tags: gn (i think!! pls lmk if i messed up anywhere)!reader, pickpocket!reader, technically noncon/dubcon (kissing), rusheddd im sorry chat, drabble, i dont think any other cw?, second person pov (0.8k words)
authors note: what in the writers block. what in the month long writers block. oml. GET ME OUOT OF THIS PRISON i dont even wanna proofread this bro ik its gonna be ass
Men were, by far, the easiest demographic to lift things off of.
Muscular men especially often had an over-inflated ego, to the point they thought they could easily walk through the most urban parts of Japan without having some possession worth at least ten thousand yen lifted off of them.
Thus, another day of waiting for any of the hundreds of job applications you’d sent in this week meant another day of having to pickpocket wealthy tourists to just scrape by. Hey—you gotta do what you gotta do, right?
Well, unfortunately for you, you made one major miscalculation. Clocking Satoru Gojo, heir to the Gojo clan (and thus, maybe the wealthiest man in Japan) as a trashy, billionaire tourist was a fatal mistake. Normally, you could pull the whole routine of fake stumbling into the man and apologizing profusely, pretending you couldn’t speak English, and batting your eyelashes at them until they figured you were just a sweet, docile local girl. But not with Satoru Gojo.
With a curt bow and mumbled out apology (both clearly faked but seemed believable to Americans with no prior knowledge of real Japanese culture), you were happy to get on your way with his heavy wallet before feeling a tight weight around your wrist mid-dash.
“That routine was cute, really, but I want my wallet back.” Your head turned back, slowly, met with a pair of ephemeral and ever-sharp, blue eyes staring back at yours over the rim of navy glasses. A sly smirk had already tugged up at the corners of his mouth, heaps of amusement used to mask his annoyance.
You mentally scrolled every possible response before defaulting to pretending not to understand what he’s saying. All fun and games until he repeated himself in perfect Japanese.
“Y’know, I’m not a bad guy. If you needed handouts you could’ve just asked—not to be weird, but you’re clearly pretty enough to get away with it. Hell, I might’ve given you that wallet for a kiss,” he teased. God, you could’ve sworn he winked! Who does this guy think he is? “Now, I really insist. Wallet, please,” he grumbled with a pale hand outstretched and the other still keeping you from running away.
You huffed under your breath, half aggravated at the fact you’d been caught and half relieved he wasn’t calling the cops or worse. Your one loose hand dug through your pockets, fishing out his black, leather wallet and placing it daintily in his hand.
Before he could yank it away, before you even took your hand off the wallet, you used the position of your hands to your advantage in grabbing the (admittedly, very attractive) man and yanking him down into a kiss. It was a tactic you often refrained from—you were a petty thief, not a… sexual deviant, but he had already made it clear he didn’t mind kissing you. Desperate times call for desperate measures!
He was tense, shocked at first before relaxing into the kiss for the barely two more seconds it lasted. His grip loosened the slightest bit (but just enough for you to finish executing the plan) on your arm, while your grip simultaneously tightened around the wallet.
Yanking it back, you made a dash into the crowd to disappear where he couldn’t chase you.
He scoffed, taken aback if not extremely endeared by the mischievous giggle he was sure you didn’t realize you made as you bolted. He wiped gently at his lips and stared off into the crowd you’d disappeared into. His were far softer than yours, but you weren’t exactly a bad kisser. He definitely wouldn’t mind going again, at least.
Separately, you continued giggling to yourself half-menacingly, digging through the wallet and simply elated with the gorgeous and shiny debit cards far classier than anything you’d stolen before—not to mention the countless ¥10 000 notes practically overflowing from the main pocket.
You wiggled the drivers license out of a smaller pocket, made for just one card instead of a handful of bills, squinting at the modelesque ID photo staring back at you. What kind of jerk managed to look good in his driver’s license photo??
“Satoru Gojo…” you huffed, flushing, before shoving the license card back into the wallet. Out of sight, out of mind. Surely you wouldn’t be caught up in thinking about the very handsome (and surprisingly smooth-skinned?) stranger for weeks on end, right?
Definitely not every time you spent his stolen money—whether notes or using the debit card he, for some reason, didn’t deactivate…
tags: pup hybrid!reader, suggestive !!, references to porn/bdsm/punishment dynamics, pet/owner dynamics, references to spanking, hardcore sub!reader (very very obedient usually), "innocent" or naive reader (like doesnt know what porn is/watches it w/o realizing), second person pov (1.0k words)
authors note: guys i almost forgot to post for a second week in a rowww im sorry i js forget what day it is sometimes lol. so here pls take a draft i wasnt expecting to ever post cuz its so out of my comfort zone plsss be nice lol
After a long day of work, there was only one sight Bruce Wayne could even fathom wanting to come home and see: his sweet pup hybrid waiting for him by the front door, tail wagging and waiting for all the love he had to give.
After raising countless kids, saving Gotham from total annihilation nightly, and running a multi-trillion dollar company daily? Yeah, he was fucking exhausted. Hence the reason he opted for such a well behaved, gentle, and easily trainable breed: a simple golden retriever hybrid. A little sweetheart you were, couldn’t even think about acting out.
All of which is why Bruce was so baffled and, honestly, concerned when he got home and you were nowhere to be found. Not waiting by the door, not having crated yourself, not even waiting in your bed under his at-home desk (a behaviour he was working on training out of you, though he was worried because you only really went there when your separation anxiety was rising).
He continued to look around, desperate to find his pup, until he heard a faint sniffling from the bedroom. Assuming it was just Damian hiding in his dads room for some sense of comfort (even the best school money could buy couldn’t mitigate the interpersonal drama of eleven-year-olds), he cracked the door open to see what the matter was.
However, he wasn’t met with Damian’s stoic face staring off into the distance as he choked back tears. No—all he saw was you, where you very much should not have been. “What’s going on?” he huffed, closing the door behind him and walking into the room. If this was any other hybrid, he would have been annoyed, maybe even angry. Shouting. But you? Disobeying was so unlike you it was honestly worrying.
One of your many rules was simply as follows: no being on the bed unless given express permission from Bruce (not Dick, not Damian, Bruce).
Another: no playing with hard plastic toys outside of your crate, only soft toys.
Two of which you had very clearly broken as you kneeled by the side of the bed, paws up and kneaded the duvet, a bone-shaped, hard plastic toy between your gnawing teeth. However, another difference between you and other hybrids in this situation, your tail wasn’t wagging. If anything, it seemed low, distressed.
“Speak, pup,” he commanded when you didn’t answer his first question. You didn’t need permission to speak (most of the time), but sometimes you got lost in your pretty little head and completely forgot to answer out loud.
You dropped the bone toy out of your mouth, eliciting a grimace at the wet patch immediately formed when the plastic you drooled over hit the soft and absorbent blanket stretched over his bed. “I’m disobeying,” you said, smiling proudly with your canine teeth bared.
God, this was almost hysterical!
Now far less worried than he was two seconds ago, Bruce couldn’t help but crack a seldom-seen smile. “Disobeying, huh? And where’d you learn that, princess?”
“Videos,” you mumbled nervously, nudging at the toy with your nose as if distracting yourself from Bruce’s condescending tone. “I found some of Dick’s videos in his room and I was bored, I had just woken up from my nap, and so I played some. And in some of them he was with hybrids, he talked about liking giving them punishments. And I felt bad, ‘cuz I never disobey, and I don’t wanna deprive you of punishing me. So I’m disobeying!”
Your tail began to pick up speed, wagging gently back and forth: it was clear you didn’t enjoy breaking the rules, but the idea of him having fun punishing you outweighed the cons of having to be a brat.
Oh Lord, Bruce thought, my son has a homemade porn stash and my pet hybrid fuckin’ found it?
“Oh, princess, no,” he pouted, walking around to brush a hand under your chin to tilt your head up further and look into his sharp, glaring, sea-blue eyes. He swiped a thumb over your lip, feeling at the drool that had accumulated against the hard chew toy—the reason you weren’t allowed to have it outside of your designated space. “If I wanted a bratty pup I would’ve got one. I love you just as you are, especially what a sweet and obedient girl you are, okay?”
“Okay…” you agreed nervously, tail tucking between your legs at the idea that your little plan didn’t work, that you disappointed him (little did you know he was very far from disappointed—if anything, he was amused).
“I still have to punish you, though, okay?” he said, hand moving up to brush through your soft fluffs of fur, well aware of the spit coating the pad of his thumb brushing through it.
You nodded, a little “mm hm” whined out as your ears pinned back in anticipation.
He scooped you up, putting you down on your feet and watching as he made you wash and change his sheets to clean up the dirt from your paws and drool you’d got on it. You’d never had to lift a finger, do a single chore since moving into the Manor, so he had to be very specific with his little instructions of how to run a load of laundry. To make up for the fact that, at that point, it was more of a punishment for him than for you, he made you sit on the cold tile and watch as the sheets spun around and around in the washing machine and dryer.
Whenever he stopped by, he’d see your little tail and bum wiggling with soreness as the hardness of the floor pressed up against your lower half since he gave you no cushion to sit on. His poor baby, he didn’t want to have to put you through this, but he had to stay consistent and give fair punishments that matched the crime, right?
He was planning on spanking you a little too, but you were already so red and sore, he settled for a night of cuddles and kisses instead.
authors note p2: yeah idk 90% chance i archive this
when the nephilim castiel is looking after reaches teething age.
tags: pseudo-papa!castiel, toddler nephilim!reader, fem!reader, slightly ooc (spec. cas being a kinda shit dad, but he's trying), cw neglect mention, second person pov (0.7k words)
authors note: ughhhh motivation this motivation that blehh bleh drafts for the win
"Dean," Castiel called, his voice a low rumble as it echoed through the halls of Bobby's house. They were just staying a few nights as they planned out how to take down a rather large vampire nest just outside Sioux Falls.
