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coincide pt. v

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series rating: r18 (explicit)

hawks (takami keigo) x reader

word count: ~4,800

[soulmate au, slowburn, UST as a plot device, avian keigo, allusion to depression, hurts hurts hurts until it doesn't anymore right?]

warning: canon-typical violence

Summary: You’ve got a talent for melodrama, huh?

.........................................................................

His sabbatical is lengthy and non-broadcast. They’d wanted him to take a respite, recuperate, maybe go sit under a waterfall. You’re not yourself, his handler told him. We need Hawks. Not whatever ghost has taken his place. It’s dangerous to keep masquerading as someone who’s heart is in it one hundred percent. That kind of half-assed heroing will get someone killed, one of these days.

They book him a room at a historical hotspring, set up an itinerary with huge swaths of time dedicated to “Rest.” He leaves the hotspring, and the country, without telling anyone.

He goes to Taiwan, to help with some underground hero work. Then France, then Egypt. Most of the jobs are espionage, kept under wraps, need-to-know basis. The rest are off the books altogether. He flies most of the way himself, just so he can pass out each night, bone-tired, and wake up in the morning with nothing but open air behind him. 

Everything hurts, the muscle strain and the altitude headaches and the canned coffee he mainlines just to keep from falling out of the sky on overnight journeys. There’s a pressure in his chest that won’t let up, a constant squeezing sensation that feels like shortness of breath, like drowning. Like all the air sucked out of the world, and Keigo, alone, fighting to stay afloat. 

Maybe he should get that checked out. 

But then, there’s no time to think about the future. He keeps his schedule tight, barely a second to blink between each mission, let alone book a session with his Commission appointed doctor. Besides, it’s pointless, anyway— 

All of it. 

He fights, draws blood, garners secret and dangerous intel. He sits down for dinner with ambassadors and heroes revered among their people. But there’s no glory to any of it, no reverence left in him. 

He imagines himself, a glassy-eyed, shiny little kid. How deeply he would have felt these accomplishments, these feats. Now all he feels is a vague sort of wistfulness. Like he’s already an old man, been through, seen it all. 

“What the fuck, Hawks,” his handler says over the phone. It’s been three weeks since he left, the first time he’s answered their calls. “You can’t just abscond without telling anyone.”

“Abscond?” he returns, with a genuine laugh. “Like I’m a thief?”

“You are an asset to the Commission,” the handler returns. “And you have responsibilities.”

“I’m on vacation,” Keigo tells him, and hangs up. 

And he tries (really, he does), to handle things in a productive way. He reads several (more than three!) listicles about top ten ways to get over a breakup, until he realizes that the two of you were never actually together. He’s not sure what to google for that. Unearned heartbreak? Severed soulmates? Miss her so much it feels like dying? But not even just the idea of her, or our apparent future, or the pretty thoughts about destiny? Miss the way she smells and the weird way she holds her chopsticks? Miss the way she laughs, and the sound of my name on her tongue? Miss her and miss her and miss her and miss her—

He tries the listicles. Does the self care thing, bubble bath, kitschy facemasks and all. 

And — he sees paramors in every country he visits. People from his past who fawn over him, praise him, adore him. They draw his jacket from his shoulders, and it smells like sweat and ozone. They find the tiny, secret clasps on the back of his uniform, unwrap him like a present.

“Pretty boy,” they call him. Coy and sweet. Hands so sure and eager as they caress his body. 

And he winces. Takes a step back. “Can we just—” he says, running a hand through his unruly hair. It’s getting too long. He’ll have to cut it soon. “Can we just talk?”

They all agree, sure, whatever he’s comfortable with. But the tension never leaves the room, no matter how long the small talk carries on for. Because he can claim fatigue or headaches or just not feeling it all he wants. But he could never admit the truth. How dirty he feels closing the door with another body in the room. How he cringes at the touch of another. How it’s— you. Always. On the back of his mind, at the base of his throat. Behind every turn and inside every decision. You.

You, you, you.

And the constant, painful reminder — 

The feeling isn’t mutual. 

...

The wedding is beautiful. 

Everything goes perfectly. The whole event looks like something off a trip-advisor page, beautiful but quaint, elegant yet intimate. The food is delicious, the cake so moist it melts in your mouth. Even the weather is sunny and mild, as if the powers that be wouldn’t even stand in the way of today. 

You wish you could give everything the attention and admiration it deserves. 

On the trip up, you imagined that maybe this would be just the thing to pull you out of your month long stupor. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it’s hard to resist the rustic charms of this place, and the inherent joy of the other guests. 

Soulmate weddings are commonplace nowadays, but no less special for their frequency. There’s an indescribable quality of felicity to them. A rightness, like everything is happening exactly as it should, like everyone is exactly where they need to be. It’s something of a comfort to guests and to the couple themselves; what’s meant to be will happen. And there’s nothing anyone can do, no force of nature that can stop it. 

You try to enjoy yourself. Try to take in the ambiance, the good company. And it’s nice, for the most part. Really, it’s a lovely day, and if it weren’t for the strange tightness in your throat, constantly, you might even have been able to enjoy it.

You throw up in the bathroom, after appetizers, while the first plates are going around. You’ve been drinking, already too much, and on an empty stomach. You have half a mind to simply tap out for the night, but you can’t leave your friend tonight of all nights. Especially not when she keeps turning to you, elated, to make some silly joke, or to sigh and squeeze your hand with a dreamy smile. 

You sneak out when the party begins to pick up pace, leaving the revelry and crawling out a backdoor, into the insipid chill of encroaching night. You find a nice little staircase alcove, planning to settle down for a few minutes, but the sudden sight of another person on the stoop takes you aback. Even more so when you realize it's the groom himself, taking a drag on a cigarette.

You’ve never officially met, until today, and even that was just pleasantries, no time to talk. You’re not sure how to approach this situation; a part of you instinctively wants to apologize, but that would just make things even more awkward.. 

He peers at you, waiting for you to say something. But you don’t, so he does. 

“My last one,” he says, holding it up in salute. “I was thirteen, when I started. Thought I was a real rebel. It turns out I was just an idiot.” He looks at the cigarette, a strangely wry smile on his face. “Could never work up the nerve to stop, but… she hates it, so I’m quitting.” 

“A nice wedding gift,” you say, gathering yourself. You come to lean against the metal railing next to him. It’s cool against your bare arms, and you relish the sensation, the shock of it enough to keep you grounded, for the moment. 

“Ah,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Not a gift. Just… wanna make her happy.”

You look at his hand, the cigarette already halfway done. It smells different than any other you’ve encountered before, oddly mild, almost floral. And it makes something inside you well up, the thought that a life could be changed so wholly, so staunchly. 

You think, how special, to have someone who breaks bad habits for you.

It’s enough to cause you to burst into tears. Before you can stop it, your whole face is wet, and your breath is coming out in hiccuping gasps. 

The groom looks on, terrified. He stubs out his cigarette on his heel before handing you, of all things, a handkerchief.

He says, timidly, “Wanna talk about it?”

It takes a few long, awkward minutes before the initial wave of misery subsides, and you can speak. 

“Fuck.” You wipe your nose, unattractively, with his handkerchief. You shake your head. “Nah. It’s your wedding. Go have fun.” 

The groom shrugs. “I’m not one for spectacle. This is for her. Later, when we’re alone and eating pizza in bed, that’s for me.”

That’s nice, you think despite yourself. It just sounds — very nice. 

“She told me,” the groom says after a minute. “About your… soulmate, thing.”

You shrug. What else could you do? There’s nothing to be said. You’ve moralized and offered platitudes your whole life. You’ve lied and said you were content. But here, at your one best friend's wedding, alone, there’s no more slack to give. You’re faced with the truth lying at your feet, like a dead bird. 

You’re alone and it’s so hard. 

“She loves you. That’s never going to change,” the groom tells you. “Even if a lot of other things do.”

You think about that for a moment. Nod. “Yeah,” you say. “I know. Thank you.”

It takes you a few more minutes to calm down, fully. You’d tell him to go back inside, but you get the odd sense that he doesn’t really care that you’re crying in front of him, that he’s not as uncomfortable as you might have expected him to be. So the two of you hover there, on the stoop in the dark, until finally, you feel centered enough to rejoin the festivities. 

You brush off your dress. You offer him a hand up. 

“I can see why she likes you,” you tell him as the two of you make your way back inside. The instant heat upon walking through the door almost makes you wince. 

“Aw, nice,” he says, grinning. “Best friend stamp of approval.”

...

Keigo’s first stop, once he’s back in Japan, is a convenience store. The second is Enji Todoroki’s temporary, secret residence. 

It’s a small house, on the outskirts of a small city. Barely any thru-traffic on the streets. Most of the population is in their later years. No one recognizes Keigo as he trawls the street, looking for the discreet entrance. It’s hidden by a wall of laced kudzu vines. 

Enji is slow to answer the door. Keigo sent a text to say to expect him soon, but who knew if the other man saw it. He hasn’t been himself lately. 

When he finally opens the door with a grunt of surprise, Keigo just holds up his plastic bag in greeting. The outline of six tall boys is prominent. 

“I haven’t had alcohol in 20 years,” Enji says, his voice without inflection. Still, he takes the bag, leaving the door open in his wake for Keigo to shuffle in after him. 

The living arrangements are spartan. Hardly any furniture, and what comforts they offer is slim. Hard, cold surfaces. No throw cushions, or blankets, or pictures on the wall, or magazines bookmarked with old receipts. No sign of life at all, save for the single pair of shoes, tossed in a careless pile at the door.

The pair sit on the floor in the middle of what is probably the living room. There’s no furniture at all, here. The tatami is worn to softness beneath them, ages old. The combination makes everything feel stark, exposed. There’s a vulnerability to an empty house, no places to hide, no way to obscure yourself. 

They drink in relative silence. Keigo arrived in the late afternoon, and the day passes into night without obstruction. No one gets up to turn on the lights when the sunset fades into ashen stars, both of them content to sit there in the dark. 

It’s easier like this, almost a waking dream. Neither of them have been sleeping well, taking care of themselves. 

It’s been a long time since Keigo has drunk, too. Soberness was his default, an expectation of the job. Heroes don’t get days off, not really. There’s always the expectation that if some disaster should occur, they will be able to rise to the occasion. That doesn’t mesh well with substance use. 

Occasionally, Keigo will have a glass, to keep up appearances. But he can’t remember the last time he felt like this, tipsy, a mellow warmth settling beneath his cheeks.

Moonrise turns everything to shadow. Like this, tall, dark, and faceless, Enji finally speaks. 

“I wish I’d done things differently,” he admits. His voice is no longer booming, and proud. It’s quieter than Keigo has ever heard it. “I wish I could have seen that more than honor or strength, what they needed was… kindness.”

“It’s not too late,” Keigo says, but the words are empty. How would he know? He’s never had to consider these things before. Never had terrible, all-consuming regrets before. 

“In some ways,” Enji says. “Society would have you believe that amends are as simple as an apology,” he says. “But I will be paying for my mistakes for the rest of my life. And it still won’t fix everything. Some things are broken forever.” 

“That’s convenient for you, too,” Keigo says. He peers at Enji, eyes bright, intent. “In some ways.”

Enji peers back at him, expressionless.

“Now they’re tied to you forever, like you said,” Keigo explains. “You can’t fix things, but you can keep them.”

“That’s not my decision to make.”

Keigo’s response is quick, brusque. “Isn’t it?” 

He realizes he’s leaning forward, too tense, too defensive. This isn’t about what it’s about anymore. It’s not about anything, really. He sinks back into a relaxed posture, reestablishing his practiced nonchalance. He takes another sip of beer. His hand is trembling.

“No,” Enji says, simply. “It’s not.”

The pair fall back into silence. Enough has been said, for one night. 

...

Kirishima sends you home. 

It’s the last thing you’d expect, after taking several days off for the wedding. You come in early, ready to elbow through a backlog of work, only to find the floor already bustling with a small crowd of unfamiliar faces.

It’s about eight people, total. Some of them are heroes. You can tell from the way they’re dressed, the way they hold themselves. Kirishima is in the middle of them, more dour than you’ve ever seen him. 

He comes to you, when he spots you, skirting his way around the visitors to meet you at the door. 

“Ah.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing back at the group he left behind. “Why don’t you head home for today? This is all kind of, uh. Not safe for you.” 

“Should I be…” you try to glance around him, get an appraisal of the situation, but he’s such a mountain of a man that he takes up nearly your entire field of vision. “Like, worried?”

“No,” Kirishima is quick to say. “No, everything is going to be fine. But this isn’t quite your area of expertise, and I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire.”

He’s taken on his hero mien, shoulders back, a little more tense than usual. His tone is kind, but unmoveable. Leaves no room for arguments, or questions.

“Okay,” you say slowly, still a little unsure about all of this. “But you’ll let me know if you need help, right?”

Kirishima smiles at you, but not in a condescending, what would a small-fry like you be able to do, way, like any other hero might. His affection is so stalwart and genuine, his friendship so gentle. It only makes you worry all the more, for anytime that the goodness of Kirishima Eijiro might be at risk, that humanity might be deprived of him, for any moment, in any way. 

He holds out a fist, and you knock knuckles, shakily. “Promise,” he says. 

Then he pats you on the back, subtly steering you back to the elevator, away from whatever catastrophe he now has to face, alone. 

You have a vague idea of what all this might be about, but who knows what might have changed in the three days you’ve been away. The hero world moves at a breakneck pace, and it seems like you’ve fallen out of the loop. 

You think about the classified documents you’ve sorted through, the cases piled up on your harddrive. You’ve seen enough of past villainy to know that it’s not all stars and stripes and showing up at exactly the right moment. There’s a lot of accidents. A lot of almost made it, so close. Sometimes, the heroes just aren’t fast enough. Sometimes they make mistakes. 

It’s a job that risks more than one life. A burden on all fronts. If a hero dies, odds are many other lives get taken down with them. It’s why Kirishima wants you kept away from whatever is going on. The big bold word of the hour — casualty. Someone adjacently related to the incident, an unnecessary death. You’re not strong enough to protect yourself, not the way you’d need to, to exist in the same space as the heroes. Not enough to protect someone else.

Everything feels strange and uneasy. Like you’re teetering on the knife point of something huge. But you can’t fit all the puzzle pieces together, no matter how long you mull it over. It’s been like this for so long, you can’t trace back the origin of this foreboding feeling. Maybe you’ve always felt this way. You try to recall a time you’ve felt completely at ease, comfortable in your own skin, but you come up short, unable to pinpoint a moment, unable to figure out why not. 

You spend the rest of your day in PJs on the couch, eating icecream straight from the tub, fretting and fretting. Wondering when the anchorpoint of your life became fear. 

...

His next stop is the Commission HQ. 

No matter that he hasn’t slept in forty-nine hours. The Commission has already figured out that Keigo is in-country, and there’s work to be done. 

Firstly, he’s reprimanded. Loudly, and for a solid fifteen minutes. 

This is interrupted by a handler conspicuously walking right between him and the higher ups, and dragging him bodily out of the room. Keigo allows himself to be hauled away, waving as he goes. 

He’s asked to report on a number of missions he underwent while he was away. Provide details, recall key facts. He took diligent notes, but a lot of things require his own explanation, or follow up information. This takes up almost the entire day. Suddenly he regrets keeping so busy, over the past few weeks. 

It’s already late, late into the evening by the time he sets foot in his own agency. Things are quiet. There’s not much work to be done when Keigo himself is not around, so it’s unsurprising that most of the night workers have taken off. 

It’s nice to have a little privacy, even with another handler tailing him as he takes stock of the building. Nothing much has changed. Even his office is spotless. For some reason, he’d expected dust to have gathered in his absence, but of course the cleaning people would never let that happen. 

It’s almost like he hadn’t left, at all.

Exhausted, he intends to make one final stop at his locker before heading home. He just needs to grab another flight suit, dump his dirty ones in the hamper, to be cleaned. 

He’s still carrying around the bag he traveled with. He hadn’t taken much; his mode of transport doesn’t allow for heavy packing. He took the essentials, a few toiletries, a few flight suits, one spare change of civilian clothes. He dumps all of it in the bottom of his locker, to be sorted through when his bones feel less likely to melt out of his body altogether. 

He took one personal effect, and it stares at him from the top of the pile. The sweater he’d nabbed from your place. On nights he did sleep, he slept with it. Wrapped around him, or bunched up in his arms. It’s no longer soft, handled so much that the fibers had been worn to crimped bone. It had stopped smelling like you after the first week or so. Even with his heightened senses, eventually all traces of you were lost, the altitude and his own body overwhelming your scent. 

It was pointless to hold onto. It didn’t stave off the cravings, only made him remember all the times he had actually touched you, your skin, your hair. Felt your breath, or heard your voice. Dead weight, unnecessary baggage for his long trips. Still, he couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how many times he told himself he would leave it at whatever hotel he ended up in that night. Some mornings he would slip it on, pull it tight around himself, until he felt the constriction, until he thought the threads might snap under his grip. But the craftsmanship of it was impeccable, and it survived his rough treatment, and he would spend those mornings with the not-quite comfortable fabric wrapped around him, watching the sun rise miserably.

He shuts the locker door. Maybe this will be the end of it, now.  

He sends the handler home, assuring him that he’d be up and at ‘em at the crack of dawn tomorrow. The handler doesn’t look especially reassured, but there’s nothing to be done now, and he’s ready to call it quits himself.

Alone on the office floor, finally, Keigo takes a moment to just breathe. He closes his eyes for a moment. Tries to shut out all thoughts. They’d taught him to meditate as a child. He’d alway thought it a pointless endeavor, but now he kind of wishes he’d paid better attention, that he could simply will away his mind like turning off a light.

He barely has a minute to try. Someone clears their throat, asking for his attention. 

He turns to them with a smile. “What’s up?”

He recognizes the young man. A PA, hired a few years back. 

“Intel for you, Sir,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to wait until tomorrow to take a look.”

Keigo motions for the file in his hands, flipping through it as soon as he has it. No sense putting things off.

