your-decay
your-decay
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your-decay · 2 days ago
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i need freaked out perverted requests
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your-decay · 5 days ago
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pairings: alexis ness x reader, nagi seishiro x reader, sae itoshi x reader, aiku oliver x reader, shidou ryusei x reader (all separate) cw: smut, needy male characters, dominance / power play (reader leaning dominant over certain characters), hair pulling, choking, light degradation, praise kink, dirty talk, cockwarming, begging / desperate behavior, possessive behavior, riding / cowgirl position, edging / overstimulation, slight dubcon-y vibes in places (in the context of consensual established dynamics, but still caution), unprotected sex mentions, breeding talk implications (light), mild size kink, mention of tears / crying during sex, obsessive tendencies, oral fixation (ness especially)
read the first part here !
alexis ness
sweet, twitchy little thing who’s dangerously attached to you. he acts normal around everyone else — polite, maybe a little smug when he’s setting kaiser up for a goal — but when it comes to you? he’s so fucking needy it’s pathetic. he’ll trail after you like a kicked dog, fingers brushing yours every time you walk, eyes darting to your mouth when you talk, like he’s imagining what you’d sound like moaning his name.
— ness is submissive, but not in a whimpery, fall-on-his-knees way — it’s quieter, a constant hum under his skin, a want that never dies down. the second you tug his hair or let your teeth graze his ear he goes still, pupils blown, cock already twitching in his pants. he gets so desperate when you touch him, hips grinding against your thigh like some needy little virgin, muttering “please, just— let me, let me make you feel good, i need it.”
the worst part? he loves when you’re mean. when you tug his hair and tell him he’s your little plaything, when you use him like it’s what he was made for. and when you call him “pretty boy” in that voice? game over.
nagi seishiro
— lazy, dom-leaning switch — but fuck, does he get needy. especially when he’s half-asleep, drowsy with heat and sweat, face buried in your neck while his cock’s still stuffed inside you from the last round. he acts all casual about it too, mumbling shit like “s’good, don’t stop yet” while his hips rut up into you, desperate in a way he won’t admit to out loud.
nagi’s not the type to beg, but he’ll whine. soft, low, breathy little noises that get caught in his throat when you clench around him or drag your nails down his back. and when you tell him you’ll stop if he doesn’t ask nicely? he’ll grumble something under his breath and fuck into you harder, cheeks pink and breath hitching when you grip his jaw and make him look you in the eye.
he wants to pretend he doesn’t care — but the second you ride him, hands on his chest, telling him how good he feels? it’s over. he gets so greedy, holding your hips down and whining into your mouth like a boy starved.
sae itoshi
— dom as fuck on the surface, sharp tongue, colder eyes, that detached way of speaking like you barely register to him — until you have him underneath you, thighs trembling, lips parted, soft sounds catching in his throat as you drag your teeth down his neck.
sae’s a dom, sure. but he’s needy for you in this way that feels dangerous, volatile. he won’t beg, won’t say a word, but his hands will tremble where they hold your hips, his eyes glassy with want, the head of his cock leaking against your stomach as he grits out “fuck— hurry up.”
he’s the kind that gets meaner the needier he is, snapping at you between panting breaths, tugging you down to kiss him so hard it leaves your lips raw. and if you tease him too long? he’ll lose it, hips snapping up into you so desperately it makes your head spin, rough words getting swallowed by his own choked-up moans.
he’s always chasing control — but with you, he never fully has it. and some fucked up, quiet part of him likes it that way.
aiku oliver
— dom, maybe a switch smug, cocky, dirty-talking problem — but god does he turn needy fast. the second you get a hand around his throat or tug his hair back to whisper in his ear? he’s gone. hips stuttering, voice cracking on a “shit— don’t stop, baby.”
he wants to fuck you, ruin you, brag about how good he makes you feel. but it always turns on him. the sounds you make, the way you arch into him, beg for it, dig your nails into his back — it gets him so fucked out so fast it’s embarrassing. thick, wet kisses, possessive hands all over you, desperate little huffs of breath against your skin like he’s trying to fuck you deep enough to make sure no one else even looks at you.
aiku’s got a praise kink a mile wide too — tell him he’s your favorite, your good boy, and he’ll cum so fast it’ll knock the air out of him. smug about it later, sure, but in the moment? he’s needy, desperate, a mess of groaned curses and choked-up moans, fingers digging into your thighs like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go.
shidou ryusei (bonus because you know he’s a different breed)
— batshit dom but so, so fucking needy it’s actually kind of pathetic. cocky little shit, all sharp teeth and teasing words — until you get him underneath you, one hand wrapped tight around his throat, riding him so good his eyes roll back. he loves getting used. gets off on how feral you get, how rough you handle him. will straight up beg if you edge him long enough. swears he’ll fucking die if you don’t let him cum, and means it.
