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fawnpires · 2 years

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EVERY MAN GETS HIS WISH — SIMON "GHOST" RILEY.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ synopsis: under the enemy's eye, you're required to accompany the task force's lieutenant but an unfortunate situation of enemy attack occurs; falling victim to both things, your superior and some hidden feelings.

꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: sex pollen, non-consensual drug use, one-bed-trope, inappropriate relationship with a superior, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, age gap, manhandling, pet-names, size difference, dirty talk, grinding, mild degradation, praise kink, porn with plot, loss of virginity, innocence kink.

He wasn't a saint, nor was he heroic man to be looked up to; which was baffling considering his status of customary deeds. Brave, noble, bold — all of those things checked off to be deemed as heroic, as simple as that.

Rather than a man of military, he was more of a vigilante — acting on his own accord, directing himself and the men he worked along with the mind of personal dominance. He knew he didn't fit the stereotype of a soldier; obscene mindset, crude jokes cracked, stiff posture that made him stand stall and all intimidating, and a exterior skull of a clothed balaclava. As daunting as the man was, he was just like peers — quite ill-mannered off the field, absorbed too much in himself.

But he had learnt to contain a majority of that. Solitude was more ideal than ill-mannered, and he preferred that. Often covered up with tracks of blood and brutality, his humanlike isolation made up the whole of him; swallowed him up whole. He didn't know why he enlisted for the military, or why he hadn't quit so many years into the position. Perhaps for the adrenaline rush, or to endure the experiences of war, but the utmost possibility was to make something out of the miserable man he was — sculpt a more successful alternative.

In some way, that had worked out, made him whatever a hero was supposed to be. If that had made him a hero, then be it, if it didn't, then who was he to care? It's not like he cared for his general image, what others thought of who he was; only a man of great cruelty, inhumane and cold-blooded.

A lot of that shifted with you. One of the few women recruited, reserved and utterly meek when interacting one-on-one. You're instantly caught in the range of his observations, curiosity and skepticism as the two perplexing sensations that send him over the edge. Though he's afraid, and not in a tensed sense, it's more based on his feelings; those feelings that he thought would be triggered off in him, until he has you in his sights. That's why he scarcely ever partnered up with you on missions, putting some separation there to rid of those perplex feelings compressed to himself.

Unbeknownst to both you and him, that changes by a great deal. With Price's organization of the next mission, only in need of two personnel, it's down to the coincidence of him being paired up alongside you. The one thing that he was oh-so-successfully doing so well for the couple months you've resided in the task force, but shattered to bits when approaching this unfortunate expedition — it's pressuring, wearing his nerves out — tense. (As if you weren't as equally on edge about being collaborating with your intimidating, enormous superior.)

You're close to him, practically almost rubbing arms together. The overhead sky is dull of sun and some additional clouds, reflecting off the shade of his masked face and the tactical gear he displays. Forwards on, there's nothing but fields of fading grass and a waning path. The intercoms attached to both your uniforms are radio silence; no commands, no Price on the other end except from a few minutes ago when given the straight order to push on until Ghost gives direct instruction there.

Every so often you feel his eyes on you, causing you to adjust your head in his direction only to see him facing the path in front of him; yet sometimes you catch him side-eyeing you through the holes of his mask. Anxiousness boils in the pit of your stomach with each passing second — with his close physical contact, aware of him catching tiny glimpses of you — it causes you to distance yourself from him without your own awareness.

"Careful, kid," he said, his rasped voice the only sound you've heard in the rounds of minutes, "Stay close, don't want you wandering off now."

You blink a few times in a daze at the name, sliding yourself right back next to him, uneasiness tainting the void that was slotted right between you and him. Your hold on your firearm loosens, clutching it closer to your chest, the fingers of your left hand tightening around frontier piece. The sole use of his pet name intact for you leaving you flustered and weak in the limbs.

A sigh blows past your lips. "How much further?" you ask, "Been minutes, hours."

"Almost there, right through this path." he replies swiftly, crouching before gesturing to the right, "Cut here."

He takes lead, in front, and you linger close behind. The trail is cut off, there's more open field and sky where the sky darkens; shadows drawn on the ground, sun merely in sights and lowering beyond the horizon line. Arising in the distance, a structure stands its ground; a warehouse, seemingly deserted, dim light fixtures hung side-by-side with a half opened roll-up sheet door.

In a crouched position, he kneels in the fields of dried grass, signaling for you to do the same — which you oblige with. The slinging strap of your gun digs through your tactical wear, felt into your skin, marking the flesh with the outline of it. Around the airspace is tight and claustrophobic, your chest heavy with the beat of your palpitating, head weighed with a throb and some exhilaration.

"Visual on the hideout," he presses his intercom open to Price, gloved thumb to the button and his head tilted.

Price is heard clicking his own intercom through. "All yours, Ghost, your command from there."

Ghost pauses in his movements for a second then aligns his head back in position on his neck, closing off his intercom as it goes back to the original state of radio silence. He revolves his entire body in your direction, even crouched he's still so much towering and intimidating, eyes a shade of sepia surrounded with black war-paint dying right into your bare ones. "Stay close by me, then separate once inside, then you stay on watch while I locate, understood?"

It's a different request, more distant than what you were usually accustomed to, but in this position; there was really no arguing back on this, or better yet declining.

"Affirmative." you reply, getting off the ground and maintaining a standing position, still bent on your knees to avoid possible detection. He does the same, taking lead again and scurrying out of the grass into the open expanse of the warehouse's front, taking careful measures as he leans to grab a hold of the half-opened roll-up door's handle and widening the entrance so that's their enough space to set foot in. You're sweating, pumped of adrenaline as the whole situation sends yourself into a condition of delirium and kicked of a strange thrill — rifle no longer clutched to your chest, but in a prepared-aiming stance.

A scent, between a bitterness and saccharine, stings your nose. The inside of the building reeks of it, your face hit with a handful of it, causing you to pull up the cloth of your uniform and hold it over your nose.

(Luckily for him, he sported that damned mask of a skull all the time. The one time that you've fully understood to why he would need it, even coming across a situation like this.)

Fluorescent lights in tubes buzz overhead, flickering in flashes across each of your faces, background of quietude besides the shuffles of Ghost moving in his gear and the humming of the lights. He raises his arm to gesture the previous order given, you stay put up against a wall while he proceeds further and observes the stairs, the upper level with a room; unsuspected of the flat, low contour of a light that casts through the glass panes of the space. You watch across your shoulder, moving up to the bottom of the case of stairs, detecting each of his calculated steps, prepared to act on direction.

He reaches the top platform and eyes the door — though, before he has the chance to elbow the door wide open, his suspicions of there being lifeforms present are confirmed — the solid matter of the door bursts open without warning and a clink of an object hits the ground where he stood.

Adapting the consciousness to back away from it was far too late to act on now, a blow of the now-identified smoke grenade pollutes the atmosphere around, white and clouds around more than you had expected it to. Despite having your uniform stuffed to your nose, the scent is brought back to you — that bitter, sweet-smelling one — and it throws you into an abrupt coughing fit. Some of it breaches to your eyes, leaving a whole of you to be incompetent to retaliate against the enemy; hell, you couldn't even fend it off.

There's a grit of your teeth while slump back against the stairs. You lay against your rifle that had been abandoned from the clutch of your hands, your chest abnormally heavier; as if you were lungs were filled with a burdensome matter. Through the veil of your fogged vision and the diminishing sheet of smoke, the lieutenant held more strength than you, holding himself up against the wall of the room and held the handle of his knife up into one of the perpetrators.

His strength in the moment was impressive, nearing admirable, but it wasn't enough to overturn the situation with more than one perpetrator present. About two circle him while another three take notice of your debilitated figure haunted with the beginning side effects seeping into the fissures of your body, your head.

The last few recollections were of slow footsteps approaching your comatose-like body, your breaths heavier and more echoed against the shells of your ear. That sensation in your chest sourced from the smoke was growing into more crucial, dangerous areas; the smoke's aroma intense and all that you could really smell. They're crouched and talk over your body through muffled hoods, gas-masks.

It's difficult to make out what they're saying, (In this state everything was difficult, from vision to solely breathing.) A palm rests at your forehead, frigid to the touch before it burns down to a more scorching feeling once left more on contact to your skin.

You use your last bit of brawn to grasp at an attempt to get away downwards but there's an additional grab to your legs from below. A grunt flows from your throat in a strained manner, the ramifications of the unknown dust outdoing your own control.

A palm to your forehead, acidity stench, and the rear of a shotgun to strike you to a vacant space of unconscious void.

Against your skin, there's heavy breathing, and motions of flexing arms under your lifted thighs. You find your hands balled in fists at the fabric of his tactical jacket, his jacket, Ghost. To your surprise, he had proved your accusations of his strength giving out back at the warehouse wrong — overthrowing the opponents and beating them to pulps like his usual violent self, his bloodthirsty persona which slaughters the targets he chooses. Undeniably, he was rabid. No morals, no mercy for his rivals like the truculent brute he was.

His hand supports your back, the other to your legs which had explained the flexes that continue under you. He stumbles over to a tree which provides a temporary shelter as he slants at the bark.

