#serve me on a bed of rice

[69liesleft]

IA

The second one is ia in the dogman art style but it’s horribly drawn

Idk i came up with an au like that that’s supposed to parody dav pilkey books or whatever he made idk

Thats what i imagine

Which i wanna do but probably will most likely never happen but all im doing is just typing a shitty story with text first💔 comics take so fuckibf long GRRR

[nexus-nebulae]

im trying to learn how to better keep & reheat leftovers (bc if i dont know how to do a specific thing my brain won't let me try At All) and im getting better at eating bc im learning how to rely on food i know i like & lasts me at least a few days but is very easily heatable

[bittersweet-folder]

♡ cafuné

(n.) running your fingers through the hair of someone you love.

pairing : kim mingyu × fem! reader [ in an established relationship]

genre: fluff, very domestic fluff. svt. m.list

synopsis: sometimes what Mingyu really needs is good food, cuddle and kisses from you after a long exhausting day at work.

warnings: none (lots of kisses) word count: 1113 words

song rec: O by Code Kunst ft LeeHi // Hold me close by H3F

Taglist : @hongmingoo , @shuabby1994 , @unlikelysublimekryptonite , @asyre , @yumiyumis-blog , @soobunsbun , @nishloves , @aaniag , @sikuthealien , @jespecially , @lizza2001 , @zierose-freak , @thepoopdokyeomtouched , @hoshifighting (yes girly tagged you as well)

(please read the a/n! note in the end loves!)

You take a glance at the clock. 9pm. You were cooking and waiting for Mingyu to return home. It was almost time. The sizzling sound of the vegetables frying in the pan filled the silence in the kitchen. You were making dinner late because you came back home a little late after work as well. And automatically drifted to a deep slumber as soon as your head hit the pillows. You added the rice in the stir fried vegetables. The delicious fragrance filled your senses as you stirred and mixed the rice well and then added the rest of the seasonings. "Gyu would love thiss" You said to yourself,smiling. You loved how Mingyu is a fan of whatever food you made. You loved the smile or sometimes the wide eyed expression he pulled whenever he took the first bite. He really enjoys eating food, especially home made food which is made by his one and only lovely girlfriend.

Time passed by and you stirred the rice thoroughly and then tasted it. It was delectable. That's when you heard the keys clinking followed by the door opening. 

"Baby I'm home!" The cheerful Mingyu was nowhere to be found. He sounded really exhausted instead which concerned you. 

"Welcome home Gyu! I'm in the kitchen!" you call out from the kitchen, now serving the rice on the two plates,set on the table beforehand. Mingyu appeared in the kitchen. 

"It smells soo good in here.. what are you making?" he mumbled as headed his way standing close to you in the kitchen. You made his favorite prawn fried rice. He draped himself on you like a blanket, arms around your waist, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. 

"Today was really exhausting isn't it?" you asked. 

"Yes, so so exhausting, back to back work and an important presentation. But I'm back and I want to sleep so bad" his reply was followed with a yawn. 

"But you have to eat, baby. Plus go take a quick shower, you're sweaty. The chicken will heat up in the microwave in the meantime." you said. He groaned like a little five year old kid before saying "Alright alright I'm going but can I get a kiss?"

Without any questions you pressed a soft peck on his lips. 

“One more?” he pouted. You let out a chortle. And pressed another kiss on his forehead and on his nose. He grinned and stared at you until out of the blue he attacked you with plenty of kisses all over  your face. His sweet affectionate behavior made you laugh and giggle. Once he was done he seemed like a smiley proud golden retriever after pulling back and looking at you and then he left to take a shower. 

The beep of the microwave oven reminded you of the chicken you were heating up so you took out two small bowls from the kitchen cabinet and then the chicken to serve it on the bowl. Dinner was served so you thought of scrolling through your phone a bit. Few minutes passed by, Mingyu came out of the shower and joined you for dinner. He was very sleepy now. All the little chit chats went on knowing about how each other's day went while eating dinner. The rain started pouring outside. The pitter patter of the light rain joined the conversation between you and him as pleasant background music. Not too harsh, not too slow. The kind of tranquil environment needed after a tough day. 

[..... time skip~♡]

You and Mingyu were now in the bedroom laying on the bed, cuddled up. He was nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck while his arm was around your waist. His warm breath was fanning on the skin of your neck. And above everything both of you were wide awake. Your hand was on his shoulder but then you slid it around his neck slowly running your fingers through his fluffy black hair. He quite literally melted in your touch. 

“Gyu?” you whispered. 

“Yes darling”

“You aren't sleeping. Aren't you tired baby?” Your soft voice being the only other sound beside the ceiling fan's, in the dimly lit room. 

“You know I can ask you the same question right? But I might actually fall asleep if you continued the massage” He smiled softly looking up at you. Your eyes meet his. He looked so adorable and fluffy. Hair all messy, drowsy eyes, slightly flushed cheeks. It gave you the urge to pepper kisses all over his face. Slowly you leaned your face closer to his, your soft lips pressing a delicate kiss on his forehead. Then peppering more kisses on his cheeks and nose. It made him smile automatically. Another kiss right beside his right eye. He was savoring the feeling of feather light kisses until he whispered “what's up baby?”. You stopped for a second to answer “nothing I just wanted to kiss my pretty boyfriend can't i?”.

“You're insufferable but I love you, you know that?” Mingyu had a lopsided smile dancing on his lips. Your face went closer to his, your lips ghosting over his and his eyes shutting slowly expecting to get into the fervent feeling of the tender kiss. But you stay still in that position. His eyes open. 

“So… I read this word somewhere ‘cafuné’ which means running you fingers through the hair of your loved one” you muttered, pulling away with a soft smile and continued “felt like this was the perfect opportunity to actually do it while we are still tangled in our bedsheets, on the bed like this''. Mingyu stared at you, blinking at times thinking how did he get such a sweet caring girlfriend. Your fingers picked up the motion they left for a few seconds, grazing and caressing his hair softly. 

“You talk just like a book. I don't really know how to explain this at this particular moment but you do and I absolutely love it” Mingyu spoke softly. 

“Really? Thank you, love. I think you should close your eyes and finally get some sleep as well” you said. 

“Alright my lady good night then?” 

You chuckled and then pressed a sweet tender kiss on his lips. 

“Yes, good night love. And I love you too” 

Sometimes nothing was better than Mingyu's bear hugs. He had such a big chiseled yet soft chest and arms. It was always a treat or a cure to a sad mood to hug him.

Sometimes for Mingyu your soft loving touch and affection is what he needed after an exhausting day or simply because he craved the softness of the affection you had, just for him. 

author's note: finally posted something lol. sometimes I just really really wanna baby this man and take care of him and make him his comforting food. I have proofread it once but lemme know if there's something wrong. [Please note: the Wonwoo fic is in progress and i won't be able to finish it any sooner because of the amount of assignments I have presently, I honestly wanna ugly cry atp]. With love, Luna🎀.

[draconic-desire]

🔹 Oculus Infinitum 🔹

Yandere Satoru Gojo x Reader

He’s infinity; in comparison, you’re nothing. So of course using your cursed technique on him backfires.

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI! Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied kidnapping, forced imprisonment, nsfw, non-con/dub-con, afab!reader, slight mindbreak

Infinity is often interpreted as the largest numerical magnitude to exist. And while that fact may be true in theory, infinity is better defined as the endless division of infinitesimally smaller and smaller values. One can be separated into half, half to a quarter, and so on, until the space between fractions almost ceases to exist.

Almost.

Gojo is a lot like infinity. Blame it on his technique, sure, but you suspect it runs much deeper than that. His actions never reach an end; instead, each one sinks further and further into your skin, fangs so small you barely feel them until it’s too late and the venom irreversibly invades your veins. He’s chipped away at you, piece by little piece, until you are the opposite of infinity; you are nothing.

On a surface level, most would say you have it pretty good. You (are trapped in) live in a huge home, filled with opulent furniture and all the luxuries you could ever want. You’re (expected to) allowed to cook meals for the two of you, including your favorite dishes. You still have (basic rights) privileges, such as free roam of the house, your own selection of clothes, access to the television and your phone (minus the ability to call or text, of course), even outdoor time with Satoru’s supervision. Why would you ever need to leave?

You had escaped, once.

Calling it an escape would be generous. Nothing ever happens without Gojo’s knowledge, without Gojo’s permission. How foolish you had been, to think you could evade his Six Eyes. Despite weeks of planning, he’d dragged you back home within the hour.

The chains hadn’t been removed for an entire month after that, and their lingering presence on each post of Satoru’s bed serves as a constant reminder that they’ll never rust.

Currently, you’re in the (not your, nothing is ever truly yours anymore) house’s lofty kitchen now, preparing dinner for his return home from work. Glancing up at the clock, you see it’s nearly time for him to arrive. You click the stovetop on and place a pot of water over the open flame, watching the blue fire flicker. Your thoughts immediately go to Gojo’s eyes, twin infernos of endless blue. Those eyes never seem to close, never seem to be too far from your own. They have the ability to lock you in place and throw away the key forever.

Moments later, the sound of the door opening and closing, along with the click of multiple locks, echoes from the hallway. Long, casual footsteps alert you to his presence behind you. His velvet voice, so languid and carefree, fans your ear as he settles his hands on your hips. “There’s my girl. Already making dinner for me?” He places a surprisingly chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Missed ya, baby.”

You add rice and a bit of salt and stir the pot in front of you in silence. When did you stop fighting him on that? On losing your full name to simple titles like girl and baby? The old you would have gagged at those pet names. The old you that kicked and bit the hand of your captor like a rabid animal, always fighting for freedom.

His grip tightens when you fail to immediately respond, though you hear him force a light tone to his voice. “What, curse got your tongue?”

Tension immediately floods your muscles. Gojo is a vain man; your silence maims his huge ego, something the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer will not stand for. You must react. “No, Gojo. I was just lost in thought, is all.”

You worry your lip when the quiet drags on. “I-I’m sorry?”

Gojo barks out a laugh, but his smile is strained and all fangs. “Back to Gojo again, huh?”

A mistake you notice too late. The spoon falls from your grip as you turn your head slowly. He’s still wearing his blindfold, but you know those infinite abyssal eyes are currently boring into your soul, daring you to speak. “Ah, no! Satoru, I mean—”

“Shh, baby. I get it.” His hands move to your shoulders, which he begins to massage. “Is it because you’re mad at me for neglecting you?”

To an outsider it may sound like he’s teasing, but you know all too well the creep of annoyance laced into his deepened, husky tone. “Or are you just being a brat?”

Swallowing, you place a hand on his toned forearm in an attempt to calm him. You feel him practically melt into the touch. “Truly, ‘Toru, I’m fine.” Your honeyed tone makes you sick, but you’ve learned it can subtly manipulate your captor in the right setting, usually this domestic fantasy world of his. “You’ve been so busy with work, and my mind has just been wandering. Why don’t you go sit while I finish up with the food?”

He hums absentmindedly, fingers swirling patterns across your abdomen. “I have a better idea…” Hot breath caresses your ear, eliciting a shiver. “Let me make it up to you.”

A deft hand snakes its way down the back of your bare thigh, barely ghosting across your skin. You can feel him, solid as a rock, yet you know there will always be space between you. He can touch you, but you’re powerless to do the same.

Just like in everything else, you can’t hold a candle to him. Your cursed energy is inconsequential, a tiny spark against his infinitive well of power.

Talk of your innate cursed ability is a topic you actively choose to avoid. Your technique, when activated, allows you to briefly control the thoughts and consequent actions of a single individual—but only after you’ve kissed them. And it often backfires tremendously, with the kiss causing overwhelming feelings of obsession or insanity in the receiver. From more than enough uses you’ve learned to see it as more of a curse in and of itself, and one you prefer to keep hidden.

Especially from the man behind you. Gojo—Satoru, you correct yourself—has enough twisted love that you wouldn’t dare try to possess his thoughts. The mere idea makes your throat tighten with panic.

Satoru’s technique, on the other hand, causes every nerve ending along your skin to explode as his hand falls beneath your skirt and skate across your barely clothed core.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he groans. “Are you wet for me, baby?” Before you can respond, Satoru easily moves your panties aside and spears you with his middle and ring fingers.

The invasion makes you jolt instantly. An involuntary gasp leaves you as he presses deeper, his fingers sheathed to the knuckle. You hate how your walls immediately tighten around him, slick with your arousal. No, you don’t want this, but Gojo gives you no choice in the matter but to practically ride his hand as he lifts your skirt with his other hand to get a better view.

“I’ll never get tired of this.” His thumb passes over your clit, pulling yet another shameful moan from your lips. Your tense demeanor only causes your pussy to accidentally squeeze him tighter, spurring him on. You try to pull your thighs together, but Satoru wrenches them apart easily with his other hand. “Oh, no, none of that. This pussy is mine.”

You squirm, grasping for something to get you out of this mess. “Satoru, stop, the food will burn—”

“Forget it,” he commands, ripping your skirt off. “We’ll order takeout after.”

Your heart drops. “After…?”

“Aw, you thought I’d stop here?” His condescension floods your ears. “No, babe, I’m only just getting started with you.”

His persistence, like infinity, has no end.

Without warning, Satoru removes his fingers from your core and swings you over his shoulder, smacking your bare ass and wrenching a yelp from you. You blanch when you realize he’s carrying you to the bedroom.

“Wait, Satoru—!”

You are unceremoniously thrown onto the bed, said white-haired sorcerer towering above you. He pounces immediately, locking your limbs in place. Satoru must see the fear, the readiness to engage in fight or flight, across your face, because he brushes a tender hand across your cheek to wipe away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” he teases, but it somehow sounds like a threat. His fingers, still coated with your arousal, hook around your thong and slide it down your legs. “You’re acting like this is our first time or somethin'.”

Oh, it was far from the first time that he had touched you or been inside of you. But something about today, about this time, sends fear skittering across your whole being. Perhaps it’s all the reminiscence lately, or the fact that your thoughts drifted to your innate technique for the first time in weeks. Panic sinks its claws into you.

Breath ragged, heart pounding, you grab his face in both hands and react without thinking; for the first time since he kidnapped you, you willingly kiss Satoru Gojo and activate your technique.

Satoru immediately reacts, deepening the kiss and pressing you more firmly into the mattress until you feel as if you’re nearly suffocating.

Release me, you project into his mind, threading a hand through his white locks and squeezing hard.

The world suddenly goes very, very still.

Satoru freezes. Slowly, painfully, he parts his lips from your own and straightens his arms against the mattress to hover above you once more. His breath comes out in jagged huffs. The only sound that remains is the unending tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall, bringing you closer to your doom.

For a second, you almost believe your technique worked.

That is, until he quickly sheds his blindfold, and you are meet with those stunning, terrifying, brilliant, paralyzing blues. He whispers your name with a foreign stillness that chills your bones to ice. “Do you…have a cursed technique?”

What an idiot you are to have thought you could sneak past Satoru Gojo’s barriers and Six Eyes. You can’t touch his physical form; why would his mind be any different?

It takes all of your willpower to withhold the panicked, hysterical laugh threatening to escape you. “Look, I can explain—”

Satoru leans back on his knees, one hand carding through his hair as he looks up to the ceiling. “God, babe, I knew you could see curses and harbored cursed energy, but here you go surprising me!” He laughs, a gleeful chuckle that has you reeling.

“You’re not…mad?” you dare to ask, inching your knees towards your chest. Maybe your technique failed, but you can still buy some time and get into a safer position.

Satoru gazes down at you, head tilted and a full grin on his lips. “Mad? Baby, why would I be upset when for the first time in our relationship, you were the one seducing me?”

Oh, no. No no no no no.

Grabbing your ankle, he drags you back to a supine position, your pussy on full display for him. He licks his lips at the sight. “Plus, you trying to get inside my head was cute and all. Weak, but you gave it your best!” He laughs again, and you realize that he never took you seriously, not even for a second.

The thought should enrage you—it would have infuriated the old you—but all you can manage now is a low whine as his hands go for his belt.

Satoru pulls himself free, his already hard cock pulsing in anticipation. Precum beads at the tip as he lines himself up with your entrance. “What was it you asked me for? Release, right?”

Your eyes bulge at his implication. “Wait, Satoru, I didn’t mean—!”

You barely have time to react as he buries himself in you completely. A choked sob bubbles up your throat as you breath through the stretch of him.

Satoru moans in ecstasy as he begins a steady pace, thrusting mercilessly into that squishy spot deep inside your core that has you seeing stars.

“Kiss me again.” It’s light and breathless, but it’s an order, not a request. Fear makes you comply immediately, though your kiss is a hesitant, timid thing compared to your earlier attempt to sway him.

He’s having none of that. No, Satoru had a taste of your affection, and now he’ll tolerate nothing less than your full reciprocation. If only you could truly peer into his mind and see that no amount of your cursed energy would change him; your being was already permanently imprinted on his brain. You were his perfect doll, held in the palm of his hand.

Nails rake down his back as you arch against the mattress. Every time he thrusts, he grinds against your clit, and you feel yourself chasing your finish. You hate this, you want it to stop, but you can’t help—

“Please, Satoru,” you plead without thinking, meeting his limitless eyes. You feel yourself drowning in them, a blue sky that never ceases.

For a split second, his rhythm hesitates. “…Say that again,” he whispers, almost reverently. “Beg for me.”

You’re not quite sure what you’re asking for. “P-please, I can’t take it anymore, please let me—!”

“Choose your next word carefully,” he warns, voice shifting to a low growl as his hand moves to your throat, adding ever so much pressure.

Tears streak your vision. The embarrassment of your technique failing and the lewd position he has you in all crash down upon you, and another piece of you breaks. “Please let me cum,” you concede.

To your dismay, his pace slows, and you cry out in protest as your orgasm fades. “I just need you to do one more thing for me, baby.” He leans into your neck, nipping and sucking at all your sensitive spots, torturing you even further. “Tell me you love me.”

Alarms should be blazing through your head, but the fog of your arousal clouds your judgement as you seek your climax.

That piece of your soul he took shatters into a million shards as you whisper, “I love you, Satoru.”

The two of you shatter simultaneously. You register all too late the warmth invading your core as Satoru pumps his cum deep inside you.

He’s never come in you before.

Your name is murmured over and over like a prayer against your neck—or maybe it’s a curse. You jolt in overstimulation when he pulls out and bends down to place a kiss against your puffy folds. “So good for me, baby. This perfect pussy belongs to me.”

He kisses you a final time, long and slow. When he pulls away, a languid smile sweeps across his features. “You’re all mine, (Y/n). Even your mind.”

