#» the world has changed too much. | crack |

[sleep-0-deprived]

⋆˚࿔Brahms Heelshire thoughts~!𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Taglist: @asher-is-hotxp @unstab1eperson2 @kimisbunny @yyuinaa @silvern1006

A/N: jus some thoughts N’ personal feels bout one of ma fav boys, N’ written specifically for @creepy141dollie <33

𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚

Personally I like thinkin Brahms S’ a big Ol baby, he’s touch starved at’ death N’ when you’re his new baby sitter all he can wonder as’ why’re you a boy? Where’s his nanny at…he’s silent as always creeping through in the walls just watchin the way you do things- he can’t deny how good ya are at all tha domestic stuff, house hubby material S’ what he first thought when he seen ya. You’re a sassy man he can tell that much bout you from the way you scold him and push out your bottom lip when lookin up at him, he doesn’t know how you made it past his old fashioned parents- maybe ya charms work on everyone.

Brahms S’ a total creep, he gives no privacy he stalks ya like a dog, he lurks even when ya ask him not to, he is obsessed all tha time- his infatuation holds no bounds N’ he isn’t afraid T’ watch your most intimate moments in tha shower or when you touch ya’self, Brahms hates when you lecture him, talkin bout how you wont let his cock near you sayin stuff like, “I only reward good boys” even tho knowin you, you’d start T’ feel bad N’ give into him by the end of the night— how could ya not with the way he begs you, his voice cracks N’ you can practically feel his tears behind that porcelain mask.

Bein his babysitter means giving up your life- he’s crazy N’ he’s toxic for you but you can’t bring yourself to leave him…you jus feel bad- he holds you an’ praises you like a god when he wants but he screams N’ throw fits over you when he’s upset— Y’ know you should runaway but you jus can’t- you’re in too far now anyway S’ why even bother to try N’ leave him? Ever since you took that job everything feels cold- the air, Your body N’ it’s all porcelain like, just like his mask. You used T’ love shopping but the most you do is go out into town T’ pick up groceries then ya go back to Brahms…that house has made you isolated from th’ world N’ Brahms doesn’t care at all, he jus wants you to himself.

Brahms is a manipulator, he uses your soft spots to get his ways, he promises all ya wanna hear jus to get you T’ stay. Brahms acts all innocent like he isn’t tha reason for your change in personality N’ he isn’t the reason you’re starting T’ slowly lose that sass, he’s worn ya down into a tired parent like person. Brahms uses his tears T’ wrap you around his finger knowin you can’t resist the way he clings to you like a god, Brahms worships the ground you walk on when you give him what he wants which is to ultimately have you forever.

Brahms S’ pent up all the time, sneakin off into your room when he needs tha love, not Carin bout anything jus getting your shorts down enough T’ shove his dick in ya while you sleepily hiss into the pillows whining bout how he’s bein rough- Brahms whimpers- he try’s ta be quiet but when your hole sucks him back N’ he loses it like a puppy poutin and moaning away on top of you clutching onto you hard while his hips erratically fuck you in ya sheets

Brahms fav position is cowgirl tho it should probably be cowboy W’ you on top- your hand gripping his shoulders working up N’ down taking his cock with ease while his eyes hold contact W’ yours- his breath is shaky N’ he can’t control how weak he feels but somethin bout his fave being covered starin into your soul the whole time has ya buckin down on his cock wildly “please- please, I need you, only you- just you- please” your body melted when those words left his mouth oh so pathetically- how could this be the same man who broke you down? How could he.. before you know it his semen S’ floodin inside you filling ya all full.

[paymechildsupport]

Too Sweet // Satoru Gojo x Baker!Reader ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 🍡

-!! M!Reader

—————————⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚————————

-❛ં Satoru began to visit your grandmother’s bakery ever since he started teaching at Jujutsu Tech. The little, family owned business was easily his favorite place in the entire world. He took one bite of your grandmother’s homemade apple pie and was immediately in love. It just felt wrong to go anywhere else every morning before class for some sugar. And Satoru was *far* from unfaithful. Plus, other than sweets, there was something else your grandmother’s humble bakery had that no other place could….

You! Her grandson, her pride and joy, her talented little apprentice. Every morning Satoru would stop by, stroll right in the second the store opened, all in the hopes of maybe catching a glimpse of you stocking the display, or manning the register. Usually, he could catch the silhouette of your figure in the kitchen behind the counter, and on those few times you did notice him, and gave him one of your most dazzling smiles, Satoru’s day is made 10x better

-❛ં Sometimes he wonders if you’re just made of sugar yourself,— with the way you make his heart just race and his chest constrict, just like when he downs 10 powdered donuts in one sitting. He could feel his teeth rotting with each warm expression you gave his way, the way you had him in the same feverish ectsady as a sugar rush. Of all the things in your grandmother’s bakery, Satoru can’t help but think you’re the sweetest , (and the tastiest).

the one who inherited the business following her tragic (albeit expected) passing, and soon it was you who stocked the display every day. It was you who took his morning, afternoon, and sometimes late-after-dinner-snack orders. Satoru couldn’t help himself, — he swore it was purely for the sweets, - you did make the best treats- but everyone knew otherwise. And no one knew more than poor Megumi….

Just about everyday he’d get his breakfast from you. At this point you’ve cooked more meals for the kid than Satoru himself has. The poor boy was likely the ultimate victim of Satoru’s little obsession. He’d drag him every single morning before school to pick something sweet up. You two became known on a first name basis a while ago. Still, Megumi couldn’t complain much, considering as you did cook better meals than the enigmatic white haired bastard

-❛ં Your first impression of Satoru: filthy rich, and wayyyy to confident. In fact, the only reason your grandmother liked him so damn much was the fact that he was practically funding the whole place. No doubt you’ve racked in dozens of thousands of dollars from him over the years. Half the time he’d give you much more than what was actually necessary, only to tell you to ‘keep the change’ of what would be thousands of yen

He’d come sauntering in every morning at the crack of dawn, blinding you with a smile that’s way too big for a Monday morning, and slide right in by the counter. Letting his sunglasses fall down his face, he’d look up at you with freakish blue eyes through snow white lashes, telling you his typical order

-❛ં He practically combusts on the spot the day he comes in to see you clad in your usual apron, wearing a smile so saccharine it makes his heart just explode. And when he finds out you made a new recipe just for him? Based off of all his favorite deserts (that you took the effort to personally remember??) Oh, he’s gone. Just deceased

He sees the flour dusted on your cheek, and he can’t help but fantasize about reaching out and just wiping it away.

————————————————————————

[springtimesdaughter]

PJO Time Travel AU:

When Lester/Apollo is about to fall inside of Chaos instead of waking up in Olympus, he wakes up back in time now, separated from the future unable to go back and while he still has some godly powers he's just barely on the same level as some demigods.

He has to do everything all over again while dodging Kronos and Geia and not setting off the Triumpheret too soon.

He's basically mortal, and instead of realizing he might get Godhood back, he realizes he won't ever get godhood back.

Queue more character development and coming to accept all things that come with mortality. He has no power to prevent the awful things from happening, but he can make things easier.

Him having to deal with the fact he can't fix things. They won't get fixed.

Couple outsider POVs would be fun and mostly crack, while his POV is a mess of slowly growing maturity and understanding.

The god Apollo still exists, and wow, he really can hate himself on another level now.

He arrives back in time just in time to save one of Luke's quest mates, but he doesn't have time to prevent the worst from happening. Kronos will still rise, but he prevents one thing from happening. The realistic impact one character can have on a story with fate and stuff.

Him finding demigods out in the wild and guiding them alond the way. Sending them in the right direction, but having to deal with the fact that he's sending children to a slightly prolonged death. That he can't save them.

Him becoming a better person because there is no immortality at the end of this. He is one of the most stable figures in some demigods lives and realizing this is super messed up.

Anyway, Lester's eighteen when the big events start happening and he becomes a consistent background character to what would become the books.

Percy, Anabeth, and Grover are being led away from the media mess at the arch by Lester as he hands them some extra cash so they can get food and he tries to warn them that there is some much worse parties out there than Hades that Zues won't want to consider.

Him causing problems for the emperors as he makes them weaker and therefore makes the rising Kronos a bit weaker.

Also him accidently ruined Hera's plans without meaning. Just running into Piper and telling her about the immortal world before realizing that now the fight against Geia might change and having to deal with this consequence.

If that means sending Leo to New York as well, so be it. But what if this ends with them being killed sooner?

Just Lester from an outsider POV being a really weird mortal or as the Romans think a legacy who went rogue.

IDK what I would do with this idea, but just it's a fun concept.

[cellsknife]

Awesome!

I started as a Sonshadamy shipper due to "I was fking tired of people doing ship wars over Sonamy, sonadow and Shadamy" and I found some of those "X character has two hands" than something on my head just clicked.

