#whewwwww

[matchstique]

A Casey Sr. And Casey Jr. Comic.

Prompt submitted by @jacazull 😊

[inkykeiji]

got me praying, man this hunger, and feeling something rotten 

characters: akutagawa ryuunosuke x fem!reader x nakahara chuuya

genre: smut

notes: just a lil something about aku jerking off as chuuya fucks the life out of you hehe! please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: sit next to me by foster the people

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, aku being a dirty nasty little voyeur, pretend siblings as a habit and inside joke between reader and chuuya (only mentioned once briefly and not by them), akutagawa’s pov, two mentions of mori, reader is an assassin, size difference (chuuya is taller than reader), minimal prep, rough sex, noncon secret audio recording, aku’s kinda toxic in his thoughts and ideals

words: 3.3k

synopsis:

One final glance, he promises himself as he straightens up, already starved for another glimpse of you, belated grey eyes floating to your form again. Your head lolls to the side as dainty fingers trace the ridges of Chuuya’s spine, your hazy gaze connecting with gunmetal, keeping his stare captive for a moment—pinioning him down, bolting his body in place, slashing him wide open to peel back his skin and pry apart his bones and examine his insides, the very deepest and darkest parts of himself, reveling in the way he squirms and fawns and bears it all to you, holding himself open for you, always—before, at last, you wink.

You knew. You’ve known all along. 

Despite the fact that Akutagawa always dutifully attends these extravagant work Galas—parties thinly veiled beneath the word ‘functions’ that Mori enjoys throwing for ‘networking purposes’, held at one of his many mansions scattered across Japan—you’d be hard pressed to actually locate him at any of them.  

Usually, he finds a quiet corner, hidden and out of the way, to spend the night in—far from the commotion and the conversations and the crowds. 

Tonight, however, he leans against the railing of the mansion’s balcony, overlooking the ballroom, a glass of half-finished champagne dangling between slim fingers, and he watches. 

Because tonight, something has enraptured his attention. 

This is the first Gala you’ve been permitted to attend, limited spaces reserved for upper-level Port Mafia members only. 

A blur of crimson and onyx, you whirl across the marble floor in Chuuya’s arms, narrowly but expertly avoiding the other couples, your fingers loosely interwoven behind his neck, playing with the little curling tufts of copper at the nape, his hands on your lower back, fingers splayed wide, tips resting on the swell of your ass.

Like Akutagawa’s little sister, you too were born with no ability. You had been brought in to fill the gaping hole Kyouka’s absence has left—the role of an unassuming assassin; cute, sweet, deadly—and had been doing a fair job so far despite the fact that you’re an adult, with Chuuya assigned to train you in hand-to-hand combat, and Gin to train you in stealth. 

It’s a position Akutagawa has refused for his own younger sister many times. 

But your talents seem to be befit for it, effortlessly able to morph into whatever countenance the job calls for—the sweet, naive little girl; the playful, saucy little minx; the sad, desperate little baby—resulting in both men and women instantly lowering their guard around you (there’s no way such a sweet thing could ever be dangerous, right?) just before you strike and slit their throat from ear to ear.

Your laughter rings out over the crowd, gently tugging him from his thoughts, eyes drawn back to your form. You’ve ceased your dancing, Chuuya using his full body weight to back you against the wall as you giggle and gaze up at him, caged between his chest and plaster. 

Large hands are pressed flat, fingers splayed, on either side of your shoulders as his hips keep your thighs spread, your obscenely tiny cocktail dress stretched as far as it can be, ridden-up material cutting into your skin.

Chuuya’s talking to you, his body closing in on yours—tighter and tighter and tighter—as his lips work, their movements soft and smooth as silk. Akutagawa can barely imagine the words that must be flowing from his skilled mouth.

Your eyes are dark, glittering beneath Chuuya’s shadow, daring him to do all of the things he’s murmuring to you. His forehead pushes against your own, mouths so close his lips must be brushing yours as he speaks, and Akutagawa cranes his neck, attempting to achieve a better view.

