Forget-me-not

warnings: swearing, suggestive and that's it ig...

a/n: first smau, judge all you want, but don't hate pls

i don't know what the fuck i've done, so don't ask

I think this fits? This was the scrapped first design of his emo look but I think it’s definitely more rapper styled? Hopefully 😅

“I wanted him to be a mini you but he looks nothing like you.” Your son look at you both with the same purple pink eyes as his father. The full head of purple hair he was born with was starting to curl in waves just like Rafayel.

“I think he has my nose?”

“Maybe you weren’t trying hard enough when we were making him cutie.”

“Maybe your Lumerian genes were too strong.” You flick his forehead causing him to wince. Your son burst into laughter. You both look at him in awe. This was the first time you heard him laugh.

“Do you find it funny when your daddy is in pain.” You pinch one of Rafayel’s cheeks and your son laughs even more.

𓂃 ⭒ you come to a realization that megumi has never initiated sex.

𓂃 ⭒ TW: FEET!

The morning light filtered pale through the kitchen window, catching across the table and warming the bare line of his shoulders where his skin stretched taut over his muscle, still unmarked from sleep, and It catches on the faint red scratch marks down his back from last night—it probably stings a little when he moves.

you padded out from the bedroom in his shirt alone and your underwear, the hem brushing the sensitive backs of your thighs, the fabric soft and worn against your skin with every step. 

He’d already been up, moving quietly at the stove like always, glancing over his shoulder once when he heard you, his dark eyes acknowledging you without a word, just a flicker of whateverin them before he turned back to the pan, the quiet sizzle of eggs filling the space between you. 

He’d made yours scrambled, soft and steaming, his sunny side up with the golden yolk pooling slow and thick; two plates set across from each other, close enough that your knees could brush his under the table if you shifted just right.

“Eat,” he said, already sitting, fork in hand, and you slid into the chair opposite him, the wood cool against the bare backs of your thighs where the shirt rode up slightly, your foot tapping his without thinking, the contact sending a small spark up your calf.

You’d been talking about your week—something to reschedule, a friend’s text that made you laugh, little details spilling out while he listened in that quiet way of his, fork moving steady between plate and mouth, occasionally asking one question that proved he’d caught every word, his voice low and even, but now your eyes kept drifting to him mid-sentence: the flat plane of his stomach visible where the counter shadowed it, the easy flex of his jaw as he chewed, collarbone sharp under skin kissed gold by the light, and that slow crawl of warmth started at the base of your throat, sinking lower, pooling heavy between your legs as you watched him sit there, shirtless and effortless

You reached over again, dipping the corner of your egg into his yolk, the gold spilling warm across your fork, and he never said a thing about it, he never really does when you do something that annoyed him, his foot still against yours under the table

“You’re really sexy, you know that right,” you said, voice softer than you meant, and something in his expression settled, shoulders easing just a fraction as he looked up from his plate.

“You tell me all the time,” he murmured, eyes flicking back down, but not before you caught the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his throat worked on a swallow.

“Yeah,” you breathed, fork pausing halfway to your mouth, “I do,” and the words hung there, making you shift in your seat, thighs pressing together against the ache building slow, your bare foot sliding higher along his calf now, feeling the fine hair there, the muscle tense beneath.

You tried to leave it, picking up your fork again, but the thought lingered, thick in the air between your plates—how many times you’d said it, how he called you pretty instead, always pretty, his voice soft with it like a habit etched deep: You look really pretty, but pretty wasn’t sexy, wasn’t the feeling you felt watching him now, and it spilled out before you could stop it. “Do you even think I’m sexy—like actually,” you pressed, fork resting down with a soft clink, “do you look at me and think—”

“I’m not having this conversation ” he cut in, voice even but edged, exhaling slow through his nose as he set his fork aside, the tips of his ears going pink, faint but there, blooming under the morning light.

“Okay,” you said, hearing the edge in your own tone sharpen, thighs squeezing tighter under the table as frustration mixed with the heat, “well now I’m getting angry, because I’m genuinely starting to wonder if you have sexual feelings for me at all,” and your foot pressed harder against his leg, insistent, sliding up to hook behind his ankle, pulling just enough to feel him shift toward you.

He exhaled again, deeper this time, fork down fully now, and you watched his chest rise and fall, bare skin catching the light, nipples tightening slightly in the cool kitchen air. “That’s all you have? A sigh?” you pushed, gaze dropping to where his hands rested on the table edge, fingers flexing once, knuckles pale.

