#Medicine Packaging Boxes
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companies are delusional if they think consumers don't notice shrinkflation. less food in the package, less medicine in the jar, less whatever in the wherever, it doesn't matter where and it's almost always noticeable. like i just finished one box of medicine and we opened another allegedly identical one that we just bought and lo and behold, the four middle medicine segments were gone from the package. they took out four pills from the same sized box and sold it at the same price without any indication on the box other than the small number in the corner. ridiculous
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Medical Pills Packing Small Box Medicine Bottle Printing Medicine Packaging Paper Boxes is a small packaging cloth especially designed for tablets and remedy bottles. The carton is manufactured from cardboard cloth with suitable strain resistance and shielding homes, which could successfully shield the integrity and high-quality of drugs and bottles.
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custom-folding-medicine-food-packaging-box
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Gift box packaging design enhances presentation and anticipation, reflecting the giver's personality and the occasion's significance. It incorporates elements like vibrant colors, luxurious materials, and structural features to create a memorable and delightful experience for both giver and recipient.
#gift boxes#gift box boxes#packaging design#box design#sweet boxes#gift packing#gift packaging ideas#sweet box design#packaging of boxes#chocolate packing#types of packaging#box packaging design#luxury gift boxes#product packaging design#product packaging#corrugated boxes#food packaging#boxes for packing gifts#gift packing near me#design for packaging box#product package design#sweet box gift#labeling and packaging#product and packaging design#gift box packaging#personalized box packaging#sweet packing boxes#medicine box design#gift box design#packaging design ideas
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you | l.n



summary: what’s more romantic: laying cuddled up next to the fireplace on christmas eve with the love of your life, or that special item in the little black box with a bow?
warnings: established relationship, mentions of sexual content, holiday vibes, and tooth rotting fluff.
message from jordan: hi everyone! here’s to the first christmas fic you’ll be receiving from me! don’t worry, focal point is still very much in production and will most likely have a chapter coming out later this week :) i hope you all enjoy!! sending you all my love, as always 🤍
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the orange and yellow flames kept the both of you warm as you laid with your head on his chest. his fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes into the soft skin of your bicep, your head resting on his chest as you found yourself listening to the sound of his beating heart.
the one that only beats for you.
your legs were intertwined with his, and you had found yourself tracing over the indents in his abdomen with your fingernails. silky soft and tanned skin littered with moles and freckles. the same ones you made sure you pressed kisses to every time you found yourself in their path. they littered his skin like stars in the night sky. and to you, they were just as beautiful. one of your favorite features of his.
his breath tickled your neck, smiling softly when he placed a kiss to the skin where your neck met your collarbone. you felt him pull you closer against him, leaving no gaps between you. not even enough space for air.
it was the little moments like these that you cherished the most, the ones you held close to your heart. the ones you’d think of whenever someone would mention how well the two of you mesh together, that you’re the definition of his soulmate. his version of a nice, warm soup you crave on a cold and windy winter day.
simply enough, you were each other’s soul healing medicine.
“missed you,” he mumbled against the crook of your neck, “sorry i couldn’t help you bring your stuff over.”
he had told you to bring more things from your apartment to his house. and when you protested, he argued that you already had a side of the vanity in the bathroom filled with your makeup, skincare and any other possible hygiene products you could think of. you had even taken over a side of his closet.
and maybe a drawer or two of his dresser that you hadn’t told him about. instead, while in search of a pair of socks, he had found a couple pairs of your pajamas in the drawer.
the simple fact that you had been leaving your things behind whenever you’d go back to your apartment for a couple days was like little reminders to him. reminders that you’d be back in a few days time, that it wasn’t a temporary situation to you. this was real. and you were all in, just like him.
“‘s okay, max was here to help,” you said, “sorry i took over one of your shelves. i wanted to bring some books,”
he shook his head, “don’t be sorry, i like your stuff being here. makes it feel more like home.”
you smiled, tilting your head to meet the pair of blueish-green eyes you had fallen head first in love with. the ones you had seen one night out in london, the ones that you had been mesmerized by ever since.
he tapped on your arm lightly, a silent signal that he was going to move. you untangled yourself from him with a soft frown, not really wanting to reposition yourself beings the previous state had been far more comfortable. you sat up as he did, watching as he kneeled towards the tree, picking up various packages and looking at them before putting them back down. it was like he was looking for one in particular.
“what’re you doing?”
“looking for something,” he said softly, “i can’t remember where i put it- oh here it is.”
you furrowed your eyebrows when he turned around with a small little box in his hand. a black box with a white bow on the top, too neatly done to have been done by him. you squinted at him, taking it cautiously.
“it’s not christmas yet,” you questioned his actions.
“i know, but i’ve been trying to decide if i wanted to give it to you early,” he said, “but i think now is the perfect time. besides the fact that i’m impatient.”
you chuckled softly, undoing the bow on top and playfully tossing it his way. his reflexes allowed him to catch it, placing it down on the floor next to him. he took the time to take in your figure, how pretty you looked in the dim light of the christmas tree and city lights shining in through the windows. how his tshirt had ended up around your frame, hair slightly messy.
to him, you were the most perfect person in the world. the only person he envisioned a life with, who he wanted to come home to at the end of the day. the only one who understood him better than he knew himself. he thanked every god possible and counted every lucky star for the night in london that had changed his life.
“i swear, if something pops out at me, so help me god,”
he laughed, “nothings gonna pop out at you, baby. promise.”
you squinted, narrowing your eyes towards him as a sign that you didn’t necessarily believe him. you lifted the lid of the box with slight caution, and when it was clear that he was telling the truth about there being no surprises, you fully opened it. however, the gift inside the box raised more questions.
“a key?” you lifted your head, letting your eyes meet his as you held it up, “to what?”
“our home.”
you blinked at him, speechless for a moment as he smirked at you.
“wait, what-?”
“move in with me,” he said, “i’ve been thinking about it, for a while now actually, and you’re the person i want to have a life with. i want to come home and find you on the couch watching tv or dancing along to the music playing in the kitchen while you’re cooking dinner. youre the one i want to wake up next to every morning, the one i want to say goodnight to every night before i fall asleep. it’s you, not anyone else,”
you fought the tears welling up in your eyes from his sweet words as he continued, “and i love the fact that every single one of your things has a spot next to mine. i want this crazy little life that we have forever, so this is my way of asking if you’ll move in with me.”
you bit on your bottom lip as you smiled, “i mean, i don’t really go to my apartment anymore anyway, so-“
he didn’t let you finish before he was pulling on your arms to bring you closer to him, making you squeal as you landed on top of him on the floor. you giggled when he pressed his lips to yours, kissing him back. the kiss only breaking when your smiles got to be too wide.
“i love you,” he mumbled against your lips, “more than anything.”
you hummed, “i’ll always love you more, though.”
warmth spread for your chest at the idea of taking your relationship one step forward. you had known for a while that he was the one you wanted to do everything with, but knowing he was on the exact same page as you was a feeling like no other. a state of euphoria. one that made you feel giddy inside, like you were back in high school with a crush all over again. the same kind of exciting feeling that you prayed never died.
and as long as he was yours and you were his, that was never going to go away.
he flipped the two of you over so he was back to hovering over you on the floor, the same position the two of you had been in earlier in the night. you played with the hairs on the back of his neck absentmindedly as you spoke.
“even though it’s not a new home, does this count enough that we get to christen every surface of this apartment?”
he laughed softly, nose bumping against yours, fingers lightly tracing into the skin of your waist underneath your shirt, his lips brushing against yours sending shivers down your spine. the kind only he could cause.
“do we even have any spots left?”
“oh i’ve got a mental list, don’t worry.” you smiled as his head fell to your collarbone. the sound of his giggle echoing through the room, causing you to laugh too.
your eternal happy place.
“then, what’re we waiting for?”
“i like the way you think, pretty boy.”
#lando norris#lando norris x reader#fluff#ln4#ln4 x reader#ln4 imagine#ln4 fluff#lando norris x you#lando norris x y/n#lando norris imagine#lando norris fluff#lando norris x reader fluff#lando norris x reader fluff imagine#ln4 fic#ln4 x y/n#ln4 x you#ln4 one shot#ln4 mcl#mclaren formula one#mclaren f1#mclaren#mclaren formula 1#formula one#formula 1#f1#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#f1 fic#f1 fluff
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BITCHBOY ⊹
ALL I WANT IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS TO BE YOUR BITCHBOY . . . ft. Osamu Dazai
wc: ~6.8k
cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. icky pervy stoner roommate!Dazai <333 also pathetic wet cat mess of a man Dazai, afab+gn!reader, established roommate relationship, no established romantic relationship, implied bi!Dazai if you squint, referenced whore!Dazai, weed smoking+intox/noncon (reader says "stop" once and he does not stop), dubcon (becomes 'consenual' but Dazai's coercive+they're high), noncon elements can be interpreted (esp at the end) to be roleplay with prior consent! dirty talk, shotgunning, fingering, squirting, kissing, penetration, creampie, insulting nicknames (Dazai receiving), biting, this is depraved and I will answer for it on judgement day
reid: he’s all i think about.
tags: @kalsplace
You’re grumbling under your breath when you’re about to cross the threshold to your apartment because, as if the rest of your day hadn’t been annoying enough, your stupid key decides to give you extra trouble—as of late, it’s not working unless you jam it in the lock at a very specific angle and jiggle violently until just before you’re sure the knob will fall off, all whilst cursing your landlord’s neglect of the crummy old building like some enchantment or spell that ties the whole rage-inducing, access-granting ritual together.
Couldn’t your good-for-nothing roommate hear you struggling with it?
“Hey, sorry,” he chirps too brightly for the evening hour, floating out of his room as you shut the door behind you with a sigh—ever the mind reader. You forego your eye-roll this time; you’re convinced that one of these days they’ll get stuck in your skull what with how much you do it. You hear Dazai sauntering toward you as you’re shrugging your jacket off, hanging it up, tossing your bag on the table. “Was busy.”
You’re ready to turn and scowl at him, but when you face him, he’s waggling the little pipe in your face—the green one with blue flecks in the glass, undoubtedly what he was busy with while you broke into your own home—and you won’t admit that you already feel your irritation start to melt away when it slides from his fingertips to yours. You clutch it, latch onto the mouthpiece, and watch as the brunette flicks the flame out and lights you up.
You exhale gratefully, take one more pull, and hand the glowing bowl back for him to catch the remainder of before he lights it again. “Thank you," you croak before short cough leaves you. “Was real close to bitching you out for not leaving the door unlocked.”
Dazai blows his smoke directly back in your face with a small grin. “Redeemed by my weed once again.”
You chuckle and wave it away, making a point of sliding by him and toward your room to change. You need to unwind a second before dealing with him for the rest of the night. “‘S’all that ever redeems you. Crack a window, will ya?”
It’s really not a bad arrangement to have a live-in pot dealer—that’s basically what Dazai is and has been as long as you’ve roomed with him. Sure, he's also a pain in your ass; the man can hardly cook, you had to show him how to use the washing machine in the common area when you first moved in, and only a bit ago, after almost half a year of sharing a living space, have you convinced him to keep his mess of discarded socks and food packaging contained within his bedroom. It took a lot of harsh reprimanding about how you're not his parent and he's not your teenage son for you to realize it'd be a little of his own medicine to get him to start taking you seriously. Leaving your empty takeout box on the coffee table right where he liked to eat his, tossing your sweatshirt over his spot on the couch and refusing to move it for days—he took the message, albeit smugly, after that, and hasn't given you trouble since.
Even despite being a pain in the ass, though, especially now that he at least cleans up after himself, you have to admit you don't hate his presence in your home and in your life. You chalk it up to how infuriatingly charming he can be—you know he's a detective, and he's certainly got talents for sniffing out your emotions, solving your day-to-day problems, and smooth-talking, but all of that falls under being nosy and weird when he tries to guilt you into praising him for it. If he was any less annoying, you'd maybe even admit to yourself that he's kind of attractive; only physically, of course, which you've known since the day you met him, but any other way he might be—retaining a heavy air of mystery in spite of how bubbly he is, occasionally inviting you out drinking (mostly so you can drag him home once he overdoes it), smoking you up without asking for money—is just so overshadowed by what a fucking weirdo he is. You can’t separate it.
He certainly keeps you on your toes.
That’s really the worst thing about him. You know you’ll exit your room to grab your leftovers from the fridge and he’ll be pestering you to watch some movie with him—probably one of his cringy rom-coms (the fact that he watches and unironically enjoys them serving only marginally to make him a little more of an interesting character) during which he'll sling his feet across your lap or curl up into you so he can pinch your side once or twice just for your reaction, leaving you red in the face and mildly irritated while he giggles condescendingly at you. But as you always do, you think as you sigh and lift the hem of your sweater to curl it over and off, you’ll concede.
