Gllimz

I write both sfw and nsfw stuff. Im 18+ i do take requests and i love pokemon. Thanks :)

[gllimzz]

Intrduction cause ive started writing 😼

Im gllimz, u can call me wtv tho, i used to write like yonks ago when wattpad was in its prime but i stopped when skl got serious.

I might be a bit rusty and probably wont write anything crazy like multiple part stories.

I write forrr *drumroll*

Haikyu

Jujutsu kaisen

Demon slayer

Gachiakuta

Hunter x hunter

Full metal alchemist brotherhood

One piece

Blue lock

Witch hat atelier

Games cause imma chud like that

Rdr2

Overwatch

Marvel rivals

Sdv

Im still new to the whole layout for writing on tumblr, like i said im used to wattpad or other writing apps, not this😗

Feel free to ask or request anything, ill probably change this in the future but thanks anyways

[gllimzz]

Hidden weakness

Pairing: bakugo katsuki x reader

Genre: smut

Summary: both you and katsuki are surprised at how much he likes having his hair pulled.

Wc: 1264

A/n: id like some mha requests, i watch the show but never had a reason to write abt it. I only rlly get gachiakuta ones. That doesnt mean i dont appreciate them. Ty all

Enjoy!

The living room was quiet except for the low hum of the TV playing some random action movie neither of you were really watching. Katsuki sat sprawled on the couch with you tucked against his chest, his strong arm wrapped around your waist. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, body relaxed in a way he only ever allowed around you. You loved these moments. The explosive hero was all sharp edges and fire to the world, but here he was soft, letting you curl into him like he belonged there.

Your fingers idly played with his spiky blond hair, twisting the shorter strands at the nape of his neck. It was softer than it looked, still slightly damp from his post-training shower. You combed through it gently, smiling when he let out a small grunt of approval and tilted his head back into your touch.

“Feels good, huh?” you murmured, nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

“Tch. Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His eyes slipped closed.

You kept going, enjoying the way he melted under your hands. Then your fingers caught on a tangle. Without thinking, you gave a small tug to work it free.

A low, throaty moan slipped from Katsuki’s lips.

Your hand froze. His eyes snapped open, wide with surprise, cheeks already flushing pink. “What the fuck was that?” he growled, voice rough.

You blinked, heart picking up speed. “I… tugged your hair. By accident.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t mean shit. Ignore it.”

But you couldn’t ignore it. That sound had gone straight between your legs, hot and unexpected. Katsuki, who always tried to stay in control, had moaned from something so simple. You filed it away, pressing a kiss to his temple and continuing to stroke his hair more carefully this time. He didn’t stop you.

Katsuki’s mind was a chaotic mess as he lay there pretending to focus on the movie. What the hell was that? The sharp tug on his hair had sent a jolt straight down his spine, heat pooling low in his gut before he could even process it. He had moaned. Actually moaned like some weak extra. The sensation lingered, a tingling pull at his scalp that made his cock twitch traitorously in his sweatpants. He was shocked, pissed at himself for letting it slip out, but fuck if it hadn’t turned him on more than he wanted to admit. No one had ever pulled his hair like that. It felt good. Too good. Dangerous. He shifted slightly, hoping you wouldn’t notice the growing hardness against your thigh. He was already imagining your fingers doing it again, yanking harder while he was buried inside you. The thought made his pulse race. He shoved it down, burying his face in your hair and growling something about you being annoying, but the spark was already lit. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

A few nights later, the tension between you had only grown. The memory of that moan replayed in your head constantly. You’d been teasing him all evening with light touches and lingering kisses, until he finally snapped and hauled you into the bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush. Katsuki was on you immediately, hands rough and possessive as he pinned you to the bed. His mouth claimed yours in a searing kiss, tongue demanding entry while his fingers dug into your hips. You arched up into him, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh, already leaking at the tip.

“Fuck, you’re soaked already,” he groaned, sliding two thick fingers through your slick folds before pushing them inside you. He curled them just right, stroking that spongy spot that made your toes curl and pleasure spark up your spine. Wet sounds filled the room as he pumped them steadily, his calloused thumb circling your swollen clit until your thighs trembled. “Gonna make you scream my name.”

You moaned loudly, legs wrapping around his waist, but your mind was focused on something else. When he finally withdrew his fingers and positioned the blunt head of his cock at your entrance, you reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair.

He thrust in deep in one smooth, powerful motion, stretching your walls around his thick length. The burn was delicious, pleasure blooming hot and intense as he bottomed out, his heavy balls pressed against you. You gasped at the fullness, nails digging into his shoulders.

Katsuki set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward hard and fast. Each thrust drove him deep, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls and hitting that perfect spot over and over. The slap of skin on skin mixed with your shared moans. Sweat glistened on his chest and shoulders, dripping down onto your breasts as he leaned over you. His muscles flexed with every movement, abs tightening as he fucked you relentlessly.

You let him have control for a while, meeting every powerful thrust with rolls of your own hips, clenching around him to pull him deeper. But then you tightened your grip in his spiky blond hair.

You tugged firmly, yanking his head back to expose the strong column of his throat.

Katsuki’s rhythm faltered sharply. A raw, broken whimper tore from his throat, high and needy, his crimson eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his cock throbbed violently inside you. His hips stuttered, pace turning messy.

“Oh,” you breathed, a thrill shooting through you. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Shut… ah, fuck,” he tried to snarl, voice cracking, but you tugged again, harder this time, pulling his head back further while you clenched your pussy tight around his pulsing length.

His thrusts grew erratic and desperate, short and frantic as he chased the overwhelming sensation. The whimper turned into a continuous string of low, desperate sounds he couldn’t hold back no matter how hard he tried. His face was flushed deep red, lips parted, sweat beading on his forehead. The tough, dominant hero was unraveling right in front of you, reduced to whimpers by your fingers in his hair.

You kept the pressure on, nails scraping his scalp as you pulled and twisted the blond strands. “Cum for me, Katsuki,” you whispered hotly against his ear.

Katsuki came with a choked, guttural groan, his entire body seizing up. His cock swelled and pulsed hard inside you as thick ropes of cum spilled deep, filling you with hot spurts. His hips jerked uncontrollably through it, grinding against you as the orgasm hit him harder and earlier than ever before. The sight and feel of him like this, whimpering and shaking, pushed you over the edge too. Pleasure crashed through you in intense waves, your walls fluttering and squeezing around him, milking every last drop as your thighs shook and your back arched off the bed.

He collapsed on top of you, breathing ragged and heavy, face buried in the crook of your neck. You kept your fingers in his hair, stroking gently now, soothing the sting you’d caused while his cock continued to twitch with aftershocks inside you.

After a long moment, he mumbled against your skin, voice hoarse. “Didn’t know… fuck. Don’t tell anyone.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Your secret’s safe. But I am definitely doing that again.”

He huffed, but you felt the way his cock gave a weak twitch inside you at the words. Yeah. He liked it. A lot. And you were going to enjoy exploring exactly how much.

[gllimzz]

haiii cutieeee, you do mind writing a zanka x rudo’s older sister; how they were when they first met and then how they became and couple and all that super fun stuff!! if not its okk :) hope you’re well !

Rudo’s older sister

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: how zanka and reader get along and slowly become a couple.

Wc: 1065

A/n: planning on doing a kinktober( is it kinktober or smutober i cant remember) but idk which characters or what i should do. Help.

Enjoy!

How They First Met

YN had fallen into the Pit alongside (or shortly after) her little brother Rudo. She was the one constant in his life — the fiercely protective older sister who had shielded him from their biological family’s mess, helped him survive under Regto’s roof, and then literally pushed through the crowd to follow him down when he was framed and thrown away. In the brutal world of the Ground, YN became a capable Cleaner support (perhaps a non-Giver or with a practical Vital Instrument that Regto or Rudo helped modify — something sturdy and defensive that complements close-quarters fighting).

Zanka first encounters her during Rudo’s early training days with Team Akuta. Enjin assigns Zanka as the mentor because he’s the best at teaching the fundamentals of Vital Instruments and “Giver” techniques. Rudo is already being his usual stubborn, hot-headed self — clashing with Zanka’s more refined, analytical style.

YN shows up at the training grounds or the base after a rough session, checking on her brother with that signature mix of worry and no-nonsense attitude. She’s patching Rudo up or scolding him for being reckless (“You’re not invincible, idiot. I didn’t come down here just to watch you get yourself killed.”).

Zanka notices her immediately. She carries herself with quiet strength — not flashy like some of the elite families he knows, but grounded and resilient in a way that cuts through his usual arrogance. He tries to introduce himself professionally (“Your brother has raw talent, but he lacks discipline. I’ll make sure he doesn’t waste it.”), but there’s an instant spark. YN sees right through his polished Nijiku demeanor and teases him lightly about being the “spoiled rich kid trainer” everyone whispers about. Zanka, who rarely gets flustered, finds himself off-balance for the first time in a while.

Rudo clocks the lingering eye contact instantly and becomes an overprotective barrier. Every time Zanka tries to get even a moment alone with YN — offering extra training advice, asking about her instrument, or just being nearby — Rudo magically appears, glaring daggers and dragging his sister away with some excuse. It’s peak “and your friend Steve” energy. Zanka grows increasingly frustrated but also intrigued; he respects how deeply YN and Rudo care for each other.

How They Became a Couple

The slow burn builds through shared hardships. Missions against Trash Beasts force them to work together — YN’s steady, protective style meshes well with Zanka’s precise analysis and Vital Instrument expertise. Late nights repairing gear or debriefing turn into real conversations. Zanka opens up about the pressure of his prestigious family (and his complicated feelings toward his older sister Kyouka), while YN talks about her fear of losing Rudo, the only family she has left.

Zanka’s crush becomes obvious to everyone except (maybe) Rudo at first — extra careful when she’s in danger, subtle compliments on her tactics, finding reasons to linger around her. Rudo’s interruptions keep derailing moments, but they also push Zanka to prove himself. He earns Rudo’s reluctant respect by consistently having both siblings’ backs in fights and showing he’s not just another arrogant elite.

The turning point comes after a particularly dangerous encounter (perhaps during a big raid or Trash Storm aftermath). YN gets hurt protecting Rudo, or the siblings face a situation where Zanka has to choose between protocol and saving them. His mask cracks — he fights fiercely for them, then stays by YN’s side while she recovers, finally admitting his feelings in a raw, straightforward way.

YN, who has grown to see the real Zanka beneath the pride — the dedicated, insightful guy who’s learning to value found family — reciprocates. Their relationship starts quietly: stolen moments between missions, soft reassurance after battles, and Zanka’s surprisingly gentle side reserved just for her.

Rudo eventually comes around (after some dramatic brotherly threats and a heart-to-heart). He still glares at Zanka when he gets too close, but he trusts him to protect YN. The trio dynamic becomes stronger for it — bickering brothers-in-law with YN as the steady center.

Their relationship is equal parts fluff, banter, and deep loyalty: Zanka helps YN feel less alone in her protectiveness, and YN grounds Zanka, reminding him that strength isn’t just about talent or status. In the chaos of the Pit, they become each other’s anchor.

The Pit never gave anyone time to breathe, but somehow YN had carved out a small corner of it for her and Rudo. She was the one who had shoved through the terrified crowd on the Sphere that day, refusing to let her little brother fall alone. Now, months into their life among the Cleaners, she watched him train under Zanka Nijiku with the same fierce worry that had kept them alive this long.

Zanka was everything the rumors said: talented, analytical, and carrying the polished arrogance of the Nijiku family like a second skin. He moved like he was born to command Vital Instruments, correcting Rudo’s wild swings with sharp, precise instructions. But YN noticed the cracks — the way his eyes lingered on Rudo with a mix of frustration and reluctant respect, the subtle jealousy toward those who made power look effortless.