With the use of your innate technique, you’ve dug your own grave for good. Satoru will never let you go now.

After all, infinity is indivisible.

[lilrainbowcloud]

Pairing: Percy Jackson x Reader

Genre: Fluff, aged up Percy!

Word count: ~0.8k || masterlist

[18:23]

It was quaint in your dorm room. The only source of sound in your room came from your laptop, shuffling songs from your "i just want to be happy with you" playlist, the song 'Everyone Adores You' by Matt Maltese filled the air, and also the sound of your boyfriend's soft rhythmic breathing while his body was snuggled on yours.

It was a nice feeling. Having him close to you. Watching him sleep without the creases that would mar his forehead as another bad dream clouded his mind.

Not a worry(monster) in sight. It had been two months since your last encounter with one of the children of Echidna. Ruining your park date which ended up with singed clothes and smashed strawberries.

Sometimes you just can't catch a break can you?

But moments like this you'd cherish. A perfect vision of you both safe in bed, under the warm weighted blanket while snow falls outside like little white cotton candies. The contrast of temperature made you rubbed your socked feet together, careful as to not stir too much that would disturb the sweet sleeping boy on you.

As you continued reading a book for your English class, your fingers mindlessly twirl his sandy blond hair. Massaging his scalp as you do which you knew calmed him down and he loves it when do you it. You thought about what to have for dinner since the sun was going down.

Disturbing your thoughts on honey garlic chicken serve with rice, Percy's suddenly took in a deep breath, signalling him regaining conscious. Stretching his limbs as he let out a groan.

You smiled behind the book, still reading the last bit of line of chapter eleven.

After a moment, a finger lifted the bottom of your book. Bright blue eyes peaked from behind it, curtained by curls. You giggled as brushed his hair away from his eyes as you put the book down beside you.

"G'morning," he mumbled. Smiling as your fingers run through his hair.

"Morning," your replied, giggling as you watched him snuggled back into you. Arms wrapped around your torso from your position of resting your back on the headboard.

"I'm hungry, do you want to get dinner?" you asked, patting his back softly as if to put him back to sleep as you would a baby.

A groan, and a muffled mumble as he spoke into the folds of your sweater.

Okay.... So that's a no for going out to hunt for food. Pulling out your phone, you opened the food delivery app. Asking what he wants.

Lifting his head up to look at you with his still sleep clouded eyes, he replied, "What are you having?"

You replied with what you had thought earlier. Finger scrolling through the menu of your favourite restaurant.

Percy let his head fall again on your stomach. This boy is really exhausted.

"Do you want the same as me?" Glancing from below your phone screen, you watched as he nodded his head which tickled you a bit.

How was he breathing was beyond you. At least you saw his back rising and falling steadily. Need to keep an eye on that one.

Shaking your head at his antics, you ordered two sets with strawberry tea that you liked. Nice to have something hot during the cold weather.

Setting your phone down after checking out dinner, you sigh as you looked at your boyfriend. It was adorable really, watching him be at peace.

The impending danger that you both have to face everyday was tiring enough. Now, added with college classes, it was double the challenge. But you had the best of times with him.

Choosing to go to the same college together, even though you both resided in different dorm rooms but he would still crash at your place since you got the room all to yourself. The reason being your previous roommate had dropped out of her program because the professors was being such a "pain in the ass" as she said it.

Now you can say that Percy is your roommate.

College is nice. It's even nicer that you had a Percy Jackson by your side to fight monsters and exam papers together.

Just the life you had always wanted.

Or did you?

Lowering yourself so now you're back is against the pillow, you put am arm over your eyes while the other wrapped around Percy.

For a moment, you just want to enjoy every single peaceful second that you can with him.

Well, maybe just until dinner arrives. Because if he doesn't let you get up to get your honey garlic chicken, you're going to kick him off of you. Lovingly of course!

[fatkish]

Rengoku x Bunny Hybrid Reader

Rengoku was on his way home one evening, he had finished grading papers and was nearing his home when he saw something moving on the sidewalk. Walking closer he saw it was a small rabbit, and it was injured. He carefully walked up to the rabbit and gently scooped it up in his hands. “Don’t worry little friend, I will take you home and get you all fixed up. You are safe now” he cradled the small rabbit close to his chest as he continued on his walk home.

You had no idea who this man was, but he was warm and gentle and he smelled good. He continued walking when he reached a house and entered it. “Mother, Father, Senjuro, I’m home!” He shouted. He took off his shoes before walking through the house and into a bathroom. He gently set you down before pulling a box out from under the sink cabinet and setting it down beside you. He pulled out some disinfectant as well as bandages before cleaning and disinfecting the wound on your leg. He was so gentle and careful while doing it.

“Big brother, what are you doing?” A younger version of this man asked. Man these siblings look incredibly similar. “Ah Senjuro, I found an injured rabbit and decided to bring it home, once we get it fixed up we can find its owners” he said to his little brother. “There we go, you’re all fixed up little one” he said. He had finished bandaging your leg and set you down as he put everything back. You hobbled about testing out your leg, it seems much better but it still hurts. You hopped into the man’s arms once he put everything away and had turned around. You snuggled into his warm chest and stretched, yawning.

“Aww they’re so cute big brother” Senjuro said as he began to pet you. You enjoyed the attention and rubbed your head against Senjuro’s hand. Kyojuro handed you to his little brother who held you securely in his arms as he got up and looked for a box and towel. He grabbed a large shoebox and placed the towel down inside it. “There, that will be their bed for tonight, tomorrow, we’ll ask around to see if anyone is missing their pet bunny!�� Kyojuro declared. It was at this moment that you took the chance to transform into your human form.

Your leg was still wrapped surprisingly as you sat there on the ground looking up at the astonished brothers. “There, there’s no need to look for anyone, I don’t have a home.” You said with your ears flat to your head. The brothers gaped at you before Senjuro quickly left and brought you a towel to cover yourself up with. You quickly covered yourself up then looked at the brothers. “Um… if you want me to leave-.” “there’s no need!” Kyojuro interrupted you. “You can stay here as long as you need, now let me redo your bandage.” Kyojuro said as he grabbed the med box again and started to replace the bandage.

“What happened to you? If you don’t mind me asking?” Senjuro shyly asked. You looked up at him and smiled. “I got attacked by a dog.” You winced as Kyojuro tightened the bandage. “There, now you should take it easy while your leg heals. Are you hungry?” Kyojuro asked as he put the box back a second time. You were about to refuse the notion of food when your stomach growled betraying you. You blushed as Kyojuro laughed. “Let’s get you something to eat.” Kyojuro said as he scoped you up and brought you to the kitchen.

His mother was already in the kitchen cooking. She smiled when she saw you in her oldest son’s arms. He sat you at the table with his Father as he and his brother helped their mother set the table and serve dinner. Dinner consisted of shrimp and vegetable tempura, rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables and gyoza. Your ears were flat to your head and it took the encouragement from the entire family to get you to eat. They were all so kind to you and encouraged you to ask for more but you declined every time. You had never been treated with such kindness or had such yummy food.

After dinner, Ruka and Shinjuro, Kyojuro’s parents, happily welcomed you into their home. Ruka and Senjuro lent you some of their clothes since they were the only one’s whose clothes were close to your size. They even cut holes in them for your tail. That night, Kyojuro let you sleep in his room with him. You snuggled up to him and he wrapped an arm around you. You slept peacefully and were well rested. The next day you got up and wanted to help in anyway you could but they refused to let you since you were their guest and were healing.

A few weeks went by and your leg was finally healed and you were so happy. You transformed into your rabbit form and speed around the house showing off how fast you were. Ruka smiled as Kyojuro laughed and Senjuro giggled. Once you were tired you flopped onto your right side and laid at Kyojuro’s feet. He scooped you into his arms and chuckled seeing as you had tired yourself out. You transformed back into your human form before snuggling into Kyojuro and giving him a huge hug.

“Thank you so much for letting me stay and taking care of me. I’m really grateful and I’m really going to miss all of you” you said. “Wha-what do you mean you’re going to miss us? You’re leaving? Why” Senjuro couldn’t help but plead for you to stay. “I thought that when I healed up you’d have me leave” you answered, your ears fell as you looked around. “Silly rabbit, you’re part of the family now, you can leave if you want but you’re welcome to stay. After all, you are a hybrid which means you need someone to look after you since hybrids can’t live on their own” Shinjuro spoke up. He put down the paper he was reading and smiled softly at you.

All this time, the gruff man didn’t seem to enjoy your presence and seemed to merely tolerate you. Your eyes welled with tears as you jumped into his arms surprising him. He wrapped his arms around you and scratched behind your ear. “Welcome to the family, y/n” Shinjuro gently pat your head and scratched your ears. You were so happy to finally find a forever home with such kind and wonderful people. They each loved you and accepted you as part of their family. After having struggled living on the streets as a wild rabbit, it was nice to be cared for.

After some time, you eventually built a garden in their backyard. Ruka would help you and your would dig tunnels with her permission. You grew all kinds of vegetables like carrots, cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, etc. the garden became your own personal sanctuary where you could just go full rabbit since it gardening easier and it helped the vegetables. Kyojuro and Senjuro would go to work/school and afterwards they’d come home and you’d greet them. You planted a small meadow in the backyard for you to frolic in and you enjoyed chewing on some of the edible flowers. Shinjuro would watch over you and make sure no birds attacked you while you had your fun.

Eventually you’d harvest your vegetables and you’d all enjoy the fruits of your labors or in this case, vegetables. You loved your new family and they enjoyed having you around. Kyojuro and Senjuro love you, Senjuro sees you as an older sibling in a way while Kyojuro, he sees you as the cute little bunny you are. Kyojuro won’t admit it, but he has some less than decent thoughts about you sometimes, especially when it comes to your heats. He’s the one who helps you through them and he’s had more than a few thoughts about breeding you. Too bad it’s just not the right time. Maybe someday, he can convince you to have all the little bunnies he could ever dream of. But for now, he’ll patiently wait.

[morosluvbug]

let me take care of you - haikyuu characters

ft. kita, osamu, bokuto

⊹ genre - sugary fluff hcs

⊹ gender neutral reader

⊹ synopsis - reader is sick ohhh noo

⊹ A/N - period cramps are kicking my ass so im projecting my haikyuu faves taking care of me please help.

. shinsuke kita

"Your troubles are mine, let me take care of everything."

he is the best at taking care of you no contest, and knows exactly what to do and what your recovery timeline will look like.

he is a tiny bit scared of getting sick. the man has a routine he needs to follow and cannot allow himself to get sick!

still so attentive though, he will just be approaching with a mask. loves you too much to stay away!!

has tea constantly running, a meal schedule planned out, and will not let you leave the bed unless it is crucial to your health to go on walks to rebuild strength.

still has to attend to the rice farm!! but makes sure you are okay before he leaves and frequently checks in when he gets the chance.

very honest about the timeline of your recovery, especially if it's a nasty virus. but praises you so much, will constantly soothe your worries and tell you everything will be okay.

he just loves you so bad. he will soothe any muscle aches, prepare any cold/hot pads, do anything to make sure you are as happy as possible, and just wants to comfort you in any way he can.

runs you warm baths and will wash your hair and scrub you down, even going as far as helping you with your skincare (oh I need him). leaves you with his shirt since he will be gone most of the day.

will be giving you a sad puppy look when you're feeling particularly horrible. he just wants to take it all away :(

. osamu miya

"Give me your hand, we'll get through this together."

you tell him not to come near you, he still has a restaurant to run and can't afford to risk getting sick and serving people!

this man. he is not scared of getting sick. he definitely built his immune system through eating dirt with atsumu or something when they were little.

trust he will be glued to your side, he's the boss of Onigiri Miya! he's gonna take the time off and leave a detailed list of how to do everything for his employees, with his number left ONLY for emergencies.

if he does end up having to run to Onigiri Miya, he will be speed running getting down to the store, getting the issue solved, and running back home with anything you want as an apology.

you might be able to catch him on the phone with his mom while you're fading in and out of consciousness. he's trying his absolute best to treat your ailment :(

he will cook anything you want, tries to stick to a strict plan of soups and proteins but if you really want something specific he will fold automatically.

sits around and watches any movies or tv you want. he is so whipped he will run to get any sweets or takeout you want.

he will definitely call kita if he is really stressed about your health. he just wants the best for you and that comes before everything, even his pride.

not scared to kiss you or cuddle you, despite any protesting on your side of things to stay away.

he is so firm about you resting up as much as possible, this man will be sprinting down the hallway for anything as small as a cup of water.

overall, he makes the whole process really easy. will not allow any tears to be shed and wants his partner to be happy

. kotaro bokuto

"let me ease your worries, we'll beat this in no time! "

oh, poor bokuto. he has no idea what he's doing.

sad bokuto on the phone with akaashi and kiyoomi every five minutes. he loves you so bad but probably has 1) never had to take care of someone 2) has never had to take care of himself

if you live together at this point, he has anything that you've bought in the past. but if you're spending time at his place. oh, good luck!

he’s just a bit silly is all. knows nothing about medicine or foods you should be eating.

he is not scared of getting sick and DEFINITELY gets sick with you. but he isn't bothered at all, it does just mean more time with you after all.

he tries his best overall, will carry you everywhere (even when he gets sick) will try to cook and will entertain you as much as possible.

you might. have to sit with him in the kitchen while he cooks for you both. even if it's just him heating up canned soup and pouring it into a cup. please help him.

kisses you and holds you and and and

similar to osamu, he is wrapped around you the whole time, this man is glued to your side. he has molded himself to your very being. if you leave to go to the restroom he will be pouting. throwing a fit every time you leave.

he just tries to make you laugh and tries to comfort you :( capitalize on this moment because he spoils you so bad while you’re sick !! if you thought he spoiled you before oh no. he will be buying you any plushy he even thought you might like.

you want him to read for you? done. want your nails painted but are too weak? consider it done. want him to juggle random household objects for you? they might end up broken but he'll try.

overall: wants you to be happy. he’s so silly but so love-stricken that anything you want from him he will do.

reblogs notes and replies are appreciated!! <3

A/N. first fic in a long time hope you enjoyed my shitty hcs ^_^

[dira333]

Of forgotten Anniversaries and unexpected Gifts - Gaara x Reader

You wake up to an empty bed, the place next to you cold. 

For a minute, you stay where you are, one hand resting under the other pillow.

But you have to get up, even if you don’t want to. 

The blue sky is taunting you, promising a stifling heat. You dress for it, anticipating the worst.

The kitchen is empty, only the dirty dishes in the sink indicate that you’re not living alone.

With a grimace, you scrub the plates down. It’s always the job of the last one to get up and Kankuro has made it a habit to get up extra early to get out of the chore.

At least he made sure to leave enough Porridge for you to also have breakfast.

You meet him where you expected him to be, hunched over yet another puppet in his workshop.

Two knocks on the doorframe to alert him.

“What?” He asks without looking up.

“Have you seen your brother?”

“Why are you asking me? He’s your husband.”

“He didn’t leave a note, I just thought-”

Kankuro looks up now. You’re pretty sure he’s measuring you, reading you in a way you don’t want to be read.

“He’s the Kazekage. I’d look for him in the tower.”

“Thanks,” you mumble awkwardly before turning away to leave.

“Be nice to him,” your brother-in-law yells after you. As if you’d ever been anything else.

-

“Lord Kazekage is in a meeting,” a young Chunin declares with an air of arrogance. 

“For how long?”

“I don’t have the permission to tell you that.”

Someone calls your name just as your grip on your bags tighten. You can’t sock a Chunin in the face but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to.

Matsuri walks down the long hallways, smiling.

“What brings you here?”

“I wanted to see my husband,” you point out.

“Oh, Gaara-sama? He’s in a meeting until nine but then he should have a fifteen-minute break before the next meeting.”

The Chunin pales at your conversation.

“You’re…?”

“Yes,” you tell him pointedly.

“You are not dressed in-”

“I am dressed in standard uniform because I have work to get to. Do you think I just sit at home and stare out the window?”

Matsuri’s hand on your shoulder tells you that you’ve been a bit too harsh on the poor guy. 

“You’re excused,” you tell him and he slinks away as quickly as he can.

“Everything okay?” Matsuri asks as soon as the guy is out of sight.

“Just peachy,” you breathe out through your nose.

“I… I’d better get going then. When’s Gaara’s Lunch break?”

“He usually doesn’t take one. Rice cakes are served during meetings so if he gets hungry, he eats those but he usually just eats in the mornings and evenings.”

You purse your lips, thinking.

“When does he get out?”

“He should be done at six, but sometimes meetings run later. Do you want me to notify you?”

“I don’t know.” You fight with the uniform that suddenly feels too tight.

“I’ll... I’ll get going.”

“What are your plans for today?”

“I was going to visit the outposts. I was planning on doing that since I got here but everything else kept me busy.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will,” she smiles. “Come on, let’s get going. It’s going to get even hotter and we want to use the shadows as long as we have them.”

-

“Today is your anniversary,” Matsuri comments on your first break.

“Yes.”

“Is it weird?” 

You know exactly what she means and her direct approach is exactly what you need. It’s not without reason that Matsuri has quickly become the person closest to you in this village.

“Yes, it’s weird.” You purse your lips. “We’ve been married for a year but living together… it’s been barely three months now. Everyone has a set routine, too. Don’t disturb Kankuro while he’s cooking, or working on his puppets, or painting his face. Don’t eat anything without asking first, because it could be poisonous. Don’t touch Gaara without warning him first.”

“I know it’s hard to believe sometimes, but Gaara really does care for you.”

“I know,” you nod with a heavy heart. “I know. It’s just… I don’t think he knows what being married means sometimes.”

“I think he doesn’t know he’s allowed to exist as a human being too. He never complains when he gets scheduled for meetings back to back. I’m pretty sure he’d love to have a Lunch break.” Matsuri huffs. “But his secretary is a bitch.”

You gasp. She laughs.

“She really is. She’s some old hag that worked for his dad. Oh, please, can you tell her off? If you tell her to give him a lunch break and an early evening, she will have to listen. You’re the Lady Kazekage now.”

You purse your lips. It does sound appealing.

“How about…” You hesitate for a second. “How about we plan a celebration? For my anniversary? I could surprise Gaara with it. A weekend just for the two of us.”

“Oh, I’m sure that would be lovely. You could take him to the bathhouse. It’s a rare treat for anyone and I’m not sure he’s ever been there.”

“A bathhouse?” The idea does sound appealing, you have to admit.

-

You return to Suna in the late afternoon, the sun still baking the village, even though the shadows are now growing longer and longer.

The guards greet you with welcoming smiles.