Your head’s caught in your sleep shirt when you hear your door creak open.
“Um, privacy?” you half-yelp—something you’re still figuring your way around with him. You jump out of line of the door as you poke your head through the neckline to shoot him that glare you saved from moments earlier.
Dazai just snickers, eyes wide and innocent. You're naked from the waist down. “Could’ve locked it.”
“As if that would stop you,” you snap back, stretching the hem over your thighs and ass as you skitter awkwardly back over to the edge of your bed where a pair of comfy shorts lay. “Get out!”
“Will you hurry up and put your pants on? I got My Big Fat Greek Wedding locked and loaded.”
“Yes, yes, just get out.”
He’s still snickering when he disappears behind the door. He doesn’t shut it all the way, and you mutter freak beneath your breath, secretly hoping he hears you.
You tug your shorts on and meander back out as the intro rolls, set on your leftover homemade tonkatsu; as you settle cross-legged with your plate on the couch, Dazai reaches over and plucks a piece of cabbage off it.
You side eye him as you chew. He’s already occupying himself with packing another bowl—he must've finished the first one himself. You'd half-expect him to reach for one of the prerolls he keeps in the coffee table drawer so as not to have to go to the trouble again, but he does.
“You eat yet?” you ask carefully.
He shakes his head as he uses the butt of the lighter to press it down. Of course not. Even weed doesn’t make him eat. You’ve expressed concern over his eating habits before, but he always dismisses you with a hum and that smug smile.
You make a point of tearing the remainder of your cutlet in half with your utensils. When he reaches out to pass you the pipe, you reach back, chopsticks pinching a hefty piece of pork.
Dazai raises his eyebrows at you.
You raise yours in reply, as if to say, take it, or I’m not smoking anymore with you.
So he does, reluctance veiled thinly by amusement. You know him well enough by now; or, you think you do, at least. As he chews, he balances the chopsticks back on your plate and turns to you with the lighter, curling his own legs beneath himself.
Only satisfied when he swallows, you set your plate aside, face him, and press the pipe to your lips again, looking to him. To his pretty brown eyes that search you owlishly, that you swear sparkle with a little more vigor after even the smallest bit of sustenance enters his system. Maybe you should just leave him to starve, but then where would you get your weed? You’re an idiot, you’d say if you weren’t waiting on his flame.
But before he can light it for you, he pulls the lighter away, and you chase it with a soft hey—he’s grinning at you again, like a devil, like always.
“You always do that, you know?” he asks.
“Do what?” you mumble impatiently against the piece.
He gives in and dips the flame down into the bowl; you inhale deep, flower crackling softly as you do, and he only answers when the smoke’s halfway down your throat.
“Look up at me all cute like that every time I light it for you.” Those brown eyes bore into yours and you become aware all too quick of the fact that you do—you do indeed peer up at him through your lashes; your eyes water as smoke burns your throat and you blink away, trying not to cough out your hit at how he’s gazing at you, but he doesn’t stop there.
He would never stop there.
“Makes me think bad things.”
So you cough out your hit anyway.
“Oh, yeah?” you ask, choked, face red from more than just the sting of the weed. You busy yourself with pulling another hit while it’s still lit.
“Mhm,” he agrees. “Lots of ‘em.”
Your head swims now—you’ve built up a decent tolerance from living with him, but forgetting to breathe at his words and zeroing the huge puff you take next surely doesn’t help. You cough again, and nothing leaves your lungs this time as you debate whether to take his challenge.
Another thing you’ve learned about Dazai—he loves to fluster people. If living with him wasn't enough proof, you’ve seen him do it millions of times to pretty bartenders, or on the off-chance his partner from work joins you drinking; off-chance, truly, because Kunikida already has to put up with Dazai all day at the office, and anything more than what’s required of him might be better off called torture rather than fun. And beyond loving it, Dazai demonstrates it like a long-honed skill—the exploitation of people’s humiliation, the monopolization on people’s most sensitive spots. He had previous work in it, he’s said, but you can’t imagine what job could possibly entail all that. You think he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth—no, he’s smart enough to know when to; he just doesn’t like to. He’s what most people would refer to as an asshole.
And yet, you find yourself torn between feeling disgusted and entertained by him all the same. Although you often find yourself the victim of his little mind games, you’re not above jabbing back at him. What does that make you, you wonder? The question briefly crosses your mind, but you shake it off as, in your buzz, you swat away the bait; decidedly, you’d rather watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding in peace, finish your tonkatsu, and then go to bed tonight.
“You’re gross.” The scoff you let out sounds more like a chuckle.
Dazai tilts his head, flicking the lighter for you again; he sparks the bowl as he watches you, as if in exceptional contemplation, and you make a point not to do it again—you inhale and gaze straight down at the flame.
“You don’t wanna hear what it makes me think about?” he asks cutely, unwilling to let you get away just yet.
You ignore the slight flush undoubtedly on your own face as you slip the bowl back to him; doubly so, you try not to watch the way his lips wrap around the mouthpiece.
But right now, you can’t seem to help that your bleary-eyed attention is on him. Just as he exhales, you remember you haven’t replied.
You’re not quick enough. He doesn’t take your silence as an invitation; it’s an opportunity. You see it in his smirk, just a second too late.
“Makes me think about how pretty you’d be looking up at me like that from your knees.”
He’s good at his games—he invents them, after all. But you’d be damned if he thought you wouldn’t shut him down when you weren’t in the mood.
“Yeah, no, don’t particularly wanna hear about it, thanks.”
This might be a new low, even for him, you think. Who the fuck just says shit like that?
When you think about it a second longer, though, he really hasn’t brought anyone home to fuck obnoxiously (a boundary you were quick to set with him) in at least a couple weeks, so maybe he’s just pent up. Either way, his comment makes you wrinkle your nose, furrow your brow—hopefully negating the pink inevitably tinting your cheeks. Fucking weirdo.
“N’ now you’re blushing all cute, too,” he observes; you scoff again, more pointedly this time. “Thinkin’ about it?”
As if, you want to say, but the words get stuck against the roof of your dry mouth, so you conjure up some of your spit, swallow it down, and hope he doesn’t notice—but it’s Dazai; he will—that your high's settling onto your shoulders swiftly. He’s pointing the bowl back at you, and as you grab it robotically, you’re still trying to speak—a sure sign you should both shut up and keep your places on opposite ends of the couch and watch the movie and finish the tonkatsu, but instead you just balk. No matter what you do, you play right into his hands—that’s how it happens all too often, and you certainly won’t learn now or anytime when his weed’s coursing up to your brain and back down to your thumping heart. Dazai lights your next hit for you, laughing like it’s all some big joke, and maybe it is—maybe you’ll blow your smoke in his face this time and pick up your tonkatsu and shut up and just watch the damn movie.
As if you’d ever be so lucky with his antics.
You’re shaking your head in near-awe when you pass it back to him once more.
“I mean, we basically kiss through this thing all the time,” he says like it’s relevant, waving the pipe about. “I don’t think it’d be so weird if we fucked. Or if you sucked me off, at least.”
“It—it would totally be weird, Osamu,” and when you speak his name so lightly, blinking at trying to muster up your own laughter as a defense mechanism, his sight flickers up to yours. “That doesn’t even—I’m not sucking your dick.”
“Shame,” he purrs. “‘Cause I know how pretty you’d look. Your lips all wet and pouted against my t—”
“Oh, my god, shut up.” Now you laugh, out of pure disbelief at how far he’s taking it. He pokes at the tail end of what’s left in the bowl and chuckles, too, seemingly ready to let it go now that he has you laughing. "You're horrible."
The more you let him talk about it, the more you entertain him, maybe you can let it peter out.
“What about me? Do I look pretty when I do it?” he asks, batting his lashes as he pulls another hit off the pipe.
“Sure, yeah, whatever,” you let your laughter idle as he doesn't tear his gaze away from you. He looks pretty. Whatever. You cross your arms as you feel the familiar tingle of your high behind your eyes.
“Would I look pretty on my knees?” he prods.
You could slap him—if nothing else, just to make his face burn half as much as you know yours is. When he sets the bowl and lighter aside and goes back to observing you, eyes low-lidded and red, chin rested on his hands, propped up by his elbows on his crossed legs, you have half a mind to shrink away from him—but you keep cool, even if the way you're at eye level with his searing stare feels a little too intimate.
You mirror his position. “Hmm, I don't know.” You steal his thoughtful tilt, too, and tack on, “Maybe if you were begging like a little bitch.”
You're prepared for him to laugh tauntingly again and then let this die where it stands because he got a reaction out of you, right? That’s always what he’s looking for, so it’s about time he goes back to his corner of the couch where you'll bully him into a few more bites of tonkatsu.
But he stays locked onto you, quietly.
And then he's shifting forward off the couch and down to the ground.
“Osamu—”
“Uh-uh,” he chides you softly, crawling to situate himself directly in front of your figure. Looking up at you all cute. “I’m gonna be the one begging, remember?”
Your disbelief swirls with refusal as he paws at the hem of your shorts as if to say, turn, please, and fuck—what can you do other than turn red as a rose as he grabs your ankles, unfurls your legs, and props his chin on the cushion between your thighs? You feel alarmingly higher, blearier when his fingers creep up beneath the fabric, slowly, looking at you as if for reassurance.
“We're not—you can quit fooling around, seriously.” You want to laugh again but it comes out deadpan, strict; you feel heavier with each landing of his fingertips against your skin, and he just keeps looking up at you. Cute. Pretty. Taking it too far.
“I want to,” he mumbles, retracting his hands only for them to find your hips, your waistband. “Come on. ‘Wanted you so bad for so long. I know you want me, too,” he speaks your name slyly, quietly, and it prompts your breath to quicken a little; he traces circles into your hipbones with his thumbs, toys with the elastic at your waist, snapping it softly, and you squirm. “Please?”
For so long? you think. How long?
“I—I'm not high enough for this, Osamu,” you try to joke, but he just twists around to the coffee table drawer for one of those prerolls and his lighter.
“I can get you higher,” he offers—tone still much too innocent, motives still haphazardly veiled by what a big jokester he is, and he sticks the joint between his lips and lights it.
Before you can coherently protest, he rises, supporting himself on your thigh with one hand and removing the joint from his mouth full of smoke; when he leans into you, you catch his wrist to keep him from ashing on the back of the couch, grab his face in a half-attempt to stop him in his tracks—but ultimately, when his mouth meets yours, you open for him.
The plume of smoke he shotguns into your mouth is thick; you breathe it in. His palm like a brand against your thigh.
And he doesn’t stop.
“Osamu,” you whine against his lips, still mushing his face away and hating how your dry throat roughens your voice. He just kisses you, kisses you, and your fingers find the pulse point in his wrist—he’s a decent kisser, you think, at the very least. You have half a mind to let your fingers slide to the mess of brown hair beyond the apples of his sharp cheekbones, and—
You backtrack in your mind. You’re actually probably too high for this.
You have to detest the way it feels so heavenly when he squeezes the fat of your thigh, dodges your lips, and works steadily in a line from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, all tongue and teeth in his pursuit. You have to detest it. Fucking weirdo, you repeat in your mind. The joint burns between his fingers. You snatch it from his grasp and pull your head back, raising your feet to kick him weakly in the abdomen, and he relents—your toes feel asleep when they hit the carpet again, and you hoard the joint between your fuzzy fingers when he reaches for it back.
“Osamu,” you say again, stern, eyes wide. The weed. You're high. You're both high, and this is weird. He’s just your weirdo roommate and you got home wanting to end your stressful day without complicating anything else in your life today.
So why, when he looks at you like you’re a caged animal that’s just as afraid of him and he is of you and works the joint from your fingers to take another drag, do you let him cup your face and exhale more smoke down your throat?
Why do you chase his lips when he blissfully, needily, sinks to his knees once again and starts to traverse beneath your shorts?
With the right focus of mind, like staring at your hand when you’re spinning and convincing yourself that the world around you is actually moving and you’re staying still, you can almost pretend he’s a stranger—some sexy, enchanting stranger that you met on the train home after your shit day, meant to relate to you with docile nods and hums as you air your grievances about work or school or whatever, meant to kiss it off you like it’s just a little bit of dirt.
