#( Or any variation of “___ Dust” ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bloodblanks · 7 months ago

Text

nsfw headcanons — kaneki ken

ft. different variations of kaneki throughout his character arcs

note: alternatively, this can be considered a very explicit character study of kaneki.

author’s note: this fanfiction will contain mature content, including explicit sexual acts, mentions of trauma, some overstimulation, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

kaneki ken, the college student, is a shy, flustered mess. whenever you speak, his cheeks are dusted with a warm, rosy hue. despite him anxiously tripping over his own words, he still manages to maintain a contagious smile, beaming brighter than the sun.

when the topic of sex is brought up, kaneki’s eyes instantly widen, his expression much too easy to read as the reddening of his cheeks deepens in colour. he’s surprised—surprised you want to do this at all, but even more so that you want to do this with him.

after all, the day he first laid eyes on you was the day he decided you were out of his league.

kaneki is anxious—terrified, even—at the prospect of having sex with you. simultaneously, however, he is ecstatic. he is absolutely delighted knowing that he gets to engage in such an intimate, sensual act with you.

when you tug on kaneki’s shirt and he realizes he should undress himself, he can’t help but feel a pang of insecurity. but when your hands are on his bare skin and you’re murmuring compliments in his ear, telling him words that make his heart swell and blossom, any worries he harbours will dissipate.

he asks for your explicit permission before doing anything. even just small touches, featherlight brushes of his fingers against your skin, are only done after you tell him that it’s okay.

kaneki is very sensitive and extremely vocal. as soon as your fingers wrap around him, he’s gasping, his breath hitching, small whimpers leaving his lips. he’ll bite down on his bottom lip to stop the embarrassing sounds from coming out, but it’s not long before his mind becomes hazy and he loses any semblance of self restraint, long, needy whines leaving his lips.

despite his inexperience, he’s eager to please, be it with his fingers or mouth. his movements are clumsy to begin with but he’s a quick leaner—he’ll pay close attention to your reactions and adjust accordingly for what makes you feel best.

when he enters you as last, he sharply inhales, and his breath is quivering as he tries to steady himself. his movements are slow and timid, his focus entirely on your pleasure rather than his. not that he needs to pay attention to the euphoria that flows through his veins; if anything, he fears if he lets himself enjoy it too much, he won’t last. and he desperately wants to make sure you finish before him. he needs to ensure you feel good. he doesn’t want to disappoint.

but all the nerves in his body are being set ablaze, his mind flooding with pleasure as he cries out your name. his eyes squeeze shut for a brief second as he reaches his climax, his hands trembling all the while. apologies quickly spill from his lips, the temperature in his cheeks reaching a boiling point as he frantically tries to make up for finishing so soon.

when the both of you are satiated, he’s relieved, thanking whatever gods are out there that he was able to fix his blunder. but more than that, he’s hopelessly, pitifully infatuated with you, the adoration visible in his eyes as he whispers breathless professions of his love.

kaneki ken, the centipede, is a broken, empty husk of the man he used to be. his mind has frayed and fractured from the suffering he endured at yamori’s hands. long gone is the warmth that he used to exude as a human and in his early days as a half-ghoul. in its place is a tormented soul whose last remnants of sanity are held together by threads.

but the affection he holds for you remains. his feelings for you are so deeply embedded into his heart; they are what he clings onto during the endless nights of excruciation, the only thought keeping his mind from deteriorating as he chants the ceaseless string of forsaken numbers.

it isn’t the same, though. what was once pure and untainted has now become something darker, something warped. his attachment to you is no longer rooted in innocence and hope, but rather obsession—a sick yearning.

no, kaneki doesn’t just want you; he needs you. and that’s what he tells you, his eyes wide with lunacy as his hands grasp at you with bruising force. he clutches onto you like a lifeline. in his maddened eyes, that’s what you are.

he has nothing else to soothe him after he wakes up from the nightmares that frequently haunt him. there’s no one else he can find solace in when his eyes snap open, a thin layer of sweat soaking through the fabric of his clothes, besides you. you, who peels away the matted strands of hair stuck to his forehead. you, who dries away the dampness on his forehead. you, who coddles him and caresses his hair, whispering words of comfort in his ear. words that never reach him, as the sound of rushing blood and thundering claps of his heartbeat ring in his ears, as the mocking whispers and taunts in his mind fill up his entire head.

in moments like this, all he wants is to crawl inside of your chest, to nestle himself within the confines of your ribcage and to seek refuge in your heart. but that’s not possible, so he settles for being as physically close to you as possible.

his hands are all over you, running along every arch and ridge with the intent to memorize them. to sear the sensation of your flesh underneath his fingers into his mind, to eternally etch the softness of your body into his brain.

he prepares you with his fingers, and his movements, albeit hasty, are precise. he curls his fingers into you at just the right angle, tips of his fingers brushing against the sweetest of spots as his thumb rubs delightful circles around your clit.

kaneki thrusts into you with reckless abandon, his newfound strength and stamina unrelenting as he buries himself inside you, bottoming out with each frantic slam of his hips. all he can think about is how he needs to feel closer to you, how he needs to be deeper in you, how he needs to possess every inch of you, inside and out.

although he’s desperately chasing his own high, his body far outlasts yours, and the ruthless rhythm he maintains is quick to bring you to orgasm. he can feel your walls tighten and spasm around him, he can hear the way you cry out his name, but he doesn’t stop or slow his pace. he’s yet to climax, and even if that wasn’t the case, he yearns to drag out each melodious sound from your throat. he longs to brand the sound of your voice—the catharsis of his name on your lips—into his eardrums forever.

in the darkness of the room, the two of you are all that exists, fingers interlaced with one another’s and bodies tangled in coalescence.

prisoner 240, the amnesiac, is lost amidst a sea of memories that doesn’t belong to him. he doesn’t know what they are, he just knows that the blurry events and the emotions they evoke plague him at night. the dreams are endless, constantly drowning him in a distant yet intimate feeling of anguish. they could be recollections, but they aren’t his. nothing is his. not the thin fabric draped over him nor the four walls surrounding him; a cell he doesn’t know how he ended up in.

so, when you tell him that he can have you—that you’re willing to be his—he can only accuse you of lying to him. because it’s too good to be true; it’s not possible for someone as kind and beautiful as you to love a monster like him. he fights it, but each refusal of acceptance he utters is only a mask covering his true intent of seeking more reassurance from you.

and reassurance is what you give, wrapping his trembling body up in your arms, holding him in an embrace that he doesn’t think he’s worthy of. but with each doting whisper and comforting caress, his body melts into yours and his tears begin to dry.

prisoner 240 is sensitive, painfully so. he’s starved of touch, yet at the same time traumatized by rougher hands that brought him nothing but pain. he craves physical contact as much as he’s afraid of it, but his desires overshadow his fear by a fraction of a percentage as he allows you to undress him.

he wants to see you, touch you, have your body in ways that make him feel ashamed and guilty, but he dares not ask. he’s undeserving of such tenderness and affection. yet you look at him with such sincerity that he can’t help but swallow his own shame, pushing his reservations to the back of his mind and selfishly indulging in the gentleness of your touch.

at first, he’s busy trying his best to stop himself from instinctively flinching, but once his body relaxes, he’s all whimpers and whines and meek, timid pleas for you to continue. he quivers at the sensation of your fingers wrapping around his length, his erection twitching pitifully as you stroke him, heat searing his skin and electrifying each one of his neglected nerves.

he gasps as he enters you—you’re warm in a way he’s not sure he could ever get used to, your walls squeezing around him in a way that wrings a cry of delight from his lips. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, both out of embarrassment and because he wants to be close to you, wants you to hold and cherish him.

his hips rock against yours softly, his movements gentle and uncertain. despite how much his brain is flooded with euphoria, he’s using every ounce of control to ensure you feel good; he wants to return even a fraction of the pleasure you give to him.

when he orgasms, he’s calling out your name with an utmost angelical voice, his body stiffening as he permits himself to be completely unravelled by you.

after his climax, he’s quiet, save for the hot, heavy breaths that leave his parted lips. he basks in the afterglow of the act with you, before eventually, he tentatively asks if this was okay.

when you tell prisoner 240 he did good, his smile lights up the entire room, no matter how dense the darkness that envelops you both.

haise sasaki, the ghoul investigator, is never truly emotionally present. he’s kind, gentle, and affectionate. but he always pauses before he can utter the word ‘love,’ as if he’s afraid of the very syllable itself. you think some part of him is missing, an invisible wall dividing him apart from himself, a piece of him kept at a distance and hidden away from the world.

haise thinks so, too.

in fact, he knows so—there’s a portion of his mind that doesn’t belong to him. there’s a section in his head that’s inhabited by another person, another individual. someone he’s scared of letting out, someone he worries will devour him whole. someone he fears is all too much him, more him than he’ll ever be.

and there’s a fragment of his heart that beats with so much raw emotion, it threatens to overtake all the flimsy, superficial connections he’s made.

but he doesn’t want to lose this, not quite yet. so he keeps you at arm’s length; just close enough to have you, but not enough for you to have him. he cares for you with his half of the heart, the half of the organ that obeys him.

haise doesn’t commit. it’s no strings attached, no true intimacy, only quick exchanges of your body against his in the small, impermanent space of a hotel room.

his touch is gentle but firm, exploring your body with warm, calloused hands. he kisses you with hunger, his lips deftly moving against yours and your tongues locked in a dance which he performs with practiced ease.

it’s terrifying how little he resembles the person he used to be, the one locked away in the back of his mind.

haise will sink his head between your legs and lap away at your core, sucking on the sensitive bud before delving into your folds, pushing his tongue up your dripping hole. he enjoys tasting you more than anything else; nothing compares to the pleasure of having your thighs wrapped around his head and your juices running down his chin. it’s heavenly, he thinks, unable to get enough of your nectar, your fluids tasting so delectable on his tongue.

and the sounds you make—he longs to hear more, craves to keep hearing you moan out his name like it’s the only thing you know.

haise is vocal, but everything about him is more controlled, from the steady pace he thrusts at to the soft moans and gasps of pleasure that emits from his vocal cords. he presses his lips to your neck, peppers your throat with kisses as he continues fucking you at a comfortable speed, not too fast or too slow, all the while he mumbles earnestly about how good you feel.

you can tell he’s getting close when the tightly wound restraint he constantly holds dear begins to slip, his hips snapping against yours at an accelerating pace, and he brings a hand down to the crux where your bodies converge to rub at your clit. he makes sure to bring you to orgasm first, letting your sounds of fervour unravel the last of his control as he groans loudly, burying his face in your neck.

haise’s always there for you when you come down from your high, stroking your hair and whispering words of praise as he catches his own breath. he’s tender and caring as he cleans you up, basking in the weighted silence encapsulating the room. he’s almost loving, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek before you part ways for the night.

it’s not enough, but it’s everything that he, haise sasaki, has.

kaneki ken, the black reaper, is a man who puts up walls of harsh, unforgiving defences. he’s cold and closed off, not letting anyone in behind the barrier he built. but even the sturdiest walls aren’t impenetrable, and there are still moments where his barricade cracks ever so slightly.

that is not to say you are able to push past his fortifications entirely—no one is capable of that—but your persistent company has chipped away and nestled itself into the small crevices of his guard. it’s infuriating, how much you affect him, how he finds himself slowly but surely growing fond of your presence and eventually your touch.

your encounters always start the same, with you initiating contact and asking to meet when you know he’s just finished a long day of work. his job is draining, leaving him fatigued and much in need of stress relief. you’re what he considers a distraction, but he agrees to your request nonetheless, telling himself it’s insignificant. but kaneki’s never been one to do meaningless exchanges, and him entertaining this at all implies more than he’s ready to admit.

kaneki’s sitting on the edge of the flawlessly made bed with crisp white sheets when you arrive at the hotel room. he doesn’t do much to greet you, simply muttering a quiet but firm request for you to come. you do as instructed, walking over to the bed with your usual joke about how he’s always so unfriendly.

he’ll tug you down onto his lap in one sharp pull, causing you to stumble. you don’t have the opportunity to protest; any sound you make is quickly muffled by his lips crashing against yours, his hand in your hair and the other holding your waist. the movement of his lips is methodical and detached. despite the searing warmth of his mouth—all liquid embers and velvet flames—he’s so, so cold.

knees, he’ll murmur; a selfish request for you to please him. you oblige, dropping down and undoing his pants. kaneki isn’t hasty or aggressive; he allows you to go at your own pace, save for if you’re teasing, in which case the hand he has in your hair tightens ever so slightly as a warning. as you take him into your mouth, tongue lapping and swirling around his tip, you’re rewarded with the sight of his head tilted back, cheeks flushed, uneven breaths leaving his parted lips. it’s the most vulnerable you’ll ever see of him, because that moment lasts for only so long before he pulls you off his length and bends you over the bed.

he’ll harshly shove two fingers inside you, but any complaints you have wither away as soon as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. his movements are rough, but he’s not in any actual rush. he takes his time thoroughly preparing you until your cunt is drooling and your climax is near. he doesn’t let you finish—he never does—and instead retrieves his fingers, your denied orgasm and the sudden emptiness leaving you needy and whining for more.

when kaneki enters you at last, he stills for a moment to let you adjust. once you do, the rhythm he sets is fast and unrelenting. he’s fucking into you from behind, his hips colliding against yours in harsh snaps, the sound of skin slapping against skin a backdrop to the chorus of your moans and the ragged breaths he lets out. his hand is reaching between your legs, fingers expertly toying with the bundle of nerves in a way that quickly brings you to orgasm. if you finish before him—which you often do—he’ll slow his pace for a brief moment to let you catch your breath, before he returns to his unyielding pace.

you’re not done until he is—something he’s made clear by now. it doesn’t matter if you’re already a mess and too sensitive, he’ll simply reply saying that you can handle it.

when he finishes, it’s with the same loud moan, albeit stifled, his body shuddering in pleasure as he comes to a halt. the room is silent, save for heavy gasps and pants as you both greedily take in oxygen. it’s a while until he finally pulls out, but then he’s quick to clean you up. neither of you talk; the room is choked in a tender silence as he wipes you down in a manner that feels far more intimate, far more personal than he’d like.

he ignores it. instead, he lets his gaze linger on you for a few moments, his eyes searching you. it’s evident there’s something on his mind, but neither of you truly know what it is.

no more words are exchanged for the night—he redresses himself, and he’s gone, leaving you uncertain as to if he’ll come back.

