ash 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

20 !! n.1 kuroo and gojo glazer

[yamsfrecklvs]

WELCOME! ᯓ★

intro: i’m ash, i’m 20 and my pronouns are she/her. for the love of god MDNI! n.1 kuroo n gojo glazer always and forever. i almost only write x fem!reader (sorry)

requests are open!

my masterlists:

— HAIKYUU!

— JUJUTSU KAISEN

— MY HERO ACADEMIA

— BLUE LOCK

BONUS: ASH’S PLAYLISTS:

nerdjo x popular girl trope

office romance with kuroo tetsuro

vampire bf! gojo

@yamsfrecklvs - all work is written by and owned by me!!

[yamsfrecklvs]

my boyfriend is a… vampire? ✶𓏲ּ꩜ .ᐟ

vampire! gojo x fem! reader / warnings: nothing much except typical vampire- ish topics, mentions of blood, religious-ish themes - this is a bit corny, i tried to make it equal parts comical and interesting and it’s just self indulgent :) enjoy

your boyfriend satoru has always been a bit… quirky, to say the least.

naturally, you never really paid much mind to it. you love him, and you do with all his quirks and his nerdy little habits, you love the way he treats you and the way he makes you laugh. and oh, he’s just so pretty. too pretty, perhaps - truly, a sight for sore eyes.

yours had been love at first sight, and you both knew that very well. from the moment you met his sapphire gaze, you knew you were done for, and so did he, because never had he found someone quite as bewitching as you in his whole - long, long - life.

but as the months passed, you begun to notice that although yes, your adorable goofy handsome boyfriend was nothing short of unusual, some things about him were downright… off.

and now that you’re actually thinking about it, maybe you should have realized sooner.

it all began when you invited him over at dinner at yours, and he ate, well… nothing. he only munched on the smallest bit of dessert that you’d prepared for him, and yes, he had mentioned having a sweet tooth, but you would have never thought that he would just come over and discard all the hard work you’d put into making a meal for him. after confronting him about it, he apologized, telling you that no, it was not about you! he was simply really sick that day, and ‘his stomach hurt’. since then, he’d only bought food for you, and almost never spent time with you during meals. looking back at it, when have you ever seen him eat?

the answer was, well, never.

the second thing about him was, by far, the strangest. he refused to touch you if you were wearing silver. of course, he always loved it when you dolled yourself up for him: how could he ever resist his pretty girlfriend, especially while adorned like the goddess you are? but even then, if you had any kind of jewellery on, he would always ask you the same question.

“babe, what material is that?”

if you ever said silver, he’d immediately urge you to take everything off with some dumb excuse, like ‘you don’t need that, you’re already pretty as you are!’ or, ‘oh, baby, you shouldn’t wear that cheap shit, take it off. it’s on me, i know i should have bought you nicer jewellery. how about a nice white gold, hm?’

given the fact that, in the end, he had actually bought you white gold jewellery, you’d brushed it off as some weird ‘rich people’ habit. that was, until one day.

satoru hadn’t really taken a good look at your hands. you were wearing a silver ring, and when you’d taken his hand, he’d immediately let go of it, almost jolting away from you. looking up at him, mortified, you’d asked him what was up with him. he’d played it off as nothing, but you, knowing him, had intercepted something different about his gaze, a slight twitch of his brow, an imperceptible quiver of his lip. was it pain? you didn’t know anymore.

oh, and then there were his utterly absurd sleeping habits. satoru was almost never up in the mornings, and you’d rarely ever seen him earlier than sundown. still, you two would sometimes hang out in the mornings, but it would always shocked you when he’d nonchalantly admit that no, he hadn’t gotten any sleep. and yet, there he was, as fresh as a rose. at first, it simply pissed you off: just how unfair had been nature, giving him all the grace and the beauty in the world without leaving any of it for other foolish, insignificant mortals? but then, you ended up just finding it strange.

of course, the fact that he always refused to visit any churches with you was weird. he constantly refused to step foot on holy grounds, no matter how much you begged him to come see the beautiful architecture with you. at your request, he’d always pout and say:

“baby, do you want me to, what, die in there?”

at first, you thought he was joking. now you realize that, perhaps, he wasn’t.

plus, satoru was no good at eluding your suspects, either - whenever you’d rave to him about any movie even remotely related to vampirism, he’d always laugh in your face, his most frequent sentence being:

“oh, sweet girl, those things are not realistic at all.”

the fact that he always said realistic and not real was beginning to make you tick.

you often stopped to think about another thing - the way he looked at you.

sometimes, usually in the quiet of the night, or in dull, sticky, dimlit evenings, you noticed the way his eyes would linger on you: half-closed, his long lashes casting a pretty shadow on his soft cheeks, his lips in a thin line, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. there was always, always something in his gaze, a kind of flicker that sometimes only lasted for a split second, a glimpse of an emotion you could never quite figure out. at first, you thought it was desire. you could always tell when he wanted you, but no - this was different. it almost looked like hunger. he was eating you alive with that cheshire cat grin of his, and it was so intense that it sometimes verged on the grotesque. still, in those moments, you could constantly feel like something was troubling him, a flash of shame in his cerulean irises, a hint of embarrassment.