Getting out of your shorts is like getting out of second skin. You're taking another hit, unwise or not, because it's back in your hand and you don't know what else to do; you watch him in your haze with a mix of anticipation and distrust, but right now, anticipation is winning by a small margin. You’re high, you tell yourself—twitching already, in that way that has nothing to do with desire but rather just means you've smoked a little too much too quickly, and the idea that Dazai might still fake you out and send you to bed feeling half-hot and bothered, half-violated, with no pants on and a near-empty stomach bobs around in your inhibited brain—again, you expect him to laugh, say you’re fried, clap you on the shoulder and tell you it's a joke but he doesn’t, he cranes for a hit from the joint and you hold it to his lips shakily and he touches you on the exhale, the pads of two of his fingers nestling carefully between your folds over your underwear and when he brushes your clit it’s—
Fuck, it’s electric.
“Osamu, stop,” you say, hoarse and abrupt, grabbing his wrist. "I'm—"
“What?” he asks, teasing lilt to his tone. Beneath your hand his thumb comes up to replace his fingers, to loop circles around you, and you're shuddering, back bowing, and he's grinning at you wickedly.
“I—I'm high,” you admit, voice feeling thick, soupy as it leaves your throat.
“So? Me too.” He blinks at you, slow like a cat, in a way that you're pretty sure he's still mocking the way you apparently always flutter your gaze at him when he lights you up. “‘S the best way to do it.”
“Yeah, but—”
He doesn't interrupt you with but what?
And yet, you still don't finish your sentence.
You glance down to where he’s rubbing you gently, where you hold him at bay—where you could yank his arm and twist it uncomfortably if you really did want him to stop but the longer he circles over the fabric that’s growing increasingly, alarmingly wetter, the more you melt away from yourself and you think, fuck, he really is gorgeous as he’s resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh.
“Scoot forward f’me, please?” he almost whines; his voice changes, stricter when he says, “And stop letting that burn. Smoke it.”
And you comply, shuffling your hips forward and placing the filter between your teeth.
Dazai looks up at you. All cute. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. Hungry.
And you look back, apprehension sparking but then fading with each drove of smoke you inhale. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. All cute.
“Let me taste you, please,” he almost whispers. You almost find yourself a little endeared by his pointed pleases.
“This is fucking absurd,” you croak, but your resolve is leaving you. He’s a little blurry. “You’re such a sicko.”
His smile widens against the word. Sicko. Almost like he’s pleased to hear it leave your mouth. “Surprised it took you this long to figure out, baby.”
His touch is impatient and restless and crawling as your underwear goes, too—and you don’t appreciate how good it felt when his thumb was on your clit until it’s back again and you’re slipping the joint out of your mouth to let you jaw fall slack; you tangle a hand up in that messy hair that is much softer than you could’ve imagined and all but yank him back toward your cunt.
“Please,” you echo him, finally. “It felt so good—do it again.”
“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you in your whimpering, fingers prodding at your hole and tongue landing a feather-light lick to your wetness. “I know you want it.”
The sounds are lewd. Disgusting, really—fitting for how he’s acting. Dazai swirls his tongue in circles around your clit as he works his middle and ring fingers into you; cracked gasps leave you at the intrusion, and you can’t keep your eyes open when he curls them upward ever so slightly as he makes out with your clit. If you were sober you’d, of course, be embarrassed at how you’re already gushing for him, but all your mushy brain can think about right now is the sparks bolting to your otherwise-numb fingers and toes with each suction of his pretty pink lips against you—isn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t you feel weird? Yeah, probably—but you’re forgetting why, and you’re forgetting to care.
He hums against you and it sends a shockwave throughout your already-vibrating body; the moan you release into the air is like song, even to yourself. Is he really good at this, you wonder, or is it the weed?
Oh right, the weed. The weed, the weed, the weed.
You pull his mouth off you, almost dropping the joint that’s not much of a joint anymore—only the filter remains.
“I don’t think this is—”
Fuck, you keep going back and forth. You keep breaching the surface just for him to tug you beneath the water again and convince you the drowning feels nice. And it does, for a few seconds—until it starts burning your lungs to a crisp again, at which point you tear away from him kick up, and in the moments you spend sucking in air you don’t get how he stays beneath for so long, like it’s nothing, how he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop, his fingers still curling inside of you, and you’re going under again to the sound of his voice.
You feel suffocated. More delirious by the second. It’s nice.
“You already told me it feels good,” he mumbles against you, lapping at you, and you’re letting up on his hair, letting him become a weight again where you should float.
And the lack of oxygen must be getting to your brain because, even though you still don’t think you want to drown, you cease your kicking. For the last time.
“Osamu,” you cry. It sounds like a moan. It might be.
“I know, I’m such a sicko.” There’s no remorse in his words; there can’t be, not when he’s still curling up into your g-spot in just the way that makes you croon his name again—undoubtedly a moan this time—but when he comes into focus again, he looks so apologetic. “You can say it again, baby. It’s okay.”
“S—sicko,” you mutter disapprovingly, but rolling your hips all the same.
He smiles. Soft, kind, apologetic.
You’re scared to move. You know if you do, you’ll both be able to see the wet stain collecting beneath you on the cushion. You feel it.
So you barrage him with more.
“You—you’re a fucking pervert. You’re disgusting.” You feel wetness on your face, too. You deduce that it’s from how perfect his fingers feel inside you, goading that warm slick out of you and into his palm, onto the couch; regardless, you don't stop berating him, your tone harshly contrasting your wriggling hips. “You disgust me.”
“I think you like it.” He presses up, hard, and you gush, gasping. A short, clear spurt narrowly misses his face; he leans back down to lick it off, off the cushion, off your thighs, off your crying cunt. “I think you like how nasty I am.”
“Disgusting,” you whisper. “Disgusting. You're disgusting.” It’s a little chant you hold onto as he rises again to kiss you, messily—a means to replace his lips with his wet fingers, shoving them past your lips and against your tongue where you lap at them instinctually, like you’ve been waiting for it. It’s so wrong to be tasting yourself on his fingers, but your eyes roll back anyway, just to lurch forward as his hand retracts and you find him grinning once more as he slips his sweatpants and boxers down in one swipe. “You’re disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting,” Dazai mocks, giggling. “You just tasted how fucking wet you are.”
“Osamu,” you whine as he kicks his garments aside; you begin to draw your feet up, your knees to your chin, but his hands, stronger than you anticipate, pry you open and flip you to your back and he grins, biting into his bottom lip all the while. Why, you wonder, when the dim living room light glints off his teeth as he situates himself between your legs and leans down to cage you in between his arms, do your hips hitch toward his? Why are you so adamant to deny him?
“You gonna say it again? C’mon, I love hearing my name,” he breathes, ducking down to lick across your jawline. “But I love when you call me those words. Say it again. Tell me how nasty I am.”
“You’re the worst,” you groan, but it sounds comical, even to your own ears, because you’re scratching at his shoulders in a way that draws him closer to you rather than further away.
“More, baby,” Dazai hums into your neck, reaching down to swirl his tip against your wetness. When you feel him, you jump.
It feels good. It feels even better than his thumb and you don’t know if you’re still on your way up but you feel higher and higher by the second and the instinct to push him off is slipping further beyond your grasp. When he pulls back to watch your mouth fall open as he rubs himself into you, you almost let the word pretty slip past your lips—he looks so pretty, tongue flicking, eyes dark, and you catch yourself with your lower lip between your teeth, reflecting the desperation he conceals in everything but his words.
Pretty isn’t what he wants right now, though—and suddenly you feel compelled to give him what he wants, if only it means he’ll keep touching you like this.
“S’fucking nasty—degenerate fucking freak—” you eek out; you don’t know much longer you can tiptoe the line between repulsion and sheer need, but you’re tilting further and further with each circle of his dick and you can tell he’s getting off on the way you’re lurching into him now, running toward his touch instead of away from it.
You think you need him to fuck you, now, or you’ll cry.
“Osamu, please,” you continue, sounding on the verge of tears now—where you should’ve been before, when you genuinely wanted him off you, yes. You wanted him off of you before. Didn’t you? There was a time, a mere few minutes ago, when his fingers in your skin and his animalistic gaze were revolting. Right?
“What’re you beggin’ me for?” Dazai asks like he doesn’t know. He knows. He knows what you don’t want to admit to yourself and he’s going to dangle it over your head, he’s going to rub it in your face, he’s going to make you answer through your hazy high that he never should’ve come onto you through to begin with, and you’re going to give him what he wants—you always give him what he wants, even if you don’t mean to, even if you don’t want to, but now you think you want to. You want to, because it feels so good, and he’s slowing down, he’s stopping and when he takes his hand away to swipe his thumb across your chin, pull your lip from between your teeth and work your mouth open with his fingers again, the loss almost hurts. You want it. You want to.
It’s going to hurt even more to say it, but you want it. And before you can even get it out, before the words even hit what little air is between your lips and his, Dazai looks thrilled at what you say next.
“Please, fuck me,” you whisper.
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—” He reaches back down, but the smugness doesn’t waver; his tip catches on your entrance—emitting a lewd squelch that should make you cringe but instead prompts your lip to fly between your teeth again—and you hook your tingling feet behind his back, legs astride his waist as you're pushing his bangs from his face all in one motion. “I guess I’ll fuck you, pretty baby.”
"Yes," the dreaded word falls from your lips when he finally works his way into you, past that tight ring of muscle, to nestle snugly inside you until the head of his cock kisses your cervix.
The noise you draw from him—something between a sigh and a moan—is heavenly. His nose nuzzles the trail he licked across your jaw before and you find your hands linked behind his neck, urging him down, onto you, into you—and when he recoils his hips to thrust back in again, quick and short, you keen against him, pathetically, in a way your past self—the one from four or five touches ago—would hate you for.
You should hate how gross this is. How gross he is for this.
But you don't, and you're not going to torture yourself with asking why anymore.
The friction inside you doesn't feel comparable to anything; for the first time in a second, you feel grateful for the weed pulsing through you. You let your eyes roll back and flutter shut without consequence.
Dazai moves against you like water. Water you're content to drown in this time; his touch doesn't crawl anymore as much as it seems to soothe and as he picks up his pace, brings a hand to your cheek to wake you back up, pull you back above the surface.
"You sound s'fuckin cute," he sighs; those eyes, predatory before, are now just brown and melty, honey-colored backgrounded with red fog, not so searching as much as they seem attentive, not making you feel so uncomfortably vulnerable as they do softly seen. He thinks you sound cute. You giggle through the unrivaled pleasure, giggling through your own moans which hit your ears and do sound cute—sound especially cute woven through his.
"Y'sound... so," you start, "so fucking—unh, Osamu, don't stop!"
He chuckles now, low and breathy, and you push his hair back from his face again; his eyes roll back when you do it, and you just do it over, over, over, drawing clipped groans out of him, stealing the words from his throat as he steals yours and you tug, you tug on his hair and the moan he lets out, broken between thrusts, is so raw and laced with need that you moan in reply, clenching around him because, fuck, he sounds so cute, too. "Wanted this for so long, baby. Pussy feels s—so much fuckin' better than I could've imagined."
"How long?" you finally poke back—you want to know. You want to know how long he's been holed up in the mess of his room, jerking off to the thought of his cute little roommate finally falling between his fingers—you want to know how bad he's wanted this, and if getting you high out of your mind just to get it was worth it. You focus your voice to ask him. "How long you wanted this, 'Samu?"
"So long—since—" he gasps, fucking into you harder, faster, deeper; you tug his hair again, exposing his neck, and yank him down to sink your teeth into his neck. You need the reprieve as he starts hammering against the deepest parts of you, eliciting wet smack! after smack! from between your writhing bodies. You jostle beneath him as he finds his breath; "Since I fuckin' met you. Always wanted you."
"Yeah?" You mean it to be a teasing little rhetorical question but it comes out more like encouragement amidst the bliss radiating from your cunt throughout your whole body, but you find it in you to continue— "You been—you been thinkin' of me under you like this? Like the sicko you are?"
Unbelievably faster and harder. You choke on a scream; Dazai's grunting above you, and it hits you that those names really do spur him on. You're far from offending him—you're bringing him closer and closer to filling you up with each and every insult and jab you throw his way and if you were any less cockdrunk you'd be hurling even more barbs at him about how that makes him so much worse, so much more gross but it just spurs you on, too, right now—and you realize, when he looks at you with those fucking eyes again how bad you want him, how bad you've wanted him, too, for so long; you couldn't—wouldn't admit it because he's just your weirdo roommate but really, maybe that's what you love about him. You certainly love the way he makes your toes curl when he reaches down to play with your clit again. You cry out against him.
"Osamu, fuck!"
"Say it again," he begs you, pretty brown eyes glassy as they fall shut, as the tip of his nose touches yours. "Say it again, please, baby."
