drabble archive account for kaevia. i am not exclusively active on here, nor do i take (drabble) requests. if you want to use my ideas as fics, ask for permission first
occasionally subtle

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Jules of Nature

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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
todays bird
Claire Keane
art blog(derogatory)
AnasAbdin
styofa doing anything
KIROKAZE
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

PR's Tumblrdome
trying on a metaphor

titsay

JBB: An Artblog!
RMH
noise dept.
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@snarlwater
drabble archive account for kaevia. i am not exclusively active on here, nor do i take (drabble) requests. if you want to use my ideas as fics, ask for permission first
GETO x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, chaotic environment, domestic fluff, cousin banter, playful teasing, hair braiding, family dynamics, gentle mockery, kids/teens involved, domestic fluff, marriage dynamics
You had half a mind thinking that Geto lost his way somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, because the scene that greeted you was nothing short of absurd.
There he sat, cross-legged on the floor in the middle of your cousin’s room, surrounded by a gaggle of preteens and teenagers who were all whispering, giggling, and arguing in overlapping chaos. And there, right in the center of it all, was your composed, too-polite-for-his-own-good husband, letting your cousins braid his hair with the patience of a saint and the confusion of a man who didn’t know how he ended up as a practice mannequin.
“No, no — you’re braiding too tight! His scalp’s gonna hurt!” one cousin scolded, batting another’s hands away.
“It’s fine,” Geto said quickly, even though his hair was being tugged in three different directions. “I can handle it.”
“You always say that,” the youngest one piped up, tongue sticking out as she looped a rubber band around the end of his braid, “but your face looks like you’re trying really hard not to cry.”
“I’m not crying,” he said calmly, blinking as a jasmine flower was tucked behind his ear. “Just… enduring.”
“See? Crying,” another cousin teased, collapsing into laughter.
NANAMI x female reader. oblivious female reader, established relationship, GTA references, fluff & crack
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first. (^∀^●)ノシ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
NAOYA x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, domestic bickering, cultural differences, light misogyny (discussed and mocked), sarcasm and banter, marriage dynamics
The first thing you learned about being the wife of Naoya Zenin was that domestic life with a man like him required a level of mental gymnastics you hadn’t exactly trained for. But the second thing you learned — and this, truly, felt like an Olympic event — was delegating tasks during Diwali. Not because of some dramatic cultural clash, but because your very foreign, very rich, very misogynist husband believed “cleaning” was beneath the hands of a Zenin man.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from lounging on the couch like the world’s most reluctant heir, expensive yukata thrown on as if he’d just walked out of a historical drama and into your living room. You stood there with your sleeves rolled up, broom in hand, looking like the very image of domestic wrath incarnate.
“Nao.” Your voice was the warning bell before a storm. “We’re cleaning. Together. As in, you pick up a cloth and wipe things. You are not exempt.”
He gave you a look, that trademark smirk that had gotten him punched by your cousin during your wedding festivities. “I don’t see why I should. We could just— and hear me out— throw some money at this problem and poof. Clean house. Prosperity achieved.”
“Yeah,” you muttered, sweeping aggressively under the sofa, “Because the goddess of wealth totally walks into houses with crisp bills taped to the walls.”
He tilted his head, brown eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with that idea? If wealth is supposed to come in, I am wealth. I can just… sit here. Ta-dah. Cultural requirement met.”
“You’re going to be wealth outside this house if you don’t get your ass up.”
TOJI x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, chaotic environment, family dynamics, chaotic family dynamics, comedic panic, family involvement, light physical aggression (playful hitting on hand), comedic scolding, shouting/yelling, loud music, pressure to perform, mild embarrassment, domestic bickering, cultural differences
The aunties of the neighborhood had declared war, and unfortunately for your boyfriend, their battlefield was a plastic chair on your veranda, a shiny dholki (hand drum) balanced awkwardly between your boyfriend’s legs, and a garland of fairy lights glowing above his head like a taunting halo.
Toji had fought curses. He had stared down death with a blade in hand. But he had never in his life faced the combined wrath of three determined neighborhood aunties with matching bindis, flower-embroidered kurtas, and an encyclopedic knowledge of 90s Bollywood melodies.
“My dear, why are you playing so off-beat?” Mrs. Sharma slapped the side of the drum with two fingers, producing a sound so sharp it might as well have been a gunshot. “One, two, three — thap thap thap! Understood?”
