XOXO, SUICIDAL SLUT

[g0ssip-gxrl]

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

┊ ❛ 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗣𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦 ❜ ┊ ♱ ⁺. ılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılıılııl .⁺ ♱

▌✟ EXPLORE MORE GENRES

↳ . .┊ ◟﹫ 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝗶𝗶 ˚. ⤸ ‧₊˚ ꒱ 𝘴𝘩𝘦 / 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝟭𝟵 𝘧𝘦𝘮 ▌ ↳ ♱ ' oh lord, im in the water take a dive with me ' 𝟎:𝟓𝟏 ———♡——— 𝟑:𝟐𝟔 ◁◁          ▐  ▌          ▷▷ ╰────────────── ✦ ⁺.

▌𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ❛ I MIGHT HAVE TO FUCK HER ON THE HIGHWAY ❜

┊ ❛ 𝟔𝟗 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❜ ┊

歪歪 ▌RULE 34 約嗎 ▌RULE 35

𝖓𝖘𝖋𝖜 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌, ! 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ! ──────── 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪-𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘕𝘖 𝘈𝘐 𝘎𝘌𝘕𝘌𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘕𝘛.

[ohimsummer]

meangirl! utahime, fuming and jealous as her girlfriend, bully! shoko, and best friend, bully! yuki, take turns with you.

she holds up her phone, zooming in on your tear-stained face and scoffing as shoko plunges her strap into you again and again, pulling another toe-curling orgasm out of you. utahime casts you a seething glare, stricken with disdain and utter disgust that her girlfriend would give someone as pathetic and miserable as you a second glance, let alone bend you over and fuck you. you’re nowhere near deserving of what shoko has to offer.

yuki sits nearby in the desk chair to catch her breath, stroking the rubber length between her legs as she awaits her next turn. the scene is hot, lewd, the way shoko slams into you hard enough to send ripples throughout your ass, and those cute little cries you let out when one of them gives the skin another slap.

utahime yanks at your hair whenever your face is too deep in the pillows, instructing you on whatever filthy name to call yourself next. and you have no choice but to comply unless you want utahime to let her filthy mouth loose and insult you to tears again, or shove mean fingers down your throat until you’re gagging and wretching around them.

“say it.” utahime squeezes your cheeks between her fingers, digging sharp nails into your face. and tells you again. “loud, so yuki can hear, too.”

your tears and whimpers don’t phase her, they never do, only serving to make you look even more like a weak and dumb little puppy-dog.

“i— i’m jus-just—,” the words come out raspy and broken through constant, heaving sobs, “—shoko’s stupid c—cockwhore…”

utahime sneers at your “confession”. she turns away, content at your humiliation for now, and goes to send the new video to their secret little group chat.

@anthoosies @staryukis @teddybeartoji @bubblez-blop @deepenthevoid @luvvmae @risuola @bunnymacaron

[g0ssip-gxrl]

Utahime unlocks a sort of lesbianism in me I didnt think possible….

[cuntphoric]

she’s already shaking by the time you get your mouth on her — already so breathy with her thighs trembling like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

you spread her legs wider and kiss up the inside of her thigh, grinning when she gasps and tightens the grab at your hair.

“s-sensitive,” she whimpers. “i—i c-can’t..”

“yes, you can,” you murmur, licking a slow stripe up her cunt, tasting her all sweet and soaked. “you’re doing so good for me already.”

her whole body shudders. you flick your tongue over her clit again and again, savoring the way her hips buck and her moans get louder. she’s usually so composed — all strict glares and sharp words — but now she’s falling apart for her wife, begging under her breath, thighs clamping around your head.

you press two fingers into her slowly, curling them just right, and she cries out. her voice cracks on your name.

“fuck— please! i’m—”

“cum,” you whisper, locking your mouth around her clit, keeping the same pace.

and she does almost immediately — loudly, gripping her only lifeline's hair. chanting your name between cries. but you don’t stop. not even when she tries to lock her thighs on your head, not when her legs twitch and she’s whimpering from the overstimulation.

“one more,” you breathe. “gimme one more, 'hime. pleeeease.”

[g0ssip-gxrl]

Geto lovers are so greedy and get all the fics

Try being an Utahime fan, ts is not for the weak I say as im writing a Geto fic

[blkkizzat]

HE CUMS IN DREAMS (AND SO DO I) r.sukuna

                         ♪ 𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓾𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓷 + 🚨 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 🚨

ꉂ FREDDY KRUEGER! SUKUNA X GOONETTE! READER

ꉂ dream (sum): Teens in your town are turning up dead—mutilated by their own nightmares. The solution? A government-issued pill that creates dreamless sleep. But you're taking your chances! Dreams are the only place where all the hott senior boys line up to rail you! Tonight, though, someone new joins the lineup—ancient, hungry, and hellbent on turning your wet dreams into a bloodbath. Will you survive?

ꉂ nightmares (cw): based on nightmare on elm street 2. freddy krueger. freddy! sukuna kinks: teratophilia, size difference, virgin. everyone in this fic is 18+ senior in HS. horror but also humor/crack. *warning*—this fic makes fun of small town evangelism/religious frenzy. gooner!reader. nerd!reader. sheltered!reader. wet dreams. mentions of death/murder. brief mentions of one-sided delulu!reader x other jjk men (𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮, 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨, 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢, 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐢𝐧𝐨, 𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐨). heavier mentions of gojo (dreamjo) as readers dream bf. true form!sukuna, double pen and voyeurism, masturbation. (also a few horror movie/tv show easter eggs if you catch them!)

ꉂ kills (wc): 7.8k of ?

ꉂ a/n: hope y'all enjoy p1! had to break up as i start going crazy when the draft hits 10K.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 || 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

Your favorite hobby is sleeping.

Not exactly thrilling, but in this dead-end town? Girl, dreams are all you’ve got.

So it’s no wonder why on a Friday night you're racing up the stairs just to get in bed.

Not like a shut-in like you gets invited anywhere anyway—not since middle school at least. Your bible-thumping mother treats anything past sundown like a one-way ticket to hell. 

She’s also the reason why you’re still a senior at nineteen. 

After listening to your pastor’s fire-and-brimstone sermon about ‘Satan’s curriculum in secular schools’ (or whatever that means). Apparently cutting paper animals and licking glue was too “spiritually risky” so your kindergarten enrollment was delayed.

From there your social quarantine only escalated—no playdates, no sleepovers, no extracurriculars—unless it was church related. 

Eventually, your childhood friends gave up even trying. You don’t even blame them. With your brick-like fossil Nokia phone you couldn’t even download any social media apps to keep up with them. 

Sure, you’ve technically been a legal adult for a while but for now you’re biding your time until graduation. You’ve already got a full ride to an out-of-state college lined up behind your parents’ backs. So missing out on being blackout drunk in a field somewhere wasn’t exactly tearing you up—there would be many more opportunities in college to drink that didn’t involve trying to dodge cow shit. 

But there IS one thing you definitely feel like you’re missing out on—

Dating.

Boys and dating are two things your parents, especially your mother, would absolutely not tolerate until marriage. 

No exceptions. 

Not even a chaste courtship with Ino—the good-natured, boy-next-door who played acoustic guitar for the church choir—was allowed.

You still cringe thinking about the first (and last) time he bought you a popsicle from the ice cream truck one summer. Of course, your mother snatched it right out of your hands then gave you both a scathing 10-minute lecture on how popsicles are a ‘slippery slope to orally sinning.’

You’d say she put the fear of God into Ino, but honestly?

Ino seemed way more afraid of your mother than of God—especially with the way he’s avoided you like some biblical plague ever since.

Not that you were too heartbroken.

Sure, Ino liked you. Like a lot. 

But you mostly just liked the idea of being liked. 

Still, the fact remains that beggars can’t be choosers and Ino is sweet enough that you would’ve let him be your first kiss. 

With a sigh, you shut your bedroom door—not that it mattered when it didn't even lock.

Your mother has a sixth sense for depravity and always knows the worst possible moment to barge in.

You can’t even goon in peace.

So something perfectly normal for a nineteen-year-old—like a vibrator? Yeah, no. 

You’d never risk bringing one into the house. Your mom wouldn’t just ground you—she’d send you straight back to the Lord himself.

Tossing your hoodie on your desk, you dig through your drawers for your favorite sleep shirt: the faded one that says Crystal Lake Camp.  The yellow, worn cotton is basically the closest thing you own to illicit contraband.

It used to belong to a hot camp counselor at the church-run summer camp your parents dumped you in last year, hoping it would “instill moral character.”

(Spoiler: it didn’t.)

Thankfully, every camper and counselor got the same oversized shirt, so it was easy to swipe Counselor Kashimo’s from the laundry pile without anyone noticing. 

And yeah... you shamelessly didn’t wash it for like a month. Not until the woodsy, storm-soaked scent of the punky, blue-haired hunk faded completely.

Nostalgia clings to it like old cologne as you change and enter your bathroom.

Sigh. Your nightly routine is as dull as ever. Brushing your teeth on autopilot, you rinse and glance up at the mirror. Gaze catching on your reflection, you just stare.

Same tired eyes. Same boring hair. Same pouty lips, still tasting faintly of berry chapstick—untouched by anyone else’s.

Well, anyone real. (Doesn’t hurt to stay ready, though.)

While staring in the mirror you often imagine Suguru Geto—your school’s unnervingly charming student council president—standing behind you, just out of frame. One hand ghosting over your neck, the other trailing down your spine as he leans in to whisper something unhinged in that smooth, reverent voice of his.

You don’t even need to close your eyes to picture it.

You’ve rehearsed this scene so many times before in your dreams you can practically see him in the mirror behind you.

A familiar heat pools low in your belly as you quickly flip off the light and exit the bathroom. 

Eee! You’re so horny—you need to get to bed like asap!

Your panties are already soaked, clinging to your heat as you kill the light and melt into the mattress—settling in like a seasoned whore slipping into her usual spot on the curb, ready for the night.

Daydreams are one thing—but lucid dreams? A whole different beast. 

Vividly visceral, they’re the only place you start living the way you were meant to. There you can flirt like a slut, wear skirts with nothing underneath and kiss boys your mother would definitely deem to be demons.

And in your dreams? They might as well be devils. 

Bending you over desks, pinning you to lockers, in their hedonistic hunger they are too down to stuff you full at the drop of a hat—usually more than one of them at the same time too.

You smile to yourself, already squirming just from thinking about your favorite senior boys who make up the main cast of your delusional dream harem.

First up—

Toji Fushiguro—quarterback of the football team, built like he does prison workouts for fun (which is convenient as prison is exactly where everyone thinks he’ll end up). 

He’s got a sexy scar on his lip, a black ‘67 Impala he calls “Baby” and allegedly a secret kid according to the rumors.

You’re pretty sure he’s repeated a year or two if not flunked out entirely—no one’s ever seen him in a class. Moonlighting as the school’s resident plug, Toji just shows up to deal, wreck the other team on game days and rail a cheerleader in the parking lot before dipping. As long as he keeps winning, no one seems to care.

The only place to reliably spot Toji is at his part-time gig at the local auto shop. You started tagging alone so much your dad thinks you’ve developed an interest in cars—but really, your interest lay in seeing Toji. You know without fail, the second your dad’s back is turned, Toji will tower over you wearing that deadly smirk and ask if you need anything “checked under the hood” while he licks his thumb like he’s prepping it just for you.

He’s grimy and disgusting. 

Far beneath any self-respecting standards of the modern woman.

And yet? 

You’d let him raw dog secret baby #2 into you—no questions asked.

Even so, you could only imagine the shotgun marriage your parents would force upon you so a much safer option would be…

Gojo Satoru—the basketball star that’s six feet of snowy-haired chaos with dazzling crystalline eyes and a mouth that never shuts up. 

He has no concept of the term “inside voices” and half of what he says is utter nonsense. Yet somehow the devastatingly attractive goofball still manages to be the school’s resident heartthrob.

Once you ran into him while he was skipping class on your way back from the bathroom. Thinking he’d ignore you, you were completely blindsided when he complimented your Digimon keychain like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen—right before having the audacity to ask if he could borrow your hall pass.

And of course—like the absolute simp you are—you handed it over without a second thought before he could even finish the question.

Pleased, Gojo purred out a thanks with a wink, tongue peaking out between his lips

And then you blacked out. 

No, seriously—like full-on collapsed. 

You came to twenty minutes later in the nurse’s office with a goose egg on your forehead and Gojo looming over you amused as fuck at you giving him an actually legit reason to skip class.

Now he calls you ‘anemic girl’ in the halls and occasionally tosses you a hard candy like you’re some random stray he adopted. He’s given you 16 so far and you’ve kept every single one—carefully hoarded like relics—in a shoebox shrine under your bed. 

Obviously.

Although there is never a dull moment around Gojo’s chaotic energy, sometimes you crave a little order. Someone more on the straight and narrow to keep you on track. Someone like…

Nanami Kento—head of the disciplinary committee. 

Nanami is the only senior who people sometimes mistake for an actual teacher as he dresses like he already has 3 kids and holds down a grueling 9-to-5. One thing is for sure though, those khaki slacks that Nanami wears are most definitely working overtime as they have absolutely no business showing off just how double-cheeked up he is (and still being within the dress code). 

Nanami carries a clipboard stacked with half-pre-filled detention slips like he’s just waiting for someone to fuck up. His moral compass is so rigid it could be registered as a weapon. 

And if the outline in his pants is any indication—so could his dick.

One morning, you were sprinting through the halls, already late, when Nanami caught you. Flushed and fumbling, you spat out some half-baked excuse about helping a teacher.

Nanami didn’t blink. Just stared right through you like he’d already clocked your piss-poor lie and filed it and you under ‘pathetic’.

Yet in a rare show of mercy, noting your otherwise perfect attendance, he simply adjusted his glasses and let you off with a cool, “don’t let it happen again.” 

You could’ve cried in relief—which, in hindsight, would’ve been way less humiliating.

Instead, nerves had you whimpering out a needy, “Y-Yes, sir.”

It was the one time you ever saw him falter—just briefly—before he smoothed it over, raising a single brow. But the faint curl of his smirk and the darkening heat in his eyes as he turned away nearly brought you to your knees.

