kissenturine

Latest Posts by kissenturine

You want to call your House rep now and tell them Trump needs to be impeached immediately for defying a Supreme Court order (re: Kilmar Abrego Garcia), which functionally voids our constitution and means no one in America has rights anymore.

I am not exaggerating.

As of now, anybody can be disappeared, no due process, no recourse. Trump is openly disregarding a Supreme Court order and says he’ll send US citizens to El Salvador.

This is not a drill.

Call your House rep and tell them they must impeach. Tell them if they cannot bring themselves to impeach, they must resign. A more open and shut case to impeach is not possible. Trump and his administration are saying openly, in public, that anybody can be kidnapped by ICE, even in error, and disappeared permanently.

Call your senators, too, and tell them to support impeachment (it goes to them once it passes a majority House vote).

Common Cause

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OMGGG KINGGGG, AHHH I LITERALLY EXPLODED WHEN YOU FOLLOWED ME BACKKKB TYSM AHHHHH please let me suck your cock respectfully♡♡

hi sorry for being fucking late ohmygod

anyways NP FOR THE FOLLOW BACK LOL I'M ALWAYS SURPRISED I GET MOOTS ND IM LIKE "DAMN CAN'T BELIVE THEY FOLLOW ME"

i rlly ike your vampire oc work too i think that's where i followed u from!!

u know i always need a good dick sucking every once in a while... ^_^

Reblog if you're wet/hard rn

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒 satosugu x m!reader — 2.3k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: 3some, reader deepthroats geto, ass eating (idk what this called lol), fingering, penetration lol, mentions of a toxic ex, gojo and geto might come off as kind of manipulative-ish (barely), orgasm denial (once)

KAI SAYS: hi again....

“Oh, darlin’, your ex finally dump you?”

“Yeah…”

“Ok, we’ll be there in a few, ‘kay? I’ll pass the phone to Suguru now.”

You sniffled, nodding your head absentmindedly despite the fact that you knew neither Gojo nor Geto could see the motion. It didn’t matter though. What did matter was that they cared. More than your ex — who just dumped you for some random chick — did.

“Hey,” you heard Geto’s voice on the other side of the phone. “I’m sorry. Me an’ Gojo’ll hit up the store to buy your favourite, we’ll be there in a bit.” You could hear Gojo in the background, complaining, and it made you giggle softly.

“Thanks,” you whispered, “don’t take too long though. I want to see you two.”

You could hear the shuffling on the other end as Gojo presumably snatched the phone from Geto. “Yeah, I bet you do,” He said almost jokingly. “We do wanna see you too though so we won’t keep you waiting for too long.”

“Promise?” You whispered softly.

“Promise,” Gojo responded.

You grinned for the first time in a while. Gojo and Geto — your best friends — you could always rely on them to cheer you up, somehow. They were everything you needed. Kind, funny, successful, handsome, they were everything, and they meant everything to you.

The three of you met in high school, and now the three of you are in college. Together. Your eyes were always drawn to whichever one of them you’d see in the halls passing by and you craved their attention whenever you were with them. And, a lot of the time, they gave you what you craved, constantly showering you with gifts and taking you out.

It was… amazing. Gojo and Geto were amazing.

Your ex managed to get between that, unfortunately. But, now that your ex was gone, you hoped they’d still treat you like they did before. With love, and laughter, and with tender and caring touches… You missed them, really.

You smiled softly, collapsing against the plush of your bed that was now dirtied with crumpled tissues from your crying. As you stared at the roof in thought, the familiar sound of the door unlocking and opening reached you. Gojo and Geto were the only ones you’d ever given keys to your apartment to, meaning it was them.

You sat up brightly, greeted by the slam of your bedroom door slamming open. Gojo stepped in first, smiling wide as ever, and then Geto followed soon after, his hair not even pulled up into his usual bun.

“You guys actually came…” You whispered, almost choking on unshed tears.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Gojo grinned at you, dropping the plastic bag filled with groceries by the door as he leapt onto the bed and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“We couldn’t just leave you…” Geto added, moving to sit beside you. His hand found yours, intertwining your fingers together. He gave you a gentle smile and you felt your chest go warm.

“I… I really appreciate this,” You said softly, eyes slowly shifting between the two of them. “Y-You’re the only ones that didn’t leave,” You continued bitterly, still sad and angered about your ex.

“Oh darling,” Geto sighed, tilting you to lean against his chest with Gojo still pressed against yours. “We would never.”

Gojo nodded his head. “In fact, I — we are tired of pretending we don’t—” Geto’s curled fist met the top of Gojo’s head swiftly. Gojo winced. “Geto.” He whisper-yelled. “I thought we would—”

“I said we wouldn’t, remember?” Geto whisper-yelled back, though you were confused as to why they wouldn’t just speak to each other since you could hear them anyway.

Gojo groaned, an arm leaving your waist only to be thrown up in defeat. “What I was trying to say,” he glared at Geto, “was that we’re done lying that we don’t like you.” Gojo’s grip on you tightened and so did Geto’s hand on yours. “You keep datin’ all these shitty guys — no offence — but me and Geto think…” he looked over at Geto, “that we could treat you much better, doncha think?”

Geto nodded his head while you went into a state of… shock? You knew you felt something for the two, but you never considered yourself attracted to them like that. “I— I don’t know guys…” You whispered. “I do love you, but I don’t know if it’s like that.”

“Well then, there’s only one way to test that now,” Geto said, his lips pulling into a grin.

“And that is…?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“We—” Geto started.

“We fuck, of course!” Gojo interrupted, his grin even wider now.

Your jaw dropped. They wanted to fuck — have sex, of all things — to see if you liked them back. “W-Wha…?” You mumbled, at a loss for words. “Is that really what you— what we should do…?”

“Well…” Gojo drawled. “Maybeee we might just want to fuck you but—”

“Don’t say that!” Geto grumbled, smacking Gojo’s head again.

“Ow! Ow! Fine,” Gojo grumbled, finally relenting. “Look, ok, we really like you. Me and Geto — we've liked you for years, ok?”

Geto nodded. “We would never want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable or anything like that, so if you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” He smiled softly at you, bringing a hand to trace your cheek.

“I…” You said hesitantly. “I do think I feel something for the two of you, but god you guys, I’m scared. If I do like you back, what’s to say you won’t leave me like my ex did.”

Gojo heaved a sigh, pressing his face into your neck. “We would never,” He whispered softly.

“And if we did, you can just get Toji to beat our ass again,” Geto mumbled. You knew he hated Toji so to see that he was joking about the older man… Well, it had to mean something.

“Ok.” You said, steeling your nerves, and slightly surprised at yourself for how little convincing it took for Gojo and Geto to convince you. “Ok, let’s do this then, I guess.”

You could see Gojo pull off you with a wide grin. “Oh, you’re not regretting this, trust me.” And then you’re flipped over, lying on your belly with your face flat on the mattress. You felt your legs get lifted, your hands scrambling for purchase to find balance — and eventually landing on Geto’s thighs as you looked up at the black-haired man.

Eventually, Gojo positioned you with your knees bent and your ass up in the air while Geto just smiled down at you. “Ah, you’re so cute like this, you know?” He whispered in a soothing voice. His hand threaded through your hair before lifting your head by the strands and forcing your arms to prop yourself up for balance.

“He was always cute, Suguru,” Gojo said and you could hear the smirk in his voice. You felt his lithe fingers trace the edge of your shorts before yanking them down, an audible tear filling the room.

“Gojo!” You scolded, half embarrassed and half turned on. Your hands quickly darted back in a desperate attempt to save yourself some dignity because of course today was the day you decided to go commando — no boxers yay! — and of course, you somehow ended up with Gojo having a full view of your ass. “....Don’t look.” You muttered, hands covering your hole. You ended up face-first in Geto’s crotch after moving your arms out from under you and you could feel his boner against your cheek.

“Baby, I’m gonna be doing a lot more than just looking,“ Gojo grinned. He moved, his hands grabbing at yours and prying them away easily. You gave up on keeping some decency with a pathetic sound — which made Geto’s cock twitch against your face.

Gojo’s warm breath fanned over your ass and before you could even process it he was licking a wet stripe against your hole, forcing a muffled sound from your lips.

“Don’t do that,” Geto groaned softly and you looked up at him with wide, confused eyes. Do what??

“Fuck it…” He grumbled, his hand fishing through his pants to pull out his cock. You blinked. Ah shit, he was big. “Come on darling…” He murmured, his voice back to his sugary sweet and soft tone. “Suck, darling.” He requested. You watched in awe as he fisted himself a few times before tapping his leaky and flushed tip against your lips.

Hesitantly, you wrapped your lips around Geto’s tip, sucking softly. At the same time, Gojo’s tongue pushed past your rim, a finger of his following soon after. Shit. You moaned instantly around Geto’s shaft, your arms fumbling under you once more and you fell, forcing your throat to constrict around Geto’s whole length with your nose now pressed against his pubes.

“Fuck…” He whispered softly. “You’re really good at this…” His hand went through your hair as he slowly lifted your head, your tongue forced to drag along his underside, tracing a vein, before he abruptly thrust his hips up. Geto’s tip knocked against the back of your throat while Gojo’s finger curled right against your prostate, forcing a wet, muffled cry from your lips.

Your cock twitched pathetically, hanging uselessly between your legs and weeping copious amounts of pre all over the bed. “Please,” you tried to say.

Gojo curled his finger again and again, rhythmically thrusting his tongue in and out of your hole. Geto, on the other hand, just kept you in the same spot, lips wrapped around the base of his cock as you stared up at him pleadingly.

You needed more of it. More of anything. More of Geto fucking your mouth, more of Gojo’s tongue — it didn’t matter.

Gojo’s fingers continued to curl inside you, hitting your prostate over and over until you were practically seeing stars, eyes rolling back as Geto occasionally thrust up and into your mouth. Your hips rocked against Gojo’s tongue, desperately chasing your climax. You were close, so, so, so close.

And hell, Gojo could tell you were close. He sped up his ministrations, forcing your toes to curl and your body to twitch and shake. Wanton moans and cries left your lips — all muffled by Geto’s thick length.

You felt your tummy tighten as your hips pushed back — as far as possible — desperately chasing your orgasm. You were so close! And then, Gojo pulled away, his mouth pulling off and his fingers sliding out of your hole.

“Why?” You cried, almost delirious as Geto pulled your wet lips off his dick. “I- I was so close!”

“Tell us, then, if you want it so bad,” Geto whispered, his hand wiping the drool off your lips. “Do you love us?”

“I do!” You sobbed, leaning desperately into his hand. “I do, I do, I swear!”

“Promise?” Gojo questioned from behind you.

“I promise, I promise!”

“Good.” He didn’t even give you a second to breathe because in the next second his tip was lined up with your desperate hole and he was thrusting his dick into you. You sobbed in relief, only for half of it to get caught when Geto’s dick once again pushed into your mouth.

Gojo’s thrusts were brutal, the pace was much too fast and much too harsh but god you didn’t care because it felt so good when his tip knocked against that one spot inside you and when Geto’s shaft would stretch your lips so nice and wide when he started to match his pace with Gojo’s. Geto grabbed your hair, lifting your head for better access as his thrusts started to become faster and faster.

The only sound left in the room was your muffled cries and the wet sound of skin meeting skin in a desperate chase for relief. Your hands managed to land on Geto’s thighs, curling and scratching through the fabric of his pants.

“You close darling?” Geto grunted from above you, his hand curling even tighter in your hair, Yes, you were close again and you wanted to cum so badly it almost hurt.

Your eyes squeezed shut as your toes curled. You clenched around Gojo’s dick, your moans getting louder and hoarser around Geto’s. “F-Fuck…” Gojo stuttered and Geto groaned in front of you. “You’re fuckin’ good at this, you know right?”

You didn’t have the energy to respond, merely letting your back drop into an arch as your hand reached down to tug at your cock.

“Ah-ah-ah!” Gojo taunted, slapping your hand away. “No touching. You’re only gonna cum ‘cause of our cocks. Ain’t that right, Suguru?”

“Correct,” Geto grunted, thrusting his hips again and again. He stopped for a moment, before spitting right onto where your lips were wrapped around his shaft, a wide grin on his face as he started his pace again.

“Damn, you’re dirty, aren’t ya?” Gojo questioned. He spread your cheeks, following Geto’s example and spitting right on your hole where his dick disappeared into as he thrust quickly. That was the last straw for you.

With a muffled sob, your body twisted and shuddered as you came, shooting thick ropes all over the bed under you. Your body was still convulsing when Gojo and Geto came shortly after. Geto’s hand pushed you all the way down onto his dick, holding you in place as you felt his warm seed coat your mouth while Gojo thrust until he was buried to the hilt before he came, flooding your insides.

“That was good, wasn’t it?” Gojo cooed, pulling out slowly and settling beside you and Geto.

“I-It was…” You muttered, voice still hoarse.

“Good,” Geto whispered, helping you sit up between them.

You smiled almost bashfully, grinning at the two. “I do… love you guys, you know?” You said.

They both smiled at you, Geto kissing your right cheek and Gojo your left.

“We know.”

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

if you do pet play , can i request a subtop boothill with dombottom reader? if you dont its okay without petplay too

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐁 𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐓 boothill x m!reader — 1.2k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: pet play, subtop boothill / dombottom reader, use of a muzzle & leash, boothill being a whiny lil guy, degradation kink (boothill), boothill is a masochist lol, slight choking, master kink (idk what that's called), lmk if i missed any :3

KAI SAYS: hi gang sorry for dying lmao my sister is giving birth in a few months and me and my family have been stressing trying to get everything ready lmao.

Boothill very much valued his dignity. In fact — despite his usually... brash nature, he liked to think he never purposefully embarrassed himself — so, to be found in this position, well, it very much took all of his dignity.

But alas, he liked to think it was worth it, especially with the way you were looking at him. It looked like you’re going to fucking eat him up — which he certainly wouldn’t be opposed to, which is why he practically begged you for it, nuzzling his face against your leg, drool spilling from the corners of his lips as he pants heavily.

“Please.” He whined. He couldn’t exactly do anything with the position he was in — his hands tied behind his back and a muzzle covering his mouth as his sharp teeth chewed at his bottom lip to restrain the moans that would probably be spilling from them. Boothill was kneeling down, fully naked and right infront of the bed that you were sat on the edge of, legs spread and the end of his leash in hand.

You tugged it quickly, a demeaning grin on your lips as you stared down at the cyborg. “Now,” you cooed in such a sickeningly sweet voice that makes Boothill melt even further into your warmth, “what did I say, my pet?”

“Said...” He muttered, “said if I was a ‘good fudgin’ mutt’ you’d reward me.” His head dropped to rest on your knee, the drool dripping down his chin and onto your skin.

You let out a small “tsk” before you pulled his head up by his black and white hair. “But all you’ve been is a stupid mutt, no?” You scoffed, letting go of him to give a quick slap to his cheek. “Now stop drooling over me and actually do something, you dumb mutt.”

You backed away from Boothill, scooting to sit up against the pillows at the back of the bed. You pulled him along by the leash around his neck, Boothill eagerly following you like the precious dog he was. He sat on his knees infront of you, all eager and ready to please.

“Well?” You questioned. “Get to it.” You spread your legs, exposing your tight hole to him.

Boothill barked out an eager “Yes master!” before scooting up to you, throwing your calves over his shoulders to give him full access to one of his favourite things about you.

Your pretty ass — all of it on full display for him. He couldn’t help his drooling, really, how was he supposed to when you looked so... delectable?

He tapped his leaking tip against your puckered hole, just enjoying the feeling of being close to you after so long. Boothill ignored the urge to plunge right into you then and there, knowing full well you’d punish him for ever doing such a thing.

