moowrites

[moowrites]

Hey babe can I pretttttyy please request some Ben Drowned my queen my diva literally anything smut ;) or fluff is amazing with me if not it’s totally fine much loveee <3

YES. headsup that i hc him as a chill ass stoner with piercings because hot! 🤓☝🏻 kissiesss enjoy <33

Wetware (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

CW: drug use and sex under the influence, oral (f receiving), face sitting and rimming, light nipple play on ben, riding, creampie

summary: you and your weed bud get bored of smoking and lounging and decide to try something new.

wordcount 5.2k + a little bonus (epilogue?) at the end because i heart ben fr

Ben’s room is a black hole of time. You’ve gotten lost in it more times than you can count,somewhere between a third bowl and the fourth replay of whatever pixelated horror game playthrough he was hyperfixated on that week. There’s no clock in here. No windows either, not really, just blackout curtains held up with thumbtacks and stubbornness. It could be 3AM or noon, it doesn't matter.

You’re sinking into Ben’s mattress like it’s got a personal vendetta against spinal support, the springs threatening to divorce the fabric entirely every time you shift. It’s not gross, not really, just lived in. The pillows are criminally soft, like they’ve been through a hundred late night existential crises and held strong. The air smells like weed ghosts, synthetic berry vape and Ocean Breeze air freshener that expired in spirit if not in can. It’s too warm, too humid, your skin already buzzing under your clothes, but it's comforting. Familiar. Kinda gross actually. Whatever.

This is where you always end up. When the world gets loud, when your head’s heavier than your spine can carry, when you both decide without wors that it’s a “fuck everything” kind of night. No better place to waste time than this little cocoon of LED hell and lava lamp glory. Neon signs blink overhead in godawful Comic Sans. One says “NO THOUGHTS, JUST VIBES.” The other one is just a glowing PNG of Shrek’s face, flickering like it's gettinh high with you. He swears they're ironic, but you don't really believe him.

Ben’s across from you on the bed, one leg draped lazy over the side, arms behind his head like he owns the place - which, okay, he does, but it’s more about how he owns it. Effortless. Messy. Cocky in a way that never tips into annoying. His eyes catch the LED glow like they were made for it, red pinprick pupils in oceans of black, alien and warm all at once. That shaggy ass hair always in his face, and he never fixes it. You don’t think he’s looked in a mirror on purpose in years.

You’ve been his smoke buddy since forever. It just happened. One shared joint on the porch after a rowdy party in the mansion you both bailed on early, and suddenly you were always crashing here. Sometimes in the same bed, sometimes on the floor. No weirdness. No expectations. Just easy passes of the blunt and lazy banter between coughs.

But tonight’s different.

You’re both crosslegged, facing each other like it’s a summit meeting, except instead of discussing treaties, you’re cradling two little capsules in the sweaty curve of your palms.

Molly. Because weed’s gotten too safe, too expected. Too routine. You needed something new. Something soft-edged and alive under the skin. And Ben just shrugged and said “sure,” like you’d asked if he wanted Taco Bell instead of McDonald’s.

He rolls his capsule between his fingers. His nail polish is chipping, some seehrough black from last week still clinging to the corners. You feel the shape of this night settling over you just watching his fingers move. Not heavy. Just close. Intimate in that slippery way, like if either of you thought about it too hard, it might feel like more than it is. But you’re too chill to overthink. That’s the whole point.

“Bottoms up bro,” he mumbles, voice thick with cotton and calm, and you both knock yours back like it’s communion.

Ben’s gone quiet. Not unusual. He’s a drifter when he’s high, floats between tabs and videos and zoning out completely. But this isn’t that. He’s on his back beside you, head pillowed on his arm, watching the lights morph from pink to blue to red again like they’re telling a story. You’re turned toward him, fingers curled loosely under your cheek, your body floppy in that too-much-sensation kind of way. Like every nerve ending’s been gently unsheathed and is just vibing out under your skin.

You feel it in the edges first, like your thoughts are melting down the inside of your skull, softening at the corners. Breath deepens without asking. Jaw’s a little tight, but not in a bad way - like your body’s clenching in on itself, holding on before it lets go. Your heartbeat thuds a little louder than it should, pulsing in your ears like background bass. You blink slower, the lights go smeary at the edges. You feel the mattress underneath you in high definition, every lump and warmth patch suddenly personal, almost intimate. Your teeth feel good. Everything is soft. Everything is so fucking good.

The LEDs don’t flicker anymore, they pulse. Soft waves of color across the walls. Everything feels like it’s syncing. Like the room has a heartbeat, and it’s climbing up your spine.

You and Ben haven’t said much in a while. Haven’t really needed to.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s glowing.

It’s been...what, thirty five minutes? Forty? Doesn’t matter. You feel him now. Not just his presence, but the gravity of him. Like he’s warmer than the rest of the room. Like your chest expands more when he breathes. Like his exhales brushes your skin even though he’s a full arm's length away.

You laugh, breathless, for no reason. He turns his head, sluggish and drowsy, and smiles like your laugh was a spell.

You blink at him, he blinks back. His pupils are blown, looking like they could swallow you whole and you wouldn’t even mind. There’s a line of soft blue light tracing the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheekbone, the little dip at the corner of his mouth.

“Shit,” he says softly, like it’s a revelation. “You look crazy good in this lighting.”

You snort, eyes rolling but heart thudding, and it’s stupid how warm your cheeks feel. “Shut the fuck up. You’re literally glowing like a Twilight vampire.”

He just grins wider, and it’s lazy and beautiful in a way that doesn’t even make sense. You’ve looked at him a thousand times, lit by smoke clouds and YouTube autoplay and dying lamps, but now it’s like his skin is gold leaf. Like every freckle, every lazy shift of his lips, every breath is shining.

“You’re high as shit,” he says, voice honey-slow, syrup-lazy.

“So are you,” you shoot back, but you’re smiling stupidly. Your face feels too big for your skull. Ben lets out this slow, breathy laugh, and fuck even that feels good. You watch his jaw flex with the smile, the little hitch in his shoulder when he shrugs like he can’t even be bothered to be cocky about it.

He shifts a little closer. Doesn’t say anything, just lets his fingertips brush the soft inside of your wrist, featherlight, and you both inhale like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched anything. You roll your arm a little, letting his fingers graze along the underside. Your skin sings under the touch, tingles that chase each other like static up your elbow, your shoulder, your spine.

“Dude," you murmur, voice wobbly with the hug of seretonin, "touching stuff feels.. insane right now.”

Ben’s grin goes lopsided. “Yeah?”

You grab his hand lazily, your fingers barely holding his, just enough contact to spark fireworks in your palm. “Yeah,” you whisper, and your voice sounds thick and sweet and sleepy. “Touch my arm.”

He does. Slow, dragging his fingertips up from your wrist to your shoulder, and fuck. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You feel each ridge of his fingerprint like it’s being engraved. You suck in an i voluntary breath, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Your fingers tangle with his. You roll onto your back and tug his hand with you so he follows, half leaning over you now, both of you blinking slow, pupils so wide you’re bordering on peering into each other's dna.

His hand finds your waist, slow and curious, and the second his fingers touch the curve there, you moan. Barely audible. Embarrassing. Real.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your face into your elbow. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Nah,” he says, voice dropped to something low and smooth and warm. “Don’t even trip.”

His hand spreads across your waist, fingers dragging up the fabric of your shirt, and it feels like lightning. You both start laughing, delirious and giddy, like you’re high on each other instead of this fucked up little pill you don't even remember where you got it from.

You open your mouth to say something stupid - probably “your hand feels like velvet, what the fuck” - but he kisses you instead.

And ohhh.

It’s soft. Like kissing in a dream, like your mouths are made of heat and velvet and instinct. No teeth, no rush. Just press and melt. His lip ring is warm against your mouth, smooth, the perfect little edge in all that softness. You let out this tiny sound, barely anything,and he presses closer.

His hand slides to your jaw, just his fingertips touching you, like he’s scared to press too hard and pop the bubble. His lips taste like whatever berry vape he’d been hitting earlier and maybe a little weed residue, maybe a little Ben - static? It doesn't matter. He kisses like it’s just something to do, like breathing, like gravity pulling him closer.

Your whole body is heat and nerves and cotton. You kiss back lazily, high and weightless, lips dragging open just enough to deepen it a little. Just enough to breathe into his mouth, and when you do, he shudders. JJust enough for you to feel it in your chest.