“Eat your food,” he said, picking up his fork again, but his eyes stayed on you a beat longer, the air thickening between you with every tick of the kitchen clock, distant car hum outside fading under the sudden pulse in your ears.

Then—“I think you’re pretty,” he said, not looking away this time, voice quiet and rough, “I think you’re really pretty, and I love you,” like those words alone could settle it, his fork hovering, yolk still unbroken on his plate, ears pinker now, jaw tight as he held your gaze.

“I know,” you whispered, leaning forward slightly, shirt gaping at the collar to bare the curve of your chest, “you’ve said it for five years—I’m asking if you get hard thinking about me,” and the words landed blunt, your foot sliding higher still, toes brushing the inside of his knee under the table, parting his legs just a fraction as heat flooded your core.

He put his fork down. Hard. The tips of his ears burned pink fully now, and he looked at you, fully looked, expression caught between disbelief and that familiar exasperation, the one that always cracked when you pushed close enough. 

“Babe,” his voice dropped low, rougher, “I have sex with you—isn’t that enough to show you that I—” He stopped, breath hitching as your toes dragged slow along his inner thigh, feeling the twitch of muscle there, the sudden heat radiating from him.

“Have you ever just been somewhere,” you murmured, voice thick, leaning closer across the table so your breath nearly brushed his knuckles, “doing something completely normal, and thought about me and gotten hard—not during, not because something was already happening, just out of nowhere” and your foot pressed firm now, heel digging into his calf, toes teasing higher toward the crease of his thigh.

He looked at you. Then away. Jaw working hard, ears flushed deep. “Yes,” he rasped finally, quiet and flat like it cost him, but his hand slid under the table suddenly, catching your ankle—not pulling away, just holding, thumb pressing into the arch of your foot, warm, sending sparks straight up your leg.

He reached for his fork but didn’t lift it, eyes on the table, voice barely above the sizzle of cooling eggs still in the pan. “When we first started dating I couldn’t always—” Another pause, ears burning, jaw clenching tight as your toes flexed against his grip. “It wasn’t something I could control all the time—I’d think about you and I—” He stopped again, breath ragged, free hand flexing open and closed. “I did things.”

“You jerked off thinking about me,” you said, low and certain, foot pushing insistent against his hold, feeling the tremor in his thigh now, the heat building where your skin met his.

He said nothing, just moved food around his plate, fork scraping faint, but his grip on your ankle tightened, thumb circling slow over your skin, pulling you closer under the table inch by inch.

“Megumi,” you breathed, voice cracking soft, and he finally looked up, eyes dark and half-lidded.

“Just eat your food,” he said, hoarse, but his hand didn’t let go, sliding higher now to grip your calf, fingers digging in just enough to sting, pulling until your knee nudged his under the table.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that,” you whispered, not pushing now, just needing, your free hand reaching across to trace his knuckles, nails grazing light down to his wrist, “back then.”

The words barely left your mouth when Megumi’s grip on your calf tightened. He didn’t speak. Instead, he shifted forward in his chair, eyes locked on yours, and slowly dragged the sole of your foot higher up his thigh until it pressed hard against the growing bulge in his sweatpants.

He rocked his hips once, grinding the hard line of his cock along the arch of your foot through the fabric. Then again, slower. The heat of him radiated through the thin material as he used your foot to rub himself, hips rolling in shallow thrusts that made the chair creak faintly beneath him.

“I love you this much,” he murmured, voice low and rough, eyes half-lidded as he kept the steady grind going, pressing your foot firmer against his length. “Enough to lose it just from this.”

He kept moving like that for a long stretch, hips rocking steadily, dragging his clothed cock up and down the length of your foot, toes flexing occasionally against him. 

His breathing grew heavier, jaw tight, but he never looked away. 

Another slow roll of his hips. “This much,” he repeated, quieter this time, thumb stroking the side of your ankle as he held your foot in place.

Finally, he reached down with his free hand and shoved the waistband of his sweatpants down. 

His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark at the tip. The first thick bead of precum welled up and immediately spilled over, dripping warm and slow down the top of your toes, sliding between them in a slick trail.  

“Every time I’m alone, I think about this,” he muttered, voice low. “About how your skin would feel.”  

He wrapped his hand around the base and guided the head along your foot, smearing the leaking precum over your skin. Then he pressed forward, sliding the full length of his cock between your toes and along the arch, fucking your foot in slow, desperate strokes.  