"Whaddya want, Cas," the blonde called back lazily, voice gruff. He was laying in bed, he had his own little set up in one of the guest rooms in the home.
"The infant," he grumbled as if that would clear everything up. Dean cocked an eyebrow, Cas then realizing that what he'd said wasn't enough information. "The nephilim infant is in the crate. She is being punished." To prove his point, he held up a cobalt blue tie—the same one he always wore, which Dean only just realized he wasn't wearing—which had large tears and tooth-shaped holes all over the fabric, now fraying everywhere and soaked with saliva.
"...what the fuck," Dean scoffed, caught entirely off guard by seeing what had happened to the tie. "Wait, wait," he shot up out of the bed, now sitting up fully, "the fuck do you mean the crate? We don't have a crate, she's outgrown her crib? Where'd you put the kid?"
"The cage in the basement, where you put the demon boy before he attempted to call upon the apocalypse."
"Fuckin' hell, Cas!" he shouted, shooting up out of bed and storming off towards the panic room in the basement. "Firstly, don't talk about Sammy like that, you little shit. Second of all, you can't put a fuckin' two year old alone, locked in the basement! Jesus, man!"
"My apologies. I am familiar with such customs pertaining to human infants, but I believed it would be different for a Nephilim, considering their superior evolutionary adaptations."
"A two year old is a two year old regardless," Dean snapped under his breath, followed quickly by a loud sigh as he fiddled with the countless locks lining the doorway.
As soon as he opened the door, Dean crouched down to your level, face sympathetic since he didn't know how long you were down here (it wasn't long, barely a few minutes, but how was Dean to know that?) and didn't want to send you into a tantrum. "Hey, girl, what happened? Are you alright?" He reached a hand out, but was far too hesitant to touch you, even just a pat on your tiny head (which was about the size of his large palm and calloused fingers).
"Papa go!" you shrieked, face scrunching up in Castiel's direction.
"I am not your father, nor will I leave, tiny one," he deadpanned.
"Meanie," you cried out, wiggling your whole body, unable to get your frustration out.
"God, Cas, what did you d—OW!" Dean was interrupted with his own scream of surprise and pain. "What the fuck?!"
"Da bpuck," you echoed, mouth full and cheeks puffed as you bit down hardly against his forearm.
"I expected the teething to ebb after eight to twelve months but it has not, it has instead been getting worse. I put her here to keep her safe while simultaneously punishing her for chewing on my tie, as Bobby was informing me of childhood discipline's effect on behaviour."
"Yeah, discipline, not borderline neglect," Dean scoffed. "Glad you fuckin' told me..." He was soft, gentle, even as he pulled his now-achy arm. If he hadn't registered the pain quick enough, if you had time to go any harder, he's sure you would have drawn blood.
"Ah, I see," Castiel nodded contemplatively, "discipline is only effective if paired with affection."
He stalked closer to you, bending down on one knee to look at you eye-to-eye. "Do not bite me again. You are dear to me and it would be a shame if I had to abandon you as a lost cause and juvenile delinquent."
"Castiel!" Dean snapped, smacking the back of his head, huffy with the thought of him upsetting you.
"What do I say to her, then? I must reinforce that this behaviour is unacceptable." It was almost ironic, him talking about disciplining you for teething, without realizing you had already taken both chubby hands to the cuff of his trench coat sleeves and was slobbering all over it.
"I don't know, man, just..."
"...just?" Castiel urged him to continue.
"It's chewing on your coat."
The angel's head snapped down, trying to piece together what Dean had said before seeing what you were doing. Ugh.
He picked you up by the collar of your shirt, dangling you in front of his face in preparation to talk to you like peers before Dean snatched you out of Cas' hands, clearly dismayed at the way he was handling you.
You were showing the beginning signs of a tantrum so Cas, worried and however close he could get to annoyed as an angel, decided to take the torn up tie back out of his pocket and gave it to you. You immediately bit into it, beginning to gnaw to soothe the ache in your gums.
He wasn't ever gonna get to wear that tie again, but hey—you win some, you lose some.
when dean winchester's vampire girlfriend forgets she's not human, too.
tags: very short drabble cuz ive had like NO motivation this week, vampire!fem!reader, established relationship, technically interspecies relationship..? human dean x vamp reader..?, a bit out of canon (vampires arent that bad in this au world ig), protective dean, second person pov (0.5k words)
author's note: guys ik this might suck but pls be nice im uhh a wimp idk
"Pleeeease, Deanieee?" you whined, grabbing on to your boyfriend’s arm, wrapping both of yours around his meaty bicep. He'd been accidentally bulking recently, since settling in the bunker. You were cooking more, he was eating more, and now his once extremely-defined bicep had a comfortable layer of plush over top. That was one of many things he found endearing about you, that you loved to cook foods you couldn't eat, due to your... rather unfortunate dietary restrictions.
"For the last damn time, no," he huffed, planting one calloused hand on the top of your head to shove you off of him (more playfully than anything else... though also a little fed up).
"But you always talk about how nice it is, going for walks and stuff… to the store…" you huffed, stumbling back from his light shove.
Underneath the layers of annoyance, adoration, and affection, you could detect a serious level of pity the gaze he was sending your way. Every ounce of him wanted to hate vampires, every single one, but ever since he’d met you—ever the pacifist, he’d quickly learned—he realized he just… couldn’t. You were too sweet to be lumped in with the rest of those blood-sucking assholes.
On the down side of that (“that” being his suffocating love for you) is that every time you wanted to mimic him, to do something you’d learned he loved, he had to be the one to break it to you that you can’t. Can’t eat his favourite foods, can’t see how pretty he thinks you look (though you’ve found his secret sketchbook and he draws you more than enough to make up for the lack of mirrors and photos), and—important for right now—can’t go out in the sun.
Well, hypothetically, you could, but Dean couldn’t bear the thought of you in pain, especially at something as preventable as the extra painful sunburn you’d get as a result.
“I’ll wear a hat! And a long sleeve shirt, or a sweater, or something—”
“—like hell you will. It’s 98°F out, probably more with the humidity. If you think I’m acting crazy over a particularly bad sunburn, do you seriously think I’d let you get heat stroke??”
You whined loudly, at a loss for words at his utter stubbornness. In the winter you were able to sway him a few times but now it was summer and only getting hotter and hotter, there wasn’t a chance.
“You forget you’re a vampire sometimes,” he teased, but the truth of it still stung. You’d spent so many years feeding off barn animals, sneaking into the occasional blood banks, that sometimes you felt more human than vampire.
You pouted back at that, much to his disappointment. He wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, he was doing this to protect you! Couldn’t you see that?
Why couldn’t you see that??
author's note p2: using farenheit pains me but sighh dean is american...
when fem!satoru gojo, the captain of japan's women's national football team, has a major crush on her rival
tags: not proofread/rushed, genderbent gojo, football written by someone who knows NOTHING abt it (but this is mostly written during the "aftermath" of the game), wlw, fem!reader, athelte!gojo + reader, reader is shorter than gojo (she keeps her canon male height, like 6'3" or 6'4"), second person pov (1.2k words),
authors note: breaking my schedule to post in the midst of world cup larp (inspired by wtv tf haaland and bellingham going on, i think its weird to ship/write fanfic abt real ppl buuut their dynamic is cute!! and it inspired my writing brain bugs lol)
The sweat trickling down her back was nothing new. In fact, the only new thing is that it was only her back. Normally Satoru Gojo would be head-to-toe, drenched, but this game hadn’t even had her breaking a sweat. God, this was easy. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure how your team made it to quarter fucking finals.
The hardest part about it? Keeping her focus on the ball instead of on you.
Captain of your team, a woman she played alongside when just a first-year, and the only competent player on the team. Not to mention, exactly her type.
If she asked anyone else what they thought of the match, they’d probably say it was neck and neck. Tied up, 2–2 with ten minutes left without stoppage or extra time, two very equally matched teams. But if Gojo ever decided to actually lock in instead of fucking around and staring at the motion of your softness when you dashed past her? They’d be a lot less equally matched.
The rest of the time flew by, as did you. Fucking fast on your feet, you were.
Thank god this wasn’t a mens’ match, or the commentators would have a LOT to comment on, if you catch my drift.
The only time Satoru wasn’t fully zoned out, playing with her brain off (which was probably a bad idea considering how much of her career was on the line), was when her team scored a point. Or, more so, she did, and her team crowded her to shove and scream with excitement. All their hair, some cut short but others’ just being pinned up, swishing in front of her face and obstructing her view of you.
She did celebrate, though—half out of real passion and excitement and half out of a carnal need to show you how much better she is.
But you… you were so fucking good natured. When you two had played together in the past, on the same team, she was so grateful for your kindness and sportsmanship. You were practically attached at the hip and that was the main reason why. But now? Seeing you comfort other players, cheering up your panicking teammates from the home country you’d returned to for the World Cup? Felt like absolute shit when she wanted all that attention to herself.
So she made a decision—made in that moment but unwavering, especially due to the fact no additional points were scored in any time after that—that she would talk to you after the match. See if you were still just as nice as you used to be now that Satoru was an opponent, not a teammate.
The game ended 3—2, Japan’s favour.
