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high-theyre-frendough · 1 year

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I don't usually reblog art on tumblr (to this page I mean, usually it goes on my main blog cause there's more followers there) but I fucking love art. I fucking love fucking comic artists with their awesome fucking comics with fucking scribbly faces that somehow perfectly encapsulate human emotion. I love traditional artists with their watercolor and crayons and oil pastels and fucking idk acrilic paint and charcoal and pencils and shit. I love seeing timelapses and expressive gestures below finished products. I love seeing it. I fucking love art thats non traditional like throwing rice or assembling Rubik's cubes. I LOVE IT ITS FUCKING GREAT. The skill and creativity. I fucking love it. I love seeing fairies and other magical creatures and scifi settings. I love seeing them so much and i would say fantasy and magic in any setting is beautiful and bassass dddd cause I love faries and shit but honestly all settings great. I fucking love it all. I WANNA SEE FUCKING INKY PAINTED CHARCOLS. fucking helle. i love the goddamn fanart of television shows and other media wirh worse art. i swear to fucking god. some of you artists dont get enough love. even """ammatures""" fuck that. youre all fcuking great. i am more of a writer than a visual artists (((not proof here but trust me when im actually writing i am fucking good at it. fuck you dad. i am good at fucking writing. See, the fucking idiot said. If I just put in active effort to write, and use the baskspace button, the writing becomes better. It is one of my few skills, therefore I feel like I can acknowledge I am good at it. Personally, like I alluded to earlier, I enjoy fantasy. I have spent years escaping into fantasy stories. Sometimes I fail to finish them, due to adhd and depression, but what I do create actually is fucking good. When I was younger, I wrote on Wattpad, and like the pretentious little shit I was, I would leave comments on all the stories I read correcting grammar. I have spent so long studying story structure (admittedly informally) and used to read a lot which, I'm trying to do more again soon. however for the purposes of this textpost, its too much effort especially in this context))) anyways fucking hell one time this person (who sounded kinda young tbh in text) messaged me on wattpad and asked for permission to make FAN ART OF THE MAIN CHARACTER OF MY STORY I WAS WORKING AT THE TIME and i was like HOLY SHIT THEY WANNA MAKE FANART OF MY CHARACTER and they did and were embarassed about it SOMEHOW and it was so good this drawing (looked great)

found it you can read the story here anyways yeah fucking artist. fucking love yoou guys hell yeah. did i mention watercolors? landscape artists? comics? comic writers who use their art as a way to communicate serious things? with non bland fucking corporate art bullshit. thank you for explaining complex issues to me in an easier way. thank you for helping translate news stories and recent issues with colorful doodles and comics to help me understand. thank you for making me more interested in graphs and statistics. thank you for making one facet of numbers that are more acceptable to me. thank you for the above average more competent graphic design. thank you so much. i love you fucking porn artists. i fucking love you furties and trans people drawing ideal selves to show EVERYONE IS AN IDEAL BODY YO SOMEONE BECAYSE EVERYONE SEES DIFFERENT AND YOURELLL FUCKING GREAT and all the beads and candy art and custom sculptures that are useeful or mayve not and doodle sn scrivles and crazy experiments. and fucking dumbass youtubers who spent $$$$ making the most creative but also stupid and useless shit you have ever seen in your goddamn life because who even thinks of theses things ans went through and did it because why the fuck not. you are infuriating but entertain my world compared to the commentators who will make their own little sketches and lectures in their own videos. fucking fucking shit. all og it. whenever i see someone go "idk if i can make animation itll look silly* WHO FUCKING CARES BRING ON THE SILLY AND LET IT SLOWLY AND SATISFYINGLY EVOLVE INTO MORE COMPLEX AND DETAILED ANIMATION FOR THR WORLD HELL YEAH I LOVE THE EVOLUTION FROM SILLY BOUNCE TO MUSIC TO COMPLEX SHORT STORIES AND SHIT YOUR GODDAMN CHARACTER ARC IS NECESSARY FOR ENTERAINMENT JUST FUCKING DO IT BECAYSE ALL PARTS ARE EQUALLY ENTERTAINING IN DIFFERENT WAYS come on just fucking draw. fellow yarn people. i know you. look at me i am you. i am an amature but fuck it ill try to keep up. fucking love you crochet and knitters and sewers making plushies and custom clothing and shit yes fuck yeah. KEEP THAT SHIT UP i just make giant enormous pride flag knitted blankets (cant make money doing that cause no one is dropping $200 for that - which would be underpaying me probably) i have seen the most intricate and detailed fucking crochet lingerie and other outfits and they are so fucking cool all of it i love it fuck yeah. i probably forgot something but for some reason i cannot feel my fingers because there is no bloodflow and they are frozen because i have undiagnosed and untreated circulatory problems

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l1tw1ck · 6 months

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hi i just read you the fall of spider and i loved it

i was wondering if we could possibly get like a extended kind of version like scenes when reader comes back and is still in the process of miguel’s Stockholm syndrome and then like more of an insight for when he’s good to roam around the house

Spider-Man's Descent

bottom!ftm Miguel x top!male reader

↳ [Part One] | AFAB Language Used

CW: Past Non-Con, Abuse Mentions, Blowjob, Cum Swallowing, Manipulation, Daddy Kink, Pregnancy, Somnophilia, Squirting

~ 1 week since kidnapping

Miguel turns to the sound of the door opening, eyes lighting up when he sees a plate of food in your hands. He’s been starving in the darkness of his room thanks to his last attempt at escaping.

“I want to hear two things from you, Miguel. Do you know what they are?” You ask, closing the door behind you.

“I- I’m sorry..” He says. “Thank you for bringing me food.”

“Good boy. At least you didn't forget your manners.” You place the food on the foldable table you set up. Miguel goes to get it but you stop him. “Stop. You forgot something.”

He looks at you, confused.

“Show me how grateful you are.” You free your soft cock. “Suck my cock.”

Miguel gulps. He's never given anyone a blowjob before. He’s worried you’ll punish him for not doing it right. He goes over to you and kneels. He remembers the porn videos he watched in the past and tries to mimic the actors. He holds your length in his hand and drags his tongue along it. He looks up at you to make sure he's not doing it wrong.

“I love you so much. It hurt to be away from you for so long but I couldn't let you get away with that again.” You tuck his hair behind his ear. You had to give him a harsher punishment than the last times he tried to escape to ensure he'd never do it again. Although it's not like he’d ever be able to leave thanks to your high end technology. “I don't want to hurt you, Miguel, but you didn't give me a choice. You know that, right?”

He pulls away. “I know…Daddy.” He adds the last part in an attempt to quickly get back into your good graces. “I deserved it.”

You smile. “That's right, baby. You deserved it. But you also deserve to be loved, you just have to let me.”

“...I will.” He looks at your cock then at you. “Can you help me, Daddy? I don't know how to do this..” He tries to be cute.

“Aw, of course.” You gently grip his hair. “Open your mouth.” You move him towards your cock and have him take almost all of it in his mouth. You gently move him back and forth along your length. Miguel looks up at you, staying perfectly still as you use his mouth. He kind of likes your expression. You look pleased. He likes when you're pleased. It means you won't hurt him and you’ll make him feel good too.

Miguel closes his eyes, listening to your gentle praises while he pleases you. He's really hungry right now but doing this means you'll be happy. And you being happy is good for him. He loves making you happy. He loves sucking your cock. And he’ll love swallowing your cum because that’ll make you happy.

Miguel swallows your cum and gets pulled away from your cock.

“Good boy.” You wipe the excess from his lips. “Enjoy your food.”

~ 3 days later

You walk into Miguel’s room and smile. You upgraded it a bit to make his experience more comfortable, there's a nice queen sized bed along with a dresser full of lingerie and a bunch of your shirts with piles of books on top. There's also a mini fridge full of bottles of water. “I’m back, my love.”

“The bath’s ready.” You motion for him to come over. He sighs and follows you out and towards the bathroom. He doesn't bother trying to escape, he's tried so many times. The scars on his body are proof. The two of you strip down to nothing and you climb into the bath first, Miguel following you in. He hates how much he enjoys bathing with you. It's nice to feel affection, especially after he's been punished for bad behavior. You kiss his cheek and wrap your arms around him. “I love you so much, Miguel. I know I’ve said this a lot but I’m sorry for hurting you these past few days. I did what I had to to keep you with me. Please don't give me another reason to hurt you again.”

“I know.” He frowns. “I’m sorry for being bad…I deserved it.” He's said it so many times that he's actually starting to believe it.

“I forgive you.”

~ Week 3

Miguel looks down at the pregnancy test as the answer appears on it. It's positive. He starts to cry. He's been crying a lot lately. He’s always wanted a child but not this way, not because of some villain he barely knows. He doesn't want to live the rest of his life with someone he hates and pretend otherwise for the sake of his kid. He wants to be happy and he doubts that’ll be possible with you. He wipes his face and calms down. He opens the bathroom door and sees you standing in front of it, impatiently waiting for the results.

“I’m pregnant.” He says, voice shaky. You look at him with genuine happiness and bring him into a big hug.

“I’m so happy, Miguel.” You squeeze him tightly. “I can't wait.” You pull away from the hug and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you, okay? You can sleep in my bed if you want to.”

Miguel sighs. He might as well take advantage of this situation. Being pampered all the time doesn't sound too bad plus you probably won't hurt him anymore. He knows escape is impossible and he's given up on being harsh so he definitely won't give you a reason to anyway. “Okay.”

~ Week 5

Miguel turns his head to you, watching you sleep soundly after having gentle and loving sex with him. He likes watching you sleep for some reason. He turns his whole body to you and places his hand on your chest, feeling it rise and fall with each of your breaths. He wonders what you're dreaming about. He wonders if you’d be up for another round. His hand trails down your body and to your crotch, he gently cups it. He's been really horny lately. He can't fall asleep because of it. He brings his leg over your body and rubs his cunt against your thigh, his slick quickly bleeding through his underwear. He closes his eyes, mouth slightly hanging open as he indulges in his pleasure. “Ah-” He moans. “More…Need more…” He pulls off your underwear and stares at your semi soft length before climbing on top of you and seating his cunt over your cock. He drags his wetness across your cock, earning soft groans from you. He smiles. He’s making you feel good. “Daddy..” He moans.

You wake up, quickly processing what's happening. He stops when he sees your eyes open. “Don't stop, baby. Keep going.”

Miguel does just that, grabbing onto your shoulders and roughly rubbing his pussy along your now very hard cock. He digs his nails into your skin as he gets close to his release. “Clo- close- ‘M close, Daddy~” He looks so desperate and horny, he's practically burning up. He bites his lip and arches his back as he squirts. Just seeing him like this is enough to make you come as well. He looks down at you, breathing heavily. “...I love you.” He says, for the first time.

You can feel your heart racing even faster and your boner regaining its strength. “I love you too, baby.” You close your eyes as he leans in to kiss you, the both of you kissing each other passionately. He grinds down on you, clearly still horny. It's gonna be a long night for the two of you.

#wicks🕯️shorts #top male reader #male reader #miguel o'hara x male reader #bottom miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x male reader #🕯️miguel o'hara #🕯️marvel #🕯️spider man #ftm character #tw noncon #tw daddy kink

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oh-koenig-my-koenig · 3 months

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painting his nails

(cw: age gap 25/41, size difference; talking about König's occupation being a soldier, scars from his injuries, military stuff; tickling, smut, nsfw, mdni)

part before: waking up in his bed

“Hold still.”

“This is much more tedious and annoying than I thought it would be.”

I swipe at his lower lash line again, leaving more eyeshadow there. He is blinking excessively, his eyes watering.

“You’re a big baby.”, I tell him, wiping some of the excess away that fell onto his cheekbones.

He shoots me a look. “I just wanted you to paint my nails.”, he grumbles. When he asked me if I could bring some nail polish to paint his nails (black, of course), I was surprised at first. He always wanted to try it, but he didn’t know how to do it properly, so it looked like shit when he did it himself (his words). And I was more than happy to oblige, and then some.

“I got distracted.”, I defend myself. I couldn’t resist coaxing him into putting on some smudgy eyeliner because I knew it would look hot on him. And of course, I am right. I hand him the make-up compact that has a little mirror.

“I look like I didn’t wash off my eyeblack properly.”, he mumbles, critically eyeing the make-up in the reflective material.

“What’s that?”, I ask.

“It’s uh- like black grease paint? Body paint? For like the eye area that still shows in balaclavas.”, he explains.

“Oh, I see.”, I say, getting the gist of it, but still wondering why that was necessary. I tuck that information away for later, to maybe look it up myself, as I open up the little flask of nail polish.

I take his hand in mine and like every single time I’m astounded by the size difference. Yes, he’s like two heads taller than me and over twice my weight. And I don’t think I’m that small. But compared to him I feel tiny. Like right now with his hand splayed out on my thigh while I paint his nails.

I admire the tattoos on his hands, while I paint the first nail. I always try to not pay attention to the parts of his skin that are disturbed by cuts and scars, because they remind me of how he got them. That his work isn’t some kind of accountant desk job. His comment about the eyeblack showed that as well. How different his frame of reference is from mine, even when it comes to small details like that. And how I still don’t know that much about him.

The questions swirl in the forefront of my mind, unsure of how to phrase them, until I finally start to speak. "What's your work like?", I ask carefully. "What... are you like at work?”

He just shakes his head, avoiding eye contact. "I don't..." Opening his mouth, hesitant to say something more.

"I'm sorry, I just- Sorry for being nosy again, just forget about it.", I deflect, painting his middlefinger’s nail next, my eyes darting up to him, smiling apologetically.

He shakes his head again, this time more like to himself. "No, it's okay. I understand.", he says, the smile struggling to form on his face, the emotions in his eyes illegible to me. "I just don't think that you would like me very much at work."

"I don't believe that.", I say softly, even though I’m not so sure myself, with the way he said it. But I couldn’t leave his comment that seemed like a jab at himself like that.

He scoffs. "You'd probably run away screaming if you saw me in my get-up alone.", he grumbles. And I get it. A 6'10'' 300 pounds hulk of a man in full tactical gear sounds scary. Most of the time, I think he would want people to cower when they see him. But there surely also had to be situations where he didn't want to come off as intimidating, but he still might. Like with me.

"You got a picture?", I ask, carefully, adding quickly: "Uh, you don't have to show me though, of course."

At first, he just looks at me, then he sighs and reaches for his phone. "Maybe… I have to look for one.", he mumbles, scrolling on the little screen.

It doesn't take long, and he finds one. I can tell by the way his brows furrow in discontent, but he turns the device to me anyway. It doesn't have the best quality, yet my eyes scan every little bit of it.

He’s huge, duh. Dressed in tactical gear. Protectors on his shins and forearms. A bulletproof vest. Beige cargo pants. A helmet on his head. A rifle in his hands, but don't ask me what kind, because I have no fucking clue.

And he does look scary and intimidating, for sure.

The most surprising part is the mask on his face, not one of those usual masks you would see, but a hood that looks – selfmade? From a shirt or something similar, hiding his whole head and his neck, almost falling down to his chest. There are stains on the front, reddish streaks right under the eyeholes.

My eyes shoot up to look at him, the question on the tip of my tongue. “The mask?”

