twisting it.

he looks at you. grinning.

“you didn’t mention that?”

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. you’re drowning.

“i didn’t know you were roommates,” you finally choke. “i didn’t know.”

kazuha doesn’t respond right away. he stares at the floor, quiet. then he nods. slow. once.

“…okay.”

it’s the softest thing in the world. and somehow, it cuts the deepest.

your fingers curl around your mug, white-knuckled. your hands won’t stop shaking.

the silence drags. painful. unbearable. thick.

you reach for him. instinctive. desperate.

“kazuha—”

he cuts you off, but gently. always gently.

“it’s okay,” he says, voice tight. not angry. not sharp. worse.

like he’s trying not to let it hurt. like he’s swallowing it down.

“you don’t owe me anything.”

and the way he says it — it shatters something in you. because it’s true.

but god, you wish it wasn’t.

he stands. quietly. slowly. like the air’s too heavy now.

his hands curl at his sides. his voice is small. careful.

“i think i’m gonna go to bed.”

he doesn’t look at you.

“you can let yourself out.”

then he turns.

walks down the hall.

soft steps. soft goodbye.

he doesn’t shut the door, but he might as well have.

and scara?

he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just leans back, all smug and spread out on the couch.

like he won. like you’re not falling apart beside him.

and you just sit there.

it’s been four days since that night.

four days since you watched kazuha’s face fall. since you walked out with your chest caving in. since your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

you couldn’t stop thinking about it. about him.

his soft voice. the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room. how he curled his fingers around a mug like he was scared it might break. how he might.

you didn’t mean to hurt him. you never meant to hurt him.

and you can’t take it anymore.

so now you’re standing in front of his apartment door at 8pm, knuckles raised, heart in your throat.

you don’t even knock. you just twist the handle. it’s unlocked.

and he’s on the couch. hair tied back, sweatshirt too big, book in his lap.

he looks up. blinks.

“…hey,” he says, quietly. like he’s not sure you’re real.

you don’t speak. you just walk over. slow. trembling.

and then you kiss him.

hard. messy. open-mouthed. hands gripping his jaw like you’re trying to say everything at once.

he gasps against your mouth.

“wait—what—”

“i’m sorry,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. your forehead pressed to his. your hands in his hair.

“i didn’t know. i didn’t know, and i was stupid and drunk and i can’t stop thinking about you—”

he pulls you back in. wordless.

you stumble into his lap, straddling him, fingers tugging at his sweatshirt. your lips drag across his jaw, down his throat, mouthing apology after apology into his skin.

“i missed you,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he kisses you like he believes it.

his hands slide under your shirt, reverent, trembling a little. like he’s still not sure this is allowed. like he’s scared it’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

but you want fast. you want messy. desperate. fucked-up. you want to feel again.

you grind down into his lap and feel him gasp against your mouth.

“fuck,” he mumbles. “you can’t just—just show up like this—”

“why not?” you say, nipping at his bottom lip. “don’t you want me?”

his eyes flutter shut.

“…i always do.”

you rock against him again, and he groans.

hands under your thighs now, pulling you closer, guiding your hips. there’s no rhythm, no thought — just friction, heat, want.

you grab the hem of your shirt and tug it off. your bra goes next.

his breath stutters.

you swear he says your name like it’s a prayer.

his mouth finds your chest. kisses soft, open, shaky. his hands shaking as he palms your tits, thumbs brushing your nipples until they pebble.

“kazuha,” you whimper. “please.”

he flips you before you can blink.

lays you out on the couch. gets on top of you like he’s starving. like he’s waited a lifetime.

his hands drag down your waist. unbutton your jeans. he looks up once, checking.

you nod.

he tugs them down. your panties with them. and then his mouth is on you.

tongue soft and slow at first, then deeper, faster, firmer — his fingers gripping your thighs open, holding you steady, licking through your folds like it’s all he wants.

you moan — loud. head tipped back, hips rocking up into his face. he moans into your cunt like it’s divine.

and then — just as you’re close — he slips a finger in. then two. curling them just right.

