a character who truly, legitimately goes “but why does that matter?” about their feelings when someone who cares about them asks. and the sudden falling of everyone around them’s faces as they realize that this person doesn’t recognize themself as someone who needs or should be taken care of. i want Everyone to hurt. surprise at the idea, worry for them, horror at not having noticed. do you see this person who doesn’t think of themselves as a person?
''when did we all become so performative'' idk man when the threat of being recorded at any time and posted for milions to see without your knowledge became normalised.
everytime you and kento had sex , there was something about his dick that just always put you to sleep. maybe it was the way he’d fuck you so gently after making you cum on his tongue for the fifth time tonight, soley for his own pleasure . . .
rolling his hips against yours in missionary: his thick arm locking around you, holding you securely against him, breast pressed against his bare chest, perky nipples brushing against his skin as his warmth seeped into you.
his free hand found yours, fingers interlacing as he whispered a mix of utter filth & sweet nothings as his thick cock dragged against your most sensitive spots; “you can take it love, my pretty baby…”, “look at thatttt, so good for me sweetheart, my perfect girl” ⎯ so on and so fourth. a sense of pride bubbling in his chest at the way his honeyed voice always had you cumming in seconds. clamping down on him, refusing to let him go.
yet, it still wasnt enough.
by the time he had you cleaned up, his crisp white cotton shirt swallowing you whole, you found yourself atop of him straddling his lap begging him to go another round.
“kenkenkenken, again,” you huffed, hands pressed against his bare chest as it rose and fell steadily, his sharp features softened by the low light of your bedroom, the air carrying the faint scent of clean linen warm vanilla. and of course, the smell of sex.
he let out a low chuckle before his large, veined hands found their place at your waist, lifting you from his lap and settling you beside him, your head sinking softly into the plethora of pillows as he pulled you close against his chest.
“as tempting as that sounds . . . you should get some rest.” nanami hummed before pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.
you pulled your head back just enough to frown at him, eyes undoubtedly hazed with sleep and faint lust. “kennyyyy, you know i can take it,” you grumbled before burying your face between his chest. he exhaled quietly, more amused than anything.
“tomorrow morning,” he murmured, voice low and steady, thumb brushing absently along your side. “you’ll feel better then. how does that sound?” he paused, waiting for some form of protest, part of your normal post-sex banter.
“my love?” he called out again before pulling back just enough to look at you—only to find your eyes already blissfully shut, your features softened as you subconsciously snuggled against him, seeking out his warmth, a quiet snore escaping you.
he exhaled, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“can’t even keep up with her own demands . . . unbelievable,” he murmured to himself, his hand coming up to cradle your face, regardless of his disbelief at your ( albeit, cute ) audacity.
pulling you closer, he let his chin rest lightly atop your head, the steady rhythm of his breathing evening, shutting his eyes out as sleep began to take over him likewise.
. . . “goodnight my love.”
you didn’t know it then, but you would wish you had held on just a bit longer.
this is only the beginning of nanami = nyquil agenda
err dont jump me for the last line ;>;
Had to just use a link previously since I wasn't able to upload the full video on tumblr (the file was too big) but I can still upload a little toothless compilation so... here!
nightly indulgence.
۶۟ৎ flins's vice of choice is you.
—fem!reader, around 2.4k words, minors and ageless blogs will be blocked. interchangeable use of flins and kyryll, eater flins, he's possessive (i try to tie to him being a fae + those instincts, but keep that in mind), he's lowkey a freak, fem!receiving oral, marking, overstimulation, unprotected sex, cumming inside, unedited
Flins sighs as the door lock clicks shut behind him and his coat hits the floor with a dull thud. He looks beyond weary — paler than normal, where the sheen of sweat looks almost like he might be falling ill, hair sticking to his temples and curled from the humidity following the earlier rain, and his shoulders a tight line slumped forward out of his normal refined posture.
“Darling?” You ask softly, setting down the tea you’d been making. I’ll have to add more honey, you note, stepping towards him to wrap your arms gently around his waist. “Long day?”
“Very.” Flins murmurs against your temple, pressing a soft kiss to the skin. “It’s alright.”
“Should I get something stronger?” You pull back slightly, just enough to glance up at the way his face softens and a small smile dances across his lips. “Fire-water?”
“No need, little light,” his smile widens as he brushes his finger over your shoulders, toying with the fabric of your silken robe. “Alcohol is not my indulgence of choice.”
It never is. And it is clear what indulgence he does want as he slips his fingers beneath the silk — still over your undergarments, just gentle and high enough to be polite if you do not crave him too, but warm and firm enough that your skin prickles with heat as you instinctively respond, leaning into him and curling your grasp into his shirt.
You shiver as he pulls you just slightly closer, the firm line of his body meeting yours as his thigh slips between yours. “You look absolutely delightful,” Flins’s voice has dropped to that lower, smoother timbre he uses solely during sex, one you love, and his eyes have lidded with want. “What a sweet thing to come home to” — he kisses you gently, smiling when you melt into him and breathe out a soft Kyryll — “my darling, waiting on me with tea and her love…”
“Flins,” you plea weakly, kissing the corner of his jaw.
