#garouxreader

[garoumylove]

Just posted the new chapter of Love/Hate if anyone is following 💖

You can find it here on AO3 :)

[hanii-rose]

Imagine Garou and you, married with lots of free time on your hands. So much free time in fact, that the two of you start to...experiment a bit, just to pass the time though. And one day, in between your passionate daytime make out sessions, he gently pushes you off of his lap and gets off the bed, opening up the closet to reach for something. It's your camera. Huh, what the...? What does he need a camera for?

He sets it up, tripod and all, in front of your bed. You watch him with confusion before realization finally dawns upon you.

And just like that, he took you, claimed you on tape for him to watch over and over. He thought you two looked so good, so so erotic. Even when his thrusts were rapid and excruciatingly rough, when his index and middle fingers were shoved down your throat, when he laid you on your side and fucked up into your sweet pussy from behind, the two of you looked so...in love. You especially...

Your expression of desire, loud moans and adorable mewls of satisfaction, spit-glossed lips open, brows knitted and eyes half lidded made him want to take you over and over, infinitely keep you caged between his arms. The shivers of your amazing climax matched with your perfect fucked out giggles, all of this obscenity, this carnal madness, this catastrophic act of filth...this love, he could review over and over until his appetite for you was satiated.

He was so lonely when you left for work, what else was he supposed to do? Workout? Been there, done that.

And when you come home from work the very next day, you find that the camera and the tripod are still there at the foot of your bed, red light blinking. And from behind you comes a powerful shove, pushing you down on your stomach and into your sheets. Large, trained hands reach around to struggle with your office blouse until they opt to just rip it open, tight black leggings harshly pulled off of your legs. Garou pulls your hair from behind with one hand and grasps your jaw with the other, connecting his hungry lips to yours. You immediately grasp the intention behind his actions and reciprocate the love he places on your mouth, parting your lips for him to spit into. He does so and the camera catches it perfectly.

>>

He breathes in your scent, handsome nose pressed into your cheek as he ruins you, entering and exiting your cunt swiftly with no intention of stopping.

"Oh, Garou~"

You moan into the crook of his shoulder, loud enough for him to know what he's doing is right. Your moans push him into overdrive, coupled with the camera picking up every little twitch you make. He's so happy he can hardly restrain himself from battering your poor sopping pussy.

The two of you finish together, falling into bliss. You lazily rake your nails up his biceps and over his shoulders and down his sculpted back as he lovingly drinks up the spit from your tongue, sucking on it.

After that, the two of you fell into a sinful routine with that same old camera and the same beautiful sex.

>>

Each time Garou watched the tapes, he couldn't stop believing just how...sensual they were, filled with hot, frantic fucking and equal amounts of alluring love. He held the camera in his hands, sweating with ecstasy as his eyes absorbed the lewd material he had produced. This was amazing. It was art! A masterpiece!

And his mind had struck a thought. A very sexy, very lecherous thought...

--

Garou's skilled fingers typed away at your laptop as you sat next to him eyeing the screen in front of you. You instructed him on what to type and enter on the page and once all was said and done, Garou took hold of the mouse and clicked 'sign up'.

You now had a brand new Pornhub account. One by one, Garou posted the videos that the two of you had made together, giving them the most indecent titles and tagging them with phrases you were unfamiliar with. You were surprised to see how much more pornographic he could make the videos seem.

Before you knew it, Garou and amassed you with almost 120,000 subscribers, some willing to pay money to watch you be fucked stupid by your husband. And Garou took heavy pride in the fact that strangers online were jealous of how well he made love to you.

'I wish I was the guy fucking her...'

'I'd give that girl anything she'd want just so she'd sit on my face.'

'She takes that dick so well. That guy is so fucking lucky...'

'I wish my boyfriend would do this to me.'

Everytime Garou read through the crude messages in the comments, he couldn't help but read them aloud to you. He liked the way you bashfully squirmed everytime he read a comment that praised you. He loves you so much...