and now, the sudden realization that your loving boyfriend satoru might not be who - or better, what - you think he is, comes at you in the corniest, most cliché way ever.

you’re watching twilight. and there, right there, it hits you for the slightest of seconds, right in the middle of that one cringeworthy scene of bella googling about edward’s weird strength, speed and the cold touch of his hands. hysterical, you laugh at yourself for even remotely thinking about it.

your boyfriend is a… vampire? nonsense. you’re a big girl, you think, you should stop believing in things that would come straight out of a teenager’s mind. get a grip.

and, momentarily, you do get a grip. until a few days later.

you and satoru are simply strolling around the city, until a gorgeous antique shop comes in your field of vision. like the spoiled girlfriend you are, you immediately drag him inside, strolling around the lovely, almost-organized clutter of the aisles, satoru’s hand in your back pocket as to not lose sight of you and because he would die for those brief, little moments of casual intimacy with you. as you’re walking, with satoru happily chatting your ear off and highly distracted by the obscene amount of pretty things around him, you catch your reflection in a mirror.

your heart drops when you notice that you’re the only person you see in it.

alarmed, you whip your head towards your boyfriend just to see him standing right next to you, his cold hand still in the back pocket of your jeans. you quickly side eye the mirror again, convinced that yes, you’re surely going mad, but the reflection proves you right once again. as you walk right past it, you can’t see him, and yet he’s right there with you. weirdly enough, you don’t feel as sick as you thought you would - no, you’re excited. to avoid him getting suspicious, you continue your day as if nothing happened. better to ponder at home - which you do, your head spinning with questions right after you set foot into your house.

you’d seen satoru’s reflection many times. so why on earth was that mirror different? were you really driving yourself crazy or were you simply a little too observant for your own good?

desperate and on a strange adrenaline rush, you turn to your computer in pure twilight fashion to look up the dumbest question you could’ve harbored.

‘why can’t vampires see their reflection?’

it’s childish, you think - at least, you do until you read the answer. then, everything aligns, like the blow of a time bomb, like an eclipse.

‘mirrors backed with silver burn a vampire’s reflection’

it all just makes sense - the mirror in the antique shop was made with silver. they don’t make mirrors like those anymore. you’re not crazy. or are you?

of course not, you tell yourself.

still, you think that you might just actually be unstable and that no, this is not real, and you’ve just made it up, and you find yourself spiraling until the only possible answer presents itself to you. you’ll ask him. either you’ll make a fool out of yourself and you two will get to have a good laugh together, or you’ll finally get the answer you need.

naturally, satoru doesn’t have have an inkling of your suspicions. in fact, he hopes you don’t notice anything. he hopes you don’t see that, sometimes, when he looks at you, he can just feel how alive you are, how your blood runs warm and wild and vibrant into your veins, how the flush in your cheeks makes him want to touch you all over, feel your warmth, your humanness. your mortality enthrals him, from the beat of your heart to the flutter of your eyes as you fall asleep next to him. his isn’t a gaze of hunger - at least, not the kind you think. it’s more visceral and desperate than what he would feel for a prey. it’s a new kind of vulnerability for him, a new feeling, and it’s deep and it’s new and it tastes saccharine sweet.

he wants you, he needs you. he is hungry for you.

that, perhaps, is a danger to him more than to you.

@yamsfrecklvs

ash’s note: this is barely proofread and just something silly i wrote to pass the time but i had sm fun writing it!!! should i make this some kind of series or

[yamsfrecklvs]

i’m watching the interview with the vampire series rn so this seems highly fitting

[whirlybirbs]

shota aizawa isn’t a different man when he’s in love; he is a version of himself he keeps sacred, secret, and soft.

shota is the type to dote; he is quiet, calm questions at the end of a long day. he’s always attentive— with deep mhm’s rumbling out between pauses in your emphatic re-tellings — while he listens. shota is a man of action who knows you struggle to ask for what you need, so he leads with a gentle hand.

shota fills your water bottle when he notices it’s empty. he helps you into your coat every morning. he does the dishes — not because he’s a fan of chores, but because he knows you hate doing them and knows you always feel better with a clean home & an empty sink.

shota is a man who yearns with enough weight that it feels like he’s drowning at times. he thinks about you often — bandage-wrapped fingers and bruised knuckles send messages during the lulls on patrol. you wake to messages attempting to dictate a fraction of his longing.

[txt] i miss you very much, little angel

shota is devoted — intense and purposeful in his demonstration of love. you manage to puncture his usual apathetic, unethused exterior. you are the only person who he trusts with this version of himself; with you, it’s a hand on the middle of your back, a tight smile that always reaches his eyes, and a bundle of compliments that tumble out unburdened.

shota chases your reactions — the ones where you explode with uncontainable adoration. he never thought he’d be the type of man to fixate on your key-smashed reply to a hazy, half-exposed picture of his body, but here he is. he never thought he’d willfully strip himself down, in both body and soul, for another person. but, he does it over and over for you.

shota pours it all into his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours. he pours it all into whispered filth while he’s buried to the hilt inside you: promises of a future & praise, praise, praise — because in the mess of sex he can let it all tumble it out between tongue and tension. he fucks you right, and he murmurs promises of things he wants while he does; a ring, a winter wedding, a home.

shota is a loverboy. there, i said it.

