#the fucking gloves and the pinky

[sanjifucker42069]

Looks Like Lingerie to Me - Part Two

Word Count: 1.4k

Part 1

A belated and awkward part 2. I’ll start writing part 3 in the morning (it’s like 1am lmao)

For those who need a visual aid, here. (oof feels like wattpad or quotev but girlypops i am cringe but i am free. it isnt a perfect representation, but its pretty accurate. titilating, no? ;) )

Warnings: Lingerie lmao…this is pretty short, and is just a set-up for part 3. A lot of this is my own feelings surrounding cis men in lingerie. As with part 1 gender neutral reader. Yeah! Hope you enjoy!

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

Sanji couldn't stop thinking about it. You thought he'd look hot in lingerie? You thought he looked slutty?

It had overtaken every waking moment. Any time he wasn't focused on a task all he could see was the dumb stare you gave him, eyes focused on his thighs.

He'd love to wear lingerie for you if it meant you'd stare at him like that.

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

The Going Merry was docked, the Straw Hats carrying out their duties, and Sanji had a plan.

"I'm gonna go shopping. You coming (Name)? Sanji can carry our bags." Nami preened, looking absolutely glowing at the prospect of new clothes. Sanji bit his lip. He wanted to go with Nami and you, really he did, but if either of you caught on he'd die of embarrassment.

"You okay, Ji?"

Huh?

You were asking something.

"What? Oh, yeah, love. I'm fine. I'm afraid I have business to attend to on the island."

You blinked at him before smiling that dazzling smile up at him. He was smitten, his fortitude nearly wavering. "Of course. You do what you gotta do!"

Business his ass. Instead he hurried to check out the town.

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

A small, seedy shop tucked away in an alley. Sanji entered the store warily. A small, old woman trotted out from the back. Sanji blanched. He didn't want to discuss this with a grandma! 

"Hello young man, here for something for your wife?"

Sanji felt himself flush. He tried to wander around the store. "No, no-"

"Your girlfriend then?" 

Ah. This grandmother didn't know when to quit.

"Not exactly?"

The old lady grabbed his arm. Sanji raised a brow, turning back to her. She was grinning at him, eyes narrowed and sparkling with something he couldn't place.

"Is it for you? Such a handsome young man as yourself." 

What? Sanji's face was on fire. He was flustered beyond belief. His hands were lightly shaking, eyes darting around for anyone else in the store.

"Come with me darling. My name's Bea." The old lady chimed, dragging Sanji with her. "What colour were you thinking?"

"Oh, um." Sanji was panicking, voice high. Did she even have lingerie for men? "Blue?" 

Bea hummed. "I do have blue, but I have a lovely pink set that would just make your skin pop."

Pink? Sanji didn't think it was possible to flush darker, and yet here he was. "I, uh, would it even fit me?"

"Of course sonny! You're quite slim." Bea swatted at his arm, patting his biceps for good measure as she led him through the store. "So, tell me about the lucky one."

"They're beautiful." Sanji began dreamily. Where should he even start? "The most gorgeous creature I've ever laid my eyes on. They have this laugh that just brightens up any room, and such a sense of humour. I’ve been smitten with them since I met them.”

“You two aren’t together?”

Sanji shook his head sadly. “No, no. We’re just good friends. They, uh… Do you know what shirt stays are?”

Bea laughed, patting the cook on the arm. “Say no more.”

She let go of him when they reached the back of the store. Sanji watched nervously as she carded through a rack of, well, did it really constitute clothing? Skimpy piece after skimpy piece were revealed.

And then he saw it.

It was a gorgeous baby pink. Bea ahhed as she removed it from the rack, holding it up to inspect it. She turned to face him, sizing him up next to the set. Sanji felt his throat go dry as he really took it in.

The set was a simple baby pink bralette, made from some kind of sheer lacy material with a flower motif. The plunging neckline was created to draw attention to the cleavage, and it was adorned with some delicate string of pearl-like decoration to highlight the collarbones. The panties were the same sheer material, clear that they weren’t to hide much. The sides of it were accentuated with cute ruffles that further added a feminine touch. Sanji felt lightheaded. 

Finally, it was a beautiful pastel garter belt that sat in the middle, completing the look. It too was made from the same stretchy, sheer lace. It would wrap around the waist, strategic cutouts to accentuate the waist, hips, and the bellybutton. The central cutout had a simple chain of pearls to add interest and movement. Four satin-looking ribbons led from bottom front and back, with clips attached to hold up stockings.

Oh, maybe his shirt stays were kinda…

Nonetheless, it was breathtaking. Sanji had clearly marvelled at it for too long, as Bea chuckled, causing him to flush red. The old woman, lingerie in hand, led him to a mirror. 

“I’m…I can’t.”

Bea just chuckled, holding the hanger up against him. “Look in the mirror boy, I’ve been making lingerie for fifty years. This suits you.”

Sanji obeyed her, staring at himself in the mirror. What he saw took his breath away. He looked a mess, face red and hair messy. He had to hand it to the old woman, the colour was flattering against him. Even the cut looked good. Sanji shifted from foot to foot, anxiety creeping in. He wasn’t really sure how he felt about looking so…so feminine. 

Sanji was a man. It wouldn’t be right for him to wear something so delicate and gorgeous. Right? Of course women’s clothing was beautiful, the fabrics they used, the stylish designs he’d seen the girls on the ship sport. Men’s clothing just, well it was meant to be masculine and boring. Right? He couldn’t let himself give in to that want to feel pretty, that would be wrong.

Right?

Bea, clearly noticing his inner struggle, scoffed.

“Sonny.”

“Sanji.” “Right. Sonny, I’ve been doing this for a long time.” “You, uh, you already said that.”

“I know that!” Bea snapped, swatting at him. Sanji’s gaze drifted back to the pink lace. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. When I started, well, I made boring beige bras and the same lacy black underwear again, and again, and again. I got bored. I got creative! And when I got creative, I became determined to make people feel pretty. People, Sonny, not women.”

Sanji went rigid, his throat was so dry. Was he that obvious? All he could make out was a simple, “Oh?”

Bea grinned. “Everyone deserves the right to feel pretty.” Sanji opened his mouth to speak but the old woman just held up a wrinkled hand. “Nope. Don’t care if you’re a ‘man’. Everyone. Sonny, one day you’ll realise that being a ‘man’ is more than just grunting like an ape, or never showing any vulnerability, or even having a penis. Man is a state of mind, and Sonny, the sooner you feel comfortable in who you are, the more beautiful life is going to be for you.”

Sanji felt breathless. “Really?”

“Really.” Bea nodded, a fondness in her eyes. “Come, we’ll get you a choker to go with it, I have just the one.”

Sanji felt a million miles away as Bea led him to the shop counter. She handled a delicate pink satin choker with care, presenting it to him. It was a giant bow, a simple snap holding it in place around the neck. Simple, but delicate. If Sanji was honest with himself, he liked it.

“Like a million berry! Your precious one will love you in it!” Bea smiled fondly at him. “So, Sonny, you buying?”

Sanji sucked in a deep breath. When he spoke his voice was foreign to him, a shakiness underlying the wispiness. Sanji felt like he was treading water, unsure and scared of the newness of it all. He could drown at any moment.

“Yeah.”

“Good, good!”

So Sanji paid. Bea took extra care to wrap the lingerie up in a delicate pink tissue paper. His own little present. She then promptly put it in an unmarked bag. She understood, shooting him a wink.

“So, anyone, huh?”

“Oh yes, yes. You see, originally I made them for my girlfriend when I was a much younger lady. She was a farmer’s daughter, wonderful girl, shared many a kiss with her, and then some! Now I make these lovely ones for my current husband. You remind me a lot of him, Sonny. You see he lets me wear this harness thing that I put in his a-”

“Thank you grandma, I’ll be out of here now!”

“Yes, yes. Good luck, Sonny! Stop by with your sweetie and get something nice one day, okay?” Bea waved her goodbyes from the doorway, smiling that same sweet old woman smile. Sanji clutched the bag to his chest tightly. 

Right. Time to put the plan into place.

#one piece x reader #opla sanji x reader #sanji x reader #black leg sanji x reader #opla x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #zeff didnt eat his own fucking leg for sanji to be called a vinsmoke but for tagging purposes i must #DONT START ME ON HOW MUCH I WANNA BEAT THE TOXIC MASCULINITY OUTTA THIS MAN. #me to judge: look what youve done. you fucked up a perfectly good babygirl thats what youve done #anyway....guess i need to actually make a masterlist lmAOOOOO #if you read all the tags: you think its gonna fit him like a glove?? #lmao maybe one of those disposable gloves you pull on too tight ant one of the fingers rips and now your pinky is just hanging out? yeah

[tacit-semantics]

Love how silly in progress gloves look like baby you are so nonfunctional. Anyways, pattern is andrea rangel knits’ char. Very ignored homework in the background is mine :)

#id in alt #unrestrained Thursday night fun part…… 2!!!!! #also think it’s funny I could just leave it there. fuck it pinky only glove #anyways I WOVE IN THAT END. responsibility!!!!!! now just have to keep up that energy for the others sjsjsj #knitting #fiber arts #my work #edited

[orange-catsidy]

#aew #ddt #konosuke takeshita #my art #he is absolutely filled with cinnabons #i need a glove my fucked up drawing posture makes my pinky hurt :(

[xxgalacticambitionsxx]

i drew the binary bard lol

it's not amazing by any means but it's the first thing i've ever done digitally and it took me two hours

#PLUS i haven't drawn anything in a while #please be proud of me #binary bard #poptropica #i did this on kleki (some random drawing site) on my school chromebook with a stylus #and since i didn't have those artist gloves i had my pinky and ring fingers wrapped in my sleeve #the arms look wonky and i don't know how to draw legs but FUCK i am proud of myself #i just kinda winged it on the hat i literally just got help from herm and went from there #sorry for the fuckin essay in the tags i just wanted to ramble i guess #doobles

[imnotverybright]

shoutout to the mosquito in my room who perfectly calculated the most annoying spots to bite. what the fuck man.

#side of my hand where my crochet hook rubs and gets rubbed every time i put on or take off my gloves at work #side of my ring finger so it gets bumped by my pinky and my gloves #on my arm right where the sleeve of my tshirt falls #and my elbow because fuck me i guess

[bi-writes]

thinking about being the new addition to tf141. you are an asset given to laswell by the CIA, a timid little thing but your aim is always on target, and you are quiet, tech savvy, and you do as you're told. (18+, dark)

just how lieutenant riley prefers. he dwarfs you. the first time you meet, your eyes nearly come out of your head from how wide they go. he's so large, and you feel so tiny compared to him, and even though he does nothing but a disinterested once over, it is obvious to the rest of the team that you might just be his favorite.

it's most obvious in the subtle touches. when you're getting ready to jump, ghost comes up from behind and tugs on your parachute, nearly topping you over making sure it's secure. when you're getting ready in the back of the humvee, he reaches over and buckles your thigh holster for you when he notices the strap is coming loose. you nearly choke when you feel his big hand between your thighs, and you stare up at him with wide eyes when his pinkie moves up the seam of your zipper when he tugs his hand away.

and then the way he's on your six is unlike anything else. like glue, chest pressed to your back, his gloved hand squeezing your waist as he moves you every which way he pleases because you're so small to him, so easy, and he growls under his breath when he touches the curve of your hips or the fat of your ass.

maybe you might enjoy it if he wasn't so fucking awkward about it. if he didn't stare at you without blinking. if he didn't adjust his cock in his jeans right in front of you. if he didn't grip you by the back of your head, tugging you any way he wanted as if scolding a kitten using the scruff of their neck.

you think the team would notice by now--that they would step in, tell ghost to back off, but they turn a blind eye. they tolerate this behavior, and you don't know if it's because ghost is so good at his job, they don't want to, or that they are so afraid of him, they refuse to say anything.

or maybe they approve. maybe it keeps ghost at bay. maybe it keeps a lion in his den. a spider in its nest. maybe indulging ghost in his fucked form of flirting and socialization is what keeps the foundations of this team right where it needs to be--and you realize, slowly, that maybe that is why you're here.

because ghost likes them soft, and they need to put a muzzle on their dog.

so when you feel him in the dark, slipping a gloved hand under the blanket that keeps you warm at night, he is pleasantly surprised to find you awake. and even more surprised to feel your hand slipping the soft lace of your panties right into his fucking pocket.