Instead, he slowly eased into you — only to stop halfway in when you tugged harshly at his leash, forcing his muzzle into your cheek.

“Did I tell you to put it in?” You snapped.

Boothill shook his head frantically. “N-No, master.” He grunted out, voice hoarse.

“Then why’d you put it in, hm?” You questioned. Your hand grabbed at his muzzle, pushing his face away. “Well, your already halfway in, mutt, you might as well finish.

Boothill nodded, continuing his slow push into your twitchy hole.

Only when he was all the way in, his balls pressed against your ass, did he look up at you with an eager gaze, eyes wide and pleasing. “I — master, please let me move.” He grunted out in that low voice of his.

“Hm...” You mused, feigning indifference as you tapped a finger against your bottom lip. “Fine.” Boothill felt a relieved sigh escape his lips, his hands going to your hips. “But,” you continued suddenly, “if you mess this up...“ You pulled on his leash harshly, watching in amusement as a choked sound left Boothill’s lips as his neck was tugged forward harshly. “You will be punished accordingly, so do a good job, ok?”

Your hand went to his cheek, gently cupping it — such a harsh contrast to how you had choked him earlier. Admittedly, Boothill had enjoyed it, but he didn’t have the time to tell you because in that next moment he was pulling his hips back before snapping them right back into you.

A loud, hoarse moan left his lips as he thrusted into you with a messy pace, drool slipping through the bars of his muzzle. “O-Oh, fudgin’ — master, shit, ya feel so—” He couldn’t finish that sentence, only thrusting into you feverishly as heaved breaths left his parted lips.

“I know, I know,” you smirked, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing the firm muscle gently. “You’re doing so good for me, puppy, keep this up and I might let you cum inside me tonight.”

Inside.

Inside.

The word rang loudly in Boothill’s head as he looked up at you with a desperate gaze. “Please.” He whined, “Please— I’ll do anything!”

“Oh, I know you will, puppy,” you cooed. “Which is why you’re going to make me cum twice first before you do, got it?” You geave a gentle tug to his leash for extra effect.

“Y-Yes, master,” he whimpered, “anything for you.”

With that, he was quickening his pace, occasionally changing the slight angle of his hips — desperately trying to find that sweet spot inside you. He was working for this. His pelvis met your ass, a lewd ‘plap plap plap’ echoing throughout the empty room, interrupted by only your heavy breathing and Boothill’s loud moans until—

You cried out, your back arching and your nails digging into the cyborg’s shoulders. “Fucking— right there, puppy.” You growled and he whined at the squeeze around his dick. He continued to aim for that certain spot inside you, letting out a loud, pleased moan whenever he felt the tight clench of you whenever he hit it just right.

It wasn’t long until you were cumming, your chest pushed against his as you squirted a load between your bodies, panting heavily.

Boothill didn’t stop, to your obvious pleasure. He kept thrusting, hitting that sweet spot over and over agains until the both of you were nothing but weak, panting messes against the bedsheets.

Aeons — Boothill felt like his dick would’ve exploded if he didn’t cum.

But he couldn’t, so he didn’t, reducing himself to nothing but a crying mess as he pressed his nuzzled face against your cheek. “P-Please...” He whined pathetically. “I — Please take it off, wanna kiss you so bad.”

“A-Aw, puppy wants a kiss?” You questioned. Your hands shakilly pulled the muzzle off his face and the instant it was off he was pressing Boothill was pressing his lips into yours.

The kiss was sloppy and wet — filled with a mix of his tears and drool as his tongue pressed into your mouth gliding over yours. That’s what sent you over the edge for the second time, cumming all over the two of your guys’ chest with a muffled moan.

He pulled back instantly, gasping and heaving at the tightness of your hole. “P-Please, can I—”

“You may.”

And then Boothill was cumming, hard. You felt a thick load fill your insides and Boothill collapsed into you, whining and crying and panting heavily.

“Good boy,” you cooed, and Boothill smiled against your neck lovingly.

Oh, how Boothill adored when you called him a good boy.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @helloanime @kiekole (send ask without anon to be added)

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

EATING THIS UP SO GOOD RN DROOLING LICKING MY SCREEN FUDUJSIFJSKJRKS

FANTASMAS ゜・BLADE NSFW

"solo miro fantasmas están dentro de ti." - fantasmas (twin tribes) continuation of roommate au kind of part 2 to both ain't shit see here for some basic designs for them male reader warnings: male reader, amab reader, porn with plot, bottom reader, band au, blade's kinda obsessive, he's also in denial for like half the fic wc: 6.9k (unintentional)

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

With the piercing light of day shining upon this nondescript building, it resembles every other office in the vicinity: cold grey facade, nauseatingly plain decor, and workers that look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. But as the sun kisses the horizon and the stars scatter across the fabric blanketing the world, the infamous ‘underground’ opens—a venue beloved by local bands and those looking to drink until dawn.

It’s no surprise that Kafka’s there tonight; she’s lounging at the back with her magenta irises fixed right on the stage while her maraschino pout sips at her cocktail. The dim hall hosts dozens of people, if not about a hundred—all eagerly waiting for the arrival of the Trailblazers, bodies pressed against bodies and barely anyone sitting at the pushed-back tables near the walls. That’s why it’s perfect that she’s here and not at the front—otherwise, she’s sure the pretty flame-haired Trailblazer’s manager will notice her and give her that glare. She doesn’t want to get on her bad side, not today. 

She’s mildly astonished that Blade tagged along to scout them out of his own volition; the only member he knows for sure is Dan Heng, and anyone and everyone with a brain knows how tense things are between them. Well, it’s not entirely accurate to say he knows only one of the members behind their varied masks—there’s still you, but she doubts he’s figured it out for himself that you’re the guitarist in particular. 

The man next to her might appear relaxed—body pressed against the back of the cherry-red seating, legs spread with fingers tapping languidly on his thighs—but Kafka likes to think she can read people a lot better than that. He’s as… naive, she’d like to put it, as ever—thinking he can hide his feelings as though he doesn’t wear his pulsating, visceral heart on his sleeve for everyone to look at. 

There’s a simmering anger lying beneath his milky dermis; like his eyes, it is red-hot and coils his body inwards with a thick tension. She doesn’t know what happened these past few days, but she knows for sure he’s gotten worse—pupils honed in right on the platform in the front and not a swill taken from the liquor on the table. 

(Wine flows—the man who does not partake will sorely regret what he sees sober, she later comments in her journal.)

It’s not like you’re any better; a good mood stretched your lips into a smile as bright and messy as yolk when you saw her a few days ago. Still, any explanation for Blade’s bad mood was encapsulated in one neat, cruel word: payback. 

Several meanings can be attached to this—and these have been duly noted in the journal she keeps on the side. 

The clearest red thread she can find in this investigation is that this has something to do with you, and maybe the bassist currently setting up on stage with a delicate, draconic mask perched across his features—judging by the way Blade’s fingers dig right into the plush of his thighs. 

Oh, her mouth suppresses a bloodied smile—this is interesting. 

She doesn’t watch you in your Venetian mask—a fragile one that spans three-quarters of your face, a Phantom of the Opera style she does appreciate. 

No, actually, she glances at the revealing top you’re wearing and makes out several bite marks and bruises in the strobe lighting—putting two and two together quite quickly. Ah. No wonder he’s pissed. 

She then, very efficiently, decides it will be far more amusing to watch Blade’s expression surreptitiously as he slowly figures it out. 

Just who exactly is that guitarist?

It weighs on his mind—heavy, uncomfortable. He loathes Dan Heng, and the rest of the Trailblazers by proxy; even without the ongoing feud, he’d hate them regardless. While he did come to the performance to clear his head and remind him of exactly who he’s up against, he can’t help but gaze at the person currently plugging in his guitar. 

Stop. 

Pungent copper warmth spills into his mouth as he bites hard into his cheek; bleeding sanguine replaces the lingering caress of whiskey on his taste buds. 

Yet still—as the strobe dies down and a haunting, ghostly incandescence shimmers over the band—his eyes continue to trace his figure. 

His flimsy shirt rides up his stomach as he loops the guitar around his neck, and Blade can feel his mouth go dry. Damn you—he can’t stop thinking about that scene he almost walked in a few days ago, and now that small patch of skin is making him imagine what it would be like with a guy. 

This venue is for the amateurish bands—ones that won’t ever make it big but still have a loyal base of dedicated followers. Very technically speaking, the Trailblazers are popular and rightfully so: skill macerates itself into their songs. Yet, he can’t help the dislike that taints his perception of their music. 

The vocalist’s voice is well suited to this genre—long grey hair framing a golden mask while she sings, but he’s more focused on the melody accompanying it. There’s several embellishments on the guitar chords accompanying it that his ears pick up: too used to your irritating playing to ignore them. Nothing too wild, just some flair he begrudgingly appreciates. 

He can only focus on the guitarist, not even sparing a glare at the bassist close to them. 

It’s in the second song you finally have a solo: a long riff that appears to be a crowd favourite, stirring a hitched breath from him. 

Familiar, it somehow seems—something along your style but he’d be damned if he ever heard this from you. 

He loses track of the minutes that turn into well over an hour. 

The atmosphere in the club has shifted significantly—expectant. It appears to be one of the last songs; and Blade’s ashamed that the time passed quickly for him. 

Too busy staring at the guitarist, he can hear future Kafka tease, and he clenches his fists in his lap.

“Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips,” 

You’ve done nothing but play the electric guitar, which is why he widens his eyes in surprise as your mouth opens and you lean into the vocalist’s mic. A melancholy synth accompanies the bittersweet song—with a deeper voice that makes your face flash in his mind. 

Can’t be. 

“Arsenic on your tongue.”

Involuntarily, that scene of you with Dan Heng’s lips against yours takes up the space in his mind—all-consuming, fury-inducing. 

“Frankly, dear, you could send me to the tomb,”

He downs the hard liquor that’s been sitting on the table for the past hour. God, he sounds perfect: making his dick twitch in his pants as he imagines this voice in his headphones. 

“Pressing your hands to my frigid cadaver,”

His breathing becomes slightly more shallow as he notices how the flimsy shirt finally sticks in a way that half-exposes the guitarist’s chest—a prominent bite-mark just peeking out from the side.

“One live pulse and the other lifeless,”

The lighting shifts to illuminate you more, and he can suddenly see the slight discolouration against his slicked collarbone and sweat-soaked neck—bruises which feel slightly off, in the sense that Blade’s stomach grows tight and his heart pounds fast and hard against his lungs. 

“And still I’d wait, Styx cradling me in its miasma—”

His eyes sweep across the room and land directly on Blade’s, and there’s something so familiar in that gaze that he can’t look away. 

“Is my apostasy enough for you?”

It’s past one in the morning when he leaves the venue—cold air nipping at his arms as Kafka waves him goodbye and he drives home with the icy street lamps lighting his way. In the privacy of his car, he finds the specific song online—letting the guitarist’s honey-rich voice sweep over him, before his heart begins thrumming uncontrollably.

He’s onto something—a specific line of thinking that feels so ludicrous he can’t help but scoff at himself as he parks. 

Ridiculous, he thinks. Perhaps it’s simply human nature to deny that which brings discomfort. 

Cognitive dissonance. 

But there’s no one at the apartment. Not a dim slit of light on the wall opposite your door—where it’s almost a daily occurrence at the young hours of the night. In fact, your slightly open door (and here his heart pangs at the thought of that day) indicates not a soul currently inhabits the empty room. He stands there for a long time, staring. 

You can’t…

Tongue leaden, he makes his way to the living room: sinking into the couch while his rubine eyes fix themselves on the door. He loosens the buttons of his shirt, running his tired hands through his inky spills of hair. He’s good at the waiting game; the minutes may drag out infinitely, but he wills himself to sit in silence. 

It’s far past two when you finally stumble in—a long coat bundled over casual clothes that make the tension in his shoulders dissipate slightly. There’s a bag clutched in your hands but no signs of a guitar case. 

Why does he feel so relieved?

You finally notice him: locking eyes, yet not saying anything. His lips press together, then part suddenly.

“Where were you?” It sounds accusatory, and he supposes it is. Don’t tell me what I’m thinking is true. 

“Out,” you reply shortly. His fingers clench around one of the pillows next to him. 

You won’t answer. There’s no point in asking anymore; with gritted teeth, he knows the taste of futility. It seeps bitter in his mouth as he lights the small amber lamp on the coffee table—attempting to numb his mind through the tried-and-true method of reading upon the principles of cement and composites. 

As he hears the steady stream of the shower, his plans go awry. Those same words he’s memorised blur in his vision when his mind conjures you. 

Don’t. 

Where were you?

He’s sliding his book back onto the shelf as your soft footsteps pad out of the bathroom. When his head turns, you’re wearing only a towel: steam still rising from your warm body as you don’t spare him a glance. 

Perhaps it’s fate. 

Perhaps it’s his own fault for getting his hopes up. 

You pass by him—too close, he thinks, you’re much too close—and your bare torso is right there. 

As is the bite-mark that caught his eye earlier. 

When those chromatic eyes trace the expanse of your trapezius muscles, each and every bruise matches the practical constellation he saw littering the guitarist’s body. The dips in your arms, the specific shade of tinted lips you’d sported, each valley and plane of the guitarist’s body—all pointed to the two being one and the same. 

His chest is impossibly taut; only when you clear your throat does he realise he’s standing in the doorway. A fitting Cerebus to this household—if he could, he’d keep you here forever and not let anyone else in. 

“Do you have a problem?” you ask, and it’s the perfect, tired pitch that just about stirs his inky spills of hair and makes his eyes heavy with lust. 

“Maybe,” he accedes in his own low voice, too busy wondering how your songs would taste to notice you getting slightly closer. 

No, that’s a lie. He notices—feeling and seeing the small wisps of vapour still cling to you from your shower  (and now him). He inhales, slowly savouring the unique flavour of you: burnt sugar curling honey-sweet from your lips, the shower gel he knows you just randomly grabbed—it’s the one he uses too, the faint tendrils of sweat and steam and lotion that each have their own distinct tang. 

His nose is level with yours: he can feel the faint fan of particles that brush across him. It’s not that which causes his nails to dig into his palms, but rather the quirk of your brow as you ever-so-slightly raise it. 

“What—no girls to warm up your bed and cure your boredom?” 

It’s a question that could insinuate two meanings. First, that you’re simply mocking him and his previous activities. The second implies that he’s desperate enough to seek you out. 

“No fellow Trailblazer to warm yours?” he bites out. Question for a question—and perhaps he’s slightly sick for enjoying how your eyes widen in abrupt shock. 

“Does that matter?” It’s almost like a game at this point—defences and hackles raised, inching to total annihilation by inquiry. Maybe you’ve realised it’s futile to deny it; a frown settles on your face with a matching glare. After all, for the average student, coming across a member of the bands—Knights of Beauty, Galaxy Rangers, the Family (to name a few)—isn’t a big deal. 

But he’s not the average student. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It really does.”

Oh. Oh.

He watches as you piece it together—noting his connection to Kafka, the drumkit in his room, and his clear hostility towards Dan Heng. He watches as you accidentally take a step back into the large shelf, watches as you furrow your brows in the way he spots when you’re solving a particularly difficult problem. 

“You’re a damn headache, you know that.”

There’s no malice in your eyes, but he can feel you slipping from his fingers; he can hear the cogs in your brain turn with certainty as you look away with resolve. He’s going to move out—Blade realises, and it’s perhaps the second time in his life that he regrets letting his heart seep through his lips with that sort of confession. Suddenly, he’s stepping forward: hand wrapping tightly around your wrist, with less-than-bruising strength. 

Fuck. The back-and-forth from earlier reminds him exactly of the position he’s in: practically caging you against the wooden frame while you’re still warm and damp from the shower. He’s lucky he wore loose trousers out—and you’re too busy glancing at him in surprise to notice him straining against them. 