You would’ve gladly taken in-school detention and correction right then and there—which, unfortunately, left you fantasizing whether Nanami detentions come with safewords.

Still, there were times when the thought of answering to anyone in your already sheltered life felt suffocating—and that’s when you craved someone more free-spirited. Enter...

Choso Kamo—the art freak burnout with a facetat, who’s always “getting air” behind the gym with the other stoners, the smell of weed and acrylic paint always trailing behind him.

Notorious for that pale, sleepless Edward Cullen look, Choso’s eyebags all but screamed he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since leaving the womb. And if expecting him to sparkle didn’t keep you staring at him more than the whiteboard during class, the way he toys with his labret piercing using his tongue barbell definitely did the trick.

You’ve watched him do it enough during fifth period to know—deep in your depraved little soul—that he eats pussy like it’s his last fucking meal.

But the most disarming thing about him? 

That brooding emo-boy exterior melts into golden retriever sweetness any time he talks about his younger siblings.

Surprisingly sentimental, you once caught him tearing up at his locker over a crayon drawing his little brother Yuji hid in his lunch bag, along with the message to—“half a gud dae at skool :)” scrawled in glitter gel pen. When you handed him a tissue, he looked up at you with glassy puppy-dog eyes and whispered a broken, “Thanks,” like you’d just saved his life.

You can’t decide if you want to wreck him or swaddle him but either way?

Choso is your Roman Empire.

And finally…

Suguru Geto—class president. What healthy ovulating girl didn’t want Suguru?

Smart, commanding and terrifyingly magnetic—Suguru’s morning announcements feel more like political rallies. He’s got the presence of a world leader and the aptitude of someone who’d absolutely start a murderous apocalyptic sex cult. 

One that you’d be first in line to pledge yourself to, collar, chains and all.

Especially when he smiles that polite, unnervingly deliberate smile. 

Geto is always top of the class. Always ten steps ahead. 

Like he could correctly guess the color of your panties—and then know exactly how to talk you out of them for "the cause."

Your parents might’ve put you off religion, but you’d still worship at his altar any day of the week—even if he was Damien in the flesh, horns tucked beneath that gorgeous spill of raven hair. 

One time during an assembly, Suguru stated that, “devotion breeds obedience”—while staring dead at you.

Your panties haven’t been dry since.

All-in-all, with such a powerful teen dream starting lineup, of course it made the perfect sleepy-time goon fodder

Or at least—it used to.

Then the deaths started.

Peculiar ones. Grotesque in that slasher-movie kind of way that even left investigators rattled. 

Too violent to be self-inflicted, yet no signs of forced entry, no murder weapon, no DNA—no trace of anything, really.

Like their dreams themselves were killing them.

The few who survived long enough to wake up? None of them stayed sane. Every single one was institutionalized. And all of them raving about the same thing: A pink-haired monster who crawled into their heads and twisted their worst fears into blood-soaked nightmares.

The only thing anyone could confirm? It only happens while asleep. 

And it wasn’t just at night either.

A girl in your Biology lab—Riko—nearly jammed a scalpel into her own temple, convinced there was a giant bug burrowing into her brain.

She would’ve done it too, if class president Suguru hadn’t reacted fast enough—snatching her wrist and shaking her awake just in time.

Soon all over town, whispered rumors and wild theories began spreading like wildfire.

The cops blamed a new wave of hallucinogenic drugs. 

Churchgoers (your mother included) pointed fingers at violent video games and action movies.

But the older folks, the ones who’d lived here long enough to know where the skeletons of the town were buried, blamed something else entirely—a curse. 

An ancient and particularly malevolent one at that.

The local folklore of the town’s founding told of a vengeful spirit—one from an evil man from nearly a thousand years ago who could control the souls of others. 

One who was burned, quartered and his body sealed away for his blasphemous sorcery. 

Supposedly, he wasn’t even from the area and among the founding settlers of your town were the guardians of the sealed parts and they scattered his remains across it.

But these were just stories. Just silly hoodoo.

Or it was until Yu Haibara died. The pastor’s son. 

Bright, kind and beloved with no moral vices nor enemies to blame—that’s when the fearful frenzy truly hit. 

Yet somewhere in all the chaos, someone suggested a desperate, off-the-cuff fix—Dreamless sleep.

And shockingly? 

It worked.

The deaths stopped. Just like that.

Naturally, what followed was a strict curfew along with mandatory, state-distributed, sleeping pills were handed out to every teen in town. The heavy stuff—the kind that shoved you right past REM and into a dreamless, black void.

No dreams meant no monsters. 

No monsters? No mysterious murders.

Unfortunately for you, it also meant no wet dreams.

It’s been almost a week since your last one and you’re on the verge of crashing tf out. 

Forget killer nightmares—at this point, it’s the built‑up tension in your core that feels lethal.

Your one escape—poof, gone. Just like that.

God, you miss getting railed in every depraved way your real life refuses to allow.

Unlike the rest of the town—currently drowning in shared hysteria—you’re keeping your head. 

Thankfully, you literally just covered something like this in your psych textbook.

To you, the “dream murders” sound like a perfect storm of sleepwalking, mass panic and one very real killer no one’s caught yet. You’re not about to knock yourself unconscious any longer while everyone else plays catch‑up.

So tonight? You don’t take the pill.

The second your mother’s back is turned, you spit it into your mint tin for safekeeping.

You’d flush them, but hey—never know when they’ll come in handy. 

Maybe once this all blows over, you’ll spike your parents’ nightly chamomile and finally sneak out. 

Toji did say to stop by if you were ever in need of a tune‑up… and you wouldn’t mind letting him pop your hood—among other things.

Settling deeper into your pillows, you release a few cleansing breaths. You’re too eager to see who your subconscious picks tonight—or maybe something more collaborative?

Yeah.

A gangbang sounds like the perfect ‘welcome back’. Every hole and limb filled, twisted into tools of pleasure, used exactly like the desperate little slut you are.

With a hum you close your eyes and allow your mind to drift into sleep. There’s no way you could’ve known that the thing haunting this town wasn’t just real—it had locked onto you the moment your brain dared to fall into REM.

Inside of your dream world, you awake in the boys' locker room.

Nice. 

Looks like you’re getting that gangbang after all.

Although you're no stranger to the boys’ locker room in your dreams, something about this time feels off.

The rows of lockers stretch farther than they should, looming taller, their metal faces dull and streaked with grime. Overhead, the lights flicker with a  jaundiced glow, casting jagged shadows across pale concrete walls. The air buzzes with the sputter of dying ventilation and reeks of damp metal, mold, and something almost bloody.

Technically, it’s the same room. But it feels... wrong.

Too quiet. Too empty. Like a space between spaces.

Then again, it is the boys’ locker room—nobody expects it to smell like a field of lilies.

Then you glance down at your outfit.

No cheer skirt. No pom-poms.

No thigh-highs, chokers, or themed S&M ensemble.

Just the ratty Camp Crystal Lake sleep shirt you passed out in.

Yeah… that’s definitely not normal.

“Hey, cutie…”

Oh! 

Eagerly, you shove the weird vibes to the back of your mind the second you hear a familiar voice echo behind you. The setting was never the main event in your dreams anyway—you’d fuck on a cardboard box in an alley if the dick was good.

“…ya know you’re not supposed to be in here.”

Fresh off the court and glistening, Gojo rakes a hand through the messy white strands clinging to his forehead. With the other, he lifts the hem of his jersey just enough to wipe the sweat from his face.

“…but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Your eyes trail down his exposed waist, savoring the definition of his glistening abs. You follow them as they dip into a deep V-line, the waistband of his shorts hanging dangerously low, teasing tufts of well-kept fuzz.

Gojo chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re eye-fucking him like he’s girl dinner.

“See something you like, doll?”

He winks.

Thank god you never pass out in dreamland, although you do erupt in shameless giggles out of glee of seeing Gojo.

Of all your guys lately, Gojo’s been showing up the most—your unofficial dream boyfriend. 

So you’ve gotten used to this version of him—Dreamjo, as you’ve dubbed him.

No doubt nerfed by your subconscious, your brain probably built this version of him off that one time he called your Digimon keychain “sick as hell”—which means the man has serious dork potential.

Real-life Gojo? A walking ego-trip in Airforces.

Dreamjo? Still cocky, but also nerdy and endlessly down bad.

And you do mean endlessly.

Whether he’s center stage or getting gleefully cucked by the rest of your lineup, he plays his part.

So no—you’re not even a little mad that he’s the first to greet you after your dream drought.

“You missed my game again.” Gojo pouts, swaggering toward you until your back hits the lockers with a hollow clang. “Hard to focus on the court without my lucky charm in the stands... dressed like my personal guardian angel in that slutty Angewomon cosplay.”

You roll your eyes.

You’ve never actually worn the cosplay—even in your dreams. It’s just one of those weird lore bits your subconscious cooked up for him and now Dreamjo won’t let it go. 

But that’s part of the fun—letting your mind run wild, turning fantasy into fact.

Whatever. This is your dream.

Your rules.

And Dreamjo? He always falls in line.

“Urgh, just shut up and fuck me, Toru!” 

You mean it to sound commanding—but it comes out breathy, desperate and you can’t keep up the femdom act for long.

“C’mon… let’s hit the showers. You’re already filthy.” You whine as your hands roam his sweat-slick abs, fingers slipping under his jersey to grope at his pecs.

Gojo groans, gripping your waist, before dipping lower to mold his hands into your fleshy bare bottom.

“Mmm, so you did miss me…” His voice is hot against your ear, lips brushing your lobe before he nips at it. “Y’know it’s been even longer for me... especially since you cucked me last time.”

If you weren’t already feral, that line might’ve given you pause—lore aside, your dreams always reset. 

But you’re so hard up your brain automatically switches off when his long fingers ghost over your already soaked folds.

Your mouth crashes on his, hungry and impatient, making Gojo groan into the kiss. Lifting you with ease, he carries you toward the showers.

Expecting to be pinned to a tile wall with steamy water pouring over you—you blink in confusion when Gojo sets you on a bench, a wild gleam in his eyes.

“Aht-aht… I’m the messy one, baby. But you’re not dirty enough for a shower. Not yet, at least.”

Great. Even your own mind is edging you.

Not that you don’t love Dreamjo’s games—his teasing is half the fun. But tonight? 

You’re wound far too tight to mess around.

“C’mon, princess. Get nasty for me, please? And I’ll fuck you just how you like it.”

You pout for show but of course, you already know what he wants. Dreamjo’s wired into the most crazed parts of your subconscious afterall.

Gojo peels off his jersey and tosses it at you.

Catching it on reflex, the jersey is damp with sweat and adrenaline. You don’t hesitate to pull your own top off and slide it on instead. 

Urgh, the oversized fabric soaked in jock pheromones feels clammy and damp against your skin. Sick. 

And yet somehow your pussy’s even wetter than before as you bury your nose in the material, inhaling like it’s life support.

“That’s it,” Gojo breathes, voice thick as he palms his cock through his shorts. “Take a nice, lonnnnng whiff, babydoll.”

Gojo’s musky amber scent hits like a slap: the tang of salt and heat with an undercurrent of something primal. You squirm on the bench, thighs rubbing together, belly molten with slow, coiling heat.

“Heh, now turn around and show me how messy my nasty girl’s pussy gets sniffing my musty jersey.” 

You think about mouthing off, maybe rolling your eyes—but the way his scent is sinking into your skin brain makes it impossible to deny him anything.

“Toruuuuu….” You whimper out complaints, but you obey—because the sheer depravity of it only makes you more desperate to be fucked.

Turning around, knees digging into the bench, you lift Gojo’s jersey around your hips.

The basketball hunk whimpers out a moan as you arch—back bowed, cunt spread—two fingers parting your folds. A thick string of slick drips from you, glossy and obscene, smearing on the bench beneath you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the sight of his shorts hitting the floor—his cock already leaking globs of pre as he strokes himself slowly, eyes glued to the gorgeous mess between your thighs.

“C’mon, my pretty goonette princess…” Gojo as groans his own need seeps through. “T-Touch yourself…”

Turning back around to face the lockers, your fingers circle your fluttering hole, gathering creamy juices to smear on your clit. 

“S’toruuu c’mon… am I not wet enough for you yet.” You slur out his name, trembling with raw need to feel his thick cock inside you.

Exposed to the air, you squirm, the cool draft making your muscles spasm as you fight to keep yourself spread.

“Jus’ a second, doll…,” Gojo pants out. He’s so close now you can feel his warm breath tickle your soppy folds, “...lemme get a better look.”

The sounds of a lewd schlick-schlick, fill the room as Gojo fists his cock. You’re tempted to groan remembering how stupid sensitive he is—almost as bad as Dreamcho (Choso)—who often busted from just one look at your sloppy pussy. 

Gojo better not fuck around and cum before actually stuck his dick in you.

“Hurry up, ’Toru n’ fuck me before you c—”

You freeze as warm liquid splashes your backside as wet gurgles bubble up behind you.

He came.

Urgh fuck—fine. 

You’re taking matters into your own hands now. You’ll just have to ride his twitchy, oversensitive cock until it’s hard again, no matter how much he cries or begs for mercy.

Wait. You’re cooking, not a bad plan, all things considered.

As much as you wanted to be manhandled, bent over and used like his personal onnahole—there’s something equally delicious about wrecking Satoru. Riding him half-hard while he sobs under you, limbs quivering from overstimulation, his cock slipping in and out of your creamy cunny before you grind your clit against the feathery soft hair on his pubic bone.

Yup, you’ll take it—you’re still gonna give him plenty shit about it though.

“Toruuuu! You dummy, I told you not to—” 

Whipping around, you stop when you don’t see him. 

He’s gone.

What?! He was just right behind you!

Wiping a hand over your backside, you roll your eyes when your fingers come back slicked in thick red liquid.

Blood.

Oh. My. God—did that dork seriously get a nosebleed before even putting it in again!?

Well… wouldn’t be the first time the little perv squirted blood mid-thrust trying not to cum too fast.

But where the hell did he go?

