#JUST REALIZED THE HOOD IS SLIGHTLY SHEER...

[sunnnfish]

https://x.com/sasakiandmiyano/status/1768472198069805129?s=46&t=DIkZSdE1IAlWURRBaUGk7w

MIYANOOOOOOO BIRTHDAY BOYYYYY....!!!!!

[carlislefiles]

finals week | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►college is hell, and finals week is the seventh circle. as much as you love your boyfriend, you can have absolutely no distractions, not when the biggest tests of your life loom over you like a raincloud full of dread and fear of failure. they don’t take to being ignored so well, and they take to you ignoring yourself even worse. 6.9k words far left picture (teacup) by @nevroicastar on pinterest

a/n: can you tell that literally all I want in life is someone to be nice to me... :D anyways, this is pretty much pure fluff, reader is not taking care of herself, mentions of poor eating habits, lots of talk of academic validation, etc. so read at your own risk. as I got to the end of this, I realized that a lot of these are quite similar, so sorry about that, but when I have an idea I just kind of have to get it out, so here she is. kind of modern college au, but still within the sorcery realm???? I don’t know don’t ask. warnings: incredibly cheesy, me rambling about topics I do not understand at all (hello? theoretical geometry? didn't even know theoretical math existed?), and pure, unadultered comfort. enjoy <3

megumi knows what it’s like to seek academic validation like it’s oxygen. he wears his indifference like a badge—hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows, bag slung low—but make no mistake: anything less than an a has him spiraling into a full-blown existential crisis. he may look composed, but internally he’s questioning his intelligence, his self-worth, the educational system, and the meaning of life in general.

so when you break down over a b- on a practice anatomy exam, he understands. doesn’t mean it doesn’t rip him apart. you never cry. never. but that night, your tears soaked into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “if this was the easier version, I'm dead. I'm so dead.” it wasn’t even going in the gradebook. didn’t matter. that grade haunted you.

the next morning, he wakes up alone. you beat him out of bed. that’s unheard of. he sends a text. then another.

“you at the library?” “eat something.”

no reply. eventually you respond, just not with anything he wants to hear.

“I'm gonna be really busy. maybe we should take a break until finals are over. you should hang out with yuuji.”

he scowls at the screen. as if yuuji hasn’t third-wheeled 70% of your dates. but megumi lets it go—for now. he assumes you’re just holed up in the library. he’s done the same thing. but it gets worse. you stop sleeping in his dorm, stop answering messages, stop functioning like a human being. you become a finals-week cryptid, subsisting on caffeine and sheer willpower. megumi would yell, if he didn’t know better. but he does know better. so he gets quiet. observant. subtle. he brings you real food. coaxes you into drinking water. slides his hoodie onto your shoulders when you’re shivering under the library ac. brushes your hair back with fingers that shake slightly when he realizes how tired you look. pulls the ramen cup away mid-bite and replaces it with something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

and when you cry over flashcards and whisper, “I don’t even know what a nephron does anymore,” he just starts quizzing you, reading aloud terms he can’t even pronounce correctly. he doesn’t know how you’re surviving this course. anatomy and physiology? it sounds like science hell. he hates it for you. but you don’t stop. not until finals week swallows you whole, trembling under the weight of your own expectations.

that’s when he draws the line.

your head is buried in your laptop at some godforsaken hour, eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching when—slam. he shuts your computer. “what—megumi! I was—”

toothbrush. sweatpants. his sweatshirt. he’s already dragging you to the bed, ignoring every protest as you weakly try to wiggle free. “I have to—”

“no, you don’t,” he says firmly. “you’re not studying. you’re sleeping.”

he scratches your scalp. presses featherlight kisses to the slope of your neck. hums something under his breath, steady and warm. eventually, your body gives out. you melt. and sleep like a corpse blessed by the gods. he watches you for a long while before finally letting himself rest beside you.

the next day, he waits outside the medicine building. the test is over. your scores won’t be posted for a few days. doesn’t matter. he just needs to see you. you step out, bleary-eyed and barely functioning, and he immediately pulls you into his arms. “you're never doing that to yourself again,” he mumbles into your hair.

you don’t even argue. you just nod and melt into him. and a few days later, the score is posted. you stare at your screen, stunned. an a. a solid, shining, hard-won a. and megumi just smirks like he knew it all along.

suguru graduated last spring. walked across the stage in slacks you'd picked out for him and a grin made of gold and ease. he didn’t look back. college wasn’t hard for him—it never had been. books opened for him like petals, and concepts bowed to his comprehension. it was never about the stress or the stakes. it was about the hours you'd spend curled beside him in the library, mumbling about amino acids or molecular orbitals while he stared at you like you were the sun.

back then, he'd ask you questions from flashcards, only to discard them halfway through and ask about your favorite color, your middle name, your childhood dog. he loved the way your face lit up when your brain found the answer to something hard, but he loved it even more when it lit up because of him. he wasn’t ashamed of that. he’s never been ashamed of how deeply he loves you.

but now…now, things are different. you're wrapped up in organic chemistry like it’s a vice grip. barely breathing, barely blinking. you’ve got every note and molecule memorized, and still you tell him, "it’s not enough." over and over, like a prayer, or a curse. you’ve been walking around like a ghost, and suguru sees it for what it is—devotion, desperation, and destruction all rolled into one. you say it’s just a test, but he knows it’s your everything.

and the worst part? he gets it. he gets what it’s like to build your identity on success. he just wishes you didn’t have to. because when you go missing for a whole day, when you don’t text him back or come home or answer his calls, he panics. he’s not dramatic—not usually—but you’re his, and suguru takes care of his things. so he finds you. of course he does.

you're in the back corner of the chem building, surrounded by papers and empty energy drink cans and what might be tears, though you’d never admit it. you look up when he walks in, and there’s a flash of guilt that crosses your face like lightning. it stings. “I'm so sorry, suguru,” you whisper. “but this is really, really important. I need you to leave me alone until I'm finished with this. I'm too tired and too stressed to worry about anything other than this test.”

that breaks something in him. because you’ve never made him feel like a burden. never once treated his presence like an interruption. and maybe he should’ve fought harder. maybe he should’ve scooped you up, carried you out of there like he wanted to, tucked you beneath his covers and kissed your forehead until the tension bled out of you.

but he’s selfish only sometimes, and never when it comes to your dreams.

so he lets you go. the test is four hours long. you emerge hollow-eyed, trembling, and murmuring something about how you probably failed. you don’t even cry. just breathe in, breathe out, and fall into bed without so much as a kiss. and when the grade is posted the next morning, a clean, perfect a, you don’t celebrate. don’t smile. don’t even tell him. he’s the one who finds out first. you just so relieved that it's finally over, half of you doesn't even care how you did.

he pulls you into his lap before you can protest and presses a hand to your chest like he’s checking if your heart still beats. it does, but he wants more than that. he wants you back. all of you.

so he makes suggestions. strong ones. "take a semester off," he murmurs against your temple. "or transfer. or move in with me. or all three. I'll take care of you. you don’t have to do this to yourself. you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. not when I already know how brilliant you are." you nod like you’re not hearing him, but he’s patient. he’ll wait. he’ll wait until you believe it too.

he jokes—often, obnoxiously—that he’s always known you were too good for him. that you were the prodigy and he was the pretty face. that your acceptance into medical school was the universe playing fair, because how else could the world possibly balance your brain and his everything else? but even with all that noise, gojo satoru is terrified of the way this test has eaten you alive. 

the usmle. the reaper in standardized exam form. every time he sees you, you’re either furiously annotating a textbook or passed out cold in someone’s office chair with flashcards stuck to your cheek. 

he tries everything at first. plays the doting, lovable nuisance role to perfection—stealing your laptop charger, faking existential crises that can only be soothed by forehead kisses, crawling into your lap and pretending to cry (“I need affection, babe, it’s for my health, come onnn—”). and you smile. you do. but you don’t stop. you never stop. and eventually even he has to let you go into that studying-induced blackout tunnel, even if it kills him not to be able to pull you out of it.

still, he never leaves. when your weekly date nights disappear, he sends you dumb memes and voice notes that say things like “this is what it sounds like when I cry without you here.” when you sleep in the library, he sneaks snacks into your backpack and slips hand warmers into your hoodie pockets. he’s not even sure you notice. but he does it anyway. because loving you isn’t something he tries to do. it’s something that just is. like gravity. 

the morning of the test, you’re shaking. eyes glassy, coffee untouched. it’s still dark out, and he hates how exhausted you look. you sit in the passenger seat of his car like you’ve been awake for a thousand years. he doesn’t try to make a joke. just…reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“you’re not scared I'll be disappointed in you, right?” you shake your head, barely. but the thing is, he knows you. knows how your brain works. how you work. he can’t stop your nerves—he wouldn’t dream of trying. but he can hold them with you. sit there in the thick of it, still and steady and here. because that’s what you need. and when you finally leave to go take the test, gojo satoru doesn’t move. just waits. hours tick by. he plays stupid games on his phone. he thinks about the first time he saw you cry—finals week, sophomore year, when you were convinced you’d bombed a lab report—and how this feels exactly like that, only ten times worse. but then…you come back. and the world exhales.

you’re pale. wrecked. like you’ve just survived a war. you climb into the passenger seat like someone dropped you from space, and satoru immediately swaddles you in the blanket he brought from your dorm. 

“I brought gummy bears, sliced veggies, and a literal gallon of water,” he says. “and I have an entire playlist dedicated to ‘songs that say I'm so proud of you I could cry.’” you laugh. just a little. but he hears it. “think you passed?” he asks.

“I think I survived.”

“close enough.” he drives you home like you’re royalty. like the day’s been his test too, and this—getting you back—is his only passing grade.

later, when you’re fed and clean and warm in bed, buried in layers of blankets and wearing his t-shirt, he lays beside you and grins like a fool. 

“so,” he says, “how’s it going, dr. gojo?”

you raise a brow. “excuse me?”

“I just figured, if you’re gonna be a doctor, we should share the last name. has a nice ring to it. we’ll both be hot and dangerous. power couple energy.”

“oh, I'm taking your last name?”

“obviously. babe, have you met me?”

you roll your eyes—but there’s color back in your cheeks now. a glow. that fire he fell in love with. and he grins, victorious.

because you’re back. you’re his again. and no matter what happens next—residency, stress, long nights and endless hours—satoru’s ready. he’ll carry the whole weight of the world if it means you never have to go through that kind of thing alone. 

takuma is a man of simple truths: ramen tastes better after midnight, bleach is not the same thing as laundry detergent, and you—god, you—are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

you're a prodigy. he says that like it’s a title, not just a fact. you graduated high school at fifteen, cruised through undergrad before most of your friends even started, and now you’re gunning for a ph.d. because what else would someone like you do? you’re brilliant, born for academia. he fell for you like gravity, no question, no hesitation.

and he’s not dumb—not really—but school was never his thing. he coasted through high school on vibes and charm, then lucked into an internship with some big-deal suit named nanami. it was supposed to be temporary, but ino had that golden retriever work ethic, the kind where people give you more responsibility just because you say “sure thing!” with enough enthusiasm. it works for him. it always has.

but when it comes to you, that easygoing confidence starts to fray. because you're drowning. and he doesn’t know how to save you. your advisor says jump, and you ask how high in four languages. volunteer work, tutoring, research, a part-time job, and now the gre is looming like a thundercloud over your future. you study until your voice is hoarse from reciting terms, until your notes are smudged with highlighter ink and tears.

you rope ino into helping, and of course he says yes. he’s happy to. he makes flashcards with cartoon doodles on the back, quizzes you on vocab while you’re brushing your teeth, lets you explain abstract statistical theory to him until you both fall asleep on the couch. you look exhausted, but you smile when he calls you professor, and that’s enough. until it isn’t. until the smiles fade. until he’s helping you study alone. until you stop asking. until he’s waiting at home for a version of you who never seems to arrive.

he wants to fix it, to fix you, but he doesn’t know how to fight a battle that’s inside your own head. so he does what he can. brings you snacks at work, texts you affirmations, makes dinner even though he’s bad at it, and watches your exhaustion turn to something scarily mechanical. you stop complaining. you stop talking. you stop looking him in the eye when you leave in the morning.

then test day comes. and he's so proud. not of this behavior, of course, but of you, despite it all. he makes you breakfast, walks you to the testing center even though it's freezing, kisses your forehead and tells you you're already the smartest person in the building. when you walk away, his chest hurts with how badly he wants this to go well. it does. kind of.

you take the gre and survive it—but there’s no relief. no celebration. no breath of freedom after months of suffocating. you just...keep going. more work shifts. more hours. more silence. and ino, patient as he is, can only hold back his worry for so long.

it’s late when he says it. you’re curled into him, back to his chest, your favorite blanket tucked around both of you. he’s got one arm around your waist, the other buried in your hair, his cheek pressed to the back of your neck. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and real. “you ever think about slowing down?” silence. so long, he thinks maybe you fell asleep. 

but then—“I'm just...so tired of trying to—to….” you whisper. “I just want to be good enough.” his heart cracks open.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and holds you tighter, “you’re already more than good enough. you’re incredible. I picked you, remember? and I'm the smartest guy I know.” that gets a breath of a laugh. barely, mostly because you know that there was never choice, never other options. takuma was gone for you the minute he met you. if anything, you picked him and he will never be able to fully articulate his gratitude.

“I mean it,” he says, fingers stroking your hip. “you don’t need to break yourself to prove anything to anyone. not to them, and definitely not to me.” that night, something shifts. he starts small. no, you can’t pick up that extra shift. no, you won’t be checking your email at midnight. yes, he is bringing you lunch and walking you home, and no, he doesn’t care if you think it’s “too much.” and slowly, the girl who once thought success meant saying yes to everything starts learning how to say no.

ino’s proud of you. he always has been. but now? now he’s proud for you. because you’re still brilliant, still ambitious—but you’re happy, too. and that's the version of you he always wanted to love.

your love is loud.

not the annoying kind of loud—though inumaki’s friends might argue that point—but the good kind. the kind that fills every quiet space. that buzzes with laughter and slams cabinet doors and yells from the shower, “do you think pluto misses being a planet?” while he's brushing his teeth. you are his voice. and you never mind being it.

you speak when professors ask dumb, intrusive questions about his muteness. you say no when he can’t afford to risk saying it himself. you make it known—loud and clear, unmistakable—that you love him. that he is enough. that he is yours.

and he doesn’t need a thousand words to love you back. he just looks at you like you hung the stars yourself. he kisses you like a prayer. he taps his fingers three times against your wrist—i love you in the language only you and he share. it’s perfect. you’re perfect. until the exams start looming.

at first, it’s small. a missed meme here, a shorter phone call there. you’re still talking, still laughing, but it’s... less. and then it gets quieter. you stop yelling from the bathroom. you stop planning your little dates. you stop talking altogether on some days—just kiss his cheek, tired-eyed, and disappear into your books.

it’s horrifying. like watching the sun flicker out.

he doesn’t doubt your love. you’d never let him. you’d carved it into the walls of his world with every grin, every “you’re mine, forever, deal with it,” every hand squeezed under the table during group dates. but he misses you. the you who would sing off-key in the car. the you who once narrated his entire grocery list in the voice of an australian accent. so he fights back. quietly. carefully. tactically.

he starts leaving you little notes:

"you’re the smartest person I know."

"your brain is hot. that’s unfair"

"I love you more than rice balls."

(and in tiny scribbles) "don’t tell salmon."

they’re everywhere. in your shoes. on your toothpaste. tucked between pages of your study guides like secret spells.

he learns how to cook, too—little meals, nothing fancy, but made with so much love it might as well be michelin-starred. he pouts dramatically when you hesitate to eat, eyes big, mouth drawn down, holding the plate like a peace offering. and you fold, always. because how can you not? not when he made it for you.

and then the test comes. that stupid fucking test that stole you from him. you ace it. of course you do. you walk out of the testing center a little dazed, a little pale, and into his arms, and he scoops you up like the national treasure you are. doesn’t say a word. just holds you. then he takes you home.

he feeds you. literally spoon-feeds you soup he made himself. he showers you, kissing waterdrops off your cheeks, washing your hair with reverence like you’re something holy. he lays you down in bed and kisses your forehead, your knuckles, your stomach, your spine. worships you without ever saying a word. and bit by bit, your spark returns. you tease him again. you dance while brushing your teeth. but here’s the thing: now he watches for the signs. watches closely. a little too closely, maybe—but he’s not letting that darkness steal you again.

so when he sees you looking so tired again? he tugs your sleeve and hands you a note: no fading. I need your noise. and you read it, smile, and say, “you’ll never get rid of me that easy.” thank god.

choso is not a school guy. never has been, never will be. he goes because he has to, because society demands it and his scholarship requires it. but it’s never going to be his thing. he floats through most of his classes like a ghost—half-there, earbuds in, hoodie pulled over his head. a b+ on a paper is a win in his book, even if the professor writes "needs revision" all over it. who cares. life’s short. he’d rather be sleeping.

you, on the other hand, care. you care so much. about everything. you’re his high-strung, teeth-gritting, color-coded, always-scheduling, never-late girlfriend. and god, does he adore it.

he loves how strict you are. loves how you wake up at 6:00am every day without fail. loves the way you brush your teeth for exactly two minutes, three times a day. loves that you have a salad every tuesday and the exact same pasta order every thursday. you’re sharp edges and ticking clocks and perfect routines, and he—chaos incarnate—thrives under your rule. you keep him functioning. you’re the reason he knows when to register for classes, the reason he turns in assignments on time, the reason he eats meals that didn’t come from a vending machine.

you're the reason he's even passing. but that stupid, stupid theoretical geometry class…it drives you nuts. not slowly. not like a spiral, like most things. no—this class is like a wrecking ball to your entire system. you hate it. you say it constantly. “it’s not even real math,” you groan. “it’s just concepts. I can’t work with concepts. I need problems. I need solutions.”

at first, choso thinks it’s kinda cute. your little rants. the way you scowl at the textbook like it personally offended you. he tries to encourage you with little pats on the back, forehead kisses, sitting on the floor next to your desk with his laptop so you’ll stay focused while he scrolls through reddit and tells you about cursed fan theories. but then, the changes start.