--

'stupid pretty wife comes home and gets fucked and filled by mean husband'

'husband makes love to his beautiful wife'

'sensuous fucking with sweet wife'

'brutal destruction of whore wife's pussy'

'stupid bitch begs for husband to give her his kids'

'amazing blowjob given by adorable slut'

'POV: blow your loads on my wife's pretty face'

'watch me make my wife cry'

These were just some of the videos the two of you had created and uploaded. But Garou knew that there was so much more you could do together...

I know I've been gone for a really long time but I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing again. I missed this so much. It's ain't much but it's honest work.

I wrote this at 3:00 A.M. lol that's why it's so short but I couldn't wait to write it.

[garoumylove]

Posted a new chapter of Love/Hate. That's my ongoing GarouxReader fanfiction. Thank you to anyone and everyone that reads!! I really appreciate it 💕💖

Also, I've been inactive due to not feeling very well recently so I'm sorry if I didn't respond to anyone anywhere ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

[garoumylove]

New Year New Smutty Garou Fic ^.^

Happy New Year everyone! Here’s a very smutty and romantic Garou fanfic I just wrote called ‘Hurt So Good’ :) I’ll leave the intro here and you can read the whole thing HERE since its a bit too long for Tumblr! 

~*~

He holds his bandaged hand in front of his face in the dim heat of early autumn. The shack has no windows and no particular light to offer but his eyes always adjust quickly. The sun is setting- No, just set. Just gone down for the night but Garou lies wide awake. He’d just made it back after a sleepless twenty four hours. There’s a dull ache in his calf where Golden Ball’s little missile got him and this. He clenches and unclenches the bandaged hand lightly. Bandaged is a generous word. It is not a bandage. A rag he found, really. He’ll bandage it up properly soon now that he’s back at his own little headquarters but for now he just wants to lie back for a moment. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. His headquarters. He likes that. The fucking heroes have their Hero Association HQ and the monsters have their own somewhere, he is sure of it, and here he is, in his own headquarters. King of his own castle. CEO of his one-man organisation. He thinks he might even give himself a promotion, employee of the month even. A fun, savage laugh rings out in the stillness. How about that? Employee of the month. So he did amount to something in the end. Heh.

The hand. An annoying injury. An unexpected one. Compliments of Spring Mustachio. But at least he’d gained some experience against blades and that’s always useful. The wound has begun to close up, he can feel the flesh starting to pull together, faster than any human he knows but still far too slow for him. At least it was a clean wound. One quarter of a stigmata. No, they’d never be able to crucify him now. Not even if they tried. There is no one on his side. He has nobody. The situation hasn’t changed. There is no one on his side except his own body, and it’s been cooperating much more than usual lately, stepping up to the challenge. This quick healing a welcome surprise. All his billions of cells in on the plan, cheering him on, working hard to make sure he reaches his monstrous goal. This pain? He looks over his hand again, turning it in the dusk. This pain is nothing. It hurt like a mother fucker, stung like hell as it happened, as he felt the blade pierce the skin, slide against muscle but he was too high on adrenaline to notice much. A half hour later though, it wasn’t so fun anymore. But now it was just an inconvenient ache and tomorrow, he’ll be able to deliver a punch like nothing had ever happened. He is sure of it. This pain, it’s almost gone. But did the bastard really have to slice up his shirt? He’d left the dojo with nothing but the clothes on his back, not intending this phase of his plan to drag out for too long and that was just fucking rude.

