๋⭑‎₊⊹˚🪐⭑‎₊⊹

simping for traumatized emo boys like it's my job

[kyuuppi]

˙⋆✮ About the blog...

kyuu / any pronouns

Requests are always open but not always written. Asks are always answered. Please mind the tags and content warnings (some content may be dark). Spam likes are ok, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Inconsistent updates.

˙⋆✮ Masterlists...

blue lock (pending) + haikyuu!! + genshin + bnha + drrr!! + naruto + k-pop

˙⋆✮ Other accounts...

AO3 + ko-fi

[kyuuppi]

@ the two Anons who sent me Wanderer requests recently — thank you!! I have read them and I want to write them but it'll be a while (3-4 weeks?)!!

(guess who recently got into a car accident? lmao literally the fanfic author curse)

[kyuuppi]

Yikes, bestie, you're looking a little rough... When's the last time you took care of yourself? Don't worry, your boyfriend has it covered! ft. Rin + Bachira + Chigiri

⚠️: fem!reader (Rin, Chigiri), suggestive (Bachira), reader has curly hair (Chigiri)

˙⋆✮ Itoshi Rin // skincare

One of the rare Friday nights without soccer practice and instead of catching up on chores or enjoying a new horror movie, Itoshi Rin is staring blankly at row upon row of colorful plastic bottles in a brightly lit department store.

 Rin is very seriously regretting his life choices. 

Several hours ago, when he was typing the address of your beloved beauty store in his phone, Rin had assumed this would be an easy task. You have been complaining about your skin being "dry as a reptile" and your pores were "big enough to see from space" but you had no time to enjoy your usual skincare routine Rin has become somewhat familiar with over the years.

How great of a boyfriend would he be if he surprised you with a self-care night?

The thought of your proud smile directed solely at him as you thank him for being "so thoughtful, Rinnie" was all the motivation he had needed to put this plan into action. 

What he hadn’t expected was just how many options there would be. 

He was familiar with face wash. He had his own all-in-one bottles he kept in his locker at the practice facility. All it did was wash the sweat and dirt off his face, it was simple. 

So why in the hell were there over fifty different types of “cleansers” on this one shelf alone?

Some of them were scented, some of them were foaming, some of them were made with all natural ingredients, some of them contained exfoliating microbeads—whatever the hell that meant.

He had tried to move on to moisturizer but that section was even worse. 

He tries to conjure up images of your messy bathroom counter, various jars and bottles laying around in the organized chaos you seemed infamous for. He recognizes a few colors that look like they could be what you own but half of them are written in Korean letters he can’t read.

And why did everything say “suitable for all skin types,” since when does skin come in types, isn’t skin just skin? Are there racist moisturizers? 

Rin groans at the throbbing headache already forming in his temple and pulls out his phone. 

He couldn’t call you, that would ruin the surprise and make you think he’s an idiot (he totally is, but you don’t need to know that just yet). 

The next person who comes to mind is—no. He wouldn’t even consider it. 

Instead, Rin shoots a hesitant text to the only other “pretty” person he knows. 

The response comes quickly but the contents have Rin muttering expletives under his breath. 

Chigiri: moisturizer? idk my skin is naturally radiant and supple :p 

So lukewarm. That leaves only… 

No. 

No. 

Rin refuses.

Nothing is worth texting him, not even you…

…

Rin sighs and pulls up the contact, ignoring how the previous message exchange is dated to over a year ago.

Rin: I need help. Skincare stuff.

Sae: ?

Rin can so clearly imagine the arrogant expression on his brother’s face from the mere character alone and it pisses him off. Sae is the last person he would choose to have a conversation with, let alone ask advice from.

But Sae is also the only person Rin knows, other than you, who follows a strict 10-step nighttime routine. Sae has gone so far as to accept sponsorships modeling for luxury skin creams that Rin has had the misfortune of seeing advertised on various billboards and magazines.

Rin hesitates over his next message. It feels more personal and vulnerable that he would typically like to be in front of his brother but he was getting desperate. 

Rin: It’s for my girlfriend. She likes skincare stuff but idk what to buy. Something Korean, maybe. 

Sae: Ur an idiot.

Rin sucks his teeth, fingers already poised to write up a scathing response full of slurs that would make Isagi proud but Sae’s next message cuts him off.

Sae: Here are some popular brands. Look at the reviews and compare. Don’t buy anything with parabens. Tell y/n I said hi. 

The next message is the link to a website Rin doesn’t recognize captioned “Top K-beauty Products, Ranked by Estheticians.” 

It turns out his brother can be helpful when he wants to be. Maybe Sae isn’t the worst brother ever.

Armed with a page of recommendations, Rin diligently begins searching for items on the list and placing them in his basket.

When the door to your apartment opens you barely acknowledge it. You’re too busy clacking away at your laptop, eyes burning from spending the past six hours staring at a Word Doc. The paragraphs have long since become a blurred mess of gibberish to your overworked brain but you’re fairly certain you’re reaching some form of a conclusion. What type of monster sets an assignment deadline on a weekend, anyway? 

“You’re still working on that paper?”

Rin stands behind your chair, peering at your laptop over your shoulder. You groan your affirmation, turning around to vent about how stupid this assignment is when you notice something in his hands.

A bag. A bright orange bag.

You gasp, eyes sparkling as you look up to meet his gaze. 

“You went to Ulta!?”

Rin nods shyly, opening the bag as you greedily reach inside. Each item you pull out excites you more than the last. Some are limited editions from brands you regularly use and others are brands you have heard good things about but have yet to try. All of them conjure up images of clear skin and a relaxing night in.

“Holy shit, Rinnie, this brand is expensive, how did you even know about this? Why did you get all of these?”

Your boyfriend shrugs casually before immediately dropping some of the cutest words he has ever told you.

“You’ve been working too hard. Wanted to get you something to make you feel better and… you like this stuff right?” 

Your heart swells, the way he awkwardly avoids eye contact tugging on your heart strings and you don’t hesitate to spring up, pulling him into a tight hug. 

Rin returns your embrace suspiciously quickly, as if he was waiting for it, and you pepper affectionate kisses against his warming cheeks. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—wait, oh my god!” you pull back to look at him and he freezes up, already recognizing that the excited twinkle in your eye typically spells trouble for him.

“We have to test these out together—come on!”

Rin grumbles his protests but obediently allows you to pull him into the bathroom where you force him into a fuzzy Sanrio headband that matches your own and proceed to explain what each product does as you lather it on his skin.  

Later that night, when the two of you lounge side by side in bed with sheet masks on and you’re submitting your completed essay, your phone pings with a message. You check it, frowning with confusion before turning the screen towards your boyfriend.

“Hey, why did Sae just text me ‘tell Rin I said you’re welcome’?”

No, Rin was wrong earlier. His brother is actually the worst. 

˙⋆✮ Bachira Meguru // body-ody-ody care

Early on in your relationship you had expressed your distaste for your own body hair, saying you preferred the silkiness of freshly shaved legs between sheets.

He had not thought much of it up until that point, hair was just hair. But he admittedly grew to love how you would grin at him from the bathroom doorway, body still flushed and damp from the bath as you excitedly exclaim, “Megu, come feel how smooth my legs are!”

But lately you have been so busy that you haven’t had any time for your beloved “everything showers” and your usual collection of tiny sleep shorts and spaghetti-strapped camisoles seem to be on an indefinite hiatus.

One too many off-handed comments of, “ugh, I look like a werewolf” had been the spark to send Bachira on an hour-long YouTube rabbithole followed by another half hour at the store, a very specific plan in mind.

The moment you stepped foot in your apartment you sighed in relief. The past week at work had been a never-ending hell of projects and team meetings followed but finally it was Friday night and you intended to spend the full weekend in bed not lifting a muscle. 

Toeing off your shoes, you softly call out for your boyfriend, knowing he should be back from soccer practice by this time. If you’re lucky, you might be able to convince him to ditch his strict athlete diet and indulge you in your craving for greasy delivery food tonight.

“In the bathroom!”

You pause, Bachira’s voice sounding way too excited to belong to someone taking a shit. 

Curiously, you shuffle past the bedroom and peek around the open door of the bathroom. Bachira is in the center of the small room, squatting over a bucket of steaming water and meticulously organizing a set of colorful razors on a white towel. He looks up once he senses your presence, giggling at your puzzled expression before he’s ushering you in and telling you to sit, sit!! on the edge of the bathtub. 

Before you can even properly make contact with the porcelain edge of the tub, Bachira is tugging at leggings, nearly ripping them in his eagerness. 

“Whoa—Megu, if you wanted to have sex we can do it in the bed—”

“I’m not trying to have sex, silly! Or at least not yet—” 

You squeal as your leggings are finally removed, tossed to the side with minimal care.

“I’m going to shave you!”

You give Bachira the blanket stare of your life.

“Don’t give me that look—I watched tons of videos and practiced on myself so I’m basically an expert. I promise I won’t nick you!”

Glancing down you realize Bachira wasn’t exaggerating, the usual thin, pale hairs lining his legs are missing beneath his basketball shorts without a single cut or bandaid in sight. Before you can protest any further, Bachira is lifting one of your legs into his lap and slathering a thick layer of honey scented shaving cream on. 

