#Drabbles.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ 4:08 AM — GOJO SATORU.

contents. fluff, established relationships, sleepy n cuddly toru :(, just needed to write this to cope with the 236 manga leaks i guess. i just love him tons sobs i need him happy and loved and peaceful

“hey,” you poke satoru’s chest, hearing a low groan rumble under your cheek, “toru?”

“hmm?” oh. he sounds a little tired—maybe you should let him sleep.

“you awake?” you ask anyway.

“am now,” he mumbles—well, he’s already awake, so you might as well indulge in it now. “need somethin’, sweetheart?”

“jus’ missed you is all,” you pout—that makes him grin despite the way he yawns, all wide and smooth even as he fights the sleep in his eyes. you feel just a bit guilty, reaching to cup his cheek and running a thumb over his eyelid carefully.

“yeah?” he chuckles quietly, “‘m right here. you still miss me?”

“yeah,” you whisper, “always miss you. even when you’re right here.”

satoru’s grinning into your cheek as he leans down and presses a wet kiss to the skin—he can’t possibly be mad that you’ve woken him so late. he can’t be mad when it’s you, and it’s him, and it’s each other.

sleep can wait, there’s always time for that later. but there’s never a moment where he wants to risk counting on later when it comes to you.

“what’d you miss about me?” he hums, nibbling on your earlobe as his head buries into your neck. you shift, letting his body tuck against yours as your arms wrap around him—he feels safe like this, somehow. infinity doesn’t make him feel nearly as secure as the way your arms do, tight and warm and made just for holding him.

“dunno,” you murmur, “everything.”

“love me that much?” he asks cheekily, “me sleeping right beside you isn’t enough?”

“no,” you huff, “you can’t pay attention to me in your sleep.”

“my needy baby,” he snickers, rubbing circles into the small of your back with his large palm. he’s warm against you—you can feel the rhythm of his heart as it beats against your body. he’s pressed so close to you, that not even air can slip through the cracks.

truthfully, you don’t know why you wake satoru. you don’t know why you can’t sleep—you just know that you need him. here. now. always. forever. more and more and more and even more.

“toru?” you ask quietly, making him hum as his eyes droop back shut slowly—he must really be tired.

you stare at him fondly, stroking his hair as he sighs happily at the feeling. and then you press a kiss to his forehead, to his cheek, to the corner of his eyes where they crinkle when he smiles, and to those lips of his that always find yours no matter how long it takes.

he always comes back to you. always. he never won’t—that much you trust.

“got somethin’ on your mind, baby?” he asks slowly, voice thick with sleep. you giggle, scratching at his scalp as he smiles lightly.

he dozing off—you watch him, hopelessly endeared.

“i love you,” you whisper, “need you to know that. love you so, so much. kay?”

he cracks an eye open—stares at you like you’re the reason his heart ever started beating, like you’re the only one that could ever command it to stop. every inch of his face is laced with love so gentle, you can see the way it makes his skin glow.

you love him. you’re sure he loves you. that’s all you need to know it’ll be fine. everything else is an afterthought—just as long as you have satoru.

“woke me just to confess your love for me?” he gasps, “you’re down bad. real, real bad. i must be a super handsome, totally awesome boyfriend. i do try,” he says cheekily.

you giggle, rolling your eyes as you pinch his cheek.

“be humble, you jerk,” you say exasperatedly.

it sounds more like you’re in love. too much fondness slipping into your voice that it might make your teeth hurt from how sweet. satoru’s always had a sweet tooth, though—he accepts your love graciously, like it’s never too much.

if fact, it might just not be enough. he needs more, more, more.

“can’t,” he says slowly, yawning again, “you waking me up just to love me is a bit ego boosting.”

“this was a mistake,” you scoff—its playful, it’s fond. it sounds like deeply falling headfirst.

“aw c’mon,” he pouts—and then he’s brushing his lips against your neck a he clings closer to you, curling into your body with his six-foot-something stature as you pull the blanket tighter around him, “love you too. what was it you said again? oh, right—so, so much.”

“good,” you hum, nodding in satisfaction. “you better.”

“i do,” he chuckles, “can i sleep now? or are we gonna start talking about all the things we love about each other? cause i can stay up to listen to that, of course.”

“go to sleep, you idiot,” you scoff.

he grins. you press one last kiss to his forehead as you count the soft breaths he takes while he falls back asleep.

you love him—it’s all you ever want to do.

i cried while writing this and i cried thinking about the leaks and i cried while reading the leaks and i cried and cried and i’m tired of crying. gege when i catch you gege 🔫

[gothcsz]

javier peña loves playing with/eating your pussy through your panties 😵‍💫🫠

ay amigita (gn) if only you knew how much i've been thinking about this since i mentioned it in another ask the other day... plus, this couple i subscribe to posted a video that quite literally matched this fantasy— so disfruta y pues… disculpa por la mamada que acabo de escribir

Tags: smut, light dirty talk, pussy rubbing, unprotected p in v sex, i think javier peña has a panty fetish, unbeta'd 🫡, other shit i’m probably forgetting. ~1k wc.

You’re laid back against the pillows, legs spread and body nude except for the very pretty (albeit flimsy) panties that adorn your lower half.

They’re soaked, borderline ruined, from your boyfriend going down on you and then squirting some lube over them to get them slicked up enough to continue with this new... thing you’ve been wanting to try for a while.

Javier has always loved how your undergarments look on you. Whether it’s an expensive lingerie set that he’s purchased for you while he’s away at work or just your simple, day-to-day bra and underwear— it drives him crazy how sexy you look when you’re half undressed. 

Hell, sometimes he even prefers you just like that. Fucking you with your bra pulled below your tits, panties pushed to the side. It’s just so hot.

Which is what prompted you to bring this idea to him, over dinner:

“Want you to rub your cock over my ruined panties, Javi.”

Javier is between your thighs, sitting back on his haunches as he strokes his heavy cock languidly— teeth sinking into his lower lip, grunting as more precum leaks from the slit.

Your panties cling to your pussy, outlining your beautiful sex to him, the once light gray fabric now a darker shade due to how wet it is. Your folds are prominent against the cloth.

He leans forward, bending down to kiss you, his tongue slipping into your mouth at the same time as the head of his cock begins to rub against your slit.

“Oh,” you moan, disconnecting your lips from his and canting your head back. You’re still so sensitive from having his mouth on you, sucking your clit through the fabric and tonguing at your entrance with the barrier keeping him from diving inside. 

The feeling of it was fucking fantastic, and while it usually feels like heaven itself when he devours your bare— something about the texture of your underwear being added to the mix just made the whole thing even more pleasurable.

Every day, Javier Peña finds a way to outdo himself.

His cock continues to glide against your covered pussy, he’s holding his shaft at the base to keep him steady as you begin to move your hips in tandem with his. 

The noises he lets out are like music to your ears. Grunts, groans of your name, his blunt fingertips digging into the plush skin of your meaty thigh as he increases the pace in which he ruts himself against you.

“Puta madre this feels fuckin’ amazing.”

Your lips pull into a smirk, hands traveling down to paw at your tits, pulling your stiff nipples between your thumb and pointer fingers to further stimulate your bliss.

Each time he brushes against your swollen clit, whines spill from your throat, only egging him on further. He reaches over to grab the bottle of lube, letting a thick strand of it land over his cock and all over your panties.

“Need to feel you, baby, please.”

You nod, flashing him the sultriest fuck me eyes you can muster and he curses under his breath, pulling your panties to the side to reveal your glistening cunt to him.

His spit, the lube, your creamy arousal— it all paints such an erotic picture. He almost loses it entirely and releases his load then and there.