“kazuha—oh my god—fuck, right there—”

his eyes are wild when he looks up. cheeks flushed, mouth wet, hair sticking to his face.

you cum with a cry, back arching off the couch, thighs trembling.

he doesn’t stop until you’re gasping.

until you’re pulling him up by his sweatshirt, mumbling “fuck me, please, fuck me—”

he fumbles with his sweats, hard and flushed and leaking as he lines himself up.

“you’re sure—?”

“yes,” you breathe. “i want you. i want you.”

he pushes in.

you both moan.

it’s so deep. so thick. he fills you like he belongs there.

his mouth drops to your shoulder. his pace stutters. he’s so gentle, even now — hips rolling slow, trying not to break you. trying not to lose himself.

but you’re already gone.

“harder,” you beg. “please, harder—i can take it—”

and he does.

he thrusts harder. faster. lets himself feel it — years of restraint crumbling in your arms.

the couch creaks beneath you. skin slaps. your name, over and over in his mouth, like he’s thankful for you.

you’re so close again — hips jerking, nails digging into his back, gasping his name when —

the door creaks open.

you freeze. kazuha freezes. you both turn your heads.

and there — bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand, jaw tight — is scaramouche.

he stares. expression unreadable.

and then?

he shuts the door behind him.

“…should’ve known,” he mutters, deadpan. “you only get this loud when you’re trying to prove a point.”

his voice drips mockery.

you tense under kazuha — your fingers curling into the cotton of his sweatshirt, knuckles white. he’s still inside you, still trembling, still trying to breathe through the impossible weight of what’s happening.

but it’s real. the couch is real. kazuha’s cock still buried in you is real.

and scaramouche — kunikuzushi — is standing there, dropping his jacket on the chair like this is normal.

“k-kuni—” kazuha stammers, trying to pull out. “i didn’t know you’d be—”

“spare me,” scara cuts in, already toeing off his boots. “i live here.”

you flinch.

he says it like it’s obvious. like you should’ve known.

but how could you? kazuha never said his roommate was the same man who had fucked you in the back of a car, told you to shut up, called you a know-it-all brat with your skirt pushed up to your waist and his fingers choking off your moans.

but now you know.

and he’s still looking at you. eyes dragging down your body — your bare chest, your fucked-out cunt, the way kazuha’s cock twitches inside you like he doesn’t know what to do next.

“so this is what we’re doing now?” kuni asks. his tone is flat, but there’s something gleaming in his eyes. sharp. greedy. like he’s daring you to answer wrong.

kazuha tries. bless him.

“it’s not—she’s not—”

but you’re already nodding.

your lips part. nothing comes out at first. then —

“yes.”

scara’s smirk spreads like wildfire.

“knew you were a little freak,” he says, low, dragging the hoodie over his head.

his shirt follows. then his belt. your breath catches.

his cock’s already hard. flushed dark, curved, glistening at the tip. and thick.

kazuha pulls out slowly — still holding you, still touching like you’re delicate. like you won’t break. and you miss the stretch immediately. your cunt clenches down on nothing. sticky with both your slicks. aching for more.

“get her ready,” scara says, stroking himself. “since you’re the nice one.”

kazuha just stares. wide-eyed. dazed.

but you’re already whispering: “please.”

he moves.

fingers slipping back inside you, slow and reverent, curling in that sweet spot that makes your thighs twitch. he’s still so gentle. too gentle. like he doesn’t realize you’re past the point of careful. you’re wrecked. ruined. and still hungry.

then scara kneels beside you. strokes your cheek with one calloused thumb.

“open,” he commands.

you do.

and he doesn’t wait — pushes into your mouth fast, groaning when your tongue wraps around him. when your lips close tight.

kazuha’s fingers are still working you open. slow, precise. you gasp around scara’s cock, trying not to choke. he’s too big for this. you can barely take him. but he doesn’t care.

“fuck,” he hisses. “she’s still tight?”

“she came twice already,” kazuha murmurs, dazed. “and she’s still so—”

“that’s cause she’s fucking starving for it.”

he grips your hair, starts fucking your throat. deep. rough. wet sounds filling the room.

you gag, tears spilling down your cheeks.

kazuha pulls his fingers out. lines up again. and god — you’re not sure you can take it, but your hips roll toward him anyway.

then he’s inside. deep.

the stretch makes your whole body arch. kazuha moans against your back, and scara curses low, staring down at your glassy eyes.

