#at some point it all just really weighs down

[e-therealife]

Either way, We're not Alone

warnings: kissing, a bit of touching, so slightly nsfw, mention of guns (not actually any guns), mention of slut-shaming to nat pairing: natalie scatorccio x reader [romantic] description: before nationals, you take a moment to hold onto what you have with your girlfriend. tags: fluff, bittersweet, coming of age, pre-crash, foreshadowing the crash and wilderness

Hidden behind some trees that border the trailer park, you and Nat are lying on a blanket, trying to see stars through the light pollution. Nat's lips are messily dyed purple, a mixture made from a red, white, and blue popsicle bought from the ice cream truck she tracked down.

After a final suck to clean the stick off, she holds it out and reads the joke printed on it. "What can you steal and not get in trouble?"

You furrow your brows, thinking. "Um… I don't know. What?"

Nat grins. "Second base."

"What? Can't you steal the other bases, too?"

She laughs, placing the stick into the takeout bag filled with wrappers of food you'd gotten earlier. “I don't think this is just about baseball.”

You roll your eyes, but still smile. "These are for kids, though."

"We bought 'em."

"Yeah. We did." Your tone is suddenly dejected, Nat's words making everything feel more real. You weren't kids anymore. You never would be again.

Nat's playful grin falls, her expression becoming understanding. Mournful.

She presses a kiss to the top of your head, then slips her hand into yours, interlacing your fingers. Nat gives your hand a squeeze, which you return. She relaxes her hand slightly after a moment, but still keeps a firm grip. It's comforting, the way she's so focused on you.

You look back up to the sky, squinting at the darkness. There's some distant conversation you can hear, which you assume is being held around the bonfire you're smelling, and the warm air is filled with the chirps and hums of bugs around you.

"There." You outstretch your arm, index finger pointing to a small, flickering white light.

Nat squints at the glimmer, catching it slightly moving. "Plane," she corrects.

You drop your arm, clicking your tongue in disappointment. "We'd have an easier time seeing lights from New York than stars here."

Nat sighs. "Yeah, we would." She sounds upset. Nat wasn't necessarily one for nature. She was certainly caring toward it—you've seen her stumble drunkenly to help some baby birds whose nest had fallen, and she'd stop to pick up litter. But she wasn't the type to go for a hike or eat organically. Late nights of cigarettes and gas station snacks were much more her thing.

What wasn't her thing was the incoming unknown for you both. Despite the way she constantly cursed how shitty Wiskayok was, on the verge of everything changing, she'd developed some weird appreciation and begun to wish for more of the same. Nat had never really gotten to be a kid, but now, she's feeling like she's about to lose her chance. So, tonight, she's trying to enjoy this moment, looking up at a sky that never really seemed to watch over her and attempting to appreciate it.

Next week, you'll play your last game before Nationals. Soon after, you'll both graduate. Maybe you should be excited, but it just feels bittersweet. You can't help but think there's some impending doom awaiting you, and the upcoming weeks are a last hurrah.

The burden of more responsibilities and leaving this period of your life behind was weighing on you before it even became a reality. Bills, work... less time for this.

You know Nat feels the same. She's spent her life thinking she would never make it this far. Despite all she's gotten through, it's hard for her to believe she'll be able to handle what's coming, whatever that may be.

After a moment, Nat continues, "We should go somewhere with a better view sometime."

A trip would mean more moments like this, where you both can forget about meaningless responsibilities and just focus on one another, on actually living.

You turn your head to her to agree, but before you can, a loud sound cracking through the air interrupts you. You jump in surprise, ending up pressed against Nat's arm.

She smiles fondly, releasing your hand to pull you into her. She wraps her arms around you, one hand rubbing up and down your back soothingly. "It's okay. Just a firework," she tells you. Nat never liked to see you scared or hurt, but she did like knowing you were comfortable showing some vulnerability to her. She liked feeling like this—needed, or at least wanted.

You knew it wasn't a gun—you heard people fucking around with both guns and fireworks by Nat's trailer enough to know the difference easily. Didn't mean you weren't surprised by the sound. Didn't mean you were making any move to leave Nat's side, either.

Given Nat wasn't pulling you up to get away, like last Summer when someone had almost started a wildfire from a firework here, you trusted you were far enough away to relax.

You look back up to the sky, seeing the remnants of some bright red and orange fireworks. They look like flickers of flame. Then, you hear a fizzing sound, those champagne-colored fireworks that spin in the sky bursting and raining down.

"I wish things could stay like this forever," Nat murmurs. It's so quiet and low in her chest you barely hear it. Her words seem ironic, especially in this moment. You're lying on the bumpy ground, lathered in bug spray and sunblock you forced Nat to put on earlier. The bug spray made you both smell of bitter chemicals while the sunblock still felt a bit oily on your skin. A few hours ago, you both had to swat flies away from your food, and someone had yelled "slut" out their car to Nat when you were walking back to the trailer park.

Things were far from what Nat would usually consider perfect, both in this moment and in Wiskayok, and Nat seemed like the type of person who'd love nothing more than to get the hell out of here.

But she doesn't need anything else. Whatever she has to deal with is worth it, because she could never get bored of moments like this, with you. You felt the same way about her.

So, you agree. "Me too."

"We'll stay together," Nat says. You can tell her words are meant to be confident and sure, but you hear the weakness in her voice, that part of her that's afraid of being abandoned. "Then, it'll be the same. We can always feel like this."

Being around Nat always made life feel like each moment held you in some snow globe or film reel. Somehow, with her around, it was as if things were more just. Like you were truly important. Maybe the world didn't actually treat you better in those moments, but being around Nat made life feel much more worth living.

You still couldn't help but worry in the back of your mind, would things feel the same in a few months, years, decades?

With Nat, it had to.

So, you respond, "We will. Always."

Nat turns her head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. How could any moment around her—having her—ever not be perfect?

She lets her lips linger for a moment, then just leans her head onto yours. Something about this makes you want to cry, and you think Nat's feeling the same way.

After a while, she pulls you closer, your face now lightly resting on her neck. You lay your arm over her stomach and press yourself into her side. Although you're the one being held, it feels a lot more like she's seeking out comfort from you.

You can still hear fireworks going off, and now, someone's dog is barking. But the sounds seem to be drowned out by her body against yours.

"You cold?" she asks.

She did this a lot, asked how you were. 'You hungry?' 'Tired?' Sometimes, it was, 'You mad at me?' You knew she wasn't asking these things just to win you over. Nat wasn't like that. She cared.

"'M fine." It was true. It was a warm night out, and you could handle the occasional breeze.

Still, Nat gently lifts you off her and slips off her sweater. Then, she pulls you close again and wraps you in it.

"I don't want you to be cold," you protest.

"You're warming me up just fine. Actually, I might be warmer if you got a little closer…"

You laugh. You couldn't really be much closer unless you laid on top of her. Still, you tangle your legs with hers.

You hear Nat sigh quietly in satisfaction, and you lift your head to peek at her. The corners of her lips are slightly upturned, twitching as she holds back a smile. She knows you're watching her, catching your gaze with blushing cheeks and a laugh. "Stop staring," she tells you, voice a little higher from being flustered.

"Why? You nervous?"

"Shut up."

Relenting, you cuddle back into her. You lay like that for a while, appreciating every area of contact between you two, before telling her, “I love you.” You only had said it to each other a few times before, usually when things were shitty. Now, it's like you're preparing for things to go wrong. It's not a goodbye or an end, though. Somehow, you know Nat is sticking with you. Despite how hard life made it to believe, you felt like you were bound to her. 

You make sure your words come out clear and strong so she knows exactly what you said. So she knows you're sticking with her, too.

"I love you," she replies. She squeezes you a bit, then adds, "More than anything, y'know." It's somewhat of a question, her making sure she was doing "enough" again.

“I know. I feel the same way about you.” You press a light kiss to her neck, and you notice the way she shivers slightly from the contact.

Then, Nat's shifting, moving out from under you gently before leaning over you. Right after she's close enough, she quickly looks over your face, licking her lips before kissing you. It's hurried, but not rough, fully loving in her neediness. You can slightly taste the sugary popsicle she'd eaten earlier.

She runs her hands up your stomach, then to your chest, mapping out your body. Her touch feels familiar; Nat always paid attention to your reactions, figuring out exactly what you liked. Clearly, with how easy this is, the way you both seem to melt into one another, it's paid off.

Tonight, Nat's both trying to memorize you and assure herself that she has you. She doesn't have to do this. She's touched you like this many times before, and you've never done anything to make it seem like you'd leave. But she's still anxious about what's to come. It's not necessarily about how you might change—she'd always love you—but how she might. Would you still love her?

You hold her by her hips for a moment before moving your hands to the back of her body. Nat's wearing some loose shorts, so you're able to push up the ends of them and run your hands over her ass.

She smiles, pulling away. You see the way the dye on her lips has smeared further, and it's a bit less pigmented. You're guessing there's a little on your lips now, too.

"You trying to steal third base?" she teases.

You roll your eyes, laughing. "I mean, I want to. You want me to?"

She moves her lips to your neck, sucking on the skin. You tilt your head to give her more room, and she runs her tongue along your neck before peppering a few soft kisses, her lips wet. She pulls back to say, “Keep going. I want you to."

author's note: hi guys! hope you like this. it took me forever to edit for some reason. also, joke inspired by a real popsicle stick. thanks for reading!

[cheralith]

APARTMENT 345 BOYS FREAKING OUT BC THEY HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO TAKE CARE OF VERY DRUNK READER.

they’re so stupid, it’s adorable :((

ALSO is 🍒 taken for anons?? if not could i take it pls:)

cw : implied alcohol consumption a/n : of course! this was fun to write, thank u!

"be careful with her!" karasu scolds, the door to the club weighed on his back feeling heavier than usual as otoya and yukimiya stumble a drunken you out, your feet winding over each other.

sensibility has long been lost from you given your current state, though the boys have a hard time trying to figure out why you'd let yourself go so heedlessly on a weekday night out of all things. yukimiya especially thought of you more responsible than that, than whatever state you're currently conveying to them now.

otoya nods to whatever gibberish you mumble at him. "yeah, no. i completely agree. wow, did he really?"

yukimiya scrunches his brows, clutching your one side of your waist securely. "you don't even understand what she's saying."

"no, but it's funny," he shrugs. yukimiya pulls a frown.

"take this seriously," karasu demands as he leads the three of you down the sidewalk to where his car is parked. "and make sure she's upright!"

there's not much you can feel with how numb your body has become due to the liquor, but what you can feel is the oddly cold breeze on your foot that when you look down, is missing a shoe.

"shoe..." you murmur.

yukimiya perks up, leaning in to hear you better and fighting the urge not to smell the sweet mixture of your shampoo and perfume. "huh?"

"my..." you turn your head back to the noisy club and stick your bare foot out. "m'shoe... think it got lost..."

karasu sighs, looking back to how crowded the club was and understanding that attempting to look for a lone shoe amidst the sea of people was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

"i'm sure that someone's gonna turn it up to the lost and found by tomorrow," he tries, to which you sour at. "let's just get ya home, okay?"