“He is on beat,” you tried to mumble weakly from the sidelines, only to be cut down by Mrs. Malik's withering glare. “No dear, he plays as if he's performing at someone's wedding, that too with no practice!”
Toji stiffened, shoulders squared like he was back in a fight ring. His hand hovered over the drum’s head, big fingers twitching like they didn’t quite know how to translate muscle memory meant for weapons into delicate percussion.
“One thap strong, the other soft,” Mrs. Patel explained, already smacking the beat on her thigh for emphasis. “Not dhad dhad dhad like a washing machine. Thap thap dha! Understood? Dha!”
“Dha,” Toji repeated like a man saying his final prayer.
“Alright everyone! Start again!” Mrs. Sharma barked, waving her hand like a conductor about to lead the Vienna Philharmonic. “Kabhi khushi kabhi ghammm...~~~”
CHOSO x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, kids/teens involved, domestic fluff, mention of potential injury (falling from height), chaotic family dynamics, comedic panic, references to physical risk (standing on shoulders, rushing on a bike), overworking tendencies (volunteering for tasks), family involvement, domestic bickering, cultural differences, l
The sweet thing about Choso — besides his big, beautiful eyes and the very real possibility that he’d jump into a well for you if you so much as hinted you needed something from the bottom — is that he’s a family man through and through. Painfully, idiotically, catastrophically so.
He doesn’t just help out, he volunteers like there’s a medal waiting at the finish line.
It starts innocently enough. The women of the house need their dresses altered before the Diwali weekend. You’re mid-dinner, Choso’s halfway through his third serving, and then someone mentions, offhandedly, “If only we had someone who could go get the fabric store aunty to fix these before Saturday.”
You watch it happen in slow motion — the way his head lifts, the crease between his brows forming, and then he’s already up, chair scraping the floor. “I’ll go,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin like a man on a mission. Before you can even protest, he’s on his bike, roaring into the night at 9 p.m., hoodie flapping behind him like he’s the patron saint of last-minute errands.
Then comes the flour incident. Your mother’s standing in the kitchen, eyes wide, hands clutching an empty bag like it’s evidence of a crime. “We’re out of flour,” she whispers, and before you can say it’s fine, we’ll buy some tomorrow, Choso’s already gone. The man doesn’t even ask which brand to get. He just takes off like a grocery store commando, leaving you with a faint echo of his engine and your mother muttering, “What a nice boy.”
He comes back in ten minutes flat, a new packet of flour slung dramatically over his shoulder, like a soldier returning from war. The aunties coo, your mother’s smiling like she raised him herself, and you’re just standing there, trying to figure out when exactly you lost control of the situation.
But the real disaster — the one that had you screeching — was the lights incident.
GOJO x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, chaotic environment, domestic fluff, overexcited partner, messy cooking, cultural differences
All it took was one innocent mention that Diwali involved making sweets for your husband, and Gojo Satoru — your overgrown man-child of a sorcerer — had transformed your serene villa kitchen into a full-blown dessert battlefield. He had heard “sweets” and, in typical Gojo fashion, decided that he was the only man qualified for the job. No, not the local sweet shop, not you, not even your poor house-help who had quietly excused herself the moment he started brandishing a ladle like it was a cursed tool.
The man had arrived in the kitchen with a confidence only someone who’d never cooked a day in his life could possess. Sleeves rolled up, hair tied, shades pushed up into that messy white fluff of his, and an apron that said “kiss the cook” — because of course it did.
The counter was already chaos: a vessel brimming with milk, boiling at a speed you knew was far too aggressive for any traditional dessert, sugar scattered across the marble like snow, and an array of sweets — store-bought kikufuku, of course — arranged like trophies around him.
“Step back!” he shouted when you so much as leaned over the counter. His white hair was messily tied with a spare scrunchie you hadn’t realized he’d stolen, and his blindfold was pushed up onto his head, blue eyes laser-focused on the pot as if this was some world-class sorcery battle. “I got this. I watched three WhatsApp forwards. I’m basically an expert.”
“Satoru,” you warned, “it’s milk, not cursed energy.”
“Same difference,” he declared, gleefully dumping jaggery into the pot like he was trying to summon diabetes in physical form. “They said to stir slowly but I feel like… more power means more love, right?”
“No, more power means burnt milk.”