“Hey!” she called out, approaching you on the sidelines as you waved off a few members, lingering to help clean up all the towels and bottles (a habit you’d picked up from playing on the Japan team, the common courtesy).
You turned around, standing up straight and smiling the second your eyes settled on the woman. The friend, in your mind.
“Toru!” you greeted excitedly, immediately dropping (gently putting down) everything to bolt over. It was on instinct, one Gojo didn’t know she still had, to immediately put her arms down and bend her knees the slightest bit so you could hold you as the hug quickly turned full-body and your thighs wrapped around her.
“You were sooooo good!” you beamed, arms wrapped around her neck.
She tried not to panic, face shoved into your (granted, clothed) cleavage, hands slipping lower from your lower back to underneath your ass. You two were always… touchy.
“Glad to see you’re still a sweetheart off the court,” she sighed, letting you down gently. You pulled all six-foot-something of her down to your level to kiss her cheek before she pulled away, donning a cocky smile as you stared up at her. “You’re still short.”
“You’re still an asshole.” It was clearly lighthearted, both the remark and the way you shoved closer to her in the same way a fluffy and oh-so-cute red panda puffs up its chest to intimidate another.
“A winning asshole.” She reached up, ruffling your hair, much to your huffy pseudo-dismay.
You swatted her back, going to speak but stopping at the last moment, all the memories of your shared interviews, hugs, cuddles, everything rushing back and flitting behind your eyes. Maybe Satoru felt the same, as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t, but you didn’t have time to find out.
The sports journalists were finally allowed… unleashed on the field.
“Gojo! Gojo!” about a dozen all shouted at the same time, shoving past each other. Just fucking hounding her. A couple were there for you, but… you weren’t captain, nor were you on the winning team. Not much literary meat on those editorial bones.
“How does it feel to have won?”
“That’s a lame question—what was it like winning against someone you used to play with?”
“Do you think this winning streak will carry you to finals?”
“You seemed out of it for most of the game. Where was your attention at that time?”
“Has this match strained your relationship with someone you used to be a close friend of?” Clearly referencing you.
You looked quickly between her and the reporters, deciding that maybe now would be a good time to take your leave.
That being said, you were never one for leaving a friend without a goodbye… right?
You stretched onto your tiptoes, craning your neck slightly to be able to reach her face. Kisses to the cheek were far from uncommon (in fact, some would say the norm). People still make jokes, but no one would bat an eye.
What they would notice, though, is when you leaned over a half inch more to plant the kiss distinctly on the corner of her mouth. With a small giggle, inaudible to anyone else over the chatter of the reporters except you and Gojo, you bolted off to change and clean up your team’s locker room.
She stared after you, laughing whole-heartedly before looking back at the awe-struck journalists. Half shocked at the opportunity to talk to her, and half shocked at, well… what had just transpired. Naturally.
“She’s a sweetheart,” Satoru grinned, effectively answering every one of their new questions in one go. “It’s just sportsmanship, right?”
What they didn’t see is the way her thighs clenched together, the way she watched the sway of your hips as you jogged away in her peripherals, and definitely not when she waited until the stadium had entirely drained to catch you on the way back to the hotel your team was staying at.
Her team booked a far nicer hotel anyway. She wouldn’t want her friend to have to be alone and uncomfortable after that loss, would she? She was just being a good friend!
A very, very good friend.
authors note pt2: go norway!! (ik nothing abt football nor am i norwegian i js rly admire that they donated all ticket sales from the qualifying match to palestinian aid)
also again one more time i dont condone shipping real people, i dont genuinely think haaland and bellingham are remotely similar to heated rivalry, i js think the brainrot is funny guys :sob
when fem!satoru gojo, the captain of japan's women's national football team, has a major crush on her rival
tags: not proofread/rushed, genderbent gojo, football written by someone who knows NOTHING abt it (but this is mostly written during the "aftermath" of the game), wlw, fem!reader, athelte!gojo + reader, reader is shorter than gojo (she keeps her canon male height, like 6'3" or 6'4"), second person pov (1.2k words),
authors note: breaking my schedule to post in the midst of world cup larp (inspired by wtv tf haaland and bellingham going on, i think its weird to ship/write fanfic abt real ppl buuut their dynamic is cute!! and it inspired my writing brain bugs lol)
The sweat trickling down her back was nothing new. In fact, the only new thing is that it was only her back. Normally Satoru Gojo would be head-to-toe, drenched, but this game hadn’t even had her breaking a sweat. God, this was easy. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure how your team made it to quarter fucking finals.
The hardest part about it? Keeping her focus on the ball instead of on you.
Captain of your team, a woman she played alongside when just a first-year, and the only competent player on the team. Not to mention, exactly her type.
If she asked anyone else what they thought of the match, they’d probably say it was neck and neck. Tied up, 2–2 with ten minutes left without stoppage or extra time, two very equally matched teams. But if Gojo ever decided to actually lock in instead of fucking around and staring at the motion of your softness when you dashed past her? They’d be a lot less equally matched.
The rest of the time flew by, as did you. Fucking fast on your feet, you were.
Thank god this wasn’t a mens’ match, or the commentators would have a LOT to comment on, if you catch my drift.
The only time Satoru wasn’t fully zoned out, playing with her brain off (which was probably a bad idea considering how much of her career was on the line), was when her team scored a point. Or, more so, she did, and her team crowded her to shove and scream with excitement. All their hair, some cut short but others’ just being pinned up, swishing in front of her face and obstructing her view of you.
She did celebrate, though—half out of real passion and excitement and half out of a carnal need to show you how much better she is.
But you… you were so fucking good natured. When you two had played together in the past, on the same team, she was so grateful for your kindness and sportsmanship. You were practically attached at the hip and that was the main reason why. But now? Seeing you comfort other players, cheering up your panicking teammates from the home country you’d returned to for the World Cup? Felt like absolute shit when she wanted all that attention to herself.
So she made a decision—made in that moment but unwavering, especially due to the fact no additional points were scored in any time after that—that she would talk to you after the match. See if you were still just as nice as you used to be now that Satoru was an opponent, not a teammate.
The game ended 3—2, Japan’s favour.
“Hey!” she called out, approaching you on the sidelines as you waved off a few members, lingering to help clean up all the towels and bottles (a habit you’d picked up from playing on the Japan team, the common courtesy).
You turned around, standing up straight and smiling the second your eyes settled on the woman. The friend, in your mind.
“Toru!” you greeted excitedly, immediately dropping (gently putting down) everything to bolt over. It was on instinct, one Gojo didn’t know she still had, to immediately put her arms down and bend her knees the slightest bit so you could hold you as the hug quickly turned full-body and your thighs wrapped around her.
“You were sooooo good!” you beamed, arms wrapped around her neck.
She tried not to panic, face shoved into your (granted, clothed) cleavage, hands slipping lower from your lower back to underneath your ass. You two were always… touchy.
“Glad to see you’re still a sweetheart off the court,” she sighed, letting you down gently. You pulled all six-foot-something of her down to your level to kiss her cheek before she pulled away, donning a cocky smile as you stared up at her. “You’re still short.”
“You’re still an asshole.” It was clearly lighthearted, both the remark and the way you shoved closer to her in the same way a fluffy and oh-so-cute red panda puffs up its chest to intimidate another.
“A winning asshole.” She reached up, ruffling your hair, much to your huffy pseudo-dismay.
You swatted her back, going to speak but stopping at the last moment, all the memories of your shared interviews, hugs, cuddles, everything rushing back and flitting behind your eyes. Maybe Satoru felt the same, as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t, but you didn’t have time to find out.
The sports journalists were finally allowed… unleashed on the field.
“Gojo! Gojo!” about a dozen all shouted at the same time, shoving past each other. Just fucking hounding her. A couple were there for you, but… you weren’t captain, nor were you on the winning team. Not much literary meat on those editorial bones.
“How does it feel to have won?”
“That’s a lame question—what was it like winning against someone you used to play with?”
“Do you think this winning streak will carry you to finals?”
“You seemed out of it for most of the game. Where was your attention at that time?”
“Has this match strained your relationship with someone you used to be a close friend of?” Clearly referencing you.
You looked quickly between her and the reporters, deciding that maybe now would be a good time to take your leave.
That being said, you were never one for leaving a friend without a goodbye… right?
You stretched onto your tiptoes, craning your neck slightly to be able to reach her face. Kisses to the cheek were far from uncommon (in fact, some would say the norm). People still make jokes, but no one would bat an eye.
What they would notice, though, is when you leaned over a half inch more to plant the kiss distinctly on the corner of her mouth. With a small giggle, inaudible to anyone else over the chatter of the reporters except you and Gojo, you bolted off to change and clean up your team’s locker room.
She stared after you, laughing whole-heartedly before looking back at the awe-struck journalists. Half shocked at the opportunity to talk to her, and half shocked at, well… what had just transpired. Naturally.
“She’s a sweetheart,” Satoru grinned, effectively answering every one of their new questions in one go. “It’s just sportsmanship, right?”
What they didn’t see is the way her thighs clenched together, the way she watched the sway of your hips as you jogged away in her peripherals, and definitely not when she waited until the stadium had entirely drained to catch you on the way back to the hotel your team was staying at.
Her team booked a far nicer hotel anyway. She wouldn’t want her friend to have to be alone and uncomfortable after that loss, would she? She was just being a good friend!
