#divider > @omi-resources

[0nych1nu5]

200 x 200 corin wickes (zenless zone zero) icons!!

likes and reblogs r very much appreciated!! do NOT repost on other platforms!! credits not needed but very much preferred <33

[madamechrissy]

Jealousy, Jealousy

This was inspired by the Caleb art in the banner by @baobei-bu please love on ALL their art!! Their JJK/LADS art is PEAK

Pairings- Yandere! Caleb x F!reader

Warnings- PWP pretty much, a smut oneshot- HEAVY yandere Caleb, mating press, cum play, oral (f recieiving) tummy bulges, cervix hitting, panty stealing, fingering, overstim, he calls you pip squeak LMAO, JEALOUS obsessed Caleb

My first time for Caleb hehe, rbs/comments appreciated if you enjoyy

"Who is that, Pip squeak?" Caleb murmurs that question with a little smile, as you tense just a bit, feeling your cheeks heating up under his scrutiny, sipping on the straw of your milkshake, letting the sweetness hit your tongue. The two of you have been gaming the day away, taking just a little break in the kitchen now

"It's a... friend." That's what Xavier was really, your sweet friend, who is currently sending you heart emojis.

"Oh, a friend huh? Why so secretive then?" He teases, tapping your nose and just being far... far too close. You shouldn't think so many things about him like this, should you? But you can't help but like his cologne a little too much, like just how his brown locks were falling over his forehead just so, how you can see so much of his muscles flexing in what he wore.

"Just a friend." Your little smile drives him insane, he outwardly laughs, but he can't stop thinking of who's been with you while he's been away, has anyone touched you? When you're meant to be his.

"Let me see then." He yanks your phone high, dark violet eyes flashing for a moment, turning as you sputter and he scrolls through your last messages. "And who is Sylus... Rafael and... Dr. Zayne, I know him, and-"

"Give me my phone back, jerk!" You jump for it, but Caleb is stupid tall, holding it up and feigning a smile he really doesn't feel like giving right now, thoughts racing.

Were you with somebody?

That would never do.

Perhaps he's been gone too long, and you've found someone, but that wouldn't last long when you'd be his. Caleb hands you it finally, laughing a bit as he pats your head. "Relax, Pip Squeak, I was just messing with ya. So cute when you're angry."

"Oh, whatever. Back to the game?" He nods, watching as your bouncy ass sways in whatever excuse for a shorts those were, furious if anyone has ever gotten to see you like this.

You're sitting up on the couch now, legs spread so he sees just a hint of your perfect pussy that lace was hugging, his throat goes dry when you hand him the controller. He smiles with ease, sitting on the floor, hoisting your thighs around his shoulders then, and you pause, faltering just a bit, breath caught in your throat. It should be casual. You two have gamed close forever, but he's so close to your heat, your thighs brushing against his hot skin. Just a white tank top and your shorts separating you both.

"You blushed really hard when I mentioned Sylus huh?" He asks now, as he moves the controllers, and you gulp just a bit, fidgeting some.

"No... imagining things."

"You think he's hot."

You roll your eyes at him, shifting forward as you tilt the controller, slashing your sword and concentrating, the tips of your toes touching his lap. Just that is enough to make Caleb ache and throb, hard cock pulsing, he bites back a moan, you seem too entrapped in the game to notice what your foot is brushing on.

"He's hot, sure. Why, do you... find anyone hot?" Caleb glares down at the controller now.

"Just one girl." You bite your lip, concentrated fully, as he rests a head on your thigh. Hot breath against it making your leg twitch, cunt already soaking. You can't feel this way, you two are just too close... right? How can you be jealous?

"Oh?" Your weak voice just makes Caleb's cock leak precum, he can feel how hot you are behind his neck, he turns his head then, to catch you looking down at him.

"Do you care if I like someone Pip Squeak?"

"N-no..."

"Hmm... hah! Got you!" Caleb's killed your character, making you huff. Laying back some on the couch, you gasp when he turns around, face at level with your cunt, where he sees your damp spot right on your shorts. "Oh no, honey... did you spill something?"

"Huh?" You feel your body react, nipples pressing against your thin top at his proximity, vivid thoughts of far, far too many things working through your heated mind.

"Right here..." he brushes his thumb against the damp sticky arousal, eliciting a cry that makes him goddamn feral. "Can't answer me honey?"

"Caleb I'm... so sorry I..."

"This from me. Or from one of them?" His casual question is laced with something dark, pressing on the spot again, wondering just how many men he'd have to take out, so his sweet girl is all his. "Should I get these off you? Since you're making them so messy?"

"I.... y-you-" Caleb has slipped your shorts off your thighs, your tummy clenches when he clicks his tongue. Now he kisses your inner thigh, fingers running along your swollen lips, breath ghosting too close to your cunt.

"These are ruined too, tsk. Something wrong, pip squeak?" You shake your head, watching as Caleb peels those panties off you, and he has to tuck them in his pocket, thankful your eyes are shut, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. He needs a fresh pair anyway, you're too meticulous about your laundry and he doesn't get many.

The amount of times he's cum inhaling your panties, drunk off them is insane, even before he left you, when he'd visit on breaks he'd take them, licking any of you up. Sometimes he would jerk off inside them, imagining putting them on you. Making you wear them full of his load as punishment for making him so insane. But nothing prepared him for seeing your glistening cunt, clear trails breaking off, you're so wet you were stuck to those lacy panties clearly.

"Caleb-ah!" He laps you up now, just a stripe up your slit, making your hands entangle in sof thrown hair, as those deep violet eyes look up at you. Dilated, insane, a smirk on his lips.

"Tell me none of them tasted you. Had you."

"What do you mean-"

"Tell me no one touched what's mine."

"You've been gone a long time... you think I just what, wait here, touch myself?" You're shaking as you speak.

"Do you?" You hesitate. "Answer me. Maybe I'll let you cum."

"Let me?" He presses a kiss on your clit now parting your folds and groaning as arousal pools out of your little hole. "Mnh. Fuck... what are we..."

"Am I competing? I'm very competitive you know, pip squeak. I will have to make you forget anything but me then." That's when he spreads your pretty pussy, moaning, he's seen you of course before here and there, glimpses of you naked, but now your perfect cunt is right in his face. He's burying his face against you, nose hitting that clit as his tongue swipes in.

"Oh my god." You shouldn't be like this, you shouldn't be spreading your thighs wider, letting him fuck his tongue in and out of your slick, gummy walls, the noises of his soft whines and slurps echoing in your apartment. His taste buds explore every each that long tongue can reach, you're losing it every moment, those eyes so dark with lust they look black.

He'll make you forget anything.

"That's it, you wanna cum f'me, huh? Pretty girl, all mine." You're struggling to compute his words, to even function, eyes rolling back when he flicks the tip of his tongue on that clit, smile not hitting his insane yes. "Are you?"

"This is crazy, what are we doing... you... I... ngh!" Two fingers slip right inside your hole now, which flutters around the thick, long digits, making your whines even louder as he leans up, his other hand gripping you by your throat, lips so close.

How have you not kissed but he's devoured your pussy?

"You belong to me, only me, can you not see? All this time..." He's desperately scissoring fingers in and out, lashes low over his eyes as he breathes against your bitten lips. "Oh listen, she can talk for you I guess, so slutty for me. Just me, huh?"

You're just arching your hips, a sweet cry from your lips, ones he can imagine wrapped around his cock, while he squeezes your delicate neck harder, hand overtaking your throat. You can merely whimper in response, nodding just a bit, as you're closer and closer, only for him to yank his fingers out, making you whine, aching to be filled by them again.

"Caleb, please." You're crying now, tears running down your cheeks, making you look so fucking pretty to him, igniting something that snaps as he watches them fall glistening down your face.

"Please what, ya need something?" He's squeezing harder, fingers brushing around your soaking entrance, just barely pressing the tip of his finger inside, while you're pressed back against the couch, breasts heaving. "Tell me what you need, don't you know I'll take care of you?"

"In me. Please- ah!" You're getting fuzzy when he slips those long fingers back in your cunt, exhaling as he watches you, curling them just so with filthy squelching noises echoing. "Mnh!"

"This all f'me, huh? All me?" His demanding question barely resonates when you're cumming all over his fingers now, pulsing and gushing, while your own hand grips his thin white tank, pulling him closer. Your eyes roll back, he watches you avidly, every fucking expression while he feels you pulsing on his digits. "You didn't answer me, pretty, that won't do."

He pouts when he pulls his fingers out again, releasing your throat right before you nearly faint, cunt still pulsing. You try to gather yourself, when he's slipping those fingers in his mouth, moaning while he sucks all your arousal off them. He's ripped your top off, moaning as he sees your tits gently bounce out, his own dog tags dangling right between the two of them.

"Look who's right by your heart, hmm?" He presses the cool metal to your lips now, prompting you to kiss them, as he smiles so sweetly, like he hadn't just fucked your head up and tripped you. "Do you wear this every day?"

"Yes."

"Every night?"

"Yes." Your answer ends him, when he picks you up like you're nothing, dragging you right to the plush, soft rug beneath you both, hovering over you, his new tags dangling, as your fingers slip up over his strong chest, his eyes glinting with something you can't quite describe, the situation overwhelming your senses.

"I need to take better care of you, if you feel you need all these 'friends' then I'm not doing my job. I should be more than enough for you." He's leaned up, pulling up his shirt just a bit, revealing rippling abs that you've looked at far too often. "Is that it, I didn't take care of you good enough?"

"No, Caleb you always take care of me. I just... we..." Your thoughts trail off when he's slipped down his sweats, and you see his cock, so long and thick you're unsure you could take it, already oozing precum out of his reddened tip.

"Cat got your tongue, pip squeak? Keep talking, I'm listening, I always listen don't I?" He's leaned over you with one strong arm, yanking your thighs apart further, when you feel his length against your inner thigh, hot and heavy, precum sticking to you, as he cups your face so gently. "I'll listen to every moan, every whisper, so I learn everything your pretty, perfect body likes."

"Oh my god." He's brushing his tip against your engorged clit now, smiling down at you, at how pretty you are on this rug beneath him, your lashes fluttering.

"You work too hard, you need to be massaged everywhere. How could I not see this?" He's shoved his cock so deep inside you then you scream out, and he moans, feeling the stretch, of so many fucking inches. "Look how greedy, she's trying to take him all. Ahh, did you miss me this much?"