“Blade—”

“Yingxing.” He’s not quite sure why he interrupts. Like a gaping wound, he’s ripped past the scab and hit tender flesh. 

He can’t define where the firm line between you and him is. 

And maybe he’s your roommate and there’s a messy boundary constructed by both parties, but there’s something pressing his lungs tight against bone.

“—Yingxing,” you taste carefully: sampling the two characters in your poisonous mouth. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The normally-collected engineering student has abandoned his wits—gazing at you like a man half-starved. 

“Making you stay,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to move out—don’t we work well together?”

I can treat you so right. His thigh cants against your legs, and he hears you inhale sharply. Fuck. 

Bringing your wrist to his face, he presses his lips to the skin—burning, as some would say, so utterly contrasting with his colder image that it brings about an effect of cognitive dissonance. What’s so good about Dan Heng?

“You’re such a prick,” you hiss, and he feels the words pierce right through him. He is. Objectively, he knows he’s a bastard—unapologetically, wholeheartedly—but you don’t make an effort to pull away. 

“I am,” he admits in a tired, low voice. He doesn’t know if it’s the steely look in your eyes, or the firm set of your mouth—yet he thinks you’ve rooted him in place instead of the opposite. 

Why? If he gets involved with his roommate of all people, it would turn blurry boundaries into cacophonous messes—and it’s not like he wants you to leave. It would be far simpler to let you move out; slice away the relationship cleanly before his heart tightens any further. 

“Do you find it fun fucking with people like this?” 

He looks at you. Really, he does. 

Guitarist. Physics student. Capable scholar. Then there’s that—Trailblazer. 

But there’s also that. 

My roommate. 

So many concepts to consider, when that’s only surface level. He’s never had to think so hard about someone before: preferring to not know them at all. 

“Hah.” You sound incredulous. “Are you this fucking indecisive with everyone?”

“No,” he finally replies. “Just you.”

It’s then that he releases your wrist. You’ll walk away. In line with his own predictions, he already knows you’ll barge past him—perhaps knocking a book or two off his shelf. 

But, no—

“Do you ever shut up?”

—you seem to defy his expectations each time. 

His eyes flicker to your mouth, and this time you take notice. 

Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips. How fitting. 

His eyes widen as you roughly grasp the front of his shirt: creasing the smooth fabric in your fist as you yank his face forward. It’s as if you’re about to punch him square in the jaw, yet for some reason his heart pounds faster and his cheeks flush ever so slightly. Delicately, yet he is anything but that. 

“Seriously, you’re so—”

The heat consuming him is sweltering and omnipotent. One that controls his limbs like a marionette; he’s already reaching to grasp your chin with his rough hand. You’re warm: exhaling in surprise as his mouth meets yours. 

“Mmh–” Hands worn from playing chords tonight slip from the front of his shirt and slide around his nape. He can feel your fingers entangle themselves in his inky hair, and for once he closes his eyes. You taste like the sweetest poison: traces of cherry syrup and the faint spice of liqueur. 

He should’ve done this sooner. 

Canting his head to the side, he deepens the kiss—tongue spilling into your mouth, twining with your gasps. He presses you against the shelf; his shirt’s becoming damp from the drops of water still clinging to you, but surprisingly, he’s not irritated. If it were anyone else—if it were anyone but you—he would be disgusted. But maybe because it’s you, he just wants to meld his body against yours. 

Perhaps that’s the first sign. 

Arsenic on your tongue. 

Something colourless, without taste. He certainly feels poisoned: heart racing uncontrollably, skin rosy with flush, pupils dilated until the sanguine in his eyes is just a sliver. He pulls back with breaths heavy against the still air. You’re wrapped around his neck, unmoving, and he can’t help but taste victory on his taste buds instead. 

“You’re still not forgiven,” you mutter callously.

“That’s fine.” A thin, sharp smile appears on his face as he leans his face into the crook between your neck and shoulder—practically branding you with the sear of his words against the expanse of your dermis. He’s smiling—grinning—ecstasy racing through his veins as he hears your groans when he presses his open mouth against the flesh. Bruises upon bruises will blossom later on your body; his pants strain at the very thought. 

You’re staying, and his mind goes hazy and numb when he thinks of how you’ll look in his arms come morning—all pretty and fucked-out just for him. 

It’s not like he likes you in that way—it’s simply the most opportune moment to steal you away from Dan Heng’s filthy hands. He saw how the bassist stared at you throughout your parts: heard how that bastard’s hands fumbled on the strings with the lines streaming from your lips. 

No, he doesn’t like his roommate like that. 

Frankly, dear, you could send me to the tomb. 

Why is his heart beating so fast then? When his hand trails to land on your scalding waist, pressing your almost-naked body against his—why does his own body burn?

(Why did he give you his name?)

“Fuck—” you groan as his mouth latches onto your chest: rebranding it on his own terms. He laps up the salt and sweat on your skin—too hazed out to fully take into consideration the effort he’s putting into this. Rather than a rough fuck with his peers, he wants you to enjoy yourself—wants to be acknowledged as better than his nemesis.

His fingers dig into the plush and muscle corded between the planes of hip and rib cage, wrapping until the tips of his hands reach the cobbled path of your spine. You’re so warm: so much so that he can’t stop clutching your body like a lifeline. 

“Wanna go further?” he murmurs against the fat of your chest, feeling the heavy thump–thump of your heart against his lips. 

He pulls back with the sheen of saliva on his lips, gazing up at you with a spoken and unspoken question. Aeons—when you stare back at him with those lowered eyelids and that grin on your lips; when you slither your hands so they entwine against his scalp in his murky locks; when you bring his mouth back to yours in a scorching, open-mouthed kiss—he can feel his body and soul crumble around him into an ashen heap. 

“Thought you didn’t like me.” You catch his lip with your canines, and the sour tang of blood fills his mouth and pools on his tongue. 

Pressing your hands against my frigid cadaver.

“I don’t,” he answers as he pushes you up against his bed—shucking the shirt worn over his tight top onto his floor—and letting your steaming flesh warm up his frigid muscles. 

“Yeah, I don’t like you either,” you reply exasperatedly, raking your nails against the contours of his back while he looks up at you: mouth still latched over where that man left those impressions as if to erase them. 

“So what the fuck are we doing?” you comment in wonder. He doesn’t reply—too busy stripping himself of his top so he can finally feel your bare skin on his like this, flesh squishing against flesh as he kisses you over and over. 

It’s like he’s laving your lips clean with his own, and there’s a trickling understanding somewhere in his subconscious. 

Why is he doing this? Why have you agreed to this?

The two questions ingrain themselves deeply in his troubled mind. 

But when he looks down on the sweat on your face, lips bitten to muffle the noises slipping from your lips, he doesn’t ever want to stop this. 

“Wouldn’t you have hurried up by now?” He doesn’t know what you’re referring to until he recalls how you heard him—and it bothers him how relaxed you sound, how nonplussed you seem, when he’s filled with a seething anger everytime he recalls what he saw when he stumbled on you with Dan Heng splayed bare over you. 

“Why? Want me to recreate the experience?” He won’t ever admit that those sorts of rough fucks aren’t suited for you—he wants to take it slow for once, wants to make you feel good until you completely lose yourself and forget all about that bastard. 

“No—ah,” you grip his hair as his tongue trails down the dips of your stomach, stopping only above the towel still tied above your waist. The hasty tug on his hair elicits a groan out of him; slowly, he can feel his face grow flushed once more at the knowledge that he’s making you lose control. There’s that strain against the fabric of the towel, one that definitely mirrors his own. 

Aeons. 

“Fuck— fuck—” you whine as he slips his hand under the towel, wrapping around your dick with a deftness that doesn’t belie his inexperience with men. He’s a quick study—watching every minute twitch in your expression as he strokes you to full hardness. 

Soft—you’re so pliable as you moan under him, eyes squeezed shut as he observes your face with his smile stretched taut on his face. 

He’s never felt this affectionate towards anyone, and perhaps that’s what he should focus his attention on. He wants to rob you of your breath with his lips, he wants to listen to you forever as he draws out pleasure upon pleasure from you. 

“Ngh–” you whimper as his thumb brushes over your leaking slit, crudely pressing it and letting the precum drip onto his fingers. The rough motions cause the towel to finally drop past your hips, and his breath hitches at the sight of you beneath him—finally, finally. This is the first time that he’s taken his mind off his own pleasure: practically entranced by how you squirm and bite down on your sounds. 

Aeons. Aeons. Aeons. His mind goes numb as you cant your hips into his hand, and his head dips down to capture your noisy mouth with his own. 

Fuck. He doesn’t think he can let you go like this. 

Your nails claw at his back—it only makes him more determined to wrack you with pleasure, to leave you glassy-eyed and mindless to anything but him. 

Forget about the Trailblazers, he wants to say as you arch your back to press yourself more fully against him. Think only about me, he conveys as he twists his hand—and you keen against him. 

He’s in far too deep. 

As you cry out, as thick rivulets of cum paint his skin and yours, as he continues pumping his hand so he can see those pretty tears leak from the sides of your eyes—he’s drunk on the scent of you, drunk on the taste of your moans and the salt of your skin. He laps up each cry you give him eagerly: tasting the complex emotions of blood, tears and that lingering taste of cherry liquor weakly underpinning it all. 

One live pulse and the other lifeless. 

“Ah— mmh—” you choke out, and his face blossoms into such a profound shade of crimson that he buries his face in your neck. He kisses the rhythmic echo of your heartbeat, right where the pulsepoint is situated and thrumming with desperation. 

He’s never felt this urge with any of his other hookups—this stupid willingness to hold your body close to his like this. 

His lips surge to yours once more as his finger slips in you, drinking in the gasp you let out: how your body freezes beneath his, how your body nestles into his closer as your spine reacts to the sudden intrusion. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he breathes as you practically suck him in. “You’re so tight.”

“Don’t do this—ah—often,” you answer through your wavering mouth. Good, he wants to say—but there’s something about commenting on what you just said that prickles him with ominous foreboding. Was it Dan Heng too? Like this, between your legs—drinking in each small mewl that leaves those swollen, bitten lips. 

 Your abdomen tenses and relaxes in short bursts, and he can feel himself stiffen even more against his bed. 

Fuck. 

Impulsively, he dips his head lower so he can suckle right on your mushroom tip. And immediately, your hands move from where they were still scratching up his back to his head—tugging on his hair in a futile attempt to keep yourself grounded. 

He groans around you, and it’s clear you won’t last much longer—not when he’s added another finger, not when he’s carefully taking you deeper down his throat. 

He’s never done this before—never considered doing this—but there’s something about you that makes him want to never think of anyone else but him. 

You’re salty on his tongue—slightly bitter from the residue of cum still dripping from the slit. He licks a long strip from base to tip: trying to accustom himself before he fully commits. It’s clear he’s doing something right; there’s a panting, needy quality to your moans. With his free hand, he strokes your balls to add more hellish stimulation—and suddenly you’re locking your legs around his head. 

His eyelids flutter slightly: busy suppressing the long whine that’s about to emerge from his larynx. Aeons, he should’ve done this sooner. If he could taste you, if he could feel the slick smell of sweat and cum still plastered on your inner thighs earlier like this, if he could be like this sooner—it would’ve been worth asking Kafka for a favour. 

“Ah—” your voice shakes as he slips yet another finger inside while finally taking you fully down his throat: even with you losing control, it’s clear you don’t want to hurt him as you don’t push his head down to deepthroat you. It’s strangely sweet—something caring that just makes him want you to be rougher instead. 

He moans lowly as you pull on his hair desperately again; this is the vibration that finally pushes you over the brink. You spill into his mouth, warm and salty and slightly metallic—and stupid wanting wracks his body. 

Blade swallows it all, continuing to suck you off until he can feel your body tremble beneath him—feel the crushing pressure of your thighs around his head. 

“Want you, fuck,” he murmurs after he pulls away; thin strings of cum still connect him from your tip, and he doesn’t think he’s ever unbuckled his belt so fast. He kisses you as though he’s a man starving: teeth clashing slightly against teeth as he tugs his trousers off. 

“Care— careful,” you breathe unsteadily as he lines himself up, sinking his sharp teeth into your shoulder lightly. “You wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression that you actually like me now.”

And there’s something vulnerable in your tone: a small self-deprecation. He tries ignoring it. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, grasping your warm hand in his own calloused, frigid one. “Wouldn’t want that.”

But his tone is insincere, and he thinks you can tell. 

Somehow. 

Somehow. 

Maybe it’s futile to believe you understand him, yet your piercing eyes and annoyed glare as you look at him are always surface-level: angry but still not resolving to actually move out. You were the one who figured out his intentions from the beginning—irritating you until you simply left—while the other roommates just shivered and slammed the door behind them. 

You stayed. 

He’s been kissing you over and over and over—and he kisses you again now as he slowly sinks into the tight heat of your hole. Fuck. Perhaps if his head was clearer, he’d think about the implications of kissing you in particular when he hasn’t touched lips with anyone else for years. 

He whines lowly as he pushes in deeper. You’re so damn warm—so gorgeous like this: palms splayed against his shoulders, expression all hazy and fucked-out, lips so inviting he has to put his mouth on yours yet again. 

“Fuck,” you hiss into his lips as he bottoms out. It takes all his self-restraint to not cum immediately, adjusting to just how good you feel. 

You cant your hips so you’re rocking back onto him with a satisfied hum. The motion wrangles a moan out of him, but he desperately grips your waist with his strong fingers so you quit moving. 

“Hold on,” he slurs, rubbing small circles on the flesh with his thumbs. He’s throbbing, teeth caught on his lips to keep his mind clear. Shit. To be so close already makes him feel like a virgin again: sensitive at the slightest touch. You seem to be so damn full of surprises. 

“What, surprised it feels like this?” You sound amused, and he looks at you irritably. 

“Yeah,” he leans down and practically moans into your ear, rolling his hips against your plush ass. You shiver slightly, and his lips split wide in a mocking grin at the effect the sound had. 

“You feel so good,” he whines, deliberately dragging out the noise. “Taste so good too.”

“Mmh–” you cover your mouth as he begins moving properly now—yet still so teasingly slow. 

He catches your wrist with a firm hand, gripping it tightly against the bed so he can hear you properly.

“What’s wrong? Surprised—hah—it feels like this?” He throws your words back at you, but it’s not like he’s doing much better. It’s taking everything within him to not just fill you up: letting his cum drip out of you while he stuffs it back in. The thought darkens his red face even further. 

You don’t answer. It’s only natural that he moves agonisingly slow—probing for an answer while his fingers busy themselves by wrapping around your weeping cock, achingly rubbing from shaft to base with a sticky shick-shick noise. 

“I gave you an answer,” he mocks, ignoring the tightness in his stomach when gazing at your teary eyes. So pretty. 

Wordlessly, your free hand that isn’t pinned by Blade trails from his scalp to his nape—and you pull him into you so your lips meet his, scorchingly so. 

“Ngh–” he groans into the kiss, practically feeling his climax build up. He forces it down—too preoccupied in filling you up at the right time, not now. 

“Aeons,” he mutters as he pulls away, and there’s a grin on your lips he wants to wipe off. 

“Does that count?”

He lost this time, but the sight is worth it. 

With a greedy pang of his heart, he pulls his pelvis back until just his shaft remains hooked in your walls—your eyes widen, and this time it’s his turn to smile. 

He slams back in, and the long moan you let out is almost angelic. 

“Fuck, fuck,” you sob out as he drills into you over and over; tacky skin meets tacky skin with a perverted plap-plap, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so euphoric. 

He can feel it on his face: an adoring, almost fanatic look hazing his once-clear red eyes. 