you stop brushing your teeth three times a day. you forget to make lunch on tuesdays. your planner—your beautiful little planner that he once saw you cry over when you accidentally spilled coffee on it—starts collecting dust. you cancel date night. you forget date night existed. you study through dinner, through sleep, through entire days, and suddenly, choso’s the one asking you when your assignments are due. you are unraveling. and choso is helpless.

he tries to support you. follows you to study sessions like a sleepy, loyal puppy, clutching your coffee order and not understanding a single damn word of what you’re talking about. he doesn't get theoretical math. he barely gets regular math. but he tries. he watches youtube videos meant for third graders. he makes flashcards—incorrect ones, half the time—but he hands them to you with such innocent hope in his eyes that you pretend they’re helpful just to kiss him on the cheek.

he never once asks you to stop. never once says, “you’re scaring me,” or “you’re making yourself sick.” but he wants to. so badly. you’re not sleeping. you’re thinner. you smell like stress and highlighters. you apologize all the time, say you miss him, say you’ll fix it soon. but nothing fixes.

so he adapts. he picks up your slack. makes you breakfast, even if it’s just a granola bar and a post-it that says "please eat. you’re gonna ace it. also I miss you :/." does your laundry and folds it wrong and puts your shirts in the wrong drawer but he tries. he doesn’t even complain when you forget to text him back for a day and a half. he just sends a message like, “love you. proud of you. text me when you remember I exist!!” it sounds so needy and passive aggressive, but it’s not, it’s just choso, who so genuinely wants you to remember that you’re not alone. 

it breaks his heart when you reply, “I always remember. I just hate myself for not being better.” he refuses to let you carry that weight.

so when you cry the night before the exam, whispering, “what if I fail? what if I'm just not smart enough?” he kisses your temples and says, “then we drop out and open a donut shop. we’ll sell those cinnamon ones you like. you’ll do the math. I'll man the fryer.” you pass with flying colors. because of course you do. you’re brilliant and capable and too hard on yourself.

and the moment you do, choso sits you down and says, as gently and lovingly as a man with no boundaries or math comprehension can, “never again.” he means it. no more sacrificing your joy for a grade. no more skipping meals for numbers. no more breaking the routines that make you feel safe, secure, you. and you agree. you apologize again, of course you do, but he cuts it off with a kiss. he doesn’t want apologies. he wants his girl back.

you vow to never take another theoretical math class again—would rather switch majors, hell, switch schools. and choso vows to guard your schedule, your wellbeing, your sanity with the same devotion you once used to guard his grades.

because sure, he doesn’t care much about school. but he cares about you. and you? you’re the only constant he never wants to theorize. you’re the equation he solved the moment he met you. and he’s never letting you fall out of balance again.

at first, you wouldn’t let him help. you couldn’t. not because you didn’t need it—you did. badly. but need was dangerous. need led to reliance, and reliance led to disappointment, and you’ve never known anything but disappointment in the end. so you met every one of nanami’s gentle offerings with a hiss, a cold shoulder, a stiff spine and a scoff. you didn’t want kindness. you didn’t trust it. and yet—he stayed.

with his quiet voice and his tired eyes and his soft cashmere sweaters. with his thoughtful meals and perfectly timed cups of tea. with his ability to sit in silence and not make it feel like you were doing something wrong. nanami showed up for you over and over again, until you stopped flinching at the idea of someone showing up at all.

he’s older. settled. solid in a way that feels unreal to you. while you burn the candle at both ends and run yourself into the ground over essays and projects and unrelenting deadlines, nanami clocks out at 5:00, makes dinner at 6:00, and asks you if you’d like to come over for dessert like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

at first, you declined. then you said maybe. and then one night, you cried on his kitchen floor over a c in a class you hated, and he held you like it didn’t ruin his shirt or his night or his impression of you because, in all honesty, it only ruined his shirt; nothing more.

you started staying over. not all the time. not enough to leave your toothbrush next to his. not enough to cancel the lease on your overpriced apartment you barely use. you’re still scared. still stubborn. but god, does he make it hard to stay guarded. nanami treats you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever loved. not fragile—just precious. important. he has rules, quiet ones, and most of them are about you. you don’t skip meals. you don’t stay up past 1:00am. you don’t berate yourself over an 89.7 instead of a 90.

sometimes you listen. sometimes you argue. sometimes he finds you passed out on your laptop at 3:00am, and you feel his disappointment like a knife, but he never scolds you. never raises his voice. he just picks you up, tucks you in, presses a kiss to your temple and says something like, “you don’t have to do this alone.” and you don’t. that’s the worst part. you don’t. you have him. but sometimes your brain forgets that. especially this semester. this hellish, soul-draining, motivation-murdering semester that chewed you up and spit you back out into another one before you even caught your breath. nanami watches it happen in real time. watches you stop coming over. stop answering calls. stop eating the banana bread he baked with you in mind.

you’re not resting. you’re not sleeping. you’re not you. it scares him. not that he’d ever say it aloud. but it kills something in him every time you say, “I'm fine,” and he knows you’re lying. it’s like you’ve forgotten everything he taught you. so, he tries again. he doesn’t lecture. he never begs. but he texts. “are you eating today?” “my place is quiet. come nap.” “I miss you. you don’t have to talk. just be here.”

and finally, finally, finals end. and he takes you. scoops your burnt-out, hollow-eyed body from the wreckage and makes it his personal mission to bring you back to life. you sleep for almost a full day the first night at his place. when you wake up, he’s sitting in the armchair across from the couch, reading, glasses low on his nose. he just says, “welcome back,” and doesn’t comment on the dried tears on your cheeks.

every day of break, he softens you. with warm breakfasts and long baths and small, safe silences. with his hand on the small of your back and the quiet strength in his presence that says I've got you. eventually, it happens. the breakdown you’ve been avoiding for weeks. it’s late. you’re curled into his side, finally eating real food again, finally existing again, and you whisper, "I'm sorry. I shut you out. I didn’t mean to. I just...I don’t know how not to. I thought I was better, I—"

he doesn’t let you finish. just pulls you close and says, “you are better. you’re just tired. and I'm here.” you cry. you hate that you cry. but he doesn’t. he’s kissing your forehead, brushing your hair behind your ear, murmuring, “you’ve never hurt me. I only hurt when you’re hurting.” and that’s the moment you remember why you let him in at all. because he’s steady. because he’s not scared of your sharp edges. because where others left, nanami stayed. and when he suggests you take fewer credits next semester, your gut reaction is guilt, shame, refusal.

but he just raises an eyebrow and says, “you’ll still graduate in time. and even if you don't—I'm not going anywhere.” you believe him. for once in your life, you believe someone. so you drop the extra class. you leave a toothbrush at his place. you take a deep breath for the first time in months. and nanami—your warm, unwavering constant—watches you come back to yourself, bit by bit, every day. and he doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it every time he looks at you: no one can love you like I do. and that is the most beautiful thing I've ever had the privilege of. 

sukuna doesn’t do the boyfriend thing. not really. he’s hot, he’s untouchable, he’s slept with half the campus and ghosted the other half. he’s not the kind of guy who remembers anniversaries or asks how your day went or makes soup when you’re sick. or at least—he wasn’t. until you. you, who never asked him to be anything other than what he already was. you, who looked him in the eye, rough edges and all, and said “I don’t need to fix you.” you meant it. you still mean it. but he changed anyway. because disappointing you? hurting you? even by accident? that’s the one thing he can’t stomach. not now. not when he’s ruined so many things and somehow still got lucky enough to have you.

so when you start falling apart, he notices. it starts with a couple of weirdly average grades—an 85% on a midterm you were supposed to crush, a 7/10 on a quiz you studied hours for. you brush it off, but he sees the way it eats at you, worms its way into your confidence. you start staying up late, later, all night sometimes. your routine crumbles. you’re skipping meals. walking home alone in the dark. crawling into his bed after midnight and thinking he doesn’t notice. he notices.

and at first? yeah, he thinks it’s cute. in a stupid, masochistic way. you care so much. for what? a grade? a professor’s approval? you're a writer—an incredible one. he’s read your stories, soaked in your words, memorized whole passages of shit you’ve barely shared with anyone else. you don’t need a degree to prove you’re brilliant. you already are. but then it stops being cute. then it starts hurting. because now you’re not just tired. you’re hollow. you’re not just busy. you’re gone. and he can’t fucking stand that.

so he inserts himself. shamelessly. aggressively. shows up to the library with your favorite takeout. forces you to eat. pulls you out of your chair and into his lap like it’s his god-given right. covers your mouth with his hand when you protest, glaring at you through crimson eyes as he mutters, “you’re done for the night.”

and when you whine, “I'm not even close to being finished, kuna,” he just kisses the top of your head and doesn’t give a shit. “flunk out,” he says into your hair. “drop out. who cares? I'll handle everything.” he means it. every single word. if you never worked again, if you never lifted a finger again, he wouldn’t mind. in fact, he might prefer it. because sukuna has never believed in much—not school, not rules, not people—but he believes in you. always has. so he tightens his grip around your schedule. limits your study hours. makes you sleep. crushes you against his chest each night so you can’t wiggle away. when your friends text, “come study with us!” he replies for you: “she’s busy. fuck off.”

and it helps. a little. he keeps you from slipping too far. but even with his arms around you, you're still unraveling, whispering, “I don’t think I can do this,” like it’s some shameful confession. then the test comes. and you pass. not just pass—you crush it. top of the curve. feedback glowing. you’re shaking when you tell him. laughing in disbelief, wide-eyed and breathless, “I don’t know how it happened, it’s a miracle, I don’t—kuna, I thought I was going to fail—”

and sukuna, mr. I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-grades, who’s said a hundred times he doesn’t care if you pass or fail or burn the whole damn school down—he cares.

because that smile? the one on your face now, bright and radiant and real? that smile is what he does this all for. that smile is the closest thing to heaven a man like him will ever get. so he just shrugs and pulls you into his lap again, buries his face in your shoulder. “miracle my ass,” he grumbles. “you’re just a fucking genius.”

yuuji isn’t the best at school, but that doesn’t make him stupid—he’s sharp in all the ways that matter, intuitive, emotionally intelligent, loyal to a fault. still, academics were never where he shone brightest, and he knows that, accepts it with a shrug and a grin and a “hey, at least I'm trying.” and he is trying. not for some future career, not because he cares about grades or accolades, but because he wants to be good at something the way you’re good at everything. because when he looks at you—so graceful under pressure, so sharp and composed and somehow still soft with everyone around you—he wants to measure up. he wants to keep pace, even if he stumbles more than he’d like. even if half the time he’s just hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

you’ve always been kind to him about it. never made him feel slow, or behind, or less. you’re good like that—gracious in ways that disarm people, a born favorite, beloved without even trying. professors pull you aside to thank you for participating in class discussions. classmates email you asking for help. you’ve got this gentle gravity to you, this rare balance of competence and compassion, and it makes people trust you instantly. yuuji most of all.

but this semester, something shifted. you cut back on your work hours after landing an academic scholarship—because of course you did, you're brilliant—and decided, for reasons he still doesn’t entirely understand, to nearly double your course load. “I just wanna graduate a little faster, yu,” you said with that breezy smile, brushing it off like it was nothing, like your daily planner wasn’t already choked with color-coded breakdowns and your tote bag wasn’t already sagging with books and half-empty energy drinks. and at first, he believed you, because you’ve never lied to him before. you’re honest, almost to a fault. but it didn’t take long before that soft shell of composure started to crack.

you started sleeping less, studying more. the calls you used to answer right away now go to voicemail. the “good morning” texts he used to get by 7:30 are coming in hours late, if at all. you haven’t been to his apartment in over a week. and sure, you’re still managing—somehow you’re still getting the work done—but you’re so tired, and it’s not the kind of tired sleep can fix. he can see it in the way your voice shakes when you ask for an extension, even though the professor gives it without question. he hears it in the pause before you say “I'm okay,” like you’re trying to convince yourself. and it kills him. because you’re the strong one. the one who holds everything together. if you’re falling apart, then what hope does he have?

but here’s the thing—yuuji's tired, too. no one really notices, because he doesn’t complain. because he doesn’t let himself slow down. because his instinct, always, is to carry the weight alone if it means someone else gets to breathe a little easier. but he’s burning out right alongside you, pulling back-to-back all-nighters and forgetting to eat, pretending he’s fine because you need him to be. that’s who he is. that’s who he’s always been.

and when finals week finally ends—when the tests are done and the caffeine shakes wear off and the dark circles under both your eyes start to fade—he decides, without hesitation, that it’s over. no arguments. no compromises. you’re taking the summer off. you’re going to gojo’s beach house with megumi and the rest of the crew. you’re going to sleep until noon and eat things that don’t come in plastic wrap and learn what it means to do nothing again. and he is not letting you back into a course load that chews you up and spits you out just so you can cross the stage a semester earlier.

he doesn’t say it angrily. he says it quietly. like a vow. like a promise. because if anyone deserves to rest, it’s you. and if anyone’s going to make sure you actually do it, it’s him.

“you’re not weak for being tired,” he says one night, the two of you curled up on his bed, your body half-draped over his, your limbs heavy like you’re finally allowing yourself to feel just how exhausted you really are. “you work harder than anyone I know. and I know a lot of people who punch curses for a living.”

you huff a tired laugh against his chest, but it sounds more like a sigh. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just…I thought if I could do it all now, if I could push through a little more, I could get to the good part faster. you know? the part where I've made it.”

he runs his hand over your back, gentle, rhythmic. “babe, you already made it. you're already everything. the rest is just paperwork and deadlines and weirdly specific formatting rules.”

you don’t respond for a long moment, and he can feel your breathing shift, feel the guilt brewing behind your silence, the way you stiffen just slightly like maybe you're trying not to cry. so he keeps going, softer now, slower.

“and hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up so you’ll look at him, “just because I couldn't fix this doesn’t mean I don’t see how hard it’s been. you don’t have to pretend for me, okay? I know it hurts. I know you’ve been running on empty. you don’t have to carry that alone.”

“but you’ve been tired too,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your own concern. “I haven’t even been there for you—”

“yes, you have,” he says, without letting you finish. “you always are. even when you think you’re not.”

he kisses your forehead then, like he’s sealing in every word. and it isn’t grand. it isn’t dramatic. but it’s real. it’s soft. it’s everything he’s been holding onto and everything he wants to give you now—space to fall apart, and space to rest, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back but lets you collapse into it anyway.

“you and me, okay?” he says into the silence. “all summer. rest, movies, megumi absolutely tearing gojo to shreds, eating until we feel sick. we deserve that. you deserve that.”

and this time, you believe him. not because you’re magically okay. not because the burnout vanishes. but because yuuji’s holding it with you, both hands open, no expectations, no shame—just love.

[deansbeer]

𓂃𓈒 pretty little distractions !

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 adult content ; minors go away.

♡ synopsis. jason comes home exhausted from night patrolling gotham, only to find you waiting in a tiny pink lace dress—exactly what he didn't expect.

♡ warning(s). teasing, suggestiveness, playful intimacy, strong language.

♡ kari notes. i hope u enjoy whatever this is <3 he lives rent free in my head w his roommate deano teeeheee and i did my best to write him as well as i could ???? so please don't be a dick. thanks <3

it's late—or early, really—when you hear the familiar sound of heavy boots against the rooftop outside your apartment window. your heart immediately flutters, knowing exactly who it is. jason's finally home from his patrol, safe and sound, and the relief floods you instantly, easing the quiet worry you've been carrying all night.

you've spent the evening alone, bored and restless, trying to distract yourself. eventually, you'd decided to try on the pretty little pink lace dress you'd bought earlier on impulse, just to see how it looked.

you'd planned to surprise jason with it tomorrow, but the soft fabric felt too nice against your skin to take off right away. you'd lounged around in it, waiting for him, and now clothes are scattered all over the bedroom floor—his sweats, your t-shirt, and a pile of laundry you'd forgotten to fold earlier.

he'll tease you about it for sure, the mess you've left behind, but you can't bring yourself to care. all that matters is he's home now, safe and yours again.

you’re still lost in thought, absently bending over to pick your clothes up from the floor, completely unaware of just how exposed you are in your tiny dress.

the soft lace barely covers your ass, riding up each time you lean forward. you're so distracted you don't even hear the bedroom window slide open, or the quiet intake of breath behind you as jason slips inside.

"well, damn."

his voice—low and rough and entirely unexpected—startles you, making you jump slightly. you stand quickly, spinning to face him, heart hammering in your chest.

he's leaning casually against the windowsill, still fully suited up in his red hood gear, helmet already removed and resting loosely in his gloved hand. his dark hair is slightly sweaty, messy from patrol, and those piercing green eyes are locked firmly onto you, completely darkened with heat.

"jay," you breathe, relief and excitement flooding your body at once. "you're home."

his gaze rakes slowly over you, lingering appreciatively on the sheer lace hugging your curves, before he meets your eyes again, a cocky smirk tugging at his full lips. "yeah, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dripping with amusement and hunger.

"and here i thought patrol was exhausting. but coming home to find you bent over like that? fuck, that's enough to wake me right back up."

your cheeks flush hotly, suddenly hyper-aware of how little your dress actually covers. you bite your lip, feeling equal parts shy and exhilarated under his intense stare. "didn't realize you'd be back yet," you admit softly, glancing down with a small, shy smile. "figured i'd clean up before you got home."

he chuckles lowly, setting his helmet carefully aside and stepping closer, eyes never leaving yours. "oh, trust me, doll. i ain't complaining."

you swallow thickly, heart racing faster as he closes the distance between you. he reaches out, gloved fingers gently brushing along the delicate lace at your hip, his thumb teasing the bare skin just beneath.

your breath hitches sharply at his touch, warmth pooling deep and hot inside you. "this new?" he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his eyes burning into yours. "don't think i've seen it before."

you nod slowly, feeling a little breathless. "bought it today. wanted to surprise you."

he hums approvingly, fingers tightening gently on your hip, his other hand moving to cup your cheek tenderly. "consider me surprised," he whispers huskily, thumb brushing softly along your jaw. "fuck, you look good enough to eat."

you shiver at the intensity behind his words, heat flaring between your thighs. your fingers instinctively curl into the heavy fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer. "missed you," you whisper softly, eyes searching his face. "i was so worried."

his gaze softens slightly, thumb continuing to brush gently over your flushed skin. "i'm fine, sweetheart. always am," he reassures quietly, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "and i'm home now. right where i belong."

you tilt your head up, capturing his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, needing to feel him close, to reassure yourself he's really here. he kisses you back eagerly, lips moving hotly against yours, his strong arms wrapping securely around your waist. when you finally break apart for air, he's breathing heavily, eyes darkened even further with desire.

