#gin was the one in the mask btw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ryescapades · 18 days ago

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*ੈ‧₊༺ “SHE’S BEEN DANCING WITH THE DEVIL ALL NIGHT,”

— a casual night out at a party turns wild when you come face to face with a masked man.

characters: ghostface!itoshi rin (bllk) x fem!reader contents: nsfw mdni !!! mention of drinking, unprotected p in v seggs, mutual + guided masturbation, slight oral fixation, a bit of choking, mirror seggs, dirty talk, creampie, college setting, hint of jealous!rin, swearing, reader wears a skirt

a/n: i didn't write this btw. my inner demon did. (blaming lumi for sending me that ghostface fanart of rin) 2k wc

you feel him before you can even see him.

it’s heavy and persistent, the weight of his gaze pricking the back of your neck like dry needles, except it’s making your muscles lock up tighter, not supposedly the other way around. you look around, eyes roving over the boisterous crowd and taking in the sight of some of them dressed in costumes in some way or the other.

halloween had already ended, but there are people still in the festive mood, it seems.

your roommate had invited you to this huge college party at someone’s house, and with nothing to do with your time seeing as the midterms season just finished, you had agreed to come along. you thought the hang out would only consist of a few chats and drinks with friends, maybe a dance or two, the night ending with you going back home probably drunk and alone.

you just didn’t think some random guy would immediately take interest in you the minute you slid up to the makeshift bar.

reluctantly, you force yourself to focus on the conversation in front of you, barely taking in what the guy is saying. you can’t even remember what his name is and the department he’s from.

jirou… from the medic course? you think? you don’t know anymore. and frankly, you don’t care. you’re pretty sure he was flirting with you - still is, in fact. but again, you’re just not listening. not when as soon as the guy started talking, he appeared in the corner of your eye.

silent yet deadly imposing, he towers over most of the people here like he owns the place. clad in a black hoodie and equally dark pants, he looks almost out of place with those casual clothes, if not for the ghostface mask he adorns.

goosebumps prickle on your arms when you accidentally glance at the inky depths of the eyes on the mask.

“hey, you listening?” jirou’s voice takes you by surprise, and the glass of fruit gin your roommate had graciously requested for you almost slips out of your hand from your flinch, making the cold liquid inside to splash out to your hand.

“shit, sorry! i didn’t mean to startle you—“ jirou panics, but you’re already shaking your head and waving your hand off as you rise from your seat. “no, you’re good. i just - uh, i’ll be right back,” you lie through teeth.

you’d rather spend the next hour rereading the materials for your previous tests than listen to him talk for another minute, if you’re being honest. swiftly making your way to the washroom, you sigh wistfully at your lack of luck in getting a good new company tonight.

you don’t get far, unfortunately.

out of nowhere, there is a hand taking a hold on your elbow, causing you to let out a shriek as you’re being pulled into an empty room. the door closes, your back pressing against it as the culprit of said hand looms over you.

it’s the man from earlier. the one whose gaze had been burning holes in the back of your head from across the room. your body turns rigid, unnerved at the ghostface mask he’s wearing. “it’s you,” you whisper.

he doesn’t say anything, but his hand reaches up to your face, cradling your jaw with his fingers as his thumb places itself on your lip. your pulse quickens when he gently traces the seam of your mouth, pressing onto the plush cushion.

words instantly die on your tongue the moment he uses the same hand to hold yours— the one still sticky from the alcohol from earlier— and brings it to your lips. your breath hitches at the insinuation. “wh-what…”

without any warning, the masked man pushes your middle and ring fingers in, breaching past your lips and into your mouth. a muffled sound rips out from you, one that takes both you and him by surprise.

holy shit, did you just pathetically whimper from having your own fingers shoved into your mouth? yes. yes, you did.

sweet and tangy tinges from the gin hit your tastebuds, and something inside you flares up then. the man lets out a hiss, palming his erection with his free hand when you swirl your tongue around and in between your fingers, taking them deeper into your mouth as your lashes flutter from your own action.

there’s a hushed curse, and suddenly you’re being shoved onto the bed in the middle of the room. you don’t fight it. you don’t even want to.

desire pools deep in your core, your body alighting from the sensitized nerves. you can feel yourself getting hotter, the growing wetness between your thighs making your panties feel uncomfortable to be in.

“hands and knees,” your breath stutters at the voice, pussy clenching around nothing as you move to obey his command. you’re doing something wrong, however, when he audibly clicks his tongue. “lower,” he says.

you bite down on your lip, finally understanding before you descend lower, your head laying on the bed and hips lifting in the air as you nervously fist on the sheets below you.

you feel so… exposed. vulnerable. and yet you’re so pitifully turned on you don’t know what to make of yourself.

shivering as his hands drops to your hips, he pulls your skirt further up to bare your ass for his eyes to see. he teases the hem of your soiled panties before tugging them down your thighs, cursing low under his breath at the sight of your wet, dripping cunt.

“play with yourself,” he instructs. swallowing down the nerves, you bring the fingers you’d sucked on earlier to your pussy, tentatively rubbing at your folds as more slickness seeps out from you.

you let out a small whine when you hear the clinging of his belt behind you. “faster,” he orders, and you do. your pussy clenches again, whimpering into the sheets as your fingers get more coated with your sticky wetness.

you can hear him breathing heavily, and you know he’s stroking himself at the sight of you. shoulders rigid against the bed, you desperately want to turn around, to see how he looks like, how his dick looks like.

“please…” you whisper. you almost rejoice then, when you feel the bed dips on both side, his knees appearing beside your own. “god, you’re so soaked i could just push it right in,” he groans.

and that’s what he’s planning to do.

grabbing both of your arms, he pulls you up to lean back against his chest, the soft material of his hoodie a contrast to the hard, throbbing cock against your back. the audible dreamy sigh you're trying to hold back feels fatally difficult after feeling the sheer size of him.

goddamn, he’s gonna make you feel so fucking full.

he rests his head beside yours, bare muscled thighs caging yours in between. “look up,” his voice enters your ears. you bring your gaze up out of mild confusion, and the gasp he elicits out of you is not just out of surprise.

right as you lift your head, he plunges his cock straight into your awaiting hole, straight away hitting the deepest part of you. what you didn’t expect however, is the mirror that sits adjacent to the bed, reflecting the obscene view of you getting railed by a ghostface from behind.