It’s absolutely disgusting, deplorable, that the two of you are acting in such a manner, let alone in public, and Akutagawa can hardly believe no one is objecting to something so obscene. Disgust unfurls in his belly, sticky and thick and tainted with a coat of acidic jealousy, snuffing out the few flares of inexplicable, unmistakable desire.

“They seem a little close for siblings, don’t you think?” 

“That’s because they aren’t real siblings,” Higuchi responds dutifully, head bowed slightly. “It’s a lie they used to use when they were kids, to con people into giving them money or food. I guess they just...Haven’t fully grown out of it yet,” she shrugs. 

Ah. That makes more sense; the two of you look nothing alike. Briefly, Akutagawa wonders if Mori knows this, and concludes that he probably does—probably did, the moment Chuuya brought you into his office, introducing you as his ‘little sister’ and asking for a job.

“How do you know this?” 

“I know things,” she says, body bristling, a little defensive. “I hear things, you know,” she makes a vague motion with her hand as way of explanation. 

He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care enough press the issue. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way. 

“Wait,” Higuchi begins slowly, turning to look at her superior with widened eyes. “Why are you interested?” 

“No reason,” he responds, downing his drink before shoving the gleaming champagne flute at her. “Get me another one of these.” 

And then she’s off, nodding and murmuring his honorific to herself as she bustles away, nothing more than a bothersome bug, swatted away with a single sweep of his hand. 

Grey eyes scan the crowd again, picking you out with practiced ease, something hard and heavy sinking in his chest when he finds both of your hands in one of Chuuya’s, a devious smile painted across your face as you back away, leading him into the shaded depths of the hallway, Chuuya’s steps languid and lazy as he allows you to pull him along willingly, readily.

Akutagawa’s body is moving before his mind can even comprehend it, forcibly switched into autopilot as it desperately follows you, allowing your aura to string him along like a dog on a leash, lovesick, hopeless.

It’s easy to tail the two of you, easy to hide behind pieces of mahogany furniture and large houseplants entirely undetected as you stumble down the dim hallways, legs entwined and lips locked, tripping over each other’s ankles only to catch yourselves a second before you tumble to the floor. 

The sound of spit-slicked lips slipping and smacking echoes around the two of you—a borderline grotesque sound, sopping and squeaky—but neither seem to care, entirely absorbed in one another to notice much of anything at all. 

It’s almost as if you’re attempting to devour each other, mouths smashing together as you attempt to swallow the other’s tongue, the drool leaking from the corners smeared across your chins and your jaws, shimmering in the low light; ravenous hands pawing at the hem of your dress and the buckle of his belt, gripping and tugging with a sort of unparalleled urgency—something Akutagawa has certainly never seen before, much less experienced himself—fingers vying and nails starved for the naked flesh of one another. 

The two of you fall into the first open door you come across—a bedroom, you got lucky, one of many vacant rooms in this creaky old manor.

It isn’t exactly uncommon for Port Mafia members to stay the night, especially if they’ve had too much to drink or sniff or swallow. Akutagawa assumes you’ll be staying the night this time, too.

You must be really fucking drunk—or maybe you just don’t care, unbothered by the thought of someone walking in, of someone seeing—because Chuuya doesn’t even shut the door properly, giving the corner a halfhearted kick in a poor attempt to close it as the two of you stagger past it, the latch bouncing against its strike plate, failing to catch and click into place. 

Well, if it truly doesn’t matter to you that much, then it doesn’t matter if Akutagawa stays to watch, right? Surely Chuuya would’ve taken the time and care to fully close the door, to make sure it was shut good and tight, if this was an issue or concern for either of you, wouldn’t he? 

Of course he would have.

So it shouldn’t be a problem when Akutagawa presses a cheek against the ornate doorframe, the gap left by the door just wide enough for him to use a singular eye to peep in.

“Chuu—ah!” you’re crying out as Chuuya shoves you onto the bed, a dark chuckle oozing from his lips. 

The mattress dimples beneath his hands and knees as he crawls over your heaving body, sitting back on your thighs. 

“I want this off,” he’s saying, words slurred slightly, fingers creeping beneath the hem of your satiny dress and pushing upward; up past your hips, past your waist, past your breasts, until your arms are raising obediently, allowing him to tug the garment from your body completely. 