[yamsfrecklvs]

a very good day to everybody bc i’m posting something abt aizawa 2nite

[bee2124]

How it genuinely feels to still be reading fan fictions from fandoms I’ve been in since I was 12

[i-am-a-lazy-mess]

blue lock is not about who’s the best at football it’s about who your favourite felon is and what slurs they say on the field

[lorelune]

(minors dni)

"what the fuck."

it's obscene, actually. fucked up and horrible, too, to see what you're seeing right now. bearing witness to the absolute devastation occurring in the seat next to you.

michael stares at you.

you're not looking at his face, so you don’t know his expression, but you can still tell he’s gazing at you with his full attention. you're too focused on your hand on his thigh to think too hard about how smug he is.

actually, scratch that, you're focused on his thighs. not your hand. your hand is mostly irrelevant, aside from the fact that its allowing you to feel the sick, diabolical combination of toned muscle and pudge of his upper thigh.

you're both tucked into first class seats, side-by-side, michael taking the spot next to the window. normally, you fly private (or, michael flies private and you fly with him more often than not, and hence you have, insanely, gotten used to flying in a private jet to away games over the last six months). however, unforeseen circumstances have you flying commercial.

and have you jammed into commercial seats.

first class— but still. but still. michael has his legs spread as much as the airplane seat will allow, the hot line of his thigh up against your own. he deigned to wear warmup shorts, rather than change into his warmer joggers. you have a complete view of his milky thighs and practically translucent leg hair.

he's startlingly soft.

michael has never held weight well— that's what alexis has told you. it's only been in the last few years, as michael has entered his mid twenties, that he's been able to anything more than lithe muscle and sinew. it probably helps that you feed him with almost a complete disregard for his carefully curated meal plan. he is welcome to turn down your delicious homecooked meals if he want.

clearly, based on the bulge of his thighs against the arm rest between you, your comfort cooking has been having a visible effect.

you feel— weird. in your chest. some of it's arousal, but not in the direct way you usually feel around michael. it's something warm, syrup smooth and a little shy that floods your muscles and behind your eyes.

(look—! michael is well and round and seemingly content and YOU had a hand in it!!!)

there is, also, the carnal piece of it. seeing your boyfriend's thighs look carved and plump all at once is well, a lot. you should've schooled your reaction better, so michael doesn't attempt to initiate joining 'the mile high club' on a commercial flight, rather than your usual dalliances on his usual jet.

"what the fuck." you repeat. you squeeze michael's thigh. there's give to it, hot skin and squishy fat, and then muscle just beneath. michael flexes in your grip. it's probably intentional.

"see something you like?"

you glance up at him to glare, but it's immediately difficult too. michael looks sharp and smitten with a smile that could shatter diamond with his canines if he dared to try.

"you know i like it, shut up." you squeeze again. you're glad the flight is only to rome. it's short, you'll be in your hotel before you know it. then you can jump him as you please.

michael likes the attention too, it seems. he's half hard and his stupid little athletic shorts are doing nothing to disguise his growing interest. you abandoned kaiser's thigh to rifle through your carry-on bag, procuring a michael's very own track jacket. you throw it over his lap.

"i'm protecting you," you tell him. scandals around kaiser are usually fabricated, but being bricked up on an airplane next to his recently revealed partner would look very suspect.

michael just watches. he looks... still smitten, still content, a little gleeful. he likes watching you flounder, writhe, before deigning to act himself. it's a newer behavior of his, one he only seems to do to you.

(michael has always had to think several steps ahead. always. you don't think you've ever met a more hypervigilant individual than him. you've always wondered if his uncanny ability to predict reactions with such high accuracy has aided his soccer. you've wondered if michael would've been equally as skilled as a chess grandmaster than as a soccer prodigy.)

with you, lately, michael has enjoyed watching how you'll react, rather than reacting to the (accurately) assumed reaction he supposes that you'll have.

it's nice. his shoulders are less tight when he acts like this. he's fond, mean, but fond, in a way that makes you want to see more and more of him. the urge to bring out the side of him that eats your food with a contented expression, wears stupid matching warm up sets with you and has sinfully thick thighs is so intense that you feel tears sting the back of your eyes.

(you're a lovesick fool. you wonder if michael knows. you wonder if it'll scare him off, knowing that you feel like this more often than not.)

you sniffle; michael notices. he clicks his tongue, pushing the seat divider up and away so he has ample room to continue to spread his legs while also wrapping an arm around your shoulder. he presses a kiss to your temple. that same sharp-toothed smile is pressed into the fragile skin there.

"how judicious of you." he hums, pleased by your flitting about, clearly.

you lean into his side, a little tired. the commercial flight had been a last minute change. running around the airport with a frustrated michael is stressful—

(however, at some point, michael had noticed your increasing stress correlating with his increasing stress, and took a lap around the terminal, alone, to collect himself. you didn't particularly enjoy sitting in the airline lounge all by yourself , but michael returning to you looking significantly less ruffled and calmer was well worth it in so many ways.)

