PEACH! Do you think the first time you’re with Sanemi intimately he is scared to hurt you? Maybe not hurt but more like doesn’t want to mess up, un purify, or end up not being what you want? Genuinely my dream is to be inside this mans head while something intimate goes down for the first time.
OHHHH YES YES YES I CAN TALK ABOUT THIS FOR HOURSSSSSS
WARNING! NSFW BELOW!
I did a little exploration of this headcanon in Compass and it comes up again in Wind and Moon. But short answer: absolutely. 200%. Multiple things influence him with respect to intimacy, the largest and most obvious of which is his father and how Sanemi witnessed Kyogo’s treatment of Shizu (his mother). Sanemi canonically isn’t blind to how others perceive him — brutal, cruel, rough. He’s acutely aware of it and actively encourages it in a desperate attempt to keep his loved ones far away and safe. So of course, that’s going to come back and bite him in the ass the first time he even considers getting intimate with someone because fuck, they know what he is. How could you possibly want him knowing he’s exactly the monster you must think he is, the same one his father was? In that regard, he probably thinks you’re stupid or have zero sense of self preservation, in which case, he’s going to protect you from yourself. And that means he resists.
Naturally, he can’t do that forever because at the end of the day, he is a lonely boy with so, so much capacity for love. So his apprehension to intimacy shifts course — it becomes about shielding you from being tainted by him. He’s dark, fucked up, too traumatized for anyone to genuinely want the cowardice and weakness beneath his hardass exterior, and if you touch him and let him touch you, you’ll only expose yourself to it. It doesn’t matter that your fingers on his cheek make him feel whole, chase away all memories of the scars marring his skin until he forgets they’re there all together. It doesn’t matter how badly he wants to explore the soft planes of your body with his hands or mouth, map out every inch of you until he knows you like the back of his hand. It’s dangerous because he’s dangerous, and you’re good. He doesn’t deserve you and you’re supposed to be smart enough to know that.
I think, when he’s finally worn down though and unable to hold back any longer, he’s still very in his own head. He’s extremely delicate in how he handles you and constantly checks in — when he kisses you, when he tentatively begins undressing you and hesitates when undressing himself, when he’s got you spread out on the bed while he sits between your thighs, nothing separating you except a few inches of space and his one last hesitation. He’s asking you if it’s really what you want, throwing you every out he has just in case you make the smart decision and back out. But, you don’t, and Sanemi is helpless when it comes to you, so he obeys your soft commanding please, and gives himself up to you.
During the deed? Sanemi’s very cautious. Don’t get me wrong, he feels fucking incredible and it takes an enormous amount of self restraint he’s not sure he has to not bust the second he’s fully seated inside you. It’s his singular focus on you that keeps him from doing so, and he’s so attuned to how your eyebrows scrunch with the slight discomfort of having him fully in you that he can’t really give a fuck about how amazing he feels. He feels only slight anxiety, knotting in his stomach, and fear hardening in his throat because he knew it, you regret it, this isn’t what you want and above all, he’s hurting you —
Yet, you strip him down and flay him open when you pull him in for a kiss, shyly roll your hips up to meet his, signaling you want him to move. After that, Sanemi’s mind finally goes blank and he lets himself be lost in the moment. Oh, it’s passionate. Deeply intimate, something most would be surprised to know Sanemi Shinazugawa was even capable of. He’s wrapped up in you, arms tight around your waist, your shoulders, face buried in the crook of your neck while you two rock together and become one. Yeah, he probably gets a little emotional (even if he’d rather swallow his own sword before admitting it), but how could he not? You trust him enough with your body to let him bend it to his, make it his, and for the first time he doesn’t feel like a brute. He feels like a man, every bit what his father wasn’t. And he swears, in that moment, he will do everything, become anything, to be the man you don’t just want but deserve.
One arm is locked tightly around your waist, the other, your upper back, his hand cupping your opposite shoulder as he holds you in place against him, his face buried against your neck.
There’s a burning in his eyes, one that he conceals by keeping his face buried in your neck. Atop him, you begin to shift and squirm, no doubt overstimulated and desperate to be relieved from the friction his body creates, but his hold on you only tightens.