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your-decay · 5 days ago
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pairings: sae itoshi x reader, faint rin itoshi x reader cw: incest (brother/sister dynamic), reader is the eldest sister of both rin and sae, older woman/younger man, smut, creampie, possessive behavior, emotionally unhealthy / codependent relationship, semi-public car sex, degradation (light), breeding kink implications, rough sex (bruising grip, biting), unresolved emotional neglect/abandonment themes, casual discussion/normalization of incestuous relationship (sae knows about rin and the reader)
read part one here !
you manage to catch sae at the very end of the u-20 match, throat sore and raw from how loud you’d been yelling, your voice cracking on those last few desperate calls of “rin!” as the clock wound down.
you’d pressed yourself against the barricades, leaning over so far security kept eyeing you like they were waiting for you to fall onto the pitch. your skin’s sticky with sweat — your own and rin’s both, clinging to you from when you’d thrown yourself at him the second the ref blew the whistle, arms winding tight around his shoulders before he could even turn around. he’d smelled like grass and heat and that faint metallic tang of blood from a busted lip you were too scared to look at properly. he hugged you back, of course he did, buried his face in your neck for a split second like he needed the anchor of you before he let himself be dragged off by the rest of them.
but it stayed with you, that sharpness under the surface. you could feel it. couldn’t quite shrug off the way his voice had gone flat, his eyes a little distant even in the middle of all that chaos. calling it a change felt too permanent, like putting a name to something that might still go away. no — whatever it was, rin was upset about something. pissed. bitter. you could see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his knuckles stayed white around the collar of his jersey. and you knew better than to ask. not here. not in front of cameras and teammates and half the goddamn country. later though. later when it was quiet, when his cock was snugged deep inside your cunt, when the world got soft around the edges and his voice turned warm again, you’d ask then. when he was too fucked out to lie.
but right now, you had a different problem. one standing a good head taller than you, with arms like tree trunks and an earpiece you could hear crackling.
“i’m his sister,” you barked out, shoving at the guy’s shoulder like you could move him. you sounded half unhinged, voice wrecked, hair sticking to your cheeks, still wearing rin’s jacket he’d thrown over your shoulders before the match started like it meant something. the bodyguard didn’t buy it. not even a flicker of belief in his eyes.
honestly — you didn’t blame him. you probably wouldn’t either.
but it stung, anyway. something ugly curling up in your throat when you finally caught sight of him, standing by the curb like a ghost you weren’t sure was real. sae. in the flesh. not a grainy tv broadcast. not an interview clip you forced yourself to watch in the dark when you missed him so bad it made your teeth ache. no, here. home. if you could even still call it that.
and god, he looked… different. sharper. older. expensive watch gleaming at his wrist, red hair slicked back like he hadn’t even sweat through it during the match. and a ferrari. of course it was a ferrari. it suited him. sleek. untouchable. like he wasn’t built for the same world as you anymore.
he was already halfway to it when he paused. and you swore for a second your heart stopped dead in your chest because he looked at you. not past you. at you. a long, unreadable stare that made your stomach turn inside out because you didn’t know what it meant. didn’t know if it was relief, or regret, or nothing at all. and when his mouth moved, it was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.
“let her pass.”
and just like that, the bodyguard stepped aside.
you stumbled forward before you could even think about it, legs moving like they didn’t belong to you, breath catching sharp in your throat. it wasn’t a welcome. it wasn’t even an invitation. it was permission. and fuck, you were so desperate you’d take it.
you slip into the passenger seat before he can change his mind. ferrari smells like leather and something sharp you can’t place, some cologne that costs more than rent and doesn’t suit him, not really. the door clicks shut behind you and for a minute neither of you say anything. just the low hum of the engine and the dull, far-off roar of a crowd still high off the match. sae’s hands stay loose on the wheel, ring glinting against his skin when he shifts. his gaze fixed dead ahead.
up close like this it’s worse. he’s not some headline. not a post-match interview or a too-clean photo op. no, he’s just sae. tired. jaw tight. the faintest smear of sweat clinging to his temple. and it guts you a little. “you played good,” you say, voice rough from yelling, not even sure why you bother. maybe because it feels too fucking heavy, sitting in silence like this.
he huffs. not a laugh. not quite a scoff. just a sound. like he doesn’t believe you, or doesn’t need to.