(crazy how the therapy that you goaded him into is actually working—)

you're tired now, regardless. you can only be teased so much, and michael is softer than ever and warm next to you. he's pulling you into his side, still grinning, pleased with him. you easily throw you legs half in his lap. lean. list into his side. you know that he'll wake you up when you're close.

"did 'protecting' me tire you out, häschen?"

"yes, actually," you pat his arm. "'whole day's been tiring."

"sleep then," michael tucks you closer and squeezes you so hard, the air is forced from you lungs, like he could replace it in the space that its vacated. "i promise i won't take any photos of you—“

"don't even joke."

"but, schtazi, you look so cute when you're drooling all over my arm."

you glare up at him, lightly pulling the long bits of his blond hair that rest over his shoulder. he huffs as you bring your lips to his ear.

"i was going to suck you cock the moment we got into our hotel room, but maybe i should withhold all contact until after you win these next few games, hm?"

michael's breath hitches, he tries to mask it with a laugh that sounds forced to your michael-kaiser-sensitive hearing.

you feel a bit bad— immediately. and more than a bit. even a threat of neglect made lightly, or mostly in jest, messes with his head more than he likes to admit.

"sorry," you apologize with a kiss below his ear. he shudders. "i didn't mean it like that. just... no embarrassing photos, okay?"

"i won't promise anything." michael glances down at you, gaze... not soft, but not as hard. not venomous or scared. his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"mean." you huff. "only cuddling at the hotel, then."

"that's fine," michael concedes. 'cuddling only' really isn't any sort of downgrade to michael, considering that you're fairly certain that the man would be far more content to snuggle for the rest of his life than ever have sex again. but that's neither here nor there.

it's enough assurance for you to drift off against his arm, michael adjusting your head and neck with his shoulder and flat palm so you don't strain your neck.

when you awaken in rome to your phone's wallpaper being an embarrassing!!! (but very cute) photo of michael beaming devilishly at the camera with your head resting on his shoulder (no drool stain in sight), you aren't too hard on him.

after all, the photo perfectly captures the bulge of michael's thighs against your own. you'll take the treat where you can get one. and despite the harassment, you're even kind enough to press a kiss to michael's cheek as you deplane. you're so forgiving, you sit next to him in the back of the sleek black car that picks you up from the arrivals terminal and ferries you to the hotel.

and you're even so forgiving as to cuddle with him the entire night in your hotel room. he seems gracious, settled between your thighs with his head on your tummy. he's mussed up from your customary (shared) after-flight shower (with NO included blow job— you're keeping your word!!), hair still drying in frizzy chunks. you sleepily pet through it and shiver when michael nuzzles into your belly. he pets your hips and kisses the soft parts of you there whenever he's wakeful enough to do so. it's... cute. you're not even sure that he's fully lucid to it. he seems so relaxed.

you're just as tired as he is. rome isn't exactly sleeping outside of your hotel window, but it's quiet enough to lull you both.

[amiyahwrites]

Boyfriend!kaiser head cannons!

Boyfriend!Kaiser who was hesitant in dating you at first. He’d never felt such… foreign feelings to another human being before, not even his own family (for obvious reasons). Whenever he’s with you, he feels alive—like he can be himself without the constant weight of the expectations for him laying on his shoulders, like he can finally take a breath of fresh air. You’re his breath of fresh air.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who never fails to make sure you know you’re loved. With the way he had grown up, he wants to make sure you’re given all the love and care you deserve—he knows what it feels like to be neglected, and the last person he’d want that to happen to is you.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who won’t go out of his way to give any grand, overdramatic gestures to prove his love—no. His devotion to you is kept quiet, private; but you know it’s there. From the way he touches you, worships every inch of your body like it’s a sacred temple needed to be kept all to himself, untouched by the lingering terrors of the world he knows.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who loves spoiling you by buying you gifts. Smaller ones; like a plushie of your favourite character or a new food trend you’ve been dying to try. To more expensive ones; a brand new designer handbag or an all-expenses-paid trip to the Maldives. Those are his favourite—hidden getaways where he can keep you all to himself on some remote island, watching as your smooth, tanned skin bakes under the sun while your pretty lips wrap around the straw of whatever drink you’re sipping on.

Boyfriend!Kaiser who loves taking you out on dates. From an extravagant Italian restaurant in the heart of the city to a night in cuddling on the couch, watching Netflix and eating popcorn (your idea). He enjoys taking time to relax between matches, letting the stress of the football world be forgotten for a few sacred moments as he rests his head between your thighs, long eyelashes fluttering closed and casting shadows on his cheeks as he lets himself melt into the embrace of the one person he trusts most in this world. You.