he doesn’t admit it, not even to himself—but deep down, kaneki knows he’ll return.

kaneki ken, the one-eyed king, is a culmination of all his past experiences. he’s matured and grown, many aspects of his personality having gone through metamorphosis. but what has always been here and still remains is the caring self so deeply embedded in his nature. despite the suffering he’s endured, all the grief he’s gone through—he’s still willing to care for others. he’s still willing to open his heart for you.

kaneki doesn’t have all the nervous anxiety that bubbles up at the thought of having sex with you, but without the coldness masking his demeanour, he’s much less restrained, allowing the butterflies in his stomach to freely flap their wings. his characteristic shyness is apparent, his cheeks visibly flushing as he undresses, but you can tell by his soft smile that it’s excitement rather than unease.

he takes his time thoroughly savouring you, preparing you with both his mouth and fingers. he’s quiet as he laps at your core, his fingers simultaneously pushing up against that sweet spot nestled within your inner walls. he’ll pause briefly to ask if it feels okay, and when you nod, smiling at him as feverish words of encouragement leave your lips, he can only beam in return. pink dusts his cheeks like the fallen petals of cherry blossoms.

if you offer to return the favour, he’ll nod, quietly accepting your offer. he prefers to lay on the bed so that you can get comfortable too, rather than having you on your knees. he doesn’t hold back, not like this, letting out breathy moans and sighs of pleasure as you wrap your lips around him. all the while, he reaches to your face and brushes your hair out of your eyes so that he can see your pretty face better. he gazes at you so lovingly, as though you’re the only one in this whole entire universe for him. and you are.

when he finally enters you, it’s with your legs wrapped around both sides of his waist. he holds himself up, but leans down often to capture your lips with his. while his kisses are gentle, they’re hungry. you can taste the need as your mouths melt together, a coalescence of unadulterated passion.

the pace he sets is slow in the beginning, but soon becomes something more ardent, his hips meeting yours fervently with each hitching breath and guttural groan. hot, panting gasps of air are taken each time your lips break apart, a string of saliva connecting the both of you still, only broken by the next time his mouth finds yours.

he waits for your release first, allowing it to trigger his own. the feeling of your insides clenching and spasming around his length never fails to bring him to the edge himself, and he finishes in you soon after. it’s your name that he calls as he climaxes—an angelic cry of ecstasy, a confirmation of his devotion.

kaneki takes a minute to catch his breath, before he climbs off you, laying down beside you and pulling you close to his chest. his lips are on your neck, pressing soft kisses from your jugular to your shoulder blades as he cradles you close. as the afterglow settles, your breathing gradually returning to normal, he murmurs of his love for you, a hushed whisper like a confession of sin. it’s anything but—his feelings for you are a source of comfort for him. he’s thankful to experience such a beautiful connection with you. he’s grateful for your presence, and he tells you so, before eventually getting up, carrying you to the shower with him.

he takes the time and affectionately lathers you up with soap, his calloused hands caressing your skin with such tenderness that it makes you shiver despite the hot water cascading over the both of you. as the two of you clean away the aftermath of your intimacy, your skin against his, he finds himself thinking that it’s not about you completing him.

instead, with you, kaneki feels like he could be a whole person on his own. no longer does he feel the hollow ache of a void in his soul; instead, he’s fulfilled and content. he knows he’ll do anything to ensure you are, too.

kaneki brushes his lips over yours, sealing an unspoken promise.

if you enjoy my writing, please consider reblogging; i really appreciate the interactions.

thank you everyone for reading and supporting my work! (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

827 notes · View notes

pennjammin · 1 year ago

Text

PONYTAIL.

JJK HALLOWEEN! gojoxreader

SUMMARY ❥ you have a huge, embarrassing crush on the star of the jockey team on campus. you thought you’d kept it low key, ‘till he approaches you at a halloween party, and shows you that the mechanical bull isn’t the only thing you can ride.

CONTENT ❥ collegestudent!gojo, smut, unprotected, slight breeding kink mention, college!au, athlete!reader, afab!reader, athlete!gojo, drug/alcohol use, spit kink, switch!gojo, switch!reader, masochism, sadism, aftercare, car sex.

song inspo: can’t get enough - j. cole

WC: [8.1K] MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Crisp fall air brings out the gooseflesh among your skin; hair that's not there trying to rise at the thrill of tonight's festivities. The sidewalks are packed to the brim of frat boys, sorority sisters, general slackers and... even an alumni or two. So many people to choose from, you think.

Everyone’s in costume; faces concealed by masks, clouds of smoke mixing with the breeze, and overstimulating noises from animatronics. The holidays were here. You should be trying to find a relationship, to cuddle you through the cold, but right now you just want to bone.

"Where do we even start?" you hear your friend ask from behind you, as your whole group walks - stumbles, more like - down the middle of a road that has been closed to through traffic.

"Whatever house has the most fine men standing outside," your other friend answers with a grin.

You agree, because you had already shot down a fair amount of Don Julio - and the heat of the drink had travelled straight to your core, a small throb arising in your cunt the more you glance around and see the variations of muscles poking out from underneath masked strangers’ costumes. You’d easily find the satisfaction to your hunger, but you’re impatient.

You hum longingly as your eyes fixate on a crowd outside of a large house, painted black. There’s fog rolling over the lawn, but that’s not what draws you in; it’s the group of men deep into a drinking game out front.

Without warning your friends, you beeline over. You wonder if any of them are as needy as you feel right now. The liquor alone could not justify the painful feeling of heat all throughout your nerves; it was mostly your hormones. Pathetic, you tell yourself, so incredibly ready to sit down on someone’s cock.

As your friends follow you down the pathway to the large house, you feel several pairs of eyes stick to you like bologna on hot asphalt. That's right; you and your girls are just pieces of meat dangling in front of a den of lions.

You're not surprised, though, because you’re in a brown leather brazier, accentuated by puffy white sleeves that hang off your shoulders, tucked into a skirt. You have a whip on your hip, and your boots are up to your fishnet-covered knees - one of which leads to the garter holding a toy gun against your thick thigh; to add, it shoots out a little pow flag when you pull the trigger.

And it's clearly mesmerizing in the way that you wear it well, walking right into the party with your liquid confidence through the roof, aware of one of your friends falling behind to entertain someone who had called out to her.

Once inside the belly of the beast, you're farther away from the center of attention; it seems that everyone on campus had read your mind about picking this particular house to step into. It made sense; the house was huge outside, but even bigger within.

The room is littered with men and women alike; most sloppily grinding on one another on the edges of the room, others filling their noses with bad things, but above all: you notice there are cheers coming from somewhere in the center.

You realize why as you part through the crowd, dusting your friends to see what the excitement is. And when you see it, you feel yourself grow both confused and aroused.

There, under a bright red spotlight, is an entire brown and white mechanical bull. Somehow, it had fit into this massive room, and there’s still plenty of room leftover for the influx of students. You're as impressed as the rest of the group, who watch as an ebony-haired man lacking a costume walks around to check the plugs on the bull, and bleakly instructs everyone to take several steps back.

Bass had been booming under your feet, competing with the sound of blood rushing through your ears, but it’s slowly fading away now; a voice travels over the remaining bustling.

Everyone seems to freeze as out from the crowd walks a tall, lean individual with powdery skin. He's wearing something similar to you: a black button-down shirt, leather pants, and brown boots, but most importantly - you feel your breath hitch when your eyes land on the delicious black Stetson that rests atop his contrasted snowy locks.

You feel mixed things blossoming in your chest: unease, desire, and… embarrassment.

You’ve been completely obsessed with the boy in the Stetson for months. Satoru, ‘Toru, and Gojo all being the names he answered to. You’d hopelessly pined over this Satoru, each time noting in your mind just how attractive you find him. He’s on the jockey team; you always see him in a tight, white riding suit with his helmet perched against his hip. You’re the soccer team captain, so you share a field for practice, and, well… Satoru doesn’t make it any easier for you to lock in while you train.

Your friends had noticed your infatuation and would giggle about him to you, saying how you looked like a cockdrunk puppy when he would kick himself on top of the horses - all of the muscles in his legs and arms moving underneath the skin you desperately wanted to crawl into.

He managed to pour gasoline directly onto your fire the first time he’d bumped into you on your way to the locker rooms.

“Careful, ponytail,” he’d said, a smug wink fluttering from his eye.

Then it happened again. And again. Each time you bumped into one another, he barely said two words to you, never seeming to truly notice you or take you in. This didn’t stop you from wearing your hair in a ponytail every single time, though.

He would likely not even recognize you now, given your costume and heavy finesse of makeup, a striking contrast to the sweat sticking your hair to your forehead and your muddy soccer jersey every time he’d seen you in the past. But you knew you recognized him, given the way your body was already responding to his presence.

"Alright now, y’all can't all be this shy," Satoru’s horrible attempt at a country accent booms into the crowd, gesturing wildly to the mechanical animal. "Anyone wanna be the guinea pig? Someone's gotta. I'm definitely not doing it."

A bit of laughter erupts but yet, the crowd remains still. You notice people trying to egg their friends on to test it out, but no one is either drunk or brave enough yet. Satoru continues to glare around the room, walking slowly as the spurs on his boots clack against the hardwood floor, as if he is genuinely a westerner interrogating everyone.

You suddenly feel a gush of pressure hit your back, and four hands send you lurching forward, causing you to accidentally step out beyond the crowd and into the center of the room with the snow-haired man. You exclaim loudly and your friends cheer, which prompts him to turn and look at the commotion.

"Well," Satoru’s velvety voice says, lowering his eyelids into a heated squint. "Seems we have a winner."

His lips disappear as they tuck in to wet themselves, and when they pop back out they are glistening under the red light. Though you cannot see his eyes under the harsh lighting, you can feel them, as well as the heat traveling up through your belly. You wonder then if he might possibly be remembering you.

No way, you tell yourself.

You attempt to turn and look at your friends, who are no doubt giggling endlessly at their little prank, but your head hardly cocks to the side when your hand is being grabbed by a larger, warm one.

You instantly look in the direction of it, your eyes traveling up your arm in disbelief, only to find Satoru is smirking at you.

"N-No, this was a mistake," you try to argue, but he is already gently coursing you towards his body, and your legs feel like jelly as you mindlessly obey like a little doll.

"Don't be afraid," he murmurs to you, hypnotizing you with his voice as he walks backwards, guiding you right to the steps that will allow you to get onto the bull. "You look like..." he pauses, cocking his head to the side and your heart drops, "you'd know how to hang on, no? You've got those strong legs."

You let out a breath. He still doesn’t recognize you. But you know he is referring to your thighs, which are on the larger side from all of the exercise you do for soccer. He's right, you do have the strength to keep yourself on the bull, but whether you want to do it in front of everyone remains to be seen.

"My friends pushed me forward," you blurt out, "I-I really… don't think I can do this."

His voice has lowered by now. It seems like he wants only you to hear him. Not that it mattered, as the crowd is still quite loud and so is the music thumping from another area of the house.

"I think you can," he responds, dipping his head forward like a proper cowboy, feeding into the twisted little costume he’s in. "My name is Satoru, but you can call me ‘Toru. What's yours, madam?"

You almost blurt that you already knew his name, but catch yourself.

"It's Y/N," you say bleakly, knowing he’s only asking to tell the crowd, not because he is interested in knowing who “ponytail” really is.

Not that he has indicated at all that he remembers you, which makes a little twinge of jealousy poke you in the heart because of the way he was looking at you. He must look at every woman like this.

"Y/N," he repeats slowly, as if memorizing the name, simultaneously gliding his piercing eyes down your body again and stopping briefly on your leg — the one with the gun strapped to it. "Give us a show, pretty girl. I think everyone is looking forward to this."

You'd reached the steps to the bull. You begin to suspect that Satoru is the “everyone” in question. You want to try and fight him more, but something about his voice, his unhindered belief in you despite being a total stranger caused you to want to prove him right.

You can do it, you can ride it and not fall off, no matter how intense the settings.

One final look at him, and you release your hand from his, realizing the two of you had been standing there holding hands this entire time. He broke away, but not before giving you another look that might as well have had fire attached to it in the way it sent searing erotica up your body. You’re disgusted at just how awfully, hopelessly, desperately in love with him you are.

The crowd had been falling more quiet as you approached the chopping block, it felt like. But now, it's returned to cheers and whooping as you get on your tip-toes and sling one leg over the side of the bull, your skirt bunching up around your hips.

You spot your friends, who have acquired more drinks; colorful green and purple ones. They lift their cups when they notice your eye contact, and make kissy-faces as encouragement. Or perhaps they’re making fun of your obvious puppy-like expression every time you so much as look at Satoru.

"Alright everyone," he announces suddenly, clapping his hands before walking around to the front of the bull and patting its headless neck. "Y/N has bravely stepped up to the plate tonight. Since you’re all too pussy.” Laughter from the crowd. “Let's see how long she can last."

He turns and looks up at you, dropping an eyelid down into a familiar wink and clicking his tongue.

An irritating piece of man, he is. He doesn’t have to be so damn gorgeous, easily distracting you as you grip onto the reigns around the bull's nonexistent neck, all the confidence draining smooth out of your mind.

You don't have time to think about it much more because of the sheer level of noise that erupts from the room; the crowd has erupted into whoops and whistles, music’s blasting around you. A good old fashioned hype party song, that has prompted the crowd to lose their mind.

The red light makes it hard to see much of anything beyond the first row of people, which is helpful for your nerves, but it also means that since Satoru is standing the closest to you and the bull, he is the only thing you can clearly see, as he presses the button to trigger the ride.

You gasp as it begins vibrating, something you had not expected to happen. The bull jerks to the side, before the rear end perks up, knocking you plain forward and winding you. Your breasts bounce upward and the crowd oo’s.

Satoru smugly continues to operate the bull, keeping it slow as he courses it to knock forward and back, forward and back. You sit back up, trying to defeat gravity, your grip still strong on the reigns. But little do you know that you’ve been out of control since you stepped on the floor. Satoru’s taking his precious time sinking his claws into you.

Your thighs dig into the side of the bull and Satoru spins you, jerking up the rear again; the force knocks your skirt up.

You gasp, wanting to let go of the rope to adjust it, but you know you’re going to fall off if you do. You've made a vow that you cannot fall in front of Satoru, no matter how far he pushes you to your limit. Besides, you figure, having your ass our in front of him wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

The crowd cheers, realizing Satoru is operating the machine solely for their gaze, and not necessarily to challenge you.

