kuro8066

[kuro8066]

To the lovely people who might wait for my updates... I must announce with regrets that will not be able to update for awhile because there's a shit ton of stuffs I must do to survive academically. Things have not been going in my favour y'all. My ass is being jumped by assignments, tutorials and projects and many more...

[kuro8066]

Threads of warmth (act 2): A perfect gala for two

Tw: plain fluffy, teeth rotting, blanket biting sweet, nothing much. No beta we die like men. Actually I wanted to write this scene but I had to make it make sense so first part was just plot intro lol..

The ballroom in the Grand palace was abuzz with preparation for the evening’s event—a grand ball to welcome esteemed guests from neighboring regions. Sunday, though not one for ostentatious social gatherings, had no choice but to attend as he is a ruler of Penacony. His lovely wife, as always, prepared herself quietly, never once complaining about the long night ahead.

In their private chambers, she stood before the full-length mirror, dressed in a gown of soft blue adorned with golden threads that shimmered like sunlight on water. It was a deliberate choice, one that complemented Sunday’s white and blue ceremonial suit, creating a harmonious picture of unity. She adjusted the necklace at her collarbone, her fingers delicate as they worked the clasp.

Sunday entered the room silently, as was his habit, intending only to let her know it was nearly time to leave. But the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.

She looked ethereal. The gown flowed like water around her, the gold accents catching the light and drawing attention to the graceful curve of her figure. Her hair was styled elegantly, framing her face in a way that softened her quiet beauty.

For a moment, he simply stood there, his golden eyes fixed on her. Then, moved by an impulse he couldn’t explain, Sunday crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

She stiffened for the briefest of moments, startled by the sudden embrace, but then she melted into him as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands fell from the necklace to his hands which were wrapped around her waist, and she leaned back against his chest, her head tilting slightly to rest against his shoulder.

Sunday’s breath caught in his throat. He had expected hesitation, perhaps even resistance, given how reserved she could be and how cold his "manners" were. But her trust, her ease in his arms, sent a rush of warmth through him that he wasn’t prepared for.

The swell of emotion was almost overwhelming. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the faint floral scent of her perfume. Her skin was soft, warm, and utterly intoxicating. His golden wings trembled slightly, lowering to cocoon them in a protective arc.

She giggled suddenly, a sound so light and joyful that it sent a shiver down his spine.

“What is it?” he murmured, his voice low and husky against her skin.

“Your wings,” she said between soft laughs. “The feathers behind your ears—they’re tickling me.”

Sunday froze for half a heartbeat before his lips quirked into a smile, hidden against her neck. Her laughter—it was unlike anything he had ever heard. Pure, unrestrained, and utterly enchanting.

If heaven existed, Sunday was certain he had found it in that moment.

He tightened his embrace, his lips brushing against her temple. “You’re beautiful,” he said softly, the words slipping out without thought.

Her laughter quieted, and she turned her head slightly to meet his gaze in the mirror. Her cheeks were dusted with a soft pink, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Sunday’s heart swelled at the sight of her vulnerability, her openness. How had he gone so long without realizing the depth of her presence in his life? She wasn’t just his wife by obligation—she was his light, his solace.

“We should leave soon,” she said after a moment, breaking the silence but not moving away from him.

“Let them wait,” Sunday replied, his lips brushing the curve of her ear.

Her laughter bubbled up again, soft and sweet, and Sunday swore to himself that he would do anything to hear it as often as he could.

That night, as they descended the grand staircase to the ballroom together, Sunday stayed close to her side, his hand resting lightly at her back. Her gown flowed like a river beside his sharp, pristine suit, the two of them a vision of elegance and unity.

The world noticed their perfection as a pair, but Sunday noticed only her—the way the light caught the golden threads of her dress, the curve of her smile as she greeted their guests, and the faint warmth of her hand brushing against his.

He thought of her laughter, the way she had melted into his arms, and vowed silently to ensure she always felt as safe, cherished, and loved as she had in that moment.

For Sunday, the ball was merely a formality. The real treasure was already beside him, her presence the only thing he truly needed.

The ballroom was alive with music, laughter, and the hum of conversation, but for him, the grandeur of the event paled in comparison to the woman by his side.

As they entered, all eyes turned toward them—Penacony’s stern lord and his graceful wife, a picture-perfect pair. The whispers began almost immediately, admiration mixed with curiosity. Though their professionalism remained impeccable, there was an undeniable warmth between them that no one could miss.

Sunday led his wife to the center of the room, where they greeted the evening’s most important guests. His posture was composed, his tone measured, but his gaze lingered just a second too long whenever it fell on her.

She, too, was the picture of decorum, her soft voice carrying a natural charm as she conversed with the visiting dignitaries. Yet, every so often, she would glance at Sunday, as if seeking his approval or simply assuring herself of his presence. The shared glances were fleeting, but they held an intimacy that made Sunday’s heart tighten in his chest.

As the evening progressed, they were inevitably drawn into different groups. Sunday was swept into a discussion with military officials about trade routes, while his wife found herself among the noblewomen of Penacony, who peppered her with questions about her gown, her jewelry, and, of course, her marriage.

Sunday tried to focus on his conversation, but his eyes betrayed him. Time and time again, as they drifted across the room, seeking her out. She was laughing softly at something one of the noblewomen said, her eyes sparkling under the chandeliers. The golden threads in her gown caught the light, making her seem almost otherworldly.

He caught himself staring and forced his attention back to the discussion. But moments later, his gaze strayed again, this time to see her gently brushing a strand of hair from her face as she listened attentively to someone speaking. Sunday wondered what great things have he done in the past lives to deserve this elegant lady as his other half.

When the music shifted into a waltz, Sunday’s opportunity came. He excused himself from his group and crossed the room, his strides purposeful but unhurried. His wife was still engaged in conversation, but she noticed his approach and turned to him, her expression curious.

“May I have this dance?” he asked softly and almost expectant.

She seems abit surprised, but she nodded, placing her hand in his. The noblewomen around her watched in silence, their curiosity piqued as Sunday led her to the dance floor.

The moment their hands touched, the world around them seemed to fade. Sunday rested one hand on her waist, his other clasping hers, and they moved together in perfect harmony. She followed his lead effortlessly, her gown flowing around her like water.

“You’re staring,” she murmured after a moment, lowering her eyelashes.

“Am I?” Sunday replied, unrepentant. His golden eyes never left her face. “I suppose I can’t help myself but admire the Lady of penacony for her beauty is otherworldly.”

Her blush deepened, but she looked up at him and smiled. "I could say the same thing to you too, my lord." Her eyes were twinkling like the stars were dancing in them and Sunday couldn't look away.

Around them, the ballroom buzzed with quiet astonishment. Those who had known Sunday as a stoic, distant figure could hardly believe what they were seeing.

“Is that really Lord Sunday?” one nobleman whispered to another. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”

“He’s like a different man,” murmured a lady nearby.

Robin, standing by the refreshment table, smirked at the sight of her brother twirling his wife across the floor. “Hopeless,” she muttered under her breath, amused.