Their first real meeting happened after a brutal training session. Rudo had stormed off, covered in dirt and muttering curses. YN approached with a cloth and a water canteen, ready to tend to the scrapes on her brother’s arms like she always did.

“You’re his sister,” Zanka said, stepping closer than she expected. His voice was calm, almost clinical, but there was something warmer underneath. “He fights like he has nothing to lose. That’s dangerous.”

YN looked up at him, wiping sweat from her brow. She was no delicate Sphereite anymore — scars marked her hands from makeshift weapons and desperate nights. “He has me. That’s why he fights so hard. And I won’t let anyone treat him like just another recruit.”

Zanka’s gaze held hers a second too long. For the first time in a while, the composed mentor seemed slightly off-balance. “Admirable. Most people down here only look after themselves.” He offered a small, genuine nod before turning away, but YN caught the faint flush at the tips of his ears.

From then on, Zanka found excuses. Extra training “observations” that somehow included advice for her own defensive instrument. Quiet conversations by the flickering lights of the base after missions, where he’d share fragments of his privileged but suffocating upbringing. YN listened, teasing him gently about being a “spoiled strategist” while sharing stories of raising Rudo through the worst days on the Sphere. Rudo hated it.

Every single time Zanka tried to get closer — a shared meal, a walk through the safer edges of Canvas Town, even just handing her a repaired tool — Rudo would appear like a grumpy shadow. “Hey, sis. Training. Now.” He’d drag her away, shooting death glares over his shoulder. Zanka’s frustration was visible, but he never pushed. Instead, he worked harder to earn the kid’s trust.

Love crept in during the quiet dangers.

It was after a messy raid on a Trash Beast nest. The creature had cornered Rudo, its grotesque form lashing out with corrosive sludge. YN dove in without hesitation, her instrument flaring to deflect the worst of the attack. She took a hit to her side — burning pain that made her vision blur — but it bought Rudo the opening he needed.

Zanka was there in an instant. His precise strikes dismantled the beast’s weak points while he barked orders that kept the rest of the team coordinated. When the fight ended, he dropped to his knees beside YN, pressing a cloth to her wound with surprising gentleness.

“You idiot,” he muttered, voice tight. “You’re supposed to let the fighters take the hits.”

YN managed a weak laugh, gripping his arm. “He’s my brother. I’d fall into a hundred Pits for him.” Her eyes met Zanka’s, exhausted but steady. “But… thank you for having our backs.”

That night, as the team patched up and rested, Zanka stayed by her side longer than necessary. Rudo hovered nearby at first, but eventually gave them space after seeing the genuine concern on the older boy’s face. For the first time, Zanka let his guard down completely.

“I’ve spent my life chasing perfection because that’s what my family demanded,” he admitted quietly, staring at the dim lights above. “But watching you and Rudo… it’s different. You fight for each other without expecting anything back. It makes me want to be better. Not for status. For this.” His hand brushed hers. “For you, YN.”

The confession came weeks later, under a rare clear sky near the edge of their territory. The air still smelled of rust and distant smoke, but it felt peaceful. Zanka had finally gotten a moment alone with her after helping Rudo with a particularly stubborn Vital Instrument technique.

“I didn’t plan on this,” Zanka said, his usual confidence softened by nerves. He was taller than her, but in that moment he seemed almost vulnerable. “I came here to train a reckless kid. Instead I found his sister — someone stronger and kinder than this hell deserves. I love you, YN. Not as a distraction from the Pit, but as the reason it feels worth surviving.”

YN’s heart ached in the best way. She had spent so long being the protector that letting someone protect her felt foreign. But Zanka had proven himself again and again — not with grand gestures, but with steady presence, respect for her bond with Rudo, and the quiet way he made her feel seen.

She stepped forward, resting her forehead against his. “I love you too, Zanka. You make the chaos feel a little less lonely.”

Their first kiss was tentative, then deeper — tasting of sweat, relief, and the metallic tang of the Ground. When they pulled apart, Rudo was standing a respectful distance away, arms crossed but without his usual glare. He gave a single, reluctant nod before walking off. Approval, in his own grumpy way.

From that day forward, they fell into a rhythm. Zanka and YN became each other’s anchor amid the endless battles and mysteries of the Pit. Rudo still interrupted their moments with brotherly protectiveness, but there was fondness in it now. The three of them — trainer, trainee, and the sister who held them together — grew stronger as a unit.

[gllimzz]

Overworked

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: when zanka goes to get patched up, he notices how tired you look, seriously overworked. So he does something about it.

Wc: 795

A/n: lowk, i should start writing stuff for witch hat atelier, i really want to. Maybe some olruggio fluff or iguin….(cancel me)

The lower levels of the Cleaner Headquarters were never truly quiet. Distant echoes of machinery, the occasional groan of injured returnees, and the low hum of vital instruments filled the air. You’d been stationed in the recovery bay for what felt like weeks—your own vital instrument glowing steadily as you mended wounds, closed gashes, and eased the pain of cleaners and support crews dragging themselves back from the Pit.

Sleep was a luxury you rarely afforded yourself anymore.

The curtain rustled. You looked up just as Zanka Nijiku stepped in, wiping dust and grime from his cheek with the back of his hand. His jacket was torn at the shoulder, and a nasty-looking scratch ran down his forearm, still seeping a little.

“Yo,” he greeted with that familiar crooked grin. “Got a minute? Need this patched before my next drop.”

You waved him over without hesitation. “Sit. What happened this time?”

“Same old trash business,” he said, dropping into the chair and offering his arm. As you activated your vital instrument, the soft light blooming across his skin, he launched into the story. “Ran into a nasty Abberation swarm near the boundary. Had to kite ‘em away from the rookies. You know how it is—lotta trash, lotta teeth.”

You nodded along, fingers moving with practiced precision. The healing energy knit the wound together cleanly. But Zanka’s sharp eyes were on you the whole time.

Your instrument made your eyes shine with that telltale glow, but he could see the exhaustion underneath—the way your shoulders sagged, the faint dark circles, and especially the subtle tremble in your hands as you finished the last pass.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly once the light faded.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, flexing your fingers. “Just… busy. A lot of teams came back rough today.”

Zanka didn’t argue then. He thanked you, ruffled your hair lightly, and left for his next mission. But the worry in his gaze lingered long after he was gone.

Later that night, after yet another endless shift, you finally stumbled back to your small quarters. The door opened before you could even reach for it.

Zanka was already inside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He’d clearly waited for you. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, then guided you toward the bed. Exhaustion won out quickly. You barely remembered changing before the two of you ended up tangled together under the thin blanket—his chest pressed to your back, one arm securely around your waist.

Sunlight (or what passed for it in the regulated habitat) filtered through the small reinforced window. You woke slowly, warm and heavy. Too heavy.

Zanka had shifted in his sleep and was now half-draped over you like a living weighted blanket. His head rested on your chest, one leg thrown over yours, arms loosely caging you in. His breathing was deep and relaxed—rare for a cleaner who lived on the edge.

“Zanka…” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “I need to get up. The bay’s probably backed up again.”

He made a low, disapproving hum against your collarbone, not even opening his eyes. His hold tightened just enough to keep you pinned.

“Zanka, come on. Work—”

Another hum, this one grumpier. He finally cracked one eye open, amber and stubborn. “Nah.”

You tried to shift, but he simply adjusted his weight, effectively trapping you more comfortably beneath him.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he muttered, voice still husky from sleep. “Saw it yesterday—hands shaking, eyes dead tired even when your instrument’s blazing. You’re gonna burn out if you keep this up.” His fingers traced lazy circles on your side. “And today’s my free day. Means you’re taking one too. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m the healer here,” you protested weakly, though the fight was already leaving you. The warmth of him, the solid safety of his presence, made the idea of leaving the bed feel impossible.

“Exactly. So heal yourself for once.” He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. “Stay. That’s an order from your favorite cleaner.”

You lasted maybe two more minutes—lightly pushing at his shoulder, murmuring half-hearted complaints—before the exhaustion pulled you under again. With a defeated little sigh, you let your arms wrap around him instead, fingers threading through his messy hair.

Zanka let out a satisfied sound, settling heavier on top of you like he planned to stay there all day.

“Good choice,” he whispered, already drifting back off with you.

In the quiet of the room, surrounded by the distant sounds of the city above the Pit, you finally allowed yourself to rest—safe, cared for, and thoroughly pinned by the one person who refused to let you run yourself into the ground.

[gllimzz]

The weight of the bear.

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: angst

Summary: reader, who had a bad childhood, relives some memories after a bad mission where zanka snaps and yells at her.

Reader has a bear-backpack thingy. Thats her viral instrument :p

Wc: idk

A/n: ive been worming on this one slowly, chipping away at it slowly over like weeks and ive finally finished it… idfk what to do know.

Enjoy!

The Pit was a place where trash didn’t just pile up in heaps—it seeped into people, into their bones, their memories, their very souls. You had always known that. From the moment you could form coherent thoughts, the world had been a cacophony of screams, accusations, and the heavy thud of objects hurled in rage. Your parents’ fights weren’t arguments; they were wars. Wars waged in the cramped confines of a dilapidated apartment in the lower districts, where the air always smelled of mold, stale smoke, and regret.

You remembered the first time they dragged you into it. You were maybe six, clutching your teddy bear backpack—a ridiculous thing your grandmother had scavenged from some upper-level discard pile before she passed. It was shaped like a bear, worn brown fur matted from years of love and neglect, with a small compartment hidden around the head where you could stuff tiny treasures: a shiny button, a crumpled note with a child’s drawing, or later, scraps of food pilfered when meals became scarce. That bear was your anchor. When the yelling started—your father’s voice booming like thunder, your mother’s sharp and cutting like broken glass—you’d bury your face in its fur, the synthetic stuffing muffling the world just enough to let you pretend you were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“See what you’ve done? The kid’s crying again because of you!” your father would roar, his hand gesturing wildly, knocking over a chair that clattered too close to your hiding spot under the table.

“You think I wanted this life? Trapped with you and your failures?” your mother would shriek back, her eyes wild, sometimes flinging whatever was in reach—a plate, a shoe, once even a half-empty bottle that shattered near your feet, glass nicking your ankle.

You’d flinch, curl tighter around the bear, whispering promises to it that you’d be good, that you’d make it stop somehow. School was no sanctuary. The other kids in the overcrowded classrooms of the Pit’s underbelly sensed weakness like predators. “Trash baby,” they’d sneer, tripping you in the hallways or stealing your meager lunch while you clung to the straps of your bear-backpack. Combat training in the rudimentary programs they called “preparation for life” was the worst. You were never strong, never fast enough. The instructors barked orders, but your body froze under pressure, memories of home invading every dodge, every attempted strike. Punches from peers landed harder because you hesitated, always expecting the next blow to come with words that cut deeper than fists.

The Hell’s Guard recruitment pipelines scooped up strays like you eventually. At twelve, you were funneled into the lower academies—not the prestigious ones like Zanka’s family attended, but the grinding meat grinders where rejects learned to swing weapons at trash beasts or die trying. You never crossed paths with him there; he was elite, top of his class, destined for glory. You were the shadow in the back row, the one who got picked on relentlessly. “Dead weight,” the cadets called you. “Clumsy bear girl.” You’d retreat to your bunk after sessions, tears soaking the bear’s head compartment, its fur absorbing the salt of your failures.

Running away at sixteen was your first real act of agency. The streets of the Pit swallowed you for weeks—scavenging, hiding, surviving on the kindness of strangers who had none to spare. Until the Cleaners found you. Or rather, until Semiu’s glasses did.

Semiu Grier had eyed you skeptically at first during intake. “Support role, probably,” she’d muttered, adjusting those peculiar lenses that seemed to peer into souls. But when she focused them on you—and on the bear-backpack you refused to part with—her expression shifted. “Interesting resonance. That thing’s got history with you. Vital Instrument potential? Or something deeper.” She didn’t push, but she kept you around. Life at Cleaner HQ became the first fragile thread of stability. Missions were terrifying but purposeful. You learned slowly: how to read trash beast patterns, how to support the frontline without becoming a liability, how to breathe through the panic that still clawed at your throat.