“shit,” he mutters, snapping his hips. “i can feel him in your throat.”

your arms shake. your cunt clenches. you’re crying. drooling. babbling around his cock.

you’re nothing. just a body between them. a fucktoy they’ve decided to share. and fuck — it feels so good.

kazuha’s thrusts are slow again, holding you open, whispering your name in your ear like it means something. scara’s pace is merciless, fucking your throat like it’s his right, like your mouth belongs to him.

and you? you can’t stop.

you choke. sob. cum again so hard it feels like lightning in your spine — your walls clenching around kazuha so tight he gasps, hips jerking. he spills inside you with a stuttering breath, holding you so close it’s like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

but scara pulls out.

strokes himself twice.

and finishes across your lips. your cheek. your chin. hot and sticky and everywhere.

you’re still shaking.

and they’re still watching you.

you can barely think.

your face is sticky with scara’s cum. your throat’s sore. your thighs won’t stop twitching. kazuha’s still catching his breath somewhere behind you, and your cunt’s leaking so much you don’t know who you’re dripping.

you’re a mess.

you should be done. this should be the end. but then —

“i made her cum first,” scara says.

like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. like it’s important.

your mind stutters, sluggish and cloudy, barely registering his voice over the dull throb between your legs. you’re flat on your back on the couch, eyes half-shut, heart still racing. you feel like static. boneless. high on everything.

kazuha lets out a soft snort beside you, pulling his sweats back on with shaky hands. “you mean just now?”

“obviously.”

scara stands over you, all smug satisfaction — one hand still in his hair, the other dragging his thumb across your jaw to wipe off the mess he left there.

you whimper faintly at the touch.

kazuha just raises a brow.

“if we’re counting real firsts,” he says calmly, “i made her cum days ago. with my mouth. in her dorm. she was shaking.”

scara freezes. just for a second.

“are you serious.”

“very.”

“that doesn’t count.”

“why not?”

“because you had her alone. if she’d had the option of me, she would’ve picked me.”

you groan. weakly. “guys—”

“shush,” they both snap.

you shut up.

kazuha looks unnervingly serene. the picture of quiet confidence. “i didn’t realize this was a competition.”

“it is now.”

and before you can protest — before your brain catches up — you’re being lifted. sat upright. dizzy. sore. you feel like jelly. your whole body aches.

your back hits kazuha’s chest as he settles back on the couch, arms around you. his lips find your shoulder again. soft. tender. his fingers trace slow shapes down your thigh.

and scara?

he’s kneeling between your legs. again.

“round two,” he says, voice a low purr. “let’s settle this.”

your whole body tenses.

“wait—i can’t—i’m still—”

kazuha hushes you. strokes your hair. kisses your cheek like it’ll fix the way your thighs are still shaking. “we’ll go slow.”

“i won’t,” scara mutters.

he doesn’t.

his fingers slide back inside you first — two at once, fast and rough. your back arches, sharp pain mixing with something darker, deeper. your whole body jerks.

“fuck—she’s still clenching,” he groans. “so needy it’s fucking embarrassing.”

you don’t even get to argue.

because then he’s inside.

his cock slams into you with one brutal thrust. your hands scramble for something — anything — but kazuha’s already gripping your wrists, holding you still, letting kuni take what he wants.

you scream.

kazuha kisses your temple, murmuring soft nothings while scara ruins you again. his thrusts are vicious. relentless. wet sounds echo off the walls. you can’t even think.

“you close already?” scara sneers, watching your face twist. “you are. fuck, that’s pathetic.”

“don’t be cruel,” kazuha says gently, brushing hair from your face. “she’s trying.”