Not like you can see anything now with steam rolling in the area like a tsunami, swallowing everything until the whole room’s bathed in a sickly haze.

Looking around frantically you spot it: a single bloody footprint leading deeper into the locker room.

Okay. That’s way too much blood for a nosebleed.

Your stomach tightens.

“S’toru?” you call, voice pitching high. “It’s okay, I’m not mad! Wouldn’t be the first time you bled all over me…”

Shit. Maybe the sleeping pills are still in your system, messing with your ability to lucid dream. Or maybe your poor, dick-deprived subconscious has finally snapped.

Okay. This dream is officially a bust.

And with nothing to show for all that buildup with Gojo, there’s no way in hell you can stay still. Your hips rock against the bench, chasing friction like a dog in heat.

No, girl—focus!

You sit up, close your eyes, force a breath.

With a shaky sigh, your fingers snake back between your thighs—just a few light circles. Just enough to quiet the needy throb at your clit so you can concentrate.  

“Okay. Malaysia. Beach. Gangbang. Any guy—go!” You chant it under your breath like a spell.

Nevertheless when you open your eyes, you’re still in the same musty old locker room full of steam.

Fuck. Well at least the blood’s gone.

But Satoru is too, every single trace as realize you’re right back in your old sleep shirt.

What the actual fuck!?

BANG!

You jump as a loud crash echoes from the far entrance near the football field. 

Heavy footsteps drag as the sound of metal screeches like nails on a chalkboard.

“Toji?!” you call out. Though your gut’s already telling you that’s no football cleat.

The steps stop.

Silence.

The hiss of steam thickens it’s angrier and choking what little visibility you have left in front of you.

BAM!

A locker slams shut—closer this time.

You squeak, heart jackhammering... but your fingers don’t stop.

They move faster now, shaking with horny panic, the tension somehow is making you even hotter.

God, you just want some cock is that too much to ask!?

“T-Tojiiii…daddy? Is that you? I’m really pent up—come fuck n’ me already…”

Still no answer.

Fuck—maybe if you could just get off a lil, maybe you could reset this weird dream spiral?

“Toji, stop playing around! I’m serious—I’ll…urgh, I’ll even eat your ass this time…how does that sound?!” 

Yeah, you were getting pretty fucking desperate alright if eating that caveman’s ass was now on the table.

A low growl resounds through the locker room just as the lights above stutter—then flicker violently.

Then—

Blackout.

Every bulb dies at once… except one.

It buzzes overhead, flickering weakly, drowning you in static and shadows. A singular light casts you in rouge.

The rest of the room disappears into heavy black fog.

Unnerving? Sure.

BUT—the red haze reminds you of something. 

That sleazy adult video store you snuck into when your parents allowed you to visit your aunt’s place in the city for your bday—who, frankly, didn’t give a single rat’s ass what a nineteen-year-old got up to.

The place was sensory overload—neon buzzing like a live wire, shelves of sex toys and cursed DVDs. You remember the sticky faux‑leather peep booth seat, the moaning through the wall—and that flicker of real flesh on the other side of the viewfinder.

And now?

It’s like you’re the star. On display. Center stage. 

And the idea of one of your dream boys dragging you into a sleazy backroom for a “demo”… yeah, you’re already dripping for it.

Your fear slips the leash, devoured by the hunger igniting in your core.

Well you might as well put on a show then!

Your frame control is shaky, but you force it—closing your eyes and gritting your teeth until it appears in your hand: a long, fat, ridged pink dildo. It’s curved just right for maximum g-spot stimulation and features a giant knot sitting atop two heavy balls at the base.

Sigh. It’s a start.

“Looks like I’ll just have to fuck myself againnnn, if no one wants to put their big fat cock in my wet lil holeeee!” you shout into the haze, voice frustrated with need.

Equipped too with a suction at the bottom, you hurriedly slam it down onto the metal bench as you straddle it. Steeling yourself, thighs trembling, you sink down—inch by greedy inch—until a desperate moan tears from your gut. 

You’re being extra loud on purpose, hoping someone hears. Anyone.

Oh sweet relief! The ridges scrape perfectly along your walls. Building up more pleasure, you tweak your nipples, moaning again as they stiffen with every flick.

Not enough. 

Dropping your hips hard, the toy slides in deep with a wet, obscene squelch, knot popping past your entrance, stretching you wide.

“Mother-fuck!”

Spasming around it, you feel a wave of release rippling through you. 

But even gasping, hunched over on the bench, your thighs clenching—

You wouldn’t be satisfied with mere solo play.

“Slutty ass nerd, ya mean you couldn’t even wait f’er me, ma?”

Relief washes over you—Toji!

Oh thank fuck!

Finally, sweet salvation. 

Wet from the showers, water carving down golden skin and sculpted muscle to soak into the towel slung low on his hips, tented over his girth. 

He looks positively delectable coming out of the fog.

And unlike Dreamjo, Dreamji didn’t fuck around—he just fucked.

Except… something’s wrong again.

Argh! You try to shove the thought away—desperate to stay in the moment—but then you see it. 

The scar.

It’s on the left.  It’s supposed to be on the right.

You’re not Toji.

The second the thought crystallizes, the illusion ruptures.

To your horror, Toji's skin begins to bubble like wax in a furnace, melting off in thick, gleaming globs. His flesh is sloughing off from the bone, muscles bulging as his left side bursts open, a chuck missing from his torso. 

You scream, unable to move—still speared on the knotted toy, legs paralyzed. Your hands fly to your face, eyes clenched shut like a child praying the monster away.

The air fizzes with something sinister as you fight to reboot your dream once more.

Yet when you dare peek one eye open.

The locker room is normal again. 

Pristine and silent, no corpse, no red blood nor haze.

But your heart seizes as realization sinks that you are not alone.

A foreign presence consumes the room. It’s overwhelmingly oppressive. 

For a moment you struggle to even breathe under its weight. 

Then a voice cuts through the silence, soaked in venomous delight that grips you in feat.

“Figures the only other person in this pathetic town who knows how to control their dreams is a filthy little whore.”

A masculine figure steps into view. 

There’s a bleeding red aura clinging to him as he looms above the lockers—eight feet of muscle and malice—shoulders squared beneath a haori that drapes from him prominently like a war banner. His chest is bare, skin the color of desert stone, marred with old scars and writhing with black markings—symmetrical, like incantations meant to cage something.

There’s just too much of him. Too much presence. Too much mass. Too many arms. 

Wait—four? Four!?

You count again, just to be sure—fuck. 

Yep. Still four. Each one outfitted with razor sharp claws too.

Yet most striking of all is his face—almost beautiful in a twisted, uncanny way. Four fiery crimson eyes glower down at you. Two in the right place. Two more set in a mangled, flesh-twisted mask along his right cheekbone.

Buffer than Toji. 

Taller than Gojo. 

More tattoos than Choso.

And with a commanding presence that would put both Nanami and Geto to shame.

Oh, this creature is giving major demon daddy vibes …and is that?

Holy Shit.

Your eyes widen at the monstrous grin stretching across his stomach—teeth jagged like carved ivory, lips peeled back around an obscenely meaty, drooling tongue.

Okay….This is definitely not where you thought the dream was going.

Your imagination is good—but this? 

This had to be aftereffects from the pills. You haven’t even been allowed to watch enough sci‑fi or fantasy to dream of something this elaborate.  

But one thing’s for certain—you abso-fucking-lutely have a monster-fucking kink now.

Sukuna growls as he stalks forward toward you, moving in the space like gravity bends for him alone.

“One, two…Sukuna the Curse King’s coming for you.”

Releasing a shrill cry, your pussy pulses feverishly around the dildo inside of you—shit you almost came from just looking at him—omg, how humiliating! (although you now sympathize a bit more with Dreamjo and Dreamcho).

Watching you wiping spittle off of your chin, with damn-near hearts in your eyes, Sukuna’s upper lip curls as he feels your fear lessening the closer he gets.

“Couthless woman.” Sukuna sneers. “Did you hear what the fuck I said?”

You nod rapidly, biting your lip, every nerve in your body screaming for you to run is easily overpowered by your pussy practically sobbing for you to stay.

“Uh‑huh,” you breathe excitedly, eyes still focused on that vulgar looking tongue flicking out from his stomach, “I, uh—something about you… cumming in me?”

Sukuna stops dead in his tracks, blinking with all four eyes.

“…You—What? No, whore. I said I’m coming for you, brat—as in I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Lost in your arousal, your dream brain doesn’t register the actual threat—it just chalks it up to your slutty-ass subconscious cooking up its most diabolical scenario yet.

Guess you weren’t so immune to the hysteria after all, well might as well enjoy it.

“Yeah—demon daddy, mmm fuck—murder this pussy!” you moan, desperate to swap the  plastic for cock inside you for a real one.

If the rest of him was any indication, his dick would be like a goddamn tree trunk. 

Oh you’d break for sure. 

You can’t wait!

“Demon?” Sukuna snarls, eyes flashing. “I’m a curse, you insolent brat.”

With a lazy flick of his claw, a gash splits open across your thigh.

The pain hits instantly. You scream as blood gushes—hot, thick, and far too real.

“Keh. Figures,” Sukuna sneers. “Bet if I cracked open that slutty little skull, all that’d ooze out is cum.”

A white-hot bolt of agony surges through you leaving your nerves tangled in something raw and electric. Confusion coils tight in your gut as the pain on some level feels exhilarating. 

Shit. Knife play too? Really?

You’d laugh at your ever-expanding kink list if you weren’t seconds from blacking out.

The pain doesn’t fade, it gets worse.

No dream logic. No mercy failsafe. Nothing kicks in to soothe it.

Okay, this is getting a lil too real. 

Frantic, you clamp your eyes shut, trying to force him out. Force the pain away.

But it’s still there—throbbing louder, sharper, deeper.

There's a siren blaring through your soul. Telling you something’s pushing in, peeling apart your dream from the inside out, cracking open your subconscious like a ribcage.

And the more you resist, the more it hurts.

Your breath falters. Your chest tightens.

All that shit you brushed off—the whispers, the rumors, the monster hiding in the dreams?

It’s real.

“Bingo, you ditzy whore,” Sukuna purrs evilly. “Finally catching on? If I kill you here—in your dream—you die for real.”

Your eyes fly open, breath hitching. 

He’s inside your thoughts too?!

“Of course I am.” Sukuna’s grin widens.  

“If I can crawl into these vapid, dick-obsessed dreams of yours, I can root around wherever else I like as well. There’s nothing you can hide from me.” 

Those last words bypass your ears entirely—hot and sticky, slithering straight into the depths of your mind.

“I don’t just know your fears... I bathe in them.”

Well damn…

“Ahhh, so you get it now,” Sukuna drawls, laughter echoing off the lockers. 

“You’re fucked—and not the kind you’re so desperate for. But don’t fret. One of us’ll enjoy it, pet. I’ll take my time… peeling the ski—”

“Wait!” You throw your hands up—palms out, halting.

“Sorry—, not to interrupt but... speaking of fucked...,” you cut in, words tumbling as your brain trips over the spiral it's in. “Just walk with me here—let’s say you did actually fuck me—would I lose my v-card in real life too?”

Sukuna stops. Not dramatically. Not ominously. Just... stops. 

His whole face slackens in unfiltered disgust that anyone could have terminal brainrot to this degree without quite literally being braindead. 

To add insult to injury, you simply blink up at him in earnest, like you actually expected him to take that obscene drivel seriously. 

You had to be categorically insane.

Sukuna grits his teeth. “Exactly what in the fuck is wrong with you, woman?”

You have to fight to suppress a giggle at that—beacause honestly?

A lot.

But you do not have the time—nor emotional bandwidth—to unpack all of that right now. Not when the only problem you care about is still leaking so audaciously around the knotted dildo still lodged inside of you.

“Look, uh, Sukuna, right? This cut sucks,” you wince poking at it, “but I’m still not totally sure you’re real. I’m like, 85–90% there.”

You cross your arms, unconvinced. “There’s just this stubborn little 10% whispering that I made you up to rail me. I mean… there’s a mouth on your tummy for crying out loud! Why else would you have a tongue that big if I’m not supposed to ride it!?”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to slam his head into the nearest locker.

You have no idea how powerful your dreams are. Consuming your soul would amount to dozens of others. Your subconsciousness is a loaded weapon—and you’ve turned it into a hedonistic fuck circus, it’s pitfull. 

“It’s to tear the flesh off the bones of women and children before I devour them.”

Sukuna roars, the sound shaking the lockers with unseen force. The mouth on his stomach splits wider—dagger-like teeth bared, tongue thrashing like a whip—clearly meant to terrify you.

Unfortunately for him, all it does is make you cream harder around the dildo as you tilt your head, genuinely considering it.

“Mmm. Yeah, okay I can see that too—but it honestly looks wayyyyy better suited to devouring pussy and breeding children, Curse Daddy.”

Curse Daddy!?

Sukuna lets out a guttural snarl as his aura lashes out in fury—but it’s no use.

If he had the power to kill your infuriating ass, he would’ve done it ten minutes ago. 

But it’s been a week since he last fed.

The whole town’s gone dark—one big dreamless dead-zone.

And you?

Even with fear buzzing under your skin, your brain short-circuits the second you look at him. There’s no room for survival instincts in that slutty little head of yours. 

Just one thought on loop:

What his monstrous tongue, thick n’ velvety, would feel like thrashing inside of your pussy, flicking at your cervix.

For once, the Curse King is at a loss.

He’s fed on nightmares for centuries. 

Roamed the minds of tyrants, zealots, serial killers—hell, even a few professional whores.

But never—not once—has he met a creature so catastrophically, proudly down bad.

Did you never leave your house?!

“With my mom? Tuh. I’m lucky she lets me go to school,” you snort, catching his thoughts.

You grin as his face falters.

“Figured if you’re poking around in my brain, I could poke around in yours. It’s called home field advantage, Curse Daddy. You’re in my dream, remember?”

Malice hums in the air and the tile beneath Sukuna’s feet cracks.

But you don’t flinch.

Because Sukuna has already said too much and upon that confirmation the power dynamics decidingly shift. 