The last traces of sun are gone and the cracks in the roof shine a saturated violet. He can hear the last of the crickets outside. Soon they will fall silent. It will be far too cold for them. But for now, tonight especially, it is more than warm enough. Reminiscent of summer. Of broken wood and broken bones, a trail of now defunct dojos across the country. All his own handiwork. These skilled hands. He had never particularly really excelled at this or that before. But he’d poured all his blood, sweat and tears into learning, into training, quickly found he had a knack for it and exploited it to its fullest potential under that old man’s guidance. The geezer seemed delighted. He was so fucking full of himself, Garou’s smile dissipates into a scowl. He felt he was just a trophy, a vessel, a superior demonstration for the old fool’s martial arts. If he’d never shown any particular promise, would the old bastard have shown him as much attention? It was all performative, all conditional, in the end, wasn’t it? What if he’d just ended up as another Charanko (shudder the thought)? Bang wouldn’t have given two shits about him, would he? The scowl tenses. Now look. He’s gone and done it again. Wisps of a blackening, indecipherable turmoil rising, waking deep inside. Feelings he cannot name and doesn’t care to. This hand. This pain. The edges of injured skin and bone and sinew. This pain. This pain is concrete and visceral and real. It has a location, a pinpoint. It’s definable. He can point to it and say ‘Fuck this shit right here’, grip it with his hand when it gets too bad, when it has gotten too bad, grit his teeth and shift his attention somewhere else. An eight. Now a six. It’s gone down to a three. A meager one.

He likes that. That’s what they do, the doctors and the like, isn’t it? Ask you to number it out of ten. It’s still subjective, of course. The ten that he can withstand is magnitudes higher than any normal human, but it’s still a nicely divided scale. Pieces of pain on a line. A graph. He’d always liked graphs. Diagrams. Everything clearly labeled, guiding you through whatever it was it wanted you to know. He remembers himself age eight, flipping through the insect encyclopedia over and over, staring at those beautifully drawn diagrams for hours. The clear labels: Head. Thorax. Abdomen. And then the magnifications. Antenna. Compound eye. Wing. Femur. Posterior spiracle. The Latin names of those insects, like unpronounceable magical incantations. Allomyrina dichotoma. Japanese rhinoceros beetle. If monsters were species and had names, what would his be? What is Latin for ‘monster’? He knows rex is king. He’d learned that as a kid looking through the dinosaur books in elementary school during the lonely recess. Rex, he’d whispered the enchanting foreign word under his breath. Rex. King. What does he hope his species name would be now? Something rex. It must end in rex. Or god? Should it be god? What is god in Latin? And what’s monster? Ah, who cares.

The thought of elementary school stokes the fire that he’d just managed to extinguish inside. He looks down his body, laying on the frayed couch. His chest, with the goddamn torn shirt, rises and falls with each breath. Unlike his martyred hand, there is nothing to direct his attention to when this bullshit starts, this storm inside. It’s all inside. Something unstoppable, uncomfortable, uncontrollable. He pushes the fist of his good hand against the hard muscle of his chest. Right there. The scowl grows brutal. If he could only reach in there, even punch through his ribs, pull it out like some sort of unwelcome intruder, crush it in his fingers and feel its blood drain so it could never bother him again. His knuckles press into his skin, sharp and unforgiving. He does not have the words for it. There is no number he can assign. Whatever is happening inside him, that seems to happen every so often, especially when memories come up, whatever this is, it escapes definition and yet never, ever fails to torture him.

He is not stupid. He is not so illiterate that he can’t say ‘This is anger’, or ‘This is resentment’. He knows this. He has been angry for almost as long as he can remember, not quite all his life, but ever since that little shit Tacchan decided to make it his mission in life to torment him on the school playground with its peeling paint and holey fence. This writhing anger. He knows there is anger in there. Rage. Pure unadulterated fury, simmering and smouldering from so long ago. He is not so stupid. But the merits of language only go so far. And while, on the surface, he can point and say ‘This is anger’ or ‘This is frustration’, the reality is that under that same simplified surface is such a seething mass of tangled darkness he cannot even begin to think of where to start unraveling it. He remembers in middle school, one of their more progressive teachers, projected an abstract painting onto the white board, for what purpose Garou does not remember. But he remembers staring at the furious maze of black and white lines and shapes that resembled nothing he could name. It frustrated and fascinated him, this abstract art or whatever the fuck it was called. It was just like what he felt, stil feels, inside. Nothing he can name, or grasp, but so much of it. So hot and burning from the inside. Not just burning but suffocating, clawing its way as if through his ribs and up his throat. Like it wants something and will not rest.

