#🫀.scribes

[brayneworms]

send up my heart to you.

kinktober day four: overstimulation

word count. 3.2k

content. MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, overstimulation, porn with feelings, crying, kissing, gender-neutral reader, reader bottoms, no real power dynamics, implied virgin!xiao, references to xiao's past abuse, subspace, aftercare, mild dumbification, sub-top!xiao, blink and you miss it implications of masochism, this got emotional lol.

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

♪ my love mine all mine - mitski

Xiao doesn't know he can get addicted to love.

How could he? It's not like you realise you're craving something when you don't have it. So the first time it's entirely by accident. It takes a lot for him to get like this, to get vulnerable enough. So much of your human lifespan that he feels indescribably guilty, actually, that you've wasted so many years on worrying at the stone wall of vulnerabilities he'd erected so many years ago.

But, diligently—and so humanly—you had.

And there is still so much of him that screams that he doesn't deserve it. That first time, he won't ever forget—bristling with karmic debt, feeling it ooze out of him like a shameful shadow. It rolled down his back in drops of sweat and beaded in his eyes like tears. With every wet, strangled gasp that left his throat it released into the air like a noxious gas, and he waited, body tensed like a loaded weapon, waited for it to kill you.

And it didn't. And it doesn't.

It feels impossible. Nothing should feel this good. It's slow and hard, in the way that it's deliberate. That's the thing that makes Xiao want to cry. You're deliberately touching him. On purpose, you love him.

Your hands are deliberate; there is no chance you'll forget it's his skin you're touching as you knead it between your fingers like fresh bread, fitting your fingers between his ribs, rubbing slow circles over his thighs, tracing the scars that welt up under the flesh. Your fingers paint fire over his body, and disrobing feels like simultaneously the most natural thing in the world, and also something that makes Xiao want to run and hide.

His own skin seems to scream at him. But you must only hear birds.

Soft kisses, dotted down his sternum as your hands skim over the scarred plane of his torso, thumbs circling. Can you feel the way his stomach tenses under the flex of your digits, the way his breath hitches? His ribs creak and expand with each shallow breath. It's dangerous, and he thinks—perhaps he could grow addicted to this.

How awful. To be addicted to something that will be gone in the blink of an eye.

The touches and the kisses, the little whispers are good, but being inside you is something almost indescribable. It's a slow, conscious effort, something almost akin to a play like in the theatre that Zhongli and Hu Tao frequent on their rare days off. There are roles and lines and actions to be memorised, and he does, opening you up—spit, fingers, the help of some slippery oil in a glass vial you produced from your pocket. This, too, is deliberate—the whole time is Xiao knowing what he's opening you up for, and being struck dumb all over again before he's even—

even—

"Are you ready?" you murmur, and Xiao's mouth works soundlessly for a moment because how could he be ready for something like this? He doesn't even know what it's going to feel like. How can he be ready for that?

But what he is ready to do is trust you. With his life, with everything. In so many ways, he's already given you everything. So he nods, trembly and short.

"Can I hear a yes?" Your hands stroke up and down his thighs, the sensitive skin on the inside, and Xiao huffs out a strangled breath.

"Yes," he grits out, teeth mashing together. If it's going to be anyone, it's going to be you. And you smile at him, all lips and no teeth, eyes crinkling in bows and Xiao swallows past the unidentifiable lump in his throat.

(It is only unidentifiable because he is a coward. He knows, deep down, exactly what it is).

You take him in your hand; he's already painfully hard, had been, really, since you started kissing. It's mortifying, this show of desire, but he's helpless before it as you move your hand slowly up and down. You position him between your legs, and he feels the soft, the hot and wet, spit and oil and something else, and it hits him—

He slides in. Xiao sees your thighs shake with the effort, his hands slipping under clumsily to grab at them to help; it feels like all his own strength as been sapped, and as soon as your body swallows the tip of his cock all he can do is slump back against the sweat-damp mattress, mouth open in a silent gasp before it releases in a high, broken whimper like shattered glass.

Arduously, you take him all. By the time you're practically sitting on him he's already an utter mess, squirming and hot under you, his hands scrabbling frantically for purchase on your thighs. His nails leave little railroads behind on your skin.

"Oh," he moans, head tipped back. "Oh—gods—"

"Xiao..." Your fingers trace over his; he can feel your own shaking. "You feel so good."

He blinks his eyes open, shocked to find them already blurry. "I—I do?" he rasps, pathetically, hating himself for it, but your radiant smile makes him ascend.

"Feel like I was made for you," you mumble, and Xiao's heart cracks because how can you, your mortal form, how can you be made for him—toxic and rotten and old, so old that he will outlive you by thousands of years? But then you smile weakly, and you say, "or maybe you were made for me," and that feels a lot more palatable. Xiao can believe quite readily that he was put on this earth for no other reason than to please you.

He rocks his hips up weakly, chasing more of that squeezing wet heat, that almost suffocating tightness, and your body jolts and groans. "S-sorry," he wheezes, but his body can't stop, he can't stop, every cell is on fire and you feel so so so good—

He comes far, far too quickly; it's basically over before it's even started, as he thrusts up into you with a shattered gasp. For a moment his head goes wonderfully, blissfully blank, and it feels like the first time in forever he's stopped thinking long enough to relax. He slumps against the mattress, breathing fast, and peers up at you with wide, apprehensive eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice strangled, weak, pathetic. Self-loathing rises up in a vice, twists up his insides. What a useless tool he proclaims to be. His fingers drop limply from your legs and twist up the bedsheets, avoiding your eye, despising himself. "I can keep going."

Your expression pinches—for the first time, Xiao realises with disconcertion. There had been no trace of disappointment when he'd failed to perform, only now that he offers himself up as a sacrificial lamb for your pleasure. The casual concern makes his head rush.

"It's okay," you say soothingly. "It's a lot. I mean—" You glance down for half a second, but Xiao catches it, follows your gaze. Release drips down from where he's still buried inside you, running languidly down the backs of your thighs. Xiao's face burns, but he's caught between mortification and sudden interest.

A piece of him is inside you. It makes his whole body shiver with satisfaction, like an itch that's finally been scratched. He feels the limp instrument between his legs swell, and it's with more conviction that he says this time, "I can keep going. Please—please allow me..."

Shivering, he reaches a hand up, smooths it up your stomach. Your skin is so smooth and hot, so untouched by the ugliness of war. He wonders how you can stand to look at him, but you can, you do, and he swallows hard as he sits up and presses a stinging kiss to the swell of flesh on the left of your chest. This close he feels your breath hitch.

"If—if you're sure." Your voice has become quiet, shaky. Unsure, for the first time.

"I am." He is so fucking sure—every part of him, apparently, because the heat between his legs is starting to get painful again. "C-can... could I...?"

In answer, you roll your hips against his, testing, slow. He feels like dick twitch inside you, and it shocks him like lightning. It's an odd sensation—a pleasurable burning, feeling momentarily so good that it hurts. Is this normal? He shudders, eyes struggling to focus; every small jolt of him inside you sends shivering bolts of lightning through his body, ones that have him whimpering and gasping much more than before.

It's slightly painful—and it's ridiculous, because Xiao has made friends with agony, had lived through so much of it that he'd come out the other side and regarded it almost as an old friend. But it's a different sort of pain than torture, than brutality, than mindless violence for the sake of it. This is a discomfort he would happily self-inflict.

"Xiao?" you ask, breathlessly. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he answers mindlessly, then rushes to correct himself. "Th-that is—it doesn't..." He gathers a sharp breath. "I do not... dislike it."

"Are you sure?"

In answer, he gathers his strength and flips the two of you over. You make a grunt of surprise as your back flops against the mattress, and it takes an awkward few moments of fumbling and sliding sweaty limbs to align yourselves correctly again. Xiao kneels between your legs, keeping himself lifted with his arms on either side of your head. Framing you, like you're a painting. You might as well be.

You stare up at him owlishly.

"I'm sure," he says, then fixes you with an attempt at a flat look. It would probably be more effective if he wasn't blushing madly. "I'm not made of glass, you know. It's far more likely that I'll hurt you rather than the other way around."

"You won't hurt me," you say with so much certainty that it throws him for a loop. Xiao swallows, eyes softening as he gazes down at you. You slip your hand between the both of you and wrap your fingers gently around his cock, and Xiao buries his head in the crook of your neck with a muffled moan. The sound that slips out of him is almost pained, wispy and high as you carefully manoeuvre him back to the heat between your legs.

Sliding back into you is what he imagines heaven must feel like, in the event a wretched creature like him could ever get there. And it burns, every clench and ridge catching on his cock as he pushes back in with a breathless noise, every cell in his body fizzing with life and fire.

"Hah—" The noise slips out like a punch. "Oh, oh..."

"Please." You lift your hips encouragingly, pressing the two of you flush together. "Please move."

The first few thrusts are awkward, but after he manages to pick out a steady sort of rhythm it's so easy to fall back into it. Xiao stares down at you, gobsmacked; is this what you saw, sitting on his waist, looking down? Your head tips back against the sheets, fingers clenching the bedsheets, your lips parted in a helpless little moan. He feels dazed, heavy-limbed: how did you not fall immediately and irrevocably in love?

Oh, he thinks distractedly. Maybe you—

You're getting closer, this time—he's not entirely sure how he can tell, but he just can. Your breathing picks up, gets higher and wispier until you're practically wheezing, and your arm flies up to dig your nails into the foam of hair at his nape, pinpricks of pain to match the sensitivity burning between his legs. Every push in and out of you makes his whole body shudder, makes small, pathetic sounds drift out of him almost absently. It's almost scary, how separated from his own body he feels.

It's something he can only compare to committing absolute violence. Leaving yourself behind like this, to do what must be done.

He has just enough wherewithal to bend his neck, mouthing at your chest, the soft skin under his lips feeling like a miracle, an offence to everything he knows. Your answering groan sends heat rushing between his legs. You're making—he it's because of him, and he's—he's making you feel—

His second orgasm doesn't so much as creep up on him as it does slam through him with barely a seconds' warning. Xiao practically chokes on his, his hips stuttering against yours as his cock twitches inside you, again, and it's so much, too much, that his whole body lights on fire with the oversensitivity. Tears swarm his eyes as he clenches them shut, pressing hard against your collarbone before he slumps, practically boneless.

He can feel you breathing beneath him. Certainly you didn't finish, if the way you're swallowing and breathing hard is any indication. Shame fills him all over again, as soon as the feverish heat retreats. He lifts his head groggily and looks up at you, dread pooling in his stomach—but again, there is no disdain in your expression. Your eyes are wide, mouth parted, but when he locks eyes with you all you do is smile weakly and shrug, a gesture that even Xiao understands to mean it's okay.

Still. It isn't. Not to him.

Through the foggy haze that has settled over his brain, he manages to dredge up two words. Hoarsely, whispered into your skin: "One more."

"W-what?" There's barely time for the shock to slip off your face before Xiao pushes himself up on trembling arms. "Xiao, you—oh!"

The noise you make when he presses his hips flush against you is almost enough to have his cock swelling with interest again. "Wait," you whine, even as your hips arch into him. "Xiao, it's too—you m-must be—"

"I can take it," he grits out, unsure if it's true but beyond willing to find out. He blinks down at you with wet eyes, mouth agape, not thinking to close it, not thinking about whether he looks ridiculous, wanton, or any thousand other things. Only thinking that he wants you, and wants you to feel good. "Please..."

The feeling that rips through him when he rolls his hips against yours almost makes him shriek. It's so much, and a loud buzzing fills his ears as his jaw locks. It needles at him, his skin screaming as he grinds against you, barely thrusting really, just trying to ease himself back into the feeling again. Your expression pinches.

Pleasure pricks through the pain. Xiao groans, effectively brainless, and only one thought drives him forward. He wants to make you come. He wants to see you finish, feel it around him, so he moves his hips again, again, relentlessly, through the overstimulation, through the waves of pleasure that roll over him helplessly. Tears swell up against and spill, and every time he rocks into you he makes a sound like he's been shot through; whimpery and high, wet and pathetic.

A film slides over Xiao's brain. All he can hear is your moans, fast and urgent, and all he can feel is you practically pulsing around him. Nothing should feel this much, he thinks senselessly, and it's only when you put a hand on his face desperately that he realises he's saying all of this aloud, mindless babbling under his breath, a constant stream of consciousness like he'd lost the ability to shut his mouth.

Maybe he has, he thinks distantly, and is that such a bad thing? How can it be a bad thing to be mindless in front of you, to only think about this, it's so good, it hurts but it's so good, he loves it, he loves you—

Still speaking aloud; he can tell by the way your expression slackens, your lip trembles, and you shakily cup his face to bring his lips to yours. He's barely conscious enough to reciprocate, his whole body shuddering with every thrust, and he can feel the quivering vibrations of the both of you moaning into each other's mouths, feel the wetness of saliva and tears, his tears, when was the last time he cried? He'd cry for you, he thinks senselessly. You're worth crying for.

"Please," he begs, not necessarily knowing what he's pleading for anymore. "Please, please, please—"

You tighten around him, and it makes his voice cut out with the noise it makes, and even as he watches through the blurry wet haze of his tears he feels and sees you come undone beneath him, your back arching up to meet him as though you two could possibly get any closer. Your broken-off moans and breathy gasps send Xiao over the edge again with a dry, broken sob.

He's so, so sensitive that even pulling out of you makes him wince and shudder all over again. He watches, dazed, as his own release drips out of you, thankful absently that you thought to put towels down before—before.

You're gasping, hands on his face, a frantic look on your face. "Xiao? Hey. You okay?"

I'm fine, Xiao tries to say, but all that comes out is a breathy whimper. He's still sort of crying, he realises, bringing up a trembling back to touch his wet cheeks. You thumb at his face, the touch almost too much—he wants to curl into his clothes, but of course he has no clothes because he's naked, both of you are—

His face burns with sudden shame. He came three times.

"Did I make you feel good?" he whispers, softly, wide-eyed. Your expression trembles, melts into a soft smile that feels like the closest thing to sedation Xiao can handle.

"So, so good," you assure him, and Xiao melts into your arms with a deep sigh. He's still shaking like a baby bird, but you hold him in your warm arms, as his tears turn to sniffles and then wet, quivering breaths. "You pushed yourself too far, though," you tell him, and Xiao curls up, blanching at any semblance of rejection. "I'm not mad," you hasten to assure him. "Far, far from it. Just... go easier on yourself, next time, please. I care about you. I don't want you to hurt yourself for my sake."

Reality returns in doses. Some semblance of awareness trickles back to Xiao the longer you talk. "I understand," he whispers. "I liked it. It was—perhaps more i-intense than I anticipated, but I liked it. I liked... doing it for you." He blushes.

You press a soft kiss to his forehead. "You're so sweet, Xiao. We'll talk about it more tomorrow, okay?"

He nods tiredly. That sounds agreeable. Tomorrow exists in some far-off dreamland. For now, he can curl up to your side as you carefully manoeuvre the towels off the bed so you can sleep on clean, dry sheets. Xiao clings to you, snuffling into your side like you'll disappear if he lets you go, and you card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

It should be horribly embarrassing. But it isn't. It just isn't. Nothing is the way it should be, when it comes to you. Not pain, or pleasure, or any of the things he usually feels. He supposes it's a byproduct of never being loved.

But he loves you. And—

"I love you, Xiao," you murmur against his hair, and if he had any tears left he's sure they'd be welling up in his eyes. As it is, his fingers merely tighten their hold on your waist. "You said it earlier—I don't know if—well. I just wanted to say it. I love you, and you did so, so well for me. Now go to sleep."

Xiao thinks he'd die if you asked him to.

But you don't. You just ask him to sleep.

So he does.

[flowerprose]

🌷 Describe Your WIP Tag Game 🌷

Rules: Describe your WIP with three words... but they all have to start with the same letter.

tagged by @pinespittinink thank you !! 💖

tagging: @bebewrites, @afoolandathief, @andromedaexists, @authoralexharvey, @theskeletonprior, @frankensteinshimbo, @squid-scribe, @thepixiediaries, and @livvywrites! and, of course, anyone else who sees this tag game and would like to join in!

Namesake in threesix words (i couldn't choose just one list!):

Ancient 🏛️🏺

Arresting ✨

Ardent ❤️‍🔥

and

Vast 🌳🦌

Visceral 🫀

Vengeful 🗡️

[wolf-who-rips-throats]

🌳Welcome to the forrest of your nightmares🌲

Obligatory disclaimer: we do not condone, endorse, or otherwise support the actions of these posts even if they are our own. First and foremost this blog is used to vent emotions and thoughts that could put ourselves or others in danger. Secondly, this blog is for the ones writing it. We have the right to block anyone who makes us uncomfortable and ask them to remove our posts from their blog. (Feel free to do the same to us, we don’t mind!)

So- who’s runnin’ this shitshow?

Hi! You can call me Wolf. I’m a co-host of Forrest system and the og creator of this blog. My pronouns are they/he/pup/wolf (if you want to know how to use those neos, shoot me an ask!) and my partner Meia encouraged me to make this blog.

There are eight of us that hold yandere tendencies and thoughts who post here. There are more alters that might use this as a vent blog and that’s okay!

Wolf — they/he/pup/wolf || identification tag is 🐶Wolf

Sayaka Miki — she/they || identification tag is #🎼Melody’s Saber || uses blue text + poems

Kyouko Sakura — she/her || identification tag is #❤️Red Lancer || uses red text + song lyrics

Michael — he/him || identification tag is #📞Michael

Sam — he/him || identification tag is #☎️Hunters’ Nightmare

Glitchza — he/glitch/caw || identification tag is #The Glitched Protector

Scourge — he/paw/blood || identification tag is #⛈️Scourge

Chat Blanc — he/cat/white || identification tag is #🩸Claws out

Honorable mentions:

Hitoshi Shinso — he/him || has his own blog @mindbreak-mind-broken

Inferno Dante — he/him, fire/flame || has flame’s own blog @infernal-inferno

@infectious--infatuation — partner system’s yanblog!

@the-covens-collection — other partner system’s yanblog!

@yamikawas — yan friend!

Tags

General tags:

#Hardwire Brain - used for vents we need to immediately get out of our head. Warning! Some of them may contain n.s.f.w. content! Under 18 do not look!

#A Trio Of Screams - vent post made by Wolf, Sayaka, and Kyouko (3/4 co-hosts of the system)

#🪶⛅️Murder Skies - used to refer to our partner systems

#🖊Ink Spilled Thoughts - general letters or poetry we write

#⛪️Cathedral of lies - religious trauma-esque for Wolf and Kyouko

Alter-specific tags:

#Master’s Pup - n.s.f.w. tag used by Wolf. MINORS BLOCK THIS TAG! /srs

#💫Puppetmaster - used by Wolf to refer to beloved.

#🐍Snake Venom - used by Wolf to refer to beloved.

#💙Blue Knight - used by Kyouko to refer to Sayaka.

#💜Purple Enchantress - used by Kyouko and Sayaka to refer to beloved.

#💞Pink Goddess - used by Kyouko and Sayaka to refer to beloved.

#💛Golden Maiden - used by Kyouko and Sayaka to refer to beloved.

#🍎My Apple - used by Sayaka to refer to Kyouko.

#🏹My Theseus - used by Glitchza to refer to FS!Tommy.

#👑My Anarchist - used by Glitchza to refer to FS!Technoblade.

#🎸My Slain - used by Glitchza to refer to FS!Wilbur.

#🐝My Bee - used by Glitchza to refer to FS!Tubbo.

#🧠My Scribe - used by Glitchza to refer to FS!Ranboo.

#💍M’Lady - used by Chat Blanc to refer to beloved.

#🫀Bloodied Heart - Used by Michael and Wolf to refer to beloved

#💉Ecstasy - Used by Michael and Wolf to refer to beloved

#🦴Bone shard - Used by Michael and Wolf to refer to beloved

#🕊Pigeon Flight - Used by Michael and Wolf to refer to beloved

#🐸Frog-E — Used by Sam to refer to beloved

#🐸Frog-A — Used by Sam to refer to beloved

Rivals:

#Snowstar2219 - A online person who lied to us about being underage that we had a deep friendship with.

#🟩Their Poisoned Tongues - People who have hurt Kyouko in the past.

#👁White Cat - Kyu//bey.

#The Witch - used to refer to the body’s abusive and manipulative womb donor.

#⭐️Final Wish - Michael’s ex

#👣To Be Human - Michael’s rival

#🦷Toothache - Sam’s enemies

#🧱Backbreaker - used to refer to the body’s father (used only by one alter)

#✝️False Priest - Kyouko’s father

#🕰️Demon of Time - An internal persecutor in the system

[the-odecrafter]

To partake in attentive audience surpasses mere auditory perception; to bask in genuine admiration transcends mere acquaintance. Have you pondered upon the loftiest aspiration a wordsmith may harbor? It is to eternally abide through the very verses she penned.

— Xui Acrasfeli, a chapter of my thoughts.

Attend closely to my words, for within this parchment lies the compass to my verse-laden chasm. To peruse with diligence is to dispel the shadows of perplexity, and to engage in confidential discourse with the quill-wielding bard is to procure resolutions to your inquiries. Take up your magnifying lens, kind stranger, and dissect the scriptures, for betwixt the lines, enlightenment shall be found.

/ ABOUT THE WORDSMITH / 🫀 读！

Beneath the celestial tapestry of Sagittarius, on the fourteenth eve of the waning year, the foretold scribe, bearing the sacred quill, graced the terrestrial realm, descended from the lineage of the sagacious.

Known for her profound respect of rights, boundaries, and diverse perspectives, she, in turn, anticipates such reciprocity. Her paramount pursuit is the serenity of the mind, rendering her unflinching in the face of any potential disputation stemming from her existence and conduct toward fellow souls. In the event of affront, be unburdened, for she attunes to the sentiments of others, swearing against replicating actions that may cause harm.

The realm she administers was not conceived for public discord nor malevolence toward others. The guise she assumes serves as her creative impetus, rather than a blade that may tarnish its dignified visage.

May this missive serve to elucidate any uncertainties that may arise; let no hesitation impede reaching out, for any perplexity shall be duly acknowledged and assuaged.

/ THE IMMUTABLE DECREES / 📜 读！

She harbors a distinct aversion for those who exhibit disrespect, harboring a disdain for those who appraise worth based on arbitrary hierarchies. When confronted with such demeanor, she may incline toward withdrawal or choose silence in their company.

In matters of artistic integrity, she brooks no compromise, particularly with respect to plagiarized themes or compositions affixed to her domain. Should word of such pilferage reach her, anticipate a forthright confrontation, which may escalate to a public discourse if resolution is not sought privately.

Constructive critique finds a welcome berth in her creative sanctum, for she values the myriad perspectives that illuminate her work. Such insights enrich her understanding of the nuances woven into her tapestries of expression. While she will not shy away from absorbing even the harshest of appraisals for the sake of growth, she discourages wanton disparagement, cognizant of its potential to elicit fervent responses, even within her fortress of self-assuredness.

Let it be known, all deeds bear their own recompense; the wheel of fate turns, and what is sown shall inevitably be reaped. — 夏诗雅 (🪦)

[brayneworms]

two for the show | mammon

kinktober day six. collar + leash.

word count. 3k

content. MINORS/AGELESS DNI, smut, collaring and leashing, light petplay, mammon is called 'pet' and 'good boy', kissing, praise kink, brief crying, anal fingering, sub!mammon + dom!reader, gender neutral reader, safe sane and consensual.

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

"This is humiliatin'."

You don't necessarily disagree—it sure is humiliating, just not for you, so you can't quite bring yourself to care as much as you probably should. Still, you're feeling disagreeable tonight. Maybe it's the weeks' worth of frustration eating away at you, or the stress of not having gotten enough sleep over the last three days, or maybe you're just sick to death of Mammon's whining, so you don't rise to meet him halfway.

Just this once.

You level him with a pointed look. "Humiliating would be making you walk around like this. We're just in your room."

A red blush melts over the tanned skin of his cheeks, and oh, isn't that interesting?

Mammon kneels on the floor, wearing a disgruntled expression and a collar. Attached to the collar is a leash, which is casually looped around your closed fist. They're both made of baby-pink leather, sitting lurid and pretty against his tawny skin. It's unfortunate how good he looks with them, actually, the way the juts and veins of his throat disappear behind the thick band. A dainty silver heart adorns the front, practically begging for you to slip your fingers under and tug.

"Stupid Asmo," Mammon growls. "Stupid bet, stupid Demonus—"

"Stupid you?" you quip, then immediately retract it when you see the glower on his face. "I'm just saying, it's not like Asmo tricked you into agreeing. You're the one who had to make it a bet."

"'Cause I thought I'd get money," he whines. "Sweet, sweet money! Now this... that weirdo and his perverted mind."

You hum as though giving this some thought. "And me? What about my perverted mind?"

Mammon chokes on his own spit. "Wha... um... y-you—"

"Better yet," you say thoughtfully. "What about yours?"

"Mine?" Mammon echoes, ostensibly outraged. Two dark spots of colour burn bright on the apples of his cheeks. "Now I know you're crazy. What are ya—"

You tighten your fist 'till the leather creaks, and you tug. Hard.

Mammon's whole body jerks forwards towards the bed, and at the same time and airy groan spills forth from his lips. He braces his body against the edge of the mattress, large hands flying forward to grip the wooden frame, and then he looks up at you. His eyes are wide and round as the Grimm he covets so much, his cheeks perfectly scarlet above his open wet mouth.