“you and rin,” you add, picking at a loose thread on the hem of your skirt. “was…good to see you both out there.”
another pause. long enough you think he won’t answer at all. then, quietly, like it costs him something. “you look different.”
you don’t ask if it’s a good thing. you don’t ask if he missed you. you don’t ask why he disappeared. because then his hand slides up your thigh, slow, fingers heavy and sure, and whatever you were about to say falls right out of your mouth. you’re already wet. shouldn’t be, not with the way he left, not with the way he’s looking at you now like you’re just another thing to scratch an itch with, but fuck it. you’ve never been good at telling him no.
he moves fast after that. pulls into some half-lit underground lot you’re sure he’s not supposed to be in, one hand still on your leg, thumb rubbing circles into your skin like a threat. the second the car’s in park you’re climbing over the center console, dragging yourself into his lap, and his hand’s already up your skirt before you can settle.
the angle’s awkward as fuck. cramped. your back hitting the steering wheel sometimes. but you don’t care, not when his cock’s thick and hot against your palm, already straining against his briefs. you don’t even remember unzipping him. just the sharp little sound he makes when your fingers wrap around him.
“you're so fucking wet,” he mutters, but his voice breaks halfway through it and you pretend you don’t notice. you sink down onto him slow, and it’s messy, wet enough that it should be embarrassing, but you both lost the right to be embarrassed years ago. he stretches you open and it aches, more than you’d admit, but you chase it anyway. his head tips back against the seat, mouth slack, a muscle in his throat working when you bottom out.
“fuck,” he breathes, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise.
you roll your hips, find a rhythm you can keep in the tight space, the sharp sting of his belt buckle digging into your thigh. he feels good. too good. better than you remembered. or maybe you just missed him that bad. his hands slide up your back, pull you down until your chest is flush to his. you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs. his lips find your neck, tongue wet and rough, teeth grazing the skin hard enough to make you flinch. not tender. not soft. claiming.
“missed this pussy,” he mutters, low and ruined against your skin, and you don’t trust yourself not to say missed you too, so you just fuck yourself down onto him harder, chasing the heat pooling in your belly. the windows fog. the car rocks. and when he cums, it’s sudden and sharp, biting down on your shoulder to muffle the sound, his hips jerking up, cock pulsing thick inside you. it spills out around him, makes a mess of your thighs and the seat beneath you.
and you stay like that. for a long moment. forehead pressed to his. breathing each other in.
you still don’t ask if he missed it, you and rin, the nights you'd spend together, the touches that you promised to keep secret.
you already know.
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your-decay · 7 days ago
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pairings: rin itoshi x reader cw: bodily fluids (semen), non-consensual elements implied (invasive acts without partner’s knowledge), voyeurism, kink involving bodily fluids, obsession.
despite popular belief, rin itoshi is a loser pervert. not the cold, sharp-mouthed prodigy people think he is — not to you, not when the door’s closed and your back’s turned, not when you leave your half-finished water bottle on his nightstand or slip into the shower first thing in the morning. he’s disgusting in this quiet, obsessive way, the kind that makes your skin prickle if you knew just how deep it ran. cumming into your body wash, letting it sit there, mixing it back in like nothing happened because the idea of it running down your skin, getting in your hair, makes his cock twitch. he waits outside the bathroom some mornings, ear tilted toward the sound of the showerhead, imagining it.
and those smoothies? yeah. he swears it’s just because he cares. won’t shut up about how your diet’s shit, how you never get enough protein, how your skin’s gonna break out if you don’t start taking better care of yourself — but it’s all an excuse to press that glass into your hand, watch you drink it without hesitation, the taste just a little off some mornings, the texture thicker than it should be. he’ll lean in, kiss the corner of your mouth, lick a bit of it off your lip like he’s teasing, like it’s nothing. but it’s not. it never is.
he gets off on it. jacking himself off in the dark while you’re asleep three feet away, biting his knuckles to stay quiet, the thought of you walking around with him still clinging to your skin, your throat, your stomach, too much for him to handle. pathetic. the kind of boy who doesn’t even touch himself properly sometimes, just grinds against his fist like a fucking teenager, face buried in your pillow, rutting like he can’t help it.
and it only gets worse when you’re soft with him. when you stretch on his couch in those tiny shorts, or hum while you eat the breakfast he made you, thanking him with that sweet voice like you’re not unknowingly feeding every single perverted impulse gnawing at him. he’ll act normal. pretend like he’s got some self-control. but the second you leave the room — he’s palming himself through his sweats, thinking about you licking the last of that smoothie from your lips, wondering if you can taste him yet.
and it’s only after the third or fourth time you spot his guilty little glances that it clicks. those mornings where he disappears into the bathroom for a little too long before making your drink. where his hand shakes just slightly when he passes it to you, and he won’t look at you until you’ve finished every drop.
and you can’t even be mad about it. not really. ‘cause the moment you call him out on it, he gets so red, so wrecked, stammering and defensive and hard as a rock in his sweats, and it always, always ends with you bent over something — the bed, the counter, the hood of his car — while he mutters filthy, breathless apologies into your ear, hips snapping into you like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones.