"nuh uh," you attempt to swerve your body back to the club despite yukimiya and otoya weighing you down with both your arms around their sholders. "my foot's cold. i wan' my shoe."

otoya holds you down, agreeing with karasu.

"i'll give you my shoe instead, but we can't go back in there, babe," otoya juts his head back. "it felt like we were in the trenches just trying to find you, let alone a shoe."

your hair tousles about as you shake your head. your mind is thick and hazy, your filter long gone. "it won't fit. you're like bigfoot... you like... slap the floor when you walk... longfoot? whatever."

yukimiya chokes back a laugh. karasu has to bite his cheek from giving a reaction. otoya creases his lips thinly.

"you're lucky you're cute," otoya retorts shortly before yelping again when you attempt to yank away from them again.

it's a bit of a tousle between you, yukimiya, and otoya as they try to pull you away from the club, karasu even joining in at one point when you start to thrash around. they had never thought of you to be a violent drunk, maybe at best an emotional one, but whatever you are, there's an odd surge of strength that comes before you from the alcohol.

"i want my shoe!" you whine loudly, trying to free yourself from yukimiya's grasp.

he tries to grab your wrists. "i will literally buy you another pair if you just—ow!" you accidentally jab him in the ribs, surging some air out of him that makes him loosen his grip on you.

you make a run for it back to the club, wobbling like a baby deer on the imbalance from your feet. karasu gives a shout and manages to snatch you back up just before you jump back into the suffocating crowd of the club.

"is everything alright here?" a voice calls out from the sidelines.

a police officer pokes his head out of his car, a suspicious squint in his eyes as he examines the scene before him. you all freeze; otoya helps pick a wheezing yukimiya up on his feet while karasu settles you back down to the floor, holding you down despite your wriggling.

a thick silence bestows the four of you, not trying to accidentally say the wrong thing that might entangle this predicament further than it has to. karasu knows it's a tricky-looking scene, and he steadies his tongue to choose the right words.

but you beat him to it, stating something so plainly that if anything, confuses everyone even more.

"my roommates stole my shoe, officer."

[snottyped]

please please pleeeeease write some (male) vampire x (female/neutral) reader <3 (I also really like omorashi/pee desperation so… bonus points for that if it’s something you don’t mind bc even vamps have to go right?) BUT ughhh anything vampire has my heart. thank u! Hope this is ok! Love your robot stories btw ugh <3333 discovering new things I love every day

and yet you still knock

vampire x female reader nsfw

He told you not to come here.

He warned you. In that silken, scolding tone of his.

All velvet gloves and slow smiles, the way he always is when he’s angry but doesn’t want to stop enjoying you.

He’d leaned in that last time, his breath cool against your ear, and said.

“There are old hungers I keep in check, dove. Don’t tempt them.”

And yet here you are.

At his door standing here like a fool. Soaked from rain, heart full of something reckless, and too stubborn to admit you missed him.

Too foolish to realize he’s already behind you.

“Desperate?” he purrs, voice low and amused, just by your neck.

You whip around—and he’s close.

Too close. His coat brushing yours. His hand rising to catch your chin between cold fingers before you can look away.

“You said I wasn’t allowed to come here,” you whisper, defiant.

“I said you shouldn’t.” He smiles, fangs gleaming at the edges. “I never said I wouldn’t welcome the sight.”

You hate how your knees weaken.

He watches it.

Of course he does.

His other hand trails down your arm, slow, possessive. “Do you enjoy being hunted, dove? Or is it that you enjoy pretending you’re not?”

You can’t answer. You’re too busy trying not to melt as he leans down, nose brushing your throat. “I can smell your pulse,” he whispers. “Your arousal. So needy.”

“Maybe I just like the danger,” you manage.

He laughs—rich, dark, and indulgent. His eyes crinkle with laughter and you take in his beauty.

“Oh, you’re in danger. But not the kind you think.”

And so he lifts you, grabbing your figure gently and bringing you with him. You gasp as your back hits the cold stone wall of his entryway, his mouth crashing against yours.

His tongue moves like he’s starving—and maybe he is—but it’s not just blood he wants, not tonight.

His coat falls from his shoulders. His fingers slip up your thighs, dragging your soaked skirt higher. You feel his hips grind against you, and the bulge there is obscene—pressing through layers, thick and rigid, grinding slow to let you feel just how much patience he’s losing.

“You knew what this would be,” he growls into your neck. “You came here wet and trembling, hoping I’d lose control.”

He lifts your leg over his hip. His fingers find your heat, slick already, stroking with maddening precision.

“You’re soaked,” he snarls. “And not from the rain.”

You bite your lip, trying to fight the moan that spills out as he pushes two fingers inside, crooked perfectly to hit that spot that makes your toes curl.

“Say it,” he hisses. “Say you came for me.”

“I… I came for you,” you breathe.

His fangs graze your neck and s into you quickly he rams into you.

You cry out, clinging to him as he thrusts, deep and deliberate, holding you off the ground like you weigh nothing. His mouth stays at your throat, never quite biting, just… hovering.

“I can make you come before I ever drink,” he pants, rutting harder, your body shuddering around him. “But you’ll beg for that too, won’t you?”

You don’t answer.

It’s far too much. It’s sloppy and it’s brutal and the pace even kind of hurts. But it’s everything you want.

Because you’re already falling apart.

And he’s not even close to done with you. You thought vampires didn’t breathe. But he’s panting.

Above you. Inside you. Still moving.

You’ve lost track of how many times he’s made you come.

Three? Four? More?

The room swims in shadow and candlelight, your limbs limp, your throat sore from moaning. Your body’s flushed, marked, bitten—not deep enough to turn you, just enough to remind you who owns you tonight.

He hasn’t stopped.

Not since the first time he bent your legs back and whispered, “You don’t get to leave until I’m satisfied.”

You thought he was joking.

He was not.

He’s been slow about it, deliberate. Worshipful and devastating. Every time you trembled, he murmured praise into your skin. Every time you begged for a break, he smiled—gentle, cruel—and told you you were doing so well.

Now he’s got your wrists pinned above your head, his body pressed tight to yours. His hips roll in a rhythm that’s almost lazy, almost sweet.

But it’s not mercy.

It’s stamina. It’s ownership.

“I can feel you clench every time I move,” he murmurs, lips dragging over your collarbone. “Still so responsive. Are you going to fall apart for me again?”

You whimper, your thighs trembling.

He chuckles. “That’s a yes.”

He thrusts deeper. Slower. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. Pleasure floods through you like heat in your veins.

Your body is soaked, your skin slippery against his. You should be too sore, too tired, but the hunger in him is unrelenting—and your body is traitorous, greedy, aching for every new wave of friction.

He shifts, angling just right—

And your hips buck helplessly.

“Ah,” he purrs. “There it is.”

You try to twist your wrists free, but his grip tightens.

“No,” he says, still so soft. “You don’t need to hold anything back. I want to feel you when you break.”

He’s watching your face.

He always does, like he’s drinking it in.

“You should see yourself, little mortal. So open. So honest when you’re like this.”

He kisses you then—slow and deep—and you can taste your own breath in his mouth.

You don’t know how long it’s been.

You don’t care. The night stretches on. And he does too.

Every time you cry out, he coos.

Every time you plead for rest, he slows—but never stops.

“You wanted eternity,” he growls into your ear. “You’ll have it—in moans and sweat and my cock keeping you full.”

You’re crying, moaning, coming again before you can stop it. Your legs twitch, your voice breaks, your back arches into him as the pleasure crests again.

He moans with you, rutting deeper. “That’s it. That’s it. Give it to me. All of you.”

And you do.

You lose yourself to him. Again. And again. And again.

Until the candlelight fades and dawn brushes pale blue across the curtains. Only then does he slow.

Only then does he kiss your temple and say, with that wicked smile.

“We’ll rest, darling. But just a little. You’ve still got one more in you.”

taglist: @dreamerofthewest

[hebrideansky]

Speaking as a UK mouse breeder, if you don't have any luck trying to directly get in touch with mouse breeders, rather than going through reptile people, ask rat breeders!

There isn't too much overlap in terms of people breeding both rats and mice at the same time. There was a bit up until the 80s/ early 90s, but then care standards moved on and wages/ house sizes moved down, and people stopped having physical time and space for breeding both species, so it's now rare. More likely people will have bred one for a bit and then moved to the other.

However in the UK and parts of Europe the fancies have remained somewhat intertwined. In terms of when new genes/ varieties are discovered, checking what a similar colouration is called in the other fancy as part of deciding on an official name, partly in terms of if any different breeding technique is worth trying, partly in terms of which village halls will let you hold a show in them, down south also sometimes they will hold a mouse show at the same time in the same place as a rat show (there's one club which is literally a rat AND mouse club), and just generally being aware of which mouse breeders are around and where.

The good thing about going down this route as a prospective *pet* mouse owner is that in general more rat breeders care about their rats being pet suitable than mouse breeders do, so can make recommendations more easily in that regard.

It's not the friendliness that's the issue so much as health and lifespan. In the UK mice are shown at very young ages (rats are now banned in the UK fancy from being shown so young to prioritise their welfare and development), and also are usually bred very young too. It's rare (due to the above house space constraints, see all the info about living spaces in Europe being much smaller than the US) that people will keep mice for their full and natural lifespan - maybe a top show winner or a buck who breeds well, but not overall for the line, especially considering culling young automatically removes a chunk of info. With so few data points in this way, it can make it really rather a gamble to know how long a line will on average live, or what health issues will eventually get them for a pet owner to be aware of. And some of the UK lines live startlingly short lives, like 9-12 months. I took on a new line from a breeder giving up a couple of years ago where 90% of them died at 6-12 months, which, when I enquired, I was told was fine because that's after they would have been done showing and breeding the next generation so who cares, easier to have more space. But as a pet owner? You've gone to all that trouble to acquire typey mice and they live less than half of the standard average lifespan?! That's an excessive amount of effort and money and emotional stress! So going through rat fancy channels can weigh things a bit more heavily in your favour, especially since there's a huge overlap between rat fanciers and scientists (way more than any other UK small animal fancy).

Hi Ked! Do you have any tips on finding decent mouse breeders? I love mice and would like to get some in the future. I wanted to see about looking into breeders near me for when the time is right to get some mice but I’m having a harder time than I expected finding folks within any kind of drivable pickup distance. Are there any hobbyist groups I should look into to find folks? Thanks!

You can try the FMBA or ARFMA websites breeder directories, or I would advise asking in the Practical Pest Control FB group if you have FB, or for recs from the Practical Rodent Breeding group on FB. Otherwise, you can try visiting local reptile or exotics expos, and seeing if you can find a breeder by asking around. Usually feeder breeders will have a local rec or two for people looking for pet-quality mice, and some may even have separate lines for breeding pet or show-quality mice (any good pet or show breeder will have culls, and may sell those culls as feeders if they aren't giving them to reptile-keeper friends). Craigslist is another option.

If you're outside of the USA, I don't have a lot of info on how to find breeders, but there are some REALLY great ones overseas in the England/UK/Europe that whole area, and some of them have mousery pages on FB or instagram or wherever they are showing off their mice. You can look to see if there are local clubs (search "mouse breeding club [your location]" or similar, which you can do even if you live in the USA to see if there's anything local).