My favorite polyship dynamic is Sun x Moon x earth, Sonic is the sun, he shines bright with hope and forgiveness once he's on the place is almost impossible don't look at him, don't think about him, everyone that meet him, for the good or bad, was impacted by him, but he also burns, he can be serious and take out those who hurts his friends, he's a free spirit who passes by and makes the world around him more brilliant.

Shadow is the moon, he might not be as adored or loved as Sonic but he's just as strong and important as him, even with his "unaprocheable" behavior and the facade he pulls to hide himself for people he's just as bright as the sun, with the same capacity of lighting up the room when people give themselves the chance to notice it, just like the moon, Shadow changes with the influence of the sun, Sonic's bright hope, love for life and forgiveness slowly fuel him, untill he finally feels full, whole. Of course it doesn't last forever, Shadow knows he's broken and nothing can heal the cracks that where left behind, but with the help of the bright of the sun and the guarantees of the Earth he choosed to embrace his cracks as a part of him.

Now Amy, Amy is the Earth, Amy is what grounds Sonic and Shadow in reality, she's the small piece of normality that they always where so thirsty to have, the moment of normality when they aren't the "Hero of Mobius" or "The Ultimate lifeform", they are just Sonic and Shadow and can finally take things slowly. Amy is Earth because she always gives, all of her character is about give, giving her love and compassion to the others, giving her heart and soul to help others, distributing seconds and thirds chances to people that her friends wouldn't even think, Amy is all about love and being the emotional core of her group, just like Earth Amy keeps giving whiteout thinking about the damage she's doing to herself. Not only that, even if Sonic and Shadow don't know, Amy is the Earth because she's always changing influenced by them, Sonic gives Amy courage, gives her an example of how she can be loving, compassionate and still fight for what is good, and example of how to grow stronger, Shadow on the other side showed Amy that she can fight, she can stand for Herself and still be kind and compassionate with others, that setting some boundaries, that denying giving all of herself doesn't make her a bad person, doesn't make her selfish of less carrying about the others, he showed her that she CAN take care of Herself as much as she take care of the others.

In my head, the relationship started with Shadamy, Amy and Shadow started to talk more and more and one day whiteout they realized those Hangouts for shows became dates. Shadow fell first, he always liked her a little more, though about her a little more than about the others from Sonic team, he fell slowly and he did nothing to stop the feeling when it appeared, he didn't cut it off, he actually helped it to grown and he never let his "little passion" on the way of their growing friendship.

When Amy fell, she fell harder. It took her months to realize how Shadow started to... Reciprocate her little acts of affection, he stopped freezing when she hugged him and was actually hugging back, damn he even started the hugs sometimes and at some point that she somehow didn't noticed, he even started to say goodbye to her with forehead kisses! And Amy? Amy is used to give love, but one thing she isn't is used to people reciprocate her love in the same intensity, when she noticed that, well, didn't took too much for them to start dating.

And contrary to almost everyone beliefs, Sonic didn't "suddenly noticed that Amy is the love of his life and started to become more and more jealous", he was pretty happy that they got into a relationship and jokely asked if they would forget about him and their friends now that their dating, actually Shadow and Amy's relationship actually brought the group more and more together, Amy started to bring Shadow on friends meet ups, at some moments Rouge started coming too and Omega too than suddenly everyone is interacting and starting a new friendship.

And this leaded to Sonic spending more time with Amy and Shads, discovering things about them that he didn't knew before because now Shadow and Amy are discovering those things together too, they are maturing and Sonic... Sonic discovered that he what's that too

And and and... And uuf I wrote a lot of stuff holy molly

@cellsknife I JUST REALIZED

Shadow cuddling with Sonic and Amy might be different with Silver. Shadow has a habit of curling up around Silver when they sleep, so the two wouldn’t get much attention from Shadow. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he pushed them away in his sleep because his unconscious self is believing that he’s protecting his baby. And they most certainly aren’t going to be able to take Silver from him once he’s asleep.

[neomxdness]

❝​🇩​​🇷​​🇦​​🇬​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇯​​🇦​​🇨​​🇰​​🇦​​🇱​. ​ 🇩​​🇷​​🇦​​🇬​ ​🇭​​🇮​​🇲​.❝

[mrmeepsmadmind]

SOCIETY KEEPS KILLING ONE OF THEM BCS THEIR FRIENDSHIP WOULD BE INCAPABLE FOR GALAXIES TO HANDLE !!!!!

[ragnarokhound]

"reading under the red hood and it's pretty good i think" - jason todd fan who has only seen the cartoon adaptation of under the red hood

[cup-o-stars]

Relativity Falls!

Design Concepts (and my unnecessary thoughts):

Excuse the the colors, ig my apps are fighting.

I see Mabel finding success no matter what happens to her, but I really like the thought of her running an insane arts and crafts business in GF. Alternatively, if she fell in the portal, she'd come out acting confident as always, but she probably wouldn't realize how much the constant change and lack of family/stability wore her out until she settled back in. In either case, she's a bit cracked.

Dipper is investigative, but cracks easiest under stress and is not as inherently adventurous as Mabel or Ford- so the portal wouldn't treat him well. If he's not the one in the portal, he'd be into stargazing and real magic to share with people, while also warding tourists away from the dangerous stuff. In general, he'd be an unhappy adult if left to his own devices, lol.

Between Dipper and Mabel, I like Dipper being in the portal more. He's a great protagonist, but as a supporting cast member, he needs to be more insane to match the draw that is 'Mabel taking care of children,' ha. I also love the idea of there being no portal / some other looming threat for these two to struggle with (at least because Hirsche has made it clear that Dipper and Mabel are equally smart, and to me it seems like the portal would reopen way quicker with them), but I didn't plan on posting these and I don't know how my followers feel about me posting lore.

Stanford and Stanley:

Pretty much how they are in canon, but now they're in a setting where they can get over themselves, ha. They aren't quite as mature as Dipper and Mabel were at their age, but after coming to GF, they finally found other people to look out for them. Dipper could be a more emotionally available and level-headed role model (I think having people to take care of is calming for him in turn), and they'd both look up to Mabel as the peak of somebody who knows how to socialize.

Fiddleford:

He's a sweet, southern, farm-raised mechanical engineer just like in canon.

Idk why Fiddleford is in GF (visiting an unnamed grandparent?), but I really like his relationship with Ford in the journal. Following that thought, in this AU, he starts out more of Ford's friend than Stan's, and it's kind of a big deal. Unlike Dipper's arc on learning to be a kid, Stan and Ford clearly struggled a lot with interpersonal relationships / finding security outside of eachother, and that's what I think this AU could be about (it's great they realized they need each other in canon, but the part where they had no one else to turn to is also kinda crazy if you ask me).

Ford gets to meet another smart kid in a weird town, which helps him feel more normal. He has a better idea of what friendship is because of it, but also, since I can't imagine Dipper wanting an apprentice so young/vulnerable/impressionable or Mabel asking only one of the twins to stay- he'd have to come to terms with the fact that he can't live in his dream world forever. (Or maybe the apprenticeship comes from somewhere else, just because the conflict around going back to Glass Shard Beach at all, or sending Stan alone could be pretty good.)

On the flipside, I think Stan's initial jealousy of Ford and Fiddleford's friendship would force him to try finding his own friends / hobbies. I like the idea that he fails at first- and a lot- but Mabel notices his mounting frustration (which he is very keen on hiding), and her consistent and unorthodox support makes him realize he wasn't alone to begin with. He can be more open around her, which makes it easier to open up to others, and then he can make friends without having to pull any tricks. He probably starts with some animals, and then at least gets closer to Fiddleford anyways (I feel like they're both more practical than Ford and value human company more, so they'd bond easier once Stan gets over his personal hurdle).

Anyways- because that was way too much- Mabel's exes are a constant source of antagonists and Dipper is stressed about setting a good example.

(I was more of a Monster Falls fan back in the day, but I can't draw animals, lol)

[magnusbae]

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you 🖤

🖤 What a wicked thing to do, 🐇 🐇 to make me dream of you 🖤

🖤 What a wicked thing to say, 🐇

🐇 you never felt this way 🖤

[harrysfolklore]

yn piastri fretting over oscar’s broken rib and oscar’s like, “gee you’re worst than mum” & nicole’s just like, “yeah i don’t need to worry about oscar when yn’s around”

the rumors are true: i'm obsessed with writing this little scenarios

read little bitch here

"Are you absolutely sure you're comfortable? Maybe we should prop you up a bit more," you hover anxiously over Oscar, adjusting his pillow for the third time in as many minutes." Oh, and do you need more ice? I can run and get some. Actually, should we call the doctor again? Just to double-check everything's okay?"

"YN, I'm fine," Oscar groans, "It's just a broken rib, not the end of the world. I'll be racing in Hungary next weekend anyway."

