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starcurtain · 8 months ago

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A Look at Ratio and Aventurine... and Ratio/Aventurine

I was morally obligated to use this picture.

Anyway, I got an ask about my understanding of Ratio and Aventurine's relationship both in canon and as a ship that I have been holding on to for a while now because... phew, there's like... a lot to talk about there... But I felt I should at least give it a try, so here is my attempt to comment on the intersection of two of Star Rail's most complicated personalities. Long post is longgggg; you have been warned.

First, Aventurine's canon relationship to Ratio:

In the interest of not hitting tumblr's image limit, let's just throw out some of the information we have in one go:

It's pretty complimentary. (Yet somehow...)

The implication of the infamous "Keeping Up with Star Rail" video is that Ratio understands Aventurine better than anyone else, and Aventurine knows this. At the very least, putting all shipping aside, Ratio is the person who can explain Aventurine's behaviors best. He's the person Aventurine chooses do so. This suggests significantly more knowledge of each other's lives than the game first led us to believe.

Other people (read as: my GOAT Owlbert) perceive respect from Aventurine to Ratio, and although I read them as a bit sarcastic, the 2.1 mission logs not only repeatedly confirm that Aventurine views Ratio as smart and reliable, but that Ratio is reliable "as always," again indicating a longer and closer history of collaboration than we get to actively see in game. The devs were working hard to tell us "Penacony isn't Ratiorine's first rodeo," which is interesting--given Topaz's voiceline recommending the Trailblazer avoid working with Aventurine whenever possible, we're led to believe through 2.0 and 2.1 that not many people will willingly work with Aventurine more than once, let alone many times.

While going through psychological scrutiny from the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come his Harmony-infused self, the "Future" Aventurine suggests that Ratio and Aventurine are quite similar, and that Aventurine puts a surprising amount of trust in Ratio, to be willing to hinge such a dangerous plan on something as untested as Ratio's ability to act. At the very least, Aventurine's own psyche is pondering on Ratio and whether or not their connection has any emotional meaning.

But despite all this evidence suggesting Ratio and Aventurine spend significantly more time with each other than we get to see in game, Aventurine's own thoughts cast strong doubt on whether he and Ratio are actually close.

Aventurine's "About Dr. Ratio" voice line suggests that Aventurine believes Ratio does not particularly like him. He seems to think that Ratio would prefer to stay away from IPC operations where possible, and it's "unfortunate" for Ratio to be stuck with Aventurine as a conversation partner. He's tolerated, rather than enjoyed. His overall impression seems to be that Ratio mostly views them as distant coworkers.

When the "Future" Aventurine suggests Ratio did not betray Aventurine willingly, actual Aventurine immediately pushes back:

(Personally I'm on the fence about whether this was real doubt or just a ploy to continue sussing out Sunday; see my other post about this scene for some more thoughts.)

But if we take this statement to be played straight, it implies that Aventurine doesn't fully believe Ratio will side with him, even (maybe especially) in dire circumstances. If this statement is real doubt, then despite considering Ratio the person who best understands him, despite building an entire life or death gamble around Ratio's loyalty... Aventurine still doesn't think Ratio even likes him.

Aventurine's not stupid or blind, so theoretically he should be able to read the situation better than that. But actually, there's plenty of evidence both in the game and outside it to suggest that Aventurine is not the most accurate judge of his own relationships to others and is a down-right terrible judge of his own worth as a person.

"Future" Aventurine suggests that one of Aventurine's deep inner flaws--the truths that he rejects about himself--is a massive inferiority complex. This is backed up well by the mission text, where Aventurine's thoughts about himself spiral into self-harm, and the scene in the maze, where "Future" Aventurine taunts our Aventurine with the unforgettable fact that his entire life was only worth pennies:

There's also pretty consistent self-deprecation, with both "Future" and real Aventurine noting several times that he's a pathetic mess of a person that other people don't trust or like.

The overall impression 2.0-2.1 left me with is that Aventurine is perfectly capable of respecting and caring for others, but virtually incapable of accepting other people genuinely respecting and caring for him.

Part of this seems to stem from the directly-stated sense that he's a failure whose only worth is in transactional exchanges, using and being used by others (there's so many layers to this--internalized racism even), but I also suspect that much of his inability to accept genuine connection from others is defensive behavior.

Aventurine's true self, Kakavasha, is deeply hidden away, like the ghost of the child that manifests from his Harmony delusion in the Dreamscape. Although Aventurine clings to that person, claiming that he has "never changed," he actively coats over his beliefs, his kindness, and his authenticity with the mask of a "cavalier gambler," with glitz and glamor and showy distractions. No one gets to see Kakavasha. No one gets to know him, because being buried deep in the dirt is the only way to remain untouchable, and fiercely keeping one's distance is the only safe bet. (For both Kakavasha and any fools who would doom themselves by daring to care for him.)

So: Canon is telling us that Ratio is one of, if not the, closest people in the world to Aventurine. But canon is also telling us that that still means absolutely nothing at all, because Aventurine won't let himself be close to anyone living.

Aventurine's senses of self-worth, trust, attachment, and safety have been warped so badly by ongoing and untreated trauma and mental health issues that, at least until the end of 2.1, I just don't think he was capable of even accepting genuine friendship from Ratio, let alone anything more.

(Interesting side note here: Ratio is actually one of the people Aventurine calls "my friend" the least. He only says it directly to Ratio a single time in all of their lines of dialogue across 2.0 and 2.1, and even then, does so only when right outside Sunday's door, while almost certainly being spied upon by the Family. Anyone who knows how often "my friend" is peppered into Aventurine's dialogue otherwise should know that the absence of the phrase is actually pretty telling. It almost feels like canon Aventurine's not even sure he can call Ratio his friend, at least to Ratio's face.)

Which makes Ratio's canon relationship to Aventurine quite sad and ironic:

From start to finish, Ratio canonically esteems Aventurine more highly than almost any other character in the game. I'm not even talking about shipping when I say that there is no character Ratio is closer to in the entire game.

At present, Ratio has only four voice lines about other characters, and of those four, Aventurine's is the only one that isn't someone from the Genius Society. The only one. Ratio's voice lines are also notably, uh, not very complimentary. Herta is "talented but not helpful to others" and "sees no one as her equal" (read as: she's self-absorbed). Screwllum is a "monarch, rather than a genius" (with the vague implications of being a tyrant), and Ruan Mei is overly ambitious and "fooling everyone."

Meanwhile, Aventurine is "our man" (who is "our" Ratio? who?) whose success "can't all be chalked up to luck," implying that part of Aventurine's success must come from skill. Ratio notes that Aventurine questions his own ability... but as far as Ratio's evaluation goes, he seems to doubt that Aventurine will ever experience a downfall. For someone who thinks 99% of the people he meets are mediocre failures scrambling around in the filth of existence, to be recognized as skilled and unlikely to fail is quite obviously glowing praise.

Then, of course, there are numerous moments that echo Aventurine's hints, implying that Ratio spends significantly more time with Aventurine than we see on-screen, that he knows Aventurine extremely well, and, although he tries (vainly) to pretend he isn't, he's clearly quite concerned with what Aventurine thinks of him.

Especially this last one. "No wonder that gambler likes you so much" is pretty intentional on the devs' part, confirming that Ratio and Aventurine are having off-screen conversations we players are not privy to, which obviously would indicate a closer relationship than the in-game cutscenes could cover.

Then, Trailblazer has the option to flat out ask Ratio to "rate" Aventurine. (Star Rail ship bait is not even subtle.)

At first, this line might read as all over the place:

"The bosses say we're partners but I wouldn't say that" -> Read as: Ratio wants people to know how their relationship is classified but doesn't want to admit to being actually invested.

"I see myself as the teacher to everyone I meet" -> Read as: Ratio at least pretends that he doesn't view anyone as his equal; everyone is either above him--geniuses--or below him--students.

"Aventurine is not that bad of a student" -> High praise; even Ratio can't pretend Aventurine's untalented.

"Actually, Aventurine's probably in metaphysical danger" -> Read as: Ratio is aware of the "void" Aventurine is experiencing and his mental struggles.

The ultimate takeaway of Ratio's "rating" actually says more about Ratio than Aventurine. When it comes down to it, Ratio's choice to answer this question for the Trailblazer instead of dismiss it tells us that Ratio has spent time quantifying and trying to define his relationship with Aventurine, is willing to at least discuss that relationship with other people (when we have no evidence he ever discusses any other personal/non-academic matters with anyone), and that Ratio pays attention to Aventurine's mental states.

Canon Ratio is not beating the allegations, I'm afraid.

But actually, I think the biggest tell about Ratio's canon relationship to Aventurine is that Ratio's behavior completely changes the moment Aventurine appears in the game.

In every single one of Ratio's other appearances, two facts are hammered home again and again:

First, Ratio hates interacting with fools and "noisy" people. He wears his plaster bust so that he doesn't even have to see them. Canonically, we're informed by both March 7th and Argenti that Ratio brought and was wearing his headpiece in Penacony. Curiously though...

The players never see it throughout 2.X--probably because 90% of Ratio's scenes are with Aventurine, and Ratio is never shown wearing his bust on screen with Aventurine--even in their very first meeting in the Final Victor lightcone. Aventurine clearly knows of the bust, but despite Ratio verbally going on and on about how Aventurine is the most "flashy" and "devoid of logic" person Ratio knows... the devs deliberately send their message: Ratio has chosen not to cut himself off from Aventurine.

Aventurine can be more "clamorous" than a screaming peacock, but Ratio will still not put up walls against him. This isn't accidental. The devs had every opportunity in the world to go the opposite route and make jokes about Ratio refusing to take the bust off in Aventurine's obnoxious presence; instead they decided that Ratio apparently has a glaring, Aventurine-shaped exception to his "I don't want to perceive you fools or be perceived by you" life rule.

This "willing to tolerate shenanigans only if Aventurine is involved" behavior continues basically throughout all of Penacony's plot. In 2.3 for example, if you turn around and talk to Ratio again on the Radiant Feldspar, he flat out says:

But there's no actual explanation for why he's there in the first place. He mentions he was assigned to watch over "the IPC's ambassadors," which theoretically should apply to Jade and Topaz, yet we never see him interacting with them in any capacity. He's never even shown in the same room as Jade or Topaz, and he's not shown doing any other form of business for the IPC on the Feldspar either. Theoretically, he could have been on the Feldspar to meet regarding the Divergent Universe... except Screwllum wasn't there yet, and Ratio doesn't mention a single word about the Divergent Universe to the Trailblazer.

The only person Ratio talks about in his dialogue on the Feldspar is Aventurine, and the only non-Trailblazer he talks to in 2.3 at all is also Aventurine, replying to him and only him in the group chat.

He looked like he might give it a shot to try to befriend Boothill and Argenti at the end of 2.3... but immediately changes his mind and leaves without saying a word to them.

It's not really a stretch to suggest that the only reasonable excuse for Ratio to attend the party on the Feldspar was if he was there for Aventurine, a behavior that he himself notes is out of character. ("A waste of time" he says, as he stands there anyway.)

But, second and even more importantly: Ratio's single most defining character trait is that he believes people need to pick themselves up. The entire point of his debut appearance in the game was to present his philosophy that if the powerful or privileged intervene to continually "save" the mediocre, ordinary people will never learn for themselves or get the chance to grow. It is in times of desperation, he says, that fools exceed their limits and reach greatness.

This is why, in 1.6, he insisted on Asta and the Trailblazer being the ones to solve the attacks happening on the space station, without relying on Screwllum or the other geniuses. Although Ratio did actively intervene a little (using the phase flame to save the researchers from death), he did so only from behind the scenes, where his actual help would not be noticed by those affected and where it had no impact on their decision-making or their struggles to solve the mystery.

He let Asta and the Trailblazer panic. He let them flounder. He even deliberately misled them at points, claiming that Duke Inferno must have kidnapped the researchers (when it was actually Ratio himself who re-routed them).

Ultimately, Ratio let Asta and the Trailblazer grow from their experiences.

This is also why he lets the Trailblazer go blazing in to fight Ruan Mei's faux emanator of the propagation, despite knowing that Trailblazer was not actually strong enough to win. Ratio watched and was ready to intervene... but in the end he did not, because it was the Trailblazer's fight to lose.

Ratio's most defining character trait is that he believes standing back and observing is the true kindness, rather than inserting oneself and denying people their autonomy or opportunities to grow.

Buttttt... then there's Aventurine, and suddenly the story is completely different.

Suddenly, Ratio isn't an observer but becomes essential to the plan. He's even walking around making big claims about being the manager of the task, flexing all of his C+ acting ability to actively carry out their mutual ploy.

In 2.3, he claims he was just there to watch, and his Penacony sticker asserts he's only "a supporting character"--yet we have never seen Ratio take a more active role in the entire game. Unlike with the Trailblazer in 1.6, he's not primarily watching events unfold from shadowy corners. He's in Penacony as Aventurine's active partner in crime.

And, even more telling--he later jeopardizes their entire mission just to ask if Aventurine needs help.

What? Huh? The character who is famous for the voice line "You look distressed. Is something troubling you? If so, you can figure it out for yourself" is suddenly offering his assistance entirely unprompted?

The guy whose motto might as well be:

Is suddenly out here throwing his own core philosophy out the window to solve Penacony's mystery for Aventurine and save him from himself in Aventurine's hour of greatest need?

A lot of people get hung up on the second half of Ratio's letter, the part about staying alive, which of course is very sweet. But I think the second half causes people to forget that the first part of Ratio's letter is, quite literally, the answer to Penacony's mystery.

Ratio gave Aventurine the answer.

This is like if your professor just gave you and you alone the score key to the final exam and then turned around to insist he "doesn't play favorites."

Of course, Aventurine is brilliant and didn't need Ratio's answer about dormancy, which makes the fact that Ratio went out of the way to give it to him even more odd. Ratio despises unnecessary repetition. If he wasn't dead worried, he would never have given Aventurine an answer that Aventurine had the power to find on his own.

And, as far as canon tells us, Ratio has never done this for anyone else.

The difference is night and day. It's literally the Gordon Ramsay meme, with everyone else in the entire game being the "fucking donkeys" to Aventurine's "Oh dear. Gorgeous."

So: Even if we entirely put aside shipping, if we look strictly at what we're given in canon:

Ratio treats Aventurine with more respect than he treats most other characters in the game.

He involves himself in Aventurine's struggles in a way that he flat out refuses to do for anyone else.

He compromises his own beliefs purely out of concern for Aventurine.

So, at least as far as we've been shown in canon, it is accurate to state that Aventurine is the closest character to Ratio--and unlike Aventurine (king of self-gaslighting), Ratio isn't even good at acting like he doesn't care.

Frankly, the whole thing is a little sad. Ratio's behavior is so blatantly out of character that a smart person like Aventurine should easily be able to determine it is genuine, but Aventurine's personal hang-ups and ongoing trauma make it difficult for him to even see that authenticity, let alone put faith in it. Even in canon, Ratio is mostly unable to help himself when it comes to Aventurine, which is especially unfortunate given how badly skewed Aventurine's perception of himself and others is by the start of Penacony's story.

PHEW! I finally made it through canon content!

Now there's just... everything else... 🫠

Well, to be honest, I don't think I could ever manage to put all my thoughts about this ship into one post. Probably not even fifty posts.

So rather than trying to say everything there is to say about Ratiorine, what I want to focus on is how fantastically these two characters just fit together. Like puzzle pieces that need to be mirror opposites in order to link, these two characters parallel each other while also perfectly filling in each other's voids. It's some of the best character pair writing I've seen in a long time (though I'm still sort of convinced it was at least 50% sheer luck on Hoyo's part), and my perspective on their ship can really be tied to my underlying perception of Ratio and Aventurine's characters as remarkably similar individuals:

It's obvious that Aventurine is not a healthy or well-adjusted adult man, but like... neither is Ratio.

Both of these characters are "not quite right" marginalized people who, at least in my interpretation, have essentially given up on even faking normality and are now just vaguely play acting their way through being functioning members of a universe that is entirely unequipped to accept them for who they are. In a world full of cyborg cowboys and people with wings growing from their heads, the game still manages to somehow convince us that Aventurine and Ratio are odd ones out.

Kakavasha can't even exist in the dystopian capitalist hellscape of the IPC's machinations. "Aventurine" isn't even a real person, just a never-ending performance, a slick, devil-may-care persona without a single ounce of substance.

Ratio, meanwhile, is a world of one, rejected from the only place he thought he could find validation and acceptance but unable to lower himself to fit in anywhere else.

Aventurine is so bad at making genuine connections that he turns everyday conversations into gambles because he doesn't believe people will care enough to keep talking to him without tangible incentive.

Ratio's insistence on treating everyone as students, not as equals, also means he has an excuse to never emotionally engage with anyone he meets. (This is not at all a textbook method of intentional avoidance to prevent any chance of social rejection. Not at all.)

At the end of the day, Aventurine and Ratio both come across as desperately lonely, and so caught up in their own situations that they really don't have the ability to climb out of that hole on their own.

Preventing them from even being able to maintain any form of relationship is also the fact that neither one of them can even find justification. Neither one of them has a reasonable answer to the question "Why am I alive?" anymore, because Aventurine's reason died on Sigonia and Ratio's reason died with an IPC invitation instead of a Genius Society letter. Though their differing perspectives have led them on opposite paths pursuing their own answers to that ultimate question of "Why should I keep living?" (Aventurine was headed toward giving up before the end of Penacony, while Ratio has invented an immeasurable, impossible goal to distract himself from feeling purposeless), both of them are pretty much miserably unfulfilled in their current lives.

They're also both violently allergic to emotional vulnerability and to having any of their flaws or true desires actually be perceived. Both of them put up insanely high walls. Aventurine pushes boundaries with everyone he meets to provoke their hatred in advance, before they can come to disdain him for his "real" flaws. He acts out harmful racist stereotypes to use others' preconceptions for advantage, manipulating every situation he's in--incidentally affirming the stereotypes against his people by doing so.

Ratio puts a physical wall of plaster between himself and others, but the plaster bust actually doesn't have anything on the mental and emotional gymnastics he's engaged in to justify his isolation from the world, doing everything in his power to convince himself that he's isolated by choice, that it's perfectly logical for Veritas Ratio to have nowhere to truly belong, no one to truly belong with. He's so mundane after all. Of course the geniuses don't want him, that's just commonsense. But everyone else is so... different, so foolish, so illogical... It just wouldn't be reasonable of him to try to become one of them either, to be their friend instead of their distant educator. (You know, if you never try to integrate with others, then they can't reject you. Ratio has learned his lesson.)

Somehow, Aventurine and Ratio are two of the most competent and successful people in Star Rail's entire universe and simultaneously also two of the most misfit, reject, dysfunctional messes in the game. Like... Blade has a better support network than Aventurine and Ratio combined. The 7000-pound murderous mech with a disabled, genetically-modified war veteran who never got to live a normal human life hiding inside it is more capable of making friends than Aventurine and Dr. Ratio.

Which is why I love that the devs decided to make their canon backstory: "Some absolute treasures in the IPC and the Intelligentsia Guild had the galaxy-brained idea of pairing Ratio and Aventurine as strategic partners." The game's writing really said: "These two characters are so socially stunted, they have to be assigned a relationship like it's homework."

They may not have it all figured out yet, but the fans see the design: Now that Ratio and Aventurine have each other, they're not alone anymore. I have never seen two characters better fit the "Is anyone going to match my freak?" meme only for the actual answer to be "Yes."

Ratio is "plays chess with himself" levels of loner weird? No problem--Aventurine is "Wanna take bets on who's going to die today?" weirder. Ratio wears a plaster bust to ward off idiots? Aventurine transforms into a monster on command, which is pretty much guaranteed to achieve the same effect.

Ratio wasn't chosen by Nous? That's fine, Aventurine's one job as a "chosen one" was to save his people and now they're all dead. Nobody can keep up with Ratio in conversation? Watch a single comment from Aventurine turn him into a fumbling mess on live television.

Ratio's inability to relate to the experiences and development of any peers his own age have left him extremely isolated and with a permanently scarred sense of self-worth? Wow, I wonder if Aventurine knows exactly what that feels like.

They just... fit.

And, changing focus a little here at the end: While I personally think that recovery from trauma requires internal motivation and self-kindness foremost, I also think that Ratio and Aventurine's relationship should be considered from the perspective of how they help to fill each other's gaps.

Unlike any connection at the Genius Society who will always evoke unpleasant memories of Nous's rejection, Aventurine isn't going to make Ratio feel intellectually inferior. Aventurine has nothing but good things to say about Ratio's intelligence, and it's even apparent that Ratio felt comfortable enough to at least mention his Genius Society woes to Aventurine, something he explicitly does not do with anyone else.

Even when it comes to social interactions, Aventurine isn't going to make Ratio feel inadequate, because honestly? Aventurine's almost as bad at them as Ratio. Aventurine is much better at faking it socially, but when it actually counts? When he's trying to be real with others? A solid 70% of the people who meet Aventurine still end up wanting to strangle him. The guy tried to apologize for threatening to detonate the Trailblazer like a bomb by buying them a model train...

Then there's this:

Aventurine is the only character explicitly called Ratio's equal in game, and more than just treating him respectfully as an equal, Aventurine also exhibits one extreme appeal that no one else in game has ever shown to Ratio: Aventurine makes Ratio feel needed. For Aventurine, Ratio is not a forgettable after-thought as he is to Herta and most of the other geniuses. He's not just "some weird guy who scolds me about school" like he is to the Trailblazer. Ratio's intellect and skill were integral to Aventurine's plan from step one to the very end. Ratio has a place in Aventurine's plots. For a character who directly assesses worth by how beneficial a person can be to others, the fact that Aventurine can make Ratio feel wanted and valued probably produced some of the strongest personal fulfillment Ratio has had in years.

On the opposite side, Ratio's in a unique position. Out of every relevant character in Aventurine's story, Ratio is the only one who has nothing to lose by choosing Kakavasha over "Aventurine." Ratio doesn't profit off Aventurine or take any expensive gifts from him, like the Trailblazer does. He doesn't need Aventurine's luck for anything at all. He'd be able to work for the IPC even if Aventurine wasn't in it. Ratio certainly doesn't want the glitz and glamour of a shallow gambling hustler persona. His work doesn't require Aventurine's continued involvement like Topaz's and Jade's does. He'd probably prefer not to know any Stonehearts at all, thank you for asking.