You know what he wants.
"F—fucking pervert," you huff, doing everything you can to hold onto the rope that's uncoiling rapidly inside you, coming further and further undone with each slam of his hips into your ass. "Ah—you're disgusting. Disgusting."
You fall back on your mantra and it has his thumb moving faster, harder, just like his thrusts, just like his voice, even if it sounds unconvincing through the shockwaves of pleasure; you feel it, the unraveling, it's washing up on you so quickly, so much quicker than it should be at the hands of your weirdo roommate.
"Don't stop," he pleads like he's not the one fucking you to orgasm; you see white, you feel as light as air—god, has cumming always felt like this? Shouldn't you hate it? Shouldn't you hate that it might never feel like this again?
You do, you do—you hate weed and you hate sex and you hate your weirdo roommate Osamu Dazai for coaxing the most mind-blowing climax you've ever felt out of you, but you don't hate any of those things, not really; you hate that it's never felt like this before, and that it can again if only you can push your pride down for a few more moments and call him a—
"Freak—gonna—gonna cum in me?" you goad, breathless, lucky for speech as he fucks you through the otherworldly high, as you clamp down on him and screw your eyes shut until you can keep going. "Gonna fill me up like the nasty motherfucker you are?"
"Ngh—yeah, yeah, yeah...!"
Dazai, in all his depraved beauty, fucks his fat load into you mercilessly; you twitch, shake beneath him, driving strained sobs from his chest and talking him through with soft yeahs, want y'r cum, filthy fucking sicko freak, you disgust me. He loves it. He falls apart, and you tug on his hair once more as he slows, as he spills out of you, as he looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes.
"You—" Dazai's breathless, heaving. "You're amazing."
You giggle again, wiggling a bit and trapping him further close to you, fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Soft. You don't feel any less high; just blissed out. "You're cute."
"Knew you thought so," he sighs, lopsided smile coming back; you don't know where in the pleasure he'd lost it, but its return has you tilting your chin up to kiss him once more. Soft. Gentle, sweet, no tongue; not gross, not hungry, just sweet. Satisfied.
"But you're still weird," you tease against his lips. Sly.
When Dazai pulls back, the hunger in those eyes sparks again.
"Want me to show you how weird I can get?" he threatens.
"I dare you," you taunt back.
And he grins, fully and wickedly, once more; you can count on it. He'll show you, alright.
#i want to first thank italics. id be nowhere without italics#dazai x reader#dazai smut#bsd x reader#bsd smut#bungou stray dogs x reader#bungou stray dogs smut#nnnsfw.ᐟ#mdni#with love—reid
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Anything Kevin Kaslana or Sunday please?
Smudge-Proof
Yandere!Actor!Sunday x Makeup Artist!Reader
You woke up to the sound of your doorbell. Your eyes cracked open, sticky and heavy, a cold compress slipping halfway off your forehead as you shifted under your blanket. Your throat burned when you swallowed. Whoever it was could just leave the package at the door, you weren’t expecting anyone.
But the bell rang again. The third time, there was a soft knock too. You dragged yourself to the door, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other fixing the pad back onto your forehead.
Through the peephole, you could just make out the familiar silhouette - tall, broad shoulders, a black mask, a plain baseball cap pulled low. But you’d know that posture anywhere.
You unlocked the chain with trembling fingers and there he was, your impossibly difficult client.
“What are you doing here? You have a-”
“I’m taking care of you.” He lifted the bag in his hand - a paper bag with your favorite soup place’s logo on it, a glimpse of medicine boxes peeking out from the top.
He didn’t ask permission when he shrugged past you again, heading straight for your kitchen as if he knew where everything was.
And just like that, the living room filled with the sound of him rummaging through your cupboards, the faint scent of hot broth, and the realization that Sunday, the walking money machine, was in your tiny apartment fussing over your cough medicine.
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Sunday had been standing under the harsh lights for almost an hour. He looked every bit the perfect centerpiece: crisp suit, sleek hair, and the new glasses perched neatly on his nose.
He’d barely glanced at the one his colleague picked. The moment you tapped the second pair against your palm and murmured, “This one frames your jaw better” he’d just nodded. No questions, he never did when it came to you.
You’d done a quick touch-up then, smoothing out the line of his concealer to balance the new frames, brushing a thumb over the bridge of his nose where the pads rested so the light wouldn’t bounce weird. He didn’t even flinch, just looked straight ahead while you worked, like the world didn’t exist until you stepped back and said, “Perfect.”
Now, with the final take wrapping up, you’d stepped away to check on the others, making yourself useful, as always. Sunday caught it just as the director called for a break: you, standing close to one of the rookie actors. The boy was sitting on a high stool, fidgeting with the hem of his blazer while you uncapped a soft pink lipstick and leaned in, steadying his jaw with your hand.
Sunday’s expression didn’t change at first. He didn’t bother handing his props off, didn’t even tell the staff he was stepping off set. He just moved, straight across the white floor, cutting through the staff’s startled chatter.
By the time he reached you, you were brushing the last swipe of color onto the rookie’s lower lip. The boy’s wide eyes flicked up at Sunday just as his shadow fell over you both.
“Oh my god, S-Sun—” the kid stammered, but Sunday ignored him. His hand shot out to grab your wrist mid-motion.
You turned. “Sunday?”
His gaze pinned the rookie in place. The younger actor squirmed under it, mouth half open as if he might apologize for something.
You didn’t let Sunday speak. You stepped closer, gently pulling your wrist free.
“It was my fault.” you said, “I shouldn’t have done a touch-up here. He already had a look approved. Sunday was just stopping me so I wouldn’t mess it up.”
A neat, quick lie. One that saved Sunday’s perfect, difficult reputation from yet another rumor about how he treated people like territory.
For a second, he didn’t move, just looked at you, reading you the way he always did when you did something for him instead of because of him. Then his eyes flicked back to the rookie.
“Next time,” he said, “get your own makeup artist.”
The kid nodded frantically, half-bowing, muttering yes, I will, like a prayer.
Sunday turned back to you, there was a tension there that told you he’d have words for you later.
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The underwater shoot had stretched into the late afternoon, the crew bustling around the edges, half lost in their own hushed awe whenever Sunday emerged from the water. His hair slicked back, droplets sliding down the clean lines of his jaw, the ripple of muscle across his shoulders impossible to ignore. But if everyone else was busy admiring his physique, you were squinting at the faint smudge along the bridge of his nose.
It was a test shoot, after all, the company’s new waterproof line, a sponsorship Sunday had agreed to only because you said you’d make it work. And for the most part, it had. The foundation clung to his jaw, the contour stayed sharp, the subtle highlight catching every perfect angle each time he broke the surface like a god dragged out of some myth.
But his nose — that damned nose — always lost its cover first. The moment he exhaled too sharply underwater or brushed a hand across it, you’d see the pigment fade. It drove you mad, more than it should have, standing there with your kit in hand while everyone else pointed cameras at the parts of him they thought were worth worshipping.
When the director finally called it, the crew started packing up. But Sunday didn’t get out right away. He lingered by the deeper end, elbows hooked on the ledge, eyes following you as you fussed with the leftover tools on your tray.
It wasn’t until everyone else was out of earshot that he finally pulled himself up in one smooth motion, water cascading down his chest, the pool lights turning each drop into liquid silver. He snagged a towel, raked it through his hair once, then draped it loosely around his shoulders as he stepped closer to you.
You were still squinting at the slight raw patch on his nose. “It’s still the nose...” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “The rest is fine but—”
“—How can one person be so clueless about other emotions?” he cut in.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
Sunday cocked his head, droplets clinging to his lashes, his breath misting faintly in the cold air. He looked at you the way he always did when he was about to cross a line.
“If we really want to test how long it lasts…” He stepped forward, close enough that the damp heat off his skin cut through the pool’s chill, close enough that you caught the faint clean scent of his shampoo, the chemical bite of chlorine under it. His hand came up, thumb brushing lightly at your jaw, tilting your face so you could see him clearer “…maybe I should see if it survives this.”
His mouth caught yours, so deceptively careful it made your breath catch in your throat. Then his hand slipped to the back of your neck, damp fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted his head and deepened it.
His lips parted yours. There was a smear of your tinted lip balm on his mouth.
He huffed a small laugh, “Still looks good to me.” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if he’d fix it, as if he’d ever let anyone else do it.
Sunday’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing just in time to catch a blur of movement. Someone in black bolting behind the stack of equipment crates, the studio door banging faintly as they fled.
You turned, but Sunday’s hand stayed firm at your neck for half a second longer. Then he let go.
That night, he checked for the security camera. His jaw ticked when the clip ended.
He was standing in front of that staffer’s apartment. It would be a shame not to pay them a visit.
“Forget it.” “Next time, you won’t see me coming.”
He'd make sure that man paid the price if he didn't keep his promise.
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The confession scene had been set in a park — fake cherry blossoms strung through the set trees, petals drifting on cue from hidden blowers each time the camera rolled. You’d watched it unfold from behind the director’s monitor, arms crossed, eyes flitting from Sunday’s face to the script on your tablet to the slightly trembling hands of the young actor standing opposite him.
It wasn’t your first time watching Sunday transform under the lights — the subtle shift in his voice, the tilt of his head, the soft, almost heartbreakingly open look in his eyes when he stepped fully into a character who loved someone so much it hurt. But tonight, it hit different. Maybe it was the lines, the kind you secretly loved reading at night when you curled up with your phone. Or maybe it was just the way he made it real, even when his co-star stiffened again and again, missing the emotional beat by a hair each time.
“Cut. Again.” The director’s voice sliced through the set.
As you moved closer, you heard bits of the conversation. Sunday’s voice was calm, his eyes gentle in a way you knew he reserved only for people he deemed salvageable. “…don’t rush the pause. You look at me first. Feel it. Then say it.”
You stepped in then, brushing stray hair off his forehead, blotting a faint shine at his jawline. He glanced at you only briefly, a flicker of something softer than what he showed the cameras, before turning back to his scene partner.
He got it in two takes after that. The younger actor found the pause, the line landed, and the fake petals fluttered down like blessings when Sunday smiled — that small, trembling smile that would break half the country’s heart the moment the episode dropped.
When it wrapped, you were waiting with a warm pack for his cold hands.
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You told him about the week off you’d filed for. “My best friend will cover for me, you’ve met them. They know your shades. They’ll do fine.”
Sunday’s smile stayed on his lips but not in his eyes. For a second you saw the flicker of don’t go — the selfish tug you knew he’d never say aloud.
“A week, then.” He squeezed your hand once before letting it go. “Rest properly. I’ll… be fine.”
You left thinking he’d be fine. And he was, in all the ways that counted — marks hit, tears dropped on cue as millions streamed the newest trending scene. But off-camera, Sunday carried it with him, a ghost hovering just behind that flawless posture.
At fittings, he sat still and let the stylists pin and fuss, but his eyes would flick to the empty spot where you usually perched on the counter. The substitute did well enough, but they didn’t lean in to check the corner of his eye just so, didn’t wipe the faint tint from his lips between takes.
When break times came, he scrolled your messages on his phone. Short updates from you like: “It’s sunny here” “I found this book I think you’d like” He never replied with more than a thumbs up. But he read them twice over when no one was watching, thumb brushing the screen like he might find the warmth of your voice there.
On set, the younger actors whispered about how he seemed polite as always, but distant. He’d slip out as soon as the cut was called.
There, he’d sit under the bright mirror lights, staring at his reflection. The lenses he wore, the tinted balm, the faint leftover scent of your setting spray clinging to his collar. He’d touch the bridge of his nose where the foundation used to slip first, remembering how you’d fuss and grumble and pat it back into perfection.
Sunday knew better than anyone that the machine didn’t stop for something as small as longing. But for that week, the longest he’d felt in months, he let himself count down every empty hour until you’d come back.
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Sunday sat alone in the back of the van, engine humming softly under him as they idled outside a late-night ramen shop where the crew was grabbing a quick dinner. He’d waved them off, told them he’d join in a minute, but he hadn’t moved.
The low light from the street lamps barely reached him, but his phone screen glowed bright in the dark. His thumb hovered above the familiar blue icon of your profile — the private one, the one he knew everything about.
He scrolled slowly. Your posts — filtered glimpses of your lunch, your cat curled up in your lap, a faint shot of the ocean you’d promised to visit when you finally took that break. The tiny captions he’d read so many times he could recite them if someone held a gun to his head.
He didn’t like any of them, never left a heart or a comment, never gave anyone else a reason to wonder why your top follower was him. He only watched.