Hi guys! This is my first ever post on here so I hope you all liked it :)

[yamsfrecklvs]

thank you thank you THANK YOU for not making him a fuckboy bc the kaiser mischaracterization on here is crazy

[kissbabie]

❤︎ ໋𓈒 shidou loves when you don’t wear any panties !

shidou loves when you walk around the house with no underwear. you’d be wearing only his shirt, or sometimes, he’d ask you to wear just a tank top, so that he can see your bare pussy on display. it’s a bit embarrassing, but you know it saves him the trouble of having to tug aside any bottoms or panties, giving him easier access whenever he wants to fuck you silly. and secretly, you love it. it always excites you knowing that he could just sneak up on you and pump his thick dick inside you.

so when he comes up behind you as you’re cutting fruit, his arm thrown around your waist as you giggle, “what’re you doing, ryu?”, he’s already lifting your baggy shirt up, revealing no panties as he starts rubbing circles on your pussy, feeling how wet you easily get. he lines himself up, pushing his cock into your tiny cunt, “aren’tcha so cute, sweetheart.”

it’s not long before you’re reduced to a whiny, babbling mess from shidou’s cock pounding your poor pussy stupid like a brute. you’re bent over, and you have him laughing behind you as you’re whining the most incoherent sounds, "so big, mmmuh! feels s'full, ahh—ah! ryuuu, mmn—haa~! uhnn~!”

“ya love this, huh? look at’cha, your pussy’s clenching ‘round me like a slut, baby.” he hums. and you do love it; you think you’d be completely content if you could stay like this forever.

and when he starts to groan, his thrusts getting harder and a little sloppier, asking you, “ryu’s gonna cum, baby. ya want that? c’mon, tell me.” but he doesn’t even give you time to answer before you his cock is twitching deep inside you, his warm cum spilling and flooding your pussy. his body tenses, “shitttt, take it, sweetheart.”

your back arches uncontrollably, and you’re practically crosseyed and becoming a drooling mess, “"aaaahngh, mmnnnn, r-ryuuuuu! s'too goood, mmnn-! wanna keep it, wan’ it all, hhhaaah, ‘s-sticky inside meee!”

he leans down to coo against your cheek, “ya can’t even talk, huh, stupid girl? got’cha all dumb...”, and you nod hastily, “aaah! haaah… mmmf, wanna—wanna—”

“wanna what, baby?” he kisses the side of your face, so amused from how desperate you are. “c’monnn, use your words, tell me.” you squirm in his grip, making the tiniest sound, “wanna.. bed… p-pleaseee..”

his hand slides down between your legs to press the mess in deeper. “ooohh, ya wanna get fucked again in bed? that it?”

“mhmmh!”, you’re completely gone, and you can feel him growing harder again, and it’s unbearable. you’re antsy for him to just fuck you again.

“ya too cute like this, baby.” he teases, picking you up effortlessly, arms under your thighs. “so dumb for my cum. ‘course i’m takin’ ya to bed.”

inspired from this

© 𝒌issbabie | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work

[satorus-princess]

“uh… why is sensei doing push-ups?” yuji asks, when he, nobara, and megumi enter the classroom.

satoru’s pushing himself up and down with one hand because, according to you, normal push-ups weren’t enough. but even then, he’s barely breaking a sweat. and he’s grinning, while you stand over him, watching with your arms crossed.

his uniform jacket is folded over the back of a chair, leaving him in his compression shirt, arm bulging and back tensing with each lift and fall of his body.

“i upset my-- hah beautiful, smart-- hah strong, gorgeous, perfect wife,” he pants, “punishment fits the crime.”

he really is right where he wants to be.

megumi doesn’t even bat an eye - this was the least unusual thing that you and satoru do. he slides into a chair with a sigh.

“how many does he have to do?”

“a hundred,” you say. satoru lifts his head to look up at you, mouth parted, little pink hearts in his eyes peering at you over the rim of his glasses. “he’s on seventy-two.”

his grin widens. “you know, this isn’t a challenge for me. why don’t you sit on my back, sweetheart?”

you crouch down in front of him and his eyes light up. “i know what you want, and you don’t deserve my touch.” you push his head down so he’s facing the floor again, and he grunts when you press extra weight, forcing his body down. “only twenty-three left. you can do it, my love.”

if his heart wasn’t beating fast enough before, it definitely was now. especially with the saccharine tone you used at the end of your sentence.

god, was he down bad.

“… call us when you’re done,” megumi says, already out of the classroom.

silly thought inspired by this video HAHA can you tell he makes me a little a lot insane

[yamsfrecklvs]

sitting in my german class hearing kaiser this kaiser that

is he on his way or

[ryoride]

ꮼ husband!satoru who will always be addicted to being a real eater.

ᦸ cunnilingus. pet names. munch! & lovesick! gojo. fingering. squirting. aftercare.

"Toru—oh my god—baby, slow down." Your whines were music to Gojo's ears—with your fingers tugging tautly on his messy white locks. "You have to slow down."

Gojo hummed against your clit, glazed eyes meeting yours as his fingers squeezed your thighs. "Not happening, honey," he purred, pulling back to show off the glistening slick on his chin. "You taste too good."

He pressed a sloppy kiss over your trembling clit before pressing the flat of his tongue over your slit to leave a torturously slow lick.

"Oh! Nonono," your thighs closed around his head instinctively with a choked moan, tugging once more on his hair. "Don't do that."

"But baby!" He crooned, tearing off from you, jutting his lip out in displeasure. "You taste like heaven." Gojo grinned at the blush scattered across your cheeks. "You don't really want me to stop... do ya'?"

It took everything in you to keep your voice steady as you admitted, "No." You didn't want him to stop.