Scarlet lace, delicate and imbued with tiny gems, coats the most intimate curves and contours of your body, bra glittering in the golden light with each rise of your chest. 

“Fuck,” Chuuya breathes as he looks down at you, palms sliding up your stomach to grab at your breasts. 

Akutagawa agrees—you look fucking breathtaking, all smooth dew-kissed skin that almost shimmers in the low light, undoubtedly softer than anything he’s ever touched, sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted, mouth watering at the thought; and a pair of jewels for eyes, shaded by thick lashes, that beg Chuuya to do all the things Akutagawa wishes he could do to you, all the things that Akutagawa’s wanted to do to you since the moment he saw you, all of the things he’s sure Chuuya had been murmuring to you only minutes ago, the heel of his palm grinding into his already hard cock through his trousers. 

“I can’t wait to fucking ruin you,” Chuuya continues, the words still airy on his tongue, eyes still glued to your tits as his fingers grasp and knead and massage, and you laugh—a pretty little melody that has your neck arching off the pillow—a teasing little smile spread across your lips; bold, enticing. 

“Well, get on with it already,” you say, and Chuuya’s hands cease their movement.

For a moment everything is still, your connected gazes thick and unblinking—challenging, almost—and Akutagawa expects him to hit you, a backhand hard enough to whip your head to the side, to leave an imprint of knuckles across your cheek, but Chuuya only laughs, the sound tangled with a deep growl rumbling in his throat.

“You little brat,” he’s snarling out, but it doesn’t sound mean, or harsh, or any of the things Akutagawa would think it to, words spit from between a sharp, toothy smile. 

And then his fingers are tearing through the lace, fingertips clawing holes through the dainty fabric like flames licking through a spiderweb as it practically melts in his hands, nothing more than stringy tatters of ruined garments as he rips them from your body.

There’s no prep, Chuuya seemingly too impatient to waste any time with that, and the sweet little hiss that slithers out from between your teeth, features twisted in agony, as he shoves his cock into you has Akutagawa’s cock twitching eagerly against his palm. 

He rubs it harder in response, crude and messy and desperate, palm cupping it through his pants and giving it a few halfhearted squeezes; nothing more than pathetic half-pumps, unable to jerk it properly with two layers of clothing in the way.

It’s so immature, so fucking juvenile, dirty and disgusting and downright shameful, but he doesn’t fucking care. 

Chuuya’s hips start pounding hard and fast the instant he bottoms out, the grip of his fingers so tight on your hips that they’re sinking into the flesh, creating deep dips that’ll surely bear his name in the morning, signed in blotchy little ovals of navy and violet and splatters of broken blood vessels beneath your skin.

The pace is merciless, pleasure and sheer force rippling your flesh oh-so-prettily with the flexing of his hips.

Chuuya’s talking to you, utter filth spilling from his lips, obscenities huffed out on the tails of laughter that mingle with the sounds he’s quite literally fucking out of you, every drive of his cock pushing another melody up your throat and onto your tongue, so dirty it has torrents of heat flooding Akutagawa’s cheeks in rushes, pooling beneath the skin as it seeps through the tissues and staining them a dusty pink.

But Akutagawa’s barely listening; Akutagawa can barely concentrate on anything at all, his own pleasure muffling his ears, heavy breaths he keeps trying to suppress building in his chest, dense and suffocating. And it’s pathetic, really—he’s barely touched himself at all, cock straining against his trousers in desperate yearning, yet he can already feel those telltale sparks tingling in his gut, cinders that smolder in waiting, ready to catch fire at any moment.

Akutagawa’s cock is aching, his hips giving sloppy, premature little thrusts into his palm—insatiable, uncontrollable—and a whine reverberates in his throat, swallowed down with the pools of spit collecting in the crevices of his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, the word garbled and drowning in saliva. 

This isn’t enough, he needs more, ramming his hand down his trousers without even bothering to undo the button, the waistband digging into his forearm tight enough to turn the skin a sickening bone white, just shy of cutting off his circulation.  

A smooth hand wraps around the base of his cock and squeezes twice, hard, a futile attempt to ward off his embarrassingly impending orgasm.  