Even after the dance ended, the pink bubbles surrounding them never faded. When they returned to mingling, Sunday couldn’t resist brushing his fingers lightly against hers as they walked. She glanced up at him, and the soft smile she gave him sent warmth coursing through him.

When a servant approached her with a tray of refreshments, Sunday intercepted the glass she reached for, passing it to her himself. She raised an eyebrow, but he simply smirked, saying, “Only the best for my lady”

Later, as she stood on the terrace with some of the noblewomen, Sunday found himself distracted once more. She was silhouetted against the night sky, her hair catching the moonlight. Her laughter drifted toward him, light and carefree, and he knew he would love to steal her away again.

By the time the ball began to wind down, Sunday and his wife found themselves standing together near the grand staircase. The guests were beginning to leave, offering their farewells and compliments, but Sunday barely heard them.

When the last of the guests had departed, he turned to her, his expression softening. “Are you tired?”

“A little,” she admitted, though her smile suggested she’d enjoyed the evening.

“Then let’s go,” he said, offering his arm. She took it, leaning against him ever so slightly as they ascended the stairs.

That night, as they retired to their chambers, Sunday couldn’t help but think about how much she had changed his life. The pink bubbles surrounding them hadn’t just followed them through the ball—they were now a permanent part of his world.

And as they fell asleep, her hand resting lightly on his chest, Sunday swore he would never let that warmth fade.

[kuro8066]

Omg my idol liked my pose. I feel like a genius.

[kuro8066]

No thoughts. Just big men and thick thighs.

Tw: nsfw, mentions of dacryphilia, belly bump, manhandling, thigh fetish, mind break if you squint just filthy stuff eh, I'm not good at this, idk what possessed me I was trying to sleep and this hits me like a ground breaking discovery

Holding his thighs open while you eat him out. Both legs spread and pushed down, not giving him a chance to hide the pink puffy hole that's squeezing around nothing but air. Then diving down to enjoy him like a meal served , occasionally squeezing his thick thighs. One lick and he's shaking. Slide your tongue in and he would squeal, mewl, whimper. Getting ravaged by your tongue , he would frantically grab a fistful of your hair with his big hands not knowing if he wants to pull you away or push you down more into his wet, spilling hole. Keep that up for a bit longer and he would come. Eyes rolling back, back arched from the mattress looking a bow that's about to be released. He comes with a pathetic, loud shriek followed by something between a moan and a whimper.

Or lifting the man up, legs spread while fucking him in front of a mirror. He's stuffed full by your big cock and his pathetic little cock is crying, squirting, coming untouched. And he'd be shy at first but a few thrusts in and he's blabbering about how good he feels , words slurred, long hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead , shoulders and cheeks. Tears streaming down his face from overstimming. Tongue lolled out, drooling, eyes rolled back head resting on your shoulders, bouncing with the same rythm that he's being fucked because there's no ounce of strength left in him. He's like a doll, a doll made to satisfy your needs and stuffed till he's full to the brim. He'd look down after coming untouched again for the nth time, he lost count of how many times he had come. Sure enough there's a small bump on his belly, both from how well your cock is stuffing him and from the cum that's pushed into him and plugged in by your cock. He'd look into the mirror to see his own fucked out face and give a dumb little smile, giggling about how he's now pregnant.

Characters: Azumane Asahi, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Aone, Itto, Neuvillet, Wriothesley, Alhaitham ,Jing yuan, Blade, Gepard, Sukuna, Geto, Nanami(of course) , Calcharo, Jiyan, Yuanwu, and many many more of your favourite big men...

[kuro8066]

What's the worst that can happen when you accidentally baby-talk your coworker and pet the said coworker's head? (Featuring 🌱 × y/n , and a certain kitty cat 🍊)

Trope: Baby-talking to your cat so much you accidentally said it to your grim coworker who looks like he needs either 40 consecutive hours of sleep or just hospital.

Tw: m! reader, Alhaitham is ooc. I repeat. Alhaitham is OOC. Self indulgent, random bullshit go.

Alhaitham didn’t think much of Y/n.

He was a competent coworker. Kept to himself. Always looked vaguely like he hadn’t slept since the turn of the century, but turned in clean, efficient reports. Ate convenience store lunches at his desk. Never spoke unless necessary. Existed like background code — quiet, functional, forgettable.

Not that Alhaitham cared much for small talk. He preferred silence and logic. His priorities were his own. Like deadlines. Proposal reviews. And most importantly: Orange.

His baby.

Orange is a black and brown Maine Coon, the size of a small bear, the attitude of royalty, and a baffling love for orange slices. He'd picked up the habit as a kitten, stealing wedges right out of Alhaitham’s hand. Hence the name. Not his most creative moment — but fitting.

The cat was spoiled, demanding, and shamelessly adored. And unfortunately, Alhaitham had a habit of baby-talking to him when no one was around. Orange liked it. So he did it. Simple.

Work was a different world.

Or so he thought.

It happened on a Tuesday. Nothing special. Just after lunch. He was walking back from the kitchenette when he saw Y/n sitting at his desk, slouched over a pile of spreadsheets. Eyes half-lidded behind his glasses. One hand weakly holding a pen. The other just… resting. Like he forgot what muscles were.

And for some reason, something clicked.

Maybe it was the posture. Maybe it was the tragic hair hiding half his face. Maybe it was the way he looked moments from death but still managed to write coherent analysis.

Alhaitham paused mid-step.

Orange sits like that, he thought. When he’s too lazy to groom himself and wants me to do it for him.

It should’ve stopped there.

It did not.

Before he could stop himself, before the thought even fully settled—

He said, out loud:

“Oh, baby. You need a nap and maybe a treat, huh?”

Silence.

A beat.

Y/n blinked up at him, stunned.

Alhaitham realized what he'd just done. In the open office. To a coworker.

His mouth parted slightly. His brain short-circuited. A full shutdown initiated. Rebooting failed.

Y/n just stared, utterly baffled. “...What?”

Alhaitham’s soul left his body. He wanted to lie down in the recycling bin and never return.

And then—somehow—he doubled down.

He stepped forward on auto-pilot, reached out… and patted Y/n’s head. Stiffly.

Just once.

It was meant to be quick.

But the hair.

The hair was so soft. Like petting Orange right after he’d been brushed. His fingers slipped through without resistance. It felt nice.

And then it happened.

Alhaitham, in a voice that was far too gentle, said:

“You’re such a good boy.”

Silence, again.

Dead.

Complete, horrifying silence.

The lights flickered. The air conditioner coughed.

Alhaitham wanted to jump out of the 14th floor window and dissolve into the atmosphere.

But the final blow?

Y/n… leaned into the touch.

Not by accident. Not flinching away.

He leaned. Intentionally. Like it was normal.

“…Thanks,” Y/n murmured, nearly under his breath. “That… actually felt kind of nice.”

Alhaitham stopped breathing.

His mind spiraled.

Am I hallucinating? Did I just imprint on him like a mama duck? Did I adopt a coworker?

Y/n rubbed his eye with the back of his hand, visibly more awake now. “Wait. Did you just call me baby?”

Alhaitham straightened instantly. “No.”

“You did.”

“You misheard.”

“You also said I needed a treat.”