A very, very good friend.
authors note pt2: go norway!! (ik nothing abt football nor am i norwegian i js rly admire that they donated all ticket sales from the qualifying match to palestinian aid)
also again one more time i dont condone shipping real people, i dont genuinely think haaland and bellingham are remotely similar to heated rivalry, i js think the brainrot is funny guys :sob
tags: fem!reader, afab!reader, cw pregnancy w some, cw periods w some, overly freaked out (ESPECIALLY choso and gojo), suggestive, bumtoji, submissive men, petnames (mommy, mamas, etc), naoya is a prick/bitch, mentions of pegging, use of y/n a couple times
authors note: yes i made this a while ago yes that means the colours of the texts are on the wrong side and YES its gonna be ooc
authors note pt2: pls send help i need advice on how to characterize geto i love him i lobe him i love him so i dont wanna mischaracterize him
when plug!choso starts crushing on his only customer that only uses it medicinally.
tags: angst..?, modern/college au, plug!choso, nerdy!reader, fem!reader, mention of weed consumption (duh), readers marajuana use is medicinal (for sleep), reader is lowk an willfully oblivious jerk my bad...
author's note: when were you guys gonna tell me the sms messages colouring was backwards. and blue is supposed to be on the right. ive had it backwards for 4 parts now. omGOSH thats embarassing
authors note: im worried im losing my spark for this series even tho i love itttt i js am struggling to write for it recently so pls lmk what you think so i can improve + get back in my grove!!
when dean winchester isn't aware that wolf hybrids can't tell when to stop fighting
tags: wolf hybdrid!reader, depictions of fighting, mild tbi depiction, dehumanization (reader refered to as "it" bc theyre a hybrid), medical innacuracies, use of petnames (sweetheart), second person pov (1.1k words)
author's note: thinking about how dogs can, in some cases, eat themselves to death because they don't know when to stop…
Sam sees Dean in the same way one would see a father who insists he doesn't want a dog, a dog isn't even an option, he won't get a dog because he does not want one one bit. Until you get the dog.
Every day he swore up and down that a wolf hybrid was not a valuable addition to their duo, that they were fine hunters just the two of them and that hybrids were far too unstable to make finding one worthwhile.
Sam didn’t believe him then, and he definitely didn’t believe him after he walked into the motel one day after running out to get some beef jerky from a nearby gas station to find Dean and the stray wolf hybrid the brothers took in cuddled up on his bed in a sort of pseudo nest. You’d stripped Sam’s bed bare to stack up all the pillows from across both beds (you usually slept on the floor because you were worried asking for a bed when booking motels was too imposing) in a ring-ish shape and draped the fuzzy blankets on top for an extra level of warmth. You were curled into a ball in his arms, one of Dean’s hands holding your back and the other continuing to scratch between your ears despite being dead asleep.
So evidently, he liked you. Liked the cuddles, the warmth, liked eating with you, and especially liked the friendly fights you two would get in between cases. It helped soothe your instincts so you were less rowdy and agitated through long cases, and it helped him hone his skills in preparation for the times he’d have to fight without a gun.
Like today.
This time, the sight Sam had come back to was not cute or tender. You two were in the parking lot in summery clothes, knuckles wrapped in gauze and throwing punches back and forth.
“Hey!” he called, jogging over from the car to where you both were, waving a friendly hand. Dean just nodded back, but you didn’t respond. It’s like you didn’t even register he was there. “‘S it okay?” he asked Dean before turning down to face you. “You okay?”
You once again didn’t respond, drawing worry from Sam considering he was close enough that you should reasonably be able to hear him. You just continued to gnaw on Dean, gnashed teeth dug into his shoulder and thrashing your head back and forth. Not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to soothe the ache in your gums granted by your wolf side. Playfully.
“Hello-o-o?” Sam called once more, this time tapping your shoulder. You quickly unlatched and turned around, blinking rapidly before your vision settled on him. Well, “settled” is a strong word, it remained dizzy and tunneled, but that wasn’t new. “You alright? Mad at me or something? You weren’t responding, sweetheart.”
“Pardon?” you responded, voice far too loud for the relatively quiet environment. Like you couldn’t hear your own voice.
He bent down to repeat the little “are you alright,” you turning your head as well to lean into his words.
Before he could even finish asking, you pulled back. “I can’t hear you.”
“What??” he immediately shouted, a wave of panic washing over him instantaneously. Dean too, though his panic was more internal. He was more trained to stifle his panic than Sammy.
You could see Sam’s lips move, but couldn’t quite read his lips, so you just repeated yourself. “I can’t hear you. I just hear ringing.” The tinnitus got worse the more you looked up, Sam being taller than you meant your head had to angle closer to the sky and thus, closer to the sun. It was like the bright sun wasn’t just loud in glare, but also in noise. It was blaring in your ears.
Sam’s head snapped up to face his older brother. “Dean, what happened?”
The worry only worsened as you started to sway on your feet. Why were you swaying on your feet??
“Nothing, it’s fine. I thought it was fine!” he shouted, double Sam’s volume and still not getting past your tinnitus. He turned you around, head ducking so low that his lips quite literally brushed your ears. “Can you grab my hand?” he whispered, not wanting to yell in your presumably damaged ears, but anything that got through the ringing barrier (even if just a faint, gruff whisper) triggered an almost hyperacusic sensation.
You nodded despite the pain, Dean pulling back and just putting a hand up, wanting to test your coordination considering your sudden balance issues. You huffed—this was easy. You extended your hand out, reaching for his, leaning slightly forward to grab his hand (or at least, one of the four you could see, each pair blurring into each other) and—
“Dude, it missed my hand!” Dean exclaimed, as if that was the most worrying thing that occurred in the past ten seconds.
Sam shouted back, “It passed out, did you give it a concussion or something?!” He was quick to bend down, put an ear by your nose and make sure you were breathing. Both hands went under your jaw and around your neck, holding your head still to prevent further injuries in case it was a spinal issue.
“I dunno, I figured it woulda said something if it was hurt that bad?? No complaints, no whines or nothin’, figured it woulda said something if I hit too hard.”
“You dumbass,” Sam groaned loudly, moving one hand towards his back pocket so he could grab his phone and dial 9-1-1. “Wolves and wolf hybrids, they don’t know when anything is ‘too far.’”
“Well, I know that, I thought it was just like a food thing, no? Like real dogs.”
“No, man. It’s everything. Why d’ya think there are so many strays? They don’t know when to stop anything. Including money and fights, it’s why there’re so many homeless mutts, man.”
“Awh, shit…” he murmured, dropping down to your level. “Oh, ‘m sorry, sweetheart…”
He rubbed over your shoulder in the awkward pose you passed out in—like Sam, not wanting to adjust you, as to not exacerbate the concussion—in a wordless display of guilt. If he thought you were really hurt (beyond something like a concussion, something the boys deal with weekly), he’d probably be panicking a lot more. But for now? He was just overcome with a great deal of guilt, and an even greater deal of wanting to look into how to deal with wolf hybrids.
authors note pt2: call me crazy but this is one of my favourite one of my own fics, like one of my personal favs out of of all the fanfiction ive written. BUT i still wanna hear your ideas !!
when next door neighbour!dick decides to pamper single father!reader on father's day
tags: male!reader (written by a woman so if i have anything i can improve on pleas please PLEASE lmk!!), single father!reader, reader's kids are named (two sons i js picked random american names tbh), implied reader had a wife who died by childbirth, second person pov (1.6k words)
author's note: happy fathers day to those who celebrate :) also i lovelovelove dc but have never written for it b4 so what do we think... jjk and spn slop under my belt are we adding dc too..?
The morning felt… off. Waking up, there was just something, well, off. Not wrong, not bad, just off. Naturally, your first instinct was to check your kids’ room.
“Tommy? David?” you called, head dipping into the doorway of the boys’ room, light flicking on. For a full four seconds your heart seized in panic, eyes shooting wide when you realized neither son was in their bed despite it being 8-something on a Sunday morning. They didn’t have school.
Those four seconds were capped by your oldest, Thomas, running at you at top speed shouting “Papa! Papa!” over and over again. You let out a breath that had previously been sitting heavily in your constricting lungs, warmth beaming against your back as the shouts of your boys hit it.
You turned around, scooping the six year old up and seeing the younger three year old toddling closer with the heavy thump-thump-thumping footsteps of a toddler that only just learned to run (which he was). “What are you two doing up, huh, Tommy?”
He began rambling as a hand went up to pick his nose, which you quickly redirected before it even made it to his face. It was a habit that had become as instinctive as blinking or flinching when something flew in your direction (a habit that had been trained into the hard way, living in Blüdhaven).
It also meant your attention was focused on something other than your oldest son’s ramblings—until you snapped back into reality at something you immediately processed as very concerning. “…and then the nice mister knocked on the window and came in, and he went to the kitchen and he’s still there now! He gave us some of the snackies he was making, but he’s making more for you, with the knives now.”
It was like in the half a second you took to process that, you had gone from a normal human man to a papa bear prowling through the forest of his barely 600 square foot apartment (how you managed to fit you and two kids in that little flat was beyond anyone in that complex). You bolted around the edge of the wall to peer into the kitchen, immediately seeing the man your kids were referencing. You catalogued the intruder’s appearance immediately in case you needed to report them to the police, as if they’d have time to go after a petty house thief instead of… well, everything else going on). They wavy, black hair, pretty tall, very muscular, back muscles rippling under their compression shirt and… jeez, it was just your neighbour.
“Mr. Grayson,” you exhaled, very relieved to see your kids hadn’t let in a knife-brandishing maniac and instead the kind man from the apartment across from you. It wasn’t even ‘stranger danger,’ as the young man had been nice enough to babysit a couple times when your babysitter cancelled.