Not yet; he’ll let you pull away soon, and then he will withdraw from the haven of your body. He just needs another moment, a chance to steady himself against the waves of emotion swelling and crashing inside his chest, beating against his lungs. That’s all he needs; one more chance to find his footing somewhere among the rubble, because nothing remains of him, now. There are no great, castle walls, no armor that’s left, to guard his heart. You’ve shattered it all and waded through the pieces of his defenses without so much as a scratch. Now, you hold it on your hands. It is a broken, bleeding thing, and he can’t imagine it’s worth much at all, but it’s yours all the same.
Because Sanemi loves you.
He loves you unlike anyone or anything else, and it’s as overwhelming as it is beautiful, so he just needs another moment.
Your newest post is so cute!! Can you share more thoughts about Senjuro and Nezuko :)))
Senjuro doesn’t start developing feelings until after post war.. he HOPES that nezuko doesn’t remember him being jealous of her hanging out with his brother because he finds her very cute and that’s be embarrassing as hell for him(she thinks he’s a cutie too though so😋!!)
Hiiii I'm a new follower and I have a request if you can be able to...
Could you please write some headcanons of how the upper moons 1-3 + muzan would eat you out? 😩
(I just started watching demon slayer not too long ago and omg the demons are finnnnnneeee)
how the upper moons would eat you out !!
including: kokushibo, douma, akaza, muzan.
a/n: hii tysm for followinggg, i actually had a fun time writing this! alsoo im soo sorry for posting this late i was supposed to finish this the day you asked but i was locked in on roblox🥹✌🏽
mdni, smut below cut !!!
Kokushibo
Kokushibo approaches the act with the same methodical precision he applies to his swordsmanship. There is nothing hurried, nothing careless about the way he touches you. He positions you before him like a ritual preparation—body arranged just so, limbs placed with deliberate intention, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation.
He does not speak. Words are unnecessary when his actions convey everything.
His hands are the first point of contact. Long fingers, calloused from centuries of gripping his blade, trace the inside of your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship. The touch is light at first—feathery strokes that map your skin, memorizing every contour, every sensitive patch. He watches your reactions with those six eyes, cataloging each twitch, each sharp inhale, each trembling exhale. He learns your body like a technique he intends to master.
When he finally lowers his head, it is with the grace of a falling leaf. His breath ghosts over your cunt, warm and measured, before his lips press a single kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Another. He works his way inward with excruciating slowness, building anticipation until your hips shift involuntarily, seeking his mouth.
He denies you at first.
"Patience," he murmurs, the first word he's spoken. His voice is deep, resonant, vibrating against your sensitive skin.
His tongue emerges like a blade from its sheath—controlled, precise, devastating. He traces your folds with the tip, following the natural lines of your body like calligraphy strokes. The pressure is exact, never too much, never too little. He finds your clit not by accident but by design, circling it with a rhythm that feels premeditated.
He maintains that rhythm without deviation. He does not speed up, does not slow down, does not vary his technique until you are arching into his mouth, breath catching, fingers gripping the sheets. Only when your body signals impending climax does he change his approach—and even then, it is calculated.
He slides two fingers inside you, curling them with surgical precision, pressing against that spongy wall of nerves while his tongue continues its relentless circles. The combination is devastating, orchestrated to push you over the edge with mechanical efficiency.
When you come, he does not stop. He draws out every wave, every contraction, licking through your orgasm until you are trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he pull back, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips to your center.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable.
"Acceptable," he says. But the faintest curl at the corner of his lips betrays his satisfaction.
He will do it again, you realize. He has cataloged your responses, identified your weaknesses, and he will refine his technique until "acceptable" becomes "perfection."
Douma
Douma views the act as performance.
Not in a self-conscious way—he is beyond such mortal concerns—but in the sense that he approaches every interaction as a spectacle, a show to be witnessed and appreciated. That he happens to be the performer and the audience simultaneously is simply part of the entertainment.
He is theatrical from the moment he begins. He kneels before you with exaggerated reverence, pressing his palms together in mock prayer, a beatific smile spread across his features.
"Let us begin our communion," he says, his voice dripping with false piety. His rainbow eyes glitter with amusement. He knows exactly how ridiculous he looks. He does not care. If anything, he revels in it.
He takes his time undressing you, not with the reverence of Kokushibo but with the flair of a showman. Each piece of clothing removed is accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a murmured compliment, a lingering touch that borders on teasing. He treats your body like a gift he is unwrapping, savoring the reveal with theatrical delight.
When he finally settles between your thighs, he presses a kiss to each one, then to your mound, then to your clit through the fabric of your underwear—if you're still wearing any at this point. He looks up at you through his lashes, that infuriating smile still in place.