"they teach y'that 'n basic training? how ta give y'r knickers to y'r lieutenant, eh?"

"no," you whisper, and when you meet his eyes in the dark, he looks so hungry. he's untamed, no training, he's used to getting what he wants with no resistance. you turn over in bed, and you don't get to see the way he sucks on his teeth when you let your knees fall, revealing the pretty place between your thighs, soft and puffy and wet, just waiting for a good mutt to eat her up. "but i learned other things."

"tha' right?"

"yeah," you say softly, and you turn over onto your stomach, pushing back onto your knees right in front of him. he bends, leaning over until he's pushing his masked face right into the seam of your cunt, and you grip the sheets tight when he inhales deeply, a rumble following as both of his hands grip either side of your ass and spread you open for him. you're drooling, wetting the nylon fabric, and you gasp when you feel the wet, warm muscle of his tongue suck on your folds through the mask. it's lewd, and you're wetting the material so much it sticks to the strong lines of his face, but he continues, tilting his head to the side as he laps at the pretty slick that dampens your thighs.

"what'd y'learn then, swee'eart?"

not how to fuck your lieutenant. but...you did learn to keep them happy.

"h-how to be a good girl."

and you think you feel him smile.

#mmmmm #i like them big and awkward and mean #and i like controlling big dogs with pussy 😃 #makes me feel powerful ok #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon thoughts

[mockerycrow]

thinking about ghost who wants to hold your hand, but he keeps feeling nervous about it. he’s so fucking bold and cocky with you, but he can’t get himself to just.. reach out and intertwine your fingers.

he thinks about taking off his gloves, he thinks about how your skin would feel against his—are your hands soft, or rough and callused like his? either way, he knows his skin would burn; but it’s a sensation he would welcome.

ghost settles for grabbing your pinky with his, and you send him a side glance that he returns, speaking volumes without actual words.

#ghost blurb #crow’s thoughts #call of duty #cod #call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #modern warfare ii #mw2022 #mw2 2022 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x gn!reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #ghost fluff #ghost call of duty #mw2 ghost #simon ghost riley #ghost

[healing-intensifies]

we have. matching hallo.ween things. holy shit

#k #WE HAVE SKELE.TON GLOVES THAT WERE KIDS SIZED SO WE SNIPPED THE FINGER TIPS OFF #AND SHE HAS ONE HALF OF THE PAIR I BOUGHT I HAVE ONE HALF OF HERS #WE ACCIDENTALLY LIKE. HELD PINKY FINGERS WHILE WE WERE OUT TODAY?? LIKE WE WERE POINTING AT SOMETHING AND SOMEHOW THAT HAPPENED?!?! #WE HAVE MATCHING HAL.LOWE.EN SNAP BANDS (that are reflective because they're also for children) #AND AAAAAAAAA #K!!!! K MY BELOVED. YOU'RE SO COOL!!! #FUCK I FORGOT AN AND IN THE SECOND TAG #oh well??? #ANYWAY. #<3

[osachiyo]

sugar daddy!chuuya who absolutely adores you. you're so so sweet to him, such a good girl; never disobeying him, being so nice to him, not being a brat, never testing his patience— you're just so perfect. Always giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before he leaves for work. That's why he loves to spoil you; buying you all kinds of luxurious items to keep you happy. Taking you on sweet little dates every weekend, brushing you off when you ask if it's too expensive— telling you he's got the money for it, why not spend it on his most prized possession, you?

He loves to spoil you in the bedroom as well; you're his pretty little pillow princess, taking everything he gives you and more. Your legs would be hiked up on his strong shoulders, his face buried in your plush cunt as he moans from your sweet taste on his tongue. Gloved thumbs spreading your pussy apart as he spits on it and it's downright nasty how he licks everything back up, the lower portion of his handsome face dripping with your essence and he loved it.

sugar daddy!chuuya who would buy you so many sets of the prettiest lingere, only to rip them off your body later, promising he'd buy you new ones later. He'd give you his black card, telling you to buy anything you have your eyes on, no matter the price. The only price you have to pay is that pretty body of yours, that he loves kissing, licking and touching.

sugar daddy!chuuya who'd take you shopping whenever he's free, offering to buy entire stores for you, all for you. He'd find you so cute, so eager to try on new clothing and showing it off to him, only to get your brains fucked out in one of the changing rooms, all while wearing the brand new dress you wanted to show off. His hands pulling down the straps of the overly expensive dress, exposing your neck and chest to him. Making you look at your debauched self in the mirror; your pretty lipgloss smudged from the rough kiss you shared earlier, pretty love bites covering your smooth skin, hair pulled back in a makeshift ponytail as he drills himself into you nice 'n good.

sugar daddy!chuuya who has you suck him off underneath the desk of his office. Holding your head down,making you swallow him fully as he tries to have a conversation with his boss on the phone, whispering how good you're for him. His shoe would be grinding against your clothed cunt, ruining the pretty pair of panties you wore for him.

sugar daddy!chuuya who has you in a full nelson infront of the huge window in his office, cooing at you for being so cute,so pliant 'n soft for him to ruin. Promising that he'd buy you a car after this, voice slurred and sultry as he became drunk off the feeling of your pussy sucking him in. You'd eventually be pushed up against the window, nipples hard from your tits pressed up against the cool glass as he splays a large hand on your back, arching it so nicely for him as he plows into you from behind.

sugar daddy!chuuya who suddenly feels his heart speeding up whenever you talk to him, even look at him with those pretty doe eyes of yours. He follows you around like a puppy now, eager to have your attention on him. You suddenly have one of, if not the strongest and most dangerous man in the mafia wrapped around your pinky.

©ambrosiaa— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated ♡

TAGS »»————> @hopefulpain @inkmooon @constant-existential-terror @nda-approval @mellieellie @lxverss @lynxxyyy @nanamibeloved

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#bsd smut #bsd x reader #bsd x reader imagines #bsd x reader smut #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs smut #bsd fluff #bsd x reader fluff #bungo stray dogs x reader fluff #bungo stray dogs x reader smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuuya smut #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuuya x reader smut #chuuya fluff #chuuya x reader fluff #౨ৎ — archive・ #chuuya.nakahara

[justblades]

⌕ TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK, 18+

⟢ CHARACTERS : blade x afab! reader x kafka WC : 1.5k

⟢ WARNINGS : EXPLICIT, MDNI. 3some, bondage, spitting, degrading, cunnilingus, squ!rting

⟢ SUMMARY : getting it on with blade, kafka suddenly walks in on you two and . . . joins in the fun

"blade." you coo to the navy haired's ears, rocking your hips in an attempt to ease the pain of depravity pooling in your body. you were stuck straddling his right thigh, hands propped up to keep you stabilized.

he doesn't response, more so his puff of deep breaths were his only replies. crystalline tears start to well up in your eyes, carnal desire searing from your taunting gaze. your clit starts to throb for some attention, evident from how much you've been making friction with your exposed cunt against blade's lap - tongue stuck out in hopes of your yearning to be quenched by the stellaron hunter.

panting like a bitch in heat, it was all too much for blade to restrain. in actuality, his bulging erection was starting to ache, aching for it to be smothered with saliva and to be provided some company as well. he reaches his limit and so he quickly removes the bandage wrapped around his forearm and swiftly slithers it around your wrists— tying you with the makeshift of a binding. a yelp escapes your lips, feeling the object tighten its hold on you.

if anything, it's a win-win. you successfully managed to rile up the male so that he can tend to your needs, going through such far lengths such as this. blade immediately goes for the nape of your neck to forcibly make you seal a kiss with him, an open mouthed sloppy one so currents of pleasure and shock ride on your skins. "since you want it that bad, there's no going back." his deep voice chimes into your ears, a coy smile playing on his lips.

"do me however you like." with an instant approval, blade lets out a guttural chuckle, amused at how much you're obsessed with his dick that you're giving up your last remaining bit of dignity for him. "i'll fuck you to death then."

suddenly, the door of the confined room busts open— revealing a lady too familiar for the both of your visions. with the dim lighting glinting at her black, circular sunglasses, as if in unison, the both of you utter her name. "kafka." for someone like kafka, she was not one bit fazed at the scene unfolding before her stature. her curiosity only thrived, trekking towards the both of your figures.

"you really are a charm." she mumbles from your back, gloved hands tracing each detailing of your wrinkled clothing. as if the time comes to a standstill and your hearts were nothing but clocks, they continue to tick endlessly, striking every line and numbers for many laps already. "bladie here won't show his vulnerabilities to us and yet . . you've got him wrapped around your pinky."

kafka's next movement stirs the concoction of confusion brewing further in your conscious selves. she seats herself beside blade and leans forward to your face, her lifeless two hued irises fixate on your bewildered expression. "show me what you're made of." and with that single sentence, she envelops her soft lush lips onto yours.

your heart performs a somersault upon her action, unable to register everything happening but it definitely felt blissful. her gloved hands brush on your stomach, escalating up to where your clothes' buttons are placed. the dark magenta strands tucked behind her ear eventually came undone but kafka pays no mind as she finds herself basking in such sensation as soon as she tangles her soft tongue with yours.

saliva with a tang of sweet cherries, it makes a perfect mix with yours although you also previously exchanged sloppy kisses with blade earlier. kafka deepens her reach inside your wet cavern, the pigment of her baby pink lipstick rub on the margins of your lips. blade quickly catches on as he plays with your clit, the bandages wrapped around his hand become drenched from how hot you were feeling - being stimulated from both your upper and lower lips makes your body jolt with pleasure and shockwaves of excitement.

"i- i can't breathe." you protest as you were being smothered with kisses— to which

kafka immediately withdraws from your face and wipes her chin clean with a handkerchief she happened to carry. "we're just getting started." on e again her falsely sweet voice sounds into your ears.

with ease, she snaps the buttons of your top open, making your tits spring free as well as your nipples becoming perked at how the wintry air caresses the sensitive parts. the only heating source as of now are kafka and blade's lips, they were both quick with it as they fiddle their sticky tongues around your hardened buds.

blade was aggressive, almost as if his intention is not to pleasure but to devour you. he roughly squeezes and cup your right breast while kafka was the complete opposite. she lightly nibbles on the part all the while lathering her spit with it. meanwhile you were a moaning mess, throwing your head back as more of cloudy white liquids seep out of your cunt's folds.