Outside of deliberate-acting insults about Sigonians for Sunday's sake, we're not told that Ratio has any connections to--and therefore has no preconceived biases against--Sigonians. Being a person who values self-determination and a refusal to live in mediocrity above all else, he would have nothing but esteem for how far Aventurine has managed to come despite the harsh circumstances of his life. Ratio probably wouldn't even think Aventurine's belief in Gaiathra is that strange; one of Ratio's doctorates is actually in theology.

Unlike literally everyone else in the universe who needs "Aventurine," we have every indication that Ratio's respect and admiration will only grow when he finally gets to meet "Kakavasha."

Loneliness, rejection, betrayal, a lack of understanding from others--all of these can leave wounds that only genuine, deep bonds with others can heal.

On death's doorway, in the darkest shadow, when Aventurine had to make the choice between passing on to be with the family that loved him and choosing to return to a reality without them... Ratio's letter was there, telling Aventurine the exact thing he needed to hear to choose life: Someone is waiting for you to come home.

If the resounding rejection of Star Rail's Nihility is belief in humanity's power to make meaning in our own lives through our connections to others, then the ultimate message of Ratio and Aventurine's arc in Penacony is that no one needs to be alone. The world is not as empty as you fear.

And that is a message that Ratio and Aventurine can learn best through each other.

(I just... love them so much...)

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hoseoksluna · 7 months ago

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INFINITY | jjk

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.7k

summary: your birthdays have never been happy until jungkook became your boyfriend.

note: IT'S MY BIRTHDAYYYYYY. and i wrote this little light fic in just a day for the occasion. no smut, just pure fluff and cuteness. i want you all to go back and read this fic on your own bday and imagine you have such an amazing bf like jk:( enjoy! i love you guys. MWAH.

He was supposed to be here.

Or at least that’s what your brain kept telling you throughout the longest workday of your life as your fingers tapped away on the keyboard and you used your sweet sing-song voice to talk to customers—something you do five, sometimes six days a week, although today was different.

Today was your birthday.

A pitifully miserable day that celebrates the moment you came into this world, only to realize, fifteen years later, that you don’t fit in—that it doesn’t have a place for you, where you belong and where you can be happy. A wretched day that your mom doesn’t want to celebrate because the preparations stress her out and because she thinks your family doesn’t really like you and she doesn’t want you to get sad, when they buy you gifts that are disappointing.

As if that mattered. As if you didn’t love your family enough that the gifts aren’t what’s important about this day.

This year shall be different, though. For the first time in your life you have a serious boyfriend that you’ve been with for a whole year now. A round but tall and muscular boyfriend. A Harley-Davidson driving, gold Marlboro-smoking boyfriend that you met a day after your birthday that should’ve been special but wasn’t. You spent it in tears because your mom made you feel guilty about wanting to celebrate it with your family, so you went out the following night with your girls to get drunk, go forget and met this man outside the bar that smoked alone and smiled at you a bit too often whenever you felt his gaze and turned around, your arm half-bent in the air, the cigarette smoke of your own swirling around your shivering form from the cold and the dull excitement that you caught the attention of someone so attractive and adorable at the same time.

The way his eyes glinted in the yellow lights, starry and tender, as if they had never seen the ugly in this world—or perhaps they have, but they never accepted it.

The way they rounded even more when you met them with your own, and the way his mouth parted because he seemingly couldn’t believe that you would notice him.

Your friends knew something you did, innerly, as well—that this man was special and that he was yours. Your best friend, the mom of the friend group, stubbed her cigarette and leaned inside the waterfall of your hair and instructed you what to do.

Stay here and have another cig. We’re going inside.

You felt that it was the right thing to do, and so you smiled and you nodded. Your best friend patted your head, smirked to herself and left without any other word.

You lit up another cigarette.

And Jungkook… he was a moth, transfixed by the flame, gravitating towards you and sparking up a conversation about the happy birthday headband you were wearing. And you stayed there with him until your fingers were numb with the iciness of the night and until you ran out of cigarettes.

But you didn’t go back to your friends all empty.

Jungkook slid two Marlboros of his own into your pack, infiltrated hope into your heart by talking to you so gently and so purely—a hope in a better life and a better world and a better birthday, and infused your lungs with poetry by the way he looked at you.

Like you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

And a month later, after many dates, you had a taste of infinity on his lips. The infinity of the universe, of the world, of the love that had been brewing in you for him. The infinity of life that likes you, that had mercy on you and gave you someone like him. You had shared that with him on many occasions, but the first time he heard it, he sobbed into your hands. And just like you knew it then that he was yours, you couldn’t doubt it at that moment.

He was engraved into your veins, written on the page that has your name within the Book of Life.

And now, a year later, you ponder the hope that has not left the chambers of your heart since that fateful night as you enter your dark, deserted apartment that carries his scent but not his presence.

You expected him to be here, waiting for you to come home after your afternoon shift. Your manager let you leave a half an hour early, an information you texted your boyfriend as soon as you received it, but now as you click on your messages with him, you perceive that he hasn’t even seen it.

It hasn’t even been delivered. Only sent.

Your heart cracks. The infinity thins out. You throw your brown leather purse onto the ground and try, with all your might, to keep your emotions at bay. The words of your mother flood your brain and your spine rounds at the heft of its innermore truth, your tiredness due to your long workday helping, breaking your back until you walk upon the debris of your own bones.

So much for having hope. So much for believing that you could be loved by those closest to you. Why is this happening to you? Why do you have to be so eternally sad? Having the wholeness of the world against you as if you were nothing, as if you weren’t a human being deserving of love—

The rapid railroad of your thoughts is halted by the three-seconds long beeping of your passcode being accepted and when you turn around, the world you thought was against you turns to face you, ready to immerse you in its kindness.

Jungkook enters. And it’s not a bouquet of flowers, whose petals graze against his sweaty temple. No, it’s a humongous pot of a white orchid that swallows all light of the room, only to spit it back down your throat when Jungkook crosses the distance and kisses you until your mind gets woozy, spinning around and around.

A hard, alarming kiss that contains many, many questions.

The light mends your heart, the softness of his lips, despite the harshness of the long peck, gluing all those broken parts together, and your lungs bloom with new flowers of poetry that he’s more than capable of taking care of in you. His free hand grips your waist, intensifying the questions in the kiss and when he pulls back, they thump in his big, round eyes that are never brown, but endlessly black.

They thump so vivaciously that they plunge out of his mouth almost immediately.

“Where were you? I waited for you outside of your work. I wanted to pick you up,” he says, panting, so out of breath as if he ran all the way here and broke a sweat. A bead of perspiration trickles down his other temple—and there, behind his ear, you notice a singular cigarette with a brown butt.

Gold Marlboro.

The sight is an electricity that drives life into your heart, making it beat as if it was never broken in the first place.

Your lips are dry, your throat parched, and you think you need another one of his kisses. As a matter of fact, that’s all you want. His kisses, his sweat, his warm presence.

Him.

“My manager let me go home half an hour early,” you explain, gripping the hand that holds you, feeling guilty. Jungkook’s eyes pierce you, paying the utmost attention to you, coaxing your words out of you. You can vividly see that he needs them. “I texted you. I thought you’d be here.”

Jungkook sighs, closing his eyes for a split second. A wave of relief washes over him and he purses his lips before he presses them not against your own, but against your cheek, his free hand migrating to the back of your head. And the warmth of his palm slaughters all of your bad thoughts, makes space for happy thoughts and happy emotions—and the act is so severely profound that you have to hold onto him, grip his waist like he gripped yours, and take the transformation as best as you can.

“I was so scared,” he whispers onto your cheekbone, resting his face against yours, sinking his fingers into your hair. “If it weren’t for your coworker who told me that you left early, I would still be standing there.” He withdraws, looking down at you and pointing your face up at him. “My phone died. I didn’t get your message. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I wanted to surprise you.”

Your heart enlarges, escaping out of your throat and into the pot he’s still holding. You shake your head, thinking he doesn’t need to be sorry for anything, and pucker your lips to ask for another kiss. Jungkook nearly whimpers at the sight, leaning down and obliging, softening the kiss he’s so willing to give you, melting it into a hundred more kisses that make your tummy flutter. And there, there the hope, which he had suffused you with a year ago, comes to a full circle and you comprehend that as long as you have him, you’ll never spend your birthday in despair.

And because of that, you deepen the kiss.

The tears streaming down your cheeks feel so terribly faint owing to the overwhelmingness of your emotions. It is gladness that clutches your whole being, gratitude second, and your expanding love for him in third place. And all those emotions dissolve into his cheeks in the infinity of your kiss and it is when you press your body against his and wrap your arms around his neck that you realize that the orchid pot isn’t the only gift he has for you. Around the same wrist, belonging to his hand that holds the flower, are hung small gift bags that prevent you from fully dissipating into him—and that is the matter that severs the kiss, which holds the entire universe.

And it’s not the contents of the gift bags that makes it collapse.

It’s the red ring box that he fishes out of his pocket.

Jungkook doesn’t get down on his knee. His hands tremble, very much like your heart, your blood system, your muscles, as he opens the box and allows you to see the gift for your very first special birthday. A diamond ring, held up by a gold lining shaped into an infinity sign. The infinity of his kiss, the infinity of your love for him, the little things you observed that made him cry—all made true in a singular ring that flits in his tattooed, trembling hand. The orchid gets placed on the nearby round table and the foreign emotions, which go beyond the ordinary happy emotions you’ve ever felt, suffocate you. So much that you begin to tremble just the same, sobbing as you turn your gaze away from the magnificent ring to the greater, blurry magnificence of his eyes just to catch the same, identical tears drenching his red, red cheeks.

“Jungkook…” you mewl, sniffling, your constricting lungs not letting you say anything else, and you cup his hands like a flower. Perhaps to still their quivering, perhaps to just simply hold them—feel his warmth, feel the vibrancy of his tattoos—because, truth be told, you have no idea what’s happening.

Jungkook calls you by your name in order to have your full attention and you anticipate finding in him the meaning of this all, stability and groundness. And he doesn’t hesitate. Hell, he doesn’t waste a second.

“My little princess,” he starts but pauses momentarily, his bottom lip quivering as he holds his tears and you fall apart. At the pet name, at the unfolding of his emotions that bear nothing but raw beauty you’d readily die for. “This is my promise to you that I am yours for all infinity. Nothing can break it, nothing can stop it, and that defines our life together. I want to spend it with you until we’re the last two people on this Earth. I know our love will keep us alive.” Tears spurt down onto his cheeks against his strong will and you wipe them away as you feel yourself swelling up with love, with something beyond joy, and with utmost, utmost adrenaline. “I love you with everything in me.” His voice breaks and you break in tandem. Jungkook envelops a buff arm around you, burying you into his chest, and for the last part of his speech, he draws close to your ear. “Happy birthday.”

And he kisses that little seashell, kisses the planes of your cheeks until he finds your lips that he seizes, violently, with his until the infinity bursts at the seams, imbuing you with its eternal, yet different energy that promises that everything from now on shall be joyful and beautiful. His sob entangles with yours and, pulling away with a smack, he grins down at you. No piercings, just the flush of his cheeks and the love for you he radiates adorning him—and you love him.

You love him so awfully devastatingly.

And you tell him. You tell him as he takes your left second-last finger and slides the promise ring down that digit. And you tell him again when you meet his eyes, as if for the first time all over again and jump into his arms. The diamond reflects the light, stealing it, hiding it for you and him, the size of the ring fitting so perfectly that another set of tears gush through.

And then he’s patting your bum, telling you to open your gifts and he kneels with you on the floor and goes through each bag he got you. A red lipstick, a perfume, a black silky dress with matching stilettos—all of which he wants you to wear on a Saturday night with him to celebrate. Then, all your favorite ‘you’ things that you love. Face masks, even lip masks, bath bombs, shower gels and body creams. Fluffy socks, pajamas, granny panties. A bottle of red wine and four packs of grape ice vape.

Jungkook leaves you stunned. And you don’t have time to process all those wonderful things because suddenly you’re up on your feet and you’re led into a rhythm of a song he begins to hum, slow dancing with you in your living room. One hand firm on your waist, the other just as firm clasped around your hand, his eyes fixed on you, mouth in that everlasting pout.

And you fade into him. Don’t think about your mother and the hurtful things she said. They cease to exist in the atmosphere of your shared life with him, more now than ever. You focus on the stability of his grip on you, the smoothness of his hand, the tightness you feel on your waist that grounds you, your feet that get on well with his in this dance and your hips that he loves to see moving. You focus on yourself; you focus on him. On the way he dressed up for you, ironed his black shirt and on the way he still smells so good, even though he broke a sweat.

On the way he just committed his life to you.

And then, he’s dressing you in the pajamas he bought you. Baggy and banana-patterned, beige and yellow colored, sitting you down on your couch and lifting your legs, one by one, to keep your feet warm with your matching socks. He’s taking your make-up off, brushing your teeth and smoothing down a face mask on your forehead, cheeks and chin, pecking you sweetly. And you’re straddling him, putting the same one on the planes of his face, and as you’re focusing, he meditates on something within his heart.

And Jungkook shares it with you, all ruffled, sleepy and puffy.

“I love you, my little princess. For all infinity.”

You breathe it in, believing him.

“I love you, Jungkookie. For all infinity.”

You fall asleep like this—on his bare chest with your face mask still on, one that he peels off after the fifteen minute mark. And you dream about what your infinity with him looks like as your age no longer matters and stops here.

Infinitely young, infinitely loved.

�� ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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magicalbats · 5 months ago

Text

Soft Edges (Harumasa x Reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 3756

Warnings: afab!reader, chronic illness, piv, condoms, angst with porn

⭐

Spring rains bring summer flowers, and the clawing death rattle at the end of the world.

The moisture in the air bothers his lungs.

You spend some time puttering around in his small kitchenette, preparing a herbal infused tea to help soothe the ache in his throat while he coughs and hacks incessantly in the other room. It makes the one bedroom apartment smell vaguely like an apothecary rather than a hospital bed.

That seems to come as a relief almost as much as the warm drink does when he sips on it, humming a low sound of appreciation before thanking you for the thoughtful gesture.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress with him, you study Harumasa for any signs of further deterioration in his condition. There were good days and there were bad days, and today was just unfortunate enough to be one of the latter. The hot tea and its medicinal properties seem to do him some good though. He doesn’t look like he’s in the process of actively dying on you, at least.

Noticing your lingering stare on him, he lifts his attention to peer over at you. “What? Is there something on my face?” His voice is still a bit raspy. Weak.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me where it is so I can get it.” His unoccupied hand, the one not currently wrapped around the cup he’s got braced against his knee, comes up to swipe at the corner of his mouth, his cheek. But the knowing twinkle in his eye belies his sincerity and gives him away.

Laughing despite your best attempt not to, you reach out to gently tug his arm back down. “Stop that. You know I’m just worried about you. It’s not nice to tease me.”

“But I told you I’m fine, sweetheart. There’s nothing to worry about.” He assures you, his fingers snatching at yours before you can pull them out of his reach.

Successfully snagging them, he makes quick work of sliding his palm over yours and fitting the digits together like they were a perfectly aligned puzzle snapping into place.

And beyond the sterile sanctity of his apartment, the pelting rain buffets at the windows, an incessant staccato played to the tune of the howling wind.

His skin feels clammy, you notice, and you wonder if you should go get the space heater out of the closet in the hallway. It was almost summer in New Eridu but the rain had brought with it an unseasonable chill that had even made you opt for a hoodie before venturing outside. He was probably feeling it worse than you were.

“Haru - -“

“You don’t need to fret over me so much every time you come over,” He tells you gently, his thumb idly brushing over the back of your knuckles. “No matter how much you may want to be, you’re not actually a nurse you know. And for the better, really.”

“Why is that?” You ask, earning yourself a softly husking laugh from him.

“You’re way too cute, for starters. I’d never be able to control myself and I’d get into all sorts of trouble. Can you imagine your patient popping a hard on in the middle of you trying to help them get dressed? You’d hate it too, don’t lie.”

Rolling your eyes at that, you start to pull away but he holds fast to your hand. The way he snickers, low and quiet, like his lungs couldn’t take anything more than that, almost pulls at your heartstrings enough to distract you from his real angle. But at the same time it’s also an intimately familiar sound that you don’t associate with his illness at all, in so much as you could separate one from the other. He often laughed like that when he was in the process of turning your own body utterly against you.

Warming at the thought, you shoot him a halfhearted look of warning. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not incapable of dressing yourself then.”

“Mm, perhaps. But I’m afraid that’s not gonna’ stop me from getting a hard on though.”

He throws you a playful wink to go with it and you draw a quick breath to chide him for not taking his health more seriously, for always downplaying his own mysterious maladies. But the words catch in your throat when he suddenly tugs your captured hand across his lap.

Right into the center is where he presses it, making sure you feel the stirring outline of him through his cozy pajama bottoms. That he’d managed to change into them at all before knocking out under the medicated lull of myriad sleep aids and nervous system suppressing narcotics the night before was likely a small miracle. Sometimes the looming possibility of Harumasa needing help with basic everyday functions like dressing himself did not seem like such a far off what-if.

It was not yet that day though and he was still in control of his body, at least for the time being.

Lifting your gaze, you find his eyes underneath the attractively tousled fringe of his bangs where it was slipping forward without the usual headband in place to keep his hair back. He’s smiling at you, a barely there upward curl of his mouth that almost reads of fatigue rather than sly intent. The ghostly suggestion of tension lines on his otherwise blemish free face further solidifies that impression.

But the way he looks at you speaks volumes, loudly conveying the message of the young man he might have been if he were not so plagued by ill health. He was sickly, yes. There was no getting around that uncomfortable truth no matter how much he tried to write off the severity of it.

Yet he was by all accounts in the prime of his life, or he should have been anyway. Just a headstrong twenty something with the libido to match. He wanted to live, to experience. You could certainly give him that.

“Are you sure?” At his nod, you carefully adjust your hand to close your fingers around the slowly stiffening length of him. He breathes a quiet sigh when you squeeze it through the thin layer of his bottoms. Keen and perfectly eager, but as always you were wary about going into it too hard and too fast. Especially after that coughing fit he had earlier …

“Don’t make that face,” He murmurs. Stretching his arm out to the side, he sets the nearly empty cup on the bedside table right next to the menagerie of prescription pill bottles left out in disarray. “You’re not going to break me or kill me. Promise. I said I’m fine, didn’t I?”

You think the two of you must have drastically different ideas of what it means to be fine but you don’t say that to him or push the topic any further than that. For his sake as much as for your own.

And when Harumasa reaches for you, pulling you in against him, you willingly relent and sink happily into the familiar warmth of his lean, athletic frame. He feels sturdy enough that you don’t let your mind linger on it any longer than necessary and instead give yourself over to the searing kiss he presses into your mouth. You trust him to know his own limits, to recognize when something was actually wrong versus when he was just going through a bad flare up or having a shitty day. If he was feeling well enough to initiate this then you were happy to oblige.

Which was the real crux of it, wasn’t it? The problem with a casual hookup turned long term relationship through some inexplicable means that you still weren’t entirely clear on even to this very day. What should have been a one time exchange somehow became months spent together, and now these sorts of physical exchanges were one of the rare comforts you still had that everything was going to be okay. Somehow, someway, it would all work out in the end.

Because he certainly doesn’t seem frail and prone to illness when he bodily hauls you up further onto the bed so he can toss you down next to him with an expert flip. Your weight bounces against the mattress once from the momentum and then he’s on top of you, pinning you in place underneath him. The Harumasa you’d met that very first night and the one you make herbal tea for to soothe his throat were sometimes difficult to reconcile in your mind. But there was no mistaking that they were indeed one and the same in moments like this.

Leaning over you, his mouth meets yours in a slow motion crash, hungry and eager to taste, eliciting a low moan of wanting from you. Kissing him back, you lift your arms to twine them around his neck while his hands slip under your hoodie to feel along your front. The shirt underneath is quickly rucked up to give him access to your chest where he hooks his fingers into the band of your bra, inching it down while his tongue tangles with yours.

You gladly arch into his touch and your tits slip free to brush against the interior of your sweatshirt unimpeded. The sensation makes you full on shudder. Tearing your mouth away from his, you loose a quaking exhale into the still apartment which he responds to with a soft groan. The sound makes your socked toes curl as he shoves a hard kiss into the soft swell of your cheek, your jaw, then your neck.

Unable to go any further past the bulk of the hood gathered around your throat, Harumasa pushes back just enough to give himself room to work. Grabbing the hem and shoving it up to bunch under your chin, he quickly brings his hands back down to slip them into your stretchy leggings next. Your achingly stiff nipples strain in the open air now, making the growing knot in your lower stomach tighten even more.

A new buzzing thrum of anticipation runs through you as you lift your hips up off the bed, allowing him the space needed to yank them down your legs. They’re immediately discarded as soon as he’s got them off, carelessly tossed to the floor before he crawls back up to cover your body with his again.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, lowering himself to his elbows so he can fully cage you in. His mouth finds its way to yours as if pulled by some invisible string and you drag your hands down his lithe frame while you exchange another heated kiss.

Sliding underneath the rumpled back of his long sleeved shirt, your fingers quickly locate the top band of his pants and tug. The two of you are pressed too tight together in a tangle of limbs, slowly grinding against one another, for you to pull them more than half of the way down. That’s decidedly fine though, and you take to gently kneading over the exposed strip of his ass with encouraging squeezes that just make him press into you even harder.

The outline of his cock is rigid and unrelenting where it digs against you, moulding your panties to the shape of your labia. You’re eager for the friction of his cock moving inside you, flesh sliding against warm, sticky flesh, and you can tell he is too. Yet he doesn’t rush it and instead takes his time savoringly rolling his hips as if to drag it out and make it last just that little bit longer.

Or, an unhelpful voice in the back of your mind suggests, maybe this slow tempoed pace is all he can handle right now.