Not everyone in Suna likes you, but you can feel them slowly warming up to you.

Your family’s roots are just as strongly tied to Suna as those of the Kazekage Family. But when it became clear that they’d never rule the village, your grandfather relocated the whole Clan to a smaller village at the border of the Land of the Wind, easily taking over the reigns there.

Marrying Gaara has been just as much a political decision as it has been a romantic one.

After all, it’s hard not to fall in love with Gaara, with the calm confidence he exudes and the gentleness he treats you with - well, when he’s not drowning in work

You stop at the market on your way home, buying groceries, snacks and, following an instinct, a Cacti you haven’t seen yet in your husband’s collection.

But Gaara’s not home yet. 

-

Ashikaga-san furrows her brows at you when you enter.

You changed into more formal clothing for this visit, the gold and diamonds glittering on your hands and neck. The jewelry isn’t technically necessary for your outfit, but you’ve noticed how often it humbles the people trying to pick a fight with you.

“I want to see my husband,” you tell her.

“He’s in a meeting.”

“And when was that meeting supposed to end?”

“It’s going to end when it’s going to end.” She sneers.

You smile but it’s more like baring your teeth at her.

“When was the last time he had a break?”

“He used the restroom an hour ago.”

“Do I have to repeat my question?”

She huffs. “It’s a normal workday for a Kazekage, I don’t see why you should have a problem with that.”

“How old did the last Kazekage get?” You ask, your tone sweet.

She immediately bristles. “That has nothing to do-”

“I disagree. Overworking the person you should be assisting isn’t going to give you brownie points.”

“Well I can’t end the meeting now, can I?” She hisses back.

“No,” you agree. “You can’t do that. But you do have influence. Let’s start with clearing his weekend first, shall we? I’m going to pick him up around noon, so make sure there are no appointments after that.”

“But-”

You glare at her until her mouth closes again and she nods.

“I know he’s busy, so how about we plan fifteen-minute breaks every two hours and half an hour for Lunch?”

Her mouth is pulled into a straight line as she goes through his calendar under your watchful eyes.

You know very well that Gaara’s an early riser. Not to mention that the early hours of the morning are the ones most enjoyable in the desert. It wouldn’t make sense to force him to push those early appointments further back only to be able to curl into him in the morning. But now you might have the weekends to do that, at least. 

“And now,” you pull a little note out of your bag, “you’ll go into that meeting and hand him this note.”

Ashikaga-san doesn’t look the least bit happy to be ordered around this much, but she does as she is told.

Only fifteen minutes later different officials file out of the Kazekage’s office, leaving only Gaara behind, his hair mussed and his face pale with exhaustion.

“Hey,” you knock lightly against the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” he nods, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Come in. Close the door.”

You round his table and take a seat on the armrest of his chair, leaning into him.

“Hey,” you whisper, only now feeling just how much you’ve been yearning to be close to him.

“Hey.”

“Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” he nods, catching you as you slide onto his lap, your arms circling his shoulders.

You sit like that for a while, basking in each other's presence.

“I missed you,” you tell him quietly, face hidden against his neck. “The bed is cold without you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” you hum. “But…”

“But?”

“I am like a plant too,” you pull back to look into his eyes, pale green and beautiful. “I’ll starve if you don’t give me your attention.”

“I’m sorry.” Gaara presses a kiss against your temple, the tip of your nose, your lips. “I’m trying to be better.”

“Do you know what today is?”

“Wednesday?”

You smile ruefully. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Oh.” His brows crinkle. “Has it really been a year already?”

“It has. Though I think we could celebrate our marriage twice. On the day we married and on the day I moved in.”

“Celebrate it.” He repeats these words as if he’s tasting them for the first time. “How?”

“Well,” you get comfortable with a smile. “For one, the husband has to stay home and spend time with his spouse.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Like staying in bed longer or taking a bath together. Breakfast in bed is also highly encouraged.”

Gaara’s lips stretch into a shy smile.

“You do like staying in bed longer,” he points out and you nudge his shoulder with your head. “It’s great,” you tell him with a smile. “You should try it sometime.”

“What else?” He asks. 

“Well, kisses. Lots of them. I think at least a hundred.”

“A hundred?” You can hear the laughter trying to spill but he’s keeping it at bay. “Only a hundred?”

“Mhm, it can be more though. As if there could ever be enough kisses, you know?”

“I know.” His right hand has found your hip, his thumb drawing circles into the fabric and the skin underneath. “Go on.”

“Gifts, too. Not that I need much, but flowers are usually nice. Or jewelry.” You look down at the diamonds adorning your hands, set into intricate golden chains that are wound around your wrists and fingers, up your arms and around your neck.

“That reminds me,” you pull a little sachet out of your bag. “I got you a gift. Well, I got you a few gifts, but this is your first.”

His shy smile is back, quivering at the edges.

Gaara opens the sachet slowly, pulling out a single golden ring.

“And here I thought I’d get some chains,” he teases.

“Maybe later,” you hum, taking his hand and slipping the ring on. “When I’ve properly measured your shoulders. But this ring will remind you that you’re married.”

He lifts his hand, looking at the evening sun reflecting off the gold. 

“Thank you.”

“Now,” you lean back to press a single kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Are you ready for tonights celebration? I set up a table in your garden. Just the two of us, your Cacti and a nice bottle of wine. I won’t keep you too long, I know you need to get up early tomorrow.”

Gaara hesitates.

“What is it?”

“I want to give you more,” he admits, the grip he has on you tightening. “I don’t want you to starve.”

“How about… How about we leave now and talk about the details over Dinner? I do have something planned for this weekend.”

He agrees quietly, his hand never letting go of yours.

-

Monday

You wake up to an empty bed, the place next to you cold. 

For a minute, you stay where you are, one hand resting under the other pillow.

When you pull it toward you, you find a single sand rose sitting in it. 

Carefully you place it in the vase on your nightstand. So far you’ve collected five of them, one for each day since your anniversary.

The blue sky promises a hot day, but you don’t mind it much. You’ve been able to cool down over the weekend at the bathhouse, already planning your next visit. 

The kitchen is empty and you hum a tune as you do the dishes, prepare Lunch for you and Gaara, and because you feel generous today, one for Kankuro as well.

Two knocks at the doorframe of his workshop.

“I made Lunch for you.”

“Oh,” his head snaps up. “Thank you. Is it poisoned?”

“Not this time,” you tell him with a smile. “But I hope you like pickled Onions.”

Kankuro grimaces. “Not particularly.”

“Too bad. The one making Lunch picks the dish.”

“Like I’m going to start making Lunch for you.”

“Too bad, you better get used to pickled Onions then.”

-

You visit the hospital today, promising to come back in the afternoon to help out after Lunch. 

Ashikaga-san doesn’t look happy to see you, eyeing the Bento Boxes in your hold with thinly veiled disdain. But you don’t care about her.

Gaara’s smile at your sight is more important to you.

“How was your morning?” You ask, settling on his lap instead of one of the chairs. You raise the chopsticks to feed him pickled Onion.

“Too early,” he reminisces. “I would have liked to stay in bed.”

“I wouldn’t have complained,” you take a bit for yourselves. “Yeez, these are strong.”

“Yes,” he smiles. “I like them like that.”

“I was thinking about working part-time at the hospital.” You tell him more about your visit, opening your mouth in between sentences when he feeds you as well.

“I agree with your decision,” he nods his head to emphasize. “Though I might have a few other missions in between for you. We got some interesting news today, but I haven’t had the chance to check it out yet.”

“Tell me about it when you did,” you lean for a last kiss, knowing full well that Ashikaga-san is waiting on the other side of the door, anxiously checking the clock. 

-

Matsuri reaches you shortly before you’re meant to leave for the night.

“Hey,” everything about her, from the way she holds herself to the way her brows are furrowed, is telling you something is up.

“Yes?”

“Gaara-sama asks to meet you at home? Right now, if possible.”

“What has he gotten up to now?” You ask, but she doesn’t answer, just hands you a note.

Gaara’s handwriting is a familiar sight. 

“I’ve gotten you a belated gift. I hope you’ll like him.”

You sigh. “He better not have gotten a dog.”

-

You spot Gaara first, and the streak of red on his cheek.

“You got hurt?!” You reach for it and he lets you, no sand coming in between.

The gash heals quickly under your hands.

“What is going on?” You ask, breathless and confused.

“The interesting news I mentioned… it’s a boy, a sand user as well. He’s… He’s not used to kindness.”

You can read more hiding in the depths of his eyes. 

“You’ve taken him in?”

Gaara lifts your hand, the one you gave him in marriage. Even without the gold chains covering it, you know what it means when he kisses the knuckles on your hand.

“Please?” He asks and you nod. 

It’s Gaara after all. He never asks for anything. 

He leads you down the hallway to the guestroom, your hand in his.

“This,” he explains as he opens the door slowly, ��is Shinki. Shinki, this is my wife. She will be your mother.”

-

Now with companion piece

[daisynik7]

Author's Note: this is a very self-indulgent little nanami drabble because I am currently sick and he is definitely the doting type of husband to do something like this. For reference, I'm Filipino, but I'm sure this and similar types of home-remedies/old wives tales apply to all cultures. And the rice porridge he makes at the end is called Arroz Caldo, in case you were wondering! Divider by @/cafekitsune.

Your hubby Nanami takes care of you while you're sick the best way he knows how. But when his efforts are futile, that's when he calls for backup.

"Kento? Is everything okay?"

You hear the familiar voice of your mother on speaker phone out in the living room as you're snuggled up in bed, barking out phlegmy coughs into the sleeve of your sweatshirt. The door is ajar, and your husband, after having fed you his world-famous chicken noodle soup, excuses himself, distraught by the fact that your sense of taste and smell is temporarily nonexistent.

"Hi Mom. I'm not sure. She can't smell or taste anything. I don't know what else to do."

Despite the shitty state you're in, you can't help but smile to yourself. You always love how he calls your mom Mom, how comfortable it is coming out of his mouth. He insisted a while ago that he would do it, and even though it's been years, you still get a kick out of it.

"Okay dear. Here's what you need to do."

Half an hour later, Nanami returns from a quick grocery store run, waking you from your nap, waving a big jar of Vick's VapoRub in his hands.

"Kento?" You call out, eyes bleary, still half-asleep.

"Go back to sleep, honey. I'm just going to try something." He uncovers your feet, unscrews the jar, and lathers a healthy dose of the balm straight onto your feet, spreading it across your skin.

You sit up, laughing, causing you to cough. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer right away, doing the same with the other foot. Then, he gets up, stepping towards to the drawer to retrieve a pair of your fuzzy socks, putting them on you. "Your mom said this works. Swears by it."

Your smile grows wider. "She used to do this for me all the time as a kid."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, worry in his voice. "We could have tried this sooner."

You reach for his hand, stroking him gently with your thumb. "Honey, I don't think there's any scientific proof that putting this stuff on your feet actually helps."

He squeezes you back. "Well, it doesn't hurt to try right?"

That night, you learn that the home remedy your mother gave to your husband isn't the only advice she offers. You smell a comforting aroma wafting from the kitchen, and soon enough, Nanami serves you a hot bowl of your Mom's famous chicken rice porridge, almost exactly the way she makes it.

And maybe it's just coincidence, but the next day, you actually do feel better.

[iluvmorales]

Earth 42, Miles Morales

summary you’re practically part of the family.

a/n none

word count ??

You placed a lid over the pot of arroz, allowing it to steam while Rio, mrs.morales, played her reggaetón. “Mija, you can leave it now it’ll be a couple minutes before it’s done for sure.” She called out, waving you towards her.

You nodded and smiled, making your way over to her. “Miles and Aaron should be back before it’s ready, thank you for helping me mija.” She smiled sweetly. Mrs. Morales was always so sweet to you, she believed you were a great influence on her son and an even better future daughter in law.

“Ah I’m not in a rush anyways, I love cooking with mi suegra” you took a seat next to her. She beamed at the name, she couldn’t wait til you and miles married, even thought that would be years from now since you both are still teens.

Just as she was about to get up to finish laundry, the front door open and a sweet familiar voice called out. “Mamí we’re home!” Miles.

Rio walked over to greet her son with a warm hug and a side hug to uncle Aaron. Miles walked over to you with open arms as Aaron and Rio walked to a back room. “Hola mi hermosa” he rolled his r’s and his voice was deeper, but you got up to give him a big hug anyways. “How was it today?” You asked, a smile across your lips.

You knew who miles was, even after a big fight when you found out, you both came to an agreement. The terms being he made it home safe every night, No killing innocent people, and he’d text, call or tell you in person about every job he worked.

“It was smooth actually, no fighting, no ambushes just an honest transaction.” He huffed, his hands slowly sliding off your waist before falling back into the chair.

You just hummed as you went to check on the rice once more, peeking into the room and seeing Aaron slide Rio some cash, to which she reluctantly accepted after he told her to take care of his nephew.

You went back to minding your own business, watching miles walk to his room to change. After a good 10 mins, the rice was finally done “Food is ready!” You called out. Rio and Aaron walked to the kitchen. “Smells good as hell” Aaron laughed, causing rio to laugh along. “All cause’ of Y/N! I think she’d make a perfect nuera para mi” she winked at you, and you smiled.

“You all can sit down I already started serving plates.” You hummed. It was Arroz con gandules y bife, nothing too special. You set their plates down before looking around, noticing miles was still not back.

You turned to Aaron with a puzzled face ; “did he eat at all today?” The man shook his head before gesturing for you to go after him. You huffed before marching towards his room. “Get on his ah mija!” Rio jokingly called out causing a laughter.

You knocked lightly before opening the door. It was dark, and all you could see was clothes all over the place and his silhouette laying on the bed. “What’s the point of knocking if you’re just going to come in anyways?” miles joked, his voice strained.

“Miles are you alright?” You walked up to his bed, sitting next to his lap. “Yeah I’m just tired, really sleep for some reason.” He yawned mid way through his sentence, his shirtless chest rising and falling.

You placed a hand on his leg, patting it; “Can you eat something before you pass out then? Uncle Aaron said you haven’t eaten, and I cooked for you.” Your voice laced with concern and a hint of pleading.

It wasn’t all too uncommon for miles to forget to eat, his job took up a lot of his time. “Yeah, yeah.” He sat up, rubbing his eyes before placing a hand around your waist. He pulled you with one hand and another lifted your chin and placed a kiss on your lips.

“I knew the food smelt too good for it to be my moms cooking.” He joked, causing giggles to erupt from the both of you.

[souliebird]

[[addict]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating Explicit

summary: Your life revolves around Matt. His does not revolve around you

Or: depression skews reality

wordcount: 5k

tags: depression, explicit sexual content, blood, angst, p in v sex, oral (male receiving)

---

Monday

You wake up alone. 

This is of no surprise to you, and you force yourself out of bed despite your desire to bury yourself into your covers and stay there. 

You stumble into the kitchen, feeling bleary and still half-asleep, and start the process of making coffee. You dump still warm grounds into the trash before filling the basket with your preferred blend and starting the little machine. You wash the mug lingering in the sink, then start making your breakfast. 

You don't need to think about your routine as you do it - you've done it hundreds and hundreds of times. You just do it. 

Coffee. Bagel. Orange. 

You watch the morning news highlights, listening but not taking in the various stories that flash on your screen. Fighting in Paris, all sorts of elections, Hollywood, and political scandals - it all washes over you without leaving an impression. None of it matters to you. None of it concerns anything Matt would be involved in.

Once you finish your small meal, you clean it up and switch your laptop over to your work VPN. 

It is nothing glorious. You translate legal documents from English into Spanish as a contractor for a handful of firms around the city. Very rarely is it anything of interest - a majority of it is human resources based - but it makes good money, and you don't need to commute. You stay in the apartment most of the day, trying your best to make it into a home.

As you think over word choice, you do chores. Laundry gets hauled down to the basement, the sink and shower get a deep clean to wash away any trace of blood, and you write out a grocery list. You dust and air out the apartment between paragraphs. You don't exchange many emails. You don't get any calls.

The hours pass in silence until your phone alerts you it is a quarter after five. You shut down your VPN and return to the kitchen. Chicken, rice, and vegetables will be tonight's dinner - you know it is a favorite and you've worked out the unspoken schedule to know this is the ideal day to serve it. You work quietly, half focusing on your knife work and half zoning out. 

Five minutes to the hour, the door to the apartment opens and Matt is home. 

“That smells wonderful, sweetheart,” he says as a greeting, dropping his things off at the front door. You can hear his practical movements as he puts everything in its right spot. 

“It should be done in ten minutes,” is your soft reply. That is just enough time for him to get settled in and drink about one third of a beer. It took you a few weeks to get the scheduling down right, but now you have it down to an art for various recipes. “How was your day?”

Without completely breaking attorney-client privilege, he tells you about the ongoings at the office and catches you up on whatever happened with Foggy and Karen over the weekend. As he does, he loosens his tie and takes a seat at the table. You place an ice-cold open bottle in front of him without fanfare, then flit back to the kitchen. 

Dinner switches the conversation to Daredevil. Matt tells you his plan for the night and you silently convert his words into future actions for yourself. He's going out with Jessica, which means more surveillance than fighting. You'll need to have ibuprofen ready, as spying tends to stress his senses rather than his body. 

You get a kiss before he goes to do his pre-Devil work out and another before he ascends the stairs to go into the night. He tells you not to stay up, but it's part of the script and you both know you'll be waiting for him right where he left you. 

Tuesday

“Foggy isn't going to believe me,” Matt grumbles as you gently pat concealer around his eye, covering the blooming bruise.  

“It's just absurd enough to be believable.”

“But it's the truth,” he huffs before his lips turn into a pout, “How does it look?”

You step back and examine the man in front of you. He has the start of a massive black eye and you can't help but feel bad for him. For once, this is not a Devil related injury - there was a freak accident with the shower. The water pressure in the building has somehow been cranked to maximum and your poor pipes are not equipped for that - the threads holding them together are barely there. They had no chance against suddenly being slammed into and there was no way Matt could have been prepared for the shower head to shoot off the wall and right into his face. 

You frown and your mood must shift because he deflates, “Foggy is not going to believe you.”

You set the makeup you specifically got to cover up his nightly hobby aside and push Matt's coffee towards him. He takes a long sip from it before throwing his head back with a groan.

“I've been doing so well,” he complains. There is some sort of swear jar-esque deal the two of them have going on about Matt's bruises, but you don't know all of the details. You do know Matt's lost a fair bit of money from it, though.

You pat his shoulder sympathetically before getting up and heading towards the kitchen to finish packing up his meals for the day, “This doesn't count.” 

