chimera ♱

jjk × bleach × cod https://gardenofchimeras.carrd.co

[gardenofchimeras]

⛧ 𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖘 ⛧

hey, i’m hella

reader ✶ writer ✶ fanfic enthusiast

i like:

⛧ books

⛧ videogames

⛧ art

⛧ writing stories that stay on my mind

currently into:

☾ sukuna

☾ toji

this blog is mostly:

— fanfics

— headcanons

— late night ideas

requests are open

stay a while ☾

[gardenofchimeras]

“tell me the name, and i’ll end him” | maniac!gojo x reader

co-authored w/ @foreversprin9 🖤

Disclaimer & Content Warnings

ATTENTION: This story is a dark psychological thriller/horror AU (Alternative Universe) and contains themes that some readers may find deeply disturbing.

Content Warnings:

• Graphic Violence & Gore: Detailed descriptions of murder, dismemberment, and disposal of bodies.

• Toxic Relationships: Features a highly manipulative, obsessive, and abusive dynamic.

• Drug Use: References to substance abuse and addiction.

• Mental Instability: Depictions of psychosis, sociopathic behavior, and psychological trauma.

• Major Character Death: Proceed with caution if you are sensitive to the death of canon characters.

Character Note (OOC):

Please be advised that Satoru Gojo is portrayed here as a dark, villainous, and highly OOC version of himself. This is a "Dark Gojo" interpretation and does not reflect his personality in the original Jujutsu Kaisen manga or anime.

Reader Discretion is Strongly Advised.

This is a work of pure fiction. The author does not condone or romanticize the actions, violence, or toxic behaviors depicted in this story.

“And then… then he made me bury his body. He made me… made me touch it. With my bare hands.” The words stumbled from your throat like a messy, tangled knot.

The psychiatrist sat across from you, scribbling frantically into his notebook. He looked up, his eyes scanning your frame as you trembled from drug withdrawal and pure panic. You looked better now—way better than the day the police dragged you out of that hellhole you called a home. The track marks on your arms from injecting whatever cheap shit you could find were hidden under fresh bandages, and the raw, chemical burns around your nostrils from snorting lines of mephedrone were finally starting to fade. You’d been in the psych ward for a week, and today was the day you finally decided to tell him everything—every horrific detail of your short relationships with Satoru.

“Breathe. Tell me how it all started,” the psychiatrist said, his voice predictably calm. “Don’t hide any details; they might be used against you during the trial.”

You steadied your breath, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of your hospital robe. Your wrists were raw, scratched red from the constant friction of the handcuffs. “Alright… alright. I’ll tell you everything.”

It started when Gojo sold you your first gram of cocaine. “Angel, this white stuff is gonna give you wings, trust me,” he’d promised, leaning in close.

Sniff. The first line disappeared up your nose under his expectant gaze. “So?” Satoru asked impatiently. You looked at him, your brain already beginning to fuzz over. “Damn straight it gives me wings,” you slurred, shoving crumpled banknotes toward him.

“First gram is a gift for my prettiest client,” he chuckled, pushing your hand back and refusing the money.

That high gave you a feeling nothing else could give. With that shit in your blood, you felt like a god. You were on top of the world. But as soon as the coke faded, you crashed back down into your pathetic reality. That was how the intervals between doses started to shrink. You began meeting Satoru daily, handing over your last cent for the white powder you could no longer exist without.

Eventually, your wallet stayed empty. “Ugh, my penniless angel,” he cooed, pulling you close. “Don’t worry. I have something cheaper for you.” He held out a ziplock bag of mephedrone. “Same effect, different price. Try it.”

By then, you didn’t care what you were putting up your nose. You snorted it without a second thought. “Fuck, man. You’re my saviour.”

Gojo chuckled, a dark, playful sound. “I am. Can’t let my favorite client suffer.”

You laid out two lines instead of one. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question in his eyes. “Can’t a girl treat her favorite dealer?” you asked. The confusion on his face vanished, replaced by a smug smirk. He didn’t hesitate for a second before leaning down to take his share.

It quickly became a ritual. He’d sell you the drugs, and then you’d both get high. When the chemicals hit, the neediness took over. That desperation quickly morphed into physical intimacy. Nothing compared to what he did to you. The drugs sharpened your senses, making your body hyper-responsive to every kiss and every bruise-like touch.

His lips, sucking marks into the sensitive skin of your throat, sent you straight to heaven. Satoru’s fingers left burning trails across your skin, making you shiver and arch helplessly against him. The compliments he whispered into your ear stimulated your fried brain even more, leaving you feeling absolutely boneless beneath him. The feeling of him inside you dragged ragged moans and overstimulated whimpers from your lungs. You wanted it to be endless. You wanted to feel him every second of your life. Satoru was the only person that could give you that kind of pleasure—and you were willing to pay any price for it.

The psychiatrist cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to cut through your narration. “And how did you feel after that?”

You paused for a second, trying to scrape together the memory of that feeling. “Dirty. I wanted to please him so badly that I was ready to do anything he told me. Sometimes, I felt like I was nothing more than a filthy whore sucking dick for a fix. But… he was the only person I’d been close to in months. Those thoughts always vanished the second I took another hit of mephedrone, though. So, does it really matter?”

The psychiatrist noted your words, adjusted his glasses, and asked: “So, when did everything change?”

One night, after another round of desperate intimacy, you were lying curled up against his side, tracing absentminded patterns on his bare chest. There were thoughts you couldn't shake, and you decided to voice the question that had been flickering through your mind like lightning.

“Do you like hurting people?”

He chuckled, looking down at you. “Kind of an interesting question to ask after sex, huh?”

You shook your head. “I mean… would you kill for me, bae?”

He pulled you even closer, his grip tightening. “Of course, angel. Just point a finger at whatever bastard offended you, and I’ll end his existence.”

You went quiet for a few long minutes before muttering: “Yeah. I actually have a name.”

The man you named was Geto. He’d ruined your senior year of high school. He destroyed your already battered reputation by spreading rumors about your addiction.

Everyone turned their backs on you the second his filthy mouth spilled that gossip. It wasn’t like they were oblivious to what you were doing in the school bathrooms, but Geto’s words turned whispers into a death sentence. He made you an outcast, a scapegoat. The hatred you felt for him had been festering in your heart for years.

“So, you told him to… eliminate your high school offender, right?”

You nodded. “I thought it was just high-talk, nothing serious. Who would’ve thought Satoru was actually serious about killing the bastard?”

The psychiatrist hung on every word, noting how you twisted the sleeves of your robe at the mention of Geto and how you desperately avoided eye contact.

“And,” he asked, “did the thought of him killing someone for you please you?”

“It made me ecstatic, doc.”

“You’re gonna kill someone for me, aren’t you, bae?” The question was on repeat in his mind, in that sweet, slurred voice of yours. “Of course I will,” he responded in his head, as his feet carried him down the quiet Tokyo street with slow, smooth steps. He had to prove to you that he’d do anything for his little angel, because that’s exactly what love is, right? At least for him, it sure was.

His hand slid down into his jeans pocket, drawing out a cheap music player with headphones. Gojo’s music taste was more than just good; the little screen cast a bright light in the darkness as he scrolled through the playlist. ‘Smooth Criminal’ — Michael Jackson. That’s exactly what he needed right now. Feet moving to the rhythm, head tilting lazily from side to side, he clearly enjoyed himself in that very moment. The player in his hand was more like a microphone now, his lips parting to the lyrics.

“He left the bloodstains on the carpet,” the words left his mouth like second nature. The corners of his lips tugged up into a full-blown smile as he looked at his reflection in the window of a closed shop. His legs kept stepping in the practiced moves of the choreography, fingers snapping to the beat.

It didn’t take much time to find the exact apartment where Geto lived; Gojo had been there countless times before. Fucking bastard abandoned him the moment the blonde got carried away with all the substances he was selling you now. Well, not that he needed him after all—just another passerby in his life. Satoru’s hands moved with practiced ease as he opened the door. The darkness of the apartment enveloped him momentarily while the music kept blasting in his headphones. “For a good mood,” Gojo mumbled, moving to the kitchen, humming under his breath. He quickly found the right knife. Good thing Geto always kept his blades sharp; Satoru didn’t even have to do extra work.

“Just to tell you once again, who’s bad?.. Me.”

The quiet whispering filled the soundless room as he stood there, over Geto’s bed. The moonlight cast long shadows on the sleeping man. Gojo’s mouth curved into another smile. Too sweet for the situation, but that’s just how he was. That’s exactly how he’d been for the past seven years of his life, since the moment he first killed an innocent person. He was The Strongest, after all; maybe that’s what caused him to go a little insane with his own power. The feeling of being a step higher than others and the lack of punishment after each kill fed his young ego even more. And the addiction only pushed it further.