The PA explains, “The task force has discovered a list of addresses. Around half of them are the residence of record for established heroes. Another handful are homes that heroes have kept off the books. The one connection they all seem to have is that they are currently occupied by at least one civilian, as well.”

Keigo nods, peering at the list. 

The PA says, “Right now we’re operating under the assumption that these are a list of targets.” 

Keigo had assumed. With the momentum gained from Rei’s attack it would figure that the villain would keep going. Attention tends to spur on bigger and more intense feats.  

“Who else knows about this?” Keigo asks. 

“Only heroes assigned to the task-force, sir.” 

“No one from the Commission?” 

“The intel came to us from Deku’s agency,” he returns. “The Commission will receive the information as soon as Deku has convened with his people.” 

Keigo nods again, then returns his attention to the page. The first step would be to mobilize the people at these residencies, but how to do that without alerting the culprit would take some creative problem solving. The page is nearly full, numbers reaching toward the margins.

Still, despite the massive amount of work to come, this is a step in the right direction. 

He’s about to hand the file back to the handler and pay a visit to Deku’s agency himself when something catches his eye— 

Your building address, and next to it your unit number. You. 

He’s out the door and in the air in ten seconds, flat. 

...

The last thing you expect is to see on your impromptu day off is your door literally being cracked at the hinges.

The second to last thing is the man you haven’t heard from in weeks, pushing past you, stalking straight inside like he owns the place.

He looks… not great. He’s definitely lost some weight. There are horrible, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is a little longer than he prefers. He smells like how he always smells after taking double patrols, like sweat, and the city, and the sky. 

Has he been taking care of himself? Has anyone been looking after him?

“Get what you need,” he calls. “We’re leaving.”

He starts grabbing things himself. Your cardigan. The book you’re reading. Your sturdiest pair of shoes. His arms are full by the time you can work up the nerve to respond. Even then it sounds like more of a squeak. 

“Keigo?” 

He glances at you. He’s breathing hard. “Why aren’t you packing?”

“Because,” you sputter, “what the hell?” 

You reach for him. Then pull away. You take a step back, but you’re too unsteady on your feet to do anymore than that. Your legs might just give out, anyway. 

You’re reeling from his appearance, not able to make sense of any of it. Maybe you’re dreaming. But —

He’s standing right in front of you, the brightest thing in the room. If he were a little closer, you could feel his warmth. 

It’s been so long since you’ve seen him, it feels like you should have forgotten what he looks like. But it’s just the same as always, him in your space. Feels so right, even when everything is all turned around like this. Recognition, in its basest form.

He leans in toward you. Opens his mouth, about to say something. From this angle, oddly, he looks like he might be about to bite you, the subtlest hint of teeth, his breath still leaving him in heavy drags. Like a predator, all keyed up and ready. 

Like if you run, he’ll chase. 

You can hardly get the words out. “What’s happening?”

An expression crosses his features, a flash of emotion that’s gone in an instant. A tick of remorse, disconsolate. Then he’s back to his unshakeable, placid smoothness. 

“You’re not safe here,” he says. It’s a tone he’s never taken with you before. Stern, cool. 

You have a hundred more questions, but they’re like little dragon flies, flitting around your skull. You keep grasping for them, but missing. You can’t figure out what to say. You can’t figure out what’s happening. 

Then —

You taste it, before anything. A metallic twinge to the air, like an ink blot of blood, coins on your tongue. 

Suddenly, your center of balance is off. You’re falling, bracing, falling. But not falling, because Keigo has you in his arms, hauling you, painfully, in some direction. 

A noise you can feel in your bones, that makes you think your teeth might fall out from the force of it.

You’re airborne. You think you might vomit. The night is whip-cold but also brutally, violently hot. 

—Falling. Again. For real, this time. 

You feel the soft brush of grass. He’s pressing you into it. He’s shifting you on top of it, rolling you.

“Are we on fire?” you gasp.

“Not anymore,” he returns.

His hands are all over you, bracing, touching, searching. Your skin is oddly numb. You can’t quite tell which way is up, anymore. You can barely hear anything, the whole world muffled, static. 

Somewhere, in the dark you catch a glimpse of molten light, and the sluggish neurons of your brain struggle to the conclusion that your home used to be there. Everything that’s yours used to be there. Now lit up, glowing like a midnight sunrise. Blinding you. But you can’t look away. 

Keigo’s on you again. All around you. He has a better grip on you, now. Not painful anymore. 

Two flaps and you’re airborne again, clutching to him with all your meager strength. Being clutched in return.

The heat from the flames follows you up, licks into the sky, and you think you must still be burning, you have to be. 

But Keigo has a hold of you, so tight and visceral it swallows all your thoughts, all your fear, and eventually you make it far enough that the ash is distant, and the night swaddles you like a cool blanket. 

“You’re okay,” Keigo is whispering, lips against your crown, your temple. “I got you. I’m sorry. You’re okay.”

Distantly, you realize he’s been saying it this entire time. 

first law of motion

gojo satoru x reader

r18

word count: 9,500

[soulmate identifying marks, canon divergence, reader is not a sorcerer, alcohol mention, shogi as a plot fixture, gojo is forced to reckon with his humanness, and everyone else’s for that matter, gojo goes from indifference to absolute obsession, and he discovers a need to take care of his lover on the way, reader is kind of a hot mess tbqh]

Things are bound to get a little messy when your soulmate is Satoru Gojo.

It’s a summer weekend, and Tokyo is swollen with August heat and tourists. Bodies brushing against bodies, skin gummy and damp. A lot is happening, and a part of him wants to tune it all out. He gets the instinctive urge to shield his eyes, even though they’re already covered.

There’s some convention going on, he doesn’t keep up to date on that kind of thing. All he knows is the swelter and the quiet unrest that comes with it.

Crime increases during heat waves; so do curse attacks. He’s been sent to deal with some disaster, well below his pay grade. It didn’t even cross his mind to reject the request. The last few months have clouded his sense of purpose. The near misses and injuries, watching people under his protection be battered and brutalized—

He can do this, so he does. He can do anything. So he does.

Keep reading

what the fuck is a snapchat talking stage i want you to tell me you're not a religious person but that you think god made me for you

⇢ pairing: izuku midoriya x fem!reader

⇢ rating: e, 18+

⇢ word count: 12,862 [ao3]

⇢ tags: a/b/o, soft alpha deku, knotting, aged up characters

⇢ summary: Pro Hero Deku is a frequent visitor at your support lab and you’re grateful for it. He’s one of your high profile clients and his quirk is strong enough that he has to come for suit repairs near twice a month. It helps that he’s one of the most bearable alphas you’ve ever met, affable and kind, and he never judges you for being a rare omega in the hero line of work. It also helps that he’s painfully, absurdly hot.

You’re perhaps never more grateful for his nature than when the building housing your lab collapses with the two of you in it, and as the walls and floors of your lab crumble, so does the suppressor device that keeps your heats in check and your hormones under control. As the dust settles, you realize you are trapped by rubble and dust and twisted metal with perhaps the only alpha alive that you trust, as your adrenaline surges and your carefully suppressed heat cycle comes roaring to life.

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what the fuck i love this so much … i am crying at 2am this is so serious.. i love how its written oh god this made me feel things oh thank you so much for this

Nesting Instinct

hawks (takami keigo) x reader

r18

word count: 5,000

You broke up. Neither of you seem to have realized that yet.

[[avian keigo, bird traits, heat/rut, pinch of angst, lovers to…..lovers? ;) ]]

warnings: alcohol mention, mention of assault, explicit content

…………………………………………………………………

He ends up at yours. Drunk and lurching, fumbling with the spare key he never gave back (you never asked for it). After listening to him paw at the door for a solid minute you give in and open it up.

His smile is languid, divine. “Hey there.”

Keep reading

the amount of times i held my breath aaaa too good its too good

Lap cat

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, hybrid au (half animal half human), cat hybrid aizawa, NOT A/B/O, transformations (shifting between cat and human), brief look into the politics of hybrids (we like autonomy in this house folks, but I'll say dubcon just in case), animal characteristics (behavioural and physical), fluff and smut, voyeurism, male masturbation, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, roommates(?) to lovers, brief mentions of child abuse (reader is a child therapist)

wc: 7.8k

“You’re nervous”.

The restless bounce of your knee comes to a standstill as you turn to Hizashi with a withered glare and a sarcastic comment ready on your tongue. You breathe through it deeply, picturing the expansion of your lungs, ballooning and pushing out the anxiety in your chest. 

After two weeks of ruminating, plus an additional week of preparation, you were finally taking your adopted hybrid home. 

You’d first happened upon a picture of him whilst donating some old clothes to the hybrid centre. It had been pinned to the board in the reception area, hung above it was a plaque that read ‘our grumpiest resident’. He looked big, upper lip pulled into a scowl and a faint scar along his cheek where no hair had grown back. At first glance he was easily mistaken as a typical feline, but the disarming humanity reflected in his eyes had given you pause. 

Shouta. A Norwegian forest cat hybrid. Below it was a bullet-pointed checklist showing that he was actively looking for adoption and held the ability to shift, the final line stating that he was adept at communicating with human speech. 

Hybrids that could fully shift were incredibly rare. Their origins dated back thousands of years, and extensive research had uncovered a very clear spectrum that each individual hybrid sat on. Some appeared completely human, any trace of their animal characteristics diluted through time and they were typically unable to shift at all. Some only carried behavioural traits. Others were clearly — visibly — a hybrid. Non-human ears, tails and fangs, claws and talons. But a complete transformation was still highly uncommon, even in those cases. 

Given the statistics, people often came across animals not knowing they were hybrids at all. The realisation had been slow for you, too, only truly clicking in your mind when your gaze fell upon the short bio beneath his picture. 

He’d piqued your interest, and after asking the receptionist if she knew anything more about him, she’d smiled tightly as if the topic made her uncomfortable. “Shouta has been here for six years. He’s our longest resident,” was her answer.

At its core, the centre was largely a refuge for hybrids.  A majority of them lived independently and didn’t want to be someone’s house pet. You too felt that adopting them was an outdated practice — they weren’t actually animals. But they were legally deemed as such, consequently being unable to live alone, rent or even find employment. 

However there were still hybrids that would advertise when seeking a family, and Shouta clearly wanted out of there. Six years was a long time to wait. 

“If you have it, I’d like his full profile”. 

Aizawa Shouta, long haired and bushy tailed. It stated he had no history of violence or aggression, though he was prone to scratching if startled, and carried a mild temperament. Whoever had written the biography clearly knew and loved him, detailing about the cat's odd dry sense of humour and general pickiness. He was good with children and other hybrids but preferred his own space, was not one to damage property when bored or frustrated, and experienced short bouts of heat throughout the months of September to March which had placated with age. 

Speaking of age — Shouta was thirty years old. 

The receptionist, Kayama you recall, had once again grimaced while you’d read through that section of the file, as if she were bracing herself for something, relaxing only when you’d turned the page. 

After your donated clothes had been taken, the large bag long waiting rumpled at your feet, you’d left empty handed. Shouta weighed heavily on your mind, and your heart, for the entirety of the month that followed. 

So now you were back. Just as you remembered, everything about the room felt impersonal, almost clinical. You find the colour white wherever you look, from the floor to the ceilings, cool air blowing in from the vents even after the summer had been long gone. 

Hizashi, a close friend and occasional volunteer at the centre, had kindly helped you through the process. It was thanks to him that not only was your paperwork fast tracked, but your home had been completely approved by an inspector. Now there was a spare room in your apartment, ready and awaiting its new occupant, stocked with various necessities for both a human and a cat. 

You’d been forewarned that Shouta didn’t like shifting into his human form, not anymore. There was a sense of safety, and solace, in being a simple cat. You were honest enough to admit that you’d longed for such an ability yourself – exhausted in the middle of your work day, wishing you could be reborn as an animal without responsibility. 

But that wasn’t the only reason. According to staff, Shouta’s age had been his biggest enemy when it came to adoption, which explained Kayama’s previous apprehension of you. People and families alike; they wanted young hybrids. The younger the better, especially if it meant having someone for their children to grow up with. Shouta however, was a fully grown adult man, and apparently an intimidating one at that. 

So you understood his refusal. He was used to disappointment, and no longer trusted those who approached him with interest. But you sought to prove him wrong. Whether he lived out his days as a regular house cat, or eventually decided to live alongside you in human form, you didn’t care.

You just wanted him to have a home. 

“You’ll be fine, you do know that, right?” Hizashi’s voice cuts through your line of thought, gently bumping his shoulder against your own in comfort, “you’ve prepared well for this. Trust yourself”. 

“It isn’t as easy as that,” you murmur, wringing your hands together tightly in your lap, nails harsh where they sink into sink, “adopting a normal cat is a big commitment. This is a person we’re talking about–”

“–and that’s why you’re going to be good for him,” he interrupts gently, “you see him as a human being, you care about his happiness and his autonomy. It’s literally your job to understand people. Those intentions will shine through”. 

You hum in acknowledgement, accepting that arguing with him would be fruitless. It’s in that moment that a staff member rounds the corner into the foyer, upper body turned slightly to look back down the corridor he had just emerged from. 

“Come on Shouta,” he pleads, clearly exasperated. After a few tense moments, felt with bated breath, the cat hybrid follows the handler out into the open. His appearance startles you to your feet, a twisted mass of excitement and nerves swelling in your throat. 

Shouta regards you thoughtfully from behind the man's legs as you approach, the distrust plainly reflected in his glare, lowered tail flitting back and forth. He’s much bigger in person, you think, and not just because of his voluminous coat. 

Shouta cocks his head as if to ask ‘well, what’re you here for?’ and while you hadn’t necessarily hoped it’d be the case, it's obvious that he is not going to take his human form for this conversation. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Shouta. If it’s alright I’d like to take you home with me today”.  

His ear twitches at the mention of his name, pupils thin and suspicious as he slowly appraises you. The irony of now wanting to be chosen by him doesn’t escape you, not after all his years of being overlooked. 

“I’m happy for you to stay in whatever form is most comfortable, I won’t mind. I work every day and can sometimes be sent out on house calls but—” your eyes flicker to the handler as you lower yourself to the ground, searching for some semblance of encouragement, before turning back to the feline “—you’ll have space for yourself and the freedom to do as you like, I’m not too fussy as long as everything stays clean”. 

You stumbled over the words, but all you can hope is that your sincerity reaches him. The silence is… contemplative. Not awkward, but tense in an anticipatory way. Shouta’s pupils begin to dilate as they glance over to Hizashi and then to the automatic sliding doors, taking up the entirety of his eye with what you assume is alarm. 

You rise to stand with a stiff nod, accepting his caution with a smile pulling tight against your cheeks. It’s then that you feel something rub along the back of your calves. The handler makes a small sound of surprise when Shouta curls himself around your legs, tail circling loosely around your ankle as he peers up at you expectantly. 

“Is that… a yes?” you ask. He softly butts his head into your shin.

It’s a yes.

Relief can be just as overwhelming as fear, you find. It washes through you, almost thrown off balance by the sudden weightlessness in your chest. Shouta follows obediently by your feet, refusing both your own offer to hold him and the carrier that Hizashi suggested with an indignant scowl, much like the one photographed for the public pinboard. 

As much as a cat could look indignant, atleast. 

Hizashi had been the one to drive you that morning, and you silently sent thanks to your past self for the forethought. Shouta appears to be much more at ease with you sitting beside him in the backseat, curled into himself atop a soft blanket that you’d laid out with him in mind. 

The journey home is agonisingly long, most of which can be attributed to Hizashi’s insistence on taking it slow, as not to startle Shouta. The cat himself remains unperturbed, eyes only opening to wordlessly glare about the vehicle’s back and forth rock over a speed bump. Despite the disinterest, you continue to tell him about all the things you’d set up for him at home. You reassure him of his own space and of the food you’d bought for him to choose from, looking in his direction every so often only to find him in the same position, breathing gently. 

To your pleasant surprise, Shouta settles into your home far quicker than expected. While most cat hybrids were notorious for their cautiousness, oftentimes taking a few weeks to truly feel safe in a new home, yours immediately claimed his spot on the sofa and didn’t move for hours as he slept. 

You weren’t sure when, or if, he would shift back. So you pulled an old word card deck from your desk that you would use with non-verbal children to give him the chance to properly communicate. With some old tape found tucked away in your kitchen drawer of trinkets,  you stuck them up along the wall of the living room. He’d purred into your hand for the first time that evening as you mulled over his profile once more. 

It was fairly common knowledge that people preferred their hybrids to be cute, small and playful, and according to what the file detailed about Shouta he did not fit the bill. It was unfortunate but unsurprising to you that he had been in the centre for so long.

You curl your finger behind his ear, an endeared smile on your lips. He’s fine just as he is, you think. 

Your persistence and willingness to adapt to his animal form must’ve broken the ice, evident in the slow reveal of his personality to you as time moved on. During the first month you find that he’s far more affectionate than anticipated, opting to spend most of his time tucked under your arm while you are home. He’s undeniably fond of butting the soft parts of your body for attention and adamant about his disdain for cat toys, even after being caught playing with them. 

More notably, though he had a room of his own you’d often wake up in the middle of the night to the slight dip of your mattress, Shouta shaping himself into the space between your legs. 

It was becoming harder and harder for you to remember that he was not just a cat. 

You quietly let yourself into the threshold of your home, dropping your keys into the decorative bowl kept on the shelf above the shoe rack. As you bend down to pull off your shoes, finger hooked into the back of the heel, your breath stills at the unmistakable groan reverberating throughout the apartment.

Your instinctive reaction to the sound is fear and alarm, and with hesitance you slowly peek around the corner of the entryway, a clear view into the open living room. Arousal twists shamefully in your stomach, the sounds around you becoming much sharper as your ears hone in on the wet slap of skin. 

Your mind blanks. Shouta is lounging back into the couch cushions in his human form, head tipped over the arm of the sofa, pointed ears peeking from beneath his long unkempt hair. You had bought him clothes not long after bringing him home and while you’d never seen him in them, the discarded shirt is undoubtedly one you purchased, loose pants pushed haphazardly down to the middle of his thighs with a hand fisted tightly around his cock. 