That chilling thought curbs any impulse you might have to speed things up and take your pleasure from him, allowing Harumasa to set the pace while you simply follow his lead. The first night you’d met after a brief exchange of text messages you’d wrestled with him for dominance in this very bed to see who would come out on top. Now, however, you’re pliant and perfectly in tune with the signals of his body, lessening the demanding pressure of your hands when his breath starts to become a bit too labored.

Groaning a shuddering noise of appreciation, he nudges himself down to your chest where he covers one pert nipple with his mouth. A roughly calloused palm comes up to grab and pinch at the other while he suckles your teat to aching attention, using his lips and his tongue to lave at the bud. His pulse soon seems to even out again and the shallow contractions of his chest become not quite so dramatic. Still, you worry about him.

“You should switch me spots, Haru.” You tell him gently as you thread your fingers through his soft, silken hair, cradling him to your breast. “Let me be on top this time.”

Harumasa comes up off your tit to shoot you an overly confident smirk, one you’re not quite sure he can back up right now. But you don’t protest or tell him to stop when he reaches between you to fist at his pants, shoving them down in the front to let his cock spring loose. “That won’t be necessary. Really, I had no idea I was dating such a mother hen. I’m not made of glass, babe.”

A mournful chord curls through you, dousing the knotted heat in your stomach by some small margin.

At the same time the rain picks up outside as if mirroring the tumultuous rising current of emotion in your chest. It smacks at the windows so hard they begin to rattle in their frames, thunder booming loudly somewhere in the not far off distance. The storm was getting worse. You hope the electricity doesn’t go out.

“I know you’re not.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Keeping his tone light and playful, Harumasa stretches over you to pull open the bedside table drawer. A condom is quickly located and pulled out, the foil wrapper crinkling lightly when he starts to rip it open. “Even if I was on my deathbed I think I could still make you scream. I wouldn’t underestimate me if I were you.”

“Please don’t joke like that.” You snip back at him, not finding it even remotely funny. But he just laughs another low snickering sound as rolls the flesh colored rubber over his stiff cock almost down to the base. Feeling a mild pang of remorse, you draw a careful breath and say much more gently, “You don’t have to wear those if you don’t want to, Haru. I told you I’m taking birth control.”

Humming a quiet sound, he gives himself a brief pump of his hand over the latex before settling between your legs once again, his hips nudging close to line up with yours. “Don’t worry about it. This is just fine.”

You’re not so sure you believe that. But for as long as you've known him he’s always been adamant about using protection and you don’t understand his reasons enough to really argue against it. He’d said once he just didn’t want to take any risks or run the chance of leaving you worse off than when you’d met him. You hadn’t been sure what to make of that then and you still don’t know what to make of it now.

There were a great many things about Harumasa that remained a mystery to you though, like what exactly was wrong with him, what his diagnosis was. No matter how you posed the question he was never outright or forthcoming about that either. And while it bothered you sometimes, undeniably so, you’d found that your feelings for him were much too tender for you to push him on such topics. He’d tell you when and if he was ever ready.

So you reach up and take him into your arms, pulling him against your chest while he tugs your panties to the side with his thumb. His mouth angles towards yours on a steady, unfaltering trajectory and he kisses you deeply, sinking into you with a stilted sigh of relief.

The weight of his body coming to rest on top of you prods the head of his cock at your entrance, pushing in on clinging, sticky viscous arousal. You’re keenly aware of the heat of him even through the barrier of the condom and you issue a faint moan against his lips as your legs come up to lock around his waist. The careful squeeze you give him has Harumasa sinking inside you, slowly stretching your inner sleeve to the now familiar shape and size of him.

Another teeth rattling peel of thunder sounds right overhead, as if the very center of the storm was hovering directly above the building. Perhaps it was watching the scene play out, its destructive energy growing and cresting in time with your pleasure while the two of you move in tandem with each other. Or maybe it had taken offense to the measly little ants getting it on first thing in the morning instead of bowing down and cowering in the face of its mighty wrath.

Or maybe — just maybe, it was trying to warn you. One of you, both of you. You or him. It was impossible to say when the notion itself was so ludicrous but you can’t quite shake the feeling of existential uncertainty that sits like a lead weight in your gut now.

It feels good having him thrust inside of you, just like you’d known it would. If you were only a bit more naive, in fact, you might have almost thought Harumasa had been made for you, and you him, given the way he seems to rub against every single pleasure inducing nerve ending along the way. You can’t help but grow wetter for him, tightening for him when your muscles eagerly clench down on the steel of his galvanized length. And you freely moan into his mouth where he’s still kissing you between soft rattling groans but …

Why was he so dead set on using condoms even at this casually crucial junction of the relationship, after all these months spent together in sickness and in health? Did he not trust you? Did he think you were lying about the birth control and he simply wanted to avoid being stuck with you indefinitely?

Or — could it actually be that the problem lies with him, resting squarely on his shoulders rather than yours? Did he fear what taking that final step would mean, what the end result of it might manifest when he was always prone to bad bouts of illness?

Was the looming possibility of the existential end really so close that he needed to worry about such things?

This was no way for a twenty something to live, and you cling to him all the more fervently for it, desperately clutching him to you like a lifeline. You wanted to save him but you don’t know how, so you open your body to him instead. Shelter, comfort and peace; the safe haven of flesh and blood, and heated breaths swapped back and forth between two locked mouths.

And Harumasa gladly loses himself in you as if in chasing his release he could also escape the cold, bony fingers that hover just out of reach behind him. His flexing hips quicken, smacking into you with abandon now, and he sobs a frantic moan that you greedily swallow, taking it into yourself before feeding it back to him.

His skin is so clammy under your hands. Like even the flush of arousal couldn’t completely disperse the chill that’s taken up root in him, and your heart skips a harrowing beat when his labored breaths suddenly turn thick with choking little gasps. His chest positively heaves against yours as your hands fly up to take his cheeks between your palms, carefully pushing him back just enough to look into his face.

Expression wretched, Harumasa whimpers a low sound as if in apology while his pace slows to a weak crawl, almost a total standstill. He doesn’t completely stop fucking into you though, his cock stiffly nudging through your slick inner sleeve at such a stilted, uneven rhythm you know finishing like this will be impossible for you. But that doesn’t really matter now. It’s the very least of your concerns as you softly shush him, cooing gentle reassurances that make him screw his eyes shut as if he were in pain.

He barely manages to reach his peak before the coughing takes hold of him again. It doubles him over and makes him collapse on top of you where he proceeds to shove his face into the pillow next to your head. You’re only distantly aware of his cock flexing within you and filling the tip of the condom with impotent seed, the vast majority of your attention fixed on the way he hacks and wheezes through the fit that assails him. It bows his spine into a dramatic, worrying hunch which you gently try to smooth out with your hand. It’s no use though. He can’t seem to get it under control.

“Harumasa, let me help you.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He croaks, very clearly not fine.

Sucking in a sharp, clawing breath that seems to rip his throat on the way down, he slowly manages to rouse himself enough to pull out and roll off of you. You’re quick to follow him though, pushing up to your elbow so you can look down at him while your hand continues to ineffectively rub over his shuddering back. He sounds like he’s going to cough out a lung. The thought of calling for an ambulance momentarily crosses your mind but you know how he feels about the hospital. Only if it’s an actual emergency, he’d once told you.

But how the hell were you supposed to know when that line had been crossed?

Unsure what else to do, you lean further over him so you can reach down and carefully help him take the used condom off. It’s a difficult task in this position, when he’s half curled over on his side like this, still struggling to get his breathing under control, but you manage, somehow. Just like with everything else, you try to make it work.

And outside the unsympathetic storm rages on.

⭐

Crossposted: here

#zenless zone zero #harumasa asaba #harumasa x reader #self insert bullshit

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seraphinitegames · 5 months ago

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Hello, wonderful being(s) who operate this blog. Wayhaven has become a sort of home for me and I thank you so much for making and sharing it with all of us. It’s amazing to watch the world and fandom grow and following the process with you!? Incredibly generous and dedicated of you! It’s so clear that this is a labor of love and I hope that after all your hard work you are impressed or at the very least satisfied with the incredible amount of work you put into every aspect of this. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Feel free to ignore this, but it’s a question I think about often while reading Wayhaven. We all know that N doesn’t like technology and believes (perhaps rightly so) that nowadays we rely on electronics too much. I happen to be legally blind and rely heavily on technology to get around that. Such as using my phone camera to zoom in on something I can’t see or read. Or having to need a voiceover to ‘read’ my books for me. N is my favorite and I wonder how they (and perhaps A, since they’re so old and seem to be rather wary of tech too) would feel about this aspect of technology or if the MC had to depend on such workarounds for their own limitations. I love how independent and capable the MC is and that there is no pressure or plans for the MC to become a vampire. But this particular ‘what if” comes to me often if I happen to be thinking of Wayhaven while I go about my day with my little tricks and such to do what I need to in order to see and get about.

So sorry for the long winded message. >.< Thank you so much again.

Aah, what a wonderful and kind message! Thank you so, so much! I'm so happy to hear Wayhaven is a home for you. I truly wanted it to be a space people can fall into and just lose themselves in.

As for your question, Nate/Nat probably would never have thought of the benefits of technology in this way. When they can fall back on magically-infused aids to help in things, that's where they would go to!

Adam/Ava is at least more open to uses of technology, but doesn't tend to use tech outside of what the Agency offers too.

N and N came from ages where tech just wasn't a thing, and even after all these centuries, they haven't come to rely on it yet, lol! :D

Thank you so much for the ask and again for the amazing message! <3

#the wayhaven chronicles #asks #interactive fiction #unit bravo #vampires #romance #twc detective #technology #reaction ask #backstory #choice of games #hosted games

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sugurugetoshairbrush · 1 month ago

Note

When do we get our next installment of stoner suguru? No rush, but I am FROTHING at the mouth! I am always so impressed by your talent 🖤

-megumisdivinedogs

THC-Infused Dining with Stoner!Suguru Getou

(except Gojo’s the chef) [prev]

ask, & you shall receive—the meal is plentiful: 10k wrds

[cw: mentions of shooting / Sugu eats more than just dinner ;) ]

Waking up takes effort. More than usual.

Your eyelids feel like they’ve been weighed down with bricks, stubborn in their refusal to lift. There’s a choice to make: stay swallowed by the dark pull of sleep, or drag yourself back into the sharp discomfort of reality. Right now, unconsciousness is winning. It’s easy. Quiet. But the dull throb in your shoulder won’t let you drift off completely—it keeps tugging at you, reminding you that you’re still here, still in pain.

You let out a low groan, one you’ve come to associate with the bullet wound. Even with the strong-ass painkillers they gave you, the ache lingers, constant and mean. You’d think it’d fade by now, or at least your body would get used to it—but no. Your body is as stubborn as your spirit.

Blinking your eyes open is a slow crawl, but it pays off. Some of the pressure in your shoulder eases once you realize Gojo’s sprawled out halfway across you, hand flopped awkwardly over the sore spot. His palm is bent back, knuckles grazing your collarbone, fingers curled loosely where your shirt dips open.

You squirm out of his touch and shift, settling yourself against Suguru’s chest instead, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. The movement’s minimal, but both of them still have a hand clinging to your oversized sleep shirt—one Suguru had helped you into last night, being extra careful not to jostle your wound.

Suguru, bless his heart, has become a total helicopter boyfriend—having assumed the role himself. Always hovering, always watching, insisting on helping you with everything—even if it’s something you can obviously do yourself. Gojo’s the same, in his own disjointed way—two sides of the same coin. What started as your closeness to Gojo through Suguru had, somewhere along the way, become something else entirely. Not romantic. Not strictly platonic. Just… yours.

To anyone on the outside, the dynamic probably seems strange. But to you, it makes perfect sense.

The only real complaint this morning? Suguru’s room is a damn sauna. The blinds are half-open, sunlight blazing through them, blankets stacked too high, and three bodies’ worth of heat making it nearly unbearable.

You glance up just in time to catch a bead of sweat forming at Suguru’s hairline. It rolls down his temple, along his cheekbone, and trails past his jaw down his neck—right to where your forehead is pressed against him. It glides over the small mole at his pulse point, and for a moment, you consider licking it off—before thinking better of it. To your ongoing dismay, you still don’t have the full mobility to finish any of the debauchery you insist on starting.

Instead, you lean in, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear and whisper, “Su-gu-ru. Wake up, love.”

He huffs, then groans softly.

Long lashes flutter. His head turns a little.

“Hm… what’s wrong? You okay?”

His voice is thick with sleep, words slow. You nuzzle closer, your nose brushing his cheek. From this angle, you can’t see his face clearly, but the concern in his tone is unmistakable.

“I’m fine, just… Sato’s putting pressure on my shoulder again.”

Right on cue, Gojo’s fingers twitch—then one of his nails digs in, shooting a bolt of pain through your shoulder and down your spine.

Suguru shifts immediately, moving you off him with careful hands, then—not so carefully—shoves Gojo’s head.

Gojo barely stirs, grumbling like a cat and burrowing deeper into your side.

You try a gentler touch, brushing your lips near his ear like you did Suguru.

“Sato, sweetheart. You’re hurting me.”

That does it.

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted, legs slipping off the bed as he lurches away from you. Wide blue eyes, tousled hair, cheeks flushed, drool crusted on his lips—it’s a whole look.

You burst into a giggle.

“What?” he says, blinking. “What’s funny?”

“You look like a wreck,” you tease. “Like you didn’t just fall asleep—you crashed. Like full-body impact. Highway collision.”

He squints at you, then scowls. “The fuck? An impromptu roast and assault first thing in the morning? That’s cold.”

He wipes at his mouth and eyes in the same motion. “Reel in your man, please.”

“He was just looking out for me,” you say with a shrug, rolling your shoulder slowly. The pain’s still there, sharp around the edges, but manageable. “If this is gonna be our sleeping situation now, y’all are gonna have to learn to work around me.”

“Kaaay,” Gojo mutters, flopping back dramatically.

“Yes, ma’am,” Suguru echoes, already coaxing you back against him with a hand on your cheek.

Gojo stretches out across the foot of the bed, kicking his legs restlessly, his Digimon shorts riding up. Suguru presses a kiss to your forehead, then rests his chin on the top of your head.

It’s calm. Quiet. Safe.

They’ve both taken time off to help you recover—putting everything else on pause without hesitation. You didn’t even have to ask. That guilt still hangs between the three of you though, unspoken but heavy.

“How’s the pain today?” Suguru murmurs.

Gojo perks up, watching you closely, too closely, like he’s trying to read your mind.

You lie. “Four out of ten.”

Gojo narrows his eyes, and suddenly it feels like he’s staring at you with six of them.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh. “Six. Maybe seven.”

“I’ll get your meds. Apple sauce too. Strawberry, not pear—don’t worry, I remember. Unlike some people.” He sticks his tongue out and dodges a pillow Suguru chucks at his head. “Be right back!”

As part of the now-established routine, Suguru also slips out of bed, heading toward the bathroom to grab fresh gauze and ointment.

You sink deeper into the pillows, letting your thoughts drift—back, always back—to the car chase, the flash of the gun, the sound of the shot.

Your hand finds your chest, fingers splayed just above your heartbeat.

Every morning since that night has felt monumental—like life handed you a sharper sense of purpose. You find yourself reflecting, to remind yourself: yeah, you’re still here. Still kicking.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

“Shit—Shoko, what do I do? She passed out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—help me!”

“What happened?! Wait—she was really hit?!”

“Just drive, Toji!”

“Suguru, breathe—where’s the wound?!”

“Shoulder. It’s bleeding. I’m gonna fucking kill you, Toji.”

“Pull over.”

“No, no. Can’t—we’re not far enough away yet!”

“Then go to a damn hospital. Or the police. Something.”

“Nanami, you know we can’t—”

“Toji, are you FUCKING serious?!”

The car was pure chaos—voices overlapping in a frantic blur, panic rising with every second, adrenaline spiking to a fever pitch. The wheels jerked on uneven asphalt. The sound of tires screeching under fast turns blended with the panic coming from all sides. Everything was loud, everything was moving too fast.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, each jolt of the car pulling you back or shoving you under.

In.

“I lost them. We’re clear. Let me pull over.”

Out.

In.

“Lay her down—elevate her arm. We need to cut around the wound.”

“Shit—her shirt’s soaked. It’s sticky, and—fuck, is that too much blood?”

Out.

In.

“Use my tie. Tourniquet, upper arm.”

“Thanks, Nanami. Finally, something useful.”

“I offered an Oxy!”

“You’re pill-pushing—you want to give her pain relief or just push a habit? Junkie.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Get the fuck away from her!”

Out.

In.

“Gojo, look over this with me. You’ve got good eyes—see any fragments?”

“Um, I think it just grazed her. Partial entry? Skin’s torn but not super deep.”

“Okay, good. Now run to that store, grab—”

Out.

In.

“Press the bottle to her shoulder—cold as we’ve got.”

“Is she waking up?”

“Hard to tell.”

“TOJI, GET THE FUCK UP—”

“Mind helping me keep Suguru from committing a homicide in this damn parking lot?”

“—broke my fucking nose, YOU PSYCHO!”

Out.

In.

“Hey, squeeze my finger if you can hear me,” Shoko’s voice cut through, low and steady, warm against the backdrop of shouting.

You felt her finger slide into your palm.

“Squeeze it, come on.”

You managed a weak grip.

“Good. Open up—pain meds. You’ll want them, trust me.”

Two pills pressed to your lips. Then water followed—cool, gentle, some of it spilling down your chin. You swallowed slowly.

“Don’t talk,” Shoko murmured. “You’ll be okay. The wound’s clean, not life-threatening, but you’re going to see a professional—non-negotiable. I still have medical connects. Guy who’ll treat you without questions.”

Her voice dipped, dry but amused.

“Suguru knocked Toji clean out. It would’ve been hilarious if we didn’t have to pull several muscles holding them apart after.”

You tried to open your eyes, but a damp cloth was covering them, warm from your skin. Shoko’s cool hand rested on your forehead.

“You’re running a light fever. Focus on breathing for now, alright?”

So you did.

You breathed, let yourself float on her voice, let them load you back into the car, let them take you to the walk-in clinic tucked between two nameless storefronts. The drive was a blur.

Inside, the exam room was sterile and too bright. The doctor said nothing as they poked at your shoulder, mask hiding any hint of expression. Gloved hands pressed your arm down. Cold metal dug into raw flesh, scraping at dried blood, opening the wound wider to clean it further. You couldn’t see much, but you felt everything.

The pain flared, white-hot and blinding.

Suguru held your hand in a death grip. Shoko stroked your temple. Gojo muttered nonsense under his breath like a bad distraction. Nanami kept telling you to breathe through your nose.

It didn’t help.

Toji hovered too close, trying to say something—an apology, maybe. Suguru snapped.

“Get the fuck away from her.”

Toji didn’t move.

“I swear to god—”

“Okay!” Gojo suddenly barked, springing into action. He plucked cotton pads from a cabinet, tore them apart, and gently pressed the fluff into your ears.

“Better?” he mouthed, eyes wide.

The noise dulled immediately. Voices reduced to murmurs. A single sense cut off.

You could still taste the copper tang in your mouth—your lip torn open from biting it too hard. You could smell antiseptic, that sharp clinical sting as the doctor finished bandaging you up. You could feel the slight tremor in your fingers and the pressure of Suguru’s hand in yours. You didn’t realize you were crying again until Shoko brought more water to your mouth and dabbed your cheeks with gauze.

Eventually, the doctor finished. Instructions were handed off. Supplies were bagged. And you were helped to your feet.

You made it to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.

Your reflection nearly broke you.

Wide, bloodshot eyes. Tear tracks on your cheeks. A makeshift sling over your shoulder. Shirt torn at the seam. Dirt smudged along your collarbone.

You looked terrible.

And worse than that… exposed.

Stripped down to your most vulnerable—laid bare for all of them to see. It was mortifying.

But when you shuffled back out and sank into the recliner, they were all there. Circling you. Hovering. Whispering their relief. Checking your temperature. Brushing your hair back. Passing you water and meds with trembling hands.

That’s when it hit you.

They cared. Really, deeply cared. You weren’t alone.

And that was enough.

Honestly, it was a fucking miracle you walked away with just a shoulder wound. It could’ve been worse—should’ve been worse. But you were still breathing. Still here. And somehow, everyone else was too—gathered around you, untouched but shaken, refusing to leave your side.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

Even as your shoulder healed up fast, the aftermath of getting shot lingered in weirder, messier ways—mostly between Suguru and Toji.

Toji had tried showing up at Suguru’s apartment multiple times since the incident. And every single time? Door slammed in his face. Once on his foot. Another time on his hand, which Suguru didn’t even pretend was an accident. He was furious. The kind of deep, simmering rage that no amount of apologies—or bruised toes—could cool down.

Weeks passed. You had time to process what happened, to recover both physically and mentally. The grudge you were holding started to fizzle out, like the last bubbles in a half-flat soda. But Suguru? He was like dropping a Mentos into a bottle of Coke—still exploding every time someone even mentioned Toji’s name.

You ended up pulling Gojo aside one night, just to get his honest read.

“I mean,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “Toji definitely fucked up. No argument there. But it wasn’t on purpose, y’know? He panicked. Poor judgment, yeah, but not malicious.”

And to his credit, Gojo had a point. You hadn’t exactly seen Toji thriving post-shooting. Mostly, he looked like a guilty, oversized stray dog lurking around the block. Sad eyes. Slumped shoulders. Loitering near the building like he was trying to manifest forgiveness just by being visible.

One afternoon, the loudspeakers in his car were blasting Reasonable Doubt on loop—Regrets on repeat for over an hour. Not subtle. Almost impressively on-the-nose.

Even little Megumi had taken notice. He cornered Gojo at one point and asked, “What’s wrong with my dad? He’s being weird.” Which was Megumi-speak for emotionally constipated and clingy. You figured he was mostly mad about having his freedom clipped—less time sneaking around with his badass little friends, more time with Toji attached to him like a koala in mourning.

