#drunk cucumbers

[sunshine-prongsie-boy]

Checking in. Take care of yourself. Ophelia misses you if you ever want to talk x

- R.AB @pianist-and-poet

I am taking SOOO much care of myself you wouldnt even believe it

[cassiasims]

didn’t beat the vegans-only-eat-salad allegations today sorry

[megatron-moving-to-megatron]

my salad..

[colorisbyshe]

i had a lil drinky drink to watch [redacted] tonight because i have a three day weekend that's booked pretty solid and wanted to wind down before that and i really can't emphasize enough how good a cucumber gin is when mixed with a strawberry seltzer. Just... any strawberry + cucumber combo you can get.

It's like... candy if it candy were refreshing. It doesn't even feel like alcohol, it genuinely feels like a tasty health potion.

[cumironi]

A FLEXIBLE BIMBO’S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL RUIN, NAMASTEEE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. thousand for pilates and your expensive juice while your boyfriend is working his ass off. is it acceptable? obviously not that’s why they’ll help you streeeeech.

warning(s). non-sorcerer, modern AU, reader is a spoiled college brat, age gap relationship (31yo man / 23yo reader), possessive behavior, manhandling, leg-on-shoulder sex position, power play, rough sex, standing sex, impact play (spanking), overstimulation, internal ejaculation / cum leaking, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, pussy drunk characterization, full nelson position, handpinning, wall fucking, orgasm denial, delayed climax, size kink, wet and messy sex, nipple play (biting, sucking), overstretched pu$$y, cumplay, emotionally repressed men snapping sexually, physical restraint (arm pinning, leg holding), reader being folded like a pilates reformer machine, window fucking, public exposure risk (urban apartment), swearing / explicit language, casual misogyny with affection, mental breakdown via dick, all characters are consenting adults.

GOJO SATORU

you don’t even hear the front door slam. too busy lounging on the couch in his hoodie—oversized and smelling like his stupid expensive cologne, with your phone balanced against your knee, legs thrown up like a princess in exile. a cucumber mint smoothie sweating beside you. freshly blended. still cold. probably fourteen dollars.

you hear his footsteps instead. that deliberate, heavy stride of a man who’s either bringing you dinner or about to fuck up your entire life for sport.

you don’t look up.

but you feel it.

that vibration of a presence when gojo satoru walks into the room pissed and amused in equal measure. like he’s caught you stealing gold bars again. like he’s gonna make you beg for the next one. he tosses something. paper. it hits you in the chest and flutters down.

you blink.

“…did you just throw a receipt at me?”

his sunglasses are off. he never wears them at home unless he’s about to deliver bad news in a dramatic monologue. “that’s a pilates receipt,” he says. “for fifty-six thousand yen.” a beat. “for one month.”

you lift your eyes lazily. “that’s the introductory rate.”

his hands come to his hips. god. those fucking hips. “and what exactly are they teaching you in this luxury cult that justifies you spending my hard-earned salary on getting tied to a piece of wood and shoved around like a meat puzzle?”

you lick smoothie off your straw.

“they work my core. build length. alignment. it’s a holistic approach to mobility and flexibility.” he stares at you in silence for a full ten seconds. his nostrils flare. “…you think you’re flexible?” he says at last. you blink slowly. you can feel the grin starting before it curls into your mouth.

“i’ve seen what you do to me,” you say sweetly. “so yes. i think i’m very flexible. you’re lucky i don’t invoice you.”

a second passes. a long one.

then—he’s moving.

fast.

you let out a delighted yelp as he grabs you off the couch, your smoothie flying somewhere behind you like a casualty of war. your legs kick, flail, but his grip is iron. the hoodie rides up to your waist as he tosses you over his shoulder.

“satoru—satoru—”

“shut up,” he says, smacking your ass, “and show me how much i’m paying for.”

the first time he folds you in half, it’s on the kitchen counter.

his hand’s between your shoulders, pressing you flat to the cold marble. your knees are up beside your ears. your panties are gone. his sweats are halfway down his thighs. and his cock—god, his cock—is already inside you, thick and veiny and curved just enough to punch something inside you you’ve never had anyone reach before.

he’s not even moving. just holding you there. impaled.

your calves tremble. your toes curl.

“not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh. “but these pilates people… do they fold you like this, baby? get your knees touching your fucking shoulders like this?” you try to breathe but there’s no air. just the stretch. the deepness. the weight of him inside you, pulsing.

you nod, eyes fluttering.

“liar,” he breathes, and slams into you.

your scream echoes off tile. his thrusts are punishing. slow. like he’s testing your range of motion. pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in with a controlled, maddening precision that leaves you shaking.

“look at you. soaking all over my counter. and you have the audacity to use my card for yoga class when you’ve got me right here? i should break your fucking spine.” you whine. moan. shudder. he’s so deep—you feel like you’re going to come just from the position. from how your body is folded under him, stretched wide, vulnerable.

he grabs your ankle. lifts it higher. you nearly scream again.

“god, look at this. baby. you’re literally bent in half. you wanna waste my money? make it worth it.”

round two is on the floor.

your legs are straddling his shoulders. your arms are pinned under his knees. and your entire torso is rolled up like he’s about to pile-drive you through the floorboards. “this one’s called happy baby,” he murmurs, licking your clit slow and messy. “except i don’t think there’s anything holy about what i’m doing to you right now.”

you can’t speak.

your thighs are shaking. your pussy’s swollen, wet, overstimulated from the last orgasm and being edged through two more. he keeps licking. slow and relentless. circling that tender spot just enough to make your stomach curl and twist, like you’re being stretched from the inside out.

“fuck,” he whispers. “your little hole’s fluttering. you gonna come again? just from my tongue?” you try to wiggle, but he tightens his grip. makes a noise against your clit that vibrates through your spine.

you break. completely. shuddering against his mouth, gushing against his chin as you come again, full-body, screaming his name. he groans, hips grinding into the floor, hungry for it. like he gets off just from wrecking you.

by the time he’s finally inside you again, this time from behind, kneeling over you with your arms pulled back into a stretch that arches your chest off the bed—he’s panting.

you’re soaked.

his cock slides in easy. and he just holds you there. hips flush. dick fully buried. sweat dripping down his chest onto your back. “jesus christ,” he groans. “this pussy—this fucking pussy—baby, i think you broke me.”

you make a sound. a weak, ruined whimper.

he chuckles.

softly.

leans down. kisses your shoulder. cheek. presses his chest to your back and rocks into you with slow, loving strokes, fucking you now like he means it. “you win,” he whispers against your ear. “fuck the pilates. i’ll stretch you every morning.”

a pause.

“but i’m charging you for the smoothies now.”

GETO SUGURU

it starts in the kitchen.

you’re wearing that outfit. leggings that cling to your ass like a second skin, high waistband hugging the curve of your hips. cropped tank top, no bra, just the hint of nipple pressing against the fabric like a test of his restraint. hair twisted up messily, neck exposed.

you’re blending something. bright green and expensive-smelling.

he walks in from work and drops his keys with a low clink, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

then, “you’ve been at that place again.”

your spine straightens.

“what place?” you don’t even turn around. voice all air and innocence, like you’ve already decided you’re going to lie through your teeth. “don’t fucking play with me,” he says, tone level, low, a blade unsheathed. “i saw the charge. that pilates studio. twenty-four thousand yen. again.”

you sip. “they added advanced core conditioning.”

“did they add a private fucking chef too? you spent more on smoothies this month than on textbooks.” you don’t flinch. just smirk into the glass. “i’m investing in my longevity.”

and that’s it.

the silence that follows is deep and weighted and final.

because he doesn’t argue when he’s past the point of talking. he acts. the next thing you feel are his hands on your waist, dragging you away from the counter with no warning, smoothie glass thunking to the floor, half-spilled. he spins you, lifts you—lifts you—and slams your back into the cool surface behind. you yelp, arms catching the edge behind you as he shoves his thigh between your legs and presses. hard.

“you want flexibility?” he growls, mouth hot on your jaw. “mobility? deep core engagement?”

his hands grip your thighs and spread them wide, pushing them up and open until you’re practically doing a split across the marble. the stretch burns—but it’s not enough to distract from the thick press of his thigh grinding up against your pussy through the leggings, damp already. “i’ll give you a fucking full-body workout.”