Just this morning he had been kneading your breasts happily, and with the stark reminder that he was indeed an adult man, the act no longer seemed as innocent as you thought. 

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You tell yourself you’re being careful because you don’t want to startle him, that it’s innocent curiosity at seeing him for the first time, ignoring the familiar pulse between your own thighs. His chest rises with each breath, eyes squeezed shut with dark brows drawn together and his back arching as he presses his hips up. He looks frustrated, pink blotches scattered across his cheeks and chest, his cock painfully red. 

He’s handsome. Rugged. Certainly not the cute-sy kitten type you would associate with a hybrid, he’s built and tall and—

You bite the inside of your cheek roughly when he groans, drawn out and rough in his throat, as he cums over his stomach. Shakily and lacking in grace you stumble back around the corner and into the front door, leaning your forehead against the cool wood. 

Your thoughts are delayed, disjointed, and distantly you recall the research you’d done on male cat hybrid sexual aggression. It was natural, nothing more. He deserved that privacy. Exhaling heavily you wrap your hand around the door handle, opening it with an obvious click and shutting it again to give the illusion that you had just arrived home. The image of his trembling thighs flits across the forefront of your mind and you shoo it away hastily with guilt. 

“I’m home,” you call out, wincing at the quiver in your voice, giving him time to collect himself. When you step out from the entryway he’s gone and so are the clothes. A plaintive yowl sounds from the hallway leading to your bedrooms, and Shouta rounds the corner in his cat form, his gaze sharp and inquisitive as he approaches you. 

He couldn’t have known, you tell yourself, your smile tight and forced. He blinks and watches you disappear into the bathroom for a decidedly cold shower. 

Nerves alight beneath the sharp spray, you recall all the firm kisses to the top of his head, the press of your nose to his own, the way you’d cradled him in your arms. Embarrassment flushes through you, a stark contrast to the water nipping at your shoulders. 

He couldn’t have known.

Much to your relief, the days that follow show no sign of changing. You’d built a routine together unknowingly, and it had stuck. You did sometimes find men's clothes in your laundry that Shouta had clearly worn around the house in your absence, proof that he was starting to become comfortable shifting back, but you never saw him do so again. 

The image of his broad, heaving chest flits through your mind, and you press your thumbs into your eyes in an attempt to mentally push it back. You had bigger things to worry about than your attractive roommate. 

The glass of wine in your hand feels much heavier than usual as your eyes read over the file before you, absorbing absolutely none of it, only cataloguing the images of the small girl that had been pulled from her abusive home. She was covered in bandages from head to toe, traumatised and timid, unable to even look at the camera lense. 

Shouta slips under your arms with ease, a persistent and welcome habit of his, settling into the narrow space at the centre of your crossed legs. A few moments pass, and when you don’t immediately tend to him he pushes his nose into the underside of your jaw to garner your attention. 

“What is it?” you mumble, meeting his gaze and seeing the question behind his eyes. He sits back on his haunches and reaches a large black paw out to touch one of the more graphic pictures the hospital had taken for the little girl's casefile. 

You recall then that Shouta was supposedly good with children, and that he had been favoured by a number of young hybrids at the centre during his time there. It was entirely possible that he was worried for her. 

“I suppose I never did tell you what I do for a living, did I?” you say, more to yourself than to him. Most conversation with Shouta was undoubtedly one sided, and usually consisted of you rambling nonsense while he pretended to listen. 

“I’m a licensed child therapist. And her name is Eri,” you tell him, your index finger joining his paw above the photo, feeling a touch sober after having read the details even with the wine in your system. 

“I’m meeting with her for the first time tomorrow for an evaluation,” you explain, “let's just hope I can help her”. Somewhere behind his eyes something changes, shadowed with emotion and sombre. He presses the weight of his body against your chest and deepens his purrs, the vibration passing through your body and grounding you.

You hum thoughtfully, almost as if you were purring yourself. “You’d make a good therapy companion,” you muse, scratching the sweet spot behind his ear in thanks. You feel the small curve of his jaw against your collar as he peers up at you with interest. 

“You like the sound of that?”

He exhales heavily, exasperated, like the answer should be obvious. It doesn’t hold the same effect as it might if he were a man, only creating a mildly aggressive buzz beneath your skin that gave you the urge to squeeze him tightly. 

Eventually you head to bed, roommate close by your ankles and weaving between your feet, tail lifting to hook around your left calf as he did most nights. Throughout the first two weeks Shouta would still always attempt to sleep in his own room, or at least he pretended to, before joining you on your mattress. 

Now he was happy to be more blatant about it, and his company had quickly become of great comfort to you. 

It was all you could look forward to as you arrived home from work the following day. As if the atmosphere picked up on your inner turmoil, the heavens opened and it poured with rain, harsh droplets spitting against the car windows. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting in your parking space, breathing stuttered and cheeks wet, you caught sight of yourself in the rear-view mirror. Withered, you think. 

Eri was a sweet little girl, but in all the wrong ways. Considerate, only for fear she would unknowingly do something wrong. Polite and quiet, but only so she did not say anything that would upset you. She recounted the horrors she’d had to endure as if it were entirely justified, promising to take responsibility for her guardians actions, because it had been her fault for misbehaving. 

You had worked with many children like her, and you’d had to attend numerous court hearings, but this one in particular had struck a chord with you. Keeping your expression warm and empathetic had taken an exhausting amount of effort. 

You blink away another swell of tears, grimacing at the soreness in your eyes and the sting in your sinuses. The thrum of the rain grows louder as you open the car door, keys in one hand, the other already dampening under the spray. With a deep inhale, you step out into the storm and prepare to run. 

By the time you reach the apartment you’re already forty minutes late and sodden. A spark of anger flickers in your chest at the way your clothing clings uncomfortably to your skin, but it is soon smothered as you step into the entryway. You’re immediately swaddled by a welcoming warmth and the familiar smell of laundry detergent, shoes squeaking awkwardly as you toe them off into the corner. 

It's too quiet.

“Shouta?” 

You call out to him, worried that you might interrupt another private moment, and it echoes throughout the hallway. Odd. You’re drawn further into the apartment as you hear a dull thud from the bathroom, calling out to him again cautiously. Your eyes fall upon a clumsily folded pile of clothes atop your dining table, recently washed and dried. 

“Where have you been?”

A low, rough voice cuts through the quiet and startles you, hastily turning on your feet and hand reaching for anything nearby that might serve as a weapon. 

A man emerges from the doorway to your bathroom. He’s tall, draped in shadows, and it isn’t until he steps forward into the light of the living room that you realise it’s him. 

It’s Shouta, in his human form, betrayed only by the pointed ears atop his head. Willingly human. His movements are hesitant, eyes curtained by his hair and hastily flickering back and forth across your expression in search of something. Anger, maybe. Or discomfort. 

Your lips part to answer him, to say anything, but the words don’t come. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, of course not,” you wince as you trip over the words, unconvincing even in your own mind. He hums like he doesn’t believe you, an attractive glimmer of amusement in his eyes, the sleeves on his loose black shirt rolled up into the crook of his arms. 

“It was just… unexpected. I’m surprised, and a little embarrassed, but not uncomfortable!”

“Embarrassed?” he gently interrupts, head cocking slightly to the side in question, the length of his hair curving with the tilt. The gesture is one you’d seen many times before, so endearing and cat-like that you feel yourself fighting a smile. 

“Of course it’s embarrassing, Shouta. All those times I would carry you around like a baby, rub my nose against you and—”

“—blink really slowly as if it’s supposed to mean anything to me,” he snorted lightly, ears twitching, “it was cute”. 

Something akin to giddiness settles under your skin, and you feel your fingers curl into fists to stave off the restlessness. Part of you wants to bounce on the balls of your feet, soaking up the small fond smile that pulls at his lips. You’re reminded again of how awfully handsome he is, memories of his bare chest and stuttering hips flashing unbidden through your mind. 

You ached to reach for him. But there were too many unknown outcomes to that, many of which you didn’t want to deal with. Even with the knowledge that he was still your cat, touching him so affectionately would mean something more now that he was a man. 

“Thank you,” you tell him as you lower your head minutely, words a little thick with emotion, “for trusting me with this”.

Broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, Shouta tucks his chin towards his navel as he awkwardly shifts the weight between his legs. “You were late. I thought something might’ve happened,” he says. 

He’d been worried about you. 

“I’m sorry, Shouta. I was…” you pause to inhale deeply, eyelids gently falling shut for a moment, opening as you continue to speak, “I needed some time to collect myself, is all. I should’ve been more considerate of you”. 

The silence that follows is thoughtful, comforting. Shouta finally approaches you, expression softened and cat-like pupils thinning under the light of the living room. The soft hair on your arms stand on end, the dipole between your bodies strengthening the closer he gets, a weightless sensation washing through your stomach. 

“I prepared a bath for you,” he murmurs, averting his gaze behind the safety of his hair, “I know you like them when you’re stressed. I pulled the cover across so it should still be warm”. 

Your lips part in surprise, remembering the freshly washed clothes folded atop the counter, and how the apartment had smelt strongly of your lavender bath salt. 

“And the laundry?”

He nods shortly, a little unsettled by the focus on his thoughtful actions, and so rather than lingering you move around him to enter the bathroom. 

“Thank you, Shouta. I’ll be sure to enjoy it,” you smile genuinely, softened like wax over a flame. He had brought far more warmth to your life than you initially expected, and you couldn’t be more grateful.

The tiles are cool beneath your feet even as you are slightly quivering from the rain, steam from the heated water clouding the mirrors, yet Shouta’s presence is far hotter. His magnetism doesn’t dissipate, it only intensifies once he begins to fall in line with your footsteps, following behind you.

As you turn to address him he moves closer, giving you no choice but to lean back against the tiled wall, crowded in the small space. Heart quickening and engaged in your ribs like a little hummingbird. 

“Shouta,” is all you can bring yourself to say, the scolding tone in your voice shaken, flimsy. His ears flicker at the sound of his name. Under the yellow tinted light of the bathroom you can closely see the scruff shadowing his jaw, the acute dip of a cupid's bow in his upper lip, the flecks of silver in his irises. 

“You can’t be in here with me while I bathe,” your hands press against him, feeling the heat of his body beneath the thin fabric, “I promise I won’t take long”.

“Why?” he rasps, reverberating under the pads of your fingers, “because now I’m a man?”

From a moral standpoint, being intimate with a hybrid was a grey area. Despite his humanity, he’s legally classed as a pet, and you his owner. There was a very clear imbalance in power and authority. 

And yet here —back pressed to the wall, palms laid flat to his chest but making no effort to push— it felt like you held no power at all. He ducks his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling his mouth to your pulse, feeling the protrusion of his canines through his upper lip. 

“I won’t look if that’s what bothers you,” he continues lowly, “I want to stay. I want you to tell me about your day like you always do”.

It wouldn’t be fair to treat him differently based on his form, to avoid or change his routine simply because you were ashamed of your attraction to him. In doing so you would just be repeating the actions of everyone in his past, you rationalise.

His throat bobs as he swallows, waiting patiently for your answer. You remember how his head had tilted back in pleasure, how he’d sank into the couch cushions as he came. 

There needed to be boundaries. There had to be a clear line, more for yourself than for him, to maintain the peace you’d built together. 

“Alright, but I’m pulling the shower curtain across,” you assent, noting the relieved sag of his shoulders and how easily he moves away from you. It was as if he’d know the effect he has on you and used it to his advantage. 

True to his word, Shouta turns his back once you begin to undress, though it does nothing to settle the shame-dipped excitement in your chest. You keep your eyes on him even as you lean down to pull back the bath cover, inhaling the scent of lavender, coasting the tips of your fingers through the surface of the water. 

You’re helpless to hold in the groan of relief that falls from your lips as the water ripples against your shoulders, the level rising slightly to accommodate your body. You almost forget to pull the curtain across, lazy as you tug and the hooks getting caught along the divots in the pole. 

Completely covered, you give Shouta permission to turn back around. The sheet is pale, light enough to make out the shape of his silhouette as he seats himself on the floor facing the tub. 

You clear your throat, the sound echoing intrusively throughout the room. His inability to see you does nothing to ease your nerves. 

“Eri, the young girl I showed you last night,” when you were curled against my breast, “she responded to me better than I hoped. Her previous guardians are in police custody, and she’s going to be placed under protection”.

You hear his harsh exhale. “They hurt her,” he says. 

The water laps against the edge of the tub as you begin to lather yourself with bodywash, smiling sadly behind the privacy of the shower curtain. 

“Yes, they did. But she’s safe now and I’m going to help her the best I can”.

Over the waves, you hear his plaintive hum. The moment feels remarkably intimate, tendrils of steam dancing along your line of sight as you pull your knees to your chest, as if it would hide your vulnerability. 

“There were kids at the centre who’d been hurt too,” he mutters with an obvious air of guilt, “I wish I could’ve helped them more”.

Without thinking, you pull back the waterproof sheet just enough to show your face. His ears are slightly drooped, gaze solemn as he meets yours. 

“Your best is always enough, Shouta,” you press your breasts tightly to the side of the basin, wanting to be closer, wanting to embroider your words into his mind so he’d never doubt himself again. 

“Whatever good you did for those children, I assure you they will remember it”. 

You watch as his eyes widen, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants. He shakes the hair from his cheeks, revealing pale splotches of pink, and your stomach tightens. 

Thinned pupils drag along the curve of your neck as a drop of water descends to your collar, reminding you of your own nakedness, and you quickly tug the curtain shut once more. 

“I’ve seen you get undressed multiple times you know,” he says, “you don’t need to be ashamed”. 

“Yes, as a cat!” you remind him, heat kindling between your thighs. He laughs. You want to hear it again and again. Eventually the sound tapers off into an amused rumbling, and you watch his silhouette shift from behind the sheet. 

“Is that how you’d prefer me?” he asks, “as a cat, that is”. 

Your brows pinch into a frown, hands cupped together to hold a small puddle of bath water in your palms, staring at the iridescent surface of the bubbles. Admittedly you’d gotten comfortable with him being a cat, enough to undress in the same room, but in the end they were one in the same. He was just Shouta — you wanted him to feel that same level of comfort, too. 

“I know you’ve dealt with people judging you prematurely for your human form, and for your age, but…” your wrists part, and the water falls through your fingers, rippling throughout the tub. 

“I care about you, Shouta, it doesn't matter if you're a cat or a man. This is your home too”. 

The atmosphere is weighted, but comfortable, intimate. While he seems to be processing your words you continue to wash the rain from your skin, quietly recounting the rest of your day to him just as he’d asked. 

If you held your breath and really listened, you could faintly hear him purring. 

As you later parted ways to your respective rooms you can’t help but notice the tension in the air, nor the delayed lingering in the hallway before telling him ‘goodnight’. Yearning sits low in your belly, twisted tightly into a hot coil. You tell yourself that the hunger settling behind his eyes was just a figment of your imagination and cling to the small mercy that even after all your time with him, he had only ever joined you in bed in his cat form. 

But then your door is being pushed ajar, the sound coaxing you awake, and Shouta stands tall in your bedroom doorway. Your sight adjusts quickly to the darkness, barely making out the anxious flick of his tail, or the way his hand tightens around the handle. 

There’s a silent standoff in which each of you waits for the other to speak first, stubborn and a little nervous, until eventually your exhaustion simmers into irritation. You lift up the other side of the quilt, and he begins to move. 

“You’re so spoiled,” you say, voice laden with sleep, mattress sinking under his weight. The cool air of your room is replaced by his warmth, laid on his side with an arm beneath the pillow as he faces you. You can’t see much, but he’s close — you feel his shallow exhale across your cheek, the way his muscles loosen and he relaxes into the sheets. 

“Maybe,” he murmurs, low and fond as he reaches to trace the curve of your ear, “you have no one to blame but yourself”. 

Your breathing hitches, stomach clenching at the unexpected touch. He clasps his thumb and forefinger around the shell, rubbing the cartilage gently, mimicking how you would pet his own ears. 

“You’re clever, Shouta,” his touch pauses as you address him, “you’re clever. So I know you’re aware of what you’re doing right now”.

Of what it means.

He hums with acknowledgement. The massage starts again, soft circular motions, only for his hand to slide down to the curve of your neck to rest over your pulse point. 

“You know too, and you’re still letting me,” he counters, a quiet and proud purr rumbling in the back of his chest. Behind the dark fabric of your bedroom curtains, a breeze guides the clouds east and the moon shines a little brighter. It reflects back at you in dark, feline eyes. 

His tail grazes against your shin, curling around your leg, body shifting closer until your noses touch. And he waits for your rejection, time held in suspension, but you don’t shy away from him. 

His lips are chaste and cautious on your cheek, as if he were dipping his feet into hot water to test the temperature. You hold the reins, you realise. He’s pausing, allowing the silence to reassure you that there would be an out, that he wouldn’t go any further without permission. 

“You already said that I’m spoiled, but…” he tucks his nose further into the swell of your cheek and nuzzles down along the line of your jaw “…I still want more from you”. 

Denying him would be to fight a battle you’d already lost. Before you’ve even processed his words you’ve tilted your chin to bare your throat, and he accepts, dragging the flat of his tongue across your skin. You moan, an inaudible exhale of his name, and the purring grows stronger — strong enough that you can feel it reverberate against your jugular. 

While his hands wander the length of your body, pawing at the dip of your waist, yours thread into his hair to keep him in place. He shifts his hips impossibly close until they are cradled against your own with his hard cock nestled between your bodies. It’s hot, heavy through the fabric of his sweatpants, and you feel him throb against your stomach as you toy with his ears.

The reality of where this was leading washes over you, thighs rubbing together to instinctively dull the incessant ache between your legs. 

“Shou… Shouta, we shouldn’t—”

“Then stop me,” he rasps, the words rough as he rolls his hips forward, “tell me to leave”. 

Against better judgement you can’t help but to hold him closer, to wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself forward to give him better friction. 

“Have you ever been with… with a…” your brows are taut with frustration as your voice fails you, his hand smoothing over your shorts to knead at your ass. 