“she’s a slut,” scara growls. “a messy little whore who likes getting fought over. that’s what you want, huh?”

you sob. your body trembles. you want to deny it. say it isn’t true. but it is.

you cum again — harder than before. your cunt clenches tight around him, and scara moans like he’s vindicated. like he’s won.

he doesn’t even stop.

fucks you through it. drags every last shiver out of your body until your brain fizzles out and your breath stutters into nothing. then — finally — he pulls out, panting, spent, and absolutely pleased with himself.

“that’s one,” he says smugly. “your turn.”

kazuha shifts.

moves you slowly — gently — onto your hands and knees, your whole body shaking like you’ve never been touched before.

“you okay?” he whispers.

you nod. barely.

and he’s inside you. slow. sweet. almost careful.

his cock stretches you all over again — but this time it’s different. like he’s pouring himself into you instead of fucking you apart. his hands curl over your hips. his lips ghost along your spine.

“you’re doing so well,” he whispers. “i’ve got you.”

you whimper.

you don’t even realize you’re crying again until he kisses the tears away.

his thrusts are deep. rolling. steady.

your cunt’s raw. swollen. slick with too much. but he still finds a rhythm that pulls the pleasure back up from the ache. still finds the softness under the wreckage.

your fingers clutch at the couch cushion.

“ka—kazuha—i can’t—”

“you can. just breathe.”

and you do.

you breathe. you break. you cum again.

quiet this time. all soft gasps and shaking thighs and tears on your cheeks. your hand finds his. you squeeze it when you come, clenching around him like you’re scared to let go.

he groans. spills inside you with a kiss pressed to your neck.

and you collapse in his arms. limp. barely breathing.

but then — you hear it. again.

“that one was mine,” kazuha says, still panting.

scara scoffs. “barely. she was already there.”

“still counts.”

“you’re such a fucking bitch.”

“and you’re a sore loser.”

you groan into the couch cushion. “guys.”

they don’t answer. you lift your head. barely.

they’re both still standing over you. flushed. fucked out. proud. and still arguing.

“shut up,” you mumble, dragging the pillow over your face.

they don’t. you know they won’t.

and somehow — you just know this isn’t the last time you’ll end up between them.

a/n: everyone say THANK YOU XIA for this absolutely amazing idea !!!!!!!! 🫡🫡🫡 ok anyway time to ghost u all <3 love u mwah i was never here bye

[albakore]

a courtship of adepti

[albakore]

Born to don't wanna. Forced to gotta

[albakore]

shooo

[albakore]

[albakore]

every time you make freezer food for dinner instead of buying takeout like you actually want you should earn two hundred dollars cash and a round of applause

[albakore]

[albakore]

i love how all the shows i grew up on had accidental queer chemistry and arcane instead just went hold my beer

[albakore]

i love reader. idc if she’s a bimbo or a crybaby or a little unhinged. good for her tbh. i love her in all shapes and forms. she is barbie. she is a doctor and a student and a barista and she can take five dicks at the same time. what a beautiful world we live in.

[albakore]

Arcane characters finding you asleep at their workplace

The devil works hard, but I work a little harder, so I’m back to writing Arcane headcanons a month before season two comes out.

Jayce:  

- Strong sense of guilt,  

- The first thing that comes to his mind is that you must have waited for him for a long time to fall asleep 

- He will make it up to you by trying to cook something for you, stopping to buy your favorite sweets before heading home, and giving you a shoulder massage the moment you sit down somewhere after you wake up.  

- The man of the Hamlet-like dilemma: he doesn’t want to wake you, but he also doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable.  

- If he has something urgent to do, he’ll try to cover your shoulders with something, even just his jacket, to keep you warm while he finishes only the essentials.  

- Once he’s free, he will very gently try to lift you from the chair, apologizing when you wake up and mumble something incoherent.  

Viktor:  

- In the early years of university, it sometimes happened that he found you in his room asleep, slumped over on a chair or bed with your shoes still on.  

- But as the years went by and the lab became his main space, that sight became a constant, repeating at least twice a week.  

- He tries to make as little noise as possible, whether with his aides, the door, or the stack of books and notebooks he needs to organize.  

- Before getting to work, he leaves the room again to bring you your favorite hot drink with a plastic lid pressed on top, so it doesn’t cool down.  