You're unable to respond to anything when he's shoved his cock so deep you're stuffed full, whimpering out as your walls struggle to stretch for him, and he's just a breath over you, lips drinking up yours then, finally kissing you after so long, before he is pulling back and shoving so deep he hits your cervix. You're sobbing it feels so fucking good, all while he can't rip his eyes off your face, the dark violet depths swirling.

"Waited so long for this, god don't you know?" He's mumbling now, lost in you, pulling back and smirking as he watches it, his lengthy cock getting sucked inside your too small hole, and the bulge in your tummy. "Look, I hit so fucking deep, don't I?" He grips your chin, shoving your head down so you see it, blushing furious.

"I... that's... s-so big I..." He's moaning as he watches it, his cock making that bulge as he goes achingly slow.

"Look at me fill you, fuck I should keep filling you too, until you can't even think. I need your brain shut off, and focused on me, yeah?" You're already fucked out and stupid, you can only stare at the bulge and blush, when he thrusts his hips with a snap, having you drooling all over his cock. "Can't think of other men now, can you?"

You can't think of a fucking thing, including what's happening, as Caleb begins fucking you harder, faster, delicately kissing your lips like he's making love, as his heavy balls slap your ass with every single filthy fucking thrust. He's whispering your name, until he's got you firm in a mating press, spitting down right on your clit and moaning at the sight.

Folded in half, god you feel so small under him, while his babbling hits your incoherent brain, the lewd slapping of his skin and how wet you are filling the living room. "Only me, I need it to only be me, me inside you, me everywhere."

"Caleb- you... f-fuck!" He's cupping your face as he folds you in that mating press, grinning feral, something unleashed that's damn near scary, but you just want more, nails pressing crescent moons against his biceps.

"Only me. Only me. Mine. Mine. Mine." He's huffing those words as you cum all around his cock, pausing him briefly, feeling your aftershocks grip him, your cunt so messy she's dripping down his balls, down to the rug, making the sounds even louder, the squishing and clicking. "I know, honey, I know, you want me to cum inside, huh?"

"Please. Please." He's smiling, you're being so good for him, and who is he to ever deny his pretty girl anything.

"I'll give you anythign you ask for, don't worry. I'll fill you so good, so, so good, yeah- ha fuck you- ah..." He's stuttering now, faster and harder, his eyes flashing then. "Only me, say it."

"Only y-you... ah- ngh!" You're screaming when he's fucking you so hard it hurts, leaned up to press the backs of your thighs.

"That's it, gonna forget them all, aren't you? Anyone."

"F-forget." Your weak response lets him lose his mind, big hands bruising, his dog tags swinging against your face when he pounds your cunt so hard, cumming so much, with his head thrown back, groaning so loud until it turns into a weak cry, as his hot gooey load coats your pussy everywhere.

"That's it, fuckin perfect pussy, God my good girl, aren't you? Taking me so well." He's murmuring, easing as you're cumming just from him coating your walls, he lets your thighs fall, moaning and kissing you, desperate and hungry. "You alright, pip squeak? Was it too much?"

"It was a lot I..." He's laughing now, softly, pulling back and out, watching the mess of creamy cum pouring down all over, groaning at the sight, you flush as you look down, seeing it all.

"You could have told me you needed more, don't you know how long I've waited for this? I wanted to be your first though, honey, tsk..." He's fingering the cum, making you jerk, so sensitive now, his lips quirking up. "Know how many times I've stroked it? Picturing just this, filling you up?"

"Y-you did?" He's shoving that cum deep, you grip his wrist, gasping now. "Caleb!"

"You're wasting it, that just won't do, I need you to be a good girl." His husky whisper along with those rough fingers makes you cry out.

"Sensitive!"

"You can take more, can't you?" He's shoving cum back in your eager whole, moaning at the sight, his cock already standing back at attention. "I think I know what I need to do, so you never call any of these 'friends' again."

"What?" Your eyes roll back when he's curling his fingers again, hovering over you and grinning, his toned body glistening with a sheen of sweat.

"I'll keep filling you, until you're dripping me constantly." Caleb's got you in your bed next, lapping his own cum right out of your cunt, taste buds dragging in every flavor of the two of you, having you cum over and over, until you're stupid. "Look, so fucked out, aww. You're drooling pip squeak, lemme get that."

He's swiping at your chin, before he's sucking your clit in his mouth again, and you're losing sense of everything, he's fucking you again, bent over, then again, on your stomach, so many loads inside you you're bloated and full, too full. You pass out on him soon, he sighs as he looks at you, so pretty as always in your sleep.

"Ah, pip squeak, we'll have to work on that stamina." He's cleaned you all up, putting your favorite pajamas on you, while you're lightly snoring, clearly he'd been a little too much.

Caleb had waited for years and years after all, for just this moment.

"Sweet dreams, my love. Future wife." He's laughing softly, you don't know just all his plans yet. He goes towards the kitchen to down some water, still naked in your apartment, cock gently swaying when he grabs his sweats, your panties still tucked in his pocket. He slips them on, frowning as he sees your phone light up, texts from Zayne and Sylus.

That just won't do.

He unlocks your phone with ease, it's his birthday of course, you love him even if you don't know how much yet. No worries. Caleb deletes every contact and message, keeping only him, because that's all you'll need now! You won't even be in this apartment soon, he can already picture you at his place, constantly having his babies.

He smiles as he holds you against him that night, but even after fucking you so deep, so much, just seeing you sleeping makes him hard again, and he has to stroke his aching cock just looking at you, waiting for you to wake up.

lmk if you want more Caleb and his freaky ass lol <3

tags- @ember-stars @luvleixo @sickleddreamer @ravenbc @honeymoonfleur @mcdepressed290 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @valleydoli perm- @alt--er--love @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji  @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty

[bluukive]

Anatomy Study

summary - will your boyfriend sit still for you whilst you draw?

content - MDNI, Toji x gn!reader, reader tries to draw Toji's dick (gone wrong), consensual dick grabbing, impatient reader, very unserious

wc - 614

“You good down there?”

“Mhm.”

Toji cracked open one lazy eye, watching as you thumbed through a small, worn-out sketchbook. He took in the sight of you lying on your stomach on the couch, brows furrowed and pink tongue peeking out from between those plush lips he loved to claim with his own. The pages brushed against one of Toji’s thighs as you looked for a spare page— the task almost impossible due to the crammed, incomplete doodles marking every bit of paper you could see. 

“Aha.” You visibly brightened up after finding a big enough spot to draw in, pencil ready in hand as the view of your boyfriend’s crotch became the primary focus. 

Just a bit of research, you told yourself. 

Toji felt you balance your sketchbook on one of his thick knees for a moment, a hand of yours reaching out to lift the waistband of his loose grey sweatpants. Your other hand tugged out his hefty cock and let it plop back onto his thigh with a dull familiar noise. You even manage to free his heavyset pair of balls, much to Toji’s confusion. 

The soft scratching noises of pencil meeting paper quickly became the only noise you could hear once you snatched your book back off of his knee, drowning out the older man’s half-assed grumblings. 

A line here, some cross-hatching there. You were so focused until a thick set of fingers yanked your head up by your hair. 

“You can’t be serious.”

You simply grinned in response, ignoring the slight sting you felt on your scalp as you momentarily met Toji’s eyes. “I’m veeery serious.”

The mumbled words were followed by another flurry of scribbles once he let go, a smug look in your eye the longer you drew this supposed masterpiece. 

“Your cock looks sad when it’s soft, y’know. But I needed a reference, and I’d rather not look at another man's flaccid penis,” you explained, tapping the pencil gently against your cheek in a brief moment of thought.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Toji huffed, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched to the side. There was nothing really to be aroused over, really. You've poked at his dick plenty of times in a non-sexual context, insisting that it looked funny when it looked like a limp sausage. But your boyfriend had no clue why this time was any different.

An unamused noise left you as you glared up through your brows and firmly shifted his cock back into its original position.

“I swear to God, you better not move again. The angle and lighting is perfect right now.”

“You think I can control my dick when you’re lookin’ at it like that?”

Toji’s words were met with a tut from you. All he could do whilst you drew was stay still, not exactly wanting to hear you whine about how the obtuse angle of his tip was on the wrong side, or some bullshit like that. 

Your boyfriend was often subject to these intense sessions of being your muse for up to hours at a time, but never like this. You’ve never so boldly pulled his cock out so that you could study each fattened vein, the saturated head that darkened when he was aroused, the way it throbbed and stood at attention when the blood rushed south, like now—

Wait. 

“Toji, you ass,” you scolded, sitting up on your knees once you were certain you couldn’t continue on with your drawing. Ruined. He ruined it.

Your boyfriend looked (mostly) unfazed, one arm splayed around the back of the couch as he took in the sight of his erect cock.

“Whoops,” your boyfriend shrugs. “My bad, I guess.”

[mandalhoerian]

best friend's brother au with caleb.

☼ MC is your best friend, emphasis on best friend. The attachment is deep, it's sandbox love, something you can’t shake even if you tried. And you have tried.

☼ The thing is though, she was born into a world where she never had to doubt if someone would come for her. Her big brother Caleb was always there. Three years older, effortlessly reliable, and devastatingly kind in a way that would make someone go "What are we?" after an interaction.

☼ And you? You’re what MC would’ve been without him.

☼ You have never been a priority. You were an accident. A presence tolerated, never wanted.

☼ Your mom, when she was around, floated through life like a ghost, a wisp of perfume and cold hands, someone who never touched the ground long enough to be real. She loved things in theory, not in practice. When she spoke about you, it was as if you were a character in someone else's story, an inconvenience she pitied from a distance.

☼ Your dad? He was fire and fists in walls, a voice that cut through the air like a blade. Not always cruel, but never kind. His affection came with sharp edges. With rules. With expectations you could never meet. When he spoke to you, it was never to see you. It was to remind you of how much space you took up. How little you gave back.

☼ There was no safety net. No soft place to land.

☼ Food was there if you wanted it, sure. If you made it yourself. If you earned it. And if you forgot? Well. That was on you.

☼ If you got sick, you figured it out. If you needed something, you went without.

☼ You survived on scraps of affection, of attention. You learned to ration kindness like it was a finite resource, something you had to trade for, something that could be taken away the moment you asked for too much.

☼ And then you met MC. And she had everything.

☼ MC, who had a home that smelled like warm food and lived-in laughter. MC, who had an older brother who noticed things.

