Hei hei, this is a side account, I post gender diverse fanfictions on my main account
Feel free to hang around, I am quite nice just don't be rude or immature.
💫 I’ll make deep character posts like that and then teehee giggle giggle with my wife over the concept that Richtofen’s ejaculation might also have trace amounts of element 115 in it, since even his diary is capable of corrupting others who pick it up and read it 💀 ✨
The way Felix flinches when people raise their voices. The way he constantly worries he might've done something wrong. His apologies. Assuming Escell must've been the person to break into Fathom, his tendency to hide his things, and how he warded his room door in Blackthorn Manor. The way he immediately hid his expression and changed his posture when going to Porrima. Him saying he must sound like a spoiled brat after saying tea and scones would help him. The way he watches MC's reaction to every new thing he shows them or piece of himself he reveals.
maybe unpopular opinion but i wish there was like an "endless mode" of the actual dispatching part of the game bc it was honestly fun and i was so ass at it i need practice 😭 also it lets me have blorbo time without committing to another playthrough </3
⚠️:NSFW/SMUT/AFAB Reader/Low key slow burn/Thigh riding/he gets off to how small you are compared to him/he also gets off to making you ride his massive fucking thigh.
★ The first time Liu Kang said “Geras will keep you company,” you thought it was a joke.
★ It wasn’t.
★ And now—weeks later—you’re sitting cross legged in the Fire Temple, tryin very hard not to notice how Geras watches you. Not the way someone observes a sparring match or studies a technique. No, this was different. This kind of watching that makes your skin hum, like standing too close to a lightning storm.
★ “Your form is improving,” he says, and his voice is low. Steady. The kind of sound that doesn’t seek attention—it demands it.
★ You glance up from your meditation pose, cheeks warming. “Yeah? I’ve been practicing that hip mobility thing you showed me…”
★ “I noticed.”
★ Of course he did.
★ Geras didn’t mingle with mortals. Everyone knew that. He’s ancient—eternal, untouchable, carved from something that predates patience itself. And yet here he is, week after week. Sitting with you while the others are off saving realms or whatever. You’re not cleared for that yet. Still too green.
★ But Geras? Geras is here.
★ “Come,” he says, rising in one fluid motion that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. “Your cooldown.”
★ You scramble to your feet—or try to. Your legs are still shaking from holds, and you stumble just slightly. Just enough.
★ His hand catches your elbow—and wow—his palm spans the entire width of your arm. Swallows it—really. Makes you feel like something small and precious that could break if he wasn’t careful.
★ Except…he is careful. Always. His thumb brushes the inside of your elbow—just once—before he steadies you. “Easy,” he murmurs. You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself.
•••
★ It starts innocently enough from there. A hand on your shoulder when he adjusts your posture. Fingers curling around your wrist to demonstrate a pressure point. The span of his palm against your spine during a balance exercise, holding you upright like you weigh nothing at all.
★ Which, to him, you probably don’t.
★ “You’re tense,” Geras observes one afternoon, and before you can respond, his hands are on your shoulders—both of them—kneading the knots with a precision that borders on unfair.
★ “I’m—“ I’m your breath catches, “I’m fine.”
★ “You are many things.” His thumbs press into the space between your shoulder blades, and your eyes flutter shut. “Fine is not one of them.”
★ You don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know what it means coming from him. So you just… sit there. Let him work the tension free while you try not to think about how his hands could probably encircle your entire ribcage if he wanted. (Why are you thinking about that?)
★ “Better?” he asks, and his voice is closer now. Right by your ear. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Thanks.” His hands linger. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to wonder.
•••
★ You talk to fill the silence. About your training. About the book you’re reading. About the stray cat that’s been hanging around the temple grounds and how you’ve been sneaking it scraps even though you’re pretty sure Liu Kang knows.
★ Geras listens. He always listens. And somewhere between your rambling about helping the village repair a fence and your theory about the best tea for meditation, something shifts. You catch him watching you—really watching—with an expression you can’t quite name.
★ It’s not cold. Geras is never cold with you. But it’s….hungry. No—That’s not right either. It’s restrained. Like he’s holding something back. Something vast and patient and entirely too intense for a random Monday afternoon.
★ “What??” you ask, self conscious now. “Nothing.” But his gaze drops to your hands. Small, folded in your lap. “You have kind hands..”
★ “I—what?”
★ “You help people.” He says it like a fact. Like something he’s cataloged and filed away. “It shows.”