He shrugs. “Most of the guys at work wear one. And I have worn a similar thing, ever since I wanted to become a sniper. They didn’t let me join the squad because I was too big for that.”, he explains, and I can feel that there is more to the story than he lets on. “I used to wear some type of mask whenever I went outside. Even when I was on leave. But I don’t do that anymore.”, he adds on.

“I see.”, is all I say, my eyes still scanning the pic. Trying to connect his two faces in my mind.

The man I see on the picture is so different from the one whose lap I’m currently sitting on. But I can see bits of both of them, right here before me and also on the screen. Like the band of red beads around his wrist. The big burly stature, dressed in dark clothing. The certain attitude that shows in his posture. The broader than life stance mirrored in the way he’s sitting on the couch.

“My Oma always hated the mask thing, but then again, she didn’t like me joining the military anyway.”, he says then. ('grandma')

“Because?”, I ask curiously, continuing to paint his nails.

He shrugs. “I mean, I understand it, I- it’s difficult to explain. With Austria’s past and what my grandma knew of war… I understand why she wasn’t thrilled that I wanted to become a soldier. As a career.”, he explains, putting the phone away again.

“Oh, right, I didn’t think about that.”, I say, squeezing his fingers lightly, while I move to his other hand, pulling it onto my thigh. His fingertips dig into the softness, as I start to paint his left thumb.

“Yeah... That was probably the only time we ever really argued. About my work.”, he says, his voice calmer than the look in his eyes.

“How did you even know you wanted to be a soldier?”, I ask him then.

“How did you know what you wanted to do?”, he asks back.

“I don’t know, I was kinda good at it and it paid money.”, I say, shrugging my shoulders.

“Exactly. I was in compulsory military service and when we ran drills for the first time… it just made sense, it clicked. The simplicity of it. The structure.” He stops talking for a second, like the list could go on, but something’s keeping him from listing it off. I’m not interjecting, just listening.

“And the prospect of even getting paid for it long term kind of sealed the deal.”, he says instead. “The sniper thing didn’t work out, but somebody of my height and build… well, it took me far as a specialist to break into things. Got out of Austria pretty quickly. And at that time, I also started to use König as a name.”

I perk up when he drops that last bit of information. “I thought that that can't be your real name.”, I smile up at him, before I look down again to make sure none of the colour spills.

He laughs a bit, but it's not a happy laugh. “Yeah, I went through some stuff.”, he says, kinda flatly, and then he sighs. “Got over the need to constantly hide my face, even when I'm not working. But König stuck. Must have quite the ego to call yourself king, hm.”

I’m surprised at the little self-deprecating stab. Well, I guess, his ego fits his stature, but… “I never thought that your ego was overinflated.”, I simply say. Silence falls over us, for just a moment.

“You're not gonna ask about my real name?”, he asks then, the tone in voice unreadable.

I stop my movements, looking up at him. “I might be nosy, but I feel like I already asked too many questions today.”, I answer, a serious expression on my face, needing him to see that I’m being genuine about this: “And I know a boundary when I see one.”

“Right, sorry, I didn't mean to imply-“, he says, breaking off in a curse.

“Don't worry.” I press a quick kiss to his lips, to shut him up. “I don't need to know your ‘real name’ to…” I stop for a moment, trying to find the right thing to say. “If you ever decide to tell me, that's fine, and if you don’t, that's fine too. Okay?”

He nods, the little smile on his face as he looks down at me finally seeming genuine again. “Okay.”

I would have never known that the simple act of painting his nails could be this intimate. But I guess, our closeness, how I’m sitting on his lap, music softly playing in the background – I think, he put on some Pink Floyd Best Of vinyl. The repetitive act of painting nail by nail, picking up colour with the little brush and then coating them carefully. The warmth of his hand on my thigh. His voice filling the space around us, as he tells me about his work. At least the parts he wants to tell me. And I’m soaking everything up, learning more about the man. The man whose real name I might never know.

I can feel how careful he’s being with how he's wording things. Holding himself back a few times. Like he's afraid about telling too much. I'm not naive. I don't know the exact details, but I still know what he does for a living.

I get that the soft version he is with me isn't his default setting. And I know that he is trying so hard right now, not letting that other side shine through too much, because I might see him differently then, while still giving me bits and pieces of himself.

I admire my paint job, the black nails fitting the rest of his left hand. DIE in big bold letters on his knuckles, the lettering pulling up into the skull that spans the back of his hand. The cold dead tree that adorns the inside of his arm sprouts its roots in the eyeholes.

His palm still rests on my thigh, his fingertips softly digging into my skin, like he is holding on.

“You’re done.”, I tell him then. He lifts his giant hands to look at them as well, a grin stalking onto his face, and I miss the warmth of his touch already.

“Thanks.”, he says and presses an almost chaste kiss to my lips.

“You’re very welcome. Even though I needed to use half the nail polish to have enough for your plate-sized nails.”, I comment tongue-in-cheek.

“I’m gonna buy you a new bottle.”, he answers simply.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”, I wave it off.

“And? How do I look?”, he asks, almost striking a pose.

“Good.”, I answer, grinning at him. “Real goth.”, I add jokingly, and we laugh a bit.

I lean against him, my fingers tangle in his shirt, and silence falls over us. He presses me against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. His cheek nuzzling the top of my head. I feel how he’s moving, like he wants to start to speak. Like he is looking for the right words.

“I hope you’re not afraid of me.”, he finally says, mumbled into my hair, so quiet I almost can’t understand him at first.

“I’m not.”, I simply say, knowing that a more elaborate answer wouldn't have convinced him any more. Snuggling into him even, my cheek pressing against the soft pillow of his chest, the palm of my hands caressing over his back. Holding him for a moment.

I pull back a bit, to look up at him, not letting him hide away in my hair any longer. “Uh, btw…”, I start, trying to hide the giggles that want to escape me.

"What?", he asks as he sees the sparkle in my eyes.

"Did I ever tell you that I have a mask kink?", I say, fully grinning from one cheek to another, which pulls a little laugh from him.

“Of course you do, Fräulein.”, he says, but I can see the heat in his gaze, as he quips: “I’ve seen the bands you listen to.”

I playfully smack his bicep. “Rude!”

He just laughs again, grabbing me and pulling me into him again.

“Nooo, your nails are not even dry!”, I wail, giggling, as he peppers kisses all over my neck. I try to escape his grasp, to escape his tickling touches, but it’s like fighting against iron restraints. When he lets go of me, I reprimand him for messing up his nails, and paint those again where some colour came off.

He makes sure to apologize properly, carrying me up to the bedroom, where he strips me naked and sets me on top of his face, telling me to ride it. His hands grab my thighs, letting me admire how good his hands look like that, with the tattoos and the freshly painted nails.

I’m sitting on his face, properly sitting on it, because he wouldn’t accept it any other way. “If I go out like this, so be it. Now, please, sit on my fucking face.”, he rather orders than begs.

His mouth, hot and warm against my wet pussy, is working me tirelessly. His hands steering the pace of my hips that grind against his lower face. His fingers toying with my holes, while he sucks on my clit.

He doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied and his face sufficiently soaked with my juices. He lifts me off his mouth and onto his dick – after getting a condom, of course. I sink down around him, relaxed and so wet, until I’m seated on his lap, his cock filling me to the brim.

I chuckle as I look back and see how his eyes are fixed on my ass, watching it move up and down his length, my pussy swallowing him up, again and again and again. His mouth fell open a little, and it almost seems like there isn’t anything on his mind right now, other than me fucking him reverse cowgirl, with a prime seat for looking at my butt.

“You wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.”, I taunt him, lifting myself from his lap slowly, making sure he sees every inch slipping out of me.

His eyes snap up to my face, a clear ‘watch it’ written on his expression, until his slack jaw turns into a smirk. He leans forward, catching my wrists and securing them behind my back, with just one hand. My back arches as he jerks me down onto his cock, my asscheeks hitting his groin in a slap. My mouth forms to an O, a moan being pulled from my lips.

“You were saying? Hmm?”, he teases me, pressing kisses to my neck that send shivers down my spine. The little ‘hmm’ a soft growl.

“Nothing.”, I breathe, my eyes rolling back as he starts to fuck me like this. Fucking up into me, his tip hitting me deep in this position, pushing up against my cervix. The intense sensations have me screaming, pulsing around his dick.

And when it would be time to pack my stuff and go home after spending the whole weekend together because I have to work tomorrow, I just don’t. It’s late already, so I stay another night, sleeping next to him in his bed, like I did the past two days. Using him as my personal heater because that huge burly man gives off more heat than any radiator would, and it’s impossible to flee his grasp.

next part: on the phone with👑 or more stuff in the Masterlist ~

a/n: this chapter has been brewing for a long time (it was the second scene i ever started, i think) and there's a lot of stuff in there that keeps rumbling around my head when it comes to könig in general and mh!k specifically some of it is canon-diverging headcanons about how he came to be a soldier (you realistically can't really join the austrian military before 18), what that must have meant to him and the people who were close to him, especially his grandma, who was the most important person in his life (also in the context of austria's past) mh!k is a much more toned down now at his age, better adjusted, not the much wilder younger version; he still very much is a König, but he got better over time at not letting his work dictate his every minute, especially when he is on leave he doesn't have the best image of himself, because he knows how he is, how he can be and what he has done, while at the same time being just fine with it all the same, because that's just who he is with reader, it's a little bit of a different topic, because he kind of doesn't want her to see him that way while he also understands her curiosity you see, lots of thoughts xD anyway, thanks for reading <3

#metalhead!könig #she likes the dark #könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut #könig x reader #tw: age gap

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slutforitoshi · 11 months

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rin itoshi - ink *:･ﾟ✧

ft. tattoo artist!rin x f!reader, 18+ minors dni

cw: unprotected sex, fingering, oral m!receiving, head pushing, nipple play, choking

synopsis: you intend to get a tattoo on your rib cage, but your tattoo artist is eager to see more skin

wc: 2.3k

A/N: kicking screaming crying at the idea of tattoo artist rin also ty for 500 followers!

you swallow hard as you come face to face with your tattoo artist. rin itoshi was the one of the executive artists at blue lock arts and was usually booked for months in advance. your friend isagi had managed to squeeze you in since he knew him personally.

“it’s nice to finally meet you,” he extends a hand, and you shake it lightly, hoping your own palm wasn’t clammy from nerves.

you didn’t know if you wanted to thank isagi or punch him. he warned you rin might be a ‘cold prick’, but what isagi failed to mention was that he was panty-dropping hot. and you were expected to keep still while his hands traversed your body for the next 2 hours.

rin reaches for his tablet before handing it to you, “so i took a look at your ideas and this is what i came up with, let me know what you think”

it’s gorgeous. it wasn’t for no reason that he had become so well-known despite only entering the industry a few years back. the strokes were drawn with precision, and it encapsulated your vision so perfectly he might as well have read your mind.

“rin it’s perfect” you look at him in awe, and it sends a wave of heat to his face.

he turns away to hide the unfamiliar pink color on his cheeks and murmurs a “thanks, it’s my job to.” he was usually nonchalant about his work, but something about your starry gaze made him lose composure.

you’re guided to his tattoo table and ordered to lay down, lifting your shirt to reveal your right rib that you intended to ink up.

“this your first tat?” he asks, noticing the how bare your skin was. something impure crosses his mind thinking how he’d be the first one to leave a mark.

“yup first one” you laugh nervously, “unless you count the failed stick and poke i did myself back in high school”

your anecdote earns an amused scoff from rin, “don’t tell me you used pen ink?”

“yeah and an unsanitized sewing needle, too. the thing got so infected and left a nasty scar,” you replied, lifting your leg to reveal the raised skin on your ankle.

“don’t worry, i’ll make sure this one stays” he’s approaching you now with the tattoo gun, “you’re in good hands here”

his words fill you with warmth, and you wonder why you were ever nervous in the first place.

you both settle into a comfortable silence, with only the slight buzz of the gun to be heard. the lack of conversation allows you to focus your thoughts to another subject: rin.

the view of rin tapped into his artistic zone was comparable to the work he was currently imprinting on your body. his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, lips pursed in concentration. piercing teal orbs would switch their gaze between the reference work and your skin, unnerved by any other environmental stimulus.

another thing that caught your attention was the lack of tattoos he had on him considering his profession. many artists you knew of were covered and had no intention of hiding them, but you couldn’t spot a single spot of ink on rin.

“is there something on my face?” he asks, still not sparing you a glance.

“n-no. just didn’t know where else to look…” you stammer, embarrassed from being caught. you could’ve sworn his lips quirked upwards for a second, but he’s back to being expressionless within a blink.

“well we’re about 75% finished here so let’s take a 10 minute break and then come back to it” he wipes off the excess ink and discards of his gloves.

before he can retreat to his desk you ask, “so how do you and isagi know each other?”

“that bastard and i used to be rivals in high school soccer. he used to be real annoying you know, always talking about ‘devouring’ his opponents” he rolls his eyes, remembering old matches.

“honestly not surprising. i remember he threw a fit when he lost our class’s dance dance revolution tournament,” you laugh reminiscing on your own college memories, “i don’t even know why he tried so hard the prize was a fucking $5 gift card to McDonald’s and he hated that place.”

“apparently gives him debilitating shits” you two finish in unison before bursting into laughter. rin’s laughter is rich and deep, and you try to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine.

“so how are you unfortunately acquaintanced with isagi?” rin settles into a nearby seat, forgoing his intention to leave.

“we actually used to be coworkers at our college part-time job. and we were the only ones willing to do the night shifts so we got pretty close”

rin chuckles, “you must be pretty patient to be able to spend so many hours alone with him.”

“oh trust me he definitely drove me insane. he’s a good friend though, and i got an appointment with you through him so i’m definitely thankful for that” you give a warm smile.

“well, i guess i can thank isagi for introducing us too” he reciprocates your smile, which is quickly interrupted by his manager.

“my ears must be failing me because there’s no way rin is conversing with a customer for once.”

the manager then looks to you and adds, “well i guess it makes sense that he would open up to a pretty thing like you”

the new presence instantly wipes the smile from rin’s face, and he retorts “what do you want otoya?”

“just wanted to let you know that i’m heading out. make sure to lock up when you’re done” he instructs. he’s about to leave before he turns to look at you again, “hey if rin doesn’t end up asking you out i’d be more than happy to-”

“LEAVE OTOYA”

otoya’s hands go up in surrender, but he makes sure to shoot you a wink before turning the corner.

“well he is certainly um interesting” you laugh nervously, surprised at the scowl etched onto rin’s face.

“if you’re interested in him i should warn you that he’s a serial cheater” he mutters, but it only envokes laughter from you.

“trust me i can sense a sleaze from a mile away”

your response softens his gaze a little and he signals for you to lay back down on the tattoo bed to start the final session. you couldn’t help but notice that now that you two were the only ones in the building, the space felt a little more intimate.

as the needle presses into you again, you find the pain to be a hundred times more unbearable as a result of your inflamed skin.

the sensation has you forming tight fists, pressing crescent indents into your palm. and if that wasn’t enough your vocal cords started to betray you, with small whines escaping your lips. unbeknownst to you, those same noises are eating away at rin’s focus. blood is rushing to his head, and not the large one.