☼ Noticed when she was hungry. When she was tired. When she was upset about something she wasn’t saying. The kind of care that was so casual, so natural, it made your stomach twist with something bitter and ugly.

☼ Because no one had ever done that for you. No one had ever looked at you and seen you.

(Why does she get that?)

(What did she do to deserve that?)

(Why didn’t you?)

☼ Caleb wasn’t just a big brother — he was a gravitational pull. He remembered the way she liked her eggs. He made sure she had a coat when the weather got cold. He made sure she ate.

☼ You watched, bewildered, as he handed her a juice box while she was rambling about something completely unrelated. She didn’t even have to ask. She hadn’t even noticed she was thirsty, but he did.

☼ When you were hungry, you ignored it until it went away. When you were cold, you learned to sleep in layers. You didn’t understand what it meant to be taken care of before you even had to ask. Before you even realized you needed it.

☼ And you hated her for it. Just a little. Just enough to allow yourself to feel it thrumming in your chest, tight and ugly.

☼ You hated how ungrateful she was. How she never seemed to notice what she had. How she rolled her eyes when he nagged her about staying up too late or skipping breakfast. How she never seemed to think about the fact that she had someone who noticed when she was hurting, when she was tired, when she wasn’t taking care of herself.

☼ You wanted to shake her.

☼ You wanted to scream, Do you even realize how lucky you are? Do you even understand what it means to have someone who cares enough to pay attention? To watch over you, even when you don’t ask them to?

☼ And maybe — maybe, if she had been cruel about it, if she had been spoiled and smug and wielded his affection like a weapon, it wouldn’t have stung so much.

☼ But she wasn’t.

☼ MC was kind.

☼ She was the one who noticed when you were skipping lunch. The one who asked if you wanted to sleep over when your house was too quiet, or too loud, or just too much. The one who reached out first.

☼ She didn’t deserve your jealousy. She had never done anything but love you.

☼ But you still felt it anyway.

☼ So, it was never about Caleb himself. Not at first.

☼ It was about wanting someone to see you the way he saw her.

☼ (And it was only later, much later, after years of standing at the edges of their orbit, after watching the way Caleb watched her, after watching the way he took care of you, too, by proxy — only then did you realize what a useless little dream that was.)

☼ Because if she was sunshine and resilience, you were a train wreck balancing on its last two wheels. A cat on its ninth life and should have died at least three times by now. If survival was a game, you’d be playing on the hardest difficulty with no armor, no buffs, just pure recklessness.

☼ You popped painkillers back-to-back because you just wanted the pain to stop. You didn't consider the consequences until you were puking up foam and gripping the edge of the sink, realizing you might actually die. And the worst part? Even then, you thought, it’s fine. I threw up most of it.

☼ You avoided the dentist for a year because of the deep, visceral fear, until one day the infection got so bad you were feverish and shaking, and MC had to physically drag you there. The dentist took one look at you and told you the place you should be at is the hospital, because you were on the verge of sepsis.

☼ Caleb could never let that happen to MC. He wouldn't allow it.

☼ And it wasn't just that he took care of her. It’s that he wanted to. That he was invested. When she was sick, he brought her soup. When she was tired, he scolded her for not getting enough sleep. He nagged, but not in the way parents did, and certainly not in the way teachers do. There was no disappointment in it. Only concern.

☼ Because it's Caleb we’re talking about. He was nice to everyone. The golden boy, the one teachers love, the one who could probably murder someone and walk away with just a warning because the principal would assume he had a good reason.

☼ When you met him for the first time as he politely asked for you to be his sister's friend because she liked you very much, you didn't get it. You assumed he must be a bully and was threatening you, or something equally insufferable.

☼ But Caleb wasn't just popular — he was beloved. People gravitated towards him, and not because he was loud or demanding. He was just Caleb.

☼ It’s only later that you realized he was different with MC. Why he treated you differently by extension.

☼ You weren't an actual person to him. Not really. You were an extension of MC. A friend that she loved, therefore someone he had a passing duty to tolerate and occasionally help.

☼ When you and MC argued, he mediated with the same detached patience you’d expect from an older brother refereeing his little sister’s fight with a friend over a lost hair tie. He wasn't your gege. He’s hers.

☼ And you hated it.

☼ At some point, it became about him.

☼ The way he laughed, low and warm. The way he lingered at the door after dropping MC off, like he had one more thing to say but thought better of it. The way he called her pipsqueak but never called you anything at all.

☼ You hated that you liked him.

☼ You hated that you caught feelings for someone who doesn’t even see you.

☼ You hated that there’s no fixing this.

☼ Because Caleb is a siscon. A full-fledged, textbook case. His world has revolved around MC for as long as you’ve known him, and you know it always will.

☼ You didn't stand a chance.

☼ And yet — when you were with MC, and Caleb ruffled her hair and teased her for something dumb, and you stood there like a third wheel — you still held onto that tiny, humiliating hope that maybe, just maybe, he would turn to you next.

☼ He never does.

[thequeenofcurses]

Wounds Without a Name

True form Sukuna x f!Reader

summary: local villagers beg heian era sukuna to help them in a war. he refuses, so you decide to help them yourself (angst) words: 3.6k

context: so I was listening to music at work and this song came on and it really reminded me of sukuna's story. I def recommend checking it out! Also wanted to shout out this art piece by @xxnghtclls because it also gave me some inspiration for this.

tw: blood, war, death, angst, true form sukuna, heian era, established relationship. it's my first time ever writing TF kuna so plz don't be mean 😭

masterlist | jjk masterlist

The battlefield was littered with bodies. Left. Right. Forward. Anywhere one could look, their eyes would feast upon a massacre. Broken bloodied weapons on the ground. The faint echoes of groans from wounded survivors. With heavy losses on both sides, it was nearly impossible to tell which side won. Most bodies were unrecognizable from either the missing limbs or the burnt to crisp corpses.

The battle had drawn out into the night, the sun just starting to peak through the sky. The red-orange light forcing a calmness over the unpleasant sight. 

He urged you not to go. 

“Let them fight their war, woman,” Sukuna once grumbled, sitting on his throne. His head was lazily rested atop one of his four hands, yet his lower set of eyes never left yours. You stood right by his side, as you always had the past few months. “Their matters don’t concern us.”

“I cannot stand idly by while they massacre children,” you chided back to him. “If you won’t help them–”

“I said no!” he shouted. You didn’t flinch, even though everyone else on this planet would have. Sukuna may have never said those cursed magical three words, but you knew how he felt about you. Knew he would never truly harm you. Knew he treated you differently. Knew he let you get away with too much. “We’re not going.” He rose, then gave you an annoyed side-eye, before his stomach grumbled. “Uraume!”

“Lord Sukuna?” they immediately appeared to his side, bowing.

“Prepare our dinner.”

“Yes, Lord Sukuna.” The white-haired monk vanished, as quickly as they had appeared. 

The royal kitchen bustled with servants searching for the ingredients Uraume requested to prepare dinner. Their instructions were quite specific as you had been feeling quite ill this last week. Or was it two weeks? Going on three? As skilled as Uraume was with reverse cursed technique, even they couldn’t pinpoint what was constantly making you feel so unwell.

Your stomach ached, craving a snack in the meantime before dinner is prepared. Unfortunately, your heart also ached while you thought about the people who were just in the throne room, weeks ago, begging Sukuna for his help.

“We will offer you anything, please–” the elder couple were bowing, heads touching the floor, as they begged for salvation. “Our enemy village is attacking us. They’re killing our men. Taking our women, our children.”

This was typical. Commoners from all over the land often came with offerings for Sukuna for something in return. If their offering wasn’t good enough, they’d often leave severely injured, if they were lucky to survive a cleave attack. That was what you were used to. But never had anyone yet, begged to save their children.

You couldn’t tell what it was, but something about this elderly couple’s begging tugged at your heartstrings. Children, the children. 

To your knowledge, Sukuna did not want any offspring, yet you were too afraid to ever ask him that question. You may be his favorite, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he will change for you. 

Week after week, different people from the elderly couple’s village came begging for deliverance. Each update was worse than the last. At first the enemy were only taking the children, now they’re killing them and everyone they get their hands on.

Regardless of how bad it got, Sukuna still refused to aid them.

The children. 

The children! 

Your heart ached day after day until you finally imploded.

“Uraume!”  Sukuna shouted. “Prepare our dinner.”

Sukuna soundlessly started the walk to his private chambers, disrobing on the way there. He paused, turning his head to make sure you were following. 

“I’ll be right there,” you called out.

He grunts, then continues his venture towards his room.

Although you've been sleeping in Sukuna’s chambers for quite some time, you still had your own room, where your clothing and personal items were kept. You quickly make your way to your boudoir.

The rain pattered softly against the window, but the storm inside your chest raged far louder. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands; hands that had done nothing but remain idle, sheltered under Sukuna’s protection, while others suffered. The weight of your inaction pressed heavy on your ribs. How many lives had been lost while you stayed here? How many more would die if you did nothing?

But leaving… it wasn’t just about sneaking past Uraume and the other servants or enduring Sukuna’s wrath. It was about what you would be throwing away. The safety. The stability. The certainty that, no matter what happened, you would always be protected under his reign. Sukuna doesn’t make promises, but you knew, with an unshakable certainty, that as long as you remained his, no harm would ever come to you.

And yet, you couldn’t stay.

You pressed a trembling hand against your stomach. A strange nausea had plagued you lately, but you’ve chalked it up to anxiety, to sleepless nights spent debating this very decision. If you left now, there would be no turning back. If you stayed… you might just drown in regret, knowing you had chosen yourself over the helpless.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Sukuna, standing over a battlefield, blood splattered across his face, grinning. The bodies of men, women, even children, crumpled in his wake. And yet, that same bloodstained hand had once brushed your hair from your face with an almost unbearable gentleness.

He was a monster. But he had never been a monster to you.

Would that change when he found out what you had done?

With a deep breath, you rose to your feet. Back and forth, you pace your room. Thoughts of innocent children being slaughtered fill your mind. Death was something anyone close to Sukuna was forced to get used to. But Sukuna often killed people whom (for the most part) he had a reason to kill – if annoying him counts. Innocent children though? You’re not sure if you can let that go.

You had learned a thing or two about your technique from Sukuna and you often watched him and Uraume train together. With that knowledge and your little secret practice sessions with Uraume, you for sure could help those people.

You made your decision. You had to do something.

Sukuna usually bathes right before or after dinner and considering he was walking around naked when he left you, there's a good chance he's in there right now. 