"This is my favorite part," he announces, as if sharing a delightful secret.
He is chatty. Gods, is he chatty.
"You taste divine tonight. Have you been eating something different? Or is it simply the anticipation making everything more exquisite?"
He punctuates his commentary with licks, each one deliberate and showy. He has a tendency to pull away at the worst moments—right when you're getting close, right when the pleasure crests toward its peak—just to make some observation or ask a question.
"Do you like it when I do this? Or perhaps you prefer—"
He demonstrates both options, watching your face with clinical fascination. He takes notes. Not literally, but you can feel his attention sharpen, cataloging your reactions with the same intensity Kokushibo uses, but for entirely different reasons. Douma wants to entertain you. He wants to be the best you've ever had, not out of pride but out of a deep, incomprehensible need to be interesting.
He switches techniques constantly. Fast, slow, broad strokes, pointed flicks, suction that borders on painful before softening into something gentler. He hums while he works, melodies from forgotten eras, the vibrations adding another layer of sensation.
When he brings you to climax, he does not stop talking.
"Yes, that's it. Beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. You should see your face right now—I wish I had a mirror—"
He licks through your orgasm with enthusiasm, lapping at you like a man dying of thirst. When you finally collapse, trembling, he sits up, chin glistening, and claps his hands together.
"Bravo. Encore? No? Perhaps later."
He will absolutely bring it up at dinner. "Remember that thing I did with my tongue? I've been thinking of variations."
Akaza
Akaza is intense.
There is no other word for it. The moment he decides he wants to taste you, everything else ceases to exist. The world narrows to the space between your thighs, and he attacks it with the same ferocity he brings to combat—but tempered with a desperation that borders on reverent.
He does not ask. He takes.
Not violently—never violently, not with you—but with a certainty that leaves no room for ambiguity. He pushes you onto your back, settles between your legs, and buries his face in your cunt like he's been starved for it. His first contact is a full-mouthed kiss, tongue pressing flat and firm, tasting you in long, greedy strokes.
He groans against you. The sound vibrates through your core, making your hips buck.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word muffled. "You taste—fuck."
His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. He does not seem to notice, or perhaps he does not care. His focus is absolute, his attention laser-locked on the act of devouring you.
He is not methodical. He is not theatrical. He is hungry.
His tongue moves with desperate, frantic energy—licking, sucking, pressing, probing. He alternates between deep, broad strokes that cover your entire cunt and sharp, focused attention on your clit that makes you see stars. There is no rhythm, no pattern, just raw, unfiltered need.
He pulls away only to breathe, and even then, his mouth hovers over you, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes wild and intense.
"More," he growls. Not a question. A demand.
He dives back in.
He uses everything—lips, tongue, teeth (gentle, careful pressure that borders on pain before backing off), his nose pressing against your clit while his tongue works your entrance. He brings you to the edge so many times you lose count, each time pulling you back just before the fall, savoring your desperation.
"Please," you gasp, not knowing what you're begging for.
He groans in response, the sound desperate. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pulling you closer, deeper, until his face is completely buried in your cunt, nose pressed against your clit, tongue fucking into you.
When he finally lets you come, it is with a roar of satisfaction that vibrates through your entire body. He does not relent, does not slow, does not stop until you are sobbing from the overstimulation, pushing weakly at his head.
Only then does he pull back, his face slick, his eyes burning with possessive fire.
"Mine," he says, and the word is a vow.
He will do it again within the hour. He will not be satisfied until you are completely wrecked, until you cannot walk, until the only word you remember is his name.
Muzan
Muzan does not kneel.
This is the first thing you must understand about him. He is the progenitor, the king of demons, a being who has lived for over a thousand years and answered to no one. The idea of him placing himself beneath anyone—even in an act of intimate service—is almost incomprehensible.
And yet.
He does it because he chooses to. And that choice makes it infinitely more significant.
He arranges you on the bed with imperial precision. He does not undress you himself—that would be beneath him—but he instructs you to do so, watching with cold, appraising eyes as you comply. His gaze moves over your body like a general surveying a battlefield, assessing worth, calculating value.
When he is satisfied, he approaches.
He does not lower himself to the bed. Instead, he remains standing, looking down at you with an expression of detached curiosity. His hand reaches out, fingers tracing down your torso, pausing at your hip, your thigh, before sliding between your legs.
He examines you like a specimen. His fingers part your folds, exposing you to the cool air, to his unblinking stare. He does not touch where you want him to—not yet. He simply looks.