“no one touches me,” you gasp.

you moan, but it’s cut off when he grabs your jaw—tight—and forces your face toward him. “you think this ass is yours to flaunt on some reformer bed? think they stretch you like i do?” he’s furious. but there’s something underneath it. darker. hotter.

you’re being owned. corrected. and you love it.

he snorts. low and sharp. “except when you beg for it.”

he strips you bare in the living room.

throws your top to the floor. tears the leggings down your legs like they offended him. you squirm, bare now, flushed from neck to thigh. he doesn’t even bother undressing fully—just shoves his slacks and boxers down enough to free his cock, hard and thick and already leaking.

“get on the floor,” he says, voice gravel.

you obey.

he grabs your ankle and drags you to him, and it’s not gentle. your skin scrapes on the carpet. your breath hitches. but you’re soaked. he folds your knees to your chest, pushes both legs back until you’re open and exposed and trembling. “you think this position is in your class?” he growls, staring down at your cunt, glistening under the light. “you think they stretch you like this?”

you’re so open you can’t breathe. your thighs tremble from the pressure. your cunt pulses with need.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow at first. just enough to stretch your entrance wide. then he rams forward with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust that punches a sound out of your throat you’ve never made before.

your eyes roll back. your hands claw at the carpet. you’re full, painfully, impossibly full. he’s so deep it aches. “feel that?” he hisses through his teeth, dragging his cock out slow, letting your walls grip every ridge of him. “this is the only stretch that matters.”

he fucks you like a hammer. like he’s working out every ounce of frustration with the way your body folds around him. he bends your legs back until your knees press into your chest and your ass lifts off the ground. your pussy squelches, loud, raw, soaking. the slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

he leans down, mouth to your ear.

“they stretch your pussy this deep?” he hisses.

“n—no,” you choke.

he grabs your throat—firm, not choking. just holding.

“say it again.”

“no one—no one does but you.”

he kisses you then—rough and filthy, tongue sliding into your mouth like it owns you. he doesn’t stop fucking you even as your moans catch in your throat. he wants it there. to feel it. to taste it. to make it real.

he flips you over onto your stomach without pulling out.

you gasp as your face hits the carpet, and then he’s grinding into you from behind, deeper now, weight heavy over your back, one hand fisted in your hair.

you sob into the floor.

“stay right there,” he growls. “arch your fucking back—good. that’s it. hold it.” he pistons into you from behind, his hand smacking your ass hard, again, again, until it burns. “legs shaking already?” he pants. “you’re such a spoiled little brat. wanna run your mouth, waste my money, act like your pussy isn’t mine.”

he pulls your head back by your hair and bites your neck—hard.

“say it.”

“it’s yours—fuck, suguru—i swear—”

he fucks you even harder.

and when you finally come—shaking, convulsing, sobbing into the carpet with your pussy gripping him like it’ll never let go—he groans, low and guttural, and spills inside you in thick, hot waves. he doesn’t pull out. he stays there. buried. deep. panting.

hours later—your face still mashed against the floor, limbs trembling, thighs bruised—he finally slides out. you feel the slow drip of his cum down your thigh. then his fingers. he pushes it back in with two of them. slow. possessive.

“no more pilates,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-slick hair off your temple. “you want to stretch, baby, you come to me.”

you blink up at him, broken and beaming.

“…can i still get the smoothies?”

he laughs once, low and sharp.

then grabs your ankle again.

“bend over the couch. you’re not done.”

NANAMI KENTO

you should’ve known something was wrong when he texted you at 4:41 p.m.

“i’ll be home by five. don’t go anywhere.”

no emoji. no dot dot dot. just those words. clean and dry like a corporate bullet.

you thought he was bluffing. he doesn’t leave the office early for anything. he eats his lunch standing up and answers emails with a frown so deep it might be surgical. but he walks through the door at 4:58 p.m. briefcase down. tie still on. and he doesn't kiss you. he sets a folded piece of paper on the counter. a receipt. you don’t even need to look at it.

you know what it is.

“you spent sixty-five thousand yen,” he says without looking at you, sliding off his watch. “in one week.” you chew your lip, standing in the kitchen like a caught rabbit in leggings that cling to your ass, sports bra sticking to your chest. “they had a stretch reformer bootcamp this week,” you offer weakly.

his brow twitches.

“that’s what you call it?” he asks, walking toward you, loosening his tie. “bootcamp? to lie on your back while some barely-trained teenager straps you into resistance bands and calls it exercise?”

“they do more than that—”

“i can see what they do. your little videos. those slow leg lifts. the air-humping. the stretching. you think that justifies the bill you sent me?” he’s standing close now. close enough that his cologne—clean cedar, leather, citrus undercut with heat—wraps around you like a noose. you smirk, defiant even as your heartbeat stutters. “i’m flexible now,” you say, voice light. “isn’t that worth something?”

he exhales slowly. closes his eyes.

and when he opens them again—

“strip.”

he doesn't let you undress yourself. he does it for you.

then his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive. he turns you. pushes your back against the cold wall of the hallway. one palm finds your throat. not choking—just there. heavy. dominant.

rips the waistband of your leggings down with one brutal tug, dragging them past your knees, your thighs, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something expensive he owns.

he peels your bra up, off, tossing it behind you with a flick of his wrist.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low as his other hand slips between your legs. “how flexible?” your breath catches. you’re soaked already. your thighs part on instinct, the pulse of need between them aching and slick. he pushes two fingers in. slow. precise. your body clenches.

his voice is a near-growl.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “you’re dripping just from me undressing you. and you spend my money so some stranger can put your legs in the air?” you moan. try to speak. he curls his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp, then pulls them out and shoves them into your mouth.

“taste it.”

you suck, eyes fluttering.

he grins, slow and mean.

“we’re doing this my way tonight.”

you don’t even understand what’s happening until you’re on the bed, face down, arms yanked back—hard—and your body is suddenly off the mattress. lifted. bent.

“nanami—?”

his hands are under your knees. your arms are over his, bent back. your entire body is suspended in the air, your back arched, your thighs spread wide. his chest is to your back. and you’re held in place by the cage of his arms and the brutal grip of his thighs against yours.

he growls into your neck, “you want flexibility? i’ll show you full extension.”

then he pushes into you.

you scream.

he’s thick. hard. ruthless. your pussy stretches around him so tight you think you might tear. he buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust, cock carving into you like he’s claiming space. you can’t even move. your legs are pinned wide. your arms pulled back. your back arched so deeply that your chest is jutting forward, helpless and trembling.

and he starts to fuck you.

deep. measured. powerful.

his hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every brutal grind of cock against your swollen, aching cunt. your body bounces in his grip, caught, dangling, used. “this what they teach you?” he hisses into your ear. “this angle? this depth? you feel that, baby?”

you sob. nod. can’t speak.

“say it.”

you struggle, mouth open, words choked out with every thrust.

“they—don’t—fuck—me—like—you—do—”

he groans, fucking harder.

“they better not.”

he adjusts his grip, pulling your knees higher. deeper angle. you choke on a scream as he hits something so deep your vision goes white. his mouth is on your shoulder now, teeth dragging over skin, lips slick with sweat and spit and need. he doesn’t stop. not when your pussy spasms around him, clenching like a fist. not when your orgasm crashes into you like a scream trapped inside bone.

he fucks you through it. never slowing. never relenting.

“you want a stretch? i’ll keep you bent like this until your muscles seize.” he groans. pants. and then—he comes. deep inside you. cock pulsing. his hands locked on your body like a cage. he holds you there, suspended, filled.

like a lesson.

after, he lowers you onto the bed like something delicate. ruined. you’re trembling. twitching. your thighs won’t close. his cum leaks out of you in slow, thick drips. his hand brushes your hair back. “next time you want to stretch,” he murmurs, voice rough and dark, “you ask me.”

you nod.

he leans down. kisses your temple. “and if i see one more charge from that place—” his hand slips back between your thighs. “—i’ll fuck you in the lobby.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the door slams behind him with enough force to shake the floorboards.

you’re mid-pose. stretched out over a yoga ball in front of the TV, leggings practically painted onto your ass, some workout influencer with a honeyed voice instructing you to breathe through the sacral engagement.

you turn your head, a smirk curling at your mouth.

“hey, babe—home early?”

toji doesn’t answer. he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds something up between two fingers. a receipt. long. curled at the edge. “three sessions in one day?” he asks, voice flat. “you training to be a contortionist now?”

you blink, innocent.

