#◈ crack ── are you FUCKING with me?!

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― The garage door slams shut with a muffled thud, sealing you both in the dark garage. The car is still warm from the drive home, engine ticking as the leather seats creak under Nanami’s weight. His tie hangs loose around his neck, silk fabric slithering between his fingers as he cages you against the backseat- his knee forcing your legs apart. 

"Seven days…," he grits out, the numbers sharp as his cursed blade… It was rare to hear him talk like that…

"Kento… please don't be mad… w-we ah~," impatient, his large hands shove your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric around your waist, "We've been so busy with the girls lately." your hands tremble as you run them over the lapels of his jacket.

He catches your wrist and pulls your hand to his mouth. A shiver races up your spine as he kisses your palm, tongue hot and wet as it traces along your skin. His teeth are just as sharp, grazing against your skin in a warning, "I don't want excuses," Nanami growls, the low sound going straight to your cunt, "I want you."

His breath carries hints of bourbon and mint from dinner- restraint absolutely snapped, the kind that’s been simmering all week between packed lunched, overtime with Gojo, and your second grader’s nightmares about how daddy doesn’t come back home from work one day… 

Nanami refuses to waste any more time. Like he said, it’s been seven fucking days. He’s missed having you all to himself. The feeling of your velvety walls wrapped around him- strangling his cock just how he likes it. 

Without hesitation. His thumb hooks into your lace panties, tearing them sideways with a rip that makes you gasp and arch, "F-fuck, Kento-!~"

"Quiet," he growls against your neck, calloused palm smacking your clit once, twice, the crack echoing off the tinted windows, "You've been begging for this all night." The sound of his pants zipper fills the small space, his cock springing free- heavy and angry red with a bead of precum drooling at the tip. "Squirming in your seat. Smirking at me as your heel grazes my thigh."

He doesn't prep you- doesn't need to. Your pussy has been dripping since the appetizers, and he knows, the bastard, smirking as he swipes his tip against your entrance, "Look at you," he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, coating himself, "So wet for me already. You missed my cock so much, hm?"

Fuck, yesyesyes you missed his cock, missed the stretch and burn and ache when he first plunges into you. A breathless, "Yes~♡ " falls from your lips, followed by a desperate moan as his fat cock rams into your soaked cunt without warning- filling you, stretching you out.

You do your best to choke back a scream. You know better, know to keep your voice down in case your girls and Yuji have fallen asleep- the last thing you need is to wake them. But Nanami is merciless, fucking you open, the squelch of your juices loud enough to drown out any other noise in the confined space, his hips snap up- slamming into you as he fucks you against the leather seats.

"I—fu—I've s'missed you, Kento~"

Nanami's eyes soften then, a small smile forming as his hand cradles your face. The pad of his thumb traces the outline of your lip before pushing in, his gaze darkening at the way your lips part for him so willingly.

His grip on your jaw turns bruising, the way his lips smash against yours- it's painful, but the sting is delicious, "You kept teasing me about wanting another kid," he grunts, sweat dripping off his jaw onto your heaving chest.

His wedding band catches the moonlight streaming through the garage window as he grips your throat, not hard enough to hurt- yet.

"Maybe I will put a third in you tonight. Watch you swell up again…" His voice drops, gravelly and low, "You'd look so beautiful like that, again."

You claw at the part of his chest that's exposed, the fabric wrinkled beyond salvation, and moan, "Y'already... nnf... can't handle two—hah!~"

He slams deeper- hand fisting in your hair cutting you off-  "Try me."

His Mercedes rattles as he flips you onto your knees, face mashed against the fogged window. His palm cracks against your ass, reddening the skin before he yanks your hips back, spearing you in one vicious stroke. Your tits crush against the seat, nipples rubbed raw by the upholstery as he drills into your g-spot.

Somewhere upstairs, he hears a floorboard squeak… The sound traveling easily through the thin wall that connects the garage to the house. Nanami freezes, cock twitching inside you. 

Then, unmistakable in the sudden silence, comes the patter of small feet and excited voices from within the house.

"Daddy and Mommy are home!"

"Shh! Remember what big bro Yuji said? We should be sleeping!"

Nanami’s eyes narrow, "S-shit." He rams home once more, burying his groan in the crook of your neck as he spills, hot and thick, painting your walls white as it floods your womb. His cum leaks down your trembling thighs as he collapses against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade with a defeated thud while muttering, "...they're awake-"

So much for having you to himself the rest of the night…

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Nine months later, Nanami Kento is changing diapers at 3 am, dark circles under his eyes but with a tender smile that lights up the pink nursery.

"Worth it."

[psuejo]

❥ sukuna n baby fever...

your husband has been at this for hours.

you don’t know what it is, what’s slipped through a crack in the thick wall around his mind, but something is different. he has you folded into a filthy mating press, legs only being held up thanks to a pair of squeezing hands as he repeatedly slams into you, pushing the previous two loads of cum deeper and deeper into your overstuffed pussy.

your nails rake red, thin stripes down sukuna’s broad back, and instead of tutting like he usually would and smacking your ass, he just groans.

he is gone.

“hah— don’t tap out now, woman. t-this... this is your fault,” he huffs, and you barely manage to glare at him through the haze of lust, vision blurry with overstimulated tears. “thought we agreed to no kids, yet you insisted on playin’ with those stupid brats.”

sukuna swears he doesn’t have a paternal bone in his body. he can’t stand kids with their sticky hands and constant crying and stupid, unintelligible babble. they’re like little leeches — sucking people dry and weary, but it’s “okay” because they’re “cute and don’t know any better”, according to you.

bullshit, he thinks. or, well, thought.

because the second he saw you playing with one, a bright, warm smile on your face as the little rascal served you a plastic carrot and a radish, his cold, dead heart crumbled.

he could almost imagine that tiny brat not belonging to the neighbor, but to you two, with pink hair like his and gorgeous eyes like yours. a sweet little princess, the curve of her gummy smile matching yours as she babbles out insane demands.

oh, he has to have it. he needs it, needs a darling babygirl to dote on, needs to make you a mama. you’d be so pretty, tummy all nice and swollen, skin glowing and hormones all over the place. sukuna would help you through it all, too — the cravings, the crying and anger, the aches and nausea, and especially the neediness.

he’s not one to be obedient (he answers to no one and lives for himself), but, well, he can’t disappoint his wife.

whatever you say goes. that’s how it is, even if sukuna’s pride would prefer that he not admit it.

“b-bet... fuck,” he groans, a dollop of drool escaping his slack jaw and landing somewhere on your already-slick skin. “bet you wanted kids all along, didn’t you? wanted me to make you a mama?”

the lingering in the aisle whenever you two go shopping, how you looked almost sad to leave that little snot, the constant baby videos on your feed... you’re just so damn obvious.

“yesss... fuck, yes!” you squeeze down around him, right on that sensitive crown, and you swear you hear the beginnings of a whimper in sukuna’s throat. “w’na be a mommy, ‘kuna—”

... damn you, woman.

sukuna’s hips press flush against yours, the sheets tearing from where he’s gripping, and a long, rough yet ever so needy groan spills from his open mouth as he dumps another load into you, hot and gooey.

“don’t lie next time,” he adds after a moment, breaths hard and heavy. “we’ll have as many brats as you want.”

the world is yours. he’ll make sure of it.

[leechqnsgirl]

ᓚᘏᗢ your lips, my lips, apocalypse

notes: based off of this ask | can be read as a part 2 to this

-- niki comes home drunk one night. drunk and desperately horny. or in other words, your first time making him cry out for you.

18+ | niki x fem!reader | wc: 1.7k | smut, mini fluff/crack at the end | masterlist

warnings: language, jake makes a small appearance, niki's drunk and kinda subby??, kissing/making out, use of good boy, piv, overstimulation

****

your boyfriend was out with his friends the whole day.

he had let you know a few days earlier about the planned celebration that they would be having. so when the day came, you didn't mind his absence.

but you couldn't help but get a bit worried. it was nearly eleven pm and he still wasn't home.

you shot him a text.

no response.

was his phone dead? did he not have it on him? you had no idea.

you had just finished your night routine, sitting down on the couch with some snacks to watch a movie as you waited for niki.

twenty minutes into the movie you heard harsh knocks at your door.

"what the hell?" you muttered, standing up to peek through your peephole.

it was niki. and he was...hanging off of jake's shoulders?

you opened the door and jake was just about ready to throw niki at you.

"god, take him." he huffed out.

you giggled as you pulled niki into your apartment by his jacket.

"good luck, he's a mess. all fucking night we've had to hear about how much he misses you and shit." jake rolled his eyes, "never allow him to drink freely again. please." jake pleaded with the most tired expression and tone one could have.

you nodded, "okay...let me get him inside."

after you locked the door, and niki was practically falling over trying to get his shoes off, you took him over to the bathroom.

"okay, honey, take a shower and i'll be right outside waiting for you."

he was sitting on the toilet seat, staring at you as you placed his clean clothes on the sink for him to wear after his shower. he groaned and shook his head.

"c'mere." he said in a quiet voice.

you made your way over until you were standing right in front of him.

he pulled you into him for a hug, his hands wrapped tightly around your back as his face was resting right in your chest.

he breathed out contently. you brought a hand over to rest on his head.

you felt flustered, a bit shy even. your boyfriend wasn't usually this clingy or affectionate. he preferred to show his love for you in other ways.

you felt him press a kiss against you through your thin sleep shirt, "mm...I missed you." you smiled to yourself, one hand still in his hair and the other rubbed circles on his back.

"I missed how you care for me.." he turned his head, so now his cheek was resting on your chest instead of his forehead.

when you looked down at him, you could see his eyes were glossed over. he seemed like he was silently pleading for something.

"what's wrong?" you asked, the hand that was in his hair traveled down to his jaw, pulling his face away from you.

his eyes were everywhere but looking at yours.

"riki..." you urged gently. soon enough his eyes met yours. he sighed through his nose softly.

"I..." you knew he was drunk, so you gave him his time to speak. "ineedyoureallybad." he hastily whispered in one breath.

you chuckled, "niki, what?"

he dropped his head, rubbing his face with his hands. "I didn't just, like, miss you. okay? i-i missed you."

you hummed, understanding what he meant now.

"so..you're horny is what you're trying to say..?" he nodded his head.

"can we go to your room?"

--

he gave you no chance to breathe once you made it to the room, he pushed you down onto the bed and went straight for your lips.

he took one of your hands, still kissing you, and brought it down to the front of his jeans.

he wanted you to feel what you do to him.

he broke away for just a second, eyes darting all across your face, "fuck, I can't wait." he gave you one more kiss before pushing back to take off his clothes.

fully naked, he moves to your body now, taking off your clothes. starting with your shirt, slowly at first before getting impatient and eventually tugging down your pants and panties.

he ducks his head down to your tits, sucking on one while his hand gropes and tweaks the other.

you moaned out, arching your back. he switched his mouth to the other side, you put one hand into his hair, tugging at it.

soon enough he pulls away, dragging a hand down to your cunt.

he rubs your clit gently at first, his hand shaking a bit.

he puts that hand on your thigh now, muttering something under his breath.

"w-what?" you asked breathlessly.

"said I needa taste you, sweetie." he brought his head between your legs, both arms hooked around your thighs.

he wastes no time, sucking your clit harshly. your hand, yet again, finds its way to his hair. moaning when you would occasionally pull his hair.

"f-fuck, niki, hold on-" he cut you off by sticking two fingers into your pussy.

"mm, no." he said quickly, going back to making out with your cunt.

you could feel your orgasm building up, but you didn't want to cum. not yet, at least.

"fuck! niki, baby, please," he finally lifted his head, meeting your heavy eyes.

wordlessly, he stood on his knees, lining himself up with your hole.

he had one hand beside your head, and one on his cock, leaning down to whisper into your ear, "all day..." he pushed his tip into you.

"the whole time i'm out with the boys, I couldn't stop thinking about your sweet fucking pussy, baby." he was halfway in now.

"popped a fucking boner in the middle of the bar 'cause of you." he groaned when he bottomed out, "y-you know how I am, don't you? you know I can't last a few fucking hours without my girl." your nails dug into his back.

he trailed rough kisses on your neck when he started thrusting into you.

"t-tried to rub one out in the bathroom...but it didn't work. I felt like a fucking horny virgin, getting hard at the thought of my pretty girlfriend."

his words only egged you on, feeling yourself get closer. he started moaning, knowing he wouldn't last too long either.

he pulled out of you for a second, rubbing his tip against your clit. "w-why'd you stop?" he didn't answer you right away, catching his breath.

"can you ride me? fuck baby, please, i-i can't stop thinking about last time."

as soon as he said that, all the pieces connected in your head.

every time the two of you have had sex from that moment on, it always seemed like he wanted to ask something of you. like he was holding something back.

now you know what it is. and now you know that your boyfriend only has the confidence, or willingness, to tell you when he's drunk out of his mind.

you quickly switched position, sliding back down onto him now.

niki threw his head back, moaning loudly. it was like he didn't care anymore. and god, did you love that.

his hands were gripping your waist as you fell down and came back up on him.

continuing, you never let up, it wasn't until you felt a twitch in his legs that you knew he was getting close.

"I'm so close, so close." he whined out. "yeah? come on, baby, I'm c-close, too.” you moaned, pressing your lips against his.

even in the kiss he was whimpering and moaning.

who knew that niki, who's always so composed, would only need alcohol and your tight cunt around him to be so loose.

you did your best to move your hips faster, feeling like you're seconds away from your climax.

he gave your ass a light spank, groping the area of it afterwards. felt yourself cum, relief washing over your whole body as your hips came to a slow stop.

niki came at the same time you did, his orgasm hitting him hard.

you were about to move off of him when he suddenly held you down by your hips.

"j-just a little more, o-okay?" he sounded like he was convincing himself more than you.

you furrowed your brows, "baby, you don't wanna at least take a break?" he shook his head, "p-please?" he stuttered out, "you just feel too good baby," he raises your hips up a bit now, thrusting upwards.

you gasp, you didn't actually think he would start again.

he's moaning the whole time, loudly too.

you still couldn't believe that this was your boyfriend, your niki. he never showed himself to you like this.

barely a few minutes passed when he dug his face into your neck, spewing out nonsense into your ears. half of it you're hearing and the other half you can't hear over the pleasurable pain of your own overstimulation.

"fuck, you're so warm baby. I can't," he nearly sobbed out. "I love you, s-so much, f-fuck!" he groaned, his hands having a bruising and unmoving grip on your hips.

your heart warmed, "oh, baby, I love you too." your nails were running up and down his back, "are you gonna cum now? hm? you wanna be my good boy and cum?"

and that's what made him shoot his sticky load right inside you, both of you moaning and whimpering at the feeling of your second climax.

he dropped on his back, pulling you down to lay atop him.

--

it was niki's alarm that woke him up.

he reached for his phone to turn it off and put his head back on the pillow, he threw an arm at the opposite side of the bed, seemingly searching for the warmth of your body.

but, you weren't there?

he opened his eyes a bit, scratching his head as he sat up.

"y/n?" he called out, voice still deep with sleep.

you walked back into the room, a glass of water in your hand.

"morning, ki." you said quietly, unsure how bad his hangover headache is. "come on, be a good boy and drink up, okay?" you said, biting back a smile.

he looked at you confused at first, before he widened his eyes. "shut up." he grumbled, covering his face. but that did nothing for him as you could see the tips of his ears turn a shade of red.