“Will you tell that to Foggy?”

“I'll tell that to Foggy,” you promise.

You see him get up in the corner of your eye and disappear back into the bedroom to get dressed for work and you can't help but sigh. You'll give Matt's friends a heads up text so they don't freak out on him. Misunderstandings are bound to happen otherwise and they'll probably all have a laugh about it once the Devil's Pride is soothed.

You finish up packing lunch, a midday snack, and the ingredients for a hearty protein shake. Matt will be going to the gym right after work today, then from there will go out as the Devil. You aren't keen on him carrying his black suit around in his gym bag, but it's not something you're going to argue with him about. 

With how busy the office has been lately; he's been a bit scatterbrained about the smaller things. 

You've convinced him to at least drop off his bag on the roof as he starts his patrol, so he doesn't leave his day clothes at Fogwell’s overnight. You'll go up and collect them at some point, so they don't end up staying up there and getting forgotten about. 

You won't see Matt again until he comes home to sleep. 

You hope you'll be able to figure out how to fix the shower by then.

Wednesday

You put away the last of the clean dishes, then turn to face the apartment in front of you.

It's a beautiful day and light is streaming in through the windows, highlighting how stark everything is. Your laptop is waiting for you on the table, along with a mental list of things you need to get done today. 

But you don't want to. 

You don't want to do any of it. You don't want to do anything. You don't want to think. You don't want to feel. 

You just don't want to. 

So you wipe your hands on a dish towel, then make a bee line right back to bed and crawl in. You curl on your side, place your phone on Matt's pillow, close your eyes, and just Don't. 

You drift in and out until your bladder starts to demand you get up, so you do. You use the restroom then return to bed, checking your messages as you settle back in. 

There's one from Matt, asking if you would like Thai for dinner. You have no will to think about what you'd like to eat - honestly you don't want anything - so you tell him that Thai sounds great. You double check your alarm is set, then return to your nothingness. 

It's easy to get lost in Blankness. It's nice to not feel anything. The crushing negativity you are so used to is gone and all your disgusting thoughts are silent. 

You don't simmer in doubt that every action is wrong. 

You don't question why your life revolves around Matt. You don't think about how you would crumble without him or how he'd be fine without you. 

You don't consider what love is to him and how deeply rooted it is in just staying. You don't wonder if he just doesn't want to be alone again. 

You don't feel completely consumed in your feelings. 

You just are. 

Sometimes, you wish you could stay like this forever - suspended in emptiness. 

But then your alarm goes off and you have to be human again. 

You check your messages to make sure you really did get a text about dinner, then finally drag yourself to go shower.

You have to be presentable before Matt returns. 

He doesn't comment on your still wet hair or lack of conversation. You eat in mostly silence, occasionally commenting about the food. 

Karen calls as you're gathering up leftovers to go into the fridge. Whatever she has to say to Matt has him swearing and going to the wardrobe to start getting his suit out. You don't ask what is wrong, you simply gather up the dress shirt he tosses towards the couch as he begins to change. 

He doesn't kiss you as he rushes up the stairs.

He doesn't tell you to not wait up. 

The door slams shut as he disappears into his own Darkness, and you sit on the couch to await his return.

There is no silence. The city mocks you with each siren, scream, and honk. 

Thursday

You're putting away groceries when your phone alerts you to a text. 

It's from Matt and simply states, “I hate baseball bats.”

A small noise of sympathy comes up from your chest. He had gotten a few good whacks with one last night to the point he let you wrap his chest. Luckily, nothing had been broken, but it had not been a pretty sight. 

You've already put the ice packs in the freezer for when he gets home. You don't think he'll be going out tonight if he's actually admitting he is in pain. 

Maybe you can listen to the next few chapters of the audio book you've started together instead. The thought makes your stomach turn in a nervous hopeful way. 

You return his message with an inside joke of sorts, typing out the words, “Baseball bat emoji. Heart break emoji.”

He replies back seconds later with, “Sad face emoji.” 

It pulls a little smile to your lips, and you think about Matt dictating the text to his phone for the next hour. 

Friday

“You smell so good,” he purrs as he nuzzles against your neck, his scruff scratching you just lightly. 

You tilt your head to the side to give him better access and you can practically feel his pleased hum in your chest. His fingers dance at the hem of your shirt, pushing under to barely just feel your skin. He's got you crowded against the front door, so all of him overwhelms you while he teases.

He's been like this all night. As soon as you stepped into Josie's, he had his hands all over you - your thigh, your lower back, wrapping his arms around you from behind. He's only had two beers, but they have loosened up his tense shoulders quite a bit. 

You know what he wants and you're more than happy to indulge. You've been craving his touch. His attention. 

You don't care if it's a quickie before he leaves you to belong to Hell's Kitchen again, you just need something from him.

Anything. 

You dig your nails into the shoulder of his suit jacket and whine out your inner desires, knowing he'll give in when he's like this, “want to get on my knees for you.”

He moans in response, grinding against you to let you know how much he also wants that, and you lower yourself down to be trapped between him and the door. Skilled hands make quick work of his belt, and you don't bother to push his pants and briefs down. You get his half hard cock free of its confines only to swallow it.

Above you, Matt throws his head back his head, gritting out a long low, “Fuck.” 

You give him no time to adjust, knowing exactly what he likes in these moments, and begin to work him over. One hand grips his tree trunk of a thigh and the other loosely circles around the base of his cock - the first keeps you steady and the second from him slipping out of you. 

You focus on his head, pushing your tongue up as he slides out of the depths of your throat, then swirling it before you begin to suckle. He buries his fingers into your hair, swearing more, as you do so. That only encourages you and you begin to pump him as you work to get him to full hardness.

His musk is dotted with the saltines of precum, and your mouth begins to water. You do nothing to stop the drool gathering in the corners of your mouth and let it spill out as you enjoy yourself. 

Self-control is out of the question - the moment Matt’s hips begin to twitch, you encourage it, tugging at his thigh. He doesn't need to be told twice. 

You close your eyes and relax your jaw as he starts to fuck your throat. 

All of you becomes encompassed in him. He's all you feel, all you smell, all you taste, all you hear. 

He grunts and groans as he thrusts in and out of your mouth, holding your head steady so you can't chase him as you want to. You want to be held down; his cock buried deep in your throat until the heaviness of him is imprinted on your tongue. You want him to coat your insides with him, so you never forget his taste. 

You want him to use you and that's exactly what he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart, fuck,” he chants, and you don't want him to stop. He's not ruthless, but he isn't kind with it, barely giving you a chance to breathe between each movement, and making your brain start to blink in and out of awareness.

You feel him start to twitch and pulse along your tongue and you whine in distress around him. 

You don't want this to end so soon. You need him. You need this. 

Before you can process what is happening, Matt is pulling you back up into standing and directly turning you to face the door. Your brain automatically clicks with what he is doing, and you scramble to undo your pants. You barely get them unbuttoned before he is yanking them and your panties down your thighs. 

You arch your back with anticipation as he lines himself up. You expect him to tease you, to rub the head of his cock over you to spread around the juices you've soaked your panties with, but he doesn't. He pushes into you in one smooth motion and your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

He grabs you by the throat from behind, just under your chin, and turns his hand so he can also stick two of his fingers into your mouth and continue to make you drool. You're practically pinned to the door as he slams into you over and over, hitting that sweet spot each time. 

“So fucking wet,” he growls into your ear, squeezing your throat just enough to make your vision go spotty. “About to cum from just sucking on my cock. Don't even need to touch you, do I? You'd be happy being my little cock warmer.”

You would. You yearn for it - sitting under his desk while he works, keeping him happy. You just want to be with him. You need him. 

You need him. 

He breathes your name, then demands, “Cum on my cock.” 

Saturday

Matt has taken the spot at the dining table while you've curled up on the couch. You both have your respective workstations set up and have been buried in reading for hours. 

A strange, pleasant calm has washed over you and wrapped you up in a lightness.

These are the days you dream of.

Soft, quiet mornings where you can just be with Matt - there's no distractions or chaos or vigilantism. It is just the two of you, together. 

Whenever he has gotten up to get something, on his way back to his seat - he always makes sure to check in on you all and it sends your brain into an absolute tizzy. Acknowledgement from him makes you feel warm in so many ways. You don't think you could ever get enough of the way he says your name when he wants your attention. It's like an angel’s song - or the Devil's. 

You know it won't last long - he has a meeting with Foggy after lunch to meet some people who can't meet during the week - so you bask in what you have. You've been stealing glances all morning because you love to watch him work. He gets this little crease between his brow when he's listening to a transcript, and it really is the cutest thing. You just want to go over and kiss it and remind him to relax his forehead. 

But you know he's so very busy and you don't want to distract him with something so silly. He barely has enough time in the day as it is, between all the ways he helps the people of Hell's Kitchen, and lately he's just been adding more and more to his plate - more clients, more patrols, more everything except you. 

You aren't jealous. You know how needed he is and you are grateful to be in his life at all. You get to be the one to take care of him and be in his bed at the end of the night, even if you spend many of those nights alone. 

It just makes moments like these so much sweeter. 

So, when he gets up again and heads to the kitchen, you can't help but turn and watch him. He starts another pot of coffee, and your eyes just go heart shaped as you admire how his shoulders move under his shirt. 

“Anything interesting?” He asks with a bit of cockiness, and you know he's aware you aren't focused on your work.

You place your chin on the back of the couch and hum, “This company has one of the best sick leave policies I've ever seen. Think I might quit my job and go raise plants in Arizona.” 

Matt snorts at your answer and teases, “Do you know anything about raising plants?”

“For three weeks guaranteed paid vacation and two paid sick days a month, I'll learn.” 

He turns to face you, tilting his head to one side in disbelief, “Two paid sick days a month? What is the catch?”

You nod, then pretend to huff, “You have to live in the middle of nowhere Arizona.” Matt makes a face of disgust, and you laugh into your hand, a smile blooming across your face, “That's why I'm only considering.”

“I'm glad, I'd prefer it if you stay here. I'd miss you too much if you were in the middle of nowhere Arizona.” 

You spend the rest of the day practically glowing over Matt admitting he'd miss you. The words will live in your heart and head forever.

Sunday

You've never been stalked and hunted by a wild animal, but this is what you imagine it would feel like. 

The Devil has come home earlier than expected and it looks like he crawled his way out of Hell. He's in his black suit, or what's left of it, and is covered in his own blood. His nose is dripping, probably broken, staining his mouth red. His shirt is barely hanging together and various fresh shallow cuts litter his torso. His Muay Thai ropes are dirty with grime and what you expect to be others’ blood.

He slowly came down the stairs from the roof then began to circle around the couch, each step deliberate and calculating, and he has not let up. 

The air in the room is so heavy. You can't breathe because you don't have a protocol for this. You can't tell if he's angry or upset - he hasn't said a word and he's not expressing himself in any way, but Danger is exuding from him. 

You sit straight backed on the couch as the Devil continues his path around you, his head tilting in different directions ever so slightly. You don't know if he's tracking something or waiting for some sign. You can't tell when he's like this. 

Finally, he stops in the spot halfway between the couch and the bedroom, only partially angled towards you. He begins to undo the ropes stabilizing his wrists, letting them drop to the ground without acknowledgment. You watch them like they are snakes, ready to slither at you with an attack. His gloves quickly join the pile, but then he raises a hand towards you, palm up like he wants you to take it.

He confirms his intentions with a low, “Come here.”

You're worried and confused with how he is behaving, but you don't dare disobey the Devil. 

You slip out of your seat and make your way to him in silence, reaching to take his hand when you get close enough. To your surprise, he brings it up to his face and places a light kiss to your wrist, over your pulse point. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks, voice low and laced with an unsaid promise. 

A shiver runs up your spine and you manage to answer, breathing out, “Matt Murdock. Daredevil.” 

He pulls his lips back into a snarl and you fear you've got the question wrong somehow. 

Keeping your hand in his, he steps towards you, one achingly slow step at a time, until you are practically chest to chest. He dips his head and brushes the tip of his nose against your neck. You can hear him inhale. 

“I hear their frightened little whispers. I hear what they call me - not just the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. King of Hell - this is my territory and I protect it with a ferocity,” he whispers into your skin. You close your eyes and try to keep your breathing from going shaky. 

It is not just fear and confusion coursing through you now. His words, his rasping, is going straight to your cunt. You haven't encountered The Devil in so long you've forgotten what it does to you.

He presses his free hand against your lower back, moving you so you are flush against him. Your hand goes to his chest, just under his shoulder where his shirt is still intact and not sticky with who knows what. 

“Do you know what that makes you?” he growls against you and all you can do is shake your head.

You don't interact with many people, and you doubt anyone in Hell's Kitchen is talking about you. 

You are of no interest to anyone. 

The Devil bumps his nose against your earlobe before giving it a light nibble and telling you, “My Queen of Hell.”

Air catches in your throat and it feels like your entire being short circuits. What does he mean, you're his Queen? 

You've never done anything to deserve such a title, but you aren't going to disagree with him. If he wants to call you this, you will relish in it. 

As you are still trying to process things, you are suddenly lifted into the air by your thighs, and you have to quickly wrap your legs around the Devil so you don't start flailing. Like you weigh absolutely nothing, you are carried to the bedroom and with care you do not expect, laid out on the bed. 

The Devil, mask, boots, batons, and all, crawls over you, going straight for your throat. He starts with his lips but quickly dissolves into dragging his tongue and teeth wherever he can get. It's slow, methodical, like he has a goal with his lavishing. 

You don't care about his intention - you are melting into the bed under him, desperate for him to not stop. Whatever he is doing, whatever has got him in this mood, you want more of it. 

Hesitantly, fearing you might disrupt the atmosphere, you wrap your arms around the body above you, one hand going to scratch at the back of his neck, trying to silently encourage more attention to your neck. He obliges and teeth scraping against you turns into biting. He wastes no time in leaving his first mark on you, then another, and another. 

“You're mine,” he tells you as he starts on the other side of your throat, “Belong to me. You're mine.” 

You arch at the words, cunt clenching around nothing. He is correct. You are his - you've belonged to him the moment you met, and you will until the day you die. 

He is your everything.

“I'm yours,” you agree, barely above a whisper. 

The Devil drags his lips from your neck only to crash them into yours. It's like being pulled under by a wave - a force you can only just accept and go with. He tastes like smoke and copper, but you don't care. You only want more.

You want to be consumed. 

And it feels like that is what he does. You kiss until you feel like you can't possibly breathe any longer, then he is pulling away to start moving down your body. He pushes your shirt up to start a trail of kisses and bites towards your stomach.

“My Queen,” he growls, and you can only throw your head back with pleasure at his words, his actions, “My Persephone. Mine. Whatever you want, it's yours. Anything. Give you Fisk's head on a platter. Or do you want his heart? I'll rip out his throat with my teeth for you.”

You want to comment it looks like he already has, with the state he came in in, but all you can manage to say is the truth.

“I just want you.” 

Your shirt is pulled off and tossed to the side before he is on you again, biting at your lips as he does what you want. He grinds his cock into you, and you can feel just how hard he is. You tug at the remains of his shirt, and it is also quickly discarded. 

You can feel him moving over you, probably trying to get out of the rest of his armor, but you don't pay attention. All your focus is on the way his mouth is moving with yours - dominating and controlling and firm but in no way actually hurting you. 

Nothing to ever hurt you. 

When he pulls back, he does so enough to sit up. 

You whine at the loss of his touch, but it is balanced when he finally removes his mask, and you can see his beautiful face again. 

It's a little sick, but you like him like this - bruised and battered and bloody. You like the physical reminders of who he is and what he is capable of. 

You reach up to press your hands to the mottled skin around his ribs, still healing from the baseball bat. He hisses at the contact, but his now free cock gives a violent twitch. You know which reaction to trust. 

Your sleep shorts and panties are unceremoniously removed, and you and the Devil are left nude. You are hauled up to be on your knees with him and once again you are held against his chest. He cups your jaw with both hands and kisses you firmly.

“Take such good care of me,” he mumbles between nips and bites, “Let me take care of you, my Queen.”

You want that. 

You want that.

 You want him to take care of you - to focus on you - to be his everything. You desperately nod against him, shaky whispers of “please” coming from you. 

He lays you back down and guides himself into you with far more care than you'd expect in the moment. It's steady until he's fully sheathed in you, then he is over you again, burying his face into your neck. 

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

He starts moving then, slow, steady, and deep, like he's trying to savor every roll of his hips. 

It's heady and with the way he's back to worshiping your neck, you're quick to sink into a place of pure bliss only he can send you. 

He starts to mumble against you as he devours you. You hear catches of your name and ‘my Queen’ and ‘mine’, but you hear something about Sin and love and need. Your brain refuses to link the words together and you don't need it to understand them right now. 

You just need Him. 

You roll your head to the side so he can dig his teeth into a new spot and through half lidded eyes, you spot the mirror you've added into the room. Using it, you watch the Devil make love to you, his body half shrouded by shadows. 

He's so fucking beautiful.

As your thighs begin to tremble and pressure builds up in your core, you notice smears of darkness on your face, your neck, and your arms.

It is the same darkness that the Devil is drenched in. 

He's covered you in his blood. 

You're coated with him. 

Inside and out.

The realization sends you over the edge and you scream his name for all your subjects to hear.

Monday

You wake up alone.

This is of no surprise to you.

a/n:

I see this with multiple interpretations ;)

a/n2: theres not a baseball bat emoji

[maybe-boys-do-love]

Oh, Peaceful Property!!! I was prepared for a campy horror comedy, and we definitely get that (Thailand specializes in serving high camp!), but I wasn't ready for...

1.The show to play such explicit homage with its multilingual script and subtitles to Los Espookys, a fantastic queer horror comedy show (that not enough people watched) about a low-budget team of paranormal special-effects creators, led and written by gay SNL alum Julio Torres. If you haven't seen it and you want some weird tumblr-style humor, I highly recommend a watch.

2. What will probably end up being the only show I enjoy watching about the current global housing crisis and how it impacts people, especially young adults, so differently across class divides (both financial and national)

3. The ghosts to be so gruesome and haunting. Someone jokes about 'ghosts in the daylight' early on, but that burnt hand reaching in the morning light for the fried rice was so chilling and beautiful. For me, the first episode did such a fantastic job balancing the comedy tone and the ghost story tone--challenging and impressive! The sound really helps a lot, but the whole production team seems to know what's needed to put these two elements together. It's all so distinctly Thai.

4. A heartfelt allegory about feelings of emptiness, purposelessness, and suicidality but finding meaning for your life, despite those feelings, through perseverance, kindness, connection, and gratitude.