There was no need to hide that he enjoyed his little acts of God, with his victims begging him to let them go, promising they wouldn’t tell anyone if he kept them alive. But even that didn’t stop him from mercilessly pushing a knife through their throats. It was funny for him to listen to the hoarse attempts to say something in their last moments, funny to watch blood streaming down their bodies and his own hands, soaking into their clothes. The way he dealt with the breathless figures was the most enjoyable part. Chopping their limbs like little Lego pieces, carefully putting each one into a ziplock bag, and slotting them into the fridge like Tetris until he decided what to do with them next.

He stayed there motionless for another minute, all the moments he’d spent with the dark-haired man flashing in his mind, causing his face to grimace in disgust. No, that shouldn’t ruin his mood now; no one had the right to do that, especially not Geto. This act of revenge was not only for you—it was deeper, more personal; not that he’d let you know, but still. He didn’t hesitate as his hand quickly pushed the blade into Suguru’s neck. The smell of blood filled his lungs, and his eyes fluttered shut for a short moment, listening to the choked sound that left the dying body. Maybe that’s how the soul sounds when it leaves the physical vessel before going to a better—or, Gojo hoped, worse—world somewhere underneath, to suffer forever.

Moments later, Satoru sat on the edge of the bed with blood all over his hands.

A joint was between his fingers, his phone in the other palm, as he texted you a short “Come over” with the coordinates included. It didn’t take you much time to get there. Your steps were cautious as you went up the stairs of the old apartment building. You stood there in the dim hallway, peeking through the crack of the door Satoru had left open for you. Gentleman, isn’t he?

“You weren’t surprised that he sent you Geto’s home coordinates?” the doctor asked, looking up from his notebook, pen between his fingers, his eyebrow raising slightly.

“I... didn’t know that it was Geto’s apartment,” your voice was quiet as you answered, fidgeting with the cuffs on your wrists.

“Can we not talk about that, please?”

“You should. Tell me what you saw next.”

“Right... so...”

The moment you stepped into the apartment, Gojo greeted you with a bright smile, abruptly pulling you to his side, his hand holding your waist firmly. You knew something was off. The air was stiff, the rooms too quiet, and Satoru was too proud of himself.

“Satoru, why are we here?” you asked hesitantly, glancing briefly at him, but he quickly shut you up with a rough kiss, coaxing a muffled moan from you. Then he pulled away just as fast, letting out a relaxed breath.

“Ah, angel, I’ve just got a little surprise for you,” the blonde drawled as he guided you further into the apartment.

The second you saw the dead body on the bed—Geto’s fucking dead body—all thoughts left your dizzy head, and pure panic washed over you. Hands trembling, you moved closer, eyes darting over Suguru’s form. This couldn’t be real, right? That wasn’t Geto for sure. Gojo wouldn’t really kill someone. But the more you looked at the sight in front of you, the more you realized this wasn’t a bad dream.

“What the fuck did you do, Satoru?” your voice broke mid-sentence as tears filled your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. Your hands moved up to cover your mouth, muffling your sobs.

“I mean, you told me to kill him, didn’t you? I thought that’s what you wanted. Why are you crying right now, sweetheart?” His voice was relaxed as he stepped behind you. Hands found the curve of your waist once again, resting there, his face pressing into your neck. Lips left slow, sloppy kisses on your warm skin, making you flinch now instead of wanting more. How could he stay calm? How could he kiss you like that after what he just did?

“You fucking killed him,” you snapped, turning to face him. Shaky hands tried to push him away, but failed miserably as his grip turned almost painful. He hated it when you acted like a hysterical bitch. Satoru preferred it when you were soft and pliant under the influence of the stuff he gave you.

“Shut up and calm down. I’ve done this countless times before. There’s nothing to worry about. Just help me bury the body.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘nothing to worry about’? You’re a fucking psycho. I’m not helping you.”

“Yes, you are, doll. Because I said so.”

Everything else felt like a fog. The moments he chopped the body, how he dragged it down the stairs. You didn’t even know how his car just appeared at the entrance. The thoughts of what he did and what you would do were on repeat like a broken record in your head. Some song on the radio felt like an attempt to mock you. You really thought you knew him; you’d spent so much time together, tangled under cool sheets, and now he was driving you to the forest to help him get rid of Geto. What a fucking mess you’d put yourself in.

“So he forced you to help him?” the low voice of the therapist snapped you out of your thoughts, making you flinch in your chair.

“Mmh... Because he killed him for me. But, Doctor, I didn't think he would actually do it.”

“I believe you, don’t worry. So, what happened after you arrived at the forest?”

“I just... helped him.”

Right as you finished the sentence, the voice of the policeman cut through the speaker. Your session with the therapist was over. Time to go back to the isolated room of the mental hospital where they kept you.

The last time you saw Gojo was during the trial. Unlike you, he sat there completely unfazed by the situation he’d dragged you both into. Deep down, he knew that one day he was going to get caught. He answered the judge’s questions with simple "yes" or "no" responses, but when it came to the number of his victims, he went quiet for a few torturously long minutes.

“Dozens, if not hundreds,” Satoru finally said, devoid of emotion.

You felt something inside you shatter. Yes, he’d mentioned before that he was experienced, but the indifference with which he said it—as if he were talking about what he had for breakfast—nearly killed you. The rest of the trial was a blur. His cold, indifferent face stuck in your mind like a broken record. “What if I was next on his list?” you thought. “I saw what he’d done... and Satoru is definitely not dumb enough to leave a witness alive.”

The judge’s words pulled you out of your trance. “Satoru Gojo is sentenced to death. The decision is indisputable.” Your sentence wasn’t much better: ten years in a psychiatric ward without parole.

Your love story was predestined the moment you stepped into Geto’s place. You were doomed, like Bonnie and Clyde, like Fred and Rosemary West. You ended up exactly where you were supposed to—either rotting among the psychos or buried in an unmarked grave.

[foreversprin9]

CASTIEL NOVAK ! NSFW ! One-shot

" Shh, i got you… "

!! NSFW, older men, fem!reader !!

`

You didn’t know how you’d ended up in bed with this man, nor what exactly he was. All that crap about angels, demons, and the apocalypse couldn’t be real, right? He was just too drunk to think straight—or that’s what you told yourself to stay calm. Not that you really cared, because the way he was pumping into you left you breathless and thoughtless.

One of his hands—so incredibly strong—held both of yours tightly above your head, while the other gripped the curve of your waist as if his life depended on it. Your face was pressed into the pillow, muffling the soft moans and whimpers escaping your lips. His ragged breathing filled your ears as his head rested heavily against the nape of your neck. The wet, rhythmic sound of skin hitting skin bounced off the walls. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes back when he hit just the right spot, making your back arch even more, silently begging for more.

The sensation of fullness made your head spin, like you’d taken a dose of whatever the guys were selling back at college. You could’ve sworn to God you’d never felt better; this man knew exactly how to handle a woman. For the first time, you truly understood why your friends chose older men—this solid body looming over you felt incredible.

“You good down there?” His voice was hoarse, rasping between thrusts. You could only whine in response, trembling as you managed something close to a “yes.” He mumbled a quiet “Good” in return, his lips lingering softly on the top of your head. He pressed his face into your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo while his hips kept a steady rhythm against yours.

The first time he struck that spot deep inside you, a sharp sensation made you tense and clench around him. What the hell was that? You’d never felt anything like it before. But then he did it again, and again, until the discomfort melted into pure pleasure. Your body went pliant and soft, and his hands immediately slid to your hipbones to steady you. “Shh, I got you...” he whispered into your ear.

His pace grew chaotic. Your thighs trembled as he delivered a few more powerful thrusts before you felt the warmth spreading inside you. It took only a second for you to reach the edge right after him, weakly moaning his name.

Ten minutes later, his touch was much gentler. He slowly brushed the damp hair from your forehead as he sat on the edge of the bed. You were already cleaned up, resting under the cool sheets. It felt as if he were assessing you, checking if he’d done something wrong or hurt you. The intensity of his gaze made you hide further under the covers. His expression shifted to curiosity as he leaned closer, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours before he pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll drive you to college in the morning.”

[foreversprin9]

JJK men as singer’s bodyguard headcanons

" He’s always there for you, right? "

!! Bodyguard AU, focuses on themes of fame, overwhelming crowds/paparazzi, and intense protective behaviour, fem!reader !!

Includes : Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Naoya Zenin, Sukuna Ryomen

ᵎᵎ Gojo Satoru

" The moment he started working for you, you two almost immediately caught the same mood. Same jokes, same behavior, same taste in many things. The line between work and friendship blurred faster than you thought. You could call him at 3 in the morning with some new idea for a song or just random things that pop into your head, and he would answer with a 100% chance. Grumbling, of course, but Gojo would still be listening to the stream of words leaving your mouth, telling you what a genius you are, coaxing embarrassed chuckles and drawling “Stooop” from you.