And then there was Zanka Nijiku.

He was a storm wrapped in precision—sharp features, intense eyes that had seen the same institutional hell you had, but from the opposite side. Former Hell Guard trainee, son of prestige, who had walked away from it all. Your first real conversation happened after a grueling cleanup op. You were both nursing bruises in the common area, the bear-backpack slung over your shoulder like always.

“Hate what it does to you, doesn’t it?” he’d said quietly, staring at the floor. “The Guard. Turns kids into weapons or breaks them trying.”

You nodded, fingers tracing the bear’s ear. “Never even met the good ones. Just the yelling, the pressure. The feeling like you’re never enough.”

He glanced at you then, really looked. A shared understanding bloomed—love-hate for the system that had scarred you both differently. From there, bonds formed in stolen moments: late-night talks about dropping out, about finding purpose in the Cleaners’ ragtag family. He teased you gently about the bear (“Still hauling that furball everywhere?”), but never mocked. You saw the cracks in his armor too—the weight of family expectations, the isolation of being the “disappointment” who chose junk over legacy. Slowly, missions together felt less like duty and more like partnership. Your mistakes were fewer; his guidance patient. Life was… good. For once.

Until that day.

Zanka’s morning had been a disaster. First mission with a squad of overeager supports—they meant well, but their positioning threw off his rhythm. A trash beast nearly clipped him because of a mistimed distraction. He bit back the frustration, swallowing it like bitter medicine. Bad day, he told himself. It’ll pass. No yelling. He was better than that. Or so he thought.

The second mission paired him with you. You were still green, eager to prove yourself. The op started fine—routine sweep in a mid-level trash sector. But nerves built. You fumbled a support tether, delaying a reposition. Minor. Then, while assisting the backline with evac protocols, the beast lunged unexpectedly. Your reaction was a split-second too slow; instincts from years of freezing under fire kicked in. Zanka dove in, his Lovely Assistaff (that cherished junk stick turned weapon) flashing in a desperate arc. He saved you, but the beast’s claw raked his side—shallow, but burning pain that fueled the fire he’d been tamping down all day.

The ride back to HQ was silent. Tense. You fidgeted with the bear’s strap, heart pounding. I messed up. Again.

At headquarters, as the team dispersed, you approached him in the main hall near Semiu’s desk. The air smelled of oil, metal, and faint ozone from recent gear charges. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the scuffed floors.

“Zanka, I’m really sorry about out there,” you started, voice small but sincere. “I didn’t mean to—”

He whirled, the dam breaking. His face, usually composed with that cool intensity, twisted with exhaustion and pent-up rage. “Sorry? That’s all you’ve got? You were sloppy out there—dead weight dragging everyone down! How many times do I have to cover for your mistakes? You’re not cut out for this, [Reader]. Should’ve quit before you got someone killed. Or worse, yourself. What, you gonna hide behind that stupid bear forever? Grow up!”

The words hit like physical blows. Your vision tunneled. The yelling echoed—not Zanka’s voice anymore, but the layered screams of your parents. See what you’ve done? Plates shattering. Trapped with your failures! A bottle whistling past your ear. The bear’s fur under your fingers felt the same as it did back then, a pathetic shield against the storm. Your mind replayed it all in vivid, unwanted detail: the way your father’s hands would fly up in gestures of fury, objects following; your mother’s accusations piercing like needles. You spaced out completely, body locking into that old survival mode—muscles rigid, breath shallow, world reduced to a distant roar.

Zanka kept going, frustration pouring out. “This isn’t the Academy playground where you can just freeze up! Cleaners die because of—”

He threw his hands up in exasperation, a broad gesture to emphasize his point.

You flinched. Hard. Instinctively, your arms came up, shielding your head, body curling slightly as if expecting impact. A small, involuntary whimper escaped. Tremors ran through you, visible even under the dim lighting. The bear-backpack shifted on your back, its weight a familiar comfort you leaned into subconsciously.

Zanka’s voice died mid-sentence. Shock painted his features—eyes widening, mouth slack. The anger drained instantly, replaced by dawning horror as he registered your posture, the way you shook like a leaf in a gale. This wasn’t just a rookie overwhelmed. This was deeper. Broken.

Semiu, who had been observing silently from her desk (those glasses of hers probably picking up every emotional undercurrent), rose smoothly. She stepped between you, her presence calm but firm. “Zanka. Enough. Go clean up. Get some food. Cool off.” Her tone left no room for argument, but her eyes flicked to you with quiet concern.

He stared at you a moment longer, guilt crashing over him like a wave. He hadn’t known—how could he?—but that didn’t erase the damage. Without a word, he turned and stalked off toward the dorms, shoulders tense.

You didn’t wait. The second his back was turned, you bolted. Feet pounding on the metal grating of the hallways, tears blurring your vision. You burst into your small room—a sparse Cleaner quarters with a cot, a locker, and the faint hum of ventilation. The door slammed shut behind you. The bear-backpack slid from your shoulders into your arms as you collapsed onto the bed, burying your face in its fur. Silent tears soaked the fabric, body wracked with quiet sobs that echoed the child you’d never fully escaped. Why can’t I be better? Why does it always end like this?

Zanka’s room was a mirror of controlled chaos. Weapons leaned neatly against one wall, but his mind was anything but. He stripped off his gear, wincing at the sting in his side, and stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded over him, but it did little to wash away the replay looping in his head.

Sloppy. Dead weight. Quit.

Her flinch. That protective curl, arms over head, shaking. The way her eyes had glazed, like she wasn’t even there anymore. He’d seen trauma in the Pit—plenty of it. But this… this was personal. Intimate. He’d hurt her, not with a weapon, but with words that mirrored whatever hell she’d crawled from. The bear. She’d mentioned bits of her past in their talks, but he’d never pressed. Family fights. School bullies. Hell Guard rejects. He cursed himself, fist slamming lightly against the tile. Guilt gnawed deep, sharper than the claw wound.

Toweling off, he dressed in loose clothes and paced. How to apologize? Flowers? No, too trivial. Words? He’d already used too many wrong ones. He thought of their shared moments: her quiet strength on missions, the way she’d listen to his rants about family pressure without judgment. The soft smile when he teased her about the bear but respected it. She was trying—harder than most. And he’d crushed that.

[gllimzz]

May I request a Gachiakuta Fu/Hii x reader who loves sucking them off. They just want to please their boyfriends and make them feel good.

Swapped pleasure

Pairing: fu/hii x reader

Genre: smut

Summary: as reader is giving fu a blowjob, hii swaps out and unintentionally overstimulates your poor fu.

Wc: 1,325

A/n: sorry if this isnt what you wanted, i didnt know if u wanted them as two separate people or if they swap out, or if its just different scenes when reader does it but i hope u like it. If u want any changes or me to re do it with more specifics just ask idm.

You kneel before Fu in the dim, cluttered safehouse, the faint glow of a single lantern casting long shadows across the cracked walls. The air is heavy with the scent of rain-soaked ruins outside and the warm, intimate musk rising between you. Fu sits on the edge of the old mattress, his legs spread slightly, pants shoved down just enough. His cheeks are already flushed, that shy, almost boyish expression on his face as he looks down at you with wide, affectionate eyes. Hii—the cursed doll, his vital instrument—rests nearby on the floor, its raccoon-like face frozen in that eerie grin, but for now, it’s dormant. This is Fu, your gentle boyfriend, the one who follows orders and blushes at praise. And all you want is to please him, to make him feel utterly loved and taken care of after another brutal day in the Pit.

“You really don’t have to…” Fu starts softly, his voice hesitant, one hand hovering near your hair like he’s afraid to impose. But his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward against his stomach, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You smile up at him, eyes full of warmth and hunger. “I want to. I love this. I love making you feel good, Fu. Just let me take care of you.” Your fingers wrap gently around the base, feeling the heat and the way it twitches at your touch. You lean in slowly, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the head before dragging your tongue along the underside in one long, slow stripe. Fu gasps, his hips jerking once before he steadies himself, fingers finally threading into your hair with the lightest pressure.

You take your time, savoring every inch. Your lips part and slide down over him, enveloping the head in wet heat. You suck gently at first, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge, tasting the salty-sweet precum as it leaks onto your tongue. Inch by inch, you sink lower, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base. The fullness of him in your mouth makes you moan softly, the vibration pulling a shaky whimper from Fu’s throat.

“F-fuck… your mouth feels so good,” he breathes, voice cracking. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress, knuckles whitening. You bob your head in a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks for that perfect tight suction. Your tongue works relentlessly along the veined underside, flicking and pressing against every sensitive spot you know drives him crazy. Saliva drips down your chin, slicking his balls as you cup and gently massage them with one hand. The wet, obscene sounds echo softly in the quiet room—slow, devoted slurps and swallows as you worship him completely.

Fu’s breathing grows ragged, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him throbbing heavier against your tongue, the head swelling as he nears the edge. His hips start making tiny, involuntary thrusts, chasing the pleasure. “I’m… I’m getting close,” he warns, voice high and needy, eyes squeezed shut in bliss.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you take him even deeper, throat constricting around him in rhythmic swallows, determined to bring him over. Your gaze stays locked on his face, drinking in every twitch of ecstasy, every bitten lip. This is your Fu—soft, vulnerable, trusting you completely.

Right as his body coils tight, a sudden surge of anima crackles through him. The vital instrument activates unintentionally, triggered by the overwhelming pleasure and lack of external orders. In a disorienting flash, Fu’s demeanor shifts completely. His posture changes, shoulders squaring with cocky confidence, that shy expression melting into Hii’s manic, predatory grin. The same body, but now controlled by the bolder, more volatile personality of his cursed doll.

Hii lets out a low, rough laugh that vibrates through his chest. “Heh—well, shit. Didn’t plan on switching right now, but look at you… still going like the eager little pleaser you are.” His hand tightens in your hair, not painfully, but with a firm, guiding grip. The cock in your mouth feels the same—thick, hot, familiar—yet the energy behind it is electric, more demanding.

You don’t miss a beat. Your devotion doesn’t falter; if anything, it burns hotter. You suck harder, faster, pouring the same love into pleasing this side of him. Your tongue laps greedily, lips stretched wide as you deepthroat him with practiced ease. Drool spills messily down your chin and onto his balls as you work him over, hollowing your cheeks and twisting your hand in time with every bob of your head. The wet glucking sounds grow louder, filthier.

Hii groans deeply, hips rolling up to meet your mouth. “That’s it—fuck, keep swallowing me down just like that. You love this cock no matter who’s driving, don’t you?” His voice is rougher, laced with that wild edge, but there’s still underlying affection in the way his fingers stroke through your hair between tugs. You moan around him in agreement, eyes watering but sparkling with adoration. You relax your throat fully, taking him to the hilt again and again, nose buried against his pelvis as you breathe through it and hum.

Hii’s thrusts grow more insistent, fucking into your willing mouth with controlled power. His balls draw up tight, cock pulsing thickly on your tongue. “Shit—gonna fill that pretty throat. Don’t you dare spill a drop.” With a guttural growl, Hii cums hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your mouth and slide straight down your throat as you swallow convulsively around him, milking every powerful spurt. You keep sucking through it, tongue soothing the underside, drawing out every tremor until he’s panting and spent.

The moment his orgasm crests and begins to ebb, the vital instrument pulses again. The swap reverses. Hii’s cocky energy vanishes, replaced instantly by Fu’s trembling, overwhelmed body. Fu’s eyes fly open wide, a broken whimper escaping his lips as the pent-up release—held suspended through the swap—crashes over him with full force.