But you have yet to put that puzzle piece together.

You continue innocently focusing on staying up, but make the mistake of looking at Satoru again. He's looking up at you from beneath his eyelashes, his top teeth poking out as he tugs on his bottom lip with them.

"Doin' so good," he mouths, pushing at the the controls again.

You groan a bit, the vibration of the bull suddenly feeling even more intense, though it's likely just a combination of your imagination and the tequila.

Your head falls back as the bull begins to move in a galloping motion. More cheers erupt, and a darkening gaze is shot from Satoru that you can't see with your head tilted.

The vibrations shouldn't feel this good, you think. You start to feel embarrassed at the thought of getting wetter on top of this bull, in front of all these people, but you can't help it; your eyes flutter closed as you try to focus beyond the pleasure.

Satoru is drinking up the sight like a glass of water in the middle of the night. He can see his effect working more and more on you, your thigh muscles flexing harder as you dig them deeper into the side of the bull. You must not think anyone notices, but he can. A sick fuck he was to currently be jealous of a literal robot.

You suddenly spring your eyelids apart and cry to Satoru that you have to stop. You can't handle the ecstasy creeping up on you, your embarrassment outweighing your desire to prove yourself a strong bullrider. If he keeps operating like this, you’ll cum all over the back of the bull.

Satoru looks hesitant but he ultimately stops the ride, and you take a deep breath when the vibrations come to a halt. The bull steadies and you loosen your thigh muscles.

Despite feeling like a failure, the crowd cheers anyway; you were up there for what felt like a lifetime, but realistically it hadn't been long, and you were expecting people to clown on you for not lasting. It's not like you couldn't stay up; it was more like you couldn't hold your pathetic desire to bone the cowboy at bay.

Satoru comes around and helps you down, the same routine as before with his hand in yours, only this time you're putting some weight on him as you feel yourself struggling to stand with your legs apart.

"You did so good, pretty girl," he coos, not even phased by your body weight. "Rode so well. Thighs a bit sore now I bet, hm?"

You feel your stomach knotting up at his word choice. "A bit," you answer grimly. "The vibrating didn't help."

"Really," he drawls, not even attempting to make it sound like a question. "How so?"

You begin to suspect he knows exactly how. His hands have found your elbows, his arms wrapped around you to keep you steady, and you find yourselves in a darker corner of the room with a convenient lack of a crowd. You blink and the bull seems a great distance away. No one is looking for you, either.

"Doesn't matter," you huff, looking at the floor. "It's embarrassing to say."

"Say it," Satoru purrs, taking your hands in his before placing them both right over his chest pecs. "Tell me what it did to you, hm? Maybe I can help, ponytail.”

You gasp then, your eyes immediately shooting up to meet his face. You almost fall over at the idea that he knows who you are, that he’s recognized you. This means that now he absolutely cannot fix what the bull had done to your poor cunt, although... with the way he's eating you alive with his pupils alone, your morality wants to fly right out of the window and beg him to fix it.

"Made me so horny," you breathe, immediately smacking yourself in the mouth at the coercion of your confession. “Th-That is not what I meant to say.”

Satoru's chest shakes against your palms as he laughs, "Adorable. Got all hot and bothered from a bull ride? Should’ve known that’s all it would take.”

Your face heats immediately. "I've been drinking," you admit with a slur, sinking farther away from sobriety. "Normally it-it’s not that easy.”

You laugh, trying to mask it as a joke, but Satoru's face is dangerously still.

“It is,” he murmured, “you always have the same little expression on your face at practice, just from seeing me.”

You want to be embarrassed that he’d caught you. But right now, your darkest, perverted fantasies are coming alive right before you; and you’d be a fool not to feed into them.

"Because..." you breathe out, feeling your back hit a wall, unsure how you ended up here. "Why do you always look so good?"

"Been thinking the same thing," he mewls, leaning over you with his hands still holding yours to his body. He lets them go then, and puts his own flat against the wall on either side of you. "Got up there and rode the bull like a champ - you can imagine what it did to me."

"What could a perfect stranger have done?” you whisper, knowing, begging, wanting the answer to be something raunchy and wet in your ear.

Instead, in a flash, his rock-solid pelvis is digging into your stomach, and he twists his hips to allow you to feel the even more solid length under his leather pants.

"We’re not strangers, ponytail," Satoru hums in your ear, just like you’d wanted; warm breath traveling through your hair and down your neck. “Always see you eyein’ me on the field. Goin’ outta ya way to knock into me afterwards. Been at this for months.”

You can't help the little whine that escapes your mouth. Your cunt had been pulsing all night, but now you can almost hear it. It's screaming at you to slide your hands down his body, to reach the waist band of the leather on his pants and then dare to explore further—

His gasp takes you out of your clouded fantasy, as you realize it's not a fantasy at all. Your hand is resting cutely over his bulge. You had been acting on your twisted, unwarranted desires from weeks ago all along.

"Ngh, knew I chose the right costume," he murmurs in your ear. "Knew it’d finally get your attention, get you to wanna ride me.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. You’d been caught, being so obviously needy. You wish you can say you’re embarrassed, but when your hand doesn’t immediately move away from his dick, you know you’re fucked.

You feel yourself shuddering, your hands moving from his waist, over his ribs, passing to his shoulders; your palms sliding over thick, unidentified shapes and running down the curves in his arms. You couldn’t stop, you needed to know what all of him felt like.

“You didn’t have to be a cowboy to get me to ride you,” you whisper, “but if you care about saving horses that much-“

"Hah- shut up," he grunts. "'Fore I take you against this wall. Shouldn’t - hngh - be doing this here.”

“Isn’t this your frat house?” you question. “Take me,” you pause when his gaze darkens, “take me to your r-room.”

He groans, a velvety sound that raises the imaginary hair back up on your neck.

“Not mine, but I’ve got an idea.” He backs away from you, and the cold sensation of his body heat leaving yours makes your heart thump in pain. “C’mon, pretty.”

So he takes your hand again, and again you let him lead you around like a little pony. You don’t see your friends anymore, but you imagine the groupchat is blowing up. They no doubt saw you disappear into the shadows with Satoru.

You manage to escape to the outside without so much as a second glance from anyone, as you’ve started a riot for a turn on the mechanical bull. The memory of riding it seems so distant now.

“So tell me,” Satoru begins suddenly, pulling you hard against him, and you stumble before he puts a hand on your waist to steady you. “Just how long did you intend to keep watching me? Makin’ me all nervous before you made your move?”

You are stunned by his bold line of questioning, but he knows full well how tipsy you are, and that you’re going to answer as honestly as you can.

“I made a move the first time I ran into you,” you squeaked. “Thought you’d take it from there, but guess your balls aren’t big enough.”

This makes him grunt a bit. “If I would have made the first move, you’d still be limping. I don’t like all the small talk.”

“I see,” you purr, “otherwise you wouldn’t be leading me to this field, would ya, ‘Toru?”

“Not a field,” he corrects. “I’m parked back here. What do y’think I am, a serial killer? Wouldn’t just fuck you in the wilderness. ‘Less you asked.”

It had a nice ring to it, but you aren’t quite wasted enough to not care about being seen out in the open like that.

You reach his car and, pretending to be a gentleman, he opens the door for you, and while you sink in, he goes to the trunk. You begin to feel your heart race; you hardly know this man, actually, and maybe you’re stupid for thinking with your cunt instead of your head. Letting him lead you out back, all alone to his car.

Your nerves ease when he joins you in the back seat, nothing more than a bottle of liquor in his hand.

“Think we need to loosen up some more,” he says sternly, unscrewing the cap. “Not that I need alcohol to take care of you, ponytail, but it’ll definitely make things interesting.”

You nod in agreement, knowing you can certainly use more liquid courage. You wait for him to pass you the bottle, but instead you feel chilly fingers connect to your chin, and his thumb courses your face towards his.

“Open those lips f’me,” he murmurs lowly, tilting your chin up towards his face and bringing the liquor bottle closer to yours.

Your eyes widen in realization of what he’s about to do, but the throb between your legs has resurfaced full force at the ghost of a grip he has on your chin.

Hot liquor is sliding down your throat before you even register that you’ve parted your lips. You gasp and close your mouth into a bubble, trying to breathe through your nose as the liquor starts to go down harshly.

Satoru’s watching you intensely, “Don’t swallow it all,” he instructs quickly, to which you find yourself glaring at him.

The interior of your cheeks is going numb, and he’s telling you not to swallow.

What he does next, though, makes your skeleton jump out of your skin and back in again.

He opens his mouth; his long, fat tongue sticking out as far as it will go with a delicate curve in it. He points to his open mouth, while looking at you through his eyelashes.

You feel your face go numb. Your cunt was pounding now, secretion wetting your inner thighs and covering your pussy. You spread your legs a bit, trying to use Satoru’s backseat as something to grind down onto.

You begin doing so as you sit up straight a bit and lean forward, before pushing your cheeks out to spit a steady mix of liquor and your saliva right onto Satoru’s glistening tongue. He hisses immediately, before gripping you by the neck; taking you by surprise when your air flow becomes restricted. Your face is jerked to his as he swallows the liquor you just spit into his mouth, nipping your bottom lip.

“Tastes s’good,” he rasps, “Know you’ll taste even better.”

“But—“ you want to ride him already.

Wanna get him deep in your belly, use your hips to wring more of those deep moans from the depths of his throat. You don’t know if you can wait for that.

“But what?” Satoru challenges, applying pressure to your massive thighs with his palms. “Y’should know by now you can trust me. Didn’t I take care of you on the bull?”

He slides his finger up your stomach and to the cups of your brazier, tucking the tip of the digit inside and tugging the material down, a nipple begging to be exposed.

“Had it vibrating as hard as it could,” he continues, cocking his head to the side, careful not to let his Stetson slide off. “Still can’t get you riding it like that outta my head. Fuck.” He hisses again and—

Crack!

His hand comes down hard on your thigh, pulling a pathetic cry out of you. You look up at him through your lashes; he’s so beautiful with the way the moonlight casts a glow along his jaw, his wet lips, and the brim of his Stetson.

“Quit looking at me like that,” he says, creeping closer to you.

“Make me,” you mouth brattily, and so he does.

Keeping his hands both occupied on your thigh and your throat, he finally crashes his desperate lips against yours, creating harsh reverberations through your teeth. He starts the kiss off hard and unsure, but once you’re kissing him back, the kisses get sloppy, ferocious, desperate.

You let out a whimper against his lips, and in the split second your mouth is open his tongue has made its way inside. The muscle clashes with yours, drenching your mouth in his saliva as he takes your tongue for his own.

Meanwhile, his hand has left your throat. It’s back on the trim of your brazier, and without warning, his fingers gives it a harsh tug and your breasts are out.

He doesn’t break away from the kiss but he does glance down and start palming the meat of your chest, pinching one nipple between his index and thumb.

Not much noise is made besides your shared frustrated grunts as he breaks away from your sloppy kiss, leaving his drool all over your mouth and chin as he dips his charming head down to latch onto your nipple.

He pulls one of your legs up onto his lap, as he nestles himself next to the other one, now between your legs, and you’re forced to lean back against the window and press your hand against the back of the passenger seat for balance.

Satoru is not showing your breasts any mercy. His hand glides across the skin on your leg, before he takes his fingers in a walking motion up your thigh and then quickly grabs your tits into each hand, gathering large loads of spit and hacking them onto your chest, the glorious sound of the fluid hitting your skin making you wetter and wetter and—

He takes a big hand and pop! smacks your achingly solid nipple, dragging a loud, embarrassing cry from you.

“S-Satoru—“ you moan, undecided if you want to tell him that it’s too much.

“Hmm?” he questions, the word coming out muffled as he now has a mouth full of breast again, his tongue swirling greedily over your areolas and sending signals to your tingling nerves.

“S’alot,” you stutter, “feels t-too good.”

“Don’t care,” he shrugs, pulling away from your chest and bringing his face back up to yours, “not finished with you. Not even close.”

You whine as he cracks a smack on your tit one more time for good measure. Now he’s pulling your legs, causing you to lose balance and fall onto your back.

The back seat is spacious, but you think there’s no way he’s going to be able to bend his body to do whatever he thinks he’s about to do.

He doesn’t seem to be thinking like you, though, because his hands hike up your skirt and he hisses at the sight of your panties, not even hesitating.

“S’cute, look at the little cherry,” he grins seductively, poking the fat of your pussy with a sharp finger.

He’s referring to the pattern on the front of your tiny white thong, but you’re hardly paying attention because your mind is still ringing at his sudden contact with your cunt.

Rip!

His hands are tearing apart your poor little fishnets, paving a way for him to get your panties off. He succeeds, struggling a bit to get them past your boots; folding your knees up to your face as he does so, commenting on your flexibility.

“Hah- I love athletic girls,” he says aloud. “So flexible. Gonna have your ankles by your ears, ponytail.”

You squirm underneath him at his threat, but he’s already pinning your legs up, your boots grazing across the ceiling of his car as he stares down at your glinting pussy - dripping all over his expensive white leather.

If the alcohol wasn’t currently hitting you like a train - your brain mushing and swirling from being slapped and pushed around - you’d be trying to force your legs closed to hide from him.

“Such a fucking pretty pussy,” he grits out, leaning forward and shooting a collection of spit out of his mouth right onto it. Your eyes roll, the warmth of his body fluid landing right over your clit, making the bottom half of your body twitch. Satoru grins.

“Don’t even need my spit, y’so wet; I just love the way it looks on you,” he murmurs, keeping his hands firm on the underside of your thighs, “‘M gonna mark you with all my fluids, pretty.”

“Shut up,” you cry out, “if you’re still talkin’ it means your face isn’t stuffed with pussy.”

“Mm, ponytail gets fiesty,” Satoru looks at you from between your thighs and bites his lip, “there’s no fun in rushing right into these things, you know.”

He turns his head to the side, still wearing his Stetson - it’s somehow managing to hang on through all of the filth - and he plants a soft little kiss to your inner knee. Then another to the other leg. He rinses and repeats this process until he’s far up your thighs, and you can feel his breath dancing over your dripping hole.

“F-fuck,” you scream out, getting more frustrated, “‘m gonna shove your face if you don’t stop.”

“Try,” he challenges, but his eyes say that if you do, you’ll be teased for even longer.

"Wh-Why are you doing this to me?" you pant, ramming your knee into his rib playfully.