You murmur against his lips, “Is it just me or does this feel crazy good?”

His mouth brushes your jaw, his voice low and cracked open, “It’s not just you.”

Your lips find his again - hot, open, slower now. Tongue against tongue in a wet slide that feels like drowning in syrup and rapture. Your mouths fit like they’ve done this a hundred times in a hundred different lifetimes. Like they’ll do it a hundred more. There’s nothing messy about it. No grabbing. No biting. Just this lazy drugged gravity pulling you back into each other every time you drift a millimeter apart.

Every inch of him feels woven through every pore on your body. Every place he touches you, you feel ten times over, and it sends this slow throb through you, low and soft but steady.

You hum against his mouth, light and dazed.

“Feel good?” he mumbles, lips brushing yours, voice scratchy like he hasn’t talked in a hundred years.

“Mmmhm.” You nod once, small. “So good I might cry.”

Ben lets out a quiet, surprised little laugh, breathy and deep, warm where it puffs against your cheek. “You’re such a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, fingers skating under the hem of his hoodie, “you feel stupid good too.”

His breath catches, just slightly, when your palm flattens against the bare skin at his hip. He's so warm and smooth it almost feels fake. You trail your hand up, slowly, just feeling. Muscles shifting under your palm like slow waves, the stretch of them under soft skin. You feel like you could cry just from the warmth pooling in your gut.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “what the fuck are you made of?”

Ben groans, low in his throat, and that’s when he finally presses his hips just a little closer - barely a grind, barely a shift - but the heat of him slots perfectly against you and fuck. It’s not frantic. It’s not a need. It’s just there. Like his body wants to be against yours. Like it was always gonna end up here.

The throb between your legs tightens, sudden and thick, and the moan that slips out of you again sounds so helpless it makes his lips stutter on yours. He stills. Smirks a little, but his breath shakes. “That was so hot,” he murmurs, voice low and so close. “Fuck, you sound hot.”

His hands slide under your thighs, gripping just enough to guide, and you shift without thinking, letting him tug you upward and over until you’re straddling him. The movement’s effortless, but it feels like the earth tilting. Like gravity changed its mind.

Your hips start rolling before your mind can even catch up, like it just started happening. You’re barely aware of it, but the friction is fucking heaven, slow grinds over the hard line of his cock under his sweats. His hands are on your waist, guiding the motion - not pulling, just letting it happen. You kiss through it, drugged and soft and soaked between your thighs.

He’s looking up at you through drags of his mouth over yours like you hung the stars just by sitting there. He grunts, tilting his hips up into the drag of your cunt—just once, slow, and he murmurs low and sweet and way too casual for how hard he sounds.

“Wanna sit on my face, pretty?”

You whimper. Like a full body shiver that leaks out your throat. The words hit somewhere between your ribs and your cunt, hot and sudden and unbearable. You swear you nearly cum just from hearing him say it. The audacity? The casualness. You clutch at his shoulders, blink down at him like he just opened the fucking gates to heaven.

“Fucking- yeah,” you gasp, already shifting. You scramble up to your knees, laugh breaking out when you nearly fall sideways because your limbs are all molasses and light. Ben steadies you with a soft noise, then just lays back, arms folded behind his head, that stupid stoned smirk on his face like he’s the pillow now.

You pull your shirt off awkwardly, getting it halfway stuck, then give up and shove it over your tits, braless and flushed and fucking glowing. His eyes drop there instantly. Lingers. His tongue wets his lower lip and he mutters something that sounds close to awe as you start crawling up his chest.

And when you do, when you finally get your knees to the mattress and your thighs cage in his face,you hesitate just long enough to process what’s happening. Just long enough to see his face under you: black eyes locked on your dripping cunt like it’s sacred, watching the sway of your tits, hands coming up to grip your thighs just under the curve of your ass, holding you steady.

“C'mon, pretty,” he groans, voice so fucking deep it vibrates through your whole lower body, “have a seat.”

Then you lower yourself, and his mouth meets you.

And holy. shit.

The second your cunt touches his mouth, it lights you up. It’s like being kissed by heat itself. His tongue drags flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, lapping with a pressure so lazy and steady it feels like it’s been happening forever. His nose presses right against you, his mouth open and eating like you’re ripe fruit - sweet and messy and tender. There’s nothing polite about it. He’s fully in it, no teasing, no precision, exploring for himself as much as he's pleasing you.

You moan, broken and loud, hand flying to his head to hold on. His hair’s soft and sweaty and feeling like cotton candy between your fingers, and you can feel the way his mouth curves into a grin under you.

“Jesus fuck, Ben-”

He groans, nosing in deeper, sucking your clit just once, slow, and you swear your brain fractures. You jerk, thighs quaking, hands flailing for something to hold, something to feel so you don't yank on his hair because the sensation is so good it’s horrifying.

“Ben- fuck,” you gasp, breath snapping in half. “Fuck-”

His arms wrap around your thighs, strong and steady, pulling you down until you’re seated fully against his face. Sloppy, deep licks that dip and circle and press up into you with devastating slowness. He tilts his head just a bit and stays there, lips wrapped soft around your clit, tongue flicking slow, deliberate circles until your whole body is tightening.

Your body’s gone nuclear. Like your skin is lighting up, nerves raw and too alive, every drag of his tongue a lightning bolt that melts back into syrup. It’s lazy. It’s wet. You’re gushing on his mouth and he just takes it. Tongue buried, lips parted, devouring.

He hums low like it’s good, like you taste good, and the vibration punches right through your clit and lands somewhere deep in your stomach. You roll your hips once, instinctive, and a moan punches out of him right into your cunt, like you just gave him a hit of something purer than anything he’s ever smoked or gummed.

He noses up into your clit as he works, lips soft and open, tongue licking slow under the hood with maddening care. One of his hands slips up, palm cupping your hip like he’s grounding himself there, the other sliding back to your ass, pulling you closer, tighter, until your pussy grinds against him again, this time on his face.

He tilts his head just enough to suck your clit into his mouth - soft and slow and so fucking good - and your whole body jerks. Your hands tighten on the headboard, tits bouncing slightly with the movement, and Ben opens his eyes just to watch.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice muffled but needy, “ride my fuckin’ face.”

Your hips start to move without you thinking,just lazy little rocks, forward and back, riding his face like it’s the only rhythm left in the universe.

Ben’s hands tighten, fingers dimpling your skin and bruising just enough to look like he's been there, and his thumbs pull your cheeks apart just slightly, spreading you open so he can really lick you. You gasp again, voice wrecked. He laughs under you, muffled and arrogant and so pretty.

He watches your tits bounce softly with each breathless grind, eyes heavy-lidded and drunk with it, like he’s seeing a dream in real time. His tongue is relentless. Your thighs are shaking. And then, just to watch your reaction, his tongue slips lower, past your dripping hole, licking a slow, slick line across your rim.

Your whole body jolts like he electrocuted you. You freeze for half a second, but your pussy pulses in response, clenching around nothing so tight it aches. You can’t even speak. Your chest heaves. Your thighs twitch. And he hums, pleased, like this was the plan all along.

At first it’s just a breath. A ghost of a tease. He licks between your cheeks, slow and unbothered, casual as hell, just a lazy upward drag of his tongue over your ass. Your breath catches, whole body jolting, and you whimper, high and confused and wrecked.

You barely notice your hand creeping down your chest, palming your own tit like you need the grounding. He groans under you again, tongue still moving in sync with the tiny, wet grinds of your hips over his mouth and nose, slow and deliberate, back and forth between your soaked cunt and your ass.

You come like your body’s caving in on itself.

No warning, no rhythm; it cracks through you in pulses, long and drawn out, muscle-deep and fucking perfect, like it’s wringing you out. Your thighs lock around his head, hands flying to the wall to stay up, and your mouth drops open on a soundless moan as your whole body shudders. Pussy pulsing so tight you feel it squeeze his tongue. Brain splitting like lightning down your spine. Your muscles melt but your nerves won’t stop firing.

You feel crazy. You feel amazing. Like your brain doesn’t know what to do with all the good. The molly, the mouth on you, the weight of your body draped over his head while the room glows warm and golden around the edges. Your skin’s sticking to his in spots. Everything feels hazy and whole. Like this is the best place on earth to die.

His hands move with you - up, warm and slow, from your ass to the small of your back. One of them slides higher, fingers spread wide like he wants to hold your wholle spine in his palm. The other comes around, smooth over your ribs, thumbing just under your tit before finally cupping one with lazy reverence.