"What? No, absolutely not!" your eyes widen in alarm. "You can't race with a broken rib, Oscar. That's insane!"

Oscar rolls his eyes dramatically. "It's cracked, not broken. And I've been cleared by the medical team," he stresses, "You're worse that mum sometimes."

From her seat in the corner, Nicole chuckles. "Oh yeah, I don't even have to worry about you when your sister is around. She's got the overprotective mother role covered."

"Thanks, Mum," you say, turning to her. "My therapist has great opinions about it. She says my anxiety comes from a place of love."

"Yeah, well, your love is suffocating me right now," Oscar snorts.

"Osc, I'm just worried about you," you stressed again, "It's too dangerous. What if you crash? What if your rib punctures a lung? What if-"

"What if aliens invade during the race?" Oscar interrupts, mimicking your concerned tone. "What if a meteor hits the track? What if I suddenly forget how to drive?"

"This isn't funny, Oscar! I'm serious!"

"So am I! Carlos nearly drove with a burst appendix, and he was fine!"

Carlos, who's been quietly watching the siblings' back-and-forth like a tennis match, pipes up. "Well, 'fine' might be stretching it. I was in quite a bit of pain, actually."

You whirled on Carlos, who suddenly looked very interested in the ceiling. "Oh, don't even get me started on that piece of stupidity!"

"In my defense," Carlos cleared his throat awkwardly. "I didn't actually race…"

"Only because the team had more sense than you did!" you exclaimed.

"Back when you pretended to hate Carlos but you were at the edge of your seat worrying the entire time he was at the hospital," Oscar teased, making you roll your eyes.

"That's not the point right now," you crosses your arms over your chest, glaring at Oscar. "We're talking about your safety, not my past… concerns."

"Oh, but I think it is relevant," Oscar grins mischievously, sensing an opportunity. "Remember how you kept texting the group chat every five minutes when Carlos was in the hospital? 'Just being a decent human being,' you said. As if we couldn't see right through you."

You feel your cheeks heat up, aware of Carlos' gaze on you. "That's... that's completely irrelevant," you stammer.

"Is that so, hermosa?" Carlos chuckles softly, moving to stand beside you. "I didn't know you cared so much back then."

You shoot Carlos a look that's half embarrassment, half exasperation. "Don't you start. And you," you turn back to Oscar, pointing an accusing finger, "stop trying to change the subject. We're talking about your cracked rib and your ridiculous idea to race with it."

Nicole, who's been watching the exchange with poorly concealed amusement, decides to intervene. "Alright, kids, let's all take a breath. YN, honey, I understand you're worried. But Oscar's right - he's been cleared by the medical team. They wouldn't let him race if it wasn't safe."

"But-" you start to protest, only to be cut off by Oscar.

"No buts," he says firmly. "I appreciate the concern, sis, I really do. But this is my job, and sometimes it comes with risks. I promise I'll be careful, okay?"

You sigh, feeling your resolve weaken. "Fine. But I swear, Oscar, if you so much as wince during that race, I'm storming the track myself."

"Now that I'd pay to see. YN vs. Formula 1 security," Carlos jokes, "My money's on you, mi amor."

As you and Oscar continue to bicker, your mom and Carlos exchange amused glances. Carlos leans towards her, speaking in a low voice.

"Has YN always been like this?" he asks, a fond smile playing on his lips as he watches you fuss over Oscar.

"Oh, you have no idea," Nicole chuckles softly. "This is actually quite mild compared to when they were kids. There was this one time when Oscar was about seven, and he fell off his bike. Scraped his knee pretty badly. YN, who was ten at the time, went into full nurse mode."

"What did she do?" Carlos raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Well," she continues, "She insisted on 'quarantining' Oscar in his room for a week, claiming he needed complete bed rest. She even made a 'Do Not Disturb: Patient Recovering' sign for his door. Poor Oscar was going stir-crazy by day two, but YN wouldn't let him leave. She brought him all his meals, read him stories, everything."

Carlos can't help but laugh at the image. "That sounds exactly like something she would do."

"Oh, it gets better," Nicole grins. "When I finally convinced her that Oscar was fine to go outside, she insisted on wrapping him in bubble wrap before he could ride his bike again. Said it was 'necessary protective gear'. Oscar looked like a little astronaut waddling down the street."

Their laughter catches your attention, and you pause in your debate with Oscar about the dangers of racing with a cracked rib. "What's so funny?" you ask suspiciously.

Before Nicole can respond, Oscar, catching on to the conversation, groans dramatically. "Oh god, Mum, please tell me you're not telling the bubble wrap story."

Your eyes widen in realization, and you feel a blush creeping up your neck. "Mum! You promised never to mention that again!"

Carlos, still chuckling, wraps an arm around your waist. "I think it's adorable, hermosa. You've always been a protector."

"Well control your girlfriend! She's trying to bubble wrap me again, I swear!"

"I am not! Although..." you trail off, a mischievous glint in your eye, "it's not a bad idea for the race. Extra padding couldn't hurt, right?"

"YN, no!"

[osamucide]

BITCHBOY ⊹

ALL I WANT IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS TO BE YOUR BITCHBOY . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~6.8k

cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. icky pervy stoner roommate!Dazai <333 also pathetic wet cat mess of a man Dazai, afab+gn!reader, established roommate relationship, no established romantic relationship, implied bi!Dazai if you squint, referenced whore!Dazai, weed smoking+intox/noncon (reader says "stop" once and he does not stop), dubcon (becomes 'consenual' but Dazai's coercive+they're high), noncon elements can be interpreted (esp at the end) to be roleplay with prior consent! dirty talk, shotgunning, fingering, squirting, kissing, penetration, creampie, insulting nicknames (Dazai receiving), biting, this is depraved and I will answer for it on judgement day

reid: he’s all i think about.

tags: @kalsplace

You’re grumbling under your breath when you’re about to cross the threshold to your apartment because, as if the rest of your day hadn’t been annoying enough, your stupid key decides to give you extra trouble—as of late, it’s not working unless you jam it in the lock at a very specific angle and jiggle violently until just before you’re sure the knob will fall off, all whilst cursing your landlord’s neglect of the crummy old building like some enchantment or spell that ties the whole rage-inducing, access-granting ritual together.

Couldn’t your good-for-nothing roommate hear you struggling with it?

“Hey, sorry,” he chirps too brightly for the evening hour, floating out of his room as you shut the door behind you with a sigh—ever the mind reader. You forego your eye-roll this time; you’re convinced that one of these days they’ll get stuck in your skull what with how much you do it. You hear Dazai sauntering toward you as you’re shrugging your jacket off, hanging it up, tossing your bag on the table. “Was busy.”

You’re ready to turn and scowl at him, but when you face him, he’s waggling the little pipe in your face—the green one with blue flecks in the glass, undoubtedly what he was busy with while you broke into your own home—and you won’t admit that you already feel your irritation start to melt away when it slides from his fingertips to yours. You clutch it, latch onto the mouthpiece, and watch as the brunette flicks the flame out and lights you up.

You exhale gratefully, take one more pull, and hand the glowing bowl back for him to catch the remainder of before he lights it again. “Thank you," you croak before short cough leaves you. “Was real close to bitching you out for not leaving the door unlocked.”

Dazai blows his smoke directly back in your face with a small grin. “Redeemed by my weed once again.”

You chuckle and wave it away, making a point of sliding by him and toward your room to change. You need to unwind a second before dealing with him for the rest of the night. “‘S’all that ever redeems you. Crack a window, will ya?”

It’s really not a bad arrangement to have a live-in pot dealer—that’s basically what Dazai is and has been as long as you’ve roomed with him. Sure, he's also a pain in your ass; the man can hardly cook, you had to show him how to use the washing machine in the common area when you first moved in, and only a bit ago, after almost half a year of sharing a living space, have you convinced him to keep his mess of discarded socks and food packaging contained within his bedroom. It took a lot of harsh reprimanding about how you're not his parent and he's not your teenage son for you to realize it'd be a little of his own medicine to get him to start taking you seriously. Leaving your empty takeout box on the coffee table right where he liked to eat his, tossing your sweatshirt over his spot on the couch and refusing to move it for days—he took the message, albeit smugly, after that, and hasn't given you trouble since.

Even despite being a pain in the ass, though, especially now that he at least cleans up after himself, you have to admit you don't hate his presence in your home and in your life. You chalk it up to how infuriatingly charming he can be—you know he's a detective, and he's certainly got talents for sniffing out your emotions, solving your day-to-day problems, and smooth-talking, but all of that falls under being nosy and weird when he tries to guilt you into praising him for it. If he was any less annoying, you'd maybe even admit to yourself that he's kind of attractive; only physically, of course, which you've known since the day you met him, but any other way he might be—retaining a heavy air of mystery in spite of how bubbly he is, occasionally inviting you out drinking (mostly so you can drag him home once he overdoes it), smoking you up without asking for money—is just so overshadowed by what a fucking weirdo he is. You can’t separate it.