“That—was… hypothetical.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Do I get one?”

“Do you want one?”

They both paused.

Oh no, Alhaitham thought. I just bonded with him.

That night, he returned home, set down his bag, and was immediately greeted by Orange, who pawed at his leg and chirped.

Alhaitham crouched and scooped the cat into his arms. “I think I found your long-lost brother.”

Orange meowed.

“And he works in Finance.”

[kuro8066]

Not me taking my meds a minute before 12 because it is not midnight yet so therefore it's still today

[kuro8066]

Threads of Warmth (Sundayx f!reader)

Tags: arranged marriage au, fluff, f!reader, Sunday is cold at first, slowburn-ish?, self indulgent, NOT proofread, (not even spelling checked) , idkwhattoaddanymore...

___________________________________________

The arranged marriage was inevitable, a necessity born of alliances and obligations. Sunday, an esteemed figure from Penacony, found himself bound to a stranger in the name of duty. He had resisted the arrangement, coldly dismissing the idea of love or companionship in such a union. He was a practical man, reserved and stoic, with little room for sentimentality.

Still, he treated his new wife with measured politeness. He did not disdain her, but his demeanor was cold, professional. Sunday had no illusions of romance; she, too, must have been forced into this situation. He told himself she’d grow to accept the distance between them, just as he had.

But he underestimated her.

It started with the tea.

Late one night, Sunday sat at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pored over documents. He heard the faint clink of porcelain and looked up to see her placing a cup of warm tea beside him. She said nothing, her steps quiet as she retreated to her corner of the room. There, she settled with an embroidery hoop, her hands deftly weaving threads into a delicate pattern.

She didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt, but he could feel her presence. Occasionally, she glanced up, her gaze soft and almost questioning, as if silently asking if he was okay. Sunday dismissed it as mere politeness, a courtesy extended out of obligation. Yet, the warmth of the tea lingered longer than expected.

Over the following weeks, her small gestures became impossible to ignore. She would adjust the lamp on his desk so the light didn’t strain his eyes. She placed a folded blanket on the chair by the window, where he often sat to read. Once, he returned to find his coat meticulously repaired, the torn seam he’d been too busy to mend now perfectly stitched.

And always, she stayed nearby—not to demand his attention but to exist quietly in his space. She would sit with a book or work on her embroidery, her presence a gentle reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Sunday began to notice her more. The way her hands moved gracefully, threading the needle with precision. The soft furrow of her brows when she focused on her work. The way her lips pressed together in thought as she considered her next stitch. And those occasional glances—fleeting, unobtrusive, but filled with a kind of care he hadn’t expected.

One morning, he woke earlier than usual. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow on her face. She was still asleep, her breathing soft and even. For the first time, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at her. She was beautiful in a quiet, understated way—no grand declarations or dramatic gestures, just an unassuming presence that had somehow rooted itself in his heart.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. For the first time in a long while, Sunday lingered, unwilling to leave the bed and the warmth she brought to his life.

From that day on, Sunday’s demeanor began to change.

At first, it was subtle. He started thanking her for the tea, his voice softer than his usual clipped tone. He noticed when she finished a particularly intricate embroidery piece and complimented her work, watching the faint blush that rose to her cheeks. When she glanced at him during their quiet evenings, he held her gaze longer, a small smile playing on his lips.

But soon, his gestures grew bolder.

He began bringing her gifts—rare fabrics from Penacony, threads of shimmering gold, books filled with intricate embroidery patterns. “You deserve the best,” he’d say when she tried to protest. He started lingering at the breakfast table, asking about her interests, her hobbies, her thoughts. She seemed surprised at first, but slowly, she began to open up, her voice as soft and soothing as the tea she brewed for him.

Sunday’s affection wasn’t limited to their private moments. When they walked through the streets of Penacony, his actions spoke volumes. He would rest his hand lightly on her back, guiding her through the bustling crowds. He bought her the finest dresses, not for the sake of wealth but to see her adorned in beauty befitting her grace.

And then there were his wings.

They became his favorite tool of affection. When the streets grew too crowded, he’d unfurl them, a shimmering barrier that shielded her from the world. In quieter moments, he’d wrap them around her, creating a cocoon of warmth and privacy. She would laugh softly, a sound that sent warmth coursing through his chest, and say, “You don’t have to be so dramatic.”

“I do,” he’d reply, his voice low and teasing. “How else will everyone know you’re mine?”

Their nights became his favorite time of the day. Sunday would pull her into his arms, his wings curling protectively around them both. She fit perfectly against him, her presence soothing the storms in his mind. He would trace patterns on her back with his fingers, murmuring words he never thought he’d say aloud.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he admitted one evening, his voice barely above a whisper. “But now, I can’t imagine my life without you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her cheeks, and finally, her lips—a soft, lingering touch that conveyed all the emotions he could never put into words.

“You’ve changed me,” he said, his wings tightening around her. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much you mean to me.”

Their love wasn’t born of grand gestures or dramatic confessions. It was in the quiet moments—the shared glances, the unspoken understanding, the way they simply existed together. And as Sunday held her close, he realized that what they had was far more profound than anything he had ever imagined.

It was love, woven together in the small, delicate threads of everyday life.

[kuro8066]

hi! could you please make one where brant finds out his partner is pregnant 😋 idk why but it seems like it would be interesting lmao

anyways have a good day/night :3

Brant x (fem)reader

Reader tells brant she's pregnant

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city beyond the window. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves, heart pounding harder than she wished to admit. The weight of the revelation settled in her chest, both thrilling and terrifying.

She wasn’t sure how to tell him.

Brant, ever the dramatist, would surely make a spectacle of it, whether out of joy or sheer disbelief. The thought made her smile, though it did little to calm her nerves.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the door swung open with its usual flair, and Brant strolled in, already mid-sentence. “Darling, I was just informed of the most—” He paused, taking one look at her and immediately narrowing his pink eyes. “Y/N, you look as if you’re about to deliver grave news. Tell me, has the world finally decided to punish me for being too charming?”

Y/N huffed a laugh despite herself. “Something like that.”

Brant tilted his head, his usual smirk faltering. That alone told her he was actually paying attention. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her with uncharacteristic patience. “Talk to me, Stella Mia.”

Y/N inhaled deeply, gripping his hands in hers before finally whispering, “I’m pregnant.”

For the first time since she had met him, Brant was speechless.

His pink eyes widened, lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. He blinked once, twice, then finally exhaled a shaky breath. “You’re… with child?”

She nodded, watching him carefully.

Then, in true Brant fashion, he gasped dramatically and threw himself onto the floor. “By the gods! I’ve done it! I’ve created life!”

Y/N groaned. “Brant—”

“Wait!” He sat up suddenly, eyes darting to her stomach as if seeing it for the first time. He reached out but hesitated, almost hesitant for once in his life. “May I?”

She rolled her eyes but took his hand, placing it gently against her stomach. “You won’t feel anything yet, you know.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, his theatrics vanishing in an instant. His palm was warm against her, fingers trembling just slightly. When he looked up at her, there was something reverent in his expression. “This is real?”

Y/N’s heart softened. “Yes.”