That's all it took; the glint in his eye was maddening as Gojo latched his lips back onto your swollen clit, sucking slowly.

He kept his eyes trained on how your expression twisted in pleasure—rubbing your thighs softly as he groaned at the taste.

"Oh damn it." You mewled out, jerking a hand to cover your mouth as Gojo teasingly went in circles around your clit, laughing softly at the flustered state he had you in.

He choked momentarily as your hand shoved him deeper into you; the squelch from wet-on-wet skin had his hips rutting down against the mattress with a muffled "Baby" as your hips arched into his mouth, chasing the vibrations his voice brought.

"How is your jaw not sore?" You hissed out, hips bucking helplessly, fingers tangling down to Satoru's scalp as tears began to prick the corners of your eyes.

The coiling heat burrowing itself low in your stomach felt like it was going to snap any second.

"I don't pay any attention." He pulled back, just enough to tease your clit with the tip of his tongue. "Why, honey, want me to stop, ice my jaw & finish later, hmm?"

The sentence barely made it to your ears before your hand tugged him back down, flush into your soaked pussy; he groaned lowly before getting back to work.

It felt like he was making out with your cunt—lips, tongue, nose, and everything pressing perfectly into your sinful flesh as he feverishly lapped at your slit.

His own sobbing moans escaped with each sweep of his tongue, fingers tugging your thighs tighter around his ears.

He trailed one hand down the back of your thigh with a cruel slowness, shifting just enough that he hissed against your aching clit in sync with his neglected cock rubbing the mattress.

"Hey, hey," you whimpered, thighs clenching tightly around him. "Careful."

"M'sorry, honey." He cooed, slowly sliding two of his sweet, sweet fingers around your entrance before sinking them inside you. "Does that make you feel better?"

"Mm-hmm," you purred, tugging his hair softly, Gojo's fingers slowly sinking deeper into your pulsating cunt with a needy groan as he slurped over your clit once more.

He could feel how your body trembled: shaky thighs, hips struggling to stay against your mattress, and fingers toying with his hair; hell, even the sinful noises that bubbled out of your mouth were a show of how close you were.

Every last detail was driving him mad as he began scissoring you open; his thick fingers were doing God's work to please you, & you both knew it.

With a final teasing kiss to your clit, he pulled back. "C'mon, baby, I've got you; it's alright." His fingers curled almost perfectly, grinning as your hips bucked up. "There you go, c'mon."

Gojo darted his tongue out to lick the sweet slick off his lips with a sharp flick of the wrist—white-hot pleasure ripping through you as your hips bucked off the bed.

The evidence of your orgasm soaking Gojo's face & arm—and your poor satin sheets—as he let out a laugh of pure glee.

What a fucking sight.

"Well... good mornin' to you too, princess." He rasped, pressing rapid, teasing kisses to your knee—his free hand rubbing softly against your shaking skin.

"Baby, I see stars. You're evil." You whimpered, thighs trembling as he slowly pulled his fingers free, slowly slipping his tongue between them to lick off your juices. "Nonono, Satoru, that's gross."

"Bullshit." He purred, leaning down to kiss up your stomach slowly. "I'll have you know, that both my meal—" He paused to press chaste kisses up your breastbone, stopping only once he reached your collarbones. "—and my pretty girl are absolutely delectable."

He burrowed his face into the crook of your neck with a near-silent hum.

"You're such a prick," you groaned, curling a hand to latch onto his hair again, grudgingly scratching his scalp. "And sticky."

"You're still okay, right?" Gojo whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his fingers trailing up & down your sides in an attempt to soothe.

"Yes. I'm fine, you idiot." You grumbled out, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his temple & subtly adjusted your hips under his. "Give me a minute?" Your free hand tangled into the back of his shirt. "Just… just lie with me though."

"Yes, ma'am, I've got you." He assured, pressing a quick kiss to your neck. "Just breathe, baby."

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : rewrote my first Gojo smut fic to celebrate 10k. original.

[yamsfrecklvs]

guys should i watch blue lock be fr i just saw a kaiser edit on my tiktok fyp and he’s so yummy

[yamsfrecklvs]

she didn’t know it was going to become her new personality

[lilikoiyu]

gojo is addicted to filming you while fucking. . .

gojo satoru is addicted to filming you.

it started innocently enough—or as innocent as anything ever is with him. one lazy sunday morning when you were still half-asleep and riding him slow, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand with that mischievous grin and whispered, “just one video, baby. for my eyes only. i wanna watch how pretty you look when you come on my cock.”

you said yes.

now it’s become a ritual.

every time he fucks you, the phone comes out. sometimes he sets it up on the tripod in the corner of the bedroom so it captures everything in wide angle. sometimes he holds it himself, filming close-ups of his thick cock stretching your pussy open, the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the messy slick coating his shaft when he pulls out just to push back in deeper.

he loves the sounds most of all.

“listen to that,” he’ll groan, angling the camera down between your bodies so the microphone catches the wet, filthy squelch every time he bottoms out. “hear how sloppy your pussy gets for me? fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my balls.”

he always makes sure to get your face too—the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth falls open when he hits that spot inside you, the broken moans and whimpers of his name that spill out when you’re close.