“f-fuck—m’sorry—couldn’t stop thinking about you—” like it wasn’t obvious. like you didn’t already know.
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your-decay · 7 days ago
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pairings: isagi yoichi x reader cw: public sex-ish?, dubcon (only because reader is somewhat forced), breeding.
you just knew something was off the second isagi grabbed your wrist like that, fingers curling tight ‘round it, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your stomach flip in that sick kind of way. the kind of way that made your thighs rub together without thinking.
he’s got that wild, sharp glint in his eye, a little flushed, hair damp with sweat from warm-ups, breathing heavy. he drags you down the hall, muttering something about “need you, fuck, just a second, can’t go out like this” under his breath, and you don’t even get the chance to ask before he’s shouldering open the door to the boy’s changing room.
you try to ask “yoi, what—” but you don’t even get the words out ‘cause he’s already yanking you through the doorway, past a couple of teammates who are too caught up in their own bullshit to notice, or maybe they do — maybe they hear the slam of the door, maybe they catch the way your legs nearly trip over his in his hurry.
and then he’s got you pressed up against those freezing metal lockers, mouth on yours, hot and desperate, teeth catching your bottom lip, and his hips are already grinding into yours, bulge thick and heavy against your core through both your clothes like it physically hurts him to not be inside you.
“fuck—baby—i gotta—” he’s panting, hands already tugging at your waistband, and there’s no time, no patience, no sweet little kisses or slow touches, it’s messy, rushed, the frantic kind of greedy that leaves bruises.
your panties barely make it past one thigh before he’s shoving his cock inside, fat tip smearing precum against your folds as he hisses through his teeth. no prep, no warning — just a quick stretch and burn, your back arching, the obscene sound of your slick mixing with the thick, leaky drips of his arousal filling up the tiny space around you.
there’s other people in the locker room, for fuck’s sake. you can still hear bachira laughing about something, the distant thud of a ball being kicked against a wall — and isagi doesn’t give a shit. probably gets off on it, on the risk, on the thought of someone catching him splitting you open like this before a big match.
“sorry—fuck, m’sorry, can’t help it, can’t—” and he means it. kind of. but also not at all, because his hips don’t stop, slamming into you over and over, your ass smacking the metal locker behind you with every brutal thrust. his forehead’s against yours, eyes squeezed shut, strands of dark hair sticking to his sweaty skin.
there’s precum and slick dripping down your thighs, splattering onto the already grimy floor, but it doesn’t matter — not to him. not when you’re so fucking warm and tight around him like this, clenching down, your hands clawing at his shoulders ‘cause it’s too much, not enough, too fast.
he’s moaning, low and wrecked, murmuring “fuckfuckfuck baby—gonna make me cum so fucking fast—” like he’s pissed about it, like it isn’t his own goddamn fault for being so desperate for you, for chasing that rush, that heady high of your cunt wrapped around him right before he steps onto the field.
“gonna cum,” he pants, “fuck, ‘m gonna — shit, ‘m so sorry, so sorry—” and you can feel him throb, cock twitching inside you as he spills deep, thick and hot, a filthy mess you both won’t have time to clean up before he’s gotta be back on the field.
and he does cum fast, thick and hot, hips stuttering, jaw clenched, choking back a whimper as he fucks it deep, like he can bury it there and keep it tucked inside you while he’s out on the pitch. he doesn’t pull out either — no time. no point. you’ll be leaking down your thighs as you sneak out, panties ruined, pussy sore, and he’ll be grinning about it from the field.
and he’ll kiss you after. a little clumsy, a little desperate. promise he’ll win for you, because how could he not after that?
© your-decay. all rights reserved.