Tonight, though, tonight something new caught his eye. 1 new follower and following.
He knew the number by heart. You kept your circle small. Old classmates, your family, that hobby page for indie makeup reviews you liked so much, him. But this one — he tapped it, thumb tight enough to make the screen creak faintly under the pressure.
A man. Some sun-soaked profile picture of a beach, golden hour light across tan shoulders. He flicked through the feed. Waves, fishing nets, a half-finished tattoo on a forearm.
He scrolled up, eyes scanning the pinned location — the same island you’d posted.
He exhaled. Tapped the man’s message box open — then closed it again. His thumb flicked back to your page instead, to your last story, a blurry sunset over water. He wondered if the man had been standing there too, just out of frame.
Outside, the van door slid open. “Sir, do you want to join them now?”
Sunday didn’t answer right away. He just stared at your profile a moment longer, memorizing the new name, the new threat. Then he locked his phone, tucked it back into his coat pocket, and smiled.
“Let’s just go, I'm not hungry.”
*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒
You were back on set the moment your week off ended.
Today, he barely looked at you.
You’d brought him something special - a new collection you’d splurged on just for him, a fresh line of lip balms and tinted sticks in shades you thought would suit the softer scenes for the next arc of his show. You’d laid them out neatly on the counter in his dressing room, the pretty packaging lined up like a gift, little swatches painted on the back of your hand for him to see.
But Sunday just sat there, eyes flicking to your reflection in the mirror once before darting back down to his phone. He didn’t even nod when you tapped his chin up to check the new foundation match, didn’t hum when you murmured “turn a bit for me” in that soft tone you always used just for him.
He let you work, but he didn’t say a word.
When the last scene wrapped, you packed your kit quickly, trying to ignore the tight pinch in your chest. You told him “I’ll leave these here for you, okay?”. He didn’t answer, just gave the faintest tilt of his head, like a stranger trying to acknowledge someone they’d rather not see.
You didn’t ask. You never did when he got like this, prickly for reasons he’d never spell out. So you left when your time was done, you slipped past the line of starry-eyed staff bowing and whispering about how perfect Sunday looked as always.
You didn’t expect him at your door that night. Not with two bottles of wine tucked under his arm and a bag from your favorite takeout spot swinging loosely from his wrist. Not with that quiet, guilty look on his face when you opened the door in your oversized shirt, hair still damp from your shower.
But what he really didn’t expect, what made the edge snap so cleanly through his politeness, was the man in your living room.
He saw him first, sprawled comfortably on your couch, phone in hand, that same easy grin from the profile picture that had burned itself behind Sunday’s eyelids.
He didn’t even bother with hello. He dropped the wine and the takeout on your kitchen table and strode forward.
“Who the hell—” the man started, already pushing himself to his feet — but Sunday was already there, one hand fisted in his collar, the other shoving him back a step.
“You think you can just—” He pulled the man closer.
“Sunday!”
You threw your towel onto the counter, rushing forward to wedge yourself between them. You pressed a palm to Sunday’s chest.
“Stop it! What are you doing?”
Sunday’s jaw clenched, his hand still tangled in the other man’s shirt. “This— you just let him— here? In your house?”
“What do you mean? He’s my sister’s fiancé.”
For a second, nothing moved. The man in Sunday’s grip snorted, equal parts nervous and offended, and tried to tug himself free.
“He’s staying over because they’re visiting.”
Sunday stared at you. Then at the man. Then back at you. All he did next was slowly loosen his grip, pushing the man back with a final, frustrated shove.
“Next time you get mad at me for nothing…” You gave him a smile. “…maybe bring dessert, too.”
*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒
You’d barely stepped out of the shower when your phone buzzed. By the time you opened the message, Sunday was already downstairs, asking if you were free, if he could come up, if you still had those new lipsticks he’d seen you stash away in your kit.
You were bone tired, but you didn’t have it in you to say no when he knocked. So you let him in, hair still damp, wearing an old tee and soft shorts while he made himself perfectly at home on your couch.
You sighed, rummaging through the bag for the softest shade, the one you’d thought would suit him for an early morning scene tomorrow. “You really want to test these now?”
He only looked at you with that faint glint under his lashes — the same one that always told you he’d decided this was happening, whether you liked it or not.
“Just one,” he murmured. “One for tonight.”
So you relented, sliding onto the couch beside him.
A soft coral-pink, glossy but not too bright.
“Stay still.”
He did, for about two seconds.
You angled his chin up, did the usual. The moment you leaned back to check, Sunday tilted forward. His mouth caught yours in a soft kiss before his hand slid up your back to hold you there.
It wasn’t deep at first, just the faint drag of his bottom lip over yours, smearing the color you’d so carefully applied. He pulled back just enough to see the faint surprise flicker across your eyes, his thumb brushing your cheek.
“Doesn’t suit you,” he murmured, “Try another one?”
“Sunday! The point is to test on you, not—”
You didn’t get to finish. He kissed you again, deeper this time, a soft push and pull that left the tint smudged at the corner of his mouth and yours. When you huffed and pushed at his chest, he only chuckled under his breath, the sound rumbling against your skin as his lips slipped to your jaw, then lower, the faint brush of his mouth at your neck making your breath catch embarrassingly loud.
“You— this is wasting the samples—” you hissed, trying to angle away, but his teeth grazed your collarbone through the thin cotton of your shirt, his hands anchoring you right there on his lap.
“Mm. I’ll buy you more,” he murmured against your skin, lips dragging along your shoulder, heat pooling where he pressed soft, biting kisses just above the collar of your shirt. “Better ones. All the shades you want. Ruin them all if you like.”
“Do this again and I swear I’m quitting. Find someone else to—”
Sunday lifted his head just enough to catch your eyes.
“Quit?” He leaned in, brushing your lips again. “Try it. I’d make sure to ruin your life.”
You were speechless, half flustered, half tempted to shove him off the couch for real this time. But his mouth was already tracing your jaw again, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt like he’d never once intended to let you go.
#yandere x reader#yandere#hsr x reader#honkai star rail#hsr x you#yandere honkai star rail#yandere hsr x reader#honkai star rail sunday#sunday hsr#sunday x reader#yandere sunday x reader
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items taken from both eric harris and dylan klebold’s residences, credit to petsalamander on reddit (items may be repeated):
Taken from the Harris residence:
Sony 8MM video camera, green Steno book, piece Steno paper w/computer information, two glass test tubes w/plastic caps, eight 1½" x 2" mirrors, metal pieces, magnets, four boxes pellets, 9mm bullets, paper bag w/2 metal boxes w/nails, canvas bag w/shot, two boxes match sticks, broken jar w/metal pieces, floppy discs, misc. documents, Gateway 2000 CPU, misc. components and cables to computer, misc. discs, NEC 3FGX computer monitor, HP 682C printer, contents of trash, paperwork of Eric Harris, poster, "DANGER" sign, batteries and packaging, Micronta tester, heavy duty lamp bulb, two pieces of PVC pipe, Sony micro cassette recorder, two 2.5 gallon AMF oil containers, roll duct tape, cardboard box, papers, videotapes, micro cassette tape (Maxell), roll black electrical tape, baggy of broken glass fragments, photographs, bank account information, knife and tool, Dylan Klebold's papers, one shotgun barrel w/fireworks shell tube, roll electrical wire, 4 fuse, detonation cord, nails, end of rifle barrel, blue case w/shot, purple case empty, wire connections, plastic dish w/small rocks, misc. electrical parts, cigar box w/ shotgun shells, firecracker fuse, 1 firecracker, misc. electrical components, duct taped papers, five Doom books, receipts, card, school books and papers, two handwritten notes on Day Planner paper, two Schematic and note, fireworks, small rocket engines, 8mm tape, 1 empty shell case, 2 slugs, empty case w/ wood, stock of gun, PVC end cap, box playing cards, metal rods, 2 Morse code, electrical parts, US Calvary magazine, packages of ignitors, fireworks catalogs, tools, igniters, Anarchy cookbook document, bottle of Jack Daniels, glove, web straps, black BDU's, black torn t-shirt, two lighter fluids, gray file case, shotgun shells, detonator fuse, ball bearings, fuse cord, notebook, CDs, magazines, wood target, black toolbox marked "explosives" and contents, papers w/names and numbers, wood plaque, yearbooks, Black Cat bag, Black Cat paper, Maxell CD, diagram, folder w/papers, Hobby Lobby bag, Klebold label, bag shotgun shells, knife box - empty, gun box - empty, notepad map, yearbook '98, voodoo doll, match sticks taped, laser disc, calendar, stuffed bear w/CO2 cartridge, bullet, laser pointer, calendar, five cut fingertips from black glove, torn calendar page, three pictures of suspect, graduation announcement, five pages graduation list, Marine info packet, spool wire, Quick Tite glue, class schedule for Eric, report card in State Farm envelope, two '96 and '97 CHS yearbooks, medicine bottles, handwritten note
Taken from the Klebold residence (a considerably shorter list):
misc. wooden matches, batteries, newspaper article, homemade brass knuckles, misc. paperwork, misc. piece of radio and shotgun wadding, 8mm tape, electrical components, micro cassette, micro cassette recorder, lighter fluid, knife, shotgun shell casings and boxes, four 9mm, report card, BB's in dispenser, plastic case w/BB's, cassette tape and paper, shotgun barrel, metal tube, two pictures, documents and mail of Dylan Klebold, Acer CPU marked "Larry Brooks," Daisy CO2 BB pistol, BB's in box w/BB pistol, Remington mag bullet, Apple CPU, Newsweek magazine article, yearbooks and notebooks, scopes, wiring, two ladies watches, UMAX Astra 1220U scanner, mini tower CPU, catalogues, keyboard and mouse, NEC MultiSync 3FGX monitor, inert grenade, dish, turquoise suitcase, discs, two black t-shirts, film negatives, alcohol bottle, wall decoration of KMFDM (spelled in the police report "KMFDDM" which I find amusing), coat liner and belt, destroyed Coca-Cola can, CDs, black nylon bag, seven VHS tapes in bag, Marilyn Manson CD and electrical wire w/Alligara, three papers in bag, rubber hose, jar of black colored powder, broken electronic pieces, pipe w/end caps, two Daisy 856 BB rifles, twelve misc. floppy discs, can of Zippo lighter fluid, pink and black box containing BB's, misc. items
#tcc columbine#columbine 1999#dylan columbine#eric columbine#columbine school shooting#tcctard#tcctwt#tcc shitpost#tcc tumblr#tccblr#tcc dylan#tcc eric
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Requested by an anonymous anon 😂👍. Here’s a Michel Kaiser fic for y’all! Lmk if you like it :>
P.s. I was actually pretty nervous to write about him because the polarity of Michael Kaiser fans scares me. The bllk fandom can either be the funniest place or could give you permanent emotional trauma. I’ve experienced both 🙂🫠.
***
Michael Kaiser X Male Reader
***
Michael Kaiser was nothing if not confident. He was confident about his soccer skills. He was confident that he could adapt to any situation on the field. He was confident that he was the best on the field and that’s what led him to where he is. He was confident about himself and who he was.
Until a few weeks ago, he was also confident that he was either straight or asexual. Now, seeing you for most of the day, almost everyday, he, for the first time in a long, long while, was questioning life.
He did not know what it was that made him so fixated on you. There were plenty of special cases around him. There were geniuses, there were extremely quick adapters, there were plenty of suitable admirers.
You didn’t fall into any of those categories. Yes, you were quite knowledgeable when it came to the field. Yes, you could take a trained player down in a one vs one. Yes, you had the softest looking hair with matching twinkling eyes, and lips that were set in a perpetual grin.
But he knew for a fact that it wasn’t any of these things in particular that had caught his attention. It was something else, something in the way you carried yourself, just on the right side of self-confident but also serving.
It was also the way you threw a cheesy pick up line at him the moment you met him, but he decided to shove that thought along with the feeling that accompanied it into the bottom shelf.
“-r?…are you alright?” Michael snapped out of his annoyed mumbling as the boy in front of him looked at him with slight concern. He cleared his throat. “What did you need Caelus?” He replied, trying to get his bearings.
“Umm, actually, (M/n) dropped this off today morning and asked me to give it to you.” The younger male replied, handing him a brown paper bag. He took the package, sighing as his thoughts returned to you. “Thank you.” He nodded before walking over to the rooms where most members of the team were staying. Making his way into his room, he tore the tape off the paper bag, checking its contents.
Inside the bag were a few packs of aspirin and a box of lemons. His lips twitched into a smile. He was slightly surprised you remembered. Last afternoon, you had bumped into him in the corridor, and you had almost immediately noticed something was off.