★ Your heart does a weird little flip. “I just… I dunno. I like making things easier for people, I guess.”
★ “I know.”
★ The way he says it—low and certain—makes you feel seen in a way that’s almost unbearable.
•••
★ It happens on a Thursday. You’re stretching—something about hip flexors and warriors pose—and Geras is spotting you. His hands bracket your waist, steadying you through the hold, and you’re trying to focus on your breathing but it’s hard when he’s this close. When he’s touching you like this. “Good,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach drop. “Hold it there.” You do. Or try to. But your legs are shaking and you’re about to collapse and—
★ “Come here,” Before you can process it, he’s lifting you. Just—lifting you—like you’re nothing more than a thought. His hands span your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides, and suddenly you’re in his lap facing him.
★ Perched on one thigh. In the Fire Temple. On a Thursday. “Geras—“ “Breathe,” he says, and his arms come around you. Loose. Careful. Giving you every opportunity to leave. You don’t.
★ “This is—“You swallow hard. “Is this normal?” “No.” (At least he’s honest.) His chest rises and falls against yours, slow and measured, and you’re suddenly very aware of how small you are in his arms. How easily he holds you. Like you’re something worth keeping close.
★ “Should I move?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to?”
★ No. Gods, no.
★ “I don’t know what this is,” you admit. His breath ghosts across your temple, he’s silent in response. As if he doesn’t know what this is either. But his arms tighten. Just slightly. Just enough to feel like a confession. His hands stay on your waist. Your hands stay on his shoulders. The temple is silent except for the faint crackle of distant flames and the sound of your breathing—unsteady, uneven, too loud in your own ears.
★ “Why did you—“ you start. “Because I wanted to.” Simple. Honest. Devastating. You bite your lip. “You don’t exactly seem like the ‘wanting’ type.”
★ His head tilts. Considering. “I am not. Typically.”
★ “And now?”
★ His hands tighten. Just barely. “Now,” he says slowly, “I find that I want many things I should not.” Your heart trips over itself. “Like?” His eyes burn. “Like keeping you here. Like this. Where I can see you. Feel you.” He subtly presses you further onto his thigh, your core immediately igniting. Your breath catches.
★ “Geras—“
★ “You are… distracting,” he admits, and it sounds like a curse and a prayer intertwined. “I was not made to be distracted.”
★ “Sorry,” you whisper, not meaning it at all. His thumb brushes your side. Up. Down. Slow. “Do not apologize.”
★ The air is molten between you. his hand slides up—just barely—to rest beneath your ribs, palm spread wide, fingers curling slightly like he’s testing the shape of you—
★ You forget how to breathe.
★ “Small,” he murmurs. Almost to himself. And you realize—suddenly, wildly—that he likes it.
★ Likes the way you fit in his hands. Likes the way you have to look up at him. Likes the fact that he could cradle you, cage you, keep you—
★ Your face burns. “You’re staring,” you manage.
★ “You are worth staring at.” And that—That does you in. You duck your head, grinning helplessly into his shoulder, and his chest rumbles with something that might be a laugh before he lightly bounces his leg, causing you to whimper. Again. That small bounce. It sends a jolt straight through your core, your pussy clenching hard against the firm muscle of his thigh.
•••
★ The sudden pressure rubs right over your swollen clit, sending sparks of heat radiating up your spine. You feel a flood rushing through the thin fabric of your shorts already…You press your lips together, trying to stifle the sound, but it's no use—another whimper escapes, muffled against the crook of his neck. His hand on your waist tightens, fingers digging into your skin through the thin fabric, not letting you pull away.
★ He guides you instead with a subtle shift of his hips, grinding your soaked folds directly over the thick ridge of his leg. The friction drags along your entrance, making your inner walls flutter with need.
★ “There,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like gravel scraping stone. His other hand stays splayed under your ribs, palm hot and broad against your side, holding you steady as he bounces his thigh again, deliberate and unyielding this time.
★ The motion lifts you slightly before dropping you back down, the impact forcing you to spread wider against him. Your clit throbs under the assault, the damp training shorts offering no barrier—just a slick, clinging layer that heightens every slide.
★ You can’t help the way your hips jerk forward involuntarily, chasing that building ache, your thighs trembling from the effort to stay balanced. Geras watches you intently, his glowing blue eyes locked on your face, absorbing every twitch of your brows, every gasp that parts your lips.