“Anyway, judging by how much this fucking leg hurts, I’m bumping you up to a solid 99.9% real. And since you’ve already murdered your way through half this shithole town, you already know how ass-backwards it is.”

You press on. 

“Hate to break it to you, Curse King—but your reign of terror? Yeah, that’s over. Everyone’s doped up on prescription elephant tranquilizers. Nobody’s dreaming about anything anymore.”

Sukuna growls something under his breath about modern bullshit—how no tincture or herb in his time ever blocked dreams, only enhanced them.

“I’m SAYIN’!” You throw your hands up, equally annoyed. “We need our dreams!  I haven’t been properly fucked in a week and it’s starting to show!”

Your leg throbs, pulsing hard enough to break your focus. 

Wincing, you groan and slowly lean forward, using the leverage of your body weight to slide off the dildo. There’s a salacious pop that echoes once you are free of it, catching Sukuna’s attention as his eyes track the tantalizing trail of slick shimmering as it drip-drops down your plush thighs.

Indecorous slut.

Yet staring a moment too long, Sukuna’s eyes immediately flick to your face. 

Oop, busted! You smirk. “Anyway, if you’re really just a dream demo—”

“Dream curse,” Sukuna sneers. “I’m The Curse King, you crude little cumdump.”

“Right,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

Big difference. 

“So, as I was saying—If you kill me, you lose your only power source. You feed off nightmares—but you’re still standing here, aren’t you? That means you can survive in normal dreams too. So if I’m gone then you’ll fade away, huh?”

You cross your legs and fold your hands in your lap, playing fake diplomat which leaves Sukuna scowling at you harder.

“Let’s cut a deal, then!”

Sukuna narrows his gaze but allows you to continue, he had little choice otherwise.

“I let you squat in my dreams—for now. But no nightmares. No trying to murder me nor anyone else, seems fair, right?” 

Sukuna scoffs at you, all four of his arms crossing. “Tell me why the fuck would I want to squat in some horny brat’s cock-crazed delusions?”

“Because you’d be alive, jackass! Uh.. and maybe…” You clear your throat. “...maybe I could make it worth your while?”

Sukuna glares at you menacingly, seeing your pathetic attempts at tempting him.

“If I have to suffer, so do you,” he snarls. “And you think, someone as powerful as I would stoop to fucking some sad twitchy virgin who’s desperate for male validation?”

Biting your inner cheek, you bristle, your hands clenching into fists as you stand to face him, bare and bloodied.

“I never said I wanted your approval, you dream creeper!”

Sukuna laughter is full of dark amusement. 

“No, you didn’t—and yet that vulgar ass cunt of yours is practically penning me a puddle of love poems every time you glance at my stomach.”

You don’t need to look down to know he’s right. 

Yet the vibes are still undoubtedly set to ‘fuck this guy’ as your indignation builds.

“You’re nothing but a fraud, you know that!?” 

Rage, arousal, and defiance crackle through you like live wires.

“You couldn’t kill me even if you tried. You’re too weak. You’re nothing but a big sad bully,” you snap. 

“And now that I have an idea of how this whole dream shit works—you don’t even scare me anymore!”

In a flash Sukuna is in front of you. The size-difference apparent as his body dwarfs yours and all light cast upon you. 

“So do what you want. Cry. Brood. Fap in the corner for all I care!”

Your determination only grows stronger as you stand your ground, finally assuming your the title of deity of your own subconscious domain.

“Fuck you, because after I fix this leg and I’m going and getting my shit wrecked like I should have been doing all along!”

Because god knows how much time has actually passed—you might have to wake up soon!

You challenge Sukuna, eying him up and down. “And that's worse right? Sentenced to rot slowly, not quite dead but wholly dismissed in the mind of a ‘silly little slut’ who you couldn’t even scare enough to kill.” 

For a moment it’s quiet, only your huffs of exertion filling the space.

Then, just as suddenly, the room shakes more violently than before as rows of lockers begin to explode in shockwaves, the ceiling cracking like it might collapse entirely.

Through the chaos and rubble, Sukuna’s eyes glow sharply, locked on your form. 

“I’ll kill you yet,” he hisses, “That’s a promise.”

Ignoring him, you fling open the door of a mangled locker that has fallen on its side. 

What pours out is an otherworldly light, bright and swirling, reshaping into a portal to the deeper parts of your mind where your real sex-crazed dreams await you.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you blow him a kiss.

“Try it then, Curse King. Let’s see whose kingdom this really is.”

And with that, you step through—the portal vanishing along with you.

The realm rapidly dissolving, Sukuna seethes in the crumbling dark.

“Fucking brat.”

               all rights reserved. blkkizzat©2023-2026

𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.

ꉂ a/n: i will release p2 of plug!reader (final edits), incel!naoya, elevator p2 and then come back to this before working on invisible man!gojo. [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]

accepting p2 tags below (100 cap) if you are already on gen or kinktober list you will be tagged automatically.

[g0ssip-gxrl]

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟎𝟏. toji fushiguro

❝ SUGAR COATED, LIES UNFOLDED. YOU STILL LICK THE WRAPPER ❞ ▌ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ┊ old habits die hard with toji

𝘾𝙍𝙀𝘿𝙄𝙏𝙎 - 18+ mdni, fem reader, toxic "relationship", angst and smut, lowk heavy angst, pussy eating, get you a man who eats kitty like toji, unprotected sex, wet tears and a wet coochie, dumbification, creampie, fingering, not proof read 4.4k word count

Old habits die hard.

That's how it goes, right?

A silly excuse, innocent and playful and bartered like a weightless negotiation between defeated laughs.

The guilty admission to a fractured promise, just a small one, nothing substantial.

Favored by smokers who just can't quite quit cold turkey yet and slip a cigarette after work, or humored by overworked elders who swear to rest but stubbornly keep busy bodied in their fragility anyway.

It's funny how such a natural, domestically intertwined reality of average human life can twist violently by its own confines into something uglier.

Those small annoyances you could pass off in a honeymoon phase. Doubts, insecurities, that over arching sense of unsettlement that clawed in the gooiest parts of your heart like a dormant monster waiting for its trigger.

Trivial grievances, you said at first. Naively selfish, willfully blind. Any sense of self preservation long decomposing since basic logic swirled blurry underneath the bitter veil of excitement borne from stagnation, of something new, hot, and dangerous.

Minor inconveniences, you relented the second time, shaky gasps of misplaced anger over the static call of a friends familiar distaste. Desperate, defensive, grasping onto tiny comforts that indulgently lulled your tears to rest. A pathetic show of purely concentrated sorrow because where was self respect when you had hysteria?

By the third fitted episode - well, official third. The cycles, short spouts of fever and hands driven by body more than mind that rolled in wet sticky streaks off the roof of your crumbling dignity were lapses you hadn't yet admitted, not even to yourself - the heartache had felt too big to manage against the weight of the world, blown off it's hinges with the nasty, disgustingly vile bits of scattered poison which thawed your longing into chronic need.

Pieces of your honor bled from behind your teeth after every screech of finality, the declarations you made sobbed in the corse shrill of slammed doors and hammering hearts. Like meaty, chipped up little bits of gore that decayed off the tongue after every lie you swore to yourself, to him.

Because no matter how bitter your own weakness proved, time and time again, fueling the deep-seated resentment fanning along the frail embers of your anger, you truly, regretfully, knew no other way to live .

You convinced yourself it was romantic.

In the wishful, melodramatic, sense.

The kind that spoke in tones of pinky grey and a uniquely bashful fantasy. A teenage girl twirling squeals on a lollipop between the cringey lines of a dark romance novel while a coquettish song of toxic love enveloping the smoke of an intimidating man played on a worn out record player.

Maybe you deluded yourself into believing dishonesty was its own form of affection.

Dependency grew in vines after all. Tendrils of dark thorns that dug lacerations into flesh, blooming seeds of solace in the fractures of a wound so the pain may numb over.

You told yourself it was beautiful, tragically nostalgic.

That there was a sweetly serene idealism to tethering your sanity against someone's very existence. Sturdy, present, reliable, or not.

His where abouts those long escapades MIA, were details you quickly learned to not ponder anymore, lest thread yourself into another frenzy of questions you didn't actually want the answer to.

It was inconsiderate at best and narcissistic at worst.

Holding the last, distorted shards of your heart under the bolted locks of your trembling fingers. Grip tight, cautious, nails digging deep crescents into your skin because somewhere between love and melancholy, your hands stopped trying to build substance into a comprehensible shape and settled on preserving the clumps of clay that stuck when everything else melted away.

You should think about the kids you'd once seen in the passing photos he'd never linger around long enough to explain. Whisper apologies for them between your own prayers.

You know they're there. Somewhere, alone, abandoned in the empty soulless planes of tokyo.

You know they're there because your chest lurches from behind your ribs every time he has those small moments of recognition.

When that conscious flicker of light shined in depths from the glaze of his dark eyes. Like reality wrestled oil through the rusted cogs of his brain and forced him to wake up and face a truth whenever the word blessing or wood dared to curse a conversation.

You should question it more often. Those children, the people you know he's hurting, the conveniently timed checks you don't remember cashing, the fluctuations of something that's definitely bigger than you when he comes back quieter and poorer than last time.

A part of you is begging, the smart you, peek from behind the carefully plastered paper sheets you taped over your sensibility. Let something meaningful fill your heart other than baseless affection for a man.

But really, you just couldn't bring yourself to care about anything outside of your own self preservation.

Not kids that weren't your responsibility, not the blood that wasn't his staining his clothes in splatters. It's all become rot that can only eat away at whatever distant hope you had held, and ripped the scaps of your armored skin to the bone.

All those worries that accumulated in his absence and festered deeper in his presence, the ones you couldn't tell where the tail of either started and ended.

If distance made the heart grow fonder, maybe some part of you knew this was how it'd always end.

There was no difference in compliance or temperament in the end. That was the harsh reflection of your own weakness. A horrifyingly dull realization you had been forced to choke down and bare.

You knew you'd always open the door for him.

Like a dog reeling back in on its leash, no matter how painful, you just couldn't help but walk a little faster just to meet him where he was.

It's been going on for so long anyway, why would tonight be any different?

It was a rush of adrenaline when the rattle of wood hollowed out the walls of your apartment. A deafening sound, where the world went so still even the air felt too thick to properly swallow, and the pump of blood beating heat into your chest was as nauseating as the first time.

God, you missed that feeling. Shameful as it was, there was something intoxicating about the way the cool metal of your door handle split the searing pulse of your nerves in half.

The fear on whether or not he'd kick the door open the moment he felt the nudge of it unlock, or simply let you waft it wide on your own.

You were sure you'd been running on pure instinct.

The slight pause you took, the one you always did when you couldn't decide between falling into his arms or stepping back. Or how you always took time to trail over the length of his body like you were absorbing every new detail that slipped under your radar, to the pathetic whimper of his name that fell from your lips like you wanted to solidify his presence.

He'd stumble in like he always did, large hands wrangling a loop around your waist to keep you steady. A gruff sigh rumbled in the bass of his throat in place of any explanation he definitely didn't care enough to offer.

The silence was probably better. His voice was too grounding, made things feel real, would've woken you up from the haze that kept you barreling off fumes and not logic, if you had any of that left.

A whirl of impulse driven by routine had you burnt out before you could remember there would be hours of screaming and arguing to get to, and that was better for everyone involved.

You like to think that's his subtle way of showing care.

So you chose to ignore the wet stain drying off in crust at the front of his shirt, or how it sets tackily on the fat of your cheek. Said shirt won't stay on long enough for it to matter in hindsight anyway.

Your hands trail frantically over the length of his stature. Heavy and tense, his muscles flex under your nails as you subconsciously claw streaks of red down his back.

Something gross in you preens at his touch.

The way his hand absently caresses down the nape of your neck.

The rise and fall of his breath as you nuzzle your face into the firm of his chest, determined to tether whatever fleeting threads of actual conscious you had left to the smell of burnt diesel and copper soaking up in his sweat marred skin.

You tried to stay present because you couldn't let yourself drown it in again. Not the taste of his cologne that still managed to smother your taste buds as you gasp out small sobs against his jaw.

You had the feigned illusion of fight, however transient, to at least not lose yourself in the throes of your own hedonism.

But his touch was like acid melting the layers of skin weakly holding your heart captive, and when every touch, from the meat of your thighs to the spill of your tits, cradled the pain in euphoria, you seemed to forget he was the cause of your suffering at all.

Heat blooms where your words burn out. You test the syllables of his name on your tongue in a moan, again, and again, and again, because you aren't quite sure if he's there to answer.

"Toji..." once, lost between breathless sighs and rustled fabric. A shirt, a bra haphazardly flung to the darkened recesses of your room, a pair of sweats primed with a slick stained splotch followed by panties drenched in the gusset.

"Toji...!" twice, because you were so, so weak, and the feeling of his body molding to the very curvature of yours ran with a passion backed up by teeth claiming canvas and saliva drawing lines into arousal.

You were so sure you'd simply hallucinated the whole ordeal by the third, maybe fourth time.

His name ran your vocal cords like a mantra, pleasure melding the pieces of yourself lost back to where desperate, pitchy prayers laid bare in a bed of ecstasy.

"Toji....fuck!" your fingers twitch into the crumpled casing of your pillow. Now damp with sweat and soaking up the smell of your perfume beneath drool wet gasps, your lashes blink away hazy tears as his tongue circles your clit.

You need to feel real. Let the strands of his hair rake through your trembling fingers and grip hard enough to ground your soul into his. Tug and never let go, so he groans every frustration into the confines of your cunt.

The vibrations of his pants rumble heavily against your folds. Silky ribbons of cum spill from his lips as he sucks at the essence dribbling down your pussy.

The messy, wet squelching sounds reverberate from the depths of your abdomen to the melted remains of what used to be your brain. His hands dig roughly from under the fat of your thighs, yanking your ass harder onto his face till even his slurping is dampened and buried.

The mattress wobbles with his movements, a dull ache of springs buckling under his weight as he maneuvers you helplessly to his hearts desire.

Your nerves are aflame, and a numbness spreads across the canvas of your violently marked skin with the kind of possessiveness that has you bucking your back into an arch.

