#i wonder if he can catch fish with his bare hands

[silly--fangirl]

not the guy i was stalking through ig for the whole weekend bumping into me in the hallway

like ok mr redhead, you're so tall you didn't see me

[humaling]

Two Victors, One Closet III

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick’s playing his game—and you’re still figuring out whether you want to play along.

word count: 3k

warnings: none!!

author's note: this is real guys i swear!!! no more takebacks

part two

The elevator hums softly as it glides upward, its glass walls revealing the Capitol in all its sleepless splendor. It's nearly midnight, but the city shows no signs of rest. Lights blaze from every tower, painting the streets below in shimmering golds and sharp silvers. Billboards flicker with moving images—smiling faces, swirling colors, glittering outfits too pristine to be real. You catch glimpses of people down below, laughing, dancing, strolling arm in arm like life has never hurt them. Music spills from somewhere in the distance, a haunting, melodic beat that mixes with the low roar of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter that rises above it all.

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. But it’s too perfect. Too clean. Like sugar spread over something rotting. A sweet, dazzling lie meant to distract from the bitter truth underneath. Because you know what they’re really hiding behind all this glitter. You’ve seen what it costs to keep this city glowing. And no matter how high you rise in this elevator, no matter how much sparkle surrounds you, the weight of that truth stays heavy in your chest.

The elevator keeps climbing, and so does your view. The Capitol stretches wider the higher you go, a glittering sprawl that pretends to be paradise. But all you can think of is how much blood it takes to keep these lights burning. How much suffering is buried beneath every perfectly paved street.

You would know. You’ve lived it. You’re living it.

You're one of their Victors—dragged from the dirt, polished up, and paraded like a masterpiece. A victor, they say. A symbol. But here, you’re nothing more than a puppet dressed in velvet and gold, your scars hidden beneath makeup, your nightmares disguised as charm. They love to pretend you won something. That you're lucky. But all they ever gave you was a cage with softer walls. They smile as they use you—your pain, your story, your silence—squeezing it all out of you like you're still in the arena.

And still, the Capitol thrives. It feasts on the resources torn from the lower districts, squeezing every ounce of labor and material out of them until there’s barely enough left to survive. Districts built on coal, crops, fish, power—bled dry so the Capitol can drink from crystal glasses and decorate their skin in gold dust. They call it progress. They call it peace. But it’s just another mask, another illusion stretched over a machine that runs on cruelty.

The elevator slows, but your thoughts don’t. The higher you go, the clearer it becomes: the Capitol doesn’t rise on its own. It climbs higher by standing on the backs of those it crushes. And now you’re here—somewhere in between the shadows below and the lights above—wondering how much of yourself they’ll try to take next.

Yet somehow, what haunts you tonight isn’t the faces of the tributes you’ve sent to their deaths, or the hands that always touch you like they want a piece of you, or even the warnings Snow gave you when you won your Games. It’s him. Finnick Odair.

The Capitol’s Darling. Their favorite. A name that rolls too smooth, a smile too practiced. Golden in every way that matters to the people up here—and somehow still infuriatingly hard to ignore. You’ve spent the last few days dodging him, brushing off his charm, pretending you don’t hear the whispers that follow the two of you every time you’re seen in the same room. And then he offered that deal. Like it was nothing. Like it made perfect sense.

We could fake it. Give them what they want.

It irks you to no end. Such nonsense shouldn’t bother you this much. What would you even get out of it? Sure, maybe Snow would ease up. Maybe some of the Capitol elites—those old, greasy men who eye you like a meal—would back off. But being stuck with Finnick Odair? Playing lovers for the cameras, kissing in front of strangers, holding hands like it means something, only to go your separate ways once the trip ends? Doesn’t exactly sound like freedom.

And yet—there’s something about the way he held you. The way his eyes softened when you pushed back, the surprising gentleness in his touch when no one was watching. It’s frustrating, really. You barely know him. You met him by accident—a stupid closet incident that led to a series of unfortunate events, which somehow led to this: standing in an elevator, too high up in a glass tower, thinking about his stupidly handsome face.

You shouldn’t be thinking about it. You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

But what’s the worst Snow could do, right? He wouldn’t really hand you off to those disgusting, scrawny old men. Would he?

You’ve done everything he’s ever asked. Played your part. Kept quiet. Smiled when you were supposed to. Gave him everything he’s wanted.

But still, there’s a voice in the back of your mind. Cold. Certain.

He’ll want more.

The elevator doors sigh open, and the chill of the hallway kisses your skin like a reminder that you’re still here—still part of this glittering cage. You step out, the soft carpeting muffling your footsteps as you make your way down the corridor. It’s quiet at this hour. The kind of Capitol quiet that doesn’t feel restful, just watched.

Your fingers graze the seam of your jacket, half-wishing for a cigarette, half-wishing for anything that might shut your brain off for five damn seconds.

Because still, he lingers.

You don’t want to think about Finnick’s offer. You don’t want to pick apart the way his voice dropped when he said it, like he was offering you a lifeline instead of a trap. You don’t want to remember how steady his hand felt on your back during that dance, or the way he looked at you like maybe you weren’t just another piece being moved across the board.

He’s a liar. A charmer. Everything you’ve learned to avoid. And yet, you can’t quite shake the feeling that he meant it. That behind the easy grin and practiced winks, there’s something else. Something he’s hiding. Maybe something just as tired as you.

Your door’s only a few steps away now, and you can almost taste the quiet that’ll come when you’re finally inside, away from all of this. Away from him, from the noise in your head. You’re almost there. You just need to shove everything back down, pretend none of it ever happened, pretend he never happened.

But then you round the corner and slam straight into him.

Your shoulder hits his chest hard, and you stagger back, cursing under your breath, already bracing yourself for some random getting in your way—but, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor.

There he is.

Finnick Odair. In the flesh.

Like your thoughts summoned him. Like you didn’t just spend the last five minutes mentally dissecting every single syllable that came out of his mouth.

He’s dressed down, for once—no gold trim, no silk cravat, just a simple grey shirt and worn trousers—but somehow he still looks like a Capitol ad. Hair tousled, sea-glass eyes sharp with surprise that quickly melt into something far too pleased.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Speak of the devil,” you mutter as your arms come up to cross over your chest.

A stupid grin slowly spreads across his face, yet it doesn’t hold any mockery. It’s warmer, like he’s relieved to find you. “Were you thinking about me?”

This time, you don’t hold back. You roll your eyes, fully. “In your dreams, Odair,” you say, shoving past him as you continue down the hall.

Your door’s in sight, just a few feet away, and you almost feel the relief of putting some distance between you and this persistent pest. But there’s something eager in the way Finnick shuffles his feet, keeping pace.

“Please, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dripping with that smirk you hate, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were looking for me.”

“You’re one to talk,” you snap, annoyance seeping out like the moonlight that pours down through the window beside you, bathing both of you in its glow.

You stop short, spinning on your heel so fast that it almost catches him off guard. His chest comes dangerously close to colliding with yours, but his reflexes are quick enough to pull him back just in time.

You narrow your eyes at him, annoyed. “Aren’t you supposed to be four floors below?” you accuse, taking a deliberate step back to put some space between the two of you.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned while staying here, it’s that you are never alone.

Finnick tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours as if he’s trying to read you, like there's something he’s not quite seeing. His lips twitch, but he keeps his distance, letting you maintain the space between you both, even if it’s only for the moment.

“Four floors below sounds like a nice vacation,” he says, voice light, but his gaze sharp, like he’s poking at something deeper. “But here I am. Guess I just can’t seem to stay away from you.”

You snort, crossing your arms tighter over your chest as you resist the urge to roll your eyes again. The last thing you need right now is more of his nonsense, but of course, the Capitol's golden boy would find a way to worm himself into your evening. Or midnight.

"You must really like the view from up here," you reply, glancing out the window as the city below sparkles with false promises. "Or maybe you're just lost."

“I know exactly where I’m going,” he says, leaning just a little closer, not enough to invade your personal space but just enough to make you notice how tall he is when he does that. “I came to find you, after all.”

You bite back a laugh, a mixture of disbelief and irritation bubbling up. “Is that so? You really think I’m just waiting around for your grand entrance?”

His grin widens, and it’s infuriatingly confident. “You were thinking about me, weren’t you? I could tell.”

You open your mouth to shoot back something sharp, but instead, you pause, the words catching in your throat. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something that isn’t all playfulness or teasing. You can’t place it, and that bothers you.

“So what’s the deal, huh?” You finally say, voice softer than you’d like. “You really think this whole thing—whatever it is—could work? Pretending?”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead taking a step back, giving you space to breathe. But his smile doesn’t fade. “What if it did?”

You open your mouth, then close it again, unsure of how to respond. You’re already too far down this path, and it feels like you're teetering on the edge, caught between wanting to get away from him and not being able to walk away just yet.

“You don’t want to know what’s really in my head,” you mutter, barely audible.

“Then show me,” he challenges, his voice soft but full of something unspoken. “I’m listening.”

You blink at him, but the expression on his face is so earnest that, for a moment, you almost forget why you’re so annoyed. Almost.

The moment passes. You glance away, your eyes finding the door once more. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

Finnick lets out a low chuckle, but it’s not mocking this time. It’s genuine, like he knows he’s won this round, even if you haven’t said it out loud. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

Before you can argue with him any more, your hand finally reaches for the door handle. You stop just before opening it, turning back to him one last time, eyes narrowed. “Stay out of my way, Odair. I don’t need you following me around.”

Just as you were about to shut the door, a foot wedges in, blocking it from closing. With a huff, you yank at the door again, your lips pressed tightly together in a thin line, frustration simmering as you stare at Finnick. But this time, you’re not just glaring at him. You’re actually looking at him—looking, really seeing him. Straight into those sea-glass eyes that have a way of pulling you in, making everything else fade into the background.

Not a single thought crosses your mind as you take him in, caught off guard by how easy it is to get lost in the details. The soft light spilling from the open door highlights his perfectly tanned skin, glowing almost unnaturally under its warmth, like some sort of magic. His features are so sharp, so defined that it feels like someone carved him from stone, a sculpture brought to life.

Your gaze drifts from his eyes, now more intense than ever, to the bridge of his nose, straight and proud, like it’s been molded by a master craftsman. The light catches the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, subtle and endearing, like faint constellations across a flawless sky. Then, your eyes linger on his lips—plump, full, too perfect to be real, but somehow he makes them look effortless.

You catch yourself staring, caught in the smooth, flawless lines of his face. His beauty isn’t just skin deep; it’s something that feels ancient, something that has always been, like it belongs to the very fabric of the Capitol itself.

You blink, and for a moment, it feels like you’re waking from a daze. But it’s too late. You’ve already memorized every detail. The silence stretches between you both, and it’s the first time you realize how much his presence can fill a room. You could spend hours just studying him, tracing the angles of his face, the curve of his jaw, but the way he looks at you makes you feel like he’s already read your mind. Like he knows what you’re thinking before you even realize it yourself.

You’re still standing there, caught in the trance of his features, when you notice it. His lips. They’re curling—ever so slowly—into that infuriating, cocky smirk you’ve come to recognize too well.

It’s the smirk that knows exactly what it does to you. The smirk that doesn’t need words because the look alone says everything.

And just like that, the spell breaks. The warmth from before, the softness that you’d felt, evaporates in an instant.

You blink, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been standing there, your pulse quickening with embarrassment. You meet his gaze again, but now there’s no softness in his eyes, only an annoyingly smug glint that makes you want to smack him.

“Were you just staring at me?” he teases, his voice light, as though he’s completely aware of the effect he’s had on you.

Your irritation flares immediately, wiping away any lingering traces of that strange pull you’d felt. “You know you can have all this to yourself—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice low, the annoyance sharpening the edge of your words.

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk never quite leaving his face. “Not a fan of compliments, huh?”

“Not from you,” you snap, stepping back, ready to shut the door and escape from this ridiculous situation before it gets worse.

Finnick doesn’t move, his smirk only widening as he watches you, clearly enjoying the effect he’s having. “You sure about that? Because I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

“You’re fucking insufferable,” you spat, the words sharp as you shoved against the door, aiming to slam it in his face. But Finnick’s quick—faster than you expect. His hand shoots up, catching the door before it can fully close, his fingers brushing against the wood in a way that feels too deliberate, too close.

You freeze, your grip loosening as you process his sudden movement, and that gives him the chance to push the door open completely. Now, his arm is stretched above you, his proximity much too intimate for comfort. His nose is only a few inches from yours, and you can feel the warmth of his breath, stirring something inside you that you desperately try to ignore.

“Did you at least think about it?” he asks, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced by something far softer, more genuine. The shift catches you off guard, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You blink, trying to gather your thoughts, but all you can focus on is how close he is. His presence overwhelms you, and you feel heat creeping up your neck, flushing your face. "What?" The word comes out breathless, confusion tangled with it.

Finnick lets out a low chuckle, clearly amused at your reaction, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he lets the teasing slide for now, shifting his weight as he gives you a moment to catch up.

“The deal,” he repeats, his voice quieter now, like he’s waiting for a real answer. You can hear the sincerity there, even if you don’t want to.

Your brows furrow, and a scowl twists your lips. “No.” The word comes out stronger this time, as if you’re trying to put a hard stop to this entire conversation. Your hands move to his chest, shoving against him with force. “And I never will.”

His gaze softens for just a second, like he’s trying to gauge whether you're serious or if this is just another game for you. “You don’t even know what it could do for you.” His words linger in the space between you, and you feel them like a challenge. “It would solve so much of your problems, make things easier—at least for the time being.”

But you won’t let him. You’ve heard enough. “Don’t,” you cut him off, a warning in your tone that leaves no room for further discussion. You don’t need to hear more of his reasoning. You’ve made up your mind, or at least, you tell yourself that you have.

With one strong push, you manage to make him stumble back, the sudden movement enough to send him off balance. You quickly seize the opportunity, slamming the door shut with a finality that’s meant to stop him in his tracks.

The sound of it reverberates through the hallway, sharp and unyielding, but even as you stand there, catching your breath, you can still feel him lingering in the air. Like a shadow, his presence clings to the space, and despite the door separating you, there’s no escaping the imprint he’s left behind.

[2tarbell]

does twee have a job??? i know you mentioned her being pogue turned kook, im wondering if she’s kept a job she had as a pogue 🤭….

TWEE!READER who is a cart girl! she started the job right before her father came into money and wanted to keep it. mainly because she misses the pogue lifestyle and working makes her feel less guilty about now living in a nice house.

she receives a lot of tips because the players think she’s the cutest thing! rambunctious and teasing, having inside jokes with all the members. in her little cart girl uniform, tight polo and pleated skirt. her striped socks and maryjane’s. hair always done up in some cute style. she’s a natural born people pleaser and can happily stay afloat in the midst of these golf playing men. but only because she doesn’t entertain their foul intentions, too naive to assume anything bad.

but she actually met rafe after her shift ended, parking the cart back in its ‘home’ and gathering her things. he’s just leaving when he passes her by, having been in the carolina sun all day golfing with his boys. they’ve since left and he found himself lingering just a bit more, hoping to catch that cute cart girl he saw at the ninth hole.

he’s handsome, that’s the first thing she notices. and her mind races, hoping to maybe see him on her shift tomorrow. the daydreaming causes her to trip. thankfully, she caught herself before eating shit, not without attracting the attention of the cameron boy, though. his hands shooting out to her shoulders and steadying her.

“you good?”

she smiles sheepishly, smoothing down her hair. twee nods and looks down at her shoes, frowning at the scuff on the leather of her new shoes. goddamnit. when she looks up at him again, eyes squinting in the setting sun, rafe feels his own smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“sorry— was just… thinking…” she trails off slightly.

rafe actually huffs out a laugh, and she becomes more embarrassed than before. her grimace makes his grin soften.

“don’t worry ‘bout it, yeah? s’all good.”

her little grin is adorable and rafe trails his eyes down her body when she turns to retrieve something from her cart. miles of smooth skin disappearing underneath that short skirt, he can just barely see the lace edge of her panties, until her dainty hand reaches back and pulls the skirt down a little.

“glad you caught me then—“

his eyes snap up back to hers when she turns around with what he assumes is her purse, smirking and crossing his arms. her playfulness isn’t lost on rafe and he finds himself reciprocating, flirting.

“oh, so it’s a habit of yours to trip into eligible bachelors?”

she giggles and rafe knows he’s in.

he sets his jaw, noticing her looking up at him through those dark lashes. she leans back against the cart and crosses one ankle over the other. rafe’s eyes are drawn to the movement and trail slowly up her legs. when he meets her eyes again, she has a knowing smile on her cute face.

“bet you, uh, get a lotta these dudes in trouble, huh?”

the way she cocks her head to the side, an innocent gleam in her eyes, makes his shorts feel just that much tighter. her voice is soft and unsure when she replies, “whaddaya mean?”

rafe shrugs, smiling lazily and scratching his ear. “pretty thing like you workin’ here… dunno, ‘m sure it makes it hard to focus on golf…”

her huff paired with an eye roll makes his chest swell. he can see the smile she’s biting back and chuckles, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“y’know i— i gotta see you somewhere other than here, if you wanna…” he mumbles lowly, holding the device out.

“y’gonna get me fired, rafe…” she teases.

his name has never sounded so good. rafe places his other hand hand over his heart, grinning at the giggle she lets out at his dramatic gesture.

“i promise, kid, swear on m’life. just one date?”

he’s putting on the works, he knows; charming smirk and narrowing eyes. but, twee is just a girl, in every sense of the word. so when she walks off after giving him her number, hundred dollar tip the handsome boy said was ‘all f’you’ tucked into her bra strap and a promise to text him her work schedule, she can’t hide the smile growing on her face.

rafe can’t hide his either, shaking his head and stuffing his phone back in the pocket of his golf shorts. walking out to his truck, he can’t think of anything else but the apple hairclip she was wearing and that little grin that made his heart stutter.

[rafayelgod]

🔞WARNING 18+ CONTENT! NSFW!🔞

Rafayel: Your Dominant Mermaid (Chamber Pet)

You are a princess of the kingdom of Philos, and your father, King Bern, has given you a very rare and beautiful gift: a male Lemurian, a mermaid-like. You are enchanted by his beauty and have him placed in the pool in your chamber.

The creature, now shimmering in the custom-built pool in your…chamber (calling it a cell felt wrong), was breathtaking. Dark, almost midnight purple hair cascaded around his shoulders and down his sculpted chest. The iridescent scales of his tail shifted with every subtle movement, catching the light and throwing rainbows across the stone walls. He was, quite simply, otherworldly.

For three days, you visited him, bringing platters of the finest kelp cakes (apparently a Lemurian delicacy) and narrating your day. You told him about court intrigues, your disastrous attempt at embroidering a tapestry, and even the gossip about Lord Elmsworth’s toupee being slightly off-kilter. He remained silent, his violet eyes watching you with an unnerving intensity. You began to wonder if he even understood you.