From this angle he has a perfect view of your bouncing tits and contorting face—the way your brow scrunches together, relaxes, then tightens up again; the way your lashes flutter, flickering the whites of your eyes as they roll in your skull; the way your mouth, bitten raw and glimmering with saliva, stays pried open in a perfect little ‘o’ by the steady stream of vocalized pleasure pouring past it.

And, Christ, the noises you’re making are so fucking gorgeous—broken mewls and soft whines and airy moans—his free hand fumbling around in his pocket, struggling to pull his phone free from its confines, desperate to record what he can for later use. 

It’s a difficult feat to perform with one hand, phone flipping open with the sharp click of plastic against plastic, thumb straining to hit that little red RECORD button, missing it twice before finally succeeding.

The feeling of triumph is short-lived, though, because he’s going to mess the whole recording up beyond repair if he doesn’t quiet down, if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.

Stubborn little whimpers keep climbing up his throat, rough and painful as they hitch and tangle with his hardly suppressed gasps, choked remnants tumbling past his mouth. Teeth slice into his bottom lip, bursts of copper staining his tongue as blood oozes from the fresh wound, the lines of his gums tinged bright crimson. 

The strokes of his hand match the snap of Chuuya’s hips, jerking his cock hard and fast, just like how Chuuya’s fucking you, and if he focuses hard on your face, he can almost imagine it’s him fucking you, his palm slick with sweat, his grip pulsing in time with the noises spilling from your lips, simulating the throbbing of your cunt. 

Heat begins to coil deep in the pit of his belly, cinders converging into something tight and fluttery and scorching, and he barely has the decency to stifle his groan of disappointment, forehead knocking against the doorframe, brow cinching and molars grinding as he tries to ward the eruption off for just a little longer, front teeth digging further into the gaping wound weeping on his bottom lip. 

Tiny spikes of pain sear through his face; up his cheeks and down his neck, the sensation doing nothing to douse, dim, dull the roiling ball of fire in his gut. 

“God, you’re so—so fucking good for me—take my cock so well—” Chuuya’s groaning, voice all ragged rasp, rough and gasping. 

It’s true, you do take his cock well, and Chuuya gives it to you well, too, the smooth muscles in his thighs almost mesmerizing, graceful as they glide beneath his skin despite his borderline vicious movements.

Akutagawa’s thighs, in contrast, are beginning to tremble, little jolts of pleasure skittering up his legs and wriggling under his flesh in droves. His whole body is wound tight and tense, jaw clenched with such ferocity that it’s beginning to ache, muscles gone hard and stiff as if he’s physically trying to hold off his imminent orgasm, pushing back against an invisible surge.

Short, sharp huffs of breath are escaping his nose now, materializing in little droplets of condensation on the wood, wet and humid against his upper lip. The pumping of his hand accelerates, perfectly in sync with the brutal plunge of Chuuya’s hips, and his lids begin to droop, heavy and weighted with pleasure. It’s a struggle to haul them open again, vision blurring in and out of focus as he tries to concentrate, desperate to see how beautiful you look when you cum, ecstasy bleeding around the edges of his sight, bright and overexposed. 

Because you’re getting close, too, Akutagawa can tell. It’s easy to see, obvious, evident in the pitchy wails that fade into the sweetest little rasps—poor imitations of the words they were supposed to be; evident in the way your spine arches so artfully off the mattress, each vertebra working in unison to form a perfect curve as your hips push towards Chuuya’s; evident in your flexing, trembling thighs and curling, vying fingers, grappling at the sheets and Chuuya’s shoulders, nails scraping against linen and skin.

Another three pumps of Chuuya’s hips, another three pumps of Akutagawa’s fist, and you’re both cumming in tandem, so hard it whites his vision and wipes his mind, so hard it kicks his breath from his chest in a pained wisp of an expletive, his orgasm amplified by your gorgeous little noises. Thick streams of cum explode all over his fist and briefs, burning and sticky and so, so much that it’s soaking through his underwear and into his suit pants, a large, uneven, dark patch staining his right thigh.

He can feel it, dribbling down his inner leg in large globs, viscous and gummy and leaving broad strokes, rapidly cooling trails in its wake. 