SUKUNA x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, mentions of fire, mild risk elements (kids with fireworks), chaotic environment, mentions of past battles/violence (light, non-graphic), soft moments with children, domestic fluff, kids/teens involved
Diwali with Sukuna was an experience in itself. If the festival of lights was meant to bring peace, prosperity, and togetherness, he was the anomaly that brought chaos, noise, and a kind of excitement that made every neighbor secretly regret inviting him. While most people stayed a few cautious meters away from the rows of firecrackers and sparklers, your husband stood in the middle of it all, reveling in every explosion like a man possessed.
“Now this,” he said, a grin spreading across his face as another line of crackers went off in a thunderous chain, “this reminds me of battlefields. The smoke, the noise, the smell of burning — ah, brings back memories.” He said it with the kind of nostalgia most people reserved for childhood sweets or monsoon rains.
You stood a few feet away, holding a tray of lamps and muttering prayers that no child accidentally lost a limb tonight. “Sure it does,” you said dryly, squinting as another spark flew dangerously close to his sleeve. “But if this turns into a battlefield, you’re the one explaining it to the neighborhood watch.”
“They should thank me,” he said, folding his arms proudly as the ground sizzled with leftover firecracker debris. “Humans these days don’t know how to celebrate. Too quiet, too polite. Where’s the thrill? The chaos?”
“The safety regulations?” you offered, voice tight as you nudged a stray sparkler out of the path of a toddler.
He ignored you completely, continuing his grand monologue. “Back in my day, festivals weren’t about pretty lights or sweets. They were about victory, about power. About setting the sky ablaze and letting everyone know who you were. The weak would cower, the strong would—”
“—the strong would end up getting a fine for noise pollution if you don’t tone it down,” you interrupted, rubbing your temples He shot you a look that said you were ruining the mood. “You don’t get it, woman. It’s not about the noise. It’s the feeling. Every boom—” he snapped his fingers as another cracker went off— “is a heartbeat. A pulse of life.”
TOJI x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, live in relationship, gaslighting and trust issues, angst throughout, pay disparity, financial insecurity, male ego, mentions of sex work, feelings of inadequacy/self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability
“What’s the weirdest way you’ve seen someone earn money?”
He didn’t even look up from Paladins. His thumbs kept dancing across the controller like it was a ritual. He gave you that dead, flat stare of his — the one that makes you feel like a question is more irritation than curiosity. “I’m a literal assassin,” he said without sarcasm, like it was the most obvious answer. “Things don’t get weirder than that.”
You laughed, because of course he’d say that. Toji’s life reads like a series of what-are-you-even-doing chapters. You two orbit each other in that comfortable grey area — stolen mornings, nights that end on the couch with his shoulder under your head, fights that dissipate faster than smoke. Everything romantic without the label; everything messy and easy where labels would make it complicated.
But lately the ease has been tight at the edges. The way his jaw clenches on calls to the hospital. The extra shift he takes and then hides the paycheck in a drawer. The silence when you mention groceries or a dentist appointment like it’s a word that might explode between you. So you tried to keep it light, tried to bait him into admitting the obvious with a ridiculous question about incomes.
He paused the game finally, let the menu linger on screen. The pause felt like someone holding their breath too long. He rubbed the back of his neck — the habitual gesture he does when something important lurks behind a simple sentence. “I’m fine,” he said, and you heard the way the words stuck to each other.
You watched him, the man who once threw himself between you and a stranger for no reason now looked small in the glow of your living room. Pride is a heavy muscle on him; it flexes at the dumbest moments. Asking for help would be an admission of weakness, and Toji’s definition of weakness has always been tangled with wanting to protect you. He’d rather bend himself into something broke and noble than hand over a problem for you to fix.
“You don’t have to be,” you said, softer. “You don’t have to pretend. We cover each other.”
He shrugged like it was easy, but his eyes betrayed him. “I’m not asking you for—” he cut himself off, voice roughening. “I don’t wanna be a burden.”
SUKUNA x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, live in relationship, gaslighting and trust issues, supportive partners, angst throughout, mentions of sex work, implied micro-cheating, emotional vulnerability
Sparking the conversation of having an OnlyFans with Sukuna wasn’t really sparking anything at all — you never even lit the match. He did.
It came at you sideways, the kind of ambush that made your stomach drop, the words slipping from his mouth in that deceptively calm tone of his. “Your heart rate spikes every evening at the same time without fail. And your door is always shut under the excuse of… what was it? Studying.”