"come on! take a joke." you laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly before placing a kiss to the crown of his head. 

[mywritersmind]

fic idea: kimi x reader moments in his documentary... cute and .

.......maybe a lil steamy

CAUGHT ON CAMERA - KA12

listen up : some kissing. dry humping. steamy ish as requested! ty for the request!! super cutie

words : 1470

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The second Kimi told me over the phone, I ran out of my house. I was out of breath after the two minutes it took for me to run to his house. “You fucking did it!” I didn’t mean to swear in front of his family, something Maggie laughs loudly at as I wrap my arms around her brother.

“I did it.” He whispers into my ear, my body pressed against his as he holds me tighter. “Thank you.”

I have to laugh at my boyfriend. “Why are you thanking me?”

He smiles down at me, his hands still on me and his parents gone from the room. “You’re always there. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I kiss him. Hard and excited with a smile still on my face.

“You deserve this so much, K.” I bring him closer to me again when he sniffles, I realize he’s crying. I cry too. He’s wanted this for longer than I've known him and I don’t think anyone deserves it more.

⋆༺

The camera zooms on Ollie as he laughs, “He knows practically every lap time he’s ever done.” I smile, leaning my head against Kimi’s bare shoulder.

“Barcelona Quali.” a man on his team says, smiling as Kimi scoffs as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I did a 24.894.” Kimi says confidently as the man goes to search it. He doesn’t need to. Even I know he’s right.

“You have a photographic memory then?” The cameraman asks, panning to Kimi and I.

“Nah… If I did, I'd be out of school.” My boyfriend grins, “Some things just stick.”

“He remembers everything about me.” I say, not being able to hide my smile, “that’s how I know he loves me like he does racing.”

Kimi shakes his head but he’s still smiling, “I love you more than racing.”

⋆༺

I love watching Kimi race. I hate when his race ends before every lap is done.

This might be worse than watching him DNF in F2. He’s in the wall and i’m clutching the necklace he gave me as if it’s him. I know he’s okay, he’s out of the car, I know he’s okay.

I repeat those four words to myself as I watch him, his head down, his face hidden behind his helmet, exit the track.

I let him have his space. The trainer said he wanted to be alone and I let him be. A text came in and I snuck out of the garage, away from his crying mother, away from a sad Toto, away from everything and back to him.

I shut the cameraman out when I find him. He’s sitting on the floor of the trainors room, the light dim and his eyes shut. I realize he’s been crying when he speaks, his voice stuffy and race red, “On my debut.” He swallows, “In my future car.”

I don’t know what to say. I hate that I don’t know what to say. I sink down to my knees next to him, taking his head in my hands as he looks at me. His eyes are red, tired.

“It’s going to get better, Kimi. You have to know that. Next year is yours- and today sucked but when you’re in your car, not George's, it’ll be different.” He slides his legs out in front of him, a hand drifting to my waist as if he just wants to make sure I'm there.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” My hands are still shaking.

I shake my head, “I have a feeling that won’t stop anytime soon. You were flying, Kimi.” His face finally cracks into a smile.

“It felt like a dream.” His smile fades as I sit properly now, “then a nightmare.”

“It’s not either. It’s real life. It’s your life.” I run a hand through his hair, sweaty and messed up from his helmet.

“You're perfect.” he says, leaning in closer as his hand slides up and down my bare leg, “You know that?”

“For you.” I kiss him softly, but his hand meets the back of my neck and pulls me against him again.

“Just for me.” He whispers against my lips, kissing me again with more force.

When I realize he’s not thinking about stopping, I mumble, “Kimi-” but all he does is pull me onto his lap, straddling him.

“Please.” It’s practically a whine and one that I give into immediately. His body is warm, he changed back into a mercedes shirt and jeans that push against my thighs.

I instinctively grind into him, feeding that pressure between my legs as he breathes against me. His eyes are closed, his teeth tugging at my lip as I groan at the feeling of him under me.

“We shouldn’t.” I say, not fully lost to Kimi’s body yet and remembering that we’re on the floor of a medical room.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.” He says, kissing me again. When I don’t say anything, he says, “Tell me to, Y/n.”

I don’t use my words to respond, instead moaning in his ear as I grow more turned on. He mumbles a curse and moves his hand to my ass, making me grind against him with more fuel to my fire.

Kimi’s fingers dig into my skin harder. When my head tilts back, his lips escape mine and find my jaw- my neck… my chest instead. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a hickey, but right now, nothing sounds hotter.

He’s hard against me, his jeans growing tighter as I roll my hips once again. I bite my lip and he makes a sort of strangled sound, saying my name.

He’s not smiling, it’s more of an open mouth smirk. His eyes are set on the thin fabric that’s rubbing against his pants, his hand tugs my skirt higher up.

When did he pull my skirt up? I don’t care.

His hand is on my bra now, under it. I can barely track the twin parts of his body that have such a hold on me. I’m too distracted by the overwhelming pleasure that brews beneath me.

Kimi is staring at me again, his eyes flickering to every part of me as if he doesn’t know where to look. His eyes are full of lust, a look I used to dream about.

“C’mon, love.” This almost takes me out, his voice is so gruff and it’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard purely because I know i’m what’s making him like that. “So fucking good.”

“Kimi-” I force out, my legs starting to shake.

He’s just as breathless as I am when he says, “Say my name like that again. C’mon love, do it for me.”

⋆༺

Dinner is nice. It always is with Kimi’s family. His grandma made a cake to celebrate, his dad gave him a car keychain that had been passed down by his father.

I love seeing Kimi with his family, it reminds me of what our future could look like.

I stand next to him at the sink, a dish in hand as he splashes water onto me. I scoff and return the favor. “A formula one driver and you’re still slaving away over dishes.” I smile as he scrubs a plate, “So humble.”

He kisses my cheek quickly, “I’d do anything if it’s with you.” This makes me smile, rolling my eyes at the cheesiness but my cheeks going pink anyway.

“I’m really proud of you, Kimi. I know it’s a lot.” Everyone’s been so excited that I think it’s gone to Kimi’s head, making him a bit blind to what his life is about to look like.

He nods, “I know. But i’m excited- and really fucking happy. Especially since I have a wag.”

I laugh out loud, “A wag!?”

“Yeah, girlfriend.” He says to me sassily, making me laugh harder. He drys off his hands and pulls the bright yellow gloves off mine, kissing me on the lips this time.

I grin against him, my hands bracing myself on the sink edge as his find my waist. “I love calling you my girlfriend.” He whispers as he kisses me softly again. “Call me your boyfriend.”

I giggle as he presses a kiss against my jaw, “You’re all mine, K. My nerdy little boyfriend.”

He raises a brow at my words, his breath hot against me, “Nerdy? Little?”

I pat his head, winking. “Gotta fit in that car somehow.”

He laughs, his hands are on me again and he’s picking me up, “Netflix are you seeing this!?” I had forgotten about the camera in the doorframe, “My girlfriend is a bully!”

“At least i’m yours!” I laugh again, now over his shoulder and shaking my head at the lens.

[creamflix]

GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN ZAZA ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief your college banned weed, your grades are hanging by a thread, and you definitely did not plan on making your plug your most consistent situationship. w.c 9.8k

risk assessment lots of weed usage and references (this is not based off of #experience for the most part, please be safe & check your sources xx), crack & fluff, female reader, university au, meet-ugly, somewhat ooc characters, misogyny, poor queer assumptions, breaking the 4th wall, city-girl reader, opposites attract, depictions of social anxiety, legally blonde and 2010's anime references, uraume cameo ft! naoya, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, gojo

a/n the whole concept of a plug romance was ib by my baby @lacyblades's plug gojo series, make sure to check it outt ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ • *✰

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You weren’t expecting much when you decided to message a guy called Naoya Zenin for a dime bag — just some weed, maybe a weird vibe, and a quick escape. But you should’ve known something was off when everyone who smoked weed gave you that same look.

That solemn, pitying, godspeed-soldier look.

One girl even muttered “I'll pray for you” under her breath, which was a bit dramatic. You were getting dope, not going to war. But then again, they all said the same thing: Naoya’s shit is gas, but he’s the worst fucking person you’ll ever meet. You figured they were exaggerating. You’ve dealt with weirdos before. How bad could he be?

Well.

You found out the moment he opened the door with his stupid bleached-blonde hair, gold chain, and a shirt that had “NO SIMPING ZONE” printed on it like a threat. The hallway already reeked of superiority complex and a mango vape pod. “Who's it for?” he asked, not even a hello. 

You blinked. “What?”

“The weed,” he said, waving the baggie like it was a cursed object. “Your boyfriend? Roomie?”

“Uh. Me?” you said slowly. “It’s… for me?”

And it was like you had kicked his ego right in the crotch.

“You smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you smoke weed?”

“…yes.”

“Like, by yourself?”

“What the fuck is this, a survey?”

He squinted at you like you just told him women had human rights. His face pinched, his lip curled, and you could practically hear the internal misogyny revving like a chainsaw. “Look,” he said, setting the baggie down like it was contaminated, “I'm just saying, it’s kinda unattractive. Like, girls who do drugs? Yikes.” 

You stared. “You sell drugs.”

“Yeah, to guys,” he said, like that was the natural order of things. “Or like, chill chicks. Not…” he gestured vaguely at you.

“Not what?”

“Not, you know. Girls.”

It took everything in you to not put him through a wall. You had come into this with the utmost neutrality. A plug is a person, you told yourself. We don’t judge. But here he was, looking like if insecurity were personified by an anime villain with frat boy vibes, actually trying to cancel the deal because you dared to have a uterus and smoke up. “I don't think I'm comfortable selling to you,” he said, arms crossed like he was laying down some moral high ground. “It's just not feminine.”

“Oh no,” you deadpanned. “What if I stop being feminine and grow chest hair. Will my boobs fall off too?” 

Naoya did not laugh. He looked offended on behalf of the concept of gender. 

You stood there for a moment, blinking slowly at this man who would probably cry if a woman outsmoked him, wondering if it was too late to just start growing your own goddamn weed. Or if the hallway cameras would catch you if you kicked him in the shin and ran. 

“I'm not selling to you,” he said again, arms folded. 

“Cool,” you said, turning around. “Then I'm telling every girl on campus to never buy from you again.” 

His eyes bugged. “Wait, what—”

You didn’t wait. Naoya Zenin could keep his opinions and his za. You’d rather go sober than fund his self-inflicted sexism. Besides, rumor had it a guy took gacha bribes, and he didn’t mind if your pronouns were she/her/hitting-that-shit.

—

The house party was loud in that way only bad parties are — bass thumping through your knees, a fog machine making the entire room smell like burnt plastic, and some poor girl crying in the bathroom over a man who probably owned Yeezys. You weren’t even sure why you came. Boredom, maybe. You hadn’t seen anyone you liked in the first ten minutes, and you were seconds from leaving when the crowd split like the red sea and in walked… him.

Naoya Zenin. But not the "no simping zone" shirt Naoya. This was party Naoya. His hair was slicked back, jaw sharp under dim strobe lights, silver chain glinting under a jacket that suspiciously looked like real leather. He smelled like something expensive and infuriating — like pepper and pine and generational wealth. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked good. If you really didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked hot. 

But you did know better, so you stood very still and hoped he didn’t see you. Spoiler: he did. He made a beeline straight to you, sauntering like he owned the party, the house, and every sad soul on the aux. “Hey,” he said, voice practically smirking. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I'm suddenly woman enough to sell weed to.” He chuckled like you were being so dramatic. “Nah, not for sale.” He pulled a sleek, perfectly rolled doobie from behind his ear.

“This batch is just for testing.”

Testing.

You glanced down at it. It was beautiful. Thick, crisp, neat. Probably rolled with tweezers in a windless room while a choir sang in the background. The DJ switched tracks to something that sounded like a washing machine being sacrificed. You felt your brain scream a little. “Testing?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. You could smell his cologne now — rich boy cinnamon and something spicy enough to hurt your feelings. “Gotta know if it’s worth selling to, you know, guys. Not girls.” He smirked like he was being cute. You wanted to set him on fire.

And yet.

The blunt in his fingers was practically glistening. You were two shots of pineapple vodka in, and the DJ just played the third remix of “Mr. Brightside.” 

Fuck it. You took it from him, muttering a bored “light it.” 

Two hits in and you knew you were screwed. It was good. Like, ruin your night and make you vulnerable to a Zenin good.

And he was watching you far too closely. Like a cat watching a mouse. Or a man who knew he had something you wanted, and was way too smug about it. “So?” he asked, leaning in. His voice was smug, sweetened with that particular brand of you should be lucky i’m even offering you this. “Good enough for the boys?”

You exhaled slowly. You could lie and say it sucked, but your lungs were singing and your brain was on vacation. You knew it. He knew it.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back, arms crossed, pleased like a cat who caught a bird with one paw. “I knew it,” he said, low. “I saved this batch for you, y’know.” 

You blinked. “You what?”

“Yeah. Thought you’d show up.” he shrugged, too casual, too cocky. “Guess it’s your lucky night.”

You blinked again. Once. Twice. The music in the background dropped and the beat switched again. Someone screamed “this is my song!” when it absolutely wasn’t. You were high, annoyed, and mildly impressed. 

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, passing the blunt back. He grinned. “But I'm hot.”

…Unfortunately, he was. Even more unfortunate — he knew it. And worst of all? You were definitely getting high off his stash again.

What happened over the next few months could only be described as a slow descent into the most bizarre relationship dynamic you’ve ever had with a dealer. And not relationship like that — God no. Naoya Zenin was still the same infuriating, misogyny-scented man you had ever met. He still made comments like “Women shouldn’t be smoking blunts this fat” and “You’ll ruin your lungs, babe, you should stick to edibles like the other girls.” But you? You were different. Or at least that’s what he decided in whatever part of his ego that functioned as a moral compass.

You were his little test subject. His “control group.” 

“I just need someone dumb enough to be honest,” he’d say, handing you a fresh joint before anyone else got their hands on the batch. 

And somehow, that translated to: you always got the first roll. You always got the stronger shit. You always got the nice papers, the flavored ones, the ones with little sparkles or kittens on them.

Hello Kitty rolling papers. You held up the pack once, squinting at it. “You bought this ironically?” He didn’t even look at you, just shrugged from his desk, hoodie pulled over his hair like he wasn’t in his own damn dorm room. “Females like you go feral over that stuff,” he muttered. Then, quieter: 

“I saw it in your story once. The pink ones. Said they were cute.”

You blinked. “You saw my story?”

“No.”

You nodded, lips twitching. “Right.” 

He kept pretending to scroll on his phone, even though you saw the screen was just his locked home page. Meanwhile, you were curled up in the middle of his very expensive mattress — firm, clean, annoyingly good quality — exhaling smoke toward the ceiling while some painfully curated “chill” playlist stumbled through a loop of Kendrick, Yeat, and occasional anime lofi covers that you knew weren’t there when you first met him. “Did you just shuffle a Youtube lo-fi mix into this?” you asked once, high and curious.

“No. It's just…Japanese trap.”

“It's literally the Yarichin Bitch Club—”

“Shut up.”

He never sat on the bed. Always lurked in the corner, leaned on his stupid ergonomic chair like he didn’t wanna be caught enjoying your company. And every time you asked him why he was standing like an NPC, he grumbled some shit about “Not getting comfortable around girls.” But you never caught the subtext.

Naoya Zenin, feminist icon? Absolutely not. Naoya Zenin, a man whose internalized sexism was now actively fighting his deeply repressed crush on you? Every single day.