"goddamn, baby," he groans softly against your mouth, his voice rougher, hungrier now. "this dress… did you even see how short it is?"

you laugh breathlessly, biting your lip playfully. "maybe i did."

his eyes narrow slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he grips your hips, turning you gently around until you're facing away from him.

he gently pushes you forward, bending you slightly over the bed, his hands sliding up your thighs, bunching the soft lace even higher. he sucks in a sharp breath behind you, fingertips gripping your ass appreciatively.

"fuckin' hell, sweetheart," he groans roughly, voice strained with pure want. "you know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"

you glance back over your shoulder, smiling innocently, heart pounding wildly with excitement. "and if i do?"

he laughs breathlessly, eyes blazing with heat as he leans over you, lips brushing hotly against your ear. "then you're gonna take responsibility for driving me fucking crazy."

you shiver, arching slightly back against him, feeling him pressed hard and eager against you already. "think i can handle that," you whisper softly, grinning playfully.

jason chuckles softly, pressing a heated kiss to your shoulder, his fingers tightening possessively on your skin.

"good," he growls lowly, voice dripping with promise. "because tonight? that little dress isn't coming off anytime soon."

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

"Halloween is a time for joy, costumes, and most importantly—free candy. But when Choso discovers that adults aren’t allowed to trick-or-treat, devastation ensues. Now, it’s up to you to gaslight, manipulate, and lie your way through an entire neighborhood. He’s getting that candy. No matter what."

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: based off of this ask!

You were not prepared for this.

You had woken up that morning with the same expectations as any other responsible adult on Halloween: binge-watch some horror movies that you had already seen twenty times, gorge yourself on the local store's finest selection of bulk discount candy, and ignore the 50+ trick-or-treaters outside by pretending you weren’t home. Simple. Predictable. Peaceful.

What you had not anticipated, however, was the scenario currently unfolding in front of you.

Because standing at your front door, illuminated by the warm glow of your porch light, was a very large, very ominous, very serious-looking man—clutching a tiny plastic pumpkin bucket in his hands like it was his most prized possession.

Choso.

And he was in a full costume.

Not just a lazy "I’m wearing cat ears, so technically I dressed up" kind of costume. No, this was handcrafted. Like someone had spent hours—maybe days—painstakingly assembling it, piece by piece, with the dedication of an over-caffeinated cosplayer on a deadline.

And that someone, apparently, was Choso.

He was dressed as a bat. Or maybe a vampire bat. Some kind of bat-adjacent creature. The details were immaculate—stitched wings attached to a black hoodie, little bat ears perched on top of the hood. You recalled a vague conversation where he had solemnly informed you that he learned about vampire bats on the internet and felt a deep, personal kinship with them due to their connection with blood. You had assumed he was joking. You now realized you had been a fool.

The most jarring part, though? The way he was just standing there. Expectant. Silent. Like a Victorian orphan who had just knocked on a bakery window, waiting for a kind-hearted stranger to toss him a loaf of bread.

“I am ready,” Choso announced, lifting up his little plastic pumpkin bucket.

“For what?” you asked, even though you already knew.

“To trick-or-treat.”

You stared at him. He stared back, utterly unphased, like this was the most normal request in the world.

You were the first to break. "Why?"

Choso tightened his grip on the bucket, his face as blank as ever. "Because I, too, would like free candy."

That was it. That was his entire reasoning. No further explanation. No additional context. Just that.

And, honestly? Respect.

Unfortunately, there was a flaw in his plan.

You let the silence settle between you before sighing, already feeling the impending heartbreak of what you had to say. "Choso, uh… trick-or-treating is for kids."

Silence.

Choso’s entire body went rigid.

“…Oh,” he said softly.

Oh.

Oh no.

His expression didn’t change much—because, well, it was Choso—but the shift in his aura was instant. The sheer, unfiltered heartbreak radiating off of him was enough to physically knock the wind out of you.

It was devastating.

You had just emotionally obliterated a 150-year-old man with the cold, cruel truth of modern society.

You had crushed him.

The light in his eyes dimmed immediately, his broad shoulders slumped, and his grip on his tiny plastic pumpkin bucket slackened ever so slightly. If Choso were a dog, his tail would’ve stopped wagging and dropped between his legs. He just stood there, looking at you like a kid who just found out Santa wasn’t real, but worse.

"But… there were other adults dressed up," he said, slower this time, as if he was carefully laying down his evidence in a court case. “I just… I thought…” His voice was quieter now. “I thought humans gave candy to people who asked nicely.”

Oh, Christ.

You felt your soul leave your body.

You hesitated, debating how to phrase your next words without causing further irreparable damage to this already emotionally fragile situation. "...Yeah, but—" You winced as his expression somehow got even sadder. "Some adults dress up, but they don’t actually get candy. It’s more for the kids—"

Choso looked like you had just personally stolen Christmas, burned the last existing copy of his favorite book, and drop-kicked his childhood dreams off a cliff. Like all 150 years of his life had been leading up to this moment, and you had just yanked it away from him.

This was a disaster.

And suddenly, you were spiraling.

Because how could you let this happen? How could you look this poor man in the face—the same poor man who had meticulously sewn bat wings onto a hoodie with his own two hands—who had never celebrated a human holiday in his life and deny him the one thing he wanted most in the world?

No. Absolutely not.

"Y'know what? Screw it," you blurted out, already grabbing your coat. "We’re going trick-or-treating."

Choso’s perked up immediately. "We are?"

"Yeah! Of course!" You grabbed your keys, practically shoving him out the door. "You deserve this, dammit. You made a costume! You're getting some goddamn candy!"

He still looked hesitant. "But… you said only children—"

"Listen," you interrupted, gripping both of his shoulders like a commander about to send a soldier into battle. "I am about to lie so hard for you. No one will question it. We are getting you that candy, even if I have to gaslight an entire neighborhood."

Choso stared at you, his dark brown eyes flickering with the tiniest bit of hope and gratitude. The relief that crossed his face was subtle, but it was there. He looked down at his pumpkin bucket, then back at you.

“…Thank you,” he murmured, soft and sincere.

You swore on your life in that moment: this man would not return home empty-handed.

Even if you had to commit minor fraud, threaten a few suburban dads, and launch an elaborate con involving fake IDs, Choso was getting his damn candy.

The first house you went to was owned by a sweet-looking old woman, who, upon opening the door, looked utterly baffled to find a six-foot, broad-shouldered, fully-grown man in a bat costume standing on her porch.

It was a level of confusion that could only be described as existential.

Her gaze flickered between you and Choso. Then back at you. Then back at Choso, as if she were trying to determine whether she had just walked into a prank show or a very specific fever dream.

Choso, ever patient, just stood there in total silence. Staring. His plastic pumpkin bucket held out expectantly, like some kind of summoned demon awaiting orders.

"Go ahead, honey. Say the thing!" You nudged Choso gently, as if prompting a very large, very stoic toddler.

Choso took this as his cue. "Trick-or-treat," he said, his voice completely monotone. It was less of a festive exclamation and more of a solemn decree, like he was passing a legal verdict instead of asking for candy.

The old woman blinked. Slowly. Processing.

“…Isn’t he a bit old for this?” she finally asked, her voice laced with cautious suspicion.

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest as if she had just slapped you across the face with a rolled-up newspaper. "How dare you! Are you… ageist?" You took an exaggerated step forward, lowering your voice. "Are you discriminating against my son?"

The old woman narrowed her eyes. “Your… son?”

"Yes! My sweet, precious boy! He just… grew a little too fast, okay?" You turned to Choso and squinted at him, as if mentally calculating. "He’s only—" (Quick, what was a reasonable child height-to-muscle-mass ratio?) "—twelve."

Choso, a fully grown man with a deep voice and with the physique of someone who could deadlift an entire car, nodded solemnly despite having no idea what was going on. "I drink a lot of calcium."

The old woman was now fully in crisis mode. You could see the internal debate happening behind her eyes: If this is a joke, it’s a weird one. If it’s not a joke, I can’t risk offending them. What if they sue? What if this is one of those TikTok social experiments? What if I end up on the news?

In the end, her survival instincts kicked in, and she relented with a resigned sigh, dropping a handful of candy into Choso’s bucket.

"Thank you," Choso said politely, bowing slightly like he had just received a sacred offering.

And then you both booked it before she could start asking for birth certificates.

Success.

At the next house, a middle-aged man answered the door, taking one look at Choso and immediately frowning. “Aren’t you a little—"

You cut him off immediately. "He has Benjamin Button disease."

The man’s mouth clamped shut.

Choso nodded again, his expression the picture of solemn tragedy. "It is very unfortunate."

The guy hesitated. He looked between the two of you, unsure whether to call BS or just accept this bizarre reality. After a beat, he slowly reached into his candy bowl and placed a handful of sweets into Choso’s bucket.

"Much appreciated," Choso said, as if concluding a business transaction.

And so it continued.

You and Choso went door to door, blatantly lying to every single person you met with reckless abandon.

One woman hesitated before handing over the candy. "But… he’s clearly an adult."

You gasped, scandalized. "Are you implying my son is ugly? That he looks old?"

Choso, ever the picture of unwavering composure, simply added, "That is very rude."

Faced with the sheer emotional weight of your combined performance, the woman panicked and shoved extra candy into Choso’s bucket out of pure, unfiltered guilt.

Another house was occupied by an absolute hardliner—an older man who refused to budge, arms crossed as he sized Choso up like a bouncer at a club.

"Look, kid," the man said, voice gruff. "I’m not giving candy to adults. It’s for the kids."

You shook your head, sighing deeply like you were about to drop some heartbreaking exposé. "Some people just don’t believe in the spirit of Halloween anymore," you lamented. "Some people just hate seeing others happy."

Choso frowned, looking like a kicked puppy. "It is a shame."

Crushed beneath the weight of the guilt-trip you had so expertly wielded, the man folded immediately.

"Fine, fine—just take the candy and leave," he grumbled, tossing a generous handful into Choso’s bucket.

At one point, a particularly skeptical guy gave Choso a long, hard stare. “That's no twelve year old. He’s literally so much taller than you!"

"And? Are you saying short people can’t be parents?" you demanded, voice rising in offense.

The guy, now visibly distressed at this unexpected turn of events, sputtered. "Uh—"

"I can’t believe this," you continued, shaking your head. "What year is it? I thought we were past this."

The guy, absolutely not wanting to deal with whatever this was, hastily threw an entire bag of Skittles into Choso’s bucket.

Choso, ever polite, bowed again. "Thank you."

This continued for sixteen more houses.

By now, it was a well-oiled machine—your chaotic schemes paired perfectly with Choso’s unwavering, deadpan delivery.

Each interaction followed a strict, scientifically proven formula:

1. The door would open.

2. The person would look up.

3. They would freeze upon seeing Choso.

4. Choso would hold out his pumpkin bucket, say, “Trick or treat,” with all the enthusiasm of an office worker forced into mandatory team bonding, and then just… wait.

5. You would improvise an absolutely insane lie to justify his presence.

It was performance art.

By the time you reached the sixteenth house, your credibility as a law-abiding citizen had been annihilated beyond repair.

Through it all, Choso remained the unwavering pillar of calm. He never faltered. Never broke character. Just stood there, nodding occasionally, completely unbothered as you burned every social bridge you had ever built in this neighborhood.

But it was worth it.

Because by the end of the night, his pumpkin bucket was overflowing.

As the two of you walked home under the soft glow of streetlights, the sound of rustling candy wrappers filling the air, Choso cradled his bucket with both hands, his grip careful, reverent—like a dragon hoarding its most prized treasure.

He was cradling it.

Like a newborn.

You bit back a grin.

"That was fun," Choso murmured at last.

His voice, as always, was calm, neutral, and completely void of inflection—but the way he held that candy? The way his fingers curled around the handle of his bucket just a little tighter?

Yeah. You could tell.

He was overjoyed.

"You had a good time?" you asked, grinning.

He nodded. "Yes." Then, after a pause, "Humans have good traditions sometimes."

You chuckled. "Yeah. Sometimes we do."

A comfortable silence stretched between you as you walked. Then, after a long moment of thought, Choso reached into his bucket, his expression unreadable.

And pulled out a small, single pack of Skittles.

He held it out to you.

"For you," he said simply.

You blinked. "Wait. Are you—are you sharing your candy with me?"

Choso nodded. "You helped me get it."

You took the Skittles, deeply touched.

Sure, you had just humiliated yourself in front of your entire neighborhood. Sure, you were probably banned from at least twelve houses.

But seeing Choso happy? Seeing him fully experience Halloween, free candy in hand, the faintest ghost of a smile softening his normally blank expression?

Totally worth it.

Because Choso deserved good things.

And if that meant gaslighting an entire suburban neighborhood into believing he was a very large, very muscular twelve-year-old?

Then so be it.

[jarofstyles]

Put Your Records On

This is a little thing I came up with at 2 am and kept writing till 5 lol. It's pop star y/n x rock star H. I don't do a lot of canon H and some things are changed/ don't fit into the real one but that's on purpose. Part two will be up very soon!

Check out our Patreon for early access to part 2 and 170+ exclusive writings!

WC- 4.2k

Warnings- dirty talk, mention of bullying (Brief)

She saw him from across the room- well, more like felt him. The room had a buzz in it that it hadn’t before.

It was common knowledge that he was going to be there. One of his best friends was hosting the after party for the BRIT awards, and she had been lucky enough to be invited considering her manager had been friends with the group for a while. Actually, it was a bit shocking that she’d never met the man considering how close their circles ran. She’d met a lot of his management and production team, even a few members of his band- but never the man himself. 

It was her second year after making it big on the music scene but her entire life, she’d been working towards this. School musicals, voice lessons, guitar and piano lessons, music had become her flesh and blood and she was determined to make it her bread and fucking butter. She’d been blessed with her voice and a talent like hers wasn’t one to waste, that’s what her parents had said as she grew up- and it had all paid off. She went home with Best New Artist and was coming down on the buzzing high of another huge accomplishment of her career. 

Harry was infamous, at the top of the damn world and everyone knew his name. He was just about to hop back on tour, one Y/N had been invited to attend by his manager himself. It seemed like today was the day they would finally meet in person, and judging by the recognition in his eye, he had heard about her too. 

God, that made her want to vomit. Growing up she’d been a casual fan of his band, been to a few shows even after scraping together enough money for a ticket along with her best friend. Said friend was lost somewhere in the room and Y/N knew she had a knack for awful timing, but as the man got closer to her she felt her insides begin to bubble. She wasn’t one to get starstruck super easily, thank god, but it was hard not to feel intimidated as he approached her. A black blazer with a very sheer pink blouse underneath, pants tight on the thighs and flared at the calves, necklaces hanging in a thatch of thin chest hair, she’d felt her mouth dry as his smile was given directly to her. Someone she’d grown up singing to in her bedroom, right into her hairbrush, was grinning at her like she was someone important. 

“So we finally meet.” Harry reached his hand out to shake hers. Clunky rings covered the digits as her own took them, shaking his warm hand with her own smile on her face. She’d been on stage in front of tens of thousands of people, and yet he was a bit more intimidating. Still she was going to do her best to use her brief acting skills and pretend her heart wasn’t in her throat. “I’ve heard so much about you- your album’s fucking brilliant.”

He was tipsy, she could see that much. His eyes were slightly hooded and he had a looser demeanor than he had seated at the table ahead of her at the awards show. Good for him. It wasn’t likely that he did this too much. It was well known that he wasn’t much for drinking during his working season and he’d won two awards! That called for drinks all around. 

What took her off guard, though, was the fact that he’d listened to her album. He listened and he had said it was good? Her cheeks heated as she realized he was still holding her hand, gently letting it fall as he took a step closer. It was a little loud out there but not too bad if you were close enough. “You think so? I’m hoping it’s all good things.” She let out a laugh she hoped sounded natural, adjusting her hair. The girl had always been one to fuss with her clothes when she was nervous but hopefully he didn’t realize that. “So is yours. Got quite a few on my playlists.” 

“Yeah?” His smile grew bigger. “Which ones?” Y/N felt the lump in her throat as she tried not to think about how good he smelled. It was so creepy, noticing that. There was a faint hint of tobacco and the tiniest bit of alcohol, but he smelled really warm. Cuddly, in a way. It made sense in her brain, but she was also a drink in at this point. 

“Mmm, I have a few from other albums but from the latest? Satellite, that’s the go to for the gym for me… Late Night Talking, very relatable for me. Erm… Boyfriends, unfortunately.” She saw him give a playful wince. “Yeah, men are shit- no offence. And then I’d say Daydreaming is a personal favorite. As It Was was brilliant, obviously, but Daydreaming is my favorite.” It felt like maybe she word-vomited a little but he’d listened to every word, seeming pleased with her answers. 

“Daydreaming isn’t one I hear of being a favorite, usually. M’chuffed that it’s yours.” He genuinely seemed happy about it. “I really liked the closing track of your album- it’s so rare to find albums that tell a story, that are thoughtfully laid out, at least at this point in time. I love to listen from front to back and it was laid out perfectly. Usually m’a bit of a snob and would have some critiques but you nailed it.” 

Y/N preened. It wasn’t a compliment she got often and it shocked her because that meant he’d really listened. Really paid attention to her music and took time with her album. It was extremely flattering. Surreal, really. Who could have told 15 year old Y/N that Harry would be a fan of her fucking music? She’d probably pass the fuck out. “I’m shocked you got that, but thank you. Yeah, I did the same thing growing up. It was my favorite part of music I’d find, seeing how stuff flowed together. Top to bottom and then bottom to top, then I can shuffle.” It was said in a slightly joking tone but she was fully serious. 

“You get it, Y/N.” He reached out to nudge her shoulder. “I’ve been trying to meet you for a bit but my schedule’s been hectic. Thought it wouldn’t be since we’ve been going for a bit now but tour prep… can be brutal, y’know?” 