- Then, in complete silence, he works, deciding what to leave for tomorrow and what to do now, so he can finish as soon as possible without delaying too much.  

Ekko:  

- It’s hard to define what exactly a workplace is for Ekko,  

- But he often finds you at the Firelights' tree, in that room that’s supposed to be his, having likely sneaked in through the window to surprise him.  

- There are days when he comes back fairly early but stays to tell stories to the kids, and others when things go wrong, and he returns when it’s already dark, and almost everyone is asleep

- Finding you like this always makes him feel the absence of something more stable

- But he shakes his head and quickly pushes aside doubts about his ideals, stepping out of the room again and making more noise as he enters again, so you wake up, and he can pretend to be surprised in front of your open eyes.  

- By now, you know he steps out and comes back in, but it makes you smile every single time.

Vander:  

- You always sit at a table in the back of the Last Drop to wait for him, trying not to bother him, doodling, doing calculations, or planning something for the next day just to keep yourself entertained.  

- But by now, the sound of drunkards and the clinking of coins and glasses have become background noise that helps lull you into a catatonic state.  

- Vander usually notices after about an hour that you've fallen asleep; he always keeps an eye on you, but sometimes the customers cause problems.  

- He doesn’t like leaving you there, so far away, so he usually waits for a quieter moment to come over, pick you up, and bring you behind the counter, laying you down with your arms and head resting on the wooden bar.  

- He knows it’s not a big improvement, but his priority is to keep you safe.  

- When he finishes working, he closes the bar without doing the closing duties, sets his alarm for earlier than usual, and carries you to your room in his arms, covering your forehead with kisses.  

Silco:  

- The problem with Silco finding you asleep in his office is that he rarely arrives alone.  

- There’s always either Sevika or at least two other henchmen following him.  

- He sighs and sends them away, not without Sevika giving him a provocative look that means everything and nothing.  

- He hates those situations because part of him feels a strange warmth at the thought of you sneaking into his office for whatever reason, but on the other hand, he knows it negatively affects his image to be seen as a leader who tolerates certain insubordinations.  

- Because sneaking into the kingpin’s office is something that would get almost anyone else outside decapitated. But not you.  

- He huffs, pacing the room to deal with both emotions, and when he finally calms down, he approaches you, shaking you slightly to wake you up.  

- It’s certainly not the gentlest gesture on his part, but most of the time, it ends with you either going back to sleep in his bed while he works, or sitting on his lap while he flips through papers without paying them much attention.  

Jinx:  

- She can’t contain her excitement at all. When she notices your figure in her workshop, she always lets out a little happy sound that wakes you up.  

- From there, she immediately starts apologizing at least a thousand times, feeling guilty for waking you up but still too happy that you came to visit her.  

- She helps you up, talking nonstop about her day and anything that comes to mind as she leads you outside.  

- It’s not because she doesn’t want you around, but because she assumes you must be hungry as soon as you wake up, so before you're fully awake, you’ll find yourself at the Last Drop with enough food in front of you to feed her father’s entire gang of henchmen.  

- And she will absolutely feed you herself when she sees you haven’t taken a bite in too long, while stealing food here and there and continuing to talk.  

Vi:  

- For her, too, a "workplace" is a somewhat vague concept,  

- But in return, she has her secret spot, where she hides at night and tries to survive when she’s not out on the streets looking for trouble.  

- Every time she finds you there, she feels an indescribable pang in her heart.  

- She always feels like she’s neglecting the person she loves and failing to make you understand how much she cares about you.  

- She always hesitates before waking you up; sometimes she’ll even go change into clean clothes and wash the grime off her hands and face first.  

- Then she’ll wake you by sitting next to you, giving you a kiss, calling you by a silly nickname only the two of you know, and rubbing her forehead against yours before asking, with a rhetorical smile,  

- "Did you miss me?"

Caitlyn:  

- Sometimes you find yourself in the inner waiting room of the precinct, with her colleagues pointing out your body slumped in the chair and raising their eyebrows, teasing her. Other times, you simply sneak into her room, which isn’t much different from the police station anyway.  

- Every time, she sighs and gently wakes you, her pale eyes a little sad.  