"Wh—what are you playin' at?" he croaks. "Stupid human..."

"Y'know, you call me that a lot," you tell him conversationally, and scoot to the edge of the bed. Mammon audibly swallows as you kick your legs off the side, one on each side of his body, pushing into his thighs. His spine straightens ever-so-slowly, pushing his chin up to meet your eyes. "It's just—sorry. If I'm such a stupid human, how'd you end up here?"

"Wha—" Mammon licks his lips nervously. "What do ya—"

"You know. On your knees in front of me." Your hand loops through more of the leash, shortening the distance between your fist and the collar. "It's just—you know. If you're such a big, bad demon and all, and I'm just a stupid human... it shouldn't even be possible, right?"

"C'mon," he says weakly. "Ya know I didn't... 's not like that..."

"Oh, no?" Your brows knit together in such a cruel parody of concern that Mammon feels his stomach lurch. He absolutely should not be enjoying this as much as he is. But everytime you talk down to him like he's actually beneath you, he can feel a sort of film slipping over his brain. "You wanna know what I think?"

Mammon gets the vague sense that his question is rhetorical. He nods anyway, quick, instinctive. He can see all the shadows in your mouth when you smile.

"I think the reason you're here right now," you murmur. "Is that you like it. You like being under my control. You like when I tell you what to do. And you like kneeling on the ground for me, waiting for me to decide when you're worthy of being acknowledged. Isn't that right?"

Yes. "No!" he blurts out, so hot that he's starting to sweat. You look so sexy, all mean and sadistic leering down at him. Those piercing eyes, that little half-smile, like you can see right through him. Mammon shudders almost imperceptibly. He feels like a bird caught in a cage, and he likes it, and he hates that he likes it.

You consider this. "Oh. Okay. Well, then good news. I'm officially ending your punishment early."

Mammon looks at you blankly. "H-huh?"

"Yep! You can unfasten the collar at the back. Just be careful not to run into Asmo so he doesn't know you skimped out on your loss," you wink, and throw yourself back onto the bed, turning your attention fully to your DDD.

Mammon stays right where he is, dumbfounded. "Th—that's it?!"

He knows he's boned when you give him a sly look out of the corner of your eye. "I'm sorry," you say all innocently, and Mammon nearly curses. "Was there something else you wanted?"

Oh. You're fuckin' evil.

It's so, so hot.

He makes an unintelligible mumble.

You cup your hand to your ear. "Hm? Sorry, did you say something?"

Evil. Evil. Evil. "Pick the stupid leash back up, then."

Your sweet smile is all cavities and no sugar. "What's the magic word?"

Goddammit. "P... please?"

"Good boy!" You clap your hands together in ostensible delight, and Mammon shivers form the roots of his hair to the pits of his stomach. The way you sort of... coo at him. It should be disgusting, it should revolt him. Instead he can feel himself stiffening in his jeans. You lean over and kiss him on the head, pick the leash back up and wind it around your fingers. "That wasn't so hard, huh?"

"Human," Mammon whines, eyes screwed shut against this all-encompassing humiliation. "Please..."

"Come up here," you mutter fondly. Mammon scrambles so quickly that he trips over his own shoelaces and rises, blushing, but there's hardly time to be any more mortified than he already is before you're pushing him backwards onto his bed and climbing on top of him. His brain abruptly short-circuits; fuck, okay, okay—

"Breaths, Mams," you remind him gently, toying with his earlobe. Mammon sputters, turning away from your burning stare.

"Breathin' just fine," he mumbles, like you're not on top of him, silhouetted by his slick colour-changing lightbulbs like some freaky kaleidoscopic angel. Blue to red to green to purple, and you're backlit like a stageplay. A fuckin' violent one where everyone dies.

"You look so pretty," you croon, and Mammon's heart drops to his stomach. The slow, silk-soft tone of your voice is sending all his blood rushing to the wrong place. The right place? He can't decide. He hates how pliant you make him feel, but the truth is he's barely scrounging up the energy to put up much of a fight at all. You're gonna get sick twisted ideas about his psyche at this rate.

You might start to think he actually likes being bossed around by some naive little human.

As if.

"Come off it," he says weakly, fighting the urge to hide his face.

"Nah, it's comfy," you reply without a beat, and Mammo groans. He's definitely at least half-hard now, and with his shitty luck you can probably feel him pressing up against your thigh. "Want me to help you out with that?"

Mammon shoots you a surprised, suspicious look; it's not the first time he's suspected you can read his mind. He tucks his chin against his chest and nods.

You roll your pretty mean mean mean eyes. "Come on, Mams, meet me halfway here." A finger under his chin, guiding him back to look at you, and Mammon can't breathe. He's suffocating under you, but in a sort of nice way, a way that makes him feel a bit less like himself, also in a sort of nice way. He doesn't know. It's confusing. You do fucked up things to head. "Good boys use their words."

His throat sticks. For a moment he imagines he'll tell you to piss right off, you uppity human, he's the Mammon, okay, so he doesn't need you clambering all over him and telling him what's what, right, so you can very well just—

"Pleaaaase touch me, yer bein' so mean," he whines, lower lip wobbling. "I'll be good, okay, I'll be real good so just s-stop teasin' me already and just—"

"Okay, okay," you giggle softly. "Don't strain yourself. You sound so pretty begging for me, Mammon." Your hands on him, finally, gliding up under his shirt and running over the warm skin there. Every callus and ridge on your skin catches on a ribcage and he has to bite back a desperate groan each time. You waste no time pulling his shirt up and off, though you have to do some careful maneuvering to get it over the leash which leaves you both laughing weakly.

You press kisses to his collarbones, his neck and chest, and it's nice, it's real nice and he has a fleeting thought that he could probably do this forever and it would be cool, like, he wouldn't ever even have to eat again or nothin' if it meant this was his morning noon and night. But every brush of your lips against his sensitive skin is making his cock twitch in his jeans, and he's so fuckin' hard now that it hurts. He makes a whimpery, pathetic kind of noise when you press a carefully orchestrated kiss to the skin under the collar.

"Don't worry," you hum, lips and then teeth skating over the skin of his naval. Mammon tosses his head back against the comforter with a moan. "I'll take care of you. My favourite pet. Promise."

Pet. The word ricochetes through his body like a bullet, setting every nerve it hits alight.

Your hands on his belt buckle makes a small, panicked noise escape from somewhere in his throat, and whilst your hands occupy themselves you lunge forward to kiss him. Mammon groans, melting back into the covers as you kiss him stupid, his hands flying up to cup the back of your neck, the side of your face. The hot flash of your tongue in his mouth distracts him enough so that he barely feels the flash as his jeans are yanked down. It's only when your pinky finger slips under the waistband of his boxers that he drags himself back from the kiss with a shaky gasp. Blown eyes follow the taut line of your arm to where it rests on his pubic bone.

In your eyes is taunting, but there's also a question. "Still okay?"

Mammon feels the strange urge to cry. Damn you, bein' all sweet. The way you can turn it around on him makes him feel so lost sometimes. He likes it when you get a little mean, sure, loves the darkness that blows your eyes and the mean steely smirk that makes your face look, just, so much sexier—but Mammon loves you. And he loves you 'cause you're patient with him, 'cause you're kind. And 'cause you love him too.

He hides his face in his elbow and says "If you don't touch me in the next thirty goddamn seconds I'm gonna lose my fuckin' mind."

A giggle, and the tension breaks. "Alright, alright, you big baby." He gasps, spine arching off the bed when you pin his erection to his stomach. "Just lie back like a good little pet and trust me, 'kay?"

You peel off his soaked boxers. Mammon waits, tense, for your fingers around his cock, or your mouth or something but when nothing happens for a good few seconds he cracks open an eye tentatively. You're leaning away from him, facing the bedside table. His stomach twists once he realises what you're looking for.

Ohhhhhkay, okayokayokay—

You turn back with a bottle of lube that's—actually, it's going dry at an alarming rate. Mammon can't quite bring himself to feel embarrassed about it, especially as he watches you deftly uncap it and coat two of your fingers.

"What's—" Mammon swallows hard. "What's the, uhh... what's the plan?"

"You're gonna cum on my fingers," you say matter-of-factly, tossing the lube aside. He goes to reach for it, to stow it away, but you tap his hand away good-naturedly. "Don't. Might need more later."

That promise slips low and heady into his gut, and he swallows and relaxes against the comforter. You grip one of his taut thighs in your hand and prop his leg up, then slip your hand between his legs. He makes a high, shivery noise as your fingers brush teasingly over his dick, collecting the pre already leaking enthusiastically from the tip, but you keep going, lower, lower—

Mammon grunts as he feels your fingertip circle his hole.

"Relax, baby," you murmur, pressing feathery kisses to the knee of his crooked leg. "Doin' sooo good for me, yeah?"

"Mhm," he whimpers. "Mhm, yeah."

"Yeah," you affirm, and slip the tip of your finger inside. Mammon breathes out quick and hard, but it doesn't hurt—not at all, really. There's a familiar stretch, but no burn, no ache. "That okay?"

"Y-yeah," he mumbles, wiggles his hips experimentally. "I can—you can put more."

Achingly slowly, between breaths, kisses, and more feather-light touches to his cock that have pleasure sparking bone-deep, you ease your finger in to the knuckle.

"Doesn't hurt," Mammon pants. "You can—can ya—"

"Alright, pet, I got you," you murmur. Two fingers is a stretch but God, God fuckin' dammit, once they're in Mammon feels like he could weep, and once they twist expertly inside him and find that tough spot a few inches in he damn near does.

He arches off the bed with an exceptionally embarrassing noise. "F-fuck, oh holy shit, fuckin'—do that again—"

"Don't forget your manners." You give your fingers a warning twist that has him whimpering. "I don't wanna have to train you all over again, baby."

"S—fuck, sorry," he babbles damn near incoherently. "Just please can you touch me there again, okay, please 'cause it feels so fuckin' good, you feel so fuckin' good, baby, angel, please."

Your fingers slip in and out, push against that spot inside him that makes him feel like he's gonna burst out of his own skin, and Mammon moans, and your fingers slip out for a moment and before he can do so much as growl in frustration you're drooling more lube over them and you go back in with a third.

He feels so fuckin' full and so weirdly brainless, like you've pushed all the common sense out his head to make way for your stupid good fingers. As though you've read his mind, they start jackhammering his prostate like you've found a goddamn doorbell, and his moans get pitchier and wispier until he's almost wheezing.

"Babe," he almost sobs, "Oh, fuck, yes—right there, right there, don't stop pleasepleaseplease don't stop I feel so—"sob—"so fuckin' good, I—"

"Shhh, it's okay," you soothe, and finally your other hand comes up to wrap around his cock and Mammon keens. Your hand is a loose fist, your thumb swiping at the head in a move that makes his whole buddy judder and he arches into the touch and away, it's so much, it's too much—

"'M gonna cum," he gasps out brokenly, hips bucking up into you, spine so bent it nearly aches. "Fuck, sorry—fuck, I'm gonna cum."

"Good boy," you whisper. "If I can just—"

Your hand leaves his cock, and Mammon opens his mouth to ask what you're doing when you seize a handful of the leash Mammon had almost forgotten was there, and you tug so hard that the leather constricts around his throat and and his head snaps up to meet the crush of your lips.

Mammon cums so hard that he sees stars.

He always thought that was some sorta exaggeration, but look here, ladies and gentlemen, come observe the great Mammon flat on his back with his eyes rolled up into his head, panting like he'd run a goddamn marathon with your fingers still buried inside him. Tears spill over his lashline as his orgasm rips through him, and he cums with a strangled "Fu-uck, love you, I fuckin'—fffuckin' love you, fuck—"

When he can breathe again, approximately a minute later as you carefully ease your fingers out of him, you kiss his lips tenderly and tell him, "I love you too, Mams. Just in case it wasn't clear."

"Mmmn," he grumbles. He feels the bed dip and your warmth leave him and his stomach drops, goes cold. He fists a hand in the fabric of your shirt. "Wh—where d'ya think you're going?"

It's meant to sound aggressive but it comes out more sad. He has to fight back a drowsy wince.

You pet his hair. "Just getting a wet cloth to clean you up, baby."

"Later," he grumbles, and tugs you back down. You sigh and pick up a dirty shirt from the unofficial laundry pile beside his bed and clean up his stomach and your hands before tossing it back into the basket. You make a mental note to bury it under other dirty washing so nobody catches a glimpse of it.

Once you lay back down, Mammon twists his body and jams it up against yours, his head wriggling onto your chest, arms so tight around your waist you think he's afraid you'll slip away.

You bring a hand up to his hair and play with it absently. "Want me to take the collar off, now?"

Mammon pauses. "...'S fine for now," he sniffs.

You bite back your grin as you feel him slip into sleep beside you.

[brayneworms]

shoot it up (straight to the heart).

featuring. childe/reader

word count. 5.7k

content. merc!reader, drinking, kissing, masochist!childe because i am not immune to that agenda, sparring, gender neutral reader, childe is a little shit, blood, finger sucking, biting, handjobs, hair pulling, one instance of degradation (whore), light begging and light crying.

synopsis. childe has always found you fascinating; now that his stint in liyue is up and he's scheduled to return to snezhnaya, he takes the opportunity to get something from you he's wanted for months.

notes. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, i check the notes and you will be blocked.

"Ahh, the scourge of the complacent! Fancy seeing you here on a night like tonight."

You tip your eyes up to the ceiling of the inn; his voice rings out clear as bells over the chatter and rowdiness, and maybe it's a mark of your attunement to his specific brand of irksomeness that you hear the bounce of his footsteps approach over the general cacophony of laughter and drinks slamming.

There are four empty stools at the bar. He takes the one right next to you, sliding home with a boyish grin. You scratch at your forehead with all the fatigue of a working mother-of-five, catch the bartender's eye, and silently flag down another drink.

Tartaglia whistles as you raise the cup to your lips, making you pause; mead sops against your mouth, burning against raw picked skin. "I see even the alcohol of Liyue is no match for you, scourge."

"Don't call me that," you say flatly, and knock the cup back. There isn't enough booze in this whole tavern to make this a bearable conversation, but at least you could soften the edges. If you got drunk enough, you might be able to pretend he was nothing more than a lurid ginger mosquito buzzing around your head for attention.

Attention you always seemed to grant, no matter how much you swear you'll ignore him.

"Your lovely friend at the funeral parlour told me I might find you here," Tartaglia continues talking even though you're staring at the ceiling praying for patience. "She's pretty fond of you, huh? Can't imagine why, with your prickly attitude—oh, barkeep, I'll have what they're having, please." He flashes a pearly grin at the bartender, who pours him a cup of mead.

"Did you come here just to bother me?" you grit out, staring at the dregs in your cup; it sloshes darkly amongst the dull silver, and you can see a glimmer of a reflection, your eye staring back at you.

"What an ego you sport!" Tartaglia sounds righteously offended. "I came here to drink." And as if to prove his point, he raises his cup to his lips and takes a deep gulp. You can see his pale throat flex as he swallows, the bob of bones beneath papery skin.

He coughs a little as he sets the cup back down, empty. You try not to let your surprise show on your face.

"Liyue mead has quite the burn," Tartaglia comments. "You'd think I'd be used to it after being weaned on that Snezhnyan paint-thinner, but what can I say? This place has a kick."

He leans back on his barstool, a vaguely soft, wistful look passing over his features. Then he says, "I'll certainly miss it."

The cup slips from your fingers, and you curse yourself. "You're leaving?"

Tartaglia smiles, a little sadly. "The Tsaritsa summoned me back. I'll have to take off by the end of the week."

"No shit?" Tartaglia's been posted here and bothering you for way longer than you arrived to act as a temporary guard for the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. You weren't sure why such a place needed extra beef with security, but it paid well, and Hu Tao and Zhongli were well-meaning employers and good company, so you could hardly complain. That was the beauty of freelance, after all.

"Oh? You sound disappointed." Tartaglia leans forward, cupping his chin in his hand; his eyes find yours, gleaming in the low light. "What? Don't tell me you're going to miss me?"

You glare at him. "Do people miss the mosquitoes they swat when they're buzzing around their head?"

"You always act like I'm vermin," Tartaglia pouts. "Still, you're having a drink with me—I consider that a victory."

"One of your few," you toast, raising your cup, and Tartaglia's playful expression sullens a touch, like a cloud covering up the sun. "Oh, don't get all kicked-puppy on me. Thought you could take a little pain."

"Better than you know," Tartaglia says with a stunning return to form and a coy grin. You must be just tipsy enough to entertain him, because you don't seize a handful of his bright hair and ram his face into the bar like you briefly consider doing. There wouldn't be much in it for you beyond the satisfying crack of bone and yelp of pain. As for Tartaglia, he'd probably get off on it.

You both down another cup, and now the lines that make up the tavern are starting to blur pleasantly. There's a soft, fuzzy feeling filling you up, like you're made of cotton instead of flesh and blood and magic. A faint flush has made itself known on Tartaglia's cheekbones, lurid against his hair, illuminating the scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He's surprisingly lightweight, for as hard as you known Snezhnayan liquor to be.

"Would you walk with me?" Tartaglia holds your eye like he's making a promise, though not to you. He says half the things he says like he's talking to someone else, someone you cannot see. He holds out a gloved hand, grinning. "C'mon. I want to show you something."

Your brows knit up, suspicious. "Why me?"

"I'm currently not speaking to any of my other friends," Tartaglia says haughtily. "Sneaks and liars, all of 'em. As, uh, disarming as you are, scourge, at least you're honest. So... c'mon. Humour a man's last wish."

"You're not dying," you say acidly, but you get up. Tartaglia grins, delighted, sweeping up his coat from the barstool and paying out. You follow him out of the tavern; Liyue comes alive at night, you think, the harbour glimmering with a thousand lights, the water lapping at the chalky walls. Tartaglia takes your hand as the tavern door swings shut behind you. He runs warm, and you can see freckles spiralling up his wrist, and before you can protest he's started a brisk pace away from the water.

"The hell?" you mutter, making a weak attempt at taking your arm back. "Hey. Tartaglia. Where are we going?"

"So formal," he calls over his shoulder. "You can call me Childe, you know."

"Like that's even your real name," you roll your eyes. "What difference does it make?"

"Hm. Tartaglia feels more like a title. It's the name I use when I want to intimidate, you know?" He looks over his shoulder at you, the dull blue of his eyes catching in the moonlight. "I'm not foolish enough to think I could ever intimidate you, of all people."

And when he says that, it feels like a compliment. You curse the hot prickling you can feel at the backs of your ears as he leads you through town, up near where the mountains crest. It's all rickety ladders and bridges for a while before you come to a plane nestled between two great rocks. Grass and gravel spill out beneath your feet; in the middle of the wobbly circle is a wooden training dummy with chunks carved out of it. Torches bracket the space, filling the night with shifting bronze light.

It occurs to you briefly that Childe could be luring you out here to kill you, but just as easily the notion flees. He might be Fatui, and he might be insufferable, but the two of you have no real grievances as far as you know.

Besides—you're stronger. And the both of you know it.

You sweep a flat look around the circle and raise a brow. “Homey.”

Childe giggles. “You’re always so sharp-tongued, scourge. I’ve been reflecting on my stint in Liyue in light of everything, you know? What with my leaving so soon. I remembered the first time I saw you fight.”

Your brows draw up, taken aback; this is not a sentiment he has shared with you before. He paces as he talks, starts gesticulating like he’s trying to stir up a wind, though the night is virtually breezeless. Warm and damp and encapsulating. A line of sweat encroaches under your collar. 

“Some treasure-hoarders, they made a chokepoint out in the Guili Planes to intercept traders going down the road,” he tells you, as if this is news. “Zhongli asked me to deal with them myself, ‘cause they were stopping import to the city. But as soon as I got up there to scout it out, I saw you. What you’d left, anyway. This… trail. Like this—this big patch of carnage and you just in the middle of it, going blade-to-blade with this monster of a thief twice your size. Would you believe I was almost arrogant enough to think you needed my help?” His eyes shine feverishly, the moonlight catching off dead-fish-blue. “You brought him to heel like a misbehaving dog. He gave you a bloody nose and you just—just wiped at it like it was nothing. Didn’t it hurt? Always wanted to know if it hurt.”

“It hurt,” you manage, frozen with shock. He’s getting entirely too het-up too quickly, feverish in his excitement, pale cheeks flushed wine-red, and he moves closer as he waves his hands, eyes locked onto you like he’s a dog and you’re his master. It makes your blood feel too thick and too hot in your veins. 

“Thought so,” he breathes. “Thought it must’ve. It kinda… it sings, though. Doesn’t it?”

Stuck, you nod, though you only half understand what he’s talking about. 

Apparently satiated, Childe rubs the back of his neck bashfully. "Hah, sorry. You really get me talking, scourge."

"Don't give me the credit," you mumble. "It's one of your natural talents."

"Wanna see another one of my natural talents?" Childe grins; at your sharp look, he raises his hands placatingly, smile stretching ever wider. "I meant fighting, of course. C'mon. Truthfully, I've been thinking about it ever since that day. Fighting you."

He says that—fighting you—with the same sort of soft reverence one might reserve for making love or worshipping a deity. Like it's the centre of his world, the cell his heart was born from. You wonder how long it's been since Childe's days were anything but fighting, then reckon that that's probably a deliberate choice.

When he holds out a blunt wooden training staff out to you, his hands are perfectly steady. You heft it in your grip, getting used to the weight and balance. You're more accustomed to knives and swords, and small blades you can slip into your boot or belts, but you're not unfamiliar with polearms, exactly.

"Feel good?"

You jump; Childe's pressed closer to you in the time it took to examine your new weapon, and his words are accompanied with a brush of warm air across the back of your ear. "It's okay."

"Good! I want you at top form for this." He slopes off, twirling his own staff between gloved fingers obnoxiously. It makes a faint whistling sound against the warm night air. "Think you're ready?"

"Ready?" You can't help but sneer. "I don't need to be ready to fight a pest. I just do it."

Childe's grin is so wide that the flushed apples of his cheeks turn pointy. "Alright, killer. I've been looking forward to this for a while, and, y'know, I dunno when the next time is I'll meet someone as interesting as you... so don't disappoint me, yeah?"

The first crack of your staffs together sings.

It's an old melody, one you're attuned to, one you think you were born with. Impact shivers up your bones, disturbs the skin in a railroad of gooseflesh, sets your teeth on edge. There's the anticipation, the moment right before the new sensation turns uncomfortable or painful, like pressing down on a bruise, the moment before it starts hurting. The staffs gnash together like wooden teeth.

"You're quick," Childe says approvingly as you draw your arm back to your side, circling him in short steps. His eyes follow the lines of your body like he's trying to set you alight. You're not sure why you're doing this, actually—your relationship with Childe has been nothing but tepid the whole time he's been stinted in Liyue. From your end, anyways. He tends to sort of follow you around like a lost puppy when he has free time. No matter how many times you smack him and send him reeling, he always comes back with a bone clamped between his teeth, looking for fun.

A drink, a fuck. A fight. Maybe it's all sort of the same to him.

Your fight is a dance; Childe is undeniably skilled, and polearms aren't your first choice of weapon, so it's a fairly even fight despite your strength. Several times he moves far too quickly for you to comprehend—like you blink and he's shifted with the moonlight, gone from in front to behind you in a second. Laughing, poking, teasing until your blood is boiling despite the cold.

When you finally land a hit on him, it's sweet. Your staff cracks across his jaw with all the force of his annoyance to you over the last months, and Childe barely has time to widen his eyes before he crashes to the dirt. He lets out a pained grunt as he plants into the earth, and just as you're opening your mouth to gloat—

"Again."

It cracks into the night air like the crash of your staff against his jaw, pursed between wheezing breaths. His voice sings like cut piano strings, dissonant against what is happening. You stand over him, breathing hard, brow cinched as he sprawls in the dirt.

He's got chalky soil all over his pretty light uniform. He doesn't seem to care. Dull blue eyes blink up at you, round as pennies; you can see an angry welt raising on his jaw where your blow had made contact, flaring up scarlet against the pale skin. No doubt it will have flowered into a nasty bruise tomorrow, something the colour of overripe lavender melon.

But Childe grins.

You stumble back, frowning hard, and Childe makes a noise at the back of his throat as he sees you retreat. He scrambles messily to his feet, brushing dirt carelessly from his clothes.

"What?"

Childe cradles his jaw with a hiss. "You pack a punch. But I'm not done yet."

"You said again." You eye him warily, arms still not raised. "What did you..."

He huffs a laugh with a return of that boyish grin. "Ah, caught that, did you? I guess you could say I have a certain admiration for people who can land a hit on me. It's impressive. You're impressive."

Before you can decide whether he's swelteringly egotistical or just a pervert who gets off on pain, Childe lunges, swinging his sparring spear overhead; you shriek and parry it last-minute, your grip faltering enough that the wooden shafts collide with a harsh thwack; you don't fend the blow off completely thanks to your shoddy reaction time, but you manage to avoid getting struck in the head.

"Asshole," you grit out, stumbling left a few paces to get your bearings again; Childe circles you, twirling his spear between deft fingers with a sharp grin.

"I sensed your attention wandering," he shrugs. "You think you can hit me again?"

Your chin juts out, indignant. "Yeah. I'm stronger."