But of course, when it came to guarding you from some crazy fans, he took it seriously. Not only because he was your employee, but personally. His gaze always stays tense in moments like these, more cautious when you are heading to some big events. His hand lingers on the curve of your waist unnecessarily long, pulling your back just slightly closer to his chest, but it’s enough for you to feel safe even when there are dozens of cameras blasting flashes in your face and freaks crowding around, reaching their hands out, trying to catch even a little touch of your forearm or shoulder.

And after hours of work, he will surely be mumbling under his breath about how he can’t stand the lack of respect for you and your personal space from the onlookers while he drives you back home. He hugs you just a little too tight, rubbing his thumbs slowly against your lower back before reluctantly letting go until the next day. "

ᵎᵎ Toji Fushiguro

" Well, talking about this man — he was a complete and utter bastard. Even though you literally pulled him out of a broke life and cleaned him up, making him look more like a man instead of some stray dog. First off, because you like good-looking men with a hell of a broad back and some scars, especially on the face; second, because you just felt pity and couldn’t leave this king of indifference to rot at some shitty job.

For a long time, you were literally forcing Toji to drag his lazy ass with you. There was no effort from this man at all; just a simple click of his tongue and a brief gaze at the fans, not even paying attention to the fact that someone was bothering you. And oh, how many times you argued with him about it, threatening that you’ll fire him, but did he give a fuck? Well, not in the slightest. And God knows why you didn't really just kick him out back onto the street.

But the more he stuck to you, the more this icy armor of his was melting away. And suddenly, he was just a few inches closer behind you, just a little more focused in crowded places, even allowing himself to rest his warm hand on your lower back, carefully pulling you away from the railings that were separating you from the screaming and whining people. And when the weather was unpleasant, he would silently pull his suit jacket off and throw it casually over the curve of your delicate shoulders, grumbling that you should put more clothes on. "

ᵎᵎ Naoya Zenin

" At the start, Naoya acted like you were the one who should guard him. Even his first question during the job interview was, “Why should I work for you?” All this body-guarding was some kind of show to him, nothing serious, nothing he should care about. Of course, you knew he wasn’t, well, good with women in general, and that had nothing to do with you personally, but still, shouldn’t he have at least a little respect for you?

He doesn’t even let himself touch you without his gloves on, and if he did, the grimace on his face and the rolling of his eyes would be there the next second, making you cringe and tense momentarily, taking a step back. Naoya was never near, preferring to stay somewhere in the corner of the place you were at, leaving you to deal with problems yourself. But this foxy gaze of his was always checking, always assessing the crowd for potential threats to you, eventually throwing out a brief “You good?” when you both were heading back to the car after another rough day.

Even though being an asshole was his nature, when he saw you clearly struggling with something, when your eyes were darting to find his in the crowd in a silent request for help, he was there. He would pull away not you, but the annoying men who were bothering you with their presence, telling them to back off before he forced them to do so. "

ᵎᵎ Sukuna Ryomen

" The first time you met him, you felt scared; there’s no point in denying it. All these face tattoos, collected posture, and piercing gaze made you uncomfortable. You started to hesitate — was he the right person to trust? Because he simply looked like a damn gangster. But his behavior was surprisingly different from the way he looked.

He never talked much, never allowed himself anything inappropriate. Sukuna’s presence near you felt heavy, and at least for the first few months, you literally flinched when he talked to you with that slow and hoarse voice of his, making him let out a slow exhale, apologizing for startling you yet again. Even your manager commented from time to time that this man was a literal guard dog, a freaking Cerberus towering behind your back, deciding whose head he would bite off today. His eyes were always on you, almost in a controlling way, despite the fact that his hands stayed behind his back most of the time, touching your forearm briefly only when it was necessary.

You’ve never met someone like him, and maybe that’s exactly what dragged you to him. The growing feeling of needing to know him better was unpleasant; it was aching somewhere low in your stomach, preoccupying your thoughts late at night, wondering if there was a chance that he’ll open up to you sometime later. "

[gardenofchimeras]

redwood lookout

w// toji fushiguro [pt. 1]

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It incorporates references to real-life historical events and figures (The Night Stalker) alongside fictional settings and characters. This story contains dark themes, including mentions of past violence and mass casualty incidents. Reader discretion is advised.

You wrinkled your nose the second you entered the greasy diner. The air was saturated with the smell of old oil, cheap fries, and sweat. Fluorescent lights flickered above you, their hum mixing with the soft rock music buzzing from the speakers.

In a secluded booth, you saw him—Toji, your best friend. He was nursing a beer and devouring fries one by one. With a huff, you slid onto the cracked leather seat across from him, stealing a fry before even offering a greeting.

“Smile, pretty girl. Aren't ya happy to see me?” he grinned, shoving the basket of fries out of your reach.

“Not really, Fushiguro. You only call me when ya throat-deep in some shit.”

He chuckled. “Nah, today I’m gonna save ya from your problems. Shiu found a great summer gig for us. We’re gonna take care of a forest in a national park. Y’know, like… yell at teenagers who litter, hand out camping permits, and other stuff.”

It definitely piqued your interest. “And what about the salary?”

“Not much, pretty girl. But your biggest profit is getting quality time with your best friend.” You opened your mouth to retort, but he cut you off. “Don’t even start. First of all, you’re not in a position to be picky about job opportunities. Second, it’s summer. California is packed with bastards cutting the throats of pretty lil’ things like ya. Why don’t ya just wait out the season somewhere far away—somewhere safe, with me?”

You stared at him for a long minute, weighing the pros and cons. For once in your life, you silently agreed with him. California wasn't exactly peaceful at the moment.

“Ya definitely don’t wanna meet the Night Stalker, right? But I know for sure he won’t reach you in Redwood.”

The knot in your stomach tightened at his words. “Fine, Fushiguro. You win. When are we going to this forest?”

His grin widened. “Now. But first…” He looked up at the waiter, who was waiting for Toji to gather his change. “Can ya gimme a buck? I think I only have fifty cents...”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed. “Aha, and let me guess—ya don’t have money for gas either.”

“Exactly, pretty girl.”

Pine peaks were tickling the sky as you drove toward Redwood National Park. Toji was smoking a cigarette, as quiet as usual. You were focused on the road, but one thought was looping in your mind. Redwood. The name sounded too familiar.

“Toji,” you finally broke the silence. “Doesn’t ‘Redwood’ sound familiar to you?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s one of the greatest American national parks. Congratulations, you actually paid attention in geography.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. But I bet it’d be even funnier when I kick you out of the car and let you reach that wonder of nature by bus,” you said with a roll of your eyes.

“Whoa, princess. Not in the mood for jokes today, are ya?”

Your comment made Toji fall even quieter than before. Apparently, some gears in his head had started to spin.

“Actually, you’re right. It is familiar,” he said, his tone shifting. “Does the name ‘Camp Redwood’ mean anything to you?”

That name sent chills down your spine. Camp Redwood. The notorious camp where dozens of children were brutally slaughtered in the middle of the night by some psycho who, according to rumor, was still wandering the deep woods. You swallowed hard, the knot in your stomach tightening until it felt like lead. Your sweaty palms slipped on the steering wheel, and the car drifted toward the oncoming lane.

Toji immediately lunged, grabbing the wheel and steadying the car. “Whoa, whoa, calm down! The bastard’s prolly dead already, rottin’ in some gutter. No need to fuss—I’m gonna be with ya. Just get a grip!”

You swallowed again, trying to push down the primal fear rising in your throat. “T-Toji, we’re going back to California.”

He scoffed with irritation. “Like hell we are! I already promised Shiu we’d be at Redwood tonight. Ya know what’ll happen if we chicken out?” You shook your head, slowly tightening your grip on the wheel as you tried to regain control. Toji continued his irritated hiss, “We’ll both have to pay a fucking penalty. Ya have the money for that shit? I doubt it!”

Inhale, exhale. He was right. You barely had a dollar to cover his fries at the diner; a penalty fee was out of the question. “Right, right… he’s dead in a gutter. Nothing to be afraid of, huh?” you mumbled, trying to convince yourself.

Toji finally released the wheel with a loud, relaxed exhale. “Right, princess. Nothing to be afraid of.”

However, the reassurance sounded thin. Deep in his chest, beneath that cocky outer shell, a small seed of fear was buried. Hell, the incident happened less than five years ago. Of course the psycho was still alive. Toji didn’t believe his own words for a second, but he knew it was smarter not to panic. One panicking mess in the car was enough; he’d keep a cool head and solve the problems as they came.