Brant swallowed thickly before breaking into a radiant grin. “Stella Mia, you have just given me the greatest role I will ever play.” He cupped her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “And I swear to you, I will be magnificent at it.”

Y/N smiled, resting her forehead against his. “You already are.”

Brant remained on his knees before her, his hands warm against her cheeks as if grounding himself in the moment. For once, he wasn’t filling the air with his usual playful dramatics—he was just Brant, raw and real, his pink eyes shimmering with something indescribable.

Then, as if something clicked in his mind, his hands shot down to her stomach again. “Wait. Does this mean—” He gasped. “I must start writing my memoirs immediately! ‘Brant: The Journey of a Rogue, a Lover, and Now—A Father!’”

Y/N let out a laugh, swatting at him. “Brant, we have months before you start telling the world about this.”

“Months?” He scoffed. “Stella Mia, I should have been shouting it from the rooftops the moment you told me!” He suddenly turned toward the window, as if actually contemplating it, before Y/N grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him back.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He pouted, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’re cruel to me, my love.”

“You’ll survive.”

Brant sighed, dramatically flopping onto the bed beside her, head resting against her lap. His expression softened again as he gazed up at her. “You’re certain you’re alright?” His fingers traced absentminded patterns along her thigh. “I mean… do you need anything? Are you in pain? Should I fetch a physician? A whole team of them, perhaps?”

Y/N smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I’m fine, Brant. A little tired, maybe.”

His brows furrowed. “Tired? Then rest. Immediately. In fact—” He sat up abruptly, already moving to grab extra pillows. “You should be lying down. You need comfort, softness, the finest blankets we can find—”

“Brant.” She caught his sleeve before he could disappear on a mission for luxury. “Just stay here.”

He froze, eyes searching hers before his expression melted into something tender. “Always, Stella Mia.”

He settled beside her, an arm looping around her waist as she leaned into him. It was rare to see him so quiet, so still, but he held her like she was something precious, something sacred.

After a moment, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Y/N?”

“Mm?”

“What if… what if they have your eyes?” His voice was almost wistful, as if imagining the idea for the first time.

Y/N smiled. “And what if they have yours?”

He chuckled, squeezing her a little tighter. “Then the world will never stand a chance.”

She laughed softly, closing her eyes as exhaustion started to pull at her. Brant simply held her, his usual chaos set aside for the moment as he let himself marvel at this new chapter of their lives.

And for once, the infamous rogue had no need for theatrics. Because this—this was already the greatest story he would ever be a part of.

Brant had never been good at keeping secrets—especially not ones that filled him with this much joy. It was a miracle he had lasted this long without bursting. But now, the time had come.

The Troupe of Fools was gathered in the Fools’ Elysium, their lively chatter filling the grand hall as they passed around drinks and shared exaggerated tales of their latest antics. The air smelled of wine, roasted meats, and the faintest trace of incense—everything warm and familiar.

Brant stood atop one of the long banquet tables, goblet in hand, his pink eyes practically glowing with excitement. “My friends! My beloved, ridiculous, chaotic family! Lend me your ears!”

The room quieted—well, as much as it ever could in a den of exiled performers and troublemakers. The Fools turned their attention to him, some with curiosity, others with amusement.

“What now, Brant?” One of them called. “Another duel against a noble you’ve insulted?”

“Are we fleeing the city? Blink twice if we should start packing.”

Brant gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “You wound me! Can I not call upon you all without accusations of scandal?”

A chorus of doubtful murmurs and laughter rang out, but Brant only grinned, raising his arms dramatically.

“Tonight is not a night of mischief! It is a night of celebration! For I, the incomparable, magnificent Brant, have achieved my greatest performance yet—may, my greatest creation!” He gestured grandly toward Y/N, who stood at the edge of the gathering, watching him with an amused yet knowing smile.

“I—” He paused for effect, savoring the anticipation in the air. “—am going to be a father!”

For a beat, the room was silent.

Then—

Cheers erupted, wild and thunderous. The Troupe of Fools was nothing if not expressive, and this news sent them into a frenzy of whooping and applause. Someone threw their hat into the air. A few musicians immediately broke into a celebratory tune.

Y/N found herself suddenly swept up as various members of the Troupe rushed to congratulate her. Arms wrapped around her in joyous hugs, voices overlapping with excited chatter.

“When were you going to tell us, Y/N?”

“You’re carrying Brant’s child? Saints help you.”

“This calls for a feast! No, a festival! A whole week of celebration!”

Brant basked in the revelry like a king in his court, drinking in the joy around him. Then, as if the sheer energy wasn’t enough, he pulled a lute from one of the musicians and strummed a few dramatic chords.

“A song! A song for the miracle that is my beloved and our future little fool!”

Groans and laughter followed as he launched into a completely improvised ballad about love, destiny, and the trials of raising a child with his unparalleled charm.

Y/N shook her head, laughter spilling from her lips as she watched him. He was over-the-top, ridiculous, and hopelessly dramatic.

And she wouldn’t have him any other way.

[kuro8066]

Obedience is taught "patiently".

Dom! Gn reader × brat! Aventurine

Trigger warnings: first time nsfw! We are going WILD people! MDNI. Was inspired by this. Mentioned toys, mostly gn reader but implied cock/strap. degration if you squint. Brat taming aventurine, reader is rough with him. Soft and gentle aftercare tho. Not proofread aventurine might be ooc.

Special thanks to @livelaughlovesubs for the idea. 👉👈❣️

You were exhausted.

Not just physically, but down to the very marrow of your bones. A two-day stretch of back-to-back meetings, endless reports, and a goddamn overnight stay in your office chair with only a lukewarm cup of coffee to keep you company. You had barely changed your shirt when you came home late that evening, your head pounding and muscles stiff.

All you asked was a moment of peace. Just one.

You hadn’t even made it halfway through the living room before Aventurine was on you. Smug grin, arms crossed, leaning by the doorway like he was the picture of casual luxury in his silk robe and wine glass in hand.

“Well, well, the hardworking husband returns. Did they finally let you out of the corporate dungeon?” he drawled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or did you beg them to release you so you could come back and play house with your spoiled brat?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Aven. Not now.”

“Aww poor baby. What now? Too tired to even bark back at me? And look at you—same tired face, same rumpled shirt. Is that my punishment? That I get leftovers of you after the world’s already drained you dry?”

Your jaw clenched.

" Aventurine. I just need a minute,” you said tightly, heading to the bedroom. “Don’t push me.”

Of course, he pushed. He raised his voice and galred.

"Don't think I'm so needy for your attention. I could walk away anytime I want to."

He spitted throught his teeth. That was the last straw for y/n. He just left aventurine there and walked into the bedroom.

Later, when you sat on the couch with a book in hand—trying to decompress, trying to find a sliver of normal—he stood in the doorway again. Pacing, humming, sighing dramatically. When that failed, he pulled your favorite vase off the side table and dropped it. Glass shattered across the hardwood floor.

You didn’t flinch.

He hurled a book next.

You turned the page of yours.

Aventurine’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “You’re really doing this? The silent treatment?” Another glass, this time his wine glass, followed. Red wine splattered on the floor like blood.