And still I’d wait, Styx cradling me in its miasma.

He wants you.

The man twines his fingers with yours tightly. Possessively. 

“Blade—” you gasp out brokenly as he hits your prostate, kissing the tip right into the nerves with each thrust. His grip on your hand tightens, and you wince at the sudden pressure. 

“Yingxing,” he corrects, speeding up the jerking motions of his other hand. 

Why? Why does he so readily reveal to you what he hides for everyone else?

Fuck. He needs you, so so so badly. 

Your abdomen is taut and quivering, and he knows you’re not far off from climaxing again. Like this, with teary eyes and the impression of petrichor on your rainy lips, he thinks you’ve never looked more captivating. 

Perhaps it’s a fleeting attraction, but in his very bones he can feel his entire existence enrapture himself by you and only you. 

And just like that, your expression changes minutely and he already knows just how close you are to that haunting precipice. 

He twists his hand just so. As expected, you pliantly move your body against his with broken moans: arching into his touch while you tighten around him. You’re shaking—and he’s so close too, just like you. You’ve brought him to the brink so easily, but it’s not the sopping heat of your walls that finally catalyses his sweet downfall. 

“Yingxing,” you breathe. He almost doesn’t catch it, but then you say it again.

“Yingxing.” And this time the sound is so light, so affectionate as you spill all over his abdomen and your own—so airy. It’s enough to push him to that brink; hot ropes of cum spurt deep inside you, and you gasp almost immediately at the intense feeling. 

“Ah—fuck,” you moan out as he rocks into you to ride out his orgasm, something so intense he bites down into your trapezius muscle to keep himself sane. 

It’s indescribable—mind finally going blank as he litters his bites everywhere, prolonging the movement of his hips against yours for as long as he can. And you milk him for all he’s worth; he’s already feeling that relief and exhaustion wash over him even though it’s only been one round. 

He finally lets himself go: practically smothering you with his body as he lies on top of you, still nestled deep within you. 

“I should go,” you say awkwardly, but there’s that tiniest trace of hesitation he can read in your voice that makes him wrap his arms tight around you instead. 

“No.” His own voice is muffled from where his mouth is connected to the bitten flesh of the juncture between shoulder and neck. 

“Fuck do you mean no?” you grumble, but the way you thread a lazy finger through his hair and work through the tangles in his locks makes his heart beat in a way it hadn’t just now. 

What the hell? 

That damn flush on his face is still there—and still, that lovelorn look in his eyes hasn’t faded either. 

“Just stay with me tonight,” he presses kiss after kiss to your shoulder as if to convince you. 

“Hah,” you sigh. There’s a glare trained on the crown of his head—he can feel it without even looking at you. Is that not proof he knows you this well? Can’t you see that? He furrows his brow. 

Is my apostasy enough for you?

“Yingxing—” His heart beats wildly at his name leaving your lips, and he knows he’s screwed. “—you don’t need to keep it up after we’ve already fucked.”

There’s a distraught hesitation in his pulse—it takes him far too long to clock just how he feels about you. 

“Keep what up?” His tone is neutral. Perfectly polite. Ironic, considering his naked form covering yours currently—bathed in a mess of sweat, scratch marks, and cum.

Who is he not to indulge in you?

“This act of affection.” Jet hair flutters back to fan out on his back when you let the strands go. Much like sand in an hourglass, he can feel you slipping away as though you were time itself. “I don’t need it, and I’d prefer you save it for someone you actually like.”

His heart skips a beat, and he sits up, startled. 

“Hit a nerve there, didn’t I,” you mutter, but he barely hears you. Those senseless thoughts—the constant stream of panic and anger and despair—are beginning to emerge from their lairs. In your presence, they always seem to recede: as though you were the salvation he’s been trying to reach in his own myth of Sisyphus. 

You’re leaving after all.

All because of him and his incompetence.

His fingers clasp your own in a softer mirror of before. Whatever you might’ve said lies forever discarded—words resting just within your mouth, not a single syllable crossing the threshold of your lips. You don’t leave, simply gazing at him from where you lie: bare skin of your side pressing against his own naked thigh. 

Don’t you know he sees you and only you?

“Look at me.” For once, the arrogant cadence he wears like a second skin fades as he pleads. “Look at me.”

In the dim amber lighting that sweeps over his cluttered room, it seeps into all four corners and lands on his drum kit sequestered in the corner: the very thing that got him into this mess in the first place. There’s stacks upon stacks of engineering manuals and textbooks organised neatly on his shelves—a passion that you understand, one that you live and breathe with in the same way he does. 

Do you see him?

Do you see him as he sees you?

And finally, the incandescence traces the outlines of him and you. You, peering up at him—eyes lucid and clear despite it being the young hours of the night. Him, gazing down at you—eyes so desperate that he’s reverted back to Yingxing. No longer Blade, but the man beneath the frigid exoshell. 

He raises your joined hands, pressing fragile kiss upon kiss to your fingers and the slight raise of veins on the back of yours. All the while, his eyes don’t waver from yours. 

Your brows twitch; judging by the press of your lips, you’re holding back something along the lines of wow, Yingxing, never took you for a romantic. 

He’s not. 

“Oh,” you breathe. You’re smart; connecting the dots isn’t particularly difficult with a mind as sharply analytical as yours. Constantly questioning, constantly evaluating everything (not limited to the domain of your physics major only) including the human psyche. 

He raises your hand even further, and presses it against his cheek. Scalding skin against boreal dermis. 

You sit up. Expectantly, he waits for you to twist out of his grasp and leave. You’re still naked after all, and he’s talking about feelings right after a hookup. If it was anyone he’d bought home, he’d have kicked them out right there and then. 

But before he can process it, your lips are gently touching his own: about as tender as a flesh wound, raw and throbbing. He makes a surprised sound into your mouth—something between a gasp and a hum, two very conflicting actions that make you smile against his lips. And then you’re kissing him properly, nothing like the lust-driven actions of earlier. 

“Yingxing,” you murmur into his mouth. 

“Yes,” he answers instantaneously.

“You’re still a prick for those stunts you pulled with those drums.”

It’s nighttime, but he’s never felt so at ease as he does tonight. He’s got his head planted firmly on your chest listening to the steady beat of your heart, as you finally slumber in his arms.  

And when the day finally dawns, you will have stayed.

guys the kaito sick era never ends I literally got covid from the hospital

I just realized we share the same birthday???? Happy (late, like really late) birthday!!!!!!

YES, HAPPY LATE LATE BIRTHDAY TO U TOO NONNYYYY

you're so based 🥺🥺🥺

YEY THANK YOUUUUU YOU’RE SO BASED TOO

HEY YALL IM BACKKK so uh basically i had a heat stroke in the er LMFAO (it was like 39 c guys i died) and uh im back ill b starting on requests once i get home

Omg!! I hope you make a speedy recovery pls prioritize your health!! 🫶🏽😭

THANK YOUUU i plan to stay in the er with my roommate (he insists on sleeping on a chair euugghh and buying takeout) until tuesday :3 ive dealt w this before so i should be fine

boothill,, gunplay. thats the thought,, if ur comfortable writing that ofc ofc

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 boothill x m!reader — 1.4k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: gun play, slight chocking, boothill puts his gun in reader's mouth, boothill kind of bends reader over, boothill also makes reader jerk off, uh boothill kinda mean-ish, he pretends to shoot reader, aftercare is not written but it is given! lmk if i missed anyy :3

KAI SAYS: hello guys,, shorter than usual bc ive landed myself in the er due to multiple reasons haha (chronic hives, low blood pressure, fainting spells, dehydration, etc) and i miiight not be able to post until like next weekend maybe (?) so so soso sorry for the inconvenience aaargh, writing this in the hospital too... not dying tho everything super minor so!!

The first time you ever saw Boothill pull a gun was at a training centre. He said something about wanting to work on his aim, and so he decided to head there, late at night. No one else was there—just the two of you.

Boothill pulls out his gun, flicking a few bullets into the spinning revolver with practiced ease before he pulls the trigger. A loud ‘bang’ fills the room, followed by the sound of his metal bullets clinking to the floor after the shot.

“Well color me stoked.” Boothill grins, showing off his sharp teeth. “Seems I ain’t that bad after all!”

“Well, you were always good with guns, anyway.” You respond, returning Boothill’s grin with a smile of your own. He was indeed good with guns, and it was undoubtedly attractive.

Boothill’s hands spin the revolver, watching the metal clink. It was much too fast for you to see, so you didn’t know which one ended up landing. Boothill is quick to draw his gun again, smirking as he pointed it at you—straight into your chest.

“Boothill?” You question. “What are you—”

You are cut off by the loud sound of his gun shooting. Your eyes shut and you winced instinctively, your body tensing up for the bullet that was about to hit your skin.

…Yet it never happened. 

Cracking one eye open, you peer at Boothill cautiously, only to find him gripping his metal abs, a roaring laugh rolling from his lips. “Oh, darlin’ you know I’d never shoot ya!” He laughs again, though this time it was softer. “C’mon, love, I’d never hurt ya.” He murmurs sweetly as he makes his way closer to you, his gun still in hand.

He presses the muzzle playfully against your chest, trailing it up and down your abdomen. Boothill’s smirk only widened as he slipped his gun—along with the hand holding it—under your shirt. He presses the muzzle right against your nipple, watching you shiver at the cool metal.

“Boothill.” You whisper firmly. “What’re you doing?”

He says nothing, only continuing to drag his gun against your skin, sending shivers of delight across your body.

Eventually, his gun finds its way to the hem of your pants. Boothill gives you a wicked smile before he uses his free hand to yank down your pants and boxers, exposing your half-hard cock. “Well, ain’t that a pretty sight.” He cooes, letting the muzzle of his gun rest against your tip.

“Jerk it for me, pretty boy.” Boothill says. You blink up at him, confusion filling your face.

“Huh…?” You question.

“I said.” Boothill groans, pressing the muzzle of his gun harder into your tip. “Jerk it for me, or else I’m gonna be shootin’ this pretty lil’ dick o’ yours.” Boothill wouldn’t really. You knew that. He said it himself. And yet… the fear that he would is still there, forcing small tears to well in your pretty eyes as you looked up at him desperately.

“O-Okay.” You comply, wrapping your hand around your shaft as you slowly start to glide your closed fist up and down.

“Good boy.” Boothill praises, and his voice makes your dick twitch against his gun.

You move your hand, squeezing as you get to your tip and rolling your thumb to spread your precum. You throw your head back, moaning loudly as Boothill rocked the muzzle of his gun in time with your hand.

“Look at ya.” He groans, his free hand going to squeeze at your throat. “Gettin’ off to my gun pointed at ya.” Boothill smirks, rolling the revolver again until the familiar ‘click’ sound resounds around the room. “Pretty thing, d’ya even know what this could do to you? Or are you too dumbed down already?”

“Stop teasin’” You whine, your hand's pace slowing as you turn your gaze away from Boothill’s. “Not that dumb yet…”

“Yet.” He repeats, removing his gun from your dick. “Think I can change that real quick, no?” A sharp laugh escapes Boothill’s lips as he suddenly hoists you up and off the barstool you sat on. He spins your body with only a smidge of grace as he lands you roughly on your stomach against the table, your ass now facing Boothill.

“Aeons, you’re so pretty…” He murmurs, his hands roughly groping the fat of your ass. “Can’t believe yer all mine…”

A whine slips from your lips, high and pathetic as your eyes flutter closed. “Yeah…” You whisper. “All yours…” You feel Boothill drag the muzzle along your back—sliding it under your shirt, before he pulls his arm up, tearing through the thin fabric. You shiver at the newfound cold, goosebumps prickling your exposed skin.

You hear the zipper of his pants as he pulls it down, pulling out his cock and tapping it against your clothed ass before he’s yanking down your shorts. Boothill traces a metal finger around your puckered rim, eyeing you carefully. “Such a cute ‘lil hole…” He whispers out breathlessly. “Can’t wait to fuckin’ destroy it.”

The instant Boothill stops speaking, you feel the tip of his metal cock push past your hole, stretching you out more than you could ever imagine—despite doing this with him before. “Boothill.” You moan out, eyes fluttering as you crane your neck to look at him—only to have your face pushed right back into the table by the shove of his gun against the back of your head,

“Stay still f’me, pretty.” Boothill groans, easing his cock into you. The more he pushes in, the more painful the stretch is… And yet, the more painful it is, the more pleasure your body seems to derive from it. Boothill is only halfway in when you feel like you’ve been stuffed to your limit. A pathetic sound escapes you and you feel his gun press down harder.

Boothill removes his gun from you, using it to force your head to the side. He leans down, spitting a thick glob of spit all over the muzzle, smirking as it gets his gun all messy. “Open.” He taps it against your lips, making sure to smear his spit all over. Boothill’s smirk only widens when you follow, opening your mouth and letting his muzzle sit between your pretty lips. “Atta boy.” He whispers, thrusting with full force his cock into your awaiting hole.

“Boothill…!” You moan out, though it’s muffled by his gun pressing against the flat of your tongue. Your thighs tense at the sudden pleasure. A gurgly whine leaves your throat. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Boothill growls, pressing his gun deeper into your throat. His thumb goes to spin the revolver, making sure it lands on a slot with a bullet before continuing, “and you will. Ya know why, cutie? ‘Cause you're my good boy, and good boys take what they’re given.”

He sets a brutal pace after, thrusting into you relentlessly. It doesn’t matter how you plead, all Boothill does is press his gun further down your throat—until you’re sure your lips will bleed from the stretch. Eventually, his tip knocks against your prostate, sending you over the edge. Your dick squirts a load, all over the table and floor, yet Boothill doesn’t falter.

“Look at you, cummin’ like a slut.” He groans, and his pace seems to increase. He’s suddenly going harder, faster, everything that makes your head spin with the added overstimulation.

You cry against the gun, tears welling in the corner of your eyes. Boothill seems to enjoy the sight, leaning down to kiss softly against the back of your neck, his free hand wrapping around your waist and fisting your spent cock.

“That’s it…” He coos. “You think ya can give me one more?” His hand increases, matching the rhythm of his thrusts as he knocks into your prostate again and again and again. “C-C’mon, need t’do it together.” You nod your head eagerly, drool slipping from between the corner of your lips and his gun.

Boothill thrusts harshly, finally sending you over the edge for the second time, and you feel his metal dick twitch in time with you. Your eyes roll back, ecstasy overwhelming you as Boothill pumps a thick, sticky load into your ass, painting your walls white.

“You’re so good f’me…” He coos into your ear, sliding his gun slowly out of your mouth. With a familiar click, the resounding sound of a gunshot echoes throughout the room as he shoots his last bullet into the table—right by your head. “You’re always so good an’ pretty with my gun…”

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @helloanime @kiekole (send ask without anon to be added)

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

Happy late birthday, Kaito! Sorry for the late happy bday, haven't been on Tumblr for a while, saw it on your latest post that 3 days ago was your birthday, hope you had a wonderful birthday!

yess!!!! my bday was super fun i had the best time ever 💗 and its super fine if ur a few days late, everyone needs to take a break every now and then!!

yOUR WRITING STYLE IS SOOO GOOD AND THE WAY U WRITE SMUT? FUCKING DELICOUS

AWWWAWEEE thank youuuuu teehee ur soo sweet :3 my smut is literally me trying to cope with whatevers going on atm LFMAO so im glad u like itttt

I love your work !! your writing is so nice

thank u ahsjjajsjs ur writing is also super super good rrrr

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Also THE WRITER THAT YOU ARE!! MY GOD 10S ACROSS THE BOARD!!!