True to his word, Bachira handles you with surprising care. 

You can’t help but to watch his face, enjoying the cute way he pokes the tip of his tongue out in concentration as he slides the metal blade over your skin. He moves the blade in careful, slow motions from ankle to knee before dipping the razor in the bucket of warm water and repeating over a new strip of skin. 

Gradually, the unblemished expanse of skin you haven’t seen in early a month is revealed. Once he’s finished with your first leg, he dries it off with a fluffy white towel, humming a soft tune while he admires his work.

As he picks up your other leg, you finally break the comfortable silence. 

“Why did you decide to do this? Did my hairy legs gross you out that much? You couldn’t just told me, I would’ve—”

“Nah,” Bachira cuts you off easily, eyes still glued to your leg, “I don’t care. But you do, right? You were too busy to do it yourself so I did it for you.”

Bachira offers you a grin, oblivious to the way his simple words have your heart stuttering in your chest as he urges you to hurry up and feel the finished result. 

Obediently, you run your hands along your freshly shaven legs. 

You grin, delighted at the familiar smoothness. Legs kicking excitedly, you savor the soft breeze the motion provides against your bare skin. 

“I’m so smooth!”

Bachira beams, warm hands joining your own in admiring your softness.

“Ehehe, you feel like a baby seal! Oh—one more thing!”

Before you can ask, Bachira is gathering you into his arms, effortlessly picking you up and walking you out of the bathroom. You don’t bother resisting–more than used to Bachira’s impulsive actions by now–you just hold on tight and pray he doesn’t accidentally drop you like that one time.

A cheerful “brace for impact!” is the only warning you receive before you’re tossed onto the bed. You scramble to raise to your elbows, breath nearly knocked out of you.

By the time you’ve gathered your bearings Bachira is already hovering at your side with a plastic bottle in hand. You recognize it as scented oil, one of the expensive brands you typically only wear on special occasions. You typically put it on in the bathroom, right after shaving.

“And now for the final step: moisturizing!” 

Bachira pops open the plastic cap and tilts the bottle towards his other hand.

“Meguru, wait, you shouldn’t—”

With a noisy squirt a copious amount of oil splatters onto Bachira’s open palm, slipping between his spread fingers and dripping onto your bedsheets. You both watch as a dark stain begins to spread on the bed. 

“Ehehe oops!”

You sigh, shaking your head at Bachira’s sheepish look. He recovers quickly, carefully placing the bottle back on the nightstand and thoughtfully taking a moment to rub his palms together to warm up the oil. He takes your right calf in his hands, working the oil into your skin with firm motions. It feels nice, his massage easing some of the tension that had accumulated from hours of standing up at work. His technique has no doubt been honed from years of massaging his own muscles after strenuous soccer practices.

He diligently works his way down, gently rolling your ankle between his hands before kneading the soles of your feet with his strong thumbs. His thin fingers slide between your toes, bending them back into a light stretch that has you groaning in relief. 

Bachira looks up at your sound, practically glowing in self-satisfaction.

“Does it feel goooood?”

“Mhmm…”

“Ehehe, good,” Bachira grins, “I always want to make you feel good.” 

The simple honesty makes your chest feel warm and you press your free foot against him in something of a love tap. Bachira presses a soft kiss against the top of the foot in his hands–you laugh when he sputters at the taste of the oil–before picking up your other leg and repeating the process. 

By the time Bachira finishes you’re fully moisturized and relaxed, feeling more like yourself than you had in weeks. You sit up just enough to reach Bachira and pull him down on top of you, muffling his laughter into your chest. You squeeze him tightly enough to hurt but he only squeezes you back with equal enthusiasm, laughing even harder at the sound of your spine popping in protest. 

“Thank you, baby, I love you,” you coo. 

“How much?”

“Soooo much.”

Bachira pulls back only far enough to shoot you a mischievous look. 

“Then can we do the thing you said earlier? Hmm? Can we, pleeease?”

Your brows furrow, struggling to remember what you said earlier when you suddenly feel it: the hardness pressed against your hip. Your mouth falls open in a small ‘o’ and Bachira chuckles, rocking his hips into you with clear intention.

“We’re in the bed now, y’know.”

And so your weekend kicks off tangled between the sheets with slippery smooth legs and an athletic boyfriend who is more than eager to please you. 

˙⋆✮ Chigiri Hyoma // hair care

You hair has always been nothing short of a hassle. 

While strangers and friends alike praise your thick, curly locks and lament that their thin hair was so boring and had no volume, they never seemed to consider just how much work goes into maintaining hair like yours.

Between detanglers, styling creams, curl mousses, and scalp oils, your haircare routine consisted of enough products to stock a professional salon. And the actual work was even worse: battling in the mirror with a wide-toothed comb and spray bottle leaves your arms sore for days.

The one saving grace is that you do not need to wash you hair as frequently as others—but that’s not to say you can go too long without a decent co-wash. If you neglect your luscious locks for more than a week they quickly become a tangled, greasy mess. 

Unfortunately, your hair is currently in such a state.

Sick coworkers have resulted in you picking up extra shifts in the midst of an already busy exam season. When you finally do get a few hours to yourself before bed, the last thing you want to do is spend the next three hours wrestling with your mane.

As a result, time slipped between your fingers and you haven’t washed your hair in weeks. You’ve opted to familiarize yourself with some silk scrunchies, throwing everything into a messy bun and hoping it's giving cute, “clumsy protagonist of a romcom” and not “messy rat girl who hasn’t touched a bottle of shampoo in three weeks.” 

Based on the disappointed look your boyfriend is giving you right now, you suspect it's the latter.

“Heeeey, Hyoma, my love, long time no see—”

“Whens the last time you washed your hair?”

Yikes. Straight to the point, huh?

Your sheepish grin is enough of an answer and Chigiri pulls you into his apartment with a huff. He leads you straight to the bathroom, turning on the shower and ordering you to strip while he goes to retrieve some things. 

While you had expected your first time seeing your boyfriend in two weeks to end up with the both of you nude, you hadn’t expected the setting to be inside his cramped shower. 

Nor did you expect the diligent way he steps in behind you. He tells you to lift your chin so water doesn’t drip into your eyes while he dutifully wets your hair. Once its thoroughly wet to the scalp, Chigiri turns you around to face forward while he lathers the locks in a thick liquid. 

You don’t recognize the scent as anything specific, like a flower or fruit, but it still smells good and expensive. 

You know how seriously your boyfriend takes his own hair routine, threatening bodily harm to anyone who even jokes about touching his long red locks. 

You have no doubts whatever he’s using costs more than half your paycheck. 

Chigiri works quickly but gently, fingers expertly loosening knots with minimal tugging. 

He seems focused, only speaking in brief instructions to tilt your head this way or that. 

You don’t mind the lack of conversation. At some point your eyes slip closed in relaxation as he rinses out the last bits of conditioner. 

After he finishes with your hair, he steps out to let you wash your body yourself while he goes to get some clothes for you both. Reaching for what looks the most like body wash, you laugh out loud when you recognize the cheap drugstore brand. Well, you suppose, if he’s going to splurge on fancy hair products he has to save money somewhere.

Finished with your shower you already feel a thousand times better, exiting the bathroom in the oversized T-shirt and Snoopy pajamas pants Chigiri had left on the counter. Your hair is rolled up in a big fluffy towel, the same way you would do at home, and you’re asking about dinner when Chigiri looks up at you and immediately frowns.

“You can not use a regular towel on your hair, it causes breakage—are you stupid? Come here, I have some microfiber towels in the closet.”

And thus you once again fall victim to his fussing. You end up seated in his lap, munching on some of your favorite snacks Chigiri happened to have in the pantry with a damp microfiber towel around your shoulders. Chigiri is holding a Dyson hair dryer in one hand and a comb in the other, gently drying your hair section by section. 

When your hair is no longer dripping but still damp, Chigiri picks up a bottle of something creamy and floral to squirt a generous amount in his hand. He uses his fingers to comb it through your hair, thoroughly saturating every strand. 

“What’s that,” you ask between chews.

“It’s a leave-in mask. It’s like a conditioner but with more curl definition.”

You raise a brow at that, turning your head back to look at Chigiri’s own silky very straight locks. 

“You use curly hair products?” 

To your surprise, the question seems to fluster Chigiri. You catch the way his cheeks flush before he’s very intentionally grabbing your head to make you look forward so he can finish the back.

“No but… when we started dating I did some research.”

“And you bought it? Just waiting for a day to do my hair?”

Chigiri doesn’t reply but his uncomfortable silence is answer enough. You immediately break into teasing banter, exaggerating how obsessed your boyfriend must be about you. He retaliates by calling you annoying and implying he may need to get out the poison to kill off the wild animals that may have been hiding in your rat’s nest. How rude!

Half an hour later you sit cuddled together on the bed, the scent of the same shampoo clinging to you both as you eat chips and critique a poorly made drama playing on Chigiri’s laptop screen. 

Chigiri has not stopped playing with your hair for a single minute since he finished styling it. He twirls a few locks near your nape, curling and uncurling them  around his fingers over and over. You find it a bit distracting, but not in a bad way. 

“You really like curly hair, huh?”