You don’t know why he chose to live in the same shoddy apartment as you, you were well aware of his adoption into the Wayne family when he was a kid, it wasn’t exactly a secret. He said he just wanted to keep his place “low key” after the way he was raised, to stay humble like he knows he should, but you had little theories of your own. He was almost never home, for whatever reason, so why would he spend tons of money on a penthouse he’d never be in? God, you’d kill for problems like that.
He turned around, beautiful blue eyes crinkling as he smiled with his teeth. “Call me Dick,” he beamed. Maybe the reason he’s never home is ‘cuz he’s a supermodel? He has the looks for one, at least, you thought.
“What’s—why are you over?” you stammered, putting Tommy down so he and his brother could dart off to play in the living room (though that was only a good five steps away, there weren’t any separating walls between the kitchenette and living room (which double as the dining room, kids’ play room, your office, library, et cetera, et cetera…).
“It’s Father’s day, is it not?” you heard the signature click-click of the stovetop burner turning off, watching as Mr. Grayson Dick maneuvered a pan over three plates—one full sized and two small enough for your kids. Each already had a slice of buttered sourdough (meaning he brought the bread over, you were not in a position to splurge on fresh bakery bread) and a peeled tangerine. Peeled. Your boys didn’t have enough hand eye coordination to peel a tangerine yet (though Tommy was getting there, he just struggled with not popping the little juice vesicles in the process) meaning your neighbour unpromptedly came over and peeled the oranges for you. Why did that mean so much to you??
He used the flat end of a silicone spatula to scoop some creamy scrambled eggs next to the toast on the plate, a little for each of you with a garnish of salt on top before the pan was set in the sink with some warm water and dish soap to soak the egg that had stuck to it off. “Yeah, so what?” you murmured awkwardly.
“So, I brought some eggs and toast and fruit to treat you,” he turned around with a plate in each hand (and the third balanced on his forearm), placing them down on the coffee table in the living room. “And, unless you already had plans, I’d like to take your sons out so you can relax today.”
You stared at him dumbfounded for a moment before a dam you didn’t even realize had been built, collapsed. Tears flooded from your eyes, quickly morphing Dick’s expression from proud and excited to ‘pamper’ you to extremely worried (and, if anything, a little guilty). “Oh—hey, wait, I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to stress you out! I—I just figured since you’re raising your sons alone I’d try to do something nice for Father’s Day, I didn’t mean to add any stress—”
You waved off his apologies, wiping the salty tears that were rolling down your cheeks. “No, no, I’m not sad! It’s just, I wasn’t expecting this at all, it’s a little overwhelming, no one’s done anything like this before.”
“Oh,” he chuckled lightly, putting a large hand over your shoulders. “Don’t sweat it, man. It’s the least I could do!” You shook your head, you could’ve done a lot less, man, most people have. He picked back up the plate with the largest portion, presumably yours, and extended it out. “You need some food in your system. I’m not a cook, but…”
God, you took just one bite of the scrambled eggs and it’s like stars were exploding behind your eyes. They do say the best food is free food, so maybe it was that, but maybe it was just that Dick was majorly underestimating his skills (not to mention you hadn’t made anything with organic eggs since your sons’ mom, uhm… in a long time).
“I—I don’t know how to repay you, Dick,” you said, words muffled around the food filling your cheeks as you continued to shovel down the food. You’d feel bad if the kids weren’t wolfing it down almost twice as fast. You bent down to put a hand on one’s shoulder, silently signaling to both to take their time so they don’t choke.
“The kids are already dressed, both dressed themselves and grabbed some swim suits. So I was thinking, if you don’t mind, I take ‘em to a new water park I heard about just north of Gotham?”
You nodded, mouth too full to respond properly outside of said nod and an mm-hm. “Awesome!” he smiled. As the kids began to finish up their meals, Dick bent over slightly to put a hand between each of their backs to guide them gently to the kitchen to put their dishes in the sink for him to wash before they go. You washed as he ran the warm water, scrubbing all the residue and crumbs off of the plate, drying them with a tea towel and putting them back in the cabinet. What did he mean, ‘the least he could do??’
“Are you ready, little dudes?” he beamed down at the kids with that stupidly charming and perfectly white, dimpled smile. A loud plethora of “yeah!”’s and “alright!”s came from your kids, David excitedly hopping in place on two chubby legs.
You put your plate down to watch as he grabbed a little bag (presumably with snacks, sunscreen, money, all the like) and slung it over his shoulder while the kids bolted out the door in the direction of the staircase. He began to follow after them before “hey, Dick?” you called quickly in the split second before he was out of earshot.
“Uh—yeah, sir?” he responded, turning around in the doorway to face you.
You walked over, trying to get over your nerves and overthinking, and just… hugged him. You could feel him tense within your arms for a second before melting into it, arms coming around your waist and giving a quick, tight squeeze before one hand moved up to tangle in the hairs at the nape of your neck. “Thank you so much, really,” you mumbled into the crux of his neck.
“Anything for my favourite neighbour,” he responded, somehow even quieter. More intimate.
when teenage!gojo meets his match (in terms of having an admiration complex, at least)
tags: angsty, depictions of injuries and fighting, father complex/"daddy issues," hidden inventory era (but like alternate events), readers appearance is not rly described (outside of cyanosis but that affects all skin tones), gn reader, pretty ooc, mentions of past neglect/child abuse, second person pov (1.0k words)
authors note: this idea has been stewing in my mind for a long time but i think i lowk butchered it..
Despite what Satoru Gojo let on, he was desperate for the admiration of those around him, especially his elders. Double-especially that of Masamichi Yaga.
It would be more shocking if he didn’t have an admiration complex, being taken from his parents so young and told that all he had was his powers: likewise, he would never be loved for anything but his powers.
Maybe his hatred of you came from that desperation for praise from his father figure mentor. Because any compliment given to you was one that could have been given to him, one that was stripped of him.
Or maybe it was because he saw himself in you: the same glimmer in your eyes when receiving a compliment from Yaga, the same defensive posture, like a dog with its hackles raised in aggressive warning, the same willingness to bleed yourself dry because you won’t stop fighting if there’s a promise of a “good job, kid” at the very least on the other end. Even if the other end is six feet under.
“What’re you staring at?!” you snapped, halfway to baring your teeth like the mangy mutt Gojo knew you were. Shit, had he been staring at you? Is that why he was thinking of you in the first place? Backtrack, Satoru, backtrack.
“Just wonderin’ if the reason you always train alone is ‘cuz you know you’re too shit to spar with anyone else,” he snarked.
You fully turned around (previously only having your head turned to face him while you berated him for his staring habit). “Oh, you wanna go, you blue eyed freak?”
“No, honestly, I don’t. I prefer to, what’s the saying… pick on someone my own size? Why would I, a big dog, pick on a little runt like you?”
“Oh, you little—” you began stomping over to him before Yaga’s sharp tone snapped both of you out of your little petty bickering and back into reality. You stood up straight, facing the older man, one you thought of as more of a father than a teacher or even a mentor.
It was a behaviour you’d seen paralleled in Satoru, a behaviour you’d got in many a fight with him over before. The only way you could think of to describe it—the reason it sparked so many fights in you two—is that you felt the same way a child would if they’d spent years in the foster system, looking for a father figure in every “adoptee” but none staying for long enough to bond, and finally being “adopted” by a kind, generous man, only to find out he had another child who was in the same situation that you were always comparing yourself to. Knowing damn well that as much as you vied for his attention, you were never going to be first. Never going to be the strongest.
“Redirect that aggression, kiddo. Sparring time,” he nodded in the direction of the field you had spent many previous afternoons with Gojo in: beating and being beat, though far more the latter than the former.
──────
“Ready to tap out yet?” Gojo crooned condescendingly, making his muscles impossibly more taut so his flexed forearm would dig further into your windpipe. Your face was turning cyanotic as the oxygen flushed from your blood, little thin black lines worming their way into your vision. You were ready to pass out, continuing to feebly shove at the white haired boy with the little energy you had left, until Yama barked out two simple words:
“Tap out.”
It was clearly a command to you. Within a second you had landed two harsh taps against Satoru’s forearm—he dropped you even quicker. As if he couldn’t even stand touching you. Air flooded your lungs the same way it had left: harsh, burning, and all in an attempt to please Yaga.
“Hey, that’s not fair! I coulda still won that!” you immediately started yelling at your classmate, naturally not daring to yell at the homeroom teacher. Whether that level of respect was due to his rank in the school staff’s hierarchy or due to your over-attachment to him as a pseudo father, not even you know.
“Like hell you could’ve! I totally smoked your ass!” he snapped right back, getting even closer to your face. You were both huffy and puffy, bruised and battered—you definitely got the worse end of the stick, but it wasn’t like he got away unscathed.
His cheek was already swelling as the bone underneath throbbed with a developing bruise, blood spattering over your face as the blood that had flooded from his split lip into his own mouth had been spit back out into splatters as he yelled. If he was wearing his glasses, they would have shattered and made a handful of micro-tears and -cuts, as is evidenced by the puffiness around his reddened, punched eyes. Not to mention how he was now donning so many scratches, especially on his forearms from the latter end of the fight, when you were trying to get out of his chokehold.
“Calm down,” Yaga interrupted the spat already starting to form between you two with his cool and low voice. Your heads snapped towards him in near-synchronicity. “Now’s no time to fight.”
You both mumbled a handful of apologies under your breath. You hadn’t even realized that your head started to lower itself in habitual respect. “I’m very sorry, sir. Do you have any feedback for us, sir?”
