#we love casting trash

[nipchipcookies]

Goat Wizard Money Gang ✨

Dust Herder from Blinx: The Time Sweeper, my beloved.

[landfilloftrash]

shoutout to my girl eno’s nightmare bc. Hi! What and/or Who the fuck was that ! its gonna haunt her and i for awhile !

[mercurymacaroons]

woagh 2 posts in one day

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

Snippets of Wes behind the scenes for "Lie"

(x)

[eowynstwin]

I know we all like to cast Price as assigned husband at birth (ahab if you will) but lately I’ve been getting more into the idea of older bf! Price who’s already failed one marriage.

Like, he and his ex are cordial, but there were too many hurt feelings at the end for them to ever feel comfortable being friends. Price isn’t the one who asked to split, but he didn’t fight it either—he knows he’s hard to love. He knows his job is too much for anyone sane to deal with.

He resigns himself to divorced life and tries to be happy.

Then, he meets you. A cute young thing with the sparkle still in your eye. Maybe at the grocery store, or at a restaurant with only the two of you in it. He feels his broken heart beat a little. He tells himself to leave it—you’re too nice, too good for him to spoil. He fails, and three months later there’s a drawer in his bedroom stuffed with your clothes and a set of your toiletries in his bathroom.

It isn’t like his first serious relationship. The age gap between you and him is substantial enough that you grew up in a world very different from his; you aren’t fussing about meeting parents, or five-year plans, or how many kids he isn’t giving you. Maybe it’s because you don’t take this as seriously as him—he doesn’t know.

What he does know is that it’s his name you’re crying out when he’s got you in his bed, knees pressed up to your ears. What he does know is that he likes making you breakfast when you stay over. What he does know is that he’s the one you call when your door starts scraping the frame, or your tires need rotating, or you’re lonely and you want some company while some trash TV plays in the background.

He may have screwed up his first marriage, but certificate or no, he’s learned enough how not to fuck up his second.

Edit: some kind of part two

[brainstirfry]

REACTION SPEED [Heroic: failure] - a single ravioli, damp from the water, still pleasantly steaming, lands with a defeated slap, on the linoleum floor. You see it happen, watch it flip through the air, like an Olympic bronze off the high-dive, or a suicidal veteran of war. you feel yourself shout a "No!", but it is too late. there, the ravioli, impossibly, lays limp. FORSAKEN RAVIOLI - Why, it thinks, why me? For all the time I was grown and processed then crafted and for all the time I have waited for the only purpose which I was made for. To be cast so suddenly, so errantly, into the realm of the beyond? Beyond savior. DRAMA - And here you stand, clad like a captain with your wooden spoon, watching as an honorable soldier, nay, a man, lies without your hand to aid him, on the kitchen floor.

VOLITION - you must act, now! first it must be picked up, then its fate can be decided. COMPOSURE - Its fate is the trash. AUTHORITY - Its fate is the trash. YOU - You pick up the ravioli, it is hot, nearly still boiling, gushing steam and hot pasta blood down your hand. It hurts, but standing here, there is nowhere else for it. PERCEPTION - It looks fine... LOGIC - Don't do this. SHIVERS [Heroic: Success] - Somewhere southeast of here, perhaps hundreds of miles, grain sprouts in a field, rich wheat, and butternut squash, only an acre over. The wind whistles through the fields, running like gleeful children through the tiny, green plants. Some will be eaten by birds, worms, or moles, but some will reach high into the sky, where they will be plucked and ground into pasta dough. You have seen the birthplace of this soldier. It is humble, a beautiful childhood, and so, so long ago. An entire pasta-lifetime, now. FORSAKEN RAVIOLI - I thought I had finally made it. And with my brethren... YOU - You look at the bowl, the rest of the ravioli, steaming in mournful, pyrrhic celebration. My company... EMPATHY - This ravioli could be you. You can't give up on it now. Not because of your own mistake. AUTHORITY - This is not what a dignified man would do. send him off and mourn, perhaps, but do not spend one moment more considering his limp, cooling corpse. DRAMA - Where has your heart gone, O Honorable One? Authority - … EMPATHY - the greatest service you could do for this little soldier, and for all those beyond you that forged him, is to eat him. What else is rightfully to be done? VISUAL CALCULUS - It was on the floor for less than 4.7 whole seconds. ENCYLOPEDIA - most forms of bacterium are able to jump, especially to wet materials, in about 1.2- PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - any residue on your kitchen floor may well be material which was once already in your stomach. CONCEPTUALIZATION - if you think about it, that means you've already kind of eaten the ravioli.

INLAND EMPIRE - From the Floor, Of the Floor, To the Floor. To be, or not to be, one with this eternal cycle? ENDURANCE - Anything the floor could not contain, you could digest. (with VOLITION) We are iron. HALF LIGHT - Bite into its soft, warm flesh. EMPATHY - Give it peace. ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Eat the floor-violi, pasta slut! YOU - weeping, bring the ravioli to your lips, and then, impossibly, with infinite mercy, love, bring it into you. It tastes fantastic. You would have never know it was on the floor at all. You can feel the hum of satisfaction, the glory of it in your lungs, swelling to fill you more than even a pasta-feast could. This is the mercy you wish your God could cast on you, when you fall. KIM KITSURAGI - "Harry,"

[winxanity-ii]

LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?

ship: fashion designer!gojo x fem!model!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (fem. receiving hand-job/fingering; overstimualtion; p in v ; creampie, wrap before you tap kiddos) word count: 6.6k (i'm gagged cuz i swear it wasn't that many words as i was typing 😭😭💀) A/N: Hey, bubbly-bear! just wanted to let you know i've moved from my my alt account to my main one, so i'm posting your request here…

Request:Hello! I had a lil gojo x reader idea but if you aren’t vibing with it please dont feel like you have to write it, or change it how you see fit! BUT I feel like Guess (ft. Billie E.) By Charlie xcx is so Gojo coded and I would love to see a fic based off of it if possible :)

p.s. mwaaaaahhhhh, thx you so much for being my first request, hope i did you justice 😩✨

This line from the song just stood out to me and i just had to write it:

I wanna try it, bite it, lick it, spit it Pull it to the side and get all up in it Kiss it, ride it, can I fit it?

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

"Turn your head like that—yes, perfect! Raise your chin a little more. Hold it!" The head photographer's voice cut through the organized chaos, every word precise and demanding. "Lighting! Can we adjust the back light, it's catching too much glare!" Another barked command as assistants scurried to fix the harsh spotlight casting an overexposed halo on you. "Makeup! Fix the lipstick; it's smudged." The pace had been relentless, as it always was on set. The camera had clicked, capturing each second of your endurance, but all you could focus on was the way your body ached.

Your feet, crammed into designer heels, screamed for relief, and your back burned from holding poses longer than it felt natural. You shifted your weight slightly, hoping no one noticed as the clicks of the camera went on like rapid fire.

"Alright, people, ten-minute break!" Finally, the head photographer clapped his hands, giving everyone the much-needed signal to stop.

A bell rang faintly in the background, and your shoulders slumped as you let out a groan.

You dropped the strained pose you had been holding for what felt like an eternity. You rolled your neck, feeling the tension snap and release in your joints.

The lights dimmed slightly as Kugisaki Nobara and Itadori Yuji sauntered over from the swimwear shoot, and you couldn't help but notice how their outfits screamed for attention—both in completely different ways.

Nobara was in a skimpy two-piece swimsuit, the top barely enough to cover her small bust, accentuating her slim waist. The delicate straps dug into her skin as she pulled at them, clearly annoyed, though the outfit highlighted her toned frame with every step she took.

The bottom piece clung to her hips, just barely covering enough to maintain some modesty, with high-cut sides that emphasized her long legs.

Despite the discomfort written across her face, Nobara moved with confidence, her slender figure not going unnoticed by the photographers still milling around.

She scrunched her nose. "This swimsuit is killing me," she muttered, fingers fidgeting with the ties around her waist. "Honestly, whose idea was it to make swimwear this uncomfortable?"

Yuji, in contrast, had an air of ease about him, rocking a pair of matching swim trunks that coordinated with Nobara's outfit—an intentional design that somehow made their shoot feel like a playful, couples-themed editorial.

His bare chest gleamed under the studio lights, each of his perfectly sculpted abs on display as though carved by a sculptor. His body was toned yet muscular, the kind of physique that didn’t need fancy clothes to stand out.

With sun-kissed skin and that infectious grin, Yuji could have made wearing anything look effortless.

"C'mon, Nobara, we don't have that much longer. Besides, you look great," Yuji said, his voice lighthearted as always.

Nobara rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, says the guy who could wear a trash bag and still smile like it's no big deal."

You let out a quiet chuckle as Yuji gave you a wink before being called away to review some of the shots. He shot you a playful smile over his shoulder as he walked off, his broad back flexing slightly under the pressure of moving around in the hot lights.

"Ugh, I swear, if Yuji keeps this up, I'm going to barf," Nobara muttered, shaking her head as she sidled up next to you, arms crossed over her chest.

The two of you made your way toward the refreshments table, where the scattered models and assistants buzzed like bees around a honey pot.

You could feel the material of your own outfit shift as you moved, the delicate knitted vest you wore slightly hugging your upper body. It was all part of the 'clean girl' aesthetic your stylist had chosen for you—a knitted cream-colored vest over a crisp white blouse, paired with a pleated schoolgirl skirt that swayed with every step.

It was simple, yet chic—the kind of outfit that made you feel both elegant and casual at the same time.

Yet, despite its light, airy look, the long hours standing in the heels were starting to make your feet scream. The snug fit of the vest only heightened the strain on your tired muscles, adding to the sense of exhaustion.

Nobara leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming as if she was about to share the juiciest tidbit of gossip she had yet. "So, did you hear about Kaori and that photographer? Apparently, they got caught in one of the back dressing rooms."

You raised a brow, barely hiding your amusement. "Kaori? The one who's been eyeing everyone since day one?."

"Oh, and you didn't hear this from me," Nobara continued, lowering her voice even more, "but Sumi told me that Yuji's been getting cozy with that new model, Megumi. You know, the quiet one? Well, they—"

You groaned, cutting her off. "Don't you ever get tired of knowing all the messy things?"

Nobara rolled her eyes dramatically, her lips curling into a smirk. "Never~" she said, before nodding toward the side entrance. Her voice took on a mischievous edge as she added, "Just like I know you never get tired of denying that your new stylist wants to fuck you."

You practically choked, your eyes widening as the words hit you. "W-What?" you sputtered, your face heating up. You let out a shaky laugh, then coughed, trying to gather yourself. "Stop saying that…"

Nobara's smirk only grew wider, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Oh, come on. The man practically undresses you with his eyes every time he's around. You can't tell me you don't notice the way he looks at you. The man's got designs on more than just your clothes, babe."

The heat in your cheeks deepened, and you averted your gaze, unsure how to respond.

It was hard to deny that your stylist's hands lingered just a bit too long during fittings, or that his gaze seemed a little too intense when he adjusted the fabrics on your body.

The clean, tailored looks he designed for you always felt more intimate than the pieces he created for other models. But surely, it was just part of his meticulous nature, right?

"I-It's just professional," you stammered, glancing down at the drink in your hand, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the growing knot in your stomach. "He's focused on the designs, Nobara. That's it."

Nobara snorted, giving you a knowing look. "Yeah, okay. If by ‘designs’ you mean figuring out how to get under your clothes, then sure. But I mean, I'm not complaining. If I were in your shoes, I'd fuck him."

Before you could respond, a shadow fell over you both, and you didn't need to look up to know who it was. You felt his presence before you saw him.

There, leaning casually against the side of the refreshment table, was Gojo Satoru, the man in question.

His signature smirk played on his lips as those piercing, ice-blue eyes of his scanned over you over his shades, and you could practically feel the heat of his gaze as it lingered on your skirt.

"Ladies," Satoru drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with charm. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything too scandalous?"

Nobara raised an eyebrow, giving you a teasing look before stepping back. "Oh no, nothing at all. We were just talking about your... designs," she said with a sly grin before stepping back. "Guess, I'll leave you two to it," she teased, nudging you as she walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone with him, heart racing as you met his eyes. His grin only widened, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"So..." Satoru murmured, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in slightly. "Anything you'd like to confess?"

Your throat went dry, and you could only shake your head, praying that he hadn't overheard Nobara's playful remarks.

But judging by the gleam in his eyes, you had a feeling he probably had.

Your heart raced as you tried to compose yourself, swallowing back the nerves rising in your throat. You forced a smile, though it felt shaky at best. "I don't have anything to confess," you said, attempting to keep your voice light. "Is there anything you need help with?"

Satoru's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming as he straightened up, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his perfectly tailored trousers. "As a matter of fact," he drawled, "you could help me with something."

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. Before you could ask what he meant, two of Satoru's assistants appeared at his side, as if on cue, each one wearing the kind of professionalism that didn't quite mask the urgency in their steps.

Without explanation, they began to gently but firmly usher you toward the changing quarters.

"W-Wait—what's going on?" you stammered, glancing over your shoulder at Satoru, who followed behind leisurely, his long strides giving him an air of complete control. "Why am I changing? I thought my shoot was almost over?"

"Oh, nothing much," Satoru sing-songed, his lips pulling into a mischievous grin. "I just had a chat with the higher-ups about pushing up the date for a few of our theme releases. Ya'know, rearranging which models get which looks."

