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coffee-and-geto · 3 months ago

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DRIVE ME INSANE

“You drive me insane!” you snap, jabbing your finger into his chest. “Yeah, I’d say the feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow, his gaze dropping momentarily to the finger poking his chest as though he’s admiring your nerve.

pairing: CEO! satoru gojo! x f!reader

summary: cheating on your husband who couldn’t care less about you, satoru gojo — your fervent lover — has a nasty habit of showing up unannounced, threatening to ruin all the lies you’ve built for your husband so far by leaving all too visible marks after a hot session. however, after a very first argument with him, you’re determined to throw all your anger at him. but neither of you can ignore the tension between the two of you, especially when satoru is ready to take full responsibility.

warnings: +18 MDNI, smut, nsfw, cheating (the husband does it first but according to the timelaps it’s explained all along in this silly fic :p), CEO! gojo, lover! gojo, kinda slight toxic! gojo but he’s just desperately in love, angst, hurt/comfort, angry sex (i tried at least), sex (p in v), rough sex, possessive! gojo, overstimulation, unprotected sex, fingering (f! receiving), oral (f! receiving), he’s rich asf, fanart by @/kiyoro2 on X.

wc: 8,193

a/n: second warning before reading this fic if you didn’t read the warnings: you need to know that the husband in this story cheats on the reader BEFORE her. he’s cold, not loving her anymore and cheating on her BEFORE the actual timelaps but you’ll know it only while reading through, got it?

i don’t like writing about cheaters because they’re horrible but this is just a “revenge” not really said out oud (you have to guess). this is just a warning so some of you won’t catch me with hate/discourse or anything around it because i would have written an “unfair cheater” lol. enjoy reading, tho!

“Hey, darling.”

The sweet melody of Satoru’s voice rings to your ears, sending a crude shiver that runs down your entire spine. Among all of the several times you were alone, with your husband gone to work like a hooked on it, the white-hair man always shows up at your door when you do not expect it.

So, of course, you’re always on the lookout, nervously stealing glances here and there at the door, through the window to check the parking lot of your apartment block, or even your phone if the miracle of him sending you a message occurs. Despite the thousands of times you’ve warned Satoru, the latter doesn’t seem to listen to you.

Your lover goes into your apartment, a classy decoration without any warmth of household — just a simple apartment.

From the cooling fireplace, to the pristine couch and the American kitchen where you are doing the dishes, Satoru always comes to the ‘warmth’ he was craving at your place.

You.

As simple as that.

He’d ignore your groans when his arms find your waist to hug you from behind. And the only sensation of the flat of his torso pressing to your back quiets down every thought, every breath you’d take, every worry and word that would escape the barrier of your lips.

It was just him. Satoru Gojo.

Not your husband. But your lover.

Maybe a word that had a deeper meaning behind any kind of link.

And what hurt the most was the fact that you would crave calling any man that was yours ‘my husband’ in any situation to bring that pride up your chest.

Yet, the last time you’ve pronounced those exact words, was the day you met Satoru.

You were doing the queue for a coffee shop near his headquarters, but how would you know that detail, hm? It was fate, he thought when he approached the queue and ended up behind you as your eyes were glued to the menu card in order that you could choose your drink.

And yet again, he couldn’t help but feel intrigued by you. Your silhouette standing still, vaulted shoulders, a small frown on your lips portraying your hesitation and two beautiful and mesmerizing eyes...

Oh, Lord, that was the only detail from you that this poor man will never forget and will haunt him every single next second.

And, of course, Satoru Gojo isn’t that kind of man who lets fate dictate his life.

He was the only one distracting it. Wanted or not. Period.

“An Americano coffee?” he spoke with his lowest voice to not scare you. He stepped closer to you, his form hovering you as his face lowered to the height of your shoulder. “Thought pretty girls like you always chose espresso.”

Your head jerked up and your eyes met him for the first time.

“W-What…?”

The most unfair, charming smile tugged at Satoru's lips’ corners. “Why don’t you take an espresso? Is it because of the price, darling?” he cooed.

Unsettled by his more-than-strange intrusion, you replied without thinking twice, “Since when, espresso is better than americano?”

And, oh, dear, dear Lord, why were you testing him like this with such an angelic mortal like him? Couldn’t you let him live his life like it was meant to be? Why does this futile and innocent frown have such a ravishing effect on him? Tearing his heart apart, grabbing and stealing his breath to run away with it so he won’t be able to find any air but yours to use to survive in this old world?

“I don’t know. It’s more boring. Not elegant, and not fitting the vibe you give off, darling.” His blue eyes fell down on the ring around your finger, and his mind unconsciously prayed that you weren’t taken.

“It’s my husband’s favorite coffee,” you just responded like an irreversible sentence.

But Satoru didn’t let the situation get him down.

“Oh, so my pretty lady is taken? What a shame.” A little smirk spread his lips, and widened even more when he noticed how low was your affirmation. “I suppose he has bad taste in everything… but for women.”

A furious blush flustered your cheeks. “How dare you—”

“Yes, I dare, darling,” he almost hummed. “You really need someone to show you what is good coffee. Nothing but starting with that. What do you think?” he offers.

The queue moved on, and the chic café provided all the atmosphere of having a nice cup and a nice drink just to chat with anyone on a sidewalk seating area.

But, no, you were newly married. Your husband would be devastated that you’d let yourself be seduced by a complete stranger.

Although not so simple, considering how beautiful he was, with his perfect good looks, no one seemed to see anyone but him. And he couldn’t see anyone but you.

“So what, darling?” he insisted with a gentle tone. “Let me take your order and show you what coffee is.”

He pauses.

“If you may.”

The thought of letting him buy you a cup of coffee had obviously heightened your sense of unease and betrayal. But the memory of your husband leaving early in the morning without hello in your bed, his eternally neutral and unpleasant tone, his female co-workers leeching off him and all the effort you put into making your house feel like home haunts your mind.

With a resigned nod from you, Satoru almost jumped for joy and did a happy dance in front of the whole café.

How long had it been since he’d wanted to act like a child?

Satoru requested a small bottle-green round table on the sidewalk seating area, whose sunshade above unfurled like a fan protecting you from the bright sun of the day.

“By the way, I’m Satoru Gojo,” he introduced himself. He settled into the chair opposite you as the waiter left to take your orders.

You quickly introduced yourself. But the young albino didn’t fail to notice how lovely, humble and charming you were.

The perfect woman for him.

“I’m a CEO,” he added, maybe to impress you.

Surprise streaks your features. “Oh.”

He had expected more of a reaction from you, but you ended up disappointing him.

So he tried to restart the conversation to break the ice that had formed between you and him. He wasn’t one to usually go after people who were already taken. Yet, his instincts told him to stay with you. As if the north and south poles couldn’t help but attract each other, Satoru was slowly but surely drawn to you.

The orders were placed delicately on the table, and your lovely espresso cup, so exquisitely prepared, almost broke your heart at the thought of ruining its beauty by drinking it.

“This café serves the best coffee in town, you know. I come here often enough to say that with confidence, and also to notice that you didn’t know it,” he said, taking a sip from his own cup before propping his elbow on the glass table to rest his chin against his hand. “Admit it, you walked in here by chance.”

You almost choked on your sip of espresso, startled by his perceptiveness.

“It’s written all over your face, darling,” he said with a grin.

Still reserved, a hint of embarrassment flushed your cheeks with a soft blush that Satoru could have died to kiss.

“So?” he changed the subject. “How’s the espresso?”

“Very good,” you mumbled, lifting your gaze to meet his. Then you hesitated to continue with your real thoughts. Would he get bored listening to you like your husband usually did? Would he cut you off to end what he might see as pointless chatter?

“Just very good?” His eternally sincere and attentive smile lingered on his lips. He was definitely ready to hear every word you had to say.

You took a small breath. “Actually, the espresso has a sweet vanilla aroma that gives it a smooth taste on the palate, lingering just enough to make you want more. The foam is also very pleasant because it’s neither thin nor too frothy. The texture is creamy and at the perfect temperature to avoid burning your tongue.” You let out the last breath that the whole monologue had cost you.

“In short, it’s perfect,” you added softly.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Satoru murmured, his eyes locked on yours as if they would never let go, haunting forever the memory of the moment you two met.

“Glad you like it, by the way.”

For a first meeting, it could have seemed trivial. When it was time for you to leave, Satoru found the courage to ask for your phone number. To your own surprise, you accepted without hesitation. His company was pleasant, after all. He listened to you without ever interrupting, and seemed genuinely interested in you. And as a bonus, he was easy on the eyes.

So, was it really surprising that you looked forward to your next meeting with him?

“It’s not a date,” you reassured yourself in front of your mirror while applying gloss and straightening your clothes to keep them spotless.

The second time you met, it was at the same café.

The same orders.

But with a little more joy.

And with every meeting, there were a little more laughs, more teasing, more good moments, fewer bad memories flying away, and your doubts fading into the tranquility that Satoru Gojo brought you.

He quickly became an excellent friend. As you started opening up more and more to him, he began to allow himself to give you advice, rolling his eyes approvingly during your ranting sessions about your husband, where, despite the pang in his heart, Satoru kept repeating that you deserved better.

And as time went by, your bond with him grew stronger. You didn’t feel so alone anymore. He always found time for you, even when he was busy at the office.

Your husband’s absence quickly became just a minor detail in your life.

Especially when Satoru started showering you with gifts you categorically refused. If it was a dress one time, the next it was a necklace of genuine pearls, or lunch at fancy restaurants you never thought you’d set foot in.

The guilt inevitably crept up on you from every angle.

Whether it was over the fact that Satoru’s devotion to you made you feel illegitimate in receiving so much from someone who wasn’t even your partner. Or your husband.

Was it betrayal?

You weren’t cheating on him.

You were just spending time with someone who made time for you.

How could one equate cheating with this friendship, right?

This question lingered until the day, during a dinner with Satoru, when he had stepped away for a few minutes to settle the bill, a young man approached your table, trying to flirt with you and convince you to end the evening at a nightclub his friend owned, where they’d be delighted to meet you along with the rest of their crew. With all due respect, you refused, despite the young man’s persistence.

And when Satoru returned to the table, he immediately sat beside you, his arm infuriatingly well-placed around your waist to keep you close.

“Can I help you? My wife seems tired; tell me what you need,” Satoru chimed in, his tone icy as he glared at the young man.