“you’re being so good for me, i’m almost done” he whispers in reassurance, rubbing his thumb lightly against your ribcage. his touch effectively distracts you from the pain, sending heat to your lower abdomen.

it’s not much longer before he’s sitting back, announcing that the piece is finished, and encouraging you to sit up and look in the mirror. what’s reflected back at you leaves your mouth agape.

“rin, it’s beautiful”

“yeah, it really is” he agrees, although his gaze never once shifted away from your face.

after a few photos, he’s wrapping up the new ink and getting ready to send you out. as you’re packing up however, you notice a dark trail at the edge of rin’s sleeve.

“what’s your tattoo of?” you ask, catching his attention.

he ponders for a moment before replying, “do you want to see it?”

you nod eagerly, expecting him to roll up his sleeve. however, he opts to discard of his top completely, revealing what could only be deemed as a masterpiece. between that and his incredibly toned body, you were mesmerized.

before your consciousness could stop your instincts, your hand is reaching out to trace over the ink. rin doesn’t stop you, though his skin is burning up from your light fingertips.

“i drew it myself back when i was an apprentice. my boss at the time did it for me.”

his voice snaps you back to reality and you quickly withdraw your hand, cheeks flushed. before you could issue an apology though, his own hands are wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back in towards his chest.

“the things you do drive me fucking crazy” he mutters before colliding his lips into yours. the built up tension over the past few hours is cut so suddenly it leaves both of you desperate to get a taste.

your hands wrap around rin’s neck, pressing yourself deeper into his warmth. his fingers are tugging at the underside of your shirt now, itching to feel more of your skin.

he disconnects contact only for a moment to hoist you back up onto the tattoo bed again, lifting your shirt over your head soon after.

“you’re perfection” he growls at the sight of you before diving into capture your beaded nipple between his lips. the other one isn’t neglected either, finding solace between his fingers, rolling back and forth.

“a-ah. it’s sensitive rin” you whine at the sensation, which does nothing to halt his ministrations.

“take them off.” he whispers against your skin, and you need no clarification to know what he means. you kick off your shorts, leaving only your panties stuck against your soaked core.

rin peels them back, marveling at the slick gathered between your thighs. he quickly pushes you back until you’re rested against the bed, and aligns his fingers to your entrance, eager to be intruded.

he doesn’t give you the satisfaction immediately however, circling slowly around where you needed him most.

“rin, please,” you beg, “need you inside”

and how could he deny such an earnest request? two fingers push into you at once with little resistance, but it has you rolling your eyes back, leaning further into the firm leather beneath you.

“looks like you need more” he smirked before a third finger made its entrance. a long drawn out rinnn from your lips has his cock painfully straining against his jeans, but he still remained relentless in his pace.

his digits pumped with such vigor it was impossible to slow down the coil building in your abdomen. his lips attaching to your still-sensitive nipple is what makes you come undone though, and your back is arching against the bed as he’s muttering a, “that’s right, go ahead and cum for me”

with barely a second to recover, you’re ordered to go on your knees as he unzips his jeans to reveal a length you couldn’t fathom fitting within you. the way your mouth watered overrode any fear though and you lean forward to wrap your lips around his tip.

his hand goes flying to your hair, coiling it around his fist tight. he guides you deeper, inch by inch until tears are pricking at the corner of your lashes.

“come on baby, i know you can take more” he encourages, and you relax your throat to take an additional 1-2 inches. the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure that ran through you hearing the gutteral moan that escaped rin’s lips.

you built a rhythm going in and out, making sure to circle your tongue at his tip to feel the shudder that ran through him every time. your hair was still gripped between his fingers, so tight his knuckles were turning white. he was getting dangerously close to finishing, and as tempting as that was he wasn’t quite finished with you yet.

“that’s enough,” he orders, pulling you to your feet. before you could process the new emptiness, he’s flipped you around, pushing your chest forward into the leather bed.

his guides his tip between your dripping folds, and then pushing once he felt the catch of your entrance. the stretch has you letting out a sigh, and it isn’t long before he’s pulling strings and strings of moans out of you.

one hand is firmly placed at your waist, pulling you against the snap of his own hips. the other is fondling your breasts again, addicted to the plush spilling against his fingers.

“more rin” you plead, and his fingers travel up to your throat, wrapping them tighter until you’re lightheaded. the feeling was intoxicating, clearing your mind of everything but the pleasure.

“so fucking good for me, taking it all” he groans, and his own mind is going to a haze at the squeezes your walls kept inflicting on him. he wouldn’t last much longer at this pace, and it would be such a shame not to cum to such a pretty face.

he quickly pulls out of you, turning you over to face his piercing teal eyes. barely a second passes before he’s entering you again, thrusting with intensity that threatened the bed to tip over.

“want you to fill me up” you moan, sensing that he was close. the request has him releasing any restraint he once held, painting your walls with strips of white. the sight of it leaking past your folds once he pulled out had his cock twitching in pride.

the contrast between rin’s behavior within a span of but 2 minutes was stark, as he took a towel to gently wipe up the mess he left behind.

he places a kiss on your temple, “wait for me in the front ok?”, and turns to start clearing up his work station.

once you had finished trying to make yourself look like you hadn’t just been fucked silly, you waited for rin in the lobby to pay the cost of your tattoo. he simply shut off the register though, leaving you all the more confused.

“wait i still need to pay the rest of-”

“the deposit was plenty,” he shrugs off your concern, “and if you want to tip…you can do it in the form of dinner next week.”

little did you know that he had no intention of letting you pay for that either.

#rin itoshi #rin #rin smut #rin itoshi smut #rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #blue lock #bllk #bllk smut #blue lock smut #blue lock imagines #itoshi rin

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i-drop-level-one-loot · 7 months

Text

✨2000 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION!!!✨

Kirtch

I want to thank all of you for being such a wonderful community! I've gotten a few really good suggestions on what I should do for my 2K celebration, but the amount of people demanding more to the Human Pet trilogy is o v e r w h e l m i n g, lol so here you go ❤️ Thank you so much for enjoying my stories

CW: Monster fucking, yandere relationship, bittersweet feels

Ten years had passed since (Reader) was abducted from their home planet.

Kirtch smiled joyfully, chest swelling with adoration as his pet woke up from their slumber, stumbling into his office sleepily. Their skin glowed, a result of their carefully formulated diet made for humans, and the healthy layer of squish that had formed around their body was the result of Kirtch's pampering and excess treats. (Reader) was still just as cute as the day he saw them in the marketplace, now happier than ever.

They yawned, rubbing their eyes as they teetered over towards Kirtch, raising their arms to be picked up without speaking. Chuckling, Kirtch lifted them easily into his lap, rubbing their back as (Reader) struggled to wake up. "Good morning, pet. Did you sleep well?"

(Reader) smiled on reflex, leaning into the hard chest they had learned to find comfortable. His rough fingers ran up to their neck as he massaged them, feeling the track mark scar that would never fully fade. It was such a shame, that rounded reminder of darker days, when (Reader) was so unhappy and needed strict training. But that was all in the past. (Reader) had learned to love Kirtch, which meant he could spoil them to his heart's content.

Their body was bigger than before, but Kirtch found that they still nestled perfectly in his arms.

Inside (Reader's) mind, every day was a haze.

Like a dream they couldn't escape.

It took well over a year, having their brains practically liquified with chemicals to lose their grasp on who they were as a person. Memories of their parents melted away, leaving only strange blobs of abstract color that held no distinct shape, along with friends past lovers. (Reader) sometimes dreamt in their native tongue, hearing themselves in the language they spoke for the majority of their life, but in the morning (Reader) was speaking in Kirtch's language, something they had willingly desired to learn. (Reader) learned many tricks since they started living with Kirtch.

In the mirror by their rarely used bed, (Reader's) reflection had become as alien to them as the faces of the crew members on board the ship.

Part of (Reader) wondered if they should be concerned by that fact. But, outside of their time with Kirtch, (Reader) felt apathetic. It wasn't useful to have thoughts that weren't happy.

Dressed in beautiful silks, (Reader) draped their arms around Kirtch's shoulders, placing gentle kisses along his jaw.

At the beginning of their "relationship", Kirtch first viewed sex as a way to release his pet, then he began to crave it as a way to please his pet, wanting to do anything that to make his pet happy.

Now, it was something that was special. It still didn't fulfill Kirtch physically, as nothing could change his bodily functions, but if anyone else were to suggest that they "released" his (Reader) for him, Kirtch would kill them without a second thought. It was a special time for Kirtch, knowing that only he could make his precious (Reader) feel good.

Scaled fingers sunk deep into the fat of (Reader's) thighs as they pressed their lips against his face more roughly. (Reader) felt their lips begin to bruise as they kissed Kirtch's mouth, unfazed by his inhuman anatomy by this point in their relationship.

Yes, this was his pet. No one else was allowed to love them, touch them, like he did. Although he knew that one day (Reader's) life would come to an end, Kirtch knew that the ecstasy he felt by (Reader's) side would last for a hundred years after they were gone. There were no replacements for his (Reader), and honestly he felt no need for any other additions to his life either.

(Reader's) face was cupped in Kirtch's hands as the kisses became more passionate and frantic; (Reader's) hands slipping into his robes to feel his armored chest. Everything about (Reader) was too precious for words.

As his large, jewel like eyes gazed into (Reader's), he sometimes wondered if their lives could have been differently. Through many decades of studying humans Kirtch had learned of many different cultures and their mythologies, and although he knew that none of them were true, he sometimes fantasized about being reborn with (Reader) as humans, living and loving together in each other's arms, without the need for a collar.

His pelvis opened, revealing himself to (Reader), who excitedly removed their hands from his abdomen to caress his exposed member. Kirtch would do anything to protect that smile.

It never failed to fascinate him, the look on (Reader's) face as they slid down onto his dick. The way they scrunched up their nose before relaxing, sighing as Kirtch filled them entirely. (Reader's) body was fascinating. Kirtch could feel pressure whenever their muscles clenched around him; feel the vibrations from the shuddering of their quivering abdominals. Even if he couldn't feel the same stimulation, it was still a magical experience because he was allowed to experience it with his (Reader).

It was difficult, not staring at (Reader) in awe as they used his shoulders as leverage to bounce on his lap, moaning and gasping and biting their lip as they used his body for their pleasure. The strange slime that was his pre-cum creating a loud schlicking noise that echoed throughout Kirtch's sound proof room.

Assisting (Reader) by grabbing their ass cheeks and moving their body, Kirtch smiled as they spasmed, their red sweaty face letting out the sweetest sound of all as they climaxed around his cock. Kirtch allowed himself the release into their still twitching hole, forcing (Reader) to arch their back at the stimulation.

It was another beautiful day, with (Reader) filled with Kirtch's cum, still grinding against his hips and overstimulating themselves for fun, taking advantage of the fact that Kirtch could keep his erection as long as he pleased, even after cumming.

"I love you, pet." Kirtch whispered, placing his cold forehead on (Reader's) feverish one.

"I -I love you too!" (Reader) cried out, chasing another orgasm. Their body fell limp as another climax rolled like a large wave across their body, forcing out Kirtch's fluids which gushed back down over his dick and shelled thighs.

Kirtch was content.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you all so much for loving Kirtch ❤️

And thank you all so so so so much for enjoying my writing enough to follow me!!!

We reached 2K followers while I was sleeping, and I am just floored.

Since this is a special, I have a little announcement..

I am planning a part 4 🎉

It's going to be extremely long, and won't come out until after kinktober finishes, but I've already begun the planning phase for the story ❤️

So, some other little facts about Kirtch!

I often read my stories out loud under my breath while writing, and for names I just say whatever feels natural sounding during the introduction for the character. For aliens and monsters without human names I sound out what feels right, then quickly Google it to make sure it isn't a real name lol

I wanted his exoskeleton to look like those big black beetles found in the garden that have a green sheen when the light hits them, except purple instead of green. And I when visualizing him I wanted his eyes to look like crystals, and what's more alien than opals? Many gem stone colors can be recreated with colored contacts, but I've never seen opal colored contacts, because of all the different colors opals have ❤️

Don't judge my art too much, I'm not an artist lol

It was difficult figuring out how a hard shelled creature would emote, but I think I figured it out haha

And bonus, Kirtch's slutty feet

Put those things away!

Again, thank you all so much for being such a wonderful community ❤️

And I hope you continue enjoying my stories in the future!!!!

#2000 followers #oh my fucking god #thank you all so so so much #this is fucking amazing #you're all beautiful and wonderful <3 #i love the love kirtch gets #yandere alien #yandere alien x reader #gn reader #and including #my terrible art #thank you for interacting with me #thank you for not hating me #i love all of you #yandere x reader #yandere #thank you so much

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daisynik7 · 9 months

Text

Lipstick Lover

Pairing: Kishibe x f!reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

cw: porn without plot, smut - PIV sex (cowgirl), lipstick play, nipple play, blowjob, cunnilingus, spanking, pet names (slut, good girl, sweetheart, princess), multiple orgasms

Summary: You test out a new shade of lipstick while on vacation with Kishibe. Author’s Note: This is for @heavenlyevil's Summer of Pleasure event, check it out! Thank you for hosting this! Inspired by Lipstick Lover by Janelle Monáe, absolutely love this song. Likes, comments, and/or reblogs are always appreciated, hope you like this one! MDNI banner by @/cafekitsune.

It’s the first day of your vacation with Kishibe at an all-inclusive beach resort in Hawaii. The two of you flew in late last night, with only enough time to check-in to the hotel and settle into your room. Today, you’re prepared to lounge on the beach, soak up the island sun, and drink Mai Tais until the both of you are happily blitzed. However, your boyfriend always finds a way to throw a wrench in your plans, which isn’t always a bad thing.

Kishibe waits for you on the couch, aloha shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chiseled abs. Seeing him in anything but his standard Public Safety uniform is jarring, but part of you is thrilled to witness this side of him. You come out of the room in your bikini, sarong wrapped around your waist. He smirks at the sight of you, spreading his thighs wider in his seat. “Look at you.”

You smile, twirling for him. “Like what you see?”

“Absolutely.” He stands up, walking towards you for a kiss. His hand trails down to your bare waist, caressing you. “You sure you don’t want to stay in the room today?”

You giggle. “We didn’t come all the way here just to stay in, did we? Oh! Let me put on my new lipstick before we head out.” Returning to the bedroom, you retrieve your makeup bag, searching for the one you bought specifically for this vacation. He follows you inside, standing behind you, hands in his pockets, watching you carefully apply the rouge. When you’re done, you stick a finger in your mouth, sliding it out quickly to collect the excess.

He hums curiously behind you, clearly amused by what you just did. You turn to him, giggling. “What?”

He steps to you, thumb grazing your chin. “I think you’ve still got some left. Here.” He slips his thumb past your lips, sliding it across your tongue. You suck on him, eyes glued to his, until he slowly pulls out, a string of spit dragging with it. He swallows hard, tracing the outline of your mouth with his wet finger, smudging it at the corner. “Oops. Looks like I messed it up. You better fix it.” His voice is low and gruff, filled with lust.

Your stomach flutters, familiar with the hungry look in his eyes. Withing breaking your gaze, you reach behind you for it, rolling it up to paint it aimlessly on your lips. “Is this better?”