Your confusion only deepened, and you blinked owlishly, trying to make sense of his words as you were guided toward a small room at the end of the hallway. "But—what does that have to do with—"

You trailed off as you stepped into the changing room and saw the mannequin sitting in the center. It was draped in an outfit that made your breath catch in your throat. A short leather miniskirt, sleek and shimmering, paired with a crop bodycon top that clung to the mannequin’s torso like a second skin

The entire ensemble was a bold combination of black and silver, with metallic bangles adorning the arms and a choker embedded with silver and black accents.

But what truly caught your attention was the soft sheen of baby blue that ran through the outfit—a shade that was eerily similar to the blue of Satoru's eyes.

You stared at the outfit for a moment, taking in the platform boots that completed the look, their towering heels intimidating yet alluring. The whole ensemble screamed nightlife, clubbing, a world of flashing lights and pulsing music.

It was striking, to say the least.

The assistants wasted no time, setting down various items on a nearby table while preparing the room for your quick change. But you stood frozen, blinking again as realization slowly dawned.

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, watching you with an almost lazy amusement.

"You're joking," you muttered, half in disbelief.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

You glanced back at the mannequin, the black and silver catching the light in a way that made the outfit seem even more eye-catching.

The baby blue accents shimmered faintly, bringing your thoughts right back to Satoru, his confident smirk and those eyes that seemed to follow your every move.

The outfit looked like it had been designed for you—and only you.

The assistants were already moving around, gesturing for you to start changing, but your mind was still reeling. "You... moved up the schedule?"

"Had a feeling this look was perfect for you," Satoru said casually, pushing off the doorframe and walking further into the room. "Wanted to see it on you sooner rather than later."

You bit your lip, nerves fluttering in your chest as you stared at the mannequin once more.

The way Satoru's gaze lingered on you sent a shiver down your spine.

It was as if this entire thing had been orchestrated just for his amusement, his design, his vision.

The assistants handed you the top, a fitted crop that shimmered in the light, the baby blue accents standing out against the metallic silver.

You reluctantly grabbed it from them as they moved off to remove the other pieces from the mannequin.

The room felt warmer all of a sudden, like the air had thickened, and you couldn’t shake the tension prickling at the back of your neck.

You lifted your gaze only to find Satoru already staring at you, his eyes locked on yours in a way that made your breath hitch. You cleared your throat, your voice shaky as you tried to break the spell. "Shouldn't you leave? I need to change."

Instead of moving, his lips curved into that trademark smirk that always made your stomach flip. "I'll have to stay and oversee things. You know, just to make sure nothing goes wrong. I can swoop in and fix anything if needed."

Your face burned, heat rushing to your cheeks as his words lingered in the air.

You weren't naïve. You'd worked with dozens of stylists before, all of them meticulous, always staying to make sure the fit was perfect. But none of them ever made your skin tingle the way Satoru did.

None of them ever watched you like they were imagining a thousand different things beneath the clothes. And none of them ever made you feel like you were burning alive from the inside out with just a look.

Heart pounding, you turned away, hoping to escape his gaze. You began undressing, slipping out of your current outfit.

Each movement felt amplified, like you could feel the air around you, charged with tension. You reached behind yourself, trying to steady your breathing as you fumbled with the zipper.

You could practically feel his eyes on you, mapping out your body, lingering on every curve as if he could see right through the fabric.

Your skin prickled, the sensation of his gaze making it hard to even think straight. Every breath felt labored, every second stretched too long.

As you reached behind to unclip your bralette, your fingers trembling slightly, you felt a pair of hands cover yours—large, warm, and deliberate.

The shock froze you in place, your breath catching in your throat.

"Allow me to help you with that…" His voice was low, velvety, and it sent a shiver down your spine as he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear.

The world narrowed to that moment, the heat of his presence overwhelming your senses. His fingers gently brushed against yours as he unhooked your bralette, the touch feather-light but filled with an unspoken promise.

You couldn't move, couldn't breathe, the room suddenly too small, too hot, with Satoru towering behind you, his hands so close, too close.

Every nerve in your body screamed in protest, but your heart betrayed you, hammering in your chest as a low pulse of desire curled through your veins.

His hands slid away as he stepped back, giving you room, but the mark of his touch lingered long after he'd let go.

It left you breathless, the space between you charged with something dangerous, something unspoken that hung heavy in the air.

Satoru's smirk never wavered, his eyes still locked onto yours in the reflection of the mirror. "There..." he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. "...All done."

You stuttered out a soft, breathless, "Thank you," barely able to get the words out before Satoru turned on his heel. His presence seemed to consume the room, but as he barked an order to one of his assistants, the pressure finally lifted.

"Adjust the lighting for the next setup! And I want the backdrop changed in five minutes!" Satoru's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. With one last glance over his shoulder at you, he strode away, leaving the room in a whirlwind of activity.

As soon as he was gone, it felt like you could finally breathe again. The air in the room cooled, the weight of his lingering presence fading, though not entirely.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you pulled the leather skirt up over your hips, the fabric snug against your skin. Satoru's assistant helped you with the bodycon top, tugging it into place, adjusting the hem and smoothing out the fabric as it clung to your curves.

The outfit was bold—almost too bold—but it fit like a second skin, highlighting every line of your body in the way only Satoru's designs could.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of camera clicks, flashing lights, and endless posing. Hours slipped by, the sun gradually lowering as the shoot continued, stretching longer than expected.

Nanami Kento, the photographer overseeing everything, was a perfectionist. His no-nonsense attitude left no room for error, and his eye for detail was unmatched.

He had insisted on waiting for the natural dusk light, arguing that it would complement the metallic sheen of your outfit and bring out the best in the overall composition.

You had worked with Kento before. His bluntness and unwavering pursuit of perfection made him a tough taskmaster, but he was one of the best in the industry.

Shoots paired with him always led to increased success. His images captured not just the clothes, but the mood, the essence of the model wearing them.

He and Satoru were at the top of their game right now, the dynamic power duo behind many successful campaigns, and you couldn't deny how they both pushed you further than anyone else ever had.

"…And… that's a wrap!" Kento's voice finally cut through the endless camera clicks, sharp and definitive. The faint ring of a bell followed, signaling the end of the shoot.

You exhaled a long, relieved breath, feeling the weight of the day lift off your shoulders.

The shoot had taken the remainder of the day, from midday to the last golden rays of dusk.

The combination of Satoru's exacting demands—making you pose in just the right way to show off the outfit—and Kento's insistence on perfect lighting meant you'd spent hours standing, twisting, and holding uncomfortable poses.

The tightness in your back and shoulders made it clear how long you had been at it. Your feet ached in the platform boots, and your muscles screamed for rest.

As the assistants began to pack away the equipment, the space slowly emptied out. The other models and staff had long since finished their own shoots and left, leaving only you and a skeleton crew behind.

The studio, once alive with chaos, was now eerily quiet, the low hum of final tasks being completed the only sound in the background.

You peeled yourself away from the set and made your way back to the dressing room, feeling the tightness of the leather skirt with every step.

The corridors were deserted now, with most of the team having wrapped up hours ago. The silence was almost jarring after the noise and flurry of the day.

You were exhausted, every muscle in your body protesting as you moved.

Finally, you reached your dressing room, the door creaking slightly as you pushed it open. The sight of the empty space—the vanity mirror now bare, clothes and shoes scattered—was a welcome relief.

The day had been long, but now you could unwind.

As you closed the door behind you, the quiet settled over you like a blanket, offering you the peace you desperately needed.

You stumbled into the room, barely keeping yourself upright as exhaustion weighed down your limbs. Practically dead on your feet, you began peeling off the clothes that had felt glued to your body for the last several hours.

The crop top slipped off first, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

You didn't care where it landed as you walked over to the couch in the center of the room, facing a large squared mirror. Each step felt like a weight being lifted from your sore muscles.

A cool draft brushed against your bare torso, making you shiver slightly as it passed over the sheen of sweat from the long day. Your fingers worked at the accessories next, unfastening the bangles around your wrists and dropping them carelessly.

The metal clanked against the floor, loud in the otherwise quiet space. You massaged your sore wrists, the cool air soothing the raw skin where the jewelry had pressed tight against you.

Your fingers then moved to the choker at your neck, tugging it free and letting it fall beside the rest, relieved to feel the soft touch of air against your throat.

Your mind began to drift, wandering somewhere far away from the chaos of the day. You thought about what you'd do when you got home.

Maybe snack on those yogurt bites you found at the grocery store earlier that week. Or maybe you can finally binge-watch that series you'd been meaning to catch up on.

The thought made you feel a little lighter.

Hell, you can even spend tomorrow doing absolutely nothing, you have nothing booked!

You were right in the middle of imagining your lazy day ahead, fingers working the clasp of your bralette, when the door creaked open behind you.

"Hey! I'm—" Your arms instinctively rose to catch your slipping bra before it could fall completely. Your heart raced, embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

You looked up at the large mirror in front of you, eyes wide, only to lock gazes with Satoru, lounging casually against the doorway as if he had all the time in the world.

"—undressing," you finished, your voice dropping to a shaky whisper.

Satoru's lips curved into a faint smirk, his gaze shameless as it raked over your disheveled appearance. He tilted his head slightly, looking over his shades at the scattered accessories and top on the floor. "You know," he said, his voice light with a playful edge, "you really shouldn't leave my designs lying around like that. It's almost disrespectful."

For a moment, you thought he'd bend down to pick up the items—his creations, after all. But instead, he strolled right past them, making his way toward you.

Your breath hitched, your body freezing in place as his steps closed the distance between you.

Satoru's eyes, usually filled with playful mischief, were darker now, more intense as they followed the lines of your form.

He moved with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. And as he reached your side, standing just behind you, his presence loomed, filling the small space with the heat of his gaze.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the cool draft that had once been a relief now doing little to cool the flush rising across your skin.

Satoru stepped even closer, the heat radiating from him making the cool draft on your bare skin feel like a distant memory. His presence was overwhelming, filling the small room until all you could focus on was the warmth seeping from him and the way his gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror.

"You know," he began, his voice soft, almost idle, "a lot of my best designs… they're not the ones I spend weeks perfecting." His words drifted through the air like a secret. He raised a hand, his fingertips brushing lightly against the faint indents the choker had left on your neck. The touch was barely there, yet it sent a shiver running down your spine. "No… the ones that really stand out," he continued, "are the ones that light up in my mind every time you fall into my vision."

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as he leaned in closer, his chest now just inches from your back.

The heat from his body wrapped around you like a second skin, and you watched him through the mirror, mesmerized by the intensity in his eyes as he spoke.

His hand, warm and deliberate, trailed slowly down your arm, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt both comforting and dangerous.

"You're my muse," he said, almost as if speaking to himself, lost in the thought. "Every second I spend watching you, seeing you wear my designs, it's nothing but inspiration." His hand continued to drift lower, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist before sliding back up, pulling you just slightly, coaxing your body into his.

Your breath grew heavier, chest rising and falling with each shallow inhale as you were drawn back against him, the solid warmth of his chest pressing into your bare back.

Your gaze flickered to the mirror, watching the scene unfold before you—his hand resting lightly on your waist, his eyes tracing the outline of your form as if committing every curve, every inch of you, to memory.

You could feel his breath, warm and steady, fanning against your ear, and it made your head spin, your thoughts running wild.

"Every touch," he murmured, his lips brushing just above your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Every glance…" His voice dropped, becoming something darker, heavier. "I can't stop thinking about how perfectly you fit into my designs. Like you were made for them—or maybe… they were made for you."

His hand trailed down your arm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, and you watched him in the mirror, breath hitching in your throat. Then, his lips ghosted over your ear again, the warmth of his breath making you tremble as he purred, "But you know… I keep thinking about something else…"

Your eyes widened slightly, and you felt him shift closer, his chest now flush against your back. The air between you crackled with tension, thick and almost suffocating, and yet you couldn't pull away—you didn't want to.

His hands pressed against your waist as he lowered his voice to something almost sinful. "…How perfectly you'll fit around me."

The words slipped from his lips, dripping with raw, undeniable desire, every word reverberating through your skin, hitting you like a tidal wave. Your breath stilled in your lungs, heat coursing through your body as your mind raced.

Wait a minute—what's… b-but—

His arms tightened around you as his mouth hovered near your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me you feel it too," he groaned, his voice low, growling with need as his fingers dug into your hips. "Tell me you want it… just as badly as I do."

Finally, your mouth seemed to catch up with your thoughts. "S-Satoru—"

Your voice once again falls away as Satoru's arms tightened around you, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. You felt his chest rise and fall rapidly, pressing into your back, his grip around your waist possessive, firm.

Then, in a voice so raw, so desperate it sent a shiver down your spine, he whispered, "Can I... have you?"

The words tumbled from his lips in a near whimper, laden with a hunger that bordered on pleading. His breath hitched, his forehead brushing against the back of your neck as if even he was losing control of the space between you.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your mind trying to process everything, yet failing to hold onto any coherent thought. His words, the way they sounded so needy, left you breathless.

You watched him in the mirror, his reflection almost ghostly in the low light of the room. His eyes were half-lidded, clouded with lust as they lingered on your form, and his lips, parted slightly, looked dangerously close to speaking something sinful, something that would push you over the edge.