Y/N did know, but on a minuscule scale compared to what his tour probably entailed. He was doing stadiums, for god’s sake! Y/N’s arena tour sold out quickly, but there was a huge size difference in where they were. Hopefully she’d reach his level one day. “I do, I do. It’s not a big deal, I didn’t think you were avoiding me or anything.” For a bit she did, but that was wiped away when she’d realized he released the tour dates. It had been months of almost meetings but she had faith in the universe. When it was meant to happen, it would. 

“God no, I was excited to. Did y’want to come sit with us over there?” He motioned to the private area she was allowed into but not been brave enough to venture to quite yet. 

“Sure, that would be nice.” Y/N hadn’t expected to be invited to sit with him personally, let alone feel his hand on her back as he led them through the crowd of people in the room. The star said hellos as he walked through but somehow had mastered the art of saying hi without being caught into a conversation without seeming rude. That was a skill she sure as hell was envious of.

His hand was really fucking warm. She could feel slight calluses on his fingertips, in true musician fashion, but they weren’t as rough as one would originally expect. Her backless dress did her no favors in hiding the warmth and how nice and comforting his touch felt, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank or scowl at her stylist. It wasn’t half as uncomfortable as the dress they’d pulled for the carpet, thankfully this dress was a slinky, emerald green one with room for her legs to actually move. Her updo had been taken down to a mess of curls that nearly reached where his hands were- the power of extensions. As heavy as her head felt, she couldn’t deny that she felt exceptionally beautiful. Thank god the universe had chosen today to meet Harry. 

“Finally!” Sarah sighed. “I’ve been waiting for you two to meet for ages. Come sit.” The woman had always been very sweet, even more sweet with a few drinks in her. Saying her hellos to the familiar people, she felt Harry sit himself next to her in the booth and immediately drinks were brought over. So this is why it was VIP. It was a lemon drop, something Y/N did happen to like. Harry handing her one before taking his own was unexpected but very appreciated, a gentle thank you exchanged as he settled back next to her. 

It was unreal to be here. To be sat at a table of friendly but insanely successful people, feel like part of the ‘in’ crowd, it had completely blindsided her. This was the sort of thing that she’d always thought about when she was in her bed at home as a teenager, hoping one day to rub elbows with the people she once admired so much they had space on her bedroom wall, and here it was. Someone who’s face was on her favorite bedtime tee shirt (Those merch shirts were expensive and she wasn’t about to get rid of it because a member was now in her circle). 

“Y/N, did you know that H added some of your songs to the preshow playlist in his dressing room?” Sarah hummed. 

“You did?” The girl gasped as she looked at him. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn she saw a bit of a pink glint to his cheeks. Maybe it was the alcohol. 

“He did, and he’s been raving about it to Mitch. Sometimes he’s singing it when we pass, that one song about the… what’s it called? The Raven? Some sort of bird.” 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink.” Mitch had to laugh at her airing a bit of Harry’s business, but she was a chatterbox when she was drunk. 

“That’s so nice!” Y/N said shyly. “You’re on mine too, actually. The dressing room for me and the one the fans listen to, I can hear them sing it from backstage.”

Harry’s leg was pressed into hers so she didn’t have to turn far to look at him, watching him finish his drink as he nodded. “I do, yeah. Told you I liked your music. I meant it.”

“Yeah, if he didn’t he wouldn’t mention it. That’s why when he met that girl earlier he just said it was nice to meet-” Sarah was cut off by her husband asking her if she wanted to see something on his phone, putting Harry out of his misery. 

“M’not an ass.” He groaned. “I just didn’t vibe with the album, y’know? I won’t say things I don’t mean but that doesn’t mean I can’t be polite.”

“Agree, 100%. It’s easy when it’s just a taste thing, but I’ve found it harder with people I’ve seen or heard talk bad about me and it’s confirmed. Dunno how you’re able to do that.” Y/N struggled to not show her nerves or distaste of people sometimes and it was something she was constantly working on. Her best friend often had to tell her to adjust her facial expressions and she’d even gone viral once for a ‘stink face’ she’d made at someone. It was accidental of course, but it’d also caused one of her first big waves of hate. 

“It’s not easy, and anyone who says so is lying.” Harry confirmed. “It’s taken me years. Said something about pussy on tv not realizing the cameras could see, so It’s trial and error.” The joke had the both of them laughing, Y/N not divulging that she indeed already knew that. “I think it’s important to just remember they’re humans and probably just as nervous t’see you. It’s just a short interaction and you can move on quickly. I also think working out, yoga, all of that helps a lot with my inner calm. It isn’t easy, like I said, but you’re also in the beginnings of your career in this sort of light. I’ve got no doubt that you’ll be able to have a good poker face by the end of the year.”

“God, I love that song.” Y/N sighed. “Poker face, loved that one I mean. But thank you. I really do appreciate the advice. I was terrified coming tonight. The award shows are much scarier than your own gigs.” 

“Oh, definitely.” Harry whistled, taking another drink from the tray and handing a fresh one to her. “S’like, you know the people who go to your shows are there for you. It’s like a little family get together, it’s safer. Those people love you enough t’buy a ticket, travel got knows how long, wears a shirt with your face on it. It’s mental to think about but incredible. These things?” He motioned around the room. “All marketing and partying, but more drama. S’crazy how many people have slept with each other in this room.” Harry realized a bit too late that he’d said too much but thankfully Y/N just giggled in agreement. “You seem to take to it quite well though. Not to sound weird but I saw you accept your awards and socialize a bit here, you’ve probably got the whole room fooled.”

That was a relief and a compliment in her opinion. The goal was to make sure no one sensed the weakness. Unfortunately she’d learned early on that these people could sniff it out like a shark in bloodied water. “That’s the goal.” She replied, leaning back into the seat. Her back was killing her from the bloody heels on her feet and how tight her other dress was, so it was a relief to have this reprieve from them sitting here. 

“So tell me about your tour then. What’s going on with that?”

—-----------

Y/N was drunk. Certifiably hammered. She had one too many lemon drops and apparently, so did Harry. Some of the people had vacated the booth and it left them alone as they talked amongst themselves. With the aid of the liquid courage, she wasn’t losing her mind over how close they were. Sure, her heart was still going a million miles a minute, but that was due to his fingers fiddling with the strap of her dress. Harry was, evidently, a touchy drunk. Clingy. He’d even followed her to the bathroom and waited for her outside before they’d returned. 

In all honesty, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t believe all of this in the morning. That Harry had ignored everyone else in favor of talking to her, tucked away in VIP at a round table, his body closer than it needed to be considering the space. They’d talked about a lot of industry things, but more so the fun and personal. She told him about her collection of band tee shirts and admitting to not having listened to all the bands she wore, but he didn’t judge her for it. Said he went through a phase of doing the same while in the band. She told him about her cat, a Siamese named Simon and he’d cooed over photos on her phone about how cute he’d looked with his collar that had a little flower on it. So many topics were covered, so many things discussed in the last two hours that she felt like she was getting a handle on who he was. 

Though this many drinks, it was bleeding into oversharing.

“Your ex was at the awards?” He asked, eyes slightly red but widening as she dropped the tidbit.

“Yep.” The p in the word was exaggerated with a pop of her lips and an eye roll. “Note to you for the future, don’t fuck anyone involved in your production team. Makes for a nasty breakup and a lot of rude ‘inside sources’ with the press.” Her lips flattened. “And he couldn’t even make me finish, so. Fuck him.”

Harry’s eyes widened further before he groaned, his head dropping to the side onto the leather booth seat. “No, not that, Y/N. C’mon.” He seemed a bit distraught. “It’s always those guys that make your life hell, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I did learn that a bit early on.” He seemed to remember it but she didn’t ask. If he didn’t divulge it, she wasn’t going to pry. “You got the shit end of the stick. It’s one of my embarrassments being a male. Y’don’t have to be a rocket scientist to learn how to pleasure a woman.”

“You’d think.” She scoffed. “Swear, men in LA don’t know how to use any of their appendages. Used like a human fleshlight so I stopped hooking up with people. It got discouraging after the fifth time I left. Not a single one know where the clit is.” It was an unfortunate truth. Maybe she was looking in the wrong places or had a string of bad luck, but she’d been voluntarily celibate because of it. “Doubt you know what m’talking about, Mr Watermelon Sugar.”

Y/N realized her internal thought had become an external one when he broke out into his own giggles, her face heating. She’d definitely not meant for that to be said out loud, but thankfully he didn’t seem offended. It was the truth anyways, any man who loved pleasuring a woman so much that he wrote a whole song about it had to know what he was doing.

As his giggles came down, he replied. “Well, I’d like t’think I do. I…” He swallowed. “Know we just met, but overshare?” Scooting closer, he watched her nod. “I think I get off more on getting other people off, if that makes sense. Like, making someone feel good. I dunno if it’s some sort of ego thing, but I enjoy it a lot. Being the cause of pleasure. Think it probably ties in to a bit of a praise kink I’ve got, but it’s the truth.” 

Y/N had never thought she’d get into this sort of conversation with the man, let alone in a dark corner at the BRITs afterparty, but she wasn’t about to complain. “So it’s true then?” She rose an eyebrow. “You really love eating pussy?” Drunk Y/N had officially taken over. A bit of a drunk, horny Y/N she’d been trying to repress. In the morning she would be mortified that she asked that, but right now she was genuinely curious. 

“I do.” He smirked. “I dunno there’s just something about it. Being the one to make someone gasp. When it feels so good they try and push and pull you at the same time. Love the taste, love t’hear the noises. Maybe it’s a little arrogant of me but your name sounds better when it’s said with pleasure, don’t you think?” 

Y/N should have known better than to ask. Harry was a very attractive, alluring man, he was close to her and smelled so fucking good and god damn it, she was already horny. Her cunt throbbed and she knew she was going to have a wet patch in her thong when she left, but she was a glutton for punishment. “I do. I like giving for the same reason.” She admitted. “I’ve always had a lack of gag reflex so, it’s made it easier for me than other people probably have it.”

Harry’s interest seemed to be stroked, fingers brushing over her bare neck as she spoke. It was hard to concentrate here, with him so close. But Y/N always did like to be a bit of a tease, brushing the tip of her foot over the back of his leg. Maybe they were playing a dangerous game talking about this, but no one else was around. She didn’t fall back when his head dipped slightly, getting closer than necessary. “Look at us then. What a pair.” 

“I know. You’re just bold enough to write a whole song about it.” Her finger poked him playfully in the chest. 

“M’not apologetic about it. A woman’s pleasure is important and often overlooked. Makes me sad that no one’s made you feel good in that long. I hope you’re taking care of yourself at the very least.” Oh, she was. And she would be when she got back to her hotel tonight. Thank god for the suction vibrators. 

“I do, but it’s not the same as having someone else do it for you.” Her drunk self told her it as a good idea to pout, trying not to breath too hard as his fingers caressed the nape of her neck. “Sometimes I just miss the touch of another human, you know? Even innocent touches but, there’s nothing like being fucked so hard you feel it the next day. Feels like it’s impossible to find it anymore.” 

“It’s not.” He replied. Eyes were staring into her own. “You’re fucking stunning. Especially tonight, you could pull anyone in the room.” Gaze dipped down to her cleavage, not hiding that he was looking. Heat that had been bubbling in her stomach spread through the rest of her body, his touch igniting a bit of a spark. 

“Anyone?” Her head tilted to the side. The tension had been growing a bit with the two of them but now it was thick in the air. There was no denying that there was an attraction between them but it was palpable now. “So if I wanted to, I could pull you?” Y/N had no idea if he was even available for anything right now. It wasn't’ a smart idea considering how closely they worked near each other, but right now all she could think about was the fact that she had full confidence that Harry could give her the feelings that she wanted- the fuck she needed. 

“Absolutely. M’hanging on by a thread here.” His voice deepened, face far closer to hers than should be appropriate for two people who just met. “I’ve been trying to be a gentleman all night. M’a bit of a slut sometimes but hookups aren’t usually my thing. Was trying to figure out a way to ask you out but, I’ve been a little nervous.” Fingers curled around the back of her neck as their noses brushed. ‘But fuck it, right?” Warm breaths puffed against each others, leaving the ball in Y/N’s court. 

“Fuck it.” 

Harry took that and ran. Lips pressed against hers as he cradled her neck, angling her how he wanted while he slowly kissed her. It was shockingly intimate despite the setting, smooth, soft lips sucking lightly against hers. There was no sign of stopping as her mouth opened for him, letting their tongue brush and the heat rise between them. His body angled slightly to cover hers from view, he let out a low groan in his throat as her hand raised to his hair. It was soft and a bit long for him as of late, but it felt good between her fingers. His other hand held the side of her face, so gentle but solid that she knew she’d give into any of his demands. 

The party raged on behind them but they got lost in the kisses, one turning to three, turning to ten and they hardly came up for air. There was no doubt her makeup was going to be fucked up, that her lipstick was done for, but there was no better way to ruin it. “Y’taste so sweet.” Harry’s words were whispered against her swelling lips. “And you smell so good. Been driving me a bit crazy. Wanted to meet you for ages cause I knew we’d get on… but didn’t think we’d get on this well.” He chuckled into the kiss, squeezing the back of her neck and making her melt slightly into him. “Hoped for it, though.” 

“You did?” Her own voice was breathless as she tried to catch up to his kisses.. It was hard not to get butterflies when he hummed in agreement. Harry had been excited to meet her. “Had a little crush, did you?” The statement was fully meant to be a tease, but he agreed. 

“Suppose I did.”

[doumadono]

Synopsis: in a moment of vulnerability amidst the bustling city, you and Dabi find solace in each other's presence

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The midday sun beat down on the bustling streets, where people shuffled in a chaotic yet rhythmic dance. The city was alive with the hum of conversation, the honk of horns, and the shuffle of feet. People moved in waves, their faces a blur as they hurried along their paths, intent on their own destinations.

Amidst the throng of bodies, you walked alongside Dabi, both of you masked in anonymity. His hood was pulled low over his face, a mask obscuring the telltale marks that would give him away. You stayed close, your own disguise in place, wary eyes scanning the crowd.

Despite the disguises, the sheer number of people around made your skin crawl. Being in such a large crowd was unsettling. Every brush of a shoulder, every loud voice, seemed amplified in your mind. You stole a glance at Dabi, his intense turquoise eyes scanning the surroundings. As a villain, you were used to danger, but this - being out in the open, surrounded by civilians - was a different kind of threat. 

Dabi seemed unfazed, his steps confident and his posture relaxed. Shigaraki had sent you both on this little mission, a rare daylight venture that felt oddly mundane compared to your usual assignments. Something about gathering intel from a specific contact in the city, he’d said. You knew better than to question orders when they came with such urgency.

"Stay close," Dabi murmured, his voice barely audible over the din.

You nodded, but your eyes kept darting around, watching for any signs of trouble. The crowd surged around you, and a particularly aggressive shove from behind nearly knocked you off balance. Instinctively, your hand shot out, grabbing onto the first solid thing you could find.

Dabi's hand.

He glanced down, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn't pull away. You expected a snarky comment, a mocking grin, but instead, he simply tightened his grip, offering silent support. The unexpected warmth of his hand steadied you, grounding you in the chaos.

As you continued walking, you couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed. Here you were, a notorious villain, reduced to clutching someone's hand like a frightened child. But there was something comforting about the connection, something that made the overwhelming crowd feel a little less suffocating.

"Feeling better?" Dabi asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"A bit," you admitted, squeezing his hand slightly. "I just hate crowds."

"Me too," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But sometimes, blending in is the best way to stay hidden."

The memory of the first day you met Dabi played in your mind as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. 

It was a dark and stormy night, the kind where the rain seemed to soak through to your very bones. You had been on the run, a low-level villain with a price on your head, chased by both heroes and rival criminals. Exhausted and cornered in an alleyway, you had felt your heart pounding in your chest, the realization of your impending capture settling in.

Just as you prepared to make a desperate stand, he had appeared. Dabi, with his striking blue flames and an aura of controlled chaos, had decimated your pursuers in mere moments. His flames illuminated the rain-soaked alley, casting eerie shadows on the walls. You had watched, awe-struck and trembling, as he turned to face you, his eyes piercing through the darkness.

"Who are you?" you had managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He had studied you for a moment, his gaze assessing. "Someone who hates seeing good talent go to waste," he had replied, his voice calm and composed despite the chaos he had just wrought. "You looked like you could use a hand."

It was an offer you couldn't refuse. From that night on, Dabi had become your mentor, your partner, and eventually, your friend. The bond between you had grown stronger with each shared mission, each narrow escape, and each victory.

Now, as you walked through the crowded streets, you couldn't help but reflect on how far you had come since that fateful night. Dabi's hand in yours was a physical reminder of the connection you had built.

His hand was warm to the touch and solid, the skin rough and calloused from years of wielding his fiery power. Yet, there was a certain gentleness in his grip, a carefulness that spoke of his awareness of his own strength. He could incinerate anything he touched, yet he held your hand with a reassuring firmness, not too tight to cause discomfort, but strong enough to anchor you in the sea of faces.

The way his fingers intertwined with yours was deliberate, almost protective. It was as if he was saying, without words, that he would not let go, that he would stand by you no matter what. This simple act of hand-holding, something so mundane and ordinary in other circumstances, carried a profound weight between the two of you.

As you continued to walk, you stole glances at him, taking in the sight of his hood obscuring his face, the mask hiding his scars from prying eyes. Yet, even in disguise, he was unmistakably Dabi - your Dabi. The one who had saved you, who had fought beside you, who had become your anchor in a stormy sea that was called life.

The crowd thinned further as you approached a quieter neighborhood, the noise of the city fading into a distant hum. You felt a sense of relief wash over you, the anxiety of the bustling streets giving way to a more peaceful ambiance. Dabi's grip on your hand loosened slightly, but he did not let go. Dabi wasn’t one to express his feelings with words, but all of his actions always carried a deeper meaning.

Finally, you reached a secluded spot, a small park that offered a brief respite from the relentless pace of the city. The two of you found a bench and sat down, your hands still clasped together. The tension in your shoulders eased as you took a deep breath, the fresh air filling your lungs.

Dabi turned to you, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. "You were thinking about something," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Back there, when you grabbed my hand. What was it?"

You hesitated, then smiled softly. "The night we met," you admitted. "I was remembering how you saved me. How you offered me a chance when I thought I had none."