“Ah—! W-wait, it’s—it’s still—!” Fu’s voice cracks into a high, desperate whine. His cock, still buried deep in your mouth and hypersensitive from Hii’s climax, erupts again almost immediately. Fresh, intense spurts of cum flood your throat while the previous high hasn’t even fully faded for his body. He shakes uncontrollably, hips stuttering in shallow, helpless thrusts as overwhelming pleasure borders on overstimulation. Whimpers and soft, needy cries spill from him nonstop— so raw and vulnerable compared to Hii’s growl. His fingers clutch your hair tightly, not pushing you away but holding on like you’re his lifeline.

You swallow it all greedily, humming soothingly around his pulsing length. Your hands stroke his trembling thighs, grounding him as you continue gentle, loving sucks to ease him through the prolonged release. Tears of overwhelming sensation prick at the corners of his eyes, his face flushed crimson as he rides out the intense waves. “Too much… feels so good—thank you, thank you…” he babbles between whimpers, body quaking until the last weak spurts coat your tongue.

Only when he’s fully spent do you slowly pull off, licking your swollen lips clean and pressing soft, affectionate kisses along his softening cock and thighs. You rest your cheek against his hip, gazing up at him with pure adoration as he slumps back, chest heaving, a dazed, blissed-out smile on his face.

Fu reaches down shakily, pulling you up into his lap and burying his face in your neck. “You’re… incredible,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and full of love. “Both of us… we don’t deserve how much you give.” The doll Hii sits silent nearby, but you know that part of him feels it too through their shared bond.

You kiss his temple, heart full. “I love all of you. Every side. I’ll always want to make you feel this good.” The safehouse feels warmer now, wrapped in the quiet afterglow and the promise of more tender moments in this chaotic world.

[gllimzz]

Hmm would you be willing to write the ‘deserving this softness’ idea but with Riyo per chance?? 🤔My girl needs some LOVE

More than just surviving

Pairing: riyo reaper x reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: after a rough day, riyo gets pampered by reader.

Wc: 679

A/n: ive been writing alot and i hust post it all at once cause im lazy like that and hate posting consistently :p idfk what tags to add bro…

Enjoy!

The door to the small shared quarters slammed open with more force than necessary, the red haired girl barging into the room with more force than necessary. she kicked it shut behind her, wincing as the motion pulled at the deep bruises blooming across her ribs and shoulders. Today’s run had been brutal — a nest of particularly nasty trash beasts that didn’t go down easy, even for someone like her.

Riyo Reaper wasn’t one to complain. She was the one who used to kill for a living. Pain was just background noise. But tonight, every step felt like dragging lead, and her usual chaotic grin was nowhere to be found.

You looked up from where you’d been waiting, a towel and some oil you’d scavenged already laid out. “Rough one?”

She grunted, shrugging off her jacket with a hiss. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Those things were extra trashy today.” Her voice was lighter than usual, trying for that signature teasing lilt, but it came out tired. Her messy red hair, still half-tied in that sideways loop, stuck to her pale neck with sweat. The skinny frame that hid surprising strength looked smaller tonight, shoulders slumped.

“Come here,” you said softly, patting the edge of the cot.

Riyo eyed you for a second, green eyes narrowing like she was debating whether to brush it off with a joke. But something in your expression made her cave. She shuffled over and dropped down, letting out a long breath as she sat with her back to you.

Your hands found her shoulders first — tense as coiled springs, knotted from swinging those massive scissors all day. She jolted at the contact but didn’t pull away. Slowly, you worked your thumbs into the tight muscles, pressing firmly but gently, feeling the way she gradually melted under the touch.

“…You don’t have to,” she muttered after a minute, voice unusually quiet. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“I know you have,” you replied, sliding your hands down her arms, careful around the fresh bruises. “Doesn’t mean you always have to carry it alone. Let me take some of it tonight.”

She was silent for a while, only the occasional soft sigh or tiny involuntary hum escaping as you found a particularly sore spot. You moved to her back, working along her spine, the oil helping your palms glide over pale skin marked by old scars and new welts. Riyo’s breathing evened out, the sharp edges she always carried softening in the quiet lamplight.

After a few minutes, she leaned back into you slightly, head tipping forward so her red hair curtained her face. “You’re too nice to me,” she whispered, almost like an accusation. “I used to… y’know. Do bad things. I don’t deserve this kinda softness.”

Your hands paused, then resumed even gentler. You leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the back of her neck. “You deserve it more than anyone, Riyo. You fight like hell every day for this place, for the team… for a better version of yourself. That counts.”

She let out a shaky little laugh that sounded suspiciously wet. “Sap.”

“Yeah, well. You like it.”

Another quiet laugh, this one warmer. She turned just enough to glance at you over her shoulder, those vivid green eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. The chaotic, scissors-wielding grim reaper of Team Akuta looked almost fragile like this — trusting, letting herself be cared for.

You kept going until her body felt loose and heavy with exhaustion, the worst of the tension worked out. When you finally stopped, she caught one of your hands and tugged you down onto the cot beside her, curling into your side with surprising clinginess for someone so usually hyper and independent.

“Stay,” she mumbled against your shoulder, already half-asleep. “Just… stay a bit.”

You wrapped your arms around her skinny frame, holding her close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For once, Riyo Reaper let the world’s sharpness stay outside the door. In this small, quiet moment, she let herself deserve the softness.

[gllimzz]

hii um i was wondering if mayhaps u could do a zanka nijiku x reader with bpd .. like w reader having intense mood swings,, attachment issues,, jealousy issues,,, etc,,,

Fractured Colours

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader with bpd

Genre: angst/fluff

Summary: zanka stays with you through hard moments.

Wc: 907

A/n: sorry i took so long to write a bunch of stuff. Ive been knuckling down cause ive been in a mood to write for like 3 days. I got like 4-5 small stories out. Im goated

You’d always been a storm in a bottle. One minute you were laughing so hard your ribs hurt, clinging to Zanka’s arm like he was the only solid thing in the Abyss; the next, the bottle shattered and everything spilled out ugly and sharp.

Today was one of the bad days.

You’d watched him spar with Enjin earlier—easy, fluid movements, that calm mask he wore like armor. When Riyo clapped him on the shoulder afterward, something vicious twisted in your chest. She gets to touch him so casually. Your brain supplied a hundred worst-case scenarios in seconds: what if he realized how much easier it would be with someone stable? Someone who didn’t swing from “I need you more than air” to “I hate how much I need you” in the same breath.

By the time he found you sitting on the edge of a ruined rooftop, knees pulled to your chest, the mood had already flipped twice.

“…You’re upset,” Zanka said quietly, lowering himself beside you. His voice was even, almost gentle, the way it always was when he tried to navigate your storms. His navy eyes flicked over your face, reading the tension there like a battlefield map.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, then immediately regretted it. Your fingers dug into your arms hard enough to leave marks. Attachment issues were a bitch—you wanted him closer, wanted him to prove he wouldn’t leave, but the second he got too close you pushed. “Actually, no. I’m not. You looked like you were having fun with them.”

He didn’t flinch. Zanka rarely did. That composed exterior of his was both a comfort and a trigger; it made you feel safe and terrified all at once, because what if underneath it he was tired of this? Of you?

“I was training,” he answered simply. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well, training looked a lot like flirting from where I was standing.” The words tasted bitter. Jealousy burned hot behind your eyes. You knew it was irrational. You knew, but knowing didn’t stop the spiral. “Riyo gets to laugh with you. Touch you. And I’m just… here. Waiting for the day you realize I’m too much.”

Silence stretched. You hated the quiet almost as much as you hated the noise in your head.

Zanka shifted closer until his shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t crowd you—he’d learned that much after the last blow-up—but he stayed within reach. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re… intense. Like the currents down here. They pull hard, sometimes they drag you under. But they’re real.”

Your throat tightened. Mood swing incoming—you could feel the crash from anger into desperate longing. Tears pricked your eyes. “I hate this. I hate feeling like if you even look at someone else I’m going to fall apart. I hate clinging to you one second and wanting to run the next. What if you get sick of it? What if one day you just… leave like everyone else?”

His hand found yours. Long fingers, calloused from the Lovely Assistaff, wrapped around your trembling ones with careful strength. “I’m not leaving.”

“You say that now.” Your voice cracked. Attachment fears clawed up your throat. “But I push people away. I test them. I get jealous and mean and then I hate myself and—god, Zanka, why do you even put up with me?”

He turned to face you fully, that slicked-back mullet catching the dim light, blond streaks glowing faintly. For once, the calm cracked just enough for you to see the turmoil underneath—the same internal chaos he carried from his family expectations, the pressure of being the “perfect” Nijiku who chose the Cleaners instead. He understood fractured pieces better than most.

“Because I see you,” he said. “All of it. The swings. The fear. The way you light up when things are good and burn everything when they’re not. It’s not easy. But it’s you. And I chose you.”

You surged forward without thinking, burying your face in his chest. Arms wrapped around him too tight—too much—but he let you. One hand rubbed slow circles on your back while the other stayed laced with yours.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin this,” you whispered against his uniform.

“You might try.” There was the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “But I’ve survived worse than your storms. And I’ll still be here when the rain stops.”

Later, when the swing settled and the exhaustion hit, you curled against him on the rooftop, head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, even when your grip on his shirt stayed white-knuckled. Jealousy still simmered low, attachment issues whispered that this was temporary, but for now his steady heartbeat drowned them out.

Zanka Nijiku—calm on the surface, turbulent beneath—had chosen the chaos of loving you.

And for as long as he kept choosing it, you’d keep fighting to believe him.

Bonus scene

You woke up at 3 a.m. convinced he was pulling away. He wasn’t even awake—just breathing evenly beside you in the safehouse bunk.

You shook his shoulder. “Zanka.”

He stirred instantly, alert even half-asleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know. I just needed to hear your voice. Tell me you’re not tired of me yet.”

He pulled you close without hesitation, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Not tired. Never will be. Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

[gllimzz]

Can we get another part of "tight fit" and y/n confronts zanka and they finally get freakyy 🤪🤪

Tight Fit Pt. 3 (final part)

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: smut

Summary: reader confronts zanka on why hes been acting weird towards her, he finally tells her why.

Wc: 1,596

A/n: this shit is so bad😭 im so sorry i proofread it like 10 mins ago snd im so disappointed… sighhh

Pt1 here. Pt2 here.

Enjoy!

The tension had been building all day like a storm cloud that refused to break. Zanka’s behavior during training had been completely off—sharp, distant, almost hostile in the way he avoided your gaze and gave curt, one-word answers whenever you tried to interact with him. Every time you moved closer to spar or offer a correction, he’d shift away, his usual easy confidence replaced by something restless and guarded. By the end of the session, he’d practically vanished the moment the drills wrapped up. It left a sour knot in your stomach. This wasn’t the Zanka you knew, the one who lingered after practice to tease you or share quiet conversations. Something was wrong, and you were done letting it fester.

You stormed down the corridor still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, pushed open the door to his quarters without knocking, and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, just a single lamp on the bedside table casting warm, low light across the modest space. Zanka sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floor like it held answers. His shoulders were tense, hair slightly disheveled from training.

“Zanka,” you said firmly, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “What the hell was that today? You’ve been acting like a complete asshole to me for no reason.”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting yours. For a brief moment, something vulnerable flickered across his face—wide-eyed surprise mixed with heat—before he schooled it back into a neutral mask. He stood up, tall and broad in the confined room, and ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, turning slightly away. “Just drop it.”

“No.” You crossed the space between you, stopping just inches from him. The air felt thick, charged. You could smell the faint trace of his sweat mixed with soap, see the faint sheen on his collarbone where his shirt clung. “You’ve been dodging me, snapping at every little thing. If I pissed you off somehow, tell me. Don’t shut me out like this.”

Zanka’s jaw tightened. He looked down at you, then away, then back again. His breathing had grown a little heavier. The flush started at his neck and crept upward, coloring his cheeks. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said finally, voice rough and low. “It’s me. I’ve been… distracted. By you. All fucking day.”