"Cause truthfully," he says lowly, "I liked the little game we had going. Building up the tension. Hate to see it end..." he drags his finger down the side of your thigh, making you shiver. "And hmm, you are such a pretty girl, begging like this. Imagine if your teammates knew that their beast of a captain was in the backseat of a car, begging to have her pussy eaten? Imagine!”

His breath tickles your cunt as he cracks a mean laugh, his head tilted down so that you can’t see his expression under his hat.

You swallow in embarrassment. You always go for a little teasing, but this is extreme. Before you know it, your hand has popped out before you, and your fingers splay out over the cowhide of his Stetson as you push - hard - and push until his arrogant little mouth is against your pussy.

He’s shut up instantly, groaning softly against your skin as his tongue darts out on instinct, lapping up your juices.

“That’s right,” you whisper with ache in your voice, “shut up and eat that shit.”

Your head lolls back against the window panel in Satoru’s car. He’s not even bothering to argue with you now, lost in his own heaven of your delicious nectar. If you could see past his hat you’d be able to watch as his face becomes wet and shiny, as your secretion dribbles down his chin in a heavenly mix of saliva. His tongue drags down between your folds, making you squirm, but it’s nothing compared to when he shoves his tongue right into your wanton hole.

The cry you let out vibrates against the interior of the car. Satoru’s hand has come up underneath your thigh, pulling your leg to rest across his back as he’s slid down into a crouch on the floor. His hand cracks down on your leg in the same spot as before, this time digging his fingernails down into the flesh after the slap.

You hiss, but ultimately feel even more turned on as he drags his tongue back through your juices, finding your clit, narrowing it out as he flicks it back and forth, back and forth, the same way he had been rocking you on that damned bull.

“S-Such a fucking mess,” he moans against your skin, trying to catch all of your secretion but it’s impossible with the way he keeps eating you - you’re flooding the seat, your inner thighs, and his smug little pale face. “Tastes so good. Can’t imagine how good you taste after a long game, fuck.”

You furrow your eyebrows embarrassingly at the the thought of what he was implying - your cunt all sweaty after soccer and he’d prefer that over this? You want to shudder in disgust but, picturing yourself hiked up on the wall with your soccer shorts discarded, a leg over his shoulder as Satoru ate you alive like this - works you up more than you figure you can even get at this point.

“S-Satoru,” you whimper, feeling the pool of heat twist up your insides as the familiar feeling of ejaculation creeps up on you.

You reach and grab his hat, digging your fingers into the leather, your legs clenching against his cheeks as you try to control the shaking that you know is to overcome you the second you orgasm.

“I know that sound,” Satoru purrs against your clit, “cum for me baby. Cum all over my tongue, like y’been wanting to for months.”

That’s all it takes. And god, Satoru does not show mercy as the wave starts at your clit and pushes all the way through your body, down to your curling toes in your boots and up to your nipples, which are still dancing free over the rim of your brazier.

The shakes come quickly, intensely, harsher than you’ve ever felt them before, as Satoru’s tongue rides out your high for you, not stopping until you’re just slightly twitching.

“Beautiful,” he hums, parting his mouth from you and sitting up in the backseat. “Satoru one, Y/N zero.”

You frown at his use of scoring, knowing it’s just to get under your skin.

“I’ll even out the score, fuck you,” you hiss.

“Please do, ponytail,” Satoru grins.

You find yourself pulling your legs back quickly, your thighs still a little weak and shaky as you sit up on your knees. You quickly unzip your boots and toss them somewhere in the front. Then, you grab Satoru by his ungodly black button-down and drag him to the middle of the seat.

He’s looking up at you in a mix of awe and smug, but you’re trying to pretend you don’t feel his eyes on you so that you may maintain your confidence.

You throw your right leg over his waist. Now, you’re straddling him, bare cunt over warm leather, dragging all of your juice and cream over his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind.

You fumble between your legs to unbutton his pants and then unzip them. He assists you when he raises his hips for a second, allowing you to get his pants down just enough that his bulge is pressing against you through his boxers.

He’s looking up at you with slanted eyelids, his pupils blown to black with the rim of ice-blue hardly visible. He’s clearly so tipsy, just off of the little bit you’d spit into his mouth, meanwhile your body is hot and your vision is getting blurry, nothing on your mind except getting his cock inside of you.

But oh, he deserves the teasing he’d given you. You use your hand to palm him, but simultaneously drag your hips over his lap, your sensitive cunt twitching as you do so.

His head falls back, his Adam’s apple thumping gloriously in his throat. His eyes flutter closed but only briefly.

“Fuck- shit,” he groans. “‘M sorry ‘bout the teasing, ‘kay? Want you to take advantage of me already. F-fuck, please-“

His begging is so delicious. If he thinks this is going to decrease the teasing you’re bestowing upon him, he has another thing coming.

Probably you.

“Oh?” you hum, giggling. “What’s that? Satoru begging now? How the tables have turned…”

He groans again, “S-Sick, innit? The way I want to be balls deep in that wet ass cunt. Don’t wanna wait anymore. You’ve kept me dangling for so long. Please-“

He whines. He actually whines, followed by a low whimper as he pokes out his bottom lip and lifts his head to look at you again.

A smart move on his part because you are absolutely hypnotized by his eyes, and before you know it, your hand is passing the elastic band on his black boxers. You find your hand running over bare skin - what a slut, he’d shaved. You gasp as you continue to slide your hand down to try and grab his tip - but it’s not there. It’s so far deep into his pants because he’s simply that large.

You scoot back on his lap a bit and finally whip his cock out, and it bounces a bit at its own sheer heft. There’s a pretty curve in it and thick veins swirling the sides, leading to a fat pink tip.

You realize you’ve been staring, but also slowly stroking it, admiring the fuck out of this perfect cock that you knew you would be thinking about for weeks.

“Like what you - hah - s-see?” he coos, closing one eye and glancing down at your hand sliding delicately over his length with his other.

“Mhmm,” you reply, “just imagining how good it’s gonna hurt. Your cock gonna make me cry, ‘Toru?”

“F-Fuck yeah,” he shudders, “gonna have you screaming, pretty. Loud as you want - no one can hear. Need you to milk this cock.”

“S-Shut up,” you groan, only because his words were driving you mad - and you would not last even another sixty seconds without his length penetrating your poor insides.

But, you suddenly remember the whip on your waist. Albeit made out of a cheap, rope-like material, the gears in your head start twisting like the delinquent that you are.

You catch Satoru’s wondering eye as he silently asks you why you aren’t bouncing on his cock yet - but you manage to ignore the expression as you thwip out the long black prop and quickly get it around Satoru’s neck before he can so much as gasp in surprise.

His eyes widen when he realizes you’ve made a leash out of your whip, tightening it at the base of his throat and coiling it around your wrist, bringing his face closer to you.

He’s so stunned that he remains silent, but his plump lips are parted in surprise, which you take as an opportunity to bite into the bottom one - harshly.

You suck on it as you lift your hips and your free hand finds the base of his cock - then you slide it between your folds very purposefully and agonizingly slow.

“Holy fuck,” Satoru whimpers against your mouth. “Y’doing me so dirty, Y/N, fucking ruining me. God…” he adds, “I’m so fucking obsessed with you.”

You gasp at the confession, and then at the feeling of his tip pushing into your dripping hole, as you drag your hips down to sink yourself onto him.

His eyes immediately roll back, and you let go of his lip, keeping your grip on the whip as your pussy adjusts to his size - feeling the drumming pulse coming from his veins tap your walls erotically.

You try not to clench, but as you suspected, it hurts so good - you’re trying not to focus on the pain. But he’s just so thick, so filling.

You whimper and in the same moment, feel a coil of fingers wrapping into your hair, curling it around his knuckles to keep you from moving your head.

“Ride this shit,” he growls, his eyes suddenly back open and completely aware. “Put those sexy ass hips to use.”

He grips one with his free hand for emphasis, tightening his grip on your hair, suddenly making you wish you’d opted for the ponytail tonight. You cry out at the mixes of searing pain and pleasure, as you’ve managed to take all of his cock inside of you - his tip kissing your cervix painfully. You decide now you can try to move, so you use your toes to push yourself back up, finding your pace.

“It’s too big,” you complain, albeit very fakely; your grip on the whip turning your knuckles white as it’s the only thing you can do to distract yourself.

Your other hand digs into his shoulder, and he hisses.

“Nuh-uh,” he coos, “you can take it, pretty. Deep breaths, know you can be a good cockwarmer f’me.”

Your breaths are coming out in short little pants. Slowly you’re adjusting to his size, and with you slicking up his cock it’s easy to start gliding sinfully up and down, up and down-

Satoru leans forward against your restraint and greedily takes your mouth onto his. He squeezes your hip harshly to get you to moan, then shoves his tongue hungrily inside your mouth. While his tongue works on harassing yours, his cock works on bruising your uterus. You’re bouncing quicker now, but he’s meeting you halfway with animalistic thrusts of his own.

Aside from heavy breathing, the squelching sound of your wet walls against his dick accompany the clapping of your ass against his groin. You start rotating your hips, bringing one forward before the other, creating a wave-like motion as you ride your slutty little half-horse into oblivion.

His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes shut tight, his mouth only hanging onto yours by his teeth as he continues to whine into the air. You yourself have gone up a few octaves, your moans competing with his, making the atmosphere even more erotic.

“Oh, fuck,” Satoru moans, “s’tight. S’good. Such a perfect fucking pussy, fits right over me. This shit was designed just f’me. Fuck, wh-why you fuckin’ me like this?” He shudders under you, releasing your lip from his teeth and opening his eyes. “Y’must want my fuckin’ babies, all in your stomach.”

Your eyes roll back as you repeat a very sultry, “All in my stomach.”

So cockdrunk off him, if he wants to fill you to the brim you’ll let him. You’ll let him have his way with you however he wants, at this moment, if it meant he’d keep fucking up into you this good - if it meant you could have his cock more than just tonight. You’d never wanted to obey and be so good for someone before now.

“You are being so good,” Satoru purrs, which makes you realize you said the last sentence aloud. “My pretty ponytail. Taking me so well. I know it hurts, baby, but you got it. You can have all of my cock - anytime you want. I-I’m…” he had been speaking clearly, but a particular thrust had made him lose his footing, bringing back his tipsy voice, “I-I’m yours to use. To ruin.”

Your eyebrows furrow, you gasp at the velvety statement. You know he’s just drunk, you are too, but you’re so incredibly fucked. Despite his words, he’ll probably never even look at you again after this, and it pains you deeply. You can’t think about that now though, because heat is rising in your stomach.

“God, Satoru,” you mumble, “keep fucking talking. Keep talking so I can cum all over you. Please, please, f-fuck.”

“Ngh, need you to cum,” Satoru says. “Wanna feel the way you pulse when you cum. Bet you can squirt f’me too, huh? Know you’ve got it, so wet like that.”

You shake your head, your hand loosening the grip on the whip; you just don’t have the strength anymore.

You lean back, arching against him, and he takes the opportunity to pop your breast right into his mouth, gripping onto your nipple with his teeth before he sucks like a starving man.

“P-Please, God… mmph,” you drag out, eyes rolling as you can barely bring yourself to make noise with the overwhelming amount of pleasure you’re experiencing.

But you’re taken by surprise when his hand is suddenly coming away from your hair, and his arms wrap around you in a tight bear hug. Your hand has no choice but to fall from the whip as your own arms wrap behind his neck to steady yourself - and just as you think you’re about to regain balance, Satoru starts mercilessly slamming his hips up into your ass.

“SHIT!” you scream out, the loudest you have since being in the car.

Flap, flap, flap - as he absolutely destroys the inner workings of your slick pussy - determined to bruise your cervix and leave it swollen and aching for him.

“You. Are. Gonna. Cum. For. Me,” he grits, punctuating each word with a hard thrust.

You feel tears brimming your eyes; it’s just so good, hurts so bad, you can’t get enough.

You find yourself seeing and saying nothing but his name over and over for the few seconds right before your orgasm, and then your poor body is spasming on top of Satoru’s as he fucks you through your high - your insides clenching and twitching, and then a gush! as your body has decided that an inner orgasm isn’t enough. Satoru was right - you’re squirting all over him, his pants, and the backseat.

His eyes bug out as his eyebrows furrow, taking in the sight of the magnificent pool you’ve left on him.

“So fucking hot,” he moans, “can feel that shit pulsing on me. F-Fuck. My turn—“

This brings him over the edge right along with you. You’ve gone limp against him, leaning your entire torso on his as he maintains his hug on you and squirts his thick ropes of hot cum all into your uterus.

You cannot see anything except white stars in your vision as you’ve lost yourself in recovering from your orgasms, and he’s not bothering to slide himself out of you just yet.

“S-So addicting,” he sighs, leaning his head against your shoulder, his hat finally falling off behind him, revealing the fact that his hair is stuck to his sweat-covered forehead.

His cock is twitching inside of you, but you can’t think about that now. You’re trying to regain your sight as well as the ability to breathe.

You lay there against each other, still filled up. His grip has loosened on you, but his hands are delicately petting the skin between your shoulder blades, his arms not letting you go.

You’re now just trying to catch your breaths, bodies pressed together in a lustful bliss as you come down off of your highs, soberness creeping up on you.

“Was better than my fantasies,” Satoru says softly, his hands still gently roaming the skin on your back.

“Mine too,” you giggle in response, the pants slowly becoming normal breaths again.

Satoru gently tugs on your hair to bring your face back level with his, and looks up at you, as innocent as can be.

“Y’know what this means, right?” he questions, squirming a bit underneath you just to remind you that his cock remains inside of you. “You’re never gonna be able to get rid of me. M’gonna need access to this pussy, at least once a week. If not more…” he tapers off before adding, “Only, of course, if you’re up for it.”

“Absolutely!” you squeak out a little too fast, to which Satoru gives you a charming crooked smile and leans forward to peck you on the lips.

“Well then,” he hums, “don’t think we can go back in the party with our cum all over us. Can I offer you a ride home, ponytail?”

You blink down at him. His gentlemanly nature from the party has returned, truly taking you aback, because of the way he was just muttering filth a moment ago.

You took him up on his offer though, legs shaking as you crawled to the front and got your skirt and boots back on. He’d had to exit the car and get back in, his long legs prohibiting him from just crawling to the front.

You can tell he’s sober now, he better have been, otherwise he wasn’t driving you anywhere. But you knew he was when his hand gently rested on the thigh he had abused the entire time, rubbing soft circles to soothe the red handprints he’d left.

