“Rule number one: If you get cum on my plushies, you’re going to be handwashing them and apologizing to them out loud the whole time.”
Oliver stares at you sitting cross legged on your bed. “That’s rule one?”
You frown back at him. “Got a problem with it?”
“No, no, I just…” His gaze drops to the embroidered smile of your precious stuffed whale and he squints at it a little. “Rule one?”
“Okay, well, we can stop at rule one and you don’t fuck me at all.”
“No, no. Rule one, don’t get the plushie dirty. Got it.” He pauses. “Unless—”
“That’s rule number one. Rule number two,” you cut him off. “The plushies stay on the bed during sex. If they fall off, we’re stopping so I can pick them up off the floor.”
Oliver points at you accusingly. “You’re fucking with me. You have to be.”
“Look into Moby’s eyes and ask him if I’m fucking with you.” You hold up the plush whale, its soulless black eyes staring into his, and Oliver sighs.
“Fine, sure. I’ll pick up the whale if it—”
“He.”
“If he falls off. Happy?”
“Hmph.” You hug the plushie to your chest and set it down gently on the bed, patting the top of its head, and Oliver groans inside. He’s half hard already, and you being cute about your plushies is not helping.
Still, your attention’s divided. He grabs you, pulls you into a kiss that he knows will leave you breathless, and you melt into him, plushie hopefully forgotten—
“Hah, mm, wait.”
You’re panting into his mouth, but you pull away. He can’t help but chase the sensation of you, his lips kissing down your jaw and neck instead, relishing in the little moans he coaxes out of you in between you trying to speak.
“Oliver- Mm, fuck. Oliver.”
Your fingers catch his jaw, and he leans into your touch, nuzzling his stubble into your palm as you guide his face to look at you. He knows he looks stupid and lovesick as he stares, but can you really blame him? It’s you.
“Oliver,” you say, your voice stern.
“Yeah?” And he can hear the tenderness in his voice; it’s a fucking miracle you can’t.
“Rule three. I don’t want my plushies exposed to indecency.”
“Eh? I’m a model of decency, what’re you talking about?”
“Gimme a second, to turn them around?”
Your voice pitches up, almost like you’re whining, and fuck, that’s cute. You’re cute, so fucking cute and goddamnit Oliver is hard, and oh.
Yeah, that’d work.
Oliver leans back, hands lifted in the air, the pinnacle of innocence. “Go ahead, grab your plush, baby.”
You stop and look back at him, brow furrowed. “Thanks, I will? What are you— Oh. You– mm. Fuck. Motherfucker.”
You’d turned around to grab your plush, your ass raised — the perfect opportunity. You’re curled around the little whale, and now, Oliver’s curled around you, dick grinding against where you’re oh so terribly sensitive.
“Hey, thought you didn’t want your little friend exposed to indecency,” Oliver rolls his hips, rewarded with another muffled moan.
“Pervert,” you mumble, and Oliver presses a kiss to the nape of your neck in retaliation.
“Just for you, sweetheart.”
“You’re still apologizing to— hnn— Moby after this. Got it? Ffffuck.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Oliver laughs a little, even more when he feels you twitch under him. “Whatever you want, baby.”
mahito who’s never kissed anyone before — who learned what kissing was from cheesy romance movies the two of you watched together.
mahito who brings the topic up a few nights later, studying you with wide eyes when you fluster, watching you as you wave a hand in front of your face and refuse to meet his gaze when he asks curiously about who you’ve kissed.
mahito who’s a clumsy kisser at first, who uses too much teeth and is far too eager to crowd your mouth with his tongue, extended far too long.
mahito who learns very quickly based on your little whimpers and sighs that you’re not against either of these things, when used correctly.
mahito, who’s growing terribly fond of the way your eyes glaze over when he kisses you deep, the way you clutch at his shirt, the way you let out little panting breaths when he finally lets you gasp for air.
mahito, who wipes the line of shared spit from the plush of your lips with his thumb and sticks it into his mouth, chasing the taste of you on his tongue for just a moment longer.