“Sometimes I do this when I can’t sleep,” he breathed, “pretend it’s you I’m touching, that it’s you I’m fucking instead of my hand.”  

His hips rolled steadily now, the wet sound of skin sliding against skin filling the quiet space as he thrust between your toes, precum continuing to drip and coat your foot with every pass.  

He kept that pace for a while, eyes dark on where his cock moved against you, hand occasionally adjusting your foot to tighten the grip around him.  

“Fuck,” he breathed, hips stuttering once before he caught himself and slowed again, drawing it out. Another thrust, another slow drag of his cock along your slick toes.  

His breathing turned ragged. His grip on your ankle tightened as his thrusts grew a little shorter, a little faster. With a low groan, he came, thick pulses of cum spilling over your foot, coating your toes and the arch in warm, sticky ropes that dripped down slowly.  

He stayed there a moment, chest rising and falling, cock still twitching against your messy foot.  

“I think you’re very pretty” he murmured, dazed, voice rough in his throat.  

Then he stood, chair scraping back, and pulled you up with him. One hand hooked under your thigh, the other gripping your hip as he turned you and sat you back down in the chair. He stepped between your spread legs, cock still hard, and lined himself up.  

“I’ve imagined this,” he said, breath shaking against your mouth. “So many times”  

Slowly tracing his thumb over the went stain of the underwear, he moved them to the side the he pushed in slowly, sinking into you inch by inch until he bottomed out, hands gripping the edges of the chair on either side of your hips. 

Then he started thrusting, deep, steady rolls of his hips that rocked the chair beneath you, his body leaning over yours as he fucked you right there in the seat.   

His thrusts stayed deep and steady, hips rolling forward in a slow, unrelenting rhythm that pushed you back against the wooden chair with every stroke.  

He kept one hand braced on the edge of the seat beside your hip, the other gripping your shoulder to hold you steady as he sank into you again and again, the slick, wet sound of his thick cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet kitchen.  

You moaned softly, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him even deeper. 

Your walls clenched greedily around his length with every thrust, slick arousal coating him and dripping down to soak the chair beneath you. 

Megumi responded by leaning in closer, his bare chest brushing against the front of the oversized shirt you still wore, the fabric bunching up between your bodies as he fucked you with that same measured pace—drawing almost all the way out until just the swollen head stretched your entrance, then pushing back in fully, letting you feel every veiny inch split you open.

You gasped sharply when he shifted his angle slightly, angling his thrusts upward so the fat head of his cock dragged hard against that sensitive spot inside you with every roll forward. “Ah—fuck,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure shot through your core, making your pussy flutter and squeeze tighter around him.

His free hand slid down from your shoulder, fingers tracing along your side until they reached the hem of the shirt. 

He pushed it higher, bunching the material up around your waist so nothing sat between you. Then his palm flattened against your stomach, thumb brushing low as he continued the steady drive of his hips, feeling the way his cock bulged slightly under your skin with every deep thrust.

Without breaking rhythm, he reached between you with his free hand, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing slow, firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added pressure made your thighs tremble around him, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your hips bucked up to meet him. “Megumi—oh…,” you gasped, toes curling hard where they pressed into his back, your pussy gushing wetter around his pistoning cock.

Megumi’s jaw clenched, a low groan escaping him as your walls fluttered and clenched greedily around his length. He didn’t speed up right away, just kept the same deep, controlled pace, hips grinding forward on the downstroke to press flush against you, his heavy balls slapping softly against your ass with every thrust. His fingers never stopped their steady circling on your clit, occasionally switching to firmer strokes that made your eyes roll back.

He tilted his head, lips brushing your ear. “Like this?” he murmured, voice rough, the words timed with a particularly deep thrust that made the chair rock beneath you and a fresh gush of your slick coat his cock. “Tell me if you want it harder.”

You nodded frantically against him, nails raking down his back as you moaned louder, “Yes—harder, please—” Your pussy clenched desperately around him, sucking him deeper with every thrust.

He obliged immediately, shifting his weight to drive into you with more force, the thrusts turning sharper and faster, the obscene wet slap of skin meeting skin growing louder as he pounded into your soaked cunt. His hand stayed between you, fingers working your swollen clit faster now to match the new rhythm, rubbing tight circles while his thick cock stretched and fucked you relentlessly in the chair. 

Your moans turned into desperate cries, thighs shaking as pleasure built hot and tight in your core, his hips snapping forward with controlled power, each brutal thrust pushing you closer to the edge while he kept his dark gaze locked on your flushed face.