- “Why didn’t you call me?” It doesn’t matter to her that you didn’t want to disturb her, because to her, you’re never a disturbance. It’s not a problem to have you around, even in public. She just feels bad that you waited instead of telling her, so she could have come much sooner.  

- She takes you away from the station without any issues, letting you continue resting against her shoulder as a Kiramman private vehicle takes you both to her home.  

- If you’re already in her room, she usually changes and lies down next to you, taking the chance to nap together, wrapped in each other's arms.  

Mel:  

- Falling asleep inside the Senate? Impossible.  

- But the keys to her office and her room are always in your pocket, and you usually bring her something to eat when you visit, though by the time you fall asleep, both the coffee and the treats are cold.  

- She’s not used to displays of affection, so she stays still for a few seconds before smiling and shaking her head.  

- She doesn’t wake you immediately, not because she doesn’t want to, but because if the sound of the door didn’t wake you, you probably need the rest. So she lets you sleep for at least 30 minutes before coming over, brushing your hair behind your ears to wake you, laughing when you lift your head with your eyes still closed.  

Sevika:  

- The first thing anyone would think is that falling asleep at the Last Drop is extremely dangerous. However, Silco’s henchmen aren’t too different from bipedal dogs by now; they know who you are, recognize your face and scent, and if they notice you’ve fallen asleep somewhere, at least three of them sit at your table to ensure your safety.  

- Sevika is always tasked with the worst imaginable jobs—tedious, long, and often dangerous—so when she finally returns, it’s usually either time to open the bar to the public or time to close it.  

- Even when she sees you, she can’t come to you right away, so she makes a face at whoever is watching over you, as if urging them to protect you better while she heads into the office.  

- Like Silco, part of her feels subconsciously softened by the idea that someone would feel the physical need to be with her so much that they’d wait, sitting until they fell asleep.  

- But on the other hand, she’s terrified that someone might see you and come after you to settle personal scores in a cowardly way.  

- When she finally comes down, she pulls you into her arms without saying a word, holding you under her large cape as she carries you away.  

[albakore]

Happy Birthday my December boys💖

[albakore]

give me an inch ( and i’ll demand a mile )

feat. genshin women

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 she reacts to your plea for another kiss, just after she has already given you one ( drabbles )

notes. reader’s gender unspecified, no other warnings.

There is a tantalizing smirk that plays on her lips. It’s a kind of amusement you absolutely anticipated from her, and yet, it still made you pout so childishly.

Her ego is totally getting off on it, too. It’s like a trophy win that she got you to even ask for another one—or, perhaps she didn’t want to admit how good it felt that you liked her enough to want another kiss. She couldn’t help but smile, really, when you placed one finger right at the corner of your lips. The sight itself was so adorable to her, and it’s a gamble or not whether she will take the opportunity to tease about it. But nevertheless, now it was up to her to decide: should she give in to your request, or have a little fun and leave you be?

MIKO, Lisa, Yelan, Beidou, NINGGUANG, La Signora, Rosaria, Arlecchino, Dehya, Hu Tao

The look on her eyes will soften immediately; and if not, then it’s quite telling in the way some tenseness is relieved in her shoulders. Perhaps it’s because a request for another kiss just shows that you truly love her, but right now, she can’t quite tell you how much of a deeper meaning this brings to her heart.

So for now, she’ll simply smile. She’ll give you the kindest of expressions she only gives to you, and she’ll give in. Her kisses beforehand were all short and sweet, but she gave you this last one with the most passion and innocent intimacy she could ever pass on to you through solely her lips. Whether you felt such a devotion through her kiss alone was beyond her, but she gave you all of her love, nevertheless.

AYAKA, La Signora, Lisa, COLUMBINA, Jean, Clorinde, Amber, Keqing, Sara, Kokomi, CANDACE, Nilou, Navia

Oh, she’s already caved. She internally cursed you a bit—you probably knew this was going to happen. The effect you gave ok her makes her practically hopeless, and not before long she is already dashing to the front of your body, holding the sides of your face and kissing you everywhere.