“You’re married?” the man choked out, his tone echoing the same shock you felt internally.

“Yes, I’m her husband. Isn’t it obvious?” he confirmed.

Later, in the chilling silence outside the restaurant, Satoru restrained himself from pulling you into a tight hug as the two of you walked down the street. You walked at a more reasonable distance from him, your chin lowered in guilt toward the ground.

The night sky was a deep navy blue that evening. The stars barely sparkled, and only the snow added a touch of brightness to the urban landscape, where the yellow and orange streetlights could never match the glitter in the sky.

“You alright?” Satoru asked softly, stealing a concerned glance at you.

“I’m… fine,” you muttered.

He couldn’t hear any more of that. “Hey, if this is about what I said earlier—”

“Who said it’s about that?” you snapped defensively. Suddenly, it felt like all the perfect moments had turned into nightmares.

“I didn’t mean to make you unco—” he began, but you cut him off again.

“Who said I was uncomfortable?” you bit out, your brows furrowing as if you couldn’t take any more. “It’s not like I feel like a cheater—”

“Don’t call yourself that. It’s him,” Satoru interrupted sharply, immediately grabbing your wrist to hold your hand. “It’s all his fault. So, please, don’t feel—”

“God, I’m a married woman, Satoru, for fuck’s sake!” You tried to pull your hand back, but Satoru held it tighter.

“And a woman who also deserves better than to feel bad for her shitty husband who’s probably cheating on her!” he fired back with the same intensity. “Do you even see what you’re losing with him, at least?”

“Where is this conversation going?” you asked, squinting. “What the fuck do you mean? For weeks now, you’ve been telling me I deserve ‘better’!”

The situation felt so wrong yet so right at the same time. But it was only in Satoru’s eyes, watching you with a worried crease between his brows, that the truth lingered.

Of course, he didn’t want to lose you.

“Because you do,” he mouthed.

“But with who?” you cried out in despair.

“Isn’t that obvious?” he whispered, echoing his earlier words.

Even though the two of you had stopped walking and now faced each other, the wintry wind continued to swirl around you, biting at your cheeks already burned by the cold, screaming the answer behind his words. Snowflakes tangled in your hair, scarf, and coat. On Satoru, it was different — the snowflakes melted into his hair, his nose and cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, and every exhale left a white cloud trailing from his lips.

Only his eyes remained untouched. Fixed on you. Truthful.

“You can— You cannot,” you finally sighed, ignoring how your body felt simultaneously on fire and frozen. You staggered toward a nearby wall. “Take back what you just said, not to me,” you whispered almost pleadingly. You shut your eyes for a moment, as if trying to wake from a nightmare.

Satoru closed the distance between you in a single stride.

He gently took your hand and placed it against his chest. “Yes, you’re right. I cannot. My heart is yours. I cannot deny it. I cannot control it. I cannot help it. Do whatever you want with it. Even broken and unrequited, my heart is yours and only belongs to you.”

His breath brushed your cheek so tenderly it felt unreal — yet so undeniably real.

And this time, from your point of view. No longer his.

The suffocating closeness became unbearable. You were about to break. He needed to step back, to leave, to go.

“I— I…” you stuttered.

Thoughts swirled in your mind, just like the snowflakes around you both. Every thought blurred together, and only one tried to rise above and clear the chaos.

But it was the worst thought of all.

And yet, the only one capable of deciding the next move.

In a spontaneous gesture, you bent your head toward Satoru’s lips, sealing both the kiss and the fate he had always fought against.

It didn’t matter if you both ended up hurt.

No matter what the consequences.

Now was not the time to think about that.

As you tried to pull away from Satoru to catch your breath, he pulled you against him the next second to taste you once more, the heat intensifying even more to the point of melting the snow falling on you. Each kiss exuded forbidden desire and despair.

And even when you two pulled away, you didn’t keep any gap.

Just you and him.

As it was always supposed to be.

To feel.

To live.

Fluttering your eyes open, you come back to reality.

How did you get here?

It's a familiar scenario, or not.

Satoru arriving unannounced, you busy with household chores, your husband away for perhaps the next day.

But a premonition clouds all common sense.

This day is different. You don’t know from where, or who or what, but one thing is sure.

This time spent rambling has made you forget all about the dishes still waiting for you, while a plate and a sponge damp with foam hang from your hands. Another very humdrum day. Grey sky, water-logged clouds ready to pour and burst in a storm that never comes.

Satoru’s arms wrapped as a feather’s touch around you doesn’t feel as good and soothing as before.

“Missed ya,” he mumbles close to your ear. “How are you, darling?”

“You know that he could be here,” you scold in a low voice. “You can’t keep showing up at my door unannounced.” You continue with your dishes without returning any embrace. Nothing seems to fit. Your response is borderline nasty.

“You’re alright?” he asks softly anyway, not detaching himself from you.

His voice resonates like a cave inside you. A cheater who’s also unfairly mean, how can a better description describe you? you think.

You hum.

One of Satoru’s large, rough hands tenderly caresses your waist. “Do you have time for me? If you’re not tired, of course. I can’t help but need to crave your presence.”

Your heart slowly contorts in your chest, hidden beneath the cage of your ribs. “I didn’t mean to be rude, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize, love.” He presses a sluggish kiss on your cheek. “You must be so tired.”

Only the sound of the water rushing down in the sink can be heard in the kitchen. You close the tap and sigh, hands resting on the edge of the sink. “I need to finish the dishes and some chores, maybe you can sit on the couch and rest?” you offer, slightly turning your head around to meet his gaze.

How can a man be so perfect?

“I can help you,” he offers too, then puts a long forefinger on your lips to quiet you. “It wasn’t a question.”

If only this man could be your husband. Life would be easier in his company, wouldn’t it?

About half an hour later, Satoru fully joins you in your cleaning mission, tackling everything from the remaining dishes to the dusting and other tasks that make him scrunch up his nose in mild disdain.

As he wanders into the bedroom you share with your husband, Satoru passes by a photo frame he hasn’t truly noticed before. It’s a simple picture of you, smiling brighter than ever alongside a man who should be him. The man with HIS arm wrapped around your waist. The man with HIS lips pressed against your temple while, in Satoru’s eyes, you radiate as the sole light of his life in your wedding dress.

You pass quietly behind Satoru, a clean cloth in hand.

“Toru?” You rise slightly onto your toes to peek over his shoulder, noticing what has held his gaze for so long, leaving him as still as a statue. “Oh. I was going to clean that.”

Taking the frame into your hands, a pang of guilt twists your heart as Satoru’s blue eyes follow every inch of the photo. His gaze weighs on you, heavy and suffocating with discomfort.

One sweep of the cloth, and the modest frame gleams.

“Why do you keep it?” he asks in a breath.

You look up, your gaze as lost in his as you are. “What do you mean?”

“This picture,” he says, pointing at it with his finger. “Didn’t you say you wanted to throw it away?” His low tone brushes your cheek with a soft rumble, and his features tighten in a small frown of confusion, the weight of which seems to press on your soul.

“I—” You sigh. “My husband put it here. I don’t know why.”

“And you didn’t throw it away.”

You open your mouth to respond but hesitate, unsure of what to say.

“...You know I can make your life easier, don’t you?” Satoru murmurs as he slowly, almost theatrically, lets his arms wrap around you after tossing your cleaning cloth aside.

“I know,” you murmur, as if it’s the most obvious truth. As always, your body melts against his, the way two souls inevitably fuse together.

“Would you leave this life behind and finally settle down with me?” His arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against him as he takes a deep breath into the crook of your neck. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”

The atmosphere in the room thickens suddenly. Guilt surges within you, as it always does. It seems like it can never leave you alone.

Of course, Satoru is hurt—that much is clear.

“I really would, Satoru, but right now, it’s complicated,” you breathe against his collarbone, the corners of your lips tugging downward.

“When will it stop being complicated, then? If not now, when?” His grip on you tightens.

“It’s not that simple.” Familiar terror coils in your stomach now, threatening to drown you. This conversation is heading toward turbulent waters.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to align his face with yours. His eyes search yours for answers. “You know, sometimes I wonder how long I can keep waiting for you to finally decide if I really matter.”

You blink twice, stunned, before resting your hands on his shoulders. “Hey. What do you mean by that? You matter to me—you know that, don’t you?” Your brows furrow gently, your expression softening despite the rising tension.

“I don’t want to hide anymore. And I don’t want to see you stressed about hiding either,” he whispers in a gruff tone. His expression mirrors your own: lips slightly pursed, brows furrowed, and eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and worry.

“I’m… sorry,” you murmur, the only words you can manage. They are genuine. They are truthful. Just like Satoru always is with you—never a lie.

Even when he leans down to kiss you slowly, you can feel his emotions pouring into it.

Hurt. Today, you ponder, returning the movement of his lips as your eyes flutter shut.

Quickly, the pressure of his lips grows more intense. Each time your mouths part, Satoru makes sure they reunite as swiftly as they separate. Breath soon becomes scarce, and things take a turn when his hands grip your hips so firmly you fear marks might be left behind. You try to pull away quickly.

“Satoru, wait— I need to be careful this time, you know,” you whisper softly against his fervent lips. “It’s been a while now that he’s started wondering why I don’t want to have sex with him.”

“You always come up with an excuse, don’t you? A few marks won’t mean anything,” he mutters, eyes closed, as though the fire within him burns hotter than ever for you.

“He’ll see them. I just want you to be careful,” you insist. But your attempt is futile, as his kisses grow more passionate. Each one is placed meticulously on the sensitive spots of your body while he gently guides you toward the bed, lowering you onto it.

“I want to please you so badly,” Satoru confesses, his vulnerable gaze meeting your half-lidded eyes as he hovers above you. His eyes brim with an intensity that makes your heart ache.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your expression softens immediately, the growing heat between your thighs matching the fire in your chest. “I want it too, baby. But are you sure you want to do this?”

He nods firmly. “I’m sure. And you?”

“I am.”

In the moments that follow, you no longer plead for him to avoid leaving marks. Deep down, you doubt he’ll listen to you on that.