You tilted your head, waiting. The admission seemed to cost him something, because he groaned softly and dragged both hands down his face, hiding behind them in clear embarrassment. His shoulders hunched inward. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About touching you. It was driving me insane and I got pissed at myself for not being able to focus. Acted like an idiot instead of just dealing with it. Sorry.”

The raw honesty hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading outward. You reached up and gently pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want, but that embarrassed flush remained.

“You should have said something earlier,” you whispered, stepping even closer until your bodies nearly touched. Your hand slid down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.

Before he could respond, you sank slowly to your knees in front of him, maintaining eye contact the entire way down. Zanka’s breath caught sharply. You tugged his pants down just enough to free him, his cock already half-hard and twitching under your attention. You wrapped one hand around the thick base, stroking slowly, feeling him swell and harden fully in your grip—hot, velvety skin over rigid length.

Leaning in, you pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum that had gathered there. Zanka let out a low, shaky groan, one hand coming to rest lightly in your hair. You took your time, dragging your tongue along the underside from base to head in long, deliberate strokes, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding your lips down over him. The wet heat of your mouth enveloped him inch by inch until he bumped the back of your throat.

“Fuck…” he breathed, fingers tightening gently in your hair. You hummed around him, the vibration pulling another deep moan from his chest. You bobbed slowly, savoring every inch, hollowing your cheeks on the upstroke and relaxing your throat to take him deeper. Saliva coated him, making each glide slick and noisy in the quiet room. You alternated between long, slow sucks and quicker, shallower movements, your free hand cupping and massaging his balls with careful pressure.

Zanka’s thighs trembled. He kept his gaze locked on you, watching every movement with rapt intensity, but he didn’t thrust or rush you. Instead, soft, broken sounds escaped him—quiet gasps turning into whimpers when you swirled your tongue just right. “That feels… so good. You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice hoarse. Minutes stretched out as you lavished him with attention, drawing it out, edging him closer and closer without letting him tip over. His hips gave tiny, involuntary jerks, but he held back, letting you set the pace, lost in the sensation.

Eventually, his breathing grew ragged. “Wait—stop,” he rasped, gently easing you off him. His cock glistened with your saliva, flushed dark and throbbing. He pulled you up to your feet and captured your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, tongues sliding together as his hands roamed over your body. The kiss went on and on, slow and thorough, until you were both breathless.

He guided you back toward the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness. There, the urgency softened into something more tender. Zanka hovered over you, kissing down your neck, across your collarbone, and lower, taking his time to explore every inch of skin with his lips and tongue. He peeled away the rest of your clothing piece by piece, hands reverent and slow, as if memorizing you. Cool air met heated skin, but his mouth followed immediately after—sucking lightly at your nipples until they pebbled, trailing kisses down your stomach, nipping at your hips.

When he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you with dark, glassy eyes. He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your inner thighs, then higher, his tongue tracing through your folds with deliberate care. He licked and sucked at your clit in unhurried strokes, two fingers sliding inside you, curling gently to find that perfect spot. Pleasure built in slow waves as he devoured you, moaning softly against your skin like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. You arched into his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair, riding the rising tide until your first orgasm crashed over you—long and shuddering, thighs trembling around his head.

Only then did he rise up, positioning himself. His cock nudged against your slick entrance, rubbing teasingly before he pushed in—slow, thick, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as he bottomed out, forehead dropping to rest against yours for a moment while you both adjusted to the overwhelming fullness.

Then he began to move.

It was soft, intimate sex—deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Zanka wedged his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there with every breath. His moans and whimpers were muffled against you, warm and needy, vibrating through your body. “You feel so perfect,” he whispered brokenly between thrusts, one arm wrapped securely around your back, holding you flush against him. “So warm… so tight around me…”

Each slow withdrawal and glide back in built the pleasure higher. Skin slid against skin, slick with sweat. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him even deeper. His hips rolled in a steady, luxurious rhythm—not frantic, but devastating in its intensity. Every whimper, every soft moan against your neck sent sparks through you. He kissed and nipped at your pulse point, murmuring your name like a mantra, voice cracking with emotion.

Time stretched. The room filled with the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, your shared gasps and moans. He kept the pace gentle and deep, grinding against you on every thrust, drawing it out until you were both trembling on the edge. You came again, clenching hard around him with a cry, nails digging into his shoulders. Zanka followed right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a choked whimper, pulsing hotly inside you as waves of pleasure wracked his body.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out. He stayed nestled deep within you, face still tucked securely into your neck, breathing you in. His arms held you close, one hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine. Lazy kisses pressed to your shoulder, your jaw, wherever he could reach without moving too much.

The earlier embarrassment had faded completely, replaced by quiet, sated contentment. His voice was a low rumble against your skin when he finally spoke. “Didn’t mean to act like that earlier. Just… couldn’t handle how much I wanted you.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair and holding him there. “Then next time, tell me sooner.”

Zanka chuckled softly, the sound warm and intimate, and nuzzled deeper into your neck. Neither of you moved to separate anytime soon, wrapped in each other as the afterglow settled around you like a blanket. This moment felt like the start of something deeper, the tension from the day dissolving into closeness.

[gllimzz]

this might be a bit ooc but i really want subby zanka getting a blowjob from reader and he is SO loud on accident, he’s so lost in pleasure he doesn’t even realize the noises coming out of his mouth are so sinful!! Especially when you suck and lick on the most sensitive spot of his dick he rolls his eyes back and literally shouts he’s coming and when you both leave the room everyone is staring..

I was that loud?

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: smut

Summary: reader sucks off zanka and hes louder than he realises.

Wc: 1025

A/n: meow

You guide a flustered Zanka Nijiku into the small, dimly lit side room just off the main party area, the bass from the music vibrating faintly through the walls. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the chatter and laughter outside, but not nearly enough to grant real privacy. A single lamp casts a warm, golden glow over the worn couch, highlighting the way his silver hair falls messily across his forehead, his usual composed demeanor already cracking under the heat of your gaze.

He backs up until his thighs hit the edge of the couch, eyes wide and cheeks dusted with pink. “W-wait, here? Now? Someone might—” His protest dissolves into a sharp inhale as you drop smoothly to your knees in front of him, hands sliding up his thighs with deliberate slowness. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they quiver beneath your palms.

You tug his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock, already half-hard and twitching eagerly in the cool air. The flushed, velvety length bobs in front of your face, the tip glistening with a bead of precum. Zanka’s breath hitches audibly. You lean in without hesitation, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss right beneath the sensitive head, letting your warm breath ghost over his skin.

A broken, needy whimper escapes his lips instantly—soft and unintentional.

Encouraged, you wrap your fingers around the thick base, feeling him throb hotly against your palm, and take him into your mouth. The moment your lips slide down his shaft, enveloping him in wet heat, Zanka’s head falls back against the couch with a shaky gasp that quickly spirals into something far louder. A deep, throaty moan rips from his chest, raw and unrestrained, echoing slightly in the small room. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, and one hand flies up to slap over his mouth, but it’s far too late.

You don’t give him any mercy. You hollow your cheeks and suck harder, tongue swirling lazily around the underside of his cock as you bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass. Another moan tears out of him—higher-pitched this time, desperate and sinful, completely unlike the quiet, reserved Zanka everyone knows. He doesn’t seem to realize how loud he’s being; he’s already lost, pretty eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth hanging open as soft, wet whimpers and gasps spill freely from his throat.

“Ha— ahhn—! It feels… so good… too good—” His voice cracks beautifully, fingers threading into your hair, not pushing or pulling, just clinging desperately as his thighs tremble on either side of your shoulders. Every time you take him to the back of your throat and swallow around him, a new broken cry escapes, louder and needier than the last. The slick, obscene sounds of your mouth working him fill the room—wet slurps, soft gags, and his increasingly shameless moans layering over them.

You focus on that most sensitive spot just beneath the head, licking and sucking with firm, targeted pressure while your hand strokes the rest of him in time. Zanka’s entire body jolts violently. His back arches off the couch, muscles straining under his shirt as his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering wildly.

“F-fuck— right there, right there—!” The words dissolve into a loud, guttural shout that bounces off the walls. “Ahhn—! I can’t— I’m— I’m coming—!”

He doesn’t whisper it. He shouts it, voice raw and cracking into a desperate, sinful cry that anyone nearby would easily hear. His cock pulses hard on your tongue, thick ropes of cum spilling down your throat as his hips stutter and jerk uncontrollably. You keep sucking and licking through it, milking every last drop while he shakes and whimpers through the aftershocks, completely gone—eyes rolled back, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaking down his flushed cheeks, mouth open in a continuous stream of hoarse, broken moans.

Only when he starts twitching with oversensitivity do you finally pull off with a soft, wet pop, a thin string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to his spent cock for a moment before it breaks. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at his dazed expression. His chest heaves, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, legs still trembling.

It takes him several long minutes to come back down to earth, blinking slowly like he’s waking from a dream. You gently tuck him back into his pants, fix his clothes, and help him stand on shaky legs. Zanka leans heavily against you, burying his burning face in the crook of your neck as you lead him toward the door.

The moment you step back into the main room, the party noise seems to dip noticeably. Heads turn. Eyes widen. A few of your friends freeze mid-conversation, drinks paused halfway to their lips. One girl slaps a hand over her mouth, barely stifling a laugh, while another guy raises an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. The stares are impossible to ignore—some shocked, some amused, a couple clearly putting two and two together from the timing and the faint, lingering flush on Zanka’s face.

Zanka freezes beside you, realization crashing over him like a bucket of ice water. His face drains of color for a split second before exploding into a deep, mortified crimson that spreads all the way to his ears. “I… I was… that loud?” he whispers hoarsely, voice barely audible now, cracking with embarrassment. He tries to hide behind you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, fingers clutching tightly at your shirt.

You just grin, sliding your hand into his and lacing your fingers together as you walk casually past the staring crowd. Whispers and muffled giggles follow you both. Zanka stays glued to your side for the rest of the night, avoiding eye contact with everyone, his grip on your hand never loosening. Every so often he lets out a tiny, mortified groan against your shoulder, but there’s a shy, secretly pleased little smile tugging at his lips when he thinks no one’s looking.

He’s going to be teased mercilessly tomorrow… but right now, he’s still floating from the pleasure you gave him.

[gllimzz]

can we get some fu smut!! i want subby fu reallyyyy baddddd pleasee!! like imagine him getting overstimulated and drooling all over and eyes rolling back!!

Dumbed down

Pairing: fu orostor x reader

Genre: smut

Summary: three different scenes of fu being overstimulated. :p

Wc: 1440

A/n: meow

Scene one

You push Fu back against the soft cushions of the couch, his back hitting them with a surprised little gasp. His golden eyes are already wide, pupils blown as you sink to your knees between his spread thighs. He’s half-hard just from the way you’ve been teasing him all evening, and the moment your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants and tug them down, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, and twitching eagerly.

“W-wait—ah—!” His voice cracks as you wrap your hand around the base and lean in, dragging your tongue slowly up the underside. The first wet lick makes his hips jerk, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. You don’t give him time to adjust. You take him into your mouth in one smooth glide, lips stretching around his girth, tongue swirling around the head before you sink deeper.

Fu’s head falls back instantly. “Oh—oh fuck—!” His hands fly to your hair, not pushing, just clutching desperately as his thighs tremble on either side of you. You bob your head, taking him deeper each time, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard. Saliva drips down his shaft, coating your fingers where they stroke what you can’t fit in your mouth.

He’s loud. So fucking loud. Whiny, desperate sounds pour out of him as you work him relentlessly—sucking, licking, twisting your hand in time with your mouth. His cock throbs on your tongue, leaking steadily, and you swallow around him, milking more precum from the tip.

“Too—too much—feels so good—please—!” His voice is already cracking, breath hitching into sobs. You look up and see his eyes fluttering, lashes wet, mouth hanging open as drool starts to slip from the corner of his lips. You hum around him, the vibration making his whole body jolt.

