serene, private summer picnics with your blorbo that end with your breasts spilling over the neckline of your sundress and your skirt bunched up at your hips while they fuck you into your blanket 💖
"you should be at the club" i should be by the sea. i should be in the mountains. i should be at the moon. i should be awestruck and rendered speechless by the majesty of the natural world. if you even care.
i think we need to talk about bsf yuuji desperate pathetic begging dry humping that turns into accidental penetration that turns into unexpected early creampie, i think we need to talk ab that.
timeskip yuuji xoxoxoxox 18+
i think we need to talk about the way yuuji keeps saying sorry over and over while he's cupping your thighs and pushing your skirt up. the way his thumbs hook in the the waistband of your underwear, hands sliding upward with the motion of his thrusts as he inadvertently pulls the material taut against your pussy.
the way his hips start to stutter faster as his dick bounces against the barrier of your panties, the material giving just enough to let him flirt with the sensation of sinking into your tight hole.
you lose track of when his boxers come off. of when he tugs aside the gusset of your panties with one crooked index finger and shakes as the underside of his dick slides through the length of your slick folds.
he mutters sorry some more, lets go of his grip on your sticky, wet underwear and starts humping you in earnest again. till you whimper, till the heel of your foot finds a home pressed into the small of his back and he's dizzy while he pushes your thighs further apart. he swallows and rapidly grips and releases the base of his dick before rutting through the narrow channel of your folds once more.
you see stars every time the head of his dick butts against your swollen clit.
it goes on like that in a circle of moans and apologies till the tip of his dick catches on your entrance.
and yuuji's hips snap in a thrust, a groan as he buries himself inside of you.
"fuck. fuckfuckfuck. sorry."
he pulls out.
rolls his hips once.
and sinks his dick right back into the heat of your cunt.
he fucks you like that. like it doesn't count if he keeps pulling all the way out. only to leave you shivering and whining and gripping the couch cushions till he plunges back in.
"gonna...fuck. fuck i'm gonna—" yuuji gasps.
he loses track of the rhythm of his thrusts, of the direction he needs to go to pull his dick out—
you whimper as you cum on his dick.
and yuuji can't stop himself from spilling inside of you.
hello dee my beautiful friend i’m being haunted by a thought so… i offer it to you :)
ykz kita and kuroo both have that fierce protectiveness over you, and both won’t touch you for their own reasons, but…
what happens when you come along batting your eyelashes talking about how you could reaaaally use a massage, and you know you can’t just go anywhere with all this security, and really isn’t it easier if HE helps you out? you feel so safe with him anyway… :):):)
"how much for the happy ending?"
the rolling pressure of kuroo's palms against your lower back stills, and you laugh into the pillow.
"what kind of massages are you getting?" he asks, a little incredulous.
you turn your head to find kuroo looking down at you from the side of the bed. "i'm sensing a lot of judgement from someone with last night's blood on his tie and a gun tucked into the waistband of his bands."
kuroo pinches the bridge of his nose, and you find yourself distracted by the flex of his tattooed forearms with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "i killed him, i didn't fuck him."
shrugging, you're not subtle about the way you let your thighs part a little wider than necessary as kuroo's hands start to work their way up from the backs of your knees. "well you could fuck—"
you cut yourself off with a moan as kuroo's hands bypass your ass, his strong grip kneading into the sensitive dip of your lower back.
"was the walk-in closet full of clothes not good enough for ya?"
startled, you whirl around from where you're currently bent over in front of the fridge, hand clasped to your chest in surprise as you find the kumicho of the inarizaki clan standing behind you.
kita's eyes are a warm shade of amber in the dim glow of the light above the sink.
it's a reasonable question, given the fact that your dad's best friend did indeed quietly have the closet in the guest room completely filled with clothes for you within days of moving you out of your apartment and into his house.
tops. bottoms. shoes. pretty dresses that you'd love to wear if you could manage to sneak past the combined forces of suna, atsumu, and osamu for one night out without them breathing down your neck.
you can't deny how well everything seems to fit you, how expensive you're certain everything had to have been.
so you can't blame kita for tilting his head, patiently waiting for your response in that quiet, commanding way of his while you stand there in his kitchen at two in the morning wearing one of your old ratty cropped t-shirts, the wide, cut out neck hanging off of your shoulder.
that, and a pair of red lace panties.
to be fair, kita did buy you the panties. technically speaking.
but you're definitely not wearing any of the practical, modest sleepwear that's folded away in the back of a drawer.
his fingers start to work at the buttons of his white collared shirt, and for a brief moment, some desperate part of your brain thinks that he's finally going to fuck you.
(you've been touching yourself to the thought of it nearly every night since you moved in.)
instead, he reaches out, draping the shirt around your shoulders. you can feel the material settle against your skin, the bottom hem covering the swell of your ass. he takes a step back, and you swallow, toes curling against the cool marble tiles beneath you as you find yourself enveloped in the scent of his cologne.
he's left in a tight white t-shirt that's tucked into his slacks, and there's a clear splatter of blood across his chest. it's then that you notice the blood on his neck as well. the bite of winter air clings to him—he must have just gotten home.
"'s too cold to be walkin' around the house like that," he murmurs, like the heat in his calm stare isn't enough to have you fidgeting in place.
it's purposeful, the way you post a suggestive picture to your instagram story later, kneeling on the floor in front of the full-length mirror in your room. still wearing kita's shirt.
(and it feels just as deliberate when the shirt mysteriously finds its way back to your closet after its been washed.)
the new content filters and the flagging system require every reblogger to appeal independently from the poster.
What is happening?
With the latest tumblr content filter updates, every reblog is flagged independently from the original post without the OP knowing. This means that if your post is reblogged by someone and that reblog is flagged, you won't know. The note count will go up, but the note is hidden: you can't see it on the rebloggers blog or any other reblogs branching from the flagged post.
What should I do?
Every reblogger needs to appeal for their own reblogs. Thankfully the review time on Tumblr's side has been fast, usually in a couple of hours they restore the post. If you can notify the OP, grand. If you have time, leave a support ticket, choose feedback and tell them why you think this is a bad model.
Why and how should I do it?
We all know the latest and contested change about the note counts that was thankfully rolled back, but its ramifications are still in use. Tumblr now considers every reblog a post in its own right, as you can see from the new banners for the same post as above:
The turn this website has taken regarding the ownership of posts is at best discouraging and at worst a massive disrespect done to all the artists, creators, gifmakers, fic writers and meta writers out there, making fandom fun and alive. If artists, writers and gifmakers don't get autonomy over their own art being shared on this website, how is a reblog different from a repost, something tumblr actively discourages from doing? How can the OP appeal for a post if they don't even know it's flagged? Why are we taking away ownership of the art from the artist, the human behind it?
How do I appeal?
Tumblr has this very useful feature, both on the website and on the mobile app:
You can find all the flagged posts on your blog either by going to the relevant blog>right hand menu, below Posts, Followers, Activity>Review flagged posts on the website OR by going to Settings>Review flagged posts on the mobile
Then you click on Appeal, and write a very short reason why, describing the post. You can even write this:
This post has nothing that is against the User Guidelines.
fictional men who protect you like it’s a habit he’s had since the very moment he met you — who stand in between you and any sort of danger, who cradle you in his arms like you’re the most precious treasure that has come into his life. and he knows that you can care for yourself — that you’re capable of anything that is put in front of you. but he wants to be there for you, wants you to know that you have him whenever you need him
tendou satori x f!reader — 18+, 1k, and they were roommates, sexual tension, platonic till it's not, nipple play, fingering, finger sucking
A gentle, hardly-there sensation brushes across your nipple.
Without looking down, you already know the culprit—Tendou’s fingers, which are moving ever so slightly as he explains what’s going on in the movie, free hand waving animatedly at his other side. His arm sits draped over your shoulder, where it’s been resting since you plopped down next to him on the couch in the middle of said film.
It’s nothing.
But it makes your toes quietly curl all the same.
And you can feel the way your nipples quickly start to pebble through the thin, useless fabric of your tank top.
It feels like a silent game sometimes. A dare. A finger hooked in your belt loop. A palm at the small of your back. His hand around your ankle. His thumb and your bottom lip.
Tendou’s your roommate. Your best friend.
And god are you tired of pretending like you don’t want to fuck him.
Fuck it.
It’s subtle, the way you shift and stretch. The little yawn that tips out past your lips as you arch your back. But by the time you’ve settled, you’ve managed to tug down your tank top just enough.
Enough that the next time Tendou moves ever so slightly, the tip of his middle finger brushes against your bare, hard nipple. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the way he stills. The way he waits for you to react.
Anticipation thrums its way along the inside of your ribcage.
You inhale slowly, chest rising, nipple rubbing against Tendou’s finger in the barest fraction of movement. Your teeth scrape the inside of your cheek.
Colors flash across the television screen as something in the movie explodes, but you’re too distracted by the sensation of Tendou softly caging your nipple between two of his fingers, closing the digits with just enough pressure to pinch. His hand still hangs flat, like he’s yet to make anything about this wholly deliberate.
Like you could still pretend this never happened.
Like the hot lick of arousal dripping between your thighs is neither here nor there.
Ten minutes pass before you yawn again, louder than before, sliding down until your head rests in Tendou’s lap. You know he thinks you’ve cashed out on the game, because it takes him far too long to realize you tugged your tank top down enough to completely let your tits spill out.
You’re on your back, head tilted to the side as if you’ve been paying any attention to the movie. And he still doesn’t say anything, just rests a hand flat over your stomach. His long fingers move in small, circular motions.
You don’t realize he’s been slowly shifting upward until his hand fully cups one of your tits.
“Did you like the movie?” he asks.
He drags the side of his thumb over your nipple. Once, twice.
“What?” you breathe out, mind short-circuiting under the deliberate weight of the action.
Three times. He strokes your sensitive nipple in small, lazy circles. Arousal drips like warm honey down the back of your tongue.
You look away from the credits rolling on the television screen to find Tendou calmly looking down at you. He holds your gaze like your tits aren’t out, like he’s not in the middle of teasing them while you fight the urge to moan.
“The movie,” he repeats.
He takes your nipple between his thumb and index finger and pinches it, expression unchanged despite the noise that slips out past your lips.
“Yes,” you exhale, eyes going a little wide.
Tendou smiles, hand sliding across your chest to palm at your other tit. “Yeah, I thought it was pretty good.”
He squeezes.
Body arching upward into his touch, you gasp. “So good.”
You lose track of exactly how it happens while you’re writhing and shifting upward across Tendou’s lap while he plays with your tits. How you eventually end up with your ass across his lap, the pitiful inseam of your jean shorts allowing his fingers to slide up and traipse a slow, mind-numbing path along your cotton panties.
He traces your slit through the fabric as if your underwear aren’t already completely soaked through, clinging to your puffy folds.
“Still good?” he asks, even though the television’s long since turned off on its own. The living room is dark save for the spill of dim light from above the kitchen sink.
Deft fingers toy with the gusset of your panties. You nod.
And with one hand still working your tits, he tugs the material aside, eliciting a breathy whimper from your lips when he drags two fingers through your messy, sticky slit. Your hips buck, arousal coursing through your veins while denim presses into your skin and the elastic of your panties stretches and your nipples ache and your clit throbs. And Tendou sinks one longer finger right into the wet, tight heat of your cunt.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
Tendou cups your cheek as you whine, hips rocking into his touch as he slowly pumps the digit in and out, a filthy squelch punctuating the room’s silence. He traces your mouth while your lips part, lets you caress the pads of his fingers with your tongue and teeth as you writhe.
A second digit joins the first, and your mind nearly goes blank with a heady buzz of pleasure as Tendou presses his fingers into your mouth. You suck on them, sloppy and desperate, feeling tears welling up at your lash line while drool slips down your chin. Your spread your legs wider, and Tendou finger fucks you deep to the last knuckle, his own hips pushing upward into the swell of your ass. You can feel his erection.
“—want you to fuck me,” you moan, feeling tears slip down your cheeks. Your pussy aches.
“Later.” He leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth while you drool all over his fingers.
He curls his fingers inside of you. You whine, deliberately dragging your ass against his dick. He begins thrusting his fingers in and out of your cunt at a dizzying pace.
“Come for me, and then I’ll fuck you,” he murmurs.
And just like that, the coil of heat wrapped tightly in your gut unravels in a whip of gushing pleasure. Your vision goes white while your climax punches through you, and a quiet, satisfied hum leaves Tendou’s mouth as you fuck yourself on his fingers till you’re an overstimulated, shaking mess.
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
dededos
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