Still, you didn’t even blink.

His voice cracked somewhere after the fourth tantrum. “Fine! Be that way, you cruel bastard. See if I care!” But even that sounded hollow.

He walked out of the bedroom and crashing sounds followed after from the living room. Some things are being thrown for sure. And when he realised it wasn't doing anything he came back into the bedroom. Stood at the doorway staring at y/n, who hasn't moved from the same position, still reading.

Hours passed. The air shifted. Desperation began to crawl into his voice, thick and unsteady. At one point, you heard him whisper, “Why aren’t you looking at me…?”

Then—silence.

Until there's a thump sound.

You didn’t look down, not immediately. But you felt the warmth against your knees, the tremble of his breath against your skin.

He was kneeling. In front of you. On the floor.

Face flushed, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his usual arrogant air was shattered—replaced by something raw, something achingly human. Aventurine clutched at your wrists, lowering your book with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You like it when I kneel, right? I'm here. I'm here now.”

His forehead pressed against your knee. “Please look at me… Don't ignore me. Touch me. Pet me. Look only at me. Talk only to me.” His fingers tightened. “Make me feel good. Don’t act like you can’t hear me! Please. I’m sorry I acted like a brat.”

Your smirk was slow, deliberate, as you finally looked down at him.

“Took you long enough huh.”

The moment your hand slid into his hair, Aventurine shuddered with relief. Like every tantrum, every wall he threw up, every game he played—was for this. This moment. Your touch. Your attention.

Your control.

“Good boy,” you murmured, thumb brushing the tear tracks from his cheek.

You didn’t say a word.

Not when you stood, not when you left him trembling on the floor like a broken doll clinging to your knee. You just stood up—calm, composed—and walked towards the bedside drawer and took something out.

Aventurine blinked in a daze, confused for a moment. But then you returned. With something small. Discreet. A toy he hadn’t seen in a while.

“You made quite the mess,” you said, voice smooth like sin, gaze pointed as you loomed over him. “I ought to spank you raw for it. But no, that’s too easy. You like that too much.”

He barely registered what was put into his hands. You tapped his cheek lightly, forcing him to look at you. He was flushed, glassy-eyed.

“Put this in. Living room. Sofa. Don’t move a muscle.”

Aventurine came out of the bedroom later and barely made it to the sofa. He collapsed into it, panting. Then you got to work. Clean the mess your lovely baby brat just made.

Shirtless.

Muscles flexing with each sweep of the broom, each lean to pick up broken glass, each bend to gather fallen books. His eyes were wide, lips parted, moans already slipping out of him by the third minute of watching you. The vibrations weren’t rough—they were teasing. Constant. Unrelenting. Not enough to finish, never enough to escape. But just enough to keep him teetering right at the edge.

You didn’t spare him a glance.

And that was the cruelest part.

Aventurine’s hands gripped the sofa’s edge until his knuckles went white. His hips shifted instinctively—but one warning glance from you earlier had him frozen solid. He wasn’t allowed to move. Not even to grind down, not even to twitch.

“Y-Y/N—ah—Y/N, please…”

You stepped over broken glass with elegant ease, veins on your forearms popping deliciously. He whimpered. His toes curled.

“Fuck, I—I’m sorry, okay?! I’ll be good. I’ll listen. Please, I can’t—I can’t—”

Your pace didn’t slow. You kept cleaning. You weren’t finished yet. Not even halfway.

By now, Aventurine had lost all sense of time. Hours? Minutes? Centuries? The only thing he knew was the maddening heat in his body and the ache from clenching so hard he thought he might go insane. The soundproof walls helped—his cries were loud, desperate, echoing back at him as if mocking his fall from smug to pathetic.

When you passed him again, glistening slightly with sweat, the toy surged to a higher setting. He choked on a moan. “Nngh—p-please! Please! I’ll do anything. Just—just touch me. Say my name. Something. Anything. I need—fuck, I need you!”

You finally stopped.

The house was clean. The books were back on the shelves. The glasses were gone. You looked at him, finally, after what felt like an eternity. He was slumped, boneless and shaking, a wreck of pleasure. Overstimulated and craving.

You walked over.

Kneeled before him.

Gripped his jaw.

His tear-streaked eyes fluttered open as your thumb brushed the corner of his lips. “Look at you. All this… just because I didn’t pay you attention for a little while?”

He whimpered. Nodded.

“Pathetic.”

A moan left his plump lips.

“Now beg properly.”

He slurred over his words.

"Ple—argh! Please daddy. I listened to you. I've been good. Please."

“You did well baby.”

The words were soft—unlike the firm grip of your hand twisting the toy out of him. Aventurine sobbed, back arching with the sheer shock of the loss, only to gasp as you replaced it with exactly what he wanted.

Yours.

Hot. Real. Thick. Unforgiving.

He moaned—loud, sharp, a sound born from weeks of need and hours of torment. And you filled him in one smooth, merciless thrust, barely giving him a moment to adjust before you started to move.

He wasn’t ready. That was the point.

“Y-Y/N—!” His hands clawed at the sofa, desperate for grounding. “Too much—ah—!”

“Too bad,” you said into his ear, voice breathless from restraint, from holding back the storm that was now crashing down on him. “You made this mess. You begged for this. Now take it.”

The rhythm was brutal.

Each thrust knocked thought after thought loose from his pretty little head. His back curved like a bow, arms limp , pinned over his head, eyes rolled back, brain melting into pure sensation. The overstimulation made his body feel like fire and static, nerves sparking with every movement of your hips.

And through it all—

Your lips were on his.

Not demanding. Not harsh.

But sweet. Addictively sweet. Devastatingly deep. You kissed him like you owned him—like you were carving your name into his soul through each glide of tongue and teeth. He mewled into it, lips parting willingly as you devoured every broken sound he made.

His body was yours.

His mind was gone.

And you used both like a composer with a violin—each thrust, each shift, each kiss dragging louder and louder cries from his lips. You pushed him down, held him in place, shaped him like clay. Your brat. Your reward. Your punishment.

“Look at you now,” you muttered against his lips, licking up the taste of him. “So good for me. Finally.”

“I—I’m yours—” Aventurine gasped, mind a hazy swirl of light and heartbeat and you. “Only yours—please, 's too deep. I can't—”

“You can. You can take it baby.”

And he did.

He broke for you, body shaking, ruined around you. Still, you didn’t stop. You kept going, pushing him past his peak and into something raw and mindless, something where words didn’t matter anymore. He was sobbing, begging for mercy, clinging to your shoulders like a lifeline, nails digging into your back as soon as his hands were freed and taking everything you gave him.

When he finally climaxed, his body was twitching, chest heaving with aftershocks, you kissed his temple. This time, softer. Slower.

“Good boy.”

He whimpered.

The storm passed. The house was quiet.

Aventurine lay limp against your chest, the fight bled out of him, replaced by soft shivers and muffled whimpers. His cheeks were still flushed, his hair a damp mess stuck to his temples. You carried him gently, carefully, as if he was glass—even though he'd spent the past hours proving just how much he could take.