Beneath his lurid red hair, Childe's cheeks colour faintly. "Prove it, killer. Lemme feel it. Hit me—"

And he lunges, spear cracking through the air; this time, you're ready for it, seeing the telltale twitches of his body getting into formation before the pounce. You dodge his first hit, sending the tip of his spear sinking into the dirt, and whilst he's distracted with pulling it out you sweep the shaft of your own against the back of his knees. He buckles with a grunt, staggering, and you use his surprise to barrel your full body weight into his side.

He slips into the dirt, head thudding against the packed earth with a dull thud, and in your momentum you follow. By the time he's blinked the stars out of his eyes, your dagger is pressed up against his throat, nestled amongst the pale skin.

He breathes fast and sharp, a distinct contrast to his general collectedness. Your thighs cage his hips, and even from here you can feel his strength; his skin is shot through with sinew and iron. He could reach up, tussle, throw you off, put up a good fight. But he doesn't. He lays limp like a puppet with its strings cut, looking up at you with big, starry eyes—waiting for you to make the next move.

You come to a rather grim hypothesis.

The blunt tip of the dagger encroaches his skin, pushing in hard enough for blood to bead around it. Childe draws in a ragged gasp.

"Gonna kill me?" His tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip. He says that like it's an act of worship, like carving his throat out with a cinquedea is akin to leaving incense at a shrine for a far-flung god. Like his blood would be spattered amongst the stars if only you spilled it. Your breath catches; you hadn't been ready for the rush of power Childe's perversion would give you. You can feel it nestling under your skin like a heartbeat.

"I think you could, if you wanted," Childe whispers, and then he shudders at the thought, pretty eyes fluttering closed. He looks like he isn't sparing two thoughts to your hand holding a knife to his throat; skin breaks, and blood makes a thin rivulet down his pale skin. "Mm. Maybe I'd—I'd even let you. You could ask real nice."

"You're hardly in a position to be making demands," you murmur, feeling quite frozen. "Why don't you just be quiet for once?"

At once, Childe falls silent.

His bottom lip has split; probably why he was tonguing at it earlier. Now, with nothing to stop it, blood makes a languid trail down the slope of his chin. With your free hand, with the curiosity of a child petting a stray animal for the first time, you swipe at the trail with the pad of your thumb. You track it up to the seam, the cut, the split, press down hard until the surrounding skin of his lip turns white. You can feel the short, hot shocks of his quick breath against the skin of your nail.

The flash of his tongue surprises you, sliding over the bloody pad of your thumb, cleaning up his mess. A dog licking at its own wounds. Your breath catches, but you've never known when you're wading too deep. It's your one weakness as a fighter. You always think you can take more than you can.

So you press deeper. Your thumb sinks into his mouth up to the knuckle, and Childe lets out a faint groan. There's the ghostly scrape of teeth before his lips close over the skin, tongue swirling over the mess of blood and chalky dirt on the blunt tip of the digit.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you register faintly that this is not normal. Your interactions with Childe have been limited, so far, to snarky deadpans, irritable smacks, and the occasional drink. If you have occasionally caught his eyes lingering on the collar of your shirt, or following you when you enter a room soaked in hilichurl gore, you've made no comment. You'd assumed it would fizzle out, anyway. He's Fatui. They're hardly known for staying in one place a significant portion of time—they're dark-dressed ravens, flocking from place to place and bringing suspicion and misery for a while before taking to the sky again.

But Childe is not scoring the horizon. He's in the dirt with your finger in his mouth, and it looks like he's right at home there.

He releases you with a wet pop. Saliva and blood make a diluted trail down to his chin, and his eyes have peeled open again—heavy and half-lidded, blue slate stone, scoring deep into you. Your body feels hot and too full.

He cracks a lazy smile. "Never seen you speechless before, scourge. Does this mean I win?"

And something snaps.

In a fluid movement, you grab both of his wrists and pin them to the ground beside his head. Childe grunts a sound of surprise as your fingers tighten on his wrists, back instinctively arching from the sudden pressure; one of his legs slips in the earth and knocks against your ankle. He blinks up at you, eyes practically bioluminescent in the night.

"You don't look much like a winner," you snarl.

"Depends on your position."

"You're the Tsaritsa's bitch," you spit. "And if not hers, Zhongli's, or was it Signora who was the last one to get one up on you? Really, you've been failing upwards so much lately it's getting hard to keep count."

Childe's eyes narrow, the first glimmer of defiance sparking in the blue. For the first time you feel him throw his weight behind his halfhearted squirming—he raises his hips to try and buck you off, tugs at your grip on his wrists with renewed vigour. His fighting back shouldn't spark something in you—it shouldn't—but you can feel yourself growing excited.

The thing is, you sort of like killing. People don't get into your line of work if they don't. There's something about holding something down and winning through nothing but sheer strength that makes you feel strong, like you've earned a place on this earth. Watching Childe's jaw tick in frustration the longer he goes without unseating you is making all sorts of dangerous ideas brew in your head.

It's just—maybe it's the drink, or the fight, but the world is still pleasantly pretty and still. And Childe looks sort of gorgeous with his brow all scrunched up like that, the hint of icy anger in his eyes, the gritted teeth. His neck is strained in such a way that bares every jut and bone to you, and you can see his pulse fluttering away under the taut skin, the bob of his adam's apple.

You want to bite it.

Some sort of magnetism pulls you down, nosing at the skin of his neck. Childe grunts, half-frustrated and half-confused when he feels your lips brush over his throat. He smells like salt and mead and copper, labour smells, but his skin here is smooth like it's never seen a day of wear.

"What're you—" Childe huffs out, but his mouth drops open with a choked noise when you seal your teeth in a ring over his neck and bite down. Not quite enough to hurt, you don't think, just enough to satisfy the weird part of you that's sparking for the urge to maim. "Archons, scourge."

Oh dear. His voice has gone all strangled and weak. You dare to release one of his wrists to cup the back of his neck, holding him still, brushing the feathery down of hair on his nape. Automatically, his free hand flies for you, but it stops short, hovering as if unsure.

You can almost feel him weighing his choices in his mind. He has a hand free, and you're not even looking at him. Even if he can't beat you outright, he'd do alright with the element of surprise. He could definitely knock you spinning and flee before you get your bearings.

You wait. Count the fast thuds of Childe's pulse against his neck. The muscles in his free arm go limp, and he wraps it around your waist to pull you closer.

Figuring you're done pretending, you skim your lips up his neck and jaw before catching his mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. Childe moans, softly, into your mouth, hand clenching hard over the fabric of your waist before sliding under. His fingers span out over the small of your back, worn leather and warm flesh, and you shudder despite yourself.

His lips are chapped, and you can taste blood still oozing from the split in the plush lower one. "Someone's sensitive," you gloat, and he huffs. "Not had time to get laid here?"

"What can I say?" Childe's breezy tone would be more believable it it wasn't coming out so strangled. "Been a busy guy. Don't seem to have time for m-many... simple pleasures."

"You always seemed to find time to annoy me, though," you say darkly.

"Less of a luxury, more of a need," Childe breathes. "You make just the most interesting faces when you're irritated."

"Yeah? That get you all wet?"

Childe laughs weakly. "Scourge, please. I'm but a blushing virgin. You'll burn my poor ears off."

You shoot an obvious glance down to the tent straining against Childe's slacks. "I can well believe that."

He squirms in embarrassment, the tips of his ears lighting up scarlet. His eyes blink up at you, the usual lusterless blue fleeing in wake of reflecting the thousands of stars above you, and he seems to glow from the inside out, for a moment. The coppery blood on his face catches the moonlight.

A tongue flicks out to wet his lips, a dog wetting its snout. "Won't you take pity, scourge?" he pleads. "You got me well and truly at your mercy. You win. So..."

Before you can stop to consider the ramifications of your actions, your free hand has already scrambled to his belt buckle. Childe's breath catches, eyes widening as he registers your movements as the brass clinks in the silence. For a moment there's nothing but the hasty shuffling of clothing as you shuck Childe's dirt-streaked trousers down his thighs, his hips lifting to assist. There's a small furrow between his brows, his cheeks alight with a blush that makes his freckles sing against his skin.

The skin of his thighs catches, milk-white in the moonlight. Even here, scars have made their home, pink or bruise-dark, crisscrossing over the flesh in railroads. You get his trousers down past his knees before you stop bothering; he's left in dark underclothes, erection so stiff it's pulling the thin fabric taut, and the slit in his shirt that you've always found obscene betrays the quick, shallow bursts of his breath.

His throat flexes when he swallows. "Are you really going to—mmmgh!"

Childe sputters to a halt with a rather embarrassing high-pitched noise as you cup him through his boxers. You roll your palm experimentally over the tip of the tent, and his eyes flutter shut, rolling back against his skull with a pretty, desperate noise. This side of him is so foreign, but so familiar, so obvious, you wonder why you didn't think of it before.

"Ah, fuck," Childe swears, already sounding breathless. With how obvious he's always been, the lazy slide of his eyes, you'd assumed he had at least some experience—but maybe your teasing just a moment ago was a little more on the nose than you'd anticipated. He's unusually sensitive. "Scourge, I don't—"

"Stop calling me that," you mutter, pulling the fabric of his underwear till it strains against his cock, and he swallows back a gasp, spine arching against the dirt. "Did you want something?"

"You're so cruel," he whines. "Y/n, Archons, please—"

"Alright, alright, you big baby," you sigh, shedding his soaked underwear. Childe shudders, thighs tightening under you as he hits the cold air. The strain of his arousal and the chafing fabric is obvious; pre drips eagerly from the reddish tip, and he fits neatly into your palm when you swipe over the leaking hands before wrapping your fingers around him. Childe jolts into the touch, cursing under his breath, and as you start to jerk him off his lashes flutter. His blue eyes roll to the heavens and his head thumps against the earth with a long, shaky moan.

The night fills with noise, somewhere between what you find obscene and what sends heat rushing between your own legs as your fist pumps lazily up his length. Childe is more receptive than you would've put money on, gasping and swearing, hiccuping small, wounded noises in the back of his throat. His brow is scrunched, lips slack and wet with saliva, eyes screwed shut. His hips jump like they have a brain of their own.

You squeeze, prompting a panicked noise; Childe's eyes fly open and find your sly smile. "You look pretty," you tell him. Childe goes scarlet.

"W-wha?" he dredges up intelligently, frowning. "Why'd you—what?"

You find it funny that you've literally got your hand around his cock, but calling him pretty is apparently what crosses the line in flustering him. You cock your head, grinning.

"You don't think?" you coo. "I think you're lovely like this. I never realised how attractive you'd be once you shut your mouth. Maybe I should beat you in a fight more often."

"W-wouldn't complain," Childe pants, still alight with a feverish blush.

"I'm sure," you say noncommitally. "You fucking whore."

Childe moans, loud and shameless, and his free hand flails to scratch his nails down his own skin. "D-don't stop, fuck, don't stop—"

You stare at the scarlet railroads left on the pale skin of his stomach, and with your free hand yank up his shirt to his chest. Childe lets out a startled sound, looking at you with round, surprised eyes. His torso is littered with scars, raised and pale and dark against freckled skin. He is pretty. You love the marks of his exertions and pains, a history of his losses mapped out over his body. One of his nipple has a healed slash running right through it; when you reach up and tweak it, Childe shudders.

"Anyone would think you like losing," you murmur.

Childe looks at you weakly, crying out when your hand resumes at a faster pace. "Like it when—hnn—when it's real. I like it when they don't hold back. 'S why I'm just—hah!—e-enamoured with you, I guess."

"'Cause I'm ruthless?" you quip.

Childe flutters his lashes. "Nice enough to let me come, I hope," he says sweetly, and it makes your cheeks burn momentarily with embarrassment, the brazenness of his statement. "I'm not above begging."

"I liked you better when you were quiet," you mutter, and swipe your thumb hard over the slit. Childe yelps, muscles melting like butter, and when you start rubbing cruelly like you've found some sort of button his face flames, his mouth drops open, and he lets out a wailing noise, legs thrashing.

"Archons," he keens, but with your free hand you seize and handful of his hair and pull, hard.

"No Archons," you snarl. "Just me."

Tears prick at the corners of Childe's eyes as he rolls his hips to meet your unrelenting strokes, whimpering. "Y-yes, yeah, just you, just you, do that again."

You oblige, dig your fingers into the red hair so deep your nails scrape his scalp, and tug. The tears spill over Childe's lashline as he chokes on the moan that bursts from him at the movement.

"Keep it there," he begs, thighs shaking. "Pleasepleaseplease—"

"You close?" you ask innocently. "Already?"

There's no more pretence; the fine line of pleasure and pain seems to have wrought Childe down to only basic instincts, as his hips roll against your hand as you fist his length rough and quick, head tipped right back against the ground, exposing the heaving column of his throat. The toned concave of his stomach flexes with each punched-out breath, the scars coiling and elongating respectively.

"Please," Childe sobs in answer. "I'll be good, be real good, I'm close..."

You surge forward, digging your face into Childe's neck as you speed up your pace, and sink your teeth into the soft skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Hard enough for blood to bubble under your lips, hard enough for Childe to let out a strangled scream as he comes all over your hand, spilling over your fingers and his stomach in pearly arcs.

He's panting when you pull back, winces as you dislodge your teeth and unwind your fingers from his hair. He touches the bite mark with a wince and hiss, examining the blood on his fingers with light interest. It really shouldn't surprise or arouse you nearly as much when he dips them into his mouth and licks them clean.

"Degenerate," you tell him. Childe smiles crookedly, the flush on his face still stark red.

"There's this old saying about a pot and a kettle," he says, voice still weak and shaky.

The bite mark is leaking. As he reaches for you, you get the fleeting thought that it will leave another scar to add to his masses, another permanent trophy of another loss.

A loss to you.

And you smile.

[brayneworms]

prompt: l lawliet + food play + pink

wc. 2.8k. gn!reader, foodplay, virgin!l, handjobs, sliiiight come eating, reader is a wet cat in a cardboard box kinda, safe sane and consensual, no real power dynamics.

L contextualises things in the way he sees the world.

Strings of numbers, statistics, behavioural patterns that he's memorised to a 'T' until he can tell guilt from the aversion of an eye or fury from the remnants of nails pressed into the palm of someone's hand. It's why maybe something like sex or desire is a struggle for him. It's not that he doesn't understand it, it's more like he doesn't see the—the need for it, or whatever. You chalk it up to him being extremely busy and also probably totally asexual and don't think about it.

(Don't think about it much.)

It sort of surprises you that it's you he corners with his questions about. Maybe he's more embarrassed than he lets on—as it is, he looks cool as a cucumber save for the faintest shade of pink across his cheekbones. There's no way he would escape a conversation about it from anyone on the squad without a degree of ragging. Misa would squeal like a pig if L dared to broach the topic with her, you're sure. Matsuda would blush bright red and trip over all his words, and Aizawa would probably stare at him like he'd set his firstborn on fire.

And Light is Light. He probably knows little more than L, for all the airs he puts on.

So it's you he comes to. When it first starts, you think it has something to do with a case or lead he's hunting. Tell me, have you had sex before?

Perched like a frog, licking whipped cream off his finger. You don't know if he's doing to be provocative or not; don't know which is worse, that he's aware of what he's doing or not.

"This isn't exactly proper workplace conversation L."

A flicker of a smile. Cheeky, omniscient. "Feel free to report me to HR, in that case."

You do answer—honestly and concisely, if not with a shade of awkwardness. He's essentially your boss. But L seems so far removed from the worlds of sexuality and desire that it seems harmless, occupational, and eventually it stops feeling embarrassing. Out of nowhere—what is the purpose of restrains in an intimate context? Why do you think some people like to feel as though they have no control in the bedroom? Would you say that visual pornography has given watchers unrealistic expectations of actual intercourse?

One night, the two of you alone in front of a big glowing screen, turning to him and asking. "Why do you ask me this stuff, anyway? Is it for a case?"

"No," he says neutrally. A quick glance from his dark eyes you could almost describe as coy. "I'm just... curious."

"Curious," you echo, deadpan. "You?"

"Does that surprise you?" he murmurs. You almost feel that your honest answer—yes—would be insulting now, so instead you just shrug and mumble something incoherent under your breath. "You're not completely wrong. I thought having a better understanding of things like sex and power dynamics would be beneficial in the long run. Most people have a greater knowledge of it than me, which—puts me at a disadvantage." He says these last words with an air of revulsion, as though the very concept of knowing less than someone sours in his mouth, and you chuckle at his childishness.

"That makes sense." You pause. Wonder if you're reading this all wrong, then barrel ahead anyway. "Wouldn't actually experiencing it for yourself lend a better understanding than anything else, though?"

L's eyebrow raises. His smile has vanished, leaving him bug-eyed and unreadable. "What are you suggesting?"

He's not stupid, and you're not subtle. He knows exactly what you were suggesting. The fact that he's trying to get you to go into more detail rather than firing you on the spot is probably a good sign, and further than you expected to get. You squirm in your seat.

"You know. It's like being told about how something feels rather than knowing," you say awkwardly. "I'm just—can I ask—"

"It only seems fair," L says slowly. "After I've been badgering you with my own questions for so long." His chair spins; he rests his wrists on his rucked-up knees, fingers steepled in front of him. "Please."

Hot-faced, you spin your chair aimlessly. "Okay, well, uh—have you? I mean, before?"

L hesitates before he shakes his head, an almost imperceptible twitch that has his dark hair floating. You swallow the sudden large dry lump in your throat.

"Okay. So. Probably somewhere to start," you mumble.

L seems to consider this. "Would you be willing?"

You don't have the right to be surprised, with all the dancing around the subject, but you are, still. You choke on your spit and fly around to look at him, which is a mistake. His gaze is so dark and intense, and you think he can see right through you before you even open your mouth to answer.

"I'm not—" you stammer, with no idea what you're going to say. "I mean—"

"I had assumed you would be," L goes on calmly, but you catch the slight flicker of his eyes, a ghost of uncertainty that makes your chest squeeze. "If I have read your responses incorrectly, though, feel free to forget I asked. I can guarantee no awkwardness tomorrow."

"It's not that," you blurt. L blinks at you, go on. "It's just... do you have any idea what you're, you know. Into? Where to start?"

L's eyes flicker, the barest furrow knitted between his brows. You can tell he hasn't thought too hard about it. "What would you suggest?" he asks, curling his long fingers over his knees.

You swallow. "Well... anything you like the idea of, I guess. Something familiar, to ease you into it."

L's eyes roll over to his desk, where a perfectly glistening slice of strawberry cake waits for him. Pink sponge and halved red berries, topped with pale pink cream. "Familiar," he echoes. "I may have a suggestion."

-

So you feed L a strawberry just to get started.

Hold it up. It's distinctly awkward; L just stares at it for a moment, the berry dusted with frosting that glistens between your fingers. You tell him, "If you're not comfortable with this, sex is probably going to be—"

He leans forward and plucks the fruit from between your fingers; you feel the barest ghosting of teeth, the sweep of his tongue sharp and curious against the pads of your fingers before he leans back again. You watch the motions of his jaw and throat as he chews and swallows. Pins you with his headlamp stare, wide and dark.

You deconstruct the strawberry cake carefully, removing the berries and setting them to the side. Cast a look over at him. "Take off your shirt?"

L twists the hem of this shirt for a few moments before removing it. It feels so strange to see him devoid of clothing, like a knight removing their armour. Pale ribs, pinched waist. He's not whipcord-thin like you had imagined—there's lean muscle packed under the skin, his stomach flat and somewhat soft. It flexes almost nervously when you look at it. He reclines back on his bed without being told, bracing his weight onto his elbows, legs dangling off the side.

"You sure about all this?" you ask, glancing from the smooth planes of his white skin—shit—to the plate of crumbling pink dessert. "Didn't think you'd be into, you know. All the mess."

"I have a shower," L says reflexively.

You take that as permission to approach with the plate. You place the strawberry halves in a red dotted line, starting at his clavicle, watching him shiver and flex at the cold touch. Down—one at the bottom of his ribs, one above his bellybutton, one at his naval just above the low sling of his jeans. He's started to flush, prettily pink down his chest. It makes you slightly dizzy.

"Okay. So. Okay." You try not to feel so nervous, but it's more like you feel out of place, or time, or space. It feels surreal, basically. Standing between L's legs with your fingers stained pink from fruit and frosting. Him looking up at you like that, all big dark round eyes and slightly parted lips. Damn it. You take a deep, steadying breath. "Okay, so, I'll start now if you're okay. And just say if you don't want—if you want to stop, or if you don't like anything, just say, okay?"

"I understand the basic premises of consent, if that's what you're trying to affirm." The words are all L, but there's an element of breathlessness to them.

"Just making sure we're clear," you mutter. You lean forward and smooth a palm over his collarbones. They're sharp, they jut up to meet your hand like cut diamond, and you hear and see his breath hitch, which is slightly intoxicating. His skin is warmer and softer than you thought it would be. You run your hands over his shoulders and neck, which he squirms away from with a wrinkled nose.

"No neck?" you ask.

He shakes his head. So no neck.

Once you're done exploring this part of his body, you lean forward, close your lips around the strawberry and bite the end of it, sinking your teeth into the flesh. Pink juice runs down your chin; L's eyes follow it, transfixed, as you tilt your head forward and push your mouthful against his lips. They part unquestioningly, and you push the strawberry into his mouth with your tongue. Your lips brush together, tantalising and sweet with sugar. A mimic of a kiss, a palimpsest of intimacy. You don't want to overwhelm him, anyway.

This goes on; your hands over his chest next, the soft pectorals. An experimental brush of your thumb over his left nipple that makes his whole body shudder. He's so sensitive, reacting to every prod and touch and tweak with a jerk and a shiver. Gooseflesh blooms up his skin, pebbling his nipples, and when you tweak the other one gently he lets out a choked sound.

Finding the strawberry nestled under his ribs. Taking it between your teeth and passing it to him. His face gets pinker with each one. Stomach, concave, flexing with every hard breath. A ticklish spot over his belly button. Strawberry, bite, pass. The flex of his jaw as he chews.

Fingers over his waist, indenting the skin as much as you dare. You try not to think of how easily he would bruise. Brushing your touch over his lower abdomen makes his breath catch again. You find the strawberry, hold it between your lips. L cranes his neck, searching this time—he thinks he knows the game, has memorised the steps, found the pattern, the sequence. He doesn't know that the best sex is the unpredictable kind. This time, you press your lips against him and when your tongue pushes the strawberry into his mouth it stays there. His lips part, slack against yours, either in shock or inexperience. You allow yourself the briefest twirl of your tongue against his before pulling back with a wet pop.

L stares at you as you retreat. The strawberries leave pale pink residue on his skin. Pulling back fully reveals the hardness between his legs, pushing up against the dark denim of his jeans. He grunts when your eyes land on it, either out of embarrassment or frustration. You swallow and its like sandpaper.

"Still want me to...?"

"I have not changed my mind," he replies, slightly hoarsely and a beat slower than usual. You shrug, smooth your hands over the tent at his crotch, and he whines. It's the most searing noise you've pulled from him yet, and all from some halfhearted palming over the jeans. It sends a thrill zipping through you, hot and addicting. His arms shake with the weight of holding himself up, neck craning to follow as you sink to your knees between his legs.

You unzip him, pop the button, and he groans slightly at the freedom from the constraints of his clothes. He's fully hard, straining against his dark underwear. You experiment, rubbing at the tip, feeling for the wet spot, and he keens and thrashes, losing his stability and crashing to the mattress. He makes a frustrated noise just after, as though cursing himself for his own lack of control.

"That—" he swallows hard, breathes shakily. "That feels..."

Your hand hovers. "Am I stopping?"

"No, I don't..." He scrambles. L scrambles over his words. "Please, continue."

You stroke him over his underwear for a few concentrated minutes, mostly enjoying the way he twitches and huffs and occasionally makes soft, whiny noises, the way he starts to rut his hips against your hand. No technique, no rhythm, just some sort of baseless desire that you find incredibly hot. There's almost a frustration to it that makes you want to laugh—of course there would be nothing more agonising to someone like L than seeing what he wanted so close to him but being unable to accomplish it himself.

When he starts gritting his teeth, you pull his boxers down to his thighs and he makes a choking, embarrassed sound. When you wrap your fingers around his cock for the first time, finding it velvety-soft and leaking, his eyes roll back and his hips arch into the loose wet tunnel of your hand. "Oh," is all he says. Small and soft like he's surprised. His neck twists and his mouth presses into the starched white sheets. "Oh," he says again as your fist moves slowly, stroking with intent, up and down. He's not overly big, fits nicely in your hand, makes swiping over the head where the pre beads with your thumb nice and convenient. And you love the way he shudders and thrashes when you do it.

"How does that feel?" Your voice is lower than you remember it being. L cracks a bleary eye open; his face is flushed bright pink now, a flush that bleeds all the way down his chest, blending in with the strawberry stains.

"It feels," he starts, before his brow pinches. "I—I am not sure how to—how to describe..."

"It's okay," you tell him. His thighs shake, flexing against the edge of the mattress. When he tips his head back the cords in his pretty throat bulge, so biteable. "You can come whenever."

"I wasn't—oh," he gasps, squirming. "I wasn't aware I n-needed your—permission, oh."

"Yeah, well," you say intelligently, a little struck dumb by the sight before you. "Just making sure we're on the same page."

"A-and what page is that?" he pants, thrusting his hips messily into your hand. He's so fucking sensitive that you swear you can see his eyes growing shiny.

