MORE HANMA SHUJI.

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。MORE — HANMA SHUJI.

based on this shit post i made on my side that has not left my brain since i took my final so here is a painfully cheesy scene i took out of a fic i wrote a while ago that i’ll never post bc it’s embarrassingly self indulgent

“these are bad for you, did you know that?” you mutter.

“that so?” hanma hums, leaning closer as your fingers work his lighter. his forehead practically bumps against yours as you light the end of his cigarette—even despite your lecture. he watches you as you do it, glances over the bridge of your nose and the curve of your lips as you frown.

“yeah,” you huff. “if you used that head of yours, you’d know these are death sticks.”

his lips are crooked in that smile of his—one that tells you he won’t stop. it’s a silent truth you’re both aware of, but it doesn’t keep you from scolding him. he needs to know, you think—that someone cares what happens to him. someone will miss him, even if no one else else will.

“good thing i have you to tell me,” he grins.

you think you could paint it from memory, the wide curve of his lips. you could remember exactly where that dimple on his left cheek is, where every crinkle of his eyes are under his glasses, how the slant of his jaw angles as he leans his head up. you’re too busy staring at him to fight it when his hand rubs over the small or your back, curling his arm around you and pulling you flush against his chest.

“it’s not like you ever listen to me,” you grumble against his shirt. it smells like him—like smoke and cologne that must be comically expensive. and it’s bad for you, perhaps—the secondhand smoke that creeps up your lungs and kills you slowly. but it’s blissful, comforting even. “but you should listen to me more.”

“i should,” he agrees.

“you won’t,” you pout.

he chuckles at that, takes a drag from the cigarette in his hand as he holds you tighter, sways you gently as the sun sets and coats your skin, leaving it sweet and honeyed just for him.

hanma shuji is not known for gentleness. he’s a hushed whisper, as if speaking the reapers name welcomes him to your doorstep, the blood dripping from the scythe as a fresh reminder that death is only around the corner. he should be anything but gentle in your eyes—yet when his fingertips find your skin under your shirt, gliding over the dip of your back and the slants of your hips, you think he’s nothing but gentle.

gentle enough to love you. gentle enough to let you love him too. gentle enough to pretend his listens when you scold him. gentle enough to let you know he knows you’ll miss him—even if you’re the only one.

“old habits die hard, baby.”

it’s your turn to huff out a small laugh at that. you want to tell him you know. that old habits do die hard—it’s why you let him walk through your door at ungodly hours, why you clean the caked blood on his fists, why you leave room for him on the other half of the mattress.

old habits die hard. it’s why you love him, even if maybe you shouldn’t.

“if you loved me, you’d quit,” you murmur.

“yeah? you think i don’t fuckin’ love you?” his voice is smooth against your ear, it drowns out the honking cars and the bustling of the city below you. it’s warm and familiar and a tad bit dangerous, but it’s enough to make you relax against his body, arms wrapping around his torso.

it’s silent for a moment. he holds you as you think, and when you make out the beating of his heart under your cheek, you have your answer.

“you know what i think?”

“what, baby?”

“i think you should love me more,” you insist, poking his shoulder accusingly.

“so greedy,” he giggles—and then he pulls you closer, holds you tighter, takes in every part of you like he can’t get enough. it’s him who’s greedy, you think, with the way he wants you enough to make you want him too.

“if you die from lung disease, i’ll have to find a new boyfriend,” you point out.

“you won’t miss me?”

“nope,” you lie. “i’ll be rid of my biggest headache.”