“they had a flexibility workshop.”

“flexibility,” he repeats, stepping forward. “you need them to teach you that?”

you open your mouth to retort—but it dies in your throat when he closes the distance. one hand goes straight to your throat. the other to the back of your head. he grips you—hard—drags you up off the yoga ball, and before you can breathe, he’s got you slammed flat over the kitchen counter. "you think i pay for you to stretch out that tight little pussy in some fancy-ass studio with floor-length mirrors and soy candles? huh?"

your hips writhe, but his hand slaps down hard on your ass.

“answer me.”

“n-no, toji—fuck—i—”

he grabs the waistband of your leggings and rips them. not tugs. not slides. tears. the elastic pops. your panties with them. you’re bare now, bent over the cold counter, pussy slick and already dripping because of course you're soaked from this.

he slides his fingers between your legs. hums.

“so wet just from me walking in. you like getting caught.” you gasp, biting your lip, and he shoves two fingers in. hard. fast. curls them until you cry out. "yeah. that’s what i thought. you fucking brat."

he takes you right there.

no prep. no warning.

one hand between your shoulders, the other pinning your wrists to the counter. he rips his belt open, pulls his cock out—already hard—and thrusts inside in one brutal, merciless motion.

you scream. your body bucks. your eyes roll back.

he’s thick. too big. stretching you wide with no time to adjust. it burns—but god, it’s good.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your ear. “wanted to see if those yoga freaks could get you as deep as me?” he slams into you again. again. your pussy’s clenching, spasming, trying to take him. failing. it’s too much. and you’re shaking already. his grip moves to your hair. yanks your head back. you’re drooling, eyes unfocused.

he laughs.

“you’re so fucking dumb when i fuck you like this. i should film it. send it to your instructor. ‘here’s your little star pupil—can’t even spell her name with a cock in her.’”

then he really gets mean.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing. tosses you onto the floor in the living room—next to the yoga mat, your smoothie still sweating on the side table—and grabs you. pulls you into his lap. traps your arms. lifts you up, and suddenly—your knees are over his thighs, your legs spread, and your arms are pinned up under his.

full nelson.

you’ve got no leverage. no control. your whole body is open, suspended, split wide.

and then—

he sinks into you again.

hard.

you scream. back arching. vision blurring.

his cock hits everything from this angle. it's like he's splitting you in half. you can't even fight it—your arms are trapped, your legs forced wide, and he’s using your own weight to fuck you down onto his cock over and over again, bouncing you like a toy. “there’s your stretch,” he snarls. “you feel that? you’re so fucking open, i can see my cock through your stomach.”

you sob. try to nod. can't speak.

he’s relentless.

fucking up into you, holding you like a ragdoll, your pussy wrapped tight around him, spasming with every thrust. he’s groaning now—raw, rough, sweat slicking his chest. “you earned this,” he pants. “all that money you spent—now you’re gonna pay it off.” he slams up again. your moan is wrecked.

“with your fucking cunt.”

when you come, it’s violent.

your body seizes, twitching hard in his grip. your pussy milks him. chokes on him. you’re sobbing—babbling nonsense—legs trembling around his waist.

toji groans.

and comes.

deep inside you. thick and hot. filling you up so much you feel it dripping before he even stops. he doesn’t let you go. he just holds you there. cock still buried. chest heaving. “there,” he mutters. “that’s a real full-body workout.”

a beat.

“and baby?” he leans in, voice low and dark against your ear. “next time you spend my fucking money without asking—i’ll fold you backwards.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you’d been running your mouth all day.

legs sore from class, tank top sweat-slicked, face flushed with that post-workout glow like you’d actually worked for something.

“my hamstrings are tight,” you’d whined, flopping onto the couch, pushing your ankle onto his thigh like you wanted him to touch you. “we did these deep lunge extensions—my instructor said i’m really flexible now.”

sukuna didn’t say anything then.

just looked at you—eyeing the curve of your ass in those fucking leggings, the way you stretched like you knew he was watching. the bratty smile you gave him when you took the last of his cigarette and didn’t say thank you.

he waited.

waited until now—late evening, when the lights are low and the room smells like smoke and sex and skin—and you’re backed against the wall, your tank top riding high, your panties hanging by a thread, and your leg thrown over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

like you’re just that flexible.

he’s inside you already.

deep.

fucking inches deep.

his cock stretches you wide, thick and brutal, the kind of stretch that burns in your thighs and pulses in your cunt, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his hands are gripping your hips hard—fingers bruising, rough, possessive—and your heel’s hooked over his shoulder, your other leg barely holding your weight as your back arches into the plaster.

and he just smiles. slow. dangerous.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, hand sliding up the inside of your raised thigh, gripping the meat of it, squeezing. “this how they stretch you in those little classes of yours?”

you try to speak. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

he chuckles.

“nah,” he says. “they don’t stretch you like this, do they?”

he thrusts. once. deep.

your breath shatters.

he’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. your pussy clenches. your hips jerk. your fingers claw at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps you right there, leg hoisted high, body bent and trembling.

“fuck, baby,” he grins, cock sliding out slow before slamming back in. “you’re opening up so easy. maybe those classes are working.”

you moan. broken. breathless.

his hand wraps around your throat.

“you like this, huh? standing here, pussy stretched open, one fucking leg in the air like a good little slut on display?”

“fuck—sukuna—please—”

he rolls his hips, angling his thrusts to grind against your g-spot, relentless and deep.

you sob. your thighs tremble.

he groans, filthy and low, lips brushing the curve of your jaw.

“you feel that stretch in your hips, sweetheart? in your cunt?”

he thrusts again—hard—makes your whole body bounce against the wall.

“this is real flexibility,” he growls. “this is what i pay for.”

his mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, your tits—teeth grazing, lips sucking, tongue trailing fire down your throat. and the whole time, his cock keeps slamming into you, dragging moans from your chest you didn’t know you could make.

you’re babbling now. drunk on him. on how deep he is. on the burn in your thighs and the slick squelch of your soaked cunt every time he pulls out and drives back in. “so fucking tight,” he pants. “and still taking it all. you feel how wide i’ve got you open?” his thumb drops to your clit. rubs circles—mean, precise, perfect.

you cry out. jerk.

“uh-uh,” he hisses, pinning your hips. “don’t move. hold the leg. keep it up. you want to be flexible, brat? show me.” your muscles scream. your body shakes. but you obey. because he’s so deep. so rough. so fucking good.

he kisses your throat.

“attagirl.”

and when he comes?

when you come—it’s violent. sudden. full-body.

your vision flares. you scream, cunt clenching around him so tight he groans, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck as he fucks you through it, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up.

it’s deep.

a growl ripped from his chest, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up with so much cum it leaks out around him even before he pulls out. you’re shaking. leg still hoisted. mouth open. whole body limp. he finally lowers your leg.

lets you collapse against him, his arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head like you’re breakable. then, low against your ear: “that’s the only stretch that matters.”

SHIU KONG

he doesn’t say a word when he gets home. not when he finds your receipt on the bathroom counter—fifty-two thousand yen for a reformer stretch package. not when he sees you on the couch, barefoot, bare-legged, sipping an iced matcha like it wasn’t paid for with his blood money.

just drops his phone. loosens his tie. and walks over to you with that expression—tight mouth, heavy brow. all controlled violence. you glance up. blink.

“what?”

he sits beside you.

silent.

and grabs your jaw.

not roughly. not yet. just enough to tilt your face to his. “get on the floor,” he says, calm. cool. deadly. “face down. knees wide.”

you pause.

“…what?”

his hand slides to your throat. squeezes, just a little. eyes dark.

“you heard me.”

he doesn’t strip you all the way. just yanks your panties down and pushes your little workout shorts to the side, your tank top rucked up above your hips. he wants you dressed for this. dressed like the spoiled little slut you are.

“this is called frog pose, right?” he murmurs, gripping your ankles and dragging them wide. “hips open, knees bent. cute little ass in the air.” your face burns. the stretch in your thighs is deep, your cunt already throbbing from being so exposed, so vulnerable. your chest is flat to the rug, back arched, legs splayed.

and then you feel it.

his cock.

thick. hard. dragging along your slit, teasing. mean.