“Not sure. Try it out on me,” he says, pointing to his neck.

You tilt your head, pressing a kiss right below his jawline, leaving a stain on his skin. He inspects it in the mirror, tutting. “Still not enough. More.”

Obeying, you reapply, making sure you have enough on to cover the rest of his neck, maybe even his cheeks. Your body tingles with excitement, knowing exactly where this is leading to. You scatter kisses across his chest, marking him with different opacities of red. He bows his head so you can kiss his cheeks, particularly on the scar that runs along the left side of his face. Lastly, you land on his lips, kissing him sloppily, the pigment smeared on his mouth and yours.

He leads you toward the bed, sitting at the edge, shrugging his shirt completely off. His fingers brush the marks you left for him, eventually trailing down to the waistband of his swim trunks, sliding them down until they’re pooled around his ankles, kicking them off. His cock springs against his abdomen, glistening at the tip as he leans back on his hands, thighs in a wide stance. “Put that gorgeous mouth on me, princess. Want it pretty just like your lips.”

Kneeling in front of him, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, puckering at the tip, licking off his precum. He groans, cock twitching as you sink down on him, surrounding him in your wet heat. “Fuck. You always suck it so good,” he praises, his hand gently resting on your bobbing head. You hum against him, too full of his engorged dick to speak. You’ve since stripped your sarong off, fingers rubbing at your clit from outside your bikini while you fist his cock into your mouth. He stares at you, barely blinking, not wanting to miss a second of this deliciously obscene show you’re putting on for him.

“Take it off and touch yourself,” he demands.

Nodding, you slip out of your bottoms, dipping your finger in your arousal to flick it against your bud. At the same time, you swallow him whole, guzzling his dick as far down your throat as you can. He’s got both his hands on you now, gripping your head firmly while he thrusts slowly inside you. With your free hand, you cradle his balls, squeezing them delicately with your fingers. He swears, bucking his hips suddenly. “Fuck, I’m going to come if you keep doing that.”

This only makes you torment him more, gliding to the tip to swirl your tongue around it, fisting his shaft quickly until he comes, pulsing his hot seed inside you. You swallow his load, spit trickling from the corners of your lips. There’s makeup smeared all over his cock, evidence of your dirty deed. “Look how pretty it is, covered in my kisses,” you purr, still fingering yourself, admiring your work.

“Want to mark you too.”

You raise a brow at him as you stand in front of him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He hoists you onto his lap. “Put it on me.”

You uncap the lipstick, giggling as you apply it on him, velvety with the maroon sheen. “My turn,” he growls, sucking on your neck.

You grind on him while he decorates kisses on your body, tinted imprints on your collarbones, your cheeks, your forehead. He removes your top to latch his mouth to your breasts, suckling at your nipples until their swollen and peaked. His hands grip your hips, rocking you back and forth on his lap, his cock beneath you, still smudged with crimson.

“So fucking sexy,” he says, laying down on the bed. “Let me taste you.”

You crawl to him, turned towards the headboard, straddling his face carefully. He laughs, delivering a loud smack to your ass. “You always act shy at first. Come on. Smother me with this pussy. I know you want to.” Grasping your hips, he pulls you down to him, pressed to your cunt, dragging his tongue on your clit. He devours you messily, wet squelches getting nastier with each passing second as you ride him, clutching his hair.

“Fuck my face, sweetheart. Just like that, fuck,” he muffles, slobbering on your dripping pussy. Red is blotched all over his lips now, chin shiny with saliva and slick. He reaches one hand towards his cock, which is hard again, surrounding it in his fist to stroke it. “Love eating out this perfect cunt. Gets me so fucking hard.”

He sucks on your clit until it’s plump in his mouth while you whine from the sensation, limbs spasming from the pleasure. You feel him grin against you, cooing, “Is my good girl going to come?”

“Yes,” you answer in a hurried response. You ride him faster, clit tingling as you gush on his tongue. He moans, licking every drop of your orgasm to swallow down his throat. “Think you can take my cock?”

Catching your breath, you nod, lifting off him to position yourself on top, rubbing your swollen pussy along his shaft. You brain is hazy, but still, you crave more of him, especially that perfect cock inside you. “Fuck me, Kishibe. I want it, I want it.”

“Yeah?” He watches as you guide his dick inside you, sliding in smoothly. “You want me, huh? My perfect, little cock slut. Then take it. Take this cock.”

You bounce on his lap, his cock deep inside you, stimulating your sweet spot repeatedly with each thrust of his hips. His fingers dig into your flesh, holding you tightly at the waist, guiding your body with his. You’re high on ecstasy, intoxicated by the pleasure. He slaps your ass several times, hard enough to leave a burn that ignites your skin. You lean forward, collapsing on him, too spent to continue riding him. He takes over, planting his feet to the sheets, pounding you relentlessly until you’re unraveling for him once more, coating him in your arousal.

“That’s it, get it fucking creamy for me,” he whispers, nibbling at your earlobe. “You want my cum now?”

Too fucked-out, you nod dumbly, tongue lolling out of your mouth. He chuckles, swiping his thumb across your lips. “I can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

“Yes. Please. Fill me up,” you beg, twitching around him.

“So needy. Always begging me to stuff you,” he teases, fucking you rough, bed creaking beneath you. “Fuck, I’m coming, princess. I’m coming.”

He shoots inside you, arms wrapped around you in an intimate embrace, kissing you. You’re both a mess, rose stains spattered on your body, especially blurred over your mouths. Sweat dewy on your skin, white sheets twisted below you and smudged with residual makeup. When he pulls out of you, his cum trickles out of your slit slowly, leaking down your thighs. You roll over next to him, exhausted and beyond satisfied.

He turns to face you, caressing your cheek. “So…have any other shades you want to test out?”

#kishibe smut #chainsaw man kishibe #csm kishibe #kishibe #kishibe x reader #kishibe x y/n #kishibe x f!reader #kishibe x you #kishibe chainsaw man #kishibe csm #chainsaw man smut #summer of pleasure #lipstick lover #csm smut

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cupcfake · 22 days

Text

how did toji and reader meet and start dating?

cw: reader and toji have a big age gap, kinda stalking/yandere-ish themes, but toji is pretty soft in this fic

♡ you had just graduated jujutsu high when you met the man, you were moving all of your things over to your family home when you first crossed paths

♡ toji had been on his way back from a mission, heading home, when he bumped into you, you walked straight into his chest and fell flat on your ass, and looked up at the hulk of a man

♡ he thought the look of fear and shock in your eyes was cute, as he extended a hand to help you up. so fragile and sweet <3

♡ he was interested in you and started popping up around town, watching you and following you, just to be around you

♡ of course you didn't notice him, he was one of the best assassins, no one except satoru had ever noticed him, he thought you were as cute as a button, going about town shopping for the list of things your mother had sent you out with

♡ eventually he managed to catch you alone at night, and pinned you against the wall of a small, secluded alleyway

♡ he left the alley with your number, but most importantly your hand in his, as he dragged you off back to his place

♡ toji had never been gentle in nature, so of course he wasn't quick to realise how scared he had made you, sitting in his apartment on the sofa sat still with fear

♡ it took him a moment to realise he had actually frightened you, and began to baby talk you and be way more gentle, he didn't want to frighten his infatuation after all! he wasn't some heartless asshole, well sorta

♡ he held your hands gently, picking them up in his larger ones, and he managed to grunt out an apology, and baby talk you

♡ he still spoke aggressively, but you realised he didn't want any harm for you, not yet anyway

♡ toji fushiguro was NOT a gentle man. so he had no idea what possessed him to talk so sweetly to you

♡ you reminded him of something so precious. a cute baby bunny. or a kitten perhaps? maybe a cute little deer? something that he needed to take care of

♡ he held your soft hands in his noticeably larger scarred, rough hands

♡ "'s okay sweet thing, i got y', don't wanna hurt y'" he muttered out, still sounding harsh, but could you blame him? he hadn't bothered with girls in years!

♡ eventually, you began trusting toji, and you guys started going out together more, he got to the point of only taking missions just to be able to take you out somewhere nice

♡ he took you out to ice cream parlours, so he could watch you lick the sweet cream, wipe the excess of the corner of your cute lips with his thumb and watch you suck it off of his thumb after, he was smitten

♡ eventually you guys had started dating after these outings together, there was no official asking out, toji was not one for these things, but you knew something changed when he gave you such a pretty ring with a little bow sitting on top as decal

♡ toji wasn't the sweetest, or most attentive, or romantic, but he was yours and that was all that mattered to you <3

♡ "g'mornin, sunshine" he grumbled next to you, awaking from his sleep

#jujutsu kaisen #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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shares-a-vest · 3 months

Text

He's Gonna Save Me, Call Me 'Baby'

wc: 1.1k | Rated: T for alcohol consumption (not excessive) | cw: post-breakup, angst with a hopeful ending

Tags: Future Fic (mid-90s), Post Stancy Breakup, Steve Harrington Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Platonic Stobin, Jeff (Stranger Things), Eddie Munson, Corroded Coffin, Implied Future Steddie (only bc the end is a little vague)

Written for the @strangerthingswritersguild Hozier Project. I chose the song, 'Jackie and Wilson'. Thank you soooo much to @subbaculture for setting up this event and making the banner!

(Read on ao3)

“Look alive, Dingus.”

Robin turns around to Steve and pats him square in the chest. He perks up, even though his best friend turns straight back to the entryway of The Hideout to wave at Jeff. He thinks it would be easier if Robin’s head were on a literal swivel with the way she has been whipping back and forth for the past hour.

Steve grumbles into his beer, pushing through the burn in his throat that still lingers years later as he laments the lack of Eddie following behind his bandmate.

He knows they had arrived too early for Corroded Coffin’s show, but Robin’s summer break from teaching came just in time – sue him for needing to spend every possible moment with his best friend.

Though he’d decided as soon as Robin announced her return to Hawkins that he wouldn’t mention the flowers he ripped up in haste in the back garden last week.

He’d done so straight after arriving home from the real estate agent, head hung in shame as he fully accepted yet another hard thunk on the head courtesy of Nancy Wheeler.

Well, it wasn’t so much a thunk this time as it was what Steve might consider, ‘divine intervention’.

He was in the backyard, tending to his small and still very much intact flower garden when a piece of guttering fell clean from the house, smashing through the window of the spare bedroom Nancy was using as her office – a room they’d falsely promised each other would be used for an entirely different reason.

But, much like his childhood home (which endured a mighty crack right through that cursed goddamn pool during Spring Break of ‘86), Steve found himself existing in a not-so-perfect house. One that grew increasingly cold as years of Upside Down dust and fog and smoke cooled Hawkins’s atmosphere.

A house that, with a broken and rusted gutter pipe, decided to remind them that shouldn’t – couldn’t – be playing house.

That’s all it really was: a pretend white picket fence dream that isn’t what Steve had meant by his vision of vacationing with a brood of Harringtons, Nancy by his side.

A dream that Nancy never wanted and got dragged into until her office window smashed in.

A dream that Steve thought was dead and buried the day Nancy rightfully picked through shards of glass for her things and left.

Buried until Eddie called him, saying that he had been talking to Robin (because of course, they kept tabs on him). He said the band would be back in town and that Steve and Robin should meet them.

And so, with a few beers warming his belly, burning his throat and sending a prickling sensation up his scar-covered sides, Steve found that nagging hope bubble up again.

He shakes his head, scoffing at his hopeless self as the sound of rhythm and blues music over the bar’s jukebox almost drowns out Jeff’s and Robin’s chattering.

Maybe he should be talking himself out of it. Finally acknowledging that years-old fleeting something between him and Eddie.

But he wants it.

And Lord knows he acts on a mere fleeting feeling.

Maybe history won’t repeat itself this time. Maybe the rusted gutter was one last divine thunk.

Maybe it won’t just be a first date. Or meaningless sex. Or bullshit.

He should have known that love with Nancy – a love long sucked down his old pool drain along with Barb Holland’s life – couldn’t prosper in the aftermath of an almost apocalypse.

They thought they were supposed to try, is the thing.

Staying in Hawkins. Keeping things at bay. Watching. Perhaps waiting for it all to come back.

But then it didn’t.

It all just lingered.

And they were left to pick up the pieces.

Right mistakes.

Move on.

They just didn’t need to do it together.

Steve pivots on his barstool, leaning an elbow on the bar top to get a better (hopefully seemingly more casual) view of the entryway.

He has seen Eddie over the years. Every Christmas at the Hendersons, sporadic visits home, a phone call here and there. The band hadn’t exactly made it big – at all, really. But they made enough to move around. Tour. Always returning to The Hideout for a one-off Tuesday Night gig as if nothing changed.

Steve looks around, thinking there might be three more drunks than the last show –

And there he is.

Eddie enters the bar with Gareth and George in tow and Steve swears a summer breeze flows in with him.

He looks good. Leather-clad as always. Pants impossibly tight. Jacket chains jangling. His hair still a river of wild curls.

But Steve sinks back on his seat as the trio makes a beeline for the stage, Eddie’s bright eyes turning into a dark frown as he orders the boys about, barely carrying a thing himself.

He probably had some theatrical excuse about his outfit, punctuated by manic hand gestures and a pout or two.

Steve watches as they dump their equipment by the one-step platform, each maneuver creating cacophonous thuds that reverberate through the bar. Jeff grimaces at the sight before shooting an apologetic glance at the manager and barkeep. The boys always did saddle him with sweet-talking the staff.

“Someone’s eager,” Robin teases, catching Steve’s smirk.

Jeff quirks a brow and stifles a smile.

“Shut up,” Steve chuckles into his glass before he downs the last of his beer.

“Eddie is really excited to see you, man,” Jeff nods, offering a nonchalant shrug just as Eddie begins making his way towards them.

Steve’s heart quickens.

There’s that something.

A something that is reflected in the glint in Eddie’s eyes as he smiles wide and waves.

Steve wiggles his fingers in greeting, shaking his head at himself almost instantly causing a lock of his hair to flop out of place.

George not-at-all subtly drags Gareth in Jeff’s direction.

“Over here, Gare,” Robin commands loudly through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Steve,” Eddie says, his voice low as he steps forward to stand just close enough that yeah, Steve decides to roll with that hope again.

He reaches up to comb a hand through his hair but Eddie gets there first.

“Sucks about Wheeler, babydoll,” Eddie continues, allowing his fingers to scrape his scalp, carefully looking him over as he does so.

Eddie always is too much.

Everything.

A lot. All at once.

Seeing him.

Steve hums and Eddie soon stops, an embarrassed set of dimples dotting his cheeks as he likely thinks better of it given their current location.

“It was... all a mistake,” Steve admits, taking Eddie’s retreating hand.

He intertwines ring-adorned fingers with his own, refusing to let go of the hope tethering them, ready to start again.

#okay so this one is really different for me and... idk how i feel about it tbh 😅#steve harrington #steve harrington angst #stancy #steddie #stranger things #lily writes a fic #stwg #steve harrington fanfic #stwghozierproject #tw alcohol

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sparxwrites · 11 months

Text

The Body Shots Incident

A prequel-ish to this nonsense, aka "the origin story of the Hermitcraft server party tequila ban". cw for lots of alcohol consumption and excessive innuendo [ao3]

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Mumbo, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. He’s trying to delay the inevitable – primarily, being shirtless in front of a lot of people with Scar ‘Godlike Abs’ Goodtimes right next to him for comparison. It’s not working very well. “Just, I can think of, off the top of my head, oh, sixteen ways this could go wrong. At least three of them end with us respawning. At least.”