“too bad. guess i won’t die then,” he grins, eyeing down at the top of your head.

somehow, you trust him—he’s never given you a reason not to. you’re sure the fingers on your hips and the warm chest under your cheek and the smell of smoke lingering in the air won’t leave you any time soon. and you hope it won’t, that the sins on his hands aren’t enough to outweigh the prayers on your tongue.

but just to be sure, you look up, propping your chin up on his chest as you whisper, “promise?”

he nods, throwing on that easy grin on his face again. your thumb finds the dimple of his cheek as you cup his face. “of course.”

i am unwell over him and it’s all because of mich 😒

ALIEN BLUES | PANTALONE

summary: a stressful day of dealing with the snezhnayan aristocracy leads to the challenge of you trying to convince your lover to come to bed and rest.

genre: not rlly sure how to categorize this, light angst, it’s mostly hurt/comfort i suppose

warnings: none, mentions of chronic illness, unedited (not run thru grammarly and partially written on my phone)

wordcount: 2.4k

notes: in honor of pantalone losing my poll i wrote a little thing for him. jk that's not rlly why i just wanted to. @saintdainsleif @mxnjiros @dxlucs @manjiroscum @suyacho @no3tis @dynalite @tokyometronetwork

When it comes down to it, the Regrator will always be a beggar boy playing dress-up--draped in the finest of silks, donning the most expensive gems, drowning in wealth, and yet still the court jester in the eyes of the old-blooded nobles of Snezhnaya. 

You watched him carefully from where you were curled up in your shared bed, eyes heavy and lips tugging downward. He was tired. You could tell from the way his eyes drooped and his shoulders were slumped. His skin was paler than usual, a sickly sort of pale that had your throat tight with worry. 

“Do not look at me like that,” Pantalone’s voice was hoarse and exhausted, taut with stress. He didn’t even have to look away from his parchment to know you were staring. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I’m not giving you my pity,” you said quietly, resting your chin on your knees, tucked beneath the thick blankets. Outside, the harsh wind rattled against the glass of the window of Pantalone’s room, you could see the ice spreading across the bottom of the window.

“I do not need your lies either,” his voice was sharper this time. His gaze drew up from the desk, finally, violet eyes trained on you in a way that you knew was meant to be a warning, but it found itself rather ineffective considering the dark bags beneath them weighed his gaze down to the point he could barely hold them open, glasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose.

“Join me in bed,” you said softly, hand slipping from beneath the cover so you could hold it out toward him. He shook his head, ready to look back at his letter, but you spoke again before he could pry his gaze from you. “I’m cold.”

Pantalone did not seem convinced, eyes dragging from your form to the fireplace blazing on the wall opposite the bed. 

“Please,” you tried again. “I really am cold, come feel my hands.”

“You’re never cold,” Pantalone murmured, but you couldn’t help the giddiness that built in your stomach as he pushed the chair back, wood dragging against wood as he rose to his feet and slowly made his way toward you. “You’re like your own personal furnace.”

His fingers were freezing, you realized, as the tips brushed your palm, but you didn’t let the shock of the sudden cold show, instead you wrapped your fingers around his, tugging gently to pull him on the bed with you. 

He followed too easily, knees hitting the mattress next to your hips as you laid back against the soft pillows, hovering over you. He was always docile after days like this--where he spent the morning, afternoon, and night dealing with the elite of Snezhnayan society, the nobles that the Fatui were forced to deal with in order to retain peace amongst the people. He had never gotten along well with any of the Snezhnayan nobles, an orphan born on the streets of Naveretrov on the Fontaine border, something that the blue bloods loved to make a mockery of, knowing there was little the Harbinger could do in retaliation lest he start a civil war or find himself being made an example of at the hands of the Tsaritsa. 

They called him the Begger King when he was within earshot, and they called him worse when he was out of earshot, spreading nasty rumors about how he had managed to pull himself from the troughs of poverty that ranged from selling his body to selling his soul. You didn’t know how much truth there was to any of the rumors, and you never cared enough to ask, whatever Pantalone had to do to survive was his business and his alone--the scars that littered his body were reminder enough. He didn’t need you, of all people, reopening old wounds. The nobles did enough of that. 