Then, all slow grin and and eyes glinting redder, he mumbles,

“So, like… you gonna ride my dick too, or you need a nap first?”

You snort. Half laugh, half moan, rolling your hips once like your body’s answering before your mouth can.

“Jesus- Ben-”

But you’re already climbing back down his chest, already fumbling for his waistband like you’re drawn to it, not choosing.

He just grins up at you, eyes low and lidded and glowing.

“C’mon, dude. You gotta know I’m dying over here.”

And he is. His dick’s flushed and hard and slick at the tip, twitching against his stomach like it’s got a pulse of its own.

You wrap your hand around it, slow, just to guide him, and his hips lift like he can’t help it. You have to take a moment just to admire the throb in your hand, the flex of his stomach, the glimpse of teeth showing when they sink into his bottom lip. And when you sink down, when your pussy finally wraps around him, hot and soaked and still fluttering from your orgasm, your hips stall. His jaw drops. Both of you go still.

It’s like a fucking detonation. A slow-blooming, devastating kind of silence. It’s not even how tight you are (though you are) it’s how hot it feels. How slick, how intimate, how molly makes it feel like he’s not just inside you, but part of you. Like your whole body was waiting for this exact moment to exist. You clench once, and his hips jerk like you electrocuted him.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

You start to move eventually. Slow. Just a tiny grind forward, a slow circle back. Not even up and down yet. Just wet, slow drags. Like your body’s trying to memorize him from the inside out. You’re both gasping, breathing harder, but there’s no rush in it. No urgency, just pleasure. Thick and consuming.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, barely audible, like he’s praying to your cunt. And fuck, maybe he is with the way his head drops back to the pillow, throat exposed, jaw slack, brows furrowed like he’s on the edge of something just from the way you’re grinding on him.

You drag your hands up his sides, still moving slow. The friction is everything. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every roll, every grind, and you can feel yourself start to tremble again, thighs burning but too high to care. His hands find your hips, not to guid, just to hold. Fingers twitching like he wants to tell you to slow down - if going any slower is even possible - but his body saying otherwise.

Your palms slide under his shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. The way it rides up under your fingers makes your mouth water. It bunches under his arms, revealing his stomach, his chest, and when his pierced nipples come into view, flushed and tight from the heat of you or both, you lean down, lips brushing over one.

He twitches. Breath stutters.

You lick. Just a soft kitten lick, and then another.

Ben chokes on a moan. Hips buck helplessly up into you, cock grinding deeper inside you.

“Fuck, dude-”

You do it again, with more conviction. A slow lick around the ring, then another just beneath it, teasing, playful. Your hips never stop moving, just grinding down into his cock like you can feel it in your soul how he’s splitting you open and making you whole at the same time.

He grabs your ass tighter now, still not forcing, just grounding, needing.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum, what the fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering open just to watch you mouth at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing to me.”

You grin against his skin, eyes glazed and happy and wrecked.

“Riding your dick,” you whisper, and he groans like you just blessed him.

You lean back slow, hands smoothing down his stomach again, and you plant your palms on his waist, arch your spine just to feel how your tits bouncer with the motion, half for yourself, half because you know he’s watching.

His gaze stays on you like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His pupils are blown wide and bright, lips parted like he can’t even close them without gasping. There’s sweat at his hairline. His chest is heaving.

Then, for one perfect second, his face twitches. Just a shift; mouth curling up into this crooked, gritted-teeth grin like the sight of you fucking yourself on him is too much to bear but he loves it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty it’s pissing me off,” he mutters, voice low and dazed and almost laughing.

You bark a breathless giggle and bounce a little harder on him just for that. And he groans, eyes rolling halfway back, hands flexing on your hips like he’s trying to be chill, but his body’s begging for more.

His hips roll up under yours with slow precision, timed to every bounce like a perfect rhythm only the two of you know. Slow, dliberate, meeting your movement with this thick, upward grind that punches a moan right out of you. Not fast, not rough, just deep. Skin slapping sticky where you’re soaked all over him now, the noise heavy and lewd.

“Yeah, fuck me, just like that- holy shit-"

He moans it like a prayer, voice cracking as you grind down harder to match his thrusts. Your clit’s catching on the base of him just right, and your walls pulse so tight around his dick you can feel the way he throbs inside you. Every drag is wet and obscene, every slide in so thick and hot it feels like your brain’s sloshing in your skull. The molly makes it bloom. Every sensation feels like it echoes, spreads, deepens.

Ben’s head drops back, throat arched, his hands gripping you firm but not forceful - like he’s bracing for impact. His abs flex under your palms every time he fucks up into you, low and slow, building the pressure like he knows you’re both about to see God in a minute or two.

“Jesus,” he breathes, jaw tight, “fucking Christ, love this fuckin' pussy, baby, ride it, c'mon- I'm close, fuck, please-”

You whimper and keep riding, chasing the drag, the slide, the stretch. The friction is everything. Wet and relentless and perfect. The way he fills you, the way your bodies meet with slick, noisy thrusts - it’s like being gutted slow, like a star collapsing in on itself.

You slam down once more and his hips snap up into you at the same time, so deep you choke, stars bursting behind your eyes, and you come. Together. Throb on throb, your bodies synced up like it's something celestial.

Second orgasm hits hard, violently soft, like you're being peeled open from the inside and having honey poured over every exposed nerve ending. Your whole body seizes up, mouth open in a silent scream as your pussy milks him through it, sucking him deeper. He spills into you with a whiny, cracked “fuckfuckfuck- goddamn-”, hips jerking, breath breaking apart against your neck as he holds you down through every pulse. You feel every throb deep inside you, feel the warmth spread between your thighs like it’s part of the drug, like it’s burning you alive from the core out.

You’re shaking. Still grinding just a little, just enough to ride out the waves. Your legs are jelly, your hands barely holding you upright as you collapse forward, sweaty chest pressed to his, your face buried in his neck.

Ben’s arms wrap around you, loose but strong, and he breathes through his nose, still catching up. One hand runs up your back, gentle, and the other smooths down to your ass again like he just needs to feel you.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just breath. Just skin. Just that slow, echoing after of molly and sex and feeling way too much to care.

You don't even realize you’ve slumped off of him until your cheek’s mashed against his chest and he’s laughing, soft and breathless, palm skating down your spine with the weight of molasses.

“Bro,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded and voice fried. “That was... unholy.”

You hum something between a laugh and a wheeze, forehead sticky against his skin. “I think I saw God.”

He snorts. You feel it rumble through his chest, and for some reason that makes your heart twitch. He lifts a lazy hand to push your hair out of your face, fingers catching in it but not bothering to fix anything, just letting it tangle. His other hand's still on your ass, more out of habit than intention. Neither of you move to clean up yet. Just breathing. Heavy and slow. Still connected in the heat of it, even if his dick slipped out somewhere along the way and left a mess between your thighs.

Eventually, slowly, you peel yourself up with a grunt and a stretch, making some squelchy sound that earns a quiet “ew dude” from him and a slap to his chest from you. He wheezes out a laugh again.

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up just enough to grab a crumpled hoodie off the floor. He tosses it toward your legs like a sad little towel, and you use it without complaint. Still giggling, still glowing.

Once the worst of the mess is handled with zero grace and zero effort, you both flop back down into the sheets. He groans, rolls over enough to reach into the drawer next to the bed, and pulls out a pre-roll like it’s a religious relic. Or more like something to dampen the horrendous comedown that's looming just around the corner.

“You’re disgusting,” you mumble, watching him dig around for a lighter with one eye half open.

“I’m thriving,” he corrects, sparking the joint with practiced laziness. The tip glows red and orange in the blue and pink lava lamp haze, smoke curling into the air like incense for a post-sex shrine. He takes a long drag, then offers it to you without looking.

You take it, hit it, let the smoke settle in your lungs like it’s a warm bath.

Then his voice, low and sleepy against your forehead, smoke soft in his exhale, "Yo. You wanna hit Waffle House in, like, three hours?”

You giggle into his neck.

“Absolutely.”

BONUS:

The Waffle House parking lot is mostly empty, just one tired cook inside and a waitress who gave you the side-eye when you walked in to grab your to-go order like you were smuggling out contraband. Ben didn’t step a toe out of the car - too many security cams, one too many people who’d wonder why his pupils are glowing red like a demon on a bender.