Chigiri doesn’t meet your gaze, seeming fully invested in the protagonist's poor acting as she confesses her undying love on the screen. 

“Hm…not particularly. I just like your hair...”

You grin at that, feeling oddly satisfied as the drama cuts to a commercial break and you nuzzle into him affectionately–only to yelp when he tugs particularly harshly. Looking up you see him looking down at you with a judgemental look. 

“...when you take care of it. If you ever go that long without washing it again I’ll kick your ass. If you’re really that busy just come over and let me wash it. You can’t just neglect your hair like that!”

You whine as Chigiri scolds you but deep down you feel warm, knowing Chigiri cares about you in his own, weird way. 

[kyuuppi]

falling doesn't feel so bad when i know you've fallen this way too

> Wanderer x tall! Reader

A one-sided enemies-to-something series in which Wanderer falls for his disastrously air-headed party leader despite his very best efforts not to.

˙⋆✮ are you tired of me yet? (2025.12)

˙⋆✮ nobody’s ever been this good to me, not even myself (2025.12)

˙⋆✮ TBA (2026.01)

[kyuuppi]

patrocinium // nobody’s ever been this good to me, not even myself*

Wanderer x tall!Reader ⚠️CW: alcohol, gender stereotypes, reference to racial slurs, insults about height

Drabble from the enemies-to-something series between an infamously short-tempered Wanderer and a disastrously airheaded adventurer. Series Masterlist * now this is podracing - mom jeans

“C’moooooon, it won't be that bad. We’ll just have a few drinks and come back home. Fifteen minutes tops, promise!”

Wanderer should have known better than to listen to your pleas, you had a track record of getting the both of you into messes that way. But for some archons forsaken reason he can never quite keep his resolve when you tug on his haori sleeve and look down at him with those big, wet eyes and trembling rosy lips.

It feels almost wrong to deny you then, like kicking a pitiful, foolish kitten. 

That is how he had ended up here, crammed in a rowdy bar on the outskirts of the city. 

He’s been leaning against the sticky surface of the bar for the last half hour—much longer than the fifteen minutes you had assured him—nursing a glass of warm water. He doesn’t generally partake in alcohol, hating the feeling of not being in control of himself. 

The woman next to him is on her fourth glass of some awful-looking fruity alcohol concoction. She has been wailing on and on about her ex-lover to anyone in earshot, her words becoming more and more slurred and nonsensical with each gulp. 

Everyone else had begun avoiding her within the first ten minutes, a feat Wanderer envies as the drunk woman has apparently deemed him the best audience for her laments seeing as is stuck at this counter for the foreseeable future while you stand several meters away, yapping away happily with strangers. 

“I hate him, I…I hope he burns in hell with his new b-bitch,” the woman shouts, swaying in her seat. 

She clumsily grabs at her half-emoty drink, bringing it to her lips for a sip before she suddenly pauses. Tears well up in her bloodshot eyes. “But I miss him shooo much, waaaaaah!”

Wanderer doesn’t even spare the woman a glance, eyes locked on how you smile and wave a greeting at a man who comes up towards you. 

The man is about the same height as you, possibly only because of the new shoes you had been so excited to wear tonight. 

“Kitten heels,” you had informed Wanderer as you slipped them on at the front door, “they’re cuter than flats but don’t make me super tall like regular heels do!”

Wanderer did not know anything about female fashion, nor did he care, but he had overheard your complaints about not being able to wear cute shoes more than once. Something about not wanting to look “too tall”—frankly, he doesn’t get it at all.

You are already tall, why does it matter if you add a few more inches? It’s a stupid thing to worry about. 

“S’that yer girlfriend?”

Wanderer jumps, head whipping around to find the drunk woman  staring directly at him.

His girlfriend? Who — Wanderer tenses when he hears the distinct sound of your laughter behind him, loud even in the noisy bar. 

“Absolutely not,” Wanderer snaps, face scrunched up in disgust at the very thought. 

“She’s my…” Party leader is the most accurate term but a hassle to explain to non-adventurers. Boss might be the second most accurate description but that prompts more questions than answers. “...friend,” he settles on. He cringes imagining how excited you would be to hear him refer to you with such a term.

The woman smiles, a smug type of smile like she knows something he doesn’t. 

“Y’remind me of my Anand, he–hick–he used to look at me like that,” she muses wistfully..

Clearly this woman is even more incapacitated than he had thought if she is able to make such awful comparisons like this. Wanderer is opening his mouth, prepared to put this nosy drunkard in her place when her expression suddenly shifts. She is looking at something over his shoulder, brows scrunched together.

“Heyyy, I thi–hick–ink your girl needs some h-elp. She looks…”

Wanderer’s brows furrow, taking a moment to decipher the slurred words before they register. 

His shoulders stiffen and he turns quickly, eyes flying to find you in the crowd. 

Within the few moments he had looked away you had moved, now standing in a more secluded corner with the man from earlier. He is hovering next to you, a respectful distance away but still close enough to speak to you in low tones Wanderer can’t hear. 

But the look on your face… your usually wide grin twisted into something awkward, forced, as your eyes refuse to look up from the glass you hold tightly in your hands. 

You’re uncomfortable. 

Wanderer is instantly up, stalking towards you with purpose. 

“—are quite rare in Sumeru. Where did you say you were from again?”

“Uhm, I didn’t, but I’m from—” 

“Hey, let me buy you a drink.”

The man is grabbing your half-full cocktail despite your protests, setting it on the counter and loudly calling the bartender to bring a few shots of tequila. 

Wanderer scoffs. You hate tequila. 

His noise alerts you of his presence and the relief on your expression is so obvious Wanderer is tempted to laugh.

You greet him, introducing him as your “best friend” to the man who immediately starts sizing Wanderer up. 

Standing right in front of him, Wanderer notes  the man is pretty short. Still taller than Wanderer but less than the average Sumerian male height. Wanderer doesn’t bother with pleasantries but it doesn’t matter, the man—Raphael, he introduces himself as—deems him not a threat judging by the smug look on his face as he says his hello.

That’s fine, Wanderer thinks, he isn’t involved with you in the way this man is clearly trying to be. And judging by the way he talks over you, Raphael doesn’t have a chance with you—or any reasonable woman for that matter—anyway. Wanderer resigns himself to playing chaperone and making sure this asshole doesn’t do anything weird until you inevitably admit you’re ready to go home. He can manage that.

The shots arrive and Raphael hands you yours, oblivious to the way you eye it with apprehension.

“Sorry, little guy,” Raphael says to Wanderer, gesturing with his glass, “only ordered two. I’ll cover you next round.”

You frown at that, looking annoyed at the small jab but Wanderer waves it off. He couldn’t care less, he’s heard and said much worse. Instead, Wanderer is eying the handwritten drink menu posted above the bar, wondering if he should order you a plain water or that disgustingly sweet strawberry juice you like to help wash down the taste of the tequila. 

“Y’know, for a tall girl you’re actually pretty cute.” 

Raphael leans in, grinning like he fully expects his "compliment" to woo you. 

You try to shift away from him, chuckling awkwardly and attempting to change the subject but Raphael is hardly listening. His sweaty palm finds its way to your bare shoulder, pulling you in close enough to feel his breath against your face, the stench of tequila singing your nostrils. His dark eyes glance down at your parted lips and you clam up, not sure what’s about to happen—

And then he’s suddenly ripped away from you. 

Wanderer stands between the two of you, facing Raphael with a look of distaste as if he were something dirty and insignificant. 

“Alright, that’s enough. Don’t touch women without consent, asshole.”

Raphael scoffs at that, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest like an angry animal as he slews a string of insults ranging from slurs about Wanderer’s apparent Inazuman appearance to disses about his short stature, as if Raphael himself was that much taller.

Archons, Wanderer thinks, the guy is insecure on top of the misogyny. He’s starting to pity you for the men you seem to attract.

Wanderer has no interest in wasting the energy arguing back. The bartender comes over to place the glass of juice he had ordered on the counter, eyeing Raphael’s red, shouting face with vague concern. Wanderer calmly picks up the glass, thinking about how once the two of you leave he is going to rub in your face how bad of an idea going to the bar on a Friday night was, just like he told you. He turns, intending to pass you the glass but you are no longer behind him. 

Ever the peacemaker, you’ve moved forward, hands in a placating position with a shaky smile on your face as you say something in an attempt to calm the yelling man down. You’re rambling something stupid about not saying “mean words” to your “best friend” when Raphael’s furious eyes turn to you. 

Wanderer tenses, instinctively knowing something bad is about to happen. 

Surely the bastard isn’t foolish enough to try to hit you, right? Wanderer trusts his reflexes to protect you in time but just the thought makes his chest burn and his jaw clench in anger. He takes a step forward in preparation.

“—and you,” Raphael says instead, eying you up and down hurriedly as if actively searching for something to criticize. Unexpectedly, his gaze lands on your feet. 

“Why the fuck are you wearing high heels? You’re already eight feet tall, give it a rest!”

Compared to everything else the man has said, the insult—if it could even be called that—was so anti-climatic. Those kitten heels or whatever you had called them were far from “high heels,” further illustrating Raphael’s apparent insecurity. Wanderer huffs in amusement, relaxing. What a loser, Wanderer takes a step over to you, opening his mouth to repeat the words aloud and escort the two of you out of here but he pauses when he catches the look on your face. 