"The one where I help you out, so don't be a brat," you murmur. L laughs breathlessly, trying, you think, to summon some retort. You twist your fist around him and it died, half-formed in his brain, his eyes rolling back and fingers flexing hard in the sheets.

After another minute, he reaches out and grabs your wrist hard enough to bruise. He doesn't say it—can't, maybe. But you know. Your pace speeds up just a touch and he honest to god moans, spilling out of him soft and breathy before he comes, streaking over his stomach in pearly arcs. You watch him flinch at the contact, fingers slipping on your wrist. His chest flexes—in, out, in, out.

You collect a big scoop of pink frosting on your finger and dip it in the come starting to cool between his pecs before pressing it to his lips. L's brow wrinkles, startled—but he opens his lips and lets your fingers pass into the hot cavern of his mouth. Like a cat he licks your finger clean, pointed pink tongue prodding with no technique or flourish, just something steadfast, something stubborn.

You do him the dignity of tucking his softened cock back into his underwear and zipping up his jeans. Unsure how to proceed until L sits up rather abruptly. His hair is even more tousled from his tossing and turning as he reaches for a tissue to wipe himself down.

He looks at you. "I understand it's customary to offer some sort of equivalent exchange in these circumstances." A pause whilst he gathers his breath. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm not quite feeling up to the task."

His tone is normal, if a little shaky. You rock back on your heels. "Did you like it?"

L blinks at you. "My curiosity has been sated," he says, carefully. "Yes, I believe I did enjoy it."

Well, that's a relief if nothing else. The pink remnants of the strawberry cake it on the plate; the shade matches his blush.

[brayneworms]

i'll fetch you anything you like.

featuring. aki hayakawa x gn!reader

content. MDNI, smut, riding, begging, crying, smoking, light masochism, burning (reader puts a cigarette out on aki), mild codependency, pet names (loverboy, darling), gender neutral reader, agab not mentioned, sub!aki + dom!reader, a little angst, pining, kissing, vague love confessions.

word count. 3.2k

synopsis. aki's smoking is a nasty habit, but you're certain you can get him to quit. also, aki pines.

notes. minors don’t interact. anyways how’s this for a first post ( totally normal abt aki hayakawa )

Aki Hayakawa is an orphan in every sense of the word.

Literally being the one most people associate him with, but—Aki comes to a realisation when he's maybe thirteen or fourteen that the word runs deeper than that. It's not as if your entire life is defined by your relationship with your parents, after all; even people who have ones that are alive become something other than offspring in their life. Husband, brother, uncle, father. But orphan sticks, no matter how many people you fill your life up with to replace the parents you lost. Aki thinks there is something in the word that rings of loneliness; he could father a hundred children, become grandfather to two hundred more, gain friends and a partner, and still he would be Aki Hayakawa, orphan.

Alone.

"That's a bad habit."

Aki's fingers don't pause in their ministrations, thumb pressing down on the jut of the lighter as it zips to life. The cherry of his menthol cigarette glows in the blue-dark of the office. The sky outside the thin window is pale with the gloaming, and he breathes a haze of gritty smoke over it, sullying the view.

You've made yourself at home on his desk, legs swinging leisurely. You must be cold in only his work-shirt and boxers that cling to your hips and thighs. You watch him passively, head cocked.

"One of my least dangerous ones," he intones, which is true enough for a man who has three years to live at most.

"Oh? What tops the list?"

Aki eyes you serenely. "I dunno if you've heard, but I work for this place called the Public Safety Division."

Your laughter breaks the delicate quiet like a flock of birds taking off from a tree. "Put it out. I hate the smell."

Aki's dark brows crinkle. "I'm not wasting a perfectly good cigarette. If it bothers you so much, eat it."

"Eat it? You freak."

"At least then someone's getting something out of it."

You hop from the desk, yawning. In the dim light that is starting to grow just a little brighter, Aki can see the beginnings of bruises on your throat and collarbone, vanishing in an ugly rainbow trail down to the hastily-down buttons of his work shirt. Your socked feet pad along the threadbare carpet on your way over to him, and Aki inhales deeply. Maybe if there's enough smoke in his lungs it will encourage him not to breathe; that way, he won't do that god-forsaken embarrassing thing he does when you get close. His heart stutters, and it makes his breath hitch audibly. The worst part is you seemed to be goddamn attuned to it—there seems to be little you like more than knowing you have an effect on him.

Aki doesn't stop you when your fingers come up to encircle his cigarette, brushing his as you pluck it gently from between his lips. He hates that even the smallest kiss of your skin against his still sends liquid lightning zipping through him, like he's that seventeen-year-old he was when he met you, the one full of spite and anger who hadn't been held since his mother died.

You pull the cigarette away, still lit; the butt glows red and angry between your delicate hold, gleams in the reflection of your eyes. When Aki meets them, he feels his mouth go dry; your pupils are large and black, engulfing iris, barely blinking as you look up at him.

"Bet I can make you quit," you say.

Aki snorts. "Better men than you have tried."

"Anything can be unlearned," you counter smoothly. "All bad habits go away with a little punishment."

Aki feels his heartbeat quicken, tries not to let the way that one word sets his blood alight show on his face. "Hm," he says noncommittally, but frustratingly, he doesn't think he's fooled you for a second.

Your serene smile curved into something sharp as easily as breathing. "Gimme your hand."

And Aki does, though he knows where this is going. You turn his hand over gently at the wrist, leaving it palm-up, fingers splayed in your grip. You hold him so gently it makes him shiver. Carefully, slowly—Aki thinks, giving him much time to pull away—you raise the burning end of the cigarette and plant it in the centre of his pale palm, a stinging kiss. Aki hisses, grits his teeth, but dutifully doesn't move even as his hand twitches involuntarily at the contact. Just as tears start to needle at his eyes, you twist the butt and pull away, leaving a shallow pool of grey ash, a black soot mark, and a stinging red welt like a patch of burning leaves.

His eyes are glued to the masterpiece you've made of his boring skin. The burn throbs unpleasantly, but something low and hot has come alive in his abdomen at the lingering kiss of pain. It satiates something inside him just smoking the thing could never hope to touch. He likes the futility of feeding himself his own death, sure—makes him feel like he has marginally more control over it, despite what the Curse Devil might have to say about it. This sort of pain is different; it goes straight for the gullet, and it makes it all the more sweet that it's you doing it.

A stupid, lonely part of Aki—orphan—wants to believe you're doing this because you care for him. Because you want him to live as long as possible. The grown, cynical man he supposes he's become thinks you must be just as fucked up as he is. It doesn't really matter either way; Aki's loved you for years, and he's astonished he's even gotten this far with you, and he'll take anything you deign to give him, pleasure or pain because it's all sort of the same to him anyway.

You unscrew a bottle of drinking water and hold it over your discarded blazer, soaking the lapel before pressing it to the burn. Aki grunts, eyebrows knitting up as a strange cocktail of relief and pain throbs slowly through his body. Your hands holds the wet fabric over his one, like a ribcage encasing a beating heart. Oh, Aki would let you hold his heart in your hands, and who cares what you decided to do with it? It's hardly his business; it belongs to you anyway.

He leans in to kiss you, gets close enough to brush his lips against yours and feel his pupils dilate before you turn your head, ducking. Aki feels his heart stutter anxiously as you turn your serene face up to him.

"Hate the taste," you say.

Aki frowns. "I barely smoked it for thirty seconds."

"It lingers."

Aki isn't stupid; this is part of the punishment. And the goddamn annoying part is that it's working. Even as you take his other hand to hold the soaking blazer against his burn and turn away, every fibre in his body wants to stop you. Turn you back around, pin you against the wall, swallow any complaints with his lips. He wants to make you melt against him, wants to melt himself under you in that way you always manage to do to him. He likes feeling like he doesn't have to think with you; just await whatever comes next, pain or pleasure, and he'll take it because it's you.

But Aki doesn't move. He's not a problem dog. He stands quietly and nurses his burn, tracking you with his eyes as you re-dress yourself, his shirt tucked into your slacks, tie wound through the collar, work boots laced up to the ankle.

"I gotta run home and shower," you say, tugging your blazer on. "I'll see you back here in, like, an hour."

Aki nods. "Okay."

The grin you flash him is little more than poisonous; it makes it heart skip a beat. "How's your burn?"

He swallows around a dry throat, holding your stare with a touch of timidity. "What burn?"

Delight shivers over your expression like wind ruffling a field of grass, and you stride the length of the cramped office and kiss him. Aki grunts, rendered thoughtless the moment your mouth touches his, your hands in his collar and his hair; his hands go slack, blazer fluttering to the ground, and the welt on his palm stings horribly when his hands come up to latch around your shoulders and neck. He pulls you closer, a little frantic, and he has barely a moment to reflect on how worrying it is that he's this desperate for your touch after being denied only once, but before he can think to dwell on it you're parting your lips and he's tugged your body flush against his own. He's so close he could drown in you. For a moment, he wants to.

Far too soon, you pull away. You're delighted. "Good," you murmur, and he hates how his heart leaps into his throat. "You're so good, Aki."

His face is on fire. "I'm not a dog," he manages.

"Sure you are," you say matter-of-factly. "And I'm Pavlov. I'll break that nasty habit of yours if it's the last thing I do. Give you something else to focus on. Okay?"

Aki licks his dry lips. "You can try," he says hoarsely, hoping it doesn't sound as much like an invitation as he thinks it does. The impish smile you give him implies he's shit out of luck.

Aki is in hell.

He knows this, because every time the two of you have hooked up since your little conversation in his office, he hasn't been allowed to kiss you if you detect even a whiff of smoke on his breath. It's killing him a little, to be honest. Fucking without kissing just feels wrong. It makes him forget it's you, sometimes, his vision of you sliding out of focus 'till you could be just anyone. And Aki doesn't fuck just anyone. He fucks people he loves.

He loves you. But he can't have you. And he can't even kiss you so he can pretend he has you, if only for a minute. It's just fucking, a tumble of sweating limbs and gasps and grunts, of a thrilling cocktail of pleasure and pain and almost-confessions bitten back at the last second, hidden in the crook of your neck.

Your shitty wooden headboard creaks into the shitty thin bedroom wall, and Aki spends a moment in lucidity to send a silent apology to your neighbours. One arm braces against the wood, flexing with every fast jerk of his hips, and you're under him, eyes clenched shut and meeting his thrusts in a way that has Aki wondering why anyone could think being on top had to mean being in control. He's oiled to your machine, matching the rhythm of your hips and trying not to drown as your back arches up from the sweat-damp sheets, stomach curving into his, one arm holding fast around his neck.

You feel so good he could cry. Not that that would be an irregular occurrence, or anything—he'd practically sobbed the first time you fucked, and back then you'd been all fluttering concern, stopping even though he tried to sputter please, Christ, don't stop, I'll die if you stop, please. He supposes you're kind, in your own way. You'd stroked away his tears and kissed his damp face.

"Aki," you groan, bringing him forcefully back to the present; his dark bangs dangle in his eyes as he looks down at you, mouth agape and head cloudy. "Wh-what's got you so wound up?"

As if you don't know. Aki grits his teeth.

Your hand makes patterns on the damp nape of his neck as his rolling hips slow, as he breathes deep to try and regain a semblance of his dignity. "Loverboooy," you croon up at him, your free hand gripping at the junction between his hip and thigh. Aki grimaces; he hates that nickname. "Talk to me."

Aki glares at you. "You know—I want—you know. St-stop it."

He whimpers somewhere high in his throat as your body tightens around him, free hand coming up to scrub down his face. "D-don't!"

"Sorry, sorry," you laugh. "I'm sorry. Why don't you tell me what you want? Maybe I'm feeling nice."

It feels like a trap, like luring his feelings into the light just to snap a bear trap over them. But Aki wants, he yearns so deeply and desperately that he's just about willing to risk it. "Want to kiss you."

Your eyes gleam. "Do you?" you ask, as if this is news to you.

His arms shake. "Please."

God, he's pathetic. He's so used to being in control, to tailoring every facet of his life meticulously, grooming and tidying and cleaning. He knows the exact amount of calories he should eat per day. He puts his shoes on a rack so he never tracks mud onto the tatami mats. His shower utensils are organised in the order he uses them—shampoo, conditioner, face-wash, scented gel. He likes being in control. He thinks, anyway. You make him reevaluate. You make him reevaluate an awful lot.

You toss your head back against the pillows; you have the audacity to laugh. "Saw you smoking earlier," you tell him, and Aki's stomach goes cold. "Mm... full pack, too. A new one? When'd you buy that."

"Th-that was hours ago." And it's true; when Aki learns you're coming over, he puts his cigarettes in a locked draw and puts the key somewhere difficult to reach. "It won't still taste. I've eaten. I brushed my teeth."

That's just good manners.

"It's the principle of the thing, loverboy," you say, and your hand comes up to his chest and rolls him over. Aki gapes, whining at the loss of contact only to choke on his own voice as you sling a leg over his hips and slide him back into you. Your nails scrape red railroads down the pale skin of his sternum at the stretch, and Aki watches, mesmerised as you start to move, the flex of the muscles in your thighs, the vein bulging in your throat as you toss your head back. He wants to be all over you, a hand on your neck feeling your pulse go berserk for him, his teeth in your skin as proof he was there, nose buried in your hair, dirty and rough and the exact opposite of the way he usually wants you. That is—soft and kind, romantic, slow and heady as syrup.

He wants kisses that taste like tears, whispered confessions into bedsheets. He wants, painfully, the constant assurance he can never ask for. I love you. I love you. Oh, Aki, I love you.

"Kiss me," he gasps instead, writhing against the bedsheets, head thrown back at the brutal pace you set him. He's so close, teeth gritting and muscles locking up but without a kiss it feels cold and incomplete. "Please, please, kiss me, please—"

"You're a brat, Aki," you hiss, and Aki's heart twitches in his chest; he can hear his pulse in his skull. "You ignore the one rule I gave you, and you still think you get to ask for what you want?"

"It's a bullshit rule," he snaps. "I—I can't just, hah, I can't j-just turn it, off, oh, fuck—"

"You okay?" you ask in a fleeting moment of mercy. Aki's eyebrows knit up. "Am I—is it too much?"

Aki shakes his head. "I'm okay," he mumbles pitifully. "I'm close."

"I know, darling," you murmur. "It's okay. I'm gonna give you what you want. And you're gonna give me what I want. Deal?"

"I—I..." Aki chews the inside of his cheek till copper floods his mouth. "I'll try? I'll try, I swear."

You still for a moment. "You mean that?"

Aki nods frantically. "Yes, I—if that's what you want, anything, anything you want, please..."

The beam that breaks out on your face is a million watts. "Aki," you breathe, and finally you lean forward 'till your chest brushes his. Aki can't breathe, transfixed by every swoop of your eyelash and chap in your lip as you lean close. When you speak, you're so close that your lips brush his, and he has to keep every muscle taut to stop himself leaning forward and closing the gap. "Aki, I want you to live a long, happy life. You get that, right? Why I'm doing this?"

He feels his stomach flip, can barely comprehend the words through his dazed mind. His glazed eyes follow you, thunderstruck. "What—what d'you mean?"

"I care about you," you murmur. "I want you to live as long as possible. Want you to stick around with me."

With you? It's a wonder his heart doesn't explode. For a fleeting moment, there exists a future beyond the Gun Fiend, beyond Denji and Power and Nyako, one where he can love you freely. Tears needle at his eyes. It all seems so impossible.

Aki forgets himself, surges up to capture your mouth, but you turn at the last second, planting a kiss to his cheek before focusing on his jaw, his ear, capturing the lobe between your teeth and sucking gently as your hips resume their rhythm. You're faster now, gasping for breath, Aki's hands sliding over the skin of your hips and torso for a lifeline. You tongue at the cords in his neck, the shell of his ear and the sensitive divot just underneath till he's squirming.

Your hands are everywhere—scraping nails across his twitching abdomen, running up the valley between his pecs, tweaking a nipple and pulling. And Aki groans and gasps, every hint of pain from your lovely hands sending him rocketing closer towards the edge. Tears bead at his lashline.

"'M close," he gasps again.

"That's okay, loverboy," you say sweetly, words buzzing against the skin of his throat, and Aki shudders, arching impossibly closer to you. He can feel every nerve in his body sawed open and set alight, impossibly sensitive, boiling with love, and as he comes he buries his face into the crook of your neck with a hoarse cry. Two lone tears streak down his flushed cheeks.

You're not far behind, and Aki wouldn't dream of pulling out, so he squirms and gasps and whines with the prickling of overstimulation as you chase your own high. "Sorry—fuck—you okay?"

"I'm, I'm good," Aki whines. He cracks one steely blue eye open. It stands out against his red skin; he's so flushed as to look sunburnt.

"'M almost, fuck, almost there. Hang on for me?"

Aki raises shaking hands to grip your hips in answer. You laugh between pants, baring down at him.

"That's my boy."

You don't kiss him when you finish, but it's alright. You flop down beside him, taking in deep lungfuls of air, nuzzling your lips to the salt-sweat cooling on his chest. Usually, round about now, Aki would roll to reach his bedside cabinet where his open pack of cigs lay in wait. The lighter is right beside him, open and tempting. He can almost hear the flick of it, the zip of the flame bursting to life, the sizzle of the cherry scorching beneath that controlled flame. The grit of smoke in his mouth and down his throat, emptying his lungs of fresh air.

The pack goes untouched. Aki winds an arm around your shoulders and holds you close, your cheek against his thudding heart.

You don’t kiss him, but it’s alright.

Aki’s not a problem dog.

He's going to earn it.

if you enjoyed this, request something.

[brayneworms]

c'mon, baby, you're my best fix | sampo koski

kinktober day three: dry humping

word count: 2.4k

content: dry humping, gender-neutral reader, silvermane guard!reader, hatesex elements, sex as stress relief, semi-public (alleyway), reader has been drinking but isn't implied to be intoxicated, dom!reader + sub!sampo (but he's implied to be a switch), elements of sadism + masochism, degradation, coming untouched.

♪ love in a trashcan - the ravenettes.

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

The biggest fucking lie anyone had told, ever, had come out of Sampo Koski's mouth that afternoon:

C'mooon. I can be good.

You know for a fact that this is a lie, because through no will of your own you have become quite well-acquainted with Sampo Koski, and if there's one thing you're sure of is that he has a physical aversion to doing what he's told.

He had been told, for example, the following many times: Leave me alone, Koski. You're a fucking creep, Koski. Stop conveniently walking by my workplace the very minute I finish my shift, Koski. No, you can't buy me a drink, Koski.

And yet he shows up anyway, like a bad penny, like a dog someone hadn't reprimanded harshly enough and had come sniffing around looking for scraps. Maybe you're too nice, but you sort of doubt it. You think it's more likely that Sampo likes when you talk down to him, which is a whole other can of worms that you're not remotely interested in opening.

"I get the feeling you're mad at me," comes that familiar simpering voice, sliding home into the booth opposite you. Sampo slumps forwards against the table with his face squished against his open palm, grinning that ever-present crescent-moon smile. Cut-jade eyes glimmer out at you through the half-light of the tavern. They always seem to be glittering, despite the absence of any real light. "It's this nagging feeling!" he continues gleefully, even when you glare at him. "This annoying but rather persistent voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that when you tell me to leave you alone, you actually mean it!" He gives a hearty laugh, toying with his flask of ale, and peers up at you through his stupidly thick lashes. "Still, I know it can't be true, considering what happened the other night."

Stupid alcohol. Stupid Sampo. Stupid, stupid you.

One day of weakness. Being a Silvermane Guard was never exactly easy work, but most days tended to be less harrowing than the one you'd had. Every lead you'd chased had slipped through your fingers, and your shift had ended abruptly when the brother of a victim you were seeking justice for had elbowed you to the ground in frustration and spat on you. Your superior wrestled him off you and told you to clock off early.

You supposed she was being kind, but it just made you feel more useless than ever. Boiling with anger and with nowhere to put it, you stormed to the nearest tavern with the intention of drowning your sorrows. Two cups of mead in, you'd gone outside to clear your head, and there he had been, lurking around like an alley cat, sharp eyes lingering on everyone who walked past. No doubt looking for his next easy target. You clear your throat pointedly, and he spins around. Surprise quickly melts into familiar delight.

"Captain, my Captain!" he trills, slinking over as he was wont to slink everywhere.

"Not a captain," you remind him for the fortieth time. "Why are you loitering around here, Koski?"

An affronted hand to his chest, as though clutching imaginary pearls. "Oh! Did they outlaw that, too? Going to cuff me and sling me in jail, hm?"

"Don't fuckin' tempt me," you grumble, tipping your head back against the wall of the tavern. "Can you hurry up and commit a crime in front of me, or something?"

Sampo grins. "Rough day?"

"You're not helping," you snip back, slightly unfairly. He isn't really doing anything more than hanging around being irritating. He slinks closer, slinks like he always does, like it's the only way he knows how to move. Oozing around like a toxic slime, draping himself against the wall just in front of you, arm braced against the brick behind your head.

"I could, though."

His forwardness is hardly a surprise. There isn't any danger of missing his meaning in the sleepy droop of his eyes, the lazy smile curling at his lips. Sampo is an incurable flirt to each and everyone—the thing is that most of the time it's part of the con. You know a few Silvermane Guards who have fallen into his charm and his bed that cut him a lot of slack where they really, really shouldn't.

Sampo Koski has friends everywhere, and that's what makes him so dangerous.

You know this. You have done for a while, especially because he'd been trying to worm his way into your bed for about as long as you'd known him. You resent the thought of him having any sort of power over you, though. There's no denying that he's attractive, and you've often wondered if he would be able to put his money where his mouth is, for lack of a better phrase. But handing over that amount of control to someone like Koski is just incurably stupid.

Because then you're trapped. Every time he'd catch your eye afterwards, they'd glimmer, and you'd know he was remembering your moment of weakness, inviting you to remember it too. Every time his eyes would rake down your body you'd know he'd be recalling when he'd seen it devoid of clothing, sweating, trembling. Every time he'd look at you, he'd know he'd already won.

Really, there's a very simple solution. Don't let him win.

"I bet," you breathe, meeting his eyes for once. You can see them widen slightly, his lips part in surprise before he makes a recovery from this most minuscule slip of his mask.

"Ohoho?" He lets out an irritating little laugh. "Gosh. Must have been a really rough day."

"I'd prefer it to get rougher."

Sampo's mouth splits into a wide grin, one almost fanatical in nature. "I should've pegged you as the type!" he gushes. "Why would anyone be nonsensical enough to join the Silvermane Guards unless they secretly enjoyed a little pain? Between you and me, Captain, I don't mind it either."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" you sigh. "Only a real masochist would so frequently try to get under my skin."

His lashes flutter. "I'm trying to get under much more than that, Captain."

You grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him down the alley beside the tavern. In the dusk light, the two of you slip into the shadows almost immediately, and you follow the narrow path down to the back of the tavern, where the noise of the street outside is quietened to a whisper. Sampo giggles behind you.

"What an exhibitionist you are," he says slyly. "I should've expected it from you, I guess. I guess—"

You plant two hands on his chest, shoving him back into the brick wall, and kiss him. His words flutter to a halt and he stifles a yelp of surprise against your mouth before his eyes squinch shut. His hands aren't shy, flying up to grip your waist, and you press yourself flush against him. He makes a whimpery noise into your mouth as your knee slots itself between his legs, pushing up. He runs hot, you can feel it even through his clothes, and it's a welcome immersion from the perpetual algidity of Belobog.

He grunts as he pulls away, and you take in the slightly glazed look in his eyes and the high colour in his cheeks with a tinge of gratification. "We don't have an awful lot of time," he says pseudo-apologetically. His hands fly to his belt, fingers working nimbly at the buckle. "I'm due somewhere in twenty—"

His voice stammers to a halt when your hand clamps down over his, stilling his fingers. Sampo blinks up at you, puzzled; the penny hasn't yet dropped, you suppose, even as you patiently pry his fingers away from his belt.

"What are you doing?" you ask bluntly. Sampo's lips part and he looks at you as though you're quite delusional.

"Ah... ahem?" He laughs nervously. "Is that a trick question?"

"No," you answer easily. "What are you doing?" Off his bewildered look—which you take the time to enjoy, considering how little you get to see anything but smug ostentation on his face—you shrug. "Oh, I see. That's what you thought this was? I take you into some... secluded little alley, and I get you off?"

Sampo's mouth drops open. "I—I would've—"

"Let's not delude ourselves," you interrupt, and push your knee up between his thighs again. He makes a high, shaky noise in the back of his throat, tipping his head back against the brick wall. "D'you really think you've earned that?"

"Hm?" Sampo swallows hard, the juts in his throat flexing. "I—"

"All you do is hang around bothering me," you hiss. "And you think... what, one well-timed innuendo is all it took for me to change my mind? If you want to get off, then get off." Your knee slides against him, the stiffening in his trousers, and he makes a rather pathetic noise.

"You're not serious," he gasps, cheeks flushed scarlet. His sleepy eyes are wider than you've ever seen them and trained frantically on you. "Come on, Captain, you can't mean that. W-what would you get out of it, even?" He tries for a smirk. "I promise, if you let the reliable Sampo get his hands on you, you won't regret—mmfph?"