He waited slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie up, tapping at the cracked dashboard with fingers twitchy from the tailend of a serotonin flood. When you slid back into the car with a bag full of grease and sugar, he moaned like you just proposed marriage.

Now you’re parked under a busted streetlamp, eating waffles and hashbrowns out of styrofoam with plastic forks, legs up on the dash, his seat fully reclined. He looks like sin. Hoodie half off, hair a wreck, the last of the weed still burning slow in the ashtray. He smells like syrup and sweat and sex and smoke.

You're still giggling at nothing.

"Why," you say, licking butter off your thumb, "does Waffle House always taste like it was made by someone who’s lived through war."

Ben stares at you like you’re the second coming. “Because it was, bro.”

You laugh hard enough to choke on syrup, and he takes the opportunity to steal a bite off your plate with no remorse. The light from the LED “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign flashes red across his face every few seconds, making him look even less human than usual. But to you, right now, it’s just... hot. You’re high and full and floaty. He looks sticky sweet and stoned and so fucking pretty in that lazy post fuck way, lips glossy with syrup and smiling like a troublemaker.

You lean across the console and kiss him.

It starts soft. Just sugar on lips, mouths sticky from breakfast-for-dinner. He tastes like maple and smoke and something a little burnt, and your brain short-circuits at how good it is. You lick into it, messy and slow, and he hums low in his throat like it’s better than dessert. Your fork clatters somewhere by your feet but you don’t care; your hand’s cupping his jaw, and he’s tugging you halfway into his lap.

His tongue drags syrup off your bottom lip like he’s starving. You moan into it, more sound than intention. He grins crooked, still kissing you, still high, mumbling against your mouth:

“We might have peaked tonight, can't even lie.”

“Mmm,” you breathe back, not even pretending to disagree.

Neither of you stops. Not for a while.

Eventually, when your food’s cold and your thighs are back across his lap and he’s kissing your cheek with lazy pecks just to hear you giggle again, he sighs through his nose and rests his head back against the seat.

“I think,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “we should definitely fuck in this lot before we come down and contemplate suicide for the next week.”

You laugh into his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

[moowrites]

Summary:

Set during Thorfinn’s time with Askeladd, this quiet night around a dying fire forces Thorfinn and [Name]—Askeladd’s daughter—to confront their shared past, their fathers’ sins, and feelings they were never supposed to have. What begins as mutual resentment slowly unravels into something neither of them knows how to name.

I beg please don’t make fun of what I wrote. I can’t write nonchalant characters for the life of me— I just noticed there’s like zero fanfics/one shot’s of Thorfinn here 😭😭

Content Warnings:

•Canon-typical violence (mentioned)

•Mentions of death, grief, and revenge (you alr know, thorfinn and his revenge)

•Emotional repression / trauma

•Slow burn, enemies to something-more

•Complicated father-daughter dynamics (Daddy issues lmao)

•Angst with tender undertones

•I still suck at writing so I tried sum new, lmk if it’s good.

—————————————————————————

“You know I’m not like him, right?”

“That’s what I’m scared of.”

Thorfinn had never been the type to speak about his feelings. He only knew two emotions: revenge and despair. Since childhood, those had been the only things driving him forward. He trained endlessly, fueled by the desire to kill the man who’d murdered his father so cowardly—for money, no less.

His childhood hadn’t been awful—not until the day he watched Thors fall, his body pierced by arrows.

[Name] was different. Well—very different.

Unlike Thorfinn, she had been born into violence. Her mother was a gentle soul who had fallen for a brutal man—Askeladd. And while her mother’s kindness lived on in flickers, it was her father’s cruelty that molded her.

She held her first knife at three. Killed her first victim—a rabid dog Askeladd had intentionally provoked—at four.

When her mother died, Askeladd refused to give her up, despite his men’s protests. Instead, he raised her in blood, dragging her along on his many “jobs.”

That’s when she met Thorfinn.

She was seven when she witnessed the grand fall of Thors. By then, death no longer disturbed her. But Thorfinn’s thirst for vengeance—that was new.

She didn’t understand him. She knew he followed Askeladd to kill him… but why wait?

Why fight alongside the very man he vowed to destroy?

They called her The Devil’s Daughter.

She preferred the bow, long-range combat. Not out of cowardice, but practicality—she wasn’t as strong as the men. Something both Thorfinn and Askeladd despised.

Thorfinn hated arrows. They reminded him of his father’s death.

Sometimes, in darker moments, he even wondered if she had been one of the faceless archers that day.

Askeladd hated her style because it “wasn’t how a warrior fights.”

But the truth was—she knew her limits.

She lacked their muscle, their stamina, their testosterone. Compared to the men, she was weaker.

But when forced into close quarters, adrenaline always took over. She could kill up close. She just preferred not to. One wrong move—one grab, one cut—and it could be over for her.

Now, she sat beside Thorfinn near a dying fire, one the Danes had left behind. The log beneath them was rough but warm from the heat. Around them, Askeladd’s men were either passed out drunk or already asleep.

Thorfinn was carefully sharpening his throwing knives, eyes focused, movements methodical.

She held a cup of booze in one hand, watching the fire crackle and dance. The flames flickered, twisting around each other like they were telling secrets.

She liked moments like this with him. Quiet ones. No words. Just a small “see you” or “‘night” when it was time to sleep.

But tonight felt different. Maybe it was her cycle coming soon. She didn’t know.

“Scared?” she repeated softly, placing the cup in her lap and glancing at him.

He nodded without looking up, still focused on the blade in his hands.

And somehow—she understood.

He was scared that she wasn’t like her father.

Because if she wasn’t… killing him might not be so easy.

At least—that’s what she thought.

In truth, Thorfinn had been fighting something else for a while now.

When they first met, he hated her. Hated Askeladd’s blood in her veins. Wanted to burn down everything the man had ever loved—and in his mind, that included her.

But somewhere along the way… that hatred changed.

“I see,” she murmured, raising the cup again. The red liquid burned down her throat like truth.

“Truth is… he’s always comparing me to you.”

She finally admitted it, her voice soft as she looked down at her calloused hands resting in her lap. The cup now sat forgotten on the ground beside her.

“He’s always going on about how you’re a better warrior than me.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants, gripping tightly. Her knuckles turned pale with the pressure.

Thorfinn’s hand paused mid-sharpening. He looked up at her, his eyes catching the tension in her shoulders, the strain in her voice.

“How so?”

His brow lifted slightly, confusion mixing with a hint of curiosity. Did Askeladd not care for his own daughter? Didn’t respect her as a warrior?

Thorfinn had seen her fight plenty of times. Up close, she was skilled—strategic, fast, and unflinching.

Aside from her reliance on long-range, she held her own. Honestly? She was impressive… especially for someone raised under him.

“He never really explains,” she murmured. “Just little jabs. Mentions your technique, how you taught yourself. Says I had the privilege of being trained by someone as ‘grand’ as him, and still I’m not as sharp as you.”

She sighed, and without warning, leaned back off the tree trunk and let herself fall to the ground with a soft thud.

Thorfinn blinked, a little surprised—but he didn’t move.

Instead, he turned his head just enough to glance down at her, sprawled out in the firelight, her hair fanned over the frostbitten grass like fallen embers.

She looked small like that. And tired.

Not physically—emotionally. Like something in her had been quietly unraveling for a long time.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

But for the first time in a long while… he wanted to.

She lay there in silence, staring up at the stars.

“Sometimes I wonder if I even know who I am outside of this,” she whispered.

Her voice was steady, but soft. “Surely this doesn’t define me… right?”

She meant being a warrior. Being his daughter.

The weight of blood and legacy. The violence she hadn’t asked for.

Thorfinn didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he began tucking away his blades, fingers slower than usual as he searched for the right words.

Why was she being so open tonight? Was it the alcohol?

No.

He’d seen her drink before—she held her liquor better than half the army. This wasn’t drunken rambling. This was truth. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off.

“I hate that he respects you more than me.

That made him stiffen. His jaw tightened, brows pulling together.

“You think I want his respect?” he snapped, his voice low.

“Even if you don’t, you still have it,” she shot back, sitting up beside him again, her tone sharper now. “He probably thinks of you more as a son than I’ll ever be his daughter.”

That one hit. Hard.

Thorfinn looked over at her, his eyes dark beneath the flicker of the firelight.