5. The cast so clearly LIVING for their characters and the tone of the show. And I love each character so deeply already. Each of them are distinct and comedic but are giving an important depth beneath the jokes. And the writing has set up all the characters so well to deliver home the themes.

6. A BL. It's gonna be a BL. It has to be a BL, right??? Home (New's character) showed up in Peach's bed (Tay's character), and has been told he needs to find the meaning of home by his deceased grandfather (whose is painted in his official stately portrait holding a watergun lol). Peach has a mood board for his own "home." We know where their home will be (inside each other's mouths). If it's not a BL that'll be hilarious. But I'm pretty damn sure it's a BL, y'all.

[bellychaser57]

Gainer boyfriend

By anon

I met him on a dating app. Our first date was at this restaurant known to serve big portions of food. When I arrived at the restaurant he told me he was waiting for me inside. So I came in and saw that a lot of the costumers were bigger people. I also noticed the waitors and waitresses where very handsome and pretty. I mostly notice the big muscular biceps all the waitors seemed to have and their tight pants showing off muscular things and jiggly booty. That's when I saw him, this cute cub seated in a booth. he's belly was gently pressing the table, not enough for the table to be in his gut though. He had perky moobs and big arms. When he saw me, he tried to get out of his booth. He stood up beside me. Slightly taller, he had a wide butt, and thick thighs that looked muscular, but probably weren't. We hugged, I accidentally grabbed his love handles which were nice and soft. We ordered our food, I didn't know what to take so I took a sub, he took 2 chicken pitas. I told him I did appreciate a man with an appetite, and that he looked like having a big one. He was flattered. He told me he was a gainer, and that he didn't really eat as much as he wanted to to gain even more. He wants to become a 400lbs chub. That money is currently an issue for him to achieve his dream goal. I told him I could be interested in helping out as I could. He could move into my apartment, I can already pay rent and my own stuff, he just needed to find a way so that he could bring in some money, all of which would go to him eating if he wanted. He thought it was a good idea but he wanted to wait until he did have a steady income. Months go by, I often offer to pay him all you can eat buffets, but not frequently enough to make a difference on his weight. Every time we went, we always had a great time, talking, eating and catching up with eachother like friends would. On one of these evenings, he announced that he now had a steady income. He did live streams on Twitch of him playing games and eating. He also told me he started an onlyfans and for now, he had enough daily to just eat his profit. I was overjoyed for him!

In the next few weeks, he started moving in, we turned the spare bedroom into his streaming studio and every night, after his streams we would go grocery shopping for his next day binge. In the matter of time, his weight started rising, and rising. His belly got bigger. So did his moobs, arms and already thick thighs. He became softer and softer each week. I started by messing around and trying to lift him at first, always somewhat succeeding, and noticing he was getting heavier each time. I quickly had to stop, my spine was going to break. I would, at least once a day surprise him with a sugary treat when I came back from work. A box or two of donuts, a cake I bought at the grocery store. On weekends I would bake my special cookies. Oats and chocolate chip. Eating two was filling for me, he would eat the 22 others. I would also make extra buttery rice crispy treats, cakes and other desserts. He thought I let him eat the left over icing, little did he know, I whipped up a batch just to see his eyes light up with joy every time. I really liked seeing him happy and eating everything I set in front of him. At supper time, I would cook a meal for a family of 4. Would myself one portion and he would eat the rest. It always impressed me. Eventually, we had to ditch my double bed and go for a king size. He was getting massive and wide. I liked when he squashed me accidentally with his weight. I think at first it was accidental, but by now he's getting a little fun out of watching me be happy. I really like to explore his growing body by pining him to his back and giving him full body massages.

Living with my gainer boyfriend is bliss!

[nb-octopus-writes]

once you’re in the hive, the other bees assume you’re supposed to be there

[Masterpost]

Chapter 8: One Could Get Used to This

Wordcount: 1.5K

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No-one comes to drag Virgil out of bed. He wakes on his own the next morning and for a few moments contemplates getting out of bed, but then he rolls over and goes back to sleep. It’s his day off, he doesn’t have any plans, and he is cozy.

He wakes again around noon, and wanders downstairs. There’s no-one in the sitting room, but he finds Patton in the dining room, curled up in the armchair with a book.

“Good morning!” Patton greets cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Virgil says. “You?”

Patton’s eyes crinkle up in a pleased smile. “I did, yes, thank you,” he says. 

Virgil fidgets, just a little, and he glances back toward the door. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Hm,” Patton says thoughtfully, tapping the book against his chin. “Logan’s in his office, and last I saw him, Roman was still asleep, poor dear.” He chuckles. “You two sure were up real late last night. And Remus and Janus aren’t here right now, but they were going to come to dinner, so they should be arriving in a few hours.” He pauses, thinking. “I don’t think anyone else was planning to be here today, but I might have forgotten something, or they might’ve forgotten to mention it. That happens sometimes.”

“Must make meal planning difficult,” Virgil says.

“It can,” Patton agrees. “But I like to make sure we have plenty of leftovers anyway, so a surprise guest or two isn’t very hard to accommodate.” He smiles gently at Virgil. “Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast?”

“If you’re offering,” Virgil says, because they have been incredibly hospitable to him so far, but he doesn’t want to presume anything.

“Oh of course,” Patton says, setting his book down. “I hate to leave anyone hungry when there’s food in the house. What would you like? Are you in the mood for a breakfast breakfast, or something more lunchy?”

Virgil hesitates. “I don’t want to make you cook something just for me,” he says.

“Oh, it’s no trouble!” Patton reassures him. “I like cooking. But we do have leftovers in the fridge if you would like something quicker.”

Virgil nods a little. “What are my options?”

“Well, we’ve still got plenty of what we had last night, of course,” Patton says consideringly, getting up and heading towards the kitchen. Virgil follows. “And I made a fresh batch of boiled eggs this morning.” He opens the fridge and peers inside, then waves Virgil over. “Take a look, anything look appetizing?”

Virgil joins Patton in front of the fridge and looks inside. ‘Plenty of leftovers’ may have been an understatement. The fridge is quite full, mostly of containers. There’s no way Virgil can possibly see all the options without taking most of the contents out to see what’s behind them, and he is not about to do that.

Trying to be quick, Virgil scans the food visible through the sides of the containers. He sees white rice, mixed vegetables, something brown that’s probably gravy, mashed potatoes, a couple drumsticks… 

He knows, reasonably, that everything in this fridge is probably very good. He is also sure that if he was sat down and served any of these choices, he would eat it without complaint and be pleased with it. But just now, looking at the leftover containers, his stomach and taste buds rebel, and nothing looks appealing. 

“I don’t know,” Virgil says. It’s not that he isn’t hungry. His stomach is very helpfully informing him that it is currently empty. It is just also telling him, simultaneously, that there isn’t a single food in the entire world that will satisfy, and unfortunately it has annexed his tongue to its side. His brain, meanwhile, is yelling that he’s taking too long to decide, and he needs to hurry up and pick something before Patton gets upset at him for letting all the cold out of the fridge.

Patton makes a sympathetic sound. “Too many options to choose between?” he says softly. “Would you like me to prepare you a plate?”

Virgil’s very bones go limp. “Yes please,” he says weakly, glad to have the decision taken out of his hands.

Patton rests his hand gently on Virgil’s arm. “Why don’t you go wait in the comfy chair, and I’ll bring you some food in a minute,” he suggests gently.

“Okay,” Virgil says, and goes. Just as he settles, Patton appears in the doorway again with an empty plate in his hands.

“You don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?” he asks. “I know it’s a bit late to be asking, but…”

“No, I’ll eat anything,” Virgil says, fondness rising in his chest. “Thanks for checking.”

“You’re welcome,” Patton says, and goes back into the kitchen. He returns a few minutes later, the plate now laden with a large slice of lasagna. “Do you want to come eat at the table, or over there?” he asks.

“Table, definitely,” Virgil says, moving. Much less risk of spilling red tomato sauce on their furniture that way, plus he’d rather not try to balance a hot plate on his lap right now. He sits, and Patton places the plate in front of him. Virgil’s eyes go wide. In addition to the lasagna, there’s a slice of home-baked bread with butter and jam, and a small heap of peas and corn. “Just how big do you think my appetite is?”

Patton chuckles. “Sorry,” he says. “Force of habit. Roman would clean that plate and then ask for seconds, especially after sleeping through breakfast.”

“I can believe it,” Virgil says with a laugh.

Patton pats his shoulder, then moves away. “If it’s too much, we can put some of it back,” he says as he reclaims the armchair. “You don’t have to eat all of it.”

He’s certainly going to give it his best go, Virgil’s stomach informs him seriously. His tongue agrees.

Virgil starts with a large bite of bread. It’s no longer fresh-baked, but Patton had re-warmed it. Toasted, maybe? There’s a bit of crunch to it, though it’s still pleasantly soft, not hard as a rock like most toast.

Roman makes an appearance when Virgil’s about halfway through his meal, wearing only a white tank top and a pair of red shorts. Virgil isn’t sure if they’re loose boxer shorts or thin actual shorts, but he’s not about to stare at Roman’s crotch and/or ass long enough to figure it out, and he’s certainly not about to ask.

Probably they’re actual shorts. Roman has so far struck him as having somewhat more decorum than Remus, and probably wouldn’t walk around in just his underwear with a random person in his house.

Probably.

“Ooh, that looks delicious, I want some of that, is there more?” Roman says in greeting, completely oblivious to Virgil’s inner musings.

“There’s one piece of lasagna left, and plenty of the rest,” Patton tells him, and Roman strides into the kitchen.

He returns after a few minutes with a lunch identical to Virgil’s, except that the heap of vegetables is taller, and he has a second, already half-eaten slice of bread in his hand. Also his jam is a different color. Roman plonks himself down in the chair diagonally adjacent to Virgil and grins at him. “Good morning,” he says cheerfully. “I see you did not flee into the night like Cinderella.”

“If I was going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight, it would have happened well before Patton came to tell us to go to bed,” Virgil points out.

“True,” Roman agrees. He turns and points his fork at Patton. “Patty Cake, if he ever turns into a pumpkin, don’t bake him into a pie,” he says.

Patton laughs. “How many times must I promise not to eat him?” he asks.

“Once more, it seems,” Virgil says. “For what it’s worth, I believed you the first time.”

Patton’s eyes twinkle. “I appreciate that.”

“Did you sleep well?” Roman asks Virgil. Virgil nods. As if he could have slept poorly, in that bed. And it was certainly nice to get to sleep in late. “Good, good. After breakfast, do you wanna watch more tv?”

Virgil laughs. “You’re insatiable,” he says.

“We left off on a cliffhanger!” Roman defends. “And I, for one, was thoroughly enjoying myself up until the point at which we were reminded of the cruel passage of time and the physical needs of our frail human bodies.”

“I was having fun too,” Virgil agrees. And, well, he doesn’t have any better plans for his afternoon off. It’ll be fun. He’ll just have to remember to actually bike home before it gets dark again.