He isn't vulnerable, he almost never was. It was either a violent, bellicose identity or one of great endurance. Ghost was an inexplicable man. On the battlefield, he's nothing more than a weapon — a masculine personification of warfare that taunts and douses his victim in a bloodbath of gore. (Who knew if he had developed some sick satisfaction from it, years of countless executions bound to his hands.)

But now he an absolute contrasting mortal to that, possessing you in his big arms right to his chest. You almost feel safe, sort-of sheltered more than you've ever felt in your entire presence of being restricted to the Earth's grounds. You take notice of how he checks over his shoulder then sloping his head down to your laid physique. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, lifting you slightly.

"Come on, c'mon," he whispers and buries his fingers deeper in your hair, "Stay with me, kid."

In response, your half-lidded eyes widen up a little more, hands ghosting over his forearm and leaving your fingers to brush over the sleeve. You think you hear a sound of relief, but it was complicated to say with his smothering mask dying down a mass of his words.

The collected scenery around had been ingested fully with the effects of dusk, nearing complicated to make out where you the both of you resided for the time being. All you could comprehend was that he accomplished to elude from the main origin of the danger, and had hid out nearby in this perspective of trees.

"How'd... how'd you get get away?" you ask, sitting up with his supportive hand still at your back.

"That's what years of military training does to you," he replied, panting, "Reinforced stamina, mask helped drag out some of the grenade too."

You blink slowly, bringing your middle and index finger to your face which gathers some of that bitter residue. "What is this shit, anyways?"

"Not sure, has to be some conjured batch of contraband. Never been out to be transported, personal use — that's what I say."

"Some strong stuff." you mutter.

His strength which is used to hold you up heightens when he stands from his crouched position, a grunt choked in his throat. You link your arms around his neck for more support, doe-like eyes staring right into the pit of skull and cloth.

He doesn't mind, you think.

"Saw a safe-house up there, we'll spend the night there." he states.

"What about the rest of the operation?"

"I'll get in touch with Price," he said, "Possible case scenario is the whole thing being postponed."

You can only bring yourself to nod your head; at the same time, those secondary effects of the substance flowing back into yourself, stronger. Ghost starts back up forward to where the safe-house was situated, and his motions produce perceptions of vertigo. A whimper is hushed from behind your closed lips, head pressed to his shoulder and submerging into his jacket. His own scent gives distraction from the sustained bitterness and swirling sweetness that made your head pulsate in equivalent palpitations to your rapid heartbeat.

Your limbs are brought to weakness, frail and shaky against the perimeters of your pants. Sweat sticks to you — your forehead, your skin, your clothes. The strap of your bra feels more mauled into your flesh, branding into your sultry skin. There's an unanticipated rush of heat that throbs out from between your thighs, another whimper muted from your secured lips. Right in the moment, like a natural instinct, you could't help but trail your eyes over to Ghost.

How his biceps flexed and bent underneath you, his distinctive scent stalling at your nose of gunpowder and pine. It was intoxicating, holding you in a trance complete of him; all your focus on your lieutenant. You were known to hold an admiration for him ever since recruitment, his particular set of skills and proficient demeanor that was worthy of your commendation. But now it had shrunk into nothing but merely a hidden, perverted desire that had been brought out in the faults of the anesthetizing matter. Pressing your head deeper into the cloth of his jacket, you force your legs to squeeze together — an aim to rid of the shameful sensations that were coming down at you at the same.

As you doubted it was never going to transpire, Ghost had successfully brought the two of you into the safe-house. No longer in use, abandoned and dead, the short-term sanctuary reserved for you and him only. One story, decently-sized, and ideal for hiding out from potential nearby threats.

You're supported up in his arms for an interval while he inspects the building until reaching the upstairs, in the single bedroom which had been the only one throughout the investigation. He leans downwards to allow you to stable yourself on two unsteady legs from his hold. You stagger over to the solitary mattress and sit on the edge of it, two hands resting on the edge, fingers compressing into the foam. By now, the effects the substance took on your body had evolved into a level of unbearable.

Sweat drapes over your body in a fitted sheet, that vertigo subsiding into a lower degree but adjoining to the intense pulsing of your cunt that you've managed to handle for a while now. You slap a palm to your forehead, down your face, examining the extreme sweat that stains the skin there. Ghost sits at the foot of the bed, close to you, and begins to strip of his vest and his jacket.

"Get some rest, you'll need it in the morning." he advises towards you, proceeding to strip of the rest of his heavy gear.

"Was there not another bedroom?" you ask.

"Just this one," he said, "Why? You ashamed of sleeping with a superior or somethin'?"

Sleeping. To your current perverted head, you take it a more immoral way, heat rushing to your face at the thought.

"No, no, I just... thought you needed more privacy. Wanted to have some alone time, you know?"

He glances to you. "If you're uncomfortable, I can just sleep on the floor, kid — nothin' personal."

"It's fine, Ghost, seriously." you said.

His stare drifts on you for a little while longer before shifting away, bending his upper half into the pocket of his tactical jacket for a lighter version of his balaclava; one that wasn't supported with the hard shell of a skull at the front, but printed with a the design of the skull instead. His eyes were more visible this way, tar-like paint on pale skin around the browned irises. You shyly strip of your own vest and jacket, leaving you in a black tank top and tactical pants. The only light that had really illuminated the room was the tranquilizing beam of the moonlight through the pane of the window, white and glowy.

You slump fully onto the bed and sink into the soften material of a pillow. Your resting position distributes some heaven from the tormenting sensitivity that throbs like hell through your pants. The space on the mattress from behind you droops with his weight, a breathy sigh leaving his lips as he settles close to you; the closest you've ever been with him, almost intimate.

After a slight period of time, he's knocked out in a slumber — but you're left awake, a hand now between your legs as the pulsing is at its height; panties drenched and your heartbeat thumping out of the cage of your chest. You gaze over your shoulder at him where he lays closer facing you, his eyes visibly slit shut with the gleam of the moonlight. He adjusts himself and moves in closer to you in his sleep, towering figure nearly pressed up at you. The adjustment leaves you flustered, shock.

Without hesitations, you remove your hand that nestled from the space of your thighs and slipped through the waistband of your pants; stripping of your pants, gliding into your panties and fingertips feeling the soaked fabric of it before trailing further, rubbing slightly against your cunt. Your back arches and you muffle a whine into your pillow, heartbeat sounding at your ears in impossible volumes. Shame was no longer present, libido taking authority over your body and leading you to do such perverted things while thinking of your superior — who was sleeping away right next to you.

In this sort of mindset you can barely grab control of yourself anymore and find yourself stumbling backwards into Ghost, your free hand over your mouth as you feel the area of his crotch press up against the curve of your ass. One of your eyes twitch, hand in your panties rubbing at your puffy lips while your hips begin circular motions at his clothed crotch. The hand at your mouth fails to stay together, fingers parting from each other and granting the noises from your mouth to spill out. His arm then wraps at your waist, unconscious or not, seemingly pulling you closer to him; a bulge in his pants felt at your panties.

"Lieutenant..." you whisper breathily, looking back at him only to see his eyes were no longer shut — but half-lidded and open.

His arm at your waist travels to your hips, trapping you in the enclosure of his hands while he pushes you down further onto his bulge; an audible whine leaving your mouth with additional pants.

"Look at you," he groans with a rasp in his tone, "Gettin' off on her superior like the needy whore she is."

"M' sorry, Ghost, fuck, needed you so bad..." you whine out as his hips grind against your ass harsher, almost in similarity to thrusting, yourself drunk on him and his cock.

"Yeah, love?" he questions, "Say it, how long have you've been like this for me? How many times have you touched that pretty little cunt of yours to the thought of me every night?"

Your eyes are shot vast, saliva pooled in your closed mouth and your panties moist — slick painting the inner sections of your thighs. Words struggle shape into coherent sentences through your mindless babbles and the disturbance of his erection prodding right at your clothed cunt, but you manage. "Ever since I joined the task force," you say through a half-whine, "Since I've first seen you."

A couple of months was your first appearance on working for the task force. Decently skilled and a couple of rank higher than your first impression of a rookie, barely given any training. That's how long you've yearned for him — how many times you've laid sole right at midnight, in your room of the barracks, a hand down your panties while breaths of weight exhale with personal noises of lust. You project his hand instead of yours in the fabric, veins and a bigger expanse of flesh that stretches your tight cunt out with lengthy fingers.

Now those momentary projections had manifested itself into the real life, the reality where your older superior had himself pressed up against you; hungering after you as much as you did for him.

He has his face in the crook of your neck. "Fucked my fist thinkin' of you," you said, "You and your heavenly body distractin' me on missions... drives me insane."

"Ghost, please." you whimpered.

"Tell me what you need, sweet thing, c'mon." he cooes against your neck, the arms around your waist locking you right to the area of his crotch when all you could do is whine and push yourself down for more of the relief. Your body burns and fits of sweat, the temples of your forehead pounding.

"Need you to fuck me," you pant, "Need you inside so bad."

Ghost places a masked kiss at your jaw at the confession and in an instant movement; you're underneath him, a caging shadow scarcely visible by the traces of moonlight through the glass panes. The loss of friction he once gave from behind you was no longer there, leaving you to press your thighs together once again in hopes to rekindle some of the loss. His palms are flat at each side of your head, the bulging muscles of his black shirt outlining through the material — and the thing you've longed for the most, the bulge that lines and becomes trapped in his fabric confines.