He slaps his cock against your clit a few times, causing your back to arch and thighs to twitch at the sensation. The fire that blooms at your pussy travels throughout the entirety of your body, leaving your skin hot and entrance fluttering as he continues his movements from before; except this time it’s skin on skin.

Javier lets go of your panties, sliding his shaft against your flesh. Feeling the wet fabric brushing against his sensitive cock along with the stickiness from your pussy has his mind spinning and he grits his teeth, one hand coming up to grope your tit while the other finds purchase at your thigh again.

The fucking sounds that come from this little act are obscene, his dick feels so good sliding against your sensitive sex. You feel his heavy balls brushing against your ass, they’re wet from all the mess you’ve made and smearing it all over your skin.

Your eyes flutter close, losing yourself entirely to the pleasure, moaning his name and resting your hand over his that’s currently tweaking your nipples.

“Just like that Javi, oh baby you’re going to make me come.”

He halts then and you snap your eyes open, flashing him a confused look then suddenly— like a fucking animal, he tears your underwear straight down the middle, once more revealing your sweet pussy.

DIY fucking crotchless panties. 

“Mira que belleza. Lookin’ so pretty with this cock on her.”

And he continues his thrusts, eyes glued to the way your swollen cunt looks while his cock drags between your labia, the pearl of your clit peeking out from beneath the hood each time his head rubs beneath it.

The hand that was on your thigh moves to twist the fabric, having it dig into your skin and making your pussy look plump, protruding from the makeshift hole he’s just tore.

Your own hands fist the sheets, vision blinded by white spots as you feel your orgasm building at the base of your spine. Your lips part in a silent scream, hips meeting his thrusts.

Then suddenly, his cock is inside of you, and that has you jolting and screaming out his name like you’ve just been shot.

Javier has a smug expression on that handsome face of his, chuckling darkly at your reaction then beginning to pound into you.

All that teasing, the foreplay, building anticipation— it has got the both of you lost in a horny reverie as your walls pulsate around his girthy shaft.

“Just like that, baby, pussy is always so fucking tight.”

Needing to be closer, he leans down to press his entire body weight onto you, your legs coming with him as they’re pressed against your tits, folding you in half while his knees spread a little more to give him a better angle to fuck you at.

And he fucks you.

Your calves are on his shoulders as he relentlessly and unabashedly fills you with that cock of his that you love so much.

His teeth graze along the skin of your jaw before your lips meet messily, swapping spit and clashing teeth.

It’s the hottest thing ever.

With both of his hands planted on either side of your head, he uses the leverage to deliver some brutal thrusts while your hand skips down the length of your torso until your fingertips are at your engorged clit.

You’re both so close, it won’t take much longer.

“C’mon, Javi. Give it to me.” You purr, whining as he hits your g-spot which inadvertently has your walls gripping him like a goddamn vice.

And that’s all it takes for you to milk every single drop from him. A gravelly moan falls from his lips and his balls tighten, delivering three more harsh thrusts before he stills and begins to paint the inside for your pussy with his load.

Feeling his cock twitch and his teeth digging into your neck prompts your own release. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, fingers pinching your clit.

First you felt like you were shot, now you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck as your orgasm takes over. How is it that Javier makes you feel such extremes?

You both lie there, intertwined and panting heavily. The position that was once so titillating is starting to feel uncomfortable but you’re still so lost in this haze he’s put you in, that you don’t mind it right now.

His dick softens inside of you, lips turning tender as they press gentle kisses along any inch of skin he can reach. Sensing your discomfort, he shifts to move your legs off his shoulders and you use this change to throw your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he gets comfortable between your thighs.

“Loved that. Love you,” he mutters, kissing your cheek then your lips.

You can’t help but smile, nuzzling your nose against his. “Love you too. You owe me a new pair of underwear.”

Both of you chuckle lightly, feeling the damp, now cool, material pressing against your heated skin.

“Lo que quieras, princesa.” 

[imagines-by-elysian]

Naps- Gojo Satoru

🗝Oneshot: Just a sweet moment shared between you two.

🗝Genre: Fluff

🗝Pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader

It was a tiresome afternoon at the Jujutsu High. The duo had returned from yet another missioned assigned, The sun was streaming through the windows of the dormitory, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. Gojo was stretched out on the couch, his trademark glasses covering his eyes. On the other side of the room, you half seated on the floor and half on the beanbag, engrossed on your phone.

Gojo let out a contented sigh and sat up. "You know," he said, his voice low, "I could really use a nap right now."

You glanced up from your phone and smiled at him. "Me too," you agreed, feeling the tiredness seeping into your bones. The mission was tiresome, maybe you could take a break

Without another word, Gojo stood up and walked over to you. He held out his hand, a silent invitation. You took it, allowing him to pull you up from the floor. Together, you made your way to his room. The sheets on his bed were soft and inviting, and you couldn’t help but yawn as you settled in.

Gojo kicked off his shoes and lay down next to you, pulling you into his arms. You snuggled close, feeling his warmth enveloping you. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before closing his eyes, his breathing steady and calming.

"Gotta remove those glasses now Satoru," You said, as you removed his glasses, keeping them at the side table as Gojo does nothing but give a grin to you.

Wrapped in Gojo's arms, you felt safe and cherished. The events of the day faded away, and all that remained was the comforting presence of the man you loved. As you drifted to doze off, you whispered, "I love you, you know."

Gojo's lips curved into a gentle smile. "I love you too," he murmured, his hands wrapped around you as you both snuggled each other.

And in that moment, the world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the two of you, entwined in each other's arms, finding solace and peace in a shared nap.

[yuutapedia]

bf gojo who’s good at anything he does so I make him learn how to do nails and he becomes my personal nail tech. 🤭🤭

[venstm]

Dark, ominous clouds enshroud Mondstadt, they lament as he has, burdened with the weight of a once immense flame as it fades. Distraught, his fingers are buried into his father’s hair, once a proud, undulating mane of crimson plastered to his pallid cheeks, sodden and lifeless. As he cradles his father’s head he’s attentive, not to the blood sousing his trousers, nor the torrent of rain that bears down upon him but to how his hands tremble, as if he might jostle him awake. It is the dissonance of his keening that is the most harrowing, a wounded, wretched sound. As if it were his skin lacerated and bleeding, his inert heart that was growing still. With his head bowed, his shoulders slumped, Diluc Ragnvindr is an inconsolable echo of the ebullient boy he once was. Everything around him is a dolorous grey, the outlines of the trees silent mourners. The life he had known was ravaged by the imminence of his father’s demise, of his inability to prevent it. Even as he senses others at his peripheries, a cacophony of voices closing in on him, he doesn’t raise his head in recognition and when hands that are not his reach for his father they’re met with the violent arch of Diluc’s hand fending them off. He sinks his hands into his wet, black coat and vehemently refuses to let go, as if he were reduced once more to a child, petulant and miserable. When he looks up, meeting Kaeya’s gaze across the desolate chasm between them, he is morose, rife with anguish. The two brothers meet at the diverging of two paths, revelations ice the blood in his veins, still, it seethes. Kaeya’s steady gaze is the blade by which he is impaled, withering to strange, tremulous diamonds as his brother is resurrected from the mire. Petrichor and iron pervade the charged distance between them, the sinuous, desiccated vines mourning the brothers as enmity burns and burns. Betrayal, it sets the raw kindling of agony into a fierce, ruinous flame. Dark sullied boots sink into the mud, his shoulder sags beneath the weight of his father’s claymore, lucidity seared away by ire he casts judgment over his brother’s sins, something more profound than he could understand in that moment. ❝Kaeya ! ..  you betrayed us. ❞ his guttural tirade eviscerates him long before the hungry, licking flames curl around his weapon. Unadulterated fear courts his brows, the limpid, benign blue of his eye becoming glacial, frantic. Diluc doesn’t give him time proper to stumble back, to create some distance between them, the incendiary assault streaks through the tenebrous night illuminating long, ravenous shadows. It’s only when the magnificent, devastating wings of fire descend upon his brother that his eyes widen and dread looms over his fury. For all the death he had endured was it not an abominable cruelty that Kaeya’s would come by his hand ? The hiss of vaporized droplets is silenced as the god’s take notice of his plight and the fire that threatened to devour him is vanquished by ice, it burgeons outwards, the melancholic sheet of rain suspended in hundreds of tiny, glistening droplets, as cold as the moribund last breath of their father. Across the insurmountable distance between them Diluc gazes long and hard, he doesn’t dare breach it, nor urgently rush over to tend to his brother’s wounds, he turns on the heel of his boot and stalks up the path ascending to the estate, hanging at his side his fists quiver, rage and terror coalescing into something sickening. He cannot look back but as he steps into the manor and adelinde stares at him with abject horror he mouths something silently, kaeya.. he’s hurt. the door swings open and then closed again with a thud of finality, still, he does not look back.