The room was silent except for his panting breaths in your ear. You could feel his need in the way his arms wrapped around you, in the way his fingers pressed just a little too tightly into your skin.

"Say yes..." he breathed, his voice low and pleading, his lips now trailing down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of heat with every soft, almost teasing touch. "Please... just say yes."

Your breath caught in your throat, your body frozen in place as your mind blocking out everything else but Satoru.

The sound of him, the feel of him, the way his voice came out in that almost whimpering tone—it consumed you, leaving no room for anything else but him.

Finally, a breathless, barely audible "yes" escaped your lips, the word trembling from your mouth like a whimper, your resolve crumbling under the intensity of the moment.

It was as if a switch had been flipped in Satoru. His wicked smirk grew, a gleam in his eyes as he dipped his head lower, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before dragging his tongue in a slow, deliberate stripe up your skin.

The heat of his breath against your neck sent shivers racing down your spine, making your entire body tense.

"Good girl~" he purred softly into your ear, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Before you could even catch your breath, he pulled you down onto the couch, his movements fluid and effortless. You landed in his lap, your back pressed firmly against his chest, legs bent and pulled up on either side of him, facing the mirror.

our thighs immediately began to burn from the stretch, the leather skirt you wore sliding up all the way, exposing the lace underwear beneath—the same light blue that matched the bralette you'd worn earlier.

The delicate fabric contrasted sharply with the heat of the moment, and your face flushed in embarrassment as your eyes caught the sight of a small wet patch there.

Your heart raced as you tried instinctively to close your legs, but before you could, he gently tapped your thighs with his fingers, his smirk never faltering. "Aht aht," he scolded lightly, his tone playful but firm, making it clear that he was in control.

His arms slid under your legs, lifting them slightly and pulling them farther apart.

The stretch made you gasp, thighs burning as he forced you all the way back against his chest, your body now fully reclined into him.

His grip was strong but not painful, holding you in place as his breath ghosted over the side of your face.

In the mirror, you saw it all—your legs spread wide, your flushed face, and Satoru's darkened gaze fixed on you, his expression one of total control. His was voice, low and teasing, rumbling against your ear. "Look at you... perfect," he murmured, holding you tightly against him, his arms securing you in place, his presence overwhelming.

The reflection showed more than just your vulnerability—it was the power he had over you, and the way he reveled in every second of it.

Satoru's left hand slowly trailed down your body, his touch feather-light at first, but purposeful. The cool air kissed your skin as his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your underwear, his hand pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot without pulling the fabric to the side.

The sensation made your breath hitch, and your entire body tensed as his fingers began to move, rubbing slow, deliberate circles along your slit, teasing and drawing out every bit of tension you’d been holding inside.

His fingers trailed gently up and down, gliding over your skin as if he were mapping you out, testing your every reaction. He found your clit with ease, rubbing small, teasing circles that sent jolts of heat through you, the slow rhythm making it impossible to think straight.

Your thighs twitched, the stretch around him making the sensation even more intense. The heat of embarrassment flooded through you as your body reacted, and when you turned your face away, unable to watch the reflection of what he was doing to you.

Satoru clicked his tongue softly in disapproval. "Uh-uh," he murmured, his voice dark with command. "Eyes on the mirror. Watch what I do to you."

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as your gaze reluctantly shifted back to the mirror.

His hand kept moving, the slow rhythm intensifying, the way he touched you sending waves of pleasure through your entire body. His reflection was smug, pleased, as he watched you fight to keep your eyes open and focused on what he was doing.

It was an order, and disobeying felt impossible.

When his finger slipped inside you, your body jolted slightly, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His movements were slow, deliberate, each stroke inside you making it harder to think.

One became two, both pumping in and out of your clenching heat with a slow, deep rhythm. He kept his other arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you in place against his chest as he worked his fingers deeper.

His breath was hot against your ear as his grip on your body tightened, his voice a low groan as he spoke. "You know what I can't wait to do?" His words sent a new rush of heat through you, and he chuckled softly at your reaction. "I can't wait to taste you... spend hours learning every inch of my muse's body. Watching you come undone again and again and again."

The promise in his voice made your mind reel, the intensity of his touch and his words leaving you breathless, your chest heaving as your pulse raced.

A particularly well-angled thrust had your back arching, a breathy moan slipping free. "That's it..." he praised, curling his fingers so they can brush against your G-spot again. "You're so wet for me... So responsive."

His thumb joined the fray, rubbing firmer circles over your clit that had your hips rolling mindlessly to meet his touch. He worked you higher and higher, stoking the flames of your pleasure until you were teetering right on the edge.

And still, he demanded you watch. Compelled you to observe the wanton display you made, his dark gaze devouring you from over your shoulder.

"Come for me," Satoru growled against your lips, his fingers pumping furiously now. "Let go. Now."

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath and whiting out your vision. You shook and shuddered in his hold, a cry of ecstasy torn from your throat as he wrung every last bit of pleasure from your spasming body.

Satoru swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply as he continued his ministrations.

Only when you collapsed bonelessly against him did Satoru still his hand, drawing his glistening fingers from your depths. He brought them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact through the mirror as he licked them clean with a shameless moan.

"Delicious~" he purred, voice rough with satisfaction. "My perfect muse."

You felt weightless, the tension from the day—hell, the whole week—melting into nothingness as the lingering echoes of your orgasm left you in a daze. Your body felt loose, relaxed, like all the stress had finally evaporated, and for a moment, you simply existed, floating in the aftermath.

Then, you felt your thighs shift wider, and a small, confused sound escaped you before you even realized it.

Satoru's low chuckle filled the quiet room, dark and amused. "You didn’t think that was it, did you?" His voice dripped with mischief as his hands moved to adjust you in his lap. He shifted beneath you, pulling his pants down slightly as he repositioned you, pulling you higher onto his lap.

The movement pressed you closer to him, allowing you to fully feel him underneath you, hard and insistent. His hand returned to your underwear, the long digits returning to rub away at you.

The sudden pressure made your back arch instinctively, a small whimper escaping your lips from the mix of sensation—equal parts pleasure and the discomfort of being played with beyond your limit.

"Silly girl," he tutted softly into your ear, his breath warm against your skin. His hand returned to your waist, the grip firm yet tender, as he tugged your underwear to the side, filling you in one stroke.

You both froze for different reasons—your legs trembled as you felt the stretch, trying to stay tethered because he had to be the biggest you'd ever had, while Satoru groaned, overwhelmed by the tightness that enveloped him.

"F-Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed.

You let out a broken whimper, arms growing weak and giving out beneath you. You collapsed slightly forward, your forehead resting against his thighs as you tried to adjust, to find some relief from the pressure.

Satoru growled softly at the sight, his hands gripping your waist with more purpose. He pulled you fully down onto him, your hips flush against his.

"S-Satoru..." you moaned, your voice shaking, tears welling in your eyes as the sensation became overwhelming.

His hips jerked forward in short, deliberate movements, and your body responded, helpless to the rhythm he set. "T-that's right, baby, say my name..." he groaned, his voice thick with need as his hands guided you, pulling you back down with each upward thrust.

He lifted his hips to speed up the movements. You could only cling to his thighs, breathless and powerless against the force of his desire.

Satoru kept going, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer, filthy words laced with desire. His grip on your waist was tight, almost bruising, as he held you firmly in place.

The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room—wet, slick noises and the rhythmic squelching with every movement.

The intensity of the moment wrapped around you, heightening every sensation, your body overwhelmed by the pressure building inside you.

Your second orgasm was approaching too quickly, the wave of pleasure rising fast, almost too much to handle. Desperation washed over you, and you tried to scoot forward, to slow things down, but Satoru's response was immediate—he went faster, his thrusts growing erratic.

You let out a choked cry, begging for him to slow down, but he only groaned in response, his pace relentless.

The sensation was overwhelming, and then it hit you, like you were thrown over the edge. Your eyes fluttered closed as the blinding pleasure rocked your entire frame.

Your body shook, every nerve alight as the intensity consumed you. You could hear Satoru cursing under his breath as you trembled in his arms, your body a quivering mess in the aftermath.

And then you felt it—the heat of him filling you, spreading through your lower body in a rush of warmth. Satoru let out a long, drawn-out groan, pressing himself flush against you as he reached his climax. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving as he stayed close, savoring the feeling.

Before you could catch your breath or say anything, Satoru moved again. He pulled you back slightly, and you gasped, the sudden movement sending a mix of pain and pleasure shooting through you.

His hands snaked under your thighs, lifting you carefully from his lap. He groaned softly as he watched his release spilling from you, leaking out as he admired the sight.

Satoru gave a low whistle, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "What a sight to see," he hummed, his voice thick with amusement. One of his hands trailed down to your entrance, his thumb gently grazing over the sensitive skin.

He played with your sticky entrance, his fingers teasing, before pressing back to plug up the fallen release. Your thighs twitched in response, a shiver running through you at the sudden sensation.

You called out his name for what felt like the third time, your voice weak but pleading. "Satoru..."

He let out a tired but satisfied chuckle, his hand pulling away as he finally relented. "Fine, fine," he murmured, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. He settled you down on his lap again, this time pulling you close to his chest, cradling you as his arms wrapped securely around you.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, his breathing slowing as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

The night grew quiet, the tension fading into a comfortable stillness, but even as you relaxed against him, your mind wandered.

As the night went on, you couldn't help but think: Nobara was fucking right.

A/N: lolol, sorry for the influx of smut guys, promise this won't be like an everyday thinjg.... 👀 anyways, hope this was up to your standards and wasn't too bad bubbly-bear, i tried my best to make it work to the song...😭

[fleurn1igh1]

Be my only love ❝𝙔𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧❞

T.W:- Language {?}, use of chloroform Note:- forgive me for any errors 😓, they are unintentional Synopsis:- "Be my only love, will you do that for me?"

Anger is an ugly emotion and feeling the unbinding rage is even worse, you stood at the door of the bedroom where your boyfriend hurriedly put on his clothes in shame of being caught, you wanted to say so many things but all that could come in your mouth is a choked sob as you walked out the door, crushing the bouquet you had just brought for him, hearing your name faintly called from behind the same velvety voice that once used to make you fill with joy, you didn't stop at the calls because you knew there will be nothing but pathetic excuse to tell.

For the next few weeks, he sent you flowers, gifts as an form of apology, but you threw them trash but one day, Louis came himself with a sheepish smile and eyes full of regrets "you really have no shame, do you?" you said with cold eyes "Y/n I just wanna apologize, I can explain--" "We are over, Louis, just accept it" you cut him off firmly "Please, I love you" his eyes very telling the pain he's been through ever since he lost you "Don't make me laugh" you scoffed in disbelief "I'm being honest, I was a fool, please forgive me" "Fuck off" you said closing the door on his face, Alas Louis wouldn't give up he clenched the bouquet in his hands and left the place feeling defeated but he knows just the way to keep you all to himself.

It was Midnight of Friday, the moon was casting a soft, silver glow on a quiet street. as a black silhouette brushed past the street to get to certain somebody's house, lucky for the figure they know just the way to get inside that house, creeping inside the figure walked up stairs to went inside the bedroom, a grin flashed across the figures face as they removed their hood and used the napkin to put on your nose, the scent of chloroform filled up your nostril as you woken up to a force firmly pressing the napkin against your face, you looked at the person and noticed the same black eyes with brown messy hair, Louis.

"I'm sorry, darling but you left me no choice" all your struggles went in vain as everything went black but before you were fully unconscious you heard his voice saying "Be my only love, will you do that for me?"

[moonstruckme]

hiii. congrats on 7k!! can i order an apple pie with ²⁸⁾ dark lipstick smeared on a cheek for stevee?? tysmm💗💗💗💗

Thank you!!

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 585 words

You’re proud of yourself for being able to even half follow the movie. You didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand, but the theater is dark and nearly empty except for a few teenagers several rows below you, and you should have known you were in for trouble when Steve picked a seat in the back corner. You keep trying to break things off and pay attention to the screen, but your lips come back to each other’s like magnets every time. 

Steve has shown no inclination to watch the movie, though you know he’d never pressure you if you indicated you didn’t want the distraction. You can feel the asking in the soft presses of his mouth each time you start up again, hi and do you want to and is this okay, all syrupy coke and the bite of the sour candies he’d eaten during the commercials. His hand has taken up permanent residence on your thigh, chaste but there. His torso stays turned toward you like a flower toward the sun. 

You open your eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of the screen. “Isn’t that her sister?” 

Steve indulges you, turning his attention in that direction. “Maybe they’re trying to take it in a love triangle direction?” he replies quietly.

“Ew, with the sister?” 

“I don’t know.” His whisper carries a familiar tone, like he can’t decide whether to be exhausted or amused by you. “Rom coms are weird.” 

“Oh, wait.” You perk up. “He’s asking the sister for her ring size. Are they getting married?” 

“Well, it’s probably the end of the movie. Getting close to a couple hours now.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, baby.” Steve seems to decide on amusement. 

You exhale softly, dismayed, and he rubs your thigh consolingly. “I can’t believe we missed the whole thing,” you say.

“We can catch it again, if you want. Or just stay for the next showing.” 

“Will we get to actually watch this time?” 

Steve drops his head to your shoulder, puffing air down your arm. “If you really wanna,” he says reluctantly. 

