Boothill,, Gunplay. Thats The Thought,, If Ur Comfortable Writing That Ofc Ofc

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

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... ^_^

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.

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!!

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

GOKURAKUGAI WORLD DOMINATION!

KAITO — he/him, twenty, filo & hispanic. male reader only blog with potentially dark content. minors please do not interact, you will be blocked. send ask to be in taglist !!

rules mlist tags ✶ ( reqs always open! )

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO KISSENTURINE. do not copy, translate, plagiarize, edit, take inspiration, repost, or steal in any way from my graphics &/or writing works.

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

you're so based 🥺🥺🥺

YEY THANK YOUUUUU YOU’RE SO BASED TOO

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

ur writings tha best(｡ﾉωヽ｡)

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