Mahito's tone is light, his arms draping themselves around you, his thumb rubbing your collarbone. His head rests on the top of yours, and even now, as your pulse begins to race, you can feel him grinning.
"Oh?" You keep your tone level, refusing to look up from the book you'd been reading before the live-in curse threatened your life. The words on the page blur together as you try to think of an appropriate response - but the moment passes, and Mahito continues.
"It'd be easy! Though, I don't know what shape I'd have you take..." he leans down further, curling himself over the couch you're sat on, and knocks his head against yours, the impact rattling your skull and scrambling your thoughts. "Any suggestions?"
To your credit, you don't yelp in pain. Nor do you pull away from Mahito's embrace, as painful as it is. You understand, as does he, that this is Mahito's favoritism, and that it'd be foolish to reject it.
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a motherfucker though.
He's waiting for an answer, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, and you sigh and lean into the dull, thudding ache he's left in the side of your head. You can feel it when his smile widens: it's the moment you start to respond.
"I'd probably want to be something with wings. Nice feathery ones, though; bat wings aren't my vibe, and I don't like the buzzing that comes with, say, dragonfly wings. Or insect wings of any kind, really."
It's the truth, of course. You've long since found it pointless to lie to the curse. It bores him, and it saves you the effort of having to come up with a convincing lie. Besides, it's not as if this is the first time you've thought about how Mahito would transform you.
(That honor went to the first time he showed you his abilities. You'd never forget the smell of that... thing. It wasn't a human, not anymore- it wasn't your landlord, come to collect on rent two months late; your landlord, who had walked chest first into Mahito's outstretched hand and then shriveled and wrinkled and screamed-
Mahito had left after he- it, could fit into the palm of his hand, leaving you to be sick and alone in your apartment for 3 days after. 3 days of laying in your bed, scrolling your phone, trying not to think about the ways he could mold you, shape you like so much putty - or how much you wanted the blood on his hands to be yours.
It had been a relief when he'd returned, demanding that you make him ramen - he'd seen some advertisement or another about it, and wanted to try it for himself. When you asked him what flavor he wanted, he shrugged and asked you, "Any suggestions?"
You hadn't known what else to say but offer what you had; and yet, somehow, that had been enough.)
“Hey, I’m here,” Oliver calls, the door to your apartment swinging shut behind him with a metal thud.
The kitchen’s dark, same as the living room. The blinds are shut, like usual, the faint glow of the streetlights below creeping through and coloring the ceiling with thin yellow lines.
He sets his bags on the table - one overnight, one takeout - and goes looking for you when you don’t come greet him.
Your door swings open when he knocks on it, and he steps into your room. His eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark to notice the small things - your laundry basket in the corner, the stray clothes scattered in and around it. Your bed, half-made, your cute plushies with embroidered smiles left under crumpled pillows and partly-folded blankets. The bathroom is lit, dimly - the night light you bought because “you hated the horrible overhead light” is on, covering the bathroom in soft pink and white stars.
He finds you curled in the bathtub, tucked into the far wall of it. You don’t look at him when he opens the door to your bathroom, nor when he comes closer and crouches down next to you.
His hand hovers gently above your back, though he doesn’t let it rest until you give him a quiet “Mm,” of permission. He rubs between your shoulder blades for a bit, before asking, “Need help?”
He feels more than sees the way you shrug, can practically hear the unsaid “Do what you want.”
He runs a thumb against your skin before going to roll up his sleeves. “It’ll be cold for a second.”
You nod your head once, uncurling yourself a bit, and by the way you tremble at the cold air, you must’ve been curled up for a while.
He doesn’t mention it, though, only turns the water on, set to a nicer temperature. The water begins to pool at the bottom of the tub, and when you stiffen when the cold water reaches your legs, Oliver reaches down and mixes it with the warmer water that’s running so it’s not as jarring.
“Turning the showerhead on now,” Oliver warns, and you nod again. He’s glad you have one of the detachable ones, so he can turn it against the wall for those few seconds of cold water before it catches up.