Then, on the fourth day, as you were lamenting the lack of decent books in the royal library, he spoke. His voice, a low, melodious rumble, sent shivers down your spine.

"The histories bore you, Princess?”

You nearly dropped the kelp cake you were offering. “You…you can speak? I thought…”

“That I was just a pretty fish?” A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. “My name is Rafayel.”

And just like that, the barrier crumbled. Over the next few weeks, Rafayel became your confidante, your advisor, your friend. He was witty, intelligent, and possessed a dry sense of humor that often left you gasping with laughter. He told you tales of his underwater kingdom, of coral castles and shimmering grottoes. He taught you about the ebb and flow of the tides, the language of the sea creatures, and the secrets hidden in the ocean depths. You, in turn, shared your dreams of a more just and equitable Philos, your frustrations with court etiquette, and your secret love for stargazing.

You found yourself drawn to him, not just by his beauty, but by his sharp mind and his gentle understanding. You started spending hours in your chamber, the cool, salty air a welcome escape from the stifling protocols of the palace. He, in turn, confessed to being captivated by your spirit, your kindness, and your unwavering determination to make a difference.

He was falling in love with you. And, truthfully, you were falling right back.

One starlit night, you found yourself restless and unable to sleep. The weight of your crown, of the kingdom, felt unbearable. You slipped out of your work room and padded down the halls, your bare feet silent on the cool stone. You found yourself outside your chamber. The moon cast an ethereal glow on the water in his pool.

Without a second thought, you pushed open the doors.

Rafayel was waiting for you, his eyes filled with a longing that mirrored your own. He reached out a hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through your veins.

"Princess? Still awake? I heard you have to attend a ball tomorrow...” he whispered, his voice husky.

“I know,” you breathed, your gaze locked on his. “But I want to spend this night with you.”

He didn’t argue. He pulled you closer, his skin cool and smooth against yours. He helped you shed your nightgown, the silk whispering to the floor. He guided you into the water, the temperature shockingly pleasant.

“Have you ever learned how to truly swim, Princess?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I’ve dog-paddled,” you admitted, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your skin. “Allow me to show you the Lemurian way.” His voice was soft, musical, like waves crashing against the shore. You nodded.

He wrapped his arms around you, his tail brushing against your legs. He showed you how to move with the water, how to use your body to propel yourself forward. You laughed, a sound of pure joy, as you splashed and played in the moonlight.

And then, the playfulness faded. The air crackled with unspoken desire. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His gaze drifted to your lips, lingering there for a moment before meeting your eyes again. The space between you felt charged with electricity. Slowly, he leaned in, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. His breath ghosted over your mouth.

"You.. too.." you whisper.

A faint blush colored his iridescent scales as you mirrored his compliment. His heart raced beneath his shimmering chest. With a soft, tentative smile, he closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips gently against yours. The kiss was tender, exploratory, sending tingles through both your bodies. His lips soft and warm against yours. You kiss him back, your bodies pressed together in the water.

As the kiss deepens, Rafayel's hands begin to explore your body. You feel a shiver of pleasure as he touches you, and you can't help but moan. Rafayel responds by pulling you closer, his tail wrapping around your legs.

Finally, you can't take it any longer, "Raf..." He gently showed you his penises and your eyes widen, one which was more prominent. It was a delicate, slightly pointed appendage, more sensitive and slender. Beneath it hid the second one—larger, stronger, and built for mating. "Princess.. i can't hold it anymore.." You look into his eyes "Don't hold it then..."

His eyes darkened hungrily. He lifted you easily, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Stay still Princess.. i will put it inside.. you.." Your cheek turn red, and your heart is pounding, you wait until you feel something touching your cunt. "Mmh.."

His smaller penis found your entrance easily, sliding inside with no resistance. You moaned softly, throwing your head back. "A-ah...Princess.."He caught your breast in his mouth, sucking gently. His larger penis hardened, ready for mating.

He started to move, his smaller penis thrusting in and out of you, hitting your g-spot perfectly. His larger penis pressed against your opening, slowly pushing inside. "Ah..hn.. Rafayel.." You stretched to accommodate him, a scream of pleasure escaping your lips. He was filling you completely, hitting places you didn't know existed.

"A-ah.. It's how we manage in the water.. ah.. Is it... too much Princess?" He moved slowly, carefully, sensing your body's response. His smaller penis continued its steady rhythm while his larger one pushed deeper with each thrust. "The second one... does it hurt?" His voice was concerned but strained, clearly fighting for control. "Nh.. that feel so good.. Raf.. just.. a little bit strange.. nngg!"

He breathed out in relief, his pace quickening slightly. "Mmh.. only the males have them, Princess. It's a blessing and a curse. Ahh...ah- We can give our females immense pleasure but..." He grunted, his larger penis hitting a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "Mmh.. it requires a lot of.. hhh..control... ahh"

His larger penis flexed inside you, pulling back slightly before surging forward again. It was designed to draw in fluids during mating, to pull in the female's essence and hold it inside. He could feel you squirming, trying to adjust to the unique sensation. "Princess..."

He wrapped his tail around your waist, pulling you even closer. His larger penis sucked in again, pulling you onto it. "R..raf! mmh" He could feel you trying to wriggle away, but his tail kept you trapped. He was dominating you, his body taking what it needed, what it was designed for.

He couldn't stop. The primal urge to mate, to claim you completely, was overwhelming him. He squeezed your legs with his tail, keeping you open and vulnerable to his onslaught. His larger penis pulled and sucked, drawing more of your essence inside him. "Ahhh... Princess..."

"W..wait Rafayel.. ahh-!"

His tail tightened around you as he felt your body convulsing with pleasure. The sensation of you cumming sent him over the edge. His larger penis throbbed and released a warm, pulsing fluid deep inside you, while his smaller penis continued to thrust, adding to the overwhelming sensation.

"Mm..mh Rafayel enough- ah.." He could feel your weak attempts to push him away, but it only made him grip you tighter. The larger penis continued to flex and release more seed, completely filling you up.

His pink-purple eyes met yours, intense and possessive. He knew he was being too rough, too dominant, but this primal part of him couldn't stop. The way you looked at him with those vulnerable eyes only made his desire stronger.

He gently pulls out of you, his semi-hard member slipping free with a soft squelch. He notices the trail of his seed leaking from your well-used hole and a satisfied rumble emanates from his chest.

He smiles softly, his eyes reflecting the moonlight shimmering on the water's surface. "Princess.." he murmurs, nuzzling his face into your hair. "It's an old Lemurian saying, 'The moon's reflection on the water is the path to the divine, and the entwined bodies of lovers are the divine's reflection on earth.'"

He pulls back to look at you with a warm gaze still panting. "When a Lemurian male breeds like that, marking you with his seed, it makes you his mate. His one and only. He will never take another female." He grins softly, "You're stuck with me now." Your face turn bright red.

He notices your blush and chuckles softly, running a thumb gently over your cheek. His expression more softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I love you more than anything Princess. Lemurians mate for life, but the love that grows between them is what makes the bond unbreakable. I love you fiercely, possessively, and eternally. Even if you don't love me now, I will spend my entire life making you fall in love with me. A Lemurian male doesn't give up on his mate so easily. I will be patient, caring, passionate, possessive - whatever it takes to earn your love. I will make you to be my bride..." he lean to your ear and whisper.

"I love you, my beloved bride.."

- The End - 🌚❤

© Melody (Follow for more story) 🌚💦

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [2]

series masterlist previous || part two -> woad and weld || part three -> orpiment

> summary: you recover from the boat, and wonder why you were taken > tags/warnings: pain, caretaking, food, stomach issues, threats, mean simon, fears of rape (doesn't happen), viking-typical slavery, unwanted cuddling / massage / touching, alcohol, scars, violence, hunting, laswell hello!, reader has some puritanical attitudes / assumptions but she was a nun so, power imbalance, dubcon comfort, crying, religious themes (dldr)

You're a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean, pulled under by exhaustion and turmoil. It's the sleep of the dead, dreamless and unreachable.

Vaguely, in moments of semi-consciousness, you hear voices and feel softness against your skin, warmth all around you. The brush of fingers against your cheeks.

When you do wake, it's like crossing between different worlds, with a head full of cotton and fog. Your sense of smell comes alive before anything else, the smell of food permeating the air around you.

Fish. Cream. Something herbaceous, something earthy. A fire crackles closeby, warming the air, warming you. You can feel fur touching your arms and legs, draped over you and flat underneath you.

It only serves to soften to blow of pain, overwhelming pain. True awareness comes then, waking you with a gasp that alerts-

"Did she just-"

"Sh!" Simon's voice, coming closer. "You awake?" his face comes into view above - you only recognize him by voice.

He's scarred, big and small, but the most eye-catching one bisects his face, splitting it into two from his cheekbone to his jaw on the other side. It's deep, raised, angry even if you can tell it's healed.

You scream.

It's a weak sound, the cry of somebody that knows it's pointless and yet can't help but shout into the void and hope that something will answer.

Before, that would have been god. You'd have prayed, lived as a hermit, sequestered yourself to a cave and live as one of the great ascetic saints. A life even further dedicated than nunhood.

Since he had refused to answer you on the boat, you turn away, and whimper like an injured dog when that scarred face turns to a mask of stone.

"Ha!" Johnny doesn't pick up on the tension that's rising, slowly, as you tremble under Simons gaze. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. "Havnae seen his ugly mug yet, have ye? Dinnae worry, lamb."

Guilt curls in your belly, dampening your fear. Simon doesn't look shamed, but you weren't afraid of his scars - truly, you were disoriented, barely clothed and towered over by the same man that took you.

"He won't bite," Johnny continues. He walks over and lays a hand on Simons waist, fingers curling in the off-white fabric. "Well, not ye."

A wink.

"Hush!" Simon barks. "Get her up, she needs to eat."

There's no hesitation. Johnny leans down to you, pulling you until you sit up with a wince. You bite your lips to keep from crying out again, pain lancing through your muscles. You're seized by muscle spasms, by the fiery hot pain of your chafed wrists and a gnawing, deep hunger in your stomach.

"How-" you choke, throat dry and voice unused. Johnny pauses helping you up to listen. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Few days, lass. It's the evening," he grins. "Ye should thank us. Kept ye warm, washed, slipped ye broth into that lovely mouth-"

Simon puts a wooden bowl down onto the table, louder than necessary. There's a grumble from Johnny, but he gets you up and waits while your legs get used to weight on them again.

You're half-dragged, mostly carried to the table. All you're wearing is that shirt, nipples pebbled against the front from the cold. Hard to care too much when your muscles scream even holding yourself sitting up.

You lean on Johnny as Simon ladles soup into bowls, hunched over the kitchen hearth, silent as the grave.

"Eat slowly," is all he says.

It smells good, herby and warm. Your stomach groans and gurgles and begs you to eat, but you're weary. Afraid. Only when the men eat that you pick up a carved wooden spoon and hesitantly slurp.

Heat. Satisfaction. Eating is incredible, and you discover the wonderous ingredients loaded into the soap; salmon, potatoes, a green herb that tastes like sharp, citrussy grass.

Then your stomach cramps, and you tilt with nausea.

"Too fast?" Johnny coos, rubbing a big palm up and down your back. "Awe."

"That's enough, then," Simon goes to take your bowl, but you're too fast. You pull it close to your chest, spilling a little onto the table and drops soak into your shirt. "You can have some later. I said that's enough."

You hold fast. Your stomach hurts, but you're desperate for some form of control. All the terror and all the uncertainty rises, rushing through your finally conscious brain into a battle of strength. You took me but I have agency! it says. You took me but I can take this!

He's too strong.

The wood bowl clatters against the ground with a crack, hot soup spilling on the floor. You heave with the force of your breathing, afraid and too-aware of your predicament.

Taken, snatched, at the mercy of men whose intentions are unclear.

You're too slow to cower when Simon's arm shoots forward and grabs your jaw, hard and mean, giving you a squeeze.

"Now we've been nice to you," he starts. His voice is as solid as his arm. You start to shake. "But I can just as easily put you over my knee. That what you want?"

You shake your head.

"That's what I thought."

Johnny leaves after the soup is cleaned and you're tucked back into the bed again, muscles trembling still with the exertion of your first meal. Small, electric spasms make you wince every one in a while. Your wrists are bruised and scabbed, but healing. They feel hot and itchy, but Simon tells you as he rubs an ointment into the wound that they're healing well.

You try to shy away, hide yourself, when he notices your grimace and reaches for a calf. The look he gives you stops you, takes your breath, until he shakes his head and starts rubbing deep circles into the tenderest spot of your muscle.

"God!" you should. A wonder how badly you can hurt from just laying in bed. He snorts. "Ow!"

"Don't be dramatic," his thumb presses deeply, moving down, then back up. Squeezing. The bed dips with his weight as he scoots closer to you.

You take a moment to look around you. The cabin is made of wood, warmed by the fire, and is full to the brim. Clay pots, furs, tools, a couple barrels- they're everywhere, unorganized. Makes you wonder about the sacred items they'd stolen from your convent.

"Why did you take me?" someone bolder has possessed you. Your mouth twists when Simon's eyes find yours.

His hands don't stop moving. They switch legs, pulling the finished one onto his big thigh. It does feel better, relaxed and tender in a good sort of way, pain not so unbearable anymore.

"You're our spoils," he moves down, digging into your arch. You almost yelp. "D'you know what we gave up for you?"

Something in your chest squeezes, something scared and unpleasant. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"That's alright," Simon murmurs. Your anxiety fights against the comfort he's giving you. "You'll be alright."

He flits his gaze downwards, eyeing you. Your breath catches when you realize that the position has left your legs open, shirt ridden up, and he's looking right at your bare cunt.

"Ah!" you pull your knees shut, hands finding where you're exposed and folding over, cupping yourself, face ablaze. Tears prick at your eyes again, fear winning over comfort.

Simon doesn't let you panic for long.

"I won't force myself on you, pet," he grunts. "We won't."

There isn't much choice but to hang on to his words for dear life, to believe that he won't force you. The hope is fragile, but it's there. You take the chance to pull a soft, worn blanket over your body.

"Am I to be your slave?" your voice wavers.

"No," he says simply.

For a long time, you watch him. He putters about, moving things, unloading boxes no doubt full of supplies used for raids. You wonder if that means he doesn't intend to go on another one, then wonder what they'll do with you if they do leave.

Johnny comes back flushed, smiling. You smell sweetness under his sweat, something you can't recognize. His eyes crinkle when he sees you.

"Two nights," he breathes, looking at you but talking to Simon. "They'll celebrate in two nights."

Your stomach tenses, roiling, eyes fluttering with the effort to stay awake. Even a short time is much for you after your journey.

"Price's back?" Simon asks. He's pulling a sealskin from a burlap bag, smoothing it out with his hands onto the table. The silvery, spotted skin reflects the fireplace.

"Tomorrow," Johnny pulls leather boots off his feet, then thick socks. He wipes himself down with a rag from a tub, shuffling to the bed when he finishes. "Then we feast."

Your eyes are heavy slits, mouth open. You hardly move even when Johnny sits next to you and brushes a thumb over your cheek, smiling toothily down at you.

"Awe, she's precious," he says, lowering his voice. "Go to sleep now, little lamb."

You wake the same way as before. A tilt of one world into the next, sliding down into consciousness as slow as thick porridge.

Only this time, you're surrounded by a warmth not brought by thick furs. It's skin, all around you, boxing you in. On your face you feel hair, prickly and soft, comforting and frightening all at once.

Behind you, a chest breaths against your back. Your eyes open, alarm cutting through grogginess.

Johnnys big hand is clutching your breast, squeezing every few moments, snuffling into your neck like a sleepy animal.

You try to extricate yourself, lifting yourself to find Simon looking down at you, eyes half lidded but aware. There's warning there, but there's also contentment. Scars big and small litter his skin, pocked and torn and scraped, all shapes and sizes. Some are silvery while others are such a deep red you'd think they were still fresh.

He looks past you at Johnny, and turns to his side.

"Weren't planning on running, where you?" his voice is low, so as to not wake the other man.

"No," you whisper. Johnny shuffles behind you, sliding a thigh between your legs. "Please help me." you wiggle, trying to move.

Simon sighs, sitting up. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, then reaches to peel Johnnys hands off you. His hand slides against the soft spring of your breast, hands sliding under Johnnys to pull, brushing your nipple on the way up.

"Thank you," you're still whispering, not wanting to wake Johnny up lest it irritate Simon. You roll until you're out of his grasp, body feeling less pained than it did the day before.

"Hungry?" Simon moves towards the kitchen. "Got one more day to relax."

The feast, you think. The divide, the celebration. Frissons climb your skin until your scalp prickles.

"Yes, please," you sit up, weary of Johnny finding your heat in the bed.

The smell of animal fat and the sound of sizzling fills the cottage then. You look around, noting an improvement for the clutter. The sealskin is gone, replaced by two standing up boots.

"They're yours," Johnny says. You startle, almost leap, but he catches you by the hips and puts his face into your hair. "Simon stayed up all night."

"Gets cold," he dismisses. Eggs jump in the pan in front of him, popping in the hot tallow.

You have to be helped again to the table, but it's not so bad this time. You arm goes around Johnnys waist, his under yours, fingers barely brushing the underside of your breast.

Breakfast is good. Fried eggs, seasoned by the fat, over gruel. It fills you with an internal sense of strength, and you can actually finish it all today.

"Good girl!" Johnny claps your back. "Gonnae be choppin all our wood for winter, eh?"

After, Simon has you change into a simple brown wool dress. You try to ignore them looking at your nakedness as you drop the other shirt, but the wool is nice and warm and there's even a soft pale shift to go underneath it.

Then he slips pants on your legs, tied at the waist under the dress, and wraps wool around your calves.

"You're gonna run errands with me," Simon says. He wraps your feet again in wool, securing them with leather twine. "Get your strength up."

His eyes find yours where he's kneeling, squinting at you, expression turning stormy.

"I don't want to re-injure your wrists," he motions to them, and you look at the healing scabs. "But if you try to run, I'll drag you back by your hair n' tie 'em back up. You pick."

Outside, you wince against the light. Simon holds you by the elbow, walking at your weak pace. It's a tight village, houses clumped together, shops close. It's a wonder you haven't heard anyone from inside Johnny and Simons home, until you see how thickly the walls are built when the door opens.

The street is wet with mud, and you're grateful for the footwraps. They're warm against the chill, sliding through the mud beneath you when you lose your footing, legs feeling as new as a fawn.

"Here," Simon leads you to a market-like stall. Dried meats hang from the ceiling in bunches. The smell is pungent.

"Nik!" He shouts. A huge, burly man steps out.