At first he’d tried to push it down. Suppress it. Fight back. It was too dangerous, unwieldy and uncontrollable. But as he harnessed his physical prowess at the dojo, day after day, staying later than anyone else, repeating drills until his muscles ached, until he could barely move, until Bang scolded him that that was enough, as he harnessed his physical power, honed it, he learned to use his inner demons as fuel for the fire. He directed it into every hit, every bone-crunching punch. Maybe he couldn’t understand, might never understand it, but he could use it. He’d imagine this dark, hot liquid rage sitting in his chest, his mind, direct its course into his arm, into his fist, let it explode. The satisfaction of it like nothing else. Nothing else. Well, almost nothing. A corner of a thought flickers somewhere in his mind, like a bright spark in a chaotic night. It appears and extinguishes itself almost as quickly as it came. Interesting as always. But this mess inside him, this absolute bedlam, it ain’t so bad. Like a contract with the devil. Except when he loses grip and he is no longer using it, but is being used by it. When he finds himself in the palm of its hand. This howling pain that has no words and all he can do is pace, wrestle with it (it always wins), appease it by bringing a sacrifice. Some unsuspecting poor bastard in a hero costume sometimes does the trick. But not always. When it overtakes him, forces him down memory lane and he has no choice but to watch, to relive those things. When he’s forced to confront everything that’s under the brutal anger. The emotions he cannot name, white hot and desperate. Memories of classmates, and teachers, and parents and…

And then it gets harder to breathe. Ragged, jaw clenched.

How would you rate your pain out of ten? And all he can do is gasp. Numbers become inconsequential, lose all meaning. It’s not anger anymore, it’s… It’s… What the fuck is it? What is it that lives and breathes inside him and gives him no peace? Memories of people’s faces. People he had loved, had tried his best for. People who never smiled. People who made him feel… What? What is this terrifying feeling? It’s not even one. Not one feeling. An amalgamation of many. A stitched together nightmare. What is it? Why these memories? And he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t want to. Clawing his way back to control. Always in control. Always.

Always? The spark again. A moment. Slightly longer. And gone.

The night grows more sultry and all this thinking is getting frustrating. He sits up, pulls off his black shirt. Looks down, inspects his chest. A bruise here, and one there, barely visible, camouflaging in the dusty darkness of this cabin. He rubs his hand against one, then the other. It feels like nothing. No pain. Not here. His body doing its best to not let him down. His body, a perfectly honed killing machine. Each vein, each fibre of muscle… Anyone who saw him would say he’s at his peak, but he knows this is not yet true. There is still room for improvement. He can still get stronger. There are still so many fucking assholes to crush, so much justice to mete out. He has this sudden realisation, an epiphany, that for him happiness is a zero sum game. He finds he is most happy when his enemies are not. If others are happy he cannot be. His happiness depends on their fear, their misery. He lies back down, only slightly cooler half-undressed. He stares up at the punctured ceiling, one arm behind his head. A zero sum game. He won’t be happy unless they’re terrified. He cannot be happy unless they’re… His thoughts trail off. His mind slowly shifts as his chest continues to rise and fall slowly in the dark, the air pressed so close against his bare skin, against the sculpted muscles of his torso, following the glistening little trail of sweat down his left pectoral. His hand reaches out in front of him briefly, as if reaching for something, someone on top of him. No, not everyone. There was an exception.