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your-decay · 11 days ago
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pairings: isagi yoichi x reader, bachira meguru x reader, chigiri hyoma x reader, michael kaiser x reader (all separate) cw: smut, dom/sub dynamics, degradation (name-calling, light humiliation), praise kink (on both sides), possessiveness / obsession, choking, begging, overstimulation references, locker room / semi-public sex mention, panties stealing / scent kink implications, biting, scratching, marking, rough sex, power play, mild cockwarming implication, aftercare implied, manipulation undertones
read the second part here !
isagi yoichi
— dom leaning switch, but real messy about it. almost like he don’t even know what he’s doing to you half the time, just chasing the high like a match point and getting off on how wrecked you get for him.
isagi’s the type to start off soft — too soft. nuzzling into your throat, wet open-mouth kisses behind your ear, muttering shit about how “pretty” you are when you whimper just from his fingers. gets off on the way you squirm under him. he doesn’t mean to be mean, but he is. hips rutting into you in desperate little stuttering jerks, too fast, too deep, too eager. it’s all instinct with him. all wanting to win, wanting to see you fall apart because he put you there.
and when he gets worked up enough, it turns messy. his voice gets breathy and whiny, begging you to say his name, to tell him it’s good. he’ll make you promise not to let anyone else touch you like this. “mine, yeah? promise me, fuckin’ say it.”palm on your throat, cum painting your stomach because he couldn’t hold out long enough to pull out.
he thinks he’s in charge. but truth is? you could have him on his knees if you said the right thing.
michael kaiser
— switch. mean, cocky, possessive dom when he wants to be — but fuck, he’s so weak for you. loves getting handled, choked, used just as much as he loves splitting you open on his cock. it’s a game to him, and either way, he wins.
kaiser likes control. thrives off it. the teasing, the taunting, the way he can make you cry with a single mean word murmured against your ear while he’s rutting up into you, calling you “my little toy” or “god, you’re so fucking easy for me, huh?” it’s intoxicating to him — how easy it is to turn you to mush, to reduce you to a mess on his cock.
he’s the type to shove your panties in his back pocket after pulling them off, wear them under his uniform to a game because you’re his good luck charm, and make you ride him in the locker room showers after. cocky smirks, dirty talk, that slow grind of his hips like he knows exactly how to ruin you.
but here’s the catch: kaiser lives for your attention. your praise. your desperation for him. he’ll talk all the shit in the world while he’s got you pinned, but the second you flip the script? ride him so good his head tips back, tell him “good boy, kaiser” while you squeeze his throat and bounce on his cock? he’s fucking gone. glassy-eyed, cheeks flushed, hips jerking up like a needy little thing, biting down on his lip so hard it threatens to bleed.
he likes being used. likes the way it feels to be needed so bad you’ll use his cock for your own pleasure, won’t let him cum ‘til you’re satisfied. gets off on the fact that no one else gets to see him like this — red-faced, begging, nails leaving crescent moons in your hips as he stutters out “please, please, fuck, you’re gonna kill me—”
and after? when he’s panting, spent, lashes wet and lips bitten raw — he still won’t shut up. pulling you in, muttering “you’re obsessed with me, huh? can’t get enough.” but his voice cracks a little on the last word, and you both know it’s true.
because whether he’s the one wrecking you or getting ruined himself, it’s always the same thing underneath it all: kaiser wants you. needs you. and he’ll never let you forget it.
bachira meguru
— sub leaning switch. absolutely feral when he’s in the mood to top, but nine times outta ten? he’s on his back, drooling, needy, humping up into you like some desperate thing. gets off on getting used. loves being your toy.
bachira’s obsessed with your arousal. borderline gross about it. will suck your fingers clean, lap between your thighs ‘til his chin’s sticky, won’t stop ‘til you’re trembling. gets fucking high off it. humps the bed when you ride his face. you could leave him like that and he’d whimper, grind his cock into the sheets, licking his lips, begging for you to sit back down on his tongue.
when he doms, it’s messy, sloppy. hips slapping into you too fast, fingers digging into your ass, tongue lolling out while he watches his cock disappear into you. babbles about how tight you are, how good you taste. loses control easy. feral when he gets needy.
but he’s best underneath you. back arched, eyes glossy, moaning “more, more, more” like he’ll fall apart if you stop.
chigiri hyoma
— dom with sub tendencies. he’s cocky, sharp-tongued, likes to act like he’s got the upper hand — but underneath that? he’s a needy little mess who wants you obsessed with him. wants to ruin you so bad no one else will ever measure up.
chigiri’s the type to pull your hair when he kisses you, bite your lower lip, hold your chin and make you look at him while he fucks you slow, deep, all hips and smirks. he’s a pretty boy and he knows it. weaponizes it. lets his hair fall in his face, half-lidded eyes watching you lose it underneath him. he lives for the way you claw at his back. for the way you cry out his name when he angles his hips just right.
but underneath all that cocky shit-talking? there’s this low, thrumming need. a part of him that wants you desperate for him. wants you begging. wants you to fall apart so bad you’ll swear up and down no one’s ever made you feel like this. it’s possessive in that pretty-boy, “you’ll never find better” kind of way.
and the best part? you call him baby or pretty thing when he’s close and he turns into putty. all breathy curses and frantic thrusts, lips at your throat, whining about how “fuck, you’re mine, say it, say it, baby, fuck—” before spilling inside you, hips stuttering like he’s drunk on it.