Especially when his lips press against your neck, your collarbone, the shell of your ears, and the valley of your breasts. His mouth kisses, sucks, marks, nibbles, and even gently bites at your skin—all to draw whimpers, moans, and sighs of pleasure from your lips. The same lips he endlessly worships, just as he does every inch of you.

~~~~

Fresh out of the shower, alone but with your phone, you receive a message that immediately catches your attention as you sit cautiously against the edge of your bathtub.

I might be a little late tonight. Have dinner without me.

Your heart immediately falls into the pit of your stomach.

Is this for your co-worker again? Can’t she finish her work on her own like everyone else?

A minute later, a message appears:

It’s normal, I’m her superior.

At the same time, your eyelids contract around your eyeballs. You feel a rush of heat, and adrenalin tingles your insides.

You know I don’t like her. And yet you continue to spend more time with her than with me. Do you think that's normal?

Why do you always have to get mad? Just admit that you’re jealous.

And the last word is like a slap in the face.

This is how you started.

Part of you knew it all along. But another part was in denial. It was shortly before Satoru became your lover that your husband started seeing a female colleague far too often, making eyes at her while you stood there like an idiot, watching them exchange glances where your voice would carry the same weight as the silence of their own eye contact: nothing.

Satoru had warned you.

He tried to prevent your heart from breaking as much as possible.

And this is the result when denial wins out over reason:

...You like to call me ‘jealous’ these days, tell me?

And the irony reeks in your message.

Of course, he started calling you ever since that infamous colleague showed up.

It’s as if he’s implying every time that you’d be envious of something you don’t have. So, it’s easy to figure out now, isn’t it? Why would he even talk about jealousy otherwise?

And why does he just leave your message on ‘read’?

~~~~

“I told you to be careful.”

“You always know how to escape him.”

“I’m running out of excuses.”

“You’re smart. You’ll fix it. As you fix everything.”

And who to fix me?

Sitting in front of your vanity, you swallow, feeling sick to your stomach as the purple and blue marks Satoru has left on your body from his hickeys don’t disappear from your view even as you discreetly pinch your arm to check you're in a nightmare.

Unfortunately no.

After pressing your anxiety-stricken face into your trembling hands, you lift your head to meet your reflection once more. In the corner of the mirror, Satoru’s silhouette lies casually, a smug, teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your shaky fingers grab hold of your cheap foundation, the cap refusing to budge under the weakness of your frantic movements. Every second wasted only fuels the growing panic — your husband could walk in at any moment.

The beauty blender, however, seems just as uncooperative. Each attempt leaves you looking more like a clown. No coverage.

Only regrets. Regrets you can no longer conceal, no matter how much you try.

A heavy, trembling sigh escapes you despite your best efforts to stay calm. From behind, Satoru lets out a distinct chuckle, rich with amusement at your growing frustration.

He’s moved closer now, standing right behind you, his gaze almost entertained as he watches you struggle to mask the marks with concealer this time. But no layer of makeup can save you. None is thick enough or looks natural enough to hide what you’ve done.

“Why are you even trying? It’s not going to work,” Satoru whispers close to your ear. “Why not just give up and tell him the truth?”

“Satoru, get out.”

“Make me.” His tone is dripping with that insufferable grin.

You clench your fists, fighting the urge to smash it right off his face. Your heart hammers in your chest like cannonballs, threatening to break free from your compressed rib cage.

Everything can’t fall apart this quickly, can it?

Not after all the effort you’ve put in.

“You look like a clown, by the way,” he quips, the bluntness of his words scratching your heart. You let out an involuntary, quiet, “Ouch.”

“Did you just come here to use me as your personal slut? To call me a clown? If I knew, I wouldn’t have let you in at all,” you spit as you turn your head, locking your glare onto his.

Satoru’s expression softens at the sight of your deepening frown. “I didn’t come for that. And you’re not a slut. Why are you so mad?” He cautiously places his hands on the backrest of your chair, his movements calculated.

You scoff bitterly. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“You’re still mad about the marks? It’s just a few bites and hickeys—it’s not that big a deal,” he says, though his face mirrors yours: tense, confused, and searching for answers.

He’s never been like this.

“If you’re hurt, then I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I just want you to stop stressing over some bites. I’ve always done this. I haven’t changed, you know.”

You turn completely in your chair to face him, blood rushing in your temples. “Tell me this is a joke. Or a prank.”

“I said I’m—”

“Why didn’t you listen to me about the marks? About the fact that I don’t have any excuses left? He’s going to find out now. And instead of helping me, you’re mocking me because I look like shit with this?” you shout, pointing at the streaky, cakey makeup smeared over your collarbone.

Is this what a couple looks like? Fighting to hurt each other as much as possible?

Satoru can see how deeply his behavior wounds you. The way you swallow carefully, trying to keep your emotions at bay. The way your eyes are beginning to redden, signaling the impending arrival of tears.

Lowering his voice, he speaks, hoping against hope that you’ll break down and let him handle everything. Let him erase this life with your husband and give you a better one. He knows you can keep living under a mountain of lies, but he’s suffocating.

“Okay, I’m really sorry if I hurt you,” he murmurs.

“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t lie about using me whenever you please. You wouldn’t just act how you want without asking me what I truly want or need. Why? Because you’re selfish, Gojo,” you snap, your voice cracking slightly. You rise abruptly from the chair, intent on leaving the room before you explode.

He immediately grabs your wrist, pulling you into him, and tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. The panic in his movements betrays him—he’s afraid you’ll say something that will tear him apart.

“Don’t—Don’t call me that. Sweetheart—”

“You know what? Just tell me I’m your slut. Because that’s clearly what I’m meant to be for you,” you cut him off, tears pooling in your eyes and threatening to fall. You yank your wrist out of his grip with a sharp movement.

His hands move to cup your face, desperation bleeding through his trembling fingers, even as he tries to conceal it.

“Okay, I messed up. But please, don’t degrade yourself. You’re not my slut. You’re the only person I love and care about. I—” He exhales shakily, his jaw tightening and relaxing in quick succession. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… I’m so damn jealous. I get so jealous when I think about him… with you. I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Is that all this is? Jealousy? What’s the fucking point of it?” you retort, shoving his hands and arms away with enough force to make your blood boil. Then, in a blind fury, you hurl the concealer bottle across the room, the sound of it hitting the wall echoing like a final, deafening blow.

Satoru flinches slightly at the sound of the concealer bottle hitting the floor. He knows you’re holding back, teetering on the edge of exploding. “It’s not just jealousy,” he admits softly. “It’s fear, anger... and love, I guess.” He runs a tired hand through his snowy hair, sighing deeply. “And knowing I can’t have you the way I want to… that drives me insane.”

A vein pulses visibly in your temple, your frustration bubbling over. “You drive me insane!” you snap, jabbing your finger into his chest.

For a brief moment, Satoru’s lips almost curl into a smirk, but he stops himself when he sees the fire blazing in your eyes. He knows you’re serious, that this isn’t the time for his antics. Yet he can’t help but find you captivating like this—unapologetically yourself.

“Yeah, I’d say the feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow, his gaze dropping momentarily to the finger poking his chest as though he’s admiring your nerve.

The silence that follows is suffocating. The only sounds are your heated, shallow breaths, echoing in the small space between you.

You take several slow, deliberate steps back, your eyes fixed on his ocean-blue gaze. You catch the flicker of a moment—a split second where his eyes dart to your lips.

The tension between you is almost unbearable. The faint brush of his hips against yours as he steps closer sends a ripple of unease and anticipation through you. Your breaths mingle in the narrowing space. You both know exactly what’s happening, yet neither of you moves to break it.

“I hate you, you know that?” you whisper, pouring all the bitterness and hurt from your chest into the words.

Satoru raises an eyebrow, his face a mere breath away from yours. His broad, powerful form looms over you, trapping you against the wall without lifting a single hand. The tension radiating from him is magnetic, suffocating.

“That’s a lie, and we both know it,” he says, his voice soft and calm, but laced with that maddening confidence.

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, the light graze of your body against his and the fiery defiance in your darkened eyes making him dangerously close to losing control. He wants to kiss you—devour you—so badly it hurts. But he knows he’s already crossed lines, already messed up.

He clenches his fists, willing himself to stay composed. He would never take advantage of you like this. He’d rather let you hurt him, use him, break him into pieces.

Oh, screw it.

“Sweetheart,” he mouths, barely audible. His lips form the words so softly that you have to read them. His intense eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering. “What are you thinking right now?”

“This isn’t the time for your stupid jokes—”

He silences you with a single, long finger placed gently on your lips. “Answer the question, love.” His towering frame looms closer, his voice a deep rumble, and the tension only thickens.

You take a shaky breath. “Y-Yell at you, hit you, throw everything I have at you to finally make your goddamn mouth shut for good,” you hiss, your anger slipping through the cracks in your voice.

“Do it, then. I’m the one who’s wrong.”

Your lips part, and your eyes widen in surprise.

Satoru grabs your trembling hand and firmly places it against his chest, right over his racing heart. His voice softens. “Go on. Yell at me. Hit me. Use me however you need to.”

His pulse mirrors yours, beating in sync, loud and unruly.

Your gaze catches the subtle flicker of his eyes darting to your lips again, the ever-so-slight sway of his body bringing him closer.

When you lift your hand, Satoru doesn’t flinch. He braces himself, ready to take whatever you’re about to give him.

But instead of striking him, your hand fists the collar of his shirt. With one hard tug, you pull him down, crashing his mouth onto yours in a desperate, fiery kiss as though it’s your last breath.

Satoru responds immediately, kissing you back with the same raw intensity. His large hands snake around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips, teeth, and tongue all move in a fervent, chaotic dance with yours, each touch more intoxicating than the last.

When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his lips still brushing against yours. He doesn’t let you go, his arms holding you close as if letting you go would shatter him.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice low and rough, chest heaving against yours. His hand trails to your neck, then your jaw, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “What are you thinking now?”

His warm, uneven breaths ghost over your lips, and you fight the overwhelming urge to kiss him again. Your anger hasn’t fully subsided, still simmering beneath the surface.

“You. You’re haunting me. Sometimes so much that I can’t think of anything else,” you admit, your voice trembling with emotion.

His eyes burn brighter, the ardor in them impossible to miss. “God, sweetheart…” he murmurs, pressing soft, fluttering kisses along your neck, his lips scorching your sensitive skin. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. Only you. No more lies, no more heartbreak.”