You literally can’t miss 🫶🏽

KINDA LATE BUT THANKSSS IDK WHY OR HOW PEOPLE LIKE MY WRITTING BUT IT MAKES ME HAPPY NONETHELESS

i hope you have a good break and wonderful birthday

aaaaaa thank youu <3 m goin to watch the new haikyu movie w my friend cuz he got me tickets for my bday!!! so I'm super excited

ur writings tha best(｡ﾉωヽ｡)

thank youuuuuuuu :3 glad you enjoy my writing teehee!!

𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 kazuha x m!reader — 5.1k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: strangers to lovers, mentions and use of alcohol (no drunk sex though), kazuha and reader are roommates, sort of college / modern au, morning sex / sleepy sex, praise, pet names (good boy [?], angel, uh i cant remember sorry), aftercare is not written but it is given, praise teehee, reader rides kazuha, kazuha jerks reader off, lmk if i missed any thanks :3

KAI SAYS: GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!!! birthday post im now 20 that sounds so old euugghh

Rent was hell.

Your minimum income, which was mostly spent on necessities and college fees, was barely able to pay last month. And now with inflation, you weren’t sure how you were going to make it through another year.

But, there was always hope. It was only the beginning of June after all.

Last week, your friend introduced you to a website to find roommates. Having a roommate would solve a few of my problems, you thought as you scrolled through the site on your computer. For one, the rent would be split between the two of you, which was much more manageable than right now. And, for two, you would get to actually talk to someone every day.

It would be a win-win situation if the two of you got along.

After a few days of thinking everything through, looking at different people’s profiles, because the site was a “Tinder for roommates,” as your friend had put it, you found a man that matched your preferences.

Kaedehara Kazuha.

From what you could tell by his profile, he looked like a sweet man. His profile picture was set to a white cat, and you can see his hand atop its head, gently petting against the cat’s ears. You hadn’t met him in person yet, but through text, you’d managed to get to know him a bit.

The two of you texted about your hobbies and Kauha told you about his life. He was getting a degree in poetry at a college near your house, which is why he selected the area. He told you earlier today about himself. He liked to eat fish and go drinking out. He liked staying with animals he liked warm weather and sunny days, and he liked to spend time with his loved ones and friends.

To be honest, he seemed a bit too good to be true.

But, you think, I suppose some people are just like that.

With a content sigh, you shut your computer. You’d texted Kazuha and the two of you had planned for him to move in today. It seemed a little quick to you, but Kazuha said he didn’t really have anything big to move over. According to him, he’d only be bringing one suitcase and backpack.

Yesterday, you cleaned out the guest room—well, know his room. It was tedious work, something you hoped you wouldn’t have to do again. Ever. But, you supposed it would be worth it in time.

So now here you were, sanding proudly with your hands on your hips smiling at your spotless house. Kazuha better like it here… You think. Your hand goes to run through your hair gently, combing it back. You’re about to flop down onto the couch and maybe take a nap—only for the familiar tune of the doorbell to ring through the house, echoing and bouncing off the walls.

Your head snaps backwards, a nervous smile making its way onto your lips.

You rush to the door, ignoring the slight shake in your step. Your heartbeat quickens and you don’t know why. Kazuha’s a nice man. You remind yourself, though you don’t think that’s why you're nervous.

Slowly, you unlock your door and turn the doorknob with your other hand. And there, standing to greet you is your new roommate. Kaedehara Kazuha.

You greet him with a polite smile, cracking open the door just enough to let him inside. The roll of his suitcase from the sidewalk outside up onto the flooring of your house sends a loud ‘Clunk! Clunk!’ sound and you wince a little.

You shut the door behind you, schooling your expression as you turn back to Kazuha. He trunks to you quickly and smiles gently. “Ah,” he says and his voice is so soft when he speaks, “I’m Kazuha, but I suppose you already know that.”

You introduce yourself, finishing off the same as him with a short, “but I suppose you already knew that too.”

He nods politely a small laugh flitting out of his lips. You lead him to his new bedroom, helping him carry his backpack as he lifts his suitcase, not wanting the wheels to dirty the floor. Kazuha takes a look around, his smile being ever present as you drop his backpack by the door.

“It’s nice here.” He comments, turning his gaze from you to his bedroom.

A bashful grin makes its way to your lips. “Thanks.” You murmur. “Cleaned just for you.”

With that, he’s looking back at you. “Just for me?” He responds, and there’s an edge of playfulness that lies beneath the overlaying gratefulness in his tone. “Thank you.”

You just nod, not fully trusting your voice.

After a moment, Kazuha sits down at the edge of his bed, tracing his hands over the expanse of the duvet. “We should go out sometime.” He says and you blink. You’re face feels warm and you hope Kazuha doesn’t see.

“Like…” Your voice trails off, leaving your sentence unfinished. Like a date? You wanted to say, but your lips don’t seem to work.

Kazuha seems to take note of this, chuckling softly. “Just to get to know each other better. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy.” He gives you a comforting smile and your nervousness seems to dissipate when you look at him.

“Ok.” You agree. “We can plan something for after you’ve gotten more… settled in.”

Kazuha’s smile widens and he gives you a nod. “Thanks.”

You take a deep breath, before speaking up again. “I’ll leave you to it then.” You turn on your heel before walking out of Kazuha’s new bedroom. You shut the door gently before speed-walking to your room and collapsing onto your bed.

Your breathing comes out in soft puffs as you bury your face into a pillow, curling yourself on your bed. What the fuck was that? You cry mentally. You grip onto the bedsheets tightly. Your heart is beating fast and you think it’d beat tight through your ribs if you don’t calm down soon. You bring your hands to your face, dragging them across your eyes. “I’m fucked.” You curse quietly. Kazuha’s so nice! You know you probably won’t even last a month without developing some sort of feelings for him and that scares you. 

You… don’t want to ruin what little the two of you had managed to build up in the past week. As little as it was, you like what you have with Kazuha. In the back of your mind, though, there’s the nagging feeling for more. You want to get closer to Kazuha, you want to spend time with him.

Maybe that date of his wouldn’t be too bad.

With a heavy sigh, you twist your body to lay like a starfish, sprawled across your bed. You turn your gaze to your window, squinting as the sunlight fans through the glass and into your eyes. If you just ignored any feelings that developed, they would just go away, right?

The first six days with Kazuha were… different from your usual routine, to put it simply.

On Monday (because everyone knows the week starts with Monday and not Sunday!) you awoke to the smell of food wafting through the house. You were instantly up and out of bed, barely managing to throw on a shirt—backwards—before you stumbled into the kitchen.

You were taken aback by the sight that greeted you.

Kazuha, in his pyjamas and an apron, was humming a soft tune as he cooked something on the stove. He turns once he notices you, standing in shock by the doorway. “Ah,” he said, “I see you’re finally awake.” He humed, using the spatula to plate a scrambled egg. He handed you the plate and Archons it smelled good. “I made breakfast. Used some of your food, if you don’t mind.”

You absentmindedly nodded, entranced by the way he moved around the kitchen, putting things in the dishwasher, plating his food, and turning off the stove. All of those were such ordinary things, but, for some reason, it just made you more drawn to him.

You brought your plate to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down, still watching Kazuha. “Thanks for breakfast.” You murmured after a few bites. “It’s really good.”

“Well, it’s only natural I repay you somehow.” Kazuha said before sitting down beside you. “You basically lent me your house to live in.” He joked.

“Our house now.” You responded. “Since you’ll be payin’ half the rent.”

Kazuha nods, taking a bite out of his own breakfast. “I plan on spending the week organizing my stuff. Nothing big, just getting everything tidy.” The two of you sat in comfortable silence, basking in the warmth of the summer weather.

Besides that, Monday wasn’t anything eventful.

Tuesday was spent helping Kazuha. Cooped up in his room, the two of you went through his clothes and belongings, organizing them into his closet and drawers. Kazuha had a decent amount of clothes, which were the bulk of what he brought.

You talked and talked and talked with Kazuha. He was so sweet. You swore you’d told yourself that a million times by now, but it was always true. Kazuha’s laugh was soft and kind, he laughed at all your stupid, cheesy jokes, no matter how unfunny they were. He’d help you cook meals—much better than you ever could.

Tuesday was when you had come to realize that maybe you were enjoying his company a little too much. But, you thought, he’s just… fun to be around.

You used that excuse for the rest of the week.

Kazuha was just… nice. Everyone would enjoy his company like this. You were no different!

It was a pathetic excuse, but it was pathetic enough for you to cling onto.

Wednesday you and Kazuha went out and you showed him the neighbourhood as the two of you walked to the store for some groceries. Kazuha took an oddly long time looking through the fruits and vegetables section, eyeing each piece we selected carefully before placing it into the plastic bag we used to carry everything.

It was endearing.

After a good forty-five minutes of walking around the store, the two of you finally decided to head to the cashier for check out. Kazuha was polite as he made idle chatter with them, but you couldn’t help the frown that pulled at your face.

You were right there. If he wanted to talk to someone, why couldn’t it be you? You were sure you were more entertaining than that cashier worker.

But you pushed those thoughts to the back of your mind. You pulled out your credit card, expecting to pay, only for Kazuha to gently pull your hand back. “Let me.” He says gently. Your eyes dart to him and your face flushes when you feel his hand graze gently over yours as he pulls it back.

He wanted to pay for you.

Ah, if you hadn’t fallen for him yet, you sure as hell had now.

He taps his card quickly and you barely manage to make it out of the store while avoiding Kazuha’s gaze.

Things only started to set in on Thursday.

You’d woken up with a heavy migraine and a grumpy mood, so it didn’t come as a surprise that you didn’t want to talk to anyone. Unfortunately, that also included Kazuha. And yet, Kazuha didn’t push you when you refused to talk to him while the two of you ate breakfast.

“Good morning,” He had said in greeting. “How’re you?”

You don’t respond, only taking the plate of food he’d set aside for you. You’re swift to finish your food; shovelling it into your mouth and not even bothering to wait for Kazuha.

He, on the other hand, still had that oh-so-sweet smile of his plastered across his pretty lips. “I’ll take it you’re not feeling great, then.” He murmurs. Kazuha gets up from his seat beside you before handing you a glass of water. “You should drink up. Water’s very good for you, so I’m sure it’ll help you a bit.”

You do as he said, chugging the glass of water in one go. “Thanks.” You whisper. Those were the first words you said to him that day, and you could already feel your migraine easing up. Kazuha is like magic, you think, he fixes everything without even trying.

You gave Kazuha a half-hearted smile before placing your plate and utensils in the dishwasher and heading to your room to take a nap. Naps always seemed to ease your headaches.

As you collapsed on your bed, snuggling up under your heavy duvet, your thoughts drifted back to Kazuha. He was sweet, but you’d also come to the realization that he was handsome. His hair was always up into a ponytail, with that little section of red swooping on top of his ear. His eyes are quite pretty, too. You thought. A shimmering red that often matched the clothes he wore, sparkling as he laughed. And his hands, they looked so gentle as he carried things around. His fingers worked effortlessly as he wrote his poetry in that small notebook of his.

“This man,” you whispered to yourself, “is too good to be true.”

On Friday, Kazuha let you have the honour of brushing and tying up his hair.

He’d caught you staring at him as he sat on his bed, his fingers wove through his white locks. With a raised eyebrow, he beckons you over, handing you a red hair tie. “Mind helping me?” He asked softly.

You complied eagerly, scooting behind him. You ran your hand through his hair, gently scooping it behind his shoulders. Kazuha let out a soft hum, as he nodded in content. Carefully, you pull his hair into a ponytail, twisting the thin band to wrap carefully around it a few more times.

“There.” You said. “It’s done.”

Kazuha turned to face you, his knees pressed much too close to yours. “Thank you.” He grinned, grabbing your hand to rest in between his cool ones. “I really appreciate this.”

Your face flushed, an embarrassing warmth coating your cheeks. You brought your free hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of your neck before mumbling out a response. “No problem, Kazuha.”

Saturday was spent planning the two of your guys’ “date” that would be happening on Sunday.

Kazuha suggested a picnic, and you couldn’t help but agree. Maybe it was the thought of spending a day with him, or maybe it was how he wanted to spend a day with you, but you knew you would’ve agreed to anything he said.

The picnic would be on Sunday, in a park the two of you found online.

After a very successful planning session, the two of you spent the rest of the day preparing and packaging food for the picnic.

It was somewhat chaotic—but it was also fun.

Kazuha taught you how to make his favourite sandwich, how to toast the bread perfectly, and how to cut each one into little heart shapes. All with a soft smile dancing on his pretty lips as he guided your hands gently, easing the knife into the bread.

Archons, you were fucked. How’re you supposed to live with him, like this, every day?

And now, it’s Sunday; the day of the picnic.

Your foot taps nervously against the floor of your bedroom. What am I supposed to wear? Yes, you do know you’re probably overthinking this, but you can’t help it! Not when it’s because of Kazuha! You have to make sure you’re always looking your best!

Your cheeks puff out as a heavy sigh leaves your lips, eventually settling on your outfit of the day.

Finally ready, you nervously open the door, heading out to meet Kazuha in the kitchen.

He greets you with a smile and a call of your name. His arms find their way around your waist in a tight hug and you blink. Oh, oh, oh, oh—what do I do!? When did he get so… touchy?! Not that I’m complaining but—You stand frozen, yet Kazuha doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls back with his signature smile. “You’re ready to go?” He questions, taking a step towards the front door.

“Y-Yeah.” You manage to stutter out. “I’m ready.”

“Great!” He grabs your hand, leading you out of your shared home. He doesn’t let go as the two of you walk to the park. With the picnic basket in his free hand, Kazuha still grips yours gently as he leads you. His thumb runs over the skin of your hand absentmindedly. You think it’s supposed to be a calming gesture, but, it only makes your heart beat faster and your face go warm.

You eventually find yourself in a large field, small flowers adorning the grass. Kazuha tugs a blanket out of his bag, laying it over the grass. He plops down on it, patting the space beside him as he does. “Sit with me.” He says.

You comply quickly, placing your own basket down and taking a spot beside him. “...Thanks for doing this with me.” You murmur, giving Kazuha a shy glance.

He only grins in response, digging through his bag and handing you one of the sandwiches you prepared yesterday. “It’s nothing, really.” He smiles, and you feel a tingle go through your hand where his finger brushes over yours. “I like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you too.” You match his expression, your lips pulling into a smile. It hasn’t even been a week, and yet it feels like you’ve known Kazuha for years.

Kazuha grins, reaching into his bag. “Good.” is all he responds before pulling something out. Is that a wine bottle? “Now, would you like a drink?”

You… never took Kazuha as a drinker.

And yet, here he is, drunk out of his mind as slurs slip from his lips. Kazuha calls out your name, his head slipping onto your shoulder as his hands grip the blanket the two of you are sitting on. “Do you…” He trails off. “Do youuu… wanna watch th-the sunset w’me?” He slurs his eyes fixing on yours from his position on your shoulder.

You cough awkwardly. “Kazuha.” You say softly, easing his head off your shoulder. “It’s four-thirty in the afternoon. The sunsets not coming out anytime soon…”

“B-But—” He whines. “It woulda been soooo romantic.” Kazuha grins, his eyes lolling shut as he slumps against your chest this time. “Jus’ you, me, an’ the flowers.”

“Oh, Kazuha.” You sigh. “I’d love to watch the sunset with you, but we have to get you home before dark. It’d be dangerous walking out drunk at night.”

“No!” He cries. “I could… could protect you… from th’danger.”

“Nope.” You say, trying not to let his words affect you. “We’re going home now, okay?”

“Okayyyy.” He whines, dragging out the word as he says it. “But only—only cause you said so.”

“Good.” You wrap an arm around Kazuha, right under his shoulder as you help him stand. You leave him for a bit, turning around to pick up the blanket and his bag. “Kazuha!” You call, and he’s instantly behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, pushing his face into your neck.