Lips trembling, eyes wide with the threat of tears…

Wanderer sighs, already feeling foolish as he sets the glass down and begins stretching the muscles of his right arm.

Raphael is smirking with self-satisfaction at his own words when Wanderer steps up to him. He raises a brow and Wanderer cocks his fist back. 

BAM!

The whole bar falls into silence as Raphael goes down, knocked out cold. Everyone stares between his stiff body and Wanderer who casually shakes out his slowly reddening hand. The bartender looks conflicted on if she should kick him out or be thankful that the guy on the ground is no longer shouting. From the corner of his eye, Wanderer can see the drunken woman from before grinning at him widely, giving him two thumbs up. 

Wanderer ignores all of it, picking up the juice again and handing it to you before ushering you both out of the door. 

Outside, Wanderer sighs with relief at the cool night breeze. He can finally breathe in fresh air without the stench of stale alcohol and sweat. To his right, you’re quietly nursing your drink with both hands. 

Neither of you mention how the glass is technically stolen from the bar but he has no doubts you’ll try to return it tomorrow morning.

The two of you walk in silence, something which is rare with you, and Wanderer takes advantage of it by mentally planning his day for tomorrow. You’ll almost certainly be hungover which means he should probably make soup. He’s pretty sure he has some leftover carrots and potatoes. Maybe he should visit the market for some fresh meat, Lesser Lord Kusanali had said something about boar being in season.

“I knew I shouldn’t have bought these shoes,” you mumble, breaking his train of thought. Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet and when he glances over to see you all but sniffling. Wanderer huffs, arms crossing. 

“You like them. Don’t let some dumbass decide what you can and can’t wear. That’s stupid.”

You glance at him with a grateful smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. How irritating.

“He was right though, tall girls shouldn’t wear heels.”

Wanderer can’t even begin to comprehend why the fuck anyone would care about that. Sure, he had his own fair share of height insecurity before, one of many hangups in his upbringing, but then he grew the fuck up, mentally and emotionally. He’s confident in his abilities regardless of his insufficient height. Hell, he’s kicked Childe’s beanpole ass more than once in the past. He smirks to himself remembering the look on the redhead’s face the first time he’d knocked him on his ass.

Besides, being tall was the good end of the spectrum. Everyone wants to be tall, and wearing shoes that make you taller just makes it better.

He tells you as much but you pout at him. 

“It’s different for girls. Girls are supposed to be defenseless and cute, y’know. So that the guys will want to protect them.”

Wanderer has seen the way you swing a claymore on the battlefield, defenseless is one of the last words he’d ever use to describe you but he holds back from saying that out loud less he somehow manages to upset you even more. 

“That’s stupid,” he repeats, because it is, “you’re—” the word that almost slips out makes him freeze. Cute is also not a word he could use to describe anyone but—his mind conjures up flashes of memories. Memories of how you pout at him when you want him to agree to something ridiculous, how you greet him every day with a smile so wide he thinks it’ll split your face, how you whine his name and tell him to “be nice” after he’s insulted someone. He wouldn’t call it cute but—

You’re gazing down at him expectantly now, shit-eating grin growing as you catch on to what he had almost said.

“You’re average,” he remedies, “there is no connection between height and looks.”

Your grin falls into a pout and you whine at him, but you’re laughing in between and your eyes are sparkling with amusement. You’re back to your usual self. 

“Aww, you don’t think I’m cute, Wanderer?”

One of the few times you address him properly and it’s for this…

You bump into him playfully, the remnants of neon pink in your cup sloshing and almost splattering him. He scowls, pushing you away with a sneer. 

“I think you’re annoying.”

You cackle, head thrown back and nearly tripping over your own two feet like a drunken fool. He catches you with minimal effort, saving you from face-planting on cobblestone but you’re oblivious to any danger, already rambling about something else he has no interest in. Looking at you now, your eyes shining and hands gesturing wildly as you yap a mile a minute, Wanderer quietly concedes maybe sometimes you look a little…cute. 

Like a kitten. A foolish, pitiful kitten who needs his protection or else it ends up going home with an idiot at a bar who is oblivious to when a kitten already has an owner and is way out of the idiot’s league—

Or whatever.

[kyuuppi]

in perplexo // are you tired of me yet?*

Wanderer x tall!Reader

Drabble from the enemies-to-something series between an infamously short-tempered Wanderer and a disastrously airheaded adventurer.

Series Masterlist * home - cavetown

“Are you serious? Again?”

You wince, recognizing the voice instantly. With a roll of nausea at remembering just how far away the ground is from this height, you look down to catch a glimpse of your newest party member:

Wanderer.

Even from this distance you can tell he is far from amused, arms crossed and hip cocked. But not even the scowled curl of his lips can detract from his ethereal, almost doll-like beauty.

Any other time you would love to coo about his pretty features if only to see how flustered he gets, but in your current position teasing the anemo user is the last thing on your mind. 

“Ahahaha, heeey, Hat Guy. What a coincidence seeing you here!”

Your cheerful greeting is met with an even deeper scowl and the sheepish grin on your face falls.

When you woke up this morning the last place you expected to end up was at the top of a huge tree in the middle of Avidya Forest, wind glider uselessly leaning against the base of the tree below.

But in the middle of the walk home from your last commission, you heard distressed mewing. Following the sound to a large tree you looked up and lo and behold a defenseless kitten peered down at you between leaves, appearing  trapped on one of the highest branches.

You had acted without thinking, abandoning your clunky inventory to climb quickly and save the cat—only, the second you got within arm’s reach, the feline had effortlessly slipped away, gracefully hopping a several branches down to the ground before darting away while you were left stuck at the top of the tree like a fool. 

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time you found yourself in this situation—nor the first time Wanderer was the one to find you. Last time it had been a short-sighted attempt to collect some particularly juicy looking Sunsettia.

But hey, you know what they say: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…shame on...you again? Er, something like that.

“Look, I know I look uh—”

“Stupid as hell,” Wanderer supplies helpfully.

“...right. I know I look compromised right now but I swear I have a perfectly good excuse this time!”

Wanderer raises a thin brow, obviously not believing you for a second. 

“There was a cat–super cute, defenseless little kitten and it needed my help. You would have done the same if you saw it!”

“And just where is this supposedly defenseless cat now?”

“Um…it ran away.”

Wanderer lets out an exasperated sigh that let’s you know he thinks you are the most hopeless being he has ever encountered. At this moment, you certainly feel like it.

Wanderer has only been a part of your party for a few months, something you still couldn’t believe most days.

The moment you saw him in battle you wanted him on your team, he was a formidable opponent and, as you got to know him, and even better friend.

While his words were rarely anything but scathing and he tended to rub strangers the wrong way, you know that deep deep down Wanderer is a good guy!

You just wished you had more chances to show your own good sides and not constantly making a fool of yourself and needing him to bail you out of your own problems. 

Right on cue you watch as Wanderer activates his anemo vision, gracefully lifting himself to your height until he is less than a meter away. Wordlessly, he offers a hand to you. 

See? What a good guy!

You smile gratefully at him, reaching out to accept his hand–until a sudden gust of wind rustles the leaves.

The branch you’re seated on sways in a way that makes your gut lurch and both of your hands fly to the thick trunk of the tree, holding on for dear life. 

“Tsk. You have got to be the only giant who is afraid of heights in all of Teyvat," Wanderer scoffs.

Wanderer frequently calls you names like that: giant, oni, mitachurl (you had punched him the first time he tried that one and he hasn’t called you it since). You insist you aren’t actually that big, Wanderer is just tiny. But that line of conversation only ever ends with him giving you the silent treatment for the rest of the day.

Over time you’ve grown to think of Wanderer's pet names as a friendly thing, a sign of affection of sorts. 

You open your mouth to argue, to explain that a person’s height has nothing to do with the very real dangers of falling from high places. But, before you can utter a word, Wanderer is moving towards you.

Effortlessly, Wanderer removes your tense arms from around the tree and pulls your body into his own. You’re forced to clutch at his shoulders instead, his own arms securely wrapped around your waist and thighs as he cradles you to his chest like a baby. The stream of anemo keeping you two in air gradually weakens, allowing the two of you to slowly float down.

The moment his feet are securely on the ground, you scramble to remove yourself, knowing Wanderer has a rather strict no touching policy, The last thing you want to do is piss him off even more after he just saved your life.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” you beam.

He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how you owe him a lot of “ones” by now but you’re hardly listening, hurrying to grab your backpack and glider from the ground. 

“Good thing it’s still light out–if we make it back to Sumeru City before sundown we might be able to get a good deal on ingredients for dinner. I’m kind of craving minty bean soup.”

You turn to face Wanderer just in time to catch his nose wrinkled in disgust. 

“Absolutely not.”

You pout, mouthing a few not so nice words to the back of Wanderer’s head as he turns, already walking in the direction of the city. 

“Just pick up some sea grass and I’ll make soba.”

“Gasp—You’re gonna cook for me!?”

“It’s not just for you, dumbass—”

“Thank you so much! You’re the best, Hat Guy!”