You speed up, sucking him sloppily, wet obscene sounds filling the room along with his broken cries. Fu’s hips twitch helplessly, trying to thrust but too overwhelmed to find rhythm. His eyes roll back, whites showing as his head lolls against the couch. Thick strings of drool run down his chin, dripping onto his heaving chest.

You pull off just long enough to stroke him fast and tight with your slick hand. “Look at you,” you murmur, voice husky. “Such a pretty, pathetic mess already.”

He tries to answer but only manages a garbled moan, more drool spilling as his eyes cross and roll again. You dive back down, taking him to the back of your throat and swallowing repeatedly. That’s what breaks him. Fu lets out a strangled scream, thighs clamping around your head as he cums hard—thick, hot pulses flooding your mouth. You swallow every drop, but you don’t stop.

Even as he whimpers and twitches from sensitivity, you keep sucking, gentler but relentless, tongue pressing against the underside. His cock stays hard, overstimulated and aching. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, mixing with the drool coating his chin and neck.

“P-please—too sensitive—can’t—ahhhn—!” His words dissolve into dumb, incoherent babbles. His eyes are completely rolled back now, mouth slack and drooling uncontrollably as you edge him straight into a second orgasm. His whole body shakes violently, cock pulsing weakly as he spills again, smaller this time but just as intense. He’s gone—completely dumb, only able to make wet, needy noises while you milk him dry.

Scene two

Later that night you have him on the bed, completely naked and already trembling. Fu’s chest is heaving, skin shiny with sweat from the first round, but you’re not done. You crawl between his legs and wrap your lips around his spent cock again without warning.

He jolts hard, a high-pitched whine tearing from his throat. “N-nooo—too soon—sensitive—!” But his hips still push weakly toward your mouth, betraying how much he craves it.

You take your time this round, savoring every inch. Long, slow licks along his shaft, gentle sucks on the head, then suddenly deep-throating him until your nose presses against his pelvis. Fu’s hands fist the sheets above his head, knuckles white. His legs shake uncontrollably, heels digging into the mattress.

Every wet glide of your mouth drags another broken sound out of him. His voice is hoarse now, cracking on every moan. Drool pools at the corners of his mouth and runs in shiny trails down his jaw as his head thrashes side to side. You reach up and pinch his nipples lightly, and his back arches so hard he nearly bows off the bed.

“F-fuuuuck—your mouth—feels—haaa—!” Words fail him again. You suck harder, bobbing faster, one hand cupping and rolling his balls while the other strokes the base in tight, twisting motions. His cock is swollen, flushed dark, hypersensitive and leaking nonstop.

You pull off with a wet pop and slap his cock lightly against your tongue before swallowing him again. That little sting makes his eyes cross instantly. Fu’s mouth hangs wide open, tongue lolling as thick rivulets of drool spill down his chin, onto his neck, and across his collarbones. His eyes roll back completely, only the whites visible as his body convulses.

You don’t let up. You suck him through another shattering orgasm—his voice breaking into silent screams, body locking up—then keep going, nursing his overstimulated cock until he’s sobbing and babbling absolute nonsense.

“G-good—too good—can’t think—please—more—stop—don’t stop—!” His brain is mush, reduced to a drooling, twitching wreck. Tears stream down his face, mixing with the mess on his chin. Every flick of your tongue makes his hips jerk and his eyes flutter uselessly. He cums a final time with a wrecked, dumb little cry, body shuddering violently as you swallow around him, drawing out every last weak spurt until he’s limp and whimpering, completely fucked-out and empty-headed.

Scene three

You straddle Fu’s hips, his cock—still hard despite everything—sliding against your soaked folds. He’s a gorgeous disaster beneath you: flushed skin, tear-streaked cheeks, chin and chest shiny with his own drool. His golden eyes are hazy, half-lidded and unfocused.

You grab both his wrists and pin them above his head with one hand, leaning your weight down so he can’t move. His breath hitches sharply at the restraint.

“Mine,” you whisper against his lips before sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion.

Fu’s back arches hard, a loud, broken moan ripping from his throat as your tight heat engulfs him. You start riding him immediately—slow at first, grinding deep, then faster, bouncing on his cock with wet, filthy sounds. His wrists flex uselessly in your grip, fingers twitching as he tries and fails to touch you.

“So—full—ahhn—!” His voice is wrecked. Every time you slam down, his eyes flutter and roll. You ride him harder, using his cock for your own pleasure, hips rolling and grinding against his pelvis on every downstroke so your clit gets friction.

Drool starts spilling from his open mouth again almost immediately. His head presses back into the pillow, neck straining, eyes crossing as you fuck yourself on him. You lean down and lick the drool from his chin before kissing him messily, swallowing his desperate whimpers.

“Gonna—gonna cum—please—let me—!” he babbles, voice high and broken.

You don’t slow down. You ride him through his orgasm, clenching around him as he pulses and spills inside you with a strangled cry. But you keep moving, chasing your own pleasure, overstimulating his sensitive cock. His eyes roll back completely again, tongue hanging out as more drool runs down his face. His whole body jerks and twitches beneath you, wrists still pinned firmly above his head.

You use him relentlessly—bouncing, grinding, taking what you want. Every thrust makes wet squelching sounds and forces more broken, dumb noises from his throat. “C-can’t—too much—feels—haaa—your pussy—!” His words dissolve into incoherent moans and sobs, tears flowing freely as another orgasm is ripped from him.

You finally cum hard around his cock, clenching and pulsing, and Fu lets out one last wrecked, brainless cry as he spills again, body shaking violently under you. You keep riding him through both your orgasms until he’s a drooling, eye-rolled, whimpering mess—completely used and blissed out, wrists still trapped in your grip while you milk every last drop of pleasure from his overstimulated body.

[gllimzz]

Lowk...how would Zanka deal with a depressed reader? Maybe hcs or just a small story of Zanka with a reader that spends most of their time in their room and doesn't get up and out as much as the other cleaners. Little stuff like washing their hair for them, checking up on them, bringing them food or water or snacks, cuddling them in silence and playing with their hair at night. I'm thinking of a reader that's very quiet/shy, kinda shuts themselves in from others when they get depressed.🥹🩷

Flowkirkenuienly inspired by the song my girlfriend-TV girl

Eat what you can

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: headcanons and a small snippet of zanka taking care of reader when they’re going through depressive states.

Wc: idk, not long tho

A/n: im too lazy to check the wc lowk, srry not srry. I listen to tv girl but never heard that song before, yikes.

Enjoy!

Zanka would be quietly, steadfastly supportive. He’s not the loud, overly affectionate type who forces you out of your shell with big gestures, but he’s incredibly attentive and consistent in his own measured way—especially with someone shy and quiet who tends to withdraw completely when depression hits. He understands pressure and the weight of expectations (given his own background with the Nijiku family), so he’d never push you to “just get over it” or perform for the team.

Headcanons

• Checking in without overwhelming you: Zanka is observant as hell. He’d notice right away if you’re skipping meals, not leaving your room much, or if your usual quiet demeanor has gone even more inward. He wouldn’t knock loudly or demand entry—he’d send a soft message or just quietly appear at your door with something small (water, a snack you like, or even just a report that gives him an excuse to linger). “You haven’t been out much. Need anything?” delivered in that calm, low voice.

• Bringing necessities: Food and water are non-negotiable for him. He’d bring balanced, easy-to-eat stuff—maybe things he knows you tolerate even when appetite is gone. Nothing flashy, just reliable. If you’re really deep in it, he might sit on the edge of your bed or the floor nearby, eating with you in comfortable silence so you don’t feel watched or pressured to talk.

• Hair washing and gentle care: This feels very in-character for Zanka’s precise, caring side. If you let him, he’d help with practical self-care that feels impossible when depressed. He’d run a warm bath or bring a basin, handling your hair with surprising gentleness—fingers careful not to tug, massaging your scalp slowly while the room stays quiet except for the water. “Relax. I’ve got it.” He’d dry it thoroughly afterward too, almost methodically, like it’s another task he refuses to half-do when it comes to you.

• Nighttime cuddling and hair play: Evenings are when he’d be most present. After missions or training, he’d slip into your room (if you share space or he has access), kick off his boots, and just pull you against his chest without a word. One arm around you, the other slowly carding through your hair—long, soothing strokes that help ground you. No forced conversation. He might murmur occasional low reassurances like “You’re not alone in this” or “Take the time you need,” but mostly it’s silent comfort. His presence is steady and warm, a quiet anchor.

• Respecting your shyness/isolation: He gets that you shut down around others when low, so he’d run interference with the rest of Team Akuta if needed—subtly steering people away or covering for you without making it obvious. He’d never shame you for not being as active as the others. To him, you’re still valuable and worthy even when you’re quiet and withdrawn.

• Long-term approach: Zanka might gently encourage tiny steps when you seem ready (a short walk together, fresh air), but only if you signal it’s okay. He’d research or recall what helps with low moods in his own analytical way, applying it patiently.

Short scene

The room was dim, the usual bustle of the Cleaner quarters far away. You hadn’t left much in days, curled under the blanket with that heavy fog pressing in, the kind that made even simple words feel too loud.

A soft knock—barely there—then the door eased open. Zanka stepped in, carrying a tray with water, some rice balls, and sliced fruit. His two-toned hair was still neatly styled despite the long day, navy eyes scanning you quietly.

“You’re still in here,” he said, not accusatory, just stating fact. He set the tray down and sat on the edge of the bed. “Eat a little if you can.”

You managed a few bites in silence while he waited, patient as ever. When you finished, he didn’t leave. Instead, he shifted closer. “Come here.”

You hesitated, but let him pull you into his lap, your back against his chest. His arms wrapped around you securely, one hand finding its way to your hair. Slow, rhythmic strokes—fingers gentle through the strands, untangling knots with care. The silence stretched, comfortable and safe. No questions about why you were like this, no pressure to rejoin the others.

Minutes bled into longer. His breathing was even, grounding. Occasionally his thumb brushed your temple, or he’d lean down to press a light kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever’s weighing on you… you don’t have to carry it alone tonight,” he murmured eventually, voice low. His hand never stopped its soothing path through your hair. “I’m right here.”

In the quiet dark of your room, with Zanka’s steady warmth behind you and his fingers still playing gently with your hair, the weight felt just a fraction lighter. He’d stay as long as you needed—no rush, no expectations. Just him, solid and unwavering.

[gllimzz]

can we have a REVERSE of 'deserving this softness' and it's zanka pampering reader instead?

Deserving This Softness (Reverse)

Pairing: Zanka Nijiku x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: After a brutal mission leaves you exhausted and sore, Zanka takes care of you with a gentle massage and quiet affection. Pure softness.

WC: 720 i think, idk

A/n: sorry if it’s bad, I’ve been writing a lot cause i got a few more requests than expected. Ty all for the requests tho.

The door to your quarters clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing louder than it should in the quiet space. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest as you shrugged off your jacket, the fabric catching on bruised shoulders. Today’s mission had been relentless — trash beasts that just wouldn’t quit, combined with bad footing and one too many close calls. You were bruised, drained, and the knot between your shoulder blades felt like it had taken up permanent residence.

You didn’t even hear him enter at first.

Zanka moved like he always did — silent, purposeful, but today there was an extra gentleness in his steps. He’d been waiting for you, of course. Word traveled fast among the Cleaners.

“Sit,” he said softly, voice low and steady. No room for argument, but no command either. Just quiet care.

You turned to look at him. His usual intense expression had softened around the edges, those sharp eyes scanning you for injuries. He’d already changed out of his combat gear into something looser, sleeves rolled up, revealing the toned forearms you loved.

“I’m fine, Zanka. Just tired.”

“You’re not fine.” He stepped closer, warm hands settling on your waist, guiding you toward the edge of the bed. “You’re favoring your left side. And your shoulders are up by your ears.”