“Hm?” He coos. “D’ya need something?”

The warmth of Kazuha’s breath fans over the skin of your neck, goosebumps rising lowly. “N-Need you to carry your stuff.” You mumble. Your hands remove Kazuha’s from your waist, shifting to grab his wrist as you gently drag him off you. “Let’s go home now.”

Carefully, you take Kazuha home, not really minding his drunk ramblings. He goes on and on about the sunset, about how he’d stare into your eyes and giggle while he holds your hand and the sun sets.

It is endearing seeing him drunk out of his mind and yet still so lovey-dovey.

It only takes the two of you a fifteen-minute walk to reach your home and you’re quick to open the door and let Kazuha in, the two of you dropping your stuff as you help him up the stairs, your arm wrapped snugly around his waist. He slurs your name again, his pretty red eyes meeting yours. “C-Can we cuddle…?” He whines and you instantly turn your head, wanting to hide the warmth on your cheeks.

“I…” You whisper. “You’re drunk. Let’s just get you in bed first.”

“Noo!” Kazuha cries, planting his feet on the ground, stopping you. “Y’always make me wait! Made me wait for our date, now you're still makin’ me wait when I jus’ want cuddles!”

“Kazuha, really, maybe we should—” You try to protest, only to be interrupted.

“Please,” Kazuha whines pitifully, “Jus’ for a bit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, letting out a deep exhale. “You’re still drunk,” you start, “but fine. I guess some cuddles won’t hurt.”

Kazuha grins happily, snaking his arms around you, just under your arms as he lifts you into the air. “You’re th’best!” He slurs. “Come, cuddles time.” With that, he’s lifting you up and carrying you over into his bedroom.

He tosses you gently onto the bed and you land with a quiet: “Oof!” Before you feel the bed dip as Kazuha joins you. His arms find their familiar place around you and his nore presses into the back of your head as he twists your body into a spooning position with his. One of Kazuha’s legs is haphazardly thrown over yours, and you feel completely engulfed in, well, Kazuha.

“You’re so handsome.” Kazuha whispers into your hair. “My handsome boy.” He presses a kiss to the back of your head, and you have to remind yourself that Kazuha is drunk. He won’t remember any of this, nor will he ever act like this again.

Still, you end up leaning into the touch, falling asleep slowly, basking in Kazuha’s comforting warmth and love.

When you wake up, Kazuha’s body is tangled with yours. His head is on your chest and his arms are wound tightly around your waist. One of his legs is positioned between yours, his knee pressing against you.

You tug him closer, enjoying the warmth of his body against yours. Kazuha’s head dips between your shoulder and your neck, nuzzling into the spot. You can feel the small puffs of air his lips let out against your skin as he breathes, matching the pattern of your heartbeat as he does.

You grin, pulling yourself to sit up—only to be yanked completely down by Kazuha. “Don’ move, please.” He whispers. “Need t’feel ya.”

“Kazuha.” You complain. “You’re not even drunk anymore—”

“No.” Kazuha murmurs. “Need to feel you.” As the words leave his lips, he shifts his body, pressing his hips flush against your ass. 

Something firm pokes into you from behind and—

Oh.

That’s what he meant by feel you.

Kazuha’s hips start a steady grind against you, pushing his erection into your ass as he murmurs breathless nothings into your ear. A desperate whine slips from his lips as he slowly moves his hands from around you to on you, roaming your chest and up your neck.

“Need you.” Kauzha murmurs slowly. “Need you so bad.”

“I know.” You say, turning onto your side to face Kazuha.

He smiles at you, bringing a hand to cup your cheek. “Please let me have you.” He whines.

You smile, leaning into his touch and pressing a soft kiss to his nose. “Of course, you can have me. I’ve been all yours from the start.”

Kazuha’s lips press against yours as he gently pushes you to lie on your back against the bed. His hands trace your sides, going from your neck to your hips as he pulls your pants down. He releases you from his kiss, the both of you gasping for air as he yanks down your boxers with impressive speed.

A soft whine slips from your throat, needily grinding your hips into the air. “Kazuha…” You moan, needing his touch desperatley. “C-Can you just—”

“I know.” He coos, trailing his hand to your hard cock. “I know, pretty boy, but I jus’ wanna take my time with you, ‘kay?”

You hesitantly nod, bringing your hand to thread through Kazuha’s hair as he peppers an assortment of kisses all over your cheeks. His hand starts a slow rhythm, gliding up and down the shaft of your cock slowly.

His grip is teasing, the way he squeezes up as he reaches your tip, dragging the pad of his thumb down your dick as he does. Kazuha’s fist moves quicker, watching as your eyes scrunch up in pure ecstasy from his ministrations. “That’s it.” He murmurs encouragingly. “C’mon, I know you’re close…”

A gasp leaves your lips as Kazuha drags his thumb over your slit, rolling it and smearing your precum everywhere, watching with nothing but a pleased smile as your hips frantically twitch in his hold. He smiles, pressing a kiss to your neck—right bellow your ear before giving the spot a teasing lick.

Kazuha’s hands work at your dick again and again, sliding with a steady rhythm up and down until your brain feels muddled and hazy. You grip at his wrist, not knowing if you want him to stop or keep going.

“K-Kazuha,” you whine, “please.”

A soft laugh leaves his lips and he once again kisses your neck. “Shh.” He murmurs. “Be patient, my dear.” With that, he’s pressing a harsh bite into your supple skin, letting his teeth graze over before digging them into you. A loud moan slips from your lips, your dick twitching over and over until your eyes are squeezing shut and thick ropes of milky white shoot from your tip all over your tummy and Kazuha’s hand.

“O-Oh.” You manage to squeak out. “You’re good at this.”

Kazuha smiles, helping the both of you sit up—with you in between his knees with his erection still pressed into the curve of your ass. He rolls you over, bringing your hips ontop of his as he pulls his leaking cock out of his pants, watching intently as you practically drool at the sight.

“Ride me, please.” Kazuha whispers, his desperation clear in his tone. You wrap a hand around his dick, rolling the pad of your thumb against his tip before lifting your hips. You line him up quickly, feeling the head of his cock push against your hole. Your mouth drops open, a low whine leaving your lips.

Slowly, slowly, very slowly, you sink down on his cock, taking him all the way in. You’re about halfway in—from what little you can tell—when Kazuha grabs your hips. His eyes are teary, staring into yours as he grabs the fat of your ass, and pulls you down.

A loud moan slips freely from your lips and you collapse onto Kazuha, the both of you panting heavily.

“A-Archons.” He whispers, his fingers rubbing smooth circles over your hips. “You’re so tight, angel.”

Angel.

He called you angel.

You bury your face into Kazuha’s neck, taking in his scent as you breathe. “Kazu…” You whine. “Need you so bad.”

“I know, pretty.” He whispers. His grip on your hips tightens as you lift your head off him and look into his eyes. His deep, red eyes. “C’mon. I’ll help you, ‘kay?” He smiles, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips before leading you to sit up above him. His finger taps against your waist before he starts. “Lift your hips f’me.” Kazuha instructs and you comply quickly, lifting your hips before dropping back down.

As soon as you drop down, Kazuha’s tip knocks against your prostate harshly and you cry out, your hands barely managing to find purchase against his shoulders. “Good boy.” Kazuha whispers sweetly, running his hands over your chest. “Jus’ like that…” He murmurs. “Think you can keep going?” You nod eagerly, lifting your hips again only to drop down.

Your thighs shake but you don’t care! Not when it feels so good to be bouncing on Kazuha’s dick like this. Not when he hits all those good spots that make you see stars as your eyes roll back.

“Kazuha.” You moan out, rocking your hips tirelessly up and down his dig. You can feel the drag against every vein against your walls, the way he nudges just right against your prostate. Your eyes roll back as your dick twitches against your tummy, drooling pre uselessly as you ride Kazuha up and down, over and over again.

“T-That’s it, pretty.” He whispers. Kazuha’s hands come to grip your ass again, picking up the pace for you as he starts to buck his hips up and into your awaiting hole. “I—holy shit—I’m close.” He whimpers, and you swear there’ll be bruises from how tight he grips your waist. “Need to cum—” He whines, his eyes squeezing shut.

You nod your head eagerly your ass squeezing so tightly around him as he picks up the pace, fucking into you harder. You need to feel him, feel him shoot his load into you. You need it, need Kazuha, need every part of him.

Every time he thrusts, you feel yourself get closer and closer to that sweet release the both of you seek. “Kazu…” You moan out. “Close, close—need you t’k-keep goin’”

“I know.” He whimpers. “I know, ‘m not stopping.” Your eyes rolled back, the familiar warmth building in the pit of your tummy. The way Kazuha’s hands trailed over your thighs—everything he did was begging your body to surrender to the familiar pleasure.

“A-At the same time.” You plead, gripping onto Kazuha’s arm. He only nod, his eyes squeezing shut.

You clench around him and Kazuha throws his head back against the pillows as he buries his dick into you, his hips meeting yours in one final, harsh thrust. He pulls your body close, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he whispers sweet nothings into you.

You feel him cum, a thick load going right into you. You whine, tightening so sweetly around him as your own orgasm hit. “H-Holy…” You whimper, not hvaing the energy to finish your sentence. Your dick twitches between the two of you and you cum. Hard.

Kazuha’s grip around you tightens as he doesn’t even bother to pull out. He grabs the blanket, bringing it over the two of you as he nuzzles your face into his neck, your body still twitching.

Archons. You think, watching Kazuha’s eyes close gently. The sunlight falls onto his face, like a golden halo around his perfect features. How long has it been with him? A week?

Only a week, and you’d managed to fall in love.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @helloanime @kiekole (send ask without anon to be added)

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

sneak peek ft. google docs BECAUSE MY WIFI HAS BEEN DEAD FOR ALMOST A WEEK NOW. will b posting when its back up though :3

hi guys i need to go on a ity bity break until the 28th (my bday!!) for personal reasons sorryyyy ill post stuff then promise promise!!

hi guys i need to go on a ity bity break until the 28th (my bday!!) for personal reasons sorryyyy ill post stuff then promise promise!!

Hi! I really love your writing so far and can’t wait to see more. Can I ask to be in the tag list? Thanks so much :D

hiiii and ofc u can be added to the taglist!! I'm super glad u like my writing too hdfxie

Omg ur filipino!?!? Thats super bazinga dude

i am filipino yuppppp!!!!! i visit w my family every so often bc my grandparents live there :3 and your super bazinga too nonny!!!!

Forgot to add this, but take care of yourself! I hope you don't mind asks like these!!

i definitely don't mind asks like these dwdw!! they infact keep my motivation up seeing people like u, even if its just u, like my work makes me so happy to write 💗

those two images r literally me right now it makes me so incredibly happy to see people liking my work aeee!!!!!!!!! and yes, do take care of yourself too!! make sure to drink lots of water and stay healthy!!

Best blog ever tbh in my opinion. You have only two fics up yet you stole my heart. I love your fics so far, keep up the amazing job you do. You only started making fics for 3 days yet I absolutely would give my life to you, that's how delicious your fics are. If you're doing Anons or a Taglists, could you please add me?? It's fine if you're not doing that, but if you're doing Anons can I be 🥀 anon?

omg ur acc so sweet aaaaaaaaa!! my fics are rlly self-indulgent & i only really wrote them bc i couldn't find anything that i wanted to read on tumblr (99% sure I've gone through most of the m reader content ueheuheuh 😭😭) and ofc u can be on the taglist and u can be 🥀 anon!!! i plan on posting two or so more fics (kazuha and a neuvi&zhongli one soon iirc) so I'll b happy to tag u in those!!

and now u also have my heart 🥀 anon!!! hehe have a good day too aaeee

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐀 boothill x m!reader — 3.3k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: mechanic!reader, sub!reader, reader gives boothill a dick, reader takes away his censorship, mean dom!boothill, maybe ooc!boothill, fingering, heavy heavy dirty talk, boothill calls reader a whore & slut, boothill steps on reader's dick, blowjobs (boothill receiving), degradation. lmk if i missed anything!!

KAI SAYS: boy am i down bad for this little space cowboy

As a hardworking mechanic, you often pride yourself on your accomplishments. You—like any decent one—had many. From what you worked with to what you managed to fix, there were many things that could be considered impressive to a crowd.

None of them, however, were as impressive as the time you managed to remove Boothill’s censorship and give him back what he called: “a missing piece of his heart.”

Your dimly lit mechanic shop is cluttered with tools amongst other sharp things. Scattered about every flat surface usable is a screw, nail, wire, metal board—anything you could make use of. In the centre of the workshop is the only real space you kept clean.

Sitting in the middle of the room is a large, metallic workbench. It’s impressive, to say the least. Hooked up to an uncountable number of wires, switches and knobs decorating the sides, tools hanging from hooks, everything about it is a sight to behold.

What’s more impressive—even more magnificent—is the man sitting on top of it.

With his legs sprawled out and his head idly lolling from side to side, Boothill himself is a man to bless the eyes. The way his body worked, how each wire and sensor inside his cyborg body worked in tandem with each other to create the masterpiece that was him.

Of course, you only think like that because you’re a mechanic. You know how hard it is to put together a synesthetic body part, let alone a whole human being.

To people who don’t know the complexities of machinery, they might just think he’s a handsome cyborg. And really, they weren’t wrong. Whoever created his body, whether it was Boothill himself or another person, was quite the artist with the way they’d managed to create Boothill as a cyborg and still leave in his human charm.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Boothill grumbles, pulling you very quickly out of your thoughts. “Ya gonna continue starin’ or ya gonna actually help a guy out?” He waved at the dent in his hip, a noticeable cave to the metal plate.

“Yes, yes.” You huff. While you did find the cyborg part of Boothill impressive, his personality… not so much. He was endearing at times, but mostly he could be a pain in the ass.

A lot of the time, he’d get himself scratched and broken just to come back to you only when he’s on the brink of shutting down. Or, he’d either only come to you with the smallest, most irrelevant and easy-to-fix problems known to man.

His current state being the latter.

You make your way carefully over to Boothill, dropping to your knees beside the workbench to inspect the minimal damage done to his hip. “It’s… not even that bad.” You murmur, eyes darting up to his. “You could probably play it off as a hip dip or something.”

“Nope!” Boothill grunts, moving his metallic hand to tap against the metal of his hip. “Not happenin’ cutie. Need this body o’ mine to be in tip-top condition for my next bounty.” He grins widely, stretching his legs in front of him as he rests his arms back behind his head.

You only roll your eyes in response, already pulling out your screwdriver to replace Boothill’s so-called “broken” hip. “Whatever you say then…” You grumble, working away at the screws on the plate.

“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” Boothill hums, absentmindedly picking at the metal of his shoulder.

You wince at the nickname, your eyes shifting from where you’re working to Boothill’s face. “What’s with the nicknames…?” You say, voicing your curiosity. “We’ve known each other for what, six months now?” You raise an eyebrow at him before you continue. “Six months, and we're not even dating yet you always seem to use some form of a nickname.”

“Well,” Boothill hums, “the guy that made this good ol’ body of mine decided I would benefit from losing a thing or two. Those bein’ my ability to swear and of course my clock.”

“Your… clock?” You give him a confused look as you screw the metal back into place, finishing off his new hip.

“No, no, cutie, not an actual clock.” Boothill rolls his eyes. “My, uh, manhood, ya know?”

“Your…” You trail off. “Oh.”

He grins at you, opening his legs widely on the table. “Look if ya want, I got nothin’ to hide down there.” He gives you a wink before leaning further into your workbench.

You glance down at his crotch and see that it is, indeed, very flat. I guess what he said is true then…

You’re about to pick up your tools when you hear Boothill call for you, his name dropping from his lips. “Hey, uh, you don’t happen to have any o’ those synesthetic clocks, do ya?”