There’s no way he doesn’t look a mess, strands of ink clinging to his temples and the back of his neck, soaked with salt and sweat, cheeks tinted with exertion, chest stuttering as he tries to swallow down tattered breaths in a feeble attempt to keep from drawing attention to himself. 

There’s no way anyone wouldn’t be able to guess what he had just been doing in a mere instant, if they saw him.

Chuuya isn’t faring much better, to be honest, body collapsed atop of yours, heaving back shimmering with a sheen coat of perspiration, gleaming with each rise and fall as it catches in the light. Akutagawa doesn’t even remember Chuuya cumming—not that it matters, you’re the only reason he’s even here at all—too busy drowning in the intense bliss of his own orgasm to have noticed at all, all senses suffocated as the pleasure absorbed him, ate him up, swallowed him down, then spit him back out.

Finally, Akutagawa pushes off the doorframe with a weak arm, muscles spent and shrivelled with pleasure, wincing a little at the deep indent he’s sure the wood of the frame left on his forehead. 

One final glance, he promises himself as he straightens up, already starved for another glimpse of you, belated grey eyes floating to your form again. Your head lolls to the side as dainty fingers trace the ridges of Chuuya’s spine, your hazy gaze connecting with gunmetal, keeping his stare captive for a moment—pinioning him down, bolting his body in place, slashing him wide open to peel back his skin and pry apart his bones and examine his insides, the very deepest and darkest parts of himself, reveling in the way he squirms and fawns and bears it all to you, holding himself open for you, always—before, at last, you wink.

You knew. You’ve known all along. 

His cock gives one last spurt in response—pitiful, pathetic, and entirely instinctive—and you smile. 

And no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he doesn’t want to be, he’s nothing more than warm, gooey putty in your soft palms. 

He’ll never be anything more than that. 

[lawrussy]

damn we gettin outta reseda with this one boys

[leclercskiesahead]

Chili on the podium

[alderaanplacesss]

IF ANYONE IS LOOKING FOR ME, I FELL DOWN THE STAIRS.

[keifeli]

infinite fries glitch (2023 not patched!!)

[booksnbrainrot]

So I am going to hardcore project onto Rue. 

I have estranged myself from my family of origin for the time being. The reasons don’t matter, beyond just a brief statement that as an adult I looked back at my family and realized that they were going to be dangerous to the person I felt myself becoming. That I wanted to become. I spent my childhood being a perfect, dutiful daughter and any expression of independence or individuality was seen as an attack or betrayal of that dutifulness. I lost my childhood to that role, to that sense of duty.

I will also be hardcore projecting onto Hob. 

As someone who took the intensely painful step to tell my family “I don’t want to see you or talk to you right now, I love you but I need to be safe from you for a bit” and then had to enforce and make boundaries even stricter as they were continuously broken, it’s very easy for me to expect that step from friends and loved ones who have terrible families. Families worse than mine in many ways. 

And so, watching Rue take this step of “I am choosing myself. I am choosing love and I have never felt so free and so terrified and all I want is to feel less alone, to feel like I am making the right choice, dear god somebody reassure me that I am making the right choice” I understand so intimately why they look back at Hob like “why can’t you make this choice with me? Why are you choosing to keep yourself in the service of those who mistreat you, why are you so determined to sacrifice the very concept of your selfhood for people who don’t deserve you? Why are you with them when you could be here with me?”

I get it, like I so get it. But it is not Rue’s place to demand that. And it is only going to force Hob to double down on his loyalty to the Goblin Court. Because, what else does he have, really?

To be clear, most of what Rue is doing is so right! Introducing the idea that Hob is an individual deserving of basic respect and that he’s allowed to things that as an individual that only benefit himself and because they benefit himself, and reiterating and reinforcing those ideas, like that’s “My Friend is in a Super Toxic Situation” 101, baby. You uplift the victim so they can lift themselves out. 

But there is also this frustration of “Why isn’t this working? Why can’t you just leave?” that is so juicy and so human and also, unfortunately, super unhelpful and unhealthy. 