He uses his right arm and his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties, ragging the drenched item down past your knees and left to be discarded on the mattress. His eyes preserve in a mature desire; bleary and focused on the exposed region of wet flesh. You bite the skin of your bottom lip, sheepish to never having another person being so up-close to an area that was so confidential to you throughout a large portion of your life. Two of his fingers slide up your puffy lips, soaked of your collected arousal while he elicits a low gasp from you.

"Fuck, angel, never seen someone so wet all for me." he said.

You had wondered if you should tell him now — after you were the first one to make such a bold move on him, you had to confess the private matter of never having intercourse; the only closest sexual encounter you've had was with yourself. (Those nights in the barracks with your single hand.)

"Ghost, wait—" you stutter out, a palm spread-out at his chest in a way to interrupt him of his doings.

"Somethin' wrong?"

You breathe, your throat gone dry. "I- I haven't done this before." you admit.

"You're a virgin, honey, is that it?" he asked with his accent swarmed of concern, "Never had a man touch you like this?"

"No," you said, "I want you to be my first time..." the admission was brief to a point, sure, but it was what you were so desperate in need of. You reserved this occasion just for him, and it had finally gave life to itself.

"Oh, sweet girl," he caresses your face with both hands, large palms squishing your cheeks and rubbing soothing motions into the skin, "Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, please," you whisper, "God, I've waited and waited, only for you to be the first. Nobody else."

With that, his hands drag themselves down your face, your chest and stomach, and aligning at your thighs. He leans himself down onto the mattress, pinning his body onto the cushioned material. Your legs rest at each of his shoulders and his fingers create a restraint; powerless to thrashing or releasing from his hold. His thumb and index finger momentarily fix up the bottom of his balaclava to the brink of his nose, moving back to the flesh of your thigh. You squirm a little from the long, dragged-out desperation that spread through your body like a disease — a plague of lust solely meant for your lieutenant.

At long last his head descends to that throbbing territory right between your parted thighs, all bathed in your bloomed arousal and swollen clit. You feel his tongue kiss over your skin before running one long stripe up your cunt, lips fully puckering over you. To this new, overwhelming ease —out of the extended period of time with the substance's aches— you throw your head back to the headboard, a breathy gasp leaving you throat each time his tongue comes to work on your cunt. His nose adds to the ecstasy that he sends you right into, nuzzling and prodding right at your clit when his mouth works along your slit.

You stifle a moan, but ultimately fails when his tongue fucks itself right into your cunt, nearly felt at your walls. Whines echo off the boundaries of the room, the double simulation causing your eyes to flutter and your walls to clench around his tongue. Your thighs squeeze at his head while trembling, leaving your fingers to claw at the sheets, each and every assembly of your exclusive noises the nearest experience he would ever capture to hearing heaven — an angel, his very own angel.

"Fuckin' heaven right between your thighs, princess," he praised, running his tongue at the spots he was quick to learn that were sensitive to you, "Needy thing, you are."

"Y- Yes, yes... fuck." you whine.

"M' going to ruin you, bunny," he said amid his pleasuring, "Be the first man to ruin you, and this sweet pussy of yours."

Your thighs tremble, thrown-back head releasing noises of pants and disgraceful moans. His tongue works more diligently now, in the habit of working at your cunt. The ministrations are more faster and insistent. "Oh, Ghost..." you whimpered, bucking your hips onto his face and essentially riding his entire facial structure. He lifts his irises to your fucked-out face, staring in admiration, a raw visual of beauty — open-mouth, tilted head, sheet of sweat over skin, and all because of his own doing.

Rather than alternating between lapping at the exterior of your cunt and pushing his tongue right into you, he makes his mind up of only plunging his tongue in-and-out of you. The more rabid motions of his tongue driving up into you is a whole new degree of euphoria, a knot in your abdomen tying itself at the muscle fucking at your delicate walls. But it's not soon when that knot is unbinding itself, your body writhing under him as your hips roll and ripples of pleasure drive out from the undoing knot.

When Ghost arises from his spot between your now-fully soaked thighs, his mouth and nose are saturated with the liquids of your orgasm; the first orgasm you've had provoked by another person. You spasm, at some state of relief — but not enough to fully satisfy the explicit emotions that fomented right to him. Heavy breaths leave your mouth and his, trembling fingers of yours coming to pull off your tank-top and bra; fully nude and stripped beneath him now. You take notice of his eyes widening for a brief second behind the warpaint — astonished, or whatever he had going on at that unpredictable mind of his.

"Such a doll, baby." he said, inclining down to press a kiss to your lips, straightening his stance above you — towering you. He strips of his own shirt, a broad chest of muscles and pale skin, then lingering a hand down to his tactical pants where he shrugs the cloth down to his ankles; thoroughly peeling away from any fabric, except for his boxers with that prominent bulge at the forefront.

You patiently look up at him through your lashes while he slowly tugs at the waistband of the remaining article of clothing, a sensation at your gut anxious for the release of it. He wastes no time pulling the boxers down, cock smacking at his lower abs. Undeniably, he was as large as you've fantasized him to be — but with more length added, more veins that adorned him and a blunt head that oozed of pre-cum. Your breath hitched at the sight, a slow blink of your eyes while he clamped a fist over himself.

He pumped himself a few times in the fist, never once leaving the perspective of your near-goddess body all spread out for him. The stare in his eyes were darker, more obscured with shadows and a deep, perverted passion that you once obtained; only for it to die down at his domination on you, reduced to your usual timidity. Observing his cock in his fist, you bite your lip, that throbbing sense at your cunt returning in a more intense wave.

In a more bent position over your anatomy, you feel the head of his cock prod right at your entrance and you gasped when it starts in circular movements — gathering some of the remnants of your arousal on the head.

His fingers grasp at your jaw, gently forcing you to make direct eye contact. "Hey, hey, look at me," he whispers, "Relax, honey, it's going to hurt a little since it's your first time, yeah?"

You give him a nod, lip bitten at your teeth.

"If it hurts, we stop, no big deal — got it?"

You give him another nod of reassurance. It was a huge thing to give up, to put trust into the hands of another man — but it was him, your lieutenant, the man you've admired and personally worshipped like your own god. You trusted him with your life, that's how far it was taken, and now you could trust him with taking your virginity; ruining yourself for him.

With the given permission, he slowly fills you up, the head of his cock slipped into your cunt. He groans at the tight sensation, a whimper of your end at his lengthy size inside of you. You already feel so filled, and it was only the blunt head that had been in you. Ghost immerses in how you feel clenched around him, tight and leaving him almost unable to fully thrust himself in; the intimate way your legs bracket at his waist, how your arms wrap his torso like a bandage and your fingers jab at his back muscles.

"Ghost—" you whine out, feeling yourself clench around the head of his cock that left you almost brain-dead — unable to speak, or form a coherent thought at that, "Oh, fuck..."

His large hands keep you confined at your waist, lips pressing at your face while one hand frees itself and cradles you in it. "Still doing okay, sweetheart?" he asks with a genuine concern, and you nod, allowing him to thrust the remaining inches of his cock right into your cunt. Your back arches off the mattress at the sudden movement and the short sting that accompanies it. "Doing so good, love."

He starts out in slow, steady thrusts and you whine with the flow of his hips against yours. Gradually, he speeds up once coming to the realization that you were already adapted to how he moved up inside of you. Your fingers at his back begin to dig deeper, breaking the skin and leaving red marks in the wake. His stamina is a whole stage of extremity than your own, which is why he's able to pound into your cunt without pause.

"You love this don't you, sweet girl?" he pants, "You love having your sweet little pussy filled up by your superior's big cock, huh?"

You rapidly nod with pants between your lips, saliva down the corners of your widened mouth, "Love it s'much, Ghost, oh—"

"My real name, say it, honey."

You whimper, the bottoms of your eyes twitching. "Love how you fuck me, Simon — be rough with me, please, I don't care anymore."

At the your request, his particular set of thrusts afterwards of his are hard and nearing animalistic, right up at your cervix — nearly at your womb. He reduced you to nothing but a writhing, moaning mess where you laid under him; legs fixated at his waist and your arms at his torso forcing him down closer to you.

"Always wanted to fuck you like this, y'know?" he rasps between grunts, "Every-time one of those lowlife rookies eyed you, wanted to bend you over and show them who you belong to," he said, "Fuck in front of everyone like a bunch of animals.

An audible, echoing whine slips from your mouth at his own perverted confession. Who knew he shared the same fucked-up fantasies as you did? (Truly a match made in heaven.)

In the way he fucked into your cunt at a rapid pace, it could be considered animalistic — just like his fantasy. His veined hands caress your waist while every thrust of his hardened cock brushing past your walls and pounding into your cervix extracts an angelic sound from your mouth.

"More, please, please—" you whine out, head thrown back and nails into his skin, "I'll be your girl, 'mmm my god — your only girl, I promise..."

He grunts. "That's right, bunny. I'm the only man who can fuck you like this," he said, "I'll make you remember this night, the first man to ever ruin you like this."

Ghost throws his head back, his posture aligning itself out while his jaw clenches. Sounds of skin-on-skin and a chorus of high-pitched whines along with raspy, masculine grunts leave the safe-house no longer deserted; conducted of sexual nature in its walls. You squeal as he never fails to reach your cervix while he continues to pound into you, addicted to the way your cunt clenches on him like a vice and how your body reacts to his cock impaling it like a natural instinct — clamping on, soaked of arousal just at the mere thought of it settled in you.