Weirdly enough, Toji had picked up a construction job. A legit one. Which made you wonder why he hadn’t done it sooner, considering the guy was built like a human forklift and could definitely bench a refrigerator. From what Gojo told you, he was doing alright. Maybe even better than when he was neck-deep in sketchy side hustles.

The whole thing—the shooting, the near-miss, all of it—had shifted things in unexpected ways. Not all bad, either.

For one, it kicked Suguru and Gojo’s creativity into overdrive. When they weren’t nursing you back to health—changing your bandages, managing your meds, washing your hair with the gentleness of actual saints—they were spitballing ideas. Gojo, of course, took the lead on trying to expand their business model into operations fancier than dime bags and ziplocs.

He’d been cooking. Literally.

Tinkering with recipes for THC-infused meals, half-baked plans for a cannabis supper club or a branded edible line. Gojo called it Elevated Dining, which made Suguru roll his eyes hard enough to sprain something.

Since you were still on painkillers—and banned from smoking—Suguru and Gojo joined you in abstaining. You were stir-crazy without your usual wind-down routine. Honestly, you were itching for something—weed, wine, anything that didn’t come in an orange prescription bottle. Shoko agreed. She even dropped off a couple CBD samples and shot a look Suguru’s way that basically said, relax, man—ease up already.

He didn’t. Not fully.

Suguru had been militant about your recovery. No cutting corners. No shortcuts. But Gojo had finally gotten him to agree to one joint venture: a THC-infused dinner he was planning as both a trial run and a celebration. Thirty days since the shooting. You were scabbed up, sore, but stable—and more than ready to get back to your roots.

The thought of it was satisfying on every front.

Good food. Good vibes. Good people.

Finally, a chance to exhale.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

“Open.”

Big blue eyes blink up at you, framed by lashes so white they’re almost translucent, just a few shades lighter than Gojo’s pale skin. You obediently part your lips and let him spoon in a dollop of fruity applesauce. It coats your tongue, smooth and sweet, washing away the bitter aftertaste of the meds you just took. You didn’t need to be fed—your shoulder worked fine—but you let him baby you anyway.

Suguru, still crouched at your side, finishes adjusting the bandage. He’s meticulous about it, fingers moving with practiced care as he smooths the wrap along the slope of your shoulder. You can tell he’s not satisfied until it looks symmetrical, clean, perfectly aligned.

“You like it?” Gojo asks proudly. “I got the good stuff from Whole Foods. Not that weird off-brand knockoff with the weird cartoon apple.”

“Yeah? And whose card did you use?” Suguru deadpans without looking up.

“Objection. Relevance?”

You giggle, “Overruled.”

“Aw, baby,” Suguru sighs dramatically, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t take his side. We need to maintain a united front against the hurricane force that is Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo hums, folding his arms. “Interesting metaphor, coming from the man who’s knocked the wind out of Toji twice in the past month. Literally.”

“Yeah, well. Fuck that guy.”

You and Gojo share a quick glance—one of those quiet, mutual looks laced with concern. Suguru doesn’t usually hate people. Not like this. And holding onto that anger for so long was taking a toll on him. Eventually, you’ll all have to sit him down and actually talk before it calcifies into something uglier.

Gojo senses the tension and cuts in fast, lifting his phone with a dramatic flourish. “Ahem! Now, if I could direct your attention to tonight’s exclusive menu.”

He swipes a few times and angles the screen toward both of you, revealing a PDF that looks surprisingly legit, like something you’d see at a trendy LA pop-up.

Tonight’s Tasting Menu – Curated by Chef Gojo Satoru Appetizer: Caramel Popcorn – Drizzled in salty-sweet cannabutter and topped with a touch of sugar for a mouthwatering crunch. Main Course: Pasta with Clams & Green Chiles – A savory twist on a classic, featuring a green chile ragout and cannabis-infused clam sauce. Dessert: Salted Caramel Fudge Brownies – Dense, gooey, chocolatey perfection, baked with cannabutter. Cooked with love (and a little THC), by yours truly – GS

Suguru lets out a low laugh, tapping his chin. “Safe to say when I end up with early-onset diabetes, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”

“Ingrate. I pour my soul into this menu and all I get is slander.” Gojo sticks his tongue out.

You grin. “This sounds incredible. I’m starving already.”

Gojo lights up at your praise, puffing out his chest. “Finally! Appreciation! Someone with taste!”

“I never said I wasn’t excited,” Suguru shrugs. “I’m just mentally preparing myself for how unreasonably addictive this is going to be. Know I’m going to eat like six brownies.”

“Well,” Gojo huffs, heading for the kitchen. “Prep’s gonna take a minute. Try not to distract me.”

You and Suguru take your stations at the counter for cannabutter duty while Gojo slips into full chef mode—chopping, dicing, muttering to himself, and moving with an almost suspicious amount of precision. His lips are slightly pursed, snowy brows furrowed in the way they only do when he’s actually focused.

You and Suguru settle in at the bar. He passes you the small, slightly overpacked ziplock of flower Gojo handed off earlier. The buds are dense, bright green, and fragrant. The air fills with that familiar, musky citrus scent the moment you crack it open.

You each grab a grinder and start working. The sound of metal teeth crunching through sticky flower is rhythmic, satisfying. The movement feels good, honestly—simple, repetitive. You hadn’t been using your arms much since the shooting, and something about this small effort, the twist and press of it, feels grounding.

A fine, fluffy pile of green starts to build on the tray in front of you.

Next step: decarbing.

Gojo hands off a tray he’s prepped with parchment paper, and you spread the ground weed evenly across it while Suguru adjusts the oven. Once it’s inside, you move to the stovetop where a saucepan of water and butter is already warming. When the time’s right, the decarbed cannabis goes in, bubbling gently as it infuses.

You and Suguru take turns stirring, careful to keep the heat low and steady.

The smell starts to change—deep and nutty, earthy and buttery. It clings to your clothes, curls around your fingers. Suguru leans on the counter beside you, resting his chin on his hand, watching the mixture swirl.

With the cannabutter simmering low and steady, Suguru helps you prep for a shower.

He wraps your shoulder in plastic, fingers gentle as he smooths the layers into place, sealing them with strips of medical tape. The wound was cleaned last night, redressed this morning, but keeping it dry is still a must. His hands linger near your collarbone before pulling back, eyes scanning you quietly, waiting for your next move.

You step under the stream, letting the hot water hit your spine and melt down your back.

Then you hear it—the soft shift of clothes, the dull clink of his rings hitting the edge of the counter. The shower door slides open.

Suguru steps in behind you.

His presence fills the space. Warm. Solid. Familiar. Water spills over his broad shoulders, his long hair flattening against his scalp in thick, black strands. Droplets roll down his cheeks, along the sharp slope of his nose, trailing down his chest in glossy lines.

He picks up a rag, soaps it slowly, until the shower fills with the scent of sandalwood and citrus.

He starts washing you, moving with quiet care. The cloth drags gently across your skin—never rough, never rushed. His other hand rests on your hip, steadying you. Every now and then, he leans forward to press soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the small of your back.

You turn to face him, bare and slick, steam curling around both of you. Your chest meets his, and he doesn’t move away. The moment hangs between you, warm and slow.

You kiss him. Softly. Slowly. The faint taste of soap flowery between your mouths. It’s not sexual—it’s grounding. Like saying I’m still here without needing to speak.

Your hands drift down his arms, tracing each bruise blooming across his knuckles—evidence of how hard he’s been holding on to his rage lately. You lift one of his hands, pressing a kiss to the swelling along his fingers, delicate and deliberate.

His gaze stays locked on yours, something raw flickering behind his eyes.

The shooting didn’t just shake you—it peeled everything back. Left nothing to hide behind. No more skirting around it. No more pretending.

He whispers, “Mine.”

Your voice is soft, steady.

“Yours.”

You linger too long in the shower, basking in the warmth, in Suguru’s touch, in the rare quiet. By the time you both towel off and make your way back to the kitchen—still damp, dopey smiles plastered on your faces like kids who snuck off to play hooky—Gojo is clearly over it.

He’s hunched over the stove, furiously straining the cannabutter through a cheesecloth like it personally insulted him. There’s a pot steaming beside him, dishes piling in the sink, and an expression on his face that screams betrayal.

“You missed the alarm,” he snaps, glaring over his shoulder. “And the timer. And the second timer. And my text.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off with a dramatic wave of his spoon.

“Nope. Out. Both of you. I swear, if I want something done right in this godforsaken apartment, I just have to do it myself.”

Suguru lifts his hands in mock surrender, nudging you out of the kitchen with a smirk. “Chef Gojo’s in his element. We’re lucky he’s not throwing knives.”

“I heard that!”

You plop onto the couch, still giggling, buzzing off endorphins and the scent of sugar in the air. A few minutes later, Gojo emerges with a tray in hand, smug and satisfied, each appetizer portion served in cute striped paper cups like something from a boutique movie theater.

The popcorn glistens gold under the light—glazed in caramel, warm and glossy, dusted with flaky salt.

You drop a piece in your mouth and let out an involuntary moan. It’s crunchy, sweet, salty, and buttery all at once. Perfect.

“Holy shit,” you mumble, grabbing another.

Suguru raises a brow, tastes his, and immediately nods. “Yup. Dangerously good.”

Carelessly popping pieces into your mouth—one thing leads to another, and suddenly you’re both tossing popcorn at each other, laughing as you try to catch them midair, missing half, chewing the rest triumphantly.

“When d’you think we’ll start feeling it?” you ask between mouthfuls.

“Well,” Suguru says, lounging back. “Cannabutter hits slow. My bet’s during dessert.”

“I’m thinking mid–main course,” you counter, tossing a kernel that bounces off his chin. “Gojo doesn’t do small portions. The man’s probably gonna load every plate like a serving for three.”

Suguru smirks as he rises, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal the faint trail of hair beneath. He scratches lazily at it. “Only one way to find out.”

The kitchen smells divine—complex and rich, a symphony of spices blooming in the air. Wine simmers in a pan, bubbling gently as it mixes with garlic and herbs. Clams steam in a pot nearby, their shells popping open from the heat, hissing softly as the briny scent hits the air. Gojo plucks them out with tongs one by one, sets them aside to cool, then starts deshelling them with the kind of hyper-focused tactical finesse usually reserved for brain surgeons.

Pasta boils behind him, half-stirred as he whirls around the kitchen, multitasking like a caffeinated cooking show host. And through all of it, he’s filming.

“Alright, so that’s one cup of clam juice—don’t look at me like that—and three tablespoons of chili paste,” he narrates into his phone, flipping the camera angle. “I’m eyeballing this, obviously. Precision is for cowards.”

You and Suguru settle at the counter, watching with amused fascination.

“Sugu,” you whisper, nudging him. “What do you think he just put in?”

“That red paste? Sriracha.”

“No way. It looked too oily—chili garlic sauce, maybe.”

You both go silent, trying to eavesdrop on Gojo’s self-commentary. He spoons something from a bowl that looks like yellow-orange caviar.

Suguru squints. “What the hell is that?”

Gojo answers without turning around. “Wasabi masago, thank you for your unprompted concern.”

You blink. “You made that up.”

“Look it up, babes! I don’t just look pretty, I research.”

You and Suguru burst into laughter, especially when you get a look at what’s holding Gojo’s hair back: your fluffy spa headband—the one with the little pink cat ears.

The image of him bouncing around the kitchen, high on adrenaline and ego, talking to his phone in a glittery cat ear headband is almost too much. You lean into Suguru, wheezing.

“God, why couldn’t it have been the bunny ears?” you mutter.

“Shame. Missed opportunity.”

Gojo looks up mid-batter-stir, glaring. “Watch it.”

He’s working on the dessert now, mixing the brownie batter directly on the counter in front of you—bowl in one hand, whisk in the other, looking far too smug for someone with cocoa powder dusting his shirt. A puff of dry mix poofs into the air and hits you square in the face. You cough once, waving your hand in front of your nose as Suguru swats at the air too late.

“Collateral damage,” Gojo says smugly, flashing a grin full of pearly teeth.

Still, you can’t even be mad. The batter smells insane—fudgy, dense, with just the faintest earthy note of cannabis lingering underneath. If you weren’t watching it happen with your own eyes, you wouldn’t know it was infused. The dominant scent in the room is comfort. It’s richness. It’s warmth.

Soon, you’re seated with a steaming bowl of pasta in front of you—rotelle, perfectly al dente, each spiral coated in a light, glistening sauce flecked with fresh green herbs. Tender clams peek out between the pasta, and everything is finished with a delicate sprinkle of seasoning that smells citrusy, salty, and just a little spicy.

It looks like something straight off a glossy food blog. Unfortunately, Gojo seems to think the same.

“Don’t touch it,” he warns, waving his phone like a weapon. “Not until I get the shot.”

You groan, slumping back in your chair as he circles the table, phone angled like he’s shooting a Michelin-starred feature. “Gojo, come on.”

“Shush. This is for posterity,” he mutters, crouching to get a dramatic side profile of the bowl. “And also my story. And possibly for Yelp, depending on how this goes.”

You lean dramatically toward your plate, pretending to inhale it, which earns you a shove from Suguru and a “Stay still!” from Gojo.

After what feels like an eternity of camera clicks, he finally nods, satisfied. “Alright, proceed.”

You’re granted the first bite—an honor Gojo insists must be handled ceremoniously. He turns to Suguru.

“Do the thing. Come on, evenly portioned—get some pasta, a clam, a little bit of green on there—yes, that’s it.”

Suguru rolls his eyes but plays along, raising the fork to your lips with exaggerated care.

The moment the food hits your tongue, you melt.

It’s insane—bright from the herbs, salty from the clams, rich from the butter, with just the faintest heat trailing at the back of your throat. It’s perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, somehow delicate and comforting at the same time. You moan around the bite.

That’s all it takes. All of you dig in, mouths too full to bother with words. Gojo tries anyway, talking around his own bite.

“O’kay buh like—ser’sly—iz this not the best—”

Suguru doesn’t even look up. He just gestures broadly around the table at the way you’re all inhaling your food like you haven’t eaten in a week. It says everything.

Gojo smirks, satisfied.

You lean toward Suguru and gently tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear, saving him from the very real possibility of a mouthful of pasta and hair. It’s still slightly damp from the shower, curling softly where it clings to his temple. You press a kiss to his cheek, then trail it to the corner of his mouth to lick off a tiny smear of cheese.

He blinks, caught off guard, then hums low in his throat. “Thanks,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw.

Just then, Gojo’s phone buzzes violently against the table. It skitters in a jittery half-circle across the marble from the force of it.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, flipping it over. His expression shifts into amused delight. “We’re expecting visitors~”

He slides the phone toward you, and there it is—his story post. A filtered overhead shot of the table, three bowls artfully arranged, captioned:

‘who wants a plate lol - pull up !! XD’

You slowly drag your gaze up to him.

“Sa-tor-u…”

“Okaay, the syllabized, fully enunciated name… Not a great sign,” he winces.

Suguru sighs, mouth still full. “Nn’ ideal,” he mumbles, then swallows. “But hey… feedback’s important for the experimental process, right?”

Gojo shrugs. “It’s called building buzz.”

You snort. “It’s called you didn’t even ask.”

“But now we’ll know if the meal passes the crowd test!”

“Or if we’re about to get ambushed,” Suguru mutters.

You’re halfway through your bowl when a knock rattles the door.

You groan dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it takes everything in you. But the second you’re standing—you feel it.

Oh.

You were right.

The high hits like a warm wave rolling through your body. Your limbs feel light, floaty, like your bones took a break and forgot to clock back in. For a second, you have no idea how to walk properly. You take one step. Then another. Then pivot for no reason at all, sashaying down the hallway like you’re on a runway that only exists in your head.

You reach the door, twist the knob, and pull it open to find your upstairs neighbors: Toge, Yuuta, and Maki.

Maki holds up her phone like she’s flashing a VIP pass. On the screen? Gojo’s story post. “Came for the food,” she says flatly, already stepping inside.

“Hi,” Yuuta says sweetly, waving. “Sorry about her.”

Toge gives a small bow and a polite smile before slipping in behind them.

You let them pass, too dazed to protest. The three of them somehow live in one of the building’s smallest units—basically a glorified shoebox—and you can’t really blame them for accepting any invitation that includes free food and better airflow.

Speaking of—there’s a vent just above the door, and the cool air drifting from it feels incredible. You stay there for a second too long, swaying gently, letting the breeze wash over your face like it’s a personal reward for being so gracious.

Eventually, you follow the trail of conversation back to the kitchen, where Suguru’s seated at the counter, finishing his plate. You lean your head on his shoulder, melting into him.

He hums at the contact, slow to react but smiling softly. “Yeah… you were—”

“I know I was right,” you murmur smugly.

He drums his fingers on the counter, then tugs you gently into his lap. You settle there as Gojo launches into full presentation mode, now fully in his element.

“Now,” Gojo begins, holding a bowl in both hands like it’s the Holy Grail, “what you are about to experience is the culmination of culinary innovation, technique, and a touch of divine chaos—”

Maki interrupts, unimpressed. “You bought the clams at the supermarket. You didn’t forage shit.”

Toge taps rapidly at his phone and holds up a message on his Notes app:

‘Just give us the MF food.’

Gojo sighs. “You’re all so ungrateful.”

But he’s clearly stoned now too—his cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, his energy giggly and warm. He dishes out three servings with exaggerated care, pointing excitedly at the gooey strands of cheese stretching from spoon to bowl.

“Look at that. You see it? That’s real cheese. None of that fake-ass bullshit.”

More neighbors trickle in.

Someone from the fourth floor. That couple with the tiny dog. Even Gakuganji—the grumpy old man from the first floor who once yelled at Gojo for breathing too loudly—shuffles into the apartment like he was invited.

Suguru watches the ever-growing crowd with a slow turn of his head and finally asks, voice flat, “Who the fuck is letting all these people in?”

You blink at him, mind lagging a little behind.

Then it hits.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I left the door unlocked. Actually… I think I left it sliiightly open.”

His brow furrows, the crease between them deepening.

You lean forward and mouth over the spot, trying to smooth it out with your lips. “Sorry, Sugi. Sorry.”

He scowls at you, but it’s a half-hearted thing—his eyes soft and hazy, glazed in violet. They drop to your mouth. He sighs.

“I’m—” he kisses you, slow and warm.

“So—” another kiss, lower this time,

“Pissed,” he finishes, licking lazily along the seam of your lips.

You giggle against him, the issue already forgotten.

Gojo bustles around, a social butterfly flitting from one conversation to the next, before reappearing from the hallway—one long leg bouncing with barely contained energy. He catches your eye over Suguru’s shoulder and widens his gaze, eyebrows lifting as he mouths come here, subtly jabbing a finger toward his room with exaggerated urgency.

You lean back slightly, and Suguru’s lips chase after yours instinctively, slow and needy—high, affection-drunk, and fully immersed in your gravity.

You press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, murmuring, “Bathroom. Be back,” as you slide off his lap.

He hums but doesn’t protest, settling into your warmth like a cat curling into the imprint you left behind.

You trail after Gojo, limbs loose but heavy, the short walk to his room somehow feeling like a mini workout. You flop dramatically onto his bed the second you step inside, exhaling like you’ve just completed a marathon.

Gojo’s got his phone propped up on his vanity with the help of a box of Push Pops, stacked with disordered elegance like it’s a makeshift tripod. You notice he’s mid-FaceTime.

“—don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Gojo is saying, his voice a little too loud. “But look, she’s here—you can ask her yourself.”

You squint at the screen, head tilting slightly before your brain catches up.

Toji.

He’s on the other end of the call, arms folded across his chest, muscles flexed beneath a slightly wrinkled white tank top. He’s leaning against the counter in what looks like his own apartment—the layout nearly identical.

His eyes flick up as he sees you enter.

“Hey. First off—how’s the shoulder?”

You rotate it slowly, showing off the range of motion with a faint grin. “Good. Extra good, thanks to this guy.” You jab Gojo in the ribs. He yelps and curls away, nearly knocking over the Push Pops.

Toji chuckles. “Glad to hear it. Been keeping ears to the ground, by the way—still got people trying to ID the shooter. Got a couple leads I’m chasing.”

Your expression softens. “Please keep me updated.”

“’Course.” He nods, then rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking off-camera. “Anyway… I was just askin’ Gojo if you think it’s cool for me to come upstairs and grab a plate. Not trying to overstep or anything—just figured, y’know, I did supply the zip. Free of charge.”

Your eyebrows lift. That part hadn’t made it to you.

You glance at Gojo, who’s already nodding, giving you a look that says Yeah, he’s really trying.

He grabs a Push Pop from the box—blue razz—twisting it open with a sharp crack before shoving it in his mouth with a look of pure, sugar-driven bliss.

You sit up a little straighter. “Well, I’ve got no issue. I think you’re mostly worried about Suguru, though.”

Gojo pops the Push Pop out with a loud slurp and chimes in, “Which I said. And I stand by it—this is probably his best shot at not getting decked. Everyone’s mellow. All defenses down.”

Toji rummages off-screen, muttering something. “I’m fucking starving. Haven’t been grocery shopping in days. Been picking up a shit ton of OT and just throwing twenties at Megumi for takeout. Pantry’s pathetic.”

He flips the camera to show a few dusty cans and a single box of crackers with a folded top.

Gojo hums. “Damn, relatable. But didn’t you used to sell food sta—”

You elbow him sharply in the ribs.

He coughs dramatically, still sucking on the Push Pop.

“What Gojo meant to say,” you cut in, “is that if we time this right, you’ll be fine. The brownies are almost done, everyone already here is occupied, and if I pull Suguru into the bedroom to redress my shoulder, it’ll look like you just came up with someone else. Casual.”

Gojo rubs his side, pouting. “Genius,” he mutters, recovering just in time to sloppily resume licking the Push Pop like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

Toji considers this, then nods. “Alright. Appreciate it. See ya soon.”

The call ends.

You fall back onto the bed with a sigh, eyes closing for a beat.

Gojo flops next to you, candy still in his mouth. “We should’ve charged for plates.”

You laugh. “You mean I should’ve charged. You invited half the block.”

“De-tails,” he mumbles, already distracted again, reaching for another Push Pop.