You smile where he can’t see you. “Why did you agree to this one if you didn’t even want to watch it?” 

“Because you wanted to.” He kisses your shoulder, a quick peck. 

You make him sit up when the lights come on. His hair is mussed slightly, and when he gets a look at you a grin splits his face. 

“Oh, c’mere.” He puts himself between you and the rest of the theater, wiping at something near your lips. 

“What?” 

“You’ve got lipstick all over you.” 

Your eyes widen, and you look at his mouth. Kiss-swollen, with a dark rim you can see even with his face cast in shadow. 

“Oh my god, it’s on you too. I forgot I was wearing it.” 

“Shit, can you get it? It’s not coming off of you. What is this shit, bulletproof?” 

“Supposed to be smearproof,” you mumble. You thumb at his top lip, but the color stays stuck. You can hear the teens chatting as they file out behind him. “I don’t know how we got it all over.” 

“We’re just that good,” Steve mutters, but his tone is less humorous than bitter. After a few more seconds, he gives up. “Okay.” He gets up, grabbing your trash and his jacket. “We’re just going to have to get it off in the bathroom.”

You’re horrified. “But everyone will see.” 

“I work here. Trust me, we’ve seen worse.”

[kiame-sama]

You discussed humanfuckers in the monster au recently and listed several characters who would be among the humanfucker ranks but I was surprised not to see Rook and Rollo on that list. I would have thought they'd be on that list as I can totally see them reading human erotica and 'appreciating' pornographic art of humans , maybe not on Trottr but perhaps published romance/erotica novels and classical style art pieces, perhaps even antique ones from when humans were still around. Also if Malleus is an honorary humanfucker for his interest in THE (his) human rather than just humans overall, wouldn't that mean most of the cast could be considered honorary humanfuckers too, if not right now then soon?

First part here:

Warnings; yandere, yandere behavior, mention of adult content, by selecting 'view more' you consent to view content and are of age to view content.

~~~~~~~~

Because Rollo and Rook are on their way into it quickly due to sparked interest, but they weren't obsessed over Humans before meeting The Human. Those listed prior were obsessed long before meeting a Human in the flesh.

Rollo, up until he actually meets The Last Human, sees it as demeaning the species as a whole to write such hedonistic trash. He wishes to emulate the Righteous Judge in any way he can and the Judge cherished Humans above everything, even his own life. Rollo sees it like someone is depicting his deities- who he devotes his life to work in the name of- as common whores. He could tell you everything on the written history of Humans and the Humans of Fleur City because he has devoted his own time to learning about Humans. He respects and honors the legacy of Humans in Twisted Wonderland.

His attitude switch towards suggestice works involving Humans is as abrupt and jarring as a flash of lightning when he finally meets the Human of Night Raven and suddenly he sees the appeal. He thought the depictions of Humans were beautiful whenever he saw them, but his more carnal interests only really hit him when he met one. Now he gets it. He will never admit to such vile thoughts, but he has far more than he would like.

Rollo is going to be in future chapters, don't worry.

~•§•~

Rook is awakening into that role and idea. He really only saw Humans from a history standpoint, an end note to file away under mythical tales and long gone creatures. Sure, Human things exist all around him, but he likes to observe beauty in the moment. Why weep over what is long lost when there are beauties to observe here and now?

The Human of Night Raven is certainly now a beauty he can behold and marvel at. He is understanding the appeal and he is becoming more interested in learning all he can about these Humans. He is frustrated there is so little agreed upon when it comes to Humans. Human remains are so contested they can't even classify Humans in any official species. The popular theory is they are closest to pigs, hence the belief Humans shouldn't eat pork often. He thinks that's stupid, where are the pig ears and tails? The Boar variants of Minotaurs were very well known.

He is just falling down the rabbit hole, don't you worry. We will get to Rook's interest soon enough.

~•§•~

Malleus is honorary compared to the others for a few reasons, first; he won't turn up his nose to such works- published works, he still is not fond of technology- but when he reads them, it is his Human he thinks of. Not all Humans or the idea of Humans. That one Human in particular that is part of his Hoard and belongs to him, that one right there. He mentally overwrites all details of the Human love interest in the piece with the details of his Human and replaces himself as the monster suitor. He often imagines his Human as a Dragon as well and the romance the two of you could share as Dragons.

Second; Humans and the truth of them are still as illusory to Malleus as the surface of the moon would be to a cow. According to Lilia, they all looked different and had varying skin tones and hair styles, even eye colors, some even had completely different instincts from others. His entire view of Humans as a whole is based on the idea that no Human is the same or even comparable.

[honeykngdom]

love we think we deserve | geto suguru

Pairing: geto suguru x fem!reader

Synopsis: suguru just can't seem to get enough of you; this is true love, he's convinced of it.

WC: virgin!reader, stalking, panty thieving, implied violence (against others), mentions of alcohol, noncon, vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration,

Word Count: 1.1k

Taglist: @sad-darksoul

Yandere!Suguru, who preys on an insecure and emotionally vulnerable reader. He can’t explain it, the feeling that’s overcome him. So unlike the other normies he loathes so much — you’re just different. Special. The fact you see yourself as anything but special makes his soul sing. 

Yandere!Suguru, who’s heart almost breaks into pieces when he realizes that you don’t believe you’re deserving of love. He can’t stand how aloof you are to mens various advances. You couldn’t possibly be that naive. The way you attempt to make yourself small in their presence, the way you hide behind your hair and cast your gaze downwards are all tell-tale signs of submission in his eyes — he thinks you’re practically begging for it. 

Yandere!Suguru all but drops to his knees when he learns you’re a virgin. He can’t believe you’ve never felt the tender affections of a man – he can’t fathom you denying yourself such pleasure. Part of Suguru begins to wonder if you were saving yourself, for a man just like him. No, not a man like him, but him. He would be so lucky, he concedes. 

Yandere!Suguru follows you home after work every day; from the window just outside of your bedroom, Suguru is able to watch you settle into your nightly routine. He’s enamoured by you. The way you tiredly run your fingers through your hair, the way you strip your clothing from your body and discard them on your bedroom floor on your way to the bathroom. 

Yandere!Suguru, who pockets soiled panties every chance he can; he can’t bear the thought of the garment making its way from your trash can to the world. Suguru knew that men were sick. Surely someone would come across them — and that thought alone brought heat to the tips of his ears. It made him ill to think of another man enjoying your scent the way he so often did. 

Yandere!Suguru absolutely adores your willingness to have him near, and can’t seem to leave you alone. He wants you all to himself. He needs to show you just how desirable you truly are. You had to understand. Suguru decides that in due time, you will come to appreciate his advances. That you’ll one day thank him for the attention that he showers you with. 

Yandere!Suguru does not take kindly to other men who don’t seem to be capable of recognizing when you’re uninterested in them. He can’t help but feel a sense of pride, feeling like your rejection of their propositions were all for his benefit. That you only had eyes for him, much in the same way he only had eyes for you. Suguru had no quarrels making this known; when you’ve retreated and are out of earshot, the man slinks in from the shadows to strike the men down. Many hands have been broken, all in your honour. 

Yandere!Suguru, who you’ve come to think of as your knight in shining armour. He’s so kind with you, you can’t help but feel safe with him close. His body towered over yours, broad width of his shoulders able to block the swaying bodies that threatened to bump into your frame. He offers to watch your drink when you head into the bathroom, and you think nothing of it. It’s Suguru, you lament, deeming your beverage couldn’t be left alone with anyone safer, 

Yandere!Suguru, who invites himself into your apartment after walking you home from the bar — he couldn’t leave you to your own devices, after all. He had to see you were safe. To see you were taken care of. Ensure you take off your makeup and change into a matching sleep set — his favourite set. Powder blue with a white lace trim, shorts almost too short and top cut just a little too low — it was indecent of you. Downright sinful. 

Yandere!Suguru who coo’s lightly when apprehension begins to seep into your bones. “Don’t worry,” his voice is gentle and soft as his large hands push the material of your shirt up, revealing the supple flesh of your breasts, “I promise it’ll feel so good.” 

Yandere!Suguru who throws all caution to the wind as he forces his lips against yours to seize any rejections. You didn’t know what you were talking about – of course you wanted this. Of course you wanted him. He would show you just how right he was for you – how perfectly you were made for him. 

Yandere!Suguru can’t get enough of the way you attempt to gain freedom; your movements are sloppy and slow, eyes bleary from the alcohol that subdued you. He decides that he loves the marks you’ve left on his arms and chest. He hopes they’ll never leave; he plans to wear them as a badge of honour.

Yandere!Suguru who’s relentless in his ministrations. Long fingers belonging to his left hand braced around your throat while his right hand works to stretch your virgin hole open; he’s so kind, he decides. That much he’s made clear. Doting on you enough to prepare you for his hunger was the ultimate kindness he could bestow you, you’d soon see.  

Yandere!Suguru who keeps his lips attached to your ear when he sinks his middle and ring finger into your heat, a stream of sweet-nothings landing on your deaf ears as you sob heavily into the open space of your living room. One part out of fear, one part out of pleasure. 

Yandere!Suguru who buries himself deeply in you, fully sheathing himself in your warmth with a hearty groan. He grips onto your thighs tightly, head nestled into the crook of your neck, ignoring your whimpers and pleas with his own gentle replies; “It’s okay, baby, I got you.” “You’re taking me so well, so so well.” He’s relentless in his pace. Completely lost in the feeling of you. 

Yandere!Suguru all but cries out of joy when you finally, finally, let loose around his cock – the way you pulsate around his thick length, milking every ounce of seed from his heavy balls has him nearly sobbing when your moans fill his ears. 

Yandere!Suguru who doesn’t skip aftercare – it’s important, after all. He takes his time to clean you up, a warm wet rag placed gingerly between your legs as he presses a series of kisses along the column of your throat. He mumbles something about how he’s already thinking about the next time, voice thick like velvet and purring in your ear as he paints the most obscene picture.

[queerfables]

'Wilson' as an episode fucking slaps. I'm obsessed with Wilson's complete lack of boundaries and I'm obsessed with the way he acts out to express resentment while still being completely incapable of saying no. He gave a patient part of his liver!! The man is in no way hinged.

For all the emphasis that gets placed on Wilson's failed marriages and infidelity, we don't ever actually see it directly on screen. This is a narrative choice I love, for the record. We see Wilson's relationships through House's eyes and it allows us to understand Wilson as a deeply flawed person without ever making him unlikable, because Wilson's flaws and contradictions are what make him irresistible to House. It's so effective, the way these failed relationships say so much about Wilson's character while being constructed largely out of inference.

In this episode, though, we watch his inability to self advocate play out in real time, and I guarantee that this is what every one of his relationship meltdowns looked like from the inside. On some deep fundamental level, James Wilson doesn't believe "I don't want to" is a valid reason not to do something. You know the fantasy trope of an obedience curse, where the victim is inescapably compelled to obey other people's requests? Wilson casts that spell on his own damn self, and he'll hold true to it even to the point of violating his own bodily autonomy. When you lack boundaries like that, it becomes almost impossible to even know what you truly want, let alone to act on it. So Wilson says yes and yes and yes until it breaks him, and then he still can't say no.

When saying yes feels like surrendering to torture and saying no feels like committing murder, the only option left is escape. So Wilson goes out drinking to trash the liver he's going to donate. He gets dinner with the pretty nurse instead of going home to his wife. All of it is him scrabbling at the bars of his cage. And the irony is that the cage is unlocked, he just has to walk through the open door, and that's the last thing he could ever bring himself to do.

I'm pretty sure that when he went to Cuddy and told her his plan to donate, he wanted her to say no. She almost did! And I think she should have, because her first impulse was right, it is insane. Unfortunately this is the Insane Lack of Boundaries Hospital, and she can't actually be expected to guess when her employee's mouth is saying yes but his eyes are saying dear god no. By the rules of universe that House MD operates within, this doesn't even break a 7 on the "unhinged measures to save a patient" scale, and Wilson invoked the power of friendship. What was she supposed to do?

And through all of this, House is the person Wilson lashes out at. I love, love, love that House is the person Wilson lashes out at. Wilson can't even admit to himself that he's angry about the position he's in. How can he be angry when he's the reason the patient needs a new liver? But House sees right to the heart of everything going on with him, and he says all the things Wilson wants to be true and can't afford to believe. Because if he lets himself believe this wasn't his fault then he might not be able to say yes. And he's going to say yes. And he hates that he's going to say yes. And he hates that House knows he's going to say yes.

So he gets angry with House, because it's safe to get angry with House. He lashes out, because with House, he can. He tells House he's wrong about him, and demands House move out, and that's not at all what he really wants but he feels helpless and coerced and he desperately needs to exercise some kind of control over his own life. The fact that he can let go like this with House is in part about knowing House isn't ever going to leave him - the closeness of their relationship is always defined by what Wilson wants, House has never once pushed Wilson away and fights to reconcile when Wilson wants distance. But it's also about knowing that he can't hurt House by setting boundaries with him. Mostly this is because House will walk right over any boundaries he considers unacceptable, but in fairness, the fact that House is kind of a terrible person is part of his appeal. If Wilson had issues around other people violating his stated wishes, House would be the last person in the world that he should have anything to do with. But Wilson's issues lie in the fear that not being compulsively available and accommodating to everyone around him might permanently fuck up the life of someone he loves. House's fucked up life is never going to be Wilson's fault and even if it was House would still kind of deserve it, so Wilson's anxious people pleasing compulsion can chill the fuck out for five minutes at a time.

I don't want to idealise, there are times in their relationship when Wilson absolutely makes fucked up sacrifices for House. I don't think it's the case that he earnestly wanted to every time. But it's also true that House brings out authenticity in Wilson that few other people manage to. House knows him. House allows him to give in to his selfish impulses without guilt and consequences, and for all the people who love the best in him, House knows and loves his worst. While Wilson is caught up in trying to bend himself into whatever shape someone else needs him to be, what House wants more than anything is the truth. For Wilson, who is so out of touch with his own desires, being an object of fascination to someone obsessed with drives and motivations must be a rush. And if we accept the throughline of this episode, it might just be the case that House's boundary pushing and obsession is something Wilson needs.

[bubblyqueer000]

can i get headcanons for hajime, nagi, shuichi, and koki with a virgin s/o during their first time? like how the boys would react and kinks and comfort for a nervous s/o thnakss!! -👽anon

Hajime Hinata, Nagito Komaeda, Shuichi Saihara, Kokichi Ouma x Nervous!Virgin!S/O First Time Headcanons

Protags and Antags!! EEEEEE WE LUB THEM!!

Enjoy!!

TW// Teasing, Degradation, NSFW, Choking, Hairpulling, Spanking

Shuichi Saihara

♡ Super nervous! 

♡ Knowing him, it would probably be his first time too and he’s spooked as hell so if you are too, he understands. 

♡ He starts by awkwardly kissing you because that’s as far as he’s ever gotten with his partner. After a few minutes, he gets the hang of it. 

♡ Lol I’ve said this about Leon before but Shuichi would probably also give great hugs and would be such a good cuddler. NBVGHJNBGVB Grant George’s casting type is cuddly boys LMFAO

♡ Probably very vanilla but he’s open to most things.

♡ I think Shuichi would probably be a switch with a bottomy lean. He just wants to do what makes you happy. 

♡ Shuichi is kind of basic in terms of positions. He only really cares to do missionary but the way that he does it is so loving and gentle. He holds you underneath him and hides his face in your neck. Like hugging with him on top of you so closely.

♡ After a few times together Shuichi really warms up to you and loses most of his anxieties.

♡ He’s a very hesitant top, but he’s willing. Shuichi doesn’t really know what to do as a top so he usually just asks what you want. He’s a service top!! We love him :3

Kokichi Ouma

♡ TEASING LITTLE BASTARD!!!

♡ Whether it’s your first time or your hundredth time, he’s constantly teasing you, physically or otherwise. Mostly about how nervous you are. 

♡ Now and then he would find some way to comfort you, but honestly, it wouldn’t last long. It’s usually something basic like gently stroking your face or a kiss on the forehead, before going right back to teasing you. 

♡ Unlike Shuichi, Kokichi claims that he has a very high body count (COUGH COUGH BULLSHIT) but you don’t know if you believe him. You didn’t believe him at all until he showed you how experienced he was. 

♡ Kokichi looooves to bite. Like choking and spanking are both fine, but above anything else, biting is his favorite. 

♡ He’s a major verse with no preference, but when he is bottoming… Did someone say brat? Despite him being a switch, Kokichi is always in control. 

♡ Kokichi uses toys on his partner a lot. Most commonly vibrators to tease you with but he’s open to most things.

♡ Also very into bondage. He loved the feeling of having control and knowing that he could do anything to you, with consent of course. 

Nagito Komaeda

♡ Overjoyed! Just crippling shock and happiness.

♡ Nagito underestimated how much you care about him. He always figured that he wasn’t good enough for his partner, being the ultimate lucky student amongst so many ultimates. You asking him made him feel so much more secure in your relationship.

♡ Nagi likes praising you while you degrade him. If you’re too nervous to dirty talk though, he teases you for it. Thinking aloud that an ultimate such as yourself should be more than capable of talking down to trash like him. He’s just teasing though and he certainly wouldn’t try to make you feel bad for it.

♡ In most cases though, he thinks it’s cute how nervous you get and he won’t mind making that clear to you. Imagine being so nervous in the middle of it all and having him whisper to you. 

♡ “Would you look at me, my hope?” Your eyes stayed clenched for only a moment, then shyly you glanced up at him. “How… Precious… Why so shy, my princess?” *Cue pussy backflip*

♡ Loves when his hair is pulled!! Especially when he’s giving oral or when he’s about to cum. It just makes it all the more satisfying to him. 

♡ Cuddles and praises you as aftercare always. No matter how many times you’ve done it.

Hajime Hinata

♡ Surprised but happy when you asked. Hajime had certainly thought about it before but was still shocked that you actually wanted to have sex with him, and even more so that a perfect girl like you had never done it before. 

♡ This puts a lot more pressure on him to make it pleasurable for you. It was your first time so he wanted to make it perfect.

♡ Hajime put tons of effort into making sure you were enjoying yourself. Beforehand, he wanted to talk about what you liked and didn’t. The last thing he wanted was to overstep boundaries, but man was he embarrassed to talk about them too. Still, he muscled through it on your behalf!

♡ Hajime seems like the type that would put your enjoyment before his own but he would be lying if he said he didn’t love receiving oral!! He doesn’t mind giving either but he is a man who loves his dick sucked (I’m twelve sorry.)

♡ His favorite positions are 69 and cowgirl. He’s the type who just adores it when you put all of your weight on him. He thinks it’s the hottest thing ever. Any position is good to him, but being ridden>