He had admitted that he had been having a horrible headache for the past two days, which led him to have a disrupted sleep schedule. You had patted his shoulder and told him you would look for some medicine, but he had assumed you were just offhandedly saying that. After all, you were the coach of the junior team. You had several other things you had to deal with.
Sighing to himself, Michael popped an aspirin out of its pack and swallowed it, taking a sip of water from his bottle which sat on the table. His thoughts slipped back into the jumbled mess it usually was when he was alone. But, like the past few days, his thoughts made their way back to you.
He had tried convincing himself that his mind was just bored from the long time (three weeks) lack of playing a real match, but even he knew it was a white lie. Sighing for the millionth time, then sighing again as he realised this, he flopped onto the couch, throwing a hand over his face to block the evening light. Seconds passed into minutes.
Why were you doing this to him? It wasn’t like there was anything too special about you, but somehow each time he saw you, your signature grin, the way you subconsciously ran your hand through your hair every once in a while, he swore he could see a hazy glow around you, like you were a source of warmth that wasn’t the main source, but he was drawn to it regardless.
Years ago, he had been blinded by his ego and goals to really focus on much else. Not that he was any less egotistical or determined now. Oh no, it was just, now that he had actually achieved an important place in the world of soccer, he had time to try out different things. Things which he’d left for the sake of his dream.
He had attended plenty of parties and had left most of them with a woman at one arm, but they were never anything serious. He did not remember any of their names, come to think of it.
His thoughts trailed off to a scenario of him meeting you at the bar and you leaving the party with him at your side. His thoughts were almost going north when there was a knock at his door.
Shaking his head to get the blush off that he was sure was there, he walked over to the door, clicking the latch open. He almost smacked himself when his blood rushed from his head down, as he saw you standing there, in all your sweaty, handsome glory.
“Kaiser.” You grinned sheepishly. “(M/n)? Was there something you needed?” He questioned, eyes shamelessly looking you up and down. Of course you noticed this, but why would you ruin him a good show? “Ahh. The thing is… do you mind if I use your shower?” You smiled, tilting your head pleadingly.
He gave you a suspicious side eye. You were good at acting all pretty and innocent when you needed something done. That’s how most of the members in the team, both the national and the juniors had come to admire you as a kind hearted coach and helper. But he was well versed in mind games, seeing as to how it did somehow get him where he is today.
But nonetheless, if it was you, what harm is there in falling for a little charm? He mentally groaned at what state his thinking was in. “Your room is right there, (M/n).” He murmured, pointing towards the other end of the hall. “Why would you need to use mine?.. Not that I mind.” The last bit was murmured but you knew he’d meant for you to hear it.
“Well I… accidentally broke my shower handle?” You replied, and he stared at you in surprise as you showed him the mentioned handle. Well it was broken alright. “How the fuck did you- you know what? I won’t even ask. Get in.” He shook his head as he stood aside to let you in.
You skipped inside, making your way over to the bathroom. The rooms in the building were similar in structure so you knew your way. You waited patiently, sitting on the bathroom counter as Kaiser left to get you a towel. You placed the extra clothes you’d brought beside you and looked around.
The structure of the room was the same as yours but there were way more items in the shelves compared to yours. Most of them seemed to be hair and skin care products, which you honestly would not have expected of him. Now you knew why he looked so drop dead gorgeous all the time. Ahem.
You grinned to yourself as Kaiser peaked into the room, handing you a towel with a barely there blush on his face. “Take your time. I don’t have to go anywhere soon.” He informed. “Oh?” You chuckled. A beat passed before his cheeks turned red at what he’d just said. Rolling his eyes, he slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Left to yourself, you quickly undressed, sighing at finally having a chance to stand under the cold water after a hot day. As you ran the shower, making sure not to accidentally break the tap this time, your eyes landed on the hair care products and your thoughts wandered to Kaiser.
The first time you’d met him, you’d thrown a pick up line at him right off the bat, and had been amused when he’d replied to you in kind, shamelessly checking you out. The first thing you’d noticed about his entire unusual get up was his red eyeliner. How he managed to pull that off was a miracle, you were speaking from experience.
The second thing you noticed was his rat tail. You had seen him in pictures even during his earlier debut into the team, and his hair had grown longer since then. He kept the rest of his hair shoulder length but let the rat tail grow longer. It now reached past the middle of his back, and you always had the urge to tug at it every time you saw him. He would probably rip your hair out if you tried something like that, so you kept your impulsive thoughts to yourself.
You sighed as the cold water washed away all the sweat and grime. Your thoughts moved to the conversation you had with Ness that morning. It was usual for you and him to run into each other during breakfast and you often ended up having a chat over food before going over to practice. As usual, your conversation this morning centred around soccer.
But mid conversation Ness had casually mentioned how Kaiser had been having trouble sleeping, which reminded you to send some medicine. But after that he had jokingly mentioned how it was probably because Kaiser had been too busy thinking about you.
You were sure you had turned cherry red, because he had immediately said something about how Kaiser totally hadn’t told him that and that he was just kidding. That was what made you decide to do something about it.
No, you hadn’t broken your shower handle just so you could shower in Kaiser’s room. No, you weren’t that creepy. But when it had accidentally broken, you had initially decided to go over to the common bathroom in the training grounds, but then decided this would be a good excuse to drop by and talk with Kaiser.
Seeing as to how he wasn’t completely annoyed at you having disturbed what little free time he had, and even seeming a little flustered, you could safely assume that you were in his good graces.
You flinched as you accidentally breathed in some water, shaking your head and turning off the shower. Drying yourself off, you began wearing your clothes. You froze as realised you hadn’t brought a shirt. Then you grinned. What a perfect excuse to fluster Mr. Pretty Boy some more.
Wrapping the sweaty clothes in the used towel, you decided to wash it and return it to him later. Fixing your hair in front of the mirror, you made your way out of the bathroom. Kaiser was not to be found in the hall. You dropped your clothes on the table, making your way over to the kitchen where you could hear clinking of metal cups.
You found Kaiser busy preparing some cold chocolate milk. “Hey beautiful.” You greeted. He had his back to you, but you were sure he would be rolling his eyes at you. “Do you want some-“.
Fortunately empty, metal cups dropped to the tiled floor, clanking as he cut himself short, looking at you in surprise, with a red flush on his cheeks. “What the fuck?” He asked, recovering quickly, choosing to hide his face by picking up the cups and turning back to the counter. You chuckled to yourself.
“Sorry, I think I dropped my shirt in my room. If you’re uncomfortable, I could maybe borrow one of your shirts.” You suggested, amused at how he was reacting to seeing you shirtless, even though he usually showered with the team after a match. “No, I don’t mind!-“ he began. You raised an eyebrow. “oh?”. “I meant, my shirt probably won’t fit you.” He corrected himself, still refusing to look at you.
You decided to tease him a little bit. Well, a little bit more. Making your way behind him, you placed your arms on either side of him, essentially trapping him. You could hear his breath hitch. “If i didn’t know any better, I’d think you like seeing me shirtless.” You murmured, placing your head on his shoulder. “… You-“ he swallowed, then took a breath.
“But you do know better, don’t you?” He questioned, regaining his senses as he turned around in place. You looked down at him, grinning. “Do I?” You could see him struggling to decide where to place his hands. Just as he was about to do something that would probably have flustered both of you, there was a ring of the door bell.
You both froze for a second before he slipped past you, rushing over to the door. You stood there for a minute as you heard him unlock the door before going after him, mentally smacking yourself at the faint heat you felt on your face. You were met with the sight of Isagi, with an irk on his face, glaring at Kaiser.
“Like I said, I’m not here to argue with you. Noa asked me to fetch (M/n) and he wasn’t in his room, so I came to ask you whether you’ve- oh (M/n)!” He sounded surprised. “Noa called for me?” “Yeah, something about the upcoming U-20 match.” He replied. “Ah. Let’s go then. Thanks for coming all the way over here. Also, I wanted to congratulate you on that interview you snatched last week. You slayed it!” You grinned giving him a thumbs up.
You were about to grab your clothes and head out, when you were pulled back. “He’ll be down in a minute. You go ahead.” Kaiser said, still glaring at Isagi. The latter raised an eyebrow at you, and you nodded, grinning to yourself. Kaiser slammed the door after he left. “Is there something you needed from me?” You asked, putting your hands up as he sent a glare your way.
“Finish your cold chocolate. I can’t drink all that myself.” You paused, then broke into a grin. “Aye aye, your highness.” You saluted, following behind him into the kitchen. “And.. don’t just go around the hall shirtless. Have some shame.” He handed you your drink, sipping at his, while making a point of not looking at you.
Your cheeks were hurting from trying not to smile. “Sure thing. It’s exclusively for your eyes only.” Kaiser choked on his drink. “Wh-what?!” You gulped down your drink, sighing at the cold sensation. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, pretty boy.” You replied.
Then, deciding to drop the shoe, you leaned forward, pressing your lips against his, licking off the drink that was dripping from his lips. Before you could run away, you felt him throw an arm around your neck, pressing up against you.
Impulsively, your free hand grabbed onto his rat tail, gently tugging at it to deepen the kiss. You half expected him to bite you, but you almost lost it at the whine it dragged out of him. Just to test him, you gently tugged at it again. This time, you felt him gasp into the kiss, clawing at your shoulder.
As much as you could do this for the next few hours, you had important matters to discuss with Noa. You were also sure that Kaiser probably needed some time to collect himself. Reluctantly pulling away, you chuckled as Kaiser leaned towards you. “Sorry sweetheart, I’ve been summoned by the big boss.” You said, pecking his lips before stepping away from him. He humphed before busying himself with washing the cups, acting like he hadn’t all but begged you to keep kissing him. You smiled.
“…I like taking a cold shower before going off to bed.” You said before walking out of the kitchen. Kaiser paused for a second, not understanding why you would tell him that, out of all the things you could have said before kissing him stupid and running away. Then, as it hit him, he dropped to the floor, hiding his face in his hands.
“Fuck.” He muttered, grinning like a lovesick idiot.
***
I know anon asked for a fic preferably centring around Kaiser being jealous of Isagi but I already had this fic going in my drafts so I hope you don’t mind TwT.
Thanks for the request :>
#hissykat <3#michael kaiser#bllk michael kaiser#blue lock#bllk#bllk x reader#blue lock x reader#fanfic#bllk x male reader#michael kaiser x male reader#kaiser x male reader#bllk kaiser#kaiser#kaiser michael#Michael Kaiser X top male reader#top male reader x sub bllk#top male reader
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can u pretty pls write smt about paige being sick (maybe a lil delirious bcs of a fever/meds) and reader make paige a care package.
alsoo i absolutely love your layout 🤭
— sick day ✩ paige b.



syn : paige is sick delirious
pair : sick!paige bueckers x gf!reader
warn : fluff, paige being dramatic as shit, reader is in the medical school
note : glad you like my layout :)))
early tag : @kamii-2 @hrtslaces
"BABYYYY i think im dying come hereee", You heard Paige whine for the fifth time in 10 minutes. Paige got sick from going to a concert you told her not to go to but she didn't listen. You practically ran to here annoyed, "what now??" She looked up at you sniffing. Her eyes were red from crying, her nose was stuffy and red.
"You should know!! your the one in medical school", she said throwing a empty tissue box. You hated when Paige was dramatic like this, you just rolled your eyes. you grabbed a medicine cup and poured cherry medicine in it.
once paige figured out what flavor she pushed the cup away, "ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?? cherry is nasty and yk i hate it." you rolled your eyes, you decided to make a plan on making her take the medicine.
when she wasnt looking you grabbed her some juice, before pouring it you put the medicine in the cup. you poured her orange juice and brought the cup to her. "Did you poison this too?", she asked checking the cup out.
you rolled your eyes in annoyance. "No baby your delirious just drink it", you said a smirk creeping on your face. She drunk it, her face grimacing. she pouted realizing what you did.
"YOU DID POISON IT", she said pouting on the couch. you giggled at her expression making her turn on her side on the couch. "it was the only way for you to drink it silly", you said inbetween giggles.
"your not funny leave me alone", she said pouting on the couch. you shrugged taking this as a break so you walked away to yall room. before you could even step into the room you heard the most irritating yell.
"BABYYY COME BACK MY HEAD HURTSSSS", she yelled making you groan in annoyance.