I will say, chances are good that you're GOING to have to travel. Sometimes hours. I've had people drive 5+ hours to get to me for mice (usually breeders), and I've watched breeders pay hundreds of dollars moving mice from overseas, or making a moving train across country to pick up and drop off mice along the way. Sometimes, if you're patient and in a few social groups, you'll catch wind of upcoming trains and you may be able to snag a ride for a mouse. Otherwise, there ARE animal transport services (like haulin' paws) that you can reserve a spot on if their route is coming near you. But most likely, if you want a mouse from a breeder and you don't find anyone at expos, don't see anyone on craigslist, can't find anyone on club lists, no one has any recs, then you are pretty much going to just have to plan to drive or settle for a pet store quality mouse. There typically isn't enough of a demand, and no centralized location for breeders to be found, to support a lot of breeders in one area.

[deanpinterester]

watching an older youtuber like laura kampf (who is 40 which isn't That old but older than most internet celebrities) is very comforting because as much i don't want to, i keep feeling like my life is over when i'm only 25 and to see this woman who is out there living her life making stuff and inventing stuff and having a career on youtube and having a girlfriend makes me feel like everything's going to be okay

[fabdante]

This is probably just the high of finishing season 2 talking, but like. Can we get whoever did Arcane to do a DMC reboot show? Maybe as a reboot of the reboot? Or at least a sequel?

Like, just. People who love and respect the source material/preboot! But can also take that and craft something good based on those source materials that kinda does its own thing! And is actually good!

Just. My kingdom for some good character writing for DMC stuff. Preboot and reboot, tbh.

I'll be honest I kinda like...idk perhaps I'm in the minority but I don't really want more extended universe dmc stuff? Like I'm firmly in the 'I don't want a DmC2' camp and I'm also not particularly jazzed about the upcoming anime. IDK like more official works on the reboot in particular for me over the years has just become something I'm not interested in. I've spent a lot of time with the material and I've put thought into how I'd like for it to be followed up and I'm just...so confident it would not at all be what I want and it'd leave me disappointed and with a lot of work that would just now feel pointless.

I do, however, realize most of the fandom hasn't been making a like 250k prequel about Kat and Vergil that's been stuck in development hell and would probably not be bothered by any of this asdfghjkl

I do think it'd be interesting to see what Fortiche could do with Devil May Cry, any of the Devil May Crys. Though I'm not sure what they'd do with it given how much less...complex it is I guess? Not that the story has to have as many moving parts as Arcane for Fortiche to do a good job but still. I do think, though, with the new Netflix anime and Fortiche focusing on their own projects and new Riot projects that them doing anything for anyone else is not very likely (very much a shame I'd have LOVED to see what they'd do with Warcraft. The story of Warcraft is so ripe to be cleaned up, fixed up, and released in a comprehensive and coherent way, like the Warcraft cinematics team are incredible themselves but I'm still pretty sure there's only a handful of them. Warcraft just has such good meat in there that I'd really love to see someone else pick up and put together)

If I were to get my dream project from Fotiche on DMC/DmC I guess what I would like is either a much more slowed down and polished soft remake of what we get with the reboot. Like a version of it that really gets to take it's time. Though it would lose a lot of it's campiness asdfghj for good or for bad. For the preboot I mean there's a lot there with the preboot if they wanted to just go through the whole brother saga. Like across the board for both preboot and reboot, given Fortiches focus on writing complex and intense family dynamics that we see in Arcane, it'd be interesting to see how that'd play out in their interpretation because at the end of the day both Devil May Cry's are about like family bonds, both born into and forged, and what loyalty we do or don't have to those bonds and legacies. I think either would definitely be a good series, in the very least.

It's a bummer though as I'm like...really not confident in the new anime and would much rather have this asdfghjk

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[daryltwdixon]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 6.5

Summary: You and Tommy had been trying for a baby for years. When a trip to the gyno answers questions you didn’t even know to ask, your husband enlists the help of his one and only brother.

|| smut MDNI 18+, pinv, no outbreak, talk of infertility, not cheating but def not exactly kosher, baby makin', breeding kink, dirty talk, size kink, boundaries being crossed || notes: forgive me father for I have sinned. this is filthy. but also thinking about a part 2. kinda sorta maybe inspired by some crazy reddit stories. you'd be surprised how many there are like this LOL

You knew this was a crazy idea. Batshit crazy, actually. You were aware. But maybe, just maybe, if you spun it the right way, if you framed it with enough love and logic, it wouldn’t seem so absurd.

See, the thing is, you and Tommy had been trying for a baby for years. Trying and, well, failing. It wasn’t until your last visit to the OB-GYN that a simple question—"Has Tommy ever been tested?"—sent everything spiraling. A few weeks of waiting. A single piece of paper. An answer you never expected. It wasn’t you. It was him.

Not that you’d ever blame him. You loved him too much. But no matter how many old wives’ tricks you tried—holding your legs up after he emptied himself into you, orgasms before and after, cinnamon and honey in your morning tea—nothing could change the fact that no amount of effort would make it stick.

Which brings you to now. Sat at the kitchen table in your quaint, cozy home with Joel across from you, a few glasses of wine deep. His expression was somewhere between exhausted and mildly entertained from whatever dumb story Tommy had been telling. You’d needed a glass yourself, just to steady your nerves.

And then Tommy popped the question.

Joel blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, then shut again, then opened just enough for a noise—somewhere between a scoff and an incredulous laugh—to escape. He shifted in his chair, pushing back just slightly, like he needed to physically distance himself from what he was hearing.

“You…” he started, then stopped. Shook his head. “You want me to—?”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. Just motioned vaguely, like the words were so ridiculous they refused to come out of his mouth.

Tommy sighed, his grip firm around your hand while the other wrapped around your shoulders. “Yeah.”

Joel exhaled sharply, eyes darting between the two of you, like maybe, just maybe, this was a joke. That you'd all start laughing and point at him with a big 'got ya!'. His lips parted slightly, his forehead creased.

“You’re serious.”

“We wouldn’t ask anyone else,” Tommy said, voice steady.

Joel let out a breathy laugh, hollow and disbelieving. He dragged a hand down his face before pressing his palms against the table, fingers splaying out like he needed to brace himself.

“This ain’t a normal conversation to be havin’ over dinner, Tommy.”

“We know.”

“Do you?” Joel snapped, finally looking at his brother again, his voice sharper now. “Because I gotta tell ya, it really don’t seem like you do.”

“This ain’t easy for either of us,” Tommy said, his voice steady despite the tension winding between the three of you. “But we wouldn’t ask anyone else. We want to keep it in the family, so…the baby would still be related to me.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. His fingers gripped the stem of his wine glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. 

He looked over in your direction, but not directly at you, just at the table. At your hand in Tommy’s.

“And you’re…okay with this?” His voice was different now. Lower. Measured, like he was afraid of the answer.

You nodded. “We’ve talked about it. A lot. Ever since the results came back, we’ve been weighing options, and this—” You hesitated, swallowing, trying to gauge if he was even absorbing a single word. “It makes the most sense. More than adopting. More than a stranger. It keeps things in the family.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his ears tinged pink. He still wasn’t looking at you.

Not until you said his name. Soft. Careful.

His eyes flicked to yours, just for a second. Just long enough for you to see everything—the disbelief, the sheer what the fuck of it all—before he dropped his gaze again, shaking his head.

“You don’t have to decide now,” you said gently, exhaling softly. “Just… take some time to think about it.”

Joel didn’t respond.

A few minutes later, he left—no joke, no small talk of the next Sunday night football game could cut through the weight pressing down on the room. Just a stiff nod, a muttered see ya, and the quiet sound of the door closing behind him.

The following Sunday, it almost felt like the conversation had never happened.

The three of you sat at the sports bar, watching the Cowboys play on the massive screens, the air thick with the scent of beer and fried food. Tommy was his usual self, shouting at the refs, leaning into Joel’s shoulder every time the score tipped in their favor. Joel, on the other hand, was harder to read. He was relaxed enough, beer in hand, his usual dry remarks slipping out here and there, but there was something quieter beneath it all—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Not one mention of a baby. Not a single word about what you’d asked of him.

And maybe that was his answer.

When your husband got up, throwing out the excuse of takin’ a leak, the energy between you and Joel shifted. Not in a way you could name—just… thicker. More noticeable.

He sat a seat away, the empty barstool between you like a buffer neither of you had the nerve to close.

You tried to let it roll off your shoulders, but as you sat there, your mind wandered. What if Joel had said yes? What if it worked? Would the baby have his dark eyes, that heavy, thoughtful brow? Would they get that serious little crease between their eyes when they were thinking? His thick hair, his strong hands?

Tommy would still be their father. That was what mattered. That was the whole point. But the idea of seeing traces of Joel—subtle things, the shape of a nose, the curve of a smile…

The thought sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling curling in your chest.

It hurt, his lack of an answer, of course it did. But how could you blame him? You were asking for too much. Asking him to do something unnatural, something messy, something that could never be as clean and logical as you and Tommy had tried to convince yourselves it was.

You swallowed, setting your drink down as the silence stretched. “Listen, Joel—”

“I’ll do it.”

It was quiet. Like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud.

Your breath caught, as you stared at him, mouth agape. The side of his face gave nothing away as he kept his eyes on the TV as you waited for some kind of smirk, some sign that he was messing with you.

But he wasn’t.

Joel kept his eyes averted, like this was the kind of thing a person could say without looking someone in the eye. He took a long drink from his bottle, then set it down with a dull thud.

“You and Tommy deserve this,” he murmured, rolling the glass between his palms as he stared down at it. “To have a kid.”

Your heart constricted at the sincerity in his voice.

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “My life is better ‘cause of Sarah. Don’t think I ever told Tommy that outright, but… it is. I’d love to see him get to have that too.”

You blinked. “Are you…” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You serious?”

Joel turned to you finally, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since last week before you dropped the bomb on him, “Yeah.” he said finally, “Yeah, I’m serious.”

He was clearly uncomfortable, clearly still working through it—but the fact that he said it at all, that he meant it... that was more than you expected.

To be honest, you knew the baster idea wouldn’t work.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud. Not to your very loving, very kind, very hopeful husband. But deep down, you were pretty sure that by the time Joel had taken care of himself, transferred it into a container, driven it over, and you’d sat back on the bed with your legs up, whatever needed to be alive in there was long dead.

You didn’t bring it up. Couldn’t. Not when Tommy was trying so hard to make this work.

Across from you in the kitchen one morning, another negative pregnancy test sitting between you, your husband sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before reaching for his mug, “If I ask you somethin’,” he murmured, voice low, hesitant, “will you tell me the truth?”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Of course, baby.”

His hand rested on the granite, fingers close enough that you reached out, tracing them lightly with your own. His eyes drifted down to your delicate touch against him.

Then, he exhaled slowly and cleared his throat.

“Do you think we should try…” His fingers twitched under yours. “Ya know. The old-fashioned way?”

For a second, the words didn’t land.