“you want mobility?” he mutters. “i’ll give you mobility.”

he pushes in—slow. thick. stretching you until your mouth opens around a gasp and your fingers clutch at the carpet. your pussy sucks him in, inch by inch, until he’s deep, hips flush against the meat of your ass.

and then he stays there.

hands on your lower back. holding you open.

"fuck," he breathes. "look at how deep i am in this position. you feel that?" you try to move—try to rock back onto him—but his palm lands hard across your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “don’t move,” he growls. “just stay open. let me fuck you like this.”

and then he starts.

his hips snap forward. hard. again. again.

each thrust punches a cry out of your chest, muffled against the carpet, your body rocking from the force of it. he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind your back, pins them with one hand, and uses the other to shove your hips down, locking you in place. “this what you pay them for?” he growls. “to stretch your hips? your back?”

he slams into you, balls slapping, breath hot over your spine.

“they fuck you like this, sweetheart?”

you shake your head, sobbing.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“say it.”

“no—fuck—no one does but you—”

he groans. thrusts harder. his cock hits so deep it feels like your guts rearrange every time. your knees tremble. thighs ache. the stretch is insane—but you can’t stop coming, pussy clenching, walls fluttering, drooling around his cock with every filthy grind of his hips. "jesus," he pants, “this cunt was made to stay open like this.”

and when he comes?

he stays inside. grinds deep. dumps every drop into your spasming cunt and keeps it in you with a hard slap to your ass and a hand dragging down your spine.

after?

you’re still face-down, body limp, legs aching from the stretch. shiu pulls your panties back up. kisses your thigh. smooths your hair. and murmurs, low and serious: “next time you want to stretch—” his hand cups your sore, slick cunt. “—you ask.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it starts with the door clicking shut.

you’re home before him, sprawled on his couch in one of his button-down shirts—open, loose, your tank top tight underneath, your bare legs tucked up beneath you. the TV is on. you’re sipping kombucha like you pay for it.

he enters in silence.

shoes off. briefcase down. suit jacket hung neatly over the hook. tie loosened. he doesn’t speak. not until he stands in the doorway between living room and hall, holding a piece of paper like a verdict. long receipt. high total. you glance over. sip.

“…that from the studio?”

he lifts one brow. folds it. sets it on the table.

"forty-seven thousand,” he says calmly. “for one week.”

you blink. “it's—private sessions.”

“i can see that.” he steps closer. “what exactly do they do to you in these sessions?” you tilt your head, smirk already crawling to your mouth. “stretch me out.” he breathes in. slow. nostrils flare. you can feel the temperature shift.

“get up.”

he doesn’t speak again until you’re backed into the bedroom, his hand wrapped gently—too gently—around your wrist, and his voice low.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

he leans in. kisses your cheek. “slowly.”

you do. piece by piece. he watches. the shirt slides down your arms. your tank top peels over your head. your sports bra falls away—no noise, no rush. panties next. his eyes stay on you the entire time. and when you’re finally bare, standing quiet, naked and still in front of him—

he moves.

you don’t realize what he’s doing until your back hits the window. one hand cups your thigh, pulls it up. higher. higher—until your knee’s nearly pressed to your chest, the other foot flat on the floor, your heel hooked over his shoulder. he adjusts his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb brushing just under your breast.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow. deliberate. devastating.

your eyes roll. your mouth opens in a gasp you don’t finish, because he’s deep—so fucking deep in this angle, cock hitting every spot you didn’t know you had. your pussy flutters, clenching around him already. “you’re silent now,” he murmurs. you try to breathe. try to speak. “what happened to that mouth?” he rocks his hips forward. not fast. not brutal. just deep. intentional.

in control.

“they stretch you like this?” he says softly, tone clinical. “push your leg up here, keep your pussy open while they slide inside?” you whimper. shake your head.

his voice stays level. “answer.”

“n-no—fuck, hiromi—just you—only you—”

his mouth presses to your neck. he still doesn’t speed up. just keeps your body exactly where he wants it—your leg over his shoulder, your hips tilted perfectly, his cock dragging deep and slow inside your cunt, every motion pressing you harder against the glass.

you’re dripping.

he feels it.

your slick is painting his cock, soaking the front of his slacks, your inner thigh shining in the low light.

“flexible,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up to your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast again. “but not enough.” he pulls out—slow—until just the tip remains. and slams back in. your scream shatters the quiet. his fingers grip your throat—not tight, just there, grounding. a point of contact. “you’ll hold this position,” he says. “until i finish.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours. never too fast. never losing rhythm. just deep, hard strokes. your leg high. trembling. your foot still braced on the floor, trying to hold balance while he uses you against the window like a study in anatomy.

your orgasm comes without warning—tight, sharp, full-body. your cunt clenches, spasming, walls squeezing so tight he groans. but he doesn’t stop. just fucks you through it, even deeper. “you’ll give me another,” he murmurs. “legs this flexible, you can take two.”

you sob.

“three.”

his hand dips between your legs. finds your clit.

“four.”

he finishes inside you.

still holding your leg high, cock buried deep, cum leaking down your thigh. your head lolls against the window. the city lights blur. he lowers your leg slowly. kisses your forehead. adjusts your hair with one hand. straightens your back. then murmurs— “next time you want a stretch, you’ll do it here. for free.”

[nikonuee]

Airplane and Cucumber should've made out at least ONCE

One sloppy, angry, half-drunk, make-out could fix them (make them so so much worse-)

One moment they're snarking at each other over plot points and "Well I don't see you writing anything, huh? I know how many of those shitty chapters you bought, you masochist!" Their wine is sloshing over the edges of their cups as they animatedly gesture to emphasise their point; The next, The two transmigration are pulling at the other's hair and exchanging wet, open-mouthed kisses. Complaining all through as they paw at the "Stupid Xianxia clothing" "You think it's cool-" and attempt to slip a hand beneath all the layers.

Cucumber ends up seated in Airplane's lap, head tilted back to allow more of that--surprisingly clever when it's not running off--mouth access to his collarbones, teeth running across the thin skin and sending shivers running down his back to pool at the base of his spine.

"I hate you so, so much"

"Yeah, yeah, can you hate me after you get your pants off?"

Cucumber's hissing insults between gasps as Airplane mouths his way up his thigh and Damn, 'Maybe those fingers aren't just for writing shitty porn after all? Oh, Oh-'

Cucumber absolutely doesn't have the face to see Airplane or God Forbid talk about it afterwards so he sneaks out of the Pleasure (heh) House in the early hours of the morning and takes the next available mission far far away from the sect.

He comes back to a smug Airplane who promptly gets his ass 'thwapped!' Because he couldn't resist the "Is it because we didn't say 'No Homo'?"

[wispitty]

(short reacts) | "you confess when you're totally shitfaced drunk" + one piece men

summary: you had WAY past your drinking limit and now you're just exploding with LOVE for him.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

You’re swaying in his arms, eyes glossy, cheek pressed against his chest.

“Croco-babyyy…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I LOVE you.”

He goes rigid.

You grab the front of his shirt.

“Like SOOO much. Like, if someone tried to stab you, I'd bite them. Right on the ankle.”

You squint.

“Your scary lil hook hand is soooo cool, I love it. You're my favorite angry man.”

He malfunctions. Literally just stares at you like you're an alien who dropped from heaven.

“You're drunk.”

“I'm in loveeeeeeee!”

You pass out mid-hug.

He just stands there. Frozen.

Mutters:

“...What the hell am I supposed to do with that.”

(Spoiler: He tucks you in and sits there watching you sleep like a guard dog with heartburn.)

MIHAWK

You cling to his arm like a koala. You’re warm and soft and talking a mile a minute.

“You’re sooo handsome. Like, it’s RUDE actually. I have to look away sometimes cause you’re too hot and I feel like I’m gonna die.”

He blinks.

“You’re intoxicated.”

“I’m INTO YOU.”

He blinks again.

You poke his chest with a pout.

“Do you know how annoying it is to like someone who looks like a vampire prince and has very judgmental eyebrows?”

He raises one.

“THAT.”

Then you melt into his coat and sigh.

“I love you sooooooo much… If you asked me to run away and start a farm I’d do it. For you. I'd plant cucumbers.”

He doesn’t sleep that night.

MARCO

You climb into his lap like a sleepy kitten.

“Marrrrrrcooooo…”

“Yeah, baby?”

You press your forehead to his.

“I love you SO much it’s dumb. Like, I wanna kiss your face and also cry and also buy you matching socks.”