They talk like they've known each other a long time, though not quite friends. An image of two great bears crosses your imagination, both big and still respecting the other. A rare alliance.

Simon hangs a bag off of you, a salty-smelling bag full of cured and fermented meats. The man looks down at you and grins as you leave, laughing lowly.

You bristle, but follow - what else is there to do?

The next stop is a real shop, only you can see a homestead behind a wooden counter.

It's a girl this time, lovely and soft. She smiles at Simon, wordlessly fetching another man from the homestead behind the store.

"Big man!" it's one of the raiders - the young one. Gaz. "And the nun." his brown eyes find yours, friendlier than the last time you saw him.

They talk, too, more amicably than the other man. Gaz folds his forearms over the counter and laughs, peeking at you every once in a while with intense eyes.

"Right," he claps his hands together. "I won't keep you."

You're starting to feel tired, overexerted.

Gaz comes back out with a wrapped package, the soft girl from before on his arm. The apples of her cheeks are high with a smile.

"See you!" she sits back down on her stool, wide hips wiggling until she's comfortable.

"See ya around," Gaz says. He winks at you.

Simon carries this package himself, not looking at you as he leads you further into the village.

People make way for him, not in fear, but because of his size. He's bigger than most, even some of the other men.

The third and final place has you panting, hunched with the effort of keeping yourself up.

It's a house not unlike Simon and Johnny's, just bigger. A wide, squat wooden house with a wide open door and goats bleating from a pen closeby.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye, putting his hand on your lower back as somebody steps out of the doorway.

"Hello again, Simon," it's Price. The leader, or perhaps the chief. It would make sense - his authority, his size, the number of scars on his skin. Nearly as many as Simon. "You bring your end of the bargain?"

Straight to the point then. Price doesn't look at you once, which doesn't do much to assuage the fear that you're the end of the bargain.

"If you've got yours," Simon leaves you behind to follow him inside, where you can hear them talking. Jovial, like old friends.

By the time you get back home, you're wiped. Exhaustion pulls at you like invisible strings dragging you to the bed. Even Johnny with his smarmy expression and his patting the mattress doesn't stop you from crashing.

The men have brought you to a celebration. After letting you sleep a majority of the day after your errands, Simon dressed you in the same wool dress and wrapped a thick cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill.

It's a welcome home. Simon had been the first to see Price at his home - he and a band of fledgling warriors had sailed right past the village and gone hunting.

Price is not the chief, as you had assumed. He is a leader, an explorer, the ambitious spearhead of overseas raids. Nodding heads and a sense of respect, of deference, follows him wherever he goes. Even as an outsider you can see it.

The chief is a woman. It's not something you expected, not with the sheer size of the men around you, not with the brutality in which they regale their exploits. Many of them have wives that trail them, welcome them, carry their children on their hips, or are welcomed as fellow warriors.

These are the fledglings?

You're in a wild, barbaric place.

When you reach the longhouse, a building as short as all the others but stretched much farther and lit orange with light and the smell of honey, you're bathed in warmth.

No, not honey. Alcohol, sweet and cloying on the breath of each viking. Their depravity seems to know no bounds. It's the same sweet smell you'd smelled on Johnny that night he'd left - presumably to speak to the chief.

Laswell, they call her. The chief. She stands on a raised dais with Price, murmuring between themselves, nodding toward Simon and Johnny when they take their seats.

"Right here," Simon spreads his thighs. There are no other spaces on the bench.

"I don't mind standing," you try. He pinches the back of your knee until you buckle into him, tucked into the cradle of his arms. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Not lettin' ye sit apart from us," Johnny brushes your cheek, and you look past him to the rest of the people gathered.

Decorated, scarred, hardened warriors. Price joins the group, taking a heavy seat by the man from before - Nik - and exchanging claps on the back. Gaz, a woman with dark hair, but Gaz's soft girl is nowhere to be found.

"Welcome!" Laswell shouts. The hall goes silent. "Drink, eat - celebrate a job well done by our boys."

Eruption; noise all around. She's a carefully controlled, steady woman, yet she's inspired this group of a few hundred into the loudest cacophony you've ever heard.

Simon cups his hands over your ears. You try not to be grateful.

Debauchery. You witness debauchery- drinking beyond your most twisted imagination, dancing surely enough to summon a demon, maybe the devil himself. It's enough to make you pray under your breath, turning away from public displays of affection.

Above you, in front of you, conversation. It doesn't slip your mind how high up on the table Simon and Johnny are, right across from Price and Gaz and next to Laswell at the head of the table.

Even she laughs, imbibes, discusses the distribution of goods with a content sort of smile.

"And the nun?" eyes turn to you. Laswell has focused her gaze on you, sharper than before. "You're satisfied with just her?"

Johnny takes a long pull of his mead, before pressing his shoulder to Simons.

"Thas'right!" he only slurs a little. "Found ourselves a proper little wife, we did."

A chill moves through you. A slow freezing. You tense in Simons lap, spine rigid, heart flipping in your chest. Carefully, you try not to show a reaction.

Wife?

"Och! Sorry, lamb," he turns to you and takes your hands. "Didnae mean to ruin the surprise."

"Quite the surprise," Gaz chirps. His girl has found him, and he's made a place for her beside him. You're jealous of her autonomy, especially now. Taken as prisoner, as spoils, and now?

"You promised," you mumble. "You said you wouldn't."

"What's that, love?" Gaz again, but you aren't listening. Blood rushes through your ears.

"You said you wouldn't force me," you look up now, at Simon and his deeply scarred face. He betrays nothing. "Why lie?"

"Didn't lie," he grunts. "Now be quiet."

"When's that, then?" Price asks.

"Before next summer."

The walk back is silent except for the wet slaps of your feet against the mud. The chill is worse at night, biting at your nose and your fingers. At least your future husband - husbands - don't want you to freeze.

The thought hits you like a boulder, heavy and immovable. You stop walking, drawing the attention of the observant men.

"Too tired?" Johnny asks.

You run.

Or try to, as fast as you can.

It's hard in this terrain, slippery and with the cold burning your cheeks. You have no direction in mind, only obeying the mindless terror coursing through your blood, unleashed by this night of truths.

Simon is the one to catch up to you not ten feet from where you started, grabbing the back of your cape and pulling hard until you fall on your butt.

It hurts, the ground has slowly been freezing with the onset of fall and Simon is not nice as he captures you back.

"Ow," you sniffle, fingers wet and muddy.

"Yeah I bet that hurt," his voice has gone hard. "Where did you think you were going?" a laugh, harsh and grating.

"Didnae mean to scare ye," Johnny says. He helps Simon in dragging you back to to cottage.

"In!" Simon barks when you reach the door. You plant your feet, frustrated tears prickling hot and then falling down your cheeks in heavy droplets. "Stupid girl- get inside."

The insult adds salt to the wound as you stumble onto your hands and knees. Pain lances up your wrists.

"Did'ya think you'd be able to what, survive by yourself?" he scoffs. Johnny helps, but mostly just acts as if you're a doll, in removing your cape and sodden woolen dress.

The shift is wet, too. Less muddy than the dress, but still wet. Johnny slips it over your head and you cross your arms to hide your nakedness, still crying.

"Hey," Simon crouches. He puts his face close to yours, noses touching, eyes deadly. "I didn't lie. We won't force you, you'll come to us."

"You'll go to hell," you're upset now, but it only serves to make them shake their heads and laugh breathily, silently. "You stole me."

"Aye, we did," you're wiped dry by big hands. "And you'll be our wife."

Another slip goes over your head, thin and rough on your skin, well-worn.

"Get in bed."

Johnny listens and brings you with him, wiping the tears from your face as he lays you down. You're as helpless as a lamb.

"If I have any choice," you start. "I won't be your wife, and I won't-"

"Wheesht!" Johnny pulls you to him, hand over your mouth, making room for Simon. His other hand goes over your stomach, squeezing. Warmth surrounds you. "You're overexcited, ye need some rest."

God help you, you're so tired you do.

[groundzerosgirlfriend]

A/n: Just binge watched all three seasons of Dr. Stone and Senku and Tsukasa can do whatever they want to me! Bark Bakrk woof Awooga!

Soft boyfriend Tsukasa: That revived you in this new stone world with the 'miracle fluid' after gathering a strong enough army, to ensure your safety at all times.

Soft boyfriend Tsukasa: That barely wants his right-hand man Hyoga to be around you unless it's absolutely necessary going out of way to forage, fish, and hunt with you.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: That sits beside you for quality time as you sew and talk his ear off about everything that runs his mind and although he could spend his time elsewhere, where else would he want to be.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: That is still as sweet as he was 3,700 years ago instead of carrying your books to school, he carries any prey you caught, any basket of mushrooms, and any firewood (He doesn't want his gorgeous girl working hard, what type of boyfriend would he be).

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: That ignores all the other attractive women (much to the disappointment of Minami) in his empire throwing themselves at him much preferring to keep his sights set on you. His one and only.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Whose heart breaks as you finally see him firsthand destroy a statue of an older gentleman the crumbled rock around his feet and his gut twisting as your eyes prick the slightest tears.

Soft boyfriend Tsukasa: Who doesn't follow after you when your quick leave his vicinity not wanting to pressure you into talking to him, knowing how empathetic you are about a lot of things (It's one of the things he loves about you, but right now it's biting him in the ass).

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Whose heart beats harder than it ever has when comparing it to any of his grueling wrestling matches after a week of silence on your end you sit next to him at the campfire site just leaning your head on his shoulder.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who's about to apologize for slaughtering those statues in front of you and explain his reasoning behind his uncouth action is surprised when you tell him 'You don't mind.'

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who stays quiet with ears open as you express that although you don't like what he's doing, you condone killing innocent people statues or not, but you won't question it or force him to stop knowing it has to be for good reason.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who places his huge hands-on top of yours just giving a gentle squeeze of acknowledgement and thankfulness, because in this moment no words need to be said as the fire crackles in front of you two.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who is now happier than he thinks he's ever been having both you and his newly revived sister free from her dreaded comatose (with the help of Senku) at his side.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who smiles the slightest bit and chuckles softly as he watches from the sidelines you entertain and play with his younger sister grateful that the two of you get along so well and even wondering if one day you would want a family with him. A blend of both of your genes.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: That sacrifices his life with a spear piercing through his lung at the river side when Hyoga attempts to attack you and Miria. The last thing he sees before he falls into the river is you and Senku reaching out for him in a desperate attempt to catch him.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: After his epic battle with Senku at his side he spends his last minutes alive breathing ragged and hoarse with you and the renowned scientist. His head in your lap and holding each other hands as he chuckles at Senku's attempt at small talk.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: That whispers out a barely heard "I love you" but before you can even comprehend it and much less respond his eyes softly close, and his breathing comes to a permanent stop.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who unknowingly has you and his sister by his side the entire time he is in cold sleep. Barely leaving the makeshift refrigerator as you tell him stories and talk his ear off knowing that you won't get a response.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who when he's finally revived and healed from what were once permanent wounds hugs his teary-eyed little sister and looks around the cave space for you inconspicuously knowing you couldn't be far.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who finally spots you in the very back of the group your lip quivering as he cracks the softest of smiles and hold his arms open for you to rush into as you cry and snot all over his bare chest comforting you with the fact that he was alive and well now.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who even though was dead for months on end in that cold refrigerator somehow knew that you were by his side the entire time thanking you for never giving up on him.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who sits with you on the cave floor simply murmuring low sweet nothings in your ear as you cling onto him as if to make sure he's really alive and well, your head pressed against his chest to hear his heart beating once more.

Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who says "Let me say it properly this time, my dear. I love you."

Extra: Soft Boyfriend Tsukasa: Who could most definitely manhandle you like a little ragdoll but refrains from it since you've never expressed interest in such rough treatment. But after he tosses you over his shoulder to carry you out the cave without asking in the heat of the moment and hears your delighted giggle, he'll be sure to bring that up with you.

[chaoticallyfluffy]

I want more of the JL acting like normal celebrities.

Batman and Chappel Roan working together on a competitive cooking show against teams of Kylie Jenner and Danny Devito, Kanye West and Kesha, Taylor Swift and Superman, etc. They are a surprisingly good team who work together great. They end up winning the whole thing and a bunch of wholesome memes start trending about the two of them adopting you after your awful parents kicked you out. Superman and Taylor Swift are surprisingly a TERRIBLE team. They’re disqualified because they never finished cooking their meals as they were too busy arguing. They are memed to be the parents who kicked you out and desperately need a divorce.

Wonder Woman going on a survivor-like reality show about a bunch of celebrities stuck on an island together and all the contestants are whining about things like “My hair is so frizzy and Chad is SO hot, I don’t want him to see me like this omg” While Diana has already chopped down multiple trees, used the wood to make a cabin for everyone, hunted a wild boar which is currently roasting over a campfire she also made with the leftover sticks and leaves, and cracked the coconuts from the tree. The rest of the show is mostly a normal reality show. The other contestants never have to lift a finger and can peacefully gossip and have drama while being well fed, housed, and hydrated. The only real difference is that every few minute the camera switches to Diana wresting a grizzly bear or catching fish with her bare hands.

The masked singer where there’s a person in a colourful parrot costume singing on stage and everyone has to guess who it is. People have guessed many celebrities like Oliver Queen, Bruce Wayne, or even Lex Luther, but they mostly guessed famous singers because the guy is GOOD and there’s no way he doesn’t sing professionally. He sang songs like “Party in the USA”, “Call Me Maybe” and “Never Gonna Give You Up”. People were going crazy trying to figure out who he is. The time finally comes for the reveal. The man slowly takes off his parrot head and... it’s Batman. The crowd goes wild.

The Flash (Barry) and Green Lantern (Hal) make a podcast and spend the entire time going on long rants about their respective interests. Flash talks about forensic science and chemistry for an hour while GL hums in interest or asks questions every once in a while. After that GL rambles about airplanes and engineering for another hour while Flash enthusiastically nods and adds in related stories every so often. Twitter diagnoses them with autism.

Captain Marvel has a TikTok account where he posts himself trying suggestions from his fans. Some of his most popular videos include him juggling a bunch of chainsaws (perfectly, btw), pranking JL members, bedazzling Mr Minds prison jar with fake crystals and speech bubble stickers that make it look like Mr Mind is saying things like “I’m DUMB”, and his most popular by far, citing The Santa Clause rules to Black Adam and convincing him that since he killed his father technically that makes him his new dad (the horror stopped Black Adam in place mid battle, giving Marvel the perfect opportunity to punch him in the face. The punch has been slo-mo’d and memed to oblivion). His Batman mandated PR team has been begging him to stop for months but in response he posts himself TikTok dancing (terribly) in front of a green screen in the background showing an image of the emails while asking for more suggestions.

If anyone has any ideas like this or fics to recommend plz tell me In the comments, I love the Justice League just casually being celebrities.

[illubean]

Hi ! Can I request a famous cook reader with Kurapika,Killua,Gon and Feitan?

HXH W/ a FamousCook!Reader

Characters: Gon Freecs, Killua Zoldyck, Kurapika Kurta, Feitan Portor Type: Headcanons, Gn!Reader

I FIGURED OUT HOW TO MAKE GRADIENT TEXT OH YEAH

Warnings: none

Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck

these kids literally beg you to cook for them all the time

they both can eat a LOT; they're growing boys and your food is good so you can't blame them

every time you are available there is a new food request and you would be evil to tell these sweet boys no especially when they ask you so nicely >:(

if Killua actually liked his family he'd hire you to be a personal in home chef

the white haired boy probs likes to brag about you to Leorio (or anyone else who will listen, really)

he just likes the eating part but Gon on the other hand can be a big help

he will go out and find the freshest ingredients for you every time he has a request because he is such a sweetheart

you need fish? he will go catch some for you. you need a very specific herb that only grows on the side of high cliffs? gear up Killua, they're going rock climbing

Kurapika Kurta

he never really cared much about cooking and saw it more as a chore if anything

before meeting you that is

he's not the best cook and knows enough to get by and survive; meaning he doesn't really pay much mind to taste

but when he tries your cooking for the first time; a well renowned PROFESSIONAL; he cannot go back

like no wonder why your famous this shit is DELECTABLE

he may ask you politely to cook for him every blue moon but he usually waits until you offer or show up with something new for him to try

since you both are usually busy with work, most of the time when you use him as a guinea pig for new recipes its in your restaurant's kitchen, way after closing

it's almost like it becomes your guys' weekly date night ^__^

Feitan Portor

another one who only cooks for survival and still barely knows what he's doing..

pls don't let him anywhere near the kitchen he will burn the entire building down

he is only allowed to watch from a safe distance. do not let him near any kitchen appliance.

if he REALLY wants to help though maybe he can chop veggies or something

the guy really knows how to use a knife...

you probably have to cook for him all the time if you care about him getting enough nutrition because this guy probably just survives off of packaged stuff

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Peeping on your neighbor DILF!Getou Suguru [prev]

[cw: voyeurism & implied daddy kink(?) idk tbh you decide]

Irises speckled with shimmering sapphires, deep as amethyst, swirling in pools of lilac. A fringe of onyx, long tendrils dipping over a horizon of golden bronze.

“Hey, so I was wondering…”

A taut abdomen rippling with each breath—muscles carved sharp, the dip of his waist a lighter beige contrasted by a dark trail of hair leading down his navel. Broad, firm pecs teasing a softness despite the solid planes beneath.

“When are ya gonna confess to peeping on the guy?”

Deltoids flexing, obliques framing a trim waist. Triceps bulging, a testament to strenuous lifting, cardio, or something far more sinful.

“Gotta drop the bomb at some point, hm?”

Lustrous black hair cascading elegantly along a sculpted back, adorned with a splattering of moles. The glint of black titanium gauges, a thin silver chain, and the gleam of a barbell piercing at his chest catching the dim light.

“Hey, don’t just leave me hanging.”

Sometimes, the precise linework of seaweed-green ink peeks from beneath tight boxer briefs—a twisting dragon wrapping around thick quads. Quads that curve into a plump, cushioned—

“Hey!”

“Huh—what?” You blink, reality snapping back into focus. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Yes! Where’d you go just now? Don’t tell me you were daydreaming again.”

“No…”

Yu hums in faux consideration before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “I’ve never seen a case this severe before in my entire career. You’re showing all the symptoms of OGD.”

You shoot him a confused look. His expression turns grave, lips pulling tight. “Obsessive Getou Disorder. And I’m afraid… it might be incurable.”

You laugh nervously, already grasping for a distraction. But Yu anticipates your escape route like a seasoned chess player, moving faster than you can react.

He snaps his fingers, three sharp cracks in quick succession. Twisting his wrist, he waves his hands dramatically as if casting a spell. “Compelling you back to reality. Return to our realm.”