"So this is what you offer," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."
He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with the deliberation of a sommelier sampling wine. His eyes close briefly, and when they open, there is something new in them. Interest. Perhaps even hunger.
He finally kneels.
But even on his knees, he exudes authority. He does not grovel. He does not plead. He positions himself between your thighs with the grace of a predator settling into a strike, and when he lowers his head, it is with the deliberate intention of a king bestowing a gift.
His tongue is inhuman.
Not in the grotesque sense—it appears normal, pink and wet and warm—but in its precision, its control, its ability to adapt in ways no human tongue could match. He can make it longer, thinner, can change its texture from smooth to rough with a thought. He uses this ability with calculated cruelty.
He starts with soft, broad strokes that cover your entire cunt, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every micro-expression. He finds the spots that make you gasp, the angles that make you moan, and he files that information away for later use.
He does not rush. He takes his time, drawing out the experience, savoring your responses like a connoisseur tasting a rare wine. Occasionally, he pulls away entirely, leaving you aching and empty, just to see the frustration flicker across your face.
"You want more," he says. It is not a question.
"Yes."
"Do you deserve more?"
The question hangs in the air. He waits for your answer, his tongue tracing lazy patterns on your inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where you need him most.
"Please," you finally say.
He smiles. It is not a kind smile.
"Good answer."
He returns to your cunt with renewed purpose, his tongue now focused on your clit, flicking and circling with inhuman speed. He adds fingers—three, four, more? It's hard to count, hard to think when he's doing that—curling them inside you, stretching you, filling you.
The pleasure builds like a storm, overwhelming and relentless. He does not let up, does not slow, does not give you a moment to catch your breath. He drives you toward climax with merciless efficiency, and when you finally break, he does not stop.
He keeps going, drawing out your orgasm until it borders on painful, until you are shaking and crying and begging him to stop. Only then does he pull back, licking his lips, his expression one of cold satisfaction.
"Adequate," he pronounces. "We will try again tomorrow. I expect better results."
He will not tell you what "better results" means. He will simply push you harder, demand more, and take immense pleasure in watching you fall apart beneath his touch.
Bonus: All Four Simultaneously
In the impossible scenario where all four Upper Moons decide to share you, the experience would be overwhelming in every sense of the word.
Kokushibo would focus on your upper body, pinning you in place, whispering instructions in that calm, measured voice. "Breathe. Do not fight it. Surrender."
Douma would narrate the entire experience, offering commentary that ranges from poetic to obscene, laughing at the absurdity of the situation even as he buries his face between your thighs.
Akaza would consume himself with one goal: making you come as many times as possible. He would track each orgasm, pushing for the next, never satisfied until you were reduced to a trembling, incoherent mess.
And Muzan would watch. He would stand apart, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with cold amusement, directing the scene like a conductor leading an orchestra. His pleasure would come not from physical participation but from the absolute control he holds over every aspect of the experience.
calamity [n.]
: a disastrous event (marked by great loss)
my half of the art collab with @/afkumr2 on twt! she did the lines, i did the rendering ^_^)7 so happy with how this turned out - i usually dread rendering but this was so fun! [ID in alt]
tbh, i still really like the b&w draft i did to figure out the values and composition... something about the simplicity makes it hit harder
au where they successfully bring Akaza on the demon slayer side and he and tamayo become nezuko’s demon teachers so that she has an explanation on how she knows how to fight all of a sudden lol
Few are willing to go toe-to-toe with the likes of Sanemi Shinazugawa. Except, of course, his five-year- daughter.
A/N: a Bundle of Joy continuation wherein Sanemi learns the perils of parenthood
CW: none • dad!Sanemi gets walked all over lol • this is the father’s day post • Sanemi x Reader
READ BUNDLE OF JOY HERE
Sanemi Shinazugawa has encountered many challenges in his lifetime. He’s spent countless nights holding out against demons, bottom feeders and lower moons alike, gashes on his arms and whoozy from blood loss that he banked on weakening his foe just long enough to allow him to sever their head. He’s lost and lost — comrades, mentors, peers, and somehow, he’s kept going through it all. Pushed, fought, clawed, resilience ingrained so deeply into his bones that he doesn’t know how to do anything but succeed, no matter the cost.
Such a life should mean he’s invincible, now. Can face any challenge head-on, laugh in the face of adversity and tear his wins from the jaws of defeat with his teeth.