“Oh, no!” Scar, already reclining across a table in a distinctly louche manner, is nude from the waist up and looking distinctly self-satisfied about it. If anybody present knew who Jeff Goldblum was, multiple comparisons would have already been made. “It’s a terrible idea, and it’s going to go horribly wrong.”

Scar, unlike Mumbo, had taken his shirt off with precisely zero shame and absolutely maximum enthusiasm as soon as the whole concept had been suggested. It had taken three people – Bdubs included, remarkably – to stop him from removing his belt and pants as well.

Mumbo’s unclear whether the nearly-double-digits-worth of brightly coloured cocktails are to blame for Scar’s enthusiastic stripping, or whether this is just a Scar Thing. Probably just a Scar Thing, if he’s being honest. The man’s shredded. If Mumbo had pecs and abs like that, he’d take his shirt off all the time too.

“Okay, both of you, lie down,” says Pearl, officiously. Or as officious as one can be, after multiple bottles of Prosecco and a round of Jaeger bombs – which is frankly not very. She’s wielding a salt shaker in one hand, like it’s a hand grenade; two lime slices in the other, like– some other kind of weapon. Or something. Mumbo’s not exactly sober right now, either. Similes are a little beyond him at this point.

Scar, already draped elegantly across his own table, gestures to Mumbo with a raised eyebrow.

Mumbo, very reluctantly, sheds his shirt.

Grian, loitering next to Impulse, wolf-whistles in what Mumbo assumes is supposed to be a supportive sort of way. It doesn’t feel very supportive. Doesn’t do much to actually support him, either. Mostly, it just makes him go bright red – brighter red than he’d already gone, anyways, at having so much skin exposed in a room full of people.

Though admittedly not that many people, realistically. There’s him and Grian, as a team; Scar and Bdubs, as the opposing team; and Impulse, the judge of this ill-conceived competition. And Pearl, of course, as his self-proclaimed beautiful assistant. But pretty much every other Hermit is on the other side of the room, busy getting drunk and being noisy. Usual server party stuff.

It’s only them over here, with the two tables in the room not currently covered in alcohol and cups, because Grian and Bdubs had had a stupid argument, and decided that clearly the best way to solve it was a body shots competition, of all things. Which, yeah, sure, tracks as far as drunk Bdubs and Grian logic goes, but– Mumbo’s not even sure how you score a body shots competition.

That’s what they have Impulse for, though. Impulse knows how to judge a body shots competition. Probably.

So there’s not that many people watching, by the grace of any god paying attention. It’s just that, well. Mumbo has his shirt off. Right next to Scar Goodtimes, abs god extraordinaire. And Mumbo’s got no abs, and skin pale enough a vampire would flinch from it, and a soft little belly, and enough body hair it probably technically counts as thermal insulation.

And, to put the icing on the misery cake, pert little nipples. It’s not his fault it’s bloody cold with his shirt off but, for some reason, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop anyone from commenting on their pertness.

“Nice nips, Mumbo,” says Grian, as though he’d read Mumbo’s mind in the worst, most malicious way possible. He cackles when Mumbo turns self-consciously pink. “Hey! That was a compliment!”

Impulse clears his throat. “No– no commenting on competitors’ nipples without their explicit consent. Well-established rule of body shots competitions that I definitely didn’t just make up. I mean. Preferably no commenting on nipples at all but–”

“Don’t worry, Grian,” interjects Scar, cheerfully. “You can comment on my nipples all you like.”

“Thanks, Scar. That’s great. I appreciate the offer.” Grian does not, under any possible stretch of the imagination, sound like he appreciates the offer.

“Hey!” snaps Bdubs, immediately, outraged on a reflex. “No commenting on my competition partner’s nipples, okay?! Get your own!”

Grian, moderately drunk and visibly bewildered, flounders. “Get… my own nipples…?”

“Yeah! Get your own nipples, Mister!”

“Anyway,” says Impulse, loudly, clapping his hands together. Several Hermits look over. A few drift over for a closer look. Mumbo’s insides curl up like a dying spider. “If we could, uh, get things started…? Pearl–?”

Pearl crosses her arms.

“–sorry, my beautiful assistant, Pearl, could you do the salt, if our contestants want to lie down…?”

“On it!” says Pearl, with entirely too much glee. She approaches, menacing, salt shaker and lime slices in hand.

Both Scar and Mumbo, rather hurriedly, scramble to arrange themselves appropriately for their salting, and then endeavour to lie very, very still. They get a lime slice placed besides their head for their troubles.

Mumbo is chosen as the first victim for salting. He holds himself frozen on the table – deer-in-the-headlights frozen, even – as Pearl, tongue between her teeth in concentration, begins to tip salt in a line down his chest, right between his pecs. It’s a pretty wobbly line. Mumbo blames the Jaeger bombs.

“This is ridiculous,” mutters Grian, watching his half-naked best friend get salted like a slug by a drunk Australian. This, Mumbo feels, is a bit rich coming from the man who enthusiastically agreed to the idea when Bdubs proposed it.

Bdubs glowers at him by way of reply. Impulse just looks tired.

When Mumbo has had the appropriate salt applied, Pearl moves onto Scar. She wields the salt shaker like a loaded gun, and is doing a poor job of muffling her giggles. Those in her way move out of the way, very quickly, as she heads to Scar’s table.

“Do not get that on my nipples, by the way, Pearl,” says Scar, firmly, craning his head up as she approaches to watch the proceedings. “I don’t want any chafing!”

Pearl, already struggling to keep anything so much as approaching a straight face, barely manages to set the salt down before she doubles over in hysterics. “Im– Impulse–” she manages, wheezing, her grip on the edge of the table the only thing keeping her upright. “Gonna– tagging– tagging you in, mate, oh, oh my–”

Impulse, with an apologetic twist of the mouth in both Mumbo and Scar’s directions, takes up the salt.

His attempt at setting up a line of salt down Scar’s chest goes significantly better than Pearl’s did with Mumbo, primarily because he’s not a bottle and a half of prosecco down and sloppy drunk with it – just a few beers tipsy, instead. In short order, the pair of them are salted, with a lime slice ready to go in their mouths when the competition begins. Then he heads off to fill shot glasses of tequila, with the tongue-between-teeth concentration and unsteady hand of the moderately inebriated.

Bdubs and Grian take the opportunity to approach and examine their victims.

“Cute,” says Grian, and pokes Mumbo in the bellybutton.

Mumbo yelps, raising a hand to swat at him, before freezing when he remembers the salt. “Hey! No– no. I am sensitive. No poking.”

“Ooh,” interrupts Bdubs, peering nosily over at the competition. At Mumbo’s chest, specifically, and the thick fuzz of dark body hair growing across it. Much of the salt has ended up across it – or, rather, beneath it, within it, and amongst it. Mumbo’s not looking forward to tomorrow’s shower. “Look at that. Very nice. Lucky you!”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Lucky?” he asks, disbelievingly. “I– look, no offence, Mumbo, I’ve got nothing against a good bit of chest hair, but… I’m just not convinced licking it is going to be the best sensation in the world.”

“Lucky,” repeats Bdubs, firmly.

“You want to swap…?” Grian is once more visibly bewildered. Though, admittedly, that’s not an uncommon expression to find people around Bdubs wearing. “Because that’s fine, I don’t mind–”

“I do not want you two to swap,” mutters Mumbo, nervously.

He’s concertedly ignored by everyone involved.

“Aha!” Bdubs grabs Grian by the front of his jumper with both hands. “So it is true. You are trying to steal Scar from me, and you do want to lick his– Scar! Stop laughing, you’ll ruin your salt.”

Scar manages to muffle himself down to stifled sniggers, with what looks like a Herculean effort of drunken willpower. “C’mon, Bdubs. Leave poor Grian alone. We can discuss him licking me when I don’t have salt, uh, perilously close to my delicate nipples.”

“How’re you managing pel– perir– pelirousy after nine cocktails?” demands Mumbo. “You can’t even bloody say that sober!”

He is, once again, ignored.

“I don’t want to discuss him licking you! I want him to not lick you! That’s not his job.” Bdubs sounds aggrieved. He does, however, obediently release the front of Grian’s jumper, stepping back to give the other man the stink eye. “He’s not Deputy Mayor, now, is he.”

Bdubs is, technically speaking, not Deputy Mayor either. It’s several months and an entire world since he was Deputy Mayor. But everyone present is aware that, for Bdubs at least, Deputy Mayor is less a job title and more an eternal-obsessive-crony-to-Mister-Scar-Goodtimes state of mind.

“Since when has licking the Mayor been part of the Deputy Mayor’s job?” asks Mumbo, of no one in particular, though he suspects the answer is since Bdubs got the job.

“I do not want to lick Scar,” says Grian, firmly. “I’d just, you know, prefer not to lick Mumbo’s chest hair. No offence, Mumbo.”

“Some taken, mate, I’m not gonna lie.”

Scar pouts. “You don’t want to lick my–?”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and uh, sentient mosses,” says Impulse, returning with the shot glasses. Pearl has given up on proceedings entirely, sinking down to sit against one of the table legs and looking distinctly out of it. Not out of it enough, however, to have surrendered the prosecco bottle she has in a death-grip. “If we could maybe get back on track with the competition…?”

“How’re we scoring this?” asks Grian, because of course he does. Grian plays to win, after all.

“Uhhh.” Impulse, preoccupied with setting the slightly precarious shot glasses down on Mumbo and Scar’s belly without spilling them, flounders. “I was thinking maybe, like, speed, and style, and… Spanish-ness…?”

“Tequila’s from Mexico, idiot,” interjects Bdubs, helpfully.

“Mexican-ness, then.”

“None of us are from Mexico, though,” Grian points out. “Or Spain. Or anywhere in South America or Europe, actually.”

“Fine! Fine, speed and style, fine, can we just– god, I need a drink. Can we get this over with so I can get a drink?” Impulse’s voice has picked up the whining desperation of a man powerfully regretting several recent life choices.

“Yes,” agrees Bdubs, emphatically. “I would really like to get started, oh yes.” He’s looking at Scar, laid out on the table, as though he’s a slab of particularly well-cooked steak. Scar – somewhat worryingly – preens beneath his hungry gaze.

Mumbo’s relieved when Grian, deciding for reasons known only to himself to be reasonable for once in his life, tosses Impulse a casual salute by way of agreement.

“Alright.” Impulse inhales, and exhales, as though to centre himself. Or perhaps brace himself. Either way, it adds an unexpected gravity to the situation which Mumbo could really do without. Bad enough he’s shirtless on a table covered in salt, without it feeling like some big deal. “Ready, everyone? Right. Lime slices in your mouths, Scar and Mumbo. Bdubs and Grian– On your marks. Get set. Go!”

Grian goes for speed. He’s done the shot, licked the salt, and bitten the lime out of Mumbo’s mouth before Mumbo even really knows what’s happened. He’s kind of grateful for it, honestly – like ripping a bandaid off.

Bdubs, of course, goes for style.

The noise Scar makes as Bdubs drags a tongue up his belly is positively pornographic. Bdubs is flushed red-cheeked from the shot, and Scar is flushed red from a tongue dragged across sensitive skin and taut muscle. By the time Bdubs cranes his head up to take the lime from Scar’s mouth, it’s more of a lewd, open-mouthed kiss than anything else. It’s like watching a train wreck. None of them can look away.

“…Well.” Impulse clears his throat, awkwardly. His nose looks a little pink. Even odds on whether it’s from the alcohol, or the display he’s just witnessed. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna have to call that one for Scar and Bdubs, guys? Um.”

Scar whoops, gleeful. “Yes! Bdubs, it’s official. We’re the best.”

“I,” announces Bdubs, with the smug delight of a man who’s just licked a line of salt off of Scar Goodtimes’s abs and gotten an award about it, “am going to find us some more tequila. To celebrate.”

He’s gone before any of them have the time – let alone the inclination or recovered cognitive faculties – to point out that that’s probably a bad idea.

There’s a long moment of silence, as they all slowly come to terms with what they’ve just done.

“Oh, god,” says Grian, miserably, breaking the quiet. He sticks two fingers in his mouth, and comes back with something dark and wiry clutched between them. “I’ve got bloody– Mumbo hair, in my mouth–”

Mumbo is not looking at Grian. Mumbo is busy staring at Scar, still laid out across the table and looking quite pleased with himself. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I think the rather more pressing issue is that Scar’s got–”

“Absolutely no need to comment on that,” says Scar, cheerfully, finally sitting up. There’s still a little salt clinging to his abs, shimmering and crystalline. It draws the eye to it, and then encourages the eye to move further down, to his happy trail, and then on to his– “Perfectly natural reaction to getting your stomach licked. You wouldn’t shame a man for his natural reactions, now, would you, Mumbo?”

Suddenly unable to make eye contact with Scar, Mumbo averts his gaze. As he does, he mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “Bloody well would.”

He is, once again, ignored.

Scar is saved from having to discuss the particulars of his natural reactions by a loud crash from the opposite side of the room. Grian, sensing trouble occurring that he’s not yet involved with, whips his head around with velociraptor-like enthusiasm and speed.

“Bdubs, please, I just really think you don’t need any more–”

“I won!” Bdubs is yelling, holding the bottle of half-full tequila above his head as high as he can – which, given his height, is not very. Somehow, despite being far taller and significantly more sober, Xisuma’s attempts at grabbing it are going exceedingly poorly indeed. “I won, I licked Mayor Scar so, so good and I won, which means I get to celebrate, okay? With tequila.”

“No– no, Bdubs, you– come on, please, that’s very– you know what you get like when you drink too much of that, please, I really don’t–”

“Let him drink!” yells Keralis, from the sidelines, with both his characteristic lasciviousness and the motivated enthusiasm of a man who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. “It’s a democracy, Shishwammy. Let Bubbles drink! Or at least let us vote on whether he can drink. I vote yes.”

If it goes to a vote, Mumbo knows, Xisuma will lose. Keralis is not the only person who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. Far from it, in fact.

“Bdubs–” wails Xisuma, now weeping openly. Bdubs is stanced for combat, knees bent and arms wide like a sumo wrestler, the neck of the tequila bottle gripped in one fist. His moss hoodie and undershirt, somewhere in the proceedings, have vanished from his body. A circle of interested Hermits, sensing the evening’s entertainment, is beginning to gather around the scene.

Scar, Grian, and Mumbo watch from the other side of the room in companionable silence for a long moment – soaking up the general chaos, and attempting to process what’s just happened, respectively.

Then Scar swings his legs off the table, and stands up, with an admirable amount of grace and balance for a man nine cocktails down and counting. It’s an ongoing, server-wide mystery that Scar somehow becomes more coordinated and better with his words when drunk, and it’s always struck Mumbo as deeply unfair. “…Do you think we should go help?” he asks, mildly, watching Xisuma make yet another failed grab for the tequila.

“Absolutely not,” says Mumbo, immediately and very firmly.