Yu’s big brown eyes blink up at you expectantly, ever sparkling with mischief. His brow quirks, and you can’t resist ruffling his crop of messy hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.” You pat the cushion beside you, inviting him to sit. Yu, ever the enthusiastic puppy, eagerly flops down.

Every time you finish a shift together, he chases you out of work like an excitable dog, hyping up elaborate plans—outfits, venues, guest lists—only for the night to inevitably end curled up in your apartment, eating pizza, watching movies, and gossiping. Not that you mind. It’s an outlet for your… fixation.

You grab the remote, scrolling aimlessly through endless shows and movies. Beside you, crinkling sounds announce Yu unearthing the snacks from earlier. The sweet scent of cinnamon wafts into the air.

“You up for anything in particular? Feels like we’ve watched pretty much everything at this point.”

“Mmfh, y’know wha’? We’re no’ fish again. Les’ do somethin’ bold.” Yu’s words are nearly swallowed by the honey bun he’s chewing, muffled and garbled between bites.

“Come again? And this time, without the sugar-coated mumbling.”

Yu dramatically swallows, throat protruding as he gulps too fast. Wiping the crumbs from the corners of his mouth, he tries again. “Let’s be bold tonight. Instead of stuffing our faces, we should both text our y’know…” He trails off, making exaggerated kissy noises.

Your stomach flips. “Okay…”

Yu lights up, snatching both your phones from the coffee table. Before he can act, you raise a hand. “Hold up.”

You retrieve two plastic shot glasses, a pitcher of juice, and a bottle of tequila. “Some liquid courage might be helpful, yes?”

Yu pouts but is already pouring generous shots, the tequila teetering at the brim. You know he’s just as nervous as you are.

“Three, two, one—bottoms up!”

Your throat burns, the juice barely easing the sting. Staring blankly at the open text thread with Getou, you hesitate.

“How’s this?” Yu tilts his phone for you to see.

Haibara Yu: Hey, Ken! Hope I’m not bothering you. I remember you were baking bread today, and I’m free—need a hand?

“Perfect. A casual excuse to see him while being forward. Now send.”

Yu wavers, his finger hovering over the button. A split-second of doubt, then—

“Can’t! You do it, quick!” He shoves the phone at you like it’s a ticking time bomb.

Laughing, you press send. Yu gulps down another shot in retaliation.

“What do you have typed out? Don’t make me suffer alone—”

Three loud dings cut him off. Yu’s phone vibrates. You both freeze.

“No way,” Yu whispers.

You flip his phone over and huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, to read the messages:

Nanami Kento:  Haha, nice to hear from you, Haibara. Perfect timing—I just started proofing the yeast. I’d love for you to join me, might help this go smoother. Would you like me to send my address?”

Your jaw drops. “Yu. This man is whipped for you. Barely a minute and he’s already inviting you over.”

Yu can’t contain his grin, quickly typing back:

Haibara Yu: I don’t know what proofing yeast means, but I’m sure you’ll teach me!

Yes, send it now—I’ll head over ASAP :))

You groan theatrically. “Great, now you’re abandoning me.”

Yu snatches your phone, eyes scanning your screen. “You haven’t even drafted a text yet?”

“No…”

His fingers fly across his screen, typing something out—until, suddenly, his expression shifts. The look of concentration melts away, replaced by a devilish glint in his eyes.

“Actually, you don’t have to.”

He tilts your phone toward you, revealing the reason for his sudden change in demeanor.

One new message.

Getou Suguru: Hello, neighbor! Just wondering if you’d like to come over and help me cook for the girls since you proved yourself capable in the kitchen (thank you again).

They’ve been asking about you—they’d love to see you.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

Yu grins wickedly, typing furiously.

You: I’d love to! I can be over in a few.

I’d love to see the girls, although I hope they’re not the only ones excited to see me…

You lunge for your phone, but Yu holds it out of reach, laughing.

“Just give it a second—just watch. One more sec—okay, here!”

Getou Suguru: Sounds good. And of course, I’m excited to see you as well, if not more.

Be sure to text me before you head over.

In a span of minutes, you and Yu go from lazily sprawled on the couch to full-blown panic mode, securing dates with the men you’d been fawning over for what feels like an eternity. The realization sends a surge of adrenaline through you, a buzz that has you both scrambling through the apartment—showering at record speed, yanking outfits from hangers, fixing your hair with practiced precision, and spritzing on just the right amount of fragrance.

The chaos leaves your bedroom and bathroom looking like a war zone. Clothes are tossed haphazardly across the bed and floor, makeup products lie toppled on the vanity, and an army of skincare bottles clutters the bathroom counter. But none of that matters—that’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, the only thing on your mind is making sure you both look impeccable.

Before heading out, you give each other a final once-over. Yu has swapped his usual casual wear for sleek black straight-leg pants and a fitted white shirt, the fabric hugging his frame just enough to be noticeable. At your insistence, he’s kept it simple, and you know you made the right call. With his messy brown hair adding a carefree touch, the outfit is the perfect blend of boy-next-door charm and just the right edge, thanks to the black leather zip-up jacket left open.

“You’re giving bad-boy-next-door,” you tease, stepping back to admire your handiwork.

Yu, predictably, flushes a deep shade of red. You smirk, knowing full well that Nanami is going to have a field day with that reaction later. Kudos to you.

“We’re in this together,” Yu says, raising a determined thumbs-up.

You chuckle, sending your final message.

You: Heading over!

𓂃۶ৎ

Getou’s apartment door cracks open just as you lift your fist to knock. Your grin falters, lips curving downward in a sudden frown.

“What’s wrong? Something on my shirt? Or are you just disappointed to see me?”

Your heart lurches at the genuine confusion laced in his soft voice. His dark brows knit together, a small pout forming on his lips as he glances down at himself, smoothing out his black turtleneck and shifting his weight in his brown corduroy trousers.

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his forearm, stilling his restless fingers as they pick at his sweater.

“Aw, no, Suguru. You look great,” you reassure him. “I just thought I’d get to see you in that cute frilly apron again.”

His brows shoot up in surprise before his violet eyes glimmer with amusement.

“Ah, so that’s what had you looking so forlorn.” He steps back, gesturing for you to come inside. “How about you say more about how great I look?”

“Don’t get cocky now.” You huff, perching yourself on a stool at the kitchen island.

Getou strolls over, leaning against the counter with his elbows propped up, his face resting in his palms. You glance around, noticing the eerie quiet that has settled over the apartment. It’s spotless—almost suspiciously so. Usually, there’s a telltale trail of toys left behind by his daughters, but today? Not a single one in sight.

“Where are the girls? Are they here?”

“Mhm,” he hums, retrieving a clean glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. He places it in front of you, setting it atop a coaster before wiping down the space in front of you with practiced precision. “Bribed them with new dolls so I could clean.”

You snort. “I don’t know what to call out more—your obsessive cleaning or your blatant bribery of your own children.”

He ducks into a drawer, rummaging for something. “I never claimed to be a good man.”

When he straightens, he turns around slowly, revealing the infamous pink frilly ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron draped around his neck. He blinks down at you, lashes fluttering flirtatiously.

“Tie me up?”

“Come here, dork.”

Getou feigns offense but turns obediently, sweeping his long hair over one shoulder. A few loose strands remain, and you gently trail your fingers along the nape of his neck, smoothing them over. His hair is softer than you expect, and when your fingers brush his skin, he shivers.

Your hands move to his waist, tying the apron strings into a neat bow. You pat his shoulder lightly.

“And don’t undersell yourself,” you murmur. “Somehow finding the time to keep an orderly home and spoiling your daughters? Sounds like a good man to me.”

He turns, his long hair cascading elegantly down one side of his face. He smiles at you, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling shut, and you silently thank the divine forces that allowed you to be so well acquainted with such a beautiful man.

“And now, you’re not only a good man,” you tease, “but the perfect housewife.”

His brow arches. “Oh, really?” A smirk tugs at his lips before he bends down, retrieving another pink frilly apron. He unfolds it, revealing the embroidered words: ‘The Kisser.’

“Oh—I—” You stumble over your words.

“Did I forget to mention? It came in a set.” He steps forward, slipping the apron over your head. “This one’s for you.”

Wordlessly, you turn so he can tie you up. The moment he finishes, he leans in, voice dropping to a hushed murmur.

“Now, one could argue that you are now my perfect housewife.”

“Mhm.” You wag your finger at him, beckoning him closer. “Come here, and I’ll tell you what I think about that.”

He leans in, hovering just above you, his face mere inches away. Up close, you can see the soft crinkles by his eyes, the slow curve of his lips.

“I think I quite like my new role, Suguru,” you whisper. “Let me fulfill my duty.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging him forward. You press a soft kiss to his lips, allowing him to deepen it. He licks over your bottom lip before biting at it, making you sigh into his mouth. Before you can pull away completely, he captures your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. The affectionate look in his eyes nearly brings you to your knees.

You clear your throat, trying to rein in the conversation.

“So, what’s on the menu tonight?”

“Chicken alfredo pasta,” he says, straightening your apron. “The girls love it, but I don’t make it often because it’s practically a heart attack on a plate.”

“So, a special night?”

“The special-est.”

You bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil as Getou collects the ingredients. He works efficiently, rinsing the chicken cutlets before slicing and seasoning them with practiced ease. You fall into an easy rhythm—while you heat the frying pan, he drizzles olive oil; you melt butter, he finely slices garlic; you pour in cream, he grates parmesan. The pasta cooks as the chicken sizzles, and the sauce thickens to a velvety consistency.

While the meal comes together, you wipe off the chopping board, ready to cut the parsley garnish. But the leafy pieces refuse to separate, sticking stubbornly to your blade. Frustration wells up, and you hunch over, applying more pressure in an attempt to force the pieces apart.

A warm weight presses against your shoulder, accompanied by the scent of coconut. Getou’s arms encircle yours, his rough palms resting over your hands.

“Looks like you need a little guidance,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.

You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh yes, please, help me. I’m just a helpless damsel in distress.”

He chuckles, guiding your hand over the knife’s handle, steady and deliberate. With his touch, the blade moves effortlessly through the parsley, slicing with precision.

“Just like this,” he instructs, voice low and smooth. “A diagonal angle makes all the difference—now you try.”

You mimic his movements, finding the rhythm, the process suddenly easier. His hum of approval sends a shiver down your spine.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice a little too indulgent, a little too intimate. “Just like that—keep going.”

Your composure wavers. Something shifts in the air—his proximity, his tone, the subtle dominance in his words. It leaves you feeling cornered, like prey beneath the gaze of an apex predator. His breath warms the side of your neck, his scent lingers sweet and intoxicating. Heat coils in your stomach.

There are… other things you wouldn’t mind him teaching you.

Before your thoughts can spiral further, his voice breaks through the moment.

“Look at that, pasta and chicken are done.”

By the time the girls peek in, drawn by the rich, creamy scent wafting through the apartment, you’ve mixed and plated the alfredo while Getou sets the table—placemats, utensils, drinks, napkins, everything in place.

“YAY, PASTA!”

Mimiko barrels into Getou’s leg, clinging enthusiastically.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Daddy!”

Nanako isn’t far behind, latching onto his opposite leg. “Yay! We love you, Daddy!”

He ruffles their hair, cradling their faces with unmistakable affection. “Aw, my beautiful girls. I love you too—but I couldn’t have done this alone.” His gaze flicks to you, warm and teasing. “Go say thank you to my sous chef.”

The twins twist their heads toward you, beaming. Before you can brace yourself, they launch forward, nearly knocking you over.

“Thank you, Suit Check!”

Nanako’s golden ringlets brush your arms as you wrap them in a hug.

Getou clicks his tongue. “No, girls—sous chef,” he corrects, exaggerating the pronunciation. “It means she was my helper in the kitchen, and she was the best helper! The pasta is extra delicious because of her.”

Satisfied with the explanation, he lifts the girls into their seats. With the help of stacked cushions, they’re just high enough to reach their plates. The moment their forks touch the pasta, the room falls silent, save for the sounds of clinking silverware and exaggerated chewing.

Getou chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s good, huh? Seems like a fan favorite.”

“S’good, Daddy—so cheesy!” Nanako exclaims, her cheeks full, her chin streaked with sauce. She wipes her fingers on the table, completely unbothered.

“So messy, honey.” Getou sighs, grabbing a napkin to clean her up despite her weak attempts to squirm away.

You lift your fork, twirling a bite expertly to catch the dangling cheese. “Watch this,” you say, demonstrating. “Wrap the cheese around your fork like this, so you can enjoy every bite without getting scolded by your dad.”

The girls gasp like you’ve unveiled some grand magic trick. They attempt to copy you, their enthusiasm infectious.

Getou takes a sip of his white wine, smirking. “Preventing messes like that isn’t exactly helping you escape the housewife allegations.” His voice dips just enough to keep the words between the two of you.

You giggle, swirling your fork aimlessly around your plate, suddenly feeling like a giggly schoolgirl.

Then, an idea strikes. “Hey, if you need an outlet for those messy tendencies, my job is hosting a family event on Monday. Finger painting—they can go wild. I’m working it, so you should bring the girls. It’ll be fun.”

Getou raises a brow, turning to the twins. “What do you think, girls? Want to go? Do some painting?”

He coughs, muttering under his breath, “That’s not on our walls.”

You swat his arm playfully, but the girls don’t notice. They’re already buzzing with excitement.

“We wanna go!” “Yeah, we love to paint! Daddy never lets us!”

You grin, throwing up two thumbs. “See? I’ll let you paint all you want on Monday. I’ll sign you all up—it’ll be a blast!”

𓂃۶ৎ

You can’t help but wonder if Getou regrets agreeing to come to ‘Family Finger-painting’ as you watch Nanako, ever the ball of energy, streak cobalt blue finger paint across the front of his crisp button-up. The deep navy smudges stand out starkly against the fabric, flecks of red in her dark umber hair only adding to the chaotic artistry. Her small, paint-covered hands leave damning evidence all over his sleeves and the hem of what was, moments ago, a pristine Ralph Lauren Oxford.

You cringe, anticipating a reaction—a sigh, a flash of disappointment. But Getou only leans down, furrowing his brows, his sharp eyes honing in on the tiny perpetrator with exaggerated accusation.

“Nanako…”

His large hands wrap around her waist, and in one swift motion, he hoists her up, lifting her high above his head as if she were soaring like an eagle. “Such a messy one, aren’t you? Look what you did to Daddy! I’ve got you now, Nana.”

Nanako kicks her little feet, writhing in his grasp as peals of laughter burst from her lungs, the sound rich and warm like music.

“D-Daddy, stop! Let me go! Sorry, sorry!”

Finally, he relents, setting her back down with an affectionate pat to her head. His shirt, however, has taken even more damage—blue smears blending with the red, swirling into purple, with specks of pink now dotting his arms and pants like an abstract masterpiece.

“Daddy, me too! Wanna fly!” Mimiko tugs at his pant leg, her small hands leaving more marks in their wake.

Obliging, Getou lifts her with the same ease, holding her up until she nearly brushes the ceiling. You make your way over, watching them with quiet amusement.

“Careful with her head, Suguru.”

Getou lowers Mimiko to rest against his hip, turning to greet you with a smile. “Ah, thank you. I do tend to get carried away.” He gestures toward the three canvases spread across the floor, protected by layers of newspaper—a rare stroke of genius on Yu’s part. “How’s the progress?”

You kneel to inspect their work: a peacock, a flower, and three handprints.

“Let me guess—the peacock is Nanako’s, and the flower is Mimiko’s?”

Nanako beams, nodding vigorously as she tugs at your smock, eager for praise. The bird she painted is surprisingly elegant, its neck curved gracefully, head tucked bashfully. The feathers—done in sweeping strokes of yellow, blue, and green—are intricate for a child her age.

“Nanako, this is beautiful! You did such a great job.”

Her cheeks flush pink, her smile widening with pride. Mimiko, not to be outdone, smushes her face against her father’s side, peeking up at you. “Wuh ‘bout mie?”

You turn to her painting—green stems drawn with a careful forefinger, flowers crafted from colorful thumbprints. It’s simpler than Nanako’s, but no less charming.

“These flowers are so pretty! I love all the colors, Mimiko.”

“Danks.”

Getou chuckles, shooting you a knowing look—one that clearly says, I know you’re just being nice, but I appreciate it.

Then, he dips his fingers into the paint and smears a thick layer of violet onto your open palm.

“Why don’t you be the finishing touch to my piece?”

You glance at his canvas—sky blue with a large purple handprint on one side, two smaller ones beneath it, one lime green, the other bright pink.

He nods toward the empty space. “Go on. Left room for you.”

With a small smile, you press your palm against the canvas, feeling the sticky paint mold to the lines of your skin. A warmth settles in your stomach as the girls erupt into applause.

Getou hums, scratching his chin as he inspects the final product, his voice dipping into a teasing lilt. “Now it’s perfect. My idea to have you complete the piece was a true stroke of genius.”

You groan. “Not a dad joke, Suguru. How stereotypical.”

He pouts, scrunching his nose in exaggerated offense. Beside him, Mimiko mimics the expression perfectly, her chubby cheeks puffed out in what might be the most adorable sight you’ve ever seen.

Before you can comment on it, a frantic voice cuts through the room.

“Just a sec, you drama queens—I’ll be right back.”

You jog toward Yu, weaving between families painting peacefully. When you finally reach him, your stomach drops at the scene in front of you. A toppled canvas lies face-down, irreparably smeared. Paint has dripped from the palette, bleeding past the newspaper barrier onto the floor.

Shit.

A wail erupts, high and heartbroken. Yuji, eyes brimming with tears, sniffles as he clings to Nanami, whose face is twisted in regret.

You scoop Yuji into your arms, rubbing his back as he hiccups between sobs.

“Yu-Yu, honey, it’s okay. We’ll get another canvas. We can make something even cooler.”

His sniffles continue, tiny fists wiping at his tear-streaked face.

“See? Nanami’s not mad at you.” You nudge Nanami’s leg.

Nanami, who’s been furiously cleaning to prevent Yu from getting written up, straightens at once. With practiced ease, he runs a hand through Yuji’s pink curls before cupping his cheek.

“Oh, Yuji, of course I’m not mad. I just had to clean up. We can still paint whatever you want, okay?”

Yuji sniffs, lower lip trembling, but the tears finally slow. You grab a tissue, holding it up to his face.

“Blow.”

He obeys, filling the tissue. You clean him up and pat his head.

Nanami bows slightly. “Thank you.”

You wave him off. “No need for thanks, Yu won’t get in trouble tonight thanks to you.”

Yu joins Nanami, curling around his arm like a content cat, while the two men share a look—soft smiles, red-tipped ears, and a warmth that’s almost too much to witness.

You groan, turning back toward the Getous. As your gaze sweeps the room, Getou towers over the families, effortlessly catching your eye. He raises a bronzed hand, beckoning you back over.

And without hesitation, you go.