Each kiss he plants on your skin draws breathy, unsteady sighs from your lips. “Y-You’re selfish…” you manage to say between ragged breaths, your nails digging into the firm muscles of his biceps. “So fucking selfish…”

“If being this desperate for you, for your love, is selfish, then I’m on my knees, my love,” he replies, his voice like velvet. He kisses the marks on your skin, the ones you tried to cover, with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’m all yours. Completely yours.”

He slides the strap of your tank top down, revealing more of the skin he adores. His lips graze it gently as he whispers, “I didn’t mean a single word about you looking like a clown. I just want you to be happy… with someone who loves you and doesn’t cheat on you.”

His hands cup your face delicately, tilting it up so your eyes meet his. His voice drops to a whisper, raw and sincere. “I’m deeply sorry, sweetheart.”

The genuine vulnerability in his gaze hits you hard.

You punch his chest — not out of anger, but because you don’t know what else to do with the emotions clawing at your chest. “I hate you, remember?”

A smile spreads across Satoru’s face, soft and warm, despite the tension in the room. “As much as I’m obsessed with you.”

Your free hand tangles itself in his silky white hair, tugging lightly as your fingers weave through the strands. With just enough force, you pull him down once again, capturing his lips in a searing, passionate kiss that holds every ounce of anger, frustration, and longing you feel for him.

As surprising as it may seem, Satoru lets a smile stretch against your lips — pressed together in a sloppy, wet kiss that blends tongues, lips, and teeth. Your chest, magnetized to his, feels the pounding of his heart, each beat drumming against you like a bass drum.

Your teeth part, biting his lower lip cruelly, hard enough for a faint taste of blood to seep into your mouth. Yet, he doesn’t seem fazed by it. In fact, he lets himself get intoxicated by your steamy breath, swallowing every gasp of air you exhale as if it’s his only source of oxygen.

With a natural ease, one of Satoru’s hands grabs yours and pins them above your head, pressing them against the wall as his pelvis grinds into yours. You feel the growing bulge you’ve provoked pressing against you.

“See what you do to me?” he breathes in your ear, breaking the kiss sloppily.

“And you’ll lose it completely when I fuck you until I’m the only one you’re thinking of,” you snap back, wrapping one leg around his hip before climbing fully onto him. With both legs now locked around his waist, your back is pinned to the wall, and your newly freed hands are poised to ravage your lover.

Blood rushes through your temples, creating a buzz in your ears. Your flushed ears mirror the crimson tips of Satoru’s. Supporting you with one arm, he uses the other to trace a finger across your lips, smearing the remnants of his blood there.

“Can’t wait to think even more of you — even though you already fill all my dreams and nightmares,” he murmurs with a sly grin. Then, both hands slide to your thighs, gripping them as he carries you to the bed—the same bed where you had your last steamy session with him.

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Satoru settles between your legs while you lay back comfortably, fully aware he plans to take care of you before you ruin him. With practiced ease, his rough but tender hands remove your pajama shorts and panties, discarding them to the floor with a soft rustle. Your skin is adorned with earlier marks—purplish bruises, handprints, and hickeys — all of which tell a story (a decidedly sexy one, at that).

Just the sight of your spread legs, offering him an unobstructed view of your glistening, swollen folds — still slick from earlier—ignites a fiery tremor in his core. He’s practically salivating at the sight but regains focus when your heel presses sharply against his shoulder, a silent demand for urgency.

“Don’t make me wait,” you mouth, locking your gaze with his as his mouth inches dangerously close to your core.

Impatience mingles with the tension crackling between you. The moment his lips close around your clit, a hiss escapes your mouth.

Your fingers thread through his snow-white hair as though it’s the only lifeline keeping you from falling into the abyss. His warm, skilled tongue laps at your folds with slow, ravenous intensity. Every stroke of his tongue sends jolts of pleasure surging through you, spurring him to drink you in until his thirst is quenched.

“Satoru, f-fast—ah,” you stammer when his tongue flicks your now puffy, sensitive clit with pinpoint precision.

Your eyes roll back, your breath quickens, and your body trembles with each wave of pleasure. Your hands tug incessantly at his hair, driving him absolutely wild.

“Faster?” He looks up at you, his mouth still latched onto your center. “Is that what you—lick—want? Keep ripping my hair out, then.”

And that’s exactly what he makes you do. Your hips buck involuntarily toward his face, and he grunts in approval, gripping your hips with his large hands. Then, he lifts your legs over his arms and shoulders, perfectly positioning himself to devour you even more deeply.

Determined to make you cum as quickly as possible, the tip of his tongue teases your dripping, needy entrance. He feels your walls fluttering, your core pulsing and throbbing, empty and desperate.

The idea of filling you crosses his mind.

“Poor thing needs to be filled, huh?” he chuckles darkly, his voice thick and gravelly.

When he slides a long finger into you — slowly, carefully — the way your velvety walls clench tightly around him nearly makes him lose control on the spot. You grip his digit so tightly, drawing him deeper, that every movement inside you elicits louder, breathier curses laced with frustration.

“Don’t try to mock me, you bast— ah!” you moan, throwing your head back on the mattress the second after the pad of his forefinger reached your cervix — a spot that you can never reach yourself and even your husband. “Oh my God, I hate you so much…”

“You know what I love the most when we’re doing it?” Satoru whispers with a smirk, bringing his damp lips back to your clit to suck your bud at the same time as he’s fingering you. “When you lose all—kiss—your—lick—control—suck—only from my touch, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he purrs against your core, his finger curling up right in your sweet spot. “Say you hate me baby, I’m just waiting for you to be ready and take care of me.”

“I—you buck your hips harder—hate you,” you groan louder and firmer than earlier and clench around him right before cumming hard, hips bucking up against him and arching your back with no control over it.

Your vision blurs and star-like spots pop on your darkening vision. The intensity of your orgasm crashes over you so hard that for a few seconds, you’re losing almost all your senses — hearing, sight and touch — because of your mind going dizzy.

When the sensation wears off, a quick glance to the side reveals an already undressed Satoru, his impatient length just waiting for your attention — already twitching and hard like rock for you.

With a wry smile plastered to his lips, he reaches over you to grab your hips and gently lift you up and switch places — him lying on his back and you sitting so sensuously on top of him with your thighs delicately wrapped around his hips. He can't resist submitting to you completely.

Your still pulsing core rests straight on his cock, like you are riding him for real — or not yet.

Your senses restored, you don’t wait long before raising your hips, Satoru’s hands still holding them, and taking in his drooling length of precum with one hand. As you lower your hips, the fat tip of Satoru's dick pushes forward your hole and gets trapped in your walls glistening with your juices.

You both moan at the same time, head throwing back and mouth open ajar from the strong pleasure. Each inch that was moving further more into your cunt until the mushroom tip kisses your cervix was already being milked because your walls are so fucking sensitive that it’s making Satoru’s eyes roll back and babble nonsense.

“Sweet— Sweetheart, don’t squeeze y-yet, I need time to—” But you cut him off with your forefinger pressed against his handsome lips.

“Nuh-uh.” You lean in with a mischievous smile plastered on your face, eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of being on top of him. “You’re going to be a good boy and take my pussy, understood?” And you punctuate your warning with a sharp bounce of your hips that makes him moan with pleasure then nod hurriedly.

“Mhh—hmph!”

So you start moving your hips up and down with purposeful slowness.

Your hand wraps around his throat and squeezes gently. Your hips bounce harder each time, and you ignore Satoru’s uncontrolled moans, which, despite his clenched jaw, can't help letting out moans and whimpers of pleasure.

“Who’s a good boy, tell me?” you ask, thrusting down your hips along his cock harder once more.

“N-Not gonna say it, sweetie,” Satoru chokes out between breathless hiccups because your hand squeezes his throat harder. “You can bet it— God…” He can feel your walls tightening around him, your core pulsing and his length throbbing inside you and at the verge of spilling out all the cum his sensitive balls were holding back. His hands grip your hips with more force that it’ll leave marks but you both don’t care anymore.

It’s just you and him having sex to see who will break first.

Your heavy, noisy breaths — not to mention the wet sounds of your skin slapping against each other — fill the room. Hot blood courses through both your veins, but nothing can stop your hips from slamming mercilessly into Satoru, tightening every time you’re bouncing on him.

Even though you two are at the verge of reaching orgasm, you wanted to have your way with him this time.

“I hate you, Satoru Gojo,” you groan, leaning your chest against his before moving faster as your breath. His arms wrap around your back to get you close and then he can start matching your movements.

He presses his lips on your ear and whispers breathlessly, “I’m your, utterly yours,” right before cumming at the same time as your, his semen filling immediately your cunt as you clench around him and let out a similar pathetic whimper like him.

Toes curled up and eyelids shutting down, you both hug each other until the orgasm goes away. Not before a good one minute. Silence fills the room before your brain melts away to focus on the still rapid beating of your heart against Satoru’s chest.

“After this, I’ll help you pack your important things and we go home. Our true home, okay?” he murmurs against your ear. “I’ll give you the life you want and deserve, sweetheart. No need to think about anything or anyone else.” And he concludes with a loving kiss on your temple as you nod, resting your cheek on his collarbone.

His big hand runs through your tousled hair before continuing to tenderly kiss your burning faces.

“I hate you,” you mumble, your mind growing heavy for a sleep.

“I love you too.”

a/n: it's been a while that i didn’t write a long one-shot like this one but it’s relaxing in a way lol. a big thank you for @/lymsfm for helping me through this hell, i genuinely don’t know what i would do without you and sorry for all my rants and your patience by listening to me getting crazy for literally everything 😭. so on this, i hope you guys enjoyed this fic and see you soon! <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @catrizzz @sanemistar

@monokaix @moonlitwitchdaisy

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jinxingout · 2 months ago

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pillow princess (literally)

inspired by this fanart!! it’s literally perfect

content: nsfw - pillow humping, praise kink, sub jinx, dom fem! reader, slight power play

jinx had been acting needy all day — her touches lingering a second too long on your skin, or stretching an extra inch so her already cropped top would show more skin. she thought she was being subtle, but you could feel the want radiating off her in waves. you decided to toy with her a little first.

while perched on your lap on the couch, she leaned in, smirking as if she had you wrapped around your finger (she did). you leaned back, denying her the kiss she so blatantly wanted. "such an eager little thing today, aren’t you?" you said, your voice taking on a slightly patronizing tone.

jinx’s grin faltered as her face flushed beet red. "i...i don't know what you mean," she said defiantly, but her flushed skin and the way she squirmed in your lap betrayed her real feelings. "’m just happy to see you."