Your fingers slip under the stupid windows flaring over his hips, gliding over the skin there. He runs so warm, and it's ridiculous considering Belobog's perpetual winter, as you curl your fingernails into the skin of the small of his back 'till it dimples and drag his hips painstakingly over the flat of your thigh.

This time, sweet as music, he doesn't talk. His mouth drops open and he lets out a shivering moan, gloved hands scrabbling on the brick wall behind him. "You really are serious," he says in disbelief even as his hips roll absently against your leg. A strained laugh escapes him as—finally—a painfully scarlet flush starts bleeding into his cheekbones. "I always knew you Silvermanes were crazy."

"Mm. Not all of them," you say quietly. "But I am. I'm pretty crazy."

Sampo shudders, one that worms its way slowly through his whole body, and then he drops his head against your shoulder. He smells nice, like smoke and mint, his hair soft as it brushes your skin. His hips move languidly against you, stuttering occasionally, unsure—until you flex the muscle of your thigh against him. A whimper breaks free, high and whiny like shattered glass.

"You're so cruel," he groans even as his body drags against your leg. You underestimated how overwhelming it would be; his breath in the hollow of your neck makes the skin there hot and clammy, and when he moans it goes right in your ear. You're certain he's exaggerating to get your resolve to weaken. Nobody actually sounds like that.

And you can feel him, hard and hot as a brand, pushing up against your leg. You shudder almost imperceptibly, because yes, yeah, you're wondering how he would feel inside you, but you can't—not tonight, you promise yourself as your teeth grit. Tonight isn't about that.

It's about winning.

"Please," Sampo grits out, turning his head so you can see slices of his moonstone eyes through the sweaty locks of hair. "I—nngh, oh—I want inside of you."

"Take it or leave it, Koski," you say, a bit too breathlessly for your liking. He shivers with a sulky noise, and the whole time, even as he talks his hips are rolling against your leg. He picks up speed as sweat starts rolling down his skin, as his hands scrabble over the brick and then fly out to grab your waist and haul you closer. His strength is ridiculous—but so is yours. You let yourself be pulled, feeling his mouth and teeth against your ear, the breathy noises spilled across your jaw.

"Oh—please, I'm close." His eyes blink up at you, wet and deceptively innocent. The look on his face is almost heartwrending. "I need you, anything—your hand, mouth, anything, I don't care, please—"

"You're going to cum in your pants against my leg like the dog you are," you spit, your hand fisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. He yelps, the flush on his cheeks darkening, eyes fluttering shut. "And you're gonna be grateful you even got that much."

Sampo moans, broken and high; his hips stutter against your leg as his hands curl into your waist so hard you're sure they'll leave bruises. But under the pleasure is a certain frustration, a sobbing sound as he cums and it sets your blood alight. You shiver with the delight of it.

The seconds that follow feel like victory.

Sampo peels away from you, stumbling back against the brick wall behind him. He's scarlet all the way down to his chest, his mouth agape and eyes wide and glittering with unshed tears as he uncomfortably adjusts his pants. They're dark and it's night, so he can probably get away with them until he gets the chance to go home and change, but the thought of him walking around in soiled underwear thrills you.

You probably are actually crazy. Sampo's annoying, but he's quite perceptive.

He clears his throat, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Well. Erm. That was..." He swallows. "The great Sampo really got himself in a rather sticky situation this time, didn't I?"

"Poor choice of words," you supply, and he winces, flushing harder.

He clears his throat. "Like I said, I, erm, have somewhere to be. Nice catching up, though." He puts two fingers to his temple and flicks them into the air in a mock salute. You watch as he spins lazily on his heel, rolling his shoulders as he starts his walk back down the alleyway.

"By the way," he added, pausing a few feet away. "I certainly hope that wasn't your way of trying to dissuade me." Your eyebrows raise, and he grins; his canines are sharp, and you can see them flash when his lips peel back. "Well, be serious: once you feed a starving dog, it doesn't leave you alone, does it? It comes back for more. Maybe it even follows you home."

He leaves you with that, one last lingering look and an implication that has you burning more than anything that transpired in the last ten minutes.

You get the altogether not unpleasant feeling that this will be far from the last you see of Sampo Koski.

[brayneworms]

closest to heaven that i'll ever be.

featuring. angel devil x gn!reader.

synopsis: angel's first time with you.

word count. 2.1k

content. smut, MDNI I CHECK, loss of virginity, crying, consent checks, d/s tones, sub!angel + dom!reader, gender neutral reader, guided masturbation, pet names (little love), we fuckin with gloves on, aftercare (it's brief but it's there), lmk if i missed anything.

notes. this originally had kobeni and aki in too but angel's part got way longer, so i'll post them separately :3 reqs are open btw so go ahead and req anything, just check my rules first ty.

"This is stupid."

Angel stares at you balefully; beyond the light flush adorning his pale face, he looks distinctly unruffled, no change from his usual apathetic demeanour. He sits cross-legged on your bed, arms folded, shoulders stooped. You pause in drawing the blind, tilting your head.

"What is?"

He throws you an irritable look. "This. The—this whole set-up. Why pretend when we both know the truth?"

You pull the blinds to, cutting the view of your bedroom off from wandering eyes below. The room stays lit with rosy lamps and projected stars, filtering through Angel's auburn hair. "And what truth is that?"

Angel scowls. "I can't touch you. So. What's the point."

"There's more to sex than that," you say matter-of-factly, secretly delighting in the way it makes Angel's blush darken. He rolls his pretty eyes, hands twisting in his lap. What little sunlight that isn't trapped by the blinds illuminates off his hair like gilt.

"Even so," he mutters. "It won't feel the same. It won't be... good. For me, or for you."

"How can you possibly know that, little love?"

His brows knit at the nickname, and it is a little much, but it feels right in any case, and you like the way it ghosts off your tongue, like the way it makes Angel's eyes droop. Still, his reaction invokes an interest in you, and you perk your head up.

"Have you tried? Before?" you inquire, moving back over to the bed. You sit, crossing your legs, keeping a safe distance—but Angel retracts himself all the same, recoiling back away from you and tucking his hands out of sight. You suppose it must be instinct by now, after so many years living in a body undesigned for love.

"So what if I haven't," Angel mumbles. "Doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

"Humans have a saying—don't knock it 'till you try it."

"Humans are weird," Angel says flatly.

"Even me?"

"Especially you. This is tiring me out..."

You whap him on the shoulder. "Nono, stay awake! Okay, let me—okay. Just tell me, 'cause it's the only thing that matters... do you want to?"

Angel stiffens; behind him, his wings curl into each other protectively, the feathers ruffling as though offended. "W-what?"

"Like, just tell me." You fidget, slightly awkward. "I won't judge, obviously. You've heard more than enough embarrassing shit from me from the bottom of a bottle. So... have you? Thought about it?"

"About what?" Angel stares at you like you've grown a second head, but the flush on his face is darker than ever, wine-red and brilliant against the parchment print of his skin.

"Fucking me," you say bluntly, knowing there's zero point beating around the bush with Angel. He sputters, body tense like he's about to spring off the bed. "Or touching me. Or me touching you. Have you thought about it? Do you want it?"

"I—I..." Angel's mouth works soundlessly for a few moments, eyes wide and more awake than you've ever seen him. Then, unexpectedly, his whole form droops; you feel cold water wash over you, followed immediately by panic. "What's it matter? Like I said earlier, I can't... you can't... just stop making me think about it."

"Humans," you say quietly, "are more resilient than you give 'em credit for. 'Specially me. Cleverer, too, I think, 'cause back in whatever century some genius fucker came up with an invention that changed the world forever. Wanna know what it was?"

Angel stares at you, bewildered. "Uh..."

From the waistband of your sweats, you draw out a pair of gloves. They're on the thinner side, just shy of sheer, black. Expensive, woven from fine cotton. More than you'd ever spend on yourself. But for Angel, you can indulge, you suppose.

"Gloves," Angel deadpans.

"Gloves!" you repeat cheerily. "'Cause, yeah, maybe I can't touch you with my hands. But I... thought... I could touch you with yours."

Angel blinks rapidly. "I—I don't understand."

"Can I show you?" you ask quietly, and he makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, small and needy. After a few tense moments, he lifts a shoulder in a would-be careless shrug.

"Do as you please," he mutters. "Humans are so stubborn..."

You giggle and sit back, spine pressed against the headboard, and cock your legs out so they're straight before parting them. Angel looks quickly away, face aflame, but you pat the space between your thighs encouragingly. "Sit here? If that's okay. It'll make it more comfy."

Angel regards you warily. "You're eager to die, huh?"

Behind the petulance is worry, the sort he's never been good at dressing up, the sort he loathes that he has in the first place. You tilt your head, gaze soft, you hope.

"Nothing's going to happen. I"m all covered up, see?" You wave your arms quickly down your body, clothes from throat to toe. "Just have your head against my chest and it'll be fine."

Angel chews at his lip for a moment, torn between, you think, spurning you for your idiocy and accepting human touch for the first time in God-knows-when. Eventually, you suppose, his selfish side wins out; he turns around stiffly and lowers himself to lay against you. His hair splays out against the comfy spun cotton of your hoodie, and you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat. You can feel the tension in his shoulders through your clothes and skin.

"There you go." Your voice slides into an unintentional low murmur, and Angel shivers against you, wings beating at your ankles. "You comfy?"

He nods, barely perceptible. Not seeing his face clearly is a little frustrating.

"Can you tell me?" you say, gentler than usual. "Just, you know. So I'm sure."

Angel huffs. "If I wasn't, I'd put my hand under your shirt and kill you. Even though that would mean a lot of paperwork, I'd do it."

"Okay, okay. So, um—can I? Touch you?"

Angel squirms. "I—I guess. If you're going to, then fine."

"No, little love. Tell me." You lower your head, putting your lips as close to his ear as you dare; it's still enough for your hot breath to stroke over the sensitive skin there, judging by the shiver that racks through Angel's body as you murmur. "I mean really tell me. Tell me where you want to touch yourself, where you want me to touch you."

"I—hn." His voice is starting to get a little strangled the further out of his comfort zone you prod him. "Why do you have to say such stupid things?"

"'Cause I like you," you admit, a little stiltedly. "I wanna... make you feel good. So. If you want to stop, we can stop."

"I—I didn't say that," Angel mutters. "I... you're close."

"I am." A pause. "Is that okay?"

He fidgets. "Yeah, I guess. It's fine." He pauses, then sighs. "I mean, it's nice. If that's what you wanna hear."

"Only if it's the truth," you say.

"It is, okay?" Angel sighs. "Okay. I... want... I want you to... touch me."

"Okay," you say, a touch too eagerly. "Okay, little love, can do. Where?"

"I—God." Angel buries his face in his hands; you can see the backs of his ears poking through the waterfall of tawny hair, singing scarlet. "Anywhere. Everywhere. I—hn."

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, palms clammy through the gloves. You lift one hand up and cup his face, feeling the thin line of his jaw, the warmth of his blanket of hair. Angel tilts into the touch unthinkingly, and you swear stars explode over your eyes.

When your other hand comes to rest at his hipbone, just over the jut of his waistband, Angel jolts.

"Here?" you ask, and he nods. You slide your hand over his stomach; his warmth is dulled by the fabric of the glove, but it's closer than you've ever gotten. You can feel everything that matters; the contraction of his muscles as he breathes in and out, the inclination his body has towards your touch, the xylophone of his ribcage singing with each quick breath he takes.

Your hand travels up, slowly, marking a railroad up the pale skin, smoothing over his sternum, ghosting over a nipple. At the contact, Angel gasps, back tensing against your chest as he arches into the touch. You feel him pebble through the cotton, and he squirms, twists his face to hide in your shoulder.

"There?" you whisper, and he gasps out,

"Yes. I—yes. More, there, more—"

He's so sensitive. You suppose it comes from a lifetime of never being touched. You can't imagine how lonely it is. You would've gone insane a long time ago. Your fingers circle over his nipple and then the other, 'till he keens, brows knitted together, mouth open in a small 'o', 'till the fabric of his trousers becomes noticeably strained.

"How about here?" you ask, fingers ghosting at his belt.

"You can't," Angel grits out. "It won't—with the glove, it'll h-hurt."

"I know, I know," you coax soothingly. "It's okay. You wanna touch yourself? I'll watch. It's okay."

Too far gone, you think, to argue like he usually might, Angel gets his hands out from fisting the bedsheets and shakily paws at his belt. There's the pop of a button and the sigh of a zipper, a 'V' of pale skin shrouded with wisps of auburn hair before he's pulling the fabric clumsily down to his ankles, boxers and all. You feel your breath stick in your throat like glass at the sight of him.

His whole body is trembling as he takes himself in his hand; the first experimental stroke has a shuddering breath tumbling out of him, the next a pitchy moan, so ethereal that it makes your skin raise in goosebumps. Angel collapses back into your chest, sweat sticking his hair at the temples, spine squirming against his rutting hand. His long legs twitch against yours, one tangling around like a snake, hooking your ankles together like holding hands.

It's so achingly sweet you could cry. When your hand wraps around his, forcefully slowing his pace, he whimpers out a broken-sounding noise, and your heart flutters.

He's so perfect. So gorgeous. It's a crime you can't touch him for real.

But for now—this will do. This will more than do.

Angel turns big eyes towards you, round as pennies, brighter than ever with fervour and the beginnings of tears dampening his long lashes.

"Is this okay?" you ask, and Angel nods like his life depends on it.

"Yeah," he gasps. "Yes. Want you to—h-hah..."

"What?" you ask, picking up the pace again. Angel writhes, free hand flying up to grip at the fabric of your sweatpants. "Want me to what, little love?"

Your thumb swipes hard over his tip, and Angel makes a high noise like a piano with its strings cut. "O-oh, oh, please, please I'm so close, I'm so—I can't, I feel so—hah!"

"It's alright," you assure him, heart thudding. The whole display has heat surging in your lower abdomen, but you can't think about that, it's about him, your Angel, it's only about him and tears break over his lashline and trickle down his cheeks as he gets closer to his peak, breathing becoming strained and ragged, and he's hot against you, filling you with a burning heat.

"I can't," Angel says wetly. "Hn, hnn, help me? Please, just—do something, I can't—"

Wordlessly, you push your free hand under his shirt again, circle his nipple before taking it between your fingers and tweaking, and Angel's whole body locks up; his back curves, wings twitching almost independently of the rest of his body, legs kicking at the mattress, and he sobs out as he comes, a pitchy wheezing broken sound that's going to live under your bones for the rest of your life.

He collapses back against you, totally spent. You do him the quiet mercy of tucking him away and pulling his slacks back up, buttoning them about his waist as he makes a face of discomfort. You run a tissue over his hands and stomach, mopping up his spend quickly before nudging a bottle of water against his lips. They're full and rosy as they lazily take the nozzle in, sucking absently like a drunkard going back for another swig.

"Was that okay?" you mutter, and Angel scoffs tiredly.

"Mmmn." He turns on his side, digging his face into your stomach. "It was... nice. I'm too tired to return the favour, though."

Fondness beats through you like a heartbeat, slow and syrupy. "It's okay. There's always next time."

Angel's wings flutter in tandem with his eyelids. "Mm," he agrees with a low hum of exhaustion. "Next time."

He's dead to the world within the next few minutes, breathing against your abdomen; as he sleeps, or dreams, or whatever it is devils do, his wings cocoon the both of you, like he's trying to keep you safe even in sleep.

[brayneworms]

cold as ice, baby | hinata hajime

kinktober day one: fingering

word count. 2.9k

content. MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, trans!hinata, gender neutral reader, fingering, established but new relationship, kissing, no real power dynamics but hinata likes being in control, biting, reader doesn't get touched but it's implied at the end

♪ freak - lana del rey.

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

Some days, Hajime's self-loathing is no joke.

It feels like the heat in Jabberwock intensifies it sometimes. Sort of... bastes it. Like it's cooking in its own filthy greasy residue and making him feel all oily and gross and hot. So, so hot. Under that stupid sun he cooks, and he sweats, and he feels like they can all smell it on him.

Probably not though. He showers every day, and nobody gets close enough to try.

It makes him feel a little sick, is all. How much he wants you sometimes. He feels gross, barely a step above Hanamura or maybe worse. He feels like he should go to jail sometimes for the way he ogles you. It's a hot island, so sometimes you have so much skin out, shoulders and legs, gleaming from sunblock lotion, slightly tacky from the whitish paste. Or the sea salt in your hair, or the chapstick you'd loaned from Saionji on your lips, apple and cinnamon. Or the swimsuits. Hajime's mouth goes dry.

He does not want to think about you in swimwear. Because then he's not going to stop thinking about you in swimwear, and it'll lead somewhere bad, which is the whole fucking issue, really.

You're so new, the both of you. He's liked you for ages, but you've only been official for a month or so. He can't just pounce on you like a starving lion. Even though he wants to. Even though he really, really wants to.

He watches you sit cross-legged with Tanaka to feed his hamsters, or get a piggyback from Owari with her strong hands on your thighs, or sit down and braid Ibuki's hair into loving little plaits, your fingers skating over the pale skin of her neck and scalp.

And it does something to him. He imagines your hands, smoothing down the tawny skin of his arms, his waist, encircling his ankles, gripping his throat, buried in his hair. He looks at your fingers and imagines them balling up the stupid standard-issue bedsheets underneath you. He sees you stretch out your legs and sees them bent in half, over his shoulders, around his waist like a vice, your pretty eyes clenched shut, your pretty mouth hung open.

Heat pools in the pit of his stomach.

Avoiding you and taking a lot of cold—unforgivingly cold—showers makes for a good temporary solution, but oh look, hasn't he just shot himself in the foot and scored a home goal with it? Because it just means you come knocking on his cabin door looking for answers.

At night.

When everyone's asleep, and you're alone, and he's only wearing his boxers because of this stupid perpetual heat.

"Have I done something wrong?" you ask, your voice all small and hurt, and Hajime wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

"No! Nonono," he blurts out in a panic, and he steps aside to let you in like a moron, like the idiot he so clearly is. It's not the first time you've been in his cabin, obviously, but it's night and you look all soft and vulnerable and he thinks you're freshly showered because he can smell the coconut bodywash you like to use.

But then reality breaks through because you look—honestly hurt, crossing your arms and shifting your weight from foot to foot, avoiding his eye, and then Hajime mostly just feels like a huge piece of shit.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes in a gesture of weariness. "It's—it really isn't anything you, uh, did. It's me. I'm just... weird."

"Weird about what?" you press, stepping forward. "C'mon, you can tell me. Whatever it is, we can just... talk it out."

You're so sweet. "It's—uh, honestly, it's just kinda really embarrassing. And stupid. And... weird. And I really don't wanna weird you out, or like, make you think I'm... something I'm not, 'cause I'm not, like, the thing that you're gonna think I am but I just—"

"Hajime." Your hands on his shoulders, clamping down. The warm soft skin dimples between your fingers. Hajime's voice dies in his throat. He stares on, cheeks cherry-red, entirely too hot, sweat collecting unpleasantly on the nape of his neck. "I can guarantee nothing you tell me is going to freak me out, or whatever it is you're scared of. And I can see it's clearly... weighing down on you."

You're so nice. Weighing down on you is such a nice choice of words. In reality he probably looks constipated from stress.

"It's just—" His tongue flicks out nervously to wet his lips, and your eyes absently flit down to track the movement, oh fuck, "It's just..." Bad idea bad idea bad idea. "I kind of... I don't want to come on too strong and... scare you off."

Your brow knits; he thinks he sees some sort of understanding fall into place behind your eyes, but it's kind of distant. "Come on too strong how?"

His blush spreads from his cheeks to the tip of his ears, down his neck. "I... ahaha..." The nervous breathless stupid laugh he gives makes him want to strangle himself. "Y-you know. When I'm around you, I..." He swallows hard. "It—I can't help but think about... stuff I shouldn't."

He sees the moment it clicks into place for you; the slight widening of your eyes, the parting of your lips. "A-ah."

Mortification floods him like a tsunami. "Sorry! Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I never should've—" He's burning alive, he's actually baking like one of Hanamaru's luxury strips of meat that he slowcooks in the oven for hours on end so the whole hotel building ends up stinking of fucking, chicken and stock and rosemary all day—

"Hajime, hey." Your hands squeeze on his shoulders. "Just—breathe for a sec, please, you're freaking me out but not for the reasons you think you are."

Hajime gulps, eyes you nervously, and takes in a few desperate pulls of air. He feels small, like he's actively shrinking.

"First of all. It's not... like, weird, you know, to f-feel that kind of stuff in general," you say, incredibly haltingly like it's very awkward for you. "But it's even less weird when you're actually, you know, in a relationship, and I—I don't want you to feel weird about this, that's all, or about telling me when you're—you know. Because I'd be down. I mean, to help. Assuming that's what you want, I mean."

Hajime stares at you. His brain abruptly throws up its hands, bluescreens, and goes for a smoke break.

"Wha—wha?" he says intelligently. You smile fondly, the kind of smile that reminds Hajime why he fell in love with you in the first place.

"Do you want me to help you out?" you repeat, very clearly, and Hajime buries his face in his hands. Heat shoots through him like liquid lightning, illuminating every pore of his body. He can feel it gather between his legs.

"You don't have to," he mutters, heart thumping against his ribcage.

"Hajime," you say pleasantly. "D'you think you're the only one who's had to hold themselves back?"

It's pure, unadulterated shock that makes him lift his face out his hands to gawp at you, but the moment he does you cup his face with both of your hands and kiss him. He wonders if you can feel the heat of his burning skin on your palms, whether you care, and then your tongue is in his mouth and he stops wondering anything at all. He groans softly against your lips, and finally his useless hands move and he's grabbing, curling a fistful of your shirt in one hand and cupping the back of your neck with the other. He feels like he's been depriving himself of you for so long, and for fucking what? You feel incredible.

He walks you backwards until your knees his the frame of his bed and you're unseated with an undignified yelp. You bounce on the mattress, peering up at him. Hajime swallows hard. "Is this... okay? We don't have to—anything you want, God, anything—"

You put two hands on his waist, just above the waistline of his boxers, and Hajime stammers to a halt. He gazes at you, wide-eyed, brilliantly red. You press your lips to the skin just under his navel and his stomach sort of convulses at the sensitivity, and you keep going, down the trail of hair that disappears behind the waistband of his underwear, kissing over the fabric until you get to—

Hajime jolts and swears. His hands clench reflexively into fists at his side. "Lay down," he bursts out, and then flushes deeper. "Uh... please. If you want to. I—"

You giggle and pry your hands off him, leaving him feeling colder than ever. Hajime watches, mouth dry as you drape yourself lazily over his bed. Your sleep short ride up your thighs, the collar of your shirt dips down, and all the skin is making his head dizzy. He clambers over you a little clumsily, hitting your knee with his with a thud that makes you wince.

"Sorry!" he panicks, hands fluttering nervously over your leg. "Sorry, did that—that was an accident, I—"

"It's okay, it's okay," you laugh, the back of your hand covering your mouth. "Jeez, Hajime. Relax a little maybe."

His flush must be crawling down his chest at this point. "Yeah. Maybe." He glances around. "Kind of hard."

"Is it?" you ask with a pointed glance at his boxers. He groans, but the levity is extremely welcome, makes him feel less anxious. Reminds him it's just you, and you would never seriously laugh at him. Reminds him that he's safe.

"Is it okay if I'm—I mean." He wipes his clammy palms surreptitiously over his thighs. "I feel better when I'm more... in control. Y'know?"

You smile up at him. "That's fine with me. Are you going to boss me around now?"

Hajime laughs feebly, glancing away. He thinks it's a reasonable pretense that the idea doesn't make him ten times wetter.

He kneels between your legs and kisses you. You're so soft, skin warm and pliant and fresh from the shower. He can't hold back a moan when your tongue slips against his, and when your hand slides over his waist again, the pinky finger of your hand grazing the band of his underwear, he finally plucks up the courage to grab your wrist and drag it.

He lets out a choked sound into your mouth as your pliant hand slides between his legs. Pulling back from the kiss, panting hotly against your mouth. "Okay?" he asks hoarsely. "Please, oh my god, I need... only if you want, only if you want to..."

Your hand twitches to life inside the tight grip of his fist, and you skim your fingers over the wet spot of the fabric of his underwear.

Hajime shudders, dropping his head into the crook of your shoulder. "Ah... oh, fuck..." His shaking hand drops your wrist, reprimanding himself fiercely for maybe grabbing you too hard, but you didn't say anything, but he shouldn't just grab you and lead you like you're cattle, he opens his mouth to apologise when you cup his cunt through his boxers and he loses the ability to do anything at all. Anything other than moan into your skin, starting to get salty from the heat and the proximity, and he goes delirious with the idea that he's ruining you a little. Like you've just showered, you'd scrubbed your body all over with lovely scented soap and he's going to undo it methodically, deliberately, and you're going to let him, when it's all over you're going to smell like sweat and him and you'll have to clean all over again.

It's an intoxicating thought, the idea that someone as soft as you would let someone like him mess you up.

Your hand slips under the waistband of his underwear, follows the trail of hair down and finding him soft and hot and dripping wet. Hajime curses as your fingers skate almost curiously over his clit, his folds.

"Oh shit," you curse, mumbling almost more to yourself. "Y-you're so wet."

He makes a high, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat, eyes clenched shut, and his hips rock up into your hand in a gesture that feels inherently needy.