𓂃۶ৎ

Turns out, washing dried paint out of hair is harder than you’d expect. Not that it ever seemed easy, but it's a lot like trying to remove gum from thick locks—frustrating and nearly impossible without the right tools.

You hold Mimiko’s head steady over the sink, your fingers working diligently to scrape out stubborn streaks of red paint from her bangs. How she managed to get it there in the first place is beyond you. Speckles of color circle the drain as you slowly restore her hair to its natural brown.

“Suguru, please,” you mouth over to Getou, careful not to let Mimiko catch on to your frustration. He peeks around the side of the tub, where he has Nanako perched on the edge, her head tilted back as he rinses out her own mess. At least he seems to be making progress—her dirty blonde strands darken to caramel under the stream of water.

Your gaze flickers to Getou himself, and concern stirs in your chest. His loose black hair, usually immaculate, is now streaked with vibrant splashes of paint. He notices your stare and offers you a small, tight-lipped smile, but his furrowed brows betray his worry.

Reaching into the cabinet, he pulls out a jar of coconut oil and hands Nanako a wide-toothed comb. “Here, sweetheart, detangle your hair for me so I can help your sister.”

He joins you at the sink, twisting the cap off the oil. “This should help. If it moisturizes the hair, it’ll loosen the paint’s grip.”

You hum in agreement, stepping onto the twins’ footstool so you can hover over Getou’s head. He glances up at you, incredulous. “Pour some for me. Someone has to do yours, too.”

He flicks your forehead in response, a teasing gesture before tipping the bottle generously into your outstretched palm. Warming the oil between your hands, you begin raking your fingers through his dark locks, careful but thorough. The silver strands peppered throughout catch the light, gleaming softly under the bathroom bulb. The oil works wonders, and soon enough, the paint starts to dissolve.

“Mm, careful back there,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something almost indulgent. “Feels nice—I might just drift off.”

Smirking, you wind the ends of his hair around your fingers and give a light tug.

What you don’t expect is the breathy gasp that slips past his lips, followed by a low, gravelly, “Watch it.”

Does he like that? You file the information away for later—time and place, after all.

The faucet shuts off, and Getou lifts Mimiko upright, wrapping a fluffy towel around her shoulders and drying her hair. You do the same for Nanako before helping Getou finish up with them both. The twins announce their plans to change into clean clothes and scamper off, promising to dump their messy outfits straight into the washing machine.

Meanwhile, Getou scrubs his forearms with the remaining coconut oil as you towel off his hair to prevent it from dripping down his back. Out of everyone, he’s easily the most covered in paint—the sink now tinted a muddy brown from the mixture of colors.

“You know, we should get changed too,” he says, wringing out a section of his hair. “You can borrow something of mine if you’re okay with that. No pressure.”

“Honestly, I’d do anything to get out of these sticky clothes,” you sigh. “Something soft sounds like a dream right now.”

He grins, booping your nose. “Your wish is my command.”

A few minutes later, you pull on the clothes he’s left for you on the hamper—a large, oversized olive green graphic tee that’s so faded you can barely make out the text, ‘Girl Dad’ (which is sickeningly adorable), and a pair of simple black sweatpants with a drawstring. The fabric pools around your feet, the sleeves gaping at your elbows, but it’s comfortable. More importantly, it smells like him—rustic sandalwood and sweet coconut.

You step out of the bathroom just as Getou emerges from his bedroom, his gaze sweeping over you unabashedly. He looks thoroughly pleased, his own outfit a mirror of yours, except his shirt is a solid white. His hair is now twisted up and secured with a claw clip.

Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His nose is cold as it nudges against your pulse point, pressing a light, lingering kiss there.

“Soft enough?” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

You hum in response, though it comes out more like a contented purr. Your arms loop around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He lingers for a moment before pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, then pulls back with a sigh.

“C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours. “The girls are waiting.”

In the living room, the twins are sprawled out on the couch, whispering conspiratorially over a small crate filled with hair accessories. As soon as they spot Getou, they light up.

“Daddy makeover! Daddy makeover!”

A faint flush spreads down Getou’s neck. “No, girls, d—what?”

“We want to do your hair too!”

“Pleeeeaaaseee.”

They bat their lashes, their tiny hands clutching at his shirt, and oh, they’re good. Getou looks at you for backup, but you only grin and join in on the pleading.

“Pleeeeaaaseee.”

He sighs, defeated, and slides onto the floor, his back against the couch. “Fine. But be gentle.”

The twins cheer, shoving the crate toward you so you can join in. Inside, you find butterfly clips, neon barrettes, pink bows, satin scrunchies, and rainbow elastics. The three of you claim your sections of his hair and get to work—messy buns, neat braids, tiny pigtails. By the end, his head looks like a walking arts-and-crafts project.

Getou's phone blares an absurdly loud, obnoxious ringtone, shattering the quiet hum of the evening. He fumbles with it, brow furrowing as he tries to navigate answering—his age is showing. Finally, after an unnecessary struggle, he swipes to accept, and the screen flickers to life.

Gojo’s face appears far too close to the camera, wide blue eyes blinking unnervingly. The glow of the screen illuminates the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the faint shadows beneath his eyes, casting his features in an eerie fog of azure.

“What the fuck am I looking at?”

Getou lets out a loud, pointed cough and lowers the volume, shooting Gojo a disapproving look. With a shift of his wrist, he adjusts the angle so the girls—and inevitably, you—come into frame.

“Hi, Satoru!!”

Gojo winks, flashing a toothy grin. “How’re my favorite goddaughters?”

“Good!!”

“That’s what I like to hear. Your incredibly, generous godfather is calling to persuade your stuffy dad to take you somewhere awesome! Put him back on the phone, okay?”

“Okay!!”

Getou scowls and holds up an obscured middle finger to the camera. Gojo only cackles.

“I see you’re being pampered like the princess that you are by those sweet girls and your… friend.”

“Yes,” Getou replies dryly. “What about it?

Gojo somehow flips himself upside down in the frame, his hand dangling as he snorts.

“Nothing, just making an observation. Anyway, I called to invite you on a trip this weekend. I booked an Airbnb in the city so the kids can see that new superhero movie premiere. The city screenings are being introduced by actual cast members. Megumi and Tsumiki will be inconsolable if their cousins can’t come. So… you in?”

Getou shrugs, arching a well-groomed brow. “How can I refuse? The only one who spoils their kids more than you is me.”

“I dunno, the jury’s still out on that. Why don’t we ask your friend this weekend? If she comes, she’ll be the perfect tiebreaker.”

Oh, he’s slick. You suppress a smile but lean forward over Getou’s shoulder, tapping his cheek.

“Suguru’s friend likes that idea very much. I’m in—and I’ll be sure to make an unbiased decision.”

Getou turns to you, his expression shifting, concern softening the sharp elegance of his features. There’s a slight crease between his brows, and for a brief moment, you want to smooth it away, to press a kiss over the corners of his lips that have dipped into a hesitant frown.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower now, meant just for you. “Don’t feel pressured by this idiot.”

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t. I have no qualms about rejecting cocky men.”

Gojo snaps his fingers, amused. “Testy. I like it. Give me your number, and I’ll send you the details. I need to record everyone staying in the house for the homeowner.”

You recite it, then settle back into your spot. Your fingers thread through Getou’s dark hair absentmindedly, mirroring the girls’ movements as they weave an impressively tight Dutch braid along the side of his head.

Getou and Gojo continue chatting, their voices fading into the background as your phone lights up on the arm of the couch. You stretch forward to grab it, expecting a message from Yu with an update—he had also gone home with his beau.

But when you unlock the screen, an unfamiliar number stares back at you.

717-904-3856: Hey! It’s Gojo Satoru AKA your wingman, and I won’t rest until I successfully hook you up with my best friend. 

God knows he needs it.

𓂃۶ৎ

“This Airbnb is fu—uh, I mean, freaking huge. How’d Gojo afford this?!”

Getou chuckles under his breath as he steers the wheel, glancing in the rearview mirror before backing into the long driveway. The house looms in front of you—massive, especially for something in the heart of the city. Beige bricks stack into sleek, modern walls, and the tall, black roof contrasts against the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a lofty foyer inside, warm light spilling onto the neatly trimmed bushes lining the entryway. The double doors arch into a perfect half-circle, framed by lush greenery rooted in pristine, manicured grass.

He shifts the car into park, turning off the engine with an effortless press of his fingers. “Ah, did I forget to mention? Gojo’s family owns an upscale hotel franchise. You might’ve heard of it—Living Limitless?”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “No way. Of course, I’ve heard of them. They were in the news last year after acquiring that media conglomerate for a ridiculous amount of money. They’re loaded!”

Getou hums in response, slipping off his seatbelt. The silver frames of his glasses catch the light as he glances at you, the soft twill of his black short-sleeve set draping over his frame. His hair is neatly tied into a bun, the stray strands framing his face in a way that makes him look devastatingly good. The delicate glint of his rings and bracelets only adds to the effect.

“Mm. Money doesn’t buy manners, though. His family isn’t exactly warm and welcoming, so he doesn’t see them often. But he still has access to his shares, which is why he can afford to act like a snob.”

You chuckle, pushing open the passenger door before reaching into the backseat to unbuckle Nanako from her booster seat. “I mean, he can’t be that bad. He does a lot for the girls, doesn’t he?”

“Welcome to my humble abode!”

Your head snaps up just in time to see Gojo—not walking—but rolling toward you down the cobblestone driveway on a hoverboard, tilted forward like he’s the main act in some grand performance.

You inhale sharply. “Spoke too soon.”

Getou sighs, dragging a hand down his face before taking both girls by the hands, guiding them toward Gojo. Unlike you, the twins are completely mesmerized by his dramatic entrance. You, however, can’t help but see a man in his thirties, draped in designer from head to toe—Gucci sunglasses, Gucci joggers, Gucci slides—riding a Segway like a rich kid who never outgrew his phase.

To his credit, Gojo is absurdly friendly. He sweeps all of you into a round of enthusiastic hugs, exchanging pleasantries before immediately launching into an animated info-dump about the upcoming movie. His voice brims with excitement—maybe even more so than the kids’.

“—and the actor that plays Cursebreaker? Absolute machine. Does all his own stunts. Megumi could tell you more, he follows him on TikTok. He and his sister have been asking about you two all day.”

Right on cue, a small head peeks out from the front door. Tsumiki beams brightly. “Hi Nana! Hi Mimi!”

From behind her, little Megumi appears—his tousled black hair falling over his forehead, his lips drawn into a scowl.

The interior of the house is even more elegant than the exterior—sleek and modern, a symphony of whites, grays, and blacks. The minimalist design is softened by the presence of large, leafy plants, and a high-end television camouflages as an expensive painting on the wall.

As soon as you step inside, the girls scatter, immediately engrossed in an impromptu game of tag, their laughter echoing through the open space. Getou settles himself into the plush white couch, casually grabbing a controller as Megumi boots up his Switch beside him. That leaves you with Gojo, who is carefully slipping into his Cursebreaker cosplay for later that evening.

“Zip this up for me?” he asks, turning his back to you.

The suit is absurdly tight, a second skin molded to every inch of his form. You struggle with the zipper, nearly yanking Gojo backward in the process. The sleek, black material stretches over his body, covering him from head to toe—built-in shoes and all. The design spirals with glowing icy blue accents that converge at his sternum, forming a swirling curse energy emblem.

Gojo’s usual vibrant eyes are further exaggerated by unnervingly bright blue contacts, the pupils swallowed entirely, leaving only a ghostly glow.

As you help spike his already gravity-defying hair, you can’t help but ask, “Where the hell did you even get this costume?”

Gojo smirks, fluffing a single strand just right. “Oh, you know… I just reached out to the actual designer from the movie, commissioned an exact replica. Had to expedite it, though.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “Oh. So you’re rich-rich.”

Gojo actually has the nerve to look a little bashful, kicking at the floor like a kid caught sneaking an extra dessert. “It’s not like that! I don’t splurge on just anything. I’ve been obsessed with this franchise since I was a kid.”

From the couch, Getou’s smooth voice interjects lazily, “Born to be a nerd, forced to be an heir. Tragic.”

Megumi, ever eager to roast Gojo, jumps in with a smirk. “NERD.”

What follows is a predictable bout of bickering, it lasts until Gojo’s phone vibrates, signaling that their Uber will be arriving in an hour. He claps his hands together and directs the kids to get into their costumes.

Then he turns to you and Getou with an expression that makes you wary. “So,” he drawls, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain, “fun fact—there are only five cinema tickets. Totally sold out. Couldn’t get extras.”

Getou frowns, about to protest, but Gojo cuts him off with a raised finger. “Ah, ah, ah. This actually works out perfectly, because let’s be honest—I’m the only one who actually cares about seeing this movie. So, instead of sitting through something you don’t care about, you two should have a night out. I even have recommendations.”

You glance at Getou with amusement. “So, Suguru, when’s the last time you went out socially?”

Silence. Getou’s lips press into a thin line.

Gojo beams in triumph. “Yay! You’ll do it! Get back out there, Grandma!” He whips out his phone and texts you both the name of a bar. It looks lively—plenty of drinks, an arcade, even a dance floor.

“Oh, and FYI,” he adds, “I already called an Uber for you. So, chop chop, go get ready.”

The sudden realization that you’re about to go on what is essentially a date with Getou sends you scrambling for an outfit. After giving your goodbyes to the twins, who latch onto you for hugs, you rush off to get ready.

A steaming shower melts away any tension as you exfoliate, shave, and lather yourself in fragrant lotion and body oil. When you step out, your reflection grins back at you, brimming with anticipation.

You settle on an all-black ensemble: knee-high boots, a mini skirt, and a textured, long-sleeved button-up, strategically fastened at your midriff to reveal just the right amount of skin. A small black bag completes the look. You’re banking on Getou wearing black—his wardrobe rarely deviates from it.

Descending the stairs, your hunch proves correct. Getou stands by the mirror near the front door, adjusting his watch and straightening his jewelry. He’s still in his earlier outfit but has thrown on a wool-lined button-up denim jacket and swapped his shoes for chunky-sole ankle boots. His glasses remain, framing his face as a few strands of hair escape his bun.

You creep up behind him, aligning yourself in the reflection. “Hey.”

His gaze lifts to meet yours in the mirror, and a faint flush rises to his cheeks. “Hey.”

You let out a low whistle. “Damn, you clean up well.”

He turns, draping an arm over your shoulders, pulling you in. Your palm finds his chest, and in the mirror’s reflection, you can’t deny—you two look good together.

“You make me look even better,” he murmurs, his arm snaking around your waist. “You look beautiful.”

A car horn honks outside, breaking the moment. Getou steps back, extending a hand, and you take it. He even opens the door for you, effortlessly slipping into the role of a gentleman.

During the ride, he chats idly, reminiscing about growing up on the outskirts of the city. He tells you about the sprawling fields that once existed before modernization, where he and the local kids played streetball. You tease him for having firsthand historical knowledge of the ‘90s, earning an eye roll in return.

At the bar, the crowd is thick, the air electric. Getou’s firm hand guides you through, settling at the small of your back. At the bar, he orders your drinks.

“So handsome…,” you say, swirling your glass before taking a sip, “what brings you out tonight?”

Getou smirks, playing along. “Finally got a night away from the kids. I’m a father, by the way.”

“Oh?” You eye him appreciatively, slow and deliberate. “You ever heard of the term DILF before?”

He chuckles, amusement glinting in his eyes as he downs half his drink. “Oh, how forward of you. Would you personally apply that term to me, or…?”

You grin, raising your glass. “Let’s save the pillow talk for later. Tell me more about yourself—steady job, good income, solid principles, family values?”

Getou swirls his drink lazily before topping it off with a fresh pour. The gleam of his silver watch catches the light. “I sit on the board of a local non-profit, invest in my 401K, indulge in questionable activities in moderation, and put family above all else.”

Your eyebrows lift, surprised by the thorough answer. He clinks his glass against yours, eyes flickering with curiosity. “And you?”

You down the rest of your drink, holding his gaze. Then, licking your lips, you lean in slightly.

“Oh, me?” You twirl a strand of hair around your finger. “I’m a daycare teacher and tutor, planning to start grad school after I get my promotion. I splurge irresponsibly with my best friend on weekends, but I’m generally kind-hearted. I want a family of my own someday.”

Getou hums appreciatively. “Sounds like you’re exactly what I’m looking for in a partner—smart, nurturing, ambitious, outgoing, and devoted.” He flags down the bartender, already ordering another round before turning back to you with a smirk. “I imagine we’ll get along well.”

Two drinks deep, and you’re debating your go-to orders—his, a neat Scotch, yours, a lemon drop martini.

Three drinks in, and you’re bickering about how absolutely repulsive the other’s choice is.

Four drinks in, and the embarrassing stories spill out like the liquor in your glasses. He’s telling you about the time he pranked Gojo so convincingly at a KFC that it led to an all-out meltdown, ultimately getting them banned from every location nationwide. You counter with a tale of your early days at work, when a particularly unruly kid kicked you in the crotch and bolted, leaving you to chase him around the parking lot in a frenzy.

Five drinks in, and you’re both breathless with laughter, wheezing about how absurd Gojo looked in that ridiculous costume—how he is probably chafing from its unnatural tightness.

Six drinks in, and you’re tugging Getou onto the dance floor, the bass rattling through the floorboards as you pull him close, fingers trailing down his torso before turning to grind back against him. His hands find your hips, strong and steady, guiding you in rhythm, his hot breath fanning across your ear.

Six drinks and two shots of D’Usse in, and you’re clawing at his jacket, trying to shrug it off his shoulders while he palms your ass through your skirt, drawing the ire of surrounding patrons.

“Say, we get outta here,” he murmurs, voice husky.

“Mmm, yeah, but where?”

He pulls back just enough to glance around, trying to shake the intoxicating pull of your scent. Then, his gaze lands on the neon sign above the exit.

“Oh, shit.” He chuckles, already tugging you toward the door. “This bar’s connected to a hotel… Limitless Hotel.”

The realization dawns sluggishly, but in sync. “Gojo.”

You both scoff, but Getou doesn’t dwell. He’s already handing his black card to the receptionist, sliding across a generous tip before guiding you to the elevator. The doors shut, and just as you sneak a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin, he stills, regaining his composure. Instead of pulling you closer, he just looks down, offering you that saccharine smile—sweet, soft, disarming.

The most contact he allows is the gentle squeeze of your hand as he leads you down the hallway. The key card beeps, the door unlocks, and the moment you step inside, Getou turns to you, effortlessly lifting you by your thighs. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he walks backward into the room, lips finding the damp skin of your neck. He licks, sucks, nips his way down to your collarbone, groaning like he’s savoring something divine.