Something in his chest twisted—something that didn’t quite feel like anger, but wasn’t sympathy either.

He didn’t know what to say to that.

So he didn’t say anything at all.

The fire continues to cackle and pop as they sit side by side, [Name] was looking directly at Thorfinn while Thorfinn was looking into the fire. It stays that way for a couple of minutes before Thorfinn gathers the courage to be open with her. Even if it was for just a second.

“I don’t like you.”

The words were blunt—cutting, almost.

But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet her gaze for a breath. Then looked away again.

“When I look at you,” he muttered, “I sometimes forget why I’m here… and I…”

His voice trailed. His hand curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm.

He grit his teeth, jaw clenched tight.

“…I despise that.”

She blinked.

“I make you forget your need for revenge, so… you hate me for that?” she asked, brow furrowed. “That doesn’t even make sense—”

“I never said I hated you,” he cut in, voice firm but quiet.

A breeze rolled through the trees then, tugging gently at his blonde hair. The firelight flickered across his face—stoic as ever, but… softer somehow.

His frown was still there. But his eyes—

His eyes had changed.

And they say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

Neither of them spoke.

She didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t know what he could say.

So they sat, side by side, drowning in the silence.

Both the daughter of Askeladd and the son of Thors, trapped in the weight of names that didn’t belong to them—and emotions that had no place in war.

“Were you there?”

His voice broke the silence again—lower, quieter. She turned to face him slowly, uncertain.

“Were you one of the archers that shot my father?”

Her breath caught

It was the first time he’d asked her that—directly. The first time he’d even spoken of his father without it being through a scream of rage or a threat toward her own. Her eyes flickered with something unreadable, and she nodded, slowly.

“I was there to witness it, yes,” she admitted. “But I wasn’t one of the archers. I was only seven. Still learning. My father didn’t let me fight that time.”

She paused, then added, “I was just watching… from the hill. With the archers.”

It was the truth. She hadn’t been strong enough to draw a bow back then. Not accurately. Not with enough force to kill a man like Thors. And for a moment, Thorfinn said nothing.

Then, to her surprise—he smirked.

A small, sharp thing. Not cruel, but not exactly kind either. Just… strange.

She turned her face slightly, curiosity tightening her brow.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. But she could see it—that glint in his eye. She sighed and offered, “Your father was great. Even I could tell that at seven.” Her voice softened. Her hand reached out before she could stop it, fingers brushing his shoulder gently. A comfort. A confession.

“To this day, I still nag my father about how cowardly it was. Killing a man like that—ambushing him with arrows? That wasn’t honor. That was desperation.”

She pausef.

“And every time… he reminds me that he’d do anything for money.” Thorfinn didn’t flinch. He didn’t glare. He just stared into the fire, the smirk long gone now.

Thorfinn didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock. He just stared into the fire, brows drawn slightly. The flames danced in his eyes as he spoke—softly, this time.

“…You really aren’t your father then.”

She turned her head, blinking.

He wasn’t looking at her. Not directly. But the words hung heavy between them, more meaningful than any flattery.

It wasn’t said like an insult.

It wasn’t pity, either.

It was something closer to respect.

Her throat tightened. Before she could say anything, he looked at her—really looked at her.

His eyes scanned her face like he was trying to memorize something. And then, just barely—

He leaned in.

The kiss was hesitant. Awkward. Honest.

His lips brushed hers like a secret passed in the dark. She didn’t pull away. She let it happen. Let it linger.

Because in that moment, it wasn’t about revenge or legacy or fathers. It was just them.

When he finally pulled back, it was slow. Almost reluctant. He stared at her for a beat longer—just long enough for her heart to start thudding in her chest. Then, without a word, he dropped his eyes to the ground, like the weight of what he’d just done finally hit him.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

She tilted her head, brows slightly raised. “You kiss me, and your first thought is shit?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood up abruptly, running a hand through his hair. His body was tense, practically vibrating with emotion he didn’t know what to do with.

“I—I wasn’t supposed to…” He trailed off.

“Supposed to what?” she asked, watching him carefully.

He looked down at her, and for the first time since she’d met him, he looked genuinely lost.

“I wasn’t supposed to like you.”

There it was. Raw. Unfiltered. Painfully real.

“Because of my father,” she said quietly. He didn’t deny it. Silence again. The fire crackled between them. Finally, she stood too. Not to walk away—just to face him on even ground.

“I’m not him, Thorfinn. You said it yourselg.”

He swallowed hard.

“I know. That’s the problem.”

[moowrites]

Omfggg I can't find this fanfic! It was a sukuna x reader. The reader had sukuna's baby and hid it from him for the entire pregnancy and the baby was like 10 months when sukuna met his baby. PLEASE IT WAS SOOO GOOD!!

[moowrites]

Summary:

Being the daughter of a cartel leader in hell has never been easy. It has it's perks like infinite money. But that same money just can't buy genuine love.

Warnings: Angsty, a shitty job at writing, cartel and mafia talk, Chaz 💀, reader is a succubus, but only small descriptions of her. Oh and reader uses she/ her 🫶, oh slight Crimson x reader?? Idk take it as you will.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She felt out of place and certainly disrespected.

Her father had instructed her to look her best without question. A maid had come into her room to dress her and prepare her for a meeting she had no information about. She had gone through hours of trying to look good, clinging onto her own bed frame for dear help as the maid kept tightening a corset around her body.

It was overwhelming to say the least.

Her father had knocked on the door, a signal to come out of her room at once. She had fixed the lipgloss on her lips before coming out. Her father was in his suit, checking the time on the watch around his wrist. She eyes the rolex around his wrist, trying to check the time as well. What for? She hadn’t known.

Now, as she sat on the dinner table next to her father, she felt extremely anxious. Crimson had come to visit. Her father was sitting on one end of the rectangular table and Crimson was across. Her little brother sat across from you, to the left side of your father. He was struggling to cut the steak that had been prepared for this special occasion. She takes his plate and cuts it for him before giving it back. Her family hears a small chuckle and all three turn to face Crimson.

“That reminded me of Mox when he was little. He was so useless, his mother had to cut his steak for him.” “Children tend to be weaker, my dear friend.” Her father replies, protective of his child. Crimson didn’t like that. Didn't like the way he talked back. Didn't like the way he said dear friend. Crimson didn't like him. There was a bigger tension now because of this, making her sweat drop as she takes a piece of steak in her mouth. Her face however, was kept emotionless. Her entire face was relaxed, her chin slightly up and back straight as she ate. Her father was the exact opposite, laid back and completely relaxed. The younger sibling ate happily without a worry.

There were more cartel men pointing their guns at Crimson than mafia men pointing their own guns at the (Last Name) family.

After dinner, the dinner table was cleared by staff. Finally, she was going to find out what all this was about. Her father hadn’t told her anything. She was itching to find out why Crimson was here. Crimson had been a close friend of her father’s back when she was a baby. When she was 17 however, her father and Crimson had fought about something and never spoke about it. She had been Crimson’s Son’s friend since childhood. She was two years older than the boy, but best friends regardless. His name is Moxxie. They had broken contact when their parents had their argument and not a single word or letter was ever exchanged between the two. This was the reason the lady was nervous. She was nervous about their parents causing a war between their groups if anything was to happen.

“I’m surprised you remember my policy of talking business after dinner.” Crimson spoke, lighting a cigar and inhaling from it before puffing the smoke out. The little brother coughs, waving a hand in front of his face to get rid of the stench that went his way. “Speak now, old friend.” Her father straightened his back, sighing afterwards as a sign that he no longer wanted small talk. “Our argument shouldn’t have affected Moxxie and (Name).” She perks up at this, looking at Crimson and meeting his eyes. “Matter of fact, she would have been a great..influence on Moxxie.” “So what? Now I just get to talk to him?” She growls, her heel tapping against the floor. Her father squinted his eyes at her attitude and snaps his fingers. “I apologize father.” She clears her throat and Crimson goes on. “No, I would like for you to consider the possibility of marriage.” Her eyes widen and her slit-pupils become enlarged at the idea of marrying Moxxie. She had always had a bit of a thing for him, but never made a move because of their differences. Or different groups that they belonged to. The man of the house shakes his head. “I give Moxxie my daughter’s hand, what do I get in exchange?” Her head turns towards her father, he couldn't have been serious! He was always protective, how come he’s considering it? “Shared turfs. I share my turfs and men. Our groups would..combine if you will. This would mean bigger audience, more money, and more power over this entire city of Greed.”