His thrusts grew harder, sharper, the chair creaking beneath you as he drove into your soaked pussy with deep, relentless strokes. 

His fingers kept rubbing tight circles over your swollen clit, never slowing even as your walls clenched hard around his cock.

You gasped sharply, head tipping back against the chair, thighs shaking around his waist. “Megumi—” The word broke off into a moan as the pressure coiled tighter, your pussy fluttering and squeezing around him. Your nails dug into his shoulders, heels pressing hard into his back as the orgasm hit, sudden. Your walls spasmed around his length, slick heat gushing out around his cock while your hips jerked up to meet his thrusts.

Megumi groaned low, hips stuttering once before he pushed in deep and stayed there, grinding slow against you. 

His cock twitched hard inside your pulsing pussy, then he came with a rough exhale, thick pulses of cum spilling deep into you. He kept rocking through it, short, uneven thrusts as he emptied himself, his cum starting to leak out around his cock and drip down onto the chair beneath you.

You stayed locked together like that, breathing hard, the wet warmth of his release slowly trickling between your bodies while the tremors faded.

with: zayne, caleb, sylus, rafayel, xavier

content: smut, suggestive, crack

summary: in which the lads boys drunk text (annoy) you.

ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb

notes: MDNI / NSFW, xavier is pathetic (again), zayne is mmmmmm, rafayel is my dramatic king, sylus is overly going, and caleb is well...strange. only explicit mentions of fem! reader in raf's (the others are gender neutral however!), allusions to stalking...and obviously drinking/intoxication, as well as dubcon elements (? if you squint? because they're technically drunk? but it's also left open so not rlly but kinda?)...that's it (i think)

p.s. this won on the poll and i kinda put my own spin on it but i hope you enjoy ^^ (all spelling errors are intentional as well LOL)

a/n: this was lowkey really fun to make but i also think i'm discovering in real time that i really like putting men in Situations...embarrassing fictional men town population me ig? yay! ty for reading (- -)(_ _)

Satoru Gojo is not happy.

No. He’s frowning, brows furrowed, arms crossed, lips pursed into a pout so dramatic it could win an Oscar. His Six Eyes are locked on your peacefully sleeping face, like you personally betrayed him, which, according to his dream, you did.

You, meanwhile, are blissfully unaware. Snoring softly. Probably dreaming about something cute. Or, if Satoru’s dream is to be believed, some other man.

“Unbelievable.” He mutters, glaring at you. “I spoil you, I love you, and you go and do that?”

You stir, mumbling something incoherent.

He squints accusingly. “Oh, so you can talk in your sleep too. Who is he, huh?”

Your eyes flutter half open at the noise, hair a mess. “...Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me!” He says, pointing an accusatory finger. “You cheated!”

Your brain takes a full five seconds to process that. “...What?”

“I saw you! You were talking to another man!”

You blink at him. “Satoru,” you say slowly, “were you dreaming?”

He hesitates. “...Maybe. But that’s not the point!”

“Oh no, it’s definitely the point.” You say, sitting up now, squinting. “You were dreaming of a man while I’m right here?”

His mouth drops open. “Wait, what? No, I-”

“YOU were dreaming of a man...” Your eyes widen dramatically, as if the realisation just hit you like a truck. “Satoru... are you... gay?”

“What?! No!”

“You don’t want me anymore, is that it? You’re dreaming about men now? Was it-” You gasp loudly “- was it Suguru? I knew it! I knew you had something for him-!” You snap your fingers.

He looks personally attacked. “WHAT?! No, baby, he’s my friend!”

“Oh my god.” You whisper, lips quivering. “You wanna go be his boyfriend and leave me all alone, don’t you?”

He scrambles, eyes wide as he moves to cradle your face reasuringly. “No no no, baby, I would never! I love you. Only you. Please, believe me-”

You stare at him for a long, dramatic second. Then you smile as sweet as an angel, dropping the act. “Oh okay, baby. I believe you. Goodnight.”

You flop back down, tug the blanket up, and close your eyes like nothing happened.

Satoru exhales out a sigh. “Thank god.” He mumbles, relieved to have made it out of that alive, before settling back beside you. “Goodnight, baby.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up just slightly. A few seconds of silence. Then:

“…Wait a second.”