The space between your two thighs are messier than the first time, when you found yourself being carried like a bride in his arms, when you ground yourself right to the bulge of his pants. It's sloppy, with a combination of your arousal and his pre-cum painting your inner-thighs like a piece of artwork; the whole scene a scenario of a sexual, brutal renaissance painting.

"M' so close, Simon!" you squeal, "Need you to cum inside, mmph — please..."

"You want that, sweet girl?" he asks, "Want me to cum all inside of your pretty pussy?"

"Yes!"

He chuckles. "You lil' fuckin' whore, all needy like this for her first time."

And with that, Ghost smacks his lips to yours. His tongue laps at each crevice of your mind, a hand coming to grab at your jaw and keep you in position. The results from him eating you out still linger on his tongue, causing you to moan right into his mouth and allow him to eat you all up. Your insides feel raw at this point in the way his cock leaves squishes noises each time he meets with your puffy, sticky folds — cervix bruised and kissed with his overwhelming contact.

"C'mon, princess, show your lieutenant who you belong to," he breathes between kisses, "That's it, I know you can, bunny."

Ghost feels the abrupt stop of your clawing at his back when your cunt spasms around his cock, clenching as tightly when a burst of liquid seeps out and decorates the head of his cock, drooling down the veiny sides. The pads of his fingers come down to rub at your swollen clit during your orgasm, a loud whine earned at the contact. His cock twitches inside of you at your noise, and at the discernment of your pretty cunt squeezing down on him; in some way telling him to stay, never let you go, claim and haunt you down to never leave your side, never.

With your orgasm already wrapped and concluded, he undergoes one of his own; not long after yours. A gush of fluid plants at your walls and floods past your cervix, felt at the inners of your womb. Sensitivity still contemporary, you find yourself mewling at the impact when it spills to the parts deepest inside of you — coddled in the warmth of his seed, filled to the brim. He's quite the artist himself, painting your insides one of the prettiest tints of white. You capture him in a hug, pressing your face into the open slant of his neck while he sinks in the position for a little while longer. He returns the embrace and massages at your breasts before wrapping you in a full hug, collapsing to your body.

He rearranges the stances of your bodies while in the embrace — him on the bottom, while you lay on his larger structure. Your head rests on his naked chest, tiny pants from your mouth while he is successful in catching after his own breaths; his hand in your hair, petting in comforting strokes while he presses repeated kisses to your scalp.

"How was that for you first time, love?" he asks once in breath again.

"Brutal," you said, "I liked it, though."

"Think that grenade powder had quite the effect on us," he said, "fuckin’ hell."

You nosed at his jaw, kissing at him, inhaling his scent of sweat and gunpowder — addictive. "Never knew my superior could be such a pervert just cause of a little powder."

"Not only the powder, doll," he said, "It's you."

#♡ fleur’s writings.#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 fanfic #oneshot #female reader

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coochiequeens · 6 months

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I know this blog focuses on TIMs invading women’s sports and locker rooms but Saving Women’s Sports means more than that. Like calling out sexist bs when companies give men real clothes to compete in and women get basically underwear.

The Nike Air Innovation Summit in Paris on Thursday.Credit...Dominique Maitre/WWD, via Getty Images

By Vanessa Friedman April 12, 2024

Ever since the Norwegian women’s beach handball team turned the fact that they were required to wear teeny-tiny bikini bottoms for competition into a cause célèbre, a quiet revolution has been brewing throughout women’s sports. It’s one that questions received conventions about what female athletes do — or don’t — have to wear to perform at their very best.

It has touched women’s soccer (why white shorts?), gymnastics (why not a unitard rather than a leotard?), field hockey (why a low-cut tank top?) and many more, including running.

So it probably should not have come as a shock to Nike that when it offered a sneak peek of the Team U.S.A. track and field unies during a Nike Air event in Paris celebrating its Air technology on Thursday (which also included looks for other Olympic athletes, like Kenya’s track and field team, France’s basketball team and Korea’s break dancing delegation), they were met with some less-than-enthusiastic reactions.

See, the two uniforms Nike chose to single out on the mannequins included a men’s compression tank top and mid-thigh-length compression shorts and a woman’s bodysuit, cut notably high on the hip. It looked sort of like a sporty version of a 1980s workout leotard. As it was displayed, the bodysuit seemed as if it would demand some complicated intimate grooming.

Citius Mag, which focuses on running news, posted a photo of the uniforms on Instagram, and many of its followers were not amused.

“What man designed the woman’s cut?” wrote one.

“I hope U.S.A.T.F. is paying for the bikini waxes,” wrote another. So went most of the more than 1,900 comments.

The running comedian Laura Green posted an Instagram reel in which she pretended to be trying on the look (“We’re feeling pretty, um, breezy,” she said) and checking out the rest of the athlete’s kit bag, which turned out to include hair spray, lip gloss and a “hysterectomy kit,” so the women would not have to worry about periods.

When asked, Nike did not address the brouhaha directly, but according to John Hoke, the chief innovation officer, the woman’s bodysuit and the man’s shorts and top are only two of the options Nike will have for its Olympic runners. There are “nearly 50 unique pieces across men’s and women’s and a dozen competition styles fine-tuned for specific events,” Mr. Hoke said.

Sha’Carri Richardson

Women will be able to opt for compression shorts, a crop top or tank and a bodysuit with shorts rather than bikini bottoms. The full slate of looks was not on hand in Paris but more will be revealed next week at the U.S. Olympic Committee media summit in New York. The Paris reveal was meant to be a teaser.

Anna Cockrell.Credit...Dominique Maitre/WWD, via Getty Images

Mr. Hoke also pointed out that Nike consults with a large number of athletes at every stage of the uniform design. Its track and field roster includes Sha’Carri Richardson, who happened to be wearing the compression shorts during the Paris presentation, and Athing Mu. And there are certainly runners who like the high-cut brief. (The British Olympic sprinter Dina Asher-Smith, another Nike athlete, told The New York Times last summer that while she opts to run in briefs, she also leans toward a leotard style, rather than a two-piece.)

What Nike missed, however, was that in choosing those two looks as the primary preview for Team U.S.A., rather than, say, the matching shorts and tanks that will be also available, it shored up a longstanding inequity in sports — one that puts the body of a female athlete on display in a way it does not for the male athlete.

“Why are we presenting this sexualized outfit as the standard of excellence?” said Lauren Fleshman, a U.S. national champion distance runner and the author of “Good for a Girl.” “In part because we think that’s what nets us the most financial gain from sponsors or NIL opportunities, most of which are handed out by powerful men or people looking at it through a male gaze. But women are breaking records with ratings in sports where you don’t have to wear essentially a bathing suit to perform.”

The problem such imagery creates is twofold. When Nike chose to reveal the high-cut bodysuit as the first Olympics outfit, purposefully or not, the implication for anyone watching is that “this is what excellence looks like,” Ms. Fleshman said.

That perception filters down to young athletes and becomes the model girls think they have to adopt, often at a developmental stage when their relationships with their bodies are particularly fraught.

And more broadly, given the current political debate around adjudicating women’s bodies, it reinforces the idea that they are public property.

Still, Ms. Fleshman said, “I’m glad Nike put this image out as the crown jewel of Olympic Team design,” because it may act as the catalyst for another conversation that has been long overdue.

“If you showed this outfit to someone from the W.N.B.A. or women’s soccer, they would laugh in your face,” she said. “We shouldn’t have to normalize it for track and field anymore. Time’s up on that.”

#Nike #Team U.S.A.#Track and field #Nike Air #Paris #They couldn't even give women short shorts?#Nike has a chance for a do over

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tanuki-kimono · 2 months

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Hello ! I've been really into Gegege no Kitarou recently, and looking at his mom made me wonder : back when kimonos were worn on a daily basis, how did pregnant people style them ? Did they wear other types of clothes that don't compress the stomach as much instead ? If you happen to have any info on this, it would be very cool :)

Hi! It's hard to imagine as many kitsuke pictures now promote perfect tubular silhouettes with not a fold out of place, but in the past kimono were worn far more loosely than they are today!

Kimono was then worn everyday (=no time for perfect polished photoshoot looks ;), many kistuke accessories we now use didn't even exist (=they were not needed!).

During Edo period to late Meiji, feminine silhouettes were far more flowy/willowy than what we have today:

Kimono tended to be longer (hikizuri for ex.) and adjusted far less tighlty on the upper body (=people were working!). Depending on the period obi were narrower, or worn differently (criss crossed for ex.) or laxer than what we do today.

Pregnant women had no trouble adjusting their clothes to their changing bodies :)

The kimono was worn looser and looser as belly and boobs grew. If possible, kimono could have been unstitched and retailored (if fabric allowed it) to the bigger size needed.

Obi and ties were set above (and/or under the belly depending on time), like so:

And pregnancy belts were widely used.

One belt was a type of sarashi (soft cotton roll, which was also used for chest) named hara-obi 腹帯, which provided support:

youtube

Another special belt was the Iwata-obi 岩田帯, used during Obi-iwai 帯祝い, a ceremony taking place on the day of the dog during the fifth month of pregnancy. This was meant to ensure safe birth, as dogs were thought to give birth easily - hence why inu hariko are good luck charm for expecting women:

The obiiwai was also a way to announce a pregnancy to the community (as miscarriages, abortions, and infanticides were sadly quite common then).