And there was nothing that could be done about it until the Fatui was in a stronger position, one that could solidify their position in Snezhnaya. Internal politics were complicated—they had the support of the Tsaritsa, but the Tsaritsa did not have the support of her people, and they could not risk an internal revolt when planning rebellion against the heavens. The people looked to the nobles for guidance and leadership, and the nobles were livid at the idea of the Fatui trying to usurp their influence. It was a game of politics, for now, and the nobles took advantage of their secured position, trying to flaunt their superiority to the Harbingers.

They would regret it before long. 

You brought your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks gently and running your thumb over his chapped lips. Pantalone’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing his cheek as he kissed your right palm, and then your left.

“Rest with me,” you said, swallowing thickly as Pantalone leaned his face into your touch. You could feel him start to shake his head. “Please. Just for a bit.”

“I’m busy,” Pantalone said, and your own eyes slid shut as he dipped down, pressing his lips against yours softly, but only for a moment--just enough for you to catch the faint taste of iron on his lips. “I’ll join you in bed soon.”

‘Soon’ would be dawn, you had played this game with him numerous times before. The Harbinger would rather spend the hours he should be sleeping slaving away at his work than be late on an invoice or a letter for the Snezhnayan nobles, giving them more ammunition to use against him. 

But you couldn’t let him do that--not this time. The thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, the iron on his lips, the sickly pallor and cold skin, and the way he was trying to hide the way his breath was labored. 

His illness was acting up again, badly this time. 

Pantalone would never be like the Snezhnayan elite: his cursive was pretty, but not the antique sort of pretty that most of the old blood Snezhnayan nobles wrote in, it was sloppy in some areas, and too jagged in others; his way of speaking, too, was not something that was commonly found in wealthy Snezhnayans--he was careful to mask it when he was around others but whenever he was too exhausted from work, too tired to keep up the mask, you could hear the strange way his voice dipped, the more informal speech patterns.

Pantalone would never be like the Snezhnayan elite just as the Regrator would never be like the rest of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. Years of barely surviving on the streets, unable to get the correct medications when he fell ill, left his body vulnerable and prone to illnesses, his lungs weak and his heart at risk. It came in waves: some days he was perfectly fine, able to keep up with Tartaglia easily when he trained; other days, he could barely push himself out of bed without his lungs giving out. The Regrator’s station came from his ability to keep the coffers full, not from his combat prowess, something that Arlecchino enjoyed pointing out. 

“One more mistake and you lose your place,” she mocked. “Perhaps your head too. Good luck preventing the coffers from drying during the winter again. Her Majesty will not be so gracious a second time.”

“I love you,” you said, and you hated how your voice cracked, and you hated even more how Pantalone looked away. He had always known you better than you knew yourself. He knew what you were thinking.

“I don’t want your pity,” he said again, but there was no heat behind his words as he stared at the fireplace, you watched the flames flicker against his glasses, reflecting in the violet of his eyes.

“You will be of no use to anyone tomorrow if you let this get worse,” you said, sitting up to brush a stray curl from out of his eyes. “Another day with the elites. You have to be on-“

“I know,” Pantalone interrupted, voice harsh. He shut his eyes for a second before repeating himself, softer this time. “I know. I’m not tired yet.”

You studied him for a moment, eyes tracing the dark bags beneath his eyes, but when your gaze met his, you knew he was telling the truth. You could see the way his mind was racing, the furthest place from sleep he could get. It didn’t matter how much his body tired physically, he would never sleep when he couldn’t shut off his mind.

“Lay with me then,” you offered. “At least allow your body to rest, even if your mind can’t.”

“I do not like being idle,” Pantalone refused, shaking his head. 

You leaned up, kissing the corner of his lips. “Tell me about what’s happening tomorrow,” you said quietly. “We won’t sleep until we’ve shut that pretty head of yours off.”

Pantalone let out a noise akin to a scoff but for a second, his eyes brightened in amusement. 

He had always been weak to praise.