"you're about to cum that fast?" she queries, eyes now widened, carefully scrutinizing the beads of arousal dampening blade's bandaged fingers. "well, what do you think about this then?" you fix your posture and trail vision back to the dyad and witness them engaging in a french kiss, making noises that were sloppy and naughty, mewls of pleasure mostly slipping from kafka's throat. as if you were inebriated with lust that it fills your system, ". . i feel hotter than before."

an alluring chuckle erupts in the room just after she breaks off the kiss, "no wonder bladie took a liking to you, you're a full on slut." as kafka uses such a degrading term to describe you, you were uncertain how to feel about it. all you know is that the male is behind you, holding you down and the other stellaron hunter is currently in front. she descends to your position, a kittenish smile sits on her lips.

your pussy was then intruded by two unfamiliar digits, accompanied by it was her warm tongue - pleasuring your slit with utmost skill. your back arches, knees folding at how it felt rhapsodic, better than how your clit was being toyed around by blade. kafka doesn't halt but only quickens the pace, sucking your folds in as if her mouth was a black hole and you're nothing but a mere planet to conquer for the lady.

more of your libido levels spike up once blade forces to you to face him with his fingertips on your chin, inviting you to exchange more of those open mouthed kisses. there were too much liquids flooding the both of your tongues that you couldn't help but gulp a good amount, to prevent getting messier than intended.

not for so long, a feeling of climax throbs on your clit. kafka quickly picks up this detail, sucking and fingering you all at the same. "i'm cumming!" you squirm under her touch as stream of liquids spring out of your hole, drenching the hunter's hair and clothes.

"okay, bladie's time to shine." with hasty shifting of positions, you find yourself on top of the male as you ride his throbbing cock while kafka sits on his lips, vis-à-vis with your lustful figure. the three of your clothes were strewn across the floor, and with a rapid thrust, kafka catches your lethargic body, nestling her face in the crook of your neck.

blade's girthy cock twitches from the confinements of your velvet walls, it pulsates everytime your pussy spasms from his shape. the navy haired was unable to supress his guttural moans, sending vibrations through kafka's cunt to which she bucks her hips for more sensation.

kafka now continues to mark your skin with her love bites, canines burrowing deep as well as sucking on your sweet spot— earning her more of your messy moans of satisfaction along with squelching sounds from blade's dick pistoning into your slit.

"bladie's toy is such a whore . ." she whispers in between her lustful kisses, words libidinous as ever. upon hearing it for the second time, you were addled at first how to feel but now you're more than certain. being degraded makes you drift into euphoria, into ecstasy, into the seventh heaven.

both of the stellaron hunters' whimpers signaling release echoe inside the four walls, as well as yours which was the loudest - followed suit by more strings of gratification springing out of each of your holes. the whole place was littered with busted, creased clothes as well as pools of cum, leaving a pungent scent that wafts into the air to which anyone could've guessed correctly from how strong the smell was.

at this point, sweat covers the entirety of your fatigues yet satisfied body, it glistens from the faintest lighting. kafka leaves a peck on your cheek with a pseudoinnocent smile playing on her lips, "i shall get going then. you can continue your episode with bladie now." as quickly as she bid her farewell, as fast as a lightning does the other stellaron hunter graces your vision.

"i'm not done with you yet."

my masterlist !

#kafka #kafka x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader smut #kafka smut #blade x reader #blade x reader smut #hsr x reader #blade honkai star rail

[mondaymelon]

₊˚ෆ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘 | xiao, childe, kazuha, scaramouche x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: fluff. established relationship, yeah that's it. writer's block hits again!!

⤷ [ the little things they do when they think you’re not looking ෆ]

— xiao, who... glances at your fingers often, a longing gaze that's only present when he thinks your eyes aren't on him. he's too scared to reach out and take your hand, intertwining his and yours fingers together, despite how much he yearns for the feeling of you. he wants your warmth. it's bright, it's comforting, it soothes something restless inside him. your presence is radiant, like the sun's rays, and he wants to bask in it.

"xiao?" your voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and his face instantly warms the slightest. he's been caught, hasn't he? he slowly trails his golden eyes up to your face with a rather sheepish expression, like a criminal caught in the act.

"...yes?" shit, his voice sounds way too tentative. if you hadn't noticed anything off before, you certainly did now. his cold enough exterior remains as he watches you try to hold back a bout of laughter.

"love. if you want to hold my hand, you don't need to ask."

swiftly, like the cunning being you are, you take his hand in yours, just how he wanted to. there's warmth in your hand, and he can feel it through his gloves. not enough. he withdraws with reluctance, spurring confusion in you. "oh, did i assume wrong? sorry, i didn't think..." your words trail off as you watch xiao swiftly dispose of his gloves, and then his fingers are intertwined with yours, his callused hands against your smooth ones.

"then..." his face is noticeably red, and the gold in his eyes seems to have softened at your touch. he brings up the back of your hand to his lips, his words leaving the ghost of a breath lingering on your skin. "this is okay, right?" his fleeting lips kiss them in a way so gentle you'd thought never be possible, and you don't need a mirror to tell how flustered he's made you.

"xiao, you-"

"don't refuse me now, love."

— childe, who... tends to stand behind you a lot, just so that he can glare at whoever you're talking to that's speaking a little too comfortably. his dead eyes will give them a brief answer, and then he'll scoff under his breath, as if they aren't worth his attention. small pests like this lived to be exterminated, and he'd be happy to do the honors, but the way your smiling without a care in the world makes him pause.

"childe, we need to talk." your voice is serious. fuck, were you going to break up with him? had he not been good enough? fatui duties were so annoyingly persistent, but he'd finished them up as fast as he could so he could come home to you, like he promised... was that not enough? of course it wasn't enough, he should've-

"childe? i can see you standing behind that wall. get over here." his heart drops to his stomach, and he comes out from behind his hiding place with a wobbly grin.

"ahaha, you got me! what's... what's this all about?" his words die in his throat at the exasperated look you're giving him.

"childe, you can't keep doing this." doing what? "you're scaring all my friends and-"

"...friends?" there's astoundment in his voice, and his eyes are wide. "oh- i mean, yeah of course. what else?"

you sigh, yet your face can't help but break into a smile at his antics. "what, did you think i'd break up with you? no chance in hell. it's just that you've been glaring a whole lot at my friends lately and they've issued several complaints that i've had to endure-"

you're cut short as the taller man engulfs you in a tight hug, using a hand on the back of your head to press you against him. your face is on his chest, and through the fabric you can hear how his heart races.

"you can't scare me like this, love. not again, pinky promise?"

— kazuha, who... likes to smile. a lot. whenever he's around you, his serene expression changes, the corners of his lips curving upwards, eyes shining as he spots you from however far away. shh, don't tell anyone, but secretly, your occasional visits to the crux are what he looks forward to the most in his days, quietly yearning to see the bright smile on your face one more time.

"kazuha?"

his head tilts as he directs his full attention on you, as if it already wasn't in the moments prior. "yes?" his crimson eyes glow with warmth, the warmth you've granted him.

"why do you always... smile so much?" it's not unnerving, no, not in the slightest. the way it sets his face alight is beautiful, if anything. but you've heard of his past, and you're wary that it might all just be a show he's acting out so you won't have to worry over him. that self-sacrificial idiot.

kazuha seems startled by the questions, his eyes growing round before his quietly laughs into his fist, his chuckles like birdsong against the wind. he leans forward, resting his face in his bandaged palm. "love, is it not obvious? it's because of you that i'm able to smile like this."

he's acting so cheeky right now. it makes you want to kiss him, with just how romantic he's making the situation. your face is flushed, you're well aware, and kazuha captures it all in his knowing gaze, smiling still. "kazuha, you have quite the way with words, don't you?" suddenly, something you overheard from the sailors arises amongst other thoughts.

[ "hey, haven't you thought that kazuha doesn't smile often?"

you had scoffed then, a plain lie. they must not see him often.

"ah, you poor, unknowing fools." a proud voice this time, a female one, one riddled with a laugh. you could catch a glimpse of the brown hair. "don't you know that he only smiles when his lover comes around?"

a collective gasp. ]

his eyes are warm. his voice is warm. he is a man of warmth, like the yearning leaves on the wind. kazuha stirs something within you, and you can't help but break into the slightest of smiles.

"love, the truth has a way of captivating an audience."

— scaramouche, who... is not well versed on whatever he's feeling right now. he'll try and hide it all he wants, turning his head away whenever you're not staring in his direction so he can hide the furious crimson that has dusted his cheeks. is he flustered? as if. you're not quite skilled enough to pull such a feat. yet...

"scara?" your finger grazes his cheek as you gaze at him with concern in your eyes. it's almost irritating, how persistent you are, but he'll allow it. he'll allow it, because it's making him feel a rush in his blood, and it makes him warm. "are you okay? your face is red."

shit. it is? he immediately covers his face with his hands, and prepares to flee. look at him, the exalted sixth harbinger of the goddamn fatui, about to run with his tail between his legs like this. his dignity attempts to pull him to his seat, but the thunderous rush in his ears, audible to himself, is something that you should never witness. it's shameful.

your hand latches onto his wrist, and you stare up at him, brows slightly furrowed as your lips formed a pout. "as i thought, you're unwell. c'mon, let's get you to bed, and then i'll-"

"no." his refusal is instant. his own voice rings in his ears. how it even possible to feel this way? you called him your lover, but it was something he had just... agreed to, in the heat of the moment. he clutches the fabric of his clothes so tightly they almost twist in his hold. the empty silence is all he needs to confirm it. no, he could never love someone like you. or anyone at all.

with grudging certainty, he knows. if he were to fall, it'd be you that he'd yearn for. yearn. perhaps... was that the longing he felt whenever he saw that soft gaze of yours, or faced your very presence? the two of you were already lovers, so why couldn't he bring himself to pull you closer into his arms?

"scara? love, what are you..." the use of a nickname catches him off guard. you know exactly what you're doing to him, don't you? despite that, he can't help but fall deeper and deeper.

"say that again. call me love again."

(a/n) tried doing a different style of writing this time? pretty silly if i do say so myself !! sorry for the shorter length existential crisis loves me so mmuch

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

#★ ˎˊ˗ mondaymelon #favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader #childe x reader #xiao x reader #kazuha x reader #x gn reader #childe #xiao #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche #wanderer #kazuha #genshin xiao #genshin scaramouche #genshin wanderer #genshin childe #xiao x you #childe x you #kazuha x you #scaramouche x you #wanderer x you

[bakubunny]

bnha: their partner has an oral fixation (part 2)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Dabi | Tomura | Shouta

more smutty bnha headcanons no one asked for but i’m writing them anyway because it’s fun.

obligatory mdni, 18+ content. you will be blocked.

tags: fem!reader, oral fixation (obv), oral sex, rough sex, fish hooking mentioned, facials mentioned, finger sucking, unintentional hand & finger kink

Dabi

i hope you love sucking dick and getting face fucked, cause he loves it too. any time, anywhere, as many times as you want. at least once or twice a day if not more. also he loves painting your face if you don’t swallow.

lets you cockwarm him at night if it helps you fall asleep. he’d never admit it, but it helps him fall asleep too. he’d also never say that he’s got a tiny soft spot for how sweet you look with his dick in your mouth while you lay in bed.

he might make you beg or tease you a bit if you’re bratty, but you both know the second those needy doe eyes come out, your head’s getting shoved into his lap. he thinks it’s even better when you’re standing and he gets to grab you by the hair and pull you down to your knees.

finger fucks your mouth just to see you drool and make you blush, and makes you look him in the eye when he does it. might even do it when his friends are around because he doesn’t give a fuck, he wants you to be a pretty mess, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

you can bet your bottom dollar he will fish hook you when he fucks you from behind because, “you look so pretty like this, babydoll. i can’t help myself.”

Tomura

he thinks you’re insane for playing with his hands as much as you do, and he loves it. you think you might be insane too, but you’re with Shiggy for fuck’s sake, of course there’s at least a little part of you that likes the fear of being turned to dust when he’s got that beautifully wild, sadistic grin on his face.

might like to taunt you with the fear, but would never actually harm you.

enthusiastic about it in the beginning because god do you look so fucking slutty and needy, but the more he sees that you genuinely care about him, the more afraid he is of hurting you. wears specific gloves that cover his pinkies because you’re special to him because it makes him less anxious.

your love and tenderness with the part of him that has only ever destroyed, only hurt people and hurt them bad, is painful and he doesn’t handle it well. he pushes you away a lot, but you’re patient with him, knowing he’ll always come back.

once admitted that you make him itch a little less, but refuses to think of the ramifications of what that means about his feelings for you.

lets you give head whenever you want. enjoys it a lot when he’s playing video games and he gets to ignore you no matter how enthusiastic you are. will occasionally grab you by the hair and use you as a way to get off.