He thought momentarily, stroking his faint beard, though it was clear he already had some made up. He—still stroking his beard—murmured, “for both of you: your hubris is your undoing. You’re pushing too hard. Can’t win a fight if you’re dead, huh?” before turning on his heel and walking back into the halls of the Tokyo campus.
You stood there, dumbfounded, before turning back to Gojo. He was already staring at you.
“Round two?” he asked before turning his face away to spit out a fat glob of blood that had trickled back into his mouth.
You didn’t even have to say yes, you just rolled onto the balls of your feet and pounced like a wildcat, grabbing his shoulders and tackling him to the ground.
authours note pt2: guys what are the thoughts on the slight layout change, w the a/n before the cut (obv any additional thoughts like this little postscript/p.s. below the fic) decisions decisions...
taglist: @mischivana, @nyank0-0, @zuzulovesoad
(i am SO sorry i forgot to add the latter two to the taglist for recent fanfics! i swear im better at tracking whos on the taglists now :D)
when boyfriend!choso finds out about reader's insecurities
tags: angst!!, graphic depictions of disordered eating, b.e.d., extremely insecure!reader, reader's pov is inspired by my personal experiences w binging and weight, i personally dont have an ed but have a tumultuous past w disordered eating behaviours, implied chubby/overweight reader, choso is unfamiliar w human norms/beauty standards, choso likes curvy/bigger ppl truther!!, uhh i think that's it but lmk if i missed anything, second person pov (1.0k words)
“My love?” Choso called from the doorway of the flat, toeing off his shoes and walking with socked feet down the hallway. He was so excited to see you, he always was; like a puppy waiting for their owner to come home, but this time, he was the one coming home. He headed to your shared bedroom, his favourite place in the world, expecting to see you slipping into PJs or reading a book or doing your skincare, something he likens to a nightly ritual for you two: you doing one of those many tasks, and him watching you in awe.
That being said, he was rather confused to see the lights were only out despite it being barely a quarter to 9 PM. “Hey?” he called once more, cracking the door open and seeing a thin strip of hallway light settle upon your form. At first he assumed you were sleeping, curled into a foetal ball under a heavy blanket, but he realized you were in fact awake when he heard the subtle hic-sob-hic-sob-sob pattern coming from your faintly shaking form.
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong??” He immediately bolted to the side of the bed, hands raised as he felt he should do something but didn’t quite know what that “something” was.
You whined, trying to speak but being able to. It was almost embarrassing, how your timid cries turned into full-on sobs the second you registered that your beloved Choso was home. Crying alone, in private, in the warmth of your own bed was one thing, but your shame and humiliation being broadcast for the person whose opinion you valued most in the world? “No, no, no, go, Choso. Go back out. Go back out with Yuji,” you pleaded through the wails.
“No, I’m not gonna leave you alone, what’s going on?” he half-pouted. He crouched by the edge of the bed, getting down on your level, brushing a gentle hand over your chubby cheek in a feeble attempt to soothe you.
“The cake you brought home earlier,” the words spilled from your mouth like vomit that you just couldn’t hold back any longer, a heavy weight on your shoulder.
“Mm hm?” He encouraged you to continue.
“I—” you stuttered, swallowing the metaphorical frog in your throat, “—I a-ate it all, the entire cake, in one sitting.”
He didn’t mind the word vomit, he just wanted to know what had made you so upset. So he could help. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t even wait for you to come home, it’s like I wasn’t even me, I was just stressed out and wasn’t thinking and it’s like I woke up from a waking daydream and I had eaten the entire cake without even waiting for you.”
“And?”
Your brows furrowed despite your crying, confused. “W-what do you mean ‘and’? It was, like, three thousand calories, Cho!”
“But if you eat healthier for a few days, a little less snacking and more whole foods, isn’t it fine? I don’t see the problem, my love. I’m sorry,” he explained. His voice was hesitant and shaky—worried he was misunderstanding a major human norm. It wouldn’t be the first time he was overcome with that sort of ‘culture shock’ and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“No, you don’t get it,” you sobbed harder, shaking in your place (half from the sobs and half from the fear seizing you that Choso would be ashamed of your body if you were to unfurl and he saw your bloated body). “With you or Yuji or someone muscular like you guys, it doesn’t matter. It’ll just become muscle anyway. Or you can just start bulking and binge as much as you want. But I can’t. I’m fat. And now I’m just fatter.”
“Don’t say that,” he snapped, but not angrily. His tone was upset, offended, as if depressed you had the gall to insult his beautiful loved one like that! You wouldn’t talk about Yuji or Eso or Kechizu like that, nor any of his other beloved brothers, so why would you talk about someone else he loves so dearly like that? “Please? Don’t say that,” he repeated, somehow softer (though you previously thought that impossible).
“Why? It’s true,” you mumbled, buying yourself further in the blanket.
“I don’t care what’s true or not, you’re saying it like a bad thing. I don’t know what… what humans would consider “fat,” or really why you care if you’re healthy, but if fat is what you are then it’s clearly not a bad thing,” he soothed. “You’re beautiful.”
You started crying harder once more, but this time less of sadness and more of guilt. God, what had you done to deserve him? Choso stood up before adjusting, sitting back down but now on the bed and next to you, pulling you into his muscular arms. “Do you want a drink? Maybe a smoothie, or decaf tea? To feel better?” he offered.
You considered it for a moment, rolling it over in your mind before remembering Choso always adds a spoonful of honey by habit to either whether you tell him to or not. “Mm-mm,” you shook your head against his chest.
“How about a bath together, does that sound good?”
Again, the thought of Choso seeing how bloated you looked right now, especially without the barrier of clothes, was another no-go. You shook your head once more.
“Hmm… cuddles?” he offered, still looking for a way to soothe you.
No extra food (since you had already eaten past the point of full), and no one to point out how you looked? Plus the added bonus of a boyfriend who was effectively a space heater and teddy bear? Ding, ding, ding! You smiled, nodding ‘yes’ until he matched the same smile you wore but twice as wide.
authors note: genq how do people write when they have stress sickness this SUCKS
when boyfriend!gojo gets to yap about his hybrid girlfriend who, well, always wants him...
tags: dipping my toes in the water of [bunny] hybrid!reader, v sugestive (obviously), established relationship, boyfriend!gojo, high sex drive!reader, lowk rushed and shit quality mb..., i was kinda freaked writing this lol, kinda somno?? but like no dubcon as far as im aware, nanami is drunkandfreakedtfoutyummy™..., pls lmk if i missed any tags/cw!!, second person perspective (1.3k words)
“Awh, look at that,” Shoko crooned, leaning over the side of the armchair she was perched on over at Gojo’s penthouse. He was propped up on the couch, leaning against one arm with his feet kicked up on the crystalline glass coffee table in the middle of the living room. You were curled into his side, nose burrowed against the side of his ribs. There was a little wet patch on the shirt where your face rested, wet from the tip of your nose that had accidentally caught some water drops from when you were drinking a sip not too long ago.
Geto querked an eyebrow, head tilting as he observed your behaviour. Half your normal size, knees pressed to your chest, elbows poking your hips and tiny fists curled under your chin. “She always that sleepy? It’s only, what, five? Five thirty?”
“Nah, she just tuckered herself out earlier,” Gojo smiled wolfishly as though he was a wild animal bragging about their latest catch. But he didn’t see you as prey, he never could. He’d hear how other humans refer to their hybrid partners, especially beautiful animals like you, a gentle bunny. It disgusted him. The sexualization of your kind.
Though they weren’t exactly wrong. Just crude.
“Why? What’d you get up to?” Shoko asked. Gojo didn’t have to answer, his smile (somehow twice as sly as before) said all he needed to and more. “Oh…” she sighed with a huff, sort of grossed out by the mental image of Gojo in a sexual setting. “We don’t need to know that, Satoru.”
“Hey, you asked,” you beamed back. One lithe hand came down over your back, sliding a hand up and down to soothe you as you napped.
“How often?” Nanami asked out of the blue. The other three in the room were all extremely jarred, taken aback by his question. It wasn’t (at all) the kind of question he’d ask normally, but almost in synchronicity, their eyes all narrowed on the now empty glass of what was once almost two thirds of a bottle of red wine. Gojo opted out of drinking, Geto had barely touched his and Shoko realized it wasn’t the brightest idea to mix alcohol and cigarettes, so Nanami had taken it upon himself to finish the bottle once it had been opened under the guise of not wanting it to go to waste.
“I beg your pardon?” Satoru giggled. The giant, beaming smile on his face made it very clear to anyone sober he could hear him just fine and just thought it was funny to have the uptight and stoic man say something so… crass? Out of character, at the very least.
“I said,” Nanami sat up, adjusting his tie, “how often? Like, how many times a week do you do it? Have sex?” Gojo barked out a laugh. “What? That is what you were implying, no?”
“It was, it was,” he responded, laughing pattering out into an amused chuckle. “A week? Dunno, varies quite a bit, depending on how busy I am. Cases and stuff. On a day where I’m home? Maybe four or five, six times?”
“You mean how many times a week when you’re home every day?” Geto attempted to clarify.
Gojo just… shook his head loosely.
“Day. You said up to six times a day,” Shoko repeated. She took a relatively medical perspective to every conversation she’d have, so all she could think is that poor girl, no wonder she’s so tired!
“Oh, no, I mean on average. Up to? Like, sixteen maybe? Neither of us sleep much.”
“What the fuck??” she immediately sputtered, shooting straight up in her chair. “Define sex. Surely you’re just… just communicating weirdly.”