A pretty crescent, erotic in all the ways that meant shallowness and lust blinded passion. The perfect curve he could slot a grip on when he was behind you, faceless and so intimately impersonal.

He was like that now, he was like that always, since he preferred it that way.

You don't remember when you made it an instinctual habit, only that he had mentioned it in passing, and you liked putting on a show.

You shake that thought of your head with a bubble sob. From either sorrow or bliss, it didn't matter.

All he hears is your desperate gasps clutching like a life line on your breaths. How your thighs tremble around his head, unsure whether to lock him in or squeeze him out, and how you still stay so, so obedient, because your weakness is his invitation.

You come again, without spectacle aside from a series of languid twitches, and he thankfully answers with the experience of a man who knew the soft, feminine tells of a woman’s body reaching her peak.

His thumbs pressed on the indents of your inner thighs and somehow forces them wider. The burn singes in the splays of your body, rendered all open and pliant, he practically lifts your body off the mangled sheets of your bed as your knees now tighten into the curvature of his shoulders.

He smothers his face deeper into the stickiness of your cunt, hollowing an obscene suckle on your clit, and he groans, undeniably satiated. It blesses your ears and has you shamefully yanking him forward by the handle on his hair and the push of your weak legs.

He was confident enough to know that his name engraved the grooves of your brain, to the very fine lines of your pleasure.

A blur that was so saturated in him, all Toji, that he didn't even need to knock you up to have a permanent claim on a body that was no longer just your own.

The broad strokes of his tongue flatten into something recreational, the tip of the muscle teasing light flicks on your clit before licking longingly up to the gooey center of your core and swiveling indulgently.

You feel a sudden flood of slick splatter across the curve of his face, and your stomach lurches with an overwhelming sensation of panic.

Too much, he was always too much and brought too much. Pain, anxiety, joy. His strength, physical or not, has always been a shackle that yielded you a malleable puddle.

You were the water he could dip paint into until all that was left was the muddied swirl of different colors congregating into something disgusting.

You wonder, very distantly, if you liked it that way. Liked it enough to stay, and that if being something consistent to him was the one thing keeping you wet and ready whenever he pleased.

Your body traitorously thrashes right into his mouth in a half begging attempt to get away.

He's long since gone from working you through the waves of your orgasm and is simply barreling you into an early death, savoring the flavor of your arousal fusing on his tastebuds like saccharine.

"Toji." you grunt out indignantly, because you're sure everything pussy side down has gone dead yet he still shows no signs of letting up on sloppy mess he's somehow made from just his tongue.

"Mm?" It isn't a real question, you know that. He only acknowledges, briefly, and continues doing what he wants. The audacity would be enough to irritate you if it didn't feel like pure heaven was assaulting your cunt at the moment.

In his past life he must've been the heir prince sired to some big clan. It was the only thing that explained his unwavering entitlement.

"Toji," you kick now, the heel of your foot feebly smacking against the muscle of his forearm with a pathetic whimper. A sound so pitchy that surely his stupid man brain underneath all the mystery and nonchalance, would have no choice but to respond to.

His eyes narrowed a light glow from the darkness, lashes half hooded and much too hazy with something you don't have an explanation to when he finally pulled away.

The strands of his hair, tousled and flared in all angels, run from your fingers as he tips his head back in a small gasp of breath, and your arousal strings stickily as his lips part.

The faint, masculine scar on the corner of his mouth is slanted into an unimpressed quirk. Your mind conveniently blanks when you register how his mouth is caked in the glistening sheen of cum and saliva, or how his tongue dips to clean the juices off instinctively.

"Yeah?" he sucks through his teeth, head lulling to the side as if gauging your glare.

"Just fuck me, 'm tired," is all you can say, hopefully defiant enough to urge him, but with how you're peaking over your shoulder, eyes too wide with hearts were practically bursting at your teary pupils, probably not.

"Already?" He asks like its a burden, drawling out the boredom lacing his words and octave lower till the voice you love is reduced to something toxic and sinful, "Wanted to take my time tonight."

As if the dog hasn't spent an hour suffocating himself between your thighs, yeah right.

He hums like he's disappointed, lazily wiping off the patchy stains of cum from his chin with his thumb and licking a stripe up the digit to suck it clean.

Drool gathers at the corners of his mouth as his eyes flicker from yours to your still spread legs. At how your cunt is still throbbing on display, sensitive and swollen from the waft of cool air drying against your folds.

He has a look that tells you he's half tempted to dive in for another round, and you're sure he would've between the mere seconds calculating the scales of selfishness he's somehow always balancing.

"Toji," you huff to catch his attention, lulling your head into the crook of your elbows till the sweat gathering at your forehead plasters humidly on your heated skin, "Hurry up 'n fuck me."

"Whatever the lady wants."

Your chest heaves against the duvet, rising and falling with what little space is offered against you and the mattress.

Goosebumps prickle along the length of your spine at the sound of boxers hitting your floors with a deafening thud, and you swear you almost let out a sigh of relief when the familiar grip of his hands slotting on your hips drags your ass up to bump against his pelvis.

His cock is heavy against your cunt. Every ridge of it rubs along the wetness soaking your folds and drenches the head in a frothy little ring of precum as it nudges at the puffiness of your clit.

He starts gently, if at all, rocking his body against yours like he's trying to familiarize the mold of your being to his nerves and how it feels having your scent invade his senses again after so long. His hands stay firm on your hips, thumbs kneading absentmindedly on the indents of where your bone dips and rubs small circles on the pudge of your ass as he's running through the motions. Drool pools tackily on the side of your cheek, lashes fluttering in a daze, your vision is blurring with movement, the creak of your bed aching on its springs. Tiny whimpers run your throat raw. Your nipples scrape on the sweat matted hefts of your comforter and a shiver runs down your spine in tiny increments of goosebumps since he's working on slathering the length of his dick in the arousal spilling messily from your pussy. "Fuck," his voice is rough, muffled slightly by the bite his teeth take on his lips. Hard enough to draw blood as the head of his cock slips with little resistance through your cunt. Warmth envelops him with a deafening squelch thats definitely louder in his ears than it is in the room, "- better than I remember." Your eyes squeeze shut in a gasp, and you let yourself feel. The violent colonization he has on your judgement, his smell is everywhere, like a smoke bomb filling your lungs in soot, his touch violently wrangling purchase on whatever crosses its proximity. Harsh callouses hold your hips like they're the only real thing grounding him to the moment, his touch forces your body to bow to his whims like some miracle of substance would take place if he simply willed it into existence by strength alone. He fucks like he feels, you realize now. The digits of his index and middle finger spread the lips of your pussy in a V when his cock dips a little deeper into your warmth. Never touching directly where you need, never where he knows will offer something real, whether that be your clit or your heart, he apparently likes dragging things out before letting them destruct. Tears gather at the ducts of your eyes, dewy little orbs trail wet streams down the apex of your cheeks as his weight alone drives your body harder into the mattress. The sheer stretch of his cock sinking another inch every time he pulls out just to thrust back in again. You don't know if you're even thinking about sex or feelings anymore. Everything about him is so messily measured, somehow each plunge, selfish and shallow, manages to prod at the spongey part of your cunt perfectly. Little spurts of heat spark in your gut when he gives your clit a little pinch before retracting all the way back out and leaving your hole throbbing on nothing. "Oh god," you drawl, hiccuping a syrupy laugh through the tears cause you're pretty sure his cock is enough to lull those bad emotions away for the time being, "Toji please, can't wait anymore." Your hands, though trembling, dig into the nape of his neck. Clawing marks into the dome of his skull as your hands tug his hair agressively. Pulling the heat of his breaths, the fervor of his body, closer until your shared lust collide into a disgusting mix of limbs and spit. He's panting at the shell of your ear, nuzzling against the dip of skin there with feather light kisses until they morph into possessive suckles trailing from the column of your throat to the bump of your hunched shoulders. The hand rubbing lazy circles on the hood of your clit moves to guide his member, hard at attention, and gently slips in a single stroke to bottom out. Your heart hammers in your throat, beating in the confines of your lungs till your entire body seizes just to accommodate the feeling of him inside you. His cock is thick, with a curve which hits so right that you swear you could cum from the feeling of it alone, instead your pussy clenches at the base so hard he struggles to set a proper pace. He places a chaste little kiss on your jaw, whispering something stupid like 'relax' in a voice that makes your body react with anything but before he's pulling away.

You whine a little at the loss of contact, but you don't protest further when he starts. The arm that was limply looped around his neck falling dead into a clutch on your sheets.

He drags out slowly, letting your walls throb along the veins of his cock before thrusting back in till the hilt. The length of it, glossy with a thin sheet of discharge and cum, lets his pace slip into something habitual.

Like coming home, with how he rocks into you so deeply the tip of his dick is kissing softly at your cervix.

His hands roughly hold your hips, grinding your ass down to meet his thrusts. The pressure of his cock molds its shape in the softness of your walls and a unique numbness sends waves of static flaring desperately through your nerves.

Your joints ache, a burn that hurts so good it has your poor body shuddering with every slam and agonizingly perfected thrust he takes to your cunt. Strangled moans bubble from your chest, almost as wet as the sounds of your pussy getting split open repeatedly. Something more spill from your lips, maybe begs, for more or less, maybe praises because you forgot how good this feels. You don't know anymore. Your mind is blanking, a white screen flashing violently and the shrunken remnants of your brain rattle in the hollows of your head as his cock fucks you dumb.

His thumbs slot into the dips of your spine, circling the indentations lazily while his hips take shrill slams against your own. Your legs falter, arching into his grip cause you're not gonna last much longer if he continues this pace.

You have half a mind to collapse and let him manhandle you to your hearts content, the other half is hurdling towards the idea with the likeness of a woman who needs one push off the edge to her orgasm.

Sweat cakes your skin, condenses along the line of your forehead as your brows crease in pleasure. You choke on an embarassingly loud moan when he nudges into a kiss. His tongue licks behind your teeth and shoves down your throat, swallowing every whimper to satiate his hunger, before pulling away to press a quick kiss on the bow of your lip. Something about the tenderness does you in. That look of pure, unadulterated want bordering on need makes it so, so easy to forget he doesn't actually love you. You cum hard and violently. Eyes bursting wide open and mouth agape, your hips rut into the mattress before failing you completely. You slump weakly in his cradle, the only thing holding you up now being the angle his pelvis takes thrusting up into yours. His cock is sweltering, languid plunges forcing obscene squelches out of your used cunt. Slick splatters on your inner thighs, stickily connecting the heat of his skin on your own as stringy ribbons of sin gather the sloppier he fucks into you. "Just like that," he groans, emphasizing it with a slam that burrows in the deepest reach of your body, you swear you can feel his cock throb along to the beat of your heart as he holds it there, "- gonna make me cum, huh?" You nod thoughtlessly, too weak to talk back, too sensitive to do anything other than allow the stretch of his cock slowly drag from your cunt as he teases the drop of his own release. Manhandled indeed. He takes what he wants without care, always has, burrows his wants into your own subconscious till everything you are is simply a cultivation of his own. You're sure you'd have it no other way. Because like this, he's yours, the small part of him still flickering with a passion waiting to be snuffed out, is yours. He's yours when he nestles deeper into your cunt, he's yours when he lets his nut paint your insides in a creamy white, he's yours when even his cock slips out, now soft, and gets replaced with his fingers as he fucks his seed back into you lazily and watches the messy evidence of his claim on you gather at the root of his digits in a frothy, sticky syrup. Your eyes lull shut, a deep sigh rumbling throughout your chest cause you need to get all the rest you can before he's hard again, and you feel like you can finally breathe.

A/N: I wrote this with about the same amount of passion an alcoholic father has when looking at his children

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i looked at my drafts and sighed.

I dont think there will be any updates soon, so i lied in my last post, sorry

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𝟔𝟗 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 masterlist

▌SEASON 1 ↳ gachiakuta ✟┊𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏┊𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐┊𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟑┊𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟒┊𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟓

▌SEASON 2 ↳ honkai star rail

✟┊𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏

▌SEASON 3 ↳ jujutsu kaisen

✟┊ 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏

▌SEASON 4 ↳ genshin impact

↳ ┊ coming soon

┊ ❛ 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟑𝟓 ❜ ┊

歪歪 ▌RULE 34 約嗎 ▌ LOST IN HEAVEN

𝖓𝖘𝖋𝖜 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌, ! 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ! ──────── 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪-𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘕𝘖 𝘈𝘐 𝘎𝘌𝘕𝘌𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘕𝘛.

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𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄 𝟎𝟓. enjin

❝ 𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙔 𝙎𝘼𝙔 𝙊𝙉𝙇𝙔 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙂𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙂 𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙅𝙐𝙎𝙏 𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙏 𝙐𝙎 ❞ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ┊ baby daddy Enjin finding out he knocked you up (PT. 1)

𝘾𝙍𝙀𝘿𝙄𝙏𝙎 - 18+, mdni, fem reader, unplanned pregnancy, mention of abortion, angst if you squint, sort of fluff, mentions of sex, head canon format, not proof read

1k word count

ᯓ★ BABY DADDY ENJIN who immediately notices the shift in your behavior. More so the sudden distance you exercise from him. He’s a natural people person after all, keeping track of things like; demeanor, reciprocity, and mood, are all important in maintaining good relationships. ᯓ★ who, at first, assumed he had just pissed you off. It wasn't the first time, and definitely wouldn't the last. So, like always, he took a step back and let you seethe on your own for a of couple weeks. He'll try to worm his way back into your good graces later. ᯓ★ who, despite feeling the disparity grow for some time, only starts paying attention around week 8. If this was really just anger, usually the two of you would have fucked the frustration out of your systems already. But now, when you've barely been able to flash him a smile? He knows this is something else entirely.