“I'm not doing this because I like you,” he reminded you once, voice clipped, as he passed you a custom pre-roll sealed in a Hello Kitty ziplock. 

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Who said you did?”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. 

"You females are so confusing,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Good thing I’m just your lab rat then.”

His jaw clicked. You didn’t notice — because, as always, you had no idea. But Naoya? Naoya was drowning in the best strain of delusion you’d ever smoked.

☆ GETO SUGURU

The first thing you noticed when you met Geto was his hair.

Thick, dark, and pulled into a glossy, mid-back bun that would put half your Pinterest saves to shame. It shimmered under the light, almost too good to be real — like someone had digitally rendered it for an ad campaign about hair-care. 

You’d walked into his place half-prepared to meet a woman. 

Blame the name. Suguru sounded soft to your tired brain, and when your friend said “bro’s got that gas, you’ll know by the hair,” you assumed a goddess of a plug — tall, mysterious, beautiful — would be waiting to bless you with carefully grown hydro and no small amount of mommy energy.

So when you entered, saw the figure from behind — tall, yes. Beautiful, obviously. Long hair, swinging as he reached for something on the table — you went, “Oh my god, your hair is gorgeous, girl.”

And then he turned around.

Oh.

Purple eyes. A sharp jawline that made your heart do unspeakable things. Black tunnel plugs in his ears — big ones, glossy, catching the light just right. He blinked, paused, and then smiled slowly. Warmly. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and silken and not at all belonging to the she/her you’d crafted in your head. “But I'm not a girl.”

You wanted to die, like right there. Crawl under the nearest coffee table and remain a fossil. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your ears. “I didn’t — I mean — your hair — I wasn’t trying to be weird, I just thought —” He laughed, full and rich, head tipping back as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Nah, you’re good,” he said. “That's a new one, though.”

You were not good. You were actively malfunctioning, trying to recalibrate from cool girl buying weed to accidental misgenderer who couldn’t shut up.

“I mean, like, plugs — you’ve got plugs and you’re the plug? Kinda poetic,” you tried, grasping for levity, for a joke, anything to move past your humiliation. 

That got another laugh. You could’ve sworn the floor dipped under you. 

“Yeah?” he mused. “Maybe I'm just really committed to the brand.” You nodded too fast, clearing your throat as you pulled out your phone like it would protect you. 

He handed you the bag — neatly sealed, vacuum-tight, labeled with a tiny sticker that said “pink runtz” in his neat handwriting. Everything about it was extremely polite. Even the way he held it out to you, like you were at a boutique counter and he was passing over perfume samples. “Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.” 

You took it with both hands. (Why both hands? What were you, receiving a family heirloom??) “Thank you,” you mumbled. “And again, uh… sorry for the whole…” you gestured vaguely to his entire existence.

“No problem,” he said easily. “See you later, girl.”

You blinked. Did a little double-take.

…Girl? 

Wait. Was he gay?

He had to be, right? The energy was just too smooth, too non-threatening, too effortless. Plus, the hair, the plugs, the smile, the way he said girl — it all fit. Yeah. Definitely gay. Sweet, gorgeous, gay plug.

…Right?

Meanwhile, Geto watched you leave, eyes still soft at the corners, thumb brushing idly across his palm where your fingers had almost grazed his. “Cute,” he murmured to himself. Then added, under his breath, “Wish she’d called me babe instead.”

But there’s always next time.

But the next time you dropped by Geto’s, you didn’t come alone. You brought Uraume.

They were tall, pale in that “Victorian ghost but hot” way, and wore a structured, monochrome fit that made you feel underdressed even though you were just here for a refill. Uraume moved like they were born inside an art gallery — all grace and precision and a deep-rooted meh to the chaos of the world. You’d known them since undergrad and always thought they and Geto would hit it off. Same aura, same cool, collected, possibly-haunt-their-own-loft-in-Berlin energy. 

“You’ll love him,” you said on the walk over. “Gorgeous, chill, and he called me girl unironically.” 

Uraume gave you a side-eye that could shear bone. “You’re trying to set me up with your plug?”

“Not set up — just, like, meet. He's gay. I think. You’ll see.”

Uraume didn’t respond, but their silence was pointed.

Geto was expecting you. Well — you and “someone else,” though the someone was vague enough that he’d let himself entertain the delusion that it might be a cousin. a roommate. A dog. 

But then the door opened, and there you were. Smiling wide, eyes bright, excitement making your voice bubble up like soda. “Hey!” you chirped. “Brought a friend!” Behind you, Uraume stepped in, immediately scanning the apartment with an expression that could only be described as polite suspicion. 

Geto stood, blinking once. He recognized beauty when he saw it — Uraume was undeniably attractive, angular in a sharp, clean way that made his chest instinctively straighten. But that was about it. No spark, no interest, no gravity. His attention flicked back to you, as it always did. You were laughing at something stupid. You always laughed at something stupid. God, it was going to kill him. 

Small talk ensued. You made introductions, Uraume kept their hands folded like they were here for a health inspection. Finally, they turned to you with a very pointed question.

“…Where’s the gay?”

Geto froze mid-baggie. You looked confused.

“What?”

“The plug,” Uraume clarified, gesturing vaguely to Geto. “You said he was gay.”

You blinked. Turned to Geto. He blinked. Then said, very calmly, very apologetically:

“I'm not.”

Silence. 

Like full, sitcom-record-scratch silence. 

Uraume’s brow twitched. Geto cleared his throat. 

You… looked like someone had just pulled the rug out from under your brain.

“But — the ‘see you later, girl’ — the hair — the —”

Geto held up a hand, trying not to laugh. “Okay, first of all, I say that to people. Second of all…”

He paused, looking at you. And for one millisecond, the air changed.

“…I don’t really talk like that to anyone else.”

You stared. Uraume stared. Geto stared right at you.

Oh.

You wanted to rewind the whole interaction. Crawl backward out the door. Instead, you made a high-pitched noise that sounded like a mouse being stepped on. Uraume, bless their elegant heart, sighed deeply. “So you weren’t trying to set me up?”

“I mean… i was,” you said weakly. “But—”

“With a man who’s been undressing you with his eyes since we walked in.”

You almost choked. Geto made a sound that could’ve been a cough, a laugh, or help.

“I — I haven’t —”

“You have,” Uraume replied, adjusting their collar with zero chill. “It's fine. I get it. I'm attractive, but unfortunately I have no tits. Tragic, really.” Geto finally let out a small, helpless laugh. “You’re very attractive,” he said. “Just not really my type.”

“Yeah,” Uraume said, smirking a little now. “Your type’s clearly flustered and wearing mismatched socks.” 

You looked down. Kill me. 

Uraume turned toward the door. “I'll wait outside before I see something traumatic. Thanks for the entertainment.” And just like that, they ghosted out, as elegantly as they’d entered. Leaving you and Geto alone. You opened your mouth to apologize. Or clarify. Or die. But Geto just smiled. Soft. A little amused, a little not.

“…For the record,” he said, walking over to hand you the refill — perfectly packed, like always — “I liked the idea of a refill. Not the setup.” 

Your fingers brushed. 

“But,” he added, leaning just a little closer, “If you ever wanna set yourself up instead…”

You blinked. He winked. You may never recover.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

You’d been waiting under the ugly stone archway behind the Humanities building for nearly twenty minutes, pacing and checking your phone like a teenager abandoned after a school dance. Your guy — well, your friend’s guy who swore the plug was “chill, reliable, and hot if you’re into geeks” — was supposed to meet you here. Codeword: blue eyes hypnotize.

Very subtle. Very anonymous. Very fucking annoying.

So when a man in a tailored suit walked up the steps with a suitcase, you automatically moved out of his way. He didn’t look like someone who was here to facilitate illicit extracurriculars. He looked like a tax auditor. A hitman. The guy who gently but firmly fires you with a severance packet. “Excuse me,” he said, voice precise and polite. “Are you here for the… meetup?” 

You blinked. “The what?” 

He glanced at your shoes, then at your phone, then back at you like he was mentally cross-referencing a checklist. 

“…Blue eyes hypnotize?” he said, like it physically pained him. 

“Oh my god.” you took an instinctive step back. “You’re the plug?”

He sighed, like he’d been asked to commit a crime against his will. “No. I’m not the —” he paused, clearly wrestling with something deep and moral. “I'm… covering for someone.” You stared. He didn’t elaborate. He was wearing an ID card around his neck that read Nanami Kento, Head Delegate – UN Model Council. 

So he’d just come back from MUN. You felt like you’d stumbled into a BBC drama where the intern accidentally does espionage. 

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” you asked. “Because I was told blue eyes —”

“Couldn’t make it today,” Nanami cut in. “He said — and allow me to quote — ‘Lol can u pass it to the hot girl, she’ll know, just say the code thing xoxo.’”

You winced. “That tracks.” 

He nodded, grim. “I debated ignoring both of you.”

Then, without further preamble, he knelt down, set his suitcase on the grimy pavement, popped it open like he was about to give a TED talk — and began removing documents. Notebooks. Binders. Printed policy drafts. A laminated flowchart titled Conflict Resolution and Drug Decriminalization in East Asia. You stared in silence as he pulled out a sealed envelope marked “last will & testament” and tucked it under his arm like it was a receipt.

Finally, from somewhere beneath the bureaucratic detritus, he extracted a moderately crumpled ziplock bag. It looked wildly out of place in the otherwise pristine, corporate-ass briefcase. He carefully dusted it off with a cloth (a cloth) before handing it to you like he was passing off a court summons. A homemade QR code was slapped on the back, printed on sticker paper. “You can scan here,” he said. “Please include the transaction ID in the note.” 

You took it slowly. Reverently. 

“…Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me,” he said flatly. “I had a debate round scheduled for now. Instead I'm standing here, holding someone else’s will, handing you illicit substances in front of a garbage bin.”

“You… seem very responsible for someone who knows a guy like blue eyes.”

He scoffed. “I wouldn't say I know him. We’re roommates, unfortunately. He once tried to convince our landlord that the leak in our ceiling was a portal to the astral plane. She gave us a three-day notice.”

“And you’re covering for him?”

He looked like he wanted to die. 

“He told me you looked ‘docile and non-threatening.’ I assumed that meant you wouldn’t stab me.”

“Docile?” you echoed. “What, did he send a photo?” 

He didn’t answer, which was, in itself, an answer. 

A long pause. Both of you just kind of standing there. Neither one of you exactly thrilled about the situation. Finally, you shifted. 

“Well. I guess this is… it.”

“Mm.”

“You gonna do this again?”

“Absolutely not.”

You nodded. Respectable. As you turned to leave, Nanami called out:

“He'll be back next time. I sincerely hope.” 

You raised a hand. “Thanks again… delegate Nanami.”

He exhaled like it physically hurt to hear that out loud. Behind you, his voice trailed faintly into the air:

“…I really need new roommates.”

—

But really, you weren’t expecting him again. Not the man in the wrinkled button-down and loosened tie, sleeves shoved up like he’d been mid-negotiation or a breakdown — same difference — and somehow still smelling like freshly baked cookies and weed. It took you a second to register. The flour-dusted briefcase. The weary expression. The gold name badge peeking out of his chest pocket like it had been forgotten there weeks ago. “Delegate Nanami?” you said, bewildered.

He flinched like you’d thrown a dart into his spine. “Not… officially,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes scanning the small courtyard like he was checking for witnesses. “This is strictly a freelance appearance.”

You blinked, then looked down. In his hands: a small, clear plastic box tied with a ridiculous pink ribbon. Inside it, two types of cookies — one set perfectly shaped and golden, the other darker, denser, with a suspiciously herbal aroma even through the box. Your brows lifted. “You baked these?”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “A last-minute request.”

You took them gently, inspecting the sticker on the side — a wonky heart with love n’ nip, xoxo scrawled in a handwriting you’d never seen before. You turned the box over and saw the same homemade QR sticker from last time, this one stuck crookedly, like it had been applied mid-crisis. 

“These from… ‘blue eyes hypnotize’?” you asked, voice skeptical. 

Nanami closed his eyes like you’d recited a slur. “Yes. He thought it would be a good ‘seasonal campaign.’ He said it was ‘low effort, high whimsy.’ Then he went to get his hair frosted and asked me to ‘deliver the goods with love and mystery.’” 

You blinked again. “I thought you were just filling in last time?” 

Nanami opened his eyes. They were bloodshot in the way that suggested not smoking but being around too much smoke.

“…I got roped into baking. He said people were more likely to buy it if it was homemade and ethically sourced.”

You stifled a laugh, then paused. Then looked at the box again. “…Wait, these are two different batches?” He tensed. Subtly, barely perceptible. But you caught it. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “One is… catnip. The other’s regular.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“In case…” he cleared his throat. “You didn’t want the first kind. Or wanted both. Variety is important.” 

You stared. “Did you bake two types for everyone?”

He didn’t answer, which was an answer. 

Your lips parted just slightly, breath caught between amusement and something warmer. You noticed the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes, how he kept smoothing his hand over the lid of the briefcase, the tension in his shoulders rigid like he was balancing a full tray on his back. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour in his hair, and one of his shirt buttons was mismatched. 

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” you said softly. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I've had worse Thursdays.”

You held the box up between you. “These are really cute. And they smell amazing.” 

Nanami looked like he was torn between relief and abject embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It was mostly Gojo’s idea.”

“Who?”

He blinked. “Blue eyes.”

Oh. You stared a second longer. 

“So… he has a name?”

Nanami didn’t even flinch this time. “Unfortunately.”

You smiled, crooked and fond. “Well,” you said, “You’re a much better cupid.”

He looked at you like you’d cursed him. Then immediately broke eye contact to pretend to re-check the payment QR code, even though nothing had changed. You watched the way his fingers fiddled with the sticker again, then stopped, pressing the corner down like it mattered. “…If you ever want non-catnip cookies,” he said, carefully, like testing the edge of a knife, “I have a standing recipe. No obligation. No… ribbons.” 

Your eyes widened slightly. Was that an invitation? Or a bakery recommendation? But he wouldn’t look up. Instead, he gave you a brisk nod, already turning away like he hadn’t just panic-confessed a crush via cookie code. You stood there, cookies in hand, heart full of sugar and smoke, watching him retreat like a man fleeing the scene of a very gentle crime.

It took you a full minute before you laughed to yourself. 

Then you texted your friend.

you [2:39pm]: blue eyes is not the hot one. it’s his roommate. holy shit.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You were all for supporting local businesses — especially if they bloomed out of someone’s dorm bathroom and gave you a ten-minute high from a single puff.

You’d heard of him before. The plant guy. New transfer. Lowkey, didn’t talk much, wore hoodies with the sleeves chewed through, never made eye contact during attendance. Kamo, someone said. Or maybe that was just the name listed on the label of the ziplock bags he apparently sold. A friend of a friend vouched for him — said he grew it himself, only used filtered water, and played classical music near the pots “because it helps the terpenes flourish.” You didn’t know what that meant, you just knew that when this mutual passed you a single gram with the warning “this shit might make you see your own birth,” you paid attention.

So when the same friend texted you a barely readable address, you expected to meet some scrawny countryside kid with glasses and dirt under his nails. You even rehearsed your polite city-slicker voice. “Thank you, this is so fresh,” and all that. What you didn’t expect was for the door to swing open and reveal a man who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some indie underground zine titled ‘men who could ruin your life and forget your name.’