♡ Haji doesn’t strike me as the vocal type but when he does make noise, it’s a lot of grunting and gasping. His voice would grow deep and husky until his voice breaks out into a full-on growl.

♡ Always has his hands somewhere on you. Holding your waist, your hands, squeezing your chest, fingering you. He loves all of it, just touching you is perfect to him.

♡ Love youuu~

[thepencilnerd]

Scary Love

summary: Chishiya is a doctor whose world is turned upside down when a patient is rushed into the hospital after a devastating accident. As you are whisked past him into the ER, he becomes captivated by the intoxicating scent of your blood, igniting a primal hunger within him. Despite battling the insatiable urge to claim you as his own, he realizes in that moment that he must have you—at any cost. word count: 9.3k genre: Vampire!Doctor!Chishiya AU, horror, paranormal, angst warnings: toxic relationship, obsessive, manipulative, and possessive behavior, blood-drinking/sharing a/n: I am vampire trash; complete fic posted here :) - inspired by @aliceinborderlandsquidgame's post <3 full moodboards here ;)

The fluorescent lights of the hospital flickered, casting a sickly glow over the linoleum floors. Chishiya Shuntaro had grown numb to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the low hum of machinery, his steps echoing with a detached rhythm as he made his rounds. His pale fingers flicked through patient charts with the same indifference, a façade of professionalism masking a complete lack of investment in the lives he was supposed to save. He was a doctor because it passed the time, and time was his greatest enemy—a relentless, never-ending stretch that blurred the line between life and death.

It had been centuries since he had felt a spark of genuine curiosity. No patient had ever captured his attention; their faces all blended together, just like the fading lights and the indistinguishable corridors.

Until now.

Chaos broke out suddenly. “Incoming! Trauma, we need the ER prepped, now!” The doors flew open, and a stretcher burst through, surrounded by frantic doctors and nurses. The air changed, thickening with tension and something else—something that pulled Chishiya to a halt.

Then, he smelled it.

The coppery, tantalizing aroma hit him like a shockwave, making the blood in his own veins pulse with a long-forgotten hunger. It wasn’t just the scent of any blood—it was yours. Rich and intoxicating, it seeped into the sterile hospital air, spreading like a thick mist, curling its way around his senses. For the first time in years, something surged inside him—no, not something, but someone.

You.

As they whisked you past him, your pale, bloodstained form nearly limp on the stretcher, his muscles tightened against a primal urge. He pressed his wrist to his nose, but it did little to muffle the smell. The veins beneath his skin darkened and bulged, his fangs pushing against his gums. Hunger clawed at him, vicious and demanding. He almost doubled over as the shift threatened to take him right there, nearly exposing the angel of death he truly was in this place that was supposed to be a sanctuary of life.

The doctors were still shouting orders, oblivious to his struggle. They didn’t notice the way his eyes followed your body, transfixed as you disappeared behind the swinging doors of the trauma room. The chaotic rhythm of the hospital seemed to slow, all sounds fading except for the maddening yet weakening beat of your pulse. You were dying. And if you died now, he would never taste you—never experience that exquisite fire as your blood coursed through him, burning away the boredom that had settled in his bones like rot.

No. You couldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it.

Inside the trauma room, the staff’s desperation grew as your condition worsened. “Where’s the trauma specialist?” a nurse shouted, panic fraying the edge of her voice. Another doctor shook his head, hurriedly checking his phone. “Not on call,” he replied, his tone laced with frustration. “We need someone now, or we’ll lose them.”

It was the opportunity Chishiya had been waiting for.

“I’ll take over,” he said, his voice slicing through the chaos with an unsettling calm. His eyes glinted with a purpose no one else in the room could fathom. A few heads turned, doubt flickering across the other doctors' faces, but there was no time to debate. Lives were at stake, and Chishiya’s reputation as a skilled, if unorthodox, surgeon had never been questioned.

As the son of the chief and owner of the hospital, he had a certain authority that made it nearly impossible for anyone to challenge him, not that they could. His cold, calculated precision as a doctor was unquestionable; he was known for making the right call in dire situations. The other doctors exchanged hesitant glances, aware of his lineage and the weight it carried.

Chishiya had chosen surgery because it was the place where life and death hung in the balance, where the line between salvation and demise blurred into one. It was the only place where he found any semblance of stimulation, where his own indifference toward life could be masked by the sharp focus and swift precision that surgery demanded. He held no sentimental notions about saving lives; for him, each procedure was simply another test of skill, a challenge to pass the time.

The truth was, Chishiya didn’t care whether his patients lived or died. He had spent too many lifetimes watching people come and go, their lives flickering out like so many dying stars. Life, with all its fragility and unpredictability, held little meaning for him. But in the operating room, as scalpels sliced and sutures stitched, there was a fleeting thrill—a momentary exhilaration that came with deciding who would cross back over from the brink of death, and who would not. It was in that precarious dance that he found a reason to continue his own unending existence.

And now, as he stood over your bloodied body, he felt something he hadn’t felt in centuries—a stirring of genuine desire. Not to save you, but to possess you. The scent of your blood had gripped him in a way that defied his otherwise indifferent nature, as though it held a promise that could reignite the fire that had long gone cold in his veins.

With a newfound resolve, he pushed forward, gliding into the awaiting trauma room with an unnatural, quiet grace. He was greeted by a flurry of activity: doctors barking out commands, nurses adjusting IV lines, and the faint, steady beep of the heart monitor.

Your heartbeat. Weak, fluttering. But still alive.

Chishiya could see the crimson staining your skin, pooling around the gaping wounds that painted your body. His gaze fixated on the deepest gash, almost losing himself in the way your blood glistened under the harsh lights. It took everything in him to not lean over and taste it. He gritted his teeth, his fangs aching against his gums, and forced his gaze upward, meeting your half-lidded eyes for the briefest moment. Even though you were barely conscious, something flickered in your gaze, a spark of recognition—or perhaps, instinctual fear.

But he wasn’t here to save you because it was his duty as a doctor. No, it was far more selfish than that. It was the first time in his endless life that he had felt compelled to possess something—someone. He needed to keep you alive, not for your sake, but for his own. Because in that fleeting moment when your blood had perfumed the air, he had felt alive again.

The doctor in him barked orders for blood transfusions, sutures, whatever was necessary to keep you from slipping away. But the predator within already had plans far darker than anyone in that room could fathom. When you woke, if you woke, you would be his—his to heal, break, drain, turn, to keep. Your blood was his now, and he would not rest until every drop had quenched his thirst. 

The darkness around you was heavy, a suffocating fog that clung to your senses as you struggled to break free. Gradually, the world returned in pieces—muted beeping, the sterile scent of antiseptic, and an ache that radiated throughout your entire body. Your eyelids fluttered open, and bright fluorescent lights blurred into focus. You were in a hospital bed, a grey blanket draped loosely over your body, and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor kept pace with your sluggish pulse. 

You blinked, taking in the unfamiliar room. It was quiet, save for the soft hum of the machines. A vague memory of chaos resurfaced—voices shouting, hands pressing down to stop the bleeding, and the overwhelming sensation of slipping away. But now, you were still here, alive. How?

The sound of footsteps pulled you from your haze. A figure stepped into view, and the sight of him made your breath hitch in your throat. He was beautiful—hauntingly so. Pale skin that almost seemed to glow under the harsh lights, juxtaposed by his jet-black hair, sharp features softened only by the faintest curl of his lips, and eyes so dark they could swallow you whole. There was a strange magnetism to him, a pull that made it impossible to look away.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, his voice low and calm, yet laced with an edge of something you couldn’t quite place. His gaze flickered over your form, as though assessing you, and a faint, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You gave us quite a scare.”

You swallowed, your throat dry and raw. “W-where am I?” you managed to croak.

“You’re in the hospital,” he replied, stepping closer to your bedside. “You had a nasty accident, but you’re stable now. I was able to take over your case.”

There was a glint in his eye, a darkness that contrasted with the reassuring tone in his voice. Something about him felt… different. You couldn’t shake the sense that his presence wasn’t just happenstance. It was almost as if he had chosen to be here, with you. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, but there was an inexplicable allure that made you lean into that fear rather than shy away from it.

“You’re my doctor?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you intended.

He inclined his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yes,” he said smoothly. “Dr. Shuntaro Chishiya. I’ll be overseeing your recovery from here on out.” His fingers lightly grazed your wrist as he reached for the chart at the foot of your bed, and the touch sent a faint jolt through you, waking something you couldn’t quite name.

You didn’t know how long you stared at him, only that you felt an odd flutter in your chest—a mix of fascination and trepidation. There was something intense about the way he looked at you, as if you were a puzzle he was in no rush to solve. Or a prize he had all the time in the world to claim.

He continued to speak, explaining your injuries and the procedures they’d performed, but you couldn’t focus on his words. All you could think about was how close he stood, how captivating his voice was, and how each syllable seemed to wrap around you like a velvet chain. There was an energy about him that made you feel exposed, vulnerable, as if you were being seen in ways you didn’t fully understand.

“Why did you…” you began, then hesitated, your brow furrowing. “How did you take over?”

"Wrong place, right time." His eyes flashed with a hint of amusement, but his expression remained impassive. “Let’s just say,” he murmured, his tone dropping lower, “that I have a vested interest in seeing you recover.” His lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After all, I went to such great lengths to keep you alive. It would be a shame to let all that effort go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

The words sent a chill through you, and yet, some part of you was drawn to the danger in his voice, to the mystery that surrounded him. You could feel your pulse quickening, and from the way his gaze lingered on you, you had the unsettling suspicion that he could sense it too.

Chishiya had saved your life. And as you lay there under his watchful gaze, you felt a strange comfort in the knowledge that this beautiful, almost ethereal doctor had taken a special interest in you. His words wrapped around you like a soothing balm, pushing back the panic that had threatened to take hold.

“You must rest now,” he murmured, his tone gentle yet firm. “The road to recovery won’t be easy, but I’ll be here every step of the way.” He leaned over to adjust the drip in your IV line, his movements calm and practiced. When his fingers brushed against your wrist, a spark seemed to shoot through your veins, making your pulse flutter in response. You told yourself it was only the aftermath of the accident, the lingering adrenaline playing tricks on your mind.

The corners of his lips twitched, as though he was holding back a secret, but there was nothing in his expression that gave you reason to question him. The hospital room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, and you were suddenly aware of how loudly your pulse echoed in the space between you. You had the unsettling suspicion that he could hear it too, his eyes tracking the faint rise and fall of your chest, as if to confirm that life was still coursing through you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice almost inaudible. “I… I don’t know what would’ve happened if—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as he leaned closer. “You don’t need to thank me.” The way he looked at you made your skin prickle with an inexplicable heat. “It’s my job, after all,” he added, but there was something unspoken behind the words—something that made your heart skip a beat.

Your scent washed over him in a maddening wave. It was faintly metallic, laced with the lingering traces of blood and the sweetness of your natural aroma. It wrapped around him like a drug, igniting a hunger he had been suppressing since the moment he first caught your scent in the trauma room. He clenched his jaw to keep his composure, forcing his body to remain still, but every cell screamed for him to close the distance, to taste you.

For a moment, you wondered why he had taken over your case. Surely there were other doctors who could have handled your injuries. But those thoughts melted away as quickly as they had come, dissolving under the intensity of his gaze. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just fate that had brought him to you in that critical moment. 

As he straightened up and began to walk toward the door, you found yourself not wanting him to leave. “Will I… see you again?” you asked, almost embarrassed by the urgency in your voice.

Chishiya’s gaze flickered briefly to the pulse in your neck, his thoughts dark and dangerous. The rhythm was elevated, stronger than when you had been clinging to life on the operating table. Each beat seemed to resonate in the air, taunting him with the warmth that coursed through your veins. He could feel the veins under his skin begin to swell, the familiar ache of his fangs pushing against his gums. It was taking every ounce of his willpower not to lean in and press his lips to your skin, to sink his teeth in and finally experience the intoxicating concoction of your blood.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the hunger roil beneath the surface as he forced himself to focus on the here and now. He couldn’t lose control—not yet. There would be time for that later, when you were stronger, when you trusted him enough to let down your guard. But for now, he needed to play the role of the devoted doctor, the savior who had plucked you from death’s grasp.

He glanced back at you with a faint, almost cryptic smile. “Oh, you will,” he said, his tone hinting at a promise. “I’ll be keeping a very close eye on your progress.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone with a feeling you couldn’t quite name. You didn’t know why, but the thought of him watching over you, being there each day, brought an odd sense of comfort—even if it was laced with something darker that you couldn’t yet understand.

You closed your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under once more, unaware that Chishiya’s promise had far deeper implications than you could have ever imagined.

Days passed in a blur of routine and quiet moments, the sterile monotony of the hospital broken only by Chishiya’s daily visits. He would appear at your bedside with an easy grace, carrying trays of food or cups of tea that were far better than the bland hospital meals. It wasn’t his duty to bring you such things, but he always insisted, saying it was no trouble at all.

“You need your strength,” he’d say with a faint smile, setting the food down before pulling up a chair to sit beside you. “And the hospital’s kitchen could use some improvement.”

At first, you thought he was simply being polite—going above and beyond to reassure you in the wake of the trauma. But as days turned into a week, then two, his presence became a comforting constant. He would linger, taking time out of his rounds to talk, asking you questions about your life before the accident. You found yourself opening up in ways you hadn’t expected, sharing small stories and fragments of your past. It felt natural, effortless. Almost as if he were more of a friend than your doctor.

And then, there were the moments where you caught him looking at you—not with the detached concern of a physician, but with an intensity that sent a warm flutter through your chest. It was in the way his dark eyes would linger just a little too long, or how his voice would soften when he asked how you were feeling. He had an aura of mystery, a quiet depth that drew you in, making you curious to know more about him.

“Why did you decide to become a doctor?” you asked one afternoon, after he’d brought you a bowl of soup. “You don’t seem like the type.”

He raised an eyebrow, setting the tray down. “And what type is that?” There was a hint of amusement in his tone, though his expression remained inscrutable.

“I don’t know,” you replied, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. “It’s just… you’re different. Not like the other doctors.”

“Different?” he echoed, his lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. “I suppose I am.”

Chishiya’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, as if weighing his response. “Well,” he began, his tone thoughtful, “I suppose it’s not entirely unlike the others. The desire to help people… to make a difference.” His lips curved into a faint smile. “But it’s not always about saving lives. Sometimes it’s about giving people a second chance.”

There was a strange, almost wistful note to his voice, as though he were speaking from some place deeper than his words suggested. “When you see someone on the brink,” he continued, his gaze drifting to the window, “when they’re standing at the edge between life and death… you realize how fragile it all is. Being a doctor means you get to be there at those moments. You get to decide if someone gets to come back.”

He glanced back at you then, his eyes dark and inscrutable. “I suppose there’s something… meaningful about that.”

The explanation sounded genuine enough, but there was an elusive quality to his words, as if he were hiding something behind them. It was almost as if he were playing a part, reciting the lines expected of someone in his profession, but with a subtle twist that hinted at a deeper, unspoken truth. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he had deliberately left out the real reason, that there was something more lurking beneath the surface. But the way he spoke, with such conviction and calmness, made it hard to question him.

“Meaningful,” you echoed, considering his words. “That makes sense, I guess.”

Chishiya’s smile deepened ever so slightly, though his eyes remained as shadowed as ever. “It does,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that familiar quiet cadence that you had come to associate with him. “At least, that’s what I tell myself.”

He didn’t offer more, and you didn’t press, but it left you wondering. Who was he, really? There was so much about him that seemed out of place, as though he didn’t quite belong here in this world of beeping machines and sterile white walls. But those questions seemed to fade when he was around, replaced by a sense of ease you hadn’t felt in a long time.

