"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
d e v o n
The Stonewall Inn
bliss lane
we're not kids anymore.
todays bird
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will byers stan first human second
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EXPECTATIONS
★
Claire Keane
YOU ARE THE REASON
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
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@cinnamungurl
cici ⟢ twenty | she/her | avid fanfic reader | uni student | minors and men DNI (ˆ𐃷ˆ)
current/last watch: big little lies s2
current read: diary of an oxygen thief
on repeat: WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA - slayyyter
everything is romantic 🫦💋🚬🤍🍸🌙
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nothing feels better than having your friends validate something that’s been driving u CRAZY
interacted w ppl today and i have to do it all over again tomorrow
never take for granted the moments when you’re not nauseous
Sugar-husband
When a rushed morning leads to an accidental wallet swap, a fiercely independent woman finds herself spending her husband's money for the first time. Smut
The wallet had been his idea from the start—a matched set, cognac brown for him, softer caramel for you. You'd smiled when he presented them on your first anniversary, the paper crisp and the leather smelling of luxury and intention.
"Nanami," you'd teased, running your thumb over the embossed initials, "are you marking your territory?"
He'd only adjusted his glasses, that familiar, maddeningly calm expression on his face. "Practicality," he'd said. "Matching wallets mean we can find each other's things easily."
But you'd seen the way his fingers lingered on yours when he handed it over, the way his throat worked when you immediately transferred your cards, your cash, your small treasures into its folds. He'd watched you like a man starving, and you'd known— even then— that this meant something else entirely to him.
That was three years ago.
Now, the morning light filtered through the curtains in thin, desperate strips, and you were running late. The project— that beast of a contract that had consumed six months of your life— had finally, blessedly concluded at 2 AM. You'd collapsed into bed without washing your face, without setting your alarm properly, without doing any of the things a reasonable adult should do.
And now your phone screamed at you: 8:47 AM. Your spa appointment was at 9:30. Across the city.
"Shit, shit, shit," you muttered, stumbling out of bed, yanking on the first dress your hands found— a simple navy wrap dress that didn't require thought. You didn't bother with makeup. You didn't bother with coffee. You grabbed your bag, flew to the entryway, and snatched what you assumed was your wallet from the small ceramic dish where you both kept them.
They looked identical from above, after all. The same size. The same shape. The same worn-soft leather that had molded to each of your lives.
You pressed a kiss to Nanami's cheek— he stood at the counter in his undershirt and dress pants, buttering toast, his hair still damp from the shower— and you were out the door before he could turn around.
"Have a good—" he started, but the door slammed.
The taxi ride was torture. Traffic crawled. You checked your phone every thirty seconds, watching the minutes slip away, calculating whether you could still make it, whether they'd still take you if you were ten minutes late, fifteen. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your skin felt too tight, still carrying the stress of the project, the lack of sleep, the persistent ache between your shoulder blades that had become your constant companion over the past month.
When the taxi finally stopped outside the spa— a sleek, minimalist building with bamboo accents and the kind of reputation that required bookings three months in advance— you fumbled in your bag for your wallet, ready to pay and run.
Your fingers closed around leather. You pulled it out.
And you froze.
The smell hit you first— sandalwood, something him. The weight was wrong. Too heavy. When you flipped it open, there was his ID photo staring back at you, Nanami Kento, 31 years old, with that severe expression and the little furrow between his brows that you knew softened when he looked at you, when he thought you weren't watching.
"Shit," you whispered.
The taxi driver cleared his throat. You looked up, panicked, then back down at the wallet. You could see your own, presumably, sitting in the ceramic dish at home. You could see Nanami finding it, realizing the mistake, maybe bringing it to you at lunch.
But you were here. And the cancellation policy was draconian— you'd lose the deposit, lose the appointment, lose the one thing you'd been looking forward to for ninety days.
And god, you needed it. You could feel it in your bones, in the tension headache pulsing behind your eyes, in the way your hands shook slightly as you held his wallet. You'd aged five years in six months. You deserved this.
"I'll pay him back," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone. "Every yen. I'll transfer it the second I get home."
You pulled out his black credit card— the one he never used, the one he'd told you was for "emergencies" though you both knew he had enough in checking to buy a small apartment outright— and handed it to the driver.
The charge was ¥2,400. You watched the driver's machine print the receipt, your stomach twisting with something that wasn't quite guilt, wasn't quite excitement, but lived somewhere deliciously in between.