Tall, built like he’d been carved by someone clinically horny, shirt hanging off one shoulder like it had given up, collarbone pierced — pierced, — with a silver barbell that glinted when he moved. He had a black tattoo running sideways down his nose, and those lips. Full, slightly chapped, plush enough to be distracting. Soft brown eyes that barely blinked, droopy and disinterested under a smudge of lavender eyeshadow, like he’d done his makeup in the dark and didn’t care to fix it. He blinked once. 

“Hey.” His voice was low, like a gravel path after rain. 

You opened your mouth and forgot the words. 

He stepped aside to let you in, and you caught a whiff of something — clean laundry, basil, and just the faintest trace of lemon body wash. No way, you thought. No fucking way this is Kamo. 

“You want water or somethin’?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck, head tilting a little. “I made banana bread this morning. There’s still a slice left, I think.”  You stared. Banana bread? He blinked again, slightly slower this time. “You okay?”

You walked in like you were sleepwalking.

His dorm was not what you imagined a weed grower’s to be, not even close. No Bob Marley posters, no messy ashtrays, no vape clouds. Instead, the place was warm, cozy, with sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that made everything look soft. His desk was cluttered with seed packets, plant cuttings in glasses of water, a very worn-out book called “Cannabis for dummies” and another called “The botany of desire.” And from the bathroom, you could faintly see green. Actual green, like a jungle was growing in his bathtub. 

“The temp in there’s perfect,” he said casually, catching your line of sight. “Humidity’s the trickiest part. But once I got the cycle right, everything started thriving.” 

And then — as if he hadn’t just committed several crimes with that body and this voice — he leaned over the mini fridge and pulled out a ziplock, weighed it with one hand, and passed it to you. 

“This one’s blueberry kush, real sweet. Might make your ears ring a little.” 

You didn’t know whether to thank him or to cry. He looked at you again, head slightly cocked. “You good?”

You nodded slowly. Because here he was — this beautiful, pierced, sleepy-eyed plant nerd who baked banana bread, listened to ABBA (You swear ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ was playing faintly from his bluetooth speaker), and handed you weed like it was homemade granola. None of the rumors did him justice.

He didn’t flirt, didn’t brag, didn’t even seem to know what he looked like. And that made it all ten times worse. Because what were you supposed to do with a plug who looked like temptation and acted like a librarian? You clutched the baggie like it was fragile glass and said the only thing your brain could conjure.

“…This smells amazing.”

He smiled — smiled, like the sun peeking through a lazy sky. “Thanks. I can text you when I got more.” You nodded, then tripped over the doorway on your way out. ABBA played on —

And Choso squeaked.

An actual, involuntary, horrifically real squeak the second you closed his door and your footsteps padded down the hall, fading like the last four minutes of an ABBA song that’d just ruined his life. And he stood there, in his socks — the ones with holes in them — baggie still dangling from one hand, half-eaten banana bread slice in the other, mind replaying everything he’d just said like it was being beamed through his skull with a megaphone labeled you fucking blew it.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to just freeze and panic and act like the most boring man to ever walk the earth. He was supposed to be cool. Show you his homemade record shelf and his boots — his boots, god, the fifteen different pairs of heavy, clunky, beautiful black boots all the way from his hometown. He even dusted them this morning. He wanted to explain how each one had its own story: market day boots, rainy day boots, festival boots. One pair still had a faint smudge of dried mud from a music fair he went to at fifteen. He wanted to offer you tea, tell you about the dried hibiscus he had steeping in a jar in the corner, and how his mum used to say it’d make your cheeks glow. But what had he said instead?

“Do you want banana bread?”

Fucking banana bread, like the most basic thing in the world. In his hometown, every lad could make banana bread blindfolded and drunk. It was the first thing boys learned to make when they had their first real crush. 

And now you probably thought he was just like every other wide-eyed, weed-growing loser in the city, trying to butter up his buyers with carbs and eye contact. 

Choso sank onto his bed, face in his hands. His sheets still smelled like lemongrass detergent, and the faintest whiff of you clung to the air — perfume, shampoo, city.

Because you. You, with your soft voice and effortless smile. You who had saved him from a capitalism-induced crisis four months ago when he was standing in a café, overwhelmed by a chalkboard menu that listed a drink called "dirty chai" that cost more than his weekly groceries. Back home, tea was just tea. Simple, warm, honest. But he had been cold. He had been lost. 

And then — then you’d appeared behind him like some ethereal campus fairy, leaned in and said, “If you like green tea, maybe try the matcha? It’s less confusing than it sounds.”

And then you were gone.

You didn’t even stay to see how red he turned, or how he repeated that order in a near-whisper and clutched the paper cup like a relic. He'd gone home and told his brother that someone helped him, a girl, a kind one. He never caught your name, but your smile — your voice — that stuck. 

Matcha. That was what you gave him. That was what he ordered every time he came to that café, even though he could steep better tea with his eyes closed at home. Just in case he ran into you again. But you never showed up.

Until today.

You — you, the girl who made him believe the city might have good people after all — had walked into his room asking for zaza. His zaza. And you smiled at him like you remembered none of that and everything all at once. So casually. Like you hadn’t tilted his entire axis four months ago and then reappeared, smelling like laundry and looking like a dream. And now you were gone again, and he didn’t even tell you about the purple rice he was growing in his windowsill or the wild strawberries in a shoebox under the sink. 

He flopped backwards on the bed, groaning into the sheets.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

Well. Maybe next time, he’d get it right. He’d make you real tea, show you the boots, maybe play you something on his clunky little record player. He didn’t know much about city girls. But he knew he liked this one. And he’d do better. Just wait.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

You were sent as bait.

Not in so many words, but you knew. You knew from the way they all nudged each other and giggled like hyenas when you agreed to “do the pickup this time.” You knew from the way someone said, “Toji only deals with girls, haha,” and you really knew when another added, “Just act pretty and you’ll be fine.”

Gross, objectively. And also a very bold assumption about your gender identity, frankly, but you were too bored and too curious to turn it down. 

Which is why you were now sitting on a faded public park bench with peeling red paint and disturbing Mickey Mouse graffiti — eyes darting toward every approaching silhouette like prey — waiting for what your friend described as “the guy who looks like he could eat a helicopter.” You later realize that he does not look like he could eat a helicopter. He looks like he already did, and is now looking for dessert.

Toji Fushiguro approaches like a goddamn myth in motion. Tall, built like someone who’s been bench pressing prison inmates, dressed in head-to-toe black like he’d gotten lost on the way to a mob funeral, with scars you didn’t want to imagine the origin of. He had the sort of face that could terrify a priest and seduce a nun. And you? You just sat there, fully convinced you were about to die. But then—

“Are those… purple?” he asked, pointing at your nails. 

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Not gravelly, not sultry — awkward. Almost bashful. 

You blinked. He blinked back. He sat down, and the bench groaned like it was filing a complaint with god. You watched him fumble with something in his massive hands, and you noticed the way he didn’t look at you — not really. More like next to you. His eyes darted everywhere else. The grass, the paint peeling on the bench, the weird drawing of Mickey Mouse’s warped little face near your thigh. He cleared his throat. 

“Uh, suits you,” he said, nodding vaguely in your direction. “The purple. It's nice.”

Okay. What.

This was the guy who was supposedly a womanizer? This was the plug people were too scared to deal with unless they were certified bombshells? This man who looked like a live-action anime villain and moved like he could break your ribs with a hug was out here complimenting your nails like he was mustering every ounce of courage he had not to combust? He finally handed you the goods — in iridescent, pearlescent, holographic wrapping. Something that looked like it was bought from a dollar store for birthday party favors. 

You blinked again. 

“Uh, sorry about the, uh—” he gestured at the bag vaguely. “Didn’t have tape. So I just, you know. Wrapped it.” 

You held it like it was a gift, because it was. Because Toji had just handed you a space cake wrapped like a birthday present and was now standing up, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants like he’d just had a tea party and wasn’t quite sure what came next. 

“Okay, uh. Thanks for coming. Sorry if that was — um. I mean, enjoy,” he stammered, and then—

He bowed. 

Full, chest-folded, bowed. And then walked away like he’d just embarrassed himself in front of royalty. 

You just sat there, high on confusion. Maybe he really had never seen a woman before. Or maybe — more likely — the stares and the glares and the resting murder face was just a cover. Because the truth was… Toji couldn’t smile without looking like he was trying to stop one from happening. And if he did, it’d probably scare someone anyway. So he’d rather not. But he tried. He tried. He asked about your nails, and you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you’d volunteer to do the pickups more often. You had a nail appointment next week, after all.

But before all of this, Toji was in a jungle gym. Let’s just get that part out of the way.

He was crouched awkwardly between two plastic slides, head ducked under a bar that was clearly not meant for full-grown adult men, let alone him, all six-foot-something of pure ex-hitman-turned-therapy-fundraiser bulk. His knees were digging into damp, sand-caked rubber flooring, and he was trying — trying — not to hyperventilate while giving himself a pep talk. 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Just… be normal. Be casual. Ask how she is. Don’t stare. Don’t say anything about her eyes. Or her hands. Or her voice. Or anything.

Toji squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. it was happening again. His mind flung itself back into the past — high school, senior year, school corridors lit with the aggressive hum of fluorescent lighting and the nervous tap-tap-tap of his big-ass converse against linoleum floors. He'd had a plan, dammit. A plan. Talk to girls, practice conversations, get better at the social thing, and finally approach Sydney, the sunny blonde in his homeroom with that annoying little sparkle in her eyes that made him feel like a dumbass every time she said hi.

Except.

Except, hormones are a bitch.

What started as “just practice” spiraled very quickly into a bizarre PR nightmare where Toji found himself talking to literally every girl but Sydney. Out of anxiety. Out of panic. Out of a weird, rabid need to rehearse and re-rehearse and never get to the main act.

By graduation, Sydney was dating someone named Nate, and Toji was The Guy Who Hits On Everyone But Doesn’t Know How To Finish A Sentence. 

A womanizer, a creep, someone no guy would leave their sister alone with — not because he did anything wrong, but because he was too awkward to do anything right. 

The social anxiety diagnosis came a year later and the therapy bills came after. Then came the dealing, and then came the reputation. The funny thing? 

He never liked dealing. 

He hated being seen, hated having to look people in the eye, hated the goddamn small talk. He tried to automate it, for god’s sake — had a spreadsheet, QR codes, fucking inventory notes on his phone — anything to avoid actual human connection. And now here he was, hiding in a goddamn jungle gym because you’re too fucking pretty. His pulse thudded in his ears. He was clutching the baggie like it was a ring box, knees shaking. 

You hadn’t even done anything. Hadn’t flirted, hadn’t asked, hadn’t even looked at him too long. Just sat on that bench like you were built from sun and honey and a little bit of whatever God put into women he wanted men to lose their entire minds over.

He tried to regulate his breathing.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight. Do not throw up. Do not ask her about her zodiac sign. Do not speak unless spoken to.

Toji crouch-shuffled out of the jungle gym like a grown man doing the walk of shame, palms sweaty, jaw clenched. You were still there, reading something on your phone, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, legs crossed just enough to be intimidating without meaning to. Your nails were painted. Purple.

He short-circuited a little. 

“Uh, nice nails,” he blurted, voice gravelled and quiet and too fast. You looked up, startled. He froze. 

Smooth.

His fingers twitched. Maybe he should just hand you the ziploc and run like usual. Say nothing, keep it clean, keep it simple. That's what everyone else got. The runners. The girlfriends. The random brave strangers who’d come up all smiles and try to flirt — not because they liked him, but because they thought it’d get them an extra gram. But you… you asked him how he was. Just once. 

How are you, Toji? 

Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He cleared his throat and sat beside you like the world might split open and swallow him whole. The bench creaked like it was offended by his weight. 

He hated this. Hated being in his own skin, hated how his resting face looked like he was glaring, when really, he was just trying to think of something polite to say that didn’t involve complimenting your entire genetic lineage.

“Uh, I wrapped it,” he muttered, handing you the baggie with the iridescent paper. “Didn’t have… tape. So. Yeah.” 

You took it like it was a birthday present. Smiled at him. And for a second, the social noise inside his head dimmed.

Toji stood up. His palms were sweaty again.

He bowed. Bowed, like you were royalty. Like that was the only socially acceptable thing he could think of to do. And when he turned and walked away — stiffly, hurriedly, like he was being chased by a ghost — he swore he’d never let anyone send someone else in his place again.

Not when you were the one showing up.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

The sun was a bitch today. You knew that because your thighs were sticking to the plastic bus stop bench, your pits were questioning their loyalty to your deodorant, and your brother had sent you to do his dirty work like this was the goddamn hunger games. 

“Just go, it’s been paid for. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t say thank you.”

Oh sure. Easy. Send your sister out into the world of mysterious substance exchange like you’re not the one who watched her cry over the scrapped ending of Legally Blonde less than two hours ago. 

So here you were. Sweaty, confused, a little delirious from secondhand heatstroke. And then you saw him. Which is to say, him.

Tattoos snaking up both arms and his face — his fucking face — like he had crawled out of a graphic novel and got bored halfway through. Piercings glinting in the sunlight, bleached hair pulled back in a way that was supposed to look effortless but very much screamed intentional. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like it was doing him a favor. That’s not a dealer, you thought. That's a Greek god in cargo pants. But no, that’s exactly who he was. “Yo,” he said, already digging into the backpack slung across one shoulder. 

“Your brother told me indica, but like — he said nighttime indica, not couchlock, which’s basically the same thing, but it depends if he meant something like the pink runtz or more like a platinum OG — wait, do you know if he likes purple terps? ‘Cause I have this one that tastes like fucking grape medicine but in a good way. Or, like, there’s one that hits you with dry mouth fast but it’s good for sleep—”

He kept going. And going, listing things like you were supposed to understand the periodic table of weed strains. You nodded, lips parted slightly in what you thought was a neutral expression but was probably closer to early-onset panic. You could feel your heart pulsing in your neck. Your mouth was dry. Or wet? Both? You couldn’t tell. Everything was damp and hot and stressful. Finally, after what felt like three hours but was probably three minutes, you swallowed and said—

“I don't know.” 

Barely a whisper. Shaky, a little croaky, possibly traumatized. “I don't… I don't know what kind. I wasn't told.”

Sukuna — you didn’t know that was his name yet, but it was giving Sukuna — stopped. His eyes twitched. As a matter of fact, his whole body twitched. He stared at you like he’d just been hit by a midsummer tax audit. 

And then he let out the loudest, most visceral groan of human exhaustion ever recorded. Head tilted back, hands shoved through his hair, a full-body sigh that made birds scatter and God turn the sun up just to be petty.

“Bro, what the fuck.” he muttered, pacing. “I’ve got six more stops, two of them in the fucking dorms — do you know how long it takes to get past security there? Do you even know what a hybrid is? Do you know why we don’t say thank you?”

You blinked. Sukuna blinked. 

Silence.

And Sukuna knew today was going to be bullshit the second he saw your face instead of your brother’s. Your brother, who was usually all business. No stalling, no “wait I forgot the cash” antics. Just a head nod and a quick exit. Dependable, dry, vaguely annoying. 

You, however, were neither dry nor dependable. 

You were currently hyperventilating under a Jacaranda tree and babbling something about Harvard law school. He watched you for a moment, expression somewhere between a squint and a grimace, hands on his hips like he was preparing to build a shed or bury a body.

“…Are you quoting Legally Blonde right now?”