He laughs softly.

“That’s a lotta feelings, huh?”

“It’s not my fault your smile makes me feel like life is worth living.”

He actually covers his face because holy shit that one got to him.

“I’m gonna fucking die, yoi.”

“Noooo you’re not, I love you too much. I won’t let you die. I’ll protect you with SOCKS.”

You fall asleep on him mid-rant.

He kisses your hair and whispers:

“You’re killin’ me, songbird.”

ACE

You run up to him and tackle-hug him.

“ACE I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!!”

“Wha—?!! Are you okay?!”

“I’m in love with you.”

“YOU’RE WHAT?!”

“Like a lot. Like, if you turned into a plant I’d water you.”

He’s already spiraling. Red. Stammering. Sweating.

“I—uh—what?! When?! Why?!!”

“Cause you’re cute and warm and you make my tummy do loop-de-loops.”

“SO DO YOU!!! WAIT—NO—WHAT AM I SAYING?!”

“Okay, wait, but would you love me if I was a worm?”

You both pass out cuddling under a table with Ace going into specific details about he'd take care of you if you were a worm and how you'd take care of him if he was a plant.

Sabo finds you both crying and whispers:

“Idiots. They deserve each other.”

SHANKS

You stumble in. Red-faced. Teary-eyed. Drunk on rum and love.

“Shanks…”

“Here we go…”

You grab his coat.

“I’m gonna say something crazy.”

“Hit me.”

“I’m in love with you. Like, I’d kill a seagull for you.”

“...That’s a weird standard but I’ll take it.”

“And I think your laugh is sexy. And your scars are cool. And your nose is NICE. And I’d marry you. Right now.”

He pauses.

Smiles.

“Say it again tomorrow when you’re sober, sweetheart.”

“Okay. But you’re mine now.”

“Deal. By the way, what’s your ring size?”

LAW

You shuffle in with a flushed face and a stuffed penguin.

“Trafalgaaaar…”

“Don’t slur my name.”

“I love you.”

He looks up from his book like you just summoned an ancient evil.

“Excuse me?”

“So much. You’re smart. And hot. And I like your hands. And your voice. And if you died I’d start a cult.”

“...A what.”

“A cult. With matching outfits. And hats.”

“You’re fevered.”

“I’m in love.”

You lean on his shoulder and then pass out on his lap.

He doesn’t move for two hours.

CORAZON

You run into him mid-giggle.

“ROSINANTEEEE!!”

He flails.

You grab his face and kiss his cheek.

“You are the love of my LIFE. Your laugh is cute. Your coat is STUPID but I LOVE IT. I love YOU.”

He goes full tomato. Tears are already streaming down his face.

You write “I’D DIE FOR YOU” on a sticky note and slap it to his chest.

Then immediately fall asleep in his arms.

He’s crying and hugging you and writing down “I LOVE YOU TOO” over and over and over.

He genuinely just loves you so much.

[ghostedbunnie]

new year's kisses with tf141

it goes without saying that johnny is counting down the seconds to the New Year even more eagerly to just get his hands on you. you set that rule up before heading to the party with the rest of his squadmates and their friends and families because his hands are never toying with the line of indecency. he always has both feet firmly over that line with his hands grabbing a handful of your ass. so when the time finally comes you know you are in for a treat. before the words "happy new year" even leave your mouth properly he's already on you, giving you a quick wet smooch before licking into your mouth. it's messy and it gets you a few wolf whistles that make you punch his shoulders to release you which only spurs him on more. (at this point it's either simon or price that take mercy on you and grab him by the scruff so you can catch your breath.)

when it comes to simon he's as indifferent as can be to the buzz of people around him at the party. he throws few quips in (mostly to rile johnny up so he does something he'll probably regret later like dancing on the top of the tables with gaz recording it for future blackmail). other than that he is as cool as a cucumber, manspreading with his arm over your shoulder trying to contain your own excitement about the new years kiss. he can feel it rolling off of you in waves. once every erupts in cheers, you feel his rough hand pulling at your chin to lift your lips up to his. the kiss starts off pretty PG but your body fits so nicely into him and your mouth tastes sweet like the cocktail you had just before. it's a good thing he doesn't care what others think and he has no shame whatsoever so the team can't even capitalize on this moment.

price was probably somehow forced to help with the planning by laswell. he begrudgingly agrees to intimidate the bar owner into lowering the price for renting it out and then he helps move the heavy furniture around but after that he's gone. he pulls you away from your conversation partner with a hand on your lower back and hides away on the corner away from his squad. when you tease him about it he only shrugs. once the clock strikes midnight he's in no rush, he'll be very romantic about it, cradling your face in his big hands and leaving a teasing peck on your lips. when your brows furrow because that can't be all he chuckles and lets you jump at him to give him a proper kiss since he even tamed his beard for the occasion.

once again kyle is the only normal one in the team. he came to the party mostly to be an enabler to drunk johnny and take pictures. not only of johnny's escapades but of everyone having fun, some artsy shots of you against the backdrop of all the lights while you were playing with sparklers. he has the eye for beauty and the talent to go with it. even he can't help to be excited about getting his new year's kiss. during the countdown his eyes keep sliding down to your lips and then back up to hold your gaze. there is no embarrassment about getting caught staring either which only serves to make you blush instead. kyle will tease you too, kissing your forehead first when wishing you happy new year and then seeing the absolutely scandalized look on your face makes him break and laugh before swooping in and dramatically bending you backwards to give you that proper kiss, so he can finally know what that new lip balm you used before coming here.

[pensthoughts]

for the data | v.p

pairing: van palmer x f!reader a/n: travis' comment about jackieshauna sleepover kisses really got me thinking so i decided to write this about the one, the only: van palmer 😇 summary: two girls. one sleepover. expired wine coolers, messy face masks, and a kiss that totally doesn’t mean anything (except maybe it does). word count: 1.2k

it's a friday night, and it's just the two of you.

van's sprawled across your bed like she owns the place, one socked foot kicked over the side, the other tucked underneath her. her sweatshirt is halfway off one shoulder, and her flannel pajama pants are rolled twice at the waist. in contrast, you're sitting cross-legged beside her in a matching tank top and pajama shorts you bought last weekend, holding a warm wine cooler that probably expired sometime last year, giggling at whatever dumb thing she just said.

"you're so dramatic," you say through your laugh, nudging her knee with your foot.

van throws her head back, grinning like a lunatic. "me? you're the one who said—what was it? 'this is a sacred night, van, don't make a mockery of it.'" her impression of you is awful and way too high-pitched.

you roll your eyes and sip from your drink. "because it is sacred. we haven't had a real sleepover since, like, new year's."

van fake gasps. "you're right. that was the night you made us do vision boards and spilled cranberry juice on my pillow."

you look over at her, mouth open in exaggerated offense. "okay, you were the one who said a vision board was 'great manifestation'. don't act like you weren't into it."

she shrugs, smug. "doesn't mean i forgive you for my sticky pillow."

you smile into your drink and lean back against your headboard, your shoulder brushing hers. "you still slept on it."

"i would've slept on the floor," she says easily, "but your mom gets freaked out when i'm not in bed like a normal guest."

you grin. "you're not normal."

"flattered," van says, tipping her bottle toward you in a mock-toast before taking a sip.

the room smells like the lilac candle you lit half an hour ago and the strawberry-whatever drinks you dug out from your kitchen. there's music playing softly from the radio in the corner—some throwback station cycling through random ballads. it's too warm in your room, and van's arm keeps bumping yours, but you don't move away. you never do.

"hey," she says suddenly, turning toward you, voice quieter.

you look over. her hair's messy in a cute way, strands falling into her eyes. she blinks, slow and soft. "thanks for inviting me."

"of course i did," you say, just as quiet. "you're my favorite person."

van's smile flickers for a second like it almost falters—but then she rolls her eyes. "ew. don't get sappy on me now."

you giggle and bump your shoulder into hers. "you're lucky i didn't make us do another vision board."

"oh, i brought mine," she says, completely deadpan, "it's just a collage of doritos and gillian anderson."

you snort. "classic van palmer."

"hey," she says again, tilting her head at you. "wanna do face masks?"

you blink at the change of subject but nod. "yeah. in the bathroom cabinet."

she grins and hops off the bed, nearly stumbling as she walks. "woah. drunk walk. did you see that?"