Iwata obi are still a thing, here are modern ones:

Finally, as a side note, what pregnant women could do if they felt smothered by their kimono? Well, just open the damn thing to wear it much like a robe!

Japan had not the same shaming view of female breasts than the West then. It was quite common to see some working class people in underwear/loosely dressed, or have both sex share spaces in the nude (baths for ex.).

Tbh, unless she was living a sheltered life (no work, servants, etc.), I don't see why a pregnant woman would have bothered with a properly adjusted kimono, when she could have just be much freer and comfortable xD

Hope this helps!

#ask #japan #pregancy #women history #kimono #fashion history #sarashi #hara obi #Iwata obi #obi iwai #inu hariko #pregnancy belt #kimono undergarment #pregnant woman #着物 #帯

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activewearmanufacturer · 1 year

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Some Of The Most Famous Workout Looks Of The ‘Poor Things’ Actress Emma Stone

Do you a fan of Emma Stone? want to dress up like her in your workout session? Then listen to this podcast now! After listening still if you have questions then read this blog at: https://www.activewearmanufacturer.com/some-of-the-most-famous-workout-looks-of-the-poor-things-actress-emma-stone/

#womens compression wear supplier #emma stone #free workout clothes samples #trendy compression clothing attire of emma stone #actress emma stone attire in poor things

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tenko-thinks · 1 year

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Upper moons and an s/o with large breasts

Cw: a reader with some huge honkers. I'm talking a real pair of badonkers. Some HUGE habagah-- anyways, suggestive , mentions of lactation?¿ I'm projecting my back hurts

Ft. Douma Akaza and Gyutaro

Requests are open i encourage them, im not that creative

♡ ------ ♡

Douma

Douma is one person I see that values breasts on a feminine partner. They imply fertility, after all.

And that implies youth. Beauty. Which is quite attractive not only to the part of you that he desires to devour. But also to the part of him that is a.. Man.

His hands are almost always trailing down to your breasts. Resting on the softness there.

He only becomes handsier over time, bolder and pretty uncaring of boundaries. Or public opinion. He has a right to squeeze, he feels.

When he's bored he enjoys them in an almost cat like fashion. Lifting them and releasing them to watch the jiggle of soft flesh.

Absolutely the worst to sleep with though you'll be in bed and a hand with find your tit under your clothing and it's like Antarctica. He thinks your reactions are to die for. So he's going to keep doing it of course.

There's a part of him that wants to delve deeper on the idea of your fertility. Watch your breasts swell. He wonders if your milk would be like drinking your blood? Just as devine?

Also you're twinsies with fat tits congrats

Akaza

Akaza does not strike me as someone who cares about the body of his partner so long as they're healthy.

However he cannot deny his base attraction to. The simpler things in life. If you're well endowed. Well, it only means more of you to love.

And love you he does. He's not great at showing gentle affection but words of affirmation are natural to him.

If you're insecure of your chest? He's there to soothe you.

If you're proud of them and love showing them off? Free hype man.

#1 malewife no matter the form his s/o takes i will die on this hill.

Pull a "my tits feel heavy" and ask him to hold them. It'll be funny i promise.

Gets very flustered around you in the nude however. Pointedly NOT looking at your chest. Save him.

Gyutaro

Living in yoshiwara, Gyutaro has seen numerous women. Most of which bearing a few extra pounds on their chest.

He hardly even knew smaller boobs existed . Sure he knew they Did but big was average to him. So I can definitely see him being more of a tits guy just by nature of his environment.

He's an asshole though , bless his heart. Very much the type to just like. Lightly swat at your boob when you annoy him or catch him off guard.

Laughs if your chest is sensitive, and he will abuse that knowledge. Going out of his way to find situations to tease about it.

He however also knows the downsides of having them as well. Considering he's a brother to a sister in a similar predicament as you. Back pain or whatever.

So to make up for his unrelenting teasing, Gyutaro will often just hold you. Or help you crack your back. On a good day he might give you a shoulder rub if you ask nicely. He will call you a loser or pathetic ♡

He often has Daki bringing you warm compresses or bags of rice to rest on your lower back. When she doesn't cry about it, she's actually surprisingly understanding about the whole situation. Not that she'd say that through her pride.

#gyutaro x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer #kny x reader #kny #kny douma #douma #douma x reader #akaza x reader #kny akaza #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #gyutaro #kny gyutaro #Tenko blurbs

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sub4apparel · 10 months

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#sports clothing #mens down puffer vest #custom teamwear #long sleeve cycling jersey #compression pants women

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baleaf01 · 8 months

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#padded compression shorts near me #women's gray sweatpants #upf clothing for women near me #workout sweatpants #soft shorts near me

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heli-writes · 2 months

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A dragon's heart, part 14.

Pairing: Barbarian!Bakugou Katsuki x female!reader

Summary: The dragonblood tribe is known for being cruel, barbarian warriors that slaughter, loot and rape all places they pass through. They are feared among the villagers and even bigger cities. Having lost most of their women to a plague, they're trying to ensure their tribe's survival by kidnapping women from other places. However, they're not the only monsters in human form out there. When y/n experiences this first hand, she has no choice but to ask for help from no other but the barbarian leader Katsuki Bakugou himself.

Disclaimer: mentions of injuries, mentions of rape and abuse, marking, trauma symptoms, trust issues

[Please don't read if you are sensible to or triggered by the topics mentioned above.]

Note: Y'all I'm back from the beach all crispy and tanned. Finally found some time and inspiration to continue this.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14

Series Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first day, y/n didn't leave the tent because of spite (and the immense pain that radiated off the wound in pulsating waves). The second day, she didn't leave the bed cause she felt as if she'd faint if she tried to get up. By the third day, y/n developed a fever that made it impossible for her to move at all.

Katsuki watches over her with a worried gaze. He's in and out of their shared tent trying to balance his business and his mate. He orders the healers to have a close look at her. When the head healer comes to speak with him while he’s fulfilling his duty, he knows that something is wrong.

“The infection spread. She’s having a high fever. I’ve already sent some of our men to look for fresh herbs to make a fever-reducing medicine, but that can only help so much. We will be giving her cool calf compresses throughout the night. You might want to stay with her tonight.”, the healer explains.

Katsuki feels as if his heart stopped for a millisecond. He only gives the healer a short nod. It might seem cold and emotionless towards others, but the truth is that Katsuki doesn’t trust his voice.

After that, he adjourns the meeting with his men and returns to y/n’s bedside. Some healers are busily swirling around the small tent, soaking cloths in cold water and pulling them around y/n’s legs.

Katsuki delicately holds y/n’s hand as if her hand would turn to dust like a dried flower when you crunch it too hard. He stares at her chest which heavily goes up and down. Despite her obvious troubled breathing, y/n barely lets out a sound. He’d take her yelling at him over this eery silence any day.

“Bakugou.”, a voice rips him out of his thoughts. Kirishima stands at the entrance of the tent. When Katsuki gives him a sign, Kirishima carefully enters his leader’s private quarter.

“How is she?”, Kirishima asks carefully standing behind him. Katsuki doesn’t turn around to meet his eye.

“The fever’s bad but the healers are working on it.”, he tells him.

Kirishima stays silent. Katsuki does not need to explain y/n’s condition further. Fevers are tricky things. They come in slowly and when they hit, they’re hard to get under control. Katsuki’s own father perished due to the same infection that took out most of his tribe’s women. He understands better than anyone just how quickly a simple infection can take someone’s life.

“She will pull through.”, Kirishima encourages him. Katsuki’s lips form a firm line. When Katsuki doesn’t answer, he adds: “That one is a strong one. She’s a fighter”.

“So was my father. So were many of our women.”, Katsuki tells him.

“This is not the same, you know that. They were sick and y/n has only an infected wound.”, Kirishima points out.

“And how many warriors have we lost because of that?”, Katsuki presses. Kirishima stays silent. He wishes his leader would be less of a realist sometimes. It’d be easier to cheer him up in dark moments.

The entrance of the tent is moved once again and Mitsuki enters. She gives the healers and Kirishima a sign to leave her alone with her son.

“Have you come to gloat, mother?”, Katsuki bites venomously. Mitsuki gives him a long, unidentifiable look.

“I do not wish this upon you or… her.”, Mitsuki says. Katsuki doesn’t look at his mother either. Instead, he observes how y/n’s eyelashes cast a slim shadow onto her undereyes.

Mitsuki sighs deeply and sits down next to him.

“Son… I know how you feel. Remember, I’ve lost your father the same way.”, she reminds him. When Katsuki doesn’t answer her, she continues.

“Maybe it was inevitable. We’ve lost other women before her. These women you bring in are not suited for life in the mountains. They’re often too weak to survive the harsh winters out here. It’s not their fault their bodies are weak. They do not carry the same hot blood as we do. The blood that also makes our wounds heal faster.”, Mitsuki tells him.

“Others survived the mating. So will she.”, Katsuki says determinedly. It’s something he’s not sure of, something he didn’t even believe only seconds ago when Kirishima pointed out the same thing. Maybe he's just saying it to defy his mother. He’s aware of how fragile y/n is compared to women of his tribe. It’s why he fears the worst.