© your-decay. all rights reserved.
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your-decay · 19 days ago
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pairings: rin itoshi x reader, very faint sae itoshi x reader cw: incest, reader is the eldest sister of both rin and sae, older woman/younger man, smut, breeding (with thought of pregnancy), nursing, oneesan→ sister, reader and rin both have abandonment issues, mentions of virginity loss (rin's).
read part two here !
you hadn’t even gotten to say hello when sae came back from spain.
not a word, not a glance, no flicker of recognition as he breezed through the house like some ghost you weren’t allowed to touch. and you remember what rin had told you once — the cruel look, the ice in his voice, how it wasn’t the same brother he used to know. how it wasn’t sae anymore. part of you wondered if rin imagined it, some self-inflicted wound he was too proud to admit to. but then you sent a text. simple, stupid. “are you home yet?” and the little sending bubble just… hung there, before it turned cold and gray. message not delivered. you tried calling. straight to voicemail. not even the curt, dismissive message you expected — just dead air, automated and indifferent.
and suddenly you didn’t have to imagine the eyes rin described. no. now you had two pairs. one glowing back at you from the screen, him scoring the winning goal you can distantly remember when his hair was a little too long and his teeth a little too crooked. and another pair right there, in your own backyard. not as cold. not to you, at least. no, rin’s eyes were different. sharp, stubborn. full of something else entirely — determination, desperation, whatever word you wanted to use to dress up obsession.
you watched him practice from the back door, leaning against the frame, letting the fading light bleed over you like some half-forgotten memory. the familiar thud of a ball smacking against the net punctuated the silence. then another. and another.
“rin,” you called out softly, not really expecting him to stop.
another sharp breath. another ball. another clean, perfect shot.
“rin,” you tried again, and his shoulders tensed this time, his jaw flexing like he was physically fighting the urge to look back at you.
sae had left ice in his wake. in his words, in the way the air felt in the house now. in the way your stomach twisted when the front door stayed closed for days. he left without letters. no late night phone calls. no text. just absence. and in that space, something else grew — this sick, codependent thing between you and rin. this thing you blamed sae for, though you never dared say it aloud. how rin became the only one you could depend on not to leave. and how that made you need him too much. how you let it happen.
you could still feel it sometimes — the ghost of his touch in the early hours, when the house was quiet and the ache in your chest sharpened. the press of his soft, pinked lips against your collarbone. the way his body would tremble over you, sweat-slick and desperate, the ache of his cock buried so deep inside you it left a dull throb well after daylight spilled in through the curtains. the way a white ring of arousal clung to the base of him, thick and sinful, when he pulled out only to push back in like he couldn’t stand even the smallest distance.
it was instinct now. a sick, learned habit neither of you knew how to stop. he’d mouth at your nipple, lips wet and hot, sucking until it ached while lazily rutting his hips forward, chasing friction. you remembered how his nails dragged down your ribs, how you could feel his pulse in his grip. the low, broken sounds he made, like it hurt to hold it in. you’d dig your nails into the broad of his back, feel the sweat slick under your fingertips, feel his hair cling to his damp skin.
and always — always — he made you promise. voice cracking, breath hitching, pupils blown wide. “promise you won’t leave me.” “promise you won’t change.” like if you said it enough times, it’d make the world stop shifting under his feet.
and when he came, it was thick and syrupy, so much it leaked out around him, choked-up and crying out “oneesan,” like it was a prayer, like it was salvation, like it was the last word he’d ever be able to say.
and all you could think — the only thing that cut through the haze — was he forgot the condom again. and you didn’t blame him. you never told him to put one on. you didn’t stop him. you took his virginity after all. let it happen the same way everything else between you did — slowly, quietly, like a secret you never intended to share.
and your mind would wander in those raw, empty moments after, the air thick and stifling. would the baby look like sae? would it have that same mouth, that same sharp, cold stare? or would it be all rin — those desperate, pleading eyes, that quiet, possessive streak no one else seemed to see but you.
rin kicked another ball into the net. didn’t look at you once. didn’t have to.
you stayed by the door anyway.
© your-decay. all rights reserved.
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your-decay · 20 days ago
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mae !! · she/her · est · sideblog · dead dove, don't eat · 🦢
main, all likes and follows come from here → @/deflower-me · timothee chalamet writing blog → @/dearchalamett · multi-fandom → @/softvalentines ·
── welcome, loves — this is a dark little corner for all things blue lock, where i spill twisted fantasies and whispered secrets.
you can find all my writing under this tag !
inbox → open !| © your-decay all rights reserved.