He guides the showerhead over your body, letting the warm water run over your back and letting out a quiet sigh of relief as you untense under the steady stream.
“Hair?” he asks, and you nod again, so he guides the water over your head. He runs his fingers over the nape of your neck and you shiver - Oliver huffs out a laugh, and even though your head is still down, he knows the exact look you’re giving him, an endearingly exaggerated frown.
“Head back, sweetheart,” he instructs next, and even he can hear the affection the words hold. There’s a small huff of your own, but you still listen, uncurling yourself to tilt your head back so he can see your face.
You’re still frowning, but it’s softened into a gentle pout, one that makes Oliver want to drop the showerhead and pull you close to kiss you senseless. Instead, he cups the back of your head and lets the water soak through.
He asks you to reposition occasionally, and you acquiesce each time, doing your best to help him as he lathers your body and rinses it once more. He offers an arm when you’re done, helping you clamber ungracefully out of the tub before beginning to pat you dry with a towel. You stay quiet during this process, and Oliver does his best to make the silence comfortable for you, asking questions easy to answer with a nod or shaking of the head.
When he asks, “Do you have clean pajamas?” he sees a familiar shaky inhale, and finally gives into the urge to pull you close. You try to pull away, a silent protest of “I’m still wet,” but he holds you all the tighter for it.
Your body is lit by pale stars when you finally start shaking, your chest heaving against him as you start to cry, wordless. Oliver feels an unnamed knot in his chest start to unravel as you weep against him, a sense of relief-sympathy-heartache. He holds you and he holds you and he holds you, and when you look at him still teary-eyed, he kisses you, slow and sweet as your lips tremble.
“S’okay, sweetheart,” he mumbled against your lips. “I’ve got extra clothes, and food for when you want it. It’s okay.”
A beat passes. Then two. And when you finally whisper back, “Okay,” Oliver’s heart settles next to yours.
still thinking abt selkie hiori… you married young, too blinded by the fires of young love to see the many, many shortcomings of your now-husband.
a fisherman by trade, he spends most of his days at sea, or so he claims. lately, he returns in the evenings smelling less of the sea and more of alcohol, with an undertone of something floral that makes your heart sink.
and so, you’ve taken to walking the beach. you make sure to leave his dinner out on the table, another drink poured and ready at its side, but it’s getting harder for your wandering eyes to avoid the lipstick stains on the collars of his shirts. and so you go, wandering the shoreline as the sun sets and the stars come out to dance.
you stumble across hiori on one of these evening walks. his eyes are wide and frightened, and he scrambles away from you as you approach. his hand is bloody and held close to his chest, you note with alarm, and you hold your own palms up in the air in an attempt to signify you mean no harm as you get closer.
(you don’t catch the gleam in those eyes when you crouch down and ask to see his hand. nor do you understand his quiet, pleased clicks as you wrap your handkerchief around the injury.)
his voice is soft as he explains his predicament: a fisherman mistook him for a woman of his kind and stole his sealskin, forcing him to remain on land while he searches for it. you assure him you’ll help him look, and are rewarded with a tight embrace that makes you flush - you hadn’t realized how big he was, or how strong. he assures you he’ll be waiting around here for when you find it - you’ll know it when you see it, he claims, and sends you on your way.
(he knows you’ll be back soon enough. you’ll be oh-so angry when you find his skin draped carefully amidst that man’s coats on the rack. you’ll run back to him with tears in your eyes and his precious coat clutched tight in your fists, and he’ll embrace you with open arms.)