As he watches, Bdubs downs two large mouthfuls of the tequila without flinching, and manages to duck Xisuma’s lunge with the poise of a ballet dancer. Xisuma, regrettably helmetless, lunges head-first into a table full of bottles instead. The resulting crash shakes the floorboards. “I do not want to get mixed up in that, thank you.”

“I think we should go and make it worse, actually,” says Grian, brightly. He is, Mumbo notices, holding a prosecco bottle – prised from Pearl’s now-empty hands where she’s slumped half-snoring beneath the table. He takes a sip, directly from the bottle, and hums appreciatively.

“Why,” says Mumbo, weakly.

“‘Cos it’ll be funny. Duh.” Grian offers the bottle to Mumbo, and wrinkles his nose when Mumbo doesn’t take it.

“Excellent point, Grian.” Scar swipes the bottle instead, tilting it up and taking a hearty chug – because that’s the part of the evening they’ve gotten to, apparently. Chugging prosecco from a bottle. “See! This is why you’re the brains of the operation. However, consider– you could also go make out in the bathroom.”

“With who?”

Scar strikes a pose, arms out, abs flexed. “With me, of course!”

“Eww. No,” says Grian, as though he hasn’t made out with Scar at nine out of the last ten server parties. Mumbo should know. He’s been keeping track. For the Boatem Pool, of course. It’s important to have those kinds of numbers to crunch, when you’re trying to work out how and when your best friend and your other best friend are going to have sex for the first time. Which is, of course, a perfectly normal thing to be trying to work out, thank you very much.

“I just want you both know,” Mumbo interrupts, “that I want no part in this.”

Grian turns to look at him, and Mumbo quails beneath the intensity of the mischief in his gaze. “What,” he says, “not even the bathroom makeouts?” as though he hadn’t been objecting to said makeouts mere moments ago.

Mumbo is just a heartbeat too slow in his denial.

“Mumbo. Mumbo!” says Scar, brightly. He’s grinning at him, a salesman’s smile, a snake’s smile, all teeth and smirk. “If you want the rewards of bathroom makeouts, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of doing crimes with us! You should know that by now.”

“What does that mean?!” Mumbo’s beginning to wish he’d taken the prosecco when it was offered.

“It means you should come with me and we can both take our pants off in front of Xisuma,” whispers Scar, secretively. “As a distraction. So Grian can do crimes, while everyone’s distracted by our ahmayzin’, uhhh– underwear.”

Scar’s natural reaction, Mumbo cannot help but notice, has not quite subsided yet. And, despite his trousers sitting low on his hips, there’s not so much as hint of underwear peeking out above the waistband.

“Underwear,” Mumbo repeats, slowly. “Right.”

“Absolutely not,” says Grian, but Scar is already gone, sprinting towards the Hermits ringing Xisuma and Bdubs’ ongoing tequila battle. “No! Scar–! Keep your damn pants on!” And then he’s gone, too, chasing after Scar. Or the promise of chaos.

Or, more realistically, both.

In their aftermath, Mumbo sinks – miserable, shirtless, belly hair still faintly damp from being licked – to the floor. Consumed by his own bewilderment, it takes him a moment to realise there’s a hand on his head. Pearl, apparently awake again, is petting his hair gently.

“There, there, mate,” she says, sympathetically. Her eyes are bleary, but her hands are remarkably steady as she pulls a fresh bottle of prosecco from god-knows-where and uncorks it with her teeth in a manoeuvre that leaves Mumbo staring, impressed. “Prosecco?”

“…Yeah, actually,” says Mumbo, as the noises of tequila-based disaster from the other side of the room increase, abruptly, in volume. “Yeah. You know what? Why not.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the chaos unfolding. Xisuma is on the floor, weeping. Bdubs is shirtless, teeth bared, wielding a now mostly-empty bottle of tequila. Scar is invisible through the throng of other hermits now watching, heckling, egging them on – but Grian is yelling, “Scar! Put your trousers back on!”, which gives them a pretty clear mental picture.

“They’re going to have sex in that bathroom, aren’t they?” says Mumbo, absently, after a while. The prosecco has settled, warm and fizzy, in bottom of his already thoroughly alcohol-lined stomach. A pair of trousers just flew out of the middle of the Hermit huddle, which is rapidly looking less like a circle and more like an active, good-natured brawl.

“Yeah. Probably.” Pearl pauses, thoughtfully, and makes grabby hands at the prosecco bottle. Mumbo obediently passes it over. “That is, if they don’t just give up and fuck right in the middle of the party.”

Mumbo ignores that last bit, because if he starts thinking about that then he’s a bit concerned he’s going to have a natural reaction of his own. Across the room, Bdubs has begun wailing in misery, in the way only Bdubs can. “I should probably be there,” he says. “If they are. For Boatem Pool purposes, you know?”

“Boatem Pool purposes,” repeats Pearl, solemnly. “Totally.”

She passes the prosecco back, and fist-bumps the bottle in solidarity when he takes it. And then they sit there, in silence, sharing the rest of the drink between them as the sounds of tequila-based disaster fill the rest of the room.

#scarian #mumscarian #scardubs #hermits crafting #fic #hermitfic #this is both absolutely absurd and possibly the best thing i've ever written #please read it please reblog it it's like several thousand words of complete crack and it''s so good

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painedpen · 5 months

Note

Hi, i wanted to ask about your Mondo Oowada headcanons and platonic pairings :) i want to hear a rant, so dont worry about rambling

Okay so I’ve already answered an ask about my Mondo hcs, so now we’re gonna talk about my Kiyotaka hcs because he’s my second specialest little guy.

Fluff:

- Taka only really relaxes when he’s at home. He lets himself slouch and put his feet up while he works on a project. His manner of speech is much more casual when talking to his father. All around it’s the only time he can truly be peaceful.

- Takaaki’s grandfather came to the country from Spain, and thus the whole family is fluent in Spanish. This, of course, includes Taka. He speaks so fast it’s almost impossible to understand him when he’s speaking Spanish.

- His dad read somewhere that ear piercings could help soothe migraines, and decided to take Taka to get a couple for his birthday. Taka refuses to wear his ear cuffs anywhere outside the house, but he likes them because they make for good tactile and audio stims.

- Obviously autistic. Like c’mon.

- He is Very Normal about martial arts and weaponry. He researches extensively, and practices extensively as well. Because of this, he has a bizarrely wide knowledge of how to kill or seriously maim people.

- He actually spars with Sakura quite a bit. While he definitely can’t beat her, she enjoys that Taka is a bit more of a challenge than other people.

- Because of poverty and such, he was never able to afford good ingredients, so he only knows how to cook very basic dishes. He’s the best at making those basic dishes, though.

- You want ramen but don’t have the energy to make it yourself? Go to Taka, cause his ramen will have you meeting God so you can spiritually high five Her.

- You do have to specify not to put a crazy amount of spices in it though. He and his dad have so much spice tolerance it’s honestly concerning.

- He tries so hard to be well behaved, but growing up with Takaaki has had its side effects. Taka’s startle response is to excessively swear in Spanish. He’s mortified with himself every time.

- Honestly he’s so much more chill when he’s not in a professional environment. If you’re not at school or work he doesn’t give a shit if you swear or whatever. Just don’t do it in front of kids and he’s fine.

- Protesting king. Oh, it’s against the rules for people to wear their pride pins? Guess who’s walking down the halls wearing a rainbow flag as a cape? It’s Kiyotaka Ishimaru, motherfucker.

- Has probably been detained before due to involvement in protests. He’s always peaceful, but if the attending officers get a bit too eager, he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.

- Can leap over an eight-foot-tall fence in a single bound, and will at the slightest hint of provocation.

- If he’s too focused on his work, the filter between his brain and mouth will forget to work. It’s honestly so entertaining because he’ll just say whatever comes to mind, no matter how insulting or rude it is.

Angst: (CW for Violence, Child Abuse, Scars, Eating Disorders)

- Okay here we fuckin go.

- Taka has more scars than anyone else in his class. Some are from his grandfather (more on that later), but most of them are from his grandfather’s enemies.

- As everyone has already guessed, Toranosuke wasn’t all that great to Taka. He would spend weekends babysitting sometimes, and would force Taka to study for days.

- He would lock Taka in his room and wouldn’t let him out until he decided that Taka had done enough. Sometimes Taka would go the whole weekend without any food.

- At one point, Taka tried to sneak out to get something to drink, but his grandfather caught him. Long story short, that’s how he got that huge scar on his shoulder.

- Taka dissociates while he studies now. He absorbs the information, but he’ll be mumbling to himself about “yes, sir… I’ll do better, sir… sorry sir…” even though no one else is in the room with him.

- This boy has had more pints of coffee than hours of sleep in his lifetime.

- He will mix black coffee and five hour energy and down the whole thing in under a minute. Everyone who knows him worries for his health.

- He obviously struggles with nightmares, so he’ll study or work out to avoid sleeping most nights. He normally stays awake until he collapses from exhaustion.

- Touch used to be a huge No for him. Even Takaaki could barely pat him on the shoulder for a long time. When Makoto first held his face, Taka started sobbing.

- Sometimes he’ll genuinely forget that people can be kind. When he sees someone doing something nice for him or others, it kinda knocks the breath out of him because “That’s so strange… I forgot people had the capacity for it…”

- Will straight up not eat for days. He got so used to being without food as a child that having three meals a day will actively make him sick.

- He does not trust teachers in the slightest. He’ll be respectful to them, but he’d rather bite off his own tongue than ask one for help.

- This is mainly because of his middle school days. Other students would beat him to a pulp, and the teachers would just stare at him, in a puddle of his own blood, and walk away.

- There was one teacher who did something worse than that, but I don’t feel comfortable going into details at this moment. Use your imagination, it’s probably as bad as you think.

Platonic Pairings:

Kiyotaka + Sayaka:

- I’m so smart for this just let me explain.

- Sayaka asked him to teach her how to do several Latin dances, and they’ve been best friends ever since.

- They really relate to each other in the sense that they both have had to work extremely hard in order to achieve their goals. They both believe that hard work can achieve anything.

- The entire idol group loves Taka, but Sayaka is the only one he sees everyday.

- He hangs out with the lot of them very often, and they help him loosen up a bit.

Kiyotaka + Aoi:

- This one is so obvious.

- Hina is Colombian, so she was ecstatic to find another Spanish speaker in her class. She constantly clowns on Kiyotaka’s accent though.

- They’re both so passionate about the things they care about it’s so cute to watch them interact.

- I think Taka is one of the only people that can keep up with Hina’s energy level consistently.

Kiyotaka + Kyoko:

- They are childhood friends.

- Think about it. Taka’s dad is a detective, so is Kyoko’s grandfather. Kyoko’s grandfather is too smart to fall for the whole “all Ishimaru’s are evil blegh!” thing.

- I’m saying they hung out when they were little. I’m right too.

- Taka helps Kyoko express her emotions more clearly while Kyoko helps Taka calm down and focus his mind.

Kiyotaka + Peko:

- Top tier sword bros.

- Taka saw Peko training one day and promptly decided that she was the coolest person to ever exist.

- Peko admires his true passion for the art of swordplay. He reminds her of herself when she was younger.

- I’m making Peko sound like an old woman here please excuse me.

- Taka admires her so much it’s so cute. He calls her Shishou until Peko asks him to stop. After that he sticks to Peko-Senpai.

Kiyotaka + Gonta:

- Sobbing crying throwing up punching the air.

- Gonta wants to be a gentleman and Taka is one of the best people to go to for lessons in etiquette.

- They are autistic together.

- Gonta calls Taka Senpai exactly one time. Taka starts crying cause he’s so honored. Gonta thinks he hurt Taka’s feelings. He never calls Taka Senpai again.

- Taka liked bugs as a kid, and still kinda does, so he and Gonta get along so well.

*Insert autism creature Yippee sound byte*

#danganronpa #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #trigger happy havoc #kiyotaka ishimaru #ishimaru kiyotaka #headcanons #takaaki ishimaru #toranosuke ishimaru #sayaka maizono #aoi asahina #peko pekoyama #gonta gokuhara #fluff #angst #platonic #hcs #yippee #autism creature #kyoko kirigiri

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izvmimi · 1 year

Text

cw: royal au and courtship. sfw. a/n: three engaged princesses talking at brunch about their respective dates, swapped. related to this piece. you are designated Valley Princess, engaged to prince Bakugou, and Highland and Coastal Princesses are your friends in similar predicaments.

Metal clinks against fine china in the late afternoon, just hours after a large banquet and yet another few before dinner will be served in a large hall, and three princesses, newly allied in mischief, enjoy tea together.

Highland Princess, known for her sharp tongue and for golden makeup, is the first to break a short silence with a comment.

"That scar is quite prominent, is it not? I wonder if the rumors are true."

You raise your eyebrows to her free speech, knowing exactly to who she's referring to. He is her betrothed, and yet she asks you, as you are the one who has last seen him outside of a formal setting. She glances at you through gold-dusted lashes, reaching for a slice of apple and then dipping it into jam. You wince at the imagined excessive sweetness and she dabs away the tiniest drop of juice at the corner of her mouth.

"What rumors?" you ask, pretending to be none the wiser, although Prince Todoroki, Shoto, as he asked you to call him more informally, has told you more about his kingdom than he should.

"That his father's a tyrant."

"Hm," you ponder, conjuring up the image again of his visage, less focused on the scar but more on the soft smile he held only at the lake. The last of you three picks up an apple slice as well but does not eat it immediately; she seems not to be focused on the conversation, instead lost in thought as she brings it to her lips but does not bite.

"Did you touch it?" Shoto's reluctant fiancée asks. You are immediately taken aback by this statement.

"Touch it?"

"On your date." she asks matter-of-factly. She finishes her apple slice and greedily takes another.

"Why would I?" you ask. Warmth floods your cheeks at the very thought of touching the intimate skin. Highland Princess grins.

"That's true. Perhaps that is a little forward."

You snort at the tease. "Did you get so intimate?" you fire back.

Highland Princess is not as good at receiving what she dishes out often, and takes another bite of an apple that crunches particularly loud. Then she pauses. You continue to watch her, bidding her to answer, and she suddenly giggles in excessive humor, really due to embarrassment.

She sinks into her seat, and you lean in, eyes twinkling.

"What did you do, Your Highness?" The use of her title, the same as yours, is done in jest, and she laughs, reaching again for an apple slice, but Coastal Princess, now out of her reverie, stops her gently at the wrist.

"Tell us."

The princess finally swallows then sighs, leaning her head back into her chair.

"He took me to a joust."

"A joust?!" You and Coastal Princess scream in unison, and your friend covers her face in embarrassment.

"Who takes a princess to a joust on a first date?"

Highland Princess rids herself of her embarrassment and looks towards Coastal Princess, then points at her with a delicate pinky finger.

"Apparently her betrothed. Looks like your kingdom's reputation for mirth and celebration truly precedes you."

The accused pretends to pouts, then retorts, "I will say a joust is a little too hedonistic, even for me. Perhaps he insults me in some way."

"But did you enjoy it?" you insist, before Prince Midoriya's betrothed can take offense to a date she never attended.

"I did..." Shoto's betrothed is embarrassed to admit it. You shake your head.