You paused mid-rant, sniffling. “I was watching it, like, two hours ago, and now I'm here. And I don’t even smoke, my brother just said go get the thing, and then you started talking about…couch-something? And I’m not even wearing proper shoes for this—”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, not because he didn’t care, but because that was his only way to delay a full-blown fuck me moment. He had heard of you before — vague mentions during other deals. Always framed around inconvenience:

“Can’t leave her alone too long,”

“Nah, she’s at home today, can’t risk the smell,”

“My sister's around, so not now.”

He expected a brat. A teen. Someone with a 100k Snapscore, a rhinestone phone case and a visible need for supervision. He did not expect someone basically his age, sitting in a puddle of heat and anxiety, with the kind of eyes that made you look twice and a mouth that couldn’t stop moving even if it wanted to. 

And for reasons he did not care to investigate, Sukuna found himself…listening. Not fake listening, actually listening.

Like when you started monologuing about how Elle Woods was judged just for wearing pink, and how your brother was now pulling the same kind of injustice by sending you into the unknown like a sacrifice to the zaza gods. “He said don’t say thank you, like that’s normal,” you sniffed, pacing now. “Am I supposed to just grab the bag and go? What if it’s the wrong one? Is this a test?”

“It's not a test,” Sukuna muttered, arms crossed, watching you with a half-lidded stare.

“I can't fail.”

“I'm not grading you.”

“But you could.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face, eyes twitching when you hiccuped in the middle of your next word. This was a nightmare. He checked his phone. Four missed deliveries. Fuck. “Call him again,” he barked, jutting his chin toward your phone.

“He’s not picking uppp,” you wailed, already dialing anyway. “And when he does, I'm gonna commit fratricide. That’s legal, right?” 

Then — like divine intervention — your brother answered. And immediately, your hand flew to your chest, your lip trembled, and your voice cracked like a war orphan on the verge of a ballad. “I don't know what to ask for, I didn't ask to be born into this family—!”

Sukuna winced as your voice pitched three octaves higher.

The call was short. Some loud cursing, some laughter, a few insults, and a loud “Stop fucking crying, Jesus, just get the platinum—” and that was that. You hung up and slumped like your skeleton gave out. “Here.” Sukuna shoved the baggie toward you. “Platinum OG. Sleep strain, nice body high. Pairs well with girl tears and whatever the hell you got going on in there.”

You didn’t even look up, just took it. And used the corner of his shirt — his shirt — to dab your damp lashes. He stared at you, down at your hand, then back at you.

“…Are you crying into my clothes right now?”

You nodded. “They’re cotton.” 

His jaw clicked. He wanted to groan. He wanted to throw his phone in a lake. Instead, he let out a long, nasal exhale. You looked up at him finally, cheeks flushed, eyelashes stuck together, still holding the damn bag in one hand like it might bite you. “Thank you,” you whispered, despite your brother’s explicit instructions. 

“You’re not supposed to say that,” he grunted. You smiled, faint and ruined and puffy. “I'll say sorry, too, if you stick around.”

And something in him — something warped and inconvenient — twitched. Because he could see it now. That part of him that usually wanted to sprint the fuck out of social interactions? Quiet. His eyes lingered on your face, your lashes, the smudge of stress-sweat and heat that made you glow. 

He sighed again. He could speedrun those other deliveries. Maybe swing by later. 

For fraternal check-ins, obviously. Not for you. Not because he liked you or anything.

☆ GOJO SATORU

You didn’t know what was more devastating — the fact that you spent nearly two hundred grand clawing away at an arcade machine for a limited edition Albedo figurine, or that the guy who actually wanted her didn’t even leave his house. No, he just bribed you into doing it for him. “Blue eyes hypnotise,” he called himself. Like a joke. Like a threat. Like a man who didn’t have any shame.

You only got his real name — Gojo Satoru — when he turned around and you caught a flash of his university ID tag, half-tucked behind a plushie keychain shaped like a pudding. He was apparently from the Engineering department, which was either a lie or an actual war crime, because nothing about the way he looked or acted said science. But there he was, in a dorm room that smelled like strawberry soda and fabric softener, crouched on the floor like a grown man summoning a demon from a display box. 

“Look at her,” he cooed, setting the Albedo figurine gently — tenderly — into her glass shrine. “She’s so misunderstood. Nobody gets her like I do.” You blinked at him from the edge of his futon, arms still sore from wrangling that claw machine like it owed you rent. 

“So…can I get the stuff now?”

He barely looked up, just pointed vaguely at the corner of his room — where Hatsune Miku was standing on a glass shelf in all her twin-tailed glory. But instead of a mic, she held a tiny bag of very clearly illegal herb in one plastic hand. You stared back at him, then back at Miku.

“Is this — is this some kind of themed display?” you asked. Gojo just beamed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Yeah! I’ve got Rin holding a grinder, Nezuko’s the designated lighter girl, and Saber — oh wait, lemme show you—”

He moved across the room, the wooden floors creaking under the weight of his sins and merch, to open another glass cabinet filled with boxed Nendoroids, switch cartridges, and an entire row of perfume bottles that you knew were only bought because they were collaboration exclusives. And the worst part? He was hot.

Glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, oversized shirt that said “science is sexy” in pixel font, hair pulled back in a loose bun with a Hello Kitty clip. And those stupid, stupid blue eyes twinkling at you like a paywall.

“So. Ya like claw machines?”

“No,” you deadpan. “I like weed.”

He laughed — giggled, actually — like that was the most charming thing he’d heard all week. 

“We should hang out more,” he said, reaching for a heart-shaped tin box that he cracked open to reveal little wrapped edibles shaped like stars. “I trade limiteds for labor. Win me figures, get high for free. It’s a perfect ecosystem.”

You took the bag from Miku, still watching him with a healthy mix of horror and fascination. His room looked less like a place someone lived in and more like a walking otaku’s dreamscape. Frames on the wall — real glass, not Ikea — with signed prints. A projector setup. A heated kotatsu. Not even a fake one, actual imported goods. You spotted a collectors-only Hatsune Miku ita-bag on his chair and realized with chilling clarity—

This man was loaded. And somehow, dealing was just a hobby. “So you're rich,” you muttered, half to yourself. 

“No, I'm emotionally compensating,” he chirped, handing you a cola-flavored edible. “And high-key, Miku funds half my lifestyle. God bless licensing.” 

You didn’t even know what to say anymore. The za was yours, technically. but your soul? Your soul had been mortgaged. As you left, he waved from the door with his fingers wiggling, still barefoot, still smiling. 

“Bring me that Rem-Ram plush next time and I'll give you a freebie!”

You didn’t answer, just turned away clutching the Miku za, feeling thoroughly hypnotized.

Fucking nerd.

And as you left, Gojo Satoru is starting to spiral. 

Not in the tragic, tortured anime boy way (although he could do that too, he has the bone structure for it), but in the what if I am God’s strongest soldier but also emotionally constipated kind of way. Which, to be fair, is on brand. He's from the Engineering department, not Psychology — he doesn’t need therapy, he needs more shelf space for his waifus. Except now he’s wondering if he should detour to the Psych wing after all, because he’s not normal about you. Like, at all.

You showed up at his dorm with the Albedo figurine — the grail, the myth, the she who watches over the za with her plastic rack — and Gojo knew. He knew this was destiny. He didn’t talk to you directly, oh no, that would be too sane. 

He talked to Albedo instead. 

“Thank you for returning to me, my queen,” he whispered to her lovingly while unboxing, carefully peeling the protective plastic like he was unwrapping life itself. You were just… sitting on his futon, watching this happen. Watching this man ignore you in favor of a busty demon lady. And the worst part? You looked annoyed, which meant he was winning. 

“She's perfect,” he sighed dramatically, lifting the figure to the light like she was about to be baptized in his otaku holiness. “Better than any real girl.” 

You scoffed, and he heard it. Oh, he heard it all right. Success, he thought, the cogs in his brain wheezing like a dial-up modem. She's jealous. She’s spiraling. She wants to be my real girl now.

He had charisma. Not rizz — that word made his gums itch — but presence. Aura. The kind of deeply concerning magnetism that made people lose brain cells around him. He had a theme. Nezuko with the lighter, Rin with the grinder… even his plushies had roles. He wasn't like other dealers — he was aesthetic. 

You didn’t stand a chance.

Maybe you were his Zero Two. No, wait. Too pink. His Hori? No, that pairing was mid. Maybe you were his Faye Valentine, all mystery and menace and weird snack orders. Or maybe — maybe MAPPA would make an anime about the two of you. A rom-com, but the kind where the guy’s so stupid it becomes a tragedy. 

He could see the promo now: “The strongest dealer meets the one girl who got him to shut up.”  Bonus points if they animated his sparkly glasses glint just right. 

Maybe he could pull a few strings, call in a favor. Not that he was from an anime or anything, haha. Definitely not from that one. No, no. He's real. He's totally real.

You asked him if he had more edibles and he accidentally said, “Only if you say you love me,” before immediately covering it with a fake cough that sounded like a dying sim.  

“What?” you frowned. 

“Nothing,” he said, nearly choking. “I said… they’re gummy. Fruity. Ha-ha.”

Smooth. Like butter.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t leave. You stayed, kicked your shoes off, asked if he had wi-fi. And Gojo, who had a literal shrine of waifus across from his bed, thought to himself: Damn. Maybe I need to start making room on that shelf for a new figure called: the girl who brought me Albedo and accidentally stole my heart. Definitely not for dramatic reasons. Definitely not because he was projecting. 

Definitely not because, if he was from an anime, he’d want you in every single ending theme.

a/n sukuna's part is based off of a true story except my experience did not end in romance. i hope you enjoyed reading tho :P if you have any silly weed experiences please drop a confession in da ask-box 🫣 and yes, blue eyes hypnotize is a yo yo honey singh reference...

[casuallyanidiot]

Exclusive Content

Yandere Vlogger x AFAB Reader

Follow up to this

TW. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT ! MDNI ! Noncon, captivity, spanking, anal, bondage, voyeurism, edging (you don't get to finish)

You're captor loves giving the fans what they want!

“You don’t have to cry when you’re not on camera, you know.”

Tears dribbled down your cheeks as you curled up into a little ball. Your hands were wrapped in soft mittens, making them basically unusable. You sniffled and wiped your face. It was humiliating. You were practically nude save for the collar around your neck and the stockings clinging to your upper thighs.

“Seriously,” He sighed and wrapped his large hand around your ankle, yanking you across the mattress until you were seated at the edge where all the cameras were pointed to. “You’ve got to save your energy,” He chided and smoothed out your hair a bit. He wiped at your ruddy face, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Although… yeah keep pouting like that,” he groaned and pulled out the handheld. He zoomed the lens in on your fearful expressions. His breathing became ragged. As he held your face in his palm, squishing your cheeks and turning your head in various directions. A bit of drool slipped past your lips, and you let out a tiny sob. “Fuckkkk you’re perfect. You’re my perfect little thing aren’t you?” His thumb worked his way past your teeth, chuckling softly as he smeared spit over your puffy lips.

The world spun as you were forced over, your hips propped up on a pillow. You let out a strangled cry as he grabbed a handful of your ass. He quickly worked to strap your arms to be folded together behind your back, making it arch almost painfully. He spread the globes of your ass open, and you whimpered at the feeling. Normally he’d keep you stuffed with toys, making a show of how gaped you could become afterwards, but today was different. You shuffled a bit to see what he was preparing, and you yelped at the feeling of cool lube being poured onto your skin. You tried to shut your thighs, but he kept them open as he began to work his fingers into you. You moaned soon after, your eyes fluttering as the sounds of your cunt being pumped into sounded out.

“We got- fuck- we got a request to have you be spanked and then do a bit of anal. They said- said not to touch your clit or anything. So unfair haha. Our viewers have gotten so mean lately. I think they like seeing you all scared. But you don’t have to be scared with me, baby. No no no, You’ve just got to relax so I can keep taking care of us.”

It shouldn’t feel this bad, or any more bad than being kidnapped and fucked mercilessly on a daily basis would. But no, no he made you read all the things people said about you. About him. They didn’t think this was real, and if they did, then they probably were getting off on the idea that you were being held captive. You had tried to call out for help once in a video, but when people said your screams were too realistic, he started to gag you for a while after that. It was a project, this wasn’t actually your life, he was a good partner, you were a good actor: All things people said instead of actually helping you. And now you were stuck having your ass spread for whoever would pay the most, just because he couldn’t deal with the reality that this was anything but your worst nightmare.

In the last few weeks, your captor had been filming nearly every moment of your life. You’d be convinced that he got some sick pleasure from documenting every scream and tearful breakdown, but you knew better. Sure, he liked it, but he mainly did it because of his damn viewers. You were sure that we wouldn’t even have your thighs open and down if it wasn’t for a good chunk of those sick fucks practically begging to see him fuck you on a near daily basis, but then again he was literally your kidnapper so you couldn’t say anything for certain anymore.

You squealed as he brought his hand down. The resounding crack was followed by a burning sting. You didn’t have a moment to breathe before he smacked you again, and again until your backside was on fire and bruised. Your tears stained the pillow as you whimpered, and he reached forward, petting your lower back like one would a frightened animal.

“There we go. You did so good.” 

He had to gag you before starting to actual fuck you. He was running his fingers over your scalp as if it would make anything better. His cock was stretching out your asshole in a way that felt all too wrong and full. You gurgled pathetically as he shallowly thrust into you. It didn’t even feel all that good, but he was moaning like you had handed him heaven on a silver platter.

“Mngh! H-hah d-don’t worry baby- I’ll touch your pussy as much as you want after this,” he whispered mischievously as he pressed a kiss behind your ear. You sobbed at the thought of letting him anywhere near your other hole, but you were leaking all over the sheets at the moment. And your cunt was positively aching to have attention paid to it. You winced as he grew more frantic in pacing, finally spilling deep within your clenching ass. You made a pathetic whine as he stilled within you, spanking your ass a few more times as he rolled his hips almost teasingly before pulling out. He panted as he hooked his finger in the rim of your asshole and pulled it to the side so the camera could capture the way his cum leaked out.

“Okay! And that should be good for now,” he sighed, throwing his head back and running his hand through his hair. “Man, baby, you’re so fucking tight down here. I thought you were gonna rip my dick off haha,” he laughed breathlessly and unbuckled the gag. He massaged your jaw as you slumped forward.

“I know, I know. You don’t like being shut up like that… but I really kind of have to. I mean, It’s not exactly hot when you’re screaming for help all the time,” He said and started to review the footage while his other hand reached down and started to tease your clit again. You jumped at his touch, but as humiliated as you were, you were so embarrassingly horny that you simply bit into the sheets beneath you to stop the humiliating noises from spilling out.

One maddeningly slow circle at a time. You grunted softly, and he let out a whistle. “ You know, I’m so glad I get to do this with you. I’m really lucky. Most people can’t make a living from loving their partner all the time like we do.”

He slipped a finger in, and you rolled your hips desperately to meet the friction.

“It just sucks that so many people want me to be mean to you. Hah… I guess we should be grateful, huh? You’re so cute… it’s no wonder people want to bully you…” He trailed off before kneeling down between your legs. He hummed appreciatively as his hand worked on your entrance, your walls pulsing around his fingers. He smiled, and you felt his breath on your sensitive folds before you could help yourself. You yelped a bit as he groaned into your pussy, his tongue stroking and slurping eagerly. You keened softly as you bucked your hips, trying to grind on his nose. You could feel the heat coiling in your belly as you panted and trembled. Finally, after all that fucking bullshit, you were gonna cum. 