You give Boothill a blank look. While you did have a few lying around, as per a customer who was willing to pay a hefty price of seven million credits for one, you didn’t think Boothill would want one.

“Yeah…” You eventually respond. “I do.”

Boothill’s eyes widen as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say yes. “Oh, mother fudgin’!” He says before eagerly jumping off the workbench. “Please,” he begs, “ya gotta hook me up with one! Haven’t felt it in so long, ‘s like a piece of my heart’s been missing!”

You cringe at his choice of terminology before looking up at the pleading man. “Well, they cost a hefty price—”

“I’m willin’ t’pay!” Boothill cries, the same pleading tone still present in his voice. “Please, anythin’ for my clock back!”

“I—y’know what, fine.” You grumble, not having the energy to think up an argument. You wave your hand at your workbench. “Sit on the edge while I grab one. I’m just gonna assume you want the biggest size.”

You hear the faint rumble of Boothills laugh. “Oh, darlin’ you know me so well!”

You roll your eyes, pulling out a key to unlock a drawer where you kept your synesthetic… manhoods. You eye them all, cautiously taking one on the very left end before closing the drawer and going back up to Boothill.

“So.” You say, holding the synesthetic member awkwardly in front of Boothill. “Eight inches, pretty thick, the colour an’ design of the metal goes pretty well with your cyborg parts, I think it matches you.”

“Oh-ho-ho!” Boothill grins, his sharp teeth shining under the light. “Now that's what I’m talking about. Can’t wait to have my fudgin’ shift back.”

You roll your eyes at the censorship before tapping Boothill’s knee. “Spread your legs, gotta get to you if you want me to actually put this on.”

Boothill gives you a teasing look and you already know what he’s about to comment on. “If you wanted to see my new duck in action, ya could’ve jus’ asked.” He grins and you roll your eyes again. Just what you predicted.

“Shut up and spread your legs.” You say, a harsh tone evident in your voice. This time Boothill complies, his knees spreading as you once again take your place, kneeling on the floor—this time between his legs.

Slowly, you unscrew the metal panel on Boohill’s crotch area.

Once it’s fully out, you take a peek into the hole you just opened, trying to grasp what you’re working with. You puff out your cheeks, sighing as you peer into the hole between Boothill’s legs.

There’s an assortment of jumbled wires, a few switches, and—is that a remote control? With two fingers, you manage to pry your way into the cavity in Boothill’s crotch. Lithly and carefully, you pull the remote from the little clasp it was stuck in before sliding it out.

You inspect it cautiosly, taking note of how there’s only one singular switch on the flat of it. You contemplate flipping it, but then it crosses your mind that touching random things that came from inside Boothill’s body wasn’t the best idea.

Setting the remote to the side for later, you continue your work with Boothill’s new member.

Carefully, very, very carefully, you attach each wire to the base of Boothill’s new appendage, making sure everything is kept neat and tidy. With a quick glance up at Boothill, you can instantly tell he’s at least somewhat relaxed.

“Boothill.” You call, tapping the inside of his metal thigh. “I’m gonna connect the synesthesia now, so you might get a bit…” You cough awkwardly. “Aroused… But just ignore it and try not to like—y’know, cum all over my face.”

Boothill grins down at you, once again flashing you his sharp teeth. “Don’t worry, pretty boy, I’ve got some self-control.”

You nod your head, cautiously pushing the two wires together. The instant you twist them into place, you hear Boothill let out a loud groan. “Fudge, I missed this.” He murmurs, his dick twitching to life right in front of your face.

The sight, being able to watch as the new tip of his metal cock twitches and lifts, sends a shiver down your spine—one you chose to ignore as much as possible. Your hands go back to his shaft, gently pressing a screw in and Boothill lets out a loud hiss, his dick twitching in your hand.

“Darlin’ you’re teasin’ me.” He grunts before peering down at you through half-lidded eyes.

You don’t say anything, making sure to work carefully at his dick, making sure everything is functioning. As you trail your hand along the underside of his shaft, Boothill’s thigh twitches, pushing against your head and forcing your face closer to his cock.

You let out a squeal of surprise, eyes darting up to Boothill, whose face is flushed a warm pink with his teeth pulled between his lips. “Didn’t know this would affect you this much.” You murmur, a playful edge in your voice. You hate to admit it, but you’re already half-hard from being so close to Boothill and working on him in such an… intimate way.

“Shut it, darling.’” The cyborg grunts, and you laugh at the way his hands curl into fists beside him. “Haven’t felt like this in a while.”

“I can tell.” You hum, tapping his tip a few times and smirking at the loud groan that leaves his lips.

“Fudging—” Boothill grunts, his hand grabbing tightly at your shoulder as you stand up. “Such a fudgin’ tease, aren’t ya, sweetie?”

“Dunno what you're talking about Boothill.” You say, feigning innocence. Sitting up from your kneeling position you grab the remote. “Any idea what this is?” You question, showing it to Boothill.

He eyes it carefully before shrugging. “Nah, got no clue.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” You huff. “Cause I found it inside you.”

Boothill gapes at you, his jaw going slack. “Inside me!?” He roars. “And you just—just took it out!? What if I need that to live?!”

“Relax, cowboy,” you groan, his loud voice getting on your nerves slightly, “it wasn’t connected to anything, and you seem pretty fine now.”

Boothill glares at you seemingly having forgotten about his rock-hard erection standing tall against his metal abs. “Give it here.” He says, making a ‘give’ motion with his fingers. He practically snatches it from your hand the instant you’re within arm's reach, his hand grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer as he grabs at the remote. “Hmm…” He hums, inspecting it in his hands. Slowly, he slides the panel down, revealing two short words that make the two of you gasp.

“Censorship… Control.” Boothill reads, and you instantly snatch the remote into your hands.

“Hey!” Boothill yells! “Wait a darn minute—I need that!”

“No,” you respond flatly, “you don’t. Whoever built in that censorship must’ve done it for a reason—”

“Yeah!” Boothill grunts. “To annoy the fudge outa me!” He growls again, desperately trying to reach for the remote again. “Oh, fudgin’ give it! What’ll it take for you to give me the darn thing?!”

You grin.

Finally, he asked.

“I think a good enough payment would be to test out this new dick of yours.”

Boothill’s expression turns from anger and annoyance to a smirk in the blink of an eye. His hands are no longer grabbing at the remote, and instead resting on your waist. “Oh?” He coos. “Didn’t know you liked me that much.” He smirks, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “But a test drive would be so much more fun if I had my swearin’ back. Think of all the dirty lil’ things I could say to you, hm?”

Your face flushes as you feel Boothill’s cool breath fan over your ear. “I bet you'd really like if I turned it off, be able to swear to your heart’s content” You do your best to stand your ground, ignoring the blood that rushes to your cock and the way your pants grow tight. “But I think I can think of a better way to put your mouth to use.”

Boothill growls lowly, his grip moving from your waist to your ass to give it a harsh squeeze. “Turn it off and I might just show you what this mouth of mine is capable of.”

“Hmph.” You grunt. “Fine. Let's see how dirty this mouth of yours can get, Boothill." You whisper, your warm breath fanning over his chest. With that, you’re flicking his censorship off, once again leaving Boothill free to say whatever he wants.

“Atta boy.” He growls.

Boothill’s eyes narrow as you flick the remote, effectively ending his censorship. Your face flushes, watching his lips pull into a wide grin as he grips your ass, tugging down your pants and leaving them dropped at your ankles. “Don’t worry whore, I’ll show you just how good I am.” Boothill growls, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ll have you screaming my name while you’re wrapped ‘round my cock.”

You don’t say anything, only moving to press your face further into his neck.

“I’ll tell you every dirty word, every filthy thought that crosses my mind while I pound into your tight fuckin’ hole.” Boothill groans, starting to tug down your boxers too.

And suddenly, like he only now could process the extent that he could speak, Boothill is tugging you away from him only to press his lips harshly into you, murmuring into the kiss as he does. “You little slut, I’m gonna fuck you till you’re stuffed fuckin’ full of my dick. You’ll be drenched in your own cum, worshiping my cock, begging for more.” He lets out a loud groan, pulling away. “And don’t think you can fuckin’ hide, ‘cause I’ll take you right here an’ now, on your stupid workbench.”

A wicked grin spreads across his face, watching the sight of your absolute arousal dripping down your dick.

“Look at you, so fuckin’ hard.” He wraps his palm around your cock, giving it a sharp tug before pulling his hand away only to return with a sharp slap against your tip. “Bet you’d pull your pants down for anyone on the street, like a common whore.”

You whine, knees buckling at the slap. You collapse onto Boothill’s chest, letting out a plethora of pathetic sounds as you do.

“Aww.” Boothill coos, lifting your chin to face him. “This weak already?”

He grips your body, getting off your workbench only to lay you on top of it. You lay flat on your tummy, with you face pressed into the thin padding of the workbench.

“You’re gonna be a good boy now, an’ take what I give you, ‘kay?” Boothil says, bending your knees to push your ass into the air. His finger teases your puckered hole, tracing your rim, but never pushing anything in,

“Boothill.” You whine. “Put it in already!”

“What’d I say?” Boothill growls, bringing down a hand against your ass in a harsh spank. “That you’re gonna take what?”

“T-Take what you give me!” You whine, pressing your face into the cushion in embarrassment.

You can’t believe what’s currently happening. Here you are, face down and your ass in the air as Boothill eases a finger into your tight hole, occasionally giving mean spanks against your balls and ass.

Eventually, Boothill presses his first finger in. The feeling makes you gasp out, your back arching against the workbench. His fingers are so thick. You whine out, instinctively rocking your hips against his fingers.

“That’s it.” Boothill praises, bringing a hand to rub your back gently. “Fuck yourself on my fingers, like a good lil’ slut.” He presses in another finger, beginning to match the pace of your hips as he curls them.

He thrusts them in and out, and in and out until you’re seeing stars. Your eyes are rolled back, drool slipping from your lips as you moan and writhe against Boothill’s hand. He curls his fingers, easily finding your prostate and laughing cruelly when your dick twitches.

“Fuck, you’re so easy.” He moans, watching you fuck against his fingers. Slowly, he grabs his new metal dick, dragging the cool tip across the crack of your ass. You whine, your eyes squeezing shut at the cold sensation.

“Boothill!” You moan out. “D-Don’t stop, I—I’m so close!”

“Oh?” He questions. “And who told you that you had any right to tell me what to do?”

Just like that, he’s pulling his fingers away from you. You’re a whining, crying mess at that. Sobbing about how you needed his fingers, his dick, his anything to make you come. “Please!” You beg. “Need t’cum so badly!”

“Really?” Boothill smirks. “If that’s really what you want…” He tugs you off the workbench, watching you fall to the floor into a pathetic heap. “Then beg me for it.”

You nod eagerly, instantly getting on your knees and kissing against Boothill’s hard cock. The rough concrete of the floor is painful against your bare knees, but you can make due.

You’re quick to take his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the cool metal before pressing your lips slightly lower. Your tongue presses down, forced to drag along his underside the more you take him in.

You blink up at Boothill, tears welling in your eyes as you plead with him to help you. Help you. Use you. It didn’t matter.

Boothill lets out a tsk before grabbing your hair harshly. “What happened to my smart mechanic I knew so well? When’d he get replaced by this cock-hungry bitch who can’t even suck dick to save his life?”

At that, Boothill’s pressing your face all the way down. Your nose pokes at the cold metal of his pelvis before he’s pulling you back and thrusting his dick deep down your throat. He sets a quick pace, fucking into your mouth like you’re nothing but a fleshlight for him to use and throw away at his disposal.

Your jaw hangs slack, tongue forcefully dragging along the metal of his cock. Drool slips from your lips but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when your mouth is being stuffed so full. Boothill’s pace quickens and you moan weakly around his cock, feeling something poke at your own.

From what you manage to see through the corner of your eye, Boothill is stepping on your dick, rubbing the sole of his dirty shoe against your tip as it leaks precum all over the rough concrete. The feeling of his shoe on your dick, his cock stuffing your mouth—it’s all enough to send you over the edge.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your cock twitching pathetically under Boothill’s shoe as you shoot ropes of cum from your tip. Some of it sticks to the bottom of his shoe, and some squirts farther. Boothill laughs, rubbing his shoe harder into your dick, watching you whine around his cock.

“C’mon slut, you can take it. This is the payment you wanted, so don’t go crying on me now.”

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

LMFAO I WAS ABT TO COMPLAIN ABT HOW LITTLE NOTES I GOT THEN I REALIZED THIS WAS A DIFF BLOG HWLL MY 6K FOLLOWERS CANT SAVE ME NOW <//3

𝐂𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 tartaglia x m!reader — 3.8k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: amab reader, reader is a dom at first then switches halfway through, reader is mentioned to be wearing lingerie, light feminization (childe says pussy once), use of good boy amongst other pet names, light degradation, praise (for both reader and childe), childe sucks reader's dick, childe also eats reader's ass, cockwarming (childe can't take it LMAO), no aftercare written but it is given, childe licks ur fingers to clean them, mating press, dirty talk. lmk if i missed any!

KAI SAYS: almost 4k words of pure smut haha but like omg i wrote this so late at night with my tip so pls spare me AND!!! this is my return post so...

Tartaglia knows you’re doing it on purpose now, because how can you not be? He whimpers, his cheeks flushing a rosy pink as he feels you clench around him. “Baby, please.” He whines out, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I-I can’t—baby, it’s been thirty minutes.” Thirty minutes he’d been buried to the hilt in you; his dick hard and twitching as it stuffes you full.

Tartaglia whines. He could faintly hear the sound of you taking a deep breath, but that’s not what he was focusing on. No, he was focusing more on the way you squeeze him as you inhale. It was on purpose, he knew you couldn’t just be faking this.

With a deep breath, doing his best to steel his nerves, Tartaglia pressed his thumbs into the joysticks of his console again. “I…” He murmurs softly into the skin of your neck. “I don’ think I can beat this level.”

“No.” You coo in that sickeningly sweet voice of yours. “You can.”

Tartaglia nods his head, your encouragement helping lift his mood somewhat. But, true to his word, he dies yet again. Tartaglia lets out a pathetic whine when he’s greeted with the ‘You Died!’ Screen for the nth time tonight. This bet was made specifically with his torture in mind. You knew he would never beat this level, so to “motivate” him, as you put it, you would sit nice and still on his sensitive cock until he beat it.

“Can’t you move just a little, please.” Tartaglia begs, his dignity long gone. You’re evil for this, he thinks, but all of that is lost when you shift your hips slightly, his mind going blank at just the smallest friction.

He feels his tip bump your prostate, and Tartaglia knows he’s hit it when you moan out, your mouth right by his ear as his fingers press harshly against the buttons of his game console. “P-please!” He whines again. “I-I need you t’move, just a little, just a little, please.”

“Maybe, if you last another thirty minutes, I’ll consider it.” You hum, and Archons Tartaglia thinks he's losing his mind with the way your breath trickles over his ear. “But, if you make it through the level…” Your voice trails off, but Tartaglia knows what you meant.

If he makes it through the level, Tartaglia could finally fuck you. Push you against the bed, wipe that stupid smirk off your face, maybe make you sit on his face until you cry. The options, at least to him, are endless.

You trail your hand over the neck of his shirt, and Tartaglia’s eyes dart from the screen to you. You, all dressed up in your white lace panties and thigh highs, with your chest arched against his chest and here he was, still fully clothed.

Well, only thanks to you.

You, like the cruel man you are, wouldn’t let Tartaglia strip. You’d forced him to watch as you changed, stripping off your pyjamas and slipping on the lace lingerie while he sat there, half sure he was drooling. And then you’d gone and pressed him to the edge of the bed, forcing him to sit as you pulled out his leaking dick, not even bothering to pull his sweats all the way down. Then you sat your pretty hole on his dick, and Tartaglia couldn’t pull his eyes away from the way your ass practically swallowed him whole.