You sigh, knowing you’re completely fucked. Hooking up with him was a step in the right direction, but who was to say he’d ever want to be anything more than this? Lots of things to think about, but right now, you just relaxed under his touch as he drove you back to your dorm.

And when you saw him again, it would be at your scrimmage a week later. You’d already filled your girls in on everything, down to the nasty details they’d begged to hear. That’s why they shoved you off the bleachers the minute it appeared that Satoru’s team was done practicing.

Satoru arrived in the hallway right on cue, and you hit him with your customary bump of the shoulder.

“There you are, ponytail,” he mutters, glancing around before gently pulling you into a maintenance closet. “Thought you’d bailed on me.” He presses a fat kiss to your forehead, making your heart flutter. “Been thinking about you all week, need to take some stress out on that pretty pussy.”

You squeak quietly, running your fingers through his hair, missing the way he looked in his Stetson but being able to appreciate his practice attire just the same. His hands find the band of your jersey shorts and begin tugging them down.

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” you coo quietly, your back hitting the wall. “How d’you wanna do this?”

“Well, I certainly enjoyed you on top last time,” he purrs, “but - hah - sometimes, even the cowboys need a break from riding.”

I. AM. SO. FERAL FOR JOCKEY/COWBOY GOJO WTFFF

And he’s such a gentleman STOPP <33

ok this was the most fun thing ive ever written. that’s all bye.

~ pennjammin

#jjk #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #jjk fanart #cowboy gojo #gojo satoru #jjk satoru #jjk gojo #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu sorcerer #fanfic #smut

2K notes · View notes

tobeholyistobeempty · 2 months ago

Text

simon riley • i’ll haunt you forever.

The monster softened by circumstance. Tenderized by your heart bleeding out in his hands.

cw: military inaccuracies. blood. war depictions. gunfire. reader is wounded badly. religious undertones and interrelation. simon breaks a few medical rules but hey fantasy right? soft simon riley peaking out behind his wall of steel. near death. extreme angst. 2k.

CAIRO — THREE YEARS AGO.

It was supposed to be clean.

Grab the drive. Get out. Sweep the alleyways before call to prayer turned the whole district into a wall of sound.

It’s funny how the space of a gunshot can turn even the most solid paper plans to ash. The op went sideways before your boots could hit the stairs, echoes cracking off sandstone and minarets — rapid gunfire in a dead-end courtyard with kicked up dirt and half torn tac vests for cover.

You’d grown up believin’ in God, lost it when you saw what the world was really wound with, but that day in Cairo had you looking at the sky a little different. When the blue bled bright even as the air turned tan — you felt the belief in your bones that if higher intervention did exist — it was with you, then. Five fingers forcing you forward unscathed through gunfire and hellstorm in whatever halfcrafted version of miracles these wars allow for.

It was preternatural at best that you hadn’t been shot at least a dozen. Type of unbelievable just shy of religious. And if you hadn’t been all but twenty feet from the safe house when it all went to hell — you may have even praised Christ himself.

But the frag caught you off-guard. One step too slow. You took the scraps of its ricochet in your left shoulder.

It’s one thing to witness it happen. It’s another to feel it.

Pain stung sharp. Hot as white off the bleeding sun. Sunk into your bloodstream with something odious and jagged and lodged itself deep before you could gasp for breath — knees hitting the ground on instinct with a scream that cauterized in your throat and never made it past your teeth, hand bathed slick with the heat pouring down your ribs as you reached up in some pain-delirious attempt to pull the flesh-lodged metal free—

Fruitless. Whatever belief you’d held for that greater power was gone with the life you were losing into the dirt. But then he was there. Immediately.

Ghost.

Mask half shredded, stone-faced and furious, dragging you up by the front of your vest and through rubbles of broken tile — boots grinding through debris and dust as he shouldered your weight. You were slurring your curses, spilling red all over his chest.

“G-Ghost—y-you gotta—“

“Not here,” he grunted. “Hold on. Y’don’t fucking fold on me, yeah?”

Maybe it was the fool still left alive in you who longed to believe salvation came from the sky. That fool died this day — when you finally understood no saints ever came when you needed them.

But Simon always did.

He half-carried, half-dragged you through the narrow warren of backstreets, seething something into comms with one hand, other banded around your waist — keeping you upright. You barely registered when he kicked open the safehouse door, slammed it behind him, and hauled you toward the grimy cot in the corner.

You slumped.

He caught you before the cot did. Lead you onto it with a grunt — sweat-soaked, breath coming hard and fast at your ear.

“Stay with me,” he barked, slapping your cheek lightly. “C’mon. Eyes on me.”

Any other circumstances, he’d have paid for that.

“M’alright, fuck.” You slurred, trying to swat him as he pressed cloth to the wound. “Slap me again you’ll get a worse answer.”

You felt his exhale, then. It bathed you in the physical variation of the look in his eyes.

“That’s the spirit,” he muttered. “Lay back.”

You shook. “Hurts.”

“I know.”

He urged you onto your back anyways, when you wouldn’t do it willingly. You twitched as pain came roaring in again, smothering the scream in your throat.

His gloved hand found your jaw.

“Breathe,” he crouched over you, firm. “S’alright. You’re alright.”

Everything burned. The room spun.

“S’bad, isn’t it?” You blinked up at him, trying to focus. “You’re doing the thing. With your jaw.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “What thing?”

“When you’re pissed. And scared. You—mmff—you grind your teeth.” He stilled. You didn’t notice. “When someone’s hurt. And y’think it’s your fault.”

The world tilted and blurred behind your lashes, pain carving a raw trench through your left side. You choked on the flames of it and Simon didn’t wait to find a response. He threw his bag by your side while one knee came down beside your ribs, then the other. Straddling your hips, pinning you to the creak of the cot to stop your writhing.

You bucked — instinct — until his hands pressed down on your good shoulder and waist. “Easy. Stop fightin’ me.”

Faith. Blind and desperate. That’s all you knew.

His face above you — balaclava torn halfway across the jaw, dyed with dust and dirt — the sweat stuck in the hollows of his throat. There was a gash running from the corner of his right eye down to the meat of his cheek. God, you still remember the fucking persecution in his stare. Caught in the middle of rage and fear.

Fear. Not for himself, but for you.

Ghost — Simon — had been many things to you over the years. Anger when he needed to be. Control when he’d had no other choice. Restrained at his baseline and naturally too fucking perceptive for his own good. Emotionless. Cold as stone with eyes that never seemed to rest. But afraid?

“Need your vest off,” he said after you’d settled enough, peeling back the cloth. “It’s holdin pressure but it’s already soaked through.”

Your breath hitched. Wet, shallow. “I can do it—”

“Like fuck y’can. Hold still.”

His gloves were gone before you finished breathing. One-handed, he pulled the buckle. Tore the strap. Peeled the ruined material from your shoulder with an awful, sucking rip that made you scream. Your shirt was tattered — bled black by blood and dirt — so he slid his knife up the seam in one clean motion, the fabric splitting with a shhhhkt as the blade ran to your collarbone.

He paused again, just for a second — long enough to see the wound. To really see you beneath him. Shirtless and flushed. The crimson decoration of your barely covered chest.

“Fuckin hell,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “One piece. No exit point. Least you’ve got that.”

“How big.”

“Bout six inches.”

You winced. “Y’gonna pull it out?”

“No,” he deadpanned. “I was thinkin’ of leavin it in. For character.”

You choked on a half-laugh. Delirious. Breathed like a drowning thing.

“Hate you.”

He shifted then, tore off his shirt and pulled it into shreds. Makeshifted a tourniquet around your upper bicep. Tight enough to make your fingers go numb. Then looped another under your shoulder. And even through the noise — the screaming under your skin, the blood loss haze — you saw him for what he was in that moment: unnatural like this. All bulk and brutality bent over you.

The monster softened by circumstance. Tenderized by your heart bleeding out in his hands.

“Y’will during this.” He replied, before shoving something into your fingers. His knife’s leather sheath. Then pushed it toward your mouth. “Bite this.”

You hesitated. “I’m—“

“I mean it,” he cut you off, eyes meeting yours. “It’s deep. You’re gonna fight me. Bite.”

You didn’t. Because that was when everything became real. You stared at the sheath in your hand. At the blood soaked into the creases on your palm. At the war-torn ceiling above you where the fan didn’t spin and the air didn’t move.

Then you stared at him.

“Wait.” You rasped, spit-slick and shaking. “W-wait. We’ve got evac—I just—just wait—”

His hands shook. Just once. You would carry that image forever. The man who never broke — breaking, in the smallest of ways.

“Listen t’me,” he said it slow. Not with fear, but with something that lived next door to it. “I’ve got nothin’ but a blade and my bare fuckin’ hands. Evac’s fifteen out. You’ll bleed out before we hit five.”

You reached for him, weak, fingers scrabbling until you gripped the side of his belt. The only thing solid enough to hold that wasn’t his skin. You’d never known fear like this. Not the battlefield kind but the personal kind.

And in the flicker of his eyes, in the way he stilled under your touch — you wondered if maybe it was the first time he felt it too.

“S-Simon. This could kill me. If you pull it wrong—”

“I won’t.”

“—you don’t know that!”

Your voice vibrated — rough and ragged and right on the edge of begging. You were slipping, and you knew he was right. It was the cold in the fingertips, heat in the mouth, vision tunneling into a pinpoint blur that held only him.

He didn’t flinch at your panic. But the air changed when his hand moved, calloused fingers pressing against the side of your jaw then sliding down, settling at your throat. Thumb at your bloodbeat.

“Maybe I don’t,” he murmured. “But I do know your pulse is slowin’. Pupils are blown. Breathin’s laboured.” He swallowed hard. You saw it. Felt it. “You’re goin into shock. Sepsis if we wait.”

The ceiling spun. “Simon—“

He shook his head. “I can’t stem the bleeding. Can’t put pressure on what I can’t reach. There’s one fuckin’ option here.”

You gasped like something had just ripped straight through your lungs. Pain worsening. Grit in your teeth. Dust on your lashes.

“Simon—this can’t be on you—”

“Y’think I wanna do this t’you?” He grabbed your face then. Both hands. “Y’think I don’t know what this is gonna sound like? What it’s gonna feel like in my goddamn hands?”

You stared up at him. Wide-eyed. Lips trembling. “Then don’t. Fuck. It’s okay—I’ll wait—“

“You won’t.”

He looked away. Just for a second. Turned toward the wall like he needed something — anything — to anchor to that wasn’t the sight of you in this state. Five years by his side has made you a close acquaintance to death, but never this close. The logic of it was there. He can’t stop the bleeding if he doesn’t remove the metal. If he removes the metal, the chances of it nicking something. The chances of you flinching just wrong —

Your thoughts died when eyes came back to yours. Full steel in the ruin.

“Please.” He seethed. “If I gamble on time, it ain’t the fuckin’ metal that kills you. It’s me.”

His voice made you choke. You tried to shake your head but he held it firm.

“Simon—don’t—“

“C’mon now.” His thumb found your pulse again, shaking against it. “You’d do this f’me.”

You blinked back the blur but the effort fell short. Those tears spilled, cut clean down your cheek. He leaned in then. Closer than command would ever allow. Closer than men like him are ever meant to get. Nose almost touching yours. Breath warm against your skin.

“You’re not dyin’ in this fuckin’ place,” he whispered.

And there was your faith again. Placed in your pleading eyes cast skyward into the bark browns of his. Not a God nor saviour. Just a man. Built of death and forged by the worst places these wars have to offer. A man staring at you like you’re the only thing in this whole ruined world worth saving.

“Hate me after, yeah? Take your shot. I’ll stand there and let y’swing.” A moment passed, he exhaled with it. “Just means y’lived long enough t’get the chance.”

You tried to laugh, at that. Only because you weren’t sure what else to do. It caught on the edge of his jaw as you blinked up at him. You wanted to remember this. The shape of him above you. The fear he wouldn’t name.

You still do. Even now.

“Okay.” You croaked. “But if you kill me. I’ll haunt you forever.”

His brow twitched. Subtle. You’d thought he’d laugh, maybe smirk or feed you something biting in reply. But what you didn’t except — with hands still bloodslicked — he reached up and swept sweatdamp strands back from your forehead. Ghosted his touch down your temple, across the shell of your ear—

Then he bent lower. Pressed his lips to your forehead.

A benediction. A battlefield baptism. The kind of kiss men like him only know how to give when they mean it.

“Y’already do.” He whispered.

233 notes · View notes

imshymorph · 5 days ago

Text

So, while i make big plans (and changes) for the Death!Ghost fic, get back in the groove for writting... Here are some soft!Ghost thoughts that I've been hoarding.

I have said this before and I’ll say it again. Ghost is not insecure when it comes to his looks, to his attractiveness. Sure, he looks rugged and a little messed up. But he knows the kind of bird that will fall for a few scars and a crooked nose. This man just has to take the mask off, sit on a bar and lean back on his chair, manspreading. Give a small smirk at anyone and a couple flirty sentences and they go home with him.

What he is insecure about is Simon. He knows how to be Ghost, all sass and confidence, gruff answers and dry jokes. He has control over Ghost, but Simon? He’s scared of who Simon could be. Scared of not knowing how to break the cycle, of letting his father have the same control he had before Ghost. He’s scared that the way others perceive him (or how he thinks they do) it’s what he really is.

So when he falls for you, and he falls hard, he has to prove to you, to himself, that he’s better than that. That he is caring, helpful and useful.

That’s why your favourite things are always fully stocked up, doesn’t matter what. Snacks, drinks, cologne, makeup, shampoo. Even that random type of pen you bought once and you actually really like because it always writes smoothly.

It’s why you haven’t spent a single penny on fixing anything around the house since you started to see each other in a more serious way. Even less since you moved in together. There’s not a single leaky sink, no loose floorboard that creaks when you step on them.

There’s also no high shelf that needs dusting or window that needs cleaning. Before you can even think of getting a stepladder (or god forbid, think of climbing the counters, how many times does he have to say how unsafe that is, sweetheart) he’s already done those.

No need for more than one trip to get in the groceries, in fact no need to carry them. That’s why Simon’s there. He’ll gently push you to the side when you go to get the cart, keeping one hand on your lower back as he follows you through the isles. He then carries all the bags on your way back, listening to you talk about what you could do this evening.

And if you dare offer your hand, to ask for a bag? All you’re getting is the biggest side eye before he moves the bags all to one hand, holding yours with the other. He’ll give you such a proud smirk if you say anything about it, too.