And then, all of a sudden, his touch was gone. 

You blinked for a moment, before tears of frustration gathered in your eyes. You let out a wail as you writhed, trying desperately to find the sweet friction you needed to finish, but he merely placed a hand on your lower back.

“Oh? Hold up…”

You craned your neck to the side as tears slipped down your face, and you paled as you saw his expression. He was smiling, almost cruelly as he rubbed your back in a sympathetic way.

“Sorry baby. We just got another request. A bunch of nipple play this time. My viewers are so weird haha. Anyways, I promise I’ll let you cum for real afterwards as a reward,” he assured you, and you whimpered as he loomed over you, fixing the camera to start the whole ordeal all over again with a wicked glint in his eye. You let out a terrified squeak. As much as you and him blamed the people who paid for these stupid videos, you didn’t think that anyone who didn’t enjoy their job would look so gleeful about it at the same time.

[elswhore]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . thinking about sucking ellie's strap and she's moaning like its attached to her body.

degration. emotional intensity. clit stimulation. oral sex. humiliation. power play. lowercase intended. lazy writing. snarky comments exchanged towards each other.

“f-fuck.” she groans voice all gravel and desperation, hips twitching up like she cant help it, her hands grip the sheets knuckles white, and shes making these sounds—whiny, raw, every damn thrust of your mouth pulling another one out of her.

you flick your chin up catching her mid moan “god, you’re such a fucking loser” you say all smug wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

“moaning like its actually your dick? pathetic much?” your eyes glint with mischief and ellie’s gaze snaps to yours, narrowing, that spark of defiance flaring despite the flush creeping down her neck.

“pfft, you’re the one down there, so whos the loser?” she shoots back voice sharp but shaky, her lips curling into that cocky grin she wears like armor.

she leans up on her elbows trying to play it cool but another roll of your tongue over the strap’s tip makes it graze her clit, and she chokes out a moan, her head tipping back, betraying her completely.

you laugh low and mean, loving how she’s unraveling but still trying to talk shit.

“big talk for someone who’s about to cry from a little friction,” you taunt dragging your lips down the strap’s length slowly, making sure it shifts against her.

her thighs tense, a whimper slipping out and you cant resist pushing further.

“what’s that, els? sounded like you’re begging up there.”

“fuck off,” she snaps but it’s weak, her voice cracking as you suck harder, the strap’s base grinding just right.

her hand flies to your head fingers tangling in your hair, and she shoves your mouth back down, rough enough to make you gasp.

“keep your mouth busy, yeah? less talking, more… fuck—that.” her hips buck chasing the sensation, and you let her, but not without a parting shot.

she’s a mess now, all sharp gasps and drawn out moans, her snark dissolving into broken curses.

“shit, shit, dont—dont stop,” she pleads her grip tightening in your hair and you can tell shes close, her thighs trembling, breath hitching.

“c'mon. admit it.” you say pulling off for a split second “you’re loving this, moaning like a damn porn star.” you flick your eyes up catching her flushed, desperate expression and she glares.

“shut up,” she groans yanking you back down her voice all rasp and attitude.

“you’re—fuck—you’re worse than me, obsessed with this shit.” she comes hard a shuddering, moaning mess, her hips jerking as she rides out the waves, her hand still in your hair like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

you ease off wiping your chin with a grin, and climb up to straddle her lap, the strap still between you.

“loser,” you whisper, poking her chest, and she huffs, rolling her eyes but too spent to fight back properly.

[milkstick]

۫ ꣑ৎ . kento's broad shoulder will always be your lifeline during missionary style.

18 + mild overstimulation. clinging. physical dependency.

“fuck, you feel so good..” he murmurs each word punctuated by a thrust that hits so deep you gasp, your fingers digging into the firm planes of his shoulders.

you cling to him nails biting into his flesh and he groans a rare crack in his stoic facade, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

“holding on tight, aren’t you, love?”

“c-can’t help it..” you stammer voice breaking as he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, your hands slide up gripping his shoulders harder, feeling the power in them as he holds himself above you, his thrusts growing sharper, more insistent.

“kento—fuck—you’re too much.” your words are half plea, half praise, and he leans down, his breath hot against your ear, making you shiver.

“too much?” he repeats voice dripping with that quiet confidence that drives you wild.

“you’re taking me so well, though.” his lips brush your jaw, then your neck, and he thrusts harder, deeper, the bedframe rattling as you moan, your thighs trembling around his waist.

“keep holding on, sweetheart. im not stopping.” you whimper, overwhelmed your body arching into him as he sets a brutal pace, each thrust sending shockwaves through you, your pussy clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[dishia]

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."

[undeadentropy]

She did this back in 2009, when it could be career ending and she was so based for it. She was right about that hypothetical kid. This freshly cracked egg saw her confidence and it did much to inspire me at a relatively young age when i had nothing else, and I wasn't even that big into her music. I mean I was recently out and technically an adult but I still needed that support mentally, and I was still so new to it, like everyone knew. Her saying that was my first exposure to the concept that a woman could be confident with a penis or lack of penis to the point you could just fuck with transphobes. Never encountered that before, and it unlocked a seal holding back my power.

[fear-is-truth]

YOU AND REMMICK THROUGH THE YEARS.

contains: vampirism. drug use. cult themes. semi-public sex. era-specific references to real people/music. MDNI 18+

you’d been riding with remmick since ’32. stayed through the dustbowl droughts, the war years, the jolting highways of the ’50s and the psychedelic haze of the ’70s. there was a stretch in the late ’40s when you both lived out of a busted chevy parked off a forgotten road, where the grass grew tall and no one bothered you. there’s a dent in the ceiling from the last time you fucked in the backseat with your boots on.

by the ‘50s you were scoutin’ talent. bars in memphis, backwoods roadhouses in louisiana… every time you heard someone good—really good—remmick would stop moving; literally go still like a hound picking up a scent. he always insisted the right voice paired with the right chord progression and rhythm, could crack the veil wide open.

you discovered howlin’ wolf in a juke joint outside west memphis. the whole floor vibrating under your feet like it might crack open. remmick tells you that he thinks they heard it tonight. his fallen kin. yours now, too.

at that janis joplin concert in san francisco, you swore he teared up during ball and chain.

when remmick found a musician he deemed strong enough, he’d open the circle. sometimes it worked. sometimes it didn’t. but no matter what came through, he’d still hold you in his arms, kiss you, pry open your thighs, fuck you nice n’ slow while a bootleg tape whined in the background (bessie smith, bob dylan, muddy waters.)

by the time it was the ’60s, you owned a caravan and gained a dozen followers who called remmick brother. but to you, he was always just rem, or remmie in the dark, spread-eagle on a sheepskin rug while he kisses the inside of your thigh, he’d coo, “relax, sweet girl, s’just me,” and make you come so hard you see stars.

’67 was big sur, a hillside full of long-haired burnouts carrying guitars. you fed on the blood of starry-eyed teenagers, their veins steeped in weed resin and tabs of sun-printed lsd. it buzzed behind your eyeballs and lit up your spine, left you both high for hours. lying topless in the grass with your head on his thigh while he plucked the banjo, singing “black is the colour”. when it gets too monotonous, you make love again, on the caravan roof this time, under a big fat moon. when the first raindrops hit your back, you laugh, throwing back your head. he’s still fully sheathed inside you. he leans forward and kisses you, the sweet, metallic tang on his breath intermingling with yours.

you’ve got the music. you’ve got purpose.

you’ve got him.

it’s a good life.

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 2.2k notes: conceptually a part of the "casual" universe with these other two fics. be kind to me, i am not a writer but dr. jack abbot is a menace who i cannot stop thinking about so you all must suffer with me. tag list: @slutforataco @antisocialfiore

Jack’s had a rough shift—the kind that settles deep in his bones. He’s slouched on the couch now, eyes closed, some mindless background noise playing on the TV, more as a habit than anything he's trying to actually watch.

You glance over from the kitchen. “Can I do something to help you relax?”

He cracks one eye open and smirks. “Always, baby.”

You chuckle. “Not like that, you old horn dog.”

“What can I say…” He hears you shuffle off to the bathroom. When you return, you’re carrying a handful of mysterious bottles and tubes.

“Okay, keep your eyes closed,” you say, settling into his lap.

“Hmmm. And you’re calling me a horn dog?”

“Shut up and relax,” you murmur, already massaging a serum into his skin.

Jack lets out a breathy laugh, but you can feel him start to unwind beneath your touch. You talk him through each step— toner, essence, a moisturizer with a name like “cloud dew.” He hums along like any of it means something to him.

You finish with a sheet mask, smoothing it onto his face before applying your own. You can’t resist snapping a selfie, which he grumbles about… but still asks you to airdrop to him.

A couple weeks later, after another long shift, he mutters as plops on the couch: “You got any more of that woo-woo gunk? My face feels like sandpaper.”

It becomes a routine. The ER’s dry air is brutal, and Jack—begrudgingly—starts to look forward to these moments.

One night, mid-serum, you muse, “Okay, I’m gonna clean up your eyebrows next.”

He groans and cracks one eye open. “You can pluck three hairs. Choose wisely.”

You laugh but go in for the first. The moment the tweezers pinch, he jerks away with a sharp, “Fuck off—no. Nope. I’m out.”

“Jack,” you deadpan. “You’ve been shot before. You’ve had a leg amputated. Your pain tolerance cannot be this bad.”

“I was high on adrenaline or sedated for those,” he mutters, eyes still shut, rubbing at his brow.

The next day, he forgets to take off a pimple patch before going into work.

Samira spots it instantly. “Dr. Abbot… is that a pimple patch?”

He rubs his face. “Shit.”

“You got a ten-step routine now too?” she teases.

He grunts. “No comment.”

That night, he’s already on the couch, towel in his lap, the faintest smirk on his face. “I prepped your station.”

[biscuits-and-gracie]

My Sweet Little Crybaby

summary: Rafe learning how to handle his sweet crybaby.

characters: rafe cameron. crybaby! reader

warnings: just rafe being a little mean.

word count: 1.2k

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

The afternoon sun slanted low through the windows of Rafe’s room, staining the air gold. The ceiling fan whirred tiredly overhead, stirring the heavy heat that clung to the walls. Rafe’s shirt lay crumpled on the floor, his shoes half-kicked under the bed, abandoned like everything else when you’d stumbled back from the chaos of the beach and the races and the noise.

Now, it was the slow, honeyed part of the day - the part where time stretched soft and quiet around you, where the only thing that mattered was him.

You were curled into Rafe’s side, arms looped tight around his waist, your cheek pressed against the warm skin of his chest. His heart thudded steadily under your ear - a tether, a comfort, the one thing anchoring you after the frantic, endless weekend.

Rafe lounged against the headboard, scrolling lazily through his phone with one hand, the other resting heavy and absent on your lower back. His fingers tapped idly against your spine like he didn’t even realize he was touching you - like it was just muscle memory now.

You squeezed him a little tighter.

Rafe shifted, sighing, but didn’t look away from his screen.

"Jesus, babe," he muttered, voice rough and amused. "You’re like a damn koala today."

You only nodded against him, your fingers curling tighter in the waistband of his jeans, grounding yourself.

He chuckled under his breath, low and smug.

"You scared I’m gonna run off or somethin'?" he teased, voice lilting with lazy affection. "Clinging like that, huh?"

Still, you said nothing. You just pressed closer, breathing him in - the salt of his skin, the faint sting of sweat and ocean and Rafe - and soaked in the solid, irrefutable realness of him.

It had been a long weekend. Too much noise. Too many people. Too many ways you could have lost him if things had gone wrong.

You needed to feel him. Real and safe and breathing, alive right under your hands.

Rafe finally glanced down - caught the small, stubborn way you buried your face harder into him, the tremble he hadn’t noticed in your hold.

He snorted.

"God, you’re such a little crybaby sometimes," he said lightly, his voice playful but sharper than he realized. "You gonna start bawlin’ if I get up to take a piss?"

It was meant to be a joke. It was supposed to make you huff, maybe smack him and laugh it off.

Instead - You sniffled. A small, broken sound you couldn’t bite back.

Rafe froze.

His phone dropped somewhere onto the mattress as he tilted your chin up with two careful fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

Your eyes - big, watery, shimmering with unshed tears - blinked up at him, your bottom lip trembling pathetically.

Rafe’s heart cracked clean down the middle.

"Aw, fuck," he muttered, his voice crumbling into something soft and desperate. "Hey, hey- come on, baby girl. Don't cry. I didn’t mean it."

A fat tear slipped free, tracking a slow, shimmering line down your cheek. Rafe let out a miserable, helpless laugh - the kind of sound you make when you realize you’ve just hurt the only thing you care about.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, almost to himself.

He dragged you fully into his lap, wrapping himself around you like a shield. One big hand smoothed over your back, the other cupping the back of your head, cradling you like something fragile and precious.

"I’m such an asshole sometimes," he murmured into your hair, pressing desperate, apologetic kisses against the crown of your head. "You know I don’t mean that shit, right? You know that, baby?"

You hiccupped softly, clutching the front of his shorts like you were afraid he might vanish.

"You’re my girl," Rafe whispered, voice low and urgent against your temple. "You’re my whole fuckin' world. You hear me?"

He wiped your cheeks with the rough pads of his thumbs, slow and careful, like he was terrified of hurting you again. His forehead pressed against yours, the warm brush of his breath grounding you in the sticky, quiet room.

"You wanna be clingy? Fine. Be as clingy as you want," he whispered, almost smiling. "You wanna follow me around like a little lost puppy? Good. You’re mine either way."

You sniffled again, the sound smaller this time, your body slowly melting against him.

"You scare me sometimes," you whispered, the words barely audible - more breath than voice.

Rafe's arms tightened instantly, locking you against him like he could anchor you both by sheer force of will.

"I know, angel," he breathed, fierce and ragged. "I know. I scare myself sometimes too."

He kissed you then - once, twice, messy and lingering - the kind of kisses that left you a little ruined, a little more his with every brush of his mouth.

"Not gonna leave you," Rafe promised against your lips, voice raw and solemn. "Not ever. You hear me?"

You nodded, silent tears slipping free again - but this time, they weren't from hurt.

This time, they were from how loved you felt. How completely, utterly, hopelessly loved you were.

And Rafe - reckless, cruel, brutal Rafe Cameron - just held you tighter, like if he let go even for a second, the world might swallow you whole.

He wouldn’t let it. He’d burn it down first.

Later, long after the sun dipped below the horizon and the house settled into silence, you were still tangled up together in the messy, rumpled bed. The soft whir of the fan filled the room, mixing with the slow drag of Rafe’s breathing.

You shifted closer, nuzzling into the warm crook of his neck, and heard him huff a soft, grumbly laugh.

"Jesus," he muttered, half-asleep. "Clingier than ever. You got no self-respect, huh?"

You stiffened, heart sinking stupidly fast. You didn’t want to be too much. You didn’t want to annoy him.

You started to pull back - just a little - but Rafe’s arm snapped tighter around you, locking you in place.

"Where the fuck you think you’re going?" he grumbled, voice rough with sleep. His mouth brushed the top of your head, the press of it warm and firm. "You started this, crybaby. You’re stuck with me now."

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh against his chest, your fingers curling back into the bare skin of his side.

Rafe shifted, pulling the blanket higher over both of you, cocooning you against him. His thumb drew slow, lazy circles into the small of your back - grounding, sure, his.