The headlights eventually illuminated the greeting sign for the national park. “Peace to all who enter Redwood,” the weathered wood read, flanked by drawings of smiling, laughing kids.

How ironic, you thought, slowing down as you approached the checkpoint.

You were “warmly” welcomed by an old security guard who looked more like the walking dead—loose, wrinkled skin, and eye bags deep enough to store potatoes in. His clothes were stained with God-knows-what, and he reeked of cheap booze, cigarettes, and that specific sour smell unique to unhygienic old men. He muttered something indistinct under his breath and extended a grimy hand.

“Passports and allowance.”

The car’s interior immediately filled with the miasma of his breath. Toji wrinkled his nose, reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, and handed you his documents to pass over. The old man’s greasy fingers brushed against yours, making you shiver and cringe with pure disgust. He lazily flicked through the passports, glancing from the photos to the two of you, grimacing when his eyes landed on Toji. He tossed the passports back at you and slapped the permit onto the windshield with a loud thud.

“Speed limit six miles per hour,” he grumbled before retreating into his cabin.

You rolled up the window and exhaled with relief, pressing the gas pedal. The radio was playing Michael Jackson, the music breaking up with bursts of static that became more frequent the deeper you drove into the dark forest.

[foreversprin9]

DEAN WINCHESTER ! NSFW ! One-shot `

" When it’s late at night, you always think about him "

!! High school, NSFW, masturbation, finger imprinting, unrequited feelings, guilt !!

reader about Dean Winchester

" The night was quiet outside your window. A light breeze brushed the peaks of the pine trees, while cicadas performed another symphony for those like you — choking in feeling, desperately aching for someone they know they can't have. The cold light of the full moon breaks into the room as you lie in complete darkness, thinking about him. The finest and kindest boy in school, all bright smiles and playful behavior. Everyone loved him, and you weren't the exception.

Maybe that's why your hand is slowly sliding under the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Eyes shut the second fingertips brush against heated skin through underwear, as his face flashes behind your eyelids. The movements are slow at first, cautious, as if you were simply teasing yourself, yet they still draw a soft breath from your lips. Your mind brings up every memory. All the times he briefly talked to you in boring AP History classes, playfully stealing a pen, or leaning just an inch closer to peek at your notes.

The phantom smell of his cologne and leather jacket fills your lungs as your hand finally slips under the thin fabric of your panties. The moment you feel exactly how wet you already are, a wave of shame hits, but it doesn't stop you from carefully sliding a finger between your folds, right into yourself. The sensation draws out a muffled moan, teeth catching the inside of your cheek, as you move slowly, enveloped in the warmth of your ragged walls. The other palm curls into a loose fist against the cool sheets.

After a few more thrusts, a second finger slides in with ease. Your chest heaves in shuddered breaths, body feeling feverish as you please yourself faster, wishing it was his touch instead. Or better, his cock. Imagining how he would have leaned over you, talking you through it and kissing your temple. The thought of him fucking you makes you clench tightly, thighs trembling as you reach the peak of pleasure with a quiet moan of his name.

You stay still for a moment before pulling away. The guilt hits almost immediately, flowing through your veins and making your stomach ache. You quickly bury yourself under the warmth of the blanket, trying to hide from your own self, wishing you could just disappear into the mattress and forget the way your heart still beats for someone who will never feel it. "

[foreversprin9]

Dastiel ! College AU | NSFW | one-shot

‘

"Fuck, Cas..."

Dean groans breathlessly as the other guy shifts on his lap yet again. Who would have thought they’d end up in his dorm, kissing like the end of the world was already knocking at their door. Neither of them had ever really talked about being into guys, but here they were, already hard like teenagers watching porn for the first time in their lives.

Cas's palms slide under Dean's t-shirt, roaming over the thick muscles of his abs and bunching the fabric up. Meanwhile, Dean grips his thighs a little too tight, likely leaving red finger prints on Castiel's skin.

Their tongues brush against each other in slow, filthy strokes as the heat turns messy and sloppy. The sound of ragged breaths fills the quiet room while they lose themselves in the intensity of the moment.

Dean's fingers quickly find the button of Cas's jeans, making the other man break the kiss almost immediately. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and lips swollen from hours of making out.

"I've never done this before," he mumbles under his breath, suddenly looking uncertain.

"I'm not gonna fuck you, Cas," Dean rasps, his hands stilling at the fly. Well, he himself has never done this with a guy before either, not that he's going to admit it out loud. He’s keeping the facade up anyway.

Cas huffs out a quiet noise, something close to a laugh, before capturing Dean's lips in another heated exchange, not giving him time to say another word. His own hands move from under the shirt to help unbutton his pants. His fingers move with ease, and after a few moments, they both free aching flesh from the tightness of their clothes.

The movements are clumsy and inexperienced as they wrap their fingers around each other, slow at first, then with less hesitation, finding a perfect pace. Dean's head falls onto Cas's shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out hoarse, almost shy moans with every stroke. Castiel leans into him, eyes closing on autopilot as he loses himself in the pleasant feeling of his friend's touch.

"Faster, please," Dean hisses, almost whimpering into Cas's shoulder. And the other listens, picking up the tempo.

"Like that?"

"Yeah... keep going."

It doesn't take long for them to come together—just a few more strokes and a desperate grind of hips as they reach their peak. They stay still for a good two minutes afterward, trying to catch their breath and process what they've just done.

"That was... something," Cas murmurs into the blonde's ear, earning a quiet chuckle in response.

[gardenofchimeras]

buckshot roulette | one-shot w/ toji fushiguro [+18]

co-written w/ @foreversprin9

DISCLAIMER: This work is for mature audiences only. It contains graphic descriptions of violence, psychological trauma, and heavy drug use. The authors does not condone or romanticize the actions of the characters. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Content Warnings (CW): Substance abuse, toxic dynamics, explicit violence, non-consensual elements, and mental instability.

Another pill of ecstasy vanished down your throat as you pushed into the weathered guts of the club. Techno blazed from the speakers, a raw, mechanical pulse absorbing the sea of dancing bodies. They moved in one rhythm, a single, mindless organism. But you weren't here to drown your problems in acid.

Every footstep on the metal stairs echoed in your skull like a march to the guillotine. Technically, it was a death sentence. Your addiction had left you neck-deep in debt, and the collectors were done with your excuses. The last time they’d visited, the badly hidden steel under their jackets made it clear: their patience was gone. So, here you were, betting your life to wipe the slate. To survive, and maybe sniff a victorious line over the wreckage later. The rules were primal—two shotguns, two players. One walks out with a suitcase of cash. The second meets a pathetic end with buckshot through the brain.

The thick bathroom walls muffled the bass into a dull, vibrating roar. Graffiti crawled over the tiles, sinks were choked with grime, and occasional moans drifted from the stalls. You stared into the mirror, swallowing another pill. "Fuck, is it bunk again?" you hissed. The high wasn't hitting. Desperate and terrified, you popped another. You needed this shit to work. There was no way in hell you were playing Russian roulette sober. You leaned over the sink, fingers drumming nervously on the porcelain. "C'mon, don't be empty..." you whispered. "That’s my last one."

Your pocket buzzed. A single message from an unknown sender: "Enter." The pills still hadn't touched you, but there was no choice. It was the table or the collectors.

You kicked the steel door open. The dimly lit room smelled of stale smoke. In the center sat a round table, a shotgun, and a paper titled: ‘General Release of Liability’. "Sit down and sign," a low, gravelly voice commanded. As you finished, you looked up at your opponent—a man with dark hair and a jagged scar cutting through his lip.

"Name's Toji Fushiguro," he said, casually dropping a tab of LSD onto his tongue. "You want some? You look like you're about to snap."

You hesitated for a heartbeat. The dealer must have sold you duds. "Screw it. Give it here," you snapped, reaching out. Toji smirked. "I’m a lucky bastard. Figure I’ll treat you to the good shit before I put a bullet in that pretty little skull."

You swallowed the tab, a sharp, metallic aftertaste hitting the back of your throat. But as you looked back at him, the world tilted. The first pills weren't duds—they were just late. The cotton of your shirt suddenly felt like silk against your skin; your palms turned slick, and your breath came in ragged, shallow pants. The MDMA was surging just as the acid began to prickle at your vision.

"One live round, six blanks."

You racked the shotgun, the heavy ‘clack-clack’ vibrating through your teeth. You leveled it at Toji, but your hands were shaking, fingers slipping against the cold steel of the trigger as the room started to pulse.

"Dollface, just do it," Fushiguro teased. His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic loop that made your head spin. You squeezed the trigger. Click. Blank. Your heart thundered against your ribs. Now, it was his turn.