The bathroom was already warm. You’d turned the lights low, letting the soft golden glow dance across the tiles, the tub filled with soothing, floral-scented water. You lowered him into it slowly, and he winced at first, overstimulated nerves twitching, but then—he sighed.

“Mmh...”

You sat behind him in the water, pulling his back to your chest, wrapping both arms around his middle, letting him just rest. Your chin rested lightly on his shoulder as your hands ran down his arms, grounding him. One of your hands reached for the cloth and dipped it into the water before gently wiping along his chest.

“You really went all out, didn’t you, Aven?” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. He squirmed slightly, half a protest, half a plea for more contact. You smiled. “My little kakavasha... throwing tantrums, breaking things... just because you wanted attention.”

“Wasn’t—” He tried to argue, but his voice cracked. His pride was too fragile to admit it fully.

You chuckled low in your throat, and kissed the side of his neck, letting your lips linger. “My little spoiled princess,” you whispered against his skin, making him whimper. “You didn’t just want my attention, did you? You needed it. You wanted your thoughts shoved right out of your bratty little head.”

He hid his face in his hands, trembling. Whether it was embarrassment or satisfaction, even he didn’t know.

“Y-Y/N...”

“Shh,” you hummed, rubbing slow circles into his thigh. “I know, baby. I know. That’s why I gave it to you. You earned your reward... but you also earned your punishment.”

You shifted forward slightly, arms tightening. Aventurine melted into you, pliant and quiet now. His breathing steadied, slow and soft. He was safe.

“You did good, Aven,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his eye. “My pretty little baby. My lovely disaster. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

And in the stillness of that bath, with your arms around him and your voice so warm in his ears, he truly believed it.

He was yours.

And you were everything he needed.

Morning came slowly, with warm golden light bleeding through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows across the bedroom.

Aventurine lay on his side, half buried in pillows, the blankets tangled around his waist. His hair was a soft mess—less styled, more honest. His lashes trembled slightly, brows furrowed in a stubborn little frown even in sleep, like he was having a dream he refused to lose.

And you? You were already awake. Had been for a while.

One arm tucked under your head, the other wrapped loosely around his waist, fingers lazily tracing idle circles against his bare skin. You didn’t have work today. You made sure of it. Your phone had buzzed more than once, emails stacking up—but they could rot. You already had your biggest priority in your arms.

A brat. A menace. A sharp-tongued little beast who broke vases when ignored—

But also the man who curled into you like he was scared to lose you.

Your lips pressed against his forehead , just a soft, lingering kiss.

“Still pretending to be asleep, princess?” you murmured into his hair.

Aventurine didn't answer. Of course he wouldn’t.

You grinned, your voice low, teasing, “You think I don’t know? That you only throw tantrums when you’re desperate for me? That you think needing someone is the same as losing?”

He shifted—just slightly. Barely a twitch. But it was enough. His mask always cracked when you were gentle.

“You’re so ridiculous, Kakavasha,” you whispered, voice dropping into that tender, velvet tone he hated loving. “I work late one night, and suddenly you’re flinging wine glasses like a man scorned. What, you thought I’d forget I have a spoiled little husband at home?”

“You’re annoying,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “Shut up.”

“Oh? So you can speak?” You chuckled, pulling him closer by the waist. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were just panting my name last night like—”

“Y/N!” His voice was firm this time, but the tips of his ears were pink. He wouldn’t look at you.

You softened. Kissed the apple of his cheek. Let your hand slide up to cradle his face. “You’re the love of my life, Aven,” you said gently. “Not my job. Not the world. You. You always come first. Even when you’re being impossible. Job exists purely so that I could earn money to buy you gifts and spoil you.”

He didn’t respond right away but he muttered something under his breath.

"Who even wants your money? I already have enough you dumbass."

He will never admit but all he wants is for you to be always near him. Vulnerability didn’t sit easy with Aventurine—it itched under his skin like an allergic reaction.

But he curled into you. Just a bit. Let you hold him tighter.

That was his way of saying it.

I missed you.

Please don’t make me need you this much.

I love you too.

And you heard every word in that silence.

Bonus scene:

The sheets were warm, tangled around both their legs, and just as you began to shift—muttering something about needing to make breakfast—slender fingers traced along your abdomen.

“Aven,” you warned lightly, voice still laced with sleep.

But he didn’t stop. His hand splayed across your chest now, trailing up to your collarbone, his pink-stained ears betraying his nonchalance. He didn’t meet your gaze as he whispered, “ Hold me again.”

You paused, eyes narrowing just slightly as you caught the tension in his jaw. The slight tremble in his voice. “After last night?” you asked, one brow raised. “You should try walking first, kakavasha. I might’ve rearranged your spine and hips.”

Aventurine looked scandalized for a brief second—but only because you were right. Then, as if determined not to be teased out of his moment, he leaned closer and murmured against your throat, “This time… do it slowly.”

That made you pause. The weight of his request settled gently in the air.

He reached up, fingers touching your cheek. His thumb grazed the corner of your lips. “You didn’t cradle my face like you used to,” he said softly. “Didn’t kiss on my eyelids, or here—”

He tilted his head, showing you the barcode-like mark the side of his neck. The same mark that proves the troubles and hardships he had faced his whole life. The same mark that he had learned to not want to tear it out of his skin just because you treat it so gently. Always a kiss on the mark, just to prove you don't mind his past, just to prove that he's still worth loving after all he had done to survive.

“You missed the steps,” he added, voice petulant. Dangerously close to pleading.

And what could a man do when his lovely male wife, who’d throw a tantrum before ever admitting he needed to be cherished, looked at him like that? When he asked—so gently, so miserably—for affection like it was a rare gem?

You cupped his face instantly.

“Oh, baby…” you sighed, brushing your thumb under his eye, then leaning in to kiss the soft corner there. “My precious little beast really wanted to be loved properly, huh?”

He didn’t answer, but the way he clutched your back said enough.

You kissed his eyelids, one at a time. His cheeks. His lips. His throat. The mark on his neck got the softest, lingering kiss, followed by a whisper of, “There. Was that better, love?”

He nodded, face flushed, breathing shaky.

And when you finally moved to hold him again—slow, deep, every movement paired with a kiss or a soft whisper—you made sure not a single step was missed.

[kuro8066]

Damn I got so invested in the angst I wrote that now I'm angry like "what kind of bitches write this much angst!? Bro who hurt you" But it was me. I'm bitches. I'm bro.

Welp. God forbids a writer has mental issues duh.

[kuro8066]

You know that one audio that goes "I just murdered your entire family. Bu-but I live alone?! Then who are these people in your house? *gasp* There's people in my house? WeLl NoT AnYmoRE dumb bitch!" Yea I wanna write something that goes like the audio. And tell me why the only psychopath that I can think of is scar and scar alone. √(-3-)√***

[kuro8066]

Hear me out. Aventurine and childe. End of discussion.

So… Neglect play. Heavy on the hear me out, guys pls (WAIT WHY IS THIS GIVING PATHETIC YANDERE HUH)

Thinking about a huge brat who loves to run his mouth and fights you on everything you do. No matter how often you’d punish him, he just doesn’t stop. It’s part of his charm, that he’s so stubborn, which led to you getting a little creative with ways to punish him.