You slip easily into Suguru’s conversation mid-sentence, easing down beside him where he sits next to Haibara—a neighbor from across-the-hall, bright-eyed and practically buzzing with questions between oversized bites of pasta.

“So, like, do you think an LLC is overkill? Or should I just start with something casual? Pop-ups, maybe?” Haibara asks, half-talking, half-chewing.

Suguru nods thoughtfully, offering a balanced take about ease of paperwork versus liability, but you catch the glint in Gojo’s eye from across the room and tilt your head, silently cueing him in.

Despite being high out of his mind, Gojo somehow always manages to deliver when it comes to flexing his business acumen. He perks up immediately, tapping the air like he’s conducting a symphony.

“Okay first of all—LLCs are never overkill,” he announces, standing and launching into a detailed, surprisingly coherent breakdown of tax benefits and branding strategy.

You take that moment to tug gently at Suguru’s sleeve, pawing at his arm like a cat begging for attention. He looks at you, already softening, the way he always does when you touch him. After a beat, he lets himself be pulled up without resistance.

“Need you for something,” you offer vaguely, not bothering to clarify as you guide him down the hall.

Just as you reach the bedroom door, Suguru lands a sharp, playful slap to your ass. You jolt with a gasp, more from surprise than pain.

“If you’re already this worked up,” he says, voice low and amused, “you could’ve just told me.”

His half-lidded eyes are dark with heat as he pulls you close, both hands sliding down to squeeze your ass, gripping you like he’s rediscovering something he doesn’t want to let go of.

You laugh, breath catching. “How presumptuous. I was going to ask you to redress my shoulder.”

That sobers him. Instantly, his hands still. His gaze flicks to your shoulder, still neatly bandaged—the wrap precisely how he left it.

“It looks fine,” he says, frowning slightly, though his voice is soft. One hand lifts to cradle your cheek, warm and rough, grounding you. His thumb brushes your jaw as he leans in, nose brushing yours, and the coolness of the touch makes you shiver.

You tilt your chin up, lips pursed, waiting. But he only grins and pulls back, just out of reach.

“Liar.”

“Tease.”

His smile deepens, eyes crinkling with amusement. Then he grabs your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, turning toward the bed. He kneels on the edge, lowering you with a gentleness that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes, until you’re sprawled across his pillows.

His elbows land on either side of your head, caging you in. His hair falls forward, strands still damp from your earlier shower curling near your cheeks. The air smells faintly of lavender shampoo and his skin—clean, warm, familiar.

You reach up and press your thumb to his bottom lip, tracing it, feeling the give of it under the pad of your finger. Plush. Inviting. He kisses your thumb and then captures your mouth with his, slow and unhurried.

He shifts, laying more of his weight on you, careful to avoid your injured shoulder. His forearm braces beside it, maintaining the smallest space while the rest of his body melts into yours. The heat of him is dizzying. Your chest rises to meet his. Your lips part wider, drinking him in.

One of your hands slips beneath his shirt, mapping the lines of his back, the dip of his spine, the firmness of his shoulder blades. You want to touch all of him—at once. There’s too much to feel and not nearly enough patience.

Suguru groans into your mouth, dragging his tongue against yours in a slow, deliberate sweep. He breaks away just to bite down on your lower lip before diving back in, his mouth rougher now, needier.

His kisses trail along your jaw, then return, messier and deeper. His tongue flicks against yours again, wet and warm and utterly intoxicating. Your hips shift restlessly beneath him.

You can’t help it—you squeeze your thighs together, the ache between them growing fast, blooming at the center of your body like heat spreading outwards. And then he shifts, hips grinding down, and you let out a shaky moan.

His clothed erection presses perfectly against your clit, thickening with each slow grind.

You mewl, body twitching up to meet him. That sound—that raw, exposed sound—rips something loose in him.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice ragged. “Let me eat you.”

You tilt your hips again, chasing the friction. Suguru noses at your throat, then breathes hot against your ear.

“Just a taste,” he whispers.

You don’t trust your voice. You just nod—shaky, desperate.

Your movement brushes your cheek against his, and he growls softly before biting your earlobe, grounding you in the moment with the sharpness of his teeth, the warmth of his breath.

Suguru shifts lower, your thighs still looped around his waist until he carefully guides them over his shoulders. His hands grip the back of your knees as he descends, mouth already brushing against the inside of your thigh like he can’t bear to wait.

He looks up at you, eyes hooded, utterly wrecked in the best way—lips parted, pupils blown wide. He breathes in like he’s savoring something rare and sacred, mouthing at the damp heat between your legs with reverence. When you press your heel into the side of his neck, he chuckles low, eyes gleaming with mischief, and finally drags your leggings and panties down—slow, teasing. He only fully removes one leg, letting the other dangle at your ankle, fabric visibly stained at the crotch.

From where your head rests on his pillow, you can see the dark spot clearly. It sends a ripple of arousal through you.

Suguru starts with your thighs, kissing and sucking the soft flesh, marking you with dark bruises and gentle bites. Your skin feels like it’s buzzing, every nerve ending electric, your body a live wire under his touch.

“Feel everything, huh?” he murmurs, his breath fanning over your center.

You twitch in response, hips jerking subtly.

“All that sensation—it’s a lot, isn’t it?” He blows a stream of cool air onto your clit, and your body jolts like you’ve been shocked. “Good.”

Then, without warning, he flattens his tongue and licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your perineum up to just shy of your clit.

“Fuck—yes, Sugu. More.”

He hums in approval, the vibration making your toes curl. “Let me know if it’s too much,” he says between licks. “Just tap me twice. I’d say pull my hair—but we both know I like that.”

You glance down at him, meeting his gaze, and immediately feel yourself unraveling under the weight of those black, blown-out eyes. He licks a lazy circle around your clit, then has the audacity to wink before wrapping his lips around it, sucking hard.

The noise you make is somewhere between a moan and a gasp, hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound as you bite into your knuckle.

But Suguru doesn’t let up.

Two fingers trail along your slit, collecting the wetness already spilling from you. He plays with your pussy, slow and testing, all while his mouth stays fixed on your clit. The dual sensation has you clenching around nothing, mind spinning.

Then he spits—wet and hot—and spreads it with a fingertip, circling your entrance before pressing in. You try to grip him, suck him in, anything for relief. He slides one thick finger inside, then another, slowly stretching you open. The ache is good, grounding. You clench around him, walls greedy, already fluttering.

He groans into your clit, the sound rough and desperate. “Fuck, so tight.”

He pumps his fingers deeper, curling them expertly, and the slick sound of it is obscene. He tongues your folds between strokes, chasing every drop of you like he’s starving.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, a sharp, overwhelming coil of heat and tension that twists deep inside you. Suguru’s mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking rhythmically, tongue flicking in slow, intentional patterns. The dual sensation of his fingers plunging into you—deep, steady, relentless—and his mouth working you over has you scrambling for something to hold onto.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard, fingers curling tightly in the dark strands. He groans in response, the sound encompassing. He resists your pull just enough to stay buried between your legs, lips never leaving you.

Your other hand finds the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself as he sinks his fingers deeper—knuckle-deep now—before scissoring them slowly. He groans again, feeling you pulse around him.

“Sucking me in like that… greedy little thing,” he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “This still okay?”

You try to answer, to give him something—yes, don’t stop, more—but all that escapes is a loud, helpless moan as he twists his fingers, drawing them back with a slick, obscene sound before pushing in again. Your whole body clenches.

His mouth laps greedily, catching the slick that leaks out with every thrust. He makes no effort to be subtle—if anything, it’s like he wants to consume you completely.

“Mm,” he mumbles against your cunt. “Tastes sweet.”

You bite your lip hard, trying to stifle another moan. You can still hear faint conversation bleeding in from the other room—Gojo’s name, laughter, someone talking about food—and the absurdity of anyone being able to carry on so casually while Suguru is devouring you only makes it more impossible to stay quiet.

He curls his fingers just right, pressing into that soft, spongy spot deep inside. His tongue continues abusing your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk upward, your thighs quivering as your body tightens.

And then there’s his gaze—locked on your face, heavy with heat, so clearly enjoying every second of this it’s maddening.

“Suguru—” You gasp.

The orgasm crashes over you—sharp, sudden, all-consuming. Your legs tremble, back arching off the bed as you gush around his fingers, clenching down hard. The sounds—your gasps, the wet rhythm of his fingers, the obscene slick of his mouth—fill the room, echoing inside the haze of your head.

His fingers stay buried, slow and steady, coaxing you through the aftershocks as he watches your face twist with pleasure.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, eyes locked on your face. “Let go for me.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s sure you’re done.

Until your thighs stop twitching.

Until your hips stop chasing.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

Finally, he pulls back just enough to see your face, your expression slack and spent, flushed and dazed.

He grins.

You’re barely breathing, chest heaving as you come down, the high washing over you in waves.

And still—he isn’t done.

He adds a third finger.

You whimper, overwhelmed, and your eyes catch the outline of his cock straining hard against his pants, the fabric stretched tight over the shape of him.

Suguru sits back on his knees, fingers glistening, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with slow, deliberate indulgence. Then, finally, he frees himself. His cock bobs against his stomach, thick and flushed and leaking.

He leans over you again, expression unreadable, a bead of pre sliding slowly over the curve of his frenulum.

“Give me another,” he says, voice dark and low. “I know you can.”

He dives back in, tonguefucking you deep, pulling your shirt up so you can shove it between your teeth and bite down hard. Your moans are barely contained, your whole body thrumming with sensation.

One hand gropes at your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple through the fabric of your bra. The other strokes his cock in steady, deliberate motions, syncing with the way his tongue moves inside you and the way your body tightens around him.

When his thumb trails back down to your clit, circling the swollen nub lazily, it tips you over the edge—it’s too much.

“Su—Sugu—fuck—coming, I’m coming—I can’t—”

Your thighs clamp around his head, your cunt spasming around his tongue as he groans into you, eyes fluttering shut. You hear him moan your name, soft and wrecked, and then he’s pulling back just enough to breathe, his jaw slick with your release.

He pants for a moment, then grunts—deep, guttural—and pumps his cock faster. You watch, dazed, as he stares down at you, the tension in his face drawn tight.

With a sharp exhale, he strokes himself once, twice more—and then he’s coming, spilling hot onto your pussy, white smearing across your folds. His breath stutters as he rides it out, milking every drop with slow strokes, sweat clinging to his skin, his body still shivering with release.

When he finally looks up at you—flushed, panting—you’re both left speechless.

You run a finger through the mess he’s left between your legs, swiping through the silky strands of his release where it glistens over your folds. Bringing it to your lips, you suck the come off slowly, hooded eyes fixed on his.

Suguru lunges forward, catching your mouth in a searing kiss. It’s messy, hungry, more possession than affection. You tilt to meet him, but the sudden shift twists your shoulder at a bad angle, and a sharp jolt of pain breaks through the haze.

You flinch.

Immediately, he pulls back, eyes wide, expression collapsing into guilt. His hand slides gently down your arm, thumb brushing over your forearm with care.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, breath still ragged. “No—just… was too sudden. I—shit, I’m still not thinking straight. That was intense.”

His mouth curves into a half-smile, concern still lingering in his eyes. He squeezes your thigh, grounding you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sure was.”

Then he leans over the side of the bed and grabs his phone, tapping the screen. “Would you believe me if I said we’ve been at it for over an hour?”

He shows you the screen, and you blink a few times, reality slowly slipping back into place.

“Our lack of decorum is honestly shameful.”

He grins, then eases off the bed, muscles flexing as he moves. On instinct, you reach out and swat his ass, because you can.

He snorts and keeps walking, heading toward the small dresser where his mini fridge hums quietly. He grabs two water bottles and a pack of moist towelettes, cracking one open as he returns.

Suguru kneels between your legs and wipes you down gently, the cloth cool and damp against your sensitive skin. It shouldn’t feel this good—being cleaned up like this—but the high lingers, and his touch is so careful, it feels more like a balm than anything else.

Once you’re clean, he passes you a bottle of water and stands beside you, downing his in a few deep gulps. You finish yours in one go—fifteen seconds flat—barely stopping to breathe.

You brace yourself for a snide comment, but when you look up, Suguru’s already chugging a second water like a man possessed. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow, throat working fast as he drains the bottle in under five seconds.

He exhales, crushes both empties in one hand, and tosses them into the bin without a word.

You lean back onto the pillow, breathing deep, eyelids drooping.

Suguru drops down beside you, draping an arm across your waist.

You stay like that for a moment—sated, tangled up, still wrapped in the haze—with the low hum of conversation beyond the bedroom door and the warmth of his body anchoring you.

When you and Suguru finally slip out, you ease the door shut behind you. There’s a subtle shift in your stride—slower, a little stiff—both of you pretending the change of clothes is purely coincidental, not the result of post-orgasmic cleanup.

You exchange a glance.

The kitchen is empty now, the commotion having migrated to the living room. Gojo, in a moment of endearing thoughtfulness, has left two brownies for you both, neatly wrapped in parchment and sitting beside the stove. You grab them quickly, handing one to Suguru and threading your fingers through his free hand to guide him toward the noise.

The apartment is packed—people draped across every available surface. Cushions on the floor, backs leaned against walls, legs flung over the sides of sofas and chairs. Everyone looks blissed-out, red-eyed and giggly, a fog of THC and leftover food polluting the air.

Perfect cover.

You guide Suguru toward Gojo, who’s perched sideways in an armchair, legs dangling over one armrest like a kid mid-storytime. He’s deep in animated conversation, gesturing so wildly he nearly hits the person next to him.

“—and you wouldn’t believe who she brought home the other day—oh, hey! You’re back!” Gojo grins wide, catching sight of you. “Try the brownies. Try them right now. They might be the best thing I’ve ever made.”

You nudge Suguru to sit at the foot of the chair and slide into his lap, your back resting comfortably against his chest. He pulls you in like you belong there—which, at this point, you do.

Then you notice who Gojo had been talking to: Toji.

He’s kicked back at the far end of the couch, closest to you, one arm slung over the backrest, head tipped against the cushion like he hasn’t moved in a while. His bowl sits empty in his lap, and he lifts a lazy hand in greeting.

“’Sup, you two.” He nods, eyes flicking to the brownies in your hands. “Seriously though. Try them. I don’t even like chocolate like that.”

He says it casually, but you catch the shift in his gaze—hesitant, searching. Like he’s testing the air for tension before he breathes it in.

Suguru shifts beneath you, his chin lifting just a little as he meets Toji’s gaze. His voice is calm, offering a simple nod of acknowledgment.

“Toji,” he says, in greeting.

Then he leans in, brushing his mouth against your neck, voice dipping softer. “Feed me?”

You glance down at the brownie in your hand, then back at him, smiling like it’s a secret meant only for him.

You break off a piece—warm, gooey—and bring it to his lips.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

+ planning 1 more installment since I'm running out of ways to get high LOL

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hyunsvngs · 1 year ago

Text

hyunsvngbinimas!

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader

warnings: they're in love your honor, mostly vanilla, brief rimming, brief foodplay, kitchen sex, clit play, unprotected sex, creampie

You hate that Felix is so good at these types of things. He’s had to help you reassemble your gingerbread house three whole times now, when it’s unceremoniously fallen apart on the tray, and his creation looks perfect. He’s even done you and him standing outside in icing, with Bbokari standing next to you both as your little chick pet.

Not that you’d have been able to truly focus on yours anyway. Felix had been accidentally brushing against you, grabbing your waist, sometimes pushing past you to grind his cock on your ass. It was meant to be a cute experience, both of you in matching Christmas pyjamas and Felix in his Santa hat, but of course your gremlin of a boyfriend had to turn it into something sexual.

“Mine looks bad,” You whine, stomping your feet. Felix looks at your house, all slanted walls and barely-attached roof of it, and bursts out laughing. You whine again, elbowing him in the tummy softly. It’s his fault! “Felix. Don’t be mean! Not all of us can be super creative.”

“I know baby, I know,” He’s still laughing, but he wraps his arms around your middle. The Christmas music is still playing softly in the background, and he sways you and hums along to the song. His Christmas hat tickles your neck, and you finally let yourself smile, hands grabbing his forearms where they rest around you. “At least you’re good at making cookies. Look! You even did a Jureumi one for Minho hyung.”

You blink at the cookie where it’s cooling on the tray, before nodding in acknowledgement. The lines are a little bit wonky, but you know Minho will kiss your forehead and thank you nonetheless. “I think he’ll like it.”

“He will,” He nods, kissing your cheek. “He’ll love it, baby, and if all else fails, Chan will love your gingerbread house.”

“He’ll just lie to be nice about it.”

“Well, yeah, but-” Felix is cut off by his own giggle as you swat at him, before he grabs your hands, rendering you motionless. “Don’t attack me! It’s Christmas!”

You ignore the urge to tell him that it’s not quite Christmas yet. You’d been invited to Felix’s dorm to bake for the other members and have a sugar-infused Christmas party prior to the actual day, and Felix had ushered everyone out so that it would be a surprise. An unhappy surprise, you think, because your gingerbread house looks shit.

“It’s not my fault it looks bad anyway, Felix,” You groan, pointing an accusing finger at him. He throws his arms up in surrender, a faux-innocent look on that beautiful freckled face. “You kept touching me.”

Felix drops his arms then, giggling. “Did it get you hot under the collar, baby? That’s so cute,” You let him crowd you against the counter, the smell of gingerbread and sweet icing filling your senses. He braces you with his arms, surprisingly muscly, and your hands come up to your chest as if to defend yourself. “You’re so cute. I couldn’t help myself, not with you looking so delicious in these pyjamas.”

You glance down at your pyjamas. Minnie Mouse in a Christmas dress stares you dead in the eyes. “I have Minnie Mouse on my shirt.”

“That’s what makes it so cute!” Felix gushes, a smile on his face. “You know I love you looking so domestic. It makes me just wanna… y’know.”

You watch with an amused smile on your face as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. He’s so ridiculous. You love him. “Makes you wanna what?”

“Touch you,” He breathes, leaning in to peck your lips chastely. When he pulls away, there’s a more determined look on his face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “I want to touch you. I have since we started this fucking baking date. I just wanna bend you over the counter and make you cum, you look so cute.”

Oh. Your chest starts heaving, breaths tumbling out your lips. “Oh, Felix…”

“Will you let me?” Felix questions, little fingers coming up to play with the collar of your shirt. His hands are burning hot on your skin, making you squirm in your spot and huff out a sigh. “I want to make you cum, baby. Will you let me?”

“I- Yes, yeah, I’ll let you.”

“So cute,” He murmurs, dark doe eyes scanning your face, and then he’s kissing you. You let him, mouth opening pliantly for Felix’s typical soft, yet messy kisses, open mouthed and channelling all of his love through them.

The pom pom on his Santa hat dangles precariously and tickles your face, but you ignore it, fingers moving up to rest on his broad shoulders. He crowds further into your space, if it’s even possible, and pushes his hands up your shirt. You gasp into the kiss when his hands knead your breasts, sans-bra due to your intended comfort in your pyjamas. Your nipples are hard, pebbled against his palms, and he groans into your lips.

Felix groans into the kiss, his deep timbre reverberating through you, and then he’s shoving his hand down your bottoms. “I wanna play with your clit, make you cum before I push inside,” He huffs, and you nod eagerly, letting your legs fall apart just slightly to accommodate him. His fingers push into your folds, finding your clit and almost whining at the mess he finds between your legs. “Oh, baby. It’s so wet down here, you liked me touching you?”

“I always like you touching me,” You murmur, a pink flush rising to your cheeks. Felix chuckles, and then he’s rubbing circles around your clit. He always knows how to touch you, how to make you cum so quickly and so hard that you’re seeing stars and can’t breathe for a minute afterwards.

You usually love tangling your hands in his hair while he pleasures you; you love to hear his sharp intake of breath each time you tug a little harder. With the scarlet santa hat hiding his locks, you’re lost. His fingers speed up, harsh circles on your sensitive bundle of your nerves making your hands scrabble for purchase, flitting between his chest, his shoulders, cupping his cheeks and bringing his lips back to yours. You don’t know what to do with yourself, you can barely contain your upcoming climax.

“Felix,” you utter, a breathy moan. “Lix, Lix, look at me.” He looks up obediently, dark eyes wide as they meet yours. “Cumming, cumming, I-”

He hushes you with a kiss, he doesn't need to hear what you're trying to say. He knows you're cumming, he sees it in the way you look at him, the way your eyebrows furrow and your fingertips dig into his skin with a wail. He feels it as your wetness floods his fingers, and he gives you a second to try and catch your breath before speaking.

“Good?” Felix chuckles, kissing your nose. You scrunch your nose up in response, and he does it again, and again, until he stops and presses his forehead against yours. “Mm. I want to fuck you. Can I?”

“Yeah,” You nod, smiling. “You can always fuck me. How do you want me, Lixie?”

“God,” He grins, teeth white and shining. You let your eyes trail across his freckles while he thinks, hands securely on your waist and eyes fluttering shut. He hums, and then spins you around, pressing your front into the counter. “Like this. Bend over for me, baby, I’ll hit it nice and deep.”

You wiggle your ass teasingly and Felix moans, slapping your asscheek. It only takes a second and he pulls your pyjama trousers down with your underwear, running a thumb through your folds.

“So sloppy,” He muses, and then you hear him sigh. “I want to try something, baby, stay still for me.”

He reaches over and you hear a few clattering noises, and Felix dribbles something cold on your ass. You squeal, shifting, before his hands go to your hips to keep you in place.

“Lix, what’s-”

“Icing,” He groans, and you hear him shifting onto his knees. His tongue hits your skin, licking up the trail of sweetness on your asscheek. His tongue dips over your skin a few more times for good measure, even going as far to lick over your asshole, tonguing the rim.

“Lix, please, I can’t wait,” You whine, hips wiggling tantalisingly. “Lixie, please, please-”

You’re cut off by the feeling of the blunt press of his cockhead against your hole. It has you wondering briefly if the boys are going to come home halfway through you getting fucked, and it makes you whimper, pushing your hips back into Felix’s cock. The feeling of his pyjamas against your skin makes you realise that he’s fucking you with just his cock pulled out, otherwise fully clothed, and you gasp, feet kicking against the floor.