He’ll learn the recipe to any and all your favourite and comfort foods, adaptations and variations you may use included. He’ll cook them whenever, but especially the few days after getting home from deployment. It’s his way of reassuring both of you that he’s home and everything can go back to normal.

Just like with any other chore, once he begins to do it, it becomes pretty much illegal for you to join. If you try to get a knife and start mincing some garlic, or grab a wooden spoon to swirl the pan’s contents, he’ll scoff and shake his head. Simon will tut at you, take whatever utensil you’re using out of your hand and say something along the lines of “let me do this for you, sweetheart”.

He’ll pick you up and set you on the counter closeby, asking about what you’ve done while he was away, listening to you as he makes the food. He’ll sneak little kisses and touches here and there, lean over you to get something beside you on the counter, only because he knows that you’ll lean closer and kiss his cheek or peck his lips. The only way he’ll allow for help is taste-testing, he'll bring spoons with a bit of the broth or little pieces of whatever is being cooked to your lips, only after having gently blown on them to cool them down, to get your opinion.

And when all that’s left is letting the food simmer for a little longer, only having to keep an eye on it, he’ll set himself between your legs, pulling you closer. Your feet loosely linked behind his thighs, arms around his waist and head resting on his shoulder. He’ll use the moment to bury his nose into your hair and take a whiff of your familiar shampoo, one big hand resting on the side of your thigh as the other rubs up and down your back slowly. No need for words, no need to fill the silence.

Half of the time setting the table proves useless, instead he carries you to the couch and sits you in the space between his parted legs as you both eat while watching a show you both had started before he was sent away.

His favourite days are those in which, after the hearty and delicious meal, you lean back against his chest and relax. Your eyes slowly get heavy with the comfort of his body against yours and your full stomach. And he can’t help the little, silly, lovesick smile that appears on his lips when, ten minutes into the episode, he looks down to comment something about the show just to find you out like a light.

He pauses the show, you’ve waited for him to come back to finish it together, he’s not going to betray you and watch more while you sleep. Instead he’ll lean back too, get comfortable and pull you flush against his chest. His face will bury itself on the crook of your neck so all he can feel is you and he’ll join your little nap.

It doesn't matter how many times you reassure him that he doesn’t have to prove himself useful, that you love him like he is and don’t need more. Because you already do so much for him, you take so much care and show so much love to Simon, that he feels like he’s asking too much out of you. You’re already the reason his life has meaning, he already takes enough. So just let him do this for you, sweetheart, because he owes you way more.

Likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated :) Askbox is open to request or chat. DO NOT FEED MY WORKS TO AI NOR CREATE BOTS, don't reupload.

#soft!ghost #cod x reader #x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley x you #cod simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #gn!reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader

296 notes · View notes

rcmclachlan · 3 months ago

Note

I don't know if the comparison between Eddie and Tommy is intentional on the writers part, but they're turning me into an Eddie hater and I don't really want that, but it's so fucking hard to like Eddie at this point, even taking grief and regression due to grief into account. I mean am i supposed to like this fella who doesn't apologize or do what he promised and belittles his best friend? When I see that there's a Tommy who genuinely likes Buck and treats him well and risks his life and/or career willingly for his ex-colleagues and his ex-boyfriend? The contrast just highlights how much Eddie isn't bringing to the table in their friendship and it sucks so much because I do think he's an interesting character and I want to like him

PQ, I'ma be honest about something I've forced myself to downplay ever since I started watching 9-1-1 last May: I don't like Eddie, full stop. Never have. I just never clicked with the character, and the more I saw of him, the less I liked. But he's loved by so many in this fandom that I felt it prudent to keep my mouth shut about how much I don't like him—mostly because I was trying to make friends 'round these parts. Also, I'm not here to yuck on anyone's yum.

I really feel for the people who have loved this character, or at least loved the potential of what he could be, for years—and who have given him a lot more grace than I think he deserves—just to have him turn around and be the worst version of his worst self when faced with a supposed loved one's pain. To be deliberately cruel and weaponize the love Buck has for his son against him. To have the audacity to call Buck selfish for grieving his surrogate father's death.

Eddie's been a terrible friend to Buck from the get go and their relationship has always been incredibly one-sided, but this episode really exposed the imbalance. Like, Eddie may be Buck's best friend, but Buck sure isn't Eddie's.

And nothing made it clearer than 8x17's opening scene when Hen asks Eddie when he's going to tell Buck he's going back to El Paso. And Eddie asks Hen to do it. Actually, he doesn't ask Hen—he says something like, "I was hoping his acting captain would do it." Eddie wants Buck to hear the news in a professional capacity so he doesn't have to deal with Buck getting emotional about it. What kind of fuckass prick would do that to a "friend"?

I said to @screamlet a couple of days ago that if Eddie had posted any of this in r/amitheasshole, there'd be 6.1k comments all saying variations of "YTA, your friend should've left your ass in the dust ages ago, and you should probably live alone in the woods until you get that bitch-ass attitude under control."

Meanwhile, Tommy—who is operating under the impression that Buck feels nothing for him and that he's good for no-strings sex and nothing else—gets one (1) phone call from the man after weeks of radio silence and happily steals another helicopter so Buck can commit some light domestic terrorism.

Like, Tommy, my lad, you have nothing to worry about. There's no competition in this game. Eddie's name isn't even on the roster.

#anti eddie diaz

265 notes · View notes

quackysmackk · 2 months ago

Note

With Fragment glitching into other Sans, does he have a least favorite one that he always hates glitching into? Does he actually have a favorite or at least a “this is fine actually” Sans he’s always alright glitching into?

For more (future) content, check out the official fragmented au blog -> Here!

Click down for more info! vvv

Outer isn’t his only favorite though. He also enjoys glitching into Swap, Lavender, Farm, and Dance. While most are peaceful, the more energetic ones give him the chance to keep up and hang out with his brother!

As for Pale? Fragment has a LOT of variations of himself that he hates being in. Pale is just one of the worst on his list (right in front of Fatal and Dust.) He hates feeling nothing, and it honestly messes him up pretty badly when it’s over. It also leaves him super overwhelmed when he suddenly gets all of his emotions back.

Luckily though, Ink and the others manage to get to him in time before he could pull any “au core eating” shenanigans (but we both know he wouldn’t!)

That’s why he always carries paints on him! (Thanks to Ink, of course)

Outer belongs to MimiPippinski

Pale belongs to unu_nunium

#undertale au #undertale #utmv #asks #fragment sans #sans undertale #outer sans #pale sans #fragment #outertale

379 notes · View notes

kxnkprxncess · 11 months ago

Text

Dreaming of my perfect day-

I wake up early and put on the outfit my husband picked out the night before. (It’s always some variation of his favorite look- a short lacy dress that barely covers my ass or my tits and a matching collar.) while my husband sleeps in, I begin making our breakfast. He keeps me on a strict diet so while I make up his eggs and bacon, I make myself one of my approved breakfasts of a green smoothie.

Once done, I get to wake my husband up like I do every morning- sucking off his morning wood. I always start lightly so I can have more time with his cock in my mouth. If I take too long, he’ll punish me by thrusting himself down my throat. But this morning I must have been doing a good job because he rewards me by pulling my dress down and fucking my huge tits he paid for. He’s told me that for his next birthday he’s going to get himself even bigger tits to fuck.

When he’s finished with me, he begins to get ready and I begin my chores. Making the bed, laying out his suit, and dusting. I serve him breakfast and tells me what I need to accomplish for the day.

He has an assistant for any of the actually hard stuff he needed to do through the day, tasking me with the chores he does every day like going to the gym, picking up the new clothes he ordered for me from the lingerie shop on the mall, and cooking, all while keeping my phone handy so he can keep track of me during the day. Every few hours he needs me to stop what I’m doing and send him photos or videos of whatever he needs at the moment.

I begin at the gym, my personal trainer really working my thighs and glutes. My husband has told him to really work my ass, he needs it much bigger and as an incentive, my husband lets my trainer use it after each session. He’s worked me so hard over the last three hours I don’t even feel him as he fucks into my hole, my legs shaking the whole time.

Next, at the shop, I try on my new outfits. He gets them custom tailored to fit the extreme proportions he’s crafted for me. It’s getting cooler outside so my husband wants to make sure I stay warm. The newest outfit is a similar small dress but now with a cashmere sweater that was really just sleeves that tie under my tits. My husband wants an update and the tailor is nice enough to take a picture showing it off while his assistant held my tits up from behind, showing how much bigger they’ll be after the surgery. My husband replies immediately that he wants to see more and the assistant happily obliges. She takes my dress down and begins playing with my tits, bringing her mouth down to suck on my nipples. The tailor videos as we make out and rub our huge breasts together.

For dinner, I was told to make extra, my husband has his friends coming over after golf. I serve them and eat my salad in the kitchen until I’m called out for dessert. My husband strips me down and has me lay down on the table so his buddies can grope and eventually fuck me while they discuss things I can’t understand.

To go to sleep, my husband feeds me a handful of pills and fucks me until I pass out.

#degrade and humiliate me #patriarchy kink #men are superior #misogny kink #objectify me #dumbification #bimboification #cnc k!nk #housewife kink #free use cnc #food control #mind corruption

495 notes · View notes

sincerelyverena · 1 year ago

Note

can you do ollie watching felix and reader in the bathtub plss

this was so fun to write! i absolutely adored exploring a more submissive oliver in this one. thank u for the request my lovely anon. <3

⟡⁺ SALTWATER

. . . OLIVER QUICK X FELIX CATTON X FEM!READER ‘i'm your biggest fan, i'll follow you until you love me.’ @watercolorskyy

inbox is always open to requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒oliver witnessed his most secret fantasies play out before him.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒smut ﹐dom!felix﹐oliver being a creepy little fucker ﹐felix giving princess treatment﹐reader and felix are an established pairing ﹐oh felix! you little tease!﹐felix taking control ﹐voyeurism﹐non-consential voyeurism ﹐waterplay﹐rubber duck rubber fuck﹐masturbation ﹐pet names ﹐praise﹐bite-sized oneshot

THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA READERS: @sparklehani ﹐@vikwrites

They always said an open door is an invitation.

What was remaining of Oliver’s good-willed conscience advised him to turn back. He turned a blind eye to the nagging voice polluting the crevices of his scalp. Alas, the musters of benevolence tumble into an attuned silence at the scene poured to life before him.

The vivid imagination from the deepest crevices of Oliver’s fantasies played out before the widening of his aquamarine irises.

You. Perched atop the broadened boundaries of Felix’s lap. The length of your legs propped on either side of his awfully prominent hips. A sight alone caused the fabric of Oliver’s lower nightwear to tighten, which caused the bridge of his throat to constrict with halted breath.

As if a single movement out of place would disturb such intimacy.

The extent of Oliver’s arm extended upward, hand grappled around the ridge of the rippled doorway. Fingers twisting, pouring the molten heat pooled behind his abdomen throughout the strain of his ever-so-whitening knuckles.

A soft moan sounded throughout the otherwise quiet air.

An even softer gasp accompanies the seemingly murmured noise. “Felix…”

Oliver’s eyes offered a singular flutter. The firmament blue hardened into an avid mirror of lust as he witnessed the scene playing out before his very presence.

The depths of Felix’s girth are illustrated beneath your weeping cunt. Oliver had to refrain from any variation of a choked noise to escape the hollow of his throat at the depiction. The flimsy material of the garments hung by his hips seemed to be on the verge of snapping altogether in the hue of your strangled pleas as Felix teased your slit.

“Did my baby forget how to use her words?” Felix’s prodding words drawled onward, lazily at that. Each syllable bounced off of the bathroom’s sleazy walls and reverberated into the crook of Oliver’s ears.

His left arm immersed itself in the translucent water pooling around the pair. The other extended toward yourself, the adequate length of his fingers combed throughout the dampness of your locks. Teasing each hair strand before the edges of his digits rim along your scalp.

Felix’s water-submerged hand crept toward the space sandwiched between the roll of your back and the soft fat of your thighs. His palm pressed deeply into your asscheeks, squeezed into it. You yelped.

“What d’ya want, princess?”

The tip of his girth continued to strain against you purposefully. “Felix, don’ make me beg…”

The hand that once cradled the side of your head retreated from the wetness of your hair. Broadened fingers pull around the dew-dusted surface of your jaw, stubby nails dug into whatever face fat you possessed. You moaned around his hands, the sound muffled by the pure pressure his hand possessed.

Your moans turned into pleas. “Fi, baby– I… need you in me.”

“Say please.”

“Please..”

Oliver thought for a moment he’d release in his pants then and there.

As Felix began to ease himself into you, the bridge of Oliver’s hand wordlessly slipped into the fabric adorning his hips. Fingers itching to ease the throbbing strain of his groin, already slick with thin pre-cum. The ridge of your back arched with strangled breath as Felix’s girth disappeared into you completely.

Palms pressed toward his neck, and you choked back a whimper. The sturdiness of Felix’s hips began to shift toward you lazily. His thrusts were comparable to rolls as his girth massaged the tightness of your inner walls. You found yourself grinding desperately against him, the friction coursing speckles of pleasure to ignite within you.

As the snaps of Felix’s length gradually intensify, so does the work of Oliver’s palm. His eyes practically glazed over as he witnessed before him the writhing sensualness that occurred. If Oliver didn’t know his proper place, he’d be a whining mess as you were now.

“My beautiful girl, you’re doin’ so well.”

Felix praised in between strained breaths. The base of his hand slipped from your dew-graced shoulders toward the roll of your hips. He bathed in the little noise that escaped the depths of your throat as he plunged himself deeper into you.

Oliver’s cock convulsed. Reams of pleasure built at the base of his spine.

You were similarly nearing the edge. Had given in ages ago to Felix’s timing rather than yours. Gone were the desperate writhing of your wetness. Replaced solely by the erratic pace your lover had built into you.

“Fi, I’m… almost there.”

“I dunno, you feel too good ‘round me sweetheart.” Felix teased, a humorous tone alighting the drawl of his words. He pumped into you a tad hoarser for exaggeration. Upturned lips in the fashion in which you clung yourself upon him. A silent plea to go deeper.

Oliver almost slipped a breathless curse from the hitched nature of his breath. His girth is hot in the base of his hands, dripping pure need between his fingers. The fact that he was as desperate as you are to release almost made him combust.

“On one condition.” Felix prompted at last.

“Anything.”

He continued to drive himself deeper into you. The hand Felix adorned upon your hips tightened with each word that escaped the lushness of his lips. He grunted with effort, yet kept an easygoing hue in his voice as he continued.