“—for the last time stop calling me that!”

[kyuuppi]

My kryptonite as both a reader & writer is inaccurate characterization and I am cursed w having faves who are almost always mischaracterized. Some specific examples:

Wanderer - although he is "good" now (neutral may be more accurate) he still has malice evident in his voice lines and he enjoys teasing people for his own amusement, particularly traveler. He doesn't shy away from romantic lines and flirting just to fluster traveler when he reveals he didn't mean it. Bro fucks w people for the love of the game fr. At the same time he is prone to empathizing w and helping those he sees parts of himself in (e.g. durin)....to an extent. I think people tend to write him either too Scara (mean, spiteful) or too Kuni (soft, naïve)

Tighnari - my fave part of tigh's personality is how straightforward he is. In fact, how he earned his vision was by publicly humiliating a scholar by fact checking him in front of everyone LOL. He will absolutely hurt some feelings without hesitation if he feels it needs to be said. He's also very sarcastic and prone to witty quips/insults when speaking abt someone he deems foolish. He basically does not gaf if he offends you. At the same time he does care a lot about his community and feels reasonably concerned abt if he's being a good leader and friend.

Xiao - literally my favorite character and I won't even bother writing much here cause I think he's genuinely really difficult to portray LOL. He has complex feelings abt everything from death to humanity bc he's lived through so many extremes, none of which he had ever had a choice in...to the point I'm not sure he knows how to make his own choices. I think most core to his current identity is loyalty and atonement.

Bachira (blue lock) - I feel a lot of fics peg him as a simple cute, innocent bumblebee boy which can be true but let's not forget how genuinely mean this mfer gets 😭 he's very much a Boy™️ which means he tends to be dumb, selfish, and disregard the feelings of others. Bro loves rage baiting and, just like everyone else in U-20, he is willing to hurt others to get to his goals. The fandom tends to joke about the monster/schizo thing like it's an imaginary friend but it's actually pretty dark and has some interesting codependency n insecurity implications. Trying my best not to use the words "yandere adjacent" rn—oops

I might add specific voice line examples to the genshin charas later. It's extra hard to characterize game charas cause evidence of their personalities are so limited and mostly locked behind story progression.

TLDR: your faves are more flawed than you give them credit for so don't be afraid to write them mean n ugly haha

[kyuuppi]

What I love most about Chigiri is that even though he's physically the perfect pretty boy his personality is actually soooo boyish and flawed and nasty. He's so human and I love it.

[kyuuppi]

help, my boyfriend has no sex drive! (6)

Previous parts available on AO3 (link in pinned).

Contents: smut; p\ssy inspection, creampie, breeding, mating press, soft dom!Kenma, ZZZ reference, bre\st play, spit play, afab reader with fem pronouns, refernces to alcohol, profanity

WC: 4.3k

“I'm going to fucking fail.”

It is the mantra you have been repeating for the past three hours hunched over the pile of papers on your desk. Since Sunday you have been attempting to solve as many physics practice problems as possible, half of them so foreign to you they may as well be sanskrit. Considering the retake rate of the course is a whopping 63% it seems most people felt the same.

God, you can not do this shit all over again.

The thought alone has you resisting the urge to pull at your hair, a bad stress habit that has already left piles of shed hair around the apartment that your boyfriend has been less than thrilled about.

The worst part is that you have no one to blame but yourself. You had known finals were coming all semester, the professor repeated the importance of the exam in every class announcement, the TA had warned you in every office hour, hell you had been the one to eagerly save it on your Google Calendar during syllabus week. You always knew it was coming but you had foolishly assured yourself that you could just study half an hour every day and you would be fine. And maybe it would have been if you had actually fucking studied. Instead, in a tale as old as academia itself, you had gradually fallen off. 

The first few times were reasonable enough – an English term paper due date has snuck up on you so you skipped a few nights of studying to prioritize that. A bad cold left you on bedrest for a week.

But over time the excuses became less and less admissible. A few of your friends had birthdays in the same week so you ended up spending the whole three-day weekend getting sloppy drunk. A sequel to your favorite game had come out so of course you spent two weeks playing it with your boyfriend on your new laptop. By the time November had rolled around you had all but forgotten physics existed outside of weekly lectures. 

Then, on the morning of December first you just happened to check your Google Calendar and there it was, written with the blind optimism only someone in the beginning of syllabus week could manage:

 Dec. 10: Phys Exam (35% of final grade) u got this!!!💪😤🔥💯

Your morning plans of sipping hot chocolate and cuddling with your boyfriend to the tune of a Spotify Christmas jazz playlist were immediately dashed. With a hasty, “please do NOT bother me for the next twelve hours” you kicked a sleepy Kenma out of the room and locked yourself in with only your textbook, a chipped mug of green tea, and a dream.

The process has repeated every day of this week, waking up in the wee hours of the morning to make a fresh cup of caffeine just to spend the full day chained to your desk, only leaving the room for bathroom breaks and food. By the third day Kenma had gotten used to your schedule and was out of the room by the time you sat down at your desk. While he was obviously less than pleased to have his sleep interrupted, Kenma adjusted quickly, adding extra hours to his streaming schedule and working on his own school work in the living room without a word of complaint and you were grateful.

Today, the first few hours of studying had gone well enough. You managed to redo a few past quizzes and finish the notes a friend had sent when you were too sick to come to class. Should you have done those things months ago? Sure, but it's the thought that counts, right?

But now it has been several hours and every time you glance at the overwhelming number of pages left in the textbook you become more and more discouraged. The last few sips of liquid in your cup have long since gone cold and your handwriting is only getting more and more sloppy as you struggle to do even basic calculations in your muddled mind. 

You finish the last problem on the page with a sigh, flipping the sheet over only to find a castle stone wall of a word problem, chock full of seven digit numbers and answer boxes for parts A, B, C, D, E, F, and G. Briefly, you consider calculating how many Newtons of force would be required to bash your fucking skull into this desk–

“You should take a break.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the low voice behind you.

A sweater clad arm appears to your right, gently setting a steaming mug of something that smells like chocolate next to the cold cup on your desk. Looking up, Kenma meets your gaze. Under the dim light of your desk lamp, his expression is calm and unaffected.

He looks much more awake than when you last saw him this morning and his comfortable clothes suggest he had not left the apartment, likely spending the past few hours playing on stream in the gaming room. He looks the exact opposite of how you feel right now and a part of you envies him and how all of his finals were web pages and presentations he had submitted several days ago, lucky computer sciences bastard. 

“Can’t,” you grumble as you pick up the pencil that had slipped from your fingers, “I’m already behind enough as is. If I don’t pass this exam I won’t graduate on time.”

Kenma’s lips purse into a small pout and if you had not just spent the past six hours plugging big numbers into complicated formulas, you probably would have teased him for looking so cute. But instead, you pointedly turn away from him and back to the textbook. As attractive as your boyfriend is, you can not afford to let that distract you from the grind, a baddie at work stays at work or whatever it is that Newton guy said. 

Blinking through the sting of your eyes, you set on solving the mammoth of a word problem even though you are pretty sure the letters should not be floating around on the page like that.

You are attempting to reread the second sentence for the third time in a row when a pair of warm hands abruptly slide beneath your underarms and lift you up like a toddler.

“Hey–!” You shriek, half in indignation and half in shock that your fun-sized gamer boyfriend has the strength to manhandle you like this. 

With an ‘oof!’ you’re unceremoniously tossed onto the bed. Kenma’s body quickly follows and before you can sit up, he’s wrapped around you like a needy python.

“You can study more after a break,” Kenma murmurs. “You aren’t gonna remember anything when your brain is fried.”

The puffs of warm breath against your ear make you squirm a little but Kenma’s grip only tightens.

Well, he has a point…

“Just for a few minutes,” you concede, allowing your muscles to finally relax. The warmth of Kenma’s body against soft sheets lull you into a comfortable daze.

Like this, cuddled up in bed with your lover, you find it easy to forget about the dread in your gut. Even the worst consequences don’t seem so bad when you have Kenma to come home to every night.

You wonder if he ever feels the same, if after a long day of classes and streaming and virtual meetings with investors Kenma ever feels healed just by being with you.

You hope so. Sometimes he makes you feel so unbelievably happy and safe that you can only pray you are able to return even half of those feelings to him.

One of Kenma’s hands begins to gently rub down your side and your eyes grow heavy. Humming softly, your eyes fall shut and you succumb to the insistent pulls of sleep–

–until you register just where his hand is going. 

You gasp as his cold fingers slip under the band of your loose sweatpants, grazing the front of your panties and showing no signs of stopping.

“Ken, wha–ah!”

His fingertips run over the crotch of your panties, blunt nails catching along the crease of your clothes slit. At the same time his mouth latches onto your ear from behind, gently suckling on the lobe in a way that makes your core heat up and your thighs clench around his hand.

Kenma hardly gives you any time to get used to any particular sensation.

The hand not stroking over your pussy reaches up to fondle at your breasts, gently squeezing your left tit. 

Your body heats up and you squirm, hands struggling to find purchase on his forearms. When your writhing inevitably loosens the clenching of your thighs Kenma takes full advantage–his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear, middle and ring ringer nudging against your opening that has already begun to leak for him.