Yet, none of those past trials or tribulations have prepared him for this moment, standing in his courtyard, the golden sun high above drenching his shoulders in heat, as he stares slack-jawed at his tiny daughter.
“What’d you just say?” He says slowly, hands resting on his hips.
“No!” His daughter repeats emphatically, turning her head as far as she can away from him, little arms folded over her chest.
Sanemi blinks. “I wasn’t asking —“
“No!”
A muscle ticks in Sanemi’s jaw. “I’m gonna give you ‘til the count of five —“
A little hand, slightly chubby, but resolute, halts him, all five fingers straight as sticks. The message between them can’t be clearer.
Talk. To. The. Hand.
Sanemi’s vision bleeds red.
Corporal punishment has never and will never be an option for him when it comes to disciplining his kids. Sanemi made that vow a long time ago.
But god dammit, his daughter seems to know that. Has sniffed out her father’s weakness like he does with the demons he kills, blood dripping with a temptation he knows they can’t resist.
He’s powerless and she knows it. Any threats would be empty, any punishment, meaningless. He’s either going to have to go fetch her for himself (and risk her running from him, which would surely cause the already ticking vein in his head to burst), or he has to walk away.
In either case, she still gets the upper hand and he’s the sucker.
Trying one last desperate time to reason with his five-year-old, Sanemi grinds out, “Get over here right now. Not askin’.”
A stomp of a foot. “No!”
His nostrils flare. Fine. She leaves him no other choice; he has to use force.
Though her head is still turned away, Sanemi’s daughter has inherited his senses. She knows when the dirt shifts, must feel the vibration in the ground from his footsteps as he advances towards her, because she finally lowers her arm and turns, little leg raised as she prepares to break into a sprint.
Her father snatches her by the back of her yukata before she gets the chance.
Tiny arms and legs kick and flail in the air as Sanemi scoops her up, a cry of protest echoing off the trees lining the garden. But it’s of no use; the littlest Shinazugawa is powerless against her father’s size and strength. Not one to give in though, she goes limp, deadweight in Sanemi’s grasp in a final act of resistance.
“You’re in for it. You’ve no idea.” He growls under breath as he totes her towards the main house. It takes effort — more than he cares to admit — to hold back every swear he’s ever used. This show of obstinance is nothing new — he should’ve been expected it, in fact
Only one other woman has ever dared tell him to buzz off, to stubbornly refuse his orders, no matter how he threatened, yelled, snapped.
And, like the idiot he is, he married her.
Maybe that’s why he’s not surprised that his wife isn’t offering to help him straighten their daughter out, give her the stern warning, a reprimand, anything to show him you’re on his side in this battle of wills. Instead, you only watch him from the engawa, ghost of a smile on your lips as Sanemi storms towards by, your daughter tucked under his arm.
“This is all you,” he snarls under breath as he passes.
“She obeys me.” You answer back, your words heavy-laden with an unspoken I told you so that only makes him gnash his teeth together.
Because you have. Many times, actually, not that he’ll admit it out loud.
“No ohagi. Not after supper. Not tomorrow.” He breathes hard through his nose as he sits his daughter down.”And we’re not going to see the flowers today, either. You’ve lost the privilege.”
For a moment, your daughter swings her feet, knocking her ankles against each other again and again while she stares hard at her lap. Sanemi waits for her to gather herself, half suspecting her to unleash a handful of insults ranging from the innocent (you are not being sunny!) to the more colorful she’s inadvertently picked up over the years (asshole!).
But when she finally lifts her face, Sanemi’s blood goes cold. Her lower lip is already set with a harsh quiver, and her face rapidly turns blotchy.
Fuck. Fuck.
Anger melts into panic as his daughter’s eyes — Genya’s eyes, his eyes — well with fat, shiny tears.
“Daddy hates me!” She wails before dissolving into a puddle of tears and enormous boohoo sobs that punch clean through Sanemi’s chest, again and again.
Horrified, Sanemi’s arms drop limply to his sides. “N-no,” he tries, swallowing hard as he lowers himself to his knees, legs suddenly too weak to keep him upright. “I don’t hate you, Princess, I’d never hate you —“
“You do!” His daughter howls, snot leaking thickly from her nose. “That’s why — hiccup — you’re mean!”
Sanemi’s hand involuntarily twitches towards his chest, as though to pull out one of the thousand daggers stabbing him directly through the heart. “That’s not true —“
“You hate me and you don’t want to be my Daddy anymore!”