"Did he attempt to hold your hand or anything bold?" Coastal Princess asks in curiosity. You wait for Highland Princess to answer with bated breath and she finally reveals her face but looks downwards. Smiling to yourself, you take another sip of your tea then bite into buttered fresh bread as she collects herself.

"I sat alone," she admits.

You frown immediately and Coastal Princess exclaims, "What?!"

"That's ridiculous! How could he abandon you on your date?!"

"He was in the competition."

You and Coastal Princess look at each other.

"Prince Midoriya is mad, isn't he?" Coastal Princess asks.

"A little." Highland Princess whispers. Coastal Princess suddenly laughs.

"You sound newly affectionate," she teases. This earns her a kick from her friend.

"Please!" she insists, rubbing her shin. Highland Princess cuts her a sideways glance.

"Do not judge me when I see that you clearly have not stopped thinking of Prince Bakugou since your return."

Coastal Princess appears shocked but her friend insists, knowing that she's sunk her fangs in deep.

"Spill."

Coastal Princess blushes again, then speaks.

"Archery."

"ARCHERY?!" You and Highland Princess say in unison.

She whispers a breathy "yeah" and Highland Princess shakes her head.

"Classic barbarian nonsense."

"Well, he did hear that Phulblume's princess was particularly good at archery!"

"Yes, however, what if you had gotten injured?" As though to add to her conviction, Highland Princess takes her arms and turns them over, looking for injuries, of which she finds none, only pristine skin.

"Was he any good?" you finally ask to lighten the mood. You pour tea for Highland Princess who whispers a word of thanks before settling back down, and arranging her dress.

"Of course he was," Coastal Princess says. You and Highland Princess exchange a glance which she barely notices. "And he moved in so close to teach me."

"Truly the greatest effort to woo you, isn't it?" Highland Princess teases.

"Might I remind you you just watched your date battle in a suit of armor? How sweaty was he when he returned to you?"

Highland Princess squirms in her seat, her complexion deepening at her cheeks.

"Exactly." Coastal Princess teases, satisfied with herself.

You laugh at this exchange, thankful that your swapped dates turned out well, clearly. Coastal Princess remains smitten with Prince Bakugou, Highland Princess has softened and you have thought about the shape of Shoto's hands since yesterday evening.

Harmless fun.

Or so it seems.

#shoto x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #thoughts: shoto #thoughts: izuku #thoughts: bakugou #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes #mimi writes: three princesses au

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whump-card · 7 months

Text

Sunless Lives Part 36: I Need to Be Without You

THE END! THE END! THE END THE END THE END!

~2010 words

CW: blatant disregard for the realities of Italian immigration law, alcohol

First, Previous, Masterlist

~~~

They found a ground floor apartment with a patio. They basked in the Sicillian sun - Matthew in long sleeves and sunglasses. They aired out their scars. Matthew had an impressive one on his neck, now. They went to markets and saw live music. They made new friends. They kept in touch with old ones. When Simon was ready, Gina interviewed him, and Chett, and countless other ex-patients of Fort Summerwhite. When Gina and her cousin published the exposee, Summerwhite shut down in a slew of lawsuits. Gina continued in activist journalism, leaving the VIU behind for good.

When Matthew read the article, he couldn’t tell which anonymous source was Simon. Simon wouldn’t tell him, either. He tried not to let that bother him.

Simon willingly tried antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications, and eventually found them helpful. He learned to eat well, and enjoy it, with the help of Matthew’s cooking skills. Unable to run like he used to, he took slow walks, drawing ever-increasing circles around their apartment building. But he still had nights where he drank in excess. How can I not drink wine in Italy? He avoided talking to Matthew about anything that had happened to him, even in passing. There were no horror stories revealed under the covers. It wasn’t like Matthew was going to ask. They just didn’t talk to each other like that - not anymore. It left Matthew alone sometimes, too, when he woke up clutching his throat and didn’t know how to reach out to Simon about it. In the therapy they went to together, they both insisted they were fine. Happy. And they definitely were, most of the time.

But sometimes, Matthew worried.

~~~

“He-ey!” Matthew called out as he hung up his keys. “I sent you more listings on my lunch break, did you see them?”

He came around the corner to see Simon standing in the living room of their apartment, the September evening sunlight filtering through the potted plants crowded in the windows. Of the many hobbies that Matthew had encouraged Simon to try over the past year, gardening had been one of the few to stick. Matthew smiled - until he caught Simon’s grim expression.

“Can I talk to you about that, actually?” Simon asked softly.

“Uhh, sure.” Matthew could already tell this wasn’t going to be the conversation he was hoping for. He came around and sat on the sofa. Simon eased himself down next to him, leaning his cane against the couch arm. He sucked in a breath and held it for a moment before speaking.

“I’m not ready to buy a house with you,” he said, looking at Matthew with an expression of anxiety that bordered on fear. Matthew rushed to reassure him.

“That’s okay! That’s totally fine, we can wait.” He started to reach for Simon’s hands, but Simon’s next words made him pause.

“There’s more.”

“Okay,” said Matthew slowly, “What’s going on?”

Simon’s eyes flickered away as he struggled to maintain eye contact. His hands pressed flat against his thighs.

“You know I love you.”

“Yes,” Matthew said firmly.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“Okay.” Matthew was a little unsure now.

“But I was thinking, now that we’re through all of the immigration stuff… I’d like to try living alone.” Simon’s gaze found Matthew’s face again, gauging his reaction. Matthew kept his expression schooled.

“You want to move out?”

Simon drew himself up like he was about to launch into a list of justifications, before he sagged a little and simply said, “Yes.”

No longer able to hide his shock and hurt, Matthew rubbed a hand over his face.

“What… Why?”

“It’s nothing you’ve done!” Simon said quickly, putting a hand on Matthew’s knee, “It’s just that I’ve never been able to live alone before, not really, and I finally feel like I could. I’m making enough money working at the print shop, my Italian’s good enough, I have friends to lean on, I just… I feel like I need to try it before we settle down.”

“What about us?” Matthew asked.

Simon squeezed his knee and smiled.

“It’ll be just like we’re dating again. We can do it right this time.”

But we go out plenty already, Matthew was about to say, but then he focused on the frightened, hopeful, determined look on Simon’s face and realized he wasn’t going to be able to talk his husband out of this no matter how hard he tried.

“Okay.”

~~~

Three weeks later, after a series of increasingly taciturn dates, Matthew’s phone rang in the middle of the night. He answered it blearily.

“Hullo?”

“Matthew?” Simon’s voice was thick with tears. Matthew jolted into wakefulness.

“Simon? What’s wrong?”

“Matthew, I…” Simon choked on the words, “I’m so sorry.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you, you can come home.” Matthew was already jumping out of bed.

“No! No, please don't.”

“Have you been drinking?” Matthew asked, carefully controlling his tone to be neutral.

“I’m not, that’s the thing, I haven’t been, I haven been since - Matthew, I love you so much.” Simon’s voice broke down into sobs.

“Take a deep breath,” Matthew coached him, sinking back down onto the bed, “Tell me what’s going on.”

It took a few shuddering breaths for Simon to speak again.

“Matthew, since I moved out, I’m not - I’m not drinking, I’m not anxious, I’m sleeping better, I… Matthew, I’m so sorry, I love you so much but it was you.”

A pit opened in Matthew’s stomach.

“I didn’t think I was scared of you,” Simon continued, sniffling, “I really didn’t, I thought it was fine, but Matthew, I just… I’ve always been scared of someone. I’ve never lived like this before, alone, and able to choose who I see and when, and I didn’t - I didn’t know I could feel like this, I’m so, so, so sorry Matthew…!” Simon’s words dissolved into weeping once more.

Matthew blinked and felt tears run down his own face. He’d known this was coming. He’d known ever since their third date after Simon moved out, when Simon had flinched when Matthew reached out to hold his hand. No, he’d known even earlier, before Simon left. Maybe even before they’d moved to Italy. It should have been obvious - but Matthew didn’t want to face it. He still didn’t, but here it was, happening all too quickly, in the middle of the night, over the phone.

“What - what do you want to do?” Matthew asked, forcefully brushing away his tears.

“I don’t know!” Simon cried, “I don’t know, Angela thinks I should never see you again, Marcel thinks we should break up but still be friends, my therapist thinks we should just take a break, and - and - I don’t know, Matthew, I don’t know what to do. Please,” Simon sobbed, “Please tell me what to do!”

Matthew held his breath. He knew the power he wielded in this moment. “Matthew is always right” was a belief that they had worked hard to dispel, in therapy together and individually. Despite all their work Matthew knew that he could order Simon to come home right now and he would do it.

But that wouldn’t be right.

Do the right thing.

“You have to do what’s right for you,” Matthew croaked, and the words killed him, because he knew what the right thing for Simon was.

“I don’t want to leave you!” Simon bawled.

“I know.”

“What if we just took a break, and got back together in a few weeks?”

Matthew gritted his teeth and forced the right words out.

“Will anything be different in a few weeks?”

“It could be, it could be…” Simon whimpered.

“Then let’s say we’re taking a break, but not say how long,” Matthew compromised, wrestling his voice to stay even. “We can just talk on the phone, whenever we like, but that’ll be it, until you’re ready.”

“Okay!” Simon agreed quickly, “Okay, we’ll just talk, until I’m better.”

“Okay. Do you want to hang up and call me in the morning?”

“No, wait!” Simon sobbed, “Can you stay on the phone with me? Please, Matthew, just a little longer?”

Matthew knew this feeling. Something was ending, and he didn’t want it to, even if he knew it needed to. He knew it. He hated it.

Do the right thing.

“Just a little longer,” he agreed.

Just a little longer.

~~~

Matthew had a rule, that he wouldn’t call Simon first. Simon would call him, they’d talk, and a few days later he’d return the favor.

Their conversations started at surface level and became even smaller talk over time. Talking to each other was hard. Painful, maybe.

Simon called less often.

And less.

When it was more than obvious, they signed divorce papers. They never saw each other - a lawyer chaperoned the documents back and forth.

There was nothing special about their final call. It wasn’t a call, really; Matthew just left a voicemail when Simon didn’t pick up.

“Hey, it’s Matthew. Hope you’re doing okay. Just wanted to call and say hi. That’s all.

“Bye.”

~~~

EIGHT YEARS LATER

“Matthew?”

Matthew nearly dropped the melon he was looking at when he heard the eternally-familiar voice. He turned.

Simon looked taller than he remembered, somehow. He still walked with a cane. He had glasses, now. He stood with a shopping basket hanging from the crook of his arm, a bag of greens and a bottle of wine inside. Matthew recognized the wine brand: non-alcoholic. Most surprising was that he was plump; his cheeks were filled out more than Matthew had ever seen, and he practically glowed with health.

“Hi,” Matthew said slowly.

Simon gave him a funny half-smile. He looked professional, wearing a blazer and slacks that flattered his rounder figure.

“I don’t usually come to this store, do you?” Simon asked, and while his voice was still hoarse it had the flow and ease of someone who talked a lot.

“Uh. Yeah.” Matthew was dumbstruck.

“How are your parents?”

“They’re good.” His answers came automatically.

“Gina tells me you’re not with the Antivampiri anymore?”

“Yeah, I -” This one he actually needed to form a full sentence for, but Simon was just standing there, looking handsome and tailored and elegant and Matthew was bumbling around in sweatpants and a t-shirt. The question also revealed that Simon… asked about him, which he didn’t know how to feel about. Matthew had never dared to ask Gina how Simon was doing. In return she’d never said anything.

“I had a couple rough encounters. I’m a personal trainer now.”

Simon’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to Matthew’s neck, where there were now two bite scars instead of one.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and it was full of compassion. “I’m glad you were able to find something else, though.”

“Yeah.” Matthew suddenly realized he should be asking questions too. “What about you, what are you doing for work?”

A small smile, full of suppressed excitement, crept onto Simon’s face.

“I’m an English teacher.”

“That’s amazing, you -” Matthew connected the dots. “You got a degree?”

Simon beamed, and Matthew’s heart skipped a beat.

“I did. English language and literature. Now I teach at a secondary school.”

Matthew found himself grinning back.

“That’s amazing, Simon.”

Something about saying his name made Simon pause. He was still smiling, but he looked at Matthew searchingly. Matthew stared right back, and they stayed like that for a long moment.

“You still have my number, right?” asked Simon abruptly, “We should get coffee sometime.”

“I - I’d like that,” Matthew stammered.

Simon lifted his basket-laden arm slightly to give a small wave.

“Call me.”

Matthew waved back weakly.

“‘Kay.”

Simon offered him one last hopeful little smile, then walked away.

Matthew watched him go for far too long, then rushed through the rest of his shopping, constantly glancing over his shoulder. The adrenaline high followed him all the way home and had him putting away the groceries at record speed. Then, there was nothing left to distract him.

He took out his phone and dialed.

~~~

First, Previous, Masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper, @pirefyrelight, @thecyrulik

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #sunless lives #sunless lives arc 4 #emotional whump #cw alcohol

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ihugmomo · 7 months

Text

《 strap in maggots/ghesties, this is a long one. 》

ghoul sid lore. (his death.)

⚠️sid and the ghouls relationships are strictly platonic.⚠️

(cw -> angst w/ a happy ending, night terrors, blood, descriptions of a corpse, vomiting, panic attacks.)

sid wasn't sure how it had happened, he was asleep on the couch with aurora one minute.

and in his old bathroom, looking at his corpse the next.

thick lines of crimson splattered across the cool tile off the bathroom sink and floor. the body laying on its side, the wound on his skull and torso oozing blood. the razor scars along his forearms accompanied the puddle of crimson.

sid had remembered how he screamed, how a deafening crack rang out when his skull collided with the porcelain sink. hot tears pool out of his eyes as the memories came flooding back in the worst way possible.

he remembered to disgusting scent of the blood, how it made him feel nauseated. "i'm not supposed to be here! take me back!" sid screamed at his lifeless body, attempting to shake the corpse.

to his horror, his hands wafted through it, as if it were air. a sob escaped his mouth as he crumbled next to his body. "why did this happen?! why now?" he shrieked to no one in particular as he sobbed pathetically.

it made him think of slipknot, his brothers. and he hated it, hated how they must've felt terrible and regret that they didn't help him. he just wanted to see them, one last time.

suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he was back in the common room of the ghouls den. his cheeks stained with tears as he looked around frantically, he then untangled himself from the ghoulette (much to her confusion and worry) and slowly walked back to his room.

he closed the door behind him with a slight slam, as he wobbly made his way over to his dresser.

it was where his old gas mask was. so many memories it held, sid was glad he kept it. he shakily grabbed the leather mask from its place and took in the features. he could feel himself tear up again as he remembered the memories his first mask held, the first album held.

sid held the mask in his clawed hands as he walked to his bathroom. once he stepped inside, memories of his death came back to him. he groaned softly as he clutches the side of his head, the blinding light of the mirror made a migraine bloom.

he felt bile start to come up his throat as he rushed to the toilet. he kneeled in front of it, setting his mask off to the side as he spilled the contents in his stomach into the bowl. tears formed as he vomited from the pure stress and exhaustion.

his ears rang as he moved to sit on his knees, he looked at his mask in his hand. he wiped the excess bile off his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand.

he couldn't even hear mountain or swiss call out his name from behind the locked door as he put his old mask back on after what felt like centuries. he stood up on shaky legs as he looked at himself in the mirror.

he looked like he hadn't slept in days, the leather mask fit snug around his head. just as it did all those years ago. a soft sob left him as he crumbled to the floor again. his knees hugged against his chest.

that was until swiss had unlocked the door from the outside and hurriedly rushed inside. "sid??" he said quickly as he rushed to sid's side. sid's wings immediately wrapped around himself as swiss attempted to gently touch him.