And then, began this whole ordeal of pure torture.

You’re sat on his lap, facing Tartaglia as his arms wrap around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he looks over your body and behind you to the console gripped tightly in his hands.

Tartaglia’s eyes dart to you, and they widen as he watches you shift on his dick, your tip forcing its way over the hem of your panties, now drooling pre all over his shirt. Tartaglia squeezes his eyes shut. You press a kiss right under his ear and Tartaglia twitches inside you. You let out a lewd moan and he doesn’t think he can take it anymore.

Not another thirty minutes, or another five.

Tartaglia’s hands shake, and he’s forced to watch his in-game character die again. “Fuck…” He whispers, trying not to roll his hips into your heat. “I… You’re torturing me. Can’t take this.” He whines.

You shake your head. “C’mon, baby.” You coo, using the nickname Tartaglia always uses for you. It sounds almost mocking the way it slips from your pretty lips, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “You might wanna hurry up, or I’ll have to pull out my old dildo to help me…”

No! Tartaglia thinks, and he voices such thoughts with the aggressive shake of his head against you. I can do better than a stupid dildo!

“P-Please don’t.” he says weakly. “I’m trying, I’m trying.” Tartaglia starts to concentrate on his console once again, doing his best to ignore the squeeze of your ass and the warmth of your walls.

Your tip drools pre across his shirt, twitching gently against the fabric. Tartaglia’s mouth waters. He wants to taste you, wants to bury his face between your thighs and lick every drop up. It’s an indulgence he wants to become reality more than anything.

“Can I at least touch you, please?" he asks desperately, gaze not leaving your tip. Tartaglia wants to be closer to you, to have a hand on your soft skin, to play with your dick that was so close to the cumming. He’s ready to do anything in order to make you cum, to feel you pulse around his dick. He’s losing his mind, and the game was the least of his worries. Tartaglia wants you.

"Touch me before you finish the level, and there'll be consequences." You hum. "And trust me, if you think this is bad, just wait until you see what I have in mind." you press your lips gently against Tartaglia’s neck, trailing from his adam's apple to that sweet spot right under his ear. "I'm sure you'd deprive some sick form of enjoyment from that, though."

Tartaglia whimpers at the threat. He doesn’t know what would be worse: the current situation or the punishment you offer. Sick form of enjoyment… His mind echoes. He would most likely enjoy anything you gave him right now.

And like an answer to his prayers, you shift on his dick again. Tartaglia watches as your tip pokes above the fabric of your lace panties, even higher than before. The used-to-be white was now a dark grey with the way your pre had stained and wet through the fabric. Your panties were completely soaked through, the bulge from your dick covered in pre from your leaking tip, poking just above the hem.

Slowly, you tug your dick out of the panties, making sure to slather your fingers in your precum before pressing them against Tartaglia’s lips. "Clean them up." You whisper, and the sound of your voice almost makes him melt.

The instant your fingers press against his lips, Tartaglia is eagerly licking them into his mouth, his tongue swirling your digits around and coating them in his spit. He didn’t hesitate to continue sucking on your fingers, despite knowing they were already clean enough.

“Such an eager boy,” You murmur as you yank your fingers from Tartaglia's lips. There’s a string of drool that connects your hand to his pouty lips as he gives you another pleading look.

“Will you let me touch you now?” He begs, “Please, I’ve been so good for you!” Tartaglia licks his lips, savouring the faint taste of you. He wants more, he wants to grab you by the waist and bury his face between your thighs and suck you off until you’re nothing but a mess inside his mouth.

You bring your fingers back down to your dick, swiping them over your tip and harshly pressing them against Tartaglia’s mouth. “Suck.” You command in a harsh voice, completely ignoring his previous question.

Tartaglia’s lips go back around your fingers again. He doesn’t need to be told twice when you’re the one telling him. He easterly laps at your fingers, ignoring the drool that threatens to spill from the corner of his lips. You press your fingers down against his tongue and he chokes lightly, lifting his blue eyes to meet yours,

When you finally pull your fingers out of his mouth, Tartaglia buries his head into your neck about to ask to touch you again—only for you to beat him to it. “You get two minutes to touch me, but you can only use your hands.” You start. “And, we have to stay in this position. No pulling out or thrusting." You press a kiss against Tartaglia’s lips. "Think of it as... encouragement to finish the level faster."

Tartaglia nods happily at your words, pulling off your neck to get a better view of you. “Thank you—thank you, baby, needed this.” He slurs as his eyes rake down your exposed body before honing in on your sensitive cock. He wishes you’d let him lick that instead of your fingers, but you were clear on your rules for the two minutes.

Tartaglia has two minutes, a whole two minutes to make you feel good. There’s no way he’s let them go to waste.

He wastes no time when the game is finally paused. Tartaglia cups your balls gently, feeling the weight of them in his palm. He massages them slowly, his thumb rubbing up and down the underside of your dick, feeling the warmth and the leaking pre that slipps down your shaft. Tartaglia knows nothing can make you cum in this position, but he can make you squirm, he can tease you.

His other hand wanders up, his fingers ghosting over your skin, drawing circles around your nipples before pinching them gently. He wants to hear you moan, to see you writhe. Tartaglia needs to know he was pleasing you. He gazes at your face, waiting to see a reaction, anything to show that he’s making you feel good.

Your eyes roll back and your dick twitches hard against Tartaglia’s hand. “T-Tartaglia…!” You moan out, your back arching into his chest. Tartaglia’s fingers pull gently at you nipples, tweaking and twisting the nubs between his thumb and pointer finger. Your eyes roll back and Tartaglia whines at the sight, sliding his thumb faster up and down your dick, rolling it over your tip before sliding it against your slit.

He feels your hole clench around his dick, and Tartaglia has to squeeze his eyes shut in concentration to stop himself from bucking into you. He’s about to roll his hand again when it’s suddenly pushed away from your leaking dick. You yank his hands off your nipples too, panting as you do. “Two minutes have passed.” You mumble.

Tartaglia knows you were close from the way you sounded to the way you jerked your hips into his hand. “I’m sorry.” He whines, sounding like he’s carrying the weight of the world in his heart.

With a deep breath, Tartaglia focuses back on the game again, he hopes that this time he’ll finally beat the level. He’s determined, he wants to make you cum, to please you. He needs to win.

You slump against his shoulder, clearly needy. Tartaglia sucks in a breath. You were so close. He thinks. His focus turns back to the game, moving the joystick and pressing the rounded buttons as skillfully as he can manage with you taking his cock to the hilt,

Tartaglia feels you lean forward, your hands dipping under the hem of his shirt. “I wanna see you…” You whine and his face flushes. Tartaglia doesn’t have time to respond before the game console is slipping from his hands and you’re tugging his shirt off his figure.

Another eternity passes as Tartaglia picks up the console once again, doing his best to beat the level. He closes his eyes—just about to give up when the victory music blasts throughout the bedroom. “Finally—fuck, fuck, baby.” Tartaglia groans, tossing the console and pouncing on you.

His lips press against yours, his tongue sliding over your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth. Tartaglia is kissing you harshly, his lips flush against yours as your tongue gently swirls with his.

He pulls away after a minute, both of your faces flushed and panting. “I-I’m sorry it took me so long.” Tartaglia apologizes. He wants to please you, make you cum, see you lose control just because of him. He was desperate to feel you squirm against him, he wants to see the way your face would twist in pleasure when he fucks you just right.

Tartaglia slowly pulls out, hissing as he leaves your comforting warmth and is met with the harsh, cold outside air.

“Let me take you, please…” He begs, his eyes filled with desire and the need to have you. Tartaglia wanted you—no, needed you. His hand wanders back to your dick, wrapping his palm around your shaft and quickly jerking you up and down at a messy pace.

Tartaglia would do anything to have you come undone on his dick.

“Uh-huh.” You whine, and Tartaglia thinks it’s cute how all your confidence diminishes the instant you're offered some dick.

He watches you twist your body to lay flat against the bed on your back. Slowly, your legs splay into the air before you pull them back and bend them at your knees. Your ass, all empty and clenching around nothing, is now fully exposed to Tartaglia. Your hole is stretched already, from the much too long of a time you spent just sitting on his dick. Your own cock lays across your tummy, twitching and drooling uselessly,

Tartaglia sucks in a breath at the sight of your hole. His dick is throbbing at the sight, pressing angrily against his tummy, so hard and needy. He wants to do nothing more than bury himself inside you, to feel your warm muscle clench around him once more.

Slowly, he lowers himself into a kneeling position right in front of you. Tartaglia dips his head to your ass, pressing light kisses across the curve of your thighs. He trails his mouth down to your dick, taking the tip into his mouth. His eyes roll back at the feeling of finally having you in his mouth. Tartaglia sucks harshly, bobbing his head up and down your length. He runs his tongue over the underside of your shaft.

Tartaglia swirls his tongue around your overly sensitive tip, watching and depriving pure enjoyment of the way your hips buck into his mouth messily. You throw an arm over your face, trying to muffle your breathless moans and flushed face. Tartaglia gives you a harsh suck for warning, letting you know that if you don’t remove your hand now, things would get worse.

You, of course, comply, pushing your hand to the sheets and clenching them in your fist.

Tartaglia hums happily, the vibrations travelling across your shaft. He feels you twitch in his mouth and your legs thrash beside his head, squeezing and pulsing by his ears as he goes faster, making sure to let the drool spill from his lips as he moves his head.

Tartaglia pushes his lips down to your base bringing a hand to fondle your balls gently and you whine, your back arching off the bed. Your hand goes to tangle itself into Tartaglia’s hair, pushing your dick deeper down his throat. “I—holy shit—I’m c-close!” You whine, and that was enough of a signal to pull off your dick.

Tartaglia smears kisses across your ass, ignoring your desperate whines and cries, before eventually leading to your puffy hole, all nice and stretched for him. He’s quick to bury his mouth against you, already feeling his brain go mushy at the feeling. His tongue slips into you easily, and you whine at the feeling.

Tartaglia fucks his tongue into you with great fervour, not even caring for his hard dick. All he can think about is the taste of you on his tongue, the way your hole clenches down so nicely against his mouth and those sweet, sweet moans of: “M-More, please, need you so bad!” That slip from your lips and get his hips rocking his dick into the side of the mattress.

Tartaglia’s tongue pushes and prods into you, again and again until he hears you moan loudly. His eyes dart up, barely able to catch the way your back arches. Your legs shake around him yet again, your thighs squeezing around his ears, which only drives him to thrust his tongue into you further. Drool slips down his chin, but he doesn’t care, all he wants is to taste you again, and again, because, fuck, if he died right here, between your thighs, he would die a happy man.

“Right there!” You cry, Your legs threatening to squeeze tightly on Tartaglia’s head. He pushes his tongue in again, thrusting it in and out of your hole with a scary precision, making sure he hits your prostate every time.

“O-Oh, my—fuck, can’t take it!” You whine and he smirks against your tightening hole. “I need you, please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease!” You’re a complete mess, babbling nonsense as he eats you out, eyes rolling back and legs shaking in ecstasy,

All it took was him shoving a finger in, curling it in time with his tongue, for you to cum. Tartaglia eagerly pulls off your ass, watching as your dick twitches against your tummy and ropes of cum shoot from your member. He waits until you're finished before pressing his face against the mess you just made and licking it clean.

Tartaglia looks up at you from his position against your belly. “I….” He whines. “I’m still hard.” He gives an apologetic smile before going back to his first position in front of the bed, this time standing up. He lifts your collapsed legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he slaps his cock beside your limp one.

As quickly as he can, Tartaglia grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand and smears it all over his shaft. “Help me out, pretty boy.” He whines and you whimper at the nickname. Slowly, you push yourself onto your elbows just enough to push your hand to his dick and help him spread the lube.

Tartaglia doesn’t even bother to continue once you start, only throwing his head back with a loud groan. “That’s it, o-oh, archons you’re good at this.” His eyes squeeze shut and Tartaglia has to stop himself from cumming on the spot for the nth time tonight. He doesn’t even bother to lube your hole, only murmuring a sweet, “This pussies wet enough for me, right?” before he’s pressing a messy kiss to your neck.

“Not a pussy.” You slur, but he doesn't take any mind.

“D-Don’t worry, baby.” Tartaglia coos as he presses his thick tip against your weak hole. “Promise it’ll feel so good…” He wants to be inside you, to make you come again and again.

And suddenly, he’s halfway in, the thick of Tartaglia’s shaft being swallowed almost whole by your pretty ass was almost enough to make him cum right then and there. You whine lowly, back instinctively arching into him, forcing yourself deeper onto his dick.

“Fuck, baby, look what you do t’me.” He groans, pulling out so it’s just his tip stuck in your pretty, clenching hole. Tartaglia fucks his tip into you, watching it messily slide out then in, then out then in, over and over again until he can’t take it anymore and can’t help but want more.

Tartaglia—like the pathetic man he knows he is—can’t take it anymore. He pushes in fully, but just before he does, spits a large glob of drool from his lips to the tip of your spent cock watching it twitch under the feeling. He laughs, watching your dick twitch back to life. “And to think you get off to me spitting on you.” He murmurs, before finally thrusting in fully, in one, harsh movement.

The moan you let out is so pretty and high, and Tartaglia can feel his balls grow heavy at the sound. Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the lewd squelch of his dick pressing in, in, in and against your prostate, his tip knocking easily at it.

Tartaglia pistons his hips into you, basking in the moans and pleas for “more, more, more!” that slipped from your pretty lips. He’s pounding into you, and Tartaglia watches your head fall back against the pillow. Your hands shake as you desperately reach out to grab onto the sheets for leverage as he pushes your legs up, leaning down onto your body as he forces you into a mating press.

And, oh, Tartaglia feels like he just slipped so much deeper into you, and with the way your walls squeeze and clench and you moan his name like a mantra—Tartaglia is sure he’s just died and reached heaven.

His thrusts start to lose their rhythm, but they still manage to fill you up so much that, before Tartaglia can process what’s happening, you're crying out, your ass clenching so tightly against him he thinks he sees stars.

“I—I’m close, ‘m so close!” You cry and Tartaglia can’t help but bury his face into your neck as he thrust into your ass.

“Me too, baby.” He whimpers out. Tartaglia reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his much larger ones, before letting out a loud moan. “Together, please, baby, cum together.”

And you’re eagerly nodding your head, a mix of “yes” and “please” leaving your lips. Tartaglia isn’t even pulling out anymore, just knocking his hips against yours—no rhythm or pattern, just instinct as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Cummin’ o-oh—fuck!” You whine and Tartaglia instantly does too, feeling the way your dick spurts thick ropes of white onto your chest and his only drives him to the edge. He buries himself as deep as he can before collapsing onto you, pressing his full weight onto his hips. Tartaglia shoots a thick load of his seed into your awaiting hole, whining in content as he feels you milk his cock, squeezing down on him.

You’re panting, laying on the bed with Tartaglia pressed on top of you. His arms snake around your waist, tugging and twisting your connected bodies so that he’s spooning you, his chin resting on top of you’re head.

After a minute of rest, Tartaglia’s arms squeeze around your waist. “Love you, so much.” He murmurs tiredly.

“Promise?” You giggle back, despite the feeling of your exhaustion weighing heavy on your eyelids.

“Always an’ forever.” Tartaglia whispers sweetly. His arms encircle your waist, pulling you closer as the two of you bask in the afterglow in each other’s arms. “I’ll love you, always and forever.”

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

i forgot how much WORK setting up a blog is bc oml formatting everything to look good on mobile and computer was literal hell someone save me

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