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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.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

☆ = nsfw , ★ = sfw

KAI SAYS: taglist is only for genshin and hsr content, not my misc. posts!

genshin impact :

☆ 𝐂𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 tartaglia x m!reader ꒱ you offer tartaglia your own form of “encouragement” to help him beat the in-game level he's been stuck on.

☆ 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 kazuha x m!reader ꒱ a new roommate turns into a new crush, which turns into a drunk kazuha! what could possibly go wrong?

tba

honkai star rail :

☆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐀 boothill x m! reader ꒱ boothill's censorship is finally removed, and you even gave him a dick! he can't wait to test them both out, and you just happen to be the perfect candidate.

☆ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 boothill x m!reader ꒱ boothill seems to have a strange sense of longing to see you pressed up against his gun, bent over and stuffed full

☆ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐁 𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐓 boothill x m! reader ꒱ boothill values his dignity, he really does — but for you, he'd throw it all away and become your perfect pet!

miscellaneous :

☆ 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒 satosugu x m!reader ꒱ gojo and geto "comfort" you after a break up. comfort just regularly includes fucking, right? and as friends too!

tba

tba

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 + 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐍𝐈

general — the basic dni about me & my works

minors do not interact. interactions include: liking & reblogging any of my content, even when not nsfw and following my blog. minors will be hard blocked. i do not check all blogs personally but i still check a few

fujoshis also do not interact. reading / making bl content is fine ig, but if you sexualize it for your own pleasure / enjoyment, dni. same goes for fudanshis.

i only write male (sometimes gn) reader. i may sometimes write ftm reader but i won't be writing any afab / fem reader smut. all nsfw + sfw follow this.

please do not steal any of my writing works. stealing can include: copying, taking "inspiration," translating, reposting, or palgerizing my works. i do not give any permission to for you or anyone else to do any of the stated above.

to add to the above, please do not steal any of my themes / graphics / gifs. inspiration is fine after you've been given explicit permission via asks / DMs.

this blog is a safe & horny space! racists, xenophobes, homophobes, pedophiles, and pro-shippers please do not interact.

my works — how to request, & what to not request

you can always request via my inbox / asks! requests are always open. it may take me a while to get to your request if i'm busy w/ other requests / personal.

do not make your request very, very long. 5 sentences or so is my max, i don't like writing things too specific as it makes me feel like i have no creative freedom!

THINGS I WILL NOT WRITE: scat, piss kink, anything to do with poo (😭😭😭), incest (stepcest is fine), ddlg, fisting, underage characters / reader, teacher x student (college AUs are fine), pseudo-incest, sacrilege or anything to do with religions, vomit, feet kinks / anything to do with feet, body horror, eating disorders, mental illnesses, minor!character x minor!reader (characters will always be aged up in an adult setting).

THINGS I WILL WRITE: dom/sub m/gn reader, ftm reader, anything not stated up above, unless i get uncomfortable & end up adding it to the list

i try not to use y/n but there will be some y/n's seen.

i will try my best to keep the reader's appearance open, but i may end up specifying reader's height in comparison to the character (shorter or taller)

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