The girl’s little brother; Junior’s eyes grew wide. “My sister would marry and their wealth would become hers!” She was growing more impatient and anxious by the second. “We have more than enough wealth!” She yells, to which her father snaps his fingers twice. “Second warning, one more and you’re out.” She gulps and stops speaking. He was referring to the many credit cards she owned thanks to her father. Being cut off from her father's wealth was not an option for her. “Crimson..if this marriage was to happen..” Her father begins getting up from the seat which makes Crimson’s bodyguards become stiff and alert. Crimson waves a hand in dismissal. “Moxxie and (Name) would become incredibly wealthy and powerful. But they wouldn’t necessarily be..the ones behind this. That would be me and you, dear friend. We would combine our forces and become invisinsible, I’m sure.” He grins. And just like that, her fate was sealed with Moxxie’s.

“One thing though. Moxxie… he apparently has a wife."

When everything was planned, Crimson had borrowed (Name) for the day when the plan was set. He had called in Moxxie’s work and ensured that Moxxie would come in. Even if that meant the rest of his co-workers would as well. Crimson sat in front of the fireplace that was eliciting green flames. The girl’s pointed tail swished in anxiety as he spoke to the phone. She only paid attention to half of what he said before getting up from the chair next to him and heading to the restroom. What Crimson hadn’t explained to her or her father was that Chaz had been put in the plan as well. Something about Moxxie not being able to choose, as he explained it to her when he had told her last minute. A bi-phobic remark on his part, she guessed. Chaz was an insufferable shark. Moxxie's ex, but the one time he had tried with her, she had shoved a gun between his sharp teeth and explained very calmly that she wasn’t nor would she be interested anytime soon.

She pulls out her phone and texts her father about the last-minute notice. She was told not to worry; he would make sure Crimson knew his baby girl shouldn’t be treated with such disregard. One of her many bodyguards knocked on the door, making her flinch slightly as she was pulled to reality once again. “Ma’am, is everything alright?” She grits her teeth, her eyes slitting once again in distaste before taking a deep breath and her eyes returning to normal. “Yes, do give me a minute to fix up.” “Yes ma’am.” After a while, she came out of the bathroom and headed down to where Crimson was once again. “It seems that our guests have arrived. Stay at the dinner table, will you?"

The girl rolls her eyes, "I believe you do not have authority over me. Mind I remind you..how my family is more powerful than your puny little mafia." Crimson growled at this, baring his sharp teeth at her. She took notice of his gold tooth, her eyes shining as she liked signs of wealth. "I suppose I'll wait. Do not take long." She was escorted to the dining table, being given sliced fruits as a snack as she waited for Crimson's return.

After what seemed like an eternity of her picking on the fruit slices and scrolling through social media, Crimson walked in.

This time with guests.

Moxxie's eyes meet hers in an instant, her eyes shining brightly when he does so. Then her world comes crumbling down when she sees the smaller IMP walking next to him. She stands up, the bodyguards on each of her sides waiting stiffening as she does so. They both recognize her body language; the embodiment of Greed.

She was greedy. Greedy for Moxxie's attention.

"Mox-Mox?" The little nickname came off as a bit cringey. It was the nickname she had given him back when they were learning how to speak as babies. "(Name)?" Moxxie replied, his face showing confusion. "Mox-Mox!" She sped walked to him before being stopped by the woman next to him. She looked as if she was already in a sour mood. "And who are you?" The taller female looked at the smaller one up and down, the imp wasn't..much compared to (Name). But it was personality that mattered anyways. "I'm (Full Name). Moxxie's childhood friend. Who may you be?"

"Millie. His wife." Millie's frown was still present. "Oh, may I hug your husband? I haven't seen him in a long time. Years, actually." Millie stepped aside and the girl bent down to hug Moxxie tightly to which he hugged back. When they pulled away, another imp walked to her. "Hi, my name's Blitz. The O is silent!" She shook his hand, tilting her head in confusion at the introduction. But still greeting him nonetheless. "Why are you here?" Moxxie wonders, wishing to know what was the reason behind this scenario.

"I-"

Crimson interrupted her, "Moxxie. Do I need to remind you that dinner comes before business?" "No sir." He immediately replied, his hands shaking in fear as to what may be brought up.

"Hey! What about me? Where's my hug?" As soon as Chaz approached (Name), her bodyguards were already pointing their guns at him. "I do not believe you have the right to hug me." She flipped her hair and went to sit down on the right side of Crimson while Chaz slumped on the left of his. Moxxie sat across Crimson, Millie on his left and Blitz on his right.

While eating, Blitz broke the silence. "So, this is aggressively uncomfortable." Crimson stopped cutting his steak, raising an eyebrow at his audacity. "I..suppose you want to know why you're here." He went back to cutting his steak without much of a care. "Yeah, so what gives?" Blitz spoke again, (Name) chewing on the steak before swallowing it down with some red wine.

"You know we kill people on Earth, right? We don't normally do contracts for locals, so if you want to do business with us, you got to-"

"I don't want to do business with IMP." With each letter, Crimson pointed at Blitz with his fork. "I want to do business with Moxxie." Moxxie looked up from his plate, bewildered at the information. "Me?" "Yeah kid, I summoned IMP-" Again, he rolled his eyes at the mention of the mediocre company. "-To be sure you'd show." He pointed at Moxxie with his knife, an indication that he did not want to fuck around. He places the knife on the table and takes a hold of his wine cup. "Well, we're bringing Chaz or (Name) in the family."

"What? Since when can just anyone- no offense-"

"None taken." Chaz spoke to which the succubus lady interrupted. "He means me, dickhead." She takes a sip of her wine, letting Moxxie continue.

"Join the family?" Moxxie continued, his father parting the cup from his lips to speak once again. "C'mon Mox, you had responsibilities here that I had to pick up." Crimson pointed at himself this time. The lady on his right side noticed that he liked to talk with his hands, something she tends to do as well from time to time. "Now Chaz is going to lighten the load." The lady glares at the older man speaking, "and?" "The and comes afterwards little lady."

"Wait, I thought you always hated his guts! And (Name) is from a completely different and rival group!"

"Thanks for the discrimination Mox Mox." She chuckles, Moxxie's cheeks tinting a pink color at her teasing. Millie took notice of this, but rolls her eyes. She bites down her tongue, not wanting to comment about "family" matters.

"Well, I don't know if I exactly hated either of them."

"You called him a friendless horse fucker and said he lived a 'sissy' lifestyle. You also said (Name) was bound to live a whore life filled with c-" Moxxie was interrupted once again.

"Yeah well I was wrong. You've been gone a long time, Mox. A man can change. And so has Chaz!"

The forgotten succubus bites down the inside of her cheek, feeling disrespected by..an IMP. As Chaz goes on about how he has changed, she taps her finger nail against the table. She was thinking of just calling her father to come pick her up from this hell hole and take her shopping. All this was so unnecessary and stupid.

"So the horseless friend fucker-"

The succubus decides to correct Blitz "I believe it was friendless horsefucker Mr. Blitz."

"I know what I said. So the horseless friend fucker gets a little mulah and suddenly it's worth wasting our time over?"

"Well, I'm the whole package. If you know what I mean."

The trio of Imps stare at the shark, not exactly caring nor wanting to know. But he goes on anyway.

"I got a big dick."

Millie finally speaks up, making the succubus sigh in relief. "What does any of this have to do with Moxxie?"

Crimson places his fork on the empty plate and wipes his lips with a napkin. "There's going to be a ceremony tomorrow." (Name) does the same, except she takes a long gulp of the wine. "Moxxie here is going to officially release his holdings in the organization." A maid pours more wine on his cup to which Crimson picks up. "Then you can go back to ignoring your family to your heart's content."

Moxxie sulks in his seat, becoming smaller at his father's glare and cruel words. Millie stands up from her seat, slamming her gloved hands against the table. "Maybe he wouldn't have to ignore his family if they didn't force him to rub elbows with these people."

"Watch your tongue before you lose it." (Name) placed her wine glass on the diner table, wiping her lips and fixing her lipgloss. "Speak ill all you may like of Chaz. But you do not know me, pretty lady. So I suggest you zip it." Perhaps her cruel words were fueled with jealousy of wanting to take Millie's spot as Moxxie's bride. Perhaps she was showing off her power, either way it got Millie mad. "Try me." Millie leaped across the table in a second, her blood stained dagger at the succubus' throat. But the succubus had the upper hand as her bodyguards not only pointed their guns at Millie, but at Blitz as well.