“f-fuck!” your sweet little cry causes his cock to twitch inside, a rough grunt ripping out from his throat. he barely gives you time to accommodate to his size - then again you don’t think you need any. you’re already dripping so much that his dick can easily mold your pussy to the shape of him.

“you’re so tight,” he starts thrusting in and out, cock dragging against your insides in the most delicious way. the needy moan you let out is high-pitched, a keening sound that echoes around the room.

“you love getting fucked like this, huh? love getting ruined by masked men?” he sneers through clenched teeth, one of his arms reaching to hold you captive by the throat and the other slipping under your shirt to keep a possessive hold around your waist.

zaps of pleasure form at the base of your spine, your toes curling from the pure desire coursing through you. your filthy, desperate noises only grow louder when he picks up the pace, bullying his cock into your cunt just as desperately.

“pleasepleaseplease—“ you sob through the tightening of his lithe fingers around your throat, clamping down on him as you choke on the slight lack of air.

you grip onto his forearm like it’s your lifeline, back arching as you can feel yourself getting into the precipice of your climax. the sound of skin slapping against skin bounces off the walls, the loud squelching of your pussy sending your mind into overdrive.

your eyes become heavily lidded, but you hold yourself back from closing them as you both continue to watch in the mirror, the unsettling look of the ghostface mask only adding to the tingling in your stomach.

“that’s it, baby. look at you. so pretty, so perfect,” he murmurs against your ear, clearly enjoying the debauched expression on your face. “gonna fucking destroy this pussy till you cum so hard around my cock, yeah? not even that pathetic excuse of a guy downstairs can wreck you as bad as i do,"

“yes, yes, only you, please wanna cum - mmnghfuck, please,” you slur, incoherent babbles beginning to fill your mouth as the the coil in your stomach draws taut.

he’s hitting all the right spots inside you, ones you didn’t even know existed, and the glimpse of the creamy ring around the base of his cock in the mirror from how much you’re gushing only gets you closer and closer to the edge.

his hand presses deeper into the soft dip of your waist, hints of red dents making their way onto your skin as he slams into you harder and faster. soon enough, the tightening in your gut snaps, your body trembling in his hold with a shattered, wanton sound.

“so fucking good for me,” he growls, feeling your pussy squeeze down on him as he chases his own impending climax. a few thrusts after and he’s stilling his hips, burying himself as deep as he can with a broken moan. warmth spills inside you, filling you to the brim as your pussy clenches down to milk him for what he’s worth.

the both of you heavily pant as you’re coming down from your high, flushed red from exhaustion and icky from the sweat through your clothes plus the bodily fluids dripping down where you two are still joined together.

your eyes, clouded and hazy, trails to the mirror in front of you. chest heaving, your mind turns dizzy as you stare at the ghostface, both of his hands slowly dropping to your hips.

one second your weight is fully leaned back against him, and the next you’re suddenly thrown onto the sheets, a depraved mewl slipping past your lips when your hole is suddenly emptied, thick globs of your mixed cum freely seeping out of your pussy.

he hovers above you, and your heartbeat quickens when he promptly reaches a hand to his face, grabbing the bottom of the mask to pull it off and toss it away.

dark ivy strands and teal eyes greet you, his hand ruffling the hair to somehow fix his disheveled appearance. “rin…” you breathe out, cheeks tinting with a darker crimson.

your eyes lock, something akin to that familiar connection you’ve always had with the striker clinks into place. “i knew it was you,” you mutter.

you knew from the very first time your eyes laid on him tonight, and you’d confirmed it when he’d first uttered a word to you.

his eyes gleam under the dim light of the room, and he closes the distance between you again as he reaches down to strip himself off the hoodie, toned chest and abdomen from all his rigorous soccer training coming into view.

“good. because i’m gonna fuck you without the mask this time,”

ghostface!rin art by @/akatsuha on tt.

never posted two smuts in a row before dawg this is Not me

also not gonna elaborate on how rin even had the mask in the first place :p some ppl forced it onto him maybe (spoiler it’s bcsg)

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

#the tags are crazy .. what have i become #cant believe a fictional man got me losing my sense of self smh #🥣 rye works #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk #bllk smut #blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock smut #itoshi rin smut #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi rin x you #rin itoshi #itoshi rin x y/n #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi x you #itoshi rin #bllk rin

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gold-rhine · 2 years ago

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Xiao x Gn! Reader

Warnings: not safe for work, but this one turned out much softer than usual. Sub\dom!reader undertones are still kinda there, but give it a try even if you’re not into this dynamic. First time, handjob, anal sex, mentions of voeyrism (kinda? briefly through the dream), I’m gonna say “cock”, but it stands for strap too, it’s just awkward to keep specifying.

Wordcount: 4,3k

A\N: Repost bc my previous blog got shadowbanned. I was not sure if I knew what to do for Xiao, but then I remembered that one of his themes is dreamwalking and that’s legit my JAM. It turned out less smutty and more of a psychosexual character study, but I’m still quite fond of it. It’s pretty cheesy, but you know what, Xiao deserves a break. There will be some filth under the cut still. Shoutout to “Nothing to no one” by Gin Wigmore and Placebo’s “Protege Moi” for carrying me through this one.

Xiao is curt and intense to the point of coming off as rude, but never more harsh to anyone but himself. Longing for connection, but consciously denying it himself time after time, severity done like a mask to hide the broken, bleeding bones of gentleness, no time for “trifling human matters”, but enough to return a stolen doll to a little girl. Who the fuck do you think you’re fooling, babe.

And it’s not like he doesn’t know what he wants, oh no, he does, he just won’t admit it even under torture

Friendship lvl3: “Desire? Ha. Do not judge adepti by your mortal ideals. I have no desire.”

Friendship lvl5: “Hiding? I'm hiding nothing. I just won't speak of desire to others. Do mortals not have a rule about spoken wishes never coming true? Hm? What do you mean that's not the same?”