Not until you saw the way his eyes found yours and he was looking at you—serious, thoughtful, like he’d been turning it over in his head for longer than he wanted to admit.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Tommy sighed, pressing his lips together before setting his coffee down. “I just think… for it to stick properly, we might need to try somethin’ more… natural.”

Your mind reeled. Heat crept up your neck, flushing your skin before you could stop it.

The idea of being with another man…

Tommy saw it. The way your lips parted, the way your breath caught just slightly.

He stepped closer, smoothing his hands over your cheeks, tilting your face up toward his.

“Only if you were comfortable with it,” he assured, voice gentle, steady. “I’d never ask you to do somethin’ you didn’t wanna do.”

You swallowed hard, still trying to process. “I—I don’t know, Tommy.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “And Joel would flip out if we asked that of him.”

Tommy hummed, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “Yeah, he might.”

Might was an understatement.

Joel was over the following day to help with your bathroom remodel, a project the brothers had taken on during the slow season. You were busy finishing whatever odds and ends you needed to get done upstairs when you heard his voice traveling through the house.

Not just his voice—but the volume of it.

“Are you outta your goddamn mind?!”

The sound rattled through the house, shaking the walls as you hovered at the top of the stairs, heart pounding.

“Joel—” Tommy’s voice, calm but firm.

“No. No, you don’t get to ‘Joel’ me right now, Tommy, because what you just said—what you just— Christ.” There was the distinct sound of something slamming—a fist on the table? A chair shoved back? You weren’t sure, but it made you wince.

“Look, man, I knew you’d be pissed,” Tommy started, only to be cut off immediately.

“Oh, did you?” Joel’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You knew I’d be pissed, but you went ahead and asked anyway? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m already crossin’ so many lines with what we’re doin’, and now you’re askin’ me to…to—!?”

You could picture it perfectly—Joel pacing the length of the room, one hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair, winding up, because when Joel was really mad, he didn’t just stand there.

“You’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it is,” Tommy tried, tone even.

Joel let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I misunderstand the part where you just asked me to fuck your wife?”

Heat crawled up your neck.

“We ain’t askin’ that, Jesus, Joel, don’t talk about her like—”

“You are absolutely askin’ that.”

“It’s not like that.”

“The hell it ain’t!”

Silence. Heavy, tense.

You swallowed hard, gripping the banister, unsure whether to go down there or stay put.

Then—Joel’s voice, lower now, but still laced with disbelief.

“Tell me you didn’t really think I’d say yes to this.”

And Tommy, just as steady as ever:

“I think you wanna say no.” A pause, and you could almost feel the shift in the air between them. “But deep down? I think you’re already considerin’ it.”

Joel let out a slow, sharp exhale, but he didn’t argue.

And a week later, he was back at your doorstep.

There were three rules.

1. No kissing.

That was the hard line, the non-negotiable. Kissing was too intimate— too personal, too close to something else entirely. You could rationalize everything else, strip it down to the mechanics of what needed to happen, but kissing blurred the lines. That made it mean something. And this couldn’t mean anything.

2. No talking about it outside the bedroom. 

No slipping up over dinner, no awkward mentions in passing, no weird jokes over a few beers. It had to stay contained. A thing that only existed in a room with the door closed and the world shut out. Because once it bled into the rest of your life—once it became something you acknowledged beyond those four walls—it would become real.

3. No names

No whispered Joel in the dark, he couldn’t say yours while he was inside you. Names had weight. Names had meaning. And the second you said them, it stopped being about a baby.

So when your ovulation window came within the next few days, you found yourself in your bedroom with the two brothers. When Tommy excused himself from the room—pressing a kiss to your forehead before heading out to meet his buddies at the bar like this wasn’t the weirdest fucking thing in the world— you turned to Joel

Over the years, you’d come to know him, grown comfortable with him. That familiarity should’ve helped, should’ve made this easier. But sitting here now, alone in the bedroom with him, awkward was an understatement.

Joel sighed, rubbing his forefinger and thumb along his brows as he stood at the edge of the bed. “Guess we better get to it, then.”

You nodded numbly, tucking your legs beneath you on the bedspread, looking up at him.

He was already tense, broad shoulders squared, avoiding your gaze like you weren’t even in the damn room. He exhaled sharply, then—without ceremony—unbuckled his belt. The clink of metal sent a strange ripple through your stomach, but you forced yourself to focus, watching as he shucked his jeans down to his thighs, taking his boxers with them.

Your breath caught.

Even soft as he was at the moment, he was bigger than Tommy. Thicker.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting his stance, one hand bracing against the bedpost while the other wrapped around himself. He wasn’t looking at you. Not even close. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere off to the side, jaw locked, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he started moving his hand.

It wasn’t working.

Minutes passed, the air between you thick and suffocating, but he remained… soft. The tension in his face deepened, brows knitting, his motions growing stilted.

You chewed your lip, watching as his frustration mounted.

“You don’t gotta sit there starin’ at me,” he muttered, voice gruff, like this was somehow your fault.

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m just… tryin’ to think how I can help.”

His hand stilled. “You’re fine. Just–just give me a minute,”

Then suddenly as the idea struck, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it up.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, eyes going wide. “What’re you doin’?” His voice was sharp, edged in something that sounded suspiciously close to panic.

You hesitated. “Just… thought maybe it’d help.”

“Well, don’t.” His ears were red. “Keep your damn clothes on.”

You huffed. “Jesus, it’s just a shirt.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but let it go, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

Another beat of silence, only the sound of skin on skin filling the air as he fisted himself.

“Can I help?”

His gaze flicked to yours, skeptical. “Help how?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. What do you like?”

Joel tensed. “…The hell kinda question is that?”

“A valid one,” you shot back, tilting your head. “C’mon, there’s gotta be somethin’. What do you like?”

He hesitated, shifting where he stood, uncomfortable. You rattled off a few suggestions, some kinks you’d heard of. He barely reacted.

Then finally, one seemed to slap him upside the head, “Do you like dirty talk?”

His entire body stilled.

His eyes finally, finally found yours.

Bingo.

A slow pulse of heat curled low in your stomach.

You leaned forward slightly, voice softer now. “What kind of things do you say?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you, the tension in his jaw loosening, his pupils starting to widen.

“Come on, Joel,” you said, then immediately pressed your lips together, realizing you’d already broken one of your own rules—not even five minutes in.

“Sorry—” You exhaled, shaking your head. “But c’mon, do you want me to talk to you? Or what do you usually say to women?”

Joel’s eyes were suddenly burning into you, his chest rising and falling just a little heavier now. He exhaled sharply, remembering himself as his gaze flickered around the room like he wasn’t sure where to land it, like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would stay clinical—mechanical.

“I uh…” He wet his lips, voice rough. “Usually will tell ‘em they’re bein’ real good for me,” he said, exhaling through his teeth. “Bein’ a good girl.”

The temperature of the room shifted, the air growing heavy, pressing down on you. A slow, pooling ache pulsed low in your belly. His nostrils flared as his eyes found yours again, like maybe he could see exactly what that did to you.

You swallowed, “What else?”

Joel’s hips twitched. He hesitated, his grip flexing around himself, fingers curling just slightly. You caught the bob of his throat, the faint shift of his stance. He was getting there.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Tell ‘em how pretty they look on their knees.” His voice had taken on a new weight—thicker, heavier, his drawl rolling low in his throat. “How sweet they sound when they moan for me. How bad I wanna feel ‘em wrapped around me, drippin’ and ready, beggin’ for more.”

The room contracted, the air impossibly tight, each breath harder to pull in. Your skin felt hot, your lips parting as you fought to keep your breathing steady. And you knew—knew—your pupils were wide, knew your face was flushed.

Because his was too.

His eyes had darkened, locked on yours, heat simmering beneath the surface. You inhaled deeply, the air between you charged, electric. You reached out, fingers grazing along his forearm. He tensed, muscles flexing beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“You wanna take this off?” you murmured, voice quiet but sure, fingers tracing up toward the sleeve of his shirt.

Joel let out a slow breath, something flickering behind his eyes—hesitation, uncertainty—but then, after a beat, he reached down and pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor.

Your gaze raked over him.

Christ. He was the epitome of masculinity—broad and solid, built like something carved from rough earth, from long years of labor and hardship. His chest was strong, lined with thick, dark hair that tapered down his stomach in a steady trail, leading lower—disappearing into the patch just above where he was hardening in his hand. 

Your mouth was dry, your pulse a slow, deliberate thrum in your veins.

You lifted your hands to the hem of your own shirt, pausing just slightly. He hadn’t looked away.

“Okay?” you asked softly.

His jaw flexed, gaze dark, unreadable—but after a second, he nodded.

You pulled it over your head, the fabric slipping away, baring more skin than you’d ever thought he’d see.

Joel exhaled sharply, his eyes dragging down your body, heavy and slow, his pupils swallowing the color of his eyes. Your nipples pebbled in the open air, a shiver running through you as his gaze settled there, his breath hitching just slightly.

You reached for him again, fingers trailing along the hard lines of his chest, dipping over the planes of his stomach. He was warm beneath your touch and he smelled like pine and musk and something richer, something leathered and sun-baked—something distinctly Joel.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “O—okay,” he exhaled, voice rough. “I think I’m… good,” he added shakily, and you could see his body finally catching up to the filth rolling off his tongue, the thick weight of him fully hard now. You swallowed dryly at the sheer size of him in his palm.

Standing slowly, your hands dropped from his body, but your eyes never left his as you slid your pants down your hips and let them pool at your feet.

Bare. You were both bare.

Your gaze dragged over him, from the broad stretch of his shoulders down to his stomach, the solid cut of his thighs, his cock standing thick and heavy between you. It was the most you’d ever seen of him. The most he’d ever seen of you.

And he was beautiful.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tight as his gaze traveled over every inch of you. Then, wordlessly, you laid back down on the bedspread, opening your legs for him.

He cursed under his breath.

You caught the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides before he climbed onto the bed after you, settling between your legs. His eyes darted down, locked onto the wetness pooling between your thighs, and his nostrils flared.

“All this from just a few sweet words, huh?” His voice was lower now, edged with something amused but dark, something he hadn’t meant to let slip through.

He shifted forward, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“I, uh…” You cleared your throat, suddenly shy. “It’s said that women are more likely to get pregnant if, um… if they orgasm during or… or before, I think.”

Joel stilled for half a second before a slow smirk pulled at his lips. “You doubt me so much?”

The teasing edge in his voice—the cockiness—made some of the tension in your chest loosen. You let out a breathless laugh, your body unwinding slightly from the tension earlier. “I just… I’ve never…”

Something shifted in his face. The smirk faltered just a little. “You’re sayin’ my baby brother doesn’t take care of his own wife?”

“No!” you said quickly, your hand flexing against his chest defensively. “He does, it’s just… I can’t finish just from penetration. Most women can’t, actually.”

“I know, darlin’.”

You gasped as the thick head of his cock suddenly swiped through your slick arousal, and he hissed, pressing his other hand into the pillow beside your head as he leaned over you.

“Fuck—”

His voice was rough, gravelly, wrecked, and something about it made your thighs squeeze around his waist, made the heat coil even tighter in your belly.