"or just eager to please, is that it?" you asked, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "then prove it. strip for me. let’s see what a good girl you can be."

jinx glared at you as she hesitated for a second before unzipping her pants, wiggling them down her long legs. she then peeled off her top, revealing her pert tits, nipples already stiffening in the cool air.

you point at the pillow on the other side of the couch. "get yourself off. I want to see you put your back into it."

jinx’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, but she obeyed and crawled over onto the pillow. she hesitated for a moment before starting to slowly grind her hips in small circles, the pillow beginning to dampen from her arousal.

you watched as jinx reluctantly ground her naked body against the pillow, her soft, stifled whimpers filling the room. "see? i’m—ngggh—g-good…” she whined under her breath, her moans escaping. her hips began to move with more urgency, the pillow now damp and rumpled underneath her.

"that’s it, baby," you encouraged, your voice low and commanding. "grind that needy pussy against the pillow. show me how bad you want it."

jinx bit her plump lower lip, a breathy moan escaping her as she obeyed, her movements becoming more enthusiastic, her pink folds glistening and swollen. she squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks flushing and chest heaving.

"oh fuck- ahh!” jinx gasped, her hips bucking faster, grinding her aching clit against the fabric. her thighs trembled, grip tightening on the pillow. she gasped and arched her back, pressing her ass higher in the air. she was so close.

"that’s my good girl," you praised.

jinx couldn't hold back any longer. your words and the relentless stimulation pushed her over the edge. "’m—’m comingg!" jinx screamed, her hips bucking wildly against the pillow as she came hard. her inner walls clenched and fluttered, gushing her release onto the fabric. her eyes rolled back as she rode out each intense wave of pleasure.

when the aftershock subsided, she collapsed forward, draping herself over the pillow, panting harshly. her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. she peered at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes. “please…” she whined, reaching out for you. she was putty in your hands, pliant and needy, and you couldn't hold your hands back from touching her anymore.

#jinx #jinx smut #wlw #jinx x reader #arcane smut #jinx x fem!reader #jinx arcane

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skywalkerslvt · 6 months ago

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Sticky- Peter Parker x AFAB!Reader

❥Pairing: Peter Parker x AFAB!reader

❥CW: smut, p in v, sub peter, inappropriate use of web shooters, riding, 826 words

❥Summary: You find one of peter's sensitive spots while riding him (his wristussy)

❥a/n: This fanart inspired this fic 🤭This was written with Tobey's spiderman in mind cuz of the natural web shooters but it can be read as any of them as long as u keep the web shooters in mind!! Hope u enjoy this mini fic i wrote <3 pics are from pinterest

Peter's breath came in ragged gasps as you rocked your hips over him, your hands pinning his wrists above his head. Every movement drew a shaky groan from his throat, his body trembling beneath you, trying to keep some semblance of control. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, every inch of him hot and pulsing, hitting just the right spot as you moved, your pace deliberate and slow.

The room was thick with the sound of your bodies coming together-soft gasps, broken moans, the wet sounds of your slickness as you took him deeper. Peter's eyes were squeezed shut, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to hold himself together.

But as your fingers lightly grazed his wrists, brushing over the spot where his web-shooters lay, his reaction was instantaneous. His body jolted hard, hips bucking up into you as his eyes snapped open wide, pupils blown with shock. His breath hitched sharply.

"W-what?" His voice cracked, laced with confusion, and the look on his face was almost desperate. He had no idea what just happened, and his bewilderment only made the heat in your core flare higher.

A slow, teasing grin spread across your face as you stilled your hips, locking your gaze on his. You pressed your thumbs harder into his wrists, feeling something tense beneath his skin. His reaction was even more intense this time-a loud, choked moan ripped from his throat, his hips jerking uncontrollably beneath you.

"Oh," you murmured, your voice dripping with mischief. "What's this?"

Peter's eyes were wide, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. "I-l don't know," he gasped, his voice tinged with panic. His head fell back against the pillow, chest heaving as his body trembled under your touch. "What are you-"

You chuckled softly, rubbing your thumbs over the same spot again, watching his entire body shudder beneath you. The confusion on his face only deepened, and you couldn't help but enjoy his unravelling. His hips moved of their own accord, desperate for more friction.

"You're so sensitive here," you whispered, grinding your hips down on him again. He was throbbing inside you, and you could feel how close he was.

His cock twitched with every brush of your fingers over his wrist, his moans growing louder, needier.

"F-fuck," he whimpered, his hands clenching into fists where you had them pinned above his head. "I'm gonna-"

You pressed your thumbs down again, rubbing in tight circles as you moved your hips harder, faster. "Do it," you breathed, leaning down to kiss his neck, your voice low and commanding. "Let go."

With a strangled cry, Peter's entire body went rigid beneath you as he came, his hips jerking wildly as he filled you. But just as the wave of pleasure crashed over him, his wrists spasmed, and-without warning-thick webs shot from his wrists, splattering the headboard and the wall behind him.

"What the—?" Peter gasped, eyes flying open in complete shock, staring at the sticky mess with wide eyes. His chest heaved, his mind clearly scrambling to process what had just happened. "Did I-did I just-?"

You stared at the webs hanging from the headboard, equally surprised, before a slow grin spread across your face. "Oh my God," you said, laughing breathlessly. "Did you mean to do that?”

Peter's face flushed a deep red, a mixture of confusion and embarrassment washing over him as he glanced at the webs, then back at you.

"What– no! I didn't–I didn't know that would happen!" he stammered, his voice hoarse, still catching his breath.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, leaning down to press your lips against his. "That was... something else," you murmured against his lips, still teasing.

"Didn't know you had that in you."

Peter was still wide-eyed, his body trembling with the aftershocks, clearly struggling to comprehend the sudden, overwhelming pleasure that had made him lose control like that. "I–I didn't either," he mumbled, looking like he didn't know whether to be embarrassed or turned on.

You raised an eyebrow, running your hands over his wrists again, a devious smile curling at your lips. "I kinda want to try that again."

Peter's eyes widened, and his breath hitched, a mix of panic and excitement crossing his face. "Wait—now?"

You grinned down at him, leaning closer so your lips were just inches from his. "You're telling me you don't want to see if it happens again?"

Peter swallowed hard, looking dazed and overwhelmed as your fingers trailed back to his wrists, teasing that sensitive spot that had triggered his web-shooting. His lips parted, his body already responding, his cock twitching inside you.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I-yeah, okay, but-"

You take his wrist in your hand, bringing it up to your mouth to press light kisses to his sensitive spot, cutting off his rambling as you rolled your hips again, feeling him harden inside you. "Shh. Just take it like a good boy, Pete.”

#peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #sub peter parker #spiderman x reader #spiderman smut #spiderman fanfiction #sub men

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detaia · 1 year ago

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(i wnet sicko mode hit the tag limit so i hafe to shift stuff here pls read tags first fank yu)

you ever feel so alive you feel like you're gonna pass out?

first. ragatha's hands on pomni's back. firmly gripping her waist and pulling her in close. pomni's fingers light and hesitant on ragatha's shoulder in response. she. she didn't mean to do that. she should be pushing this gorgeous demon away. she should be calling for help. she's not supposed to enjoy this.

but dear lord in heaven....the warmth of her hands. ragatha is holding her so, so gently. so careful not to poke pomni with her claws. their faces pressed against each other. the feeling of her breath on pomni's neck.....

pomni grips ragatha's shoulder a little tighter. how could she? how could she possibly leave the circle of their embrace unclosed? it yearned to be complete. how could anyone spurn this warmth?

i know in ma heart of hearts the lil jester has the most beautifully sinful expression on her face rn. no im not jealous. shut the up. anyways

THE CUT ON THAT DRESS WAOSOOAFJIOADJGIOEJGIPWHASIOGBGIJONARWIUGBIJbgiuRBWGIOARWNGPRIGPO WAHHHH!!!!! EXCUSE ME!!!!HELP!!!!WHAT???HUH??? AND!!!! RAGATHA'S FINGER!!! ON POMNI'S CHIN!!!!IM GOING TO EXPLODE . also. pomni saying "dressed up for the lord" while furiously trying not to stare is so fucking adorable

moving!!! on!!!

IMP POMNI WAJASGHAGAJ SHE'S SUCH A STINKY LITTLE REPTILE RAT RAPTILE GREMLIN!!!!!! SOMETHING ABOUT EM JUST MAKES ME WANT TO PUT MY FINGERS TO GETHER AND GO NYEHEHEHEH!!!!! YOU KNOW WHAT!!!! I WILL!!!! WHEEEE

i fuckin LOVE her big rat feet!!!!its so feet!!!! and perfect for flirting!!!! those are some impressive moves!!!! god pomni beign a menace and just hanging on a wall is so ooo fckig good spitinside me you've done it again. her design gives mye real cuphead vibes i love it. and I love that she can't count i want to pick her up put them on my shoulder and carry them around everywhere

I can't believe you drew this already!!! fasfjnajfnafjff fantastic work!!!! this made my night!!! yippee!!!!!

little church demon x nun au thing or whatever ... maybe one day i will properly make this like with character sheets for their designs and everything but for nlw take this ...

this is for now the only deisgn for pomni

i want hrr to have big feet and a rat like tail .. shes cold blooded .. scaly .. her skin is rough ... shes so fun to draw ...

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sugarlywhispers · 8 months ago

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viking!b.katsuki x fem!reader

a.n; i wanted to give viking!bakugou a try, and honestly, this is all @imaginationmess fault for feeding me fanarts of bakugou and his dragon🙃 luv you tho🤍

Viking Bakugou Katsuki who rides the biggest and most terrifying dragon that has ever existed.

A legend said that his dragon in particular had been going on for generations in his family, no one willing to risk their life to tame it. Until Katsuki’s uncle, Bakugou Kudo, did it. He had been the first in generations to ride this dragon. Yet he understood that the bond between dragon and riders was not consolidated between them.