He soothes you with another kiss, a bit more heated than the first, and then more trailed to just below your ear. He sucks a mark into the soft flesh and you shiver when he blows cold air over the blooming bruise. He loves covering you in them, seeing lilac bruises — selfishly, possessively, he likes that the color is so similar to the color of his hair, the color his flames can be — blossom across swathes of skin, whether it’s your throat, your chest, or your thighs. Flins thinks they should all bear some mark of his touch. Despite the fact he follows many human norms, he cannot shrug his fae instincts, and his appreciation of an almost binding romance following a successful courting makes him happier than he feels he should admit — he feels it would be rather shameful to share those emotions (at least, until he has a ring to accompany the human customs that could justify such a greed).
“I won’t tease, don’t worry. As much as you should be admired and loved slowly, I need to taste you. I don’t think I can wait today.” He gently shrugs your robe to the floor and kisses lower, goosebumps prickling in the wake of his mouth and cold fingers. Flins almost feels guilty, when his cold fingers press into your thigh as he guides you against the wall, and you mewl softly at the stark contrast of temperature. But you are far more intoxicating than any alcohol that has ever touched his tongue, leaving him without shame as he fully sinks to his knees before you.
Then, as a moment of clarity runs through him, “can I?”
You nod and help him guide your leg over his shoulder. “Please, Kyryll. I want you.”
He smiles. “I want you too, darling,” he presses a kiss just below where your underwear meets your thigh before slipping them off. “Always.”
He’s aware you tend to want him, regardless of propriety and time of day, too. But the way your voice softens and quivers when your breath hitches in anticipation delights him, and he’d be remiss if he ever intimately engaged without your explicit consent in the form of greedy kisses and soft whines of his name. Flins is drawn out of his thoughts when your hips rock forward slightly, aching for friction he hasn’t been giving by brushing kisses and his breathing over your inner thighs.
Flins can’t even whisper an apology for the wait — no, you force him to get out of his head as you tangle your hands in the roots of his hair and bring him to you, and he sighs as your scent envelops him and he tastes you across his tongue. He can’t bring himself to apologize, anyways. You’d excuse the time he takes to admire your figure in due time, and the first step to your forgiveness is flattening his tongue on your cunt and suckling at the clit in alternate motions, drawing out your arousal on his tongue with a devastating precision.
His fingers dig into your thigh and he shifts closer, spreading you wider the leg over his shoulder moves with him. He thinks this is what being drunk must feel like to humans — he’s already getting hazy, his focus tunneling to just the warmth and taste of you, and the way you quiver when something feels particularly good. Flins thinks he could spend an eternity on his knees for you, especially when your hips buck up and you start to use him, fingers tightening their hold as you force his nose and face into you and increase the pressure. He can hardly breathe like this, getting shaky, muffled inhales as he groans against you and your wetness drips down his jaw and on his neck.
But he’ll never complain. Instead, he pliantly tilts his head back more and blinks up at you, eyes darker and unfocused as he flattens his tongue and you start to ride his face with fervor. You look beautiful like this, back arched like a bow string as pleasure sparks up your spine like a live wire, your chest heaving as your breaths get deeper and your head tilts back. He moans against you when you tug particularly hard, forcing your clit to catch on his tongue, swallowing the dripping wetness eagerly. He’s a bit dizzy, but he doesn’t let you off him — gripping your hips to keep you stable as you grind faster, tugging you against him and forcing your thigh to bracket his head as the angle shifts.
When you keen, he flexes his grip and groans. The soft tremors in your muscles tell him you’re close, as does the way your grip slackens and you start letting out tiny, helpless whines, just, “oh god, Kyryll, mmm, ‘m gonna—” before your voice chokes up and you whimper, melting against him as the rocking of your hips slows into small circles and jerks as his tongue continues to oversimulate your puffy cunt.
He’s never tasted anything better, and he lets you push him away, gently steadying you with his hands and grounding strokes of his callused palm over your thigh. He blinks up at you, haze slowly clearing, and he feels his arousal now that his attention isn’t captivated — he’s aching for more of your warmth and sweetness, but he’ll settle for the shaky breaths that you let out and the fond stroke of your thumb over his cheek when he rests his chin on your stomach. He knows you’re wiping your arousal off his face, shy about the way it glistens in the low light, but he doesn’t mind. The softness of your expression and the gentleness of your touch is almost just as good.
“Come here,” your voice is a little raspy from the sounds he drew from you, and he can’t help his pleased smile as he gets off his knees. Then he kisses you, firmly and desperately, and his cock twitches in his pants when you tilt his head and hold him there to kiss and bite along his jaw. “You’re so good to me, you know that?” You ask breathlessly, sucking a matching mark beneath his ear that makes his knees feel weak. He loves when you are possessive of him, too.
“You deserve the kindness,” he manages, voice a little weak as his breath hitches when your hands blindly begin to fumble with and undo his shirt’s buttons. “The prettiest of women become muses, no? I should — ah — pursue art.” He swallows thickly as you slide both your nightgown and his shirt off before scraping your nails along his hip bone, teasing the trail of fine hair just above his waistband.