“A human?” his fingers dip further, lower, “does it matter?”. 

You squirm away at his answer, and he chases you with a displeased growl. “Why? Are you jealous?” he asks, roughly hooking an arm under your knee to pull your thigh over his hip. Your bodies align, and he grinds forward, clothed cock pressing against your pussy. 

“M’not jealous,” you lie, moving to match his rhythm. The reciprocation pleases him, the harsh defensive lines in his expression softening, jaw slack as he breathes through the pleasure. Heat ebbs through you with every pass of his cock over your clit, the fabric saturated with arousal and clinging to your skin. 

“Kiss me”. 

He blinks lazily, gaze unfocused, a glimmer of confusion in them. You wondered if it was simply an unexpected request, or if his previous partners had never asked to kiss him at all. But you wanted it, wanted him, in every sense of the word. 

“Like this,” you gently take his face into your hands and guide him. The first is innocent, a quiet tribute to the way he’d kissed your cheek, a chance for him to pull away. He inhales with realisation, hips jerking forward as you part his lips, sighing into your mouth.  

He mimics your movements intuitively, though he is messy with it, sucking on your tongue and nipping the plush of your lower lip. He’s pleased to see you slick with his spit, to have you grinding on his cock, helpless between the feelings of embarrassment and want. 

His tail vibrates around your thigh, “fuck”. The muscles in your belly tighten, lungs filling as you gasp his name, your rhythm dissolving into a short rutting motion. You cum with nails tethered to his shoulders, limbs seizing and locking him against your front, a pitched moan catching in your throat. 

There’s no time for shame, because Shouta is already pushing you until you are laid flat on your back, his broad chest smothering you as he reaches to turn on the bedside lamp. 

The light bathes him in orange, mingling with the pink spreading along the length of his neck to his cheeks, giving him a peach tint. You drag your gaze across the dark, sparse hair of his chest, all the way down to the trail that leads from his navel beneath the waistband of his pants. The fabric is strained dark where his cock sits. 

You’re so lost in admiring him that you forget he can see you, too. It isn’t until his fingers are hooking into your shorts that you realise, hands quickly grasping his wrists with thighs clenching tight to his sides. His ears flatten with irritation, expression predacious and curtained by his hair. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he rasps, easily shaking off your grip, “let me have you. Let me see you this time, please”. 

“Ok,” you exhale shakily. Saliva pools beneath your tongue as you lift your hips for him, eyes firmly up at the ceiling, feeling the tight material slip down your legs and over your pointed feet. Then he’s there at the apex of your thighs, behind him the silhouette of his tail upright and trembling as he parts your knees. 

You watch as his stare lingers on your pussy with warmth blooming in your chest. No one has ever looked so mystified by you. You reach out to trace along his pointed ear, curling to scratch the space behind it. His eyes flutter slightly, leaning blissfully into your hand. 

“You’re so wet,” two fingers slide precariously through your folds, collecting your arousal and spreading it over your clit. He’s toying with you, touch fleeting as he barely dips inside of you, pupils dilating until his iris has been swallowed by black. 

“Please,” you whine, rolling your hips toward his cock in an effort to entice him. Whether he was inexperienced or just teasing, you couldn’t be totally sure — but it was less that he’d never seen a pussy, just more that he had never seen you. His thumb begins with tight circles, but when the pattern switches to a back and forth rhythm your toes curl, and he notices. Thick fingers sink into you, pulling all the way out just to feel how you beg him to stay, you jolt as they curl upwards and he notices. 

He was learning what made you feel good and adapting to it. 

Heat floods through your body as he slowly works you open, tail flitting restlessly like he were fighting his own instincts, purr still quiet but constant in his chest. It feels good, too good, paradoxically weightless while your muscles wring tight around his fingers. 

Still sensitive from your first, the waves of your second orgasm swell, your cunt pulsing obscenely with each pass of his thumb over your clit. Purposeful and steady with his rhythm, Shouta keeps his fingers moving as he leans forward to press your foreheads together. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” your chest rises and falls, your voice pitched, desperate as you near the crest. 

“Can feel it,” the words are breathless and thick in his throat, his eyes half lidded and refusing to blink, lest he miss the expression on your face. 

“I want you squeezing around my cock like this,” he rasps, and your muscles pull taut. Your jaw slacks, lips parting to shape around a silent moan, and you cum on his fingers. 

Shouta rides you through the following ripples of your orgasm with his face tucked against your throat, purring a few decibels higher than before and the heel of his hand pressed to your clit. 

Mine, he’s murmuring, nipping gently where the vein in your jugular sits. Mine, over and over. And when he finally sits back, he slots his fingers into his mouth, lapping hungrily at the taste of you. 

You can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. It’s hot — he’s hot, and you’re too preoccupied with the cock straining in his sweatpants. He’s big, pulsing as you cup him in your hand, relishing how he chokes as you squeeze. 

“Want you,” you tell him, “need you to feel good too”. 

He grins then, wide and brilliant, as he uses his strength to suddenly flip you onto all fours. Kneeling behind you his sodden hands find purchase around your waist, leaning his weight forward and pressing you into the mattress, back curved like the spine of a bow as you present yourself to him. 

You fold your arms beneath the pillow and your knees slide further apart for him as you feel the head of his cock slide through your folds, the soft wet sounds sharp in your ears. He slaps himself against your entrance. 

“Do you have any idea how much I think about this pussy?” 

You bury your face into the sheets, flustered, both by his question and his tone. A hand moves to take a handful of your ass, rocking you back onto him, the tip briefly catching. You whine. 

“You make it so… hard not to,” he groans, slowly pushing the head of his cock in with his thumb, “I can smell it when you’ve touched yourself. Can hear you, even when you cover your mouth—”

He sinks into you, the press of his cock pushing the air from your lungs. He holds you in the cradle of his pelvis and folds his body over your own, forearms coming to rest either side of your head with lips ghosting the nape of your neck. 

“Shouta,” you moan. It’s the only thing you can think of, the only word on your tongue. 

“Wanna cum inside you,” he continues like he can’t help himself, grinding his hips in a circular motion against your ass, “want you to give me one more”.

Yes.

“Yes,” you reply breathlessly, rocking back into his movement, “please”.

He’s so close, moulded perfectly along your back, mouth moving against the shell of your ear, groaning obscenely with each long stroke of his cock. He fucks you deeply until you’re collapsing into the mattress, his weight overwhelming and comforting, the new angle indelible. 

He unravels you. The intensity is muted, your body limp and suspended in bliss. He pulls out until the tip kisses your folds only to rock forward once more, the force pushing you further up the bed. You’re going to cum again, you realise. It floods through you like the breaking of a dam, trembling hips lifting to exaggerate the downward arch of your back. 

Shouta’s pace stutters as your pussy clenches tightly around his cock, fluttering with each wave that rolls through you. One of your arms slips out from beneath the pillows to reach over your shoulder, fingers gently caressing his pointed ear, and a deep rumbling builds in his chest. 

You feel it when he cums, his hips slapping against your ass in a final thrust, his growl tapering off into a low, satisfied hum. Eventually the rigidity seeps from his muscles, the subtle undulating of his pelvis slowing to a complete stop as he begins to soften, and you grimace at the sensation of his cum drooling out onto the bedsheets. 

Unperturbed, Shouta begins to leave a path of chaste kisses from one shoulder to the other. “We can sleep in my bed,” he quietly offers, rolling you into his embrace. 

Finally able to get another good look at him, you take the time to admire the flush of red that has spread across his cheeks, your fingers aimlessly playing with the dark hair on his chest. His tail flicks your calf beneath the covers. 

“Well someone needs to eventually,” you reply with tired amusement. And he grins. 

Whatever this meant for the two of you — judgement and inner turmoil be damned — you think it’ll turn out alright.

oh oh oh oh

pussy fiend (l.dh)

PAIRING ➢ haechan x fem!reader

GENRES & AUS ➢ smut, humor, fluff; college au, enemies to fuckbuddies to lovers, roommate au

WORD COUNT ➢ 68.9k total, in 2 parts (28.2k & 40.7k)

WARNINGS ➢ invasion of privacy, Haechan’s a sneaky little shit, cocky!Haechan, jokes about emotional manipulation, author pretends to know about stuff she doesn’t, mild dubcon

CONTENTS ➢ (mild) dubcon, bratty switches! boffum!, somnophilia, oral (receiving), allusions to a free-use kink but barely, rimming (receiving), creampie, dacryphilia, brief thigh job, praise, barely degradation but if you’re sensitive note that, some spit kink, panty sucking (?), Haechan’s a bit of a pain slut, fingering, biting

SUMMARY ➢ uhhh he likes you and is a fiend for pussy idk bestie

AUTHOR’S NOTE ➢ long time no see! please consider sending a donation/tip if you enjoy the fic! please do not get upset with me if you ignore the contents/warnings and get your feelings hurt; that is no one’s doing but yours. if you enjoy the fic, please consider tipping me here or here!! ALSO massive thank you to my love @ncteez for all her help with the initial idea and beta reading this monster for me :’)

PART TWO FOUND HERE !!

“Listen,” You start off with a firm tone as you look out at your audience. “We need to address the elephant in the room.” You say as you shoot your tormentor a disdainful look, your frown deepening when he just smirks and winks at you. “Ever since Lee Donghyuck, also known as Haechan, has moved into this apartment, my life has not known peace. I truly believe there is a karmic imbalance somewhere in the universe now that he lives here.”

Keep reading

Loving me, loving you

tags: GN reader, mention of injuries, tending and dressing wounds (blood), hand feeding, finger sucking, fluff, soft smut, dry humping, coming in pants, established relationship

wc: 2.1k

"Let's get you into some dry clothes,” Satoru murmurs, kicking the door closed behind him, though it feels more that he’s speaking to himself than to you. He hadn’t let your feet touch the ground since he first lifted you from the pavement, held firmly against his chest in an uncomfortable but familiar grip.

“I can walk,” you complain, the words catching against your dry throat, an embarrassed grimace twisting into your features as he sits you on the edge of the bathtub.

You're uninjured, aside from the shallow wound on your bicep, welts of blood smearing into the material of your shirt. Satoru tears the sleeve wordlessly, lifting a cloth and an unlabelled bottle of liquid from the cabinet beneath the sink.

“What’s that?” you ask quietly, mere curiosity rather than distrust. He covers the bottle opening, tipping it sideways and soaking the cloth, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling the air.

“S’the good stuff,” the corner of his mouth lifts into a conspiratorial smirk, “stole it from Shoko”.

“I can’t believe he got me,” your voice is barely above a whisper and dipped in shame. All it took was a mere moment for you to go from being a partner to being a hindrance, only for the simple fact that you’d gotten too comfortable around Satoru. It’d been a mistake to think curse users were rational thinkers – the fact that Gojo was known for being untouchable presented a challenge in and of itself.

“Happens to the best of us,” he chimes, a faux air of light-heartedness about him that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. The damp cloth is wiped gently over your arm and you hiss at the sting, forcing your body still as he dresses the weeping wound.

His face is wet, covered in specks of dust, his hair laid flat over his blindfold from the rain. There’s a spot of blood on the front of his white shirt where he’d held you, and you can still feel the warmth of his arms like a phantom around your shoulders.

“Thank you for stepping in,” you say, casting your eyes to the bathroom tiles when his head lifts in faint surprise, “though I’m pretty sure you broke a few laws back there”.

He laughs, the sound is hollow as he stands up straight, throwing the cloth into the sink and curving his hand around the swell of your cheek.

“Do you truly believe that something as inconsequential as the law could have stopped me from protecting you?” he smirks, stroking your skin with the pad of his thumb and bending to press a chaste kiss to your hairline.

You exhale shakily, both with exasperation and fondness. “You’re incorrigible,” your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth, “have you ever behaved a day in your life?”

“Not one,” he grins.

The clothes he hands to you are thick, undeniably soft and oversized. They smell like him and you resist the urge to tuck your face beneath the collar while he’s still standing in the room. You’re thankful that they’re hanging loosely on your frame and not disturbing your bandages, though the pants are a little more ridiculous, having to be tied with a hair band to your hip so they won’t pool at your feet.

“You could always take them off,” he suggests playfully, receiving a light kick to the shin in response.

“Out!”

While you finished changing, Satoru seemed to have busied himself with cutting up what fruit he has in his kitchen into bite-size pieces, apples carved into the clumsy shape of a bunny and melon into jagged stars.

And an orange, peeled terribly, split into slices.

The blindfold is gone, his hair messily pushed back away from his eyes, now wearing a comfortable set of clothes much like your own. Cuffed grey sweatpants and a loose scoop neck shirt, his glasses teetering on the bridge of his nose.

Satoru makes his way to the couch carrying a ceramic plate, beckoning you over with a nod of his head. He sets the plate where you aim to sit, and instead pats the space in his lap twice.

Your knees sink into the cushions either side of his hips, settling yourself back onto his thighs, his left arm rising to circle the small of your back.

“Open up,” he says, an orange slice dwarfed between his fingers, pressing your lips tightly together as he leans forward to press the fruit against your mouth. You shake your head in feigned disbelief, grabbing his wrist and giving a futile attempt at pushing him away.

“I can feed myself, you know”.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he pouts, “just humor me”.

So you give in to him as you always do, because you know that despite his excuses, this was actually to make himself feel better. To placate the guilt that, though minor, you got hurt. With lips parted he slips the orange slice into your mouth, frowning when your tongue meets the texture of the pith, the flavour bursting into your mouth as your teeth sink into it.

Satoru already looks considerably lighter, pleased from the simple act of feeding you by hand. He presents you with another and again you take it into your mouth, the pad of his finger catching against your tongue.

He repeats this until the fruit is gone, all the remains is the poorly peeled skin, and your eyes linger on the sheen of citrus coating his fingers.

He notices, of course, tracing the shape of your lips with his wet thumb in blatant amusement. He taps your lower lip, wordlessly asking that you open them, and your glare only seeks to amuse him more.

“C’mon, you have to lick the plate clean”. Hardly a plate, you think, hot flickers of arousal spreading through your stomach.

You part your lips for him and he hooks his thumb into your mouth, tracing the grooves of your teeth. Quiet wet sounds of your spit pooling into your cheeks cut through the silence of the apartment as he pulls his hand back to replace the it with his index and middle fingers, smoothing them over the flat of your tongue.

The sharp taste of apple and orange tangs across your palate, lips shaping around his second knuckles as you begin to suck. You roll your tongue around and between each finger, peering up at him through your lashes while he stares at the hollow of your cheeks.

You pull back with a soft wet pop, his fingers slick with your spit, followed by strings of saliva that wear thin and snap. He shifts in his seat, legs moving to spread a little wider, the outline of his cock obvious against the material of his sweatpants.

Innocently you roll your hips forward, and warmth blooms to the tips of his ears when you exhale a soft breath of laughter at his startled hiss.

“So easy,” you mumble, his chest rising to meet yours. He pulls your full weight against him, your hands lifting to gently push the frame of his glasses up his nose and over his forehead, nestling them into his hair. He smiles knowingly, turning his cheek to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“Only for you,” he breathes, toeing the line between teasing and sincerity, shifting his hips in search of friction, “you like me that way”.

When you kiss him it’s one of many, yet still as good as the last. His lips are soft, balmy, the faint scent of strawberry from his favourite chapstick. You thread your fingers into his hair to anchor yourself, still slightly dampened from the rain, and grind yourself onto his cock.

For a few precious moments, everything around you slows to a stop, your boyfriend content only to grope at the softness of your hips and guide you in rocking against him. It’s languid, and entirely indulgent. In the safety of his embrace, warm and fed, you feel the tension bleed from your body. You revered being able to touch him so intimately now, knowing as soon as the work day came there would be infinity between the two of you.

“Think you can cum like this? In your pants, like a teenager?” He punctuates the question with a thrust, a little breathless, the shadow of white lashes fanning across his cheeks as he watches you with a heavy lidded stare.

A lazy grin pulls at the corners of your mouth, slipping your hands down the front of his torso as your body rises and falls above him with each roll of your hips.

You hook your hands into the hem of his shirt and his abdomen clenches when your nails graze against the fine hair on his stomach. Slowly you pull the material up to his chest, leaning yourself back just enough to look between your bodies, revealing the growing damp spot on his sweats.

“I know you can,” you murmur.

He groans and tilts his head back over the lip of the couch, dark tinted glasses slipping from his head and hitting the floor. He curls his fingers into the thick of your thighs, dimpling the skin and rutting your hips forward, your breath catching in your throat at the friction. The relief is almost palpable, his shirt still tightly fisted in your grip as you rock down harder at the same angle.

“Shit,” he exhales shakily, pushing up onto the balls of his feet for more leverage. The jolt of his hips throws you against his chest, his arms circling your waist securely so you are unable to move.

“Cum for me,” you reassure him, gaze caught on the pink blooming up his neck. Disjointed praises fall from his lips as his hips stutter, clutching you to his front, the distant scrape of the couch shifting across the floor beneath the movement.

You feel yourself throb at the drawn out, wanton sound that is pulled from his throat, like a man sinking into warmth after days in the cold. The thin clothing between your bodies darkens as he cums, the material soaked and sticking to your inner thigh.

Despite your discomfort you let him swaddle you, nose tucked into the underside of his jaw where you leave the odd chaste kiss to his pulse point while he calms down. He hums, satiated, the sound reverberating through his chest like a purr, and nuzzles his cheek against the crown of your head as he traces shapes into the skin of your back.

“I’m sorry our date got interrupted,” is the first thing he says once he has his breath back.

“Comes with the territory,” you reply quietly, not yet wanting to break the soothing atmosphere that had blanketed the two of you. Your answer gives him pause, his finger pausing at the dip of your spine.

“You’re allowed to be angry, you know,” he mutters, and your expression twists into one of confusion.

“Do you want me to be mad?” You ask, finally sitting upright and letting his arms slip loosely from your waist. He looks contemplative, a little conflicted, a tightness in his smile that wasn’t there before.

“I never want you genuinely upset with me,” he sighs. The tone is all wrong, you think as you take his face into your hands once more, letting him lean into your touch.