One day, when he brought you a book from the hospital’s library—an old novel you’d mentioned wanting to read—your heart stirred with a flutter of warmth. He had remembered. You hadn’t even been sure he’d been listening when you’d said it in passing, yet here he was, handing the book to you as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I thought you might like something to occupy your time,” he said, his tone casual, but there was a faint glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as though he took pleasure in your surprise.

“Thank you,” you murmured, glancing down at the cover. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“It was no trouble,” he replied, settling into the chair beside your bed. “Besides, I like to see you smile.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the words, your fingers tightening around the book’s spine. He spoke so easily, as though they were just another fact. And yet, there was a sincerity there that made your heart quicken. The two of you continued to talk, falling into the familiar rhythm of conversation, but now there was an unspoken bond between you—a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

As you laughed at one of his dry, almost cynical jokes, you realized just how much you’d come to look forward to his visits. He wasn’t just your doctor anymore. He was the person who brought light into the sterile stillness, whose presence made the days feel shorter and the nights less lonely.

You didn’t know when it had happened—when his daily visits had stopped being just a part of your recovery and had become the best part of your day. But it didn’t seem to matter. All you knew was that when Chishiya was there, everything felt… different. Better, even. And the thought of him not being there once you were discharged sent a quiet pang of dread through you.

You brushed the thought aside, telling yourself there would be time to worry about that later. For now, you were content to let things unfold, to savor the way his voice filled the silence, and to lose yourself in the captivating mystery of the doctor who had saved your life—and somehow, made you want to keep living it.

But as the days passed, there were moments—fleeting and faint—where you would catch a shadow in his eyes, or feel a strange chill in the air. Little things that seemed out of place, that made you wonder if there was more to him than he let on. If there was a reason why he seemed so invested in you, in ways that went beyond what any doctor should be.

You told yourself it was nothing. It had to be. But in the depths of your mind, a voice you couldn’t quite silence began to murmur. There was something about him—something hidden beneath the calm exterior, behind the kind words and soothing touch. And while part of you yearned to understand him, to get closer and unravel the enigma he presented, another part recoiled, sensing danger in the allure.

You brushed the thought aside again, convincing yourself that there was no harm in letting things unfold a little longer. You were drawn to him, captivated by the man who had breathed life back into you when you had come so close to losing it. Whatever else lingered beneath the surface could wait.

Chishiya leaned against the wall, watching you sleep with a predatory intensity that belied his calm demeanor. The sterile light of the hospital room bathed you in a soft glow, illuminating the delicate contours of your face, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed. It was a picture of innocence, and yet, he knew better.

Each night, as you drifted into unconsciousness, he had taken it upon himself to ensure your recovery. He would enter your room with a careful quietness, his heart racing with anticipation. The blood he had transfused into your veins was his own—rich, dark, and heady. With every drop, he watched as your body healed at an extraordinary rate, responding to his unique gift in a way that no ordinary human’s could.

But it was more than just healing. With each transfusion, he wove a delicate web around your mind, guiding your thoughts, dulling your instincts, and filling your dreams with vivid images of him—of the two of you together, as if fate had conspired to bring you closer. It was a power he had grown accustomed to wielding, the ability to shape your perception, to cloud your judgment, and to eliminate any lingering doubts that might threaten to disrupt his carefully laid plans.

Tonight, he felt particularly bold, his blood coursing through your veins like a gentle whisper. As he knelt beside your bed, he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, letting his fingers linger against your skin. The cool touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt a familiar urge rise within him—the insatiable hunger that had first drawn him to you. But he pushed it down, focusing instead on the connection he shared with you in that moment.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated, delving deep into your subconscious. The edges of your dreams were malleable, a landscape he could shape and mold to his liking. He wove his essence into the fabric of your thoughts, allowing himself to seep into every corner of your mind. You would find him there, in the laughter of shared moments and the warmth of stolen glances—never questioning, never doubting.

With every drop of his blood you took in, he could almost taste you—sweet and intoxicating, a tantalizing blend of life and vulnerability. Each transfusion deepened the bond between you, intertwining your fates in a way that transcended mere human comprehension. It was an unspoken pact, a mingling of blood that forged a connection so profound that it felt as if your very souls were entwined.

Chishiya reveled in the sensation, the way your body responded to his essence, healing at an accelerated pace. It wasn’t just a matter of recovering from injury; it was about forging something extraordinary, something that no one else could ever touch. With every heartbeat, he could feel your pulse syncing with his, an intimate rhythm that resonated deep within him. He no longer felt like an observer in your life; he was becoming a part of it, an intrinsic element of your very being.

As he navigated the landscape of your dreams, he could almost hear the echo of your thoughts. They were softer, gentler, reshaped by his influence. Fears and doubts that might have surfaced were quelled, replaced by feelings of safety and warmth whenever you thought of him. It was as if he had woven a soft blanket around your mind, lulling you into a state of trust that was as intoxicating as the blood flowing through your veins.

In those moments, he knew you could sense him. You would smile in your sleep, murmur his name as if it were a mantra, and he would feel a surge of triumph course through him. You were blissfully unaware of the truth, caught in the web of his enchantment. Chishiya rejoiced in the knowledge that he was the architect of your dreams, the keeper of your heart.

Your connection went beyond the physical; it was spiritual, primal, a merging of souls that would leave scars on both of you, forever binding you to him. As he watched you drift deeper into slumber, he felt the weight of his own immortality pressing against his chest. In you, he found something he thought he would never experience again—a reason to embrace the world and all its fragility.

Every time you took in his blood, he was there, living within you, and he could feel the bond solidifying, deepening into something admantine. With every transfusion, you became more of his and he, more of you. It was a dance of life and death, and Chishiya savored each step, each shared heartbeat, each lingering glance that tied you together in a way that transcended the boundaries of life itself.

In that silence of the night, with you sleeping soundly before him, he made another silent vow: he would protect you, not just from the world but from yourself, ensuring that you would never question the depths of your connection. After all, he had given you life, and now he intended to keep you, to possess you wholly, in a way that no one else could ever understand.

“Sleep well, Y/N,” he whispered softly, the words brushing against the boundary of your dreamscape. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, the contact felt like electricity. “I’ll always be here, watching over you.”

As he settled into the rhythm of your dreams, he felt a thrill of satisfaction wash over him. You were his, bound to him by blood and desire, your fate intertwined with his own. The world outside faded away, replaced by a reality he controlled—where every beat of your heart resonated with his own, and every sigh you breathed echoed with the promise of what was to come.

In your slumber, you would never suspect the truth. You would remain blissfully unaware of the shadows lurking beneath his charm, the darkness that fueled his desire. And while you thought you were healing, he knew the truth: he was ensnaring you deeper under his spell, inch by tantalizing inch.

And the best part? You would never question it.

As the days turned into weeks, you found comfort in the routine that Chishiya established. He would arrive each day with a new meal, often sharing stories of his life that drew you in like a moth to a flame. His voice, smooth and enchanting, would fill the room, replacing the sterile sounds of beeping machines with warmth and familiarity. You felt safe in his presence, as if he alone understood the fragility of life.

"Have you ever thought about what comes after all of this?" he asked one afternoon, his eyes dark with something deeper. “After you’re healed?”

You looked up, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. "Not really. I guess I just want to get back to my life." But the truth was, you had started to wonder if your life could ever be the same again—especially with Chishiya so close, making every moment feel more vivid.

"Life has a way of changing us," he replied, his lips curling into a smile that sent shivers down your spine. "You might find that what you once wanted pales in comparison to what you could have."

The way he spoke, it felt as if he were weaving a spell around you, tantalizing and entrancing. You brushed the thought aside, unable to shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. But the sensation faded like mist, replaced by the warmth of his presence.

That night, as you drifted into sleep, you could feel his essence lingering in your dreams. Vivid images danced before you—Chishiya laughing, his eyes sparkling with mischief, as you shared moments of joy that felt almost too perfect. Each time you murmured his name in your sleep, a thrill of satisfaction coursed through him, binding you closer to him, reinforcing the invisible ties of your connection.

Yet, in the corners of your mind, shadows lurked—brief flickers of doubt that would evaporate like smoke when Chishiya was near. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to him, a depth that both intrigued and unnerved you. But every time you reached for the questions, they slipped away like grains of sand, like they were never there. 

One night, sleep enveloped you like a thick fog, and you drifted into a dream that felt more like a waking nightmare. The atmosphere was heavy, suffused with a gothic eeriness that settled over your senses, and you found yourself wandering through the dimly lit corridors of the hospital. The walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, shadows flickering just beyond the edges of your vision.

As you wandered, flashes of memories flickered in and out, disjointed yet vivid. You saw Chishiya standing at the entrance of your hospital room the night you were admitted, a sly smile on his lips as he volunteered to take you as his patient. His confidence radiated in the sterile air, and there was something unsettling about the way his gaze lingered on you, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then the scene shifted, and you were back in your room, the moonlight spilling through the window, casting eerie shapes across the floor. Chishiya was there, but he seemed different—more predatory. You watched as he stood silently beside your bed, his eyes fixed on you, a certain hunger swirling within them.

Suddenly, the dream twisted darker. You found yourself an unwilling observer of a horrifying act—Chishiya leaning over your sleeping form, an IV drip connected to your arm, his fingers deftly removing the tubing. In an instant, he was sucking on the end, your blood shimmering on his lips, glistening like the black nectar of forbidden fruit under the moonlight.

You tried to scream, but no sound escaped your lips as you witnessed the scene unfold. The veins beneath his eyes rippled, the whites of his eyes stained a pure crimson, a macabre reminder of the life he was stealing from you and the revealing of his true form. It was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

The sight of him licking your blood from his fingers sent a chill down your spine, refusing to waste a drop, the hunger in his gaze unmistakable. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice a sultry whisper that wrapped around you like chains, binding you to the horror before you. The twisted intimacy of the moment felt suffocating, and you could sense the bond he was forging—one that tethered your very essence to his.

Chishiya’s movements were deliberate and eerily calm as he reached for a bag of blood, the contents dark and viscous, far blacker than anything human. 

His blood. 

You felt your heart race, pounding against your chest like a trapped bird. Panic surged within you, but it was accompanied by an unsettling sense of familiarity, as though this was all part of a dream you had been too naive to realize. You felt the suffocating weight of his gaze, the thrill of danger mingling with an inexplicable attraction.

And then, just as abruptly, the dream shattered. You woke up, gasping for breath, the echoes of terror still reverberating in your mind. Your heart raced as you glanced around your hospital room, the soft beeping of machines grounding you in reality. But the image of Chishiya—the blood, the hunger—clung to you like a shroud.

Shaking off the remnants of the nightmare, you tried to rationalize it away. Perhaps it was just your subconscious playing tricks on you, an exaggerated reflection of the vulnerability you felt. Yet, as you lay there in the dark, a shiver ran down your spine. There was a whisper of truth in the darkness, an inkling that perhaps you didn’t know Chishiya as well as you thought you did.

The idea that you were entangled in something far more sinister than you could comprehend lingered at the edges of your mind. As you clutched the sheets tightly, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows were closing in, and it was only a matter of time before the truth would surface.

But for now, you would push those thoughts aside, retreating into the safety of your dreams, even as the haunting memories of the night left you trembling in its wake.

Before you knew it, the morning sun peeked through the blinds. You blinked away the remnants of sleep and turned your head to find Chishiya sitting in the corner of the room, his gaze fixed intently on you. His presence was both a comfort and a source of unease, and you felt a knot tighten in your stomach.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he greeted, his voice smooth as silk, but there was an undercurrent of something darker beneath his calm demeanor. “How are you feeling?” 

You forced a smile, attempting to mask the tremor in your heart. “I—uh, I had a strange dream.”

His interest piqued, and for a brief moment, the usual amusement flickered in his eyes. “Strange how?” he asked, leaning forward, his posture relaxed yet attentive.

The memory of your nightmare washed over you, but you hesitated to divulge its true nature. “Just… odd,” you replied, choosing your words carefully. “Nothing to worry about, I guess.”

Chishiya studied you, a calculating expression on his face. There was a silence that stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. The lingering fear from your dream wrestled with the reality of his presence, and you felt the weight of his gaze bearing down on you, searching for something—answers, perhaps, or the cracks in your facade.

He nodded slowly, as if weighing your response. “Dreams can be powerful things. Sometimes, they reveal what we’re truly feeling, even when we don’t want them to.”

His words sent a chill through you, resonating with the unease that had taken root in your chest. You felt like a moth drawn to a flame, teetering on the edge of enlightenment while also fearful of the depths it could reveal. The shadows of your dream flitted in your mind, reminding you of the danger lurking behind his charming exterior.

“Did you remember anything specific?” he pressed, a hint of curiosity lacing his tone, as if he were a predator probing for weakness in his prey.

You shifted under his gaze, unwilling to disclose the true content of your nightmare. “Not really. Just… ghosts of memories, I suppose.”

His smile was sharp, as if he enjoyed the game you were playing, but the air felt heavy with tension. “Past experiences can hold great meaning,” he replied, the words laced with an enigmatic undertone. “But memories are also unreliable and simply serve as backbones for rumination.” 

You nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze bearing down on you. The shadows danced at the edge of your vision, and despite your efforts to shake off the remnants of your fear, you felt a chill crawl up your spine.

Chishiya’s expression remained inscrutable as he regarded you for a moment longer, then he straightened, the tension in the air shifting. “You need rest,” he said, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. You were left in the soft hum of the machines, the silence amplifying your thoughts. Looking up at your IV bags, they were clear—no blood. A wave of unease washed over you, and you instinctively reached for the line, feeling the cold plastic against your skin. It was strange, unsettling, as if the absence of his blood—if your crazy dream had any basis in reality—was somehow a void that left the air heavy with unsaid words.

Outside, Chishiya leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath to center himself. He was acutely aware of the nightmare that had haunted you; it had been no accident. By withholding his usual compulsion last night, he had intended to see how much you knew—how aware you had become of the threads connecting you both.

He knew you had glimpsed the darkness lurking beneath the surface, the unsettling truths about your bond. The look of horror on your face as you witnessed his true form had been exhilarating yet worrying. He knew had to act before those fears took root and blossomed into doubt.

Chishiya pondered his next move. You were already beginning to piece together the puzzle, and that was commendable. But he needed to ensure that your trust in him was absolute. The last thing he wanted was for you to start questioning your reality or, worse, seeking out the truth beyond the lies he had crafted.

It was time to tighten the bonds that tied you to him. He could feel the connection deepening with each passing day, but now he needed to escalate things, to ensure you remained ensnared in his web. He couldn’t let you slip through his fingers.

His mind raced with possibilities, each more tantalizing than the last. The idea of bringing you deeper into his world, of showing you the true nature of your connection, thrilled him. He envisioned guiding you through the shadows, illuminating the dark corners of your mind, and transforming your fear into blind acceptance—for eternity. 

For the next few days, Chishiya adopted a calculated distance, allowing a careful space to grow between you. It was a tactic, one designed to cultivate a longing in you, to ignite a sense of loss that would render you desperate for his presence. He had learned long ago that desire, once kindled, could burn hotter than any flame.

During the day, he was a ghost, slipping in and out of the hospital like a shadow, his interactions minimal yet charged. You caught glimpses of him from afar—his laughter mingling with the nurses, his easy demeanor drawing people in. But when night fell, you would drift into dreams steeped in his essence, each encounter filled with a vividness that left you breathless.