[gravesung-moving]

TICK TOCK.

The clock had just struck noon when Riposte Alaric ran a sword through her best friend. 

Granted, it was a dueling sword: school-issued, enchanted to pass harmlessly through the target with a mark left behind in a color dictated by the severity of the damage. But a rapier was a rapier, and Riposte was undoubtedly the best swordswoman in Drakarth Conservatory’s student body. 

“Look, I apologize for calling you a slacker,” said Riposte, dancing backward to avoid a quick jab and a swing from Jupiter’s saber. “But you haven’t woken up before noon a single day this week. You’ve been late to every class, you haven’t once taken notes, and I can’t keep covering for you. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to start working—“

Their swords clashed at their bases, right above the hand-guards. Jupiter pressed down, swung them horizontal; Riposte shifted her weight to take the force, but he was stronger and heavier, and he’d pinned her where she stood by keeping both arms straining to keep her sword from falling. He leaned forward, pressing in, until they were close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath.

“Don’t you dare say working harder,” he hissed, “I am. I’m working harder than you are!”

“You cannot be serious!”

“Little Miss Perfect,” Jupiter mocked. “Soaring to the top in her first week of school and staying there ever since. Better at swords. Better at tests. Better at paying attention in class and waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to train every single fucking day. I get it! You don’t need to rub it in my face!”

“You and I are tied at the top, and you would have a much easier time staying there if you actually applied yourself for once instead of slacking off every class period.”

He advanced again. She ducked under his raised arm and delivered an elbow to the unguarded spot underneath his ribs — right over his liver. As Jupiter gasped and doubled over, Riposte swung behind him and kicked out his legs from under him. He fell to his elbows, rolled to the side and shot back up onto his feet. 

Jupiter’s clumsy blade would come from her right next. Riposte floated left as he lunged, leaned into the opening she’d created, then softened her knees and dropped her weight just as the sword swiped through the air where her head had been. Jupiter stumbled forward. Riposte was low, but not by much, and she was steady. Her body moved like the rapier in her hand was an extension of herself. She brought the blade close to her midsection and darted past him, sideswiping Jupiter with a long slash across his waist. Her heel dug into the gravel as she pivoted to stand behind him, sword braced to block the inevitable downward swing

It didn’t come.

“You sleep around instead of training,” said Riposte. “You complete every single mundane task you’ve been putting off for weeks or months just to avoid studying until the last possible second. I take notes as detailed as possible because you won’t write anything down and I don’t want you to miss anything! Jupiter, you have such a natural talent for spellcrafting. You can work a room or a debate like no one else. If I didn’t have to coddle you —”

“I never asked you to coddle me.” Jupiter’s back was turned. Riposte could see his shoulders heaving, the wild mane of black curls loose around his shoulders and back from where it had fallen out of its bun. If this were a real fight, she would have skewered him a dozen times by now.

“Then don’t act pathetic enough to need it,” she said.

Her friend’s head turned to face her before his body did. As it came into view, first a sliver of cheekbone and then the rest, Riposte was startled by the look in his eyes. It wasn’t wild with glee or childish rage. It was pained. His dark brows were knitted, jaw clamped shut, dark eyes betraying a level of hurt that she had never once seen in him, not in their entire lives. Especially not directed at her.

She blinked. The look was gone. 

“Blue,” he said. “Yoo-hoo! You listening? Did you even hear me?”

Riposte blinked again, silent.

“So you don’t even care what I have to say now. If I’m such an idiot to you, fine.”

“Jupiter.” The adrenaline was beginning to wear into exhaustion. Her head was spinning, still off-kilter from that odd moment of possession. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean any of that. I’m sorry.”

“No.” There it was again — that hint of pain, a flash of genuine anger. “You don’t get to back out now. We’re ending this. Let’s see if this idiot child can stumble into a victory, shall we?”

His words stung, but Riposte knew he wouldn’t back down until the duel was over. He was too stubborn to yield and too emotional to calm down. Best to end it quickly. There was a horrible, nagging feeling radiating like a sickness through her mind — it felt like deja vu, but she couldn’t place where it came from. They hadn’t ever fought like this before. They’d dueled over petty arguments plenty of times, but Jupiter never lashed out with this level of vitriol. It was always a barb meant to hurt in the moment and immediate regret or escape. Something was wrong. And somehow, it felt like this wasn’t the first time.

Riposte shook away the haze and sidestepped right as Jupiter advanced with a lightning-fast lunge. He was feinting. It was a very convincing feint — Riposte wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t learned his tells so well at this point — and she skipped backwards to avoid a pulsing burst of dark energy from his offhand. Without missing a beat, he took a step and pivoted to cut off her path and get close; his other hand had drawn a dagger from his belt. Riposte leapt straight up to avoid both of his weapons sailing toward her from either side. She gave herself some extra momentum by teleporting a few feet upward before landing hard on his sword wrist with the heel of her shoe. sending him stumbling forward with a hiss. Another teleport took her backwards onto the gravel in front of his unsteadied body. He was wide open. Before she could think, she lunged forward and stabbed the length of her rapier once through his heart.

“I am so — sick of this,“ she said, pulling the sword back out with a grunt of effort. 

Jupiter dropped to one knee with a pained wheeze. The dueling swords Drakarth had students use when challenging each other for a personal vendetta were physically harmless, but that didn’t mean being run through with one didn’t hurt like Hell. The pain was programmed in. Knowing what a stab wound felt like was a valuable learning experience, and according to the faculty, a proper price to pay for the idiocy of challenging a fellow student to a duel instead of talking about your feelings.

“Riposte,” said Jupiter, “do me this mercy… end it.” He looked up at her. Whatever had come over him seemed to have dissipated; that awful look in his eyes had vanished and left no echo. Instead, she saw the telltale, patented glimmer of amusement and mischief that belonged to her first, best, only friend. Had she imagined it after all? Perhaps it had just been the heat of the fight. Just adrenaline. Just a petty argument like the rest.

Regardless, it was her fault.

Riposte returned his gaze and knelt low to face him eye-to-eye. She hoped her face conveyed the guilt sitting like a stone in her belly. “I’m sorry, J. I didn’t mean any of it.” 

“I know,” said Jupiter. He breathed in, choking on nonexistent blood. She rolled her eyes. The boy knew what Riposte’s dueling sword felt like better than he knew a broken limb. And he had suffered plenty of broken limbs. “Permit me some last words before I go?” he asked, raising his sword to the sky and following it with a wide-eyed gaze upward.