Despite his grossly obvious urgency, you take the time to bring your fingers back to your mouth and press them inside. Hajime watches, slack-jawed, pupils blown. When you take your fingers out, they're gleaming wet, and you grin at him. "You taste amazing."

Hajime is assaulted with all new images; your head between his legs, his hand on the top of your hair or tangled in your hair. Your tongue, soft and skilled against him, dripping spit and cum onto the carpet, and he has to stuff his knuckles in his mouth to stop himself moaning out loud. Sweat drips off his forehead and lands on your chest.

"Y/n," he croaks. "I'm gonna lose my mind."

You smile almost shyly, as if you didn't just have your fingers in your mouth right in front of him. "O-okay. Okay. Just, um... okay, I got it."

Hajime swallows hard. "Y-you're still sure?"

"I'm so sure," you tell him earnestly. And with that your hand glides down, over his collarbones, the twin scars arching beneath his breastbone, down his tense stomach and under his boxers again. This time, your fingers move with purpose. They roll over his clit and down the centre of his folds, parting them, dipping inside just slightly before coming back up. He feels a shivering mix of pain and pleasure as two of your fingers circle his clit, an indication that he's almost too sensitive; he feels like he's on fire, like forks of lightning are emanating from the vertice between his legs, and he lets out choked, high noises against your throat.

Mindlessly, it seems, his hips roll against your head, seeking something more. You take the initiative to prod with one finger, dipping lower from the other before teasing at his entrance. His thighs shake and part slightly for you, and you slip inside without another word.

The breach feels like breathing for the first time; he's so wet and so sensitive that you slide inside with barely a hint of pain, easing in up to the first knuckle.

"Ohhh god," he groans, feeling mindless, feeling weightless. "Ohgodohgodohgod..."

"What should I—"

"More," he nearly begs. "I want you inside."

The word should be embarrassing, but they just aren't. Not in front of you. You get your finger in slowly, inch by inch until your knuckles press up against him and he's clenching the sheets with his free hands.

He almost convulses when your finger curls up like it's searching for something; it presses against a spongey spot inside him and he whines from somewhere deep in his chest, and he hears you swear to yourself as you start moving in and out.

"Nngh, oh—hah..."

Oh he's gonna die. Your fingers are inside him. He's gonna fuckin' die—

One turns to two turns to three, your thumb rolling constant circles over his clit, sometimes catching so sensitively that he has to bite back whimpers. There's the stretch and the burn but even that is okay, feels good after a few moments. He feels distantly really bad that he's not touching you, but he will after, fucking hell he will after, whatever you want him to, he'd kiss the fuckin' ground you walk on for making him feel so good right now. All too soon he feels the familiar tightening in his stomach like a band.

"H-hey," he gasps out. "I think I—I'm c-close, so..."

"O-oh," you say, sounding equally breathless. "It's okay."

Your fingers push up into him, curling almost viciously into that spot inside him just as your other hand taps his jaw and guides his face to yours for a kiss. It's barely more than panting against each other's lips as your thumb presses down hard on his clit.

"Fuck, fuck," he cries. "Fuck, you're so fuckin'—so perfect—'m cumming, shit—"

He sobs out as he cums, alight from the inside out, shaking like he's just been hit by lightning. The pressure is so much that he needs an outlet, his finges pressing bruising marks into your hip and thigh, and he turns his head and bites down almost feverishly on your collarbone.

You tap his arm with a yelp, fingers jerking inside him as he starts to come down. He can feel his release dripping down his inner thighs and he lifts his head groggily.

"Shit," he mumbles eloquently, staring at the teeth mark on your skin. He didn't break skin, thank fuck, but he still feels mortified. "Sorry. Oh my god, sorry. That was—that was a total accident, I..."

"Ah, it—it's okay." You swallow hard. "Was that..."

Hajime shakes his head dazedly. "Amazing," he croaks. "Y-you're amazing." He gets the werewithal to roll off you with his shaking limbs so his weight isn't pushing into you anymore.

You let out a long, slow breath. "Was pretty amazing for me too."

Hajime glances at you with a trickle of amusememt. "Not yet it wasn't."

Your brow scrunches in confusion—but realisation dawns when you feel his hand slide up your thigh. In his eyes is a question, one that you nod hastily to. Hajime grins weakly.

"Good," he breathes. "As soon as I get my breath back, it's your turn." And it sounds like the sweetest thing ever when he adds, a moment later with a twist of that characteristic cockiness that leaps out at the most inopportune of moments: "I can't wait to see how pretty you're gonna look when I make you cum."

[brayneworms]

gouge away (if you want to) | johnny joestar

kinktober day ten: kissing

word count. 2.4k

content. disabled johnny, but like his prostate works, anal fingering, prostate orgasm, kissing, johnny cries after sex it's canon, gender-neutral reader, fluff, mentions of ableism, established relationship, this is sappy

♪ gouge away - pixies

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

For a while—a long while—after his accident, Johnny thought he'd never be with someone again.

A part of it was the paralysis. Okay, a big part of it was. He learns after using the chair for a bit that he sorta stops becoming a real person to most people, that their eyes just sorta slide past him. Oh no, how sad, that guy in the chair must have it so bad. Don't be rude and stare, now. Sometimes he wishes they would stare at him, like he knows they wanna. He almost finds their determination to ignore him totally more jarring.

And that's only half the problem. The other part is that even if he could find someone, his goddamn dick doesn't work anymore. Which would for sure pose a problem. So Johnny resigns himself miserably to a sexless and potentially loveless life, and pretends it doesn't make him want to die.

Still. Anyways. It all seems kinda redundant now, 'cause he's lying under the sky in the dirt with his pants halfway off, and you're—you're doing something, or you're tryin' something that Johnny is extremely skeptical about. A bit of time travelling with Gyro had taught him many times that there was a lot of things about the human body he was ignorant of, but he still can't help but be dubious of the claim you made to him a few minutes ago.

I'm gonna make you cum.

At once, a protest had risen to his lips. You can't. Almost a reflex. You'd cocked your head in inquiry, and Johnny had gone redder, down to the tips of his ears hidden by his hat. It's my—it doesn't work. Down there doesn't...

You seem to consider this for a few moments. Then you say, there's something else we can try.

You disappear inside the tent and come out with the bottle of aloe vera they'd been using to treat the burns that had blistered as a result of the unforgiving desert sun. He had red peeling skin all up his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.

He watches dubiously as you squeeze a clear, cold glob onto your fingers. "Wh—where are those goin'?"

He's pretty sure he has an idea.

"You know what a prostate is, Johnny dear?" You always call him that. Johnny dear, like it's all one word. Johnnydear. He always gripes and groans about it and then has to turn away extremely quickly to hide his flush. He's going to examine the reaction he gets when you baby him sometime, he promises himself, just not right now. He's got a lotta shit on his plate, okay? Corpses to find and such.

"N-no," he answers, stammering when you kneel between his legs and spread his thighs gently apart. He sucks in a breath; one of your fingers leaves a cool trail of aloe along the skin there.

"A prostate," you tell him patiently, like you're not situated between his naked thighs, "is a gland that people with your particular reproductory set are born with."

"You sound like Gyro," he mutters. "Kinda killing the mood a little."

"I just want to make sure you're fully informed." You roll your eyes. "It's just that you're leaking precum, see?" To his mortification, you swipe your fingers over the tip of the dick he can't feel and hold them up; under the starlight, they gleam, and he burns with embarrassment. "Means you might be able to feel it. Means I might be able to make you cum."

Johnny swallows hard. He wants—it sounds good. Sounds great. But with the hope comes that fear, an ever-present shadow. What if it doesn't work?

"Hey." You lean over him, and before Johnny can protest you've captured his lips, a slow, deliberate cling. Johnny loves kissing you. He thinks it might be his favourite thing to do, other than jockeying and he can't do that anymore, so this takes an automatic first place. He sighs and melts against you like softened butter, his hands winding themselves over your shoulder and jaw. He loves everything about it. The closeness, the slow gentle intimacy, the way you smell. That last part is probably weird, 'cause you mostly smell like sweat and leather, but Johnny likes it all the same.

You kiss for a while; one of your hand strokes soothing shapes into his ribcage. When you pull back, the panic that had been rearing up inside him has faded to a dull murmur.

"Don't get in your head about it," you whisper. "If you can't feel it, then that's that. You know I won't think less of you."

A lump rises in Johnny's throat, and he shields his eyes from the burning sun of you seein' right through him. "I know," he says, almost petulantly.

"So? Wanna give it a try?"

A part of him doesn't. A part of him is so, so scared. But a bigger part of him, the one that likes kissing you and likes the way you smell and the way you touch him and look at him and everything, really, is nodding before that first part can protest. You kiss him again with a smile, a little faster, a little dirtier this time. This is another thing Johnny likes about kissing—it can take so many different forms. Even if he did find the corpse pieces and get the use of his legs back, Johnny reckons he'd still like kissing more than real sex.

Your mouth starts moving down, sweeping the sensitive skin of his neck and collarbones, the valleys of his pectorals, a nipple. The last one makes Johnny gasp and you giggle, and he splays a palm over his face in embarrassment. You coax such stupid noises outta him. But you seem to enjoy it, so whatever.

Down, down, down. Somewhere between his navel and his pubic bone he stops feeling it. But it still somehow feels sorta nice, which doesn't make a whole lotta sense but it does to him, so. He watches you between his fingers as you reach between his legs, he thinks prodding.

You look up at him. "I'm going to put a finger in, okay?"

Johnny nods eagerly. "Don't gotta tell me. I won't feel it."

You roll your eyes. "I'm still gonna tell you. We can stop whenever, okay?"

"Okay," Johnny says impatiently, and wiggles his hips. You smack his hipbone playfully, which does nothing to temper his brattiness on account of him not feelin' a fuckin' thing. Then you get a quiet, serious, concentrated look on your face that Johnny usually only sees when you're fighting. Or when he's making you cum. That expression, more than any of your words or hesitation, it what makes him quiet down and take it serious.

There's a silence that stretches on. Johnny supposes you must be doin' something, considering the slight furrow he can see between your brows and the achingly careful, gradual movement of your wrist. Finally, after about a minute, you look up at him.

"My finger's in," you tell him, and Johnny bites his lip.

"Can't feel it," he says. He's starting to think this was a really bad idea.

"Just lemme—hold on," you say, and your wrist moves a little, and then—

Johnny keens. He feels, he fuckin' feels so much that it lights him up from the inside and sets his nerves alight, some part deep inside him that he didn't even know existed 'till five minutes ago and it's so good it immediately brings tears to his eyes.

"Oh," he says like he's surprised, and he is, apparently so much so that it's all he can say. "O-oh, oh, oh—"

Your finger retracts back into nothingness, and Johnny bites back a sob. "Johnny?" you ask worriedly. "Did you—is it too much?"

"No, no," he babbles, feeling incoherent already. You brush his hair back from his face with your free hand, the one that ain't inside him, your thumb stroking over his cheek. "It was—fuck, felt so weird. But good. Really, really good. Can you—are you gonna do it again?"

"Will if you want me to," you answer lovingly, and Johnny is biting back another sob for a whole different reason. "Might be a bit intense, Johnny dear. You sure you wanna?"

"Yes, yeah." He stares up at you beseechingly, feeling a bit pathetic but also too far gone to give a shit. "Please, I wanna—I wanna feel it again."

You nod, leaning over to kiss him again. Johnny relaxes into the embrace, losing himself in the familiar touch of your lips, the smell of you, taking the bite out of his surge of panic—and then with no warning you're brushing against that spot inside him again and he's moaning into your mouth, loud and unrestrained. It's pitchy and startled, and your free hand cups the back of his head as he pulls away in shock.

"Fuck, Jesus Christ," he swears, slamming his head back against the dirt. "O-oh, oh god, ohgodohgod—"

"Still good?" you ask, and your fingers made a weird sort of curling motion and it occurs to Johnny that you're movin' them in and out, sort of like you would if you were actually fucking him, and the thought makes him flush so hard he feels feverish. You're fucking him. You're fucking him.

He nods deliriously. "Mhm, yeah," he gasps out, feeling breathless, feeling giddy. "Don't stop, feels so fuckin' good, oh my god."

Your fingers press into him over and over like you're ringin' a bell, and all the while you kiss him and for the first time in ages Johnny feels that both parts of his body are equal. The bottom half has come alive under your jackhammering fingers, the top half consumed by you and your kiss. The kissing makes it so much better, 'cause Johnny reckons if anyone else had their fingers in his ass he'd probably hate it even if they were touching his whatdidyoucallit like that and making him feel amazing. He'd hate it 'cause they wouldn't be you.

The kissing reminds him it's you. The chaps on your lips, the smell of you, the feel of your face and skin, your body pressing into his. It's so all consuming it makes him wanna cry, in a good way, in a weird way. Your fingers move faster and weirder, and Johnny starts making those stupid oh! oh! noises again, stifling them against your mouth, and your tongue presses in and you swallow them whole.

All too soon, Johnny feels a weird tightening, one he hasn't felt since before the incident. He feels a constriction of panic, his fingers clutching at your clothing. "I—hah!—I f-feel weird."

"Bad weird?" Your fingers slow down, nearly stop, and Johnny whines.

"No, no, good weird, good," he pants. "Move again, fuck."

You pick up the pace; Johnny shudders, tensing in your hold all over again. He feels like he's burning, like he's sweating out everything bad he's ever felt.

"Do you mean you're gonna cum?" you ask, your voice lower this time, so close to Johnny's ear it makes him shiver. The harsh brush of your chapped lips against the soft skin there makes his body feel electric.

"I think," he whispers, eyes screwing shut. "Sorry—oh—I think, yeah."

"Don't feel sorry," you tell him almost sternly. "I want to see you cum, Johnny. Wanna see you cum so hard your pretty little head goes blank. You deserve it, yeah?"

"Yeah," he gasps out. "I deserve it."

What you do next with your fingers is almost brutal in the wracks of shivering pleasure it sends simmering through Johnny's body; every curl of them has him writhing and gasping and moaning, he must sound so stupid but you seem to be liking it and fuck, he's liking it, he likes feeling a little stupid and helpless while you take care of him and he's definitely gonna have to unpack that, but later, 'cause—

"I'm gonna cum," he gasps, hands flying out to curl in your clothing. "Baby, baby, I'm gonna cum, I—kiss me? Kiss me, okay, I wanna, oh, oh oh oh—"

You crash your lips together, and your fingers curl up one last lingering time and Johnny shatters. White stars explode over his vision, shatter inside his head, and for a split second it feels like every cell in his body freezes up and screams and dies. He's vaguely aware of some long, drawn-out, breathless noise he's making and the way you swallow it with your mouth.

It takes several seconds for him to come back down to earth. When he does it's to the sensation of you running your fingers through his hair and pressing soft, feathery kisses to his cheeks.

He pants like a dog. When you see his blue eyes on you, you sit up, seem to retract your fingers from between his legs. Your image starts to blur, and Johnny sees your expression crease in concern. He realises he's crying. Not like, actually, not like he's got something to be upset about. He's just... tearing up. Like someone's turned a faucet on behind his eyes and just left it there. He pushes the heels of his hands into the sockets and presses down, willing it to stop, willing the overwhelming feeling blooming in his chest to deflate.

"Hey, hey." Your voice, low and soothing, pressed into his hair, your arms holding him tightly. "You okay?"

"Yes," he says almost angrily. "I'm fine. Dunno why I'm—fuck. Sorry. I'm good, I promise I'm good. That was... so, so good."

Your expression of concern gives way slightly. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Johnny sucks in a shaky, wet breath. "Thanks. Thank you. I didn't even... I didn't even know I could feel like that anymore. Not just 'cause of—you know." He gestures vaguely to the lower half of his body. "All of it. Like, I didn't think anyone would wanna—while I'm still like this. And I—I figured I didn't deserve it, or something. But... it was really good."

Your smile is a little sad. "I'm glad, Johnny dear. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now that we know it works, we can do it again. And again, and again." He flushes, and you laugh sweetly, and Johnny could just die to the sound of it. "Still, we should get some rest for tonight. Gyro will skin us alive if we oversleep again."

You're right, of course. Johnny lets you maneuvre him onto his sleeping skin, and you unroll yours right next to him. When you do, Johnny reaches for you, clinging like a damn insect. But you don't seem to mind, 'cause you wrap your arms around his waist and bring him in even closer. He tucks his head into your shoulder.

He thinks that he'll get to kiss you tomorrow, too.

His sleep is dreamless and deep.

[brayneworms]

love you (just a little too much) | jolyne cujoh

kinktober day seven: praise kink

word count. 4.6k

content. MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, smut, praise kink, cheating (jolyne cheats on her boyfriend with reader lol), reader is kind of scummy, obsession, childhood friends, mentions of drinking, gender-neutral reader, implied unrequited love, sub!jolyne + dom!reader, oral sex (f!recieving), pet names (pretty girl, good girl, angel, princess—all used on jolyne)

♩ serial killer - lana del rey

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

Contrary to popular belief, Jolyne doesn't mind people knowing she's soft.

The others—particularly the ones she met at the prison, like Ermes and Anasui—think that she tries very hard to maintain a tough reputation, that she puts effort into her hard-as-nails routine that scares off the bad guys. And that's not to say it doesn't, but most people tend to assume that this means she spurns being seen as soft, or compassionate, or even girlish.

But you know better.

I mean, obviously you do. You've been at her side since you were both six years old, meeting on the playground of your relatively shitty elementary school. You remember burning asphalt painted with volleyball-court lines, arches cracked with flecks of black stone. You know every part of her, even the parts she maybe wishes you didn't.

And you've been in love with her for far longer. Longer than that waste of oxygen Romeo, longer than Anasui or Ermes. They can make all the assumptions they want, but you know the truth. Jolyne is soft. And she is sweet, and thoughtful, and loyal, and you know there is nothing she loves more than being reminded of it.

You remember the first time you watched her do her own makeup when you were thirteen years old. Sat in her bedroom, the teal walls and pink carpet, and you were too young and lacked too much taste to feel the nausea that the colours would later induce as your eyes grew more sensitive. You sat cross-legged on her bed as Mariah Carey blasted out from the stereo, watching Jolyne's reflection in the mirror. Her big emerald eyes outlined in messy dark liner, lips outlined in green.

Messy, but she liked it. And she whirled around, brandishing a tube you had no name for.

"Nah," you said flatly. "No way."

"It's just mascara, dummy," Jolyne sighed. "It'll make you look pretty."

"No, it won't."

"It made me look pretty."

"That's 'cause you are, dipshit." You pressed your spine flat against the wall, and as you watched, the skin of her cheeked flushed, soft baby-pink.

"You think?" she whispered, looking shyer than you'd ever seen her, and you felt your heart do something funny.

"Yeah. I mean, don't be weird about it." You bit the inside of your cheek. "Jolyne, you're gorgeous."

She made a strangled, squawking sort of noise and chucked the tube of mascara at you. It bounced off your head as you threw your body to the side to avoid it, and when you looked at her in disbelief, her face was scarlet and blotchy.

"You can't just say things like that," she whined, burying her face in her hands. "Although, feel free to say it again, I guess—"

"Idiot." Your own face burned. "You are not doing my makeup."

That was the start of it, you guess.

The start of looking at her differently, of watching her out of the corner of her eye; putting up her hair into a ponytail, applying lip balm with a careful pinky finger. You've been freinds for so long that you're comfortable changing in front of each other (you used to share baths, for fuck's sake), and suddenly you're seventeen and she's stripping off her shirt right in front of you and it's not innocent anymore. It's something else.

Of course, you're not the only one to notice. The way she sort of... glows when she enters a room. Other people do, and that dipshit Romeo with barely two braincells to rub together between the steroids and the peroxide, he managed to catch her eye. This hulking, seething jock who looked at you like you were a piece of shit under his shoe, who called you weirdo behind Jolyne's back (because he knew he'd catch a fist to the face if he ever did it in front of her).

"I know you want to fuck her," he growled one afternoon, after school, senior year. He crowded you against the wall of the locker room whilst you both waited for Jolyne to change out of her volleyball uniform inside.

"You don't even know what you don't know, you fucking prick," you snarled, staring right up into his eyes. Narrow pupils and bloodshot in the sclera.

"I've seen the way you look at her," he whispered. "You're obsessed with her. And I'm warning you, back off."

"Yeah, big boy?" A smile that was almost hysterical tugged at your lips. "Except you don't really want that. 'Cause you know if I left, she'd go right along with me without even looking at you. You're nothing, and you'll be gone soon, and I'll still be here."

Romeo laughed. "You're fuckin' crazy," he said wonderingly. "Are all Jo's friends this insane?"

"No. Not all of them," you said quietly. "But I am. I'm pretty insane. And you're going to ruin her life. I can fucking feel it. One day you're going to ruin her whole life, and I'll be there to pick up the pieces."

"Romeoooo~" The singing voice soared over the thick tension. The two of you barely had time to step apart before Jolyne came sauntering out the locker room, her face alight in a pleased flush. Her eyes widened when she saw you, and she squealed delightedly. "You stayed!"

"I told you I would, dipshit," you said fondly, grinning as she launched at you and pressed a green kiss to your cheek. Over her shoulder, Romeo glowered.

"Wasn't I amazing?" she said cheerily, linking hands with her boyfriend and swinging their joined arms. Her eyes practically sparkled as she stared up at him, lips stretched in a perfect smile.

After a moment, he grunted. "Yeah, babe. Exceptional as always. That's my Jo for you, huh?" A kiss to her temple, and Jolyne squirmed delightedly.

Strictly speaking, you guess—you ruined Romeo's life before he could ruin hers. Not that he knows it. Oh, you want him to know. You want to throw the evidence in his face and make him seethe, all the while knowing there's not a fucking thing he can do about it.

It happens on Jolyne's nineteenth birthday. You hadn't seen much of her in the day, unfortunately—you'd gone for breakfast, which was tradition for the both of you. You drove her to Denny's and your plates were loaded with pancakes, bacon and syrup, drooling sticky piles of sugar that you scooped up eagerly, talking enthusiastically between bites. She was spending most of the day with Romeo—gag—but you'd see her at the party later.

It takes place at your house, actually. Jolyne's mom won't stand for that kind of stuff, and she's gracefully turning the other cheek to the underage drinking because she adores Jolyne. Her dad had sent a card that arrvied two days early, the inscription typically blunt:

Jolyne, Happy birthday. Sorry I couldn't be there. Be responsible and have a good day. Best, Dad.

"Best, Dad," she snorts derisively, tossing the thing dramatically over her shoulder. But she doesn't trash it. She never trashes the stuff from Jotaro. She keeps it all in a silver box under her bed like a shameful secret, and she reads them when she wants to cry but can't get the tears out. "What an asshole."

She goes home for a bit to get ready, and you prep the house for the party. By the time she comes back, hand-in-hand with Romeo, the place is already crowded. Projections of shapes and colours glide lazily over the walls, filming the bassy music that thumps through the mortar.

She looks fucking angelic, weaving her way through the crowds; she gives an excited little skip when she spots you slouched against the wall, halfheartedly entertaining some drunk guy. Jolyne rushes up to you, clasping your hands excitedly in hers.

"This is amazing!" she gushes. "It's all so amazing! Don't you think, Romeo?"

He barely grunts in reply. "Where's the booze?"

Jolyne's smile falters; something hard sets in her jade eyes, the kind of look that has your mouth suddenly dry. "Eh? Why are you being rude?" Her shoulders square, knots of hard muscle. "Y/n put this whole party together for me! This is their house!"

"Yeah, Romeo." An oily smirk slips over your face, unseen to Jolyne. A vein twitches in his temple over his lusterless eyes. "This is my house. How 'bout a little thank you?"

A spasm crosses his ugly face. "Fuck this," he growls, and Jolyne's jaw drops. "I'm sick of this creep trying to make me look bad in front of you. Jo, I'm leaving. Are you coming, or what?"

"You're joking." Jolyne's eyes are round and hard; an angry blush is starting to bleed across her cheekbones. "It's my birthday, Romeo."

"We'll do something," he presses, picking up her small hands hamfistedly; you bite the inside of your cheek at the touch, wondering if he even noticed the nails she got done especially for today, whether he even cared. "C'mon, Jo, I'll take you to dinner. That Italian place."

Jolyne's face screws up. "I don't like Italian food," she says, which is true. She doesn't like cheese or tomatoes much. Her favourite food is dark chocolate, actually, but if you're talking dinner than Thai food is a safe bet. She likes to make out that she can handle more spice than she actually can.

Romeo grows visibly frustrated; you slouch back against the wall, barely blinking, trying to bite back a smirk. "Anything, then. C'mon, Jo, I can't—I won't leave you here with this creep. Can't you see? Can't you fucking see how obsessed they are with you? It's fucking freaky!"

"Get out!" Jolyne screams. "You horrible pig. How dare you talk about them like that?!"

"You're so dumb you can't even see it!" Romeo yells, his voice starting to rise up over the music. Eyes shift, people turn; you can't have that. As much as you enjoy seeing Romeo squirm, this is Jolyne's day, and you won't let some roid-chomping ape ruin it. You slide between them, setting a hand on Romeo's chest and shoving him back—not violently, not really, you can't have Jolyne thinking you're as bad as him—just enough to make some space to breathe.

You're so close to Jolyne, her shoulder touches your back. You can feel her breathing raggedly, taut with fury.

"That's enough," you say, looking Romeo dead in the eye. "I know we don't exactly get along, Romeo, but I was willing to put that aside for Jolyne on her birthday. I'm sorry you weren't."