“Don’t you think you need some discipline?” You asked, glaring down at him. It took almost half an hour just to get him on his knees, your patience was running thin. “No, I don’t.” He answered flatly, sitting there cross legged with a smut smirk. Can one even call this kneeling? He seems to be very comfortable.

Without noticing, you raised your voice a little, “that’s it, bend over, you definitely deserve punishment.” You patted your lap, feeling a your brows twitch when he didn’t move a single inch. “What if I refuse?” The man replied, not even looking up at you. That’s it, you couldn’t deal with his bullshit today.

At first you weren’t even going to be this mean to him, but he really outdid himself this time with getting on your nerves. Which is why you simply sighed, picked up the nearest entertainment object within your reach, and began focusing on it. Ignoring him completely. No eye contact, no touching, and definitely no speaking. The shook that flashed his expression must have been priceless, what a shame that you couldn’t take a look at him.

For the next few minutes, he just waited, sneaking not-so-secretive peeks at you, wondering what was so interesting that you refused to acknowledge his presence. Then, the following minutes were spend sulking like an abandoned puppy. Lips pressed together into a pout, before he squeezed out through gritted teeth, “as if that thing’s more entertaining than me, what a joke.” Despite the comment, you didn’t even flinch, seemingly determined to see this to the end.

Another moment of awkward silence emerged, and he sighed, “this is a waste of time, do something already.” If you wait a little more from now on, that’s when he gets all desperate, all docile, if you may. Hands a breath too shy to truly touch you, lingering around your shin as he cursed under this breath. This was beneath him, to beg for scraps of your attention, but he was starting to feel all flustered!

Suddenly he shifted into a more fitting position, kneeling properly as he averted his gaze. “There, are you satisfied now? Tsk, such a tyrant.” Yet still no reaction, not even the slightest hint of interest. It took almost five minutes until he gave in, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes due to the humiliation. Cheeks flushing as he tried to shallow his shame, but to no avail. In the end, he couldn’t take this anymore and broke down piece by piece.

Starting by wrapping his arms around your leg, mumbling softly, “I’m sorry… okay? I’ll—” his Adam’s apple bobbed, showing his hesitation before he continued, “I’ll be good from now on… so look at me.” No response, nothing. “You are insufferable, urgh, why do I even bother?!” Look at that, another burst of anger, he must feel really pathetic right now, on the verge of begging for something that was never a problem until now.

Then, he began seeking your attention in earnest. Placing his head in your lap as he stared up at you with the most pitiful gaze ever, eyes glassy as they swelled with tears, cheeks an embarrassed red that deepened every time he realised how he was debasing himself for your amusement. All because you were neglecting him a little? He must have been more desperate than he realised. Now the tears he’s been holding back were dripping down his face in earnest, painting him in an even more pitiful light.

“Please.. I’m sorry, just- look at me. Don’t you- don’t you dare to ignore me when I’m already like this.” A silent sob as he tried to press himself closer to you, “I-I’ll be good.. really, I promise, don’t look away again, please…”

[kuro8066]

Mission successfully failed

dom! male reader × childe | Genshin Impact

In which the eleventh fatui harbinger was supposed to steal an important seal from the general of liyue, instead he got caught and worse he "accidentally " let out a moan when he's being restrained...

Tw: again self indulgent shit so childe might be ooc? But I do think he'd be the type to do this kind of behaviour. A bit suggestive. Not to the point of nsfw but iykyk

___________________________________________

It was just a simple mission. Sneak in, grab the seal, sneak out. It's just the place where the seal is kept is the house of the most feared general in liyue but that's not important. Nothing will be able to stop the eleventh harbinger from taking what he wants after all. Not even the general himself.

That is what childe thought until there's someone pushing him down from the back with great strength.

The general had caught him mid-reach, fingers just grazing the lacquered seal when a hand like steel clamped around his wrist. Before Childe could twist away, his body was bent, pressed flat against the desk with humiliating ease.

“Care to explain what you’re doing in my study, Fatui?”

The voice was deep. Cold. Too close to his ear. Childe’s breath hitched—partly from the pain of the hold, mostly from the sheer authority in that tone.

He could’ve played it cool. Rather he should’ve.

But then childe decided to replied with a cheeky "oh hi general. Didn't see you there." And the general’s knee is slotted between his thighs to restrict movement. A sharp shove to his lower back forced his chest flush against the polished wood. Childe arched—and moaned.

"Ngh!"

It was short. Sharp. A traitorous sound that silenced the room like a dropped blade.

"...Did you just—?"

“No!” he snapped, face burning hotter than the sun at its peak hours, wriggling like a fish on a hook. “That was—it’s cold in here!”

The general did not look convinced.

“…It’s spring.”

“Then your voice was too sexy! I mean—intimidating!”

A pause. The grip on his wrists tightened. Childe groaned again, this time in pure shame.

The general, usually composed to a fault, seemed at a rare loss. Brows slightly furrowed, lips parted as if trying to calculate what just happened.

“I have interrogated many war criminals,” he murmured slowly, “and none of them have… moaned at being restrained.”

“Well, maybe you weren’t doing it right,” Childe quipped before his brain could stop him.

Another silence.

And then—pressure. The general pressed his knee forward again. “You’re testing me.”

Childe grinned, breathless. “Maybe I am, General. Whatcha gonna do about it? Punish me?"

He should’ve been panicking. Cursing. Plotting an escape.

But instead, he was squirming under the general’s firm hold, chest flush to polished mahogany, panting like some low-ranking grunt caught red-handed—and enjoying it.

And Childe could bet his juicy ass he’d never felt this way in his life.

Sure, he’d flirted with nobles, courted danger, and danced the line between pleasure and peril for years. His record was a mosaic of near-scandals and sharp grins. But this?

This wasn’t flirting. This was being handled.

And fuck, did that do something to him.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden” the general noted, voice silk wrapped around steel. His grip didn’t waver. If anything, it pressed harder—as if coaxing the truth from every breath Childe exhaled.

“Just… appreciating the craftsmanship of your desk,” Childe muttered, voice breathy.

The general leaned in, low and deliberate. “You’re flushed. Your pulse is racing. state your purpose of sneaking into my study. What do you intend to do after trespassing on my property?”

Childe choked on a sound that was definitely not a moan. “T-to steal the seal,” he croaked out, though he wasn’t even sure of his goal anymore. “Obviously.”

“Hmm,” the general hummed, unconvinced. “Then why do you look like you’re about to melt into the woodwork, fatui?”

Childe clenched his jaw. This was humiliation on a national level. He should’ve been furious.

But his body was thrumming, nerves singing, something primal clawing inside his chest. Every second in that position chipped away at his pride, and yet—he didn’t want to move.

And that pissed him off more than getting caught.

He hated losing. Despised it. But if this was defeat, then maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t mind losing to this man.

Not if it meant being held down like this. Spoken to like this. Touched like he mattered and belonged under control.

His voice was barely a whisper. “You gonna keep manhandling me, General? Or do I need to break into your bedroom next time?”

Childe. One. Doesn't know if he's just curious to know what kind of beast he's trying to awaken. Or two. Wants the beast to wake up and ravish him. Or three. Maybe he wants both.