"Keep the change," you said, because Nanami always tipped well, and you were using his money, so you should use it properly.
Inside, the spa enveloped you in scent— eucalyptus, lavender, something expensive and clean. The receptionist smiled, professional and serene.
"Welcome back," she said. "I see we have you for the standard package today?"
You opened your mouth to confirm. Then you looked down at the wallet in your hands, at the cards inside, at the small fortune sitting in Nanami's accounts that he never touched, that grew and grew while he wore the same suits, ate the same lunches, lived with the same careful restraint that had defined his entire adult life.
"Actually," you heard yourself say, "I'd like to upgrade. To the premium package."
The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "Of course. That's an additional ¥25,000."
"And the hot stone therapy," you added, emboldened by the way she simply nodded, entered numbers, didn't judge. "And the caviar facial. And the private steam room extension."
"Excellent choices," she said, and swiped Nanami's card.
The machine beeped approvingly. Somewhere across the city, Nanami's phone buzzed in his pocket, and you had no idea.
Nanami realized the mistake at 8:52 AM, standing on the platform at Shibuya Station, reaching for his train pass.
His fingers closed around soft leather. Wrong leather. When he pulled it out, the caramel color glowed in the fluorescent lights, and he knew immediately.
"Damn it," he said, softly.
He turned the wallet over in his hands. He should go back. It would make him late— very late— for the budget meeting with the higher-ups, but he should go back. You needed your cards, your cash, your identification. What if something happened? What if you needed to buy something, to prove who you were, to—
He opened it.
Just to check. Just to make sure you had what you needed. Just to see if there was emergency cash he could take out and leave for you, somehow.
The first thing he saw was the photo booth strip, tucked into the clear plastic window where most people kept their ID. But his wallet had his ID there. Yours had this— four frames of memory from the arcade in Harajuku, six months ago. Frame one: you making a peace sign, tongue out, while he stared stoically ahead. Frame two: you trying to make him laugh, hands on his cheeks, pulling his face into a ridiculous expression, his eyes wide with surprised offense. Frame three: him finally breaking, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, you triumphant beside him. Frame four: him kissing your temple, his eyes closed, you grinning at the camera like you'd won something precious.
Nanami's chest tightened.
He flipped past it. The pressed lavender— from their first date, the botanical garden in Kyoto, the flower you'd tucked behind your ear and he'd stolen when you weren't looking, pressing it later in one of his heavy law books. The small stone from Okinawa, smooth and gray, that you'd found on the beach and declared your "lucky stone," carrying it everywhere since. A receipt from the café in Shinjuku where he'd told you he wanted to marry you, the ink faded to gray but the date still legible, the total still showing the two coffees he'd barely tasted because he'd been so nervous.
A fortune from Meiji Shrine, folded and unfolded so many times the creases were soft as fabric. A hair tie, black and elastic, that had probably been in your hair a hundred times. A sample of your perfume, sprayed on a tester strip, still faintly floral after weeks.
You were everywhere in this small space. Your scent. Your memories. Your life, folded and tucked and carried close to his heart even when you weren't there.
He was hard before he even understood why.
His phone buzzed.
He pulled it out with shaking hands, expecting a message from you, some explanation, some apology for the mix-up.
Instead: Premium Spa Package - ¥45,000. Card ending in 4821.
His card. His money. You were spending it.
He should have been concerned. Should have called you, checked that everything was alright, made sure you knew what you were doing, that you weren't confused, that you hadn't—
Another buzz. Hot Stone Therapy Add-on - ¥12,000.
Nanami's breath left him in a rush. He leaned back against the station pillar, suddenly dizzy, his cock throbbing against his zipper with an intensity that made him lightheaded. You were spending his money. Willingly. Taking what he'd wanted so desperately to give you.
He thought of you at the spa, naked on a table, someone's hands on your skin, working out the tension he knew lived in your shoulders. His money paying for it. His card buying your relaxation, your pleasure, your peace.
Another buzz. Luxury Facial Treatment - ¥28,000.
"Sir?" A station attendant paused, concerned. "Are you alright? You look pale."
"Fine," Nanami managed, his voice rough. "Just— fine. Thank you."
He needed to sit down. He needed to— god, he needed to touch himself, needed release, needed something to take the edge off this sudden, overwhelming arousal that was making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but stare at his phone and will more notifications to come.