Before you could protest, he was behind you, large hands pressing lightly into your upper back. The heat of his palms seeped through your shirt immediately, and you let out an involuntary sigh.

“Off,” he murmured, tugging at the hem of your shirt. You lifted your arms with a wince, and he helped you out of it carefully, tossing the garment aside. Then came the oil — something faintly herbal he must’ve gotten from one of the supporters. The scent filled the room as he warmed it between his hands.

You melted the second his fingers met your skin.

Zanka was surprisingly gentle for someone whose fighting style was all precision and power. He started at the base of your neck, thumbs working in slow, firm circles that melted the tension away knot by knot. Every stroke was deliberate, like he was memorizing the map of your aches and erasing them one by one.

“Right here?” he asked when you hissed at a particularly sore spot.

“Mhm… yeah. That’s the one.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, leaning in so his chest brushed your back. His breath was warm against your ear. “You did well today. Pushed harder than anyone. But you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

His hands moved lower, working along your spine, then out across your shoulders and down your arms. The calluses on his palms added a perfect texture — rough enough to work out the deep knots, but never too hard. When he reached a bad bruise on your side, he paused, pressing a soft kiss just above it before continuing the massage.

You felt yourself sinking deeper into the bed, eyelids heavy. “Zanka… you don’t have to do all this.”

“I want to.” His voice was quieter now, almost reverent. “You take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you for once.”

He shifted so he was straddling your thighs (careful not to put too much weight on you), and continued down your back. Long, sweeping strokes that left your skin tingling and warm. Every so often he’d lean down to press a kiss to your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck, the top of your spine — little anchors of affection that made your chest feel too full.

When he finally finished, you were boneless, floating in that hazy space between sleep and awake. Zanka wiped his hands and lay down beside you, pulling you gently into his arms so your head rested on his chest.

“You deserve this,” he whispered, fingers threading through your hair. One hand continued slow, soothing strokes along your back. “All the softness. All the rest. You fight like hell out there… but here, with me? You get to be soft.”

You nuzzled closer, inhaling the familiar scent of him — clean sweat, faint metal from his vital instrument, and that comforting warmth that was just Zanka.

“Thank you,” you mumbled against his shirt.

He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Always.”

The room grew quiet except for the steady beat of his heart under your ear and the occasional soft murmur of praise as his fingers kept tracing lazy patterns on your skin. For once, the weight of the day felt distant. Safe. Handled.

In Zanka’s arms, you let yourself deserve every bit of this softness.

[gllimzz]

Zanka watching reader train with the skin tight uniform and literally cannot stop staring and when it’s time for them to train together he knows he’s fucked.. he can’t even focus on his vital instruments movements or hers because he just stares at her tits and gets a boner and has to excuse himself for a bathroom break..

Tight fit pt2

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: smut

Summary: a while after reader got her new uniform. Reader and zanka train together, the sight of her new uniform being bent and twisted around her body distracted zanka a bit too much

Wc: 1,352

A/n: didnt expect there to be a part two ngl. Thx for requesting though.

Pt 1 here. Pt 3 here.

Enjoy!

The training grounds were quieter this afternoon, the usual clamor of recruits dulled to a distant echo as the sun beat down on the packed dirt. You moved through the forms with practiced precision, the new uniform clinging to every curve like it had been painted on. The fabric was some experimental high-performance weave—black, sleek, and unforgiving. It hugged your chest so tightly that the swell of your breasts shifted noticeably with each breath, the material stretching taut over your nipples whenever you twisted or lunged. The pants were no better, molded to your ass and thighs like a second skin.

Zanka stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, ostensibly supervising. He’d meant to critique your stance, offer pointers on your footwork. Instead his gaze kept dragging back to the way the uniform compressed and released around your tits with every strike you threw at the practice dummy. The way they bounced. The faint outline of your areolas pressing against the fabric when you worked up a sweat.

Fuck.

He’d already jerked off once this morning after seeing you in it for the first time. Now he was hard again, cock throbbing against the seam of his own uniform, thick and obvious if anyone bothered to look. He shifted his weight, trying to will it down. It didn’t work.

“You’re up, Captain,” you called, wiping sweat from your brow. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, nipples stiff from the cool air hitting damp fabric. “Spar with me?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The moment you started circling each other, he knew he was fucked.

You moved fast—light on your feet, body rolling with each step. Every punch you threw made your tits jiggle inside that goddamn uniform. Zanka tried to focus on your hands, your vital points, the rhythm of your breathing. Instead his eyes locked on the deep valley of cleavage the tight collar created, the way your breasts pressed together when you guarded, the soft bounce when you dodged. He barely blocked your next strike in time, the impact jarring up his arm.

“Getting slow there?” you teased, grinning as you pressed the advantage. You spun into a kick; the uniform pulled even tighter across your ass and thighs, and Zanka’s brain short-circuited.

He saw the opening but didn’t take it. Couldn’t. All he could think about was pinning you down, yanking that uniform down just enough to free those perfect tits, sucking on your nipples until you were squirming and soaked for him. His cock was fully hard now, straining painfully against his pants. Every shift of fabric felt like torture.

You closed in again, throwing a combination he should’ve countered easily. Instead he stared at the way your breasts moved with the momentum, the sheen of sweat making the material glisten over your curves. He missed the block completely. Your fist connected with his side—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to knock him back a step.

“Zanka?” Your voice softened with concern. You stepped closer, chest still rising and falling, nipples visibly peaked now. “You okay? You seem… distracted.”

He could smell your sweat, the faint sweetness of your skin. His cock twitched hard, a bead of pre-cum already soaking into his underwear.

“I’m fine,” he grunted, voice rough. “Just… need a minute.”

He turned sharply before you could say anything else, stalking toward the nearby training hall with its attached facilities. Zanka slammed the bathroom door behind him and twisted the lock with shaking fingers. The small training hall restroom was dim and cool, the air heavy with the faint smell of cleaning solution, but none of it mattered. His cock was painfully hard, throbbing against the tight confines of his uniform pants like it had a mind of its own.

“Fuck… fuck this uniform,” he growled under his breath.

He braced one hand on the sink and yanked his pants and underwear down in one rough motion. His thick cock sprang free, slapping heavily against his abs. The head was already flushed dark red and glistening with pre-cum that had been leaking steadily since the moment you started sparring. A thick vein pulsed along the underside as he wrapped his calloused hand around the shaft.

The first stroke was rough, almost punishing. He squeezed tight at the base and dragged his fist up to the swollen tip, twisting his palm over the head to spread the slickness. A low groan rumbled out of his chest.

All he could see behind his closed eyelids was you.

The way that skin-tight black uniform clung to your tits like liquid latex. How they heaved and bounced with every punch, every dodge, every twist of your body. The way the fabric stretched so thin over your nipples that he could see the faint texture of them when they hardened from sweat and exertion. He imagined ripping the zipper down just enough to free those perfect breasts—soft, heavy, spilling into his hands. He’d bury his face between them, sucking one stiff nipple into his mouth while palming the other, feeling the weight of you, tasting the salt on your skin.

His hand sped up. Wet, filthy sounds filled the small room—schlick, schlick, schlick—as pre-cum drooled over his knuckles.

“Shit… look at you,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Training in that slutty little thing… bouncing for me…”

In his fantasy you were bent over the training dummy, ass up, that uniform still molded to your curves. He’d peel it down just past your hips, spread your legs, and sink his cock into your tight, wet heat while the top half still squeezed your tits together. He’d fuck you deep and slow at first, watching those breasts swing and slap together with every thrust. Then harder. Faster. Until you were moaning his name and creaming around him.

Zanka’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, fucking his fist. He planted his other hand on the wall for balance, head bowed, breathing ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His balls drew up tight, heavy and aching.

He thought about you noticing—how your eyes would drop to the massive bulge in his pants during sparring, how you’d tease him about it with that cocky little smirk. Maybe you’d press up against him on purpose, letting those soft tits mash against his chest while you whispered how obviously hard he was for you.

That image broke him.

“Fuuuck—!”

His strokes turned erratic, brutal. He pumped his fist fast and tight along his throbbing length, thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive spot under the head on every upstroke. His cock swelled even thicker in his grip, the veins standing out as pleasure coiled tight at the base of his spine.

He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering. Thick, powerful ropes of cum erupted from his cock, splattering messily against the sink, the mirror, and the floor. He kept stroking through it, milking every last spurt, imagining he was buried deep inside you, filling you up instead.

Even after the peak passed, his cock twitched in his hand, still mostly hard, a final weak spurt dribbling over his fingers. He leaned heavily against the wall, chest heaving, thighs trembling slightly.

“Goddamn it…” he rasped, eyes still half-lidded with lingering lust.

He grabbed a handful of paper towels and cleaned up the evidence as best he could, wiping down the sink and floor. His reflection in the mirror looked wrecked—flushed cheeks, messy hair, dark eyes still blown wide with want.

And the worst part? He knew the second he stepped back outside and saw you stretching again in that fucking uniform, he’d be right back here. Or worse—he wouldn’t make it back here at all next time.

He tucked his still-sensitive cock back into his pants, adjusted himself, and took a deep breath.

When he finally opened the door, you were waiting right there in the training yard, arms raised overhead in a stretch that made the uniform pull obscenely tight across your chest again.

“Ready now?” you asked sweetly.

Zanka’s jaw clenched. His cock gave a fresh, interested twitch.

He was nowhere near done

[gllimzz]

zanka n reader having just tender and soft sex bc they love each other sososo much <3

Most precious in the world

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: fluff smut

Summary: reader and zanka share a moment during sex. :p

Wc: 971

A/n: i don’t have anything to say but ty for the request. I rlly appreciate that in getting slightly more known every time i post. U r all the best. I have to much free time to write rn.

The room is wrapped in a gentle hush, the only light coming from a single warm lamp on the bedside table, casting soft golden hues across the sheets. Rain taps lightly against the window, a soothing backdrop that makes everything feel even more intimate. Zanka hovers above you, propped on his elbows so he doesn’t put too much weight on your body. His dark eyes are full of quiet wonder as he looks down at you, one hand gently cradling your cheek, thumb stroking your skin with infinite care.

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he whispers, voice low and thick with emotion. “I love you… so much. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down into a kiss. It starts soft—barely a brush of lips—then deepens slowly, tongues meeting in a lazy, heartfelt dance. There’s no hunger or desperation, just pure, overflowing affection. His free hand slides down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth along your jaw, down the column of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses that leave warm, tingling trails. When he reaches the hollow of your throat, he lingers, sucking gently, savoring the way your pulse flutters under his lips. A soft sigh escapes you, and he smiles against your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice vibrating through you. “Every part of you… I could spend forever just touching you like this.”

His hands explore with reverence—cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they tighten under his touch. He lowers his head, taking one into his mouth, tongue swirling slowly, lovingly, while his fingers tease the other. Your back arches, a quiet moan slipping out, and he responds with a deep, contented hum, like your pleasure feeds his own.

He continues downward, kissing a path over your ribs, your stomach, the sensitive skin just above your hipbones. When he settles between your thighs, he doesn’t rush. He kisses the inside of one knee, then the other, working his way up with patient affection. His breath ghosts over your core, making you shiver.

“Relax for me, love,” he breathes, pressing a soft kiss right where you need him most. His tongue moves in slow, gentle strokes—exploring, savoring—never hurried. One of his hands finds yours, fingers intertwining tightly as he devotes himself to your pleasure. He listens to every gasp, every whimper, adjusting with perfect care until your thighs are trembling around his shoulders and your free hand is clutching the sheets.

Only when you’re breathless and pleading does he rise back up, kissing you deeply so you can taste yourself on his lips. He positions himself between your legs, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, full of love and quiet intensity.

“Are you ready?” he asks softly.

You nod, pulling him closer. He pushes in slowly—inch by careful inch—stretching you open with such tenderness that it steals your breath. When he’s fully seated, he stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing shakily.