When Katsuki was eight, the little shit escaped the hut and went towards where the nests were. Kudo almost had a heart attack when he saw the brat far off and almost there. He sprinted as fast as he could, a tragedy already displaying in his head –the kid being incinerated, turned to ashes, and his sister cutting his dick off for being a sorry ass uncle. Fuck, and he would had deserved it. Because even though he had tamed the beast, it was still very unstable to let anyone close to it; one of his own men had suffered the consequences of trying to get close, more than half his body had been burned. He was no longer part of their battles.

However, Kudo saw in first person how a dragon’s bond was created. Between his terrifying dragon and his little nephew.

It hadn’t looked much from his perspective, yet he felt the magical aura surrounding them. Katsuki laughed as he touched the dragon’s snot like it was a mer pup, happy and excited while climbing its leg with such ease until he was up on its back, right behind the head. The dragon himself helped the kid to reach the place. Kudo noticed then the beast’s eyes shining a very resplendent gold. Yep, that was definitely a bond.The kid was anything but scared, as he caressed the dragon's head, hugging it even.

Kudo smiled, shaking his head, hands over his hips as he took a deep breath, relaxing. The dragon was only letting him ride it because it knew that Katsuki was his bonded rider and Kudo was related by blood to the kid.

As years went by, the bond only became stronger and deeper. Kudo would ride it in battles, but once at home, the brat and the beast were like one. When Katsuki turned eighteen, Kudo retired from battles and settled down with a wife and kids at the village located next to that of where their family originally came from. From that day on, the brat became the dragon’s one and only owner.

Katsuki was the only human being able to control, care for and command this massive dragon, also becoming the nightmare of most villages in the world. Both, dragon and rider were vicious, deadly and feared.

You still remember the day Bakugou Katsuki landed on your lands. The bright blue sky suddenly turned dark, the huge dragon he rode clouding the sun above. Everyone knew what it meant. Destruction and chaos, the end of their peaceful lives.

The Leader of the village, your dad, didn’t waste time in trying to negotiate a truce between them.

And that truce is you.

You are forced to marry him, to leave your family, friends and life there and go with this barbaric man. You are a bit afraid he is some sort of savage. Rumors told how violent he was, how scary he looked with his scars and aggressive attitude towards everyone. Now that you have said man in front of you, you agreed with all of them.

You were expecting him to manhandle you, to treat you like another woman he picked to use for his own pleasure. Yet all you received since you stepped foot in his village, in his home, had been nothing but coldness and distance. He has kept to himself, doing his stuff and trying not to get in your way. Least to say, it has been completely awkward since the ceremony.

When you are getting ready for it, his mom enters his-your hut. She smiles, a sincere feeling in her eyes, “Being the daughter of a Leader sucks, ain’t it?”

You look down, a slight smile on your face that agrees with her but eyes filled with tears you’re holding back. “It does.”

You feel her hand on your shoulder, and the little squish she gives it in reassurance makes the knot in your throat tighter.

“My son is not a charming prince; however, I know the kind of man I raised him to be. You’re gonna be okay.”

You don’t say anything in response. You don’t even look back at her, but you think she didn’t expect it either as she walks out, leaving you alone. As you walk towards the entrance, fully knowing that once you cross it, your soon to be husband will be waiting at the end of the aisle, all you can wish is that Ms. Bakugou is right.

When the ceremony reaches its end, the old lady of his village drawing the symbols of union, love and family in your foreheads, Bakugou extends his hands for you to lay yours over his. You still haven’t looked him in the eyes, but you do what's expected for the ceremony. When your hands touch the skin of his, you can't avoid thinking how warm they feel. Big calloused, rough and strong hands surround yours, and you don't hate the feeling. On the contrary, it’s quite comforting. The old lady ties a beautifully white and gold silk ribbon around your hands, symbolizing the union of the souls.

While everyone cheers, you finally decide to raise your eyes towards him. Deep red eyes collide with yours, making a shudder run your body at their intensity. Surprisingly, it isn’t a bad feeling, but it is something you have never felt before.

A tingly feeling swirls in your stomach as you realize Bakugou Katsuki's face is getting closer and closer to yours, his intent clear. He is going to kiss you. Your first kiss. You close your eyes instinctively and his lips touch yours in a quick and short peck. Yet it feels like all the tingles in your stomach exploded, sending warmth throughout your whole body.

That has been the only close and physical interaction you have had until today.

Bakugou Katsuki decides to give you space to accommodate and get to know his village and people around.

It doesn't mean he doesn't want you. However, he never makes any sort of move towards you.

Until one day…

Bakugou got back that morning to the village after being away for almost four days with the victory of conquering another village, so you decide to bring him some of the sweet bread you have cooked as a welcome back. You have to admit, this time with him since the marriage ceremony hasn’t been bad. Civil, even. Despite his distance and cold attitude, he has never disrespected or forced you to nothing. Not even that first night as husband and wife. He didn’t even try, he simply picked one of the pillows and clothes to make a bed on the floor, closer to the entrance door, and slept there. You have been very confused. Your mum had previously told you everything of what was expected from a woman on the night of the ceremony. You expected even a fight between you two, because of course you didn’t want that to happen with a complete stranger like he was still to you.

Nevertheless, he never hovers over you. But you do feel his eyes on you whenever he’s around. He always makes some sort of sound for you to acknowledge that his presence is close. Katsuki is attentive to your reactions whenever you are both alone and doesn't even raise his voice at you. Ever.

Then again, he is his ruthless self with everyone else.

You tried looking for him around the village, but couldn't find Bakugou anywhere. So you walk towards the woods where you know the dragon's nests are, where they rest. Even though Bakugou has explicitly forbidden you to go near there, due to the danger their dragons were most of the time, even for the riders.

You are confident Katsuki will be there, so probably he will see you from a distance and you wont need to get that close. But when you arrive, you come face to face with the massive beast: Bakugou's dragon, Cweorth.

You have seen it at a distance, but having the beast up close is a completely different experience. Its whole body is red, with golden piercing eyes that feel very much like Bakugou’s itself. Its wings are huge as they spread in a stretching movement up high, almost taller than the big trees that surround the woods. You can even see some flare of gold in its scale that actually looks mesmerizing. Majestic.

Your basket falls to the floor in shock when the beast finally looks down at your small, minuscule being. It watches you intently, with a scowl on its face –like beast, like owner. But far away from feeling scared by it, you feel intrigued. You feel enamored even as you stand there, looking at such majestic creature.

Bakugou is actually several meters away, taking a bath in the lake close to the nests, cleaning all the blood and dirt off his body before going to the hut he shares with you. He has some scratches and cuts from the fights, but nothing deep or worrisome. He is very proud in saying he is the fucking best out there.

When he's walking through the woods back to the nests of their dragons, he sees it.

His whole body freezes. You are standing there, your arm and hand stretched upwards. His own dragon, the one who eats men like candy at Katsuki's own command, the one who has burned villages in seconds with his strong fire, the one who hates anyone’s touch or closeness that isn't Bakugou himself... His dragon has his snot close to you, letting you pet him with its eyes closed, enjoying your affection like a small puppy dog.

And he can not fucking believe what his eyes are seeing.

Of all the women he has had before you, none were brave enough to even look at the beast. They had all been afraid to death.

And there you stand, looking even fascinated by it. Eyes shining and smiling as you feel for the first time what its skin is like under your touch. You look… beautiful. Gorgeous. Heavenly sent. Fuck. You have him in your hands already.

Bakugou Katsuki then decides:

He will fucking kiss the ground you walk. He will give you everything you ask of him.

You want certain clothes to wear? He will search for them for you. You want certain foods? He will fly his dragon to wherever they are made or grown on. You want a land? He will fucking burn every single thing or life it takes to give it to you.

You want him? He will gladly give himself completely to you.

Well, he already is.

#mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #mha bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bnha bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #viking!bakugou katsuki #uncle!kudo #mha bakugou x reader #mha bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha bakugou x reader #bnha bakugou katsuki x reader #mha scenario #mha imagines #mha drabble #bnha imagines #bnha drabble #bnha scenarios

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devdozes · 17 days ago

Text

ACCIDENTALLY KIDNAPPING A MAFIA BOSS?!

silly idea :3 should i make this into a series? was listening to bring me to life while making this lmao (also more phainon fanart at the end of the post)

It started with a simple friendship—one that no one really questioned. You and Phainon were practically inseparable, an odd yet perfect duo that made everyone wonder how the universe aligned so well to bring you together.

Phainon was the golden retriever of your life, all bright smiles, mischievous grins, and boundless energy that made it impossible to be in a bad mood around him. He was always there—whether you wanted him to be or not.

Like that time when you had a late-night craving for bubble tea, and he showed up at your doorstep five minutes after your text, holding two cups like he had been waiting for the opportunity all night. Or when you got sick and insisted you were fine, only for him to barge into your apartment with an entire care package—complete with soup, blankets, and a ridiculously oversized hoodie that smelled like him.

“You don’t take care of yourself, so I gotta do it for you,” he had said, grinning as he forced a spoonful of soup into your mouth. “If I wasn’t around, who’d be your personal nurse, huh?”

You had rolled your eyes, but truthfully, you loved having him around.

Phainon was also a menace in the best way possible. He made it his personal mission to embarrass you in public, whether that meant dramatically fake-proposing to you in the middle of a grocery store or loudly announcing that you were his “number one best friend” every time he saw you in class.

“[NAME]!” he had once yelled across the university campus, sprinting toward you like a lunatic while students turned to stare. “I haven’t seen you in two hours! Did you miss me?”

You had barely dodged him, tackling you in front of everyone. “Phainon, oh my god, please calm down.”

He was never calm. He never was and never will be.

But that was what you loved about him—his relentless energy, his unwavering presence. No matter what, he was always there, like a constant, bright force in your life.

And yet, beneath the sunshine exterior, there were times when his blue eyes darkened, moments where his grip on your wrist would linger just a second too long, where his playful teasing held an edge of something deeper. Something..terrifying?

Phainon wasn’t just close to you—he revolved around you. Every little thing you did, every fleeting expression, every shift in your tone, he noticed. He memorized your favorite drinks, your quirks, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved. He lived for those moments.

There were nights he stayed up scrolling through your old messages, rereading your texts like they were sacred scripture. He had a folder on his phone filled with candid pictures of you—laughing, sleeping, lost in thought. Some you had sent him. Some you hadn't.

If anyone got too close, if anyone dared to make you laugh the way he did, his jaw would clench, his grip on his drink tightening. He knew you were his. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

And when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t aware of the way he watched you, the way his entire world narrowed down to just you—his smile would fade, his cheerful mask slipping, revealing the raw, unfiltered obsession lurking beneath.