(after all, a good husband is loving, and he has so much love to give.)
your sword clangs against your opponents', once, twice, three times before you dance backwards, narrowly avoiding a stab aimed at your stomach.
the two of you retreat from one another, circling and assessing each other in turn. he takes his paces with a slight limp, its source a thin cut across the meat of his calf. he's an older fighter, one with a few victories - and a few more losses - under his belt. he's a good entertainer, though, and so the crowd has called for mercy each time he's fallen to his knees.
mercy, granted each time by the gods that watch you now.
you, a new fighter in these games. not the newest, of course, but new enough to have skin yet unmarred with scar tissue, able to fight without phantom pains crowding your mind and making you slow. you're experienced enough in combat, though, to know your advantages.
your opponent is wounded; you are not. he fights like a soldier; you do not. however, your greatest advantage is thus:
your opponent is known, and you are not.
your name, your voice, your strategies - all have been carefully guarded. your anonymity makes you interesting, to the crowd and emperors alike, and interesting gladiators are the ones who survive.
you keep yourself low to the ground as you break the circle and charge towards him. your opponent braces, his eyes on your sword, his blade raised in defense.
with a sharp inhale, you part your lips - the sound that leaves them is not one that could ever be considered human. it’s the guttural scream of a wounded animal, and the soldier in front of you flinches but for a moment.
it’s all you need. the distance closed, your sword flashes through the air. the heavy thud of metal on dirt is followed by slow, soft drops of fresh crimson; you kick your opponents’ sword away as he clutches at his hand. the collective around you holds their breath, and it's only now that you dare to meet their gazes.
emperor gojo’s eyes are bright, blue as the endless sky above you and wide with excitement that you’d almost call boyish.
emperor getou’s eyes, on the other hand, smolder like volcanic ash, dark and narrow and curious.
his fist outstretches. the crowd roars. and you’re walking towards the barracks before the body hits the floor.
“Huh. So maybe that thing about demons being red is true after all?”
Rin frowns down at you, heart pounding. He knows where the ever-quickening pulse of blood is going: a deep flush covering his ears, spreading over the unnatural paleness of his cheeks in now-familiar blotches as you stare up at him, lips pursed in an infuriating little smirk.
Rin wills his pulse to slow and his voice to stay steady as he starts: “As I’ve told you, devils and demons–”
“Are from different sections of hell, you’re a devil, not a demon, and I can tell by the shape of your horns and the stick up your ass, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Rin’s frown deepens, and your grin gets a touch wider. “Of course, if you want something else up there…”
He scoffs, and you lean back, your laugh echoing in the space between the two of you while human you’re supposed to be watching stirs slightly in their sleep.
Your attention switches and you focus on your charge below you. Your hands twist through the air, your eyes shining with mirth and a hint of divine power as you weave the threads of your human’s dreams together, tighter, more resistant to his interference.
Rin can’t see them, of course. He’s tried, before, staring intently at the space above the human’s head as you picked and twisted and pulled, but he never cared for others’ dreams as much as his own.
It hadn’t helped, of course, that you’d caught him staring and asked if he liked your hands that much. He’d lied, said some inanity about figuring out what you were doing so he could best undo it, and you’d shrugged and wished him luck.
He still can’t figure out if you were being sarcastic or not.
You’re far too relaxed for the role of guardian angel, he thinks — after all, temptation comes from the most unexpected places. You should be more vigilant, more wary of the threat that he poses to the very being of your human.
Instead, you poke and prod at him, asking foolish questions about what his home is like, or what he likes to do when he isn’t “tormenting souls.”
(Rin Itoshi does not torment souls, thank you very much. All he really does is push the boundaries of their goals a little.
After all, if they really wanted to achieve their dreams, shouldn’t they be able to surpass their limits? They’re all self-imposed, after all. His contracts remove those limitations.
For a while, at least.)
Irritatingly enough, despite your demeanor, you’re good at your damn job. Whenever he starts to tug on the impulse to work harder, stay up longer, sacrifice more to improve, you’re there, weaving in thoughts of rest, of comfort, of relaxation and indulgence.
It’s maddening. He thought Sloth was supposed to be one of Hell’s domains, dammit.
You’d looked at him strangely when he said that, a while ago now. Your tone was… off, when you said “Rest isn’t a sin, Itoshi.”
It sounded like pity, and Rin hated it. He’d told you to shut up and call him Rin from then on, and mercifully, you had.
He wondered what Sae would have done, how he would have dealt with you. He would have been efficient in damning your human. Would have moved onto the next without blinking, would have left you crushed under the weight of your failure.