Mitsuki looks at her son for a long time before putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Son, I know this is not what you wished for, but maybe it’s for the best.”, she tells him. Harshly Katsuki yanks his shoulder back and shoves her hand away.

“That my mate dies days after she became mine? How is that for the best?”, Katsuki whisper-yells. The healers must still be outside the tent.

Mitsuki pulls back her arm. “She’s not suited for this life, to be a strong leader by your side. It’s best that it happens so early before you’re too attached to her.”, Mitsuki says compassionately and it just makes Katsuki just more angry.

“If she dies, I will not take another mate. As it is custom.”, Katsuki harshly points out.

“In our situation, no one would question you breaking traditions.”, Mitsuki replies.

“I don’t care.”, Katsuki barks and grips y/n’s hand tighter. There’s no one else for him besides her. He made his choice, he knew the implications.

Mitsuki sighs and gets up. “We’ll see.”, she only says calmly and turns around to exit the tent leaving Katsuki alone sitting at y/n’s side.

~*~*~*~

Everything lies in a hazy fog. Y/n is sure she can make out Katsuki's face in her distorted vision. Something hot runs through her stomach. Is it anger? She can't remember what she should be angry about. Then maybe, she's wrong. Her vision fades and Katsuki's face becomes blurred. Maybe it was never Katsuki to begin with?

„Brother!“, y/n calls out through the mist.

Is he here? Has he come to take her home? Back to mother and father and their little wagon in the woods?

Soft voices reach her ears. The strum of a guitar is somewhere far away alongside a soft voice. A familiar melody comes forward in her consciousness. Her tongue feels heavy as she tries to sing alongside her mother's lullaby.

Someone strokes over her hot, wet forehead.

„It's alright little one. Rest now.“, her father's voice says close to her ear. Relief floods her anxious thoughts and y/n relaxes. I'm safe, y/n thinks.

„Don't worry, my love.“, her mother says from her other side, „It's just a cold. You've played too long in the snow with your brother.“

Right, of course. Y/n remembers. It snowed in the night and y/b/n and her snuck out of the tent before their parents woke up. They built a snowman and made snow angels. When her mother saw the two of them barefoot in the snow, she shooed them back inside and made them sit by the fire with a blanket and a hot cup of tea. Y/n fell asleep on her brother's shoulder.

Y/n leans into the hand that strokes her forehead.

„Brother, stay with me.“, she begs but she isn't sure if she only says it in her head. Dirty blonde hair shuffles through her hazy vision. Someone holds her hand. Y/n lets out a shaky breath.

It's alright. Y/b/n is here. You're safe., she thinks as she fades into a dream of snow-capped forests, frozen lakes and her brother's laugh in the distance.

~*~*~*~

Kirishima watches his leader with worried eyes. Y/n has been drifting in and out of consciousness all night. The moments that she's been awake a dull haze covered her eyes. She's been trying to speak but the words hardly leave her throat.

The hazier her gaze gets, the glossier Katsuki's gaze becomes.

Kirishima places a hand on his friend's shoulders. There's not much they can do right now. The healers are still changing the calf compresses every ten minutes or so, trying to cool down her body as much as possible. Behind Katsuki's back, the head healer told him that y/n either makes it through the night and will live or not. Kirishima didn't have the heart to tell his friend, but he's sure Katsuki knows without anybody telling him.

Y/n lets out a shaky breath and tears shimmer in her eyes. She calls out a name. She's been repeating the name for some time now. Katsuki just holds her hand a bit tighter.

„I think it's her brother.“, Kirishima tries to calm his friend, „I don't know much of her language but I think she's been saying the word for brother earlier“.

„I didn't even know she had a brother“, Katsuki says quietly.

„Maybe he isn't with her anymore. When the veil between the living and the dead is thin for a person, they often call out to those that went before them.“, Kirishima offers and almost instantly regrets bringing up death in front of his friend.

„Or maybe I ripped her away from him and now she has to die alone surrounded by strangers.“, Katsuki flatly points out.

For a moment, Kirishima doesn't know what to say. Of course, that's a possibility too. But until now that has never mattered when they took women. The survival of their tribe always came first for Katsuki. He didn't think much about the women's families. Kirishima was never sure whether Katsuki was so cold that he didn't care or if Katsuki didn't allow himself to care about it because it was expected from the leader of the tribe.

„Promise her to find him.“, Kirishima says without thinking. Katsuki turns his head back to him.

„What?“, he asks and Kirishima only nods. He doesn't offer his leader an explanation. Katsuki turns his head back to y/n and stares at her struggling form for a while before ordering Kirishima to leave them. Wordlessly, Kirishima leaves the tent.

Katsuki takes a long look at y/n before taking her hunting knife that she always keeps close. Carefully, he cuts a fine line into the inside of his hand. He watches the blood pushing through the cut. He takes a long look at y/n's face before pressing his bloody hand to her heart.

„If you survive tonight, I, Katsuki Bakugou, son of Masaru and Mitsuki Bakugou, promise to find y/b/n and to let you go with him if you so please.“

~*~*~*~

There's the faint sound of metal hitting against each other and men clamoring in the distance but the tent lies in absolute silence. Y/n struggles to regain her vision for a couple of moments. She's feeling groggy and terrible. For a split second, she believes she's in her parent's tent.

Then, she remembers where she is. This is Katsuki's tent. Her head throbs from the lack of water. Her hand flies to her forehead and she puts it over her eyes in an attempt to milder the hammering feeling in her head.

She's been sick. She remembers waking up multiple times. She remembers waking up to unknown men pouring a thick, bitter fluid down her throat and a cool piece of cloth placed onto her head. She remembers waking up to Katsuki leaning over her watching her with furrowed, worried eyes. She remembers her brother's face in her periphery. Y/n wonders how much time has passed since Katsuki cleaned her wound. And for a very short moment, she wonders if her brother actually found her.

Quickly, she discards the idea. It was probably a fever dream. Something her imagination came up with in an attempt to calm her struggling body and mind. Y/n feels hot tears burning behind her eyes at the thought making her head feel worse.

Her hand flies to her throat where the wound is still wrapped in a tight bandage. She realizes that her head feels worse than the wound. Actually, she barely feels the wound at all. She wonders if it healed or if everything else just feels worse.

Groaning, y/n tries to sit up. I need water, she thinks. When she moves, there's a twitch of a body at her side. Only then she notices Katsuki who lies next to her face down. He's clutching her other hand. Katsuki groans and turns over letting go of her hand. Quickly, y/n pulls it away from him.

Katsuki stretches and turns his head to her.

When he notices that y/n is awake, he jerks up. His head spins for a moment from getting up too quickly. Immediately he sits up and pulls y/n close. He hides his face in her hair. Y/n let it happen and suddenly her heart feels heavy with grief. Grief, that her brother isn't here, that she's still stuck here, and that Katsuki hurt her when she was ready to trust him all the way.

It's impossible to hold back tears anymore and they stream down her cheeks and onto Katsuki's arm as he holds her. She wants to push him away but at the same time, she longs for the warmth and comfort Katsuki offers her right now. She wants to be held, wants him to pet her hair and tell her everything will be alright. And most importantly, she wants to believe him.

When y/n looks up, Katsuki is watching her with sorrowful eyes. Carefully, he wipes some tears away and his gaze falls onto the bandage on her throat. Softly, he traces the wound beneath the bandage and then carefully leans closer. Y/n's breath hitches a bit but she's too weak to pull back. Softly, Katsuki presses a kiss onto the bandage right where he hurt her not too long ago.

Katsuki's hair tickes her chin and y/n stares at the wall of the tent behind him. Katsuki's hand softly traces patterns onto her arm as he continues to hide his face at her throat. He's so soft right now that y/n wonders what possessed him to hurt her in the first place.

When Katsuki notices that y/n doesn't struggle against him, he pulls back and looks at her. Y/n holds his gaze. There's no fire or anger behind her eyes. Just exhaustion. Slowly, he leans forward, presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls her close. Y/n can't help but lean into his touch. She's been feeling so alone. How can she refuse Katsuki's touch right now? She's too worn out physically and emotionally to fight him or the burning want in her stomach to be comforted by him.

Katsuki puts his hand into her hair and pulls his face closer to his. Y/n continues to hold his gaze. She can see worry, sadness and regret shimmering behind them. Maybe also something like relief. His nose grazes hers and she can feel his breath on her lips.

Katsuki is desperate to kiss her right now but he doesn't move forward. He's not sure if he's still allowed to touch her like that.

Y/n wants to be angry with him like she was before the fever took hold of her. She wants to yell and scream at him. At the same time, she wishes for nothing more than for him to close the gap between them and kiss her. But she's too exhausted to do anything other than lay still in his arms.

She wonders if she’s going mad. If she’s suffering some mental illness that makes her love a man who hurt her, wonders if maybe she’s always been mad like this which led to all her bad decisions. Or if the death of her parents and the loss of her people made her mad like that.

Y/n is ripped out of her thoughts when Katsuki’s lips softly graze hers. It's that moment that she decides that she doesn’t care and that it doesn’t matter.

I dug my own grave, now I have to lay in it.

Before Katsuki can realize what is happening, she closes the gap between them and kisses Katsuki deeply.

For a moment, Katsuki is frozen. He struggles to understand y/n's ever-changing emotions and actions. Only a couple of days ago she looked at him as if she wanted to murder him. He decides that he doesn't care and that it doesn't matter. Not after almost losing her.