An unexpected exception. ~ A few months prior. Start of June. Well, that’s when the exception happened. The real start was before that. The year before. When he’d still been going to school more or less regularly. She had been new last year. This in itself was not anything to write home about. In their school, their neighbourhood, kids came and went all the time. The thing to write home about was that she was somewhat foreign. He says somewhat because he had always been too polite to ask. What was the fraction of Japanese? A half? A quarter? An eighth? A numerator of one over the denominator of what? It didn’t really matter in the end. She was a new species. She kept to herself mostly and would answer in polite and formal Japanese with a sweet, accented inflection when anyone cared to talk to her. He couldn’t figure out if it was just the rookie mistake of any language learner, always being taught the most polite forms just in case, or whether this was a brilliant trick to keep people at arm’s length. He had never caught on. But the idea of a language barrier appealed to him. It was a perfectly valid excuse to have people not bother you, one that he couldn’t feign. But it didn’t matter. By that time he’d already carefully constructed a reputation for himself stronger than any language barrier and it was rare for anyone to approach him for anything really. The only one being his homeroom teacher who had been on his fucking case non-stop for this or that or some other shit. The girl was there. And from the back of the class where he sat, interesting to look at. Always wearing a polite smile and glasses. She didn’t seem to have integrated herself into the social life of the class but neither did she seem too bothered by it. She participated in everything and answered all questions, always in that formal and ultra polite Japanese. And no one could say a bad word about her but she never seemed to fully fit in. A foreign import into their indigenous class ecosystem. And interesting to look at.

...the rest can be read here! xoxo

[garoumylove]

Welcome to my little corner...

Hello!! I’m a GarouxReader smut writer and a GarouxOC fanartist ^.^ I don’t post that regularly here. But here are my AO3 links:

Garou x Eiko slice of life art gallery 

Garou x Eiko NSFW art gallery - R18!!

GarouxReader fanfiction

Thanks for stopping by :)

[garoumylove]

Currently under rock writing new chapter of Love/Hate.

See you soon. Maybe.

[garoumylove]

This Summer

(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ Oh, also I wrote a new romantic/smutty GarouxReader short story called ‘This Summer’. Here’s a bit of it below and you can read the rest on AO3 > here < :)

And thank you for the kind messages from my last post!

~*~

He will get up in the afternoon summer heat, naked from your bed, in front of the half closed curtains rustling softly in the rare breeze. Something, an insect or a stray ray of light, has disturbed his sleep, that perfect deep nap after an hour of unexpected, yet so characteristic, lovemaking that seems to happen every time he's around.

Something has made him sit up, get out of your bed, your white linen sheets. Your eyes open, barely, still in your own dream world, and watch him walk over to the window, the subtle ripple of muscle down his back, his thighs in the thick summer afternoon sun pushing through the gap you left in the billowing curtains.

He'll throw the window open even further, but this will not cool your bedroom, the summertime air the same inside and out.

And you watch him, too peaceful, too relaxed to move, your hair spread around you in beautiful disarray on the pillow.

And when he's done fixing whatever it was that made him frown and drew him away from you, he'll turn and walk back, a swagger, a cocky grin, back to bed, back to you, perfectly aware of you watching him in all his undressed glory.

His approach can't help but make you turn over, stretch out onto your back, exposed skin against a patch of cool linen that will soon heat up. He'll make sure of that. And so will you.

You feel the warmth of his body slide onto yours, muscles smooth and hard, pressing against you, starting slow, another round. Thinks he can take his time, prolong the pleasure for all its worth, but this is a self-control he has not yet mastered. Will not admit that. But you feel the weight of him pressing into you, a sense of hot impatience starting, lips on your neck as your legs spread just a little more to accommodate him and his wayward desire.

The summer afternoon heat, the faint smell of freshly cut grass from somewhere. Thick, cotton wool clouds hazy through the drapes. And this boy with a body that's anything but, this boy who has grown up much too fast, on top of you, his tongue grazing slowly up your neck as you feel his full, unapologetic erection against that soft, delicate part of you. He pushes it against you, not yet inside, waiting for the invitation as you lace your fingers through his.

[garoumylove]

Yay! Finished new chapter of Love/Hate (my ongoing GarouxReader fanfic)! Just gotta proofread tomorrow and then post ^.^ I really love when I get the opportunity to sit down and just write! *sparkle sparkle*