“Fine.” She still felt uneasy, but the rhythm of their banter was familiar, balming. 

He beckoned her closer. She knew this trick. He would wait until she was close enough to whisper in her ear, say something stupid, and take advantage of her reaction to sweep her legs and regain the upper hand. “Not so fast,” she said with a quick flourish of the blade in her hand. “Yield first.”

He swore.

“Sorry, do you think I’m an idiot?”

He flashed her a grin. “If I say sometimes, will you stab me again?”

“I can’t promise not to.”

“Then of course not, my dear Riposte Alaric. You’re the coolest cat on the block. The smartest cookie in the tin. Besides me, of course.”

“Are those really your last words?”

Jupiter shook himself back into theatre-kid mode, clutching the pulsing red rune hovering over his chest where the dueling sword struck him through the heart moments ago. “No… what I truly… what I want to say…”

“Oh, my God. I love you. Spit it out.”

He looked at her, wild black curls falling in his face, his gray eyes so big and pathetic she was almost impressed at the ease with which he could summon any expression he liked. 

Jupiter’s voice dropped to a whisper. He swayed, as if he were a mere thread from death. Still he held her gaze. “Cheap hot coffee?”

Relief broke over Riposte like dawn over the ocean. She grinned. “That’s more like it.”

Cheap hot coffee. Those three magic words could heal any rift in Riposte and Jupiter’s friendship, no matter how big or small. Spats and duels were not an uncommon thing between them, most often the result of a miscommunication or a lack of sleep or Riposte overworking herself for exams until she saw stars, but when the wronged party evoked the sacred phrase “cheap hot coffee,” it meant all was forgiven. It meant Riposte and Jupiter would leave the campus at the next opportunity and share a cup of dirt-cheap gas-station coffee like detectives suffering through a long stakeout. The aggressor would pay for both; the tension was swept away with a tide of new conversation topics like did you see how badly Cordelia failed at chess yesterday? or when are you going to make good on your promise to wake up at a decent time and help me study?

Worst case scenario, when they couldn’t agree on who the aggressor was, they would force the words out through gritted teeth mutually and shake on it, or the topic would fall to the wayside and never be spoken of again.

The two third-years had been tied for top of their class since their first week at Drakarth Conservatory, but they’d known each other since they could walk and talk. They’d shared a naming ceremony, the coming-of-age Inferni ritual that entailed choosing a new name that represented something you wanted to embody: an aspect of yourself that you wanted to pursue or highlight, a word you resonated with, a place or concept whose values you admired. 

Inferni already stood out from the rest of the population with their jewel-toned skin and the horns sprouting from their heads. Their dictionary-word names only distanced them more. Riposte and Jupiter were two of the handful that attended Drakarth, of the slightly larger handful that made up the population of their city. They’d always known it was them against the world — they had to stick together, at all costs.

It was Saturday, the evening air crisp with autumn and cool on Riposte’s skin. She shrugged on her favorite uniform sweater, a moth-eaten plaid number that three years of wear and tear had only made softer. It had once been almost as royal-blue as her skin, but it had faded into a pleasantly desaturated periwinkle over the years. The school’s coat of arms was embroidered expertly on the breast pocket: two hawks locked in battle, talons outstretched, surrounded by the wild roses that grew natively in the land around Drakarth and a sword and pen crossed diagonally behind them. Knowledge, honor, and might. Three core tenets upon which Drakarth had been founded. 

“They should add ‘dead students’ to those,” Jupiter had said on their first night in the dorm, poring over the school’s orientation brochure over a platter of evening breakfast foods. 

“I think that would be too on the nose,” Riposte had replied. “Besides, only the centurions have to compete yearly.”

“Yeah! And half of them die!”

“They mostly drop out, actually,” she’d said, waving a piece of bacon like a teaching stick. 

He’d returned the gesture by picking up another and waggling it back at her. “And some of them die. My point still stands.”

“They’re preparing us for war, Jupiter. The top eighty-to-one hundred students are the ones most likely to enter situations later in life that threaten their safety.”

“I mean, I guess! It’s still messed up!”

She’d shrugged, and taken a bite out of the bacon. Riposte had known she would become a Drakarth centurion from the moment her father had taken her on a school tour when she was nine years old. She’d been prepared for this; Jupiter should have been, too, given that his mothers had birthed him for exactly that purpose. Unlike her, he had no other choice. 

Riposte stuck her wallet in the pocket of her pants and trotted through a pair of oak double doors, lifting a hand to greet her big red friend as he lounged against the corridor wall. Jupiter was tall and barrel-chested, his genes gifting him natural muscle mass supported by training and a ravenous appetite. His cherry-red skin was freckled slightly from days lazing in the sun, razed with old scars across the arms. Two antelope-like horns the same shade as his skin jutted up from the top of his skull, often decorated with gold wire, paint, or stacked rings. He normally kept his wild black ringlets up out of his face in a bun that came loose the second he inevitably started roughhousing with his sports pals. Today, he’d left it down. For his take on the school uniform, he’d shrugged a black coat over a white button-down, with a dress code-violating amount of buttons undone and the royal-blue school tie conveniently missing. Riposte squinted at him. He shot back a wink. He would get away with it — the school’s top two students were shown no mercy in most areas, but the faculty couldn’t care less about dress code unless Jupiter showed up naked. 

… Which, in truth, she wouldn’t put past him.

“Bluuuuue,” whined Jupiter as she met him at the top of the co-ed dormitory’s staircase. “Did you have to skewer me in the heart?”

She cringed. “Sorry. It was instinct.”

“Sure, but —“

“But what?”

Jupiter gestured to the students passing by them on their way downstairs. The pair were accustomed to gossip and strange looks, being the top two students of the entire school and Inferni at that. But this was different. Riposte noticed a group of girls giggling where they stood clustered at the archway leading to the west wing. She looked back at Jupiter. The crimson rune pulsated over where his heart was, and his cherry-red skin was flushed an even deeper shade from embarrassment. Oh. Oh. 

She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Jupiter—“

“You are such a dick!” exclaimed her friend, shoving her upper arm just hard enough to set her off balance. One part of the student culture that had developed at Drakarth over the years was the tendency for those who had just broken up with a partner to shove a dueling sword through their heart, leaving the red mark as a sign that they were heartbroken. Like most of Drakarth’s customs, it had begun as a genuinely tragic event, but over the years had lost the original meaning. Nowadays it meant you were looking for a rebound. Riposte had just flagged to the entire school that Jupiter, a notorious flirt and perhaps its most eligible young bachelor, had just been dumped.

She couldn’t help it. She began to cackle. Before she knew it, Jupiter was shoving her again, and Riposte was instinctively twisting an arm behind his back, though both of them were lost in a giggling fit they could not physically overcome. 

“I thought she dumped him,” a first-year muttered to her companion as they passed the flurry of chaos on the stairs. 

“What? They’re not together, Eloise.”

“I know, now —“

“No, no, no, they were never together. They’re best friends. I think they made a blood pact or something.”

“Oh. Then why are they —“

“Beats me,” the other girl said with a one-shouldered shrug. She cast one last glance back at the red and blue Inferni. Jupiter had wrestled Riposte against the railing, and she slipped into a crouch and teleported behind him with a flash of violet light. “The tops are all weird like that. You know, the last guy who graduated number one went crazy. School pushed him so hard, he just snapped.”