"impressive form," you tease, watching her disappear down the hall.

when she comes back, she's holding two neon-colored face mask packets and dramatically fans them out as if she's playing cards. "pick your poison: cucumber cool or watermelon glow."

you pretend to think. "watermelon sounds fake."

"it is fake. but that's half the fun." she tosses you the cucumber one and plops back onto the bed with hers.

you both apply them while laughing about how gross they feel—van keeps smearing hers on unevenly and missing huge spots just to make you laugh. her nose is completely untouched, and you point it out, wiping some of your own onto her skin with your finger.

she freezes for a second when you do it, staring at you for a beat too long.

then she smirks, "you just want an excuse to touch me."

you roll your eyes, flushing a little. "you're the one who wanted to do face masks."

"guilty," she says with a wink.

there's a pause.

you sip the rest of your drink and toss the empty bottle in your trash can, the glass clinking faintly. "you want another one?"

van holds up her own empty. "let's get reckless."

you both sneak to the kitchen, whispering and stifling giggles as you grab more bottles from the back of the fridge. when you're back in your room, the candle's burned halfway down, and the radio's playing something slow and dreamy.

you flop onto the bed, lying on your back, and van lies beside you, both of you staring at the ceiling like it might tell you a secret.

"feels like we're in a movie," van says after a moment, her voice a little slurred but sweet.

you glance at her. "yeah?"

"yeah. like... a scene where nothing bad's happened yet, you know? just... two girls, in a bedroom. drinking gross drinks. putting goo on their faces."

you smile. "the calm before the horror movie plot kicks in."

van snorts. "exactly."

there's a lull in the conversation. the kind that's comfortable. your eyes flick to her profile—how the flickering candlelight catches the curve of her nose and the soft line of her jaw. her lashes are longer than you ever realized.

"you're really pretty," you say.

you don't mean to say it.

it just kind of... slips out.

van blinks. turns to look at you. "what?"

you freeze. "i—i said—um, i meant, like... the mask makes your skin look... i mean, i guess you always—"

van's looking at you like she's trying to figure out if you're serious. like she's scared to believe you but also kind of wants to. her voice is soft when she asks, "did you mean it?"

your heart stutters. you're drunk enough to be brave but not sober enough to think about remembering this later and dying of it.

"yeah," you say quietly. "i did."

she stares at you for a second longer, and then she grins, lopsided and nervous. "you wanna do something kinda dumb?"

you blink. "uh... yeah?"

and then she kisses you.

just once.

it's not deep or long—it's just a quick press of lips, soft and unsure, almost like she's waiting for you to pull away or laugh it off. her hand hovers near your cheek but doesn't quite touch you, and when she pulls back, her face is already flushed.

you both freeze, eyes wide.

"okay," van says quickly, laughing under her breath. "that was—sorry. that was probably—"

you shake your head, too fast. "no, i—it's okay."

there's a beat.

neither of you says anything.

then van clears her throat. "we can just say it was like... an experiment. or whatever."

"yeah," you say. "totally."

another pause.

you both look away at the same time, nervous grins tugging at your mouths like you're trying not to smile too hard.

van picks up her bottle again and mumbles, "scientists would be proud."

you giggle, heart still racing, and bump your foot against hers under the blanket. "for the data."

"for the data," she echoes, still not looking at you, but smiling in this soft way that makes your whole chest go warm.

[quandledlngle69]

☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Gore, corpse, murder, electrocution, mention of drugs, frat party, reader is a bimbo, reader is fem, reader is implied to be stupid outside of killing, reader is a little weird. ☆ W.C. 0.9K.

Thinking about Ghostface!Kaiser, who resides in the heart of Berlin, a football prodigy in a top college. His life seems flawless to outside eyes, but when the light of day disappears, and the darkness comes to swallow the city whole, he’s the reason for the terror caused, the string of brutal murders of college kids that have everyone on edge. 

He thrives in it, the whole spectacle. He makes sure the crime scenes are a show of blood, gore, and things that would make even the most hardened detective try not to let their earlier lunch come up their throats. 

And then, someone comes and steals a piece of his spotlight. 

The kills are messy, like his, but way more sloppier. Leaving the corpses as if they were dissecting a frog in biology, or like someone was blown up from the inside out. They seemed to only target females, not males, which he quickly learned it’s probably because it's either they couldn’t take down an average male, or they were some boy creep. The girls had things in common, either they were popular, cheerleaders, or mean bitches, or the lucky draw of all three.

It takes a couple weeks, but he finally figures out the killer is you on Halloween night.

He loves nights like these, where can just go out in his mask and costume, strew up the guts of a couple of kids at a college house party – and no one would know. It was the biggest frat party that year – and everyone was either black out drunk, high, or coked out. His target was the host, a popular girl on a cheerleading team, a spoiled daddy's girl who only got in because her father was buddy's with the school principal. She had gotten tired of the party downstairs and went to go take a bath, according to the whispers he overheard. He had managed to slip past silently upstairs, like a shadow. His blood felt hot, already pumping with the familiar build up of adrenaline.

But his target wasn’t alone, he saw you stood over the tub. 

It was you, the dizzy, bimbo girl he would see in the hallways and in his criminology lectures. You were an international student. He had no clue how you got in, with the way you would ask questions with common sense answers, earning a puzzled look from the professor and whispered snickers in the room. You always looked like a lost rabbit in a crowd of wolves, and you were too clumsy to be left alone with even a plastic fork. You dressed like you were pushed straight out of that one American movie he had heard of–mean girls. You were bubbly, pretty and sociable enough to get a seat at the cheerleaders table, and the attention of the mere meatheads he played with; who only paid attention to you babble when you wore a low cut shirt, and you were none the wiser.

You were a target on his list, not at the top, but still on it. He wouldn’t tell you that though. 

You were dressed as a stereotypical playboy bunny outfit, but–pink. The whole dramatic and sexy outfit was a juxtaposition to the bloodlust in your big eyes. The girl had her headphones in, her voice dreadfully loud and scratchy as she sang to some dumb pop song, cucumber slices over her eyes, completely unaware of you looming over her. The warm, lavender–scented water rippled as the girl comfortably adjusted her position in the big ceramic bowl. His gloved hand gripped his Buck 120, prepared to have two for one bodies for his art piece, but he paused when he saw you holding something. 

The toaster was heavy in your hands, its metal surface cool over your twitchy fingers. His sharp eyes followed the cord connected to it, all the way to the outlet by the sink wall. Your posture showed a hit of debate, before he watched you harshly rip back the curtain, the screeching sound loud enough to startle the once relaxed girl in the tub–who finally took the cucumbers off her eyes. She immediately shrieked, obviously upon being seen in the bath, but you, a guest, were standing over her tub with a toaster in your hand, a manic look plastered on your features. 

It was like he was watching some cheesy, comedic horror movie. 

“Hey, do you ever think about how dangerous electricity and water are together?” You asked with an almost dazed look on your face, your eyebrows and nose scrunched, as if your brain was trying hard to figure out the answer to your own question.

Before the girl could answer, the toaster purposely slipped from your hands.

The moment it hit the water, bright and angry sparks erupted– cracking like fireworks. The bathwater was an inescapable death trap, the girl's body jerking and convulsing violently as her mouth opened in a violent scream, before it swallowed bathwater. The bubbles and bathwater spilled from the sides, getting the bathmat wet, the water seeping in it, turning it a darker colour. The bathroom lights flickered above, and the distinct smell of burning flesh swirled in the air. 

And then– stillness. 

You tilted your head, crouching just a little almost to admire your work, before unplugging the cord from the wall. You mumbled, almost to yourself, “Guess you don’t have to worry about your split ends anymore.”

Kaiser was still in the shadow of the doorway, grinning from ear to ear under his mask. He was silent with his stalking, and you were only able to gauge his presence when he was directly behind you, flinching when your back hit a hard, muscular chest. 

You didn't seem even a little afraid as you looked up at him through your lashes, your glossy lips parted in surprise.

Scheiße, maybe he won’t kill you just yet.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine having a spa day with Shanks

You: [trying to sneak to the spa and resort on the island without the crew noticing]

Shanks: [notices and follows in secret]

You: [makes it to the resort doors and does a happy dance because you were successful at eluding the crew ]

Shanks: so this is where you were sneaking off to.

You: eek! How long were you following me?