"bug, what happened?" swiss asked softly as he gently stroked sid's hair. swiss could hear the younger ghoul quietly babble incoherently as he rocked back and forth.

"death... death, death. death!" sid shrieked and immediately jerked forward as he started mumbling the word 'death' over and over. his eyes were blown out, he suddenly jumped up and dashed out of the bathroom.

"mountain, grab him!" swiss yelled to the earth ghoul outside of the bathroom as he chased after sid. mountain had gently grabbed sid by his forearm and pulled him against his chest.

the younger ghoul thrashed in his gentle hold as he screamed and sobbed. "no! stop!!" mountain gently began swaying back and forth, "petal, we're trying to help you.." he whispered.

sid trembled as his sobs calmed down, since swiss had trickled a tiny bit of quintessence into his nerves to calm him.

swiss gently cupped his masked cheek, sid's wet eyes traveled upwards to meet swiss' gentle gaze. "hey buddy.. thought we lost you for a second." sid sniffles softly as he laughed sadly. "i'm not goin' anywhere yet.." he slurred, his voice quiet.

"do you wanna tell us what happened? 'rora told us how you rushed in here after you woke up.." sid lowered his head, as the memories flashed in his mind.

"had a nightmare, i guess.." he mumbled. "don't wanna think 'bout it."

mountain nodded, "okay bug, we don't have to talk about it until you're ready.."

sid groaned softly as his eyes became heavy lidded, swiss chuckled softly at this. "everyone else is in the common room waiting for you, let's go see them yeah?."

sid nodded slowly, as the three of them walked out into the common room.

#sid wilson #ghost bc #he wears his old mask for comfort :(#sidney ilysm ʚ♡ɞ !#🖍; moon writes

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scoops-aboy86 · 3 months

Text

Everyone in the Party makes a cameo in this one, because it's the holidays and over the holidays you spend time with the found family that you defeated an unspeakable evil with. ❤️

🔞 Seven Christmases pt. 6

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

The Byers-Hoppers (2569 words)

rated: T | cw: none | tags: chubby eddie, established relationship, weight gain, belly kink, stuffing, steve has a praise kink, fluff, they’re in love, robin/vickie, marijuana, chubby argyle, jargyle, argyle/jonathan/nancy, byler, button popping

When Eddie first came up with this Christmas plan, he’d thought it would feel good. All of his indulging ever since his near death and the recovery had suggested as much, and from the way Steve’s pupils had instantly blown wide at the initial suggestion… He’d been wrong, though.

It feels fantastic. He’s so full, so fucking big that he’s aching with it, a dull throb that’s forged a direct connection between his tight, heavy belly and his dick. It’s an orgasm denied to him all fucking day, edging himself every time another meal comes to a close and he still has space for more. It’s a harness cinched tight around his middle and all down his legs, restraints that are leaving marks to trace over later in awe. Waiting for just the right thread or button to strain just enough that it finally gives, and it will fall away to reveal him in all his hedonistic glory, the luxury of excess spilling off his frame in every direction and stretch marks that he chose painted over the scars he didn’t.

And he has to have more. He needs it. That’s his Christmas present to himself.

Jonathan and Argyle are already loitering out front in the driveway when Steve pulls up, and Eddie rolls his window down with a chuckle. “You two wouldn’t happen to be lying in wait for us, would you?”

“Of course, bro,” Argyle says at the same time Jonathan shakes his head. “You dudes have the munchies express, what’s Christmas without that?”

Eddie fakes a swoon. “A man after my own heart. Look out, Stevie, you might have some competition for my affections here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve throws the car in park and rests a hand on the keys in the ignition. “Roll up your window, snookums.”

Snookums, Eddie mouths exaggeratedly, but he fondly does as he’s told so Steve can cut the engine. When he opens his door, he doesn’t miss Jonathan’s glance and little nod at Steve—appreciation, or solidarity or whatever, as he stands in the driveway with an open bag of red and green tortilla chips angled Argyle’s way.

Not that the Californian has Eddie beat in any category besides hair length, but he too has gotten heftier since settling in Hawkins. Which is nice, because… Eddie had, maybe, for about five seconds, gotten a little worried when he first heard through the Party grapevine that Jonathan came out as bi. It was one more thing the elder Byers boy and Steve had in common, and what if they bonded too much over that? But then Eddie met Argyle, clocked the way Jonathan always seemed to hover in his orbit, and just as quickly relaxed. He doesn’t pretend to understand whatever arrangement that still keeps Nancy in the equation too, but Jonathan and Steve really do have a lot in common.

They smoke up quickly before heading inside, Eddie already munching on a handful of chips that Argyle graciously shared in return for the complimentary weed. He can feel Steve watching him—feels the way he crowds against him too on their way inside the house.

It’s a good thing they’re at the back of the slight bottleneck at the front door, because Steve is practically grinding against his ass. God, if there’s one thing he never gets tired of in this life it’ll be the way he can drive his man wild just by following the whims of his appetite, indulging in the impulse for more. He’s not even hungry again yet, but the crunch is nice as he settles into his high.

Because the turkey is still in the oven after a late start defrosting and the kids are practically vibrating, Eddie is able to relax into some light snacking while they do presents. The bowl of white chocolate-covered chex mix and M&Ms only needs to be refilled twice, and Steve sits close enough with an arm around him that he can provide some amount of subtle belly rubs, low at the curve of it where his hand is hidden from view by the arm of the couch. There’s a seemingly unending supply of hot apple cider that keeps turning up in his cup, refilled seemingly whenever he isn’t paying attention, which is amazing, but—

Eddie turns his head to rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder and murmurs “I gotta move” in Steve’s ear.

Steve glances at him. “Yeah?”

He nods and then gives a little pout. “Yeah. Bathroom… for real, this time. Just need a little help getting up.”

The molten flash in Steven’s hazel eyes and the answering grope at his side is compensation enough for the fact that getting up is the only help Eddie is going to get. He ends up on his feet after a few rocks back and forth and Steve helping support his weight for a second, and then he’s wading through the ocean of torn wrapping paper and discarded bows.

Aside from Steve (whose heavy gaze seems to follow him out of the room), no one pays him much attention. The younger boys are crowded around the new d&d books they’ve received, deeply intent on devouring every scrap of information contained in the pages as soon as possible. El sits with a smiling Hopper in the center of a slowly rotating hurricane of colorful cardboard shapes, holding one as they both scan intently over the fitted-together edge pieces of a massive jigsaw puzzle. Max in her wheelchair is holding Erica’s new skateboard and giving rapidfire tips, tilting and twisting the board in demonstration while the younger Sinclair listens with complete and utter focus. Joyce, Murray, and Argyle are in the kitchen, Nancy curled up against Jonathan on the loveseat while she chats avidly with Robin and Vickie about college life. The entire scene is cozy and domestic… and Eddie has never had a big family, but that’s what it feels like.

Maybe it’s the weed, but his Christmas spirit and goodwill towards his fellow humans is at an all-time high right now.

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, he runs both hands experimentally down his front to feel the full extent of how swollen he currently is—very, and then some. His sweater is stretched as tight as it will go without pulling up. His fingers circle the dip of his belly button and slide lower, until they encounter a sliver of bare skin where his undershirt finally started coming untucked while he was struggling on from the couch. And his pants… Eddie bites his lip as he feels how the button is straining to hold on, gasps softly as he realizes that the zipper has already undone itself at some point when he wasn’t paying attention. His stomach sits heavy in his hands wherever he touches, not so much as a jiggle while it’s still so tightly constrained.

For a moment, he lets himself fantasize about popping that button at the dinner table midway through his sixth meal of the day.

Not gonna happen though, not after all the cider here and the nog at the Buckleys. He’s willing to risk ripping his pants with an audience, but he draws the line at wetting them in a room full of people. So, with a sigh of dreams deferred, he paws his waistband to pull it down over the swell of his underbelly and love handles, because the button is pulled way too tight too—

Ping!

“Oh god,” he moans under his breath, unprepared for the sudden release of his gut from its prison. His belly surges out, practically bouncing, the tender underside still caught in the V of the stretched out fly, air cool on the now exposed, reddened skin… Oh, Steve will be so sad he missed this. Eddie leans back against the bathroom door and loses himself in exploring for a moment, grabbing, jiggling, pressing his fingers in as deep as he can even with how stuffed he is, until his bladder reminds him why he’s here.

When he’s finished relieving himself, it’s a whole new ordeal to get the pants back on over his well-padded ass. Even then, he realizes with rapidly reddening cheeks, he’s exposed. His belly drops over the front of the pants, disguising the fact that they’re hopelessly open, unable to contain the sheer size that he’s glutted himself to—an observation that makes him rub his thick thighs together where he’s taking a breather on the closed toilet seat, hands smoothing over his belly again, back arching slightly to give the illusion of more that he still wants, a desire he’s more unsure by the day if he’ll ever see the end of. Fuck, maybe he could get off like this and no one would ever know, his own body would cover up the evidence even standing, and without the added constriction he can eat so much more—

A knock on the door shakes him out of those vivid thoughts, though he’s still hopelessly turned on and unlikely to cool off any time soon without either getting off or being full enough to pop actual stitches. Both preferred, of course.

“Hey, dude?” Argyle says through the door. “Dinner’s on, and Steve said you were in here so I brought you something that just might come in handy.”

“Yeah?” Eddie replies, and knows that he wasn’t quite successful in keeping the breathy strain out of his voice. It gets him a knowing chuckle through the door.

“Yeah, it’s an apron, my dude. Don’t want to waste any tasty food dropping it on that nice sweater, right?”

Eddie’s head drops back in amazed relief. “Argyle, have I told you lately that you’re a literal angel?”

“Never a bad thing to say it again. I’ll hang it on the door handle out here, ‘kay? For when you’re ready.”

Steve had some idea of what he was in for. How could he not, at the end of a day like this? But it’s a damn good thing he’s already seated at the table by the time Eddie returns from the bathroom, because just the sight of him is enough to send all the blood in his body straight to his dick.

For starters, Eddie is wearing an apron. A green one, decorated with slices of cake and pie and festive candies, all examples of things already eaten and being digested and slowly turning into more fat beneath it. It’s not even tied—maybe because the ties couldn’t reach far enough, Steve’s horny brain supplies as he blinks dazedly at the sight, mouth dropped open—and sways a little with every heavy step the man takes. It’s not in-your-face obvious that it’s to hide his bare belly where the sweater has crept up and the undershirt has completely given up the ghost, but Steve can tell that’s the case.

Robin, seated on his left, takes one look at Eddie and one look at Steve’s face, and snorts. “Cool it, loverboy,” she mutters out of one side of her mouth, which at least gets Steve’s to snap shut.

The chair to his right creaks as Eddie settles into it, huffing as he makes a vague effort to scoot it closer to the table. Which Steve leaps up to help with, of course, boner or not, because he is a good boyfriend and because the sight of Eddie’s stomach all bloated and spreading out as seen from above is a fucking sight to behold.

“Thanks sweetheart,” Eddie says with a wink as Steve sits shakily back down, and he makes a subtle show of readjusting his belly in his lap. With all the activity, Steve can tell from the side, the hem of his sweater has ridden up almost to his belly button.

“H-hi,” Steve replies dumbly, unable to stop staring. He distantly hears Robin snort at him again, but he’ll save his scathing comeback for the next time he catches her and Vickie making out in his and Eddie’s place during a movie night.

Eddie leans a little closer, the chair giving another creak of protest as he shifts. He holds out a hand, gesturing for Steve to do the same, and then presses a circle of warm metal into his palm. At first Steve thinks it’s one of his rings, passing it off for safekeeping until it can be resized again, but when he checks surreptitiously under the table his breath catches in his throat.

It’s the button from Eddie’s pants.

His brain flatlines for a moment while the last of the food is brought in—a big enough spread for two Christmas dinners, almost.

“I don’t know how this happens every time,” Joyce is saying as she sets the serving dish of mashed potatoes on the table with a sigh. “Every time! No matter what I do, they always end up runny somehow…”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Will insists. He sets a bowl of… something down next to it.

Eddie leans forward curiously, trying to decipher the hot pocket-sized things that look like they’re wrapped in some sort of paper. “What’s that, burritos or something?”

“Tamales, my dude. Shredded chicken wrapped in cornmeal dough, wrapped in corn husks, and steamed to perfection,” Argyle explains from behind Will. “Beep beep little Byers, enchilada comin’ in hot!” He’s carrying a large flat dish with oven mitts. It’s probably a miracle that he doesn’t get his hair in it (or anything else) while setting it down. “Both made by yours truly, just like my abuela taught me.”

“Except it’s a casserole,” Jonathan says with a chuckle, setting bowls of green beans and guacamole on the table.

“Nooo man, I had a brainwave while I was in the kitchen earlier today! It’s all the same flavors and cheesiness, but half the work… because instead of individually rolled tortillas, it’s flat.”

“Yeah… like a casserole.”

“Whatever you call it,” Eddie interrupts with a grin, “it smells great. Grandma food is always the best.”

Steve’s brain clicks back on enough to offer a fond wave of appreciation for the little wooden box in his kitchen that’s crammed full of his nonna’s recipes, painstakingly translated from the original Italian with Robin’s help. Some of the early translations had produced truly inedible results, but the finished versions had made substantial contributions to Eddie’s waistline.

There’s a beat of quiet while everyone else finishes settling into their seats and Steve soaks in the wonder of being surrounded by the smells of good food and people who care, and then—

“Mike,” Will says, making direct eye contact with his mom’s runny mashed potatoes, “I think we should worry for our future kids.”

The delivery is so deadpan, so perfectly timed, and so unexpected that the entire patchwork family gathered at the table cracks up, even Joyce. Just full on, tears-in-their-eyes, can’t-believe-we’re-all-still-alive-and-now-this laughter at something that shouldn’t be funny, yet somehow is. Eddie clutches at a stitch in his side and he can barely get a breath in from shaking so hard (Steve couldn’t look away from him if he tried, god he loves him so much), but it’s worth it because against all the odds little Will Byers is sixteen now and he just gave up on defending his mom’s questionable cooking abilities in the most ridiculous way possible. It’s another two minutes before anyone even realizes that’s how Will and Mike are coming out as together, and the cacophony only intensifies from there.

Part 7, part 8

#wg steddie #christmas steddie #chubby eddie munson #chaser steve harrington #chubby argyle stranger things #chaser jonathan byers #eddie is too gay to get how argyle/jon/nancy works but he respects it #(tbh i haven't thought about it much but jon probably enjoys the contrast of being in the middle)#(and argyle and nancy are just really comfortable as friends who share a bf)#(anyway that's not the point)#... the point is what eddie does with his pants button #scoops words #scoops - do not unwrap fic

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