“Just know you’re allowed to want better for yourself”.

You smother the exasperation that comes with his words, with his needless apology. Satoru didn’t often let insecurities eat at him, and it was a rarity for him to show this much vulnerability with you. He didn’t need frustration, just reassurance.

“I have what I want,” you say, purposefully gentle and firm, pressing your foreheads together as if to embed the sentiment into his brain.

“I can’t be angry at you for things out of your control, and I would tell you if I were”.

Comfortable silence permeates the room, his fingers having returned to writing words with characters you cannot recognise onto the small of your back. His eyes bore into yours, frighteningly blue, slowly softening into something fond.

“You’re so good to me,” he eventually murmurs, a teasing lilt to his voice and his smile genuine, “be careful or I might think you like me”.

You snort affectionately.

“You’re insufferable”.

I'm very horny and you have a knack for finding the best stuff... Do you have any cool visuals? <3

by visuals… i hope u mean P#RN BC YES I HAVE TONS IVE BEEN WAITING TO SHARE

# RANDOM VISUALS [HQ]

GET UR HEADPHONES AND MAKE SURE UR ALONE !

all my hq bfs w/ f!reader

warning: twt p*rn. minors dni. 18+.

a/n: ive been waiting for this ask my entire life

navigation (18+)

# IWAIZUMI HAJIME

» haji loves that skirt, but he also loves fucking your cute cunt and filling you up with his cum. <3

» frat boy haji gets takes you to his car because all the bedrooms are full and takes you for a ride. <33

» big, buff daddy dilf haji who loves your tight cunt so much it nearly makes him cry. <3333333 and he likes it rough ;)

» hajime just LOVES when you compliment his hands. <333333333

# SUNA RINTARŌ

» the only way to make rintarō smile is to wake him up by riding his dick like a good girl. <3

» me you and rintarō on y’all’s day off <3, he’s so vocal cause “you feel so fuckin’ good,” <3333

» rintarō loves creampies & cumming in your mouth… but he loves that you’re a “slut for daddy” and that you’ll let him paint your face <3333 (2 bonus visuals for my daddy)

» fuck fuck fuck he loves your tits so fucking much, squeezes and sucks the life out of them <3333333333333333

# SAKUSA KIYOOMI (tw… squirting… a lot of it)

» kiyoomi loves eating you out and making a mess out of his good little slut <3

» also loves fucking you so hard that you squirt on his cock </3 calls you a nasty little slut even though it makes him cum so hard

» brat tamer kiyo <///3 fucks you stupid, slaps your face, makes you squirt, but you love it so much

» worshipping kiyoomi’s pretty body <333

# AKAASHI KEIJI

» keiji is so vocal with his heavy pants and higher pitched moans and it makes you feel so good

» 🥺 being keiji’s pretty lil puppy and you were so good while he was gone at work, so he gives you a little reward <3

» keiji’s finger work so well… he knows how to hit that spot, how to make you gush

» loves fucking you to frank ocean. even when you’re all cuffed up <3

# BOKUTO KOUTAROU

» sometimes, kou loves watching his little crybaby grind all over his cock <3

» and sometimes, he just can’t hold himself back so he fucks up into you :))

» daddy likes double stuffing your pussy with cum, especially when you beg for him to put a baby inside you <3333

» 69-ing is kou’s favorite. you guys both feel good and that makes him soo happy.

# MIYA ATSUMU

» waking up his little bimbo princess with his cock ! tw somno

» daddy likes to see his cum on your pretty pussy before pushing it into you %^**>>{^^

» tsumu likes pressing your face into the mattress as he fucks you and makes you squirt

» knows how much you like being filled up so he fucks both your holes at the SAME time ! (tw anal)

# MIYA OSAMU

» samu gets so hard when he see’s you doing anything remotely domestic

» loves holding you close and kissing you while his cock is stuffed deep in you

» breeding kink!!!!!!

» king of eating and making a mess of your pussy

# KUROO TETSUROU

» such a good daddy </3 blindfolds you with his work tie and worships your body all night

» he’s also a rough daddy <3 likes to choke you a ton

» he can be really mean nd tease you to make you think you’re getting his cock <///3

» “shhh, can’t be too loud, kitten, we’re in public, you know that.”

# BONUS ROUND ! SUNA + MIYA TWINS

» rin thinks you’ve been so mouthy with him lately so he decides to have him and his friends shut you up (psst, atsumu on the left, suna in the middle, samu on the right)

» misbehaving and embarrassing rin in front of his friends? now he’s gonna embarrass you :)

choking up in tears rn

corruption kink but with nanami who knows its morally reprehensible

HIM

tags: NSFW, pwp, no power dynamics, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, lovesick gojo, gn!reader (yeaaa!!! we all fuckin)

“You love me”

“Not even a little-” you choke, a whimper interrupting your insistence and telling him another story all together. Still, it was fun to play with you, to watch you struggle to maintain your composure.

“Oh?” He breathes, satisfied hum building in his chest as he bottoms out and pushes his body forward practically folding you in half, and you let him. Your bare chests meet, skin hot and soft, your pulse quickening under his intense stare yet refusing to hide your face.

“So you’d let any man see you like this? Is that right?” The low murmur is half taunt and half warning, you squirm and glare at the insinuation he’s making.

“No,” you say.

He undulates his hips subtly, hands coming down to squeeze at the plush of your thighs. It strikes him then that he did want to hear your answer, wanted to know that he was special to you in a way no other person was. It’s unfamiliar to him, this yearning, and entirely human. It’s with his arms caging you against the mattress that he first truly feels like a man. A man and not a God, just yours.

He groans as you throb around his cock, legs hooked and tightening over his shoulders, toes curling. Your body has always been so expressive and honest under his touch, it makes his blood run quicker. He seeks you out like a cat to a sun spot, selfishly wanting your warmth all to himself.

“Satoru…” you whimper with your chin tilted toward him, wordlessly pleading, fingernails cutting into the curve of his shoulders and hips rising to meet his.

“You want a kiss?” He grins, cheeks notably flushed, emphasising the question with a roll of his hips. You gasp, the sound drawing out into a frustrated whine, leaning up to chase his mouth. A hand comes up and takes a firm but gentle grip of your chin, stopping you just before your lips brush.

“Thought you didn’t love me?” He pouts, fingers sinking into the plush of your cheeks to pucker your mouth. Your glare is impressive but short lived as he angles his pelvis and thrusts, your eyelids squeezing shut with a wanton moan. Affection and pride clash in his sternum and he laughs breathlessly as he watches your body rock against the force of his hips.

“Fine then,” you stammer, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. So goddamn stubborn, he thinks fondly, slipping both his arms under your body and enveloping you tightly against him, nose pressed into your hair. He fucks you deeper like this, long purposeful strokes accompanied by the gradual kindling of your orgasm. He can feel it in how your body coils like a spring, how you suck him back in like you’re desperate for him to stay, how your pitch rises and falls with your chest.

He’s close too, you’re so wet and warm around him, so fucking good it’s painful, half tempted to reach down and squeeze the base of his cock to stave it off. You’re everywhere, so close but not close enough. Fuck, he wants to kiss you. He presses you further into the mattress with a whine and starts to curse himself the more he loses his inhibitions. Why did he think it was a good idea to wind you up again?

You’re chanting his name now clinging on for dear life and he wants to kiss you, he wants to swallow every single sound you’re making. Pride be damned.

“Kiss me,” he rasps, the words muffled by the crown of your head but you’d heard them, he knows. He was even willing to say “Please”.

With an easy tilt of your head you’re there, lips slotting against his. It’s a mess, open mouthed and wet but he drinks your broken moans and your stuttered breath with unmatched enthusiasm. His hands can’t seem to find a place to sit, running up the length of your torso to your chest, massaging his fingers into the softest parts of your body.

“Satoru I’m—”

“Take it,” he chokes, lifting his torso to watch as he fucks into you, “cum on my cock”.

He watches on as your body tenses, gasp caught in your throat, your lips forming a silent agonising ‘o’. You’re gorgeous like this, hips jerking upward in complaint when he doesn’t let up on his thrusts. You cum, back arched, a quick inhale.

He’s so close. He kisses you again in apology, and again and again and again. He can feel the damp sheets sticking to the skin of his knees where they rest. You cradle his head to your chest and he lets go, sprinting toward his own orgasm with no thought of keeping up appearances. Fuck, he loves you, he’ll never let anyone else have you.

"Love you," you murmur tenderly.

His body tenses and snaps, firm thrusts reverberating across the room as he fucks into you desperately. He cums, vision blank and limbs numb, face pressed into your collar.

As the tension bleeds out his body weight smothers you in a strangely comforting way. He refuses to move as you both catch your breath, eyes stuck on each other. Both of you can feel the cum slipping into the comforter as he softens.

"Knew you loved me" he grins.

HEART EYES OH GOD

Yuta

goodbye i want him so bad

Currently obsessed with the idea of first time in a relationship virgin pervert Shoyo who's obsessed with tits. Like all this guy has ever wanted his whole post-pubescent life is to know what it's like to feel the soft squish of a pair of boobs beneath his palms and fingers. He's acts shy about it, but he's constantly stealing glances down your shirt and getting a little too flustered whenever you hug him and he can feel them pressing against his chest. Poor, desperate dude is jacking off nearly every night thinking about your tits - maybe pulling up your Insta to zoom in on your cleavage as he fucks his fist to the image, wishing it was your skin and not his screen that he's splattering in white.

So the first time your kisses get a little heated, his hands nervously wandering around your waist - he wonders if this will be his chance. He can feel the outline of your bra beneath his fingers every time his hands smooth up your back, and poorly tries to suppress his whines at the tease. His eagerness doesn't go unmissed by you. Between nips and pulls at his lips, you reach behind to grab his wrists and guide them to your breasts. His brown eyes fly open, pupils shaking at the sudden grant of the only thing he's been wishing for. His hands instinctively dig in, giving a long awaited squeeze as he groans into your mouth, cock hardening in his shorts between your legs.

He thinks you have the benevolence of a goddess for letting him indulge in his fantasy, and just when he couldn't be more grateful, you lean away to take off your shirt and quickly unclasp your bra. His breath catches in his throat when the straps fall from your shoulders and slide down to reveal your tits in all their glory. He stutters and fumbles. "C-Can I-? I want- I mean-" But you just grab his hands again and encourage him to touch you more. The way his fingers dip into the soft flesh, the bounce and give as he experiments with massaging and kneading, the warmth against his palms - it's so much more satisfying and arousing than he could have ever dreamed, and you're simply an angel for letting him do this to you.

And then he feels it. Something that makes him strain even more in his boxers and shorts that keep getting tighter and tighter. Your nipples are hard against his hands, and oh fuck. Did you just moan when he rubbed them? He tests it again and sure enough, you let out the sweetest little gasp and whimper on his lips.

"Oh, does that feel good?" It's genuine, he doesn't mean for it to be a tease, but you whine your assurance, rolling your hips to grind your clothed cunt against his hardness. And he's in awe, never even dreaming that this would be just as pleasurable for you as it is for him. He can't stop himself, gently twisting and rolling your buds between his fingertips until you're both mindlessly rutting upon one another, moaning and panting between wet, needy kisses.

Shoyo even dares to dip his head down, taking one of your nipples between his lips. He's lapping and suckling, completely lost in how good feels to be attached to you like this. He teases the other with rolls and flicks of his thumb, quickly learning what makes you whimper and shake in his lap. Your fingers grip into his pretty red hair as you cry his name, feeling something building up with every buck of your hips. He doesn't stop, only sucking and pinching harder until you're trembling and arching into him with the shuddered announcement of your undoing.

It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and release your hold on each other. He grins at you, looking quite pleased with himself. You reward him with a sweet kiss, and another devilish idea that comes to mind.

"Want to try putting you cock between them next?"

GOJO IN THIS

power trip | g. satoru

➳ tags ;; improper bdsm practices (pls discuss smth like this fr w ur partner), 18+, fem!reader, heavy petplay (crawling, commands, collar and leash), the petnames pet and puppy used once, oral (f!recieving), fingering, multiple orgasms, porn with plot, squirting, unprotected sex, humilation a little bit, gojo is a menace to society, alcohol, praise, “good girl”, gojo is a little obsessive, mutually bad at feelings, a confession at the end. lmk if i missed anything!!!

➳ wc ;; 8.7k (im sick. im so sick)

➳ a/n ;; the gojo brainrot has been fucking insane. also very lazy banner, lemme live. special thanks to @katonshoko who is the only reason my fics r readable. love u

➳ synopsis ;; gojo satoru has been your mentor for 4 whole years and not once has he uttered a word of praise for you. it bugs you. you know it shouldn’t.

Gojo Satoru has never been easy to read.

Well.. kinda.

You would say for the most part, he’s hard to read in the sense - he’s unpredictable. He doesn’t follow routine and he hardly does what people expect of him. It’s hard to know his next move and it’s even harder to try and place any reason on his actions. At least for the average person - nothing he does makes sense.

But, you’ve been under his mentorship for the better part of three years. After years of following him around in missions and in general - you understand some things very well. For example - the fact that he’s more often than not calculating even his most ridiculous move. Gojo is hardly thoughtless. Part of it is chaos, but a larger part of it is an eye for the bigger picture. It’s all thought-out carefully.

You know that. You know he never does things without thinking about them, and that things only seem reckless because Gojo lives without consequence. Being a sorcerer, religion is lost on you - but you think Gojo would be on the average person’s radar as some kind of higher power. He has a bad habit of ignoring other people’s agency unless it has to do with whether they’ll live through something he does. He doesn’t enjoy unnecessary tragedy and his god complex is more like an overpowered savior complex than anything else.

You don’t know much about him other than what he tells you, his whole life shrouded in mystery but he has a hatred for all things related to the major clans and an overwhelming urge to make sure that he doesn’t die before he fulfills whatever he believes is his duty. You know he’s the strongest, the most powerful - but you can’t help but find his life to be a little too tragic. Stories of his past are told too casually, and you force a laugh out of sympathy that Gojo seems to appreciate. He doesn’t like thinking about it either.

Decidedly, knowing him the way you do, you’re lenient with him. You fell into being his apprentice after learning the visions you saw were curses and you’d been exercising them for years. It was all very circumstantial and sudden - most things in the sorcerer’s world are. Given your innate abilities - you figured you’d just be doing some low-level work and going about your life. They’d give you simple training and then that’d be that. You’d already been risking your life and knowing the danger, so your circumstances were a bit different from the rest.

You still remember the conversation you’d had with Principal Yaga who offered you the position, and how in the direct aftermath - you had bumped into Gojo in the hallway. He was tall and much broader than his clothes seemed to show given the force of it. You remember very distinctly that he took one look at you, and promptly told the principal you would be under his care. It had shocked you so much you almost choked on your own spit. Worse, the Principal protested but ultimately didn’t refuse.

And at the very end, Gojo comes back and shakes your hand with a bright smile and an impishness to him.

“Nice to meet you, Apprentice. I’m Gojo Satoru and I’m the strongest.”

You would argue since that very moment - your relationship to Gojo had been exceedingly complicated.

Keep reading

he is SO

I am here… I am ready… What’s bully!Gojo like? How does he treat/bug you, what keeps him coming back to you, all that good stuff?

cw ;; 18+, dc ahead!!! bully!gojo, richboy!gojo, dubcon, dark content cw, gojo is a menace to society, manipulation, toxicity, gojo being a rich dickwad, obsessive!tendencies, fingering, squirting. this is darker than i usually write so pls be careful!!

of all the characters in my series, i think gojo pushes the boundary of being evil and nice probably more than anyone else, even bakugou. all of gojos bullying is like.. rooted in this desire he has to humiliate you and he just.. i have it all out in my head in such a specific way.

gojo satoru is campus richboy. but he's well-liked, and handsome and he has money and everyone loves him. he gets plenty of attention when he's on campus, and it doesn't help at all that gojo is good at practically everything. he's mostly on the swim team but he plays tennis and polo and soccer half-ass. gojo doesn't really need to do any of those things and he hardly attends practice.

but he's gifted by nature, you know? and he's more than used to having everyone's attention. gojo comes from old money mostly. his parents and grandparents and he'll be well-off for the rest of his life. and as much as he's grateful for some elements of it.. he certainly has a tendency to get bored.

that much is certain. gojo satoru doesn't really find himself easily entertained. he's gojo satoru, you know? the best at everything. the most likeable, most charming, most talented. most people on your private campus seem to worship him and he'd be a liar to say he hated it. he likes the attention, but it's boring. he finds the whole thing to be very, very boring.

naturally, this is where you come along. you're on scholarship and financial aid and your only goals ever are to get through the semester and make sure you survive. you're hard working albeit always exhausted. you just don't wanna get sent back home, something along those lines. you're not plain but you're not stand-out. your main personality trait is being busy.

i think the way gojo encounters you is unique. it's probably at your part-time but mostly full time job. you work a lot and he's always coming in with his little group of friends. most of the time it's getou, and sometimes nanami joins as an underclassmen and he hardly ever notices you.

but he does notice you, not him directly but getou (who is the nice one of the two of them. you're the one from ochem, you always look a little disheveled. you wave hi to getou, seemingly annoyed with his commentary. you're not exactly meek. he can tell that you're the headstrong type, and something about that intrigues him.

he tries to get your attention, but introducing himself as an heir. you seem bored by him, you give him a tight-lipped smile and ask what he would like today. and it's the first time gojos been.. told no before.

it's weird, yknow? because it partly excites him. gojo is so used to having everyone throw themselves at him so blindly. but you look like you're hard-working and earnest and something about that makes gojo excited. in the most evil and twisted way.

it starts small. you'd forgotten about gojo since that evening but he hasn't been able to get you out of his head. gojo has free reign over everything, so much money practically no rules apply to him. but he doesn't normally break them because he finds it to be classless. he understands authority though he hardly respects it. it's the first time in his life he's ever gone out of his way to break rules or bend them, at least.

it starts small. he gets your schedule from the dean and then he makes it his. and he pays for it with a hefty check and a little wink. when the money gets pocketed, you're suddenly plagued with the site of him. at first you think it's a coincidence, maybe. but then you see him constantly. in each class he's looking right at you, stares at you the whole time as you forcefully look away. at first you're just confused. wondering if you'd done something to upset the guy.

but then he approaches you one day, and from then forward it becomes very clear that gojo has no intent of leaving you alone.

he doesn't do anything at the start. you know what gojo likes about you? is that you hardly seem to be reactive to him. it's always small. stealing your pens or pestering you in class. whispering to you, playing footsie. it's small. not bullying so much as frustration.

but he likes how you force yourself to hold it together. the lengths you go to pretend he's not there. it's almost upsetting, but exciting too. he's working so hard to get your attention, shouldn't you be a little more grateful?

he starts to push his limits, just a little. spends more time with you out of class and follows you around. starts pushing his boundaries. touches you a little more than you like, and shows you how much stronger he is than you with purpose. he wouldn't do something so heinous, it's classless, remember but you should know how easy it is for him to overpower you. you should know that he could. if he really wanted.

it escalates. so much and so quickly and without your say. he ends up coming by your studio apartment, only to inform you he's your landlord now. he spends all of his free time with you, and doesn't let you study. doesn't even let you work, constantly putting you at risk of getting fired. touching you too close or too much.

one day you get frustrated with it. it's been pent up in you for so long and you snap. you get so angry, at your job. you slam your hand on the counter with pure rage in your eyes.