He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corners of his eyes. "It was a good night," he said simply. "A turning point. For both of us."

You squeezed his hand. "Yeah, it was. And I'm glad it happened."

“It feels different,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Dabi’s gaze shifted to you, a quizzical look in his eyes. “What does?”

“Holding your hand,” you explained. “It’s… grounding. Reassuring, even. It’s like, no matter what happens, as long as I have this, I can face anything.”

He was silent for a moment, absorbing your words. Then, his grip tightened slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of the bond you shared. “I get it. Sometimes, a little reminder helps.”

You leaned in slightly, your eyes never leaving his. “Dabi, I...”

Before you could finish, he reached up with his free hand and gently cupped your face. His touch was surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the fierceness he usually displayed. His thumb brushed softly against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. With the other hand, he pulled his mask down. “Shh,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Slowly, he leaned in closer, his eyes locking onto yours. Your breath hitched as the distance between you vanished, the anticipation building with every passing second. When his lips finally met yours, it was like a spark igniting a flame. The kiss was soft at first, tentative and exploring, but quickly grew more passionate as you both gave in to the moment.

His hand slipped from your face to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours with an urgency that mirrored your own. You could feel the steady beat of his heart through his chest, and it matched the frantic rhythm of your own.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his. The world around you felt distant, like a faded backdrop to the vibrant connection you shared. His eyes were closed, a rare expression of peace on his face.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice filled with emotion. “For being with me. For everything.”

Dabi opened his eyes, a rare softness in their blue depths. “I’ll always be with you,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “No matter what.”

[leaentries]

jamie “who absolutely lost his fucking mind the first time you called him daddy” drysdale

sounds of skin slapping and the headboard slamming against the wall filled the empty apartment. your loud moans turned into screams as jamie plunged himself in your cunt. his hands wrapped tightly around your legs that were propped over his shoulders.

you let your legs fall as they began to shake with pleasure. jamie’s hands switched to grab your hips, pulling your weight to meet his thrusts. you dug your nails into his forearms, drawing a deep groan from jamie.

“fuck just like that baby. taking me so well.” he leaned down, moving his arms to rest by your head as he laid his body flush against your own. you legs welcomed him with ease, wrapping around his waist to rest on his lower back.

you could feel the shocks of your orgasm begin to tighten in your belly. your pussy contracting violently around jamie’s thick cock. he sped up his pumps as he felt your core tug him in closer. the way your walls wrapped around his cock was heavenly.

“mmm, daddy.” you whimpered mindlessly. your head completely empty other than thoughts of jamie. your whole body and senses were consumed with him. you could feel his hip stutter, stilling slightly as he heard your words.

your eyes widened as you realized what you had said.

“what was that?” his blue eyes bored into yours, with a certain fire that you had never seen.

“n-nothing, jamie,” you swallowed thickly, turning your head away. “it was nothing.”

jamie’s hand gripped your face, forcing you to look at him once more. “no, no, baby. it was definitely not nothing.” he lowered his lips, now slightly grazing your own with each word.

“i want you to say it again.”

you bucked your hips pathetically, trying to get him to move them once more. his throbbing cock now unmoving in your aching cunt.

“not how this works, princess. say it again, or i’ll leave you here to finish yourself off.” normally you wouldn’t think jamie had it in him, always making sure to have you cum at least twice before he even thinks about himself. but the look on his face made it seem like he was serious.

the way his eyes were darkened and slightly hooded and his jaw rapidly clenching as he tried not to give in to the sweet tightness of you.

going against the burning sense of embarrassment, you felt yourself muttering the words, “please, daddy.”

“fuck me.” jamie whispered. he let his hips find their original pace, brutally snapping into your eager hole. his hands now gripped your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow, but you didn’t care.

all the mattered was the force that jamie’s cock was hitting that sponge spot inside of you with every shot of his hips. your mouth opened in a silent scream, your boobs bouncing with the sheer intensity of his thrusts.

“you like that princess?” he brings his lips down to yours once more, stealing a white-hot kiss. his tongue traces your lips, as you let him gain entrance. your body too fucked out to put up a fight.

jamie’s pulled back, panting. “that’s it, cum for daddy. make a mess on his cock.”

you felt the knot in your core snap as fiery pleasure seared your whole body. your blood boiling as your body arched into jamie’s rigid front.

you let out a meek cry, “fuck yes, daddy.” 

jamie quickly met you at the peak, the sound of your desperate cries enough to push him to his own orgasm. he continued his thrusts, shooting hot ropes of cum deep inside of your abused pussy.

he slowed down, making sure to work you both through your highs. jamie’s body collapsed against yours, laying his head on your chest. you both laid there panting, attempting to catch your breaths.

after a few minutes, you let your hand travel to his hair, gently playing with the messy strands. his own hands rubbed soothing circles into the reddish-purple marks on your hips. you basked in the bliss of each others spent bodies.

the peaceful silence was broken by your words, “so, daddy huh?”

he bit your shoulder lightly, face turning red.

“shut up.”

[sheslikealionimagines]

Ash and Aether ~ Part 1

Pairings: Gale Dekarios x Fem!OC

Rating: G

Genre: Slow burn romance

Words: 3.2k

Status: Complete (14 parts + Epilogue)

Summary: Aryn, a self-taught mage with wild, instinctive magic, crosses paths with Gale, a brilliant but burdened wizard whose life is tethered to a volatile arcane secret. What begins as an uneasy alliance deepens into a partnership of intellect, trust, and unspoken yearning as they challenge each other’s beliefs—and slowly unravel the walls around their hearts. Together, they discover that the most powerful magic isn’t found in tomes or incantations, but in the quiet understanding between two souls brave enough to truly see one another.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The hour before nightfall in Baldur’s Gate was Gale’s favorite time — or at least, it once had been.

The market square breathed softly under the gathering dusk, its stone streets warm from the sun, its lanterns just beginning to flicker alight. People passed by in a soft, weaving dance: merchants closing their stalls, children laughing and darting between carts, nobles riding homeward under banners of muted color. The air smelled of river mist, burning wood, fresh bread, and the faintest hum of magic beneath the surface of everything.

Gale walked slowly, his staff tapping lightly on the cobblestones, his dark cloak trailing behind him. He had no particular destination tonight. No impending catastrophe, no dark bargain to fulfill, no Weave-consuming orb weighing on his mind. Just a rare, unclaimed moment — and in that moment, he let himself listen.

It was an old habit, almost forgotten: opening his senses wide, feeling the current of the Weave as it moved through the city, slipping between bricks, sliding through whispers, curling around unseen corners. Magic was not an element; it was a presence, living and breathing alongside the world. And when Gale was still — truly still — he could hear it singing.

But tonight, something sang back.

At first, it was a flicker. A thin, erratic pull on the edge of his awareness, like the tickle of a string drawn tight. Not a polished spell or an intentional summoning — raw, hungry magic, leaking into the world without guidance.

Gale’s brow furrowed slightly, his pulse sharpening. He tilted his head, turning toward the western side of the square.

There, near the old bookstalls.

He moved quietly, weaving through the crowd without thinking, drawn by instinct and a low, rising curiosity that thrummed in his chest.

And then he saw her.

Aryn.

She stood half-hidden behind a precarious tower of secondhand books, one arm braced against the edge of the stall, the other stretched toward a thick, rune-carved volume near the top. Her cloak — dark, a little dusty from travel — was tugged haphazardly around her shoulders, the hood slipping halfway down her back. Strands of white-blonde hair glinted under the lantern light, messy and unbothered.

She was murmuring softly under her breath, eyes narrowed, lips moving as she read the faint etchings on the book’s spine. Her hand hovered just above the leather, fingers trembling slightly — not from fear, Gale realized, but from the sheer, barely-contained force that pooled under her skin, pressing outward.

Magic licked at her fingertips, pale violet, wild and untrained.

The Weave around her quivered like a struck harp string.

Gale stopped. For a long, suspended moment, he simply watched.

And the realization washed over him slowly, inexorably: she doesn’t know.

She had no idea what she was stirring. No idea the glyph she was a breath away from tripping, no idea the power in her blood, no idea the way the Weave was listening to her, leaning toward her, already half in love with her existence.

Gale’s heart gave a sharp, unexpected tug. He stepped forward.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice smooth but low, pitched just enough to carry across the hum of the market. “That glyph’s waiting for a careless touch. Another heartbeat, and it’ll snap.”

The woman startled, her head jerking up — and her eyes met his.

For a second, Gale forgot the rest of the world existed.

Her eyes were brown eyes, flecked with amber, sharp and alive, flickering with the kind of restless hunger he recognized too well: the hunger to know, to master, to become. She stared at him, momentarily frozen, her hand still hovering over the book, the faint violet shimmer pulsing just below her skin.

Then she blinked, cheeks coloring faintly. “I— I didn’t realize.”

“I know,” Gale said softly, stepping closer, his smile gentle, his pulse inexplicably quickened. “But the Weave does. It already knows you.”

She pulled her hand back, tucking it into the folds of her cloak, casting a quick glance at the book as though it might bite her. “Who… are you?”

“Gale,” he said, offering a slight tilt of his head. “Of Waterdeep.”

Her eyes widened faintly. “You’re that Gale.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Depends on which stories you’ve heard. Hopefully not all terrible ones.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile brushing across her face. “Not all.”

Gale watched her closely, feeling the faint crackle of her untamed magic even from this distance. She was raw, yes — dangerously raw — but underneath the wildness was potential. The kind that couldn’t be faked or learned in a tower or stolen from a scroll. The kind the Weave chose.

His curiosity deepened, folding inward.

“Are you self-taught?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated, then nodded. “There was no one to… to show me. I’ve been trying to figure it out myself.”

His chest ached unexpectedly. He remembered. He remembered exactly what that felt like.

“You’re brave,” Gale murmured, his voice softening. “Or reckless. Maybe both.”

Aryn’s eyes flashed slightly, her chin lifting. “I’ve come this far.”

He smiled, something warm and unfamiliar stirring in his chest. “Yes. You have.”

The market square moved gently around them — the quiet bustle of evening, the lanterns glowing brighter as the sun slipped below the rooftops. But here, in this narrow space between two strangers, it felt oddly still. Gale felt the Weave trembling softly between them, waiting, watching, holding its breath.

For the first time in many years, he let himself feel it too.

He stepped back slightly, motioning with his hand. “Would you like to see something?”

Aryn’s brow furrowed slightly, cautious. “What sort of something?”

Gale’s smile deepened faintly. “Nothing harmful. Nothing binding. Just… something true.”

She hesitated — then, slowly, she nodded.

He led her away from the crowded square, weaving through narrow streets until they reached a small, quiet park near the city’s edge. Trees arched overhead, their branches touched by faint enchantments, their leaves shimmering gently with caught starlight.

Here, the Weave was thinner, more pliant.

Gale lifted his hand, spreading his fingers lightly. Magic drifted from his palm — not a spell, not a command, just pure, shimmering weavework. Threads of light, delicate and soft, wove through the air like drifting silk, looping and braiding around them.

Aryn’s breath caught softly. She reached out once, almost without thinking, and the Weave leapt eagerly to her fingertips, wrapping around her as though recognizing its own.

She turned to him, wide-eyed. “It… it listens to me.”

Gale’s smile softened. “It always has.”

Their gazes held — and in that gaze, something unspoken passed between them.

Not a promise. Not yet. Not even a confession.

But a recognition. A flicker of knowing.

Gale, who had wrapped himself in guilt and duty and the heavy weight of survival for so long, felt something inside him shift — delicate, tentative, but undeniable.

He hadn’t expected her. Hadn’t expected this.

But here she was: Aryn. A novice wizard, untrained and brilliant, hungry and wild, with a connection to the Weave that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

And Gale, for the first time in what felt like centuries, dared to wonder if the Weave had brought her to him not as a challenge, not as a trial, but as a gift.

The park was quiet, tucked between ivy-wrapped walls and the soft silver of night.

Above them, the stars had begun to pierce through the velvet dark, their light faint but determined. Gale moved slowly across the grass, his boots pressing faint prints into the dew-damp earth. He lifted a hand, fingers curling, and the Weave responded — eager, familiar, wrapping him in its quiet breath.

Across from him, Aryn stood still, eyes wide, watching the threads of magic ripple through the air like drifting silk. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing the edge of a faint glowing line — and it leapt to her, coiling around her skin like a delighted cat twining around a leg.

Gale’s heart clenched sharply.

So raw. So unshaped. So much potential.

He hadn’t expected this tonight — hadn’t expected her. And yet, now that he stood here, watching her, something inside him stirred that had lain still for too long.

He had once been her, after all.

The brilliant young prodigy. The ambitious one. The man who believed he could change the world if he just reached a little further, dared a little more.

He remembered the way it felt: the Weave crackling under his skin like fire and light, the hunger for knowledge clawing at his chest, the certainty — so fierce, so blinding — that power was meant for him.

And then, of course, came the fall.

His throat tightened. He shifted his shoulders slightly, feeling the old familiar ache of the Netherese scar deep beneath his skin — a wound, a punishment, a curse he had dragged behind him for years. He could still see the moment in his memory: the orb burning in his hands, the rush of triumph curdling into horror, the explosion of magic too vast, too starved, too old to be caged.

I thought I was clever enough to hold it.

He wasn’t.

And in the aftermath — in the long years of clawing his way back from disaster, learning to live again with the constant whisper of that living bomb embedded in his chest — Gale had learned a bitter truth.

Power was never just power. Magic was never just magic.

It came with cost. With sacrifice. With ruin.

He had trusted himself once. He had trusted his own brilliance, his own mastery of the Weave, his own certainty that he could outthink the dangers others had feared. And he had been wrong.

Utterly, devastatingly wrong.

Now, as he stood quietly in the moonlit park, watching Aryn’s fingers tremble slightly as she touched the Weave, Gale felt that old ache stirring again — but not as sharp regret.

No, this was something softer. Something… wistful.

She reminded him not just of who he had been, but of who he might have been, had someone stopped him. Had someone seen him, early on, before the damage was done.

Had someone said: Slow down. You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to carry all of it yourself.

Aryn didn’t know yet what dangers she carried. She didn’t know what paths she might stumble onto, what traps awaited the gifted and the hungry, what ruin lay just beyond the next desperate grasp at power.

But Gale knew.

And that knowledge — that ache, that history — wrapped itself around his heart now as he watched her, protective and wary and painfully tender all at once.

Aryn turned toward him slowly, her eyes wide and faintly shining under the starlight. “This… it’s beautiful.”

Her voice was soft, almost reverent.

Gale smiled faintly, a twist of sorrow and warmth tightening in his chest. “Yes,” he murmured. “It is.”

He stepped closer, letting the Weave drift between them in slow, delicate threads. “But beauty can be dangerous too.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Dangerous?”

He met her gaze, steady and quiet. “The Weave is alive, Aryn. It wants to be shaped, to be used. But it remembers every hand that touches it. It keeps score.”

She swallowed, something flickering in her expression — doubt, maybe, or hesitation. “You speak like someone who’s… lost something.”

Gale let out a soft breath, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “I have. More than once.”

He could have left it there. Should have, maybe.

But something about her — something about the way she stood, raw and uncertain and brilliant — pulled the words loose from the places he usually kept buried.

“I was like you once,” Gale murmured. “Hungry for power. Certain that knowledge was its own kind of safety. That if I just studied hard enough, reached far enough, I could master the Weave itself.”

Aryn’s eyes softened, watching him carefully.

“I tried to harness something I wasn’t ready for,” Gale continued quietly. “An artifact of the Netherese — a fragment of magic so old and vast it was barely comprehensible. I thought I was clever enough to contain it.”

He lifted his hand briefly, touching his chest — feeling the faint, constant pulse of the orb buried beneath his skin. “I was wrong.”

Aryn’s breath hitched softly. “What happened?”

Gale let out a faint, rueful laugh. “It’s still here. Still burning. Every day, every hour, I carry it with me — a shard of ancient destruction, waiting for a misstep.”

He met her gaze again, and this time, he let her see the truth: the weight, the scars, the quiet exhaustion that had followed him through every battle, every triumph, every mistake since that day.

“I’m telling you this,” Gale murmured, “because you stand at the edge of the same path. And if no one warns you — if no one walks beside you — you might stumble where I fell.”

For a long, silent moment, Aryn didn’t move. She stood there, the moonlight caught in her hair, the faint shimmer of the Weave still dancing along her skin, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

Then, softly, she said, “I don’t want to walk it alone.”

Gale felt something crack open inside him — a thin, painful seam of longing he hadn’t dared touch in years.

Not just longing for companionship. Not just for understanding. But for redemption.

For a chance to stand beside someone not as a master or a savior, but as a partner. As someone who could guide, yes — but who could also heal.

Slowly, deliberately, Gale extended his hand. “Then let me walk with you.”

Aryn stared at his hand for a moment, her breath catching faintly in her throat.

Then, carefully, she placed her fingers in his.

As their hands met, the Weave surged softly around them — not a storm, not a crackling blaze, but a quiet pulse, a shared heartbeat, a beginning.

Gale closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of his past pressing against the fragile hope blooming in this moment.

He couldn’t undo his mistakes. He couldn’t erase the scars he carried, or the grief, or the years he’d spent clawing his way back from the edge.

But maybe — just maybe — he could make something new.

Maybe this was where healing began.

Not in grand gestures or world-shaking magic.

But here, in the quiet, with one novice wizard, under the stars, hand in hand.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Gale allowed himself to hope.

The two of them walked side by side under the canopy of the quiet night, their footsteps soft against the uneven stone streets.

The city had settled into its late rhythm: tavern songs drifting faintly from narrow windows, the occasional clatter of a cart, the cool hush of lamplight brushing across shuttered doors. But Gale barely noticed any of it.

His senses were full of her.

Aryn moved with a restless, unshaped energy — glancing around at the lamplight as if still seeing magic threaded through everything, her hands occasionally flicking open as if itching to test another thread, another current. She walked with her head slightly tilted, her brow faintly creased, deep in thought even as she stayed close to his side.

It was a closeness Gale hadn’t expected. Not physical, exactly, but… something in the air between them.

Something tentative and bright.

He found himself smiling, faintly, as they crossed the little bridge over the narrow canal. She caught him once or twice, shooting him a sidelong look — half curious, half wary.