You decide to change clothing, putting on a thicker, but looser kimono and closed toed footwear, then head for the kitchen.

You peek in through the door, seeing Uraume slice up different meats. No doubt some of it was fresh “offerings,” from those village people. Aside from them, the kitchen was empty.

You noiselessly push open the door to slide into the kitchen. If all goes according to plan, you’ll be able to help the village. 

You walk in, feigning extreme hunger. 

“Y/n?,” Uraume questions, eyes narrowing. “Has something happened?”

“No–” you respond a little too quickly. “Uh, Sukuna just wanted me to check on dinner. He was growing rather impatient.”

Uraume frowns, but speeds up their chopping. “Supper will be ready soon. Though, he often doesn’t send you, as his messenger.”

“I too, was growing rather hungry…” you rub your belly, hoping Uraume believes you.

“Well it won’t be much longer,” they nod their head back towards the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait, please–” you start. You walk closer, slowly, so as not to alarm them. “Those villagers that have been coming in lately…”

A silent stare, urging you to continue.

“I want to help–”

“No.” They turn away from you, gathering more herbs.

“Uraume, you must understand,” you take another step closer. “They’re killing children. And if I recall correctly, Sukuna mentioned he found you as a child.”

Uraume sighs, adding the meat to a boiling pot of water.

“I have been practicing my technique like you’ve shown me. I can fight. I can help them.”

“Lord Sukuna would never allow it,” Uraume finally faces you again. “If he knew I permitted you to leave, he would be enraged. It’s too dangerous.”

“Hmph,” you scoff. “Well that’s why I’m not asking.” Uraume’s eyes open wide at your bold statement. For the first time ever, they were truly shocked and flabbergasted. “I just need a weapon. Please.”

The determined look in your eyes was unwavering. You stared Uraume down with the confidence you gained from continually standing by Sukuna’s side.

Another low sigh. “Fine,” they surrender. “But I will have no part in this. We never spoke tonight. You were never here.” If that’s what it takes. You nod and follow them toward the training area of the shrine. As inaudible and quick as a ninja, Uraume slips into the room, then seconds later, returns with exactly what you need.

A twin pair of sai. You’ve practiced them on tree trunks and crows, but never a living human before. First time for everything. You place the weapons in your belt and tighten it along your waist for security.

You turn to nod to Uruame, a sign of thanks, but they're already gone. 

The village under attack was only nine to ten kilometers from the shrine. You could get there within a couple hours.

You left with a small smile on your face. You'll deal with Sukuna’s rage whenever you get back. You're just glad you finally can use your newfound abilities for something meaningful.

The night air was crisp as you stepped beyond the safety of the shrine’s walls. For months, you had lived under Sukuna’s rule; his protection, his dominance, his affection. But tonight, you walked forward with nothing but your own will guiding you.

You knew the risks. Sukuna did not tolerate disobedience, not even from you. He would be furious when he found out, and his wrath was not something to take lightly. But you would endure it, because you could no longer sit idly by while innocent children were slaughtered.

The path down the mountain was steep, but you moved quickly, your grip tightening around the twin sai at your waist. The weapons felt both foreign and familiar in your grasp. The deadly tools that you had trained with in secret, yet never wielded in true combat. But there was no room for hesitation now.

You would fight. You would protect. And when the time came to face Sukuna’s judgment, you would stand tall, knowing you had done what was right.

One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes! Where the hell is this woman? His woman.

Although, Sukuna was much too arrogant to say that to your face. 

He sat in the bath, eyes closed, relaxing. Or attempting to relax. It was very rare he wasn't in the same room as you for very long. Besides, what could you possibly want to do aside from being with him?

It was going on twenty minutes and you still had him waiting. How terribly annoying.

Within moments a servant came knocking on his door. 

“Lord Sukuna, Uruame has finished your dinner. Shall you and Lady y/n be eating in the dining hall?”

“Just bring it here,” Sukuna mutters.

Sukuna stands, the water cascading down his naked muscled form. 

The same servant returns with two hot plates of food. They place the plates down on the table near the bed, all the while never looking up.

As they go to make their exit, Sukuna stops them with a wave of his hand. 

“You there,” he started. Not like he needs to know anyone's name aside from you and Uruame. The servant freezes, her body visibly shaking. “Where is y/n?" 

“I- I-,” she stuttered out. Their teeth clattering together. 

“Spit it out.”

“I do not know. Uruame instructed me to deliver your meal since they had business to attend to.”

“Tch,” he reaches for the nearest long cloth to dry himself off. “Get out.”

Maybe you were upset at him that he yelled at you today. It was rare he ever got vexed with you, annoyed – very often, but genuinely irate? No.

Sukuna lazily throws on his yukata. The aroma coming from both plates smelled divine. Uraume never seems to miss when it comes to cooking.

It felt odd… Having dinner without you. Sukuna took a bite out of his meat. Cooked to perfection. A slice of human male torso, with a female’s palm and breast. Some of his favorite parts to consume.

He chewed but the meat quickly started to turn sour– or was that just his mood affecting the food. Where the Hell is that woman? His curiosity quickly started to turn into anger. 

“Uraume!” He didn’t know or care what “business” they had. Sukuna wanted answers now.

Within moments, the snowy haired servant appeared in the doorway.

“Sukuna-sama?”

“Where is she?” He tried to chew, tried to savor the flavor, the smell, but every bite slowly started to turn bitter.

The shattered remnants of a ceramic plate lay at his feet, Uraume kneeling beside him in quiet apprehension. The silence in the room was suffocating, stretched taut with an unspoken fury that crackled like a brewing storm.

“She’s gone,” Uraume said evenly. “The servants—”

“I don’t give a damn about the servants.” Sukuna’s voice was low, almost calm. But Uraume flinched, recognizing the telltale signs of an imminent explosion.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He had known—known—you were reckless, that you let emotions dictate your actions. But this? Running headfirst into battle? It was the single most idiotic thing you could have done. Especially with your condition.

His lower hands twitched toward his stomach, a rare, almost unconscious gesture. Stupid girl. You didn’t even know. Didn’t know about the life you carried. His life.

And now you were out there, in the middle of a blood-soaked battlefield, fragile and unaware.

A slow, seething rage curled through his chest, suffocating in its intensity. He had half a mind to tear through every single soldier in that war-torn wasteland himself, not out of any sense of justice, he didn’t care for the politics of it, but simply to prove a point. To drag you back, trembling and bloodied, and make you understand that you do not get to leave him.

He inhaled sharply. “Where?”

Uraume hesitated. “Lord Sukuna—”

“Where.”

A beat. Then, reluctantly, Uraume murmured the name of the battlefield. Sukuna turned, striding toward the door. He would bring you back. He had to.

Ten kilometers. It wasn’t extremely far, but far enough he couldn’t sense you anymore. Far enough he couldn’t protect you. Damn it. Damn you.

He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Not since her. That damn woman. He considers her more of a monster than himself. 

“Stay here,” she whispered.

Sukuna had been too young to understand what those words truly meant. Too young to recognize the way his mother’s voice trembled, how her fingers lingered just a little too long on his face, tracing the sharp edges of his cheekbones as if she were memorizing them.

"I’ll be right back."

She had kissed him then, something she rarely did. Her lips were cold. He remembers that. Cold, and wet with the tears she tried to hide.

Then she turned and walked away.

And she never came back.

Sukuna learned to lie that day. Learned to smother the ache in his chest, to twist his words, his thoughts, his very being into something untouchable. Because if love only led to loss, then what was the point? If people always left, then why should he ever believe in their promises?

So he didn’t.

Not until you.

Yet here you are, trying to leave him too.

You should have stayed behind. That thought claws at Sukuna’s mind like a relentless beast, gnawing and tearing through his usual ironclad logic. Why didn’t you just listen to him!? He’s never been one to hesitate, never one to question the necessity of a fight—but this time, something festers in his chest, heavy and unnatural. It’s you.

He’s always known you were reckless, too willing to throw yourself into danger for the sake of others, before he saved you. It’s one of the things that made you so damn frustrating. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s not just your life on the line.

Sukuna’s fingers twitch at his side. No one else knows. Not even you. He had sensed it before you started feeling sick, something faint but unmistakable; a new life, fragile and barely formed, nestled within you. His child. His heir.

And you’re running straight into a warzone.

The knowledge should have made him stop you. It should have made him tell you the truth, force you to stay behind, do something to keep you safe. But he didn’t. He let his pride, his cold logic, his damned belief that you were strong enough to handle anything—just like always—get in the way.

Now, as he prepares for battle, unease coils around his ribs like a vice. Sukuna isn’t a man ruled by fear, but right now, he’s afraid. Not for himself. For you.

And for the life you don’t even know you’re carrying.

The journey to the village is a quiet one, with Uraume silently following behind. There was no need to plan or think any further. Sukuna knew exactly what he was going to do once he reached that battlefield.

The battlefield is a storm of blood and screams, but none of it matters. Not to him.

Sukuna scans the chaos with razor-sharp precision, his instincts screaming that something is off. He should have found you by now. You should be here, tearing through enemies with that reckless determination of yours, throwing yourself into the fray as if you were invincible.

But you’re not here.

His heart, if he even has one, lurches violently against his ribs. His body moves before his mind catches up, cutting through bodies, ignoring the spray of blood and the desperate cries around him. The only thing he cares about right now is finding you.

Cleave. Dismantle. Cleave. Dismantle. 

He slices and dices everything in sight, not caring whose side they were on.

Until he finally sees it.

A familiar figure, crumpled on the ground. Still. Far too still.

Sukuna doesn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment, he’s fighting. The next, he’s on his knees beside you, hands grasping at your body as if he can shake you back to life.

But you’re cold.

Too cold.

Something inside him snaps.

Heal. Heal.

He presses one then two, then four hands to your body, all infused with his overflowing cursed energy. He spills his life essence into you (again), yet you remain still. 

Heal. Heal.

He looks toward Uraume who just finished freezing their attackers. Maybe if they both try reverse cursed technique, it may work. 

Heal. Heal. Heal. Heal. Heal.

One of Sukuna’s hands grazes your lips. Cold and wet. Just like his mother’s that day.

You’re leaving him too. Just like her.

A sound rips from Sukuna’s throat; something raw, something primal, something wrong. He’s not the type to grieve, not the type to break, but as he cradles your lifeless body, he feels something inside him shatter beyond repair.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

You were supposed to live. To survive. To stay by his side, infuriating, annoying, and stubborn and alive.