Shouta

man’s busy and so are his hands - grading, case work, lesson planning, training, taking care everyday life - so they’re not something you go for often, but you don’t mind so much. you appreciate any moment you can share with him, especially if he’s curled up next to you or in your lap.

occasionally puts his hand towards your lips in bed at night without thinking; so much of his life is on autopilot out of necessity that sometimes he doesn’t think twice.

most of his appreciation for your fixation comes out in sex; he loves the blissful look you get with his finger(s) in your mouth while you ride him, and he loves how hard it makes you cum.

loves to give head, so you get the luxury of his lips on your body frequently, which in a roundabout way satisfies your craving.

likes receiving head, but mostly because of how much you enjoy it. sure, it feels fantastic, but he appreciates the intimacy of it more.

came up because you point blank asked if it was okay. he shrugged. “why not?” which quickly became, “oh. we’re doing this again.”

banner created by the lovely @cafekitsune.

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #boku no hero #dabi x reader #shigaraki x reader #aizawa x reader #fem!reader #dabi #shigaraki tomura #aizawa shouta #smut hcs #bnha smut #mha smut #smut headcanons #x reader #millennialmagicalgirl

[tropes-and-tales]

Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

Characters:  Adrian Chase/Vigilante x f!reader

CW:  Crude language; yearning.

Word Count:  3982

Adrian Chase will tell anyone:  he doesn’t have emotions like people do.  He doesn’t feel sad or angry or embarrassed.  When Peacemaker gave him the nickname “Thimble,” he certainly didn’t cry.  When Peacemaker was sent to prison, he certainly didn’t feel lonely.  

Not having emotions is what makes him a more evolved human.

And yet, when ARGUS springs Peacemaker and sets up a black ops outfit in Evergreen, Adrian finds himself toeing the line of feelings.  He doesn’t have emotions like people do, but he comes awfully close a handful of times…until he crosses the line entirely.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Vulnerable

As the Vigilante, Adrian gets hurt all the time.  He’s become proficient at stitching up his own wounds.  His body is littered with the scars of his own handiwork.

But when Goff tortures him for information, and when the ARGUS team comes to his and Peacemaker’s rescue, he finds himself missing half of a pinkie toe.  It’s the most important toe on the human body, and he’ll probably never walk again…and no one seems to care.

Except for you.  In the van as they return to headquarters, you sit across from him, watching him as he studies his mangled foot.  You murmur something that sounds sympathetic, but he barely hears it over Peacemaker laughing at him.

At headquarters, you look at him and jerk your head in the direction of the back office.

“I can stitch you up, if you want,” you offer. 

He starts to shake his head, but the mean blonde woman—Harcourt, her name is—makes an offhand comment about your superior patch-up abilities, so he accepts your help.  He limps painfully behind you, follows you into a room that has been converted into a rough sort of exam room and budget clinic.

“Hop up on the table,” you tell him, and even though he doesn’t trust you—or any of your team—he does as you say.  It’s clumsy.  He hurts in a hundred different places:  his half-amputated toe, his electrocuted crotch, all the scrapes and bruises from the fight with Cobra Kai. 

“I won’t take off my mask,” he warns you.  “I take my secret identity very seriously.  If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply dryly.  “But I only need to see your foot.”

He pulls off his boot and regards his mangled half-pinkie toe sadly.  You pull on a pair of latex gloves and turn on a bright lamp, angling it at his bare foot.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say as you prod the wound gently.  “In fact, you really didn’t lose anything but a couple layers of skin.”

“The blade was as dull as fuck,” he replies. 

You wheel your stool over to a cabinet, then pull out some supplies:  needle and thread, disinfectant, gauze and tape.  Then you wheel back over to him and set to work.

The mean blonde woman was right—you’re quick, efficient.  He looks down at your bent head as you stitch him up, and he sees that your needlework is better than his own.  He doubts he’ll even have much of a scar once it heals.

But it’s the strange feeling that creeps over him:  makes his vision waver, makes him feel a little light-headed.  Your hands are deft but also gentle.  Adrian can’t remember ever being touched so gently.  Maybe when he was really small.  Maybe his mom was gentle like that when he was so small that he can’t remember it now.  It makes him break out in goosebumps.  He shudders at the touch of your warm hand bracing his foot, and you misunderstand the involuntary gesture.

“Almost done,” you murmur, and a moment later you tie off the last stitch and snip the thread.  You wrap his toe in gauze, pat his knee softly in a reassuring way.  Then you straighten up and ask if there’s any other injuries he needs patched up.

“Goff electrocuted me,” he blurts out.  “With a car battery.”

You look at him, level, but the corner of your mouth quirks in a near-smile.  “You want me to look at that for you?”

“Oh, no.  No.  No, I just wanted to mention it.  I’m not asking you to look at it.”  He’s grateful for the mask; he can feel his face heating up at the idea of taking off his suit in front of you, and the sudden flush confuses him.  Irritates him.  Something about the thought of being exposed makes his stomach churn in a way he doesn’t understand.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn back to the cabinet of supplies.  You rummage around, then pull out a small white tube that you hand him.

“Antibiotic gel for cuts and burns,” you say.   “You can put a cool cloth on…well, any burns you may have.  If there’s blistering, don’t pop them.”

“Okay.”

“And, you know…if you have any lingering side effects of being electrocuted, you should see a specialist.”

Vigilante reaches down and pulls his boot back on, but already his toe feels better.  “What sort of side effects?” he asks.

He looks up at you in time to see that same half-smile.  You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash.  

“I can imagine where you were electrocuted,” you reply.  “So if those parts don’t typically work the way you’re used to, see a real doctor.”

Adrian Chase is not good at nuance or subtlety.  “Huh?”

You blink at him before you say, “if you can’t get or maintain an erection, see a urologist.”

“Oh.”  He blinks too, behind his visor.  “Okay.”

You turn to leave the room but then glance over your shoulder before you do.  “Thanks for your help tonight,” you say.  “The mission was a success because of you.”

Neither Vigilante nor Adrian Chase ever get any thanks.  He flushes even hotter under his mask, and he grumbles in reply, uncomfortable to be seen, to be recognized for the first time.

To be vulnerable.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Embarrassed

The next afternoon, he’s at Peacemaker’s trailer, helping him clean up from when the police tossed the place.  They are blasting Guns and Roses, drinking beer…it’s like the old days, almost.

A knock at the door then, and Adrian has only a second to pull on his mask before you stroll in.

“Hey, Chris.  Vigilante.”  You nod in greeting, then reach into your bag to pull out a thick manila folder.  You hand it to Peacemaker.

“Murn wanted me to bring this by.  It’s the latest intel we got from Goff’s place.”  

You stand there as Chris takes the folder and sinks down onto his couch, already paging through the information.  Vigilante stands there too, awkward, so he crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting.  There’s a long stretch of silence once the Guns and Roses record ends, and Vigilante struggles with silence.

“I got hard last night,” he tells you.  “And this morning too.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Peacemaker sputters.  “She doesn’t want to hear that!”

“She mentioned it last night!”

Peacemaker scoffs, twists his face into an expression of disbelief.  “Yeah, I’m sure she mentioned your dick last night.  Sure.  Okay.  Fantasize much?”

“She did!”

“You seriously need to get laid, dude.  Stop making shit up.”

“He’s not lying,” you tell Peacemaker with a sheepish shrug.  “Though I mentioned it in the context of his injuries and not…some other context.”

“See?”  Vigilante says, and Peacemaker rolls his eyes, makes a jacking-off motion with his hand.

You don’t linger.  You beat a hasty retreat, waving over your shoulder as you leave the trailer, and Peacemaker gives him more hell—calls him weird, calls him annoying.

“No wonder you’ve never had a real girlfriend, dude,” he says as he turns back to his folder of intel.  “You say the creepiest shit the minute a cute girl is around.”

Vigilante doesn’t think about it much more until later.  That night, in bed, he lies awake for far longer than he usually does.  He replays that moment, tries to understand why he just blurted that out.  

He wonders if you would have stayed at the trailer longer if he hadn’t been creepy.  His face burns in the darkness of his bedroom, and his stomach twists painfully as he replays the moment over and over.  He replays his stupid blurting out about his dick, and he has no idea what it means.  He never obsesses over his stupid mouth like this.

If he had feelings like other people, he’d recognize the emotion as embarrassment.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Despondent (and Comforted)

Adrian gets himself arrested on purpose.  It’s the best way he can help Chris:  get arrested, get booked into the same prison as Chris’ racist supervillain father, then kill said racist supervillain father.

Easy enough.  It’d set Chris free and make his life so much better.  Allow him to move forward and not be bogged down, like Adebayo said.

Adrian fails.  He only manages to make things worse—clues Auggie into his plan accidentally, possibly points law enforcement in Chris’ direction.  So Adrian doesn’t just fail—he fails miserably.

He’s released that night.  He’s surprised at first, but as he changes back into his clothes and collects his personal effects from the guards, he realizes that ARGUS has its sticky fingers in all sorts of things and probably sprung him with just a few keystrokes.

When he leaves the prison, you’re sitting out front in your car.  You lower the passenger window and call out to him.

“C’mon,” you say.  “Harcourt sent me to take you home.”

He’s too upset to even feel bad about his cover being blown.  He climbs into the car.

“I think I made things worse,” he says, and he tries not to cry.  He only wanted to help his best friend (even if he’s not Peacemaker’s best friend).  Somehow he messed up, and it could ruin everything.  

“Okay,” you reply softly.  “It’s okay.”

You drive him home.  He doesn’t give you his address, but you know it—another screw-up, he thinks, getting tangled up with people who easily cracked his secret identity.  You know his name, his face, where he lives.  Some instrument of vengeance he is.  You probably even recognize him from his job at Fennel Fields.

Outside of his apartment, you park, then turn to face him.  In the half-light from the streetlamps, he can just make out your soft smile.

“This entire ops is nothing but mistakes,” you tell him.  “And yet, we’re doing okay.  We’ll figure out how to handle Auggie Smith.  Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and something about the barest bit of comfort—paired with your smile—makes him turn to face you too.  

“I’m Adrian,” he says, even though you know his name.

Your smile broadens and you say your name, even though he knows it.  You hold out your hand and after a beat he takes it.

“Good to finally meet you, Adrian,” you reply as you shake hands.  

For whatever reason, as low as he feels, he falls asleep that night with a weird lightness in his chest—because he doesn’t dwell on his failure at the prison.  

Instead, he falls asleep with the memory of your smile, your kind words.  Your warm hand in his.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Protective

The attack on Goff’s house yielded some leads, and the team travels three hours away to take out a nest of Butterflies.  Everyone is exhausted, filthy, and bruised up.  

It’s in the van—you sitting beside Adrian—when you start to nod off.  He catches it the first few times, the way your head dips forward, the way you jerk back awake.  It’s cute, the way you fight sleep, and then it happens.

You fall asleep and you don’t wake up.  Your head drifts towards him, then settles against his shoulder.

Adrian freezes.  

He and Peacemaker—they used to go out together, looking for crimes or bitches or both.  He’s no virgin.  He fucks.  He’s no stranger to touch, and he’s certainly no stranger to women.  And yet…this feels different.  It feels new.

Peacemaker notices.  “You got a new girlfriend, dude,” he points out with a laugh.