Finally, she spoke. “You don’t have to walk me back, you know.”

Gale lifted an eyebrow, his smile softening. “No, I suppose I don’t. But I wanted to.”

Aryn huffed a quiet laugh. “Protective wizard, hm?”

He gave a quiet, amused sound. “Something like that.”

They turned down the final alley, the one lined with aging stone walls and overgrown vines, and emerged into the small square where the secondhand bookstall still stood. The old vendor had long since packed up, but a few crates remained stacked along the side, covered with cloth to keep off the dew.

Aryn paused there, turning slightly to face him. She drew her cloak tighter, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face. In the lamplight, her eyes caught the gold like polished amber glass.

“Thank you,” she said, voice softer now. “For tonight.”

Gale felt the words stir something deep in his chest.

He had not expected to meet anyone tonight. He had not expected to be moved. But standing here, watching this novice wizard — bright, eager, hungry for knowledge but still unshaped, still free — he felt a pull he couldn’t explain away as mere curiosity.

It was something more.

A spark. A thread beginning to weave.

“I don’t usually do this,” Gale found himself saying, his voice low, careful.

Aryn tilted her head, intrigued. “Do what?”

“Offer myself as… a guide.” He folded his arms loosely, searching her face. “But you have something, Aryn. Something rare. The Weave listens to you. And if you don’t learn to listen back, it will pull you under sooner or later.”

She drew a slow, steady breath. “So you’re offering to teach me.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m offering you the chance to study — alongside me. Not as a formal pupil, not as a contract or a binding. As a… companion in magic, if you’re willing.”

Aryn was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed, her gaze flicking down as if weighing the words.

Then she looked up, her eyes meeting his directly — and Gale saw it there, shining clear: the decision.

“I want that,” she said quietly. “I want to learn.”

The words settled between them like a spell being cast — delicate, irreversible.

Gale let out a slow, careful breath, feeling his chest lighten slightly, unexpectedly. “Then come find me tomorrow,” he said softly. “We’ll begin.”

Aryn’s mouth quirked into the smallest, fiercest of smiles. “I will.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The night stretched quiet and watchful around them, the lamplight glinting faintly across their joined shadow.

Then, with a small nod, Gale turned, his cloak brushing softly behind him, and began to walk away.

He didn’t look back. But gods, he felt her presence still — a pull at the edge of his senses, a promise newly woven into his path.

And as he disappeared into the night, Gale realized with a strange, fragile hope that this — this — might be the first step not just toward shaping her future, but toward healing his own.

[echcingloneliness]

What's the kinkiest daydream you've ever had about Frank...? I swear I won't tell him.

"It starts with his hands. It always does.

My daydreams about Frank Castle never start soft. They don’t drift in like a lazy tide, gentle and slow. No, they crash over me like a wave, rough and overwhelming, leaving me breathless before I even realizes I've been caught in the current.

I imagine the weight of him, the solid press of his body pinning me to something—maybe a wall, maybe a mattress, maybe the hood of a car because God knows Frank isn’t always patient enough to wait until we’re somewhere private. His hands, calloused and sure, grip my hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks. A silent claim. A promise that I’ll feel him long after he’s gone.

In my mind, his voice is low and rough in my ear, words edged with that gravelly heat that makes my toes curl.

"You gonna be good for me, Karen?"

And I answer with words, or maybe I just tilt my head back, baring my throat to him in a way that makes something dark and hungry flicker in his eyes. He doesn't need much encouragement—Frank is a man of action, not hesitation.

I think about the way he’d tear me apart, not just with his hands or his mouth, but with the sheer force of his attention. Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, the only thing worth fighting for. Worth ruining.

I imagine his teeth dragging along my skin, his breath hot against my collarbone as he murmurs things that would make me blush if I weren’t so damn turned on. His voice, rough with restraint, telling me exactly how he plans to have me—how he’s going to take his time, how he’s going to make sure I feel everything.

And God, I want that. Wants the bruising grip of his fingers, the scratch of his stubble against my thighs, the way he’d hold me down not to restrain me, but to remind her that he’s there. Solid. Unshakable. Mine. She tells herself she should stop thinking about Frank Castle like this. But when has she ever been good at doing what she should?"

She exhales sharply, the real world rushing back to her in a blink. Her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand, pulse a little too quick, thighs pressing together just slightly.

[gerrystamour]

@stobinesque / @amusingdisplacement requested "Let me do this. Please." for Vinny/Keziah

So me and Read have created OC's, we put them in a mafia!AU, bon appetit (this is all the context you're getting)

Vinny: Mine

Keziah: Read's

Tagging the scromies: @scarcrossdlvrs @patchworkgargoyle @sidekick-hero @vecnuthy @steddieas-shegoes @theheadlessphilosopher @wormdebut @sentient-trash @starryeyedjanai

Slightly spicy.

Vinny eases back into the bathtub, hissing as the motion stretches his healing torso. Obviously, their previous activities were ill-advised, especially the… enthusiasm, but whatever. Keziah needed that; Vinny needed it, too.

Sweeping back into the room in nothing but a sheer robe, Keziah finishes setting up a towel and grabbing a plush washcloth. Glancing over at him, ze huffs a laugh. Not quite a scoff, so Vinny takes that as a win; as much as he enjoys how it affects the sex, he doesn’t like fighting with Keziah.

Approaching the tub, Keziah sits down on the edge of it and wets the washcloth before gently wiping it over his chest and up his throat.

“I can take care of myself, Keziah,” Vinny offers as zir face pinches strangely at the horrific scar from his surgery, as it always does when ze looks at him now. “You don’t—”

“Let me do this, Vin,” Keziah snaps, and Vinny immediately shuts his mouth with a click. As if realizing zir tone was a bit harsh in the afterglow, ze adds, “Please.”

If it was any other time, Vinny might laugh, tease Keziah for the manners, ask who house-trained zir in his absence, but the moment was too tenuous. Too fragile. He doesn’t want zir to get up and leave, not when they had been fighting, even while they’d been fucking.

So, he just nods and leans back, letting zir clean up his throat and face, watching zir with hooded eyes and what was likely far too much naked affection.

“It’s not more important than us,” Vinny says after a few moments, and Keziah tenses, not even looking at his face as ze waits for him to continue. “The Organization, I mean, and that fucking terrifies me, Keziah.”

“Careful, Vincenzo,” ze warns, as ze always does when Vinny is being too honest, even with zir.

“Fuck ‘careful.’ It— I was raised to put the needs of the Family above all else, that the empire my grandfather started was the priority. It should be my priority, but it’s not,” Vinny insists, and when Keziah goes to pull away, he grabs zir wrist. “Can I say my piece, Keziah? Please?”

The ‘please’ stops Keziah, just as zir’s stopped him and ze meets his gaze finally. With a slow exhalation, Keziah just nods once and motions for him to continue.

“I know the only reason I even have the privilege of being annoyed that you put everything at risk to save me is because you saved me. You did that, Keziah. You saved my life,” Vinny says, lifting a hand to cup Keziah’s cheek gently. “And if I sound ungrateful, it’s because I’m supposed to care about the Organization, this fucking empire I’ve been saddled with, and I don’t because I care about you. I love you so fucking much that even considering a future without you in it is so fucking unbearable, I don’t— I can’t do it.”

“So, I ask you again, you think I’m better off living that hell?” Keziah asks harshly, but ze doesn’t pull away this time, doesn’t reach out with a grip that hurts, keeps zir claws tucked away.

“No, Keziah. I didn’t step in front of that bullet because I thought it was going to kill me, I didn’t even think about what would happen to me. I saw the gun, saw it aimed at you, and I couldn’t let them shoot you,” Vinny says, staring up at Keziah. “I practically shouted to everyone who was there just how fucking under my skin you are, how stupid I get when you’re near me, that I would risk everything for you, even my own fucking life, and I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Now, Keziah was watching him intensely, zir breathing slowly as ze works to keep zir expression blank. Trying not to show too much, even to Vinny, even now. Especially now.

“I killed everyone else in that room just for that reason,” Keziah says darkly, and a soft part of Vinny that still persisted after all of these years ached at that.

“You mean everything to me, Keziah. None of this,” he says, motioning around them at the opulent bathroom, “means anything without you. The thing I would become without you… that scares me the most.”

“I can’t lose you either, Vincenzo,” Keziah says, and zir voice is uncharacteristically shaky as ze tilts zir cheek into Vinny’s palm. “You keep talking about what you would become, as if I wouldn’t be a fucking husk without you, going through the motions, running your family business when I’m not even a proper heir, I’d be a beneficiary at best. You don’t even have a proper heir— that’s beside the point. Stop assuming I’m stronger than you just because I’m better at hiding my hand.”

“You’re right, as always, just… it wasn’t about dying in your place, sweetheart,” Vinny insists, and Keziah’s eyes close with a shuddering sigh. “All I could think was ‘anyone but Keziah,’ even at the risk of destroying everything.”

There was a long pause, Keziah just sitting with zir eyes closed, breathing slowly and measured. Suddenly, Keziah stands up and shrugs off zir robe so ze can step into the tube, sinking into the water to straddle Vinny’s lap. Tucking zir face into his throat, ze sighs as Vinny wrapped his arms around zir body.

“You scared me, Vin,” Keziah confesses quietly, and that jolts something in Vinny’s heart. Of all the things he was sure Keziah had been feeling up to that point, fear was never on that list. If Vinny was honest, he didn’t even think Keziah could feel fear about anything.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Vinny whispers, kissing zir forehead sweetly. After a few moments, he says, “We could always fix that, what you said about me not having a proper heir.”

Keziah lifts zir head to glare at him. “You did not just ask me to have your children like that,” ze says threateningly, and Vinny’s eyebrows shoot high on his forehead.

“I meant I could write you into my will as my heir explicitly,” Vinny replies, a little breathless at the prospect of actually fathering an heir with Keziah. He could feel himself getting hard again at the mere thought of creating something with his perfect, strong Keziah, something that was theirs, not just maintaining something that was given to them. “How would you like me to ask you to have my babies?”

Keziah blinks at him, searching his face. “You’ll be insufferable when I’m pregnant, won’t you?”

“Am I not already?” He challenges lightly, and Keziah snorts. “Would you have a child with me? If I actually asked?”

Keziah considers the question, and for a moment it looks like ze might close back off. But eventually, ze sighs and leans in for a kiss. “You know I would do anything for you, Vin,” ze confesses softly against his lips.

“Do you want that?” Vinny presses, even as he tries to deepen the kiss, sliding both hands up Keziah’s strong back and feeling the map of zir scars with his calloused fingertips.

“Ask me again tomorrow when I don’t have your cock distracting me,” Keziah replies against his tongue, getting a hand between them to wrap it around Vinny’s cock. “Right now, we have weeks of catching up to do.”

Wrapping his arms around Keziah’s waist, Vinny mouths his way along zir jaw to nibble at zir earlobe. “I’ll hold you to that,” he growls low in zir ear, sighing as Keziah slides zir cunt back onto his cock…

[airi-of-hearts]

A spooky present for @andromedagarcia ...you know it ♥. I hope you like it.

The sound of the ocean was deafening, overwhelming, filled with a thousand voices. Wave after wave crashed against the steep cliff, sending a salty mist into the air and making white foam spray the tired traveler.

The traveler looked up, wiping water away from his face with the back of his hand. The sun was about to set. If he wanted to reach the inn at the top of the cliff he’d better hurry. He would have picked up his pace but, even though the rocky crag had crudely carved steps to facilitate the ascent, to anyone unfamiliar with the terrain as he was, any misstep would end up in a deathly plunge to the unforgiving water below.

The moon was showing her face just above the horizon when the traveler finally reached the inn. He thanked her for lighting his way and not letting him slip to a watery grave. The ocean wasn’t visible from where he was standing, but he could still hear it loud and clear, almost like a song, a calling. When he recovered from the climb, he proceeded to the inn.

The door to the tavern was slightly ajar so the traveler let himself in. Inside, there was a nice fire in the hearth. It made him shiver, he hadn’t realized how cold he was, but of course, his cloak was soaking wet. He seemed to hesitate as he lowered his hood and removed his cloak, not wishing to trail water all over the stone floor. He hung his cloak on a hook by the door and walked toward the bar. The woman behind it had her back to him, busy filling two flagons of beer.

‘Good evening,’ he greeted her with a soft voice, so as not to startle her.

‘Evening,’ she replied without turning around. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

That was fine, he wasn’t in a hurry. He was still trying to catch his breath after the treacherous climb. He ran his fingers along the coarse wood of the bar, trying to read stories in the grooves. As far as he knew, the inn was a couple of centuries old. He couldn’t even grasp the sheer number of spilled drinks and bar fights, of stories told by the fire.

‘What can I get you?’ The young woman had returned.

‘Are you the innkeeper?’

‘Innkeeper, barmaid, waitress…’ she tapped her nails on the counter.

‘Beer, please.’

She filled a tankard and put it in front of him. Then she looked him up and down, somewhat disdainfully. ‘You must be here to see them.’

‘See who?’

‘Every full moon, foolish men like yourself come here to get a glimpse of them.’

The traveler shook his head. ‘I just came to see the inn, I’m writing a book. Mind you, I almost didn’t make it, the climb is tricky. I could have slipped and…’

‘The mermaids would have taken you.’

‘The…?’

The barmaid rolled her hazel eyes. She looked around. There were just a few more people having a drink, but since she’d just brought fresh mugs to everyone, they wouldn’t bother her. At least for a few minutes. She sighed resignedly and sat beside the traveler.

‘Did you see the painting hanging above the coat rack?’

He hadn’t been paying attention when he’d come in. He turned around in his seat to look. A beautiful woman with locks of raven-black hair, dressed in a lovely white dress, stared back at him. She was sitting on a rock by the ocean. Her expression was indescribable. He could sense a profound sadness, but her eyes also spoke of anger.

‘She’s…’

‘Very beautiful, yes, I know.’

‘Who is she?’

The barmaid bit the inside of her cheek, as if she were trying to gauge how much to tell him. 

‘She is. Was. My great-grandmother’s sister.’ She shrugged. ‘And if legends are to be believed...’

‘Legends?’ The traveler asked, urging her to keep talking.

‘Andrómeda.’ She pointed to the painting with her head. ‘Was a celebrated beauty. She had many suitors, as you can imagine. But her father gave her hand in marriage to an awful man. When she heard about this, she ran away with the man she loved. Andrómeda thought they would be happy together, that they’d find the way to make a living. But that dream was short-lived. Her beloved turned out to be a scumbag, the worst kind of man.’

The barmaid looked away, absentmindedly curling a strand of her reddish hair around her finger. She was quiet for a minute before continuing.

‘No sooner was she out of her parents’ place than he assaulted her. She fought back, of course. Alerting those inside the house. Her brother and sister, my great-grandmother, among them. But when they went out, all they saw was Andrómeda tangled up in a fight with this man. And then they both fell down the cliff.’

The traveler gasped audibly, his heart skipping a beat at the thought of that abyss.

‘There was a storm raging that night,’ the barmaid said. ‘The sea spirits were watching. The next day, they found the scumbag’s body on the rocky beach below, in oh so many pieces. But where was she?’ 

He shook his head, hoping she would say they’d found the dark-haired woman alive and well. No such luck.

‘The sea had taken her, they concluded.’ She sighed. ‘My great-grandmother mourned her sister for weeks. And then, during the next full moon, she was walking on the beach and she saw her. Her lost sister. Sitting on a rock, the one from the painting, watching the ocean wistfully. Not only that. My great-grandmother claimed Andrómeda had spoken to her. She wrote it all down in her diary. I memorized it.’

The barmaid took a deep breath and closed her eyes before reciting:

“Don’t weep for me, Cass. I am far from dead. That night, as I fell, I embraced my fate. But instead of the cold embrace of the ocean, She put her arms around me. The Sea Witch, with her enticing eyes and honey blonde hair. And she offered me my life, in a way no one else could possibly offer it. ‘Andrómeda,’ the Sea Witch said, in the sweetest voice you can imagine. ‘You have been mistreated in the world of men, disregarded, hurt. If you choose to surrender your life now, I promise you a calm passing to the Underworld. But if you choose to remain, I will make it so you appear even more beautiful to the eyes of men. Alluring, irresistible, and terrible like the ocean itself. So you can drag them to their doom. Drown them.’” It was then that I noticed Andro’s sharp teeth, her raven-black hair so long it reached way below her waist… where a fishtail with shimmery scales had replaced her legs…

‘The Sea Witch?’ the traveler interrupted the barmaid, his voice hoarse. He hadn’t realized his mouth had been hanging open since the barmaid had started telling him the story. He drank deeply from his tankard.

‘Airi, they call her around here. Another maid of the sea.’ 

‘Maid of…?’

‘That’s what locals call them. You would call them mermaids. Some say they’re the souls of young women who died at sea, some say they have no soul at all. Anyway, after Andrómeda talked to her sister, she jumped into the ocean and disappeared. A few months later, the rumors began. Young men drowning in shallow waters, boats left adrift because their sailors were suddenly possessed with the urge to jump into the water. And yet, more and more people who heard the rumor come every month. Most of them return these days. But some…’ she shrugged, letting her words hang between them. ‘They say my great-grandmother never stopped looking for her. She bought this place… and here we are.’

‘What do you believe?’ the traveler asked, truly intrigued.

‘Part of me believes Andrómeda drowned that fateful night. But I want to believe she found another life in the dark depths, and that she takes her revenge every month.’ 

The traveler felt a shiver running down his spine. Perhaps the Sea Witch and the Dark Mermaid were listening. He couldn’t know it, but he was lucky the barmaid had decided he was trustworthy. Otherwise, she would have offered to take him down to the beach to see the actual Mermaid Rock from her great-grandmother’s story. And then she would have offered him to the vengeful maids of the sea.