In the end, it isn’t a demon or battle-exhaustion that does Sanemi Shinazugawa in, makes him fold like a piece of paper, easily shredded.
It’s this.
“I’m sorry, Daddy’s sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to yell, I was frustrated, I didn’t mean to be mean…” he takes her tightly in his arms, rocks her the way he did when she was a newborn and kisses her hair. “You weren’t listening and I got angry — but you’re my best girl, always, always —“
Two ohagis and a litany of apologies later (by him, of course), his daughter has finally calmed down. Belly full and eyelids heavy with post-meltdown exhaustion, she reaches for him, fingers wiggling in the air to signal she wants him to carry her to bed even though she usually insists she’s much too grown to be carried around like a baby.
And he, like the stupid asshole he is, scoops her up, kisses her temple, and walks her to her small room.
She falls asleep before he even makes it down the hallway.
You meet him halfway, leaned against the shoji separating your room from your daughter’s, arms folded and an eyebrow raised.
Sanemi refuses to meet your knowing eye. Won’t do it. Can’t. Is too ashamed.
As he brushes by you, sleeping daughter encased snuggly in his arms, he mutters, “don’t say it.”
You don’t listen; you only shake your head. “I told you so. She plays you like a fucking shamisen.”
Yeah, she does. But she learned from watching her mother, who is the best. And Sanemi’s the sucker two times over.
Not that he’d change anything about it. Not one damn thing.
What would Giyuu be like with a reader who is quiet during sex? And I don't mean making them louder. Damn it, is it so hard to respect that a person doesn't scream like crazy while having sex? Either way, here it would be more like how Giyuu would be upon discovering this.
Giyuu would probably not inquire about it until after you finished. Oh, he would notice of course, and it might cause him to stutter a bit, brow pinched, rhythm lost for a half a second or so. He’d been unsure how to approach the issue — and he would think it an issue at first because he’s only ever heard Uzui drone on and on about how he makes his wives scream, moan, and cry, every damn time. Of course he thinks that’s the baseline, and so he inherently thinks he’s done something wrong if you’re on the quieter side.
The thing is, Giyuu sort of assumes he’s immediately at fault, so as soon as you’re done (and I mean the second he pulls out, cock softened and cum lightly leaking down your leg), he asks how he can do better. It’s almost adorable how serious he is, mouth set in a firm line, face solemn despite the redness in his cheeks from the exertion.
You blink at him. “What do you mean?”
“How can I improve. Next time.” Giyuu presses, leaning forward to nuzzle his nose against yours. “I want to do better.”
“Giyuu, that was wonderful.”
He shakes his head. “You were quiet. Uzui says —“
“Ah. Uzui.” You can’t help but roll your eyes even as a smile plays at the corners of your mouth. “That’s the issue.”
Giyuu draws back, brows furrowed. “But he said —“
“Though I’m sure he’d like to believe otherwise, Uzui is not the god of sex. Not even close.” You brush the sweat-tipped ends of Giyuu’s bangs from his eyes. Before you can pull your hand away, Giyuu catches it and brings it to his lips, kissing your fingertips. “His experiences aren’t universal and definitely not the standard.”
Giyuu frowns, threading his fingers in yours. He glances down at his lap, eyes narrowing in something like concentration. “But…how else will I know — I want you to enjoy it.”
Those azure eyes you’ve come to love so dearly lift to yours, a shadow of uncertainty lingering in their depths.
You squeeze his hand. “I did enjoy it, Giyuu. I promise. I was just concentrating on how good it feels — if I focus too much on being loud, I don’t get to savor the moment.”
You shift in the blankets, spreading your legs just enough so Giyuu can see the mess he’s made — and your own mess, too. You draw his hand to it, press his fingers right to your swollen, tender flesh. Golden honey spreads through your lower belly, and your lips part for a silent breath as Giyuu explores.
His pupils dilate, black chasing away all traces of blue.
“See?” You work his lithe fingers in small circles near your clit, gathering up the sticky pleasure. “That’s how much I enjoyed it.”
Giyuu nods, throat bobbing hard. He lets his hand linger for a moment longer before withdrawing, bringing his fingers to his mouth.
His eyes, full of heat, remain locked with yours as he flicks his tongue over them, lapping up every trace of you left on his skin.
Your throat goes dry. “So, no more sex advice from Uzui, okay?”