His grip tightens around you, claws digging into your flesh, as if holding you close will somehow fix this, somehow reverse the unthinkable. But it won’t. He knows it won’t.

And then, it hits him.

The child.

His jaw clenches so hard it might break. His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, his entire body trembling–not with grief, but with unfiltered, world-ending rage.

They didn’t just take you from him.

They took everything.

A furious roar tears through the battlefield, drowning out the clashing of swords and the screams of the dying. The ground quakes beneath him as his cursed energy surges, turning the air thick with malice. His vision is drenched in red, his mind consumed by a singular, all-consuming need:

Vengeance.

He will burn this world to the ground. And he will make them all pay.

The battlefield is silent now. The stench of blood clings to the air, thick and suffocating, but Sukuna no longer tastes it. His blade is still warm in his grip, his hands stained with the lives he has taken. Corpses litter the ground, the remnants of his wrath, yet none of it matters. Not anymore.

You are gone. So is the child you never even knew you carried.

Sukuna stands amidst the ruin, but the rage that once burned inside him has been smothered, leaving behind something far worse: a hollow, endless void. He thought vengeance would bring him something. Closure, maybe. Peace. But there is no peace in this. No satisfaction. Only silence.

A familiar voice calls his name. Uraume. He barely registers them as they step closer, hesitant yet unwavering, the only presence left in the wake of his destruction. 

“It's over,” they say, as if that means anything.

Over.

Sukuna lets his weapon fall from his grasp. It lands with a dull thud, swallowed by the lifeless ground beneath him. He does not move when Uraume reaches for him, does not resist when they pull him away from this graveyard of his own making. He feels nothing.

You were supposed to be by his side. You were supposed to live.

But now, there is only emptiness. A vast, aching nothingness that no amount of bloodshed can ever fill.

A/N MAN I WAS SO NERVOUS WRITING THIS 😭 It was my first time ever writing true form kuna and I'm not sure if I even did good (he's so hard to write!) 😭 I'm lowkey shaking, because I'm so in love with him and don't want to ruin his character or write him OOC. Welp. (I hope I made you cry, bc that was my goal) Also shout out to Ayron Jones, who's such an underrated artist. I hope you guys listen and enjoy the song! 🖤

ryomen sukuna

[fayevalentiinee]

“A love told through quiet moments — gentle, steady, and endlessly tender.”

Gojo Satoru and you shared a love without limits — strong, deep, and intimate in every single way possible, following you both through every twist and turn life threw at you.

One night, you woke trembling — breathless — the aftermath of a nightmare clinging to you like smoke. The images still burned behind your eyes, too vivid to silence. You didn’t even realize your tears had soaked the collar of his shirt — Satoru’s shirt — until his arms were already around you.

He didn’t speak. He only gathered you into his lap, hands shaking at the sight of your distress, as though the mere sigh of your pain reverberated through him. With reverent tenderness, he combed his fingers through your hair, murmuring your name like a prayer — again and again — as though it could tether you both back to reality.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

—

Once, you’d burned your hands during a mission — overused your cursed energy until blisters bloomed and fine cuts marked your smooth skin. You became hesitant to use them, to even look at them, shame curling in your chest like smoke.

But Satoru found you in that silence. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, your hands cradled delicately in his own, and pressed open-mouthed kisses to each fingertip — slow, deliberate — as if his lips alone could draw the pain from your skin.

“These hands shouldn’t have to hide or hurt,” he said softly. “Not when they’ve held me so tenderly.”

He’d been raised in a world that asked for everything and gave back nothing, yet always expecting. Even his own mother, bound by the weight of the clan, had withheld affection in favour of duty. So he learned love through your hands — through your softness, through your affectionate eyes.

—

One day, your exhaustion ran deep like a root of a flower. Missions bled into one another, not letting you form a single thought, and even when you came home, your mind refused to settle. You couldn't focus — not even on the books you used to cherish.

So Satoru pulled you into his arms, cradled you against his chest, and opened one of your favourites. His voice was low, steady, deliberate — not for the sake of the story, but for you. You didn’t listen to the words. You listened to the warmth in his breath, the cadence of his heart, the safety in his presence.

He held the book in one hand and you in the other — like you were sacred. Irreplaceable.

Sometimes, he held you like a man afraid to lose grip. Other nights, he set quiet alarms — not to wake for duty, but just to curl closer to you, to bury his face in the crook of your neck and breathe you in like something holy.

If you stirred, his voice would ghost against your skin.

“Sorry,” he’d murmur. “Just needed to make sure you were still here.”

—

You were bone-tired one evening — sore, silent, barely upright. Without a word, he ran a bath for two. He climbed in behind you, water warm, his arms warmer, and began to lather shampoo into your hair. You giggled when he blew a few soap bubbles toward your nose, but his hands remained reverent — fingers massaging your scalp with a gentleness that bordered on worship.

He tilted your head back, careful not to let a drop sting your eyes, and smiled — as though he were holding a pearl between his palms.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ll always be here to take care of you.”

—

Sleep evaded you both sometimes. On those nights, he’d play your favourite jazz record — the one you always put on during wine-fueled balcony nights. He’d pull you into his arms without a word and sway with you barefoot across the kitchen, the fabric of your shirt brushing his, rhythmic tapping of footsteps could be heard across the tiles.

His chin rested on your shoulder. His hum vibrated softly against your neck. You moved slowly, quietly — just warmth, and breath, and music.

And for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.

—

One night, you reached for him. With trembling hands, you lifted the hem of his shirt and pressed a kiss to the scar beneath his ribs. Then another. Then another.

He went still.

Those baby blue eyes — so often bright, teasing, impossible — turned glassy. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, throat bobbing as he tried to swallow the emotion that surged too quickly.

“They’re proof you came back to me,” you whispered. “Every time.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t offer one of his usual deflections or brush it off with humor.

He just held you — tight, quiet, believing this time.

Satoru rarely believed in himself in the other ways that mattered to you. But when you spoke like that — with your eyes full of unwavering light, steady — he believed every single word that slipped out of your love-filled lips.

—

These memories crashed over him like waves. He blinked through tears, throat catching on a sob before he even realized he’d made a sound. His fingers curled around a paper, blotched and bleeding ink where his tears fell.

Now, he sat alone, your letter trembling in his hands — the one that still smelled faintly like you. The one he’d read so many times the edges were soft with wear.

But still, he couldn’t look away from the final line. He read it again. And again. And again:

“Even without breath, even without a heart to beat, I’ll go on loving you. My love for you is etched into my soul — and souls never forget, not even in eternity.”

And for the first time in a long, long while — He wept without holding back. He felt the ghost of your hands wrapping around him from behind, caressing his back just as they always did.

[ejudollz]

📼 matcha powder - murata fuma .MP4

🐇ᯓ★ tape contents ⋆˚𖦹 fuma isn't normally the type to be submissive in a relationship, however you saw that as a challenge. things are so new for fuma but he's so willing to try things out for you. you're making it your mission to turn him into the most perfect sub.

𐙚🧸 content warnings ₊˚⊹ ᰔ 18+, sub fuma, dom reader, f reader, light subspace, edging, mentions of safe words (not used), usage of colors, finger sucking, nipple play, unprotected sex, cumming inside, fuma gets called bunny (he's me 😳), bunny doesn't know how to end fics pls tune out right before it ends, wc / 3,173

🐰ᯓᡣ𐭩 authors note ⋆˚ finally.. she writes.. it's been so long since i have written anything and this is my first full length fic on this blog and actually for &team in general!! im so excited to finally be sharing something that im at least semi proud of and im excited to fully showcase how i see the boys in my own characterization!! i hope you all enjoy and i hope to write more soon!! / ©byshens (layout)

fuma’s thoughts fog over in a way he'd never felt before. this wasn't a usual feeling of mental exhaustion or a simple mind slip.. instead, this was something very unfamiliar, something he wasn’t used to in the slightest. his hands gripped at the sheets beneath him, a low groan refocusing him on the scene before him. 

this was so new for him, he was torn between feeling scared, anxious, unsure.. he didn’t even know if he should be intrigued and aroused, maybe all of the above? honestly he couldn't even make out what the current feeling was that possessed him.

his body was exhausted, needing and craving release so badly, he’d never craved such a simple sensation so badly before. normally he'd be able to handle a lot sexually, but giving up his sense of control proved to be very different in all ways possible. 

fuma's was single for a bit of time, more focused on his career and his goals than anything else. he wanted to perfect his craft, build his body while he was still young, and achieve milestones in any way he could. 

although he’d been single for quite a while he can recall the way he usually takes on a role where he's in control. normally he's the type to take care of his partner, both in the relationship as well as sexually and that’s what he had gotten used to. he loves it, he's a giver at heart and feels very fulfilled doing so. however, you provided something different, you showed him something new, something he never thought he would take part in. fuma was able to explore different aspects of himself sexually which provided him with new feelings and sensations. 

nobody has ever made fuma feel the way that you do. not even in a cliche romantic way either, he has literally never been able to cum as hard as he does when you're touching him and taking care of him. when your hands are in his hair and working over his body it feels like his body isn’t even his anymore.  

you never imagined you'd make it this far with him, it brings you this sense of power looking at the boy in front of you. you'd never heard him sound like this before, his voice breathy and raspy, every noise sounding almost like a gasp slipping past his lips. now fuma’s a vocal person, he has been since you started having sex with him but he hasn’t let noises this sweet sounding pass his lips before. 

fuma has been so good for you since he decided to let you take over, you knew it would be a lot of responsibility to have someone like him in your control. you assumed he’d be a sweetheart, but he fully gives himself to you, his curiosity always allowing you to do as you please. it was shocking just how willing he is to allow you this much control. you've come to find out that he's so pretty when vulnerable and his body had so much to offer. 

you flicked your finger over his nipple, smiling at the way he bit down on his lip, furrowing his eyebrows tightly. you'd edged him quite a few times already, his cock and face flushing similar shades of red. he was sat directly in front of you, fully unclothed and exposed to you. part of him wanted to press his thighs together but the other part of him so badly wanted to be seen. anyone can tell he’s got such a beautiful body but being on display for you, having his body readily accessible like this was so different. 

fuma loves the contrast of you being clothed while he was out on display like this, he loved the restraint of not seeing you fully and having to rely on his imagination of what’s under your clothes. the contrast heightens the feeling of you having more of an advantage over him and it immerses him even more in the scene.