"Lucky me," he muses lazily, already reaching for the shotgun. His calloused hands move with practiced ease, as if he’s done this a dozen times before. Toji adjusts his grip, leveling the weapon at you. There’s no hesitation, yet he waits a few seconds, watching your restless gaze and the slight trembling of your hands. Scared, or maybe just all the shit you've put into your mouth finally kicking in, he thinks, before pulling the trigger. A soft click follows, and the blank cartridge falls onto the table with the repetitive clang of metal on wood.

"Have your shot. Maybe this time fortune will smile on you."

You take the shotgun from him, trying to keep your eyes open, lips parting in an awkward attempt at a laugh. Shit, you better not overdose or something. A loud swallow fills the small, dim room. Your vision blurs for a second; shaky hands almost drop the gun, but you catch it just in time. Deep inhale, ragged exhale, as you focus your eyes on his face. And damn—is he smirking? Is he mocking you for how pathetic you look? Okay, pull yourself together. Collectors. You need the money. But the drop of sweat rolling down your forehead betrays your state. Your finger trembles on the trigger, eyes full of hesitation.

"Fuck, don't embarrass yourself. Just pull the damn trigger," the man groans, obvious annoyance creeping into his voice as a small frown cracks between his eyebrows.

"Yeah..." you slur. A second later—another blank. You already hate the trap you’ve put yourself in. Why is it so fucking hard to just catch the right bullet? Fortune be damned.

"Finally," Toji says, his voice sounding slightly more relaxed again. The LSD is probably starting to mess with his head, too.

He doesn't take long to pull the trigger. Blank. Your turn. Blank. His—blank again.

It’s as if you’re circling each other in a death dance. But the moment when only two rounds remain comes faster than you thought. One blank, one live. One will end a life tonight. And that 'someone' better not be you, right? Or does fate have other plans for your miserable existence? Who knows.

You already feel like you're in another world. Your head is spinning; your chest heaves as if you’re struggling to breathe—and honestly, you are. This shit hits too hard. Vision blurred, you can't even make out the features of his face—just a hazy mess in front of your heavy-lidded eyes. Shaky hands try to grip the gun but fail disgracefully, drawing a laugh of pure joy from Toji. The bastard.

Your ears can't process what he’s saying; the music from the club below suddenly pumps in your skull too loud, making you grimace. You pull the trigger.

Blank.

That’s when reality hits you in the face. That’s the exact moment you see the lopsided grin creeping onto his lips. Shit. You can’t die like this—not in a nightclub full of addicts, not in a room smelling of dampness and mold. Is this what you deserve? Maybe you valued your life a little higher than it was actually worth. Either way, your grip on the shotgun becomes painful as you take a step back from the table.

"Hey, that's not how it works, dear." His gruff voice feels like it's everywhere—in your ears, your head, inside your entire body. He doesn’t take a step toward you. Yet.

"No... no, I can't die like that. I—" You stutter, the floor floating under your feet. Another step back, pressing yourself against the wall. Chicken. Well, who wouldn’t be?

That’s when Toji moves. Anger fills his eyes as he stalks toward you. His own legs are failing him, but his steps are still firm compared to yours. He looms over you, blocking out the little light left in the room with his broad shoulders. His grip on your jaw is painful; your lips part in a pathetic whine, like a scared puppy. His breath is hot and uneven against your face, almost burning. A low, displeased growl forms in his throat.

Slap.

The next second, you’re on the floor, desperately reaching for the shotgun as it slips from your unreliable grip. Tears fill your eyes from the heat blooming on your cheek. You feel his boot pressing into your ribcage. Trapped.

He bends over to snatch the gun from the floor. Memories of your life flash before your eyes—you regret everything, wishing you could go back, stay in college, get a job, live a damn good life. You grip his ankle, but he doesn't budge an inch. The shotgun is pointed at your face, and there’s no escape.

"Just fucking die," he slurs, more to himself than to you. He staggers for a brief moment, shaking his head, trying to clear the LSD from his mind.

The last thing you hear clearly is the sound of the shot.

Your head is a mess of organs on the floor, blood splattered over his boots and pants. That’s the end you truly deserve. Humiliated, brains blasted out. Just another unidentified body for the cops to find in a dumpster on the other side of town. And Toji will leave the club with another win, having already forgotten your face by morning.

[foreversprin9]

Buckshot Roulette ! One-shot ! +18

Co-written w/ @gardenofchimeras 🩶

DISCLAIMER: This work is for mature audiences only. It contains graphic descriptions of violence, psychological trauma, and heavy drug use. The authors does not condone or romanticize the actions of the characters. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Content Warnings (CW): Substance abuse, toxic dynamics, explicit violence, non-consensual elements, and mental instability.

‘

“ Another pill of ecstasy vanished down your throat as you pushed into the weathered guts of the club. Techno blazed from the speakers, a raw, mechanical pulse absorbing the sea of dancing bodies. They moved in one rhythm, a single, mindless organism. But you weren't here to drown your problems in acid.

Every footstep on the metal stairs echoed in your skull like a march to the guillotine. Technically, it was a death sentence. Your addiction had left you neck-deep in debt, and the collectors were done with your excuses. The last time they’d visited, the badly hidden steel under their jackets made it clear: their patience was gone. So, here you were, betting your life to wipe the slate. To survive, and maybe sniff a victorious line over the wreckage later. The rules were primal—two shotguns, two players. One walks out with a suitcase of cash. The second meets a pathetic end with buckshot through the brain.

The thick bathroom walls muffled the bass into a dull, vibrating roar. Graffiti crawled over the tiles, sinks were choked with grime, and occasional moans drifted from the stalls. You stared into the mirror, swallowing another pill. "Fuck, is it bunk again?" you hissed. The high wasn't hitting. Desperate and terrified, you popped another. You needed this shit to work. There was no way in hell you were playing Russian roulette sober. You leaned over the sink, fingers drumming nervously on the porcelain. "C'mon, don't be empty..." you whispered. "That’s my last one."

Your pocket buzzed. A single message from an unknown sender: "Enter."

The pills still hadn't touched you, but there was no choice. It was the table or the collectors.

You kicked the steel door open. The dimly lit room smelled of stale smoke. In the center sat a round table, a shotgun, and a paper titled: ‘General Release of Liability’.

"Sit down and sign," a low, gravelly voice commanded. As you finished, you looked up at your opponent—a man with dark hair and a jagged scar cutting through his lip.

"Name's Toji Fushiguro," he said, casually dropping a tab of LSD onto his tongue. "You want some? You look like you're about to snap."

You hesitated for a heartbeat. The dealer must have sold you duds. "Screw it. Give it here," you snapped, reaching out. Toji smirked. "I’m a lucky bastard. Figure I’ll treat you to the good shit before I put a bullet in that pretty little skull."

You swallowed the tab, a sharp, metallic aftertaste hitting the back of your throat. But as you looked back at him, the world tilted. The first pills weren't duds—they were just late. The cotton of your shirt suddenly felt like silk against your skin; your palms turned slick, and your breath came in ragged, shallow pants. The MDMA was surging just as the acid began to prickle at your vision.

"One live round, six blanks."

You racked the shotgun, the heavy ‘clack-clack’ vibrating through your teeth. You leveled it at Toji, but your hands were shaking, fingers slipping against the cold steel of the trigger as the room started to pulse.

"Dollface, just do it," Fushiguro teased. His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic loop that made your head spin. You squeezed the trigger.

Click. Blank. Your heart thundered against your ribs.

Now, it was his turn.

"Lucky me," he muses lazily, already reaching for the shotgun. His calloused hands move with practiced ease, as if he’s done this a dozen times before. Toji adjusts his grip, leveling the weapon at you. There’s no hesitation, yet he waits a few seconds, watching your restless gaze and the slight trembling of your hands. Scared, or maybe just all the shit you've put into your mouth finally kicking in, he thinks, before pulling the trigger.

A soft click follows, and the blank cartridge falls onto the table with the repetitive clang of metal on wood.

"Have your shot. Maybe this time fortune will smile on you."

You take the shotgun from him, trying to keep your eyes open, lips parting in an awkward attempt at a laugh. Shit, you better not overdose or something. A loud swallow fills the small, dim room. Your vision blurs for a second; shaky hands almost drop the gun, but you catch it just in time. Deep inhale, ragged exhale, as you focus your eyes on his face. And damn—is he smirking? Is he mocking you for how pathetic you look?

Okay, pull yourself together. Collectors. You need the money. But the drop of sweat rolling down your forehead betrays your state. Your finger trembles on the trigger, eyes full of hesitation.

"Fuck, don't embarrass yourself. Just pull the damn trigger," the man groans, obvious annoyance creeping into his voice as a small frown cracks between his eyebrows.