"why the fuck won't you leave me alone? i don't get it? what have i ever done to you?" and you sound like you're about to cry. you're practically fuming.

and gojo does the worst thing he could do, and laughs. laughs this amused and soft little laugh and then gives you a look through his sunglasses.

"ive been working hard to get your attention, yknow? i just wanted you to like me. this is good though," he grins, and it sends a chill down your spine because oh my god, he's being serious "it's progress."

he sounds ecstatic by your little outburst. it horrifies you. your voice gets a little quiet.

"why?" is your simple question. gojo shrugs and you know from then on that this is your life now.

one thing you've learned about gojo is that he really will do whatever you want.

in the months after that, it grows increasingly apparent to you that gojo is absolutely not going to stop until he is involved in every part of your life. on the days you're not absolutely aggravated with him, or show him the slightest bit of lenience - he's practically beaming. it's almost alarming. it starts to click for you that gojo has his own fucked up sense for liking you and that everything he does is to do what he thinks will win your approval.

or less than that, what he can do to make sure he's all you ever have time for. it occurs to you, in a spine-chilling moment of clarity that you're the apple of his eye. it's just that.. gojo satoru is a richboy and an asshole with no sense of boundaries. and you're his new favorite thing.

he's always been something of a hedonist and you're a high he has yet to come down from.

you tell yourself he'll tire himself out and grow bored with you but months pass and nothing like that happens remotely. it only gets worse. he starts inviting you to his friend groups and making you attend all these rich people events with the threat of buying your job.

he really does drive you up a wall.

it's one of those night where you're invited to his weird family gathering and all of his friends are in attendance. you're exhausted and you have work in the morning. you don't find yourself looking forward to anything about the night, especially not gojo's. you find solace in getou though.

of all of gojos friends, you find him to be the most tolerable. he's not great. still a dick but he's sociable and funny and subdued. a breath of fresh air. while gojo has family responsibilities, you mingle with him. you drink together and getou smiles every time he sees you laugh or genuinely enjoy yourself. he'd take you for himself if he didn't know gojo.

but he does. and gojo satoru seems frivolous but when it comes to the object of his affection - he can't help but feel a disparity. so when he comes back after a not-so pleasant conversation on family fairs to see you laughing and smiling and acting so carefree with getou, he's not pleased to say the least.

it was your mistake, really. after everything gojos done, shouldn't you know better? you're his, his, his.

it's not the first time gojos kissed you. but it's the first time he seems to ignore the pleaing in your voice. it's a little harsher, a little meaner. all teeth when he nips at your mouth and traces down your jaw with his hands sliding up your dress. you've let him touch you here and there but you've never gone this far before. not with him, not with anyone.

"g-gojo, wait!"

he pauses, stops. the look in his eyes is stormy and flat. it almost scares you.

"hm?"

in a weird, weird way - you're most concerned about him being mad at you. you get all squirmy, disappointed because up until this point gojo's only ever been happy with you. you can tell in hindsight that now would be the perfect time to put it all to bed.

but you don't, and your voice comes out as a half squeak.

"...are you mad at me?"

it's so.. small. so soft and small and submissive. and gojo pauses and whatever anger he did have disappears because this is the closest you've ever gotten to depending on him. ever. in the history of ever.

if he were a good man, he would tell you no. if he were a good and moral man he would wipe that little needy look off of your face and tell you he wasn't mad.

too bad though, really - gojo satoru has never once been a good man before.

"just disappointed," he says, trying to hide the excitement in his voice "but if you let me touch you, right here - then i wouldn't be."

you shake a little.

"......really?" you ask. he grins.

"really." he promises.

that's how you end up like this. with your dress pulled down just barely past your tits and your skirt pulled up over your thighs and with gojo fingering you until you get everything all messy on his good suit.

you're in his childhood bedroom with the door cracked up. anyone could walk in, you're certain but it's hard to think of anything other than gojo and his long fingers. they're so thick and so huge - they stretch you out so nicely. he's always been dexterous and now you can feel it as he curls against your gspot with a thumb softly on your clit and sparkles in his eyes.

he could fuck you but somehow this is so much better. so much more gratifying as your pussy gets so sticky and drips all onto his nice and expensive pants. you look so good when you get defiled. you sound so sweet when you scream his name - buried so nicely inside of your pretty little pussy.

it's established to him that gojo satoru would be dead before he even let someone else near you. and the way you're squirting in his lap and all over everything makes him hard out of his fucking mind. his mouth closes softly on your tits and your voice goes all warbly.

"g-gojo, 'm gonna - ! it's nghhh,"

and that's when it happens, and a rush of warm liquid spills on him and you convulse with your whole body. you whine his name so fucking pretty and you cum so hard you see stars. you cum and you cum and you cum.

you're so delirious as you ride your high, but you hear it. gojos voice against your throat.

"you're mine forever, yknow?"

you do know. you've sealed your fate.

i am not Fine

put me in your mouth, baby, and eat it ‘til your teeth rot

➳ tags ;; afab!reader, reader wearing a dress in atsumu’s part, public sex / exhibitionism, getting gagged w ur panties (also in atsumus part..), established relationship, mirror sex in omi’s part, oral (f!recieving), use of petnames like “baby” “beautiful” and “darlin’”

➳ wc ;; 6.8k

➳ a/n ;; my bias for atsumu n iwa are showing so hard. esp atsumu sorry LMAO also tumblr please dont nerf me for using the horny banner <3 pwease <3 thank u kai @/kisseswithkai for the manga cap. and thank u to @katonshoko for beta-ing this nightmare

title is from doja cat song, candy! happy reading <33

― IWAIZUMI HAJIME ♡

Iwaizumi Hajime always catches you off-guard.

It’s nothing major. He’s not the grand gesture type to begin with, so you’re never knocked on your ass by any of his choices or random decisions. He’s never off-guard in a way that would upset you or disrupt your average and daily routine. You think, for the most part, the way Iwaizumi makes decisions is standard. He’s a little strict about it even, certain things about himself unchanged in the most comforting way.

But, sometimes he does things, and they strike you as almost out of character. Sometimes, he buys you little trinkets, or acts a little unusually affectionate with you. It’s always the briefest gestures that make your heart race the loudest. Confessions about how long he’s actually liked you versus when he told you, or even what things he’s strangely sentimental about. His normally aggressive features softened out and well-lit, looking like the second male lead in a shoujo manga. It’s the little things that remind you that he loves you, in a soft way and not just a tough one.

Iwaizumi Hajime always catches you a little off-guard, though most days you know what to expect to come out of his mouth, others he hits you with something just a little out of left-field. It’s enough to make you do a double take, at the very least. Most of the time, you just giggle and tease him a bit. Other times you stare at him in disbelief before breaking out into a grin.

Today, it makes you stumble a little. Coming home after a long day and even longer hours, you kick off your shoes and plant yourself into your couch, face buried in pillows while you take a long deep breath. You’re exhausted, half-way between tense and dead. When Iwaizumi finds you, he can’t help but laugh a little.

“Welcome home, baby,” are the first words out of his mouth, a raspy chuckle attached at the end. You lift your head up, face smushed into a frown with your arms held all the way out. He stares at you then laughs again. Leaning forward, you wrap your arms around his neck and he picks you up, just briefly before sitting himself down on the couch with you in his lap. You give him wide eyes, tired ones - a groan leaving your mouth as you settle in the crook of his neck. He smells like home - a little like deodorant and sweat. It makes you feel dizzy.

“Rough day?”

Another groan makes him chuckle as you cling to him, sighing.

“Yeah. Work was weirdly busy,”

“That so?”

“Mm.. yeah,’

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and Iwaizumi already has his hands under your work shirt - just resting on your waist. He’s got calluses all over his hands, from the pads of his fingers down to the palms and you can feel the friction. It makes you warm all over, everything about Iwaizumi tends to do that to you.

“I need to force myself to relax a little,” you muse, slumped in his arms.

“I could help you with that,”

You pull back to meet his eyes, green and pretty, staring back at you. They look low, curious even. You squint, putting your hands on his chest.

“Huh.. how’s that?”

Suddenly his hands travel down the expanse of your back, around your ass and thighs. He grabs a handful, and you squeak, catching onto the fact he wants to do something lewd. You shift your weight a little, pulling back more but he holds you there - your arms on his shoulders to keep you steady.

“Kinda want you to sit on my face,” he murmurs, voice dropping impossibly low as he leans forward, kisses landing on your throat. You gasp - distracted by the warmth of his mouth on your skin. You want to push back but he’s strong enough to hold you there, impossibly close.

“I’ll crush you,”

“And I’ll die a happy man,”

“Hajime,” you protest, voice weak.

This time he kisses you, searing hot. His tongue slips against yours and you melt right into him. Falling into his trap so easily as you moan and kiss him, letting yourself grind a little on his lap. You think he’s too dangerous for his own good.

“C’mon baby,” ― he sounds clear, concise ―”It’ll help you destress,”

“After my shower, maybe,”

He’s stern about this, wrapping his arms around your midriff and holding you.

“I wanna see how your day went, don’t shower. Give me all of it,”

“Hajime,”

Keep reading

want.him

cw ;; thigh fucking,18+, afab reader but no use of pronouns, semi public sex

d’ya ever think about how sakusa kiyoomi seems calm n composed but actually can’t collect himself at all when he thinks about cute things you do.. 

like. he thinks he’s above it but you’re his first super serious relationship and unexpectedly - he gets antsy being around you. and he doesn’t know if it’s discomfort but he knows that when you laugh or smile or cry for him all the blood in his brain seems to rush south and it’s too much. you’re really too much 

he doesn’t have any excuses because he’s grown and he’s been around beautiful people but the sight of your smile curved up or even the way your hair looks is enough to make him dizzy. sakusa doesn’t know how to word it but he feels hungry. like it’ll keep bothering him unless he does something about it 

it happens at the worst times, like now. when he’s got you in the backseat of his car before a dinner and he’s pushed your pants down. it’s too obvious if he fucks you so he doesn’t.

 he sticks his pretty cock between your legs until it’s laying against your pussy, brtistles as he pulls your panties aside. you’re confused - it all happened so fast. a minute ago you were fixing your top but now kiyoomi is looming above you. too big and holding your legs together as he thrusts deliriously against your folds. 

you’re wet and you’re whining - going “omi, omi what’re you doing?” and he just grunts and fucks into your pussy harder. his head is rubbing so harshly against your clit and fuck it feels so good, your voice stumbles. he looks so out of it like his eyes are glassed over and you’re so slick between your legs. 

he’ll stop just to cover his cock in it. cunt letting out a slick little sound as he rubs with the most intense fucking need. one arm around both your legs and rutting against your pussy over and over like an animal. he wont fuck you, he can’t when you have a reservation in 4 minutes. 

but fuck, fuck - he needed this so bad. needy your soft and pretty cunt around his cock and needed to see your face all twisted up. he’s been so fucking desperate for it he though he was losing his mind. you have to cum, he needs you to cum so he goes faster and faster. cages you in with his body until you’re nearly yelling. 

“omi, omi - ‘m gonna cum, please just” 

he groans and it’s almost animal. repeating over and over “give it to me, fucking give it to me, fuck please” until you do. you cum hard and so fast, pussy soaked around nothing. your orgasm was so quick and so intense you feel like you’re choking and sakusa is only seconds away. 

he cums so fucking hard. it collects and pools on your clit and runs down your folds and it’s so fucking fitlhy. he rubs it in with his softened cock and wipes it off of his own with your draws before pulling them up. he doesn’t say much, just pulls your bottoms up until your clothed and sighs 

“we’re getting a hotel after this,” he whispers, voice hoarse “i’ll get you cleaned up.”

eren yeager ... sighing dreamily.. hiccuping... sobbing

easy, baby | e. yeager

➳ tags ;; 18+, fem!reader, small town au!, childhood friends to lovers, football player!eren, college student!reader, mutual pining, possesive!eren, mildly lovesick eren, car sex, risky sexy, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f!recieving), eren yeager is a menace to society, dirty talk, creampies etc., eren yeager is a menace to society, this is very vanilla btw, unbeta’d, reader is said to have a little makeup on and is wearing a sweater and leggings.

➳ wc ;; 10k (i hate it here)

➳ a/n ;; based of off this post. im so down bad its fucking insane. this title is inspired by the song lotus flower bomb by wale

➳ synopsis ;; you believe it, that eren yeager was destined to be the best. when he leaves your home town to play football, your paths naturally split. it’s only when he comes home during the holidays that you realize your little crush has blossomed into something much more dangerous.

You always knew Eren Yeager was destined for greatness.

Since you were kids, he’s always had that quality to him. You think maybe it’s just in his DNA. His dad is famous for medicine, his half-brother is known for his research. Eren isn’t really the scholarly type, but you could argue that greatness was part of the Yeager DNA.

It’d always been Eren’s dream to go pro. Out of the four of you, Eren was the most interested in the sport by far. Mikasa took more interest in MMA but Eren has always had it in his head that he wanted to play football. He would spend the holidays glued to the game, watching the local team with his nose inches from the TV screen.

When high-school rolled around, it was proven that Eren just had it in him to be an exceptional player. As a freshman, he was tall and broad. While you’d known Eren your whole life, it’d felt like his success was overnight. Maybe it’s because you’d known him for so long.

It was odd watching it happen. Your childhood best friend became something of a local celebrity with an increasing amount of mythos. You think it’s only natural that your paths divulged, with Eren spending more time in practice. You never got angry at him for it, but you couldn’t help but find yourself missing him. You got used to seeing him through local papers and photos, through little local ads and the likes. He was always busy, and you didn’t mind it, really you didn’t.

But you missed him. You had to go on with your life, destined to support him from the sidelines. Highschool passed and your relationship to Eren had grown a little distant. You only saw him on the occasion, but when you did spare him some time - it was always nice. It was like nothing ever changed to begin with, like Eren had never gone away at all.

Graduation was weird. That’s the only way to describe it. Eren looked distraught when you expressed to him that you’d be going away for college, a local college instead of one in the big city. It had a program for your area of study with good reviews, and it was cheaper. Eren seemed devastated when you told him, asking if remembered the promise you made when you were kids. That you’d follow him wherever he went.

You laughed, and said you did -“But we were just kids, ‘ren. Don’t be weird.”

Eren realized a lot of things by that point. The biggest one being that you were the one thing that was so unbelievably out of his reach.

Keep reading

the problem with bringing men home to your apartment is usually the morning after that comes with it.

did you expect to be bringing miya atsumu to your place last night when you offered to drive him home? no. of course not.

but the man was slurring and drunk to his bones, a clear testament to the fact that no matter how many times he denies it, he is so clearly a lightweight when it comes to his alcohol, and by the time you did get him inside your car, it was too late to realize that you had no idea where he lived in the first place.

of course you would offer to drive someone home without knowing their address.

you did the most sensible thing at the time you could come up with at the time — contemplate letting him sleep in your car — and when that obviously didn't pan out, you did the second best option that you so hated to even acknowledge.

and that's how miya atsumu ends up here.

how he happens to have his arm draped around your waist, pulling you closer and closer into his chest as he sleeps, however, — now that's an entirely different story.

this is a problem.

from what you can tell, it's already half past eight in the morning, only a solid hour left until the two of you need to be in and ready for work.

you try to stir in his arms, but atsumu, even asleep, has always been much stronger than you.

last night came by like a blur.

he was drunk and he needed help, so you gave him your bed, he felt warm and his skin was hot to the touch, so it was easy to figure out that he must've been running a fever.

so you do what he would do for you - what he has done for you - you take care of him, and you don't leave his side until you're sure he's okay.

even if that does mean waking up in the morning just to find yourself tightly trapped in his embrace.

your back is pressed against his skin and you can feel the way his chest heaves up and down as he breathes.

at least, he isn't as warm as he was last night.

you take the arm snaked around your waist with a grip, gently lifting it up as an attempt to get out of bed, but doing so only caused atsumu to stir, pulling you in closer than he's had you before.

"five - five more minutes." he mutters against your skin, his hot breath making your neck tingle.

your words are stuck in your throat - this is so bad - as one of MSBY's team staff, not only are you causing one of their star players to be late, but you're also technically in bed right now with the person you work for.

"atsumu." you call out to him, trying your best to shake him awake or even get him to open his eyes.

"we have to go." you wry and wrangle from his arms, but no dice, clearly playing volleyball all his life is definitely saying off.

he pulls you closer into his embrace, his head snuggling against your neck, and you swear you can feel the temperature in your face go hotter and hotter by the second.