Joel lingered there, his cock sliding through your slick, slow and deliberate, teasing against your swollen clit with every pass. The thick head caught at your entrance, nudging just slightly, and a gasp broke from your lips before you could swallow it down.

His jaw ticked, fingers flexing in the pillow beside your head, his body wound tight like a spring.

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough, strained.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yes.”

He pressed forward, just an inch, just enough for you to feel the blunt stretch of him, and your breath hitched.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “So damn wet.”

Heat flooded your face, but you couldn’t think—couldn’t focus on anything other than how thick he was, how different he was from Tommy. You felt like you were being split in two, but you wanted more. Every inch only made that need, that hunger, grow.

His hand lifted from his cock, skimming over your hip before settling on your thigh, holding you open.

“Gotta take it slow,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the sheets beside you. “I can take it.”

His head dropped for a second, a quiet curse slipping past his lips. “Don’t say shit like that, sweetheart.”

Something about that word, the way it left his mouth—low and full of something dangerous—made your stomach clench.

The stretch was slow, unbearable in the best way as he pushed forward even more, your body giving inch by inch, and you let out a sharp exhale as he filled you.

Joel groaned, deep and low, his fingers tightening on your thigh as he finally buried himself to the hilt.

Jesus Christ.

The weight of him inside you, the way he fit—it was overwhelming, taking up every inch of space, leaving you panting beneath him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his hips flush with yours now, his jaw tight. “You’re—shit, you’re squeezin’ me so damn tight.”

Your thighs trembled around his waist, your body working to adjust to the fullness, to the sheer size of him, and then—oh god—then he moved.

A slow pull out, a deep thrust back in.

You moaned, head falling back against the pillows, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel’s breath was ragged, his grip tightening. “That’s it.”

As he began to set a steady pace, a deep thrust in, a gentle pull out, the tingling sensation you knew all too well was rising fast—too fast. It climbed up your spine, coiling tight, and your breath hitched in your throat. The sensation was familiar, so familiar, but not like this. Not from this.

Joel moved with deep, deliberate thrusts, each one stretching you full, dragging against every oversensitive nerve inside you with agonizing precision. His cock was thick, heavy, unrelenting—pressing deep, pressing right, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

His hand moved between you, thumb finding your clit with ease, the calloused pad brushing over the swollen bundle of nerves, a touch just firm enough to make you jolt. Your whole body reacted, thighs trembling, an involuntary gasp ripping from your lips.

His breath hitched as he felt it too, and he let out a dark, pleased hum.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate drag against your skin. His thumb moved again, slick and sure, working tight little circles against you. “Now, what was it you said again?”

Your chest heaved, your fingers gripping at the sheets, at him, anything to keep yourself tethered, because the pleasure was coming in hot, hard waves now—building, climbing, making your skin flush and prickle with heat.

“I—I never—” You gasped, voice breaking, lips parting as your back arched into the feeling, as you felt your muscles tighten and clench under him.

Joel leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. “C’mon, sweet girl. Use your words.”

Your hips met every thrust, dragging a moan from deep in your chest.

“I’ve never—ah!—never come like this before,” you choked out, breathless and desperate.

Joel swore under his breath.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he rasped, voice dripping in absolute filth and sin, “my pissy little brother never made you come on his cock before?”

The shame of it—the filthy, shameless truth of it—slammed into you just as hard as the pleasure. Your breath came in short, stilted gasps, your thighs twitching, heat curling low and tight, twisting like a wire pulled too taut. You gripped his biceps hard where they caged you in, your nails digging into his skin.

“I–”

“Never felt the way you’re squeezin’ the life outta me right now, baby?” His voice dipped lower, rougher, as his thumb pressed, rubbing slow and tight. “Never had you like this? Drippin’ and desperate? Makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ sounds I’ve ever heard?”

Heat flared in your belly, your legs shaking around him, pleasure tearing through you.

Joel felt it, the way you clenched down around him, and he grinned, breath hot against your mouth as he groaned through his teeth.

“Fuck—that’s it. Let me feel you.”

And you did.

Your body suddenly snapped. The orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and merciless, every nerve in your body firing at once, blinding you with pleasure so intense it was nearly unbearable. Your breath punched from your lungs as your back arched clean off the bed, thighs trembling, a cry tearing from your lips as waves of heat crashed through you.

Joel swore under his breath, hips stuttering as you clenched tight around him, and his mouth hovered just above yours, his breath mixing with yours, the air between you thick and electric.

He felt the way your body fluttered around him, still pulsing with the comedown of your orgasm, dragging him deeper, tighter—trapping him. His breath was heavy, coming in sharp, ragged exhales as he dropped his head, his forehead resting against yours.

His hips kept moving quick and uneven, dragging his cock in and out of your still-clenching walls. He was throbbing, thick and hot inside you, every roll of his hips sending sharp little sparks of overstimulation through your system.

That was when, after coming back to earth, you saw the way his lips parted slightly, his breath hitching whenever you squeezed around him just right. The tension in his face, the way his muscles coiled and flexed with every deliberate movement.

He was close.

You wondered…

Your breath was still shaky, voice unsteady, but you let it slip out, slow and sultry, testing the waters, “You feel so good,” you whispered.

Joel froze for a split second, a sharp breath punching from his lungs as he reeled his head back to look down at you.

"Does it feel good for you?” you whispered, your fingers trailing up the nape of his neck. “Filling me up? Making me feel so full? So good?”

Joel let out a ragged, wrecked sound, his fingers digging into your skin, gripping you like a lifeline.

And in that moment—fuck the rules.

Because this was anything but clinical now.

You pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, letting your breath fan against his ear as you whispered, gentle, teasing.

“You gonna give me a baby, Joel?”

Joel let out a wrecked groan, his grip on your hips tightening, his pace faltering. His thrusts turned rougher, sharper, his body moving on pure instinct now—chasing it.

And then he snapped.

A strangled moan ripped from his throat as he slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you as heat flooded you. His whole body shook, a ragged, guttural sound tearing from his chest as he came, thick and hot, spilling deep, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was trying to ground himself.

You gasped at the feeling, at the warmth spreading inside you, at the way his body shook above you.

Joel was panting, forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp at his hairline, his breath fanning against your lips, warm and unsteady.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Joel was still inside you, still filling you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His breath was heavy, warm against your cheek as he turned his head, his chest rising and falling against yours in slow, uneven waves.

“I should, uh…” His voice was hoarse, thick with something he wasn’t naming. He swallowed, clearing his throat as he sat up. “I should probably—”

You shifted slightly beneath him, still sensitive, still pulsing with the warmth of him inside you. Your thighs trembled, the ache delicious, spreading through you like slow heat.

“You can go,” you murmured, voice soft, a little sleepy. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.”

He hesitated as he looked down at you, your bodies still connected. 

You blinked up at him, lips curving in a lazy, satisfied smile.

“It’s said that if a woman stays lying down after, it increases the chances of conception.” You hummed, stretching slightly, body still warm and loose. “Just want to give it time to stick.”

You felt him twitch inside you, like his body had just caught up to the meaning of your words, and then he was pulling out, hissing under his breath as he eased away from you.

His heat vanished instantly, and a shiver ran through you at the sudden emptiness, the cool air replacing where he’d been pressed so solidly against you. You exhaled, tugging the covers up over yourself, shifting deeper into the mattress, letting your body sink into the afterglow.

Joel, on the other hand, was already moving, and fast.

He turned away from the bed, running a hand through his hair, reaching for his jeans like he needed them back on, needed the barrier, needed to be done with this.

“Hey,” you called softly as he stepped toward the door, one leg shoved into his pants.

He paused, turning slightly, just enough to look at you over his shoulder.

You blinked up at him sleepily, the blankets pulled up to your bare shoulders, your voice softer now. “You okay?”

Joel hesitated. Just for a second.

His hands hovered at his belt, his fingers twitching. His lips pressed together, like he was weighing his answer, like he didn’t trust whatever was sitting heavy on his tongue.

Then, he gave you a short, stiff nod. “Yeah. ‘M good.”

You hummed, unconvinced, watching the way his chest still rose and fell in uneven breaths, the lingering flush at his throat, the tension in his hands as he buckled his belt like he was fighting something.

“Okay,” you murmured, turning your head into the pillow, eyes half-lidded, “And, Joel?”

His gaze flickered back to you, hovering, like he was bracing himself.

You swallowed, shifting slightly under the blankets, warmth settling deep in your bones. “Thank you.”

Joel’s fingers twitched where they grabbed for his shirt, his throat working around something thick, something stuck. His eyes dragged over you one last time, heavy, unreadable, before he gave a single, curt nod.

“I’ll see you,” he muttered, voice rough, almost hesitant.

Then he turned, and with the sound of the door clicking shut behind him, he was gone.

[snekdood]

bitches prolly out here psychoanalyzing my old art on behalf of my abuser to cushion their belief that im a Horrible Person but then dont see the irony when I point out the shitty things my abuser has drawn and how I see it as clear evidence of their mindset and beliefs (of what's okay to do and how to treat people) descending and pairing that along with everything else they've done and it paints a clear picture of how this person got to the point of thinking it was okay to abuse me the way they did and then the people looking for reasons to hate me through my art will act like "they're just drawings !!!" about their art. which one is it. does someones art say something about them or not? or does it only say something about them if you hate them?

[mariasont]

HI i have an idea and its making me really giddy

ok so reader is a translator for the bau and they’re always reading and translating texts or calls or anything like that. and the reader to spencer is basically like penelope to derek. they flirt all the time and all of those lovely things.. and it’s kinda just where they’re flirting on the phone and morgan teases reid about it and reid gets all flustered

IDK IF IT CAN WORK I JUST LOVE FLUSTERED SPENCER :(

anyway i’ll probably be in your inbox a bunch uhhh so call me h or something

-h

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it. 

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Friendly reminder to everyone to always fact check your work. Even when it seems like it's right.

Case in point: I'm making a short little post about Gambian pouched rats(!). Funnily enough, they're named not for pouches in which they carry their young, but for their cheek pouches. Apparently most other rats don't have cheek pouches like hamsters and gerbils do. Neat.

Anyway, some of the literature I was reading said that Gambian pouched rats can carry a lot of food in their mouths. Makes sense-- they're big rats. But how much food exactly? I started looking. More sources agreed that, yeah, Gambian pouched rats can carry a lot of food! Maybe even up to 3kg over the course of 2 hours! That seems like a lot, especially considering Gambian pouched rats only weigh 1.0-1.5 kg. So I do a little more digging. Every source agrees that they can carry a lot, and they all cite that very specific number of 3kg over 2 hours.

Finally, I track down an actual paper about Gambian pouched rat cheek morphology (yes I went down a wormhole. This is my HBomberGuy moment.) The paper cites 2 sources for that 3 kg/2 hr number! Great! I find those two papers, and read them. And.

Neither paper says that. In fact, they don't really talk about Gambian pouched rat feeding habits at all. One is just an observation on natural behaviors, with a brief section on their diet but no information on how much they carry. The second paper-- written by the same guy-- was about how Gambian pouched rat behaviour changes in captivity. There was a good-sized section on cannibalism, but nothing on transporting food. So that first paper, the one that cited those other two for that 3 kg/2 hr figure, just straight up lied.