Your arms tightened around his shoulders and Pantalone didn’t try to fight it when you pulled him to lay flush against you, the feathered pillows fluffed around your head. You slid his glasses off of his face as he rested his head against your chest, raising your hand to his hair to card your fingers through the dark locks, pulling the comforter over the two of you.

“It’s just another day of meetings,” Pantalone said. “You know how they go. I offer plans that will strengthen the economy so we can survive the winter, they shoot them down for being too radical all the while belittling me.”

You sighed softly, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. His eyes fluttered shut on instinct as he relaxed into you.

“I can talk to my father-“ you tried to offer, but Pantalone’s eyes were back open in an instant, cold and hard and trained on you. You sighed, already knowing what he was going to say but trying anyway, “He can help.”

“I don’t want help,” Pantalone said tightly, voice harsh. “Much less from blue blooded scum like him.” 

You went quiet, not sure how to respond. You understood his resentment against the nobles but… sometimes he was harsh, and you didn’t particularly care for your father but sometimes it was hard to remember that his words weren’t directed toward you, the venom behind them blinding. Pantalone seemed to have realized the implications of what he had said right away.

“I’m sorry,” Pantalone said after a moment. “I didn’t mean-“

“I know,” you sighed.

“Well, I meant it about him,” Pantalone corrected. “I just didn’t mean it about-“

“I know,” you stressed. “We’re supposed to be lulling you to sleep, not getting you riled up.”

“And whose fault is that?” Pantalone murmured but he was already letting his eyes slide shut again, so you decided to just drop it.

… Kind of.

“You should at least let Dottore-“

“Do not involve Dottore.”

Pantalone was now stiff in your arms, eyes sharp and alerts like a cornered deer. 

“They won’t say anything when he’s around,” you tried to convince him—anything to not have him torn down all day when he was already dealing with his illness. 

It was to no avail.

“I don’t care. I can handle this myself,” Pantalone said. “Do you understand?”

“… Yeah,” you finally agreed. “Yeah, I understand.”

He studied you for a moment, desperate to ensure you weren’t just talking to get him to shut up, even though he knew very well you would never do something that would make him uncomfortable. Once he got what he was looking for, he settled down again, melting in your touch. 

It was a comfortable silence that the two of you rested in, the flames crackling in fire place and the wind rattling the glass. The near argument had exhausted him, you could tell from the way his breath was a bit too heavy and a bit too shaky.

You would try to wake up before him in the morning, which would be a feat in itself considering he was usually up at the crack of dawn. You wanted to run down to the kitchens and have them cook up the herbal remedy that would ease the aches of his sickness… if only long enough to survive the meetings with the nobles.

Lost in thought, you were caught off guard as thin fingers wrapped around your own, giving a gentle squeeze to your hand.

“Thank you,” Pantalone murmured. 

You watched him, studying him for a moment, the way his expression was lax and his body was free of any tenseness as he looked up at you with lidded eyes, finally on the verge of sleep. He could only ever look so at ease when he was wrapped up in your arms.

Thank you for bearing with me when I’m difficult. Thank you for dealing with the bouts of hostility. Thank you for looking out for me because I can’t do it myself. Thank you for loving me, you’re the first person who ever has.

All of the things that he would never be able to tell you out loud swam behind the violets of his eyes as he looked up at you—for as much as Pantalone was the silver tongue of the Fatui, it became twisted and tangled whenever it came to expression any emotion besides anger and resentment… especially around you. You could only give him a small, pained smile.

“Your stubbornness will be the death of you,” you said softly, running your fingers through the thick, black hair. And it was not a figurative saying or exaggeration—it would kill him, he’d push himself until he was on death’s door and then he would keep pushing, trying to prove his worth to people who would never accept him. You were watching him kill himself and you couldn’t do anything about it.

Pantalone didn’t respond, but his eyes didn’t meet yours this time, the closest thing to acknowledging that you might be right. Your throat felt swollen as you kissed the top of his head again, holding him just a bit tighter as he finally began to doze off in your arms. 