"Yeah..." you slur. A second later—another blank. You already hate the trap you’ve put yourself in. Why is it so fucking hard to just catch the right bullet? Fortune be damned.

"Finally," Toji says, his voice sounding slightly more relaxed again. The LSD is probably starting to mess with his head, too.

He doesn't take long to pull the trigger. Blank.

Your turn. Blank.

His — blank again.

It’s as if you’re circling each other in a death dance. But the moment when only two rounds remain comes faster than you thought. One blank, one live. One will end a life tonight. And that 'someone' better not be you, right? Or does fate have other plans for your miserable existence? Who knows.

You already feel like you're in another world. Your head is spinning; your chest heaves as if you’re struggling to breathe—and honestly, you are. This shit hits too hard. Vision blurred, you can't even make out the features of his face—just a hazy mess in front of your heavy-lidded eyes. Shaky hands try to grip the gun but fail disgracefully, drawing a laugh of pure joy from Toji. The bastard.

Your ears can't process what he’s saying; the music from the club below suddenly pumps in your skull too loud, making you grimace. You pull the trigger.

Blank.

That’s when reality hits you in the face. That’s the exact moment you see the lopsided grin creeping onto his lips. Shit. You can’t die like this—not in a nightclub full of addicts, not in a room smelling of dampness and mold. Is this what you deserve? Maybe you valued your life a little higher than it was actually worth. Either way, your grip on the shotgun becomes painful as you take a step back from the table.

"Hey, that's not how it works, dear." His gruff voice feels like it's everywhere—in your ears, your head, inside your entire body. He doesn’t take a step toward you. Yet.

"No... no, I can't die like that. I—" You stutter, the floor floating under your feet. Another step back, pressing yourself against the wall. Chicken. Well, who wouldn’t be?

That’s when Toji moves. Anger fills his eyes as he stalks toward you. His own legs are failing him, but his steps are still firm compared to yours. He looms over you, blocking out the little light left in the room with his broad shoulders. His grip on your jaw is painful; your lips part in a pathetic whine, like a scared puppy. His breath is hot and uneven against your face, almost burning. A low, displeased growl forms in his throat.

Slap.

The next second, you’re on the floor, desperately reaching for the shotgun as it slips from your unreliable grip. Tears fill your eyes from the heat blooming on your cheek. You feel his boot pressing into your ribcage. Trapped.

He bends over to snatch the gun from the floor. Memories of your life flash before your eyes—you regret everything, wishing you could go back, stay in college, get a job, live a damn good life. You grip his ankle, but he doesn't budge an inch. The shotgun is pointed at your face, and there’s no escape.

"Just fucking die," he slurs, more to himself than to you. He staggers for a brief moment, shaking his head, trying to clear the LSD from his mind.

The last thing you hear clearly is the sound of the shot.

Your head is a mess of organs on the floor, blood splattered over his boots and pants. That’s the end you truly deserve. Humiliated, brains blasted out. Just another unidentified body for the cops to find in a dumpster on the other side of town. And Toji will leave the club with another win, having already forgotten your face by morning. “

[foreversprin9]

Dean Winchester ! After Hell & Purgatory !

Warnings: Gore, Murder, Necrophilia (implied/mention), Non-con elements (mentions of the past), Blood, Somnophilia elements (chemical sedation).

fem!reader

Recommend to listen to “Highway to Hell” — AC/DC, “Run to you” — Bryan Adams, “Sexy Boy” — Air during reading 🪽

" He had always been a little insane when it came to you. His gaze was too intense, every touch so possessive it felt like being caged rather than protected. But that was just his way of showing love, right? And all you could do was close your eyes to the "red flags"—because apparently, those years in Hell and Purgatory had snapped something inside his head. So, when some random son of a bitch hit you with his car and you died, Dean completely lost it.

"You fucking bitch, how can you just die? Fucking pathetic," he growled, crouching beside your grave. "Sometimes I want to bring you back just to kill you myself. I hope you can hear me, because I don't remember giving you permission to leave like that."

His voice softened, his knuckles brushing against the cold stone. "But you’re still mine, kitten. And when my time comes, I promise you, I’ll drag you from Heaven down to Hell so you can suffer with me. Can’t have you enjoying a peaceful afterlife for too long, can I?"

The night was quiet as he stood before the bastard’s house. Too quiet for his liking, but the job had to be done. His fingers worked the lock with practiced skill; as the door creaked open, the darkness made him look like a killer from a cliché horror flick—and damn if he didn't love that. The thought of what came next was thrilling. Arousing, even. Maybe he was sick in the head for feeling a tightening in his pants at a time like this, but he didn't care.

He moved like a ghost through the first floor. Photos of the bastard’s wife and kids lined the walls. For a second, Dean considered slaughtering them all just to make the man suffer the way he had when you died. When that pig killed you. But let's get straight to the point—no need to delay the sweet moment of revenge.

The second floor of the house met him with the same quietness. Two children's bedrooms, one for the 'great hero' of the show. Maybe Dean wasn’t a total psycho yet, because he decided to let the woman and the runts live their miserable lives. He worked fast, pressing a damp, chemical-soaked cloth over their faces just long enough to ensure they wouldn't stir.

Professional, through and through.

Maybe that bitch will even find another man for herself, and honestly, he hopes the next one won't be a loser like this one.

He just stayed there for a few more minutes, looming over, silently watching that pig snort and turn in his sleep. How peaceful he looked, how unaware that these were the last moments of his existence. Dean didn't hesitate when he raised the axe, when he cut off his head.

Blood splattered across his face and clothes. That sharp, pleased smirk plastered on his face clearly showed that he enjoyed the moment a little more than he should, but it was so satisfying to watch the crimson pool spread across the sheets, dripping over the edge in a slow, rhythmic thump, thump, thump.

"Fuck..." he muttered, adjusting the bulge in his jeans with a crimson-stained hand. Disgusting? Maybe. But this was his nature now.

Dean watched the scene for a moment longer, a low groan escaping him as he unzipped his fly. His large, calloused hand gripped himself, moving in slow, steady strokes as he leaned his back against the wall. He’d never felt this hard—except maybe for those nights he’d spent buried inside you. He remembered your whimpers, the way you cried while he claimed you. He’d felt like a god then, holding all the power over you. He loved how you were suffocating, how you begged him to stop until you finally passed out, leaving him to pump into your unconscious body.

His breath hitched, his hand moving faster as he chanted your name like a mantra. Your damp cheeks and your eyes, red from tears, flashed in his memory while he worked himself faster. It wasn't too long before he finally came all over his hand with a hoarse growl from somewhere deep in his throat. A complete and utter mess.

"Fucking Hell," he panted, wiping his hand on his t-shirt before zipping back up. That was a new low, even for him.

"I'm on the highway to Hell

On the highway to Hell."

The Baby roared to life, the engine a comforting growl beneath him. Dean’s fingers drummed lazily on the steering wheel to the rhythm of AC/DC. A soft breeze drifted through the open window, and as the sun began to bleed over the horizon, it signified the beginning of a new day.

[gardenofchimeras]

forever winter. part 1

teen!simon riley x fem!reader

angst

Swamp. That’s the one word that could describe your life. The more you resist, the deeper it drags you in. Thick, viscous dirt clings to your body, pulling you down, closer and closer to the bottom, suffocating you, stealing the air from your lungs. And with each passing day, that bottomless swamp devours you further. Deeper. And deeper.

Because of your father’s service in the army, you were forced to move every couple of months. Schools blurred together. Classrooms changed faster than you could adjust. At first, you tried to make friends. You really did. But it didn’t take long to realize how painfully it hurt to tear those connections apart every single time. So you stopped trying.

You became a shadow.

Towns, faces, voices, all twisted into an ugly, tangled knot in your head. Your classmates barely remembered you. Some thought you were mute. Others laughed quietly behind your back. You didn’t care. Or at least, you told yourself you didn’t. After all, there was always a high chance that the next day you’d already be somewhere else.

Manchester greeted you with snow.

The sun hid stubbornly behind thick layers of grey clouds. A sharp, piercing wind cut through your clothes, making you shiver. Frost clung to the bricks of shabby buildings that looked like they could collapse at any moment, like a house of cards. The neighborhood looked like something straight out of a horror game. It was almost impressive how your parents managed to end up in such a shitty financial situation, even with your father’s supposedly prestigious job.

Thoughts swirled in your head as you made your way to the new school. None of them had anything to do with school. You just wanted stability. To feel normal. To be like them.

And a cigarette. Maybe a couple.

The inability to become part of anything gnawed at you. You wanted to belong. But years of isolation had eaten away at your social skills. You were afraid to speak. Afraid to stand out. Silence and dissociation became your bulletproof armor.