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your-decay · 20 days ago
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pairings: isagi yoichi x reader cw: older woman/younger man, faint smut, male masturbation, reader has a child.
isagi yoichi likes to fuck older women.
not in a passing curiosity kind of way either. not a huh, might be fun to try it once thing. no — it’s a preference. an itch under his skin he never really grew out of. he likes the way they talk to him, like he’s still a little younger than he is. like there’s something sweet and novel about his eagerness, like they know better. likes the way their perfume clings to the sheets, the way their nails leave light little crescent indents in his skin, sharp when they want to be. likes that soft, almost patronizing laugh they give when he gets a little too worked up too fast. he swears it does something to him. he can’t help it.
and it’s not like he ever expected to meet someone like you.
it happened during one of blue lock’s post-season press tours, the kind of exhausting media circuit his manager kept penciling him into and that he kept groaning about but still showing up to because, well, it looked good. good for his image, good for his sponsors, good for the fans. and there were a lot of fans. ones that screamed his name a little too loud, held out glossy posters, marker pens, ripped shirts. you could always tell the difference — who was there for the football and who was there for the idea of him. isagi didn’t really mind either kind.
what he hadn’t expected was the small kid bolting toward him at full speed, dodging security like he’d been training for it his whole life. isagi barely registered the shriek of someone’s voice, that sharp “get back here!”, before this little guy came barreling into view, a cheap knockoff blue lock t-shirt two sizes too big already held out in both hands, wide eyes full of hopeful, starry admiration.
isagi crouched down before security could get heavy-handed about it, grinning despite himself. he never really knew what to say to kids — didn’t have nieces or nephews, didn’t grow up around any. but this one was bouncing on the balls of his feet, completely oblivious to the fact he’d just broken like three event protocols to be here.
“yo, you play too?” isagi asked, already pulling the cap off the marker, voice soft and easy in that way he saved for fans under a certain height.
the kid beamed, nodded so hard his hair flopped in his face. “i’m gonna be the next you!” he declared, chest puffed out.
“big shoes to fill,” isagi laughed, scrawling his name across the fabric with a practiced flick of his wrist. “but i’m countin’ on you.”
and then — then — there was you. catching up a few steps later, slightly breathless, visibly flustered in the way only someone still young enough to look good out of breath could be, but old enough to look like she didn’t have time for this shit. there was a frustrated kind of fondness in your expression as you grabbed your kid’s wrist and scolded him half-heartedly.
“i told you not to run off like that—”
but isagi wasn’t paying attention to the words. not really. no, he was looking at you. the soft line of your jaw, the faint smear of gloss on your bottom lip, the delicate sheen of sweat on your collarbone under the too-hot event lighting. you had that look. the kind of pretty that came with knowing you didn’t have to try all that hard anymore. something about it made his stomach pull tight. made his mind jump to places it probably shouldn’t in a packed press venue with cameras everywhere.
and you noticed, too. the way his eyes lingered a second too long. the faint upward twitch of your brow. the ghost of a smirk that tugged at your mouth like you’d seen it before — younger men looking at you like that. you didn’t say anything about it, though. just gave a polite, perfunctory “thanks for being nice to him” and tugged your boy back toward the crowd.
isagi didn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the evening.
your face, your voice. the way you said his name a little different than everyone else. how you looked when you turned to go. he kept replaying it, shamefully, when he jerked himself off in the hotel shower later. palm sticky, breath shallow, imagining what it’d be like to have you on your knees, or better — to be the one on his knees for you.
and fuck if you didn’t get under his skin that day.
he kept thinking about you after you’d disappeared back into the crowd with your kid, trying not to be too obvious about craning his neck to catch one last look. the swing of your hips. the curve of your ass in those tight jeans. the tiny flash of skin when you lifted your hand to fix your hair. it was fucking criminal, really. isagi was practically half-hard in his damn press uniform, giving stiff answers about training regimens and teamwork while imagining what it’d be like to get you alone somewhere, to see if that little smile you gave him was something you did for every guy, or just for him.
later, at the hotel, it was worse.
he hadn’t even meant to jerk off. told himself he was just gonna shower, unwind, maybe watch some film clips before crashing. but the second his hand was under the hot water and his head tilted back against the tile, it hit him again — the memory of your voice, a little sharp, a little breathless, saying his name like it meant something. and that was it. hand wrapping around his cock before he could even talk himself out of it, jerking fast and messy because he couldn’t stand the thought of going slow. the image of you flashed behind his eyelids — on your knees in front of him, or bent over the hotel desk with your ass in the air, telling him to be a good boy and fuck you properly this time. he swore under his breath, groaning when the mental image of your lips around his cock slid a little too easily into focus. your head bobbing, drool slipping down your chin, your hand cupping his balls just right like you knew how to work a younger guy’s body.