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。10:07 PM — AL-HAITHAM.

al-haitham asks you to marry him before he even realizes himself what he’s just asked. it’s a random tuesday night. you’re in worn out pajamas, he’s still got slight damp hair from his shower, and the both of you are curled up on the couch.

you’re rubbing his chest and his arm’s wrapped around your waist when you murmur, “we should get a place with more windows.”

he raises a brow, turns to look at you and scan over the side of your face. it’s familiar, the way you look so pretty under the dim light, on the same couch against the same walls in the same living room. but it’ll still feel like the first time even if it’ll be his last.

“is the design of our current home not up to your standards?” he asks, making you giggle.

“it’s nice,” you hum, “but it needs more windows. and a bigger kitchen. and maybe a backyard.”

“this home is conveniently close to our place of work,” he argues, fingers creeping up from under your shirt and rubbing circles into your hip. it’s soft—your skin, it’s warm and familiar under the rough pad of his thumb. it’s a touch that’s routine enough that you don’t squirm in surprise anymore when he finds your bare skin, and then he wonders for a moment if there are other routines waiting for him.

maybe he’ll watch you wait for him through the window as he comes home. maybe you’ll dance in the kitchen as coffee’s being made. maybe there’ll be picnics in the backyard as the sun sets. maybe, when you have a new house but the same home, he’ll find more of you in the walls and the corners of every room.

“haitham,” you huff, “a little extra walk won’t kill you. we should find our dream home.”

“our?” he asks after a moment, like he’s shocked. you only nod against his chest.

“of course, silly,” you chuckle, “i certainly won’t be house shopping with the general mahamatra—”

“we should get married,” he blurts.

“what?”

“my grandmother left a ring,” he instantly explains, “it’s a very nice ring, i promise. you won’t have to worry about having a bare finger—”

“that’s not what i meant—”

“and it can be a small ceremony,” he assures, “it shouldn’t take much planning. but if you’d like something fancier, i don’t mind either, it’s your wedding day just as much as it is mine—”

“that’s sweet, but wait—”

“and if you’re worried about time off for the honeymoon, as the former acting grand sage, there’s still a few strings i can pull for us both. i hear inazuma is nice during spring, so that gives us—”

he’s rambling. he’s figuring it out right here and now and it’s the last thing you expect of him, not having an elaborate plan—and it takes you by surprise. but he’s breathless and his eyes are wide and his chest is warm and his arm is still wrapped tightly around your waist.

and you couldn’t dream of saying no.

“you think you want all this?” you ask gently, “with little old me?”

“there’s no one but you,” he mumbles, holding you closer. and if there’s a slight bounce in his knee as he waits for your answer, you pretend you don’t notice.

“so you want to get married?”

“i want to marry you,” he corrects, “i want you. marriage is just the means of how.”

“okay,” you say with a hitch in your throat. after a moment of silence, you let out a shaky chuckle, eyes watery as you meet his. “okay. let’s get married.”

“okay,” he nods slightly, swallowing thickly.

“and we can have a house with more windows,” you add.

“and a bigger kitchen,” he agrees.

“and a backyard.”

“maybe a bigger study,” he adds thoughtfully.

you grab his face at that, with enough desperation that his cheeks are squished in your hands as you turn him, pressing your lips to his. you taste him, feel him pass through you as a breath of air, hear him ring through your ear as a muffled grunt.

he’s a part of you. he’s every inch of you. he lingers on your skin and knits into your bones. he’s yours now and somehow….somehow he’ll be yours forever.

“i’m going to get married,” you sniffle. “how exciting.”

“i’m going to marry you,” he murmurs, like he’s still processing the fact that you’re here, and his, and you’ve said yes.