He stumbles near the closet, and you tumble onto the mattress with a breathless yelp, your hair catching uncomfortably beneath you. You cling to his neck, trying to ease the tension, and he gazes down at you, his violet eyes suddenly sharp despite the haze of alcohol.

“You okay, baby?”

“Mhm.” You cradle his face, his cheeks flushed, lips tinged red, pupils blown wide. You sigh, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “S’pretty Sugu… kiss?”

Getou gets the message, dipping down to capture your lips in a slow, consuming kiss. His strong arms cage you in as his tongue teases yours, urging your mouth open further. You moan into it, gripping his shoulders as he presses closer, the heat between you mounting with every stolen breath.

Your shirt is barely clinging to your frame, skirt bunched high around your hips, and Getou takes full advantage, trailing kisses down your chest, tugging your bra aside to flick his tongue over a peaked nipple. The sensation sends sparks through your body, and he groans, biting gently as his eyes flick up to gauge your reaction.

You arch beneath him, desperate for more, hands fisting in his hair. The loose bun unravels, his dark strands cascading around you like a curtain, his scent enveloping you completely.

You whimper, shifting beneath him, seeking friction. “Su-gu-ru…”

He bites at your earlobe, his voice a breathy whisper, “Tell me what you need, baby. Talk to me.”

“Need you,” you gasp, hips canting up in frustration. “More—please.”

His weight presses against you, his clothed length dragging over your damp panties, and you keen at the friction.

“Like this?” he teases, grinding slow, deliberate.

You moan, rolling your hips to meet his. “Yes—yes, Sugu. Feels so good.”

The taste of alcohol lingers on your tongue, but it’s overshadowed by Getou, his kisses devouring, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans, shuddering against you.

His hands roam, tracing down your torso, teasing over your navel. Your fingers wander in turn, slipping beneath his shirt, nails dragging over the taut muscles of his back, feeling them ripple as he moves.

Your hands drift lower, mapping the firm planes of his chest until your fingers catch on the cold metal of his barbell piercings. You flick them, drawing a sharp inhale from him. And then you see it—the tattoo you’ve admired from afar, the coiled tail of a dragon peeking from the jut of his hip.

He chuckles, low and rough, nuzzling into your neck. “What do you want, baby? Tell me.”

You swallow hard, heart hammering. “Need you—now.”

His smirk is sinful. “Yeah? Here, you’ve been so good for me.”

He shoves his pants lower, and you shiver as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your skirt down and off entirely.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, kissing you slow, teasing. “Take me out of my boxers.”

Getou straightens up, towering over you like a Greek god—sculpted physique gleaming under the dim light, skin slick with perspiration and arousal. Your breath hitches as you curl your fingertips around the waistband of his black boxers, carefully pulling them down, revealing the end of his happy trail and the thick, pulsing length of his cock straining beneath the fabric.

You free him from the confines, wrapping your fingers around his girth. He twitches in your grasp, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth.

“Just like that, baby,” Getou murmurs, leaning over to flick his tongue over a sensitive nipple. Your mewl is music to his ears.

He lets you stroke him a few times, a bead of precum glistening at his tip as you lick your lips. But before you can indulge further, he captures your wrist, his other hand slipping beneath the damp fabric of your panties, pressing a teasing stroke over your clit.

A violent jolt racks your body. Your hips twitch, desperate for more, but all you can manage is an incoherent plea, breathy and urgent.

Getou chuckles, the sound dark, almost cruel. “Shh, shh. I got you. Daddy’s got you.”

He slips a finger inside you, and the moan you release is downright filthy. The slick glide allows him to press a second digit in beside the first with ease, stretching you open with deliberate, lazy pumps. His knuckles brush against you, curling upward with intent, watching your every reaction.

Your eyes flutter back, mouth parted, and you think you might be drooling. Getou licks at your chin, smirking. “Hey. Eyes up here.”

You barely manage to meet his gaze, his irises eclipsed by lust-darkened pupils. He leans in, your panting breaths mingling, and you press your lips to his, tasting him, losing yourself in the heat of his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice like gravel and honey. “You just tightened up—mmh, you like it when I look at you?”

“Yes, Sugu,” you gasp, teetering on the edge of madness. “Please, I’m gonna die if you don’t fuck me soon.”

The words are only half-teasing; the ache inside you is unbearable, the need to be filled leaving your eyes pricking with unshed tears. Getou’s expression softens for only a moment before he kisses the corner of your eyes, his thumbs swiping tenderly over your cheekbones.

Then, without warning, he hikes your legs over his shoulders, dragging your panties aside. The swollen head of his cock nudges against your slick clit, the slight friction sending a white-hot surge through your nerves. He watches the way you shudder beneath him, reveling in your sensitivity.

“You want it?” he asks, lining himself up, teasing your entrance.

You whimper, wiggling your hips, desperate to catch him inside. The wetness pooling between your thighs makes it effortless, yet he stills his movements, smirking down at you.

“Go ahead, baby,” he urges, voice thick. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

He pushes in just enough for his tip to breach your entrance, the stretch immediate, electric. You sink down onto him, trying to take more, but it’s too much—too thick, not deep enough. Your walls clench greedily, but you can’t fit him in entirely on your own.

You look up at Getou, his lip caught between his teeth, veins prominent along his throat and forearms. A single tear escapes the corner of your eye, sliding down your cheek as you whisper, broken and pleading:

“Fuck me.”

Getou exhales sharply, dragging your panties off, your slick stretching between the fabric and your core. He balls them up, stuffing them into his pocket. You open your mouth to question it, but before you can, he grabs your ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

With one deliberate thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

A choked cry escapes your lips, his name mangled on your tongue. He sets a ruthless pace, each stroke angled perfectly to find the spot inside you that has you keening.

Your head falls back, eyes glassy, body trembling as pleasure builds in your core. Getou watches you come undone beneath him, kissing and biting at your thighs as he keeps driving into you.

“Gripping me so tight, baby,” he groans, voice raw with need. “So fucking wet—do you want to cum for me?”

You nod frantically, words failing you.

Getou chuckles darkly. “Can’t understand you, sweetheart. Try again.”

You suck in a shaky breath, but he thrusts particularly deep, stealing it away before you can respond. Your body quivers violently, pleasure teetering on the edge of oblivion.

“Yes, Sugu—yes! Please, I need—”

“Better,” he huffs. He withdraws, just long enough to shift his position, slotting himself between your legs, guiding your hands behind his neck. You instinctively wrap yourself around him, pulling him deeper as he fills you completely.

The pressure is dizzying. His hand presses against your lower stomach, and you keen, feeling him so impossibly deep inside you.

“S-so big—fuck—so deep, Sugu, s’good.”

He kisses your cheek, resuming his brutal pace, the wet sounds of your coupling only adding to the sinful bliss. He reaches between you, circling your clit with practiced precision, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You choke on a sob, pleasure consuming you. “Sugu—c-coming—”

His nose brushes against yours, his lips hovering just over your own as he coaxes you further. He licks along your cupid’s bow, voice a whispered command:

“Come for me.”

The dam bursts.

A violent wave of ecstasy crashes over you, leaving you gasping, body convulsing around him. Your walls flutter and squeeze, a gush of arousal soaking his cock, dripping down to his balls.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, fucking you through the aftershocks. “Just like that.”

He doesn’t stop, dragging out your pleasure until it’s unbearable. Another orgasm crashes over you before you even have time to recover, leaving you sobbing his name.

Getou groans, his body tensing. “Fuck—‘m close—”

You know what will push him over the edge.

“Come inside me,” you beg, voice wrecked. “Fill me up—Su-gu-ru.”

A broken moan falls from your lips as Getou thrusts deep, his release spilling into you, hot and thick. His pace stutters, but he doesn’t stop, fucking his cum into you, his hips rolling lazily as your walls pulse. The slick, creamy mess coats his base, dripping from your swollen cunt.

You tug him closer, pulling him into a messy, breathless kiss—your tongues sliding together, lips slotting against each other with desperate need. It’s intoxicating, dizzying, and you only pull away when the edges of your vision blur, the threat of passing out looming.

You blink up at him, mind hazy, body wrecked and thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Your voice comes out shaky, barely more than a whisper.

“Fuck.”

Getou chuckles, the sound low and breathless, his chest rising and falling against yours. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, disappearing into the dip of his collarbone.

“Fuck is right,” he murmurs, voice tinged with amusement.

His gaze softens when you nuzzle against him, your cheek pressing against his damp skin. The fatigue creeps in—drunken, drowsy, and thoroughly ruined, your limbs feel too heavy to move.

His lips brush your temple. “You okay, baby? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head against him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Nah, you’re perfect.”

He hums, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your back. Then, he shifts, trying to sit up—but the moment he moves, you tighten your arms around his neck, pulling him back down with a stubborn whine.

“Need to clean us up,” he says, voice gentle. “Won’t take long.”

You pout, clinging to him like a lifeline, your fingers wringing around his nape, refusing to let go.

He exhales, surrendering. “Alright, alright. Later?”

Your smile presses into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his touch soothing as his hand glides along your spine, up to scratch at your scalp in slow, languid motions.

“Later.”

𓂃۶ৎ

One thing you hate about your job is how it conditions your body to wake up at ungodly hours. In theory, it’s practical—what responsible adult wouldn’t want an early start to their day? But when you’re still reeling from a brutal hangover, desperately craving more sleep, and your body betrays you by jolting awake at the crack of dawn, it feels like pure, unadulterated torture.

You groan, rolling over in an attempt to force yourself back under, but sleep refuses to claim you again. After tossing and turning until frustration wins out, you surrender and drag yourself toward the kitchen, deciding a glass of water might help reset your system.

Hydration is key, after all, and judging by the desert-dry state of your throat, it’s safe to say you neglected it for the last forty-eight hours. Understandable, given how you’d spent the night before last.

The memory hits you out of nowhere—Getou Suguru, your devastatingly attractive neighbor, buried deep inside you, his face tight with concentration, his lips parted, breathless, still so effortlessly beautiful.

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively. It’s been happening often, these flashes of him in the most compromising positions. You just hope it isn’t obvious.

The cool air from the fridge is a relief against your overheated skin. For a fleeting moment, you consider drinking straight from the jug but decide to cling to the last shred of your dignity and pour it into a glass instead. Still groggy, you make your way to the couch, your sleep shorts riding up with every sluggish step, the strap of your bralette twisted uncomfortably.

Then—movement.

From the corner of your eye, just outside your window, something shifts. Old habits die hard, and before you can think better of it, you tiptoe closer, peeking through the curtain just enough to get a view. You expect to see the usual—Getou up early, like always. You recently learned that he wakes at the crack of dawn to make breakfast for the girls every day—a habit formed from years of going without, back when his family couldn’t afford the luxury of a morning meal.

You do see Getou.

He’s on his bed, legs stretched out, and he’s touching himself.

Your breath stutters in your throat.

His cock is flushed and straining in his hand, thick fingers wrapped around the length as he pumps himself at a lazy pace. You can almost hear the sounds he’s making—the quiet, low groans that would rumble deep in his chest, the sharp inhales as he works himself over. His lips move, forming words you can’t quite make out, but what catches your attention most is the fabric curled around his shaft, moving in time with every stroke.

You squint, trying to get a better look. Then your stomach drops.

Your panties.

Your used panties from the other night. The ones you’d worn throughout the evening, growing wetter and needier with every stolen glance at him, every lingering touch. The lacy pair with the pale pink bow at the center.

Now, they’re tangled along his cock, the waistband stretching with every movement, sticky with precum as he grinds himself against the delicate fabric.

You’re mesmerized. Completely, utterly entranced. You don’t even realize you’ve moved the curtain further, no longer just peeking but openly watching. And then—it happens.

Getou’s dark eyes lock onto yours.

Your stomach flips, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he slows down, dragging it out, making a show of it. His hips thrust up to meet his tight grip, his jaw tightening as he bites back another moan. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you watch him.

Then, still stroking himself, he picks up his phone, tapping the screen a few times before bringing it to his ear.

Your phone vibrates from where you left it on the couch.

A heavy silence stretches between you as you hesitate. Then, slowly, almost mechanically, you reach for it, pressing it to your ear.

The first thing you hear is his moan—gravelly, drawn out, punctuated by a sharp breath. 

Across the way, Getou smirks. He stands, his cock bobbing against his stomach, your panties still tangled around the tip. He lifts a single finger, curling it in a slow beckon.

You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your ears.

And then, his voice, deep and smooth, curling around the words like a promise.

“Come over, pretty girl.”

[My beloved taglist: @mentallyillcore @ourfinalisation @nanasukii28 @tokyolittledelulu @reveursetcrieurs @c0ckdrunkk @inthedarkshadows000 @exelyox @inoluvrr]

+ A/N: Experimenting with my writing style ! Ngl I had to pause multiple times while writing this because DILFtou is just too damn fine !! Also, realized I have daddy issues while writing this smh

[arpicityandneed]

As someone who really adores balls (they're so darn cute, just chilling there all unassuming) I just know Bucky's are fucking huge 🤤 catch me trying to explain tea bagging to that old man so I can get an excuse to leave a lipstick stain on his sack

a/n: to be fucking fair Bucky just has breeder ball energy, so I completely understand the feeling.

18+ f!reader. teabagging. Avenger!Bucky. Civilian!reader.

"So, there's a few positions that could be used here. But the punchline is I get your balls in my mouth." You explained with a sultry smile, taking your shot of whiskey down without so much as a wince.

Bucky choked on his drink.

When you'd come up to him, your curves wrapped in skin tight jeans a ratty tshirt that stretched over your tits and a leather jacket, he'd been more than game to flirt. Try his hand to see if he could still be charming at 106. He expected you to fawn over him, ask him questions about his metal arm, or even ask about what it was like to be an Avenger.

What he did not expect was for you to come onto him like that, confident and nasty and hungry. It made his dick hard as steel and he floundered. Would he ever understand women of the future and their kinks?

"And you would... enjoy this?" He wheezed as he pounded his chest, wondering if he'd suddenly gained the ability to get drunk or if you really just said what he thought you said.

"Very much actually." You scooted closer, your tits brushing his arm enough that he could tell you weren't wearing a bra. "Foreplay is foreplay. Knowing that the same balls that were covered in my lipstick are gonna unload in me later? Yeah." Your voice was breathless, needy, like you were imagining it already in the middle of the bar.

Bucky slammed his beer down on the table with more force than was necessary and stood, fishing a handful of bills out of his wallet and shoving it at the bartender before grabbing your hand.

"Lets go." He grunted barely able to keep his head straight enough to get you onto his motorcycle before he was speeding through the streets to his apartment. Your soft body plastered against his back didn't help the way his body ached to be inside you.

But no, first you'd have to have your snack.

When you got to the apartment he threw you over his shoulder, taking the stairs three at a time at super soldier speed. The door had barely closed behind him before he was reaching for you. Ripping your flimsy shirt like tissue paper he groaned when your breasts bounced free, cupping them in his palms greedily.

"Fuck me. You're so soft," he murmured huskily as his grey eyes flicked up to meet yours. "Remind me to take my time with these beauties later okay?"

"Yeah, promise. Now will you take your clothes off?" You smirked as you tugged at his shirt. "I can't rip 'em off of you without a knife."

A full body shiver ran down Bucky's spine at that mental image and he nodded, shucking his jeans and boxers off with efficient grace before stripping off his shirt.

"Where- how-?" He started to ask before you dragged him to the bed. You laid down first with your head hanging over the edge. From that angle all he had to do was step forward and his balls would be inches from your mouth.

"Simple right?"

"Right." Bucky's voice was a hoarse croak, and he took that one step that put him at your mercy.

"Hello beautiful." You cooed at his leaking cock, tonguing the slit for a moment and moaning at the taste. "Next time." You murmured to yourself before focusing on his balls.

They were heavy, full, and sensitive if the way Bucky shivered just from feeling your lips brushing against them was anything to go by.

"You do this with all your guys?" Bucky found the idea pissed him off, and you chuckled- low and throaty.

"Just the special ones." You murmured before opening your mouth wide and sucking a wet kiss against his sack.

"Fuck," Bucky groaned and you felt your cunt throb at the timbre of his voice.

You said nothing, after all talking with your mouth full would've been rude.

You sucked, licked, and worshipped his balls until his legs started to tremble. All the while you gushed, daydreaming about leaking his cum until your panties were soaked.

Foreplay was only complete with the main course after all.

p.s. this is just smut writing, if all you want is foreplay that's okay too xoxo Mina

[mytheoristavenue]

MHA Fumikage Tokoyami x Reader x Dark Shadow 🍋 - Curiosity Killed the Crow

Summary: This was your fault for asking too many questions, really. You and Tokoyami had been dating for several months now and it had crossed your mind to ask: did that make Dark Shadow your boyfriend too?

Warnings: porn with plot, selfcest, fem!reader, tokoyami x reader x dark shadow, poly relationship, cum eating, fingering, fish hooking, oral fixation, dirty talk, threesome, masterbation

The question had caught him off guard when you'd asked it so nonchalantly. "Hey so...is Dark Shadow part of oyu or like, a separate entity?"

"I like to think of him as a separate being, we just share the same body and soul." Tokoyami replied, briefly glancing up at you from the book he was reading on the couch. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," you lied, chopping up vegetables for dinner. "Just crossed my mind the other day while I was at work."

"Well, I hope that answer is sufficient." He nodded, setting the book down and standing up to join you in the kitchen. "Anything else on your mind, dove?"

"I was just wondering... does that make me Dark Shadow's girlfriend too?" you pondered, missing how he froze behind you. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"I-I'm not sure, to be quite honest." He answered, glancing away awkwardly. "Do you want it to be that way?"

"I don't guess I'd be opposed to it," you shrugged, not giving it the same level of thought as he was. "Does he even have senses like that?"

"I don't know," he repeated, distracting his racing thoughts by putting away the dishes you'd washed before starting dinner. "He has likes and dislikes, he can feel pain and pleasure, so..."

"You mean like sexual pleasure?" you blurted so nonchalantly it gave him chills. "Or like the pleasure you get from eating something tasty? I know he likes sweets."

"I-I really don't know, dove." he blushed, unsure of how to answer any of your questions. "I've never asked and he's never told me so..."

"I'm sorry, 'Yami," you apologized sheepishly, giving him a sympathetic grin. "I didn't mean to make it weird, we can drop it."

-----

Needless to say, for the next week, your questioning riled Tokoyami up significantly, and he could feel his other half stir within him. After an admittedly quite awkward conversation with the entity, he promised himself the matter would get sorted when you came to his apartment for the night next.

-----

"Hey, Toko, I'm here!" you called, slipping into the apartment, and kicking the door behind you as your hands were full. "I picked up dinner on the way home, hope you're in the mood for pork cutlet!"

You blinked at the stillness of the apartment as you set everything down on the island, kicking out of your shoes by the door before heading deeper inside. "'Yami?" you called out, inching toward the bedroom, freezing in the doorway.