On his wrist, always, was a simple black hair tie—yours. You had probably forgotten about it, left it on his wrist one day without a second thought, but to him, it was a sacred token, a symbol of ownership. He never took it off. It was stretched and worn from his constant fidgeting, his fingers absently tugging at it whenever you spoke, whenever you so much as smiled at someone else.

You had asked about it once, laughing, “Why do you always wear that? Do you even have long enough hair to need it?”

His grin was quick, easy. “It’s lucky,” he had replied, flicking it with his fingers. “And it reminds me of someone important.”

You had shrugged, not thinking much of it. But if you had paid closer attention, you would have noticed the way his fingers curled over the hair tie protectively, as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. As if losing it meant losing you.

Phainon was careful. He never let his obsession slip too far, never let you see the depths of his devotion. You thought he was just a clingy best friend, a lovable idiot who adored you. You didn’t know about the people who had gotten too close, only to suddenly lose interest, to quietly disappear from your life.

You didn’t know about the nights he watched you through the reflection of a window, keeping an eye on you from the shadows when you thought you were alone. You didn’t know about the things he had done, the people he had silenced, all to keep you safe—to keep you his.

And then, there were the little things. The way he always knew where you had been, even when you hadn’t told him. The way he always seemed to show up at just the right time, as if he had been tracking your schedule down to the second. He was always prepared—whether it was having your favorite drink ready before you even asked, or subtly steering you away from conversations with people he didn’t like. He never said it outright, never made his possessiveness obvious, but the hints were there. The intensity in his eyes when he watched you, the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when he pulled you away from a stranger, the way he always seemed to whisper, half-joking but dead serious, “You belong with me.”

It was a quiet evening when you curled up on your couch, flipping through channels absentmindedly, sipping on your favorite drink. The warm glow of the TV cast soft shadows across your living room, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion. That was, until the flashing "BREAKING NEWS" banner jolted you awake.

"Another victim of the infamous Flamereaver has been discovered in the city’s industrial district," the news anchor reported, their tone grim. "Authorities believe this is the latest in a string of calculated eliminations carried out by the elusive mafia leader. The identity of the Flamereaver remains unknown, but their signature brutality and precision leave no doubt—this was an execution."

You blinked, the weight of the report settling in your chest. The Flamereaver. You had heard the name before—who hadn’t? The ghostly swordmaster who had left entire organizations in ruin, a name spoken in hushed whispers, feared by even the most powerful figures in the underground world.

The news station flashed grainy images of the crime scene—police cars, body bags, shaken witnesses. You shivered, setting your drink down.

Another one? This was happening too often.

Your mind wandered, a passing thought striking you. Phainon had mentioned going out earlier, hadn’t he? Something about meeting an old friend.

You shook your head, dismissing the ridiculous idea that had briefly surfaced. No way. Not Phainon. He was too much of a goofball, too softhearted to be involved in something this violent.

Still, you couldn't help but feel an eerie chill run down your spine as you turned the volume down, trying to push away the unease settling deep within your bones as if someone or something was watching you.

Outside, hidden beneath the cover of darkness, Phainon stood motionless.

Draped in a black cloak and hoodie, his face concealed by the shadows, he watched you through your window, blue eyes burning with something indescribable. Admiration. Love.

You had no idea how beautiful you looked in this moment—so peaceful, so unaware. So his.

A gloved hand brushed against the black hair tie on his wrist, a slow, possessive motion. He never took it off. Just like he would never let you go.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you would understand.

Soon, you would be his completely.

And as the cold night pressed in, Phainon allowed a small, knowing smirk to curl at his lips. The world might fear the Flamereaver—but you? You would never have to.

Because he would do anything to keep you safe.

Even if it meant making sure no one else could ever have you. . . . . Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour. Only when the house lights dimmed, signaling you to retreat to bed, only then did Phainon finally move. He let out a slow exhale, fogging up the cold air before turning away, his steps eerily silent against the pavement.

And then, his expression changed.

His once cheerful blue eyes turned glacial, devoid of emotion. The warmth drained from his features as he tilted his head downward, staring at the lifeless body sprawled at his feet. A fresh corpse, still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, glistening under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The man’s face was twisted in frozen terror, eyes wide and vacant, his lips still parted as if in a final, unfinished plea for mercy.

Phainon had granted him none.

A golden blade protruded from the man’s chest, its edge gleaming even through the thick coat of crimson that dripped from its surface. Phainon knelt, completely unaffected, and with a practiced, almost lazy motion, he wiped the blade clean against the dead man’s own shirt. The metal shone again, immaculate, as if it had never been tainted with the act of ending a life.

His fingers moved to his face, smearing away a thin line of blood that had splattered across his cheek. The expression he wore now was unreadable—detached, mechanical. This was not the same Phainon who grinned and cracked jokes, who draped himself over your shoulders with a playful whine, who gazed at you like she was the very sun in his sky.

This was the Flamereaver.

His gaze flicked down at the corpse once more, unimpressed, before he stepped over it without hesitation, leaving only the scent of blood and death in his wake. His black hoodie rustled slightly in the night breeze, his golden blade disappearing into the folds of his cloak. As he walked, his fingers briefly brushed against the black hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist—the only tether left to the warmth he allowed himself to feel.

For her, he would remain the Phainon she knew.

For the rest of the world, he was a nightmare in human skin.

Meanwhile, inside your room, you sat on your bed, the faint hum of the television still lingering in the silence. You had retreated into your space, but your mind was far from tired. Instead, it buzzed with the same consuming thoughts that had plagued you for months—Phainon.

Your walls were a testament to your obsession, though no one else would ever see. A large corkboard hung above your desk, filled with drawings of him—his laughing expression, the soft tilt of his head, the way his golden blade gleamed when he trained. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of one of the sketches before you turned your gaze to the digital clock beside your bed.

12:30 AM.

Like clockwork, your head snapped toward your window. You knew Phainon's schedule down to the minute. He always returned home at this hour, no later, no sooner. You had memorized the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his habits, the way he sometimes hummed to himself under his breath when he thought no one was listening. The way he would smile, the way his oh so beautiful cerulean eyes would glimmer under the moonlight.

Slipping quietly to your window, you peered through the curtains, your pulse quickening with anticipation. Your eyes locked onto the street below, searching, waiting.

Because just like Phainon watched you, you had been watching him all along. . . . . . . Something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark black robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just as they simply stood in front of Phainon's house, looking left and right as if he was searching for something.

But something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just standing their eerily in front of your best friend's house, looking left and right as if they were searching for something or someone. . . . . Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sprinted down the stairs, your thoughts racing just as fast. Who the hell was that outside Phainon's house? A murderer? A thief? Some lunatic waiting for Phainon to come home?

You didn’t stop to think. Your body moved on instinct.

Grabbing the cold, heavy metal baseball bat from beside the shoe rack, you tightened your grip, your knuckles turning white. As you shoved your hands into the worn leather knuckle gloves Phainon had given you—his little “gift” after you won a sparring match against him—you took a deep breath to steady yourself.

Stay calm. Stay sharp.

You flung open your front door and stormed outside, your breath misting in the night air. The distant hum of streetlights and the soft rustling of tree leaves did nothing to ease the sheer unease creeping up your spine.

And there he was.

The figure stood still—eerily, unnaturally still—right in front of Phainon’s house. His tall frame loomed at around 6’3, making him tower over most people. A long, black cloak with patterns of a crescent moon billowed slightly in the cold wind, its hood casting a deep shadow over his face. But what really made your blood run cold was the weapon in his hand.

A golden blade. Its edge gleamed faintly under the moonlight, marred by something dark, something wet. Blood.

Your grip on the bat tightened as your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t moving. He was just... standing there. Watching.

Was he waiting for Phainon? Did he already—No. You refused to finish that thought.

Without hesitation, you stormed forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Hey!” Your voice rang out in the dead of night, sharp and unwavering. “Oi bastard what the fuck are you doing outside his house?”

No response.

The man didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge you.

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed danger. But you weren’t about to back down.

“Oi, asshole! I’m talking to you!” You took another step forward, raising the bat slightly. “I don’t know what creepy shit you’re trying to pull, but you better step the fuck away from Phainon’s house before I break that fancy little sword of yours over my knee.”

Still, nothing. The figure remained silent, his presence as cold and unmoving as a statue.

The only shift was the subtle tilt of his head—just slightly—like he was regarding you.

Something about that small movement made your skin crawl.

Why did it feel so familiar?

But you had no time to second-guess yourself.

You tightened your stance, shifting your weight, ready to swing if you had to. This bastard wasn’t about to get past you.

The figure finally moved.

With slow, deliberate precision, he tilted his head downward—as if looking at the bloodied golden blade in his grasp. Then, with an eerily casual flick of his wrist, he wiped the blood off its edge with his gloved fingers.

The movement was practiced. Effortless. Like he had done this a thousand times before.

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t just some random thug.

This man was a killer.

And yet… he still didn’t strike.

He simply stood there, staring at his weapon, his face obscured by the cloak’s deep hood. The silence between you stretched, suffocating and unnerving.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

For a split second, you considered your next move. Should you charge at him? Should you call someone? Should you—

You stood frozen in place, gripping your bat so tightly your hands ached.

The golden weapon. The black cloak. The blood. The way he moved. The way he didn’t attack you.

Your stomach churned.

Who the hell was that?

And why… did something about him feel so unsettlingly familiar?

. . . .

The moment he turned his back on you, something inside snapped.

Oh, hell no.

You weren’t about to let some bloodstained creep just walk away after standing in front of Phainon’s house like some horror movie stalker. What if he was waiting for Phainon to come home? What if he had already done something?

You didn’t even think. You ran.

Your feet pounded against the pavement as you rushed forward, closing the distance between you and the cloaked bastard in seconds.

And then—

CRACK.

Your fist slammed into the side of his face, the impact so strong you felt his jaw shift beneath your knuckles.

The force of your punch sent him staggering back, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

You pivoted on your heel, twisting your body for momentum, before swinging again.

BAM!

Your second punch landed hard on the opposite side of his face, his hood shifting slightly from the sheer impact.

The bastard stumbled further, nearly losing his balance.

But you didn’t give him a second to recover.