He made it to the office on autopilot. Sat through the budget meeting in a daze, your wallet open on his lap beneath the conference table, his thumb running over the worn leather, over the photo booth strip, over the small treasures you'd collected. His phone sat face-down on the table, but he could feel every vibration like a physical touch, each one sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his groin.
At 12:45 PM, during the lunch break he couldn't eat, the notification came: Boutique Purchase - ¥86,000.
Clothes. You were buying clothes with his money. Trying them on, looking at yourself in mirrors, deciding what you deserved, what you wanted, and using his card to get it.
He excused himself to the bathroom— the single stall on the seventh floor that no one used because it was out of the way— and locked the door. He leaned against it, shaking, and freed himself from his trousers with trembling hands.
He came in thirty seconds, biting his fist to keep from crying out, spilling over his fingers while he thought of you in a dressing room, sliding fabric over your skin, spending his money with every swipe of the card. It was the fastest, most intense orgasm he'd had in years, and he was still hard, still wanting, still desperate.
He cleaned himself up with shaking hands, straightened his tie, looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wild. His face was flushed. He looked like a man who had been thoroughly, completely undone.
And he couldn't stay here. Couldn't sit through another meeting, another discussion of fiscal quarters and resource allocation, when you were out there spending his money, taking what was his to give, finally— finally— letting him provide for you in the way he'd always dreamed.
He found his assistant, a young woman named Mori who had worked for him long enough to know he never took sick days.
"Mori," he said, and his voice sounded strange even to himself, too low, too rough. "I'm not feeling well. Migraine. I need to go home."
"Of course, Nanami-san," she said, her eyes widening slightly at his appearance. "Should I reschedule your afternoon?"
"Please. And—" he paused, considering. "Cancel tomorrow as well. I think I'll need the rest."
He didn't wait for her response. He was already moving toward the elevator, toward the train, toward you.
You were floating.
The spa had been transcendent— every knot in your shoulders worked out by skilled hands, every worry steamed away in the private room, your face glowing from treatments that used ingredients you couldn't pronounce and didn't care to. You'd emerged loose-limbed and hazy, wrapped in the silk robe you'd bought (¥12,000, added to the growing total), carrying the overnight bag (¥8,500) because it was soft and the color suited you.
The boutique next door had called to you like a siren. You'd told yourself you'd just look. Just browse. You weren't really going to buy anything.
But the dress— navy silk that caught the light like water, cut to skim your curves in a way that made you look expensive, sophisticated, like someone who deserved to be taken care of— had been impossible to resist. And when you'd tried it on, and the saleswoman had gasped, had said "Your husband is a lucky man," and you'd thought of Nanami seeing you in it, paying for it, knowing that you were wearing something he'd bought—
You'd bought the shoes too. Cream leather pumps that made your legs look endless. The handbag, structured and elegant, that replaced the worn tote you'd been carrying for three years.
Your phone had buzzed constantly. You'd stopped checking after the first hour, the guilt giving way to something headier, something that felt like power and indulgence and the delicious wrongness of taking what you never allowed yourself to want.
You caught a matinee— a romance, something with beautiful people and sweeping music and a happy ending that made you cry in the dark theater. You bought the wine, the overpriced popcorn, because you could, because it was his money and he had so much of it and for once you weren't going to be the responsible one, the independent one, the woman who never needed anything from anyone.
By the time you stepped out of the taxi in front of your building, the sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink. You carried three shopping bags. Your skin still smelled of lavender oil. You felt, for the first time in months, like yourself again.
And then you saw him through the window.
Nanami sat on the couch in the dark, still in his work clothes though he'd loosened his tie, undone his collar. Your wallet sat open on the coffee table in front of him like an altar. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he was looking at the door with an expression you'd never seen before— hungry, desperate, almost feral.
You froze, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly aware of every purchase, every yen, every notification that had buzzed across his phone while you indulged yourself.
"Nanami," you started, pushing the door open, "I can explain—"
He moved.
You'd never seen him move like that— fast, predatory, crossing the space between. He didn't speak. He just reached for you, his large hands framing your face, and then his mouth was on yours, hot and demanding and nothing like his usual careful kisses.
"Nanami—" you tried again, but he swallowed the word, licked into your mouth with a groan that vibrated through your chest.
"Do you know," he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked, unrecognizable, "how many notifications I received today?"
"I was going to pay you back," you gasped, stumbling as he walked you backward, his body pressing against yours, solid and warm and trembling. "I swear, every yen, I just didn't want to cancel the appointment—"
"I don't want you to pay me back." His hands were at your coat, yanking it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "I want you to tell me. Every. Single. Thing."