“Excellent!” Roman says, clearly taking that as a yes, and tucks into his meal with gusto.

~~~~

Chapter 9: Come for the Bike, Stay for the Game Night

may have a brief break in my regularly scheduled chapter posting, as I've caught up to myself and am still writing chapter 9. So, we'll see if it's ready next week, but likely not.

[merakiui]

YOUR DISCORD MOD SCARA...I am thinking about him so hard. I've never even considered becoming someone's discord kitten before but I'd do it for him (even if he's terrible). SO... could I get a layered cake and sweet lollipops (him and his kitten not long post-abduction) from the miscellaneous menu, along with lemon squares and sea salt caramels from the midnight menu, all with my babygirl discord mod scara?

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, modern au, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, drugging, obsession, loss of virginity, alcohol/intoxication, force-feeding, brief use & threat of knife, coercion, scaramouche calls you kitten a few times, implied stockholm syndrome note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

There’s a warm meal waiting for you on the foldable table, its delectable aroma enticing you to eat despite your apprehensions. You lift your head from where it once rested on your knees, staring at it from where you remain huddled in the corner on a certain someone’s bed. A metal cuff clings to your ankle, and from it a chain extends to connect to one of the metal bed frame poles, only going far enough to let you walk into the adjacent bathroom. You’ve tried to squeeze your foot out, but doing so has only succeeded in chafing and tearing your skin; and so now you sit against the wall and sulk in defeat. 

Scaramouche—at least that’s his Teyvatcord alias; he’s yet to tell you his real name—plops down in his gaming chair, running his hand through his hair and exhaling a slow, measured breath. His kitchen apron matches the color scheme in his room, making him seem like a chameleon in a space composed of reds and violets. His three monitors are alight behind him, framing his face in a halo of light. One of them is open to Teyvatcord, displaying the chat log of a server you were once part of—and still are if you haven’t yet been kicked for prolonged inactivity. You think it’s been a few weeks since your kidnapping, but at this point time doesn’t serve any purpose here. It’s all the same within this room, blending together like pastel watercolors on canvas. 

“I didn’t know you could cook. You’ve only ever served me the bare minimum, so this is new. Feels fancy.”

“Shocker, right? Be grateful I’ve gone to the trouble.” You peer at the meal that sits before you, brows furrowed. Scaramouche rolls his eyes, scoffing noisily. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I eat all that gross instant shit.”

You shrug. “Dunno. It suits you. Shitty diet for a shitty person.”

“You…” His eye twitches and his hands curl into fists. “Whatever. Either eat or starve.” He swivels around in his chair with a huff. “Not like I care either way.”

But you do, you think, looking back towards the food, steam rising in wispy curls. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have spent so much money on me. You wouldn’t have told me to go to sleep early, to eat three meals every day, to drink enough water, to continue living.

“This isn’t going to kill me if I eat it, right?”

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

Scaramouche whirls to face you, his pierced features twisted in a nasty scowl. Your eyes are drawn to the snake bite piercing on his bottom lip, and for a minute it stuns you that such a pretty face could be so vile both online and offline. Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t talk at all. Maybe then you could appreciate him from afar, never having to confront all of the bitter hatred he seems to harbor. 

“You’re even more unbearable in person. I can’t believe I let someone like you kick my ass one-hundred-something times during every game we’ve ever played.”

“One-hundred and sixty-eight to be exact,” you correct, scooting closer towards the tray to inspect the rice dish one final time. “Someone had to humble you. For a mod, you’re awfully full of yourself. They don’t pay you to collect kittens and police VCs, you know.”

“Well, they should.”

You fail to contain your laughter. “That was…actually kind of funny.”

A thought flutters into your head: I’m losing my mind. Since when was he ever funny?

His stare is fixated on you when you gather a bite on your spoon and bring it to your lips. As criminal as he is, he’s been surprisingly tame in the time following your captivity. You suppose you just haven’t seen the worst of him yet and that these civil moments are merely the result of his desire to connect with you. Before you found yourself on the sixth floor, tucked away in his apartment, you spent most weekends talking to him through games. You’d chat about your character builds, swap tips on strategies for certain FPS games, spend hours constructing towns in creative open-world games, and even laugh about the placements in the tier lists you’d compile.

You could call what the two of you had a competitive companionship (or if you wanted to get technical: a Teyvatcord mod who was spoiling his kitten outside of the competitions), where both of you were constantly trying to best the other. If it was a matter of money, Scaramouche always had you beat; he’d emptied plenty of that into his favorite games to amass a vast collection of rare gear and resources so that he could claw his way to the top of the weekly leaderboards.

If anything, you admired his determination. Beyond games, you only knew that he lived alone and had a few piercings and liked to wear chains and rings. He’d talked about it before when the both of you had strayed from gaming and had discussed fashion styles and aesthetics late into the night. He appeared normal beyond the bratty attitude he often displayed during rematches. You even found yourself wanting to know more when he’d divulge little facts about himself on occasion. 

But now that you’re sitting in front of him, entirely against your will, you realize this relationship should have remained in Teyvatcord. 

Underneath your artfully crafted bravado and sarcasm, you’re absolutely horrified that he had found your address so easily and had been able to pull off such a clean kidnapping. He’d pulled you into the darkness of his car while you were on your way home, pressing a knife to your throat and insisting you stay perfectly quiet otherwise your neck would be mired in red. At the time you were too overwhelmed with raw panic to even consider the familiar intonation of the man who had so suddenly stolen you from your peaceful life. But it became clear when he’d forced you into his apartment after a long drive, and you’d finally gotten a look at him in the light when he shed his disguise. 

An introduction wasn’t necessary; you recognized him, and he seemed to know everything about you.

Now it’s almost humorous to consider that a Teyvatcord mod actually went outside, touched grass, and collected a captive all in one night. And you never suspected a thing, completely oblivious to his mounting obsession. Although how could you have ever noticed it when he was so intent on masking infatuation with hatred?

You wonder if things would have transpired differently if you hadn’t been living within the same city. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been tempted to take you away from your life and confine you to a single room where the sun never breaks through the curtains and you’re constantly bathed in the sensual hues from the LED lights that border the room. Maybe he would have lost interest and you could have continued your one-sided rivalry without any unhealthy attachments. 

Those what-ifs don’t quite matter anymore, though, do they?

Flavor explodes on your tongue when you sample his cooking, and you hastily gather a second bite and then a third. Scaramouche watches from his chair, looking quite satisfied with your submission. Foregoing etiquette altogether, you eat as if this is the last meal you’ll ever have the pleasure of enjoying, so fulfilled by the fluffy rice and bitter tea that tears gather in your eyes. You stop halfway to wipe at your glassy eyes, sniffling pitifully. 

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

“It’s okay,” you mutter around another mouthful. “Better than convenience store snacks.”

Scaramouche chuckles. “For something that was just ‘okay,’ you had no problem getting your tears in the bowl.”

You bark out a laugh, but it comes out strained and sad. “Lay off, will you? I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in forever. It was a little nostalgic, even if it’s coming from you.”

Scaramouche stares at you, his cheeks tinged the softest shade of pink, before he turns in his chair. “Whatever. Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

You set the now empty bowl back on the tray and retreat to your corner, observing Scaramouche as he clicks through various tabs before he returns to Teyvatcord. His fingers, adorned with sterling silver rings, fly across the keyboard to respond to some user you can’t quite see from where you sit. Noisy click-clacks fill the air, and it’s a sound that pulls you closer towards sleep. By the time Scaramouche has swapped to his second monitor to play a game—the very game that got you into this nightmare to begin with—you’re already falling into the void of unconsciousness, tugged under by drowsy tendrils. 

It’s the soft thump that alerts Scaramouche, who turns slowly in his chair to see you slumped over on his bed. He rises to his feet, crossing the distance to gather the bowl and accompanying utensils. Before he departs from his bedroom, he leans over to press a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Dummy,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. “Never eating proper meals… Honestly, what would you do without me?”

Though he told you not to get accustomed to homemade meals, Scaramouche has presented you with breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day, all prepared by his generous hand. It’s a luxury to be served food that has been assembled out of some form of crooked love—Scaramouche claims he’s only keeping you well-fed so you won’t die and rot away on his bed; the smell would be horrendous, so he claims. There’s one meal that always manages to put you to sleep. Whether it’s just the result of a satisfied stomach or your own frazzled nerves in desperate need of sleep, you always slip away shortly after finishing it. As childish as it sounds, you often wonder if he’s put a spell on it. 

Or maybe you’re just always hungry, craving his cooking because he’s the only one capable of feeding you when you’re stuck in chains. And luckily for you he’s memorized all of your gastronomic preferences. 

You’re not sure if you’ve surpassed a month’s time, but when you wake up one morning to Scaramouche slamming his cat ear headphones down on his desk, which is followed by a foul tirade of grumbled curses, you feel as if it’s already been a year spent in his room. To think that you’re starting to find it normal, as if waking up to him is to be expected in this situation. 

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

Okay, you’re really losing your mind if you can be so casual with your kidnapper. 

Scaramouche deflates in his seat, groaning at the ceiling. “More like a rough team. None of these idiots know how to play! I’d have better luck digging through the dirt and assembling a team of worms than continuing to rely on these guys.” 

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

“‘Just leave and join a new lobby,’” he mocks in a high voice. “I can’t. These teams are locked in for the upcoming tournament. I’m stuck playing with a bunch of losers.” 

I’m more stuck than you, you almost blurt, but you hold your tongue. 

“Like?”

“Like Tartaglia, Dottore, Signora… They suck. I hate them. And they expect me to tolerate them for a bunch of rounds? That’s not even a good joke. We’ll just look like fools trying to force teamwork.”

You peer at his monitor. He’s muted himself, so they have no idea of the complaints he’s launching at you as if you’re a suitable outlet. 

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

“Oh my—” You flop back onto his bed with a groan. “It’s not that serious!”

“It is when it’s a competition. You think I want to look stupid in front of the other teams? We’re up against some lame group that calls themselves the Knights of Favonius. I am not about to lose to them.”

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

He turns in his chair to glare at you. Before he can retort, he’s fit his headphones back over his ears and unmuted himself to address the VC. “Can you stop spamming the chat for five seconds, Tartaglia? Damn!” There’s a brief silence and then he adds, in a low hiss, “I’m not running away! I muted for one minute! Come off it, Signora.”

Absorbed in the conversation, which sounds more like an argument that’s quickly boiling over, Scaramouche exhales slowly and resolves to try again through grit teeth. You can’t hear his teammates, but you think they all reach a mutual agreement because within the next few seconds you’re watching another practice match on his monitor. Your gaze slides away from him and centers on the posters and tapestries that adorn his walls. Some days, if you ignore the metal cuff on your ankle, you forget you’re a prisoner and he’s your warden. Some days, if you really force optimism, you picture him as a friend and a roommate. 

Most days you wonder if you’ll ever get outside. You miss the sun and the wind, lively aspects of nature that are nonexistent in this stifling cave of a bedroom. And, as odd as it may seem, you miss your old life, struggles and all. You miss ranting to your friends about finances or an empty refrigerator. You miss staying up late into the night playing games, laughing about casual enjoyments, and indulging in a freedom you took for granted. When you were struggling, you could be comforted knowing that there would be better days, even if those days only consisted of small joys—like feeding a stray cat or feeling the sun’s rays smile upon you with bright warmth. Now you live your days in a loop, waking and eating and sleeping, and this sort of cyclical madness is more entrapping than Scaramouche’s infatuation with you. 

Although perhaps it isn’t right to call it an infatuation when it feels so far from one. Aside from meal times, he hardly acknowledges you during the day, too swept up in a game to pay you any attention, and when he does speak to you you’ve already submitted to your dreams. He never touches you (at least not when you’re awake). In fact, he treats you more like an annoying pest rather than the person he supposedly loved enough to kidnap. Perhaps, instead of an infatuation, it is an obsession driven by greed and the twisted desire to control every inch of you, down to the very foods you ingest.

You know one thing is certain: He is the kidnapper and you are the kidnapped. 

You’ve sorted through all possible means of rebellion. You’d refused to eat anything the first week, which was why he chose to feed you cheap convenience store snacks out of pettiness, and by the end of the second week you were beyond starved. You’ve thought about destroying his monitors out of spiteful anger, but that wouldn’t accomplish much aside from satiating your hunger for revenge. You would remain shackled no matter how many things you trashed, which makes destruction a useless venture. All you can really do is feign friendship, if only to keep your current predicament peaceful. 

But lately you’ve wondered if there are other ways to get Scaramouche to trust you. It’s obvious he still has some level of distrust for you, evidenced by the terrible cuff attached to your ankle and the fact that he never leaves you alone in his room for more than five minutes. Perhaps there’s an easier way to shatter his defenses. 

After all, the reason you’re here is because he likes you so much. And if it really is a hidden infatuation, you plan to poke at it until it’s no longer his little secret veiled within manufactured hatred. 

Scaramouche is scolding Tartaglia for his “stupid, shitty aim” when you slither off of his bed, standing behind him with an expression so pensive it’s as if you’re considering life or death. Although perhaps this idea of yours really is akin to that. 

Briefly, while eyeing the headphones that rest on top of a head of midnight-hued hair, you wonder if you’d have the confidence to attack him while he’s distracted. Your arms reach out, readying to tear his headphones off and coil around his neck in a chokehold, but then it occurs to you that if you really do hurt him no one will be around to feed you. You’ll shrivel in his room, alone, cuffed, and cold. 

You decide, with mounting unease, that your original plan is much better (and safer) than murder. And so you lower your hands with a muted sigh. Even if he’s the worst person you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting—even if he’s taken you from your life and forced you into his—you still couldn’t bring yourself to fatally injure him. 

But you can bring yourself to your knees, swallowing shame in order to survive. 

If Scaramouche realizes you’ve slipped under his desk, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, his eyes tracking his screen as he shouts into his mic for Dottore to cover him. You peer up at him from where you sit, studying his facial features as they morph into various expressions, all centered on frustration, impatience, and the occasional glare-frown. It’s your hand on his thigh that momentarily strays his focus, his eyes flitting down to you for a mere second, glazing over with an emotion you can’t quite place. Your lips quirk up in the beginnings of a sly smile, and he huffs, nudges your side with his foot, and returns to shouting orders at his teammates. 

Slowly, as if moving with weights attached to your wrist, you reach out to palm his flaccid cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Scaramouche nearly flinches out of his chair, his head snapping down to look at you.

“W-What the hell are you—” He’s silenced when you squeeze just slightly, gazing up at him through your lashes. “N-Nothing. Just…talking to my cat. Shut up and focus on the match, losers,” he grumbles, not to you but to his teammates. 

You intend to draw away, thoroughly pleased after having gauged such an amusing reaction, but his fingers pursue your wrist, pinning your hand in place. He’s not looking at you, but his cheeks are warming considerably. 

“I’ll kill you if we lose,” he mutters, and this time you know the threat is meant for you. 

But, as you’ve come to learn, this is his own version of acceptance, however frigid it may have sounded. Scaramouche likes a good competition; that much is apparent from how engrossed he becomes when playing any type of game. Most importantly, you think he just enjoys the prideful satisfaction that comes with being labeled a winner. If you look at it from a gaming perspective, this is just another challenge—another rematch the both of you have agreed upon in order to determine who’s the best. 

And, like always, you’re certain victory will be yours. 

His hand slides away from yours, returning to its rightful place on his desktop, and it gives you the opportunity to continue your teasing touches. His stare hardens into something deadly when he attempts to retain his focus, his fingers mashing the keys in a loud cacophony of clacks, but within just a few minutes of experimental squeezes his cock is straining against his pants. You admire the outline for a brief moment, considering an approximation of his size just from the bulge alone. He’s definitely larger than any of the beginner dildos you’ve browsed online out of sheer boredom and curiosity, and the idea that you’re about to willingly subject yourself to this is enough to cow you into premature defeat. 

I won’t make any progress if he doesn’t trust me, you tell yourself, steeling your electrified nerves and reaching out to slide the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down to free his cock. It springs out, pre-cum beading at the tip, and your eyes follow the curvature. For such an aggressively high-strung moderator, he’s surprisingly well-groomed. You wonder if he’s always lived a life so nicely assembled. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him entirely and he’s never been the stereotypical gross, smelly, hermit of a Teyvatcord mod everyone likes to think he is. Maybe it’s just his personality that’s so foul. 

You were confident before, but then he’s passing you a bottle of lube and now what little courage you could muster is beginning to ebb away, squeezed out of you much like the dollop of lubricant pushed from the tube. Your eyes flick to his. He holds your gaze for a minute before a sly smirk crawls across his face. 

Hope you like swallowing, he mouths, indigo irises flashing with arousal, because if you get a single drop on the floor I’ll end you.

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

You roll your eyes and wrap your slick fingers around the length of his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, chewing his bottom lip bloody to muffle any suspicious sounds that are eager to slip out. You’ve only ever viewed handjobs in erotic films, and you’ve never given one to another person before. So you slide your fist up and down, mirroring the movements from memory, in hopes that the experimental pace you’ve set isn’t too awkwardly inexperienced. Scaramouche seems to pay it no mind, for his shoulders shudder with every exhalation, and he’s bent forwards, his elbows resting on his desk. 

There’s no way he’s this easy, but that thought quickly evaporates when you squeeze just a little tighter, and he whines through grit teeth. Your eyes snap up to find his foggy hues, which are clouded with lust and peering right through you rather than at you, and it becomes abundantly clear that perhaps he truly is simple to seduce. Or, at the very least, it’s only easy because he’s stressed and needs release; or maybe it’s because this is the first time you’re touching him of your own volition, stringing him along with every graceful pump of your hand. 

I’ll never understand him, you think, halting your movements once he’s been brought to the very edge, his cock flushed pink and leaking. 

The vicious, disapproving scowl he sends you is such a sight to behold! When you’re viewing him from below, it’s almost as if he’s a vindictive deity sitting pretty and untouchable on his throne and you’re the mere mortal granted permission to kneel before him, an amusing comparison considering he has, in a way, proven to be your saving grace on many occasions. Even riddled with impatience, he’s pleasant on the eyes. If only the same could be said for when he opens his mouth. 

“Did I give you permission to stop?” he hisses, humping into your hand to force friction. 

Your gaze strays to the cat ears on his headphones; you wonder if his teammates can pick up either of your hushed whispers. “What happened to your oh-so-important practice match?” 

He narrows his eyes at you and reaches to seize your chin in a vise-like hold, forcing you in close proximity with his cock. “You can do much better things than sit there and run your mouth, so finish what you started.”

“Anything for His Royal Highness,” you mutter and close your mouth around his tip. 

Scaramouche inhales sharply, his fingers ghosting over your head as if he intends to grip your hair and force you to take more of his size, but then you hear obnoxious keyboard clacks. He’s back to berating his teammates, albeit in a louder, higher voice than before, leaving you to your own pace. You pull away, tasting flavorless lubricant and pre-cum all at once, and lick a stripe up the underside, which has him humming through a clenched jaw. With your confidence restored, you lean in once more and, fingers wrapping around his length, slowly fit him in your mouth, only stopping at where your hand rests halfway.

Despite your initial unease, you manage to settle into the rhythm as naturally as you possibly can, bobbing your head back and forth in slow, even motions. Your other hand slithers up his leg, fingers creeping like spiders, and rests between his legs to fondle his balls, squeezing ever so slightly while your mouth works him towards the edge of ecstasy. It prompts a guttural groan from him, and your lips twitch around him, as if attempting to rise in an amused smile. He’s falling apart in his chair, shivering through every salacious sigh and curse, all produced in barely restrained hisses. He mutters something to his teammates, but the words hardly reach your ears when you’re so hyper-focused on pleasing him. 

You continue your careful ministrations, hollowing your cheeks in the same manner you’ve witnessed actors in films do, and at some point you’ve shut your eyes and have resigned yourself to the moment, relishing in every lewd sound. His reactions bolster your pride, feeding it as though it’s a ravenous monster, and you muster enough bravery, courtesy of your inflated ego, to peek at him through lidded eyes. 

Scaramouche is peering down at you once more, but this time his headphones are off and he seems to have ceased playing altogether. You attempt to pull off of him to ask, but his hand rests atop your head, mapping lazy patterns in your scalp in a way that’s almost reminiscent of petting, and that’s enough of a response for you. 