So you admit it, you just fucking lied at lvl3 when you said you “have no desire”?? You just gonna casually go from “Foolish mortal, I have no desires unlike you” to “Of course, I have desires, I want them so badly I won’t even speak them out loud for the fear of jinxing them.” yeah, no, that checks out, SURE.

In Xiao’s world, you don’t communicate what you want, you bottle that shit up and hide it deep inside, and you don’t even admit this bottle exists, let alone tell anyone what’s inside. You don’t believe these wishes will ever come true and you don’t think you deserve it, but because deep down you know you are a weak, corrupted creature, you still hope against all hopes and despise yourself for this foolishness.

Speaking of which, Xiao collects reasons for self-hatred like it’s his ascension material.

Like, “My only worth is as a weapon, so normal people should not interact with me because I only bring corruption and I am good for nothing outside of bloodshed”

This prickly pride of being a skillful weapon is a double-edged sword of discarding himself as being useless for anything but battle.

Like you have their little training course interaction with Ganyu during her story quest, which btw she receives positively and is grateful for his help, and Xiao’s line about it is:

“You believe a Yaksha who knows nothing more than how to massacre countless souls and emerge unscathed is a suitable mentor for such an individual?”

… babe, can you chill for like, three seconds? You made a defense mini game with like 20 slimes for her, it’s not gonna turn a cocogoat into a cold-blooded killer,

And this dismissal of self-worth outside of combat ties in nicely with bottling up a volatile mix of yearning, loneliness, frustration, despair and innate sensitivity that couldn’t be dulled down even by centuries of self-hatred and pain, and only letting it all out in an incandescent rage in battle, which leads to

“I only feel alive when fighting, which means I’m a monster who only thrives on bloodlust,” despite like, refusing himself all positive stimuli

“Thriving on bloodlust” somehow not contradicted by the fact that he yearns for beauty and hates this miserable existence so much that he’s legit jumping at the first opportunity to go out in the blaze of glory if it even has a chance to be helpful to other people, and could only be stopped by his dad's Zhongli’s intervention and all off his new friend group going “we’re would be really sad if you died”

Then he’s like “ok i’ll keep on living i guess :\”

(i’m still so salty that they didn’t let Itto talk at all, his story quest speech about sacrifice being an easy and cowardly way out to discard responsibility that doesn’t fix root problems fits Xiao’s situation SO WELL argh)

Yeah no, all other yakshas talked about wanting peace and his own namecard describes dreaming of peace and donning the mask to dance instead of killing, but yakshas are inherently bloodthirsty species, so there’s no hope for him, that checks out, sure.

So to summarize, despite how direct Xiao seems at first glance, interacting with him is actually a complex navigation between things he says out loud that he knows are not true, things he says that he can’t admit to himself are not true due to self-loathing, and just general tsundere bullshit. You’ll need a LOT of patience.

Like, does he want to be accepted and loved? Desperately. Will he accept someone trying to do so straightforwardly? Absolutely the fuck not.

If you try to straight up compliment him, he’d be like “L+ratio+you foolish mortal + You think a killer who devoured countless souls can be cute? + you have bad taste actually + that's disrespectful to the ways of the adepti”

Echoing being unable to voice his desires, Xiao can only accept warmth in indirect, stolen moments, half-glances, throwaway remarks, because connection feels too fragile to be named directly. And remember, spoken wishes never come true

The rituals are *very* intricate

You’re not just walking on eggshells around him, the eggshells are aggressively throwing themselves under your feet and biting at your ankle to make you crush them, so he can be like “see? I don’t deserve love anyway, i was right to hate myself”

like one comedy article said, “It’s good if a man is skittish and terrified of affection, like a beautiful horse that appears on the edge of a frozen lake one day and you have to tame it by bringing it a handful of food every day until it slowly comes to learn your scent (but with sex)”

That’s Xiao in a nutshell, but you’re bringing seeds to a bird-feeder and the bird has chronic pain and is scared to hurt you

Here’s the thing though. You’ll know he’s yours when he starts showing interest in your perspective on everyday things. He’s curious by nature, but never lets himself wonder, unless he’s sure beyond the doubt that his participation is wanted.

“Xiao: I have no intention of getting close to the lives of mortals.

Xiao: But I know that you often enter and leave the city, walking amidst the crowd.

Xiao: The stories of these times, or their joys... If I don't experience such things myself, it'll be hard to understand your thoughts.

So... you're doing this for me?

Xiao: Yes, to understand you.

Xiao: I had a feeling that it would be difficult, but after having such thoughts, I can't simply sit back and do nothing.”

He’s inquisitive and quick thinking, but very socially awkward and prone to hiding his true desires. So even before asking you to include him, he starts scouting your dreams.

It’s nothing invasive like devouring dreams or dragging projections into the real world. Just catching brief, fleeting glimpses,carefully pressed against the soap bubble of your dream. Even in short flashes, it helps to see things from your point of view.

…and sometimes, rarely, he catches images of how you see him, so bewilderingly different from what he’s used to, not the corruption-ridden creature with ugly lines of the fanged mask etched onto his face and blood staining his hands, but instead…

Sharp turn of his head when you call out his name, and the sun illuminates him from behind, brilliant halo shining through the messy dark hair, and he can’t even recognize himself in this memory, golden-eyed and gorgeous, so he bundles up this vision, hides it deep inside among other unattainable, undeserved, unspoken wishes.

It’s self-indulgent, a bit pathetic for the adeptus, but ultimately harmless, like a weakness for the almond tofu. A spark of sweetness to get him through the misery of his everyday life.

Until one night he catches a dream where you’re fucking him.

It throws him off balance so hard, he flees immediately, not just from the dreamspace, but teleporting to an isolated mountain peak.

But the image is seared into his retinas nonetheless.

It’s because he’s offended, he tries to tell himself. How extremely disrespectful. As if an adeptus like himself, who has no interest in the foolishness of mortal desires, would want to be sprawled under you, dizzy with pleasure, held and kissed and caressed, like he’s the most beautiful and wanted thing in the world, like touching him brings joy, like…

He has to teleport again, but it doesn’t help. Horrified, he realizes he’s aroused.