“you listening?”

no. no, you are not.

but who can blame you when megumi is standing right in front of you, fresh out of training, chest still heaving heavily and his skin is glistening with a light sheen of sweat that makes every defined line of his body look like it’s been carved from marble.

his black training shirt clings to him—damp and almost translucent in places—outlining the sharp cut of his chest, the deep ridges of his abs, and the tempting v-lines that disappear beneath the waistband of his sweats that hang way too low for comfort.

his dark hair is messy, strands sticking to his forehead, a few droplets of sweat sliding down the side of his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

god, he’s so hot.

you can’t stop staring. your mind is already wandering somewhere stupid like imagining running your tongue along the salty trail of sweat down his neck, over his chest and further down until you reach that perfect v and keep going. you want to drop to your knees right here and see his pretty eyes get all heavy and dark beneath his long lashes and his breath all uneven when you take him into your mouth.

want to hear the soft, broken sounds he’d try to hold back as you suck him slow and deep, tongue swirling around the head, feel his fingers thread into your hair and watch his head tip back, lips parted, a quiet whimper slipping out when you take him all the way to the back of your throat. want to feel his hips twitch, fighting the urge to thrust into your mouth while you look up at him with watery eyes, letting him know exactly how much you love having him like this and—

“hey. earth to you.”

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ───────── ୨୧ ──────── 𝜗𝜚 ⋆

⋆.ೃ࿔* streamer!megumi

stealing your boyfriend megumi's hoodie mid-stream

≈692 words series masterlist! can be read as standalone

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ───────── ୨୧ ──────── 𝜗𝜚 ⋆

Since it had been confirmed by Megumi that he did indeed have a girlfriend, there were a lot more hints of her in his streams. Some days, there were different kinds of scrunchies around his wrist while he played. Other days, stray jewellery sat on his desk. The chat adored his girlfriend and the way she teased him like sneaking up behind him to message his shoulders, or kissing him goodbye before going out, leaving him a flustered, quiet mess as he tried to maintain his gamer persona.

Tonight, the stream felt different. Megumi’s usual professional black keyboard was gone, replaced by one with hand-painted keycaps. Tiny, delicate designs clearly made with love decorated the keys. You had spent hours on it and it was clear he wasn't planning on changing it ever.

"Fushiguro, is that a custom board?" Yuji’s voice boomed through the headset as they loaded into Chained Together.

Megumi’s fingers hovered over the hand-painted keys. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, soft tone he only used when he was thinking of you. "Someone...painted it for me.’

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ───────── ୨୧ ──────── 𝜗𝜚 ⋆

⋆.ೃ࿔* streamer!megumi

asking your boyfriend megumi to come to bed mid-stream

≈665 words series masterlist!

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ───────── ୨୧ ──────── 𝜗𝜚 ⋆

The hum of the PC’s cooling fans was the only sound in the room. The blue light of the monitor reflected across Megumi’s sharp features, casting long and jagged shadows against the wall. It was 2 a.m. He’d been streaming for five hours, his stamina held together by black coffee and a stubborn refusal to quit.

As a longtime fan, he was dedicated to finishing Resident Evil: Requiem in one sitting. He leaned forward, the leather of his gaming chair creaking as he focused on the screen where a wet thud signaled another zombie falling. His dark eyes didn’t flicker, he was the type of streamer people watched for high-level gameplay and a no-nonsense attitude.

"It’s hard to kill the zombies while carrying a child. If I die here, it’s the game's fault, not a skill issue," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that the chat lived for.

He was fully encased in his digital sanctuary, isolated by the frantic clicking of his mouse and the dull glow of his keyboard. That sanctuary shattered when his bedroom door clicked open behind him.

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ───────── ୨୧ ──────── 𝜗𝜚 ⋆

⋆.ೃ࿔* streamer!megumi

your boyfriend megumi forgets to take your scrunchie off his wrist during his stream

≈736 words series masterlist! can be read as standalone

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ───────── ୨୧ ──────── 𝜗𝜚 ⋆

With the stream on once again, the chat was different than usual. It was mostly filled with messages about a girl's voice they'd heard in the background of his last stream and Megumi calling her "sweetheart." 

Yet Megumi was the same as always, his eyes tracking the screen with a clinical, detached precision while giving short commentaries here and there.

His focus was absolute until he felt the heat of the PC tower, making the room a bit too warm. Without looking away from the monitor, Megumi reached up to tug his hoodie sleeves back, the fabric bunching at his elbows.

He didn't even realize it at first. But as he repositioned his hand on the mouse, the camera caught a floral scrunchie resting snugly against his pale wrist, a stark contrast to his all-dark clothing.