Moral of the story: always do your homework kids, especially when it sounds too good to be true. Also, Gambian pouched rats can probably carry quite a lot of food in their mouths, but whether they really can carry up to 3 kg worth of food in 2 hours remains to be seen.

[nochepsicodelica]

Toji who leaves hickeys all over you so often that you have to push him away when you start looking like you fought an octopus.

"Toji, you know these aren't always gonna be so small. They're gonna end up looking like bruises. Just look at the ones you already left."

"Mhm," he hums, already leaving another one on your shoulder blade, releasing your skin with a wet smack of his lips. He rubs his spit into the mark like it's some sort of salve that'll make it last longer.

"I'm fine with these," you say, looking at all the one's he left on your chest and below. "but my neck... i'm running out of makeup, baby. I won't be able to cover them if you keep this up."

"Then don't." He would just love that. Despite how nonchalant he sounds about it, it's a highly recommended suggestion. He would genuinely love it if you walked around with his marks all over your neck. People will automatically know that you already have someone you get freaky with.

"I have to go to work sometime. I wouldn't be able to take having my neck stared at by everyone I talk to. No more neck hickeys."

He nears your neck, again. The second you say he can't put another mark on it, he spots a clear area and leans in, lightly pressing his lips against it.

"Tojiii," you whine, leaning forward, away from him. "Leave it alone."

"But, it's clear. It's lonely without being marked like the rest of your neck." He scoots forward again, putting his enormous hands on your waist to pull you close. "I'll be quick. Just-"

"Mm-mm. No," you interrupt, brushing his hands off of you.

"I might just die if you don't let me do this, ma."

"Really?" You raise your brows in disbelief.

"Really," he responds, so confidently.

You scoff. "You're so dramatic. You won't die if you don't get to suck on my neck."

"Who knows? I might spontaneously collapse because of it. Weirder, more unexplainable things have happened."

He's so dumb sometimes. Your hunk is absolutely ridiculous, and yet you find yourself weighing towards his point in this.

"Would marking up that blank space actually cure you?" You feel as silly as him for asking the question.

"Who's to say?"

You tilt your head and deadpan. "Right. I guess i'll take my chances and just keep the random patch of unmarked skin on my neck."

"Hey, that doesn't mean we can't try. Come on, now."

You groan and roll your eyes before making your way back to him. He cups your cheeks, smirking as he looks into your eyes, before turning your head to expose the blank area on your neck.

"It's a reaaally good spot, doll. I think i'm gonna make it."

You huff, unable to look at him because of the way your head is turned. You feel his tongue slide over your neck, the gesture transitioning to his lips kissing the area and then it feels sharp. His lips leave a stinging sensation with every second that they stay on you.

"Ow, fuck, you vampire. It feels like you're actually trying to suck the blood out of me." You wince. "Are you done?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm done." He admires his masterpiece and smirks with pride. You have an entire collar of hickeys that he put on you, and the newest one looks mean.

"You look pretty. Could eat you up, mama." He swipes at the new mark with his thumb, looking at the color that will remain on your skin for the next few days.

"I can tell. You already devoured me. You're insane. Just look at all of this," you say, running your hand over your kiss stained neck.

"I was just nibbling on you," he speaks, into your jaw, before smoothly laying you down, onto the bed. "Just wanted a little taste," he says, taking your hands in his and pinning them above your head. "Am I really insane for that?"

"Um..." you laugh, making your flustered state obvious. "Yes?"

"Damn." He gives you a long, deep kiss, that makes you forget what you were talking about. "You think i'm crazy?" You hum, and he does it again.

"Haven't you played with me enough? I feel like i'm some chew toy for you." You giggle, feeling his lips on your cheek, trailing towards your jaw.

He hums, dismissively. "Found more blank space."

[plutotheplum]

Winter's Kiss

sylus x fem!reader

summary: luke and kieran rope you into spending christmas at the n109 zone (and kissing their boss).

cw: fluff, soft!sylus, kissing under the mistletoe, luke and kieran being idiots, found family

wc: 2.7k

a/n: merry christmas eve/christmas my lovelies!! some fluff for the holiday season! here's to hoping sylus turns up under our christmas trees :)

also on ao3!

Somehow, you’d ended up in the N109 Zone for Christmas.

It wasn’t like the barrage of texts from Luke and Kieran had weighed upon your decision, the rapid influx of messages from the twins demanding your presence for Christmas. That coupled with the image of Sylus alone on Christmas night hadn’t made your stomach churn and heart ache at all.

The year had been a tumultuous one. Wanderers, disturbing visions and wanted criminals had you on edge these past few months, so perhaps unwinding with said, now somewhat mellow, wanted criminals was warranted in some way. 

You heft the presents under your arms, moving your fingers to stabilize the wrapped goods when you feel one of them begin to slip. Shopping hadn’t been too difficult, although choosing a gift for Sylus had proved to be somewhat of a challenge. You weren’t sure whether to get him something heartfelt or to gift him a refurbished gun with new prototyped features that were advertised to the Hunter Association. 

The glittering streams of tinsel drags you out of your thoughts, a smile pulling at your lips as you imagine Luke, Kieran and Sylus decorating. You hear panicked, hushed whispers when you turn the corner, a laugh spilling out of you when you see the sight before you.

Luke perched atop Kieran’s shoulders, Kieran grumbling irritatedly when Luke flails and misses the tip of the Christmas tree, the golden star falling off only for Kieran to shift and have Luke catch it.

“It’s not that hard, you idiot,” Kieran grunts, his knees bending in an attempt to readjust to Luke’s weight.

“Then you try!” Luke protests.

“I thought you two were meant to be in tune,” you muse, stepping closer, over the strewn wrapping paper and bending down to add your presents to the growing collection under the Christmas tree. 

“We are,” they both say in unison, their eyes landing on you.

“You made it!” Luke says happily, squirming, “Boss will be glad.”

“ Really glad,” Keiran adds, his annoyance forgotten momentarily. “We’re glad too.”

You smile at them, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s nice to see you guys too. Maybe you should try holding the star at the tip, Luke?”

“That’s what I told him!” Kieran says, letting out an aggrieved sigh. 

Luke huffs indignantly, adjusting his position yet again as Keiran steps closer to the tree, giving Luke some more leverage. It’s another failed attempt and Kieran is rolling his eyes, dumping Luke onto his feet unceremoniously. 

“You do me now.”

“What about her?” Luke asks, pointing at you.

“You could ask Mephisto,” you offer, pointing at the mechanical crow that was currently preening his feathers. “What do you say, buddy?”

Mephisto gives an indignant squawk, his little head turning away arrogantly, tending to his feathers with care.

“Nevermind,” you sigh, before looking towards the twins. “Kieran is taller than me, though.”

“Just get on,” Luke whines as he bends his knees, waiting for you to climb up onto his shoulders.

You open your mouth to protest, but there’s a warm hand curling over your hip, pulling you back gently, flush against a firm chest. “Let’s not badger our guest, hm?”

Deep and velvety, you have no doubts as to who this voice belongs to. Your head tilts back to find Sylus smirking down at you, his expression amused.

“Glad you could join us, sweetie. The N109 Zone isn’t usually so… festive.”

“Yeah, well, apparently you were missing me, so I figured I’d drop in,” you tease, a sly smile spreading across your face.

Luke and Kieran snicker until Sylus’ stern expression silences them, his hand squeezing at your hip in warning.

“I never said that.”

“Must’ve been the wind,” you murmur.

“Right,” Sylus deadpans.

You squeak when the red mist wraps around you, lifting you off of the ground, the golden star being thrust into your hand by the same swirling mist. The trio of men beneath you seem amused as the tendrils sweep you higher, closer to the top of the tree, giving you enough height to place the star right where it needs to be.

Sylus’ Evol dissipates as it sets you down onto your feet, the mist sweeping across playfully and making your dress flutter. 

“That’s one way to do it,” Kieran remarks, slinging his arm over Luke’s shoulders before they shoot each other knowing glances and disappear from the living room.

“You came,” Sylus says once the twins have left, his arms crossing over his chest.

“I did,” you reply, peering up at him, your hands clasping behind your back, “too bad you never sent me a personal invitation.” Sylus smiles, and you can’t help but think he looks softer in this light, the ruthless leader of Onychinus replaced by a man who seems less intense and more accommodating than usual.

“I figured Luke and Kieran would’ve gotten through to you,” he muses, his head tilting as he lets his gaze dip over you.

You do the same, taking in his sweater and trousers, trying to quell the inconvenient yet undeniable pull of attraction you feel towards him. 

“Well, they did,” you sigh, managing to drag your gaze back up to meet his, “although I can’t say I appreciated how many texts they sent.”

“The twins tend to get excited,” Sylus replies, reaching out towards you, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It’s hard to not notice how Sylus’ touch lingers for a moment, his expression looking a little absent-minded as though remembering something from the past. Your brows furrow, unable to decide between asking him or letting his touch linger further. His hand drops away after a few moments before he clears his throat. 

“I made dinner,” he announces.

You laugh, eyes lighting up at the thought of Sylus in the kitchen. You don’t quite believe him though, not when Sylus had enough money to hire at least a dozen personal chefs.

“You’re not serious,” you say, head tilting in amusement.

“I am,” Sylus smirks, his hand landing on your lower back as he guides you forward, towards the hallway, “Luke and Kieran pitched in.”

“Now I feel special,” you muse.

“I suppose you are,” Sylus replies, his expression sobering, “to all of us.”

You’re taken aback by the sincerity in his words, heart giving way to a flutter that you attempt to squash down by pinching yourself, not that it helps. This sense of belonging isn’t what you’d planned on, warmth blooming in your chest as you stare up at Sylus and remember the twins. It’s nice, really, to be valued like this. You can’t help but think you could get used to it. 

Laughter echoes through the hallway as you and Sylus move through it. You startle when Kieran shouts, his voice urgent. 

“Don’t move!”

“Oh, look at that ,” Luke sighs dramatically, feigning innocence as he peers upwards, directing his gaze above you and Sylus.

Bewilderment flashes across your face until you hear Sylus let out a low laugh. You tip your head back, eyes narrowing when you spy the sprig of mistletoe hanging right above where you’re standing. Mephisto adds in something that sounds like a suspiciously happy squawk, and you stare at the crow, realising you’ve been betrayed. 

“Funny,” you say drily, shaking your head. 

Kieran sighs just like Luke, as though he can’t quite believe the situation. The cunning expression in their eyes gives them away. 

Devious, little brats.

“Well, you can’t move now,” Luke says, sounding positively aggrieved. 

“I suppose you’ll just have to kiss, isn’t that right?” Kieran says, looking towards Luke. Luke nods, a self-satisfied smile settling on his face. “Those are the rules.”

“What rules?” you shoot back, glaring at the pair of twins, “there are no rules. I could quite literally just walk away.”

“Christmas tradition !” Luke and Kieran both argue, their faces looking a little crestfallen when they hear the tone of your voice, “you have to kiss!”