His bedroom was barely different from how it typically was, aglow with ambient candles and soft purple neon lights, gothic music playing quietly from a record player in the corner. What was different was the way he lounged on the bed, fully clothed, but scandalous way, void colored button up undone to his toned stomach with silver chains hanging against his chest. He wore matching slacks and polished loafers, much to your surprise. Tokoyami was typically such a stickler for not wearing shoes indoors, which meant he was wearing them, for a reason. He was dressed up for you, presenting his best self like all birds do.

The part of his peacocking that really intrigued you, however was how his vermillion stare never left you, seemingly trained on you before you'd even arrived. That and the way his calloused hand palmed his crotch, painted nails getting lost in the inky shadows on his slacks, and thick pewter watch catching the moonlight. "Welcome home, my dove."

"T-Tokoyami...?" you stuttered, knees quaking as you waited in the doorway like a deer stuck in the high beams of a truck. "W-What are you...?"

"Come forth, my love," he beckoned poetically, prompting your to naturally gravitate towards him. "How was work?" He asked, ignoring you, simply pulling you into him gently, making you sit down with him, rubbing your shoulders. "Hard day?"

"I-It was fine..." you replied, melting at his touch, moaning as he worked the knots from your neck. "I brought dinner... I didn't feel like cooking so I got us something on the way."

"So generous, my lark," He cooed, nuzzling his beak into hair, preening your locks. "Always thinking of others..."

"I-I guess..." you shrugged, embarrassed of the sudden praise, tickled slightly when his beak dragged against your nape.

"Such a sweet darling," your boyfriend hummed, grooming you lovingly. "We've missed you so much this week..."

"Raven..." you whispered, melting against him before tensing once more. "W-We? D-Did you invite someone else over?" you asked, the color draining from your face. "I-I don't know if I'm comfortable with-"

"Dark Shadow and I have been... talking about what you asked last week." He finally confessed, fingers running through your hair. "And we both agree that, if it were the will of her highness..." he smirked, nudging you from behind. "We'd like to share..."

You were speechless, wondering if this was real or a fantasy come to life. You had to admit, you'd always thought of his quirk being involved but you never thought it'd even be on the table, let alone handed to you on a silver platter. "Of course, the decision is yours, my lark."

"A-Alright..." you finally piped up, nodding. "I-I'd like to try..."

Tokoyami released a low, dark chuckle into your ear as his other half began to materialize from his back. "Divine..."

-----

"Fumi, look how she squirms..." Dark Shadow squealed with delight, abyssal claws squeezing your wrists as he pinned you to the bed. "So cute..."

"Don't tell me," Tokoyami laughed from between your thighs. "Tell her, she's yours now too, you know."

"Right, I keep forgetting..." The entity purred, face dipping into the crook of your neck, nipping at your flesh. "You're so, so cute, baby..." You writhed under their touch, Tokoyami's fingers working on digging an orgasm out of your core as he nipped softly at your plush thighs, coupled with Dark Shadow's relentless teasing. It was entirely too much for you and neither one of them seemed to care.

"A-Ah, fuck..." you cried, overstimulated tears slipping down your cheeks and being absorbed by the shadow as your hips bucked upwards against your first lover's face.

"Keep going, Fumi," the staticky voice teased. "I think she might cum right into your hand."

"You think she could?" Tokoyami replied, digging deeper, curled fingers grazing that special spot that made you see stars.

"Mhm," the abyss chirped against your throat, working his way down to your naked chest. Clawed hands settled on your upper stomach, shaking up and down as he giggled at the way your breasts bounced on your ribcage. "Can you do that, pretty girl? Can you cum on Fumi's hand for us?"

"T-Trying-!" you shrieked through gritted teeth. "W-Wanna so bad, Shadow!" Both of your boyfriends shivered at your words, reveling in your willingness to call the quirk out specifically by name. Your blissful cries made him feel so individual, like his own separate person.

"C'mon, princess, you can do it," Dark Shadow purred, indigo teeth nibbling at your earlobe as he talked you through it. "You like getting fucked on Fumi's fingers, don't you?" you simply nodded in response, mouth hanging open and eyes screwed shut as you chased your orgasm. "Oh, baby, I know you do. Look how well she takes your abuse, Fumi."

You couldn't take it anymore, vision going white as an embarrassingly lewd, cracky scream ripped from your drooly and kiss bitten lips. "That's it, dove," Tokoyami sighed, sore fingers never faltering through the strain as your hips rolled against them. "Ride it out, there you go, such a good girl for us."

"There she is," Shadow commented with delight, taking in the way your body quaked and face distorted. "Right into his hand, so perfect, yeah, baby..." He praised, pressing his beak to your forehead as a reward for hold out for him.

-----

"Shhh, we'll be gentle," the entity promised, wrapping around your torso so you could lean your back to his chest as Tokoyami kneeled over you both. "We'll do all the work, you just gotta lay here and take it, 'kay, sweetness?" You nodded, exhausted, looking up at the crow with droopy eyes. The way he stroked himself looked delicious, but having just come down from your own high, you were in no kind of shape to savor it.

You laid limp in Dark Shadow's arms, his abyssal claws kneading at your breast while his beak nipped into your shoulder from behind. "You look so divine, my love..." the raven cooed down to you, ruby eyes begging you for satisfaction. "Doesn't she, Shadow?"

"So pretty, so soft..." the entity answered with a soft chuckle. "Especially these titties and this tummy..." he added, groping the excess on your body. "Love having all this in my hands..."

Humiliation, exhaustion, and overstimulation dropped your chin to your collarbone, tearing away the sweet eye contact that had your pro hero boyfriend on the ropes. "No, darling, look at me, please..." he begged, having been well on his way. "Shadow, help her..."

Delighted to help, clawed hands roamed up your body, one settling under your chin to keep your head up, and the other settled in your hair, gently clenching a fistful to angle your head properly. "Awe, I know you're sleepy, sweets, but you have to help Fumi get there too. You wanna be a good girl, don't you?"

"M-Mhm..." was all you could choke out, mouth hung open as he squeezed your cheeks together. Your eyes fluttered open to see Tokoyami unravelling above you, his head falling back in bliss before returning his gaze back to you.

"Fuck, yes, light, that's it..." he sighed, fucking into his hand, leaning his pelvis in closer. It was this, coupled with the way Shadow's hands shifted to cup your cheeks, that made you realize what they wanted.

"Stick out that cute little tongue..." The abyss ordered playfully, pinching the tip of it between his thumb and index finger, pulling it out further. "So slobbery..." he mused, letting it go as he reached out to his host, who licked your saliva off his fingertips.

"A-Ah, fuck-!" Tokoyami grunted sharply, overcoming another wall, bringing him closer to climax. "O-Open up, lark..."

Dark Shadow's two index fingers then hooked into your cheeks like he was catching a fish, using his knuckles to force your top jaw wide while his middle fingers did the same to the bottom. "Say 'ahhh'..." he purred into your ear.

"A-Ahhh!" you tried to mimic, cheeks burning at how the thing laughed at your pathetic, muffled attempt.

"Say 'Please, Fumi, cum on my tongue!'" Shadow continued, relishing in how he position he had your mouth in made your tongue flop out, dripping drool into the spaces between your fingers.

"P-Pleash ch-cum on my chongue!" you slurred, love drunk and needy.

Suddenly, Tokoyami let out a pained grunt, leaning in close as his hips jerked against his closed fist. "A-As you... w-wish, my dove!" he cried as ropes shot out of his swollen bell, landing in your hair and on your face, tits, and tongue.

"Good job, Fumi," Shadow praised, petting your hair soothingly. "And you did so perfectly catching as much as you could, princess." he dragged his fingers across your tongue to remove as much of his host's seed as he could. "Taste good, baby?" You nodded, reveling in the icky feeling of jizz congealing in your lashes, preparing to swallow what of the load made it into your mouth. "Ah ah, don't you swallow that."

Your first lover leaned forward, head tilted and tongue out before he met your lips, initiating a tired but needy make-out that was all slobber and see and tongue as he tried to avoid poking his sharp beak into your plush lips. Before you could even realize what was happening, Tokoyami had eaten his own cum from your mouth, or as much of it as he could.

"How was that, Fumi?" The more playful partner chirped, wiping his hands off on your tummy.

"Divine..." The other heaved, collapsing next to you, pulling your in close.

"Playtime's over?" Shadow asked, a bit saddened to have not been able to climax himself, but then again, he didn't have the ability.

"For now, friend..." the host replied, barely conscious as you were already beginning to drift off. "I-I promise next time, you'll be more involved. We can work on seeing what you can really do in the future..." he swore as his soulmate began to dissipate back within himself, feeling a bit guilty for having all the fun.

"Can't wait to play with sweets again," the entity accepted, now almost totally absorbed into Tokoyami's back. "Goodnight, baby, I love you..."

The crow could help but feel his heart swell at the small confession. Although you'd only been dating for a few months, he had already long since decided he wanted you to be his wife one day, and knowing you and the other part of himself were falling in love meant everything to him. It was a brand new level of acceptance he never thought possible. He had known you were the one but this night only resolidified his belief in that.

"Goodnight, my light..." He purred softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead as he snuggled up with you. "I-" He suddenly paused before smiling serenely at you. "We... love you to death and beyond."

[naffeclipse]

naff plz, I'm weak and and I hunger 👀

Turns out I am too. This was supposed to only be 500 words. Now we're here smh

Minnow

Reader x Shark!Eclipse

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

You have a problem on your hands.

Sitting on the edge of a sea-salt slick rock in your dark wetsuit, the ocean breeze sweeping your hair into tangles, you stare. A whale carcass sits heavy and rotting. The edges of the waves roll up on the flat, tan sand of your seaside home and tug at the giant, dead beast, but one fin is only loosened slightly before the water returns without its passenger. The scent of a festering body hangs in the air and coats the back of your throat.

A sharp fin cuts through the wave farther from shore. You glance at it, but whatever fish swims near dives below, out of sight.

You turn back to the very big problem. It will ruin the beach for the tourists. You’re a council member only in name—more of a glorified intern, despite your best efforts to not only fetch coffee. Whenever there’s a job that doesn’t involve sitting inside around a table, away from the heat and humidity of a summery, oceanic day, it’s pushed into your lap to fix.

You have no idea how to remove a 40-ton whale from the sands.

Your right leg slips off of the rock and your foot splashes into the sea. Before you can fix your stance, tug your knees up to balance on the rock while the tide splashes at the base of your little watery perch, a clawed hand seizes your ankle.

A sharp gasp rips from you. Ripped downwards, you brace yourself, screwing your eyes shut as the ocean water rushes up your body, but something plants itself on either side of you. Pinned to the rock, you shiver at the fresh touch of the sea lapping at your ribs. Your feet barely find the purchase of sand. A shadow falls over your eyelids, and a soft hum spins through the breeze.

“Hello,” a voice growls deep, rumbling through the air and brushing against it. “Might I ask why you’re frowning so much?”

You slowly pry open one eye, then the other before your jaw loosens in wonder and fear. 

A creature looms above you. His head is wide and flat, colored a dark gray. Strange cartilaginous fins frame his head in a crown of sharp, red, and black spikes. The moment you gawk, he flashes a dangerous row of curved teeth with serrated edges. The very breath catches in your throat while his arms, sleek and barred with burnt red stripes, hold you against the sleek rock. 

Your eyes fall down his body. His lithe frame melts from a very human torso into the body of a predatory fishtail—a shark. His underside is pale gray while his back is dark, bearing a wicked dorsal fin with the same barred patterns down his sides in burnt red. Just below the surface, you catch a swishing of a caudal fin. Long and pointed, it cuts through the ocean as if it were mere seafoam.

“What—who are you?” you sputter. Your hands hold defensively to your chest while you return to his unearthly but memorizing face. His eyes burn low in a sharp orange light. 

“I am Eclipse.” He lifts one hand from the rock. A dark talon tips his long, thin finger before he hooks your chin, tilting your head up. The sharp edge teases your skin with how easily it can slice you. You swallow apprehension. His eyes fall to your throat, his teeth flashing in the sunlight. “And I asked you a question.”

Your pulse picks up in your ears, beating double time against the tide. What did he ask you? The echo of his words returns. You slowly form an ‘O’ with your lips.

“I’m not, um, frowning?” Certainly not now, if the terror you hide behind says anything. You curl your fingers into tight balls. “Were you watching me?”

The strange man-fish chuckles a low sound—as if you’re very silly. “I was. You’re quite a lovely sight, perched on this rock like a seabird. But you seemed troubled. You still do.”

He slowly forces your head to tilt this way and that, moving you under the sunlight while he examines you with his piercing gaze. You let him, utterly, horribly confused about how this all came to be. Does he intend to devour you like a tiger shark? Or is it a very strange ‘hello’?

A hum of satisfaction arises, but he is no less intrigued by what he’s captured in his hand. You try to turn away but he holds firm and clicks his tongue.

“There is still something vexing you” he concludes, “Tell me, so I might make it right.”

You almost level a look at him, as if the very interesting occurrence of a fish-man grabbing you and pulling you into the water isn’t vexing enough, but mind your manners. His claws press along your mouthbone. Your heart beats heavy in your chest, against the splashing waters, but your eyes flick towards the beach. Eclipse follows your gaze with narrowed eyes.

“Dead whale,” you say, hoping he doesn’t decide to cut your face with his claws, “I need it off the beach, but, um, I’m not sure how to do that.”

“Oh,” he laughs, and you stop to soak in the echo of his shoulder, melodic and growling. “Is that all? A simple solution, minnow, but I do ask for a small token in return for my help.”

You stiffen. A skip in your chest sends a coldness into your legs and fingertips. You look down, staring at the thin corded strength of his chest, the lissom power of his tail, and how easily he could drag you out to sea should you not give an answer he wants to hear.

How could a herculean task be so easy in his eyes? You almost don’t believe him.

“Minnow,” he rumbles softly and forces your head up higher to capture your gaze. You shiver in the brine. “It’s nothing to be afraid of. I will help you, and you will give me what I desire.”

Desire can be very, very dangerous.

“I’m not giving you people’s souls or whatever,” you say firmly, even if your eyes grow wet with terror. 

Eclipse swipes a thumb along your cheek, wetting it with sea salt and foam. His grin stretches wide until you see into his massive jaws.

“What use would I have of souls?” His tongue swipes over his row of serrated teeth. “No, I want something much more tangible.”

He squeezes your mouth softly until your lips are pushed into a pout, and realization jolts straight into your stomach. A dreaded blood rush fills your cheeks. You burn. Eclipse tilts his head, his eyes widening, flashing with the hunger of a shark in the depths.

“What do you want?” you whisper, your eyelids trembling as you nearly squeeze them shut again.

He leans in closer. You smell the sharp tang of iron and salt upon his breath.

“Seven kisses.”

Your eyes fly open, relieved and mortified. Unfurling your fingers, you try to shake your head but your jaw remains caught in the vice of his grips.

“Seven?” You sputter before spewing, “That’s—that’s a lot!”

“It’s a perfectly natural amount for the task I will undertake for you.” He draws the pad of his finger down the line of your jaw. A shiver overtakes your shoulders as you close your eyes for a heartbeat.

“And if I say no?” you ask quietly, watching him in the way you fear a minnow might watch a shark. 

He leans back. The corners of his mouth pull down.

“Then we shall both be disappointed, and I will leave.”

Your mind whirls at the thought—an easy ‘no’, but you don’t know if you trust him. Why would he do such a task? Why kisses of all things? Will he turn you into a fish after the seventh one? Will he devour you when you get too close? 

“How do I know you’re not going to eat me or down me or something?” you ask, pushing past the rattle in your throat.

Eclipse chuckles but there’s much less mirth in the echo, and your gut twists within you.

“If I wanted to take a bite out of you, I would have forgone the introductions.” His smile spreads wide. 

A cold, unflinching intuition within you agrees.

“Got it,” you murmur. “Just, uh, no biting, okay?”

He looms over you. His claws take you by the shoulders and hold you tighter to the rock. Your lungs freeze. Your rapid pulse fills your head in the same way you hear ocean waves when you hold a seashell up to your ear. 

“Minnow, do you accept my price?” Eclipse’s thumbs rub circles into your wetsuit.

He did not agree to your no-biting rule. Still, you swallow roughly and try to find some sensibility in agreeing to give a fish man kisses. The dead whale will be gone if Eclipse is true to his word. And it’s only a kiss—seven of them.

You press your lips together and close your eyes.

“I do,” you say. You open them again. “How do you want to do this? All at once or—”

A sharp flick of a tail pushes Eclipse against you. A bleeding blush takes over your face, pinned between him and the rock as he gathers your face in his hands. He holds your gaze, orange eyes blazing like a sunset. Your chest heaves. Water laps up against you as his pinky finger brushes against your throat. 

“Slowly,” he answers, voice lowering into a husky growl, “One by one.”

Your insides bubble at the sight of his teeth. A tumble of your heart knocks into your ribs. He lowers himself closer until you close your eyes. The ocean tugs at both of you but he keeps you firmly in place. His lips touch yours. A taste of something sharp and brackish spills into your mouth and you make a soft sound in the back of your throat. He purrs. The vibration touches you before he gently pushes and pulls against your lips like the tide. He gives and he takes, swallowing your affection. A hungry touch of his tongue swipes the inside of your mouth. You find your hands falling to his shoulders and holding on as if upon a lifesaver, lost out at sea.

Then he unhooks his jaws and frees you. A taste of sea salt remains on your tongue. You gasp softly, realizing how much fresh air you crave after his kiss. Your head falls back against the rock as your lungs heave. He still holds above you, tall and towering, but content.

Eclipse's eyes are half-lidded, gentle in his gaze as his claw gently brushes your bottom lip. His tongue swipes back over his own teeth as if savoring the taste of your flesh.

“Thank you for the kiss,” he rasps. “The whale carcass will be gone come morning light.”

“Okay,” you give, still lost in the salty haze the impression of his mouth left on you, “What about the other kisses?”

“Soon, minnow,” he gives with a sharp grin. “I will call upon you soon.”

He takes you by the hips. You gasp, your hands flying to his arms as he lifts you effortlessly out of the water and sets you back upon the rock. You sit, dripping in your stupor, eyes wide at how easily his palms fit over your waist. He rests his talons on the slick edge. His orange eyes upturn as he smiles one last time.

“Goodbye,” he growls gently. His teeth flash as he slips down, and you catch the full length of his impressive tail and sharp, pointed fins. A sharp flip of his body turns him in an instant, the water bending to his whim, and he slowly swims. The tip of his dorsal carries over the waves until at last, he disappears into the depth.

And you are left sitting with a pink heat in your face and a ghostly tang behind your teeth. His kiss leaves you spellbound.