“Gimme it,” You slur, head dropping down onto your arms. “Wet enough, feel, gimme it!”

When his cockhead breaches your hole you wail, loud and unabashed.

“Pussy’s so fucking tight, baby, fuck,” He groans, sinking into your heat slowly. You whine, pushing your hips back on him again, and his hands splay across your ass. A beat passes, and then he’s thrusting into you, slow and passionate and so delicious that it makes you moan. You feel his pubes against your ass, trimmed hairs on his balls slapping against your clit with the sinuous rhythm. “Feel good? Tell me, tell me, fuck, baby…”

“It’s so good, Felix, I can feel everything, it’s so- hnnnng, Felix, Felix, please, faster-”

“I’ll cum if I go fast, baby, give me a second,” He huffs, head dropping to your neck. His chest presses against your back, and he continues to fuck you slowly for a bit before he speeds up. With the position, he’s got you deep and pliant, legs spread for him to do what he wants to you against the counter. Finally, his pace increases and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. You feel a wave of pleasure crash over you as Felix's thrusts become faster and harder, his cock hitting your cervix with every thrust.

“Ah, ah, like that, like that, oh my god,” You moan, eyes rolling back into your head. Felix always fucks into you just right, and you reach back to grab onto his hand, pulling him closer into you. “Oh, keep going, just like that, I’ll cum again, I’ll cum.”

“Cum for me, cum for me,” Felix moans, his voice higher pitched as his balls slap against your clit. He’s getting close. Your pussy’s so wet that the slapping sounds echo around the kitchen, yet your moans and whines are louder than anything else. “Baby, c’mon, cum for me, I’ll cum inside.”

Your head lolls forward, your bottom lip wet with drool. Felix rarely came inside, too worried about the risks, and the idea has you hurtling into ecstasy. “You’ll- really? You’ll cum inside? God, I want you to, Lixie, please-”

“I’ll fill you up, baby, I promise, c’mon. Show me how good this cock makes you feel.”

With a particularly well-timed thrust into your g-spot, you fall apart, wailing through your orgasm and trying to grip onto the counter with sweaty palms. Your cunt flutters around Felix’s cock over and over, the tightness forming a new intensity for him, and he groans before his hips halt against your ass. You feel his hips trembling against you as he cums inside, filling you up with pulses of white cum and making you feel full of him. It’s so hot, so sexy that it almost makes you want to go again, but you’re interrupted by the sound of voices by the front door.

“Oh my god,” Felix mumbles, pulling out of you with haste. You gasp at the realisation that the other boys are back, yanking your bottoms up and trying to ignore the feeling of Felix’s cum leaking out of you. He shuffles around the kitchen awkwardly, putting as much distance between the two of you as possible, and you giggle as he wiggles his bottoms up awkwardly.

You both try to make yourself look busy, trying to fix your now collapsed gingerbread house and fiddling with the cookies. You hear a scoff from behind you, and you turn around to see Seungmin, Minho and Jeongin. The youngest has a dumb smile on his face, Minho looks to be suppressing the loudest laugh he’s ever done and Seungmin’s scowling.

“Hi!” Felix says, too cheery. “Do you wanna try our gingerbread house?”

“Only if you promise that’s actually icing,” Seungmin remarks, raising an eyebrow. You flush, lips parting in shock. “It stinks of sex in here.”

Jeongin grins, elbowing him playfully. “As if you’d know, hyung.”

“No, but seriously,” Minho smirks, eyes flitting between you and Felix. “Can’t you two do anything without fucking like rabbits?”

Felix turns to you, a bright blush beneath his freckles. You’re embarrassed, but the soft look in his eyes reassures you, a fond smile on his face. “It’s Christmas, and we’re in love.”

You coo, and Seungmin fake gags.

“You’re both disgusting.”

#hyunsvngbinimas!#lee felix smut #lee felix fanfiction #lee felix x reader #lee felix imagines #felix smut #felix fanfiction #felix x reader #lee felix x you #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #skz smut #skz x reader #skz scenarios #skz imagines

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 9 months ago

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In what ways would you change Yuu (or would you get rid of them entirely)? The writing feels inconsistent on their place/importance. If they were just a conduit for the player to watch the events unfold that's one thing but in another story they are an active player.

I'd personally play into the beastamer aspect more. They are supposedly the reason why Ace, Deuce, and Grim were able to work together thus I'd want them to have more agency in making plans, giving orders, etc. Rook calls them Trickster but in what way (lol). The vagueness of being a self insert pains me. I'd also want to give them some magically infused weapon (or has a magestone embedded) just so they aren't fodder or sideline material.

Mmm… As much as I dislike the blank slate self-insertiness of Yuu (I’d prefer to read about an actually realized character), I wouldn’t want to get rid of them altogether. I think they’re important for the role they serve in the narrative even if in execution is inconsistent and not done well.

The problem with “changing” Yuu is that there has to be a certain level of ambiguity due to the design of the game. You cannot give them too much personality or you risk alienating the audience that likes to project or self-insert. There’s also a limit to how much uniqueness a mobile game can lend its players characters; the format isn’t exactly known for having super in-depth player arcs, it’s known for their colorful casts of rollable characters. The devs have to toe that line carefully, not to mention juggle Yuu’s participation with letting the other characters shine. It is for this reason that I won’t be doing a total overhaul of Yuu or just deciding “give them a personality!” as what I’d change about them. Rather, I’ll be proposing alterations while thinking like a dev (ie preserving the current story and as much of the self-insertiness as I can while also trying to give Yuu more to do/say).

Now Yuu, being the outsider to this world, is perfectly poised to have others dump exposition on them. This serves the dual purpose of being able to diegetically explain things to the player. (We wouldn’t get this advantage if the player character was changed to be like… a Twisted Wonderland resident; you could explain some magic things to a layman, but a resident wouldn’t need more common knowledge like country names exposited to them. Were this the case, we’d need an additional excuse for Crowley to take in a native.) It’s also convenient to have them be the “eyes” for the player to experience the world through, since Yuu is able to conveniently be present for most major main story events. It essentially makes them a human-shaped video camera.

I’ve often heard people suggest that if we need a POV character, why not go with Grim since he basically serves the same purpose now anyway. My answer to that is: Grim is also an arrogant asshole who picks fights, just the same as any other NRC student. If Grim were the player character, he wouldn’t be contributing much or helping to guide the other students learn to get along. We need Yuu here to be that driving force for change because Grim simply isn’t capable of it when he’s instigating himself half of the time.

A smaller thing about Yuu that I love is the idea of them being the school photographer! (This is something that is shown in the second anniversary animated video too!) It gives us context for the cards we roll and it implies that Yuu is the one documenting these precious memories. I want Yuu to stay if only for this reason.

Personally, I wouldn’t make Yuu a combatant. This is antithetical to their role and I feel would instead work against them (or at least create a scenario where Yuu has to have some level of battle prowess; this impedes on the self-insert nature of them). Sticking a magic item in their hand makes little difference since they most likely wouldn’t know how to handle it in the moment. (Nor would a magicless human even be able to use some of them; for example, a magestone is completely useless to them.) A magicless human with no combat experience is just another liability to account for, not to mention it actively puts them in harm’s way. It might be cool in theory, but I think in practice it goes against the very concept of Yuu. They’re meant to be here to show that there is “another way” to the NRC students—that violence doesn’t solve all your problems, proof that you don’t need to be a powerful being to “change” others or the world around them. They’re supposed to be underestimated and not seen as much of a “real” fighter, and they’re supposed to prove those notions wrong by demonstrating their worth via other avenues. In this “the weak obey the strong” school, Yuu has to be the one to show them that strength comes in forms that are NOT magic power or battle prowess.

I feel that Yuu works best on the sidelines as a supporter and strategist. Strategy is, after all, half of the battle, and it’s a part that people tend to overlook in favor of the flashier fighters. But strategy is crucial and it can turn the tide against a formidable foe (as we see in the prologue)!! I think this is something the NRC students need to be made more aware of too, so Yuu should stay as the strategist; they just have to be given more opportunities to show off those skills!

With all of that being said, here is what I would change about Yuu:

Drop the beast tamer thing. It gets mentioned prominently like once in the prologue and then never becomes truly relevant. Maybe it’ll become important when it comes to taking down OB Grim, but that will be SO late in the main story that the payoff doesn’t seem worth it. There are no examples of Yuu’s beast taming skills ever being used in the main story, so the whole “oh you have the makings of a beast tamer” thing is so useless. If you really want to keep it, then let Yuu’s innate talent/skills for beast taming help them out at least once per main story book. This means I’d want to see instances of Yuu getting other creatures (ie not just Grim) to help them out.

Allow Yuu the agency to act on their own when it comes to finding a way back to their own world. Going home is so often relegated to a single line or a few sentences and then not addressed again until next book. Have Yuu take initiative instead of waiting around for updates from Crowley. They should go out and ask questions, investigate on their own, etc. Maybe have them get involved in each book’s conflict because they happen to get mixed up in it while conducting research instead of being TOLD to go and fix a problem. Book 6 marks the only real time I can think of Yuu making a drastic decision against Crowley’s advice. It puts them at great risk, and that’s something they’re willing to take for the sake of saving their friends. We need more moments like this throughout the rest of the story. However, Yuu won’t be allowed to do whatever they want unrestricted because 1) it falls out of the scope of a mobile game title and 2) we want to largely retain the capacity to self-insert. So when I say give Yuu more agency to act, I mean it ONLY in the sense of being more proactive in their efforts to get home.

Add a short comment or two from other characters depending on which dialogue options are picked for Yuu. It would be too ambitious to incorporate a full-on branching storyline or strong “choose your own adventure” elements, but at least have the other characters consistently comment on whatever brief dialogue option Yuu has rather than ignoring them 90% of the time. This wouldn’t alter the story in any way but it sure would be nice to have a little more flavor text and more of Yuu actually being acknowledged as present.

Yuu should fully commit to being a planner and strategist. We get to see this aspect of Yuu like once or twice in the prologue (when they tell Grim where to spit fire at the ghosts/planning how to beat the Phantom in the mines) and then are left to extrapolate this to the rest of the game. Maybe you can argue they figured out Azul’s scheme in book 3 too, but this isn’t good enough. If you’re going to set up the idea, then have consistent segments in each book that reinforces that idea. Have Yuu brainstorm ways to jailbreak in book 4, have Yuu be perceptive enough to notice that Malleus isn’t feeling great in book 7 (only for Malleus to brush them off/insist he has a solution), etc.

Have a short story segment that explains how or why Yuu earns their nickname “Trickster” from Rook. We got this with Floyd, so the other known nicknamer should reveal this, especially since the name “Trickster” implies intelligence and cunning. Yuu should have an opportunity to demonstrate this (in book 5 maybe?), which earns them Rook’s respect and the new title. This should also be informed by other parts where Yuu shows how smart they can be.

More time bonding with Grim. I say Grim specifically because I commonly see him as a hated character in part because of how he “steals lines/time” away from Yuu. (Adeuce and Malleus are fine as they are because the former already stick up for/help Yuu out and the latter is meant to stay mysterious until late in the main story.) This means that if you don’t already like Grim, the whole “Yuu chases them to Styx HQ to save Grim” plot point in book 6 rings hollow. To truly build a bond with Grim, please give us moments prior to book 6 that show how much they care for one another and are linked to each other as partners. Times when Grim causes inconveniences for Yuu don’t count. Give me instances of them cuddling at night or talking to each other about their hopes and dreams or whatever. This would establish the value that Grim sees in Yuu, as well as the value that Yuu sees in Grim. It makes it more believable that Grim would cry when he’s alone or realizes he hurt his partner, and that Yuu would defy the headmaster’s advice and put themselves at risk to save Grim.

Better incorporate the ghost camera and its usage in the main story. The ghost camera provides an in-universe explanation for gaming meta (ie the card illustrations); in the main story, it’s hardly ever mentioned save for its introduction in the prologue and when Yuu takes a picture of Mickey with it. What should happen instead is Yuu will take a picture of the characters involved in that chapter. This way, it’s a physical reminder of the time everyone spent together and the bonds they’ve developed. It further strengthens the idea of the students learning to get along and Yuu being there to facilitate that while also keeping the ghost camera relevant.

More time where Yuu actually bonds with/“changes” the other characters. One huge gripe I have with the main story is that we’re TOLD that Yuu’s presence changes and improves the boys for the better, that they teach them how to get along. Very little of the actual main story supports this (outside of the prologue). At best, Yuu has a very short chat with some of the OB boys at the end of their respective book. Yuu should have a little more time in this regard. I don’t know, maybe Idia is still struggling to socialize when he comes over to play video games at Ramshackle so Yuu has to gently encourage him to give it a try or says something to help include him in the conversation. Little things like that! Keep the strong interactions the other characters have in changing the OB boys (like Trey being the one to rush to Riddle’s side, the twins teasing Azul, etc.), but have Yuu help facilitate them opening up emotionally and being vulnerable with one another.

This last point is debatable (I keep changing my mind about it), but possibly make a point of showing how Yuu is adjusting to this new world. This honestly might mess with the self-insert aspect (which is why I debated to leave this out), but I also feel like it might be interesting to reinforce Yuu’s desire to go home h demonstrating homesickness or issues with settling into Twisted Wonderland.

To summarize, the changes I’d make largely involve making TWST commit to briefly mentioned details (that they largely don’t follow through on) and making Yuu actually do a little more to warrant crediting them with resolving issues + fostering friendships. A lot of the problems that exist now are due to promising a lot but then poorly executing on what was promised.

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swordboybestboy · 2 months ago

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So we all agree that Mihawk is super weird, right? Like obviously he's goth (and every alt person I've ever met is at least a little weird its part of their charm) and he lives alone on war-ravaged goth island full of murder monkeys and took over the castle there to live out his life as a vampire cosplayer

But also he has a boat that's shaped like a coffin and sails the fucking SEAS alone in it and I swear this man is alive by sheer force of drama alone like there's some god in the one piece world that's watching him and going "Yeah can't let that boat capsize I'm living for his dedication to the aesthetic"

And who made that fucking boat anyway it's mast is shaped like Yoru how much did Mihawk pay to get someone to build his fucking death boat like did he go to water seven and commission this imagine that conversation "I want a boat big enough just for me, it needs to he shaped like a coffin and have a coffin shaped cabin just big enough for me to sleep in cause I wanna feel like I'm rising from the dead when I wake up also please make the mast look like my sword is stabbing into the boat, black fabric for the sails and don't forget the candle holders at the front, they're very important"

Speaking of which who makes those candles is he making his own special candles with boric acid or copper(II) infused wicks so the flame burns green or is there some specialty goth candle shop who gets a bunch of business from him I could see him being like my orgo professor and adding salts to fires because they burn pretty colors also he in a modern au he would probably throw wrappers into fires to see what happens and then keeps Dubble bubble sour fruit gum around so he can throw the wrappers in fire and watch them burn pretty colors

But this entire thought was started because I was thinking about how I like the idea of Shanks and Shamrock fighting over Mihawk and that I like the idea that Shamrock just isn't weird enough for Mihawk

And it made me think of how Mihawk's entire social circle is made of weirdos

Crocodile - this man apparently lives to make criminal organizations he knows what he wants in life and that is to be a mob boss he lost his hand and replaced it with a very large ornate hook and that shit has got to be heavy but it is intimidating and probably more useful than it would immediately seem he also has a collection of eccentric weirdos (let's not even get into the subject of his gender or status as luffy's potential mother)

Buggy - clown may be the most normal of them all actually

Perona - another goth carries around what I can only assume is either the shrunken body of the zombie Kumashi or a plush replica enjoys using her hollows to make people momentarily horribly depressed cause she's mean like that has a very unique sense of what is and is not "cute" and judges harshly based on it (though I have to agree that tiny plush kumashi IS cute in a creepy sorta way)

Zoro - has sworn to take his head but also begged to train under him like it's weird Mihawk agreed to that but it's also weird that Zoro asked (outside of the context of needing to be able to protect his friends) is a dork who thought it'd be a good idea to fight with a sword in his mouth (It's a miracle he was right) and decided to pose when he thought he was gonna die as a wax statue cause obviously that's the important part

Okay. The buzz in my brain has stopped producing actual thoughts now. Mihawk is weird. I love him for it. His friends are weird. His husband is weird. If my brain ever allows it I'm trying to write an entire fic that's basically "Mihawk is actively trying to be the weirdest person anyone he meets has ever met" because it's my favorite Mihawk thing.

#dracule mihawk #mihawk #mihawk headcanons #one piece headcanons #mishanks #hawkeye mihawk #op mihawk

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choikanghuening · 6 months ago

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In Your Hands (or simply “Hypnotize U”)

now playing: Hypnotize U - N.E.R.D.

synopsis: After a stressful day, you come home to find your husband, Taehyun, ready to comfort you in a deeply intimate way. What begins as a simple act of care turns into a transformative experience, deepening your connection and trust. Through a night of tenderness, love, and passion, the two of you rediscover each other, allowing your bond to grow stronger and more profound.

pairing: husband!taehyun x afab!reader

trope: established relationship/happy marriage

genre: fluff, smut (mdni)

wc: 6k

warnings: yoni massage, fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex (don't do this y'all), very very soft and romantic sex, lots of praising and petnames (baby, princess, doll). lmk if i forgot anything (i prob did)

elle speaks: english is not my first language, so sorry for any typos and mistakes. also im too distracted, so i probably repeated lots of words. i'll correct it later. feedbacks/reblogs/likes are appreciated.

elle speaks²: this is somewhat inspired by my irl relationship (minus the massage part -at least not yet), i tried to make it cute and emotional, hope i succeeded. also i've never received a yoni massage (yet), so forgive me if it's inaccurate.

elle speaks³: i'm not gonna elaborate, but taehyun would definetly do something like this, i don't make the rules.

fic below the cut

Your shoulders sagged with exhaustion as you stepped inside your house, your shoes hitting the floor with a soft clatter, as though shedding the weight of the day could be as simple as that. Every inch of you felt heavy—physically and mentally, the strain of the day pressing down on your skin like a burdensome cloak. But as soon as you moved further into the house, something shifted. A soft, comforting aroma wrapped around you, mingling with the warm, flickering glow of candlelight in the living room.

You stopped in your tracks, taken aback by the peaceful contrast. The world outside had felt chaotic and relentless, but here, in this quiet space, a serene calmness enveloped you, pulling you in.

From the kitchen, the gentle hum of Taehyun's voice reached you, the rhythmic clink of utensils blending seamlessly with the atmosphere. His presence was grounding, like an anchor in the storm. When he turned and saw you, his expression softened, concern flickering in his gaze as he moved toward you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, his voice steady. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, the words escaped you. You felt heavy, your body bruised from the demands of the day, your mind a swirl of thoughts—but instead of speaking it all aloud, you simply leaned against the door frame and let out a tired breath. “Tae, I’m just so tired,” you whispered.

Without hesitation, Taehyun closed the distance between you, wrapping you in his arms. His embrace was peaceful, like a balm, his kindness seeping into you with every second. You rested your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart offering you a sense of calm, grounding you.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “You’re with me now.”

He held you a moment longer, as if trying to absorb the weight of the world that had settled on your shoulders. His gentle hand on your back felt like a promise—a quiet promise that, no matter what, you weren’t alone.

“Thank you, Tae,” you whispered into his chest.

He chuckled softly, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Don’t mention it, princess. I’m always here,” he said, his voice laced with sincerity. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Dinner was simple, but its comfort was unmatched—Taehyun’s signature chicken stew, every bite filled with the kind of love only he could infuse into a meal. As you ate, his quiet focus didn’t go unnoticed. He’d glance over at you often, his sweet smiles a silent promise that you were being taken care of. There was a stillness in the way he moved, as though everything he did was for you, giving you the space to just be.

After dinner, as you lingered over dessert, Taehyun moved to clear the dishes. His movements were unhurried, with a calm that filled the air around you, helping to settle a deeper sense of peace within.

“Stay here for a minute,” he said, returning from the kitchen. The subtle intensity in his voice made you pause. “I’ve got something for you. Just trust me, okay?”

Your curiosity piqued; you raised an eyebrow, though a haze of exhaustion still clouded your mind. “What is it?”

He gave you a knowing smile, one that held no secrets—only quiet promises. “You’ll see. Just wait here.”

Settling onto the couch, you let yourself sink into its soft embrace, the flickering candlelight casting playful shadows on the walls. While your body began to relax, your mind still held onto the faint echoes of the day.

Moments later, Taehyun's voice floated toward you, calm and soothing, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Babe, come here,” he called gently, his tone warm and inviting. “I’ve run you a bath. All you have to do is undress and let go.”

The simplicity of his words stirred something deep within you—an unspoken oath of comfort that was impossible to resist. A soft scent reached your senses, guiding you toward the bathroom.

When you stepped inside, the sight before you stole your breath. The water shimmered beneath the mild lighting, gentle bubbles breaking the surface in slow, rhythmic swirls. The air was heavy with the calming fragrance of lavender and roses, and for a moment, you simply stood there, allowing the serene aura to envelop you like a tender embrace.

Taehyun moved toward you, his smile affectionate, his eyes carrying a depth that spoke of something far more than just fondness. “Go on,” he encouraged softly, his voice both gentle and reassuring. “This is all for you. I’ll give you some space.” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead before stepping back, retreating to the bedroom, leaving you alone with the serenity he had carefully crafted for you.

A blush spread across your cheeks as you undress, the sweetness of the moment settling around you. When you finally sank into the bath, the warmth of the water embraced you like a lover’s touch, relaxing your muscles and erasing the day’s tension as though it had never been there.

Leaning back, you closed your eyes, allowing the water to cradle you in its gentle rhythm. The scent mingled with faint hints of musk, creating an atmosphere that felt both grounding and indulgent. The soft hum of music filled the air, its delicate notes weaving a cocoon of peace that slowly dissolved the thoughts still lingering in your mind. Every detail, from the flickering candles to the enduring scent of the flowers, was a proof of Taehyun's thoughtfulness. He knew exactly what you needed before you even realized it. A warmth bloomed in your chest as you exhaled, feeling the tension melt away, completely surrendering to the tranquility of the moment.