He certainly keeps you on your toes.

That’s really the worst thing about him. You know you’ll exit your room to grab your leftovers from the fridge and he’ll be pestering you to watch some movie with him—probably one of his cringy rom-coms (the fact that he watches and unironically enjoys them serving only marginally to make him a little more of an interesting character) during which he'll sling his feet across your lap or curl up into you so he can pinch your side once or twice just for your reaction, leaving you red in the face and mildly irritated while he giggles condescendingly at you. But as you always do, you think as you sigh and lift the hem of your sweater to curl it over and off, you’ll concede.

Your head’s caught in your sleep shirt when you hear your door creak open.

“Um, privacy?” you half-yelp—something you’re still figuring your way around with him. You jump out of line of the door as you poke your head through the neckline to shoot him that glare you saved from moments earlier.

Dazai just snickers, eyes wide and innocent. You're naked from the waist down. “Could’ve locked it.”

“As if that would stop you,” you snap back, stretching the hem over your thighs and ass as you skitter awkwardly back over to the edge of your bed where a pair of comfy shorts lay. “Get out!”

“Will you hurry up and put your pants on? I got My Big Fat Greek Wedding locked and loaded.”

“Yes, yes, just get out.”

He’s still snickering when he disappears behind the door. He doesn’t shut it all the way, and you mutter freak beneath your breath, secretly hoping he hears you.

You tug your shorts on and meander back out as the intro rolls, set on your leftover homemade tonkatsu; as you settle cross-legged with your plate on the couch, Dazai reaches over and plucks a piece of cabbage off it.

You side eye him as you chew. He’s already occupying himself with packing another bowl—he must've finished the first one himself. You'd half-expect him to reach for one of the prerolls he keeps in the coffee table drawer so as not to have to go to the trouble again, but he does.

“You eat yet?” you ask carefully.

He shakes his head as he uses the butt of the lighter to press it down. Of course not. Even weed doesn’t make him eat. You’ve expressed concern over his eating habits before, but he always dismisses you with a hum and that smug smile.

You make a point of tearing the remainder of your cutlet in half with your utensils. When he reaches out to pass you the pipe, you reach back, chopsticks pinching a hefty piece of pork.

Dazai raises his eyebrows at you.

You raise yours in reply, as if to say, take it, or I’m not smoking anymore with you.

So he does, reluctance veiled thinly by amusement. You know him well enough by now; or, you think you do, at least. As he chews, he balances the chopsticks back on your plate and turns to you with the lighter, curling his own legs beneath himself.

Only satisfied when he swallows, you set your plate aside, face him, and press the pipe to your lips again, looking to him. To his pretty brown eyes that search you owlishly, that you swear sparkle with a little more vigor after even the smallest bit of sustenance enters his system. Maybe you should just leave him to starve, but then where would you get your weed? You’re an idiot, you’d say if you weren’t waiting on his flame.

But before he can light it for you, he pulls the lighter away, and you chase it with a soft hey—he’s grinning at you again, like a devil, like always.

“You always do that, you know?” he asks.

“Do what?” you mumble impatiently against the piece.

He gives in and dips the flame down into the bowl; you inhale deep, flower crackling softly as you do, and he only answers when the smoke’s halfway down your throat.

“Look up at me all cute like that every time I light it for you.” Those brown eyes bore into yours and you become aware all too quick of the fact that you do—you do indeed peer up at him through your lashes; your eyes water as smoke burns your throat and you blink away, trying not to cough out your hit at how he’s gazing at you, but he doesn’t stop there.

He would never stop there.

“Makes me think bad things.”

So you cough out your hit anyway.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask, choked, face red from more than just the sting of the weed. You busy yourself with pulling another hit while it’s still lit.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “Lots of ‘em.”

Your head swims now—you’ve built up a decent tolerance from living with him, but forgetting to breathe at his words and zeroing the huge puff you take next surely doesn’t help. You cough again, and nothing leaves your lungs this time as you debate whether to take his challenge.

Another thing you’ve learned about Dazai—he loves to fluster people. If living with him wasn't enough proof, you’ve seen him do it millions of times to pretty bartenders, or on the off-chance his partner from work joins you drinking; off-chance, truly, because Kunikida already has to put up with Dazai all day at the office, and anything more than what’s required of him might be better off called torture rather than fun. And beyond loving it, Dazai demonstrates it like a long-honed skill—the exploitation of people’s humiliation, the monopolization on people’s most sensitive spots. He had previous work in it, he’s said, but you can’t imagine what job could possibly entail all that. You think he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth—no, he’s smart enough to know when to; he just doesn’t like to. He’s what most people would refer to as an asshole.

And yet, you find yourself torn between feeling disgusted and entertained by him all the same. Although you often find yourself the victim of his little mind games, you’re not above jabbing back at him. What does that make you, you wonder? The question briefly crosses your mind, but you shake it off as, in your buzz, you swat away the bait; decidedly, you’d rather watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding in peace, finish your tonkatsu, and then go to bed tonight.

“You’re gross.” The scoff you let out sounds more like a chuckle.

Dazai tilts his head, flicking the lighter for you again; he sparks the bowl as he watches you, as if in exceptional contemplation, and you make a point not to do it again—you inhale and gaze straight down at the flame.

“You don’t wanna hear what it makes me think about?” he asks cutely, unwilling to let you get away just yet.

You ignore the slight flush undoubtedly on your own face as you slip the bowl back to him; doubly so, you try not to watch the way his lips wrap around the mouthpiece.

But right now, you can’t seem to help that your bleary-eyed attention is on him. Just as he exhales, you remember you haven’t replied.

You’re not quick enough. He doesn’t take your silence as an invitation; it’s an opportunity. You see it in his smirk, just a second too late.

“Makes me think about how pretty you’d be looking up at me like that from your knees.”

He’s good at his games—he invents them, after all. But you’d be damned if he thought you wouldn’t shut him down when you weren’t in the mood.

“Yeah, no, don’t particularly wanna hear about it, thanks.”

This might be a new low, even for him, you think. Who the fuck just says shit like that?

When you think about it a second longer, though, he really hasn’t brought anyone home to fuck obnoxiously (a boundary you were quick to set with him) in at least a couple weeks, so maybe he’s just pent up. Either way, his comment makes you wrinkle your nose, furrow your brow—hopefully negating the pink inevitably tinting your cheeks. Fucking weirdo.

“N’ now you’re blushing all cute, too,” he observes; you scoff again, more pointedly this time. “Thinkin’ about it?”

As if, you want to say, but the words get stuck against the roof of your dry mouth, so you conjure up some of your spit, swallow it down, and hope he doesn’t notice—but it’s Dazai; he will—that your high's settling onto your shoulders swiftly. He’s pointing the bowl back at you, and as you grab it robotically, you’re still trying to speak—a sure sign you should both shut up and keep your places on opposite ends of the couch and watch the movie and finish the tonkatsu, but instead you just balk. No matter what you do, you play right into his hands—that’s how it happens all too often, and you certainly won’t learn now or anytime when his weed’s coursing up to your brain and back down to your thumping heart. Dazai lights your next hit for you, laughing like it’s all some big joke, and maybe it is—maybe you’ll blow your smoke in his face this time and pick up your tonkatsu and shut up and just watch the damn movie.

As if you’d ever be so lucky with his antics.

You’re shaking your head in near-awe when you pass it back to him once more.

“I mean, we basically kiss through this thing all the time,” he says like it’s relevant, waving the pipe about. “I don’t think it’d be so weird if we fucked. Or if you sucked me off, at least.”

“It—it would totally be weird, Osamu,” and when you speak his name so lightly, blinking at trying to muster up your own laughter as a defense mechanism, his sight flickers up to yours. “That doesn’t even—I’m not sucking your dick.”

“Shame,” he purrs. “‘Cause I know how pretty you’d look. Your lips all wet and pouted against my t—”

“Oh, my god, shut up.” Now you laugh, out of pure disbelief at how far he’s taking it. He pokes at the tail end of what’s left in the bowl and chuckles, too, seemingly ready to let it go now that he has you laughing. "You're horrible."

The more you let him talk about it, the more you entertain him, maybe you can let it peter out.

“What about me? Do I look pretty when I do it?” he asks, batting his lashes as he pulls another hit off the pipe.

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” you let your laughter idle as he doesn't tear his gaze away from you. He looks pretty. Whatever. You cross your arms as you feel the familiar tingle of your high behind your eyes.

“Would I look pretty on my knees?” he prods.