Harcourt rolls her eyes at the teasing.  “Leave her alone.  She puts in way more hours than you, asshole.”

“I put in plenty of hours,” he replies, defensive.  “It takes a lot of time to maintain this impressive physique.  Do you know how long I work on my small muscle groups alone?”

Harcourt rolls her eyes again, then returns her attention to her phone.  Peacemaker turns back to where Adrian sits, rigid, as you sleep against him.

“If you get hard, just don’t tell her about it,” he advises the younger man.  “You’ll creep her out again.”

It’s strange, the feeling of your head against him.  It’s not sexy at all, obviously—in fact, it’s a little uncomfortable.  He doesn’t want to move you, doesn’t want to jostle you and wake you up.  Harcourt said you’re tired, and you took a hell of a beating as you fought the Butterflies.  

Adrian has always approached his work as Vigilante from a perspective of vengeance, not protection, so the feeling is strange:  how he wants to let you sleep, how he wants to protect your sleep.  How he wants to make you comfortable.

A quiet falls over the team; the swaying of the van lulls everyone into comfortable silence.  Adrian breathes in carefully through his nose, then shifts his body.  Slowly, carefully.  He leans away from you, allows you to lie against him more.  He changes the angle enough that he can get his arm out from where it’s trapped between your body and his.  He shifts again, gets his arm around you.  Gently moves you—changes it from your head awkwardly pressed against his hard molded shoulder pad to your head tucked against his chest.

You wake, a little, as he moves you.  You blink up at him sleepily, say his name—Adrian, not Vigilante or Vig or V—and your voice is husky with exhaustion.  There’s a questioning lilt to how you say his name, so he shakes his head softly.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, quiet.  “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, then settle back against him.  It takes only a moment until he feels your breathing slow down, deepen.  He feels your body go heavy and lax against him.  Tucked against his chest, his arm holding you against him, he can smell you, feel how warm you are.  If he moves his head just a little, he can press his cheek against the top of your head.

Go ahead and rest, he thinks.  Everything’s fine.  I’ll keep you safe.

Vigilante has always been an instrument of vengeance, but this is the first time he’s felt protective of anyone.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Fear

The 11th Street Kids have one chance to eradicate the Butterflies forever:  if they can kill their only food source, the so-called cow, they will eventually all die off.  When they make their final assault on the farm, the team splits up:  Adebayo and Economos stay back, while the warriors—Peacemaker, Vigilante, Harcourt, and you—charge into action.

Whether the cow is killed or not, Adrian doesn’t find out until after the battle is over.  He fights off the onslaught of Butterflies, but for the first time, his attention isn’t entirely on his own fight.

His attention is on you, now, too.  

He manages to keep you in his sightline for the beginning of the fight.  He sees you, admires the sight of you when you’re in your berserker mode:  furious and deadly, well-fitted black suit, guns flashing as you empty clip after clip into the skulls of the Butterflies.  

Then he loses sight of you. 

His chest clenches in an unfamiliar tension, and when he finally catches sight of you again, that tight-chest feeling cedes to something else, something worse:  an ice-cold shard of fear that lances through him, settles in his gut where it sits like a stone.

When he finally catches sight of you, it’s the exact moment you are shot by a Butterfly.

One shot hits your shoulder, spins you around.

Another shot hits you square in the chest, makes you stagger backwards as the force is absorbed by your vest.

The final shot hits you low in the belly, and Adrian (who has studied your gear closely) knows you have little protection there.  The icy fear blooms in him, fills up every bit of him until it feels like it’s in his veins.

He screams your name.  He barely even feels the bullet that hits him (“oh, shoot” he mutters, and tosses a knife behind him to kill his own attacker), but then he stumbles and falls, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes a moment later.  He has no idea how much time has passed, but he manages to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet.  He makes his way to where you fell and he finds you.  

It’s bad.  It’s so bad that the icy fear turns acidic in his veins, makes him burn with fear.  With terror.  You gaze up at him but you don’t seem to see him, and each breath makes a fresh pulse of blood trickle from your mouth.

Adrian has never been very good at social situations.  He never knows the right thing to say and if he does, he doesn’t know the right time to say it.  He wishes these things came more easily to him; if it were Chris here right now instead of him, Chris would know the right thing to say.  He’d know how to keep you awake, how to give you comfort.

All Adrian can offer is what you told him the night he got out of prison, when you drove him home.  Now, as you lie under the night sky, dying in front of him, as he presses one hand against the worst wound to try and staunch the bleeding, he repeats your words back to him.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he says it over and over and hopes you believe it.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

The Time Vigilante Definitely Feels Love

You have no memory of the fight at the farm.  The last thing you remember is the drive there, but everything after is a blank.  Adebayo stops by when you finally wake up and fills you in on the salient details.  

She tells you how Vigilante—who was also shot, who had been blown up earlier in the day—carried you to safety.  How he kept you from bleeding out, how he held your very life in his hands and kept you from dying.  How hospital security had to separate him from you, once you were laid out on the gurney and being wheeled into surgery.

How he still tried to fight to stay by your side, and how he only failed because of his own injuries and blood loss.

“That man is stupid crazy about you,” Adebayo chuckles with a shake of her head.  “I don’t even think he’s really a psychopath.”

You chuckle with her, wince when the action pulls at the thousand stitches and staples that are keeping you held together.  “He’s not bad, right?”

“We’re literally the Island of Misfit toys,” she replies.  “But yeah, he’s alright.”

-----

Adrian is hospitalized too, and once he’s healed up to a point, he starts sneaking into your room to visit.  It’s not really sneaking—every time he undoes his IV and heart monitor, it sends the nurses into a panic—but after Adebayo’s press conference revealing the existence of Task Force X, the hospital staff is pretty tolerant of his harmless shenanigans. 

He helped ward off an alien invasion, after all.  You both did.

You have to agree with Adebayo.  You’ve never quite believed that Adrian is a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever.  You certainly never believed him when he said he didn’t have feelings or emotions.  The guy is nothing but a walking ball of emotions:  obvious love for his friends, a yearning to belong, a sweet desire to be liked and included.  Sure, he kills without compunction, but he seems to love in equal measure, even if he doesn’t believe he does.

When he visits you, he doesn’t talk about feelings.  He chatters endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exploits—criminals they’ve busted, ways they’ve destroyed old appliances in the woods behind Peacemaker’s trailer.  He talks about how it was when Peacemaker was in prison, how he kept calling and leaving voicemails to make it seem like everything was normal.  He talks about his job at Fennel Fields, all the terrible customer service stories he has.

He discharges himself against the advice of the doctors (he’s healed enough, he tells you), and you think he’ll stop visiting, but he doesn’t.  He visits every day still, and when you start physical therapy to build up the muscle tone and endurance you’ve lost, he sits in a nearby chair, watching you.  Cheering you on.

Adebayo wasn’t wrong.  You know Adrian has feelings for you.  You’re more socially adept than him, and you’ve had relationships before.  You’ve had crushes and been the object of them.  You guessed his infatuation early on, and you can guess that it’s only grown for him since then.

It probably confuses him, you guess.  You know what love feels like.  What a crush feels like.  All that feeling, in so many places:  the fluttery stomach, the pounding heart, the thoughts that just circle ‘round and ‘round about a single person.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have similar feelings for him.  He’s easy on the eyes, sure—but he’s earnest and sweet, a brutal killer with a heart of gold.

You can also guess that Adrian might never make a move.  This has to be unfamiliar territory for him.  You know he’s no virgin (he’s chattered endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exhaustive threesomes too), but he seems to have no relationship experience.

But your entire short working relationship with him has been give and take.  You stitched him up, comforted him when he was feeling low after his failed attempt to kill Auggie Smith.  He let you rest against him, held you gently as you slept after a mission.  He saved your life, kept you from bleeding out.

Give and take.  The best kind of relationship, in your opinion.

“Hey, Adrian,” you say one afternoon after PT.  You’re exhausted and sore, but you’re quickly approaching your own discharge.  You are healing up nicely.  You have things to look forward to.

“What’s up?” he asks, and he bounces over to your bedside like a Golden Retriever puppy, eager.

“Doctor says I’m good to go in a few days.”

“That’s great!”  His face breaks open in a wide grin that transforms him from nerdy-handsome to downright gorgeous.  “That’s good news!”

You swallow, push down the nerves that flare up.  “I thought maybe we could celebrate.”

“Yeah!”  He grins at you.  “I can call Chris—”

“I thought maybe just me and you,” you cut in, clarifying.  “Just this time.  Maybe we include Chris some other time.”

“Oh.”  The smile falls from his face, and he looks at you.  His brows are knit in confusion.  

No sense in backtracking now.  “Like a date.  Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Oh.”  A beat.  “With me?  Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

What you’re asking him finally sinks in—a beat longer than it might with someone else, but that’s just part of Adrian’s charm.  The smile returns to his face, brighter and wider than before.

“Yeah,” he replies.  “Hell yeah, dude.  I’d love that.”

#adrian chase #adrian chase imagine #adrian chase x reader #vigilante #vigilante imagine #vigilante x reader #peacemaker #tropes-and-tales

[the-californicationist]

The Missed Deadline

Gaz/FReader - virginity pact, childhood besties, explicit consent

AO3 Link

You and Kyle had a pact. Ever since you were teenagers, you pinky promised that if you were still virgins by the time you turned 21, you’d do it together. He’d gone off to war and lost his virginity immediately, but when he comes back to help his mum for the holiday, he learns that you still have yours, and you’re way past your deadline. 

!!! MDNI/18+ NO EXCEPTIONS !!

To anyone who has not yet lost their virginity: THIS IS FICTION AND IT IS NOT A GUIDEBOOK. Fuck responsibly, everyone.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Your neighbor, Mrs. Garrick, had been moving all of her old furniture into storage, prepping for a huge remodel, and now, here he was. He was back. It had been years since you’d seen him. 

“Marco?” You called out from your open bedroom window.

He looked around for a moment, resting after helping move a dresser out of the front door, so you called again,

“Up here!”

He looked up at your window, and his face lit up when he found you. 

“Polo? Bloody hell. It’s you,” his face softened with amused wonder, and he started to take off his leather work gloves, “I’m coming up!”

Kyle moved through your garden in the same way he always had, ever since you were kids. You heard your front door open, and then you listened as his heavy boots trod up the stairs, and finally, you watched the old brass knob to your room turn, pop, and open with a soft creak. 

He stood there in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, frozen in time. Only, he was much older than he should’ve been. 

He should have been 15 again, showing you how to work a two-way radio so you could play recon with him in the fields next to your house. 

He should have been 16, trying to learn how to kiss, telling you and himself that you were just doing it to practice, that it didn’t have to mean anything. 

He should have been 17, sitting on your bed, head in his hands, telling you he’d joined the army and that he didn’t know when he was coming back, but that he had fallen for you and he knew that you couldn’t be together. 

He should’ve been 18, back from basic training, telling you about all of his adventures, asking if you still liked him, making you promise that if you were both still virgins when you turned 21, you’d lose it together. 

But, now, here he was, 22 and staring at you, making you feel like you were still 15, making promises to him that you were never meant to keep. 

“Marco,” you whispered, standing up and reaching out for him.

“Polo,” he whispered back, crossing the room to hold you in his arms. 

He was wearing a tee shirt without its sleeves, sweaty and dirty from moving furniture all day, and he stared down at you like he expected you to kiss him. Remembering himself, he broke the hug and moved back, suddenly aware of his body in your small space.

You went through the little dance you were supposed to do: hi - hi - how are things - how’s school - how’s your mum - blah, blah, blah. It was nothing, and you knew it was nothing, and so did he. So, you stopped. 