He pulls her closer so that her entire body is pressed against him. He reciprocates the kiss and kisses her as deeply as he can. He tries to pour all the words that she doesn't understand into this one kiss.

They kiss until they can't breathe anymore and they need to pull apart. Katsuki softly pushes a greasy strand of hair out of her face, but it's stuck to her sweaty forehead. He offers her a small smile because he's not sure if this means she has forgiven him.

When y/n sighs and leans against his forehead, relief finally floods through his body.

My mate didn't reject me.

He pulls her into his arms and engulfs her with his much larger frame. Y/n leans into him and Katsuki pulls the blanket over them. They can stay here for a little while longer. At least until one of the healers comes in with another portion of this god-awful syrup.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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sashi-ya · 2 months

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𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑵𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑹 「cuts of freedom: final part 」 soshiro hoshina x f! officer! reader

a/n: and the end is here! i'm not gonna lie, I wish for this story to last forever. And, actually, I might add some little updates about these two here and there sometimes! anyway, please enjoy! And thank you so so much for being here since the very beginning when this started as a simple scenario 💖 a/n 2: some clarification about the contents: "せーの!” is the classical expression "seeh・noh" in Japanese used like "ready, set, go!". Tanabata, is a very well known festival in Asia celebrated during July- Aug. The Hoshina clan is real clan! I did my research, that's why I added the "Fukushima" patterns. tw: mdni! sex explicit scenes. masturbation. nipple bitting. marking. public car sex. wc: 3.5k // part 1: cuts of freedom // part 2: かんぱい！// part 3: stuffed // part 4: side B: relax // part 5: mirror, mirror... // part 6: sex for breakfast // masterlist

Eyebags puffy and visible, you haven’t really sleep much. Breakfast -and sex after breakfast- though, tasted delicious.

Should you both arrive together? Where are you, exactly, after all?

“Come on, did you bring the uniform?” Soshiro asks, putting on one of his classic black compressive shirts.

Your heart breaks, as the abs you adore get once again covered by that tight fabric. You are not mad, though.

“I haven’t- I just brought normal clothes…” you sigh, remembering the fact you left your boiler suit at the base.

“Then wear mine” he says, pretty naturally, handing you over one of his suits.

If there is something us women like, is to wear our couple’s clothing. And you aren’t any different. Instantly, you take -almost snatch- it from his hands. You are eager to see if it smells like him, you are eager to feel hug and warm by even his clothing.

And, indeed, it has a faint trace of his perfume. Manly and delicious, you engulf the smell, feeling your insides get filled with butterflies as you do.

“Should I take it off? Or wanna wear it around?” Soshiro asks, laughing cutely while coming closer to you. His delicate fingers graze the little enamel pin on your chest.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Hoshina Soshiro ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 3rd Div. Vice Captain”

You smile softly, eyelashes fluttering slowly, looking down at his hand. Of course, you’d love to wear it around; because you are his… but you aren’t ready for “he say she says” although rumour already has it that you two have something going on.

“Do you think is it ok? Isn’t it against the rules?” “Indeed it is, doll. Give it back, haha!”

Your cheeks become hot from embarrassment. Of course it is against the rules. And sometimes with these type of little pranks, Soshiro can be a little bit annoying.

“Don’t be sad, I promise you I will search for my old badge, and I will give it to you. Ok?” he says, kissing the tip of your nose as he takes off the pin from your clothes.

You nod, sweetly. Like a little girl, you are instantly happy and satisfied with such a beautiful and cute promise.

Soshiro doesn’t pay much attention at anything besides you while walking out of his apartment. His hand is placed on your lower back, guiding you through the hall towards the elevator.

“You look so good with my clothes, hun” he whispers, closely to your ear right from behind.

A shiver runs down your spine and it travels to every little sensitive spot on your body.

“Thank you… Soshiro~” you answer, not sure if you wish the elevator to arrive faster or slower.

Unfortunately -or not- the doors of the lift open, and the sterile white lights of the mirrored inside receives you reflecting all of your angles.

You remember Soshiro complaining of the cameras inside the elevator, and as much as you wish he could push you against the walls to grope you, you know it is impossible. But nothing is when it comes to Hoshina Soshiro who is apparently crazier for your sex more than what you could think of.

He, then, proceeds to stand right at your back. It is him who’s against the bars attached to the mirror wall, now. His hands slowly slide from your waist to your front, getting into the front pockets of your boiler suit.

With his chin carved on your shoulder, he smirks to the mirror in front of you. His fingers reaching for your core, pushing quite strongly against it in tiny circular motions.

“I really want my suit to get covered by your scent… would you make a little mess for me?” he asks, pressing his crotch against your ass, showing you how hard he is once again.

You swallow; it wasn’t necessary to ask, if he keeps doing what he is doing you will for sure make a mess in it.

“So-Sosh-ngh…” you fidget around his index going crazy over your clit. “Mmh? Don’t be that noticeable… you know I don’t want the guards to see you! plus, the doors are about to open. What if a neighbour sees you?” he says, in such perverse tone it makes you tremble.

You bite your lips shut, taking a big gasp of air, wishing for his fingertips to finally touch you without anything in between. Your eyes shut closed, inevitably thinking of what he said; what if the doors open and someone sees you in such state?

The “ping” announces the doors are about to open, your heart rising faster, your inner thighs dripping with sensual wetness.

“せーの!” he whispers. And as soon as a fine line of light filters through the sliding doors, he takes his hand off the pocket -and your sex-

You sigh loudly, putting yourself together in a matter of seconds.

“Morning, Soshiro-chan!” she says with a lovely tone, as if this happened every day.

“Morning, Mrs. Tanaka!” he salutes her, like a usual daily happening.

An old woman stands right in front of the elevator, with an as old as her poodle in her hands. The dog barks annoyingly at Soshiro and you, as it might have seen a cat… well, Soshiro kinda looks like one.

“Go kill many Kaiju, boy!” “I sure will, Mrs. Tanaka! Give Mr. Tanaka my regards!”

Apparently, that woman is Soshiro’s neighbour. Did he know she was going to be there by the time the elevator reached the floor level? He is more perverted than what you could have ever imagined…

You smile all throughout the mere seconds the conversation lasts, walking out of the mirrored lift trying to regulate your accelerated breathing.

The moment the doors close, he turns to you too look into your eyes. He burns holes into yours, with a smirk that shows he is not quite over with it.

“See? I told you…” “Soshiro, sometimes I think you are just a villain…”

He laughs, loudly, like he is used to do. From his pocket, he takes the keys of his car, and both walk to the little parking lot right behind the building.

He opens the door for you, putting first your little bag in the backseat and then letting you sit on the front. He then closes such door and jumps into the drivers seat.

And despite you thinking he was going to start the engine, he had first quite different plans...

“You said you thought I was a villain…” he mumbles, looking at you, coming closer to your lips with his index under your chin.

“You must be ~” you playfully back up.

He smirks and it’s all you need; next thing you know, is him pulling you from your seat to straddle your hips on top of his lap.

“Then, as the villain I am, allow me to finish my perfect crime…” he whispers, lowering the zipper of your -his- suit open.

You wonder if this man has a “public sex kink” or he actually just don’t care the rest of the world but you; Soshiro wants to have you at any time, in any place, whenever he desires.

His hand slides down your belly and into your panties. Wet as he wanted you is what he founds. And he is pleased.

Soshiro’s free hand pulls you closer as he pushes your lower back further. Your breasts, free of any other clothing, bounce temptingly in front of his face. It doesn’t take him much to finally attach to them with lips and teeth. Sucking like his life depended on it, he makes you whine loudly from pleasure and pain… boy, those fangs are certainly sharp.

While he delights himself with the taste of your nipples, his thumb finishes the work he started in the elevator; masturbating you so good you soon forget about the weak morning light bathing the parking lot, or the fact Soshiro’s car windows have a barely purple tint on them.

Soon enough, your thighs accompany the spasms your inner walls experience. And climax hits you uncontrollably; the mess Soshiro wanted, had finally been materialized… his suit will hold the stains of your relief exactly as he wished.

“As long as I wish to fuck you hard, we are gonna get late there. I don’t want Mina to scold us” he says, helping you sit on your spot back again.

You are trembling still, only recognizing his voice, and the sweet way in which he closes the zipper and fasten the seatbelt to keep you safe.

You blink twice, still in awe. You look into the little mirror, seeing your heated cheeks and the mess of your hair that you slowly fix while he starts to drive. The pony tail you just finished, your hands still around the elastic band… the lustful idea of pleasuring him while he drives; after all you believe in equality, and just as he made you come… you must make him come, too.

You drift to the side, still without catching much of his attention. You bend slowly; waiting for a red light to make him stop. Your mouth is watering, and it is that Soshiro somehow tastes so delicious. Maybe it is his healthy life style, maybe is the testosterone of a modern samurai or it is just that you are infatuated with him.

“Wha- hahaha- what are you doing?!” he laughs, thinking you are just being funny. “I think I want my mouth to be a mess as well” you whisper, moving like a cat about to pounce on a little mouse.

His eyes now open widely; looking down as you lower the pants’ zipper.

“This is one of the things I love about you, (Name)-san… go ahead, feast on it” “It will be my pleasure, fuku-taichou” you sing, kissing the bulge before finally freeing his sex from his briefs.