If someone had behaved that way towards me before I was ready to hit da bricks, it would have forced me to double down on my unconscious defense of my family. It would have made it harder for me to estrange myself. I didn’t have any other identity. I didn’t, emotionally, have anywhere else to go. Once I get into therapy and started developing an identity outside of my family, I could imagine leaving. And I did

Right now, Hob doesn’t have anything else. He doesn’t have a sense of identity outside of “Goblin” and “soldier.” But he does have a chance. 

If he takes Binx or Andhera up on their offers, if he could imagine a place to be himself, imagine an identity outside of the Goblin Court, he might be able to leave. If he knew and trusted the depth and foundation of Rue’s love and affection, for him personally as a person, there might be enough outside of the Goblin Court for Hob to base an escape on. 

But he doesn’t have that. Yet.

[dreaming-for-an-escape]

Alyssa Sutherland…😍

[wardlow]

Holy fuck….. Wardlow babe… looking god damn good. That hair is 🤌🏼👌🏼

(PS, don’t touch Tony though)

[thottybrucewayne]

I don't think I'd be so anti jayrose If I didn't know what happens to non bat characters that get shoved into relationships with one of the bats...

[inkykeiji]

Have you thought about a Tomura-nii? 🥺

ooooh my god anon

tw: pseudocest (adopted siblings), coercion, taking advantage of a younger sibling’s naive and innocent nature, implied size difference (reader is smaller than tomura), female reader, virgin!tomura, masturbation, blood, noncon, overstimulation, blowjobs, use of the word daddy to describe adoptive father, honestly just really fucking nasty and genuinely disgusting, please be careful with this lil piece words: 792

i have!!! i just feel like he’d be really fucking gross, you know??? disgusting in the most heinous way, like flawless tomura but a hundred times worse. i feel like he’d totally be a shut-in, completely inexperienced because your adoptive father (afo) never lets either of you—his fully grown adult children—out of his or kurogiri’s watchful protection. but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when they aren’t looking.

tomura-nii has never been touched, romantically or sexually, by anyone else, but he is an avid consumer of porn + hentai, so much so that it borders on addiction. and eventually, it just isn’t enough. it isn’t enough to spend hours locked away in his room, jerking his cock until it’s red and wrecked, skin chafed so bad its flaking and peeling and bleeding, thin little wounds that weep crimson staining the lines of his sweaty palm a watery pink. it isn’t enough to throw hundreds and hundreds of his father’s money at those online cam girls, making them do unspeakable acts and recording it all for him. it isn’t enough, he needs more, he needs real; something he can feel, something he can touch, something he can own and mark and sink his teeth into—flesh and blood and bone filling his hands and yielding beneath his fingers and quivering around his cock. 

he needs you. 

and sure, he’s sheltered, but you’re even more sheltered, not even allowed access to the internet without daddy’s heavy supervision—so when he sees you, his innocent, naive, totally fucking clueless little sister, he knows he can manipulate you into doing whatever the fuck he wants you to, because nii-san said so, and nii-san knows best, right? nii-san is older, wiser, the boss, and what he says goes, always. he’s basically second in command beneath your adoptive father; even kurogiri seems to bend and break to his every will and whim and wish. 

so who are you to say anything, to know any better, against your bigger, smarter, better brother? who are you to deny him, to say ew and no and gross and it’s wrong! when he slinks into your bedroom in the middle of the night, waking you with his ragged pants and the vigorous slap of his fist against his pelvis, and streaks that lacy little nightgown with thick strokes of glistening cream, quickly cooling as they seep into the dainty fabric, heavy and gelatinous against your skin?

who are you to refuse him, when he asks if he can see how pretty your pussy is, when he asks if he can play with it, unexperienced fingers grinding and pinching until your rubbed-raw clit is swollen and your trembling thighs are stained with copious amounts of your own slick and your eyes are lidded and glassy, vision downy at the edges and bleary with tears, because it (finally) feels so good, too good, that you’re fucking sobbing? 

who are you to reject him, when he says he wants to show you his cock, when he tells you to hold it in your soft little palms and pet it until it’s oozing something sticky and shimmering all over your skin, when he demands that your lick your hands clean, that you put the head in your mouth and suckle on it, that you glide the tip of your tongue, rounded and hard, over the slit as fast as you can—back and forth, back and forth, until he’s shoving the entire thing into your mouth and he’s stuffing your throat full of something thick and acrid? 