“my pretty bunny.. just so needy, aren’t you?” you notice the way fuma’s gaze is a bit hazy, his eyes unfocused as he looks at you. he nods eagerly, swallowing hard with an exasperated noise. you smiled at him and cupped his face, not missing the way he nuzzles into your touch a bit. he’s just so obedient, you can’t even believe the sight in front of you.

your hand was wrapped steadily around his thick length, you tightened your grip on him slightly as you looked into his eyes. “fuma.. focus for me baby.. gonna make you feel good okay?” his hands searched for you to brace himself, he gripped at your thigh gently and breathed out a shaky breath, just barely remembering to nod at the end. 

he couldn’t fully focus no matter how hard he tried, his breathing was a bit laboured and his body was seeming more tired than normal. “you doing okay bun? need a break?” fuma’s the type to keep taking everything you give him so graciously without putting himself first. having him as your sub required you to take care of him in ways that others may not require but you were more than happy to do so.

he just shook his head but you released his length, holding his chin up and helping his gaze find yours with the hand that was just wrapped around him. it was so lewd and a little dirty but it drove fuma even crazier once he thought about it fully. “use your words. are you okay? do you need me to stop for a little bit?” you’d never seen him get like this, he’s normally able to hold himself together with ease. while he looked sexy like this you are aware of how new this is for him so you were being extra cautious.

the boy in front of you gave a slight dopey smile, which made you laugh. he shook his head in your grasp, “mm.. wanna keep going..” you nodded at this, but began stalling the slightest bit, just to give him a small break anyways. you wordlessly placed a hand to his chest and gently pushed him down flat on the bed. you were sat beside the boy just watching him process his surroundings. fuma stared up at the ceiling for a second, blinking dumbly before turning his head towards you, he looked so pretty and fucked out right now. 

his hands slowly came to your arm, wrapping around the wrist of your hand that had previously been teasing him so much. you just watched him, holding eye contact as he slowly lifted your fingers up to his mouth. he’d never done this before, your eyes widened as he slipped your middle and ring finger past his lips. you nearly moaned at this as he began softly sucking and moaning around your fingers. you could feel the bass of his voice vibrating on your skin. 

“ohh.. such a good boy, fuma..” you played in his hair for a moment, taking in the way he stared up at you with his pretty round sparkly eyes. his hair strands were stickling to his forehead slightly, sweat beading up on his forehead. you decided to test the waters, your fingers slightly pressing down against his tongue as you scratched gently along his chest with your free hand. he shuddered under you a bit, you could tell you caught him a little off guard by the way he bit down slightly on your fingers. fuma rolled his hips up into nothing, his body squirmed senselessly at the throbbing between his legs. 

“should i touch you now? tell me how much you want it..” you noticed fuma's desperation rising so you decided it's time to finally give him what he so badly needs. 

“please..” he nods his head quickly, his words coming out muffled around your fingers. you waited for more but he stopped, trying to keep the saliva in his mouth from slipping out all around your fingers. 

you retracted your hand, allowing whatever he was trying to keep in to drip out. “hm.. must not want it that bad. maybe we should stop here?” you wiped your fingers on the bed beside fuma, faking like you were going to stand up. 

“no! please.. mm.. want it so bad.. need it.. please..” fuma appeared frantic and his voice matched his appearance. his eyes were round and full of need, you almost felt bad for joking with him like that. he looked completely disheveled and he reached for you, holding onto your arm to keep you from leaving. “i need you, y/n.” 

“okay bunny.. i'll take care of you.. what do you say if we need to stop?” he lights up a bit, his chest rising and falling quickly, “pineapple..” you nod with a smile, almost like you’re showing him that you’re proud.

“how do you want me to make you cum? i'll let you pick since you were such a good boy.” you slightly sink your nails into the skin of his thigh, dragging your nails downward as you waited for him to speak. 

every little touch was a challenge for him, he couldn't focus with your hands anywhere on him. he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed heavily, trying to refocus the fog that takes over his mind currently. he's so cute like this, he just seems so so pathetic. 

“wanna be inside of you.. wanna feel you.. please..” you nod at him while you stand up, facing fuma who's eyes won't leave your body. he’s so attentive to you, eyes hooded and so focused on every one of your movements. if he weren’t so foggy in the head he would be praising you for everything you do.

fuma attempts to sit up, normally he helps you get undressed.. he loves being able to feel your skin and slowly peel your clothes off of your body. but this time you stop him, telling him to just let you show off for him for a moment. he blinks slowly at you, sitting up on his elbows as best as he can so he doesn’t miss a single moment of what’s happening in front of him.

you move slowly as you get undressed, just the way fuma likes it. he loves the suspense of your skin slowly becoming more visible to him. you start with your bottoms, hooking your thumbs under the fabric of your pants, leaving your underwear untouched. slowly, you work your way out of your bottoms. fuma’s eyes fall to your hips, drool pooling in his mouth immediately. his eyes are locked on your panties, its one of his favorite pairs that were so patiently waiting to be revealed to him.

you threw your pants to the side and climbed on the bed with him, once again placing a hand on fuma’s muscular chest, but this time to brace yourself. you wasted no time resting your weight in his lap, noticing the way he sucks in a breath at the slight friction you caused. 

he stares up at you with big round eyes, so patiently waiting for you to say something. “undress me.” fuma moved quicker than you could finish your sentence, hands moving under your shirt and resting on your hips. his hands are big and on the rougher side, you shivered at the feeling of his skin on yours. 

he looked into your eyes as he pulled your shirt off of your body, biting his bottom lip a bit when he looked back down to your chest. he pulled you close, nose pressing against your body as he breathed in the scent of your body wash and perfume. he groaned against you, hands moving up your body and finding the hook of your bra. fuma’s eyes were closed as he rested against your chest, his cheek felt so soft on you.

the clasp of your bra came undone, fuma’s nails gently ran over your skin at this. he was taking every moment possible to admire you, to enjoy this closeness. fuma snuck in a few kisses, peppering small pecks against your chest before pulling away and revealing your breasts to himself. his breath hitches in his throat as he stares, your bra quickly being discarded elsewhere. 

“please..” his voice is a mere whisper, almost like he was trying not to let you hear him. “please what?” you run your hands through his hair, holding him close to you. he seems a little puzzled, like he was shocked that you heard him. he swallowed hard before speaking, “please ride me..”

you wordlessly lift up in his lap, running your fingers through your warm wet folds. you’d gotten quite turned on by this point as well. you pulled your panties to the side, lining yourself up with fuma’s tip. he could feel the heat radiating off of you, he couldn’t take it already, he needed you so bad. 

you push your fingers into his mouth, allowing him to taste the sweetness that coated your fingers. he groaned around your fingers, torn between shutting his eyes and watching you line yourself up. with your free hand you rubbed his leaking tip between your folds, letting out a moan in unison with fuma’s muffled noises. he closes his mouth a little harder around your fingers, bracing himself a bit for what he’s so desperately wanted.

you sink down on fuma’s cock, your gummy walls instantly pulsating around his thicker shaft. you gasp at the feeling, not previously realizing how sensitive you’d feel. fuma groans, his eyes shutting and his body tensing under you. you fully bottom out on top of him, sitting with him fully inside of you. you pull your fingers from fuma’s mouth and look in his eyes once more.

fuma’s expression his perfect, his eyes are sparkling, his lips are plump and swollen, his face is slightly covered by his fringe, but its clear enough for you to still see him. he looks absolutely euphoric right now as you move your fingers into his hair. 

you tug slightly, using the grip you have on his hair in order to control things better. your hips roll in fuma's lap, the feeling of him inside of you making you moan out. 

finally you start moving, slowly dragging yourself up and down his length. fuma’s hands fly to your hips, his hands immediately gripping at your skin. he craved this moment so much, his whines and gasps showed you this so much. 

you waste no time picking up your pace, the sound of you slamming down in fuma's lap fills the room. he leans forward into you, grasping at you anyway that he could. he couldn't hold himself together no matter how hard he tried. you let go of his hair, placing kisses all over his face and hearing the way he whines. 

his upper half suddenly felt too heavy for him to hold himself up. he rested his body fully, hands tangling in his own hair to replace your own hands. his hands fall from your hips, gripping at the sheets instead. 

this is the fastest fuma has come undone under you, his body tensing up and his moans getting caught in his throat. “cu.. c..” his voice trails off into moans each time he tries to talk but it's clear what he's trying to say. 

you place your hand around his throat, applying the tiniest amount of pressure. his moans sound gritty and rough, the volume of his voice finally catching up to him. he swallows hard a couple of times, trying to get his voice out again. 

“go ahead bunny.. fill me up.. let it go, handsome..” fuma fully malfunctions at your words, it feels like his brain short circuits in this moment. he sucks in a breath and doesn't let go, body stiffening up once again under you. 

you feel his warm cum begin to fill your walls, his cock twitching inside of you. a high pitched whine finally comes out of him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

he starts breathing ruggedly, his hips stuttering slightly. you don't stop moving, helping him fully finish his orgasm. fuma's sweating and breathless, so pretty under you. you let him catch his breath a tiny bit, watching as he swallows hard. 

you run your hand up and down his chest, smiling so sweetly, “gotta use you just a little more..” you begin to pick your pace up once again, hips very slowly moving. fuma's cum is dripping out, pooling in his lap below you. 

it takes him a second to reply, he's looking up at the ceiling again, a content expression on his face. “sorry.. came too fast..” you shook your head even though he wasn't looking at you, “it's okay.. doing so well for me. what's your color baby?” 

he looks at you now, still smiling slightly, “green.. wanna see you cum..” you admired his strong he was being.. takes everything so graciously and is always ready for more. 

you let out a sound of approval, gently rocking your hips back and forth in his lap. fuma bites his lip, eyebrows furrowed tight on his forehead. your clit was throbbing at this point, you wanted to cum so bad now. 

you start to move up and down his length once again, grabbing fuma's hand and moving it to your clit. he starts sloppily rubbing circles on your clit, eager to make you feel good. you let out a satisfied moan, fuma's cum providing yourself extra lubricant. your pussy glides over him so easily, his thumb working on you. you feel your orgasm start to bubble up in your stomach. 

it doesn't take much longer for your orgasm to fully hit you, your pussy clenching around fuma. you're moaning as you ride out your orgasm, leaning down to place your lips on fuma's. he's moaning into your mouth as you ride him, his hands running over your body. 

you lean forward against him, catching your breath and letting your orgasm wash over you. he's still inside but you just stay like this for a while, listening to your own heartbeat. the boy brings his arms around you, holding you tight and keeping you close to him. this moment is weirdly comforting and reassuring. 

silence fills the room but it's not uncomfortable, you both just lay there and take everything in. fuma is turning out to be the most perfect sub, much better than you had originally expected. you couldn't wait to further mold him into the perfect boy for you. 

you lift up to admire fuma's features.. you're really so lucky to have him. he stares back at you with that same goofy smile from earlier, “i love you so much y/n..” you giggle at the sudden confession as you caress his face, “i love you more fuma.” you lean down to place a kiss on his lips, you couldn't ask for anything better.