“I thought you’d be terrible at this, but it looks like you’re good at something after all,” he remarks with a mean smirk. “Or maybe...” He moans lowly. “Maybe you’ve had practice.” 

Or maybe your standards are low because no one’s ever touched your dick before, you think, closing your hand in a tight fist just to draw another pathetically desperate whimper from him. 

His fingers curl into your hair and he tugs you up to meet his haughty countenance. The head of his cock prods impatiently at the inside of your cheek and you narrow your eyes at him, drool running down your chin. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, running over the piercings that reside there like twinkling stars. With a breathy chuckle, his other hand traces the bulge in your cheek and his lips only seem to widen with exhilaration. There’s a near-manic glint in his eyes now—an unhinged sort of sparkle that could only shine so brightly in the midst of pleasure. He’s a frightening sight, but then of course he’d be when he had so callously held you at knifepoint all those weeks—or has it been months?—ago. 

Now it makes sense—all of the mean jeers and insults. Scaramouche likes to see just how small he can make others when they’re caught in his shadow like vulnerable butterflies in a spider’s wicked web. And aren’t you just the most unlucky butterfly?

“This is a—haah—a good look for you.” 

You’d bite him if you were feeling particularly masochistic, but there’s no telling what he would do in retaliation. So instead you continue your pace, idly stroking him in time with the movements of your hollowed mouth, holding eye contact for the entirety of it. He keeps his hands on you the entire time, locking you in place between his legs, and your warm, wet mouth and tongue send delectable bolts of pleasure racing through him. It causes more delicious sounds to spill in plentiful amounts from his parted lips, enticing you to work more vigorously. He gasps through backhanded praises, each one meant to chisel you into something weak and self-conscious, but all it does is prove your previous observations. 

“Hey.” His knuckle is on your cheek again, and you blink tears away to look at him more clearly. “You haven’t done this with anyone else before, have you?”

You know it’s a trick question. No matter what answer you give, it’s going to prompt a visceral reaction either way. Rather than a clear, concise response—not that you could possibly give one when he’s stuffing your mouth full—you hum lowly, and the vibration has him twitching on your tongue. 

Scaramouche scoffs and attempts a glower, but it crumbles when he arches in his chair. “What… Whatever,” he manages through grit teeth, swallowing yet another sweet love cry. “Consider yourself lucky I’m here, otherwise—hah… Otherwise you’d have no one to practice your lousy, little technique on.”

This time, you’re afforded the chance to detach yourself and your mouth comes off of him with a wet smack, strands of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. He peers at you, studying your face for a moment, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting in his room you’re certain his blush would be brighter than the sun. 

“You seem to enjoy my lousy, little technique,” you purr, leaning in to press your puckered lips to his tip. Your hand slows its once quick pace, and you watch miserable frustration stretch across his features. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, I’ll just stop and—”

But the rest of that sentence is shoved down your throat when he catches your head in resolute hands and forces you to take all of him in a rough thrust. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you choke on it with a gagging cough. Your hands grasp his wrists in an attempt to steady yourself, but he pays it no mind as he continues to pound into your mouth, a string of filth falling from his parted lips like torrential rain. Tears prick your eyes, obscuring your vision and blurring reds and purples into a haze. 

It only takes a minute, but it feels like many when he eventually halts his erratic pace, his cock lodged in your mouth, and shoots his load down your throat. You have no choice but to force yourself to swallow, your eyes squeezed shut as you choke through the deed. Scaramouche laughs at you, a short, sudden sort of sound that’s more grating than nails on a chalkboard. And only after he’s shuddered through the aftermath of his ecstasy, heaving soft breaths as he settles from his orgasmic high, does he finally release you. 

You pull away with the residue of his spend sitting heavy on your tastebuds, sticky and bitter, and you’re only allowed a moment to catch your breath before he’s gripping your face with one strong hand, the cool metals of his rings digging into your cheeks. You stare at his sickly sweet smile and narrowed eyes, two indigo pools reflecting haughty victory, and your heart sinks with his next words. 

“Oh, and nice try.” His finger flicks your forehead, and a taunting smile darkens his features. “But I’m not taking the chains off, kitten.” 

It was worth a try, you think, swallowing a scoff and resolving to try again next time. You are nothing if not stubbornly resilient.

It’s a dangerous game, waiting and watching, hoping for a moment in which you can execute your plan. When Scaramouche isn’t glued to his monitors, when he isn’t feeding you meals that immediately send you to sleep, and when you aren’t on your knees satisfying him in the most carnal of ways, you’re wrapped in your thoughts like a mummy perfectly preserved. For a while you weren’t sure if it was worth the risk, nor were you sure if he could even come to trust you, if only slightly, but by some miracle you’ve sacrificed so much time tending to him and it has paid off handsomely.

Though the cuff remains, he’s grown to exercise some leniency, allowing you to sit on his lap while he browses online, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder. Sometimes the two of you watch a movie; other times you play a game, gambling your dignity in exchange for a chance at victory. Lately Scaramouche has been on a winning streak—though you’re certain he’s just cheating, even if he claims it’s pure skill—and more than once have you found yourself at his mercy, submitting to wandering hands and lips, dutifully playing the role of his obedient prize. He always gloats, flashing his teeth at you in a cruel taunt, and you have no choice but to accept it. Everything you do is for the sake of survival; you’ve reminded yourself of this fact when you wrap your arms around him at night, pressing yourself against him and slowly slipping into sleep just as he cautiously returns your embrace. 

You usually fall unconscious after you’ve had lunch, condemned to sudden sleepy spells that are beginning to seem more drug-induced than natural, and this unfortunate happening leaves you completely gone for many hours into the afternoon and early evening. You’ve narrowed your options down after observing Scaramouche for so long, committing his cyclical ways to memory. Either you force yourself to wake at the crack of dawn and hope he isn’t still gaming, or you wait until he’s left the room to prepare your lunch. You’ve deliberated over both, almost acting on one when the opportunity presents itself, but you’re always stopped by the uncertainty. Will this work? Will you be fast enough? 

And if you aren’t successful, what will happen to you? Will he truly kill you like he claimed he would all those months ago when you first started living with him? You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

There’s a specific person you have in mind while you lie curled and comfortable in Scaramouche’s bed, feigning sleep to ward off the jittery sensation in your nerves. If he still exists within the server—and you’re hoping he does because your escape plan hinges on his presence within it—he will be your ticket to freedom. 

You almost flinch out of your skin when Scaramouche’s hand rests atop your head, stroking your skull so fondly. “I’ll wake you up for lunch,” he whispers to you, pressing his lips to your cheek. And then his hand is drawing away, and your pulse settles once more. You can feel his eyes pinned on you, and you picture him standing at the bedside, casting a terrifying shadow over your slumbering form.

“It’s too quiet when you sleep so many hours,” he mutters, and you strain to hear the rest of his complaint. You think he might be in the doorway because you can’t sense him near you anymore, and his voice is distant and soft, a strange contrast to the harshness in his usual intonation. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re here.” 

He says something else that doesn’t quite reach your ears, and you listen to his footsteps as he retreats to the hall and then the kitchen. You wait until you hear movement before slowly sitting up. Even though you’re alone and he’s a good distance from you, you fear he might hear your quick heartbeat. It pounds inside your rib cage, on and on like the loudest war drum, and you clutch at your chest with trembling hands. 

Without wasting another second, you slide off of the bed as carefully as possible, mindful of the noisy chain at your feet, and creep over to his desk. All of his monitors are on, each luminescent screen displaying something highly contrasting from the previous one. The screen on your left showcases an online shopping site (the page he’s currently on is new microphones, each more high-quality and expensive than the last). The screen on your right blinks back at you, and you spy a photo album of pictures screencapped from every social media connected to you. 

You’re not surprised, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t disgusted. Gross, you think, biting back a shiver. If he touched me with the same hand he used to—

But then your attention is stolen by the middle monitor and before you know it your fingers are gingerly tapping out keys one at a time, so agonizingly slow that you think your rapid pulse might give you away before the clacks do.

Alatus, you’re thinking, eyes skimming the member list. Alatus. Come on, Alatus. Where are you?

Miraculously, you spot his profile picture before his name—a cute, mint-colored bird with fluffy plumage and narrowed eyes. For such an adorable image, the one behind it is so silent and intimidating. You wonder how you even managed to befriend him when he’d been so terse in the early stages of your online friendship, but you’re glad to have this connection. 

Relief floods through your system when you notice the tell-tale green circle near his profile. He’s online! And with that, you pull up a private chat and begin to write to him, your heart skipping a beat with every word added to your desperate SOS message. 

this is gonna sound crazy but this is (name) from server need u to help me out ive been kidnapped by scaramouche call the authorities or someone just let them know i’m missing please believe me

You don’t have time to proofread it, nor can you even consider adding anything else in your frenzied panic, and so you hasten to send it. Your finger just brushes the Enter key when two arms coil around your waist, yanking you away from the desk with so much force that the horrified gasp sticks in your throat. Before you can register the danger, you’re on the floor, the chain rattling with the movement, as if foretelling of the threat that’s about to descend upon you like the Grim Reaper coming to capture a wayward soul, and Scaramouche stands over you, a kitchen knife held in a trembling fist. There is a foul tempest raging within those ominous eyes of his, each dilated pupil darkened with thick, syrupy betrayal. 

You attempt to sit up on your elbows, readying yourself to reason with him before he can slice your throat to ribbons, but then he’s pointing the knife directly at you, his face contorted into a glower so monstrous it has you flinching away. 

“You’re a special kind of stupid,” he snaps, and you press yourself into the floor as if you intend to melt into it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I was so foolish that I wouldn’t suspect the motive behind your little game?”

You open your mouth to profess faux innocence, but the words won’t come. They’ve dried up on your tongue, leaving you to wallow in silence. You’ve never been so obviously, painfully guilty before, and the evidence of your disobedience is printed blindingly bright on a screen for his perusal. Scaramouche gazes at his monitor, cold, cruel eyes taking in every word. Ice crackles through your veins, crystallizing your blood, and for a brief second you consider what might happen if you seize the knife while he’s distracted. Perhaps it works in your head and your attempt to force him to his knees with the threat of death is successful. But realistically you know it wouldn’t be that easy and he certainly wouldn’t give you the chance to one-up him like this, especially not when so much is at stake. 

For once, this has nothing to do with the childish concept of pride. 

“Alatus, huh?” he muses with a monosyllabic hum. “Is that your friend? Well, it’s not like it matters. You don’t need friends.” 

With a sunken heart, you watch as he deletes the message you mustered the courage to draft. Within seconds the faulty plan you’ve considered for months crumbles before your despairing stare. 

“I hate you,” you whisper. Brimming tears are on the verge of overflowing and you will them away with quick blinks. 

“Yeah? Not the first time someone’s told me that.” He turns to face you, and you follow the knife as it’s set delicately on his desktop. It’s an obvious trap, but even so your hand still tenses as if you intend to lunge for it. He bends down to where you remain on the floor, his elbows propped on his knees. “I should commend you for your bravery. Were you working yourself up to this? Were you counting down the days until the moment for rebellion arrived? I’m not sure I should even call it a rebellion. You’re not very smart. I mean, you had access to the internet! You had so many resources at your disposal and yet you chose to message some loser on Teyvatcord! Just how moronic can you possibly be?”

What irks you more than the degradation is the fact that, unfortunately, he’s right. 

He clicks his tongue at you, laughter in his tone. “I would’ve been in trouble if you actually used a sliver of your puny brain. Lucky me, huh?” His fingers cling to your chin, pulling your face closer to his. “I have the cutest, stupidest kitten.”

You narrow your eyes at him and, gathering your mounting revulsion, spit at him. It spatters on his cheek and he seems to pause momentarily, a tense beat stretching taut between the both of you, before he releases you with a huff. The next thing you feel is the harsh sting of his slap as it comes down upon your cheek. It’s more so the shock that has your head turning in time with the impact rather than the dull ache, and you lift your hand to feel raw skin beneath burning fingertips. The tears are now falling in silent streaks. 

It’s hopeless. You’re stuck here forever. 

Scaramouche swipes his thumb along his cheek and scrutinizes the saliva coating his finger with a frown. “Not fond of ‘kitten,’ huh?” 

“Of course not, you freak.” 

“Ouch. That smarts.” Feigning offense, he dries his thumb on his kitchen apron. “A shame. ‘Kitten’ suits you. They’re soft and clumsy and weak. Just like you.”

He retrieves the knife and, after admiring the red-and-purple lights that reflect off the silver blade, offers you a smile so sweet it contrasts his sour threats.

“But as cute as you are on the ground, looking oh-so-terrified, it’s not going to save you from your punishment.”

You watch him carefully, awaiting a catastrophic change in temperament. Despite how cheerily nonchalant he appears, you’re certain there is anger swelling within. It’s clear in his eyes; his glee stems from sadism.

“Should I even ask what your idea of a punishment is?” you venture. You intend to sound bold with your inquiry, but your heart is still stuttering with the aftermath of your failure and it causes you to trip over your tongue. “L-Living with you is punishment enough…”

Scaramouche hums, unfazed. “If you were in my position, what punishment would be most fitting?” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not answering that. You just want me to list the worst possible things.” 

“Perhaps,” he drawls, tapping a fingernail along the blade. His gaze strays to his desk drawer and he opens it and withdraws something you can’t yet see. The jarring jangle of handcuffs alerts your keen ears, and your expression must have twisted into something akin to potent odium because he chuckles. “Wandering hands ought to be properly restrained, don’t you think?”

You hold his gaze for a long minute. “Why? What’re you going to do?” When he doesn’t reply, merely continuing to watch you with that deceptive smile of his, fear sizzles within your electrified nerves. He takes a step towards you and you scoot away instinctively. “Seriously, what is it? Don’t you dare put those cuffs on me.”

“And allow you to misbehave again? As if.” He stands over you, peering down at you with a mixture of disgust and distrust. His foot is pressing on your stomach before you can even think to grab at his ankles and force him to the floor. “In case you’ve forgotten, kitten, you’re mine from now on. So unless you’d like me to tear you a few extra holes with this knife, you’d better shut your mouth and let me put these cuffs on you.”

He seizes your forearm, yanking you up with surprising strength, and you squirm in his unyielding hold, kicking out uselessly. It does nothing to deter him, but it does spark a wrestling match between the both of you, in which you fight desperately to grab hold of the cuffs or the knife before either can find themselves on your person.

“Let go of me! You can’t put those on me!” You elbow him in his ribs and he responds by shoving you down onto his bed, slotting his knee between your legs. His fingers dig into your arms with a harshness that has you wincing. 

“Should’ve thought twice before you decided to act like a brat!” he hisses, squeezing tightly. 

The discomfort soon becomes the least of your worries when he pins your wrist to one of the metal bed frame posts, readying it for one of the cuffs.

“No! Let go of—”

The knife is at your throat next, promptly silencing your terrified protests, and you don’t dare open your mouth. 

“Try again.” 

It’s spoken like a demand or a particularly harsh dare, the ice in his voice a perfect match for his scary expression. For however long his eyes bore into yours, you return his ogling with the same amount of ferocity, challenging his overbearing aura despite the blade poised at your jugular. You’re not sure how sharp it is, but you aren’t intending to find out with misplaced disobedience. 

Eventually, the first cuff clicks around your wrist, and you watch warily as the next cuff attaches to the bedpost. Your arm hangs limply from where it’s been restrained, and the other receives the same attention shortly after he’s retrieved the second handcuff pair. While he’s fumbling one-handed with it, the knife is held in place in his white-knuckled grip. The cool metal kisses feverish skin; you can already smell the river of iron that will drool from a precise slice. After it’s closed around your wrist and the bedpost like its predecessor, you yank arms to test the resistance. Your wrists have been secured tightly, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it’s the uncertainty that settles under your skin, lighting your senses with raw anxiety. 

“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, gazing at the handle of the knife. It’s close—too close. 

You think he lives to torment. He must, otherwise there would be no plausible explanation for why he presses the sharpened edge deeper into your neck, applying just enough pressure to break skin.

“I’ll make one thing clear, so listen and listen well.” His voice drops a few octaves, a perilous murmur. “Don’t ever touch things that aren’t yours again.”

You think he says something else along the lines of, “And don’t ever think you’ve earned a shred of leniency just because we’ve been intimate,” but the words sound far-off and muffled like they’ve been processed through a jar of cotton or an unfathomable depth of sea. Registering them doesn’t seem so important, though, not when the sting in your throat worsens and a thin rivulet of something slick trails its way down your neck, staining your T-shirt—Scaramouche’s shirt (but you refuse to dwell on that distinction). And this time you don’t need any laced meals to slip away. This time it’s the stressful threat of near-death that puts you to sleep.

With the world having slithered away, narrowed down to a singular point devoid of terror, you fall into a familiar darkness. 

At first you think you’ve woken enshrouded in muddy earth, buried alive in some forsaken place, but then the haze of LEDs is piercing through your eyelids and you know you’re not resting amongst soil. With an exhausted groan, you peel your eyes open, searching the room for a figure who is oddly absent. Intending to sit up, you’re stopped short when your wrists catch on the cuffs, the metal digging into sensitive skin, and there is a spreading stiffness in your outstretched arms that’s becoming more unbearable with every passing second.

Something soft and scratchy is wrapped snugly around your throat. A bandage, you think, and it brings forth the not-so-distant memory of the knife and the blood and the dazed look in Scaramouche’s stare. As if he was not entirely there when he was pushing, pushing, pushing the blade into your jugular

As if he intended to carefully saw through sinew as if cutting slices from a block of cheese. 

Inhaling a steadying breath, you consider your options. Escape has become a daunting challenge—an impossibility if you’ve ever known one—and with the way you’re so tightly restrained you’re certain you won’t get close to freedom anytime soon. After all you’ve endured, you’re not sure you want to fly close to that sun again. 

Is it even worth it? you catch yourself pondering. I’m under a roof. I’m fed. I’m washed. This isn’t any different from my usual routine, only I have a housemate now and I’m living here permanently. Right. He’s a housemate. A housemate. A housemate. 

He’s not a housemate. He’s a horror wound into human anatomy—a perfect shell for what you assumed was a normal person. But does the distinction truly matter now? Kidnapper. Housemate. The latter sounds much nicer, but then the latter is also a lie sweeter than caramel and it’s easier to swallow a delusion than confront the looming truth. 

You sigh, your gaze sliding towards the monitors. They’re off this time, three dark voids silenced in the corner in which they’re kept. You tug at your restraints even though you’re aware they won’t come off no matter how much you struggle. For however long it takes Scaramouche to return, you lie on your back, watching the ceiling and counting the tiny bulbs in the strand of LEDs. Finally, there’s movement beyond the room. He pushes the door open with his foot, carrying a tray of food and bringing with him all manner of kitchen scents.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” he teases, and you muster your meanest scowl. He laughs. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Scaramouche sets the tray on his desk, picks up the bowl of ochazuke, and gathers a bite between wooden chopsticks. “Don’t drag this out just to be a pain in the ass. Sit up and eat.”

Slowly, you manage to sit up, your wrists still confined. “I’m not eating unless you remove these cuffs.”

“Hm. Let me think about that.” Scaramouche drums his fingers along the ceramic bowl, considering. “Not a chance.”

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

“You are so insufferable. You had no trouble eating yesterday.” He narrows his eyes. “Licked the bowl clean and everything.”

“That was before you decided to nearly kill me!”

“But I didn’t.” 

“You say that as if you’re proud! Eat your own food. I don’t want it.”

“Alas, I made it just for you,” he says with a dramatic sort of flair that does not fit the smug pride that drapes itself over him like a linen shroud. “With love and everything.” 

Your lip curls into a hostile sneer. “Let me think about that. Yeah, no. Not a chance.” 

“You do realize you’ll starve if not for me.” 

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

Scaramouche covers the distance with graceful strides. He sets the bowl on the bedside table and, much to your dismay, you can’t reach it with the position you’re stuck in, unable to swipe or kick at it. After pulling his gaming chair up to the bed, he lowers into it and takes the bowl in his hands, chopsticks poised. You turn your head away when he tries to feed you and the bite he’s gathered misses its mark, poking your cheek instead. Grains of sticky rice adhere to your skin like glitter. Despite your obvious refusal, Scaramouche persists, pushing another bite of ochazuke at your lips. He’s calm for all of three seconds before the thread of restraint snaps and he grabs your chin, yanking your head in his direction. 

“If you don’t want me to shove these chopsticks so far down your throat, then stop being difficult and open your mouth.”

Still, your lips remain sealed and he huffs indignantly, digging his nails into your skin in hopes of eliciting a reaction. You swallow the wince and frown instead. The next bite prods against your lips and you narrow your eyes, silently daring him to try again. And he does, his fingers tracing along your jaw to find your cheek. He pinches—ruthlessly, unforgivingly rough—and you open your mouth to snap at him. Knock it off, you intend to say, but the words never leave your mouth because the next thing you know you’re tasting a mouthful of fluffy rice flavored with bitter tea, strips of nori, and salmon flakes. 