“You work too hard,” he whispers against your ear. You barely hear it and his hot tongue slides against the shell of your ear in a way that momentarily derails your train of thought.

“‘M gonna help you relax,” he promises. It sends something sharp through your spine and you shiver in anticipation.

A long finger breaches your hole without preamble, eliciting a pretty gasp from your throat. The movements of his finger are accompanied by embarrassingly loud slick sounds that seem to echo in the room.

From this position you can’t do much. Kenma is completely behind you, hidden from view, and your limbs are trapped beneath his own. You are forced to just lie there and take it, gasping when he suddenly adds a second finger to further stretch you out.

“Haven’t been able to do this in so long,” he laments, thumb clumsily shifting to sloppily rub at the throbbing nub above your stuffed hole. The angle is awkward and makes it difficult to directly hit your clit on every circle but the unpredictability of it only adds to your mounting pleasure. 

Hastily, the hand on your chest bunches up the soft material of your sweatshirt to expose your bare tits. The chill immediately causes your nipples to pebble and Kenma wastes no time dipping down to latch onto one, sucking so aggressively your back arches with a loud mewl.

Under his eager ministrations, your orgasm comes swiftly. You’re shivering and babbling nonsense while he teeths at your nipple. Kenma’s fingers work relentlessly even as your walls clench around them rhythmically, pushing you just to the brink of overstimulation before he finally stops. His fingers still, still stuffing you full and you struggle to catch your breath while he presses soft pecks against the side of your boob.

Your rest, however, is short-lived. 

The moment you feel you’ve finally caught your breath, Kenma is already pulling away from you, sticky fingers tugging your layers of clothing off as quickly as possible. You can only stare up at him dumbly, watching how the light of the lamp on the desk behind him casts an orange glow on his dark hair, roots grown out so far only the very tips remain the pudding blond from his high school days. 

You shiver as he tugs down your sweatpants and panties in one motion. Exposed flesh goosebumps with the chill of the air and you frown. 

“Hey,” you call, nudging the side of his rubs with your socked foot until he looks up at you. 

His pupils are dilated, golden irises nearly swallowed completely and he looks incapable of thinking about anything but devouring you. The thought causes your core to clench with need. 

“Y’gotta take off yours too,” you whine, “It’s only fair.”

Kenma lags for a second, struggling to understand human language before he follows your gaze down to his chest covered in a simple black sweater. Without argument, Kenma hurries to remove his own clothing. The cold makes him scowl halfway through removing his sweater and you giggle a little at the expression. 

You’re shameless in your assessment as your eyes rake over his chest. He is far from bulky like the volleyball players you occasionally watch together on screen. Huge muscles were never something he had cared much about nor was it something his past role as setter required. And looking at him now, you like him fine just as he is. More than fine, actually. 

What he “lacked” in juicy six-packs or bulging pecs, he made up for with sharp lines and elegant sinews of muscle, lying dormant under white, unblemished skin. Years of volleyball training have left subtle but evident signs, carving definition in his biceps that were obvious with the natural movements of his body.

Sharp collar bones dip down to a hard, flat expanse of chest, a slightly softer stomach, and tapered hips.

His arms flex with the movement as he pulls the turtleneck over his head, the tendons of his slender forearms twitching in a way that has your teeth tingling with the urge to bite into him. You’re reminded of how those same arms had lifted you from your chair like you weighed nothing.

Heat burns deep in the pit of your belly and only grows when he moves to remove his baggy sweatpants.

His cock, already swollen and leaking, bobs with his movement. The engorged tip is flushed a pretty pink and your mouth waters as you remember that first night you got down on your knees for him, servicing him while he streamed in front of thousands of oblivious fans. You wonder if he’ll let you do it again, maybe next time you can sit on his lap instead, his length buried inside of you while he answers questions in chat. No one knowing exactly why his cheeks are so flushed, no one noticing how his breath hitches in that pretty way when you teasingly clench around him–

“Lie down.”

You struggle to come back to the present but it seems not to matter because Kenma is pushing you back into the mattress himself anyway. He slots himself between your bare legs easily, pressing his palms against both thighs and forcing your legs open even wider. 

Even in the dim room, the wetness of your folds are apparent.

His hands slide down lower and lower until they reach your center, thumbs spreading your thick lips apart to reveal the small nub and even tinier hole beneath, twitching with a mind of its own as if begging him to fill it. Kenma takes his time to stare shamelessly. He studies you not unlike a game, half-lidded eyes darting between different parts with interest, thoughts undoubtedly running rapidly as he figures out exactly how he wants to break you apart.

You don’t recall Kenma ever being this bold–or maybe he was and you just don’t remember because it’s been so long. The stress of final exams had taken up your attention for the past several weeks and you can hardly remember the last time you had Kenma on top of you like this, looking at you like this. It almost feels like too much–

You avert your gaze quickly, his attention unbearable as your cheeks heat up. But that was a mistake–because you don’t notice he has moved at all until a drop of cooled liquid meets your heated flesh.

“K-Ken!”

You squeal, gaze snapping down to see Kenma’s mouth inches above your exposed pussy, lips parted to allow his saliva to drip down into you. You feel the first drop run over your pussy, slowly sliding down the crack of your ass before he releases another. This time you watch as the clear liquid drops slowly down down down until it lands directly onto your twitching hole, being sucked inside of you like it belongs there. The sight is so lewd and you can only helplessly watch as he holds your squirming thighs wide open. His eyes are trained on your mound where watches your hole eagerly swallow his spit, bubbling with a mix of his saliva and your rapidly increasing slick. 

He spits once more, the glob landing on your swollen clit, before one hand slips down to shove two fingers inside of you. Your hole is slippery and eager, accepting his thrusting digits so easily.

Even after weeks of not touching he knows your body so well, angling to press into that spongy mass at the top of your walls that has your eyes squeezing shut and your hands clutching the sheets as you cry out. 

“Oh, God, Ken–ahn!”

He presses featherlight kisses against your inner thigh like an apology but you can hardly focus on anything but the movement of his fingers inside of you and the coil tightening in your gut. 

You feel almost drunk, vaguely aware of how shameless the loud squelching of your noisy pussy and drawn out moans must be but unable to control any of it.

As if only intending to drive you more insane, Kenma presses a third fingers inside. It stretches you in a way that dances on the edge of discomfort but satisfies the deep craving you didn’t know you had even more. 

“K-Ken, please–”

More. Less. Faster. Slower–you have no idea what exactly you’re begging for as your whines devolve into a babbled mess but it doesn’t matter because he juster finger fucks you harder. The mattress is shaking, bumping into the wall sporadically and suddenly you’re falling apart, gushing through your second orgasm. He rides you through it, leaning down to lick around your entrance where his fingers begin to slow, massaging your rhythmically clenching walls. 

Your ears are still ringing a little when Kenma finally pulls away, fingers leaving you with a small pop. You swallow thickly, watching as he uses his sticky hand to grab his own length, guiding himself towards your drooling entrance. He purposefully slides against you, collecting sick and reminding you of how generous his size is. You know from experience how well it will stretch you out, filling you so well. Your slipperiness makes him slide a bit too much and the ridge of his head catching against your nub has you both quietly gasping.

“Are you ready?” he asks, sounding breathless.

You hips involuntarily jerk in anticipation before you stutter a small affirmative. 

Without preamble he’s pressing forward, head pushing into your hot hole.

It’s a tight fit, even after he stretched you open on three of his fingers, but he’s persistent. The pressure makes your hips shift but his left hand flies down to your left hip, holding you firnly in place and forcing you to take it. 

The head slips inside and Kenma makes a soft sound of desperation.

Once the fat head is inside the rest is easy and Kenma bottoms out in one smooth stroke.

You pussy flutters uncontrollably around the intrusion and Kenma groans with satisfaction, falling forward on his elbows to sloppily mouth at your jaw. The distraction helps as your body tries to adjust and you tilt your head to meet his lips. The kisses are sloppy, all tongue, and long strands of drool connect you two every time you part. A particularly harsh suck on his tongue earns you a breathless and pitchy sound from the back of his throat. It’s desperate, slightly feminine, and so Kenma that your core subconsciously clamps down around him, hard, prompting him to whine and nip at your lips as reprimand.

After a few moments he finally draws back, just enough to look down at where the two of you meet as he draws back to just the tip. The slow motion exaggerates his length in a way that has your nails digging into his back. You already feel empty without him and your legs lock around his hips, silently begging him to please come back inside, right where he belongs, please please please–

And he does.

With a sharp motion, Kenma thrusts back in, hips clapping together so hard you yelp. He draws back only to drive back in faster but with just as much force, your body forced deeper into the plush mattress. He sets a brutal pace after that, harsh thrusts pounding your insides in a way that promises you’ll be deliciously sore tomorrow. Your calves squeeze at his flexing hips as you stutter moans against his ear, words of encouragement and praise. His attention remains locked on where you meet.

Kenma watches in rapt fascination at how you cream around him, leaving a tacky white ring around the base of his cock. Each thrust only pushes it further up his shaft, more collecting at the base before that too gradually travels up and mixes with your pubic hairs into a frothy white mess. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows harshly.