[ NEXT DAY ]
"fuck you, you got me sick", you cursed at paige making her laugh. "Now i can play doctor!!"
taglist :
@3xoticyanna @hrtsfromjules @chelisbae @aaliyg @star-girl69 @patscorner @cosmopretty @wbbgetsmewetter
#leila works <3#paige bueckers x reader#paige buckets#paige bueckers#paige x reader#uconn wbb#uconn#uconn x reader#uconn women’s basketball#writers on tumblr
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I dare you to do the darkest, dirtiest, most disturbing shit with Coriolanus peacekeeper
⤑ GRIM REAPER





A/N: I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE! UGHH, I love possessive coriolanus, he is so sexy when he has authority, man I love him.
WARNING: p in the v, non to dub-con, love bombing, gaslighting, fear, hitting, kidnapping, coercion, hair pulling, bondage, forced mudpie, oral sex (male receiving), jealousy, cum eating. *** coriolanus being possessive and obsessive.
PAIRING: Peacekeeper!coriolanus x district!reader
WORD COUNTER: 2.5k

Born into the district—born into a life of hardships and pain...you were luckily born to two parents, and though you weren't financially stable you managed to enjoy a happy with your family. You had 3 siblings you had to look after, and whenever your parents went off to work, life was stressful but every time you got to see their faces smiling you were also satisfied.
When you got older you got a part-time job, at the vendor selling food, it was owned by an old couple who graciously gave you the job, though it wasn't a lot of money you took to support your parents. They asked to take a shift that was deeper into the night, so you accepted the offer, needing the money. Holding yourself up at the cart, waiting as you called out for customers, feeling yourself getting tired as the second. Stretching your arms out, as you looked further into the night. The night there were more Peacekeepers out, inspecting the district, it slightly made you feel apprehensive at the armed men walking through the area.
Your eyes hesitantly look and watch their movements, brushing the dust off your aprons, fixing your hair as your hair stuck to your neck from the humid air. Hearing footsteps inching near you, as you looked up...you felt your heart dropping in automatic dread, at the blonde Peacekeeper in front of you. You cleared your throat before speaking up to him, "Could I interest you, Sir?" you asked, your voice quivering as you spoke just to keep a positive tone. You felt his eyes raking you. He nodded, "I'll have that" He pointed, as you nodded. His eyes looked at you as you wrapped it up, "Have I seen you before?" He questioned, you looked up at him, "I don't think so..." You smiled at him, as you quickly boxed it up. "Enjoy, Sir" You put your hand out gesturing for him to take the box, "Thank you," He said, taking the box from your hand, and you felt his rough hands against yours.
You watched as he took his leave...you finally got to breathe, releasing the pending oxygen in your lungs and exhaling through your nose.
From the simple exchange, Coriolanus found himself visiting you at your vendor stall. Though, your introverted nature, you reluctantly started talking to him. You told him little things about your life, but he was smart enough to connect the puzzle pieces that you told him and connect it back to your life. He found your coquettish antics cute...and after your shifts you found yourself spending time with him, and often the districts were hot and humid, spending time by the lakes.
His sky-blue eyes took the appearance of your disheveled form, but he found you still captivating—from your dress strap falling to your shoulder and your light dress sticking against your wet skin. He wanted to take a picture of you to save the memory...but Time after time, he found himself getting slowly addicted to you...his visits got frequent, and he would deliver little gifts or care packages to you such as medicine, food, or water. You were grateful for him doing this, but you didn't want to feel like a burden to him, at first you were hesitant to take the gifts but he would ensure that it was a gift for you.
You didn't think about the kind gestures he would do for you, but you would always thank him for what he did. Soon, his obsession with you was like a disease, it kept on spreading and spreading over time, every time he closed his eyes, it would be just you, even when he worked on his daily tasks, his mind would be infected with pictures of you. He would always prefer to be stationed somewhere near you, he would be observing you as you worked, he hated when you talked to other men that weren't him, and his obsession with you was unhealthy, It felt like he couldn't last a day without or seeing you, sometime he would show up unannounced with a bouquet of roses in his hands surprising you.
The first time it was a nice gesture, and you loved it but it started again and again, his presence was almost suffocating to you, and when he asked you the question, you felt fear of saying no to him. But you knew if you were to say 'yes' it would get worse, so you told him to give you some time to think about it, he nodded but you knew he was displeased.
You had a plan to just run away, but you knew sooner or later he would catch you, you shivered at the thought. Knowing that your family would be harmed in the invasion, your ear perked at the sound of the door, you dragged your feet to the door, opening it up. It was him, a bouquet of roses in his hands, his Arctic blue eyes staring at you. It was haunting, he cleared his throat before talking, "So..have you made your decision?" every word he said made your heart pump faster, your flight response ringing alarms through your body to run.
"Coriolanus..um" you stopped mid-way, looking at him in his eyes, "I do thank you for what you do for me, but—I barely know you, and I don't think we would..be good together" you finished your sentence, feeling an eerily feeling in your gut, "Why" that all he said, you looked again at him. It looked like a shadow was cast, his bright sky blue eyes that he looked at you with, were darkening as he spoke.
"For all I do for you, you choose to deny me" The volume of his voice increases, and you force yourself to look at him as he yells at you, he laughs for a short while, before grabbing your jaw, "I protected you, I have done everything for you" you eyes watered from his grip, "I think you should leave, Corio" you whispered, it felt like whip when you used his nickname in that sentence, he released your jaw. His hand was in your hair down, pulling you down, as you felt tears threatening to be produced, his rough hands pulling on your hair, making your scalp hurt, "Corio..please!" You exclaimed, he started to say something else, every word uttering from his word was like venom to an open wound. He threw down the bouquet of roses onto the floor
Your knee felt weak as you fell down onto the floor, hearing his footsteps receding, and the sound door being slammed closed. Tears dripping down from your cheek, the bouquet of roses on the floor, as the petals were scattered on the floor, it was some sick remember of Coriolanus. Days passed, and you saw roses on your doormat, every day it would happen, and you felt fear looming over you.
Every time the color would change from pink to a deep red, they varied every day.
But you went back to your job, selling at the stand to the deep of night, noticing the tie, you quickly packed the cart up for tomorrow and rolled it back to where the old couple resided. You sang to yourself as the wheels of the cart rolled against the broken concrete before you knew it, you felt a hand wrapping your torso, and something else like cloth suffocating you, you tried to scream, but it went deaf in your throat, succumbing to the cloth as you closed your eyes, fainting into the strangers hands.

Your eyes fluttered open, as your eyes wandered around your surroundings. You felt your legs numb, as you tried to stand up, but couldn't, looking down at yourself, rope wrapped around your body. You tried not to move from the friction of the rope hurting you.
Your ears perked at the sound of footsteps,. "Your finally awake, my dove" He walked towards you, taking a knee when he got a good look at you. His fingers caressed your cheek, "We were meant for each other, Y/N" He whispered, you started shaking when his hands lowered, and you turned yourself away from him before he withdrew from him. Before he grabbed you by your jaw, forcing you to look at him, "Do I scare you, am I that ugly that you don't want to love me, Y/N" You shook your head immediately, "Then why.." He growled, and you felt tears on your cheeks, "Don't try to use your crocodile tears on me, Y/N" He glared at you.
You looked away from him, as you sniffled, "Fuck, you don't know what you do to me.." he traveled his finger over your lip, parting it, as you stared at him. Before he kissed you, his tongue forcing itself into your mouth, you felt yourself crying more, as you bit down on his tongue. He withdrew from you, the trail of blood on his lips. His haunting chuckle echo in your ear, "You fucking bitch" He held his jaw. He stood up from the floor, looking away from him.
You heard the sound of belt jingling, your eyes widening at the sight, of his cock in his hand, "Corio, no..please' you begged, your felt yourself crying more, his footsteps inching near you, he slapped his cock on your cheek, it was degrading. "Open," He said, and you felt your lips trembling at the size, "N-no" you whispered, and he repeated himself again, you turned away before he pried your lips open and forced himself into your mouth, making you gag. His hands were in your hair, as he dragged you against his cock, fucking into your mouth. Salvia dripping down from your chin, his groans ringing out in your ears.
"Fuck, you're doing so good, sweetheart" He looked down at you, as your tears filled your vision, he smirked looking at your vulnerable form, before he thrust himself into you. You felt his hot load going down your throat, "Swallow" He said, and you obeyed, The bitter taste coating your mouth, his hands caressing your cheek, "Good girl" he smiled at you. Before he released your jaw, your eyes looked down at the floor, before you heard him tucking himself into his pants.
Days passed,
He treated you with kindness, gifting you a rose, and caressing your back as you lay on his lap, but you managed to convince him to remove the rope around your body. He would braid your hair, comb it, and treat you like a doll. It kept on happening, you started worrying about your family if they were currently looking for you. "Coriolanus, can I visit my family, please" He stopped combing your hair, and he down at you, "Do you deserve it?" He asked, "Please" you begged, sitting up as you looked at him. He breathed out, looking away from you.
"I deserve it, you kidnapped me against my own will!" You stood and yelled, he just glared at you, as he stood up. His height towering over you, "You don't need them at all, I..can give you what you need. you don't need them" He yelled at you, grabbing your shoulder as he forced you to look up at him. "No, I never asked for you to do anything, you came up to me. You did this just to do it, Coriolanus" You yelled at him, finally using his full name instead of the nickname you gave me, you felt your cheek throbbing, his hand harshly hitting you, before he grabbed you by your shirt, "I will fucking kill you and your family if you leave me, Y/N..do you hear me" He lowered his voice, you were shaking. His eyes softened at you crying, before he held you not a hug and you held him, his hands rubbing your back, soothing you.
"Just not now, Y/N.." He whispered and kissed your forehead, you felt sick to your stomach. The next day, he apologized to you, and you were forced to accept, he covered you with kisses and love, and gifted roses.
A month passed still being caged by Coriolanus, but you got some freedom from him, but you weren't allowed to leave a tall. he had surveillance on you. He always reminds you that he loved you, did kind things with you, and surprised you with flowers like he always did. Red roses everywhere,
You stared at the window, it was fairly getting dark, and no signs of Coriolanus coming back. You wanted to escape but knowing the consequence would be horrible if you committed the act, before you heard stomping from the door, your eyes looking at the furious Coriolanus in front of you. "How many men, have you slept with Y/N" You got up from your feet, looking at him incredulously, "What are you talking about?" before you felt a sting on your cheek, "Don't play dumb with me" He yelled at you, "How many" He repeated himself, "I —none, I didn't do anything, Coriolanus" you sniffled, before he took a fist of your hair, pulling you towards him, "Don't fucking lie to me, Y/N" He growled, "I'm not lying, please" He hit you a second time, this time it was worse, feeling your nose bleeding from the impact. He started dragging you to the bedroom, where he forced you to sleep, throwing you onto the mattress of the bed, you heard him taking off his belt, forcefully tying up your hands above you.
"Coriolanus, please' you screamed, kicking your legs everywhere, "Please-please, stop" you cried as he got on top of you, taking off your pants and panties in the same quick motion. Aligning himself against, before you felt himself inside of you, it was painful, horrible. He moaned against you, as he forced himself into you and out, thrusting his hips against yours, you screamed at him, hitting him on his biceps to stop.
Your screams were deaf to his ears, as he fucked himself into you, his cock tearing everything inside of you, "Please" you heaved, hitting him, his sky-blue eyes staring at you. Time passed slowly, purposely you felt, before he cummed inside of you, you screamed for him to stop and pull out but he didn't. You lay there motionless, dried tears on your cheeks and naked in front of him, "Don't touch me" you cried, flipping to the side away from him. He called your name again, but you ignored him, holding yourself, you rolled yourself into a ball and cried to yourself until you fell asleep.
When you woke up,, you didn't see Coriolanus, you looked at yourself, your bottom still exposed, a reminder of at the ordeal that happened yesterday. You stood up, putting back your underwear and your pants, before walking out of the bedroom, rubbing your eyes still tired. There was something on the table, as you walked, it was a bouquet of fresh roses and a note attached to it with his handwriting.
You covered your mouth, and you fell to your knee and cried to yourself, knowing that he wouldn't let you go...the roses he gifted you are just a reminder of his torment.

#coriolanus snow#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus snow fanfiction#coriolanus x you#tbosas#president coriolanus snow#coriolanus fanfiction#coriolanus smut#coriolanus snow x you#president snow x reader#president snow#tbosas x readertbos#tbosbas#tbosas x reader#ballad of songbirds and snakes#snow lands on top#coriolanus snow imagine#coriolanus snow smut#corionalus snow#hunger games#hunger games the ballad of songbirds and snakes#hunger games x reader#the hunger games x reader#the hunger games#thg series#dark!coriolanus snow#dark!fic#coriolanus x y/n#hunger games tbosas
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Imposter. Baizhu.