Riposte was nursing a goose egg by the time they got to the gas station situated on the town side of Drakarth’s half-mile bridge. Clouds had covered whatever semblance of sky the morning had gifted them, and mist hung low and sleepy over the crescent of mountains to the west. A horse-drawn shuttle carriage waited by the gate for the next trip back into the school. Many of the students had cars, but technology stopped working right at the half-mile mark, so vehicles had to be parked in the riverside lot and carriages taken the rest of the way, if you had luggage or otherwise didn’t want to walk back to campus. Drakarth had been built on what was technically an island in the middle of a lazy river that cut all the way through the countryside (which, conveniently, had earned it the nickname ‘The Cut’.) It did them well to remain isolated, and the river warded off potential hapless wanderers who could be caught up in the dangers that lurked on school grounds.

“Thanks,” said Jupiter as Riposte handed him a paper cup full of dark, bitter coffee. He liked it black, though she’d never understood why. Her own was loaded with cream and sugar, as always. The coffee at the Black Cat in town was much better, but it was also three times the price, and a deal was a deal.

 Riposte hopped up to sit on the short stone wall framing the bridge. 

“So,” she said. “All is forgiven?”

“I invoked the phrase, didn’t I?” said Jupiter.

“Yes. I’m just checking in. I’d rather not rehash this argument again because there wasn’t any closure.” 

“Blue.” Jupiter set down his coffee on the half-wall and turned around to haul himself up next to her. They were the exact same height, but his little slouch gave her rigid posture an inch or two most days. She resisted the temptation to lean her head on his shoulder. That had worked when they were younger, when she didn’t have spiraling ram’s horns curled tightly over each side of her blunt inky bob. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “I wasn’t in the right mind either.”

“It was unfair of me to say you don’t work hard. I know you do.”

“I know you know.”

“But —“

“Oi.” He nudged her with an absurdly muscled arm. “I invoked the phrase. We’re drinking the phrase. Now, let’s talk about something else, like who I can pick up with this accidental heartbreak angle you’ve got me working with.”

“Will you ever stop sleeping around?”

“Will you ever stop going to bed at ten and waking up before the sun rises?”

“It’s how my body works.”

“Then we’re on the same page, love.”

“Ugh.” Riposte scoffed, nose crinkling. The river picked up a breeze that ruffled her cropped black hair around her chin. “Eyeing anyone lately, then?”

“You know who I was thinking about? Remember that guy, Hiero-whatever? The top student who went mad from the pressure. Thinking of busting out the old yearbook and calling him up for a good time. You know what they say. The crazy ones are the best in bed.”

“Hieronymous Xenakis? I’m pretty sure he died.”

“No shit. Wait, really?”

Riposte nodded gravely. “In the Archive. My coworkers were talking about it when I was shelving the other day. His breakdown happened in three below.”

“That why they still won’t let us down there?”

“No, you oaf. They’ve never let us down there. You need a license in artifact handling. I can’t even go down there.”

“Bet my moms could.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Riposte, slowly, half-distracted. She squinted at a growing devilish glimmer in Jupiter’s eyes. “Jupiter Heldrake,” she scolded, “you are not cooking up a scheme right now. Three below is serious! Even you would be expelled — I could get kicked out just for associating with the idiot who broke in!”

“Wow,” said Jupiter, raising his hands in surrender. “I said literally nothing.”

He was right. She huffed out a breath. “Well, I know you,” Riposte retorted before taking a long sip of her coffee, black eyes still lingering on his face. 

Jupiter gave her a strange look. “Sure,” he said. “’S what I was thinking, anyway. You read my mind, little genius.”

“Stop,” she groaned. They were words right out of his mother’s mouth. Riposte could practically relive the memory if she closed her eyes: Cecile tying bows around her then-nubby horns, affixing a mock-medal around her throat. One-horned Jury looking on, her stony face never quite smiling. Jupiter, laughing his ass off at whatever horrible, scratchy, frilly dress they’d wrangled her into. 

“Little star,” he sang. “Top of our school. Love of my life.” Good lord. The long drop to the river suddenly felt very appealing.

She transferred the coffee to her right hand purely to free up the left for a hard whack to his shoulder. “Let’s get back. It’s going to rain soon.”

[embersofhope-if]

39/Ash

39: “ I wish we could stay like this forever. ”

bet you thought this was gonna be a fluffy thing when you asked for it huh

wordcount: 965

The only thing I can hear is two words echoing over and over again. No not words. A name. The most important name in my life.  

Asher Fairchild.  

It repeats on a continuous loop in my mind until their name almost loses meaning.  

Asher Fairchild.  

Ash Fairchild.  

Ash. 

My Ash.  

Not even twenty-four hours ago we were busy watching the stars and climbing rooftops. I can still smell the night air and the scent of leather that follows Ash everywhere they go. If I try hard enough, I can almost hear their laugh, almost feel the softness of their hair, almost see their blinding grin.  

Right now, that grin is nowhere to be seen. In its place is a tight lipped smile that I can tell is their attempt to stop themselves from crying.  

Why on Earth does it have to be them? Everyone knows the world is cruel, but this is downright evil. Of the thousands of names in that bowl there should be no way that the name Asher Fairchild should ever be called.  

I’m shoving my way through the crowd desperate to reach Ash. I have no idea what I’m going to do but I can’t just stand here and watch my light walk out of my life and straight to their death.  

There has to be something I can do. Could I volunteer? Or I could find some way to get them to redo the reaping. I can beg Father to stop and pick a different name. The Vesper name is powerful but is it really powerful enough to overrule a reaping? No, it's not, maybe I can knock over some of the cameras and cause a scene. I just need to do something. I don’t care how much trouble it’ll get me into. If it means Ash gets to live, I’ll gladly take any punishment.  

I’ve finally managed to shove my way to the edge of the crowd, and I can see Ash walking down to climb the stairs up to the stage. 

Just as they start to walk past me, I manage to reach out and grab their wrist, stopping them from moving any further. Any semblance of a plan that I had immediately disappears when I look into their eyes. I expected to see fear. Who wouldn’t be terrified in this moment, but all I can see in their eyes is the grim acceptance of their fate.  

How can they just accept this so easily? They are walking to their literal death and they’re just okay with it? That’s not the Ash I know. The Ash that I know would fight this as much as they could, or they’d at least make it a show that nobody could turn away from. Instead, all they’re doing is putting on a smile and going quietly.  

My confusion stops me from being able to say anything. So caught up in trying to figure out what is wrong with them, I don’t even notice the peacekeepers that have started to walk towards us. The moment I feel a hand on my shoulder I’m snapped back into reality.  

They’re trying to pull me away, but I refuse to let go of Ash’s wrist. My grip so tight it has to be hurting them, but I can’t let myself care about that not right now. If I let go, I might not ever get a goodbye. So, I decide to hold on for dear life.  

There’re four peacekeepers now, two behind me and two behind Ash, and each pair is getting ready to pull us apart. The fear that runs through my body is indescribable. Suddenly I’m able to understand why Hope freezes any time I try to take his favorite toy from him. I’m taking the most important thing in his life away and all he can do is sit there and watch.  

I feel a hand wrap around the one I have latched to Ash’s wrist but this time I don’t feel the leather of a peacekeepers glove. Instead, I feel Ash’s warm and slightly shaky hand begin to pull mine away from them.  

“You have to let go [Name]]. Please don’t make this a fight” they plead with me, their voice is so quiet that I can barely hear them.  

“I’m not going to just let this happen Ash.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

They finally manage to pry my hand off their wrist but instead of stepping away they take a step forward and cup my face. We don’t say a word. I honestly don’t think either of us know what to say; not with all of Panem watching us. Instead, Ash leans forward and presses a kiss on my forehead. I desperately wish we could stay like this forever. Just as the peacekeepers begin to pull us away Ash leans to whisper in my ear. 

“If you’re quick I bet you could sneak into the Justice Building. We can talk in there.” 