[jesuistrestriste]

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers @fawnnpaws @oncefaist ♡

[iheartcborle]

Herbert West [Reanimator] Stimboard !

— self indulgent.

[strawberrystepmom]

in the spirit of transitional seasons and new-er new beginnings, i present to you - an astrological event.

for the entire month of february, i will be accepting the following zodiac asks:

sexuality readings - if you provide me with your moon, sun, mars, neptune, and venus i will give you my take on how the stars influence your passion, love, and sex. note: these will have many nsfw elements. if you are uncomfortable with me making these kinds of assessments, please avoid this category.

special little guy (gn) charts - if you provide the birth date and some basic information about your fav, i will give you an at a glance of their big five minus rising. (sun, moon, mars, venus)

romance compatibility - if you provide you + your fav's venus and moon, i will give you a little run down of your at a glance compatibility and recommend an activity that may be a good way to get some quality time in.

ring or fling - are you in a little enemies to lovers arc with your fav? not sure if you're feeling it? let the stars help you decide to keep 'em or chuck 'em. give me their big four (sun, moon, mars, venus) and yours as well and i will give you the reasons why things may not work and you can decide from there. note: i am going to be honest, if you don't want an honest answer please avoid this category.

and additionally,

general zodiac questions - my inbox tends to stay open for these anyway but i wanted to make sure to lay it all out...it is just fine to ask me about the basics! that's what i'm here for! but i will be prioritizing the special categories up above.

now the fine print:

18+ adults only. i block all ageless and minor blogs that come into contact with me.

my recommended resource for running your own chart/your favs chart is cafeastrology but i gladly accept charts from any source if you have a preferred one.

any asks sent regarding astrology prior to february 1st will be answered between the 1st and 28th.

during this event, i am going to prioritize people who have not received readings from me during prior astrology answering sessions. you are more than welcome send them in if you have before, i welcome it actually, but im trying to keep things as fair as i can.

please be patient! i am one person answering these asks. they take a great deal of time for me - energetically especially. i do my best to be thorough and thoughtful so be courteous and use your manners, rudeness is the quickest way to get ignored by me.

please redact any information you do not want me to publicly post! i will be posting these asks with my responses, if you send me a screenshot of your chart please redact your birth time and the location for your safety.

[wcndersouls]

[madamechrissy]

Nanami's addiction to his pretty wife

Cw- smut drabble, choking, oral, rough sex, obsessed dom Nanami

Nanami Kento loves to choke your pretty neck, his huge hand around your delicate throat. He loves to watch as his gold wedding ring presses into your skin. Your eyes rolling back in your skull, while your cunt soaks his thick, veiny cock, tight gummy walls pulsing around him, milking him.

He loves how you gasp, the ragged moans, while you're gripping his wrist, your own ring glinting under the lights as you cling tightly, gasping for a breath, only for him to squeeze tighter. You're fading, while his thumb presses your pulse point, blackness blurring the edges of your handsome husband's face.

You feel it, your orgasm coming, making your tummy tense as Nanami shoves his cock so deep, lifting one of your thighs up and rolling his hips. When his leaky reddened tip bullies its way into your walls and hits all your spots, you choke on your cries, cumming all over him, gushing arousal swirling down him.

He releases your throat right when you do, you hear that ringing in your ears as his hazel eyes assess you tenderly. He exhales and leans down, kissing along your neck while your aftershocks grip him, your whines echoing in his ears. Your cunt is dripping down his length as he eases out and back in, lips pressing the marks his hand left.

He leans up and sees tears glimmering on your cheeks, drool slid down the corner of you mouth. He is murmuring - 'darling you're a mess, let me help you' - You weakly nod, still pulsing around him. Nanami swipes your tears and drool, kissing your lips. Your hands slip down the strong muscles of his back, while he slows his thrusts.

Nanami can get feral when it comes to how badly he needs you, but he also knows he so huge and strong. Too strong. He loves to baby you after all of it, loves to pamper you in the shower, get on his knees and kiss his apologies to your cunt, whispering as you cry out - 'Kento!'

'I'm sorry pretty girl,' he'll whisper it to your cunt first. Then kiss up every bit of your body, sandy blond locks dripping as the hot spray hits him, and he caresses the bruises on your throat. They do something to him, his cock throbbing again, pressing on your tummy, and you can't help but want more.

Nanami is gentler after he loses it the first time, but make no mistakes, he's stretching you out on his cock, even as he's holding you againt the tile wall and whispering, 'so beautiful, darling I love you' he can't help but look at the marks he leaves on your body and get harder. 'l-love you, Ken- ngh!' At that, he thickens inside you as he fills you with cum, loving how your nails dig into his skin.

The shower leads to more and more aftercare and love, and the morning is no better, despite him making you pancakes and coffee, the handprint on your neck just makes him want to leave more instead. Your tummies are growling after another round, when he finally realizes you need to eat.

He's bashful and sweet as he feeds you, bite after bite, obsessed with his perfect wife to the point of insanity. Even the syrup on your lips has him lapping it off them later. Needless to say, his days off work are spent inside the house, and inside his wife.

I know he's freaky asf I don't buy he's vanilla 😤

[blastzachilles]

— One of Your Girls .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: MRTA + 2019!ARTRICK WORD COUNT: 1.8k CW: mentions of blood, guns, knives

a/n: baby's first fanfic!! i love these two so much, they've infected my brain an unhealthy amount. this is loosely related to troye sivan's 'one of your girls' which i compared in this post to being art's perspective talking about patrick, and wanted to write more about it. i also actively consulted the script so the sauna dialogue is directly ripped from that LMFAO. i hope you enjoy, and any comments or feedback is greatly appreciated!! <3 big thank you to my lovely beta readers!

— Patrick saw the way Art looked at him when he walked in. 

His gaze a little lower than it should have been for the respectable tennis player, for the man married to the woman who was once the Duncanator. 

“When we were teenagers.” Art says. No. Not says, stings, like frostbite, his voice cold and unwavering. No wonder he was Ice.

The sharpness of his words are a bullet through Patrick, dangerously inching closer to his heart every time.

“Right. When we were teenagers.” Patrick gets up this time, but he’s still bleeding out. A few more shots and he’ll be a goner. 

He just wants Art to see him. Patrick thinks he never has. 

How wrong he was. 

Before they were teenagers both obsessed with the goddess who fell from grace, they were boys. 

Boys who did everything together. Who laughed, cried (no matter how many times they denied it), and most importantly, loved together. 

And boy, did Art love Patrick. 

Patrick, who comforted Art when they were twelve, when Art was just learning how to live by himself. Patrick, who went out at absurd hours of the night with Art, just because he wanted a walk. Patrick, who stayed up with Art hours before an exam, not caring about the material, but knowing Art needed it. 

Patrick, who made Art feel like he was the most important person in the world. 

Patrick taught him everything, how to jerk off, how to talk to girls, how to be Art. It was all Patrick.

But nothing can stay in bloom forever, and they transitioned from boys to teenagers. 

Art watched Patrick grow, as his face matured, as it grew sharper, as he started twisting his face into that one smirk Patrick knew would get into any girl’s pants. The one that made you feel like you were everything.

He knew because Patrick tested it on him first. Art still remembers it clear as day.

In their dorm, sixteen years old, Fire and Ice had decided they were going to their first party. 

“Hey, Art.” 

“Yeah?” Art was tired. It was past midnight, and he knew he was going to be up late the next day. He just wanted to sleep. 

But Patrick’s next words had him more awake than drinking any amount of pure caffeine. 

“I think I’m gonna try to get some tonight.” Patrick says, and Art doesn’t even have to roll over to see the smug grin on Patrick’s face as he stares at the ceiling. 

“Okay?”

“Wanna help me try some things out?” 

Art didn’t know how he could help, all he knew was that he wanted to. So against his better judgement, he rolled over in his twin bed, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge.

“Sure.” 

Art remembers the research that ensued, the work done to help Patrick finally get lucky, their faces when they found out sometimes all you needed was a simple expression. The way Patrick’s face contorted, twisted, in a form of gymnastics, before making a perfect landing.

Art’s face had never felt so hot, and he swore he was going to end up in cardiac arrest the way his heart skipped. 

“That one.” Too loud. Too fast. 

He says it again.

“That one.” This time it’s too small. Too confused. Too emotional.

Patrick doesn’t press. He knows better than that. He just grins like he’s won the lottery, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

And Art swears he’s in a dream, knowing his best friend thinks of him like that. Even if Patrick doesn’t mean it, which Art knows he does, all that matters is that his god, his guide, his everything has just told him that he matters, that Art’s an integral part of his life. He’ll do anything to stay that way. 

But Patrick keeps moving, growing, getting more experienced, and no matter how much he begs Art to finally get his dick wet, he never goes further than handjobs.

And always in the dark.

So he can imagine it’s Patrick’s hand wrapped around him instead, so long as he shuts his eyes tight enough. 

He wishes Patrick would see him. That Patrick would see he’d do anything for him. That Patrick would see he’d be anyone, absolutely anyone. Hell, he’d even be just like one of those girls, just to get a glimpse of Patrick, just to be his first place. 

The way he still would, even now, 31 and playing at Phil’s Tire Town Challenger, in a sauna with his ex-best friend, married to Tashi Donaldson.  

But Patrick doesn’t know. He never has, and he never will. Art will take this with him to his grave. 

There’s static in Patrick’s brain as he looks at his ex-best friend, ex-teammate, ex-everything. Begging him silently to say something, because if he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what will come out.

“You’re right. I do find it disturbing.” Another bullet, but it’s easy to deflect this one.

“Well, there’s no need, man. Lots of girls were into me. None of them wanted to marry me. That’s not what I was for.” Patrick thinks this is the safe route. That Art can’t hurt him with this response.