His reaction, so obviously enthralled by how your body reacts to how he fucks you, has your veins feeling molten. A particularly hard thrust has your head falling back with a cry. Your eyes squeeze tight, nearly as tight as your walls clenching around his cock, and you feel his hips stutter. His pace is becoming sloppy, your own hips clumsily trying to meet his as you feel something growing inside of you, threatening to burst. 

You’re close. You’re so fucking close. A couple more thrusts and–

Your senseless babbling is abruptly cut off by the sounds of boyish laughter. You blink, confused before you look down at Kenma, staring at your chest and laughing like they just told him the funniest knock knock joke in the world. His hips slow as he buries his face in your collarbone to muffle his laughter. 

Should you be offended? 

What does it mean when your boyfriend looks at your boobs and laughs during sex? It certainly can’t be good.

“What’s so funny?”

Your voice forces him to meet your gaze and, with some obvious effort, he stifles his laughter, gradually calming down until he can answer coherently.

“Sorry, it’s just… jiggle physics.”

He bursts into laughter again and you blink owlishly, trying to understand. 

Jiggle….physics? Like…?

Your mind supplies the image of the notoriously busty girls in Zenless Zone Zero, 3D animated tiddies bouncing and jiggling like jello when the girl so much as takes a breath– 

The reference shocks you into laughter even harder than his own and suddenly the two of you are collapsed into each other, a sweaty giggly mess as you struggle to catch your breaths. Your fingers absentmindedly thread through Kenma’s silky locks, catching on a couple of tangles but he hardly seems to mind. While you’re still giggling, Kenma seems to have recovered. His head is still buried in your neck where he presses firm kisses against your throat. 

Your hands move to his bare chest between you and lightly push, intending to meet his gaze so you can add on another quip or playfully ask which character you would be–but he resists the movement. Instead, he presses you harder into the mattress and adjusts his hips in a way that has you gasping. 

When you look up, any hints of humor have left his expression and his gaze is back to that focused hunger from before. Maintaining eye contact, he starts up a new pace. His hips move with more control than before, measured and slow in a way that feels like he’s very intentionally trying to make you fall apart. His gaze is focused on your face, seeming to gauge your every reaction while a hand lifts one of your legs, forcing your cunt to take him even deeper. The high the two of you were working towards before is back even stronger than before. Your toes curl and your hands grip at his flexing forearms. 

“K-ken–ah–so good…!”

Your praise is rewarded with him lifting your other leg, putting you in something resembling a lazy mating press and quickening his pace. One hand diverts to toy with your throbbing clit, making you keen. 

“Gonna cum soon?” He asks, voice deceptively calm.

You nod vigorously, eyes squeezed tight and teeth clenched. The position has him driving in so deep it feels like he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs. Your nails are digging into his arms but he gives no indications of pain, only circling your clit even faster.

“Cum for me.”

Obediently, you tumble over the edge with a cry. Your abdominal muscles clench tight in the folded position, walls squeezing tight so tight it forces his own orgasm. He falls forward onto you, whining in your ear as cum spurts inside of you. It’s hot, thick, and copious. The sheer volume of it shocks you, so much you feel it spilling out around his length even as your cunt desperately milks him for it. It has only been a few weeks since you last fucked and yet he’s releasing inside you like he hasn’t cum in months. 

He manages a few more half-hearted thrusts into your twitchy hips before he finally stills. 

You expect him to roll over next to you and cuddle you to sleep, maybe even just stay flopped on top of you, sleepy from the physical exertion as usual. Instead, he pulls back only to sit on his haunches, holding your weak legs open with a hand on the inside of each knee. 

You struggle to understand what he’s doing, watching him through eyes heavy with exhaustion when, abruptly, you feel it.

You feel a fresh, wet gush of cum exiting your cunt, forced out by the twitching remnants of your orgasm. You stare, mildly horrified, as Kenma thumbs your sore lips open, spreading the reddened flesh wide open under his gaze. His eyes trained on your stretched out hole, drooling endlessly with his seed. 

“Creampie,” he murmurs casually, “I’ve always wanted to see one.”

[kurapikapikachuu]

the concept of wanderer's entire soul leaving his body the moment you confess to him because he swore he did everything in his power to ignore you and act like a massive jerk so you dont fall in love with him.

the only plausible explanation is that you literally could care less how he treats you and you cant help but enjoy how cold he is.

now that makes things even worse for wanderer, because what do you mean he has to play nice and be sickeningly sweet so you get turned off and possibly revoke your confession towards him???

he thought he was the one with issues, but it looks like he's met his match.

[kyuuppi]

⚠️ not/s/f/w

Foursome with Scara x Wan x Kuni but make it emotional (Wanderer is proud to show Scaramouche and Kunikuzushi that they are not only capable and worthy of love but they eventually find it, in you, and for just one night he offers them a glimpse into their future).

[monicahar]

HE'S SO CUTE BRO WHAF THE FFLCUKKK

IM SCREAMING APAHDISOSOAPQPQKAOAOQOWOWO MY SKRUNKLY BOO SO CUTIEIEEEE

[libertastandem]

POV: your quirk is being immune to quirks and you reveal this by grabbing Shigaraki's hands and placing them to each side of your face. He freezes and tries his absolute best not to break down crying.

[kyuuppi]

Recent drafts involve Bachira helping reader shave and I just imagined if you ask him to help with your bikini wax he would 100000% make a silly shape w the hair

Wonky smiley face or a heart if he's feeling particularly romantic

[kyuuppi]

patrocinium // nobody’s ever been this good to me, not even myself*

Wanderer x tall!Reader ⚠️CW: alcohol, gender stereotypes, reference to racial slurs, insults about height

Drabble from the enemies-to-something series between an infamously short-tempered Wanderer and a disastrously airheaded adventurer. Series Masterlist * now this is podracing - mom jeans

“C’moooooon, it won't be that bad. We’ll just have a few drinks and come back home. Fifteen minutes tops, promise!”

Wanderer should have known better than to listen to your pleas, you had a track record of getting the both of you into messes that way. But for some archons forsaken reason he can never quite keep his resolve when you tug on his haori sleeve and look down at him with those big, wet eyes and trembling rosy lips.

It feels almost wrong to deny you then, like kicking a pitiful, foolish kitten. 

That is how he had ended up here, crammed in a rowdy bar on the outskirts of the city. 

He’s been leaning against the sticky surface of the bar for the last half hour—much longer than the fifteen minutes you had assured him—nursing a glass of warm water. He doesn’t generally partake in alcohol, hating the feeling of not being in control of himself. 

The woman next to him is on her fourth glass of some awful-looking fruity alcohol concoction. She has been wailing on and on about her ex-lover to anyone in earshot, her words becoming more and more slurred and nonsensical with each gulp. 

Everyone else had begun avoiding her within the first ten minutes, a feat Wanderer envies as the drunk woman has apparently deemed him the best audience for her laments seeing as is stuck at this counter for the foreseeable future while you stand several meters away, yapping away happily with strangers. 

“I hate him, I…I hope he burns in hell with his new b-bitch,” the woman shouts, swaying in her seat. 

She clumsily grabs at her half-emoty drink, bringing it to her lips for a sip before she suddenly pauses. Tears well up in her bloodshot eyes. “But I miss him shooo much, waaaaaah!”

Wanderer doesn’t even spare the woman a glance, eyes locked on how you smile and wave a greeting at a man who comes up towards you. 

The man is about the same height as you, possibly only because of the new shoes you had been so excited to wear tonight. 

“Kitten heels,” you had informed Wanderer as you slipped them on at the front door, “they’re cuter than flats but don’t make me super tall like regular heels do!”

Wanderer did not know anything about female fashion, nor did he care, but he had overheard your complaints about not being able to wear cute shoes more than once. Something about not wanting to look “too tall”—frankly, he doesn’t get it at all.

You are already tall, why does it matter if you add a few more inches? It’s a stupid thing to worry about. 

“S’that yer girlfriend?”

Wanderer jumps, head whipping around to find the drunk woman  staring directly at him.

His girlfriend? Who — Wanderer tenses when he hears the distinct sound of your laughter behind him, loud even in the noisy bar. 

“Absolutely not,” Wanderer snaps, face scrunched up in disgust at the very thought. 

“She’s my…” Party leader is the most accurate term but a hassle to explain to non-adventurers. Boss might be the second most accurate description but that prompts more questions than answers. “...friend,” he settles on. He cringes imagining how excited you would be to hear him refer to you with such a term.

The woman smiles, a smug type of smile like she knows something he doesn’t. 

“Y’remind me of my Anand, he–hick–he used to look at me like that,” she muses wistfully..

Clearly this woman is even more incapacitated than he had thought if she is able to make such awful comparisons like this. Wanderer is opening his mouth, prepared to put this nosy drunkard in her place when her expression suddenly shifts. She is looking at something over his shoulder, brows scrunched together.

“Heyyy, I thi–hick–ink your girl needs some h-elp. She looks…”

Wanderer’s brows furrow, taking a moment to decipher the slurred words before they register. 

His shoulders stiffen and he turns quickly, eyes flying to find you in the crowd. 