ᯓ★ who's barely tipsy when he catches you in the corner of his eye, scrambling in a panic and stumbling out of the mess hall. Which he'd normally shrug off, but this time, something in his gut nudged him to investigate. And with an intuition like his, he knew better then to leave it unchecked. So against his better judgement, he ends up following you. ᯓ★ who physically feels his body feel freeze when he's met with a half agape door. Its pitch black, but he could still make out the image of your body lurched over the toilet bowl. The deafening sound of your retching as you threw up the left over bile from the dinner you didn't eat and alcohol you never drank, hollowed out every other buzz in his head. ᯓ★ who's body is moving faster then his brain when he pushes the bathroom door open. The shadow of his figure looming over and barely illuminated by the hallway lights of HQ. Every inkling he had coming to a sickening fruition when you look back at him with the widest, most pathetic eyes he's ever seen on a woman. ᯓ★ who knows what this is before you can even gasp out his name, and stubs out his cigarette under his boot almost immediately. Its a mystery to him whether it was for your own well being, or for his own sanity. Like literally crushing the fear bubbling in his body away with the embers. ᯓ★ who sounds more dull then anything when he asks "Is it morning sickness." like its the most mundane thing he could've predicted. Maybe, he had already considered the fact you could've been pregnant weeks ago, so the indirect question of your condition was more of a statement confirming his suspicions. ᯓ★ who sinks onto the floor beside you, pressing his back against the cement wall of the bathroom and staring at you with a borderline blank expression on his face. By now you're sure he was silently working through whatever twisted feelings grew by your silence. he was just trying to level the weight and even the playing field, for your sake. ᯓ★ who never says it outright. in fact, doesn't say anything at all for a good while. Which is more or less comforting than the blow up you had expected, its weird but his presence alone, also simmers down your nausea. His face is numb when he finally speaks up after a few minutes. "were you going to tell me?" ᯓ★ who sits with you while you stammer through an explanation. Fluctuating between clinical terms of abortions, even though it was just buzz words your doctor had passed onto you, and crude language about how you were "going to get rid of it", which was more fueled by anger and sorrow. ᯓ★ who speaks so plainly its almost insensitive. Because as funny and careless as he acted, logistics are a virtue. And in the middle of your babbling, he cuts off with "Then why haven't you yet?" though it comes off harsher than he intended, or felt. ᯓ★ who doesn't flinch when the dam of your 'discretion' bursts in thick tears and hiccups. Perhaps you should be grateful his shock softened his usual intolerance for hysterics, but it only serves as a physical catalyst to take your emotions out on. ᯓ★ who has to stop when the conversation takes an - expected, but not welcome - turn.

"it isn't that easy!" "It's popping two pills." "It's not just that!""You wanna wait till it's kicking? Get it over with if you want it gone." "...How can you be so heartless over your own baby?"

His face falls dead flat, eyes wide and staring straight daggers that has your breath hitching mid cry. You wonder why you'd let something so sentimental slip, and the realization dawns on him. "Do you want it?" ᯓ★ who doesn't wait for you to lie and refuse. Your hesitation is enough solidify the reality of his question, and all he can offer is a reluctant "yeah, I get it." before stumbling to his feet. Though he's quickly hoisting your limp body up with him and holding you firm against his side. ᯓ★ who takes you to his room and essentially forces you to rest. Tucking you into cigarette soaked sheets, apologizing for the smoke, opening a window, and mumbling under his breath about getting you something bubbly to drink for your nausea. ᯓ★ who comes back with a bag full of scrounged up snacks. Crackers, sparkling water, lemon flavored candy he definitely had to haggle Rudo over. "Citrus is good for morning sickness." He says while cringing because he couldn't find anything organic. ᯓ★ who sits on the floor and watches silently as you eat. Head resting on the side of the mattress and face buried in his elbow since he's ten seconds away from passing out. Though his hand had instinctively found yours, and was rubbing lulled circled in the dip of your palm.

"you don't seem too worried." "I'm fucking horrified. I don't deal well with inconveniences like this." "So knocking a girl up is just some inconvenience for you." "Yeah, it is." "...Sorry, I just thought you'd have more to say." "It's my fault anyway, I'd rather not stress you out more." "Are you disappointed?""...Eh, do whatever you wanna do. Doubt you care about my two cents."

ᯓ★ who zoinks out shortly after, the deep kind thats clear he'll fully register whats happening when he's well rested and not half whiplashed. An oddly comforting gesture, how he never lets go of your hand while you both sleep it off.

A/N: This has been stuck in my drafts forever and it ain't even allat

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I would open my requests but I can’t even lock in and finish my 10 drafts….

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𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟎𝟒. enjin

❝ 𝙊𝙉𝘾𝙀 𝙄 𝙂𝙀𝙏 𝙄𝙉𝙎𝙄𝘿𝙀 𝙎𝙃𝙀'𝙇𝙇 𝙒𝘼𝙉𝙉𝘼 𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙈𝙀, 𝙔𝙀𝘼𝙃. ❞ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ┊why would you need other men when you got your baby daddy in your corner?

𝘾𝙍𝙀𝘿𝙄𝙏𝙎 - 18+, mdni, fem reader, rough sex, multiple positions, jealousy, possessiveness, unprotected sex, overstim, dumbification, cheating if you squint, breeding if you squint, honestly toxic filth with a hint fluff bc he's a dad, not proof read 1.8k word count

In hindsight, this was a possibility you should have predicted.

Amongst many others of course. Though your judgment may have been led astray by a fantasy.

Wrapped up in the sweetness of a perfume you hadn't worn in forever, or maybe the feeling of finally scrubbing off the dried remnants of spit up and milk from your skin had you feeling brave tonight.

When you called him, and when he picked up. You had instinctively pushed a sweet lilt in your voice, baby girl strategically placed near the speaker so he might be able to hear her soft coos while you spoke.

Asking him to come over, raid your fridge, take care of your daughter for an hour or two since you had plans, you hadn't specified were plans for a date.

You tell yourself an explanation would've fell on deaf ears anyway.

Enjin's focus was so occupied in babbling sweet praises back at the baby, a part of you felt he'd agree to whatever you'd ask without thinking.

And he did.

Yes, was it manipulative in practice.

Not in execution.

Simply because you had gotten your own hopes up.

You were rustling with your earrings and handing him the baby before he could even get a proper greeting in.

Expecting a man like Enjin to take such blatant disrespect lying down?

The makeup you had done so pretty. Batted eyelids in a shimmery powder, the faint dusting of body glitter on your collar bones.

It's all wrecked now.

Mascara melting in dark, messy clumps off in the corner of your eyes and lashes as dense tears spill down your cheeks.

Lipstick long smudged off your lips, faded and waxy pigment that's half smeared over your mouth, half fanned in sticky, slobbery rings of gloss down the shaft of his cock.

Fractured sobs rack your throat, gasps heaving in humid hollows against his palm.

His fingers are nestled deep, pressing the scared pads on the flat of your tongue. Drool gathers in sopping ribbons and bubble wetly with the subtle gags reverberating out in the air.

"Missed this pussy sooo much." His voice rasps, head lulled to the side with his free hand roughly gripping at the pudge on your hips, "Almost forgot how fucking good she feels." The borderline violent slam of his hips against yours emphasizes those words way better.

Pumping his cock deeper and harder with each wet squelch of your cunt. Your back arches deeper into the curve of the couch to accommodate his weight alone.

The smell of his sweat and how it felt dribbling along the length of your back, the wispy stench of cigarettes and his cologne, it rocked into your senses like miasma.

So suffocating, nothing more than short breaths can relieve the searing ache in your lungs. Though they hardly soften the lump in your throat.

Warm, gooey walls gripping the ridges of his dick so fucking deliciously. The white sheen of cum and juices that coat over each vein of his dick. He swears the sight itself is intoxicating enough to make him bust again.

A deep kiss nibbles in the tense of your shoulder. Muffling his own grunts into the stickiness of your skin. It has you throwing your head back. Bumping into the crook of his traps and eyes screwing shut with each thrust.

Whatever moan you wanted to sniffle out choked on his thick fingers. A soft "o" shape forming as you instinctively suckled on his digits.

Though it wasn't long before he was dragging them out. Foamy strings of saliva trailing down your chin, between your tits, and circling your puffy clit in rough, slippery halos.

"Hear that? She missed me too." The wet echoing of your pussy seeping slick against his palm was deafening.

Tacky plap, plap, plaps, of your cunt quivering so embarrassingly under each smack of his fingers.

You couldn't help the whimpers that fell, not when he was practically ramming them out of your throat.

And now with nothing blocking the impossibly obscene sound of your gasps, somehow the heat of shame made that familiar coil tighten deeper. Clenching on the heft of his cock so desperately, despite yourself.

The laugh that he breathlessly teased made a shiver run up your spine.

"Yeahh," his voice, god his voice, husky and deep, so different from his normal charisma, "she knows where home is."

You wagged your head no.

Whatever you were disagreeing with is a mystery.

Maybe denying your own pleasure.

No, he wasn't fucking you dumb, just the way you liked.

No, you didn't miss this. His body on yours, his tongue, his smell, his cock. Especially not his cock.

Though who could you even fool when you were rocking your own hips to meet his, smearing remnants of his nut all over your thighs and leather of your couch?

Definitely not him.

"Nah? You mad I ruined your night?"

You tried to huff. Flaunt your annoyance. The best you could get out was a light grunt that faltered into a hiccup.

"Hate me all you want, this pussy loves me."

He 'rewarded' you with quicker loops over your nub. The heel of his hand pressing into your mound till your cunt was gushing in spurts.

The pressure of his cock, fucking through the spongy rings of your hole and twitching with each clasp that riveted through your body. Your arms ached so bad from holding yourself up doggy, sweat sticking to the globe of your ass.

A numbness festered in your gut, evening like static through your body and tingling with your nerves till everything was shot cold in between the waves another orgasm.

Your head felt so empty. Like your brain had shrunken and bumping off the walls of your fucking cranium.

Only he didn't stop.

Didn't even let you ride off your own fumes before he was wrangling your thighs between his huge ass hands. Fat spilling between his damp fingers and kissing along the expanse of your legs.

It's hard to tell whether Enjin pried them open himself, or if you had spread them willingly.

Because now you're on your back, for the ninth time that night.

He's still grinding his cock into your cunt with lazily drags. The sweltering tip kissing up to your cervix in deep, measured thrusts.

Maybe he dicked you down so good you've gone crazy. You can genuinely feel the shape of his cock imprint in your walls like a stencil.

Your body shudders. Eyes blown wide when the familiar feeling of his cum flowing in hot ropes that settle in your stomach.

The throb of each pump beats to the rythym of your nerves. A pitchy, hedonic moan whimpering out of your throat as you arch your hips to meet his.

"Bet that cucks still waiting for ya with his dick in his hands, poor guy." A wet pop echos erotically as he eases his softened cock out of your heat.

"You think he'd cry if saw you right now?"

"Don't care- 'S not like that, 'Jin!" His rough palm pressing down on the bump of your abdomen cuts your moan off.

His thumb caressing small circles of pressure, till your cunt was clenching on nothing. Thick globs of your slick and his seed mixed together spill out and roll down your ass in opaque streaks.

"It's okay. I doubt you even liked him." He watches under hooded eyes when you limply reach down, digging your nails into the tense of his forearm, then moving to trace along the curve his abs with a relieved sigh.

"You just needed someone to get you on your back. But I gotcha."

"Please...Enjin?"

You shakily trail your fingers lower. Starting with a grip at the base and slowly pumping the length of his cock till it half hardens in your palm. Tacky squelches of his cum spreading over the shaft and your folds cause the tip is kissing left over spurts of seed on your clit.

"Shit...thats hot." A breathy laugh escapes his lips, falling into a gruff groan when he's slipping back into your cunt.

His hands loop under your calves, keeping you wide as he squeezing his fat erection between your puffy folds in a single stroke. It's hard to keep the desperate pleas and sucks of hair from vibrating too loudly.

Goosebumps sprinkle along your legs, twitching and sore when his suddenly clasping his hold onto your ankles. Forcing your thighs to seal tight against each other, and angling in deep, deep thrusts so you could feel it brushing at your cervix.

"Ohmigod....." you arch,throwing an arm over your face with the other falling weakly against his chest, "I missed- you - so much...! Fuck!"

Each syllable is halted by a moan. Head bumping into the cushions of the couch.

"I know mamas, cause who screws you stupid?"

"You! Only you-"

"Atta girl! Good answer!" His thighs slam into yours, folding your knees over one of his shoulders and his hands dig into whatever pudge he can reach just so he can pull you closer.

Your clit is smothered between the fat, teased and left wanting since you can feel him graze under the nub everytime he pulls out, just to slam back in.

"'M gonna cum..." you sigh. Words of what you really wanted blocked out of your mind since he's basically fucking his dick into your shriveled brain, "I'm sorry, please 'm so close Enjin."

"Shut up and I promise I'll take care of you. Okay pretty?"

Something akin to a cry rings out of your voice, lips quivering and rattling baseless whimpers when he's licking up your ankle.

His head falls low, hair swaying and sticking damply on his forehead. It tickles along your leg when he's shifting, the squelch that echos deafly as he's splitting your thighs from the humid slick gluing them together.

You almost choke on your own saliva when he's finally rolling your clit under his thumb.

Like a fucking fire extinguisher to a flame, the after burn from anticipation burns so good it has the tips of your toes curling and your fingers twitching with nothing to purchase on.

And the shrill splashing of water has the glitch in your body come to a halt. Jaw hanging open and breath stolen.

Because your squirt is splattering on his abdomen and showering everywhere.

His own orgasm forgotten, hips stuttering so he's still buried deep. Though his face twists into genuine surprise. A big, stupid dumbfounded look that reminds you he's still Enjin.

"Fuck, that's new..." He tries to chuckle it off. Rocking hesitantly, though your embarrassment falters when you feel the shutters in his thrusts, "All me for me gorgeous?"

Any shame you could've had melts away when you nod, too quickly for your own comfort.

"Guess I gotta thank her." He had then proceeded to take you multiple times over the surfaces of your apartment. Bent over the counter of your kitchen when you waddled for a cup of water, wall sex in the shower cause he wanted to fuck another load into you, missionary that borders on mating press in your once shared bed as a half assed apology on his part. Maybe he makes up for it when he's up in the middle of the night and shushing your baby girl back to sleep like he used to, though.