It’s like she’s drunk on your lips, or perhaps on your love. But either way, she has the biggest smile on her face that she isn’t even aware of as she plasters multiple kisses on your cheeks and nose and lips and practically anywhere she could reach. It’s a certain kind of adoration where she can’t get enough of you… not like either of you were complaining, really.

YOIMIYA, Beidou, JEAN, Layla, Eula, EI, Ayaka, GANYU, Shenhe, Mona, NAVIA

[albakore]

[Fluff] [Genshin Men x Reader] What Made Them Fall For You?

CONTENT

Headcanons on what make the genshin pookies fall for you <3 Fluff, gender neutral reader, men falling for reader, reader is not traveler but is friends with them, mentions of character's trauma, CHARACTERS ARE 18+

AUTHOUR NOTES

I hope to eventually write about all the men >:) it will probably take a while to get to it but I’ll try to keep each one short to encourage myself to finish them all hehe.

XIAO

I think Xiao would start to fall for you because you see through his tough, mean guy act. You can tell that even though his words are harsh and he’s telling you to leave him alone, he’s just protecting you. You might not see it at first, but as you understand his condition, his karmic debt, you understand him. Your realization makes you feel warm knowing that Xiao is really just an innocent soul who wanted to keep you safe. He wants so badly to never hurt anyone ever again and “repent” in solitude even though he has nothing to really repent for; he was forced to kill by his previous master and his karmic debt only comes from killing the remnants of old gods and absorbing their debt.

You start to hang around him more as a result and, much to Xiao’s dismay, he doesn’t hate it. In fact, he actually enjoys how you reignite the warmth in him, the warmth he hasn’t felt in so long since his fellow Yaksha have passed. But did he want to let you in? Shouldn’t he push you away? He’s been alone for so long, why change that now? He felt like he didn’t deserve to enjoy company again, that he didn’t deserve you and your kindness. But maybe just this time… just once, would he allow it.

WANDERER

I think Wanderer would start to fall for you because you make him feel human emotions like he’s never felt before. He’s always searched for a “heart” in the form of a gnosis, thinking it would make him human and make him feel loved and wanted. But even when he had it, it didn’t feel right. Even now, with his anemo vision, he feels more, but still not what he wants. But with you, it feels perfect. Others would probably describe what he feels as something like “butterflies in my stomach” but since he probably doesn’t really experience physical things like that, being a magical puppet and all, he thinks about how you make his vision glow. When he feels a surge of emotions, it feels like he’s using his vision. It feels powerful, happy, strong, and warm, like how a light breeze feels on a sunny afternoon.

You know about his past, what he did, and how the world wronged him. He’s been so traumatized and can barely comprehend his emotions. So when you reach out to him after he regains his memory and a new anemo vision, you try to help him through his emotions in the gentle way that you do. You’re so soft with him and it makes his vision heart ache. He believes he doesn’t deserve you but you try your best to show him otherwise. As you two get closer, you never really notice, but the wind always picks up just a little bit when he sees you.

DILUC

I think Diluc would start to fall for you because you don’t just see him as “the young and rich son of the Ragnvindr family estate.” You see him for him: Diluc. You see a beautiful soul with a broken heart that has put up walls that he intends to never break down again. Others might think that Diluc is just cold, but you and the others close to him know that no matter how cold he may seem, the pure fire that burns inside him always spreads its warmth to those around him. He’s believed for a while now that barely anyone can see what he’s hiding underneath, that people want him for his money, his property, his material things. But you prove him wrong time and time again. You sweetly say hi to him every time you see him not because you want to put on a facade to get on his good side. You don’t help him break up a fight at the tavern and clean up after because you want a monetary reward. You don’t bake him an adorable strawberry cake for his birthday because you want something back. No, you do it because you care, because you have so much love to give, and Diluc feels so lucky to be a part of your life.

He feels his feelings grow for you as time goes on. He feels you getting closer and he barely hesitates to let you in. You didn’t break down his walls, you politely made a door for yourself to enter and it makes you both laugh to think about it that way. He stays reserved around most others but always holds the door open for you, physically and metaphorically.

Thanks for reading!

|| MASTERLIST <3 ||