While you slept, he entered your subconscious like a thief in the night, weaving a tapestry of sensations and emotions that rendered you utterly enthralled. He didn't need to compel you; instead, he sparked a craving within, igniting a hunger that pulsed in your veins. You would dream of him standing in the doorway of your room, his presence a beacon of light amidst the dark, a sweet reminder of everything you were missing.

You often awoke in the middle of the night, heart racing, yearning for him. The emptiness of the room felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the warmth of his gaze that lingered in your memory. Each day without him felt like a slow unraveling, the world outside your window dimming without his touch.

Your nights became a blend of fragmented dreams where he danced just out of reach, a haunting melody that pulled at your heart. You felt the ache of longing settle deep within you, a relentless pulse that begged for his return. It was as if he had planted seeds of desire in the fertile ground of your mind, nurturing them with whispered promises that echoed through your dreams.

“Chishiya?” you would murmur, a question directed at the void that seemed to mock you. The silence that followed felt heavy, yet a part of you knew he was there, lurking just beyond the veil of your awareness, savoring your fragility.

Throughout the daytime, you tried to focus on your recovery, but his absence haunted you, lurking at the edges of your thoughts like an unwelcome specter. You walked around the hospital, taking small strides that felt like victories in your healing journey. Yet, each step felt heavy with the weight of longing, as you scanned the corridors for a glimpse of him. The nurses, concerned for your well-being, would occasionally check in, their gentle smiles unable to dispel the heaviness that clung to your heart. You found yourself restless, unable to shake the feeling that someone was missing. 

Chishiya’s grand plan unfolded beautifully. Each passing day, you became more attuned to the bond between you, the pull he had on your heart. You craved his presence, the way he made you feel—safe yet exhilarated, ensnared yet free. He was a paradox, a mixture of light and shadow, and you wanted to explore every facet of him.

One night, as you lay in the dim light of your room, the hospital quiet around you, he slipped back into your dreams. This time, he was more vivid than ever, stepping into the moonlight that filtered through your window, his eyes shining like liquid silver.

“Y/N,” he called softly, his voice a caress that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. 

In the dream, you reached for him, desperation clawing at your chest. “I need you,” you breathed, the words spilling from your lips before you could think to hold them back. The longing was palpable, a force that pulled you toward him.

Chishiya smiled, that predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine, and stepped closer. “Good,” he murmured, his voice a silken whisper. 

As you moved closer to him in the dream, the space between you vanished, and you felt the weight of his presence envelop you. The warmth radiating from him was intoxicating, igniting a fire within that had been smoldering since his absence.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his gaze piercing into your soul. “You need me just as much as I need you.”

The intensity of his words resonated deep within you, igniting a longing so profound it was almost painful. You could feel your heart racing, your body aching for the connection you once shared. “I can’t live without you,” you whispered, fully aware of how much power he held over you.

A smile crept across his face, an expression that melded satisfaction with something darker. “Then let me show you what it truly means to surrender completely.”

He leaned closer, and the world around you blurred into a haze of color and sensation, the lines between reality and dreams merging until you felt as if you were suspended in a state of blissful oblivion. You surrendered to the pull of his essence, the bond between you solidifying with every heartbeat.

When you awoke the next morning, your heart was still racing, the remnants of the dream clinging to you like a silken web. The absence of Chishiya felt more profound than before, a hollow wound that begged to be filled. You could almost hear his voice echoing in your mind, whispering promises of connection and understanding.

As the day stretched on, you found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than the emptiness he had left behind. The nurses bustled around you, their chatter falling on deaf ears as your thoughts spiraled into an abyss of longing.

He had woven his influence into the fabric of your very being, and you felt more entangled than ever. With every moment that passed, you realized you were no longer just a patient recovering in a hospital. You were a puppet, dancing on the strings he had crafted, and the desire to be near him pulled you inexorably closer to the edge of his world. 

But you didn’t care.

The only thing you wanted—needed—was Chishiya. 

That night, sleep was a treacherous companion, dragging you into the depths of a nightmare you couldn't escape. You were back on your bike, the world around you bright and carefree, until it shattered in an instant. The screeching of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, and the sudden pain that ripped through you were all too vivid. The memory of the accident clawed at your mind, the feeling of helplessness suffocating you. You saw the drunk driver’s face, a twisted mask of indifference, and felt the darkness creeping in as your consciousness faded.

Then came the familiar presence, a flicker of warmth amidst the cold terror—Chishiya had saved you. He had stitched you back together with modern medicine and healed you with his own blood. Every moment he spent by your side had been woven with an obsession that, in your shattered mind, felt like the purest form of love.

As you jolted awake, tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling with the weight of the realization. “Chishiya!” you sobbed, the name a desperate plea escaping your lips as you grasped at the darkness, willing him to emerge.

From the shadows, he appeared, an ethereal figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through your window. His eyes glinted with an intensity that set your heart racing. “I’m here, Y/N,” he murmured, gliding toward you with an unsettling grace. The moment you stood, he wrapped his arms around you, the world solidified, his presence anchoring you back to reality.

The gnawing urge inside you felt like poison, a slow death that throbbed with each heartbeat. The pain of his absence had become unbearable, a void that swallowed you whole. “I can’t live without you,” you whispered, the admission heavy on your tongue.

Chishiya pulled back slightly, his gaze piercing through you as he stroked your hair, soothing the tremors that wracked your body. “What would you be willing to do for me?” he asked, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine.

“Anything,” you breathed, the word escaping your lips like a sacred vow.

“Would you live for me?” he pressed, his expression unwavering.

“Only with you,” you replied, the conviction in your voice growing stronger.

In that moment, he leaned closer, brushing his lips against the delicate skin of your neck. The sensation ignited something primal within you, a fire that surged through your veins. Then, without warning, he bit down, and a wave of pure ecstasy flooded every nerve in your body.

As Chishiya sank his fangs into your neck, a sensation unlike any other surged through him. The warmth of your blood flowed into him, rich and vibrant, igniting a hunger that had long been a shadow at the edge of his existence. It was a taste that transcended the mere physical; it was the essence of you, the very core of your being, submerging his senses with an exquisite euphoria he hadn't known he craved.

With every drop, he felt the ties between you solidify, weaving a bond that could never be broken even in death. The world outside faded into obscurity, leaving behind nothing but the rhythm of your heart and the potent pulse of your life force surging through him. This was not merely sustenance; it was a communion, a merging of souls that set his very essence ablaze.

He reveled in the taste, feeling it seep into his soul, satiating a deep hunger within that he had never fully understood. The sensation was overwhelming, and for a fleeting moment, all his thoughts dissolved into a singular focus: you. The connection deepened tenfold, intertwining your fates in a way that felt predestined. He was no longer just a watcher in the shadows; he was a part of you, and you were a part of him.

Every heartbeat resonated with the truth of your bond, a melody that played in harmony with the pulse of your blood. He drank deeper, savoring the intimacy of the moment, each heartbeat echoing the unspoken promise of loyalty, protection, and an unyielding devotion. You were his—enthralled and ensnared, bound by a love that was both beautiful and terrifying.

Your vision grew spotty, your heartrate slowing, your body melting into his arms like a puddle of surrender. The world around you faded away, leaving only the clarity of his presence—his warmth, his scent, the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Chishiya’s grip tightened around you as he continued to drink, his fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of his earlier actions. Finally, he pulled away, your blood covering his mouth and dripping down his chin. His eyes glowed red, piercing into you like liquid fire. 

“You’re mine,” he declared, the possessiveness in his tone igniting a flame deep within your core. With that proclamation, a sense of belonging surged through you—a realization that this was where you were meant to be.

“Will you stay with me?” Chishiya’s gaze bore into yours, searching for an answer, for affirmation. The intensity of his stare held you captive, and you felt the weight of his question settle deep within you.

“Always,” you breathed, the words spilling from your lips with a conviction that surprised even you. The promise hung between you like a delicate thread, binding your fates together in an intricate tapestry of love and darkness. Life ebbed away from you, your breaths growing shallow and your body cold.

He smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes that promised both pleasure and peril. With a swift motion, he bit into his wrist, the crimson liquid pooling at the wound. He took in a mouthful of his own blood, then captured your lips with his, coaxing you to drink.

Suddently, energy thrummed at the tips of your fingers, and instinctively, you brought your hands up to his face, holding him as he kissed new life into you. It was a rebirth, a metamorphosis that coursed through your veins like wildfire.

The metallic taste of his blood was soon replaced by something sweet and utterly indescribable, quenching a hunger you didn’t know you had until the moment his lips touched yours. With each passing second, your heartbeat grew stronger, intensifying the sensation and drawing you deeper into a realm where pleasure and pain intertwined seamlessly.

As the kiss lingered, the world around you faded even further, leaving only the intoxicating rhythm of your bodies entwined. You could feel the insatiable hunger swelling within you, demanding more. With a fervent need, you trailed soft kisses down his neck, inhaling his scent—irresistible and amplified. Every breath drew you closer to the edge of something carnal. 

In a surge of instinct, your teeth sank into the delicate skin of his neck. Chishiya let out a moan as his hands threaded into your hair, holding you tighter in his embrace. The taste of his blood mingled with the sweetness of your rebirth ignited a fire that surged through you. It was a delicious paradox, the push and pull of pleasure and hunger intertwining, leaving you gasping for more.

You could feel his heartbeat thrumming beneath your lips, each pulse a seductive rhythm that urged you on. With every swallow, your senses heightened, drawing you deeper into the essence of him. It was a dance of dominance and submission, a game where both of you were willing participants, losing yourselves in the moment.

Chishiya’s grip tightened, fingers curling around your nape as if to ground you, to keep you from drifting away in ecstasy. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a sultry whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Take what you need.”

The command sent a thrill through you, amplifying your desire. You bit down a little harder, savoring the rich, metallic flavor that flooded your senses, blending with the sweet, almost ambrosial undertones. It felt like power—his vulnerability in your hands, a delicious contrast to the control he had always held over you. 

As you pulled back, your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze nearly stole your breath. He leaned into you and kissed you once more, both of you licking whatever remnants of blood remained on each other’s lips. 

The implications of your actions hung in the air, promising a future steeped in darkness and unbridled passion. But in that moment, nothing else mattered—only the undeniable connection between you, the bond forged in blood and desire.

“Together,” you whispered, the vow escaping your lips like a prayer, a commitment to whatever darkness lay ahead.

His smile was wicked, full of promise and peril. “Always,” he replied, sealing your pact with a kiss that ignited every nerve ending in your body. It was a declaration of war against the mundane, a leap into the unknown where love and madness entwined like vines around a tree.

In that instant, you knew there was no turning back. You were his, and he was yours, the two of you entwined in a dance of desire that would take you both to the edge of oblivion and beyond.

thank you for reading <3

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV Musings: Racism & Intersectionality, in Hollywood and in Fandom Spaces (Pt1: The Raceswaps)

This is in response/support of @adamnablelittledevil's post on this very subject:

"Hopefully people would finally understand nobody is making it up or exaggerating and it is indeed real and worse than they probably think."

Folk try to act like certain problems don't exist, especially when it concerns Black & Bipoc people in predominately white spaces with a KNOWN history of racism. People love to gaslight & be dismissive & rewrite history with revisionist narratives--especially to impressionable people & fans who are NEW to certain fandom spaces or racial dynamics/demographics, and DON'T know the history of the spaces they're entering, or the convos taking place--which is PRECISELY how we wound up with non-Black IWTV fans who ended up in the actual NEWS for prancing around an IRL plantation in 2024, acting like they never heard of slavery, ffs.

At some point, the venn diagram of accidental/willful ignorance, careless/irresponsible tone deafness, and active/passive-aggressive racism actually does intersect.

Incidents like this reflect a fandom steeped in problematic behavior that's too-long gone unchecked by the fans & network alike--who are also at fault for constantly mishandling its own project.

Contrary to poorly researched articles like USA today that denied/handwaved racist backlash against IWTV (a MUCH smaller & younger fandom compared to the LOTR & Amazon's Rings of Power adaptation), from its very inception, as early as the cast announcements, TVC's white fans were PISSED about the raceswaps & outright accused AMC of being woke/DEI (a la Bridgerton) when Jacob Anderson was cast as Louis DPDL.

A Quora thread from 2021:

A Reddit thread from July 2022: (Wayback Machine)

A Reddit thread from 2022 (circa Ep5): (Wayback Machine)

And boy oh boy did this one on Facebook in 2021 age poorly: 💀

Book fans constantly treat AMC's IWTV like performative colorblind trash, rather than as color-conscious prestige tv show that treats historical racism, colorism, classism, sexism, & homophobia seriously. They DGAF what showrunner Rolin Jones had to say about perpetuating the glorification of slaveowners, and just want a 1:1 adaptation of the books, when that was NEVER Rolin's intention.

There's fans who to this day refuse to see/accept Delainey!Claudia, and apparently there's colorist trends on Twitter (cuz ofc 🙄😒) about seeing her as Armand's daughter instead of Lestat's, just cuz of her skin color, which WTF??? (x x x):

Book/film fans hypocritically complain constantly about Bailey Bass (18-19) AND Delainey Hayles (25) playing 14y/o Claudia; but then gush about Vampire Diaries & Twilight & other shows on MTV & CW--who have all casted full grown adults as teenagers. Critiques like this are interesting (x x):

Cuz they specifically mention the Romanian kids and how Claudia supposedly "cannot at all pass for a child." However:

Some of those actual children ain't exactly tiny little toddlers & tykes either! 😅 Cuz age is a spectrum, not a monolith, imagine that.

And laaaawd don't get me started on Armand, and the BS that was happening on Reddit a few years ago (x x):

THIS is the kind of fandom we've been dealing with since DAY ONE.

And yet white fans have the nerve to whine about how tired and pissed they are whenever Bipoc fans call out the racism in the fandom/network, or god forbid look too-deep in the actual racially sensitive/relevant context of the show itself.

But I'll save my thoughts on all that for another post.

[roo-bastmoon]

De-platform, Co-opt, En-joy

Roo's Guide to Handling Haters

Disclaimer: Not telling you guys how to run your blogs. Just sharing some tips on how to deprive narcissists of supply and live your best life online.

You're gonna see a LOT of hate, lies, and bullshit over Are You Sure? It's already started.

And everyone has their own way of dealing with that--whether it's to take a step back from the internet, or get into a dog fight in the comments, or compose thoughtful essays deconstructing ideas. I'm not here to pressure you into any one particular strategy--your blog, your rules.

But I've been in various online fandoms for 25 years now, on tumblr for 14, in ARMY for three, and I do have some wisdom I can share, if you want it.

Here are my three tips:

De-platform

It's well past time Jikookers de-center Taekookers and antis from our spaces, our narratives--and our minds. They live in a separate reality, they do not debate in good faith, and they get vicious when they don't get their way.

Consider carefully if you want to repost, or reblog, or reply to anyone casting doubt, slinging insults, or spouting conspiracy theories, especially over the next few months.

Would you buy them ad space? No? Then don't give them an inch in your space. Quietly report and block.

Mocking them often feeds into their victim complex. Don't feed them anything. Don't bring trash in this house.

They get nothing. Nothing.

Co-opt

If you just can't completely ignore or remove them, then don't waste precious energy arguing every little point with them. Their goal is to sap your energy.

Take a page out of an aikido self-defense handbook and use their own momentum against them.

Attacks are now an opportunity to spam the shit out of that hateful post with loving hashtags and links to playlists and fundraisers.

They just gave us free promo; go full-tilt Wunseidel on their asses.

En-joy

The best revenge is to live well.

Deeply, deeply enjoy and savor the content you do want to see. Leave no crumbs. Smack your lips and hum in satisfaction with every delicious bite.

The Jikook tag should be one big non-stop party-party-yeah extravaganza from now until well past September 19th.

Antis should be just sick to death of trying to come online for fear of seeing people ecstatically celebrating everything we get, and totally ignoring the ruiners.

Our boys are happy. They want us to be happy for them. So be happy.

Do. NOT. let the ruiners. RUIN it.

Above all, don't become the kind of fan that Jimin or Jungkook would be ashamed of.

You don't have to defend or resist a damned thing.

They shared all these amazing moments with us, and that is the best testament to the truth there is. So sit back, relax, enjoy.

Be sure.

Love, Roo <3