“say it louder,” he’ll demand, voice rough as he fucks you harder, free hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider for the camera. “tell the camera who’s making you feel this good. who owns this tight little cunt.”

you always give in. “you do, satoru—fuck—only you—”

he saves every single video.

they’re stored in a heavily encrypted folder on his phone titled “private collection🤍” with a little heart emoji he thinks is subtle. there are dozens now. some are short clips of you sucking him off in the back of the car after a mission. some are long, hour-long tapes where he edges you for ages before finally letting you come. there’s even one from the time he fucked you against the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse while the city lights glittered behind you.

he watches them when you’re away.

when you’re on a solo mission, or visiting family, or just busy with work that keeps you late. he’ll lock himself in his bedroom, pull up the folder, and pick one at random. sometimes it’s the one where you’re riding him reverse cowgirl, ass bouncing as you take every inch. sometimes it’s the one where he has you folded in half, legs over his shoulders, pounding you so deep the camera catches the bulge in your lower belly.

he strokes himself slow at first, matching the rhythm on the screen, groaning your name under his breath. “fuck, look at you… taking me so well even when i’m not there.”

his hand speeds up as the video gets filthier. he loves the parts where you beg—when you’re crying and whimpering “please, satoru, fill me up, i need your cum.” he always comes hard to those, thick ropes spilling over his fist while he watches himself breed you on the screen.

after he finishes, he doesn’t delete anything. he just saves the new load of cum on his fingers and sends you a quick text:

“miss you. watched our video from last thursday. you looked so pretty crying on my cock. can’t wait to make a new one when you get home.”

you always reply with something flustered and needy, and he grins like an idiot, already planning the next tape.

sometimes he gets bold.

he’ll send you short clips while you’re at work—a ten-second snippet of him thrusting into you from behind, his hand fisting your hair, the sound of skin slapping skin loud and clear. the message always comes with the same caption:

“thinking about you. hurry home so we can film the sequel.”

he never pressures you to let him post them or share them. these videos are strictly for him—his private collection, his dirty little secret. he watches them when he’s stressed after a long day, when he’s horny and you’re not around, when he just wants to relive how perfect you feel wrapped around him.

and every time he films a new one, he makes sure to whisper against your lips right before he starts recording:

“smile for the camera, baby. gonna watch this one later when i’m all alone and missing this tight pussy.”

then he fucks you like he’s trying to make sure the next video is even better than the last.

because gojo satoru doesn’t just love fucking you.

he loves keeping every single moment of it forever.

so he can watch you fall apart for him again and again.

even when you’re not there.

[yamsfrecklvs]

lost in translation ! ⋆˚꩜｡

kaiser x fem reader, reader works as an interpreter

it has never occurred to michael kaiser that anybody he could’ve ever met at work, or outside football, could’ve been anything more than just a stepping stone to his rise above everything and everyone.

that was, as silly and cliché as it sounds, until he met you. 

saying that bastard münchen has been having issues with translators is… well, an oxymoron. and it’s all because of him. mean, scornful, brazen kaiser, whose poor translators often feel the need to soften up, making his words duller, making him sound like a pr-trained little dog. he fucking hates that. thus, countless interpreters keep on being fired. 

then, there you are, serendipitously waltzing into the picture. 

you’ve only recently started out as an interpreter, and you know how to do your job well. hell, you’ve studied hard enough. you know that you’re an interpreter, not a spokesperson, and that as such you simply have to report whatever is being said. not sugarcoat it, nor change it. and you work by those rules, and this is the first thing that really impresses him. 

well. that would be a half-lie. you catch his eye first. 

he pretends he’s not, but he’s hooked the second he sees you walk in. you don’t really speak to him, you don’t need to - even though it’s hard to avoid staring at the absurdly pretty boy they got you working for, all furrowed brows and tense jaw, towering over you as he scans you almost aseptically. there’s nothing detectable in those ice cold irises of his, and this is intriguing enough on its own. truth is, he really can’t figure you out either: what’s a cute girl like you doing in a place like that, all while looking so composed, so sure of yourself? he’s usually like a bloodhound: he can smell fear. he senses everything. he could tell that his last interpreters were trembling at the thought of having to work with whatever shit he was going to give them, but you’re so calm it almost unsettles him. and you smell good. and you have pretty eyes. interest piqued.  

everything takes an interesting turn when you both sit down for his press conference, you in your little chair a little behind him, mic and notepad in hand.

you expected a challenge. truly, you did. something like having to translate intricate football lingo, or having to take an exhausting amount of notes to be able to keep up. instead, you actually feel like you’re witnessing some badly written rendition of mean girls, where kaiser is playing regina george and the others are being crossed out in his burn book, but to their face. 

first question: he decides he doesn’t like the journalist the second that man breathes in his direction. a question is asked, a somewhat rude one. you whisper the translated sentence in his ear, and he scoffs before replying:

“you german? no? then i ain’t answerin’ shit.”

there it goes, right out of your mouth, neutrally. you know your job is not to mimic tone, so you stick to that - point made anyway, the journalist looks offended. 

the others flow by pretty normally. yes, kaiser is extremely dismissive. yes, he’s difficult to the point of exasperation. but he behaves himself, for the most part. then somebody brings up something he did outside of the field - something about him being rude to his fans and lashing out at them, which he is sure didn’t happen (because, honestly, he has better shit to do than go off at his supporters) - he tells the man to ‘get his fucking eyes and ears checked’, but hey. he handles it quite well, until the journalist blurts out:

“if you say that you’re a real man, then at least own up to it and take responsibility.”

this definitely strikes a chord. you don’t exactly know what is going on, but he gets so offended that he jumps up from his chair, those delicate features of his suddenly turning oh so furious, which only makes it worse, apparently, because he looks real handsome when he’s pissed off. and then he says it, loud and clear, the words sharp and cutting in his native tongue.