The succubus lady?

Her handgun was pressed against Millie's chin, pointed upwards and finger against the trigger.

"Everyone relax. I know tensions have been high tonight. Say, why don't you stay here and get some rest? We'll have the ceremony tomorrow. Then tomorrow, everyone is free to leave. I have your rooms all prepared." Millie was the first one to remove her weapon, so naturally (name) followed suit. She snapped her fingers, the bodyguards lowering their weapons. "Go to bed." Crimson ordered.

"Yes sir." Moxxie replied within an instant, "Mox?" Millie asks in disbelief. Everyone got up from their seats and headed to the door. Everyone but Crimson and (Name). "A moment, Moxxie."

"Just give me a minute, Millie. I'll be there." Chaz tried to "comfort" Millie to which she barked at him.

(Name)'s bodyguards leave the room as well. Leaving Crimson, Moxxie, and herself alone in the room. "So, you think you too good for this family?"

"Huh?" Moxxie shrugs his shoulders in surprise.

"C'mere." He uses his finger to motion Moxxie to get closer. (Name) sighs, "Crimson-" "Shut up." She growls, her hair standing up in pure anger at being told what to do. She does as told, knowing Moxxie would be punished for her wrong-doings. Moxxie walks over to his father, stuttering as he came about with words. Crimson got up from his chair abruptly and smacked Moxxie across the face. She winces at the loud sound that came about from the sound of the impact. "You think you just get to walk away from this family and never come back? You're dead wrong, Mox!"

He walks closer to Moxxie whom was laying on the ground helplessly from the impact, "matter of fact." He picks him up from his shirt. "You only think you're right about is that obnoxious piss-stain can't get in! Not unless he marries in." "B-But who would-"

"Who do you think?" She stands up from her seat at the table and walks over to Crimson, standing next to him. "This shit family..needs our money. Whether it be mine or that fucker's." She takes out a handkerchief and uses it to press a bit against Moxxie's cheeks. Hoping it was cold enough to help. "It's about time your pathetic ass is useful for something!" Crimson shouts and sits back down and Moxxie ignores her attempts to soothe him, going over to his father.

"Sir, I'm already married. I-I can't-"

"You think I give a shit about that stupid thing? C'mon Mox, I even went through the trouble of making the house more to..your kind's liking." He pressed a button hidden on the table and quite a few..arrangements were made. Quite a few..no scratch that. Multiple adult toys were displayed out of the walls and bouncing..God.

She blushes in embarrassment and looks away from the scene. Being a succubus did not mean being shameless.

"Wait- Wha- What do you think I'm into?!"

"What? This the kind of shit guys like, right?"

"Okay, first off Dad, I'm bisexual."

"Yeah, gay."

"No, Crimson. He likes both women and men." She continues to hide her face in her hands, her words coming out Muffled.

"Oh, for fucks sake. Secondly," A toy taps against Moxxie's shoulders, as if to urge him to..use it. He pushes it away, "I don't know a single person of any sexuality who'd enjoy this."

As if on cue, Blitz laughs at the moment. "Ha!! There's dicks in the walls! Oh that's fucking hilarious."

After another moment of Crimson threatening Moxxie, Crimson demands him to choose between Chaz or his friend's daughter by tomorrow morning. "Her dad accepted the offer of you taking her as your bride. Do not disappoint me again, Mox. We need her daddy's money. When he dies, she will completely inherit his money and we will be able to expand the empire." Crimson explains to Moxxie, lighting a cigar as the dicks bounced in the room. "Don't you mean if?" "Do not question my abilities. When he dies, that money will be yours as equally as it is hers." Moxxie walks out of the dining room after some hesitation. The succubus lady finally uncovers her face to speak.

"Crimson..put the dicks away."

That night, as Blitz and Chaz did their..thing, her bodyguards knocked on Moxxie's room and instructed him to go to their lady's room. He had knocked at first, wondering what she could possibly want. Perhaps she would be just as weird as Chaz. When she opened the door, he was greeted with the pleasant smell of vanilla and the perfect view to a tall Succubus whom had just taken a shower. She was in her robe. She steps aside and let's Moxxie in. "You can go ahead and take a seat, you know?" She chuckles and he sits down at the edge of her bed. She lays down on the giant bed, sighing.

"I'm sorry about all this. My dad was going to cut off my credit cards if I didn't go through with this."

"I..I shouldn't be here." Moxxie starts, staring down at his lap.

"Mox-Mox..I..I just want to talk to you. I do not want you here with other intentions." She sits up and looks down at him. "I apologize for this. After such a long time..you're being forced to choose. Your wife seems incredible and I deeply apologize for dinner, I'll apologize to Millie tomorrow as well. You don't have to go through with this. Escape! Tell Millie, Blitz, anyone."

"I can't do that, he would find me again." Moxxie was at the verge of tears. She places her hand on top of his that rested on his lap. "You've always been such a crybaby." She chuckles and he leans his head against her chest, sobbing. She hugs him and rests her chin on top of his head. "I..I shouldn't be comforted by another woman. My wife, Milie, she.." "She's very jealous, I know. But you love her and the fact that you feel guilty even hugging another woman is incredible. The love you feel for her..That's incredible."

She giggles, "Mox-Mox, you're incredible. Don't forget that." "Are..you okay with all this? I mean, killing your father? How are you going to do that? Your cartel is much more powerful than this mafia, but..still." Moxxie wraps his arms around her body. He did it quite tightly, making her cheeks warm up. "It'll be okay. I'll inherit his money and my little brother won't be given any excessive punishments. He'll be safe with me. And the cartel would much rather be under my control than my father's. They're playing favorites I suppose."

Moxxie sighs, "I..I don't want this." "Me neither Mox-Mox." Her heart breaks at his words. He didn't want this.

He didn't want her.

The following morning, the two Imps and succubus headed downstairs to the dining room once again. This time, the taller female was dressed in an elegant red dress rather than the black she usually always wore. Moxxie had gone back to his room last night after telling her about what Chaz had attempted to pull.

"Hey hey, the man of the hour!" Crimson claps his hands in "glee". "You ready to get started?" Millie took notice of Blitz's lack of presence and commented on it. "I think I saw him head outside, he said something about needing some fresh air or something." Chaz chuckles to which (Name) rolls her eyes, sitting on the chair on the right side of Crimson. Chaz had attempted to sit there only for Crimson to glare at him and motion for him to sit somewhere else. "Why don't you grab him so we can get moving?" Crimson asks millie, to which she kisses Moxxie's cheeks and leaves to fetch Blitz.

Moxxie sits to his father's left side and Chaz sits next to the female in the room. "Why you look so blue, moxxie? It's your wedding day. Best day of your life. So? Have you decided? Chaz or (Name)?" Chaz grins at Moxxie and Moxxie looks at his childhood best friend whom smiles at him softly. He then looks down and sighs. Crimson sips on his coffee as Moxxie says the following, " I'm not doing it."

"What was that?" Crimson asks Moxxie to repeat himself, almost as if he heard him wrong. He was simply giving his son a chance to correct his mistake of disobeying his father.

"I couldn't make out what you said over the sound of you being a whiny bitch."

Moxxie slams his hands on the table which startles both Chaz and Crimson. She looks proud of Moxxie, hoping that his confidence of standing up to his father came from the talk they had at night. "I said I'm not doing it. I've spent my whole life being afraid of you, but I' not giving up the only good thing I've ever had just so you can keep your fragile little sad control over everything. Millie is a good woman, a better woman that I deserve. And there's nothing that scares me more than hurting her-"

Crimson looks at his guard and does the slightest nod at him. "-not even you. I'm leaving, Dad. And if you or herpes the clown over here try to stop me, you'll learn firsthand just how good I've gotten at my job." Whilst speaking, Moxxie had gotten so close to his father's face that he had forgotten to not let his guard down. He was grabbed by Crimson's man and tazed heavily on his neck. He hit the table when he fell unconscious.

Moxxie's childhood friend stood up with an urgency to help him, pointing her gun directly at Crimson. "Why did you have to do that? Let him go!" Crimson shook his head. "He disobeyed. It's his punishment. And you do not want to get punished either, do you? Once Moxxie says yes at the altar, your father will be murdered by his own men. Or well, your men. And his wealth will be yours. Then it will be shared with Moxxie..and he will give that to me. Then, you may divorce him if you'd like. Kill him for all I care, but this family needs money."