You shake your head and kiss him to shut him up, eager and heated, and when your hard nipples brush against his chest, he backs you against the wall once more, tilting his head to eliminate every bit of distance between the two of you. He wants to fuck you against the wall. God, he wants to fuse souls and destinies with you, if he could, eliminate barriers and give into only baseless instinct when it comes to you — be driven by the helpless need to have you in every way he can.
“Do muses always get fucked against a wall?” You gasp breathlessly between kisses and he groans, frustrated and fond.
“Not if they have a good man.” But Flins makes no effort to guide you to the bedroom, hand going back between your thighs to smear your wetness on the skin and tease the tips of his fingers over your entrance, obsessed with the way your hips flex forward to try to suck them inside.
“Are you not a good man?”
“I’m afraid not,” Flins looks at you, and he can feel the intensity of his gaze — the flickering of his true self slipping out the cracks in bright lights. “I act rather unbecoming ways,” he admits, tugging his cock free of his pants and underwear, “when it comes to feeling your desire, little light.”
“Yeah?” You ask breathlessly, whining as he slowly presses into you and leaves another mark along your clavicle. “How so?”
He groans, dropping his head as he tries to regain any semblance of composure — he’s always brought to heel by the warmth and wetness of your pussy wrapping around him, the pulse of your heartbeat only making him burn brighter with desire. And whenever he burns this brightly, he feels his hold on humanity slip just a little. It makes him want to claim you, though he knows it is far too much to ever ask. “I just don’t treat you with the respect you deserve.”
Flins slides deeper into you and snaps his hips into you in a brutal pace, quick and controlled, and he enjoys the surprised whine you let out, the way it dies into breathless gasps and weak moans that claw out of your throat as you cling to him, unable to support your weight under his desperation.
“I enjoy it, though,” you manage, messily kissing down his throat. “Like when you fuck me like this, it’s, ah—” he drives particularly deep at that, his thumb circling your clit viciously as the obsence sound of your wetness begins to drown out his labored pants and soft gasps, as your arousal drips down onto the both of you. “It’s so sexy when you can’t control yourself because of me.”
“Hah, control?” Kryrll nips your throat a bit harsher than he should, groaning when you clench around him and whine. “If I had no control… that would be really a sight, darling.”
“Want it,” you beg, tugging his hair and clawing down arms to grip his forearm tightly as your orgasm starts to build, clinging to him for any grounding sensation. “Do your worst.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he hisses, hand still going behind your head to protect it from meeting the wall as his rhythm loses all fluidity, just desperate, senseless thrusts and a sloppy attempt to match it on your clit. He can feel his abs tensing and he needs to see you quiver on him, so he tries his best to stave it out, tensing the muscles as he kisses you messily, really just breathing in your air and getting dizzy on the heat and tension between you. “I should never do my worst to you.”
“Kyryll,” you moan, grabbing his jaw and forcing his gaze on you from where it has slipped to the messy junction of your cunt and him, the way your wetness has stained his pants and left a ring of arousal on his cock. “Fill me up.”
That does him in, whining as you purposefully clench around him.
But he can’t just leave you unsatisfied, so he keeps rocking forward, sucking in shaky, weak breaths, even as the overstimulations makes his nerve endings feel like they’re burning. You look even more beautiful in his haze — pussy drunk on your taste, still lingering on his tongue, and the velvety, silken caress of your walls milking him rhythmically. And the flutter of your heartbeat through your cunt makes him weak, the intimacy of knowing your body so well that the second your breath catches for just a beat too long, he wraps his fingers around your neck and tilts you to kiss him, nipping your lip harshly and swallowing your cries as the pressure shatters and you weaken against him.
“Kyryll,” you whimper when his hips continue mindlessly, stilling him with a push on his chest, grounding him with your forehead leaning against his. “Oh, god, I love you.”
“Mm,” he hums, and he still feels the ache, knows he could be inside you forever. For a moment, he considers sinking back to his knees and licking you clean, savoring every drop of you mixing with him in the best way he can get, just living down there until he can’t tell where you end and he begins. But you’re clearly tired, so he slowly pulls out and keeps you steady, pressing a kiss to your temple, breathes in the smell of sex for just a moment more before softening his gaze and guiding you towards the shower. “I adore you too, darling.”
۶۟ৎ nyx's notes: perhaps the best meal i have cooked up to post so far. also 100% inspired by that anecdote with him and varka in the flagship where he says alcohol doesn't do anything for him and he also mentions a sweet and creamy indulgence (talking about flavor notes but like 🙂↔️🙂↔️ not if i have anything to say about it)
Sometimes it blows my mind that there are people that don’t wear glasses/contacts. Like they can literally see with no aid. Like they wake up and just be out here seeing. What a wild concept.
And people say stuff like ‘lol don’t you hate it when you look up in the middle of the night and see a spider on your ceiling’ like bitch (!!) i could have Nicholas II last czar of Russia hangin from my ceiling fan and i would be none the wiser