It’s a tough couple of weeks for the both of you.

He’s even more sullen and jumpy than normally, and when you ask him if everything’s okay and if there’s anything you can do to help, he gets a panicked look of a deer in headlights and vanishes.

You decide it’s probably some yaksha angst and it’s better to give him some space

You don’t remember your dream, and even if you did, you wouldn’t think much of it.

He can’t stop thinking about it. It resurfaces, uncalled, in the most inopportune moments, no matter how hard he tries to push it down. The obscene view of himself, arms over the head, parted lips, back arched and legs spread wide with you between them.

He didn’t stay long enough to catch more, but even this is enough to drive him up the walls, sometimes literally, to make him want something he can’t properly name. He was used to tolerating the constant gnawing pain of the corruption, but this needy ache is maddening, fading and reappearing when least expected to throw him off kilter.

He alternates from watching over your dreams intently to being unable to even glance at them, but on the nights when he does look, there’s nothing similar.

Which is good. It means you were not serious about it, it was just a fluke. Minds of mortals are notoriously fickle, especially in the dream state, and can produce all sorts of ridiculous fantasies and ideas that mean nothing.

Of course it meant nothing, who would seriously see a weapon for eons steeped in blood and corruption as a lover? What pleasure could you expect from someone whose very nature and purpose is slaughter? It could only lead to disappointment. Repulsion, even. It’d be preposterous to even think about it.

Which is why it’s outrageous that he *is* still thinking about it.

But now it’s been a few weeks and the pulsing want dulled down, lost a terrifying thrill of possibility of being reciprocated, and is almost ready to become another weak, shameful yearning, bottled up and shoved into a dark corner.

And then his heart jumps into his throat when he sees you dreaming of Wangshu Inn’s balcony drowned in moonlight, and he’s in your arms as you’re sitting by one of tables, he’s straddling your thighs, your mouth and hands wandering over his naked chest and collarbones.

The half-drowsed ember of desire roars back in thrice the force, and feverishly, he thinks of an idea. What if he took place of his own image? Then he could learn what it feels like. He could finally stop wondering what would happen and just get over this maddening sickness. And you won’t even notice the switch. You’ll probably end up unsatisfied because he would not be able to give you the pleasure you expected, but it’s all a fleeting, momentary dream for you anyway, not worthy of remembering in the morning.

He spent centuries hunting dreams, but never tried to become a part of them, so he doesn’t realize a simple truth: a dream cannot be entered without being shared equally.

The first thing that changes in your dream when he becomes a part of it is actually the sky, but you don’t notice it because the responsive, pliant body in your arms suddenly becomes woodenly tense. At the same time, your awareness deepens, dream becoming almost lucid, as you gain control over yourself, but not surroundings.

What confuses you even more is a barrage of strange emotions coming down at you out of nowhere: anxiety on the verge of panic, fearful anticipation, needy, smoldering fervor of desire.

You look up at Xiao’s face to see him looking almost severe if not for the heavy blush and refusal to meet your eyes, breath held nervously, and realize in an instant - this is actually him, not the figment of your imagination, it’s his thoughts and emotions you can now glimpse like he usually does with others when dreamwalking.

And also, that if you even try to acknowledge this, he’ll bolt to the other end of the world, so you don’t say anything.

It’s tempting to claim his mouth, but he’s too petrified, his jaw clenched tightly. Instead, you trail the line of kisses down his throat and feel the sharp pang of his relief at supposedly not being discovered.

You caress him slowly, carefully, moving tenderly over his arched neck, sharp curves of the collarbones, chest that rises fast and feverishly in shaky breathes, taste nervous flare of his pulse in the deliciously delicate hollow of his throat, until the warm pleasure spreads under his skin, melts frozen rigidness into a different kind of tension, a taut bowstring, drawn tightly, trembling at every touch.

When you nuzzle at the underside of his jaw, he moves his head abruptly and presses his mouth against yours, tense because he wants this so badly, but doesn’t know what to do with himself, an awkward angle and all teeth. But you take your time, slide your fingers into his hair and tilt his head, kiss his lips until he finally relaxes and opens up. When you slide your tongue against his, he makes the tiniest noise, barely audible tremble caught in his throat.

He was worried about how inexperienced he is, but when he’s too lost in the kiss, desire takes care of this easily. Without realizing, he’s arching in your arms, grinding against your legs. When you slide your hands lower, over his stomach, hips, stroke his thighs, he moans into your mouth and opens his knees wider, thrusts against you, already hard.

You slide your hand into his pants and close your fingers over his cock and he shudders, breaks the kiss, realizing what you are doing, what he was doing, how easily he’s losing control, his wild yellow eyes wide and uncertain.

“It’s okay,” you tell him softly. “Everything is going to be okay. Let me take care of you, baby.”

He catches your affection, shared through the dream, and the narrow vertical slits in his eyes widen, blackness flaring up against gold. With a short, shuddering draw of the breath, he relents, leans into you to nuzzle at your cheek. You can feel his blush heating up against your skin, flutter of the eyelashes.

You start stroking his cock slowly, holding him with your other arm, whisper sweet reasurings into his ears, understanding how hard it is for him to show vulnerability, even under the supposed disguise.

His hips start moving again, now in rhythm with your hand, and you quicken the pace. Suddenly, you realize he’s naked except for the gloves, because the dream lets things happen easier, removes inconveniences, requiring nothing but mutual intent. You can’t help but smirk, press a wet kiss to the side of his jaw and twist your hand over the head of his cock. He lets out a stifled gasp, his tip throbs and starts leaking in your palm. He lifts his arms as if to grasp at your shoulders, but stops before he can touch you, lets them drop.

But you notice that something is wrong with his hands - the gloves are a part of him, darkness etched painfully into his flesh, and instead of the slender fingers you know he actually has, his hands end in ugly sharp claws, covered in splotches of dried blood. Your heart breaks a little when you realize this is how he sees himself, this is what he thinks his touch would feel like. But you cannot argue directly, can’t say that it’s not true without breaking a fragile silence between you, acknowledging that it’s actually him.

So instead you catch his chin in your free hand. “Hey, look at me.”