and it didn’t stop there.
by the second round — because yeah, he went again, even though his dick was oversensitive and aching — it was meaner. rougher in his head. you with your hand fisted in his hair, pulling him in to eat your pussy like you knew he’d been dying to. grinding against his face while you cooed things to him, things he knew were wrong. isagi came so hard his legs buckled under him, a choked-off groan swallowed by the sound of the water, forehead pressed to the tile like he could purge the thought of you if he tried hard enough.
he couldn’t.
every time he closed his eyes after that, it was you. those glossy lips, the dip of your collarbone, your thighs squeezing around his head. he started half-hoping he’d run into you again. maybe your kid wanted another autograph. maybe you’d show up to another event. maybe you’d see the way he was looking at you this time and do something about it. fuck, he’d let you ruin him for a night. for a weekend. he wasn’t picky. and if you were the type to make him beg a little? even better.
© your-decay. all rights reserved.
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your-decay · 2 months ago
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pairings: isagi yoichi x reader, bachira meguru x reader, nagi seishiro x reader, itoshi rin x reader (all separate) cw: smut, panty stealing, oral (female receiving), no usage of condoms, implied overstimulation.
isagi yoichi and jerking off with your panties before a game,
it’s criminal, really — how easily you slipped them into his palm, the delicate wisp of lace bunched between his calloused fingers like a silent promise. he should’ve had the discipline to pocket them, pretend it hadn’t happened until after the match. but no — instead he’s rutting himself against the soft, already damp fabric in some secluded locker room stall, forehead pressed against the cool wall, one arm braced as his hips twitch and grind down desperately. his flushed, leaky tip smearing pearly white pre against the costly, likely imported material. and in that hazy moment, he truly can’t decide what’s worse: the slow ruin of your panties, or the filthy, unspeakable thrill that you wanted him to have them. that you’d snuck them into his hand like some perverse gift, knowing exactly what he’d do with them. the thought alone has his stomach knotting and his voice catching in a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering in desperate, pathetic need.
bachira meguru and his infatuation with your arousal,
it’s obscene. sick, even. the way his golden eyes glint when you’re spread out before him, arousal glistening like some liquid sin. he acts like a man starved, tongue darting out to lap up every drop with shameless abandon. you watch as he humps against the mattress, the motion clumsy and eager, his mouth still greedily sucking at the slick he’s gathered, throat working around it with a pleased, muffled moan. it’s not enough for him to just have you — no, bachira’s obsession is in the taste, the smell, the way your body betrays you for him. he’ll press his thumb to your clit, not to please you properly, but just to watch your essence ooze out, thin strings clinging to his skin like spun sugar. and the grin he wears? crooked, unhinged, like he’s drunk on you and high off every shiver, every gasp, every filthy sound you make for him.
nagi seishiro and the mean matting presses he puts you in,
it starts innocent enough — or as innocent as it can when he’s already got you face down, ass up, eyes bleary and hands fisted in the sheets. but nagi is lazy by nature, and halfway through those slow, grinding thrusts, he decides it’s too much effort to hold himself up. so he drops all his weight onto you, one arm hooking around your waist to keep you pinned as his hips continue their relentless, shallow rolls. the sheer, overwhelming girth of him makes your breath hitch and your body jolt against the mattress, whimpers muffled by the pillow. behind you, his voice is low, breathy, thick with hazy pleasure. “‘s good… jus’ stay—still,” he slurs against your skin, teeth grazing your shoulder. it’s unintentional cruelty, the way he fills you to the brim and holds you there, too heavy, too deep, leaving you trembling and ruined beneath him.
itoshi rin and his flushed sensitive tip,
the second he steps through the door, sweaty from training, tension thick in his shoulders — he wants it. not dinner. not sleep. just your hand wrapped around him, squeezing, coaxing, making him unravel. his onyx hair spills across the pillow, pretty pink lips parted, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. every stroke of your fingers drags beads of slick pre down your palm, the head of his cock so sensitive he shudders with every pass. he’s pliant like this — needy. eyes glazed, lashes fluttering. and your words? the quiet, syrupy praises you murmur against the shell of his ear? they shatter him. “did so good today,” you whisper, “so proud of you, rin.” his adam’s apple bobs on a thick swallow, a broken moan caught in his throat. the praise, the tender way you say it, feeds something primal in him — so much so he’d willingly let himself come undone at your hands again and again if it meant hearing it. if it meant being good for you.
© your-decay. all rights reserved.
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