When you finally emerged from the bath, the amenity clung to your skin like a prolonged memory of the peace you’d just experienced. Wrapping yourself in a plush towel, you padded down the hallway, heading to your bedroom.

When you get there, the mood surrounds you like a dream made real. Soft golden light from low lamps and the flicker of scented candles painted the space with a warmth that felt almost tangible. The faint melody of a distant song drifted through the air, weaving its way around you, both calming and electrifying at once. The bed, with its silky sheets, beckoned you—the invitation to comfort and something deeper, more intimate.

Taehyun stood near the bed, adjusting the last of the candles with a quiet focus. When the sound of your footsteps reached him, he turned to you, his gaze meeting yours with a fondness that seemed to melt the space between you. A small, knowing smile curved his lips, and at that moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in this private heaven.

“Where did all this come from?” You asked, your voice soft, laced with awe.

He stepped toward you, each movement unhurried, appreciating the moment. His fingers brushed a damp strand of hair from your face; the tender touch was almost reverent. “I wanted to do something special for our anniversary, but... I thought you needed this even more tonight,” he murmured, his voice a warm, honeyed melody that eased your frayed nerves.

The sincerity in his words wrapped around you like a comforting hug, a swell of emotion tightening your throat. Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes, but his gentle touch anchored you in the present moment. His fingers brushed the edge of your towel, a soft contact that sent a shiver of anticipation across your spine.

“Leave the towel,” he whispered, his voice low yet commanding. His eyes locked onto yours, an intensity that reassured you and drew you in. “Lay down on your stomach. Let me take care of you.”

You hesitated for just a moment, then, as if tethered by his quiet confidence, let the towel slip from your body, letting it fall across the chair nearby. Taehyun’s hands found yours, guiding you to the bed with your fingers entwined. The cool silk of the sheets met your delicate skin as you stretched out on the bed, the sensation drawing a faint, contented sigh from your lips.

“Close your eyes,” he demanded, his voice sending a ripple of sensation down your body. “Trust me.”

You nodded, surrendering to him as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Imagine this…” Taehyun started, his voice low and seductive. “You’re on a beach. Completely lost. Nothing around you but the ocean and the breeze that you’re feeling with more intensity because you have no clothes on, just like now.

“Sounds like freedom... and maybe a little trouble.” Your smile deepened.

“Maybe,” a chuckle escaped him, and he continued. “No inhibitions, nothing to hide. You’re just... there. Bare, vulnerable, but not afraid.”

“And then what?” You asked, playing along.

“Help arrives. Someone pulls up, offers you a ride.” Taehyun’s voice dropped, sultry and heavy with quiet intensity. “Do you take it?”

“That depends. Who’s offering?” You replied, curiosity piqued.

“Someone who knows exactly where to take you.” He let the implication hang in the air.

“That’s a lot of trust. What if they take me somewhere I don’t want to go?” You teased, your voice soft but daring.

“Then you’ll have to trust that they’ll take care of you. That they’ll make sure you never feel lost again,” Taehyun stated, his words full of something you loved.

Your heart skipped as his words sank in. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” A small laugh escaped you.

“Only for you,” Taehyun replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You opened your eyes curiously to find him grabbing a bottle of aromatic oil off the bedside table.

“What are you doing?” You asked, your interest stirred by the deliberate care in his movements. “What’s this for?”

“A special type of tantric massage,” he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips, his big eyes glinting with a touch of mystery. “It’s called yoni.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that,” you said, eyes wide with uncertainty.

“It’s about connection, grounding, and awakening your sacred feminine,” he explained, voice soft and reverent. “It’s different, but it’ll help you feel more in tune with yourself—your strength, your power, your essence.”

“What do you mean by that?” You asked, a mix of anticipation and curiosity coloring your tone.

“It’s a way to release, to surrender to the present, to trust completely in the moment,” he clarified, his voice calm yet carrying an undertone of something deeper.

“I don’t think I get it,” you confessed, a shy smile forming.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm-hearted and intimate. “You will,” he told you simply, his big eyes glimmering with quiet confidence.

Kneeling beside you, Taehyun opened the bottle with his fingers, the cap releasing a faint, demulcent scent. The sweet smell filled the air, delicate and calming. He warmed a small amount of oil between his hands and pressed them gently to your shoulders. The heat of his touch spread through your skin; the sensation was so relaxing; it felt like liquid calm flowing through you.

His movements were firm yet gentle as he spread the oil on your skin, calming you almost instantly. “This isn't just a massage,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “It's my way of showing you how much I adore every part of you.”

His hands moved with purpose, starting at your neck and working down your shoulders. The tension you’d been holding onto seemed to melt away beneath his meticulous touch. The hot oil only made his movements softer, each stroke easing your muscles into a state of tranquility.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered as he continued pressing into the right spots, taking away the remnants of the day’s stress. “I want you to feel how much I appreciate you.”

When his hands reached your lower back, you couldn't help but gasp, the sensation of his fingers kneading sending a wave of relief through you. The mellowness spread through your body, grounding you but also stirring something deeper.

With deliberate care, his hands moved lower, brushing along your thighs. Each rub had a purpose—a careful balance of comfort and spark. Your body relaxed even further under his touch, but there was a quiet tension too—one that wasn’t just physical.

“Relax, love,” he murmured, as if feeling the same, his voice calm. “Tonight is yours.”

Your focus was narrowing to the rhythm of his hands. His touch was like a promise—a vow without words, each movement speaking more than anything he could say. As his hands moved to the curve of your hips, you instinctively arched toward him, drawn by his touch.

“Taehyun…” His name escaped you, soft and almost vulnerable.

The way he lightly grabbed you, savoring the moment, made you feel more cherished than you could explain. His hands never rushed, always thoughtful and deliberate, guiding you deeper into relaxation.

Leaning closer, his breath reached your ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Let it all go, baby. I’ve got you.”

His words grounded you, as much a promise as the gentle caress of his hands. Every stroke seemed to strip away layers of unspoken burden, leaving only the quiet certainty that you were safe, adored, and completely present with him.

When his hands reach your lower back again, you let out a soft, unguarded moan. You couldn’t help it; the relief he was giving you was undeniable. Your body surrendered to him completely, and he responded with a quiet “Shh,” his voice both reassuring and gentle.

His hands worked methodically, moving outward before returning to center, each motion pulling you deeper into the state of bliss he’d created. As he moved lower, brushing the curve of your hips, you felt a familiar heat rise within you. The moment held a charge, yet the intimacy of it kept you grounded.

When he shifted down to your legs, he gently took your foot in his hands, the cool oil against your skin making your toes curl before his thumbs pressed into the tender arch, coaxing a low hum from you.

“You’re amazing at this,” you murmured, your voice thick with gratitude and relaxation.

He chuckled softly, moving to your other foot. “You deserve to be taken care of,” he said, his voice warm and resolute. “This is just one of the ways I’ll show you.”

Every muscle in your body seemed to relax; your senses heightened with each stroke of his hands. When he moved up your thighs, the warmth in your chest spread further, and you bit your lip, trying to hold back the sensations his touch stirred.

The moment felt charged but also peaceful—a delicate balance of connection and intimacy. Taehyun worked with meticulous care, each motion dissolving layers of tension you hadn’t even realized were there. His fingertips moved in small, deliberate circles, easing knots you’d grown used to carrying. “Let me take this from you,” he murmured, his tone quiet yet determined.

When his hands brushed the sensitive curve of your ass, you tensed instinctively, but Taehyun paused, leaning forward, his murmur against your ear. “You’re so beautiful when you let yourself relax,” he whispered, his voice a balsamic presence. “Trust me. Let’s go. I’m here.”

With a soft exhalation, you released the last of your hesitation, feeling yourself melt under his thoughtful touch. The air between you felt electric, yet everything remained restful. In that space, there were only the two of you—the outside world stopped to exist.

“I need you to turn around now, babe,” he requested, his voice gentle yet commanding.

His hands guided you lightly as you shifted onto your back, his touch steady, ensuring you were comfortable. “You’re really testing my self-control, you know that?” Taehyun murmured with a playful tone, making you smile.

Starting at your sides, his hands moved with intention, slowly easing the tension in your body. “You’re so tense,” he said, his tone almost tender. “Let’s get loose tonight, princess.”

The rhythm of his touch was slow and steady, each movement helping you relax, the quiet music in the background grounding the moment. His hands slid over your boobs, grabbing gently. He traces your nipples with his fingers, which hardened them. “Your body responds to my touch so perfectly,” he murmured quietly.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice as his palms slid lower. “It’s not fair, really.” His tone was light, but there was something deeper in his words that made your heart flutter.

His hands moved with care, brushing over your rib cage. He paused for a moment, watching you with a look that muted his teasing. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he added with a small laugh, his voice hearty.

“I mean it,” he said, a grin in his voice. “You’ve got me hooked.”

A soft laugh escaped you, and you felt the last of the tension leave your body under his touch.

Leaning closer, his breath brushed again over your ear, and his voice dropped to a mumble. “And you’re so sexy like this.” He said, and his hands moved lower, gliding over your hips with a consistent rhythm that felt both comforting and reassuring.

His fingers graze lightly against the sensitive skin of your pelvis, the rising temperature keeping you in the present moment. Your breath caught—not from unease, but from the quiet intensity of being so fully cared for, as if every touch carried unspoken words. Cautiously, he opened your legs and positioned himself between them, sitting on his knees. He traced your groin with an almost annoying calm touch, noticing the texture of your skin.

“Please, Tae.” You let out an anxious groan.

“Calm down, sweetie; I want to make you feel good.” He replied as his fingers started to brush your outer labia.

You squeezed your eyes, inhaling deeply as warmth spread through your body. The air felt charged, as if it too held its breath in a shared moment of stillness, where only tenderness lingered, undisturbed by the world outside.

“Do you know how strong you are?” Taehyun asked delicately; his voice was barely louder than a whisper but filled with conviction, while placing his fingers on your inner labia. His movements were full of precision, firm but gentle, as though ensuring every motion honored your trust. “You amaze me—not just by what you do, but by who you are, you know?”

You exhaled deeply, your body yielding to his care. The faint scent of the oils mixed with the erotism of the moment created an almost sacred environment. Your legs shifted slightly, a subtle adjustment that made his touch even more fluid and precise.

“You are beautiful, doll.” He started massaging your clit after he finally reached it.

“Baby!” You opened your eyes wide and moaned with joy.

“It's all right, sweetie; let me make you feel good.” He stroked you just right, which sent a shiver through your whole body. You tried to hold back your sounds, but the way he touched you made it impossible.

“Oh, Tae…” You whimpered, and he grinned, his gaze never leaving your face, studying every shift in your expression, knowing exactly what to do and how to make you melt.

He would pause whenever he sensed you were nearing your climax, slowing his movements just enough to keep you hanging on the edge. His hands traced along your hips, his voice low and tempting. “Breathe, my love.” A soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Let’s slow down for a moment. I want to enjoy this with you a little longer.”

Your breathing evened out as you followed his rhythm, the continuous pulse of his touch grounding you. His hands moved in a gentle but firm way as his fingertips traced dim, comforting patterns along your thighs. Every motion seemed designed to quiet down, to ease, and to draw out the sensation without rushing it.

After that, his fingers returned to your sweet spot, his touch unwavering and focused. Each movement was delicate and intentional, with the right amount of pressure, as if he understood exactly what you needed. And he knew, after all, he was a very observant husband.

“So good, Tae,” you whispered, your eyes closed.

“I want you to feel wonderful, princess.” He winked and placed a soft kiss on your lips.

He watched you intently, adjusting his rhythm to match your reactions, making sure each movement was giving you pleasure. With every careful touch, the tension melted away, leaving only the warmth of the moment.

When you started to have spasms all over your body, Taehyun boldly moved his index finger toward your hole, extremely soaked at this point, and positioned the tip there. He chuckled softly as your pussy practically sucked his finger due to your extreme arousal.

“So eager, doll,” he murmured as he finally placed his finger at your g-spot and skillfully massaged it while continuing to stroke your clit. You were set on fire by this simple gesture, and you increased your moans.

“Yes, love. You’re so beautiful like this.” Taehyun whispered.

“Taehyun,” you murmured, your voice soft, quivering with emotion you couldn’t quite define. You were rolling your eyes, groaning uncontrollably, and the heat was nearly unbearable. Your breathing grew erratic, with soft sounds spilling from your lips more frequently.

He leaned in, his voice enticing against your ear. “I’m here,” he murmured, his voice steady and filled with unwavering affection. “I’ve got you. Always.” With a tender smile, he pressed a kiss to your stomach, his touch heartening and reassuring. “Let go, darling,” he encouraged, his words a quiet command wrapped in care.

With a shuddering exhale and a moan that was almost a yell, you released vigorously, the tension unraveling in a powerful wave that left you trembling. It wasn’t just physical; it felt deeper, as though a weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying had finally lifted. In its place was an overwhelming sense of freedom, a lightness that filled every part of you, leaving you unburdened, exposed, yet cradled in a space of absolute care and understanding.

With a big smile on his face, Taehyun moved a lock of hair away from your face. With a tone of calm appreciation, he muttered, “I'm so proud of you, baby.” He stopped and laid his hands lightly on your thighs. “You're safe. Slow down and take a deep breath. I’ve got you.”

When you opened your eyes, his gaze was on you, filled with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. There was a reverence in his eyes, an understanding that reached beyond the physical.

Your voice was filled with astonishment in addition to appreciation as you whispered, “Thank you.” The words flowed out of you smoothly as a tiny smile crept over your lips.

As he ran his fingers down your arm, his eyes glinted with amusement. “You don't need to thank me.” His tone was light but sincere as he taunted, “You know, my favorite job is making you cum.”

“I'm lucky that you're very capable of that.” You declared, letting out a little chuckle.

“Feeling better?” Taehyun asked, his voice low and tender as he lay beside you, his gaze concentrated on you. A small, knowing smile played on his lips as his fingers traced little circles on your skin.

You nodded, letting your eyes fall shut, your body melting into the comfort of his touch. “A lot better,” you murmured, your voice faint and content.

“You’re amazing, you know,” he said, the quiet sincerity in his words making your heart skip a beat. “Even when you don’t see it, I do.”

Your smile expanded as you turned to face him and felt his fingers lightly entwined with yours. The bond between you felt natural and unbreakable in the silence—a sliver of peace in a world that seemed to vanish for the time being. Your eyes met his, and you let out a satisfied gasp.

“You’re unbelievable,” you whispered, amazement lacing your voice. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel this... all.”

“That’s the goal, isn’t it?” He teased, his tone mischievous but underpinned with sincerity.

“But how did you learn this? And what do you know about the sacred feminine?” You questioned, interest piqued, your voice carrying a mix of intrigue and wonder.

“I might have read something on Google,” he confessed, a small grin breaking across his lips, and you laughed. A boyish shrug accompanied his next words. “And I might’ve picked up a few tricks from some online tutorials. Turns out, you really can learn anything on the internet.”

With an arched brow and a vivacious twinkle in your eyes, you turned over onto your side and faced him directly. “You're way too good at this.” You teased, though the admiration was more than evident.

Taehyun mirrored your expression, his lips quirking into a grin. His hand rested lightly on your hip, his thumb tracing gentle, idle patterns that sent waves of comfort through you. “What can I say?” he replied, his voice teasing. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“Clearly,” you shot back with a joyous roll of your eyes, though your gaze softened as it locked with his. “But now I’m dying to know—how long have you been holding out on me?”

Taehyun’s smile deepened, and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper against your lips. “I wasn’t holding out,” he murmured, his tone laced with quiet intensity. “I was just waiting for the perfect moment to show you.”

Your breath caught at the significance of his words, your heart skipping as you searched for his gaze. “And tonight, was the perfect moment?” you asked softly, your voice betraying the vulnerability stirred by his care.

His eyes didn’t waver, steady and filled with an unspoken emotion that felt unmistakable. “Tonight, you needed it,” he replied, his voice a weak, intimate rumble. “And I wanted to give you exactly what you deserve.”

The anticipation between you both grew, charged with the energy of the raw fragility of the moment. Taehyun’s dark and deep eyes held yours with a certainty that made your chest swell and your pulse quicken. His thumb traced the curve of your waist, and you felt the gentle friction—a touch that spoke of devotion and a quiet, fierce affection.

“And what happens now, Tae?” You asked, the question laced with desire.

“Whatever you want to happen, babe.” He replied, a smile playing on his lips that made your heart stutter.

“I want you.” You whispered, your voice dropping to a husky murmur. In one smooth motion, Taehyun rolled so he was on top of you, his body pressing into yours.

“Yeah?” He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, sending a wave of warmth cascading down your neck. His voice was low and seductive, and you nodded, heart in your throat, your fingers finding their way to the hem of his shirt.

As he allowed the shirt to slide up and over his head, showcasing his toned and sculpted abs and chest, Taehyun's eyes never left yours. He shuddered a little when you touched his warm skin, and you could feel the thick, powerful muscles in his back tensing beneath your palm.

“Now you relax, baby,” you said, your voice thick with desire. “Let me take care of you now.”

Your fingers traced the waistband of his pants, fingers dipping into the soft fabric as you began to pull them down. He inhaled deeply, like he was trying to control himself, his eyes meeting yours again as if seeking reassurance, and you nodded, pressing a sweet kiss to his shoulder before sliding them down. His skin was burning beneath your touch, a perfect contrast to the cool of the air conditioner in the room that you couldn’t even remember at the moment since it seemed like the two of you were on fire.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, the words raw, vulnerable, and heavy in the quiet of the room. The moment stretched out between you, thick and electric. There was no rush, only the steady beat of your hearts, the silent acknowledgment of what was happening.

You finally reached the hem of his underwear, pulling it down slowly, as if savoring every fleeting moment. Your hand encased him, feeling the heat and hardness of his cock beneath your fingers, like a steel bar wrapped in velvet. A wave of desire spread through you, deeper than any physical sensation. His breathing grew heavier, and his eyes locked onto yours, reflecting raw trust and something profound—a silent acknowledgment of the bond that tethered your souls. You started pumping his length, which made him hiss and groan.

“Baby…” With a moan, he took your hand off his aching shaft. He glared at you as he placed his dick into the opening of your pussy. “Can I…”

“Yes, please.” Your voice was low, thick with longing. “I need you, all of you.”

With no more words, he invaded you, feeling your heat envelop him. You both sighed, as if you were finally completing the last piece of a puzzle. As he began to move, you wrapped your hands around him, pressing gentle kisses to his lips and cheeks. He let his body sink into yours, movements perfectly synchronized, an unspoken dance of trust and passion.

“You’re so perfect for me,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Pussy so good, make me go crazy.”

Every touch and look contributed as evidence of the link that was carefully cultivated between you. He moved with you, slow and methodical, and your hands entangled themselves in his hair, drawing him closer.

“I don’t ever want to be without you,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

“You never will be,” you mouthed back, holding him tighter, as if to seal that promise. “I’m yours, always.”

You knew without a doubt that what you shared was more than passion—it was the connection of twin flames, a force that resonated deep within you, transcending the physical and reaching into the divine.

A shared breath, a touch that conveyed affection, passion, and trust, and the hum of the air surrounded you both. His hands moved over your flesh, tracing and exploring the lines and curves that he loved so much.

“Every part of you is my home,” he told you as he locked his eyes with yours. His voice was unwavering in its straightforwardness, and your body responded eagerly.

“And you’re mine,” you whispered, your voice trembling with devotion. “I found my forever in you.”

He leaned down, lips brushing yours, teasing and tender, before deepening the kiss. Breaking it, Taehyun’s hands found yours, fingers interlacing as he pressed them against the mattress beside your head, anchoring you to the moment. His lips found yours again, this time more fervent, a clash of yearning and tenderness, and you surrendered to it, letting yourself be enveloped by him.

“I love you,” he whispered, as if saying it was as vital as his next breath.

“I love you, too,” you replied, and for a moment those three words made the time stop, you two inside of a bubble of passion.

The rhythm of his thrusting increased instinctively, and as you both gave in to the emotion that engulfed you, words escaped your lips.

"Tae...” you mumbled, a tightening in your lower stomach signaling the climax approaching.

“I know, baby. Me too,” he responded, his voice deep and steady, as if reading your mind. “Let’s go together.”

With a few more thrusts, the orgasm overtook you, and he soon followed, painting your walls white. You both exhaled loud gasps that were mingling in the space between your breaths. The shivers that racked your body only deepened the urgency of a kiss, which you gave him, a desperate claim to the moment that felt like it would last forever.

He took his dick out of your pussy while panting loudly, then fell onto the bed with his eyes closed in exhaustion. You paused to regain air to your lungs, your quivering fingers reaching out and grazing his face before following the sharp line of his jaw. His breath hitched at your touch, and you felt him soften, his presence drawing closer. Your hand slid to the nape of his neck, pulling him in until your foreheads touched, and you gave him a quick peck on the lips. The moment was heavy with unspoken emotion, the charge between you impossible to ignore.

“You always make me feel whole,” you muttered, closing your eyes as you lay on his chest, your voice barely audible.

He wrapped his arms around you, hands resting on your waist. His fingers skimmed your skin, memorizing every curve.

“That’s because I see you.” His gaze softened, and his voice dropped to a husky murmur that seemed to vibrate through you. “Every part of you. And tonight, I needed you to feel it—just how much you mean to me.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and as you opened your eyes to meet his, you saw it—something deeper than lust. Love, pure and unwavering, shone in his gaze.

"Taehyun...” you whispered, your voice trembling under the weight of the moment. “You always know exactly what I need.”

His smile was soft, unassuming, the charming dimple appearing for a fleeting moment. “That’s because I’m yours,” he said, voice sure and stable. “And you’re mine.”

“And I wouldn’t want it any other way,” you stated, savoring the feel of his skin, the tenderness of his breath, and the way your bodies fit perfectly together.

“I’ll always find you, YN.” Taehyun whispered, his voice low and intimate. “I made a vow on our wedding day, and I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”

“And I’m so glad we’re building our life together,” you said, caressing his chest.