"tsumu." you turn on your other side to face him, his sleeping features way softer than his usual ones, "get up."

he doesn't budge.

you've known him for a very long time. he's always been your best friend first and colleague second. you know like he knows you, and that meant that there isn't anything left to know about each other.

when you told him you were getting transferred out of MSBY, he didn't really ... get it.

it was cold and icy between the two of you for a while, ( for the longest time until last night actually, when the team all went out for drinks together to celebrate an important victory. ) but seeing as how the two of you are here now, you like to think he's ready to put that in the past.

he has been upset with you, and you miss him very much.

his arms are still around your was it as you quizzically examine his face.

he's never had good hair to maintain proper, you know that now more and ever as his bedhead could probably rival nekoma's old team captain.

"atsumu," you call, your hand touching his face, and he responds by pushing his cheek closer to your touch. "at least, let me get up, i probably smell like beer."

he doesn't say anything, you didn't really expect him to.

but he pulls you closer anyway, and since you've turned to face him, his head fits perfectly in the crevice of your neck, your head resting atop of his, and a pair of arms that refuse to let you squirm your way out.

last night when you were taking care of him, he was like this too. quiet.

you opted to sleep on the couch, let him have the bed as he clearly needed the rest, but as you readied yourself to go, his hand shot out to grab your wrist, pleading you to stay.

you forgot when you started to fall asleep, but you could never forget how atsumu asked you to never leave him alone.

"five more minutes." he tells you, his voice tired and sleepy, "just five more minutes."

atsumu's still unsure how he ended up here, specifically next to you in your bed, but in all the years of best friendship the two fo you have shared, this is probably the closest he's ever gotten you.

and he isn't going to let that go to waste.

he's your best friend first, he knows that, but he's always loved you longer.

you feel his hot breath against your skin, "just five minutes, okay?"

"okay, but timer’s starting now because you were talking and stuff."

the morning eventually goes as you planned it to. a very awkward breakfast, and somehow, an even more awkward shower.

apparently, it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen atsumu shirtless before, because the second he steps out of your bathroom, wet hair and all — your face feels hotter than it should.

"we’re late." you frown, your eyes watching the clock like it read you your death sentence.

atsumu gives you a carefree smile, one that rivaled his regular ones as he throws an arm over your shoulder.

you don’t bother to push him off anymore, this morning has proved well and clear that you’re better off leaving him be.

"we should ditch." atsumu’s eyes crinkle, "let you buy me breakfast and stuff."

you roll your eyes, "as charming as that offer is, we have to be there no matter how late we are."

you end up pushing him off anyway, tending to your work bag and making sure everything you have is in there.

"so," atsumu’s eyes follow you, "how about lunch then?"

you don’t look up, "what?"

and he tells you with a laugh, "go out with me for lunch."

that makes you look up.

as far as you’re concerned, you’ve already maxed out your atsumu limit for the day, and it was only nine am.

you shoot him an unconvinced look.

atsumu groans, "we haven’t hung out in weeks!"

and you prepare to tell him something along the lines of "i wonder who’s fault that could be" or "thank god for that" but whatever your reply was gonna be, it was suddenly interrupted by a series of knocks on the door.

you weren’t expecting anyone today.

you look at atsumu, "did you call anyone?"

he shakes his head, shrugging mindlessly as he continues to dry his hair.

whoever it could be, you don’t seem to care anymore.

this morning has been stressful enough as it is already, so you’re pretty sure even if the devil himself was behind your door, he still wouldn’t be the worst problem in your mind.

your door creaks as you open it.

"yes?" you say before you see who it is, and ko and behold — you wish it was the devil himself instead.

sakusa kiyoomi.

"i wanted to check on you." he tells you, a shy cup of coffee in his right hand as he looks at you intently.

"meian told me you stayed behind last night at the bar and i wanted to make sure you got home safe."

you take the coffee he hands to you, his scarf covering most of his chin, but you still see the shy and subtle smile he tries to give you anyway.

timing — you sick bitch.

"hey, who’s at the door?"

you bite your tongue as atsumu walks over to where you stand, and for a second, it’s very quiet.

maybe it’s the fact that you’ve got two extremely attractive men in your vicinity right now, but the tension in the air as atsumu sees sakusa and sakusa sees atsumu suddenly gets very thick.

sakusa’s smile drops, and you hate that because he rarely smiles to begin with.

"am i interrupting something?"

i-

did u guys know junya enoki (itadori va) does like. nsfw audios 😭😭😭😭 look that man up on soundcloud

Uh Oh, My Tutor is Super Sexy!

—for my baby @tteokdoroki ‘s coming this summer collab!!

prompt ♥︎!! summer sex (18+) x jock!yuuji x fem!tutor!reader

wc ♥︎!! 5k but it don’t even feel that long 🥸

♡ WARNINGS!! ♡

…college au. manhandling/strength kink (can’t have yuuji without a strength kink <\\3). pussy eating. f-fucking. slight dumbification & degradation, but also praise. mentioning of tummies and pudge. uh, misogyny? but… i try to make it sexy LMFAOOOO (just some comments yuuji makes ab how u dress)

Yuuji Itadori has a personal vendetta against homework sheets.

There’s nothing more that he hates in the world than complicated homework, packets and online reading assignments that take hours of his life to complete. He despises it.

Which, admittedly, is exactly how he got himself into this mess to begin with—but nevermind that, why does he have to complete this stupid summer course? All by himself, too. Alone and in agony, writhing away beneath the weight of cramped fingers and a sore back.

He should be at practice. He should be with Megumi and Kugisaki, getting smoothies and ice cream, having four-day-sleepovers until Megumi gets sick and kicks the other two out. He should be having fun. It’s summer. He’s officially on break, but instead of surfing with Toudo at the beach, or flirting with that cute cheerleader he’s been talking up, he’s spending his vacation cooped up in his dorm room with nothing but a six-hundred-page-text book.

“Itadori?”

Oh. And you. You’re here, too.

Yuuji groans in frustration, only groaning louder when you start shaking your finger at him.

“We won’t get anywhere if you don’t focus!”

“I don’t wanna do this,” he answers honestly, eyes offensively bored. “Don’t you have better things to do than waste time here with me?”

It’s hot. The window’s open, and the curtains are pushed back, and that helps. A cool breeze swings by every now and again. But it’s still hot enough that Yuuji thinks he’d be a lot more miserable if the weather didn’t warrant your God-sent mini-skirts and tiny—what’d you call them?—camisoles. Yeah, that’s it.

Every day this week, he’s opened up his dorm door to find you in some variation of tiny clothing strapped only around the parts of you that matter. And barely, at that! (Well, not matter. But the—the sensitive parts of you.)

Yuuji can’t even blame you—there’s nothing to blame you for. It’s hot; obviously you’re going to dress appropriately for that, right? Right.

It’s just… hard to focus on literary analysis free response answers when he’s got a semi brewing in his pants, y’know?

You roll your eyes at him and turn your head back to his laptop. Yuuji’s eyes take the opportunity—and every one before this—to roam down your legs, the supple smush of your thighs as they pool against the office chair his roommate loaned you for today’s study session. (Yuuji watched you flirt it right from beneath the man’s ass in amazement. You even managed to get the guy to go on a grocery run for the both of you. With his money.)

“Summer sessions are easier because they’re shorter, dummy. Less work and lower expectations.”

Yuuji pouts, determined to pack everything up and meet everyone else at the beach like they had originally planned this morning. “But isn’t it harder because we have less time to do everything?”

“Mm, it doesn’t matter now. This’s due tomorrow.”

“You’re such a teacher.” He frowns.

You quirk a brow, “Hello? That’s exactly what a tutor is, Itadori.”

Tiny clothing or not, Yuuji can’t help but appreciate how seriously you take your job. You’re always on time, and you only run-over when he asks it of you. You’re kind, a lot nicer than his actual professor. It’s easier to receive information when it comes from your mouth.

“Yuuji,” he pouts, flicking his pencil back and forth between his fingers.

“Yeah?” You turn back to him, a confused tilt pulling your head to the side.

“Call me Yuuji,” he clarifies. “Hearing you say my last name makes me feel old.”

You give an understanding ‘Ohhh,’ and then a quick little ‘Okay!’ and perk up in your chair.

There’s a slight curve in your back, Yuuji notices—from the way you’re sitting. An arch.

How far can you mimic that on your tummy, he wonders.

And then mentally slaps himself.

Pervert.

He sighs, slumping over in his chair. The heat’s getting to him.

Yuuji repeats himself, hoping it’ll stick to that wrinkly brain of yours, “I really don’t wanna do this right now. And it’s useless to try when I’m so unfocused.”

Despite the way you seem, you’re not a complete nerd. You’re wild when it counts! Even.. sorta reckless—and that’s rich coming from someone like Itadori Yuuji.

But Yuuji’s seen you before, at a few of his games. And at all of the after-parties, knocking back solo cups like you’d been getting paid to do it. He’s even had to bring you home before, by request of Maki—who apparently also knows you well.

Which, coincidentally, is why you’re here tutoring and co-working this summer class project with him, free of your usual tutoring charge. Lucky him, right?

You turn your head to him and lean forward to rest your arms over the computer table. And against your arms is your chest, bouncing and jiggling as you lean into the desk. Your tummy folds a little, too, and you just look so soft. All over. It’s almost like you’re taunting him, antagonizing him, purposefully. His eyes fly back to your face, quickly enough to avoid getting caught ogling.

“Well,” you start, clicking your nails over the desk. It’s then Yuuji notices your fingernails are pink, like his hair. “You can’t go to the beach—that’d take too long. Let’s just take a break?”

“Uh,” he swallows, physically cringing at how cracked and dry his voice sounds. “Yeah. I need—I need a break.”

“Do you need some water, too?” You look awfully amused, that cute little quirk in your brow comes out to play when you’re trying to be mean, along with a playful glimmer in your eyes.

Yuuji’s mouth dips into another frown. “You’re so funny,” he aims at you, tone rather flat. Then, the man stands from his chair to tower over you at full height, and pointedly side steps your chair. “Actually, I will get a water. A cold one. And I’m not bringing you back one, either.”

“Wait!” You push back from the table to get in his way, spinning to catch his shirt. “Wait! Don’t be stingy, Yuu, get me one!”

Except you very much get in his way. You’re far too deep in his way. And send him crashing to the ground.

The legs of your chair are longer than you think they are, catching Yuuji’s ankles and absolutely snatching them from beneath his frame—and taking his entire soul with them, too! Yuuji, as huge as he is, trips with an almost embarrassingly girlish squeal, and tumbles to his knees with a harsh slam! onto the floor. With a horrifying crack, his chin slams onto the seat of your chair, somehow—by some stroke of dumb, unimaginable luck—settling his face between your knees.

All Yuuji can think, disdainfully, is that you’re lucky he’d been far enough away, or he’d have taken you down with him.

Your legs jump apart as Yuuji’s head comes banging onto the seat of your chair. Yuu thinks he can hear you panicking—or are you laughing? He can’t tell. He feels your hands flock to cradle and gently pet at his face. Tweety birds skip around his vision as the world slowly begins to stop spinning.

“Yuuji,” your voice calls to him. “Yuuji, Yuuji! Are you okay? Do you need an ice pack?”

Tweety bird. He blinks.

Yeah… She’s staring right at him, actually. There’s… a bunch of her. A grip of yellow cartoon birds fluttering across your navel. All of them are grinning at him and—oddly enough—making him feel right at home, smushed between your thighs.

Heaven, Yuuji thinks, he’s found it.

He feels you shift impatiently and unclenches his fingers from the sides of your chair to pull back.

“You wear tweety bird panties?” Yuuji gripes from the floor. His eyes flicker up to bore into yours, an unimpressed gleam washing over his face—unimpressed besides the haunting, hot pangs of pure want shooting up his stomach. Is his mouth watering? “You dress like this, and the flavor of underwear is tweety bird?”

You go to kick him away, but Yuuj’s reflexes are sharp. He catches your ankle firmly, but shuffles away in fear of his own safety; a soft, slightly vengeful sob—“You’ve hurt me enough.”—cracking from his chest.

“Don’t look up my skirt!” You seethe, all compassion for him flying out the window. You try to yank your foot back, but Yuuji won’t let it go until he’s out of kicking range. “And what does that mean? What the hell do you think I dress like?”

Once far enough, Yuuji releases your foot and tilts his head up to gaze at you. He’s shifted around to sit on his ass now, not quite ready to pull himself back up to his chair.

“You dress…,” he starts, nervously rubbing at the back of his head. His gaze slowly shifts away from you, but you stomp a foot to startle his attention back up.

How should he answer this? Is there a way to answer without upsetting you? What if you storm off? What if you storm off and tell Maki? She and Kugisaki would… Gold eyes find their way pulled back to thick thighs, poorly hidden beneath that flimsy skirt you’ve got pulled up over your tummy.

They would castrate him.

“You dress like you’re trying to get fucked.” Yuuji admits, painfully blunt.

Your eyes bulge out of their sockets, jaw dropping to the floor at Yuuji’s audacity.

“What!” The pitch of your voice elevates in—in surprise, surely not because you’ve been caught red-handed. “I do—I do not,” you scoff, crossing your arms under your chest, across your midriff.

“C’mon!” Yuuji whines, shaking his arms at you to demonstrate. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, “You’ve even got the—got the tummy out and everything!” He gestures to your tank top, where it stops just above your belly button.

The tummy? Your tummy?

“So having my tummy out means I wanna get fucked?”

“You can’t just show up at my house looking like this. It’s—dangerous. For my well-being.”

“I don’t—I don’t—,” you sputter. Then, lowly, slow and careful, almost like you’re scared of the answer—correction: you’re terrified—you ask, looking everywhere but at Yuuji. “…Do—do you?”

Yuuji licks his lips, allowing his eyes to roam over you thoroughly. “For months now.”

You scowl, clearly missing the way his eyes darken. “Don’t play with me.”

“Would never,” Yuuji promises, shaking his head. “I mean it. I mean it—you’re so fucking cute. I try to be a gentleman. I do. But—but tweety bird? I wanna rip em off you, I’m sorry—,”

“Yuuji,” you beckon him forward to scratch anxiously at his shoulders. He doesn’t miss the way your thighs rub together. “Don’t say things like that,” you pout, but only seem to be pressing yourself closer. “We’ve gotta—the thingy. The—work. Your project.”

“What about it?” He coos, more to your thighs than to you. His big, rough hands ghost up your legs, then your tummy to settle over your waist. He brushes his face along your skin, making his way up with deep, appreciative moans under long kisses that vibrate up your body.

You don’t even answer, too busy shuddering. His kisses follow his hands, a line curving up your tummy to stop in the middle valley of your chest.

“Look at these girls,” Yuuji moans, weighing your tits in each of his hands. He has half a mind to suck them. “Can’t believe you’ve been teasin’ me with these for months.”

“I wasn’t… huff… teasing you!” You whine, so sweetly, at that. And Yuuji’s hooked. You’re just too adorable when you’re trying to fight him on things Yuuji already knows. So cute when you clamp your thick, smushy thighs around his waist the best you can when he’s kneeled in front of your chair like this.

You scratch his scalp and pout, “‘n you’re not listening to me.”

“Mhm,” Yuuji hums; his brown eyes flicker up to your face, “Can I suck your tits?”

Yuuji’s so… vulgar. He just says what he wants, when he wants. It’s humiliating. Your cheeks burn at the suggestion; your entire body feels like it’s burning from the inside.

“Do you… want to?” You can’t help it. Even with his hickeys painted up your legs, flinches of insecurity soften you. “Yuuji, if you’re joking with me, I swear I’ll tell Maki—,”

“No!” Yuuji’s gold eyes shoot open. Blasphemy, he thinks. He couldn’t—well, he wants to play with you, but not in the way you’re thinking. “No, who—,” he reach a hand up to cup your face, brushes his thumb over the corner of your mouth.

“I know it’s soon,” he admits, collecting one of your hands and pressing it to his mouth. “But I’m—I really am a trustworthy guy! And you’re pretty. Out-of-my-league pretty. Didn’t think you’d waste time on me,”

Yuuji’s lips brush over your breasts from atop your camisole’s neckline. It’s easy enough to do, with how fucking deep it is. You couldn’t have been serious, showing up to his dorm dressed like this. Either you’ve been hoping this would happen, or you’re just fucking stupid—and Yuuji doesn’t feel mean for saying it.

The college athlete sweet-talks his way into pulling your nipple in his mouth through your shirt—no bra. Fuck, you’re not even wearing a bra?

“Not leavin’ you alone after this,” and that is a guarantee, slightly muffled by your breast filling his mouth. He gently nips, brings his teeth to tug at your nipple through the fabric of your shirt and you freak. This loud, unbelievably cute squeal unwillingly escapes you. Your body jumps closer to smush his face into your breasts.

Yuuji, the big sap, is irrevocably in love. A new surge of desperation to feel you cling to him in other ways, to hear you call his name like that again.

“Yuuji.” He can tell you’re trying to use your chastising, teacher voice. It’s fucking hot. As a reward, he pulls your shirt up over your chest and presses your tits together to see if he can suck both of your nipples at the same time. He can. Your breasts are set free with a comical bong, tantalizingly bouncing before Yuuji gets his mouth on them.

You continue, trying to reclaim some semblance of authority.

“You, ah—,” sharp canines pinch your nipples. Your fingers curl into the sleeve of his shirt over his shoulder, “better make it—hiccup—make it quick—hhh.”

Yuuji pulls off your nipple with a wet pop. When he tugs your shirt back down over your chest, his sucking leaves the pink cotton of your shirt damp. Right where his mouth had been, attached to your spit-slicked nipples. They poke out through the material, too—Yuuji’s been saying hello to the both of them all week. And your tummy; the cutest bulge hidden beneath your skirt, but your rolls have been making his jaw tick since you sat down. He can bite them, right? Will they taste like cinnamon?

“Stop ogling me and get up!” A surprise attack! You crush the palms of your hands into Yuuji’s forehead and knock his head back.

“Ack!” Yuuji’s whole upper body jerks backward to escape you. “Are you trying to crush my eyeballs?”

He huffs in relief when you immediately retreat into your chair. Then, he pouts at you, slumped in fear of what you’ll do to him next. But just as quickly, he gets over it.

“You’re so impatient.” A grin tugs at his mouth. “Unhinged. I can’t look at you anymore?”