You have an entirely new problem on your hands.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ EVERWINTER WITHOUT MERCY — TARTAGLIA.

contents. fluff + established relationships, fishing with ajax’s siblings bc they’re everything <3, ajax being a terrible flirt lolsjdjd, he’s implied to be taller than reader, gn! reader, kisses in the snezhnayan cold <3

he’s done it again, you think exasperatedly—teucer’s neck is bare as he walks through the harsh snow, the fabric of his scarf hanging loosely from his shoulders.

“hey, make sure you keep this around your neck,” you scold, wrapping the scarf tightly around teucer’s neck, “you’ll catch a cold.”

he groans a little—but he’s a good kid, listens to you when you tell him enough times, leaning into your hand as you ruffle his hair. you smile fondly as you look down—and then a weight presses against you from behind.

“yeah, teucer,” ajax hums, “you don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

“i won’t,” the younger boy insists, “colds are for the weak.”

ajax laughs. you can feel the rumble from his chest against your back as he murmurs, “it’s colder than usual teucer. make sure you keep it on.”

“that goes for you too, y’know,” you huff, spinning around to stare unimpressed at him as his own scarf is loose around his neck—ajax has the decency to at least attempt to look guilty.

“oh, i guess you’re right,” he nods, “can’t set a bad example for the kids.”

“and you can’t get sick,” you scoff, “i’m not in the mood to get sick from you.”

“i never get sick,” he says confidently with a wave of his hand, “but—” he starts with a drawl. his words as sickeningly sweet, enough to make your head spin a little from how decadent it is, “it does always stay in place when you do it.”

of course. he’s loosened it on purpose, just so you’ll wrap it for him. he’s exhausting, just a bit—as sly as he is painfully obvious, and it never ceases to make your eyes roll in that way he loves. in that way that makes him chuckle as he leans down a little closer, brows raised.

so you sigh—but there’s the beginning of a smile on your face, the start of a giggle in your voice as you say, “honestly, ajax. you’re shameless.”

“am i?” he grins, hands finding your hips as you reach over and secure the scarf around his neck.

it’s gentle, the way you touch him. the way you carefully work the fabric around his neck. the way you make sure it’s just tight enough to stay in place so he doesn’t catch a cold, but not so tight that it’s uncomfortable.

not many people touch ajax gently—he doesn’t want them to, even. he needs the rush of people giving him their worst, just so he knows he can give it back tenfold. but you…well, he likes that soft way you trace his cheek with your thumb. that careful way you brush a few strands of hair from his face and admire his eyes for a moment.

they’re cold most of the time, his eyes—dead without a shine. not around you, though. in fact, you think the stars create themselves right there in his pupils and reflect across the sky. it makes being away from him a little less unbearable, you suppose: when it feels like the stars are his and he brings them to you.

it makes it feel like he’s not so far away.

“there,” you mumble quietly, cupping his cheeks once you’re done. he looks adorable, you think, wrapped tightly in a long coat and a thick, red scarf. he looks comfortable enough that you can’t help but squeeze his cheeks together a bit as you giggle. “all warm,” you smile.

“but my lips, i’m afraid,” he sighs dramatically, “are achingly cold in this harsh, snezhnayan weather. if only there was some way to warm them up.”

he eyes your lips hungrily—a little thirsty in a way that makes you wonder just how insatiable ajax really is. something about him always seems thirsty for more, always ready to devour in a way that makes you wonder if there’s a side to him you haven’t quite yet seen. a more carnal one, perhaps. or maybe, one that’s helplessly in love, that he never quite gets enough.

you like to think it’s the latter.

“teucer is right there, ajax,” you roll your eyes, “have some decorum.”

“so now it’s a crime to show affection to those you love?” he gasps, “you want teucer to grow up unable to show his true feelings?”

“no,” you deadpan, “i want teucer to grow up less of a handful than you.”

“i’ll be less of a handful if you warm my lips,” he chuckles, boyish and young and all the things he should be. all the things the world should let him be. “they’re bitterly numb, right now.”

and…well, you can’t deny him—you never could. so you shake your head and trace the swell of his cheek one more time with your thumb, rubbing warmth back into his skin even as the harsh blows of frigid air slice against him.

it’s cold in snezhnaya. it always is. it’s warm in your hold. it never won’t be.

“you’re insufferable,” you huff through a laugh.

and then you kiss him, delicately so. your lips press against his perfectly enough that it never felt like he was away. it feels like you kissed him yesterday and the day before that. it’s so familiar, you don’t need to ingrain the feeling into your memory for when he inevitably leaves again. you’d never forget the way ajax feels—not how he tastes or sounds when you meet him, skin to skin.

he hums against you, traces circles into your hips with his thumbs as he pulls you closer by the waist.

it’s cold in snezhnaya. it always is. it’s bearable in ajax’s warmth. it never won’t be.

“much better,” he nods as he pulls away, “i feel warm already. but you should stay close by…you know, just in case i get cold again.

“well, lucky for you—”

“are we going to fish now?” teucer calls, tonia and anthon waiting patiently in the distance. ajax sighs—you giggle, leaning closer and pressing one last peck to his lips.

“well, let’s not keep them waiting,” you grin, “i’ll keep you warm later.”

he grins widely at that, raising a brow. “is that so? well then, i’ll hold you to that.”

he has stolen my heart and i am deeply unwell. painfully. sickeningly. psychotically. unwell.

[wheeboo]

hand in hand | lee jihoon

SYNOPSIS. in which you take your boyfriend to a work outing. PAIRING. lee jihoon x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, established relationship, a lil comfort WARNINGS. mention of alcohol and reader being a lil tipsy, just jihoon's love language secretly being physical touch w the right person, some self-doubt n insecurity on his side :(( WORD COUNT. 1.5k

requested by anon: woozi + #43 list 1 - #43: "I love your laugh."

notes: i promised myself i would try to write n post a fic for the event every 2 days but i'm def not sticking to that .. anyway i hope u all enjoy this 😔🫶 not entirely proud of how this was written dijdissnnd

join the 2k celebration!

Jihoon doesn't know why he's here, knowing that he doesn't share any hint of knowledge about finance and corporate interests. All of it makes him feel like he's a fish out of water.

The food is good, though. He won't lie about that. But the air reeks of alcohol and burnt meat at this point, and Jihoon is genuinely surprised no one has passed out drunk yet. He can feel the tiredness seeping into his eyelids as he peers around tensely, knowing that he definitely only exchanged a singular hi, nice to meet you with everyone before sitting down.

He checks his watch for the time, and also mindlessly checks the time on his phone too as if it was going to miraculously display a different hour. But it doesn't. It's still 10:34 PM, and Jihoon contemplates how much longer he must endure this social ordeal as he'd rather be in the comfort of his place...

...with you.

Jihoon barely processes the way his face lights up when his eyes land back on you emerging from the restroom. He's already picking up his body from how slouched he was sitting down moments ago. A small smile stretches across his face, momentarily erasing the look of social exhaustion.

His eyes follow you until you sit yourself down in the seat next to him, a cute, eager grin plastered across your face. Jihoon catches the slightly flushed look to your features from some of the drinking you've done earlier, but it only adds to your charm even more.

Under the table, he feels your hand sliding into his even while you're goofily greeting everyone for the third time tonight, fingers intertwining together as if you've never left. Jihoon's heart does a little jump at the touch, glancing around the table to see if anyone has noticed. But everyone seems too engrossed in their own conversations to pay much attention.

Jihoon knows that you're popular at work, and it's hard not to see why. The entire restaurant glows at the sight of you, or perhaps that's only what he sees.

It kind of makes him wonder if it was really necessary to let you drag him along. He hasn't contributed much to the entire outing except for being able to fill an empty chair. And yet, you were very excited to invite him as your plus one when everyone else only brought themselves.

But then again, he doesn't seem to mind that much𑁋he gets to hold your hand, gets to steal endless glances at your face and watch you enjoy yourself, knowing that at the end of the night you'll be coming home with him, and that's enough to make this evening bearable.

There's a squeeze to his hand, and Jihoon glances down before flickering back up to your face. You're peering at him with sleepy eyes, a lopsided smile, a small bit of dried sauce at the corners of your lips. Yet, there's some worry in there etched between the lines. He knows it's directed towards him.

He squeezes back your hand reassuringly, and before you can say anything, one of your coworkers taps on your shoulder to redirect your attention. Jihoon hardly catches what they say, but the laugh you let out a minute later is music to his ears. It's a hearty, genuine laugh that fills the air around the restaurant; it's the only sound he could discern among everyone else's' laugh.

However, his chest tightens ever so slightly, and his smile falters a little. His grip on your hand tightens subconsciously.

"And didn't Y/N have to hide under Seokmin's desk? Just because they were eating when it wasn't their break?"

"But I ended up getting in trouble anyways!" Your hand lets go of Jihoon's briefly to swat playfully at your coworker, then it isn't long until your hands lock together again. He really likes it when you do that. "And it's all because Seokmin couldn't keep his mouth shut!"

Jihoon doesn't know how much longer the conversation lasts because he's too busy playing with your hand, tracing aimlessly along the lines of your palm with his thumb. There's a nagging feeling tugging at the seams of his mind that's a bit too hard to brush off. He continues stealing glances at you, catching the way your eyes sparkle as you listen intently to another story from a coworker.

You look happy, genuinely happy, and a part of him wants nothing more than to keep that smile on your face.

When it was finally time for your coworkers to all start leaving one-by-one, Jihoon finds himself lingering near you, practically hovering as you bid your goodbyes and exchange your hugs with everyone. By the time it was the two of you left outside the restaurant, you trail towards your boyfriend laggardly, nearly collapsing on him in the process.

"I'm so tired," You mumble into his shoulder, before pulling away and reaching for his hand. "Think I'm going to pass out when we get home."

Jihoon just chuckles quietly. "But you had a lot of fun, right?"

A dreamy curve makes its way across your lips as you nod.

"Hmm, yeah," You reply lazily, somewhat tipsily. "Lots of fun."

The cool night air brushes against your skin as you walk together, the streets quiet and empty save for the occasional passing car. Jihoon can feel the weight of exhaustion in his bones as well, and the weight of your body leaning on him only adds to it, but he doesn't mind.

Your hands swing back and forth together as you stroll along the sidewalk, the soft glow of streetlights casting gentle shadows around you. Despite the tiredness, a warm contentment settles over Jihoon.

"Are you okay?"

Jihoon turns to you. "What?"

"I asked if you were okay," You repeat, a bit more softer this time. "You were just a bit quiet earlier."

He blinks a few times.

"Ah," is all Jihoon could respond with right now, because he doesn't know exactly how to answer that. He's fine, he knows he is, but there's a bit of unease in each step he takes.

You hang your head low to the ground as if in guilt. "I'm sorry for kind of forcing you to come with me. Just wanted your company, you know?"

Jihoon just shakes his head. "No, it's okay." Then he brings his eyes down too. "Seeing you happy made me happy. It was worth it."

You smile at that, just barely, though you swear there's still something else he isn't telling you. But you don't press on though, choosing to let some quietness roll over instead. The heaviness in your head had manage to slither its way to your own footsteps. You really can't wait to finally sleep.

Jihoon's grip on your hand is somewhat loose. Even though on the outside it may appear normal, you've held his hand one too many times to know when something is amiss.

"I don't... bore you, right?"

You stop in your tracks to face him. "Bore me?"

"It's ridiculous, I know," Jihoon says bashfully, immediately regretting asking that. "It's just... You were laughing a lot earlier. It's been a while since I've heard you laugh that much."

Your eyes wander over him, peering at him as if he's said the most strangest thing ever. Then you let out lighthearted scoff, letting yourself step closer to him.

"Hey, look at me," You urge him, tugging slightly on his hand for him to bring his eyes up to you. "Please?"

And so he does, meeting your gaze with a flicker of confusion. You hold his eyes for a few moments before you start to struggle, almost like you’re in a staring contest. Then a blush creeps up your cheeks, blossoming across your face like a freshly bloomed flower. A soft, nervous giggle escapes your lips, starting as a quiet chuckle before growing into a hearty blend of laughter.

For a second, Jihoon is a bit puzzled, before he feels a laugh of his own tumble out of his chest. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because you're cute."

"And that... makes you laugh?"

"It makes me happy," You answer witfully. "You make me happy. And just because I'm not laughing doesn't mean you're boring me."

Jihoon just gazes at you both dazedly and fondly, and the more he does so, the more it has you giggling even more. It could be from the alcohol earlier and it's a sign that you should really get back home this instant, but he's simply just standing there like a confused toddler, and you're happy.

"And your laugh... Gosh, your laugh," You continue on, and there's an affectionate look in your eyes. "I love your laugh. Please laugh more like that around me or I will go insane, Jihoonie."

A small grin spreads across Jihoon's face. "Then be cute, like you are now."

"Deal," You quip tauntingly, bringing his hand up to your lips to place a small kiss on before the two of you continue strolling down the sidewalk.

The silence takes over for some time, a comfortable silence that isn't heavy or awkward this time, only the tapping of your shoes against the pavement and the occasional rustle of leaves in the cool night breeze filling the space.

"I love your laugh, too."

You pick your head back up, gazing at him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. "What did you say?"

Jihoon hesitates, before smiling bashfully.

"I said that I love you."

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[tikhondownichi]

That post about Prorva and Lamarr (love the HL reference) has got me thinking. Like.

Sebastian is not a good parent in any sense of the word. But in the circumstances given he is the only reason Prorva is alive when he could have easily killed her for food (as shown in your first few posts about her. Normal fish behavior), out of “mercy” (Urbanshade has never and is especially currently not a safe space for children or offspring). But he kept her alive, gave her his old jacket (weather its because he wanted to give her something special to him, wanted to keep her clothed, or even just wanted to get rid of the jacket is up for debate). But there is at least some amount of caring. I get the whole joke is Sebastian is a terrible dad and isn’t afraid of that fact but like. There must be something.

Im a sucker for angst so just. Something happens to Prorva. Not sure if in her current age or sometime while she was growing. Bad encounter with an Angler/Pandemonium, set off a tripwire trap, bugged turret, or just something that has Prorva hurt bad. Would that be a chance for Sebastian to show a more caring side? Im sure he’d mock her and complain about waisted supplies but like. If he fears, even for a second that she is dead or might die, would it show? Would Prorva notice? Would it affect their relationship as father and daughter? Is or would Sebastian be protective of her, even just a little?

Sorry about the ramblings. Im just obsessed with angst sjfbejfbdk

In fact, we should give Sebastian credit: he was able to raise a little bro in this godforsaken place where anything could kill you, especially a small child. In a place where you're always wondering what you're gonna drink and eat tomorrow so you don't die of stomach ulcers. In the cold and total unsanitary conditions, where if you catch a cold, you are very likely to die. We can berate Seb endlessly for what a bad father he is, but on the other hand, the basic parenting functions he performed: Prorva is alive, healthy, fed, clothed. Objectively yes, Sebastian has made a lot of mistakes and screwed up (a lot), but on the other hand he was sent to Hadal Blacksite barely a young adult, barely knowing how to do anything alone in this world, and now he's a 32 year old adult and he's a fish that has to figure things out on his own. It's crazy. He's understandable.

Yeah. Even though Sebastian is an ass most of the time, but if a situation happens to a gremlin that puts her life in danger - he won't stand by. Yes, Seb will be passed, swear a lot, probably mock, but he'll help (even if he says he's not going to deal with that shit). He can be caring (though he expresses it in his own way) if the situation really demands it.

For the moment, Prorva's whole life revolves around Sebastian. He's the only person close to her. She senses any changes in his behavior and actions, but his complex emotions she will not understand due to her immaturity. After all Seb is an unstable and complicated person.

It's okay, I enjoy reading and writing this kind of musings (especially if it's about angst) ( ´∀｀ )b

[koishua]

★. 𝐄𝐍— and the orange peel theory.

! © 𝗞𝗢𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗔 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰, 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗗.

starring hee, jay, jake. + their version of the orange peel theory

━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆

he doesn't think anything of it when he snaps your chopsticks in two for you from where he is positioned across you. the plastic chairs in front of the convenience store upon which you're seated on aren't the most comfortable, the sharp edges digging into your skin on occasions when you fidget around trying to find a way to strike up a conversation with the man you can't bare to label as your friend now.

the bamboo sticks now rest on top of the lid of your bowl of instant ramen, currently waiting to be fully cooked within the three minute time frame the instructions had given you. you notice how they hadn't split equally, one having snapped away a small portion of the other side with it. the irony of it all feels comical when you detach yourself from the situation you're currently trying not to run away from.

heeseung doesn't say much as you hesitantly take the broken utensil. he can only pretend to awkwardly observe the engravings in the table, occasionally glancing at the dainty chain of the necklace hiding under your collar. it had been his fingers to graze against the skin of your neck to clasp it together for you. he wonders what hurts more; remembering, or having to force himself to forget about it all?

━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐉𝐀𝐘

the house is quiet, had been for hours now, except for your frantic breaths and hurried stomps while darting from room to room, trying to find your bearings as the time ticks by much too quickly for your liking. the alarms you'd set for your lecture hadn't rung (they had, actually— no one would dare to disagree, however), which had naturally resulted in you running late for it yet again.

your lips lift lopsidedly moments after the neatly framed picture of the happiest moment of your life catches your eye as you try to put on the stubborn socks you'd fished out from the drawer on your side of the bed. jay had always been beautiful, even back when he still had that boyish smirk constantly plastered over his face, hair a mess.

you make a mental note to wipe away the dust that had started to form a thin sheet over the wooden frame, though that too is quickly forgotten when you realize that he'd very kindly filled up your bottle with water and placed it next to the most comfortable shoes you owned he'd laid nearly on the floor by the door, certain of your forgetful habits.

━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄

layla's tail wags excitedly at the sight of the treat in your hands that you leave for her to enjoy. smoothing over the gingham sheet before laying back on the lap of your favourite person in this universe and the next, from where you look up at him, the sun blazing in the sky makes it look like he's emitting a heavenly glow. fitting for someone like sim jake.

days like this don't come by often for either of you, so having you right by him, the weather as beautiful as it could ever get. this is what he'd describe heaven to feel like. every part of his body beats with the insatiable desire to always have you as close to him as possible, day and night.

the cool breeze is a constant visitor to your little spot by the beach, a welcome addition to the already magical day. realising that he'd gotten lost in his thoughts, he looks down at your serene expression, off somewhere in dreamland, most likely. his thumb gently traces under your eyes, a ghostly touch afraid of waking you up from your deserved rest. he unclips the hair accessories he can see tugging and digging into your skin before adjusting the shade to cover your eyes.

this is his dreamland.

notes from vie: couldn't help it with the hee angst y'all im sorry it's a koishua must. it was very mild tho so yeah enjoy please i haven't exercised my enha writing skills in ages and as always pls reblog muah muah ignore any errors i haven't got the energy to correct them myself 🍊🍊