At first, the mix of a shitty home life and constant loneliness created fear. But fear doesn’t stay pure forever.

It turned into hatred.

Irrational, ugly hatred toward people. Toward everyone.

“Why me and not them?”

That thought became a parasite, feeding on everything inside your head. No matter how hard you tried to get rid of it, it stayed. It dug its roots too deep. Ripping it out would mean tearing something vital with it, leaving behind nothing but a bleeding, open wound.

Every thought tasted bitter.

You walked to school on autopilot. Your fingers pulled a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. One slipped between your lips while you dug through your pockets for a lighter. Snowflakes soaked the paper.

“Shit…” you muttered under your breath.

“Inhale.”

You heard low male commanding voice.

You looked up and saw what felt like an immovable object. A big guy. Scars across his face. Muscles visible even under an oversized hoodie. He held out a lighter, his expression unreadable, and gestured slightly.

“Inhale.”

You did. A flicker of orange lit the tip of your cigarette.

He watched you for a moment. Then turned on his heel and started walking toward the school.

Wait. School?

He didn’t look like a student. Too tall. Too broad. His voice too deep, even for someone in year 13.

But the thought barely had time to settle.

The smoke hit your lungs, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

Just that familiar, bitter relief.

This time, you didn’t even bother to introduce yourself to the class. Your eyes moved lazily across unfamiliar faces, already knowing they would dissolve into the abyss of your memory soon enough. Why even try to remember those who would be gone in a matter of months? To you, the classroom was filled with disposable mannequins. You wouldn’t even notice if they were replaced overnight. Pathetic.

The day dragged itself forward in a blur. Teachers talked, their voices flattening into meaningless noise, syllables melting into each other until nothing remained but a dull, grating hum. The crowd only made it worse, every whisper, every scrape of a chair blending into a suffocating cacophony that clawed at your nerves. It reminded you of a fork dragged across a chalkboard, sharp and relentless, pressing into your skull and squeezing out whatever patience you had left.

You didn’t even register leaving the classroom.

One moment you were there, the next you stood in the bathroom, bubbles of soap clinging to your hands as you leaned against the sink. Your reflection stared back at you, distorted under the flickering fluorescent lights. They buzzed overhead, stuttering, filling the silence with that ugly electrical whine. Still, it was better. Better than the suffocating noise outside.

You inhaled slowly, exhaled just as carefully. Cold water ran from the tap, biting into your skin, soaking the cuffs of your sleeves. It grounded you, dulled the edge of everything else.

Then the door slammed open.

The fragile quiet shattered as a low, guttural growl cut through the air. Him. The guy who had lit your cigarette that morning.

He stumbled inside, unsteady, one hand pressed against his nose as blood seeped through his fingers. It didn’t stop, didn’t slow. It ran freely, dripping down his wrist, splattering against the already filthy tiles. Bruises stretched across his sharp jawline, dark and blooming. His knuckles were torn open, skin split and raw, crimson streaks trailing down his long fingers, slipping into every crack of the floor.

His throat released a string of rough, pained sounds, somewhere between a groan and a curse.

“It’s… uh… a girls—” you tried to warn him, but the words betrayed you, snagging in your throat the moment his eyes snapped toward you. Raw anger burned there.

“Fuck!” he spat, breath uneven, voice shaking with something feral. “Fuck! I—fuck!”

The words fell apart before they could form, swallowed by the mess in his head. His accent was thick, unmistakably Manchester, every syllable rough around the edges. He dragged a hand down his face, smearing blood further across his skin, muttering another string of curses under his breath.

Then, slowly, he sobered up from the trip of fury.

His gaze sharpened as he finally took in his surroundings, the cracked tiles, the dripping sink, and then you. Your frozen expression. The way your eyes flickered down to the growing red puddle at his feet.

He followed your gaze, jaw tightening.

When he looked back at you, something in his expression shifted, something colder, more deliberate.

“You’re gonna scream, aren’t ya?” he hissed with teeth clenched.

And just like that, everything changed. This was how you met him.

Simon Riley.

[gardenofchimeras]

you forgot i was yours

hiromi!higuruma x fem!reader

+18

Raindrops tapped insistently against your umbrella as you waited outside, shoulders hunched slightly against the biting autumn wind. The cold slipped beneath your coat, sharp and unwelcome, while dampness clung to your clothes. You glanced at your watch, irritation simmering just beneath the surface. Higuruma was late. Again. Fifteen minutes late, to be exact—and lately, it had become a pattern rather than an exception.

Your relationship had grown distant in recent weeks, stretched thin by his endless hours at work. Hiromi seemed to prefer the company of courtrooms and case files over the warmth of your shared home. You barely saw him anymore—only fleeting moments in the mornings, half-awake and already distracted. Every attempt to confront him had ended the same way: a cold shoulder, clipped responses, and silence thick enough to choke on. The intimacy that once defined you both had withered away. Instead of you, Hiromi had been burying himself in legal battles. You missed him—his warmth, the way his hands used to linger on your skin, the lazy kisses he would press against your neck as if he had all the time in the world. Now, it felt less like a marriage and more like coexisting under the same roof.

At last, the familiar black Impala emerged through the rain. Relief mixed with irritation as you stepped forward, quickly opening the passenger door and slipping inside. The interior was warm, a stark contrast to the cold you carried with you. Hiromi leaned in, placing a brief, almost mechanical peck on your lips before returning his attention to the road. No smile. No apology. Just silence.

Your fingers fidgeted restlessly with the sleeve of your coat. “You’re late. Again,” you said flatly.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, almost detached. “I was busy. I had a complicated case—”

“Don’t even start,” you cut him off sharply, turning toward him. “Don’t start ranting about your work. You seem to have forgotten that you’re not just a lawyer—you’re a husband too. How long have you been neglecting me, huh?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles whitening slightly. “I’m not neglecting you. It’s just… a complicated period.”

You scoffed, the sound laced with frustration. “Right. A ‘complicated period.’ That’s why you made me wait again today. That’s why I only see you in the mornings. Fuck, that’s why we haven’t slept together in four weeks.”

That last line seemed to hit him harder than the rest. His focus faltered for a moment, and then—unexpectedly—he turned the wheel, changing direction.

“Yeah… you’re right,” he muttered.

You blinked, caught off guard as the familiar route home disappeared behind you. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer.

The city faded into blurred streaks of light as rain smeared across the windshield. Buildings gave way to trees, the landscape growing quieter, more secluded. Your mind began to piece it together. He wasn’t taking you home.

Hiromi glanced at the rearview mirror, catching your confused expression. “I want to make up for my absence,” he said at last, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “I remember you once mentioned how soft the backseats are…”

Your eyebrow lifted in silent question, but he didn’t elaborate further, his attention fixed on the road.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into an old, abandoned camping site. The place was deserted this time of year, swallowed by autumn and rain. The engine died, and silence filled the car—broken only by the steady drumming of raindrops.

Finally, he turned to face you.

Up close, you could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the heaviness in his gaze. He loosened his tie slightly, fingers tapping absently against the steering wheel in rhythm with the rain.

“You’re wearing new lipstick,” he noted, his tone softer now. “It suits you.”

His hand rose to cup your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip, smudging the color. “It’ll be ruined anyway, my love.”

His touch lingered, slow and deliberate, as he took in every detail—the way your hair framed your face, your half-lidded eyes, your parted lips. His thumb slid against your mouth, pressing gently until you opened for him. When you wrapped your lips around his finger and sucked it, his expression shifted—something darker, sharper.

“I love how you do that,” he murmured. “How you wrap your lips around me.”

He pushed his thumb deeper, watching you with quiet intensity before finally pulling it free and closing the distance between you.

The kiss started soft, almost hesitant—but the moment you responded, something snapped. His lips moved faster, hungrier, as if he’d been starving for this. His tongue slid into your mouth, messy, desperate. Teeth clashed, breaths mingled, and neither of you cared. His hands roamed your body with urgency, gripping, exploring, reclaiming what he had been missing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips swollen and breath unsteady, his voice dropped low. “Honey… can you be a good girl for me?”

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you leaned in, pressing kisses along his neck while your hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it quickly. Fabric shifted, and soon his pants and boxers were pushed down, exposing his already hard cock—thick, veiny, glistening with pre-cum.

You paused just long enough to take in the sight before leaning down, your tongue teasing the tip. A low groan escaped him as his hand tangled in your hair, guiding you forward.

Your lips parted, taking him in, your mouth moving slowly at first, then deeper, drawing soft curses and strained breaths from him. His grip tightened when your tongue pressed against him just right.