For a second, I see the regular Ash again but just as quickly they’re gone. With a flash of a smile, they turn back to the stage and keep walking. I’m suddenly all too aware of the number of eyes I have on me. I even manage to spot a camera still pointed in my direction.  

The peacekeepers try to pull me back, but I quickly shove off their hands and walk back into the crowd without them. I don’t care how many laws I’m breaking by leaving the reaping or how many more I’ll be breaking by sneaking into the Justice Building. If they’re going to take Ash from me, I’m going to at least get a proper goodbye. 

The last thing I see before I duck out of the crowd are my father's eyes.  

[hazbinhive]

" what do you mean you are going to HELL? " the newly ascended snake WINNER almost yells at her. Emily had gone back to the tower, contemplating her next course of action. should she go? should she not? was this a BAD idea? probably. but if she doesn't do anything, who knows what will happen?

" yes, Hell. i have to talk to Charlie and warn her about what's been going on here. its not just HEAVEN that's in trouble so is HELL. i already snuck a letter to Lucifer. i just hope they got it. " she can only pray. pray that they did, that this crazy plan of hers works. that she can actually open a portal and hopefully find CHARLIE.

" .. misssss EMILY, pleasssse take me with you. you have been ssso kind to me, i have to repay the favor and aid you down there. itssssss practically a DEATH TRAP for you! " Pentious begged. sure it has been pretty nice up here but he missed his companions. his comrades. seeing them again would mean the world to him but Emily shakes her head. " i'm sorry Pent ... as much as i would like to and i'm sure they miss you down there too, i have to go on my own. "

she doubt that they would harm him exactly but she's not gonna risk that. she holds out her hands and from a small light spawns a key. it glittered gold and radiated a nice warmth as she places it in Pentious' hands. " this key is pretty much a universal key for the tower, if you ever feel the need to get out. use this. " with that, she gives him a quick hug before turning around to take a deep breathe. hands held out forward as she closes her eyes to concentrate.

she tries to focus on her destination. the hotel. charlie. the morningstars. HOTEL. a spark of light begins to form in front of them, the light begins to move, forming a circle. Emily keeps herself steady, trying to keep her focus. HOTEL. CHARLIE. DEMONS. THE DEVIL. ANGEL. ANGEL. ANGEL. I SEE YOU. there's a flash of various images that flood Emily's head before the portal finally opens. the familiar red hue of PRIDE on the other side, the sounds of crowds and explosions not too far but Emily barely even realizes what it is before she screams in pain .... and falls into the depths of HELL below.

[saetoru]

underground fighter wriothesley who absolutely melts whenever you patch him up n place the softest kisses over his bruises n stuff :((

- 🦋 anon

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ WE, NOT I — WRIOTHESLEY.

contents. underground fighter! wriothesley, gn! reader (he gifts you flowers, perfume and a necklace though, so if that is fem! coded to you, there’s your warning), mentions of foster care and being orphaned (wriothesley), mentions of blood, bruises, and injuries (wriothesley), slight angst but overall fluff ending

money’s tight—has been for a while, actually. wriothesley doesn’t like to talk about it, doesn’t like to open up even though he knows you won’t think any less of him. but you notice the small things, always do.

it’s the way you buy groceries for two, the way he’s always over for dinner one way or another, the way he seems to spend more and more time at your place than his. money’s tight, even if he doesn’t like to admit it—and you could never force it out of him, but you think letting him stay with you while he can could help ease the burden of living even if a little.

he’s grateful—a little roundabout in the ways he shows it, but grateful all the same.

and then the presents start to come.

it’s small at first: those expensive macarons you like from that bakery, the bouquet of roses that couldn’t be cheap, a nice dinner he insists he can pay for every once in a while. and then it starts to get bigger: fancy tea from the side of town neither of you even think about shopping at, perfume from a brand you can’t even pronounce, a necklace that’s more than what you can afford yourself.

it starts out slow, and then all at once, wriothesley has what you imagine to be more money than he knows what to do with. because why else spoil you like this? why else blow money on things for you when he could be putting it towards himself?

not everyone gets to have a head start at life—wriothesley is proof of that. it’s hard, more than most people realize, to be orphaned so young and move through foster home after foster home. he’d gone to jail once too—he doesn’t talk about that either, and you never ask. it’s hard, more than anyone gives him credit for, to be knocked down by life so many times and make a living for yourself.

you can’t understand where the sudden change comes from, can’t pinpoint where along the line he started getting so comfortable. it’s not unwelcome, you would never want to watch him just barely scrap by, but it concerns you how he seems to have so much all at once.

and then you get your answer.

“what—what happened to you?” you ask in disbelief, eyeing the blood caked by his nose and around his knuckles. that’s the best of it, unfortunately—the gashes on his chest and the bruises somehow look even worse.

you’d consider him lucky that his ribs don’t seem cracked.

“just a fight,” he shrugs, not meeting your eyes. wriothesley is a lot of things: resourceful, conniving at times, and braver than most. good at lying is not one of them, however—at least not with you. “just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“where were you, then?” you challenge, staring at him hard enough that he doesn’t have to meet your eyes to shuffle uncomfortably in his spot. he doesn’t answer. you’re almost fed up. “wriothesley,” you say in a warning tone.

there’s a sense of finality he doesn’t like.

“what happened to wrio, sweetheart? you’re killin’ me here, i come home to you all bruised up and you’re here beating me down harder—”

“wriothesley, i’m worried about you,” you whisper tiredly. it’s defeated—it’s almost helpless. he frowns, finally looking up at you from his place between your legs as you sit on the bathroom counter.

“you don’t have to be,” he mumbles, “i can take care on my own. i always have.”

“there’s no being on your own when we’re together,” you shake your head. your hands fall to either side of your body, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “don’t you understand? neither of us is supposed to be on our own anymore—not when the other is here.”

“yeah,” he crosses his arms—you try to ignore the wince he lets out as he moves, “and now you’re not handling things on your own anymore. i’m carrying my weight. just need to fight a guy or two.”

“you’re carrying your weight by fighting?” you blink at the realization. he doesn’t look you in your eyes, keeping them trained on the floor again. “oh my god—is that what these are from? because….because you’re fighting some punks in the middle of the night? that’s illegal—and you could get in trouble again—”

he doesn’t seem to like being reminded of his past. that’s clear when he clicks his teeth and glares at you. “and what am i supposed to do, stay cooped up in your place and eat your food?” he asks bitterly, making your brows furrow.

“not necessarily, but you can—”

“what, so i just live paycheck to paycheck and shower at your place and sleep in your bed so my water and electricity bills aren’t too high for the month?”

“wrio—”

“i’m earning, aren’t i? what’s the big deal?”

“the big deal is this,” you wave your hand exasperatedly, tears welling up by the lash line of your eyes as you stare at his bruises with trembling lips, “look at you. it’s not worth it if you come back to me like this.”

“but i come back,” he mumbles, taking your hand—he kisses the knuckles, rubs a rough thumb over the smooth skin before laying your palm against his cheek and sighing. “i always come back.”

you love wriothesley—have since the day you met him, you think. he’s easy to fall for like that, to feel your stomach go in twists and knots every time he makes a sarcastic joke and throws you a charming smile. life has been tough on the man you love, unfairly so. it’s hit him harder and harder and pushed him back to his knees before he ever got a chance to fully stand up.

he’s hitting back, now. maybe in a more literal sense than you’d hoped, but….but maybe you can help him if you can’t change him. maybe you can keep the pieces together until the plaster holds and they’re not so fragile anymore.

“i don’t like seeing you hurt,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss the broken skin on his cheekbone, “you don’t have to do all this. we were doing okay before that.”

we. he shudders at that. it’s always we and never i—even when you did all the heavy lifting. even when he was barely getting by and you were giving more than you should’ve had to, more than he should’ve needed. it’s always we. never i.

you and him.