Romeo's face flushes slowly with purple colour. "You fucking—you—"

"Romeo," Jolyne says harshly. "Leave. I don't want you here."

His jaw clenches. "Fine! Fine. See if I fucking care." He spins on his heel and storms out, and you physically feel the tension in the air thin as the front door slams behind him.

You turn around immediately as everyone else awkwardly buries themselves in cups and conversations again. Jolyne's arms are wrapped around herself, staring at the floor. Genuine sorrow twangs deep inside you—you wonder, hardly for the first time, whether you would be this instigatory if she was with someone who actually deserved her.

A smaller, bitter part of you that you usually try to ignore insists that nobody really deserves her. Not even you. But you'll try your best.

"Hey," you murmur. "You okay?"

"H-how can he be so mean?" Her eyes are big and luminous as she turns them to you, shining with tears. Something deep inside you dies at the sight—Jolyne is rare with her tears. More often her intense emotions manifest as anger. You swallow, glancing around.

"Okay. Come on, let's get out of here," you mutter. You lead her through the crowded hallway and up the stairs, heading for your own room. The music becomes muffled as you shut the door behind you, blaring softly through the floorboards like you've dipped your head underwater. Jolyne sniffles, her eyes already drying; she knuckles at them dispassionately, smearing her carefully-applied eye makeup.

"What a mess... I ruined it all," she says, flopping down on the bed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be stupid, dipshit," you say fiercely. "It's your thickhead boyfriend. God, I can't stand him."

"I know." Jolyne picks miserably at her nails. "Maybe he's not... as perfect as I thought he was. But I love him. I mean, I think I love him? Just not when he's like this."

"He's like this all the time," you deadpan, and Jolyne's lip quivers. You sigh, melting down to sit next to her on the bed.

"I don't know what to do," she sighs. "I thought everything was so perfect, and now..."

"Jolyne." Always her full name. You never presume to shorten it, to chip off even one perfect syllable. Every time Romeo calls her Jo, you feel your bones grate together. Like he can't even be bothered to remember who she is. There are thousands of Jo's. There's only one Jolyne. "You deserve so much better than him."

Her throat flexes when she swallows, glancing up at you between the wisps of her green bangs.

It's funny—you know Jolyne inside and out. Every molecule. And yet you still don't see it coming.

Her lips press against yours for the briefest moment, shy and tentative and they taste like aloe vera. You freeze up completely in shock, not even having the werewithal to blink, and Jolyne rockets back, blushing madly.

She waves her hands frantically. "I—hang on! I'm sorry! I shouldn't... I didn't mean to..." Her voice gears up for a wail. "I'm ruining everythinggg!"

"Jolyne!" You clamp your hands upon her shoulders, your pulse thundering in your ears. "C-calm down. It's okay. You haven't—you haven't ruined anything."

Jolyne's brows draw tight together. "I can't betray Romeo," she says, twiddling her fingers. "But I... I'm so fuckin' sick of feeling like... he never compliments me! Never! And tonight, it was my fucking birthday and he just blew me off! What a pig! I'm so sick of him sometimes, I just want to—to—"

Her soft, cold hands land on your face and she kisses you again, harder this time, with intent, and you feel every cell in your body come alive. You hardly believe it's real, but this time you're not going to waste even a nanosecond not concentrating. Your eyes slip closed and your hands move, dropping from her shoulders; one slides down her arms until it wraps around her waist, drawing her close, feeling her soft, toned body press flush against you. The other cups the back of her neck, cradling her like she's something precious. She is, of course. She's the most precious thing in the whole world.

It's overwhelming; it's everything you've dreamed of for the last six years or so, and even as it's happening it barely feels real. You feel the urgent need to make the most of it before you snap out of this dream, or Jolyne reverts back from the delirium that's cleared seized her. It's your chance, after all—to finally show her what someone like Romeo could never give her.

Your left hand slips unde the hem of her shirt, fanning out over the warm skin beneath, and Jolyne shudders. She pulls back from your lip momentarily, her eyes searching yours so intensely that your heart lurches.

"Isn't this wrong?" she whispers, as though she's truly conflicted.

Your free hand brushes a lock of her from her face. "Does it feel wrong?"

There's a moment of hesitation—you can see her conjure Romeo's face in her mind—and then she shakes her head. "It should feel wrong," she mutters, and your thumb strokes soothingly over the small of her back.

"Jolyne," you murmur, and you watch in shivering euphoria as her body shudders as your voice slips into something lower, rolling over the both of you like hot honey. "Lemme take care of you, okay?"

A painful dark blush melts over Jolyne's pretty cheeks. "This won't ruin anything, will it?" She keeps you pinned for now, not letting you carry on. So bold, your Jolyne. People like Romeo want to stamp it out of her. You can't even imagine it. "I dunno what I'd do without you."

"Jolyne," you groan. "Don't say stuff like that right now."

"Eh? Why?!" Her expression twists. "I'm just trying to make sure—"

"You're kind of having an effect, princess," you grit out. Jolyne stops short, her mouth working soundlessly for a few moments.

"Ha! Am I really?" she gushes, her eyes sparkling. "Let me see!"

"Wh—no!" You swat at her hands, cheeks burning. "Cut it out, dipshit. You'll..." You pause, weighing your words. "You'll see soon enough, anyway."

The smile slips off of Jolyne's face, replaced by nervous anticipation. Your heart beats at the speed of sound, jackrabbiting against your ribcage.

You shake your head, scrub a hand down your face. "Lay down, okay? I said I would take care of you, and I mean it." There's a spot of hesitation on her face before she cautiously scrambles up against the headboard, peering down at you sat at the foot of the bed. You strip off your shoes quickly before clambering on over her, fitting your legs neatly over her waist.

She bites her lip. "Y-you really wanna..."

In answer, you lean forward and tuck your face against her neck, breathing in her perfume. She shivers as you nose at the delicate skin, finally putting your lips on it like you've dreamed of doing, and she's just as receptive as you've always thought she might be, letting out a squeak before her head tilts up, baring her throat to you.

"So cute," you whisper, running your hands up her sides. She's small, but so toned—she works out a lot, and it's a unique kind of torture seeing her in gym clothes, all sweaty with her hair pinned up, heading for the shower. "God, you drive me fucking crazy."

"I—I do?" Her breath is caught, trapped. Her hands push under your clothes and skim over the flesh there, cool and clammy, and you shudder so violently that you inadvertently press yourself against her.

"You have no idea." You mouth at her neck almost frantically, sucking skin between your teeth, laving with your tongue, pinching lightly with your teeth before moving onto the next; dotting lines down her neck, collarbones, putting your teeth over the jut of bone and sucking. Jolyne moans, high and shivery, and the sound makes liquid lightning rush to the place between your thighs.

You curse your own impatience, too hurried to savour her like you really want. You reason that you'll have time, after, later, some indeterminable point in the future as you reach down and hike up her shirt, over her head, flinging it to some distant point in the room. Jolyne stares up at you, unabashed; why would she be? You know every inch of each other's bodies already. You smooth a palm from her sternum to the waistline of her jeans, through the valley between her breasts, and Jolyne groans, eyes fluttering shut. You can see the smokey green makeup painted over her lids, the clumps of mascara caught in the delicate lashes.

The flesh beneath your hand is soft, warm muscle. You happily think that she could break you apart if she wanted—but that's the really incredible thing about your Jolyne. She doesn't. She is capable of great violence, but it's never what she wants to do.

She's so, so special.

"You're so beautiful," you sigh; your pupils are probably heart-shaped by this point. "Oh, god—princess, you have no idea how bad I want you."

Jolyne shudders, pushing her hips up against you and you nearly choke. "Show me," she grunts, a challenge in her eyes. "Show me—please."

"'Course, pretty girl," you murmur, watching the flush climbs down her chest. "Anything for you."

Your hands move to the front of her jeans, fumbling with the button and zipper before you drag them down her thighs. Jolyne perks up and helps you shed them, and they too disappear into the nameless void, where everything but Jolyne ceases to matter even an iota.

Next goes her underwear; she wears boxers a lot, and today is no exception. Emerald-green briefs that you drag down her legs so clumsily that they end up dangling from one ankle. Jolyne sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, face lit up bright red as she watches you knead the flesh on her knees, her thighs. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, the heat in your abdomen almost unbearable—but you can't even think of touching yourself. This isn't about you.

It's all about her.

You push her thighs apart, gently, and only now does some tension coil up in Jolyne's stomach, her breath shaking.

"It's okay," you remind her softly, and press soft kisses to her right knee. "It's me, yeah? You have nothing in the world to hide from me."

Jolyne's whole expression seems to melt into something dreamy, like she's home, and you could weep. A soft smile plucks at her mouth.

"You're right," she says, swallowing hard.

"'Course I am, pretty girl," you say lazily, skimming your lips against her inner thigh, a hint of teeth just to hear her gasp. "'Cause I know you, yeah? Better than anyone."

"Y-yeah," Jolyne whimpers, and your eyes practically roll back into your head at how wrecked she sounds already.

You prop your face on her inner thigh, gazing up at her dreamily. "Want me to make you feel good, angel?"

"W-well, obviously," she grunts, squirming her hips. You use your free hand to pin her down.

"Say it," you can't help but poke, watching as her blush darkens. "Say, I want you to make me feel good."

Jolyne glowers. "Eh... you're the worst kind of pervert, aren't you? How didn't I guess..." She throws an arm over her eyes. "I want you to make me feel good. Dummy."

Something intense and hot rolls over you as the words leave her mouth, and without another moment of hesitation you grab her leg, wrapping your fingers around one slim ankle and pulling it up so it bends. "Can you hold that there for me?"

Wide eyed and mouth agape, Jolyene reaches for her own leg to hold up, fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs.

"What a good girl," you murmur, and Jolyne squeaks again; her fingers dig into the fat of her own leg, and she stares at you like she's hardly seen you before. There's something gratifying in that disbelief; proof that you're not the awkward thirteen-year-old you've feared she's always seen as you as. You're her equal, her soulmate, and you're both all grown up, now.

Some more than others.

You press your lips to her cunt and she moans, fingers scrabbling desperately to retain a hold of her leg. There's a soft dark thatch of hair that tickles just slightly as you shuffle down between her legs, using your fingers to spread her open. She's wet, and your mouth fills with saliva as you dive in, burying your head between her thighs. With her free hand, you hear her clap her fingers over her mouth to stifle the shriek she lets out at the contact.

The moment your tongue makes contact you know you're lost. Your eyes slide shut as your mouth works at her, feeling her hands slide into your hair and grip, hard, hard enough to remember that it's real. And that notion sends a whole new delirium rushing through you, until you feel literally high, drunk on Jolyne, your perfect girl and her perfect body. She tastes so good, practically addictive, and when her thighs tremble and squeeze around your head you think there would be no better way to die in the world.

She's saying something—choked, hoarse gasps of your name. You pop off her clit with a lingering suck, gazing up at her with a smile you can't quite remember to dial back. Jolyne's pupils are blown wide and dark, barely a ring of green surrounding them.

"It—it's so..." She squirms. "Please keep going."

"No worries on that front, angel," you murmur, sliding your hands under her thighs and pulling her even closer. "I'm gonna make you come for me, yeah?"

A hard shudder wracks her body. She never—it's so strange to hear such filth spill from your lips so easily. You're barely comparable to the friend she's known almost her whole life.

And yet—you are. This could be nobody but you. She doesn't know how she didn't see it before.

You dive back between her legs with unparalleled vigour, and Jolyne's head spins frantically. She's never felt anything like this. Romeo went down on her once in a blue moon, and before that had only been awkward teenage fumblings, sticky and awkward, never this—this worship. It's honestly the best word she can come up with for it. You look like if someone tried to pry you away from her right now you'd kill them without a thought.

The thought shouldn't make her shiver in pleased delight—and yet here we are.

Your tongue rolls over her clit, glides between her folds, presses in, and loops all over again until her hands are fisted in your hair and she's crying out against the muted blaring of the music.

"Fuck, fuck," she curses, blinking hard to try and stay focused. "Gonna come, I'm gonna c-come—"

"I got you," you moan against her, the vibrations sending a whole new set of jitters up her spine. "My girl, my good girl, c'mon, give it to me, I need it, fuck, I need you to come for me—"

Your lips latch onto her clit and suck once, harshly, and Jolyne comes so hard she feels her body separate from herself. Seeing stars has always felt like a dumb expression, but she swears white rockets across her vision, tears it open to perfect clarity. Her thighs clamp down on your head, hips rocking up against you as she shudders and moans through it, and all the while you keep your fingers on her, stroking slow and soft until she twitches from overstimulation. Her foot kicks out on instinct, catching on your shoulder.

She comes back to herself when she hears you wince. "Sorry," she says hoarsely. You just roll your eyes fondly and tap her ankle away.

You flop against her as she attempts to pick her breath back up. She can feel her own release dripping down her thighs and she looks at you, unexpectedly shy. It's surreal, but—but even as reality sets in cold as stone, she cannot quite bring herself to feel guilty.

You press a lazy kiss to the size of her bared breast, making her flinch in surprise. "Heh. You animal."

"Yeah," you agree readily, your voice hoarse with want. "For you, yeah."

Jolyne's eyes flutter. She doesn't quite know what to say to that, to any of this. Instead she swallows, looks around to try and get her surroundings. Your bedroom is intimately familiar—the dark walls, the posters, the fishtank and blinds and assortment of blue stringlights and lamps. Your room has always kinda felt like being inside an aquarium.

A lump settles in her throat. She's grown up here. You both had.

And though she knows she should get dressed and find her phone, although she knows she should call Romeo and try to cover up the hickies dotted haphazardly all over her throat, she can't quite bring herself to do it. Any of it. Because you'd made her feel more loved in twenty minutes than Romeo had in months.

So she curls back up next to you, jamming her head aginst your heart. She feels your breath hitch at the contact and squirms delightedly.

"J-Jolyne?" you say weakly.

"Shut up, dummy," she says as matter-of-factly as she can manage. "I wanna sleep."

"...Okay, angel." Your voice is soft, soothing. "Anything for you."

[brayneworms]

roots of lore.

ft. xiao x gn!reader

word count. 1.4k

content. scars, scar touching, xiao's backstory (mentions of abuse + slavery), massages, xiao is touch-starved, fluff, petnames (sweet boy), grinding, not technically smut but definitely suggestive, light dom/sub undertones (dom!reader + sub!xiao).

synopsis. xiao is free now, but his scars remain.

notes. i am an nsfw blog, minors dont follow me or interact.

Xiao's body locks up beneath you, a trembling cage of flesh and soul.

You're reminded of when he'd grudgingly agreed to spar with you for the first time, after much wheedling. The first time you'd asked, he'd looked at you like you'd grown another head; the second time bred only subtle irritation. The third, he'd informed you flatly that under no uncertain circumstances could you beat him, and he doesn't like to fight at the best of times.

The tenth time, you wore him down. It had been exhilarating—you got your ass beat, sure, and Xiao had been going very easy on you, too. You'd limped back to the Wangshu Inn with bruised ribs and a strained ankle and a huge grin. You're sure Xiao thought you even stranger after that. But now it's become routine, and though he has years of experience on you, sometimes you're quick enough to get a couple of hits on him.

One time, oh, one time you managed to get his feet out from under him with a training staff, a harsh whap to the ankles and he went down, knees and face in the dirt. Before he can get his hands under him to push himself back up, he feels a phantom weight settle over him like a shadow, and he freezes. The blunt tip of your staff presses into his spine, right over a ridge, in a way that renders him temporarily motionless. Your knee brushes against the outside of his hip as you lean down, and when you speak, you're so close to his ear that he can feel his pulse in his skull; "Got you."

This is the first time you feel it—the way Xiao freezes when he's bested. At first you think you've made him uncomfortable, but... through the tufts of dark hair obscuring his expression, you can see the tips of his ears burning red. You can feel the slightest tremble running through his bones where your body just barely brushes his own. And, most tellingly, when you lean forward to murmur what was supposed to be a gloat, you feel the choked-off noise he bites back somewhere high in his throat at the contact.

And you suppose it's not so different to now, really—your room at the Wangshu Inn is quiet and decent, half-lit by glass lanterns and the moonlight outside. You're far too high above Liyue for any stray passersby to be able to see through your windows, which is just as well. You don't want anyone to be privy to this view except for you.

He's still mostly dressed, which is almost more tantalising than seeing him naked; there's something about the way the fabric drapes over his skin that makes you want to eat him alive. He's taken to burying his face in the bedsheets to hide as you work at him, a palm spread wide over his stomach to feel his stomach rise and fall. Even this contact sends his blood catching alight, his spine arching into your touch as your thumb strokes at the skin. Laving your care into pale flesh, one gentle swipe at a time.

You set another hand gently on the jut of his hip, push him back down to the bed. "You okay?"

Xiao presses his lips together, half mortified at his own lack of control and half blissed out beyond caring. Nobody has ever touched him like this, with so much care, so much love—it feels foreign, bubbling up hot and carbonated inside him like it insists upon itself. Calling out to an endless void, love me! Love me!

It seems impossible. But here you are, rolling him over on his stomach. He's half-grateful; burning up from the intensity of your stare, neck sore from trying to burrow into the bed to hide from it. He sinks his head into the pillows and let loose a long, trembly sigh as you clamber gently over him, legs bent on either side of his hips. The weight of you rests on him as you reach out to toy with a lock of dark hair.

Xiao whines at the suggestion of tension against his scalp; you pull nowhere near enough to hurt, but the in-between is maddening. It's like anticipation, like holding a loaded crossbow waiting for the bolt to loose. It feels like you should hurt him. Like you should want to. But you don't, and before long your fingers leave his hair to trace patterns on the nape of his neck, and Xiao shudders, burying his head into the pillow.

"You're okay, sweet boy," you murmur, and Xiao wants to argue that he's not a boy, he's so far from it, and sweet sounds like a joke when it tries to stick to someone like him. Karmic debt oozes from his pores, gritty and dark and acidic, surely infecting even your lovely hands, and Xiao readies his voice to say all this but then you run a finger hard down his spine and he stifles a whiny noise into the sheets instead.

He's aware, vaguely, that he's panting, that he's never felt this alive in this way in all his life, that what started as uncertain jerks of his hips to relieve some of the weird tension building hot in his low stomach has turned into a steady, rhythmic movement. His hips roll against the mattress, ignited by your careful touch, your fingers that dance on the precipice between pleasure and pain. It's too much, it's not enough, and Xiao stifles another cry into the mattress, mortified.

You stop quite suddenly, and Xiao makes another pathetic noise before realising where your hands have paused. The window in the back of his shirt that ripples over the skin of his spine, baring the flesh for the world. His heart flies into his throat; he usually keeps a glamour up, nothing especially powerful, just enough to heal his skin and keep people from seeing—

Your fingers trace a scar, and Xiao feels the prickling of tears at his eyes. Seeing that.

"Xiao," you whisper, and try as he might he is unable to read your tone. He's rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle, and the fiery want in his abdomen goes cold and rotten in earnest. He can't look back at you. You've seen.

You must think he's hideous. A thing only worthy to be kept, to be hit, to be made use of. He wants to curl into himself and hide.

"I've never seen these," you murmur. "Do you keep them hidden?"

Shamefully, Xiao forces himself to nod; he can't possibly speak.

"Oh, sweet boy..." And your hands move again, tracing up and down the ridges, the jagged X that serves as a remnant of his days of servitude, tattoos his skin like a brand of ownership. Whip scars, beatings where the skin sliced open, pockmarking an unmeasurable amount of skin. Xiao wants simultaneously to pull away and to melt into you; he wants to let you rip him open at the seams, sink your hands into the ichor and black karma that makes him up inside. The thought of disappearing into the wind flits briefly, temptingly, across his mind—and then your hands drag over the center of that jagged X and his eyes roll back in his head, and the sinks into the mattress with little more than a whimper.

"You're so beautiful," he hears you whisper, and it feels impossible, like a sweet dream of some other reality where he deserves such gentle treatment. Your fingers nudge at the back of his head, coaxing. "Look at me?"

He cracks open a heavy eye with great difficulty; it gleams bright as topaz above cheekbones shaded in deep scarlet, hair amuss, shielding the rest of his expression, but his eyes speak enough. He looks agonised.

You lean forward, press your lips to the raised center of the labyrinth of scars in a stinging kiss, and Xiao swallows a choked noise. "I don't want you to hide these from me anymore, okay? Look how strong you are. How brave. I want to be reminded of that every time I look at you—that's what you deserve."

Xiao draws in a shaky breath. "I am not... any of that," he mumbles, paying no mind to how wrecked his voice sounds. "These are marks o weakness. Of servitude."

"And now you're free," you whisper, and Xiao's heart soars like a bird over the horizon. "Free to wander, to love. Free to stay right here with me."

Xiao can think of nothing better.

if you enjoyed this, request something.

[brayneworms]

wide eyes (cherry pies).

featuring. kobeni higashiyama/reader

word count. 1.07k

content. gender-neutral reader, kissing, intoxication, kobeni-typical crying, reader is kobeni's boss but no power dynamics, thorough consent checks, no smut but EXTREMELY suggestive, love confessions.

notes. this is an 18+ blog. minors and ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked.

The hand with your key had shaken trying to unlock the door to your apartment.

It might've been the nerve, or the drink, or the fact that Kobeni had stuffed her face into the crook of your neck, breathing hard and fast, her hands pawing at the back of your suit jacket, squirming like a kitten.

Regardless, they're not shaking now.

The moment the both of you stumble through the cramped parlour and kitchenette to the bedroom, dimly lit with orange string-lights and a salt lamp petulantly aglow in the corner, Kobeni is on you with a vigour you see from her once in a blue moon and always on the field. She's slightly... damp, from sweat or rain or drool or just whatever keeps her perpetually sustained in a state of unspooling anxiety, but her strong fingers have a grip on your blazer, tugging it off like it had offended her.

"S-slow—" you manage to gasp out before she reaches up to kiss you again, fast and needy, parting her lips to lick into your mouth and you groan. "Beni," you pant between breaks for air. "Ben, Beni—"

She whines when you grip her narrow shoulders and push her down, bracketing her fast with your strength. When she peers up at you, your brain flatlines a little; her usual flouncy ponytail has unravelled, leaving two scarlet clips adrift in a wave of messy brunette hair, and it frames a face scarlet with blush from cheekbone to jawline. Her lips are red, full as candy apples, wet with spit, her dark brows knitted up, her dark eyes big and deep and starving.

She makes a needy noise, tries to lean in to kiss you again, but you manage to force her back down.

"Just—just lemme breathe a minute, babe," you pant out. Kobeni goes painfully redder and nods. "Alright. Okay. Look, we've both had a little to drink. Are you sure—"

"Yes," she blurts out, before you've even finished the question. "Th—I mean—that's the only reason I f-feel brave enough to..." Her voice wilts a little, but you can suddenly feel your pulse in your skull.

"Kobeni," you say, lowly. "I... overheard you talking with Himeno a week back. I know you... you haven't done this before. I just want to make sure you want—I mean, that you know what you want. With me, of all people."

Kobeni's eyes fill with tears. "I—I only want you," she hiccups. "I m-mean... God, this is so embarrassing, but I—ever since I got assigned to you, and working under you, I mean, oh, I'm messing this up but I j-just..."

"Breathe, dove," you murmur, and—trusting her to stop jumping you like she's springlocked—move your hands to cup her face. She burns beneath your touch, eyes pools of ink staring urgently up at you. "You're not messing anything up, 'kay? I just need to make sure here. I'm not some kinda scummy boss. I—I care about you. That's half the fuckin' problem, I mean—fuck. I don't want you to regret this. That's all. Okay?"

Kobeni sniffles. "I won't. I've always... it's all I've b-been thinking about. I—every night. And tonight, going out, I thought I was being annoying, clinging to you like I did b-but now we're here and—and I'm so close, please don't send me away." She hiccups pathetically. "I, mm. I love you. I love you."

Something presses down on your chest like a weight, compressing your heart into your ribcage. And you love her too, you love her too, so you lean forwards and kiss the tear tracks on her face whilst she huffs and squirms, craning her neck; her wet lips brush yours once, twice before she makes a whiny noise of desperation and you finally bring her in.

She's jittery, switching between being too enthusiastic and freezing up—presumably because she has no idea what to do. But at least she's moving slower now, satiated apparently by getting her feelings off her chest, and she lets you guide her this time.

"On the bed," you murmur against her lips. "If you're sure."

Kobeni nods frantically, clambering upon your mattress so eagerly that the sheets tangle around her. You bite back a giggle at the sight of her, sitting on her haunches like a dog awaiting its owners return.

"Tell me, okay?" you reiterate as you start undoing your shirt of your own admission; it slips off your shoulders, and Kobeni squeaks, eyes tracking your every moment like it's the last thing she'll ever see. Lamplight glints in the onyx of her eyes. "Kobeni. You can stop whenever. Whatever you're comfortable with. I need you to tell me what to do, how far you wanna go. Okay? You hear me?"

"Y-yes," she whimpers. "I, um..." Her hands wring together, eyes averting into her lap. "I want to... I don't know. I want... you to... t-touch me?"

"That's a start," you agree mildly. "How about we start smaller, though... you wanna take your shirt off?"