“The only word I want to hear on your lips when you cum is my name.”

The renowned heir deep inside you now refused to await a proper response. Instead, the work of his hips tightened into a merciless tempo. Striking ass as he plunged into you over and over again. Prying out noises of pleasure you never knew were possible, all while singing his name with praise.

Just as he ordered.

The pleasure that conquered the base of your torso intensified, just as Oliver, whose fingers grew warm with the strength he poured into his arm movements. He surveyed you, comparable to a hawk as he caught onto the scattered hints of your soon-to-be release. How Oliver only wished deeply to be inside of you as Felix is now, to have the opportunity to feel your tightness. He squeezed the entire wrap of his fingers around his length.

“Felix, Felix, Felix…”

You whispered his name like a prayer. Like a mantra. A mantra as you grew hot with a desire to peak, that peak approaching rapidly. The basis of your vision shifts rapidly with the pure intensity of the ecstasy that plunged into you. Oliver soon grew to repeat these mantras to himself, choking back physical moans as his digits pathetically rolled along the tip of his girth.

Felix’s release was growing closer, although he didn’t make it obvious. He never did. He just peered downward at you with a lazy drawl of a smile, soaking up the view of you sprawled out for him. Chanting his name. He reached downward into the lukewarm waters, the tip of his two fingers brushing against the pearl that lined your drenched entrance.

“I need you to cum for me. Can you do that?” Felix inquired aloud, a hint of childish glee audible in his voice. The pounding his girth offered to you never faltered the slightest in the meantime, an awe-aspiring – yet not surprising – sentiment he possessed.

In response to his words, you could only nod. Too overtaken with ecstasy.

Oliver, on the other hand, bored his eyes into Felix longingly. “Yes, yes, please.” His words too mustered to be heard over the fucking pounds of flesh and skin. It felt good to say. To good as his length pulsated in between his grip.

“Such a good girl.” Felix hummed his praises. The fingers that fidgeted with your clit fell back, pinching the bud instead. The motion is enough to pull you over the edge entirely.

You snapped. Coming undone underneath his relentless jackings. The tide had broken, and the pleasure you had been chasing for minutes now had broken into you entirely. Felix. Felix. Felix. All you could vocalise. He was your beginning, your end. Your everything.

But the core of your fantasies. The middle. He stood blanketed in the shadows, relying on the small gap between the door and frame. His back arched with effort as he reached his peak. Oliver’s fingers squeezed around the doorway in an attempt to choke back any musters of his presence. White-hot pleasure seared through him, cock convulsing entirely as the centre of his boxers grew warm with the force of his seed. He could see stars. Hell, Oliver was convinced he could’ve taken a glimpse of the Earth’s secrets entirely with the force of his orgasm.

He came back down to reality with a single sentiment that overlooked the pure euphoria he had received. Oliver watched onward for a few extended seconds as Felix followed in his peak, and you slumped into him. Unaware of his presence, unaware of his thirst for the both of you.

You had never known the love he possessed for you.

You had never even suspected the fact Oliver would kill to submit to the two of you entirely.

Up until now, at least.

WORD COUNT: 1K MASTERLIST REQ ME!

1K notes · View notes

kunastrophic · 4 months ago

Text

pairing - popular! satoru gojo x fem! loser! reader

sypnosis - you have a passion for art but you're losing inspiration till you start drawing the pretty boy in your class !

reader is very awkward and makes a mildly stupid decision but it's okay, she's our girl nonetheless !!! not proofread !!!! i'm far too lazy

------------------------------------------------------

being so artistic in such a drab place can be excruciating when taken into deep consideration.

honestly, could you have ever possibly gone to a more dreadful building? to call school boring is a major understatement in your eyes. seven continuous and seemingly never ending hours of the same bland off-white and beige walls surrounding you, almost making you feel trapped, like they're slowly closing in on you. the decor is worse, shockingly enough considering the lack of it.

fake plants, brainless posters that no one actually reads past the fifth grade, shelves adorned with drawers filled with typical school supplies, though all but the pencil drawer collects dust.

a few of the teachers seem to notice the distasteful environment and want to flip it just as much as you do, though you wholeheartedly believe they'd be better suited as preschool teachers rather than ones at a highschool.

no seventeen year old boys or girls want to walk into a classroom with tacky rainbows and suns with smiley faces plastered on the walls. the effort is appreciated by you, but you really do wonder whether or not they're conscious of the age group they teach.

the most ‘interesting’ things in this dreary institution are the tvs funded to the core classes, though even those lose points since they're only ever on to play the same three ‘school appropriate’ playlists that have you wishing they didn't implement a headphone ban. you honestly believe you can feel your ears bleeding within the very second they click the play button on the playlist.

even so, you take pride in the fact that you're likely one of, if not the only imaginative person in this school, the only one who can somehow find artistic enthusiasm in a place as depressing as this.

that was until recently.

this entire week, you've been desperately trying to find even a lick of motivation to draw, but alas, nothing.

feeling hopeless, and like you might need to quit art and start selling drugs, you look around the classroom, hoping something or someone will catch your eyes.

it's pitiful, really. imagine being so run dry, so out of original ideas that you would rather look around this miserable hell-hole for help rather than lay in your mind, desperately trying to form an original thought or idea.

almost immediately, you realize what an idiotic idea this is. seriously, how are you to find anything worth drawing in such a monotone environment? even the students line up perfectly with the same boring aesthetics.

it's like they all lack any sense of originality, like they all pick their clothes from the same store- no, the same closet. it's all variations of white, grey, navy blue, black, and off-white tops paired with faded blue jeans or black leggings. doesn't that get boring at some point?

you suppose you aren't in a position to judge, for you are no better. though, at least you have a plausible excuse. you were bullied for years over your niche interests and odd style, you were forced into the mold your society created as to what a highschool girl should be.

you're about to give up when someone catches your eyes.

satoru gojo. of course, he catches everyone's eyes everywhere he goes, and you hate to admit that you know exactly why. piercing blue eyes that remind you of a drop of blue dye falling onto fabric, like if you held a blue orchid between your finger tips then spun it quickly, watching the colors blur together beautifully. fluffy white hair that almost resembles a cloud- no, no that's too soft. maybe closer to snow? yes, snow, gently fallen, heavenly stacked snow. his cheeks had the softest pink tint to them, like a lipgloss smudge on a dress. almost invisible, yet there nonetheless.

he's alluring, you won't deny. he's like if someone drew what an angel would look like and then he crawled out of the page.

would it be weird to draw him? probably. do you anyways? yes.

the first sketch is mediocre. already, you know he's a perfect muse. finally free from art block as you try to draw him perfectly.

you examine the first finished drawing.

the eyes are a shade too dark despite it only being a pencil drawing, his hair is too long and flat, he honestly looks more like a woman rather than the infamous satoru gojo.

‘okay..’ you think to yourself

‘round two.’

you continue this cycle the entire class period. drawing while taking your previous imperfections into account then finding new ones within that art work.

you try not to make it too obvious that you're blatantly staring at him from time to time. you pray he doesn't notice, and for the most part, he doesn't seem to.

weeks pass, and this has become your ritual for every class that you share with him. shove your assignments into a folder to do them later, (though it's pointless since deep down you couldn't care less for the assignment and it more than likely will end up crumpled at the bottom of your bag by the end of the week), you pull out your sketchbook and begin drawing.

you've had a few close-calls and awkward encounters when he would happen to look in your direction and catch you staring, but he didn't seem to care much- or so you thought.

the bell rings, queuing you to shove everything in your bag, not caring what gets destroyed in the process- we are speaking of your school bag after all, something you deemed absolutely worthless years ago.

you approach the door when a strong hand grabs your wrist.

it's not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you back.

you turn to look at the culprit only to be met with those iconic and almost hypnotizing blue eyes. orchids.

“hey, how come i never get to see those drawings? i mean, i am the muse after all, shouldn't i be first to see?” he's smiling.

he's smiling and he knows you've been drawing him and- god, is it hot in here?

one second, you're up-close, staring into those remarkable eyes that you've mastered drawing over the last month, the next, you bolted out of that classroom.

in retrospect, you probably looked stupid considering you had to take a second to remove his hand from your wrist then had to dodge through the endless crowd of students who had also just been released from class, tripping at some point, but the past is the past and you obviously have no control over that.

you spend the next morning trying every excuse in the book to try and stay home. there's no way you can withstand sitting in the same classroom as him after that.

however, much to your displeasure, you find yourself sitting in your seat with your face buried in your arms. maybe he won't know you're there if he can't see your face?

as you drown in your thoughts, dreading ever choosing him of all people as a muse, a sudden voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife.

“running away mid conversation is really impolite.”

you don't bother looking up. that'll just dig you a deeper grave- if that's even possible.

“yoo hoo? (y/n), i'm talking to you!” he speaks in a sing-song voice, almost as if this is a big joke to him.

you almost raise your hand and ask to use the bathroom so you can hide from him in there all week, till- wait- he knows your name?

you look up hesitantly, confusion plastered onto your face like a cream-heavy pie on a shitty prank show.

“you know my name?” you ask hesitantly, your voice coming out significantly softer than you intended. god, you probably sounded so pathetic.

“duh. you're the pretty artist lady. you made that really good eye drawing in like sixth grade, no?”

now you're REALLY confused. he knows your name and has known your name since sixth grade?

“you remember that?” you reply, sounding too excited for your taste.

“of course i remember. you were the talk of the playground after that.” he laughs fondly at the memory and you can't help but let it shoot straight through your heart, making it ache in a way that felt too good, almost wrong. almost.

“can i see the art you made of me?” he tilts his head in a way that, in your mind, resembles that of a dog when told to do something it doesn't understand. cute.

you suppress a giggle at the thought.

you suppose he does deserve to see the art you made, especially considering how uncomfortable it must've felt to feel your eyes all over him as you drew him.

you rummage for the most recent drawings in your bag then hand them to him.

your heart starts to race. what if he hates them? what if he thinks they're awful? what if they're not good enough and he assumes that you think he's ugly? what if-

“i'm in love with you.” he suddenly speaks, staring at the papers in awe.

------------------------------------------------------

(a/n : and then they kissed and married and had 828282892839 babies and grew old together yeah !!! idk people (like four people total...) said they liked my ideas so here's a low quality drabble uhhhhh idk !! PLEASE don't bully me if this is bad, i'm very much a beginner author !!!!!)

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #jjk gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #satoru x you #satoru x reader #jjk satoru #jujutsu satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #satoru x y/n

265 notes · View notes

trans-masc-michelangelo · 1 month ago

Text

I like the idea of Dick Grayson having darker skin than he does in Canon. For no other reason than I like the idea of a Robin on the Team that goes in the sun, and comes back looking like he feels refreshed, his skin has a glow to it that it seemed to lack before and was wishing for to come back. Meanwhile, Kid Flash comes back in and he's asking if anyone has any allovera and just being so dramatic about how his skin is peeling and he's in pain and red as a tomato.

Robin just laughs.

But also, because I think it'd be funny if when the Team is first clued into his identity, he takes off his mask and there's just- his eyes look like they're glowing in their sockets. His eyes are so blue, they stand out and are practically glowing.

OR (I recently found this idea-) he has heterochromia and one eye is brown. And not the kind of brown that people say is "Normal" and is "ugly" (no brown eye is ugly, I stand by that 😡). It's practically glowing with the warm tones. It's beautiful. It's bright. His eye looks like it's made up of the cosmic dust from a long destroyed planet with its beauty. And the other is the most vibrant blue ever. It's bright, it's shining, it's such a beautiful color that it would put oceans to shame, it would make the sky look dreary.

In other words, bright eyes with a beautiful background that is a painting on its own.

Then, the Batfam just has variations of skin tones that range from pasty as pasty (Bruce and Steph and maybe Tim) to dark and amazing and No Red Sun Burn Here! (Dick, Duke, maybe Jason??)

#dick grayson #young justice #wally west #dc comics #dcu #nightwing #the team #batfam

91 notes · View notes

takes1 · 1 year ago

Note

HI I LOVE UR WRITING

can i req a fic for iwa :000 maybe reader comes w him to the gym and he can clearly see her blushing at him workin out n his body 😔 the rest can be up to u :))

iwaizumi hajime x reader mutual gym thirst

hi!!! thank you so much!! really liked this idea :) i used his timeskip interest to help with some structure here, but i hope i got enough right!

warnings. sfw-ish, thirsty info. iwa's hot bod / charged staring / mutual crushing / questionable touching / will-they-won't-they kinda vibe / oikawa being a nuisance / oikawa moving things along / athletic!reader / injured!reader / 1.4k words haikyuu collection. more here! more links. my ao3. masterlist. requests open!

You never once thought of what your school gym's layout could really do for you before this afternoon.

There was absolutely no reason to, until a certain tall, dark, and handsome brute took a liking to the power rack in front of the treadmill you were tied to for the next half-hour.

Part of your training plan required 40 monotonous minutes of incline walking- so a longer variation of the tried-and-true 12-3-30 became your new ritual after your team's practice. Shin splits weren't going to go away on their own, after all.

So, you and your defective shins were already married to this spot. When he walked his beefy ass to a spot so ideal for watching, you couldn't help but feel a little creepy.

This light dusting of shame didn't stop your eyes from wandering, though. You were too tired from a long practice and longer physical therapy to truly keep your gaze glued to the numbers on the screen.

That near-pornographic muscle-tee he wore at least twice a week was in rotation today.

It was soaked through; light blue now dark, from the cardio that he just finished outside with his partner and current spotter.

"Come ooon, you can get that up," Oikawa smirked, knowing damn well he needed to help Iwa get the bar racked.

He laughed at his friend's shaky struggle, himself even surprised when the bar slammed against the metal holds.

"Fucking prick," Iwa grumbled with very little air in his lungs.

The dark tone on his tongue raised your brow. You looked at the ceiling with a big exhale to get the thoughts out of your head.

This crush was much more manageable when it was confined to passing glances in the hall.

He was panting as he sat up. You looked back down just in time to watch him remove his useless, sticky shirt.

Sure, the hip-deep slits down the sides didn't leave so much to the imagination, but this was still so much better.

You bit the inside of your cheek and squeezed your eyes shut to keep from making any ridiculous faces, but the image of his bouncy chest and twitchy, heavy biceps were burned into your eyelids.

They had to switch out the weight between turns, so when he took the side of the rack closest to you, you were able to stare at his working back muscles without any repercussions. It was akin to crashing ocean waves between his shoulder blades. He set a plate gently onto the floor.