“Did you keep your promise, then?” You knew he hadn’t. He was a grown man in the army for fuck’s sake. 

He blushed, and shook his head,

“No, I didn’t. Go a little carried away on leave with the lads once or twice.”

“With the lads, hm?” You teased him.

“No! I mean, it was ladies. But, uh, it was also lads. Sometimes. Uh…Christ,” he rubbed his hands down his face in embarrassment. 

You raised your eyebrows and smiled wide,

“Ah! So, you have been practicing, haven’t you?”

He grinned,

“Yep. Just rehearsing for the big performance. How about you?”

He grabbed a towel from the stack by your closet, knowing where you kept them and put it on the bed so he wouldn’t get your sheets dirty when he sat down on them. The mattress creaked under his weight. You could smell his sweat and laundry detergent. 

You shook your head,

“None for me. Just haven’t found the right one, I guess.”

Kyle gasped,

“You’re past due, Polo. What are we gonna do with you?”

“Throw me out?” You laughed, trying to ease the tension.

The tension did not ease. He was so close to you, and he was staring at you in a new way, studying you like he didn’t know you by heart. 

You reached out to touch his cheek, finding a fresh scar on it where there had not been one before. You felt his skin shudder so gently beneath your touch, and his breathing quickened. You rubbed the scar with your thumb like you would a stain, trying to get it out. Then, he lunged for you, kissing you deeply, so different and so much more sure of himself than he had been at 16, 17, and 18. All of those kisses tasted just like this one though, and the memory of your feelings for him came rushing back, fresh as the day they were borne. 

You remembered when you had decided you were in love with Kyle Garrick. He was about to turn 16, and you and he and a few of his friends had gone down to Brighton beach for the day to celebrate. You’d played Marco Polo in the waves, blind, hands out, feeling for bodies in the current. You were Polo and he was Marco this time, and you were swimming away from him, but a wave caught you and shoved you into him. He had wrapped you in his arms to steady you, and since you were the only girl, he knew it was you. 

He’d lingered on you with his eyes still wrenched shut, rubbing his palms down your body, touching your breasts beneath the water, cupping your ass and touching your belly. You’d lingered on him as well, getting as far as the band of his pants before the next wave hit and broke you apart. You’d swam to shore together, and you didn’t speak for the rest of the day, but you had stared at each other like your life depended on it. Enthralled.

That next evening, while your parents were out at dinner, you’d used the two-way radio to call him over, but you couldn’t help yourself, and you called him “Marco.” When he called you “Polo,” you knew he liked you, and that was enough. 

He broke the kiss, and he whispered into your gasping mouth, 

“I’m sorry, I just… I wanted to… sorry…”

“Are you going to make good on your promise, Marco?” You tested him.

His gaze shot up to find yours, and you got lost in the deep chocolate brown of his wide, bright eyes. He was searching for the jest and finding only earnestness.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I think it should be you. Seems right. You don’t have to… be with me or anything. I get that you have your army thing, and I don’t want to distract you from that, but I —”

“No,” he said, shoving a stake through your heart. Or at least it felt like it. 

“No?” You confirmed, praying you’d heard the simplest word wrong.

“No, I mean, not like this. Tonight. What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight? Nothing. I was just here helping bring my mum’s things to her sister’s house. She lives there now, and I’m watching their place while I’m on holiday from uni. Didn’t even plan to stay this afternoon, but I can.”

“Tonight, let me take you to Five and Ten,” he stood up suddenly, straightening himself out, looking proper as he could in his mess of work clothes. 

“Why? You don’t have to do all that. Just forget I said —”

“Please. Let me take you. Six o’clock. I’ll drive us.”

So, he did. You wore an old dress from when you were young, and you thanked all the gods that it still fit. He looked much sharper than you in a burgundy suit and a shining tie. He’d become quite fashionable in his adulthood, it seemed.

The food was exquisite, and he ordered expensive wine. Kyle held your door and pulled out your chair, and he even paid for the whole meal. It was magical. You’d only been on a few dates, but this one blew the others way out of the water. 

At the end of the night, you ended up back where you started. The towel was still on the bed. But, now, you were in your dress clothes and he was in his, and you were just as nervous as you were when you were 16. 

“Look,” he said, placing his hands on your shoulders, speaking softly as though you weren’t the only people in the house, “I need you to know that this stops the moment you say it does. If you think, even for a moment, that you need me to stop, all you have to do is say so and it stops. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sounded unsure. 

“Hey,” he took your chin in his hands and lifted your face to his, “We don’t need to do this. I loved… I had a wonderful time tonight, and I’m happy. You’ve made me the happiest man alive. Please don’t say yes just because you think —”

“Kyle,” you dropped his nickname in favor of his real one, needing him to know you were serious, “I want to, if you want to.”

“Bloody hell, I want to,” he groaned. 

It was all a rush, then. He was kissing you, and you were pulling off his coat. He was running his huge hands across your bare back, and you were tugging at his buttons. He was laying you on the bed, and pulling off your heels. You were unzipping him and unzipping you and unfurling into each other like two roses blooming face to face, your petals bending and pushing and mixing and slipping together as you opened and opened and opened to each other. 

Finally, there you were, naked and shaking. He paused, whispering to you,

“Marco?”

You smiled, kissing his full lips to taste your memories again, 

“Polo.” You whispered back. 

He kissed down your neck,

Marco?

Polo.

He took one of your nipples into his mouth and began to suckle from it, pulling the skin and nipping at your taut nub. 

Marco?

Polo.

Traveling down your belly…

Marco?

Polo.

Licking up the side of your navel…

Marco?

Polo.

Burying his nose in your folds and taking in a long, deep breath…

Marco?

Polo.

He plunged his mouth onto you and ate you like he was still hungry, like he hadn’t had dinner, like he’d never tasted anything so good in his whole goddamn life. All of the lapping and the laving and the sucking came to a crescendo again and again. Adding a finger, he began to stretch you open. He was careful with you, too careful. 

“Kyle,” you rubbed his shaved head encouragingly, “Another, babe. Please.”

The groan that came out of his mouth sent powerful vibrations through your body. You felt him add another finger, and the delicious stretch that came from it made your core flood with wet, hot slick. 

“You’re so wet. So good,” he moaned against your lips.

“Will you… please?” You begged, not sure how to ask for what you wanted.

Kyle smiled,

“Still impatient as ever, Polo. You haven’t changed.”

You whined, begging with a twist of your hips and your body. 

“Shh, shh, baby,” he kissed your pussy again, wetting his lips on you, “Gotta open you up for me.”

You arched your back as he sucked on the tight nerves of your clit, pulling an orgasm from you as his fingers pumped inside of you, creating wet noises that filled the quiet room. Your moans and his breaths became your call and his response, and the more you rocked your hips against his jaws, the hungrier he seemed to become. Eventually, his tongue joined his fingers, feeding itself into your clenching hole as a third member, stretching you through your pleasure, readying your body for his intrusion. 

“God,” you reached down to him, searching for a hand to hold, “Oh, my God.”

He grabbed your hand tightly, holding you as you trembled against his mouth.

Finally, he was satisfied, and you were deeply pliant, dripping for him, and you felt the warmth pool inside you. You felt ready. 

He positioned himself between your legs and lay his cock along your pussy lips and up onto your belly, showing you its length. You put your hands on him, touching his hardness. Kyle whimpered, shocking you with the noise he made, steadying himself on your hips, breathing hard. 

“Are you going to put it in me?” You whispered, hearing your voice but not realizing you were saying the words. 

“Yeah, baby, I am,” he promised, “You ready?”

You nodded, watching as he placed his head at your entrance, feeling the pressure he applied as he pushed forward. The first inch or two felt wonderful, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until he sank deeper into your pussy that you started to feel the pressure he was creating with his girth. It stung, and then, there was a quick release. He slipped forward, no longer impeded, and he caught himself, aware of you and your pain.

He was gasping, trying to hold himself back,

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you pulled him into a long kiss, bending your hips to encourage him.

“Fuck, okay, okay…” he groaned, pushing into you deeper. 

He moved slowly, carefully, and with his gaze pinned to your face, watching for any signs of pain or displeasure. His hand worked your clit for you, building your pleasure as your body experienced this new, full sensation. You felt like you were using muscles within you that you’d never used before. 

Unable to hold himself together, he rested his nose and mouth in the crook of your neck, kissing you, whining for you, telling you a million sweet nothings about how good you were and how you were making him feel. You cradled his head, enjoying all of the sensations he was crafting within you, hanging on every word.  

The way that your body was taking him was painful at first, but the fullness had made up for it. You reveled in the sensation of his cock’s hardness as it parted your walls. You had an implant, and you were looking forward to feeling his come in you.

“Can you go faster?” You asked into his ear, ready for another orgasm and needing his help. 

He looked up at you like you had asked him something impossible, or at least something insane, and he furrowed his brow, cupping your chin in his palm, looking into your eyes to see if you were telling the truth. 

“I can, baby,” he kissed you, sucking your bottom lip between his, licking against your tongue like an invitation.

“Please…” you begged. 

“Mmmnghh,” he cried, forcing his hips to thrust into you with a quicker rhythm, listening to the wet slapping noises it made on your body. 

The bed creaked, and you watched as his whole body contributed to his work. His strong core and huge shoulders helped him rut into you, and you could see the red flush coating his cheeks and neck. His intensity was making you feel like you were static, like you could call down lightning to strike you at any moment.

“Kyle, oh, fuck… you’re making me come. Fuck!” You called out for him, feeling yourself tumbling over the edge from his new speed. 

“You’re making me come,” he growled, staring down at where you were joined together, his huge body tensing like he was trying to hold onto you in a torrential storm, like you would fly away from him if he didn’t hold you tight. 

You tried to hold back, but you clenched down around him, unable to help your reaction. He thrust forward once, and then once more, in a stuttering, slow fashion, and you felt his come pulse into you, hot and sticky. It was subtle, but enjoyable, and you clenched again to draw out another sigh. 

“Fuck, that was… it was perfect. Your pussy is perfect, baby. Holy shit. You held me just right. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop it,” he was mumbling, still thrusting in and out of you as he softened, trying his best to calm down. 

You ran your hands across his wide chest,

“Thank you for keeping your promise.”

“Wanna make another one?” He smiled down at you, kissing you as he slid out of your body, turning you over so he could hold you close to him.

#kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #kyle garrick x you #kyle garrick cod #kyle garrick smut #kyle garrick fanfic #gaz cod #gaz garrick #gaz mw2 #gaz call of duty

[inkykeiji]

character: jouno saigiku x fem!reader genre: smut warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, face fucking, boot humping, a lil degradation mixed with a hint of praise, dacryphilia, size kink/size difference, lots of cum words: 3.7k

He knows you’re up, the moment he steps through the flat’s threshold. 

He can hear your gentle breathing, can hear the soft rustle of lace and satin against your skin as your chest rises and falls, can hear your sock-clad toes, overlapped and wiggling, weight shifting slightly from one foot, then the other, as you wait in anticipation. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he asks aloud, not bothering to turn toward your hiding spot, attention focused on his hands as he slowly pulls a white glove from his fingers, one by one. “What are you doing up?”

“Missed you,” you mumble out through a pout, cheek pressed into the doorframe, face half hidden. 

“Yeah?” he’s asking as he tosses the first glove onto the counter and begins work on the second, his features contrasted by shadows, but you can still see the smirk on his face. “Why don’t you come give me a hug, then?” 

A sweet little squeal of affirmation sounds in your throat and then you’re off, bare feet pitter-pattering against the polished hardwood, body barreling into his chest only a second or two later, hard enough to knock a gentle chuckle from his lips, his arms catching you easily.