“Fuck… my good girl…”

But just as you began to pick up the pace, he pulled you back abruptly, breath uneven. “Not so fast,” he muttered. “I want to feel you… want your body around me… your walls tightening around me. I’ve missed this.”

He pulled you onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist. “I was stupid… I’m sorry, love.”

His lips trailed along your jaw, down your neck, as his hands moved—one gripping your thigh, the other sliding beneath your skirt, squeezing the curve of your ass. He tugged your lace thong aside, fingers brushing over heated skin.

“Lift your hips.”

You obeyed, and he guided himself against you, dragging the tip through your soaked folds. Your head fell back at the contact.

“So responsive,” he murmured against your skin. “I can feel how much you’ve missed me.”

Then he pushed in.

The stretch, the fullness—it pulled a sharp arch from your body as you sank down onto him. You started to move slowly, riding him, your hips rising and falling as his hands anchored you in place. One hand remained firm on your ass, guiding your rhythm, while the other pushed your shirt and bra up, exposing your chest.

He leaned down, capturing your nipple between his lips, sucking gently before intensifying. The sensation, combined with the steady thrust of his cock inside you and his hand on your ass, made your thoughts blur. Your moans spilled freely, soft at first, then louder as your body responded to him. Man groaned against your chest, but didn’t stop sucking your nipple.

The car filled with heat, the windows fogging as the rhythm between you built. Your movements grew faster, more desperate, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. His thighs slamming against yours. His cock was already throbbing from overstimulation.

Hiromi groaned against your skin, his grip tightening as he felt you clench around him. “That’s it… I know you’re close…”

He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, deeper, each movement hitting exactly where it made your body tremble. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your voice breaking as you moaned his name.

That was enough to push him over.

With a sharp inhale, he drove into you harder, grinding against you as he came undone inside you, biting down lightly against your breast as his body tensed. A few final thrusts followed before both of you slowed, breaths ragged, bodies still pressed together.

Silence settled again, thick but no longer cold.

“Hope I made everything up,” he murmured, his voice rough.

You smirked slightly, still catching your breath. “I’ll think about forgiving you… after the second round.”

[gardenofchimeras]

roommate!toji x fem!reader

+18

The door behind you closed with a quiet thud. You looked excited—far too excited for someone whose neighbor had vanished for a week and then reappeared like nothing had happened. Normally, you would have chewed his ass out for a stunt like that. But today was different. Fushiguro had finally paid rent—not just his half, but yours as well.

That was exactly why you were holding a 7-Eleven bag that jingled softly with every step. With a wide grin, you made your way toward the couch where Toji was lounging.

“Woah, baby,” he drawled, eyeing you lazily. “I love seeing you grinning—and with tequila even more than your grumpy version.”

You chuckled, dropping onto the couch. “And what about my grumpy version with tequila?”

“Debatable,” he smirked. “Depends if I can turn that grimace into something a little more pleasant.”

Rolling your eyes dramatically, you pulled the tequila bottle from the bag and poured two shots. One turned into two. Two turned into… too many to count.

The conversation shifted quickly. What started as casual complaints about gas prices and shitty bosses melted into something spicier—complaints about lack of good sex, about how hard it was to find someone worth hooking up with. After two empty bottles, Toji started looking… less gross. The grease-stained sweatpants somehow added to his charm now. And there was no denying it—he was handsome.

You knew him too well, though. Well enough not to fall for whatever spell he carried.

But tequila had other plans.

While he was ranting about yet another failed fling, you caught yourself staring. First at his scarred lip. Then your gaze drifted lower—to his chest, the outline of muscle beneath his worn t-shirt, the way it stretched over his abs. He was… really fucking hot. Your eyes dropped further, catching on his hands—long fingers, rough, calloused. Your thoughts twisted instantly — I wonder how they’d feel inside me, you thought.

“I haven’t fucked well in a really, really long time.”

His voice snapped you out of it. You blinked, meeting his gaze with hazy eyes, a smirk creeping onto your lips.

“Yeah?” you asked. “And what’s your problem?”

“You know, babe,” he said, leaning closer, “I want someone with the same fire. The same passion under me. Not some pretty girl who just lies there.”

You nodded slowly, heat creeping up your neck. This wasn’t a topic you’d ever discussed before.

“Same problem with guys,” you admitted.

That was exactly what he needed to hear.

His smirk shifted—darker now, sharper. His fingers slid onto your inner thigh, slow and deliberate.

“You know…” he murmured, voice dropping, “we could help each other out.”

Your eyes widened, but he only chuckled.

“Don’t act so surprised. You think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been undressing me with your eyes all evening? You’re just as sex-deprived as I am.”

“Maybe,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly, “but that doesn’t mean I need to jump on your cock because of it.”

His grin widened, showing off sharp canines. His hand drifted higher, pressing against your pussy through your jeans—right where you were already throbbing.

“Oh? Is that so?” he teased. “You won’t be disappointed if I take my hand away?”

He started to pull back.

But before you could even think, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and pressing it firmly back between your legs.

His palm stilled. Then pressed harder.

“So you don’t want me to stop,” he murmured, voice thick. “You like it, huh? I can feel it.”

The pressure made your breath hitch.

“Good girl,” he whispered, moving closer, boxing you in against the couch. “Tell me, baby—do you want to feel me right here?” — his palm moves playfully against your pussy.

The combination of his voice, his hand, the heat pooling low in your stomach—it snapped something in you.

“Yeah…” you breathed. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, messy and hungry. He bit down, then soothed the sting with his tongue, pushing deeper, tangling with yours until your head spun worse than the tequila. His hands slid under your shirt—one kneading your breast, the other fumbling for your bra clasp.

“I wanna take this off,” he muttered against your lips. “We don’t need it.”

You barely separated before he yanked your shirt off, fingers snapping your bra open. When the fabric was gone, he paused—just for a second—to look.

“Fuck…” he breathed. “You’re beautiful. And you’ve been hiding this under oversized clothes? Big mistake, doll.”

His mouth moved down your neck, leaving bites in its wake before trailing lower. When his lips wrapped around your nipple, you gasped, back arching instinctively. His hand worked the other, squeezing, teasing, driving you higher.

Meanwhile, your hands moved on their own. You reached down, palming his cock through sweatpants, squeezing just enough to draw a low groan from his throat.

“Fuck… do that again and I’ll lose it,” he warned.

Instead, you pushed further—untied his sweatpants, slipped your hand inside his boxers, and wrapped your fingers around his cock. Hard, hot, already throbbing.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately.

He groaned again, sharper this time, his body tensing under your touch.

“You’re worse than me,” you teased softly. “Look at you.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, breath uneven. “Or I’ll make you.”

He pulled away just long enough to shove his boxers and shirt off. You stared—really stared this time. His body was unreal. Every muscle defined, every line sharp. His cock stood heavy and veined, impossibly hard.

You reached for your purse, fingers fumbling for a condom— but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head against the couch.

“I’m not using that shit,” he said bluntly. “I want to feel you.”

Before you could argue, he dragged the head of his cock through your soaked folds. The sensation made you gasp, your body reacting instantly.

“You like that?” he murmured, biting your neck. “You’re already dripping. You want me inside you that bad? Say it.”

He pushed in slightly, just enough to make you squirm.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I want you.”

“Good girl.”

Then he slammed into you fully.

The stretch made your head fall back, a broken sound leaving your throat. He didn’t give you time to adjust—his pace built quickly, thrusts growing harder, deeper, faster. Each movement knocked the air from your lungs.

He grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze back to his.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Look at me while I fuck you. Be a good girl—show me how much you like it.”

Your eyes rolled—but not from attitude this time. From pleasure.

He hit that spot again. And again. And again.

Your nails dug into his back, dragging down his skin. He hissed, but it only seemed to push him further.

“Fuck… you take me so well,” he muttered against your ear. “My little slut.”

The word sent a shiver through you, your body tightening around him.

“Oh, you like that?” he smirked, voice rough. “You like being called that?”

His thrusts turned brutal, relentless. One hand dropped between your bodies, his thumb pressing hard against your clit, rubbing in tight, punishing circles.

Your moans broke apart, turning shaky, uncontrolled.

“I’m close,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second before picking up again, harder than before. “I wanna fill you up. Feel you from the inside. You gonna take it, huh? You gonna take everything, like a good slutty girl?”

Your walls clenched around him in response.

That was it.

He snapped.

With a low, guttural groan, he buried himself deep and came, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his hips kept moving, dragging out every last second. You felt the heat flood inside you, your body trembling beneath him.

He didn’t stop immediately—just a few more slow, dragging thrusts before collapsing beside you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

His hair clung to his damp forehead, sweat glistening across his chest. Your lips were swollen, your skin marked with bites and bruises.

He looked over at you, then down at the mess he’d made of you, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I call good sex.”