She starts to laugh, "but I don't need you, Crimson! I get nothing out of this!!" "You get Moxxie. The love of your live."

Chaz gasps at the revelation that was oh so clear, but he couldn't grasp. "What? Wait- where do I come in this picture?!" "If lady (name) refuses, you get to marry Moxxie instead. Now, little lady.. you will get Moxxie out of this. You will finally be happy. You will steal him just as he was stolen from your grasp. Money can't buy love, but fear sure fucking can."

She lowers her gun and her bodyguards follow suit. "I..I don't want it this way. I want him to genuinely..like me." She shakes her head, refusing to show weakness at such a moment. But the way Crimson looks up at her from his seat made her shiver. "Your cartel may be more powerful. But you sure aren't as tough as your daddy. Women sure are emotional." He chuckles and gets up from his seat. "Go put your wedding dress on. We're having a fucking wedding."

A while later, your father had arrived. The entirety of both sides of the family had been invited. The entire patio was filled and it made (Name) all the more anxious. She bit the tip of her thumb as she thought about this once. Twice. Thrice. It just wasn't a good idea. Her father pushes her down the altar a bit before making her hook his arm around hers. The music played as she was walked down the aisle, her veil covering her face that was becoming more and more sweaty as she got to the altar. The white train of the dress following her as she had been put in a ball gown that had the longest train to make the wedding look all the more real.

If it wasn't for Moxxie tied down and Crimson holding him, her brain would have registered it as genuine.

A genuine fucking wedding.

The priest was told to hurry up with the process which he did. Her father stood behind her, a way to pressure her into the wedding. "Do you, (Full Name) take Moxxie Noname to be your husband, to love and cherish him until death do you part?" Moxxie stares into her eyes, his own tearing up as a silent plea. "Can..can you ask him first?" The priest sighs and does it again. "Moxie Noname, do you take (Full name) to love and cherish her until death do you part?" Crimson grabs his hair and forces his head to move as a nod. "Look at him, he looks so fucking happy to be here!"

"Now, Do you (Full name) take Moxxie Noname to be your husband, to love and cherish him until death do you part?"

She starts to tear up underneath the veil, not knowing what to do as this may jeopardize her friendship with Moxxie or her life.

"I..do not." Gasps fill the air from the crowd and she takes off her veil, surprising most people in the altar as she wasn't very emotional. However, the stained cheeks and ruined mascara said otherwise. Her lip trembled as she spoke. "Moxxie..I love you. But I don't want this. You clearly don't love me." Moxxie's eyes widened, looking at her eyes but she was looking away. Suddenly, a black car crashed into the wedding and out came Blitz and Millie.

"You want my husband? You're gonna have to fucking kill me."

Crimson rolls his eyes and ordered to kill Millie. However, Millie was much quicker and skilled. She was able to kill or at least permanently damage anyone that came in her way. (Name) uses her veil to wipe away her tears, not wanting to be seen as ruined. Most wedding guest members ran away as they saw how much chaos one woman could cause. Her father and cartel stood by, not knowing which side to choose. So they chose the successor's side; (Name).

Once Millie's murder spree was done, she had taken her husband from Crimson. Moxxie struggled against her grip and Millie took that as a sign to let her husband down. She unties him and takes off the tape that kept him shut.

"Was that true? When was this?" Moxxie grabbed her hands, "I did. When we were younger. But you never made a move." She whispered, not wanting to enrage his wife. "When we were just stupid teens robbing gas stations." She giggles and holds his hands. "Please take care of Millie, she's such a lovely wife. And a strong one at that. Your love for her is genuine and I've never seen that in hell. It's one of a kind, cherish it. I just wish we could have caught up or been in different instances."

Blitz steps forward, making the both separate. Blitz gives her a card that was for their business; IMP. "We don't charge much for our services. When you want somebody gone and you don't want to wait too long, call IMP. Moxxie's there most of the time. And call me." He almost purrs, making her giggle. She accepts the card and nods. "Thanks Blitz." She squishes his cheek. With that, Millie picks up both men and nods at her. She nods back as a way to say goodbye and Millie leaves. While she jumps away, Blitz yells that Chaz was a fraud all along. Hearing this, Crimson slowly turns to look at Chaz who was still in the audience.

The plan had been successful. Her father was out of the picture and his horns were now in a frame hanging from Crimson's wall next to Chaz's shark teeth. (Name) was sitting down on the sofa.

"Ever witnessed a shittier wedding?" She jokes, her cheeks red as the wine she kept consuming was taking over her mind and body. Her hair was a mess and the dress was long disregarded. She was now wearing a much more comfortable pajama set as it was night time.

"My wedding." He grumbles, throwing a knife at the family photo that was on the wall. It landed on Moxxie's forehead. "Hmm.." She spins the cup a bit, watching the wine move.

"What do you think of younger women?"

[moowrites]

Summary: You like to compete with Hajime on everything. The current competition? Who fucks Nagito better.

Warnings: Not proofread, English isn't my first language so.. Smut.

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Hajime has been in your life as long as you can remember. He has been there since day 1.

Lterally.

His mother was your mother's best friend. You two had play dates since you could hold your head up.

Yet, your personality always clashed with his. His mother thought you two would date when you both grew.

However, you two would turn everything into competitions. Even in adulthood, everything was a challenge to show which one of you was superior. And while Hajime excelled in what you didn't, you would smirk whenever you'd beat Hajime. Even now.

"So? Which one of us is better?" Hajime makes direct eye contact with you as he moves his hips at a constant yet painfully slow speed into his boyfriend. His fistful of white hair. The boy with said white hair tearing up as he felt overwhelmed by the amount of times he has come already.

"I- I don't know." The boy stutters as his eyes filled with water threatening to spill at any given moment.

Your hand strokes Nagito, watching as more precum came out of the pretty pink tip he had. "You know, Hajime's your boyfriend." You remind him, your right hand working with his nipple as your left continues to stroke.

You smirk at Hajime who groans in frustration, his hips hitting Nagito's hips as he starts to pound into him. This causes Nagito to repeatedly hit your chest with his back. You were sitting against the headboard of the bed, Nagito against your chest. "I'm.." Nagito hiccups, his eyes rolling as he cums yet again. You remove your hand and use your foot to push Hajime away in a gentle manner as to not hurt him.

Nagito whines at the sudden emptiness left inside of him. You coo as you flip Nagito over, smushing his face into the pillow beneath him. You put another pillow underneath Nagito, right below his tummy to keep his ass up. At least elevate it a bit. "Poor poor Nagito. He uses you, doesn't give you the love you deserve."

"I'm trash, undeserving of love.." You trail your hand down his back. You hum at his words, using your thumb to spread Nagito a bit. "Is that so? Or did he make you believe that?" Hajime tries to intervene, to which you shake your head at. "No..he tells me that I'm more." Nagito whines again, his hole clenching around the single finger you had inserted. "And you don't believe him?" You start moving your finger, adding another and gradually speeding up. You curl your fingers, reaching into that spot that made him raise his head from the pillow. "Fuck!" He cries out, Hajime puts a hand on your shoulder as to tell you to stop.

You shake your head again, "watch." You then continue to finger the sweet boy, his legs twitching as you do. "Would you like me to stop, Nagito-kun?" "No! Please! Let me be selfish and filth your fingers with a nobody like me! A person with such ultimate shouldn't touch me, but I need this!" You look at Hajime, looking for a cue to take it further. He nods and you speed up your fingers.

Nagito cries out as he cums into the pillow. You slow down and pull your fingers out. "Good boy." You praise Nagito as you help him flip over the pillow so he doesn't feel the stickiness of his own cum on himself. "It's the little things that matter, Hajime-kun. You can't just fuck him the same way you fucked me before." Hajime looks at his boyfriend, your words hitting him right in the face. Ever since you broke up with him, he used Nagito like a sex toy rather than an actual partner like he used to. The polyamorous relationship turned monogamous and gloomy. "You have to listen to his body, heart, and mind." Truth is, you had missed Nagito ever since you broke up with them both. You had missed Hajime as well, but Nagito was the piece you both needed. The piece that completed you both. The fact that Hajime had neglected him, you couldn't bear that.

And Nagito felt as if it was his fault you left.

The actual reason you left?

You were pregnant with their baby.

But they didn't have to know that. Even though they would notice in 5 months from now.