So Rin would do the same, but better. He was just using a more prolonged method, to make it all the more satisfying when your human would fall. Nevermind that he simply watches you work instead of interfering, interrupting. Nevermind that he waits for your questions, tries to answer them honestly. Nevermind that he listens to the sound of your laughter, feels the way it fills the space between you.
(Sometimes, when he wakes in the morning, he lies there and wishes that you would fall. You, not your human. Maybe then, the crushing weight on his own chest would lighten, just a little bit.)
suggestive (kink discussion, bondage and petplay mentioned) with some grinding + praise at the end, i’m tagging dubcon because oliver just kinda jumps into it, reader’s a little insecure, a lot oblivious, and is implied to be more on the inexperienced side, oliver’s like. a soft tease in this ngl, this is Very selfship coded and based on this post, sorrgy not sorrgy :3
“so, whaddya think about being tied up?”
you and oliver are lounging about on the old couch you’ve got in your apartment. you lean forwards and grab your soda, half shrugging, “sounds fun to me! not a huge fan of those, like, metal handcuffs, they don’t look very comfortable, but rope and all that’s cool! shibari’s pretty too, although i don’t think i’d have the patience for it.”
you rest your face on your hand as you lean on the couch arm, cheek squishing a bit as you ask, “what about you? you got any fantasies about being tied up?”
he laughs, shaking his head, and you crack a smile when you notice how grown out the green is. “i’m more of the type to be doing the tying,” he says, shooting you a lopsided smirk, and you consider this with another sip, setting the can down on the table.
“huh. neat!” is your conclusion, and there’s a slight lull in the conversation as oliver stares at you. you tilt your head at him, curious, and he laughs again, quieter this time. weird.
“oh,” another thought occurs to you, “what‘s your opinion on petplay? ‘cause of the leash and all.” you gesture to your neck.
his smile turns cocky at that, and he leans in closer. “why, you trying to collar me?” he asks, voice low, and you turn to glare at him, fist raising in the air.
to his credit, he backs up in an instant, his hands held high like you’re holding him hostage. “woah, woah, woah, i’m kidding, i’m kidding,” he flashes a quick grin, “or am i?”
you roll your eyes and let your fist drop, going to grab your drink again, using it to gesture at oliver. “yeah, yeah. that’s not an answer, bitch.”
his arms drop to rest on the back of the couch, fingers tapping to an internal beat as he thinks. “sure, yeah, i think it’s pretty cute. sometimes they get all whiny, and that’s fun—”
you choke in the middle of chugging the rest of your soda, and you see his eyes flash towards you as you curl in on yourself. he scoots closer and pats you on the back while you hack away, his hand warm as he rubs circles into your shoulder blade. he grabs you some napkins from the table too, passing them over so you can wipe your mouth. when you finally straighten up, he leans back, smirking at you a little. you can only meet his gaze for a second before it drops to the floor, and suddenly sheepish, you mumble, “sorry bout that. wasn’t expecting you to bring up— well. you know.”
he nudges your thigh with his own, his voice teasing as he asks, “weren’t expecting me to bring up personal experience?”
“well, i mean,” you feel your body flush, and your shoulders hunch as you curse yourself internally. “i’ve told you this before, i know i have. haven’t i?”
your leg bounces in place as you continue to ramble. “it’s just that. well. i haven’t… god. okay.” you take a deep breath. inhale, exhale. “so, full disclosure. i haven’t really tried a lot of the things that i say i’m into? i guess it’s more like… i like the idea of that stuff?” your voice gets even quieter than before, “like, i, um. get off? to it?”
you’re not even sure if oliver hears those last bits. when you get the courage to look back up at him, though, he’s staring at you with a quiet intensity, a small smile playing at his lips that makes your gut twist in knots.
“something funny about that, asshole?” you clear your throat, trying to ease some of the tension that’s built up all of a sudden. “because i swear—”
“you interested in trying it?” oliver interrupts, and your mind blanks, your brow furrowing.
“trying… what?”