A/N: Im failing the Enjin girlies bruh ts is so embarrassing

[g0ssip-gxrl]

i need an incredibly doomed super toxic and depressing enjin x reader story right NEOOWWWWWWWWW Im starting to write one but I'm lazy (i still have the baby daddy fic in my drafts im cooked)

[g0ssip-gxrl]

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟎𝟑. follo tunito

❝ 𝙔𝙊𝙐'𝙍𝙀 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙇𝙊𝙊𝙆𝙀𝙍, 𝙇𝙄𝙌𝙐𝙊𝙍 𝙎𝙐𝙂𝘼𝙍, 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙄𝙈 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙍𝙊𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙉 𝘼𝙋𝙋𝙇𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙀𝙔𝙀. ❞ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ┊growing up and getting bitter with childhood friend Follo Tunito

𝘾𝙍𝙀𝘿𝙄𝙏𝙎 - minor manga spoilers, fem reader, angst slop, unrequited crushes, hurt no comfort, fluff at the start, toxic dynamic if you squint, they kind of hate each other if you squint, follo's kind of an ass, not proof read 2.5k word count

The soft glimmer of early snowfall, lacing a thick sheet of pillowy white deep into the ground, and how it sways in gentle waves. The tiny particles that dance against the cool breeze of winter air, weaving like glittery shadows across a clean cut canvas.

It’s wonder how it stings. The faint sound of sizzling, akin to tiny dribbles of acid, it falls on deaf as it coats itself into the obscurity of an ever growing pile of blurry fluff.

“Aren’t you cold?” You parrot under your breath. An absent question, humiliating enough, long stolen from someone who didn’t even direct it at you.

Your knees are held tight to your chin. Lashes lulled blankly, and body scrunching in on itself. Honestly, not much unlike the snow you’ve spent the better part of an hour watching.

With how the crust of its dome collapses under the weight of your palm. The sound of crunching ice squishing into slush as you flex your trembling fingers into sopping remnants of ice.

Your pupils that darken the longer you stare, numbing to a borderline blindness. It’s the same, sterilized scenery. A calm morning after a particularly bad storm.

You had trudged yourself through wet puddles and damp boots, just to lie about in the caked over equipment of the playground.

The thought process behind it is an unmatched sweetness to the bitter tang teasing your throat. Or the prickles of dense, glob like tears pushing in the corner of your eyes.

Theres a rawness that sears in your vocal cords. And the pain that creeps into the shallow breaths of your lungs feels like icicles settling in between the ridges of your organ lining.

“Yeah. I am cold.” Coughed to no one in particular. A scratchy, pathetic sound, urged on by the dry atmosphere that freezes over any semblance of humidity.

A small sniffle cuts through your silence.

You don’t even catch it’s yours before the distant whirling of running heaters and backed up car engines even out in your ears again.

At least not until your face is burning. Eyes clouded in a haze with the over pour of wet tears that globe over your irises like a thick sheen.

How they’re spilling out from your waterline and rolling onto the apex of your cheeks.

Long streams that discolor the pudge of your skin.

And then the sputtering of a disgruntled sob.

Shaken violently from your chest, echoing in a hiccup that falls sudden, like record scratch.

You can hear your teeth clatter in your jaw. Tears now trailing like hot embers down your face.

Frigid winds brush on your skin, and you instinctively hold your body closer to itself. The scratches of your coat zipper leave ashy slashes on your knees.

Your fingers shakily grip into the fabric of your tights. Thin and unlined, until the nylon is clumsily fraying under your nails.

“Are you okay?” His voice calls nervously.

The ringing in your ears had barely subsided when you were suddenly whipping your head up. Eyes still wide and glistening.

His silhouette blocked out the sun. Its rays beaming off and shadowing panes of light across the floor from above the tires you were huddled against.

You nod back without thinking. Fluttering lashes blinking away the last dribbles of tears, though his face scrunches into something you can’t make out from the way they trickle on your cheeks.

“Hi Follo.”

“Why’re you crying?”

You sniffle again, shuffling steadily when he shifts to move beside you. "'s chilly today."

His back slumping on the stiff rubber with a muffled “oomf”, before wobbling to sit atop the bumpy surface.

“Then don’t sit in the snow like that. You’ll get soggy.” His lips pull into a half frown, brows furrowing as his shoulders lurch over when he tilts his body in your direction.

You can’t help the laugh that plays in your throat. Despite the sting that threads in each huff. You giggle a distant “I don’t mind,” and pick lazily with the hem of your skirt.

“…but what if you catch something? I don’t want you getting sick.” he sighs again, words spaced between shivers. His hands shakily cupping over his mouth and exhaling a shallow pant.

“How come you never dress for the weather?”

You watch dully. Still curled up at his feet, and still half way freezer burnt. You’re sure you’re frozen stuck in this position anyway.

With your head craned just slightly, so you gauge the gentle curve of his face, the way his black hair curled at the sides. How hot puffs of steam fan out from the cracks between his fingers.

You wonder very distantly, whether his comment was just a courtesy, or something he genuinely noticed.

“One time my mommy said the cold was good for your health.” a numbness pools at the tips of your fingers.

You dig them deeper into the snow anyway. Tracing misshapen stars and smiles under your nails.

“Yeah right,” Follo nudges your arm with his knee, a skeptical smile creasing on his lips, though his eyes don’t share the sentiment, “you probably snuck out without thinking, and now you don’t wanna look silly.”

“...Do you think I look silly?”

It comes out quieter than you expected. Quieter than you had ever intended to come off as.

Because now, when you can see in real time how his face contorts and twists in the subtle arch of his brows, or the flat shape his expression suddenly takes. Like he was using all his energy to comprehend what you had just asked.

The words start to echo louder, bouncing in the hollow confines of your mind.

"Have you been out here for a while?” and when he speaks, so plainly, like the topic died on his tongue, there’s a second you can feel a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding, release.

“An hour or two.” You mutter absently. As if it’s obvious. Like two hours ago wasn’t 5 am, or it wasn’t pitch black when you left your house this morning.

Though that reality feels less gloomy when he gasps. Whatever half astonishment and half concern sounds like. And a smile pulls on your cheeks.

“Weren’t you lonely waiting that long?”

Yes.

“No.” You exclaim, perking your head up and tilting it back so you could see his face, “I thought it was nice.”

“…Really?” You can see from the way his eyes haze over, features falling flat, that he’s either mulling over how, or why.

“Yes, ‘really’,” a puffy pout hollows on your cheeks, brushing off the build of up snow that piled on your coat before haphazardly dusting it in his direction, “It was super peaceful. I almost fell asleep.”

“You didn’t look very peaceful when I got here.”

You roll your eyes, shoving his legs away from you like some tiny form of protest. “The air was heavy, so it was hard to breathe." "I guess that makes sense."

He doesn’t respond beyond that. Barely even offers you a lazy shrug. Just stares off into the distance, legs swinging back and forth so the heel of his boots bumped rhythmically against the tire.

The quiet has words gone from your head. Whether it’s embarrassment or contentment, you can’t tell, the buzz in your chest feels the same.

Your gaze dips. And you’re hugging your knees to your chest again. Huddling in on yourself till your face is practically buried in the crook of your arms. A shiver runs up your spine, and you poke at the goosebumps that prickle on your flesh.

There’s a deep ache in your stomach. It’s rattling throughout your nerves like a surge of electrified longing. You don’t know what’s choking you up when you call out.

“Hey, Follo?”

“Hey, Follo.” Your voice hums dully. Drawled out with the eerie scratch of metal squeaking in its hinges.

From the splattering of rain that ripple against foggy trenches.

Or the mud that sticks and squelches stickily on the ground.

To the limp swaying of your figure.

Head hung low and rocking slowly with the swing set.

Apparently you’re hell bent on staring at your own shoes. Since you don’t bother looking up at him when he approaches.

He only catches your face because your reflection mirrors in a puddle of water.

Follo isn’t sure what’s worse. The fact you don’t even acknowledge his presence beyond a half assed “hey”, or the fact you don’t even seem phased by him at all.

Even from that bleary image, he can still make out that bored gloss in your eyes.

The kind that isn’t clear whether it’s teetering on disappointment or no impression all together.

His grip on his umbrella tightens instinctively, and his face twitches.

The smile he pinned on his lips ends up twisting into something a little nastier.

He tries to keep it from reaching his voice before he greets you back. In the back of his head he can still hear a faint twang of annoyance.

“Hey.” He manages to mutter. Though, despite the weather, his throat suddenly feels dry. There’s something about this situation thats clawing at his discretion. “You doing okay?”

“Mhm. Why?"

He tries to hide his unease under the sound of sloshing mud.

Picking up a good glob of it under his soles when he shifts to lean his back against the metal pipes of the play set. It rattles with your movement, and pushes wet stains on his coat. Then you lift your head to look at him, perking up like you had just noticed he was there. Unbothered and flat, even though you're getting drenched on. "Because you're sitting in the rain." He says without concern. Something petty in his heart wants to add a "you're not gonna ask me back?", but thats something he'd never entertain outside his own thoughts. "Yeah." You rub your eyes from the water that clumps in your lashes. The fleeting remnants of your mascara smudge between your knuckles, "I forgot my umbrella." "Then why didn't you go straight home?" your hollow laugh follows his words. The way you shrug like its nothing, and that guilty smile on your lips, like this is the most mundane thing ever. His ever growing irritation flares a little more. "I lost track of time." that doesn't even answer his question. He stops himself from responding. More because he doesn't wanna let something bad slip out, less because he knows this bitterness is completely unfounded. At least its calmer in the quiet. Like this, where the storm rumbles the background, and the rain drowns out any unpleasant buzzing that numbs between the two of you.

Follo ignores the tension that shudders in his shoulders. The veins in his hands flexing when he takes a deep breath in. It doesn't help much. Not with the stench of petrichor and the overwhelming strong waft of your perfume overriding his sense. He takes another one anyway.

"You're gonna get sick." "Do you care?" You laugh it off, again. Its sharper though. Amplified by the screech left hollowly in the atmosphere when you stop swinging.

He wonders whether thats intentional on your part. "Not really."

oops.

His mouth zips shut faster than those words came out. Body stiffening and features pulled back tight. Like he was trying to figure out who's voice that was. Because it doesn't feel like his. He hadn't even realized he'd been staring.

Not until a slew of your image comes flooding in flashes. How your shirt clings half transparent to your chest. The sopping layer of your jacket thats slipped off your shoulders and weigh in the crook of your arms.

The speckles of mud that stick to your thighs and stain on your calves.

Sadly enough, distant memory of scrapped skin and spilled blood on snow flickers briefly in his eyes. The dim that casts over your expression.

Though in reality, he knows it isn't much different from the way you've grown to look at him.

That festering of dark ink that suddenly bloomed on the untainted fragments of your friendship.

Whether it was a gradual deterioration that naturally frayed with age, or an epiphany that dawned on you and he just hadn't noticed. It's a mystery to him.

Why you're indifference settled, or why you started treading two steps behind from the group. Till you eventually stopped coming around all together.

It's been like this for years now.

He tells himself, the grey that shadows over your face whenever you see him these days, is from the weather.

"Then why'd you bring it up." You sound annoyed. Or exasperated. He could just be projecting. "...I dunno," he tries to keep from returning the energy. Body slumping and dipping his head low "It's just something people say."

The stiffness that drags on your limbs like lead, forcefully cracking when you maneuver yourself to gauge up at him. Your chin resting on your palm as you leaned your weight onto your knees.

"Right," you try to sound fonder than you feel, "you're so practical, Follo." "Sure," He coughs up a half laugh, and it dies as quickly as it erupted, "- It's not like anyone listens to me though."

His face falls into something uncertain. Just like it always does. His own pride won't let him admit he's developed his own disinterest towards you as well. You just like to think you're both on the same wavelength. It's a comfort neither of you address. Because that ache you used to choke yourself sick over has only gotten more aggressive. Like a rot that only gates to an abyss. Fed with the incredibly grim reality that; he doesn't think of you, at all. He never has.

For the sake of this ever decaying bond.

Even though his company feels like a suffocating obligation, and your distain towards him only serves as a testament to his fractured ego.

"Is she giving you a hard time again?" You ask reluctantly. Your answer is given when he doesn't respond, not right away at least.

"Nah, she's got her own thing going on now." Follo shrugs after his pause, a breath heavy in his chest. You can't tell if he's lying or not when he says no.

"Why?" He adds after a bit. Something sour simmers in your gut. Like bile that sneakily creeps into your mouth. "Why else would you wanna hang out?" And suddenly the storm is becoming all too present, "It's all you ever talk about."

His eyes lull from under his lashes. Lips pulled flat and cracked dry. His throat feels scratchy and raw in absence. Maybe it's testing to the scattering of quarter empty thoughts that plague his headspace.

The feeling of rain rolling off the arch of his back. Bouncing on his jacket and hitting droplet after droplet like a vice.

The length of his pants now soggy and caked with grime. His hair now drenched and trailing humid streaks of rain down his neck. He tips his umbrella over your head like it does something. "I just wanted to see you."