nii-san says that it’s okay, that this is normal and what good little sisters are supposed to do, that brothers and sisters who love each other so much do this all the time, and don’t you love him, too? don’t you want to show him just how much you love him? just how perfect and obedient you are? 

and nii-san would never lie to you, would never lead you astray, would never ever want to hurt you, so you should believe everything he says without question, right? right. 

and, christ, you’re so fucking good, so sweet and precious and daddy’s flawless, faultless little rule-abiding princess, adhering to every order and regulation given to you. but daddy doesn’t deserve you, or your good nature and kind heart and eager-to-please tendencies; not when tomura sees you more often, takes care of you better than daddy ever has or ever will, so shouldn’t you be his flawless, faultless little rule-abiding little princess, too? nii-san deserves your attention so much more than daddy does, don’t you think? you owe him this much, yeah? 

of course. of course you do.

[ggukiepie]

teeny tiny teaser of ooyg perhaps? 😓

here bestie

[konigceo]

GODDD whoever sent me that könig req yesterday,,,,, you've blessed me

[lovinevans]

[amoriscustos]

ㅤㅤㅤ𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗘  𝗔𝗨  :  𝐄𝐀𝐓  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐏𝐄𝐄𝐏  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈'𝐌  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐓𝐎 ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇

❝  my  name  is  minako  aino,  i'm  19  years  old,  the  most  beautiful  popstar  in  tokyattan,  and  yeah,  i  guess..  my  earth's  one  and  only,  𝗦𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗢𝗥  𝗪𝗘𝗕.  ❞

𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗞𝗢  𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗢  𝗪𝗔𝗦  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥  𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗗  𝗢𝗙  𝗥𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗨𝗡𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗢𝗦.  causing  trouble  more  often  than  not,  the  bold  and  blonde  girl  made  it  her  mission  in  life  to  be  noticed,  𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗻.  she  was  a  star  in  the  making  and  everyone  needed  to  know  it.  and,  by  sheer  force  of  will,  she  made  sure  she  was  on  track  to  fame:  vocal  lessons,  dance  lessons,  auditions,  photoshoots,  you  name  it. 

𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻...

she'd  been  the  last  one  in  the  locker  room,  packing  up  her  bag  for  the  weekend  after  a  solid  volleyball  practice  when  a  tiny  twinkle  of  a  spider  materialized.  and,  𝘢𝘴  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺  𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴  𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴,  she  was  bit.  and,  𝘢𝘴  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺  𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴  𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴,  her  life  would  never  be  the  same.  at  thirteen,  her  new  path  was  set:  she'd  be  the  guardian  her  city  needed.  she  wasn't  just  minako,  future  pop  star,  she  was  sailor  web,  crime  fighting  vigilante.

juggling  crime  fighting  and  puberty  was  not  on  her  teenage  experience  bingo-card  (  𝘪𝘵  𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵  𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺  𝘰𝘯  𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴  )  but  she  found  herself  thriving  and  growing  because  of  it.  through  it  all,  though,  she  never  let  go  of  her  dreams  of  stardom.  and  as  impossible  as  it  seemed,  she  was  determined  to  have  it  all.  𝗻𝗼  𝗽𝗶𝗽𝗲  𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝘀  𝗳𝗼𝗿  𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮-𝗽.

and,  to  no  one's  surprise,  that's  what  she  got.  at  nineteen,  she's  made  quite  the  name  for  herself,  both  onstage  and  as  her  magical  girl  persona.  minako  aino,  the  pop  star,  is  beloved  by  all,  𝘁𝗼𝗸𝘆𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗻'𝘀  𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗷𝗼𝘆.  sailor  web  on  the  other  hand,  well,  𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴  𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩  𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦  𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦,  but  that  hasn't  stopped  the  toys  and  video  games  and  comics  from  being  made.  she's  got  the  best  of  both  worlds  and  she'll  do  whatever  it  takes  to  keep  it  that  way.

[tojiswhore-nanamisslut]

Gojo really is Him and I think that's so sexy tbth