His skin glistened in the moody lighting. The veins in forearms were plump with effort.

"You feeling okay, (Y/n)?"

Oikawa gave an all-too-knowing grin at you when you locked eyes with him.

Heat crept up your neck- as if you needed to feel any hotter- and horribly embarrassed, you couldn't craft a response to his smartass comment.

Thankfully, Iwa glanced back at your downcast expression and scoffed at his friend.

"They're out on injury right now. Chill out, dude," Iwa came to your rescue, thankfully mistaken to the nature of his remark.

Oikawa looked frustrated that his jab didn't land the way he wanted it to.

You stuck your tongue out at him when Iwa wasn't looking and got one right back.

Now that you were under suspicion, you had more motivation to not stare at him anymore. It just wasn't worth getting found out.

This aversion to looking in their direction allowed the more lively of the two to whisper something with a smirk without you catching him.

Only five minutes remained on your screen when Oikawa climbed up onto the treadmill next to yours, despite the four empty ones further away.

An eye roll. You swiped the sweat off of your face and flicked it at him.

He didn't even get the chance to say anything snarky before Iwa noticed his absence.

"Stop being an ass," He grumbled.

"I didn't say anything!"

He wiped down of the rest of the bench, grabbed his shirt, and stood between the two treadmills. He motioned between you.

"You're being obnoxious," Iwa asserted, "Go somewhere else."

He sure as Hell wasn't happy about it, but he gave in to his friend's wishes. This would be interesting enough without him needing to interfere-- he kept a watchful, cheeky eye on both of you from across the gym.

"So, they got you doin' this," He put his hand on the side of the machine, brow furrowed in concern, "God, isn't that a bit much?"

There was no way you could speak to him without ending this. You pressed stop on your workout, thankful to be done with a good enough excuse.

You set your hands on your hips and tried to get your breathing back to normal. Your shins were burning.

"I hope not," You shrugged and wiped the sweat off of your face with the collar of your shirt.

He rested the side of his face on his slick forearm and looked you up and down.

You tensed at the motion and looked to the side.

"Can I take a look?"

A strong twitch of embarrassed confusion on your face forced him to clarify immediately:

"Your legs- I mean," He laughed.

You knew he would assist the head PT every other day for injured student athletes that came through the training room. It was a way for him to get some experience in before he went for a degree.

It just so happened that it never aligned with your schedule, so even though he knew you had become a regular, he never got to assess you.

You tried not to limp on the way across the gym.

"Jesus..." He muttered as you sat your leg onto his lap, "Yeah, that's... fucked."

The little stretching corner was otherwise unoccupied, but you couldn't help but feel like your proximity was too much. Your head was craned around to make sure there were no teachers or staff around to yell at you- but flipped back around with small yelp at his hand.

You laughed and flinched away at his cold fingers, "Thanks."

He didn't react to you.

"I mean, like..."

Iwa was completely taken by how swollen your lower legs had gotten, he wasn't even finishing his sentences. His concentration was super cute. A little concerning, but cute.

He walked you through some new stretches that the head PT didn't care to show you; the more he informed you about the nature of your pain, the less you were trusting the old fellow that you had been seeing.

He supported you as you attempted a tough stretch and quickly reassured you to not push it. You let up as he suggested, hands trembling against his forearms.

"Juuust like that, yeah," He said gently next to your head.

Your face lit up and stopped, too embarrassed to keep this going. Maybe you did prefer that old, crusty, trained professional over him.

Concerned, he ducked to look at your expression, but you quickly evaded.

"Did that hurt too bad?" He asked.

You deliberated on lying but decided against it.

When you glanced back up at him and shook your head, he had a smile on his face that you couldn't quite rationalize.

The focus on 'strengthening' your shins seemed to Iwa like it was just making the issue worse. He recommended resting as much as possible.

His touch and his attentive gaze helped you manage the discomfort you felt going through the motions. He was always waiting for your reaction, gauging how he needed to shift you based on your facial expressions.

"Let me get you some ice," He snapped a couple times, deep in thought, "I wanna try that new wrap, too--,"

He jogged off into the clinic's room and flipped on the light.

In the mirror-wall you caught a glimpse of Oikawa at the free weights. He started blowing kisses in your direction and only stopped when Iwa hurried back out.

"Y'know, I can always make some extra time to check on this after practice."

Your expression softened.

Iwa knelt down next to you. He scanned the damage carefully before sitting, and took one leg into his lap again.

"I couldn't let you do that," You sighed and seethed at the contact.

There wasn't much more room to be gentle, so you just had to endure.

He layered everything slowly, firmly but not too tight, and would take the time to fix the stretchy tape if it got twisted. The actual therapist never spent this much time on you like this.

"Well," Iwa prodded at his finished work, "You can just... give me your number, and we can work something out?"

It may have been the ice, but the chills that ran up your spine were difficult to hide.

"Sure," You smiled.

It felt like you were agreeing to something a little less medical in nature.

He helped you to a stand and supported you for a few seconds too long.

"Sweet," Brushed off his lips in a consumed sigh.

masterlist.

requests/submissions: open

427 notes · View notes

mondaymelon · 2 years ago

Note

Hihi!!! Saw your requests are open and maybe…. Just some cuddling hc or drabbles 🙏

I’m touch starved obviously, but it would be nice with kaeya, diluc, Alhaitham, and Ayato ?

My pookies, they need a hug fr 😔

₊˚ෆ "𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌." | kaeya, diluc, alhaitham, ayato, kazuha x gn!reader

not very familiar with writing this kinda stuff so added a little bit of variation for each one!! thank you for the request nonnie !!!

[ touch starved genshin men are so... chef's kiss... ]

Kaeya has been growing busier recently.

With the return of several reconnaissance missions, all sorts of paperwork have been shoved onto the poor man, and he’s spent every free hour away from his desk unwinding at Angels Share, where instead of getting pestered, he’s pestering any person close enough to hear his words.

“I miss them…” He mumbled to no one in particular, swirling the deep reds of the wine in his glass, pressing his cheek against the wooden counter. His voice denied his dubious sobriety, and his hazy gaze certainly wasn’t helping his case.

The bartender just sighed, clearly fed up with Kaeya’s drunk antics, and turned to the crestfallen man while clearing away the bottles he’s downed in the past two hours. “Your lover? Why not just go see them?”

“...” Silence was the only answer from the male as his mouth dropped slightly ajar, his eye sparkling with realization. That’s right, why couldn’t he? Ignoring the jarring fact that it was well past a reasonable bedtime, he slammed his cup down on the table, before stumbling out the door. The path to your place was well-trodden and familiar, winding along the perimeter of Mondstadt’s walls and a cozy place to all. Kaeya could’ve sworn all he did was blink once or twice, yet he had already found himself with his hand raised, knocking on the wood of your door. There was quiet, then the soft steps of your sleepy footsteps. The door creaked open, and he practically flung himself at your pajama-wearing form, engulfing you in an embrace as he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

“K-Kaeya?” Your body swayed from the sudden weight, and you hesitantly returned the gesture, wrappping your arms around his lower torso. He mumbled into your skin, unintelligible sounds that just made your ears burn. “Hey, you reek of alcohol, just where have you-”

“Ugh, you’re too loud.” His voice was low, breathy, and he slowly walked into your house, closing the door behind him. “I just wanted to see you. Cuddles please, love?” He’s drunk, it’s clear from the red flush dusted across the cheeks and the way he stares, practically mesmerized by the sight of you.

You couldn’t even form a coherent thought, let alone an argument. With a sigh, you dragged his limp self to the bedroom, covering him in blankets and pillows before cuddling up next to him. “Happy?”

“No, I asked for cuddles. C’mere.” And just like that, you’re trapped in his sturdy arms, and he let out a content exhale as he snuggled himself into your form.

“Warm. Can’t we just stay like this for tonight, love?” ₊˚ෆ

Diluc always came home late.

It’s no surprise that Mondstadt’s everyday occurrences and trifles kept him away from where he longs to be the most, and the fact that he’s secretly Mondstadt’s Darknight Hero wasn't exactly aiding him in this predicament. He let out a long sigh, rearranging the papers on his desk, and ignored the ink splatters that had gotten on his sleeves. His red eyes scanned the world past the large windows, the sun overhead shining down on the grape fields below. In just a few months, harvest season would arrive, and then the whole estate would be bustling with activity. Just thinking about it made his head hurt.

A walk would do him some good. As work-centered of a person he was, it wouldn’t do him any well to keep himself glued at his desk for countless archon-forsaken hours on end. He stepped out into the hallway, only to pause in his place as he spotted you, glancing around in confusion with a wicker basket dangling from your hold. All questions flew out of his head as he approached you from behind, pulling you into a back hug. “Love, what are you doing here?”

“Diluc!” You perked up as soon as you felt his touch, giving his red hair a light ruffle. He leaned into your touch with a soft smile on his lips. “It’s lunchtime, isn’t it? The maids told me you’ve been cooped up in your room all day, so I figured I’d bring a little something…” You held your picnic basket a little higher so that he could see, face growing red as he remained silent. “H-Have you already eaten…? Sorry, I’ll-”

“No, don’t.” He reluctantly let go of you, but took your hand instead, gently guiding you to the drawing room, where a long couch has been fixed next to the wall. He looped his arm around the basket and placed it on the table, then directed his full attention onto you. “But can it wait?”

You’re not used to him requesting things, and your eyes widened. “S-Sure, but what for?”

“So I can do this.” Suddenly, your back was against the couch, and Diluc was on top of you, his arms planted on either side of your form and effectively capturing you with his own body. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, before leaning his head against your chest, letting out a breath of contentment as he fluttered his eyes shut. Your quickening heartbeat pulsed in his ear. “Do… Do what you did earlier. That… playing with my hair. Please.”

Who were you to refuse? You relented to his efforts and ran a hand through his crimson locks, letting a smile grace your lips at his sudden childishness. “You tired?”

He hummed in response. “Mhm.” Your touch was ever so gentle, and he yearned for it with a passion. Slowly, he reached for the hand on his head and held it, kissing the back of it delicately, as if you were made from porcelain.

“Thank you, love.” ₊˚ෆ

Alhaitham’s head is always stuck inside a book, that is no understatement.

And now was no different. Even with his duties relieved, it being a weekend, and despite the fact that he’s literally sitting right next to you on the couch, his nose is still buried in his novels, eyes scanning page after page. Yes, you could understand his love for reading, but did it really surpass his love for you? Call it childish, but it had been a long week, and you wanted nothing more than to snuggle into Alhaitham’s arms and listen to his half-hearted complaints. You pouted at the ashen-haired male, who hadn’t even looked up for the past two hours. This had to be a new form of torture.

“Haitham.”

“Mhm?” You could feel your frown deepen as he just hummed a response, not even bothering to look up. In situations like these, isn’t it better to be upfront?

“...Can we cuddle?” Alhaitham’s eyes widened the slightest margin, his multicolored gaze finally, finally shifting upwards to meet yours. His stare flickers as he spots the small pout fixed on your lips, and his own formed a smile.

“Needy, are we?” He said it with a dash of sarcasm, yet set the book away all the while. Uncrossing his toned arms, he glanced up at you with a brow raised. “Why don’t you say please?”

You huffed. Of course, he had to be like this, but whatever irritation you might’ve had was more or less swept away as you opened your mouth to speak once more. “Please?”

And just like that, you’re wrapped tightly in his arms, the side of your face pressed into his chest where you could hear the dull, just slightly faster than usual beat. His hand snaked its way behind your head, and he softly toyed with your strands as he buried his own face into your neck. Alhaitham’s skin was slightly cool to the touch, yet his warmth spread across every inch of you, and all of a sudden, it was hard to breathe with how much overtime your heart was putting in. You moved to speak, but your voice was completely dead, and when you tried to shift your position, Alhaitham’s firm hold on you kept you locked in place.

It’s not like you had any complaints. Even from this unflattering angle, you’re able to admire how long the archons spent crafting a man like Alhaitham, with his sharp jawline and fair skin, and gorgeous, marble eyes that’s colors blended like a painting.

“What, like what you see?” Alhaitham couldn’t even act exasperated, and the smile that’s reserved only for you was one filled with amusement.

“And if I do?” You could feel the flush on your face.

“Admire me all you want, since I’ll be doing the exact same to you.” ₊˚ෆ

Ayato is a man of many masks.

It’s something that’s needed for the life he leads. A situation that he’s been delved deep into ever since his birth. You certainly don’t blame him for it, it’d be impossible to. That, and that facade absolutely collapses whenever the two of you are alone together. His usual business politeness and mask of indifference simply cease to exist, and you become one of the only people who can see the man as he is, rather than just a political figure that you’ll shake hands with to maintain appearance. Instead, it’s the smooth-tongued and cheeky man who found you when you were at your life’s low, took your hand with a smile, and brought you back to the light. You had fallen for him, and fallen hard. To think that you were his lover now seemed like a delusion that your brain had crafted, but it was true, and it was found in small moments like these.

After a rather taxing meeting with the Inazuman officials, who were busy pressing for marriage between the Kamisato clan and another, you found him snuggled into your arms when you woke up in the morning. When he had joined you in your bed, you had no idea, but you admired the way his violet eyes were shut and how his long, dark lashes curled. You marveled at how ethereal the man was, the beauty mark that graces the skin just below his lips, and his long, silky tufts of light blues and indigos. “Pretty…” Your voice was barely a whisper, so as to not wake the sleeping male, but you already know your eyes are sparkling. “Archons, isn’t it unfair that you’ve given him all the beauty you could’ve given?”

You shake your heads at your odd thoughts, lightly touching his head, in awe at the softness of his hair, and his hazy eyes slowly fluttered open with remaining ebbs of morning grogginess. “Ah, you’re awake?”

Ayato merely smiled, pulling you closer and pressing into your form. “No,” he sounded pleased with himself, too pleased with himself. You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “I’ve been awake all this time. Seems like you say some embarrassing things about me while I slumber?”

Silence. Your eyes are round, and your mouth has fallen slack as you stare in utter shock at the audacity of your lover before you. “Y-You-”

“Next time, don’t be too shy to say it to my face, alright?” ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) omg its finished hooray hooray !! first ever req on the main so jodafjlfjlksd dies are the characters ooc theyre ooc okay im tired lets honk mimim

-> teehee what if yall left a message on my christmas tree 😶😶😶

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @solxima

960 notes · View notes