“i love you,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his.

his eyes close and his arm squeezes you gently. “i’ll always love you.”

you people don’t fucking understand how insanely in love with him i am i want to make a fur coat out of his pubic hair and wear it on a cold winter day idc

NAAHHHHH HELPPPP MEEEEEE

can I request toji messaging his busty so who's boobs hurt because she's ovulating. my boobs always swell and I really like messaging them. ...perhaps if you would like to throw in some NSFW content cuz I'm a horny b*tch

warnings: blood play, oral (f!receiving)

navigation

"You've been squeezing your breasts the whole night. Need some help?"

You narrow yours eyes at Toji, ignoring the butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the sight of his cocky smirk.

"I'm massaging them, dumbass." Your roll your eyes, "But yes please. I'd love to take you up on that offer."

Toji sits on the space of the couch beside you, the warmth of his body immediately pulling you towards him. You lean your body on his, getting comfortable before setting your eyes on the television.

"You may begin." You smile.

Toji scoffs at your words but cup your breasts on each of his hands anyway. His palms are calloused, huge and their movements are so fluid you begin to think he was once a masseuse.

Your thumb plays with a button of the remote, following the circular shape of the rubber. The action catches Toji's eye and he mirrors your movement. As minutes continue to tick by, you feel your body growing warmer and warmer. You're suddenly out of breath, sweat dampening your back and your nipples are as hard as ever.

You drop the remote and run a hand up Toji's muscular arm, feeling your finger tips rise and fall at every hill and dip of his arm. Your hand finds its way up his nape, still leading itself upwards to comb your fingers through his hair.

Your breath feel hot against your lips, your throat feels parched and a light throbbing sensation eases itself in between your legs causing you to squeeze your thighs together.

"Does your cunt hurt too? Need me to massage it for you, you horny bitch?" He whispers into your ear, goosebumps rising all over your body and especially on your nape.

You look up at him, hoping your eyes don't give out just how desperate you are for him but the sight of the smug expression he's wearing proves that luck isn't on your side today.

He pushes himself off the couch, kneeling on the floor in front of you. Toji's knuckles glide over the soft skin of your thighs, hooking his fingers on your underwear and shorts, yanking them off of you.

"Toji—"

"Open your legs real wide for me, darling." He grabs both your ankles and pulls them apart from each other, exposing your bloody cunt. His tongue glides over his lips, a hungry predatorial look so evident in his eyes the make your walls clench at nothing.

"So needy." He sing-songs, placing his forearms under your thighs, dragging you closer to him. He unhooks his arms from your thighs, pushing your shirt up to expose your swelling breasts.

"Wait, no—Toji it's my time of the month—" Toji ignores your words and dip his mouth onto your sex. Goosebumps tickle you skin as his tongue laps on the folds of your cunt. "No, no, that's dirty—" moans keep slipping from your lips the more he continues to devour you.

His hands busy themselves with your breasts, squeezing and massaging them, enhancing the euphoric feeling. The coil in your stomach tightens, you've never reached the summit so quickly before. Somehow your body is reacting more today.

Your thighs shake and you clench your fists at the couch cover before hitting full bliss, tipping over the edge as your orgasms wafts all over your body, your mind going blank for a moment before white dots prickle at your vision.

You heave heavily, looking down to see Toji grinning madly at you. His chin, lips and teeth covered in blood. Something about the sight drove you mad. You wrap your legs around his head, pulling his lips right back onto your cunt.

"Do that again." You breathe.

"Whatever you say, beautiful."

Breeding Kink | Dragon!Zhongli

Pairing: Zhongli x fem!reader

Genre: SMUTTTT!! 

Words: 4.6k

A/N: So uh yeah, this was mainly inspired by hcs from @genshin-spice​!! thank you for the ideas sjkdha as well as the asks I have received! I decided to combine them into one fic bc im lazy i hope u like it jkasdha

Warning: THIS IS AN 18+ FIC, SO MINORS OUT THERE, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. 

*

It was in the dead of the night.

Zhongli breathed in; eyes dilated.

His study was quiet—yet all he could hear was his heart beat pounding violently against his chest and the sound of skin rubbing against skin.

He couldn’t take it.

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