"You feel good there," he murmured, so soft you barely caught it. "Stay right there, yeah?"

You nodded, every part of you relaxing, the last thread of fear or shame unwinding from your chest.

Rafe kissed your forehead, slow and lingering, and just before you slipped into sleep - warm, safe, completely surrounded by him - you heard him whisper into your hair:

"My sweet little crybaby," he breathed. "My whole fuckin' heart."

And for the first time in days - maybe weeks - you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[shady-tavern]

You were alone. You stared off into the distance, having slumped down on a rock at the side of the road. Your party of... of friends, you had thought, had told you that you were useless. Unnecessary.

Had you failed to support them as they needed and therefore they had decided you were a burden? Had you failed them? Hadn't you always healed them, stitching them back together, listening to their concerns and encouraging their endeavors?

Or had they never cared for you as much as you cared for them?

It didn't make sense and you did not know where to go, your next destination had always been decided by your friends, their sense for adventure urging them ever onward.

You just... tried not to cry.

At one point you got up again and headed back to the nearest town. Your friends - your former friends now, you supposed - had left in a north-east direction and you were not going to snivel after them when they had made very sure you knew you were no longer welcome.

You bought some provisions in that town and stayed the night in an inn and the next day you wandered on.

And somewhere between towns you got really fucking pissed. It was one thing if they didn't want you around anymore, but did they have to say it like this? Did they think you wouldn't respect it if they truly wanted you to move on?

You ranted and raved at trees and the empty road and then, just as the prettiest sunrise graced your eyes, you broke down into tears.

It hurt, to lose your friends, to be told you were useless. To have the worth of your abilities and presence boiled down into neat, stoppered little bottles of glass.

To find out that all your hard work, all your skills, all the nights you had spent pouring over medical texts and bothering clerics for lessons, harnessing what magic you had within you, was all for nothing.

You sat down at the side of the road when your tears turned into ugly sobbing. It wasn't like anyone was around at the moment anyway.

You just barely heard the rustling noise over your cries and then you dropped your forehead onto your pulled-up knees. "Leave me alone," you muttered against your knees.

More sounds came so you lifted your head to see a limping, injured, snow-white deer. Not a person, then. That was just as fine.

You wiped your tears and murmured soothing nothings, putting a bit of magic into your voice to calm the frantic deer. It slowed down and settled bit by bit until it allowed you to come closer.

The deer's left front leg was broken, but where you had expected to maybe fine bite marks or the leftovers of a snare, all you saw was a strangely iridescent, glimmering crack, as though the deer was not made of flesh and bone and fur after all, but something else.

"Huh," you murmured, sniffing as your nose was still running. That did not look like an ordinary injury. This looked like it had been caused by magic.

You still poured some healing into the leg until the bone mended and you bandaged the crack. "Dunno if you're cursed or what, but that's the best I can do," you muttered, giving the deer a wobbly little smile. "Well, if you can understand me and need help, there is a mage in that town down the road."

You pointed in the direction before getting up and grabbing your pack. You felt heavy with grief and pain and anger, but you also needed to keep going. If there was someone out here hurting or cursing deer, you didn't want to get caught by that kind of asshole.

It took you a little while to notice that the deer was following you, only a faint bit of a limp in its limbs.

"No herd?" you asked it and its ears flickered forward, those big eyes looking at you.

Those were not deer-eyes, you couldn't help but think. Not brown, not even dark. They were the strangest blue-green you had ever seen. Like chips of blue ice, a depth to them that made a little shiver crawl down your spine.

Shesh, hopefully you hadn't garnered the attention of anything unsavory. You still gave it a humorless little smile. "Makes two of us, buddy."

And just like that, you had a traveling companion. You had no idea how long the deer intended to stay, but as the hours passed it remained at your side.

It did, however, start to tire and even offering it some food and water didn't help much.

"Come here," you told the deer, holding out your arms. "We both know you're not normal, I can carry you for a bit."

It stepped closer, all long-legged grace and you picked it up - only to realize that you had severely underestimated just how much a deer weighed. You swore this one was particularly heavy.

You were huffing and puffing and sweating in no time, but you still determinedly carried on, until you found a good spot to camp for the night.

That night the deer had the worst nightmares and it only calmed when you held it, sacrificing your own sleep to keep soothing it with magic lacing your voice. You hummed your throat raw and when dawn crested, you fell asleep at last.

When you woke it was to the deer nowhere in sight. No amount of looking around and calling out brought your little buddy back and you couldn't spot any tracks anywhere either.

You couldn't stay, not when you spotted dark rainclouds approaching and so you left a pack of food, just in case it still needed some help, and walked on.

The road somehow felt all the more lonelier, though you had only had the deer as company for a day. From sunrise to sunrise. You hoped it was well, wherever it had gone.

You reached the big city a couple of days later, no deer companion in sight and for lack of anything better to do, you headed to the order of clerics that called the city home.

Everyone was welcome, so long as they were willing to be taught. No matter if they had a deity to follow or not, and the type of deity didn't matter either.

As the days passed, you let yourself get lost in the teachings, in medicine and magic, in putting bodies together and pulling them apart again. It did not soothe the pain of loss and abandonment within you, but it did soothe the part of you that felt... lesser, for what your friends had said and done.

Though, they weren't your friends, were they? After the way they had gotten rid of you, you could hardly call them that, even in your own head. So you stopped. You started calling them your ex-party when people asked with whom you had worked before.

And sometimes you thought of that deer, still, and its strange wound. So you focused your studies on curses and their various origins and ways to break them next.

The clerics had offered you a job by then and you were happy to put your studies to practice. You healed the sick and mended the wounded and broke the curses that were brought before you.

It was a fine enough life and you tried to heal your own emotional wounds with creeping success at best, when one day, a pale stranger entered the room where you healed visitors of the temple.

Skin like bone, long hair white like snow, lashes like frost and eyes like shards of blue ice. You knew immediately, even before noticing the white, fine pelt draped over their shoulder, that this had been the deer you had met all those months ago.

"Well met," they said, voice soft like gently falling snow and as they spoke, your surroundings felt strangely muffled too, as though you were suddenly standing in a wintry glade rather than a room of stone. Even the scent of herbs and salves and ointments was gone.

"Hello, deer companion," you said and they smiled, an expression of quiet, pleased joy making their face look younger and brighter.

This time, when they spoke, their smile revealed fangs too sharp to belong to a deer shapeshifter. "I must thank you for saving me from my curse."

At your surprised pause, they explained, "Three kindnesses must be given to me at the cost of another, from one sunrise to another and three you bestowed upon me. Healing even though you hurt, carrying my weary body even though you were tired and soothing me in my sleep even as you had to stay awake."

Huh. "Where did you go in the morning?" you couldn't help but ask. "I tried to find you."

At this the stranger bowed their head in quiet regret, snowy hair shimmering softly in the light of the room. "I tried to find the one who cursed me, but I was not successful. When I returned, I could not find you. I have been searching ever since."

"Well, you found me," you said, lightly spreading your hands. Hands that had changed over the past years, palm and fingers growing more calloused, your body stronger from lugging other bodies around and holding thrashing patients down.

The stranger smiled again, once more looking quietly pleased. "Indeed. I wish to extend my gratitude and brazenly request your aid at the same time."

"What do you need?" you asked, the question falling in a practiced tone from your lips. You had asked that so often you had lost count.

"A companion to help me hunt down the one who wounded me. The one who desires to wipe out my people and, once we are gone, turn its terrible gaze onto yours," the stranger answered and you stilled.

All at once it was back, the same feeling that had drawn you to your ex-party, that had dragged you out onto the road and into fights like a fish on a hook.

A hunger for adventure, for exploring the world. For seeing wonders and defeating evil and being around people who were like a family to you. Well, the latter you had lost, but the former?

"Alright," you answered without much thought. You could always return to the cleric order once you had helped the stranger, they always welcomed traveling doctors and healers and you would be no exception.

You'd finish your tasks for the day, take care of the patients still waiting and then you'd tell the mother superior that you would be leaving. "Meet me outside the temple this evening?"

"As you wish," the stranger said, regally bowing their head, their smile a little wider, revealing a hint of those throat-ripping teeth. "At dusk I shall seek you out."

"Oh, just one more thing," you said as they turned to leave. "What's your name?"

They smiled and this time it was something sharp and dangerous and wild. "I am a child of Nature and my name is not freely given."

Fair enough, especially if they were part of the people who put a piece of their soul into their name.

They left and you called for the next patient to enter, healing a weeping girl's broken arm, an old man's rash-covered back and a dog's bleeding bite mark. Animals were as welcome as people here, which was one of the reasons you had even stayed this long.

It pleased you that every living thing could find aid and relief here, as they should. Healing wasn't just for those with opposable thumbs, after all.

After the last patient you cleaned up the healing room, putting everything back into shelves and writing down how much you had used and which salves and ointments and herbs needed stocking up. Once you were done, you sought out the mother superior.

She wasn't even surprised when you told her that you were leaving, just smiled and said, "You will always have a home here, never forget that."

The idea of adventure made you brazen, so you pulled her into a hug. She laughed and hugged you back and whispered, "A soul like yours is a rare and precious thing, do not let the wounds of the past bar you from a future worth living for."

With a squeeze she let you go and you hurried to your room the temple had given you, packing your things. On the way out you were surprised when an apprentice called your name and handed you a bag full of herbs and ointments and spell components.

Everything you needed for healing and magic and breaking curses. You clutched it to your chest and thought, this was a god you could serve. This wordless kindness given to you with no expectation in return.

This was what you would worship, when you hadn't wanted to worship anything before. Gentle hands, a quiet bit of help, a warm smile and an encouraging push out the door, to go chase your dreams.

The stranger was waiting outside, like they had promised. This time, you took in their clothing for a moment. They were dressed in pale blues and silvers and the faintest bit of lilac embroidery. They were, truth be told, really damn pretty.

You set out together, heading into the sunset as the day dwindled away and your new traveling companion told you everything about the evil the two of you were hunting right now.

A godslayer. You had thought those were just fiction, a myth to scare children and make friends laugh during an evening where scary tales were told.

"They are rare," your companion admitted. "And this one is young and foolish and greedy. Godslayers have existed only twice in this world, one has slain the seven-headed Hydra of Decay and Destruction and another murdered the gatekeeper of eternity."

Which was how immortality had become possible for mortals, though to achieve such a goal, they usually had to give away something far too precious.

"And this one? Who did this one kill?" you asked and your companion bared their teeth.

"They did not succeed yet, but they are working on it. They hold my mother between their teeth, intend to break her neck. They would have succeeded a long time ago had they gone for one of the smaller gods first."

You could not imagine Mother Nature dying, but then again, you had also thought that godslayers were just a story.

"Onward, then," you said and your companion's teeth-baring snarl softened into a warmer, thankful smile.

The two of you traveled on and on, as the days tumbled into weeks and your companion - you did not dare call them a friend yet - pointed out the signs of Mother Nature's struggle. The faint graying along the tips of leaves, the unrest among the birds, the way wolves howled and howled at night, trying to find someone who would not respond.

Soon, they said, there would be more signs. Food growing less, rain falling either too much or too little and the winds would taste of death.

The deity would try to not take Mother Nature, their lover, any sooner than they were forced to, but at one point, they would no longer have a choice.

"But why?" you asked the night you were getting close to the godslayer's lair. "Why kill a god so important to the world?"

Your companion sat in silence for a moment. They had grown a little thinner over the past weeks, despite eating enough. It was their mother, they had said, they were trying to sustain her, as did her other children.

"To have the world itself," your companion answered. "A godslayer can take a god's power if they so desire. The past two didn't, one just wanted to defeat evil and the other wanted to keep their children from dying. Bringing immortality to mortals was their only goal."

They stared into the fire, their icy eyes gaining a strange, glimmering gleam as the flames flickered. "This godslayer failed to become an emperor and failed to become a lich and now he has set his sights even higher."

"Then let's make him fail again," you answered. "Like you had to receive three kindnesses, let him receive three failures to banish him from this world."

Your companion looked at you and that gleam in their eyes vanished to be replaced with something else. Something brighter, like shimmering starlight. Like hope.

They reached out to take your hand and though there were no words exchanged, you felt it. Their gratitude, their relief for your company, their... their trust in you.

As you felt a wound left by your former friends heal, you added this feeling to the things you would worship. A feeling of getting accepted, truly accepted and a sensation of being believed in, without hesitation.

It made you feel like you could move mountains.

*.*.*

The godslayer's lair was within an abandoned mine. Rather clever, no one would come here anymore and the town that had once lived off the ore mined here had turned into a ghost town long ago.

You saw signs of battle as you walked through the town and towards the entrance of the mine. Scorched ground, churned-up earth, half collapsed buildings and leftover residue from spells.

Arrows littered the surroundings, broken blades glinted in the low light of the dawn and shields were bent and split in half.

You paused when you spotted a very familiar shield, a crack running through it and the rearing dragon that had gotten painted on it in gold. The shield of a paladin.

You had seen that shield for months on end, watching one of your former friends polish and shine it while praying. It had a layer of grime on it that told you it had been laying here for a while already and your stomach plummeted a little.

What had those fools done?

There were some wards set up outside the mine, but with some patience and carefully applied magic - and in one case a fistful of dirt - you got past them without issue.

A few minutes into the mine, you turned around a bend and all at once, the entire space looked different. Until then, the illusion of an abandoned mine had persisted, even if the support beams were solid and everything was still safe.

From here on? The uneven walls had turned into carefully cut stone, mage lanterns hung from the ceiling and the neat hallway opened up into a massive cavern and smack-dab in the middle sat an underground fortress.

This must've taken ages to make. Or, perhaps the godslayer had already stolen some of Mother Nature's power and had molded the landscape to his desires.

Your companion scouted ahead, while you tucked away into a secret hidden spot to stretch out your sensed with magic. Since you followed no god, you should slip past a godslayer's notice, who had torn through a number of clerics and paladins, considering the leftovers outside.

You sensed some guards, shambling undead creatures and the star-burst bright glimmers of magical traps and wards.

They were like curses, you realized. A carefully crafted net of magic and you just needed to find the right spot to pluck at to unravel it all.

Silently, one by one, those star-burst bright glimmers in your mind faded away without notice.

By the time your companion came back with a detailed patrol-route of the guards and the exact number of undead soldiers, you were done. So long as you could slip past the guards unnoticed, you were golden.

Your companion cloaked the two of you in a sort of shadow-y sheen and it felt like you melded just a bit into your surroundings, the outlines of your body blurred to nothing.

You got inside without trouble, no magical traps springing shut and no wards getting triggered.

Inside, the fortress laid silent and still and somewhere within its bowels, Mother Nature had gotten lured into a trap. Somewhere around here, the godslayer lurked.

You started in the basement, since it was closest and you had to avoid another group of patrolling guards.

The basement did not lead, as you had hoped, to some sort of ritual chamber, but instead to a large prison complex. And it was filled to the brim with people. Knights and archers, clerics and paladins, rogues and druids.

And your group of former friends.

You gaped at them as much as they gaped at you, looking thin and rough and half healed at best. Strangest though, was the expression of utter heartbreak on their faces.

"Why are you here?" the paladin whispered and then, horrified, "Did you follow us?"

All at once, that pain and anger that you had worked so hard to soothe and heal, surged to the surface. "As if I would," you downright growled at them. "I got the message loud and clear, don't you worry. You don't have to worry about me hanging around."