You nearly choked on your own breath, because the way he said studying dripped with disdain, like he’d already filed the word away as an outright lie. You scrambled for composure, clutching your pen as if it might anchor you, forcing a laugh that came out too high, too quick. “Yeah, well, I mean — studying’s stressful. Maybe I just get too into it, you know? I… I was actually watching a trailer earlier, so maybe that’s what you noticed. Or I was gaming. Yeah, game trailers. Anime. There’s a lot of reasons for, uh… giddiness.”
He tilted his head, those sharp eyes narrowing like blades being honed. His voice dipped lower, modulated with something that made the hair on your neck rise. “No game excites you so consistently. Nor does any anime trailer make you… flustered. Not in that rhythm. Not with that heat.”
Your skin prickled as you gripped the edge of your desk, body turning half-away from him as though an extra inch of distance might dull the weight of his presence. Your mouth kept moving, desperate to fill the silence with anything other than the truth. “You’re overanalyzing. You always do that,” you said too fast, trying to match his steady tone with a casualness that rang false even in your own ears. “Maybe I just… get distracted easily, okay? Maybe I like closing my door, maybe I like — privacy. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Sukuna stepped closer, and your pulse jumped again, traitorous in its betrayal. His lips pulled back, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl — something between amusement and frustration. “Privacy, you say,” he murmured, voice sharp enough to slice through your flimsy excuses. “You hide behind it, but you are not hiding well. Your body betrays you. Your voice wavers, your gaze shifts, your hands fidget.” His eyes flicked down briefly to your knuckles whitening against the desk. “You avoid me instead of answering. Why?”
You laughed again, a nervous sound that cracked halfway through. “I’m not avoiding you. You’re just… intense. It’s weird being interrogated over — over nothing.”
NANAMI x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, supportive partners, financial insecurity, mentions of sex work, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy, workplace romance, discussion of financial struggles, mild workplace anxiety/paranoia (hr / gossip)
It had been exactly one week since Nanami Kento, the office’s most reliable man and your most embarrassing crush, decided to move from polite nods across spreadsheets to slipping his hand into yours on the way out of the elevator.
A week of hushed lunches, stolen glances, and his uncanny ability to look like he was about to scold someone even while pouring cream into your coffee. A week of you trying not to dissolve into a puddle every time he did something as simple as brush his thumb over your knuckles.
And now here you were, on what was technically your first proper date, sitting at a quiet corner table of a café he picked precisely because the blinds were drawn and the clientele consisted mainly of retirees who could barely squint at their soup, much less gossip to HR. Nanami, ever the professional, kept his back straight and his eyes flicking to the door every few minutes, like a bodyguard expecting a hit. To anyone else, it looked like paranoia. To you, it looked like tenderness disguised as alertness — his way of protecting you both from the storm that was office rumor mills.
“You keep looking around,” you muttered, stirring your tea, eyes narrowed in faint amusement. “Do you think HR has a spy tailing us with binoculars?”
Nanami’s lips twitched. “You would be surprised how little it takes for someone in HR to draw the worst conclusions. Two people caught in the lobby together, apparently, means a conspiracy to violate workplace ethics.”
You sipped your tea slowly, trying to hide your grin. “Scandalous. Imagine the reports: Nanami Kento, known for his tragic lack of humor, exposed for kissing his coworker by the water cooler.”
His gaze softened at you, and he shook his head. “You are hardly just a coworker.”
Cue to the moment of your heart cartwheeling into your throat, as you had to look down at the sugar packet you were nervously shredding.
Nanami, oblivious to your inner collapse, leaned back in his chair. “Speaking of which, I was thinking about side hustles today. You know — second incomes, hobbies. During college, I used to bake banana bread and sell it at expos.”
You blinked. “Banana bread.”
GETO x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, supportive partners, pay disparity, arranged marriage, financial insecurity, mentions of sex work, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy,
The café was warm that late afternoon, buzzing with soft chatter and the clinking of cutlery, autumn light filtering through the glass windows in streaks of gold. Your hands cupped the ceramic mug in front of you, the steam rising faintly, carrying the faint bitterness of your tea. Across the table sat Suguru — older now, sharper around the edges, but still carrying the same quiet composure you remembered from years ago.