Summary: That time of your month was always dreadful, made you want to hide away and forget all about the outside world, but perhaps it wasn't so awful with someone there with you.
Word count: 800+
“Is this the part where you tell me you hate being a woman again?”
The bed dipped beside you, creaking with the effort to adjust and support Baizhu's weight on the mattress you were currently curled up on in a bundle of blankets and pillows. Nesting, he had called it, a hand over his mouth as Baizhu tried not to out right laugh at you when he knew it would only result in a pillow being flung at both his and Changsheng’s faces for only one of those two is capable of properly dodging your fury.
“I don't say that.” You grumbled into your shirt. Or, rather, his shirt you claimed as your own. In the end, the difference was all the same.
“You do. Every month, actually.” Changsheng remarked.
You didn't get a chance to tell the overgrown noodle to shut it before Baizhu was chastising her in your place with a “Now really isn't the time to argue with her.”
“Because she might have our heads?”
“Precisely.”
You rolled your eyes at the two's interaction. “I can hear you, you know.”
“Oh, I know, my petal.” His hand cupped your cheek, bringing your gaze up to meet his slitted eyes, staring back at you with a bathymsal nature you couldn't help but be curious about every morning he painted red eyeshadow to his lids in the grace of a fresh morning's light; an unasked question never failing to make your lips tingle. “But we can call it payback for having me run all the way to the store for you in the middle of working hours.”
Your nose scrunched when he tapped the tip of your nose before going to the bag he had dropped on the bed next to him when Baizhu sat down earlier, the rustling drawing your attention.
“You could have sent Qiqi.”
“I could have, yes,” Baizhu nodded, “but you can be rather peculiar about the things you need during this time. I doubt Qiqi would have been able to remember exactly what you needed even if I did write it down for her.”
“Picky.” Changsheng huffed, not bothering to soften her words like the man she's currently wrapped around had a habit of doing. Her scales shifted as she turned her head to look down at the box Baizhu pulled out. Tongue flicking.
“And I appreciated the walk. It's a fine day.”
You looked over at the closed blinds, the light from outside only barely peeking through to leave a glowing line of yellow on the floor. “Wouldn't know.”
“No, I imagine you wouldn't. Though, regular exercise helps with the cramps, my petal. I suggest that once you have had some time to let the medication I made you set in, you come downstairs, and we can drink some tea and share these.” Another item was pulled from the bag, one you didn't even notice until now as a package of fine tea, full moon cakes were held before you.
“You of all people encouraging me to eat something sweet? How ghastly.” You gasped, hand coming out from your nest of blankets to place it over your wide open mouth. “Clearly you're a Baizhu imposter.”
“Hush you.”
On his shoulders, Changsheng snickered, just like you were, at his half-hearted glare.
Taking his hand, you pulled it close, bringing it to your lips that had been bearing a grimace for most of the afternoon, only to now be sporting a smile at the sight of him before you. “Thank you, Baizhu imposter, you're the sweetest.”
He sighed, looking you up and down as your touch trailed over the black glove he wore, always hiding away skin he refused to let you see with claims it's not a pretty sight. As if anything about him wasn't pretty. “You are awful. Always teasing me.”
“Stop making it so easy, then.”
Behind his glasses, Baizhu rolled his eyes at your wink. “Kisses and flirting won't get you out of taking your medicine.”
Changsheng chimed in with a “You have to admire her willingness to try.”
“Oh, fuck you both.” You said, dropping his hand.
“Maybe later, my petal, but for now, I need you to rest.” A kiss fell to the top of your head, nose nudging itself into your hair, and the charm of his glasses, cold as it was, tickled your cheek. “Then we can have our treats later.”
Another squeak of the mattress sounded as he got up, moving to the door with Changsheng still stubbornly wrapped around his neck. Eventually she'd come wiggling back through that very same door to check on you for him, but for now her little head was bobbing with every step Baizhu took.
“Hey imposter.” You called, watching him turn his head, green hair swaying with the movement to look back at you. “I love you. And, thank you for your help.”
His lips quicked up, a fang barely poking out. “I love you too.”
#hoyoverse#genshin impact#x reader#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#fem reader#baizhu x you#baizhu x y/n#baizhu x reader#baizhu#/glasswrites#divider by saradika graphics
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Printed Paper Pill Folding Package Box medicine Packaging Paper Box
Printed Paper Pill Folding Package Box A Medicine Packaging Paper Box is a paper container used to store medicines. It is typically fabricated from Printed paper material and has sure electricity and wear resistance. It adopts a folding layout, which could efficaciously guard the pills from the outside surroundings.
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Custom folding medicine food packaging box
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Warnings: Language, menstrual cycle, mentions anxiety, emotions, blood, cramps, hurt/comfort, Nancy makes an adorable appearance, and lots of fluff!
Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader
He isn’t sure how much time has passed, because everything seems so chaotically still. But your trembling, sobbing presence declares otherwise. It started earlier, with a clasped hand to your stomach, pushing your favorite pizza away in disgust. That space between your eyebrows screwed up in pain, and you’d left the table without another word. You should’ve planned on bringing things with you, I mean, hell, you always write your cycles down on Eddie’s Bible quote calendar anyways.
Neither of you were prepared for it to happen today, during the late evening hours, despite its looming date getting closer on Eddie’s wall display. You beelined it for your pad stash that the Munson’s so graciously permitted you your own drawer for in their small bathroom, only to find you had one singular sanitary pad, and a whole lotta mess on your hands. It was unexpectedly heavy, and it really fucking hurt, which didn’t usually occur until the next day. You called for your boyfriend and he immediately found you, head in your hands, on his toilet, thighs streaked in bright crimson, switching from holding your temples to angrily scrubbing at your eyes. Things with your cycle were never awkward with Eddie, not after getting used to it.
He simply knelt down, chain slapping against his pants, house slippers on his feet, taking your hands in his as he asked one question. “What do you need, sweetheart?”
~*~
Eddie rocks you back and forth, rubbing down your spine as you cry. As dusk turned into nightfall, summer storms beginning, battering the trailer with their high winds, your pain increased to the point where he’d considered calling for help. Midol worked for one hour and barely took the edge off, his hand couldn’t do the trick, you felt too bad to attempt an orgasm, and you are shaking with pleading sobs. He does all that he knows to calm you down, a slow ticking beneath his vocal cords, his throat warming as he begins to softly sing to you, cross-legged, you in his lap, arms tucked beneath his pits and draped around his lower back, his own continuously stroking you, not ceasing his back and forth movements. He ignores the tears in his own eyes as you cry out and squirm.
And that’s what you do. You cry yourself into a numbing sleep. That’s when Eddie lays you down and immediately dials up Wheeler, having to answer questions about what milligrams your pain meds are and if you are out of pads and tampons. Despite the rain, she is there with several bags not even twenty minutes later. She puts the chocolate and various salty snacks away with his assistance, hands him a new bottle of Midol, also laying out a new box of tampons and a smaller package of sanitary pads, before she is explaining how your medicine has a higher dosage, and ultimately helps him figure out the hot water bottle.
How Eddie Munson, of all people (she knows better after all these years than to judge a book by its cover) takes care of her best-friend, it makes her giddy, relieved.
“Each girl varies, but this stuff should help. I know her periods get a little rough sometimes. If she needs anything, have her call me or you can call me back, okay?”
“I definitely owe you one, Nance.” As he switches off from the usage of Wheeler, she’s folding the paper sack, grinning widely.
Definitely a teddy bear.
Once she’s safely in her station wagon and leaving his drive, Eddie automatically prepares your hot water bottle, grabs fresh ice water, your new pills bottle, and a few snacks, tucking the bottle beneath his armpit. He settles everything in a neat place on his nightstand, thankful you’re still asleep, but seeing your face still scrunched in agony. He gently lays the bottle beneath your navel, pulling his blanket over your form, leaving you only to wet a washcloth and wipe away the sweat that’s built on your forehead. He does that for a little while, changes your bottle in and out, right up until he sees that frown vanish and you curl into his side. He’s working a poem he plans on turning into lyrics when you stir.
It’s still raining steadily, scattering a beat that he can sample upon the tin roof. You stretch out like a cat, yawning, eyes blinking slowly as you take the room and your boyfriend into focus. You mumble about the time, grasping at the bottle on your belly. When Eddie comes into full view, he’s got one leg propped, the other flat, his notebook balanced on his raised knee, his shirt off, rings gone, with just his pick and boxers remaining. He looks relieved at your lazy grin.
Still, though, he has to check in. “Do I need to go reheat it, baby? I’ve been doing it off and on since Nance dropped it off.”
Nancy was here? He called her Nance? And your cramps are gone. There’s so much to smile about that you become overwhelmed, especially with your ability to focus again beyond mind numbing anxiety, and anguish. Your sclera is flooded with tears and Eddie instinctively freaks out, sliding from the bed. “I’ve got new Midol here, there’s pads and tampons, some snacks, still leftover pizza, and I can fix you right up, sweet—“
You’re kissing the remaining letters of the nickname right off of his mouth. Your hands press into his curls, dragging them through your fingers, enjoying how their soft-silky texture tickles your knuckles. He wraps his arms around your back, letting a palm dig into your tailbone. You mewl appreciatively. Eddie uses a calloused thumb to swipe away your tears on the wet break away, on the verge of losing it at the relief of your relaxed state - himself.
And you, you’re looking at him as if he’s hung the moon for you. No one has to say anything, you both already know.
However, Mother Nature captivates your tongue and takes a hold of your desires. You let one hand drift and gently play with his chain, and he’s unable to deny how he’s practically purring in your grasp. “Eddie?”
“Yeah….?” He’s dazed and grinning like a goofy idiot.
“I’m hungry. Oh, and I love you!”
#kristenwrites#my work#my writing#stranger things#stranger things fluff#stranger things blurb#stranger things drabble#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things 4#eddie munson#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson drabble#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x female reader#nancy wheeler
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Imagine if for Mahiru’s birthday a bunch of his friends have independent ideas to bake him a cake as a surprise lol, so when they show up to his place for the party, his countertop is laden with cakes of varying skill level
Misono and Tetsu made one together. It is. Incredibly ugly. The layers are sliding off each other, the writing on the top is smudged and wonky, the whipped cream is deflating and melting. It took them half the day to make and put together. The alicein kitchen is a total disaster zone and the only reason that thing is edible is because Misono swallowed his pride and asked for help. They got special permission to bring their servamps out of the basement for the party. A second, more put together, much nicer looking mini cake is provided by Yamane on behalf of the rest of the household.
Lawless carefully calculated the shipping time to make sure his shortbread cookies, which he meticulously packaged to ensure they arrive as intact as possible, arrive on schedule. Licht sends some various souvenir treats and a very flowery worded card along since Lawless didn’t let him help with the baked goods. Not because he thinks Licht would mess it up, but because he doesn’t want his Eve snacking on them when his back is turned. He’ll make you a batch later, leave him alone! They can’t be there in person but they give Mahiru a call so Licht can play him a song.
London couple ALSO mail Mahiru a present but due to Reasons it is a stale disintegrated mess by the time it arrives. Youtarou didn’t even know that packages could end up taking the journey his did. Amused them all by giving updates on what the tracking information said. At one point it was in Fiji. The next, Fucking Canada. Why? Who knows! Gear has never been more frustrated with the mail service. When they finally get the box it leaves crumbs behind when picked up.
Tsurugi is soooo proud of his store bought cake. He even splurged and got some of those number candles! “You can reuse these once you’re 81!” “Ahh… Thanks?”
Unfortunately, Tooru got the exact same cake from the same bakery. Mahiru feels obligated to have a piece anyway.
Sakuya, Koyuki, and Ryuusei ALSO made a cake, since they know Mahiru doesn’t usually make one for himself. Their eyes get wider and wider as more guests arrive with more cakes. Like oh my god. This is both hilarious and terrible. There’s no way all of these are gonna get finished. They’re ALL strawberry shortcake with whipped cream. They swear each other to secrecy about the dropped egg and sugar bag fiasco. Three teenage boys cleaned the melancholy kitchen SPOTLESS before they got caught because hhhhh. Didn’t realize Otogiri was watching them and Tsubaki almost throws up from laughing as she tells him the story
Kuro did not make a cake for the party. He actually… Woke up early. GASP. He taught himself to make crepes for this feat. Crepe cake with chocolate spread and strawberries. He’s feeling smug over being the guy who had a fresh and unique idea. Tsubaki watched him do this knowing at least partially what was to come. He’s got stomach medicine on standby for after everyone goes home.
Mahiru never wants to see a goddamn birthday cake again.
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