You could slap him—if nothing else, just to make his face burn half as much as you know yours is. When he sets the bowl and lighter aside and goes back to observing you, eyes low-lidded and red, chin rested on his hands, propped up by his elbows on his crossed legs, you have half a mind to shrink away from him—but you keep cool, even if the way you're at eye level with his searing stare feels a little too intimate.

You mirror his position. “Hmm, I don't know.” You steal his thoughtful tilt, too, and tack on, “Maybe if you were begging like a little bitch.”

You're prepared for him to laugh tauntingly again and then let this die where it stands because he got a reaction out of you, right? That’s always what he’s looking for, so it’s about time he goes back to his corner of the couch where you'll bully him into a few more bites of tonkatsu.

But he stays locked onto you, quietly.

And then he's shifting forward off the couch and down to the ground.

“Osamu—”

“Uh-uh,” he chides you softly, crawling to situate himself directly in front of your figure. Looking up at you all cute. “I’m gonna be the one begging, remember?”

Your disbelief swirls with refusal as he paws at the hem of your shorts as if to say, turn, please, and fuck—what can you do other than turn red as a rose as he grabs your ankles, unfurls your legs, and props his chin on the cushion between your thighs? You feel alarmingly higher, blearier when his fingers creep up beneath the fabric, slowly, looking at you as if for reassurance.

“We're not—you can quit fooling around, seriously.” You want to laugh again but it comes out deadpan, strict; you feel heavier with each landing of his fingertips against your skin, and he just keeps looking up at you. Cute. Pretty. Taking it too far.

“I want to,” he mumbles, retracting his hands only for them to find your hips, your waistband. “Come on. ‘Wanted you so bad for so long. I know you want me, too,” he speaks your name slyly, quietly, and it prompts your breath to quicken a little; he traces circles into your hipbones with his thumbs, toys with the elastic at your waist, snapping it softly, and you squirm. “Please?”

For so long? you think. How long?

“I—I'm not high enough for this, Osamu,” you try to joke, but he just twists around to the coffee table drawer for one of those prerolls and his lighter.

“I can get you higher,” he offers—tone still much too innocent, motives still haphazardly veiled by what a big jokester he is, and he sticks the joint between his lips and lights it.

Before you can coherently protest, he rises, supporting himself on your thigh with one hand and removing the joint from his mouth full of smoke; when he leans into you, you catch his wrist to keep him from ashing on the back of the couch, grab his face in a half-attempt to stop him in his tracks—but ultimately, when his mouth meets yours, you open for him.

The plume of smoke he shotguns into your mouth is thick; you breathe it in. His palm like a brand against your thigh.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Osamu,” you whine against his lips, still mushing his face away and hating how your dry throat roughens your voice. He just kisses you, kisses you, and your fingers find the pulse point in his wrist—he’s a decent kisser, you think, at the very least. You have half a mind to let your fingers slide to the mess of brown hair beyond the apples of his sharp cheekbones, and—

You backtrack in your mind. You’re actually probably too high for this.

You have to detest the way it feels so heavenly when he squeezes the fat of your thigh, dodges your lips, and works steadily in a line from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, all tongue and teeth in his pursuit. You have to detest it. Fucking weirdo, you repeat in your mind. The joint burns between his fingers. You snatch it from his grasp and pull your head back, raising your feet to kick him weakly in the abdomen, and he relents—your toes feel asleep when they hit the carpet again, and you hoard the joint between your fuzzy fingers when he reaches for it back.

“Osamu,” you say again, stern, eyes wide. The weed. You're high. You're both high, and this is weird. He’s just your weirdo roommate and you got home wanting to end your stressful day without complicating anything else in your life today.

So why, when he looks at you like you’re a caged animal that’s just as afraid of him and he is of you and works the joint from your fingers to take another drag, do you let him cup your face and exhale more smoke down your throat?

Why do you chase his lips when he blissfully, needily, sinks to his knees once again and starts to traverse beneath your shorts?

With the right focus of mind, like staring at your hand when you’re spinning and convincing yourself that the world around you is actually moving and you’re staying still, you can almost pretend he’s a stranger—some sexy, enchanting stranger that you met on the train home after your shit day, meant to relate to you with docile nods and hums as you air your grievances about work or school or whatever, meant to kiss it off you like it’s just a little bit of dirt.

Getting out of your shorts is like getting out of second skin. You're taking another hit, unwise or not, because it's back in your hand and you don't know what else to do; you watch him in your haze with a mix of anticipation and distrust, but right now, anticipation is winning by a small margin. You’re high, you tell yourself—twitching already, in that way that has nothing to do with desire but rather just means you've smoked a little too much too quickly, and the idea that Dazai might still fake you out and send you to bed feeling half-hot and bothered, half-violated, with no pants on and a near-empty stomach bobs around in your inhibited brain—again, you expect him to laugh, say you’re fried, clap you on the shoulder and tell you it's a joke but he doesn’t, he cranes for a hit from the joint and you hold it to his lips shakily and he touches you on the exhale, the pads of two of his fingers nestling carefully between your folds over your underwear and when he brushes your clit it’s—

Fuck, it’s electric.

“Osamu, stop,” you say, hoarse and abrupt, grabbing his wrist. "I'm—"

“What?” he asks, teasing lilt to his tone. Beneath your hand his thumb comes up to replace his fingers, to loop circles around you, and you're shuddering, back bowing, and he's grinning at you wickedly.

“I—I'm high,” you admit, voice feeling thick, soupy as it leaves your throat.

“So? Me too.” He blinks at you, slow like a cat, in a way that you're pretty sure he's still mocking the way you apparently always flutter your gaze at him when he lights you up. “‘S the best way to do it.”

“Yeah, but—”

He doesn't interrupt you with but what?

And yet, you still don't finish your sentence.

You glance down to where he’s rubbing you gently, where you hold him at bay—where you could yank his arm and twist it uncomfortably if you really did want him to stop but the longer he circles over the fabric that’s growing increasingly, alarmingly wetter, the more you melt away from yourself and you think, fuck, he really is gorgeous as he’s resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh.

“Scoot forward f’me, please?” he almost whines; his voice changes, stricter when he says, “And stop letting that burn. Smoke it.”

And you comply, shuffling your hips forward and placing the filter between your teeth.

Dazai looks up at you. All cute. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. Hungry.

And you look back, apprehension sparking but then fading with each drove of smoke you inhale. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. All cute.

“Let me taste you, please,” he almost whispers. You almost find yourself a little endeared by his pointed pleases.

“This is fucking absurd,” you croak, but your resolve is leaving you. He’s a little blurry. “You’re such a sicko.”

His smile widens against the word. Sicko. Almost like he’s pleased to hear it leave your mouth. “Surprised it took you this long to figure out, baby.”

His touch is impatient and restless and crawling as your underwear goes, too—and you don’t appreciate how good it felt when his thumb was on your clit until it’s back again and you’re slipping the joint out of your mouth to let you jaw fall slack; you tangle a hand up in that messy hair that is much softer than you could’ve imagined and all but yank him back toward your cunt.

“Please,” you echo him, finally. “It felt so good—do it again.”

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you in your whimpering, fingers prodding at your hole and tongue landing a feather-light lick to your wetness. “I know you want it.”

The sounds are lewd. Disgusting, really—fitting for how he’s acting. Dazai swirls his tongue in circles around your clit as he works his middle and ring fingers into you; cracked gasps leave you at the intrusion, and you can’t keep your eyes open when he curls them upward ever so slightly as he makes out with your clit. If you were sober you’d, of course, be embarrassed at how you’re already gushing for him, but all your mushy brain can think about right now is the sparks bolting to your otherwise-numb fingers and toes with each suction of his pretty pink lips against you—isn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t you feel weird? Yeah, probably—but you’re forgetting why, and you’re forgetting to care.

He hums against you and it sends a shockwave throughout your already-vibrating body; the moan you release into the air is like song, even to yourself. Is he really good at this, you wonder, or is it the weed?

Oh right, the weed. The weed, the weed, the weed.

You pull his mouth off you, almost dropping the joint that’s not much of a joint anymore—only the filter remains.

“I don’t think this is—”

Fuck, you keep going back and forth. You keep breaching the surface just for him to tug you beneath the water again and convince you the drowning feels nice. And it does, for a few seconds—until it starts burning your lungs to a crisp again, at which point you tear away from him kick up, and in the moments you spend sucking in air you don’t get how he stays beneath for so long, like it’s nothing, how he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop, his fingers still curling inside of you, and you’re going under again to the sound of his voice.

You feel suffocated. More delirious by the second. It’s nice.

“You already told me it feels good,” he mumbles against you, lapping at you, and you’re letting up on his hair, letting him become a weight again where you should float.

And the lack of oxygen must be getting to your brain because, even though you still don’t think you want to drown, you cease your kicking. For the last time.

“Osamu,” you cry. It sounds like a moan. It might be.