“Uhh… some foreplay maybe—if she wants, sex, a few orgasms, I clean her up?”
“A few?!” She was halfway to hysteria at this point. Never in her life did Shoko want to know even a shred of what she now does about her best friend, her brother figure’s, sex life. That being said, being a doctor comes with a sort of morbid curiosity. “How don’t you have postorgasmic illness syndrome? How aren’t you constantly exhausted? How haven’t you run out of sperm??”
“…reverse cursed technique?” he shrugged sweetly.
The shrug led to you shifting in his hold, dipping down closer to his lap. You whined, foot thumping twice against the air in frustration before your thighs began to rub together in your sleep. He chuckled at you, running a soothing hand over your fluffy cotton tail.
Unfortunately, that only seemed to frustrate you more. Unconsciously, your hand patted down the path of his baggy sweatpants and twitched over by the waistband. You reached under in an attempt to find what it was you were so desperately reaching for. Maybe dreaming about it? Gojo could only imagine.
“No, no,” he cooed. His cheeks tinted pink, not with embarrassment or desire, just with how hard he was trying not to laugh. He reached a hand under his own pants and around your wrist, pulling it out and returning it to its rightful spot in your own warm lap.
“If she’s so hypersexual,” Geto began, using the colloquial sense of the word, “how come she’s not with another bunny hybrid? A guy that matches her drive?” God, he was trying to be as respectful as he could in such an indecent situation.
“Hey, how dare you insinuate I can’t keep up!” he huffed proudly.
“Toru…” Suguru’s eyelids lowered in disbelief.
Satoru sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, it’s reverse cursed technique, okay? Buck hybrids reach exhaustion at like, six. Ten, max. Won’t mate anymore.”
“Mm, I’ve been thinking of getting one,” Nanami drunkenly confessed. God, Gojo should have gotten him drunk sooner! He seldom spoke when intoxicated but every sentence he let slip was so rich with who is this imposter and what has he done with the uptight loser Nanami-ism.
The dam broke and every bellowing laugh that had built up flooded free from the white-haired man. “You? Get..? Get what?! A buck? What do you mean, ‘get’?”
“A hybrid partner,” he explained. God, even when he was drunk, that tone of levelness and monotony was unwavering. “The dynamics are compelling. I believe I shall look into predominantly hybrid social settings, or a dating app with such.”
The laugh that inundated the room had seemingly stirred you awake, as you pushed yourself up using his thighs to sit upright on the couch and rubbed your buggy, tired eyes. “Toru?” you mumbled, voice soft like your little lop ears.
“Hey, bun.” Everyone noticed how his tone immediately shifted when addressing you. His special one, his sweetheart.
“Toru,” you repeated once more, this time much louder and happier as the tiredness had melted from your body. You wrapped your arms around his neck, still kneeling against the couch cushions, burying your face against the crux of his neck. “Toru,” you whispered, “I’m… I wanna have sex.”
One of many things he loved about you: your bluntness.
Pleased with your clear request, showing it was long from the days of you pretending to be innocent to please him as was expected of a docile hybrid type such as you.
“You guys can entertain each other, yeah?” he asked and, without waiting for an answer from his friends, scooped you up and carried you with your legs wrapped around his waist to your (very soundproofed, your welcome neighbours) bedroom. “Guest rooms’re already set up for you guys!” he called back.
authors note: period of hell is here so all i can write is suggestive shit. im not even a sexual person. hence why i dont read smut. js freaked tf out when it's yk... 𝓭𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓱 ❤️ but yes due to not being sexually active person this might SUCKK and be poorly written sry...
authors note p2 (more important prolly): puhLEASE lmk what yall thing abt hybrid!reader, i <3 hybrid readers + shifters or wtv, i js think its sooo cute, but ik its kinda controversial??? maybee
taglist: @mischivana (if anyone wants to be on the taglist pls dont hesitate to ask!!! but also pls do ask bc i will not do it unless im sure you wanna be on the taglist. i am scared of assuming lol.)
when one night's mistake costs nanami 18 years of his life.
tags: please catch the chromokopia title ref so i dont seem crazy, smau-ish? email format bro idk, college au, accidental pregnancy trope, afab!reader, situationship!nanami, kinda drabbley, might make a p2 but idrk how much i fw it, reader genuinely hates nanamis guts (0.7k words)
subject: The news revealed last Tuesday: please respond ASAP.
Dear Y/N,
I hope you are well (or as well as you could be, with the recent revelation). I apologize for this rather uncouth manner of reaching you, however I feel as though it is my last choice, as you have resorted to blocking me on every platform.
Would you be interested in meeting at a café? I'm not sure until when you can still have caffeine, but if you subscribe to the "better safe than sorry" school of thought, I would be able to buy you a decaf drink. Either way, location and snacks are irrelevant. I would just like to see you, talk to you, and discuss our course of action.
Regards,
Nanami Kento
P.S.; could you, at the very least, unblock me on Spotify? Seeing what music you listen to has been a good gauge of your mood ever since the hormones have begun affecting you.
subject: Please match the level of respect I am presenting you with.
Dear Y/N,
Please don't think I don't understand why you are so (justifiably) upset with me. However, I also request that in turn for me attempting to see things from your perspective, that you also try to see it from my perspective. Not from the perspective of the "jerk" I have been to you thus far, but as someone who is trying to extend an olive branch for the sake of... well..
subject: Will you at least respect the structure of an email, so I may know the tone of your message beforehand?
Dear Y/N,
I am not trying to compare my current experience to yours. It is because of how much worse the situation is for you than for me that I am trying to reach out and organize some type of meeting. So, again, I request you inform me of your time availability and capacity for travel.
Best Regards,
Nanami Kento
P.S.: For the record, as well, I don't plan on being a "deadbeat."
subject: I can give you many reasons but until further clarification, will only give one.
Dearest Y/N,
As I mentioned previously, my intention is nothing more than establishing the best course of action and finding out how I can support you through these trying times. If that is simply financially with no further personal involvement, I am ready to make that sacrifice for your sake. But whether it's raising the child, termination, or child support, I would like to be told to my face.
In case I haven't been abundantly clear, despite being rather terrified of the responsibility demanded by the role, I do intend on being in our the child's life if you carry it to term.
subject: yk strikethrough is not the same as deleting letters right
kento,
4pm next thursday, the coffee place next to my classic lit hall w the rly good caramel drizzle. ive been craving it all week. cant spell the name
now actually stop emailing me,
l/n
────────
author's note: do we fw the format? this is kinda rushed but i liked the idea when i started writing it and not by the time i finished lol so lmk what yall think... 𝓱𝓮𝓱...
sleepyhead — choso kamo (smau + textfic) extra drabbles
250 follower special !! as this is the series that brought most of you to my acct :)
when plug!choso starts crushing on his only customer that only uses it medicinally.
tags: modern/college au, plug!choso, nerdy!reader, fem!reader, suggestive, MUNCH CHOSO MUNCH CHOSO MUNCH CHOSO, weed consumption, my lack of knowledge on this subject is probably more evident than ever, readers marajuana use is medicinal (for sleep), half normal fic and half smau, longer than other parts, drabble parts are second person pov and add up to 1.4k words
SMAU EXTRAS:
────────
DRABBLES:
morning after - 363 words
Choso loved the feeling of waking up next to you... meaning when he didn't get to, he got very grumpy.
Slipping out of bed and shuffling around his apartment (which was aired out for the first time in months, since you insisted on cracking the windows open so the smoke that had accumulated could waft out), he started calling your name like a whiny, clingy puppy.
"Morning, Cho," you beamed as you peeked your head out from the doorway of the washroom. You were brushing your teeth, hair messy and eyes tired, draped in one of his shirts.
It was just some graphic tee for a random stoner artist, probably Bob Marley or Snoop Dogg. Choso didn't have a particular music taste, he just liked whatever made his mind feel 'mellow,' whether reggae or rap.
"I made breakfast, it's in your kitchen."
He nodded gently, turning around to scope out the state of the kitchen: there was a plate waiting for him with two fried eggs, a slice of toast, and a scoop of hulled strawberries.
"You didn't have to do that," Choso murmured awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck before turning back to you.
Last night, you came over to pick up your weekly supply of 'sleeping aid.' However, Choso (bawling in an emotional, stoned haze) had to awkwardly explain that he forgot he was making edibles and left them in the oven way too long.
"I couldn't sleep, so I figured I'd be useful!" you giggled nervously.
You bent over to spit out the toothpaste, washing the bristles of the brush thoroughly. When you came back up you jumped slightly at the sight of a very pouty stoner behind you, staring back at your reflection. "I'm sorry I burnt all the supply, I really thought I'd have enough for you," he half whimpered.
"It's not like I was gonna sleep last night anyway," you giggled, putting down the toothbrush and exiting the washroom.
He stared at the saw of your hips and the curve of your thighs under the hem of your (his?) shirt. The bruises and hickeys from last night marking everywhere no one else was allowed to sleep.
─── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
adverse affects - 601 words
There was a reason Choso, despite being a cluttered and disorganized, pathetic mess a good ninety per cent of the time, was so, so meticulous with his orderliness and organization of his little weed packies.
Organized by strain, by customer, by THC and CBD content, and so on. He's a loser but he would have a break down if he knew he was the reason someone got sick or had some crazy symptoms as a result of his mess up.
Especially you.
Which means, safe to say he crashed the fuck out when he realized his instructions to you to try his new brownie recipe were not clear enough and you accidentally had two slices of the batch he'd made specially for himself.