Her cheeks burn, but she nods, shaky hands moving to untuck her shirt from her slacks and start on the buttons. Pale skin slices down the middle, adorned with a worn, plain black bra. It looks like it's been through the washer two dozen times—you know Kobeni sends most of her paycheck home to her family. She must not be able to afford luxuries.

You could buy her one. Not in a weird way, like an old geezer sending lace thongs to his twenty-something secretary, obviously. Just... something that doesn't look like it's held together by two threads.

Kobeni covers the exposed skin. "Sorry," she mumbles, and you realise with a lurch you've been staring in silence. "I know I'm not—y-you're probably used to more—"

"Don't think that," you interrupt, walking over and slotting yourself between her legs. The fabric of her slacks strains against her thighs, and she stares up at you, slack-jawed, starry-eyed, alight with blush. "You're so gorgeous," you murmur. "So—the second you walked into my office, oh my god. Haven't been able to get you outta my head. Do I sound creepy? You can tell me if I do."

She shakes her head wildly. "N-no! Me too! I—like you said, the second I walked in—and you've been so kind. Nobody's ever..." Her lower lip trembles. "I really love you. Sorry. I love you."

"I love you too," you murmur, and swoop in to touch her.

[brayneworms]

fearful, wonderful | scaramouche

general tags. kabukimono!scaramouche, trans!scaramouche, yokai!reader, gender-neutral reader, slowburn, yokai lore/imagery, very slowburn, food consumption/eating, tatarasuna.

content warnings. gender dysphoria, allusions to war and death.

word count. 5k

notes. this is an 18+ blog. minors and ageless accounts do not interact, you will be blocked.

synopsis. the puppet learns the horrors of the body.

masterlist | prev | next | ao3

III. SHED YOUR KNUCKLE VELVET, TORN ON MY TEETH.

Winter aches by. 

The puppet had come to you in the middle of it, and now even as you watched, bunches of green leaves had begun to sprout upon the skeletal limbs of the trees. Exactly as predicted, the pathway up to the Hisehide’s house iced over, and those hacked-up cornstalks along with it. The puppet eyed them as warily as one might drawn blades, and insisted on holding your sleeve when you passed them. 

As the days and then weeks unroll before you, the ground becomes crunchy with ghostly frost, and you’re able to see your breath in wisps as it escapes your mouth. A thick sheet of ice sweeps over the lake near your house and remains there staunchly for weeks, glittering whitely in the smudgy watercolour sun. The sky overhead is blanketed in dense clouds, dove-grey and swollen-looking, prone to pouring rain, sleet or snow as they saw fit. 

Winter aches by, and the puppet gets a name. 

It’s not you who gives it to him—that still feels wrong, feels grimy. Feels parental. And it becomes increasingly clear as the weeks pass that whatever you are to the puppet, it is not a parent. You’re scarcely even a mentor. You’re the owner of the house he sleeps him, the one who collects him from his tutoring lessons. The one who still hasn’t told him about the gold feather in your cupboard, or the Electro mark on his nape. You’re not even sure why. 

Kabukimono. Strange things. The name that had stuck to the puppet as the townspeople slowly accustomed to his presence. Nobody knew the extent of what he was, nobody but you and Niwa and Katsuragi (though you suspected Honoka knew, too, with the way she never quite seemed to leave her children alone in either of your presence). They did not know he was inhuman, but they seemed to sense it on him. That particular feeling you are accustomed to. 

There is a bird that frequents the lavender melon tree outside of your door. A blackbird, sweet and silent. Kabukimono becomes fascinated with her. He leaves dried fruits and cracked chestnuts outside on the frozen earth to peck at, and when he sees that she’s poking at his offerings he scampers to the window to watch. Over the course of around a week, he gains her trust. 

One day you walk outside to find the blackbird perched on his finger. His expression is soft and open with wonder, as though awe had pulled him apart from the inside. His eyes round as pennies, lips parted. One of the porch steps creaked under your foot, and the blackbird twitched and took wing. 

Still. One of the children nearby you owned a cat. It was never going to end well. But you wish you would have warned him. 

You were woken early one morning by a scream. Any fatigue left you with a jolt, and when you peered around the room and realised Kabukimono was gone, your stomach lurched. You barely paused to pull on your hanten before rushing outside, barefoot against the frosty soil, looking around wildly. The cold air stung at your skin, the dawn mist curling at your ankles as you rushed around the house. 

You came upon him in a heap. A soft shaking pile of cotton nightwear, his fingers digging into his hair and pulling at the roots. You approached, aghast at the honest fear you felt as you knelt before him.

“Hey. What is it, what’s wrong?”

You almost asked, are you hurt? But maybe his answer still would have been yes, because you think—you think this sort of thing really did hurt him. Splintered his ribcage apart and twisted up his insides. When he looked up at you, his expression was agonised, dark eyes shot red and spilling over with tears. 

Your eyes trailed down to the tiny dark corpse at his feet. Wings splayed apart. Blood matted those dark feathers. 

“Oh.”

“C-Can you… fix it?” He asked it with a sliver of earnestness, was the worst part. As though a part of him truly believed you would say yes. You wanted to, in that moment. 

“I’m… it’s dead.”

His expression screwed up, contorted. “But I don’t want it to be dead.”

Your mouth opened and closed wordlessly. You wanted either to scream or to laugh. If only it were that simple!

But you did neither of these things, and your lack of response only seemed to frustrate the puppet further. “I don’t want it to be dead,” he repeated, his voice rising, cracking horribly. “It shouldn’t be dead! It’s not right!” He clambered furiously to his feet, and when you tried to follow him he flinched backwards. “Fix it!”

“I can’t.” You look at him in disbelief. “It’s dead. Understand? Nothing in this entire world can bring it back, certainly not me. Look, just—”

He cringed back, holding the poor dead bird in his pale shaking hands. “N-no!”

“Listen to me. Listen.” You stormed up to him and grabbed a handful of his shirt. “Things die. That’s the way it works. The things around you die and you live on. You can’t break down and weep every time it happens.”

“It’s not fair!” Kabukimono screamed, hands trembling so badly that he dropped the bird anyway. “Why did she have to die? Why did she have to leave me?”

You open your mouth furiously to answer and find that you do not have one. The puppet stares you down, eyes hard and furious and glimmering with tears, his pale cheeks flushed with fury, his mouth open and wet. Your eyes trail down to his hands; there is blood on them. 

“Come back inside. It’s cold,” you say, even though he cannot feel it. He opens his mouth as though to protest, but there must be something in your expression that screams that you aren’t in the mood to be argued with. Instead he wilts. Deflates from the shoulders down and hangs his head and he shuffles past you to the door. 

You look down at the bird, and find with an obscure sense of unease that you cannot conjure up even a smidge of sadness. The dark-feathered corpse on the floor may as well be an ink stain for all the empathy you feel. 

Still, something compels you to pick it up. You bring it into the house, place it in a box. Kabukimono, still crying, watches you as you move around. 

“What are you doing?” he finally asks, his voice hoarse.

You don’t answer, digging in your cupboard. You come up with a couple of incense sticks and a match, set them alight in a cup to catch the ash. Funeral rituals. It’s been so long you barely remember the steps. With humans, you’re supposed to water the lips and wash the body, but this will do for now—it’s a more extravagant burial than any vermin killed by a cat could hope for. 

“We’ll bury it later,” you tell Kabukimono. 

There is blood all down your front. 

“I’m going for a bath.”

It’s unnecessary—most of the gore had stained your nightclothes, and there was only a little on your hands and arms. But you feel dirty. It’s not that blood makes you squeamish, it just makes you wish you were dead.

You boil the water over the stove and pour it into the tin tub. You’re impatient enough to find that just over the halfway mark is good enough for you as you strip off your clothes and clamber in, sitting with your knees on to your chest and your back to the metal. You tip your head back against the tin lip, feeling obscene, feeling heavy, feeling incorrigible. 

You don’t often like bathing. It thrusts the imperfections of your skin out in the open. Broken apart and sealed back together with gold at the seams like a shattered cup. Like seto. It reminds you that there is no soul holding you together, like most human bodies. Only paint and a prayer. 

The door ekes open, and you scramble to cover yourself. “What?”

Kabukimono’s huge sorrowful eyes peer around the frame. “I need to wash my hands,” he says tremulously. You tuck your knees closer to your chest, hesitating. It shouldn’t bother you to let the puppet see your naked body. You don’t think of such things as humans did, anyway—as yōkai, your form had never been a vessel for pleasure or gentleness. All you’d known was breaking apart and being put back together. In any case, you don’t endure the shame or embarrassment most humans feel when unclothed.

But Kabukimono is different, and you’re not even sure why. 

You’re being irrational, you tell yourself, and nod over to him awkwardly. “Just… dip them in the water there.”

He nods, shuffling in. You scrunch against the hot metal wall of the tub and watch him out of the corner of your eye. His cheeks are still faintly pink, his eyes red-rimmed and splotchy; when he dips his hands in the water, they tremble slightly, sending shuddering rings spiderwebbing out from them over the steaming surface. 

One of his fingers bushes against your ankle, and you flinch back like you’ve been shot. 

Kabukimono raises his eyes to you, and you hate how pinned you feel by them. It’s something in them that makes him difficult to look at, like trying to peer straight into the sun. Something good, something innocent that you’re going to ruin. 

Katsuragi has made a huge mistake. You sit in the bloody bathwater and you’re sure of it. 

You’re going to ruin him.

You’re going to make him just like you—

“Why are you hiding from me?”

Kabukimono’s voice is soft, inquisitive. It makes you want to grow brambles over your skin and hide. “What?”

He straightens up but stays kneeling on the floor beside the bath. The expression on his face is sort of… bewildered. And hurt. Your stomach lurches. 

“You don’t offend me,” he tries, earnestly confused. “You told me before that my body wasn’t offensive, yet you still asked me to hide it. Because of… decency.”

You remember. The diamond cut of his white limbs in the stormlight, in the middle of your dark parlour room like a melting wax candle. But it’s true—yōkai have no shame. You are born naked and often live in it. You clothe yourself whilst you live among humans, but for their comfort, not yours. But Kabukimono is not human, and if shame exists in his soul it is you who taught it to him. 

“I was… wrong to say that,” you whisper hoarsely. “There’s nothing indecent about your body.”

Kabukimono’s lashes flutter. They’re long, delicate wisps, framing those eyes, those eyes. Globe thistles shining out of the thin cage of his head. 

“What about yours?” he asks breathlessly, every word clinging to his lower lip as it escapes him. You flinch again, because he doesn’t know, doesn’t know the half of it, the things this body has done. 

You are shameful. You are indecent. But not for the reasons he thinks.

Kabukimono looks upset again. “Why would your body be indecent but not mine?” he presses, and your skin is starting to prickle. His eyes drop, trailing over the exposed skin, and you wish you’d filled the tub to the brim if only so it would provide somewhere to hide. Every crack in your flesh that has broken apart and been painted patiently back together, and it doesn’t sing so much as it screams. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” you choke out. 

“But—”

“That’s enough. Get out.” Kabukimono draws back, blinking at you. Stung. It only makes you sicker. “Get out, I said! I don’t want you in here, I don’t want you to look at me, I want you to leave!”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Either get out of this room or get out of this house, understand?”

Kabukimono gapes, scrambling back like you’d struck him, and a soft, cut noise escapes him from somewhere high in his throat. He hightails out of the room, the sliding door rattling from the force with which he slams it shut. Your hands clench at nothing in the water, feeling too big for your body, your skin feeling delicate and bruised. 

You stick your head under the water and scream. 

It’s unclear how much longer you stay in the bath; you don’t want to step outside the safe confines of your tiny bathroom. Don’t want to face the puppet and his big reproachful eyes and trembling bottom lip. You don’t want to be reminded of how monstrous you are in the face of his innocence. 

Still, by the time you make the move to lift yourself up out of the yawn of the bathtub, the water is bitingly cold. You dry off and dress methodically, stalling for as long as possible. You wonder, briefly, about curling up on the condensation-wet floor and sleeping there. Certainly, you’ve rested in worse conditions. 

You’re being ridiculous. It’s your house.

And yet you creep through it like a stranger, like you’re the ghost in the walls, the trespasser. In so many ways you suppose you are. A spirit in a human house almost feels like a sick joke. You move quietly, bare feet padding over tatami mats, and you slide the bedroom door open like you’re trying to keep a secret. 

The puppet is a bundle of bedsheets scrunched into the corner. You know he’s awake—both because he doesn’t sleep in general, and because of the way the bundle flinches when the door clicks shut—but he doesn’t say anything as you slip into the room. You feel like he had breath, he’d be holding it, and you suddenly feel desperately sorry and desperately disgusting. 

You crawl into your own futon, searching for comfort in the sheets but finding only the starchy smell of clean linen. Instead, your eyes trace the patterns that the moonlight paints onto the wall, and you count your own heartbeats until sleep slips you under its dark veil. 

You dream, because of course you do. You dream of a sunlit field dotted with white chrysanthemums. You lay among the grass as the sun casts a lazy arc overhead, and you are so young and so stupid and nothing bad has happened to you. Summer carries by on a warm breeze, and your friends’ laughter pollinates the air. You feel that you could drown here. You feel that you could just die—

A soft weight creeps over you. You groan, tuck your head back against the flesh of the mattress, about to slip back into your halcyon dream, and—

 “I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

You snap out of sleep like you’ve been slapped, all traces of summer draining from you in a cold plunge. There’s frost on the windows, but you’re not necessarily cold, and in the dark a shadow moves over you. 

Kabukimono hovers over you, knees on the side of the futon, face above yours. His weight is braced by one arm next to your head. You can just barely make out his outline as your eyes settle into the pitch-darkness; it feels like you’ve only been sleeping for an hour or so. 

“Wh—what?”

The arm beside your head shakes. “I thought… you truly meant it when you told me to leave. I thought about it. Just going. But I remembered about the ice on the path and I got scared, I got scared. Don’t you see? I need you.”

Your throat tightens. “Kabukimono—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong, please, please. Don’t send me away. Please, I can’t—I can’t—”

“Okay, okay. Hey.” You fumble in the dark, still half-delirious but sobering to reality as the seconds ooze past. You sit up, carefully dislodging him. “Don’t be upset. I’m—I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“You tried to make me leave,” he bursts out, his voice shaking, cracking horribly like broken glass. “Is that really what you want?”

Yes, you scream in your head. But not for the reasons you think. 

“I’m not—suited,” you say haltingly. “To take care of you. I will make you into something miserable. As miserable as I am.”

You can just about make out the fuzzy outline of Kabukimono tilting his head. “Then why did you agree to take me in?”

“Because you’re not human.” The words rush out of you like vomit, and you feel the puppet go very, very still. “And nor am I. And I know how lonely that can be. To sit and watch the whole world go by with you unable to keep up. To love something not designed for you to love. And I—I’m too…”

The silence that swells between you is as heavy as concrete—at least until you feel him move. Hair brushes against your chest, right to the left of your breastbone. You stiffen, tense; achingly slowly, Kabukimono presses his cheek to your chest. 

“What—” Your mouth dries, fills with saliva again at a rapid rate, and you swallow hard. “What are you doing?”

Kabukimono’s head twitches against you. And then he murmurs, “You have a heart. That’s more than me. I don’t think you’re doomed. Only I am.”

“You’re not doomed.”

“Everyone I love sends me away,” he whispers, voice catching, thick and wet. “I’m not meant to be kept. I’m not coveted or desired. I’m a burden.”

“Stop that. Stop it.”

“Even you don’t want me.”

“Stop it. It’s not that I don’t. I don’t want to mess you up.”

“You won’t. The only way you will is if you leave me. If you force me out.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Please, please…”

Your heart thuds treacherously in your ears. “Do you mean it?”

His body scrambles against yours, alight with sudden feverish hope. His head retracts from your chest, hovering excitedly in front of you. “Yes. Yes. I mean it. Just don’t send me away and I’ll be fine.”

It’s inconceivable. For someone to want to be wanted by you. But his voice is so tender, so weak, and you find you don’t have it in you to spurn him. 

So you make the worst mistake of your life, and you tell him in hushed tones, “Alright. Alright. I won’t send you away.”

“Promise? Promise me.” His voice is like torn sandpaper, ragged and raw. As though if you say the wrong thing here and now he will be irrevocably ripped apart. 

“I promise.”

That’s where it begins to unspool, you suppose now, even if you had no idea then. Kabukimono jams his head in the crook of your neck, trembling hard, and you can’t help but think you’ve made a mistake. 

You have. But there’s no way you can know this, not yet. 

For now, all you know is the puppet on top of you, bracketing your hips with his knees, and your shame rises until it chokes you back against the pillow. 

Your incorrigibility pulses. Your indecency grows teeth. 

So winter aches by. 

The days roll into weeks, and the frost gradually dissipates. One morning you wake to find that the lake beside your house has thawed during the night, stretching out in an endless glittering grey ribbon away from you. The dry frostiness in the air leaches away, filtering in humidity and warmth. 

The winter thaws, and so do you. 

There’s a rustle in the village one morning. The sun ekes out, bathed golden instead of muted white for the first time since the winter began, and it’s as though the people of Tatarasuna rise with it. You peek out of your window to see the slow procession making its way around the eastern hillside. 

“Where are they going?” Kabukimono asks, craning his neck. It’s a spill of people, old and young. You spot Niwa’s bright hair in the crowd, his sister and her children at his heels. He’s painstakingly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair up the ornery pathway—his grandfather, you think, knowing of his presence but never seeing him for yourself. He’s frail and so, so old—about as old as you know humans are capable of getting. His skin is papery, clinging loosely to jutting bones. 

You know at this age, his own body is failing him. His joints are all swollen with arthritis, and he’s so ill that he rarely leaves his room, let alone his house. Every jolt and jerk over that rocky path must be agony. And yet he smiles. He looks up at his family and he smiles, watching his great-grandkids rush along and play-wrestle each other. He reaches up with a shaky hand and pats the one Niwa has on the handlebars of his chair, his thin lips stretching into a weak grin. Niwa laughs, turns to Honoka, and she laughs too. 

Aging is one thing you have never coveted the humans for. And even then, it seems they are coping with it better than you. 

“It’s hanami,” you answer after a distracted moment. “They’re going to watch the sakura bloom, to celebrate the beginning of spring.”

“Can we go?” Kabukimono wheedles, lit up hopefully. You sigh, the No already on your lips. What is the use in marking another human year, when they seem to go by as often as seconds to you some days? But you catch the puppet’s eyes, and something inside you lurches painfully, like the string of a bow snapping and loosing a bolt into your heart. This is his first year outside of that Pavilion, that endless brambly dark labyrinth sparing him never a glimpse of the outside. 

Who are you to isolate him as you isolate yourself? If he wants to assimilate with the humans, if he wants to observe their traditions and find a home in them, who are you to stop him? For a moment a siren sounds in your head, a flashing warning baring Ruin! Ruin!

…But. The only way you’ll mess me up is if you make me leave.

“Fine,” you find yourself saying. “I… let me get dressed.”

Kabukimono’s eyes light up, and the vision stays with you as you return to the bedroom and pick out a cotton yukata, plain and unassuming. Putting it on feels methodical, draping it over your limbs, trying the rope knot at your middle. You think for a moment—and then you reach inside, hunting for another. This one is dark, with the hips cut wider and less intricate knots. You carry it out with you and press it into Kabukimono’s hands. 

“It’s traditional for the humans to wear yukata for the flower viewing,” you tell him. “You should… put this on. It’s a man’s one, I think donated to me by a teenage boy in the village when he went off to apprentice as a blacksmith. It’s… yours, if you want it.”

Kabukimono turns the cotton fabric over in his hands as though it’s spun gold. “For me?” he whispers. “Truly?”

“Have it.” You’re not sure what compels you to say it, but you continue, “It’ll suit you.”

You barely have time to take in his reaction before he launches himself at you. You stumble back with the force of it, and it occurs to you that a regular person of his size could never hope to knock you off your feet. There is so much strength packed into his small, slender limbs. Finding remnants, tiny reminders of his infrahuman make up feels like reassurance, feels like a bite. He curls around you like a cat, burying his face in the crook of your neck; the fabric of the yukata crushes between your bodies as he digs his fingers into your back, a little too hard. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into your skin. “Thank you, thank you—”

“It’s alright,” you say awkwardly. Your arms dangle limply at your sides. “It’s nothing. Just—alright. Just go put it on, alright?”

He draws back, trembling, bright-eyed and so sickeningly human in his earnestness, in his gratefulness, that you feel more inhuman than ever. You grow outside of yourself, looking in, looking at the monster in the house. The warrior in the home. The bloodstain on the tatami mat. 

And then Kabukimono brushes past you to the bedroom to change. You run your hands over your face like you’re trying to hold it together, and by the time he returns, pink-cheeked and bashful, you can almost breathe again. 

“Did I put it on right?” he asks, holding out his arms. 

You run your eyes over him. The yukata drapes over his form, just a shade too large, but these things are hardly desired to inflict anything but a linear shape anyway. The knot is wobbly, but secure. But—

“You’ve tied right over left.” You step towards him, hands going out to undo the knot around his middle; he follows your hands nervously, swallowing hard when they brush over his stomach. “You must wrap the left side of the fabric over the right. Right over left is how you dress humans who have died. It’s bad luck.”

You untuck the fabric, leaving it undone in a straight line down his middle. There is a line of white skin slashed against the black cotton like a door cracked open in the dark. You wrap carefully, the right side first and folding the left over it. Several times, your hand brushes against the plane of his stomach; it’s unsuspectingly warm, and it tenses when your knuckles glide over it. Finally, the band, resting just over the jut of his hipbones, and the thick rope that you tie in a neat knot. 

“There,” you murmur, and Kabukimono gazes up at you, lips parted and eyes wide and starry. A red blush melts over the high apples of his cheeks, and you step back as hurriedly as if he’d burned you. “Come on. We’ll miss the procession.”

You slip on shoes and hurry out the door. The weather is still a little cool to where you resent the thinness of the cotton a little, but it’s so much milder than the bite of winter that you relish in it. The earth of the path next to the cornfield is damp and soft as you hurry over it, but Kabukimono grips your sleeve anyway. 

The path trails lazily around the eastern hillside and into a valley that wriggles itself between two mountains. On either side of the valley grow copses of cherry blossom trees, arching overhead to create a dappled canopy, an archway flooded in pale pink and white and lilac. Even as you approach, stray petals drift down from the groves, catching in hair and lashes and snagging on spare threads. In the valley, a stream rushes past; Rie and Shinsuke, as well as a host of other kids, have kicked off their sandals and splash around, spraying each other or else picking up lone crustaceans unlucky enough to have wandered in. 

Kabukimono’s grip on your sleeve tights to a vice as you slip under the canopy, his neck craned up so high he’s in real danger of spraining it. 

“Y/n! I never thought I’d see you here!”

Katsuragi emerges from the crowds and slips towards you, a genial grin on his face. He looks tired, circles the colour of bruises arching beneath his eyes and his hair scraped back carelessly into a ponytail, but his smile makes five years melt off his face easily. 

“Katsuragi,” you greet wanly as Kabukimono tenses excitedly. “I thought you’d be too busy to participate this year.”

“Ususually I would be,” he agrees solemnly. “My father is sick at the moment, though. I got the day off to care for him. Just a flu, should pass soon, especially now the weather is warming up. And I thought the spring air would do him some good, so I brought him over. He’s by the stream. But enough about me—how are you two doing?”

You shrug. “Kabukimono wanted to come and observe hanami,” you say in lieu of answering. Katsuragi grins. 

“Is that right?” he asks. “How’re you liking it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Kabukimono whispers reverently. “Does this really happen every year?”

“Every spring,” Katsuragi confirms. “You should come every year. It’s always beautiful, and always nice to see after a long hard winter. Reminds you that life has a way of turning around even when it seems grounded in what it is. Right, Y/n?”

You look at him archly. 

Why entrust him to me?

Who says I’m not entrusting you to him?

“The flowers are pretty,” you spit, annoyed all over again. Katsuragi’s smug grin doesn’t help. 

“Indeed they are. Don’t let me stop you enjoying them,” he chuckles. He reaches out, ruffles Kabukimono’s hair. “Enjoying the new haircut, by the way. Suits you.”

Kabukimono glows, pink-cheeked and delighted as Katsuragi meanders back over to his father. Pest. 

The two of you walk over to where you see Niwa. He greets you delightedly, and even Honoka offers a wan smile and a halfhearted wave. Rie and Shinsuke splash over to you, babbling about some sort of fish they’d found under a rock. Kabukimono talks emphatically to Niwa, first about his reading and writing, and then about metallurgy. You raise an eyebrow and both the men shift sheepishly. 

“Kabukimono here was wondering about learning a little bladesmithing,” Niwa says. “What do you think?”

You shrug. “It’s… a valuable skill to have. If you don’t mind teaching him, I mean.”

“Not at all,” Niwa beams. “Rie and Shinsuke adore him, you know? Even Honoka has a soft spot. Soon enough he’ll be part of the family.”

He misses the way Kabukimono freezes as soon as that word leaves his mouth, misses the look of longing and disbelief that wrenches over his expression. You catch it, though, and then you wonder when you started paying so much attention to the puppet, to the ghost in your house, because you’re sure you know exactly how he feels and what he’s thinking.

Niwa and Honoka, Rie and Shinsuke—they can be a family for him. The kind he deserves. Empathetic and practical and good. You are not built for family. You are not built to be a home.

You are tsukumogami. That is all you will ever be.