Giyuu’s nod is slow as he sucks his final digit clean, letting go of the tip of his finger with a wet pop! His other hand slides teasingly down your thigh, landing somewhere near your hip as he tugs you closer.
Excitement flutters in your stomach as he leans over you, hips nudging your legs further apart to make room for him again. Something heavy and hot presses to your hip and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth as Giyuu grinds into you with renewed want.
“There might be an advantage to it,” he offers, twisting so the tip of his cock drags up the seam of your cunt. He nudges at your entrance once, twice, before he slides home again, his intrusion made easier by the remnants of your cum and his. “As long as you’re quiet, we can do this everywhere Uzui can’t.”
Hey hey hey! With the World Cup going on, how would you feel about a Mexico Soccer Player reader x Japan Soccer Player Giyuu fic? Either female Mexico soccer player showing up as a representative, playing against in a coed match or even just attending the World Cup in Mexico at the same time? Whatever feels right to you😊
UGHHHHH THIS IS INCREDIBLE, idk how i never cam eup with this, thank you for blessing me with such a request!!!!!!!!!!! FOR MY COUNTRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
サッカー or Fútbol?
ᯓ⚽️ You see a guy from Japan. Balls will be flying as tension rises. ボール？何だこれ？
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Mexico City, World Cup Opening Week
The air outside Estadio Azteca felt alive.
Not just loud, alive. A pulse. A heartbeat. A roar that rolled through the concrete and up into your bones.
Vendors shouted, drums thundered, flags snapped in the wind. The entire city felt like it had been dipped in green, white, and red. Every taxi had a flag. Every balcony had a banner. Every child had a jersey two sizes too big.
And you, Mexico’s rising star midfielder, were walking through the players’ entrance with your accreditation badge bouncing against your chest, trying to look composed even though your stomach was doing somersaults.
Today wasn’t your match. Today was the international opening ceremony, the parade of nations, the press events, the first training sessions, the first glimpses of the world’s best players arriving on your home turf.
You were supposed to be calm.
You were absolutely not calm.
Especially not when the Japanese delegation arrived at the same time.
Their entrance was quiet, orderly, almost serene compared to the chaos of Mexico’s. Cameras flashed, reporters surged, fans screamed, but the Japanese players moved like a single unit.
And then you saw him.
Giyuu Tomioka.
Tall, composed, expression unreadable. Japan’s defensive wall. The player every analyst called “the calm in the storm.”
He walked with the kind of posture that made people instinctively move out of his way, not because he was intimidating, but because he carried himself like someone who didn’t need attention to command a room.
His eyes lifted for a moment.
And they met yours.
Just a second. Just long enough for your breath to catch.
Then he looked away, polite, distant, unreadable.
You exhaled, trying to pretend your heart hadn’t just done a full sprint.
Later on, you were answering questions in Spanish, English, and the occasional Portuguese, bouncing between microphones as reporters asked about Mexico’s chances, your training schedule, and the pressure of hosting.
Then someone shouted, “Japan’s team is arriving behind you!”
You turned, and there he was again.
Giyuu stepped into the corridor, cameras immediately shifting toward him. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He simply bowed slightly to the reporters and began answering questions in calm, measured Japanese.
You tried not to stare.
You failed.
At one point, he glanced sideways and caught you looking.
This time, he didn’t look away immediately.
His gaze lingered. Steady. Curious. A little too observant.
Your face heated.
A reporter noticed.
“¡Oye! Mexico’s star is staring at Japan’s star!”
Laughter erupted. Cameras swung toward you. You waved your hands quickly.
“No, no! I was just-I wasn’t-”
But the damage was done. The moment was captured and Giyuu blinked slowly, almost confused by the attention.
Then, barely noticeable, he dipped his head in your direction.
A quiet acknowledgment.
Your stomach flipped.
ᯓ⚽️
The sun was brutal, the grass perfectly trimmed, and the stadium echoed with the thud of cleats and the sharp whistles of coaches.
Your team was finishing warm-ups when the Japanese squad entered the adjacent field.
You tried to focus.
You really did.
But every time you glanced over, Giyuu was there, practicing defensive drills with a precision that was almost hypnotic. His movements were clean, efficient, controlled. He didn’t waste a single step.
At one point, he intercepted a pass with such perfect timing that even your coach muttered, “Carajo…that’s talent.”
You weren’t the only one watching.
But you were the only one he looked back at.
During a water break, you felt someone’s gaze. You turned, and Giyuu was standing at the midfield line, towel around his neck, water bottle in hand.