He meets your eyes, his own hazy, feverish with need, but he looks at you intensely. “You are so good,” you tell him quietly, holding his gaze even as his eyes widen, your hand over his cock moving faster and faster. “You are so beautiful, baby. I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world here instead of you.”

He cries out, sharp and surprised, almost pained with helplessness, like a hawk shot in the air midflight, and comes undone. When he unravels in your arms, his old, half-forgotten, buried dreams spill out too.

So when he falls back, tugging you with him, he lands not on wooden planks of Wangshu Inn’s balcony, but on the soft cover of tangled lush grass. Tall green stalks meet over your head, as if trying to protect, hide a secret from the world.

A strange word from the ancient, dead language surfaces in your mind, a word that meant “sea of wind” - a name of vast grasslands that once covered these plains, endless green waves that rolled under the breeze from horizon to horizon.

His body is pale under you, dappled in moonlight that manages to get through the hover of softly wavering grass. Flickering light of the fireflies, green and lemony-yellow, doesn’t illuminate anything, but only makes the dark emerald shadows deeper in-between the narrow stalks where they move. But his golden eyes are very bright, still quietly shocked, searching, never leaving your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.

You smile, lean down to catch his mouth, and he kisses you with abandon, still awkward, but with sweetness that neither you nor him knew he was capable of. The air smells faintly of warm earth, fresh grass and bittersweet Qingxin flowers. The moments stretch for eternity like only dreams allow for, full moon halting in the dark starry skies above.

He wants more, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it, doesn’t have the words. But in this state of bewildered, warm haziness, drunk of both lust and certainty of your desire, his shame evaporates. He remembers the first dream he saw, the image that haunted him for weeks, and recreates it - arms thrown over head, arched back and spread legs.

Except he looks infinitely better, countless details that the fantasy could not account for, - breathless, tangled in green shadows and silver moonlight, lithe and wiry-muscled, heavy flush of his cheeks contrasted to the eager, glowing gold eyes, arm flexing under tattoo as he clutches at the grass to keep himself still, subtle tremble of his open thighs, hard, pulsing cock, leaking on the tense stomach, already stained with cum.

In the waking world, you’d spend considerable time preparing him, given how inexperienced and sensitive he is. Even without that consideration, another time you’d want to go teasingly slowly, make him writhe on your fingers, plead for mercy.

But right now, in these stolen moonlit moments it feels too ugent, too desperate, and the fever of a dream lets you skip the steps, sweep right into sliding into him. This time he arches under you not for show, silent gasp and widened eyes.

You pause, letting him adjust to the feeling of your cock inside of him, ravish him with kisses in the meanwhile, feel him squirm, overwhelmed and gratified by both sensations and your hunger for him. When he finally bucks his hips against you, you start moving, first carefully, then turning to the hard, firm pace, and it runs through him, echoes in choked grunts and feverish drum of the heart. The dream bends to this steady beat, light of the fireflies pulsing in tact, and somehow he’s both on the grass beneath you and rising up, in the same rhythm, sharp cyclical thrusts upwards.

Suddenly, sky spills all around you, the lights of stars mingling with the fireflies in between the narrow grass stalks, and golden wings of the wind that takes you upward beat in the rhythm of your movement. The sky around you is too vast and sharp, the depth and freedom you’ve never seen before, and you realize this is what it feels like to taste the joy of a creature born to soar.

He’s too lost in the pleasure, looking up at you, the sky opening up for him with every thrust, every lunge. He can’t remember the last time when he took flight just for the joy of it, when he looked up instead of down to track the enemies and come crashing in a flurry of broken spears. All these centuries of being sure he was made for violence, and suddenly it sheds off him like dust, all this time thinking he can only feel alive during battle, and now his body sings so easily, so naturally, and it sings of wind and starlight, not of rage and blood.

When he reaches the peak of the ascent, time slows down for a weightless, breathless moment, a precipice after which he usually turns flight into a controlled, violent plunge. Instead, with a quiet, helpless moan, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

Stars burn under his eyelids, ancient, forgotten constellations flaring up, mixing with the current ones, until it’s impossible to tell them apart, entangled like your bodies in the soft grass that was destroyed centuries ago, a new celestial atlas that exists only for the two of you.

Even as he curls against you after, soft and sweet, you can feel bitter, ashen current staining the dream: he thinks this is the only time he gets to feel happy. And in the moment, it seems absolutely ludicrous to keep the pretense of not knowing that it’s him and let him wallow in his angst.

“Xiao,” you tell him quietly, gently stroking sharp knobs of his spine, “it’s okay. You can be mine. The world is not going to end.”

He freezes for a second, his eyes going wide in panic, and then vanishes abruptly. Dream shatters into a thousand shards, and you wake up with a gasp.

You give him a few days to process and then, on the moonlit Wangshu’s balcony after all the guests have left, you quietly call his name.

He appears on the other side of the balcony, arms crossed, looking sullen and severe, which could look intimidating if you didn’t know him and if not for a little detail.

“You don’t have to stand that far, I can still see that you’re blushing.”

He scowls. “What do you want?”

“I thought we should talk about what happened.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It was foolish. For both of us.”

“Talk for yourself.”

“No, it was extremely foolish for you too,” he says with sudden, agitated passion. “You knew what I am, I’ve told you from the start to keep your distance. I’ve never asked you to… I’ve warned you to treat me as a weapon, and…”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap again! I’ve tasted your sky. I know the violence is not your only nature.”

He chokes on his breath, looks away, then says quietly.

“It may not be, but it is the only thing I’m proficient with. So what does it matter what was once my nature? There are many others, more suitable for you to…”

“Well, that’s not for you to decide. You don’t get to tell me who I want. You can only choose for yourself.”

He glances at you very quickly and looks away again with a quiet “Hmph,” but you can tell how torn and unsure of what to do he is.

“Xiao,” you say softly, reaching out to him. “Come here.”

He looks at you for a long moment and then vanishes. You curse under your breath and flop down on a chair in frustration. But then suddenly the air smells sharply of ozone and in a flurry of teal and black, Xiao appears on top of you.