“I know, I’m such a sicko.” There’s no remorse in his words; there can’t be, not when he’s still curling up into your g-spot in just the way that makes you croon his name again—undoubtedly a moan this time—but when he comes into focus again, he looks so apologetic. “You can say it again, baby. It’s okay.”

“S—sicko,” you mutter disapprovingly, but rolling your hips all the same.

He smiles. Soft, kind, apologetic.

You’re scared to move. You know if you do, you’ll both be able to see the wet stain collecting beneath you on the cushion. You feel it.

So you barrage him with more.

“You—you’re a fucking pervert. You’re disgusting.” You feel wetness on your face, too. You deduce that it’s from how perfect his fingers feel inside you, goading that warm slick out of you and into his palm, onto the couch; regardless, you don't stop berating him, your tone harshly contrasting your wriggling hips. “You disgust me.”

“I think you like it.” He presses up, hard, and you gush, gasping. A short, clear spurt narrowly misses his face; he leans back down to lick it off, off the cushion, off your thighs, off your crying cunt. “I think you like how nasty I am.”

“Disgusting,” you whisper. “Disgusting. You're disgusting.” It’s a little chant you hold onto as he rises again to kiss you, messily—a means to replace his lips with his wet fingers, shoving them past your lips and against your tongue where you lap at them instinctually, like you’ve been waiting for it. It’s so wrong to be tasting yourself on his fingers, but your eyes roll back anyway, just to lurch forward as his hand retracts and you find him grinning once more as he slips his sweatpants and boxers down in one swipe. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dazai mocks, giggling. “You just tasted how fucking wet you are.”

“Osamu,” you whine as he kicks his garments aside; you begin to draw your feet up, your knees to your chin, but his hands, stronger than you anticipate, pry you open and flip you to your back and he grins, biting into his bottom lip all the while. Why, you wonder, when the dim living room light glints off his teeth as he situates himself between your legs and leans down to cage you in between his arms, do your hips hitch toward his? Why are you so adamant to deny him?

“You gonna say it again? C’mon, I love hearing my name,” he breathes, ducking down to lick across your jawline. “But I love when you call me those words. Say it again. Tell me how nasty I am.”

“You’re the worst,” you groan, but it sounds comical, even to your own ears, because you’re scratching at his shoulders in a way that draws him closer to you rather than further away.

“More, baby,” Dazai hums into your neck, reaching down to swirl his tip against your wetness. When you feel him, you jump.

It feels good. It feels even better than his thumb and you don’t know if you’re still on your way up but you feel higher and higher by the second and the instinct to push him off is slipping further beyond your grasp. When he pulls back to watch your mouth fall open as he rubs himself into you, you almost let the word pretty slip past your lips—he looks so pretty, tongue flicking, eyes dark, and you catch yourself with your lower lip between your teeth, reflecting the desperation he conceals in everything but his words.

Pretty isn’t what he wants right now, though—and suddenly you feel compelled to give him what he wants, if only it means he’ll keep touching you like this.

“S’fucking nasty—degenerate fucking freak—” you eek out; you don’t know much longer you can tiptoe the line between repulsion and sheer need, but you’re tilting further and further with each circle of his dick and you can tell he’s getting off on the way you’re lurching into him now, running toward his touch instead of away from it.

You think you need him to fuck you, now, or you’ll cry.

“Osamu, please,” you continue, sounding on the verge of tears now—where you should’ve been before, when you genuinely wanted him off you, yes. You wanted him off of you before. Didn’t you? There was a time, a mere few minutes ago, when his fingers in your skin and his animalistic gaze were revolting. Right?

“What’re you beggin’ me for?” Dazai asks like he doesn’t know. He knows. He knows what you don’t want to admit to yourself and he’s going to dangle it over your head, he’s going to rub it in your face, he’s going to make you answer through your hazy high that he never should’ve come onto you through to begin with, and you’re going to give him what he wants—you always give him what he wants, even if you don’t mean to, even if you don’t want to, but now you think you want to. You want to, because it feels so good, and he’s slowing down, he’s stopping and when he takes his hand away to swipe his thumb across your chin, pull your lip from between your teeth and work your mouth open with his fingers again, the loss almost hurts. You want it. You want to.

It’s going to hurt even more to say it, but you want it. And before you can even get it out, before the words even hit what little air is between your lips and his, Dazai looks thrilled at what you say next.

“Please, fuck me,” you whisper.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—” He reaches back down, but the smugness doesn’t waver; his tip catches on your entrance—emitting a lewd squelch that should make you cringe but instead prompts your lip to fly between your teeth again—and you hook your tingling feet behind his back, legs astride his waist as you're pushing his bangs from his face all in one motion. “I guess I’ll fuck you, pretty baby.”

"Yes," the dreaded word falls from your lips when he finally works his way into you, past that tight ring of muscle, to nestle snugly inside you until the head of his cock kisses your cervix.

The noise you draw from him—something between a sigh and a moan—is heavenly. His nose nuzzles the trail he licked across your jaw before and you find your hands linked behind his neck, urging him down, onto you, into you—and when he recoils his hips to thrust back in again, quick and short, you keen against him, pathetically, in a way your past self—the one from four or five touches ago—would hate you for.

You should hate how gross this is. How gross he is for this.

But you don't, and you're not going to torture yourself with asking why anymore.

The friction inside you doesn't feel comparable to anything; for the first time in a second, you feel grateful for the weed pulsing through you. You let your eyes roll back and flutter shut without consequence.

Dazai moves against you like water. Water you're content to drown in this time; his touch doesn't crawl anymore as much as it seems to soothe and as he picks up his pace, brings a hand to your cheek to wake you back up, pull you back above the surface.

"You sound s'fuckin cute," he sighs; those eyes, predatory before, are now just brown and melty, honey-colored backgrounded with red fog, not so searching as much as they seem attentive, not making you feel so uncomfortably vulnerable as they do softly seen. He thinks you sound cute. You giggle through the unrivaled pleasure, giggling through your own moans which hit your ears and do sound cute—sound especially cute woven through his.

"Y'sound... so," you start, "so fucking—unh, Osamu, don't stop!"

He chuckles now, low and breathy, and you push his hair back from his face again; his eyes roll back when you do it, and you just do it over, over, over, drawing clipped groans out of him, stealing the words from his throat as he steals yours and you tug, you tug on his hair and the moan he lets out, broken between thrusts, is so raw and laced with need that you moan in reply, clenching around him because, fuck, he sounds so cute, too. "Wanted this for so long, baby. Pussy feels s—so much fuckin' better than I could've imagined."

"How long?" you finally poke back—you want to know. You want to know how long he's been holed up in the mess of his room, jerking off to the thought of his cute little roommate finally falling between his fingers—you want to know how bad he's wanted this, and if getting you high out of your mind just to get it was worth it. You focus your voice to ask him. "How long you wanted this, 'Samu?"

"So long—since—" he gasps, fucking into you harder, faster, deeper; you tug his hair again, exposing his neck, and yank him down to sink your teeth into his neck. You need the reprieve as he starts hammering against the deepest parts of you, eliciting wet smack! after smack! from between your writhing bodies. You jostle beneath him as he finds his breath; "Since I fuckin' met you. Always wanted you."

"Yeah?" You mean it to be a teasing little rhetorical question but it comes out more like encouragement amidst the bliss radiating from your cunt throughout your whole body, but you find it in you to continue— "You been—you been thinkin' of me under you like this? Like the sicko you are?"

Unbelievably faster and harder. You choke on a scream; Dazai's grunting above you, and it hits you that those names really do spur him on. You're far from offending him—you're bringing him closer and closer to filling you up with each and every insult and jab you throw his way and if you were any less cockdrunk you'd be hurling even more barbs at him about how that makes him so much worse, so much more gross but it just spurs you on, too, right now—and you realize, when he looks at you with those fucking eyes again how bad you want him, how bad you've wanted him, too, for so long; you couldn't—wouldn't admit it because he's just your weirdo roommate but really, maybe that's what you love about him. You certainly love the way he makes your toes curl when he reaches down to play with your clit again. You cry out against him.

"Osamu, fuck!"

"Say it again," he begs you, pretty brown eyes glassy as they fall shut, as the tip of his nose touches yours. "Say it again, please, baby."

You know what he wants.

"F—fucking pervert," you huff, doing everything you can to hold onto the rope that's uncoiling rapidly inside you, coming further and further undone with each slam of his hips into your ass. "Ah—you're disgusting. Disgusting."

You fall back on your mantra and it has his thumb moving faster, harder, just like his thrusts, just like his voice, even if it sounds unconvincing through the shockwaves of pleasure; you feel it, the unraveling, it's washing up on you so quickly, so much quicker than it should be at the hands of your weirdo roommate.