"No, no, you weren't supposed to be here," the knight hissed, armor long gone and arm bandaged in a way that told you it had gotten broken pretty badly. "We wanted to keep you safe!"

You stilled. "Safe?" you asked, staring them down, this group of starved, wounded people you had once given everything to.

The explanation downright poured out of the, interspaced with hissed pleas for you to just go. That they had said these terrible, hurtful things to protect you.

And all at once, that bitterness and pain in your heart went cold. "No," you said and your voice was calm, steady, even though there was a storm within you. "You did not protect me, you thought me incompetent."

They tried to deny it, falling over themselves with words and you raised a hand. They fell silent and you shook your head. "You did," you insisted. "You thought I could not handle this and you thought I would not understand if you explained it to me."

Your lips twisted into a bitter smile. "You never trusted me, did you? So you just told yourself a pretty tale, that you would protect me, as if I ever needed that and then you left, to go and play hero." You took in their ragged appearance once more and whispered, "And look where the potions you traded me for got you."

They called after you as you left, rejoining with your companion waiting by the door.

"We should free them later," you whispered, glancing over the prisoners. "They are in no condition to fight." Even if you poured out all your magic to heal them, you could not heal starvation. They were all too weak to even lift a sword for more than a minute.

"A wise if hard choice," your companion murmured back and the two of you left, the prison laying silent as if the people within already expected the two of you to get dragged back in chains.

That it was useless to try and plead for anything, even being freed. That they knew they would never even make it out of the fortress in their current condition. As if others had tried without success until they had all, collectively, given up.

Only if the godslayer was defeated did they stand a chance.

Creeping through the fortress, your companion and you discovered many things - a treasure with a stupid amount of gold and jewels, a guard with diarrhea who thankfully didn't notice you in return, a room full of portraits.

It wasn't until you reached the very top, having dodged many a patrolling guard, that you finally sensed something. You would have noticed it from further away, since it was cloaked into a ridiculous amount of concealing spells, but there was something hidden somewhere around here.

You dug your way through the spells until you found it: a hidden door. And behind it, at long last, the massive ritual chamber where Mother Nature was held captive - and the godslayer.

You barely had a moment's time to notice Mother Nature in all her wrathful glory, her shape shifting between howling storms and roaring bears and cracking lightning surrounding her physical, godly body, as if she was unable to stick to one shape of her power, before the godslayer stepped forward.

An unassuming man at first glance, but his eyes were cold, his smile a practiced, lifeless thing and the only thing that existed in his heart was hunger.

This was a person devoid of everything you had decided to worship and who would take and take and take from the world until it laid dead at his feet. Until he ultimately had to devour himself, for lack of anything else left to take.

Your companion lunged forward with a snarl and you got a glimpse at what a child of nature was capable of. Your companion was ice and snow, the unforgiving chill of winter, the death of frozen lakes and the blood-thirsty hunger of wolves fighting for survival.

But there was more, more than there had been at the beginning of the journey. There were flickers of fire and heat, of warmth that had gotten absorbed and kindness that had bolstered their heart into something powerful.

The godslayer clearly hadn't expected for your companion to have come back so much stronger and as you cast spells, warding and healing, you crept along the edges of the fight until you reached the base of Mother Nature's cage.

She was trying to reach her child, a mother's love and fear pouring forth, wanting her child to flee, to be safe, wanting to be free to rip apart what threatened one of her own.

You ever so briefly met the gaze of your companion and there was a split second of shared, silent communication and they gave you a nod, before throwing themselves onto the godslayer with renewed vigor.

You dropped all the spells and turned around, slamming your hands onto the glyphs on the floor and you closed your eyes.

It had been interesting, at first, just how similar curses were to other types of magic. There were a lot of spells that wished to hold something back, after all, and let something else be in control.

You spread your senses along the magical cage until it laid before you, a truly revolutionary piece of work. In the hands of someone less hungry, less greedy, it would have caused terrible destruction already. It would have already killed a lesser god.

The thing about curses was, there always had to be a backdoor, so to speak. It was part of the rule, part of the make-up. One could not build a house to lock someone into without also adding a door, after all. Even if said door got walled off afterwards, there had to be one first.

You found the part of the cage, the clause that had to be met in order to imprison a god and you laid your hand over it and told it that the god had escaped.

It was a lie, the easiest way to break a curse that was too complicated to break in other, simpler ways. You just lied to it, told it that it had fulfilled its purpose.

The cage shattered and the sheer force of unleashed power threw you to the ground, blinding and deafening you to anything and everything, until hands grabbed you to pull you up.

Your companion's voice muffled the sheer howling and snarling of crushing power around you enough for you to regain your baring.

Sitting up, blinking, you saw that the once cold stone room was covered in roots and blooming flowers.

There was only a smear of blood left where you had last seen the godslayer standing and then you sensed it in the air. The rejoicing of other gods, who had called forth their clerics and paladins and devoted followers to try and save the one without this world would cease to exist.

To save their friend, their lover, the foundation they had built their own pantheons upon.

"Trice failed and no more," your companion whispered and then laughed for the first time since you had met them and they threw their arms around you, clinging to you tightly.

You said nothing when you felt tears wet your shoulder, you just hugged them back and poured some magic into them, gently mending wounds that had bled a strange, silver-red.

It helped calm your shaking hands and the hug helped you settle into your skin, your racing heart getting soothed back down to a regular beat. You sagged against your companion - fine, your friend - after a moment, dropping your forehead against their shoulder.

"We made it," you whispered and they laughed, muffled and gave you a little squeeze. For all that they were made of wintry things, they were warm, a heart beating against yours and their chest expanding with breaths.

After a long minute, you detangled from each other and left. There were plants everywhere, the very stone of the fortress humming with life and magic and the prison was completely empty.

Mother Nature was waiting outside the fortress, tall and powerful, a deity of everything wild and living, of everything surviving and growing. She was surrounded by the prisoners, all looking healed and stronger, though still far too thin.

"Thank you, my child," she whispered as she leaned forward to press a kiss to your friend's forehead and then she surprised you when she pressed her lips to your forehead as well.

A tingle of power, a blessing that would last for the rest of your life, made warmth bloom through you and she whispered, "Thank you, cleric of a god yet unnamed, grown by your hands and nurtured by your kindness. They will make this world better."

You jerked back in surprise, staring up at her and she smiled, like a million sunsets and sunrises, like every beautiful thing the world ever had to offer, breathtaking and awe inspiring. It made you feel more alive than ever to see a smile like that.

"That's how lesser gods are born, my dear," she said, gently reaching out to cup your cheek with a big hand. She smelled like herbs and flowers and forests, like sandy dunes and snowy tundras, like rivers and winds and stone and metal. "People like you make them. They will do good in this world and they are eager to meet you once they have grown enough power to gain a voice."

Well. You had no idea what to say to that, but thankfully Mother Nature needed no answer. She just closed her eyes and vanished, bursting into a shower of flower petals and laughing winds and roots vanishing into the ground.

Your former friends stared at you like they had never seen you before, like they had never thought you would ever be capable of any of the things you had done.

A warm hand gently took yours and you blinked, looking back at your companion - your friend. A truer friend than any you had had before.

"Want to meet my family?" they asked and then grinned, wicked and sharp, fangs on display. "And if you are willing, there are other evil things I would love to slay."

It surged forward within you once more, that hunger for adventure, the desire to test yourself against the world, to do good and make your time alive worth something.

"Yeah," you said and their grin turned into a glad smile.

And as they led you out of the mine-turned-fortress, away from people who had never truly known you, they leaned in and whispered their name into your ear.

Your a healer and was kicked out of the hero’s party because “Healers aren’t needed, just use potions”. You become powerful using your hate and distain for the hero’s party as a driving force. Only to learn, they kicked you out to protect you

[dragoneyelashart]

ride or cry (that is the stupidest name i've ever come up with, just go with it)

authors note: i finally wrote something other than angst (everyone cheer) warnings: smut

you were splayed out on silk pillows, hair a messy halo around you, skin slick with sweat, chest heaving. before getting bored and wanting to go annoy your girlfriend. bad idea though. billie had been edging you for hours making you grind down on her thigh while she worked, pulling you back every time you got too close. her fingers have been tracing slow, maddening patterns along your sides, lips brushing against the crook of your neck in teasing, featherlight kisses.

you whimper into her ear, hips stuttering as you press harder against her thigh, making the mess between your legs even more unbearable.

“you know, baby…” she murmurs, voice dripping with amusement, “i think you like when i tease you. hm?”

you nod helplessly, not even fully hearing her words—just chasing that high she keeps dangling in front of you.

“mommy, please…” you breathe, voice wrecked, trembling with need. “i just wanna be good for you…” she sighs, almost lazily, like she’s thinking about it. “mmm, but mommy’s tired…” she drawls, though there’s no real bite behind the words.

“please,” you beg, hips shifting uncontrollably, like they’re acting on instinct alone. “it hurts, i need you so bad, mommy…”

she clicks her tongue, eyes dark with faux pity. “tsk… my poor baby,” she whispers, brushing her fingers over your flushed cheek. “alright. come on, then.”

you climb onto her lap, shaky hands bracing against her shoulders. she holds you steady, her palm at your lower back, guiding you down slowly onto her length. you gasp, body arching as she fills you, the stretch making your thighs quake from overstimulation. you pause, breathing hard, letting yourself adjust before your hips start to roll. needy, languid, desperate. soft moans slip from your lips, little breathy whines that go straight to her core. billie watches you like you're a masterpiece, every twitch of your muscles, every trembling exhale, every inch of you unraveling just for her. “mommy… m’tired…” you whimper, voice barely there, cracked and aching. “need your help…” she smiles, sweet, slow, merciless, and wipes the sweat from your brow with her thumb. “mommy told you she was tired, didn’t she?” she coos. “come on, sweet girl. take what you need.”

you sob quietly, overwhelmed, but you obey, hips bouncing, rhythm messy and frantic now. the sound of skin slapping echoes through the room as you ride her, clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. her hands rest on your waist, firm but not guiding, just watching you struggle, suffer, need.

your rhythm falters. thighs trembling, breath catching, your body shakes with effort, but you don’t stop. you can’t. you’ve been on edge for so long, and you're so close now you can taste it.

“that’s it, baby,” she whispers, voice low and velvety. “look at you, riding mommy’s cock like a good little slut. so desperate…” you choke on a moan, head falling to her shoulder, clutching at her like you might shatter. your muscles are screaming, nerves sparking, tension coiled so tight it’s almost unbearable.

“can’t- can’t do it, mommy,” you cry out, voice cracking as the tears finally spill. “too much… hurts…” she lifts your chin, forces your glassy eyes to meet hers. “thought you wanted to be good for me, baby?” she breathes. “thought you loved being mommy’s little whore…”

you nod, barely, tears spilling freely now, lips parted in a soft, gasping plea. “i do… i do, mommy,” you sob. “fuck, need you mommy please just wanna be good…”

she hums, almost lovingly, and one hand moves down, fingers sliding between your legs. they find your swollen clit with practiced ease, rubbing slow, torturous circles. you moan out, hips jerking wildly, movements turning feral, desperate. “there you go,” she whispers, eyes locked on your wrecked face. "that’s it. show me how much of a slut you are for mommy."

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @giannaeilish @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonglazesbillieeilish | send me an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[neeeooon]

i think otoya is the kind of person who is aware that he is capable of changing his ways with girls when he finds the “one”, but he’s never truly believed in that. but when when like a girl transfers it’s quite literally love at first sight and he wants to change for her. you can decide whether she gets with him or not, thanks so muchh !! ^^

aww yes i love this idea tysm!!

love of my dreams

otoya eita x fem!reader. ft. karasu and yukimiya. love at first sight. fluff, crack, otoya is a bit weird at the start, cussing, slight death/kms joke at the end. wc: 810

“fuck.”

otoya just told karasu and yukimiya how much he liked his bachelor life. how he wasn’t ready to change. to settle down.

and then you just had to walk through those damn doors.

“fuck.”

you had a guide at your side, telling otoya you were a transfer student. his eyes were glued on you, and every step you took, unable to tear his gaze away. he wanted to know your name, where you transferred from, and what you were studying. probably something similar to him, as you were being toured through his building.

a sharp jab caused him to curse again, and otoya shot a glare at karasu and the cheap plastic butter knife he’d been stabbed with. “yer staring.”

“of course i’m staring. i’m in love.”

“you don’t do love,” yukimiya chimed with a snicker before shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth. “that’s your whole thing.”

otoya didn’t want it to be his whole thing anymore—not after seeing you.

he continued to think about you through the rest of his lunch, then his classes, his drive home, and even while he was texting yukimiya for answers to their finance homework. he didn't believe in love at first sight, at least he didn't think he did. you changed that so quick, otoya was still reeling six hours later.

otoya: i need her number

otoya: pls be my spies pls pls pls

karasu: i never thought i'd see down bad otoya like for real and not just to get pussy

otoya: is that a yes

karasu: for all we know she has a boyfriend

yukimiya: or a girlfriend

otoya: GODDDD IM GOING INSANE I NEED HER SO BAD

otoya: she's the one for me. i'm done. no more playboy otoya.

yukimiya: if you're serious. REALLY SERIOUS. i'll help

karasu: same ig

otoya: there's a special place in blowjob heaven for you two 🙏

and two days later, with the help of yukimiya and karasu, otoya had intel. they also told him you had a gap in your schedule and ate lunch by yourself in the dining hall.

and when otoya saw you? he was nervous.

your hair was pulled away from your face, the eraser-end of your pencil tapping your lips as you concentrated so hard on your homework that a delicate crease formed between your brows. otoya wanted to smooth it out with his thumb and kiss the spot instead.

shaking his head, his grip tightened around his sandwich as he slowly approached you. when you looked up, otoya felt his face grow hot. "sorry to bother you. is this seat taken?"

you rapidly shook your head and gestured to the chair. "no, no, you can take it! just make sure you put it back—"

"i mean, is it okay if i sit here?" he quickly cut off with a small grin, his chest fluttering when you blushed in embarrassment.

you dropped your pencil to hide your face in your hands. "oh my god, i'm so... yeah, yes, you can sit here." shaking your hands out to release some of the stress, you flashed a bright smile. "i'm y/n."

“otoya,” he greeted casually, as if a flock of butterflies didn’t make a home in his stomach.

you repeated his name quietly to yourself before nodding. “i think i’ve seen you in this building before. what are you majoring in?”

when he told you, your eyes lit up so brightly that otoya swore they glittered. “no way! me too! weird that we don’t have any classes together, though. maybe next semester!”

the rest of the time spent before your next class was filled with the two of you talking. otoya thought he'd fail at the genuine small talk thing since he didn't want to use any of his usual lines on you, but he was surprised at how easy it was. whenever he got quiet, you were right there to pick up where he left off.

"this might be too soon," otoya started as he walked you to your class. "but would you want to hang out again tomorrow?"

your smile faltered slightly, and otoya was ready to jump over the rail and fall to the first floor. it wasn't too far down, so he probably wouldn't die, but if he hobbled in front of a truck right after—

"i don't have this class tomorrow," you explained gently. "but would thursday work instead?"

fireworks exploded behind otoya's eyes, along with the relief of no longer needing to die. he readjusted his grip on his bag strap and flashed you a slow grin. "thursday works. same spot as today?"

you beamed. "yep! oh, and here's my number, in case i'm late or we have to reschedule!"

otoya knew, as you entered your name into his phone with a cute emoji, that he would eventually die a happy man.