“petplay. or bondage.” your jaw drops a little and he laughs, not unkindly. “or anything else you think you might be into.”
you shut your mouth in a frown, kicking him lightly in the ankle. “very funny, you dick. there’s a reason i haven’t, you know.” you sigh dramatically, slumping over his lap with your full weight. you close your eyes, placing the back of your hand against your forehead as if you’ve fainted, and say, “not all of us are six foot tall football players with beautiful thighs.” your free hand pats them for emphasis, but with your eyes closed, you miss the flush of color that rises to his ears.
after a few long moments of silence, you peer through splayed fingers to see oliver looking down at you, that same soft smile on his face. he’s handsome, you think, reaching up to caress him, feeling the stubble scattered across his jawline. he lets you for a bit, before his hand grabs yours and guides it close, and you blink up at him in confusion as a gentle kiss is pressed to your wrist. you feel a wicked edge to his smile curl against your skin, then, and before you can tug it back into yourself, your arm is pinned high above your head.
oliver pulls his legs out from under you, and your second arm quickly joins the first, his body settling above your own with a practiced ease. you squirm in his grip, but he’s got you pinned against the couch, a knee between your legs and a smug look in his eyes. he leans down and you let out a little whine as he grinds his knee right where you want it, lust pooling between your thighs as your whole body shakes underneath him.
“well, would you look at that.” his voice drips with satisfaction, his eyes roving up and down your body appreciatively, and you bite back another embarrassing noise. “seems you do like being restrained, hm?”
you open your mouth to answer, only for your words to die with another half choked gasp as he grinds his knee into you again. his breath fans against your neck as he settles into the crook of it, alternating between soft kisses and tiny, nipping bites, and you feel like you’re losing your mind from how good everything feels. he’s got you by the wrists, his hold steady and warm and immovable, and at this point your hips are practically moving on their own, desperate for relief.
it doesn’t help that oliver won’t shut the fuck up. “-so cute like this, you know? always so loud, so brash, but all you wanted was a little attention, hm?” you feel the rumble of his laughter more than you hear it, feel it alongside the gentle scratching of his stubble, and you want to sob — from pleasure or relief, you’re not sure. “it’s alright, baby, you’ve got it, now. whatever you want, whatever you want to try, i’m right here, promise.”
your hands flex under oliver’s grip, and you whine again, trying to collect your scattered thoughts. your hips continue to buck against the sturdiness of his thigh, and you can pull yourself together just enough to whimper out a little “please.”
even you aren’t sure what you’re begging for, but when he lifts his head from where’s he’s been terrorizing your neck, the sheer lust in his eyes makes you shrink away from his attention. it’s too late, though. he rubs a little circle on your wrist with his thumb, before he switches his grip, holding both your wrists with one hand, the other guiding you by the chin to tilt your head into his. when he leans in and presses his lips to yours, it’s chaste at first, to your surprise, although your eyes still flutter closed at the feeling of his lips on yours.
his free hand wanders down, down from your chin, down your chest and below your waistline, and oliver’s kiss gets greedier as it travels closer to where you need it, eventually swallowing your cries whole when finally, finally, he’s reached between your thighs.
the direct stimulation is too much, too fast, too quickly. oliver’s good, even when working with just one hand, and within the next minute the coil within you snaps. you stay there shuddering beneath oliver’s body for a while, him releasing his grip on your wrists and you clinging to him in turn. when you think you’ve settled enough, oliver sits up, grinning at you like a madman.
you, on the other hand, scowl at him and punch him in the arm on your way up, crossing your arms and huffing. “you dick! have you just been trying to get in my pants this whole time?”
he shrugs at you, cocky half grin still clear as day.
“unbelievable. this isn’t happening again,” you poke him hard in the chest, “you hear me?”
“sure, baby,” he says, easy as anything, and you already feel your heart start to race again. fuck. “wasn’t lying when i told you i’d be your partner if you wanted to try some of those other kinks out, though. what was it you said again? petplay?” he leans down, drops his voice, and grins, “you’d look cute in a collar.”
you shiver, glare up at him, and point at the door. “out!”