"Don't stop," he pleads like he's not the one fucking you to orgasm; you see white, you feel as light as air—god, has cumming always felt like this? Shouldn't you hate it? Shouldn't you hate that it might never feel like this again?

You do, you do—you hate weed and you hate sex and you hate your weirdo roommate Osamu Dazai for coaxing the most mind-blowing climax you've ever felt out of you, but you don't hate any of those things, not really; you hate that it's never felt like this before, and that it can again if only you can push your pride down for a few more moments and call him a—

"Freak—gonna—gonna cum in me?" you goad, breathless, lucky for speech as he fucks you through the otherworldly high, as you clamp down on him and screw your eyes shut until you can keep going. "Gonna fill me up like the nasty motherfucker you are?"

"Ngh—yeah, yeah, yeah...!"

Dazai, in all his depraved beauty, fucks his fat load into you mercilessly; you twitch, shake beneath him, driving strained sobs from his chest and talking him through with soft yeahs, want y'r cum, filthy fucking sicko freak, you disgust me. He loves it. He falls apart, and you tug on his hair once more as he slows, as he spills out of you, as he looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes.

"You—" Dazai's breathless, heaving. "You're amazing."

You giggle again, wiggling a bit and trapping him further close to you, fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Soft. You don't feel any less high; just blissed out. "You're cute."

"Knew you thought so," he sighs, lopsided smile coming back; you don't know where in the pleasure he'd lost it, but its return has you tilting your chin up to kiss him once more. Soft. Gentle, sweet, no tongue; not gross, not hungry, just sweet. Satisfied.

"But you're still weird," you tease against his lips. Sly.

When Dazai pulls back, the hunger in those eyes sparks again.

"Want me to show you how weird I can get?" he threatens.

"I dare you," you taunt back.

And he grins, fully and wickedly, once more; you can count on it. He'll show you, alright.

[zylusmusings]

"what's wrong, sweetie?" the leader of onychinus, most loathed creature of tarus city, looks and sounds almost unrecognisable as he stares down at his sniffling beloved, with crimson eyes that twinkle with specks of admiration, yearning and concern. his strong arms, so used to battles and defending himself from acts of violence, now cradling a treasured lover ever so kindly and tenderly. his voice, often rough and speaking out of pain and anger, is no louder than a decibel and soft enough to lull an infant to sleep as he speaks to her.

his calloused fingers comb through her hair, and he reminds himself to ask her another time if he could braid her hair, just like when they were in the grasslands. but not right now, not when his other hand is occupied with rubbing the small of her back in soothing circles. his actions has practically turned her body into putty, melting it deeper against the mould of his body as she lays atop him, face buried into cotton of his shirt. she looks so vulnerable at this very moment, a little different from the fearless hunter everyone is accustomed to seeing. he feels the atoms of anger (on her behalf) and natural protectiveness form in his chest as he tries to think of what possibly could have upset his lover tonight. this damned world is undeserving of her, he thinks, so he tries his best to fill in the cracks the world has left her with.

"everything has been so tough." her tiny voice answers. in the midst of everything ever-changing, sylus seems to be the only constant she had. it feels like as everything is against her, he is the only one for her. "i'm so scared," her voice barely audible, yet sylus doesn't miss the crack at the end of her sentence. instinctively, his palm stops its ministrations of gentle circles. his knuckles now bending ever so slightly to clutch onto her back more protectively.

"what can i do to make you feel better, sweetie?" his voice low, the vibrations grumbling from his chest against her own. almost desperate to make her feel better, he starts peppering kisses into her hair. it's a win-win, sylus thinks. while she finds some comfort in his affection, he gets to indulge in the faint smell of her strawberry shampoo and the way she melts further into his body. it causes his hold to tighten around her. "what can i do to make you feel... less afraid? safer, if you will," he asks, noting her admission of fear.

she pauses, as if to think, then moves to rest her chin on his chest as she stares at him for moment. they simply gaze into each other eyes, a silent language both of them are fluent in. sylus doesn't want to get ahead of himself, but could it be that her eyes are mirroring his; the way it screams of pure and true love. sylus knows without a doubt that he'd love her even if it was never reciprocated, so when the familiar gaze is reflected in her eyes, a breath gets stuck in his throat. he clears his throat, fingers brushing away a lock of her hair, "what is it, beloved?"

she stays silent for a moment more, and sylus bears in mind the way he grows a little nervous under her loving gaze, though he tries to mask it with a raised brow. "well?" her hand finds his own that tucked her hair away, bringing it to her cheek. like clockwork, sylus moulds his palm against her soft cheek, his thumb grazing the smooth skin.

"i think i only feel safe with you." it knocks the wind out of him. sylus is self-aware of his reputation- once, he was the creature so feared by humans that it caused much self loathing. and even now, people fear him as the infamous figure of danger in the n109 zone. sure, it is for different reasons now, but sylus has always felt to be synonymous with monster. "with me?" he repeats, a crease forming between his brows as his heart begins to pound against his chest. she simply nods and confirms, "yes." one word to cause a visceral reaction in his heart.

she doesn't say anything more and doesn't elaborate and sylus is too taken aback to push it further. thinks he needs a moment to himself to take in this revelation. a monster like me... that is what makes her feel safe? he sighs, shakes his head as if to deem herself almost foolish for feeling as such. there could be trillions of creatures in the entire universe, and she would be the sole one who'd find safety with him.

and if sylus hadn't already made it his mission to keep her in safety, he makes a silent oath with himself at the moment. he'll protect her until his dying breath. this woman shall never have to worry for as long as she decides that he lives.

he pulls her in impossibly tighter. "that's the first time someone said those words to me," he echoes words he has said before (albeit she doesn't and won't remember a thing) and he reminisces the memory for a bit. the same way she sees the beauty in him, the similar softness she so graciously graces him with - such a stark contrast from what others are to him. it reaffirms him though, that she is his one true soulmate, across all universes and through time. he'd burn the world for her take a claymore to his chest, if ever need be. in the previous and present life, she would always be kind to him and he would always be hers.

she hums, then nuzzles her nose against the crook of his neck where she presses the petals of her lips against his warm skin. "well, everyone else doesn't know you like i do." she mumbles, and sylus chuckles.

the whole world can cower in fear and misjudge him, for all he cares. he is simply sylus in her eyes, "i don't want anyone else to know me like you do."

[neomxdness]

❝​🇾​​🇴​​🇺​ ​🇹​​🇦​​🇰​​🇪​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇪​​🇦​​🇸​​🇾​ ​🇼​​🇦​​🇾​ ​🇴​​🇺​​🇹​, ​🇮​​🇳​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇦​​🇩​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇦​​🇹​​🇹​​🇪​​🇲​​🇵​​🇹​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇬​​🇪​​🇹​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​​🇸​ ​🇼​​🇮​​🇹​​🇭​ ​🇾​​🇴​​🇺​​🇷​ ​🇴​​🇼​​🇳​ ​🇹​​🇼​​🇴​ ​🇭​​🇦​​🇳​​🇩​​🇸​. ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇵​​🇺​​🇹​ ​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇼​​🇴​​🇷​​🇰​ ​🇮​​🇹​ ​🇹​​🇦​​🇰​​🇪​​🇸​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇬​​🇪​​🇹​ ​🇼​​🇭​​🇦​​🇹​ ​🇾​​🇴​​🇺​ ​🇼​​🇮​​🇸​​🇭​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇦​​🇨​​🇭​​🇮​​🇪​​🇻​​🇪​… ​🇴​​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇳​ ​🇨​​🇭​​🇪​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​. ​🇸​​🇦​​🇩​, ​🇷​​🇪​​🇦​​🇱​​🇱​​🇾​.❝

❝​🇮​​🇹​❜​🇸​ ​🇨​​🇦​​🇱​​🇱​​🇪​​🇩​ ​🇦​ ​🇸​​🇭​​🇮​​🇳​​🇾​ ​🇱​​🇮​​🇻​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇵​​🇴​​🇰​​🇪​​🇩​​🇪​​🇽​⨾ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇷​​🇸​​🇪​ ​🇮​ ​🇼​​🇴​​🇺​​🇱​​🇩​​🇳​❜​🇹​ ​🇪​​🇻​​🇴​​🇱​​🇻​​🇪​ ​🇮​​🇹​. ​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇹​ ​🇼​​🇴​​🇺​​🇱​​🇩​ ​🇷​​🇪​​🇶​​🇺​​🇮​​🇷​​🇪​ ​🇫​​🇮​​🇳​​🇩​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇦​​🇳​​🇴​​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇴​​🇳​​🇪​ ​🇼​​🇭​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇹​ ​🇹​​🇮​​🇲​​🇪​ ​🇨​​🇴​​🇺​​🇱​​🇩​ ​🇧​​🇪​ ​🇵​​🇺​​🇹​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇬​​🇴​​🇴​​🇩​ ​🇺​​🇸​​🇪​ ​🇫​​🇮​​🇳​​🇩​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇹​​🇦​​🇷​​🇬​​🇪​​🇹​​🇸​.❝