Five years of silence. Five years of wondering if the tether of childhood friendship could hold under the weight of time. And yet, here you were, both roped into an arranged marriage that would tie your names together for the rest of your lives.
“So,” you finally said, breaking the comfortable lull, “you actually have a ten-step haircare routine?”
His lips curved, the faintest hint of pride glimmering in his dark eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised. Good hair takes effort. But, since we’re getting married, I figured it’s fair — five steps for me, five steps for you.”
You raised a brow, pausing mid-bite into your panini. “What, like… you’ll split it with me?”
He leaned back, arms crossing casually, his smirk widening. “Marriage is about compromise, isn’t it? I’ll do the oiling and shampooing, you can handle the masks and treatments. Efficient teamwork.”
A laugh slipped out of you, one you hadn’t realized you were holding back. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re still the same,” he countered smoothly, “teasing me for things that clearly work. You can’t deny it — my hair looks great.” You shook your head, but you couldn’t deny it either. It was comforting, how easily the rhythm returned, like the years apart were only weeks.
GOJO x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, supportive partners, mentions of sex work, alcohol consumption, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, feelings of inadequacy/self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability, discussion of unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of loneliness and restlessness
The night had started easy — pizza boxes on the counter, a half-empty bag of chips spilling across your coffee table, and two mismatched glasses of cheap alcohol that Gojo insisted was ‘classy because it burns less.’ Your apartment smelled faintly of takeout and that vanilla candle you’d lit to cover up the scent of your laundry basket.
Gojo sat cross-legged on the rug, hair a wild mess that refused to be tamed even indoors, blue eyes glittering under the dim lamplight. Every time he leaned forward to set down his drink, his socks brushed against your leg where you sat curled on the couch, and it was both infuriating and comforting.
“Okay, okay — your turn.” He wagged his glass at you, grin already stretching wide, too proud of the last round where you had to drink after admitting you once cried during a Marvel movie.
You narrowed your eyes. “Never have I ever… dyed my hair white.”
“Boo.” He groaned dramatically, but tipped his glass anyway. “Can’t help genetics, baby.”
“Genetics my ass. You look like you bleached it with holy water.”
“Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful,” he shot back, tilting his head with a flourish like he was in a shampoo ad.
The questions rolled on: dumb ones about crushes, pointed ones about bad exes, and sly ones that had you laughing so hard you spilled on the carpet. The room was warm, lighthearted, filled with his voice bouncing off your walls. And then—
“Never have I ever…” Gojo leaned back, his grin devilish, eyes narrowing in faux-seriousness as he thought. “Had an OnlyFans.”
You froze. The drink in your hand turned heavier, colder, poison against your skin. Gojo snorted at his own joke, downing the rest of his glass. “Ha! Imagine me — posing in lingerie, charging, what, twenty bucks a month?” He was already laughing, sprawled half against your coffee table, hair falling in his eyes.
But you didn’t laugh. You didn’t move. The silence stretched like elastic pulled too far. He blinked, mid-chuckle.
“...Huh?”
You shifted, fingers tightening around your glass. “What?”
SHIU x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, live in relationship, supportive partners, mentions of sex work, attempt to smoke (and failing miserably), lingerie wearing reader, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy
It starts, as all brilliant, earth-shattering tragedies do, with you half-bent over your boyfriend Shiu’s nightstand, digging through a mess of receipts, old matchbooks, and one ominously sticky lighter until you finally unearth what you came for: his cigarettes. You were not stealing, you told yourself, only borrowing for the noble cause of fulfilling a very specific, very bizarre OnlyFans request.
Apparently, some guy out there wanted lingerie shots with cigarettes. Not lit, mind you — no, he wanted the whole vibe, the aesthetic, the bad girl who smokes behind the gymnasium type. Easy money, right?
Except for the glaring issue that you knew jack shit about smoking.
Your one ill-fated attempt at vaping in college had ended with you clutching your knees in a bathroom stall, swearing you’d seen God. Not exactly the kind of experience that made you eager to repeat. But here you were, standing in front of Shiu’s mirror in lace that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, holding a cigarette like it was an alien artifact. You tilted it between your fingers, trying to mimic the casual way Shiu always had it dangling from his lips, smoke curling like he was born with lungs full of sex and mystery.
Instead, you looked like a kid pretending with a breadstick.
“Real sexy,” you muttered at your reflection, tilting your wrist so awkwardly it looked like you were about to salute the damn thing.