“you want me to pull my fuckin’ pants down and show you how much of a man i am?”

well, holy shit. a beat. you bat your eyes for a second, appalled, then translate what he said word for word with the flattest tone you can muster. you see the journalist’s eyes widen in disbelief, and he’s about to say something until the press conference gets shut down early because things are getting a little too heated. 

when you gaze at him, he’s smirking. he looks so proud of himself, so much that he deems you worthy of a smile as well. and fuck it, your lips curl upwards a little too, because you haven’t had this much fun on the job in… well, ever, actually.

he wants to get his point across, and he can’t do that with some random person changing up his words to make him sound kinder. he doesn’t want to seem kind, and he’s impressed by the fact that you get the way his mind works. and that is the exact second you win michael kaiser over. 

from that moment on, he wants nobody else but you. he refuses any other translator, and if you’re not available he’ll just cancel interviews. yes, it’s true, it’s mainly for ego: he strives to make an impression, and he wants to do so with his own speech. he knows that words are a great weapon, and he always needs to be the one holding the gun, not the one in front of it. but he would be lying if he said that he doesn’t do it because he wants to see your pretty face. and you’re not dumb, so you can definitely tell that he’s attracted to you. you see it in the way he hovers over you when you two are talking - and the fact that he’s having a conversation, a conversation he considers interesting, with you is telling enough - and in the way he always sits a little too close, how he always finds a reason to catch you as you’re leaving to have a word with you, how he looks you up and down almost hungrily when he thinks you’re not looking. and you would be lying if you said that you didn’t like it, or that his boyish stinginess doesn’t pull you in like a magnet. but you’re sure it won’t ever go anywhere. nuh-uh. silly you.

until you’re leaving one day, and he corners you as he usually does. only this time there’s a stupid shit-eating grin tugging at his lips. 

“yes?”

“i’ve got something for you to translate.”

“and what’s that?”

“will you go on a date with me?”

@yamsfrecklvs ★ ash’s note: this is def sooo self indulgent bc i study language mediation and translation (and german lol) in uni … let’s pretend that in this scenario it would be plausible to do consecutive translation and not in-booth simultaneous ‘kay? also lmao for his weird ass answers to journalists i asked my poor boy bsf to send me random vids of footballers saying mean shit so i rlly did my research for this !! anyway hope u guys like it, i’m here to feed the starving kaiser girlies, love uuuuuuuuu <3

[piixsuke]

+18 thinking about the ‘planking until failure challenge’ with shōta aizawa

who knows exactly: what you like, why you’re asking him to do this - that’s why, oh god, that’s why he’s so fucking mean about it.

“‘m i being loud enough for you, baby?” he asks, his tone dripping in utter condescension. he dips his head lower, almost burying himself into the crook of your, exposed, neck. “can you hear me? yeah? that’s what you wanted — mh, fuuuck“ your boyfriend shamelessly groans, submerged into the depth of your skin, putting on the filthiest of performances, just for you. “huh? to hear your old man in pain — fuck, baby. fuuuck — all groanin’ and pantin’ in your pretty lil’ head?”

your body trembles beneath his. your hips buck and grind into the air, as his words, his tone, his voice feel like the meanest of hands in between your legs.

“you’re all wet f’me, aren’t you?” and you know — oh, you know, it’s not even a question at this point. he’s just teasing you, torturing you with nothing but his filthy, promiscuous words. “ooh, shiiit — my nasty, nasty fuckin’ girl” he groans, louder, rougher this time. the vibrations of his pleasure, forcing a barbaric shiver to run down your spine. “gettin’ all worked up, all needy ‘n fuckin’ soaked, from my voice alone — yeah baby, fuck. aaghh!”

you whine - gasping like a wounded soldier, on the verge of death, the second his hips collide with yours.

“there she is,” he growls, dragging the fat, angry print of his cock against the outline of your quivering pussy. “there you go, make some pretty sounds f’me too, yeah?. good girl, puppy, jus’ like that, c’mon” he dry humps you into the floor. fucking into you like a maddening, untamable animal. “i’ll keep bein’ in pain for you — fuck, that’s it, harder baby. fuck me back, mhm, y’know how — i’ll keep on holding this stupid, fuckin’ plank for you, yeah? mhm! i will, yeah. jus’ for you, baby. so you can cum f’me, doin’ what you love most: listenin’ to my fucking voice“

[to00fu]

project hail mary but gojo (i havent watched it)