You yank his hair, hard. “No, I don’t want some stupid, jock-pervert looking at me!”

To your pleasant surprise, Yuuji gives in almost instantly. “Alright, alright! No need to get mean. I hear you.”

He throws your legs over his shoulders and lifts up. You hunch forward, gasping in fear and surprise as he manages to prop himself up on one knee, then both of his ankles. All while scooping you from the rolling chair to his study desk, and narrowly missing his laptop as he dumps you onto the table.

“You’re—strong,” you sigh admiringly. You’re not stupid. You know Yuuji’s a big guy, slender at the waist but his arms… They might be larger than your head. And yes, you know he’s an athlete. He trains by lifting things. But still—

Still, it shoots a thrill through you.

“Huh?” His fingers dig into the fat of your thighs and spread them apart. He pulls you the edge of the table until he can comfortably stick his head under your skirt, and reach your pussy while at it. He trails his mouth over your skin to bite at your thighs, mumbling something dark about wanting to get his mouth on these things forever.

“You like bein’ tossed around?” He asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. It comes a bit distracted, as Yuuji’s attention is already caught up in getting your cunt in his greedy mouth.

“Sorry,” he sighs, not a drop of remorse in his heart for poor Tweety Bird as he tears your underwear right down the middle. Yuuji releases the breath he’s been holding at the sight of your bare pussy. What a view. “I can get you more, okay? Don’t be mad at me.”

“You can’t just go around ripping girls’ panties off!” But your scolding falls on deaf ears. It’s not about you anymore, you fear, but the little junction of muscle between your hips.

“M’a pervert, remember,” he grins. His breath flutters over your pussy lips. “No, you’re right. I should’ve took ‘em home with me, instead. So stupid.”

It throbs, your little cunt, from all this attention lathered onto it. You’re about to whimper for Yuuji to do something, to stop staring—because it’s exciting you miserably—but then he’s moving on his own accord, leaning in to smother his face in your juices.

Yuuji eats pussy the way he plays ball.

Like he’s hungry.

He rarely comes up for air, fitting his mouth over your cunt and sucking hard on your clit until your legs are trembling over his shoulders. His hands are rough, digging and pinching into your skin wherever they travel—your knees, your calves, your tummy. Yuuji jerks your whole body forward, splitting your walls open on his warm, wet tongue. Your pussy drools back, too, slathering his mouth in slick and sweat.

“Fuuuck,” Yuuji moans around the taste of you. Your scent robs his brain of any cells left inside of it. He’s pushing his face closer, desperately flicking his tongue over your lips to lap up everything your pussy so graciously gives him. “Everytime—slurrrrp—you come over here, this’s all I wanna do.”

Your fingers surf through his hair, anxiously pulling at the pink strands. Yuuji feels you pulling him closer and trying to escape him all at once. You’re overwhelmed, desperately grinding against his face and trying to clamp your thighs around his head at the same time. Maybe gettin’ eaten is too much for your princess cunt, he thinks. But that makes Yuuji want to fuck you on his tongue even more.

He changes his pace. Instead of sucking and smacking like a man starved, he slowly builds up a rhythm. His fingers pull up to dig circles into your clit, rolls it ‘round and ‘round under his fingertips, and your pussy thanks him for it. It’s all messy, your cunt gushing slick all down Yuuji’s chin, but your orgasm comes even messier.

Your body tenses beneath his hands and your hips grind hard over his face. The feel of your cunt, already soft and gooey and hot, cumming right into Yuuji’s mouth—exactly the way he’s been pining after for weeks—makes his cock ache. He’s so stupidly hard, it fucking hurts. Yuuji drags the heel of his palm up the bulge in his jeans. The friction is good, so good. Dangerously good. He has to yank his hand away and pinch it back under your thigh before he humiliates himself.

A tight, hot pressure pulls in your gut, so vast and mean. His tongue bullies your cum into his mouth, even as the sharp throbbing at the tip of his cock almost tricks him into feeling like he’s cumming, too.

“Yuu,” you gasp, but he can’t hear well from between your thighs like this. “Please, please, hhh. I’m—sniffle—Yuuji,”

The last bits of your pride are set ablaze. A loud sob escapes your chest as you cum, hard and messy, and just for Yuuji. It leaves you breathless and shaking; your body trembles in Yuuji’s hands even after he frees your clit from his teeth.

You blink down at him, your eyelashes wet and clumped while your hand absentmindedly rubs over the back of his neck. He kneels between your legs still, chest panting and mouth open. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.

“You okay?” You ask, still taking big breaths. “Oh, you have—here.” Your thumb comes down to wipe at the corner of his mouth. When he gets to his feet, both of your hands reach to cup his face, trying to clean his mouth without smearing your slick all over his face. “I don’t have a napkin,” you mumble, looking almost dejected that you can’t clean him up properly.

“Shut up,” Yuuji groans. His head falls back, eyes pinching shut in what you think is annoyance. “Why do you have to be so fucking—c’mere.”

He pulls you off the table, despite your surprised cry, and flips you around to bend you over it.

“Wait!” You crane your head to look back over your shoulder as Yuuji stands behind you, crowding you into the table. Already, your knees knock together, too numb to keep you upright. The clings of his belt unbuckling rattle in your ears. It’s effortless, but the unspoken promise of what’s to come makes you shiver.

“I’ll fall, my legs aren’t—,” your mouth dips. “Yuu, m’gonna fall.”

Yuuji flips your skirt up over your ass, “No, you won’t.” That’s why he’s bending you over the table, genius—for a tutor, you sure are a little dumb. And even if you did somehow manage to slip, Yuuji would catch you.

“And if you do,” he adds nonchalantly, “then we can just fuck on the floor.”

“What!” You start to twist around, but Yuuji isn’t having it. He places a hand on the edge of the table nearest to the wall and hunches over your bent body. The other wraps around the base of his cock. He hisses at the feel of finally touching it, after denying himself for so long.

“F-fuck,” he stutters. “Baby, here it comes.”

You think Yuuji might go easy on you. The way he fiddles the head against your opening almost makes you giggle, fools you into think he’ll give you his dick inch by inch. You already have a quip on the edge of your tongue, ready to dig in—something like Can’t get it in? or Is that it? But when your mouth opens, all that comes out of it is a gasp.

Yuuji slams his hips forward. In one, sharp thrust, your cunt’s split open and quivering on a whole cock.

“Shit.” “Fffuck!”

Both of you claw at each other, suddenly joined at the hips. The pat-pat-pat of Yuuji’s hips meeting your ass fills your ears as you reach a hand back to press on his abdomend.

“W-wait,” you squeal, leaning up on your tippy toes.

Yuuji reached over your head and grips the edge of the table. He uses it to follow your forward, fucking his hips after your pussy, and bottoming out inside your hot, clenching cunt the way he’s been dreaming to for weeks. 

“Shit,” he repeats, throaty and low, and you’re sure he’s out of it.

It feels heavy. Hot and hard and like it’s taking up too much space inside of you. You’re dropping all over him—you know he can feel it. Hot juices pouring down to his balls, just to return to your skin when his sac slaps against the backs of your thighs, occasionally getting a good one in on your cunt—and that sends you squealing.

Yuuji moans into the air above your neck. A firm grip on the table helps him fuck you the way you deserve, so deep you feel it in your stomach. Your insides feel hotter than before, silkier and deeper and Yuuji hopes you’ll forgive him for being a little mean about this.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“So good,” his voice sounds clipped, tight and hard. It makes your pussy flutter. “Could—could live here, wanna be in this pussy forever. Can I? You’ll let me, right?”

“Yuuji,” you sob, nails scratching helplessly against the desk, “m’cumming, m’cumming!” Your body burns hot—it’s rushing so quick, but you can’t help how sensitive your little pussy is. Yuuji’s cock rubs every inch of your walls, helps itself to your cervix, gently knocking into it on every thrust in and pulls back harshly against the suction of your cunt every pull out. Your hips push out to fuck him back, to suck him in as deeply as you can. Your cum gushes against his pelvis and coats his cock—and Yuuji fucks you through it mercilessly.

Harsh, deep thrusts plunge his fat cock in and out of your pussy, even as your cunt spasms and drips down the inside of your thighs. Yuuji holds onto the table and uses it as leverage to drag his hips forward. Your legs are knocked apart, your little skirt flipped up over your ass, he’s as deep as he can get—but more. More, more, more—Yuuji’s reverted back to the primal ages, fucking you hard enough to make your whole body jiggle.

“Yeah?” His fat cock is throbbing, hard and fast and—fuck, he’s gonna cream your cunt if he doesn’t pull out. “Me too, I think.”

“In—inside,” you gasp, trying your best to articulate with your cheek smushed into the smooth wood of the desk. Your toes curl at the prospect of being used and filled with Yuuji’s cum. “Yuuji, s’safe—inside me…!”

A sharp hiss tumbles from his mouth from how hard your muscles clamp down over his dick. It feels like you’re swallowing him, like you want to keep him inside of you and never let him go. Yuuji’s eyes roll up into his skull. The veins in his arms become more prominent as he clenches the table harder.

He only pulls out when he’s sure you’ve finished cumming. A vulgar, wet popping sound follows his cock, before his hands slide from your hips to your grip thighs. He lifts you just a little—you squeak in surprise when he does—and bunches your thighs together. The transition is seamless: from fucking your pussy to dragging his cock along the outer part of it, between the top of your inner thighs.

When Yuuji’s cum finally bursts from the slit at the top of his dick, he floods the inner part of your thigh with it, thanking every god he knows for this sticky, sweaty weather.

It just couldn’t be a good summer without your mini-skirts and tank tops.

As the spend drips down your skin, Yuuji can tell you’re disappointed. Your pretty face scrunches up into a pout, but he elects to ignore it while dumping his load between your thighs. He hunches over your body, desperately humping your pussy lips and spurting out his long strings of cum until his balls are empty. Until the drags of his hips begin to burn with over sensitivity.

“Took it like a fucking champ,” he pants proudly, gently placing your feet back to the ground. He backs up off if you a bit, but only to admire your ass in all its glory—glistening with a flecks of misplaced cum.

“I told you to cum insiiide,” you twist around to give Yuuji’s broad chest a quick tap with your little fist after he’s pulled off of you.

“Hey, easy,” Yuuji shushes you with a soft slap to the side of your thigh, then slings an arm around your waist to placate you. You’re squirming too much, and he needs to wipe up the cum splattered across the inner part of your thighs. He swipes a few baby wipes up your puffy, bruised skin, all plucked from the container at the corner of his work desk.

His eyebrows dip in concentration before he’s muttering, “Don’t be a brat.”

You curl your hand around to catch his arm, giving it a soft squeeze. His cock flaps between his thighs as he moves, and even as it softens, it still feels thick on you.

“But—,”

“Next time, angel.” Yuuji assures you, patting you dry with a Kleenex. “Promise you’ll get all’a it.”

Next time.

“Oh,” you blink, stupidly nodding along—not even questioning it. “Okay. Next time.” And even though you can’t see him, Yuuji absentmindedly nods with you.

Really, he’s silently wondering if the two of you have enough time to nap and finish the project later—or if he should wrap his homework up now, so the two of you can nap in peace. He flips your skirt back down, eases you up from the table, and spins you around to admire his handy work. A freshly fucked out you, shining with sweat and smelling like a mixture of Yuuji’s cologne and your perfume. He likes this look.

“Pull your pants up,” you poke his chest from over his shirt. “We have work to do.”

Yuuji frowns, content with gazing at you for a while more. “M’gonna put some shorts on. S’too hot for jeans.”

“So hurry up. Your roommate might come back.”

“I’m going!” He shakes his fist at you. “You can’t be mean to me when I just made you cum, y’know! Twice. Isn’t that against the rules?”

Your response is swift, “You’ll never get to do it again.”

“Sorry,” he laughs humorlessly, apologetically. “Sorry, I take it back. I didn’t mean that. Be as mean as you want. Honestly, it’s kinda hot—,”

“Itadori?” A voice coming from the opposite end of the door startles the both of you. Yuuji jumps fifty feet off the ground, his little cock flopping with him.

“Itadori,” a series of knocks rattle in the air, “Can you unlock the door? I left my key!”

You’ve never seen a man fumble into a pair of shorts like Yuuji does in your life.

GOD im so in love with how in love they are

yesterday, you and atsumu had the first fight.

it wasn’t anything big, mainly just a heated argument, but you figured since there was so much pressure on it — the first after your marriage — it was a bit harder to diffuse than usual.

it was hard to diffuse at all. usually when you and atsumu get into arguments, you always come up with a middle ground to agree on, but for some reason, for yesterday, for that heartbreakingly annoying fight, you just couldn’t find a compromise.

the two of you decide it’s best to go to sleep separately, because maybe, space can fix what words can’t — so atsumu takes the bed (you insisted on this) and you take the futon on the floor.

and just like that, the way night becomes morning, your first fight with atsumu, becomes the first night the two of you sleep apart.

“good morning.” his voice is the first thing you hear as you open your eyes.

your gaze fixates on the sudden light, and the first thing you notice, the first thing you wake up to, is atsumu laying straight across from you.

“were you watching me sleep?” you say through yawns, overcoming the urge to stretch your arms above your head.

atsumu laughs, then he takes a second to reply, then another, and another.

he looks at you, “….no.”

and you look at him, tilting your head as you shoot him an unconvinced glance.

and he sighs, “yes.”

you smile, yawning again and telling him with a side eye, “creep.”

you remember two things from the night before; an argument that lead to you pulling out a futon since you decided it’s best to sleep separately, and the aching urge to retract the previous statement since atsumu had all the best pillows.

you remember the cold floor, the lumpy pillow, but you don’t remember atsumu sleeping next to you.

in fact, the whole reason you were on the floor was to be away from atsumu. so what the hell was he doing next to you right now?

“we’re both on the floor.” you point out, turning on your side to face him.

he nods, “yeah.”

and you notice that he isn’t particularly sleeping on anything — just the comforter and a few pillows surrounding him, but nothing really to cushion his body from the ground.

you blink, “aren’t you cold?”

and he tells you, “yeah.”

“did the bed kick you off or something?” you laugh, inching closer to him with your futon, the comforters by your feet reaching out to his space, and he’s comfortable enough to laugh with you.

he shakes his head, “i don’t like sleeping without you.”

and atsumu thinks that he’d rather, in a thousand lifetimes, sleep on the hard, cold floors next to you, than sleep on the most comfortable bed without you.

he’s grown dependent on your warmth, and he’s grown dependent on waking up next to you.

so after hours of tossing and turning on that big, lonesome bed, he chose to drag his blanket and pillows, setting them on the floor close to you, and dozing off the second he has you back in his touch.

he’s grown dependent on you.

and his back hurts like hell.

“i’m sorry for yesterday.” he tells you, breaking his line of thoughts, and he appreciates that the two of you are facing each other right now.

you shrug, “it was bound to happen.”

“are ya still mad?” he asks you, a bit gentler this time, and he’s still unsure of what he’d do if you tell him that you are.

you shake your head, “i don’t think so.”

and atsumu let’s out the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding onto.

you call out to him this time, “are you mad?”

and he tells you, toothy smile and all, “never mad.”

atsumu miya, blunt and mean and cold hearted in high school, could never bring himself to be upset with you, because you’re probably the only person he can’t risk to lose.

“you can be, you know.” you tell him, smiling as you feel his arm on your waist pull you closer.

atsumu, amused, raises a brow, “i can?”

“yeah!” you nod, cheering, voice laced with silence morning laughter, “go throw rocks at a lake or smash a pillow or something.”

and atsumu snickers, “smash a pillow?”

“well, i don’t know, what do people do when they’re mad?” you laugh, pushing him away as he pulls you too close, and before you know it, you’re on the hard, cold floors with him.

your face close to his, his arm right around your waist, and there’s laughter and coldness in the air.

“do you want to iron my clothes?” you smile.

and atsumu looks at you, “ya think people iron other people’s clothes when they’re mad?”

“oh yeah,” you nod, mocking as you continue to say, “especially when they’re angry, i think they might even make breakfast.”

and atsumu laughs, not entirely because he finds you funny, but mostly because it’s five in the morning and you’re already smiling ear to ear close to him.

he asks you, “then, am i mad?”

“furious.” you tell him, nodding, “you might even want to do the dishes after.”

atsumu, still amused from your jokes, pulls you into a kiss, one that matches the morning sun and the lingering smell of love in the air.

toothy kiss, smiley kiss, intimate kiss.

all the frustration from yesterday’s arguments, all the pent up feelings turning into snarky remarks and frowns and the slight change of tone that could be sharp enough to pierce — all gone into the kiss.

he pulls away briefly, “morning.”

and you tell him against his lips, “morning.”

and he’s back to kissing you again. on the floor. cold and barely covered by the white comforters. he kisses you over and over again.

you and atsumu are bound to argue here and there, but in no means will that ever make you less loved by him.

he pulls away, and you smell a lot like love.

“i’m sorry for yesterday.” he tells you, his hands still close on your waist, and you feel the way his heartbeat is jumping out of his chest.

you smile, “you said that already.”

“i don’t want you to leave me.” he says, voice low, and he opts to bury his face in the crook of your neck as he pulls you closer.

your tone softens, “for an argument?”

and he shakes his head against your skin, barely muttering as he peppers bitterly kisses along the nape of your neck to your shoulder, and atsumu says, “for anything.”

because you could do the meanest things to him, the cruelest and the coldest - not that you ever would - but even then, he would still choose you.

you nod, “we’ll be fine.”

its almost 4am and im crying over this oh god this is it for me

36 Questions (that lead to love)

miya atsumu x fem reader, 4.7k

1. Who would you want as a dinner guest?

“Pass Atsumu-chan some more of the curry, darling,” mother urges with a pretty smile on her face. 

Atsumu who pulls her hair in the hallway. Atsumu who eats her snacks. Atsumu who tripped her during physical education. Atsumu who’s chomping down curry in her house like it’s no one’s business. 

“I called your mother, Atsumu-chan,” mother says. “I told her you’d have dinner here.”

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i am feeling very attacked right now