“i know,” he melts, humming as your fingers thread into his tousled hair, scratching his scalp as he buries his face into your neck, “just let me save a bit more. and then i’ll do something real with myself. i promise.”

you pull away after a bit, taking in every bruise and every cut, every dry patch of blood and swollen patch of skin. it’s shaky at first, your voice when you finally speak.

“‘s all bruised,” you say quietly, running a finger over the marks littering his chest. he’s painfully still—doesn’t move a muscle as you lean in slowly and press a kiss to the purplish stain on his skin, gently trailing them to the next one, and the next one, and the next one. “you don’t deserve all this.”

“yeah?” he chuckles—its breathy, a little strained. your arms loop around his waist and bring him closer, “what a sweet thing,” he coos, “nobody ever treats me so gentle.”

you frown at that. the world is not gentle with wriothesley—you’ll have to be extra gentle to make up for it.

“you’ll be safe? you’ll pull out when it’s too much, right? and you’ll come back? without being too hurt, right? wrio, you can’t—”

“yeah, yeah, i got it,” he huffs, pressing his forehead to yours, letting your hands cup his cheeks. he leans closer to your touch, shudders as you slowly trace his cheek with your thumb, “just wait at home all pretty for me, yeah? i’ll bring you back something nice.”

“bring me back yourself in once piece,” you huff.

“done,” he smiles, “i’m strong, if you haven’t noticed.”

“yeah? explain this,” you challenge, pressing down on a bruise and making him wince.

“you should see the other guy,” he whines, burying his face back into your neck. you roll your eyes, there’s a scoff in your throat but a smile on your lips.

wriothesley is safe—for now, that’s all you can ask for.

“i love you,” you mumble, “so much. no matter what, okay?”

“no need to get so emotional on me, baby,” he chuckles—and then there’s a tightening of strong arms around your body, a kiss pressed delicately to your neck before a soft, “but i love you too” is murmured into your skin.

“i hope you’re ready to clean those cuts. they’ll sting for sure,” you grumble as you pull away. he grins—handsome, charming, yours.

“will you kiss them better?” he bats his lashes, making you snort.

“no.”

i might make this a reoccurring drabble series too idk yet. anyway you know what else he can beat up ?? this pussy ;)

[gothcsz]

javier peña definitely gets so cocky when he finds how wet you are for him 😩

oh absolutely and you fucking love it. love when he’s talking shit to you in bed because it’s true— he’s the only person who has ever aroused you this way.

and it’s the fact that your dripping for him every. single. time. it doesn’t matter if he’s bending you over his truck for a quickie or handcuffing you to y’all’s bed for a drawn out fucking; you’re as wet for him as a virgin is the first time she’s taken.

“Ay querida, ¿Toda esta dulzura para mí?” His beautiful brown eyes, darkened with lust, stare up at you as he lays comfortably between your spread legs, your pussy throbbing and clit twitching with each fan of his warm breath. He’s been teasing you for what feels like hours now, enjoying how you squirm beneath him.

“For who else Javi?” Your voice is small, a whiny little thing that has him grinding his naked erection against the soft sheets of the bed.

“That’s right baby, nadie más. Toda mía. No one can get this pretty little pussy as wet as me.” To prove his point, Javi gathers spit in his mouth before obscenely spitting onto your cunt, the sound alone is enough to have you arching your back and clutching at the duvet.

You need him so bad.

“Please…” you beg, like always, because while Javier Peña is a loverboy through and through— he still loves hearing you beg for him. For his tongue. His cock.

He pushes your knees up to your chest, spreading you out even more, your cunt is beautiful and glistening beneath the dim lighting of your bedroom. He could stare at you like this all day, just watching as your tight little hole squirt out more and more of your delicious slick.

Like a honeysuckle on a hot summer day. Sweet, ripe, all ready for your lover to pluck and enjoy your nectar.

“Drive me crazy when you get this fucking drenched mi amor. Don’t gotta do a goddamn thing and you’re already dripping. Such an easy little slut.”

His teeth nip around the sensitive area of your sex, deliberately avoiding where you need him the most.

Another whimper falls from your lips, your hips swiveling around to get him to get his mouth on you.

He slaps at your thigh, the sting causing you to mewl out his name. “Look at you. So needy.” Though he leans in to place the most delicate kiss on your clit and you feel dizzy.

The kiss has more of your juices pooling out and he smirks, watching as it slowly drips down to your ass. “I could just lay here all night and watch you soak the sheets, reina. Make this pretty little pussy cry and weep then have you lick your mess up.”

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, that would be absolute torture but you’d do anything to appease the cocky bastard. Anything to have him fuck you.

“Please, Javi, please please please…” It’s like those are the only words you ever bothered learning. Like begging and pleading is all you know how to do.

“Please what, cariño?”

“Please just do somethin—- ahh!”

His mouth is on your pussy with an intensity that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your back fucking levitating off the bed.

He’s got a strong, iron grip on your thighs as he devours you entirely, sucking your fleshy clit into his mouth and finally giving you what you’ve been begging for all night.

[imagines-by-elysian]

I LOVE YOU SO - Gojo Saturo

🗝Oneshot: You were a fool to trust him.

🗝Genre: Mild!Angst + used lyrics of the song 'I love you so'

🗝Pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader

You stood in the dimly lit room, your heart heavy with the weight of unspoken words and broken promises. Gojo was standing before you, his eyes pleading, yet his actions told a different story.

"You're saying I'm the one," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the distant sounds of the bustling city outside.

“Y/N, its not like that I-"

"But it's your actions that speak louder, giving me love when you are down and need another. I've gotta get away and let you go,"

"Y/N please" Gojo cried, as he moved a little close to you, trying to be in the comfort zone of yours like he was before.

"I've gotta get over. But I lo-" Your voice cracked, and words remained unspoken

Gojo's expression wavered, a mix of regret and longing crossing his features. He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of your face, as if trying to memorize every curve and contour. "I never meant to hurt you," he said softly, his voice laced with sincerity.

But you couldn't let his words weaken your resolve. The pain of his betrayal was still fresh, the wounds he had inflicted on your soul too deep to ignore. "I'm gonna pack my things and leave you behind," you continued, your voice gaining strength as you wiped your running tears. "This feeling's old and I know that I've made up my mind."

You thought you had lost your mind. But no, its his fault.

As you started gathering your belongings, Gojo watched helplessly, his eyes filled with a mixture of desperation and remorse. He wanted to hold you, to convince you to stay, but he knew he had shattered your trust completely.

"I hope you feel what I felt when you shattered my soul," you said, your voice catching on the words. "Because you were cruel and I'm a fool."

Gojo reaches out to hold your hand, only for you to look at him with teary eyes and a swift movement to free your hand,

"So, please let me go."

With a final glance, you walked away, leaving Gojo behind in the shadows of the room. The door closed softly behind you, sealing the chapter of your life that had been defined by love and heartache.

As you stepped out into the cold night, tears blurred your vision, its over isnt it?

[silverhandj]

>... Johnny Silverhand is less a moniker taken from the man who gave his life to protect him in the war and more an ensemble of dressings from constructs that had at one point been a point of reliance for him and all his mistakes, and all his accomplishments. Robert Linder isn't dead but he has lost its usefulness for him the minute he deserted and took to the guitar. Mind you, this transformation, happened within a month in a room he never left but instead buried himself in with his only company being books on philosophy, and tucking away Robert John Linder in the grates of the motel. The asceticism of killing Robert off, and taking his saviours name is only the tipping point of Johnny Silverhand and from it, a sense of peace in knowing he's continuing on because of Johnny. Even now, Robert Linder is no longer a point of contention for Johnny. Why go back, when the path is set passionately hurtling towards The Edge, again. All the very best of him must live on through Johnny, the self sacrifice of a of both Johnny and Robert prove to exemplify this grace.