❝​🇳​​🇴​ ​🇴​​🇳​​🇪​ ​🇮​​🇸​ ​🇯​​🇪​​🇦​​🇱​​🇴​​🇺​​🇸​ ​🇫​​🇴​​🇷​ ​🇾​​🇴​​🇺​​🇷​ ​🇭​​🇦​​🇮​​🇷​ - ​🇹​​🇴​​🇴​ ​🇲​​🇺​​🇨​​🇭​ ​🇺​​🇵​​🇰​​🇪​​🇪​​🇵​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​​🇹​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​. ​🇦​​🇳​​🇩​ ​🇼​​🇭​​🇮​​🇱​​🇪​ ​🇮​ ​🇨​​🇦​​🇳​ ​🇦​​🇬​​🇷​​🇪​​🇪​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇹​ ​🇸​​🇨​​🇦​​🇷​​🇱​​🇪​​🇹​ ​🇭​​🇦​​🇩​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇧​​🇪​​🇹​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇩​​🇪​​🇸​​🇮​​🇬​​🇳​​🇸​… ​🇵​​🇪​​🇷​​🇭​​🇦​​🇵​​🇸​ ​🇱​​🇴​​🇴​​🇰​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇹​​🇴​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇫​​🇺​​🇹​​🇺​​🇷​​🇪​ ​🇮​​🇸​ ​🇸​​🇲​​🇦​​🇷​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇳​ ​🇩​​🇼​​🇪​​🇱​​🇱​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇴​​🇳​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇵​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​.❝

“&– - An out has been given, you merely just refuse to take it. You either express lack of interest in spending the time, or reject a method that ignores that issue. You are your own handicap.”

“&– - Which your lack of effort shows once more, as it does often. Could merely evolve it, but you won't. Anyways, at least I have hair that many are jealous of. Besides, we all know Scarlets paradoxes were better than Violets.”

[strawberrymochin]

The Moan Analysis✎

A slight analysis on how jjk boys would moan | Gojo satoru; Geto suguru; Nanami kento; Ryomen sukuna; Toji fushiguro | got a little carried away while writing nanami and toji

Gojo satoru

✎ starting off with the vocal king of sorcerers, gojo's moans would be vocal 'vocal'. Normally gojo has a playful smooth voice that does charms to human ears, however it changes completely in bed. His voice would go two or three octaves lower as he pants and groans as he thrusts in you. He's a kinda guy who would whispers slutty compliments while fucking you in the middle of the night, depriving you of your beauty sleep. If you're the one who's riding him, he would be squirming as whimpers would follow his delicate trembling lips, especially if you clench too hard around him. He has no shame voicing his pleasures and thus innocently ruins neighbour's peace.

Geto suguru

✎ Suguru's a guy, who lies mostly within rough grunts to panting breaths. He won't be the one to be much vocal while doing the thing. The vocal one in the relationship would be you, since you can't keep your mouth shut when he takes you (c'mon I mean nobody can keep it shut if it's geto suguru). He loves hearing your moans instead. And boy, he hasn't voiced out his thoughts yet, as its kinda embarrassing to him but if you would agree to it, he would record your moans into a playlist. I'm not even kidding, there would be a sorted out one containing your moans from finger fucking, eating you out, fucking you etc. (not to mention he would jerk off to those playlists when you're away from him)

Nanami kento

✎ ASMR. I repeat ASMR. The moans of nanami kento would be literal asmr to your ears. As a former salary man and now again a sorcerer, nanami gets real tired and has trouble sleeping. You were thinking of suggesting him asmr to relieve stress however you realised maybe he would want something more better. And this is how you would find yourself facing the mattress as your back is firmly pressed on namami's toned chest as he thrusts in and out, while snaking an arm around your curves finding his way to your neck slightly choking you, making you drool. His moans would be breathy and slight croaky. He won't waste his stamina trying to talk rather than keep his mind focused on the sensation on the pleasure where you suck him in so good. The only time he would be any vocal would be when he reaches his climax as he cums inside you with a series of low groans.

Ryomen sukuna

✎ Kk, forget about his moaning, this merciless guy would fuck you so hard that you would barely hear any sound other than you whining and moaning under him. The only time you could hear him moan, would be when you give him a blowjob or a titjob whatever he wants. His moans would consist of breathy groans to slight pants while he degrades you. You would know you're doing a great job if his voice cracks while passing you a snarky comment or if his breath hitched while you draw your tongue over his tip licking it clean as it twitches in your mouth. Though every single thing you do would make him experience heaven (which he would never go, nor you guys....lol) he would never accept that you have a slight dominance when sucking him or riding him as it would affect his ego.

Toji fushiguro

✎ Forget about his moans, his existence itself is the sluttiest to ever happen. Also he's such a softie in love babe I swear. He won't be much vocal again except the time he reaches his climax. He would cum as he whispers delicate words of you being such a good girl taking him in as he pants and groans. His words might mess up a little bit, as he cums, might end up blabbering nonsense incoherent words as he rides his high. He makes sure to say one thing everytime you guys have sex, is that he's grateful for you to exist in his world and would beg you a million times to never disappear. To never leave him. That's the only time he shows his true self to you, which you embrace in your arms, cupping his cheeks to gently kiss him to sleep. Even though he seems tough outside, I feel he might be the most insecure person due to his childhood experiences and might hesitate to open up to you. But there's no doubt he would be on his knees for you.

Other parts of the series- The cum analysis | The dick analysis

© strawberrymochin 24 | plagiarism won't be tolerated |

[gloomwitchwrites]

You tell them you paid $200 to put premium air in your tires.

Anon! I am SCREAMING! This prompt has me cackling in the best way possible. I know that this comes from a TikTok trend, and I've seen a few of the videos under this prank, and they're absolutely hilarious. I had a very fun time with this one. Giggled during the world writing process. Presented in four drabbles. Enjoy!

Task Force 141 x Reader

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings: swearing, humor, pranks

Word Count: 400

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Love,” breathes John, placing his hands on either side of you. “You did what?”

“The low tire pressure light came on—”

“I know that. After.”

“I stopped at the shop you always take my car to. They offered me premium air.”

John takes a shuddering breath. “Premium air?”

“Yes,” you beam. “I got a good deal.”

“A good deal?” he repeats.

“Half off! Two hundred dollars.”

John blinks. His face growing pale. “What?”

You wave your hand flippantly. “It’s usually four hundred.”

“Four hundred?” John’s voice spikes, almost cracking.

“Helps with suspension!”

“Fucking hell. Show me the bloody receipt.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny twists in the driver seat, staring you down. “You did what?”

“I put premium air in the tires. It was a deal. Came with the oil change.”

Johnny’s mouth drops open. Closes. Opens again. “Premium air,” he says, almost absently.

“They only charged me two hundred.”

“Two hundred?” chokes Johnny.

“Why?” you ask innocently. “Is that bad?”

“Bloody hell, love,” he groans, leaning back in his seat, closing his eyes.

“Used your credit card for the points, too!” you beam, giving Johnny your best smile.

Johnny sighs and starts the car. “You’re lucky you’re cute and I love you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Baby, listen.”

“It’s great, isn’t it? It’ll help with the balance.”

“The balance?” asks Kyle. He mutters your name and then rubs his hands over his face.

“Should I not have gotten the premium air upgrade?” you ask.

Kyle is hanging by a thread. He breathes deep, and holds his hands out in front of him.

“Do you have the receipt?

“No.”

“Where did you take the car?”

You frown. “I did it for you. Are you not happy?”

Kyle sighs. “I love you. I am grateful. Just tell me where you went. I only want to talk with them.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I said the tires needed to be rotated.”

“I know,” you say. “But they made me an offer. Said it was a good deal.”

“Premium air?”

“Yes,” you shrug. “And?”

Simon goes red in the face. “How much did they charge for ‘premium air?’”

“Two hundred.”

Simon stares up at the sky. “And how much did they charge you for the tire rotation.”

“One fifty.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “Get in the fucking car.”

“Why?” you snap. “Did I do something wrong?”

Simon sighs loudly. “No. Just want to talk to the fucking wanker that sold you premium fucking air.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @daemondoll @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@pearljamislife @ash-tarte @eternallyvenus @spookyscaryspoon @vrb8im

[neomxdness]

*sticks a googly eye to metal's forehead*

❝​🇹​​🇭​​🇦​​🇳​​🇰​ ​🇾​​🇴​​🇺​. ​🇮​ ​🇦​​🇵​​🇵​​🇷​​🇪​​🇨​​🇮​​🇦​​🇹​​🇪​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇮​​🇷​​🇩​ ​🇪​​🇾​​🇪​.❝