Shanks: since you left the Red Force. Why did you feel the need to sneak off to come here, no one would be mad at you for coming here. In fact, most of the boys would also enjoy it.

You: That's the problem, they'd want to come with.

Shanks: [cocks an eyebrow at you] and why is that a problem?

You: because they'd get too rambunctious and inevitably get me kicked out with the rest of them.

Shanks: that's not true.

You: Do you remember the resort on Flower Island? Or the Hot springs at Ash Island?? Oh, they set fire to the Butterfly Haven resort on Flutterwind Island.

Shanks: .... okay they do usually get us kicked out of places, and that fire was an accident

You: That's beside the point.

Shanks: well, what is your point?

You: if they come along, I won't be able to enjoy my spa day. All I want is one day without dealing with over a dozen loud men and getting spoiled by resort workers.

Shanks: they can't go one day without causing trouble, that's true... Fine, I won't tell them, but on one condition.

You: oh lord, what?

Shanks: I get to come with you.

You: counter condition, if the crew does find us, you send them away.

Shanks: deal

An hour later

Shanks: [a few mojitos deep and has cucumbers over his eyes] This is great, we should do this more often.

You: it won't do much good if you're drunk the entire time.

Shanks: Drunk? I haven't had a drop of liquor since last night.

You: You're literally drinking right now.

Shanks: I am?

Spa worker: [nods]

Shanks: really? I couldn't tell, I couldn't taste it at all. Y'all must use the good shit.

You: he usually drinks what's basically paint thinner.

Shanks: [mumbles] Paint thinner doesn't usually have that much water in it. [Turns to the spa worker] Can I get a pitcher of this stuff?

Spa worker: [sighs, but nods]

You: and can I get another slice of cake?

Shanks: you want more cake? [gets up and twerks at you] I've got plenty of cake for you right here, love.

You: [smacks his ass with the menu] Sit down you drunk fool.

Spa worker: would you like the strawberry shortcake or chocolate dreams cake?

You: ...[looks at shanks] both?

Shanks: [nods his head]

You: both [hands her the menu]

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[spitefulsatanfics]

Wings In The Garden

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“I used to be an angel. Now, I’m powerless. I’m as weak as a baby deer.”

— Castiel, Season 9, Episode 3: “I’m No Angel”

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Pairing: Castiel x Reader (She/Her)

Tone: Sweet romance, friends to lovers, healing, domestic softness, human!Cas tenderness

Rating: 16+

Word Count: 6,221

Written by: Little Devil ♡

Based on: Supernatural Season 9, primarily “I’m No Angel” and “Heaven Can’t Wait”

Synopsis: After the fall of the angels, Castiel stumbles into humanity—bloodied, quiet, and lost. You’re a hunter with a crooked smile and a soft place to land, offering him shelter in your creaky rental home just outside Lebanon. He calls it temporary. You believe him at first. But as he plants tomatoes and learns to cook your eggs just right, a quiet sort of devotion grows between the two of you—rooted deep in the garden soil, sunlit mornings, and carved initials on an old fence post.

⇢ ° • . ✿ . • ° ⇠

Part I: “The First Storm”

Castiel came to you on a rainy Tuesday.

He was soaked through, eyes shadowed and heavy with something unspoken, and when he knocked on your door with a bloodied knuckle and the weight of heaven behind his stare, you didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.

“Temporary,” he said hoarsely, dripping on your floorboards. “Just for a night or two.”

You nodded. “Sure.”

A lie. You knew it the moment you gave him the towel. The moment he flinched when the wind whistled through the broken window frame. The moment he accepted the flannel shirt you handed him and stared at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

He stayed.

You lived in a patchy little house on the edge of nowhere, a fifteen-minute drive from the Men of Letters bunker. Close enough to help when Sam and Dean needed you. Far enough to keep your own ghosts company in peace.

The next morning, you found Castiel on the porch. The rain had stopped, and the sun was crawling over the hills like it was shy. Cas sat with a chipped mug of coffee—he hadn’t even drunk it—and stared out at the patch of dry dirt by the fence.

“I want to plant something,” he said.

You blinked sleep out of your eyes. “Plant what?”

“Vegetables,” he said. “Something useful.”

He turned to look at you, squinting like he was still getting used to light, like he didn’t quite believe in sunrises.

“I want to feel useful.”

⇢ ° • . ✿ . • ° ⇠

Part II: “Shoelaces and Tomatoes”

You taught Castiel how to tie his shoes.

It happened on a Tuesday. (Tuesdays, it seemed, were becoming sacred.) You knelt on the porch, hands brushing over canvas laces while he watched intently, furrowed brow and all.

“Loop, swoop, and pull,” you explained.

He mimicked you slowly, clumsy but focused, as if this act—this silly little human ritual—was sacred. When he succeeded, he looked up at you like he’d performed magic.

He got dirt under his nails after that. You let him tear up the grass patch near the fence, turning the soil, making neat little rows. He read books on gardening. Sam dropped off seedlings one day, side-eyeing you both but saying nothing.

“Don’t say it,” you muttered, watching Cas talk to a tomato plant like it was a holy relic.

Sam just grinned and drove off.

Castiel insisted on cooking dinner on Thursdays. You let him. Burnt eggs became scrambled ones, scrambled became edible, and soon he was making pasta that tasted like love.

Sometimes, you came home from a hunt, bruised and bloodied, and he’d already have the bath drawn and a grilled cheese waiting. He wasn’t flashy with affection. He was practical. Steady. Warm.

You never touched.

But sometimes, when he passed behind you in the kitchen, his hand would brush your back. Just lightly. Like a whisper.

⇢ ° • . ✿ . • ° ⇠

Part III: “Fence Post Confessions”

The garden grew. So did everything else.

By June, the tomatoes were thriving. The cucumbers too. And Cas—he had freckles now. You didn’t even notice them until he looked up at you one evening, sweat beading his brow, shirt sticking to his chest in the Kansas heat.

You laughed and reached to wipe his face. He went very still, watching you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look.

“Thank you,” he said.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For… this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the world. “For letting me be. For not asking me to be anything else.”

Your throat felt tight.

“It’s not charity,” you said. “You’re not broken.”

He smiled faintly. “I think I am. But I like how you don’t see it.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. The window was open, breeze curling the curtains, and you heard movement outside. You slipped on a hoodie and stepped into the night.

Cas was at the fence post with a pocket knife. Carving.

you froze.

He turned, looking caught. “I was… I wanted to mark this. It’s something humans do, yes? When they want to remember a moment?”

You stepped closer, and your breath caught.

There it was:

C + Y/N

Rough, uneven, perfect.

You didn’t speak. Just reached up and touched his jaw. He leaned into it like he’d been waiting his whole life to be touched.

“Stay,” you whispered. “Don’t make it temporary.”

“I already decided that,” he said softly. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

You kissed him.

He kissed you back like he’d never get another chance.

And in the quiet hum of the garden, under stars and mosquito buzz, you let the moment bloom.

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“I never needed wings to fall for you.”

— Wings in the Garden

Written by Little Devil ♡

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[hadtobeconfronted]

AOT Beach/Summer Headcannons

I live in a place that is so hot you can basically swim all year long. So I bring you beach/beach vacation/swimming brainrot. You’re welcome. One suggestive entry for each person marked with an * +fem reader

Levi, Mikasa, Hange, Armin, Eren, Annie, Erwin, Reiner

Mikasa:

- doesn’t want you to wear a bikini

-will most likely wear one herself ??

-two hour timer to reapply sunscreen (same)

-lets you borrow her sun hat

-carries the big ass beach tote for you

+ the lunch bag

+ the water

-she also made the food

-starts a splash fight in the ocean so she can see you laugh

-also she almost dies laughing when you get scared of seaweed touching you

-“what if it’s a sea monster!? you would just let it kill me!?”