He looks incredibly irritated and refuses to meet your eyes, but he’s straddling you, so you grin and grip his hips. His hand instinctively moves to cover yours, but he stops himself before he can touch you. This time you don’t have to pretend you don’t notice.

You catch his hand and gently pull off the tight-fitting black glove. He finally looks at you, surprised.

“What are you doing?”

“Hm?” you fake innocence, because two can play the ‘not acknowledging true subtext of the actions’ game. “I don’t know what your plans were when you landed on top of me, but sex generally requires undressing.”

He frowns in confusion, then freezes when you bring his hand to your mouth. His pale fingers are long and bony, and you hold his gaze while pointedly kissing each angular knuckle. It only fully hits him when you turn his hand and press your lips to his scarred palm, then move them down to the tender skin of his wrist.

He doesn’t say anything, but his narrow pupils widen in an instant, and when you kiss him, you can feel his hands slowly, hesitantly sliding over your shoulders.

#rhine writes filth #rhine writes #sub genshin #sub xiao #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #xiao #xiao smut

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bugbytez13 · 1 year ago

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hi hello I saw your recent tachihara post, and just thought I’d share something :)) (btw I’m more of a head cold & fever/delirium guy then an emeto person, but I’ll try to think of some of those too)

The most defensive sickie. Ever. Could be swaying side to side, 2 seconds away from passing out, and he’d still refuse help

Has a really insensitive stomach, can eat a lot while sick, if he pushes, however, when it hits him, it hits him bad

He seems like either a restless sickie, or completely bedridden, there’s no in between

*The last bullet point depends on if someone actually convinces him to go to bed, and/or how sick he is. Once again, he’s someone who usually pushes through

Responsible enough to actually wear a mask around the Hunting Dogs and around town, at least

Makes an excuse for the mask

anyway, do you have any for Tachihara?? kinda curious ngl

can i kiss you? can i give you a little kiss? right on the cheek? i love you very much thank you for sending these to me

he would definitely refuse any kind of help!! he just wants to fight through his illness and get the job done. he hasn’t ever been treated with much kindness in his life so i think getting this help is really unfamiliar to him and freaks him out a bit

adding onto the insensitive stomach bit he would not know he was nauseous until like. the last second. he assumes it’s nerves or hunger until he’s like Oh Shit I’m About To Throw Up. often hits him out of nowhere 😭

i feel like he would not want to stay down when sick! but when he does rest you know it’s getting BAD.

and for a few of my own head canons!

as much as he will deny it he does love physical affection when he doesn’t feel well. he doesn’t really ask for it or seek it out since he doesn’t. really know how? but he will melt into the touch of someone checking his temperature or rubbing his belly to settle his nausea.

i feel like he would get migraines very often. might just be projection though 😭

got appendicitis with the port mafia. was extremely terrifying for everyone there because no one knew what was going on since he hid away until gin found him horribly sick one night. he came out alright though 💪

on the flip side i feel like he’d be really good at taking care of others while they are sick? maybe a bit bumbling and clueless but he’d try his absolute hardest

prone to food poisoning because he will often eat whatever he can get his hands on

again TYSM!!! your head canons are so awesome 🙏

#head canon #tachihara michizou #bsd headcanons #bsd #emeto #fever #migraine

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cal-writes · 2 years ago

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more black org au scraps, its kaishin btw (*￣3￣)╭ enjoy

Kaito groans, cheek pressed into cold concrete. His ears still ring from the force of the punch that had knocked him to the ground and he lays there until it passes. He pushes himself upright, arms shaking underneath him and spits out a glob of bloody saliva. It lands on the gray concrete with a sickening splat. His tongue is tender, cut open from his teeth as he runs it along them to check if any of them got loose.

“You should know better than to piss off Gin at this point.” Jäger says lazily. The sentence is followed by the metallic click of a lighter and the sharp rasp of flint. Kaito looks up from the ground, following black clad legs up a narrow waist, over the rest of their uniform of a black suit to Jäger’s face. He is leaning casually against a pillar not too far away. He has his hand cupped around the flame of his lighter before he flicks it shut with practised ease. Thin pale fingers pinch the cigarette close to his lips before he takes a drag and the brief glimmer of the embers flickers in his blue eyes, even from afar.

Kaito groans again and chooses to sit on his legs rather than get up. His ribs protest loudly and he wraps one arm around his middle gingerly. His eyes are swelling shut. “You’d think being the boss’ son would give me some leeway.” Kaito says with a hopeless smile and shrugs, wincing instantly.

“He told you that wouldn’t fly anymore.” Jäger reminds him unkindly and Kaito winks at him as much as his eyes still allow. Jäger’s face is an apathetic mask, watching him with that intense stare of his as Kaito struggles to his feet but he is still standing there, waiting. Kaito would take that as a win. He breathes through his teeth, swaying on the spot but doesn’t fall. Another win for him. The night was looking up.

“You’re right, you’re right.” Kaito says, waving his hand. If being related to the boss kept you safe, Jäger would probably still have a mother.

It was kind of funny in hindsight, the way only tragedy turned into comedy. Kaito and Jäger were close in age, looked strikingly similar and had both grown up in the Organization. Someone foolish who no longer existed had gotten to the conclusion that they must be twins or at least siblings. Kaito’s relation to the boss were well known so the logical conclusion had been that Champagné was Kaito’s mother and therefore the boss’ mistress. A comedy of errors, really. Champagné had been killed as a strike against the boss which had failed miserably. Granted the boss had still been mad, but mostly because that foolishness had cost them one of their best infiltrators. Kaito had heard Vermouth had enjoyed her revenge at least and his not-twin had become Jäger. A much worse name, if Kaito was to judge but the codename given to him was Ouzo, so he really had no room to say anything. Glass house, meet stones.

“You look like shit.” Jäger tells him impassively as if commenting on the weather. Kaito shuffles over to him, waving away the cigarette smoke as it drifts towards him.

“You should see the other guy.” Kaito says, wincing with every limping step under Jäger’s watchful gaze. He hamms it up a little just to see worry creep into those eyes.