“Fuck… you feel like home,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little. “So warm… so perfect.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, holding him as close as possible. He starts to move—long, slow, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. There’s no pounding rhythm, just deep, loving strokes that make you feel completely connected, completely cherished. His hips move like waves, gentle and steady, building pleasure gradually, beautifully.

Every thrust is accompanied by soft words and kisses: “I love you,” “You’re everything to me,” “Stay with me like this forever.” His hands never stop moving—stroking your hair, cradling your face, sliding down to grip your thigh and pull you even closer. Sweat begins to slick your skin, but it only makes everything feel more intimate.

Your pleasure climbs in a slow, shimmering wave. Zanka can feel it in the way you clench around him, and he keeps that same tender pace, grinding gently against you on every stroke. “That’s it, baby… let me feel you,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

When you come, it’s overwhelming in the softest way—your body tightening around him as waves of pleasure roll through you. You cry out his name, trembling beneath him, and he kisses you through every pulse, swallowing your moans with deep, loving kisses. Only then does he let himself follow, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a low, broken groan, hips stuttering gently through his release.

For a long time afterward, he doesn’t pull out. He collapses carefully over you, careful to keep most of his weight on his forearms, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You stay joined, breathing each other in, hearts slowing together. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, your back, anywhere he can reach.

Eventually he shifts just enough to slide out of you, but immediately pulls you into his arms, spooning you from behind. One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other hand gently cupping your breast as he presses kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this… to deserve you,” he says quietly, voice thick with emotion. “But I’m going to spend every day making sure you feel exactly how much I love you.”

You turn your head to kiss him softly, smiling against his lips. The rain continues outside, but inside this moment, there’s only warmth, safety, and a love so deep it feels endless.

Zanka nuzzles closer, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

And you are.

[gllimzz]

Hello❤️

Can I get a fluff smut fic with service top Fu x reader

Please and thank you

Your safe place

Pairing: fu orostor x reader

Genre: fluff/smut

Summary: fu takes care of you in the bed

Wc: 1,432

A/n: i dont rlly like this one i just feel like im mischaracterizing him, if you want me to do it again i can.

In the dim, flickering light of the half-collapsed warehouse on the edge of the ground, Fu Orostor sat with his back against a cold concrete pillar, knees drawn up slightly. His dark hair hung messily over his eyes, hiding the way they darted nervously toward you every few seconds. Scars—both the visible ones crisscrossing his arms and torso from countless brutal fights, and the deeper, invisible ones that made his shoulders tense at every unexpected sound—kept him guarded. The world outside was loud and cruel, full of betrayal and pain, but here with you, he tried. He always tried so hard.

You approached slowly, and Fu’s breath hitched. “Hey… you sure you still want this? With me?” His voice was quiet, rough around the edges, almost hesitant. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers brushing over an old scar there. “I’m not… I’m not good at this. But I want to make you feel good. Really good. Just tell me what you like. Please.”

Your reassurance came soft and warm. That was all it took for him to unfold, rising to pull you gently into his arms. Fu’s touch was careful, almost reverent, like he was afraid he might break something precious. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as if it grounded him. “You’re too kind to me,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled. “Don’t know why you let me touch you like this… but I’ll do anything to hear you say I’m doing it right.”

He kissed you then—slow, searching, a little clumsy at first as if unsure of his welcome. When you sighed into it and cupped his scarred cheek, Fu melted, deepening the kiss with growing need tempered by hesitation. His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm and slightly trembling as they mapped your skin. Every stroke was deliberate, focused entirely on your reactions. “Like this?” he whispered, thumbs brushing over your nipples. When you arched and praised him softly, his breath stuttered. “Yeah? Feels good? Tell me more… I need to know I’m not messing up.”

Fu guided you down onto the relatively clean pile of old tarps he’d hastily arranged earlier, his movements protective. He peeled your clothes away piece by piece, pressing feather-light kisses to every inch he uncovered—collarbones, breasts, the soft curve of your stomach. His scarred back flexed as he hovered over you, careful not to put too much weight down. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, eyes wide with something like awe and disbelief. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

Dropping lower, Fu settled between your thighs with a reverence that bordered on worship. His hands gently parted your legs, but he paused, looking up at you with those vulnerable dark eyes. “Is this okay? I want to taste you… want to make you feel so good you forget everything else out there.” At your nod and encouraging words, he leaned in. His tongue was tentative at first, a slow, exploratory lick along your folds that grew bolder with every moan you gave him. He licked and sucked with focused devotion, learning exactly how you liked it—circling your clit when your hips twitched, dipping inside when you gasped his name.

“Fu… that’s perfect,” you praised, fingers threading through his hair.

He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. The praise made him shudder visibly, his scarred shoulders relaxing as he redoubled his efforts. Two fingers joined his tongue, sliding in carefully, curling and thrusting in a steady rhythm he adjusted instantly to your feedback. “Like that? Am I… am I doing good for you?” he asked between licks, voice husky and hopeful. Every bit of pleasure he drew from you seemed to feed something deep inside him—making him more eager, more determined to please. He stayed there until your thighs trembled around his head and you came with a cry, working you through it with soft, soothing strokes of his tongue.

Only when you were catching your breath did he pull back, lips shiny, cheeks flushed. Fu wiped his mouth with the back of his hand but stayed close, nuzzling your inner thigh. “Was that… okay? Did I make you feel good?” The uncertainty in his voice was genuine, scars and past wounds making him crave your validation like air.

You pulled him up for a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and told him exactly how amazing he was. Fu whimpered softly into your mouth, the praise visibly affecting him—his cock straining hard against his pants, but he didn’t rush. Instead, he helped you sit up, then let you undress him. Every scar you kissed made him shiver; he’d murmur quiet thanks, hands gentle on your shoulders.

When you asked him to take you, Fu positioned himself between your legs, cock heavy and flushed as he rubbed the head against your slick entrance. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, voice strained. “Just… keep telling me if it’s good. Please. I want this to be perfect for you.” He pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch, groaning low at the tight heat. Once buried deep, he paused, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “Fuck… you feel incredible. Am I okay like this? Not too much?”

Your praises—“You feel so good, Fu. Move for me”—unlocked him. He started thrusting in long, deep strokes, hips rolling with controlled desperation. Every movement was for you: the angle adjusted to hit that spot that made you moan louder, one hand slipping between you to circle your clit with practiced care even as his own pleasure built. Sweat beaded on his scarred skin, but his focus stayed locked on your face, drinking in every expression.

“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, nails lightly scratching his back. “My perfect Fu.”

That broke something in him—in the best way. A soft, needy sound escaped his throat as his pace quickened just a little, still tender, still attentive. He kissed you messily, then moved to your neck, sucking lightly while murmuring, “Just want to please you… make you cum again. Tell me when you’re close. I’ll do anything.”

He brought you over the edge twice more like that—once with deep, grinding thrusts and his thumb on your clit, the second time while holding you close in his lap after shifting positions so you could ride him at your pace while he supported you with strong but gentle hands. Each time you came, Fu soaked up your praise like it was sunlight, his own release held back until you were blissed out and whispering how much you loved how he took care of you.

Only then did he let go. With your permission and encouragement, Fu thrust up into you a few more times, burying his face in your chest as he came hard, trembling beneath you. “Thank you… thank you for letting me,” he whispered afterward, voice hoarse and raw with emotion.

The aftercare was pure fluff. Fu cleaned you both with a surprisingly soft cloth from his pack, movements slow and loving despite the slight shake in his hands. He pulled you against his chest, scarred arms wrapping around you securely, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. “Was I really okay?” he asked one last time, pressing a kiss to your temple. When you assured him again, lavishing him with gentle praise, a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips—the kind that reached his eyes and made the harsh world outside fade away.

“You make me feel safe too, you know,” he admitted quietly into your hair, holding you tighter. “In all this mess… you’re the only thing that makes sense. I’ll keep trying to be what you need. Always.”

Curled together on the makeshift bed, the distant sounds of the Sphere’s chaos felt miles away. Fu’s breathing evened out into peaceful rest, his body a warm, protective shield around yours—scarred, hesitant, but utterly devoted in his desire to please and earn every bit of your affection. In his arms, the dust and danger turned into something soft, intimate, and yours.

[gllimzz]

I hear you want requests 👀👀 hellowowoow !! Mayhaps a Zanka x fem reader fic where reader is js pampering zanka all day either bcs it's his bday or (if you've read the manga around the time after they beat mymo) and she's js massaging his back praising him and etc? Very soft and intimate pls ^^ tysm !!

— 🌒 anon

Deserving this softness

Pairing: zanka nijiku x reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: reader gives zanka a massage after a rough battle. Just really soft.

Wc: 691 (sorry if its too short)

A/n: thanks for requesting, i hope you like it, though it is quite short :(

Soft rays of light filtered through the curtains of your shared quarters in the Cleaner HQ, casting a gentle glow over the room. The battle against Mymo had been brutal—Zanka had taken hits that would have felled lesser fighters, pushing through with that stubborn determination of his, proving once again that hard work and heart could rival any so-called genius.

You had insisted on this day being just for him. No missions, no training, no family expectations weighing on his shoulders. Just rest. Just you.

Zanka lay face-down on the bed, shirt discarded to the side, his back a map of fading bruises and tense muscles from the fight. He was quiet, as usual, but you could feel the way his body slowly unwound under your touch.

Your hands, warm with oil you’d prepared earlier, glided over his shoulders. “You’ve been carrying so much,” you murmured, thumbs pressing into the knots near his shoulder blades. A low, contented hum escaped him—rare, but rewarding. “Let me take some of it for a little while.”

He shifted slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow as he glanced back at you. “You don’t have to do all this… It’s not like I—”

“Shh.” You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck, right where his dark hair met skin. “Today is about you, Zanka. You fought like hell out there. You protected everyone. You were incredible.” Your fingers worked deeper, smoothing along his spine in long, soothing strokes. Praise flowed easily from your lips because it was all true. “My strong, hardworking man. I’m so proud of you.”

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck. Zanka wasn’t used to this—soft words, gentle hands, someone seeing him not as the underdog or the Nijiku family’s ‘ordinary’ son, but as yours. Someone worthy of every bit of care.

You continued the massage, palms flat against his lower back now, kneading away the stiffness from hours of combat. The room smelled faintly of the herbal oil and the quiet peace that had been so hard-won. “Remember when you sliced through that form of his? Even injured, you kept going. I was scared, but… gods, Zanka, you were amazing. You always are.”

He turned his head more fully, one eye visible, warm with a mix of embarrassment and something deeper—affection, gratitude. “You’re too good to me,” he mumbled into the pillow.

You smiled, straddling his hips lightly for better leverage without putting weight on any sore spots. Your hands never stopped their gentle rhythm—up his sides, across his shoulders, down again—each pass laced with love. “You deserve it. All of it. Let me pamper you today. Let me remind you how much you mean to me.”

Leaning forward again, you brushed your lips along his jaw in feather-light kisses. Intimate, unhurried. Your fingers traced the lines of old scars and new ones, not with pity, but with reverence. “I love these hands that fight so hard for others,” you whispered, reaching to lace your fingers briefly with his. “I love this back that carries burdens no one asks it to. I love you, Zanka Nijiku. Every determined, resilient part.”

He exhaled shakily, finally relaxing fully beneath you. The tension melted away as your touch turned even softer—more caresses than massage now. You stayed like that for a long while, bodies close, the world outside forgotten. Occasional whispers of praise, quiet laughter when he grumbled something self-deprecating, and the steady comfort of your presence wrapping around him like the warmest blanket.

By the time the sun dipped lower, Zanka had rolled over, pulling you down against his chest. His arms encircled you with surprising gentleness for someone who’d just survived a nightmare fight. “Thank you,” he said simply, voice rough with emotion he rarely showed. His forehead rested against yours. “For seeing me.”