*brings jasmine and coconut candles for a bath together back at the hotel ;))

Reiner:

-definitely throws you in the pool to piss you off (I hate this shit)

-you tell him good luck catching a murder charge because you’re not swimming back up

-hopes you wear a bikini

-will get a sunburn

-prob drinks beer all day (pls don’t do this you will pass out)

-takes midday naps with you back at the hotel

-ac has to be set at 65 degrees

-lots of cuddles in the chilly air and fresh sheets

*def tries to bang you in the hot tub

Eren:

-is also a pool tosser but he jumps in with you so it’s more fun

-pool volleyball champion

-cannonballs

-gets you to make a whirlpool with him (love doing this)

-also gets a sunburn

-lets you put aloe on him but has an attitude about it

-helps you put your hair in a braid so it doesn’t get all tore up

*constantly tries to untie your bikini top + bottoms while you swim (hott sorry)

Hange:

-gets drunk on fancy tropical drinks

-the kind with mini umbrellas

-puts said umbrellas behind your ear

-tells you “you look sooo prettyy”

-would suggest playing mermaids

-karaoke at the bar

-maxi dress + messy updo for dinner

-gets enough sun to make their cheeks pink

-lowkey a beach goddess

*can’t keep their hands off you when you smell like coconut after sun lotion

Armin:

-will probably join you to play mermaids

-brings a whole ass picnic to the beach

-all the fixings

-let’s you put sunscreen on his face + back

-gets tickled when you touch his back

(so cuteee)

-likes to sit under an umbrella to people watch

-“I think that couple over there is fighting look” ->

-takes lots of pretty pictures of you under the palm trees

*lets just say he was realllyyy excited to see you in your bathing suit and had a hard time hiding it

Annie:

-probably forces you to wear a cover up lmao

-she gets shy when she sees you like that

-wears a long sleeve bathing suit

-also wears a big floppy sun hat

-lowkey a beach reader but reads something super serious

-“what’s ‘light beach reading’?”

-really appreciates that you packed a lunch

-you made cucumber sandwiches her fave <3

-her hair gets beautiful waves from the salty air (I’m jealous)

*def showers with you to “help wash off the sand” and yk other for other reasons too ;)

Erwin:

-special vacation button downs

-dork

-let’s you get super drunk off piña colada’s

-keeps you safe

-late night beach walks

-fancy dinner reservations

-wears those stupid fisherman sunglasses iykyk

-you’re kinda embarrassed by his sunglasses lmao

*would pull you into his lap while you sit to take a break walking the beach for a make out sesh

“Shhh it’s okay, it’s okay, no one can see us”

people can def see. he knows that. oops

Levi:

-def wears a shirt to swim

-honestly would probably skip the beach

-sand makes him feel dirty

-would find it really sweet and silly if you wanted to play mermaids

-you’re gonna be playing alone tho

-allows himself to sleep in late at the hotel

-also sleeps with the ac down low so he has a reason to cuddle you extra close

-kinda pissed he missed hotel breakfast tho

-lowkey fantasies about you being a siren

-maybe indulges in a night pool swim

*said swim turns into to kissing + heavy petting but stops before it gets crazy cause he’s embarrassed to get caught

I hope you enjoyed this! Kinda random and silly. Kinda put together quickly but it brought me joy <3 - K

[starsinthesky5]

songbird and joe go on double dates?

absolutely! they’re total double date people, especially now that things have settled into that sweet spot between cozy domesticity and a social rhythm they both enjoy. they’ve learned how to balance their time together, and double dates are the perfect way to do that—still with each other, but with some extra laughter and chaos mixed in.

they’ve had rooftop dinners with travis and taylor—wine flowing, laughter echoing over the city, the girls wine drunk & giggling with their heads close together while joe and trav talk about plays and matchups and get distracted midway by how radiant their girls look. one time, a jazz trio started playing and trav pulled taylor into a spontaneous slow dance, which of course made joe nudge songbird with that quiet grin and a low, “you’re next,”. he held her close, both of them a little tipsy, swaying under the string lights like the night belonged to them.

they’ve done cozy nights with mike and halle too—game night energy. pjs, pizza, a little too competitive. songbird and halle gang up on the boys in pictionary, howling with laughter when joe tries to draw a dolphin (an ode to mike’s former team) and it ends up looking like a sad sea cucumber. joe’s got a competitive streak, but he’s soft with her—throws a pillow at mike instead when they lose and kisses songbird’s cheek like you’re still my mvp.

there’ve been more casual hangs, too—like brunches with joe’s osu friend group when they’re in town, or impromptu bar nights with a few of her dancers or crew members after a show. one time, they all ended up at a bowling alley after a charity gala—joe wore a beanie, songbird in heels and a silky purple dress, barefoot by the end of the night as she tried to bowl between sips of a margarita. he stood behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, guiding her throw even though they were absolutely losing and everyone watched them in awe.

and those are the best kinds, not the fancy, planned ones. the spontaneous ones. late night tacos. backyard bonfires. catching a concert and piling into someone’s car after with fast food and half-lost voices. joe always ends up being the designated driver, hand resting on her thigh while she leans into him, still singing whatever song’s stuck in her head.

their circle isn’t huge, but it’s full of love. and when they double date, it’s never about being flashy—it’s just an extension of their own little world, shared for the night.

[incorrectuntamedmodaozushiquotes]

Drunk!Wei Wuxian, to Lan Wangji: Please don't think bad about me, 'cause I'm drunk. I'll be a good wife, I know where to buy good tomatoes and cucumbers.

[lafleshlumpeater]

Luke Castellan x Daughter of Dionysus reader? The show version of Dionysus was funny and I just want to know how the whole interactions would go

i loved this request, thanks sm for sending it in!! i actually haven't watched the show, so if this is inaccurate i'm v sorry </3

warnings: mentions of eating and drinking (no alcohol), fem!reader, established relationship, mild PDA, nickname

luke castellan masterlist

Your boyfriend lovingly nuzzles his nose into your temple from where he's sitting next to you. “Your dad is giving me looks,” he whispers. Your lips pull upwards at Luke’s antics, rolling your eyes and looking over at your father at where he’s sitting next to Chiron. He’s trying to be subtle, you’ll give him that, but there’s nothing implicit about the way he’s eyeing your boyfriend in an attempt at being suavely menacing. With his leopard- print shirt, pot belly and an aluminium Coca- Cola can he’s gripping so hard it’s beginning to crumple, it’s not working.

You take a bite into your wrap. “He is.”

“He’s scaring me.”

This elicits a snort from you, choking slightly on a cucumber chunk. “Luke Castellan, one of the most intimidating campers at Camp Half- Blood, is scared of my dad? The god of wine?”

Luke whines in protest through a sip of water. “Yeah, the god of wine. Imagine, if, like, he got drunk and… I don’t know, whacked me around the head with a baseball bat.”

You snort. “What? Babe, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know your name.”

Your boyfriend pouts. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“Baby.” Luke rolls his eyes playfully, relishing in the banter the two of you have managed to maintain throughout your relationship. But his momentary glee is cut short when he realises Dionysus has risen from the table, disposing of his empty can and making his way over to where the two of you are sitting. Panicked, he nudges you.

“He’s coming,” Luke indiscreetly whisper- screams, as if you hadn’t noticed already.

“Relax, nothing’s gonna happen,” you murmur back. You were sure of it. Mostly.

“Luis,” your father greets, suddenly next to the two of you. Luke swallows, afraid to correct him. You’re milliseconds from letting out a laugh aloud.

“Dad, it’s Luke.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Yes. Lucas. That’s what I said.”

You can’t help but purse your lips, both from suppressing an entertained chortle and half in contempt for your father’s annoying penchant of feinting at carelessness for every camper who wasn’t you. Honestly, you were surprised he didn’t give you the same treatment sometimes.

“Well, Lucas, it has come to my attention you are dating my daughter.” He nods towards you; you cringe. If he was about to give Luke the ‘take care of my daughter or else’ talk, you were going to run away and never come back.

Luke nods, gulping. “Yes. Sir.”

Trying to save him and yourself from embarrassment, you intervene. “Dad. Please.”

“Oh no, no,” he insists. “I just wanted to have a quick word and say that… the two of you look quite happy. And I’m proud of the two of you.” He turns to the shell- shocked boy beside you. “But I have to mention, young man, if anything changes-”

“Okay dad!” You shoot him a ‘please stop’ look disguised in a beaming grin which he’s on the receiving end of too many times to be oblivious to. “Thank you! You can go now!”

Finally, he wanders off again, muttering under his breath. You catch little of it, something about how ‘teenagers nowadays’ and ‘so ungrateful’.

You turn to Luke; he’s already looking at you with an incredulous look on his face. “What… just happened?”

Like a ticking time bomb, your laughter finally escapes, Luke quickly joining you.

Dionysus looks on, back in his seat next to Chiron, hiding a satisfied smile behind a glass bottle of Coke.

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