The neutral facade breaks a little to allow a raised eyebrow. “I did. You didn’t even land a hit.” Jäger says and finally a little bit of Shinichi shines through. Kaito scoffs, offended and plucks the cigarette from Shinichi’s lips to take a drag himself. It stings on the fresh wounds in his mouth where his teeth cut open his gums. He can’t help but hiss, expelling the smoke.

“He’d be such a sore loser, figured I’d let him win.” Kaito says and inhales some more poison. His fingers shake as he offers Shinichi his cigarette back but he pushes away from the pillar, walking to the exit without sparing Kaito another glance. Kaito sighs and takes one last drag before crushing the cigarette against the pillar, leaving a faint black mark. He tosses it into the ocean as he leaves the warehouse out into the pier. It’s deserted at this time of night. Only shallow waves crashing against parked boats and the supports set into the water, the traffic noise of the Tokyo streets distant. Gin’s Porsche was long gone, as he finished his business with Kaito but the dark green Ferrari Shinichi was allowed to drive was still waiting for them.

“Hurry up.” Shinichi tells him before he gets into the driver’s seat. Kaito repeats the words mockingly before the door slams shut, walking over at a snail’s pace. By the time he climbs inside the car, whining the entire way, and puts his seatbelt on, Shinichi has disappeared behind his walls again.

“Another job tonight?” Kaito asks, a little affronted as Jäger snapped the car into gear and pulled away from the pier. As far as Kaito knew, Jäger had only just gotten back from the last assignment which had followed two others back to back. Jäger just humms noncommittally, easily manuvering the car through Tokyo traffic. The streetlights wash out his skin, painting even harsher shadows underneath his eyes. Kaito wasn’t the only one looking like shit.

“Some of us have to earn their keep.” Jäger says, a faint echo of the petty arguments of their youth. No teasing edge. It was just a fact.

Kaito crosses his arms over his chest, too fast before he remembers his bruised body and glares out the window so he won’t stare at the dark circles underneath Jäger’s eyes. ”Not gonna be worth much if you collapse.” He snorts and the pain that shoots up his nose makes his eyes water and he groans and hisses until the pain subsides. “I’ll talk to the old man. You deserve some time off.” He presses out in between.

“Can’t.” Jäger says simply. His eyes glued to the road when Kaito looks at him. He waits for him to continue, to bitch about his assignment, to talk through his thoughts but it seemed that any of those things would require more effort than Jäger was capable of right now. Even while driving there was a deep set weariness to his shoulders that terrified Kaito. It kept getting worse. “What’s the job, then? Maybe I can help.” Kaito offers.

“I doubt that.” With a sigh and a listless hand dragging over his face, Shinichi was back in the car with him. Bleary eyes glance over at him briefly. “Boss wants me to find out who Kaito Kid is.” He tells him quietly and Kaito feels his veins freeze to ice.

Kaito had never minded a life of crime. He had loved walking through bustling streets, one hand in his mothers’ the other in the pockets of bumbling tourists. He had watched in rapt attention when Jii performed his magic tricks, robbing people blind while they applauded him. Around the age of six, that life had ended abruptly. His mother had dumped him on his father’s doorstep and never returned to pick him up. Kaito today could comfortably admit to himself that he enjoyed life a lot more when he believed his father to be dead.

Kuroba Toichi’s version of crime was widely out of Kaito’s comfort range. Drugs, weapons, extortion, blackmail, maiming and murder were all suddenly part of his daily life replacing the subtle art of thievery and the dazzling wonder of magic.

As a child and as a teenager, it had been easy to ignore those parts and his distaste for the business had been tacitly accepted. Kaito had found solace in the few other children being forced to grow up in the Organization but had grown close especially to Shinichi. They weren’t just alike in looks but sentiment as well. Though Kaito would have argued in the past that Shinichi had even more of a moral backbone than him. Where Kaito had found the business distasteful, Shinichi had loathed it. Had loathed the methods of pain and death and misery everyone around them employed without remorse and Kaito had been the only one who it had been safe to voice that opinion toward.

Problem was, they were also equal in intelligence and that was a resource the Organisation could only afford to neglect for so long. Kaito, born a showman and excellent actor with the added benefit of his father’s genes, had managed to skirt by with only minimal additions to his criminal record. Shinichi, nobel, righteous Shinichi had been broken down into a useful tool before too long. The death of his mother had only aded the process.

The past months it had only gotten worse, every time Shinichi came back, he came back less. It reached a point where Kaito couldn’t bear it anymore. The cage around him was a sling slowly slipping shut around his throat. And there was no leaving the Organisation in anything other than a casket.

So, if you couldn’t escape the rope the only other option was to destroy the rope.

“Any leads yet?” Kaito asks way too late. He shakes his head, playing it off as confusion from his injury. It’s only half an act.

Shinichi inhales, exhausted, staring out into the night, face unreadable.

Taking on the mantle of Kaito Kid had been a stroke of genius and a taunt. It was an old persona of his father’s, first created to meet Kaito’s mother and long since abandoned. A gentleman thief of grandeur, striking in the spotlight, decked out in white. A glowing phantom, resurrected after decades. Kaito couldn’t think of a more poetic instrument of destruction for his father’s empire.

He had brought him back to life months ago when it had started getting bad with the singleminded purpose of helong the useless police thwart the plans of the Organisation and hopefully bring it to its knees before Toichi died of old age. Subtly, of course. Being the boss’ son didn’t protect him from punishment after all, tonight had been a reminder of that. Even if they wouldn’t kill him, there were many things worse than death they were capable of inflicting. Kaito had hoped to be closer to his goal by the time it came to a head but it seemed he was out of time now.

Shinichi had earned the name of german herb liquor Jägermeister as a descriptor as much as a codename. Master of the hunt, was one translation. He was one of the Organisation’s bloodhounds, quickly rising to the same esteem as Vermouth and Bourbon despite being several years their junior. Even when he wasn’t as talented at disguise and infiltration, he got results his own way. And he always got results.

And now his sights were set on Kaito.

“I’m dropping you off at Sherry’s.” Jäger tells him, shaking Kaito out of his thoughts.

“And then what?” He asks carefully. Shinichi was an open book to him but Jäger was harder to read - he had learned to be.