[kuro8066]

They do be like that. A LOT.

[kuro8066]

I write what I write because no body writes the exact plot with the specific character I wanna read so now I have to bare the responsibility of writing me a fanfic that fits my taste. I have to find "food" and "cook" it to "feed" myself cuz I'm a picky eater.

Some idiot: "Why are you reading your own fic, that's shallow and stupid"

All fanfic writers and writers everywhere: "Who the fuck do you think I wrote it for?!"

[kuro8066]

Idk how you people write long ass fics. For me, shit went off the rail after like 2-3k words??? because I forgot my original plot. Like I left a character driving a car on highway for like 10k words and ended the damn plot. Yes it's done now I can't even fix the shit cuz I don't have a more appropriate idea than the current one. It was supposed to be a merely 15 minutes drive. And it was like three months ago. I just re read that shit today.

I am so so sorry kuroo tetsuro.

Legend has it that the man is still driving home.

[kuro8066]

“This Is Not a Small Wound, Commander.”

Calcharo x Medic!Reader (part 2) | Wuthering Waves

____________________♡____________________

“You again?”

The medic didn’t even look up this time.

Calcharo leaned against the doorframe, one arm braced against the wood, blood dripping lazily from a gash near his ribs—again.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve had worse.”

“You said that yesterday.”

Finally, they looked at him—and there it was. That familiar routine. Eyes widening. Lips parting in shock. Brows slowly drawing in like storm clouds. Cheeks puffing. The pout forming.

The scolding began before he even sat down.

“Do you want to bleed out on my floor?”

“It’s a scratch.”

“That is not a scratch!”

“You should’ve seen the other guy.”

They huffed, grabbing the gauze and antiseptic like they were preparing for war. Calcharo obediently peeled off his jacket, revealing the wound with all the nonchalance of someone describing the weather.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” they muttered, voice sharp as they wiped the blood away. “You get hurt just to come here and mess with me.”

“That would be inefficient,” he said coolly.

“Then explain why you’re here with a stab wound, again, claiming it’s not serious.”

He tilted his head, watching them fuss—hands a bit too firm, yet careful around the raw skin, lips pressed into a tight line as they worked. It was inefficient. But then again… watching their lashes flutter in concentration, hearing the exasperation tangled with concern in their voice, feeling the warmth of their touch even through gloves—it made the pain feel like background noise.

“You’re overreacting,” he mumbled.

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“...So dramatic,” he muttered, almost amused.

“You make me dramatic! You—!”

Their voice cracked mid-sentence, and that was when he saw it. That microsecond of worry flash across their expression. Not just frustration. Worry.

He went silent.

Let them clean the wound. Let them tape and wrap and mutter under their breath, cheeks still puffed and voice still huffing like a kettle about to whistle. When they were done, they gave his shoulder a light smack.

“There. Don’t come back tomorrow unless you’re actively dying.”

“Noted.”

He stood, flexing his arm just to be annoying. “Might be back in two days instead.”

They groaned dramatically and pointed at the door. “Out.”

He obeyed. But paused at the entrance.

“...Your face gets puffier every time I show up,” he said over his shoulder. “Kind of cute.”

“GET OUT.”

He smirked.

Outside, the Ghost Hounds gave him looks—some wide-eyed, some openly relieved.

“He’s actually going to the medic now,” one whispered.

“I don’t care why. Let the bunny doctor yell at him every day if that’s what it takes.”

Calcharo ignored them, of course.

He had a reputation.

But that night, he noticed he was extra careful with the bandages.

Not because the wound hurt.

But because he didn’t want them to stress out tomorrow.

Not too much, anyway.

Just enough to get that puffed-up pout again.

When Calcharo walked into the infirmary—again—the new medic didn’t even glance up at first. They already knew.

“You again,” they muttered, voice as sweet as honey, soft and almost melodic—like a child pouting about candy being stolen. “What is it this time, huh? Papercut? Arrow to the knee? A hole straight through your chest?”

Calcharo, completely unbothered, leaned against the doorframe and rolled his shoulder with a grunt. A red stain was spreading through the side of his uniform.

“...It’s not that bad,” he offered, deadpan.

The medic snapped their head up and gasped.

“Not that ba—!” Their lips puffed, eyebrows furrowed like they were ready to breathe fire. “You’re bleeding, Commander!”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That's not something to be proud of!”

Despite their voice rising in pitch, it never lost that childlike sweetness. Even when scolding him like a storm in a teacup, they sounded more like a plush toy pressed into a tantrum than a terrifying medic.

“Sit. Now. Don’t make me drag you myself.”

He snorted and sat.

As they peeled away his jacket and checked the wound at his ribs, their small hands were firm but meticulous—gentle enough to treat him properly, but with the kind of force that told him they were holding back a lecture. Calcharo endured the stinging antiseptic without flinching, though he did glance down when he felt the subtle tremble in their hands.

“You’re reckless,” they huffed. “You throw yourself in front of your team like you’ve got infinite respawns or something.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“That is not the point!”

They went quiet after that—too focused on cleaning the deep cut. Calcharo let his gaze wander, landing on their furrowed expression, lips drawn tight in a pout, lashes fluttering with every breath. Despite their scolding tone and dramatic ranting, they looked… oddly peaceful in this moment. He could hear their soft breaths, feel the warmth of their body close to his, even smell the faint trace of citrus and something floral.

Cute. Way too cute for someone yelling at him like that.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud. Oh wait maybe he already did.

The medic placed a final bandage and sighed, sitting back with their arms crossed, cheeks puffed out.

“You’re impossible,” they said, voice muffled slightly. “If you don’t stop acting like you’re made of titanium, I’m going to put you on report.”

Calcharo raised a brow. “To who? I am the chief.”

They blinked. Paused. “...Still! I’ll find someone!”

He stood slowly, letting the stiffness in his muscles settle as he tested their patchwork. It didn’t hurt anymore—not that he’d admit it hurt in the first place. He rolled his shoulder, flexed his back, and turned toward the door.

“I forbid you to come back here with another injury for like another 3 days,” they said behind him.

“Noted.”

“…And don’t do that thing again. The front-flip over the turret.”

“Which one?”

Their cheeks puffed again. “Calcharo!”

He stopped in the doorway. Looked over his shoulder.

“You look like a small animal when you’re angry,” he said. Casually. As if stating the weather.

There was silence.

Then a loud, outraged, “GET OUT!”

He chuckled the whole way down the hall.

The next day?

He was back. This time with a cut across his knuckles.

“Calcharo—!”

“Tiny scratch,” he said.

The medic looked one step away from throwing a tongue depressor at his forehead. “You—! Ugh!”

The Ghost Hounds stood outside, listening to the now-daily scolding.

“Is it bad he keeps going there?” one asked.

“Nah,” said another. “Man’s finally getting looked after. And he’s actually walking to the infirmary. That’s a win. He used to avoid treatments like they're poison, now look at him.”

One hound said.

“...He is kind of glowing lately.”

Several heads snapped towards his direction and with the "shut up" sign.

“Shush. Lower your damn voice chief would hear us.”