★ He relishes this control, the way your body yields to him so easily. You’re small in his grasp, delicate enough that his cock twitches in response, swelling thicker in his pants as he pictures burying it deep inside you—feeling your tight heat squeeze around his length while you sob from the stretch. But he holds back—savoring the slow torment—determined to make you beg before he gives you more.
★ “Ride it,” he commands softly, his thumb pressing firmly into your hipbone, the pressure bordering on bruising as it urges you to move. “Show me how badly you need this,”
★ Your breath hitches, a flush of shame burning your cheeks even as fresh slickness floods your core, easing the way for more friction. His tone—deep, authoritative—strips away any hesitation. You rock your hips tentatively at first, dragging your aching folds along his thigh in short, experimental strokes.
★ The fabric of your pants chafes lightly against your sensitive skin, growing sodden and heavy with each pass, the wetness seeping through to darken the material on his leg too. He doesn’t thrust or grind back, content to let you work for it, but his leg flexes beneath you now, his quad hardening into a rigid bar that presses up into your core. It hits your clit dead on with every downward roll of your hips, sending jolts of pleasure/pain that make your toes curl in your boots.
★ Your hands clutch his shoulders tighter, one side free to scrape your nails over his bronze skin while the other hand rested on the armored plate, you speed up, humping against him with desperate rhythm. Whines pour from your throat now, high pitched and fractured, each one vibrating through your chest as your pussy clenches rhythmically, empty and craving.
★ ‘So sensitive,’ Geras thinks, a surge of dark pleasure tightening his gut. ‘Drenched already, humping my leg like an animal in heat. They’d clench so perfectly on my cock—milking every inch while I pound into them until they break.’ The fantasy fuels his arousal, his shaft pulsing fully hard now, the head leaking to dampen his own pants. He shifts minutely, letting the hardness brush against your knee, a tease of what’s to come.
★ “That’s it,” he growls, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass cheek, fingers sinking into the soft flesh and yanking you forward with more force. He kneads the muscle there, spreading you slightly to increase the contact, pulling you harder against his thigh until your clit grinds in tight circles. “Fuck yourself on me..”
★ You obey without thought, hips snapping faster, the wet glide turning rhythmic and loud in the hushed temple. Your training pants are plastered to you, outlining every swollen curve of your pussy, the fabric translucent where your arousal has soaked through completely.
★ Each bounce jars your body, your chest heaving with the motion, nipples peaking painfully against your top. The pressure coils low in your belly, a hot tension that makes your thighs quake and your vision blur at the edges. You whine louder, forehead dropping to his collarbone, inhaling the earthy scent of his skin mixed with the musk of your own excitement. “Geras—it's—ah—too intense—please—!”
★ “Not nearly enough,” he counters, punctuating the words with another sharp bounce of his leg. The upward thrust rams his muscle against your entrance, mimicking a shallow fuck that has your walls spasming.
★ His cock throbs insistently, standing out against the confines of his pants, but he denies himself, fixated on your descent into desperation. Your emotions tangle—mortification at the pathetic sounds you’re making, undercut by the intoxicating thrill of his dominance, the way he owns every shudder wrung from your body.
★ He leans closer, his breath scorching your ear, lips brushing the shell. “You’re ruining my pants, filthy little thing,” he sounds restrained—barely— “So much slick from just my thigh. Think how you’d flood me when I shove my cock inside,”
★ The crude promise shatters your restraint. Your orgasm rips through you without warning, pussy convulsing in sharp waves that gush more wetness over his leg. You cry out, back arching as ecstasy pulses from your clit outward, thighs clamping around his as tremors rack your frame. He doesn’t relent, thigh flexing steadily to prolong the peaks, drawing out every flutter until you’re limp and sobbing softly against him.
★ As the aftershocks fade, you slump fully into his chest, panting raggedly, skin slick with sweat. Geras strokes your back in slow, possessive sweeps, the touch surprisingly tender amid the lingering heat.
★ When the others return, you’re still there. Still on his lap. Still wrapped in arms that could break you but won’t. Before finally he sets you back down, “be good, don’t relay our private moments and I’ll reward you.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, waving you off to sit back in your usual meditation spot. You did so, with buckling knees.
i hope they add mechanics for running a character over with your car friendly fire so i can run new richtofen over with my jeep while im drinking and ive got takeo in the back of the truck
Remember, guys (canonically!) Ult. Edward IS NOT a nazi! He actively speaks against it.... meaning this old man is still hotter than nostalgia baitus or wtv the new crew is !!
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