He was dead wrong.

“Then what were you for?” 

Patrick begs that the gasp of air that left him is only in his head as he tries to cover it up with a smile. Art’s lack of acknowledgement says it was, but Patrick can’t tell if he’d say something either way. He doesn’t know Art anymore. Somehow, that thought sends another bullet through him, grazing his heart. 

A small scoff to hide his blood on the floor that he’s just begging Art to notice, and Patrick continues.

“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy that I was in the draw. You’ve always wanted to beat me at a tournament, haven’t you? Especially a few weeks before the Open. It’s the perfect confidence booster.” Patrick begs to be noticed, to be acknowledged, but Art gives him nothing. Like he can’t see that Patrick is bleeding out, spilling all over the floor, just for him. 

“I know what you’re trying to do right now–”

“I’m not trying to do anything. This is a challenger. I don’t have to play mind games with you.” 

“Right. You don’t give a shit.” 

It seems Art doesn’t know Patrick either anymore, seeing as he believes Patrick doesn’t give a shit about him.

Patrick’s mind shifts in and out of static, losing oxygen as the bullet grazes his heart now. He’s set on the path of certain death, but it’s just what he’d do for Art.

Even if Art isn’t willing to see it, his mind clouded by something Patrick can’t quite tell anymore. 

“...the more I realize it’s about what didn’t happen. You didn’t grow up. You still think you can talk to me like I’m your peer because we came from the same place.” 

Patrick is internally begging Art not to continue. He won’t make it if he does. 

“But it doesn’t matter where you come from in tennis, Patrick. It only matters if you win. And I do. A lot.” 

The bullet’s a little deeper now. Threatening to finish him off. 

“You’ve never beaten me.” Patrick smiles his lopsided smile, the one he puts on when he can’t let Art tell how he feels. Patrick thinks he’s used it more in the past five minutes than in the whole seven years he had with Art. 

“So what? I’ve never beaten most of the guys who play these things. This is a game about winning the points that matter.” 

Patrick’s gasping for air, begging himself not to ask the question that follows.

“I don’t matter?” He asks. 

His voice is too small. Like Art’s that one night, all those years ago. The one he ignored because he knew Art wouldn’t talk about it.

“Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the world.” 

Art gets bored of toying with him, not quite hitting the mark. So the bullet gets replaced with a dagger. Just the tip, slowly digging into his heart. 

“We’re not talking about tennis, Art.” 

“Then what the fuck else do you and I have to talk about?” 

Patrick’s sure that gasp was audible now. But still nothing from Art. He wonders if he’s really the same boy he met at twelve. The one who flipped his world on its axis.

“I just wanted to come in here to wish you luck.” Patrick’s voice still feels small, but a little throaty, like he’s trying his best to put on that mask of grandiosity and loudness he hid behind at school.

“That makes no sense.” 

A few centimetres deeper, agonizing, slow, every word being felt. This is personal, leaving Patrick feeling as though if he looked up to see who’s wielding the dagger, it would be Art himself. 

He can’t say he’s surprised.

When Patrick speaks next, his voice is shaky, and he doesn’t think he can say anything else without crying. He hates crying. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m looking forward to it. I miss playing with you, Art.” Patrick tacks Art’s name on at the end, something to ground them, to make it more personal again. 

To give it truth. Because Patrick means every word.

“Oh, yeah?” Art asks, his voice a boa constrictor that wraps itself around Patrick’s throat. 

Art doesn’t believe him. Doesn’t think he can. 

He doesn’t want to. It would give him hope.

So when Patrick nods, Art prepares. He readies himself, gripping the dagger hard, staring deep into Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick’s afraid Art will see everything that’s hidden beneath them, that he’ll figure everything out without even saying anything. 

But instead, it’s a stare that comes as the dagger is completely shoved through his heart.

“I don’t miss playing with you. I’m too old for it.” 

It stings. It more than stings. It’s final. 

And with that, Art walks out of the sauna, slamming the door behind him.

Leaving Patrick bleeding out alone, a gaping hole through his heart, inflicted by the one person who gave him heart. 

And Patrick just sits there. And he thinks. He thinks about what he would give to go back to being teenagers again. To being boys.

He thinks about what he’d do to feel like he was Art’s again. 

Before all of Art’s fame, before he became the face of men’s tennis. Before all of Art’s brand deals and galas and partnerships. Before his face was an icon synonymous with the pro tennis circuit. 

He’d do just about anything. He’d keep it secret, make sure nothing ever got out. Anything, to get back to when they were teenagers. 

To when he wasn’t Art Donaldson, but just Art. 

To when Art was Patrick’s, even if he never did anything about it. 

Oh, what he’d give to be one of his girls. 

[mandalhoerian]

♡ childhood memories w caleb & reader | fluff

♡ syzygy | xavier x reader x caleb | angst, smut, incomplete

♡ how xavier views toys | suggestive, no smut

♡ best friend's brother au | angst, headcanon format, can continue and/or become a fic

♡ both the livestock guardian & the wolf [1] [2] | angst, character study

♡ syzygy | xavier x reader x caleb | angst, smut, incomplete

♡ childhood memories w zayne & reader | fluff

nothing yet :(

♡ fish in a birdcage | angst, fluff, smut

♡ signed, sealed, delivery pending | selkie au, fluff, comedy, incomplete | 1 2 3 4 5 6

♡ the shape of grief, angst

[thequeenofcurses]

The Devil In The Sanctuary

Prologue/Chapter 1

summary: mafia!sukuna x fem!reader. you’re the sheltered daughter of a pastor who finds your world turned upside down when a mysterious and dangerous man seeks refuge in your church. slowburn. eventual smut so mdni.

A/N I understand this fic could upset other people. I worked really hard on planning this fic and I don't WANT to offend anyone. But since religion is a key theme in this story; and Y/n and her father are very devout.

If that’s a problem or triggering for you, I don’t recommend reading this fic! Thank you for reading if you choose to do so <3

tws: violence, gore, blood, religious themes and criticism, character death, eventual smut, slowburn

read on AO3

The faint glow of the setting sun filtered through the stained glass windows, casting shards of crimson, gold, and violet light across the worn wooden pews. The air was quiet, heavy with the scent of melting candle wax and old hymnal books. The faint creak of your footsteps echoed in the vast, empty sanctuary as you moved down the aisle, your broom scraping softly against the stone floor.

It was nearly six pm, and the world outside the church was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim street lights flickering in the distance. Daylight was constantly getting stolen from you with the new winter sun. The wind whispered through the cracks in the heavy oak doors. The roof finally stopped leaking since the snow started to melt.

You hummed softly under your breath as you swept away dust that seemed to perpetually settle no matter how often you cleaned. Even though you disliked chores, this was one of your favorite times; the stillness of the evening when the world seemed to fade away, leaving only you, the church, and the faint presence of something divine. You’d often sing in the sanctuary when cleaning because no one was around to hear you.

You paused for a moment, resting on the broom handle as you gazed up at the towering crucifix at the altar. You remembered your parents putting it up the day before your family opened the church to the public when you were a small child. Its shadow loomed large and solemn against the wall, a quiet reminder of faith and sacrifice. A sigh escaped your lips.

And that’s when you heard it — glass breaking? You froze, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Another sound came again, louder this time, echoing from the side entrance of the church. Was someone breaking into the church? It’s not like you guys had much to steal. The building was falling apart day by day.

Your heartbeat quickened as you turned your gaze toward the darkened corridor, where the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye.

“Hello? Father?” you called out, voice trembling slightly as it broke the sacred silence. Maybe father came back early from his conference? You think to yourself. But why would he come through the back or side entrance?

No answer. Just the soft groan of the creaky floorboards, and then… nothing.

“No weapon formed against me shall prosper,” you quietly murmur to yourself while making a cross with your right hand. You take the broom and head down the corridor to the back of the church. You believe in helping people, but you’re mama didn’t raise a fool.

When you reach what appears to be the shattered window, the only thing you find is a brick at your feet and broken multi-colored stained glass. That window was your grandfather’s work. 

But that’s not all you find. 

Red dots that seem to have dripped. You and your father haven't touched this hallway yet. Could that really be… blood? Cautiously, you followed the trail, firmly grasping the broom with every step. 

The scent of iron floods your nose. You stare in shock as the pools of blood seem to only grow further. The trail leads you to the restroom and that’s when you find a red giant hand print on the door knob.

Oh, Lord have Mercy! 

Most doors in this building were so old, they could never fully shut. You say a silent prayer to yourself and use your broom to poke at the door to softly push it open.

And that’s when you see him on the bathroom floor. 

The Devil.

A/N Please tell me your thoughts on this! This is my first ever Mafia AU/anything, so I will gladly take any constructive feedback!

ryomen sukuna

[nidianddeepspace]

Vampire MC x Werewolf Caleb

Artwork by BlackLapiz

Imagine an AU in which the Skyfleet Colonel is secretly a werewolf and the MC is ancient vampire...

Intro | Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Before starting is pilot training, Caleb saw the eyes of beautiful woman among the crowds. Red eyes, sparking like rubies were forever etched into his souls with no hope of erasure. For a suspended moment in time, he wasn't the sweet, cheerful aspiring pilot everyone gravitated to like the golden rays of the son. Instead, he was his true self, a man steeped in the trauma and pain from the monster lying in wait inside him, whose guard was shattered by the haunting eyes of a beautiful stranger with a knowing smile.

And then, she was gone.

An encounter that lasted for all but a moment would haunt him from that moment on, from the warmth of the golden sun to the frost from winter's chill. No matter how much he tried, he could never forget those mesmerizing rubies that stripped his soul bare. Eyes that could somehow see the monster within him, the beast he worked so hard to control, taunting him to lose control in the safety of her arms.

He didn't even know her name.

Years pass, and just when he's giving up finding her, she appears once again. But this time, it's not just her eyes that he sees. He sees all of her...and she's as beautiful as he imagined her and more. The beast within cries out to her, demanding that she quench the fires of his longing, fires that she kindled in the first place. But she slips away once again...leaving him feeling more agitated than ever.

It's night of the full moon.

In the deep dark wood, Caleb allows his inner beast to run free, giving into it's urges under the light of the silvery moon. But then, sense it...a presence. Not a creature, nor a human.

Something else. Something familiar...

Something like...her. "So...we finally meet, Mr. Pilot. Or should I call you...Colonel." And this is where their story begins...