[g0ssip-gxrl]

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟎𝟐. follo tunito

❝ 𝙄 𝙇𝙀𝙁𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘼 𝘽𝘼𝙍𝘽𝙄𝙀, 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙓 𝙊𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝙊𝙏 ❞ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ┊ security guard Follo Tunito and the stripper he fell for

𝘾𝙍𝙀𝘿𝙄𝙏𝙎 - 18+ mdni, fem reader, stripper reader, strip clubs, minor au, nothing too explicit, teasing, mutual pining, misogyny, head cannon format/minor fic, not proof read, credits to gokurakawaii for the idea 2k word count

ᯓ★ SECURITY GUARD FOLLO - who always walks you out after your shift is over. He’s grown into the habit of holding your work bag and opening your car door for you. ᯓ★ insists you don’t have to tip him out. The first time you mentioned it, he refused to accept a penny from you. Because in his mind he’s just doing his job. ᯓ★ watches from his post when he hears your song finally play on the stage speakers. he's genuinely so mesmerized by you, he feels like another patron until a coworker snaps him out of it and reminds him he's on the clock. ᯓ★ still catches glimpses of your performance no matter where in the club he is. Can basically stitch together the fragmented pieces of your routine simply because he's memorized each beat and sway of your dances. ᯓ★ who (embarrassingly in his head) keeps track of your regulars, honestly whoever you sit with. The ones who make you laugh, the ones who dim your light, the ones who tip especially well, or the handsy ones where you immediately go searching for him to handle it. ᯓ★ doesn’t notice - or address - how you hide behind him when he's dealing with rowdy costumers. How your nails dig into his arm and peek your head out from over his shoulder. He figures its a petty, spiteful, "fuck you asshole" power move against dicks who try to ruin the night. He's seen other dancers do it with Enjin and Gris. ᯓ★ tries so hard to not let your subtle flirts go to his head - lest he be hounded to hell and back about how cliche and stupid he is for falling for a stripper -. He can't help it, when you tip on your heels and whisper a breathy " thank you Follo " in his ear. Or press a small kiss on his jaw as a sign of gratitude. ᯓ★ he has so much respect for you, but that translates into him trying his best to maintain a certain degree of professionalism. Which is good in theory, but in practice? The nonchalant act is hard to keep up, and thank god you cant see how flushed he can really get under the club lights. ᯓ★ mostly because of the fact, when you're not working the floor, you're somehow always in a position closest to him, or where you need him. He can't worry about anything else when he has to brace for an inevitable " Follo, can you help me with... " "Follo, fix my bra for me? " " Follo, are you okay? " ᯓ★ who, despite his job, hasn't grown a back bone yet. Maybe just when it comes to you. Because he can't refuse you when you call his name so nicely. Like when you ask him his opinion on your makeup that night, or the set you decided to wear. He can only manage a disgruntled nod and " yeah looks good " ᯓ★ who's praying to god he's not the loser who genuinely believes a stripper likes him. He's so in his own head about it, he doesn't even see the way you've been blowing half your pay check on new sets trying to gauge what gets the best response out of him.

“You’re such a pussy,” Enjin croaks, a small cough sputtering in his throat when a stream of smoke spills from his teeth, “it’s so embarrassing.”

“Did I fucking ask you?” The words came out before Follo could even think, the deep sneer that forced its way into his tone and bloomed with an unfounded annoyance.

And when he finally catches it in the back of his head, pink dusts his cheeks, and he’s slouching his shoulders over the metal railing of the stairs. Clasping his hands together to wring out the clammy balm simmering on the surface of his palms.

Follo gulps, eyes carefully trailing over the floor.

He isn’t sure whether he’s actively seeking out your familiar silhouette through the fog, or using all his energy trying so hard to avoid it.

The faint wisps of smoke swirled through fluorescent lights.

A bleary image of drumming blues, bumping to the vibration of the speakers. Even the atmosphere felt beckoning, subdued in the musk of sweat and raw whisky.

The lump in his throat practically cemented him onto the floor, stuck stiff, like crinkling plaster was hardening into every curvature of his muscles until even circulating blood in his shallow breaths felt like fire down his veins.

“You’ll give yourself a hemorrhage,” Enjin adds, lips pulled into a light smile when he’s resting his cheek on his knuckles. The bud of his cigarette bobs up and down from between his lips, “learn to relax.”

Follo wags his head, a long groan that borders on a whine pushing in his lungs. “Like it's that easy,” his fingers impatiently pick at the fraying of his cuticles, “- I don't get how you handle women like its nothing."

"Our whole job revolves around them man," Enjin hisses under his teeth, throwing his head back and blowing vapor into the barely illuminated atmosphere "- they loses their flair pretty quickly."

"Thats not what I mean," Follo grumbles bitterly, face scrunching at the stench. Hands flexed tight then loose, like trying to relive whatever tension clogged in his nerves, lips catching inbetween canines and his body shuddering with a pathetic laugh. "I get what you mean. They're fucking headaches, and the hotter they are the worse it is."

The faint image of you pops in Follo's head the when Enjin rambles. Glittery skin and battered lashes, huge blown out pupils that flush up at him 'innocently'. The tug between frustration and embarrassment knotting in his gut has him running his hand through his hair and pinching the bridge of his nose.

He's gotta squeeze out the idea of your impossibly meddling figure out of his head. Has to remind himself that this is his. That it's your job. And all the teasing just came with the territory. Maybe then he can keep up some semblance of dignity if he anchors himself in that ever deteriorating line.

Enjin's voice cuts through the festering migraine, long, disconnected drawl in his voice when he speaks, "They piss me off too. I'm just easy for a nice rack and a pretty girl on my arm." "...Ever think thats the reason women don't like you?" A genuine question, and whether it came off disgusted or judgmental, Follo still isn't completely sure if he's being hypocritical. Because it isn't just guilt weighing on his conscious. Its borderline shame. Shame over the fact he feels no different from patronizing clients. That he's just another delusional man who likes the way you stroke his ego, the kind that goes crazy for a sweet script and fleeting touches wrapped up in a skimpy ribbon. "I know I'm a dick. They don't shut the fuck up about it." "Maybe you should work on it then, jeez." Follos brows crease skeptically when the blonde laughs. A hollow, hearty one laced in nicotine and disbelief. "I should. I just don't think any of them are worth the effort," the words are emphasizing every thought rolling in waves through Follo's head, "- Sometimes its easier looking at a woman in the tits instead of the eyes. Then I don't gotta see how shitty I make 'em feel." "You're so unhelpful." "Fuck you then. Go talk to Gris about it." Enjin scoffs, half offended half amused , still lands a good smack against the back of Follo's neck though. Embers of the cigarettes barely sizzling below the shell of his ear "Nah. He wouldn't help either." "Exactly, cause you're just like me. He's better than the lot of us." Another chuckle that bounces deep when Enjins suddenly shoving Follo by the hair before ruffling the strands between tattooed fingers, "- So whats this really about?" "...I dunno. I don't wanna be like you man," Follo groans off the muffled 'ouch' from above, palm dragging down his face and staring blankly under his lulled lashes, "I don't wanna disrespect her. She gets enough of it already."

"What, you've got a crush or something?" "How come you never know whats going on?" Enjin hisses, head tilting to the side and shrugging his shoulders, "It's not like I didn't notice, I just figured y'all were fucking around or something."

That suddenness has the heat blooming in Follo's chest accelerate tenfold. Honestly, like a gaping wound that's gushing in its own secretion of blood and desire. And he's hanging his head low, avoiding the ever growing grin on Enjin's face thats threatening to poke at all the squishy bits in Follo's mind. Till everything he's been shoving down eventually projects all over the damn floor. "Maybe I am a pussy. I just don't got it in me," he deflates just a bit, "- to ignore her, y'know? But I also don't wanna be the loser who only likes her cause she's pretty and gives me attention."

"You think she doesn't know she's hot shit? Thats cute." "Im not saying that, of course she does-" He's cut off with a dramatically long blow of smoke. Then the sound of fizzling when the bud is put out on the metal railing.

"Then whats wrong with letting her know you appreciate it?" Enjin hums, low and looking off into the distance. "The way I see it, it's worse when you pretend she's stupid."

Follo doesn't respond, just letting that implication settle uncomfortably between them until it curdles from bitterness. "She knows what she's doing. They all do." and it's almost like clockwork when he's forced to ignore the muffled whispers and giggles leaning onto him when two dancers stroll past. "Our only job is to step in when someone takes it personally."

"What if I'm the creep who takes it personally, though." That reality feels better highlighted when Follo, finally, catches your eye from downstairs. The soft glimmer of acknowledgement in your gaze, or the small smile that plays on your lips when you see him. No matter how brief, it doesn't fail to rip all the oxygen from his lungs. And its so clear from the way Enjin smiles, and pats his shoulders like some sort of fucked 'congratulations', that it's an obvious exchange. "She can tell the difference between you and a client." Enjin glints, a wolfish grin barring in his teeth when he nudges Follo in your direction. " You think she'd mess with you if she didn't think she'd get something out of it?" "Not like there's anything I could give her." "Oh piss off, you think women are innocent?" His groan tappers into a laugh when he's squishing Follo's cheeks between a rough grip and jutting his head out to focus all his attention on you, yet again. "Open your eyes, dumbass. She likes your attention, makes her feel sexy." "She gets attention from everyone," Follo rolls his eyes, shoulders slumping, "- How would it be any different coming from me?" "Hah? Just because she sells it doesn't mean she can't want it," The stench of tobacco sticks to Enjin's breath. "What point are you tryna make?" Follo doesn't even notice the ever growing steps looming up the stair case. Too occupied with the rough manhandling he's been forced to bare, or the senseless projection of a bumbling idiot.

Not until the blonde has his whole weight lumped onto Follo's shoulders starts impatiently slapping at his cheek to turn the other way. "That women got needs to," he groans, picking mindless at invisible prickles of ash on his uniform, "-maybe you're her type. Maybe she just broke up with a boyfriend and 's got'er feeling lonely."

Follo can't even get a response in before his eyes are widening. Just barely catching the smell of your perfume slipping past him. That sweet smell thats so intoxicatingly you, it drenches his sensed like whiplash. Literally has him twisting his neck 360 just to see where the hell you might've come from, or where you were going. And he can almost see the subtle way you crane your head back. Just to see his face, he's sure. With that dumbfounded expression plastered on it, he isn't sure whether to feel humiliated or giddy over the fact your own shifts into something more flushed. "She's your bag man. Gotta ask her yourself." "She's not my anything."

A/N: relapsed really bad while writing this but I still got it posted bc Im legendary

[g0ssip-gxrl]

IDK WHY I CANT SEND THIS ON MAIN LMFAO (@gokurakawaii) BUT OMGGGG IF YOU HAVE STRIPPER!READER X SECURITY GUARD!FOLLO IDEAS I TOTALLY WANNA READ THEM AND YAP LOVE IT THAT MADE MY NIGHT HAHAHAHA

OMG DEADASS ?? I gotta lock in and start then TYY QUEEN 🖤

[gokurakawaii]

stripper!reader x security guard!follo cw 21+ mdni, fluff author's note i have officially landed in the new country i moved to and omg this is my first time being unemployed so i finally have time to write LMAO enjoy i'll get back to my wips asap just needed to get this out <3 1000% doing more parts lmao i wanna do smut of this

“follo, please. just go and talk to her already.”

a set of furrowed brows, an irritated ‘tsk’, and a hand that juts out to hit gris’s chest with precision and ease. a beat hasn’t even passed since the words have left his colleague’s mouth, but his brain already knows. of course he gets it. talking to you has always been an option. however, the problem isn’t a lack of awareness; it’s fear. 

some lines just aren’t meant to be crossed.

follo has been a security guard at ‘the ground’ for about 5 months now. it’s a job that he takes immense pride in, and no amount of dumbfounded head tilts could ever convince him otherwise. after all, the establishment is clean, the work environment is warm, and he’s in love with the feeling that builds up in his chest every single time he manages to successfully take the trash out. nevermind the fact that said garbage tends to be the worst of the worst of society— all that matters is that he continues to keep this strip club safe; keep it comfortable so that the lights can continue to flutter against the floor while a bass line smoothly reverberates against the walls night after night. 

unfortunately though, his commitment to protection is exactly why pursuing you makes for such a bad idea. 

see, follo won't say the truth. he won't confess to the lingering stares; will never talk about the nervousness that powers all of his greetings. for one, admitting it means admitting that he’s no better than the clients that stay out of sight, and the man obviously doesn’t want to be out of mind. he wants to be acknowledged, maybe even praised, but being lumped in with that kind of crowd sends a shiver down his spine, one that can't be fixed with cold water or a pep talk. when all is said and done, cardinal sins that only exist after the sun kisses the skyline have a certain place in this world, and even he knows that those storylines feel more convenient than they do intimate. clearly, that’s not what this is. you're beautiful, charismatic; follo doesn't want you to think that a pole grip and effortless hip sway are what drew you to him. he's imagined the look of horror on your face more times than he can count, and that's enough for him to keep his distance.

plus, you have quite the reputation here.

sharp, proactive, and always on the move. you're the textbook definition of hardworking, and follo sees your efforts even as the curtains fall. the spotlight tends to follow you even when it's focused on someone else, and that's what makes you a favourite here at the club. the girl with the most repeat customers; the woman whose looks could truly kill... intimidation rarely tends to get under his skin, but it's made quite a home for itself as of late. he knows it's satisfying to get your attention, and that's presumably why you're so good at what you do. besides, follo has seen the way men look at you after you walk away; it's enough to make him roll his sleeves up in advance.

that's also why he's so terrified of approaching you to begin with.

"come on, gris," follo breathes out, straightening out his spine. his eyes narrow as he notices a patron in the distance starting to encroach on another dancer's personal space, and his feet move before he can even think. "we have a job to do."

it's been a peaceful night so far, and follo feels compelled to keep the streak going. however, before he can even make it across the floor, a sharp pain suddenly reaches his side, flooding his insides with a searing heat.

"i-i'm so sorry," a small voice squeaks out, and he has half a mind to scold the customer that's presumably responsible for his newfound ailment. unexpectedly though, his line of vision pulls out a wild card.

it's you.

"it's... no, it's okay," he mutters, momentarily blanking as he blinks. he's never seen you look so embarrassed; never known a version of you that blushes upon impact. you're fidgeting with your set, readjusting fabric that was already content, and follo has no idea what any of it means. is someone bothering you? is it him? "are... you okay?"

"yes," you quickly spit out, shaking your head almost instantaneously as your fingers twitch. "i'm... i, uh...." he tilts his head. you turn away. "okay. yes... i'm… okay. see... s-see you around, follo," you murmur, and confusion lingers in his mind as your heels click against the floor, signalling your departure. a hearty laugh emerges from behind the brunette after a moment, and a firm grip locks onto his shoulder.

"like i said, follo," gris whispers, chuckling. the man in question looks back to see where you've gone, and his eyes widen as you meet his gaze from across the room. "please. go and talk to her already."

masterlist

don’t steal or feed this to ai. embrace x reader. don’t be lame

[g0ssip-gxrl]

Genuinely going so feral for this trope with Follo I might just make my own rendition if I get the pass (◞‸ ◟)💧