Instead of your normal indica heavy anti-insomnia formula, pretty light considering what else he deals, you'd mixed what was already in your system with the strain incredibly high in sativa he'd been using to self-medicate chronic headaches for the past few weeks.
"Nooo," you whined, sniffling and babbling on his couch, leaning forward so he had no choice but to support your limp and blubbering form. "You're gonna—gonna... y-you're gonna leave me all alone when I'm hi—high and sick and have dry mouth and am all sniffly..."
You'd been rambling for the past ten minutes about your paranoid delusions. Maybe if you were more used to strains with anxiety as a common side effect you'd be more normal right now, but this new type of high was a shock to your system, not to mention the total disorientation of mixing two polar-opposite strains.
"I'm not gonna leave, you're my favourite client, favourite girl. I'm right here," Choso soothed as he had been for just as long as you'd been crying. How could he not? It was his fault you were like this, the least he could do is help you.
Internally, he was seething. He wanted to bang his head against the wall, or punch himself in the face. He can't believe he made such a big mistake regarding such a precious person. "Do you want a glass of water, pretty?" he offered as he continued to rub soothing circles between your shoulder blades.
You sniffled once, twice, before nodding and sitting up on your own. Once you were supporting your own weight he shifted off the couch, getting a simple glass of tap water. He was a poor university student in a shoddy apartment, it's not like he could afford a fancy filter or anything.
He sat next to you once more, raising the glass to your lips and tipping it to force you into drinking. A little dribbled down your chin and wettened the top of your shirt. But he had to stay strong. He couldn't stare at your chest, he couldn't stare at your chest, he couldn't...
"Do you feel any better?" he asked, placing the glass of water on the coffee table in front of the couch.
You nodded, wiping the already shed tears from your eyes and taking deep (though shuddering) breaths to almost self-soothe.
"Good to hear it," he smiled fondly.
"Why good? Was I too much to handle before? Am I too much to handle now? Do you wish I'd just stop buying from you because the money isn't worth putting up with my emotional self?" you spiraled, working yourself up over nothing before breaking into tears again.
He took a deep breath, stopping himself from crying with you (over anger at himself), and lifted his hand to once more rub his hand over your back in careful circles.
─── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
at home theatre - 420 words lol
Ever since the new, 2025 Superman film had come out, it was a serious contender for your favourite movie (between DC League of Superpets, the LEGO Ninjago Movie, and Star Wars: Episode III, naturally).
That was a decision you took very seriously, and one that affected more than just you: it affected your friends, who had to completely readjust what they got you for your birthday because you had a new obsession with each movie you declared your favourite. It affected your plushies, who had to hear the same analysis of the same scene over and over again for hours a day, weeks on end.
Most of all, it affected Choso, who (despite thinking the Superman movie was just sort of 'meh') was now on his seventh rewatch of it in the last two months.
"Wait, wait, did you catch that?" you squealed, scrambling off of his lap to grab the remote and pause the TV. You scootched towards the TV, tapping ardently at the screen, where a small, green road sign that was only visible for half a second read "Gotham City: KEEP LEFT."
You were so excited, when you turned back to explain what you were pointing out to Choso he couldn't help but crack a warm smile. "See, I didn't catch that the other sixteen times I watched the movie, I wasn't paying enough attention. But it's a little easter egg for Batman! Can you believe there are some people who don't realize the whole DCU is interconnected? That Gotham and Metropolis are, like, right next to each other?!"
"No, I can't believe that," he responded, voice soft as a cloud or a fluffy, toasted marshmallow.
"It's crazy, Cho, crazy," you huffed as you squirmed back into his comfortable lap, laying your head back against his chest. He pressed play, resuming the movie, before reaching over for one of his pre-rolled joints.
He brought a lighter to the tip, heating it up until he saw small embers even across the flat edge, taking a deep breath and letting the earthy tones settle in his lungs.
You began rambling again about the movie so he passed the joint he'd just hit, and you accepted it without pause. The only reprieve your overworked vocal chords got was while you were taking a deep lungful of the crisp smoke before bringing it back from your lips.
Not registering the already-settling affects, you continued to ramble, not realizing your words were slurring until you'd already fallen asleep in his broad lap.
─── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
a/n: im gonna cry 250+ followers you guys are actually fucking insane ily all sm </3
a/n p2: again, i implore any and all corrects for my (lack of) knowledge on marijuanas!! + lmk what yall think of the more classic text fic style for this series :)
when dean winchester's vampire girlfriend learns that biting dean won't turn him.
tags: drabble, LOTS OF BITING, vampire!fem!reader, established relationship, technically interspecies relationship..? human dean x vamp reader..?, suggestive at the end, descriptions of blood and injuries (consensual tho duh), a bit out of canon (vampires arent that bad in this world), wonky timeline, second person pov (0.9k words)
"Wake up, sleepyhead," Dean mumbled, grabbing you by the shoulder to give you a light shake. Your eyes fluttered to life, mumbling something incoherent in response, as you rose.
"Whu..?" you mumbled, lifting one hand off of Dean's defined chest to wipe saliva off of your drooling mouth. It was all over his arm, dampening the hem of his dark grey sleeve, stretched taut over the curve of his bicep.
"You were biting me in your sleep. Again," he chuckled, gesturing at the litany of bite marks scattering up and down his upper arm. A couple were deeper than the rest, with two puncture wounds each like straw holes in a juice box, faint streaks of blood dribbling out. How fucking high was his pain tolerance to put up with that for at least a dozen bites?
"Mm, I'm sorry." You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, turning over in bed to check the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:03 PM. You were nocturnal naturally, and whenever Dean didn't have a case, he'd switch around his sleep schedule to be up at the same time as you. But when he can't, he'll take as many naps as possible just to get to cuddle with you.
Ever since you found out how exactly vampires become, well, vampires—you were turned in an unconscious daze, too concussed and battered to remember at the time—you had been biting him non-stop. After all, it wouldn't turn him, right?
He didn't exactly mind being covered in your marks either, needy bastard. He always put up a tough act but deep down, his abandonment issues leapt with joy at your biting kink little quirks.
"I gotta get you a teething ring," he snickered, running a hand over your soft cheek. His salty thumb dipped over your lower lip, wiping his own blood off of it, before lifting up your top lips.
He saw nothing at first, brows pinching, before your slowly ejected your fangs so he could take a little peek. He always liked poking them against the pads of his fingers, feeling the resistance his calluses create.
"Why'dj w'ke me uh?" you mumbled around the tip of his thumb.
"You stole my sweatpants this morning, I'm getting cold. Either give it back or get off of me so I can get changed... either way, y'have to be awake, okay?"
"Okay..." you huffed, rolling over and tangling further into the blankets of your shared bed.
He got up, walking around to grab a pair out of the dresser, as you not so subtly stared at his ass. "Would you let me bite your thighs?" you asked abruptly.
"Huh?" he cocked an eyebrow, head turning to face you. "Oh—" he processed what you said, "—yeah, sure, why not. Uh, why, though?"
"'Cuz I like biting? And you have a lot of meat there," you giggled, feet wiggling with joy under the blanket.
"Right," he scoffed, giving a little laugh before leaving the bedroom.
──────
"De-eannnn," you whined, dragging your feet tiredly through the bunker kitchen towards your chef of a boyfriend. He had four burgers cooking: one for Sam, three for him, and all the blood that drips from the ground beef for you.
"Yeah, baby?" he calls back, not even turning around to face you.
"Couldn't get back ta' sleep." You wrapped both arms around him, face burrowed in his clothed back, his trapezius and deltoids flexing under you. "Too cold without you."
He grinned at your neediness, allowing you to stay wrapped around him. You wiggled to duck your head under his baggy t-shirt, arms now touching bare skin, nose to his back. He squirmed from the cold of your wet lips touched his back after your tongue darted out to wet your lips, burrowing in closer.
"Hey!—" he jerked when he felt the scrape of your fangs against his back. It didn't hurt, you didn't dig in, but that didn't mean it hadn't caught him off guard. He pulled his shirt off of your head, whipping around to face you, folding immediately at the sight of your love-struck and giggly expression. "What was that for??"
"'Cuz I love you, Deanie," you beamed, jumping up with your arms still wrapped around him. He panicked, immediately putting down the spatula to catch you under your thighs, knowing how you'd get if he let you land back on your feet. Your smile widened impossibly, leaning forward, teeth digging into the crux of his neck.
"Ah! Ahh~" he jumped before the shocked noise dissolved into a sighed-out moan. "Fuck," he whimpered in a huff, hoping you wouldn't hear the little pathetic noise. But you did, you always did, and responded only by digging in further.
You shifted your position, adjusting the hold your legs had around him, before his grip tightened to stop you. "Wait—wait, hold on," he grumbled.
"What's wrong? Too hard?" you asked, always eager to ensure you're not really hurting him.
"No, no, I... just, don't move your hips there, okay?" His olive skin flushed a pretty pink.
"Why, what's..? Oh," you blushed back upon feeling the evidence of his enjoyment press against your upper thigh. You stifled a proud giggle, which would've been all well and good if not for the fact it bared your little fangs and aroused him to the nth degree.
He immediately bolted, carrying you off to the bedroom, shouting at Castiel to come take over the burger-cooking-process before they burnt on the now neglected pan.
author's note: idk how i feel abt this one guys i kinda hate it
chat what do we think abt me writing some mha fics... i havent watched it in like six years and even then i didnt even finish season one... but i think the characters are so fun and i was lowk so entrenched in the fandom ik a lot more than i watched 🫡 but if thats sacrilege or smthn im fine not writing it heh...