“And then I’m doing my job.” Jäger says, jaw clenching shut. Kaito watches him for any cracks in the foundation but the mask remains solid. He sinks back into his seat, watching the city pass them by.

He clears his throat and tastes blood. “Good luck then.” He says, watching for any reaction but none came.

Kaito can’t relax until Jäger drops him off unceremoniously at the labs and the Ferrari speeds off into the night. His first exhale leaves him in a shuffer, digging at his bruised ribs and he tips his head back into his neck to look at the starless sky above. He allows himself a quiet curse.

If Jäger found out about Kaito Kid’s identity, there would be nothing to save Kaito from the fallout that would follow. But Shinichi? Getting Shinichi to his side might just be the missing piece to his plan that would topple the Organisation for good.

It was just a matter of who would find him first.

#black org au #dcmk #moi writing

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chuuyanakaahara · 1 year ago

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ok last ask today (sorry for sending them in a row like that), other than dazai, how did the others hide their identities? like masks/hair dyes/outfits? or piercings/general differences in their canon appearance? (like tanizaki and tachihara wearing makeup for example, which i love btw)

i LOVE answering asks for this series you have NO idea !!

tanizaki + tachihara both wear make-up, that being glitter & eye-liner. tachihara wears more body glitter though (he's trying to get laid.) tanizaki has a lip ring he gets over the course of retribution and atsushi gets his ear pierced in a bathroom (it did not get infected, somehow.)

akutagawa doesn't particularly try to hide his identity! the portside has a deal going w the police & he's so confident in this deal that he does have a dog named Rashoumon at home, which is like being a cocaine dealer and having a dog named Cocaine at your house when the police show up. and atsushi of course has his masquerade mask, which he swaps out for tiper-stripe esque make-up later on bc it obstructs his vision less.

yosano is another avid fan of masks - she has a masquerade-style angel mask, with white feathers and all. kouyou has never bothered to hide her identity, though she's often dressed-up enough (in her make-up and kimono and updo) that people don't often recognize her out of that.

gin intentionally obscures her gender while she's racing bc of circuit misogyny, wearing a binder and often only seen wearing her helmet, as it's hard to have your hair up in a spiky ponytail when you're racing. she never speaks during races and it's bc she knows her voice is a dead giveaway. beyond that, she doesn't do much in terms of disguise.

chuuya never bothered hiding his identity, unlike dazai. never saw the point in it bc he didn't have a life outside of the portside and frankly he still doesn't lmao. poe is elusive enough as it is that he doesn't need to disguise anything, it's all dependent on whether his hair is in his face or not.

kunikida does look like a scene kid the few times he does go out to race nowadays bc he knows that no one is making that connection that doesn't know him well enough to know he races already

#retribution.fic #cherri.txt #bsd #bungou stra dogs

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sittingupwiththedead · 2 months ago

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Historically most gangs started in places and communities where cops would not go, or where dangerously corrupt.

Extortion of protection money doesn't start as extortion it starts as insurance and investigation. If the bodega is paying you protection money they're not just doing it so your guys won't rob them they're doing it so that if ANYONE robs them you will find out who did it, and you will do something about it because the cops sure as hell won't. And by do something I mean find the fucker and put him on the ground because nobody fucks around in your territory. And maybe Vinnie at the bodega is having trouble paying his rent so you buy the building and instead of protection he's paying you rent yeah? and maybe instead of $500 a month or whatever it is You tell him you'll take just under an equivalent value of cartons of smokes this month and call it even yeah Vinnie? (this by the way makes Vinnie complicit in your criminiality because now he has to cook his books to hide the cigerettes yeah?)

The illegal (read untaxed) selling of booze and cigarettes is still an ongoing problem in many both urban and rural areas btw: If you wanted a way to diversify Hood's operations and move him away from the harder drugs hand rolled/stolen cigarettes and bathtub gin/moonshine might be a way to do it. Besides Batman stories are always at their best when there's a hint of the old school gangsters in it. And let's be honest Batman popping open a crate of expecting to find heroin or oxys and instead finds cartons of Malboros is a hilarious mental image.

The chop shop idea is great, especially if he has bounties. "Steal this asshole's car" or "Steal this type of car". Also if it's a personal vehicle you can alot of ID info out of registrations. Use the registration info to hack a bank account and just skim.

If there's isn't a shitty dying high school in/on the edge of the Narrows I'd be shocked so he have him fund the vocational programs. After school clubs, the idea about selling books to make money as well as encourage literacy (Jason also seems like the kind of troll that would make sure a good chuck of it comes from banned book lists). The mechanic class kids who show real promise get jobs at the mechanic shop covering the chop shop, kids in the art class get money to paint murals his gang can hide their tags in. Free breakfast and Lunch programs. Etc

A free clinic he aggressively enforces as a neutral zone and makes damn sure his guys know is a neutral zone. Needle exchanges.

Going back to the free breakfast and Lunch programs food is a fantastic way to create loyalty even in unexpected places. We have documented instances for example that, in certain towns in the Americna West when miners where injured and couldn't work the local brothel, and their favorite workers there seeing to it that groceries where delivered to the men's wives. Also eating together builds inter connected bonds in humans -it's one of the fastest ways to make us pack bond. You could have Red Hood literally hold dinners for his guys with him sitting at the head of the table. Even if he doesn't eat (depends on how you wanna do the mask situation) make him literally-clearly- 'the founder of the feast'.

Just some ideas. Hope it helps!

(I really wanna read this fic!)

The hardship of planning an elaborate fic about Jason and his crime lord-ing is figuring out how tf to run a crime empire with morals. Oof.

#jason todd #red hood #fan fic #history

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rhine-gold-archive · 2 years ago

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I love your sub headcanons so much, do you have anything for Xiao?

Xiao x Gn! Reader

Wordcount: 4,3k

A\N: I was not sure if I knew what to do for Xiao, but then I remembered that one of his themes is dreamwalking and that’s legit my JAM. It turned out less smutty and more of a psychosexual character study, but I’m still quite fond of it. It’s pretty cheesy, but you know what, Xiao deserves a break. There will be some filth under the cut still. Shoutout to “Nothing to no one” by Gin Wigmore and Placebo’s “Protege Moi” for carrying me through this one.