“No matter where you are or how you feel, I'm here forever,” he spoke, a playful glint in his eyes. “If I’m not beside you, I’ll probably be inside you, though.”

You laughed, a hearty sound that made his smile widen, and gave him a soft bite on his shoulder. The world seemed to stand still, cradling the two of you in its quiet embrace. Candlelight flickered across his face as he cupped your cheeks, his thumb brushing over your skin with tender deliberation.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “You make me feel at peace when life is pure chaos.”

“YN,” he began softly, his voice raw with sincerity. “You don’t know how much you mean to me. Watching you carry so much on your own... I just want to ease that burden. I want you to feel loved and cared for—every single day.”

Tears welled in your eyes, the weight of his sincerity settling deep within you. You placed your hands over his, holding him steady. “Taehyun, you already do. Just being with you... it’s everything I need.”

His dimpled smile returned as he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “You deserve the world, YN. And if I can give even a piece of that to you, then I’m doing something right.”

Your lips curved into a soft smile as a single tear slipped down your cheek. “You’re more than I could’ve ever asked for,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

The moment stretched, quiet and intimate, a shared breath of peace and promise. When Taehyun kissed you again, it wasn’t just passion—it was love, woven into every deliberate movement.

“I love you,” you whispered, the glow of the candles reflecting in his adoring eyes.

“I love you more,” he replied, voice soft and playful.

You laughed gently, shaking your head. “Let’s not start that game. We’ll be here all night.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I want,” he teased, brushing his lips over yours in a featherlight kiss.

As the music faded into silence, you nestled into the warmth of his embrace, knowing that no matter what the world outside held, you had everything you needed right here.

elle speaks⁴: these two, im crying 😭😭😭 they're so cute. i wish you all can experience a love so beautiful and strong like theirs. hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading ♡

disclaimer: this is a fanfiction created by me. the characters of TOMORROW X TOGETHER and the song mentioned are used for creative purposes only. this story is not affiliated with BigHit Entertainment or TXT, and all content is fictional and does not reflect reality. the song “Hypnotize U” is owned by its creators and used here without profit.

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fluentmoviequoter · 7 months ago

Text

Want to Be a Prince

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!reader

Summary: You play the part of a princess at Lila Kay's party and meet the prince you've been dreaming of.

Warnings: fluff, Street gets nervous and flustered

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

“You have got to be the best parents in the world,” you tell your newest clients, Deacon and Annie Kay. “If my parents had done stuff like this, I never would have moved out.”

Deacon chuckles as Annie asks, “Then how would you have become royalty?”

“Can’t deny the call of a tiara,” you reply. “But, seriously, thank you for hiring me and Lila is going to love this. All the kids will.”

“Thanks to you,” Deacon points out. “Lila’s had a rough year this is quite literally the least we could do.”

“No, Mr. Kay, it isn’t. Most parents wouldn’t even consider going to lengths like this just to make their kids feel better. Lila won the parental lottery.”

“When you’re done feeding our egos,” Annie teases, “your castle is ready, and the makeover team is here.”

“Thank you.”

Deacon checks his phone, then says, “Street’s dropping off the bakery order. He just left work, so he should be by in an hour or so.”

“Did you get him that cupcake he wanted to try?” Annie asks.

“He’s a grown man, he can buy his own cupcake.”

“That sounded like a yes to me,” you murmur.

Deacon sighs and nods. “I did.”

“Good friends, too,” you muse as you rearrange the princess dresses beside you.

“Okay, can I run through everything one more time?” Annie asks.

Deacon smiles and gestures for her to go ahead. She’s got the party planned out wonderfully, but she wants everything to be perfect for her daughter, and you admire that. Watching how she and Deacon interact, their words and actions filled with love for each other and their family, makes you smile. You want that. But if your better half wanted to arrive a little faster, you wouldn’t argue.

“The girls will get dropped off at 3 after school, they’ll come into this magical wonderland and meet the makeover team, pick dresses, get their hair and makeup done, and then head outside for a royal dinner. They’ll see the castle, be welcomed by a real princess… I think we’ve got everything,” Annie lists.

“You did a great job, Annie,” Deacon tells her before kissing her forehead. He checks his watch, then asks, “Do you need to get ready?”

You lean back and check the clock on their wall, partially blocked by pink streamers, then nod to yourself. “I do. Need me to do anything else?”

“You’ve already done more than enough.”

“Why didn’t you stay at Disney?” Annie inquires.

As you stand, you smile and answer, “I felt like I didn’t have enough time. I loved it, but kids were in and out so fast, getting rushed by the staff, that the magic was gone. That’s why I do this, so it didn’t make sense to me to stay there.”

Annie nods and muses, “Worked out for us.”

“I hope so.”

You leave them to finish setting up and find your items arranged neatly in their master bathroom. Changing out of your clothes, you put on the items you wear under the pink princess gown you chose for tonight’s party. Then, you do your hair and makeup, focusing intently on the mirror to ensure your look is precise and aligns with your outfit. After rubbing body-glitter-infused lotion over your collarbones and down your arms, you step into your dress to slide it over your hips before placing your arms into the off-the-shoulder sleeves. With your shoes on and everything packed away, you take a deep breath and exit the Kays’ bathroom.

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” a voice you don’t recognize says.

As you return to the living room, Annie whispers, “Whoa. You look amazing.”

Deacon turns toward you, and you see bakery boxes on the table and Deacon's friend Street. You remembered his name after Deacon said it, and now you understand why. You assumed he was a cop, too, but you weren’t expecting him to be so cute. Or to stare at you like he just walked into Narnia and you’re a mythical creature.

“Hello,” you greet softly.

“Oh, hi,” he replies, blinking quickly. “You��re a princess.”

You nod. “Sometimes.”

He keeps his eyes on you and says, “I dressed up for Sam’s last party. My costume wasn’t as good.”

“You didn’t work at Disneyland before you started freelancing,” Deacon points out.

“I bet you were great,” you tell him.

Street clears his throat and looks at Deacon, recoiling slightly at Deacon’s knowing look. “Do you need help with anything else?” he asks, hoping that Deacon says yes and he has an excuse to stay close to you for longer.

“Actually,” Deacon begins.

“I’ll do it,” Street interrupts.

You laugh under your breath, and Street feels like a kid at Disney for the first time. He doesn’t even know if you perform well as a princess, but you look like one, and Street can’t seem to look away from you.

“We need to set up the dinner table,” Deacon says. “Which is outside,” he adds when Street doesn’t move away from you.

“Maybe I should be a prince for Halloween,” Street muses as he follows Deacon.

“You should,” you agree.

Street smiles at you before he closes the door, and Annie looks at you with the same knowing look as Deacon gave Street.

“What?” you inquire.

“Nothing,” she says lightly. “You want his number?”

You consider acting shocked for a moment, then look down at your dress and answer, “I’ll ask him.”

With fifteen minutes left, you walk outside to find your place in the castle Deacon had built in his backyard. Street looks up from the princess-themed table and smiles at you. You realize you haven’t introduced yourself and walk to the table before offering your name. Street shakes your hand, and everything feels different when you pull away from him.

Glancing at Deacon, you’re glad to see him occupied with chairs before you ask, “Could I… could I get your number?”

“Yes,” Street answers. It comes too quick, but he doesn’t even care enough to be embarrassed as you smile and push your perfectly curled hair over your shoulder, exposing your glittery collarbone.

“I don’t have my phone,” you tell Street.

He looks at your face as he pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to you. Once your name and number have been saved, you return it to him and relish in feeling his fingers brushing over yours.

“I’m so glad I picked up those cakes,” Street murmurs.

“Does that mean you’ll reimburse me for the cupcake?” Deacon interjects. He waves his hand and adds, “I’ll ask at the wedding.”

“I have to go be a princess,” you tell Street.

“I have to find an excuse to stay.”

“It’s Lila’s party, Street,” Deacon points out.

Street nods, his eyes on you.

“Fine, you can stay, but I’m putting you to work as a waiter.”

“Whatever you say, Deac.”

“Wow!” Lila exclaims, exiting her house dressed in a blue and purple gown with sparkly eyeshadow and her hair braided delicately. “A castle!”

The girls behind her awe at the castle, wide-eyed as they look around.

“Hello, my fellow princesses!” you call, waving from the castle tower. You move your hand to your necklace and widen your eyes to compliment, “Your gowns are beautiful, true beauties, just as their wearers.”

As the kids rush toward the castle, eager to meet the princess, Street watches from Deacon’s side as you smile, lower gently, and accept hugs with a grace he’s never experienced. He knows it’s an act, but it has to be an extension of you. It makes him desperate to learn more about you. To learn everything about you.

“Can you talk to animals?” Lila asks.

You smile and whisper, “We can all talk to animals, the key is learning to be quiet and patient enough to listen for them to reply.”

“Deac, when you said wedding earlier,” Street begins, leaning toward Deacon.

“Don’t,” Deacon interrupts. “You two figure that out later.”

“Gladly,” Street replies before straightening.

You walk with the princesses to the tables Deacon and Street set up, whispering with them and complimenting their bows as they reach the table. When you meet Street’s eyes, you smile and curtsey before sitting beside Lila.

“Where’s your prince?” she asks.

“He’s saving good people,” you answer. “I see him often, but dinner with princesses is always a treat.”

Deacon and Street serve macarons and chocolate pastries around the table before dinner. When Street reaches you, he whispers, “Princess.”

You smile widely, then quickly replace it with your practiced princess expression.

“I’ve never wanted to be a prince before today, Deac,” Street says.

“The right woman will do that to you.”

“You’re so pretty,” Street blurts out.

You laugh and look down at your t-shirt and leggings. “Thank you.”

“I mean, you were beautiful in the dress, but… it’s just you, you’re gorgeous.”

“And you’re a prince.”

Street hesitates, and you take his hand, smiling your genuine smile as you ask, “Are you going to ask me out or do I have to do it?”

“Where do you want to go? Give me something to work with.”

You brush your thumb over his knuckles and murmur, “You’ve got it.”

Street nods. “Will you go out with me? We can get dinner and then try the best cupcake in the world.”

“That sounds perfect,” you reply. “I’d love to.”

Street sighs, and you bump your shoulder against him as he walks you out of Deacon and Annie’s house. “I wasn’t going to say no, why are you acting relieved?”

“I’m so nervous,” he confesses.

You turn toward him and place your hand on his cheek. As you kiss Street, he feels like he could be a prince. As long as you’re his princess, Street knows who and what he is. And what he's going to be for Halloween.

Bonus:

“I guess the cupcake paid off,” Deacon says as Annie watches you and Street out the window.

“Only you would take credit for what just happened, David,” Annie replies, smiling.

“I knew he’d have a crush on her. Like I told him, the right woman turns you into a prince.”

#jim street x fem!reader #jim street fluff #jim street fic #jim street imagine #jim street x reader #swat cbs #swat x reader #swat oneshot #swat fic #fem!reader #requests #hanna writes✯

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atsadi-shenanigans · 25 days ago

Text

Chekov’s Dildo

Happy Easter you fellow animals! Here’s a smutfic posted early because I can’t sleep!

It clocks. The shape. Something’s off. You look down between your bodies. You seen him in panties before. But his front now is flat. No hint of an erection.

“Do you remember that little chat we had, oh, around Greengrass last year?” he says.

Their version of the spring equinox. And the day you got that greater phallus. You, naturally, had mused about the orgasmic differences in genitalia, and Astarion had perked up (sweating and flushed and still panting).

You look at his crotch. The way them panties hug his hips.

“Oh,” you say.

His grin turns predatory.

Or: Astarion receives a long-awaited package. And finally gets to use a long-awaited Earthian item.

Preview, the rest is on AO3:

The heat is finally fading when a knock thumps the door. You’re up to your eyeballs in paper and letters—wizards are a pain in the fucking ass. Having Gale and Jaheira’s contacts to back you up on germ theory is helping, but it ain’t a failsafe.

Infusing the little bit of the tech you know with magic is tricky when it comes to crusty-ass losers clucking and huffing around in their pretentions-ass wizard towers.

Bunch of bitches.

“I’ve got it,” Astarion says from somewhere upstairs.

You glance up. It’s late afternoon and the sun shines on the garden patch outside. You’ve got the narrow window over the desk open to catch the light you can.

“You sure?” you say. The door is south-facing, and y’all have put up an awning to keep sunlight from blasting directly through the door (you remember that scene in that vampire comedy show).

In answer, Astarion pads deliberately down the stairs; man is silent most of the time and can and will use that to his advantage.

The door clicks open. Voices drift back to you. You can’t see the door from your desk without getting up, but nobody shouts, and after a moment, the door shuts.

“Who was it?” you say.

“A courier.”

Huh. You don’t think y’all ordered anything recently?

“I’ll take care of it, my love,” Astarion says, thudding (faintly) back upstairs.

Probably one of his book deliveries. That or he’s in the middle of another spat with the newspaper editor again. He’s on his third or fourth pen name, but you’re pretty sure he ain’t actually fooling nobody at this point.

You get back to it. Try to figure out how to translate “That’s what I said, you withered old ballsack” into something resembling business speak. In Chondathan.

At least you can write and read now—though nowhere near the proficiency you’d like just yet.

You lose yourself for a while. Thumb through a dictionary nearby to make sure you ain’t completely off the mark. The light begins to change, turns golden as the sun dips towards the walls of the Gate.

Your lover, being a vampire shithead, is silent. You don’t even know he’s there until fingers brush the side of your neck.

You jump. Nearly spatter ink all over the letter (you have got to touch base with Barcus and his folks to work on ballpoint pens) (without fucking over the Faerunian “quill and inkpot” economy).

But Astarion was courteous enough to wait until you wasn’t actively scratching away, so no harm ultimately done.

“Evening to you, too,” you say.

He only hums. His other hand slides up your shoulder and kneads the muscles at the base of your neck.

“Arguing again?” he says. The hypocrite.

“About to turn up on that fucker’s doorstep and dump a bucket of shit water over his head. See how many apprentices he can spare then.”

“Ooh,” Astarion coos. The cool tip of his nose brushes the back of your neck as his hands slide over your shoulders and smooth along your collarbones. “Sounds like you’re rather worked up, darling.”

You are. But him saying that, in that tone no less, snaps your attention to him. He’s unfortunately nuzzled in so close you can’t twist around to look at him.

His hands glide lower. You ain’t wearing stays. Often do at home for the comfort of not bouncing around, but you only been up a couple of hours and been sitting at the desk most of that time—turns out the living need vitamin D to not fall as easy into a major depressive funk.

“Lemme close these,” you say and try to stand to reach for the curtains.

But he holds you where you are, and his soft lips replace his nose.

“It’s fine,” he says.

The sun’s angle has shifted to the other side of the townhouse and this window won’t be a danger to him until the morning.

But you ain’t wearing stays, so when he reaches your breasts, curl over them and give a squeeze, you sigh into his touch.

“Feeling frisky?” you say, the last word in English.

The wet press of his tongue sweeps up the side of your neck towards your ear. You tilt into it without thinking.

He’s been in a mood recently. Took a job a few days out and came back pissy as fuck. He’ll take those now and then; something about “no one cares about murder as long as you murder the right people.” Which, ethically? But he is a vampire, and you tell yourself it’s like expecting a cat to not kill the shit outta the local wildlife. And you can’t just keep this one as an indoor cat.

But something went wrong during the last job. He hasn’t talked about it yet. Came back uninjured but sulking and he’s been snipey since.

“Astarion?” you say, cause he ain’t answered yet.

His fingers find your nipples through your shirt. Give them a pinch.

“What are you working on?” he says.

Currently? Ruining your smallclothes.

“The recycled water scheme,” you say. Starting in Waterdeep, with all them wizards and shit (and Gale to vouch for you), you’re trying to introduce a modernized water reclamation facility. But instead of chemicals, y’all got ~magic~.

They got a decent system over that way—a series of aqueducts combined with a functional sewer system. The bad part is that sewage tends to get directed straight into the harbor.

“The patriars here are being shits, too,” you say. Gasp as his teeth tug on your earlobe. “Y-you’d think after we saved all their asses, they’d be more willing to take a chance. Stingy fucks.”

He kneads your breasts and you shift in your seat.

“It’s just a little talent poaching,” you say. “City’s got nowhere to go but up. But they’re all ‘Oh no, if you tax me I can’t maintain by second and third estates!’ Like they ain’t all half-collapsed into giant piles of rubble. And if we can show potential wizard apprentices that they can learn what they need here without getting chained to some bullshit wizard indenturehood—”

He mouths at your neck. The tips of his fangs scrape over your skin and you make a sound.

“Mmm, my precious hellion,” he says. “Still trying to save everyone.”

“Just—”

He releases you. Cloth shifts and then he spins the chair around. You only catch a flash of light blue and pale skin before he lifts a leg and his weight settles over your lap.

“Trying to make. Um,” you say. “Things a little. Better…”

His chest is bare. A smooth sweep of naked skin from his chin to his naval, framed in an open robe of sky-blue silk so fine it’s pretty damn see-through. His misty step necklace spills down his chest, and his nipples peek out from the edges of that robe.

But it’s his waist that really catches your attention. The matching, lacy garter belt and panties, both of them embroidered in swirls of gold. And the stockings. Matching blue, clasped up by the belt all the way up his thighs.

“Huh,” you say. “Was that, um. Did the courier drop them off?”

He leans back, gripping the arms of the chair so you can admire him: the way the silk drapes, the way the muscles of his abdomen flex.

“Goodness, no,” he says. “I’ve had this old thing for ages. That sweet man brought me something else.”

A flush stains his cheeks. Sweeps across his chest. He’s been feeding damn regular, and you wonder if he means some kinda like, specialty blood? Cause you know that necklace. And he ain’t wearing much else…

He leans in close. Face to yours. Grinds against you.

And it clocks. The shape. Something’s off. You look down between your bodies. You seen him in panties before—he’s goddamn hot with his cock straining against them. But his front now is flat. No hint of an erection.

“Um?” you say.

He kisses you. Lips soft. Tongue slightly warm as you part your lips immediately to meet him. His hands come up to brush along your ears and bury his fingers in your hair.

He rocks again. The chair creaks under y’all’s weight.

Until he breaks away and lifts up. He’s grinning.

“Do you remember that little chat we had, oh, around Greengrass last year?” he says.

Their version of the spring equinox. And the day you got that greater phallus he (and you) had been excited about. It wasn’t the first time you’d taken him, but it was the first time you could feel it.

You, naturally, had mused about the orgasmic differences in genitalia, and Astarion had perked up (sweating and flushed and still panting).

You look at his crotch. The way them panties hug his hips.

“Oh,” you say.

His grin turns predatory. “How about you take a break from your troubles, my sweet, and join me in a little experimentation of my own, hm?”

“Experiment” is a fun word in Chondathan. It translates directly to a form of “many failures.” You wonder sometimes of it’s meant to be real optimistic, or super pessimistic.

Astarion leans in close again. So that when he speaks, his lips move against yours and his words are more vibration than sound, his breath in your mouth when he says, “I’d like to find out exactly how many times I can come with this.”

Well.

He’s seated on your lap, between you and the desk. You’d pulled your arms back to allow him room, and now you skim your hands to the outside of his stockinged thighs. They’re so smooth and cool.

“Silk?” you say.

“Of course.”

With blue ribbons to tie them to the belt. His robe is softer than a kitten’s sigh.

“You got anything specific in mind?” you say.

His nose traces along your jaw towards your ear, all but forces you to tilt your head back. Allows him access to your neck.

“A few things,” he says. Don’t stop wriggling against you.

Goddamn, them stockings are nice. You could run your hands along them all damn day.

“Because I got some ideas,” you say.

“Oh?”

You wait until he gets curious enough to lift up enough to look at you.

Good god almighty, he’s something to look at. You’re well-used to his pasty pallor by now. All you see is his smooth skin, neck to necklace, the line of his chest and his mildly softened abs (you give yourself a small, victorious fistbump in your head; man put on a bit of softness since becoming his own person again). And all of that leading down to them panties.

They’re lacy things. Probably only for this—they’d start to itch or chafe if he tried to wear them out on an errand or a hunt. And they’re framed by that goddamn delightful garter belt.

You kinda had a thing for women’s lingerie before you met him. There’s just something about the whole stocking setup—clothed but not—that really charged your motor more than being outright naked.

And he knows it. Ain’t the first time he’s worn something like this, but he ain’t never had a cooch before, and it turns out you like using your mouth on him. Like, a lot.

“I wanna use my tongue first,” you say.

His rocking stills. Lust burns in his eyes.

“My my,” he says, voice going a touch rough. “Have you ever done so with this particular anatomy?”

“Nope.” His nails scratch gently along your scalp. Goosebumps sweep down your arms and your nipples tighten. “But I been curious about it. And I know what I like.”

Cause he might be your first sexual partner, but you got hands. And the miracle of modern technology. You ain’t a stranger to a vagina.

He all but curls into your lap. Fingers trace down your cheeks, thumbs sweep up the outsides of your ears. Your entire world shrinks down to the inches of space between y’all.

“I’d be your first,” he says. Man’s got a thing for that, you noticed. Might be a vampire thing (territorial little shit). Might be a him thing, being finally free.

“You would.”

He’s so goddamn well-fed today you watch as his pointy ears flush red. Not even pink, but red.

“I’d like that,” he says. Wraps his arms around your neck and his legs jam down to either side of your hips.

“Let me taste you,” you say, parroting something he told you towards the beginning of y’all being y’all.

He can’t stop the tiny moan. Then his mouth is on yours, needy, all but clicking his teeth against yours and you don’t care.

You slide your hands along his flanks, up under the edge of that robe—god, that’s so fucking nice—to cup his ass and squeeze. He uses that encouragement to grind against you.

“Let’s move to the chaise,” you say. This chair is fine for writing and reading letters, but it’s too hard under your ass and likely to his knees.

He only groans into your mouth. Holds you tighter. Gonna make you do all the work.

Well that’s just fine. “Darlin, let me lay you down so I can spoil you all proper.”

He nuzzles into you. Says, “Gods, you’re perfect.”

#these two shitheads #astarion #bg3 #astarion x tav #tavstarion #astarion smutfic #oh look Eleanor’s sinle Earth souvenir makes a showing

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