Your hands gripped the bat tightly—muscles coiling like a spring—before you swung with everything you had.

WHAM!

The bat slammed into his head with full force.

A sickening thud echoed through the empty street as the figure’s entire body jerked from the impact.

His legs gave out instantly.

His body collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

The once-imposing figure—shrouded in mystery, with a golden weapon still faintly glinting in his grip—now lay sprawled out at your feet.

Knocked out cold.

You took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, before glancing down at him.

And then…

You grinned.

A slow, faint smile curled at your lips as you admired your handiwork.

There was something thrilling about seeing this so-called intimidating figure sprawled out, helpless, after you had beaten him down.

“Tch.” You scoffed, tilting your head slightly as you inspected his unconscious form. “What, that’s it? No fight back? No last words? Kinda disappointing, really.”

You nudged his side with your foot, testing for any movement.

Nothing.

Your smirk widened.

This idiot seriously underestimated you.

Big mistake.

The golden weapon lay loosely in his grip now, the blood along its edge darkening under the moonlight. You eyed it for a moment, debating whether to take it—or at least break it—but then your gaze flickered back to the figure’s half-uncovered face.

And for a split second, something nagged at you.

Something felt… off.

That jawline… that build…

Why did he look so—

You shook the thought away. Who cares?

Right now, you needed to figure out what to do next.

This bastard clearly wasn’t some random mugger. Murderer? Maybe. Either way, you weren’t about to leave him lying here without some answers.

Maybe… you should drag him somewhere and question him when he wakes up.

Your grin turned sharper.

Yeah. That sounded like a fun idea.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the unconscious figure by his arm as you dragged his heavy, lifeless body across the pavement.

His golden weapon gleamed faintly under the streetlights, the bloodstains dark and fresh along its edge. You had it clutched tightly in your other hand, fingers curling around the hilt as you stole a glance at its intricate design.

This was no ordinary blade.

No mugger or common thug carried something this finely crafted.

Your grip tightened.

Who the hell was this guy?

Even unconscious, his presence felt off—too eerily still, too controlled, even in this state. It almost pissed you off.

No fear. No desperation. Just… silence.

You dragged him up the porch of your house, gritting your teeth at his weight before kicking open the door.

THUD.

His body hit the floorboards with a dull noise, limbs sprawled like a broken puppet.

Without wasting a second, you grabbed a chair, shoved it into the center of the room, and hauled him onto it.

His black cloak rustled as you forced his arms behind his back, tying them up tightly with thick rope. You did the same to his legs, making sure he couldn’t move an inch.

But the most unsettling part?

Even as you worked, his face remained hidden beneath that black metal mask—its golden vine-like engravings catching the dim light of the room.

You stepped back, crossing your arms as you inspected your handiwork.

He looked… oddly regal like this. A fallen king, tied up and waiting for judgment.

You tilted your head.

Something about this moment—about him sitting there, unmoving, under your control—sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

You stared.

Now… all you had to do was wait.

You stepped forward, tapping the flat edge of his own golden weapon against your palm, staring at him with amusement.

“Alright, mystery man,” you muttered under your breath, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see who the hell you really are.”

And with that, you settled onto the couch across from him—watching.

Waiting. . . . . .

You sat on the couch, idly twirling the golden weapon in your grip, its weight heavier than you expected. The craftsmanship was exquisite—each detail carved with precision, the sharp gleam of the blade still slick with drying blood.

Your fingers traced the intricate patterns along the hilt, a mix of black and gold, before your gaze drifted lower…

And then you saw it.

A small engraving near the base of the blade.

A crescent moon.

Your brows furrowed as you leaned in, squinting at the faint lettering just beneath it—so subtle, it was almost impossible to notice unless you were looking closely.

“Flame—”

Your stomach dropped.

“—Reaver.”

Your breath hitched.

Your grip on the sword tightened, pulse hammering in your ears as realization slammed into you like a freight train.

No. No, no, no—this had to be some sick joke.

Flame Reaver wasn’t just some low-level criminal—he was a fucking legend. A nameless swordmaster, a phantom of the underworld, responsible for massacres that tore entire syndicates apart.

Nobody knew who he was. Nobody even had a confirmed sighting.

But every victim—every last one—had been ripped apart with a blade.

And you just… tied him up.

In your own house.

Fuck.

A low groan echoed from across the room.

You froze.

The sound sent a cold shiver crawling down your spine.

Your head snapped toward the chair.

The figure—Flame Reaver—shifted slightly, his bound form tensing as he started to regain consciousness.

Your fingers instinctively curled around the weapon tighter, but your palms felt sweaty now.

Shit.

Your mind raced.

What were you supposed to do? Run? Kill him? Hope he has amnesia?!

Before you could even decide—

His head lifted slightly.

His chest rose and fell steadily.

And then—

The black metal mask tilted up, ever so slightly…

And you could feel it.

Even without seeing his eyes, you could feel his gaze locking onto you.

A quiet, low chuckle rasped through the air.

Oh, you were so fucking dead.

A dull, throbbing pain bloomed at the back of his skull. His senses were sluggish, slow to return, like wading through thick water. For a few moments, there was nothing but darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on him, his body sluggish and foreign. Then, piece by piece, it all began to come back.

The night. The streets. Blood.

A fight. A sharp pain bursting at the side of his head.

And then—

His consciousness snapped into place like a whip.

His muscles tensed.

Bound.

His arms wouldn’t move.

Neither would his legs.

The air was stale. The scent of the room was faintly familiar—wood, a trace of perfume, something warm yet utterly foreign in this moment. But none of it compared to the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he was restrained.

A cold blade of tension ran up his spine.

He knew better than anyone that being tied up meant being vulnerable. He was never the one on this end of the rope. Never.

Where the fuck was he?

Slowly, deliberately, he cracked his eyes open behind the black metal mask.

And the moment he did—

His breath caught in his throat.

There, seated in front of him, holding his own golden blade, was 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

But it wasn’t you. Not the way he knew you. Not the way he had memorized you—every expression, every playful glint in your eyes, every ridiculous joke you cracked at his expense. The warmth, the laughter, the way you made his obsessive devotion feel justified.

No.

The person sitting in front of him now—this was different.

You were looking at him wrong.

Your expression was cold.

Your fingers gripped his weapon with a force that made your knuckles go white.

And worst of all—

You were looking at him with pure burning hatred.

Not mild irritation, not the usual exasperation you had when he stole your food or teased you too much—real, burning hatred.

Why? What Happened? Why..why were you..

His breath came slow and measured, but his mind raced violently. Everything was wrong. Everything was out of place.

And then it hit him.

You didn't know.

You didn't realize.

You didn’t know it was him. You didn't know that he was flamereaver You didn't know that he killed for you for years. He felt something deep and ugly twist inside his chest, but he remained utterly still. If he spoke now—if his voice slipped, if his tone wavered even slightly—you would realize. And he wasn't ready for that.

The second you moved closer, heart pounding in your chest, your fingers reached for the black and gold metal mask covering his face.

But before you could even brush against it—

SNAP.

The ropes shattered like they were made of paper.

Your eyes widened.

What the fuck—?!

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step back, a sharp golden clawed hand shot up and grasped your wrist.

Not tightly. Not enough to hurt.

But enough to stop you in your tracks.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the sharp, deadly claws glinting in the dim light. They were curved like talons, polished gold reflecting your startled expression. They could have pierced your skin. Could have ripped through flesh effortlessly.

But they didn’t.

He wasn’t hurting you.

He wasn’t even squeezing your wrist.

He was just… holding it.

Stopping you.

Slowly, your gaze trailed up from the golden claws to his mask.

It was still intact. Still covering his entire face. That damn mask—black with intricate golden vine-like patterns etched into it, elegant yet eerily haunting.

And then, he moved.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. But with a deliberateness that sent shivers down your spine.

He tilted his head.

His free hand, the one that had just torn through the restraints like they were nothing, reached up towards his mask but stopped.

Like he was considering something.

Like he was debating.

Your breath felt uneven. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move any further.

He just… held your wrist in place. Why isn't he hurting you?? Why isn't he trying to kill you?? What fucking game is he playing.

A sharp tension filled the room, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers twitched, still aching to rip that mask off.

To see who the hell he really was.

But his claws remained firm on your wrist—gentle, yet unyielding.

He was stopping you.

But he wasn’t hurting you.

And that was somehow worse.

Who the fuck was he?

Your fingers tightened. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a deafening rhythm of adrenaline and disbelief.

He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t trying to stop you any further, only holding your wrist in that maddeningly gentle yet firm grip.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp inhale, you yanked your hand free from his grasp and lunged forward.

Your fingers caught the edges of the black metal mask, and before he could react—

Rip.

You tore it off his face.

The mask clattered onto the wooden floor with a loud, echoing clang.

And for a split second—

You still had no idea who he was.

Because your eyes weren’t on his face yet.

They were on his hands—his claws. They were trembling, the golden tips slick with faint traces of blood.

And then—

Then you saw it.

The moment your gaze snapped up to meet his—

You stopped breathing.

Your stomach twisted into a thousand knots.

Because staring back at you—

Was a pair of wide, terrified, cerulean blue eyes.

A face framed by fluffy white hair.

A face you had seen every single day.

This can't be fucking real.

“P—Phainon?”

But you didn't even get a chance to speak the words in your mind.

Because in the next second—

Your back hit the floor.

He pinned you down against the cold wooden floor.

Your wrists were trapped beneath his claws, his weight pressing down against you. His breath was uneven, a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something unreadable swimming in those now-exposed, once-gentle blue eyes.

Now they were shaken.

Now they were desperate.

But the worst part?

There was blood on his face.

Small splatters of blood on the corner of his jaw and cheek.

And it wasn’t his.

No, no, no, no.

Your brain couldn’t process it.

Couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Because this was Phainon.

Your best friend.

The cheerful idiot who always smiled at you, laughed with you, annoyed you.

He couldn't be—

The Flamereaver.

But the golden blade lying beside you on the floor—

The bloodstains on his face, his hands, his claws—

The fact that he had been standing outside his own house, alone, covered in blood, wearing a mask.

The fact that he hadn't said a single word.

It all made sense.

HI GANG !! this is the fanart I did for phainon. i am so down bad for him if you like this , please like, follow, reblog and comment :D

LONG HAIR PHAINON AAAA

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