You can feel on your chest the little ups and downs of his legs while he drives, and every bump pushes his dick inside you even deeper against your throat. Your tongue makes sure to damp the whole shaft, while your bobbing head and sucking lips make him grunt.

Soshiro’s hands grip tightly to the wheel; a little drop of sweat forms on his forehead. His sex becomes harder, ready to burst. The way you let his dick go deeper into your throat, allows the tip of your tongue to reach for the base and even more if you use your hand to play with his balls. The poor soldier is doing a great job while driving through the busy streets of Tachikawa, fast enough to park right at the base for the moment he reaches the peak…

“I’m gonna… come… you-“ “I won’t let a drop mess with your seat, don’t worry…” you whisper, giving him the last pumps this time with your hand and your tongue against his tip.

Soshiro retorts in silence, letting scattered “nghs” and “fucks” as he finally bursts. He grabs your pony tail, having the hair tangled on his fist, burying your head down so that he can finish right into your throat.

Eyes watery, lungs using the last molecule of oxygen, nose inhaling his skin’s perfume, your tongue feeling the accelerated pulse on his sex’s veins… oh, the delicious warm seed of Hoshina Soshiro going down your throat.

“You are gonna be the death of me, babe…”

The return to the base felt silent; both got out of Soshiro’s car, smiled at each other and parted ways. He needed to go back to his office, while you had to go straight to morning training. Your muscles were screaming at you; they didn’t want any more exercise this morning… but you simply couldn’t skip it.

The day went by fast and in between building strength and weapon management; by the time the afternoon arrived, the constant memory of Soshiro’s promise for tonight’s plans that reverberated in your brain, fade off to the point of almost forgetting about it.

However, there are certain things you couldn’t escape from, and you were about to find out.

By the time the training was over, and everybody was stretching, you began to win a couple of looks; your suit didn’t feel like yours and indeed it had a special pair of little straps on the back that you didn’t take in consideration when you chose not to change into yours…

“(Name), what is this?” Akari asks, passing her finger in between one of the hoops that’s clearly meant to be used to hold a certain type of blade.

“What?” you ask, still unaware.

“Oh, oh… don’t tell me you are a double blade user like Hoshina Fukutaichou, (Name)?! Platoon leader Nakanoshima says, laughing loudly with clear intentions of teasing you. She continues, also, telling Ryo he owes her money for winning “the bet”… “I told you they were screwing!” “Nakanoshima -.-“

Your eyes open like two pair of eggs. Your cheeks turn to fire, the whole squad laughs and other start whispering… yet, none of those reactions were filled with bad intentions. In fact, it was quite the opposite, making even Mina give Kafka a soft little smile in complicity.

“No, no I- We aren’t… It is not what it seems like! We aren’t… uh…“ you try to excuse yourself, being aware that this could be detrimental to your relationship. You aren’t sure if Soshiro wants you like anything else than an “acquaintance”. This rumour could fuck everything up.

“There are no rules against it, (Name)! don’t worry!” Kikoru smiles, assuring an essential truth; her parents were known to be one of the strongest couples inside of the JAKDF.

You give a sweet smile to your young but strong nakama; she doesn’t really need to know the details of how intricate adult relationships really are… yet.

The commotion gets instantly silenced by Mina ordering you all to go back to your stretching exercises. You all bow respect to your captain, and fast enough you all continue with your duties.

Soon, as the training finally finished, everybody start walking back at the barracks. You needed a bath, perhaps more than anyone else in that place… this morning “mess” was still unwashed.

None of the women said much as you walk to the bathrooms; everybody seemed more tired than ever. Probably, like you, they all had fun on that free day you were given yesterday.

It was not until you undressed that you noticed the marks all over your body; fangs that carved into your flesh have left a vast area of purple and painful spots all over that have been developing all throughout the day.

“There is no way I will make another scene. I must shower when everybody is done…” you think, suddenly remembering the day Soshiro cut open your anti kaiju suit; the day he saved your life, and the day both skins touched for the very first time in such intimate and deep way. This, lead you to remember, also, the so mentioned “plans for tonight”.

What were those plans? Were they still happening? What if he -and probably he already does- knows about today’s fuss on you wearing his uniform? He hasn’t reached out yet…

By the time you are out of the shower, you keep lost into your thoughts and memories of Soshiro’s sweet kitty face.

“(Name)? you lost your intercom again. Here…” A soft voice, calm and patient pulls you out your own thoughts and hands you over a little white earphone.

You blink twice, noticing captain Ashiro being as delicate as a flower while she gives you the ear piece. She simply takes his index to her ear and taps twice leading you to wear what she gave you.

You haven’t lost it, though. You simply didn’t wear it today; nobody was expected to do so, either way. But you understand, almost immediately, that you must follow your captain’s orders because something beautiful was waiting for you.

She turns around, fluttering her onyx hair while holding her towel on her shoulder, and disappears through the door to leave you alone.

You put the little intercom on; tapping twice on it.

“Hello?” “Hello, Miss (Name). Would you please come to my office?” Soshiro says, playfully acting like your vice-captain. “Yes, Sir!” you say, clearly and loud. However, your insides were turned into a holy mess; the butterflies felt like Kaiju flying around your stomach.

You run; you couldn’t hide it anymore. The halls of that base felt endless, why did it feel like Soshiro’s office had changed places with any other room?!

It took you a couple of minutes to get there. Panting, you wait for a couple of seconds to regulate your breathing. A single desktop lamp turned on guides you to his desk. However, Soshiro isn’t there, but a washi paper wrapped box waiting for you with a note on it.

“Dear (Name), please wear this and talk to me so that I can guide you to your next destination. Be aware the clothing and the hair pin you will find inside this box has a long history in the Hoshina family ~”

Your eyes get a little watery; you weren’t exactly sure on what to expect… but this is definitely something better than what you could ever. This seems truly romantic, and you are by far speechless.

You open the box, taking care of not ruining the paper… you really wish to keep at least a piece of it. Inside it lays an even more beautiful piece of traditional clothing than the one you wore at his apartment; a yukata, purple with hints of lilac flowers, typical Fukushima Aizu patterns from where the Hoshina clan are the originally founders.

The hair piece, looks like two little representation of katanas imbued in sakura flowers of silver and purple little stones.

You cover your face in total awe; deep inside you still think you don’t deserve to wear such beautiful piece of art. But you end up doing it, Hoshina Fukutaichou said so, right?

The Japanese silk falls so delicate on your skin, kissing it softly with cold pecks on every mark he has left on you. You take a last look at your image on the little mirror he keeps on his office, still unable to process how beautiful you look, and double tap your intercom.

“You ready, princess?” he asks, curious.

“I am… Soshiro, this is… beautiful” you whisper, blushing harder with every word you mouth.

“Not as you, (Name). Now, please walk to the back of the base. There is a zen garden, you will find your next surprise there… and the answer you’ve been waiting for”

“Yes, Soshiro ~”

Walk? He said walk? who could walk?

Run, run, run. Your hair set free, only holding by a single strand to silver blades, dances with the wind your own speed creates. Run, run, run. Through the halls of the base that’s been your home, your dream and your begin and end….

Fairy lights look like blurry dots, like fireflies, by the end of the hall; you run to catch them all. To see him, to hear an answer your heart already knows.

“Soshiro!” you whisper, when you stop all of a sudden, noticing how beautiful the Zen garden had been decorated. Warm lights, and every branch of the bamboo holding little multi-coloured papers… have you forgotten? It’s the night of Tanabata.

Your lips tremble, your eyes become watery once again; never experienced something more beautiful, even more because it was prepared for you… and only for you.

“Welcome ~” he sings, lifting his two hands and indexes up. “You look, and I know I told you this before, so beautiful wearing my family’s clothing… Please tell me you are the type of person who loves Tanabata” he continues, a little insecure now.

You wipe a little tear off the corner of your eye; anything you could love or even hate means nothing compared to him… you are the type of person who loves… him.

“This is… more than beautiful… why? I don’t deser-“ you start, but his hands grabbing yours stop you from keep on talking.

“You do deserve it; shall we write our desires in the little papers? Let’s go, I’m sure the Hanabi are about to start ~”

You nod, following him to a little table where two little papers lay on top, and each one has a pen to write on. Soshiro allows you to write yours, and then he does with his, not before asking you to wait until you read.

When both are ready, he guides you with your little paper towards one of the trees. Such tree, the tallest of them all, seemed to be fading into the night sky. Stars shining like diamond dots, like the river that separated Orihime and Hikoboshi but not you two.

“Let me tie yours, and you tie mine” he whispers, while both exchange your desires. As you grab his, you proceed to read...

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“I wish to be yours, (Name)”

“Soshiro… is this…?” “That’s my answer, (Name)… I really, really wish to be yours. Can you cut open this jail and set me free from this doubts? Am I yours? You are the one to tell me so” “Read mine, and you will find the answer Soshiro…”

ㅤㅤ“For him, the man who set me free with cuts of love, to be mine forever”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ… ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑵𝑫 ~

dear reader: thank you for reading! hope you liked this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! hope all your dreams come true! 💕 ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Sashi 🌱

#kaiju no 8 #kaiju no. 8 #kaiju no 8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 fluff #kaiju no. 8 smut #soshiro hoshina #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina soushirou #hoshina soshirou x reader

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