[soulspeaksfashion]

ALAÏA WINTER SPRING by PIETER MULIER

view collection here.

collection description: “It evokes a sense of American sportswear, with its ease and practicality. A purity, an idea of freedom, of body and of spirit. Geometric shapes animate around the form: circles, squares, spirals of fabric wrapping the body, in double-face cashmere, fine knit, sculpted poplin, and silk taffeta. No zippers, no buttons—stripping away to a dynamic simplicity. Some pieces seem suspended, held in position by imperceptible internal structures, like magic tricks.” — from their website.

my overall rating: 2/10

i hate when furs can’t save a collection. there were some nicely thought out concepts in this collection, however those are over shadowed by how insanely unremarkable everything surrounding it is. and it’s so blatantly obvious that these pieces were made with a specific body type in mind. this isn’t fashion for anyone with a bigger body, let alone a bigger chest. so not only is it boring, it’s not inclusive. i saw so many comments saying “this is art” and praising this collection. this is NOT art. it’s a piece of fabric hanging from a chain. it’s a see through bandeau top that will only fit small/fake breasts. its a sheer hooded jumpsuit… it’s boring. but i do realize that i am not the intended audience for this so my criticism is not the most helpful or constructive.

(click keep reading for all images i included!) 

♱ ───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────── ♱

these are pretty

this section will almost exclusively include looks that i thought were styled down

furs! i love furs. this white dress is probably the only look i thoroughly enjoyed. i liked the asymmetry of it. and the skirt is nice and bouncy. wish there were more looks like this.

♱ ───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────── ♱

it’s fine

this section will almost exclusively feature looks that i only enjoyed elements of.

the use of spiral motifs in these pieces are nice.

here we have the same exact same outfit just in different colors (six...). i find this to be collection filler. i think that the opaque skirts are cute and the waistbands are a nice touch. the hooded coat is pretty basic, and its seems slightly inefficient because it doesn't close but it's rich ppl fashion. what do i know?

♱ ───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────── ♱

sighing very heavily

this section will exclusively feature looks that should cease to exist/i don’t get.

i have whiplash looking at these looks. the pink doctor scrubs are my favorite if i look at it as a halloween costume. i just don't get how or why these walked the runway and were received well?

♱ ───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────── ♱

viewing thoughts:

my initial thoughts while watching the runway… this is nothing special. it’s very minimal, which i suppose is the entire point, but i am not a big fan. i took a brief intermission to find some opinions of this collection. because i can’t be the only one underwhelmed by this. on one hand, yes starting off with well crafted basics is nice, but i think that it severely undermined the collection. those bandeau tops and skirts are pieces you can find literally anywhere. you could make them!! i am not a fan of the critic that “well you’re paying for the construction” as if that takes away from the fact that this is boring?

my main gripe isn’t even that it’s boring. a majority of the collection looks cheap and i honestly HATE with a passion, rich people cosplaying as poor. sincerely a poor person. the very first skirt is sheer!! in a way that irks me because it’s not sheer like “everything is on display” but it’s not “completely opaque” either. it’s this weird in between that i’m not a fan of. and you see this fabric throughout the collection. 

as someone not very familiar with alaïa as a brand, this collection comes across as trying to stay up to date with trends (which is not inherently bad or wrong) but the house code may not necessarily go with the trends? mulier could’ve found a better way to do this. i don’t want to pay any amount of money for a sheer crop top when i can thrift one?? and i’m saying this as someone who is not only poor, but also has natural big boobs. these shirts would provide me absolutely no support. why would i buy this?

the spiral/asymmetric elements are cool. and i’m usually very picky about asymmetry.

but as we get into the harem pants, i can’t help but view this as the repacking of eastern fashion? i don’t know that is just a thought.

i’m very annoyed with every brand doing sheer clothing. it’s subversive when subversive brands do it, not if everyone is doing it. this doesn’t go against any grain, in any way. i went and briefly looked at their ws22 and sf22 collections, and the summer collection looked pretty nice for the most part but the winter spring… confused me. there are very beautiful pieces scattered in with pieces that look like actual fast fashion. i’m not too sure what this brand does, what makes it different from other fashion houses, say jacquemus. what makes them stand apart? maybe that’s a question i need to look into.

i’m seeing reoccurring motifs from the collections i mentioned above but it’s somehow done worse!!?

i was adding the photos, and after having seen somewhere that alaïa is supposed to embody/embrace timeless femininity, i realized: this collection is a mans perspective of femininity. this is a man selling the idea of what is feminine to women. and i hate it. because it’s so devoid of any understanding of how women’s bodies actually work. see the pink dress that is one slight breeze away from flashing someone.

venue: 2.5/5 it's whatever, the spiral aspect is cute. very sterile though.

casting: 2/10 the new collina strada show has shown me that brands can do inclusivity a LOT better.

♱ ───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────── ♱

sustainability: 0/5

my sustainability rating is currently based on transparency and accessibility of currently available information

much like other brands i’ve recently review, there is no information in the brands website about sustainability, and they have a poor rating on good for you. here is a report by sustainability directory which gives them a score of 0.8 as of 08/07/24 (not sure if that means july or august lol).

[iunctura-arch]

At his exclamation, she winces a little. Right, he saw when she did that flip to catch herself. His question posed to her explanation that she was stuck like this (though he hadn't known she'd only been able to transform back to herself the one day she told him everything) had her shake her head slightly.

"I'm fine. I'll be back to normal soon." So she hoped. "Just a temporary problem."

Temporary, until she figured out what was causing it.

Make up for his lousy christmas gift? Looking all over for her? "I don't live too far from your home, you could've come visit anytime." His Dark should remember the route, right? She didn't care if people came over, it wasn't like the apartment was messy or anything. "But you don't-"

Her words are cut off as her arms are piled with items he gives her. Things she never expected. As a Phantom Thief-in-training (before Minato was born), she didn't really have much in the way of likes. But they were all so... cute.

She felt like she'd die from the cuteness, in a good way.

It's easy to store each item away in her hoodie. She'd had it custom-made, after all, and it too had hidden pockets for what she needed to carry if she had something to do after school that needed more space.

The live flowers were what gave her pause as she stared at them, fingers gently touching the petals of one. "These... these are great. All of them."

She feels her throat tighten slightly. Tears prickle at the edges of her eyes, and she wipes them away. It's more than she's received ever, and she's trying not to cry from the sheer happiness she felt. He's so kind, so sweet. The overwhelming joy he just brought her would've transformed her either way, but she just tacks on another day to her already-long week of being in Dark's form.

"Happy New Year-- to the both of you." If she wasn't so tall, so awkward, she might've just given him a kiss on the forehead. As it stood, that would probably just be kinda weird. Holding the charm, she knew exactly where it'd go once she got home.

Warm. She feels so warm.

"Thank you... Thank you." There's a plea in her voice. Please don't leave me alone anymore.

She's tired of being alone.

"....Okay." She says, but an uncharacteristic squeak leaves her as his sprint basically blows off her hood. Her hands touch the edges, but fall to the side when he speaks.

He's smiling.

A smile breaks out on her face. The challenge was accepted.

"A race?" She puts a hand on her hip, brushing some of her hair back. "Then let's race! I accept your terms."

There's joy in her voice as she laughs, running after him. It feels so freeing, the happiness and joy she feels from such simple actions. Such simple things that she thought were forever lost from her. With just a few items and a few words, he had brought joy to her.

In an uncharacteristic display, she forfeits by flinging herself high into the sky after grabbing a hold of a vertical pole with a single jump. Letting herself be spotted, high in the sky as she laughs cheerfully. She falls, but disappears into a random direction before finally catching up with Daisuke.

At the bell tower itself, with snacks in hand. As per the rules of their race.

"I couldn't help myself, I was just really happy." She admits, holding out the bag to him. "As per our rules, I bought snacks on my way here-- with my hood up since I can't transform back yet."

Taking off her hoodie, she sat down and draped it across her lap....

And proceeded to lay on her back, staring up at nothing in particular. A laugh escapes her, cheery and joyous. From the heart instead of falsified like her laughs usually were.

"You don't know how happy all of this makes me. This is the first time I've felt such genuine joy in years."

It's so nice. So nice to have someone more than just Dark and Makoto. There's so much she's missed out on, she realizes it now. But she wants to fill her mind with happy memories before she inevitably goes back to her own time. Lazily, she reaches out to Daisuke, hand held open.

"There's a box of pocky in there, can you pass it to me please?" She asks. "I don't wanna get up yet."

@iunctura asked: She'd been watching the fireworks for a bit now, content in just spending her time idling away doing so. It wasn't until she noticed the familiar red hair of Daisuke that she actually got up. Would it be awkward to approach him while perpetually stuck as the other Dark? No, he'd probably know it was her from how she spoke alone. It would be nice not to spend the start of this new year alone. "Daisuke-san!" She'd approach with a smile on her face. Though she'd hidden part of it with the hoodie she wore (and the shadow cast over the top of her face thanks to it, to obscure it a bit), at least the smile was visible. And her foot hit a bit of the sidewalk sticking out, causing her to fall forward-- but she caught herself and used the momentum to flip back upright. Smoothing her hoodie out and making sure the hood was still up, thankful it hadn't slipped, she inclined her head a bit to the left. "Would you like to spend the new year with me? I'm... stuck like this at the moment, but I'd rather not spend it alone regardless of what I look like. I've never really done anything for the new year before, so..." She feels awkward, nervous. "...I figured it might be fun."

???

who ? someone was calling him , weren't they ? it's a familiar voice , and a familiar figure --- and that's why when the other approaches , tripping and flipping themselves over in a way that let him catch the slightest glimpse of their face , the boy's wandering about stops right in its tracks with a sharp gasp .

' D-DARK ?! ' --- ah , no , wait . to bother attaching an honorific to his name , it had to be tatsuki .

but still --- !

' w-what do you mean you're stuck like that ?! is everything okay ?! ' not that he didn't have his own moments of accidentally transforming and feeling way too exhausted to bother working his heart rate up in order to change back , but wasn't it kind of dangerous to be walking around like that ?! she looked totally suspicious !! like a city delinquent ! some kind of loiterer ! what would either of them do if any of the police came sniffing around ? aside from snatch each other and start sprinting away , at least !

' ugh , forget it --- i've been looking all over for you ... ! i mean , even before ... um , you told me about --- t-this , and everything ... ' that being her own truths as a niwa , ' i did ... want to make up for my lousy christmas gift . ' ... though , would he really have been able to with what sorts of things he was about to give her ? it's embarrassing , and at first , he can't even bear to look at her as he fumbles through the various hidden pockets of his coat .

a stuffed rabbit , new years sweets , a collection of cutesy stationary , stickers , stamp and pen assortments , complete with a small , fresh , live bouquet made up of pink and violet blooms --- ' um ... ' his head can't help but bow a little as he starts to pile these things into her arms , fluster burning into his cheeks . ' i ... wasn't sure what kinds of things that you liked , actually . and you had only moved here recently , so nobody else really knew either even when i asked . that's why , i kind of got you a little bit of everything ... '

there's no reason for him to sound so pathetic and apologetic over it , but he can't help everything from coming out that way despite it --- shouldn't he have known her a little better ? at the very least , by the end of it all he's still managed one of usual smiles --- tender and soft as the good wishes he gives her .

' ... happy new year , tatsuki-san ! and to your dark , too ! ' there's just one last thing to give her : a wooden , hand-painted omamori charm . black wings and dark's face rest haloed within it , while the back expressed its odd , unique blessing : 大強盗 ; great heists . ' with this ... i hope that everything you wanted for comes true . ' it's her own nervousness as well that sends his touch forward . eyes shimmering , happy to take her hand --- ' i won't leave you alone . if anything , that's pretty much why i came out to look for you . right ? '

he laughs --- lets the bliss of his own heart freely beat .

' come with me . i know just where to go , ' the perfect place to take anyone with plenty of free time ; the top of azumano's bell-tower . ' if we hurry , we'll still make it to catch the fireworks . ' rushing forward quickly enough that the gust of his sprint would readily push at the other's hood , he turns his own head , only to grin at her . ' --- if you want , i'll even race you . right now , our appearances are the same . everything should be fair , so ... '

of course , no longer terrified of a thing like her own acceptance , he would just as readily accept her .

' ... it might be fun . whoever gets spotted first has to bring the other snacks . okay ? okay ! ready , set , goooo --- ! '

( as expected , her ancestor's fast as hell ... ! )

[bambheez]

nonsense (s.jy)

SUMMARY: you overhear your best friend and roommate jake talking about his massive dick, so you decide you want to see it for yourself. PAIRING: bestfriend/roommate!jake x reader (afab) GENRE: smut (minors dni) WARNINGS: sub!jake, dom!reader, oral sex (m. receiving), size kink, reader is very VERY straightforward, jake has a huge dick, profanity WORD COUNT: 1.5k A/N: this is literally just pure filth. inspired by this post and ofc ‘nonsense’ by sabrina carpenter. as always, if you enjoyed/have feedback, please reblog/comment or send an ask. my inbox is always open!

“Small dick? Seriously? You know I’m—” he paused, remembering you were in the room with him. He turned around to see you laying on his bed, legs up in the air, eyes trained on your laptop screen.

Your ears perked up at the odd conversation; your earbuds were no longer playing any music, but you gave him no impression that you were eavesdropping.

“Know what, Jake? Cat got your tongue?” Heeseung snickered through his headphones, Jay following with a similar comment.

“Nah, Y/N’s in my room but she’s got her headphones in,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know I’m bigger than both of you motherfuckers.”

Your lips lifted into a smirk at his confession. You could hear laughter booming from Jake’s headphones as you quietly put your earbuds away and moved off the bed toward him.

“How big?” you whispered against his ear.

He jolted in his seat, wincing from banging his toe into the leg of his desk.

“How big?” you repeated, now standing in front of him, blocking his view of the game. You lifted up your shirt to reveal your stomach. “Would it reach here,” you asked, pointing to a spot above your pubic bone. “Or here,” moving your finger up an inch. “Maybe here?” you circled around your belly button.

Jake visibly reddened, even under the faint green lights of his PC. His fingertips—currently resting against his keyboard—jerked back into motion at the realization that Heeseung and Jay were still on the call.

“Sorry, someone’s at the door,” he mumbled into his mic. “You guys play without me, I’ll hop on later.” He closed out of the game and Discord tab before taking his headphones off.

His fingers were fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, eyes—avoiding contact with yours—staring straight ahead at his desktop wallpaper.

“You didn’t answer my question, Jake.”

“Stop talking nonsense, Y/N,” he turned to look up at you, your body now leaning against his desk. “Why do you even want to know?” his adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.

“So you were lying then?”

“No, but—”

“Then show me.”

Jake could feel himself hardening in his sweatpants. As much as he tried to ignore the ache between his thighs and tell you you were insane, the look you gave him—utterly earnest, like you wanted to devour him—made his insides stir.

You dropped to your knees with a thump, rolling his gaming chair out by its arms to face you. A groan ripped from Jake’s throat at the sight. You sat back on your heels to observe his reaction, his lids hooded and lips slightly parted. He nodded at you, watching as you glanced from his growing bulge back up to his eyes.

The imprint of his cock was visible, and your fingers flitted over him, traveling from his thighs up to the strings of his sweats.

He let out short, quick breaths before whimpering “please”.

You held back a giggle. When had he become so needy?

Pulling off his sweats and boxers in one swift motion, his cock slapped against his lower stomach. “Wow,” your mouth watered at the sheer size. And he wasn’t even fully hard yet.

His breath hitched in response, body squirming in your hold. Jumbled thoughts were running through his head at a hundred miles per hour. This was his roommate turned best friend on her knees, ogling at his erection.

You had thought about the size of his cock before, especially when he was lounging around in gray sweats. You’d caught glimpses of his bulge, and the size of it even when he was soft was enough to make your core throb in anticipation. You had thought about how his cock looked, too, and what you saw in front of you now exceeded your expectations in every way. His tip was red and flushed against his abdomen, a lengthy vein ran from his base to tip, and beads of precum were beginning to form at his slit.

You hesitantly wrapped both hands around the base of his cock. “Fuck,” you muttered. Two hands and barely half of his cock was covered.

He felt scorchingly hot under your touch. You squeezed at his base before devouring as much as you could of him in your mouth.

He cried out from above you, hands gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. You could feel your underwear sticking to your folds as you tried to discreetly rock back and forth against your heels, desperate for some friction of your own.

You were bobbing up and down on the top half of his cock, tongue swirling around his tip and occasionally digging into his slit. Jake wanted so badly to keep his eyes open, to see the way you peered up at him through your lashes, but he could feel every inch of movement of your tongue running along his veins that the pleasure was much too intense.

Strings of curses flew from his mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re doing s-so well,” he whined before gently placing a hand on the back of your head.

I can do even better, you thought to yourself as you slowly removed your hands from his base and took him into your throat.

“Ah, oh f-fuck!” he moaned. You hollowed your cheeks, placing your hands on his hips to steady yourself.

Jake resisted the urge to start thrusting into your mouth, largely due to his disbelief that you could take him all the way.

You gagged around his length and he nearly choked on his breath from the sensation. Working your way down even farther, his tip hit the back of your throat while you moved your hands to knead at his thighs.

You pulled off of him to catch your breath, eyes twinkling up at him as a string of saliva stretched between his tip and your lips.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he croaked out, throat remarkably dry.

You gave him a small smile. Just you wait.

You took a deep breath before bringing your hands to the back of his hips, slamming his cock down your throat in one go. You repeatedly swallowed around his girth and Jake’s entire body convulsed under you, noises he didn’t know he was capable of making falling from his lips.

You buried the tip of your nose in his pelvis; your head was foggy, throat sore, and eyes watering, but the sight of Jake losing complete control under you made it worth it.

“I-I’m gonna—mmph,” he whined, bunching your hair in a fist.

You could see his abdomen clenching and feel his thighs twitching, signaling that he would cum any second. Jake opened his eyes to peer down at you and he had to physically grab your bobbing head to stop himself from cumming.

The view in front of him was the most sinful yet beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Your lips were slick and swollen, saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth down to your chin. Your hair was in a tangled mess from his grip, and there were tear streaks from your eyes down to your neck.

He brushed your hair out of your face and you smiled, humming around his cock. You sped up your pace before wrapping your arms around his hips again, sucking and swallowing around him as if your life depended on it.

“Oh shit, oh f-fuck, I’m cumming, Y/N I’m—”

You pushed your nose forward and took him to the hilt one last time before he was cumming with a shout of your name on his lips. Spurts of his warm release traveled down your throat, and Jake finally grabbed at your head with both hands, bucking his hips up and fucking your face as he chased his high.

Shockwaves of ecstasy traveled through Jake’s every vein and artery. You swallowed drop after drop of him until his thrashing and jerking under you slowed to a stop. His cock twitched in your mouth one final time, beginning to soften, when he pulled you off of him with a pop.