He pushed you back onto the couch, following you down, pinning you with his weight in a way that made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his usual composure shattered into something raw and needy.
"Tell me," he commanded, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing the silk of your new dress higher, "what you bought. How much it cost. Who paid for it."
"I—" you started, but his fingers found the edge of your underwear— also new, also expensive, lace that you'd bought because the saleswoman had said they matched the dress— and he made a sound like a wounded animal.
"These too?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you buy these with my money?"
"Yes," you whispered, and the admission sent a thrill through you, hot and shameful and electric.
He groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand moving to tear at the buttons of your dress. "Tell me everything. Start at the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
"The spa," you started, your voice shaking as he ripped the dress open, buttons scattering across the hardwood with small, sharp sounds. "The premium package—"
"How much?" He was kissing your throat now, your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin with just enough pressure to make you arch.
"Forty-five thousand," you gasped. "And the hot stones— twelve thousand more—"
He made a sound against your breast, his hand palming you through the lace of your bra. "Keep going."
"The facial!" You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as he set a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours. "Twenty-eight thousand— caviar— oh god—"
"Expensive." He bit your jaw, your neck, leaving marks. "You're so expensive. My expensive girl."
"The dress—" you choked out as he hit something deep, something that made stars burst behind your eyes. "Eighty-six thousand—"
"More." He pulled out and slammed back in, making you see white. "What else?"
"Shoes— forty-two— handbag— sixty—" You were babbling now, lost in the stretch of him, the filthy satisfaction in his eyes. "Chocolates— wine—"
"All mine." He hooked your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, harder. "My money. My girl. Spending what's mine."
"Yours," you agreed, voice breaking. "All yours."
"Louder." He slowed, cruelly, until you were whining, trying to grind against him. "Tell me whose money you spent."
"Yours!" You shouted it, desperate, clawing at his back. "Nanami's money— my husband's— please—"
He rewarded you with a thrust that rattled your teeth, and another, and another, fucking you into the couch cushions with abandon, the leather creaking beneath you.
"Again," he demanded, hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "Tell me what you are."
"Expensive," you sobbed, the pleasure building to a breaking point. "I'm so expensive—"
"My expensive wife." He was losing rhythm, getting sloppy, chasing his own release. "Spending all my money— taking everything—"
He snarled and drove into you one final time, grinding against you as he came, hot and endless, and you followed, screaming his name, your vision going black at the edges.
After, when you were both trembling and sweat-cooled on the ruined couch, he gathered you close, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth.
"I'll transfer it all back," you mumbled, half-asleep against his chest.
He laughed, low and dark, and you felt him stir against your hip again.
"Don't you dare," he whispered. "Tomorrow, we're going back. You're buying the other dress. The one you didn't get."
"Nanami—"
"And then," he continued, hand sliding down your stomach with intent, "you're going to tell me about every single thing you try on. In detail."
You shivered, already nodding, and he smiled against your hair, happier than he'd been in years.
Finally, he thought, pulling you closer. Finally, she was letting him spend.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
zoloft working so well i haven’t been reading fanfic or maladaptive daydream 😶🌫️
walking into the pissing me off factory then being surprised when I get pissed off
there he go again
i wanna do pen pals w someone but like my ocd is stopping me
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
[papamin au 🐅] and we’re airborne!! ✈️
cooling my car rn and it feels like lava
unckuna
this last episode of love island was SO GOOD
Our Personal Bubble || ryomen sukuna
here is a little fluff brain rot mwah
You had always liked your space.
Not in a cold way. Not in the dramatic, wounded sort of way people sometimes imagined when someone said they preferred being alone. You loved people. You loved your friends, your family, quiet dinners, soft conversations, and the occasional evening out when you had enough time beforehand to mentally prepare for it.
You simply liked silence too.
You liked reading on one end of the couch without someone leaning over your shoulder to ask what page you were on. You liked cooking with music playing softly and no one crowding the counter. You liked sleeping with your legs stretched out, your pillow cool beneath your cheek, and at least a small strip of mattress where no one else’s elbow, knee, or entire body had invaded.
You were sweet.
You were affectionate.
You were also deeply, peacefully introverted.
Ryomen Sukuna had appeared to be the same way when you first met him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i think i just got asked out
blood tests make me feel safe 🥰