A deep sigh deflates his chest, his body melding into yours. His head droops, lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he rests his forehead against your skull. A thick thigh slots itself between your own, your limbs twining together; a tangle, a knot of a single entity. 

With a slow, steady, purposeful inhale, his ribs stretch against yours as he fills his lungs with your scent, breathes you in and gulps you down and holds you close to his heart, steeping his tissues in your essence, infusing his blood with you.

A beat or two passes, the two of you motionless but melting into one another, before he finally plants another kiss in your hair, arms tightening infinitesimally, squeezing you to his form. 

“Hate that you work such long hours. Love this uniform on you, though,” you murmur into his chest, nuzzling your cheek against the starched fabric of his jacket. 

A gentle laugh rumbles behind his sternum. 

“Is that so?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“How much do you love it on me?” 

“I think you know,” you say shyly, peeking up from his chest. 

He does know—he can smell it on you, can smell the arousal rapidly seeping into the silk of your panties, can feel the warmth on his thigh through the thin material, a swiftly expanding patch of slick. 

But he wants to hear you say it. 

“How much?” he repeats, slow, stern, an order. 

A stringy whine sounds in your throat and your bottom lip juts out further, chin puckering, but you obey anyway, heat staining your cheeks. 

“So much. So much it makes me wet,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, scorching prickles of humiliation rippling beneath your skin. “So much it makes my clit throb and pussy flutter,” you grind against his thigh in emphasis, legs tightening around it. “Feel it?” 

A hum of recognition vibrates on his tongue, head nodding. His cock twitches against your hip—just once, nothing more than a greeting—and you giggle, humping his leg with a little more vigour. 

“Sit down, Daddy,” you say softly, delicate fingers unfastening his cape and pushing it from his shoulders. “Let me fix you a drink.” 

“It’s late,” he says, but he goes willingly, collapsing in his favourite armchair. “You should be in bed.”

“And you work so hard,” you respond lightly, prancing over to the gold bar cart, filled with sparkling decanters and amber liquor. “Let me do this for you. Then bed, pinky promise.”

With a small resigned smile, he nods, accepting a crystal glass of scotch from you a moment later. Ice clinks against the sides as he brings it to his lips, taking a slow sip, another sigh seeping from his chest, the burn of alcohol eating away at more tension, liquifying his tired muscles.

You assume your designated position then, on the floor at his feet, between his spread knees, cheek laid against his thigh. A large hand cups your head, thumb stroking your hair in slow, rhythmic motions. 

This has become somewhat of a habit as of late. The Armed Detective Agency case has been devouring all of Jouno’s time, and it has left him with mere crumbs to give to you.

He’s just about polished off his drink when your hands begin to wander, palms smooth as they run up his strong thighs, dainty fingers digging into lean muscle as they go, his legs instinctively spreading wider. 

Your head shifts, eyes gazing up at him adoringly—he may not be able to see you, but he can feel you, your body welded to his shin as your hands work, your face nosing along his thigh, cuddling into him, desperate to be as close as physically possible.

He swears he can feel your stare, too, potent and powerful and oozing thick love as it slathers across his skin, dousing him in indescribable warmth. It saturates the air around you both, enveloping your tangled bodies in its dense embrace, permeating his flesh straight to his very soul, where it poisons him so sweetly. 

It’ll always amaze him, how someone can look at him with such reverence, such admiration, like he’s a fucking god, so strongly that he can sense it—feel it on his body, taste it on his tongue. It’s fucking intoxicating, his cock twitching again in his trousers, a rush of hot blood fizzing through his veins.

Your fingers knead aching muscles steadily, expertly, climbing a little higher with each cycle through the routine, closer and closer to the apex of his thighs but never quite reaching it. 

It’s utterly teasing, rigid flesh mollifying beneath your amorous motions as the pressures of the day leak from his pores, massaged from his body by your gracious hands, wrung from his soul bit by bit. 

It’s utterly teasing, but it’s so good, a craving for more clawing at the pit of his stomach, igniting a mild itch in his veins.

Something sounds in his throat, the ghost of a whimper—something he’s hopeless at smothering, an instinctual, uncontrollable reaction to you—and he feels your body respond, a minuscule jerk of your muscles in response, a curious little gesture imbued with a question. 

Gasping gently, your gaze slides down, watching with a sort of morbid fascination as his cock fills with life, as it strains, more and more, heavier and heavier, against his maroon trousers, yearning for your tongue, your touch. Grinding your fingers into tense tissue near his hips, you giggle a little at the way it jerks gently, begging you for attention. Another noise plays on the back of his tongue; a caution this time, not to play around too much.  

Finally, you lean forward, hands clamped around his thighs, and nuzzle into his swelling cock, rubbing your face against it like a cat with a small hum of contentment.

A fond little melody falls from his lips, nothing more than a wisp of breath—so starkly different from his usual sharp snickers, most often kept sealed behind smirking lips and reserved for those who deserve it—something private, something just for him to savour and enjoy, his palm moving to caress your head again, urging you further into his groin.

“Really do love this uniform so much,” you mumble out dreamily, muffled by the material. 

“Show me,” he breathes, just barely shifting beneath your touch. “Show Daddy.”

Fondling halted, you pull back slightly, staring down the bridge of your nose at his cock, almost as if you’re taking a moment to admire it before scattering a few well-placed kisses along the silhouette—underside, shaft, tip. It jumps beneath your lips in response, and you giggle again, snuggling back into it lovingly. 

Tongue unfurling from your mouth, you trace the bulge slow and sloppy, dragging your the slick muscle along the outline of his massive cock and leaving a damp, gleaming trail across his lap. His hips twitch ever-so-slightly, a motion you wouldn’t have noticed had you not had your entire face pressed into his crotch, and you relent, tongue grinding over the head in hard, steady strokes—back and forth, back and forth—before your mouth closes around it as best it can, suckling at the tip.

And you swear you can taste his pre-cum, dribbling from his slit and oozing through the thick material of his work pants, bitter and strong like his favourite blend of coffee. A moan slips from your lips, the sound hot and wavering against him, your lapping turned desperately vigorous, starved for another drop of him. 

You’re making a real mess now, he’s sure of it, threads of spit knitting your lips to his trousers, chin syrupy with your own drool, smudged across your mouth and jaw, a direct result of your burrowing.  

He’s getting restless now, you can tell, can feel it in the way his thighs clench, can hear it in the gentle, barely-there hitch of his breath with each firm glide of your tongue over his cockhead. And eventually, finally, he snaps, just like he always does, just like every other night before. 

“It’s not nice to get Daddy’s cock hard and then not do anything about it, baby,” he warns, amicable tone sewn together with an implicit threat. “Don’t be a little tease, now. Finish what you’ve started.”

The authority in his voice—not a statement, not a suggestion, but a demand, a direct order—sends spears of heady adrenaline shooting through your chest, body jolting, and you nod, fingers obeying immediately, instinctively. 

The heavy brass buckle of his belt jingles as you hastily unfasten it, leaving it hung undone as you shove his jacket up and pop the button of his trousers, mewling a little at the way the smooth planes of his stomach flex, tightening in anticipation.

Hooking your fingers in his waistband, you tug his pants to his ankles, Jouno lifting his hips and aiding your efforts, cock greeting you eagerly a moment later, slit drooling pearly sap. 

“Oh, gosh, Daddy,” you whimper, sounding almost on the verge of tears—you’re not, of course, he would know if you were—voice infused with sheer awe. “It’s—It’s so pretty.”

He’s sure it is, with its pretty pink tip, flushed a shade of rose, and its perfectly symmetrical shaft, straighter than Cupid’s arrow, and its delicate veins, ivied around his girth and softer than velvet.

Logically, you should already know this; you’ve certainly seen it enough times. But every time you pull it from his pants is like the first time all over again, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love your fawning, even if it is characteristic.

“I bet it looks even prettier in your mouth,” he says, and there’s a trace of melancholy in his tone, as if he genuinely regrets being unable to see it. 

You take that as your cue to get to work, wrapping a palm around the base of his cock and taking him between your lips, tongue curling almost protectively around the shaft as you suck him in. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, a palm cupped beneath your chin, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Take the whole thing down your throat, as much as you can.” 

And, really, you do try your very hardest, your very bestest, to take as much of him as possible, throat gorging on his cock.

But it still isn’t nearly enough. 

Because you’re already coughing just before you reach the halfway point, spasming around his tip as your body tries to reject him.

And, oh, that just won’t do. 

“Aw, is that all you can fit in your little mouth?” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s disappointed, though there’s a sharp smirk on his lips. “How pitiful. That’s alright, Daddy’s here to help you.” 

A large palm finds its rightful place on the crown of your head, fingers splayed across your hair and digging into your scalp as he presses down, slowly, his breath stammering with each constriction of your throat.

This is how it always starts. 

Leisurely but firm, you’re forced to take his cock inch by inch until the whole thing’s shoved down your throat, your nose pressed flush to his pubic bone—pause, hold, choke, release, repeat—enabling him to feel every single gag and gurgle his actions elicit, taking his time to savour them, to breathe in your pain and torment and let it marinate in his bones. 

Because it’s all so heavenly, isn’t it? To feel every pulse, every choke, every squeeze of distress and know that, despite it all—despite the drops of crystal streaking your cheeks (he can smell them) and the viscous snot pouring from your nose (he can feel them, dripping on his cock) and the foaming little bubbles of spit collecting in the divots of your puckered lips (he can hear them)—you’re still taking him, you’re still doing the very best you can for your Daddy, to please your Daddy.

And that dedication, that utter devotion—that’s better than anything else in the world, that’s the best. 

He continues like this, agonizingly unhurried, until your throat is grated raw by the sobs, and your jaw is aching, little muscles stiff and locked, and he can no longer tell which convulsions are from his cock and which are simply a result of your crying. 

Christ, it’s so easy to make you cry, sweet little sniffles and shredded little snivels that dribble past the seams of your lips—pretty little mouth jammed full of him—and it’s such a beautiful sound, precious noises reduced to nothing more than a gentle stuttering in your throat as they’re pushed back into your chest by the steady driving of his cock.  

Finally the pressure on the back of your head lets up, but you don’t dare raise a mere centimeter, whole body quivering as you struggle to stay right where he left you, mouth stretched wide at the base of his cock.

He ceases all action for a moment or two, forces you to hold the position, revels in the sweet sounds of anguish trembling around his cockhead, before his palms grasp your cheeks, fingers so long they nearly overlap at the back of your skull, holding your head steady.

And then, he truly begins, abrupt and without any warning, hips pumping hard and fast, fucking your mouth with a sort of ruthless vigour, a relentless voracity, the thick soles of his boots squealing against the hardwood as he uses his planted feet as leverage.

Your grip on his legs tightens with each piston, nails biting into the flexing muscles of his thighs, and he laughs breathlessly; how absolutely adorable.

And oh, it’s so messy, he can feel your stringy saliva drooling from the corners of your mouth to drizzle off your chin in fat, sticky cords, swaying and stretching with each ram of his cock. They splatter almost artfully across his bare thighs, cooling upon impact, inspiring a crop of chills to pebble across his skin.

He can feel your warm tears, too, dripping off your jaw to collect on his flesh in little puddles, can smell their potent salt—bitter and tangy and making his mouth water—as they leave crusted trails on your cheeks. Thick hunger collects in the creases beneath his tongue, a longing to lick them clean from your face, to sop his tongue full of your devout servitude and stain his tastebuds with your tartness, to swallow down any and every bit of you, let you take root in the pit of his stomach and bloom there, grow there, fester there, for eternity. 

Everything must hurt, he thinks, all your muscles coiled tense and taut, but you pry your jaw open wider for him, just like the good girl you are, desperate to take as much of him as possible, devoted to your cause.

Because no matter how much it hurts, you’re enjoying this just as much as he is.