“Oh my god, Y/N,” Jake moaned like you’ve never heard a man moan before.

“Such a big, pretty cock”, you gave his tip a quick peck before tucking him back into his sweats. “But it’s a shame you don’t know how to use it”, you chuckled.

He whined at the comment, his finger reaching up to the corner of your lips, swiping at the residue of his release. He thought about your question from earlier, picturing reaching your cervix and filling you to the brim with his cum.

“Please, teach me?” he begged.

read part 2 here

[tinykonig]

𝔠'𝔪𝔬𝔫, 𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔪𝔢

könig has really pretty hands... you think he deserves to know {reader has a major hand kink- don't we all-, könig has a praise kink and is absolutely obsessed with reader. this is very obviously nsfw 18+ only please and thank you ~this will also be cross-posted to ao3} intentionally lower-case

he is just so intrinsically captivating- everything about him. you never stop noticing him.

the second he walked into base, your throat ran dry when you realized the sheer size of the man. he could swallow you whole. you wanted him to.

you don't wanna say you had ulterior motives when you befriended him- you truly like the guy. he's funny and extremely sweet, and hanging around könig had other benefits. no one dared to mess with you when he was around. the usual chatter of men hitting you up or questioning your position melted into peaceful quiet and the soft sound of könig's voice.

like right now.

"did you hear me?" his voice comes from the edge of your mattress where he has perched himself, undoing the laces on his boots.

you are sitting at the chair to your desk and watching his long, strong fingers work around the dark strings to loosen them from the complicated knots. his hood was flipped back over his helmet revealing his concerned expression

your head snaps up, "no, sorry, big guy. zoned out," you respond, and you hope to god it sounds casual.

"oh, okay." he says awkwardly, pausing his movements to look at your face- slightly rosy and pupils blown- but if he notices he doesn't say anything. "i said i got something for you while i was gone."

your face brightens and you grin at him, his expression quickly mimicking your newly excited one.

he reaches into a pocket on his vest and pulls out something small, then he encases it in his large fist and holds it out in your direction.

“i actually made it,” he clarifies, chuckling at you as you begin to make grabby hands towards him, like an excited child.

you have to hold back a gasp when both of his hands wrap around your much smaller ones. it felt like pure electricity surging from his palms straight to your core.

he drops the object in your open hand and draws away, suddenly looking shy again.

it’s a tiny wooden figurine of your favorite animal. incredibly detailed and tiny and you turn in over in your hands in awe. a lump takes root in the base of your throat. könig never fails to take you by surprise with his thoughtfulness.

“könig i love it,” you whisper, not quite trusting your voice not to break at a normal volume, “it’s so fucking cute.”

“you like it?” you can hear the smile in his voice as he fully takes off his helmet and hood and sets it on your nightstand. he must have worked on taking off his boots fully along with his tac vest because they are now sitting in a neat pile beside the foot of your bed, left now in only his long sleeve black shirt and combat pants. he is visibly more relaxed now as he leans against the headboard.

“of course i do. how did you even make it? its so detailed.”

you love the proud grin that adorns his face.

“i was on night watch. cut out a chunk of wood from the windowsill, and carved using one of my knives. it took like 8 hours.”

you find an empty space on your desk and set the figurine there, shaking your head in disbelief as you turn to look at könig again.

“i accidentally cut my finger when i was carving the eyes,” he said, holding out a hand to you and showing you a superficial nick on his ring finger.

you scoot your chair closer to the bed so you can take his hand into yours and examine the tiny cut. you pout up at him and coo, “awww~ poor baby,”

and then without thinking you raised the finger to your lips and press a soft kiss to the cut. könig’s eyes are open wide and his breathing picked up considerably.

“all better now, right?” you ask teasingly, gaining confidence based off his reaction.

you carded your fingers through his and wait for his response. he surrenders his other hand into your lap as well, almost like he was in a trance

“yes,” he answers breathily.

you hum in response, still toying with the hand you hold in your possession. his hands were warm, you trace some of the scars that litter on his knuckles.

“sorry,” you mumble out the apology, “your hands are just really pretty.” you feel a little embarrassed, but not enough to let go of his hands.

könig makes a noise like he was stifling a cough and shakes his head, “ don’t apologize.” it sounds like a plead, and he makes no moves to remove his hands from your possession.

you make eye contact and recognize the want that pools in his light eyes. you are sure he sees it mirrored in yours as well. it gives you the courage to continue on the precarious path you found yourself walking.

“very pretty hands,” you murmur, “and they are so big,” holding his hand up to yours to display the ridiculous difference in size. he groans ever so lightly, his eyes now hooded under your gaze.

you knew he would never make the first move. it had to be you, and it had to be now.

“i think about your hands a lot, könig.”

your confession hangs in the air like a raincloud before a storm. filled with the promise of something more.

“tell me,” he whimpers lightly, tightening his grip on your hands for the first time this entire time you were holding them.

this is gonna be fun, you thought, grinning while you maneuvered yourself to sit on top of his thighs. you see his adam’s apple bop as he gulps in surprise.

you are still toying with his hands when you glance up at his eyes, “i think about how they would feel when they touch me,” you whisper, knowing he could hear you. he is hanging on to every word.

“touch you…” he breathes in deep, “where?”

you bring his hands under your loose t-shirt and rest them on the bare skin of your waist, keeping your hands on top of his- like you were scared he would move if you didn’t.

“here, for starters,” you respond, and you laugh a little when he presses his fingers into your skin there harder.

“are you ticklish?” he asks, smiling softly.

“just a bit,” you say, moving your hands to bring your shirt up over your head and you throw it on the floor next to the bed, messily in contrast to his perfectly folded pile of gear.

he is trying not to stare, and he is failing miserably. his hands seem to move of their own accord as they trail up your body to your bra-covered breasts.

“mmm,” you hum contentedly, “yes, i think about them touching there too,” reaching up to gently rake your fingers through his slightly shaggy hair. “although im not usually wearing this when i imagine it.”

“can i take it off?” he asks, doe eyes looking to yours for explicit permission.

now you stroke his cheekbone, along a very faint and fading scar. you grant him a nod.

quicker than you expected, he was sliding the straps down your arms and the back was unhooked. you were suddenly feeling extremely exposed, given he was still fully dressed. you tug twice on the front of his own shirt and he pauses his movements on your body to reach for his own shirt.

his torso is so long and sculpted, littered with raised pink scars, a few deeper white ones too that had healed for longer. the freckles on his face continued down his chest and arms you note, extremely pleased with that fact. he was so, so pretty. you wonder if he knows.

while you admire him, he raises his hands back to your now bare breasts and softly cups them. his touch is so gentle, and you can see in his eyes an expression of pure awe and trust.

tentatively you arch into his touch, just to have him press into your skin more. he comes out of his trance and desperation starts to take over. he tweaks a nipple between his two fingers and you moan at the unexpectedness of the action.

“that feels good, könig,” you whimper out, and he does it again. it’s so lovely to see him gain confidence from your words and your reactions. you decide to test something else out, “thats my good boy.”

the reaction is immediate. one of his arms moves to hook around your middle and pull you fully flush to his hips. you gasp at the feeling of him hot and hard under your clothed center.

“can i put my mouth on you?” he asks, and his voice still sounds so innocent and unsure but theres a hint of need creeping in as well.

“you can do anything you want,” you answer, loosing all composure and control you previously had.

he keeps his one hand on your waist, the other playing with your nipple. he brings his mouth to the other one, and you throw your head back and groan at how warm and wet it feels. he gently rolls his tongue around the nipple, biting lightly every few seconds. you’ve never felt so close to cumming from nipple play before, but with könig? everything was heightened.

you grip his hair harder and pull his mouth off you, looking into his eyes and breathily saying, “i haven’t told you where i think about your hands being the most.”

he groans. it’s a sinfully wonderful little noise.

“please,” he chokes out, “please, please tell me,”

you conjure up all the confidence left in your body under his gaze, and stand up and unbutton your pants. his eyes are heavy on your body as you slide them down your legs, and it’s like he cant help himself when he reaches out and runs his hands up and down one of your thighs.

“so soft,” he says, in complete reverence.

you almost feel bad for him when you see how painfully hard he is in his pants. you wonder for a second if his hands were so big, how big could he be there, too…

before sitting back down in his lap, you reach for his own pants to let him know that you wanted those off as well. he obeys you so easily, so eagerly.

he almost looks like he’s been hypnotized when you take your seat back on his lap, less barriers separating you two now. you are sure he can feel how wet you are, its soaked through your thin panties.

he just whimpers, and waits. waiting for you to tell him, like he so kindly asked you to.

so you do.

you grab one of his hands again, and he watches intently as you bring two of his long, thick fingers into your mouth. his jaw goes slack as you slide your tongue over his digits, coating them with your saliva. he lightly thrusts up, like he can’t control himself but he’s trying.

you hum again and release his fingers from your mouth and guide them down to your heat hovering over his clothed dick.

when he slipped past the band of your panties, he broke free of his trance. feeling your wet, throbbing pussy broke something in him and he was on a mission to make you feel as good as he possibly can. he slid his fingers back and forth over your clit and drank in your moans as his kissed you for the first time.

you whisper praises against his mouth, telling him how good he was doing. “better than i could have ever imagined,” you manage to breath out as he strokes you towards your orgasm just by massaging your clit.

every word you said went straight to his core, and it was a need- an absolutely feral need- to feel you cum on his hand.

“inside me,” you moan out, “please, put them inside me.”

his chest and face are burning red with want, and you start to feel bad that you’re the only one being pleasured as he slips two fingers into your pussy. through a bubbling moan in your chest you manage to ask him, “can i touch you, too?”

he looks at you like you just gave him his own personal star from the sky, “god, please” he says, his accent growing even thicker in want.

you pull him out of his boxers and gasp. if you thought his hands were big- this was just unfair. his cock stands tall against his stomach, pale pink and leaking. he is the most beautiful man in your universe, and you tell him.

he moans at your words and bucks his hips into the air. having mercy on him you wrap your hand around him. he rewards you by stroking the spongy part inside you with his two fingers. you start to roll your hips into his hand, and that spurs him on even further.

“c’mon, use me,” he mutters into your ear, “use my hand to make yourself cum. please, i need it so bad.”

you were already embarrassingly close, and his desperate words brought your orgasm crashing over you. your hand strokes his harder and you vaguely register his free hand grabbing your throat to pull your forehead to rest against his as he cums all over your hand and his stomach. you ride out your release on his hand until you can’t take it anymore and stop your movements.

the only sound in the room is heavy breathing. you whine as he removes his hand from you, which makes him chuckle a little. you open your eyes to meet his and he looks so blissful.

you smile back at him tiredly, “later, i’ll have to tell you about how i think about your mouth,” and he laughs his regular, loud laugh that you love. he pulls you into his chest to lay down fully.

“yes, i think you should.” he agrees.

[mackjlee9]

König having the biggest crush on Male 6 he thinks Gaz and Reader are dating with how close they are (they are bestfriends). what Köng doesn't know is that reader has also has the biggest crush on him. (some angst/comfort because im a big baby when the ending is sad) 

I also try to come up with more requests for our Cod boys. They may not all be angst, tho.

I think I fucked up 🧍‍♂️

König x Male!Reader [Angst&Fluff]

[reader is shorter than könig -not specified-]

angst/comfort

Everyone present felt intimidated when they saw the huge male walking at the back of his team. He was big, in every sense of the word.

They all listened attentively to Price as he spoke, announcing that Task Force 141 was gonna be joining KorTac for an operation, a long-term mission, and even then, while they were listening, most of them were only starting at the male with a sniper hood covering his face, towering over pretty much everyone in the room. He looked scary to various recruits.

But poor König was nervous, and anxious, he was used to receiving scared looks at him for years, even after he joined the military, but the fear of being made fun of because of his height never left. His eyes quickly scanned the room, noticing the recruits staring at him with fear in their eyes, others were surprised at his sheer size, a few seemed impressed, and then, he locked eyes with a (h/c) haired male.

His (e/c) eyes observed him with such admiration shining in them that made him blush under his hood. The male seemed to love his big size, and for once, König didn't feel the need to make himself look smaller outside of the battlefield.

Price finished telling them about the details of the mission, and everyone noted that it might take from six months to a year to do it. Save to say, a lot of soldiers weren't looking forward to having to see König walking around every day. 141's captain let the KorTac members introduce themselves briefly, and after that, they were dismissed.

(M/n) was internally debating if he should or not, but before he could make up his mind, his feet were already taking him to the tall male, completely ignoring Ghost's voice as he called him.

Slowly approaching him, he realized that he had to look up a little bit more than he thought, making him even more impressed at his height. He made his presence known to avoid startling the male that looked like he was about to have a meltdown, fidgeting around and keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact.

"Hey..." König looked up abruptly, startling (M/n) a bit, but he smiled at him reassuringly, "I'm (M/n), nice to meet you."

König stared at the hand stretched in front of him and he lifted his trembling hand, slowly greeting the curious man that had been watching him previously.

"König," he muttered his name in a whisper, almost panicking as he realized he had already introduced himself a few minutes ago. Even so, (M/n) only smiled at him, his eyes becoming just a bit smaller, something about his smile was... calming.

Then, his eyes noticed how (M/n) seemed to be doubting his next words, and König felt that recurrent dread when someone was gonna tell him to stay away from them because he was scary. But nope, that didn't happen.

"Is it too rude if I ask you how tall you are?" (M/n) asked with hesitation, keeping a close eye on König to see his reaction.

König blinked a few times and slightly stuttered his response when he saw the same shine in (M/n)'s eyes, "I'm 6'10."

(M/n) gasped at that, and König swore he saw stars in his eyes, "That's so cool..." He heard him whisper, and again, he found himself blushing, feeling shy, and glancing away, "Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, König!"

His eyes opened wide, something about the way (M/n) said his name made his heart race, he could almost hear it pound in his ears, he began rambling in German because of how flustered he was, and (M/n) only looked at him even more impressed, and König ended up choking on his words when he realized how (M/n) had an almost lovestruck gaze.

"It's okay, sir..." He mumbled and (M/n) chuckled at that.

"You can just call me (M/n), or Night, nobody calls me sir," he smiled at the big Austrian man who seemed to have calmed down enough to smile down at the smaller male.

Of course, (M/n) didn't see it because of the hood covering his face, but he saw the way his eyes crinkled a light at the corners, and that was enough to let him know he was smiling.

//////

For the following months, (M/n) and König had gotten pretty close, and maybe even more than just close. Both of them had realized it.

The tingly feeling in their tummies and their hearts racing whenever they were close to each other. So yeah, their crush was obvious for everyone else, but not them, as usual, right?

(M/n)'s crush became obvious a few weeks after meeting, when he realized that he wasn't just impressed and mesmerized by his height, or fighting abilities, or any other physical quality of him. He was enchanted by his personality. König was so cute and cheerful when he warmed up to someone, and the wild behavior he showed when out on the field. It was truly enchanting.

Now König seemed to have started liking (M/n) since that spark in his eyes the first time his (e/c) eyes landed on his frame. He was a little scared, he's not fond of the memory of his crush and relationship, but he has witnessed (M/n)'s kind behavior toward him, and everyone else. Even so, König thought he was the one that got more attention from him.

Until he saw him with Gaz.

He had come by to ask (M/n) if he could help him with his sniper training when he saw him talking and laughing with Gaz. He wouldn't have thought much of it if it wasn't for the way they were looking at each other. He felt jealous, observing the scene with his fists clenched by his sides, releasing a quiet growl when he saw Gaz getting too close to (M/n), mumbling a curse in German as he left to head to his room.

Laying in bed, he stayed angry for a few moments, until that anger was overcome with sadness.

So... (M/n) was taken already, and he has no chance with him anymore.

//////

After that day, König has been avoiding physical contact with (M/n), he didn't want to make Gaz -or anyone- mad with his behavior towards him. (M/n) didn't like that, especially when the Austrian man would just outright ignore him for days.

It made him feel like König had figured out his feelings for him and found him disgusting. But instead of making assumptions, he cornered König one day to confront him.

"Why are you ignoring me all of the sudden, König?" His harsh tone of voice made König look away, taking a deep breath while he thought of the words he wanted to say.

But his response was unexpected, whispered so quietly (M/n) barely heard them.

"I don't want to upset your boyfriend," (M/n) only stared at him, confused, and König freaked out, "Not that I care you're dating a guy! I feel really happy for you actually!" He was speaking so fast right now, his accent was thickening from his sheer panic, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop the other night when you were with him-!"

His rambling stopped when (M/n) gripped his sniper hood and pulled him down closer to his height, and König was only able to look at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"What are you talking about, König?" He blinked at his question, confused now as well.

"Aren't you and Sergeant Garrick dating...?" He asked slowly, unsure of what he was even gonna say. The (h/c) haired male silently processed his words, and laughed, "(M/n)?" König's voice was weak, keeping his eyes on the male so close to his face.

"Kyle is my best friend, he trained me when I was accepted in the academy and we were transferred to 141 together, he helped me feel comfortable since day one, König," the relief that filled König's body made his legs weak, the idea of having a chance with (M/n) coming back with full force, "König?! You okay?"

He didn't even realize he had fallen to his knees.

König let out a laugh, sighing with relief, "I'm so happy you're not dating him, (M/n)..." He mumbled while looking up at him with tears in his eyes. Happy? (M/n) though to himself, "Scheiße, I'm so in love with you, (M/n), I was so heartbroken when I thought you were already taken," he continued rambling, not breaking eye contact with (M/n), and the still standing male couldn't resist.

(M/n) leaned down to König's height, and pulled his sniper hood up, thanking whatever reason he had to not be wearing his balaclava under it, and pressed their lips together. König gasped, his eyes opening wide, completely caught off guard, feeling like his heart was gonna burst out of his chest.

But when (M/n) realized König wasn't returning the kiss he backed off, kinda scared and completely forgetting how the Austrian had just confessed he loved him. The moment their kiss broke, (M/n) made eye contact with König's lovestruck eyes.

Slowly standing up, his hands held (M/n)'s face gently before leaning down to kiss him back, his arms wrapping around his shoulders while (M/n) placed his hands on König's hips, pulling him closer to him while wide smiles grew on their faces.