You almost spit it out, but you’re already chewing, relieved to taste gastronomical goodness. Scaramouche smirks at you, his thumb rubbing circles against your cheek.

“I win.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, turning away, mouth ajar for another bite.

He feeds you with a hum. “That wasn't so hard, was it? It’s almost as if acting like an annoying baby made this entire thing more unbearable than it should be.” 

You scoff around a mouthful. “You’re the unbearable one.”

“And yet here we are.”

You don’t protest at that. What else can possibly be said? Instead, you resign yourself to the meal, finishing every bite he offers and clearing out the leftovers in the bowl. And, as usual, it’s delicious.

Scaramouche pats your head when you’ve finished, a smile sharpening on his lips. “Good job.”

You roll your eyes. “You could’ve been nicer about it.”

“I was very nice,” he says, his tone clipped, as he sets the bowl down and lifts a glass from the table. “See? I even brought you a drink. Aren’t I a portrait of magnanimity?”

He’s a pain in the ass, you conclude, but you allow him to bring the glass to your lips so you can drink. You expect a mouthful of water; what you don’t expect is the sheer burn that comes with swallowing, and your noise of surprise comes out as a cough. Scaramouche sits back in his seat while you stare at him, searching for any indication that he’s joking. 

“Scaramouche—”

“You’ll be a good kitten and drink it all, won’t you? I’d hate to waste something special I picked just for you.”

Your lip curls in abhorrence at his utterance of that dreadful name. “Maybe if you stop calling me ‘kitten.’”

“Not a chance.” 

He takes a sip from the glass and leans in until his face is centimeters from yours. Your eyes find his, and for a moment you’re connected only by this contact. But then, within the next second, he’s closing what little distance remains, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy, sake-tinged kiss. His hand cradles the back of your head so that you’re pinned on his mouth as it molds against yours. His snake bite piercing pushes against your lips and when he licks into your mouth to savor the alcoholic notes on your tongue you think you taste the cold sterling silver of his tongue piercing. With mounting unease, you realize it’s not a terrible sensation. And though saliva and sake drip down your chin in a thin, sticky rivulet, it’s not the worst kiss you’ve ever had. 

It’s over before you can even think of reciprocating. Thankfully—otherwise you’re certain doing so would have been more sickening than a simple teasing nickname. 

He pulls away to observe your dazed expression, his dark eyes alight with manic glee. His laugh comes out breathless, almost like a gasp, and he touches two fingers to his lips. “Your lips are softer than I thought…” he mumbles, curling his fingers against his chin. 

Before you can retort, the glass is poised at your mouth again, enticing you to drink, and you struggle to swallow the amount that’s tipped onto your tongue. You taste tropical citrus this time, flavors reminiscent of sunny days and palm trees and sparkling seas, each one so out of reach in your current predicament. Things you might never see again. Scaramouche climbs onto the bed and sits between your legs, preventing you from shutting them. With your back pressed against the bed, wrists still bound, you have no choice but to remain where you are, entirely at his mercy. 

“That’s a good expression,” he purrs, reaching out to pet your cheek. You turn your head away with a scoff. “To think you could be so cute when you’re terrified of the unknown.”

“Not funny. Take off these cuffs and get me some water. My wrists hurt.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me an ocean.” His free hand splays across your stomach, applying just enough pressure to your pelvic bone, and a devious smirk twists his lips. “That’s not the only place that’ll hurt.”

The reality of his intentions—of why he has you restrained—dawns on you like a sun risen from the grave, blindingly, searingly hot. 

“You can’t be serious.”

You intend to squirm, to kick out at him with your legs, and push him as far from you as possible, but your legs just won’t move. It’s as if you’re attempting to tug yourself free from a pit of molasses, crushed under a new weight. You manage to lift your foot a mere centimeter from the bed before Scaramouche gingerly lowers it back onto the mattress, all the while clicking his tongue at you.

“No need to panic. I’ll take good care of you.” He glances at you, spidery digits tracing tantalizing lines along the length of your leg. “I always have.”

The grogginess spreads throughout the rest of your body like the thorny tendrils of vindictive vines, stifling all possible movements and replacing your usual taut, alert muscles with a sleepiness that's awfully familiar. It doesn’t take long for you to reach a harrowing conclusion: He’s drugged you. Again. You blink rapidly to gain your bearings, and it takes you a moment to recognize the glass that’s at your lips. Foolishly, you drink because he’s already tilting it and you’re not sure how many more sips you take, but by the end of it the glass is empty and your head is spinning, nerves buzzing with static. 

Scaramouche slips off the bed with graceful steps, practically floating about his room, to retrieve a bottle of lube and a pair of scissors. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, coming to you in nonsensical clumps as the alcohol thins your rationality, numbing you to the encroaching unease that so desperately wishes to fill your veins. Rather, you’re overwhelmed with a very pleasant, dizzying warmth. You peer at him from where you’re slumped against the headboard, and the red-and-purple lighting in his room paints him in hues so alluring you find yourself at a momentary loss, staring blankly at him like he’s a fascination you’ve only just fallen for. And then you’re reflecting on the way his lips fit against yours, soft and sweet and metallic…

The scissors run up the fabric of your shirt in a flawless snip. When the tattered material is pulled from you and you feel the rush of cold air upon bare skin, prickly realization manages to sober you.

“W-Wait…” You shake your head slowly, tongue heavy and clumsy just like the rest of your limbs. “I’ve never… N-Never done this before…”

He gazes at you, searching for a lie. Finding no such thing, he chuckles and leans in until you’re practically breathing him in. “I would’ve thought otherwise.”

“And I…” You try to narrow your eyes at him, but he’s placed his hands on your hips and so your gaze is inevitably drawn downwards. “And I would’ve thought you were letting me win all those times.”

“Not this time,” he promises, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “If it means having you all to myself like this, I’ll gladly indulge in the pity prize.”

If your wrists weren’t bound to the bed, you may have pushed him away. Or perhaps you would have embraced him, tugging him closer against your chest so that you could feel his heartbeat, taste it on your lips, allow it to thrum between the both of you. The sake muddles your mind, aiding the muscle relaxant in soothing pre-sex jitters. As Scaramouche’s hands wander, fingers tracking up and down your waist, sliding across your bare stomach, climbing further upwards to pinch your nipples between dexterous digits, someone starts to whine, each faint gasp just barely slipping past lips that have been chewed bloody. 

You realize, when he pulls away to grab at the waistband of your sweatpants, that you’re the one producing such sinful sounds. 

“Wait,” you whisper when he’s yanked it down to your knees. He peers at you with glazed eyes, and you’re certain you’re looking back with the same amount of lustful ferocity. “S-Scara, I don’t know if… Don’t know if we should…”

You shake your head, utter a frustrated curse, and squeeze your eyes shut. What do you truly wish to tell him? You wonder if it even matters anymore. He has you right where he wants you and, frighteningly enough, this is exactly where you’d like to stay. You have to remind yourself it’s the alcohol and the drugs and the sensual lighting that twist your reasonable senses. Even so, your fear trumps any lust that might have been simmering under heated skin.

But before you can verbalize these anxieties, he’s tugged your sweatpants down with ease. Your underwear goes next, leaving you utterly, humanly bare. Scaramouche stares for a moment, taking in the sight of you, and his licentious ogling is enough to send a bolt of embarrassment rushing through you. Avoiding his eyes, you manage to shut your legs, which earns you a breathy chuckle from him. Scaramouche lifts his shirt over his head next, casting it aside without hesitation. You’re treated to the view of his chest, porcelain-pale, creamy skin aglow under the dimmed lights, and upon noting your wide-eyed stare an easy smirk sprawls across his pierced lips. When he cocks his head to the side, you follow the way the tiny chains on his ear cuffs tilt with the movement, star and moon charms jingling faintly. He’s touched by the very cosmos above, shaded in light so beauteous he’s seraphic. 

“There’s no need to be so nervous,” he whispers, drumming his fingers along your knees. “You’re in good hands.”

You open your mouth to object—I don’t want this; I’ve never done this before—but his hands part your legs, spreading them agonizingly slowly as if the universe has benevolently graced him with all the hours in the world. You watch him consider your nude form splayed before him, and the temporary stillness is interrupted when he reaches for the bottle of lube sitting so patiently on his bedside table. 

It’s a chore to follow his hands as they uncap the bottle and squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers. Everything spins and blurs into a messy portrait of colors and shapes. You taste the raw acidity of bile in your throat and promptly swallow it and the rest of your apprehensions, forcing yourself to turn off what’s left of logical thinking and submit to the moment—to allow yourself to be fondled by such good hands.

The slick index prodding curiously at your unrelenting hole tightens the tangle of nerves in your stomach and has you squirming once more. 

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

“It’s only my finger, scaredy-cat.” He laughs and lies beside you, one hand between your legs and the other curled under your chin. He moves your head until you’re looking right at him, and he’s already moving in, lips ghosting over yours. “Unless you’d rather take it raw without any prep. That can be arranged…”

With a half-lidded stare, you spy his lips rather than his eyes as they capture yours in a sloppy smooch. He chases after your breath, swallowing reedy, needy gasps, and traces a circle along your hole before sinking his finger inside. You choke on a whine and wriggle your hips in discomfort. He pulls away only for a brief respite, soon reclaiming your mouth in his greedy pursuit, experimentally curling the lone finger inside you. You’re on fire, burning up with sheer desire and shame and a dizzying intoxication, and everything tangles into a mess fueled only by mounting lust. Fears shrugged away like worthless fabrics, you melt into the mattress’s cushiony embrace, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, as Scaramouche draws little gasps and groans from you, each one spilling out in between kisses. 

The hand on your chin falls away to grasp your nipple between cold fingers, and the chill slithers through your flushed form. You whine a pitiful sound. 

“Look at you, falling apart on one measly finger.” His voice, hushed and husky, wraps around your head like the softest scarf. “Am I the first to touch you down here?”

Foolishly, you try to nod and shake your head all at once, but he seems to catch the truth veiled in your response, for he hums into your mouth again. You kiss back with more desperation this time, chasing his tongue with a delightful fervor. He pushes a second finger in, slick enough as to not cause discomfort, and it soon finds residence with the other digit curled within. 

“No wonder why you’re so easy. It’s almost cute.” Scaramouche lazily works you open with the two digits thrust up inside you. Lewd squelching permeates the otherwise quiet room, and it spurs you into submission. Instinctively, you arch your back when he pinches your nipple harder than before, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “See? Isn’t it better when you’re enjoying yourself? And all it takes is a little reciprocation.” 

“I… I’d never—mmh—never reciprocate,” you mumble, but the words are spoken in a gasp.

“It’s a little too late for delusions and denial, kitten,” he says, practically singing the sardonically spoken pet name. 

You grit your teeth in an effort to stifle your sounds, turning your head away when he tries to steal a quick kiss. “Hate you,” you mutter, jaw clenched. 

Scaramouche barks out a disbelieving laugh. The finger that had been toying with your puffy nipple traces an invisible pattern along the expanse of your chest, sliding further down under he’s gracing your privates with feather-light touches. A moan hums low in your throat, betraying your poor attempt at defiance. 

“That’s not what your body’s telling me.”

He scissors his fingers, stretching you wide enough so he can slide a third in. You hardly feel the pain when you dig your nails into your palms. It’s so fierce you think you might break skin, and if you do the muscle relaxant prevents you from truly feeling it. You peer at his sly smirk, but the disgust melts away when, combined with the fingers working you open and the hand petting your sex, you find yourself shuddering through a sudden climax. Scaramouche marvels at the way you clench around his fingers, and before you can even try to avoid him he’s pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple. 

“Look at you, cumming from three fingers.” He removes each finger one by one just to watch you writhe bonelessly beneath him. He presses two slick fingers against your lips, tilting his head as if you’re a morbid curiosity he spies through the bars of an invisible cage. “My cute, pathetic, virgin kitten. I quite like that dazed look in your eyes. Perhaps you should look at me like that more often…”

You manage to roll your eyes, unamused. “You had your fun. Now take the cuffs off.” You fix him with a pout. “Please?”

“I couldn’t possibly when we’re just getting started.”

There’s a playful lilt in his voice, and your eyes follow his hands as they grasp the waistband of his boxers. It’s only then when you realize he’s painfully hard in his underwear, his cock outlined so starkly against the constrictive material, and your heart plummets into your stomach. 

“Hold on. Wait. H-Hold on…” You try to shut your legs, but the sedative in your system has you reacting as if you’re pulling your limbs through unforgiving tar. Every inch of you craves the comforting release of a long slumber, but the alcohol keeps your nerves sparking with a fiery need that greatly outweighs any languor. “N-Not inside…”

“Why not? We’ll be closer this way.” He wipes the cold sweat from your forehead before placing a gentle kiss upon it. The look in his indigo hues is lionizing, and when he cradles your cheek in a warm hand he is uncharacteristically fond. But then of course he’d be; he likes you, after all. For all of the cruelty, you forget he does this out of love. “Don’t you want to be closer—to find all of the right spots together? We’ll fit together so perfectly…”

He’s already squirted lube onto his hand, and he runs it up the length of his erection, all the while holding smoldering eye contact with you. You swallow dread so thick it almost lodges itself in your throat, mumbling a slew of slurred protests that fall upon deaf ears. 

Scaramouche forces you to look at him next, his hand still on your face, and you lean into it out of emotional instinct. He smiles—it’s tender this time, almost welcoming—and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “You’re okay,” he whispers, sincerity weaved into the promise. You blink tears away and your breath hitches when the soft, fleshy head of his cock kisses your puckered hole. His fingers trail along the bandage secured around your throat, and his eyes glaze over with an unknown emotion. “You’ll be okay.”

And hearing it twice has you believing it with a mindless nod of your head. 

If your hands were free, you’d reach out to touch him, run your fingers along his porcelain chest, loop your arms around his neck to pull him into you so that your puzzle could be complete. Instead, you look up at him with pleading eyes as he cages you between his arms. 

“Please be gentle.”

He noses the crook of your neck. “We’ll see.” 

But his words are warm and inviting. And—oh. Oh, he cares for you! Scaramouche, the one who’d ensure you were always fed, who’d go out of his way to check in at night after a long day, who’d entertain you with an argumentative back-and-forth regarding his favorite games, who’d let you win every single match just to be able to spend more quality time with you...

Who loves you more than he loves himself, relying entirely on you in order to fill the cavernous void in his heart with sugar and sincerity and serenity. 

He cares for you, and no one has ever quite cared for you in the way he does, as sickly obsessive as he may be. Knowing that someone likes you enough to look after you is more saccharine than honey.

Illuminated in red-and-purple luminosities, you shimmer beneath him, a lone star plucked from a dark, desolate sky. His hand falls from your face, finding your hip instead, and he rubs soothing circles into it as he presses in, the head of his cock pushing past rings of tight, lubricated muscle. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would, but then the relaxant and the alcohol have you at ease. His brows are knit in concentration, breath hot and wet on your bare skin, as he slots himself inside inch by inch. 

A shaky groan spills from his lips. “(Name)...” Your name is candied ambrosia in his mouth, the sweetest song. “(Name), (Name), (Name)...”

He exhales slowly, tears glimmering in glassy eyes, and locates your lips in the gloom, drawn in like a fool blinded by the deceptive light of an anglerfish. You kiss back as if this is the last time you’ll ever have the chance to do so, pursuing his whimpers in the same fashion he seeks your keening cries. And when he snaps his hips forwards to fill you completely, joining your bodies in unholy communion, you throw your head back and sob like you’ve never sobbed before. It’s a wonderful fit, snug and tight, and he rocks in experimentally. You shiver under him, crying out a string of incoherent phrases. 

“Scara… Scaraaa,” you sigh dreamily, and his hands brace themselves on either side of you so that he won’t crumple when he thrusts in, settling into the rhythm, following the thrum of your conjoined heartbeats. “Aah… Don’t stop. Please, Scara, I want it deeper… Haah… Please don’t stop.”

“Kuni,” he corrects, breathing it into you in an open-mouthed kiss. “My name. Kunikuzushi.”

It’s lovely. It’s everything. It’s your own heavenly delicacy. 

“Kuni. Kuni. Oh, Kuni…” you parrot, voice thick with need.

He’s moving in and out gradually, savoring each time he thrusts up into you and your bodies meet in a perfect connection, slowly rolling his hips into you as if he’s too fearful to destroy something so fragile. Or perhaps he wishes to keep himself intact—to prevent himself from crumbling into a love-drunk mess. When he kisses you, it’s flavorful passion, and the both of you exchange saliva and breath as if you’re each other’s lifelines. You’re not sure what you’re saying anymore, or whether any of it makes sense, but then he’s murmuring all manner of things into your skin as if every admission will tattoo itself upon your very being, engraved into your soul. 

Though it’s spoken in a voice barely above a whisper, you catch it. Faintly, like flickering candlelight, admitted like prayer, he says, “I love you.” 

And with that you fall, vision whiting out as your orgasm seizes you, and you whine your relief when he fucks you through the highs and lows of it. Your chest is heaving when you return, and you bury your face in his shoulder, wanting to feel all of him, to have his warmth affixed to you.

In that moment, there is no such thing as hatred or revulsion. There are no drug- and alcohol-induced feelings. No handcuffs or shackles. There is only love. Lots of it—all of it—filling you to the brim entirely. 

The shadowed space you’ve been confined to is slightly brighter now that you’ve found a star for yourself, and he is a celestial comfort crafted by the threads of fate—for it’s handcrafted destiny that brought the two of you together in a virtual world. Regardless of what awaits you when you’re shaken from this inebriated fantasy, you hope it is just as bewitchingly dazzling as the puzzle you make with Scaramouche. 

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

He’s crying then, tears falling in twin rivulets, and in response he drives his cock in so deeply it has you arching your back, the motions coaxing precious love cries from the depths of your very heart. Sealing what’s left unsaid in a final kiss—every other emotion, all of the twisted obsession and the horrors of the past month—he empties his load inside, moaning into your mouth. Like a lotus at midnight, you open so obediently for him, your legs wrapped around his waist to pin his body to yours like butterflies spread on an entomologist’s board. 

Of course you love him. After all, there’s no one else for you to adore in this vast, lonesome outer space.

[lizzy06]

Kita Shinsuke x Reader Fic Recs!!(Tumblr/AO3/Wattpad)

Haikyuu! Fic Rec Masterlist

Inarizaki Fic Rec Masterlist

One for the Rules ✨by alkhale (oneshot, soulmate au, fluff, acto!shinsuke)[COMPLETED]

Patience is a virtue ✨✨by @watevermelon (oneshot, fluff, humor, childhood friends to lovers)You lost track of the days that you were in love with Kita. He was the wielder of cold-logic and held the bluntest of words at times, but he showed his own special brand of care. What you hadn’t expected was for him to especially care about you.[COMPLETED]

A stranger you know well ✨by @love-amihan (oneshot, angst) It's your wedding day and you get closure(kinda) with your ex.[COMPLETED]

a place to call home ✨✨by @nariism (oneshot, childhood rivals to lovers, one bed trope) "be kind, shinsuke." that's what yumie always told her grandson. and he would live by those words—even if it meant sleeping on the floor every weekend.[COMPLETED]

Lavender ✨by sansos/@snailsos (oneshot, fluff) Every decision, every action, every step that you took served to distance you from your past. Yet you still clung on to the lavender bookmark that bound you back to it.[COMPLETED]

If Memory Serves Pt 1,  Pt 2 ✨✨by @seokiloquy (oneshot, humor) your mom sent you to farm.[COMPLETED]

lover be good to me ✨by flintstrike (soulmae au, hurt/comfort, slowburn)You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.[COMPLETED]

Again by @yourstarvic (oneshot, fluff, past lovers, )You and Kita meet up again and decide to make a promise.[COMPLETED]

Grant her wish by @caxsthetic (oneshot, fluff) He never expected you to be there in his life, someone who was chaotic and may change his routine. But then, maybe he needed you after all.[COMPLETED]

kita shinsuke loves his grandmother by @augustinewrites(oneshot, fluff) His grandmother keeps pestering him to date you.[COMPLETED]

GOLDEN DAYS by @sukirichi (oneshot)what it’s like dating Inarizaki’s golden boy.[COMPLETED]

Enemies ✨by @loveephia (oneshot, kinda enemies to lovers, tooth rooting fluff)in which you can’t believe that someone like kita exists, and you hate him for being so perfect.[COMPLETED]

a sea of flowers in bloom ✨✨by sunmoonstarsrain (fluff, humor, angst with happy ending)"Take a holiday", your best friend said, "somewhere in the countryside, i know just the place". You probably shouldn't have trusted her. Not when she sent you to Kita Shinsuke's rice farm (aka the home of a god).[COMPLETED]

Slowly Falling In Love by mochi_puff(arranged marriage, fluff, slowburn)You and Kita Shinsuke got wed through an arranged marriage. This is a slice-of-life, slowburn fic of the two of you.[COMPLETED]

In Due Time ✨by deltachye (oneshot, wedding fluff) You meet at a wedding, and you know it’s a bit hasty, but your Pinterest board titled “Wedding Inspo” could really be put to use right about now.[COMPLETED]

 Dancing in the Morning Sun ✨by Channelei(oneshot, humor, fluff) Kita wakes up in his childhood home to the chaos that is his wife and his grandmother dancing together at 6:15am.[COMPLETED]

won't go home without you by @i-need-entertainment (oneshot, angst, fluff) You and Shinsuke have a fight.[COMPLETED]

a multitude of happy deviations✨ by @eggtoasties (oneshot, fluff) When Kita comes to practice with lipgloss on his mouth, chaos ensues.[COMPLETED]

Season + Weather by ejqz (fluff, light angst)Kita Shinsuke adored his grandmother. When she suffered health complications, Kita knew it was time to leave both Osaka and you to return to the countryside. After the winter chill comes the bearing of spring. Then comes the summer of cicadas, and finally the fields of neverending gold.[COMPLETED]