>... Going deeper, Robert Linder was the first to have the hand. A state of the art upgrade given by Arasaka at no charge to its contractors to fight and test in an undocumented attack within the fourth corporate war. This is not without its own consequences; Evidence of DNA tampering and blood testing have made Robert a hardened veteran on the battlefield. Stay too long out there, and anyone's bound to snap. Especially when the attack starts to fail, when masses of your brothers in war start to drop dead in multitudes. Robert, mentally, shut down. The one driving his body wasn't him, it was the hand.

>... The corporate name that had built and installed the arm into would soon be scratched off, and anyone who's anyone can understand that the arm he has on him is one of a kind - issued to soldiers deployed from Arasaka in a test attack. Even with the testing, even with the radiation in his body, none of that stalls the cyber psychosis that starts and ends with the hand.

>... Johnny's parasitic nature hasn't always been because he had turned into a digital psyche, an engram in a world trying to survive. It started before that, when he was alive and well and had donned the name of his saviour. It's easy to fall into the mess that is Night City where vices and bad habits are sold to at a cheap price that funnels back into the megacorps that supply it all. It is the eco-system of Night City after all. And no one seems to understand that the game is rigged, no matter the scales, no matter the morality.

>... The hand becomes both a metaphor and an idealization for Johnny, it becomes something he can disconnect a part of himself from the part that's organic. It will not hesitate to act on his basest desires and it's easy to pull the trigger when you aren't there. Not really. Johnny has cut pieces of himself off, and has reattached different pieces of himself in ways that justify the end. The body remembers, even when the mind starts to alter memories to protect oneself.

[ Johnny stands on the stage, in his hand is his fully loaded Malorian Arms 3516 pistol. It's after the first few sets that the hand raises the gun, and shoots the crowd. A fan dies, a few scream, but mostly, they want more of Johnny Silverhand.

"Christ Johnny, what's next, you do a live execution of a corpo on stage?" Yells Kerry, backstage. ]

This isn't what Johnny shows V in their head, but it's hinted at. In V's memories, the show goes on where no one dies and no one gets angry. In his hand is his guitar, and not a gun.

>... Johnny's metallic hand, unlike how he relates to it, is very much apart of him. It is the base of his emotions, and it is as real to him just as much as his organic self is. Except, he shifts the blame of self onto the very thing he hates but has come to rely upon over the years, as a source of strength and ideals.

>... Transitioning into V's body is like swapping the hand for an even bigger upgrade, where he's apart, just as he is without.

[venstm]

It originates from an anomalous reservoir of deep, black water, alongside it the feeling of drowning surges in, the sentience imprisoned within that seething, tenebrous abyss hunts him relentlessly, its exigent hunger irrepressible. Sampo had this recurring dream so often he had come to anticipate it, its advent is a resonating knell which reverberated down to the hollows of his bones. Abruptly, the ground beneath his feet would become viscous and no matter how he desperately sought footing, he would inevitably pitch gracelessly into its awaiting mouth. Invasive tendrils pry his jaw open, disgorging into the slick, frantic constricting of his throat, it fills every aperture of him, every anguished breath is choked from him. Sampo Koski has never died, not truly, but to be submerged in the caliginous water combined with the stark absence of pain, as panic sets in, he’s wholly convinced this is what those long, agonizing moments should feel like. The laughter, its cacophony of mouths carved into white, scornful teeth replicating over and over, besieging him until they became deafening. He wants nothing more than to recoil from it, fold in on himself until he is so small, so insignificant, that it might forget he is a portent of its need to instigate chaos. change, it felt so innocuous when it was spoken aloud but as it dislodged every bone in his body it was exquisitely painful. But like all dreams, halcyon or not, it will come to an end. So he endures, he waits and he laughs, each shuddering breath expelled from his lungs is a wet, harrowing rasp. However, he doesn’t anticipate the sudden divergence into uncharted territory, the dark, cavernous void his eyes have become stare dazed into an unfamiliar sight. Seldom had he seen the captain smile, his features chiselled to be perpetually stern but when that fortified ice that harboured his heart thawed - it was something astonishing to behold. For a protracted moment he is disoriented, the slantwise world threatening to rush upward and concuss him but, as if it were being banished by the ludicrous fact that Gepard Landau could smile, it withered, furled in on itself over and over again until it returned to a solitary, dark spot in his vision. The inertia of it is dispelled with a slow, disconcerted blink, then another and another. Breathing comes second but it lacks the despair that was ushered in with drowning. Sampo’s mind is reduced to two rudimentary thoughts; survive and do not fall face-first into the awaiting, steady hands of a captain of the silvermane guard. Anchored in a reality liberated from the haunting myriad of masks and the thunderous laughter he is suspended between wanting to miserably thank him and writhe out of his grasp. Sampo resorts to offering a radiant smile, all sharp, synthetic edges and just a touch of his usual insouciance. ❝ Captain.❞  his title felt treacly on his tongue, as if he might retch a mouthful of black, fetid water up in the aftermath. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, effortlessly smooth, taking a furtive step back. ❝ Fancy running into you out here.❞ every instinct within him was shouting, run, run, run but he remains elusive, enigmatic, just a inch beyond the swipe of the captain’s gunmetal gauntlet. He had seized control, dragged himself saturated and spluttering out of that hellish confinement, by the aeons he wasn’t going to end up sprawled on the cold, unforgiving floor of a cell tonight. Another long, wary step back, his expression tempered into something benign, harmless truly. ❝ Now, there’s no need for that look, Sampo Koski can be outside without conflicting interest with the Silvermane guard, you know that right ? ❞ meekly he clasped his hands together and hopes that it is somehow, someway convincing enough to deter the captain’s interest. 

[houseflyy]

—❁—

She imagines it’d be fun to write affectionate letters to her friends, saying words that they can keep! But writing is a challenge and a hassle—they don’t make writing utensils for flies—and it takes Melody a long time to understand what all the words say in the first place...

She’d prefer coming up to them and just saying it all then and there:

“You’re my friend! You make me so happy! Thank you!”

If she writes all that down, she won’t be able to buzz around her friend in joyful circles as she speaks it! Besides, she’s much better at talking.

Though, as she’s pondering it, she’s hit with a striking new thought: What if her friend is much better at writing than talking?

Hmm. That’s a tough one.

She supposes she ought to start practicing her letters a little more. Maybe a broken shred of pencil lead as a utensil will work fine?

—

[mutherlessarch]

" you're just a little guy, huh? "

izuku looks at the baby and isamu in her tiny little hat looks very unimpressed back at him. the newest and currently miniest midoriya is laying on the hospital bassinet. she has a surprising amount of hair, all of it green. most noticeable are eye stormy eyes. they're blue right now. bets are they'll end up green or purple.

he reaches out a finger to her which after clearly thinking on her tiny face she holds with her chubby baby hand. for a new born she's got some chunk to her. she's already starting to decompress into a cute baby shape. admittedly izuku thinks she's already cute. but also she's his so he's incredibly biased about that and he knows.

isamu gurgles at him. izuku responds to her like she's already speaking full sentences because one) that's just who he is. two) that's what the books say. " really you think so. tell me some more. "

izuku listens to her continue to vocalize and babble. more awe inspired by her existence than anything else. he cannot help it. izuku scoops the baby up into his arms. she feels so tiny there, but at nearly nine pounds she's admittedly pretty big for a baby this young. he kisses her forehead. that's his kid alright.