You can feel your heart twinge at the earnest tone present in their voices, your eyes flickering up to meet Sylus’. Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem to have any protests, his gaze boring down into yours expectantly. 

“You seriously have nothing to say?” you grouse, head tilting.

“It’s just a kiss, sweetie,” he replies, his arm wrapping around your waist to bring you closer to him. “What’s the matter, hm? Afraid you’ll fall for me?”

“The thought is laughable,” you retort, trying to ignore the soothing squeeze of his hand against your side; the unrelenting warmth that was currently seeping into you and melting your hardened resolve.

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers gripping your chin to tilt your head. “We have time.”

“Move a little to the right!” Kieran calls out, waving his hand.

“What for?” you ask exasperatedly, feeling Sylus step closer, moving you with him.

“For- for the aesthetic !” Luke huffs out.

The twins look a little impatient as you stare at them, your brows furrowing further when you see Kieran whisper something to Luke.

Sylus doesn’t let you dwell longer on the twins’ antics, his calloused hand cupping your cheek to turn you towards him. 

“Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

Your eyes flutter shut as his lips slot over yours, your hand curling around his wrist. Sylus kisses you like he means it, lips soft yet insistent, his thumb smoothing over your cheek. You forget where you are momentarily, knees feeling weak as you fist his sweater pulling him closer, rising up on the tips of your toes to meet his kiss better.

Sylus tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Your stubborn resolve weakens pitifully and you can only think about how perfect this moment is, how good Sylus’ lips feel, how warm his embrace is-

There’s a blinding array of flashes, white sparking out from under your closed eyelids until your eyes snap open, head turning to the side to find both Luke and Kieran with cameras in hand.

“Oh, shit,” Luke begins.

“I thought the flash was off,” Kieran mutters, frowning.

You grit your teeth, taking one step towards them, your eyes narrowing. “Give that to me.”

Luke and Kieran hug their cameras to their chest protectively.

“Christmas memories,” Luke laughs nervously when he sees the determination in your eyes. “Wouldn’t- wouldn’t want to lose those.”

Kieran nods in agreement.

“Boss!” They cry out when the cameras get swept out of their hands by Sylus’ Evol, one of them landing in your hands.

You click through the images, heat blossoming in your stomach when you see how intimate the kiss looks, Sylus’ body pressed firmly against yours, his hand on your cheek. It’s romantic, your somewhat eager response, Sylus’ tight hold, all captured closely through the lens.

“‘s nice,” Sylus murmurs, his chest pressing up against your back as he peers down at the little camera screen.

“ No ,” you shake your head vehemently, “it’s not nice.”

“We look good,” he whispers, his voice dropping lower, lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

You try to ignore the way his hands feel on your hips, his body pressing a little closer into yours. It’s hard not to agree with him the longer you stare at the images though, you do look good, and Luke’s interjection about Christmas memories has you feeling a little forgiving. 

“Fine, keep them,” you sigh, handing the camera back to Luke whilst Sylus does the same to Kieran, “but don’t share them, please.”

Luke and Kieran nod enthusiastically and you snag onto Kieran’s arm before he can leave, your voice dropping to a low whisper.

“Send them to me,” you whisper, “and not a word to anyone.”

Kieran smiles deviously and you roll your eyes, reaching up to ruffle his hair. 

“You’re such a jerk, Kieran.”

“C’mon,” he whines, “you love us.”

You smile up at him, your arm hooking with his. “Maybe just a little.”

He snorts and you let out a laugh, following after Luke and Sylus who had left earlier, talking about something else. Dinner goes smoothly enough and you refuse to tell Luke and Kieran what their presents are, despite their whining.

You feed Mephisto little bites of your food, your finger petting his little feathery head gently every now and then. He preens at the attention, letting out an odd sounding chirp every now and then when you tap his little beak and offer him some more food.

Sylus is seated beside you and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stop stealing glances at the side of his face. The longer you stare, the more you can feel yourself falling deeper, a pressing crisis unfolding in your mind. 

Fuck . You think you might like him.

Deep rooted feelings of yearning never lead to any good, and yet, you were too impatient not to act on them.You wait patiently, fingers playing with themselves in your lap, for the perfect opportunity. 

It presents itself when Luke and Kieran break out into an insignificant quarrel, their eyes moving elsewhere. Sylus is already looking towards you and you’re leaning forward, cupping the back of his head to bring him closer, lips meeting his in a slow, sweet kiss. 

“What was that for?” Sylus murmurs when you break away, his eyes roving over the flush settling on your cheeks.

“No reason,” you reply nonchalantly, leaning back in your chair.

Sylus scoffs out a laugh, behaving seemingly unaffected. There’s a light flush dusted across his cheeks however, his tongue darting out to taste the remnants of you on his lips.

“This is for no reason too,” he says, grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.

You sigh contentedly when he kisses you, arms wrapping around his neck, your lips working against his a little feverishly as though you can’t get enough.

A cacophony of protests breaks out from the twins when they see you and Sylus kissing at the table.

“Gross! Get a room!”

You roll your eyes, breaking away from Sylus to peer over at them. 

“You were the ones that made us kiss,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Yeah, we didn’t mean all the time,” Luke corrects.

“Deal with it,” Sylus interrupts, brushing a kiss to your cheek.

You hum happily, Sylus’ hand warm as it encases yours under the table. Luke pouts and Kieran mirrors him, both of them slumping back in their chairs.

You and Sylus get a little more privacy when you step outside, snow dusting across both of you, covering the shrubbery and trees. Mephisto swoops through the air, his mechanical wings flapping as he lands on a tree branch above. The icy chill of the wintery air isn’t so bad, not when Sylus is stepping up behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he holds you close to him.

“It was bound to happen,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek again as you stare up at the night sky, glittering with stars.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself,” you reply, squeezing his forearms.

“Let’s just say… I had an inkling. I know you, sweetie.”

“I don’t understand what you mean sometimes,” you sigh, peering up at him, head resting on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, dropping a kiss to your temple.

You sway gently in his arms, pressing yourself closer, eyes slipping shut. You’d kill for more moments of peace like this.

It never seems to last for long.

The beginnings of torn wrapping paper begin to fill your ears and you peek through the glass window to find the twins tearing at their presents.

“Oh, these are sick !” Luke announces, beginning to twirl around the pair of knives you had gotten him.

“They have to wait!” you protest, reaching for the door, “Sylus, they have to wait!”

“Let them,” Sylus murmurs, dragging you back into his arms, his chest rumbling with laughter.

You can’t help but let out an exasperated noise, smiling up at him. Sylus lowers his head and you nudge your nose against his gently, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“What?” he asks quietly when you trace the curve of his cheek, your fingers splaying across his skin.

You kiss him again, revelling in the softness of his eyes when you pull apart. There's a strange warmth in your chest, an unknown pull in the back of your mind as though something familiar were evading you.

You feel like you know him too.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

[inseobts]

may I request another Luffy x fem reader please. Where Luffy is always picking up y/n like anywhere and everywhere they go (they aren’t dating or anything yet either) and he’s just always carrying her. Maybe even one day she’s wearing a skirt and so she freaks out when Luffy goes to grab her but Luffy holds her skirt down while carrying her. I don’t know I feel like it would be cute. Thank you!

Up You Go!

luffy x fem!reader

words count: 1.6k

tags: fluffy, sfw, humour, jealous luffy

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“Y/N! Let’s go!”

You barely turn around before Luffy swoops in and lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

“Luffy! I can walk, you know!” you squawk, flailing a little as he plops you onto his back.

“But this is faster” he grins, arms hooked under your thighs like it’s second nature.

You’re used to it. Kind of.

Everywhere the Straw Hats go, it’s the same thing. Town visit? Pick-up. Battle? Pick-up. Beach walk? Pick-up. You’ve lost count how many times he’s carried you.

“Oi, Luffy, you treating her like your personal backpack again?” Zoro calls out, amused.

“She is more comfortable than my backpack” Luffy says proudly.

“I am not a backpack” you mutter, crossing your arms from behind him.

But you don’t jump down. Luffy’s warm. His back is strong and steady. Plus…he hums when he walks, and it’s kind of nice.

Later that day, Nami wants to shop in the market square, so you tag along. You’re wearing a cute skirt, just something light and breezy. Totally forgot that Luffy might be Luffy.

You hear his steps behind you.

You turn slowly “Luffy, don’t you dare.”

“What?” he blinks.

“No pick-ups! I’m in a skirt!”

“Skirt?” he repeats, glancing down.

“Yes. Skirt. No pick-ups. Bad idea.” You point a finger at him.

He tilts his head like you just told him food is illegal “But I always carry you.”

You groan “Not today. Please.”

He frowns “…Okay.”

You’re shocked. He listens?

“Thank you—AH!”

Too late. Arms wrap around you, lifting you straight off the ground.

“LUFFY!”

“Don’t worry!” he says, grinning as you flail.

Then his hand tugs your skirt down, carefully holding it in place as he walks.

You freeze “…Did you just—?”

“Yeah,” he says simply “You said skirt.”

“…And you still picked me up.”

“Yup!”

You sigh, but your cheeks are hot. Luffy, meanwhile, just hums again like it’s the most normal thing ever.

“Next time, I’m wearing pants...” you mutter.

It’s been three days since the “skirt incident”.

You thought maybe Luffy would chill after that. Stop treating you like some kind of travel-sized accessory.

But no. You hear him before you see him.

“Y/N!”

You turn around, already tensing “Don’t you—”

Too late. He’s already in front of you. But this time, he doesn’t throw you over his shoulder or anything like that.

Nope.

He scoops you up. Like a princess.

Both arms under your back and knees. Smooth, gentle.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“W-What the hell is this now?!”

“You said skirts were hard,” Luffy shrugs, totally calm “So I’m trying something new!”

“You can also not carry me at all! That’s also an option!”

He just blinks at you “But I like carrying you.”

Your face heats up. You glance around, Sanji’s dropped a tray, Robin’s smirking, and Usopp’s whispering something to Chopper.

“This is so embarrassing!” you hiss, curling a little into his chest.

Luffy just laughs “Why? You look cute like this.”

You go still “…What did you say?”

“Huh?”

“What did you just say?”

He tilts his head “You look cute like this. Why? Did I say it wrong?”

“No! I mean—yes! I mean—ugh!”

You bury your face in your hands as Luffy keeps walking down the Sunny like nothing’s weird.

“Nami’s gonna kill you” you mumble.

“She’ll get over it” he grins.

“I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

You kind of…do.

His arms are warm. He doesn’t drop you. He even adjusts his grip so your skirt stays down and your hair doesn’t blow in your face.

He’s just…too good at this.

You peek up at him “Luffy?”

“Yeah?”

“…You really like carrying me, huh?”

He grins wide “Yup.”

“…Why?”

He shrugs “Feels right.”

Your heart skips.

Stupid pirate...

Sunny is docked at a lively island. Music, food, games... perfect for a break. The whole crew splits up, scattering into the crowd like kids at a festival.

You’re with Sanji, trying a fried octopus ball he insists is “the best in the world”.

“Open up, mademoiselle~” Sanji offers you one with a big, cheesy grin.