A moan catches in his throat as the dense scent of your arousal hits him, and God, it’s so strong, you must’ve soaked right through your panties by now, must be gushing slick all over your inner thighs, coating them in your essence. 

He wishes he could taste that, too; mop it up with his tongue and saturate every inch of his mouth with you.

“You’re so wet from this, huh?” he says, question fading into a feathery breath, the only indication this is affecting him at all. “Naughty girl. Are you leaking all over our nice hardwood floor? Should Daddy make you lick it up afterward, punishment for making such a mess?”

You choke around his cock in response, and he groans, hips stuttering slightly before regaining momentum. The rubber toe of his boot nudges your thighs and they part instantly for him, allowing him space to wedge beneath your cunt. 

“My poor baby,” he spits through a mocking pout. “You must be so horny from sucking Daddy’s cock. Here,” his toe pushes up, grinding into your hole and evoking a soft yelp, “why don’t you hump Daddy’s boot while he occupies your mouth.” 

You comply immediately, hips snapping into action, rutting against his foot with a sort of greedy eagerness, ravenous for any little part of him he’ll give to you.

He can’t feel how sopping wet you are through the thick rubber of his boot, which is truly such a shame, but he can hear the embarrassing squelching of your drenched cunt as you rub it into his toe. 

It’s probably leaving such a pretty sheen of your slick across the top, a thick layer that glitters as prettily as the tears on your face must.

“There you go,” he says, sugary sweet condescension dripping from his words. “Does that feel better, baby?”

All you can do is whimper in agreement, the gentle sound sending vibrations down his shaft, and his hips jerk, belt buckle clinking together as his thrusts turn vicious, such a delicate melody contradicted by the growls and snarls he keeps swallowing back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he nearly gasps out, edges of his letters turned ragged. “Such a good little toy for me, aren’t you?” 

He hears your heart jump in your chest, fluttering at his praise, a torrent of warmth rushing through his veins in response, leaving his blood tingling. 

“You love it when Daddy uses you, don’t you, precious?”

You respond with another sloppy moan, tongue quivering around his cock, and a whine breaks in his throat, sharp and jagged. 

It’s building in his gut, a heady rapture, stomach beginning to contract as the muscles draw up into firm knots, scrunched by cresting pleasure. Shards of hedonism escape his nose in uneven little huffs, matching the relentless pace of his hips.

It all harmonizes so perfectly, the sounds shattering on his tongue and the stifled sobs shoved back down your throat and the squeak, squeal, squelch of your cunt on his boot, of his soles on the hardwood floor, of his cock fucking your mouth.

His actions have turned clumsy now, a stark contrast from his usual prim perfection, palms slippery with sweat on your jaw, grip tightening as his fingers readjust, digging bruises in the shape of his prints into your scalp.  

He’s sure they’ll be swollen tomorrow. He can’t wait to feel them.

Three more thrusts and then he’s forcing copious amounts of hot, thick cum down your throat, holding your head in place as his cock throbs on your tongue, each pulse spilling another rope of cream into your mouth. 

And, oh, it’s so much, too much, cum collecting in the divots of your cheeks and the creases beneath your tongue, but you don’t waste a fucking drop, swallowing obediently around him with every surge, making room for the next load. 

And then you don’t fucking stop, zealous in your quest to milk him for everything he’s got to give you, desperate to fill your tummy with as much of him as you possibly can, enough to sustain you until you get to see him next, at this time tomorrow night. 

You suck him fucking dry, suck every ounce of cum from his balls, suck until a bristled shudder runs through his form and a hiss is spit through his teeth, the white-hot overstimulation now too much for him to bear, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling you up.

You collapse on his thighs the moment he releases your head, weeping into his soiled skin—a mess of salt and drool and snot and cum—your ribs hiccuping with frayed breaths and harsh sobs, nails scraping weakly against his flesh in a pitiful attempt to tug yourself closer.

A coo slips from his lips, the sound both compassionate and condescending, as if he finds your tattered soul so cute; slashed yourself to pieces for him, always for him.

“Come here, darling,” his hands slip beneath your languid arms and hoist you up, dragging you into his lap and cradling you to his chest, collecting the remaining ribbons of you in his arms, strong and protective. 

“Da-Daddy!” you’re wailing into his neck, fingers curling in the collar of his stiff jacket, spit and tears staining the pristine material a chalky white. “Daddy, Daddy.”

Clinging to him, you bury your face in his shoulder, another rough sob hacking through your form, and he hugs you tighter, gentle hushes falling from his lips as they scatter kisses across the top of your head.

“I know, I know, I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “You did good, sweetheart. You did so good for me. You always do.”

Tender fingers press into your sore muscles as he rocks your bodies; a slow rhythmic swaying, back and forth, back and forth, while sweet nothings pour from his mouth, voice hot against your skin. The words are even warmer, snuggling into your flesh between soft kisses, the little hitches in your breath—residual sobs that have your chest stuttering and your nose sniffling—ironing themselves out with each brush of his lips. 

And although he loves returning home to you no matter what the circumstance, this is, and always will be, his favourite way to be greeted after a long, gruelling day.

Maybe he’ll sit here, just like this, for a little while longer. 

#jouno x reader #jouno smut #jouno x you #saigiku jouno x reader #saigiku jouno smut #jouno saigiku smut #jouno saigiku x reader #jouno saigiku x you #i can't get him out of my minddd i swear to god it's a sickness

[sourpatchys]

•Shigaraki Headcannons•

Some SFW❤️ and NSFW❤️‍🔥 headcannons for Skigaraki Tomura, this is my first time writing for this character so I hope it’s not OOC haha (though I’ve been writing for emotionally unavailable and touched starved men for years)

Warning: 18+ do NOT interact if you are a minor (this goes for all my explicit works) there will be a warning before the NSFW content starts if that’s not your cup of tea <3

Reader: this is written with a *female reader* in mind.

A/N: I know this isn’t usually who I write for, but honestly I think you all saw this coming at one point or another! I needed a way to get out of my writing funk and Shigaraki seems like the perfect candidate.

SFW❤️

Shigaraki isn’t exactly what you’d call the perfect partner.

He can be loud and demanding, he has no idea how to interact with other people, and there’s been a giant learning curve for the both of you.

If he happens to get too angry at you, or snaps at you in a way he finds himself regretting (he regrets it every single time don’t be fooled) he will immediately shower you in gifts.

While touch is his love language, he isn’t quite sure how to cuddle your problems with him away, apologizing isn’t, and never will be, something he thrives at.

So instead he looks into your search history, looking at all the things you’ve thought about buying, and just goes crazy.

Your love story isn’t as cut and dry as most. Honestly, when you met he had every intention of killing you where you stood, but he didn’t— instead choosing to keep you captive, and somehow you managed to force your way into his heart.

You do actually have your own room, though now it’s mostly used as a storage closet for all the apology gifts. If you’re really mad at him you sleep in there— and that’s when he knows he’s fucked up big time.

Though as the months go by and you learn each other limits (as he learns your limits) the bed in your room gets colder and colder.

As harsh as he can be verbally, he’s never once gotten physical. The whole reason you have an entire room to yourself is because he was too afraid to let you sleep with him. The first month of the two of you being official, you hadn’t even touched.

Eventually you had enough and put in an anonymous request with some hero costume designers, getting some specially made gloves so his pinkie would be covered without the threat of the fabric disintegrating.

He told you he’d never be caught dead wearing them.

He lied.

When he got to hold your hand for the first time, his entire nervous system shut down. He never wanted to let go.

He doesn’t wear them around the others, he’s not a fan of PDA, and if he ever feels like someone’s coming onto you he just kills them.

Out of sight out of mind.

He’s a really gentile lover, In the time you spend alone with him you’re always glued to his chest or being littered with kisses.

His favorite thing to do is to bite the tip of your nose or the shell of your ear and watch you try to pull away while you complain and pout

Even with how much love he has for you he’s still a sadist at heart.

He often has nightmares about you dying. He’s never had the chance to love someone like he loves you, and the fear of you being taken away from him is too much to bear.

So occasionally you’ll be put on house arrest so he knows you’re okay no matter what he’s doing or where he is.

If he’s out in missions while you’re at home, he always keeps his eyes open for things you might enjoy.

It started off with sea glass, some of the shards he’d find reminded him of the shine in your eyes

Other times it would be flowers

One time you complained to him about not having a pet, so he got you a moss ball

He didn’t want a stupid fish stinking up his room and he definitely didn’t want anything that could make noise

He soon learned the moss ball was a horrible idea though, because now every time he left you, he had to find some sort of material for you to make it a new hat. (You never asked him too)

The two of you don’t share the typical “I love yous” in relationships. He isn’t good at expressing any emotion that isn’t negative, and you don’t want to be over bearing when you know it’s hard for him ti say it back

Sometimes if he’s feeling really good, he’ll write the words out with the tip of his finger in the back of your hand.

And he’ll never admit it out loud, but he does it every night on your back once you fall asleep as a reminder to himself that you’re still here.

—

NSFW❤️‍🔥

Sex was complicated

Tomura was a virgin, he’d never cared enough to try before you came along, and even if he had he knew he’d just destroy whoever he tried with.

It was actually a pretty rare occurrence, your sex life was healthy, but it took awhile for him to feel safe touching you everywhere you wanted to be touched, you still felt fragile in his hands, even with the aid of the gloves you’d given him.

Though there was nothing he was against trying. No position was too bold, no act was too dangerous.

Once he found what he liked— he went all in.

His absolute favorite thing to do was pleasuring you.

He loved your harsh breaths, your whimpering.

He loved the fact that he could overpower you and gain complete control without even trying.

He would always start at your throat, nipping along the sides making sure you knew who was in charge and what he was going to do to you

He always made sure to leave a messy trail wherever he went, his tongue constantly darting out and tasting your sweet soft skin

Your breasts were his favorite, no matter how big or small, he loved leaving marks there, in a place only he ever got to see, a strong reminder that you belonged to him and him alone.

The malleable flesh always fit perfectly in his hands, he was sure they were made just for him

By the time he got down to your panties, your cunt would be pulsating and screaming to be touched

The way he would proceed would depend on how his day went

If he was pissed that day, he took time making you unwind, keeping your panties on, moving them ever so slightly to the side and blowing tiny puffs of air right where you wanted him most

He wanted you to squirm, to beg for release, dipping his tongue on every part of you but the part you craved, driving you insane with anticipation and want

He never went down on you properly when he was pissed, he never had too— he would tease and tease until the simple act of touching your inflamed clit drove you to finish

He always made sure you finished first, after all, you were his priority.

If he had a good day, he would eat you out until you saw stars

Ripping your panties down your thighs as if they were the plague, spreading you open and eating you as if you were the first meal he’d eaten in weeks

He craved the taste of you

He was almost positive the simple act of you comming in his mouth made him stronger.

If he could get over his anxiety’s of hurting you, he’d hold you down day and night, lapping you up until you couldn’t handle it anymore and begged him to stop

It was like a drug, a drug he loved to participate in.

When it came to intercourse, missionary was his favorite.

Seeing your face contort with pleasure as he fucked you senseless

The way your tits moved with his thrusts, it would be enough to drive any man mad.

He always made sure you were taken care of, weather he was rough, soft, or both, you always got the princess treatment

He would always return with a damp wash cloth, running it’s rough surface over your body, wiping away any trace of your activity

You were his prized possession, he needed to be sure you were polished to perfection— he simply didn’t trust you with that job. So he took it on himself.

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #mha shigaraki #shigaraki x you #shigaraki imagine #shigaraki headcanons #mha #bnha #tomura shiragaki #tomura x reader #tomura shigiraki x reader #tomura x y/n #tomura x you