Within the few moments he had looked away you had moved, now standing in a more secluded corner with the man from earlier. He is hovering next to you, a respectful distance away but still close enough to speak to you in low tones Wanderer can’t hear. 

But the look on your face… your usually wide grin twisted into something awkward, forced, as your eyes refuse to look up from the glass you hold tightly in your hands. 

You’re uncomfortable. 

Wanderer is instantly up, stalking towards you with purpose. 

“—are quite rare in Sumeru. Where did you say you were from again?”

“Uhm, I didn’t, but I’m from—” 

“Hey, let me buy you a drink.”

The man is grabbing your half-full cocktail despite your protests, setting it on the counter and loudly calling the bartender to bring a few shots of tequila. 

Wanderer scoffs. You hate tequila. 

His noise alerts you of his presence and the relief on your expression is so obvious Wanderer is tempted to laugh.

You greet him, introducing him as your “best friend” to the man who immediately starts sizing Wanderer up. 

Standing right in front of him, Wanderer notes  the man is pretty short. Still taller than Wanderer but less than the average Sumerian male height. Wanderer doesn’t bother with pleasantries but it doesn’t matter, the man—Raphael, he introduces himself as—deems him not a threat judging by the smug look on his face as he says his hello.

That’s fine, Wanderer thinks, he isn’t involved with you in the way this man is clearly trying to be. And judging by the way he talks over you, Raphael doesn’t have a chance with you—or any reasonable woman for that matter—anyway. Wanderer resigns himself to playing chaperone and making sure this asshole doesn’t do anything weird until you inevitably admit you’re ready to go home. He can manage that.

The shots arrive and Raphael hands you yours, oblivious to the way you eye it with apprehension.

“Sorry, little guy,” Raphael says to Wanderer, gesturing with his glass, “only ordered two. I’ll cover you next round.”

You frown at that, looking annoyed at the small jab but Wanderer waves it off. He couldn’t care less, he’s heard and said much worse. Instead, Wanderer is eying the handwritten drink menu posted above the bar, wondering if he should order you a plain water or that disgustingly sweet strawberry juice you like to help wash down the taste of the tequila. 

“Y’know, for a tall girl you’re actually pretty cute.” 

Raphael leans in, grinning like he fully expects his "compliment" to woo you. 

You try to shift away from him, chuckling awkwardly and attempting to change the subject but Raphael is hardly listening. His sweaty palm finds its way to your bare shoulder, pulling you in close enough to feel his breath against your face, the stench of tequila singing your nostrils. His dark eyes glance down at your parted lips and you clam up, not sure what’s about to happen—

And then he’s suddenly ripped away from you. 

Wanderer stands between the two of you, facing Raphael with a look of distaste as if he were something dirty and insignificant. 

“Alright, that’s enough. Don’t touch women without consent, asshole.”

Raphael scoffs at that, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest like an angry animal as he slews a string of insults ranging from slurs about Wanderer’s apparent Inazuman appearance to disses about his short stature, as if Raphael himself was that much taller.

Archons, Wanderer thinks, the guy is insecure on top of the misogyny. He’s starting to pity you for the men you seem to attract.

Wanderer has no interest in wasting the energy arguing back. The bartender comes over to place the glass of juice he had ordered on the counter, eyeing Raphael’s red, shouting face with vague concern. Wanderer calmly picks up the glass, thinking about how once the two of you leave he is going to rub in your face how bad of an idea going to the bar on a Friday night was, just like he told you. He turns, intending to pass you the glass but you are no longer behind him. 

Ever the peacemaker, you’ve moved forward, hands in a placating position with a shaky smile on your face as you say something in an attempt to calm the yelling man down. You’re rambling something stupid about not saying “mean words” to your “best friend” when Raphael’s furious eyes turn to you. 

Wanderer tenses, instinctively knowing something bad is about to happen. 

Surely the bastard isn’t foolish enough to try to hit you, right? Wanderer trusts his reflexes to protect you in time but just the thought makes his chest burn and his jaw clench in anger. He takes a step forward in preparation.

“—and you,” Raphael says instead, eying you up and down hurriedly as if actively searching for something to criticize. Unexpectedly, his gaze lands on your feet. 

“Why the fuck are you wearing high heels? You’re already eight feet tall, give it a rest!”

Compared to everything else the man has said, the insult—if it could even be called that—was so anti-climatic. Those kitten heels or whatever you had called them were far from “high heels,” further illustrating Raphael’s apparent insecurity. Wanderer huffs in amusement, relaxing. What a loser, Wanderer takes a step over to you, opening his mouth to repeat the words aloud and escort the two of you out of here but he pauses when he catches the look on your face. 

Lips trembling, eyes wide with the threat of tears…

Wanderer sighs, already feeling foolish as he sets the glass down and begins stretching the muscles of his right arm.

Raphael is smirking with self-satisfaction at his own words when Wanderer steps up to him. He raises a brow and Wanderer cocks his fist back. 

BAM!

The whole bar falls into silence as Raphael goes down, knocked out cold. Everyone stares between his stiff body and Wanderer who casually shakes out his slowly reddening hand. The bartender looks conflicted on if she should kick him out or be thankful that the guy on the ground is no longer shouting. From the corner of his eye, Wanderer can see the drunken woman from before grinning at him widely, giving him two thumbs up. 

Wanderer ignores all of it, picking up the juice again and handing it to you before ushering you both out of the door. 

Outside, Wanderer sighs with relief at the cool night breeze. He can finally breathe in fresh air without the stench of stale alcohol and sweat. To his right, you’re quietly nursing your drink with both hands. 

Neither of you mention how the glass is technically stolen from the bar but he has no doubts you’ll try to return it tomorrow morning.

The two of you walk in silence, something which is rare with you, and Wanderer takes advantage of it by mentally planning his day for tomorrow. You’ll almost certainly be hungover which means he should probably make soup. He’s pretty sure he has some leftover carrots and potatoes. Maybe he should visit the market for some fresh meat, Lesser Lord Kusanali had said something about boar being in season.

“I knew I shouldn’t have bought these shoes,” you mumble, breaking his train of thought. Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet and when he glances over to see you all but sniffling. Wanderer huffs, arms crossing. 

“You like them. Don’t let some dumbass decide what you can and can’t wear. That’s stupid.”

You glance at him with a grateful smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. How irritating.

“He was right though, tall girls shouldn’t wear heels.”

Wanderer can’t even begin to comprehend why the fuck anyone would care about that. Sure, he had his own fair share of height insecurity before, one of many hangups in his upbringing, but then he grew the fuck up, mentally and emotionally. He’s confident in his abilities regardless of his insufficient height. Hell, he’s kicked Childe’s beanpole ass more than once in the past. He smirks to himself remembering the look on the redhead’s face the first time he’d knocked him on his ass.

Besides, being tall was the good end of the spectrum. Everyone wants to be tall, and wearing shoes that make you taller just makes it better.

He tells you as much but you pout at him. 

“It’s different for girls. Girls are supposed to be defenseless and cute, y’know. So that the guys will want to protect them.”

Wanderer has seen the way you swing a claymore on the battlefield, defenseless is one of the last words he’d ever use to describe you but he holds back from saying that out loud less he somehow manages to upset you even more. 

“That’s stupid,” he repeats, because it is, “you’re—” the word that almost slips out makes him freeze. Cute is also not a word he could use to describe anyone but—his mind conjures up flashes of memories. Memories of how you pout at him when you want him to agree to something ridiculous, how you greet him every day with a smile so wide he thinks it’ll split your face, how you whine his name and tell him to “be nice” after he’s insulted someone. He wouldn’t call it cute but—

You’re gazing down at him expectantly now, shit-eating grin growing as you catch on to what he had almost said.

“You’re average,” he remedies, “there is no connection between height and looks.”

Your grin falls into a pout and you whine at him, but you’re laughing in between and your eyes are sparkling with amusement. You’re back to your usual self. 

“Aww, you don’t think I’m cute, Wanderer?”

One of the few times you address him properly and it’s for this…

You bump into him playfully, the remnants of neon pink in your cup sloshing and almost splattering him. He scowls, pushing you away with a sneer. 

“I think you’re annoying.”

You cackle, head thrown back and nearly tripping over your own two feet like a drunken fool. He catches you with minimal effort, saving you from face-planting on cobblestone but you’re oblivious to any danger, already rambling about something else he has no interest in. Looking at you now, your eyes shining and hands gesturing wildly as you yap a mile a minute, Wanderer quietly concedes maybe sometimes you look a little…cute. 

Like a kitten. A foolish, pitiful kitten who needs his protection or else it ends up going home with an idiot at a bar who is oblivious to when a kitten already has an owner and is way out of the idiot’s league—

Or whatever.

[formerthug]

do u want her or nah bc you holding up the line

[gfdomme]

tying a boy up is fun but i get butterflies in my stomach when a boy is so good that it’s not necessary. when he’s a shaking, moaning mess but does not try to reach for his cock because he knows it’s not his to do. when it gets too intense and his hand instinctively moves down but he stops himself and lets it drop back on the sheets with a soft whine. when i take his wrists and pin them up above his head, or next to his shoulders, or put his hands on my hips and there’s 0 resistance because he’s so surrendered that all he can do is glance up at me with admiration and blush