Lighting it proved to be its own comedy routine. The lighter hissed, flared, died, flared again, singed one acrylic nail, and finally caught. You flinched like you’d just detonated a grenade, then jabbed the tip of the cigarette into the flame with all the grace of someone skewering a marshmallow. When it finally lit, you leaned in, lips closing around the filter, trying to copy every slow, practiced drag you’d seen Shiu pull a hundred times.
Instead of cool and languid, you inhaled like you were taking a last breath on earth.
NAOYA x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, supportive partners, angst throughout, depiction of panic attacks, mentions of body image/dysmorphia/issues, financial sexism, arranged marriage, male ego, mentions of sex work, feelings of inadequacy/self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability, discussion of financial struggles
Talking to Naoya Zenin on what was, by your rough estimate, the 97th date in a string of dates that had started blurring together, was always an exercise in patience. He looked pristine, as always, perfectly pressed shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show off his watch, hair neat to the point of arrogance. The downtown café you’d picked out wasn’t loud enough to hide the scrape of his silverware against porcelain, wasn’t cozy enough to give you cover, and definitely wasn’t the kind of place where you wanted to unload the weight of your double life.
But here you were, sipping a latte that tasted far too bitter, mentally rehearsing a confession that might implode the engagement your families had been parading like a business deal.
He was talking about budgeting, or at least his version of budgeting — the kind that involved throwing around numbers for wedding venues, imported champagne, and how much your “wardrobe updates” would cost once you were his wife. The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, so clinical, like he was already allocating columns in a spreadsheet.
“You don’t have to worry about rent anymore,” he said smoothly, like it was supposed to be comforting. “And you can stop thinking about little expenses like groceries. My family will handle that. It’s inefficient for you to be stressed about trivial things.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, because wasn’t that the problem? Trivial things were exactly what your OnlyFans income covered. Trivial things like not having to choose between paying rent and buying decent food. Trivial things like going to the doctor when you needed to without worrying about the bill. It wasn’t millions, but your account was in the top twenty percent, enough to give you independence, enough to make you feel like your choices belonged to you. And yet here he was, with his controlled smile and his precise words, making even the act of eating a croissant sound like an itemized report. “I like being able to manage my own expenses,” you ventured carefully, knowing how quickly he could turn conversations into quiet little wars.
Naoya’s eyes flicked up from his espresso, sharp and unimpressed. “That’s cute,” he said, and you felt the patronizing lilt slice straight through your attempt. “But after marriage, you won’t need to worry about such things. Independence is overrated when it just means struggling. You’ll have me.”
CHOSO x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, live in relationship, supportive partners, mentions of sex work, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy,
“I think we should look at only fans next time,” Choso says with the kind of offhand cheer reserved for people pointing out curtain rods, and you nearly short-circuit right there in the Ikea self-checkout line.
Did he just — did those words actually just come out of his mouth?
It’s not even the words themselves, really — it’s the way he says it so casually, like he’s talking about checking out the food court next time, maybe trying those suspiciously rubbery meatballs. Not like he just unknowingly drop-kicked your double life into the fluorescent light of a Swedish furniture store.
You freeze mid-step, barcode scanner still in your hand, staring at him as if he’s just told you he moonlights as a tap dancer. And bless his clueless, beautiful soul, Choso turns back with a smile, a little lopsided, waiting for you to laugh along like the two of you are in on the same joke.
“W...what?” you manage, voice cracking like you’re thirteen again.
“The fans,” he repeats, grinning wider, pointing vaguely towards the warehouse section. “The big ceiling ones they had near the mock living rooms? I thought those were cool. Maybe we should look at those next time.”
Right. Fans. Only… fans.
Nothing sinful, nothing incriminating. Just home décor. He’s already tapping the screen to pay, humming under his breath. Meanwhile, your heart has taken up residence in your throat.
Because here’s the thing: you are no vigilante, no caped crusader skulking around rooftops. Your secret is infinitely less noble and infinitely more profitable.
Politely speaking, you’re an OnlyFans model.
Realistically speaking, your “side hustle” — the kind every female motivational podcast host swears by — leans heavily toward lingerie try-ons and pay-per-view messages that keep your rent covered and your savings account alive.
And he has no idea.
thank you for 400 friends. 🤍 i have yet to reply to comments as i was restricted, but know that i have read and appreciate all of them.