You laugh and lean forward, just as—

“Oi.”

Luffy’s voice cuts in sharp and sudden.

You look over your shoulder, mouth full “Mmm?”

Luffy’s standing there, arms crossed. His usual smile is gone. That’s rare. Really rare.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “What’s up, Luffy?”

Luffy doesn’t answer. He just walks over, grabs your hand and picks you up.

Again. Princess style.

“LUFFY!” you yelp “What are you—?!”

“No more feeding her.” he says, glaring at Sanji like he just kicked Chopper.

Sanji sighs dramatically, flicking his cigarette “Jealousy doesn’t suit you... Captain.”

“I’m not jealous,” Luffy lies, squeezing you a little tighter “She’s mine.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Yours?!” you squeak.

Luffy frowns “Yeah. I mean—not like mine-mine. But like—she’s my crewmate. I always carry her. You don’t get to feed her.”

Sanji puts a hand to his chest “How romantic.”

“Shut up” Luffy grumbles.

Your heart is pounding so loud you swear Sanji can hear it.

“Luffy, you really didn’t need to—”

“Didn’t like it...” he mumbles.

“What?”

“You laughing with him. Eating with him. That’s supposed to be with me.”

You stare at him, stunned “…You really are jealous.”

He scowls at the sky “I said I’m not!”

Then he stomps off with you still in his arms.

“Luffy, where are we going?!”

“Somewhere with no cooks.”

You’re now sitting on a quiet hill, eating takoyaki with your fingers while Luffy sits beside you, pouting.

“…So,” you say after a while, “do you only carry people you’re jealous over?”

“No,” he mutters “Just you.”

“…Why me?”

He doesn’t look at you “Feels right.”

You smile a little. Same answer. But it’s starting to feel like it means something more.

The sun’s almost down by the time you both make it back to the Sunny.

Luffy’s still quiet. Not sulking, just…thinking. You don’t see that often. He scratches his cheek, eyes on the sky, lips pressed in a line.

You’re walking this time. He hasn’t picked you up again.

And somehow, that feels weirder.

You glance at him “You’re not gonna carry me?”

He stops walking. Looks at you. Then shrugs “Didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

You blink “You’ve been doing it for months without asking.”

He tilts his head “Yeah, but… I didn’t know it made your heart beat fast until today.”

Your breath catches “Huh?”

“You always get all red,” he says, frowning slightly “I thought maybe you didn’t like it. But then Sanji made you laugh, and you got all red then, too. So now I’m not sure.”

You stare at him “Luffy… you noticed all that?”

He nods “I notice you.”

Your chest tightens.

He rubs the back of his neck “I didn’t mean to get weird about Sanji. I just… I like carrying you. Being close to you. Makes me happy.”

“…Even before all this? Before the skirt? The market? All of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking right at you “Since the first time.”

You step closer, eyes searching his “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know,” he says “Didn’t know what to call it. Just knew it felt right.”

You smile, heart thudding so loud now you know he hears it.

“So… what now?”

He grins slowly “Now I pick you up.”

You laugh “Right now?!”

“Yup.”

And just like always, you’re in the air, arms around his neck, legs cradled in his hold. But this time, his face is closer. Slower.

This time, he leans in.

His forehead rests against yours “Is this okay?”

You nod, cheeks burning “Yeah. It is.”

And then, finally, finally, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Just a brush. But it’s everything.

Luffy pulls back, still holding you like treasure.

“I’m gonna carry you everywhere now” he says.

You smile “You already do.”

You try to sneak back onto the Sunny quietly. You really try.

But Luffy is still carrying you. Princess style. Smiling like he just found a whole island made of meat. And your lips are pink, your hair’s a little messy, and you’re trying not to look like you were just kissed by the future Pirate King.

It doesn’t work.

Sanji spots you first “Mon dieu…” he gasps dramatically, hand over his chest “He kissed you, didn’t he?!”

“Shhh!” you hiss, trying to wiggle out of Luffy’s arms.

He doesn’t let go “Why? We’re dating now, right?”

You freeze “…We are?”

He nods “Yeah. That’s what kissing means.”

Zoro walks by, towel around his neck “Took you long enough.”

You blink “Wait—you knew?”

He snorts “Captain’s been carrying you like a newlywed for weeks. We all knew.”

Usopp pops his head out of the kitchen “I bet Chopper three berries you’d kiss by today! I won!”

Chopper stomps out after him “You cheated! You saw them holding hands earlier!”

Franky grins from above deck “This is SUPER romantic!”

Brook twirls his cane “May I write a song about this moment? Love On the Deck of Sunny?”

Nami appears last. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised.

“So. Are you two gonna stop being weird now, or is the kissing gonna happen everywhere?”

Luffy grins “Everywhere.”

You slap a hand over your face “Luffy—”

“What? I like you,” he shrugs “I’m proud.”

Nami sighs “Great. The captain’s in love. We’re doomed.”

But there’s a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Robin, reading nearby, chuckles “Let them be. It’s cute.”

You finally give up and just hide your red face in Luffy’s shoulder. He laughs and holds you tighter.

The crew carries on bickering, teasing, laughing like always.

Only now… you’re his. And he’s yours. And he still carries you everywhere.

And yeah... It still feels right.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[baepsays]

ADORATION & AFFECTION ⸻ cult leader husband Geto Suguru.

cw: NSFW, husband geto, cult leader geto, established relationship, he is very charming, in a lowkey manipulative way lol, suggestive stuff :3c, pervy Suguru smh, somnophilia, dubcon, eating out, some manhandling, fem oriented reader, no pronouns mentioned, he can use that mouth for more than words, but words sure are his strong suit, anyway kind of just cute shit

Geto Suguru prioritizes his mornings spent with his wife in their bed, over everything. It is the determinant of the quality of his day. If he does not get to laze around in your arms before reluctantly waking up, it will make things harder for his followers that day. Hence they do not even try to wake him up, they leave it to you.

But it is no easy task, if he feels the slightest stir on your side of the bed in the morning, quickly grabs onto your wrists and pulls you on top of him. Holds you tightly by the waist and hips, groping and marking up your skin through the bunched up silhouette of the nightgown. 

And if with much thrashing you get half up, he's rolling over— making you lie under him, to have his body weigh you down, pressing you into the mattress. Any voice of protest is drowned by his rhythmic words and steady tone. He talks in riddles and poetry, tracing a single callous finger from your forehead, to nose, then lips and cheeks.

"Every attempt you make to get away from me, pulls you closer into me." He'd say words as such

"What are you, quicksand?"

"If anything, it is you who consumes every fiber of my sanity every living moment, darling."

A slight chuckle would leave his throat along with his finger, still tracing you like a map he has known for centuries. It goes down and down. Ending up on your collarbones, and then goes back up again, gliding on the length of your neck, to your chin—pulling your lips to his.

I suppose everything can wait.

So one has to imagine these bad habits of his—coercion and not looking beyond what he wants—results in some trouble with you at times. 

One such instance can be brought up, where he told you about a meeting which was scheduled, prior as an important one—which is not uncommon. He has to attend a plethora of meetings and gatherings to keep the people (or monkeys as he likes to call them), interested and charmed. It was not the mention of his work, you've come to understand the man you love happens to be a little cruel, that makes your brows scrunch. Which is ultimately for the betterment of everyone, of course, what he tells you.

“What do you mean? Is this some joke?” 

“Why would I be joking about this darling? It is work after all.”

“Yes, but- how long will it be?”

“As per usual, most of the day, and if it takes more time I might have to have dinner outside as well.” 

“So you really do not remember?”

“What are you referring to?”

It was the particular date that the meeting was set on, and the length of the time he was supposed to spend there. Instead of with you, on your anniversary especially. That is what pissed you off.

So when subtle hints, and constant queries of confirmation of the date, does not give him the hint. The vocalization of your anger through the silent treatment, does. Unfortunately, he's someone who reciprocates your annoyances at him absolutely right back.

You are not talking to him at the dinner table?

Good. He won't either. He won't even accept the glass of water you silently offer him when he's choking on his food. Persistent and annoying to the point it makes you leave the table.

Days pass with both of your petulant, silent, persisting fights. Making things harder for yourselves and the poor servants and followers. 

He gets an important call one day, summoning him to a meeting and he's on his feet, but has to halt at the door of your bedroom—because just as he's at the threshold, you slam the drawer of the dresser by the door really hard, still very pissed off at him. 

“Miguel! Get the car ready.” 

As soon as he yells his order, he moves haphazardly to the side where you stood, staring and observing with angry eyes, furrowed eyebrows and pouting lips. Barely giving you any time to process anything, to even get the chance to back away, he comes at you at light's speed. And so he forcefully grabbed onto your forearms, and slammed you into the nearest wall. With enough force to make you understand the little charade of yours has prickled him more than enough.

His lips are feverishly hot on yours, teeth, tongue, bites and all. Your hands grip his hair to get him off you, while simultaneously pulling him in— making his neatly tied up hair fall stray everywhere. And if one of your hands gives up and goes to grab onto the curtain beside you, for some support, one of his own hands is already creeping on your arms to snatch your hands off the curtains, and ripping the curtains off the rod in the process.

After leaving you further speechless, with every intention this time, and a little breathless; he simply walks out with his hand in his hair, smoothing out and tucking back the loose strands of hair in a half up bun. But he does not bother to wipe away the lipstick smudged all over his lips and chin.

And while in the car, he cannot help but smile to himself. Looking at his messy appearance in the reflection of the windows, if anyone has anything to say of his wife's beautiful shade of lipstick, they can deal with him first. And then worry some more about their tongue snatched out of their throat, later.

The thought alone of not being able to wait to tell you that the apparent cult meeting he told you about, scheduled on both of your anniversary, was a lie. 

And why did he lie? Well. He felt like it.

The sight of you struggling to express your absolute wrath on him, is the most adorable thing to him. You can call him sadistic, but he just likes to see his ever so patient and kind wife get absolutely stirred up by his made up stories. He cannot help but imagine how he would be tormenting you in your shared bed later when he returns tonight. How he would slide his hands up your nightgown after throwing the blankets off your sleeping figure. And he knows for a fact, despite any amount of anger, you’d sleep without your panties on. Only for him, to bury his face in between your thighs and put his tyrannizing mouth to better use. Because with his tongue down in your cunt, he is the most helpless poet of them all.

You can get angry about that as well, as usual, when you wake up. But he knows how to leave you a whining moaning puddle, just as well as he knows how to provoke you to become a screaming shouting mess.   

Do what you like, he will fuck you pliant, then sweet talk the anger right out of you.

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

find more of him here.

a/n: dividers by @/omi-resources. header from Yamada-kun to Lv999 no Koi wo Suru. honestly i would not mind writing more of him this was a very short on a whim oneshot type of deal, but i can totally see myself expanding their relationship and dynamics. he is crazy, believe me when i say he is super good at making his wife forget that. if you see any mistakes please lmk i did not bother reading it after last edit.

this has been marinating and going through edits for no reason lol. Anyway was gonna be a nanami oneshot but just suited this guy more ykkkkkk. ugh.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @naomigojo @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @arcanarix @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @moonchhu @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic