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@ph4ngz
FRUITS BASKET | JUJUTSU KAISEN | GENSHIN IMPACT | MY HERO ACADEMIA | BLUE LOCK
fem!reader only on this blog, as I am most familiar with she/her pronouns, female genitalia terms etc… and find it easier to let my imagination flow without constantly checking to see if I’ve written anything incorrectly :’)
Who the hell taught the world that communication isn't sexy anymore????
Feel like Varka would drop the most unhinged lines while he's fucking you... 🗡️🍃
"Who's your daddy? Who's your fuckin' daddy, huh? S'it me? Hahaha, what am I saying. Course it's me."
"Oh, I've fought dragons 'n they still didn't cause me as much trouble as this pussy..."
"Ffffffuck, you're tighter than my travel schedule,"
"Wanna see what I can do with my knightly longsword?"
I WORKED SO HARD ON MY HALLOWEEN RIN AND NAGI POSTS WHY IS NOBODY SEEING THEM. I NEED EVERYONE TO BE BLESSED WITH THE SAME FILTH THAT GOES THROUGH MY BRAIN. This is just like what happened with my JJK neighbours post HELLLPPPP
The little snail in my ear is telling me to write about what kind of porn my favourite characters would watch in extremely vivid detail again
RIN ITOSHI || A KILLER AND HIS FINAL GIRL
Contains: DARK CONTENT! (BUT it is all pretend!) Ghostface mask Halloween special Rin-Rin!
You're still babbling on about everything that happened at the party. It's been two hours since the two of you left to go home. You've been overly talkative from the moment Rin had to drag you out after you found the bowl of candy just sitting there all lonely screaming "EAT ME" on the kitchen counter. You didn't stop speaking even when you had to stop on the sidewalk to haul some unconscious guy around and ask if anyone nearby knew the poor bastard.
"And you saw Shidou slip all that vodka into the punch bowl right? I saw him, ion' know if you did but gosh I'm so glad I brought my own drink, you know what I mean??"
Fucking E-numbers. Ghostface mask in one hand and keys in the other, Rin unlocks the front door with a bored grunt, barely looking at you (and quite frankly sick of your voice). The utility jumpsuit you'd devotedly smeared with fake blood while he complained about it is now half-unzipped and tied around his waist, revealing the tight black tee underneath that's currently soaking up the beads of sweat rolling down his throat from being stuck wearing a cheap mask in a hot room of insufferable drunks and a hurried walk home. He barges the front door open with his shoulder, hair still sticking to his forehead.
You waltz in after him with achy soles and kick your sneakers off to the side, grinning stupidly at him once your socks touch the hardwood floor. "Be honest, I was the cutest girl there wasn't I? You don't have to be modest or anything, I already, like, totally knew."
Rin seizes his movements as he's also taking his boots off, stopping for a moment to really take in the sight of you in your silly costume for the– well, he's lost count of how many times he's done it tonight, actually. Pigtails. Tight-fitting, ripped and bloodied tank top and the mini-est of denim miniskirts. Bare legs and a dumb, trusting smile. How could he not keep looking at you? A quiet "tch".
"I'm not visually fucking impaired." He responds flatly, proceeding to struggle out of his heavy boots and walk past you like you're simple, flicking the living room light on. "Obviously."
You scoff dramatically. "Ugh! Rude... ehh, I'll take it though!"
You jog to catch up with him, disappearing down the hallway and turning the corner into the other room with your footsteps thumping softly in time with his. He grumbles to himself about being thirsty and "so done" before throwing his mask on the couch along with himself, a long exhale leaving his lungs.
"Thirsty 'cause you're hot. You look super-duper yummy in that costume."
"It's stupid," he mutters whilst uncomfortably adjusting his pocket, flicking his bangs out of his face. "Knife kept stabbing me through the pocket, thought it was supposed to be plastic."
"It's hot. You're hot."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Too bad you're such a nice killer though... but! I kinda love that you're still nice to me even though you're supposed to be a scary murderer, or maybe I just love you. I dunno!" you think with a finger on your chin, only to bounce along off to the kitchen like you're his dutiful wife to get him some water, humming a pretty song you were dancing to just a few hours ago with your back turned to him. Because why wouldn't you have your back to him? It's just Rin.
A fond smile finds its way to your glossy lips at the mere thought of your dearly beloved boyfriend, the pitch of your humming heightening when you stretch to reach the cupboard door. Then, you gasp. Then deflate. Uh oh.
"Rin-Rin, I forgot to do the dishes before we left so I can't give you the 'I love my wifey' mug."
No response.
"Yo, did you hear what I said?"
Silence.
You pause, one knee hiked up on the counter because you were struggling to reach the very top shelf. A little louder this time. Loud enough for him to hear from anywhere in the house.
"...Rin-Rin?!"
You finally glance over the fake gash on your shoulder, met with the back of an empty couch. No Rin. That's odd. He was just there. Literally thirty seconds ago. Maybe he... suddenly needed to pee real bad after he sat down or something? But he would've heard you form the bathroom, right?
The living room light flickers once, startling you off the counter with a soft squeak and into an uneasy, defensive stance on the cold tiles. It takes you a good twenty seconds at least to muster up the courage and start stalking toward where your boyfriend was last seen sitting. Once you're standing so utterly confused in front of the couch, you realise that his mask is gone too. Then...
"Wuh–!"
Lights. Out. Completely.
In a hurry, your socks skid across the polished floor as you make your way over to the light switch, repeatedly flicking it up and down until you believe that no, its definitely not coming back on. A bothered whine escapes your throat when you take another look around you, noticing that even the microwave screen over in the kitchen is pitch black. The flash of the dodgy extension lead in the corner is nowhere to be seen, either.
When you go to yell, your voice starts off too quiet. "Uh- um...! I think the power cut ou–"
BRRR.
The sound of your phone vibrating against the coffee table almost has you ejecting out of your skin. With widened, glassy eyes, you practically fly over to the lit up screen before it can shut off again. There's a text. Its from a number you're absolutely sure you don't recognise.
'whats ur favourite scary movie?'
Without thinking, you type and send, thumbs trembling without your permission.
'idk sorry i can't think'
You don't expect to get a call from the same unrecognisable number, but you do. And so very naively, you clumsily slide a finger across the screen and hesitate to hold it to your ear, inhaling a brave breath before speaking. "...Hello...?"
There's breathing on the other end. Faint at first, but the longer you stay on the line, the louder and heavier it seems to get. It feels like they're breathing down the back of your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut as it starts to get too overwhelming to listen to, swallowing so hard it hurts.
"A-Are you okay?" The most mellow little voice is all you can manage right now, and there's an obvious shake to your words.
The breathing stops. You've barely noticed with how spooked you are, not until your ears begin to ring in the tense silence.
"...You've got ten seconds."
You open your eyes and freeze. "What...?"
Eyes fixated on the rug and no further response, you hear him before you see him. A muted tap against glass. Just one. Enough to get you to turn your head towards the patio doors in a stiff panic.
That Ghostface mask. That cheap, plastic knife. That bloodstained jumpsuit. That build.
Oh.
Ten seconds.
You don't hang up. Just drop your phone to the rug beneath you and bolt, immediately. Socks sliding and slipping as if they're trying to slow you down on purpose. A scream rips from your chest, but whether its origin is fear or thrill, you don't know. But you're scuttling through the dark house like you're going to die. And you're sure it's been over ten seconds.
All of a sudden as you're darting through the pitch black of the hallway, you trip. Toes catching on a loose boot.
"Oof–!" a quiet grunt is forced out of you on impact, landing front-first on the hardwood and skidding to a harsh stop with your thighs splayed and arms shielding your shocked face. No. No no no no no! Wait–
"Too slow." Rin's voice emerges from above your head, low and factual, large figure crouching over your back with an overpowering aura about him. You'd barely blinked and he was already on you. In a flash, you're being hoisted up to rest on your knees, back held tightly against his chest with a fake knife pressed to your throat, cheeks flushed from exertion in the darkness.
"Mn- no! Wait, please Rin, I–"
"Ghostface."
You let out a sharp, involuntary sound at the snappy correction from behind you, trying desperately to catch your breath while the adrenaline pulses throughout your entire being. The blade to your sensitive skin is blunt, yet he's digging it in like it really could slit you right open, right here and now. The sound of him huffing shakily at the way your hands go to grab his wrist has your panties dampening.
"M-Mr. Ghostface. I gotta ask you somethin', okay?" you inform him breathlessly whilst slowly decreasing the force of your yanking at his sleeve, cold edge of his knife evoking a shiver right from the base of your spine when it moves slightly.
He leans in closer over your shoulder as if to say "go on", pulling you harder into his warm chest until you can feel his mask grazing against your temple, strong and veiny arm over your stomach keeping you tucked and trapped between his knees. Yours ache from your devastating tumble a moment ago, but you don't mind at all. You clear your throat softly with a little "um..." to ease the atmosphere, stroking his wrist ever so gently. Wow, choosing the suck-up route? Really? You'd so die first in a horror movie.
"Are you... gonna kill me...?"
Your innocent whisper of those words play on Rin's body like magic. He's never wanted to "kill" someone so bad until you. You in your bouncy pigtails and tiny denim skirt that's doing fuck-all to hide your lace-clad pussy from the large hand that's gradually trailing down your bloodied front.
"Depends. You gonna let me fuck you?" the muffled bass of his voice in your ear hits you harder than it ever has before, so hard that you're sighing and tipping your head back, fully bearing your jugular to his blade in a subconscious act of self-sacrifice and love. How romantic. He jolts you with his entire body, snapping you out of it. "Huh? Gonna let me fuck you nice and hard? If you don't run, I won't mangle you too badly..."
"But, I mean, you–"
"Actually, I apologise. Let me rephrase,"
His fingers clutch the lace between your thighs and tug sideways. Twitchy cunt revealed to the cold night air. Wet with nerves and laughter. You gasp.
"I'm gonna fuck you. Then kill you."
Your heart stutters. Fuck you... then kill you? The sheer mention of dying so beautifully by your scary boyfriend's hand makes you feel like you could cum on command. You're scared.
"Aha," a strained laugh. "You wouldn't really do that, right? Mr Ghostface? You've got a real nice heart in there, I just know it...!"
If Rin were the type to laugh, he'd be in tears as of right now. His knife clatters to the ground.
"Wait. Hold on, hang o- wait–" you rasp, your breath catching mid-struggle before he successfully flattens you face-down against the frigid hardwood. A sharp whimper rips put of you when his palm digs between your shoulder blades, pinning you with one brutal press. You squirm, kicking up your heels uselessly as your knees slip on the slick grain of the floor. Reminiscent of a fawn on ice, helpless and flailing. He just watches, face cruelly satisfied behind that mask.
"Absolutely perfect." he thinks to himself. "Sweet, sweet Bambi."
Then comes the rustle of fabric. One hand yanks your skirt up rough by the back of the waistband, fist curling tight to drag your hips upward. Adjusting you. Like you're just some thing he's setting into place to inspect without obstruction. His other hand's busy at his front, fighting to free himself from under two constricting layers at once. You hear something. A sound so filthy it echoes within your mind. A thump of pure, solid meat whacking against a hard abdomen, followed by a long, harsh breath through his teeth.
Rin groans. Deep. Restrained. Relieved, as he straightens up on his haunches, hips jutted forward like he's been ready for months.
A slap lands right across the swell of your bare ass. But it's not from his hand. You can tell straight away, humming in surprise. That one was more... heavy. More blunt. And wet. The second one accompanies the first, this time hotter and louder. Then again, and again. Rhythmic and taunting. He's slapping his dick upon your cheeks to get to you. And it's getting to you. You sense that it's not some lazy tapping, but preparation. It's meant to intimidate.
After a long silence filled with weighty pats that get stickier with every leaky string of pre-cum smeared over your skin, he reaches over you, chest resting all unforgivingly crushing against your spine, muttering exasperatedly like he's just your competent, patronising coworker with a superiority complex.
"C'mere. Can wet my cock with your own spit, not using mine..." is what he tells you with three fingers reaching into your sloppy mouth, curling along the inside of your cheek. An involuntary, muffled "hnnff" sound is forced out of your nose as you gag lightly, wide eyes watering.
"...Should be enough."
Squelch.
Before you can blink, he's collected a substantial glob of slick saliva on his fingertips. He pulls them out without a shred of consideration for your dignity, sighing shakily and open-mouthed behind his mask when he clocks the way it sparkles in the faint glow of the streetlights beyond the other rooms' windows. Rin's eyes trail across the cooling string of spit connecting his knuckles to your quivering chin. He bites his lip and huffs to disguise a moan as he sits back. But you don't know that.
You can imagine how sexy he must look behind you right now, swirling and slathering your drool all over his fat, pulsing shaft with every vein in his forearms bulging at his waning self-control. Slicking up a blade before the plunge. He must be biting his tongue and grinding his molars to keep this act up. It makes you want to grin and whine. But you don't dare make another sound nor peek over your shoulder, not when you're desperately hoping he'll be nice about what comes next. Quite the dream, huh? Too bad you're a dumbass.
"Gh–" a hot breath escapes your lungs the second his thick tip slides up and down between the slippery folds of your downright intemperate pussy, threatening to dip just that slightest bit too far into your tight hole. Rin sees the floor beneath your palms is now adorned with shallow scratches, courtesy of your nails. He can't even begin to care with the adrenaline thrumming through him. Actually? Adrenaline or not, he couldn't care either way. Because his brain is more occupied, as he's watching his flushed head relentlessly bully it's way through into your clenching body, with the fact that–
"Fuck. It feels good to be a killer."
Your entire being throbs.
It's impossible to breathe in enough. Your thighs are vibrating so much that they're rippling. Words can't seem to find their way out of your open wet lips, only high-pitched and squeaky attempts to express how overwhelmed and weak with enjoyment you're getting. Your legs slip and splay out underneath him, causing his mean cock to nestle deeper inside with an unprepped stretch, instant and merciless. Deliciously split open for him. You shove your own knuckles between your teeth and almost cry. Rin throws his head back with a silent groan before correcting himself.
"Tch, stay still before I gut you." his voice wavers with serious arousal, tightening his hold on the back of your skirt and forcefully heaving you up onto your knees once again, holding you in position before him like a proud hunter dangling a hare by its tail. He drives into you until his balls are practically massaging your swollen clit, no remorse. Somehow, it's hotter that way. Your body jerks forward.
"Yes, Mr Ghostface...!" you whimper pathetically whilst trying to nod with your damp forehead buried into your arms, scrunched nose grazing the floor any time he makes an adjustment. It's pulsing within you, smushed right up into the very limits of your insides. The wiry hair at his base is scraping the cleft of your ass, and it hurts so good. But that's just the beginning.
He starts fucking you like he's mad, like you've done something unforgivable.
Not too loud or chaotic, not literally, not from an outside perspective. But from yours? The plap-plap-plap of his strong hips slamming their full weight into the fat of your jolting backside is deafening. The way he's leaning over you to smush your tearstained cheek further against the shiny hardwood with a big hand almost swallowing your head so you can't move is more chaotic than a rollercoaster ride.
A soft succession of "uh, uh, uh"s manage to spill from your mouth, though his thrusts are so beautifully harsh that they're punching the air from your lungs with every singular blow, so your voice is hoarse and whispered. Rin's is just as wrecked.
"Oh fuck, oh shit, 'm gonna kill you I'm gonna kill you I'm gonna fucking kill you," he chants breathlessly to nobody in particular, the hand over the side of your head loosening its grip as if the electric pleasure of it all is causing him to float. At this point his words are gonna kill you before he even gets the chance. "Rrgh, fuck you. Yeah that's right, that's right. You love taking a killer's cock raw."
"I do, I doooo, I swear...! Please don't kill me, please, I do," the cracking of your sweet voice has your sentiments almost unintelligible. Your toes are cramping from how tight you've had them curled, bare knees red from fake blood and friction burn. You'll never forget this. You don't want to.
"I know you do, I know. It's a funny feeling, isn't it. Butterflies in your tummy for someone you should be petrified of..."
"Mhm, mhm!" you nod frantically with teary eyes and a snotty nose, sniffling and wailing so appreciatively as your warm cunt is clenching around his thick length like its attempting to swallow him whole. The ache of your walls is pleasing enough to make you faint. In a split second of courage, you try to lift your head in order to look back at his mask.
He roughly shoves it down in a flash, and promptly punishes you with the quickest, deepest snap of hips yet. You eat dirt, your eyes roll back. You're so alive.
"Nnff–!"
"That's enough. You don't need to see who's fucking you, you don't get to. Now... take your last breaths as I cum hard and fucking nasty in your guts."
You do. You pant fast and heavy like you'll never have full lungs again, eyes shut so tightly there's an array of colours behind your eyelids.
And this is it. Scalding loads of thick cum are being emptied and ground right up into your cervix. A strained "god fucking dammit" along with a "you're dead" is hissed through your killer's teeth. A few gentle pats to your hip. Then he reluctantly drags himself from your ruined, fluttering hole. Sticky semen drools to the floor.
Silence. Then a deep, recollective sigh.
"...Baby I think that might've come a little too naturally to me, you know."
"You're so right."
|| || || || ||
SEISHIRO NAGI || A PATIENT AND HIS TRUSTY NURSE
Contains: Nagi halloween handjob! :D you may or may not slip a finger in his ass. omg who said that. must've been the wind.
He didn't wanna go. Even told you he'd rather kill himself slowly and painfully than waste a Friday night making small talk with dumb strangers in shitty costumes while somebody's playlist from 2017 blasts through blown-out speakers at first. He knew that he'd probably just end up bored after a while, sprawled out across somebody's tacky velvet chaise lounge while you hovered around the drinks like a thirsty vulture.
Notice how I said "at first"?
See, he felt that way right up until you sauntered into the room wearing the teeniest, tiniest nurse's dress you could ever possibly acquire off the sluttiest corner of the internet. Shiny red cross slapped over one of your tits that were pushing at that poor neckline, tight garters biting into the fat of your thighs and a pointless little cap sitting tilted on your head. You looked like a dream. A sticky, wet, dutiful one with a fake syringe in hand and the politest curl of ruby lips.
"I really don't wanna go..." he'd groaned dramatically from where he'd been lazing amongst the decorative fluffy pillows of your bed, arm flopped over his forlorn face and voice muffled by his hoodie sleeve.
"Really...? Sei, I don't wanna force you to go... but, y'know. I kinda got the costumes already, 'nd... yeah." You'd muttered quietly with a shy twirl in front of the mirror, stopping on the balls of your feet to make eye contact with your own reflection as you continued, "I mean, I guess I could just go on my own. It's not like the girls who dress up as sexy Princess Leia always bring a Han Solo with 'em."
With a long yawn, Nagi shifted on top of your comforter and slowly uncovered his face to at least look at you whilst you talked. Just in time, really. He watched you tug on the hem of that pathetic excuse for a dress as if it actually had a hem rather than just a mere suggestion of one, saw how the tight polyester tried and failed to contain your asscheeks with all its might when you bent over to slip your heels on.
Fuck. That was a sight if he'd ever seen one. Then, (not-so) suddenly, all thoughts of staying inside for the night vanished. Poof. Gone. Catapulted straight out of the window with just one innocent peek at those lacy panties.
"So, are you for real about this? It could be fun and I–"
"I'll go."
"...You'll go?"
"Yeah, I'll go."
"You'll... go. Huh."
"Mm, I'll be your Han Solo."
You raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror.
"You mean you'll be my patient."
"Uh-huh."
Aaaaaaand that's how you got here. At an old friend's Halloween party, tipsy, sloshing solo cup in one hand. You're not really sure how long you've been sitting here, zoning out on this couch, but it's definitely been long enough that two idiots in your peripheral vision are now elbowing each other in a petty attempt to take over the aux, and somebody else just knocked over the fog machine and nearly set their Spider-Man onesie on fire.
Nagi's man-spreading in his cheap hospital gown beside you with his head tipped back like it got too heavy for his neck, just mindlessly chewing on a Twizzler and staring blankly at the TV someone set up to play one of the Scream movies for background ambiance and vibes. Apparently his limbs have turned to jelly and he's gotten sucked into an open-eyed coma. Hm..
"...You good?" you speak up after a while, raising your cup for a sip but just hovering it below your face instead.
"Huh." his eyes flick to yours, dark and tinted red from the twinkling string lights strewn across the walls.
"You've been, like... super quiet since we got here."
He shrugs. Groans in discomfort, squirms o the couch and lets it swallow his huge ass between the cushions with a troubled mumble. "'M in character."
"What."
He points lazily at the plastic hospital wristband he's wearing, the one that was amidst all the other accessories that came with his last minute "patient" costume. Which you definitely grabbed a size too small, 'cause the strained bow you tied at the open back is fucking screaming "SOMEONE, PLEASE! I CAN'T HOLD ON MUCH LONGER!"
"I'm your sick patient," he says with a slow blink, tipping his head to the side so he's looking at you face to face. "And you're my nurse, right?"
Your eyebrows knit slightly, lashes fluttering. "W-Well, yeah, but its just a costume–"
He nods solemnly before you can finish. "Yeah, real slutty one, too. Makin' me think you slipped boner pills into my drink."
"Seishiro." you warn him with a smack to the arm.
He doesn't flinch, instead his features droop and he frowns at you like that smack was just so unbelievably outrageous! "Ow," he grumbles along with an offended huff. "You're not supposed to hit sick people..."
"You are not sick."
"Could be. Haven't even gotten my fundamental check-up yet, so how could you know, slutty nurse."
"Puh-lease, you don't even know what the hell "fundamental" means..."
"...And? Still goes, so."
You stare. He takes another bite of Twizzler, chewing it with the pace of a man who has nowhere to be and not an iota of shame.
You're about to say something else, "oh, I'll show you sick" probably, when you catch his hand coming to rest heavily on your thigh. Inching upwards beyond your dress, not stopping. Then, his knuckles are just barely brushing the edge of your lace panties like he's wondering how much he can get away with in this dim, obnoxiously red lighting.
You fight back the urge to take in a deep breath and decide to keep your eyes on the tapping shoes of drunken black cats and Beetlejuices in front of you, head lowered.
It only serves to make him lean closer and dip down so he can see your expression, broad and warm chest smushed up against your arm as he speaks.
"Think I'm dying, miss nurse..." he whispers near your cheek, voice soft as anything.
You don't look at him, not directly.
"Yeah...? Of what?"
"Blue balls."
Your back damn near straightens like a fucking ruler. Hands come up to rub your face as if you're struggling to pull the plug on someone's grandma. There's people right there. You're amongst society. You can hear a group behind you arguing loudly over the trash music about which anime character they'd let raw. You're hardly even tipsy and yet your face feels so hot. Can't begin to imagine what's going on under that stupid hospital gown of his if he's already acting this... audacious. You look down at his lap. Hard as diamonds, course he is. Sigh... okay, fine. Fine, Seishiro Nagi.
"...Fuck it. Where's my gloves."
"No wayyyy. Prostate exam?"
"Whatever my patient needs." you deadpan.
Out of nowhere, he has the energy to sit upright along with you. But not without a faint glower... and an eager twinkle in his glossy eyes. "You say that too casually, c'mon, make a fuss of meeeee."
"Seriously gonna castrate you." you mutter under your breath as you stand.
He sighs. Largely. "My nurse's bein' mean to me. And I can't even stand up anymore..."
"What, 'cause your dick is in the way?" you scoff whilst roughly grabbing him by the arm, tugging and grunting with your efforts to manoeuvre what is essentially just one big brick of lethargy and testosterone. "What the hell, Sei, just get up...!"
"Hnnnnghhh... need a stretcherrrrr."
Less than five minutes later and an enthusiastic whoop of "NURSE ROLEPLAY?!?!?!!?" from some arrogant asshole leaning against the wall upstairs, you're both locked in the bathroom. Latex gloves making that sharp snap noise as you adjust them, Nagi's briefs pooled around his ankles on the floor. You've never seen his cock stand so straight whilst he's also standing straight. It's trying to poke out of his thin gown like it's got something to prove, jumping and swaying with the even the smallest movements. The fabric draped over the head is wet, a damp patch visible from where he's been leaking uncontrollably at the sight of you in hot nurse get-up.
"Dude, I can feel my heartbeat in my dick..." he groans breathily as if to imply it hurts, just standing there with a messy head of hair resting back on the plaster and his Adam's apple bobbing, exposed and sharp under the brighter lighting.
You snort at that, bunching his gown and forcing the fabric into his tensed hands before sinking to your knees, allowing you to get a nice, long look at what you're dealing with. With how that one prominently bulging vein is almost darkening into the purple shades, and pre-cum is literally drooling from the slit like he's too backed up to keep it in? You believe him. Wholeheartedly.
"Didn't exactly need my stethoscope to figure that out, huh." you mutter, almost to yourself, much too fascinated by the obscenity of his heavy, musky balls squeezing themselves in a fruitless attempt to empty their unbearable load.
"Mn. Are you gonna check my blood pressure, too? Feelin' kinda dizzy." Your patient winces dramatically, those hazy eyes sparkling and taking in the sight of your little nurse's cap that's now level with his big thighs. "And super sick." he adds that part on as a persuasion tactic.
Guess you can play along and make shit up if that's what's going to sate him. A small hum leaves you, and you glance up at him with a polite nod. "Uh-huh. Got to, it's imperative to gauge blood pressure before following through with the exam."
After hearing his barely interested "oh", you reach for the small bottle of lube in the chest pocket of your dress. You'd brought it along as a joke for when (you hoped) someone would ask for a cheeky check-up. You didn't think you'd actually be using it, let alone giving your boyfriend a check-up in the first place. Crazy convenient, right?
"Handy nurse..." his mouth downturns and he juts his bottom lip out in approval, lazily watching the clear liquid land in your palm with a splurt upon teal latex.
You roll your eyes but take your gloved hand to his glistening, attention-seeking cock anyway, wrapping your fingers around him precisely and carefully tugging the hood down. Thick. Hot to the touch. There's weight to it. You can sense the blood thrumming in quick laps from base to tip over and over, and swear it swells even further in your grasp. There's already a pearlescent droplet of pre in the space between your thumb and index finger, connected by a pretty string attached to his exposed, burgundy-tinted head. He's needy needy, huh...
Nagi exhales like he's been holding it in all night. "Fuck me... ah."
"Very high. Who would've thought? We'd best do somethin' about this, shouldn't we." you give your diagnosis lowly over the thump of a distant bassline with intrigue, a giddiness to your voice that you're too turned-on to conceal.
You start to pump the engorged tip slowly, deliberately, thumb circling the leaking slit while your other hand keeps the hood held back. Latex squeaks faintly as you move; it’s obscene in such a homely little bathroom. His hips jerk once, then twice, then shiver with an aimless attempt to still. He bangs the back of his head against the wall.
"Miss Nurse, it's hurting me... please, we've gotta hurry before my symptoms kill me..."
You never knew he could be this much of a fucking drama queen.
With a sharp huff blowing from your lips and a slightly offended frown tugging at your features, you stretch out your hands to work the entire length of him, up and down with a much tighter grip and a faster tempo, as if you're on a mission to wring the cum out of him as soon as possible. He's moaning and groaning all helpless-like, slumped back, fidgeting, bowing his twitchy eyebrows when oh my god he's getting sicker.
"Fffffuuuhhh, s'not enough, slutty nurse. O-oh, oh, 'm gonna flatline-..."
"Hey. It's my job, genius. I know what I'm doing. It's vital to lower your blood pre–
"Nnngh, s'fucking lowered enough already. I'm the patient here, I could file a negligence lawsuit and die..."
You force a peeved grin at this big baby's rude interruption and squeeze around the base far harder than necessary for any normal check-up, eye twitching when he practically whimpers. A negligence lawsuit? You were confident that the only 'important' information stored in that squishy brain of his was how to handle a soccer ball and craft a mine cart with a hopper. The fuck does this guy know about suing people? You're not even a real nurse! Why is this getting to you?!
And so... you slide one hand down from his poor, tortured and throbbing cock to drag your slippery fingertips over the taut curve of his full sack, teasing them lightly to evoke a shaky noise you've never heard from his mouth in your life before venturing down and behind them. You massage the pad of your gloved middle finger against his sensitive perineum, applying just the right amount of pressure to have him squirming-
"Still. Please, I'm about to carry out your exam." you warn him snappily whilst gathering enough lube on the same digit to suffice, glaring up at him like he's making your job harder than it needs to be.
"My bad. I'm nervous."
Yeahhhh, like hell you are.
Without wasting another second (purely because you're sure you might "accidentally" give him a liiiiittle too much anaesthetic on purpose if he keeps up the act), you push your slick finger firmer against his taint until it has no choice but to slip slowly and sink into that tight ring of spasming muscle.
"Hah... hhhhholy shit." Nagi whines and instinctively raises an arm, covering his open mouth with the inside of his elbow. His heavy breaths are muffled and hot, the jerking-fingering combo sending his eyes rolling back into his skull. "Oh oh, oh, s'in my ass–"
"Fuck a negligence lawsuit, I'm gonna get fired for gross misconduct if you keep talking like that..." you sigh quietly, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth to keep yourself from moaning along with him.
The latex makes everything that much slicker and warm as you move both of your hands to the beat of whatever song is playing downstairs, catching your troubled patient white-knuckling the edge of the bathroom sink in the corner of your vision once you begin to differ between stroking his jolting, fat dick and fondling a handful of his swollen balls.
"Gonna cum so hard, literally gonna fucking cum so fucking hard, Miss Nurse, 'n' it's not even been like three minutes yet fuck–"
"You think you can hold off just a tiny bit longer for meeee...?" you coo softly with a mocking pout and a 'sympathetic' twist of your face, peering up at him all worried for his health. "Need to be certain there's no abnormalities."
"Hnnnoh, I dunno Miss Nurse... might be too much," he moans through gritted teeth and pushes his hair back with a twitchy hand, the veins in his flushed neck bulging every time he clenches his jaw at the overwhelmingly stimulating sensations.
"Don't panic, you're bound to feel a little overwhelmed. All part of the process. You won't cum just yet, nobody's that quick." Reassurance. A fucking lie, obviously, judging by how his lips are pursed and his body is so taut you're convinced a singular poke in the wrong place could crack him like dry ice. Maybe you just wanna humble him after he insulted your suitability for this occupation.
Another un(characteristically) pathetic noise escapes him when you gently let your finger sink further inside, and you see his rosy face scrunch up in sheer pleasure once you're knuckle-deep and wriggling. Just barely reaching his prostate and curling upwards. Anyone would assume he's about to cry with how a sharp, sobby exhale rips through him when you swiftly swirl and caress your thumb around the circumference of such a furious-coloured cockhead. Shit, that's just about all he can take at once.
"Nn- no no no, Nurse you don't understand, I can't do that I can't hold it in, my dick doesn't like holding it back–"
He's already blowing his load. Whilst talking. Whilst blaming it on his needy cock. Fluid, dramatic spurts of cum shoot from the slit with force and the sound of this faintest little splat, hurtling up through the air, descending fast and already soaking into the white fabric of your dress before you know it, a stray rope lashed upon the red cross on your chest.
Of course he couldn't hold it in, you know him. Go ahead, Seishiro Nagi, pin the blame on your bodily functions. But you already know he's never had the self control it takes to abstain from a dopamine rush. The dude's never voluntarily edged in his life. If he feels like something's going to feel good, he's not going to wait for it. Selfish. A true egoist.
Quick and sudden enough to drag a longing moan out from his chest, you snatch your gloved hand and finger from him with a disgusted gasp like you didn't know what was coming.
"Wha- fuck you, Seishiro, my dress!" you bark up at him in disapproval with your arms thrown out to your sides like "what the fuck!?", scowling harder as he lowers his head and the blissed out expression on his face comes into view. Smug bastard. Standing there with his boxers around his shoes. Uncaring.
"Oho my god... that was like... a lobotomy, but in my balls..." he exhales all shaky and the most content with life he's ever been in some random person's bathroom at a Halloween party at exactlyyyy...
Nagi leans down and reaches a jelly-feeling hand into one of your pockets, fishing out your phone and tapping the screen.
...02:26 AM. Ah, okay good, just checking if he can still read after that life-altering exam. Exam. Oh, right.
"Hold on. What'd you say my diagnosis was again...?" he sniffs casually after a hard swallow, still catching his breath after what he'd call a lovingly thorough inspection, dark irises gleaming as if he's found the secret to everything.
You shove your tongue against the inside of your cheek in a display of mild annoyance, narrowing your eyes at him. Covered in lazy boy cum, peeling off your lubed up gloves with a quiet "eurgh" and standing on aching legs to slam them into the bin before answering reluctantly.
"AGBS."
"Cool."
A long, confused pause.
"...Wait, what's that mean."
"What's it stand for?"
"Yeah."
"Annoying Gross Boyfriend Syndrome."
"Oh."
|| || || || ||
Okay so im a little behind on my halloween blue lock post. Think im gonna post them all separately cuz im gettin too overwhelmed with all the words in front of my face 😅
JUST FINISHED THE KILLER RIN ITOSHI X FINAL GIRL SECTION OF MY HALLOWEEN SMUT THING IVE NEVER DONE ONE OF THESE BEFORE IM SO HAPPY I HAVE MOTIVATION
I just finished writing sick patient Nagi x hot nurse smut and i'm literally barking at my own writing i'm doing so fucking good on this one. No one stop me. This is gonna be my best post yet just wait til it drops.
wait so I might have to do Halloween blue lock hcs before chubby reader hcs because now my brain is nagging at me and I can't focus on writing anything else
I literally cannot wait for Varka. I am going to ride write that man until the tips of my fingers singe. You just wait.
New Neighbour – JJK Edition.
In which their white picket fence dreams start to crumble once they get a look at what's waiting for them on the other side. Includes: Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami and Toji Fushiguro.
SATORU GOJO
He's happy enough. His wife makes sensational pesto from scratch. Their daughter is named something unique, Pinterest-worthy, something teachers struggle to pronounce during roll call. Gojo's the "cool dad", always sporting a pair of sunglasses even when they're steaming up at the grill, naturally flirtatious with the other mothers in the neighbourhood but never plans to cross lines. Until you.
You pull up in your shitty, used Ford Focus. Teeny tiny denim shorts, oversized college hoodie and a cute anklet jingling just above one of your basic sneakers whilst you struggle to haul a big cardboard box out from the backseat. Gojo nearly drops the garden hose. He's watering the petunias. Well, he was. Now he's just watering his pants. Who the fuck... is this? He saw the moving van yesterday, but he didn't see you!
"Uh, aha... new neighbour, huh? Need some help unpacking or somethin'?"
The man's on your fucking doorstep before you can slam the car door, all charming and utterly inappropriate with that dazzling grin. His voice is juuuuust smooth enough to slip past suspicion. Now, you? You're sweet, polite. He thinks if he told a silly dad joke, you'd laugh for real.
"Yes, yes please. Not- not so much unpacking, but you could help me take all these boxes inside?" you bless him with a sheepish little smile of your own, despite it teetering on the edge of a grimace at the thought of bothering your neighbour already and its only been five minutes since you got here.
"Absolutely, yeah..." Gojo's soul damn near departs his body when you casually hoist the box you're holding into his capable arms instead, eye contact very apparent in the awkward silence. He ends up subtly tipping his head forward in order to have his sunglasses "accidentally" drop down from their place perched above his forehead to conveniently rest on his nose. That's too much. Almost debilitating, even. Your eyes are something else entirely, he can't let you look up at him like that ever again.
The way you thank him uncontrollably for helping you out has him raring to ask how far you'd go to show your gratitude.
You sunbathe in the garden around two days later. Lounging in a bikini with your eyes closed, relaxed and glowing. He's upstairs shaving to Call Me Maybe and catches sight of you from the bathroom window. Jaw slack and unblinking. Razor in one hand, heart in the other whilst he stares like a man who's witnessing Jesus walk barefoot on his lawn. He wants to see if you'd let him rub sunscreen all over your body.
"...Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm fucked. Royally- I'm fucked, wh-..." he whispers frantically to himself with shortness of breath, face still half-lathered in shaving foam.
Then his wife passes by the open door, and he flinches like he's been caught trying to wash blood from his stiffened hands.
"Everything okay...?"
"Mm! Mhm, yeah. Was admiring the view actually," he throws a thumb back over his bare shoulder enthusiastically, not daring to face the window again. "Our... thriving azaleas."
He's hard.
SUGURU GETO
Geto has a pretty simple, peaceful way of living. He drives a reliable Volvo, his lovely wife bakes for a living, he regularly sits out on the porch drinking black coffee in the summer while his girls dance around in pink tutus. Eh, he'll host a small barbecue occasionally when he can because he feels it's a "neighbourly obligation".
He's a calm, steady kinda guy. Two qualities that seem to start wavering once you move in next door, all short skirts and lipgloss and cheerful waves. You're sunshine unknowingly dipped in sin, and it makes him bite the inside of his cheek. He suddenly feels a "neighbourly obligation" to get involved in your life. He catches his eyes following your every move the second you show up in his peripheral vision, dreamily watching you from his chair on the porch. Fucking hell.
"I'm too old for her," he tells himself, over and over. "Too old for a college girl. Wouldn't work."
Suguru Geto, what kind of reasoning is that? You have a wife and children to take into consideration.
You show up at his front door one afternoon, clad in a sweet little sundress that the summer breeze has slow-dancing around your bare, grabbable thighs.
"Hi, sorry about this...! I think I might've kinda, um, broke my faucet. So. If you know how or anything, could you... help me?"
You beg him. Not with your words, with your eyes. It's disarming as hell, he thinks. He makes you wait there in front of the open door with a barely controlled "I know. I know... how. I'll get my toolbox and whatnot, you wait there for me,". His house smells like freshly baked cinnamon buns and newfound uncertainty from where you're standing.
Geto follows you into your house. Tries not to stare at the backs of your thighs while you're walking. Tries not to pay attention to the cozy, girlish chaos of your kitchen. Tries not to imagine bending you over the cluttered counter and ruining both of your lives. But that doesn't insinuate that he succeeds. He flat out fails, and he's never been so shocked at himself.
"You should probably call a professional next time, you know." he advises you with caring smile and a hint of a scold in there, acting like he wasn't just thinking about sabotaging a different component of your sink so he'd have to come back and fix it again. "I might not be at home the next time something decides to be faulty for you."
"True, true. I guess I just panicked and you were the first person I thought of..." you laugh with an awkward bite of your lip. "At least nowwww, I know my neighbour's a lifesaver when he is at home."
You grin up at him like you have no fucking clue what you're doing to his poor head... and maybe you don't. But he's literally thinking of starting up his own private business on the side that deals with fixing next-door-only appliances as he's walking out. You said he was the first person you thought of in a flustered panic. You thought he was someone you could rely on. He definitely is now, there's no doubt about that. He's going to take full advantage of this little miracle.
Later on, you're lying on your bed with the window wide open, shitty radio playing faint, staticky pop songs whilst reading an old magazine. Unassuming and content in a tee and boy-shorts, bare legs crossed comfortably. Geto's across the fence outside, smoking a cigarette in secret and watching your sheer curtains flutter and flow beyond the window frame with the summer breeze. He hasn't smoked since he was twenty-two years old.
His wife is humming in the kitchen. He sighs deeply.
"I wonder if this is divine judgement."
KENTO NANAMI
Nanami is a man of quiet enjoyment, simplicity and routine. Weekdays are for spreadsheets and management meetings. Weekends are for pancakes, picnic blankets and sticky toddler fingers. His diligent wife buys the good oat milk and even presses his pristine white shirts without him asking. The house always smells like cedar wood and floral laundry detergent, and there's always one or two toy cars somewhere in front of the entrance. Life is to die for.
...And then you show up on the very first day of summer break. Young, radiant, a little messy in that "I'm a college student" way. You're moving boxes in by yourself after letting the movers you hired leave early, tugging a suitcase up the walkway in a loose top that's sliding off your shoulder, leggings tight to your ass. He sees you through the blinds.
"New neighbour?" his wife asks from behind with her hands resting on his unusually tense shoulders while their son clings to his leg.
"Mm..." he answers inconspicuously with tightly sealed lips. Does not elaborate.
A day later, he sees you through the blinds a second time. You're gardening. Tank top, no bra. Sweat glistening in the golden hue of the blazing sun.
Nanami starts mowing the lawn more often. Raking leaves that really don't need raking. And look at that! The garage needs organising again. Anything to be outside when you are. You actually wave at him over the newly painted fence after you get settled in later in the week, sweet and thoughtless. You don't even know his name yet.
"Hi, mister neighbour."
"Nanami." he corrects you first. Wait, no. That won't do. "Kento is fine, actually." Ah, better.
"Kento. Thanks for watching my packages yesterday! That was... really sweet of you to do."
"It wasn't any trouble, good neighbours look out for one another." (It was a spiritual trial, for fucks sakes. He stared at the mailing label for three full minutes before forcing himself to put it down. Yeah.)
It turns out that even after a week, you still haven't managed to fully move in. Assignments, stress levels, some of your belongings still stored at your parents' place. After collecting the rest of your stuff one morning, you have to ask him to help lift one of the final boxes of many that you just can't seem to pick up properly by yourself. He's quiet, professional about it. His hands are huge on the cardboard, gold watch catching the sunlight. It looks like it's the men's version, his Mrs most likely wears the women's one.
When Nanami's inside your house, assisting you ever so keenly by unpacking your things with care, you stretch. Arms above your head to reach a shelf, a bit of tummy exposed and your back arched. And he is absolutely gone.
He goes home, fucks his wife, and has to stop mid-thrust because he keeps imagining your feet resting on his broad shoulders. Your voice whimpering and breaking. He has visions of his thumb in your mouth when its really his wife's.
"Sorry, I..." he mutters, barely audible. "'M just tired, that's all..."
This isn't sustainable, he thinks to himself when he leans over to turn off the lamp on his nightstand. But he's outside again the next day, "fixing" the mailbox. Waiting. Wanting.
TOJI FUSHIGURO
Toji's life is hella simple, he's a divorced dad. Fix cars in the garage, chew gum, drink beer, shoot the shit with the guys down at the shop, come home to a half-decent dinner with Megumi and bust his chops a little, yell at the dogs for barking at squirrels... no frilly bullshit. No pretence. He wears dirty jeans until they're worn down at the knees. His tight tees and tank tops have suspicious stains on them. Not a polo-shirt in sight. Dog tags clink and brush over the dark hair on his chest when he moves. There's scars on him with stories he ain't willing to tell. Ever.
You move in next door. Pretty college thing in sundresses, dragging boxes in by yourself, fresh-faced in a quiet street full of aging families and old men that threaten to fuck you up if you step foot on their front lawn one more time whilst waving their sticks in the air. He's just rolling up from work in his rattling truck, wiping motor oil off his big hands with an old rag, and he gladly ignores the way his heart drops when he almost forgets to put the damn thing in park when he sees you.
"Woah, hey there, neighbour.." he calls out from behind the splintered wooden fence after accidentally slamming the car door too hard. "Y'need a hand with those?"
Megumi's already at the fence too.
"I can help."
"She don't want your help, kid," Toji cuts in quickly and has basically teleported to the other side, hauling the heaviest box in those muscly arms like its nothing. "Go... water the dogs or somethin', I don't know."
He's not even facing his son (who rolls his eyes SO hard) as he says it.
You thank him with an added "you're so strong...!", smile sweet and oblivious. His face freezes and his brain goes completely thoughtless for at least five long seconds before he can force himself to respond with a not-so-jokey joke.
"Careful... you keep feeding my ego like that and I'm gonna have to start mowin' your backyard, too."
"Stop it, don't let me take advantage... although it is looking a little overgrown out there, ahem."
From that day on, it's war. The competition is on. Aw, Megumi's "helping" you carry groceries inside? Toji yanks the bags from him with a grimace and tells him to stop embarrassing himself. Megumi offers to fix your leaky faucet? Toji's already under the fucking sink before his poor boy can grab a wrench. It's not malicious or anything... he just knows he's gonna win anyways! Saving Megumi the heartache and all that crap. Yeah...
A few days pass, then he clocks you out in your freshly mowed (...cough) backyard, lounging around in a pair of your tiny shorts. Ugh, he wants to rip them off you with his teeth. He leans on the fence inconveniently separating the two of you, beer in hand, biceps bulging beneath a navy T-shirt that's slightly dampened with sweat. He's squinting and smirking awkwardly at you in that oddly attractive way guys do when it's bright out, eyeing you like he's just realised his main goal in life.
"Hot day for all that, huh?" he juts his chin in your direction, casually noticing how your legs are glowing under the late afternoon sunlight. You groan softly and complain about your house being too warm. His son's behind him but he's ignoring it.
"You can borrow one of our fans if y–"
"Or come sit inside over here for a while. Got A/C and somethin' cold in the fridge..."
"Yeah...?" you try to stifle a laugh whilst curiously looking between the both of them, slightly jarred by their dynamic, its difficult to get used to.
Megumi mutters something about jamming a knife into a live toaster and stomps inside, his father watching him go. Toji shakes his head.
"Teenage boys, ah? Think they can handle a woman just 'cause they got a drivers license."
The bedroom windows face each other. One night, you're mindlessly zoning out in front of yours in nothing but an oversized tee and cute patterned panties. He's leaning against the frame on his side, shirtless and watching with that slow, lax curve to his scarred lips in the same way he would if he were taking filthy, filthy notes. Or if he were imagining fucking you up against the glass. He raises his beer can in a lazy salute once you finally notice and glance up, like he's saying "yeah, sweetheart. I see ya."
You grin and give him the middle finger before closing the curtains, and he lets out the longest, enervated sigh to himself.
"Alright, nice, Fushiguro... you're goin' to hell."
|| || || || || || || ||
I think this will forever be my most favourite thing ive ever written hehehehhehehehehe
Unfortunately I have an odd originality complex and will strive to avoid overused dialogue in my horny writing at all costs.
The words "you're all mine" are actually terrifying.
"Such a good girl for me" I'm having war flashbacks.
"'M all yours, feels s-s-so good 🥺"
shivers
Isn't it such a beautiful thing when men, fully grown, big and scary, just can't stop telling you that they're sorry?
When they're on top of you, panting and clumsily dropping their forehead upon your own like it's far too much to handle, but they're too proud to express that?
When they're overcome with this odd, heart-aching sense of guilt and shame whenever they're inside you, feeling the need to apologise for being the one to make you feel good?
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" as they sniffle and blink the hot tears from their lashes like you can't tell that they're getting emotional, trying to uphold their precious masculinity like a fraying flag in the storm and devastation that is love.
I used to write like I was building cathedrals.
Now I write like I'm bleaching him off the back of my teeth.
He asked if I'd ever been touched in a way that mattered.
I think he meant it kindly.
But his voice was full of acid and sour sugar when he said it.
I dreamed of him last night, again.
In the dream, he didn't speak.
He just opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.
On it sat a communion wafer with my name carved into it.
He pressed it to the roof of his mouth and held it there until it dissolved.
I cried in my sleep.
I woke up with my hand between my thighs and my name missing.
I've decided he is not only a man, no.
He is hunger.
He knows. Seldom guesses, or wonders.
That man knows who I am, knows my entrails.
The entrails that drag behind me on the ground each time I walk away from him.
I don't think he wants to fuck me.
I think he wants to bury me under his tongue.
Slice me thin as lamb meat.
Arrange me like carpaccio over a plate of pure snow.
Lick each piece like a sin he refuses to confess.
He'd eat me slowly.
Carefully.
Moaning with his mouth closed like he was raised well.
Then he'd write a beautiful confessional, and I'd commend his penitence with love while bleeding out.
He has crawled into the back of my throat.
He's sitting there, always.
Waiting patiently for me to open my mouth so he can violently reshape my words with his bare, bloodied hands.
Crushing their bones.
Squeezing their organs.
Stretching their meaning until they inevitably break right there on my tongue.
He'll study me as I weep, as I quietly pine for the control I once possessed over my own language.
I write like I've been fucked now.
It's appalling.
Abject.
Ripe with his name.
–––––––
I say it when I'm okay.
I say it when I'm not.
I say it when I look in the mirror and can't remember who I was before he made me feel.
There's a version of him in my mind that lives under the floorboards.
I feed him scraps.
I read him my soul.
I ride my own hand in front of him until he nods his approval and tells me I may finish.
I never look him in the eye.
I don't think I'd survive it.
I wonder if he knows this, too.
That I've stopped trying to deprive him.
That I just write to be worthy of being devoured.
That I'd let him ruin his own life if it meant he'd seek me out and yell at me again.
That I'm afraid of him.
That I love that I'm afraid of him.
One day, he'll kiss me.
I'll be on the floor, or his bed, or the edge of something holy.
And he'll lean down, and press his vicious mouth to mine like a mercy killing.
He'll sink his fangs too deep into his own lip, drawing crimson.
But he'll know that red has always been one of my favourite colours.
"Yeaaahhh, yeah, yeah, yeah- ride it. C'mon, c'mon, ride it ride it ride it, atta' girl... Atta'. fuckin'. girl." – Katsuki Bakugo, through gritted teeth and kiss-bitten lips.