He wasn’t smiling.
But he wasn’t ignoring you either.
He gave a small nod.
A quiet, respectful gesture.
You lifted your hand in a tiny wave.
He blinked, almost surprised, then nodded again, slightly deeper this time.
Your teammates immediately pounced.
“Ayyyy, look at you!”
“Japan’s prince is checking you out!”
“Invite him to the carne asada, girl!”
You shoved them away, face burning.
ᯓ⚽️
The gala was held in a massive hall overlooking the city, lights glittering like stars. Players from every nation mingled, dressed in formal attire instead of jerseys.
You were talking with teammates when a hush fell over the room.
Japan had arrived.
And Giyuu, in a dark suit that fit him too well, looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. His hair was neatly tied back, his expression calm but alert as he scanned the room.
Your teammates nudged you.
“Go say hi.”
“No way.”
“Do it.”
“No mames.”
“¿Y por qué no?”
Before you could argue, someone tapped your shoulder.
You turned.
Giyuu Tomioka stood there.
Up close, he was even taller. Even quieter. Even more intense.
He bowed slightly.
“Good evening,” he said in careful English. “You are…the midfielder from Mexico.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“Yes,” you managed. “And you’re Japan’s defender.”
He nodded once.
There was a pause, not awkward, just still. Like he was choosing his words with care.
“You play with…confidence,” he said. “And precision.”
You blinked.
“That’s…a huge compliment coming from you.”
He looked away for a moment, almost shy.
“It is only the truth.”
Your pulse kicked up.
Another pause.
Then he added softly, “I hope we have more chances to speak. During the tournament.”
Your breath caught.
“I’d like that.”
He nodded again, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, before stepping aside as another player approached him.
But before he walked away completely, he glanced back at you.
Just once.
Just long enough to make your chest tighten with excitement.
ᯓ⚽️
You stepped out onto the balcony to get some air. The city lights stretched endlessly, the distant sound of fireworks echoing through the night.
A quiet voice spoke behind you.
“Hey.”
You turned.
Giyuu stood there, hands in his pockets, looking almost hesitant.
“I wanted to say…” He paused, searching for the right phrasing. “Mexico is…very loud.”
You laughed.
“Yeah. We’re passionate.”
He nodded slowly.
“I like it.”
Your heart fluttered.
He stepped closer, not too close, just enough that you could feel the calmness radiating off him.
“This tournament…” he said quietly, eyes on the city. “It is important. For both our countries.”
“For the whole world,” you agreed.
He looked at you again.
“But I think…meeting you will be the part I remember most.”
Your breath hitched.
Before you could respond, fireworks exploded overhead, bright green and red lighting up the sky. The crowd inside cheered.
The fireworks painted the sky in bursts of green and red, the sound echoing across the balcony like rolling thunder. You watched the colors reflect in Giyuu’s eyes, calm, steady, quietly mesmerized.
He shifted his weight slightly; hands still tucked in his pockets. You could tell he was thinking about something. Not nervous exactly, just…deliberate. Like he was trying to assemble the right words in the right order.
“May I ask…” he began, then paused.
You tilted your head. “Ask what?”
He looked away for a moment, jaw tightening in that subtle way he did when he was unsure.
“In my country,” he said slowly, “it is…polite to request contact information only if the other person is comfortable. I do not wish to be disrespectful.”
Your heart skipped.
He was trying to ask for your number, but doing it in the most careful, gentle, Giyuu way possible.
You smiled, stepping a little closer so he didn’t have to struggle through the phrasing.
“You want my number?”
His eyes flicked to yours, startled but honest.
“Yes.”
You didn’t make him wait. You took his phone from his hand, he let you without hesitation and typed in your digits.
“Just a warning…if you call me, the ringtone might sound a little different from what you’re used to.”
He blinked. “Different how?”
"Very loud,” you admitted, laughing softly. “Very loud and very Mexican.”
A tiny, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile you knew he didn’t give out easily.
“I will…prepare myself,” he said quietly.
The fireworks crackled again overhead, lighting the balcony in gold. Giyuu looked at you one more time, really looked, with a softness that made your chest tighten.
“Good night,” he said, voice low and sincere. “I am…grateful we met today.”
You felt warmth bloom through you.
“Good night, Giyuu.”
He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer, a silent promise, a quiet spark, before turning and walking back inside, leaving you breathless, smiling, and suddenly very aware that tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.
